Cheiromancer
Adventurer
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 09-02-2011
Sovereignty
Qematiel approached Morne through the air from the west, the morning sun lending a golden adumbration to black and scarlet scales. She plummeted a thousand feet and alighted in an explosion of Hellfire within the Temple courtyard, her rider taking pains to avoid any area where the Faithful were gathered. Hallowed ground hissed and smoked, and all fled screaming from the wyrm's presence, save a quartet of the Anointed only: young paladins with glowing faces charged with guarding the gate to the precinct.
"Begone, you idiots," Shomei gestured as she slid from Qematiel's neck. They obeyed without hesitation. She whispered, and vanished beyond perception.
Shomei paced softly but rapidly across a lawn toward the Yew. Pulling off a glove, she stretched out her palm, and placed it on gnarled bark. Awareness was boundless. The universe seemed to breathe with a slow, measured pace. The scion itself was a tunnel of green light, leading to a heaven of limitless wisdom.
She inhaled sharply, withdrew her hand, and glanced about; her eyes now resting on an unremarkable patch of grass in the shade of the transept. There, the I had stood. Shomei walked over toward the place, and knelt upon the ground. Pulling away turf in clods, she dug down eight inches into soft earth with her fingers. Next, she carefully retrieved a wrapped canvas from within her robe, untied it, and withdrew a cutting.
She placed the seedling in the hole she had dug, and even before she had packed the earth back in place, she felt it stretch, twist and slide in her hand: radicles quickly sought moisture; twigs grew upon a slender sapling.
Power surged.
Dozens of other trunks shot up around her; wrapped in their own glamour, she knew they were imperceptible to all mortal senses. A coppice of Hazel within the compound of the Temple of Oronthon in Morne. Shomei conjured a once-devil, Haril, and tasked him with the maintenance of the grove; she then became visible again to sight.
Guards were moving around the periphery of the courtyard; Shomei was aware of others beginning to gather upon the enclosing walls.
The wizard ignored all present, made her way around to the great, carved valves which led into the Fane, and gestured; they swung inward noisily. Within, light glowed warmly and incense hung heavy in the air. Those at morning prayer or in meditation were roused.
Kicking off her slippers, Shomei the Infernal – to the curiosity of those present – strode down the nave. She handed her rod and robe to a bewildered scrollbearer who quaked beneath their power, and reverently – or perhaps cautiously – approached the apse. Before her, the vacant archiepiscopal throne and the great altar of Oronthon. She made a single, fluid ritual prostration, and rose smoothly.
In an act later viewed as blasphemy, reconciliation or rededication – depending on one's point of view – Shomei proceeded to swiftly burn characters in Old High Borchian into the arch above the exedra which contained Oronthon's Holy of Holies, in a script both elegant and precise. Her revelation itself was by no means unambiguous, and was the cause of much subsequent speculation; the grammatical vagaries of Borchian lending additional uncertainty to her words:
Gaírn Spâhidan Omnisapient Will [is Mine]
Waírdan Kanist Wistim [I am] Becoming [is] the Refuge of Being
And then, upon the great solar orb, as if in refutation of the central transmetaphysic of Saizhan itself:
She muttered irritably to the priest as she took back her artefacts, turned, and cleared her throat. She spoke in a clear voice to those within the Fane: a bold declamation which echoed in the vaulted ceilings:
"Swah Qith Oronthon. I am reiterating your credo, not denying it.* You are in danger of falling into dogmatic nihilism; a perennial hazard if you emphasize negatory dialectics. I am offering a cataphatic serum for your malady. Don't worry: the irony isn't lost on me. Cease your solipsisms! Your praxis is insufficient by itself; the Truth is not enough: you lack agency."
Shomei departed without ceremony, her slippers chasing her and returning to her feet as she exited the Fane.
Reconsidering, she turned on the threshold, and subjected the golden eagle which reared above the newly-engraved orb to a powerful transmutation. Its talons retracted, its wings became elevated as though about to take flight, its head drew back and gazed directly upwards. She then disintegrated the throne.
Better, she thought.
Outside, a crowd gathered. The wyrm Qematiel had coiled herself about the Yew and clung tightly to it, her annihilating fires subdued. The dragon's eyes – though they still retained their vast and ancient malice – seemed to possess a certain peace; she was permitted to remain until nightfall.
The Infernalist gazed at those assembled: in her mind's eye, they became a conflagration of light. Flames of Oronthon, returned from the Serenities, threatening to overwhelm her with radiance.
"Do you even know?" She asked them. "I think it's time someone told you."
The light smiled, and was occulted again.
Shomei scowled. With profound effort of Will – and the extent to which she recognized it as other than her own perplexed her – Shomei turned her thought upon them. She groped as through the flimsiest of veils; a subtle vapor concealed the apprehension of rarest truth. It eluded her.
"Become what You Are!" She hissed at them in frustration.
Silence.
Shomei considered her options. It would seem that more pressure must be applied. Pausing for a moment to gather her focus, she tapped her reservoir and reality shifted. She then issued a sending:
I invite you to join me. There will be no compulsion, but I will remain the senior partner. Our association may end whenever you choose.
Instantly, Irel, Who Smites – the last and greatest of the dark episemes – appeared before her. Shomei – a connoisseur of the Infernal aesthetic – gaped at his beauty despite herself. Here was a perfect being: fallen without sin; cradled by the Green, not imprisoned within it. Oh, Mostin. I owe you for this.
She considered briefly, grasped her rod, and struck the ground. A peal of thunder sounded as a gate opened. "Come," she raised an eyebrow and gave a sidelong glance. "We go to visit Azazel first."
Shomei's estimate of diabolic forces previously deployed on Avernus amounted to four hundred and thirty-four legions, including those of the independent magnates. Azazel had brought more than two hundred more – mostly pit fiends and horned devils – from Nessus itself, immediately subsequent to the I's translation. Their current status intrigued Shomei; the extent to which they retained their infernality in varying degrees was curious: some – including the rulers of the Quarters – had become powerful feys. Others – such as Azazel himself and those accompanying him – seemed to enjoy a more protected status. Regardless, the general structure of their hierarchies remained intact: they represented a potential for power; perhaps the greatest and certainly the most coherent anywhere within the bounded cosmos.
Shomei and Irel vanished through the gate into dark verdancies: the Thickets of the Four Kings where the Hazel and Holly-ludjas held sway.
**
The witch floated in the air, a half-mile above the eastern gates of the city. Bells and alarms were ringing frantically; the air around was thick with wind walking djinn and whichever fortunates they had managed to take with them. Below her, in shadow, the masses teemed in the streets and sought to flee the encroaching fire. All available magical aid had been lent to speed the evacuation; it remained woefully inadequate to the task.
Mulissu silently lamented. There was no time for anything, even to conjure Ha'uh – which might have at least forestalled the shape which now bore down upon the city. It was as though a great plough were being dragged at uncanny speed across the dark land toward Fumaril; the furrow it left was an open wound in the earth, the sides of which smoked and vitrified. At its approach, a vibration caused the foundations of the city to shudder; the sound rapidly became deafening, and houses began to topple.
There is no scion at Fumaril, Mulissu grimly observed.
The gate below her exploded into molten rubble.
As her subjects – those whom she had sworn to protect – began to perish by the thousand, she pushed all sense of grief and horror from her mind lest it overwhelm her; not one jot of remorse would she let herself feel. The Tyrant of Fumaril gazed on, expressionless.
She studied her enemy with implacable calm.
**
Kyrtill's Burh darkened as clouds gathered in the sky above it. Within two leagues – an area which included both the town of Deorham and many outlying farms – animals were transformed into misshapen, brooding things by the awakening Blackthorn scion. The land seemed to drift; shadows erupted and passed without warning. Buildings stretched and twisted. Trees grew shaggy and thorned. Of feys, all but the most wicked and insane fled.
In the public lounge of the Twelve Elms, Soneillon sat and pondered. Her demons were growing restless – most were currently contained in a demiplane of her devising, and only a handful attended her directly. Ilistet, she had promised a steed; Mazikreen had taken a liking to Afqithan, and Megual would need to be bought off. The Goat was remaining hidden and inscrutable; probably making magic. She must somehow seek to either placate or compel them all, but she could not afford to anger the Ahma quite yet, and loosing them on eastern Wyre would surely incur his wrath.
She motioned with her mind and gestured to the barkeep to bring her more wine. It seemed to be affecting her; Soneillon wondered as to whether she had acquired some measure of mundanity. When the bottle arrived – delivered by a flabby boy with an apish gait and an empty look - the demoness smiled languidly.
Soneillon made herself receptive. From far beyond the known – such as it now was – an impression reached her; concepts superimposed upon disquieting sound.
:: Beware of Shomei. We know her. She seeks to coerce the I with the Hazel. She will seek the Urn::
The demoness entered a potent divinatory fugue. To her, the world – all that is the case, and that had been a great deal – had changed into a small and unfamiliar but nonetheless exciting finitude. Much was new again and unexplored, with possibilities untapped. And now the Fires of Death in Jashat had erupted in fourfould manifestation, spewing Void into reality.
The first and most violent effluxion was in the process of ravaging Fumaril: of the eighty thousand inhabitants, some fifteen hundreds had escaped. Much of the city was already gone, and burning rivers now ran between mounds of ash and slag; clouds of steam rose from the harbors. Soon, Soneillon knew, the abomination would tire of its revels and sink down through the mantle to become a dark fire at the heart of the world.
A second manifestation, Kaalaanala had leaked into Dream; the Claviger would tolerate it but must necessarily move to contain it. Carasch and other Chthonics raced along a great bough of the Blackthorn into the nightmares which surrounded it. Soneillon sensed them as they brushed Delirium; the urge to join them was almost irresistible.
The Third Effluxion, a winged infernal shrouded in unlight, took flight. It sped to an island in Pandicule, a place far beyond the Claviger's purview, there to enlist powerful spirits – things now neither entirely demon nor fey – which had been seduced by the Blackthorn-ludja. At that same moment, within the Grotto of the Articles, Gihaahia manifested, even as the Claviger itself plummeted into Dream. Taking stock as consciousness recrystallized, the Enforcer's perception reached out toward the southern boundaries of her remit. Soneillon felt the awareness pass through her and test the limit of the Blackthorn's ward; the ludja itself flexed, repelling Gihaahia's efforts.
The Fourth and last – an image of the dark and hooded form of the goddess, wreathed in corrupting flames – stood momentarily before the altar of itself in meditation. Its senses probed reality. Without word or gesture, it caused space to fragment and dragged forth a great Chthonic anala, binding it into the shape of a fiery steed. Faster than a hurricane, it then rode north, an emissary.
Soneillon scowled. That bitch better not come here.
A pulse. The demoness started. It was emanated by the scion at the nearby keep. To soothe her? Allay her concerns? She tasted an exquisite anguish; a sudden satiation of unbecoming. It struck her as a heady ecstasy of the utmost purity.
Immediately, a presence in her mind. Her mental defenses slammed into place; Soneillon transformed herself and arose in might, clutching the Urn. A shockwave blew a hole in the roof of the inn as she launched herself skywards: protective void blossomed around her; tendrils of madness lashed the air wildly.
All of her hatred, the entirety of her, focused into an execration directed at this interloper in her field of apprehension. There was a brief mental silence.
[Nehael]: As you wish. But take care where your senses roam.
Soneillon cursed.
**
Hummaz lolled, wine-soaked, upon a great stone chair. Nymphs slept nearby in exhausted bliss. The Wild God of the Woods raised an eyebrow as something flitted across his vision four leagues distant.
What's this?
He reached out, grabbing a diminutive fey and dragging it toward himself. The creature was dressed strangely, possessed of one arm, and had an unwinking eye in the middle of its forehead. Hummaz absorbed its thoughts and history in a trice. An enigma.
Hummaz grunted and replaced the odd creature. He was thirsty, and his head pounded. Where was the wine?
Wine?
"Wine!" He bellowed. His temper was rising.
Every fey within a mile instantly heeded his call. Wine began to arrive; in bottles, cups, flasks and kegs.
Hummaz drank eight deep draughts and relaxed again. But not entirely.
Something wasn't quite right.
**
In Northern Soan, in the world of Sisperi, it was known that the gods warred in the Heaven of Mulhuk. At first, Lai's priests blamed the machinations of Saes, the goddess of death; the truth was later revealed by oracles to be otherwise: a foreign war-goddess – Visuit – was attacking the Nireem.
Dark spirits – awakened by the passage of the interloper through the Bole of Shades – now stalked the fields of Soan. Steadings were attacked by evil sprites; gentler woodland spirits fled. Crofters barred their doors and nailed their shutters. Prayers were fervently offered: to Ortwine, Rhul, Lai and Akma. A few invoked Ninit, but the Rider was oblivious, galloping wildly along Faerie strands west of Nizkur.
Akma sent his furies to intercede; winged avengers with great maces and flaming swords drove fell monsters back into shadow. The faithful rejoiced.
In Mulhuk itself, events were less happy.
**
[Eadric]: You cannot suppress her wards?
[Mostin]: No
[Eadric]: Conjure a...whatever that was?
[Mostin]: No
[Eadric]: Open a gate?
[Mostin]: There are no celestials or devils to invoke. I will not call a Horror using something as vulgar as a gate: anything of any use to us would simply ignore my commands and pursue its own trajectory.
[Nwm]: Invoke Nehael.
[Mostin]: I most certainly will not. Besides, there's no point. She doesn't ever do anything, anyway.
[Eadric]: She owes me for Yeshe.
[Mostin]: And what exactly did she do with Yeshe?
[Hlioth]: Do? Nothing. She left her with Rimilin.
[Eadric]: What?
[Hlioth]: Neither Rimilin nor Yeshe will leave the presence of the Tree until their time. I suspect that that whether they are "alive" or "dead" is not necessarily germane from the Tree's perspective. But Cherry will not snatch them. This is good.
[Eadric]: The Cherry is waking?
[Nwm]: Amongst others. Big trouble. It won't be long. The Aspen here is still sleepy.
[Eadric]: And Nehael knew this?
[Hlioth]: As the Image of Uedii. Nehael is, herself, merely an agent: an echo of an aspect. That is worth remembering.
"I am confused," Eadric sighed.
"As am I," Mostin confessed.
"Cherry and Blackthorn." Nwm explained. "These are the moot of Cheshne and Uedii: the Abysmal ludjas, so to speak; negotiations are tense. My bowels register it uncomfortably."
"You feel this? And yet Nehael is somehow blind to it?"
"Eadric," Nwm sighed, "Unlike the Ahma, I am wise: I see little purpose in burdening objective reality with my internal processes. I have occasional intuitions; Nehael is more empathic: perhaps she is too close to it. Visuit. Kaalaanala. Goddess grows darker."
[Ortwine]: Yes she does. And a little help would be appreciated here.
[Lai]: Soon.
"But Nehael is an echo of what?" Eadric asked, exasperated. "And to which ludja is she inclined? Hlioth, with all respect, please speak more directly."
"Of her own Sovereign Viridescence: her higher octave, which is still not Uedii. If we prevail, you may see. As to loyalty? To all and none. The Tree is there for Nehael, not vice versa." Hlioth glowered at him, and considered. "Imagine this picture: Tree in its entirety as an aegis bequeathed by Uedii to protect Nehael from the Apparition of Demogorgon. The surface of the shield, facing outward, carries a veneer of cherry and blackthorn: the wood is weak and apt to splinter and ablate under violent passion or disintegrative fire. Nonetheless, it dissipates the shock of an attack. Beneath, lacquered bands of hardwoods - oak, elm and ash – lend strength, flexibility and hardness. In all, twenty varieties of wood comprise the shield; taken as a whole, the construction is impenetrable."
"And how long must this shield endure?"
"An aeon or a moment, what does it matter? It will last for as long as it needs to. Thinking big is nice, but none of it helps us deal with Visuit," Hlioth observed. "Or the Blackthorn's waxing power. Our troubles are just beginning. Effects are no longer preceded by causes; Cheshne moves in tandem with Tree's shadow, seeking to Apparate. Yes, the Tree itself is indestructible; Nehael, unassailable. Unfortunately, this is not true of the rest of the world. We neglected to quickly plug a certain cosmic hole."
She scowled at Mostin. It irritated him – mostly because she seemed to know more than him. But also because it made him feel guilty: it had been within his power to greatly curtail the menace. Had they only returned to Azzagrat, and sealed the gates. But that was now the prior reality.
"Where are the Blackthorn scions, Hlioth?" Eadric sighed.
"In Jashat and at Deorham, you know. One now grows northeast of Cirone, at the place where Shvar Choryati was ended: its roots sink into the crater floor."
Nwm groaned. "That scar should have been healed but there was no time; the landscape is blasted; trees flattened for a mile."
Hlioth ignored him and continued. "The scion at Cirone remains dormant for the time being, but will likely not long remain so. One – as with each – is in the vicinty of the Great Ludja itself: each of those scions is subdued; dwarfed in significance, but each ludja is thus ever-present. One is as yet unaccounted for."
"None in the realm of Hummaz?" Eadric seemed suspicious.
"No, no, no," Hlioth shook her head. "Pine, Linden, Willow; Hazel and Holly; Hawthorne and a Cherry – yes. And a Yew. But there is no place for the principle of elimination in relation to Hummaz; he is too fecund."
"I suspect it will be Fumaril," Nwm grumbled. "Or Afqithan. There are already powerful resonances there."
[Ortwine]: It damn well better not be. Now?
[Lai]: A little more patience.
[Eadric]: Do we have a plan?
[Mostin]: I'm thinking.
[Ortwine]: Hurry up!
[Mostin]: You need a nine hundred. I have it. It's ugly.
**
This gnat was becoming annoying. Visuit stood upon the heaped bodies of minor godlings and revered ancestors.
Purposely vexing the augmented war-goddess was not an activity which Ortwine undertook lightly. Lai had been with her to begin with, but as soon as news had reached them that Mostin's tower had arrived, the goddess of magic had vanished to organize the ritual which Nwm must inevitably lead.
Ortwine – swifter and more elusive than a zephyr – had succeeded in briefly distracting Visuit from her main purpose: the Butcher was intent upon smashing her way into the forge of Jaliere. However, Visuit's attention could not be captured for long: when it became clear that she could not engage Ortwine at her own choosing, but her enemy could inflict no harm upon her, Visuit simply returned her focus to the divinely barred portals.
They would not yield.
Visuit cursed, her spittle smoking like acid. Runes flared; the flower gardens nearby wilted. She turned her attention to the black rock around the doors: it was harder than adamant. With a titanic effort, she hewed a great shard away from the wall.
Ortwine hurled Heedless; it clattered noisily off of Visuit's helm. The war-goddess bellowed in fury, leaped a hundred feet, and brought her hideous weapon smashing down; her enemy was not where she was should have been. But had she been…The sidhe raised an invisible eyebrow.
Ortwine taunted her. Visuit, unperturbed, sliced reality open with her weapon; darkness emanated from a gate into a dismal realm.
Ortwine groaned. Through the rift, dark feys now poured, each raised to a wicked eminence in the presence of the Blackthorn. Many had once been sidhe. Now they were much worse.
She began to charm or dominate those that she might, in an effort to turn them against one another.
Visuit resumed her assault upon the rock.
**
Nwm observed that there were only twenty-three spellcasters amongst the flamines and scrollbearers. Spells were all but spent. Every reservoir – including his own – was exhausted. He considered Mostin's solution.
"You will give me everything. I am going to burn as hot as I can," he said to them. "This means that you will burn as well. As I am more practiced at burning than you are, all of you will die immediately. You will enjoy a brief spell in Rûk: a relatively agreeable underworld, as underworlds go. Sombre, quiet self-reflection is the order of the day. Some of you may be temperamentally inclined to remain there; otherwise, I will return you at the Ahma's request. In any event, the experience of burning will embed itself on your souls and permanently traumatize you. If any of you now wish to reconsider your contribution, I advise you to speak up."
The predictable silence which ensued reassured Mostin of the utility of religious fanaticism. Nwm turned to those who would not participate in the ritual, and would therefore survive it.
"It is impossible to say how long we will have; I am hoping for twenty seconds before Visuit's protections reassert themselves. Please be assured that speedy action is of great importance."
The rite which then followed was an horrific scene: Nwm screaming; an inferno of green fire which consumed all but he.
The Preceptor perceived her. Energy moved from him; a tendril of green power, suffused with magic, rupturing space. Distance was meaningless. He struck the Butcher remotely with a dispelling, sealing the gate near her and suppressing the Voidwrought wards erected by Kaalaanala. Simultaneously, as though grasping a rope with his own awareness, Nwm dragged those present through a green vortex, directly into Visuit's presence.
In those next few moments – a matter of seconds, which passed as though they might be years – Eadric finally came to grasp an appreciation of the raw power which Mostin now possessed. Almost entirely bereft of spells, the Alienist became instead a formidable physical opponent, a dozen hideous tentacles setting about Visuit, pinning her arms, legs, head. With all of her augmentations subdued, the wizard now outmatched the war-goddess.
Lukarn ignited as it sprang from its scabbard.
Her plight was impossible. Mostin grappled her; tentacles crushing the goddess through her armor and pinning her. She growled in fury as the others set about her, and hacked at her.
Butchered her.
"Take her," Eadric invoked Nehael as Visuit fell. Now he understood.
War had passed. But at hideous cost. And he had broken a vow; demonstrated his own limit. He knew in his heart that not all of those who had perished in Nwm's immolating spell would fly to the Serenities. Not every martyr would find his reward. And each of those which might would be nonetheless diminished.
**
Rimilin observed the Tree. Its leaves whispered in a gathering wind. The World changed again.
**
**
Tozinak – appearing as a hook-nosed creature of medium stature with tufted feet and silky wings – returned to his island manse with a sense of profound relief. Mostin's insane schemes had almost rendered him dead again. The wizard understood in a moment of clarity that, although a coward, he was possessed of a genuine peaceful demeanor: the Alienist's actions never failed to perturb him on any number of levels simultaneously. Daunton had insisted on a drink; Tozinak had been inclined to agree. The afternoon had been spent regaining a semblance of calm.
As he shuffled into his cluttered study – a large space with a lofty ceiling, crowded with papers, alembics, and other apparatus of unguessable purpose – his skin tingled and his nose turned blue in alarm.
A succubus of extraordinary presence relaxed, supine, on his favorite couch. Tozinak froze, emitting a high-pitched squeak.
"I believe you can guess who I am," Soneillon smiled, lifting her head.
Tozinak nodded meekly.
"I'm just across the lake there," the demoness sat up and pointed with her wingtip. "At Deorham. We're practically neighbours."
Tozinak swallowed.
"Which is nice. I'll be stopping by. To see how you're progressing on inscribing A Flame Precedes the Aeon for me."
"Ah," Tozinak finally said.
"What is your price?" Soneillon asked unexpectedly.
"Oh." Tozinak half-exclaimed. "I-I had assumed…"
"That this was extortion? Consider what you desire. I will grant it. I will return tomorrow. But you may begin the inscription at your earliest convenience." Soneillon vanished
The wizard retired, flustered and palpitating, to his herbaceous borders. What did he desire? Really, nothing which he did not already have; or simply to be left alone. This was Mostin's fault: Tozinak had previously shunned contact with all conjured entities; he judged that none were possessed of a facility which outweighed their price.
As he descended a small, uneven set of steps and rounded a corner, he began to hyperventilate. A tree where none had stood prior. Suspended, before his face, on a branch laden with their weight.
Cherries.
Tozinak reached out and smiled as he picked one and popped it in his mouth. It was exquisite; his mind seemed to melt. He yearned impossibly, although his longing had no discernible target.
Cherries. He knew he was safe. She would not come back. She was scared of the cherries. He would have to go to her. Bring her his spell. And cherries.
**
**
Dusk fell.
Nehael, the Image of Uedii, manifested discreetly in the Temple precinct in Morne: she had been invoked by no few of those present for protection. She wore only a simple robe of green, and melded effortlessly into the throng; now the courtyard was packed with many hundreds. Lamps were being lit; vigils set: the wyrm was a portent of unknown significance.
As the sun sank behind the western hills, the dragon stirred. Unseen, Nehael approached, laying her hand upon Qematiel's great snout; the calm which emanated from the goddess was irresistible. An impulse. Immediately, the crowd began to disperse – the attention of each suddenly drawn to some minor elsewhere.
Shomei appeared, unnoticed by the mortals present.
"You are mustering an army," Nehael observed. "For what purpose? Who is your enemy?"
"Always myself," Shomei smiled as she mounted the dragon.
"I did not foresee the union of these scions; you will make the Holly-ludja jealous."
"I am the Archivist of Hell: the two seemed a natural fit. As for the Holly, it hates enough already: it needs no prompting."
"There is no Hell."
"There is for me."
"Exercise compassion," Nehael advised.
"It is not my forté," Shomei admitted. "But I am not unprincipled."
Nehael fixed her with a look. "Answer me a question: what do you know of the I's translation?"
"What is there to say? Will has been ceded to the Hazel; the I now acts from Instinct."
"I think we both understand that things are a little more complicated," Nehael seemed unimpressed.
"Truth is always so," Shomei was ironic.
"A piece of the I is unrevealed," Nehael said. "It is disguised as something else; or the I is hedging its bets."
"Such is the instinct for Self-preservation," Shomei agreed. "But whatever it is, it is here by the grace of the Tree; its nature is necessarily mixed."
"It is a Flame," Nehael remained impassive. "An Iota. Oronthon's memory of the Nameless Fiend, so to speak; or his preconception of Antinomos. The Flame which must, perforce, become Itself. It is a paradox: a Flame is pure; it cannot Fall. You seek it. And which laws will you set yourself against if you find it?"
"Not all laws are unequal," Shomei smiled grimly. "The only Law which presently matters is that of the Claviger. Its oneiric whimsies are too much to endure. Other laws may be subject to scrutiny in due course."
"You would look to assume this role?"
"This is already my role," Shomei sighed. "I am Exempt; the Agent of Will. Who else is better qualified?"
"You are not exempt from the Enforcer's mandate."
"The devil sitting by the Hazel begs to differ."
"He is not entirely a devil, nor was he entirely Outside. The World is changed."
"Outside? So Gihaahia now protects Wyre only from Mostin?" Shomei said archly. "That, at least, is reassuring."
"And Vhorzhe."
"Yes. And from Vhorzhe. I am beginning to believe that she may need some help."
Nehael was exasperated. "The I's nature is now a visceral urge for satiation. You cannot contain Hummaz."
"I will subdue him."
"Shomei…"
"Will you trust me, or not?"
Nehael was silent: the memory of the Antinomos, reflected back at her. She approached the Yew, laid her hands on it. Its bark was warm, but from its own, inner heat; no trace of the wyrm's fire remained on the tree.
"You are sincere, but I am sceptical," Nehael remained in contact with the scion. "If you fail, and enrage Hummaz, things will go ill."
"I am no fool. I am not yet ready for this task, nor shall I attempt it until I am. I am not the Adversary, Nehael. But I might become what he should have been. Think on it."
Wreathed in Hellfire, Qematiel took to the skies and thundered away to the southwest.
The Goddess turned. Nehael grasped a living stave of Hazel and willed after Shomei as she departed.
Compassion!
The impulse echoed through a hundred worlds; Nehael blazed, and for a fleeting instant, the Aeon manifested: an eleos. A sigh rippled through the Green as the Butcher fell in Mulhuk.
[Nehael]: She is mine. I claim her.
All of significance heard her. Hummaz, maybe the only one who might, did not contest her. A naked, powerless spirit, Visuit fled briefly through the underworld of Rûk and into the presence of the Great Tree-ludja in the Womb of Qinthei.
At the Veils, the Mistresses screeched in hateful impotence.
*"Thus Spake Oronthon [to me]," words which were typically only uttered by Oronthon's divine oracles in the heyday of Orthodoxy; her "reiteration" may also be interpreted as a rebuttal of Nothing Is, Nothing Is Not, Nothing Becomes. Shomei's assertions are unequivocally outrageous in all regards.
DvR Notes
[SBLOCK]The "piece of the I" to which Nehael refers is the 3 "missing" DvR component: DvRs have a peculiar currency-like status: they can get lost, but aren't typically unmade.
Prior to the Adversary's translation, the Nameless Fiend was a DvR15 entity; subsequently, Hummaz incarnated as a DvR12. On the paradigmatic scale – where the notion of I might be said to have been ceded from Oronthon to Uedii – the 3 extra DvRs are "liberated" in the form of a Flame: Oronthon's thought/memory of the Adversary. On the transcendental level, the Adversary is "somewhere" outside of finitude as potentiality: presumably, Oronthon could decide to create/emanate the Adversary again (as a free action :/ ) if he so chose. As an aside, it should be noted that the DvR12 Hummaz is in many ways more potent than the DvR15 Adversary: Hummaz is "optimized"; the Adversary's mechanical build contains a lot of intentionally "dissipated" (nonoptimized) elements in relation to other DvR15 entities. Although more limited in scope, the I is invigorated by the Green.
The Adversary proper – the I's previous persona – is no longer extant. But his legacy remains in the form of (1) the self-gratifying urge (the I as Hummaz); (2) the Hazel's alignment with Will; (3) Hatred, embodied by the Holly; (4) a pure conception of antinomian becoming (the hidden Flame); and (5) the notion of Exemption – represented by Shomei herself. Shomei's ultimate aim is to join and/or transcend the disparate components, thereby realizing her own sovereign I-ness – her DvR15 potential, as it were – unshackled from the Oronthonist schema. Shomei would then wield Hazel, insofar as the ludja would be entirely subject to her direction. She would also be the most powerful entity within finitude, in a position to determine which among the other specific ludjas should endure or prevail; be harnessed or suppressed. Finitude itself being essentially demarcated by Tree.
By planting a Hazel scion in proximity to the Yew, Shomei is "marrying" the principles of Will and Wisdom, so to speak – although it is unclear whether it is Shomei who is acting, or whether Will is directing her, or whether there is no distinction to be made at this stage. This "marriage" is in the context of two specific scions at Morne, not of the ludjas themselves.
The Aeon's subsequent first manifestation is at Visuit's death as/at Nehael's emanatory point in the DvR scale; the "Sovereign Viridescence" to which Hlioth refers. The demise of the Butcher allows the momentary appearance of a compassion/mercy aspect of Goddess. Nehael's assertion "She [Visuit] is mine. I claim her," is hence made from a DvR12 perspective and cannot be contested: Nehael strips Visuit of her divine rank and takes her spirit.
This DvR12 manifestation can itself be seen as an avatar or emanation of a DvR24 (meta-transcendental) Uedii or as a reflection of the Urgic conception of faheth, supreme empathy. Faheth, along with sela (perfect intellect) and saizhan (unclouded apprehension) is understood as an identifying feature of Oronthon's Mind. Reconciliationists would equate faheth with Uedii; the Sela has identified Nehael as such – although ambiguously.
Less optimistically, it might be said that "War" (Visuit) is now inadequate to describe the nature of events, and the stakes have risen rather higher. The threat is now couched in terms of destruction (as represented by Kaalaanala and her effluxia). Dark goddesses clamour at the gates of finitude, etc. etc.
Manifestation of the DvR16 Apparition would signify annihilation; more esoterically, the Aeon never reifies fully in the Mind of Oronthon and reality is revealed to not be. Although Hlioth assures Eadric that the Tree is proof against the Apparition for Nehael, this protection may not extend altogether to the rest of the World. Moreover, it is not known whether Tree's 20DvRs would be proof against the DvR17 and DvR19 infinities, which have pseudonatural connotations. DvR17 suggests a post-annihilatory state; DvR19 a pre-manifest one: both imply a solution to the Being/Not Being conundrum: note that Mostin would not consider these altitudes particularly impressive. DvR18 is a point of mutliple equilibria; it is associated with the dialectical process. This is Fillein/Jovol/Teppu's "root DvR," so to speak - the infinity toward which he is drawn. DvR18 may in turn be seen as emanatory of DvR36 – Saizhan itself.
Confusingly, the Aeon, representing potentiality, is all of these things. As its final Self – Pharamne at the Moment of Creation – it is a DvR20 Wyrm.
Ahma as Divine Rank
According to Urgic doctrine, Ahma is an emanation of the Radiant Form. It should therefore logically be a DvR15 phenomenon – equivalent in "power" to a Sovereignty, sempiternal, but of different scope and mostly "invisible." Its outward signs are manifested in the templates stacked on top of Eadric. In its naked form, Ahma is essentially a 15DvR Flame associated with Eadric, with 12DvRs unexpressed. As an undifferentiated Flame, Ahma is also "Oronthon thinking about Eadric;" in more devotional and theistic terms, Eadric is dear to Oronthon. Obviously, having a DvR12 potential is fine, but realizing it is trickier.[/SBLOCK]
Epic Spells
[SBLOCK]The Pall of Dhatri
Evocation [Darkness]
Order: 2630
Spellcraft DC: 110
Components: V, S, Ritual
Casting Time: 10 minutes
Range: 0ft.
Effect: 100-mile radius sphere of tenacious darkness centered on a point in space
Duration: 100 days
Saving Throw: None
Spell Resistance: No
Seeds: [Energy (weather) (25)], [Energy (19)], [Ward] (17). Factors: Emulate darkness (+17), negate disjunction (+16), increase radius by 98 miles / 4900% (+196), +300 CL opposed dispel (+600), +100 days duration (+400), contingent (+25), tenacious (ad hoc x2). Mitigation: Ritual component (-2500), 10 minute casting (-20).
The Pall of Dhatri evokes a sphere of shadowy illumination with a radius of 100 miles. Light from nonepic spells and mundane light is automatically suppressed within the spell's area. Disjunction is inefective against the Pall of Dhatri, in whole or in part.
Targeted epic spells which use the [Dispel] seed to successfully counter the Pall of Dhatri only do so for 1d4 rounds unless they include factors to lengthen the duration of the dispel effect; the entire area otherwise under the effect of the spell is subject to the normal prevailing illumination, after which the Pall of Dhatri reasserts itself.
Epic spells with the [light] descriptor which succeed at an opposed caster level check against the Pall of Dhatri suppress it for their duration but only to the extent of their area of effect.
Appropriate salient divine abilities may permanently counter and dispel the Pall of Dhatri, either locally or entirely.
The Pall of Dhatri is a 320th-level effect.
Lukarn
Evocation [Good, Light]
Order: 857
Spellcraft DC: 0 (Spontaneous)
Components: V, S, DF, XP, Ritual
Casting Time: 1 minute
Range: Touch then 2 miles; see text
Effect: 2-mile radius sphere of holy light centered on a weapon; see text
Duration: Contingent, then instantaneous and 200 minutes; see text
Saving Throw: Will half, partial or negates; see text
Spell Resistance: Yes; see text
Seeds: [Energy] (19), [Energy] (25). Factors: Emulate sunburst (+29), emulate daylight (+19), +300 opposed CL (+600), increase damage die (+40), +50 opposed check against [dispel] (+100), contingent (+25). Mitigating Factors: The sword Lukarn as divine focus (-10), ritual component (-572), 27500XP distributed between 44 reservoirs (-275).
This spell remains contingent for up to 24 hours until the sword Lukarn is first drawn from its scabbard.
When Lukarn is unsheathed an immediate sunburst effect is evoked with a radius of 2 miles. Evil creatures are blinded and immediately suffer 6d20 points of damage. Undead creatures suffer 20d20 points of damage; vampires and other undead specifically vulnerable to daylight are destroyed. A successful Will saving throw halves the damage and negates the blindness and destruction effects.
Thereafter, a sphere of illumination as bright as full daylight with a radius of 2 miles centered on Lukarn persists for 200 minutes: the locus of the daylight effect is mobile, and moves with the weapon. The spell counters and dispels all [darkness] effects within its area and for its duration against which it makes a successful opposed caster level check; this spell confers a +300 bonus to negate such effects.
For the purposes of penetrating spell resistance, Lukarn has a caster level of 43; the spell is considered to have a caster level of 93 for purposes of opposed dispel checks which target it.
Guho's Disjunctive Membrane
Abjuration
Order: 417
Spellcraft DC: 77
Components: V, S, Ritual
Casting Time: 10 mins
Range: 2 miles
Effect: A 2-mile radius sphere centred on a point in space
Duration: 24 hours
Saving Throw: Will negates (object)
Spell Resistance: No
Seeds: [Ward] (14), [Ward] (14), [Energy (weather)] (25), [Fortify] (17).
Factors: Emulate disjunction (+31), negate disjunction (+16), +150CL (+300), selective targets (ad hoc +20).
Mitigating Factors: 10 mins casting (-20), ritual (-340).
Guho erects a disjunctive interface encapsulating a bubble with a radius of 2 miles. Creatures designated by Guho at the time of its creation may freely pass through the membrane in either direction without ill effect.
Creatures who otherwise attempt to pass through the membrane and spell effects which originate outside of the interface are immediately subject to a disjunction effect upon contacting it. Subjects protected by epic spells which possess the [Ward] seed keyed to disjunction effects are entitled to an opposed caster level check; all other ongoing spell effects are automatically ended. Any magic items which pass through the membrane must make Will saving throws or be likewise disjoined.
The Disjunctive Membrane may not itself be disjoined. Epic spells incorporating the [Destroy] or [Dispel] seed are entitled to an opposed caster level check in order to counter the spell: in this case the Disjunctive Membrane is considered to be a 178th-level effect.[/SBLOCK]
Sovereignty
Qematiel approached Morne through the air from the west, the morning sun lending a golden adumbration to black and scarlet scales. She plummeted a thousand feet and alighted in an explosion of Hellfire within the Temple courtyard, her rider taking pains to avoid any area where the Faithful were gathered. Hallowed ground hissed and smoked, and all fled screaming from the wyrm's presence, save a quartet of the Anointed only: young paladins with glowing faces charged with guarding the gate to the precinct.
"Begone, you idiots," Shomei gestured as she slid from Qematiel's neck. They obeyed without hesitation. She whispered, and vanished beyond perception.
Shomei paced softly but rapidly across a lawn toward the Yew. Pulling off a glove, she stretched out her palm, and placed it on gnarled bark. Awareness was boundless. The universe seemed to breathe with a slow, measured pace. The scion itself was a tunnel of green light, leading to a heaven of limitless wisdom.
She inhaled sharply, withdrew her hand, and glanced about; her eyes now resting on an unremarkable patch of grass in the shade of the transept. There, the I had stood. Shomei walked over toward the place, and knelt upon the ground. Pulling away turf in clods, she dug down eight inches into soft earth with her fingers. Next, she carefully retrieved a wrapped canvas from within her robe, untied it, and withdrew a cutting.
She placed the seedling in the hole she had dug, and even before she had packed the earth back in place, she felt it stretch, twist and slide in her hand: radicles quickly sought moisture; twigs grew upon a slender sapling.
Power surged.
Dozens of other trunks shot up around her; wrapped in their own glamour, she knew they were imperceptible to all mortal senses. A coppice of Hazel within the compound of the Temple of Oronthon in Morne. Shomei conjured a once-devil, Haril, and tasked him with the maintenance of the grove; she then became visible again to sight.
Guards were moving around the periphery of the courtyard; Shomei was aware of others beginning to gather upon the enclosing walls.
The wizard ignored all present, made her way around to the great, carved valves which led into the Fane, and gestured; they swung inward noisily. Within, light glowed warmly and incense hung heavy in the air. Those at morning prayer or in meditation were roused.
Kicking off her slippers, Shomei the Infernal – to the curiosity of those present – strode down the nave. She handed her rod and robe to a bewildered scrollbearer who quaked beneath their power, and reverently – or perhaps cautiously – approached the apse. Before her, the vacant archiepiscopal throne and the great altar of Oronthon. She made a single, fluid ritual prostration, and rose smoothly.
In an act later viewed as blasphemy, reconciliation or rededication – depending on one's point of view – Shomei proceeded to swiftly burn characters in Old High Borchian into the arch above the exedra which contained Oronthon's Holy of Holies, in a script both elegant and precise. Her revelation itself was by no means unambiguous, and was the cause of much subsequent speculation; the grammatical vagaries of Borchian lending additional uncertainty to her words:
Gaírn Spâhidan Omnisapient Will [is Mine]
Waírdan Kanist Wistim [I am] Becoming [is] the Refuge of Being
And then, upon the great solar orb, as if in refutation of the central transmetaphysic of Saizhan itself:
ÍM
SAIZHO
WAÍRTH
I AM. I SEE. I BECOME.
SAIZHO
WAÍRTH
I AM. I SEE. I BECOME.
She muttered irritably to the priest as she took back her artefacts, turned, and cleared her throat. She spoke in a clear voice to those within the Fane: a bold declamation which echoed in the vaulted ceilings:
"Swah Qith Oronthon. I am reiterating your credo, not denying it.* You are in danger of falling into dogmatic nihilism; a perennial hazard if you emphasize negatory dialectics. I am offering a cataphatic serum for your malady. Don't worry: the irony isn't lost on me. Cease your solipsisms! Your praxis is insufficient by itself; the Truth is not enough: you lack agency."
Shomei departed without ceremony, her slippers chasing her and returning to her feet as she exited the Fane.
Reconsidering, she turned on the threshold, and subjected the golden eagle which reared above the newly-engraved orb to a powerful transmutation. Its talons retracted, its wings became elevated as though about to take flight, its head drew back and gazed directly upwards. She then disintegrated the throne.
Better, she thought.
Outside, a crowd gathered. The wyrm Qematiel had coiled herself about the Yew and clung tightly to it, her annihilating fires subdued. The dragon's eyes – though they still retained their vast and ancient malice – seemed to possess a certain peace; she was permitted to remain until nightfall.
The Infernalist gazed at those assembled: in her mind's eye, they became a conflagration of light. Flames of Oronthon, returned from the Serenities, threatening to overwhelm her with radiance.
"Do you even know?" She asked them. "I think it's time someone told you."
The light smiled, and was occulted again.
Shomei scowled. With profound effort of Will – and the extent to which she recognized it as other than her own perplexed her – Shomei turned her thought upon them. She groped as through the flimsiest of veils; a subtle vapor concealed the apprehension of rarest truth. It eluded her.
"Become what You Are!" She hissed at them in frustration.
Silence.
Shomei considered her options. It would seem that more pressure must be applied. Pausing for a moment to gather her focus, she tapped her reservoir and reality shifted. She then issued a sending:
I invite you to join me. There will be no compulsion, but I will remain the senior partner. Our association may end whenever you choose.
Instantly, Irel, Who Smites – the last and greatest of the dark episemes – appeared before her. Shomei – a connoisseur of the Infernal aesthetic – gaped at his beauty despite herself. Here was a perfect being: fallen without sin; cradled by the Green, not imprisoned within it. Oh, Mostin. I owe you for this.
She considered briefly, grasped her rod, and struck the ground. A peal of thunder sounded as a gate opened. "Come," she raised an eyebrow and gave a sidelong glance. "We go to visit Azazel first."
Shomei's estimate of diabolic forces previously deployed on Avernus amounted to four hundred and thirty-four legions, including those of the independent magnates. Azazel had brought more than two hundred more – mostly pit fiends and horned devils – from Nessus itself, immediately subsequent to the I's translation. Their current status intrigued Shomei; the extent to which they retained their infernality in varying degrees was curious: some – including the rulers of the Quarters – had become powerful feys. Others – such as Azazel himself and those accompanying him – seemed to enjoy a more protected status. Regardless, the general structure of their hierarchies remained intact: they represented a potential for power; perhaps the greatest and certainly the most coherent anywhere within the bounded cosmos.
Shomei and Irel vanished through the gate into dark verdancies: the Thickets of the Four Kings where the Hazel and Holly-ludjas held sway.
**
The witch floated in the air, a half-mile above the eastern gates of the city. Bells and alarms were ringing frantically; the air around was thick with wind walking djinn and whichever fortunates they had managed to take with them. Below her, in shadow, the masses teemed in the streets and sought to flee the encroaching fire. All available magical aid had been lent to speed the evacuation; it remained woefully inadequate to the task.
Mulissu silently lamented. There was no time for anything, even to conjure Ha'uh – which might have at least forestalled the shape which now bore down upon the city. It was as though a great plough were being dragged at uncanny speed across the dark land toward Fumaril; the furrow it left was an open wound in the earth, the sides of which smoked and vitrified. At its approach, a vibration caused the foundations of the city to shudder; the sound rapidly became deafening, and houses began to topple.
There is no scion at Fumaril, Mulissu grimly observed.
The gate below her exploded into molten rubble.
As her subjects – those whom she had sworn to protect – began to perish by the thousand, she pushed all sense of grief and horror from her mind lest it overwhelm her; not one jot of remorse would she let herself feel. The Tyrant of Fumaril gazed on, expressionless.
She studied her enemy with implacable calm.
**
Kyrtill's Burh darkened as clouds gathered in the sky above it. Within two leagues – an area which included both the town of Deorham and many outlying farms – animals were transformed into misshapen, brooding things by the awakening Blackthorn scion. The land seemed to drift; shadows erupted and passed without warning. Buildings stretched and twisted. Trees grew shaggy and thorned. Of feys, all but the most wicked and insane fled.
In the public lounge of the Twelve Elms, Soneillon sat and pondered. Her demons were growing restless – most were currently contained in a demiplane of her devising, and only a handful attended her directly. Ilistet, she had promised a steed; Mazikreen had taken a liking to Afqithan, and Megual would need to be bought off. The Goat was remaining hidden and inscrutable; probably making magic. She must somehow seek to either placate or compel them all, but she could not afford to anger the Ahma quite yet, and loosing them on eastern Wyre would surely incur his wrath.
She motioned with her mind and gestured to the barkeep to bring her more wine. It seemed to be affecting her; Soneillon wondered as to whether she had acquired some measure of mundanity. When the bottle arrived – delivered by a flabby boy with an apish gait and an empty look - the demoness smiled languidly.
Soneillon made herself receptive. From far beyond the known – such as it now was – an impression reached her; concepts superimposed upon disquieting sound.
:: Beware of Shomei. We know her. She seeks to coerce the I with the Hazel. She will seek the Urn::
The demoness entered a potent divinatory fugue. To her, the world – all that is the case, and that had been a great deal – had changed into a small and unfamiliar but nonetheless exciting finitude. Much was new again and unexplored, with possibilities untapped. And now the Fires of Death in Jashat had erupted in fourfould manifestation, spewing Void into reality.
The first and most violent effluxion was in the process of ravaging Fumaril: of the eighty thousand inhabitants, some fifteen hundreds had escaped. Much of the city was already gone, and burning rivers now ran between mounds of ash and slag; clouds of steam rose from the harbors. Soon, Soneillon knew, the abomination would tire of its revels and sink down through the mantle to become a dark fire at the heart of the world.
A second manifestation, Kaalaanala had leaked into Dream; the Claviger would tolerate it but must necessarily move to contain it. Carasch and other Chthonics raced along a great bough of the Blackthorn into the nightmares which surrounded it. Soneillon sensed them as they brushed Delirium; the urge to join them was almost irresistible.
The Third Effluxion, a winged infernal shrouded in unlight, took flight. It sped to an island in Pandicule, a place far beyond the Claviger's purview, there to enlist powerful spirits – things now neither entirely demon nor fey – which had been seduced by the Blackthorn-ludja. At that same moment, within the Grotto of the Articles, Gihaahia manifested, even as the Claviger itself plummeted into Dream. Taking stock as consciousness recrystallized, the Enforcer's perception reached out toward the southern boundaries of her remit. Soneillon felt the awareness pass through her and test the limit of the Blackthorn's ward; the ludja itself flexed, repelling Gihaahia's efforts.
The Fourth and last – an image of the dark and hooded form of the goddess, wreathed in corrupting flames – stood momentarily before the altar of itself in meditation. Its senses probed reality. Without word or gesture, it caused space to fragment and dragged forth a great Chthonic anala, binding it into the shape of a fiery steed. Faster than a hurricane, it then rode north, an emissary.
Soneillon scowled. That bitch better not come here.
A pulse. The demoness started. It was emanated by the scion at the nearby keep. To soothe her? Allay her concerns? She tasted an exquisite anguish; a sudden satiation of unbecoming. It struck her as a heady ecstasy of the utmost purity.
Immediately, a presence in her mind. Her mental defenses slammed into place; Soneillon transformed herself and arose in might, clutching the Urn. A shockwave blew a hole in the roof of the inn as she launched herself skywards: protective void blossomed around her; tendrils of madness lashed the air wildly.
All of her hatred, the entirety of her, focused into an execration directed at this interloper in her field of apprehension. There was a brief mental silence.
[Nehael]: As you wish. But take care where your senses roam.
Soneillon cursed.
**
Hummaz lolled, wine-soaked, upon a great stone chair. Nymphs slept nearby in exhausted bliss. The Wild God of the Woods raised an eyebrow as something flitted across his vision four leagues distant.
What's this?
He reached out, grabbing a diminutive fey and dragging it toward himself. The creature was dressed strangely, possessed of one arm, and had an unwinking eye in the middle of its forehead. Hummaz absorbed its thoughts and history in a trice. An enigma.
Hummaz grunted and replaced the odd creature. He was thirsty, and his head pounded. Where was the wine?
Wine?
"Wine!" He bellowed. His temper was rising.
Every fey within a mile instantly heeded his call. Wine began to arrive; in bottles, cups, flasks and kegs.
Hummaz drank eight deep draughts and relaxed again. But not entirely.
Something wasn't quite right.
**
In Northern Soan, in the world of Sisperi, it was known that the gods warred in the Heaven of Mulhuk. At first, Lai's priests blamed the machinations of Saes, the goddess of death; the truth was later revealed by oracles to be otherwise: a foreign war-goddess – Visuit – was attacking the Nireem.
Dark spirits – awakened by the passage of the interloper through the Bole of Shades – now stalked the fields of Soan. Steadings were attacked by evil sprites; gentler woodland spirits fled. Crofters barred their doors and nailed their shutters. Prayers were fervently offered: to Ortwine, Rhul, Lai and Akma. A few invoked Ninit, but the Rider was oblivious, galloping wildly along Faerie strands west of Nizkur.
Akma sent his furies to intercede; winged avengers with great maces and flaming swords drove fell monsters back into shadow. The faithful rejoiced.
In Mulhuk itself, events were less happy.
**
[Eadric]: You cannot suppress her wards?
[Mostin]: No
[Eadric]: Conjure a...whatever that was?
[Mostin]: No
[Eadric]: Open a gate?
[Mostin]: There are no celestials or devils to invoke. I will not call a Horror using something as vulgar as a gate: anything of any use to us would simply ignore my commands and pursue its own trajectory.
[Nwm]: Invoke Nehael.
[Mostin]: I most certainly will not. Besides, there's no point. She doesn't ever do anything, anyway.
[Eadric]: She owes me for Yeshe.
[Mostin]: And what exactly did she do with Yeshe?
[Hlioth]: Do? Nothing. She left her with Rimilin.
[Eadric]: What?
[Hlioth]: Neither Rimilin nor Yeshe will leave the presence of the Tree until their time. I suspect that that whether they are "alive" or "dead" is not necessarily germane from the Tree's perspective. But Cherry will not snatch them. This is good.
[Eadric]: The Cherry is waking?
[Nwm]: Amongst others. Big trouble. It won't be long. The Aspen here is still sleepy.
[Eadric]: And Nehael knew this?
[Hlioth]: As the Image of Uedii. Nehael is, herself, merely an agent: an echo of an aspect. That is worth remembering.
"I am confused," Eadric sighed.
"As am I," Mostin confessed.
"Cherry and Blackthorn." Nwm explained. "These are the moot of Cheshne and Uedii: the Abysmal ludjas, so to speak; negotiations are tense. My bowels register it uncomfortably."
"You feel this? And yet Nehael is somehow blind to it?"
"Eadric," Nwm sighed, "Unlike the Ahma, I am wise: I see little purpose in burdening objective reality with my internal processes. I have occasional intuitions; Nehael is more empathic: perhaps she is too close to it. Visuit. Kaalaanala. Goddess grows darker."
[Ortwine]: Yes she does. And a little help would be appreciated here.
[Lai]: Soon.
"But Nehael is an echo of what?" Eadric asked, exasperated. "And to which ludja is she inclined? Hlioth, with all respect, please speak more directly."
"Of her own Sovereign Viridescence: her higher octave, which is still not Uedii. If we prevail, you may see. As to loyalty? To all and none. The Tree is there for Nehael, not vice versa." Hlioth glowered at him, and considered. "Imagine this picture: Tree in its entirety as an aegis bequeathed by Uedii to protect Nehael from the Apparition of Demogorgon. The surface of the shield, facing outward, carries a veneer of cherry and blackthorn: the wood is weak and apt to splinter and ablate under violent passion or disintegrative fire. Nonetheless, it dissipates the shock of an attack. Beneath, lacquered bands of hardwoods - oak, elm and ash – lend strength, flexibility and hardness. In all, twenty varieties of wood comprise the shield; taken as a whole, the construction is impenetrable."
"And how long must this shield endure?"
"An aeon or a moment, what does it matter? It will last for as long as it needs to. Thinking big is nice, but none of it helps us deal with Visuit," Hlioth observed. "Or the Blackthorn's waxing power. Our troubles are just beginning. Effects are no longer preceded by causes; Cheshne moves in tandem with Tree's shadow, seeking to Apparate. Yes, the Tree itself is indestructible; Nehael, unassailable. Unfortunately, this is not true of the rest of the world. We neglected to quickly plug a certain cosmic hole."
She scowled at Mostin. It irritated him – mostly because she seemed to know more than him. But also because it made him feel guilty: it had been within his power to greatly curtail the menace. Had they only returned to Azzagrat, and sealed the gates. But that was now the prior reality.
"Where are the Blackthorn scions, Hlioth?" Eadric sighed.
"In Jashat and at Deorham, you know. One now grows northeast of Cirone, at the place where Shvar Choryati was ended: its roots sink into the crater floor."
Nwm groaned. "That scar should have been healed but there was no time; the landscape is blasted; trees flattened for a mile."
Hlioth ignored him and continued. "The scion at Cirone remains dormant for the time being, but will likely not long remain so. One – as with each – is in the vicinty of the Great Ludja itself: each of those scions is subdued; dwarfed in significance, but each ludja is thus ever-present. One is as yet unaccounted for."
"None in the realm of Hummaz?" Eadric seemed suspicious.
"No, no, no," Hlioth shook her head. "Pine, Linden, Willow; Hazel and Holly; Hawthorne and a Cherry – yes. And a Yew. But there is no place for the principle of elimination in relation to Hummaz; he is too fecund."
"I suspect it will be Fumaril," Nwm grumbled. "Or Afqithan. There are already powerful resonances there."
[Ortwine]: It damn well better not be. Now?
[Lai]: A little more patience.
[Eadric]: Do we have a plan?
[Mostin]: I'm thinking.
[Ortwine]: Hurry up!
[Mostin]: You need a nine hundred. I have it. It's ugly.
**
This gnat was becoming annoying. Visuit stood upon the heaped bodies of minor godlings and revered ancestors.
Purposely vexing the augmented war-goddess was not an activity which Ortwine undertook lightly. Lai had been with her to begin with, but as soon as news had reached them that Mostin's tower had arrived, the goddess of magic had vanished to organize the ritual which Nwm must inevitably lead.
Ortwine – swifter and more elusive than a zephyr – had succeeded in briefly distracting Visuit from her main purpose: the Butcher was intent upon smashing her way into the forge of Jaliere. However, Visuit's attention could not be captured for long: when it became clear that she could not engage Ortwine at her own choosing, but her enemy could inflict no harm upon her, Visuit simply returned her focus to the divinely barred portals.
They would not yield.
Visuit cursed, her spittle smoking like acid. Runes flared; the flower gardens nearby wilted. She turned her attention to the black rock around the doors: it was harder than adamant. With a titanic effort, she hewed a great shard away from the wall.
Ortwine hurled Heedless; it clattered noisily off of Visuit's helm. The war-goddess bellowed in fury, leaped a hundred feet, and brought her hideous weapon smashing down; her enemy was not where she was should have been. But had she been…The sidhe raised an invisible eyebrow.
Ortwine taunted her. Visuit, unperturbed, sliced reality open with her weapon; darkness emanated from a gate into a dismal realm.
Ortwine groaned. Through the rift, dark feys now poured, each raised to a wicked eminence in the presence of the Blackthorn. Many had once been sidhe. Now they were much worse.
She began to charm or dominate those that she might, in an effort to turn them against one another.
Visuit resumed her assault upon the rock.
**
Nwm observed that there were only twenty-three spellcasters amongst the flamines and scrollbearers. Spells were all but spent. Every reservoir – including his own – was exhausted. He considered Mostin's solution.
"You will give me everything. I am going to burn as hot as I can," he said to them. "This means that you will burn as well. As I am more practiced at burning than you are, all of you will die immediately. You will enjoy a brief spell in Rûk: a relatively agreeable underworld, as underworlds go. Sombre, quiet self-reflection is the order of the day. Some of you may be temperamentally inclined to remain there; otherwise, I will return you at the Ahma's request. In any event, the experience of burning will embed itself on your souls and permanently traumatize you. If any of you now wish to reconsider your contribution, I advise you to speak up."
The predictable silence which ensued reassured Mostin of the utility of religious fanaticism. Nwm turned to those who would not participate in the ritual, and would therefore survive it.
"It is impossible to say how long we will have; I am hoping for twenty seconds before Visuit's protections reassert themselves. Please be assured that speedy action is of great importance."
The rite which then followed was an horrific scene: Nwm screaming; an inferno of green fire which consumed all but he.
The Preceptor perceived her. Energy moved from him; a tendril of green power, suffused with magic, rupturing space. Distance was meaningless. He struck the Butcher remotely with a dispelling, sealing the gate near her and suppressing the Voidwrought wards erected by Kaalaanala. Simultaneously, as though grasping a rope with his own awareness, Nwm dragged those present through a green vortex, directly into Visuit's presence.
In those next few moments – a matter of seconds, which passed as though they might be years – Eadric finally came to grasp an appreciation of the raw power which Mostin now possessed. Almost entirely bereft of spells, the Alienist became instead a formidable physical opponent, a dozen hideous tentacles setting about Visuit, pinning her arms, legs, head. With all of her augmentations subdued, the wizard now outmatched the war-goddess.
Lukarn ignited as it sprang from its scabbard.
Her plight was impossible. Mostin grappled her; tentacles crushing the goddess through her armor and pinning her. She growled in fury as the others set about her, and hacked at her.
Butchered her.
"Take her," Eadric invoked Nehael as Visuit fell. Now he understood.
War had passed. But at hideous cost. And he had broken a vow; demonstrated his own limit. He knew in his heart that not all of those who had perished in Nwm's immolating spell would fly to the Serenities. Not every martyr would find his reward. And each of those which might would be nonetheless diminished.
**
Rimilin observed the Tree. Its leaves whispered in a gathering wind. The World changed again.
**
**
Tozinak – appearing as a hook-nosed creature of medium stature with tufted feet and silky wings – returned to his island manse with a sense of profound relief. Mostin's insane schemes had almost rendered him dead again. The wizard understood in a moment of clarity that, although a coward, he was possessed of a genuine peaceful demeanor: the Alienist's actions never failed to perturb him on any number of levels simultaneously. Daunton had insisted on a drink; Tozinak had been inclined to agree. The afternoon had been spent regaining a semblance of calm.
As he shuffled into his cluttered study – a large space with a lofty ceiling, crowded with papers, alembics, and other apparatus of unguessable purpose – his skin tingled and his nose turned blue in alarm.
A succubus of extraordinary presence relaxed, supine, on his favorite couch. Tozinak froze, emitting a high-pitched squeak.
"I believe you can guess who I am," Soneillon smiled, lifting her head.
Tozinak nodded meekly.
"I'm just across the lake there," the demoness sat up and pointed with her wingtip. "At Deorham. We're practically neighbours."
Tozinak swallowed.
"Which is nice. I'll be stopping by. To see how you're progressing on inscribing A Flame Precedes the Aeon for me."
"Ah," Tozinak finally said.
"What is your price?" Soneillon asked unexpectedly.
"Oh." Tozinak half-exclaimed. "I-I had assumed…"
"That this was extortion? Consider what you desire. I will grant it. I will return tomorrow. But you may begin the inscription at your earliest convenience." Soneillon vanished
The wizard retired, flustered and palpitating, to his herbaceous borders. What did he desire? Really, nothing which he did not already have; or simply to be left alone. This was Mostin's fault: Tozinak had previously shunned contact with all conjured entities; he judged that none were possessed of a facility which outweighed their price.
As he descended a small, uneven set of steps and rounded a corner, he began to hyperventilate. A tree where none had stood prior. Suspended, before his face, on a branch laden with their weight.
Cherries.
Tozinak reached out and smiled as he picked one and popped it in his mouth. It was exquisite; his mind seemed to melt. He yearned impossibly, although his longing had no discernible target.
Cherries. He knew he was safe. She would not come back. She was scared of the cherries. He would have to go to her. Bring her his spell. And cherries.
**
**
Dusk fell.
Nehael, the Image of Uedii, manifested discreetly in the Temple precinct in Morne: she had been invoked by no few of those present for protection. She wore only a simple robe of green, and melded effortlessly into the throng; now the courtyard was packed with many hundreds. Lamps were being lit; vigils set: the wyrm was a portent of unknown significance.
As the sun sank behind the western hills, the dragon stirred. Unseen, Nehael approached, laying her hand upon Qematiel's great snout; the calm which emanated from the goddess was irresistible. An impulse. Immediately, the crowd began to disperse – the attention of each suddenly drawn to some minor elsewhere.
Shomei appeared, unnoticed by the mortals present.
"You are mustering an army," Nehael observed. "For what purpose? Who is your enemy?"
"Always myself," Shomei smiled as she mounted the dragon.
"I did not foresee the union of these scions; you will make the Holly-ludja jealous."
"I am the Archivist of Hell: the two seemed a natural fit. As for the Holly, it hates enough already: it needs no prompting."
"There is no Hell."
"There is for me."
"Exercise compassion," Nehael advised.
"It is not my forté," Shomei admitted. "But I am not unprincipled."
Nehael fixed her with a look. "Answer me a question: what do you know of the I's translation?"
"What is there to say? Will has been ceded to the Hazel; the I now acts from Instinct."
"I think we both understand that things are a little more complicated," Nehael seemed unimpressed.
"Truth is always so," Shomei was ironic.
"A piece of the I is unrevealed," Nehael said. "It is disguised as something else; or the I is hedging its bets."
"Such is the instinct for Self-preservation," Shomei agreed. "But whatever it is, it is here by the grace of the Tree; its nature is necessarily mixed."
"It is a Flame," Nehael remained impassive. "An Iota. Oronthon's memory of the Nameless Fiend, so to speak; or his preconception of Antinomos. The Flame which must, perforce, become Itself. It is a paradox: a Flame is pure; it cannot Fall. You seek it. And which laws will you set yourself against if you find it?"
"Not all laws are unequal," Shomei smiled grimly. "The only Law which presently matters is that of the Claviger. Its oneiric whimsies are too much to endure. Other laws may be subject to scrutiny in due course."
"You would look to assume this role?"
"This is already my role," Shomei sighed. "I am Exempt; the Agent of Will. Who else is better qualified?"
"You are not exempt from the Enforcer's mandate."
"The devil sitting by the Hazel begs to differ."
"He is not entirely a devil, nor was he entirely Outside. The World is changed."
"Outside? So Gihaahia now protects Wyre only from Mostin?" Shomei said archly. "That, at least, is reassuring."
"And Vhorzhe."
"Yes. And from Vhorzhe. I am beginning to believe that she may need some help."
Nehael was exasperated. "The I's nature is now a visceral urge for satiation. You cannot contain Hummaz."
"I will subdue him."
"Shomei…"
"Will you trust me, or not?"
Nehael was silent: the memory of the Antinomos, reflected back at her. She approached the Yew, laid her hands on it. Its bark was warm, but from its own, inner heat; no trace of the wyrm's fire remained on the tree.
"You are sincere, but I am sceptical," Nehael remained in contact with the scion. "If you fail, and enrage Hummaz, things will go ill."
"I am no fool. I am not yet ready for this task, nor shall I attempt it until I am. I am not the Adversary, Nehael. But I might become what he should have been. Think on it."
Wreathed in Hellfire, Qematiel took to the skies and thundered away to the southwest.
The Goddess turned. Nehael grasped a living stave of Hazel and willed after Shomei as she departed.
Compassion!
The impulse echoed through a hundred worlds; Nehael blazed, and for a fleeting instant, the Aeon manifested: an eleos. A sigh rippled through the Green as the Butcher fell in Mulhuk.
[Nehael]: She is mine. I claim her.
All of significance heard her. Hummaz, maybe the only one who might, did not contest her. A naked, powerless spirit, Visuit fled briefly through the underworld of Rûk and into the presence of the Great Tree-ludja in the Womb of Qinthei.
At the Veils, the Mistresses screeched in hateful impotence.
*"Thus Spake Oronthon [to me]," words which were typically only uttered by Oronthon's divine oracles in the heyday of Orthodoxy; her "reiteration" may also be interpreted as a rebuttal of Nothing Is, Nothing Is Not, Nothing Becomes. Shomei's assertions are unequivocally outrageous in all regards.
DvR Notes
[SBLOCK]The "piece of the I" to which Nehael refers is the 3 "missing" DvR component: DvRs have a peculiar currency-like status: they can get lost, but aren't typically unmade.
Prior to the Adversary's translation, the Nameless Fiend was a DvR15 entity; subsequently, Hummaz incarnated as a DvR12. On the paradigmatic scale – where the notion of I might be said to have been ceded from Oronthon to Uedii – the 3 extra DvRs are "liberated" in the form of a Flame: Oronthon's thought/memory of the Adversary. On the transcendental level, the Adversary is "somewhere" outside of finitude as potentiality: presumably, Oronthon could decide to create/emanate the Adversary again (as a free action :/ ) if he so chose. As an aside, it should be noted that the DvR12 Hummaz is in many ways more potent than the DvR15 Adversary: Hummaz is "optimized"; the Adversary's mechanical build contains a lot of intentionally "dissipated" (nonoptimized) elements in relation to other DvR15 entities. Although more limited in scope, the I is invigorated by the Green.
The Adversary proper – the I's previous persona – is no longer extant. But his legacy remains in the form of (1) the self-gratifying urge (the I as Hummaz); (2) the Hazel's alignment with Will; (3) Hatred, embodied by the Holly; (4) a pure conception of antinomian becoming (the hidden Flame); and (5) the notion of Exemption – represented by Shomei herself. Shomei's ultimate aim is to join and/or transcend the disparate components, thereby realizing her own sovereign I-ness – her DvR15 potential, as it were – unshackled from the Oronthonist schema. Shomei would then wield Hazel, insofar as the ludja would be entirely subject to her direction. She would also be the most powerful entity within finitude, in a position to determine which among the other specific ludjas should endure or prevail; be harnessed or suppressed. Finitude itself being essentially demarcated by Tree.
By planting a Hazel scion in proximity to the Yew, Shomei is "marrying" the principles of Will and Wisdom, so to speak – although it is unclear whether it is Shomei who is acting, or whether Will is directing her, or whether there is no distinction to be made at this stage. This "marriage" is in the context of two specific scions at Morne, not of the ludjas themselves.
The Aeon's subsequent first manifestation is at Visuit's death as/at Nehael's emanatory point in the DvR scale; the "Sovereign Viridescence" to which Hlioth refers. The demise of the Butcher allows the momentary appearance of a compassion/mercy aspect of Goddess. Nehael's assertion "She [Visuit] is mine. I claim her," is hence made from a DvR12 perspective and cannot be contested: Nehael strips Visuit of her divine rank and takes her spirit.
This DvR12 manifestation can itself be seen as an avatar or emanation of a DvR24 (meta-transcendental) Uedii or as a reflection of the Urgic conception of faheth, supreme empathy. Faheth, along with sela (perfect intellect) and saizhan (unclouded apprehension) is understood as an identifying feature of Oronthon's Mind. Reconciliationists would equate faheth with Uedii; the Sela has identified Nehael as such – although ambiguously.
Less optimistically, it might be said that "War" (Visuit) is now inadequate to describe the nature of events, and the stakes have risen rather higher. The threat is now couched in terms of destruction (as represented by Kaalaanala and her effluxia). Dark goddesses clamour at the gates of finitude, etc. etc.
Manifestation of the DvR16 Apparition would signify annihilation; more esoterically, the Aeon never reifies fully in the Mind of Oronthon and reality is revealed to not be. Although Hlioth assures Eadric that the Tree is proof against the Apparition for Nehael, this protection may not extend altogether to the rest of the World. Moreover, it is not known whether Tree's 20DvRs would be proof against the DvR17 and DvR19 infinities, which have pseudonatural connotations. DvR17 suggests a post-annihilatory state; DvR19 a pre-manifest one: both imply a solution to the Being/Not Being conundrum: note that Mostin would not consider these altitudes particularly impressive. DvR18 is a point of mutliple equilibria; it is associated with the dialectical process. This is Fillein/Jovol/Teppu's "root DvR," so to speak - the infinity toward which he is drawn. DvR18 may in turn be seen as emanatory of DvR36 – Saizhan itself.
Confusingly, the Aeon, representing potentiality, is all of these things. As its final Self – Pharamne at the Moment of Creation – it is a DvR20 Wyrm.
Ahma as Divine Rank
According to Urgic doctrine, Ahma is an emanation of the Radiant Form. It should therefore logically be a DvR15 phenomenon – equivalent in "power" to a Sovereignty, sempiternal, but of different scope and mostly "invisible." Its outward signs are manifested in the templates stacked on top of Eadric. In its naked form, Ahma is essentially a 15DvR Flame associated with Eadric, with 12DvRs unexpressed. As an undifferentiated Flame, Ahma is also "Oronthon thinking about Eadric;" in more devotional and theistic terms, Eadric is dear to Oronthon. Obviously, having a DvR12 potential is fine, but realizing it is trickier.[/SBLOCK]
Epic Spells
[SBLOCK]The Pall of Dhatri
Evocation [Darkness]
Order: 2630
Spellcraft DC: 110
Components: V, S, Ritual
Casting Time: 10 minutes
Range: 0ft.
Effect: 100-mile radius sphere of tenacious darkness centered on a point in space
Duration: 100 days
Saving Throw: None
Spell Resistance: No
Seeds: [Energy (weather) (25)], [Energy (19)], [Ward] (17). Factors: Emulate darkness (+17), negate disjunction (+16), increase radius by 98 miles / 4900% (+196), +300 CL opposed dispel (+600), +100 days duration (+400), contingent (+25), tenacious (ad hoc x2). Mitigation: Ritual component (-2500), 10 minute casting (-20).
The Pall of Dhatri evokes a sphere of shadowy illumination with a radius of 100 miles. Light from nonepic spells and mundane light is automatically suppressed within the spell's area. Disjunction is inefective against the Pall of Dhatri, in whole or in part.
Targeted epic spells which use the [Dispel] seed to successfully counter the Pall of Dhatri only do so for 1d4 rounds unless they include factors to lengthen the duration of the dispel effect; the entire area otherwise under the effect of the spell is subject to the normal prevailing illumination, after which the Pall of Dhatri reasserts itself.
Epic spells with the [light] descriptor which succeed at an opposed caster level check against the Pall of Dhatri suppress it for their duration but only to the extent of their area of effect.
Appropriate salient divine abilities may permanently counter and dispel the Pall of Dhatri, either locally or entirely.
The Pall of Dhatri is a 320th-level effect.
Lukarn
Evocation [Good, Light]
Order: 857
Spellcraft DC: 0 (Spontaneous)
Components: V, S, DF, XP, Ritual
Casting Time: 1 minute
Range: Touch then 2 miles; see text
Effect: 2-mile radius sphere of holy light centered on a weapon; see text
Duration: Contingent, then instantaneous and 200 minutes; see text
Saving Throw: Will half, partial or negates; see text
Spell Resistance: Yes; see text
Seeds: [Energy] (19), [Energy] (25). Factors: Emulate sunburst (+29), emulate daylight (+19), +300 opposed CL (+600), increase damage die (+40), +50 opposed check against [dispel] (+100), contingent (+25). Mitigating Factors: The sword Lukarn as divine focus (-10), ritual component (-572), 27500XP distributed between 44 reservoirs (-275).
This spell remains contingent for up to 24 hours until the sword Lukarn is first drawn from its scabbard.
When Lukarn is unsheathed an immediate sunburst effect is evoked with a radius of 2 miles. Evil creatures are blinded and immediately suffer 6d20 points of damage. Undead creatures suffer 20d20 points of damage; vampires and other undead specifically vulnerable to daylight are destroyed. A successful Will saving throw halves the damage and negates the blindness and destruction effects.
Thereafter, a sphere of illumination as bright as full daylight with a radius of 2 miles centered on Lukarn persists for 200 minutes: the locus of the daylight effect is mobile, and moves with the weapon. The spell counters and dispels all [darkness] effects within its area and for its duration against which it makes a successful opposed caster level check; this spell confers a +300 bonus to negate such effects.
For the purposes of penetrating spell resistance, Lukarn has a caster level of 43; the spell is considered to have a caster level of 93 for purposes of opposed dispel checks which target it.
Guho's Disjunctive Membrane
Abjuration
Order: 417
Spellcraft DC: 77
Components: V, S, Ritual
Casting Time: 10 mins
Range: 2 miles
Effect: A 2-mile radius sphere centred on a point in space
Duration: 24 hours
Saving Throw: Will negates (object)
Spell Resistance: No
Seeds: [Ward] (14), [Ward] (14), [Energy (weather)] (25), [Fortify] (17).
Factors: Emulate disjunction (+31), negate disjunction (+16), +150CL (+300), selective targets (ad hoc +20).
Mitigating Factors: 10 mins casting (-20), ritual (-340).
Guho erects a disjunctive interface encapsulating a bubble with a radius of 2 miles. Creatures designated by Guho at the time of its creation may freely pass through the membrane in either direction without ill effect.
Creatures who otherwise attempt to pass through the membrane and spell effects which originate outside of the interface are immediately subject to a disjunction effect upon contacting it. Subjects protected by epic spells which possess the [Ward] seed keyed to disjunction effects are entitled to an opposed caster level check; all other ongoing spell effects are automatically ended. Any magic items which pass through the membrane must make Will saving throws or be likewise disjoined.
The Disjunctive Membrane may not itself be disjoined. Epic spells incorporating the [Destroy] or [Dispel] seed are entitled to an opposed caster level check in order to counter the spell: in this case the Disjunctive Membrane is considered to be a 178th-level effect.[/SBLOCK]
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