the Jester
Legend
This story hour follows right on the heels of To War Against Felenga.
A grim sense of satisfaction rolls over the heroes as they stare at the ruins.
Here, at last, is the final victory for them: the Temple of Elemental Evil, thrown down. The land around it is muddy, the vegetation drowned or torn to bits. The building itself is mostly collapsed, and according to Orbius’ divinations, nearly the entire thing is full of mud and debris.
The Princes of Elemental Evil, no longer bound to cooperate, fought here. Their fury was too much for the Temple to survive. Such primal powers- less Imix, the Lord of Evil Fire, who the heroes had destroyed months ago- could not be held in proximity to each other without fantastic consequences.
The heroes vanish back to the city of Var, half a continent away. Lester’s compulsion to overthrow the Temple has faded with success. They are free to pursue whatever agenda they choose.
***
On a (relatively) small turning gear in the midst of a plane of interlocking clockwork wheels and mechanisms, a tower with a huge pendulum descending from it rises from the very center of the gear. The pendulum has swung regularly for a length of time greater than that of most civilizations, marking time until the moment comes. Tick, tock, tick tock, sounding like a clock, the pendulum has scythed back and forth for what seems like forever.
But forever is really only a specific length of time. Long, yes; long past memory. The Tower of Judgment has been shut and silent save for the sound of the pendulum for a very long time.
Long- but specific, measured time. A span that is ultimately finite.
There is a gentle chiming sound.
Within the tower, a series of springs move, winding energy into the glittering form at the center.
The Judge of Worlds watches as a slash in space appears before him, then widens into a gate. He rises with a metallic clatter, disengaging from the springs, and steps through the gate. His clockwork gears grind to life for the first time in a thousand centuries. His black robes and white wig and gavel give him a deceptively comedic look.
***
Brooding, the man rubs at the stubble on his chin. Before him are maps- maps of everything. Not just Cydra; this is much, much larger than just Cydra.
Elysium spreads on one map, a layer of the Abyss on another. Another holds a map of two large cubes on Acheron- a wasted mission, that one, the inevitable already being destroyed. He frowns. At least, for the most part, Law is coming together quite well.
His eyes trail over the map of the Forinthian region of Cydra. From Dorhaus in the west to Valonia and Bordis in the west, the whole area should be strong with the Law. But it isn’t. Something has gone terribly wrong.
What has happened to my Empire in my absence? thinks Prayzose harshly.
He has been removed- missing- unseen- for some time, now. Seven years...? More? He isn’t sure. And still he cannot reveal himself. Not while his love is a prisoner of the other side. His anger grows strong in his breast. It has been with him for nearly a decade- that someone would dare to take his Empress, and worse, that he cannot track them down and make them pay!
He could bring her back even if they killed her, he knows that; but she was kidnapped on Tirchond. That means the finger points straight at that bitch Estelias, and she’s crafty enough to come up with a way to put her beyond Prayzose’s grasp forever.
Unless it’s not her, his doubts whisper, but he banishes them. Who else would have the gall, the audacity? Not to mention the ability! No, it was her, and some day she’ll pay; but for now he simply has to keep to the quiet path. Until he can find her and free her.
Frowning, Prayzose, worshiped by many as a god, turns again from the map of Cydra. He’ll deal with her at another time. For now, there are plans to be made. The ceremony ground has to be reviewed by representatives of all the would-be Arrows, for instance, and time is running short. And he must still decide whether to accept.
He hears murmuring at the flap of his tent. In a moment he has a visitor.
“Lord Emperor,” the other says, stroking his goatee. Prayzose merely stares at him. “Surely you know that there is no decision to make,” he goes on. “Your moral troubles are insignificant in the greater picture. You must accept.”
Prayzose settles back in his chair. “I find it odd,” he answers dryly, “that you seek to persuade me to accept this office.”
A devilish grin. “How so? We serve the same side in this. If victory for Law is to come, we must all work together, Good, Neutral and Evil. Otherwise...” He shrugs eloquently. “We serve Chaos.”
Prayzose barks out a laugh. “Perhaps, but I need not lead.”
“You are amongst the most capable servants of Law, my lord. Your place is at the forefront, representing your side of the... conversation.”
“You mean Good versus Evil.”
“Think on it. I am not the only powerful force of Evil to ride for Law. Will Forinthia unify to follow us, if Dekrasode and I speak for Law? I think not. They, at least, need you. Without your assistance, we will be seen as agents of Evil, not of unity!”
“You are persuasive, but I will not return to Cydra so long as my queen is held prisoner.”
“They will never give her up willingly. You must know that. She makes you impotent. You must foreswear her. While they have her, they have a hold on you.” A sneer ripples across his face. “Love is weakness, Prayzose.”
“That is where we differ. Love is strength. I will never foreswear her.” Prayzose leans forward. “Unless there is anything else-?”
“Pah! Very well then. If you will not cast her aside, I will help you retrieve her.”
Prayzose gives another laugh, this one bitter and angry. “I have not been able to find her with all my resources in nearly a decade,” he rumbles. “How will you do so?”
A dangerous smile. “Oh, I have a way. If she is freed, will you ride with us? As one of the Seven Arrows of Law?”
“I will never make you a promise, devil. But I wish victory for Law.”
“That,” the other smiles, “is promise enough. Tell me, what do you know about simulacra?”
***
Clustered around a tall obelisk of strange black stone, five cultists chant dissonant, overlapping chants. It sounds like the babbling of a madhouse. Before the obelisk is a strange object, egg-shaped but made of stone. It has odd wart-like extrusions of white material all over its surface, and they are starting to drool a thin clear fluid.
The chanting slowly dies down. The cultists shuffle forward one by one to touch the obelisk. One of them gives a strangled cry as his tongue shrivels up. Another begins to glow.
As each touches the obelisk, the eggs swells very slightly, almost unnoticeably. And as the last one touches the obelisk the rocky exterior starts, very slightly, to crack. Yet more fluid, blue and green, is flowing from the warts. But the cultists notice none of that.
They’re too busy noticing that the obelisk itself has changed color to a deep greenish sheen.
“Hail Na’Rat,” one breathes, and suddenly the earth begins to shake. The cultists cry out in fear (save the one with a shriveled tongue) as they are thrown to the ground. A few bricks tumble from the wall, and cracks develop, running from the ground to the ceiling.
Awed, the cultists scramble to make obeisances to the obelisk, touching their foreheads to the ground again and again.
And the egg begins to warm.
***
On the Elemental Plane of Fire, a great army of elementals and fiery creatures crashes in waves against the walls of the City of Brass. Terrible weapons- even imported barrels of ice and water- fly through the air, lobbed by engines. Smoke rises everywhere. Efreet fly overhead, discharging cold-throwing items. The crash of armies fills the air.
Imix is dead.
A huge, scorpion-tailed creature flies up directly into a flight of the city’s efreet. It fires flaming bolts from its tail, screams and rakes one of the efreeti. They become locked in a death spiral fall to the ground. More of the fire manticores rip through the air, flaming spikes preceding them, and then a volley of catapult shot sprays across them. Several fall, but more race in towards the city.
A troop of devil mercenaries teleports to the front. Blood sprays as azer shock troops meat hardened diabolical resistance. A great siege tower of black basalt rumbles slowly towards the City of Brass.
The Prince of Elemental Evil Fire is dead. The crown of the Archomental will fall to whoever is strong enough to take it.
***
Beauty truly is in the eye of the beholder. It must be, for the King of Bile thought the Queen beautiful. Not his Queen, not yet; not until the ceremony. But she was a Queen, nonetheless... the Queen of Guts.
To a human eye, she was anything but beautiful. Who could look upon her fearsome aspect, her terrible twitching intestines, without feeling the urge to sick up? Who could see the ravaged look of her body without shivering? No human, even the most depraved, could look upon her and feel desire.
But the King of Bile- ah, to him, she was sublime. The astringent odor that clung to her was enticing, like an old dead thing, powdered and snorted. He wanted to wrap himself in her ropy strands and squeeze her fluids all over himself. Ah, love. Even amongst the most bizarre and wicked, there could be love- of a sort.
Of course, he had much unfinished business. Immediately after the honeymoon, he would have to finish a few mountain-related projects. Without the Crux Crystal, his experiments were set back thousands of years! But all that had been done before, could be done over much more quickly.
But the wedding must be first.
***
In the city of Var on the continent of Dorhaus, there is a nice, fairly upper-class tavern called the Three Rubies. Near the bar is a table that has, by habit, come to be claimed by a group of very wealthy, very powerful adventurers. Sometimes the King himself even travels with them!
They seem to be in quite a good mood today. Though it seems as though one of them is wearing an eye patch that’s new. Still, they’ve bought the entire house several rounds and are full of triumph and bluster.
Little do they know that they’re about to get their first hint of war.
A grim sense of satisfaction rolls over the heroes as they stare at the ruins.
Here, at last, is the final victory for them: the Temple of Elemental Evil, thrown down. The land around it is muddy, the vegetation drowned or torn to bits. The building itself is mostly collapsed, and according to Orbius’ divinations, nearly the entire thing is full of mud and debris.
The Princes of Elemental Evil, no longer bound to cooperate, fought here. Their fury was too much for the Temple to survive. Such primal powers- less Imix, the Lord of Evil Fire, who the heroes had destroyed months ago- could not be held in proximity to each other without fantastic consequences.
The heroes vanish back to the city of Var, half a continent away. Lester’s compulsion to overthrow the Temple has faded with success. They are free to pursue whatever agenda they choose.
***
On a (relatively) small turning gear in the midst of a plane of interlocking clockwork wheels and mechanisms, a tower with a huge pendulum descending from it rises from the very center of the gear. The pendulum has swung regularly for a length of time greater than that of most civilizations, marking time until the moment comes. Tick, tock, tick tock, sounding like a clock, the pendulum has scythed back and forth for what seems like forever.
But forever is really only a specific length of time. Long, yes; long past memory. The Tower of Judgment has been shut and silent save for the sound of the pendulum for a very long time.
Long- but specific, measured time. A span that is ultimately finite.
There is a gentle chiming sound.
Within the tower, a series of springs move, winding energy into the glittering form at the center.
The Judge of Worlds watches as a slash in space appears before him, then widens into a gate. He rises with a metallic clatter, disengaging from the springs, and steps through the gate. His clockwork gears grind to life for the first time in a thousand centuries. His black robes and white wig and gavel give him a deceptively comedic look.
***
Brooding, the man rubs at the stubble on his chin. Before him are maps- maps of everything. Not just Cydra; this is much, much larger than just Cydra.
Elysium spreads on one map, a layer of the Abyss on another. Another holds a map of two large cubes on Acheron- a wasted mission, that one, the inevitable already being destroyed. He frowns. At least, for the most part, Law is coming together quite well.
His eyes trail over the map of the Forinthian region of Cydra. From Dorhaus in the west to Valonia and Bordis in the west, the whole area should be strong with the Law. But it isn’t. Something has gone terribly wrong.
What has happened to my Empire in my absence? thinks Prayzose harshly.
He has been removed- missing- unseen- for some time, now. Seven years...? More? He isn’t sure. And still he cannot reveal himself. Not while his love is a prisoner of the other side. His anger grows strong in his breast. It has been with him for nearly a decade- that someone would dare to take his Empress, and worse, that he cannot track them down and make them pay!
He could bring her back even if they killed her, he knows that; but she was kidnapped on Tirchond. That means the finger points straight at that bitch Estelias, and she’s crafty enough to come up with a way to put her beyond Prayzose’s grasp forever.
Unless it’s not her, his doubts whisper, but he banishes them. Who else would have the gall, the audacity? Not to mention the ability! No, it was her, and some day she’ll pay; but for now he simply has to keep to the quiet path. Until he can find her and free her.
Frowning, Prayzose, worshiped by many as a god, turns again from the map of Cydra. He’ll deal with her at another time. For now, there are plans to be made. The ceremony ground has to be reviewed by representatives of all the would-be Arrows, for instance, and time is running short. And he must still decide whether to accept.
He hears murmuring at the flap of his tent. In a moment he has a visitor.
“Lord Emperor,” the other says, stroking his goatee. Prayzose merely stares at him. “Surely you know that there is no decision to make,” he goes on. “Your moral troubles are insignificant in the greater picture. You must accept.”
Prayzose settles back in his chair. “I find it odd,” he answers dryly, “that you seek to persuade me to accept this office.”
A devilish grin. “How so? We serve the same side in this. If victory for Law is to come, we must all work together, Good, Neutral and Evil. Otherwise...” He shrugs eloquently. “We serve Chaos.”
Prayzose barks out a laugh. “Perhaps, but I need not lead.”
“You are amongst the most capable servants of Law, my lord. Your place is at the forefront, representing your side of the... conversation.”
“You mean Good versus Evil.”
“Think on it. I am not the only powerful force of Evil to ride for Law. Will Forinthia unify to follow us, if Dekrasode and I speak for Law? I think not. They, at least, need you. Without your assistance, we will be seen as agents of Evil, not of unity!”
“You are persuasive, but I will not return to Cydra so long as my queen is held prisoner.”
“They will never give her up willingly. You must know that. She makes you impotent. You must foreswear her. While they have her, they have a hold on you.” A sneer ripples across his face. “Love is weakness, Prayzose.”
“That is where we differ. Love is strength. I will never foreswear her.” Prayzose leans forward. “Unless there is anything else-?”
“Pah! Very well then. If you will not cast her aside, I will help you retrieve her.”
Prayzose gives another laugh, this one bitter and angry. “I have not been able to find her with all my resources in nearly a decade,” he rumbles. “How will you do so?”
A dangerous smile. “Oh, I have a way. If she is freed, will you ride with us? As one of the Seven Arrows of Law?”
“I will never make you a promise, devil. But I wish victory for Law.”
“That,” the other smiles, “is promise enough. Tell me, what do you know about simulacra?”
***
Clustered around a tall obelisk of strange black stone, five cultists chant dissonant, overlapping chants. It sounds like the babbling of a madhouse. Before the obelisk is a strange object, egg-shaped but made of stone. It has odd wart-like extrusions of white material all over its surface, and they are starting to drool a thin clear fluid.
The chanting slowly dies down. The cultists shuffle forward one by one to touch the obelisk. One of them gives a strangled cry as his tongue shrivels up. Another begins to glow.
As each touches the obelisk, the eggs swells very slightly, almost unnoticeably. And as the last one touches the obelisk the rocky exterior starts, very slightly, to crack. Yet more fluid, blue and green, is flowing from the warts. But the cultists notice none of that.
They’re too busy noticing that the obelisk itself has changed color to a deep greenish sheen.
“Hail Na’Rat,” one breathes, and suddenly the earth begins to shake. The cultists cry out in fear (save the one with a shriveled tongue) as they are thrown to the ground. A few bricks tumble from the wall, and cracks develop, running from the ground to the ceiling.
Awed, the cultists scramble to make obeisances to the obelisk, touching their foreheads to the ground again and again.
And the egg begins to warm.
***
On the Elemental Plane of Fire, a great army of elementals and fiery creatures crashes in waves against the walls of the City of Brass. Terrible weapons- even imported barrels of ice and water- fly through the air, lobbed by engines. Smoke rises everywhere. Efreet fly overhead, discharging cold-throwing items. The crash of armies fills the air.
Imix is dead.
A huge, scorpion-tailed creature flies up directly into a flight of the city’s efreet. It fires flaming bolts from its tail, screams and rakes one of the efreeti. They become locked in a death spiral fall to the ground. More of the fire manticores rip through the air, flaming spikes preceding them, and then a volley of catapult shot sprays across them. Several fall, but more race in towards the city.
A troop of devil mercenaries teleports to the front. Blood sprays as azer shock troops meat hardened diabolical resistance. A great siege tower of black basalt rumbles slowly towards the City of Brass.
The Prince of Elemental Evil Fire is dead. The crown of the Archomental will fall to whoever is strong enough to take it.
***
Beauty truly is in the eye of the beholder. It must be, for the King of Bile thought the Queen beautiful. Not his Queen, not yet; not until the ceremony. But she was a Queen, nonetheless... the Queen of Guts.
To a human eye, she was anything but beautiful. Who could look upon her fearsome aspect, her terrible twitching intestines, without feeling the urge to sick up? Who could see the ravaged look of her body without shivering? No human, even the most depraved, could look upon her and feel desire.
But the King of Bile- ah, to him, she was sublime. The astringent odor that clung to her was enticing, like an old dead thing, powdered and snorted. He wanted to wrap himself in her ropy strands and squeeze her fluids all over himself. Ah, love. Even amongst the most bizarre and wicked, there could be love- of a sort.
Of course, he had much unfinished business. Immediately after the honeymoon, he would have to finish a few mountain-related projects. Without the Crux Crystal, his experiments were set back thousands of years! But all that had been done before, could be done over much more quickly.
But the wedding must be first.
***
In the city of Var on the continent of Dorhaus, there is a nice, fairly upper-class tavern called the Three Rubies. Near the bar is a table that has, by habit, come to be claimed by a group of very wealthy, very powerful adventurers. Sometimes the King himself even travels with them!
They seem to be in quite a good mood today. Though it seems as though one of them is wearing an eye patch that’s new. Still, they’ve bought the entire house several rounds and are full of triumph and bluster.
Little do they know that they’re about to get their first hint of war.
You can probably stay out of it, but realistically, the more 'out of it' you want to stay, the farther from the center of things you'll have to run. 
