The Prophecy of the Worms
The worms will eat at the fabric of orders and old ones shall be overthrown while the changes roil the seas and lands.
Lo, even the greatest ironies will occur, as great adversaries unite against unexpected powers from beyond their ken.
The City will rise from the Sea, and though they are insects they are mighty.
And the cockroaches spit for miles, and the worms must move underground.
Yet still the Eggs hatched and all that entails, yet still the eggs hatched and all that entails.
Young gods die that old gods may die. All is change and uproar, and the worms come to herd it along.
The Ancient Homeland will be reclaimed should they bring the grist to the mill.
Cogs can twist asunder under the weight of their own perfect motion if worms are in the wheels.
The coming of the Great Worm Xurkrischis from across the Great Distance will herald the rebirth of the hive, and they shall spread in a terrible blight.
***
“You’re joking,” Gnulgin Bald-Pate grunts.
“Not at all,” Fnogghi Chaos-Hand answers with a deformed grin. The ear growing from his immense, tree-like neck twitches. “I tell you, there is a prophecy. The time has come. I gather aid for a great calling.”
The two giant clerics stand, staring at each other, in silence that last for nearly ten minutes. Finally, Gnulgin, the chief shaman of the Moon Marrow clan, nods decisively. “You are wise, Fnogghi, and I will listen to what you say.”
The circle of hill giants surrounding the two relax. Fnogghi relaxes too; this could have been the death of him. He needs many assistants if he is to succeed, and there are few who follow his god. But they need not follow his god- though that is ideal- they must merely be sympathetic enough join him. The calling must serve their purposes, as well. Take Gnulgin; he follows Bleak, not Fnogghi’s god. But they may work together; indeed, their gods are allies against Law, and the power that Fnogghi hopes to unleash will aid them all.
Although, Fnogghi admits to himself, the worms unleashed might not necessarily have any fondness for them. They were very likely to be extremely dangerous. Such was the way of Chaos; there were no guarantees. There was no way to be certain, ultimately, of anything. All one had to go on was faith.
“Come,” Gnulgin rumbles. “We will eat together, in my chamber, and we will talk, alone.” Fnogghi nods, and the two giants walk into the great wooden structure that the hill giant clan dwells within. Fnogghi has to squeeze his awkward body through the door, and his short leg, as always, nearly makes him stumble; but Gnulgin is as good as his, and this puts him in good spirits.
What is the city? Fnogghi wonders suddenly, thinking of part of the prophecy.
The two giants, once inside Gnulgin’s chamber, sit on chairs made of sturdy thick tree trunks. The hill giant shaman studies Fnogghi for a long moment, then draws two casks of ale off of a shelf and hands one to Fnogghi. “These come from some humans, in exchange for us not eating or enslaving them all,” he explains, giving a yellow grin. “Drink up.”
The two take long pulls of good beer. They drink together, each gathering his thoughts, for a few moments. Gnulgin likes silence, realizes Fnogghi. He is wise enough to know that his mind is not quick. He needs time to think it over.
“How many do you need?” Gnulgin finally asks, as he finishes his cask.
“Twenty, all strong spellcasters,” Fnogghi replies.
“Why?”
“They contribute power to the calling.”
Gnulgin ponders a few moments more. Then he states, “I have heard tales of spells... beyond normal levels of power. Is this...?”
Fnogghi laughs. “It is based on principles similar to those behind such things, but it is merely a powerful spell in its own right. No, it is not as powerful as that: it is merely an ancient ritual of high, but comprehensible power. But I am flattered that you think me capable of such a feat. I am not that powerful, my friend!”
Not yet, he thinks.
“How many do you have?” asks Gnulgin. “How many have agreed to assist you? And how ‘strong’ must they be? I have an apprentice...”
“You yourself are powerful enough, but he is not.”
“You are certain?”
“Yes.”
Gnulgin ponders for a moment.
“I already have Bjorn Snow-Wolf and Pjeji the Black,” Fnogghi says deliberately, knowing how much Gnulgin hates them. “I have ten, already half.”
Gnulgin frowns. “Why do you tell me this? You know how I feel about them.”
“Will you be left out, Gnulgin? When the glory comes for casting down our enemies, and both of our gods anoint their heroes, where will you be?” Fnogghi places a deformed hand on Gnulgin’s shoulder. “I offer you the chance to be a hero, to be remembered as much as, perhaps more than, Pjeji and the Wolf. Will you come with me? Or will you be left behind?”
Fnogghi knows damn well there is only one possible answer.
Praise Na’Rat, he gloats.
***
Meanwhile, the Delphinate has acquired many new powerful wizards who can help replace the fallen. The have come in bits and pieces until the fall of Tirchond, but since then there has been a river of Silver College-trained wizards of formidable power, most of them grey elves. They have secret lore of their own to share, too; some of them are recruited to work on the Warforged Project, which is beginning to show considerable success. They have almost developed a construct with true sentience, true life.
The empowered simulacra hate it, of course.
It is a poke in the eye, a kick in the groin, a slap in the face to them. Are they not sentient constructs, in a fashion? They are living spells, creatures constructed entirely from magic and inanimate stuff (snow)- and this idea that the warforged will be the ‘first’ true living construct rubs against them like salt against a raw wound.
As the forest on Dorhaus grows ever thicker, and his disputes with his house faeries become meaner and more vicious, Arion the Archmage also relocates to the Delphinate. He sets to work building a prodigious fortress within which he will be invulnerable, combining the Delphinate’s work on magical architecture with his own specialized knowledge of force, using layered planes of force to craft an incredibly well-defended home. He grows more puissant as he recovers from a ruin an ancient libram of magic knowledge. Slowly, Arion feels his way into the types of magic that Gnulgin was talking about. Gradually he becomes more confident, until he finally envisions a spell that will create the ultimate house guardians.
I must become more powerful first, he thinks as he purchases some exceptionally potent and fresh hell weed from a night hag on Avernus.
***
Horbin the MFKG Holy opens his eyes.
“What...” he croaks. The last thing he remembers- Angel, and the Bile Lords, and everyone was-
“Oh, Horbin,” weeps Ten Buck Tom, collapsing into an embrace of his friend. “Thank Dexter.” He shudders and looks Horbin in the eye. “I feared that I would waste the elixir, but I was right- you were dead.”*
*Did anyone else remember that the party found an elixir of true resurrection when they were traipsing through their Return to the Tomb of Horrors? I sure didn’t, and I don’t think many of the players did either, but Bill- who plays Horbin, natch- did, and he mentioned it to me a few days after the tpk. He had left Ten Buck Tom behind because he was ‘only’ 17th (?) level- and with Horbin at epic levels, 17th was just bait. He’d also left the elixir behind in Horbin’s halls of healing in case he ever needed it for Horbin.
I asked him to keep its existence to himself for a while.
We snuck this one up on them. We’d played about 3-4 sessions of the halfling party before this game, and then- wham! Bill’s foresight pays off. I must confess, I was dismayed at the tpk, but I’m always willing to let them stand when they happen. But to have one of the players reverse it on me like that was great!
Next Time: Well, that’s a switch! Now what will Horbin do?
Anyway, I came up with an interesting character after finding all your Cydra stuff on my computer (prcs, feats, and spells).
