Sepulchrave II
Legend
Thanks for the many kind words, everyone. It's always much appreciated 
I think you're right.
This post demonstrates how obscenely overpowered time stop is when it is cast in Afqithan, and why I will never again allow its effects to stack with haste; how things like 'EL26' and 'CR22' in fact mean diddly-squat; and how, what the DM thinks are overwhelming numbers - designed to force compliance or retreat from the players - are, in fact, nothing more than a minor annoyance.
The title of this update is therefore devoted to not just the theoretical possibilities that a spell offers - which had been long known - but to actually putting it into practice for the first time.
Mostin Discovers Time Stop
**
Crosod’s immense pinions powered him forward at unnatural speed, and his sinuous body – which seemed to devour all light and belch it forth again as a cloying darkness – shivered with potency as space parted around him. Within his ebon form his eyes were lidless voids, filled with age, and wisdom, and infinite malice. Clinging to his foreleg, perched above his razor-sharp talons and exalting in the wind as it rushed over her was Threxu, the Wasted Nymph with whom, at times, the Dragon consorted. She was a lithe, supple shadow, whose delicate and beautiful form seemed incapable of performing the acts for which she had justly acquired her terrible reputation.
Below them, unaware of the passenger that he carried, wood-gnomes and sprites of every kind cowered, fearing that the slightest breath or movement would draw the Dragon to them. Crosod smelled them but had no interest in them – they offered little in the way of nourishment, and there was no time for sport.
Threxu, however, was thirsty. She glanced greedily at the forest below her.
"Here!" She yelled at Crosod, and pointed. The Wyrm banked abruptly, his wings emitting a thunderous crack which shook the treetops, before descending effortlessly to the forest floor and crushing a tump which housed a dozen grigs and pixies.
Threxu leapt from his leg and sank to the ground, pressing her lips to the soft grass. She drank voraciously, and rapidly – although only temporarily – she satisfied her thirst.
As the pair took to the sky again and made their way towards Irknaan’s fortress at the behest of their liege, the feys in the woods below wailed and cursed. Dryads wept in desperation, in the sure knowledge that, within a day, they, like their trees, and every other green thing within the blighted swathe that Threxu had left, would be dead.
**
The unknown sidhe had returned, it appeared.
Irknaan had been unable to capture their messenger and interrogate her – a summoned succubus – before she vanished back to her Abyssal abode. His attempts to scry the group had been unsuccessful, and clairvoyance of the locale that they described revealed only a collection of tents, with no inhabitants or owners. Nearby, one of Lorochtoh’s heads sat upon a pike.
They were warded, the King knew. Possibly even mind blanked – and that would prove awkward. His thoughts raced. Evidence of powerful spells had been left at the site where the corpses of the nightmares had been found, and the loss of four steeds had seemed to do little to diminish their effectiveness.
They were not Loquai, but they had followed the chimera to Shadow. They had chosen a particularly isolated locale, in a region unclaimed by any noble and with few inhabitants. One of them at least possessed a magical ability which rivalled or even outstripped his own – the pursuing scouts that he had sent after them after their initial appearance had heard sonic detonations of great power. And the succubi that Lorochtoh had summoned to deal with them had been dispatched with distressing ease – their charms apparently ineffective. And the kelvezu – where did it fit into the scheme of things? A retainer? He reluctantly approached Nhura, whose knowledge and wisdom regarding many things was deeper than his.
"Have you heard of Duke Rhalid?" He asked.
"No," she replied.
"An Auran Princess named Iua?"
She scowled. "The name is distantly familiar," she replied.
"Take one of the succubi. Go first to Faerie, and make inquiries of this Duke. Spend no more than an hour there. Go then to the Plane of Air. Find out what you can regarding Iua. Return as speedily as you can."
She squinted, and nodded curtly.
After the departure of the Lillend – if that was, in fact, something which Nhura could still be called – Irknaan called Shupthul to him and instructed his Captain carefully. Somewhat later, Shupthul left the fortress in the company of the succubus Iemazai – his compacted mistress, and one of the wilier members of Irknaan’s court. They were accompanied by a dozen Loquai mounted on tenebrous griffons; the witch Koilimilou and her called and bound servitors – currently a trio of Jariliths – as well as six quicklings of particularly evil aspect, and thirty hell-hounds.
Koilimilou – cantankerous and eccentric – was one that Irknaan seldom approached, as the witch was dangerous and preferred her own company, or that of demons, to that of the Loquai. Under threat of flensing however, she acquiesced to Irknaan’s demands, and stirred herself from her reveries. She possessed a powerful item which, amongst other things, would expedite the passage of the hunting party. In the past, Irknaan had used it to wage war on his rivals – and only Koilimilou could unlock it secrets.
Shupthul would make preliminary contact with the group of interlopers, and assess their strengths and weaknesses – inviting them to the castle, if he deemed it appropriate. Lehurze would attempt to reopen negotiations with the devils who were now entrenched nearby – they had yet to declare their purpose. In the meantime, Irknaan had ordered several of his most powerful vassals to attend him: the Wyrm, the nymph Threxu, King Samodoquol with eighty knights, and Duke Ytryn with thirty more.
After deliberating, Irknaan had yielded to his desire for demonic assistance, but reluctant to directly embroil either Graz’zt or Rhyxali had, at the suggestion of Lehurze, scried Soneillon in her abysm of pain and depravity.
Darkness.
"She is there," Lehurze assured him, "and she knows you are watching."
Irknaan issued a sending. The enigmatic demoness did not reply.
Irknaan brooded. Soneillon was less dangerous than either of his patrons, but dealing with her still required considerable caution and a clear head. Although he trusted no-one – be they ally, subject, thrall or open enemy – the King had millennia of experience in dealing with some of the most devious and manipulative entities in creation.
He inwardly hoped that it would be enough. Any sign of weakness would be exploited by one or more of his own servants or allies.
**
"Should we send another one?" Ortwin asked irritably, an hour after the succubus had been summoned and dispatched to Irknaan’s fortress. "There’s still no reply." He stood tensely, arms folded, whilst the others sat nearby upon ecalypses and nightmares which champed restlessly.
"He is no doubt machinating," Mostin replied.
"In which case," Nwm suggested, "we probably shouldn’t give him too long. In case he prepares too well."
More time passed. Nwm’s thoughts reached out in an attempt to discover perturbations in the Green nearby, but to no affect.
When they arrived, it was suddenly and without warning. They manifested at the base of the hillock where the party had set their tents, outside of the dimensionally anchored area. Shadowstuff swirled around them, gushing from the aperture through which they came, before sinking slowly into the ground. Ortwin immediately fell into character, resisting the urge to gape, and regretting that he did not have time to quaff his philtre of glibness without drawing attention to himself.
The Loquai were tall, elegant figures, their individual features rendered vague by the umbral energies which had suffused them. They appeared as dark shades, clad in darker armour and bearing lances, bows and long swords; they sat upon black-winged monstrosities that would have been griffons, had they been possessed of more real matter and less shadowstuff and taint. Tiny motes of sooty darkness darted about the riders: fiendish umbral quicklings, with only pinprick red eyes to lend them semblance of shape and form. Hunting demons – Jariliths – prowled amongst them, their maws full of sharp teeth. Hell-hounds bayed around them.
Their leader wore a helm and breastplate of jet, although the captured twilight hinted at other shades hidden within. Upon closer observation, his face – beautiful even for a sidhe – seemed serene; delicate features revealed in a thousand shades of insubstantial grey. In his left hand he carried a bow of impossible lightness, a slender dart nocked easily between his long fingers.
"I am Shupthul," he said in a soft voice. The words resonated, and seemed to hang in the air like smoke after he had spoken. Behind him, an invisible sensor hung – Irknaan was doubtless watching.
"I am Rhalid," Ortwin replied, nodding politely. His eyes darted quickly over those others present. A succubus – currently without wings, yet unmistakably demonic – although not a threat, given their mind blanked state. Twelve knights, akin to Shupthul but lacking, Ortwin suspected, the magical gravity of their leader – whether in spells or enchanted items. And then he saw her.
Beautifulohgodssheissobeautifulihaventeverseen…don’t look at her…
Shades seemed to flash around her, but in her face was colour. Koilimilou was untouched by the shadowstuff which invaded Afqithan, although she bore more than a hint of the demonic.
Ortwin tore his eyes away from her, after they had rested the merest fraction of a second too long. She stared impassively back at him.
"I am hunting," Ortwin continued in a matter-of-fact way, his heart pounding silently. "I assume your master received my message? Would he care to join us?"
"It is customary to pay one’s respects to a lord, before one engages in a hunt on his land," Shupthul said humorlessly.
"For which, I apologize," Ortwin said, with what seemed like complete sincerity. "I suspect we became over-excited, and neglected to observe the customary niceties. Please convey my deep regret for any offense I might have caused." The Bard removed his diamond circlet, and casually offered it to Shupthul. "A token of good will to your King," he said openly.
Under his hood, Mostin raised an eyebrow.
Shupthul said nothing, but gestured – causing Shomei to immediately ready a spell in preparation. Instead, on his cue, one of the quicklings darted forwards to snatch the coronet, and delivered it to Shupthul’s hand within the space of a heartbeat.
Abruptly, the Captain switched into another language – full of grating sound and harsh syllables – and addressed Mostin. "What is your purpose?"
"That is no concern of yours," Mostin replied, somewhat shocked at hearing the Abyssal Tongue, but maintaining his composure.
Ortwin swallowed. This was not supposed to happen.
"Who is your master?" Shupthul continued.
"That…" Mostin began.
But Ortwin quickly realized that if he let this line of inquiry continue, then Mostin would betray them – although dishonest enough in his own mean way, the Alienist was not practiced in the art of subterfuge.
"SILENCE!" Ortwin screamed at Mostin, "how dare you speak? My apologies, Shupthul," he continued in Sylvan, seeming to master himself, "but this demon is compacted to me. He may speak only with my approval, and currently I do not grant it."
Shupthul sat silently. Ortwin hoped that the Captain was already developing a set of complex misconceptions.
"Allow me to introduce the rest of my companions," Ortwin continued nonchalantly, attempting to divert attention before more questions were asked about Mostin. "My consort, Iua; the witch, Aotheen," the Bard waved a dismissive hand towards Shomei; "my counsellor, Jhondrosokaur," at which Nwm nodded gravely; "Munhulmurliom the Dour," Ortwin remembered the name of an awakened oak tree that he had once encountered and randomly bestowed it upon Eadric; "and the demon Erizren. We are here to hunt, and although our arrival was not intentional, the quarry here present some interesting challenges."
"Afqithan," it was the female sidhe who spoke, the name rolling from her tongue and echoing in Ortwin’s mind. Aaf-kee-thaan. "This place is called Afqithan. Tell me, Duke Rhalid, does it strike you as an unusual coincidence – given your accidental arrival here – that of all the places that you might have appeared in this wide realm, by lucky happenstance your gate opened in the airs above King Irknaan’s fastness?" The words duke and accidental bore the slightest hint of irony.
"If it were coincidence," Ortwin quickly dissembled, "then I would call it lucky." His charm was effortless. "But our means of transportation is unconventional – we are drawn inexorably to existing portals and loci of power, siphoning a fraction of their energy in order to expedite translation. I can only assume that such a focus exists within your King’s walls?" It was a bold riposte, which elicited another question.
"Indeed? I would be fascinated to inspect such a device, if it exists. Will you show it to me?"
"I regret that the power exists within Aotheen herself. It is a unique ability, the secret of which is, unfortunately, lost to posterity. She is the last of her kin." Ortwin’s voice remained calm, with subtle overtones of condescension, as though he were patiently explaining a self-evident fact to an inquisitive child.
Inwardly, Eadric grimaced. They had just made contact with the Loquai, and already Ortwin had sown a convoluted web of lies which could only get worse as time went on. Behind his visor, the Paladin scanned the group of umbral feys and demons, looking for subtle cues and pointers to their motivation with regard to the interlopers.
The reek of taint which hung over them all was palpable. Shupthul was reticent and suspicious: the captain was a warrior who, no doubt, excelled in battle but – for a sidhe, at least – was relatively unpracticed in gauging the purposes of others. The woman was a different matter altogether, Eadric mused, and was opaque at best – although her inquiry regarding their imaginary means of transportation was couched in terms which could not disguise a tell-tale preoccupation with matters arcane. The succubus was silent and utterly inscrutable, and Eadric wondered what her role was – advisor, consort, spy, compactee – she could be any or all of those things. Eadric suspected that she was as focussed on penetrating their own motives as he was hers.
Shupthul spoke again, the merest hint of malice in his voice. "King Irknaan has issued instructions that you should attend him forthwith. We have been sent to escort you to his presence."
Sh*t, Ortwin thought. He smiled graciously. "I regret that, at present, such a visit will be impossible, as today, I hunt. Perhaps in a day or two. My proposition stands, however: King Irknaan is most welcome to join us."
"You misunderstand," Shupthul said menacingly. "Afqithan’s King requires your presence. Your hunt must wait."
"I…" The Bard began, but never finished.
Because Mostin, whether in a fit of paranoia, or anticipating an inevitable coming to blows, acted unilaterally, and made a decision which would change the way that the travellers related with the inhabitants of Afqithan. To the others, it also demonstrated the power that an arcanist of Mostin’s stature could wield in Faerie or any of its orbiting demiplanes. He spat a number of syllables out, prompting bows to be drawn or shot, and eliciting a desperate but ineffectual gesture in response from Koilimilou.
**
Ortwin experienced a strange sensation which lasted less than a fraction of a second – the merest flash in his mind. Shomei immediately recognized it for what it was – a temporal discontinuity in their vicinity. After it had passed, there was a colossal discharge of magical energy, and the tapestry of reality threatened to rupture completely before it rewove itself. Echoes of Sonics hung in the air.
The three Jariliths, Shupthul, the Succubus and twenty-six of the thirty Hell-hounds had vanished: the Captain’s empty armour and arms collapsed to the ground in a noisy rattle. Eleven of the Loquai had been petrified, along with six of their griffon mounts – some frozen with grotesque expressions of terror upon their faces. One other sidhe was dead from fear, and all but one of the remaining steeds had likewise been slain by a phantasmal killer. Each of the umbral quicklings had been reduced to a pulp by sonic attacks. The female sidhe sat upon a stone griffon with a vacant expression on her face.*
The last griffon attempted to flee with its petrified rider, along with the four hell-hounds. Mostin turned them into flounders, which flapped impotently in the air before suffocating.
Eadric gaped, a mixed expression of awe and horror on his face. Shomei looked mildly irritated and cast a dimensional anchor on Koilimilou. "Dammit, Mostin, was that really necessary? Ortwin can you restrain her? She might regain her senses at any moment."
The Bard and Iua both dashed forwards to bind and gag Koilimilou – the single remaining member of Shupthul’s party.
The Alienist’s head swam, as the full impact of his actions dawned on him. He glimpsed a vision of his future self – effortlessly commanding that kind of power had a definite appeal. To the arcanist, Afqithan was like a heady wine, and Mostin had just tasted it for the first time.
Nwm was staggered. "Mostin, you just killed the ambassador. And his whole embassy, in fact."
"They would have attacked us," Mostin replied simply.
"You don’t know that," Ortwin grumbled, expertly tying Koilimilou’s hands behind her back, and pushing one of his gloves into her mouth. "Gods, Mostin. I concoct an elaborate ruse, and you go and petrify everyone."
Mostin sighed. "As the alternative was to submit to Shupthul’s demands to accompany him to visit Irknaan, I fail to see what the problem is. Unless you would rather have been dragged off to the Loquai stronghold, to take our chances there. I have merely tipped the scales in our favour somewhat."
"Eadric?" Ortwin asked desperately.
The Paladin sighed. Unexpectedly, he came to the Alienist’s defense. "Whilst I don’t necessarily agree with Mostin’s methods, I have to admit that his reasoning is sound. It would have come to violence – either here or later. They were jealous of our power and lustful of it. They bore only malice towards us, and the desire to exploit us for their own ends. And the stench of taint and corruption was almost overwhelming."
"Bah!" Nwm snorted. "This is absurd. I mean, look at us. You’re here because of some vendetta you’ve got with Graz’zt…"
Mostin winced as the name was spoken.
"Ortwin just thinks it’s a big game," Nwm continued, "and this crazy bastard," he pointed at Mostin, whose kelvezu features seemed mildly offended at the insult, "wants to demonstrate to himself how dangerous he’s become. As if we didn’t know already."
"We are not in some nice sylvan glade in Nizkur," Mostin said irritably. "Wake up! This is a bad place, Nwm. Many of the inhabitants are bad. You are letting your sympathies for feys dictate how you think we should act – and the Loquai are feys in name only. They are no less wicked, vile and irredeemable than Rurunoth, Feezuu or any one of a host of others we have dealt with."
"And don’t moralize with me you hypocritical sh*t," Nwm hissed. "As far as irredeemable goes, might I remind you why we are here – ostensibly, at any rate. Does anyone recall Nehael? And Ed, if you’re going to judge people on how much lust for power they possess, at least be consistent about it and start with Mostin."
Eadric groaned. "The question again now is ‘what next?’ I hope someone has some ideas, because I’m fast running out."
"Well, it would seem that any prospects of subtlety have been complicated by Mostin," Nwm squinted. "Are we waging war, now?"
"Frankly," Eadric said, turning to the Bard, "I find open conflict less complex than your schemes, Ortwin. What do you suggest?"
Ortwin grinned despite himself. "We should offer an apology to Irknaan for the ‘minor misunderstanding.’ We should send our regards to him, and hope that this incident does not provoke a ‘diplomatic impasse.’ Obviously, we hope that he will still join us in hunting."
Eadric opened his mouth in disbelief.
"I’m serious," Ortwin continued, rapidly recovering his braggadocio after the incident. "It will demonstrate the contemptuous ease with which we can deal with Irknaan’s henchmen."
"He will throw everything that he’s got at us," Eadric said.
"Maybe," Shomei replied. "But you are assuming that he will want to remove us. He is not motivated by some ‘honourable’ desire to avenge his retainers, nor is he saddened by their loss – except insofar as it undermines his own power. If he can see a way to harness us, it might be preferable to eliminating us – from his perspective." She retrieved her dimensional shackles from within her pack.
"Good idea," Mostin said, as Shomei affixed the chains around Koilimilou’s wrists and ankles.
"I don’t know why you didn’t just kill her with the others," Shomei grumbled. "Are you becoming sentimental for a pretty face in your old age, Mostin?"
The Alienist sniffed. "She is not one of the Loquai, but a Cambion Sidhe. I thought that she might provide an interesting perspective on things if questioned."
"So you rendered her insane?"
"That is remediable."
"Not without cost," Shomei sighed. "Will you meet it?"
Mostin scowled. "I suppose I’ll have to." His eyes scanned their captive.
"You’re not very subtle," Ortwin jibed.
"I’m looking for magic, you dunce," Mostin snapped. He removed Koilimilou’s belt pouch, and unclasped a pendant from around her neck which bore a single, trapezoidal stone of greyish colour. In the pouch was a small box, perhaps three inches on a side, engraved with indecipherable glyphs.
Hmmm. Mostin thought.
Koilimilou’s eyes suddenly gained a fresh clarity, and she struggled vainly in her shackles and tried to bite Mostin, before lapsing into a stupor again.
"An all-too brief moment of lucidity," Nwm remarked drily.
Ortwin picked up his diamond coronet, blew dust – part of the desiccated remains of Shupthul – from the circlet, and set it jauntily on his head again. "Let’s send another message to Irknaan, and then go hunting."
Eadric screwed up his face, and wondered if Afqithan’s taint was having a detrimental effect on certain of his friends.
**
In her sanctum of unlight, nestled deep within Throile, Soneillon meditated briefly before conjuring an obsidian thought-span of profound delicacy, and passing into the region of dreams. The name of Shomei – revealed by the captured Erinyes – was still fresh in her mind. Further inquiries across several worlds had also yielded the names Titivilus and Ahma – amongst others – in association with the Infernalist: an interesting coincidence as, according to her spies, the Infernal Duke was currently present in Afqithan. Apparently the Breath of Oronthon kept acquaintances which were unusual for a holy warrior.
Eadric of Deorham, the Ahma. Who had already indirectly aided Soneillon in her struggle with Graz’zt – her spies had indicated that it was he who was responsible for the removal of at least two balors. He was the sworn enemy of her greatest enemy. Certainly a potential friend – at least by demonic standards. Soneillon idly wondered how he could be used to her advantage.
*Mostin’s attack consisted of a time stop, empowered and maximized by the magical trait of the plane to 6 rounds of virtual time, during which he cast haste, a chained flesh to stone[/I[, a chained phantasmal killer, two banishments directed at the demons and hell-hounds, disintegrations targeting Shupthul and the Succubus Iemazai, an insanity on Koilimilou, and various sonics. There were multiple redundancies in the spells – some of the Loquai were struck by both the flesh to stone and phantasmal killer. Shupthul avoided petrification but was disintegrated. Koilimilou succumbed to insanity. The save DCs were 25+ spell level because of Mostin’s augmented Intelligence, and even with the chained spells, most of the targets needed to roll 20s. Koilimilou initially attempted to counterspell the time stop with a greater dispelling she had readied, but failed.
I think you're right.
This post demonstrates how obscenely overpowered time stop is when it is cast in Afqithan, and why I will never again allow its effects to stack with haste; how things like 'EL26' and 'CR22' in fact mean diddly-squat; and how, what the DM thinks are overwhelming numbers - designed to force compliance or retreat from the players - are, in fact, nothing more than a minor annoyance.
The title of this update is therefore devoted to not just the theoretical possibilities that a spell offers - which had been long known - but to actually putting it into practice for the first time.
Mostin Discovers Time Stop
**
Crosod’s immense pinions powered him forward at unnatural speed, and his sinuous body – which seemed to devour all light and belch it forth again as a cloying darkness – shivered with potency as space parted around him. Within his ebon form his eyes were lidless voids, filled with age, and wisdom, and infinite malice. Clinging to his foreleg, perched above his razor-sharp talons and exalting in the wind as it rushed over her was Threxu, the Wasted Nymph with whom, at times, the Dragon consorted. She was a lithe, supple shadow, whose delicate and beautiful form seemed incapable of performing the acts for which she had justly acquired her terrible reputation.
Below them, unaware of the passenger that he carried, wood-gnomes and sprites of every kind cowered, fearing that the slightest breath or movement would draw the Dragon to them. Crosod smelled them but had no interest in them – they offered little in the way of nourishment, and there was no time for sport.
Threxu, however, was thirsty. She glanced greedily at the forest below her.
"Here!" She yelled at Crosod, and pointed. The Wyrm banked abruptly, his wings emitting a thunderous crack which shook the treetops, before descending effortlessly to the forest floor and crushing a tump which housed a dozen grigs and pixies.
Threxu leapt from his leg and sank to the ground, pressing her lips to the soft grass. She drank voraciously, and rapidly – although only temporarily – she satisfied her thirst.
As the pair took to the sky again and made their way towards Irknaan’s fortress at the behest of their liege, the feys in the woods below wailed and cursed. Dryads wept in desperation, in the sure knowledge that, within a day, they, like their trees, and every other green thing within the blighted swathe that Threxu had left, would be dead.
**
The unknown sidhe had returned, it appeared.
Irknaan had been unable to capture their messenger and interrogate her – a summoned succubus – before she vanished back to her Abyssal abode. His attempts to scry the group had been unsuccessful, and clairvoyance of the locale that they described revealed only a collection of tents, with no inhabitants or owners. Nearby, one of Lorochtoh’s heads sat upon a pike.
They were warded, the King knew. Possibly even mind blanked – and that would prove awkward. His thoughts raced. Evidence of powerful spells had been left at the site where the corpses of the nightmares had been found, and the loss of four steeds had seemed to do little to diminish their effectiveness.
They were not Loquai, but they had followed the chimera to Shadow. They had chosen a particularly isolated locale, in a region unclaimed by any noble and with few inhabitants. One of them at least possessed a magical ability which rivalled or even outstripped his own – the pursuing scouts that he had sent after them after their initial appearance had heard sonic detonations of great power. And the succubi that Lorochtoh had summoned to deal with them had been dispatched with distressing ease – their charms apparently ineffective. And the kelvezu – where did it fit into the scheme of things? A retainer? He reluctantly approached Nhura, whose knowledge and wisdom regarding many things was deeper than his.
"Have you heard of Duke Rhalid?" He asked.
"No," she replied.
"An Auran Princess named Iua?"
She scowled. "The name is distantly familiar," she replied.
"Take one of the succubi. Go first to Faerie, and make inquiries of this Duke. Spend no more than an hour there. Go then to the Plane of Air. Find out what you can regarding Iua. Return as speedily as you can."
She squinted, and nodded curtly.
After the departure of the Lillend – if that was, in fact, something which Nhura could still be called – Irknaan called Shupthul to him and instructed his Captain carefully. Somewhat later, Shupthul left the fortress in the company of the succubus Iemazai – his compacted mistress, and one of the wilier members of Irknaan’s court. They were accompanied by a dozen Loquai mounted on tenebrous griffons; the witch Koilimilou and her called and bound servitors – currently a trio of Jariliths – as well as six quicklings of particularly evil aspect, and thirty hell-hounds.
Koilimilou – cantankerous and eccentric – was one that Irknaan seldom approached, as the witch was dangerous and preferred her own company, or that of demons, to that of the Loquai. Under threat of flensing however, she acquiesced to Irknaan’s demands, and stirred herself from her reveries. She possessed a powerful item which, amongst other things, would expedite the passage of the hunting party. In the past, Irknaan had used it to wage war on his rivals – and only Koilimilou could unlock it secrets.
Shupthul would make preliminary contact with the group of interlopers, and assess their strengths and weaknesses – inviting them to the castle, if he deemed it appropriate. Lehurze would attempt to reopen negotiations with the devils who were now entrenched nearby – they had yet to declare their purpose. In the meantime, Irknaan had ordered several of his most powerful vassals to attend him: the Wyrm, the nymph Threxu, King Samodoquol with eighty knights, and Duke Ytryn with thirty more.
After deliberating, Irknaan had yielded to his desire for demonic assistance, but reluctant to directly embroil either Graz’zt or Rhyxali had, at the suggestion of Lehurze, scried Soneillon in her abysm of pain and depravity.
Darkness.
"She is there," Lehurze assured him, "and she knows you are watching."
Irknaan issued a sending. The enigmatic demoness did not reply.
Irknaan brooded. Soneillon was less dangerous than either of his patrons, but dealing with her still required considerable caution and a clear head. Although he trusted no-one – be they ally, subject, thrall or open enemy – the King had millennia of experience in dealing with some of the most devious and manipulative entities in creation.
He inwardly hoped that it would be enough. Any sign of weakness would be exploited by one or more of his own servants or allies.
**
"Should we send another one?" Ortwin asked irritably, an hour after the succubus had been summoned and dispatched to Irknaan’s fortress. "There’s still no reply." He stood tensely, arms folded, whilst the others sat nearby upon ecalypses and nightmares which champed restlessly.
"He is no doubt machinating," Mostin replied.
"In which case," Nwm suggested, "we probably shouldn’t give him too long. In case he prepares too well."
More time passed. Nwm’s thoughts reached out in an attempt to discover perturbations in the Green nearby, but to no affect.
When they arrived, it was suddenly and without warning. They manifested at the base of the hillock where the party had set their tents, outside of the dimensionally anchored area. Shadowstuff swirled around them, gushing from the aperture through which they came, before sinking slowly into the ground. Ortwin immediately fell into character, resisting the urge to gape, and regretting that he did not have time to quaff his philtre of glibness without drawing attention to himself.
The Loquai were tall, elegant figures, their individual features rendered vague by the umbral energies which had suffused them. They appeared as dark shades, clad in darker armour and bearing lances, bows and long swords; they sat upon black-winged monstrosities that would have been griffons, had they been possessed of more real matter and less shadowstuff and taint. Tiny motes of sooty darkness darted about the riders: fiendish umbral quicklings, with only pinprick red eyes to lend them semblance of shape and form. Hunting demons – Jariliths – prowled amongst them, their maws full of sharp teeth. Hell-hounds bayed around them.
Their leader wore a helm and breastplate of jet, although the captured twilight hinted at other shades hidden within. Upon closer observation, his face – beautiful even for a sidhe – seemed serene; delicate features revealed in a thousand shades of insubstantial grey. In his left hand he carried a bow of impossible lightness, a slender dart nocked easily between his long fingers.
"I am Shupthul," he said in a soft voice. The words resonated, and seemed to hang in the air like smoke after he had spoken. Behind him, an invisible sensor hung – Irknaan was doubtless watching.
"I am Rhalid," Ortwin replied, nodding politely. His eyes darted quickly over those others present. A succubus – currently without wings, yet unmistakably demonic – although not a threat, given their mind blanked state. Twelve knights, akin to Shupthul but lacking, Ortwin suspected, the magical gravity of their leader – whether in spells or enchanted items. And then he saw her.
Beautifulohgodssheissobeautifulihaventeverseen…don’t look at her…
Shades seemed to flash around her, but in her face was colour. Koilimilou was untouched by the shadowstuff which invaded Afqithan, although she bore more than a hint of the demonic.
Ortwin tore his eyes away from her, after they had rested the merest fraction of a second too long. She stared impassively back at him.
"I am hunting," Ortwin continued in a matter-of-fact way, his heart pounding silently. "I assume your master received my message? Would he care to join us?"
"It is customary to pay one’s respects to a lord, before one engages in a hunt on his land," Shupthul said humorlessly.
"For which, I apologize," Ortwin said, with what seemed like complete sincerity. "I suspect we became over-excited, and neglected to observe the customary niceties. Please convey my deep regret for any offense I might have caused." The Bard removed his diamond circlet, and casually offered it to Shupthul. "A token of good will to your King," he said openly.
Under his hood, Mostin raised an eyebrow.
Shupthul said nothing, but gestured – causing Shomei to immediately ready a spell in preparation. Instead, on his cue, one of the quicklings darted forwards to snatch the coronet, and delivered it to Shupthul’s hand within the space of a heartbeat.
Abruptly, the Captain switched into another language – full of grating sound and harsh syllables – and addressed Mostin. "What is your purpose?"
"That is no concern of yours," Mostin replied, somewhat shocked at hearing the Abyssal Tongue, but maintaining his composure.
Ortwin swallowed. This was not supposed to happen.
"Who is your master?" Shupthul continued.
"That…" Mostin began.
But Ortwin quickly realized that if he let this line of inquiry continue, then Mostin would betray them – although dishonest enough in his own mean way, the Alienist was not practiced in the art of subterfuge.
"SILENCE!" Ortwin screamed at Mostin, "how dare you speak? My apologies, Shupthul," he continued in Sylvan, seeming to master himself, "but this demon is compacted to me. He may speak only with my approval, and currently I do not grant it."
Shupthul sat silently. Ortwin hoped that the Captain was already developing a set of complex misconceptions.
"Allow me to introduce the rest of my companions," Ortwin continued nonchalantly, attempting to divert attention before more questions were asked about Mostin. "My consort, Iua; the witch, Aotheen," the Bard waved a dismissive hand towards Shomei; "my counsellor, Jhondrosokaur," at which Nwm nodded gravely; "Munhulmurliom the Dour," Ortwin remembered the name of an awakened oak tree that he had once encountered and randomly bestowed it upon Eadric; "and the demon Erizren. We are here to hunt, and although our arrival was not intentional, the quarry here present some interesting challenges."
"Afqithan," it was the female sidhe who spoke, the name rolling from her tongue and echoing in Ortwin’s mind. Aaf-kee-thaan. "This place is called Afqithan. Tell me, Duke Rhalid, does it strike you as an unusual coincidence – given your accidental arrival here – that of all the places that you might have appeared in this wide realm, by lucky happenstance your gate opened in the airs above King Irknaan’s fastness?" The words duke and accidental bore the slightest hint of irony.
"If it were coincidence," Ortwin quickly dissembled, "then I would call it lucky." His charm was effortless. "But our means of transportation is unconventional – we are drawn inexorably to existing portals and loci of power, siphoning a fraction of their energy in order to expedite translation. I can only assume that such a focus exists within your King’s walls?" It was a bold riposte, which elicited another question.
"Indeed? I would be fascinated to inspect such a device, if it exists. Will you show it to me?"
"I regret that the power exists within Aotheen herself. It is a unique ability, the secret of which is, unfortunately, lost to posterity. She is the last of her kin." Ortwin’s voice remained calm, with subtle overtones of condescension, as though he were patiently explaining a self-evident fact to an inquisitive child.
Inwardly, Eadric grimaced. They had just made contact with the Loquai, and already Ortwin had sown a convoluted web of lies which could only get worse as time went on. Behind his visor, the Paladin scanned the group of umbral feys and demons, looking for subtle cues and pointers to their motivation with regard to the interlopers.
The reek of taint which hung over them all was palpable. Shupthul was reticent and suspicious: the captain was a warrior who, no doubt, excelled in battle but – for a sidhe, at least – was relatively unpracticed in gauging the purposes of others. The woman was a different matter altogether, Eadric mused, and was opaque at best – although her inquiry regarding their imaginary means of transportation was couched in terms which could not disguise a tell-tale preoccupation with matters arcane. The succubus was silent and utterly inscrutable, and Eadric wondered what her role was – advisor, consort, spy, compactee – she could be any or all of those things. Eadric suspected that she was as focussed on penetrating their own motives as he was hers.
Shupthul spoke again, the merest hint of malice in his voice. "King Irknaan has issued instructions that you should attend him forthwith. We have been sent to escort you to his presence."
Sh*t, Ortwin thought. He smiled graciously. "I regret that, at present, such a visit will be impossible, as today, I hunt. Perhaps in a day or two. My proposition stands, however: King Irknaan is most welcome to join us."
"You misunderstand," Shupthul said menacingly. "Afqithan’s King requires your presence. Your hunt must wait."
"I…" The Bard began, but never finished.
Because Mostin, whether in a fit of paranoia, or anticipating an inevitable coming to blows, acted unilaterally, and made a decision which would change the way that the travellers related with the inhabitants of Afqithan. To the others, it also demonstrated the power that an arcanist of Mostin’s stature could wield in Faerie or any of its orbiting demiplanes. He spat a number of syllables out, prompting bows to be drawn or shot, and eliciting a desperate but ineffectual gesture in response from Koilimilou.
**
Ortwin experienced a strange sensation which lasted less than a fraction of a second – the merest flash in his mind. Shomei immediately recognized it for what it was – a temporal discontinuity in their vicinity. After it had passed, there was a colossal discharge of magical energy, and the tapestry of reality threatened to rupture completely before it rewove itself. Echoes of Sonics hung in the air.
The three Jariliths, Shupthul, the Succubus and twenty-six of the thirty Hell-hounds had vanished: the Captain’s empty armour and arms collapsed to the ground in a noisy rattle. Eleven of the Loquai had been petrified, along with six of their griffon mounts – some frozen with grotesque expressions of terror upon their faces. One other sidhe was dead from fear, and all but one of the remaining steeds had likewise been slain by a phantasmal killer. Each of the umbral quicklings had been reduced to a pulp by sonic attacks. The female sidhe sat upon a stone griffon with a vacant expression on her face.*
The last griffon attempted to flee with its petrified rider, along with the four hell-hounds. Mostin turned them into flounders, which flapped impotently in the air before suffocating.
Eadric gaped, a mixed expression of awe and horror on his face. Shomei looked mildly irritated and cast a dimensional anchor on Koilimilou. "Dammit, Mostin, was that really necessary? Ortwin can you restrain her? She might regain her senses at any moment."
The Bard and Iua both dashed forwards to bind and gag Koilimilou – the single remaining member of Shupthul’s party.
The Alienist’s head swam, as the full impact of his actions dawned on him. He glimpsed a vision of his future self – effortlessly commanding that kind of power had a definite appeal. To the arcanist, Afqithan was like a heady wine, and Mostin had just tasted it for the first time.
Nwm was staggered. "Mostin, you just killed the ambassador. And his whole embassy, in fact."
"They would have attacked us," Mostin replied simply.
"You don’t know that," Ortwin grumbled, expertly tying Koilimilou’s hands behind her back, and pushing one of his gloves into her mouth. "Gods, Mostin. I concoct an elaborate ruse, and you go and petrify everyone."
Mostin sighed. "As the alternative was to submit to Shupthul’s demands to accompany him to visit Irknaan, I fail to see what the problem is. Unless you would rather have been dragged off to the Loquai stronghold, to take our chances there. I have merely tipped the scales in our favour somewhat."
"Eadric?" Ortwin asked desperately.
The Paladin sighed. Unexpectedly, he came to the Alienist’s defense. "Whilst I don’t necessarily agree with Mostin’s methods, I have to admit that his reasoning is sound. It would have come to violence – either here or later. They were jealous of our power and lustful of it. They bore only malice towards us, and the desire to exploit us for their own ends. And the stench of taint and corruption was almost overwhelming."
"Bah!" Nwm snorted. "This is absurd. I mean, look at us. You’re here because of some vendetta you’ve got with Graz’zt…"
Mostin winced as the name was spoken.
"Ortwin just thinks it’s a big game," Nwm continued, "and this crazy bastard," he pointed at Mostin, whose kelvezu features seemed mildly offended at the insult, "wants to demonstrate to himself how dangerous he’s become. As if we didn’t know already."
"We are not in some nice sylvan glade in Nizkur," Mostin said irritably. "Wake up! This is a bad place, Nwm. Many of the inhabitants are bad. You are letting your sympathies for feys dictate how you think we should act – and the Loquai are feys in name only. They are no less wicked, vile and irredeemable than Rurunoth, Feezuu or any one of a host of others we have dealt with."
"And don’t moralize with me you hypocritical sh*t," Nwm hissed. "As far as irredeemable goes, might I remind you why we are here – ostensibly, at any rate. Does anyone recall Nehael? And Ed, if you’re going to judge people on how much lust for power they possess, at least be consistent about it and start with Mostin."
Eadric groaned. "The question again now is ‘what next?’ I hope someone has some ideas, because I’m fast running out."
"Well, it would seem that any prospects of subtlety have been complicated by Mostin," Nwm squinted. "Are we waging war, now?"
"Frankly," Eadric said, turning to the Bard, "I find open conflict less complex than your schemes, Ortwin. What do you suggest?"
Ortwin grinned despite himself. "We should offer an apology to Irknaan for the ‘minor misunderstanding.’ We should send our regards to him, and hope that this incident does not provoke a ‘diplomatic impasse.’ Obviously, we hope that he will still join us in hunting."
Eadric opened his mouth in disbelief.
"I’m serious," Ortwin continued, rapidly recovering his braggadocio after the incident. "It will demonstrate the contemptuous ease with which we can deal with Irknaan’s henchmen."
"He will throw everything that he’s got at us," Eadric said.
"Maybe," Shomei replied. "But you are assuming that he will want to remove us. He is not motivated by some ‘honourable’ desire to avenge his retainers, nor is he saddened by their loss – except insofar as it undermines his own power. If he can see a way to harness us, it might be preferable to eliminating us – from his perspective." She retrieved her dimensional shackles from within her pack.
"Good idea," Mostin said, as Shomei affixed the chains around Koilimilou’s wrists and ankles.
"I don’t know why you didn’t just kill her with the others," Shomei grumbled. "Are you becoming sentimental for a pretty face in your old age, Mostin?"
The Alienist sniffed. "She is not one of the Loquai, but a Cambion Sidhe. I thought that she might provide an interesting perspective on things if questioned."
"So you rendered her insane?"
"That is remediable."
"Not without cost," Shomei sighed. "Will you meet it?"
Mostin scowled. "I suppose I’ll have to." His eyes scanned their captive.
"You’re not very subtle," Ortwin jibed.
"I’m looking for magic, you dunce," Mostin snapped. He removed Koilimilou’s belt pouch, and unclasped a pendant from around her neck which bore a single, trapezoidal stone of greyish colour. In the pouch was a small box, perhaps three inches on a side, engraved with indecipherable glyphs.
Hmmm. Mostin thought.
Koilimilou’s eyes suddenly gained a fresh clarity, and she struggled vainly in her shackles and tried to bite Mostin, before lapsing into a stupor again.
"An all-too brief moment of lucidity," Nwm remarked drily.
Ortwin picked up his diamond coronet, blew dust – part of the desiccated remains of Shupthul – from the circlet, and set it jauntily on his head again. "Let’s send another message to Irknaan, and then go hunting."
Eadric screwed up his face, and wondered if Afqithan’s taint was having a detrimental effect on certain of his friends.
**
In her sanctum of unlight, nestled deep within Throile, Soneillon meditated briefly before conjuring an obsidian thought-span of profound delicacy, and passing into the region of dreams. The name of Shomei – revealed by the captured Erinyes – was still fresh in her mind. Further inquiries across several worlds had also yielded the names Titivilus and Ahma – amongst others – in association with the Infernalist: an interesting coincidence as, according to her spies, the Infernal Duke was currently present in Afqithan. Apparently the Breath of Oronthon kept acquaintances which were unusual for a holy warrior.
Eadric of Deorham, the Ahma. Who had already indirectly aided Soneillon in her struggle with Graz’zt – her spies had indicated that it was he who was responsible for the removal of at least two balors. He was the sworn enemy of her greatest enemy. Certainly a potential friend – at least by demonic standards. Soneillon idly wondered how he could be used to her advantage.
*Mostin’s attack consisted of a time stop, empowered and maximized by the magical trait of the plane to 6 rounds of virtual time, during which he cast haste, a chained flesh to stone[/I[, a chained phantasmal killer, two banishments directed at the demons and hell-hounds, disintegrations targeting Shupthul and the Succubus Iemazai, an insanity on Koilimilou, and various sonics. There were multiple redundancies in the spells – some of the Loquai were struck by both the flesh to stone and phantasmal killer. Shupthul avoided petrification but was disintegrated. Koilimilou succumbed to insanity. The save DCs were 25+ spell level because of Mostin’s augmented Intelligence, and even with the chained spells, most of the targets needed to roll 20s. Koilimilou initially attempted to counterspell the time stop with a greater dispelling she had readied, but failed.
