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Story Hour
Shemeska's Planescape Storyhour - (Updated 14February2024)
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<blockquote data-quote="Shemeska" data-source="post: 7349347" data-attributes="member: 11697"><p>The rooftop erupted in a chorus of shouts from a dozen pompously dressed Golden Lords and would-be Golden Lords: laments for their ruined evenings, laments for their ruined food, laments for their ruined outfits and finery, and above all else, laments for their ruined social reputations. Alone in being unbefouled by the explosive death of her received message’s courier, Shemeska gracefully stood as if nothing untoward had occurred. Turning to the guard nearest her, a lithe, silver-blond tiefling whose ears bled a thin trail of blood down his neck, she locked eyes and began to whisper.</p><p></p><p>With the first words that passed her lips, words that caused the layer of makeup that painted her lips to momentarily sizzle and char black, her tiefling groomer-guard’s gaze went black, as did the next of her guards sequentially, one by one, until the barbed touch of the spell lanced to the minds of each and every occupant there on the rooftop.</p><p></p><p>“You will remember none of this. Your evening proceeded without incident, the food was lovely, and you have no particular details of the evening which might later come to your mind if asked. Your clothing was befouled in-transit to your homes by a wandering group of Xaositects with buckets of blood because it happened to be just that kind of day in their addled bone boxes. I was not here. My employees were here in case I decided to attend, but I did not, and at the end of the evening they returned to their prior scheduled tasks.”</p><p></p><p>Her breath heavy, her black heart quickened and racing, and her chest -itself propped high for display by magic that took the place of a mundane gown’s whalebone- rising and falling with a mixture of feelings, the ‘loth blinked, waved a hand at the bloody aftermath on the tables and floor, and walked immediately to the exit. Before she reached the stairs, the mess was cleared and she herself vanished in the flicker-flash of a teleport.</p><p></p><p>Seconds later she appeared within a private room in the Azure Iris, her hand immediately pulling out the Shadow Sorcelled Key from below the heavy folds of her dress to feel its alien and predatory chill in her hands. The shadows licked at her flesh reassuringly as her head spun with consideration of just what the Oinoloth wanted, desired, and intended by his words. Every situation played out in her mind for twenty long minutes before she finally caught her breath and moved past the first blizzard of thoughts that ranged from the prosaic to the carnal.</p><p></p><p>Would this next encounter lay the groundwork for another part of her payment due? Was the Ebon, having newly released Shylara the Manged from her imprisonment now intending to strip her of her unearned power and office and replace her with a more suited occupant of that throne? Was the Ebon simply tired of his bleeding, mediocre wretch of a consort, and now, having tasted her student, ready for her embrace?</p><p></p><p>Subconsciously lifting the Key in her hands clasped almost in prayer to 13 uncaring entities older than gods or perhaps simply to one who sat atop Khin-Oin, she touched its length to her lips and kissed the artifact entrusted into her keeping. Whatever the Ebon’s desires and design, she would discover and she would seize the position, respect, and power that she deserved.</p><p></p><p>Fretting, the ‘loth paced back and forth. The Ebon was absolutely clear in that the Shadow Sorcelled Key could under no circumstances leave Sigil. Where then to leave it? How to keep it safe and secure?</p><p></p><p>Shemeska snarled and went to a mirror to wash and repaint her lips, her mind still racing. There were too many uncertainties in the Key’s effect and the manner in which it inconceivably broke the fundamental laws of Sigil. The Key was safe in her hands, but should it leave the touch of a conscious mind… no it could not simply be bound in spell traps and buried in the Slags like a vampire seeking millennia of uninterrupted sleep.</p><p></p><p>“Who the f*ck… who the f*ck…” She hissed, desperately wishing to have a mortal to torture and have their screaming sooth her worries, but there wasn’t the time.</p><p></p><p>Of course, she thought, it couldn’t be another ‘loth. That was the worst option imaginable, and the other examples of her kind within Sigil were the utter worst owing to the familiarity of centuries or longer which in almost all cases bred contempt beyond belief. Faces, names, pseudonyms, and even a true name sprang to her mind and she dismissed them all as options. None of them were worthy of her and none of them were worthy of holding what the Oinoloth had given to her and her alone. </p><p></p><p>No… she wouldn’t give it to any of them. But then, paused on the precipice of screaming in agonized desperation, she realized the answer to her conundrum. Smiling, she whispered a short phrase of magic and with her makeup once again perfect, she gestured and vanished.</p><p></p><p>The first teleport deposited her into a torture chamber below the Slags, and then another shunted her to an empty warehouse in the Lower Ward, and then another and another and another. The blizzard of teleports -some thirty eight in all- served to muddy her tracks from divinations beyond her standard repertoire of spells she wore to mask her location, and they continued until she emerged in a sealed room atop a centuries long established, respected, and absolutely inconsequential private attorney’s office in the Lady’s Ward.</p><p></p><p>“It has been some time, hasn’t it? At least a decade, if not more.” She laughed before glancing into a mundane mirror, shapeshifting into a wildly different guise, and gathering together the trappings of her momentary form’s station and professional. Where the King of the Crosstrade had been, there now stood a young, mostly androgynous tiefling woman of thoroughly mixed heritage dressed in the crisp and pressed outfit of an attorney, clasping a heavy ledger and bag, and bearing a very specific and very specifically enchanted badge of admission. The only noteworthy element was the bright length of violet running through her hair. Even in disguise, the Marauder still had some need to stand out as unique.</p><p></p><p>One more teleport and she would find herself back in a very familiar and comforting location she hadn’t been for far too many long years. That was where she would leave the Key. There in the proximity of a long beloved figure in a place where none would ever seek to look and especially to look there for her.</p><p></p><p></p><p style="text-align: center">*****</p><p></p><p></p><p>Two centuries earlier:</p><p></p><p></p><p>“What do you mean he won’t speak to me?!” Joseph Arnisikarion’s face was a lurid purple of frustrated, impotent rage and it took all of his composure as a man of station to not pound the table with his fists and demand satisfaction.</p><p></p><p>“As I’ve explained sirrah,” The lawyer looked up from her desk, her face entirely unphased by the nobleman’s anger, “Your uncle desires to remain to himself in his retirement. You’ve read the papers he presented to the Temple of Tyr and the instructions given to us as legal proxies to see to his wishes.”</p><p></p><p>“I’m his nephew! I’m his principal heir!” The half-elf nobleman’s left eye twitched as he bordered once again on losing his composure.</p><p></p><p>“You’re –one- of his heirs sirrah.” The lawyer corrected, “You have three younger siblings, two half-siblings, an aunt, and multiple cousins and their descendants. They count as heirs as well, and when my client either passes away or sees fit to distribute his wealth outside of his holding accounts with the Temple, then perhaps he will see fit to grant an audience, be it from a coffin or convalescent bed. But that it not my decision to make, nor is it yours.”</p><p></p><p>“I don’t want his money! I don’t want his title!” Joseph pleaded, lying through his teeth in a manner so transparent that the tiefling sitting opposite him could have discerned that fact even if she wasn’t capable of magically plumping the truth by virtue of the candle discretely burning in an obscured niche in her office. “I just want to speak with my uncle and know why he won’t see his family!”</p><p></p><p>“Again sirrah, that it not my place to decide, but only to see about the Golden Lord’s wishes in our capacity as legal proxies.”</p><p></p><p>The small law firm in Sigil’s Lady’s Ward was old and well respected within the circles of power and wealth, though to their credit they’d avoided entangling themselves in the power plays of guilds and Factions, preferring to remain out of the limelight and serving individual clients and occasionally some of the Ward’s temples. In the case of the Golden Lord Eustace Arnisikarion, they served as the only public face of the reclusive, elderly shut-in who’d locked his doors and withdrawn from public life a decade and a half earlier after liquidating his vast mercantile holdings to a number of private buyers of all types and interests, ranging from the Temple of the Abyss, the Planar Trade Consortium, a dozen individual Merkhants, and of course the King of the Crosstrade.</p><p></p><p>“How do I know that my uncle is even still alive?”</p><p></p><p>“Your uncle is very much still alive.” The lawyer frowned, “I have spoken with him myself, though his interactions with myself and other agents of this firm are few and far between. Your uncle for his own reasons that frankly I am neither privy too nor entitled to understand, simply wishes to remain in isolation. As you know he divested himself of his business holdings and land, with the exception of his mansion in the Lady’s Ward following the sudden death of his fiancé. Grief will do many things to a man, and I would assume that he wishes to live out his twilight years in peace.”</p><p></p><p>“And how can I trust you?”</p><p></p><p>The lawyer’s eyes narrowed.</p><p></p><p>“Not that I’m accusing you or your firm of lying.” The young heir held up his hands, though his derision was obvious.</p><p></p><p>“If you don’t wish to take our word regarding your uncle’s health, you are more than welcome to speak with the priests of the Temple of Tyr. Given the rarity of your uncle’s direct communication, they possess a drop his blood in safe, secure holding, and remain aware at all times if he is alive or dead. If that situation changes, our firm will be made aware, we will enter the estate and begin the distribution of his wealth and titles according to his will. Beyond that, and adjudication beyond the simple terms of the will are to be provided to us in writing no later than thirty days following the announcement of the Golden Lord’s passing and the priests of the Temple of Tyr will hear those claims and pass judgment.”</p><p></p><p>“But I…”</p><p></p><p>“The situation is just as out of my hands as it is yours sirrah.” The lawyer’s voice was calm and measured. “In the absence of your uncle desiring otherwise, you and your siblings will continue to receive your monthly allowance taken from the interest on his holdings in trust with the Temple, not a copper more or less.”</p><p></p><p>“He’s old.” The nobleman fully realized he was getting nowhere, and legally he had no recourse. “And he’s an elven aasimar for the Seldarine’s sake. I’m already middle-aged and only the gods know when he’ll finally die. I’ve been waiting for most of my life for him to expire and pass on his title and most of his wealth to me. The trickle each month isn’t enough. I need more! I –deserve– more! Let me speak with him! I can convince him to take pity and give me more! Please!!!”</p><p></p><p>Looking up and finally making direct eye contact, the lawyer sighed. An androgynous figure of a middle aged tiefling with long, pin-straight raven black hair, she was impeccably dressed in neat green and black dress robes. She wouldn’t have particularly stood out in court or walking the streets of the Lady’s Ward, but for the unique stripe of purple she affected in her hair.</p><p></p><p>“I’m sorry,” She said, “But that’s simply not possible. There’s nothing more to say, and you will receive your monthly allowance as standard upon the first of the month. Good day to you sirrah.”</p><p></p><p>Despondent but left without legal recourse, the young nobleman stared for several long moments before nodding and walking to the door. The lawyer’s business-like smile devoid of actual sincerity was nearly as damning as the heavy, dull sound of the door closing behind him and the metallic clunk of the latch.</p><p></p><p>Alone in the office, and briefly back in her native form, vivid emerald flame alight in her eyes, Shemeska the Marauder smiled.</p><p></p><p></p><p style="text-align: center">****</p><p></p><p></p><p>Back in the present:</p><p></p><p>Two centuries earlier the Gold Lord Eustace Arnisikarion had been at the height of his power, influence, and fortune. Childless, the aasimar of clearly elven descent had abruptly withdrawn from public life and shut himself inside of his mansion following a period of ill health, the death of a bastard child, the death of his wife, an accident that left him disfigured… the rumors flew thick and swift for the better part of a week, and then the man was forgotten. Sigil had many Golden Lords, and among the extremely wealthy of their tier and rank, reclusive eccentricity was hardly rare. In short time the man was forgotten amidst the more important and ever-byzantine drama of the Factions and more prominent, more powerful, and wealthier powers in the City of Doors.</p><p></p><p>Eustace would become a historical footnote, with the occasional learned tout dropping his name as the recluse who dwelled in a particular mansion behind thick fences overgrown with razorvine and nothing more. History had passed him by, and with the passage of time his heirs aged and passed as well.</p><p></p><p>Several blocks distant from the Golden Lord’s estate, the Marauder stepped out of an alleyway that obscured the flicker-flash of her teleport and the young, largely forgettable tiefling lawyer stepped out into the street, a thick legal satchel at her side carrying papers for Eustace to see and approve, and a badge on her chest to serve as a key for the mansion’s magical wards.</p><p></p><p>“I’m here to see Lord Eustace Arnisikarion as legal representative and proxy, go-between for the Lord and the Temple of Tyr.”</p><p></p><p>“Well I’ll be… damn…” The bariaur guard captain at the gate glanced down at the “lawyer” and smiled. “What’s it been? A decade since I’ve seen you?”</p><p></p><p>“Nearly that, yes.” Shemeska returned the guard captain’s smile, “We have no regular schedule to see the old recluse, and only when he indicates by magic to the Temple of Tyr that he desires to give word to the outside world are we utilized as over-glorified couriers. It appears that it’s that time again.”</p><p></p><p>“So it is. Let our distant paymaster know that we hope that he remains in good health and we appreciate having some of the easiest and most lucrative positions of their kind in the City of Doors. We’ve had less than five attempts at trespassing this year.”</p><p></p><p>“The razorvine tends to dissuade the attempts I’m certain.” The Marauder smiled, knowing that the razorvine on the fences was a mercy compared to what anyone actually breaching the perimeter would find.</p><p></p><p>Pleasantries were made, introductions to the guards who’d yet to meet her, and then the gate’s locks were opened, the chains pulled, and the “lawyer” stepped beyond and walked through the estates abandoned, overgrown gardens towards the sprawling, monstrously baroque mansion at their center. She smiled as her feet swiftly carried her towards her goal, soft leather boots on onyx cobblestones much worse for wear since Eustace had vanished from public life. For all the twisted, tangled razorvine that chocked the estate grounds, for all the spattering of dried avian sh*t from flocks of executioner’s ravens roosting high above in the trees, the weathered, abandoned grounds and exterior of the mansion was a monstrous and planned and plotted sham. </p><p></p><p>Upon touching the exterior door, the badge she wore unlocked the layers upon layers of wards that kept the Golden Lord’s privacy absolutely sacrosanct. The door opened without so much as a creak upon the hinges, the Marauder slipped inside, and the door closed behind her.</p><p></p><p>The inside of the mansion was as she had left it two centuries earlier: spotless, decorated with the full wealth and prestige of one of Sigil’s Golden Lords, even one now long forgotten, though with the addition in those years wherein the Lord withdrew from public contact of a particular quirk of the walls. Every external wall had been meticulously covered in a thin layer of lead, painted over in gorgon’s blood, and marked with veritable murals of symbols: all to prevent scrying, extradimensional movement, and any magical prying into the affairs of a man lost to the world.</p><p></p><p>None of it of course had been by the designs of Eustace Arnisikarion, but by his would-be bride.</p><p></p><p>Shemeska smiled as she cast out her conscious mind to feel the wards that she’d penned and found them as immaculate as ever. All of the spells remained in place to keep, there to keep the mansion in immaculate condition, reknitting the foundations and strengthening the beams and stones and slate roofing tiles above them, but more so that any errant portal that might ever potentially open into the mansion’s -nearly- vacant interior would be met with immediate and lethal magical assault. She’d warded the mansion centuries before coming into possession of the Shadow Sorceled Key, and with that sole exception, there was no manner in which to conventionally stop the Lady’s portals from naturally forming in any bound space available. One simply had to ward the grounds to ensure that any such entry was imminently lethal.</p><p></p><p>Slowly walking through the grand mansion, smiling at the decorations she had selected, the art she had commissioned, the wealth on display to catch her attention and paid for by a man in wild, foolish love she found more than a few instances of her wards doing precisely what she had designed them for. Occasionally she would find piles of dust, ashen smears upon the hand-woven carpets, or the bloody, shambling tracks of those not completely and immediately incinerated. Of course the spells written into the mansion’s superstructure would tidy up such inconvenient messes in due time as well, and she remained utterly unconcerned as she neatly stepped over them.</p><p></p><p>Ascending the grand staircase towards the upper levels of the palatial mansion, Shemeska shed her guise as the Golden Lord’s lawyer and resumed her natural form. While tempted to wear her favorite and iconic dress, she instead chose something more fitting to the moment and her company that awaited her high above.</p><p></p><p>Eustace still lived, indeed he did, and his privacy was shrouded by the untended grounds run wild with razorvine, the wards on the mansion itself, layers of legal contracts, and a steady if all in all comparatively miniscule flow of gold from the accounts still nominally in his name. Gold greased the proper channels, hired guards, and provided his remaining and increasingly distant heirs -exiled and unwelcome as they were- an allowance each month and kept them from doing much beyond waiting for their primogenitor to die and legally cede the bulk of his wealth to them. Of course every few years one of them died, clearly by natural causes or an accident, slowly winnowing down the ranks of any capable of understanding the truth of the matter, and eventually they would all be gone with none the wiser as to the course of events.</p><p></p><p>Of course the Marauder had complete and total control of the situation and the entirety of the man’s assets now in the present, as she had since he’d withdrawn from the world two centuries previous.</p><p></p><p>Divinations by the Temple of Tyr would reveal precious little beyond, ‘He is alive and he yet dwells within his mansion. Until one of these situations changes, his heirs must patiently wait for his demise so long as he refuses to admit them.’</p><p></p><p>Standing at the sculpted marble entryway to the Master Bedroom, Shemeska slipped out a small velvet pouch from the satchel she carried, held out her left hand and neatly, with faux reverence, slipped a platinum and diamond ring upon her left ring finger, appreciating the irony of that particular bauble in the present moment.</p><p></p><p>Having already shed her temporary tiefling form, she briefly stretched her neck and flicked her tail side to side, mentally adjusting each and every physical detail to best suit that of a pristinely groomed arcanaloth. Gone was the lawyers simple, functional, and boringly formal court attire, now replaced with something well known to the place she now stood: a scandalously tight, formfitting gown of multiple layers of transparent white silk that left precious little to the imagination as she paused at the threshold and stepped into the sprawling, palatial bedroom.</p><p></p><p>“Hello my beloved…”</p><p></p><p></p><p style="text-align: center">*****</p><p></p><p></p><p>Licking her lips, the fiend closed her eyes and deeply inhaled, tasting the room’s saturated agony as much as the lingering perfume and flowers kept perpetually fresh for over two centuries. Everything was as it had been when she’d had her secret affair with the Golden Lord and brought about the love-stricken fool’s complete and utter doom, though over the years since she’d seen fit to occasionally add to the chamber’s decorations both to suit her own abounding narcissistic tastes and a yearning need to add to the man’s agony.</p><p></p><p>A gasping moan escaped parched lips and the figure that lay upon the massive bed that she’d provided for their brief and tumultuous affair, carved to her specifications from the then living bodies of four sister dryads. It was there upon the bed that the Golden Lord Eustace Arnisikarion still lay where she’d left him two centuries earlier, paralyzed, moaning incoherently in low and constant pain, and with his tongue removed, bitten off and swallowed by the fiend when he’d bedded her during an affair that had lasted a week at most before she’d grew tired of his mortal frailty and cast him aside for her own apprentice, newly arrived from Gehenna: Shylara. </p><p></p><p>Surrounding the mute and crippled Golden Lord were all the reminders of his folly and the creature he’d fatally fallen in love with. Scattered about him stood dozens of wood, marble, and metallic sculptures of the Marauder in all manner of poses from the carnal to the prosaic, all of them bereft of clothing, and hung upon the walls or set upon tables lay paintings of the Marauder passionately coupled with each of her consorts she’d taken and disposed of since her malignant use and breaking of the aasimar so many years ago. Dominating one of the walls was a massive mural of the two of them locked in a passionate, loving embrace, dressed in elegant, marital attire, including for Shemeska, the same dress that she now deliberately wore. The mural, painted before she’d betrayed and condemned Eustace to his fate of moribund living-death, was much the same as when the paint had dried, except for a late alteration to her face such that what once provided an image of her smiling and seemingly in love was forever after replaced with a malicious sneer upon her face and her eyes painted so as to always stare directly, mockingly at him.</p><p></p><p>The paralyzed man murmured and coughed, a tear rolling down his cheek as the Marauder approached, the muscles of his face the only thing that responded to his will as she produced a crystalline vial and held it up to the light before gazing down and smiling. Despite the passage of centuries, the man remained static at the same apparent physical age, of seemingly robust health, except for the tracery of scars that covered his form, all of them neatly fitting the pattern of the Marauder’s claws and teeth, and with the exception of one remaining finger upon his left hand, his limbs ended in raw, irritated stumps from where she’d personally sat atop his chest, held him down, and sawed them off.</p><p></p><p>As her former lover and would-be husband moaned in agony, she abruptly uncorked the vial and upended the contents into her mouth, appreciating the taste of the sparkling, ruby colored alchemical suspension without suffering any of its effects as it remained held in her mouth and unswallowed. </p><p></p><p>It was not for her. It was never for her.</p><p></p><p>Standing over him and gazing down at her hideous handiwork, Shemeska brushed a hand over his cheek to catch the tear upon a single manicured and purple painted claw before deftly placing it upon her tongue to taste of his misery. She smiled, deeply appreciative of the taste and what it represented as she proceeded –as was standard for every visit she made– to make sure that the ring of sustenance remained in place upon his left hand on the finger, nestled snug against the golden wedding band she’d given him as a token of false love.</p><p></p><p>Still smiling, she stroked her claws down his chest before leaning down and kissing him as passionately as they had each and every moment of their affair, slipping her tongue past his lips and releasing the contents of the vial held in her mouth forcibly down his throat, there to interact with his mortal biology and extend his life and prolong his torment.</p><p></p><p>“Did you miss me… my love?” Shemeska broke the kiss and lapped at his chin before pulling back and laughing until she was out of breath. As far as ex-lovers went, Shylara the Manged might have escaped relatively untormented by comparison to Eustace Arnisikarion. She at least was free.</p><p></p><p>Abject, apoplectic rage coursed through the living-dead man’s eyes. She did not grant him the pleasure of reading his thoughts and letting him speak to her. He would remain and suffer, and in suffering grant her pleasure beyond what he might have hoped for in bed or otherwise. At least now he had a purpose beyond simply existing and suffering for her pleasure, an original purpose for which he remained alive, if never whole.</p><p></p><p>“I’ve brought you a gift old fool.” Shemeska produced the key from where it had hung against the flesh of her thigh and unhooked the mithral chain from her waist. She actually hesitated as she let the chain hang free and prepared to place it at the foot of the bed, not wanting to let it slip beyond her grip and pass from her control. But set it down she did, following the Oinoloth’s instructions that it never leave Sigil, and set it down upon the silken sheets just beyond Eustace’s reach if he’d possessed hands or any mobility at all, but it was ever within his line of sight, swirling with cold, flickering shadows.</p><p></p><p>Sighing as she placed the artifact down and halfway expecting flaying shadows to come for her moments later, she finally relaxed and stroked her former lover’s flesh with idle malice before she departed to Khin-Oin.</p><p></p><p>“I’ll be back for you Eustace, not to worry my love, and at some point in the next decade I’ll make sure to come back and give you another kiss and your next dose.” She laughed and kissed his forehead, turning and walking away, gazing about for latent portals before turning back and adding, “And as a complete aside, you should know that the last of your surviving grand nephews is dead. Your line of inheritance ever dwindles my love and soon they will forget that you yet live or that you ever existed at all. But not to worry my dearest Eustace, I won’t forget you. My memory will never fade, and this immortal b*tch that broke you for her own amusement will make sure that regardless of your mortality, you’ll persist and suffer as long as I desire.”</p><p></p><p>With a horrific, delighted smirk upon her face, Shemeska turned and walked from the room, the man’s ragged moans music to her ears.</p><p></p><p>“I am almost there my Oinoloth, just as you requested…” She whispered, glancing about at each and every bound space for the swiftest egress from the City of Doors and then to the Waste, debating which route would be the swiftest.</p><p></p><p>She could have taken a portal to Hopeless and then through another permanent portal there in the courtyard of Mocking Thingol’s palace to Oinos, but that would have taken far too long for her liking. Instead the razorvine-crowned fiend simply activated the first portal she saw with a non-material key, opened it with a thought, and then before the cubes of Tintabulos were visible in the black vault of Acheron’s void, she effortlessly cast a gate and stepped through into Khin-Oin itself.</p><p></p><p>There would be no grand entry. There would be no arrival with pomp and an honor guard. The gates of the Wasting Tower would remain shut and her arrival unheralded and unnoticed. Only the Oinoloth mattered to her, and only he would see her, and he would see her soon.</p><p></p><p>“I am here for you my master…”</p><p></p><p></p><p style="text-align: center">****</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Shemeska, post: 7349347, member: 11697"] The rooftop erupted in a chorus of shouts from a dozen pompously dressed Golden Lords and would-be Golden Lords: laments for their ruined evenings, laments for their ruined food, laments for their ruined outfits and finery, and above all else, laments for their ruined social reputations. Alone in being unbefouled by the explosive death of her received message’s courier, Shemeska gracefully stood as if nothing untoward had occurred. Turning to the guard nearest her, a lithe, silver-blond tiefling whose ears bled a thin trail of blood down his neck, she locked eyes and began to whisper. With the first words that passed her lips, words that caused the layer of makeup that painted her lips to momentarily sizzle and char black, her tiefling groomer-guard’s gaze went black, as did the next of her guards sequentially, one by one, until the barbed touch of the spell lanced to the minds of each and every occupant there on the rooftop. “You will remember none of this. Your evening proceeded without incident, the food was lovely, and you have no particular details of the evening which might later come to your mind if asked. Your clothing was befouled in-transit to your homes by a wandering group of Xaositects with buckets of blood because it happened to be just that kind of day in their addled bone boxes. I was not here. My employees were here in case I decided to attend, but I did not, and at the end of the evening they returned to their prior scheduled tasks.” Her breath heavy, her black heart quickened and racing, and her chest -itself propped high for display by magic that took the place of a mundane gown’s whalebone- rising and falling with a mixture of feelings, the ‘loth blinked, waved a hand at the bloody aftermath on the tables and floor, and walked immediately to the exit. Before she reached the stairs, the mess was cleared and she herself vanished in the flicker-flash of a teleport. Seconds later she appeared within a private room in the Azure Iris, her hand immediately pulling out the Shadow Sorcelled Key from below the heavy folds of her dress to feel its alien and predatory chill in her hands. The shadows licked at her flesh reassuringly as her head spun with consideration of just what the Oinoloth wanted, desired, and intended by his words. Every situation played out in her mind for twenty long minutes before she finally caught her breath and moved past the first blizzard of thoughts that ranged from the prosaic to the carnal. Would this next encounter lay the groundwork for another part of her payment due? Was the Ebon, having newly released Shylara the Manged from her imprisonment now intending to strip her of her unearned power and office and replace her with a more suited occupant of that throne? Was the Ebon simply tired of his bleeding, mediocre wretch of a consort, and now, having tasted her student, ready for her embrace? Subconsciously lifting the Key in her hands clasped almost in prayer to 13 uncaring entities older than gods or perhaps simply to one who sat atop Khin-Oin, she touched its length to her lips and kissed the artifact entrusted into her keeping. Whatever the Ebon’s desires and design, she would discover and she would seize the position, respect, and power that she deserved. Fretting, the ‘loth paced back and forth. The Ebon was absolutely clear in that the Shadow Sorcelled Key could under no circumstances leave Sigil. Where then to leave it? How to keep it safe and secure? Shemeska snarled and went to a mirror to wash and repaint her lips, her mind still racing. There were too many uncertainties in the Key’s effect and the manner in which it inconceivably broke the fundamental laws of Sigil. The Key was safe in her hands, but should it leave the touch of a conscious mind… no it could not simply be bound in spell traps and buried in the Slags like a vampire seeking millennia of uninterrupted sleep. “Who the f*ck… who the f*ck…” She hissed, desperately wishing to have a mortal to torture and have their screaming sooth her worries, but there wasn’t the time. Of course, she thought, it couldn’t be another ‘loth. That was the worst option imaginable, and the other examples of her kind within Sigil were the utter worst owing to the familiarity of centuries or longer which in almost all cases bred contempt beyond belief. Faces, names, pseudonyms, and even a true name sprang to her mind and she dismissed them all as options. None of them were worthy of her and none of them were worthy of holding what the Oinoloth had given to her and her alone. No… she wouldn’t give it to any of them. But then, paused on the precipice of screaming in agonized desperation, she realized the answer to her conundrum. Smiling, she whispered a short phrase of magic and with her makeup once again perfect, she gestured and vanished. The first teleport deposited her into a torture chamber below the Slags, and then another shunted her to an empty warehouse in the Lower Ward, and then another and another and another. The blizzard of teleports -some thirty eight in all- served to muddy her tracks from divinations beyond her standard repertoire of spells she wore to mask her location, and they continued until she emerged in a sealed room atop a centuries long established, respected, and absolutely inconsequential private attorney’s office in the Lady’s Ward. “It has been some time, hasn’t it? At least a decade, if not more.” She laughed before glancing into a mundane mirror, shapeshifting into a wildly different guise, and gathering together the trappings of her momentary form’s station and professional. Where the King of the Crosstrade had been, there now stood a young, mostly androgynous tiefling woman of thoroughly mixed heritage dressed in the crisp and pressed outfit of an attorney, clasping a heavy ledger and bag, and bearing a very specific and very specifically enchanted badge of admission. The only noteworthy element was the bright length of violet running through her hair. Even in disguise, the Marauder still had some need to stand out as unique. One more teleport and she would find herself back in a very familiar and comforting location she hadn’t been for far too many long years. That was where she would leave the Key. There in the proximity of a long beloved figure in a place where none would ever seek to look and especially to look there for her. [center]*****[/center] Two centuries earlier: “What do you mean he won’t speak to me?!” Joseph Arnisikarion’s face was a lurid purple of frustrated, impotent rage and it took all of his composure as a man of station to not pound the table with his fists and demand satisfaction. “As I’ve explained sirrah,” The lawyer looked up from her desk, her face entirely unphased by the nobleman’s anger, “Your uncle desires to remain to himself in his retirement. You’ve read the papers he presented to the Temple of Tyr and the instructions given to us as legal proxies to see to his wishes.” “I’m his nephew! I’m his principal heir!” The half-elf nobleman’s left eye twitched as he bordered once again on losing his composure. “You’re –one- of his heirs sirrah.” The lawyer corrected, “You have three younger siblings, two half-siblings, an aunt, and multiple cousins and their descendants. They count as heirs as well, and when my client either passes away or sees fit to distribute his wealth outside of his holding accounts with the Temple, then perhaps he will see fit to grant an audience, be it from a coffin or convalescent bed. But that it not my decision to make, nor is it yours.” “I don’t want his money! I don’t want his title!” Joseph pleaded, lying through his teeth in a manner so transparent that the tiefling sitting opposite him could have discerned that fact even if she wasn’t capable of magically plumping the truth by virtue of the candle discretely burning in an obscured niche in her office. “I just want to speak with my uncle and know why he won’t see his family!” “Again sirrah, that it not my place to decide, but only to see about the Golden Lord’s wishes in our capacity as legal proxies.” The small law firm in Sigil’s Lady’s Ward was old and well respected within the circles of power and wealth, though to their credit they’d avoided entangling themselves in the power plays of guilds and Factions, preferring to remain out of the limelight and serving individual clients and occasionally some of the Ward’s temples. In the case of the Golden Lord Eustace Arnisikarion, they served as the only public face of the reclusive, elderly shut-in who’d locked his doors and withdrawn from public life a decade and a half earlier after liquidating his vast mercantile holdings to a number of private buyers of all types and interests, ranging from the Temple of the Abyss, the Planar Trade Consortium, a dozen individual Merkhants, and of course the King of the Crosstrade. “How do I know that my uncle is even still alive?” “Your uncle is very much still alive.” The lawyer frowned, “I have spoken with him myself, though his interactions with myself and other agents of this firm are few and far between. Your uncle for his own reasons that frankly I am neither privy too nor entitled to understand, simply wishes to remain in isolation. As you know he divested himself of his business holdings and land, with the exception of his mansion in the Lady’s Ward following the sudden death of his fiancé. Grief will do many things to a man, and I would assume that he wishes to live out his twilight years in peace.” “And how can I trust you?” The lawyer’s eyes narrowed. “Not that I’m accusing you or your firm of lying.” The young heir held up his hands, though his derision was obvious. “If you don’t wish to take our word regarding your uncle’s health, you are more than welcome to speak with the priests of the Temple of Tyr. Given the rarity of your uncle’s direct communication, they possess a drop his blood in safe, secure holding, and remain aware at all times if he is alive or dead. If that situation changes, our firm will be made aware, we will enter the estate and begin the distribution of his wealth and titles according to his will. Beyond that, and adjudication beyond the simple terms of the will are to be provided to us in writing no later than thirty days following the announcement of the Golden Lord’s passing and the priests of the Temple of Tyr will hear those claims and pass judgment.” “But I…” “The situation is just as out of my hands as it is yours sirrah.” The lawyer’s voice was calm and measured. “In the absence of your uncle desiring otherwise, you and your siblings will continue to receive your monthly allowance taken from the interest on his holdings in trust with the Temple, not a copper more or less.” “He’s old.” The nobleman fully realized he was getting nowhere, and legally he had no recourse. “And he’s an elven aasimar for the Seldarine’s sake. I’m already middle-aged and only the gods know when he’ll finally die. I’ve been waiting for most of my life for him to expire and pass on his title and most of his wealth to me. The trickle each month isn’t enough. I need more! I –deserve– more! Let me speak with him! I can convince him to take pity and give me more! Please!!!” Looking up and finally making direct eye contact, the lawyer sighed. An androgynous figure of a middle aged tiefling with long, pin-straight raven black hair, she was impeccably dressed in neat green and black dress robes. She wouldn’t have particularly stood out in court or walking the streets of the Lady’s Ward, but for the unique stripe of purple she affected in her hair. “I’m sorry,” She said, “But that’s simply not possible. There’s nothing more to say, and you will receive your monthly allowance as standard upon the first of the month. Good day to you sirrah.” Despondent but left without legal recourse, the young nobleman stared for several long moments before nodding and walking to the door. The lawyer’s business-like smile devoid of actual sincerity was nearly as damning as the heavy, dull sound of the door closing behind him and the metallic clunk of the latch. Alone in the office, and briefly back in her native form, vivid emerald flame alight in her eyes, Shemeska the Marauder smiled. [center]****[/center] Back in the present: Two centuries earlier the Gold Lord Eustace Arnisikarion had been at the height of his power, influence, and fortune. Childless, the aasimar of clearly elven descent had abruptly withdrawn from public life and shut himself inside of his mansion following a period of ill health, the death of a bastard child, the death of his wife, an accident that left him disfigured… the rumors flew thick and swift for the better part of a week, and then the man was forgotten. Sigil had many Golden Lords, and among the extremely wealthy of their tier and rank, reclusive eccentricity was hardly rare. In short time the man was forgotten amidst the more important and ever-byzantine drama of the Factions and more prominent, more powerful, and wealthier powers in the City of Doors. Eustace would become a historical footnote, with the occasional learned tout dropping his name as the recluse who dwelled in a particular mansion behind thick fences overgrown with razorvine and nothing more. History had passed him by, and with the passage of time his heirs aged and passed as well. Several blocks distant from the Golden Lord’s estate, the Marauder stepped out of an alleyway that obscured the flicker-flash of her teleport and the young, largely forgettable tiefling lawyer stepped out into the street, a thick legal satchel at her side carrying papers for Eustace to see and approve, and a badge on her chest to serve as a key for the mansion’s magical wards. “I’m here to see Lord Eustace Arnisikarion as legal representative and proxy, go-between for the Lord and the Temple of Tyr.” “Well I’ll be… damn…” The bariaur guard captain at the gate glanced down at the “lawyer” and smiled. “What’s it been? A decade since I’ve seen you?” “Nearly that, yes.” Shemeska returned the guard captain’s smile, “We have no regular schedule to see the old recluse, and only when he indicates by magic to the Temple of Tyr that he desires to give word to the outside world are we utilized as over-glorified couriers. It appears that it’s that time again.” “So it is. Let our distant paymaster know that we hope that he remains in good health and we appreciate having some of the easiest and most lucrative positions of their kind in the City of Doors. We’ve had less than five attempts at trespassing this year.” “The razorvine tends to dissuade the attempts I’m certain.” The Marauder smiled, knowing that the razorvine on the fences was a mercy compared to what anyone actually breaching the perimeter would find. Pleasantries were made, introductions to the guards who’d yet to meet her, and then the gate’s locks were opened, the chains pulled, and the “lawyer” stepped beyond and walked through the estates abandoned, overgrown gardens towards the sprawling, monstrously baroque mansion at their center. She smiled as her feet swiftly carried her towards her goal, soft leather boots on onyx cobblestones much worse for wear since Eustace had vanished from public life. For all the twisted, tangled razorvine that chocked the estate grounds, for all the spattering of dried avian sh*t from flocks of executioner’s ravens roosting high above in the trees, the weathered, abandoned grounds and exterior of the mansion was a monstrous and planned and plotted sham. Upon touching the exterior door, the badge she wore unlocked the layers upon layers of wards that kept the Golden Lord’s privacy absolutely sacrosanct. The door opened without so much as a creak upon the hinges, the Marauder slipped inside, and the door closed behind her. The inside of the mansion was as she had left it two centuries earlier: spotless, decorated with the full wealth and prestige of one of Sigil’s Golden Lords, even one now long forgotten, though with the addition in those years wherein the Lord withdrew from public contact of a particular quirk of the walls. Every external wall had been meticulously covered in a thin layer of lead, painted over in gorgon’s blood, and marked with veritable murals of symbols: all to prevent scrying, extradimensional movement, and any magical prying into the affairs of a man lost to the world. None of it of course had been by the designs of Eustace Arnisikarion, but by his would-be bride. Shemeska smiled as she cast out her conscious mind to feel the wards that she’d penned and found them as immaculate as ever. All of the spells remained in place to keep, there to keep the mansion in immaculate condition, reknitting the foundations and strengthening the beams and stones and slate roofing tiles above them, but more so that any errant portal that might ever potentially open into the mansion’s -nearly- vacant interior would be met with immediate and lethal magical assault. She’d warded the mansion centuries before coming into possession of the Shadow Sorceled Key, and with that sole exception, there was no manner in which to conventionally stop the Lady’s portals from naturally forming in any bound space available. One simply had to ward the grounds to ensure that any such entry was imminently lethal. Slowly walking through the grand mansion, smiling at the decorations she had selected, the art she had commissioned, the wealth on display to catch her attention and paid for by a man in wild, foolish love she found more than a few instances of her wards doing precisely what she had designed them for. Occasionally she would find piles of dust, ashen smears upon the hand-woven carpets, or the bloody, shambling tracks of those not completely and immediately incinerated. Of course the spells written into the mansion’s superstructure would tidy up such inconvenient messes in due time as well, and she remained utterly unconcerned as she neatly stepped over them. Ascending the grand staircase towards the upper levels of the palatial mansion, Shemeska shed her guise as the Golden Lord’s lawyer and resumed her natural form. While tempted to wear her favorite and iconic dress, she instead chose something more fitting to the moment and her company that awaited her high above. Eustace still lived, indeed he did, and his privacy was shrouded by the untended grounds run wild with razorvine, the wards on the mansion itself, layers of legal contracts, and a steady if all in all comparatively miniscule flow of gold from the accounts still nominally in his name. Gold greased the proper channels, hired guards, and provided his remaining and increasingly distant heirs -exiled and unwelcome as they were- an allowance each month and kept them from doing much beyond waiting for their primogenitor to die and legally cede the bulk of his wealth to them. Of course every few years one of them died, clearly by natural causes or an accident, slowly winnowing down the ranks of any capable of understanding the truth of the matter, and eventually they would all be gone with none the wiser as to the course of events. Of course the Marauder had complete and total control of the situation and the entirety of the man’s assets now in the present, as she had since he’d withdrawn from the world two centuries previous. Divinations by the Temple of Tyr would reveal precious little beyond, ‘He is alive and he yet dwells within his mansion. Until one of these situations changes, his heirs must patiently wait for his demise so long as he refuses to admit them.’ Standing at the sculpted marble entryway to the Master Bedroom, Shemeska slipped out a small velvet pouch from the satchel she carried, held out her left hand and neatly, with faux reverence, slipped a platinum and diamond ring upon her left ring finger, appreciating the irony of that particular bauble in the present moment. Having already shed her temporary tiefling form, she briefly stretched her neck and flicked her tail side to side, mentally adjusting each and every physical detail to best suit that of a pristinely groomed arcanaloth. Gone was the lawyers simple, functional, and boringly formal court attire, now replaced with something well known to the place she now stood: a scandalously tight, formfitting gown of multiple layers of transparent white silk that left precious little to the imagination as she paused at the threshold and stepped into the sprawling, palatial bedroom. “Hello my beloved…” [center]*****[/center] Licking her lips, the fiend closed her eyes and deeply inhaled, tasting the room’s saturated agony as much as the lingering perfume and flowers kept perpetually fresh for over two centuries. Everything was as it had been when she’d had her secret affair with the Golden Lord and brought about the love-stricken fool’s complete and utter doom, though over the years since she’d seen fit to occasionally add to the chamber’s decorations both to suit her own abounding narcissistic tastes and a yearning need to add to the man’s agony. A gasping moan escaped parched lips and the figure that lay upon the massive bed that she’d provided for their brief and tumultuous affair, carved to her specifications from the then living bodies of four sister dryads. It was there upon the bed that the Golden Lord Eustace Arnisikarion still lay where she’d left him two centuries earlier, paralyzed, moaning incoherently in low and constant pain, and with his tongue removed, bitten off and swallowed by the fiend when he’d bedded her during an affair that had lasted a week at most before she’d grew tired of his mortal frailty and cast him aside for her own apprentice, newly arrived from Gehenna: Shylara. Surrounding the mute and crippled Golden Lord were all the reminders of his folly and the creature he’d fatally fallen in love with. Scattered about him stood dozens of wood, marble, and metallic sculptures of the Marauder in all manner of poses from the carnal to the prosaic, all of them bereft of clothing, and hung upon the walls or set upon tables lay paintings of the Marauder passionately coupled with each of her consorts she’d taken and disposed of since her malignant use and breaking of the aasimar so many years ago. Dominating one of the walls was a massive mural of the two of them locked in a passionate, loving embrace, dressed in elegant, marital attire, including for Shemeska, the same dress that she now deliberately wore. The mural, painted before she’d betrayed and condemned Eustace to his fate of moribund living-death, was much the same as when the paint had dried, except for a late alteration to her face such that what once provided an image of her smiling and seemingly in love was forever after replaced with a malicious sneer upon her face and her eyes painted so as to always stare directly, mockingly at him. The paralyzed man murmured and coughed, a tear rolling down his cheek as the Marauder approached, the muscles of his face the only thing that responded to his will as she produced a crystalline vial and held it up to the light before gazing down and smiling. Despite the passage of centuries, the man remained static at the same apparent physical age, of seemingly robust health, except for the tracery of scars that covered his form, all of them neatly fitting the pattern of the Marauder’s claws and teeth, and with the exception of one remaining finger upon his left hand, his limbs ended in raw, irritated stumps from where she’d personally sat atop his chest, held him down, and sawed them off. As her former lover and would-be husband moaned in agony, she abruptly uncorked the vial and upended the contents into her mouth, appreciating the taste of the sparkling, ruby colored alchemical suspension without suffering any of its effects as it remained held in her mouth and unswallowed. It was not for her. It was never for her. Standing over him and gazing down at her hideous handiwork, Shemeska brushed a hand over his cheek to catch the tear upon a single manicured and purple painted claw before deftly placing it upon her tongue to taste of his misery. She smiled, deeply appreciative of the taste and what it represented as she proceeded –as was standard for every visit she made– to make sure that the ring of sustenance remained in place upon his left hand on the finger, nestled snug against the golden wedding band she’d given him as a token of false love. Still smiling, she stroked her claws down his chest before leaning down and kissing him as passionately as they had each and every moment of their affair, slipping her tongue past his lips and releasing the contents of the vial held in her mouth forcibly down his throat, there to interact with his mortal biology and extend his life and prolong his torment. “Did you miss me… my love?” Shemeska broke the kiss and lapped at his chin before pulling back and laughing until she was out of breath. As far as ex-lovers went, Shylara the Manged might have escaped relatively untormented by comparison to Eustace Arnisikarion. She at least was free. Abject, apoplectic rage coursed through the living-dead man’s eyes. She did not grant him the pleasure of reading his thoughts and letting him speak to her. He would remain and suffer, and in suffering grant her pleasure beyond what he might have hoped for in bed or otherwise. At least now he had a purpose beyond simply existing and suffering for her pleasure, an original purpose for which he remained alive, if never whole. “I’ve brought you a gift old fool.” Shemeska produced the key from where it had hung against the flesh of her thigh and unhooked the mithral chain from her waist. She actually hesitated as she let the chain hang free and prepared to place it at the foot of the bed, not wanting to let it slip beyond her grip and pass from her control. But set it down she did, following the Oinoloth’s instructions that it never leave Sigil, and set it down upon the silken sheets just beyond Eustace’s reach if he’d possessed hands or any mobility at all, but it was ever within his line of sight, swirling with cold, flickering shadows. Sighing as she placed the artifact down and halfway expecting flaying shadows to come for her moments later, she finally relaxed and stroked her former lover’s flesh with idle malice before she departed to Khin-Oin. “I’ll be back for you Eustace, not to worry my love, and at some point in the next decade I’ll make sure to come back and give you another kiss and your next dose.” She laughed and kissed his forehead, turning and walking away, gazing about for latent portals before turning back and adding, “And as a complete aside, you should know that the last of your surviving grand nephews is dead. Your line of inheritance ever dwindles my love and soon they will forget that you yet live or that you ever existed at all. But not to worry my dearest Eustace, I won’t forget you. My memory will never fade, and this immortal b*tch that broke you for her own amusement will make sure that regardless of your mortality, you’ll persist and suffer as long as I desire.” With a horrific, delighted smirk upon her face, Shemeska turned and walked from the room, the man’s ragged moans music to her ears. “I am almost there my Oinoloth, just as you requested…” She whispered, glancing about at each and every bound space for the swiftest egress from the City of Doors and then to the Waste, debating which route would be the swiftest. She could have taken a portal to Hopeless and then through another permanent portal there in the courtyard of Mocking Thingol’s palace to Oinos, but that would have taken far too long for her liking. Instead the razorvine-crowned fiend simply activated the first portal she saw with a non-material key, opened it with a thought, and then before the cubes of Tintabulos were visible in the black vault of Acheron’s void, she effortlessly cast a gate and stepped through into Khin-Oin itself. There would be no grand entry. There would be no arrival with pomp and an honor guard. The gates of the Wasting Tower would remain shut and her arrival unheralded and unnoticed. Only the Oinoloth mattered to her, and only he would see her, and he would see her soon. “I am here for you my master…” [center]****[/center] [/QUOTE]
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Shemeska's Planescape Storyhour - (Updated 14February2024)
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