Story HourPost your ongoing tales from your campaigns, and read those from others for inspiration. Lots of other RPG boards post "Story Hours", but this is where it started!
Shomei reclined into an enormous leather chair, and tilted her head inquisitively. She sipped slowly from a large silver goblet, imbibing a volatile liquid of unknown potency. The Infernalist seemed unusually calm and languorous.
"Your dwelling is beautiful," Eadric said with surprise and genuine feeling. He was sat upon the edge of a similar chair, absorbing his surroundings. The room was exquisite if somewhat bizarre in its dιcor and furnishings. Purples and midnight blues predominated, and things hung upon walls or rested upon shelves. Crystal lamps emanated a soft, diffuse light, and a faint hint of incense hung within the air.
"Thank-you," she smiled.
A spined devil flew past quietly, and glowered at Eadric.
Shomei gestured, and it flapped away, closing a door silently as it exited.
"Would you care for a drink?" She offered, refilling the goblet from a huge crystal decanter.
"What is it?" He asked.
"It is called kschiff," she replied. "Do not consume too much it will stupefy you. A little will relax you, however."
"How much is too much?" Eadric had the impression that Shomei was fast approaching that point.
"I will tell you when to stop."
The goblet floated gently towards him, and he caught it uncertainly. Its contents smelled faintly of orange blossoms, and the taste was astringent. But curiously agreeable.
'Thank-you for receiving me at such short notice," Eadric said. "I know that the time of a wizard is precious."
"That is particularly true in my case," she half-smiled.
He swallowed. "Shomei, I "
She held up a hand. "We will not speak of it."
He sank back into the chair.
"You are here to talk about Soneillon," Shomei said.
He nodded, wondering whether she had foreseen it, guessed it, or determined it through some other means.
"Am I being asked in the capacity of friend, spiritual advisor, or advocate for the antinomian perspective?" She asked.
"I'm not sure," Eadric furrowed his brow. "Although the idea of you as a spiritual advisor is disturbing. You are something of an authority on fiends, however, and I thought your perspective might be useful."
"Have you considered speaking to the Sela?"
Eadric smiled. "I consider speaking to the Sela approximately once every three seconds."
"That is probably a good thing," Shomei ventured. "It would indicate that you are in touch with the source of your Truth. Your internal dialogue has not been compromised. May I ask a number of difficult questions?"
"Er, yes," he said dubiously.
"If Nehael's release is achieved, how do you think Soneillon will react to a rival?"
He shifted uncomfortably.
"Perhaps it would be better for you if somehow Soneillon were conveniently destroyed prior to liberating Nehael?"
"Shomei, that is most unfair."
"These are practical considerations, Eadric." She gestured, and the goblet floated back towards him again. He hadn't noticed that, at some point, she had refilled it. "May I ask you another question?"
He nodded. He felt that he was beginning to relax.
"Have you entertained the possibility that Soneillon may be fertile? Succubi can enter the equivalent of oestrus at will, and the gestation is extremely fast days, if I recall correctly. She may use this to exert leverage over you. How would you react if this transpired to be the case?"
His mind span.
"Let me posit another scenario," Shomei said, reaching out as the goblet returned to her.
Eadric found that he was watching her lips move. Her voice seemed to drift slowly through his head.
"What if Nehael perishes? I am assuming that she is presently alive, of course the web of motes indicated as much. Can you retain your integrity of purpose under those circumstances? If Soneillon were to for example offer you a way out, would you accept it?"
He groaned.
"Because you could endure the Void, Eadric. I have no doubt on that count. I have seen the tendril of possibility."
"It will not happen," he said.
"Nor will Shomei the Infernal ever embrace Saizhan," Shomei smiled ironically.
The goblet seemed to appear from nowhere, hovering in front of Eadric's face. He grasped it, and set it down.
There was a brief silence.
"Why is the darkness so compelling, Shomei?" He asked.
She smiled. "Because it is dark, of course."
"Do you think Ortwin was correct when he suggested that my desire to overcome duality through any means is the source of my fascination? That it might prove my undoing?"
"The hierosgamos? Maybe. But I think there was no such moral judgment implicit in Ortwin's words, merely that you inferred one. Are you inclined to symbolic microcosmic speculation?"
"I might be, if I knew what it was," the goblet had appeared in front of him again. He sighed, and drank. He found his eyes resting on the curve of Shomei's neck, and tore them away.
She raised an eyebrow. "Perhaps I should have warned you that kschiff also possesses aphrodisiac qualities. Don't worry I have no intention of seducing you. Your life is complicated enough already." She sighed. "I think you are teetering on the edge of oblivion, Eadric this is a place rife with temptation, but it also possesses infinite spiritual possibility. Everything will become a paradox, and you will be forced to redefine who you are on a continual basis."
"Now you begin to sound like an advocate for the short, steep path," he said grimly.
"I think your role is ultimately Adversarial, Eadric."
"The Sela once said something similar to me, regarding my place in the downfall of Orthodoxy."
"Perhaps you should have listened to him," she remarked wrily. "To avoid falling, all you must do is remain grounded in Saizhan. Everything else is superfluous."
A longer silence followed.
"In the past I have misjudged you, Shomei," Eadric sighed. "I'm sorry."
She shrugged, and looked away.
"You are very defensive."
"Yes," she replied.
"I feel I've missed the opportunity of a good friendship."
She swallowed, unwilling to meet his gaze.
"Bliss is not so bad, Shomei. If the weight of becoming is so heavy "
She raised a hand, her eyes filling with tears. "There is no possibility that I have not considered, Ahma."
He held her hand gently. It seemed tiny.
She wept.
*
After Eadric had returned to Deorham through the portal which Mostin had opened, Shomei sat alone in reflection.
Somewhat before midnight, she renewed her mind blank, protected herself with other, sundry wards, grasped her rod, and opened a gate to Phlegethos. Soon thereafter she met with Bathym for their third and Shomei hoped last series of negotiations.
She was furious to discover that the Duke of Hell had reneged on their agreement utterly, and would no longer be committing a single devil to the 'situation' in Afqithan. Nor would he explain why.
It made no sense. The reason for Shomei's initial involvement in Afqithan had been because certain powerful devils had expressed a desire that Graz'zt be removed from the cosmic scheme of things. She wondered what had changed.
She returned to Wyre.
Mostin was awakened at two in the morning from his usual bizarre dreams by an incessant banging on his door.
*
The Alienist appeared in his robe of eyes. Shomei glared at him, and wondered whether he wore it to bed like a night-gown, to avoid being surprised by things which might otherwise surprise him.
"I've been f*cked over," the Infernalist spat, barging in.
"I see the kschiff has worn off," Mostin remarked.
"Bathym has backed out."
Orolde arrived from his room in order to answer the door. Mostin sighed.
The two Wizards repaired to Mostin's study, and the Alienist instructed that the Sprite bring them cakes and hot buttered firewine. He kindled a fire, and spent several moments adjusting the illumination such that it was just so.
Shomei fidgeted. She glanced around. Mostin's workplace was uncharacteristically cluttered and disorganized.
"What are you working on?" She asked suspiciously.
"A pseudonatural summons," he grumbled. "When I have the time and inclination which seems seldom at present. What is happening, Shomei?"
"Bathym was on the verge of committing five legions of his devils. Belial had already sanctioned it."
Mostin gaped. "Five legions? Shomei, how do you do it?"
"Well, I don't evidently. Support has been withdrawn. Presumably the interest has changed."
"Have you considered petitioning Belial directly?"
"I suspect that he is responsible for the about-face."
"Do you have any indication why?" Mostin inquired.
She shrugged. "Who knows, Mostin? Perhaps because of Rhyxali? Soneillon? Graz'zt? Tramst? Kostchtchie? Eadric? Me? Nehael? A perceived pseudonatural threat? A celestial conspiracy? The motives of a devil of Belial's stature are too convoluted to even begin to penetrate."
"I had not considered a sizable force of devils crucial to success," Mostin said. "The web of motes offered a number of other scenarios."
"Maybe not," Shomei conceded. "But thirty thousand barbazu would have guaranteed it, and acted as a balance on Rhyxali at the very least."
"I think that your perspective in this is flawed, Shomei you are assuming that we can somehow retain sufficient control of this situation to actually direct the course of events. I have come to the conclusion that, at best, we can invoke a storm and let it blow as it will."
"Mostin "
"It is realistic," he said. "We are dealing with entities of enormous power, any one of which can turn on us in an instant. We should be thinking in terms of self-preservation. You should be, at the very least."
"I am not getting into this argument again," she groaned.
"What other options remain open to you?"
"The glooms. Other Dukes. Possibly Murmuur: he is influential, commands a large force, and is importantly present. Time is running out to make such arrangements, however. And I have no relationship with Malbolge, other than vicariously through Belial and he hardly seems reliable in this at present. Besides, I mistrust the involvement of Titivilus."
"You are still trying to control the situation," Mostin sighed. "Our first goal is the obliteration of Ainhorr's force in Afqithan there is no need to be methodical about it. We can worry about Azzagrat afterwards."
"What exactly are you saying, Mostin?"
"I can dimensionally lock an area two miles across, Shomei. Outside of the quiescence where demons will be forced to manifest I can invoke a total of seventeen seventeen reality maelstroms if necessary. Afqithan is not my world, Shomei. There are no holds barred there. If I rip the spatial fabric of the demiplane to shreds, I don't care. If I can call the Horror, and bind it as long as I can get away before the spell ends, I don't care. Shomei, even if I gate in Carasch and invoke an apocalypse I don't care. Are we on the same page here, Shomei?"
She looked at him. "Thank-you, Mostin. For a while, I was beginning to lose my perspective. I think you may have restored it to me."
"We are as gods, Shomei. Never forget it."
"You truly are at your best when you're at your craziest," she smiled.
**
She stood, and looked again at the tree for a long while.
It had an oddly compelling quality, which drew one's eyes to it and evoked a desire to run hands over soft, smooth bark. Its height and girth suggested that it was old, but it possessed a quality which seemed youthful. Strange for a tree.
Around its base, bright flowers sprang between rocks and trailed into a pool fed by a small spring. The water moved, but she couldn't determine where it went, after it left the pool. Curious, she thought. She looked at the tree again.
Sometimes, she felt that it was watching her.
She gazed around, and wondered what else there was out there. Away from the tree. More than once, she had determined to leave to walk away from the tree. To explore. But she never did.
Why leave the tree, after all? Whatever else there was, it couldn't be better than the tree.
She lay down against its warm bole, and it seemed to embrace her. She watched thoughts and memories pass through her mind, and wondered who had experienced them.
Bathe, she thought.
She vaguely recalled the fact that she liked to bathe. It seemed like a good idea although she was unsure whether it had risen unbidden in her mind, or the tree had prompted the desire. She rose, walked the short distance over to the pool, and slid into the water. It was the perfect depth, and the perfect temperature. She immersed her head briefly as that seemed the right thing to do before leaning back and relaxing against a rock, which seemed to fit her head and neck very comfortably.
She suddenly noticed a small figure maybe two thirds her own height sitting on a branch of the tree, with its legs dangling freely. It wore grey hose and a leaf-green waistcoat.
"Hello," she said.
"Hello," the other replied. "Are you happy?"
"Yes," she said.
"Good," the other smiled.
"Where did you come from?" She asked. "I haven't seen you before."
"I came from the tree."
"Ahh," she nodded. She hauled herself easily from the water, and walked back towards the tree. She noticed that now she was covered in tiny flecks of silver she rubbed them gently, but they seemed somehow part of her skin.
"They will not come off," the other said.
"What are they?' She asked.
The other smiled sadly. "The memory of a great injustice."
She cocked her head inquisitively.
"It would take too long to explain," the other said. "Nor does it matter the injustice never really happened now. Your transition is passed at last, and you have been finally surrendered: from one Truth to another. This place is two things: a prison hallowed by an angel, and a womb which has always been here. If sometimes the Truth that you chose seems cold and indifferent, then it is Her nature. Maybe She forgot you for a while. Don't blame Her: She doesn't love you any less."
"You think too much," she laughed. "What will happen now?"
"Something nobody expects," the other replied.
"And what is that?" She asked.
"A Viridity," the other said, his eyes blazing.
**
Nwm felt the snow and pine cones beneath his feet as he ran. The air was frigid, his breathing deep but measured. The smell of resin permeated everything, and his eyes streamed in the cold. His pulse was audible to him, above the noise of his passage, thumping through his skull.
His focus was perfect: he was meditating. No symbolism moved through his mind. No recollection of memory, nor thought for the future. No expectation of revelation, nor seeking for something other than moment in its fullness. There was reflection, but it was dynamic and engaged not introspective and divorced. Each moment was precious but Nwm did not cherish it. He merely experienced it.
He ran until he finally dropped from exhaustion, and collapsed gasping. Still, he meditated. Whilst he slept naked in the snow, he meditated, and when he woke again with the pale winter sun, he meditated.
He came to a rock under an icy waterfall, and sat. Water cascaded over him as he gazed over a frozen pond for nine days. He neither ate, nor drank; nor did he crave warmth nor comfort. He needed nothing.
He meditated. He began to run again, and meditated.
After a week, he rested, and allowed himself to engage in discursive thought. After an hour, he got bored.
He meditated again.
In the tuerns of the Linna, Tunthi shamans said that some primaeval spirit had awakened, and come from the forests which nestled in the deep vales, south of the Heaped Thunders.
**
Several rumours substantiated by more or less reliable evidence and witnesses were current among the inhabitants of western Trempa and southern Tomur, and spreading rapidly through the rest of Wyre.
First, a group of twenty pilgrims to Kyrtill's Burh had, purportedly, undergone a terrifying ordeal wherein demonic or diabolic forces had manifested to them within the castle. The significance of this event was interpreted according to the various inclinations of those for whom it held an interest: a test of faith; a sign of the Ahma's eccentricity, madness or evil; a cryptic revelation couched in terms which lesser mortals must strive to understand; or religious hysteria induced by too much privation and self-mortification or perhaps the consumption of ergotized rye bread.
Second, Eadric, Earl of Deorham sought a steward for his castle and estates. This aroused much interest among various landless nobles, former church grandees who had surrendered estates at the end of the infeudation, as well as numerous unusual characters of mystical bent.
Third, in the face of the expectations of those who considered chastity a necessary prerequisite for the successful cultivation of saizhan and there were many the Ahma had taken a lover. She was seldom seen but was, by all accounts, beautiful and magnetic. Her lineage and credentials were unknown, and it was suspected that she was a peasant-girl. Or a foreigner. Or a celestial companion. Or a demoness. It depended on who you asked.
The drip-drip of pilgrims and mendicants to Kyrtill's Burh rapidly became a steady stream, and then a rushing torrent. It expanded to include potential retainers, philosophers eager to engage the Ahma in conversation and debate, Urgic and Irrenite ex-heretics who no longer felt the need to practice in secret, atoning Templars, and the merely curious. They lodged in Deorham which had never seen so many new faces and occupied barns, fields and rooms in farmsteads for miles about. The Innkeeper of the Twelve Elms quickly became very rich.
Eadric closed the gates to the Burh, and returned to his impossibly circular, self-referential kius:
What is Soneillon, if both Saizhan and extinction are not unattainable?
But even as he sat in contemplation, she would come to him and any insight that he thought he might have gleaned would be dispelled. She would purposely arouse him, or drive him to distraction by her presence. Her heat never abated. There was no indication of artifice in her desire, only the need for continual and infinitely varied sensation: taboo did not exist, or existed only to be broken, and when they coupled violently on the shattered altar of the chapel, Eadric didn't know whether they had profaned it, or sanctified it.
Constructed reality was overturned so swiftly, so thoroughly, that it seemed as though the cosmos disintegrated into its component atoms and they, in turn, evaporated into a Nothingness from which they were never unidentical.
This was the 'Path of Lightning' to which, he knew, Titivilus had referred hard as a diamond, sharp as a razor, upon which only the mad could walk. But the Nuncio of Dis knew it by name only, and any formulation that Titivilus had posited regarding its nature was shallow and vacuous. The Abyss loomed on both sides of Eadric, and if he missed a single step, it would claim him.
On the night of the full moon before the winter solstice, Mostin arrived with Ortwin, Shomei, and Koilimilou at Kyrtill's Burh. Eadric ushered them into the great hall, and Ortwin raised an eyebrow: the place was as he had never before seen it.
A fire roared in the hearth, and wolf-hounds lounged before it. Lanterns hung from chains and torches burned in sconces: light was everywhere. Servants moved about busily. The smell of roasted game, wine and fresh bread filled the air. The sound of a lute carried over the hubbub.
Music? Ortwin was incredulous. At Kyrtill's Burh? Played poorly, to be sure, but music nonetheless.
The tune faltered as the Satyr, sidhe-cambion, Mostin with his lidless eyes and Shomei the Infernal entered the hall. Silence and uncertainty descended upon those present.
Eadric clapped his hands. "Go about your business," he smiled. "These people may appear odd, but there is no need for concern."
They went about their business, and soon the volume resumed its previous levels.*
The Satyr turned to Eadric. "So the rumours are true. You really have gone nuts. Where's the Queen of Darkness? Lurking in the crypt? Or embroidering a quilt in the drawing room?"
"I believe she Dreams. Why are you here?"
"You mean this is normal?" Ortwin gestured around. "I thought that you'd put it on for our benefit. Who's that boy over there?" The Satyr pointed to a handsome nobleman in a fashionable doublet.
"His name is Canec. He is my steward."
"A Uediian?"
"He is Caur's maternal uncle. He marched on Morne with us. Do you not remember?"
"I have a poor memory for aristocrats," Ortwin said drily, pouring himself a cup of wine. "Is everything alright, Ed? You're not schizo are you?"
"Yes. No. In that order."
"Is it true? Are you screwing her?"
Eadric groaned. "You have a foul mouth, Ortwin."
"Man, you're in big trouble," the Satyr grinned. "Let's get drunk."
"Will you always be a hedonist, Ortwin?"
"I hope so. But there again, I can. I have a supreme advantage over you."
"And what might that be?" Eadric sighed.
"I'm a fey, Ed. Sh*t doesn't stick to me."
Eadric smiled and shook his head. "Why are you here?" He asked.
"Mostin said something important is about to happen. A 'convergence of tendrils,' apparently. He had some flashback of a possible future that he'd seen. A kind of mini-nodality."
"Should I be nervous?" Eadric asked.
"Probably," Ortwin replied.
Within fifteen minutes, Soneillon returned: she had located the balor Irzho in an abandoned temple in the mountains of Bedesh, together with several succubi and the demonist Rimilin of the Skin. They were willing to aid the cause against Ainhorr in Afqithan, provided that a price could be agreed.
Before the information had sunk in, the gate-ward entered, with news that a traveller stood outside who would not be turned away.
"What is his name?" Eadric asked.
"He says he is called Rhul. He...er forgive me, Ahma. He claims to be a god."
Moments later, the hag Jetheeg and two Loquai knights arrived. Nhura was finally ready.
* This is one of the minor social advantages of possessing a +39 Diplomacy score.
Last edited by Cheiromancer; 2nd May 2004 at 11:14 PM..
[Soneillon]: If you should happen to slay Ainhorr today, you should grieve for him.
[Eadric]: (Contempt.)
[Soneillon]: Arrogance! You, at least, should lament his passing. A great warrior. Ever loyal to the master he loves and despises.
[Eadric]: Loves? Love is never that ugly.
[Soneillon]: Love is often that ugly, Eadric.
[Eadric]: And if you should perish today? How should I then react?
[Soneillon]: Exult in your memory, Eadric. Because nothing will ever again compare to me.
[Eadric]: For that, at least, I will be thankful.
[Soneillon]: You will be diminished.
*
[Eadric]: What does Hell have to do with this?
[Shomei]: I don't know.
[Eadric]: I fear its agenda.
[Shomei]: That is wise. Many forget the single, overarching truth.
[Eadric] (Wrily): And what might that be?
[Shomei]: Hell is merely a vehicle for expressing the Will of the Nameless Fiend. Despite all appearances, it acts with one purpose.
[Eadric]: I had not forgotten.
[Shomei]: Do you believe the Will of Oronthon and the Will of the Adversary to be one and the same, Ahma?
[Eadric]: They are not unidentical.
[Shomei]: Do you believe that you are a focus through which the Will of the Adversary is expressed?
[Eadric]: Perhaps.
[Shomei]: Do you trust the Will of the Adversary?
[Eadric]: No.
[Shomei]: How do you resolve this paradox?
[Eadric]: I meditate to realize Saizhan.
[Shomei] (Exasperated): Must you always proselytize?
[Eadric] (Laughing): Do I? Good.
*
[Eadric]: Will you exercise restraint?
[Mostin]: I doubt it.
[Eadric]: Can you exercise restraint? Is it within your nature?
[Mostin]: I don't know. I've never tried, and have no plans to.
[Eadric]: Your lack of moral responsibility concerns me.
[Mostin]: A surfeit of it would concern me more. I abide by certain axioms Eadric, which you cannot hope to comprehend. You can rest assured that within your own framework, I am completely mad.
[Eadric]: And within yours?
[Mostin]: I am utterly pedestrian. There are things far madder than I.
*
[Eadric]: What of Iua?
[Ortwin]: She can look after herself.
[Eadric]: You have betrayed her.
[Ortwin]: Not so! Our arrangement made provision for outside interests.
[Eadric]: I am referring to how you went about this. Flaunting a lover in front of her is not discreet. You could have been more sensitive.
[Ortwin]: I have not lied to her. Are you suggesting that I should have?
[Eadric]: She is eighteen years old.
[Ortwin]: Life is full of hard lessons, Ed.
[Eadric]: That is facile. You have a duty towards her.
[Ortwin]: What can I say? I'm selfish.
[Eadric]: Koilimilou is a sidhe and a cambion, Ortwin. She venerates Rhyxali. She is without remorse or compassion. What can she offer you?
[Ortwin]: Inventiveness, and insatiability. Relief from the boredom of existence.
[Eadric]: Once you had principles, as much as you pretended not to.
[Ortwin]: Once, I was mortal. My perspective has changed.
[Eadric]: Your essential nature has changed.
[Ortwin]: No more than yours. And Eadric of Deorham is the one f*cking the Demon Queen of Throile.
[Eadric]: I remain conflicted in my actions, Ortwin. I am neither complacent nor fixated on sensation. I do what I must.
[Ortwin]: Oh, bullsh*t Ed. Grow up. You're just doing what we all have to do. It's biological. It's just been a long time coming for you, and you've decided to take an unconventional route. Guilt is an outdated emotion.
[Eadric]: Why are you even here, Ortwin?
[Ortwin]: I feel it in my blood, Eadric. I can smell it. Every tree whispers it to me.
[Eadric]: ?
[Ortwin]: Good things, Ed. Good things. Something stirs.
**
Why the Nameless Adversary acts in the way he does is a cosmic imponderable. His reasonings are so complex, his plots so byzantine, his vision so broad in its imagining, that no real hope exists in penetrating his motives.
The Irrenites who had been generally sympathetic to the Adversarial paradigm maintained the position that if the Oronthon beyond Oronthon was utterly ineffable, then the Adversary was the distillation of pure rationality. Every move that he made to augment one incomprehensible factor, or to reduce another was calculated with the utmost precision and played out within the framework of eternal potentiality. He nurtured tendrils of possibility which might not yield fruit for a billion years.
The nodality in Afqithan although complex and multi-faceted was itself only a minor aspect of a larger process of change: or so it could be interpreted, if one was inclined towards such speculation. The mind of God which, from an Urgic perspective, included every iota of consciousness in existence at any time and every possible combination thereof was engaged in a reorganization of its own, internal structure. This manifested in the World of Men in a number of ways: a resurgence in the cult of Cheshne, as concepts of Nothingness were articulated within the physical plane; long periods during which the Sela was engaged in intense meditation; and finally, the beginnings of a schism regarding the interpretation of the best way to implement and realize Saizhan itself.
Because Cheshne who, if the cosmos possessed an objective truth, might be identical with Demogorgon, and might not had stirred. Or maybe she shifted slightly in her sleep. In any event, a torrent of contradictory truths were suddenly unleashed upon an already strained Dialectic, forcing an explosion of insights to occur. Cheshne was real again, and always had been.
The liaison between the Ahma and Soneillon it was suspected was merely a physical symptom of the articulation of Nothingness within the Ideal realm. Eadric did not know it, but his relationship with the demoness was to have profound and far-reaching consequences for Oronthonian mysticism. Not with respect to the definition of Saizhan after all, how can a state devoid of all qualities be rendered in sensible terms? But as far as praxis was concerned the method by which one came to the final realization which Saizhan claimed to be the Ahma was blazing a path which would appeal to a particular minority: those of antinomian bent within the broad and complex set of perspectives which comprised Oronthonian religion.
Many who had been Irrenites before such labels became superfluous immediately understood what Eadric of Deorham was attempting to do. They applauded his revolutionary vision, his rejection of conventional mores, and his apparent transcendence of notions such as good and evil although the matter was far from resolved within the Ahma's own mind. Several adepts including the thaumaturges Sineig and Wrohs* went as far as to compact succubi in their exploration of Saizhan. Not so much in emulation of the Ahma, but in recognition that rapid deconstruction of conventional reality required radical tools, and demons were about as radical as it got.
The subschool which arose, Skτhsldaϊr the gate of demons would produce works of extraordinary genius and subtlety. Its validity as an authentic vehicle for Saizhan was doubted by few, but its suitability as a universal tool which many of its proponents advocated was regarded with dubiety by more conservative elements. It was too controversial. Too hazardous. Too Adversarial for the tastes of many. It was the beyond even the most questionable of Goetic practices. It should be reserved only for those whom the Sela deemed ready.
Of course, the Sela himself declined to make such judgments.
It was in foreknowledge and anticipation of these events and others beside that the schemes of Hell were set into motion. To the amazement of the nobles Furcas and Murmuur, Azazel and the Infernal Standard arrived in Afqithan, together with three other devils of unusually wicked temperament. Sachir, Zaare and Nahuzihis were Akesoli, serving the arch-fiend Amaimon, and dispensing pain upon powerful and intractable thralls both mortal and diabolic. There was no question of challenging Azazel's authority in the demiplane by either of the entrenched Dukes. He needed neither seals nor letters of precedence to validate his assumption of command: he was Azazel. That was enough.
The presence of the Akesoli caused fearful speculation amongst Murmuur and his various captains and lieutenants decorated narzugons high in the Order of the Fly. Murmuur was a straightforward soldier, and although subtle in the way that all Infernal aristocrats are subtle, he lacked the calculated finesse of intellectuals such as Furcas and Titivilus. He was not privy to the machinations of his liege in Malbolge, nor of his liege's liege in Maladomini. It was evident that the Akesoli's presence must have been authorized at the highest level: sanctioned by the Adversary himself, the Quatriumvirate, and possibly the silent council of the thirteen great Antagonists.**
Murmuur was, however, relieved that Azazel had been appointed the task of commanding the effort. Azazel was like himself a warrior, with little interest in devious schemes. Although a harsh taskmaster, Hell's standard-bearer recognized accomplishment upon the battlefield above all else, and Murmuur excelled in battle and deeds of martial prowess. The Duke mused drily whether Azazel's arrival had been a strategic decision designed to make Murmuur himself more tractable, or whether it in some way reflected the involvement of the Ahma: although Agalierept might have been a more obvious choice, he would possess less gravitas as far as mortals were concerned.***
Murmuur waited impatiently, eager to simultaneously align the nine gates within his tower to Malbolge, in order to permit his troops through: thirty legions, plus their auxiliaries. There were bearded devils, malebranche, horned devils and erinyes. And his knights, who numbered several thousand, would lead the narzugon charge if and when it came.
If it came. Murmuur realized that he still had no idea what was really happening. But unlike Furcus or Titivilus, his political ignorance was a source of comfort rather than distress.
He grunted. Spined devils flapped silently around him, strapping his breastplate and vambraces constructed of an unknown, greenish metal over a fine mesh of infernal steel.
**
The galley a vast, ponderous quadrieme from Shϋth lumbered at dusk into the bustling port of Jashat, and moored close to the weathered marble of an ancient wharf, fast by a sleek Thalassine jabeque. Her timbers groaned as she eclipsed the smaller ship, blotting out the sunset and irritating the dozen or so sailors who smoked and relaxed upon the jabeque's deck after a hard week's work. The quayside stretching below a vast plaza crammed with temples to a hundred gods was a riot of colour and activity.
The Gentleman from Thond whose own preference for colour in his clothing was understated at best, and muted at worst stood in the cool evening air upon wide steps, below a timeworn shrine to the god Peahj. Six retainers attended him. He squinted through the scented clouds exuded by temple censers in an effort to suppress the effect upon his humours. His humours exhibited a particularly delicate balance. He was nervous, and agitated.
He watched impatiently as pulleys span and counterweights soared upon two great derricks near the stern, and the galley lowered a gangway half as wide as the road to Fumaril. She began to unload dozens of crates, chests and boxes from her hold, lugged by huge slaves who bore intricate brands upon their arms and shoulders: the Gentleman from Thond wondered they were a giant-breed from some distant corner of Shϋth. Before them, a company of guards of similar type, but clad in dull breastplates and wearing cloaks of sombre red marched silently down the walkway and arrayed themselves in a wide semicircle, blocking half the quayside and causing merchants and vendors to curse and grumble. Long, sharp glaives pointed outwards like a thicket, oblivious to the laws and customs of Jashat.
A second gangplank less massive than the first was hauled into place and dropped by a hundred muscled arms.
The Gentleman from Thond licked his lips apprehensively. A slow procession of magi began to issue from the galley. Some were cowled and hooded, others bare-headed, yet more bore hair arranged in long, intricate braids all according to their station and function, at which the Gentleman could only guess. In the rear, a number of veiled palanquins attended by servants or neophytes swayed rhythmically, in time with the steady footsteps of their muscled bearers.
He swallowed, and strode forwards. Several of the guards each a cubit taller than himself immediately brought their weapons to bear on him. He smiled uncertainly, and coughed. Before he had the chance to speak, he heard another voice issue from behind them.
The wall of steel parted, to reveal a slender man with a terse manner dressed in a loose, silk robe of greenish-black.
"I have made the necessary arrangements, but " the Gentleman from Thond began.
"Good," the other interrupted. "I am Anumid. You will address me and me only. Here is a list of our requirements."
Anumid handed a long scroll to the Gentleman, who raised his eyes in surprise.
"The temple precinct has been cleared," the Gentleman from Thond said. "Vagrants were "
"The details are irrelevant," Anumid interrupted again. "The site will be reconsecrated, in any case."
"I have had to call in many favours and line many purses, to make this happen, Anumid. I have had numerous unforeseen expenses."
"You will be recompensed," Anumid smiled. "Do you wish to continue in the capacity of our agent?"
"Yes, but "
"Will fifty thousand be sufficient to begin with?"
"Yes." The Gentleman from Thond bowed perfunctorily.
As the train made its winding progress through the city of Jashat, they passed by two Wizards of middling power: a local enchantress named Luthlul, and her recent acquaintance Menniz, a conjurer who originally hailed from Lang Herath in Wyre.**** Luthlul gave Menniz a meaningful look.
"This is an unexpected development," Menniz said uncomfortably, scratching his neck. "Do you think they're genuine?"
Luthlul invoked her arcane sight and gaped.
"I assume from your expression that the answer is an unqualified yes," Menniz said laconically.
"The four in the palanquins are off the scale," Luthlul whispered. "I'm not getting anything from half a dozen others they're probably mind blanked."
"Why aren't they using a more conventional mode of transport? Is it a ritual thing?"
"Probably," Luthlul nodded. "What should we do?"
"We can't do anything, Luthlul. But I'll issue a sending to Daunton in a while: he should probably know. Frankly, if they're staying here, I'm inclined to return to Wyre. At least it's safer there."
"From less than half of them," Luthlul grimaced. "I wonder if any more are coming."
"I doubt it. I'm surprised that there are that many in the whole of Shϋth. What have they been doing for the past eight hundred years?"
"Preserving the tradition, apparently."
After Daunton received the sending in Gibirazen, news quickly became current among those mages he knew and subsequently, through his friend Prince Tagur, passed into both temporal and spiritual circles.
When it reached the ears of the Sela, Tramst evinced neither surprise nor concern.
Within a day more rumours were circulating, and Daunton determined to visit Jashat himself none of his divinations were proving effective in the matter.
Three miles outside of the city, the temple of Cheshne abandoned and overgrown for a millennium had risen again from its crumbling ruins. By their arts the magi and now none doubted their authenticity had restored the compound overnight.
Towers soared skywards to giddying heights, icons and statues of tormented spirits the ugras or 'fierce protectors' of the faith adorned walls and bastions: they bore an uncanny resemblance to figures which, in the faith of Oronthon, were understood to be fallen celestials. In the beliefs of Shϋth, however, their rτle was subtler and more complex. And far older. Embodiments of fear, lust or violence which must be both placated and overcome in order for reconciliation with Nothingness to be achieved.
Mostin who had been inwardly concerned about the missing tendril in his convergence received a sending from Daunton while he sat at the table in the Great Hall at Kyrtill's Burh. His face remained impassive.
Queen Soneillon, who rested across from him in contemplative pose, looked into his eyes.
**
Iua's defiance of her mother's wishes was rooted in her need to refamiliarize herself with Fumaril from which she had been absent for a year almost as much as her obstinacy when it came to obeying Mulissu's commands. Despite her mother's insistence that Iua remain inconspicuous and protected by the wards of faith, the Duelist's own curiosity and wanderlust traits for which Mulissu herself had once been renowned found her in any number of dubious locales. She took to the streets with a mind to finding anything which might distract her from brooding upon her brief, eccentric and ultimately empty relationship with Ortwin.
Mulissu herself was cloistered within one of several small temples to Jeshi into whose cult, in her youth, she had been initiated.***** Whilst the Savant had maintained a relatively low profile amongst wizardly circles in Wyre and beyond, her reputation amongst the clergy of Jeshi who shared many of the same aerial contacts as the Elementalist was somewhat different. Her progress had been watched: lauded by some, criticized by others, and, by more than a few, recognized as a potential source of revivification for the cult's flagging fortunes.
Mulissu, who abhorred politics almost as much as organized religion, avoided all attempts to convince her to renew her vows to Jeshi. But the hallowed ground of the temple was from her perspective too useful a defense to ignore, so she grudgingly acquiesced to the demands of the High Priestess to attend revels held in Jeshi's name. In return, the Elementalist was granted several perquisites: the use of the roof-space above the Chamber of Chimes, a feigned ignorance of any magic that she might work, and assurances that she would be otherwise left alone.
Mulissu's unique spirituality cerebral in the extreme had developed to regard devotional practices as bizarre and inexplicable. There was no reconnection with a deeper source, no feeling of unity or succour, no camaraderie, and no appreciation of a symbolism which might to an initiate possess profound revelatory significance: to Mulissu, it appeared as an alphabet inaccurately scrawled by a toddler.
But in Fumaril which lay beyond the purview of the Claviger Mulissu could summon. She haggled ad nauseum with powerful djinns in an effort to replenish her diminished supply of spells, and co-opted the services of a novice called Naimha to act in the capacity of a broker. Naimha scoured every marketplace and every hidden shop which dealt in oddities in an attempt to procure magical paraphernalia mostly without success. Mulissu opened lines of communication with Tozinak, whom she liked; with Jalael, whom she distrusted; and with Waide, whom she found intolerable. She also began to cultivate the friendship of Ehieu, a sorcerer from Pandicule whose flightiness made Mulissu seem positively stable. Ehieu roamed the seas south of Fumaril and when not alternately vexing or aiding sailors made infrequent visits to the Temple.
She pointedly and somewhat petulantly snubbed Shomei, who by virtue of close association with Mostin, was considered an undesirable acquaintance. Shomei was, to some degree at least, responsible for the Elementalist's decline in fortunes.
She sighed. She should have known better than to deal with Alienists and Infernalists, even if they were among the handful of people whose intellects she actually respected.
When Mulissu therefore received a sending from Daunton who had been apprised of her presence on the Prime her heart sunk:
Cult of Cheshne resurfaced in Jashat. Powerful necromancers and blood-magi. Suspect at least six first-order wizards and four transvalent hierophants. Will advise further. Daunton.
Mulissu groaned, and wondered if it was related to the nonsense that Mostin had involved himself in. She would keep all of her possessions on hand, in case a speedy exit from Fumaril proved necessary.
Jashat, after all, was only forty miles away.
She brooded briefly, and wondered whether relaying the information to Iua would be wise. He daughter was brilliant, but her judgment frequently poor.
Iua herself did not return until the early hours of the next morning. She was flushed from a number of encounters some involving crossed blades, others not and moderately inebriated.
Mulissu sighed. Parenting was not her strong suit. She chided Iua inexpertly and gestured, vaguely conscious that this might be the correct way to address a child.
Iua ignored her, and her eyes widened: she seemed to be looking at something behind Mulissu. The Elementalist's hackles rose, and she wheeled about, prepared to unleash a powerful necromancy.
I see nothing
The thought passed through Mulissu's mind a fraction of a second before she experienced an acute, stabbing agony, rapidly followed by a succession of further intense pains. Her eyes glazed over, and she glanced down to notice that around a foot of cold, slender steel was protruding from her stomach, and that blood was flowing freely from her. She felt Iua's blade withdraw from her, and as she collapsed and died, she idly wondered why her own daughter had slain her.
Thus passed Mulissu: counted among the greatest of evokers in Wyre's history, although she was not herself a native of that place. And this time, Mostin the Metagnostic experienced no feeling of foreboding prior to the danger in which the Savant found herself, no presentiment of her demise. Not even the faintest inkling of prescience remained to him now, and some time would pass before news of her death reached him. Mulissu, whom he had loved in his own, strange fashion.
Her spirit fled, and was dispersed upon the winds.
Iua screamed silently from within the prison which her body had become, and watched, helpless, as her hands began to rifle her mother's still-warm corpse for items beyond worth. She grabbed rings from Mulissu's fingers, ripped an amulet from her breast, and pulled the sapphire of mutable coruscations from its collar around her throat. She smiled wickedly as she delved into a glove of storing and felt the web of motes, and something else. She pulled forth a small lump of obsidian, shaped like a horse.
How fortuitous, the thought manifested with savage irony within Iua's mind, although it was not her own.
Iua, and her possessor a demon named Surab plane shifted to the Abyss upon a fantastic steed.
*Although Orthodoxy had boasted few magically potent priests in its heyday and many had been slain during the war with Trempa the heretical Irrenite fringe sheltered a number of competent thaumaturges.
**Hell's hierarchy is, of course, immensely complex, and various devils exercise varying degrees of power in different areas. Governance is executed through Asmodeus, Astaroth, Baalzebul and Belial amongst whom precedence is hotly contested. The Thirteen Great Antagonists are fallen seraphs who have no place in the day-to-day administration of Hell, and concern themselves entirely with the war against Heaven. Many scholars of diabolic politics insist that the arrangement is purposely tense and ambiguous a dynamism in the hierarchy enforced by the Adversary to prevent stagnation.
***Agalierept is the commander of Hell's second legion and Grand General of Hell. Among Hell's foremost soldiers, his cruelty and vindictiveness are legendary. The armoured cornugons who serve him are likewise renowned for their ruthless brutality.
****After the Clavigers Injunction in Wyre, many wizards of more independent mind moved outside of the magically proscribed area. Of them, most found their way south to the Thalassine.
*****Mulissu's initial vocation that of a priestess had been quickly rejected. Jeshi is a Thalassine goddess of the winds, with a widespread but uninfluential following. The names Jeshi and Jashat are etymologically connected.
Last edited by Cheiromancer; 11th July 2004 at 10:03 PM..
At least five infinities clashed in Afqithan. When forces collide in the metaphysical realm, it is only natural that this is reflected in our own.
- Orolde.
Rhul's case had been delivered with such eloquence and such poignancy that all those who listened to him, excepting perhaps Jetheeg the lamia cum hag who possessed neither a moral conscience nor artistic sensibilities had been moved.
He had spoken of Sisperi: its clans, and history and traditions; its wide grasslands and virgin forests; its towns and villages; the customs and the temperament of its peoples. He had evoked scenes of soaring mountains riven with deep canyons, and sun shining on a rolling surf, and mists rising over cold, still lakes. His speech had possessed a natural rhythm which made all constructed meter seem crass and childish; his tone was mellifluous and enchanting.
And then he had spoken of death, and ruin, and the end of the world. Of the blight which consumed all things and turned them to filth and desolation. Of the razing of civilization, and the final extinction of sapience. Rhul's words had become a soft-spoken lament; there was no compromise in his description of the horror which had occurred, even until the bitter end. He had spoken of Mulhuk, and of Saes, and Lai, and the death of Hodh and other godlings besides. He had spoken of Ninit, and her wild, unquenchable fury.
Ortwin had sat silently, his head in his hands. Mostin had stared blankly. Bile and anger had arisen in Eadric's throat.
And then Rhul had begged for aid. Eadric had felt as though his soul had been cut in half.
*
After he had left and Rhul's message and entreaty had taken more than two hours to deliver Eadric resumed his seat uncomfortably. He poured himself a large goblet of wine, and sat back in his chair. The fire in the hearth had dwindled to a dull glow, and moonlight illuminated the Great Hall through the windows high in its south wall. The servants disturbed by the company which the Ahma chose to keep had long since retired.
"You cannot waver now," Mostin groaned. "We are so close. How many other worlds could tell a similar tale?"
"The Wizard is right," Jetheeg scoffed. "Do not let your weakness and susceptibility to a well-spun story dictate your course of action in this. You have taken vows, and made assurances, Ahma. Would you add oathbreaking to your tally of crimes against your deity? The list gets longer every day, I hear." The innuendo was hardly subtle.
Eadric sighed. "How many has Nhura gathered?"
"A thousand Loquai knights virtually all of those who were exiled. Some few sidhe. Compactees. More than a few slaadi may involve themselves."
"Slaadi?" Shomei gaped. "Is Nhura insane?" She furrowed her brow, and glanced at Mostin who shrugged and scowled. Neither had foreseen the possibility.
"They are not waiting with her in Faerie or Shadow," Jetheeg snapped. "But several Anarchs have become aware of the situation. They have a vested interest, after all."
Realization crossed Mostin's face. "Heedless," he said.
Jetheeg nodded curtly.
Eadric swallowed. "Mostin, you've said many times that this will be no conventional war. That I need to think far beyond anything with which I am familiar. Do you have any idea how long this will take to resolve? Are we talking in terms of days? Weeks?"
Mostin laughed. "Eadric, if the situation in Afqithan is not decided within fifteen minutes, I will be surprised."
The Ahma nodded grimly. "Then I would ask you to issue a sending to Rhul: if I'm not in Sisperi in two days, it means I'm dead, and I'm not coming."
"You mean to go otherwise, then?"
"Yes."
Mostin turned to Soneillon, who had thus far only observed. "You have been conspicuously silent. I am surprised that you have had nothing to contribute. What of your own force? And what of Rhyxali, Soneillon? What is she sending?"
"Demons, dear Mostin. She is sending demons."
"How many?" He asked irritably.
"Rhyxali is not predisposed to act often," Soneillon smiled, "but when she does, she acts decisively. She is sending nearly all of them, Mostin."
Mostin's jaw dropped.
Koilimilou smiled.
"I smell a rat," Ortwin remarked.
**
Mostin dreamed of devils.
Powerful devils. Terrible devils. One bore a chain with many barbed hooks which dripped a black venom; another had claws like scythes which clicked together as it flexed its fingers; a third wore a great hood, but Mostin knew that it was faceless beneath its cowl. The fourth devil was still an angel a Virtue, of sorts. It was tall and beautiful, and wore a breastplate which had been forged before the beginning of time. Strength and power and wisdom were in its hand but so were lust and greed and evil. It stood beneath a vast banner which depicted a meteor streaking through oblivion.
When he awoke, the details eluded him, and he was left with a vague feeling of dread. Dream had claimed his last precognition, and Mostin, who was no Dreamer, could not recall it.
**
Magic coursed again through Mostin's veins as he flew. Afqithan was wild, dark and potent.
This place, he thought. Out of a quintillion possible worlds, why had they chosen this one? What forces had conspired to make this time and place what it was? Mostin was no fatalist, but nor was he quite so arrogant to think that he had entirely mastered the cosmos.
He pondered whether Graz'zt would project himself to Afqithan, or whether he would choose to exercise restraint the latter seemed more likely, according to Mostin's understanding of Graz'zt's paranoia. A combination of the terms silver cord and Heedless had sprung to the Alienist's mind Graz'zt would not be safe from a vorpal sword, even if he was otherwise warded or fortified. Snip, and it would all be over. Even if Graz'zt knew a spell which specifically protected his cord from dangerous slaadi blades entirely possible given his age and dedication to sorcery then it was one less death impulse or desperate summons that he would be casting. And Graz'zt had no doubt considered the unlikely possibility that one of his enemies acquire the sword. Or if Ainhorr lost control
Gods, Mostin thought. What happens if Ainhorr loses control of the sword? Who will he chop? What was the Sword's agenda?
Kostchtchie was already in Afqithan: a 'visiting dignitary' who, in terms of power, was more-or-less matched with Ainhorr certainly as long as Heedless remained in the Balor's possession. Kostchtchie's entourage was hardly diplomatic, however armoured fiendish giant huscarls and sorcerers, white wyrms, a winter-wight and countless bar-lgura. Except for the wight, they were, at present, situated some six hundred miles from their current position, near the fortress of Irknaan. But many could also move instantly across any distance, so it barely mattered. The undead monster was harrowing large tracts of forest with no apparent rhyme or reason the Alienist wondered whether it was even vaguely reliable as an ally of the Demon Lord.
According to Jetheeg, who had received news from Nhura, Graz'zt had opened a number of portals most likely of a limited duration than of permanent nature between the planes. Afqithan was now linked directly with Azzagrat in at least two other locations besides Irknaan's fortress, and also with the Ice Waste presumably in the vicinity of Kostchtchie's force. The exact whereabouts of the new gates were uncertain: this was problematic.
The Alienist knew that most of Soneillon's faction would arrive the same way: through a portal opened by the demoness from one of Throile's "wrinkles," and assumed that Rhyxali's force would be similarly deployed. The little that Mostin did know about Rhyxali included the importance of the marilith Viractuth within the Shadow Princess's camp. Viractuth was a powerful sorceress who served in the capacity of general and confidante. She would be capable of a magical feat which could transport an army.
Mostin fervently hoped that his quiescence of the spheres would not be anticipated. He cursed, because Nwm would have been an invaluable ally. He made a brief, unfelt prayer to any benign deities who might be listening that Shomei should not die today she was one of the few people with the wit to understand him. And he adjusted his hat a huge affair, resembling a mortar-board, made from crimson silk, and boasting two-hundred cloth-of-gold tassles.
They had made the decision to split into two groups. The first contained Shomei, her conjured minions, Eadric and the succubus Chaya one of Soneillon's 'handmaidens.' Chaya had a penchant for powerful necromantic spells. The second trio Ortwin, Koilimilou, and the Alienist himself was less of a concern for Mostin. As long as Rhyxali was on their side, then Koilimilou was not a tangible threat. If Rhyxali were to become their enemy, however not entirely impossible, given the whims of powerful demonesses then Koilimilou would be a dangerous adversary, with considerable tactical information useful to the Princess. Prompt elimination of the sidhe-cambion would be necessary.
Chaya, however, was a completely unknown factor. She was wild, bloodthirsty and crazy even for a demon, Mostin ruefully considered. She had been instructed by Soneillon to guard the Queen of Throile's current favourite namely, Eadric and to make her reservoir available to Shomei on demand. Chaya was less than pleased. But she feared Soneillon.
A third group would consist of Soneillon herself (she had elected to become personally involved), the balor Irzho (who, by Soneillon's magic, would be augmented to terrifying power), and Rimilin (won't it be delightful to see him again, Mostin thought caustically). Rimilin's craft had reportedly increased to the extent that Mostin wondered if he might be on the verge of transvalency, or even if he had already achieved it. Rimilin had mastered Irzho. How? Mostin thought. Irzho had a mind blanking ring. How does one master a mind blanked balor?* The price for their involvement? For Irzho, Heedless what balor wouldn't like a huge, intelligent anarchic vorpal sword? For Rimilin, sinister pacts struck with Soneillon, and possibly Rhyxali. Mostin shuddered. The direct sponsorship of a wizard of Rimilin's prestige by a demoness of Rhyxali's power would place him on a par with Shomei in terms of fiendish clout. And Rimilin lacked Shomei's admittedly idiosyncratic principles.
The Alienist smiled. Despite his loathing of the Acolyte of the Skin, it was not without a certain degree of pride that he recognized that Rimilin was part of one of the most formidable generation of spellcasters that Wyre had yet produced. Although, for a golden age of magic, it seems strangely dark and bleak.
Mostin, Shomei, Ortwin and Eadric were all telepathically bonded, magically bolstered, and smothered with various wards. The Alienist lamented Nwm's absence again: more would have been better. Mostin was charged up with reality maelstroms as well as various sonics, conjurations and auxiliary spells. Shomei was loaded with necromancies, enchantments and conjurations.
Their greatest assets, however, were two spells: a protective dweomer devised by Shomei, and an abjuration invoked by Soneillon herself prior to their arrival in Afqithan Mostin had later learned that Rimilin, Irzho, Nhura and several others had been similarly warded by the Queen of Throile. They were virtually invulnerable to magic, and unless struck by multiple disjunctions, or unless Graz'zt himself were to come and target them with his superb dispelling, all were safe from an unfortunate evaporation of magical protections at the hands of other spellcasters. Mostin knew that the succubus Adyell was capable of bringing down their wards, and hoped that Soneillon was correct in her assertion that her former handmaiden would not be present.
The Alienist circled nervously, and glanced downwards towards Shomei. He sighed. She is glorious, he had to admit to himself.
The Infernalist was flanked by four pit fiends, conjured via planar bindings and then subjected to the power of her Will, focused through her rod. And they were Belial's pit fiends bound in deliberate defiance of the Lord of Hell's Fourth Circle. She was clad in her robe of stars, and while as always she bore her rod, a globe now hung from her belt: a sphere of transparent adamant from which Nufrut's head leered. The marilith had passed into Shomei's possession, as previously agreed with Mostin.
Eadric sat nearby upon Contundor, and both steed and rider appeared impassive. The celestial charger had acquired a pair of huge feathery wings, which caused Mostin to feel nauseous every time he saw them: Mostin was profoundly thankful that he and the Ahma were not in the same team. Next to Eadric, in dark antiparallel, the succubus Chaya waited with her mount a foul-tempered cauchemar which champed restlessly. Mostin studied her briefly: the demoness was naked and scarred, almost bestial in appearance. She bore no weapon, and carried but a single item a smoking black diamond the size of a fist which oozed necromantic power.
Somewhat removed, displaying his characteristic nonchalance, Ortwin laughed and twirled his scimitar confidently. Koilimilou, perched upon an ecalypse and surrounded by jariliths, ignored him. She seemed even more introspective than normal, and Mostin watched her nervously: was she privy to Rhyxali's plans (which were certain to be other than had been revealed)? Did she possess a measure of genuine affection for Ortwin? It seemed unlikely neither demons nor sidhe were renowned for warmth in their relations. Could Ortwin be trusted, anyway?
Except for Eadric, we are a gruesome, conceited and selfish bunch. Perhaps he is the moral glue which binds the feys, sociopaths and fiends together.
The Alienist shrugged, and descended. His thoughts reached out to Shomei.
[Mostin]: My fingers itch! How much longer?
[Shomei]: Three minutes, by my reckoning.
[Mostin]: Aren't your bodyguards restless?
[Shomei]: Devils are notoriously patient.
[Mostin]: I am having reservations.
[Shomei]: Good. Apparently your psychosis has limits.
[Mostin]: I am dubious about the quiescence of the spheres. I like retaining the option of instantaneous retreat.
[Shomei]: Mostin
[Mostin]: Don't worry. I still intend to cast it.
[Shomei]: You'd damn well better, Mostin. Quite a lot hinges upon it. Still, you may have been better contriving the spell with yourself as a mobile locus, rather than designating a static one.
[Mostin]: And lose the opportunity to invoke reality maelstroms? Not bloody likely.
[Shomei]: I suspect that you won't get the chance in any case you need to physically remove yourself two miles from your casting point.
[Mostin] (Grins): I've already thought of that. I will summon a pseudodjinn. We will wind walk together.
Shomei laughed. "You are ingenious." Then her manner suddenly became serious. "If I should die, Mostin "
[Mostin]: Do not start this again.
[Shomei]: There are two simulacra at my mansion
[Mostin]: !
[Shomei]: Together, they comprise most of what I am.
[Mostin]: They are lumps of ice, Shomei.
[Shomei]: You will need to find a way to reify them.
[Mostin]: That is not possible.
[Shomei]: Nonsense. It has merely never been accomplished before. It will be a task commensurate with your ability.
[Mostin]: They lack a Self, Shomei.
[Shomei]: I didn't say it would be easy. One is of me as I was before Nwm reincarnated me. The other is of me as I am now. (Ironically) They are called Sho and Mei. You will tell them apart by their hair colour.
[Mostin]: This is distasteful!
[Shomei]: It will be your magnum opus, Mostin. The last challenge I set you. I would not leave the world bereft of my acquired knowledge.
[Mostin]: You are more than the sum of your learning. I wish you'd said something about this before.
[Shomei]: Do all creatures have multiple pseudonatural analogues, Mostin? If so, I would start with that premise.
[Mostin]: (Astonishment).
[Shomei]: I have left each with two contradictory impulses: preserve thyself and transcend thyself. Hopefully, the seeds of dialectical consciousness have already been sown. They will aid you in your research both are familiar with my library. Everything I have is yours, Mostin.
[Mostin]: (Utter amazement). Shomei
[Shomei]: Sho possesses the key to my astral retreat. I have not used it in some time, for fear of assault. If the current crisis is resolved favorably, it should be safe again. And try to establish a second Triune: three is a good number for productive magical inquiry. Consider Rimilin
[Mostin]: You cannot be serious!
[Shomei]: You are the most powerful living wizard in Wyre, Mostin. You have a responsibility to act as a check on him.
[Mostin]: That is the Claviger's purpose.
[Shomei]: The Claviger acts within its own circumscribed limits.
[Mostin]: Mulissu
[Shomei] (Sadly): Look no more to Mulissu for aid.
[SONEILLON]: NOW
Shomei smiled, unrolled a scroll, and opened a teleportation circle to a location previously scried.
Beneath a screen, in a small glade within sight of both the steep tor upon which Irknaan's palace stood, and of Murmuur's diabolic tower, Mostin together with Shomei and Koilimilou began to invoke the quiescence of the spheres.
A thought flickered through Mostin's mind: Murmuur's tower is outside of the quiescence. Had it moved? He couldn't recall its exact previous location.
Mere seconds before the spell was completed, tens of thousands of shadow demons began to manifest as Viractuth Rhyxali's lieutenant folded a huge area of a distant Abyssal layer, and brought it into vibrational congruence with Afqithan; a massive gate opened to a demiplane abutting Throile, spewing forth Soneillon's horde; and Nhura and her knights and sorcerers along with compactees and sidhe mercenaries simultaneously translated en masse from the Plane of Shadow.
The keen-eyed spined devils who circled Murmuur's tower relayed the information to Azazel their commander-in-chief. Hell's standard-bearer issued an immediate telepathic command to Murmuur: Open the gates.
Titivilus whose presence never failed to irk Azazel now stood nearby. Dispater's Nuncio betrayed no sign of emotion
Azazel scowled, and his knights and captains quailed before him. He entered a brief, silent reverie, and communed with his master. He did not doubt that all contingencies had been anticipated.
[Azazel]: What is your command?
[ ..]: We will not intervene yet: a measure of uncertainty still exists. Wait. Hold your position until instructed otherwise.
[Azazel]: Yes, Majesty.
*Mostin had originally assumed that Rimilin was Irzho's slave, rather than vice-versa.
Last edited by Cheiromancer; 11th July 2004 at 10:08 PM..
"Mulissu is dead," Daunton the Diviner announced to the assembled wizards.*
His words were greeted by a variety of reactions: by Troap, a look of stunned disbelief; by Tozinak in the form of a sylph with tears and a dramatic posture; by Waide, a smug grimace which conveyed the words 'I told you so it was inevitable.' Jalael and Idro exhibited calm insouciance. A dozen other mages and several of these were formidable in their own right showed expressions which ranged from anguish, through curiosity, to total ignorance of the reclusive Savant's identity.
"Thank-you, Daunton," Waide said with nasal condescension. "Although "
"There is more," Daunton interrupted, shooting the transmuter a look of barely concealed contempt. Waide surpassed him in terms of power, but Daunton enjoyed the respect of the entire magical community and the friendship of several influential personages including Prince Tagur outside of it. "An artifact bestowed upon her by Jovol has been stolen, along with other powerful items."
"She and Mostin were feuding, I hear," Waide ventured.
"Waide!" Daunton snapped. "There will be no rumourmongering and innuendo."
"It is hardly an idle thought," Waide persisted. "Mostin's assault upon Griel outside of the Claviger's domain is well known. Which artifact do you speak of?" Waide licked his lips.
"It is called the web of motes. It is potent."
"I have never heard of it," Waide sniffed.
"Nor I," Jalael agreed. "What is its purpose?"
Daunton sighed. "Divination," he said.
Waide laughed openly. "I think we can discern the purpose of your insistence upon this meeting, Daunton: you desire this item. And try telling me now that Mostin has no part in this."
"I make no such claim," the Diviner said dismissively. "But neither do I make the assertion that Mostin murdered Mulissu: he did not. Her own daughter, Iua, slew her. The priestesses of Jeshi confirm as much."
"Matricide?" Jalael said drily. "This gets more interesting. Where is Iua now?"
"I do not know. I suspect she is mind blanked. I have tried to discern her whereabouts twice."
"An accomplice?" Troap asked.
"Or a device," Daunton nodded. "Naturally, you suspect the former, Waide, and you suspect that it is Mostin."
"It is not his style," Tozinak sobbed. "He would have killed her with much more panache. Was Iua under a compulsion?"
"Perhaps. Graz'zt certainly bore Mulissu a grudge. He may have dominated Iua, although it would have been a potent compound spell to circumvent the temple wards especially from Azzagrat. But the Prince had already personally assailed the Savant in her demiplane: hence her retreat to the Prime."
Waide's jaw dropped. "And she survived?"
Daunton nodded. "She was well prepared. Furthermore, Mostin anticipated the attack and provided a safe exit for her."
Waide swallowed nervously. Once he and the Alienist had been peers. But now he realized and the knowledge caused him to grit his teeth in envy and frustration that Mostin had utterly surpassed him.
"Had she other enemies?" Troap asked.
"Not to my knowledge she carefully avoided making them, as a rule."
"How kind of Mostin to lend her one of his," Waide said snidely.
"It was Mulissu who invoked the cascade at Khu," Troap said drily, "not Mostin. I think that is enough to warrant the enmity of any number of powerful fiends."
"It was no doubt in response to Mostin's nagging," Waide replied.
"Because Mulissu was so weak-willed and impressionable, and Mostin so likes the company of celestials," Troap retorted acidly. The Goblin turned to Daunton. "Do you think the emerging Cheshne faction may have had a hand? They are in geographical proximity."
"The possibility had occurred to me," Daunton nodded. "Although a motive is harder to fathom."
"Mulissu could have crystallized magical resistance in Wyrish and Thalassine spellcasters, if it became required," Jalael suggested. "It may have been a preemptive strike."
"The Cult of Cheshne has never exhibited an historical desire to dominate in that manner," Daunton sighed. "Besides, why wait to remove her until after their arrival? And I am reluctant to pin every unfortunate event which transpires upon them we do not know their agenda."
"Not good," Waide grumbled. "We know that much, at least. The Claviger may prove to be an aegis which we did not anticipate. Although maybe Jovol did."
"Jovol was not omniscient," Jalael grunted. "And his legacy has already stymied magical activity. It may yet deny us the ability to muster an effective defense."
"You seem fixated on some impending conflict, Jalael," Daunton scowled. "If it occurs and I doubt that it will likely be religious in nature, and will not concern us."
"If the ugras are invoked, I doubt they will make the distinction," Jalael smiled. "But the question remains: why now?"
"Nothing becomes," Daunton said grimly. "We cannot know why or where. Which brings me to events in the demiplane of Afqithan. I trust that we are all aware of what passes there?"
Jalael groaned. Tozinak fidgeted nervously. The other wizards evinced either blank stares or, in the case of Waide ever reluctant to reveal his ignorance in such matters an expression which could be interpreted as either inquisitiveness, or quiet understanding.
Daunton sighed. "I will tell you what I know which is all that Mulissu related to me. Her information was, I don't doubt, incomplete. And I think that even those who are embroiled in its troubles have only a partial perspective."
"Mostin," Tozinak sighed.
"And Shomei," Daunton nodded. "But one could probably have inferred as much by their conspicuous absence from this meeting."
"The great luminaries of our magical brotherhood," Waide said snidely. "Do they even know of what has happened?"
"I issued a sending to Shomei," Daunton replied, "and instructed her to inform Mostin." The Diviner then proceeded to relate the tale of the Ahma, Graz'zt, Soneillon, and Afqithan.
After Daunton had completed his account, Tozinak overly moved by the story punctuated the silence with a long sigh.
"And the web of motes?" The Illusionist asked. "What exactly does it do?"
"It illuminates connections," Daunton explained. "Between people, places, thoughts, dreams, futures, and truths. It is the most potent object I have ever heard of."
"If Mulissu wasn't wildly exaggerating its power," Waide quipped.
"Why Mulissu?" The Necromancer Creq inquired. "She wasn't even Wyrish. Why did Jovol choose her?"
"Perhaps he liked her," Daunton snapped. He relaxed before continuing. "She was not alone. Shomei received something, as did Mostin, and Hlioth, and you, Waide. And you, Tozinak. All of those who took part in binding the Enforcer."
"And you?" Waide asked archly.
"A minor curio," Daunton answered. "I was the junior member, if you recall. Which, incidentally, leads me to another point: Jovol dwelt in the Thrumohars for fifty years, but where was his sanctum? There must still be a cache somewhere; a repository of knowledge and power."
"I have pondered this question," Jalael admitted. "And what else, Daunton. Have you heard what I have? I am apt to converse with demons, but I wonder what your sources tell you?"
"Rimilin," he nodded.
**
Nwm's eyes flashed open. He had been sitting beneath a fir-tree, listening to the soft pad, pad of an arctic fox, when he heard its pattern change in response to a new stimulus. Something else was close by. He waited.
The Druid inhaled sharply as she approached. She was beautiful. And curiously familiar.
She sat down in the snow before him, unabashed by her own nakedness, and smiled. Her skin possessed a soft, silver sheen, and her eyes no longer demonic were green within green.
"This is an unexpected pleasure," Nwm said wrily. "I should warn you: if my conversation seems stilted or awkward, it's because I haven't spoken for several months."
"Your social ineptitude was never much of a concern," she laughed.
"Can I assume that Eadric was successful in his efforts?" Nwm asked.
"Not yet." She raised an eyebrow.
"I am unsure as to whether I should worship you or not."
"That is your choice. It makes no difference to me. What were you doing?"
"You know, Nehael, I don't really know. Waiting for you, I suppose. I don't imagine that there's a rational explanation for your presence here?"
"Certainly not."
"And what happens now?" Nwm asked.
Nehael laughed. "I asked that very question myself."
"And what answer did you receive?"
"'A Viridity,'" she replied.
"That is suitably vague," Nwm sighed.
"Strange," Nehael said drily. "I had the same reaction. There is something that I would like to share with you, Nwm. A place."
"What sort of place?" Nwm asked suspiciously.
"A sanctuary. An island of Green. An unassailable bastion. A womb."
Nwm felt a frisson of excitement as she spoke, but his voice was sceptical. "In my experience, nowhere is unassailable."
"Prepare to change your mind," Nehael smiled. She held out her hand, and he took it. Stretching forwards, she lightly touched the bark of the tree.
"Step into the tree," she said.
They dissolved into an ocean of jade, emerald and celadon. Another Tree, which was the same tree it was, in fact, all trees appeared.
*
Nwm quaked. His mind screamed in fear, and soared in awe. His breath became rapid and shallow. He was dumbstruck, unwilling to believe, but knowing that it was there.
"Eadric's forebears would have referred to it as the Tree-ludja," Nehael said softly, touching the Tree. "Yours would have called it Derv.**"
"What have you become?" Nwm asked her.
"You know what I am," Nehael smiled. "I am merely Nehael. But now the way is open. You first showed it to me. She remembers. That is why it is Tree, and not Lake or Storm."
Nwm swallowed. She alluded to things which made him feel distinctly uncomfortable. Gingerly, he reached out.
Tree, he knew.
He looked out from the blackthorn in the courtyard of Kyrtill's Burh; from a huge banyan in Afqithan, around which demons clashed furiously; from a hornbeam with white bark and silver leaves, beneath which a goddess meditated; from a viper-tree amid a grove in Azzagrat, where acid rained and fire burned; from a lonely olive-tree on a deserted island in Pandicule; from a celestial oak which rose, impossibly perfect, upon the Blessed Plain.
Nwm withdrew his perception, and looked at Nehael.
"How?" He asked.
This Way, she showed him.***
"Is there more?"
"Oh, yes. There is much more."
"But to look into Hell? Oronthon's Heaven? These places are not "
"Of the Green?" She offered. "I think you need to revise your understanding, Nwm. The Viridity is a transcendental principle: it does not care for conventional labels. Green just became a lot bigger."
"Who was the goddess beneath the tree?" He asked.
"Her name is Lai," Nehael smiled. "You will meet her in due course."
"What is her rτle?" He asked dubiously.
"She is a student. Of magic. Of nature. Her world is all but dead. You will like her which is all to the good."
Nwm gave a quizzical look.
"A student needs a teacher," Nehael explained, "and a goddess needs a priest."
**
The quiescence of the spheres began exactly five seconds after the Eye of Cheshne a large, reddish star linked with ill-fortune, miscarriage and death anticulminated at the necropolis of Khu in the World of Men.
Thus, when Soneillon and her host arrived in Afqithan together with the Balor Irzho and the demonist Rimilin of the Skin a mortal would have breathed but once, before she waxed to her full power again. Her first act before even Ainhorr had issued the telepathic command for his minions to descend upon the hordes of interlopers was to utter an incantation which caused a shimmering wave to issue from her. Soneillon poured forth the void, transforming it, and buoying those hundreds who were closest to her with an ecstasy of negation.
The palrethees, succubi and other monsters the half-fiendish lamias, medusae, harpies and hags which swarmed in the sky around the Demoness greedily drank of the essence which their mistress lavished on them. Irzho and Rimilin already bloated with Soneillon's unlight swelled yet further. Koilimilou inhaled sharply as power coursed through her and her Will was sharpened and intensified, before she abruptly disappeared to sight. And Eadric watched in trepidation as Chaya the succubus appointed to him threw back her head and exulted.
As the impulse washed through the Ahma, visions of unbeing passed through his tortured consciousness. A sweet, lingering taste, heavy with the promise of annihilation. He glanced at Shomei's devils, borne upon the invocation's wind and magnified. They terrified him. He terrifed himself. And in his heart, he knew he was as potent as he had ever before been save perhaps when he had fought at the Nund, where Grace had descended upon him. Now the darkest wards protected him. Blasphemy sustained him.
He drew his sword. At the limit of his vision, issuing in streams from Irknaan's citadel unable to manifest closer, within the quiescence of the spheres Ainhorr's demons were beginning to appear in ghastly flights and packs.
Fifteen minutes, Mostin had said. It would all be resolved within fifteen minutes. The mental clamour of the demons was already threatening to overwhelm him.
Mostin vanished. A bound pseudodjinn a grotesque parody which made Eadric grateful that Iua was not there bore the Alienist on a course which, for the sake of convenience, they had arbitrarily determined as 'west': in Afqithan, there were no cardinal directions. He sped towards a second materializing force Kostchtchie, mounted upon his wyrm, together with his bar-lgura. Mostin purposed to eliminate the demon as quickly as possible. Ortwin and Koilimilou were with him. The three were invisible and mind blanked.
The Alienist scowled. The air was rapidly becoming thick with varrangoin above Kostchtchie, pouring through a teleportation circle: they were a group whose presence he had not foreseen. Nhura and Jetheeg, together with hundreds of Loquai aristocrats and sidhe mercenaries mounted upon umbral griffons, moved towards the Demon Lord. A vast, black cloud of shadow demons followed them. The Alienist, Satyr and Cambion swiftly overtook them all.
[Ortwin]: How long, before we intercept?
[Mostin]: Ninety seconds, give or take. We need to be patient. We must stay wind walking until we reach the boundary of the quiescence. I will be far more effective at the interface.
Momentarily, he doubted. He feared that by the time they reached the invocation's limit, most of Kostchtchie's force would already be inside the dimensionally locked area many of the leaping demons were pressing forwards restlessly. More teleportation circles were opening outside of the quiescence. Abyssal giants some riding white dragons were arriving from wherever Kostchtchie's main force had been concentrated.
Mostin cursed. One of the sorcerers in the Demon Lord's train must possess an extremely potent device there was no way that the spell could have been repeatedly cast in such short time. Doubtless, one of the varrangoin: they were not natural teleporters, and moving large numbers of them effectively would otherwise prove problematic.
As they sped onwards, the Alienist grinned: Kostchtchie himself was not moving inside the quiescence. Evidently, the Ice Lord was reluctant to surrender his ability to instantly retreat.
[Mostin]: We must achieve the perfect position before the wind walk is dismissed. We should strike the Demon with everything we've got.
[Koilimilou]: Watch for the dragons. Their noses will catch us, even if their eyes can't.
*The assembly of wizards, called by Daunton in his manse in Gibilrazen consisted of the Daunton himself (diviner 10/loremaster 5), an accomplished facilitator whose impartiality was renowned; Waide (transmuter 17), generally conceded to be a supercilious pedant; Tozinak (illusionist 18), often hysterical, and in a semi-volitional state of morphic flux; the green hag Jalael (evoker 13/archmage 2), known to have devoured her lovers on several occasions; Sarpin (illusionist 5/shadow adept 7), a Shade, and Jalael's current concubine; the goblin Troap (enchanter 14); Gholu (generalist 8/loremaster 4), a pompous eunuch and hoarder of useless magical curios; Muthollo (abjurer 12), a Bedeshi newcomer regarded with suspicion by the other wizards; Tullifer (transmuter 7/master alchemist 5), who evidenced a vulgar interest in commerce; the sprite Shuk (illusionist 10); Droom of Morne (evoker 12), who stood in minor contempt of the Injunction, and had had his lips magically sealed for one year; Creq (necromancer 11), who helped to perpetrate the worst stereotypes regarding his magical lineage; Idro (generalist 12), intellectually stunted and now verging on senile; Wigdryt (transmuter 9/plane shifter4) a smoke mephit who had recently reappeared from a thirty-year retreat; and Poylu (enchantress 11), who dwelt in a well near the town of Banda in Ialde.
Ehieu (sorcerer 10/air savant 8), introduced to Daunton by Mulissu, was also present although he found the proceedings tedious at best.
**The Tree probably deserves some explanation. Before the rise of Oronthonianism, the migrant Borchian tribes (from whom Eadric and his kin are descended) venerated nature spirits of various kinds, manifestations of different aspects of the Hahio ("Interwoven [Green]"). These facets ("ludjas") were numerous and diverse, and never fully systematized: for example there was a ludja for Stream, for Valley, for Gorse-bush, for Snow etc. etc. etc. Larger ludjas also subsumed smaller ones e.g. the Stone-ludja superseded the Pebble-ludja, the Boulder-ludja etc. The three principal ludjas were considered to be Stone, Water and Tree.
Derv is a Crixi word meaning "[prototypical or archetypal] Tree." There was considerable overlap and syncretism between early beliefs in the peoples who predated the foundation of Wyre, and certain concepts were held to be parallels of one another Derv and the Tree-ludja possessed an obvious identity. For Derv to be an actual tree however was almost nonsensical from Nwm's perspective: it is like being shown the Platonic ideal of "Tree", manifested and fully real.
***Several new spells would be revealed to Nwm by Nehael.
Last edited by Cheiromancer; 28th November 2004 at 08:09 PM..
Teppu laughed, and stroked the ash-tree which they stood next to. It seemed to croon lovingly to him. "It will involve a certain loss of individuality," he smiled. "Are you jealous of your discrete existence? Your autonomy of perception and Will?"
"Certainly not," Hlioth answered. "If I hadn't determined all arguments regarding Will to be specious, then I would never have abandoned wizardry."
"You should blend all elements into a harmonious whole," Teppu said. "And your song will be different to mine. Give me your hand."
The Green Witch complied, and Teppu pressed it to the trunk of the tree. Within moments, a cascade of new impressions flooded into her mind. Multiple realities became apparent. Her breathing became rapid and shallow.
"How many layers are there visible?" She gasped.
"They cannot be measured in numbers," Teppu laughed.
"I can see Faerie."
"I am surprised that you can distinguish it so readily. Although it is less sleepy than many of the others."
"Perhaps I am predisposed to easily apprehend it. One other seems close within reach. What is it?"
"It is the half-hidden world of the Tunthi. Were you to go to Tun Hartha, you would see it more clearly. It is closer there than here."
"It has recently stirred?" Hlioth asked.
"Twice. Great spirits were awakened. Echoes remain within the visible Green. It was roused from its torpor near Hrim Eorth, then again at Groba."
"I recall hearing of Hrim Eorth the river became a dragon. But Groba?"
"Groba is more ancient than most know. Mesikδmmi woke its genius loci."
"To what purpose?"
Teppu smiled. "To swallow a sword, and keep it safe."
Hlioth's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "You have been following her activities?"
"Amongst others," his eyes twinkled.
"Which others?"
"Nehael. Nwm."
"What does the demoness have to do with this?"
Teppu threw back his head, and laughed. "Nehael is no demoness, nor was she ever one. The past is not immutable."
Hlioth scowled. "What are you plotting, Teppu?"
"I do not plot," Teppu replied sincerely. "I merely act according to need. There is a splinter of reality which must be realigned: purged of its umbral infestation. In order to accomplish this, I will need the concerted effort of several selfless individuals."
"I think perhaps you might explain a little more."
"I mean to eradicate the seeds of taint from the demiplane of Afqithan: it will be the first manifestation of the burgeoning Viridity. Faerie must reclaim its own."
Hlioth shrugged. "What is Afqithan, and why is it significant?"
Teppu sighed. "Your knowledge of current events is lamentably scant, Hlioth. This does not surprise me, but you cannot continue to view Green within the limited terms that you have previously described to yourself. Afqithan is a finite reality where demons, devils, tainted sidhe and various other monsters struggle to assert themselves: Oronthon's Ahma is embroiled in its troubles, as is the creature Soneillon a demoness who has transcended her ontic state.
"I am dubious of your ability to manage such an act."
"It will be simple: trust me."
"And how do you propose to accomplish this?"
"Why," Teppu laughed, "with magic, of course."
"You are Jovol," Hlioth sighed. "And Fillein."
"Yes and no," Teppu replied.
"I understand neither you nor your motives," Hlioth groaned.
"Nor do I," Teppu admitted.
**
Eadric and Shomei rode in the blazing trail carved by Irzho through the purple skies of Afqithan. Before them, Rimilin whose grotesque, sexless form rippled black and oily and Soneillon into whom all light vanished flew within the great fume of smoke and fire which emanated from the balor. Contundor was buffeted by the gale which issued from the pit fiends invisible but the source of a palpable malice who flanked them both. Demons, half-fiends and evil monsters of every conceivable hue surrounded them, jostling for space.
Ahead of the Ahma, Ainhorr's forces filled immensity, blackening the skies, their numbers still swelling as demons from across Afqithan heard the summons, and teleported to the unlocked areas beyond the quiescence of the spheres. From the towers of Irknaan's palace they gushed forth in a never-ending torrent, and below the flights of chasme, succubi and palrethees, the ground and treetops seethed with bar-lgura. Eadric scowled as the standards of the Mariliths in thrall to Ainhorr were being raised beyond the spell's limit. More demons flocked around them, and those Loquai who had thrown in their lot with Graz'zt.
[Eadric]: How so quickly?
[Shomei] (ruefully): I suspect that Ainhorr has my stone of sendings. He issues a command to a subordinate, they instantly relay the message to their subordinates, and within a few minutes nearly every demon in Afqithan will be here. Redeployment is seldom a problem for fiends.
[Eadric]: And Graz'zt?
[Shomei]: I don't doubt that he was the first to know.
[Eadric]: We should climb. How long will the invisibility last?
[Shomei]: We have time yet, but avoid any conflict for the moment. We need to retain the element of surprise for as long as possible. We must find Ainhorr.
[Eadric]: Within the palace.
[Shomei]: Doubtless. He will not commit himself personally yet. You will also notice that no Nalfeshnees have appeared they remain close by their master. There were thirty, at last count.
[Eadric]: Thirty is too many, Shomei.
[Shomei]: It is not. Just watch out for the sword.
[Eadric] (pointing with his mind): What is that? You didn't mention a dragon. I thought Mostin got the dragons.
A grotesque shape, the wings of which beat slowly and rhythmically, was moving through the demons of Ainhorr's force towards them.
[Shomei]: That is Ilistet's Steed. Graz'zt's herald.
[Eadric]: His herald? Is he here himself?
[Shomei]: Not according to Mostin.
As if to punctuate the realization, a long, sonorous blast issued from Ilistet's horn, causing the ancient, twisted trees to shake, and the Ahma's chest cavity to resonate.
Eadric, Chaya, Shomei and her quartet of devils peeled away from the main spearhead of demons, and began to climb rapidly. They were not alone: other fiends from both factions were attempting to assume positions which offered a higher vantage point.
Climb, he urged his mount.
Within one minute, they had reached nearly two thousand feet. Still, they needed to climb flights of succubi and chasme, issuing from the tallest of the towers, had already reached that altitude. Eadric glanced downward and ahead of himself, and watched in fascination as Irzho ploughed into a mob of invisible nycadaemons which slowly revealed themselves to his sight.
**
[Mostin]: We must finish him as quickly as possible. His focus lies upon Nhura, at present, although no doubt the probability of invisible, mind-blanked assailants has occurred to him. I'm hoping that the wind-walking hasn't. We have a chance, here: it is the nature of demonic enthusiasm for a cause to crumple if the Lord or Prince who binds them in this case Kostchtchie is eliminated. It's all personality.
[Ortwin] (Drily): No doubt this is about us preventing him reaching you.
[Mostin]: In a nutshell, yes. The Djinn will remain nearby, wind-walking, in case you need to make a quick exit.
[Ortwin]: "You" need to make a quick exit? What's with the "You"? How will you escape?
[Mostin]: I will teleport. We will be outside of the quiescence.
[Ortwin]: So we're relying on some bitter, reluctant pseudoelemental?
[Mostin]: I have offered it suitable inducements. Do not be concerned.
[Orwtin]: Gods, Mostin. It's not just Kostchtchie. It's the dragon. And the other demons. And the other dragons. And that thing.
Mostin peered ahead. Close by the Demon Lord, shunned by demons but around whom fiendish giants grouped clumsily, a gaunt figure stood. It was clearly visible between the warriors' legs: the trio were closing rapidly, now.
[Mostin]: Sh*t. The winterwight. It's not supposed to be here.
[Ortwin]: Feeling nervous yet?
[Mostin]: You may have a point. Keep flying.
Varrangoin were all about them although oblivious to their presence - when they materialized outside the quiescence. Hovering five hundred feet from the limit of the locked area, Mostin invoked a reality maelstrom. It was centered around Kostchtchie, the wight, and the teleportation circles. The dimensional tempest raged incoherently, stretching away from the quiescence in a sphere from which a section had been cut: along the interface between the two spells, a null-space suffused with paradoxical magical energy crackled. For a fraction of a second, Mostin became visible before hiding himself again with another spell.
[Ortwin] (Grinning): That's more like it.
[Mostin]: Brace yourself.
The magical response to the Alienist's assault was immediate and would have overwhelmed them all, had it not been for Soneillon's ward. Horrid wiltings, fireballs, a meteor swarm and numerous sonics blasted into them. The djinn was instantly vaporized, and Mostin's brief appearance had been sufficient to make him the target of three attempted disintegrations and numerous enervations. Rager varrangoin were all about him, attempting to rend his invisible form.
Centered on himself this time, as yet more spells struck them ineffectually, Mostin invoked a second reality maelstrom, content that their own wards would prevent their succumbing to it. This time, the Alienist remained invisible.
Ortwin swallowed as he stood poised on the verge of another reality. Mostin cackled, looking through the rent in space: a rift into Limbo.
[Mostin] (Madly): We're safe here.
[Ortwin]: Are you quite nuts?
Flying through the dimensional storm and through hundreds of varrangoin being pulled helplessly to their fate a huge white dragon powered its way purposefully towards them. It bore an ugly, squat, bandy-legged demon brandishing a great hammer.
Clinging to the flank of the dragon, of whose presence the wyrm seemed entirely oblivious, an arcanist varrangoin clung, drooling like a dog. It stretched out its hand, and delivered an empowered sonic meteor swarm to them.
Bad, Mostin thought, as several creatures nearby were disintegrated by the sound. The tassles on his hat swayed slightly. Two more dragons appeared behind the first: mounted upon each were giants wielding enormous axes.
Abruptly, the reality maelstrom vanished, struck by a greater dispelling. From the dragon's jaws a terrible cold washed over them, numbing them despite their wards.
Koilimilou, buoyant with Soneillon's power, retaliated with a soundless gaze. Black fire coursed over the wyrm, and it bellowed in agony for a second, before silently vanishing in a cloud of dark ash. The varrangoin sorcerer took to the air with its own wings, but Kostchtchie himself began to tumble towards the ground.
[Ortwin] (Gaping): What the ?
[Mostin]: Kostchtchie can't fly.
[Ortwin]: (Hysterical laughter).
But in response to its master's telepathic command, one of the other dragons wheeled about and its rider climbed from his harness, and carelessly launched himself into the air.
Mostin anticipated that Kostchtchie would attempt to teleport into the vacant saddle. He opened a gate.
Koilimilou a sidhe-cambion seldom prone to uncontrollable outbursts screamed. The pseudonatural Horror simultaneously both a daemon, and a writhing thing possessed of appendages with an unknown purpose slid through the portal.
[Symbol] = Faces.
[Mostin] (Pointing mentally at Kostchtchie): His face (and then at the dragons), their faces.
With a gusto which surprised Mostin, the Horror launched itself from the gate towards their enemies.
There had to be a catch, Mostin knew. There was always a catch. It was never that easy.
**
The demon Surab, together with his host a half-mortal named Iua rode upon an obsidian steed across a blasted Abyssal landscape. A great, flat, plain riven by yawning chasms which led to the domains of a thousand different demonic magnates stretched as far as the eye could see. Surab relaxed into his new form young, athletic, deadlier with the blade than any of the succubi mercenaries who served Graz'zt. He might keep her for a while she seemed quiescent enough.
Through her eyes, he scanned the terrain ahead of him, eagerly seeking a familiar portal to Azzagrat where, he knew, its Lord would shower him with favour for his success in eliminating the Savant. Although the plan had been swiftly devised, it had been flawless in its execution. Pure simplicity.
Surab congratulated himself upon his ingenuity.
After riding hard for around an hour, the Demon nudged his steed towards a pit filled with lurid green flames, entered it, and, within seconds, emerged from a gate oven in the midst of Zelatar.
The scene which greeted him was violent, chaotic, brutal and filled with seething hatred. In that regard, Azzagrat was entirely normal.
What marked the Triple Realm as changed, however, was the nature of many of the creatures present. A frenzied pack of Abyssal ghouls were feeding nearby, and a cadre of death knights mounted upon cauchemars thundered past with some dire purpose.
Because, acutely conscious of Graz'zt's denuded power and overextended forces, and perceiving the chink in his usually impenetrable armour, Prince Orcus acting on the gentle promptings of Rhyxali had determined to invest Azzagrat and test his rival's defenses with a lightning-quick assault.
Surab panicked. The Argent palace, under normal circumstances visible from all parts of Zelatar, had vanished: the demon guessed that Graz'zt had obscured it with a spell.
Commanding his steed to plane shift, Surab, his host and his mount vanished. Any forsaken realm between Hell and the Abyss was preferable to Azzagrat at that moment.
Upon his throne, Graz'zt himself reflected. The purpose of the embassy delivered by Titivilus now seemed clear to him: the Nameless Adversary had, no doubt, known of the impending situation, and chosen to maintain the existing balance of Abyssal politics by reinforcing the Prince's armies in Afqithan. It had to be Afqithan: a diabolic presence in the Abyss would have caused outrage among the other Princes. Afqithan, because of the concentration of Graz'zt's force there; because that was where the Ahma had determined to start the war; because to hold Afqithan was yet another opportunity to defy the will of Oronthon. Afqithan had become an unlikely trophy in the Great Game. New impulses were revealing themselves.
Graz'zt spat venom, and cursed. He knew he would have been overwhelmed in Afqithan. He needed the devils: in order to secure Azzagrat he was being forced to withdraw from dozens of worlds including Yutuf, Tirche, Sisperi and Saraf and redeploy tens of thousands of demons. And now he doubted that he hold Throile: the sweet prize dearly bought with the life of one of his favourite generals. And bitterest of all, he realized that, despite all appearances to the contrary, he himself was still the pawn of the one who had sparked the Great Revolt.
Last edited by Cheiromancer; 28th November 2004 at 08:08 PM..
In this thread I complain in a self-indulgent manner about my lot, and seek words of sympathy and advice from fellow ENWorlders.
Many thanks for kind words.
So I've decided to take some of your collective advice (the parts I like best, obviously) and pick up the keyboard again. I'm shooting for smaller, more frequent updates; I'm starting at a place in the campaign where I want to write, and the rest will follow - either as backstory, or as an update to The Mesalliance at some vague, unspecified future date.
Bear with me on this one.
*************************************************
VIRIDITY AND SAIZHAN
Mostin the Metagnostic walked slowly through the hallway, the sound of his passage muted by a thick, crimson carpet which possessed a texture akin to fine velvet. He was not alone: his arcane sight revealed several unseen servants as they went about their chores, and a spined devil one of a dozen compacted by the mansion's former mistress years before flapped silently past. Its contract with Mostin had been renewed for a further three decades, and it was cautious to avoid irritating the Alienist.
He entered a study, the curious furnishings of which upon his explicit instruction had remained unaltered since the Alienist had taken possession of the place. Closing the door behind him, he walked to a ornate cabinet, opened its door, and removed a crystal decanter. Carefully, he poured himself a large goblet of kschiff. Taking a single sip and briefly savouring its potency Mostin sank into a large leather chair and introspected for an hour.
Thoughts of Shomei, the simulacra and Vhorzhe preoccupied him.
Finally, he stirred himself, removed a small stone from his robe, and issued a sending to his apprentice, Orolde: No change, I assume?.
None.
Mostin sighed. After so long, he would have expected at least some kind of revelation to be forthcoming. Some kind of reaction. A threat. An assault. Anything.
Set a fire. I am coming.
Mostin stood, exited the study by another door, and passed through several reception chambers into an echoing corridor carved in intricate relief. Traversing its length, he reached a small wooden portal bound with polished brass. The door opened smoothly, and Mostin entered a huge library by way of an opening concealed behind heavy purple drapes. Purposefully, he retrieved an ancient tome from a pile of books stacked neatly upon a small desk, muttered, and teleported into the parlour of a rustic manse several hundred miles to the south.
In the hills of Scir Cellod on the borders of Wyre, twenty yards outside of the limit circumscribed by the Claviger an entity of deific power which curbed the excesses of Wyrish arcanists through an Enforcer of terrible power Mostin had erected his comfortable retreat. His choice of locale a wooded dell, through which an icy stream chattered noisily had been inspired primarily by its proximity to the intangible border, although it also offered a certain secluded charm which was not entirely lost on the Wizard.
Mostin wordlessly handed his cloak to Orolde a maimed sprite who served the Alienist with eccentric devotion sighed, and descended into his cellar. The area was replete with potent wards, the continual renewal of which occupied a not inconsiderable portion of Mostin's time and resources. A dim green light testament to a dimensional lock suffused the place.
"Greetings gentlemen. I trust you are all well?"
From thaumatugic diagrams etched in precious metals upon the floor of the summoning room, three devils gazed impassively upon the Wizard: Titivilus, Murmuur and Furcas Infernal magnates of high bearing, wielding wide dominion. None answered him. Malice flowed from them all.
"Are any of you feeling talkative?" The Alienist asked.
None replied. A great irony, Mostin thought to himself: both Furcus and Titivilus were renowned for their loquacity.
"Let me know when you are," Mostin said smoothly.
Silence penetrated the summoning room.
Mostin repaired to his study, and issued a number of sendings.
**
The Sidhe leaned upon a balcony of Irknaan's Fortress in self-reflection. She considered her fortune with emotional detachment and cold, sharp precision. She could not rationalize her change: in previous transmigrations she had been bawdy; licentious almost without limit. Now, she was frigid, and possessed of an eerie clarity which was so inherently magickal that reality itself had shifted, and become a dream in which she was the calm protagonist. Everything had become fey.
Ahead, to the horizon, there stretched a bubble of Otherworld: pure, uncontaminated, as fresh as when the first flower had bloomed, and the first sprite had sprung into being. Beyond, for uncounted miles, lay a Shadow which was slowly receding. But behind, hidden by the towering mass of the castle, in the space once occupied by Jetheeg's range, potent magic had attached the bubble of Afqithan to Faerie proper. Many of the realm's inhabitants were either stirring again, or in the case of those whom the taint had overwhelmed fleeing to safer, darker places. Others, entirely new to the former demiplane, had migrated in small numbers to what was for them an undiscovered corner of the world. It was a phenomenon that had occurred before: such intrusions were not uncommon in the scheme of things, and Faerie continually spawned bastard demiplanes, or silently absorbed them. Troops of fauns, sprites and pucks of various persuasions but with shared curiosity found places beneath the great banyans. Afqithan was a mezzanine between two worlds, and the Sidhe's stronghold although it had proven not unassailable was a powerful bastion which straddled realities.
She had styled herself Queen of Afqithan like many before her had, and, no doubt, many after her would. She entertained great heroes, and ancient spirits, and minor gods of various kinds. She brooded on the deaths of past lovers, but wondered how she could have actually felt what she had once felt. At other times, musical invention obsessed her, and she would spend an hour composing a symphony, or a day contemplating a single cadence. Time froze, and raced past at breakneck speed.
Her subjects were, for the most part, accepting of her rule. To many, she had appeared in person, simply announcing "I am the Queen, now." Those who had found this a difficult prospect and there had been a few she had roundly bested, either in combat, or magic, or in some artistic contest. Some had become enamoured of her, others had been duped by her promises and intimations. But most had simply acquiesced to her claim: it was obvious that no other could rival her, and what would Afqithan be without a tyrant? In the event, she transpired to be less than despotic, and made no particular demand from her subjects at all, other than to be called your majesty.
She stood, and adjusted her harness: a soft leather coat with heavy studs, and a belt which bore a delicately curved blade. She wore a travel-stained cloak and boots vestiges of her former self and bore a light diadem cut from a gemstone. Her sudden self-awareness erupted as a cascade of chords seeking to escape from her mind and into her harp. She grimaced, and began to play. It was bitter, brutal, and poignant; full of anger and loathing, tinged with a wry self-mockery which embraced the absurd. The irresistable fate of the fey: a timeless childhood, or a perpetual decline; the knowledge that what was is always better than what is to come.
Her music became dark and ominous. Below the throne room, in a deep chamber etched with powerful runes, a gate to Azzagrat slumbered. It had been sealed at both ends: by Graz'zt himself, as he sabotaged a hundred portals into the Argent Palace from planes where he perceived a possible threat; and by Mostin the Metagnostic in the aftermath of the Great Confrontation. Its very presence troubled her: she seldom enjoyed a peace of mind. Most of the Castle's inhabitants sprites of low stature were oblivious to its existence, although a few were not: gnomes and goblins who had eavesdropped on their former masters' conversations; or quickling spies, lulled into obedience by the new Queen's glamoury.
The tune ceased. She turned, and entered the cavernous throne-room from the balcony. Great crystal lamps illuminated the hall, and hundreds of feys danced, sang and capered about. Gifts and curses were freely exchanged. Her mood lightened somewhat: association with her own kind, she observed, was reassuring and gave her a sense of identity. And, as always, she was the focus of all attention. She ascended a dais of carved onyx, and relaxed into a small siege cast from precious metal and adorned with opals.
As she sat upon her throne, a feeling of deep satiation and langour overcame her.
It's good to be Queen, she thought.
She greeted the sending from the wizard with an expression of mild annoyance.
Not now, she thought. You are interrupting a pavanne.
I need you to pull the wool over my Dukes' eyes. Are you up to it?
Her interest was piqued, much to her annoyance, but her manner remained insouciant.
Let me think on it, she thought.
I think I may eliminate Murmuur in front of the other two. They might be more apt to talk.
Don't be a fool. I'll come in the morning.
Pay close heed to time. A year might pass before you realize it.
Enough! I will come. Now go.
The Queen sat briefly, but found further enjoyment of the revel impossible. She stood in irritation, cursed, and exited abruptly.
**
The Sela was clad in the armour once worn by Lord Rede of Dramore, a martial paragon from a previous era, when war had been the business of the Temple. At his waist, he bore a six-flanged mace, forged by the same celestial smiths who had hammered Enitharmon's sword from a shard of thought. He was, at once, a perfect, unified consciousness, an awareness of everything that was, or is, or could be; but frail, mortal, imperfect. There was no 'he;' no observer, and nothing observed. There was a moving stillness. The potentiality of infinite bifurcation. An Adversary taunting him with a Green Void.
He sighed.
He knew little of the arts of war. Even when he had served the Temple, rather than been it, his role had been mainly oracular. The peculiar blending of the conventional and the Absolute which Tramst embodied did not seem to preclude gaps in his knowledge of mundane things. Strategy in war amongst other things, such as royal tax protocols and the latest fashion in headwear was one of those gaps.
For his captains he had picked Brey and Sercion toward whom, since his ascension, he had payed particular notice. Neither were ready for the task that he had appointed them: their training was far from complete, and each still expected and presumed more than either would admit, even to themselves. Expectation and presumption were qualities which the Sela had striven to eliminate from those who had accepted him as their teacher. Nonetheless, Tramst was satisfied that their role was what it must be: he observed all action with calm understanding. Fatalism and free will were, to him, an empty duality, the refutation of which was amply testified by his very existence at least for those who saw the truth.
The Sela observed ideas and emotions move through his mind: an unending torrent of desire, fear, concern, humour, regret and hope. He placed the tortuous ramblings of conventional thought to one side whilst still honouring them and embraced his ground of being; and saw once again, that they were no different. Insight and compassion welled up within him. But, even there, his Adversary was with him: tempting him in that moment to mould reality, to shuck off his mortality, and with a passing thought reorder things as he knew they should be. Any limitation which the Sela possessed was self-imposed.
Consciously, he hung his mace upon a weapon stand and began to cast off his armour. Tramst struck a light, the dull glow of an oil-lamp suffused his tent, and he turned to observe a slender young man with olive skin sitting on his pallet. He had a tangled mass of hair, a face which rested with an impudent expression, and held a tray of candied chestnuts in his hand. He offered one to the Sela with a boyish grin.
"Want one?" He asked. "They're from Bedesh. They're good."
The Sela sat next to the youth, took one of the sweets, and chewed thoughtfully.
"Another?"
"No, thank-you," the Sela smiled. "One is enough. I'm glad you came: I miss you."
The youth shrugged. "One has to make one's own way. I don't regret anything, you know."
"I know," the Sela laughed, "and I know that you aren't here for the reason that I wish you were. You are merely curious. You wanted to see, rather than See."
The youth nodded, and popped another chestnut into his mouth.
"You are feeling insecure?" Tramst asked.
"Somewhat," the youth smiled.
"Your place in the scheme of things is assured. Do not be concerned. Although why I flatter your ego so is beyond me: it hardly needs inflating."
"I seem to have caught you in a happy mood," the youth grinned. "Which is all to the good. I was wondering if you might tell me..?"
"Ahh," the Sela said drily. "Your name. Unfortunately, that information is still confidential. It can be bought, but I fear that the price might be too high for you."
"I guessed as much, although I had to ask."
"Of course you did, dear boy."
The youth stood, and bowed rakishly. "I will take my leave, then. I look forward to events with great anticipation."
"As do I," Tramst smiled. "Remember that I love you."
"I will try my hardest to forget," the youth sighed. He vanished.
*
When the Ahma entered the tent an hour later, the taint was still so profound that it threatened to overwhelm him. His head reeled. Fear and concern possessed him.
"What happened here?" Eadric asked.
"I wavered for a moment," Tramst smiled. "There can be no truth without doubt."
Eadric scowled.
"You have my permission to go. Return within a fortnight."
The Ahma cocked his head. "I don't "
Then he received the sending from Mostin.
Last edited by Cheiromancer; 5th May 2005 at 06:06 AM..
Bluff, Diplomacy, Intimidate and Sense Motive. Mostin still hadn't developed an epic spell to penetrate a mind blank. These skills enjoy a brief renaissance.
***
Execution and Parley.
We should try again, Eadric groaned. He was exhausted: interrogating devils was tedious, unrewarding work. He stared hard at Ortwin now Ortwine and shifted uncomfortably. His adjustment to his (former?) friends recent femininity continued to be difficult, and had proceeded in an intermittent fashion as revelations spasmodically shaped his perception. Her hauteur seemed genuine, even when directed towards him. Although prior manifestations of Ortwin had seldom been prone to honestly emote, and had never revealed the true extent of his feelings on any matter, to the Ahmas recollection. Coupled with the scant contact that he and the Sidhe had had with one another, Eadric knew that he did not know this creature. At all.
She seemed asexual, which was the most bizarre and implausible change from Eadrics view. Overt sexuality was not, apparently, Ortwin/es defining characteristic. The essence was something else. An expression of some other truth, which Eadric could not grasp.
And her wit, Eadric quailed internally. A little caustic, perhaps, as Nwm had drily remarked. It was a snare; a wire with vicious hooks, which dripped contempt. So precise. So erudite. She seemed to know everything. She was tapped in to something much bigger, with which in every successive incarnation, Ortwine had become more identified. What would she become next? He wondered. What was more Fae than a Sidhe-Queen? He shuddered.
Ortwin had craved a kingdom, and Ortwine now in possession of one enjoyed her spoils with an easy display of ancient majesty. A quality which might take half-a-century for a mortal ruler to develop, seemed to be her natural demeanour. It was impossible to determine whether it was an affectation, or not.
Every time she died, she returned with increasing potency. Nwm brought her back. He would always bring her back. And if Nwm died, who would bring the Druid back? Teppu? Nehael? Mesikδmmi? If any of them died, would they come back stronger? It was a truth, an aspect of the Viridity. Absorb and transform. Deify the mundane. Death into life. The perfect expression of the Green, which arose or such was Nwms contention in inevitable response to other influences. For Saizhan, it presented neither a conflict nor a congruence.
Are the trolls of mysticism mustering for another attack on your enfeebled preconceptions, Ahma? Ortwine read his mood accurately. Should we banish them with fly-swats?
I like you better as a goat, Eadric replied.
Then we must be grateful that you are not consulted in the matter, Ortwine smiled. Time is precious to me, Ahma. I would prefer that dreary obligations are resolved quickly. We should simply kill one.
Eadric nodded.
*
Eadric leaned on Lukarn, his gauntleted fists gripping the crosspiece, resting his whole weight upon the point of the blade. He stretched up onto his toes.
Next to him, Ortwine sat on a low wooden stool. She looked only mildly interested.
"Which paradigm will prove the ascendant, I wonder?" The Ahma mused.
Titivilus said nothing.
Eadric raised an eyebrow. "Your silence is unnerving. It seems to run counter to the natural order of things."
"Which one?" Ortwine asked. "I confess that Titivilus is my favourite his manner is smooth, and I appreciate the efforts he makes towards presenting an agreeable social face. Furcus is haughty, but I respect his mind. Murmuur is somewhat dull, and lacks any feature which deserves to be preserved; but he is a soldier, and the least conniving and manipulative. Is he the most good, do you think?"
Silence.
"I could cut you down," Eadric sighed. He turned to Murmuur and Furcas. "Each of you in turn. It would bring the wards down, but still, none of you would survive long enough to react before your deaths. Nor could you intervene in each other's demise."
Eadric stared at Murmuur: of the Dukes he alone, the Ahma knew, could be read. The glibness possessed by Furcas and Titivilus was impenetrable.
The possibility of an emotion passed across the devils eyes. Murmuur immediately knew that his thought had been perceived. And he knew that Eadric was not lying.
"And it would be a just punishment, Eadric continued. I have the right to administer it."
Murmuur sneered.
Ortwine sat, apparently nonplussed. "What happens to the estate of an Infernal Duke, while he is in captivity? Are his possessions redistributed amongst other devils in his absence, or held in fief by his master until his return? How much fear do you each feel, now? Does the prospect of annihilation fill you with dread, or do you anticipate a blessed release from your miserable lot? Perhaps an iota of your essence will remain, tormented in some yet deeper Hell by fiends to whom you appear the merest of shadows. Perhaps Oronthon will welcome the memory and remnant of your spirits back into his bosom. Or will the ancient, formless evil of the Abyss swallow you in unbeing? These are questions which intrigue me, and I have never before had the opportunity to voice them to any who might know."
Murmuurs spittle fizzled against the invisible barrier.
"You doubt my sincerity?" Eadric asked.
The Ahma turned, and with two swift strokes felled Furcas, advisor to the Archfiend Dispater, and respected for aeons as one of Hell's most effective intellectual weapons. As the Duke crumpled, Ortwine leapt forward with blinding speed and seized him by the neck. She quickly drew a dagger of purified silver, and thrust deep into the devils waiting throat. Ichor spilled over her. She tossed the corpse to the ground in a perfunctory manner.
"We are at war," Eadric grimaced, ignoring Murmuur and turning to the Nuncio of Dis. "This is no longer a parlour game, Titivilus. Archetypes are slain in our times, and new ones born. And I am not benign, Titivilus. I am wrathful. I am the Ahma. Do you understand?"
"Given the circumstances, a certain degree of cooperation might prove sensible," Titivilus conceded. "But I require guarantee of my release after I have testified, and assurances that you will not subsequently harass me."
Eadric furrowed his brow and stared hard at Titivilus. But his consciousness was turned towards Murmuur, alert to signs which could be read.
"If I were to allow anything other than self-interest to inform my behaviour when my existence is threatened, I would be a traitor to my principles," Titivilus smiled. "In the final analysis, survival is the preferable route, and the court of Pazuzu is quite welcoming, I hear. Do not be alarmed I have fallen out of favour before; a millennium or two passes, and I wheedle my way back in again. My eccentricities are forgiven in the face of my scheming brilliance."
"Forgiven?" Eadric asked.
"Overlooked might be a better word for you," Titivilus smiled. "Although, from my perspective, they amount to the same thing. I must also insist that you slay Murmuur before I co-operate. I can allow no witnesses to our exchange."
Eadric shook his head. "I will retain Murmuur as a safeguard against your duplicity. If you prove faithless, I will release him to inform your masters of your conduct, and to seek whatever revenge he deems appropriate."
"You have grown cruel, Eadric," Titivilus smirked. "There is hope for you yet."
"Your attempts at badinage bore me, devil," the Ahma sighed.
The fiend has a point, Ortwin said. Or half-a-point.
**
"This is intolerable," Waide snapped. "You would abide beyond the Claviger's purview, but seek aid therein when it is convenient for you? Any one of us could establish ourselves outside of Wyre, but by choosing not to, we demonstrate our solidarity. But you persist in your conjurations on the very borders."
"I reside in Shomei's former home " Mostin began.
"Infrequently," Waide objected.
"For once, I concur with Waide," Daunton sighed. "Your contribution is greatly missed. Commit yourself to a shared enterprise, Mostin. Information is beginning to flow freely between us, for the first time in ten generations."
"My present undertaking makes this an unlikely prospect," Mostin glared. "The Enforcer would terminate me."
"Your right to call an Assembly will not be universally recognized," Daunton observed. "Many will not come, if only to irritate you." He looked pointedly at Waide.
"Then I will speak to the Wyrish Wizards as an outsider," Mostin said sourly. "An embassy, if you will. You will issue the call, Daunton."
"Do not indulge him," Waide hissed. "Such an act would force me and many others to ignore you. You would cause a rift, Daunton."
"Waide," Mostin almost screeched, "if you were anywhere else, anywhere within a billion other cosmoi, then I would blast you for your pig-ignorance and show you what transmutation really means."
"But you cannot," Daunton smiled. "Isn't that, in itself, worth something to you?"
"Yes," Mostin said, gesturing irritably, "but it is not worth everything to me. You must be reflexive, or what you have built will atrophy and die. I will make a concession, however, to demonstrate my commitment to the Wyrish experiment."
"I doubt there is anything which would impress," Waide said.
"I will make Shomei's library freely available," Mostin replied. "On a reference-only basis, of course. No tomes will be removed from the property. And I believe there is a clause regarding theft between wizards in the Injunction."
"You are outrageous!" Waide said indignantly. "Your right to that inheritance is contested, in any case."
"The library is mine, and I will vigorously defend it against any claim to the contrary," Mostin said with narrowed eyes. "So it's settled then? The bribe is sufficiently large?"
"From my perspective, more than adequate," Daunton sighed pragmatically. "And I doubt any Wizard would decline your request in light of such an offer."
"Waide?" Mostin asked drily. "I hope you don't intend to abandon your magical peers on such a momentous occasion?"
"No," Waide replied, "any more than you would seek to exclude Rimilin from such a gathering. I believe he also maintains a temporary residence in Morne."
"Quite," Mostin said through gritted teeth.
"Do I detect the stench of another rivalry, Mostin?" Waide asked sarcastically.
At that moment, Mostin considered whether to disintegrate Waide, although it would have meant his own, inevitable demise at the hands of the Enforcer. Turning red, he mastered himself with difficulty.
"Perhaps you are not the heir apparent, after all," Waide added.
Mostin twitched, and smiled madly. "We can accomplish great things together Waide "
"NO!" Waide spat. "What you mean to say is 'I, Mostin the Metagnostic can accomplish great things with your aid.' You would attempt to corral every Wizard in Wyre into some ritual for your edification, not for the elevation of magic or understanding. I will not be your lackey in a cabal which serves your own, deranged agenda. Don't think that I don't understand your motive in this. You wish to bind Graz'zt."
"Amongst other things. And if we don't do it first, he will be invoked by the Cult of Cheshne."
"I will not be drawn into a religious conflict."
"The distinction you seek to make is irrelevant," Mostin retorted.
"It is the Law of the Injunction."
"Within Wyre, yes. I do not suggest that we act within Wyre."
"You would be a magical dictator, who acts without restraint beyond a sanctuary, and would cower in it when threatened? This is not acceptable to me."
Mostin paused. Waide had a good point, although he didn't see the bigger picture. He breathed slowly.
"If assurances were made inviolable contracts which protected the interests of every wizard involved would you be philosophically opposed to participating in a ritual which could be demonstrated to "
"With you at the helm? Never."
"You are ignorant, Waide."
"I suggest arbitration," Daunton said slyly. "We could appeal to the Claviger."
"This is beyond the Claviger's purview," Waide and Mostin said in chorus.
"Exactly," Daunton smiled. "The Claviger has no interest in the outcome of this dispute. Hence, it would be the ideal arbiter."
"You suggest asking for advice from the Claviger?" Waide laughed.
"In a manner of speaking," Daunton nodded. "But its judgment would have to be binding."
"But it could not use the Enforcer in pursuance of such an arrangement."
"I am suggesting that you abide by its decision," Daunton replied. "Nothing else. Or have we all forgotten the ability to act with civility unless threatened with annihilation?"
"It has been a long time since I have not been threatened with annihilation," Mostin said sourly. "But I'm unsure if we could present a case in intelligible terms. Most of my conflict with Waide stems from the fact that he is loathsome."
"Our mutual hatred transcends any rational compromise," Waide nodded. "However, I will not be branded as the one who refused the advice of the Claviger. I will agree to its decision."
"As will I," Mostin quickly backtracked.
"It may demand certain concessions," Daunton said carefully. "Are you sure that you are prepared to accept that possibility?"
"Naturally," Mostin answered. Concessions? He thought. "But I would like to address the Assembly first, to see if some other route cannot be found."
"Good luck," Waide said snidely.
"Where, and when?" Daunton asked.
"In three days, at my manse outside of Morne," Mostin replied smoothly. "In my library."
Waide bristled silently.
Last edited by Cheiromancer; 7th May 2005 at 06:10 PM..
A shorter update. I'm trying to keep things to 1000 words or so.
Mostly backstory.
***
ORTWINE
Some millennia before at a time when most of Wyre sat beneath hundreds of feet of ice a sidhe-cambion named Suoninguhol had ruled the demiplane of Afqithan.
His succession had been swift and brutal, and accompanied by all manner of atrocious acts as was common in the history of the place. The previous tyrant the Loquai sorceress Mileze escaped to Azzagrat where, in Graz'zt's court, she plotted revenge. Mileze had enjoyed several powerful Abyssal sponsors a fact which, in itself, testified to her ability but was, at that time, sworn to Zelatar.
When Graz'zt inevitably moved demons into Afqithan the Prince was notoriously possessive of worlds he had annexed most observers were shocked by the fact that Suoninguhol resisted all attempts to displace him from his fortress. Over the course of a year, Graz'zt attempted in various ways to wrest the castle which contained a strategically vital gate to Azzagrat* from Suoninguhol's grasp. Balors and mariliths were thrown against the stronghold, teams of kelvezu were dispatched to eliminate Suoninguhol, and powerful magics were invoked: the Prince even went so far as to manifest a body within Afqithan in an effort to directly assail the barrier which the cambion had erected. Nothing was effective. To make matters worse, Mileze was ambushed and slain by Suoninguhol's sister, Koilimilou, forcing Graz'zt to identify a new instrument of his will.
Frustrated, Graz'zt retreated his spirit to the Argent Palace, and contrived a spell which would peel Suoninguhol's fortress away from Afqithan and fling it into some nameless Abyssal plane wracked by negative energy. Despite his prognostications to the contrary, Graz'zt's spell failed, sending the Prince into a violent rage.
When he finally emerged from his tirade, Graz'zt swallowed his immense pride and negotiated a settlement with Suoninguhol content to wait and extract his revenge at a more opportune time. He occupied himself with attempting to learn the identity the cambion's sponsor (the Prince had no doubt that Suoninguhol possessed one), and to groom his own chosen candidate a Loquai named Irknaan in the duties expected of a loyal subject of Azzagrat.
Time passed. Graz'zt became distracted in wars with Orcus, Soneillon and Fraz Urb'luu. Suoninguhol entrenched himself yet further, tightening his grip on Afqithan and compacting hundreds of fiends from a variety of interested demonic parties. His ascendancy seemed assured until, abruptly and without warning, Suoninguhol vanished. News quickly found its way to Zelatar, prompting Graz'zt to again invest the demiplane and, this time, successfully install Irknaan as king. Koilimilou was captured, but Irknaan chose to humiliate rather than eliminate her.
The gate was reopened and, for a while, Graz'zt was content. Afqithan's status was monitored by the Prince's demons, and Irknaan paid a hefty tribute for which he gained recognition in Azzagrat. Graz'zt's minions became favoured compactees of Loquai sorcerers; Loquai mercenaries found themselves fighting in wars from Yutuf to Throile. Suoninguhol's abode became known as Irknaan's Fortress, and the new king was left to explore and expand the nineteen sub-levels below it.
*
When Irknaan's Fortress passed into Ortwine's possession, the Sidhe inherited something of a mixed fortune.
The castle was established upon a precipitous bastion of rock, unscalable from three sides, and reached by a narrow path cut into the sheer wall of the fourth; although assault from the ground was as an afterthought to its real defense. Its highest towers, which soared many hundreds of feet into the purple skies, were linked with bridges less than a foot wide: each hung like a strand of silk which glistened in the dusk. All of the fortress except for a reception chamber to which a previous queen had pactbonded a dozen of the largest jariliths was dimensionally locked against unwanted intrusion, but demons could still be conjured and bound within. Its interior could not be scried. The outcrop itself was reinforced by a spell of tremendous power, wrought long before by a goddess named Shuae.
The art of the Loquai suffused the place, with moving murals and columns of shadow, fashioned by magic over long centuries. The air whispered as one walked through the lofty and insubstantial upper halls, but the deep chambers seemed to have walls of impossible density: here all sound was muted, and light subdued. Carven reliefs, which displayed scenes of glorious hunts or grotesque tortures writhed as their stories unfolded to the observer. Broad stairs led to a wide platform upon which were roosted the four remaining tenebrous griffons, and the evil specimen once owned by Duke Ytryn a chimaeric monster of unique form and singular foul disposition. Ortwine had tried, without success, to subdue the beast; it remained tethered by a two-hundred pound chain of adamant to a plinth of unbreakable marble.
At its deepest point, in a cleft which had been hewn into the bedrock by some unknown force, lay the now-sealed gate to Azzagrat; above it lay the summoning rooms, with a jackal-headed arcanadaemon confined in a circle of binding by Mileze long before. There was a cavern in which eerie shades moved across still waters; a repository of tomes written in dead and forgotten languages; a forge, where Ainhorr had maintained a team of Azer smiths; quickling warrens, and chambers filled with torture devices. An armory of Faerie weapons, in a vault which was guarded by a symbol of insanity placed by Mostin, now housed the ten-foot vorpal sword Heedless.
Gnome thralls moved silently and efficiently throughout the castle, and a handful of quicklings enchanted to obey Ortwine's desires were still retained by the Queen. Gaggles of minor sprites hovered and chattered continually, and bearded feys with cudgels and pipes sang and caroused with nymphs and sylphs in the many small courtyards. Walled gardens, once home to bloodthorns and viper trees, now also contained more benign shrubbery although Ortwine had allowed a few demonic saplings to remain, mainly as a curiosity.
The Queen knew that Irknaan's Fortress sat upon a crossroad of realities, and for her, the World of Men was never more than a step away. Yet if one rode beyond the limit of burgeoning Faerie, the umbral taint of Afqithan still clung.** Invoked at the climax of the incident, as Mostin had wrily dubbed it, the planar rift was a growing at an exceptional rate: it would take a mere two millennia for Afqithan to be entirely subsumed by Faerie. Understanding the cartography of the place had been Ortwine's first task to herself: mentally cataloging every gate and portal (there were many); identifying areas where other worlds were closest; understanding each nuance in Afqithan's planar symmetry. Knowing which paths which led to sylvan glades, and which led to haunted copses.
Her hegemony stretched into Faerie, across wide tracts of forest and heath-covered moorlands, within which were hidden deep, wooded ravines. Beyond them lay mountains, a wide river, and the courts of noble sidhe in realms which stretched through space and time. In Afqithan itself where the remnants of the Loquai numbered a few hundred her rule was uncontested. Menicau, three times a turncoat, still dwelt in her citadel, but even she presented no threat, and had bowed her head in deference. A dozen other families retained estates with Ortwine's permission. But the Queen herself kept no Loquai, demon or cambion in her train.
Ortwine surveyed the land south of her walls. Trees which had sprung over the heaped corpses of fiends; the great contusions in the ground caused when Azazel smote Irzho from the sky, and the balor had fallen like a black comet now covered with green creepers. The chasm, caused by Soneillon's final realization of nonexistence, become a deep pool to which mist clung, with an air only of deep sorrow. Nwm's hand, at work.
The Sidhe-Queen pulled a pair of leather gloves over her hands, shifted her scimitar, and tied her hair back. Her perception changed momentarily as she walked between worlds: from Afqithan, to an area of grassy knolls in Methelhar, near the borders of Nizkur Forest. She retrieved a small, ornate box from her belt pouch, performed a complex manual operation, and whispered nine syllables of power.
A shadow avenue opened to Deorham. There, she would meet with Nwm, who would bear her to Sisperi: the Goddess Lai had requested an audience with her, and Ortwine had grudgingly agreed.
*The gate to Azzagrat is of ancient origin. It is constructed, not natural: the result of an immensely potent spell. It cannot be freely disjoined, and the ward protecting it would require a large and powerful cabal to penetrate. It can be sealed presumably the intention is to allow it to function as a door which can be locked from either side.
**The initial bubble of Faerie invoked by Teppu was four virtual miles in diameter, with Irknaan's Fortress at the dead centre.
Last edited by Cheiromancer; 15th May 2005 at 10:57 PM..
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 01-29-06, 12:51 AM
Recollection
Soneillon.
The name echoed in his mind, and caused his stomach to turn.
The Ahma stood alone upon the porch of Mostin's manse in the cold pre-dawn, mist rising from his mouth and nostrils. A waning moon, riding high in the West, illuminated the grassy hills of Scir Cellod on the borders of Wyre with a silver-blue sheen, and cast long, violet shadows.
Eadric brooded: he had dreamed of her again. Her shadow clung to him like an insubstantial mist, gnawing at the corners of his awareness. For the hundredth time, he reenacted the events in Afqithan in his mind, searching for clues which may have eluded him, attempting to gain new perspectives.
Her vestige remains in Dream, Teppu had assured him in the aftermath of the Confrontation. She will fade, if you allow it. If you permit her echo to intrude upon your consciousness, it will lend her memory substance. A semblance of ens will crystallize. Remember Nothing Becomes. And you are the Ahma: your thought will become manifest before most others. Let her go. Let her remain cradled in the bosom of the Ancient.
Eadric's throat and chest tightened with the memory of what had gone before. A single, tiny, corner of reality, subject to the strain of so many competing Infinities. Graz'zt's main force crumpling under the assault of Soneillon and her horde of augmented monsters. The Horror, unleashed by Mostin, and its frenzy of destruction in the West, abruptly ended by a swift stroke of Kostchtchie's hammer. The untimely evaporation of the Quiescence of the Spheres, and the onslaught of devils which had followed, sweeping everything before them. Gates opening, and rifts appearing, space buckling as demons fled to Azzagrat at their master's behest: Graz'zt working desperate magic in his sanctum as the greater threat of Orcus overrode all other concerns.
Eadric had sought relentlessly for Ainhorr within Irknaan's Fortress, and as Chaya had invoked gruesome necromancies, Shomei had hurled compacted devils at their foes and burned the lesser demons away with a celestial fire which had caused him to gape in wonder. The Ahma had hewn his way through Nalfeshnee bodyguards to reach the Balor. But even in his moment of triumph, as he had struck Ainhorr down, an ecstatic scream of extinction had echoed in his mind, rushing in a wave across the battlefield. Soneillon had fallen.
His mind had darkened as a spell of terrific force settled upon them. Impotent, Eadric had watched as the Akesoli had descended upon Shomei, and, in a trice, flayed her body stripping her essence away and binding it in a subtle net of Amaimon's devising. Infernal justice for her numerous misdemeanours swiftly served upon she who had broken compacts, and flouted the iron law of Dis. The Ahma, burned and bloody, with armour rent and shield shivered, his strength all but spent, had nonetheless brandished Lukarn defiantly. But the devil Nahuzihis had raised a clawed hand.
Stay, the word had issued like a foul breeze. You have no authority here.
Despite his wards, their power had washed over him, and Lukarn had fallen limp at his side. The devils vanished, and as the glamour lifted, he had turned to face Chaya. She stood naked and scarred, her black gem smoking with the spirits of the fiends it had consumed. Her mistress vanquished, her hatred for him had suddenly become palpable.
Still, she was no match for him. She had withdrawn.
Briefly, the Ahma had stood alone in the wreck of the throne room, the mangled corpses of demons and Shomei's diabolic servitors all about him. He had made his way uncertainly to a balcony, and gazed upon the blasted landscape below. Narzugon cavalry thundered through the glades, slaying at will, their stained pennants bearing flies and mantises. Legions of bearded devils bearing hooked glaives followed. Ahead of them, unassailable, the standard of Hell had moved with ruthless purpose.
And then, suddenly and without warning, the declamation issued by Nwm, within whose titanic mental voice were overlaid the soft tones of Nehael Nehael and Teppu, and Hlioth, and Mesikδmmi, and Lai and her handmaidens. The voice which penetrated into every corner of Afqithan, stirring sprites in their tumps; buckawns and quicklings in dark places; and the genii of trees, pools, rocks and glades from their languor. Within the awareness of every woodland spirit in Afqithan, was conjured a vision of what could be. The Druid had forged an empathic continuum, embracing everything which contained a vestige of Green, allowing energy to flow freely like water. Consciousness had unified and Goddess manifested.
If you be Fae, lend us now your strength.
It was both a command and a plea. The ancient inhabitants of the demiplane had answered. Teppu had gathered their power into himself, and a viridescent nova had purged Afqithan of interlopers, sealing every rip and fracture in the fabric of space.
As uncounted varieties of fiend and monster were expelled, so too were Eadric and Mostin: forced violently and abruptly away from Afqithan and into the sphere of Man. A nightmare was suddenly replaced with a cold, sick, wakefulness.
Alone, in the neatly tended fields of Hethio in Wyre, anger and frustration had utterly consumed the Ahma. He had screamed, and cursed Graz'zt, and Rhyxali, and the Adversary, and Soneillon.
You are bewildered, the voice, soft and familiar, had spoken to him from the very soil.
The blood had hammered in his temples. Show yourself, he had said, trembling.
A sapling had broken through the earth nearby, and quickly gained height and girth: it grew into a young ash, with black buds cracking with fresh, delicate leaves. She had stepped out of the tree, and stood before him. There had been a lightness and ease about her that he did not remember; and a confidence rooted in some other power which he could not know. No vestige of angel or demon remained, and an aura of deep jade surrounded her. Her eroticism free and guiltless and profound had somehow shamed him with its purity.
Madness had threatened to seize him.
You teeter uncertainly, she had said softly.
He had nodded, and hung his head.
Gently, she had embraced him, caressing hair caked with venom, blood and ichor. As he wept, she had sung quietly.
But the voice the voice of the other demoness had stayed in his mind. Soft, seductive syllables which repeated in a circle without end.
Exult in your memory, Eadric. Because Nothing will ever again compare to me.
*
Eadric turned to see Orolde patiently standing close by, mindful to avoid intrusion upon his reverie. The sprite, aware of the other's sudden perception of him, offered Eadric a goblet of mulled firewine. The Ahma nodded briefly and quickly drained it. In the East, the sky was brightening.
Is Mostin abroad yet? Eadric inquired.
Yes, Orolde replied. But he is in his study. He finds the mornings most conducive to work. I will inform him, if you wish to speak?
It can wait. They can wait. Titivilus and Murmuur were still bound with magic below, as the painful process of extracting information from the now former Nuncio of Dis continued.
Can you feel it, Orolde? Eadric asked the Sprite.
What would that be, Ahma?
This Viridity.
Ah. Yes." Orolde nodded.
What is it like?
For me? I suppose it is like jumping into a lake, and then suddenly remembering that I can breathe underwater.
Last edited by Cheiromancer; 25th June 2006 at 08:17 PM..
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 02-01-06, 03:53 PM
She is magnificent, Nwm observed as the goddess rode down the babau. Drengh was a bloody blur, flashing red about her head. The Druid was in a state of perfect, dynamic meditation: they had honed their rapport to the point of a wordless, instinctive knowledge of intent, where Nwm had become the agent of her thought.
Their quarry were diminishing in numbers: their leaders, and the most war-hardened among them, had been redeployed to another arena a distant, violent conflict between two old enemies. Those that remained were diminished, and lacking the discipline enforced by the direct agents of Graz'zt's will, they had disintegrated into a violent rabble of clans, ruled by the most ruthless and cunning amongst them. They became easy prey for the bands of godlings and ancestors who rode forth to engage them.
Of the Nireem, Ninit had proven the most difficult to relate to. She seemed oblivious to the needs of Mulhuk, and countenanced no argument which conflicted with her desire. She was utterly impervious to reason. Her passion was only to ride, and to hunt.
Immediately, Nwm had adored her.
He had allowed himself to become subsumed in her, and relinquished himself utterly. An act of devotion inevitable, he wrily observed, when any aspect of Goddess presented itself to him. But the communion which Ninit provided for Nwm led to a reciprocity which The Rider had not anticipated. She needed him in order to slay more effectively, and now she guarded and protected him. Ninit had grown accustomed to a lack of worship her cult had been extinct for centuries. Nwm's adoration when directed towards her had stirred certain deific needs which had been suppressed for too long. Ninit craved worship, once again. And the details of Nwm's broader henotheism were irrelevant to the goddess.
Nwm's mind reached out, connecting with the soil of Sisperi, and energy coursed through him. A profound agony familiar and reassuring fired every nerve in his body. His skin cracked like the bark of an ancient tree and began to bleed, green fire coursed over him, and a necromantic impulse of terrible potency exploded outwards from him in all directions. Demons dropped like flies.
In his thoughts, Ninit smiled savagely.
As the few remaining monsters winked out, Nwm healed himself of his self-inflicted trauma and mustered his strength again.
You are weary, Ninit's voice echoed in his mind. Return to Mulhuk.
Nwm bowed. He might have continued, but one did not gainsay The Rider. He would return to Mulhuk, and then make his way to Wyre and his appointed meeting with Ortwine.
*
When not hunting, Nwm would spend long hours instructing Lai and her handmaidens in the arts he had mastered. His favoured location was a courtyard graced with crystal trees, where a warm sun always shone in the afternoon; demonstration was his preferred method. And the knowledge with which Nehael had imbued him, he eagely disseminated. His role was paradoxical: both mentor and worshipper; teacher and priest.
At other times, he and Lai would leave Mulhuk, and walk beneath the trees in the region of Sisperi which had been called Soan, where the Werud a confederation of tribes who had venerated the Nireem had once dwelt. The desolation was absolute, as all sapience had been extinguished by the tide of demons which had ravaged the world.
One cold morning, not far from where Eadric had slain the babau Uort,* Druid and Goddess had come across the remains of a settlement, its inhabitants driven off or butchered a century before. The stench of death and decay still clung to the place; a pall of Abyssal misery, which might take millennia to clear. Nwm sat upon a moss-covered outcrop all that remained of an ancient granary.
What of Saes? He had sighed. Little can proceed without her.
I have tried. She will not respond. The gate to Ruk is closed. She is mad. Bloated on Death.**
You must persist. She may, in time, be persuaded,
Lai laughed drily. You do not know her as I do. Another way must be found. But somrthing else has occurred to you.
There may be alternatives, Nwm said carefully. There are tribes in the North of my world. Some may be willing to undertake the journey here. To begin afresh. But I will not decieve them: demons lurk around every corner, and I suspect Sisperi will never be rid of them entirely. How would they even understand an entreaty made by you or Rhul? And they would bring their own gods with them, Lai. It might serve only to speed your demise.
A chance I am willing to take.
Nwm shrugged. Others can come, and when they die, Saes will claim them. Trees can be awakened, and when they die, Saes will claim them too. Saes is the key all other solutions are merely temporary.
If another could be persuaded to go and speak with her. Eadric perhaps?
Nwm shook his head. It is unlikely. He has discharged his vow, and other matters concern him. And Saes might entrap him: Graz'zt would trade a whole world for the Ahma. I lack the necessary tact or guile. No, I think Ortwine might be the answer.
Lai's lip curled, and the sky darkened momentarily. I will return to Afqithan, if I must. But I mistrust her.
And she, you. But her mendacity may be your ally. He smiled grimly, and became serious. She is no pawn, Lai. If she condescends to aid you, it will be on her terms.
I will send her a dream. It will be neutral territory.
It might be preferable if I speak to her, Nwm suggested. We have a bond that endures across four lifetimes, and she knows I will not decieve her.
If you deem it best, the Goddess reluctantly agreed.
**
I would like to extend my gratitude to the Assembly for allowing me to speak, the Alienist began. My particular thanks to Daunton, for acting as my sponsor in this matter.
They had convened at Mostin's formerly Shomei's estate outside of Morne: thirty-one mages gathered in an audience hall around a great, oval table, carved from ebony and inlayed with scenes from Irrenite myth. Some sat. Some stood, or leaned on staves. Most were human. Rimilin of the Skin was there: he sat alone, shunned by all others.
Even Waide remained silent, aware that an untimely display of sarcasm might earn the ire of many of those present. Mostin it was rumoured was about to make some grand philanthropic gesture, and most were concerned that the Alienist was sufficiently eccentric to change his mind for no other reason than mild annoyance. Nothing should jeopardize this improbable event.
Mostin's lidless eyes scanned those present as he fondled Mogus, the obscene, fist-sized pseudonatural which lived in a nondimensional space within his tunic. In sympathy, the orbs on his robe of eyes rotated in a disturbing fashion, fixing first one, and then another of those present.
Mulissu and Shomei are gone, Mostin continued. Two great lights have left us to whichever fates they have chosen for themselves. We are diminished. I am left with the burden of being the greatest living Wizard in Wyre, although perhaps not on this plane - something I will come to in due course. Many of you consider me both aloof and deranged, and I will deny neither. I am, however, indisputably, a genius.
Waide sighed.
Mostin ignored him. Jovol's legacy remains with us, and if we dwell within the borders of Wyre, we must abide by it. For those of us with the resources and I count myself fortunate in this regard the option of continuing our conjurations is open, if we have another base from which to operate. I have erected my portable manse outside of Wyre's borders in order to facilitate this. This has proven controversial amongst some of you gathered here, as it might be claimed that it circumvents the spirit if not the letter of the Second Injunction. I am not alone in this regard, however.
Mostin stared pointedly at the Hag Jalael, Rimilin, and Wigdryt a smoke mephit.
This is a testing time for us, Mostin continued, but we must not waver in our faith in Jovol's wisdom. His vision was more complete than we can appreciate, and he had access to methods which are now lost to us.
A murmur rippled through the gathered mages. Rumour of the web of motes had been heard by all, although only a few knew of its true significance.
I am about to make several assertions which may, on the surface, appear contradictory or paradoxical. Let me posit a scenario, Mostin sighed. As one who has experienced the power of the web of motes first-hand, this is not as improbable as it might sound. Jovol knew of the explosion of religious power which Tramst the so-called Sela exemplifies. He knew of an impending conflict with the Cult of Cheshne. Furthermore, he chose death in violation of his own Injunction as a course preferable to allowing a second conjuration of Graz'zt. He knew that a renaissance in Uediian power would act as the best balance on all other concerns. The entity who was Fillein, then Jovol, has self-incarnated again, in the guise of a fey named Teppu.
The revelation left all of those present except for Rimilin dumbstruck. The brief silence was quickly replaced by thirty chattering voices.
Mostin held up his hand, and a gong sounded.
Please allow me to continue, he smirked despite himself. An uneasy silence returned to the room. There will be time for questions after I have spoken, but there are a number of other issues I would like to address first.
Most importantly, Teppu is not Jovol, at least in any meaningful sense, any more than Jovol was Fillein. I am unsure of the extent to which even his memories are retained. Teppu's agenda is not Jovol's agenda. He is driven by a different set of desires and philosophies, although there is, somehow perhaps hyperconsciously a commonality of purpose. This higher purpose is related somehow to Dream, and was partially illuminated by the oblique references that Jovol made to his understanding of the dialectical process.
If we deal with Teppu and I suspect we must we should not expect to enjoy any kind of special rapport. Teppu is Green. His concern is a complex of energies involving feys, nature spirits, the goddess Uedii, and the natural world something which he refers to as the Viridity: a burgeoning node of elemental power centered around these principles. The Viridity may be arising as some kind of mediating effect to resolve the polarization of Oronthonian belief and the Cult of Nihilism from Shϋth.
Its effect in Afqithan superseded the designs of Oronthon's Adversary. Accordingly, I have designated it a Greater Infinity. Its relationship with Oronthon himself is unclear, as is the relationship between the two foci the Sela on one hand, and Nehael on the other. When I inspected the web of motes the sympathetic energy between the two was astounding, which leads me to suspect that a higher order of Intelligence is at work perhaps the same order which drives Teppu, perhaps not. In any event, the final turn of the wheel in Afqithan revealed the Adversary as nothing more than a cog in some transcendental purpose. He had no inkling of the Viridity, and knowledge of it was or is still shrouded from him.
Waide could no longer contain himself. Nehael is the succubus who started all this mess in the first place, am I correct?
Not exactly, Mostin said smugly. Nehael is no longer what she was. In fact, she may have never been what she formerly was the Viridity is concerned primarily with the Now, the Moment. As such, what is past, and what is yet to come are in large measure irrelevant. According to that paradigm, all history is vacuous and mutable.
This is mystical babble, Jalael interjected. I had expected more from you, Mostin.
Indulge me! Mostin snapped. And Waide, kindly allow me to speak without further interruption. I am trying to contextualize my actions, not justify current trends in religious thought.
Daunton coughed. Perhaps you might be a little more succinct, Mostin.
Oh very well, the Alienist grumbled. He inhaled deeply, and thought for a moment.
Let me speak of artifacts, Mostin clearly enunciated the last word, and was not disappointed by the effect that it had on all of those present. You have, doubtless, heard rumours regarding the web of motes. Its whereabouts is currently undetermined: its last known guardian was the demon Surab, who possessed Mulissu's daughter, Iua, and was responsible for the death of the Savant. The web of motes itself is unlocatable by any means available to me. Surab is mind blanked by some device. It is of paramount importance that we retrieve this object. There is hope: I have made a metagnostic inquiry of a Pseudonatural entity named Ghom which dwells beyond the middle region. I believe that Surab is unaware of the true nature of the web of motes. I also believe that Iua is still alive her form, which is young and nubile, may be pleasing to the demon. Surab may be unwilling or unable to reenter Azzagrat, and has retreated to the unnamed regions between Hell and the Abyss.
Also, the chthonic demoness Soneillon spoke of something named Pharamne's Urn an object of which she claimed ownership, but which had been appropriated by Prince Graz'zt at some point in the past. This item is of Aeonic potency: one in full possession of its powers something which the Prince of Azzagrat is not can create universes. Naturally, Graz'zt guards it jealously. Queen Soneillon could unlock it to a greater degree although, I suspect, she could not manifest its ultimate power: she was unusual for a demon in her command of ritual magic, something which is antithetical to the Abyssal mindset. She was also unique in many other ways. An ironic smile crossed the Alienist's face.
Mostin paused to take a sip of tea, and was mildly surprised and gratified to find his audience utterly enrapt.
We are delicately poised, Mostin continued. Currently, as I am sure even the most politically ignorant of you are aware, the Sela, Oronthon's proxy, is on the field of battle, south of Wyre's borders. Whilst Prince Tagur attempts to rally support for the campaign in secular circles, the Temple and I trust we all recall that particular monolith has effectively reformed, albeit with a more thoughtful perspective and without the stigma attached to the name Temple. I'll say the name again, for those of you who didn't hear me: Temple. It is the same band of lance-waving zealots as it was three years ago, and we must trust that Tramst has inculcated some measure of insight and tolerance in those involved.
This war is magical. The initial skirmishes which have proven inconclusive have demonstrated that the Sela is fallible in this arena. His purview is enlightenment whatever that means to an Oronthonian and not conflict. We must decide collectively a policy in this matter. We are, of course, bound by the Injunction, although we can act beyond Wyre's borders. But of the three main sects within the Cult of Cheshne, only one is technically subject to the law of the Claviger, and this has yet to be tested in practice.
A friend once described such a conflict as arcanoreligious and I scoffed at the term. I am, however, beginning to think he now she was correct. It is fraught with legalistic complexity, which the Injunction must adapt to although I have no doubt that the Claviger itself can anticipate many of the vagaries. If I am a theurge, and I conjure a demon within Wyre's borders using arcane power, am I subject to the same set of laws as I would be if I used a divinely granted boon to do the same? And we should not doubt that the devotees of Cheshne are both willing and able to do these things. Their vision is apocalyptic, in the extreme.
This rather circuitous speech and I apologize, Daunton, if I was less succinct than you had hoped, brings me to the main thrust of my argument today: there are mages and hierophants within the Order of Cheshne who wield considerable power. Possibly more than me, even. Their exact names, numbers and dispositions are hidden from us, but there are undoubtedly transvalent casters amongst them. We know only Anumid, who is their mouthpiece, and with whom Daunton was granted a brief audience.
Their veneration of Cheshne is absolute. They regard demons even demonic nobility in an entirely different light to those of us exposed to Oronthonian dogma. Ugras fierce protectors of ancient methods and teachings. This is their Truth, and who are we to gainsay it?
We cannot hide from this. We must adopt a position even if it is one of noninvolvement: something, incidentally, which I most emphatically discourage. I am not asking you to submit to my whim in this matter, but I do request that my counsel is acknowledged, if nothing else. Waide distrusts and despises me and the feeling is entirely mutual. But we have agreed to go to the Claviger for direction in our antipathy for one another, because both of us realize that our personal feelings for one another cannot be allowed to interfere with the larger picture.
My appeal today is complex. First, I ask for help in recovering the web of motes. It is a tool which we can use to great effect let me finish, Waide. Furthermore as unlikely as this might seem I owe it to Mulissu to see her daughter returned safely: I am rather fond of Iua.
Second and I will preempt cries of 'foul' before they are issued I believe, for a variety of reasons, that it is within our mutual interest to confine the Demon Prince Graz'zt. He is one of the chief Ugras and we run the risk of him being conjured by our enemies and sent against us. The prize, if we can accomplish this, is Pharamne's Urn if we can get to it before anyone else. I am in the possession of a transvalent spell bequeathed to me by Jovol which I believe can accomplish this infallibly if I have the unqualified support of the Assembly in this matter. The spell which is outmoded, and I suspect against which Graz'zt has developed defenses can be modified. Even a demon of Graz'zt's stature cannot withstand our combined power.
Third, we must develop a coherent strategy to counter the threat from the Cult of Cheshne. We cannot be sidelined in this matter; neither can we allow ourselves to be overcome piecemeal, one-by-one. We must unite to address this danger. This runs counter to a thousand years of tradition, I know, but change is upon us. We live in a new world. We must adapt, or we will be broken. I have considered various possibilities as to how this can be accomplished, and I am willing to discuss them at length when the debate begins.
Mostin took another sip of tea which had gone cold before continuing, He swallowed reflexively, as if in great doubt, and closed his eyes.
Word has probably already spread that I am willing to make Shomei's library available to the arcane community. This is so. But, in case any of you have doubts as to my earnestness in regard to the matters of which I have spoken and my sense of urgency I would like to go further. I have a well-deserved reputation for miserliness, I know, and this may come as something of a shock. So consider this as a display of enlightened self-interest.
I would like to turn over Shomei's entire estate in perpetuity to the Wizards of Wyre, as the starting point of a collective endeavour. I will donate my own library to the enterprise, and urge you all to do the same. I propose a repository of learning, and a testing ground for intellects as yet undiscovered. An Academy, if you will. We should embrace the Injunction, and display it above our gates as our Law, but also recognize it as our guiding principle. And I should like to nominate Daunton to be elected as our first President.
Thirty-one jaws, including that of Rimilin of the Skin, dropped.
When Waide had recovered his composure, he smiled bitterly. He knew that Mostin had finally won, and left his indelible mark on history.
* This story may have to wait for some time.
** Saes, the Nireem goddess concerned with death, had allied herself with Graz'zt when the demon invested the plane, seeing an opportunity to augment her own power when the inevitable tide of slaughter followed. She gathered the spirits of all dead things to herself, swelling her strength, and guarded her prizes jealously. When Graz'zt withdrew his main force to defend Azzagrat, Saes sealed the entrance to Ruk, the underworld. Nwm's efforts to use remains he had discovered to reincarnate some of those who had died in the conflict, in order to repopulate Sisperi, were foiled: Saes refused to relinquish their souls.
Last edited by Cheiromancer; 25th June 2006 at 08:17 PM..
In the aftermath of the Confrontation in Afqithan, Nwm the Preceptor assumed the form of a great raven and took to the skies. He surveyed the scene below: had it been any ordinary battle, a glut of flesh would have been his for the taking. But amongst the heaped corpses of demons and monsters, all carrion was foul. Ichor, not blood, stained the glades beneath the towering trees.
Purposefully, he winged his way to where I lay dead upon the field: foes whom I had felled were scattered around. His pinions cracked once, and his talons came to rest upon a heap of varrangoin. I beheld him through lifeless eyes as he approached: my spirit lingered, unwilling to abandon my body.
"A third time will I restore you," he cawed. "And a fourth and a fifth, if need be. We are in need of every ally which we can find. The seed must sprout. The shoot must be tended."
Gently, he lifted me upwards, and screeched, invoking ancient goddesses who had slumbered for millennia, and whose names he alone knew. With a violent passion, life returned to me again.
"How was death?" He asked.
"Cold," I replied. I smiled, and exulted in my new form, relishing its power and subtlety. I cast my sight about, perceiving the interwoven lattice of life and magic which suffused the place. "This is your doing?" I asked.
"In part," he answered, winging his way toward Irknaan's Fortress. "What now?"
"I will remain here," I answered. "Afqithan is mine, now."
He cocked his head. "That is a bold claim. How will you enforce it?"
"With ruthless charm," I replied.
*
Nwm stood beneath the sagging boughs of a great deodar, a tree not native to Trempa, but rather one of a dozen imported generations earlier, by an aristocrat with a taste for the exotic; some forebear of Eadric of Deorham, whose name the Druid could not recollect. The late afternoon sun shone warm through the deep green of its canopy. He watched her approach, studying her carefully.
Her poise and grace were effortless, and her natural footfall, silent. She wore the same, tattered cloak and stained jerkin that she always had, but bore a buckler of sidhe metal strapped to her arm, won in Afqithan from one of the thousands who had perished there. Her face breathtaking in its beauty displayed only the slightest hint of contempt.
"Will this take long?" She asked as she drew near.
"It may," Nwm replied. "Lai has a favour to ask you."
Ortwine's eyes narrowed. "And what does your deific protιgι require of me?"
"To embark upon a series of negotiations, with a goddess named Saes." Nwm replied. He attempted to sound casual. "It is better if I say nothing else. I am merely the courier."
"Somehow, I doubt that," Ortwine replied. "Perhaps you think I might be less apt to view an old friend with suspicion?"
"There is no joy left in you, Ortwine."
"Let's just get this over with," Ortwine sighed.
**
As Nwm and Ortwine travelled to Sisperi, and Mostin addressed the largest gathering of mages for a century, Eadric sat confined with the devils Titivilus and Murmuur in the summoning room. It was the third day of the interrogation.
Mostin had been irked by the fact that Ortwine and the Ahma had caused Titivilus to crumple so quickly: the Alienist had expected a more protracted negotiation. He had attempted for months to wheedle information from the confined Dukes, but had had neither the time nor the resources to develop a spell which would reliably subdue them: if an unprepared magick were to have failed, and a Duke were to break free, things would have become very messy, very quickly. One free would have become three free, and three of them together would have overwhelmed him. But the Wizard was relieved that he could for a while, at least avoid the two remaining Devils. He was implicated in the assassination of an Infernal magnate, and would enjoy the enmity of Dis until the end of his days.
The Ahma and Titivilus had spoken of the Adversary's role in Afqithan, of the deployment of Devils under Azazel, of Murmuur's Tower now abandoned on the demiplane and, apparently, inert. Titivilus had speculated at length regarding the Infernal decision made to support Azzagrat a subtle balancing act, to prevent Orcus gaining supremacy in his war with Graz'zt in the Abyss itself.
Many of Graz'zt's champions had perished, nonetheless, either in the Confrontation or shortly thereafter. Ainhorr, Cemdrei, Uort and a slew of others were no more. Melihaen had abandoned her master and fled to Throile, throwing in her lot with Adyell and the battered remnants of Soneillon's horde. Others had joined with Rhyxali, or Kostchtchie, or slunk away to Yutuf or Terkunuteng to lick their wounds, as their individual whim or interest dictated.
In Zelatar itself, Ilistet had rallied Graz'zt's army and led a savage counterattack against the undead host of Orcus. The war ebbed and flowed, but a stagnant impasse which suited Hell's designs seemed inevitable. The Prince of Azzagrat was fighting a defensive war which might last for millennia. His power had been curbed, and his ambition thwarted. Nehael was no longer captive. The Ahma had won, though the victory was bitter and empty.
Throughout the exchange with Titivilus, Murmuur had remained silent. Eadric regarded him with a mixed feeling, which included a grudging admiration. Here was a soldier, pure and simple. Loyal, steadfast, unwavering in his devotion to his beliefs, and utterly, irredeemably evil.
The Ahma sat, and laid Lukarn unsheathed across his knees.
"We have a few loose ends to tie up," Eadric sighed. "You may use surmise, but I will be alert to any attempted falsehood. If you try to mislead or prevaricate, I will annihilate you. Am I clear?"
"Yes," Titivilus grinned.
Eadric raised an eyebrow. The Devil already seemed cooperative. Did he think that Mostin's absence would make the Ahma more pliable, or was the prospect of his freedom causing him to be less opaque than normal? He grunted, and shifted his position.
"Tell me of Shomei. From your skewed perspective."
"Her soul is in a self-induced state of perdition. By rejecting Saizhan she made a conscious decision to consign herself to Hell. You have no authority in acts of individual volition."
"I have as much authority as I choose to assume," Eadric grimaced, "but I agree that it would be pointless to try to rectify the situation." He remembered his own conversation with Shomei too well, as well as the words and actions of the Akesoli.
"If you say so, Ahma."
"Is she in Dis?" Eadric asked, irritated.
"In Cania. Astaroth purchased her from the Akesoli. Perhaps neither Dispater nor Belial could meet their price: that is surmise, for the record."
"For what purpose?"
"She is a valuable prize," Titivilus smirked. "And the Grand Duke has an eye for the spirits of powerful mages."
"As currency?"
"To gloat over. Perhaps he will offer her unlife, for her immortal service. Pacts can extend beyond death, Ahma. Before you smite me, I should tell you that that is also surmise."
Eadric suppressed a shiver.
The Infernal Duke smiled. "The inducements offered by a Devil such as Astaroth are hard to resist," he persisted.
"And the web of motes, Titivilus?" Eadric asked, ignoring the goad. "Where might that be?"
"Frankly, I'm disappointed that Mostin has not contrived a spell to locate it. Find Surab, and you'll find the web. I do not know its location."
Eadric thought for a moment.
Titivilus spoke. "There is other information that I would like to impart to you. It is freely given."
"Or rather, the price is invisible," Eadric said stonily.
"Quite. Do you wish to hear it or no?" Titivilus gloated.
"I suppose I must."
"My mandate as your tempter was revoked some time ago. Before my embassy to Azzagrat, in fact."
"Why?" Eadric was suspicious.
"I do not know."
"Surmise!" Eadric snapped.
.
"To make way for one whom my superiors felt more suited, I assume. Or perhaps it was an abandonment of the task altogether."
"You failed, then?"
"I thought I was doing rather well. No matter. Are we finished, now? Will you kindly release me?"
"I regret not. I fear that I have mislead you."
The Ahma prayed briefly, buoying himself with Oronthon's power. Unholy auras flickered in response within the thaumaturgic diagrams as the devils anticipated Eadric's intention. Lukarn gained a silver sheen, and then the Ahma spoke a holy word. The devils' confining circles were shattered under the assault. Titivilus screamed silently, transfixed, as light overwhelmed him, but Murmuur withstood the barrage.
Incoherently, Titivilus struck Eadric with a quickened feeblemind and attempted to dispel the dimensional lock placed by Mostin on the chamber, but failed. Murmuur lashed out with a rapid meteor swarm and leapt at Eadric, smiting him with as much vile power as he could muster.
Titivilus, paralyzed, fell quickly to a series of brutal strokes from Lukarn.
Eadric stared at Murmuur, who remained defiant. Unexpectedly, compassion welled up within the Ahma. He had no choice but to act upon it.
"Yield!" Eadric's voice thundered in the confines of the summoning room. "Submit to my mercy. You are no match for me."
More blows were exchanged, and each hewed through the armour of the other. Murmuur staggered uncertainly.
"Yield!" Eadric demanded.
"I cannot," Murmuur smiled sadly. "We are forever lost, Ahma. Do you not yet understand?"
Lukarn fell three times, and the duke dropped to the floor.
Eadric closed his eyes as his mind contained the magnitude of his deed. The line had finally been drawn. There would be no more negotiation.
**
Lai sat cross-legged before a fire pit, in which a ruddy flame flickered. Runes lay cast about her, and her handmaidens fussed nearby, pouring nectar into bowls of exquisitely carved wood. She regarded Ortwine carefully, anxious to avoid a conflict.
Nwm, who stood nearby, was clad only in a simple green robe tied about his waist with a length of rough hemp. He scratched the dirt at his feet with slender staff cut from a young hornbeam, and avoided Ortwine's glare. His beard and hair seemed inordinately long to the sidhe, as though their cultivation might somehow hold the key to the mysteries into which the Druid had been initiated. A faint aura of Green surrounded Nwm the dwimmerhame which protected him from hostile magicks. His hands and forearms were scarred from the massive backlash energies he routinely employed.
"You are welcome here as an honoured guest," Lai said smoothly, "and what is ours, is yours. Please sit."
Ortwine scowled, and lounged casually, resting on her left arm. Nwm coughed, and kneeled next to the goddess.
"Let's get straight to the point," Ortwine smiled coldly. "Nwm tells me that you wish me to act as your messenger. You wish me to enter the abode of the Goddess of Death I have not forgotten who Saes is, Nwm in order to strike some kind of bargain."
"Yes," Lai nodded. "To secure the release of the spirits which she has hoarded."
"This is no small task."
"Indeed," Lai admitted.
"If I were to agree, it would require sizeable recompense. What do you think that such an endeavour if successful is worth, Nwm?"
"I am gratified that you retain your mercenary tendencies," Nwm said drily.
"Do you have a price in mind?" Lai inquired.
"Divinity is acceptable to me."
Nwm guffawed. His expression changed to one of incredulity, when he saw that Ortwine was serious.
"You are a sidhe-queen, Ortwine! What more can you require?"
"Homage is pleasant, Nwm, but I think you'd agree that worship would be preferable."
"It is not within the power of the Nireem to grant you what you seek " Lai began.
"Then you'd better find a way, goddess, because until you do, there will be no deal."
**
Eadric felt edgy. He looked from the highest window of the Steeple, casting his gaze south and east in the direction of the Sela's forces although they were two hundred leagues beyond the limit of his vision. Below, lights and campfires were kindling amid a sea of tents not warriors and soldiers, but pilgrims who had made their way to Deorham in the hope of catching a glimpse of the Ahma, and to walk in holy places. He turned to Mostin, who sat preoccupied in thought. They had touched briefly upon the topic of the Cult of Cheshne, towards whom both now earnestly bent their will.
"What are they doing? Why do they not act?"
"The Hierophants are devising and casting spells," Mostin grimaced. "Very potent spells. This takes time."
"And then?"
"They unleash the storm."
"Could you perhaps be a little more specific?" Eadric inquired.
"Opening a gate is child's play to these mages, Eadric. They compact demonic nobility. Bhνtis and Ugras."
"How long do we have? Who will they send?"
"I don't know. If it were me, I'd start with a few balors. Just to get things warmed up pardon the pun. When that happens, you'll know that the big spells are ready they won't begin before they're prepared. I think we have a month or two, at least."
"Can we counter it?"
"If we pool our resources. A grand alliance, so to speak."
"And the Injunction?" Eadric looked sceptical.
"Only applies within Wyre's borders." Mostin's eyes suddenly narrowed. "Which is why the Assembly which is demonstrating as much inertia as I expected needs to come up with some solid offensive strategies. Fast. I would like to speak with your Sela. Can you arrange it?
"Er yes," the Ahma looked surprised. "I had intended to leave for the South in two days. Can you wait?
"No," Mostin shook his head vigorously. "How about now?"
"There is αuda tonight and tomorrow blessings which I am duty-bound to bestow, when I can. And I'd like to speak to the thaumaturge, Sineig Canec informed me earlier that he has made the journey here from Gibilrazen on foot."
"The Irrenite? He is rather controversial, I hear." Mostin seemed amused.
"And becoming increasingly popular. He has quite the following."
"People like sex," Mostin shrugged. "If you include it in your praxis, it's bound to generate a lot of interest. And if you make intercourse with demons a central tenet, you will attract a certain kind of devotee."
"He is treading a dangerous path," Eadric sighed.
"But one not without precedent," Mostin replied drily.
"My religion has been transformed beyond all recognition," Eadric groaned. "And I am responsible for much of it. Most cannot grasp the teachings which Sineig presents. Many of those who follow his example will be broken."
"But a few will shine," Mostin insisted. "They choose, Eadric."
"Choice is overrated," Eadric sighed.
"It is preferable to spiritual despotism."
"Is that an ethical stance I detect, Mostin?"
"Only insofar as it applies to me. Now, can we leave?" Mostin nagged. "I'll have you back within an hour."
Eadric nodded.
**
"I require celestial sponsorship," Mostin sniffed, looking at Tramst. "My pseudonatural servitors are not suited for routine defense, and require a great deal of effort to summon and control. I have alienated many fiendish allies, and lack a versatile pool of potential compactees. I also suspect that Dispater may have placed a sizeable contract on my head, or will shortly. Can you help?
Eadric gaped. The Sela seemed amused.
"How do you propose that I might do that?"
Mostin sighed. "Obviously, to sanction my gating of celestials and to waive any normal fees that I would otherwise incur for planar bindings. I don't see what the problem is. We're on the same side, here. I would stipulate only that celestials who serve me refrain from displaying their wings, or change them to something less offensive those of bats or insects are acceptable."
"It is not within my remit to make compacts."
"That's absurd," Mostin waved a hand. "You're Oronthon as well as Tramst, aren't you? Just expand your remit."
Eadric groaned. "Sela "
Tramst held up a hand. "I know." He turned to Mostin. "I appreciate any agency that you might provide, Mostin, despite your motivation. But you need to adopt a more conventional approach in this. I cannot ease your path to power, can I? How would that be of benefit to you? Perhaps you should speak to a celestial?"
"It is precisely in order to avoid their blinkered perspective that I am talking to you," Mostin groaned. "I do not require moral instruction."
The Ahma coughed politely.
"Oh shut up, Eadric. So the answer is 'no,' then? Must I look to another source because the Sela is unwilling to help me help him?"
Eadric turned beet red, and opened his mouth to deliver an angry admonishment. Once again, the Sela raised his hand, staying his words.
We teach according to the wisdom of those who hear.
"I do not deal with the conventional, Mostin," the Sela was imperturbable. "But allow me to speak for Enitharmon: if you demonstrate your commitment, I have no doubt that it will be regarded favourably by those high in the celestial host. I believe that Jovol and Rintrah enjoyed good relations."
"Commitment?" Mostin asked suspiciously.
"You would need to refrain from routinely invoking fiends."
"And their pseudonatural analogues?"
"The host would not recognize such a distinction," Tramst smiled.
"And other pseudonaturals?"
"They would make no distinction there, either. As such, these entities would be acceptable."
"I will abide by these terms for the nonce," Mostin said grudgingly, "although giving up the daemons will be a wrench."
"They are not terms, Mostin, and I am in no means acting as guarantor. But if you are seeking to curry celestial support, it is traditional that one show willing in certain areas. You might also aid the Ahma in his coming task."
Eadric cocked his head. "I have a task? That will be a refreshing change to determining my own fate. What is it?"
"On Nehael's initiative there will be a nonpartisan embassy which represents all Wyrish interests, spiritual and secular. You must parley with Anumid: we must attempt to resolve this peaceably, even if is doomed to fail. Both Prince Tagur and Daunton have agreed to the effort."
The Ahma swallowed reflexively. "And is my role to be religious or mundane?"
"Both. You are the Ahma and the Earl of Deorham."
"One high in the Order a former Templar would be of aid to me. Sercion or Brey."
"I can spare neither," the Sela said simply. "Nor would I, if I could. They are too unformed for such a task."
"There are no others," Eadric grimaced.
"Amongst the living."
Eadric was dumbstruck. Must I break every rule?
You are the Ahma. You do what needs to be done. If you cling to outdated dogma, then what hope do we have?
Must I slay you, as well?
Time will tell. The Sela smiled.
"And you also expect me to embark on this futile mission?" Mostin asked.
"Your presence would demonstrate a degree of cohesion; a unity of purpose."
"Which we do not possess," Mostin snapped.
"Yet," Tramst replied. "I remain optimistic, however. I think it is fair to suggest that all desire it, but none are quite sure about how to realize it."
**
The tomb and reliquary of Saint Tahl the Incorruptible were situated in a small chapel adjoining the Great Temple of Morne, and were reached from the main transept through a wrought iron gate which always remained open: the faithful, who sought Tahl's intercession, could at any time offer prayer to him.
When Eadric arrived, only a single petitioner kneeled in quiet contemplation. By her ascetic appearance she wore little more than rags, and her hair and nails were long and filthy the Ahma judged her to be an Urgic pilgrim from eastern Trempa or Ardan. Or rather, she would have been one, before such distinctions had become irrelevant. The air of the chapel was thick with incense, and slender candles burned steadily upon a small altar.
She gaped as Eadric lit a taper and kneeled next to her. "Ahma, I " she began to whisper.
"I'm sorry for disturbing you," Eadric bowed. "What is your name?"
"Beka, Ahma."
"I would have you be a witness, Beka. If the later interpretation of events becomes fraught with untruths and idle speculation, you will remember what happened here. You are charged with preserving an accurate account. Will you accept this responsibility?"
"Ahma, I "
"If you wish to leave, you may. I would prefer that you stayed, however. Will you indulge me?"
The pilgrim nodded dumbly.
Eadric stood, and removed his gauntlets. Reaching out, he ran his hand over the face of the marble effigy of Tahl: a figure lying in quiet repose, hands clasped upon the quillons of a greatsword, upon the lid of a sarcophagus. He mustered as much strength as he could.
Eadric hefted the lid, pushed it sideways, and lowered it carefully, so that it rested against the side of the tomb. Inside were a scourge, a sword, and a wooden casket, almost pristine. Eadric prised it open, gagging at the stench which rose up to greet him.
Beka turned her head away, aghast, and held her breath.
"In these days, even the dead will have no rest," he intoned.
There was a momentary flash, and Tahl's decayed form changed abruptly. His eyes opened.
"Ahma?"
"My apologies for interrupting your bliss, Tahl. There is much to be done, and I need your help."
"Of course," Tahl smiled. "Where is my armour?"
"Sercion wears it," Eadric laughed. Tears streamed down his face.
"Is the Sela here?"
"No. That meeting will have to wait."
"I am the first?"
"You will not be the last." Eadric nodded.
"Who is next?"
"Rede," the Ahma looked pained.
"He has become wrathful. A spirit of vengeance."
"So much the better," Eadric smiled grimly.
**
She was waiting quietly for the Alienist when he returned to his manse. When he saw her, blood hammered in his temples, and he briefly contemplated whether or not to flee. His arcane sight revealed no detail about her, impenetrable as she was to divination. Nonetheless, he knew her. Power radiated from her. The Claviger had magnified her.
"Am I to be arraigned?" He asked. "Eliminated?"
"You will make some tea," Gihaahia said with a wicked smile. "And then we will discuss the finer points of the Injunction."
"Do you take milk?" Mostin breathed a sigh of relief.
**
Last edited by Cheiromancer; 25th June 2006 at 08:19 PM..
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 05-23-06 at 2:25 am.
****
Untitled Update
Iua paced back and forth. Violent impulses crowded within her mind, and the recollection of fell deeds felt sweet in her mouth. But huge gaps remained in her memory.
She touched the pommel of her rapier lightly, feeling reassured by its presence. Through her gloved hand, a frisson of power from the weapon made her head spin, as though she had consumed too much kschiff.
Egress from the chamber was impossible. As opulent as it might be, she was a prisoner there. The door to the place if it was a door showed no sign of lock or handle, and was constructed of some kind of adamant. She had attempted to plane shift without success, and even in a gaseous form she had been unable to pass through the embrasure a spell prevented passage, and Iua lacked the means to counter it. Looking out, all she saw was a smoking slope which extended below her as far as she could see. At irregular intervals, the ground was wracked by convulsions and liquid fire erupted.
I am Iua. I am in some Hell or other. I have had an enchantment laid on me: my memory has been selectively erased. I am not dead. I don't think I am.
She knew that there were significant people and places in her life Mulissu, Ortwin, Ulao, Fumaril, Magathei, Trempa but she could not clearly remember any events connected with them. When she tried to construct any memory associated with them, it would elude her, and remain tantalizingly beyond her grasp.
She sat upon the bed and waited. She opened her bag which contained a number of apparently potent items and laid the contents before her again, as if they might hold the key to her past. A sapphire, rings, amulets, a tiny boat, a lump of dark stone, a sphere, a flat panel of curious design. She gazed at them for a long while, but became frustrated. She replaced them in her bag.
Time passed.
A sound a low click finally reached her ears. Iua leapt silently to the side of the portal, drawing her blade. As the door slid open, she dashed forth, intent on escape and slaying any in her way.
None stood there, but as her foot passed over the threshold to the chamber, her memory was suddenly restored to her in full.
She screamed.
**
It was the first time that the Ahma and Nehael had met since their brief exchange during the aftermath of Afqithan. Eadric had not so much purposefully shunned her, he told himself as he walked to meet her, as been occupied with other, more pressing duties. As had she.
That must be why I feel like vomiting, he sighed.
She was sitting in a wicker chair in the same spot which Cynric had favoured; the place where Feezuu had blasted the Prelate into oblivion. The same place where Graz'zt himself had stood and spoken the dreadful syllables which had resulted in the greatest carnage in Morne's long history. Her presence seemed like a potent salve applied to an open wound.
She smiled when she saw him, causing his head to spin yet further. He sat shakily next to her, and noticed that she smelled like summer rain. He thought briefly.
"Do you retain a sense of irony?" He asked.
She raised an eyebrow.
"That's a good sign," he breathed tensely. "I'm sorry for avoiding you. Too much has passed. I didn't know where to begin. We are not what we were. Other clichιs to that effect. I'm now being facetious to cover my discomfort."
Relax.
He relaxed a little.
"I would learn everything that has passed for you," Nehael said softly. "The totality of your experience. It will help me understand better."
"That may take some time."
"You need not speak. You need not even articulate thoughts and memories that are too uncomfortable for you. First, I would share myself with you in the same manner. It is the only way to heal the trauma. A perfect communion."
"Nehael, I "
"Do not reject me now, Ahma."
He clenched his jaw, and nodded. "How?"
"Consider Saizhan, and what it teaches. Can you adopt a Sophist perspective for a moment? Allow that truth to assert itself?"
"How will that help?"
"It will contextualize your perceptions. Place them within a framework which is familiar."
Eadric groaned. "Others seem to alternate between religious truths far easier than I. My transitions are more fraught. But I will do as you ask."
"Are you ready?"
"Now?"
"Exactly," she smiled. "NOW."
A soft hand reached out, and gently touched his face. His eyelids became heavy.
"Do not close your eyes!" Nehael laughed.
Reality shattered into a billion fragments, and was replaced by Itself.
*
Eadric was possessed of a piercing clarity, in which the world astounded him with its vibrancy and beauty. He looked at Nehael. She was perfect. The oranges hanging nearby yet to come to full ripeness were perfect. He listened to the conversation of Temple guards by the gates of the compound, smelled the incense which burned upon the high altar, felt the breeze upon his face on the roof of the Great Fane. He tasted the salt on his lips which blew on the wind from the marshes to the south of Morne. He beheld an ant climbing a rose-bush in a garden in the Bevel. All was perfect.
Beyond all or beneath all was a vibration which was inaudible, invisible, and without form. Infinite, yet apprehended in its entirety.
Viridity, he knew. His breath was quick and shallow.
Nehael smiled. "Know me."
The Ahma turned his consciousness which had become all-encompassing towards her.
In the space of a fleeting moment, he realized everything about her. Every thought, every memory, every feeling she had ever experienced within her life since her rebirth through the Tree, and a myriad of other lives in cycles within cycles. But stretching back uncounted aeons to the beginning of time itself were another set of memories: impressions which were like dreams, and belonged to one who was no more. Past the Fall, until the Nehael who never was existed only as an unmanifest thought within the Mind of Oronthon. A gnostic ecstasy swept over him.
Abruptly, it ended as she withdrew her power from him. He quaked at the separation from the source. As his ego emerged from the reverie and his persona recrystallized, his breathing slowed again. He focused his mind.
"Saizho," he bowed.
He looked at her as her mind absorbed his own experience in its fullness. A single tear ran down her cheek: he watched, and as it fell and struck the floor of the orangery, a thousand tiny flowers erupted from the flagstones.
"You loved her," she smiled.
"Very much," he nodded.
"I am sorry for your loss."
He sighed. "She was my kius. The shadow which brought the Good into sharp relief."
"And now?"
"I see the light with clear eyes. Much doubt has passed."
"But the dreams persist, Ahma. Her vestige has not abandoned you, and clings yet to your memories. She exists in you most of all."
**
Mostin fidgeted nervously, waiting for the tea to steep. He glanced sidelong at the Enforcer, who was examining a collection of infernal curios upon one of the shelves in his study. She had assumed a black-clad humanoid shape, approximately female, with impossibly red hair. She turned to face him, and her eyes bored into him. Mostin quickly looked away, jerked his hand spasmodically, and promptly spilled the sugar.
"Sh*t," he muttered.
"I relish the rare moments in which I am permitted to manifest a body," Gihaahia said, smiling.
Gods, don't smile. It's too unnerving.
"And a discrete consciousness," the Enforcer added, almost as an afterthought. She sat. "Two sugars, please."
Mostin poured the tea shakily. Most of it found its way into the cup.
"You purport to champion the philosophical tenets which underpin the Injunction," Gihaahia took the cup from the Alienist's uncertain grasp. "Yet you evince a grudging literalism in your approach. As though it were a matter of convenience or inconvenience for you. I refer specifically, of course, to the fact that you have chosen to erect your abode here less than a bowshot from the bounds of Wyre as defined in the nineteenth article. Some might view such a decision as purposely defiant and inflammatory."
"I think "
"Shut up, Mostin. I haven't finished, yet. You are forgiven for this quasi-infraction. The Claviger loves all of her children, even the wayward ones."
Her? Children? Uedii's teats. She's deranged.
"You remain embroiled in political maneuvering shut your mouth, Mostin. I'm still talking. Before you accuse me of arbitrariness, I have already determined to visit Daunton with the same warning. He's as bad as you are. Your Acadιmie will sink before it has a chance to establish itself if you persist in this attitude. You are inciting other mages to violence. You are conspiring to conjure a demon prince yes, I know you don't plan to bind him in Wyre. You are a rabble-rouser, and a danger to the body magickal. And as for Astaroth "
Mostin gaped. Only hours before, a fleeting thought had passed through his mind regarding the Lord of Caina. The Alienist had mused for all of two seconds upon the possibility of binding the archdevil and forcing him to relinquish Shomei to him.
She has made her choice, Mostin.
Mostin scowled.
"I am sadistic and vindictive, Mostin," Gihaahia's eyes narrowed to burning slits. "And nothing would give me greater pleasure than to rend your body and hurl it into the Phlegethon. The Claviger is more reasonable, however which is fortunate for you. You will desist forthwith from all political activity when you are within Wyre's confines. This includes plotting to assault the Cult of Cheshne; associating in councils of war with the Ahma, the Sela or any other representative of Oronthon; offering advice to any of Wyre's temporal leaders; or conspiring with other mages to summon demons. If you choose to engage in any of these activities, let it be outside of Wyre. If you violate these terms, you will be exiled for a period of one hundred years upon pain of obliteration if you re-enter the proscribed area. Am I clear?"
Mostin nodded dumbly.
"You would be well advised to reflect upon the spirit of the Injunction when making choices regarding these matters. Conjuring Graz'zt ten yards from Wyre's borders will be regarded as insolent, at the very least. Continuing your plots and machinations in a magnificent mansion which abuts Shomei's estate would be considered scandalous. Whilst neither would draw direct retribution, they would predispose the Claviger to a less lenient position if you were arraigned in the future. You may now speak. Be swift. Do you have any questions?"
"Many. Does the Injunction apply to arcanists from Shϋth?"
"Of course."
"If I am assailed by a hierophant within Wyre, may I defend myself with impunity?"
"Defend, yes," Gihaahia sighed.
"If I open a permanent portal from Shomei's earthly demesne to her astral retreat and convene a council whose agenda is at odds with the Injunction, will it be held against me in the future?"
The threat of the Enforcer's titanic mental grip loomed over Mostin. He knew that she could squash his psyche with a passing thought.
"These are practical considerations," Mostin wailed. "Our existence is threatened."
"Adhere to the Injunction, Mostin. In letter and spirit. The Claviger looks after her own. You will not be abandoned."
"What do you mean?" Mostin asked.
"Precisely that," Gihaahia smiled her evil smile.
"I need to " Mostin began.
But the Enforcer had vanished, without warning. The Alienist cursed, and hurled the teapot against a bookcase in a fury. What was happening? What was this talk of gender and maternity in relation to the Claviger? It was grossly inappropriate.
Still, somehow, he felt oddly reassured.
He issued a sending to Daunton: We need to talk. Where are you?
The reply was laden with fear and apprehension: Later, Mostin. I have an unexpected guest.
Mostin frowned. His hands were still shaking. He stood, walked to a small cabinet, retrieved an antique bottle, and poured himself a generous draught of vintage firewine. The liquor burned his throat and made him sneeze.
He fondled the stone of sendings briefly, swallowed, and then sent a message to Rimilin.
**
"Will she not compromise?" Lai asked, her voice evincing as much irritation as Nwm had ever before heard.
"Perhaps," the Druid replied. "She may have stated an unreasonably high bargaining position to begin with, with the intention of accepting other terms. But I think that she is genuine. Although it's impossible to tell."
"One of us could relinquish our power," Rhul suggested. "Although she would be bound to Mulhuk, much as we are."
"Would you make such a concession?" Jaliere asked. Smoke bellowed from his nostrils.
"To ensure our survival? Certainly."
"I suspect that Ortwine would find such a proposal unacceptable," Nwm smiled drily. "She wishes to take her divinity with her. Back to Afqithan.*"
"I find this entire conversation absurd," Jaliere grunted. "There must be another way."
"There is not," Lai sighed emphatically. "We cannot assault Saes. We cannot coerce her. This fey who is unknown to her may be able to achieve what we are incapable of."
"I don't see how." The God of the Forge was becoming agitated, and his beard began to kindle.
"Please remain calm," Lai's tone changed as she tried to placate Jaliere. "Ortwine is a greater liar than any I have met. She is conniving and duplicitous to an extreme degree. Moreover, if she is motivated sufficiently if the prize is great enough she will find a way."
"What of the Ahma?" Jaliere asked.
"His debt is paid to you," Nwm shook his head. "Three times over. And he is preoccupied with other matters which I am neglecting in order to be here."
"But you had intended to accompany Ortwine?"
"Yes," Nwm nodded.
Lai looked shocked. "Why have you said nothing of this to me?"
Nwm shrugged. "I cannot let Ortwine do this alone. I thought you understood that."
"But this is "
"Madness? Suicide?" Nwm suddenly became angry. "Then perhaps you should ask yourselves whether it is reasonable to ask this of her at all! Decide which this is Lai, because it was my impression that there was a possibility of success."
"Watch your tone, mortal," Jaliere threatened.
"Peace!" Lai raised her hand.
"All of this is moot," Rhul observed, "if we cannot find a way to grant Ortwine what she demands."
"Ngaarh!" Jaliere slammed a gauntleted fist upon the stone table. He barked at two spectral warriors ancestral spirits who guarded the doors to the hallway.
"Bring in the Fey. This discussion is pointless without her presence."
**
The island which rose from the ocean west of Pandicule like a jagged tooth had been chosen by the mage Kothchori for its isolation and its peculiar aesthetic. Mostin wondered whether, at some time in the distant past, some wind-sorcerer had raised it from the sea bed in order to serve as a base although the Alienist had no evidence to support such a theory. It was too eccentric, he observed, to be altogether natural.
Rimilin had claimed it as his own and with a characteristic panache which Mostin grudgingly acknowledged replaced the crumbling remains of Kothchori's abode with a three-hundred foot tall tower of red iron which pierced the sky like a great, bloody spearhead. The Alienist turned to Orolde.
"He has a certain style," Mostin admitted. "Don't you think?"
"I preferred it as it was," Orolde replied sadly. "Kothchori felt no need for such phallic ostentation."
"An interesting observation," Mostin nodded. "Which may have some merit. The Ritual of Bonding requires certain sacrifices which most would be unable to endure. Come, Orolde! We shall see whether Rimilin observes those niceties of conduct which transcend even the forced peace of the Claviger. It would be wise to omit any references to genitalia, however. Even after so long, that may still be a sensitive subject."
The duo ascended a hundred or so stone steps to arrive at the base of the tower, and stood before an intricate portal of black adamant, inlayed with precious metals and carved with dire warnings. It ground open to reveal a narrow staircase, lit by lurid green smokeless flambeaux. Mostin sighed, and strode in. Orolde scuttled in nervously behind. There was a brief sensation of dimension at once both stretching and contracting, and Mostin found himself in an echoing hall of great height. He glanced behind quickly to observe Orolde, who still followed him.
The chamber was circular, and was illuminated by a firepit which sat in its dead centre, as well as by seven immense bronze sconces which jutted out of its walls at regular intervals in its periphery. It tapered to an apex perhaps thirty fathoms above, and around the walls a staircase wound, reaching balconies and doors beyond which, presumably, other chambers lay.
"Welcome," a foul voice issued from above the Alienist. Rimilin stood upon a wide mezzanine which extended for three quarters of the chamber's circumference.
Mostin cleared his throat. "Thank-you. Should I come up, or will you come down?" His voice was louder than he had anticipated, as though some enchantment magnified the sound in the tower's interior.
"Ascend if you dare," Rimilin's voice taunted him. "I promise to be good."
Mostin scowled, and slowly climbed the staircase.
"Ahh, the hero of the hour," Rimilin said acidly as Mostin gained the balcony. The walls were lined with bookcases crammed with thousands of ancient tomes. "Your coup with the Assembly will merit discussion ten generations hence if it survives at all."
Mostin stared hard at him. His hairless head and naked torso glistened with an oily black secretion, and he smelled rank.
"I have come to take counsel," Mostin said simply. "Aside from Daunton and Jalael, you are the only mage who openly advocates a proactive stance in our dealings with Shϋth."
"The inertia of Wyre's wizards will be their undoing," Rimilin spat. "They all deserve to perish."
"It is incumbent upon us that we convince them to act in concert," Mostin sighed.
Rimilin snorted, and sat in a siege of wrought Abyssal bronze. He motioned to Mostin to do the same. Orolde fumbled nervously and produced a ledger and a quill pen from which the feathers had been judiciously removed.
"Why did you insist to bring your scribe with you?" Rimilin's brow furrowed. "Did you think that it would cause me to moderate my tone?"
"Not at all," Mostin sat stiffly. He wasn't even sure himself why he had commanded Orolde to attend him. Perhaps he needed the unqualified moral support. Perhaps he felt that it was high time that the Sprite was exposed to the inner counsels of Wyre's most accomplished mages: Orolde's aptitude for magic was beginning to assert itself, and soon he would be faced with the choice of whether or not to remain with the Alienist. Mostin grimaced. Such was the way of things.
"Has the Enforcer paid you a visit, yet?" Mostin inquired.
Rimilin's eyes narrowed. "Why?"
"There are those among us, myself and Daunton included, who tread close to the legal boundaries both physically and metaphorically of the Injunction. Gihaahia was kind enough to point out the fact that sometimes my actions are questionable."
"I have received no such warning. Perhaps you are more controversial than I," Rimilin smiled.
Perhaps physical proximity to Wyre is more important than I suspected, Mostin thought.
"I have recently succoured the Sela for celestial aid," Mostin tapped his fingers on the arm of his chair.
"You? An Enochian?" Rimilin's voice oozed with contempt. "You have been reduced to a lowly estate, Mostin!"
"I am exploring every option!" Mostin hissed. "And I preclude nothing at this stage. I need reliable allies, not fickle compactees. Devils are out of the question."
"I heard of Furcas," Rimilin smiled. "That may prove a costly mistake."
"I take it then that word has not yet reached you of Titivilus and Murmuur? They are also destroyed."
"Three Infernal Dukes?" Rimilin was visibly impressed. "That must be some kind of record."
"It was Eadric, not I, who slew them."
"I doubt that Dispater or the Fly-Lords will differentiate your complicity."
"Indeed," Mostin acknowledged.
"You might petition Belial for aid," Rimilin suggested. "If you care to walk Shomei's path."
"I do not. And I do not have the resources to pursue pseudonatural servitors at this stage. I am in danger of further exhausting my reservoir if I do. My options are limited. And in the field of rapidly polarizing allegiances, I must side against Cheshne. That is the biggest threat to me, and to Wyre."
"You risk a great deal in telling me this," Rimilin was suspicious. "Why?"
"Because, despite your depravity, you are no nihilist, and you understand necessity."
"You seek to act as the catalyst for a Cascade," Rimilin realized. "You think that you can force the hand of the celestial host, if Enitharmon perceives a large enough threat? Those days are over, Mostin. The demise of the Temple ended that paradigm, and both the Ahma and the Sela sealed that door when they chose mysticism over Orthodoxy."
"For themselves, maybe. Personally, I will use whatever tools I need to. Think on that."
**
Ortwine strode slowly into the council chamber in Mulhuk. Rhul gazed at her in wonder as she approached: her beauty was undeniable, though cold, and her very presence seemed more profound than any there who bore the title of god or goddess could claim.
"Have you found a way?" She asked calmly.
"No," Lai admitted.
The Sidhe turned, and began to walk away.
"Ortwine, please," Rhul implored. "We are at a loss. If we could grant this freely, we would. We are but little gods," his voice was ironic. "You know this. You ask the impossible."
She turned to face them, and thought for a long moment.
"Very well," she finally said. "The payment can wait. As it depends upon my success in any event, here are the terms that I propose: Upon release of the spirits of the dead assuming that such a deed can be accomplished you will admit me nominally to your ranks. When Lai and Nwm reincarnate the disembodied en masse, my worship will be actively encouraged by your agents. As your power begins to wax again, as surely it will; you will, after all, have a monopoly on religion," sarcasm dripped from Ortwine's tongue, "then I will claim my divinity along with an equal which is to say twenty percent share of the veneration from Sisperi's burgeoning population. Which brings me to my portfolio."
Nwm gaped. Ortwine had some truly outrageous ideas.
"I choose lies and trickery. I have observed that you lack a suitable exemplar in these areas. But and here is where you make a concession to me now, before we begin Jaliere must first perform a task for me."
"Must he indeed?" Jaliere thundered.
Ortwine drew Githla, and handed it to the God of the Forge. "This blade was forged by the Azer Jodrumu, before he went mad."
Jaliere brandished it, feeling its balance and judging its temper with his mind's eye. "This is a fine weapon. Jodrumu whoever he was was a gifted smith."
"Just so," Ortwine agreed.
"You wish it reforged by Jaliere?" Lai asked.
"Not exactly," Ortwine smiled slowly. "I wish it married with another blade. If such a task is within his abilities."
Jaliere guffawed. "If not I, then who? Which is this other weapon?"
But Nwm already knew. Just as he knew that Ortwine alone was most likely to succeed in deceiving Saes, because the Sidhe had played him and the Nireem already.
The Druid grimaced. "The sword is named Heedless. And I strongly advise against this course of action, Ortwine."
"Your concern is duly noted," Ortwine nodded. "And ignored. If I am to be a goddess, Nwm, I must have a blade worthy of me."
* The Chiefs of the Nireem (except Ninit) retain a divine rank of 1 only when within Mulhuk, the minor heaven which abuts Sisperi. Outside of its confines, they are treated as DR0 quasi-deities.
*
Last edited by Cheiromancer; 26th June 2006 at 05:46 PM..
I was thinking about setting up a compiled thread for the Rogue's Gallery as well as this one. Maybe do some re-organizing- put the PCs in their various incarnations all on one page, give the fiends a few pages to themselves, and so on.
Or maybe keep them in the order that Sep posted them, but have a "master post" on the first page with links to them all.
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II at 12:25 pm on 06-25-06
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 perpetual 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 Cheiromancer; 4th September 2006 at 05:52 PM..
Did you get around to doing this? I was trying to find Sep's Rogue's Gallery info and couldn't find it.... I would be most obliged if you could post the links that would comprise such a "master post" even if you haven't created a compilation thread.
I'm also interested in finding all the various character illustrations that have been done. You seem to have most of them included on this thread, but I haven't found Mostin's pic. It would be nice to know who the artists were too - the different illustrations don't always include the artist's name.
Thx,
Jenni
PS: Oh yeah, *BUMP*.
Here's a bit to get you started. I don't know where Mostin's Picture went to- I'll try reposting it and see what happens.
They are not nameless, Eadric thought, although the fact provided no measure of comfort to him.
He had requested that Tahl divine the information; a direct communion with the Source would reveal their purpose and number. There were ancient names amongst them, to which rumours in only the earliest of temple chronicles alluded. Tahl issued a sending to Mostin.
Unsurprisingly, the Alienist knew of their identities, and the myths associated with them. Orolde teleported to see Eadric in Morne; the Ahma was in temporary residence in the Temple compound, and it was uncharacteristically quiet: many of the devoted had taken up arms again, and accompanied the Sela to Wyre's Southern march.
Orolde appeared bearing a scroll: he was nervous, his head twitching and his eyes flickering restlessly, as though every shadow might prove a lurking place for the Enforcer or one of her agents. The sprite was sure that he was trespassing in an area of dubious legality regarding the Injunction, and Eadric smiled benignly, in a vain effort to assauge Orolde's paranoia. The fey quickly handed the letter over, teleported back to Mostin's manse, and breathed a sigh of relief when he realized that all of his faculties remained to him.
Eadric immediately broke the seal, and read the letter. Mostin had adopted an elegant script: evidently, the Alienist had been experimenting with a new calligraphic style.
To the Ahma in Morne, greetings:
The names with which you have furnished me are a source of some concern. I have arranged them in what I deem the most likely order of precedence, although I should make it clear that my information is likely outmoded: note, then, a certain amount of conjecture follows.
Temenun is a demonic spirit of primeval strain, native to the jungles of Utter Shuth. His form is feline. He was master of a wide dominion before the Sleeping Gods withdrew from the World of Men; a reign of sacrifice and terror, the memory of which still endures in the occult lore of nomadic wise-women. Wyre was still beneath two hundred feet of ice when Temenun was deposed and purportedly slain. I suspect Temenun may, in fact, have been subject to some form of imprisonment only to have been recently freed (the same may be true of others amongst the Cheshnite sect). Temenun's prophetic ability is said to be unrivalled.
Yeshe the Binder is at least five thousand years old; she is mentioned in cryptograms from the era of Shuth's First Empire, preserved in Siir Traag. Twenty-one centuries ago, Yeshe conjured Pazuzu at Khu and unleashed the demon upon the desert kingdom of Durjan, destroying it. Fifty years later, she razed the port of Triptah through the depredations of a demon named Narake possibly a Chthonic. In times past, she built massive edifices sites of profane power the wrecks of which still litter the ancient erg. Her bloodline or those who boast descent from her still exercise power in Shuth. It is of note that both Kothchori and Feezuu were scions of her house, or at least made claim to be. The source of her immortality is unknown, but she lacks the pretensions typical of divinity, and has no cult.
Idyam exists now in mostly unmanifest form; his consciousness was transferred to his remains, which were preserved in the Temple of Tejobih a somnolent Power who absented himself even before the rest of Shuth's gods entered hibernation. Idyam was held to have ascended to godhood, although his contempt for those who supplicated him was well-known. Idyam is no deity, I suggest, but a demilich. This may prove the worse for us.
Sibud is a vampire a progenitor from outside the World of Man; an abomination, birthed in some other cycle of being he arrived in Shuth two millennia ago. His countless spawn have infested the deep desert for centuries, and have visited ruin upon many tribes. Sibud's mastery of the necromantic arts was once usurpassed, and his bloodlust insatiable: his downfall is recorded in a document known as the Kash-haya (Shomei possessed a copy; if you wish to inspect her library, I can arrange it). His command of ritual magic was legendary; for a while, Urm-Nahat was his apprentice. Together they devised a spell known as the storm of blood, which slew the armies of a rival warlord, Kumaari.
It is highly likely that Sibud can still convoke a respectable assembly of spellcasters; we can hope that he has not yet fully returned to his former power. If he can manifest his storm of blood, then we may be in trouble: I would advise against deploying any temple troops en masse until we find out a fragment recounts that 'sixty thousand warriors of renown perished' when it was last invoked.
Jahi is a demigoddess, who appears as a marasmic child. Little is known of her, save her sparktheft she is credited with stealing the divinity from a number of minor godlings in order to swell her own potency; some accounts refer to her as Jeshi's half-sister, who, unlike her sibling, 'suckled at Cheshne's teat'. The lack of other information is worrying; I advise utmost caution in any dealings with this entity. Although such advice is hardly necessary.
Naatha is a succubus of bestial mien, kin to Chaya and Chepez (but not Nathi). Ironically, she is likely to be one of our most direct antagonists. Naatha was once an Ugra a fierce protector but she misliked any form of contractual obligation, preferring to bind rather than be bound. What else I can write on the subject of succubi which is not already known to you?
Dhatri was once human she appears now in the form of a bloated mass of undead flesh. She is gluttonous, and rumoured to savour the corpses of those she has slain. Her title translates as 'nurse' or 'midwife' it is safe to assume that her nurturing urge is not directed toward the living. She has mastery over ghouls, ghasts, and other necrophages. She is venerated by several death-cults in Analah in southern Shuth.
Prahar is a great warrior, an Ur-Priest, and a undead psychotic. He ruled in Danhaan before his elevation by Orcus to the stewardship of another world a lush plane known as Veddekeh. After several centuries as the incumbent despot a dark age overwhelmed Veddekeh, if accounts are correct Prahar rebelled against Orcus and shrugged off his yoke. This part is important:
Prahar bound Orcus with a spell, and forced the Prince to meet his demands.
This is no small accomplishment. Knowledge of this event is obscure Orcus made a great effort to eliminate any witnesses and records after his quick release. I believe Orcus made an immediate, absolute concession to Prahar's demands whatever they were. Veddekeh became unreachable thereafter, and it's reasonable to assume the events are connected.
Rishih is a Theurge and a Thaumaturge. He specializes in compacting middle-ranking demonic nobility powerful mariliths and balors, and lords such as Ahazu and Munkir have submitted to him in the past.
Guho Is an aberrant, festering heap of corruption even by my liberal standards. She is a worm that walks. This is such a grubby method of transcendence. She was a Blood-Mage of high credentials before seizing her immortality I'm sure she's considerably more dangerous after a thousand years.
Choach favoured by the dark gods embraced unlife some eight centuries ago. He might be considered the 'junior member' of the sect's leadership, although doubtless none amongst Wyre's wizards excepting possibly myself can rival his power. Choach was renowned for his unbridled sadism, his perverse sense of humour, and, like Feezuu according to the literature upon the subject a preference for acid evocations.
These are the eleven leaders, according to Tahl's information. All equal or exceed me in their command of magic. Teppu may be more powerful than any of them, or he may not the sprite's potency is hard to gauge, and focussed in a narrow area. His exact agenda is not known in any case, so he cannot be considered a reliable ally.
If my calculations are correct, a spell synergy by these eleven alone not including the cabals and priesthood could achieve a result in the region of the three-thousandth order. I appreciate that this number means little to you, but it might help if I tell you that the wave of hate from which Morne will likely never recover was approximately a two-hundredth order effect.
I will expect you in two days.
Mostin.
*
The four of them Eadric, Ortwine, Mostin and Nwm finally met at the Alienist's retreat. Orolde had absented himself. Sho languished on the porch in a manner which made Eadric feel uncomfortable: some of her mannerisms were uncannily similar to her maker's.
Mostin immediately grabbed Nwm's arm, and drew him aside. The Alienist whispered in an agitated manner.
"So what exactly do you know about Hlioth. Is she safe? What's her agenda? Did she say anything about releasing Graz'zt after Fillein bound him?"
Nwm groaned. "I know as much about her as you do, Mostin. She does what she does. At present, she is an ally. I don't know if that relationship will persist. And no, she made no comment regarding Graz'zt although I am sympathetic to her action. It must have been a hard choice, but Fillein's behaviour was arrogant in the extreme."
"What have they been doing? Her and Teppu and Nehael? And you? What have you been doing?"
"It would take too long to explain," Nwm sighed.
"Then summarize," Mostin hissed.
"I making gates," Nwm smiled. "Teppu mysterious. Mesikammi rousing earth spirits. Hlioth weaving powerful magic in Nizkur. Nehael facilitates. Understand?"
Mostin twitched. "What magic?"
"I'm not entirely sure," Nwm confessed. "I suspect nothing too controversial. Hlioth is bound at least in part by the Injunction."
"Actually, Nizkur is beyond the Wyrish border as far as the Claviger is concerned, at any rate. Besides, everything that Hlioth does is controversial. Tell me of the gates."
"I have opened a number of tree portals," Nwm nodded. "Connecting Afqithan, Sisperi, Nizkur, Groba, the receding Tunthi realm of spirit, the Shrine of Three Storrs in Ialde, Deorham, and several discrete regions of Faerie. They pass through the primordial Tree-ludja."
"You have been busy," Mostin remarked drily. He raised his eyebrows. "From Deorham to Sisperi? You don't seem afraid of stepping on your friends' toes. Aren't you concerned about unwanted traffic?"
"Any traffic is good. That is the purpose. To enable the movement of energy within the matrix of the Interwoven Green."
"Your concepts are curiously archaic." Mostin observed. "I predict that your gates will become bottlenecks. Petty lords will try to control them."
"These are feys and nature spirits we're talking about," Nwm sighed. "Not demons or men for that matter. You can't ascribe such emotions as desire to rule to most of them."
"To most of them, maybe not. But to enough of them to cause a problem, I say yes. Ten thousand gold says that you have an incident within a month. Where something, maybe a wicked greedy fey such things exist, you know tries to take strategic control of one of your gates. It's a resource. Trust me."
"I have no money, Mostin. Alas, I cannot meet your wager."
"I'll take a reincarnation on credit."
Nwm laughed. "Really? I would think you already have some unspeakable contingency."
"That was my big plan," Mostin nodded. He sighed. "Unfortunately, it never seems to get any closer. I also had the notion to spellwarp myself. And bind Graz'zt. And locate the web of motes. And to evolve the consciousnesses of the simulacra. Frankly, there is too much to do, and too little time. I'm bogged down."
"If you were to look to a more natural solution to the simulacra, I might help "
"Shomei directed me to her pseudoanalogues."
"For what? You think you can attempt some kind of synthesis? Why? Do you really want two pseudo-Shomeis running loose? Besides, you would need the most powerful cabal ever assembled in Wyre. You do not command that kind of respect consider your efforts to gather even a half-dozen mages to aid you: they aren't interested in your desire to capture the Demon, and ascribe your idea to megalomania. Although I hardly blame them. Can you even honestly say that it's relevant to the current situation?"
Mostin stared hard at Nwm. "I don't know," he admitted. "It's mostly so that I can gloat. What do you suggest with regard to the simulacra?"
"A natural solution, naturally. Or Dream-vestiges. Shomei has echoes in other places. "
"I am no Dreamer," Mostin sniffed dismissively.
"Nor am I," Nwm smiled. "You would have to learn. Is that so abhorrent to you? Ask Teppu. He might advise you."
"And he might not," Mostin scowled.
Nwm sighed. "Whatever they become, the simulacra will not be Shomei, Mostin."
"I know that," Mostin snapped. "This is no adolescent fixation, Nwm. I am merely trying to find a solution within the terms Shomei asserted."
"Did she specify a pseudonatural synthesis?"
"Not exactly," Mostin said. "Or at least, I don't think so."
"What precisely did she say?"
"'Begin with the premise that all creatures have multiple pseudonatural analogues.'"
Nwm laughed loudly, causing Ortwine who stood nearby in conversation with Eadric to glare at him.
Mostin seemed mildly offended. "I fail to see what is funny."
"What other premise would Mostin the Metagnostic bring to bear upon any problem?"
"You may have a point," the Alienist shrugged. "But she said that it would be my magnum opus. I can't see what other direction it could take."
"Just reify them with a wish, and let them develop in whichever direction they choose to go, Mostin. Surely she would have wanted that? To have you determine their course of unfolding would surely be antithetical to everything she believed. Besides, Shomei never exhibited any particular aptitude in the prescient arts what makes you think that she possessed any special insight into the subsequent evolution of her simulacra?"
"The web of motes, you dummy. She saw it in the web of motes."
"You are overanalyzing an off-hand comment made by someone you cared about and affording it too much significance," Nwm sighed.
"Shomei never made off-hand comments."
"And you are idealizing her in your memory," Nwm continued relentlessly. "She was no less fallible than you or I. Goddess, Mostin. How old was she? Twenty-five? How much wisdom and experience can one of her age really have acquired?"
"More than most," Mostin snapped, his nostrils flaring. "And more than I, certainly. I was still chasing sylphs when I was twenty-five, and Vhorzhe had only recently apprenticed me. Shomei was summoning glooms and compacting with Belial. We are talking orders of magnitude here, Nwm."
"Fine. Have it your way. But you can't break Hell open, Mostin. If you meet her again, she will likely be your enemy: I assume Eadric spoke to you of Titivilus's veiled threats? That Astaroth could offer her some kind of deal?"
"Titivilus was full of sh*t," Mostin snorted. "And if Ed hadn't killed him, I think I probably would have by now. I've had it with fiends. They're too much work to keep in line. I've gone Enochian for a while, at least."
"Celestials are no better," Nwm grumbled.
"Agreed," Mostin smiled. "But they're cheaper. The Host cut me a special deal, based on my connections."
*
"Aid me in this," Ortwine pleaded. "I need you."
"There are other matters, far more pressing." Eadric was unyielding.
She seized him by his pauldrons, pushed him backwards, and stared him in the face. Eadric noticed that she was as tall as he was.
"I'm coming out of this a goddess, Eadric. I can bring a lot of weight to bear on a situation if that happens. In the idiom of my former self: when I get my newly divine ass on the battlefield and I've got a vorpal sword in my hand, who's gonna try it on, eh? Right no-one."
"Gods are plentiful, these days." Eadric smiled.
"True. And they're not all on your side," Ortwine retorted. "I will be. If you help me. You know it makes sense." She flashed a smile.
"I think not," the Ahma sighed. "Your apotheosis is not my first concern. Did you just use a suggestion on me?"
"Certainly not. The defense of Wyre and the Temple is a complex strategy, Eadric," Ortwine changed tack. "Consider your moves carefully. At least hear me out."
"Go on," he grumbled. "Try to be quick."
"I have to convince an insane death-goddess to relinquish a million or so souls so that life can begin again in Sisperi. As lunatic an enterprise as this might sound, I think I have a good chance of doing it. If I can get to her. That's where you come in."
"I have no desire to fight my way through some pagan underworld at present."
"Gaining entrance will be the tricky part. The entrance Saivo is a double-bottomed lake. It's upside-down on the other side for want of a better description."
"I assume it's guarded?"
"Naturally."
"A dragon? A huge dog?"
"No," Ortwine said brightly. "Neither of those. Demons left by Graz'zt, in fact. If you recall, Saes was allied with him for some time. His minions have gone native if you catch my meaning."
"I'm not sure that I do."
"Saes has changed them."
"How do you mean, changed?"
"Augmented. Infused."
"With what?"
"Well, with death of course. That is her portfolio, after all."
"Which means what, exactly?"
"The details are hazy," Ortwine admitted. "After we pass the vestibule, we enter Ruk proper. If the reports are correct."
"If." The Ahma said acidly. "Whose reports are these, Ortwine?"
"You know. Rumours. Speculation."
Eadric looked exasperated. "Is there any concrete information?"
"No."
"Why do you think that is, Ortwine? Perhaps because nobody has ever returned from this underworld alive?"
"That is the consensus amongst the Nireem. I plan to be the first, however."
"Let's assume that you get to Saes," Eadric sighed, "but your powers of persuasion fail to move her: I would deem this likely, if she is insane. What then? Do you plan to kill her?"
"I would prefer not to. Admittedly, she is a minor goddess in the grand scheme of things, but her role in the natural balance of Sisperi must be respected. Eadric we are talking about returning life to a world raped by Graz'zt. However selfish my interest is, yours should not be. Remember your vow to Rhul "
"Aye," the Ahma glowered. "I remember it, and it is discharged. Uort is slain; the babau purged from Soan. I cannot leave Wyre at present."
"Rhul and Lai won't ask you. I am less reticent, however. In a month or so, when my weapon is complete. A queen begs you, Eadric. Forty-eight hours: that's all I ask of you."
"You are optimistic."
"I am motivated."
"If anything happens in my absence; if I get stuck there: by Oronthon I will make you pay, Ortwine."
Ortwine bowed her head. "I will take your oath as testament to your seriousness."
"I will consider the terms of service which I would require from you in return," Eadric gazed stonily at her.
Ortwine stepped back. "I am no man's vassal."
"You will do what is necessary, Ortwine. Like you said, you need me."
"I can shower you with gifts. Would you care for some gnomes?
"I do not want your slaves."
"They adore me!"
"Service in kind, Ortwine."
*
"Mostin mentioned the enemy using big spells," Eadric looked at Nwm. "He seemed reluctant to expand on the topic other than make mention of an invocation known as the storm of blood, which seems worrying enough. And numbers which seemed distressingly large, if somewhat unfathomable."
"He was probably sparing you the stress that would ensue."
"You think he has an idea of what might be involved?"
"I'm sure he does. Or has at least speculated. I have. The names that Tahl divined, Eadric suffice to say that Mostin is more concerned than I have seen him before."
"And you are not?"
"The names themselves mean little to me," Nwm shrugged. "But the fact that it has Mostin worried has me worried. 'Eleven transvalent casters,' he keeps mumbling."
"And what do you think they can do?"
"If they can bring a large group of spellcasters to bear in invoking a single spell, I'd say pretty much anything. They could waste a few hundred square miles with a single dweomer."
"Is that likely?"
"I don't know," Nwm admitted. "I'm hoping that enough distrust exists amongst the leadership that they wouldn't be willing to pool their resources thus."
"I think their unity of purpose is apparent," Eadric sighed.
"And it's only 'apparent.' We, in fact, know nothing of their purpose."
"It is malign," Eadric grunted. "Let me rephrase. What would you do if you were assaulting Wyre."
"Why is their pupose to assault Wyre?"
"Perhaps some kind of divine edict?"
"Let me posit another theory," Nwm grimaced. "What has arisen in Shuth, and subsequently established itself in the Thalassine, has done so in direct response to the principle of Annihilation being invoked in the World of Men. By the Ahma. In other words, your sin caused this. Understand that I am framing this concept within terms familiar to you: I do not personally subscribe to the notion of sin."
"Are you serious?"
"Why have you not fallen? Because you are the Ahma. The rules are different for you. But what you do how you act this is reflected in the world around you."
"That's something of a stretch," Eadric was dubious.
"I would think that it was manifestly true, from a certain point of view: such truth is the cause of your veneration by thousands of people. I am not the first to take this perspective."
Eadric raised an eyebrow.
Nwm smiled, and assumed a voice of mock piety. "'The Ahma has invoked the apocalypse. He has fornicated with demons, and betrayed us.'"
"They're saying that?"
"Some of them," Nwm nodded.
"I am the Breath of God, not the body of the world. It sounds like misunderstood Irrenite dogma."
"Even your flaws are perfect, Eadric. You need not worry."
"What an odd thing to say."
"Perhaps God can breathe darkness would suit better."
"That is brutal, Nwm."
"Are you the chief agent of the Adversary, Eadric?"
"Perhaps," the Ahma slowly exhaled. "The thought had occurred to me."
**
At midnight, Eadric received a sending from Tahl. He looked nervously at Mostin.
"What now?" The Alienist sighed.
"I will be invested as Earl Marshal by King Tiuhan tomorrow. All of the Small Council have ratified it. It will consolidate the Temple battalions and secular armies under my leadership. I fought a war in pursuit of disestablishment, and what do they do?"
"Can you refuse?" Nwm asked.
"No," Eadric said simply. "Nor would I, if I could. At least I won't step on any toes this way Tahl intimated that I might have to take command at some point otherwise. I imagine that he leaned on Tagur."
"It's just a formality, then?"
"Right." The Ahma seemed unconvinced.
"Believe it," Mostin scoffed. "Ten thousand knights will do you about as much good as ten thousand monkeys with sticks at present."
"Every little helps," Nwm stroked his beard. "And don't knock the monkeys."
Eadric's face went blank as another sending reached him.
"What now?" Mostin sighed.
The Ahma was unsure whether to laugh.
"It was from Tahl: Sela informs Mostin that Mulissu has reincarnated."
"Is she Green?" Mostin looked horrified at the prospect.
Eadric shrugged.
Mostin fussed, and drew his robe of eyes about himself. Lids opened, and orbs rotated in woven sockets in a disconcerting manner. Mogus emerged briefly from a dimensional pocket.
"You still have that thing, then," Ortwine's expression was one of mild distaste.
Mostin ignored her, and unrolled a scroll.
"Mostin?" Eadric asked nervously.
Potent syllables rolled from the Alienist's lips. A gate opened. Madness flowed from it.
"I am journeying to the middle region of Uzzhin and beyond," Mostin announced. "to confer with the entity Ghom. If any of you wish to accompany me, you may; it might entail certain risks, for the "
"Sane?" Ortwine offered. "No, thank-you."
Mostin stepped through the gate, and reappeared a split second later.
"Were you gone long?" Ortwine inquired. "I see you have a new hat."
But the length and colour of Mostin's beard which seemed strangely animated and the appendage which issued from his robe of eyes in place of an arm, testified to the duration of his stay Outside.
"Longer than I expected," he nodded.
"What did you uncover?" Eadric asked with trepidation.
"Many things," the Alienist evinced a sage madness. "Including the location of the web of motes and Iua. We have to go immediately. There is no choice, and no time for preparation. Do you understand?"
"Mostin " Eadric began.
Mostin opened another gate. "Follow me," he said, stepping through.
"But I want my vorpal sword," Ortwine complained.
Last edited by Cheiromancer; 24th December 2006 at 03:42 PM..
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