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<blockquote data-quote="Cheiromancer" data-source="post: 1029537" data-attributes="member: 141"><p><strong>The Spoils of War, and Nwm's Big Idea</strong></p><p></p><p><em>Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 06-13-2002</em></p><p></p><p>In which Nwm's player, Dave, again demonstrates his ability to create new story arcs out of thin air. Thanks Dave.</p><p></p><p></p><p>**</p><p></p><p>Ortwin scratched his head. "So, this time, she really is dead, then. Right? I mean, Nehael and Ed saw the body. There is no risk of her coming back?"</p><p></p><p>Mostin smiled. "She said ‘Cloned’ to me. By this, I assumed she meant that she had a simulacrum prepared for her spirit to inhabit. ‘Discern Location’ revealed this to be the truth."</p><p></p><p>Ortwin banged his head. Necromancers seemed difficult to kill.</p><p></p><p>"The question most pertinent to us," Mostin continued "is ‘when was the simulacrum prepared?’ If it was made before we launched our first assault upon her, it will retain no memory of our attack: she has, effectively, never met us. It may also retain no memory of the murder of Cynric – effectively meaning that the Feezuu who now exists is not guilty of it."</p><p></p><p>Eadric sighed. "Is this likely?" he asked.</p><p></p><p>Mostin shrugged. "It is possible that the clone was grown during the intervening months, but I feel it is unlikely."</p><p></p><p>"How do we know," Ortwin asked "that we didn't, in fact, kill Feezuu the first time we met her, and that you just killed another clone."</p><p></p><p>Mostin shook his head. "That is impossible. If the Feezuu which I just killed was a clone, it would have retained no memory of our original attack. Thus, it would have never met us. Thus, it would not have recognized my Sonics and the devils which I summoned. Nor would acquiring the ‘Discern Location’ dweomer have benefited it, as it can only be used with regard to things which the caster has encountered. We may therefore concur that we simply failed to kill her during our initial encounter."</p><p></p><p>The Alienist smiled at his own tortuous logic.</p><p></p><p>"In any case," Mostin continued, "it is likely that ‘Feezuu II,’ if we can call her that, has a duplicate set of spellbooks stashed away somewhere in her hideaway in Limbo. It is also likely that her most potent dweomers are no longer available to her. Unfortunately, the location of the spellbooks she stole from Qiseze and Kothchori may never be revealed – she did not have them on her person, and ‘Feezuu II’ will have no recollection of where the original Feezuu secreted them."</p><p></p><p>"Unless she hid them on Limbo," Ortwin remarked, "in which case the clone has awakened happily to a cache of spells that it could not previously cast, and wonder where they came from."</p><p></p><p>The Alienist nodded. He hadn’t considered that possibility.</p><p></p><p>Mostin drew the attention of the others to the items which he had pilfered from Feezuu’s body. </p><p></p><p>"This," he gloated, "is a ‘Robe of Eyes.’"</p><p></p><p>"Really?" Nwm remarked sarcastically. "I’d never have guessed."</p><p></p><p>Mostin sniffed. "I’m keeping it," he said. "It’s mine now. These other items are also interesting, and I will discern their full abilities in due course. The sword is called ‘Melancholy.’ It is an Anarchic weapon of great potency."</p><p></p><p>"It is a Slaadi blade," Ortwin said, unexpectedly. "May I?"</p><p></p><p>The Bard picked up the scabbard, and closed his hand around the slender hilt of the sword.</p><p></p><p>Insane visions and scenes of entropy filled his mind.</p><p></p><p>"Ngraahhh!" Ortwin forced his hand to uncurl from around the quillons. "It is sapient. It wants to kill you, Eadric. It quite likes me, though."</p><p></p><p>"Oh, joy," said the Paladin, "that’s all we need. What do you plan to do with it, Mostin?"</p><p></p><p>The Alienist lifted his hands in an expression of confusion. "I honestly don’t know. No wizard will want it – most can barely wave a stick in self-defense, much less a longsword. If I trade it, I won’t get anything like its full value. I assume you don’t want it, Ortwin, even at a bargain price?"</p><p></p><p>The Bard shook his head. "Githla is my blade."</p><p></p><p>"In which case, I suppose I will just hang onto it until an idea springs to mind. It’s a shame it’s not a rapier, else I could use it myself."</p><p></p><p>Eadric thanked Oronthon that it wasn’t a rapier.</p><p></p><p>"The bow is likewise a conundrum," Mostin said. "It possesses a Necromantic aura, although it is not evil."</p><p></p><p>"I can shoot a bow passably well," Ortwin said. "Furthermore, I won’t give you anything for it – consider it ample payment for putting my neck on the line during that abortive Limbo fiasco. Feezuu was our target, after all. Not to mention all of the other trouble that you’ve gotten us all into." He smiled charmingly.</p><p></p><p>Mostin started to bluster, but thought better of it.</p><p></p><p>"Speaking of which," Ortwin continued, "I seem to remember Nwm casting a dozen wards or so on us before we translated to Limbo. Don’t you think you owe him something as well?"</p><p></p><p>"Don’t push it," said Mostin.</p><p></p><p>"Don’t worry about it," said Nwm.</p><p></p><p>"Don’t be so damn selfless, Nwm," said Ortwin. "Come on, Mostin. What’s fair is fair. What will you have, Nwm, of all the things here?"</p><p></p><p>Mostin looked aghast.</p><p></p><p>Nwm considered for a while. "The Sword," he said, finally.</p><p></p><p>Everyone looked at him as though he were mad.</p><p></p><p>"Not for me," the Druid explained. "But for someone who has the conviction and the strength of will to wield it. A Champion. A Uediian. I would use it against the Temple."</p><p></p><p>Mostin nodded. "Then let it be noted that all accounts are hereby settled." He handed the weapon to Nwm, and breathed a sigh of relief.</p><p></p><p>But Eadric swallowed. Hard.</p><p></p><p></p><p>**</p><p></p><p>Over the next two weeks, Nwm travelled the length and breadth of Wyre, disguised as a crone, or a boy, or a young man, making inquiries without attracting suspicion to himself. He ‘Wind Walked’ over three thousand miles, and ‘Tree Strode’ a hundred more. </p><p></p><p>The Druid spoke to farmers and cotters in rural Trempa, Tomur, Hethio and Iald. He talked to woodsmen deep within the forest of Nizkur and to mountain-men in the uplands and foothills of the Thrumohars, the nigh-impenetrable range which marched on Northern Wyre. He spoke to trees, and to rocks, and to animals. In the process, he gathered a huge amount of information about the widespread and diverse pagan community. Goddess worshippers, but also those who revered local gods and deities. Animists, pantheists and heathens of every shade. He discovered their needs, their concerns, their fears and their expectations.</p><p></p><p>His inquiries were subtle. As a crone, he would say:</p><p></p><p>"Would that we had heroes again, like in the days before the rise of the Temple. My grandmother’s grandmother remembered the time before the taxes. When your beliefs were not threatened."</p><p></p><p>Or as a boy, appearing wide-eyed and naïve, he would ask:</p><p></p><p>"Are you a great warrior? Is there a great warrior in this village?"</p><p></p><p>And whilst his questions were usually met with mirth, occasionally he would be pointed in the direction of one who could wield a sword but, finding them, discovered that they were old, or drunk, or that their reputation was based on hearsay rather than fact.</p><p>Until, in the foothills of the mountains, he met a shamaness. She joined him as he was ‘Wind-Walking.’</p><p></p><p>"I am Mesikämmi, the Honey-Eater," she said in broken common.</p><p></p><p>"I am called Nwm the Preceptor," he replied. "I am looking for a hero."</p><p></p><p>"Good luck!" She said, and flew away.</p><p></p><p>Nwm chased after her. "Wait," he shouted, "you must know of someone, or at least of someone who might know someone."</p><p></p><p>She laughed. "Over the mountains, onto the plateau," she shouted. "Speak to the Tunthi.*"</p><p></p><p>So Nwm flew over the Thrumohars, past their vast, ice-covered crags, and passed onto the plain of Tun Hartha.</p><p></p><p></p><p>**</p><p></p><p>Iua, Mostin and Ortwin sat closeted within the Alienist’s drawing room.</p><p></p><p>Iua had a large schematic with intricate diagrams, runes and designs written upon it. Her own scrawled notes covered the remaining blank spaces, and sometimes overlapped with the more meticulous writing beneath.</p><p></p><p>"The Temple vault was designed by the mage Tersimion…" she began.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>*Nomadic hunter-gatherers who dwell at an altitude of over 8000 feet, the Tunthi are widely regarded as being crazy.</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Cheiromancer, post: 1029537, member: 141"] [b]The Spoils of War, and Nwm's Big Idea[/b] [i]Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 06-13-2002[/i] In which Nwm's player, Dave, again demonstrates his ability to create new story arcs out of thin air. Thanks Dave. ** Ortwin scratched his head. "So, this time, she really is dead, then. Right? I mean, Nehael and Ed saw the body. There is no risk of her coming back?" Mostin smiled. "She said ‘Cloned’ to me. By this, I assumed she meant that she had a simulacrum prepared for her spirit to inhabit. ‘Discern Location’ revealed this to be the truth." Ortwin banged his head. Necromancers seemed difficult to kill. "The question most pertinent to us," Mostin continued "is ‘when was the simulacrum prepared?’ If it was made before we launched our first assault upon her, it will retain no memory of our attack: she has, effectively, never met us. It may also retain no memory of the murder of Cynric – effectively meaning that the Feezuu who now exists is not guilty of it." Eadric sighed. "Is this likely?" he asked. Mostin shrugged. "It is possible that the clone was grown during the intervening months, but I feel it is unlikely." "How do we know," Ortwin asked "that we didn't, in fact, kill Feezuu the first time we met her, and that you just killed another clone." Mostin shook his head. "That is impossible. If the Feezuu which I just killed was a clone, it would have retained no memory of our original attack. Thus, it would have never met us. Thus, it would not have recognized my Sonics and the devils which I summoned. Nor would acquiring the ‘Discern Location’ dweomer have benefited it, as it can only be used with regard to things which the caster has encountered. We may therefore concur that we simply failed to kill her during our initial encounter." The Alienist smiled at his own tortuous logic. "In any case," Mostin continued, "it is likely that ‘Feezuu II,’ if we can call her that, has a duplicate set of spellbooks stashed away somewhere in her hideaway in Limbo. It is also likely that her most potent dweomers are no longer available to her. Unfortunately, the location of the spellbooks she stole from Qiseze and Kothchori may never be revealed – she did not have them on her person, and ‘Feezuu II’ will have no recollection of where the original Feezuu secreted them." "Unless she hid them on Limbo," Ortwin remarked, "in which case the clone has awakened happily to a cache of spells that it could not previously cast, and wonder where they came from." The Alienist nodded. He hadn’t considered that possibility. Mostin drew the attention of the others to the items which he had pilfered from Feezuu’s body. "This," he gloated, "is a ‘Robe of Eyes.’" "Really?" Nwm remarked sarcastically. "I’d never have guessed." Mostin sniffed. "I’m keeping it," he said. "It’s mine now. These other items are also interesting, and I will discern their full abilities in due course. The sword is called ‘Melancholy.’ It is an Anarchic weapon of great potency." "It is a Slaadi blade," Ortwin said, unexpectedly. "May I?" The Bard picked up the scabbard, and closed his hand around the slender hilt of the sword. Insane visions and scenes of entropy filled his mind. "Ngraahhh!" Ortwin forced his hand to uncurl from around the quillons. "It is sapient. It wants to kill you, Eadric. It quite likes me, though." "Oh, joy," said the Paladin, "that’s all we need. What do you plan to do with it, Mostin?" The Alienist lifted his hands in an expression of confusion. "I honestly don’t know. No wizard will want it – most can barely wave a stick in self-defense, much less a longsword. If I trade it, I won’t get anything like its full value. I assume you don’t want it, Ortwin, even at a bargain price?" The Bard shook his head. "Githla is my blade." "In which case, I suppose I will just hang onto it until an idea springs to mind. It’s a shame it’s not a rapier, else I could use it myself." Eadric thanked Oronthon that it wasn’t a rapier. "The bow is likewise a conundrum," Mostin said. "It possesses a Necromantic aura, although it is not evil." "I can shoot a bow passably well," Ortwin said. "Furthermore, I won’t give you anything for it – consider it ample payment for putting my neck on the line during that abortive Limbo fiasco. Feezuu was our target, after all. Not to mention all of the other trouble that you’ve gotten us all into." He smiled charmingly. Mostin started to bluster, but thought better of it. "Speaking of which," Ortwin continued, "I seem to remember Nwm casting a dozen wards or so on us before we translated to Limbo. Don’t you think you owe him something as well?" "Don’t push it," said Mostin. "Don’t worry about it," said Nwm. "Don’t be so damn selfless, Nwm," said Ortwin. "Come on, Mostin. What’s fair is fair. What will you have, Nwm, of all the things here?" Mostin looked aghast. Nwm considered for a while. "The Sword," he said, finally. Everyone looked at him as though he were mad. "Not for me," the Druid explained. "But for someone who has the conviction and the strength of will to wield it. A Champion. A Uediian. I would use it against the Temple." Mostin nodded. "Then let it be noted that all accounts are hereby settled." He handed the weapon to Nwm, and breathed a sigh of relief. But Eadric swallowed. Hard. ** Over the next two weeks, Nwm travelled the length and breadth of Wyre, disguised as a crone, or a boy, or a young man, making inquiries without attracting suspicion to himself. He ‘Wind Walked’ over three thousand miles, and ‘Tree Strode’ a hundred more. The Druid spoke to farmers and cotters in rural Trempa, Tomur, Hethio and Iald. He talked to woodsmen deep within the forest of Nizkur and to mountain-men in the uplands and foothills of the Thrumohars, the nigh-impenetrable range which marched on Northern Wyre. He spoke to trees, and to rocks, and to animals. In the process, he gathered a huge amount of information about the widespread and diverse pagan community. Goddess worshippers, but also those who revered local gods and deities. Animists, pantheists and heathens of every shade. He discovered their needs, their concerns, their fears and their expectations. His inquiries were subtle. As a crone, he would say: "Would that we had heroes again, like in the days before the rise of the Temple. My grandmother’s grandmother remembered the time before the taxes. When your beliefs were not threatened." Or as a boy, appearing wide-eyed and naïve, he would ask: "Are you a great warrior? Is there a great warrior in this village?" And whilst his questions were usually met with mirth, occasionally he would be pointed in the direction of one who could wield a sword but, finding them, discovered that they were old, or drunk, or that their reputation was based on hearsay rather than fact. Until, in the foothills of the mountains, he met a shamaness. She joined him as he was ‘Wind-Walking.’ "I am Mesikämmi, the Honey-Eater," she said in broken common. "I am called Nwm the Preceptor," he replied. "I am looking for a hero." "Good luck!" She said, and flew away. Nwm chased after her. "Wait," he shouted, "you must know of someone, or at least of someone who might know someone." She laughed. "Over the mountains, onto the plateau," she shouted. "Speak to the Tunthi.*" So Nwm flew over the Thrumohars, past their vast, ice-covered crags, and passed onto the plain of Tun Hartha. ** Iua, Mostin and Ortwin sat closeted within the Alienist’s drawing room. Iua had a large schematic with intricate diagrams, runes and designs written upon it. Her own scrawled notes covered the remaining blank spaces, and sometimes overlapped with the more meticulous writing beneath. "The Temple vault was designed by the mage Tersimion…" she began. *Nomadic hunter-gatherers who dwell at an altitude of over 8000 feet, the Tunthi are widely regarded as being crazy. [/QUOTE]
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