JollyDoc's Savage Tide-Updated 10/8!

[Schmoe]

Nulonga was a human sorcerer/thrall of demogorgon. One of his supernatural abilities was called Death Wish. As an immediate action, he could will his body to die. If he was struck by a lethal attack, he could use this ability the instant before he died to free his soul to inhabit any other humanoid corpse within 1 mile. The corpse would animate as a juju zombie, but he would still have all of his normal abilities. Sucks.

The best part of it all, IMHO, is that Nulonga's depraved devotion to Demogorgon compels him to saw off the legs of whatever form he inhabits before he does anything else. I personally thought Nulonga was a stroke of genius. Twisted, disturbing, and macabre genius, but genius nonetheless.

 

[LordVyreth]

Nulonga was a human sorcerer/thrall of demogorgon. One of his supernatural abilities was called Death Wish. As an immediate action, he could will his body to die. If he was struck by a lethal attack, he could use this ability the instant before he died to free his soul to inhabit any other humanoid corpse within 1 mile. The corpse would animate as a juju zombie, but he would still have all of his normal abilities. Sucks.

Ouch. I would have suggested feebleminding or otherwise neutralizing non-lethally, but if it's an immediate action he could have probably saw it coming and offed himself first anyway. Well, maybe a still and silent spelled feeblemind, or one cast by the invisible, but otherwise that would be annoying. Does that mean he's still not technically dead? Or did whacking Demogorgon negate his thrall powers?

 

[Quartz]

If you read the module, Nulonga has a decent chance of becoming the new Big D. But Feebleminding him would have been a good option. Of course, they didn't know that.

 

[JollyDoc]

Does that mean he's still not technically dead? Or did whacking Demogorgon negate his thrall powers?

All in good time, my friend...all in good time...

 

[primemover003]

Lords of Light! All that reading and the end is mere days away from being revealed!!!

I've got to get back to writing my STAP story hour now! Starting COBI this weekend.

 

[Monkey Boy]

Congrats on the win Jolly Doc's crew.

You sure showed Demogorgon who's boss.

 

[JollyDoc]

EPILOGUE

“You have no right to claim what’s ours, witch!”
Tower Cleaver’s biceps barely showed tension as he held back the furious goliath. Several safe feet away stood Iggwilv, Mandi by her side.
“What’s yours?” the witch queen said, smiling and cocking her head. “By what right do you claim the soul of a demon lord?”
“By the right that he died by our hands!” Sepoto screamed.
“An accomplishment that would not have been possible without my assistance,” Iggwilv said, matter-of-factly.
“Mandi, are you just going to stand there and let her do this?” the crusader glared at the sorceress. “Do you not recall what’s at stake here?”
“If you mean your ill-conceived bargain with Ahazu,” Iggwilv interrupted, “Mandi has nothing to fear…not as long as she is under my protection.” She looked meaningfully at her new apprentice.
“Where does that leave us??” Sepoto raged.
Iggwilv sighed, and began pacing in irritation. “It leaves you with a big problem that is exactly that: your problem, not mine. I have kept my side of the bargain. I gave you no assurances beyond that. Still, certainly you realize that things have changed since your little arrangement with the Seizer?”
“Yes, they’ve changed all right!” the crusader spat. “You’ve used us and now you’re throwing us to the wolves!”
Iggwilv shrugged. “That may well be, but that’s not what I’m speaking of. You’ve just slain a demon lord, and not just any demon lord…the Prince of Demons. Do you think just anyone could do that? Thousands have tried before, most more capable than you, and none have succeeded. Why is that, do you think? Certainly you had help, but that alone could not have assured your victory. No, for whatever reason, you and your companions were chosen for this. By whom, I cannot say, but there are powers at work here greater than you can comprehend…certainly greater than Ahazu. You have achieved something epic here today, and though your pact with the Seizer still holds great power, it is no longer absolute. Ahazu will still try to collect, but the outcome is by no means assured.”
Sepoto was quiet for a moment, distrust still on his face, but his rage somewhat lessened.
“Are you saying…you’ll help us?” he asked at length.
“I’ve helped you more than you deserve,” she laughed. “No, you are no longer my concern, but there are others who might see things differently. By my calculations, you have about fifty-five days left to find out.”

Daelric only half-listened to the debate. The young cleric had managed to undo most of the damage Nulonga had inflicted upon him, and had also fished Octurus out of the water. Fortunately, the demon hunter had still been alive…barely. Daelric had brought him back to consciousness, and had healed the worst of his wounds, but the rest would have to wait. The priest was exhausted and drained physically, emotionally and spiritually.
“This is all I could find,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “There’s nothing else left.”
He held a small, severed finger in one hand, all that remained of Marius.
“Maybe tomorrow I can beseech Shaundekal to grant me greater power to restore him, but not today.”
“Each day your friend’s soul spends in limbo is another that Ahazu can use to imprison it,” Iggwilv said.
“What would you have me do?” Daelric replied angrily, rising to his feet. “Can you restore him to life? Can you do anything but gloat?”
“I am no healer,” the witch answered, ignoring his insults. “Quite the opposite, in fact.”
“Perhaps I can help,” Octurus said, taking the grisly appendage from Daelric’s hand.
“You?” Daelric asked. “How? No offense, but voodoo and witchcraft aren’t going to be of much use here.”
“Perhaps,” the Maztican shrugged, “but the magic of my people is ancient, and relies on the universal forces of nature…forces that apply even in this, the most unnatural of environments.”
He clutched Marius’s finger in his grip, and bowed his head, chanting low, the words unintelligible. As he finished, he touched each of his totemic tattoos in sequence, then placed the digit on the ground. Nothing happened. The dead flesh remained inert. Octurus sighed, and bowed his head.
“His soul does not answer,” he said. “He is gone…beyond our reach forever…”
____________________________________________________________

“What of the master pearl?” Mandi asked quietly, once she and Iggwilv were out of earshot of the others.
“You must remove it to a safe place,” her mistress replied. “As long as it exists, the Savage Tide can still be triggered, and who knows what whims might strike the new Prince of Demons?”
“You know who it is?” Mandi asked, her eyes wide.
“Of course!” Iggwilv smiled. “There were only a handful of realistic candidates on Gaping Maw at the time of Demogorgon’s death: Dagon, Tetradarian, Orcus and…Graz’zt.”
Mandi’s jaw dropped as the witch queen ticked off the names.
“Do I dare ask who was the victor?”
“Why, none other than our old ally…Orcus,” Iggwilv answered. “There was never any real doubt in my mind that it would be him. After all, he among them all is the only one who has ever truly touched divinity. It has always been his hope to regain that status, and with the added power of the Crown, he might just succeed. Ah, but these are concerns for lesser beings, my pet. As I was saying, your first responsibility is to secure the master pearl, and then find a way to destroy it. A Savage Tide sweeping across the Prime does not suit my future plans.”
_________________________________________________________________

In the end, there was only one logical choice as a secure location to study the master pearl and find a means of destroying it…the Court of Stars. The six companions and Iggwilv left Wat Dagon, and the witch queen then opened one final portal to the home of the eladrin and sent the Legionnaires through, promising that they would meet again…soon.

Morwel and the Court greeted the six as legendary heroes, and the celebrations that followed went on for days. Gwynharwyf was overcome when she finally had a chance to speak with the companions alone. She was profuse in her apologies for not being able to aid them in their hour of need, but swore her eternal gratitude to them all for their accomplishments. Octurus, especially, she favored, and when the Maztican demon hunter told her of their misguided arrangement with Ahazu, the Whirling Fury vowed to speak with Morwel on his behalf…and on behalf of Tower Cleaver. For a short time, the minotaur seemed completely at peace. While on the Court of Stars, he never donned his armor, nor did he carry any arms. He spent hours under the stars, or wandering far in the lush fields or fragrant woods. He became something of a mascot for many of the eladrin, and his laughter could be heard booming through the Court at all hours.

Ultimately, the task of destroying the master pearl proved simplicity itself. Hours of research on the part of Mandi and Marius, aided by the brightest minds among the eladrin, revealed that the pearl need only be immersed in waters of exceptional serenity and purity. The Fountain of Beauty proved more than adequate. As Mandi dipped the pearl into the pool, it crackled and smoked, seemingly on the verge of bursting, before turning white and brittle, the consistency of chalk. The threat of the Savage Tide was ended.

 

[JollyDoc]

The last time that the Legion gathered as a team was once more by the Fountain of Beauty. This time, no eladrin accompanied them. They had asked for privacy. All of them knew that the end of an era was at hand, and what they had accomplished as a team could never be recaptured. It was a time for goodbyes…for endings…and new beginnings. Each of them drank again from the fountain, this time in remembrance of allies gone. Each took a turn reciting the names: Ferox, Gotr, Xerxes, Anwar, Basil, Thrisp, Samson, Gregor, and finally, Marius.
“To old friends,” Mandi toasted.
“So say we all!” the others responded, and then the moment passed. There was nothing more that needed to be said. They had fought together, bled together, and in the end, triumphed…together. They clasped hands, one with another, embraced, and then each went their separate way into the darkness under the stars and the boughs above them.
________________________________________________________________

Time passed, as time will. The deeds of the Legion were not told in taverns, nor sung by bards. Few, in fact, ever knew of the small group of adventurers who had risked all to save an entire world. Few ever knew their world was in danger. They went about their mundane lives ignorant of the war that had raged beyond the curtain of their existence, and perhaps, that was for the best.

When a lone goliath entered the sanctuary of the church of Savras in Tashluta, he was greeted with shock and joy by the brethren who thought him lost to them. He offered no explanation of where he’d been for almost two years, but it was obvious to those who had known him that something fundamental had changed in the once jovial crusader. He resumed his duties within the church, but in time, it became clear that he had returned from his sabbatical with renewed purpose. He began recruiting from the most promising of the church’s clergy, training them in the ways of the Eye. Most he schooled as warriors, like himself, lethal and deadly fighters, but others he chose for their skills in divination. He told them of visions…prophecies that had been foretold to him. He said they must be ever vigilant, lest these prophecies come to pass, and their flock face doom from any number of enemies. The church must bear witness, he said, and offer aid wherever it was needed. Vigilance must never waver. The Eye must never blink.

Sepoto’s premonitions were not without merit. When sixty and six days had passed since his meeting with Ahazu, he felt the power of the demon lord reach for him. He had long since removed the foul tooth of the Seizer from his mouth, and hidden it away until such time as he could find a way to destroy it. Still, the Seizer’s pull was strong, almost overwhelming. Yet, as Iggwilv had foretold, something had changed about him, and Savras Himself had taken special notice of this particular servant. Ahazu was to be denied his prize, and Sepoto learned in time that none of his companions were ever claimed by the Seizer either.

Over the course of the next several years, the vacancy left by Shami-Amourae vexed and enraged Ahazu. Finally, the demon lord broke free from his self-imposed prison in a fit of rage that released all of the other prisoners from the Wells of Darkness. The sudden return to the multiverse of so many powerful entities took the ranks of the Divine and Infernal by surprise, and in time, Sepoto and his Eyes were called upon again and again to deal with the escaped menaces. The remainder of the goliath’s life was full and eventful, and though he redeemed any missteps or wrongdoings he may have committed hundreds of times over, he never truly forgave himself…
_______________________________________________________________

With the dispersing of his herd, Tower Cleaver was at loose ends, with no one to look after or protect. In his many travels with his friends, he had slain a god, destroyed the first among death knights, and dealt the killing blow to the Prince of Demons. He had handed out more violent death than he could keep track of, and along the way, even managed to visit the celestial realms, a place of beauty beyond his wildest imaginings. He had made a promise to himself that if he ever managed to escape the Abyss alive, he would never return, and his one driving goal after Demogorgon’s defeat was to flee as far from its grasp as possible.

He saw Mandi once more when he journeyed to Tashluta to claim his share of the wealth gathered from the Temple of the Celestial Winds. From there, he traveled briefly with Octurus, as the pair sailed back to the Isle of Dread and Farshore. Once there, Cleaver immediately sought out Tavey Nesk and made the boy a one-time offer: come with him and he would promise to act as mentor to the lad. He made only two promises: they would see things the boy had never dreamed of, and they would never return to Farshore. Tavey eagerly accepted, bade his foster parents a tear-filled but joyful goodbye, and stepped aboard the Blue Nixie without a backwards glance.

From the Isle of Dread, Cleaver and Tavey set sail for Waterdeep. The minotaur knew the great metropolis was a place where almost anything could be found, and once there, he found exactly what he was looking for: passage aboard a Spelljamming ship called the Enterprise. And so it came to pass that Tower Cleaver departed the plane he had called home his entire life for the last time. But there were new planes of existence to explore, and as he’d promised, new wonders to behold. Years passed, and he and Tavey became well-known interplanar adventurers, the stuff of legends. Yet they never remained in one place for long, just time enough to book passage to their next destination. Though Cleaver had long since abandoned the worship of Shaundekal, he had become a living epitome of the deity. However, even that live-for-the-moment lifestyle eventually became tiresome, and with the wealth, knowledge and physical power he and Tavey had amassed over the years, he thought that perhaps they could finally stop running.

During their travels, the duo had discovered a small, barren demi-plane, home to an ancient temple to a long-forgotten god. There, they found an artifact, an item of such power that it could either remove them from their reality forever, or unmake them completely and thus rewrite history as if they had never been. Cleaver chose the former. Their final destination was a material plane as different from Toril as smell was to color. There, in a great city with skyscraping buildings of glass and metal, Tower Cleaver and Tavey found a home at last. There were others like them, who dwelt among the common folk as both heroes and villains. In time, the dynamic duo took their own place among the pantheon of so-called “super heroes…”

 

[JollyDoc]

Marius awoke to a nightmarish sight. He stood before a huge horned throne, decorated with demonic skulls and raised on a three-tiered dais. The figure that sat in the grotesque chair was darkly handsome, an ebon-skinned man nearly nine feet tall. His slightly pointed ears, yellow fangs, and six-fingered hands marked him clearly as the Demon Lord Graz’zt.
“Master…,” Marius croaked as he awkwardly prostrated himself. His body felt strange. It was then that he realized that he was again human, in his original body. He looked up with a mixture of confusion and gratitude.
“Consider it a token of my appreciation,” purred the Dark Prince. An almost genuine smile played around Graz’zt’s mouth. “You and your companions have accomplished that which countless demon lords could not. You have defeated the filthy beast Demogorgon, and you have saved your own world in the process…at least for now.”
“Unfortunately, you weren’t around to see the end. No matter. Charon and I already had an understanding regarding your soul. That fool Ahazu has already tried to interfere with our bargain, but I have dealt with that problem for you. Yet another reward for my loyal servant.”
Marius nodded his thanks. This time true relief overcame the warmage. He would have gone mad in the Wells of Darkness. At least his bondage to the Dark Prince had its rewards.
“It does, indeed,” mused Graz’zt, obviously reading Marius’s surface thoughts. “Tyralandi did well in bringing you to me. She will be suitably rewarded for her service.”

Marius reflected back to the day he and Mandi were struck down by Yuan-Ti assassins in Scuttlecove. He had seen the horrors that awaited him after death. Various demons had already been bidding on his soul, and an aspect of Demogorgon himself was poised to pluck the warmage’s helpless larval form for its own… when he was suddenly pulled back by Daelric’s spell. The demons cursed him and tore at his soul-stuff, ripping and shredding Marius’s very essence. Then he was back in the middle of the fight, and this time the warmage fought for his very soul, for if he were killed again, death would be the least of his worries.

He remembered Porphyry House…
Tyralandi slunk cat-like towards him, letting one of her hands casually caress his face as she moved around him. She wove her fingers into his fiery red hair and then leaned down so that her lips softly brushed his ear.
“I smell death upon you,” she whispered so that only he could hear. “I know that you are marked. Should your soul pass beyond this world as it is, it shall not be as a petitioner. No, you are meant for special things. You have drawn unwanted attention to yourself in your short, violent life, and the cost to you in the hereafter will be eternal. You have no patron to claim you from those who would profit from a soul such as yours. No one to protect you, and now you have the ire of the Prince of Demons as well. I will take what you have offered, and I shall offer you a gift in return. My Prince is powerful as well. He could use the services of one such as you, and in turn, He would guarantee your safe passage in the beyond. Think on my words long, mage.” She then plucked several hairs from his head and returned to her seat.

After abandoning his friends, he again visited Tyralandi for instruction. His first order of business was to prove his loyalty by eliminating the remnants of the Seventh Coil and the Protectorate in Scuttlecove. Lethally effective in his missions, Marius was then directed to the Court of Red Shroud on the Abyssal plane of Pazunia, to await his former companions and rejoin the fight against Demogorgon.

Graz’zt again addressed Marius’s thoughts, interrupting his reverie.
“As you can see,” the demon prince said, “ I keep my promises to those who are faithful to me. I have provided your soul safe passage. I have restored your original body. I have saved you from the clutches of the Seizer. Now it is time to honor your end of the bargain…”
“Your companions killed a certain general of mine by the name of Lillianth. I have decided that you will assume her command,” said the Dark Prince, matter-of-factly. “You will report to my son, Athux immediately for your commission and instruction.”
Marius was stunned.
“You are a warmage of epic skills; you have faced everything the Abyss has thrown at you, and yet you survive. Your flames will not aid me much against the Hell-spawned devils in the Blood War, but then, the Hells don’t concern me much anyway. No, your skills will best be used against the…” Graz’zt hesitated for a moment and then spat, “new Prince of Demons.”
The Dark Prince continued passionately, “Orcus claimed the black crown of Demogorgon for himself. We must strike while he is still weak. Orcus was very nearly killed by Demogorgon. Both his armies and those of Demogorgon are decimated. Lemoriax lies in ruins, and Obox-Ob is still loose in Gaping Maw. We march in six days!”
“Yes, my Master,” said Marius R’alan, Flame of Graz’zt, General of the Argent Horde. He bowed again, then left the throne room to meet his fate.
________________________________________________________________

Watching the swirling chaos that encompassed the many layers of the Abyss, Daelric saw it through the eyes of a new emotion: confidence. Something had fundamentally changed within him when he had stared into the eyes of Demogorgon, thinking he would breath his last that day. He had finally conquered his fear.

After collecting his share of the gold, and trying fruitlessly to convince Tower Cleaver to travel with him, the young priest set out on what he knew to be the true journey of his life: to find his real master. He was no fool, and he knew that his strength lay in recruiting other, powerful beings to do his dirty work, with promises of even greater power and glory, or magical coercion when all else failed. He also knew that he would not hesitate to kill any one of them if they stood in the way of his quest. When his journey had first begun, long ago when he had journeyed with Mandi into the damnable swamps of the Isle of Dread, his own power had felt like flying across the ocean, or a stiff wind at his back, but as the road he traveled became darker and ever more morally convoluted, that feeling had faded, until one day he awoke to his morning prayers, only to find that Shaundekal no longer answered. Yet still the divine power responded to his summons, and the insane wander lust that had first brought him to the Abyss still gripped him and drove him. There was still something that he must do; he felt it in his soul. Someone out there that called to him…

He was shaken from his reverie by the sounds of combat from nearby as his latest group of minions fought for their lives yet again. Calling his favorite spell to his lips, one that would turn the blood of his enemies to thin water, he strode into the fray, the hum of his protective wards surrounding him. He smiled to himself. Sepoto and Tower Cleaver would not believe their eyes if they could only see him now. Perhaps he was finally losing his sanity. Perhaps it was only death and the lure of the Void that called to him…

 

[JollyDoc]

“With you, I am well pleased, my son,” Gwynharwyf said as Octurus knelt before her. “Yet I sense in you something is…missing.”
“Too long have I wallowed in the filth of the Abyss, my Lady,” the demon hunter replied, eyes still downcast. “I would cleanse its taint from both body and soul.”
“I think you have more than redeemed yourself,” the Whirling Fury smirked. “Would that it could have been my own blades that tasted Demogorgon’s blood.” She sighed deeply. “But at least you, my Chosen, stood in my stead. If you so choose, I can transform the flesh you feel is too sullied. I could make you into my image, and then you might join the Court of Stars in full as my consort.”
Octurus looked up, smiling briefly.
“I am honored, my Lady, but I feel the blood of my ancestors calling me home. I ask only that you send me there, so that I might further your works among my kinsmen.”

And Gwynharwyf did send him home. With Tower Cleaver, he made the voyage back to the Isle of Dread and Farshore. There, he bade a final goodbye to his friend, and set out for the high plateau. His reputation preceded him. Visions and dreams had come to the holy men of the Maztican tribes. His coming had been foretold. It was not long before supplicants came to him, Maztican, phanaton and mongrel men, all seeking to learn the ways of the Whirling Fury. Octurus founded a church among the pilgrims, though there was no physical temple. No, his church was made of flesh, blood, bone, sinew and steel. He forged his minions from iron, and as they emerged, the ranks of totemic demon slayers grew and grew, and their reputation was known…and feared…even beyond the shores of their island.

Just as his warriors came into their own, the number of demon sightings on the island abruptly began to increase. At first, Octurus though this a lucky happenstance, providing excellent training opportunities for his soldiers, but then he began hearing rumors of strange lights atop the central plateau, and vague whisperings of Thanaclan being inhabited once again. Octurus hand-picked his finest warriors and set out once more for the City of Broken Idols…
_______________________________________________________________


The hound archon circled the arena floor, a smirk upon his face. There was no way the young upstart would defeat him in this sparring match. His opponent, appearing as a tall green-skinned elf with gossamer wings, stared back across the dueling ring, both hands wrapped around the hilt of a blunted greatsword. Fresh trumpet archons always need to be taught lessons about their betters.

The dog-faced angel raised his blade, a twin to the weapon borne by the trumpet archon, and rushed towards his opponent in a wild charge. Calmly, almost effortlessly, the trumpet archon sidestepped the oncoming adversary, and with a quick riposte smacked him between the shoulders with the flat of his blade. The hound archon yelped, and with a snarl turned his head back towards his foe, noting no sign of smug self-congratulation on the trumpet archon’s face. No, the green-skinned angel wore the same stony and stoic countenance he had since the duel challenge had been presented.

Several angelic onlookers hooted and hollered with the successful blow to the hound archon, especially the few trumpet archons witness to the event. The prospect that one of the youngest members of their Choir could defeat a veteran of the Hound Archon Legions was a reason to cheer, and do so loudly. This whelp had not even received his trumpet, let alone been granted the greater powers earned with service to the Lords of the Seven Mounting Heavens of Celestia.

The hound archon wheeled about, again dashing forward at his foe. This time, when the canine angel reached striking distance, the trumpet archon feinted right, but quickly spun low slashing his blade horizontally at his opponent’s legs. The impact of the weapon, coupled with his reckless advance, caused the hound archon to lose his balance and fall forward onto his stomach, and as he did so his weapon flew from his grasp, clattering on the stone floor about eight feet in front of him. Before his opponent could regain his senses, the trumpet archon flew forward and landed such that he was straddling his prostrate foe. Laying the tip of his blade on the back of the hound archon’s neck, the trumpet archon intoned his first word since being challenged.

“Yield.”

For a split-second, pride consumed the prone angel, and his muscles tensed as though he were about to struggle. Quickly realizing the helplessness of his position, the hound archon tapped his hand three times on the ground, the understood sign of submission. Cheers, even louder than before, erupted from the trumpet archons in attendance.

The hound archon rolled over onto his back, a half-grin on his face. “Well done, lad. A victory well-earned.” The trumpet archon extended a hand to help the other angel to his feet, but just before their hands met, a large shadow fell over them. Based on the look of fear and revulsion on the hound archon’s face, the trumpet archon guessed whose presence they were ‘graced’ with.

An almost feral, stereophonic baritone voice intoned, “Ascalon of the Choir of the Trumpet, your presence is demanded by Barachiel at his palace.” The trumpet archon’s eyes grew wide and he turned to meet this new harbinger, and his initial suspicions were proved correct: Gorgant the Two-Faced, Guardian of Lunia, was addressing him.

Gorgant was a massive beast, with twin baboon heads fused at the back of each skull. His long tentacular arms ended in huge pincers, but it was the constant weeping of blood from his eyes that Ascalon had always found to be most disconcerting, besides the fact that such a hideous creature was a protector of Celestia. Years ago, Gorgant arrived in Lunia, Celestia’s lowest layer and its most certain battleground should an invasion occur. Claiming to be the servant of the deity of Justice from one of the many Prime Material worlds, Gorgant was confused by the hostility directed towards him. Likewise, he was confused when Celestia was not actually comprised solely of structures made of ivory, with nothing but beautiful multi-colored twinkling lights in the sky, and choirs of angels running around constantly dancing, playing, and fellating each other.

It was determined by the Greater Powers as well as the Hebdomad, the ruling seven archons, that this once-evil creature had its mind and memories toyed with by some powerful magic, and that it actually ‘remembered’ what it was professing. Instead of destroying the poor beast, the Lords of Good and Law saw fit to make him one of Lunia’s frontline defenders.

By doing such, he would be granted the opportunity of life and redemption from the evils of his past, he would provide a more than adequate guardian against fiendish incursions, and should an invasion occur he would likely be among the first to give his life (thus ending whatever nuisance he may represent). As time wore on, however, Gorgant’s animalistic nature and almost single-minded approach (despite actually having two brains) made him a beloved pet of Barachiel the Messenger, the Lord of Lunia and General of the Trumpet Archons. Barachiel came to trust Gorgant with missions of import to himself and the Celestial Choir.

Some even whispered that Gorgant was actually the aspect of Demogorgon, a Prince of Demons long since destroyed by a host of enemy demon princes and mortal adventurers.

Ascalon looked up at the Agent of the Messenger. “When does my Lord wish to meet with me?” Gorgant crouched low, so that his blood-soaked eyes were only a few feet from the trumpet archon’s face. “When have you ever known Barachiel to send me when the meeting was not urgent. Come with me NOW!!!” Gorgant started breathing harder, and Ascalon knew that it was best to just nod and agree to follow the beast before one of those pincers ‘accidentally’ decapitated him…whoever stuck the rod into Gorgant’s brains and swirled them around didn’t do anything to cure him of his temper.

As Ascalon followed Gorgant out of the marble and ivory arena structure, he was given farewell by proud backslapping from his fellow trumpet archons and, surprisingly, approving nods from senior hound archon War Masters in attendance. Gorgant was almost irritated that they had to make the trek to Barachiel’s palace by foot, but Ascalon had not yet been granted the ability to bend space through the Astral Plane. As expected, as the pair walked through the Celestial streets, all eyes were on Gorgant, all waiting to see if he would do something else ‘noteworthy’. No one even noticed the lesser trumpet archon, and that suited Ascalon just fine.
_______________________________________________________________

And what of Ozymandia, you ask, dear reader? Well, that…that is a tale for another time, and another teller…