The Outer Planes are a lot like a wheel.
Think of them as stretching infinitely, yet having edges. Sometimes they are sharp; sometimes, more blurry. Either way, these bounded infinities bump up against one another. The planes of the afterlife, of morals and ethics made into physical (and metaphysical) reality, they always border the planes, morally, most like themselves. Thus, the plane our heroes would call the Abyss, which is evil and chaos personified, is bordered by planes slightly less evil (Pandemonium) and slightly less chaotic (Tartarus). Continue to follow the wheel around past Pandemonium and you reach a plane of pure chaos- Limbo- while, in the other direction, pass Tarterus and you come to the plane of pure evil, the Three Glooms of Hades.
All of this is an oversimplification, of course; there are more planes than these, and even more outer planes than these. But for purposes of our illustration, this simple model will serve.
Wheels are for turning.
Imagine, then, that the Great Wheel- the Outer Planes of existence- spins around its center point, the plane of absolute neutrality, of opposites reconciled or balanced. It is almost as if the Great Wheel is balanced above a single point, as if it rests upon a tall, thin spire, and its motion is all that keeps it balanced above that single point. It is akin to a baker spinning out the dough for a thin, round shell, on which he might slather tomato sauce, cheese and various cuts of meat and vegetable, on the end of his arm, held well above his head.
But what if one side of the wheel suddenly gained a great deal of weight? And the other side lost as much, or even broke free entirely?
A pizza man might whistle while he works, but does the multiverse?
***
9/18/371 O.L.G.
It has been a week since the rescue of Belmondo. Our heroes have spent most of that time has been spent relaxing for the first time in what feels like forever.
Now it’s time for a party.
Sure, they have already had several victory celebrations- but this one will be a full-one, all-out, come-who-may party. They will invite everyone they know- everyone they like, and even many that they don’t.
Yep. Time for a party.
The party is held on Sigil (the center point on which the wheel spins, if you don’t mind continuing that metaphor for a moment), in a huge bar given over to the party for the occasion by the Xaositechts, a faction of Chaos-happy folk allied to our heroes (JJ, Blazier and Wankerman are all members of the faction, in fact- or at least, as much as anyone is a “member” of a “faction” that is all about Chaos).
The party is, ahem, quite good.
Not everyone comes, but there is a very impressive turnout. Early on, a mild-looking man who doesn’t seem at all dangerous (think of him as looking like a 40 year old Paul Simon)* enters with his entourage. This, of course, is Dzaram, the Lich of Forinthia, a very formidable fellow. His “entourage”- more properly, his cabal- consists of a foul-looking fellow dressed in robes that squirm with rats and vermin, his undead vulture on his shoulder; a githyanki knight armed with a terrible-looking silver greatsword, whose armor is missing much of the midsection because of the slavering mouth full of gnashing orichalcum teeth that, eerily, fills up much of where a normal man’s stomach would be; a yellow-skinned, forlorn-looking man with a lute on his back; and a charmingly-innocent looking 13 year old girl.
Our heroes welcome them, a little nervously. Dzaram and his cabal are old... acquaintances. Not friends, certainly; not enemies, quite. Not allies, although sometimes allied.
And certainly, potentially, allies or enemies.
Thus, they were invited. And thus, they have come. Dzaram, as always, is polite but reserved. Alcar approaches and greets him. The rest of the cabal begins filtering into the room after a moment, once they are certain that there won’t be any trouble. Alcar and Dzaram begin speaking in a corner.
“I need your help,” the angel says to the lich. “Master Control is spying on us somehow, and it can’t be with magic. It can track us across planes, too, even when we’re all mind blanked. I think it must have planted some kind of device on us, but something we can’t detect.” He takes a deep breath. “I think it’s something small- extremely small. Master Control has swarms of clockwork horrors that you can barely see because they are so small. What if it has planted some kind of device on us that is too small for us to see, and that’s how it tracks us?”
Dzaram nods thoughtfully.
“And I know,” Alcar continues over the noise of the party- there are a bunch of the Xaositechts there, already, and some of their friends, as well as the party themselves- “that you have some experience with the Microverse.”
Dzaram nods again. “Yes. I can probably help you, if your theory about how Master Control is tracking you is correct.”
“Good,” Alcar replies.
“But not for free,” the lich goes on. “You know that the government of Forinthia pays me half a million gold pieces each year. Your friend Thrush wishes to be Emperor. I can help you, but you must ensure that he continues those payments.”
“I can repay you with a service,” Alcar offers.
“I have named my price.” Dzaram shrugs. “Let me know at your leisure, of course.”
Meanwhile, the doors swing open and two young figures arrive. Our heroes recognize them instantly: Little Alex and his young sister. Little Alex is native to the Sigil, the strange city in which our heroes are partying. He is the tout that the party has always used when in town, and they have always rewarded him well.
But they are practically kids, and the party didn’t invite them...
Chakar intercepts them. “Little Alex!” he exclaims. “Is anything wrong?”
“No,” Little Alex replies, sounding puzzled. “I heard there was a party here.”
“Really? From where?”
“Oh, word is all over the streets,” the tout replies. He looks a little nervous. “You, uh, don’t mind that we came, do ya?”
There’s a loud “Oooohhh” from the crowd, as the first drink is spilled on a table.
Chakar considers for a second, then shrugs. “I guess not. Just don’t get into any trouble.”
Little Alex beams. “Thanks, Guvnor!” he exclaims. Grinning, he and his sister rush into the tavern’s common room. Almost immediately, they are intercepted by Blaze, who is already pretty drunk, and who starts hitting on Alex’s sister.
Music fills the air. Zazou, the Yellow Bard who follows Dzaram, plays his lute; other partygoers add drums, a flute and soon cymbals. The blaze of the fireplace is cheery. The smoke of the pipe weed rises in great blue clouds throughout the chamber.
Meanwhile, Sybele and Wankerman sit together on a large table, drinking heavily. Gerontius floats gently in the air at eye level with them. They are watching as more and more people come in- people of all stripes. They see JJ setting up his portable den of immortal sin, or the Den of Froth, as he is taking to calling it, and starts taking partygoers within for acts of unspeakable debauchery and horrid perversity. Delilah takes her 13-year-old body in and subjects it to the worst kinds of infamies, much to the demislaad’s delight.
“That’s gross,” comments Wankerman. “I don’t see the appeal in, in Froth’s kind of stuff.”
“Necrophilia,” Sybele fills in the blank for him.
He makes a face, but then brightens. “Hey, look!” He points across the room. A female human figure is grinning as she makes her way towards them. “Is that Seethe?”
Indeed- another old friend come calling. Seethe, the druid who traveled with the party for a time, speaks gravely of a ‘middle path’- for she wishes to be a Keeper of the Balance. If it is not too late. Being immune to poison, alcohol has no effect on her, but she hangs out and parties with them. Many of them didn’t even know that she was a woman, given her thousand faces ability, but they all learn tonight. And, other than the aforementioned Seethe, the party is getting drunk enough to be called dronk.
Then the doors fly open, and a balor steps inside, holding some kind of arcane-looking apparatus, basically rod-like in aspect, but made of a translucent red-orange material and holding some kind of liquid. Several different metal bits thrust from the shaft at various points.
Our heroes tense up. A balor is a mighty demon, and could be a very dangerous threat. But when it rumbles, “I hear there’s a party here. I brought a bong,” everyone relaxes.
Could this party go by without any trouble?
Sir Maxwell Norrington shows up, too: another old party member. He tenses at the sight of the balor, for he is a knight of the chalice, dedicated to driving fiends from Cydra- but he is not on Cydra. This is where the demon belongs- at least broadly, being on the Outer Planes, if not specifically on the Abyss. And he isn’t going to start a fight while under a flag of truce...
Still, Maxwell, sadly, doesn’t stay long.
“Wow,” Blaze says, his arm thrown about his sweetie of the moment, “this is a good party!”
“Would you like to try this?” the balor offers JJ a tube attached to his apparatus.
“Sure!” JJ says. He takes a large puff of- something- that the balor puts into one of the metal doodads sticking off the shaft of his strange bong. Then the balor blasts the bowl with flame, igniting it.
Sybele purses her lips. “I wonder what happened to what’s his name, big club guy, you know, the traitor.” She asks JJ, “How is that?”
“Wow,” the demislaad moans, “it’s great!”
“Inoke,” Gerontius nods. “Me too.” He frowns. And it couldn’t have been as simple as him just betraying us. He was my good friend for years.
Sybele takes a long pull from the balor’s bong. So does Gerontius.
“Hmm,” Wankerman muses, “what the hell did happen to him? The last we knew, he was at the fight between Galador and Vandreu...”
***
Two Weeks Earlier
“We don’t want to destroy you,” Chakar cried to Prayzose. “Don’t fight us!”
“I said the same thing to you,” Prayzose replied, surprisingly gently. “It’s too late for that. And you have summoned both Graz’zt and Tiamat to Cydra in order to oppose us! What destructive forces you have unleashed.” He shook his head sadly. “No. The time for talk is over.”
The battle roared to a new height. Alcar threw himself against the God-Emperor and managed to land a few blows. “Surrender!” the angel cried. “Don’t make us kill you!”
“No,” Prayzose answered. In an instant, a burning ray flashed out, blazing through both Alcar and Tiamat. “You have crossed a line that I cannot allow you to cross unanswered. You have gone too far. I will not allow this trespass to stand.” He began weaving immensely powerful magic, and a gate to Heaven opened.
Light brighter than anything our heroes had ever seen before exploded through the gate.
“MY LORD!!” cried Prayzose. “YOU ARE NEEDED ON CYDRA!!! THE FORCES OF CHAOS SUMMON GODS OF EVIL TO OPPOSE YOUR DESCENDANT!!!”
A being of blazing light, so bright that the sun itself seems to be a dark smudge in the sky, stepped forth from the gate.
Galador had arrived.
YOU ARE A BLASPHEMY. The words ring with the power to shape reality. They echo, loud and clear, for miles. They encompass both Graz’zt and Tiamat. YOU SHALL PAY FOR THIS TRANSGRESSION. HOW DARE YOU TRESPASS HERE, NOW?
Inoke, meanwhile, had moved to engage Tiamat. The Queen of Evil Dragons snapped at him from her many mouths; she breathed fire, acid, cold, lightning, toxic gas at him. He growled and expanded to a height of 25’, swinging his mace against her with deadly effect. Her tail stinger whipped forward, but he parried it. He struck her white head with his mace with telling force, and she shook that head. It was momentarily stunned- but not so the rest of her! Her black head spat another stream of acid at him, while the red head bit down into his right arm! Inoke grimaced and slammed his fist into her eye, freeing his hand, and battered at her again with his mace, bloodying the red head’s nose. The two of them glared at each other.
Meanwhile, the party rushed Prayzose, striking with all their might. Finally, Prayzose staggered- and fell! Our heroes cheered! Alcar immediately attempted a soul bind on Prayzose, to no avail.
“This is a short term solution, but it might help!” Baron Lillamere cried. He disintegrated Prayzose’s remains.
“That’s not really going to slow Galador down, I don’t think!” criec Chakar. For once, he did not sound entirely calm and composed. His blows and attempts to grapple Galador simply slid off him like water off of a duck.
The party poured it on, but they did not even seem to be hurting Galador at all. Uh oh, thought Lester, we may have finally bitten off more than we can chew! His eyes widened as he saw Tiamat plane shift away from Inoke. The big warrior turned to face our heroes. A profound look of regret was on his face.
“I don’t want to fight you!” he cried.
“You should have thought about that before!” shouted Thrush.
Galador drew forth a mace and struck a single, mighty blow to Graz’zt, snapping the demon prince’s neck, and the black-skinned form collapsed. Quickly, it boiled away into a greasy smear, which in turn caught fire and burned to nothing in the blazing light of Galador.
“Uh oh,” JJ said. “Uh, I don’t know if-“
Galador struck again. Lillamere was crushed in a single mighty blow, collapsing in a bloody pile on the ground. Then he cleaved onto Gerontius, nearly taking the rogue out too! “Please stop!” cried the rogue.
“All right, it’s time!” Alcar cried. He spread his arms wide and cast a gate of his own. “BLESS, MY GOD! WHATEVER YOU CAN DO, NOW IS THE TIME!!”
From the gate, another figure emerged, silhouetted in the refulgent brilliance. He strode forward tall and grim. In his right hand he bore a sword so black that even the illumination of Galador cannot light it up. Strapped to his left arm was a shield of equal blackness.
“Galador, I am Vandreu,” the newcomer called. “Your time is at an end. I am here to finish you.”
The two gods moved together. There was an explosion of divine power, of light and energy, unequaled by anything that our heroes have ever seen.
Inoke rushed forward.
“Inoke, no!” cried Gerontius.
Ignoring his old friend, the warmind smashed his mace at Vandreu. But the mighty deity raised up his black shield, catching the blow, and Inoke’s mace exploded with brutal force. The bones in his arms shivered and nearly shattered. He screamed in pain and fell back on the ground.
“This is not your fight,” Vandreu told him. “Not anymore.” With that, he swung his blade at Galador. The God of Forinthia, the Lord, the Light, stepped away and fired a blast of staggering divine power at Vandreu. He took the blazing beam square in the chest and thrust forward again. Galador’s armor of light shivered as the black blade hit it, and the light seemed, impossibly, to increase for a second as it shattered under the power of the blade.
Vandreu’s voice echoed through all of our heroes’ heads. You should leave. This situation is about to become... explosive.
Inoke, meanwhile, struggled back to his feet and psionically healed himself as best he could. Then, realizing that he had no weapon to fight with, and glancing around at the situation, he gave a small sigh of despair and activated his boots of teleportation, vanishing into the null time displacement of the greater anticipate teleports running throughout the area.
He reappeared on several hundred feet away from the Bastion’s ruin. To him, it looked as though the battlefield had suddenly grown much larger and more devastated, and as if the dueling gods had each teleported some distance away.
Galador’s shield was broken. Vandreu’s was fine. As Inoke watched, Galador fired an immensely powerful divine blast at Vandreu, but that accursed black shield caught the blast full on- and stopped it as if it had been no more than a ray of normal sunlight.
“My Lord!” cried Inoke. “I can’t affect him! Send me to the best god to aid you and I will try to summon help!”
But Inoke, as powerful as he is, was beneath the notice of these titans as they clashed. They had no attention to spare for him. Helplessly, he looked around to survey the scene.
The Bastion of Law was barely recognizable. It was blasted, half-melted, seared by the power of the gods battling here. Immense energies were being wielded, tossed around without restraint. The air thundered with deafening noise. In the distance, Inoke could see the eternal battle playing out, but while it had always- always- been a stalemate before, now it was a route. The forces of Chaos were encircling the last heroic warriors defending Law, and soon would annihilate them.
Inoke staggered away, his arm still throbbing, towards the slag of the Bastion, and from there...
Who knew?
But I’m alive, he thought. That’s something... isn’t it?
He trudged past the fallen citadel of order. His arm hurt badly. He was weaponless.
My mind is a weapon, he reminded himself.
After a few miles, he halted as a gate appeared before him. An angel stepped forth. “Inoke,” it intoned.
Inoke fell to his knees before the angel. “I failed,” he choked.
He felt the warm touch of the angel’s hand on his shoulder. “We all failed,” it sighed.
Inoke looked up at the angel. Its halo hovered over its head. “Come,” it told him. “Come with me to Heaven.
“Come rest.”
Inoke rose unsteadily. Holding his hand, the angel led him through the gate.
Next Time: So... what does that balor’s bong have in it?
*The singer, not the politician.
![:]](http://www.enworld.org/forum/images/smilies/devious.png "Devious :]")
