the Jester
Legend
Knightfall1972 said:
Gosh, you make it sound like he died or something.
Bodily ascension... may be different from death.
In, at least, one or two aspects.
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NOW LIVE! Into the Woods--new character species, eerie monsters, and haunting villains to populate the woodlands of your D&D games.
(Epic Cydra) Empires of Chaos
- Thread starter the Jester
- Start date
Gosh, you make it sound like he died or something.
Bodily ascension... may be different from death.
In, at least, one or two aspects.
Knightfall
World of Kulan DM
Hmm, I hadn't thought of it that way. So, maybe we'll be reading more about him, at some point? Or is the character officially retired, at this point?the Jester said:Gosh, you make it sound like he died or something.
Bodily ascension... may be different from death.
In, at least, one or two aspects.
the Jester
Legend
Dealing with the Devil
Whatever the balor is smoking, it is very potent. First waves of euphoria, then a gentle buzz for a good hour.
Followed by a nasty come down, with a terrible temper and a callous, reckless malevolence attached.
For a time, Sybele, JJ and Gerontius all see the merits of the Abyssal point of view. Hell, they have championed Chaos long enough, like it or not; and they have all reveled in destroying their enemies, in slaying, slaying, slaying, up to their elbows in blood. Sybele grins rapaciously as she leans back in her withdrawal-induced state, thinking of just how many slaves will attend her once she is the Empress of Forinthia. Anything she wants, she will take. She will kill anyone who defies her will. And really, who could stand against her and her friends? Even if someone was powerful enough, the party is clever enough to deceive them, blind them with sugared words, and then, when they least expect it, in a very painful way- snap! The trap would come shut, and whoever dared to defy her would be slowly flayed alive, fed their own steaming intestines, served their own children as the wages of sin for their foolish intransigence!
She chortles, full of malicious glee.
JJ has a great time with the possessed, living body of Delilah in the den of Froth. Unspeakable horrors are inflicted on the poor thing; but neither JJ, nor Delilah herself, much care. To the demislaad, it is just a measure of his sudden and very strong devotion to Froth; to the undead conjuress, it is just another amusement in just another body of hers.
It’s not like she doesn’t have dozens of spares, of all shapes and descriptions, all races, sexes and ages.
But to despoil young, virgin flesh in such a torrid way- ah! It’s really quite touching to her. She remembers giving herself to Bleak so long ago, before she was undead at all. Back in her own body. In those few living days she had before centuries of unlife.
Gerontius just keeps partying, though he is more inclined to pick a pocket here and there for fun. Of course, he is all too aware that nobody here is a worthy target; no one has treasure worth stealing to someone as powerful as him. He sneers disdainfully.
But the drink, and the drugs, and the partying- ah! Now those are as good as ever. Sigil is a universal crossroads. All things worth having (all those not worth having, too, frankly) come through the City of Doors- and all the things worth drinking, smoking or snorting have come to the Chaos Party.
Payton, the hunter of the dead that assisted the party in their battles against the demilich Acererak and his Tomb of Horrors, arrives. Sybele and he spend a good hour together, talking smack about the undead, including those in the party. But even Payton doesn’t pick a fight.
All in all, the party is smashing.
***
In a dark corner, Alcar sneaks off for a meeting. He slips out of the party unseen and hurries along for a short distance before turning down a dark alley to await the other half of the meeting.
Who, it turns out, is already there, lurking. He seems to materialize from the shadows in the alleyway, tall, crimson-skinned, dangerous-looking. A whiff of tasteful cologne comes off the tall, devilish figure.
“You wished to speak?” Glaisig inquires politely.
“Yes,” Alcar nods. He hesitates for a second, then plunges on ahead. “I would like to have a meeting regarding some of my concerns. We know of certain powerful entities that are profoundly bad for our home plane- the Bile Lords and the Queen of Guts.”
Glaisig cocks his head.
“You know of whom I speak, then?” The angel lets his words hang in the air for a moment before forging on. “They will destroy all that is within their reach. They will kill all the humans whose souls you prey on, or pollute them into bile monsters. Surely, the loss of such a potential hunting ground as Pesh would be a terrible blow to you.”
“It is of little consequence to us, actually,” Glaisig sniffs. “Your vision is still so small, Alcar. I am disappointed.”
“Your help would be of considerable use to us,” Alcar urges. “I am willing to make a deal. You help me, and I will help you. I have some information you may be interested in.”
“Really. Information. How droll.” Glaisig smirks. “And what is it you seek in return? Surely, you do not expect us to adventure with you?”
“Perhaps information for information,” Alcar retorts. The meeting doesn’t feel as in his control as he had hoped it would. “It is difficult, at best, to teleport within Bile Mountain, at least the upper levels. But we also have reason to believe that there are connections to the plane of Shadow within it. If you could help us find... hidden ways... that we could take to get deep inside without having to fight our way through the whole place, that would help a great deal.”
“And exactly what is it that you think you know that we do not?” The scorn in Glaisig’s voice makes Alcar blush. But he does have information, gleaned in Sigil, which he expects that the devils will want.
“For one thing,” Alcar says, “demons are making serious inroads into the Hells. They’re going much deeper than they ever have before, at least in any recorded histories that I have seen. Your master may have taken the Hells, but it seems that he will be lucky to hold on to them.” Alcar’s eyes flash. “Unless we help him.” Dangling the prospect of more than just information.
Glaisig throws back his head and laughs. “Oh, you will have to do better than that!” he chortles. “Yes, we know all about the demonic invasions. You need not concern yourself. Everything is going exactly according to plan.” Alcar is startled at how visible the devil’s emotions suddenly are. Even Glaisig, the Hidden Minister, cannot help but allow some of the gloating to come out into his voice.
The angel, for once, is rendered silent for a moment. Glaisig’s apparent knowledge- and condoning!- of the demonic attack is unnerving. I thought he might know, the angel reflects, but I never expected him to encourage the demonic invasion. There is something more going on here, something huge... but what?
Smiling, with Alcar at a disadvantage, Glaisig continues, “If you want our help with your Bile Lords... you will need to do something that I want.”
“What is it?” Alcar demands.
“I want you to kill someone.”
“I don’t know about that,” Alcar starts, but Glaisig continues smoothly.
“He is from another plane entirely, a parallel prime called Thydra. He is the mayor of a town called Lantinum.”
Alcar hesitates for a long moment. To defeat the Bile Lords... he thinks. Finally, after the moment stretches into almost a minute, he asks, “What is the nature of this man’s character?”
“Oh, he’s no holy man, if that’s what you mean,” Glaisig answers. “He’s a petty tyrant of his town. Nobody to be proud of. After all, if his soul is going to end up in our hands, he couldn’t have been a very ‘Good’ person, could he?”
Alcar can’t argue with that. If he’s evil, then it’s okay, he rationalizes.
“All right,” he says.
The Hidden Minister gives the Angel of Lost Causes a tuning fork of the proper material and note to take him to Thydra. They shake hands to close the deal. Glaisig’s face is composed again; no emotions show on it, nor do they reflect in his scarlet eyes.
“One more thing,” Alcar growls while their hands are clasped.
Glaisig cocks an eyebrow.
“I don’t like you, or your master. I’m only working with you because we need your help. Don’t try to cross us, or to mess with our people. Or you know what will happen.”
Glaisig smiles. “Why, Alcar, we wouldn’t dream of it,” he replies, obviously lying- and obviously intentionally making it obvious. “But do not worry.” His voice returns to its warm neutrality. “We have no imminent designs on you and yours. We can wait.”
“There are other threats, too,” Alcar declares. “Beyond the Bile Lords. The Angels of the Apocalypse. One of them was once a god. You are old- very old. So are they.”
Glaisig remains smugly silent.
“I’ll be in touch,” the angel snarls.
“Of course you will.”
***
When a cute little halfling wench rolls into the party, she and Gerontius are quickly all over each other. Things get rather heated, but when the rest of the party starts egging him on over the telepathic bond, it spoils the mood. Gerontius leaves her hot and wanting more; maybe they will meet again some time. Some time, that is, when his damn friends are asleep or dead.
He smirks evilly and goes to seek out Delilah the Damned. When he finally finds her, emerging in the ravaged shell of the body that she is wearing, he inquires about an old job offer she once made to him. Unfortunately, said opportunity has fled; but she promises to keep him in mind in the future.
Meanwhile, Arion the Archmage has arrived at the party, already stinking drunk, and he obliterates a wall and replaces it with a permanent wall of force in the first fifteen minutes that he is there. The place’s owners look a little beleaguered, but when several of the partygoers toss in obscene amounts of money (compared to the owner’s normal annual income), he shuts right up about it. Alcar- back from one deal making session in time to make another, this time with Dzaram- uses a miracle to ape a quicksober on the archmage. Of course, it won’t last, but at least for a few minutes, Arion won’t be causing any trouble.
The party keeps going all night.
Next Time: The party makes a quick trip to Thydra!
Whatever the balor is smoking, it is very potent. First waves of euphoria, then a gentle buzz for a good hour.
Followed by a nasty come down, with a terrible temper and a callous, reckless malevolence attached.
For a time, Sybele, JJ and Gerontius all see the merits of the Abyssal point of view. Hell, they have championed Chaos long enough, like it or not; and they have all reveled in destroying their enemies, in slaying, slaying, slaying, up to their elbows in blood. Sybele grins rapaciously as she leans back in her withdrawal-induced state, thinking of just how many slaves will attend her once she is the Empress of Forinthia. Anything she wants, she will take. She will kill anyone who defies her will. And really, who could stand against her and her friends? Even if someone was powerful enough, the party is clever enough to deceive them, blind them with sugared words, and then, when they least expect it, in a very painful way- snap! The trap would come shut, and whoever dared to defy her would be slowly flayed alive, fed their own steaming intestines, served their own children as the wages of sin for their foolish intransigence!
She chortles, full of malicious glee.
JJ has a great time with the possessed, living body of Delilah in the den of Froth. Unspeakable horrors are inflicted on the poor thing; but neither JJ, nor Delilah herself, much care. To the demislaad, it is just a measure of his sudden and very strong devotion to Froth; to the undead conjuress, it is just another amusement in just another body of hers.
It’s not like she doesn’t have dozens of spares, of all shapes and descriptions, all races, sexes and ages.
But to despoil young, virgin flesh in such a torrid way- ah! It’s really quite touching to her. She remembers giving herself to Bleak so long ago, before she was undead at all. Back in her own body. In those few living days she had before centuries of unlife.
Gerontius just keeps partying, though he is more inclined to pick a pocket here and there for fun. Of course, he is all too aware that nobody here is a worthy target; no one has treasure worth stealing to someone as powerful as him. He sneers disdainfully.
But the drink, and the drugs, and the partying- ah! Now those are as good as ever. Sigil is a universal crossroads. All things worth having (all those not worth having, too, frankly) come through the City of Doors- and all the things worth drinking, smoking or snorting have come to the Chaos Party.
Payton, the hunter of the dead that assisted the party in their battles against the demilich Acererak and his Tomb of Horrors, arrives. Sybele and he spend a good hour together, talking smack about the undead, including those in the party. But even Payton doesn’t pick a fight.
All in all, the party is smashing.
***
In a dark corner, Alcar sneaks off for a meeting. He slips out of the party unseen and hurries along for a short distance before turning down a dark alley to await the other half of the meeting.
Who, it turns out, is already there, lurking. He seems to materialize from the shadows in the alleyway, tall, crimson-skinned, dangerous-looking. A whiff of tasteful cologne comes off the tall, devilish figure.
“You wished to speak?” Glaisig inquires politely.
“Yes,” Alcar nods. He hesitates for a second, then plunges on ahead. “I would like to have a meeting regarding some of my concerns. We know of certain powerful entities that are profoundly bad for our home plane- the Bile Lords and the Queen of Guts.”
Glaisig cocks his head.
“You know of whom I speak, then?” The angel lets his words hang in the air for a moment before forging on. “They will destroy all that is within their reach. They will kill all the humans whose souls you prey on, or pollute them into bile monsters. Surely, the loss of such a potential hunting ground as Pesh would be a terrible blow to you.”
“It is of little consequence to us, actually,” Glaisig sniffs. “Your vision is still so small, Alcar. I am disappointed.”
“Your help would be of considerable use to us,” Alcar urges. “I am willing to make a deal. You help me, and I will help you. I have some information you may be interested in.”
“Really. Information. How droll.” Glaisig smirks. “And what is it you seek in return? Surely, you do not expect us to adventure with you?”
“Perhaps information for information,” Alcar retorts. The meeting doesn’t feel as in his control as he had hoped it would. “It is difficult, at best, to teleport within Bile Mountain, at least the upper levels. But we also have reason to believe that there are connections to the plane of Shadow within it. If you could help us find... hidden ways... that we could take to get deep inside without having to fight our way through the whole place, that would help a great deal.”
“And exactly what is it that you think you know that we do not?” The scorn in Glaisig’s voice makes Alcar blush. But he does have information, gleaned in Sigil, which he expects that the devils will want.
“For one thing,” Alcar says, “demons are making serious inroads into the Hells. They’re going much deeper than they ever have before, at least in any recorded histories that I have seen. Your master may have taken the Hells, but it seems that he will be lucky to hold on to them.” Alcar’s eyes flash. “Unless we help him.” Dangling the prospect of more than just information.
Glaisig throws back his head and laughs. “Oh, you will have to do better than that!” he chortles. “Yes, we know all about the demonic invasions. You need not concern yourself. Everything is going exactly according to plan.” Alcar is startled at how visible the devil’s emotions suddenly are. Even Glaisig, the Hidden Minister, cannot help but allow some of the gloating to come out into his voice.
The angel, for once, is rendered silent for a moment. Glaisig’s apparent knowledge- and condoning!- of the demonic attack is unnerving. I thought he might know, the angel reflects, but I never expected him to encourage the demonic invasion. There is something more going on here, something huge... but what?
Smiling, with Alcar at a disadvantage, Glaisig continues, “If you want our help with your Bile Lords... you will need to do something that I want.”
“What is it?” Alcar demands.
“I want you to kill someone.”
“I don’t know about that,” Alcar starts, but Glaisig continues smoothly.
“He is from another plane entirely, a parallel prime called Thydra. He is the mayor of a town called Lantinum.”
Alcar hesitates for a long moment. To defeat the Bile Lords... he thinks. Finally, after the moment stretches into almost a minute, he asks, “What is the nature of this man’s character?”
“Oh, he’s no holy man, if that’s what you mean,” Glaisig answers. “He’s a petty tyrant of his town. Nobody to be proud of. After all, if his soul is going to end up in our hands, he couldn’t have been a very ‘Good’ person, could he?”
Alcar can’t argue with that. If he’s evil, then it’s okay, he rationalizes.
“All right,” he says.
The Hidden Minister gives the Angel of Lost Causes a tuning fork of the proper material and note to take him to Thydra. They shake hands to close the deal. Glaisig’s face is composed again; no emotions show on it, nor do they reflect in his scarlet eyes.
“One more thing,” Alcar growls while their hands are clasped.
Glaisig cocks an eyebrow.
“I don’t like you, or your master. I’m only working with you because we need your help. Don’t try to cross us, or to mess with our people. Or you know what will happen.”
Glaisig smiles. “Why, Alcar, we wouldn’t dream of it,” he replies, obviously lying- and obviously intentionally making it obvious. “But do not worry.” His voice returns to its warm neutrality. “We have no imminent designs on you and yours. We can wait.”
“There are other threats, too,” Alcar declares. “Beyond the Bile Lords. The Angels of the Apocalypse. One of them was once a god. You are old- very old. So are they.”
Glaisig remains smugly silent.
“I’ll be in touch,” the angel snarls.
“Of course you will.”
***
When a cute little halfling wench rolls into the party, she and Gerontius are quickly all over each other. Things get rather heated, but when the rest of the party starts egging him on over the telepathic bond, it spoils the mood. Gerontius leaves her hot and wanting more; maybe they will meet again some time. Some time, that is, when his damn friends are asleep or dead.
He smirks evilly and goes to seek out Delilah the Damned. When he finally finds her, emerging in the ravaged shell of the body that she is wearing, he inquires about an old job offer she once made to him. Unfortunately, said opportunity has fled; but she promises to keep him in mind in the future.
Meanwhile, Arion the Archmage has arrived at the party, already stinking drunk, and he obliterates a wall and replaces it with a permanent wall of force in the first fifteen minutes that he is there. The place’s owners look a little beleaguered, but when several of the partygoers toss in obscene amounts of money (compared to the owner’s normal annual income), he shuts right up about it. Alcar- back from one deal making session in time to make another, this time with Dzaram- uses a miracle to ape a quicksober on the archmage. Of course, it won’t last, but at least for a few minutes, Arion won’t be causing any trouble.
The party keeps going all night.
Next Time: The party makes a quick trip to Thydra!
the Jester
Legend
The balor Bol smiles a slow, languid smile and takes another pull from his bong. The acrid tang of the strange chemical mixture that he is smoking causes even his black lungs to momentarily spasm. He is glad to have been able to share the bounty that he has created; this party has been full of individuals (and even groups) willing to try his little concoction out. Potential future customers, perhaps?
Who knows? Who cares? Bol is just glad to be high, partying and on the winning side.
Chaos.
Like all demons, Bol is a remorseless engine of destruction, with not a single redeeming quality. He is utter evil mixed with pure chaos to yield the destructive impulse made manifest. Yet even he, a balor, can see the value in celebrating. Gloating over foes; ensuring that others know of the might of one’s self and allies; despoiling the defeated, and crushing their spirits. Yes, this party- like all victory parties- serves its purpose in the furthering of the powers of Chaos and Evil.
Bol takes another drink.
***
Finally, the party ends, and our heroes seek sleep (albeit Gerontius first seeks the gentle bosom- and other warm parts- of a halfling planar adventurer named Claudia Peachtree). In the morning, they return to Cydra, and then Alcar takes a few of the others to another plane on a quick mission.
Thydra, to all appearances, is a pastoral land of sheep and farms, shepherds and farmers. The town Alcar is seeking- Lantinum- is easily found, about a mile away. The party moves in quickly, scattering the peasants like fallen leaves in a tornado. The mayor doesn’t even put up a fight worth mentioning and is incinerated in a single fire storm from Alcar. The angel is disturbed to see no signs of tyranny, and in fact, the townsfolk seem shocked and mournful when they realize what has happened.
“Are you sure that this was a good idea?” Sybele asks.
***
The next day, Dzaram and his cabal come for a visit. Alcar and the others have gathered for a preliminary, precautionary buff-up before their guests arrive in case anything gets rowdy, but despite a few tense verbal exchanges, everything stays friendly. Friendlyish. Friendly enough, anyway.
Why did you ask him here, anyway? asks Blaze nervously over the permanent telepathic bond that the party shares.
Because he might be able to help us stop Master Control from tracking us, the angel replies.
Indeed, Dzaram first ascertains that the party has “hundreds” of microscopic tracking devices on them, and then casts another spell to destroy them all. Afterwards, the party and the lich’s cabal talk for a while, with our heroes informing Dzaram and his cronies, “We’re party animals, you know... if anything exciting is ever going on, let us know!”
“Indeed,” Dzaram nods, cocking an eyebrow. “I shall.”
***
Alcar makes a point to declare his new faith at every opportunity. The party has a lot of irons in the fire: Master Control, the Bile Lords, the Angels of the Apocalypse- and, lest they forget, there are still Chaos Worms about: they hear rumors of them not far from Var.
“I thought we closed the portals nearest to Var,” remarks Wankerman.
“Yes, but zey are Chaos portals. Perhaps zey move, or more ‘ave opened,” Gerontius replies.
“We have something more important to worry about first,” declares Alcar. “Dekrasode’s horde.”
***
Finding the horde, with the resources that our heroes are able to deploy, is a speed bump. The guardian of it- a strange beast that Alcar manages to identify as a zeugalak (whatever that is- though it seems, naturally, electrically oriented)- is as nothing to the party; after all, they killed Dekrasode himself. His lackeys and servants can’t hold a candle to him.
The horde contains over a million coins, including nearly 100,000 gold pieces and 7,377 platinum. In addition, there are 112 gems, a tapestry, a turquoise dragon sculpture, a silver ring with a flawless sapphire set into it, a cask of extraordinary wine, an ornate scepter (worth about 35,000 gp all by itself), a whole wardrobe of formal, high-value clothing, and a small wealth in magic and psionic items (including some strange candies called life savers that apparently make the eater impossible to kill for a few short moments).
***
Afternoon. The day after the party, still. Alcar is very busy.
He goes to see Belmondo, the dwarven prostheticist that the party recognized from the underwater island of horrors. He asks his old friend for all the information he can provide. What are the horrors’ weaknesses? None. Was Belmondo involved in the structural design of the underwater complex? Oh, no, it is very old- older than any dwarf’s life. What about the missiles? What about this? What about that?
The frustrating truth of it is, Belmondo knows very little that will aid the party against Master Control.
“Well,” Alcar sighs, “this is twice, now, that Master Control has kidnapped you. We can’t let that happen again. We’re going to the castle, to see Malford, to get you some protection.”
“Belmondo doesn’t need protection!” the dwarf protests, but Alcar cuts him off.
“Yes you do. Master Control has taken you twice. This time, I had to kill you to save you. I won’t risk Master Control getting ahold of you again.”
Belmondo stares hard at his old friend for a moment, and then deflates. “You’re right,” he admits. “Belmondo is too valuable to the enemy to let them have him.”
First, Alcar summons a greater planar ally: some kind of celestial swordsman that he’s never seen before (much to his surprise!). But some quick bargaining, and he trades 25 days of bodyguarding Belmondo for a pledge to erect a magnificent statue of Bless triumphing over an adversary.
“I know just who to put as the enemy,” Alcar nods. Galador.
***
The next day the angel sets about commissioning a great temple, with a huge statue of Bless triumphing over Galador out front. He allocates 126,000 gp to it, with almost half being for the statue.
***
Another sunrise. Alcar issues a bunch of sendings, starting with Dzaram.
I invite you to join myself, Wankerman and Gerontius for breakfast. Would like to discuss future affairs. Bring the crew.
Dzaram’s reply is quick: I am in the middle of something delicate. I’ll contact you in a few days.
Alcar swears under his breath, then shrugs. He sends a similar message to Mabrack, who replies, Okay, where are you? Alcar curses; of course he didn’t think to say in the first sending. Another missive reveals the answer to the storm giant’s question: the Three Rubies.
Then Alcar sends to Glaisig, Me and you need to talk. Interests, common, needs apparent, wisdom will bring you to the table.”
The devil’s response: I can meet you on the 28th for ten minutes at noon. Will that suffice?
Cursing again, Alcar issues another sending: I guess it will have to, if that’s how much you care. Your master might be interested as well. Hextor.
The reply, again, is almost instantaneous. Splendid. See you then.
“Bastard,” growls Alcar aloud.
***
Meanwhile, Gerontius takes a step that he has been thinking about for a long time: he buys a house in Var. It has a nice fireplace and a grand yard. He is quite pleased with it.
“Not bad,” Wankerman nods.
Gerontius glances at the sky. “It’s almost time to meet Alcar for breakfast,” he remarks.
“You think he’s done sending out the invitations?”
“Who cares? I am ‘ungry!”
Grinning, the two make their way towards the Three Rubies.
***
Alcar continues sending out his sendings. To Arion the Archmage: This is Alcar. Three Rubies. Breakfast, on me. I entreat you to come discuss future affairs.
Breakfast sounds great, comes the reply, but don’t talk too loud, I have a headache.
“He’s drunk or hung over,” Alcar mutters to himself. He is not surprised, but he is a little disappointed.
To Seethe, the party’s old druid friend: This is Alcar, I invite you for breakfast at the Three Rubies in Var, please come.
Seethe’s reply is short and to the point: Okay, see you soon.
To Marius the Enigmatic, one of the super-simulacra of Marius, Alcar sends, Look to the future. Me and you need to talk. Breakfast, Three Rubies, Var. I bet I’m looking farther ahead.
Another discouraging, yet not entirely hopeless, reply: I am willing to meet you, but only on my terms, where the advantage is mine. I will contact you.
To the Delphin: We’ve never met before, I think now is the time. This is Alcar, please meet me for breakfast at Three. Alcar runs out of words, and the answer is swift.
Three is no time for breakfast, and my schedule is busy. What do you wish to meet about?
Out of sendings, Alcar begins creating more via miracle. He replies to the Delphin: Sorry, interrupted, Three Rubies, Var, future threats need discussion amongst people of power. Imminent danger, please come.
I will send a representative.
Alcar grins. That’s more than I expected, he thinks.
Another miracle turned to a sending goes out, this one to Thrush: We need to talk. This is Alcar. Three Rubies, Var, future importance. Breakfast.
Okay, can’t do breakfast, but I’ll be there for dinner.
Alcar takes a quick break from sending out invitations to breakfast in order to shatter the gem to which Lord Alyth is soul bound, and then to attempt a true resurrection. But Alyth does not accept the opportunity to return to life. Perhaps, his ethos defeated, he would prefer to stay in the perfect order of his afterlife.
***
9/21/371 O.L.G., 10 a.m., the Clockwork Nirvana of Mechanus
Mechanus is a plane of giant gears and wheels and cogs, all interconnected. It is the plane of perfect order, of organization, of numbers and math and perfect cycles. The adventuring party calling itself the Blue Band (led by the charismatic wizard named Balephyl) has come here on a great adventure, succeeded beyond their wildest dreams (little dreaming that their adventures would happen as all of Law was distracted by the climactic battle of the Great War of Ethics), and subsequently rested, waiting for the great gear that they are on to turn back towards the portal that they are going to use to flee home, to the Prime Material Plane.
Except for one small snag: the portal is in use- by a long, long line of modrons.
Modrons are strange creatures, almost constructs, that come in weird geometric shapes. They are one of the dominant, yet very alien, forms of life on Nirvana. And if there is one thing that Balephyl is sure, absolutely sure of, it is that this huge force of modrons should not be here.
At least, not for another several hundred years.
“I just don’t get it,” he grumbles.
“What?” asks his companion Pandin, a gnomish ranger.
“Them. This. They shouldn’t be here, not yet.”
“What do you mean?”
“The modrons. This is where their great march around the outer planes starts. They do it every couple thousand years, like clockwork.”
“And?”
“It isn’t due for another two and a half centuries!” Balephyl shakes his head. “Modrons are Law incarnate, Pandin. If they are off-schedule, something big is happening.”
Big like the cosmic victory of Chaos over Law- or something else?
***
At the bottom of the Multiverse, great lenses focus running waves of negative energy, churned by the destruction of Acererak’s phylactery of the apotheosis, into higher and higher levels of agitation. They ripple through the void like the thrill of a murder. The Void Masters rejoice as undead after undead is birthed and destroyed, sucked into the great Naught that they are creating.
Somewhere above a craggy landscape on a silver backdrop, a pool of cold black ebony shudders and begins expanding. Then, slowly, bent by the cosmic weight of the Naught, it starts to deform, becoming concave as the center of it recedes through the silver void and the edges bulge out towards the stony landscape, threatening to engulf it. Jagged spears of negative energy lance out like bolts of lightning.
***
After an unsatisfactory exchange with Seclaidra and an attempt to contact the ethros called Zsadly the Sadist, Alcar leans back in his chair, stretches, and prepares for breakfast. He nods to Wankerman and Gerontius as they walk in.
“We’ll see who is coming,” Alcar declares, “but let’s start with a heroes’ feast.”
Breakfast begins.
Next Time: Breakfast at the Three Rubies! JJ is named in a will! Gerontius gets a letter! And more!
Who knows? Who cares? Bol is just glad to be high, partying and on the winning side.
Chaos.
Like all demons, Bol is a remorseless engine of destruction, with not a single redeeming quality. He is utter evil mixed with pure chaos to yield the destructive impulse made manifest. Yet even he, a balor, can see the value in celebrating. Gloating over foes; ensuring that others know of the might of one’s self and allies; despoiling the defeated, and crushing their spirits. Yes, this party- like all victory parties- serves its purpose in the furthering of the powers of Chaos and Evil.
Bol takes another drink.
***
Finally, the party ends, and our heroes seek sleep (albeit Gerontius first seeks the gentle bosom- and other warm parts- of a halfling planar adventurer named Claudia Peachtree). In the morning, they return to Cydra, and then Alcar takes a few of the others to another plane on a quick mission.
Thydra, to all appearances, is a pastoral land of sheep and farms, shepherds and farmers. The town Alcar is seeking- Lantinum- is easily found, about a mile away. The party moves in quickly, scattering the peasants like fallen leaves in a tornado. The mayor doesn’t even put up a fight worth mentioning and is incinerated in a single fire storm from Alcar. The angel is disturbed to see no signs of tyranny, and in fact, the townsfolk seem shocked and mournful when they realize what has happened.
“Are you sure that this was a good idea?” Sybele asks.
***
The next day, Dzaram and his cabal come for a visit. Alcar and the others have gathered for a preliminary, precautionary buff-up before their guests arrive in case anything gets rowdy, but despite a few tense verbal exchanges, everything stays friendly. Friendlyish. Friendly enough, anyway.
Why did you ask him here, anyway? asks Blaze nervously over the permanent telepathic bond that the party shares.
Because he might be able to help us stop Master Control from tracking us, the angel replies.
Indeed, Dzaram first ascertains that the party has “hundreds” of microscopic tracking devices on them, and then casts another spell to destroy them all. Afterwards, the party and the lich’s cabal talk for a while, with our heroes informing Dzaram and his cronies, “We’re party animals, you know... if anything exciting is ever going on, let us know!”
“Indeed,” Dzaram nods, cocking an eyebrow. “I shall.”
***
Alcar makes a point to declare his new faith at every opportunity. The party has a lot of irons in the fire: Master Control, the Bile Lords, the Angels of the Apocalypse- and, lest they forget, there are still Chaos Worms about: they hear rumors of them not far from Var.
“I thought we closed the portals nearest to Var,” remarks Wankerman.
“Yes, but zey are Chaos portals. Perhaps zey move, or more ‘ave opened,” Gerontius replies.
“We have something more important to worry about first,” declares Alcar. “Dekrasode’s horde.”
***
Finding the horde, with the resources that our heroes are able to deploy, is a speed bump. The guardian of it- a strange beast that Alcar manages to identify as a zeugalak (whatever that is- though it seems, naturally, electrically oriented)- is as nothing to the party; after all, they killed Dekrasode himself. His lackeys and servants can’t hold a candle to him.
The horde contains over a million coins, including nearly 100,000 gold pieces and 7,377 platinum. In addition, there are 112 gems, a tapestry, a turquoise dragon sculpture, a silver ring with a flawless sapphire set into it, a cask of extraordinary wine, an ornate scepter (worth about 35,000 gp all by itself), a whole wardrobe of formal, high-value clothing, and a small wealth in magic and psionic items (including some strange candies called life savers that apparently make the eater impossible to kill for a few short moments).
***
Afternoon. The day after the party, still. Alcar is very busy.
He goes to see Belmondo, the dwarven prostheticist that the party recognized from the underwater island of horrors. He asks his old friend for all the information he can provide. What are the horrors’ weaknesses? None. Was Belmondo involved in the structural design of the underwater complex? Oh, no, it is very old- older than any dwarf’s life. What about the missiles? What about this? What about that?
The frustrating truth of it is, Belmondo knows very little that will aid the party against Master Control.
“Well,” Alcar sighs, “this is twice, now, that Master Control has kidnapped you. We can’t let that happen again. We’re going to the castle, to see Malford, to get you some protection.”
“Belmondo doesn’t need protection!” the dwarf protests, but Alcar cuts him off.
“Yes you do. Master Control has taken you twice. This time, I had to kill you to save you. I won’t risk Master Control getting ahold of you again.”
Belmondo stares hard at his old friend for a moment, and then deflates. “You’re right,” he admits. “Belmondo is too valuable to the enemy to let them have him.”
First, Alcar summons a greater planar ally: some kind of celestial swordsman that he’s never seen before (much to his surprise!). But some quick bargaining, and he trades 25 days of bodyguarding Belmondo for a pledge to erect a magnificent statue of Bless triumphing over an adversary.
“I know just who to put as the enemy,” Alcar nods. Galador.
***
The next day the angel sets about commissioning a great temple, with a huge statue of Bless triumphing over Galador out front. He allocates 126,000 gp to it, with almost half being for the statue.
***
Another sunrise. Alcar issues a bunch of sendings, starting with Dzaram.
I invite you to join myself, Wankerman and Gerontius for breakfast. Would like to discuss future affairs. Bring the crew.
Dzaram’s reply is quick: I am in the middle of something delicate. I’ll contact you in a few days.
Alcar swears under his breath, then shrugs. He sends a similar message to Mabrack, who replies, Okay, where are you? Alcar curses; of course he didn’t think to say in the first sending. Another missive reveals the answer to the storm giant’s question: the Three Rubies.
Then Alcar sends to Glaisig, Me and you need to talk. Interests, common, needs apparent, wisdom will bring you to the table.”
The devil’s response: I can meet you on the 28th for ten minutes at noon. Will that suffice?
Cursing again, Alcar issues another sending: I guess it will have to, if that’s how much you care. Your master might be interested as well. Hextor.
The reply, again, is almost instantaneous. Splendid. See you then.
“Bastard,” growls Alcar aloud.
***
Meanwhile, Gerontius takes a step that he has been thinking about for a long time: he buys a house in Var. It has a nice fireplace and a grand yard. He is quite pleased with it.
“Not bad,” Wankerman nods.
Gerontius glances at the sky. “It’s almost time to meet Alcar for breakfast,” he remarks.
“You think he’s done sending out the invitations?”
“Who cares? I am ‘ungry!”
Grinning, the two make their way towards the Three Rubies.
***
Alcar continues sending out his sendings. To Arion the Archmage: This is Alcar. Three Rubies. Breakfast, on me. I entreat you to come discuss future affairs.
Breakfast sounds great, comes the reply, but don’t talk too loud, I have a headache.
“He’s drunk or hung over,” Alcar mutters to himself. He is not surprised, but he is a little disappointed.
To Seethe, the party’s old druid friend: This is Alcar, I invite you for breakfast at the Three Rubies in Var, please come.
Seethe’s reply is short and to the point: Okay, see you soon.
To Marius the Enigmatic, one of the super-simulacra of Marius, Alcar sends, Look to the future. Me and you need to talk. Breakfast, Three Rubies, Var. I bet I’m looking farther ahead.
Another discouraging, yet not entirely hopeless, reply: I am willing to meet you, but only on my terms, where the advantage is mine. I will contact you.
To the Delphin: We’ve never met before, I think now is the time. This is Alcar, please meet me for breakfast at Three. Alcar runs out of words, and the answer is swift.
Three is no time for breakfast, and my schedule is busy. What do you wish to meet about?
Out of sendings, Alcar begins creating more via miracle. He replies to the Delphin: Sorry, interrupted, Three Rubies, Var, future threats need discussion amongst people of power. Imminent danger, please come.
I will send a representative.
Alcar grins. That’s more than I expected, he thinks.
Another miracle turned to a sending goes out, this one to Thrush: We need to talk. This is Alcar. Three Rubies, Var, future importance. Breakfast.
Okay, can’t do breakfast, but I’ll be there for dinner.
Alcar takes a quick break from sending out invitations to breakfast in order to shatter the gem to which Lord Alyth is soul bound, and then to attempt a true resurrection. But Alyth does not accept the opportunity to return to life. Perhaps, his ethos defeated, he would prefer to stay in the perfect order of his afterlife.
***
9/21/371 O.L.G., 10 a.m., the Clockwork Nirvana of Mechanus
Mechanus is a plane of giant gears and wheels and cogs, all interconnected. It is the plane of perfect order, of organization, of numbers and math and perfect cycles. The adventuring party calling itself the Blue Band (led by the charismatic wizard named Balephyl) has come here on a great adventure, succeeded beyond their wildest dreams (little dreaming that their adventures would happen as all of Law was distracted by the climactic battle of the Great War of Ethics), and subsequently rested, waiting for the great gear that they are on to turn back towards the portal that they are going to use to flee home, to the Prime Material Plane.
Except for one small snag: the portal is in use- by a long, long line of modrons.
Modrons are strange creatures, almost constructs, that come in weird geometric shapes. They are one of the dominant, yet very alien, forms of life on Nirvana. And if there is one thing that Balephyl is sure, absolutely sure of, it is that this huge force of modrons should not be here.
At least, not for another several hundred years.
“I just don’t get it,” he grumbles.
“What?” asks his companion Pandin, a gnomish ranger.
“Them. This. They shouldn’t be here, not yet.”
“What do you mean?”
“The modrons. This is where their great march around the outer planes starts. They do it every couple thousand years, like clockwork.”
“And?”
“It isn’t due for another two and a half centuries!” Balephyl shakes his head. “Modrons are Law incarnate, Pandin. If they are off-schedule, something big is happening.”
Big like the cosmic victory of Chaos over Law- or something else?
***
At the bottom of the Multiverse, great lenses focus running waves of negative energy, churned by the destruction of Acererak’s phylactery of the apotheosis, into higher and higher levels of agitation. They ripple through the void like the thrill of a murder. The Void Masters rejoice as undead after undead is birthed and destroyed, sucked into the great Naught that they are creating.
Somewhere above a craggy landscape on a silver backdrop, a pool of cold black ebony shudders and begins expanding. Then, slowly, bent by the cosmic weight of the Naught, it starts to deform, becoming concave as the center of it recedes through the silver void and the edges bulge out towards the stony landscape, threatening to engulf it. Jagged spears of negative energy lance out like bolts of lightning.
***
After an unsatisfactory exchange with Seclaidra and an attempt to contact the ethros called Zsadly the Sadist, Alcar leans back in his chair, stretches, and prepares for breakfast. He nods to Wankerman and Gerontius as they walk in.
“We’ll see who is coming,” Alcar declares, “but let’s start with a heroes’ feast.”
Breakfast begins.
Next Time: Breakfast at the Three Rubies! JJ is named in a will! Gerontius gets a letter! And more!
Mathew_Freeman
Adventurer
Now, having played the original module I know the original answer to why the Modrons are marching. Can't wait to find out if you're sticking with the same reason!
I'm really enjoying the manoeuvring and jockying for position at the moment. Seems the party (and players) are having to face some quite different challenges now.
the Jester
Legend
Tallarn said:
I've never played or read it, actually.
Knightfall
World of Kulan DM
Excellent updates, J!
Can't wait to read what happens next.
Can't wait to read what happens next.
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