Deicide: DnD 3.5 Epic - The Slaying of Cyric

[Shayuri]

Grandfather nods, then gets to his feet with a wry smile.

"The masked witches, yes...I should start with them. Anything else would be an insult." He gave a brief bow to the Queen and the druid. "My thanks to you both. You've been most helpful. With luck, perhaps I can return the favor shortly."

Outside of the tent, the sky still swirled and boomed with the supernatural storm of Unweaving. Grandfather couldn't help but spare it another glance as he set off for the Hathran's camp...reasoning that it would probably be as far as possible from the gaudy red pavilions of the Thayans as possible. The storm was madness, and the thought of tampering with those forces was equally mad.

But he'd been called mad before...and with more cause. After all, these wizards and sorcerors were desperate, and they represented the biggest gathering of arcane power the world had seen since the fall of Netheril. Grandfather knew that some forces were simply too great to stop entirely. The best one could do was influence them, guide them to do as little damage as possible, until their momentum stalled.

Abruptly a masked young woman was in his path. One of the Ethran, Grandfather decided, the apprentices. He stopped and bowed. "I've come to see the Wychlaren," he said warmly. "I am known as Grandfather. Tell them I've come to discuss a solution to the stalemate, and that I represent no party other than myself, and the Green."

 

[Malachei]

The small one audibly clears his throat, before he tries to sound as casual as possible, "Bonjour, madame la reine, probably Rickert is as pious as he is easily imp-pressed," he states, as he takes a step into the room, "Accounts pertaining my person are exaggerated. In fact, there should be no accounts, at all, dame royale. I am rather low-profile."

The gnome gradefully bows, which might look cute, in the same way saluting children do. Then, with many small steps of his short legs, he quickly steps to the Queen's side, offering "Perhaps, if you have lost something, I can help?", carefully peeking into the chest curiously.

 

[Myth and Legend]

The girl behind the mask is brown eyed, short and dressed in an apprentice's woolen dress of black and grey. She has a thick auburn braid going down her left shoulder. She regards Grandfather with a mix of distrust and surprise in her eyes, before she speaks in the soft Rashemi dialect of Common.

"Wychlaren you have found, though you are talking to an Ethran outlander, but what you seek is perhaps one of our Othlor. You will remain here while I summon a true one to hear your petition."

She states this with no question implied in her intonation and leaves, and Grandfather can see the camp is surrounded by some sort of barrier that has left a mark in the grass and prevents the leaves, blown from the midnight wind to pass trough. The only opening in this invisible wall that he can see is right where he is standing and where the Rashemi girl met him.

He is left there, standing for a good twenty minutes at least, before the short apprentice returns. Alongside her there is the imposing figure of a true Witch of Rahsemen, dressed in a black silken dress that makes subltle swooshing sounds as she walks with a determined step. She is taller than the apprentice but still only about five feet tall at the most, with a long blond braid that reaches right down to her heels, contrasting with the shine of her black dress. Her mask is made of ivory, painted with red and green, and her eyes are brown but glowing with arcane energy, blue and white auras mixing around them.

The woman is accompanied by a flock of other wychlaran, all dressed in black, although their dresses are sewn of wool, and their masks are wooden and not ivory. A total of nine Witches accompany the woman, who by all accounts is one of the Othlor, the highest ranking Hathrans in existence.

She approaches with her hands joined together, the edges of her sleeves covering her palms completely, her escorts doing a similar thing.

"Greetings. You are Grandfather but you are not known to me. What is your true name and what is your business with us?"

Her voice is commanding and she seems to tower over the Druid even as she is shorter than him, and she speaks with almost no discernible accent, which signifies her times spent outside Rashemen's borders.

***
​

The Simbul snaps the lid shut abruptly as the curious Gnome approaches. She turns around, an electrifying expression on her face, while also holding an adamantine loop and handle in her long fingered hands. She is a tall human woman, the Gnome seeing eye to eye with her exposed belly button.

"You must respect the privacy of a Queen little man! - she lets some anger drip into her words as she continues. - I have read your essays on magic, you are smart but flawed, corrupted! Mystra is the one and only source of the Weave, and the Weave is the one and only true source of magic! Those such as you, who dabble in Shar's profane mockery of magic deserve no right to call themselves true scholars! Do you taunt me by coming here, shadow user? I am one of Mystra's Chosen and I would do my Goddess a favor by removing you from existence!"

The Witch Queen of Aglarond almost spits out the words shadow user, and burning anger now occupies her dark irises. The air almost smells of electricity, although it has been so since the start of the Blue Fire storm.

[sblock]Malachei sent you some nitpicking in your build, the wisdom requirement especially will alter a lot of things since now you have to redo your point buy and that will alter your other ability modifiers (and the skills tied to them). [/sblock]

 

[Shayuri]

Grandfather chuckled at the theatrics and bowed, sweeping his staff in a flourish.

"I am honored that this humble old man was seen as important enough to merit your attention," he began, but quickly saw that platitudes weren't going to improve the Othlor's mood. Thus, he cut to the chase. "My business is simple enough. I offer my aid in your predicament."

He half-turned to indicate the rest of the camp with a wave of his hand.

"I know what you are all trying to do, and I know your current problem. Even desperate times can only bring enemies togeher; they can't make enemies trust one another. The misson requires someone, or ones, of great power...of which there are an abundance of here. But that's the problem. For each one you would trust with the past, and thus the future, there are three you would not...and who will insist on going because they don't trust any of you either."

"Which is where I come in. I have no agenda, save the upholding of the balance of force, and the nurturing of the Green. I am beholden to no king or queen, no circle or order. I offer my services in the past, should I succeed in gaining your trust."

 

[Myth and Legend]

The Witch narrows her eyes and replies coldly:

"You are no old man, boy! I can see trough your disguise. I repeat, what is your name? I am already aware that you hail from the Elven camp, and that alone already puts you as someone's puppet. And your laughter in this situation does not elevate my view of you."

 

[Shayuri]

With effort, Grandfather manages to put his smile away. "Forgive me, Othlor. There is irony in this situation, though hard to see from the outside."

He relaxed the druid magic that changed his form, allowing his body to return to its 'normal' appearance. A young man...perhaps no longer quite the boy that the Hathran accused him of being, but certainly not far past it.

In a voice no longer cracked with age he said, "If it helps, this is the body I was born in. But understand that in this case, the disguise was the truth...and the body, a lie. In changing my form, I presented you with an appearance far more in line with my true self than this; the face your spell showed you."

"As for coming from the elves, you see strings where none exist. I spoke with the Queen, and with the High Druid. They explained their stake in this matter, and the problems this great circle has been having. Now, I am coming to you to hear what you have to say...and to offer my aid."

He tilted his head questioningly. "Unless it is your desire that I be guided by the elves and druids alone? I would prefer that all parties had the chance to make their points of view known, but I certainly can't compel anyone."

 

[Myth and Legend]

The eyes behind the mask stare at the Druid for a moment, while the brisk Mirtul wind bites at the exposed hands and face of the gathered. None of the witches shiver, but some move uncomfortably as this happens. The elder Rashemi speaks after a deliberate pause:

"The Sad Queen is good and wise, and more worthy of trust than some of our own would allow. You are refreshingly honest and I find that satisfactory. I will grant you my time but know that it is today's most scarce commodity, so do not be wasteful."

She then barks something in a very soft Rashemi dialect and one of the other witches reaches in her spell component pouch, retrieving a miniature portal carved from ivory, a small piece of polished marble, and a tiny silver spoon. She quickly combines them in some fashion and clearly speaks an incantation. A moment later, a faint shimmering in the air, 4 feet wide and 8 feet high appears before her. The Othlor urges some of her entourage to enter first, and then regards Grandfather with curiosity in her eyes. "A boy but yet an old man. Druids, with your Reincarnation magic, you can never cease to surprise me."

[sblock=Spellcraft DC 22]The witch casts Mage's Magnificent Mansion.[/sblock]

 

[Voda Vosa]

"Hello and thank you for this most pleasant welcome my lord. My bussiness are simple enough and brief, also. I wish to aid in the restoration of the Weave, and in the fall of "that... you know who". I have a modest repertoir of abilities I trust you can appreciate. I like the way you do things here. I had a brief chat with the Simbul before coming here. She wants me to sneak here and report to her, or something like that." Molak makes a depreciating gesture, as shrugging something off "I honestly think she has lost it, her power has gone all the way up to her head. So I came here, I think the sort of organization you have is more close to achieve anything important than that crazy and cranky witch."

 

[Myth and Legend]

Szass Tam grins and waves his hand. Two fully nude female slaves, both with ebony skin and braided hair, and with bodies sculpted to perfection, dash forward and bring Molak a chair and a goblet of wine.

"Oho! - the Red Wizard exclaims with a good bit of excitement. - I am truly glad that others outside of Thay can see the poisonous snake that is that vile woman. She has always been somewhat distant from reality, but recently, with the regrettable loss of the Goddes of Magic, she has become completely insane! I appreciate your honesty mister Molak. Now tell me, what skills do you possess? And what do you know of our work here?"

The Necromancer talks as he comfortably sits on his throne-like chair. Soon the slave girls bring a lavishly decorated foldable table and place several dishes of exotic foods before the Warlock.

 

[Voda Vosa]

“Well thank you sir.” Says Molak as the slaves give him the wine and the chair. “As I said to mister Azar, I find your selection of slaves to be impeccable. It’s good to see that even necromancers have a good taste for the living.” The warlock sit with an exaggerated bow, and sips the wine. “My lord, my abilities fall mainly in one compartment: Causing havoc. I’m a weaver of chaotic energies from the Far realm. A Warlock if I have to give myself a category. I have some other useful tricks up in my sleeves, like rising undead minions, some protective powers, for quoting some of them. I’ll be glad to show you my worth, if you can put a worthy opponent for me. I happen to like games.”