Zelda Themelin
First Post
I love this story. 
You have really interesting party.
Mind re-posting their stats?
You have really interesting party.
Mind re-posting their stats?
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The VOIDRUNNER'S CODEX is LIVE! Explore new worlds, fight oppressive empires, fend off fearsome aliens, and wield deadly psionics with this comprehensive boxed set expansion for 5E and A5E!
Lady Despina's Virtue - Continued
- Thread starter Sepulchrave II
- Start date
Broccli_Head
Explorer
Re: Wow
What about rangers? Don't they track down and kill things?
Darklone said:Now we got a goetic discussion here. Is summoning evil demons an evil act if you wish to kill them? I say yes, good guys aren't supposed to go hunt and kill everything
What about rangers? Don't they track down and kill things?
Pillars of Hercules
First Post
WHOA!
Sep, I have to register a complaint. You see, the drool keeps shorting out my keyboard.
This really IS better than most fantasy novels I've read. Seriously. The last scene with demons and celestials agreeing to parley - It's hard to put into words the genius behind THAT little twist.
Sep, I have to register a complaint. You see, the drool keeps shorting out my keyboard.
This really IS better than most fantasy novels I've read. Seriously. The last scene with demons and celestials agreeing to parley - It's hard to put into words the genius behind THAT little twist.
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BiggusGeekus
That's Latin for "cool"
Re: WHOA!
I'll second that emotion!
Pillars of Hercules said:
I'll second that emotion!
Sepulchrave II
Legend
A post which may seem slightly surreal in places. It should be noticed that the 'Ortwin and the Balor' exchange revolves around two critical skills: Bluff (Ortwin +24, Rurunoth +18) and Sense Motive (Rurunoth +20, Ortwin +1). Ortwin just has to hope that the old blarney will prove sufficient.
Mostin's acquisition of the 'Great Shout' spell transpires to be very useful at a later time. Sonic attacks are nasty.
I should mention in passing that Mulissu, a major NPC, is an Evoker 9 / Cleric 1 / Elemental Savant 10. She's pretty dangerous.
Finally, note that the magic item exchange is fairly typical of my campaign. I never allow such things to be purchased on the open market, and generally insist that they are either made by the characters (as time permits), or are exchanged for like items. It tends to effectively limit items in circulation.
Mulissu, as she now preferred to be called, was a witch of considerable power and resources. Her outright contempt of temporal affairs meant that, excepting a handful of powerful spellcasters, few denizens of the material world had even heard of her.
Mostin had met her in the guise of ‘Theleen’ during his peregrinations on the Elemental Plane of Air, and, mistaking her for a sylph, had unsuccessfully attempted to seduce her. The witch had casually demonstrated her magical superiority by transforming Mostin into a disembodied head, which she then placed in a glass jar. Only when the Alienist agreed to perform a task for her – to retrieve a fabulous magical gem from the Xorn King – had Mulissu agreed to his release. The quest complete, Mostin and Mulissu had parted on less than amicable terms.
Mulissu now abode in a pocket of airy matter, some thirty miles across, which drifted aimlessly through the Ethereal Plane. Here she conducted her studies in relative seclusion, seeking to uncover forgotten secrets, and to penetrate the mysteries of wind and lightning.
Mostin had determined to visit the witch in an attempt to procure a number of spells from her. That she was the possessor of the ‘Binding’ spell, the Alienist knew: his own captivity at her hands was testament to that fact. He also knew that her repertoire, although focussed on the potent triune of evocation, conjuration and transmutation, was both eclectic and extensive.
Over a hurried breakfast, during which Ortwin was mentally preparing for a day of intense duplicity, intrigue and temptation in his negotiations with the captive demon in the cellar, Mostin made an announcement.
"I will probably be leaving for a few hours," the Alienist said, abruptly.
He was greeted by a stunned silence.
"I am going to – hopefully – secure the spell that I spoke of, and perhaps others that will aid us in our endeavours. I aim to be back by noon, although such things often take longer than expected."
"Er, Mostin," said Ortwin, "I’d kind of hoped you’d be on hand to help out if things got…messy."
"There is no risk until after midnight tonight – when the sun is at the nadir, then Rurunoth may make another bid for freedom. Hopefully, you and he will have reached some kind of understanding by that time. In any case, I intend to be back long before then. We should plan on discussing how to proceed over lunch."
"Gods, Mostin," said Nwm, "You make this sound like some kind of tea party. Where are you going, anyway?"
"The Deep Ethereal," the Alienist replied, turning to leave. "And Ortwin," he added, "I know that I probably don’t need to tell you this but, under no circumstances whatever, for any reason, break the circle or trespass into it."
"Thanks for reminding me," Ortwin replied sarcastically.
In his workroom, after locking the door and magically barring it, Mostin erected a tall mirror – the fabled Looking Glass of Urm-Nahat – and stood before it, invoking its scrying magic. Mist filled the mirror for a few moments until, under the force of Mostin’s will, a scene coalesced on its surface. An island of rock, suspended in the air, upon which was built a castle with delicate minarets of pearly white, topped with domes of gold and lapis. Mostin enviously wondered where Mulissu had acquired the resources to build such an extravagant home.
The Alienist’s focus narrowed, scanning chambers separated by intricate wooden screens, courtyards with fountains and exquisite lifelike statues, and finally came to rest beneath a pomegranate tree. Here the witch Mulissu, beautiful, serene, and clad in a sky-blue dress, sat munching on fruit and writing with a huge quill into a small leatherbound volume. She looked up briefly with a look of irritation on her face, and gave a swift gesture.
The mirror went blank.
A predictable response, Mostin thought. In fact, the Alienist had been surprised that she was not already warded. He refocused his mind, and the mists began to clear again. Mostin selected a spot outside of the castle walls, on a narrow platform of rock in front of the (largely decorative) gate.
Steeling himself for what might be a difficult morning, Mostin stepped through the looking glass and vanished.
**
Ortwin, fortified by a glass or two of wine from one of Eadric’s better vintages, swallowed hard and descended the steps into the cellar alone. Silently and irreverently praying to half a dozen assorted deities for some kind of guidance, the Bard mustered as much of his legendary braggadocio as was possible, and blithely swaggered forward.
Rurunoth still had not manifested, but was cocooned within his hemispherical void. Ortwin marched up, pulled a stool from near one of the wine racks, up-ended it, and sat as close to the circle as he dared.
"Hello, Rurunoth," he said casually, "you can cut the darkness crap. We both know that things are delicately poised. Unless we can strike a deal pretty soon, I’m afraid that we’re going to have to kill you. No big deal: we’ve fried bigger fish than you before."
Mere inches from the Bard’s face, the Balor’s head appeared: a huge, fanged, maw with bestial features framed by a mane of fire. Behind, vast and hulking, wreathed in lurid purple flames, the winged body, hunched as it was, still towered over Ortwin. The Bard looked into the creature’s eyes – pools of insatiable darkness – and, for the first time, knew that he apprehended true evil.
Rurunoth’s whip, seeming to possess a life of it’s own, coiled and uncoiled within the circle, fire kindling along its length. The Balor drew its great sword along the floor, causing sparks to jump forth, before swiftly hefting it and stabbing violently at Ortwin.
The Bard reflexively startled, almost falling off of his stool. Rurunoth laughed – the most vicious sound that Ortwin had ever heard – as his sword failed to penetrate the invisible barrier which surrounded him.
"Bring another," the demon commanded in a hoarse whisper. "You are unworthy to deal with me."
The darkness returned.
Ortwin sat in silence for a moment, contemplating his next move. The great bluffer that he was, he was not adept at gauging the purpose behind others’ actions and words. He had always relied on his ability to force his point without giving his adversaries time to consider or react. The demon had seized the initiative back again. If Ortwin did not act swiftly, he knew that he would lose the battle of wills.
Just keep talking, he told himself.
"If I looked like you, Rurunoth, I daresay that I’d be inclined to swathe myself in darkness as well. I suppose your appearance is an inevitable result of being on the losing side during that embarrassing rebellion: I mean, what were you before all that nonsense broke out? A Deva? A Planetar? I’d say that you’re rather diminished in stature now, wouldn’t you? Foul-looking, bad tempered, no friends. Groveling to another master, who probably treats you a lot worse than your old one. Perhaps if you atone, like the succubus, you can find your way back up to your former heavenly abodes. You’ll get your harp back, nice new cloud to sit on. You’ll probably start off low: you know, a glowing ball of fuzzy light, but after a few eras, you might get a job as a trumpet-blower or, even better, in a celestial choir. Do you like singing, Ruru? You don’t mind if I call you ‘Ruru’ do you? Shall we sing a song together? I’ll start. If you don’t know the words, just hum along: you’ll pick up the tune in a while.
And Ortwin began to sing. Not a comic ballad or a timeless folksong, at which he excelled, and which had caused kings to laugh out loud, or to weep with melancholy. Ortwin sang an annoying, repetitive and facile drinking song, common to the least reputable establishments in his native Jiuhu.
**
Mostin, after banging on the gate for several minutes, was eventually addressed through an iron grate by an irritable mephit with a high pitched-voice and sharp, jerking movements of its numinous body.
"Begone," it commanded, shrilly. "You have no business here."
"I am Mostin the Metagnostic," the Alienist announced haughtily, "and I have travelled an immeasurable distance to discuss profound and far-reaching philosophies – far beyond your feeble comprehension – with your esteemed mistress. Kindly relay news of my arrival to her."
"She knows you’re here," the mephit chirped, "and bids you farewell."
The grate closed.
Mostin raged silently for a few moments, before mastering himself and calming down. Mulissu was magically potent and notoriously fickle, and it behooved the Alienist not to vex her. Although he possessed a dozen different ways to enter the castle, she would utter some terrible spell upon him if he did so without her permission.
"Kindly inform your mistress that I have items that may aid her in her magical research," Mostin shouted at the gate. "I wish to make exchange to our mutual benefit and satisfaction. I wish only for a few moments of her valuable time." The Alienist cursed silently as he uttered the last words.
An hour passed.
The mephit reappeared at the grate, a look of smug satisfaction upon its face. "You are fortunate," it piped to Mostin, "the Lady Mulissu is enjoying a brief rest from her arduous studies. She will receive you in the glass refectory for a period of seven minutes." At this, the mephit opened a smaller door in the large gate, and gestured for the Alienist to enter.
"Be sure to act with the utmost decorum and propriety," the creature admonished Mostin as he walked in.
Mostin smiled venomously at the door-ward.
Mulissu reclined upon a long couch, covered in the luxuriant blue fur of some unknown creature, her arm draped in a carefully considered pose of nonchalance above a large bowl of pomegranates. Above her, several mephits flew in small circles, chattering noisily as they argued amongst themselves. A large djinni, arms folded across it chest, stood behind the witch in stern appraisal of the Alienist as he approached and nearby, a distortion in the air marked the presence of an elemental. It was producing a light breeze which wafted through the refectory.
"Greetings, Mulissu," Mostin said curtly. "Is it your custom to keep guests waiting for an hour at your gate?"
"Only when it is you, Mostin," the witch replied humourlessly. "What do you want? And why were you spying on me?"
"I was not spying – had I chosen to do so I would have employed a less conspicuous means. I was merely finding an anchor for the Looking Glass of Urm-Nahat, prior to making my translation to your realm." Mostin knew that both mentioning his possession of the mirror, and describing Mulissu’s elemental bubble as a ‘realm’ were likely to make a good impression on the witch.
"Hmph," she replied. "You have five minutes left. Get to the point."
"I wish an exchange. You have an extensive collection of scrolls and devices which I would like to peruse and inspect. I feel my repertoire is in need of some revitalization. I have several unique objects which may be of interest to you, and may aid you in your research."
"I doubt it," Mulissu said, although Mostin could tell that her interest was piqued.
Negotiations continued for a further hour, and Mulissu proved a stickler for calculating the exact value of all items concerned. Mostin finally departed without several objects to which he had more than a passing attachment. His pseudonatural helper – an animated mass of arms and other appendages – he exchanged for a scroll which bore four potent spells: ‘Great Shout,’ ‘Sympathy,’ ‘Mass Manifest’ and the much sought-after ‘Symbol.’ Unexpectedly, his rapier, the Cordwainer’s Needle - due to its electrical dweomer - aroused the witch’s interest as something of a curio. Mostin agreed to part with it for less than its technical worth. In its place, the Alienist left with a scarlet and blue Ioun Stone, and a scroll containing three more spells: ‘Permanency’ (about time, thought Mostin), ‘Fiendform’ and ‘Disintegrate.’
Mulissu seemed wholly unimpressed by Mostin’s Metamorphic Apparatus. "So what?" She asked. "Why have a gadget to do that? I can use a spell more effectively. It’s worth nothing to me."
Mostin guessed correctly that the witch was bluffing.
"I will trade it for your Circlet of Blasting, and the ‘Spell Engine’ dweomer," Mostin offered.
"How absurd, certainly not," Mulissu insisted.
"In that case, our exchange is complete. I will waste no more of your valuable time." The Alienist turned to leave.
Mostin left with the circlet, the spell, and a feeling of immense satisfaction.
Mostin's acquisition of the 'Great Shout' spell transpires to be very useful at a later time. Sonic attacks are nasty.
I should mention in passing that Mulissu, a major NPC, is an Evoker 9 / Cleric 1 / Elemental Savant 10. She's pretty dangerous.
Finally, note that the magic item exchange is fairly typical of my campaign. I never allow such things to be purchased on the open market, and generally insist that they are either made by the characters (as time permits), or are exchanged for like items. It tends to effectively limit items in circulation.
Mulissu, as she now preferred to be called, was a witch of considerable power and resources. Her outright contempt of temporal affairs meant that, excepting a handful of powerful spellcasters, few denizens of the material world had even heard of her.
Mostin had met her in the guise of ‘Theleen’ during his peregrinations on the Elemental Plane of Air, and, mistaking her for a sylph, had unsuccessfully attempted to seduce her. The witch had casually demonstrated her magical superiority by transforming Mostin into a disembodied head, which she then placed in a glass jar. Only when the Alienist agreed to perform a task for her – to retrieve a fabulous magical gem from the Xorn King – had Mulissu agreed to his release. The quest complete, Mostin and Mulissu had parted on less than amicable terms.
Mulissu now abode in a pocket of airy matter, some thirty miles across, which drifted aimlessly through the Ethereal Plane. Here she conducted her studies in relative seclusion, seeking to uncover forgotten secrets, and to penetrate the mysteries of wind and lightning.
Mostin had determined to visit the witch in an attempt to procure a number of spells from her. That she was the possessor of the ‘Binding’ spell, the Alienist knew: his own captivity at her hands was testament to that fact. He also knew that her repertoire, although focussed on the potent triune of evocation, conjuration and transmutation, was both eclectic and extensive.
Over a hurried breakfast, during which Ortwin was mentally preparing for a day of intense duplicity, intrigue and temptation in his negotiations with the captive demon in the cellar, Mostin made an announcement.
"I will probably be leaving for a few hours," the Alienist said, abruptly.
He was greeted by a stunned silence.
"I am going to – hopefully – secure the spell that I spoke of, and perhaps others that will aid us in our endeavours. I aim to be back by noon, although such things often take longer than expected."
"Er, Mostin," said Ortwin, "I’d kind of hoped you’d be on hand to help out if things got…messy."
"There is no risk until after midnight tonight – when the sun is at the nadir, then Rurunoth may make another bid for freedom. Hopefully, you and he will have reached some kind of understanding by that time. In any case, I intend to be back long before then. We should plan on discussing how to proceed over lunch."
"Gods, Mostin," said Nwm, "You make this sound like some kind of tea party. Where are you going, anyway?"
"The Deep Ethereal," the Alienist replied, turning to leave. "And Ortwin," he added, "I know that I probably don’t need to tell you this but, under no circumstances whatever, for any reason, break the circle or trespass into it."
"Thanks for reminding me," Ortwin replied sarcastically.
In his workroom, after locking the door and magically barring it, Mostin erected a tall mirror – the fabled Looking Glass of Urm-Nahat – and stood before it, invoking its scrying magic. Mist filled the mirror for a few moments until, under the force of Mostin’s will, a scene coalesced on its surface. An island of rock, suspended in the air, upon which was built a castle with delicate minarets of pearly white, topped with domes of gold and lapis. Mostin enviously wondered where Mulissu had acquired the resources to build such an extravagant home.
The Alienist’s focus narrowed, scanning chambers separated by intricate wooden screens, courtyards with fountains and exquisite lifelike statues, and finally came to rest beneath a pomegranate tree. Here the witch Mulissu, beautiful, serene, and clad in a sky-blue dress, sat munching on fruit and writing with a huge quill into a small leatherbound volume. She looked up briefly with a look of irritation on her face, and gave a swift gesture.
The mirror went blank.
A predictable response, Mostin thought. In fact, the Alienist had been surprised that she was not already warded. He refocused his mind, and the mists began to clear again. Mostin selected a spot outside of the castle walls, on a narrow platform of rock in front of the (largely decorative) gate.
Steeling himself for what might be a difficult morning, Mostin stepped through the looking glass and vanished.
**
Ortwin, fortified by a glass or two of wine from one of Eadric’s better vintages, swallowed hard and descended the steps into the cellar alone. Silently and irreverently praying to half a dozen assorted deities for some kind of guidance, the Bard mustered as much of his legendary braggadocio as was possible, and blithely swaggered forward.
Rurunoth still had not manifested, but was cocooned within his hemispherical void. Ortwin marched up, pulled a stool from near one of the wine racks, up-ended it, and sat as close to the circle as he dared.
"Hello, Rurunoth," he said casually, "you can cut the darkness crap. We both know that things are delicately poised. Unless we can strike a deal pretty soon, I’m afraid that we’re going to have to kill you. No big deal: we’ve fried bigger fish than you before."
Mere inches from the Bard’s face, the Balor’s head appeared: a huge, fanged, maw with bestial features framed by a mane of fire. Behind, vast and hulking, wreathed in lurid purple flames, the winged body, hunched as it was, still towered over Ortwin. The Bard looked into the creature’s eyes – pools of insatiable darkness – and, for the first time, knew that he apprehended true evil.
Rurunoth’s whip, seeming to possess a life of it’s own, coiled and uncoiled within the circle, fire kindling along its length. The Balor drew its great sword along the floor, causing sparks to jump forth, before swiftly hefting it and stabbing violently at Ortwin.
The Bard reflexively startled, almost falling off of his stool. Rurunoth laughed – the most vicious sound that Ortwin had ever heard – as his sword failed to penetrate the invisible barrier which surrounded him.
"Bring another," the demon commanded in a hoarse whisper. "You are unworthy to deal with me."
The darkness returned.
Ortwin sat in silence for a moment, contemplating his next move. The great bluffer that he was, he was not adept at gauging the purpose behind others’ actions and words. He had always relied on his ability to force his point without giving his adversaries time to consider or react. The demon had seized the initiative back again. If Ortwin did not act swiftly, he knew that he would lose the battle of wills.
Just keep talking, he told himself.
"If I looked like you, Rurunoth, I daresay that I’d be inclined to swathe myself in darkness as well. I suppose your appearance is an inevitable result of being on the losing side during that embarrassing rebellion: I mean, what were you before all that nonsense broke out? A Deva? A Planetar? I’d say that you’re rather diminished in stature now, wouldn’t you? Foul-looking, bad tempered, no friends. Groveling to another master, who probably treats you a lot worse than your old one. Perhaps if you atone, like the succubus, you can find your way back up to your former heavenly abodes. You’ll get your harp back, nice new cloud to sit on. You’ll probably start off low: you know, a glowing ball of fuzzy light, but after a few eras, you might get a job as a trumpet-blower or, even better, in a celestial choir. Do you like singing, Ruru? You don’t mind if I call you ‘Ruru’ do you? Shall we sing a song together? I’ll start. If you don’t know the words, just hum along: you’ll pick up the tune in a while.
And Ortwin began to sing. Not a comic ballad or a timeless folksong, at which he excelled, and which had caused kings to laugh out loud, or to weep with melancholy. Ortwin sang an annoying, repetitive and facile drinking song, common to the least reputable establishments in his native Jiuhu.
**
Mostin, after banging on the gate for several minutes, was eventually addressed through an iron grate by an irritable mephit with a high pitched-voice and sharp, jerking movements of its numinous body.
"Begone," it commanded, shrilly. "You have no business here."
"I am Mostin the Metagnostic," the Alienist announced haughtily, "and I have travelled an immeasurable distance to discuss profound and far-reaching philosophies – far beyond your feeble comprehension – with your esteemed mistress. Kindly relay news of my arrival to her."
"She knows you’re here," the mephit chirped, "and bids you farewell."
The grate closed.
Mostin raged silently for a few moments, before mastering himself and calming down. Mulissu was magically potent and notoriously fickle, and it behooved the Alienist not to vex her. Although he possessed a dozen different ways to enter the castle, she would utter some terrible spell upon him if he did so without her permission.
"Kindly inform your mistress that I have items that may aid her in her magical research," Mostin shouted at the gate. "I wish to make exchange to our mutual benefit and satisfaction. I wish only for a few moments of her valuable time." The Alienist cursed silently as he uttered the last words.
An hour passed.
The mephit reappeared at the grate, a look of smug satisfaction upon its face. "You are fortunate," it piped to Mostin, "the Lady Mulissu is enjoying a brief rest from her arduous studies. She will receive you in the glass refectory for a period of seven minutes." At this, the mephit opened a smaller door in the large gate, and gestured for the Alienist to enter.
"Be sure to act with the utmost decorum and propriety," the creature admonished Mostin as he walked in.
Mostin smiled venomously at the door-ward.
Mulissu reclined upon a long couch, covered in the luxuriant blue fur of some unknown creature, her arm draped in a carefully considered pose of nonchalance above a large bowl of pomegranates. Above her, several mephits flew in small circles, chattering noisily as they argued amongst themselves. A large djinni, arms folded across it chest, stood behind the witch in stern appraisal of the Alienist as he approached and nearby, a distortion in the air marked the presence of an elemental. It was producing a light breeze which wafted through the refectory.
"Greetings, Mulissu," Mostin said curtly. "Is it your custom to keep guests waiting for an hour at your gate?"
"Only when it is you, Mostin," the witch replied humourlessly. "What do you want? And why were you spying on me?"
"I was not spying – had I chosen to do so I would have employed a less conspicuous means. I was merely finding an anchor for the Looking Glass of Urm-Nahat, prior to making my translation to your realm." Mostin knew that both mentioning his possession of the mirror, and describing Mulissu’s elemental bubble as a ‘realm’ were likely to make a good impression on the witch.
"Hmph," she replied. "You have five minutes left. Get to the point."
"I wish an exchange. You have an extensive collection of scrolls and devices which I would like to peruse and inspect. I feel my repertoire is in need of some revitalization. I have several unique objects which may be of interest to you, and may aid you in your research."
"I doubt it," Mulissu said, although Mostin could tell that her interest was piqued.
Negotiations continued for a further hour, and Mulissu proved a stickler for calculating the exact value of all items concerned. Mostin finally departed without several objects to which he had more than a passing attachment. His pseudonatural helper – an animated mass of arms and other appendages – he exchanged for a scroll which bore four potent spells: ‘Great Shout,’ ‘Sympathy,’ ‘Mass Manifest’ and the much sought-after ‘Symbol.’ Unexpectedly, his rapier, the Cordwainer’s Needle - due to its electrical dweomer - aroused the witch’s interest as something of a curio. Mostin agreed to part with it for less than its technical worth. In its place, the Alienist left with a scarlet and blue Ioun Stone, and a scroll containing three more spells: ‘Permanency’ (about time, thought Mostin), ‘Fiendform’ and ‘Disintegrate.’
Mulissu seemed wholly unimpressed by Mostin’s Metamorphic Apparatus. "So what?" She asked. "Why have a gadget to do that? I can use a spell more effectively. It’s worth nothing to me."
Mostin guessed correctly that the witch was bluffing.
"I will trade it for your Circlet of Blasting, and the ‘Spell Engine’ dweomer," Mostin offered.
"How absurd, certainly not," Mulissu insisted.
"In that case, our exchange is complete. I will waste no more of your valuable time." The Alienist turned to leave.
Mostin left with the circlet, the spell, and a feeling of immense satisfaction.
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