Deicide: DnD 3.5 Epic - The Slaying of Cyric

[Voda Vosa]

The woman leans forward, resting her chin against her palm. Outside, noise can be heard, as well as the constant thunder above in the heavens, the final tremors of a Goddess's slain form.

"I don't know you but to even find this place, you must be someone. There is no order, no plan - just chaos. And mourning. - her voice is tense, her eyes distant and watery. The Simbul's tone changes from angry to melancholic, and her gorgeous features seem burdened with emotion. - You are not from the East or the South. Obviously not an Elf. And i know you are not a Red Wizard, I have slain so many of them they would sooner eat cow dung while it's still hot than come up to me directly!"

She gets excited once more and stands up - the woman is tall and slender. And that hair - a perfect mess, silver silk and white cotton, mixed together in a torrent. "So who in the nine flaming hells are you and why should I listen to you or need your help? You speak of a patron - are you a Cleric?"

"You'd do well in requesting my aid, if it is chaos that you seek to control and shake. My name is Molak. Aaaaaand. I'm no cleric of course! Or else, where would be my platemail? ah? ah? Get it? Cuz I don't..."
the man says, smiling. "Anyway, I happen to know eeeeeveryone here's wanting Cyric more dead than Mystra, and I thought hey! I could give those nice pretty people a hand now could I? So here I am!" Molak rises his hand like a first grade, wanting to be picked for a ball game

 

[Myth and Legend]

The Simbul makes a face, her nose wrinkling as if she had smelled something foul. She stands and walks across the room, staring right at Molak's eyes. She is tall, as tall as most human men, and energetic. Also apparently voluptuous, as she almost spills out of her scarce robe. "You want to help? There is something amiss about you Molak. I can sense it! But it is not the power to slay a God. You... - she sniffs the air as if she were a dog. - You are somehow tainted aren't you? - she pauses and narrows her eyes. - Why did you choose this part of the alliance? I know of my own reputation, If I were you I would not seek audience with the Witch Queen of Aglarond, haha!" The woman laughs with a feverish laugh, that echoes hollow in the tent.

***
​

The Elf who spoke is black haired and pale, a Moon Elf to the very tip of his ears. He clenches his jaw and raises his index finger slowly. "Silence N-Tel-Quess!"

[sblock=Elven]Knowledge: Local DC0 but if you know Elven only.

N-Tel-Quess is the Elven expression for every other race on Faerun. It literally means "not people" as opposed to Tel-quessir which means "The People", encompassing every breed of Elves.[/sblock]

The Elves look at each other for a few moments, and one could only guess they are communicating telepathically. Magical auras do surround them, purple and green, and some white as well. But that is nothing uncommon amongst those adept in the Art, they are a multitude amongst the Elvenkind.

"Are you with the Emerald Enclave? They have a representative in our camp. Do not lie to me N-Tel-Quess for you are tresspassing and I have no tolerance for human mischef."

His voice is calm, his face - pale and tranquil, yet the Elf seems to hum with magical power. In the back several more of his kind can be seen approaching, and wings can be heard flapping above in the darkness of the jade clouds."

[sblock]As a Druid he should know at least who the Enclave are (read here). Anything more then the common agenda requires a Knowledge check.[/sblock]

 

[Voda Vosa]

"You know I like chaos and that, besides you look like a fun lot! But well" he shrugs. "I guess I'll offer my help to Elminster." He snaps his fingers in front of his face and moves out of the tent.

 

[Shayuri]

The old man was silent for a moment. He'd been having a very rough time of things lately, and perhaps he could be forgiven for imagining, even for a moment, calling the deep fires of the earth up upon that elf's condescending face...or summoning one of Chauntea's children out of the hillside and sending it stomping over them.

He chuckled.

Ahh, pride, you old devil. There you are again. Not just yet, I'm afraid.

"It's a surprise to hear the Enclave's involved in this," he informed the elf. "This is exactly the kind of thing their little 'manifesto' complains about. But yes, if they have a representative here, then I'd best speak with him. May these old bones pass unmolested?"

 

[Myth and Legend]

The woman claps her hands and growls at Molak:

"You don't simply waste my time and leave! - she pauses and bursts out in laughter. - You were supposed to ask with more passion. I should have tested you. Or sent you on a quest! HAHAH! - she suddenly sits on the edge of her desk, her smooth skinned left hip being revealed by the short skirted robe. The Simbul's face seems suddenly sad, emotions mixing too quickly in her to leave a lasting impression. - Mystra is dead, and I have no time. If you are sincere I will give you my support. I know Elminster has someone else in mind but talking to him will be nigh on impossible right now. Unless you can lay Mythals and are unaffected by age."

She pauses and reveals a small orb, brimming with magic. It is blue in colour and the size of a quail egg. Molak suddenly feels compelled to utter only the truth. "Nice little trinket. So now, If you want to join this endeavor you have to prove yourself. But not to anyone - to me! Go to the Red Wizards, learn what they are planning. Tell me what their position is. What do you think Molak?"

[sblock]The artifact makes it impossible for anyone to lie within 30 feet as an emanation. There is no save offered[/sblock]

***
​

The Elf nods and signals the others to stand down. He urges Grandfather along and soon they enter the well light camp. The tents are emerald green and light orange, leaves and vines woven in with golden strings in typical Elven fashion. There is a lot of activity about, possibly because the Elves do not need to sleep as humans do. Soon the Druid is brought to a large tent and after a few minutes of waiting he is urged to enter.

Inside he finds two women, one human with a golden flowing mane and watery blue eyes, dressed in a comfortable traveler's grab of earthly colors and wearing a pedant bearing the crest of the Emerald Enclave. She seems vibrant and alive, healthy and very serene, but with a spark in her The woman is sitting cross legged on the floor, which is covered by a lavish rug depicting an Even city hidden in an ancient forest.

Next to her, on a pile of small silk pillows, purple and red in colour, sits a frail looking Elven woman. She is pale but glowing with arcane energy, and her long shining black hair spills on the cushions behind her. She is dressed in an exquisite silk garment the colour of autumn leaves, and wears fine rings and a beautiful silver necklace. Next to her lies a greatsword of almost inappropriate size compared to the frail Elf, with leaves and vines carved into its surface and with knotwork on the hilt.

The air inside the tent smells of fresh field flowers and burning incense and both occupants are sipping a hot beverage from delicate porcelain cups.

"... and so it would be most dangerous should one wander off to the wrong stream..." - the golden haired human stops abruptly and stares at Grandfather. The Elven woman raises her eyes, a serene and comforting aura of peace around her.

The Elvish guard bows deeply and introduces Grandfather in Elven.

[sblock=Elven]"My Qeen, I am sorry to interrupt your meeting, I was expecting the lady Deepcrest to be alone. This man wandered into camp and has asked to speak to your guest as one nature-priest to another."[/sblock]

The woman nods and lays her cup on a small table on the side, smiling faintly and urging Grandfather onward with her delicate hand. "Please join us, and excuse my people's wariness. In these troubled times one has to be twice as vigilant, least we be caught unaware by the future. I am Amlaruil Moonflower, Queen of Evermeet and this is Shinthala Deepcrest, member of the Elder Circle of the Emerald Enclave and chosen of Silvanus."

The Queen announces her and her companion's titles casually, as if she were discussing methods for baking pies. Shinthala moves and stares at the Elf for a moment as she speaks about her being a Chosen of the nature God Silvanus. It is not exactly a secret, but she apparently does not like to see mention of this. As the Chosen of all the Seldarine however, Amlaruil seems unimpressed or simply chooses not to notice.

[sblock]Gave you a bit of DC0 knowledge in the description. Voda you already should know that the Simbul is a Chosen of Mystra from your read

BTW this is turning out to be an all-girls party lol this was not my intention. It turns out that predominantly the high rollers in the FR are females haha.[/sblock]

 

[Voda Vosa]

"That I love to play spy!" offers the warlock. "Given my... background I think they'll trust me.". Perhaps it was not the best of the ideas to have come here in the first place. Anyway, Molak will see how this went.

 

[Shayuri]

Grandfather nods and bows his head to each of the dignitaries; a recognition of their status that stops shy of including himself among their subjects.

"Queen. Elder. It's good to see that there's some druidic overseeing of this...event, whatever it is. Since you're here, not out there battling the storms, I can see that my intuitions were correct. This is the center of something of great importance."

With a grunt, he lowers himself to sit on the tent floor, laying his staff over his lap.

"But I forget my social niceties. A danger of being an 'independent agent' for so long. I am Grandfather. In other times and places there have been other names...but that is the one that holds true."

"What are the wizards doing here? All the Green quakes under their magic."

 

[Myth and Legend]

Molak steps out of the tent. A flash of light from behind him prompts him to poke his head back inside, he sees the Simbul nowhere.

He is then greeted by the boy who looks at him with compassion. "So um, how'd it go? I mean with the Queen. I mean the talk... Hm you know what i mean!" he mumbles a bit but walks the Warlock back to the neutral ground between the four camps.

Up above, the storm rages with a dry smell of lightning and death. The blue fires engulfing the clouds shed a cold eerie light upon the world and this almost seems as a twisted copy of Toril, seen trough a broken looking glass.

[sblock]Voda what will Molak be doing now? [/sblock]

***
​

Shinthala Deepcrest narrows her eyes at the mention of Druidic overseeing but otherwise remains quite serene. The Elven Queen on her left pours a delicate porcelain cup of tea, quite surprisingly not minding doing it herself. She does the task slowly and gently, and apparently is waiting for the other to speak first.

"I am loathe to reveal the sitation here to one I do not fully charge with my trust... Grandfather. - Shinthala's voice is calm as are her sky blue eyes. - Who are..."

Qeen Amlaruil turns back, handing a cup of tea to the newcomer and smiles gently. "It is my experience that coincidences are only another tool for fate. Our Gods and Goddesses are оur Lords but there may still be a higher being arranging our lives on an invisible web of causality. As such I believe that Grandfather is here with us for a reason, and I can tell he is sincere in his desire for aid."

The female Druid regards the other woman for a moment then nods and sighs faintly. "What the arcanists are doing here is unnatural and dangerous beyond belief."

"But also necessary if we are to keep the world the way it was and is supposed to be." adds the Qeen between sips of tea.

"Indeed. It has been decided by whomever is still sane and alive that the slaying of the Goddess of Magic has proven to be a disaster of such magnitude that the fate of Toril cannot be certain. As you probably know, she has been slain twelve days ago by Cyric and Shar. Since Shar governs the Shadow Weave, an abomination on it's own but ultimately a part of our world, her death could prove just as disastrous as that of Mystra."

Shinthala pauses and runs her hand trough her golden hair, staring at Grandfather for a moment. She then continues with a calm voice: "As such the best course of action to prevent the current atrocious disaster upon Toril would be the slaying of Cyric, before he could do his black deed."

Queen Amlaruil nods and clasps her hands on her belly as she lies back in the cushions. "Yes. Assassinate the assassin, there is a certain ironic poetry to it. Cyric has been quite the upstart since his rise to Godhood. I have witnessed the falls of empires and the risings of great men, and wars and golden ages as well. But in the few short moments this former human had as a Deity, he has managed to cause the death of several other Gods, and in general be quite... unfit for his Divine status."

Shinthala Deepcrest nods and places her cup of tea on the small table. "So this unusual alliance of Faerun's most powerful mages is attempting to send a group back trough time, before the tragic events occurred, and slay Cyric to prevent Mystra's death. I have managed to convince them agianst attempting to target him prior to the Time of Trobules and his ascension, as that would most certainly produce worse results for our present. Ideally he has to be... removed, as late as possible in the time stream, least we be facing the unweaving of reality as we know it."

"But - the Druid stops and eyes the Elven Queen with a stern eye. - time travel of this magnitude has never been attempted and especially with the Blue Fire in the sky and magic being so unstable I think the risks may be far too great anyway."

 

[Shayuri]

With iron will, Grandfather restrains his initial impulse. Spewing profanities would not increase his already miniscule influence in this matter. Instead he takes a moment to reflect on what he's been told before speaking.

"The risks of time travel, I think, speak for themselves," he said. "I won't insult you both by enumerating them. I do have a couple of questions, for my own peace of mind if nothing else."

"Second. I expect the time-travel ritual will itself require the full energies of the most spellcasters here to operate, meaning they will not be able to pass through, yes? So how do you propose to defeat a god like Cyric at the height of his power, without the likes of Elminster and the Chosen?"

 

[Voda Vosa]

Whistling, Molak approaches the Red wizards camp, and walks in ignoring etiquete, looking for someone to talk to.