Deicide: DnD 3.5 Epic - The Slaying of Cyric

[Voda Vosa]

Molak eyes the man as he goes back, and shoots a killing stare to the others in the line, until it's his turn to enter the tent.
He is pleased to be treated as he should for the first time. He sits, grabs the water and the bread and after looking at the girl for more than usual, he comments.
"It is so hard to find good slaves lately. You have a treat with this young woman here. Oh, where are my manners, My Name is Molak Senda, perhaps you heard of me, no? Really? Strange a turbulent times indeed..." Molak says, almost not waiting for the denial from Azar. "I'm a somwhat powerful arcane practitioner, and would like, like everyone else in this place, to aid in the restoration of Magic as it was. However, " Molak points with his finger, while holding the piece of bread. "unlike most of the fools around, I have true power. It must be a real shame for you to have to stay here and listen to all these pathetic fools al the day. As I was the only important person in the line, you might as well take the rest of the day." the warlock gulps the bread. "Although, regardless of how much I enjoy a good chat and your impecable sense of humor, I'd need to speak with the great masters, or the highest authority beneath them. If you are such authority, then I'll be more than pleased."

 

[Shayuri]

"Then," Grandfather persisted, "if the decision to do this is forgone, but the arcanists cannot agree between themselves who to send, I suggest sending a druid. One of us would be committed not only to averting this crisis, but to doing so while causing as little damage as posible to the timeline. That means preserving the very balance between forces that has paralyzed you all now...a neutral and pragmatic goal that all present will benefit from."

 

[Malachei]

The figure slowly advancing the camp seemed little more than a child. Firmly wrapped in a dark grey cloak, it held its hands closed in front, to further protect from the chill. Striding in big steps, it hurried towards the safety of the inner tents. The low grass was brushing and tickling its thighs, and occasionally, the small legs were unable to keep up with the stride, and it stumbled, but it quickly regained its balance and continued its travel unabatedly, and it navigated the dark as if it had been here before.

As it reached the towering shape of an armed guardsman, it advanced with no hesitation, stepping into the big man's shadow. Raising itself on tiptoes, it produced a squeaky, child-like voice, its melody perfectly able to carry both the sweet and the sour:

"Greetings big man. I came a long way to see this Elminster man of yours. You would not perchance be in possession of knowledge pertaining his current whereabouts, and in a position to purposefully lead me to the place?"

As the small one speaks, its neck arched to keep the guard in view, it balances on its tiptoes back and forth, impatiently.

 

[Myth and Legend]

The counselor frowns a bit at Molak's tirade and joins his fingertips before his chest as he leans back in his chair. He nods to the slave girl who immediately drops in the floor and crawls back in a corner of the spacious tent.

"Good slaves... Well I tend to spoil her. She has been with me for over a year and yet she lives. - Azar moves his gaze towards the girl who visibly shudders as she looks directly at the rich carpet below. - As for the people outside - this my friend Molak is a trading compound. Contrary to what you may have heard from third parties, the Red Wizards of Thay are traders first and foremost. No matter what the times, coin will never cease to flow. Now this whole time travel business the high ranking mages are delving into - that I know next to nothing about. However I would say that reaching the great masters is quite hard. If you were to be more specific and... persuasive in your question?"

The man's face remains smooth and an inviting smile graces his lips.

***
​

Shinthala looks at Grandfather and then at the Queen, before speaking. "Well there is no Druid more capable than myself, I speak this out of knowledge and not of self loving. However being the Chosen of my Goddess has made the accursed Red Wizards stubborn in their denial to let me enter. For each of us they want to send one of theirs, and I would not risk having Sazz Tam tag me along for a merry chase along Toril while up in the heavens disaster is afoot. Sadly the Emerald Enclave can help with advise only in this matter. But you - she looks at the man and rubs her pink lips with her finger. - you don't represent any party that I know of. An independent, as you put it yourself. In order for you to be truly independent however, you would need to be backed by everyone and yet no one. In other words, the Elves, the Rashemeni Witches, the Chosen of Mystra and the Red Wizards must all find you equally worthy and equally stubborn and impossible to bribe or intimidate."

Qeen Amlaruil laughs at this comment and claps her hands, getting up and grasping the splendid Greatsword that hums with vibrant energy. "Well he shall have my backing, and by that - my people's as well. I have learned to judge character over the long centuries of my life, and i see a calm wisdom in you Grandafther that is not easily acquired."

***
​

The guard turns out to be wearing a Harper pin across his chest. He is a slender Half-Elf with dark eyes and a healthy skin color, as well as a long auburn mane left hanging loose down to the shoulders. He carries no weapons visibly but there is a rod on his belt.

"Greetings Halfing. You picked a fine time to seek audience with master Elminster, he barely has anything to do, 'sides try to save Toril from destruction. - his smile is weary but his jest has no edge to it. - in truth I know not where he is. He Plane Shifted away several hours ago, and has not come back since. The Simbul is here, but the Witch Queen of Aglarond has been moody as of late. I mean more than usual, though less than what she could be. She had a visitor naught but a few minutes ago, though he did not stay there long. She is the highest ranking authority for our side of the camp as of now though."

 

[Malachei]

The small figure looks in shock at the half-elf, not so much at the news of Elminster, the trusted one, having left, but first and foremost, at being called a halfling. Most gnomish insults -- and there were many indeed -- were using funny words, such as strawberrybrain, donkeysense or buttermind. Some were downright rude, as in trollface or dwarffingers. But to be called a halfling, oh my, that was another matter altogether. Stomping his foot, the small one looks up with what he thinks would be a grim face, and growls "Half-what? Me? Half-yourself! Pardonnez-moi, pinned ranger, I did not come here all the way to parley with people who portray me as a pursecutter. You must be pretty blind," and here he extends an index finger and moves it left and right in front of the guard's eyes, "please see a doctor for your pupils."

Then he clears his throat, and simply states, "Probably her majesty's tempers pale in comparison to Plueperry, eh, Blueberry, my old rabbit friend. Après-vous, if you can see the path..."

 

[Myth and Legend]

The Half-Elf grins and bows, not mockingly but not overly serious either. "T'was a jest my friend, this Bard is bored out of his wits guarding the grass from the onslaught of... more grass, while the world crumbles around him. Alass the skills of one such as myself do not come close to what is needed to perform the task. You Gnomish folk really take this to offense. As a Half-Elf, who grew in Waterdeep i've had to put up with much worse - made me turn a deaf ear to jabs such as this."

He talks as he leads the way past other watchmen and hurried servants, between the densely packed tents and all manner of wagons, crates and chests. The wind blows harder when they step out in the open once more, a meadow and some torches giving breathing space to a large and lavish tent.

"What is your name, master Gnome? For introductions and such."

 

[Malachei]

The small figure gives a satisfied nod, "Bored bards build bad books," and chuckles, at the mention of a Gnomish offense, "a pretty poor vanguard, I presume, but gnomes are full of surprises..." and wonders for a moment, if this was a quote, and if it was a quote, whether it was a correct quote. Hmmmmmmm... and no copper cleverer, the gnome again steps on his toes and, rather gravely, states, "Molostroi. Janus von Molostroi." Obviously, he expects the name to be recognized, as he expectantly waits for a reply.

 

[Shayuri]

Grandfather gave a grateful bow to the elf Queen.

"Every bit as perceptive as the legends tell," he said, "if not more so. My thanks for your confidence."

He focused his attention on the druid again. "It seems I have a full night's work ahead of me then. Anything I should know before I set out to impress the most powerful people in Faerun?"

There was a hint of gentle self-mockery in his tone; as of someone who understood the absurdity of what he was planning...but fully intended to do it anyway.

 

[Voda Vosa]

“Specific and persuasive? I can do that I guess. Well, we all have quarrels with this god, and as magic users we all want to get our source of arcane power back on. I like to think of myself of someone beyond the normal gents and adventurers that come and go. However, what I’ve succeed in personal gain and power, I’ve fail in organization and group management. I have no organization to back me up as you can see, and I’m looking to align myself with such a prominent and powerful organization like the Mighty Red Wizards, in order to better contribute with the restoration of our source of power.” Explains Molak.

 

[Myth and Legend]

The Half-Elf's eyes widen slightly before he hides his reaction - he seems to be good at mastering his appearance. "Janus von Molostroi, I have indeed heard some of your more famous exploits. I have also heard some stories that are best left out of a performance in a tavern. By luck I believe, I have an acquaintance who is in turn an acquaintance of one of your friends. An old ally, from decades past. But enough of that, I am sure you are a man of your privacy."

With that, the Bard halts before a large purple tent and signals Janus to stop. He enters and after a few minutes, comes back with a sour look on his face. "The Qeen will see you now." he mumbles a he gives the gnome a confused look.

Inside, amidst some intricate tapestries and unremarkable furniture, the Gnomish spellcaster can see the famous Witch Qeen of Aglarond, tall and beautiful, but with that dreaded sense of danger about her, as if she had a poisonous stinger instead of a round shaped bottom. Currently she seems to be rummaging around a plain looking wooden chest, and her torn robes almost expose her body to the not so tall Gnome.

"Rickert tells me you are quite the man, Janus von Molostroi. - her voice flows soft and with a pleasant ring to it. - What brings you to the Chosen of Mystra and myself?" She keeps talking with her back turned to the Gnome, apparently looking for some object within the chest.

[sblock]Okay I would need some background for your character. The Bard rolled a 32 on his Bardic Knowledge check

I also need an alignment for your character, he seems to be missing that from the RG. Make sure you follow the alignment restrictions for your classes.[/sblock]

***
​

Azar nods in agreement and clasps his hands, as Molak talks.

"Yes, yes, I see. Well master Molak I am not one to keep records of the prominent arcanists of present day. I am a merchant, and my skills lie in more practical areas. However I can tell you who to talk to - master Szass Tam is the one who holds the most decision making power here. If anyone can make use of your expertise, it is him. Take this - he reaches in a drawer in his desk and produces a small bronze sigil with strange engravings on it. - and show it to any who doubt your presence here. The girl will take you to master Tam's tent."

The slave bows deeply and moves to the exit, waiting for Molak to leave. She leads hims silently, past the guards and deeper inside the camp. It is crowded, and strange shapes move in the night, but they progress unmolested to a grand crimson pavilion, wider than any others around it, with a clear space of one hundred feet from the other tents around it. The perimeter is being patrolled by pairs of Red Wizards, dressed in their formal red robes, with shaved heads and long staves in hand, and steel clad warriors with viscous looking armour and potent looking weapons.

The girl bows and leaves Molak there without a word, and hurries back towards Azar's tent. Molak is challenged by one of the patrolling Wizards, but is let trough once he produced the sigil. He enters the spacious tent escorted by two pairs of wizards and warriors.

Inside, the warlock is left to wait for a bit and is soon urged to enter, his escort following behind. Inside he can smell the thick scent of musky incense burning in braziers alongside the tent walls. The floor is layered with thick and exquisite carpets, and the furniture seems to be made of ivory and solid gold. On a large throne-like chair, sits a tall scholar, aging but seemingly vigorous, with glittering jet-black eyes and dressed in fine silken garments, the colour of fresh blood and fire.

"Welcome Molak, the bold wandering hermit. I trust you know who I am. Now, tell me what brings you to me and mine?"

He speaks with a soft, purring voice and seems very relaxed and calm.

***
​

Shinthala reaches for her cup and takes a sip, before answering. The wind outside rustles the grass, producing a soothing melody in the brief moment of silence.

"I think any warnings of Thay and their Zulkirs are trivial, one knows them if one is from Faerun. Elminster, his Harpers, the other Chosen of Mystra, what is left of the Seven Sisters - they are all one camp. And I would think they are our best allies in this dire situation."

The Elven Queen nods as she goes to a side table and begins scribing a letter with a silver quill, but she still listens intently and has not turned her back to the two Druids.

"The Hathrans - the Witches of Rashemen as they are called sometimes. Mortal enemies to the Thayans and less trusting of others than a mother bear in salmon season."

Shinthala Deepcrest pauses, knowing that the other Druid would understand her metapthor, and takes the time to pour them some more tea. The smell of mint and ginger fills the room briefly as she lifts the silver lid off the intricately engraved teapot, and steam rushes upward.

"It has taken as more effort to quell their hatred than to convince the bastards from Thay to join us. I think that without Elminster and the Simbul they would have rather not come here at all. Perhaps the Queen has had a hand in their cooperative mood as of late - Queen Amlauril smiles faintly but says nothing. - but to illustrate my point I should tell you... Grandfather, that they care little for outside authority. One of their apprentices denied me entry to the camp, although in her defense I think she had seen not more than a dozen summers at most, judging by those innocent eyes behind her mask."