Sepulchrave II
Legend
OK, I'm on a Roll Now...
No, indeed. One of the reasons that I was reluctant to begin posting again, was because things were happening in-game much faster than I could post them on the boards. All of the events recounted so far were in the first three or four sessions. I was making notes, intending at some stage to compile them, but never seemed to have time.
This next post - a fairly crucial one in terms of the direction that the party decided to take - relates to two sessions early in the new year. The story arc wasn't completed until half way through March. At the END of this post, I guess that things are about one quarter resolved...
Soooo...
Before returning to the court of the Duchess, at Trempa, the group decided to pay a brief visit to Eadric’s own fief.
Deorham – which consisted of around ten thousand acres of prime arable land centered on the village of the same name – was some thirty miles from the Ducal seat, and abutted the main highway from Trempa to Morne. Like most of eastern Wyre, Deorham was characterized by rolling green hills and pastures, copses of oak, elm and beech trees, and numerous small, sandy streams. When Nwm was present – which was frequently - the Druid generally ensured that the weather was fine, and that it only rained at night. Hence, much to the envy of his aristocratic neighbours, Eadric grew vines that bore huge grapes, and had produced several notable vintages.
A mile from the village of Deorham, perched upon an outcrop of granite, was the castle known as Kyrtill’s Burgh. It was an odd, ramshackle collection of buildings half covered with ivy and surrounded by a decrepit stone curtain wall which Eadric – spending much of his time adventuring – had never quite gotten around to repairing. Kyrtill’s Burgh boasted a single tower (known simply as "The Steeple") which rose from the precipitous northern flank of the hill. It teetered improbably above the cliff, but had successfully withstood assault from both the weather and – only several years previously – a large gang of irate Hill Giants.
It was late evening by the time that Eadric, Mostin, Ortwin and Nwm arrived at the castle, ate a relaxed meal, and retired to the roof of the Steeple to discuss their next move. Once, two ballistae had been mounted there, but Nwm had long since shaped them with his magic into a gazebo, pointing out that whatever enemies Eadric made at this stage of his career, they were unlikely to be cowed by a pair of large crossbows.
The conversation rapidly became very intense.
Mostin had had an idea.
"Have you ever heard of Goetic magic?" The alienist asked. He was greeted by blank stares from Eadric and Nwm. Ortwin raised an eyebrow as an obscure memory rose to the surface of his mind, but said nothing.
"Okay," Mostin went on. "Say, hypothetically, I killed a horde of ghouls by throwing a ‘Fireball’ at them, would you say that that is a good act?"
"I already don’t like where this is going," Eadric replied.
"Well," said Mostin, irritably, "would you or not?"
"I suppose so," Eadric sighed.
"Say, then, Nwm killed the same horde of Ghouls by using a ‘Sunbeam’ – would you say that is a BETTER act?"
"That much is certain," Eadric said. Ortwin snidely pointed out that Oronthon was a solar deity.
"How about," said Mostin, "if I used the spell ‘Destruction’ to achieve the same end – not that I have a Necromantic repertoire, mind you – but just suppose that I did."
"If this is designed to be a test to determine whether I support the principle of the end justifying the means, you’re wasting you’re time," Eadric said rather stuffily.
"But you do admit that a spectrum of grey exists between ‘good’ and ‘bad’ acts," Mostin continued.
"Of course," snapped Eadric, "I’m not that naive."
"You’re wasting your time, Mostin," said Nwm, "we’ve covered this ground a thousand times before. Just give up now and accept the pompous ass for who he is."
Mostin was undeterred. "Do you concede that the MOTIVATION behind the act is an important factor in determining whether its good or bad?"
"ONE factor, yes," Eadric agreed.
"But the difference now," Mostin said, slyly, "is that you are on your own – as you yourself said. You do not have the church to fall back on. They’ve washed their hands of you. They’ve said ‘Er, we don’t know what to do. We don’t HAVE any rules for this. Bye-bye!’"
"It’s not quite that simple," Eadric said, patiently, "but I don’t expect you to understand."
"But the fact remains," Mostin pushed further, "that it is you who have to make the judgement call now. You cannot go to Cynric and ask ‘can I do this?’ or ‘should I do that?’ You are now your own moral and ethical centre."
"Temporarily, at least," the Paladin conceded, "but I also have centuries of writings by the Church’s theologians to fall back upon. The doctrines that I adhere to do not exist in a vacuum, but are the product of many years of considered thought and prayer by holy men. I can turn to the scriptures to find my inspiration."
Ortwin laughed. "There is always dogma, Mostin. Don’t underestimate it. You should see his library here. Hundreds of volumes written by the most tedious and exasperating philosophers, mystics and venerable grandees you have ever seen."
"I should very much like that," Mostin said unexpectedly, "perhaps we could go now, and find what your Church has to say about Goetic magic."
The library, which consisted mainly of religious discourses, occupied around half of the second floor in the main bailey. Numerous scrolls, papers and dusty tomes cluttered the shelves or lay piled upon tables and desks. The place smelled damp and musty. Like the rest of Kyrtill’s Burgh, it was rather neglected. Mostin tutted condescendingly and, five minutes later, although the clutter and confusion remained, the alienist had cleaned the room thoroughly by means of a cantrip or two and gathered all of the dust into a neat pile in one corner.
After around an hour of searching through the more general theological works in the library, Nwm eventually found a reference to a treatise called "The Ethical Use of Arcane Magic: an Oronthonian’s Guide," written two hundred years previously by a deacon called Rhodin of Iua. Rhodin had been an obscure functionary during the time of the Archbishop Brord, and had displayed some talent as a wizard before his conversion.
Eadric was unsure as to whether he possessed the volume, but a surprisingly brief search produced it. Opening its cracked, leatherbound pages, Mostin seemed delighted to find that it contained a whole chapter on Goetic magic – although the tenor of Rhodin’s opinions left him rather disappointed.
"Beware the temptations of Goetia," it began, "for those who would use diabolism to achieve their foul ends, our Lord has no mercy. Pain and suffering immeasurable shall be their lot, as their souls are condemned to the pit. There they will immersed in great lakes of boiling lead, until the last days."
Rhodin’s discourse continued in a similar flowery and rhetorical vein for several pages, admonishing the true Oronthonian against using dark magics and citing numerous (more reputable) theologians to back up his point. Further into the chapter, beneath a stylized plate of a wizard fleeing from a horned demon, Rhodin finally addressed the nature of Goetic magic.
"What is Goetia, you may ask? It is the greatest peril. It is dealing with fiends to achieve your ends, and claiming that your ends are good. Only the purest and most stalwart of souls may endure such vileness without the taint falling upon them. Are you one of these? I doubt it."
Several magical diagrams followed, accompanied by descriptions of summoning rituals.
"So what exactly is your point, Mostin?" Eadric asked apprehensively.
"Consider," replied Mostin, "that we have a succubus – a demoness – confined within a thaumaturgical diagram, dimensionally anchored, and locked in a tower fifty miles from here. Consider also that our ends are ostensibly good. Would you not say that we are ALREADY practicing Goetic magic?"
"Hmm," grunted Eadric.
"He’s got a good point," Ortwin agreed, "although I’m not sure what he’s getting at, either."
"So you’re saying I’m going to boil in a lake of lead when my final Judgement is passed?" Eadric asked.
"Not at all," Mostin replied. "Read the words: ‘…for those who would use diabolism to achieve their foul ends…’ I would argue that our ends are not foul, and therefore the stipulation does not apply to us. Not that I’d give this crank much credence, anyway."
Eadric banged his head with his fist. "Then why are we even reading this if you think that this Rhodin is a crank," he shouted.
"Because he is one of yours. An Oronthon worshipper. His opinions should matter to YOU, if not to me."
Ortwin laughed loudly. "He’s got you there. Besides, if you’re ‘stalwart’ and ‘pure’ then it’s no problem. And, of all the people I know, you possess these two regrettable qualities in the largest measure."
"Why thank-you, Ortwin," Eadric said, drily, "that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me." He paused. "So what exactly IS your point, Mostin?"
The Alienist drew himself up dramatically to deliver his big idea. "As we are now fellow Goetians – those who deal with fiends to achieve honouable ends – my recommendation is simple. We summon Rurunoth, trap him in a pentacle, and force him to spill the beans."
Eadric groaned. "You really are nuts, aren’t you?"
"Quite," said Mostin, "but that’s not the issue here. Think about it: you have no support from your Church, and have no way of determining what the official line would be in this matter."
"I know that they wouldn’t be too keen on THIS idea," Eadric pointed out.
"Maybe," said Mostin, "but here are the facts. One: we have a succubus, who may genuinely seek redemption, to consider. Two: her master (or former master) is Graz’zt, one of the most feared of the Abyssal princes, and one whose designs you have slighted in the past. Three: the Balor Rurunoth is somehow involved in this plot, and acted as the go-between, conveying Graz’zt’s orders to Despina, and maybe playing the role of enforcer. I believe we can coerce him to reveal the larger machinations behind the current situation - I would guess that he is close in his Master’s counsels." Mostin paused for a while before he continued.
"Four: Rurunoth is a powerful foe in his own right. He is responsible for causing blood to erupt from the font in the Duchess’s chapel, trees to wilt and people to fall ill. He deserves to be taught a lesson. And to entrap or foil him WOULD be a good act, and would give a few thousand damned souls a brief respite from their allotment of eternal pain and suffering. Five: it is within my power to accomplish this act with the minimum of risk – after all, I am one of the most renowned spellcasters of the northern world, and dealing with extraplanar creatures is my particular speciality. And, lastly, and most importantly, Six: if something DOES go wrong, we can take him."
"You think so?" Nwm asked, dubiously, "demons are tricky. Big fiery demons are very tricky. I’m not so sure."
"I certainly don’t like it," Eadric said. "I’m no authority in these matters, but it doesn’t strike me as the best course of action."
"I think it’s a great idea," said Ortwin, "when can we start?"
"No time like the present," replied Mostin.
"NOT IN MY HOUSE!" Eadric had demanded, so Mostin had erected his portable manse – a charming, rustic villa - in a small glade in the woods, several furlongs from the castle walls. The Paladin’s eventual agreement to the summoning was due in large part to the fact that, whether Eadric was present or not, Mostin and Ortwin had determined to go through with it. Somehow, Mostin had touched Ortwin’s biggest weakness – a sense of absurd braggadocio – and the Bard was instantly swayed by the potential kudos that such an act might bestow upon him. Eadric already had visions of Ortwin, drunk and leaning on a bar, recounting his exploits to an enrapt audience.
While Mostin spent three hours inscribing a magical diagram in minute detail upon the floor of his cellar, Eadric prayed fervently to Oronthon for guidance, and Nwm meditated beneath a nearby birch tree. Ortwin decided to drink a glass of firewine, and then had a brief nap in one of Mostin’s six comfortable bedrooms.
It was past midnight before the diagram was complete. Mostin explained the procedure. Ortwin noticed the deranged look in the Alienist’s eyes as he spoke, and felt somewhat uncomfortable. Oh hell, he thought, its too late to back out now.
"First," intoned Mostin, "we’ll need to invoke LOTS of spells upon ourselves – just as a precaution, of course – before I begin the summoning proper. So what do we have in our respective armamentaria?"
"Three ‘Barkskins,’ a ‘Death Ward’ and a ‘Protection from Elements,’" said Nwm. "I’ve got no offensive spells that would even touch a Balor – if I’d known we were going to be doing anything like this, I’d have spared the Windwalking, gone with your Portable Hole suggestion, and prepped a couple of ‘Sunbeams.’"
Mostin sighed. "How about you, Eadric?"
"Er. ‘Bless,’ ‘Prayer,’ ‘Shield Other,’ ‘Magic Circle Against Evil’ and ‘Holy Sword’"
"Excellent," said Mostin, "I trust that, as I requested, you brought another bastard sword from your armoury?"
"Yes," replied Eadric, "although…"
"Good," interrupted Mostin, "you see, I need your own sword – Lukarn – for the ritual. It will be the first and most effective line of defense if things go awry"
"This is getting worse by the minute," said Eadric.
"Ortwin?" Mostin inquired.
"Oh, you know," said the Bard. "This and that."
Mostin stared hard.
"’Cat’s Grace?’" Ortwin offered.
"I suppose every little helps," said Mostin, condescendingly.
"Just get your ego under control," complained Nwm, "you’re wearing me out."
Mostin ignored the jibe.
Buffed as well as time and circumstances would allow, the alienist began incanting. Mostin placed Lukarn, a vial of holy water and a small solar disc upon the ground next to him and gestured.
A ray of green light shot from his outstretched palm and infused the silver tracery upon the ground with an eerie glow. The trap was anchored. The alienist began to chant.
Time dilated for those present, as Mostin’s form seemed to pulse with arcane power. Here was the certainty that the Archbishop had warned Eadric about, and Eadric mused in a half dream state what "Metagnostic" meant. Was it "Meta-Gnostic," or "Met-Agnostic?" Did such distinctions matter, the Paladin wondered as the pressure in his psyche grew. Mostin probably didn’t care.
The Alienist moved his arm and spoke a series of loud syllables. Candles sputtered, and rising from nowhere, an arcane wind seemed to tear at the very souls of those present.
Nwm nodded, and Eadric invoked a prayer. A circle of hope blossomed around him, emanating from an old and unremarkable sword.
Mostin the Metagnostic spoke a single word which echoed across the worlds. It was a command which penetrated the deepest reaches of an alien realm, a place where no sanity had ever existed.
"RURUNOTH!"
In the Abyss, something stirred.
No, indeed. One of the reasons that I was reluctant to begin posting again, was because things were happening in-game much faster than I could post them on the boards. All of the events recounted so far were in the first three or four sessions. I was making notes, intending at some stage to compile them, but never seemed to have time.
This next post - a fairly crucial one in terms of the direction that the party decided to take - relates to two sessions early in the new year. The story arc wasn't completed until half way through March. At the END of this post, I guess that things are about one quarter resolved...
Soooo...
Before returning to the court of the Duchess, at Trempa, the group decided to pay a brief visit to Eadric’s own fief.
Deorham – which consisted of around ten thousand acres of prime arable land centered on the village of the same name – was some thirty miles from the Ducal seat, and abutted the main highway from Trempa to Morne. Like most of eastern Wyre, Deorham was characterized by rolling green hills and pastures, copses of oak, elm and beech trees, and numerous small, sandy streams. When Nwm was present – which was frequently - the Druid generally ensured that the weather was fine, and that it only rained at night. Hence, much to the envy of his aristocratic neighbours, Eadric grew vines that bore huge grapes, and had produced several notable vintages.
A mile from the village of Deorham, perched upon an outcrop of granite, was the castle known as Kyrtill’s Burgh. It was an odd, ramshackle collection of buildings half covered with ivy and surrounded by a decrepit stone curtain wall which Eadric – spending much of his time adventuring – had never quite gotten around to repairing. Kyrtill’s Burgh boasted a single tower (known simply as "The Steeple") which rose from the precipitous northern flank of the hill. It teetered improbably above the cliff, but had successfully withstood assault from both the weather and – only several years previously – a large gang of irate Hill Giants.
It was late evening by the time that Eadric, Mostin, Ortwin and Nwm arrived at the castle, ate a relaxed meal, and retired to the roof of the Steeple to discuss their next move. Once, two ballistae had been mounted there, but Nwm had long since shaped them with his magic into a gazebo, pointing out that whatever enemies Eadric made at this stage of his career, they were unlikely to be cowed by a pair of large crossbows.
The conversation rapidly became very intense.
Mostin had had an idea.
"Have you ever heard of Goetic magic?" The alienist asked. He was greeted by blank stares from Eadric and Nwm. Ortwin raised an eyebrow as an obscure memory rose to the surface of his mind, but said nothing.
"Okay," Mostin went on. "Say, hypothetically, I killed a horde of ghouls by throwing a ‘Fireball’ at them, would you say that that is a good act?"
"I already don’t like where this is going," Eadric replied.
"Well," said Mostin, irritably, "would you or not?"
"I suppose so," Eadric sighed.
"Say, then, Nwm killed the same horde of Ghouls by using a ‘Sunbeam’ – would you say that is a BETTER act?"
"That much is certain," Eadric said. Ortwin snidely pointed out that Oronthon was a solar deity.
"How about," said Mostin, "if I used the spell ‘Destruction’ to achieve the same end – not that I have a Necromantic repertoire, mind you – but just suppose that I did."
"If this is designed to be a test to determine whether I support the principle of the end justifying the means, you’re wasting you’re time," Eadric said rather stuffily.
"But you do admit that a spectrum of grey exists between ‘good’ and ‘bad’ acts," Mostin continued.
"Of course," snapped Eadric, "I’m not that naive."
"You’re wasting your time, Mostin," said Nwm, "we’ve covered this ground a thousand times before. Just give up now and accept the pompous ass for who he is."
Mostin was undeterred. "Do you concede that the MOTIVATION behind the act is an important factor in determining whether its good or bad?"
"ONE factor, yes," Eadric agreed.
"But the difference now," Mostin said, slyly, "is that you are on your own – as you yourself said. You do not have the church to fall back on. They’ve washed their hands of you. They’ve said ‘Er, we don’t know what to do. We don’t HAVE any rules for this. Bye-bye!’"
"It’s not quite that simple," Eadric said, patiently, "but I don’t expect you to understand."
"But the fact remains," Mostin pushed further, "that it is you who have to make the judgement call now. You cannot go to Cynric and ask ‘can I do this?’ or ‘should I do that?’ You are now your own moral and ethical centre."
"Temporarily, at least," the Paladin conceded, "but I also have centuries of writings by the Church’s theologians to fall back upon. The doctrines that I adhere to do not exist in a vacuum, but are the product of many years of considered thought and prayer by holy men. I can turn to the scriptures to find my inspiration."
Ortwin laughed. "There is always dogma, Mostin. Don’t underestimate it. You should see his library here. Hundreds of volumes written by the most tedious and exasperating philosophers, mystics and venerable grandees you have ever seen."
"I should very much like that," Mostin said unexpectedly, "perhaps we could go now, and find what your Church has to say about Goetic magic."
The library, which consisted mainly of religious discourses, occupied around half of the second floor in the main bailey. Numerous scrolls, papers and dusty tomes cluttered the shelves or lay piled upon tables and desks. The place smelled damp and musty. Like the rest of Kyrtill’s Burgh, it was rather neglected. Mostin tutted condescendingly and, five minutes later, although the clutter and confusion remained, the alienist had cleaned the room thoroughly by means of a cantrip or two and gathered all of the dust into a neat pile in one corner.
After around an hour of searching through the more general theological works in the library, Nwm eventually found a reference to a treatise called "The Ethical Use of Arcane Magic: an Oronthonian’s Guide," written two hundred years previously by a deacon called Rhodin of Iua. Rhodin had been an obscure functionary during the time of the Archbishop Brord, and had displayed some talent as a wizard before his conversion.
Eadric was unsure as to whether he possessed the volume, but a surprisingly brief search produced it. Opening its cracked, leatherbound pages, Mostin seemed delighted to find that it contained a whole chapter on Goetic magic – although the tenor of Rhodin’s opinions left him rather disappointed.
"Beware the temptations of Goetia," it began, "for those who would use diabolism to achieve their foul ends, our Lord has no mercy. Pain and suffering immeasurable shall be their lot, as their souls are condemned to the pit. There they will immersed in great lakes of boiling lead, until the last days."
Rhodin’s discourse continued in a similar flowery and rhetorical vein for several pages, admonishing the true Oronthonian against using dark magics and citing numerous (more reputable) theologians to back up his point. Further into the chapter, beneath a stylized plate of a wizard fleeing from a horned demon, Rhodin finally addressed the nature of Goetic magic.
"What is Goetia, you may ask? It is the greatest peril. It is dealing with fiends to achieve your ends, and claiming that your ends are good. Only the purest and most stalwart of souls may endure such vileness without the taint falling upon them. Are you one of these? I doubt it."
Several magical diagrams followed, accompanied by descriptions of summoning rituals.
"So what exactly is your point, Mostin?" Eadric asked apprehensively.
"Consider," replied Mostin, "that we have a succubus – a demoness – confined within a thaumaturgical diagram, dimensionally anchored, and locked in a tower fifty miles from here. Consider also that our ends are ostensibly good. Would you not say that we are ALREADY practicing Goetic magic?"
"Hmm," grunted Eadric.
"He’s got a good point," Ortwin agreed, "although I’m not sure what he’s getting at, either."
"So you’re saying I’m going to boil in a lake of lead when my final Judgement is passed?" Eadric asked.
"Not at all," Mostin replied. "Read the words: ‘…for those who would use diabolism to achieve their foul ends…’ I would argue that our ends are not foul, and therefore the stipulation does not apply to us. Not that I’d give this crank much credence, anyway."
Eadric banged his head with his fist. "Then why are we even reading this if you think that this Rhodin is a crank," he shouted.
"Because he is one of yours. An Oronthon worshipper. His opinions should matter to YOU, if not to me."
Ortwin laughed loudly. "He’s got you there. Besides, if you’re ‘stalwart’ and ‘pure’ then it’s no problem. And, of all the people I know, you possess these two regrettable qualities in the largest measure."
"Why thank-you, Ortwin," Eadric said, drily, "that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me." He paused. "So what exactly IS your point, Mostin?"
The Alienist drew himself up dramatically to deliver his big idea. "As we are now fellow Goetians – those who deal with fiends to achieve honouable ends – my recommendation is simple. We summon Rurunoth, trap him in a pentacle, and force him to spill the beans."
Eadric groaned. "You really are nuts, aren’t you?"
"Quite," said Mostin, "but that’s not the issue here. Think about it: you have no support from your Church, and have no way of determining what the official line would be in this matter."
"I know that they wouldn’t be too keen on THIS idea," Eadric pointed out.
"Maybe," said Mostin, "but here are the facts. One: we have a succubus, who may genuinely seek redemption, to consider. Two: her master (or former master) is Graz’zt, one of the most feared of the Abyssal princes, and one whose designs you have slighted in the past. Three: the Balor Rurunoth is somehow involved in this plot, and acted as the go-between, conveying Graz’zt’s orders to Despina, and maybe playing the role of enforcer. I believe we can coerce him to reveal the larger machinations behind the current situation - I would guess that he is close in his Master’s counsels." Mostin paused for a while before he continued.
"Four: Rurunoth is a powerful foe in his own right. He is responsible for causing blood to erupt from the font in the Duchess’s chapel, trees to wilt and people to fall ill. He deserves to be taught a lesson. And to entrap or foil him WOULD be a good act, and would give a few thousand damned souls a brief respite from their allotment of eternal pain and suffering. Five: it is within my power to accomplish this act with the minimum of risk – after all, I am one of the most renowned spellcasters of the northern world, and dealing with extraplanar creatures is my particular speciality. And, lastly, and most importantly, Six: if something DOES go wrong, we can take him."
"You think so?" Nwm asked, dubiously, "demons are tricky. Big fiery demons are very tricky. I’m not so sure."
"I certainly don’t like it," Eadric said. "I’m no authority in these matters, but it doesn’t strike me as the best course of action."
"I think it’s a great idea," said Ortwin, "when can we start?"
"No time like the present," replied Mostin.
"NOT IN MY HOUSE!" Eadric had demanded, so Mostin had erected his portable manse – a charming, rustic villa - in a small glade in the woods, several furlongs from the castle walls. The Paladin’s eventual agreement to the summoning was due in large part to the fact that, whether Eadric was present or not, Mostin and Ortwin had determined to go through with it. Somehow, Mostin had touched Ortwin’s biggest weakness – a sense of absurd braggadocio – and the Bard was instantly swayed by the potential kudos that such an act might bestow upon him. Eadric already had visions of Ortwin, drunk and leaning on a bar, recounting his exploits to an enrapt audience.
While Mostin spent three hours inscribing a magical diagram in minute detail upon the floor of his cellar, Eadric prayed fervently to Oronthon for guidance, and Nwm meditated beneath a nearby birch tree. Ortwin decided to drink a glass of firewine, and then had a brief nap in one of Mostin’s six comfortable bedrooms.
It was past midnight before the diagram was complete. Mostin explained the procedure. Ortwin noticed the deranged look in the Alienist’s eyes as he spoke, and felt somewhat uncomfortable. Oh hell, he thought, its too late to back out now.
"First," intoned Mostin, "we’ll need to invoke LOTS of spells upon ourselves – just as a precaution, of course – before I begin the summoning proper. So what do we have in our respective armamentaria?"
"Three ‘Barkskins,’ a ‘Death Ward’ and a ‘Protection from Elements,’" said Nwm. "I’ve got no offensive spells that would even touch a Balor – if I’d known we were going to be doing anything like this, I’d have spared the Windwalking, gone with your Portable Hole suggestion, and prepped a couple of ‘Sunbeams.’"
Mostin sighed. "How about you, Eadric?"
"Er. ‘Bless,’ ‘Prayer,’ ‘Shield Other,’ ‘Magic Circle Against Evil’ and ‘Holy Sword’"
"Excellent," said Mostin, "I trust that, as I requested, you brought another bastard sword from your armoury?"
"Yes," replied Eadric, "although…"
"Good," interrupted Mostin, "you see, I need your own sword – Lukarn – for the ritual. It will be the first and most effective line of defense if things go awry"
"This is getting worse by the minute," said Eadric.
"Ortwin?" Mostin inquired.
"Oh, you know," said the Bard. "This and that."
Mostin stared hard.
"’Cat’s Grace?’" Ortwin offered.
"I suppose every little helps," said Mostin, condescendingly.
"Just get your ego under control," complained Nwm, "you’re wearing me out."
Mostin ignored the jibe.
Buffed as well as time and circumstances would allow, the alienist began incanting. Mostin placed Lukarn, a vial of holy water and a small solar disc upon the ground next to him and gestured.
A ray of green light shot from his outstretched palm and infused the silver tracery upon the ground with an eerie glow. The trap was anchored. The alienist began to chant.
Time dilated for those present, as Mostin’s form seemed to pulse with arcane power. Here was the certainty that the Archbishop had warned Eadric about, and Eadric mused in a half dream state what "Metagnostic" meant. Was it "Meta-Gnostic," or "Met-Agnostic?" Did such distinctions matter, the Paladin wondered as the pressure in his psyche grew. Mostin probably didn’t care.
The Alienist moved his arm and spoke a series of loud syllables. Candles sputtered, and rising from nowhere, an arcane wind seemed to tear at the very souls of those present.
Nwm nodded, and Eadric invoked a prayer. A circle of hope blossomed around him, emanating from an old and unremarkable sword.
Mostin the Metagnostic spoke a single word which echoed across the worlds. It was a command which penetrated the deepest reaches of an alien realm, a place where no sanity had ever existed.
"RURUNOTH!"
In the Abyss, something stirred.
Last edited:
