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Soneillon. Part 2. (Updated 10/7)
- Thread starter Sepulchrave II
- Start date
Sejs
First Post
Soneillon is not undisparate from Nehael?
I think the idea is that Oronthan in essence doesn't change, and has no need -to- change. He is all things, and always has been. It's just that in the past, our perception of him was limited. Saizhan serves to help remove this self-imposed limitation we have in our perception of the divine.
We're the ones changing. We're the ones that are infinitely becoming.
They'd still be there, as Eadric is still a paladin according to his stat block. Before, the Oronthanian orthodoxy was made of it's dualistic components. Now, the faith has been expanded, and isn't just comprised of the older dualistic elements - it's comprised of the older dualistic elements also. The cup has become bigger.
Agreed, heh. But it's the most satisfying headache I've had in a long, long time.
^_^
Edit: heh, oops. small clean up there.
Last edited:
Sepulchrave II
Legend
This is a very long post, and I hope it makes sense. I have actually cut out some stuff. At some future point - hopefully sooner rather than later - I will post the mechanics of the singular item which is the focus of this installment. Suffice to say, for the time being, that to derive information from it requires various Knowledge (Arcana) checks with absurdly high DCs, and that a mage can 'take 20' on these checks.
[Edit - make that 2 posts. I can't fit it all in one.
]
Soo...
****
The Web of Motes
After Mostin and Eadric had quizzed Nufrut, the Paladin related the news conveyed to him by Tramst in full. A bitter argument ensued.
"There is no need for us to return," Nwm sighed. "It would serve no purpose. We have – in a roundabout way – succeeded in what we set out to do. Irknaan is dead. The Demon’s precarious hold on the demiplane is compromised. We have vexed him. When we initially spoke of this, the plan was to assail him on as many fronts as we could. We should change tack accordingly now."
"My gear remains in Afqithan," Ortwin snapped.
"Forget your gear," Nwm replied unsympathetically. "Live with it – you are alive, if you would notice. Goddess, you’re a selfish bastard, Ortwin."
"But we have already formulated a plan," the Satyr continued, ignoring the insult. "We can do this. It will work."
"It would be an unnecessary waste of time and effort," Nwm retorted. "What would we gain? Eadric?"
"I don’t know," Eadric admitted.
"Pah!" Nwm snorted. "This is absurd. Why Afqithan? What’s the point?"
"It is some kind of key," Eadric replied.
Nwm looked exasperated. "Why? Have you had some kind of revelation?"
"No."
The Druid closed his eyes, and clenched his fists. "I have humoured you thus far, Eadric, but you need to seriously reappraise. Genuine visions I can accept, but some vague feeling is not sufficient."
"I trust vague feelings more than divinely inspired visions," Mostin said unhelpfully.
"I’m not suggesting that is the key," Eadric said. "But perhaps it is a key. Or perhaps we can turn it into one. There is the gate to Azzagrat…"
"Which opens both ways, I might remind you. And it is periodic – who knows what else has walked through it since we were last there."
"Soneillon." Eadric said again. "She is pivotal – or could be, if we allowed her to be. She lusts after the fall of the Lord of Azzagrat more than anything else."
"Do not presume to understand the motives of demons," Shomei warned. "Especially one such as her. If you use her as a tool – if you use each other I should say – then she will exact a price which may surprise you at a later time."
"Do you then intend to strike a bargain with Soneillon?" Ortwin asked.
"I don’t know. Titivilus offered to act as an arbiter – maybe for this purpose. Perhaps opening some kind of dialogue…"
"For me to regard something as questionable means that it must be very questionable," Ortwin said sardonically. "But I suspect that this is one barrel of maggots that you do not want to open."
Overcome by a sudden wave of irony, Nwm guffawed. "Eadric of Deorham purposes to compact with a Demon Queen? Ah, the world has changed. And maybe not for the better."
"There is opportunity, here," Eadric replied patiently. "And I am in the unfortunate position of having to decide the least evil."
"Do you have that authority?" Nwm countered. "Or sufficient information?"
"Yes, and no," the Paladin answered with a wry smile. "That is my lot. I am resigned to it. Things will unfold according to Oronthon’s will, irrespective of my actions."
"That is a depressing fatalism," Nwm groaned.
"Not so," Shomei unexpectedly came to Eadric’s defense. "To exert individual will and to submit to destiny need not be mutually exclusive perspectives. This is well established."
"Shomei, your philosophical sophistry is irrelevant to me," Nwm replied. "Your world-view is under assault. You are confused, and your intellect is trying to grasp at dialectical straws."
The Infernalist looked mildly offended, opened her mouth to say something, thought better of it, and clamped it shut again.
"Through sustained application of Will, we can force a confluence of events to occur in Afqithan," Mostin nodded. "We cannot control it, however. It may backfire. There are too many variables. We lack Jovol’s prescience."
Shomei raised her eyebrows. "Your euphemism is transparent, Mostin. You are too anxious to unleash the Pseudonatural Horror."
"I am not that anxious," Mostin said. "Or I would have done so already."
"I still do not understand what this thing is, of which you speak," Eadric sighed.
"It is the creature which slew Vhorzhe – in all likelihood." Shomei answered. "And probably other adepts who thought they could control it."
"The Horror," Mostin nodded eagerly. "The gate. Titivilus. Soneillon. The Prince. The Spell – which I am close to capable of casting."
"Although not alone," Shomei pointed out. "And enlisting a cabal will be far harder than speaking the incantation."
Mostin shrugged. "We are going in circles. I have some possible solutions, if any of you have the stomach to hear them: bear with me before you shoot me down. First, Soneillon: I can bind her, although I doubt I can hold her for long. Second, the gate: we can use it, or seal it with a disjunction. Third, Mulissu: it may be that she has made progress in interpreting Jovol’s web of motes – it may give us an idea on how to proceed which we have not previously considered. Fourth, the Pseudonatural: I can likewise bind it, and probably not hold it. Fifth, and I am loath to even suggest it: Shomei – or even I, for that matter – could enlist celestial support."
"There will be no cascade in Afqithan," Shomei said simply. "Tramst made that clear to me before I left him – this is no concern of the Host. And I have worries on that count which I haven’t yet voiced: there is no doubt that – irrespective of Nhura’s current inclinations – news of a celestial presence in the demiplane has already been reported to Graz’zt. Information such as that has a habit of spreading quickly."
"But would he have suspected who caused it?" Eadric asked.
"Perhaps not," Shomei conceded, "but the Prince is supremely paranoid, as I have said before. News of Irknaan’s death has probably reached him already. Who can guess the loyalty of the other Loquai?"
"We need information," Nwm sighed. "And we need it badly. Things are finely balanced. Factions are forming faster than we can apprehend them. They change before we have a chance to begin to understand them. There is too much flux."
"We are dealing with demons and their allies," Mostin said. "What do you expect? Our own presence has skewed events rapidly."
"Everything in Afqithan seemed relatively stable before we arrived," Nwm said laconically.
"Chaos and inertia have a great deal in common," Shomei smiled.
"Then we should take one more day," Eadric said grimly. "One more day, before we decide to act – and then ten hours or so will have passed in Afqithan since our flight. As Nwm says, we need information – to garner as much as we can. And when we do act, it needs to be decisive. No more vacillation. Mostin, you are the Diviner – the onus lies on you. Can you contact Mulissu?"
The Alienist nodded. "I have yet to prepare my spells. But I had determined to make a metagnostic inquiry before anything else. This will involve a translation."
"How long will it take?" The Paladin asked.
"Exactly no time at all," Mostin replied. "I will go to the Far Realm."
**
Beyond the glooms created by an uncounted number of fears – the terrors which lurked in the recesses of human souls, the darkest imaginings of demonic lust, and the nightmares of creatures which bore no shape or name – Soneillon dreamed a dream.
Annihilation, the threat of unbeing, the primeval void in which all meaning ceased, held no mystery for her. She was it, and it was she. From the blank tablet of unmanifest reality, the succubus drew forth a tendril of possibility. Fashioned by her dark spirit – which had, by the dubious virtue of sheer force of will, survived or transcended the insurmountable necessity of ontological cohesion – a shadowy phantasy began to coalesce.
She strove to give it form and meaning, to imbue it with qualities which marked it as real. Madness and meaninglessness flowed away. The numinous slowly subsided, and became the phenomenal. A vision of trees, of sky, of streams, animals, birds and men assumed tangibility. A small castle, with whitewashed walls, ivy-clad and perched upon a rocky knoll.
Paradox rapidly spiralled into infinity, and potentiality shrank to a single point in space and time. The interstices snapped, and unbeing retreated.
Soneillon stood in dappled sunlight, clad in flesh and blood. Nearby, an ancient oak-tree stood. The demoness glanced at Kyrtill’s Burh, erected a ward around herself, and assumed a pleasing form.
Soneillon smiled. She smiled at the hopeless lot of mortals, like pigs who were destined for slaughter. She smiled at the pathos which she perceived in Graz’zt: his interminable wheedling and plotting and conniving for the slightest of transient gains. She smiled at Wyre, and its magical Law, embodied in the Claviger and its servant Gihaahia – in the full knowledge that she herself needed no agent to bring here there and, thus, no infraction had occurred. And she smiled at Oronthon, and the Celestial Host, and their Interdict against the millions that had rebelled before time began.
Once, she had been one of them. But no longer. Her paradigm had shifted. Unreality was hers, and she made her own laws now.
**
The creature interrogated by Mostin was a writhing mass of matter which would have defied all attempts at classification, had the Alienist been inclined to attempt to categorize it. Two things only concerned him: it was of the lower order, and thus unlikely to resist his compulsion, and it was of reasonable intelligence – the latter inferred by Mostin who, invisible and mind blanked, had watched it interact with numerous other creatures of less stature than itself.
Transfixed, it swayed eerily beneath the Wizard’s gaze, its pseudopodia stretching and rippling simultaneously through several overlapping dimensions.
Mostin’s question was generic. He sought guidance, not definitive answers.
Can you enlighten me with regard to the events and possibilities which currently preoccupy me?
The creature’s consciousness was catapulted into the deepest reaches of madness and euphoria, and a barrage of scenes and feelings flooded into Mostin’s mind as it filtered them to him.
[Image] Graz’zt + [Image] a black tower + [Image] a satyr (or was it Titivilus?) + [Fear] Nothingness + [Image] peasant girl + [Image] a huge bird + [Incomprehensible] void + [Image] Steeple + [Image] dragon + [Image] a dreamscape: the Claviger; Jovol; Soneillon. [Image] the forest perishing + [Smell] acid + [Image] Lukarn + [Image] a million tiny stars + [Image] the Horror + [Fear] the Horror + [Terror] the Horror + [Image] a hundred souls, confined, deranged, screaming and gibbering + [Image] Vhorzhe + [Voice] saizha, Mostin?
Mostin quailed, and fled back to the bounded cosmos.
*
"I think that a slightly more structured question may have been in order," Mulissu said sarcastically, as she poured a smoking liquid into a tall, blue flute, and handed it to Mostin. "You might as well have asked ‘Can you please reveal all of my deepest fears to me?’"
The pair sat beneath the pomegranate tree in Mulissu’s courtyard, as several mephits capered nearby. The dome of the sky was, as usual, a perfect, unbroken cyan.
"It is within my nature to risk frequent assault upon my psyche," Mostin replied shakily. "You may have a point, however."
"Did you uncover anything worthwhile?"
"That remains to be seen," Mostin downed his drink rapidly and held out his glass for another draught, "but I think so. Interpretation is always the hardest part. This is a fine beverage. What is it?"
Mulissu shrugged, and poured again. "I don’t think it has a name. I acquired it from a passing Djinn. The pseudonatural entity seems foremost in your mind. Have you made an effort to contact it?"
"Not yet. I have not judged the time to be ripe. It soon will be, however."
"And you plan to gate it into this ‘Afqithan?’"
"Perhaps. Or I may loose it against the Prince, if we ever have the misfortune to meet. Mulissu, I need guidance."
The Witch groaned. "I prefer not to dispense advice, where possible."
"Jovol’s web of motes," Mostin persisted. "Have you made headway in understanding it?"
Mulissu sighed. "I have thought of little else. It continually distracts me from my work."
"But do you understand it?"
"No," she replied. "Or, I should say, I understand its principles and its function, but not how to read it – as you said, interpretation is always the hardest part. Would you like a demonstration?"
Mostin nodded. "Of course."
"Then we should go inside – it is best if we see it in relative darkness."
"I will bring the bottle," Mostin said. His mood was improving rapidly.
Mulissu had dedicated the space within the largest of the five minarets of her mansion-cum-castle to Jovol’s device. When she activated it – a flat metal plate some twelve inches square – by merely passing her hand over it, Mostin’s jaw dropped.
The darkness around them was suddenly illuminated by a hundred thousand points of light which coruscated in every colour imaginable. Some pulsed, and hummed, and seemed to move on unpredictable trajectories. Some quivered, some darted here and there, others stayed fixed, or orbited fathomless loci which could not be identified. Almost imperceptibly, slender threads wove them together, joining them for brief periods before they separated, or binding them tightly into pairs, triplets or larger clusters.
"Every mote represents a packet of consciousness – an individual entity, or a single perspective. They are shown in relation to one another."
Mulissu looked around briefly, before locating a bluish mote which blazed more brightly than those around it. She touched it with an outstretched finger, and it grew noticeably. Thousands of other motes winked out, but new ones came into being in their place. A puzzled look crossed her face.
"You seem perplexed," Mostin observed.
"The mote which I selected represents myself," Mulissu said. "That much, at least, I have determined. Notice the bright mote which winks nearby. Its pattern seems random and insubstantial: I suspect that this is you, although I cannot read the significance of its behaviour."
"I am mind blanked. This may be reflected in the web’s powers of scrutiny. How did you isolate the mote which represents you?"
"I just knew," the Witch answered. "Do not ask me to explain – I cannot."
"Eadric said that Jovol could infer certain things," Mostin speculated, "even when he could not accurately determine them. It may be possible to locate anyone or anything at any time, past, present or future – given a user with sufficient ability. Beyond even Jovol’s powers, I suspect.
"Indeed," Mulissu raised an eyebrow. "Or mine. It may also be possible to advance or regress the whole web – currently, I believe it shows things as they are. It should be able to reveal things as they were or even as they will be. This is beyond me. Nor can I determine the spatial coordinates of any of the motes – that is to say where in any reality the individual to whom the mote belongs is located. Observe this."
The witch traced a thin tendril from her own mote with her finger. Around them both, lights flashed rapidly, as the thread twisted and gyred. Slowly, in the centre of the chamber, a deep, purplish radiance grew. It seemed somehow serene. Perfect in its shape and form.
From it, a thousand strings, gossamer-thin, radiated outwards, connecting it to a myriad of other motes – including, somewhat detached, the bright blue light which was Mulissu herself. Around the central radiance, slowly orbiting on its periphery, was a single spark of deepest red, filled with malevolence and conveying a sense of foreboding.
"Behold the Claviger," Mulissu smiled, "and the Enforcer. At the end of every tendril, there is a Wizard, Mostin. We are all bound together, and there is nothing we can do about it."
"But which is whom?" Mostin asked in awe.
Mulissu sighed. "That is the question."
The Alienist paused in thought for a moment, before reaching out to touch Gihaahia’s mote, eliciting a doubtful expression from Mulissu.
"Mostin…" She began.
"Sshh!"
The Enforcer’s mote grew, and that of the Claviger retreated, until the red ellipsoid outshone all others. A feeling of subservience – tinged with an ancient, ineffable anger – emanated from it.
"Remarkable," Mostin said. As the radicles which anchored it to other luminous points came in to view, its connection to the Claviger assumed a different shape – appearing as a long, tense cord, which glowered with coercive power.
Many of the motes were now black, or deep scarlet, or midnight blue in hue. From all, violence, and lust, and pain, and fear flowed forth – stifling and suffocating. Many flickered and seemed to jump unpredictably.
"Are we seeing reality from Gihaahia’s perspective, now?" Mostin asked.
"I think these motes around her represent the contacts which she has made. The significant entities which have shaped – and maybe continue to shape – her reality."
Mostin’s eyes darted about rapidly, following the tendrils which sprang from the Enforcer. Where is the connection? It must be here. Is it this?
A fuliginous mote, but somehow vague and indistinct came into view. He touched it. It grew, threatening to consume all else. Beyond it, past incomprehensible connections which spanned realities and stretched the bounds of apprehension, was a yet deeper void.
Mulissu touched him gently on the shoulder. "Stop, Mostin. It will not avail you, and madness lies that way. You do not have the understanding. Sometimes you need to accept your limits."
Mostin exhaled, and nodded.
[Edit - make that 2 posts. I can't fit it all in one.
]Soo...
****
The Web of Motes
After Mostin and Eadric had quizzed Nufrut, the Paladin related the news conveyed to him by Tramst in full. A bitter argument ensued.
"There is no need for us to return," Nwm sighed. "It would serve no purpose. We have – in a roundabout way – succeeded in what we set out to do. Irknaan is dead. The Demon’s precarious hold on the demiplane is compromised. We have vexed him. When we initially spoke of this, the plan was to assail him on as many fronts as we could. We should change tack accordingly now."
"My gear remains in Afqithan," Ortwin snapped.
"Forget your gear," Nwm replied unsympathetically. "Live with it – you are alive, if you would notice. Goddess, you’re a selfish bastard, Ortwin."
"But we have already formulated a plan," the Satyr continued, ignoring the insult. "We can do this. It will work."
"It would be an unnecessary waste of time and effort," Nwm retorted. "What would we gain? Eadric?"
"I don’t know," Eadric admitted.
"Pah!" Nwm snorted. "This is absurd. Why Afqithan? What’s the point?"
"It is some kind of key," Eadric replied.
Nwm looked exasperated. "Why? Have you had some kind of revelation?"
"No."
The Druid closed his eyes, and clenched his fists. "I have humoured you thus far, Eadric, but you need to seriously reappraise. Genuine visions I can accept, but some vague feeling is not sufficient."
"I trust vague feelings more than divinely inspired visions," Mostin said unhelpfully.
"I’m not suggesting that is the key," Eadric said. "But perhaps it is a key. Or perhaps we can turn it into one. There is the gate to Azzagrat…"
"Which opens both ways, I might remind you. And it is periodic – who knows what else has walked through it since we were last there."
"Soneillon." Eadric said again. "She is pivotal – or could be, if we allowed her to be. She lusts after the fall of the Lord of Azzagrat more than anything else."
"Do not presume to understand the motives of demons," Shomei warned. "Especially one such as her. If you use her as a tool – if you use each other I should say – then she will exact a price which may surprise you at a later time."
"Do you then intend to strike a bargain with Soneillon?" Ortwin asked.
"I don’t know. Titivilus offered to act as an arbiter – maybe for this purpose. Perhaps opening some kind of dialogue…"
"For me to regard something as questionable means that it must be very questionable," Ortwin said sardonically. "But I suspect that this is one barrel of maggots that you do not want to open."
Overcome by a sudden wave of irony, Nwm guffawed. "Eadric of Deorham purposes to compact with a Demon Queen? Ah, the world has changed. And maybe not for the better."
"There is opportunity, here," Eadric replied patiently. "And I am in the unfortunate position of having to decide the least evil."
"Do you have that authority?" Nwm countered. "Or sufficient information?"
"Yes, and no," the Paladin answered with a wry smile. "That is my lot. I am resigned to it. Things will unfold according to Oronthon’s will, irrespective of my actions."
"That is a depressing fatalism," Nwm groaned.
"Not so," Shomei unexpectedly came to Eadric’s defense. "To exert individual will and to submit to destiny need not be mutually exclusive perspectives. This is well established."
"Shomei, your philosophical sophistry is irrelevant to me," Nwm replied. "Your world-view is under assault. You are confused, and your intellect is trying to grasp at dialectical straws."
The Infernalist looked mildly offended, opened her mouth to say something, thought better of it, and clamped it shut again.
"Through sustained application of Will, we can force a confluence of events to occur in Afqithan," Mostin nodded. "We cannot control it, however. It may backfire. There are too many variables. We lack Jovol’s prescience."
Shomei raised her eyebrows. "Your euphemism is transparent, Mostin. You are too anxious to unleash the Pseudonatural Horror."
"I am not that anxious," Mostin said. "Or I would have done so already."
"I still do not understand what this thing is, of which you speak," Eadric sighed.
"It is the creature which slew Vhorzhe – in all likelihood." Shomei answered. "And probably other adepts who thought they could control it."
"The Horror," Mostin nodded eagerly. "The gate. Titivilus. Soneillon. The Prince. The Spell – which I am close to capable of casting."
"Although not alone," Shomei pointed out. "And enlisting a cabal will be far harder than speaking the incantation."
Mostin shrugged. "We are going in circles. I have some possible solutions, if any of you have the stomach to hear them: bear with me before you shoot me down. First, Soneillon: I can bind her, although I doubt I can hold her for long. Second, the gate: we can use it, or seal it with a disjunction. Third, Mulissu: it may be that she has made progress in interpreting Jovol’s web of motes – it may give us an idea on how to proceed which we have not previously considered. Fourth, the Pseudonatural: I can likewise bind it, and probably not hold it. Fifth, and I am loath to even suggest it: Shomei – or even I, for that matter – could enlist celestial support."
"There will be no cascade in Afqithan," Shomei said simply. "Tramst made that clear to me before I left him – this is no concern of the Host. And I have worries on that count which I haven’t yet voiced: there is no doubt that – irrespective of Nhura’s current inclinations – news of a celestial presence in the demiplane has already been reported to Graz’zt. Information such as that has a habit of spreading quickly."
"But would he have suspected who caused it?" Eadric asked.
"Perhaps not," Shomei conceded, "but the Prince is supremely paranoid, as I have said before. News of Irknaan’s death has probably reached him already. Who can guess the loyalty of the other Loquai?"
"We need information," Nwm sighed. "And we need it badly. Things are finely balanced. Factions are forming faster than we can apprehend them. They change before we have a chance to begin to understand them. There is too much flux."
"We are dealing with demons and their allies," Mostin said. "What do you expect? Our own presence has skewed events rapidly."
"Everything in Afqithan seemed relatively stable before we arrived," Nwm said laconically.
"Chaos and inertia have a great deal in common," Shomei smiled.
"Then we should take one more day," Eadric said grimly. "One more day, before we decide to act – and then ten hours or so will have passed in Afqithan since our flight. As Nwm says, we need information – to garner as much as we can. And when we do act, it needs to be decisive. No more vacillation. Mostin, you are the Diviner – the onus lies on you. Can you contact Mulissu?"
The Alienist nodded. "I have yet to prepare my spells. But I had determined to make a metagnostic inquiry before anything else. This will involve a translation."
"How long will it take?" The Paladin asked.
"Exactly no time at all," Mostin replied. "I will go to the Far Realm."
**
Beyond the glooms created by an uncounted number of fears – the terrors which lurked in the recesses of human souls, the darkest imaginings of demonic lust, and the nightmares of creatures which bore no shape or name – Soneillon dreamed a dream.
Annihilation, the threat of unbeing, the primeval void in which all meaning ceased, held no mystery for her. She was it, and it was she. From the blank tablet of unmanifest reality, the succubus drew forth a tendril of possibility. Fashioned by her dark spirit – which had, by the dubious virtue of sheer force of will, survived or transcended the insurmountable necessity of ontological cohesion – a shadowy phantasy began to coalesce.
She strove to give it form and meaning, to imbue it with qualities which marked it as real. Madness and meaninglessness flowed away. The numinous slowly subsided, and became the phenomenal. A vision of trees, of sky, of streams, animals, birds and men assumed tangibility. A small castle, with whitewashed walls, ivy-clad and perched upon a rocky knoll.
Paradox rapidly spiralled into infinity, and potentiality shrank to a single point in space and time. The interstices snapped, and unbeing retreated.
Soneillon stood in dappled sunlight, clad in flesh and blood. Nearby, an ancient oak-tree stood. The demoness glanced at Kyrtill’s Burh, erected a ward around herself, and assumed a pleasing form.
Soneillon smiled. She smiled at the hopeless lot of mortals, like pigs who were destined for slaughter. She smiled at the pathos which she perceived in Graz’zt: his interminable wheedling and plotting and conniving for the slightest of transient gains. She smiled at Wyre, and its magical Law, embodied in the Claviger and its servant Gihaahia – in the full knowledge that she herself needed no agent to bring here there and, thus, no infraction had occurred. And she smiled at Oronthon, and the Celestial Host, and their Interdict against the millions that had rebelled before time began.
Once, she had been one of them. But no longer. Her paradigm had shifted. Unreality was hers, and she made her own laws now.
**
The creature interrogated by Mostin was a writhing mass of matter which would have defied all attempts at classification, had the Alienist been inclined to attempt to categorize it. Two things only concerned him: it was of the lower order, and thus unlikely to resist his compulsion, and it was of reasonable intelligence – the latter inferred by Mostin who, invisible and mind blanked, had watched it interact with numerous other creatures of less stature than itself.
Transfixed, it swayed eerily beneath the Wizard’s gaze, its pseudopodia stretching and rippling simultaneously through several overlapping dimensions.
Mostin’s question was generic. He sought guidance, not definitive answers.
Can you enlighten me with regard to the events and possibilities which currently preoccupy me?
The creature’s consciousness was catapulted into the deepest reaches of madness and euphoria, and a barrage of scenes and feelings flooded into Mostin’s mind as it filtered them to him.
[Image] Graz’zt + [Image] a black tower + [Image] a satyr (or was it Titivilus?) + [Fear] Nothingness + [Image] peasant girl + [Image] a huge bird + [Incomprehensible] void + [Image] Steeple + [Image] dragon + [Image] a dreamscape: the Claviger; Jovol; Soneillon. [Image] the forest perishing + [Smell] acid + [Image] Lukarn + [Image] a million tiny stars + [Image] the Horror + [Fear] the Horror + [Terror] the Horror + [Image] a hundred souls, confined, deranged, screaming and gibbering + [Image] Vhorzhe + [Voice] saizha, Mostin?
Mostin quailed, and fled back to the bounded cosmos.
*
"I think that a slightly more structured question may have been in order," Mulissu said sarcastically, as she poured a smoking liquid into a tall, blue flute, and handed it to Mostin. "You might as well have asked ‘Can you please reveal all of my deepest fears to me?’"
The pair sat beneath the pomegranate tree in Mulissu’s courtyard, as several mephits capered nearby. The dome of the sky was, as usual, a perfect, unbroken cyan.
"It is within my nature to risk frequent assault upon my psyche," Mostin replied shakily. "You may have a point, however."
"Did you uncover anything worthwhile?"
"That remains to be seen," Mostin downed his drink rapidly and held out his glass for another draught, "but I think so. Interpretation is always the hardest part. This is a fine beverage. What is it?"
Mulissu shrugged, and poured again. "I don’t think it has a name. I acquired it from a passing Djinn. The pseudonatural entity seems foremost in your mind. Have you made an effort to contact it?"
"Not yet. I have not judged the time to be ripe. It soon will be, however."
"And you plan to gate it into this ‘Afqithan?’"
"Perhaps. Or I may loose it against the Prince, if we ever have the misfortune to meet. Mulissu, I need guidance."
The Witch groaned. "I prefer not to dispense advice, where possible."
"Jovol’s web of motes," Mostin persisted. "Have you made headway in understanding it?"
Mulissu sighed. "I have thought of little else. It continually distracts me from my work."
"But do you understand it?"
"No," she replied. "Or, I should say, I understand its principles and its function, but not how to read it – as you said, interpretation is always the hardest part. Would you like a demonstration?"
Mostin nodded. "Of course."
"Then we should go inside – it is best if we see it in relative darkness."
"I will bring the bottle," Mostin said. His mood was improving rapidly.
Mulissu had dedicated the space within the largest of the five minarets of her mansion-cum-castle to Jovol’s device. When she activated it – a flat metal plate some twelve inches square – by merely passing her hand over it, Mostin’s jaw dropped.
The darkness around them was suddenly illuminated by a hundred thousand points of light which coruscated in every colour imaginable. Some pulsed, and hummed, and seemed to move on unpredictable trajectories. Some quivered, some darted here and there, others stayed fixed, or orbited fathomless loci which could not be identified. Almost imperceptibly, slender threads wove them together, joining them for brief periods before they separated, or binding them tightly into pairs, triplets or larger clusters.
"Every mote represents a packet of consciousness – an individual entity, or a single perspective. They are shown in relation to one another."
Mulissu looked around briefly, before locating a bluish mote which blazed more brightly than those around it. She touched it with an outstretched finger, and it grew noticeably. Thousands of other motes winked out, but new ones came into being in their place. A puzzled look crossed her face.
"You seem perplexed," Mostin observed.
"The mote which I selected represents myself," Mulissu said. "That much, at least, I have determined. Notice the bright mote which winks nearby. Its pattern seems random and insubstantial: I suspect that this is you, although I cannot read the significance of its behaviour."
"I am mind blanked. This may be reflected in the web’s powers of scrutiny. How did you isolate the mote which represents you?"
"I just knew," the Witch answered. "Do not ask me to explain – I cannot."
"Eadric said that Jovol could infer certain things," Mostin speculated, "even when he could not accurately determine them. It may be possible to locate anyone or anything at any time, past, present or future – given a user with sufficient ability. Beyond even Jovol’s powers, I suspect.
"Indeed," Mulissu raised an eyebrow. "Or mine. It may also be possible to advance or regress the whole web – currently, I believe it shows things as they are. It should be able to reveal things as they were or even as they will be. This is beyond me. Nor can I determine the spatial coordinates of any of the motes – that is to say where in any reality the individual to whom the mote belongs is located. Observe this."
The witch traced a thin tendril from her own mote with her finger. Around them both, lights flashed rapidly, as the thread twisted and gyred. Slowly, in the centre of the chamber, a deep, purplish radiance grew. It seemed somehow serene. Perfect in its shape and form.
From it, a thousand strings, gossamer-thin, radiated outwards, connecting it to a myriad of other motes – including, somewhat detached, the bright blue light which was Mulissu herself. Around the central radiance, slowly orbiting on its periphery, was a single spark of deepest red, filled with malevolence and conveying a sense of foreboding.
"Behold the Claviger," Mulissu smiled, "and the Enforcer. At the end of every tendril, there is a Wizard, Mostin. We are all bound together, and there is nothing we can do about it."
"But which is whom?" Mostin asked in awe.
Mulissu sighed. "That is the question."
The Alienist paused in thought for a moment, before reaching out to touch Gihaahia’s mote, eliciting a doubtful expression from Mulissu.
"Mostin…" She began.
"Sshh!"
The Enforcer’s mote grew, and that of the Claviger retreated, until the red ellipsoid outshone all others. A feeling of subservience – tinged with an ancient, ineffable anger – emanated from it.
"Remarkable," Mostin said. As the radicles which anchored it to other luminous points came in to view, its connection to the Claviger assumed a different shape – appearing as a long, tense cord, which glowered with coercive power.
Many of the motes were now black, or deep scarlet, or midnight blue in hue. From all, violence, and lust, and pain, and fear flowed forth – stifling and suffocating. Many flickered and seemed to jump unpredictably.
"Are we seeing reality from Gihaahia’s perspective, now?" Mostin asked.
"I think these motes around her represent the contacts which she has made. The significant entities which have shaped – and maybe continue to shape – her reality."
Mostin’s eyes darted about rapidly, following the tendrils which sprang from the Enforcer. Where is the connection? It must be here. Is it this?
A fuliginous mote, but somehow vague and indistinct came into view. He touched it. It grew, threatening to consume all else. Beyond it, past incomprehensible connections which spanned realities and stretched the bounds of apprehension, was a yet deeper void.
Mulissu touched him gently on the shoulder. "Stop, Mostin. It will not avail you, and madness lies that way. You do not have the understanding. Sometimes you need to accept your limits."
Mostin exhaled, and nodded.
Sepulchrave II
Legend
The Web of Motes - Continued
They sat outside again. At Mulissu’s command, a cool breeze had arisen.
"The dark mote that you evoked – what was it?"
"Cheshne, or her echo," Mostin answered. "At least, I think it was. Nothingness has been weighing on my mind recently. Tell me, Mulissu: is it possible for a demon to survive annihilation?"
Mulissu shrugged. "The ontological paradox holds no interest for me. Speculating about such things is pointless."
"Did you see the void beyond the void?" Mostin asked.
"Yes, Mostin, I did – and I am superstitious enough to say ‘do not speak its name in my house.’ Why does it interest you?"
"It is the key to understanding the demoness Soneillon. If I can locate the mote which represents her, and then the mote which represents Eadric, Tramst, the Prince of Azzagrat…"
"It is an exceedingly long and arduous task," Mulissu sighed, and stretched. "I have attempted the process of cross-referencing, but there are hundreds of variables, and isolating many of them is near to impossible."
"Cosmic entities are easy enough to locate, if you can find one they lead from each to the next – the Enforcer is an excellent place to begin."
Mulissu shook her head. "And if you locate Cheshne, or Astaroth, what then? Can you tell which of Shûth’s accursed gods is which, or which Arch-fiend is Belial and which Amaimon? They flicker and shift."
"How did Jovol interpret it? Did he use a spell?"
"Perhaps. Or perhaps his insight was simply far greater than either of us."
The bracelet, Mostin thought at once, and struck his forehead with his hand.
Mulissu looked quizzical.
"I am an idiot," Mostin explained.
*
Shomei eyed the mephits with an expression of weary tedium on her face.
"How can you tolerate their continual antics?" She asked Mulissu.
"They are acting according to their nature," the Elementalist replied.
"They are fractious and ill-disciplined. I would choose retainers who are more reliable."
"And no doubt far duller and more serious. Mostin says that the bracelet that Jovol bequeathed to you enhances perception in certain areas."
Shomei raised an eyebrow. "Evidently he has studied it more than I gave him credit for. Or his speculation is, for once, accurate. He is correct."
"I wish to borrow it for a short while," Mulissu said impassively – a statement which verged upon a command, or at least an expectation that she would not be denied.
"In order to better interpret Jovol’s web of motes," Shomei nodded. "I, too, would like the opportunity to further realize my bracelet’s potential."
Mostin sighed. He saw where this argument was leading. "It seems plain to me that your respective egos – colossal and yet simultaneously fragile as they both are – would require each of you to assert your right to first use the bracelet and web in conjunction. I can offer a solution to this impasse by volunteering my services – humbly, of course – thereby sparing each of you further embarrassment. I would also like to point out that I am, by native disposition and years of rigorous training, a Diviner. The web is likely to respond favorably to my benign aura."
"That is utterly spurious," Mulissu moaned. "and I will not even deign to refute it formally. Shomei, follow me – the honour is yours. Forgive my presumption."
Mostin squinted, and traipsed behind the two witches into the dome.
Mulissu floated three inches above the marble floor, arms folded across her chest, whilst Mostin half-sulked and half-scrutinized Shomei, who stood at the centre of the web of motes.
Points of light wheeled around her at incredible speed. She reached out, touched motes which arose, grew, merged, separated, shifted and winked out.
"What do you see?" Mostin asked.
"Wait," the Infernalist replied. "There are more potential viewpoints than I had anticipated." She touched a mote, and it blossomed.
"Well?" Mostin grumbled impatiently.
"There are numerous space-times represented by intersecting parabolae," Shomei answered. "All cosmoi are represented here. And the sum of all possibility."
Mostin looked dubious. "Can you find any mote? Find Nwm’s mote."
Shomei glanced around, and interlocking systems rapidly flashed past. She touched another mote, and it assumed a central position and seemed to glow more brightly. The Infernalist laughed – predictably, it was green.
"Are you sure that’s him?" Mostin asked.
"Oh yes," she replied.
"Where is he?"
"As I already know where Nwm is – at his glade near Deorham – that would hardly be a fair trial of the web’s power."
"Let me try," Mostin said.
"I’m next," Mulissu smiled.
Mostin scowled.
After several frustrating hours, he finally got to play.
When the Alienist engaged with the web for the second time, he drew in his breath sharply in wonder.
New levels of complexity were revealed, and others suggested or hinted at. Nuances which had eluded him entirely during his first encounter were suddenly plainly visible: possibilities, probabilities, connections on levels which he did not comprehend. Visions shared, perspectives held in common, affinities with concepts or geographical locations. Space, time and consciousness locked together in a latticework of impossible subtlety and intricacy. The web of motes was a true microcosm. A mirror of reality – or of many realities.
What can this device not do? Mostin wondered to himself. Who – or what – constructed it? When? How?
Quickly, he isolated the mote which he knew represented himself and examined it. Hundreds of connections emanated from it to other points of light: Eadric, Nwm, Shomei, Mulissu, Orolde, the Pseudonatural which he had only recently quizzed, the Horror and uncounted others.
Mostin concentrated, and the web receded. Motes flashed as time regressed, but larger patterns remained constant for long periods, as though some overriding principle – an organizing factor – was in play. When they changed, they seemed to do so sometimes slowly and deliberately, sometimes wholesale – imposing a new set of guiding rules and paradigms upon the interwoven gestalt.
Mostin observed Khu: realities collided where gates blazed open and celestials descended in legions. A maze of motes and taut connections which formed a huge knot with many facets. A nodality.
Mostin studied it for three hours, familiarizing himself with its patterns and undercurrents. A variety of hypothetical scenarios which had never been actualized overlapped with events as he remembered them: the death of Ainhorr, the death of himself, the successful flight of Feezuu, the failure of Mulissu to initiate the cascade. The reflection of Graz’zt – the demon’s simulacrum – surviving the assault. Mostin selected an unrealized past future where Eadric had been slain, and gingerly advanced the web into chaos.
Feezuu carving out an empire. Tens of thousands of motes in bondage or annihilated. Her lichdom – which had been so narrowly avoided. Rapid bifurcation, and incomprehensibility.
Mostin sighed, and returned to the Now. He selected Graz’zt’s mote and scrutinized it briefly – it seemed absurdly complex in its connections. It resonated closely with Eadric, with Soneillon – the demoness was now plainly visible to the Alienist – and with hundreds of fiends and powerful servitors or thralls. Another mote, which was burdened with suffering beyond the ability of any mortal flesh to endure, was tightly enmeshed with the others.
Mostin swallowed, and touched Nehael.
A plethora of cosmoi wheeled in a pattern which bore an uncanny symmetry. Like a chiaroscuro in perfect balance, Nehael’s picture revealed Rintrah, Eadric, Graz’zt, Soneillon, Nwm, Titivilus and even Mostin himself in orbit around her. She was the lynchpin, the focus of all activity, and the calm centre around whom infinities – Oronthon, the Far Realm, Unbeing, Dream, the Green, the Adversary – seemed poised through their representatives to assert their claims to reality. Her resonance with Tramst was extraordinary – like Oronthon’s proxy, her role was to reveal all accepted truths as empty. Mostin tried to advance the web, but it immediately fractured into trillions of possibilities.
"Ngaarh!" He yelled in frustration.
Mulissu stood smiling, looking at him. "It is late, Mostin. I am hungry. Will you stay for dinner?"
Dumbly, Mostin nodded.
*
The Alienist, Elementalist and Infernalist sat around a small hexagonal table within an airy refectory, dining on a sumptuous meal of delicacies prepared by the mephit Shrix – who, apparently possessed a degree of culinary expertise normally eclipsed by his perverse sense of humour as Mulissu’s door-ward.
"This has been most productive," Mostin said through a mouthful of exquisite pastries stuffed with figs, almonds and pistachios. "We should meet more regularly."
Mulissu looked suspicious – her intolerance for frequent interruption was well known.
"Did you determine Soneillon’s location?" Shomei asked Mostin.
The Alienist shook his head. "I became somewhat preoccupied by other matters. Why?"
"She is on the Prime," Shomei replied.
Mostin coughed. "This information would have been better shared earlier."
"I had assumed that she would be first to fall under your scrutiny," the Infernalist jibed. "I merely noticed it in passing – my attention was directed towards the Infernal realms. Incidentally, Titivilus is in Afqithan, along with Furcas and Murmur – although I didn’t pursue that line of inquiry either."
Mostin almost choked.
"What did you look at, Mostin?" Mulissu asked. "I spent an hour minutely inspecting the Claviger and its connections and then proceeded to examine Ha’uh – a primal elemental with whom I should like to make peaceable contact, if possible."
Mostin raised an eyebrow. "The meta-structure of nodalities is fascinating. If I were to direct my energies in any one direction with regard to the web, then it would be here."
Mulissu sighed. "I think the dangers here are apparent – to be drawn in, and spend the rest of one’s life observing or contemplating cosmic plans, patterns and connections. Was it productive?"
"Yes and no," Mostin replied. "I found that advancing the web beyond its current reflection of the Now to be unsatisfying. I could not project it into the future with any degree of certainty."
"Nor could I," Mulissu nodded.
"Nor I," Shomei agreed. "It may be that Jovol’s bracelet is incapable of augmenting our faculties to this extent – his own native ability must have borne the brunt of his endeavours. It might behoove one of us to develop a spell for the express purpose of interpreting the web."
"I will do so," Mostin said, "when I have time."
"If it is ritualized I could easily perfect a formula in a matter of days," Mulissu said. "And with the minimum of fuss."
"My reservoir must stay unmolested," Mostin said sourly. "I want no repeat of Gihaahia’s binding – it set me back by a month at least."
"Noted," Mulissu nodded.
"Splendid," Shomei smiled. "Then I say that we reconvene in one week to discuss our options – assuming that Mostin and I are still alive. And every month thereafter."
Mulissu scowled. "Every year would suit me better."
"Then I would suggest every quarter, as a compromise," Mostin said. "We three would form a potent triad. We are peers, and few others compare to us in power and ability. Mulissu should be our leader – the first among equals."
"Not for long, I suspect," the Witch said drily.
**
"She is here?" Eadric asked, aghast.
Mostin gave a confirmatory nod. "There is more. Before we left, I inspected the web for a third time. It would appear that certain of those others whom we encountered have also made a translation."
Eadric looked sick. "Go on."
"Nhura. The Wyrm, and the Shadow who rode with him – most likely Threxu the Nymph mentioned by Nufrut. At least a dozen of the Loquai – including the one we briefly captured. The other chthonic thing. Nhura is accompanied by another creature: powerful, but heretofore unknown to us."
"A demon?"
"Demons may not enter the world of men unless called. The Interdict forbids it."
"But you just said…"
"It would seem that Soneillon has a way to circumvent it. Or perhaps it no longer applies to her. I would have said that perhaps she has an ally that we do not know about. One who brought her here – it would not be the first time. But the Enforcer would have intercepted a summoner and annihilated him or her. In any case, she is here."
"Where?" Nwm asked.
"Unfortunately, I currently lack the expertise to make an accurate assessment of her position without drawing attention to myself. Not that it matters – she can travel an unlimited distance at will."
"And the others?" Ortwin asked. "The Dragon?"
"Are split into two groups. I suspect one or more of them can plane shift: they may have arrived in two waves."
"I thought the sidhe were capable of that feat in any case," Ortwin said.
"Not the Loquai," Shomei answered. "They are bound to Shadow. Which is fortunate for us – several hundred of them would present a significant threat."
Eadric groaned. "We cannot allow them to remain here. They will cause untold damage."
Shomei shrugged. "It is you they seek, Ahma – your mote is replete with connections to them. Many minds are extended and focused in your direction. They may take some time to arrive here – the two groups are probably several hundred miles distant – both from us and each other. I don’t think they will tarry to cause random mayhem."
"We need to intercept the Dragon," Eadric said.
Mostin nodded. "I will scry him shortly. But give me an hour to prepare the rest of my spells."
"An hour?"
"I cannot work miracles, Eadric! If I don’t give this some thought, then the chances are that we’ll all wind up dead anyway."
**
In the chapel at Deorham, the four devas chanted in unison as they strapped Eadric’s armour to him and girded him with his sword belt. He hefted Melimpor’s shield – perpetually burnished to an unnatural sheen – and slid Lukarn into its scabbard.
The potent runes and wards on his weapon, girdle and armour would, he knew, be of limited use to him. In an area of dead magic, their power would be suspended: he was relying in large part on skill and force alone. He recalled his own words to Hullu – that he was the greatest warrior of the age, unmatched in arms by any other in Wyre. He swallowed, and wondered if it had been an idle boast.
From his armoury, the Ahma had selected two powerful horn bows – one for himself, and another for Iua – together with quivers full of blue-fletched arrows. Ortwin would be using Shupthul’s bow – his own, Anguish – had been lost along with the rest of his equipment. Unlike the Satyr and duelist, however, Eadric would carry no further wards or augmentations.
Ortwin and Iua were highly mobile – it was expected that they would range beyond the antimagic field, attack, and retreat back within it again. Eadric would stay at the centre, protecting the locus of null magic – Shomei – by whatever means he could.
Eadric sighed. He could have commanded a dozen, or even a hundred of Wyre’s most stalwart Templars to accompany him, and didn’t doubt for an instant that they would have followed. But his actions now were far beyond the purview of the Temple, and dragging them off to possible death – or worse – would have weighed on his mind for the rest of his life. This was not their fight. And there was no time.
He hoped that Shomei’s assessment was accurate – that they were interested in him alone. His stomach turned. What havoc would they wreak here, in Wyre?
He closed his eyes, knelt, and prayed.
When he opened them again, he found that he could not rise. The celestials stood in unlikely poses near the altar, similarly paralyzed. Behind him, the Paladin heard gentle footsteps approaching.
A girl who was almost a woman, clad in the traditional folk costume of Trempa – a clean white dress drawn in around the waist, with brightly patterned hems – stood next to him. She leaned forward and lit an offertory candle from an oil lamp, which burned before the solar orb upon the small altar. The flame which kindled from the taper seemed to blaze with a colour that was darker than soot. Eadric’s eyes strained to see her face, oval and framed with a riot of black hair.
She knelt slightly too close for decency, her perfume a heady combination of musk and spice. She turned her head, and her breath was warm in his ear as she whispered.
"Nothing becomes."
They sat outside again. At Mulissu’s command, a cool breeze had arisen.
"The dark mote that you evoked – what was it?"
"Cheshne, or her echo," Mostin answered. "At least, I think it was. Nothingness has been weighing on my mind recently. Tell me, Mulissu: is it possible for a demon to survive annihilation?"
Mulissu shrugged. "The ontological paradox holds no interest for me. Speculating about such things is pointless."
"Did you see the void beyond the void?" Mostin asked.
"Yes, Mostin, I did – and I am superstitious enough to say ‘do not speak its name in my house.’ Why does it interest you?"
"It is the key to understanding the demoness Soneillon. If I can locate the mote which represents her, and then the mote which represents Eadric, Tramst, the Prince of Azzagrat…"
"It is an exceedingly long and arduous task," Mulissu sighed, and stretched. "I have attempted the process of cross-referencing, but there are hundreds of variables, and isolating many of them is near to impossible."
"Cosmic entities are easy enough to locate, if you can find one they lead from each to the next – the Enforcer is an excellent place to begin."
Mulissu shook her head. "And if you locate Cheshne, or Astaroth, what then? Can you tell which of Shûth’s accursed gods is which, or which Arch-fiend is Belial and which Amaimon? They flicker and shift."
"How did Jovol interpret it? Did he use a spell?"
"Perhaps. Or perhaps his insight was simply far greater than either of us."
The bracelet, Mostin thought at once, and struck his forehead with his hand.
Mulissu looked quizzical.
"I am an idiot," Mostin explained.
*
Shomei eyed the mephits with an expression of weary tedium on her face.
"How can you tolerate their continual antics?" She asked Mulissu.
"They are acting according to their nature," the Elementalist replied.
"They are fractious and ill-disciplined. I would choose retainers who are more reliable."
"And no doubt far duller and more serious. Mostin says that the bracelet that Jovol bequeathed to you enhances perception in certain areas."
Shomei raised an eyebrow. "Evidently he has studied it more than I gave him credit for. Or his speculation is, for once, accurate. He is correct."
"I wish to borrow it for a short while," Mulissu said impassively – a statement which verged upon a command, or at least an expectation that she would not be denied.
"In order to better interpret Jovol’s web of motes," Shomei nodded. "I, too, would like the opportunity to further realize my bracelet’s potential."
Mostin sighed. He saw where this argument was leading. "It seems plain to me that your respective egos – colossal and yet simultaneously fragile as they both are – would require each of you to assert your right to first use the bracelet and web in conjunction. I can offer a solution to this impasse by volunteering my services – humbly, of course – thereby sparing each of you further embarrassment. I would also like to point out that I am, by native disposition and years of rigorous training, a Diviner. The web is likely to respond favorably to my benign aura."
"That is utterly spurious," Mulissu moaned. "and I will not even deign to refute it formally. Shomei, follow me – the honour is yours. Forgive my presumption."
Mostin squinted, and traipsed behind the two witches into the dome.
Mulissu floated three inches above the marble floor, arms folded across her chest, whilst Mostin half-sulked and half-scrutinized Shomei, who stood at the centre of the web of motes.
Points of light wheeled around her at incredible speed. She reached out, touched motes which arose, grew, merged, separated, shifted and winked out.
"What do you see?" Mostin asked.
"Wait," the Infernalist replied. "There are more potential viewpoints than I had anticipated." She touched a mote, and it blossomed.
"Well?" Mostin grumbled impatiently.
"There are numerous space-times represented by intersecting parabolae," Shomei answered. "All cosmoi are represented here. And the sum of all possibility."
Mostin looked dubious. "Can you find any mote? Find Nwm’s mote."
Shomei glanced around, and interlocking systems rapidly flashed past. She touched another mote, and it assumed a central position and seemed to glow more brightly. The Infernalist laughed – predictably, it was green.
"Are you sure that’s him?" Mostin asked.
"Oh yes," she replied.
"Where is he?"
"As I already know where Nwm is – at his glade near Deorham – that would hardly be a fair trial of the web’s power."
"Let me try," Mostin said.
"I’m next," Mulissu smiled.
Mostin scowled.
After several frustrating hours, he finally got to play.
When the Alienist engaged with the web for the second time, he drew in his breath sharply in wonder.
New levels of complexity were revealed, and others suggested or hinted at. Nuances which had eluded him entirely during his first encounter were suddenly plainly visible: possibilities, probabilities, connections on levels which he did not comprehend. Visions shared, perspectives held in common, affinities with concepts or geographical locations. Space, time and consciousness locked together in a latticework of impossible subtlety and intricacy. The web of motes was a true microcosm. A mirror of reality – or of many realities.
What can this device not do? Mostin wondered to himself. Who – or what – constructed it? When? How?
Quickly, he isolated the mote which he knew represented himself and examined it. Hundreds of connections emanated from it to other points of light: Eadric, Nwm, Shomei, Mulissu, Orolde, the Pseudonatural which he had only recently quizzed, the Horror and uncounted others.
Mostin concentrated, and the web receded. Motes flashed as time regressed, but larger patterns remained constant for long periods, as though some overriding principle – an organizing factor – was in play. When they changed, they seemed to do so sometimes slowly and deliberately, sometimes wholesale – imposing a new set of guiding rules and paradigms upon the interwoven gestalt.
Mostin observed Khu: realities collided where gates blazed open and celestials descended in legions. A maze of motes and taut connections which formed a huge knot with many facets. A nodality.
Mostin studied it for three hours, familiarizing himself with its patterns and undercurrents. A variety of hypothetical scenarios which had never been actualized overlapped with events as he remembered them: the death of Ainhorr, the death of himself, the successful flight of Feezuu, the failure of Mulissu to initiate the cascade. The reflection of Graz’zt – the demon’s simulacrum – surviving the assault. Mostin selected an unrealized past future where Eadric had been slain, and gingerly advanced the web into chaos.
Feezuu carving out an empire. Tens of thousands of motes in bondage or annihilated. Her lichdom – which had been so narrowly avoided. Rapid bifurcation, and incomprehensibility.
Mostin sighed, and returned to the Now. He selected Graz’zt’s mote and scrutinized it briefly – it seemed absurdly complex in its connections. It resonated closely with Eadric, with Soneillon – the demoness was now plainly visible to the Alienist – and with hundreds of fiends and powerful servitors or thralls. Another mote, which was burdened with suffering beyond the ability of any mortal flesh to endure, was tightly enmeshed with the others.
Mostin swallowed, and touched Nehael.
A plethora of cosmoi wheeled in a pattern which bore an uncanny symmetry. Like a chiaroscuro in perfect balance, Nehael’s picture revealed Rintrah, Eadric, Graz’zt, Soneillon, Nwm, Titivilus and even Mostin himself in orbit around her. She was the lynchpin, the focus of all activity, and the calm centre around whom infinities – Oronthon, the Far Realm, Unbeing, Dream, the Green, the Adversary – seemed poised through their representatives to assert their claims to reality. Her resonance with Tramst was extraordinary – like Oronthon’s proxy, her role was to reveal all accepted truths as empty. Mostin tried to advance the web, but it immediately fractured into trillions of possibilities.
"Ngaarh!" He yelled in frustration.
Mulissu stood smiling, looking at him. "It is late, Mostin. I am hungry. Will you stay for dinner?"
Dumbly, Mostin nodded.
*
The Alienist, Elementalist and Infernalist sat around a small hexagonal table within an airy refectory, dining on a sumptuous meal of delicacies prepared by the mephit Shrix – who, apparently possessed a degree of culinary expertise normally eclipsed by his perverse sense of humour as Mulissu’s door-ward.
"This has been most productive," Mostin said through a mouthful of exquisite pastries stuffed with figs, almonds and pistachios. "We should meet more regularly."
Mulissu looked suspicious – her intolerance for frequent interruption was well known.
"Did you determine Soneillon’s location?" Shomei asked Mostin.
The Alienist shook his head. "I became somewhat preoccupied by other matters. Why?"
"She is on the Prime," Shomei replied.
Mostin coughed. "This information would have been better shared earlier."
"I had assumed that she would be first to fall under your scrutiny," the Infernalist jibed. "I merely noticed it in passing – my attention was directed towards the Infernal realms. Incidentally, Titivilus is in Afqithan, along with Furcas and Murmur – although I didn’t pursue that line of inquiry either."
Mostin almost choked.
"What did you look at, Mostin?" Mulissu asked. "I spent an hour minutely inspecting the Claviger and its connections and then proceeded to examine Ha’uh – a primal elemental with whom I should like to make peaceable contact, if possible."
Mostin raised an eyebrow. "The meta-structure of nodalities is fascinating. If I were to direct my energies in any one direction with regard to the web, then it would be here."
Mulissu sighed. "I think the dangers here are apparent – to be drawn in, and spend the rest of one’s life observing or contemplating cosmic plans, patterns and connections. Was it productive?"
"Yes and no," Mostin replied. "I found that advancing the web beyond its current reflection of the Now to be unsatisfying. I could not project it into the future with any degree of certainty."
"Nor could I," Mulissu nodded.
"Nor I," Shomei agreed. "It may be that Jovol’s bracelet is incapable of augmenting our faculties to this extent – his own native ability must have borne the brunt of his endeavours. It might behoove one of us to develop a spell for the express purpose of interpreting the web."
"I will do so," Mostin said, "when I have time."
"If it is ritualized I could easily perfect a formula in a matter of days," Mulissu said. "And with the minimum of fuss."
"My reservoir must stay unmolested," Mostin said sourly. "I want no repeat of Gihaahia’s binding – it set me back by a month at least."
"Noted," Mulissu nodded.
"Splendid," Shomei smiled. "Then I say that we reconvene in one week to discuss our options – assuming that Mostin and I are still alive. And every month thereafter."
Mulissu scowled. "Every year would suit me better."
"Then I would suggest every quarter, as a compromise," Mostin said. "We three would form a potent triad. We are peers, and few others compare to us in power and ability. Mulissu should be our leader – the first among equals."
"Not for long, I suspect," the Witch said drily.
**
"She is here?" Eadric asked, aghast.
Mostin gave a confirmatory nod. "There is more. Before we left, I inspected the web for a third time. It would appear that certain of those others whom we encountered have also made a translation."
Eadric looked sick. "Go on."
"Nhura. The Wyrm, and the Shadow who rode with him – most likely Threxu the Nymph mentioned by Nufrut. At least a dozen of the Loquai – including the one we briefly captured. The other chthonic thing. Nhura is accompanied by another creature: powerful, but heretofore unknown to us."
"A demon?"
"Demons may not enter the world of men unless called. The Interdict forbids it."
"But you just said…"
"It would seem that Soneillon has a way to circumvent it. Or perhaps it no longer applies to her. I would have said that perhaps she has an ally that we do not know about. One who brought her here – it would not be the first time. But the Enforcer would have intercepted a summoner and annihilated him or her. In any case, she is here."
"Where?" Nwm asked.
"Unfortunately, I currently lack the expertise to make an accurate assessment of her position without drawing attention to myself. Not that it matters – she can travel an unlimited distance at will."
"And the others?" Ortwin asked. "The Dragon?"
"Are split into two groups. I suspect one or more of them can plane shift: they may have arrived in two waves."
"I thought the sidhe were capable of that feat in any case," Ortwin said.
"Not the Loquai," Shomei answered. "They are bound to Shadow. Which is fortunate for us – several hundred of them would present a significant threat."
Eadric groaned. "We cannot allow them to remain here. They will cause untold damage."
Shomei shrugged. "It is you they seek, Ahma – your mote is replete with connections to them. Many minds are extended and focused in your direction. They may take some time to arrive here – the two groups are probably several hundred miles distant – both from us and each other. I don’t think they will tarry to cause random mayhem."
"We need to intercept the Dragon," Eadric said.
Mostin nodded. "I will scry him shortly. But give me an hour to prepare the rest of my spells."
"An hour?"
"I cannot work miracles, Eadric! If I don’t give this some thought, then the chances are that we’ll all wind up dead anyway."
**
In the chapel at Deorham, the four devas chanted in unison as they strapped Eadric’s armour to him and girded him with his sword belt. He hefted Melimpor’s shield – perpetually burnished to an unnatural sheen – and slid Lukarn into its scabbard.
The potent runes and wards on his weapon, girdle and armour would, he knew, be of limited use to him. In an area of dead magic, their power would be suspended: he was relying in large part on skill and force alone. He recalled his own words to Hullu – that he was the greatest warrior of the age, unmatched in arms by any other in Wyre. He swallowed, and wondered if it had been an idle boast.
From his armoury, the Ahma had selected two powerful horn bows – one for himself, and another for Iua – together with quivers full of blue-fletched arrows. Ortwin would be using Shupthul’s bow – his own, Anguish – had been lost along with the rest of his equipment. Unlike the Satyr and duelist, however, Eadric would carry no further wards or augmentations.
Ortwin and Iua were highly mobile – it was expected that they would range beyond the antimagic field, attack, and retreat back within it again. Eadric would stay at the centre, protecting the locus of null magic – Shomei – by whatever means he could.
Eadric sighed. He could have commanded a dozen, or even a hundred of Wyre’s most stalwart Templars to accompany him, and didn’t doubt for an instant that they would have followed. But his actions now were far beyond the purview of the Temple, and dragging them off to possible death – or worse – would have weighed on his mind for the rest of his life. This was not their fight. And there was no time.
He hoped that Shomei’s assessment was accurate – that they were interested in him alone. His stomach turned. What havoc would they wreak here, in Wyre?
He closed his eyes, knelt, and prayed.
When he opened them again, he found that he could not rise. The celestials stood in unlikely poses near the altar, similarly paralyzed. Behind him, the Paladin heard gentle footsteps approaching.
A girl who was almost a woman, clad in the traditional folk costume of Trempa – a clean white dress drawn in around the waist, with brightly patterned hems – stood next to him. She leaned forward and lit an offertory candle from an oil lamp, which burned before the solar orb upon the small altar. The flame which kindled from the taper seemed to blaze with a colour that was darker than soot. Eadric’s eyes strained to see her face, oval and framed with a riot of black hair.
She knelt slightly too close for decency, her perfume a heady combination of musk and spice. She turned her head, and her breath was warm in his ear as she whispered.
"Nothing becomes."
Jackylhunter
First Post
Oh WOW!!
You constantly amaze me Sep.
Great Imagery there. The last bit, with Eadric putting on his armor, was chilling. You just knew Soneillon was going to show up, but then she does and says 'Nothing Becomes', that's just fantastic!!
What is she going to ask of him?
Please keep up the great work, Sep!
Thank you for sharing this with us.
-Jackylhunter
You constantly amaze me Sep.
Great Imagery there. The last bit, with Eadric putting on his armor, was chilling. You just knew Soneillon was going to show up, but then she does and says 'Nothing Becomes', that's just fantastic!!
What is she going to ask of him?
Please keep up the great work, Sep!
Thank you for sharing this with us.
-Jackylhunter
carpedavid
First Post
Greybar, I'll see your "Eeep!" and raise you an "Oooh, shiny!"
Great update, Sepulchrave! Can you tell us more about the Web of Motes? Was it inspired by anything in particular?
I continue to enjoy the mix of quantum mechanics, religious philosophy, and high fantasy that is this story hour.
Great update, Sepulchrave! Can you tell us more about the Web of Motes? Was it inspired by anything in particular?
I continue to enjoy the mix of quantum mechanics, religious philosophy, and high fantasy that is this story hour.
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