Tales of Wyre

[Cheiromancer]

Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 12-28-06

Given his oft-voiced concerns, Cheiromancer will appreciate the irony of two particular spells. The double-whammy of Mostin casting a disjunction and Eadric speaking a holy word would become a staple opening gambit in combat. Nwm preferred spontaneous epic [death] effects, or to shapechange into a dragon or phoenix.


*


Mostin's Moment in Time was devised by the Alienist during his tutelage under the entity Ghom, who dwells beyond the middle-region.

Its premise is simple – to look inside when one is Outside is to observe the bounded cosmos transfixed in time, as though one were under the effect of a time stop. Or it can be, which is all that matters for the type of magic that Mostin practices.

In any event, imagine, for a moment, that you are Outside. You turn your consciousness inside to observe the Moment, while you perceive time passing normally for you – or as normally as it does when one is Outside.

Your target – Surab-Iua – is warded by a mind blank, the web of motes is undetectable by any magic, and the only other name with which you have been furnished by your metagnostic inquiry – a daemon named Tholhaluk – is likewise impenetrable to your divination.

But you have your Moment. You use a limited wish to commune with pseudodeities of terrible knowledge, and invoke visions. You determine the location of Tholhaluk's stronghold, and discover that he has severed his link with the Demon Graz'zt. The fact that Tholhaluk's chief henchman is the arcanadaemon Xufu is also revealed to you. You learn of the garden of mind – a magical locus which is controlled by Tholhaluk.

You scry Xufu and are delighted to find that your spell penetrates his ward. Moreover, he is in an audience chamber, kneeling before an empty throne – whoever sits upon it is doubtless mind blanked, and hence cannot be perceived by you. Daemonic mercenaries throng about. You inspect their gazes, and the hidden messages which lie behind them: with your insight you infer the location of another presence in the room, also invisible to your spell.

With successive divinations, you determine the protections which ward the chamber, and the areas which abut it. A hundred feet below, you locate an abandoned cyst once home to a pack of barghests. It is outside of the dimensional lock.

You meditate, and gather your strength. Once you are inside again, you must act quickly. Your Moment will have passed.


- Orolde's Third Temporal Treatise.


**


That they were in some kind of Hell was immediately apparent.

The evil was palpable, seeping from the floors and walls of a hewn chamber. Distant screams from damned souls echoed disturbingly. The air seemed ruddy.

The Ahma invoked a holy aura, and Lukarn kindled. As he watched Mostin mumble spells, Eadric was aghast at the transformation that the Alienist had undergone.

"I understand your awe at my beauty," Mostin said earnestly. His visage resumed its more familiar cast, and his organ became a hand. "I will spare you the spiritual conflict that it must evoke in you."

"Indeed," Eadric agreed diplomatically.

Mostin scowled sharply, and pointed. 'What is she doing here?"

Sho stood behind Nwm. She had followed him through the gate.

"I am here for my edification," Sho remarked calmly.

"You are a blank slate, begging to be possessed," Mostin was agitated. "There is no time for this nonsense. Return at once."

"Can you not…?"

Eadric warded her.

The Alienist scowled again. "Listen carefully. We are about to assault a jackal-daemon, an arcanaloth named Tholhaluk. He is a powerful sorcerer; currently we are below his throne-room, which is dimensionally locked. We must kill or drive off the fiend as quickly as possible – he has yagnodaemon guards, but they should prove reasonably easy to overcome. Iua will be there: her weapon is inhabited by the demon Surab, and she is quite mad. Try not to kill her. Notice the direction in which I face: the daemon will be fifty feet, dead ahead, when we gain the chamber. When I scried, there was a gap between two yagnoloths…"

Ortwine sighed. It would be her – she was the fastest.

"How did you…" Nwm began.

"There is no time," Mostin opened a passwall directly above their heads. Then three more, each delving a shaft deeper and higher into the rock above them. The Alienist bestowed the power of flight upon them all.

They ascended the shaft swiftly, and Mostin removed their last obstacle – the three feet of magically reinforced adamantine which was the floor of Tholhaluk's sanctum – with a quickened disintegrate. A lurid, red-green light immediately illuminated the shaft, vying with Lukarn's brilliance.

Mostin, followed by Eadric, Nwm and Sho, shot upwards into the centre of a tall chamber wherein hundreds of fiends were gathered. The Alienist unleashed a disjunction immediately. Space buckled as Eadric spoke a holy word: a swathe of grossly misshapen daemons burned away in a wide circle, instantly turned to ash by his power. Nwm invoked a spell: great metallic barbs, like spiked lances, erupted from the floor, impaling dozens.

Fiends fled away from them in every direction.

Eadric glanced toward where Mostin's disjunction had fallen: the Eye of Palamabron revealed an unweaving cloth of impossible colours, which rapidly evaporated into nothingness.

Ortwine's invisible form flashed through the demagicked area at breakneck speed towards a group of daemons who were gathered on a low dais. The Ahma observed that the Sidhe bore the scimitar won from the succubus Cemdrei in Afqithan, and hoped it would prove equal to the task. Iua also stood there.

Her reactions were undiminished.

Even as Ortwine's scimitar found its mark, Iua had leapt the distance between them and was about her in a fury, stabbing with uncanny speed.

Ortwine glanced toward Iua and caught her eye for a split second, hypnotizing her.

"Tholhaluk presents far more of a threat to you than I," Ortwine spoke quite reasonably as she proceeded to tear into Tholhaluk with her scimitar, slashing wildly; the daemon smote her with a destruction but it seemed to slide off of her. She deftly avoided the blows of two yagnodaemons as they struck the floor with their tol kendars, sending sparks flying into the air.

Tholhaluk disappeared in an instant.

Surab abandoned Iua's rapier and likewise vanished. But Iua's assault on Ortwine was just as determined.

She froze, as Mostin dominated her. The Alienist gestured again, opening another gate.

"Why the disjunction?" Eadric inquired.

"I know he's got one," Mostin replied. "I had to get mine in first. Quick. Before they return."


**


I have the web of motes Mostin's head span. He sat in a comfortable chair in his study, fondling it with his pseudopod.

"Are you keeping it?" Eadric asked pointedly, trying not to look too closely at the Alienist's appendage. "Is Mulissu still its steward? What is the protocol?"

"Finders keepers," Mostin cackled. He sighed. "Oh, I don't know. I must first confer with Mulissu: she has returned as a fey. Teppu persuaded her. Although I suspect that she is less Green than Teppu would have liked: that, at least, should be some comfort."

Nwm guffawed. "Are you serious?"

"How delicious," Ortwine smiled. "One point to the Viridity, I say. You'd better get resurrecting, Eadric or you'll lose the race. Are you edified, Sho?"

The simulacrum stared at her, and then looked at Mostin. "Nwm informs me that you plan to combine me with a pseudonatural analogue of my maker. Is this correct?"

"Yes," Mostin nodded, glaring briefly at Nwm. "It is your destiny. Shomei predicted it."

"She may have," Nwm interrupted. "And she may not have. It's all a matter of interpretation."

"Don't start trying to seduce my students with your green-ness," Mostin barked. He turned again to Sho. "Nwm thinks I should reify you with a wish. Would you wish for such a mundane noogenesis? One should start on the highest available rung of the ladder of consciousness."

"I have no preference in this regard," Sho admitted.

"And therein lies the dilemma," Nwm sighed. "How can one best determine the mode of one's being when one is not empowered with an existential appreciation of the choice?"

"Do not let Nwm mislead you into thinking he is any saner than Mostin," Ortwine poured herself a glass of kschiff, sniffed it, and placed it on the table with a look of distaste. "Although I would still recommend against Mostin's preferred course of action: if you possessed an ethical locus, you would feel the same way."

Sho stood uncertainly, and looked at Eadric. "You are the Ahma – and are thus bound up in Shomei's world-view. What is your advice?"

"You lack the capacity for reflective thought," Eadric smiled sadly. "I'm not sure I have a position."

"I can awaken you," Nwm said. "What's more, I can do it now. It will contextualize your perception."

"You will be choosing an inferior state of being," Mostin was rapidly becoming agitated.

"When will this pseudosynthesis be possible?" She asked Mostin.

"It is some time distant," the Alienist admitted. "It has not been foremost in my thoughts."

"I am at a higher risk of annihilation as a simulacrum."

Mostin nodded dumbly. He knew what was coming next.

Sho spoke clearly. "I invoke both governing axioms, preserve thyself and transcend thyself, and choose Nwm's awakening as the best way to satisfy both. Is my logic flawed?"

"No," Mostin sighed. "But let me say this: what I have to offer, you will fear when your consciousness is so confined. A limitless ocean of possibility will appear beyond your ken, and you will be repelled by it. If you assume such a mundane state, try to recall the fact that at this moment you feel no abhorrence and no trepidation. Your natural aptitude will be for conjuration – much as your maker. I will teach you the secret method, if you are so inclined."

"And what of Mei?" Eadric asked.

"She can make her own choice," Nwm rose up. "Come. Don't be disturbed at the sight of my skin boiling away – I recover quickly."


*


When they returned, an hour later, Sho was silent. Mostin looked long at her.

"Is this the weight of being?" She asked.

"Yes," Mostin said enthusiastically. "You must strive to overcome it! Destroy yourself a hundred million times."

"And then?"

"The gods will fear you."

"This philosophy sits well with me."

"It should. I suspect you are rather predisposed to appreciate it. But you should contemplate your paradigm carefully."

"Unnecessary. I choose Goetia as my vehicle," Sho announced.

Nwm groaned. Eadric hung his head. Mostin sighed.

"You are choosing a lesser infinity," Mostin had a pained expression.

"I find your theories untenable," Sho replied.

The Alienist sat back, and pondered briefly. "Very well. My summoning room is at your disposal. Use the mirror as much as you need. Any spell in my collection is yours for the transcription. Please refrain from using my scrolls. Study the Injunction carefully, especially article nineteen."

"Thank-you," Sho nodded.

"Where will you start?" Mostin inquired.

"With Erinyes."

"Beware of Dispater! I would choose an unaffiliated duke, away from the main axes of power. Seere counts Erinyes in his train." Mostin silently unclasped the mantle which first Irknaan, and then Nhura, had worn before him, and handed it to Sho. "Consider this an indefinite loan."

Eadric raised an eyebrow. It was a fabulously extravagant gesture.*

"Mei is still considering her options," Nwm was exhausted. "But she is an impression from a later epoch of Shomei's consciousness, after her reincarnation. Her decision may surprise us."


**


The inauguration of the Ahma as Earl Marshal of Wyre was a subdued and informal affair, as Eadric had requested. It was silently ratified by the small council, each magnate witnessing in succession, and approved by the King.

Ortwine and Nwm were present in no specific capacity; Tahl, Rede and Tarpion – a saint and two vengeful spirits – also came in the Ahma's train. Mostin had absented himself to avoid being politically compromised, and had instead travelled with Daunton to open a dialogue with Mulissu.

It came after the first major spells of the conflict had been cast; not the destructive magicks and compacted demons which Eadric had feared and anticipated, but a series of massive enchantments which had fired the uncertain masses of a dozen Thalassine cities into a bellicose fervour. Daunton's spies reported bizarre behaviour among the aristocrats of Jeshat, and a notable increase in anti-Wyrish rhetoric. The diviner ascribed the change to dozens of strategically-placed compulsions, which would prove difficult to locate – much less counteract.

After the ceremony, Eadric took counsel with Prince Tagur, Attar, and Sihu. Foide left on 'urgent business,' the nature of which, Tahl guessed, involved putting as great a distance between himself and the Ahma as was practical.

"Until the threat has been properly assessed, we will deploy troops in cadres of no more than one hundred," Eadric removed his gauntlets and sank into a carved siege. "Any more is inviting disaster. Twenty knights, plus infantry and outrider support. They will adopt a defensive strategy – there will be no heroic charges.

"Each cell will have a number of Templars attached to it. I have authorized the full use of the scrolls from the vaults below the Temple scriptorium: now I regret that so many were squandered during Trempa's secession. Certain more independently-minded mages have expressed an interest in joining the effort, as long as the conflict remains south of Hrim Eorth and the remit of the Claviger: their contribution should be welcomed.

"Orders will be simple: harass the enemy where possible; stay alive at all costs. Gallant dead knights are no use to me. Adopt a guerilla style of warfare. Strike and flee. Burn baggage trains. Poison enemy wells. Kill them in their sleep. Use whatever means necessary. Keep moving. This is about survival. Make them bleed for every inch they advance.

"As Ahma, I take the moral burden of the atrocities to be committed entirely upon myself. Make it clear that all who join us are absolved of all sin. This is a Holy War: their entry to paradise is assured. Are there any questions?"


*


"Where is she?" The Alienist complained. "And why did you choose this locale?"

Daunton and Mostin stood upon a jagged pylon of rock; the ocean crashed at its base.

"I am here, idiot." Mulissu was aerial, manifesting before them in a blue haze.

"I trust your transmigration was satisfactory?"

"What choice did I have? Teppu was unwavering in the weight of guilt which he applied to me."

"Are you sympathetic to his cause?"

"Oh, broadly, I suppose," Mulissu seemed distracted. "But I am still Mulissu and he is no longer Jovol."

"Hlioth traces the continuity."

"Hlioth is deranged. I bear no comparison with that crone."

"I have secured Iua," Mostin said.

"I know. You suddenly felt it necessary after many months – lest my ire descend upon you, I suppose?

"Quite so. She is currently dominated."

"That is a wise precaution," Mulissu nodded. "I would suggest returning her to the Temple of Jeshi, but the Thalassine is rife with unrest. Magathei will be safer."

"To Ulao?" Mostin asked. "Is that wise?"

"Perhaps not. But I cannot guard her,"

"There is a demon. Surab…"

"Can you deal with it?" Mulissu asked.

"Regrettably, I cannot," Mostin looked apologetic. "I am under Empyreal contract, and must abstain from Goetic practices for the nonce."

"Must I do everything?" Mulissu scowled.

"I recommend a finger of death. He is warded against enchantments, and your evocations won't even tickle him."

"How long is this bizarre Enochian phase likely to last?"

"A few more weeks, at least," Mostin grinned.

"Don't get too comfortable, Mostin. Death has not lessened my anger towards you. And what have you done to yourself?"

"Evolved," Mostin nodded.






*This apparent act of generosity belies the fact that Mostin already had high SR and groovy spell absorption powers. His tenure in Uzzhin (which served as a useful way to advance the plot) had gained him the Pseudonatural (CA) and Spellwarped (MMIII) templates. They brought him up to ECL 30 or so, on par with Ortwine and Eadric.

Nwm was 28th-level, with a revised VOP and two powerful permanent epic wards on him: dwimmerhame (which grants SR 38) and anathema ward which prevents bodily contact with outsiders.

I should probably update the rogues' gallery at some point.


Sho's Awakening looks like this:
Instantaneous DC=0 epic spell. Seed: animate (DC 25), life (DC27), fortify ( DC17); Mitigating: 11-min casting time (-10 DC), 50d6 backlash (-50 DC), burn 900 XP (-9 DC).

 

[Cheiromancer]

Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 09-08-07

The Road to Galda

WYRE, to the furthest extent of its ancient bounds, stretched from the Ocean of Iarn in the east, to the rocky slopes of Harland in the west. Its northern frontiers were marked by the Thrumohar Mountains – the Heaped Thunders beyond which the frigid and inhospitable plateau of Tun Hartha stretched. In the south, it marched upon the cities which bustled around the warm and shallow waters of the Thalassine, where the winters were mild, and olive and almond trees grew in great profusion. For more than six hundred years, Wyre – in more determined fashion than its precursor, Borchiea – had dominated the political landscape of the subcontinent.

It was, for the most part, a fertile and well-watered land, strewn with numerous lakes in its inner regions, and hilly or mountainous at its margins. The forests which had once covered Wyre’s landscape had, by the diligent effort of fifty generations of farmers, been first contained, and then forced into retreat; save for the vast tracts of Nizkur in the west, where feys and older spirits still held sway. Wyre enjoyed the seasons in roughly equal measure, although the snows of winter had a tendency to linger.

Wyre lacked the ancient pedigree of the civilizations far to the south, or the enthusiastic dynamism of its closer neighbours in the Thalassine, but possessed a middle-aged dignity which had not been entirely leached of youthful vigour. Its stability, like most feodalities, was tenuous at best, and Wyre was often beset by internal strife. In its worst guise this manifested as open warfare between its grasping nobles but, more frequently, the internecine squabbles of Wyre’s aristocracy were resolved through the more elegant and precise medium of assassination. Millennia of history – mostly forgotten – underpinned Wyre’s traditions, but without the decadent self-obsession of Shûth, or the ponderous grandeur of Bedesh. The Wyrish, whether of noble or common birth, were not a people preoccupied with tradition and ceremony; although, in matters of faith and philosophy, opinions tended to be more jealously guarded – and more passionately voiced – than elsewhere.

Whilst power ebbed and flowed between great noble houses, its reins held by first one, and then another branch of the same huge family, the Orthodox Church of Oronthon prospered. By the beginning of the seventh century since Wyre’s foundation, the Temple – as it had become known in all of its guises – had firmly quashed any rivals to its supremacy, and sat, gross and distended, at the center of matters both spiritual and mundane. The plethora of heterodox philosophies which it had once tolerated had been reduced to the state of heretical cults by the Temple, and their adherents forced to Wyre’s geographical periphery.

The Temple levied its own taxes, dispensed its own justice, maintained its own army, and prosecuted its own wars – albeit with the sanction of whichever monarch happened to sit upon the throne in Wyre’s capital, Morne. The boundaries of ecclesiastical and temporal law became so blurred that an exclusive class of barrister had evolved in order to negotiate this perilous field – where a charge of heresy was often the price for failing in the defense of one under the scrutiny of the Inquisition. Nonetheless, despite its cumbersome bureaucracy and dubious methods, the Temple retained an attraction for those whose motives were pure and selfless. And, provided they could endure the stagnation and inertia which Orthodoxy routinely presented to them, such individuals would find that, near the centre, was a kernel of truth, and a light which had not yet gone out.

At odds with the Temple, subject to higher taxes and frequent harassment – and occasional open persecution – an older faith persisted. It concerned itself with the cycles of growth and death and decay, with the rocks, the rivers and trees, and the numerous spirits which dwelled therein. It lacked a formal body of dogma, was not graced (or burdened) by an organized priesthood, and boasted no central locus of power. In fact, its practices were so diffuse and various that to call it one name would be to do an injustice to the diversity of perspectives which comprised it. Less ecumenically inclined members of the Temple simply dubbed the practice pagan or heathen, and identified the woodland demigods and spirits venerated by the older faith with outcast members of their own hierarchy of celestial beings. Those clergy in Morne who adopted a more tolerant stance – often at some risk to themselves – called the other faith Uediian, after an earth-goddess whose cult had flourished in southern and eastern Wyre prior to the Temple’s ascendancy. The term, although simplistic, was deemed politer and was even adopted by members of the faith themselves. It was a name which simply identified them as ‘those who do not worship Oronthon,’ although downtrodden might have been more apt. The interface between the two faiths, tense and dynamic, bred several interesting schools of inquiry, all of which were considered heretical by the prelacy.

In contrast to both religious movements, a third group existed. It had evolved from the undisciplined arcanism practiced before Wyre’s emergence. Its members concerned themselves with the pursuit of knowledge and understanding, and their methods and language were esoteric and complex. They shunned involvement in politics and regarded the desire for temporal power as aberrant and bizarre, seeking only to deepen their own understanding of obscure and hidden lore. They worked alone or, occasionally, in small cabals. They were mysterious, furtive and utterly obsessed with their own, elite clique: the raw talent required to become apprenticed to one of them precluded all but one in ten thousand of Wyre’s inhabitants. The Temple loathed and feared them, the Uediians distrusted them, and the temporal rulers of Wyre begged them for favours – often to be rejected on the grounds of some mysterious Injunction, the terms of which, when cited, made no sense to those who were not initiated. They dealt with feys, elementals, and all manner of more sinister entities, in a seemingly undiscerning manner. They were the Wizards.

Each of these three traditions had, in recent times, undergone a transformation.

The Temple, beset by internal strife, had disestablished; its hierarchy was dissolved, and it's structure became cellular: the meditational practice known as Saizhan became emphasized above all else. Involvement in temporal matters was frowned upon, although not expressly forbidden. Simultaneously fragmenting and synthesizing, the Temple underwent an explosive renaissance in philosophy.

The ancient cults of Wyre which venerated Nature and Goddess were striving to coalesce into a single world-view which held that a Viridity – a "Greenification" of the world – was underway. Some viewed this phenomenon as a periodic awakening in the cycle of the Goddess herself.

The Wizards – finally frustrated by their own isolating paranoia – had relinquished the proctorship of matters arcane to the mysterious entity known as the Claviger, and, in an atmosphere of suspicious camaraderie, information had begun to flow more freely between them.

It was against this backdrop of revolution in philosophy and praxis that a fourth perspective – ancient and sinister – was revealed. It was foreign to Wyre, and the cause of its re-emergence after centuries of brooding silence, the source of much speculation. Its exoteric teachings were of nihilism and death, although its true purpose was impenetrable to all rational scrutiny; its appeal was visceral in the extreme.

*

Mesikammi flitted as an insubstantial mist through the night sky. A swift breeze bore her southwards with Hlioth to their appointed rendezvous with Mostin and Daunton. It was cloudless, and the young moon had already set; low in the east, the ruddy Eye of Cheshne – Soneillon's star – hung with her daughters. As Mesikammi gazed at it, it seemed to pulse with a menace which caused the shamaness to shiver; she shifted her perception rapidly, and concentrated instead on the rolling hills of Scir Cellod. A light frost clung to the ground below.

Hlioth spied a light and gestured. Both descended to where the Alienist had, in an effort to make himself comfortable, magically erected a small pavillion and a secure shelter on a hilltop, and conjured a number of minor pseudoelementals to do his bidding. Daunton sat, cross-legged on the ground, staring into a crystal ball. Flambeaux burned in a wide circle about them.

"Perhaps you could make yourself even more conspicuous?" Hlioth snidely remarked as she corporeated. She assumed the form of an alluring woman of early middle-age, which may or may not have been authentic.

Mostin ignored her. They were warded against magical observation, and that was all that mattered to him.

Daunton barely raised his head. "The appointed area is nineteen miles West. We can screen this location if it makes you more comfortable, but I doubt that any scouts are trying to pinpoint us visually. We should also make a move soon: we need to be outside of the quiescence again an hour before the meeting begins. We will be entering on foot or on horseback."

"How quaint," Hlioth grumbled.

"Eadric says that it would be 'proper form' for a diplomatic party. For what it's worth, I've got no issue with it – I don't anticipate crossed swords just yet."

"You are optimistic," Hlioth said caustically.

Mostin handed her a scroll, with arcane glyphs smothered across it. "Here is the formula."

Hlioth glanced at it. "You require a transvalent contribution? And ten gallons of my psyche, apparently."

"I have modified the spell. It is more robust."

"It better be."

"What have you been doing, Hlioth?" Mostin inquired. "In Nizkur?"

"The Forest will be our last defense. It must be secure."

A chill went down Mostin's spine. Daunton glanced upwards. "If you have some prescience which you wish to share, Hlioth…"

"I am not the one with the web of motes," Hlioth gazed at Mostin.

"And I've not yet had the time and resources to inspect it," Mostin snapped. "Were others than I committed to Wyre's defense; if I were to benefit a modicum of support from the body magickal…"

"You lack the ability to rouse conviction in others, Mostin. When will you realize this?"

"As soon as any other takes responsibility," the Alienist retorted. "Something which, thus far, none have had the spine to do."

"Perhaps Mulissu is the prophet you are waiting for?"

"Perhaps you are," the Alienist replied drily. "Although being chased by fauns is more to your liking."

"Do not denigrate simplicity, Mostin."

"Nor should you overlook the collective. You have become too selfish, Hlioth."

Hlioth laughed. "You know nothing of me or my means. I see wider and deeper than you, Mostin."

"Then share your insight," Mostin hissed.

"Not yet; but soon, maybe."

"You are arrogant beyond belief!"

"I am a cog in a larger wheel, which is turning through more dimensions than you can readily apprehend."

Mostin raised an eyebrow. "Now that, I most sincerely doubt."

**

They moved at fantastic speed, phantoms of fear from which all that lived, fled.

Before they reached the limit of the quiescence, the stars seemed to wink out and, for a moment, utter darkness prevailed. The ground shook as in some terrible impact ahead of them. Space warped briefly. Gihaahia stood before them: her aspect was gigantic; winged and wrathful, and magnified to terrifying proportions. Flames kindled about her.

Choach invoked a shimmering ward which encapsulated them all, stretching the fabric of reality into a semipermeable interface of null-magic. It crackled darkly.

The Enforcer shattered it with a contemptuous glance. The lich reeled.

"You act beyond your purview," Yeshe was undaunted. "We are outside of Wyre and no transgression has occurred."

Silence your tongue. Speak not to me of my responsibility.

"Sister…" Naatha began.

And you, lest I deem your head unsuited to your body.

Naatha promptly closed her mouth.

From a huge, clawed hand, Gihaahia let a tablet drop with a thud. She sneered – evidently she preserved her sense of humour.

The Rules Have Changed. I suggest you read them before you proceed. Consider this a polite warning.

The Enforcer vanished.

Yeshe cursed. She didn't need to be told what the tablet was.

"She was three times thrice…" Choach began.

"I know it," Yeshe replied dismissively, waving a hand.*

"Need I remind you of…"

"I know it!" Yeshe screamed, her face contorting. Her calm – whether mood or façade – reasserted itself in an instant. "We have underestimated the Claviger. That could prove problematic."

"It is a strategy devised to allow the Ahma time to prepare," Sibud grimaced. "Jovol's prescience should not be underestimated. Who can tell how his negotiations with the Claviger proceeded? Jovol's Oronthonian sympathies were well attested to."

"As is your paranoia," Yeshe replied.

Sibud remained silent.

"My apologies, brother," Yeshe gave a curt bow. "Forgive my words – they were spoken in haste. Please continue."

"Thank-you," Sibud smiled. "If the Claviger…"

Yeshe pretended to listen, but her own head span. She waited for a suitable length of time as the Vampire spoke – his power should not be underestimated - before gesturing. The tablets rose from the ground and hung before her. She inspected them swiftly for any revisions: prudence had demanded her own familiarity with the Wyrish Injunction.

As her eyes scanned the engraved text, her face contorted in anger and disbelief.

"…dispensation to the Enforcer to act unilaterally…"

"…extension of the Injunction's remit to include aspects of Shûthite theurgy within the …"

"…the preservation of the Wyrish Collegium…"

Yeshe closed her eyes, and brooded silently. Sibud might be right: maybe it was an Oronthonian conspiracy, after all. She issued a sending to Temenun.

The Tiger-Who-Waits was nonchalant.

She is still finite. Let her flap her wings.

**

It was twilight. The company rode south to Galda.

"One wonders what would have happened, had you slain Despina," Nwm remarked drily. He rode bareback – and expertly – upon a charger lent him by Prince Tagur. The horse had seemed absorbed in an ecstatic trance since its temporary adoption by the Druid.

Eadric shrugged. He felt uncomfortable.

"Perhaps reality would not have unravelled to quite such a degree," Nwm continued. "Sparing her was an ambiguous act, wouldn't you agree? Rooted as much in lust as in compassion."

Tarpion scowled. Nwm smiled back.

Eadric sighed. "My conscience is fraught enough as is, Nwm. Why add more to my misery? I've thought long on this – and Nehael's rejection of Oronthon. I know it well."

"She asked me to remind you," Nwm grinned.

Eadric squinted.

"She said other things, do you wish to hear them?"

"I'm not sure," the Ahma shifted in his saddle. "Will they depress me?"

"Perhaps they can wait."

Eadric shook his head ironically.

"I can quote her verbatim, if you wish?"

"Spit it out, Nwm," Eadric groaned.

"'Enjoin the Ahma to recall that moment, and to reflect upon his motivation at that point – before his awareness had expanded to embrace a larger reality, when his concerns were more human and less divine. The seed of discord in his mind – the tension between his desire and his mercy – has been the source of his strength. The root of the Path of Lightning, which has unshackled him from morality. For a while, that path and the Middle Way were congruent, but no longer; if the antinomian view becomes dogmatic, he will fall as surely as the Adversary.

'The Viridity arises in response to the ontological paradox. It grounds the abstract in the present. Notions of ens and non-ens are abandoned in the face of the Now, and when the Sela apprehends the Viridity through Saizhan, he is pleased: the vibrancy of life crushes all philosophy.'"

Eadric reflected for a while, and scowled. "She has become no less opaque."

Nwm drew to a halt, and called out to Tagur, who led the company. "We will rest here for one hour. The Ahma and I will return shortly." The Druid began riding towards a lone cypress, a hundred yards from the roadside.

Eadric paused uncertainly for a long moment, and then spurred his mount to follow. "Where are we going?" He called to Nwm.

"To Afqithan," Nwm replied.

Eadric immediately reined his steed in, and shook his head. "I have no desire to return there."

Nwm wheeled about and stared hard at him.

"Oh, very well," Eadric grumbled.


**


The pool was black as pitch, and utterly still. Tendrils of dark mist clung to its surface.

"Welcome to the source of your nightmares."

"I am past grieving, Nwm."

"You are disconnected from your humanity," Nwm opined.

"So you bring me to the grave of the demoness? This serves little purpose."

"Your reluctance to be here would suggest otherwise."

"I am wary of invoking her: her memory yet resides."

"She is merely a phantom which clings to the real."

"What is the purpose of this excursion, Nwm?" The Ahma was wary.

"Consider the Viridity, Eadric. Aside from the truth of it – and you have experienced that, so you cannot deny it – your words can sway thousands.
If you were to adopt a reconciliatory perspective, you could effect the synthesis and flowering of religious thought for generations to come. An end to ethnic strife in Wyre. The Sela must surely agree…"

"The Sela would express no opinion, I'm sure," Eadric smiled wrily.

"It must happen," Nwm seemed adamant. "It is only a matter of how and when. You have a responsibility to posterity: you must exercise it wisely."

"The weight of history is not mine to bear."

"I do not shirk my duty thus," Nwm was acid. "I still strive to effect change for the better. My concerns are human."

"When you are not pursuing the elusive Goddess."

Nwm smiled. "My perspective is balanced. But if you wish to speak of the devouring feminine, Eadric, I'm all ears."

The Ahma pondered briefly.

"There is much common ground here, Ed. You know it. A mystic is a mystic, after all."

"I do not determine doctrine," Eadric groaned. "And I will not be drawn into a debate involving comparative mysticism. At least, not until I've eaten. And I will not make sweeping religious reforms."

"Why not? Who says you can't? Or shouldn't? You say that the Sela would have no opinion on the matter, and why should he? But you can. You are the Ahma. You are not the 'gnostic intellect of God.' If not you, then who?"

"Bah! Perhaps. But it is not my immediate concern. And even as we stand here, hours fly past in the World."

"There is something you should see. Please indulge me!"

"Be quick!"

Nwm shifted into the form of a raven with a thirty-foot wingspan, and made an odd clicking sound, indicating that Eadric should climb onto his back. He powered upwards through the canopy, into the violet and saffron gloaming of Afqithan's sky, and bore off in a direction away from Ortwine's Fortress.

"Look through the Eye of Palamabron," Nwm croaked.

Eadric did so, and gaped. Nearby, soaring above the treetops, was Murmuur's tower, abandoned. Coiled about its upper quarter was a linnorm of dreadful size, dark with shadowy power – some ancient vestige from the umbral fringe of Afqithan. Teppu had bound it, and set it about the place in guard, before hiding the tower itself from all but the most penetrating sight.

"Hlioth is of the opinion that Mostin, were he to use the web of motes in his inquiry, could determine the mode of operation of this device."

"I think that Mostin owning a planar nexus to the Hells is a bad idea," Eadric said. "Besides, why has it not been retrieved?"

"Devils do not step here. They have no place now."

"Nor do I."

"Ah, but you are here by invitation. My question is precisely this: should we tell Mostin?"

"I suspect we have to, now," Eadric said glumly. "Can you imagine how he'd react if he found out that we knew about it, and had said nothing?"

Nwm nodded his avian head. "There is one other thing…"

"How many other 'one other things' are there likely to be?"

"No more. I am wary of your reaction to this, however."

"Thank-you for the warning."

Nwm squawked. "Around now, Mulissu has seized control of the City of Fumaril."

Eadric was aghast. "You cannot be serious!"

"The Temple of Jeshi has endorsed her coup, and a dozen wind-sorcerers are backing her. She is erecting a barrier – similar to Soneillon's paling – around the city."

"The Injunction?"

"She is outside it."

"But the other Wyrish Wizards…this is a massive breach of etiquette."

"Who cares? She's Mulissu. No-one dare challenge her. Especially if they know that Mostin would jump to her aid."

"It seems most unlike her," Eadric mused.

"Teppu is persuasive. And Jovol was the only Wizard that Mulissu ever deferred to."

"And you support this course of action?"

"I'm not sure," Nwm admitted. "It risks a great deal – it is a response to the compulsions which were laid down by the Cheshnite cabals, and ups the ante more than I'm altogether comfortable with. But she will bring order to the city very quickly, either by persuasion or by domination."

"Does she intend for this to be a permanent arrangement?"

"She is styling herself Tyrant of Fumaril, so one would assume so."

"At least she makes no pretence as to her role. I wish I could say the same. Is this the same Mulissu? I mean, has her reincarnation changed her?"

"It always does," Nwm seemed matter-of-fact.

"But how much?"

"Enough that she has stepped into the political arena. But I think the integrity of her ego has remained intact." Nwm landed upon the ground, and resumed his human form.

"Unlike Jovol-Teppu?"

"Unlike Ortwin-Ortwine," Nwm smiled. "Teppu is…well, who knows, really?"


**


Eadric drew alongside Prince Tagur. "Highness, if I might have a word?"

Tagur scowled. Highness? This man – if such he still was – retained an odd respect for conventional forms. Or perhaps he was simply the consummate diplomat. There was no particular need for the Ahma to address him at all – Tagur was under no illusion that his presence was anything other than ceremonial. There was nothing that Tagur could actually do to influence the course of events. He sighed, and nodded.

"I should like to speak with you regarding the possibility of things…ah…coming to blows, shall we say."

"I’m sure I shall die very quickly," Tagur smiled.

"I suspect you will have as good a chance as I," Eadric said wrily, "considering I will be their principal target."

"Ah, yes," Tagur half-apologized. "There is that."

"Before we meet them, there will be a period of preparation."

Tagur raised an eyebrow.

"It is customary to fortify oneself as best as possible before this kind of parley – the kind that can degenerate quickly into a bloodbath. Especially if Mostin is present."

"Are you quite serious? Why is this madman even involved?"

"I wish I knew," Eadric groaned. "In any event, do not be concerned that you will be ineffective. You will be bolstered with numerous spells, and will prove quite handy. I suspect you'll find things more evenly-matched than you fear."

"You may spare my pride in this matter, Ahma."

"Trust me. A large part of me hopes that it does come to swords. When I get the opportunity to hit something in the head, the odds tend to favour me."

"Have you considered simply striking first?"

"Oh yes," Eadric nodded. "I consider it all the time."


**

Ortwine rode on ahead, utterly self-absorbed.

I want my sword. My Heedless Githla. She realized that her desire for the weapon bordered on obsession, and shrugged.

Ripples in consciousness, to which Ortwine seemed to be becoming increasingly sensitive, spoke to the sidhe of the Green in motion: Nizkur was awakening, the ancient spirits of the land stirring. In the south, feys and elementals were agitating.

Despite herself, Ortwine felt the Viridity drawing her in. The lure was impossible to resist, as much because she felt it was stemming from her as calling to her. It made her uncomfortable.

What do I want? It was the perennial question for her. Her existence was so often a jaded malaise. An ennui which had persisted through four successive incarnations. A sword? A throne? Divinity? All was empty. Ortwine turned her head, and gazed over her shoulder.

Nwm, who rode behind her, stared impassively at her.

Ortwine's eyes narrowed. "Your religious machinations will not determine my purpose," she said acidly.

"I seek only to inform it," Nwm smiled.

Ortwine glowered. "Fine. But I want my sword, first."


**


Mulissu floated above the balcony before an immense throng; they screamed in frenzied adulation. Redemptrix, they called her. Goddess. The euphoria was intoxicating.

Temporal power is dangerous, she observed silently. Still, I will not have my city tampered with. The savant raised a hand, and an excited hush fell.

"I am Mulissu, your new Tyrant," Mulissu announced. The proclamation was greeted with rapturous applause. The witch waited for it to subside.

"My apologies to any council members present for the inconvenience of your displacement; rest assured that you will remain unharmed, and your mundane duties will be mostly unaffected.

"You will find me largely benign, if somewhat aloof; my occasional fits of pique seldom result in malicious transmogrifications. Please refrain from engaging in civil uprisings, as such would be doomed to failure. Your day-to day activities are of no concern to me, and I have no interest in managing your affairs beyond providing you with protection. Continue to pay your taxes. Put your children to bed at the normal time. For the moment, you are safe."




*The numerological significance of the Enforcer's magnification was not lost on members of the Cheshnite delegation. Enitharmon was said to have been three times thrice magnified – i.e. to have been bestowed with nine divine ranks – for the purpose of expelling Oronthon's Adversary from heaven.

 

[Tirlanolir]

Hey everybody, I posted a question about Sep's Oronthonian Sects in the Rogue's Gallery. I'd be interested to get everyone's input! Here's the link:

http://www.enworld.org/showthread.php?p=2319765#post2319765

 

[Cheiromancer]

Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 02-18-08

Galda I




The boy with the olive skin and tousled hair smiled, pulled up a chair, and sat. His appearance was as one scarce out of adolescence. He looked hard at Shomei, and absorbed every detail surrounding her in an instant. Except one.

"Why did you reject Saizhan?" He asked. "Forgive my abruptness. But, frankly, this question still puzzles me. It was a bold gambit; I only wish I knew what prize it was that you sought. You may refrain from using honorifics when addressing me; I am already surrounded by sycophants. Please speak openly; treat me as any you would any other in conversation."

"I am not sure of my motive," Shomei admitted, her mind reeling. "It wasn't rational, and may have simply been an act of perversity. Do you think my choice was wrong?"

"No. I suspect that your Will directed you to act without the permission of your mind."

"To precipitate this meeting?"

"How should I know?" The other asked. "It is your Will, not mine. In any case, you are now here. Outcast with the rest of us."

"Might I inquire where here is, precisely?"

"In Caïna, for the time being. Astaroth purchased you from Amaimon – but at my instruction. Actually, the Akesoli were also dispatched at my instruction."

"I have been treated well," Shomei remarked, "aside from the initial flaying, of course. I had assumed that I would already be enduring unending tortures. When you say 'for the time being,' am I to be moved elsewhere?"

The boy nodded. "To the library, in Cocytus. If you so wish."

If I so wish?

"I would never stifle your potential, Shomei. You have earned rights that few others have won. Your loyalty has been unwavering; not to me, but to the idea. This is rare, and precious."

Her pulse hammered in her head. "I fear duplicity," she said.

"Your honesty is likewise remarkable," the other seemed amused. "Perhaps the Sela has been a positive influence on you."

Shomei glanced down at her hand, and gripped the skin between her thumb and index finger. "This form is…"

"Infernal," the youth nodded. "You cannot go back now, unless called. You must abide by the terms of the Interdict and the Accord."

Suddenly, everything she had foreseen in the web of motes made sense.

He stood. "Seek out the devils Agei and Ugales; you will discover their temperaments are reflective, not unlike your own. I suspect you will find discourse with them productive. Avoid the petty squabbles of the Dukes; you are above them. Hell is what you make of it, Shomei."

"I think I fear your mercy more than your wrath," Shomei remarked wrily.

The Adversary raised an eyebrow. "And so you should. I am the Left Hand of God, after all."

*

After he had departed, she sat in contemplation for a long while before rising and exiting the chamber. The corridor beyond was empty and echoing; she turned left, and walked past open embrasures: they looked out upon a vast glacier beneath a sky which crackled darkly. The air was frigid, so much so that even her newly-endowed flesh began to feel numb: away from the strongholds, she knew few devils could endure Caïna for long. Below, the damned wailed, immersed in ice.

Shomei turned left again, and descended a flight of many thousand steps; she noticed that the darkness was absolute, although her sight was unimpeded. Finally, she reached the chamber at the bottom. Devils abased themselves. A mirror stood before her.

As they draped her cloak over her shoulders, slid her bracelet over her wrist, and pressed her rod into her hand, Shomei gazed at her reflection: aside from a complex device upon her forehead – which she knew marked her as His – it seemed unchanged. She touched the brand, but felt nothing unusual. She knew its import, a dire message to those who could read such things: Do not interfere with this one.

She passed swiftly through the mirror, and the fires of Nessus welled around her.


***

An ancient stone circle on a low hill west of Galda – a small village which nestled in a valley at the southernmost tip of Scir Cellod – bore the uncertain honour of being the meeting point between the Cheshnite delegation and the Wyrish embassy. It was technically outside of the borders of Wyre proper, within the fief of a Marchioness named Siliste; the noblewoman's family had rendered a hefty annual tribute to Morne for more than a hundred years in order to retain their precarious right of self-government. The markland sat upon Hynt Coched, the main artery which ran south to Jashat, and enjoyed healthy tax perquisites from the trade which passed through it.

Outside of the quiescence of the spheres – hardened now by Mostin to resist disjunctions and superb dispellings – the Aethers sang with the horns of archons, and battalions of devas were massing to the north. Messengers from interested parties reconnoitered the edge of the quiescence; temporary ethereal presidios were quickly established nearby by several Ugras of terrible power bringing blackness: the vomit of Cheshne.

Inside, the Green writhed, potent and oblivious.

Eadric's stomach was turning. Mostin, attuned to his spell, felt ripples along its periphery.

In his time, the Ahma had engaged in more than a few parleys with demons, devils and other monstrosities. For the sake of his sanity, he carefully censored his awareness of those present at Galda. None conformed to the images which he had formed in his mind – despite his best efforts to limit his expectations in that regard.

They manifested themselves at first as a great, dark cloud which billowed around a lone rider – Anumid the Mouthpiece – before relaxing into more choate forms which intimated at distinct personalities: demons, gods, godlings, undead, hierophants, theurges, great warriors of unguessable age.

As the two parties gazed at one another, a long silence endured: a furious exchange of thought, speculation and surmise consumed each group at once.

Mostin reflected. It was all about the reservoirs, he was beginning to realize. And the divinations. Each transvalent spell which would be cast – and they would shake the world; of that, Mostin had no doubt – was drawn against limited resources. They would need to be played carefully to maximum effect, like pieces in some vast strategic game. And to do that required foreknowledge. And Mostin had the web of motes. But they had the cabals. It was a strange, asymmetric balance.

The Alienist scowled. Their wards were utterly inscrutable, although Mostin had no doubt that each was vastly augmented, laden with protective magics. Whilst he had expected no less, it made gauging their strength impossible; the insight of Hlioth and the gut of Eadric were their best tools in reading any purpose in the Cheshnites. He hoped that his own party was as veiled. A nagging suspicion in him was that they were not. Transvalent divinations employed by the other might break through. How secure was the quiescence? He was sure that he could feel things testing its potency. Mostin was feeling acutely paranoid. His fingers were getting twitchy.

The Ahma's gaze was drawn first to Yeshe, who had entered the world when magic was young and abundant. With each breath she drew there seemed fused the threat of explosion. Clad in adamant and black iron, and bearing ancient weapons of destructive potency, Eadric quickly estimated her mettle in battle as formidable. And her magical art, he knew, surpassed that of Mostin, by the Alienist's own admission. She seemed youthful and hale; dynamic and energized. Each new act of annihilation is fresh and exciting to you. The Void – and Eadric knew its signs well now – rested easily upon her; an undertow of black despair which grasped at frail sanity. All seemed cowed by her.

[Mostin]: (Concern). She is no arcanist; I willfully misconstrued. This woman is a High Priestess, so to speak. I didn't realize that her agenda was fuelled by such zeal.

[Ortwine]: Perhaps Eadric can seduce her? She seems his type.

[Eadric]: Perhaps Ortwine could refrain from sarcasm for a moment?

[Ortwine]: I am here under duress. Permit me at least my wit.

[Hlioth]: Silence, imbeciles!

Sibud – who did not breathe – emanated corruption and decadence in waves, and life wilted around him. His skin, grey and cracked, resembled shrivelled leather which moulted a fine dust; obscene black fingernails dripped a caustic venom, which smoked as it struck the withering grass at his feet. As Eadric's vision rested upon his form, he knew that only the vampire's resolute will maintained his quiddity, preventing his dissolution into a cloud of atoms. But into Sibud's face, the Ahma could not bring himself to look; it haunted the margin of his sight as the memory of his own death.

For Nwm, the vampire in particular was anathema. Only Threxu, the Wasted Nymph had before evoked that magnitude of revulsion. Despite it, Nwm seemed genuinely calm and confident; Eadric could not guess the reason why, but Mostin sensed subtle shiftings in magical attitudes with his arcane sight. Nwm and Hlioth and Mesikammi had prepared some contingency, no doubt.

[Mostin]: Evocation?

[Nwm]: And Necromancy.

[Mostin]:!? Are you mad? What good will that do? Half of them are dead already.

[Nwm]: You might be surprised. Uedii thinks dead things should stay properly dead. I'm not about to violate the truce, but I'm going to blast them all if they try anything, even if it kills us stone dead.

[Mesikammi]: (Clapping) Supernova! It will be beautiful! I will reincarnate as an unfettered wyrd; I have already chosen.

[Eadric]: Is she serious?

[Nwm]: Of course.

[Mostin]: If you die, stay within the quiescence! There are things beyond it which might eat your soul.

[Hlioth]: Let them try. They'll get indigestion.

The presences of Naatha and Choach – as foul and potent as they might be – Eadric could accept and absorb. Then the Ahma beheld another, behind Yeshe. A rider in similar harness to the Binder, but who sat sufficiently removed from the others within the group to indicate a disdain for the proceedings. An image of fear and bloodshed contrived in the mind of War itself. His first urge was to throw himself on the ground, and weep.

[Eadric]: Who is he?

[Mostin]: She. Visuit.

[Eadric]: We cannot prevail against such as her. We are overmatched. Why is she here?

[Daunton]: She brings war. She is war.

[Nwm]: (Smiling)

[Eadric]: I fail to see the humour, and sometimes I wonder who amongst us is the most unhinged.

[Nwm]: Her horse regards you with hope.

[Eadric]: That is small…

But the Ahma caught the animal's eye, and immediately fell in love.

 

[Rackhir]

Dear Sep,

Please draw your mighty quill and pen us another chapter in the great sagas of Wyre. I've been making appropriate sacrifices to the muses and related spirits, but after nearly 2 months I am running desparately low on fatted calves and other suitable offerings. I've taken to feeding the regular calves dorritos and other childrens foods in an effort to stave off the inevitable, yet the chickens are starting to look suspiciously whenever I approach, and with good reason. Even though the muses were very explicit on their feelings about chickens, in another week or two you will have left me no choice. Let your conscience be your guide in this and godspeed young man.


- Gwar

Have you read this?

http://www.enworld.org/showthread.php?t=130712

 

[Cheiromancer]

Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 02-18-08
Galda II

Anumid spoke first. His suavity was effortless.

"The Oronthonians. The local fertility goddess also seems well represented. As do your nascent magi. What of Oronthon's Adversary? Does the Ahma speak for him also?"

"I am the Breath of God," Eadric stated calmly. "I speak for all present; and for the Sela, and for the Celestial Host, and for Oronthon. If the Adversary has elected me his representative also, he has not informed me of my appointment."

"Your claims may be tested," Anumid smiled.

Ortwine sighed. "You're already boring me. Make your case, and go. I have better things to do."

"Silence, sprite!" Sibud revealed himself from shadow. "Your immortal pretensions are pathetic! The slaadi already gather to reclaim Heedless."

"I think not. Afqithan is now inviolate. But these are facts: I will soon be a goddess, the vorpal sword is mine, and you are a vampire. To fear me would be prudent."

"The Ancient One does not regard divinity as a particularly noteworthy achievement," Yeshe's tone was conciliatory but didactic as she stepped forward; somehow she avoided condescension. "It is one path among many, and carries its own limitations, as you will discover if your quest proves fruitful. Immortality is merely immortality. Power is merely power."

Whether by the term Ancient One Yeshe meant Sibud, or Temenun, or Cheshne – or perhaps Demogorgon – was not clear.

"As to making cases," Yeshe continued, "it was you who arranged this meeting, not we. State the Wyrish argument, if you please. I am anxious to hear it."

"Why does the Tiger absent himself?" Eadric asked.

"Perhaps he is secretly trysting with Nehael," Yeshe smiled. "Or your Sela. None of us here are so deluded to think that this represents the sum of relevant interests, Ahma, so why pretend otherwise? Unlocking the morass of paradigms is central to this issue."

"You demonstrate an appreciation of a larger process," Nwm was surprised.

"Tell me more of my understanding, mortal. Your wisdom overwhelms me."

[Ortwine]: I'll admit, I'm starting to rather like this one.

"Enough!" Anumid interrupted. "Mistress, the Mouthpiece demands your silence. Lord Sibud, a little respect if you please."

Both immortals withdrew.

Eadric – guileless – could not help but evince surprise. What is the relationship here? Evidently more complex than he had first assumed. Or was this some ruse to deflect his attention?

Anumid smiled. "I speak with Cheshne's Voice, and broker the power of the convocations; do not underestimate me."

"You have much to learn in the art of dissemblance," Ortwine observed.

[Eadric]: No, he lies almost as well as you.

Anumid ignored her, and addressed the Ahma. "Why did you solicit this meeting?"

"To see for myself, first-hand," Eadric answered honestly. "And in the vain hope that, if I asked politely, you might quietly depart from this continent."

"Doubtless, you consider us very wicked, Ahma," Anumid smiled grimly.

Eadric was cold. "The Thalassine states. Do you intend to send them to war against Wyre?"

Anumid was unreadable. "You must deal with the reality of us as you see fit, Ahma. I think you already know the answer to that question, but forgive me if I don't make you privvy to our counsels."

"Are we negotiating?" Eadric asked gruffly. "If so, then a statement of purpose would seem in order."

Yeshe gestured, and Anumid nodded and withdrew. Her manner was starkly different, her arrogance self-contained, as though she needed no external referents. "The South will be mobilizing for war soon. Wyre is large, but sparsely populated in comparison. Your wizards have censored themselves. Your Claviger has lapsed into a coma, and invested its power in its thug."

Eadric realized that she spoke the truth.

The Alienist sensed something akin to a moment of prescience flicker over Yeshe, but far deeper. Raw power she had, in abundance. Millennia of honing her magical skills. Mostin swallowed.

"And apparently, I am better informed than you on the subject," She read them all in an instant.

[Nehael]: The Claviger has recently entered a state of somnolence. Gihaahia has been fully activated.

[Mostin]: ?! What the…?

She wasn't anywhere near.

[Nehael]: Yeshe inadvertently invoked me.

Mostin scowled. Yeshe withdrew again.

"War is never inevitable," Anumid smiled. "It is a waste of resources, and if it can be avoided, we should be the happier."

Visuit snorted in contempt.

"For the most part," the Voice of Cheshne shot a look toward The Butcher before continuing. "If Wyre's mobilization is halted, and the Wyrish extend the same courtesy to the Cheshnites as they do other faiths – since the disestablishment of Orthodoxy – then a compromise is within reach."

[Hlioth]: They wish to establish temples within Wyre's borders.

[Eadric]: (Incredulous) Why?

[Nwm]: Why does anyone seek to further the cause of their religion, Ed? They think that they have the right answer, and you do not.

Eadric laughed aloud, to the surprise of many present. Layers of deceptions, threats and counterthreats suddenly seemed vacuous and irrelevant. "I was under the impression that the Cult of Cheshne had no missionary aspirations; the Mysteries are not for the cattle, as it were. What has changed? And why in the North? Shûth is a more fertile ground in every conceivable way."

In his gut, he already knew the answer: to arrest the spread of Saizhan.

Anumid smiled. "Consider the proposal. It will be you who chooses in the end, Ahma. The Sela is too passive; your grandees too tractable, and dependent on you. Your word is law."

***

Fumaril, although settled since ancient times, had only in the last generation risen to pre-eminence amongst the Thalassine cities. Sturdy merchantmen from its three harbours – clinker-built and lateen-rigged – plied the seas with oils, glassware, amygdala firewines, and all manner of more exotic goods. They sailed to Harland to procure fur and ivory; to Bedesh for silks, and the exquisite confections in demand amongst the Thalassine nobility; and to Shûth for its gems and gold, its secrets, and for kschiff.

Mulissu – together with her clutch of wind-sorcerers and elemental priestesses – had evoked an impenetrable barrier, four miles in diameter, completely isolating the city. It rapidly became clear that, for many, 'going about one's business' might prove difficult or impossible. The witch's solution was pragmatic and unburdened by ethical sentiment: she pacified much of the population with a powerful enchantment, succoured Ulao for aid, and instructed dozens of indentured djinn to fulfill any needs the citizenry might have for food, shelter and entertainment.

The holiday would continue until further notice.

With the burden of governance eased, Mulissu and her council turned their attention to devising a concrete strategy to deal with the Temple of Cheshne. The defenses would demand much of her energy: her wards against intrusion would need to be renewed every few days, and each casting would diminish her own reservoir. She wondered how long she could keep it up.

Jashat was a mere forty miles distant, and the Shûthite cabals – as best she could estimate – might invoke magicks a full order of magnitude greater than her own. Her aery charisma lent a dubious cohesion to the unlikely band: mages from Pandicule, clergy of Jeshi within Fumaril, two sylphs – Zimodee and Vouve – prior acquaintances of the eccentric sorcerer, Ehieu. She wooed a number of renegade Wyrish wizards – conjurers who had left the aegis of the Claviger to continue their practice – with the promise of an increased spell repertoire, and access to the names of obscure but accommodating elemental allies.

Upon due reflection, the savant herself began devising a spell which would conjure Ha'uh – an air primal of unimaginable power – to defend the city if it were assailed.

***

Ortwine kneeled, bowed her head, and lifted her palms upwards. She felt the weight of the blade as it came to rest in her hands: it was light and delicate; so wieldy, she knew. Gingerly, she raised her eyes to meet it: it was exquisite, with traceries of gold etched into black adamant. The hilt was replete with corundum and perfect moonstones.

Jaliere, God of the Forge scowled. "The weapon is accursed; it may be my finest work, but it's also the one I deplore the most. The intelligence which inhabits it is warped and schizoid."

Ortine stood, brandished the scimitar with a flourish, and slid it into its scabbard. She bowed perfunctorily. "My thanks, Jaliere. I will take better care of it than…"

"It will betray you; it despises you."

"I understand it better than you think," Ortwine smiled coldly.

"You understand nothing!" Jaliere snorted.

"You are becoming tedious, Jaliere."

The god acted quicker than lightning. In an instant he dwarfed Ortwine, and with titanic strength, grabbed the fey by the neck and hurled her against a stone column. She struck it with such force that it cracked.

"Fool," Jaliere bellowed. Flame issued from him in roaring sheets. "This sword screams its agony to the spheres. It will demand much of your energy to keep it subdued."

Ortwine rose slowly and easily, dusting herself. "Your deific tantrums do not move me. As I say, I understand Heedless better than you think." She sighed. "Jaliere, I appreciate your work, and Sisperi would be impoverished were you to leave it, but I will cut you down if ever you lay a finger on me again, be you god or no. This is a weapon worthy of my cause; I have no doubt I will never see its peer again."

"Cause?" Jaliere thundered. "You are your only cause."

"That is quite true," Ortwine nodded. "But in some things – as in this case, for instance – I also honor my word: I am perverse like that. I am departing for the underworld forthwith."

"It pains me that the future of my kin rests in your hands."

"And I am aggrieved by your lack of faith," Ortwine sighed. "We are speaking of my divinity, here. Whether earned or stolen, believe me when I say it is utmost in my thought. Consider, if you admitted Ninit to your pantheon, why am I such a terrible prospect?"

"Ninit is more ancient than any of us; you and she hardly bear comparison."

"And I will be the youngest amongst you: make way for new blood, Jaliere. The Nireem need revitalizing; I might prove more of an asset than you think. Perhaps I can stir you from your apathy."

"The apathy you perceive is the weariness of ten millennia of war," Lai entered unannounced. "Still, you may have a point. Do not fail us, Ortwine. And heed Jaliere: beware the sword. Its moods are more opaque than you guess."

***

Ilistet's armour was rent. The succubus bled smoking ichor from a dozen minor wounds and her perfect skin, where exposed, was shredded and raw – lacerated by powerful sonics. Around her, maimed demons mewed pitifully: hundreds of bar-lgura, amid a seething ocean of dretch. She cursed them, and screamed at them to hold as the maurezhi and abyssal ghouls tore into their disordered ranks. From above, varrangoin rained down spells and darts: the same mercenaries, Ilistet noted ruefully, alongside whom she had fought only a few months before.

Graz'zt should have paid them more, or at least promised it.

The battle was already lost, the succubus observed. Air superiority was everything, and – predictably – her chasme had scattered like flies. She prepared to flee.

Abruptly, a gate opened next to her. She was drawn through irresistibly, into a chamber thick with yellow smoke, which issued from a dozen censers.

"Greetings," Rimilin smiled. He wore a long ceremonial robe of scarlet and gold, and bore a staff of ivory which Ilistet viewed suspiciously.

"State your terms, eunuch," the demoness growled.

The Acolyte of the Skin said nothing. His ego swollen by potent magic, Rimilin dominated the Herald of Azzagrat with a transvalent compulsion.


***

The night before their departure for Ruk, the Ahma dreamed. It was altogether lucid, and thoroughly uncomfortable.

It was a warm afternoon, and the sun was hazy. He sat upon a grey destrier, the flanks of which glistened with sweat, and trotted in a wide circle; inside a heavy casque, he felt beads of his own perspiration trickle down his cheeks. Glancing down, he noticed that he wore full harness, enamelled with gold and serpentine. Nearby, a knight lay upon the ground; Eadric knew that he had recently unhorsed him. Spectators were clapping; the applause was muted and genteel. He glanced up toward a box, where two indistinct figures sat in conversation, and urged his mount forward.

Eadric presented his lance, and a lady whose features he could not discern grasped its shaft, tying a scarf of black silk below its head. She tossed a garland of black flowers to him. Despite the vagueness of her features, he knew who she was.

Why do you vex me, still? He wanted to ask. Instead, he turned and prepared to joust with another opponent.

A dozen bouts later, and he was still unbeaten. Throughout, he had remained conscious of the shapes in the booth, but had averted his eyes. Now she sat alone. Wearily, Eadric dismounted and pulled off his gauntlets and helm, handing them to a squire who stood waiting for him; dust and grime caked his face and hands. He ascended a flight of wooden steps into the box and sat upon a chair which creaked under his weight. It was cooler there and shaded; a breeze stirred as if in further response to his thoughts. She silently handed him a glass of iced tea. A long moment passed.

"Is this all that remains of you?" Eadric finally asked.

Soneillon smiled her maddening smile. Her features had crystallized. The Ahma had the distinct impression that, even by acknowledging her existence, he had lent her a little more substance.

"I am Void; without form. You perceive an echo."

"You gnaw at the edges of my mind," he sighed. "And many of those considered wiser than I have advised me to release myself from you."

"Your reluctance to do so is revealing. Perhaps your prescience runs deeper than theirs."

Eadric felt a chill; the merest hint of a veiled threat.

Soneillon spoke grimly. "Yeshe is searching for me in Dream; I cannot elude her for long. She wishes to send me against you. She believes I am your weakness. A chink in your armour."

"You are no more," Eadric grimaced. "You cannot harm me."

"Annihilation is no obstacle to me, Eadric. I am birthed and rebirthed in Nothingness. That much at least should be clear to you by now." Her voice carried a note of desperation, and she forced the scarf into his hand, closing his fist tight about it. "I do not wish thralldom, to be bound as an Ugra. Remember me: I would be your strength, not your enemy. Invoke me. Breathe into me, Ahma. Bring me back, before she does."

He awoke clutching the scarf, and vomited.

Shortly afterwards, Nwm entered and viewed him suspiciously. "Perhaps your returning to Afqithan was a mistake, after all."

Eadric stared back. "Things are more complex than you suspect."

Nwm smiled sympathetically. "That is how I prefer it. Come. We are ready. Rhul will accompany us."

"Before we depart, I need to contact Canec. I am changing my colours, and my device."

Nwm cocked his head.

"Green and gold," Eadric explained. "Tree and Sun. Viridity and Saizhan."

 

[Rackhir]

Rackhir,

I'm actually quite diligent about compiling new updates into this thread. The latest post that Sep made is in post 111 of this very thread.

I must admit to being a bit depressed about the updates, though. Sep hasn't even visitied the boards since June 28. I suppose he could be spending every waking moment writing updates, not even taking time to visit EN World, but that would be far too good to be true.

Ah, forgive me. I had forgotten that you were doing that.

 

[Joshua Randall]

One of the PCs, a 14th level Paladin, ... is currently attempting to CONVERT a succubus, and demonstrate to her the error of her ways.

This is the best opening line of any D&D story I have ever read. Go now to the first page of this thread. Read, and be awed.

 

[Cheiromancer]

Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 02-25-08




The overland passage to the Saivo – the entrance from Sisperi to its gloomy underworld, Rûk – was across a frigid and despoiled land filled with twisted trees, many of which had come to harbour malign intelligence. They wind walked, and although the Ahma was sure that they might have sped there immediately, he suspected that impressing the full magnitude of the corruption was important to Nwm. Or perhaps manifesting through one of the blighted trees was not an experience which Nwm wished to endure.

Ortwine's demeanour was serene and composed. Many strategies for dealing with Saes had crossed her mind, none of which seemed entirely satisfactory. Prior to her current state of insanity, the death-goddess had not been one apt to casual interaction with the other Nireem. As with most underworld deities, she had been content to dwell in morbid isolation with her shades, grudgingly releasing an annual quota of discarnate spirits so that the cycle of transmigration could continue in Sisperi. Whatever inducements Graz'zt had offered her ally herself with him – and the sidhe could only speculate as to what those might be – Saes had become unbalanced. Before he had been slain, Uort, the ferocious babau who had led the demonic legions in Sisperi, had intimated that Graz'zt himself had laid some curse on the goddess. The truth of the matter had yet to be discovered.

They descended, crossing over a steep arête; below them, a still tarn glistened darkly in the wan sun. Other lakes nearby were frozen. Not so the Saivo; its supernatural nature was immediately apparent. They corporeated a hundred yards from the lakeside within a copse of stunted black birch trees. Fungi of an unusual variety grew nearby, somehow inured to the cold.

"This place is truly miserable," Eadric remarked. "Was it always thus?"

Rhul nodded. "I am well-travelled, by any account. Few places are as desolate."

Ortwine hitched Heedless across her back and tied back her hair in a businesslike fashion. She seemed nonplussed, although whether her mood was genuine or not was, as usual, impossible to tell.

"We will get wet," she observed. "Fortunately, none of us will freeze. If there were another way in, naturally I would suggest we take it. Unfortunately, there is not: Rûk is an isolated bubble of reality, with no other entrance, and the whole plane is locked by deific power. There may be other exits though – at least Mostin seems to think so. If there are, then Saes controls them. Once we pass through this way, we have to find another way out."

Eadric twitched. "May be? If? Ortwine, I would feel more comfortable in this endeavour, had you done your research more carefully."

"Time is a constraint we have all experienced recently," Ortwine snapped. "I am no different. It is logical surmise: prior to her current episode of covetousness, Saes must have had some means to liberate souls within her guardianship. In any event, there will be demons. Lai says in the inverse of the lake, as well as within the vestibule beyond. The Saivo is deep – maybe a quarter mile. Its magic is such that the pressure will not crush us, however. When down becomes up, we will be half way to the other side; up will remain up thereafter, there is no going back down. Is that clear?"

"Perfectly," Nwm said. "May we proceed, now?"

Ortwine nodded.

Nwm transformed himself into a black dragon of enormous proportions, and bestowed water breathing upon them.

"Grab onto a horn or something; we're going down fast. If you're struck by a dispelling, hold your breath: I'll get to you as soon as I can."


**


Daunton looked worried. He sat in a plush chair in Mostin's drawing room, and poured himself another drink. "How long is this state of torpor likely to last? Is the Enforcer even safe, without the Claviger's direction?"

The Alienist stared blankly at him. "The Claviger cannot act directly, hence it needs an agent. Gihaahia's empowerment is for her own protection, in this regard; unmagnified, she would be vulnerable. I suspect it will last for as long as the current crisis persists."

Orolde entered apologetically, clearing his throat. "Rimilin is without. He wishes to take counsel."

"To pry, more like," Mostin scowled. "I suppose I can't fault him for wanting to keep abreast of events; virtually every other Wizard I know is hiding under a rock." The Alienist sighed. "Show him in."

"He is not alone," Orolde added.

Mostin eyed the sprite suspiciously.

"He has a succubus with him. She seems docile enough."

The Alienist tilted his head. Rimilin was not renowned for compacting fiendish lemans, given his particular circumstances. Perhaps he would shapechange himself…Best not to go there.

"Did he give a name?"

"Ilistet," Orolde replied calmly.

In the name of all that is unholy Mostin's eyes widened to obscene green orbs. His pseudopod twitched involuntarily, scattering candied fruit across the floor.

"Are you a complete simpleton?" He hissed at Orolde. "Do you know who she is?"

"She is Graz'zt's herald," Orolde was unfazed. "What does it matter? Rimilin has her under a compulsion."

"He damn well better have her mind blanked as well, and more," Mostin screeched. "I do not want the eye of Azzagrat turning here at the moment."

"Should I show him in?"

"Ngaarh! Yes!" He glared at Orolde, who left hastily.

Daunton stood. "I think perhaps it is time I…"

"Siddown!" Mostin barked. "We're in this together, remember?"

Daunton readied a teleport. "I will remain temporarily. We are also outside of the proscribed area, if you recall."

*

Rimilin barely nodded in greeting to Mostin and Daunton, and made even that gesture appear as though he were delivering some kind of benediction. His smile was as unctuous as usual, and he was laden with protective wards. The Acolyte began it: the negotiated exchange of information.

"My sources inform me that you plan to begin conjuring celestials tomorrow, is that true?"

"They are my new lackeys," Mostin decided to brag. "They will have bat wings, if their conventional form distresses you: it is their purpose which you should consider. I have been restricted to devas and archons; naturally I interpret that to include exemplars and episemes as well, as they were never specifically excluded. There will be no cascade; I am therefore relying on conventional tools."

"You mean to conjure the Princes of the Choirs? You believe they will come?" Rimilin couldn't help but appreciate the literalist manipulation of the contract. "Exalted celestials in the World of Men may serve to escalate the situation."

"We're playing catch-up. You have a demonic magnate dominated in my drawing-room; violating Goetic etiquette regarding compacts seems no taboo for you."

"I am establishing a temporal power base," Rimilin smiled. "It seems voguish; I didn't want to get left behind by the fashionable set. And who cares if I anger Graz'zt? He's in no position to assault anybody at the moment. His popularity as an ugra is waning amongst the convocations."

"You have walked among them?"

Rimilin merely smiled.

"They wish to establish a religious base in Wyre," Mostin reluctantly volunteered. It was valuable information, but would soon be common knowledge. "The Injunction does not apply to divine thaumaturgy. Eadric is understandably reluctant."

"He would rather send a continent to war?" Rimilin narrowed his eyes. "I suppose I will benefit, either way. Tell me of Visuit. Did she speak?"

"She grunted a few times. She is potent. She bore the sword."

"Yeshe is preparing to bind Pazuzu."

"How do you know this?" Mostin whispered fiercely. "How reliable is your information?"

"Very. She is wooing the convocations intently. Her rivalry with Sibud drives her."

Mostin's mind raced. Legend maintained that it was only at the very climax of the war with Durjan that Yeshe had conjured Pazuzu before. If she intended to make it her opening gambit in this one…

"What else do you know, Mostin? What of Prahar?"

"He was not present," the Alienist replied.

"That is not what I meant."

Mostin remained silent.

"Mostin? Fair trade, now." Rimilin's tone was unbearably condescending.

"He bound Orcus previously. So far he has remained silent."

Rimilin smiled.

"Do you wish to go higher?" Mostin asked. "There is one other piece of information: I set a tall price on it. Do you have something to match?"

"Perhaps," Rimilin answered carefully.

"Mine involves the Enforcer."

"Her magnification is already well-known…" Rimilin began.

"Not that," Mostin said. "Nehael says she appeared to the Cheshnite delegation and issued a warning. Certain articles in the Injunction have been amended."

"The theurges are excluded, then? That is news, I'll admit. Although not entirely unexpected. I know something of which may be of particular interest to you: it involves an Infernalist of your prior acquaintance."

Mostin twitched.

"Do you wish to hear more?"

"Speak, lest our relationship grow rapidly sour," Mostin hissed.

"The schemes of the Nameless Fiend, Mostin. Perhaps he is nervous that the eschaton is upon us and is drawing contingencies against the possibility. Shomei is in Cocytus. She is most recherché." The hint of envy in Rimilin's voice left little doubt that the Acolyte of the Skin was speaking the truth.

Mostin sighed. The wizardly ego would always abandon discretion in favour of the need to appear better informed. It was why they made such terrible politicians.

Throughout the exchange, Ilistet remained silent; seething with ill-concealed hatred, but unable to act. Her presence was an overt statement of power by Rimilin, and the Alienist wondered if the Acolyte could break her to his Will; domination was an effective temporary measure, but Ilistet was unfathomably loyal to Graz'zt. He shrugged. It wasn't his problem. Mostin felt immensely relieved that he didn't have to deal with conjured fiends on an ongoing basis.

**

The wastrilith slid through the water surrounded by an oily blackness. It was a creature of prodigious size, plucked from a watery abysm by Graz'zt and deposited at the entrance to Sisperi's underworld. A school of bestial fish-demons surrounded it, ravenous for flesh, deranged by their captivity within the Saivo; all were victims of false promises offered by the Prince of Azzagrat a millennium before. They were prisoners as much as the souls which Saes had gathered to herself.

Nwm, alerted to their presence with his true seeing, gyred in the water as they closed and increased his speed further; Ortwine, who clutched a bony protrusion from his draconic neck, was struck by the elegance and efficiency of the movement.

Nwm turned his head casually, discharging a great gout of acid. He was powering towards some unknown surface now: down had become up, and there was no turning back. Eadric invoked daylight on himself, illuminating their surroundings; a mire of darkness encroached upon it, and was closing quickly. Faster, Ortwine drew Heedless and a wave of venomous hatred surged through her. She quickly mastered it, but Eadric shot her a suspicious glance.

Nwm shapechanged again, deciding to avoid conflict if possible. Reaching their goal unharmed was his primary goal; distractions such as these would only denude their energy. His form liquefied into that of an elemental, and cradling Eadric, Ortwine and Rhul in a torrent of churning water, he began to race upwards at breakneck speed. The demon – disinclined to let its quarry escape – paused and caused the water above them to suddenly freeze: it cracked and groaned as tendrils of ice rapidly formed into a solid mass. Nwm maneuvered around it easily, although in a motion which caused Eadric's stomach to somersault. As they outpaced their pursuers, Nwm felt a weak tugging sensation – a last, desperate effort to drag them down again – but one easily eluded. A mental scream of hatred and frustration followed it.

They broke the surface, and Nwm resumed his draconic shape, launching himself into the air. The vestibule of Rûk was a vast cavern; a single unsupported dome which reached two hundred fathoms above black water. The light emanating from Eadric was like a candle held within a geode, and sparked glistering veins of gold and gems within the walls.

Ortwine gasped despite herself. It was staggeringly beautiful.

Rhul spat water and raised an eyebrow. "It seems that our sister has kept more than a few secrets – and more than just souls – to herself."

**

Prince Tagur paced restlessly through the winding corridors and halls of the royal palace in Morne. It was two hours before dawn, and torches guttered in sconces. Sentries, posted at every doorway and at thirty-foot intervals between, eyed him cautiously as he passed. He had been unrelenting in his insistence that the palace guard remain alert and fully mobilized at all times; every thane of the royal household had been ordered to sleep in a mail shirt. Tagur had bolstered the defenses with another hundred hand-picked knights, and assigned stern taskmasters from amongst his own retinue to oversee them.

All utterly pointless, he knew. If the enemy decided to strike, what could they do to resist? The Prince passed the doors to the royal bedchamber and sighed inwardly. Now was the time for a warrior-king; instead Wyre had a fourteen-year old boy, cajoled by a group of greedy relatives who still didn't understand the magnitude of the threat.

At the Ahma's insistence, key areas had been hallowed by Tahl, and wards of forbiddance laid upon them; nothing could manifest directly within the inner donjon. But Eadric had been honest with Tagur, contrary to the perceived security which he had allowed other members of the aristocracy to enjoy: If they come for the king – I mean really come – it will not be enough. We can only hope that they deem it an inefficient investment of resources. Tagur had drawn some small comfort from that argument, at least. In many ways, it was to the benefit of the enemy that an untested boy remain on the throne.

The Prince made his way to his own chambers, and sat at his desk. Sleep still eluded him, something which an hour of administrative tedium might cure. He reached for his papers and froze; atop a pile of legal pleas, aristocratic nuptial agreements, warrants, and proposed exchanges of lands and properties, lay a single note in handwritten scrawl:

Beware. There are already tigers amongst you.

 

[Cheiromancer]

I'm retiring my sig, but here is it is, for reference:
__________________
[Highlight]Tales of Wyre: Compiled Sepulchrave Story Hour (updated 12-28)[/highlight]
and associated Rogue's Gallery (master list of links)