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Story Hour
Shemeska's Planescape Storyhour (Updated 29 Jan 2014)
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<blockquote data-quote="Shemeska" data-source="post: 2813345" data-attributes="member: 11697"><p>Tristol looked up from his spellbook with more than a bit of consternation playing across his face.</p><p></p><p> “The last time you poked your head in here you were mucking around with Heavy Magic.” The aasimar said, looking warily over to see if Clueless had brought any of the freakishly unstable liquid with him.</p><p></p><p> “I ask a question and you immediately think I’m doing something dangerous?” The bladesinger asked with a puckish grin, still touched by his earlier mental haze even as he tried to hide it.</p><p></p><p> “What have you been doing with it lately?” Tristol asked. “I know you can’t get drunk, so something would have to explain the way that you were acting earlier… and still are acting.”</p><p></p><p> “And you immediately think I’m still messing with heavy magic?” Clueless asked again.</p><p></p><p> Tristol raised an eyebrow.</p><p></p><p> “The last time you did, I told you what it was.” The mage said. “Well, at least what little I or anyone else really knew about it, and to…”</p><p></p><p> “Yeah yeah yeah.” Clueless replied. “You said ‘Keep it away from me!’ and then tried to hide under your tail.”</p><p></p><p> “Do you blame me?” The mage replied with a frown, noting the guilty grin playing across the half-fey’s face.</p><p></p><p> “So what is it this time?” Tristol continued with a sigh. “Just don’t get me anywhere near the stuff itself. I’ll answer any questions if I can, just to try to keep you from blowing yourself to pieces, and me, and the inn, and <u>never let Nisha become aware of it</u>!”</p><p></p><p> Even in his current state, Clueless had to shiver at that last one.</p><p></p><p> “Last time I asked about heavy magic you mentioned Karsus.” The bladesinger said. “But have you ever heard of a book that he wrote called ‘Magic and Antimagic’?”</p><p></p><p> “Eh?” Tristol said with a bit of surprise.</p><p></p><p> “Have you heard of it before?” Clueless asked. “Is ‘eh’ a yes or a no?”</p><p></p><p> “Well, yes.” Tristol said. “I’ve read some portions of it before, but usually in other books. It’s a rare bit of lore, even in Halruaa.”</p><p></p><p> “So you don’t have a copy?” Clueless quipped.</p><p></p><p> “No…” Tristol replied. “But what got you interested in the book? And where did you hear about it in the first place?”</p><p></p><p> “It’s about the heavy magic…” Clueless said. “And… well…”</p><p></p><p> “Say no more…” Tristol said, cutting him off. The mention of the heavy magic ended his wanting to know anything further, simply for his own safety.</p><p></p><p> “So you –do- have a copy?” Clueless prompted with a burgeoning grin.</p><p></p><p> “No, like I said, it’s pretty damn rare.” Tristol said with a shrug. “It was written thousands of years ago. </p><p></p><p> Clueless looked momentarily crestfallen, just before Tristol added, “But… I do know someone that I can likely get a copy from.”</p><p></p><p> And that person was Lothar, Master of the Bones.</p><p></p><p></p><p style="text-align: center">***</p><p></p><p></p><p> “I probably should have sprung for a tout.” Tristol said to himself as he glanced up at the battered, soot-covered signs at the street corner.</p><p></p><p> He stood and turned full circle, trying to orient himself in the foggy streets of the Lower Ward. The air was thick with ash, the rotten egg smell of sulfur wafting from the smokestacks of the Great Foundry, and a less certain smell vaguely reminiscent of vinegar that clung to the tongue like a bitter aftertaste of cheap wine.</p><p></p><p> “Hell, I should have asked Nisha to come along with me.” He said. “She knows the streets better than I do.”</p><p></p><p> The warren of streets that he had ventured down was not in the more traveled sections of the Ward. Far from the more popular workshops, businesses, and the wider thoroughfares that accommodated their to and from traffic, Tristol was easily losing his way.</p><p></p><p> “And… and I enjoy her company.” He added, a small smile crossing his face. “Hopefully she feels the same about me. I think she does, I hope she does. I just need to get up the courage to ask her.”</p><p></p><p> Now it was true, he though, Nisha and he were technically different species: him an aasimar and she a tiefling. True, they’d grown up in drastically different backgrounds: he’d been one of the privileged within the magocracy of Halruaa, and she’d grown up with nothing on the streets of the Hive. But despite that, perhaps even because of that, she made him smile and he’d been realizing that more and more lately.</p><p></p><p> His mind continued to wander for a moment as he passed through another thick patch of fog. What would his family say about Nisha if he brought her back to Halagard to visit their tower? Lutra would probably… no, Lutra would absolutely pitch a fit, and the idea brought a smile to his face and set his tail to wagging like a happy puppy.</p><p></p><p> “Just to get up the courage now...” Tristol said.</p><p></p><p> But with that thought, the smog broke abruptly as he reached the end of the street and looked down, stopping himself with a bit of an awkward shuffle of his feet.</p><p></p><p> “What sort of place does Lothar live in?” Tristol mused with uncertainty.</p><p></p><p>Twitching his tail and stepping back slightly from the edge, he gazed down at the wide cleft in the street, and the steep fifty-foot drop inches in front of him: The Ditch. The street simply ended at what was best described as an urban wound stretching for blocks in either direction across the edge of the Lower Ward, slicing into the city’s flesh. Frowning at the expanse and contents of the chasm, Tristol thought back to Lothar and his’ initial meeting some time ago.</p><p></p><p> Tristol had first encountered the man at Jeremo’s dinner at the Palace of the Jester. The so-called Master of Bones had been sitting across from him looking rather socially out of place, and so, thinking the elderly gentleman a mage, based on the robes he was wearing, he’d struck up a conversation. Lothar had apparently shown up only following a pair of requests by the Jester himself, probably because Jeremo had wanted another level headed and powerful spellcaster in case things went sour between some of his more opinionated guests who refused to play well with others. But, as it happened, Lothar hadn’t needed to do a thing, since Tristol and his companions had jumped into the fray instead.</p><p></p><p> Unfortunately the Marauder and the Titan of Wealth had launched into their spat just shortly after Tristol and Lothar had gotten to know one another, putting a halt on their socialization. But at the same time, they had spoken briefly after the party was over, exchanged addresses, and provided an open invitation to one another to visit if they ever wanted to simply chat, or if they wished to deal as sages of the arcane.</p><p></p><p> Well, given Clueless’s request for a book by Karsus himself, Tristol found the time was right to give the Master of Bones a calling.</p><p></p><p> This of course was founded on the presumption that he could actually –find- Lothar’s address in the first place amid the reeking, trash filled expanse of the worst of the Lower Ward. The smell in the ward was typically foul, but it seemed to have gotten as bad as it might possibly get unless he fell into a portal to the Abyss.</p><p></p><p> Suffice to say, as Tristol held his breath and looked down, the Ditch was making a poor impression on him, especially given that the intermittent portals to Oceanus had not flushed the chasm in any recent period, leaving it choked with refuse, debris, and water that seemed very nearly to have the consistency of syrup. A few desperate berks, along with a multitude of rats, cranium and mundane both, fished the muck for anything edible, or anything of use that might have been dumped or discarded there. And, given the crime within the ward and the adjacent Hive, more than a few corpses lay partially submerged along the trough.</p><p></p><p> “Alright. Took a wrong turn somewhere.” Tristol said, covering his nose with a sleeve of his robe and turning away from the edge.</p><p></p><p> The stench of rot and standing water was nauseating, and holding his breath with a grimace, he quickly hurried back along the street.</p><p></p><p> Several blocks and several turns later, Tristol’s eyes were still watering from the mild drizzle of rain seeping out of the smog-ridden sky and turning the fog into acrid smelling vapor more like vinegar than water. The streets were thinner, the cobblestones more chipped and cracked, and the few passersby less welcoming to requests for direction. Altogether, it wasn’t the Hive or the worst of the barrens of the Shattered Temple District, but it was damn near the worst of the Lower Ward.</p><p></p><p> Still covering his nose from the rank odor that swirled around him, likely picked up from the breeze passing over the Ditch, Tristol was nearly on the verge of turning around and going home when he arrived at the address that Lothar had given him.</p><p></p><p> “This can’t be right.” Tristol muttered, looking up at the battered iron plate that gave the street number, and then up at the house itself.</p><p></p><p> His ears twitched in confusion as his eyes played over the burned out, apparently abandoned house that occupied the site. The windows were broken, bits of refuse and graffiti littered the stoop, and the place gave no indication of recent occupation beyond a squatter or two; certainly the place didn’t seem to fit a spellcaster of Lothar’s capacity.</p><p></p><p> “I’m tempted to just go visit A’kin and ask if he’s got a copy of the book.” Tristol said as he cautiously walked up towards the front door. “This hasn’t been a pleasant trip so far, and at least A’kin might offer me a smile and a cookie for the visit.”</p><p></p><p> The front door was laying off to one side of course, the hinges having long ago been pried loose and stolen for scrap. A dead executioner’s raven, rotten and partially eaten, was also tossed off to one side. They were not exactly the most welcoming portents when looking for a wizard’s abode.</p><p></p><p> “Hmm.” Tristol mumbled hopefully. “Maybe it’s just an illusion to keep vagrants away.”</p><p></p><p> Once past the doorway though, the interior wasn’t much better. The floor was covered in dust and a few errant tracks left in recent weeks by squatters, or simply the curious who happened to explore the place.</p><p></p><p> “So much for this just being an illusion.” Tristol said, scuffing at some of the ash and dust with the tip of his staff. “I’m still not convinced that I’ve just got the wrong address and some prankster didn’t simply switch the… wait…”</p><p></p><p> Now that was odd. Tristol squinted and craned his neck to look up.</p><p></p><p>In the middle of the squalor, seemingly untouched by the passage of years, the tarnish of neglect, and the ravages of Sigil’s own unique brand of elements, there was a single, unbroken and virtually new, stained glass window high on one wall.</p><p></p><p> “If that’s not a hint of magic, I’m not a mage.” He said, already whispering a divination spell under his breath.</p><p></p><p> The window began to glow just a bit more brightly, giving away a telltale trace of the protective abjurations that had kept it safe over the years, shedding its multicolored rays across the floor of the gutted, ruined house despite any conditions that might preclude the passage of light, be it fog, rain, or anything else.</p><p></p><p> Tristol smiled and stepped into the path of the window’s light, half expecting some magical effect, and half just admiring the mixture of colors. While no magical display was forthcoming, he did notice something about the dust-covered floor below him: it was hollow under his footfalls in the area colored by the window’s light.</p><p></p><p> “Well that’s interesting.” Tristol said, stepping back at taking note of a recessed latch and handle mostly covered by the dust.</p><p></p><p> A trapdoor.</p><p></p><p> He tapped the door a few times with his staff, finding its dimensions, and then pulled it up and open to reveal the rungs of a ladder constructed from, or carved into the shape of bones. A bit of warm, pleasantly fresh air drifted up from the darkness below, stirring the dust and soot above.</p><p></p><p> Casting a minor cantrip to illuminate the gloom as he descended the ladder, Tristol closed the trapdoor back to the surface and examined his new surroundings. With the darkness suppressed and held back, the room was rather nicer than the hovel that sat perched over it. The ladder emptied into a small, wood paneled room mostly free of dust that was comfortably warm compared to outside in the chill, rank fog of the Lower Ward.</p><p></p><p> Neat but sparse, that was the overall tone of the place. But that did fit the impression that Tristol had gotten from Lothar when they’d briefly spoken at Jeremo’s party. And with that thought in mind, brushing a bit of soot off of his robes with a bit of anxious self-consciousness, Tristol approached what appeared to be the front door opposite the stairs and politely gave a knock.</p><p></p><p> There wasn’t a bit of sound in response from the other side of the door.</p><p></p><p> “Hmm.” Tristol said. “I wonder if he’s home.”</p><p></p><p> A soft hiss of another door opening made the aasimar turn his head to the side and look. Off to the right, an obscured door had opened to reveal a dark figure draped in a hooded robe, looking expectantly at Tristol. It wasn’t Lothar however, it was too hunched over for that, and as it took a few steps forward, it was far too lithe and quick on its feet to match the venerable old man that Tristol remembered.</p><p></p><p> “I’m here to see Lothar.” Tristol said, fishing in his pocket for a card. “He’d wished to exchange some information with me.”</p><p></p><p> The cowled figure veritably scurried forward and extended a gnarled hand to accept the card, bringing it close to its hood and seeming to sniff at it. Tristol felt the urge to step back from the figure’s odd behavior, but he held firm even as who he assumed to be a servant or perhaps the doorman pulled back his cowl to reveal a face more rat than human, replete with elongated, protruding incisors and long, twitching whiskers.</p><p></p><p> “The Master of Bones is present.” The were-rat said with a bit of a hiss. “Does he expect you?”</p><p></p><p> “We’ve met before, a few months ago.” Tristol replied. “He extended an open invitation to me then, and I have a request and an offer for him regarding a book.”</p><p></p><p> The humanoid vermin twitched its ears and seemed to ponder for a moment before pulling out a large, antique looking key and moving towards the door Tristol had originally knocked at.</p><p></p><p> “I didn’t catch your name.” The mage said. “Who might you be?”</p><p></p><p> The doorman rolled his eyes before turning around to face his master’s guest.</p><p></p><p> “I would be Tattershade.” He replied with a straight face. “King of the were-rats.”</p><p></p><p> The doorman turned and opened the door, once again rolling his eyes and doing his best to seem polite while responding as little as possible to a few questions and attempts at conversation on Tristol’s part.</p><p></p><p> Eventually though, ‘Tattershade’ motioned Tristol forwards into Lothar’s waiting room and scurried off to presumably fetch the master himself, leaving his guest to stare in awed revulsion at the contents of the room.</p><p></p><p> Skulls. Thousands of them. The walls of the vaulted chamber were covered in shelves and bookcases packed with orderly rows of bleached white, grinning skulls of all shapes and sizes, each categorized and tagged with a small nameplate below the spot where they sat.</p><p></p><p> “Wow.” Tristol said. “The name fits I suppose.”</p><p></p><p> Tristol stepped further into the room, letting his eyes wander across one of the shelves and the rest of the room as well. A few chairs and sofas dotted the floor along with a podium or two with a spot for a book and inkwell, and on the far end of the chamber a decorative, wrought iron spiral staircase spiraled up and down into other chambers. But the skulls were by far the dominating aspect of the room, leering down like a chorus of grinning imps just finished with their last architectural project in Avernus.</p><p></p><p> Most of the skulls were old, missing teeth, cracked in places, and showing the evidence of prior burial or abandonment in various circumstances for long periods of time. The collection also ran the range from humanoids of all sizes and types, to even a few fiends and celestials.</p><p></p><p> Virtually all of the skulls were identified by species, age, and even where they had come from. What more, most of the skulls were named, presumably the name of the individual they had come from in the first place. But what drew Tristol’s attention was a tag affixed below one of the skulls.</p><p></p><p> “Will not talk. Fix later.” Tristol mumbled, reading the small, concise notation affixed to the nameless, apparently newly added skull.</p><p></p><p> “That almost makes it seem like Lothar manages to make them talk to him.” Tristol openly mused, feeling respectful and disturbed at once. “I know some clerics can make a corpse speak through magic, but this… this is a bit beyond that.”</p><p></p><p> His back turned to the other half of the collection, he suddenly felt painfully aware of the skulls behind him staring at him. Thousands of hollow sockets devoid of eyes, devoid of life, still somehow animate, it was like being in a prison, or more like a zoo with sentient animals set out on display.</p><p></p><p> “I’m not a necromancer though.” Tristol said, looking at a few of the skulls above his head on the shelf. “I wouldn’t know the first thing about holding a conversation with you.”</p><p></p><p> Seemingly spurred by his comment, a series of staccato chatters of teeth, like skeletal laughter, echoed behind him. Tristol spun around at the noise.</p><p></p><p> “…” He held his tongue, looking for perhaps Lothar or one of his servants that might have caused the noise.</p><p></p><p> Some of the skulls had moved and were now positioned to look directly at him.</p><p></p><p> *clack*</p><p></p><p> One of them moved on its own accord, rapping its teeth together, catching the mage’s attention.</p><p></p><p> *chatter*</p><p></p><p> “You’re undead?” Tristol questioned one of the animate skulls, moving closer to them.</p><p></p><p> “No.” One of them whispered, its hollow voice barely audible.</p><p></p><p> “We…” Another began before being silenced by another.</p><p></p><p> “Silence! The Master approaches!” Several exclaimed before likewise falling still and hush.</p><p></p><p> Tristol perked an eyebrow as a hush seemed to descend over the skulls in their entirely. Something like fear mixed with resentment, seemed to swallow the skeletal chorus, stealing away any of the sense of life that some of them had expressed when faced with the lone mage.</p><p></p><p> Footsteps echoed on the spiral stairs and Tristol turned to look.</p><p></p><p> “Master Starweather,” Came Lothar’s warm greeting. “It is good to see you again. To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”</p><p></p><p> In contrast to his rich, confidant voice, the man descending the staircase was frail and ancient looking. The bulk of his frame seemed filled out by the rather plain robe he wore, and he was leaning heavily on his staff as he stepped down each stair, making his way into the skull chamber.</p><p></p><p> “It’s good to see you as well Lothar.” Tristol replied, giving a bow. “I knew about your collection of bones from when we spoke at the Palace of the Jester, but I have to admit that I’m more than a bit overwhelmed now that I’m here looking at it.”</p><p></p><p> The skulls remained silent and inanimate, like they were collectively holding their dusty breath and minding their manners while their master entertained a guest. But even if the skulls seemed verily terrified on some level, Lothar himself didn’t give off anything even close to the disturbing aura of fear and questionable morals that a powerful necromancer, lich, or priest of a deity of death might shed like the light of a torch. Quite to the contrary, and in sharp contrast to the skulls lining the walls like some great catacomb of the Dustmen, the Master of Bones seemed friendly, warm, and quite pleasant to be around.</p><p></p><p> “This is but a portion of my full collection I will admit.” Lothar said, taking a seat on one of the chairs. “I have my servants arrange them according to those I might seek to consult, all depending on what topic I happen to be researching at any moment.”</p><p></p><p> “It’s rather fascinating, if quite out of my range of specialization.” Tristol replied. “I take it that you manage to gain something from them beyond normal divinations and searching through libraries?”</p><p></p><p> Lothar nodded sagely. “Unlike people, unlike an author’s lines in a tome, and without the ambiguity inherent in most divinations, the dead cannot lie.”</p><p></p><p> Upon one of the shelves, a few skulls rattled like frightened puppies given a few sharp words by their owner.</p><p></p><p> “But I’m to understand that you had some offer for me?” Lothar said, swinging the conversation away from his collection of the dead.</p><p></p><p> “Yes.” Tristol replied, taking a seat as well. “I was wondering if you have a copy of a certain book.”</p><p></p><p> “Perhaps. It really depends on the subject and relevance to my studies.” Lothar said. “Despite popular opinion among some, and perhaps appearances, I’m not a necromancer, nor even a wizard. I consider myself a priest, nothing more.”</p><p></p><p> Tristol nodded, aware from prior conversation that Lothar, like Oridi Malefin of the Dustmen, was a cleric of the Abstract Concept of Death, venerating the process itself in a way that might be beyond the grasp of a priest of Osiris, Hades, Arawn, Kelemvor, or any others.</p><p></p><p> “It’s a book by the Archmage Karsus, late of Toril, titled ‘Magic and Antimagic’.” The aasimar continued. “It’s quite rare, and several thousand years old.”</p><p></p><p> “I’m familiar with it.” Lothar responded with a smile. “And I do have a copy of it in my library.”</p><p></p><p> Tristol’s ears perked almost immediately. For someone who wasn’t a wizard, Lothar had more sorcerous goods at hand than most mages did, perhaps as references or perhaps just as bargaining tools for the future.</p><p></p><p> “Would it be possible for…” Tristol began.</p><p></p><p> “Yes.” Lothar replied. “You may borrow it for a ten-day without cost.”</p><p></p><p> “Might I be able to make a copy of it?” Tristol asked politely.</p><p></p><p> And honestly, that was his own request, and not simply a favor by proxy for Clueless. Clueless simply wanted one snippet of information from the book, viewing it as more a curiosity than anything else. Tristol on the other hand viewed the book from the context of his own people’s history in Halruaa, the heirs and descendants of fallen Netheril. To him, the book contained what his people sought to preserve in some cases and recreate in others, and having one more copy of that knowledge was another step along that path, a tangible prayer for the honored fallen.</p><p></p><p>“Yes… but.” Lothar explained, putting up a finger. “If you wish to copy it I will require some manner of favor in exchange.”</p><p></p><p> “What sort of favor?” Tristol asked.</p><p></p><p> “I don’t quite know as of yet.” The cleric said with a shrug. “But we can discuss those terms and specifics later when I have the book retrieved and brought down here. For the moment however, I’m curious as to what transpired when Jeremo hired you and your fellows to look into, and apparently fix, his little cranium rat problem.”</p><p></p><p> “You knew about that?” Tristol asked.</p><p></p><p> “I have several were-rats in my employ.” The Master of Bones explained. “I was probably aware of the migration of that particular Hive into his palace before Jeremo first noticed them.”</p><p></p><p> “Well,” Tristol began. “Jeremo provided us with maps of the first few layers below the street level, and warned us that beyond that point…”</p><p></p><p> He paused and pondered how to phrase it.</p><p></p><p> “…beyond that point the hallways move and rearrange themselves.”</p><p></p><p> “Interesting.” Lothar commented. “Jeremo’s Palace existed long before he was born, and it has an interesting history in and of its own. Do go on.”</p><p></p><p> “We got lost, very quickly in fact. And the rats were not in any sort of mood to converse.” Tristol explained. “We fought them off and chased them down for hours, but the halls under the Palace were a maze by that point, and almost like one of the original occupants had –intended- it to be a maze.”</p><p></p><p> “That’s quite possible.” Lothar said, not giving away if he was aware or not of any of the detail that Tristol was skirting or not wholly explaining.</p><p></p><p> But nonetheless, Lothar continued to listen as Tristol explained their flight through the maze and eventual discovery of the stairway that seemed virtually grown into the rock and stretching down for miles. With reluctance and curiosity both raging, he explained how they had walked down the seemingly bottomless stairwell, wondering all the time if they were even still within the City of Doors.</p><p></p><p> “I very much doubt that you were in Sigil at that point.” Lothar finally said, a wary sound creeping into his voice for the first time. “But do continue.”</p><p></p><p> Tristol detailed the vaults as they found them, including the chamber with the floating, non-magical obelisk, and the other chamber filled with its warding circle of unreadable symbols, its statue or golem of sorts, and its riddle that spoke of something, or someone, known as HUBRIS.</p><p></p><p> Lothar was fascinated, leaning forwards on his staff with rapt attention.</p><p></p><p> “And then there was the other chamber that we found.” Tristol said, pausing both for effect and the chill that crept over his spine at the memory. “It was open to the sky.”</p><p></p><p> Lothar’s eyes narrowed.</p><p></p><p> “A sky?”</p><p></p><p> “Just… a sky.” Tristol explained. “It wasn’t an illusion, there wasn’t a horizon, and we didn’t see the Spire or the Outlands, just void stretching off.”</p><p></p><p> “And there was a statue of The Lady…” He continued.</p><p></p><p> “Stop!” Lothar said firmly, silencing him with an open hand. “Please do not continue with anything beyond that. I have no need, nor interest in learning any further on this topic.”</p><p></p><p> Lothar seemed honestly worried.</p><p></p><p> “But in any event, we drove off the rats.” Tristol said with a nod, skipping over things a bit. “Jeremo was quite happy with the results.”</p><p></p><p> “As should be expected.” Lothar said, happy at the change in topic. “And I should expect that he compensated you each accordingly. He’s usually quite reliable in that regard. He can chatter more than any skull of mine if you let him, and he’s perhaps a bit too motivated at times, but he keeps to his word.”</p><p></p><p> Tristol was in agreement as there was a heavy shuffle upon the staircase. He turned and watched as what first appeared to be a ghoul descended into the chamber holding a book in its outstretched, wickedly clawed hands.</p><p></p><p> “And here is your prize.” Lothar said, motioning the ghoul to hand Tristol the thick tome it carried.</p><p></p><p> Rather than being a ghoul however, the creature was a golem, and an exquisitely crafted one at that. The Master’s pet construct was carved from a natural piece of dusky colored bloodstone, flecked with other minerals so as to give the appearance of the slick, putrescent flesh of an actual ghoul.</p><p></p><p> “Thank you.” Tristol said, accepting the book from the golem. “But since I would like to make a copy of this, what sort of price do you think will be appropriate?”</p><p></p><p> “Information of some sort.” Lothar said while the golem retreated to a position against a wall. “Nothing more than that, and I won’t specify much at this point. If I come with a question or two, that might suffice, or otherwise if you come across a secret or two that you feel would be appropriate, that should satisfy me as well. I won’t be too demanding; the cost is really only a formality with me.”</p><p></p><p> Tristol cocked his head and pondered what might suffice.</p><p></p><p> “How would you like to know a way into the underhalls of the Palace of the Jester?” He suggested. “I can provide you with maps, though they won’t be of much use as you probably gathered before. But, and this might suffice for what you want, there’s a way in that doesn’t involve the Palace itself or the catacombs under the Lady’s Ward.”</p><p></p><p> Lothar inclined his head and listened.</p><p></p><p>“The Infinite Staircase opens into it.” Tristol said. “And I can tell you where the doorway is on both sides.”</p><p></p><p></p><p style="text-align: center">***</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Shemeska, post: 2813345, member: 11697"] Tristol looked up from his spellbook with more than a bit of consternation playing across his face. “The last time you poked your head in here you were mucking around with Heavy Magic.” The aasimar said, looking warily over to see if Clueless had brought any of the freakishly unstable liquid with him. “I ask a question and you immediately think I’m doing something dangerous?” The bladesinger asked with a puckish grin, still touched by his earlier mental haze even as he tried to hide it. “What have you been doing with it lately?” Tristol asked. “I know you can’t get drunk, so something would have to explain the way that you were acting earlier… and still are acting.” “And you immediately think I’m still messing with heavy magic?” Clueless asked again. Tristol raised an eyebrow. “The last time you did, I told you what it was.” The mage said. “Well, at least what little I or anyone else really knew about it, and to…” “Yeah yeah yeah.” Clueless replied. “You said ‘Keep it away from me!’ and then tried to hide under your tail.” “Do you blame me?” The mage replied with a frown, noting the guilty grin playing across the half-fey’s face. “So what is it this time?” Tristol continued with a sigh. “Just don’t get me anywhere near the stuff itself. I’ll answer any questions if I can, just to try to keep you from blowing yourself to pieces, and me, and the inn, and [u]never let Nisha become aware of it[/u]!” Even in his current state, Clueless had to shiver at that last one. “Last time I asked about heavy magic you mentioned Karsus.” The bladesinger said. “But have you ever heard of a book that he wrote called ‘Magic and Antimagic’?” “Eh?” Tristol said with a bit of surprise. “Have you heard of it before?” Clueless asked. “Is ‘eh’ a yes or a no?” “Well, yes.” Tristol said. “I’ve read some portions of it before, but usually in other books. It’s a rare bit of lore, even in Halruaa.” “So you don’t have a copy?” Clueless quipped. “No…” Tristol replied. “But what got you interested in the book? And where did you hear about it in the first place?” “It’s about the heavy magic…” Clueless said. “And… well…” “Say no more…” Tristol said, cutting him off. The mention of the heavy magic ended his wanting to know anything further, simply for his own safety. “So you –do- have a copy?” Clueless prompted with a burgeoning grin. “No, like I said, it’s pretty damn rare.” Tristol said with a shrug. “It was written thousands of years ago. Clueless looked momentarily crestfallen, just before Tristol added, “But… I do know someone that I can likely get a copy from.” And that person was Lothar, Master of the Bones. [center]***[/center] “I probably should have sprung for a tout.” Tristol said to himself as he glanced up at the battered, soot-covered signs at the street corner. He stood and turned full circle, trying to orient himself in the foggy streets of the Lower Ward. The air was thick with ash, the rotten egg smell of sulfur wafting from the smokestacks of the Great Foundry, and a less certain smell vaguely reminiscent of vinegar that clung to the tongue like a bitter aftertaste of cheap wine. “Hell, I should have asked Nisha to come along with me.” He said. “She knows the streets better than I do.” The warren of streets that he had ventured down was not in the more traveled sections of the Ward. Far from the more popular workshops, businesses, and the wider thoroughfares that accommodated their to and from traffic, Tristol was easily losing his way. “And… and I enjoy her company.” He added, a small smile crossing his face. “Hopefully she feels the same about me. I think she does, I hope she does. I just need to get up the courage to ask her.” Now it was true, he though, Nisha and he were technically different species: him an aasimar and she a tiefling. True, they’d grown up in drastically different backgrounds: he’d been one of the privileged within the magocracy of Halruaa, and she’d grown up with nothing on the streets of the Hive. But despite that, perhaps even because of that, she made him smile and he’d been realizing that more and more lately. His mind continued to wander for a moment as he passed through another thick patch of fog. What would his family say about Nisha if he brought her back to Halagard to visit their tower? Lutra would probably… no, Lutra would absolutely pitch a fit, and the idea brought a smile to his face and set his tail to wagging like a happy puppy. “Just to get up the courage now...” Tristol said. But with that thought, the smog broke abruptly as he reached the end of the street and looked down, stopping himself with a bit of an awkward shuffle of his feet. “What sort of place does Lothar live in?” Tristol mused with uncertainty. Twitching his tail and stepping back slightly from the edge, he gazed down at the wide cleft in the street, and the steep fifty-foot drop inches in front of him: The Ditch. The street simply ended at what was best described as an urban wound stretching for blocks in either direction across the edge of the Lower Ward, slicing into the city’s flesh. Frowning at the expanse and contents of the chasm, Tristol thought back to Lothar and his’ initial meeting some time ago. Tristol had first encountered the man at Jeremo’s dinner at the Palace of the Jester. The so-called Master of Bones had been sitting across from him looking rather socially out of place, and so, thinking the elderly gentleman a mage, based on the robes he was wearing, he’d struck up a conversation. Lothar had apparently shown up only following a pair of requests by the Jester himself, probably because Jeremo had wanted another level headed and powerful spellcaster in case things went sour between some of his more opinionated guests who refused to play well with others. But, as it happened, Lothar hadn’t needed to do a thing, since Tristol and his companions had jumped into the fray instead. Unfortunately the Marauder and the Titan of Wealth had launched into their spat just shortly after Tristol and Lothar had gotten to know one another, putting a halt on their socialization. But at the same time, they had spoken briefly after the party was over, exchanged addresses, and provided an open invitation to one another to visit if they ever wanted to simply chat, or if they wished to deal as sages of the arcane. Well, given Clueless’s request for a book by Karsus himself, Tristol found the time was right to give the Master of Bones a calling. This of course was founded on the presumption that he could actually –find- Lothar’s address in the first place amid the reeking, trash filled expanse of the worst of the Lower Ward. The smell in the ward was typically foul, but it seemed to have gotten as bad as it might possibly get unless he fell into a portal to the Abyss. Suffice to say, as Tristol held his breath and looked down, the Ditch was making a poor impression on him, especially given that the intermittent portals to Oceanus had not flushed the chasm in any recent period, leaving it choked with refuse, debris, and water that seemed very nearly to have the consistency of syrup. A few desperate berks, along with a multitude of rats, cranium and mundane both, fished the muck for anything edible, or anything of use that might have been dumped or discarded there. And, given the crime within the ward and the adjacent Hive, more than a few corpses lay partially submerged along the trough. “Alright. Took a wrong turn somewhere.” Tristol said, covering his nose with a sleeve of his robe and turning away from the edge. The stench of rot and standing water was nauseating, and holding his breath with a grimace, he quickly hurried back along the street. Several blocks and several turns later, Tristol’s eyes were still watering from the mild drizzle of rain seeping out of the smog-ridden sky and turning the fog into acrid smelling vapor more like vinegar than water. The streets were thinner, the cobblestones more chipped and cracked, and the few passersby less welcoming to requests for direction. Altogether, it wasn’t the Hive or the worst of the barrens of the Shattered Temple District, but it was damn near the worst of the Lower Ward. Still covering his nose from the rank odor that swirled around him, likely picked up from the breeze passing over the Ditch, Tristol was nearly on the verge of turning around and going home when he arrived at the address that Lothar had given him. “This can’t be right.” Tristol muttered, looking up at the battered iron plate that gave the street number, and then up at the house itself. His ears twitched in confusion as his eyes played over the burned out, apparently abandoned house that occupied the site. The windows were broken, bits of refuse and graffiti littered the stoop, and the place gave no indication of recent occupation beyond a squatter or two; certainly the place didn’t seem to fit a spellcaster of Lothar’s capacity. “I’m tempted to just go visit A’kin and ask if he’s got a copy of the book.” Tristol said as he cautiously walked up towards the front door. “This hasn’t been a pleasant trip so far, and at least A’kin might offer me a smile and a cookie for the visit.” The front door was laying off to one side of course, the hinges having long ago been pried loose and stolen for scrap. A dead executioner’s raven, rotten and partially eaten, was also tossed off to one side. They were not exactly the most welcoming portents when looking for a wizard’s abode. “Hmm.” Tristol mumbled hopefully. “Maybe it’s just an illusion to keep vagrants away.” Once past the doorway though, the interior wasn’t much better. The floor was covered in dust and a few errant tracks left in recent weeks by squatters, or simply the curious who happened to explore the place. “So much for this just being an illusion.” Tristol said, scuffing at some of the ash and dust with the tip of his staff. “I’m still not convinced that I’ve just got the wrong address and some prankster didn’t simply switch the… wait…” Now that was odd. Tristol squinted and craned his neck to look up. In the middle of the squalor, seemingly untouched by the passage of years, the tarnish of neglect, and the ravages of Sigil’s own unique brand of elements, there was a single, unbroken and virtually new, stained glass window high on one wall. “If that’s not a hint of magic, I’m not a mage.” He said, already whispering a divination spell under his breath. The window began to glow just a bit more brightly, giving away a telltale trace of the protective abjurations that had kept it safe over the years, shedding its multicolored rays across the floor of the gutted, ruined house despite any conditions that might preclude the passage of light, be it fog, rain, or anything else. Tristol smiled and stepped into the path of the window’s light, half expecting some magical effect, and half just admiring the mixture of colors. While no magical display was forthcoming, he did notice something about the dust-covered floor below him: it was hollow under his footfalls in the area colored by the window’s light. “Well that’s interesting.” Tristol said, stepping back at taking note of a recessed latch and handle mostly covered by the dust. A trapdoor. He tapped the door a few times with his staff, finding its dimensions, and then pulled it up and open to reveal the rungs of a ladder constructed from, or carved into the shape of bones. A bit of warm, pleasantly fresh air drifted up from the darkness below, stirring the dust and soot above. Casting a minor cantrip to illuminate the gloom as he descended the ladder, Tristol closed the trapdoor back to the surface and examined his new surroundings. With the darkness suppressed and held back, the room was rather nicer than the hovel that sat perched over it. The ladder emptied into a small, wood paneled room mostly free of dust that was comfortably warm compared to outside in the chill, rank fog of the Lower Ward. Neat but sparse, that was the overall tone of the place. But that did fit the impression that Tristol had gotten from Lothar when they’d briefly spoken at Jeremo’s party. And with that thought in mind, brushing a bit of soot off of his robes with a bit of anxious self-consciousness, Tristol approached what appeared to be the front door opposite the stairs and politely gave a knock. There wasn’t a bit of sound in response from the other side of the door. “Hmm.” Tristol said. “I wonder if he’s home.” A soft hiss of another door opening made the aasimar turn his head to the side and look. Off to the right, an obscured door had opened to reveal a dark figure draped in a hooded robe, looking expectantly at Tristol. It wasn’t Lothar however, it was too hunched over for that, and as it took a few steps forward, it was far too lithe and quick on its feet to match the venerable old man that Tristol remembered. “I’m here to see Lothar.” Tristol said, fishing in his pocket for a card. “He’d wished to exchange some information with me.” The cowled figure veritably scurried forward and extended a gnarled hand to accept the card, bringing it close to its hood and seeming to sniff at it. Tristol felt the urge to step back from the figure’s odd behavior, but he held firm even as who he assumed to be a servant or perhaps the doorman pulled back his cowl to reveal a face more rat than human, replete with elongated, protruding incisors and long, twitching whiskers. “The Master of Bones is present.” The were-rat said with a bit of a hiss. “Does he expect you?” “We’ve met before, a few months ago.” Tristol replied. “He extended an open invitation to me then, and I have a request and an offer for him regarding a book.” The humanoid vermin twitched its ears and seemed to ponder for a moment before pulling out a large, antique looking key and moving towards the door Tristol had originally knocked at. “I didn’t catch your name.” The mage said. “Who might you be?” The doorman rolled his eyes before turning around to face his master’s guest. “I would be Tattershade.” He replied with a straight face. “King of the were-rats.” The doorman turned and opened the door, once again rolling his eyes and doing his best to seem polite while responding as little as possible to a few questions and attempts at conversation on Tristol’s part. Eventually though, ‘Tattershade’ motioned Tristol forwards into Lothar’s waiting room and scurried off to presumably fetch the master himself, leaving his guest to stare in awed revulsion at the contents of the room. Skulls. Thousands of them. The walls of the vaulted chamber were covered in shelves and bookcases packed with orderly rows of bleached white, grinning skulls of all shapes and sizes, each categorized and tagged with a small nameplate below the spot where they sat. “Wow.” Tristol said. “The name fits I suppose.” Tristol stepped further into the room, letting his eyes wander across one of the shelves and the rest of the room as well. A few chairs and sofas dotted the floor along with a podium or two with a spot for a book and inkwell, and on the far end of the chamber a decorative, wrought iron spiral staircase spiraled up and down into other chambers. But the skulls were by far the dominating aspect of the room, leering down like a chorus of grinning imps just finished with their last architectural project in Avernus. Most of the skulls were old, missing teeth, cracked in places, and showing the evidence of prior burial or abandonment in various circumstances for long periods of time. The collection also ran the range from humanoids of all sizes and types, to even a few fiends and celestials. Virtually all of the skulls were identified by species, age, and even where they had come from. What more, most of the skulls were named, presumably the name of the individual they had come from in the first place. But what drew Tristol’s attention was a tag affixed below one of the skulls. “Will not talk. Fix later.” Tristol mumbled, reading the small, concise notation affixed to the nameless, apparently newly added skull. “That almost makes it seem like Lothar manages to make them talk to him.” Tristol openly mused, feeling respectful and disturbed at once. “I know some clerics can make a corpse speak through magic, but this… this is a bit beyond that.” His back turned to the other half of the collection, he suddenly felt painfully aware of the skulls behind him staring at him. Thousands of hollow sockets devoid of eyes, devoid of life, still somehow animate, it was like being in a prison, or more like a zoo with sentient animals set out on display. “I’m not a necromancer though.” Tristol said, looking at a few of the skulls above his head on the shelf. “I wouldn’t know the first thing about holding a conversation with you.” Seemingly spurred by his comment, a series of staccato chatters of teeth, like skeletal laughter, echoed behind him. Tristol spun around at the noise. “…” He held his tongue, looking for perhaps Lothar or one of his servants that might have caused the noise. Some of the skulls had moved and were now positioned to look directly at him. *clack* One of them moved on its own accord, rapping its teeth together, catching the mage’s attention. *chatter* “You’re undead?” Tristol questioned one of the animate skulls, moving closer to them. “No.” One of them whispered, its hollow voice barely audible. “We…” Another began before being silenced by another. “Silence! The Master approaches!” Several exclaimed before likewise falling still and hush. Tristol perked an eyebrow as a hush seemed to descend over the skulls in their entirely. Something like fear mixed with resentment, seemed to swallow the skeletal chorus, stealing away any of the sense of life that some of them had expressed when faced with the lone mage. Footsteps echoed on the spiral stairs and Tristol turned to look. “Master Starweather,” Came Lothar’s warm greeting. “It is good to see you again. To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?” In contrast to his rich, confidant voice, the man descending the staircase was frail and ancient looking. The bulk of his frame seemed filled out by the rather plain robe he wore, and he was leaning heavily on his staff as he stepped down each stair, making his way into the skull chamber. “It’s good to see you as well Lothar.” Tristol replied, giving a bow. “I knew about your collection of bones from when we spoke at the Palace of the Jester, but I have to admit that I’m more than a bit overwhelmed now that I’m here looking at it.” The skulls remained silent and inanimate, like they were collectively holding their dusty breath and minding their manners while their master entertained a guest. But even if the skulls seemed verily terrified on some level, Lothar himself didn’t give off anything even close to the disturbing aura of fear and questionable morals that a powerful necromancer, lich, or priest of a deity of death might shed like the light of a torch. Quite to the contrary, and in sharp contrast to the skulls lining the walls like some great catacomb of the Dustmen, the Master of Bones seemed friendly, warm, and quite pleasant to be around. “This is but a portion of my full collection I will admit.” Lothar said, taking a seat on one of the chairs. “I have my servants arrange them according to those I might seek to consult, all depending on what topic I happen to be researching at any moment.” “It’s rather fascinating, if quite out of my range of specialization.” Tristol replied. “I take it that you manage to gain something from them beyond normal divinations and searching through libraries?” Lothar nodded sagely. “Unlike people, unlike an author’s lines in a tome, and without the ambiguity inherent in most divinations, the dead cannot lie.” Upon one of the shelves, a few skulls rattled like frightened puppies given a few sharp words by their owner. “But I’m to understand that you had some offer for me?” Lothar said, swinging the conversation away from his collection of the dead. “Yes.” Tristol replied, taking a seat as well. “I was wondering if you have a copy of a certain book.” “Perhaps. It really depends on the subject and relevance to my studies.” Lothar said. “Despite popular opinion among some, and perhaps appearances, I’m not a necromancer, nor even a wizard. I consider myself a priest, nothing more.” Tristol nodded, aware from prior conversation that Lothar, like Oridi Malefin of the Dustmen, was a cleric of the Abstract Concept of Death, venerating the process itself in a way that might be beyond the grasp of a priest of Osiris, Hades, Arawn, Kelemvor, or any others. “It’s a book by the Archmage Karsus, late of Toril, titled ‘Magic and Antimagic’.” The aasimar continued. “It’s quite rare, and several thousand years old.” “I’m familiar with it.” Lothar responded with a smile. “And I do have a copy of it in my library.” Tristol’s ears perked almost immediately. For someone who wasn’t a wizard, Lothar had more sorcerous goods at hand than most mages did, perhaps as references or perhaps just as bargaining tools for the future. “Would it be possible for…” Tristol began. “Yes.” Lothar replied. “You may borrow it for a ten-day without cost.” “Might I be able to make a copy of it?” Tristol asked politely. And honestly, that was his own request, and not simply a favor by proxy for Clueless. Clueless simply wanted one snippet of information from the book, viewing it as more a curiosity than anything else. Tristol on the other hand viewed the book from the context of his own people’s history in Halruaa, the heirs and descendants of fallen Netheril. To him, the book contained what his people sought to preserve in some cases and recreate in others, and having one more copy of that knowledge was another step along that path, a tangible prayer for the honored fallen. “Yes… but.” Lothar explained, putting up a finger. “If you wish to copy it I will require some manner of favor in exchange.” “What sort of favor?” Tristol asked. “I don’t quite know as of yet.” The cleric said with a shrug. “But we can discuss those terms and specifics later when I have the book retrieved and brought down here. For the moment however, I’m curious as to what transpired when Jeremo hired you and your fellows to look into, and apparently fix, his little cranium rat problem.” “You knew about that?” Tristol asked. “I have several were-rats in my employ.” The Master of Bones explained. “I was probably aware of the migration of that particular Hive into his palace before Jeremo first noticed them.” “Well,” Tristol began. “Jeremo provided us with maps of the first few layers below the street level, and warned us that beyond that point…” He paused and pondered how to phrase it. “…beyond that point the hallways move and rearrange themselves.” “Interesting.” Lothar commented. “Jeremo’s Palace existed long before he was born, and it has an interesting history in and of its own. Do go on.” “We got lost, very quickly in fact. And the rats were not in any sort of mood to converse.” Tristol explained. “We fought them off and chased them down for hours, but the halls under the Palace were a maze by that point, and almost like one of the original occupants had –intended- it to be a maze.” “That’s quite possible.” Lothar said, not giving away if he was aware or not of any of the detail that Tristol was skirting or not wholly explaining. But nonetheless, Lothar continued to listen as Tristol explained their flight through the maze and eventual discovery of the stairway that seemed virtually grown into the rock and stretching down for miles. With reluctance and curiosity both raging, he explained how they had walked down the seemingly bottomless stairwell, wondering all the time if they were even still within the City of Doors. “I very much doubt that you were in Sigil at that point.” Lothar finally said, a wary sound creeping into his voice for the first time. “But do continue.” Tristol detailed the vaults as they found them, including the chamber with the floating, non-magical obelisk, and the other chamber filled with its warding circle of unreadable symbols, its statue or golem of sorts, and its riddle that spoke of something, or someone, known as HUBRIS. Lothar was fascinated, leaning forwards on his staff with rapt attention. “And then there was the other chamber that we found.” Tristol said, pausing both for effect and the chill that crept over his spine at the memory. “It was open to the sky.” Lothar’s eyes narrowed. “A sky?” “Just… a sky.” Tristol explained. “It wasn’t an illusion, there wasn’t a horizon, and we didn’t see the Spire or the Outlands, just void stretching off.” “And there was a statue of The Lady…” He continued. “Stop!” Lothar said firmly, silencing him with an open hand. “Please do not continue with anything beyond that. I have no need, nor interest in learning any further on this topic.” Lothar seemed honestly worried. “But in any event, we drove off the rats.” Tristol said with a nod, skipping over things a bit. “Jeremo was quite happy with the results.” “As should be expected.” Lothar said, happy at the change in topic. “And I should expect that he compensated you each accordingly. He’s usually quite reliable in that regard. He can chatter more than any skull of mine if you let him, and he’s perhaps a bit too motivated at times, but he keeps to his word.” Tristol was in agreement as there was a heavy shuffle upon the staircase. He turned and watched as what first appeared to be a ghoul descended into the chamber holding a book in its outstretched, wickedly clawed hands. “And here is your prize.” Lothar said, motioning the ghoul to hand Tristol the thick tome it carried. Rather than being a ghoul however, the creature was a golem, and an exquisitely crafted one at that. The Master’s pet construct was carved from a natural piece of dusky colored bloodstone, flecked with other minerals so as to give the appearance of the slick, putrescent flesh of an actual ghoul. “Thank you.” Tristol said, accepting the book from the golem. “But since I would like to make a copy of this, what sort of price do you think will be appropriate?” “Information of some sort.” Lothar said while the golem retreated to a position against a wall. “Nothing more than that, and I won’t specify much at this point. If I come with a question or two, that might suffice, or otherwise if you come across a secret or two that you feel would be appropriate, that should satisfy me as well. I won’t be too demanding; the cost is really only a formality with me.” Tristol cocked his head and pondered what might suffice. “How would you like to know a way into the underhalls of the Palace of the Jester?” He suggested. “I can provide you with maps, though they won’t be of much use as you probably gathered before. But, and this might suffice for what you want, there’s a way in that doesn’t involve the Palace itself or the catacombs under the Lady’s Ward.” Lothar inclined his head and listened. “The Infinite Staircase opens into it.” Tristol said. “And I can tell you where the doorway is on both sides.” [center]***[/center] [/QUOTE]
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