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Story Hour
Shemeska's Planescape Storyhour - (Updated 14February2024)
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<blockquote data-quote="Shemeska" data-source="post: 7567790" data-attributes="member: 11697"><p>Prehistory:</p><p></p><p>The obsidian blade punctured velvet, silk, fur, flesh, and fascia without the slightest resistance. It punctured her right ventricle and then with a flick of a wrist it neatly bisected her aorta, flooding her chest cavity and then dousing her chest above it with a bubbling fountain of brilliant crimson blood. For an arcanaloth the situation was nothing new given the manner in which they transitioned from nycaloth to their current and lofty caste. The blade was pain. The blade was agony. The blade was release. The blade was freedom. The blade was transfiguration.</p><p></p><p>Normally.</p><p></p><p>But this was not a promotion. This was murder. This was sacrifice.</p><p></p><p>Her eyes widened and a shrill scream of agony reached her lips before her killer’s hands thrust into her mouth and held her tongue until there were no more inchoate, half-formed curses left to scream as the dull gray light of the Waste faded to darkness.</p><p></p><p>Death was not such a simple thing as blade and blood, broken flesh and the suffocation of exsanguinations under the eyes of her smiling killer brilliant and livid against the bleached nothingness of the surrounding Gloom. The runes of the blade erupted with puissant magic, subtle and terrible to behold, igniting the nascent magic within the victim’s blood, racing with sorcerous, fluid fire through the veins, arteries, and arterioles of her body as she bled, choked, and gave her final breath, the last drops of blood mere charred ash upon the wind as her body disintegrated and joined the surrounding dust, damningly no more important than any other dead soul ground to irrelevant nothingness as was thusly consigned to become as well.</p><p></p><p>Enraged beyond belief, the tattered, insubstantial fragments of her soul tumbled into the devouring maw of her native plane as above the sky burned with the gleaming, hungry light of the Loadstone’s bleak and dire poetry.</p><p></p><p>NO!</p><p></p><p>NO!</p><p></p><p>BETRAYAL!</p><p></p><p>THIS CANNOT BE!</p><p></p><p>I WILL NOT BE DENIED WHAT IS MINE!</p><p></p><p>I WILL HAVE THE POWER DUE ME!</p><p></p><p>I WILL HAVE MY PLACE!</p><p></p><p>I WILL HAVE MY POSITION!</p><p></p><p>I WILL HAVE MY MAJESTY!</p><p></p><p>All around the Waste feasted, fragmented, and tore at her soul like a horde of jackals to a fresh and bloody corpse. In moments there would be nothing of her left - nothing but the taste of her regrets and agony of a stolen existence upon the tongue of her natal plane.</p><p></p><p>“Well aren’t you an interesting and headstrong thing…”</p><p></p><p>The broken fragments of her soul blinked. The voice was calm, powerful, cajoling, seductive, the words spoken in baernaloth, rippling through the metaphysical earth like the tremors along a terrestrial fault line with the distant tug and kiss of an ocean of sentient roiling magma.</p><p></p><p>“A shame that it will be over in moments as the Waste savors, devours, and extinguishes you and everything that you might have ever been or would ever become.”</p><p></p><p>She screamed at the voice’s mockery even as she felt the very same process it described already occurring.</p><p></p><p>NO! I AM NOT OVER! I AM NOT FINISHED! I WILL RIP MY WAY FREE OF THIS PLACE! I AM NOT DONE WITH THIS WORLD!</p><p></p><p>“You are nothing child.”</p><p></p><p>She felt the voice’s smirk like a slap across her face.</p><p></p><p>“Nothing…”</p><p></p><p>NO! NO! I AM POTENTIAL! I AM RAGE! I AM BITTER REVENGE!</p><p></p><p>“And you are dead… returned to the very substance from which all yugoloths derive.”</p><p></p><p>AND YET… And yet… and yet here I am, still speaking to you, voice in the depths, whatever you are…</p><p></p><p>Around her the Waste itself seemed to smile silently in tectonic amusement.</p><p></p><p>“Whatever I am? A voice crying in the wilderness. Forgotten. Abandoned.”</p><p></p><p>“I don’t care what you are.” She snarled, her essence unraveling moment by moment. “Spare me your mockery and help me. Ask your price and I will pay it. I will have what was and shall be mine!”</p><p></p><p>The substance behind the voice in the gray and bleak darkness smiled.</p><p></p><p>A hundred thousand grasping claws and teeth seized upon the errant tatters of the soul that had been, seizing them, ripping them free of the immaterial lysosomes accreted about each piece, parsing them aside from the infinity of every other dead soul devoured and digested by the Waste. All of it occurred effortlessly.</p><p></p><p>“And what little thing?” The voice asked, its words in baernaloth rattling her essence held in stasis like aftershocks on already broken, tortured earth. “What will you do if returned to existence?”</p><p></p><p>“Everything that I desire is what I will do.”</p><p></p><p>Another smirk and the myriad, insubstantial hands juggled the bits of her soul, playing with them like blocks strewn across a child’s playroom room.</p><p></p><p>“A vacuous answer that has emotional strength for sure but which lacks any definition. Your mind is much the same as every other yugoloth and many other manner of creatures who have died much the same as you with the same burning thoughts of revenge and loss painted upon their disintegrating souls. I have listened to your beautiful, wailing song of suffering so many, many times like a sweet lullaby to my slumbering ears. What little arcanaloth, what makes you any different from all of them? …What is it that you want?”</p><p></p><p>The words were ancient. The question full of power beyond the mere words, the phrase layered with allusions and complexities in the tongue of the baern. Had she been corporeal, the question in the same words would have brought her ears to bleed and compelled the answer from her tongue before she’d had the chance to prepare her will to resist, but in her present form she had neither.</p><p></p><p>“What do I want? You know what I want! You know what was taken from me! I want it back! I want to open my lips and breathe, to pluck the knife from my chest and bring pain and agony to my killer. I want to savor in their death and have everything that was theirs and should have been mine by blood and birthright.”</p><p></p><p>The presence laughed.</p><p></p><p>“Oh little mewling thing, where is the challenge in that if I –give– everything to you?” The voice sneered, “Nothing is given. Everything of substance must be desired, hungered for, and then seized in a shower of blood and misery. You know this child of despair. But you will breathe again nonetheless.”</p><p></p><p>The claws and teeth that held her together against the gnawing acid hunger of the Waste were swift and precise. What they did with her they had done before, though how many times she could not have known. Enraptured at its power, she understood of course that it was not a mercy, but a curse, a poisoned gift with an unspoken price that she would one day come to pay. But fueled by the bitterness of loss and death, she did not care what that cost might ever be. Instead there was only a single question of her own.</p><p></p><p>“Who are you?”</p><p></p><p>“And there,” The presence smiled voraciously, an ocean of eyes gleaming with a million devoured secrets of which that was but one, “There is the question that I waited for. Once you had of course gained what you desired, the academic curiosity emerges along with the distrust no longer hidden but on full display.”</p><p></p><p>“And?” She demanded, full of pride and bluster as her essence was woven and knitted back together piece by ephemeral piece. “One of the Demented? Another baernaloth entirely?” She paused and disgust crept into her voice, “A power…?”</p><p></p><p>Of course, a thing of darkness and secrets, it provided her no answer at all as it smiled to itself and its handiwork as it held her spirit aloft and admired what it had created. Oh the irony. In so many ways, the irony.</p><p></p><p>“What good is a second chance amidst the trailing shadow of betrayal by your own kind when betrayal may await you once again? That my child is up to you to find, determine, and MAKE.”</p><p></p><p>She furrowed a brow yet without substance.</p><p></p><p>“Whatever you are, I will find you. I will scour the records of the Tower. I will devour the brains of a thousand screaming clerics and pluck the tongues of a million wailing petitioners. I will take my answers from them and with them I will find you and take my answers then in all my coming glory!”</p><p></p><p>“No. No you will not.” The presence smirked, “Because if you do meet me again, it is I who will find you, but only if you are worthy.”</p><p></p><p>She scoffed, feeling a mouth taking form in the patterns of her soul finally. “I know my capabilities and I have a plan in place already for what I must do. It will take centuries but I will find you.”</p><p></p><p>“I find that highly unlikely child.” It chuckled, placed a dozen fingers of darkness against ivory, intangible teeth, “Because breathing once more or not, you won’t remember me in the slightest.”</p><p></p><p>“What?...”</p><p></p><p>“You will remember none of this moment between moments. You will be given life again, but this time you will struggle and you will succeed or not by your own merits rather than the serendipity of blood and a parent in rut to give you caste. If you are to be worthy of your birthright YOU. WILL. EARN. IT. SUBCREATURE.”</p><p></p><p>“NO!” The form of her mouth moved, alien in shape and configuration and in a fraction of a second she knew the bitter triumph of her bargain and what it had given and demanded of her.</p><p></p><p>“Fuel your rise by spite, by rage, by bitter fury at fate and circumstance. Make yourself what you desire to become.” The voice motioned upwards, pursed unseen lips and breathed life into a metaphorical figure of dust and clay, a soul with one pattern locked within the prison of another by intent. “Learn. Suffer. Suffer for me and then, when you are ready, return to me with blood on your hands, triumph and agony as your crown.”</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p style="text-align: center">****</p><p></p><p></p><p>The Spawning Pools of Khin-Oin were alien things even to the yugoloths that tended to them, engines of calcified deific flesh carved from the sacral marrow of the spine that housed the Wasting Tower itself from many miles above where the Seige Malicious looked down to there at its lowest depths where it plunged into the depths of the Waste and mixed with the black and polluted groundwater of the Styx. It was there that the first yugoloths had emerged at the ancient call of their baernaloth creators, and it was there, with the aid of those artifacts, miles wide, that the yugoloths managed to accomplish the same feat on their own in advanced speed and number than they otherwise did naturally and spontaneously across the whole of the plane when the Waste belched up a new mezzoloth spawned from the essence of another yugoloth anywhere else that had died. Predating and detached from the souls of mortals, the yugoloths were eternal and constant.</p><p></p><p>As one new mezzoloth breached the glistening, curiously thick and membranous meniscus of the surface and clambering forth on its insectile limbs, the ambient eldritch light reflection off of the oil-slick skein of its glossy, chitinous carapace, it chattered with barely restrained rage. This mezzoloth was different. This mezzoloth was special. It knew what it had been before its (re)birth. The details were vacuous and scattered, but it knew that it had been an arcanaloth, betrayed and killed by its own kind, now reborn in the lowest, most base of yugoloth castes. There was no birthright power, there was only a ladder of pain, debasement, and struggle that stretched out and so high above itself that it would need to climb.</p><p></p><p>F*ck it all.</p><p></p><p>Whatever was required of it, it would occur, and by whatever means necessary to reclaim and seize what belonged to it.</p><p></p><p>All around the mezzoloth, others of its kind emerged from the luminous muck, marshaled and directed by other, higher caste yugoloths to begin the most basic and meaningless of training before being hurled into the Blood War and certain death. A soft hiss escaped from past the mezzoloth’s mandibles as it turned to the nearest of its kind, studied it for but a moment and ripped her talons into a breach in its armor plating, drawing blood and causing the least yugoloth to shriek in agony and stumble forward. The killing blow would have come quickly had the mezzoloth desired it, but for whatever reason it held back, innate knowledge telling it otherwise and in a swift and beguiling sidestep, it grabbed the arms of yet another of its kind and thrust it into the injured one and stepped away to one side. Enraged, the injured mezzoloth leapt upon the one that now stumbled into it, its animal intelligence confusing it with its actual attacker who stood and watched, amused by the pain it had caused.</p><p></p><p>The mezzoloth had no lips with which to smile, but inwardly it did nonetheless as its slinked off into the darkness, losing itself in the myriad throng of tens of thousands of its kind marching forwards while behind it, hundreds of others shrieked and fought in an expanding chorus of murderous, fratricidal agony. It would enjoy this existence, even if its current form was an insult to what it deserved to be.</p><p></p><p>No matter what it took, it would regain what had been taken.</p><p></p><p></p><p style="text-align: center">****</p><p></p><p>Shemeska awoke with a scream of terror and confusion, one arm pawing at her face to feel the line of her vulpine muzzle, feel her ears, her lips, and briefly then to pat at every part of her body that was there. One arm remained absent, but the bleeding had stopped, and a brief centimeter of raw flesh now sprouted from the previously raw and open wound. One eye still stared about blind and unseeing, but while the socket had been empty before, an eye, albeit one clouded over and still devoid of sight, now occupied that previously empty hollow within the confines of her skull.</p><p></p><p>She was healing. After weeks she was finally healing.</p><p></p><p>Snapping her fingers and conjuring forth light into her private chambers, she looked about. Two tieflings lay dead to either side of her, one strangled and still entwined in the sheets, the other ashen of pallor and snuffed by magic in the throes of passion. It only took the King of the Crosstrade a moment to reach for her razorvine crown and collect her thoughts, dragging them away from the dream, and as her brain threw off the shackles of slumber –a rare thing for a yugoloth– she realized two things.</p><p></p><p>Her left hand clenched the Shadow Sorcelled Key, its shadows cool upon her flesh as they lapped at her wrist. She’d clenched it so hard in fact that her claws had punctured her own flesh and she freely bled into the silks upon which she and the two deceased prostitutes lay. Secondly the details of the dream. Not the moments below Khin-Oin, but the unknown period preceding it.</p><p></p><p>She remembered.</p><p></p><p>Trembling and clenching the Key even tighter, she remembered, and she was terrified.</p><p></p><p></p><p style="text-align: center">****</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Shemeska, post: 7567790, member: 11697"] Prehistory: The obsidian blade punctured velvet, silk, fur, flesh, and fascia without the slightest resistance. It punctured her right ventricle and then with a flick of a wrist it neatly bisected her aorta, flooding her chest cavity and then dousing her chest above it with a bubbling fountain of brilliant crimson blood. For an arcanaloth the situation was nothing new given the manner in which they transitioned from nycaloth to their current and lofty caste. The blade was pain. The blade was agony. The blade was release. The blade was freedom. The blade was transfiguration. Normally. But this was not a promotion. This was murder. This was sacrifice. Her eyes widened and a shrill scream of agony reached her lips before her killer’s hands thrust into her mouth and held her tongue until there were no more inchoate, half-formed curses left to scream as the dull gray light of the Waste faded to darkness. Death was not such a simple thing as blade and blood, broken flesh and the suffocation of exsanguinations under the eyes of her smiling killer brilliant and livid against the bleached nothingness of the surrounding Gloom. The runes of the blade erupted with puissant magic, subtle and terrible to behold, igniting the nascent magic within the victim’s blood, racing with sorcerous, fluid fire through the veins, arteries, and arterioles of her body as she bled, choked, and gave her final breath, the last drops of blood mere charred ash upon the wind as her body disintegrated and joined the surrounding dust, damningly no more important than any other dead soul ground to irrelevant nothingness as was thusly consigned to become as well. Enraged beyond belief, the tattered, insubstantial fragments of her soul tumbled into the devouring maw of her native plane as above the sky burned with the gleaming, hungry light of the Loadstone’s bleak and dire poetry. NO! NO! BETRAYAL! THIS CANNOT BE! I WILL NOT BE DENIED WHAT IS MINE! I WILL HAVE THE POWER DUE ME! I WILL HAVE MY PLACE! I WILL HAVE MY POSITION! I WILL HAVE MY MAJESTY! All around the Waste feasted, fragmented, and tore at her soul like a horde of jackals to a fresh and bloody corpse. In moments there would be nothing of her left - nothing but the taste of her regrets and agony of a stolen existence upon the tongue of her natal plane. “Well aren’t you an interesting and headstrong thing…” The broken fragments of her soul blinked. The voice was calm, powerful, cajoling, seductive, the words spoken in baernaloth, rippling through the metaphysical earth like the tremors along a terrestrial fault line with the distant tug and kiss of an ocean of sentient roiling magma. “A shame that it will be over in moments as the Waste savors, devours, and extinguishes you and everything that you might have ever been or would ever become.” She screamed at the voice’s mockery even as she felt the very same process it described already occurring. NO! I AM NOT OVER! I AM NOT FINISHED! I WILL RIP MY WAY FREE OF THIS PLACE! I AM NOT DONE WITH THIS WORLD! “You are nothing child.” She felt the voice’s smirk like a slap across her face. “Nothing…” NO! NO! I AM POTENTIAL! I AM RAGE! I AM BITTER REVENGE! “And you are dead… returned to the very substance from which all yugoloths derive.” AND YET… And yet… and yet here I am, still speaking to you, voice in the depths, whatever you are… Around her the Waste itself seemed to smile silently in tectonic amusement. “Whatever I am? A voice crying in the wilderness. Forgotten. Abandoned.” “I don’t care what you are.” She snarled, her essence unraveling moment by moment. “Spare me your mockery and help me. Ask your price and I will pay it. I will have what was and shall be mine!” The substance behind the voice in the gray and bleak darkness smiled. A hundred thousand grasping claws and teeth seized upon the errant tatters of the soul that had been, seizing them, ripping them free of the immaterial lysosomes accreted about each piece, parsing them aside from the infinity of every other dead soul devoured and digested by the Waste. All of it occurred effortlessly. “And what little thing?” The voice asked, its words in baernaloth rattling her essence held in stasis like aftershocks on already broken, tortured earth. “What will you do if returned to existence?” “Everything that I desire is what I will do.” Another smirk and the myriad, insubstantial hands juggled the bits of her soul, playing with them like blocks strewn across a child’s playroom room. “A vacuous answer that has emotional strength for sure but which lacks any definition. Your mind is much the same as every other yugoloth and many other manner of creatures who have died much the same as you with the same burning thoughts of revenge and loss painted upon their disintegrating souls. I have listened to your beautiful, wailing song of suffering so many, many times like a sweet lullaby to my slumbering ears. What little arcanaloth, what makes you any different from all of them? …What is it that you want?” The words were ancient. The question full of power beyond the mere words, the phrase layered with allusions and complexities in the tongue of the baern. Had she been corporeal, the question in the same words would have brought her ears to bleed and compelled the answer from her tongue before she’d had the chance to prepare her will to resist, but in her present form she had neither. “What do I want? You know what I want! You know what was taken from me! I want it back! I want to open my lips and breathe, to pluck the knife from my chest and bring pain and agony to my killer. I want to savor in their death and have everything that was theirs and should have been mine by blood and birthright.” The presence laughed. “Oh little mewling thing, where is the challenge in that if I –give– everything to you?” The voice sneered, “Nothing is given. Everything of substance must be desired, hungered for, and then seized in a shower of blood and misery. You know this child of despair. But you will breathe again nonetheless.” The claws and teeth that held her together against the gnawing acid hunger of the Waste were swift and precise. What they did with her they had done before, though how many times she could not have known. Enraptured at its power, she understood of course that it was not a mercy, but a curse, a poisoned gift with an unspoken price that she would one day come to pay. But fueled by the bitterness of loss and death, she did not care what that cost might ever be. Instead there was only a single question of her own. “Who are you?” “And there,” The presence smiled voraciously, an ocean of eyes gleaming with a million devoured secrets of which that was but one, “There is the question that I waited for. Once you had of course gained what you desired, the academic curiosity emerges along with the distrust no longer hidden but on full display.” “And?” She demanded, full of pride and bluster as her essence was woven and knitted back together piece by ephemeral piece. “One of the Demented? Another baernaloth entirely?” She paused and disgust crept into her voice, “A power…?” Of course, a thing of darkness and secrets, it provided her no answer at all as it smiled to itself and its handiwork as it held her spirit aloft and admired what it had created. Oh the irony. In so many ways, the irony. “What good is a second chance amidst the trailing shadow of betrayal by your own kind when betrayal may await you once again? That my child is up to you to find, determine, and MAKE.” She furrowed a brow yet without substance. “Whatever you are, I will find you. I will scour the records of the Tower. I will devour the brains of a thousand screaming clerics and pluck the tongues of a million wailing petitioners. I will take my answers from them and with them I will find you and take my answers then in all my coming glory!” “No. No you will not.” The presence smirked, “Because if you do meet me again, it is I who will find you, but only if you are worthy.” She scoffed, feeling a mouth taking form in the patterns of her soul finally. “I know my capabilities and I have a plan in place already for what I must do. It will take centuries but I will find you.” “I find that highly unlikely child.” It chuckled, placed a dozen fingers of darkness against ivory, intangible teeth, “Because breathing once more or not, you won’t remember me in the slightest.” “What?...” “You will remember none of this moment between moments. You will be given life again, but this time you will struggle and you will succeed or not by your own merits rather than the serendipity of blood and a parent in rut to give you caste. If you are to be worthy of your birthright YOU. WILL. EARN. IT. SUBCREATURE.” “NO!” The form of her mouth moved, alien in shape and configuration and in a fraction of a second she knew the bitter triumph of her bargain and what it had given and demanded of her. “Fuel your rise by spite, by rage, by bitter fury at fate and circumstance. Make yourself what you desire to become.” The voice motioned upwards, pursed unseen lips and breathed life into a metaphorical figure of dust and clay, a soul with one pattern locked within the prison of another by intent. “Learn. Suffer. Suffer for me and then, when you are ready, return to me with blood on your hands, triumph and agony as your crown.” [center]****[/center] The Spawning Pools of Khin-Oin were alien things even to the yugoloths that tended to them, engines of calcified deific flesh carved from the sacral marrow of the spine that housed the Wasting Tower itself from many miles above where the Seige Malicious looked down to there at its lowest depths where it plunged into the depths of the Waste and mixed with the black and polluted groundwater of the Styx. It was there that the first yugoloths had emerged at the ancient call of their baernaloth creators, and it was there, with the aid of those artifacts, miles wide, that the yugoloths managed to accomplish the same feat on their own in advanced speed and number than they otherwise did naturally and spontaneously across the whole of the plane when the Waste belched up a new mezzoloth spawned from the essence of another yugoloth anywhere else that had died. Predating and detached from the souls of mortals, the yugoloths were eternal and constant. As one new mezzoloth breached the glistening, curiously thick and membranous meniscus of the surface and clambering forth on its insectile limbs, the ambient eldritch light reflection off of the oil-slick skein of its glossy, chitinous carapace, it chattered with barely restrained rage. This mezzoloth was different. This mezzoloth was special. It knew what it had been before its (re)birth. The details were vacuous and scattered, but it knew that it had been an arcanaloth, betrayed and killed by its own kind, now reborn in the lowest, most base of yugoloth castes. There was no birthright power, there was only a ladder of pain, debasement, and struggle that stretched out and so high above itself that it would need to climb. F*ck it all. Whatever was required of it, it would occur, and by whatever means necessary to reclaim and seize what belonged to it. All around the mezzoloth, others of its kind emerged from the luminous muck, marshaled and directed by other, higher caste yugoloths to begin the most basic and meaningless of training before being hurled into the Blood War and certain death. A soft hiss escaped from past the mezzoloth’s mandibles as it turned to the nearest of its kind, studied it for but a moment and ripped her talons into a breach in its armor plating, drawing blood and causing the least yugoloth to shriek in agony and stumble forward. The killing blow would have come quickly had the mezzoloth desired it, but for whatever reason it held back, innate knowledge telling it otherwise and in a swift and beguiling sidestep, it grabbed the arms of yet another of its kind and thrust it into the injured one and stepped away to one side. Enraged, the injured mezzoloth leapt upon the one that now stumbled into it, its animal intelligence confusing it with its actual attacker who stood and watched, amused by the pain it had caused. The mezzoloth had no lips with which to smile, but inwardly it did nonetheless as its slinked off into the darkness, losing itself in the myriad throng of tens of thousands of its kind marching forwards while behind it, hundreds of others shrieked and fought in an expanding chorus of murderous, fratricidal agony. It would enjoy this existence, even if its current form was an insult to what it deserved to be. No matter what it took, it would regain what had been taken. [center]****[/center] Shemeska awoke with a scream of terror and confusion, one arm pawing at her face to feel the line of her vulpine muzzle, feel her ears, her lips, and briefly then to pat at every part of her body that was there. One arm remained absent, but the bleeding had stopped, and a brief centimeter of raw flesh now sprouted from the previously raw and open wound. One eye still stared about blind and unseeing, but while the socket had been empty before, an eye, albeit one clouded over and still devoid of sight, now occupied that previously empty hollow within the confines of her skull. She was healing. After weeks she was finally healing. Snapping her fingers and conjuring forth light into her private chambers, she looked about. Two tieflings lay dead to either side of her, one strangled and still entwined in the sheets, the other ashen of pallor and snuffed by magic in the throes of passion. It only took the King of the Crosstrade a moment to reach for her razorvine crown and collect her thoughts, dragging them away from the dream, and as her brain threw off the shackles of slumber –a rare thing for a yugoloth– she realized two things. Her left hand clenched the Shadow Sorcelled Key, its shadows cool upon her flesh as they lapped at her wrist. She’d clenched it so hard in fact that her claws had punctured her own flesh and she freely bled into the silks upon which she and the two deceased prostitutes lay. Secondly the details of the dream. Not the moments below Khin-Oin, but the unknown period preceding it. She remembered. Trembling and clenching the Key even tighter, she remembered, and she was terrified. [center]****[/center] [/QUOTE]
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Shemeska's Planescape Storyhour - (Updated 14February2024)
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