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Piratecat said:
You can tell those were happy times. Malachite and Claris are both breaking out their biggest grins.
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You can tell those were happy times. Malachite and Claris are both breaking out their biggest grins.
Piratecat
Sesquipedalian
Tao stands in a thirty foot wide ring of guffawing soldiers. She’s stripped herself of weapons, as has the 6’ 6” mercenary in front of her. The man clearly has some orc or ogre in his heritage somewhere, and he’s smiling evilly as he cracks his knuckles. The hot sun glints off of the magical belt he’s wearing. It used to be Tao’s belt, before the Skaven Monk T’Cri stole it from her a year ago while administering his version of justice. Apparently he gave it away to this man. It had taken Tao months to track him down.
Using divination spells, Tao had finally found him in a camp on the outskirts of the Aeotian army camped outside of Corsai. “You want what?” he asked her mockingly. “This belt? MY belt?” He had looked down at her with scorn; she was clearly a warrior but she was also a cleric of some pansy nature religion, and he outmassed her by a hundred pounds and a foot of height. "Time for some fun," he thought.
“My belt,” Tao corrected him calmly. “Stolen from me. I’d like it back now, please.”
The merecenary had shaken his head. “Uh uh,” he said lasciviously. “You want it, we wrestle for it.” He looked her up and down rudely.
Tao smiled grimly, her solid green eyes flashing with undisguised anticipation as her divine aura suddenly rippled outwards to cut through the man’s self assurance like a sudden splash of ice water. “Absolutely.” So now they faced each other under the still heat, weaponless, flies buzzing about them as they slowly circled.
The mercenary makes the first move. Clearly an experienced bar fighter, he rushes her, punching her in the face and elbowing her in the throat as he attempts a trip.
The mercenary tries several different combinations of moves, but Tao barely flinches, at one point deliberately yawning. When he finally catches her in a grapple, she shapeshifts into a unicorn and looks at him again. His friends begin to out-and-out laugh, and the mercenary realizes that he’s badly outclassed. She throws him a few times, never hurting him badly, but making him look extremely incompetent.
Attempting to get a headlock on the blasé unicorn, the mercenary whispers out of the side of his mouth. “I’ll sell it to ya.” “Done,” says Tao, and changes back to her normal form.
"It’s a tie!” announces the man to his jeering campmates, and then spins and plants a heavy fist right in the middle of Tao’s face. He yelps, nursing his bruised knuckles, and Tao’s eyes narrow. “You shouldn’t have done that,” she growls, and moves in to hammer him in the belly.
“I thought….” He gasps. “I’m sorry!”
“Forgiven!” says Tao cheerfully despite wanting to beat him to a pulp, and unlaces her new Belt of Strength from the man’s belly. Pulling it on, she feels its familiar magics streaming through her, and she grins. “I wonder what the others are doing right now?” she thinks to herself. Raising her holy symbol, she casts sending to Malachite, and asks him "I'm finished. Where are you right now?"
To be continued....
Using divination spells, Tao had finally found him in a camp on the outskirts of the Aeotian army camped outside of Corsai. “You want what?” he asked her mockingly. “This belt? MY belt?” He had looked down at her with scorn; she was clearly a warrior but she was also a cleric of some pansy nature religion, and he outmassed her by a hundred pounds and a foot of height. "Time for some fun," he thought.
“My belt,” Tao corrected him calmly. “Stolen from me. I’d like it back now, please.”
The merecenary had shaken his head. “Uh uh,” he said lasciviously. “You want it, we wrestle for it.” He looked her up and down rudely.
Tao smiled grimly, her solid green eyes flashing with undisguised anticipation as her divine aura suddenly rippled outwards to cut through the man’s self assurance like a sudden splash of ice water. “Absolutely.” So now they faced each other under the still heat, weaponless, flies buzzing about them as they slowly circled.
The mercenary makes the first move. Clearly an experienced bar fighter, he rushes her, punching her in the face and elbowing her in the throat as he attempts a trip.
- ----> It is at this point that Tao’s player looks at me and says, “Did you forget? As a 10th level divine agent, I’m an outsider.” “So?” I answer. “Outsiders have damage reduction.” The “I-can’t-believe-I-forgot-about-that, and-now-this-challenging-fight-just-got-a-lot-easier” look on my face must have been priceless.
The mercenary tries several different combinations of moves, but Tao barely flinches, at one point deliberately yawning. When he finally catches her in a grapple, she shapeshifts into a unicorn and looks at him again. His friends begin to out-and-out laugh, and the mercenary realizes that he’s badly outclassed. She throws him a few times, never hurting him badly, but making him look extremely incompetent.
Attempting to get a headlock on the blasé unicorn, the mercenary whispers out of the side of his mouth. “I’ll sell it to ya.” “Done,” says Tao, and changes back to her normal form.
"It’s a tie!” announces the man to his jeering campmates, and then spins and plants a heavy fist right in the middle of Tao’s face. He yelps, nursing his bruised knuckles, and Tao’s eyes narrow. “You shouldn’t have done that,” she growls, and moves in to hammer him in the belly.
“I thought….” He gasps. “I’m sorry!”
“Forgiven!” says Tao cheerfully despite wanting to beat him to a pulp, and unlaces her new Belt of Strength from the man’s belly. Pulling it on, she feels its familiar magics streaming through her, and she grins. “I wonder what the others are doing right now?” she thinks to herself. Raising her holy symbol, she casts sending to Malachite, and asks him "I'm finished. Where are you right now?"
To be continued....
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Piratecat
Sesquipedalian
Mara walks up the inscribed white stairs, past the initiates scrubbing the alabaster to a brilliant sheen, past the exquisitely carved pillars, past the beggars plying their trade and the pilgrims sweating in the blazing sun, up into the rotunda of the Corsai Mother Church of Aeos. It’s cooler there, but no darker, as the architecture glorifies Aeos and magnifies his light. Initiates bustle hither and yon, moving through the temple in silence compared to the street noise outside. Somewhere a gong rings, and Mara can smell incense. Her throat is dry, because what she’s about to do may cause more trouble than it solves.
Catching the attention of an initiate, she is soon led to the quarters of a Basker High Priest named Whalter. It was Whalter who first encouraged Mara to take up a life of adventure years ago; he’s a friendly and unambitious senior priest who worships Aeos in his role as the life-giver, not the taskmaster. Surprised to see her, Whalter’s face lights up in an undisguised smile.
“It’s been years! And yet, I hear you’ve been making quite a name for yourself. Tell me what you’ve been doing.”
After five or ten minutes of small talk, Mara refocuses the conversation, desperately trying to rein in Whalter’s inevitable conversational ramblings. “Father, I understand that General Aleax is planning to take the army and strike east, eliminating the Necromancer Kings and shattering their Orb.”
Whalter looks confused. “Their orb? What orb? I don’t know anything about that.” Mara kicks herself, remembering suddenly that Aleax had confided it as a military secret.
“Perhaps you’d better not talk about that,” she gently suggests.
“”Nevertheless,” continues Whalter, “I know very little about the Church Militant. I have heard the rumors about you and your friend Malachite, of course. You know that he’s now wanted as a possible heretic and criminal? If you know where he is, it’s very important that you arrest him and bring him here for trial.” The small priest looks worried. “*Do* you know where he is?”
Mara thinks fast; Malachite came to Corsai with her and Tao, but immediately departed from them. “No, Blessed Father, I don’t precisely know. But I’ll be sure to do my duty when I do see him!” That seems to satisfy the priest, so Mara hurriedly rechannels the conversation. “In any event, we’ve had some very disturbing divinations that contradict divinations done here, and we think we know why.” The young paladin then shows Whalter copies of every commune and divination that the Defenders have done. She shows him how the result changes when you substitute “Aleax” for “historical Aeotian figure active in the church today.” Whalter’s happy face gradually becomes more and more serious as the import becomes clear.
“Oh my,” says Whalter. “this means that either Saint Aleax isn’t who he thinks he is, or somehow – somehow – our Lord god Himself is being excluded from these divinations. I’ll need to confirm these…?”
“Of course,” agrees Mara, and waits for twenty minutes while Whalter prepares and casts a commune. As he does so, his face becomes unlined and almost beatific, his body outlined in shimmering sunlight. When he’s finished, though, he looks almost angry.
“I’ll need to bring this to the attention of The Clarion. As the speaker of Aeos Himself, he’ll need to know this. And you think a miracle may solve the problem?” Mara nods. “Then he should know that too. And we’ll need Saint Aleax’s opinion on this. Oh my,” he sighs as his round face wrinkles, “I hate church politics. But sometimes they’re necessary.”
As Whalter escorts Mara out, he reassures her. “You did well, my friend. I’ll be sure to let you know what the church discovers, when I can communicate such a thing. In the mean time, make sure you bring that rogue Sir Malachite to justice. He will need to appear in front of an Adjudicator to explain his actions, before he makes things even worse for himself.”
Mara wrinkles her nose and rolls her eyes as she walks down the stairs, wondering what she's going to do. She shifts into wind walk form and heads to the place where Tao, Malachite and she had agreed they'd meet. As she feels herself buoyed by the magical wind, she thinks, "I wonder where Malachite is right now?"
Catching the attention of an initiate, she is soon led to the quarters of a Basker High Priest named Whalter. It was Whalter who first encouraged Mara to take up a life of adventure years ago; he’s a friendly and unambitious senior priest who worships Aeos in his role as the life-giver, not the taskmaster. Surprised to see her, Whalter’s face lights up in an undisguised smile.
“It’s been years! And yet, I hear you’ve been making quite a name for yourself. Tell me what you’ve been doing.”
After five or ten minutes of small talk, Mara refocuses the conversation, desperately trying to rein in Whalter’s inevitable conversational ramblings. “Father, I understand that General Aleax is planning to take the army and strike east, eliminating the Necromancer Kings and shattering their Orb.”
Whalter looks confused. “Their orb? What orb? I don’t know anything about that.” Mara kicks herself, remembering suddenly that Aleax had confided it as a military secret.
“Perhaps you’d better not talk about that,” she gently suggests.
“”Nevertheless,” continues Whalter, “I know very little about the Church Militant. I have heard the rumors about you and your friend Malachite, of course. You know that he’s now wanted as a possible heretic and criminal? If you know where he is, it’s very important that you arrest him and bring him here for trial.” The small priest looks worried. “*Do* you know where he is?”
Mara thinks fast; Malachite came to Corsai with her and Tao, but immediately departed from them. “No, Blessed Father, I don’t precisely know. But I’ll be sure to do my duty when I do see him!” That seems to satisfy the priest, so Mara hurriedly rechannels the conversation. “In any event, we’ve had some very disturbing divinations that contradict divinations done here, and we think we know why.” The young paladin then shows Whalter copies of every commune and divination that the Defenders have done. She shows him how the result changes when you substitute “Aleax” for “historical Aeotian figure active in the church today.” Whalter’s happy face gradually becomes more and more serious as the import becomes clear.
“Oh my,” says Whalter. “this means that either Saint Aleax isn’t who he thinks he is, or somehow – somehow – our Lord god Himself is being excluded from these divinations. I’ll need to confirm these…?”
“Of course,” agrees Mara, and waits for twenty minutes while Whalter prepares and casts a commune. As he does so, his face becomes unlined and almost beatific, his body outlined in shimmering sunlight. When he’s finished, though, he looks almost angry.
“I’ll need to bring this to the attention of The Clarion. As the speaker of Aeos Himself, he’ll need to know this. And you think a miracle may solve the problem?” Mara nods. “Then he should know that too. And we’ll need Saint Aleax’s opinion on this. Oh my,” he sighs as his round face wrinkles, “I hate church politics. But sometimes they’re necessary.”
As Whalter escorts Mara out, he reassures her. “You did well, my friend. I’ll be sure to let you know what the church discovers, when I can communicate such a thing. In the mean time, make sure you bring that rogue Sir Malachite to justice. He will need to appear in front of an Adjudicator to explain his actions, before he makes things even worse for himself.”
Mara wrinkles her nose and rolls her eyes as she walks down the stairs, wondering what she's going to do. She shifts into wind walk form and heads to the place where Tao, Malachite and she had agreed they'd meet. As she feels herself buoyed by the magical wind, she thinks, "I wonder where Malachite is right now?"
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Piratecat
Sesquipedalian
Malachite makes his way through Corsai. He’s undisguised, wearing the forbidden emerald surcoat of the Chaplars. He goes from shrine to shrine, from tavern to tavern, hoping to find a friend who can tell him where to find the hidden temple of his Order.
He finally finds an old man, retired from the chaplars, who glares at him from rheumy eyes. “What er ya, stupid?” the old man asks. “Yer a wanted man. There’s word fer yer arrest. And here ya are, parading through th’ streets like it was holy day. What’er ya up to?”
Malachite responds stiffly, his back straight. “I am seeking the True Church and the remnants of our Order.” Then he falls silent and looks at the elderly knight expectantly.
The old man wriggles nervously on his bench, crinkling his wild eyebrows and picking his ear. “Fine, fine, don’t get yer scabbard all a-tangled,” he says uncomfortably. “I’ll tell ye who to go to. But make sure ye aren’t bein’ followed. I imagine they’ve set trackers out after ya.” He tells Malachite the name of a small outlying village an hour outside of Corsai, nestled up closer to the mountains. Malachite thanks him, strides out of the tavern, and looks carefully around….
And having picked something up from his nature-oriented friends, realizes that the hawk swooping overhead has been visible for hours.
About that time he hears a whisper in his ear, the result of Tao’s sending spell. “I'm finished. Where are you right now?” Malachite answers quietly. “On the western edge of Corsai on the Street of Retribution, near the Temple of Vindus. I’m being watched by a bird.” He waits a few minutes in the reflected heat of an empty alley, and then decides to expedite matters. He levitates into the cloudless sky, hoping that the bird will come into the range of searing light. It doesn’t, though, carefully staying hundreds of feat away.
Tao (along with pointing street urchins and curious merchants) sees Malachite’s tiny form silhouetted against the sky, and soon joins him as he lowers himself back down to the street.
“Greetings. As I said, I’m being followed by a bird.”
Tao stretches, glancing down at the unfamiliar pressure of her returned belt of strength. “That I can fix,” she says, and casts fly. She leaps into the air, making her way towards the hawk.
Tao soars above Corsai. From her vantage point, she can see two people on a flying carpet scudding between several temples, as well as a mounted griffon over on the other side of the dusty city. Her attention is mostly taken up by the hawk, though.
She finally closes within voice range, and calls out in hawk. “Hello there!” She’s using what animal empathy she can, mimicking its movements and flight.
The hawk wheels around in surprise. “You can speak!” it screeches.
“Of course I can. How is the flying? Have you seen much prey?”
The bird seems pleased to speak. “The flying is good. Can you not feel the updraft? There has been little prey. I have a task.” The bird turns again, keeping Malachite in sight, and Tao turns with it.
“A task?”
“Yes. I must watch that two-legs down on the ground. My Master is watching through my eyes, so I must follow him wherever he goes. He is certainly watching you right now.”
Tao digests this for a moment. “Who is your Master? What do you do when you tire?”
The bird looks at her, confused. “My Master is my Master, he who feeds me. He owns the aviary. And when I tire, at sunset, he will send another to take my place.”
Knowing birds, Tao doesn’t hope for much, but she asks the hawk to describe where the aviary is. “By the pointy building in the city of men, of course.” Tao looks down at the city of minarets, shrugs, and wishes the bird well.
Back down on the ground, Tao reports her findings to Malachite. After Malachite explains that he can’t be followed, Tao teleports the two of them to just outside of town, and then they slip back into wind walk form. Within fifteen minutes, they’ve arrived at the small town Malachite was warned about.
The Shrine of Aeos there is small, just a white-washed wooden building with a southern exposure and a shoddily made stained glass window. It is impeccably kept, however. Seeing no one on the street other than a mangy stray dog, Malachite and Tao open the wooden door and step into the shadowy interior.
An older man approaches them, weighed down with the years and his heavy religious robes. He stops short when he sees Malachite wearing his emerald surcoat, and then nods. Without a word, he directs them to an interior room.
The small room that the two heroes walk into is empty of people. A desk has a few scrolls on it, copies of the Book of the Sun; a quick look indicates that the cleric had been crossing out certain sections with ink and writing in the new church-dictated text in the margins. Malachite looks around the room, but doesn’t see anything odd, other than a small holy symbol of Aeos hanging from the door jamb of a dusty store room. He thinks for a moment, then uses his faith as a lens, focusing positive energy from his body into the holy symbol. As he does so, he and Tao are illuminated by sunlight, and there is the quiet sound of silk ripping. Seconds later, instead of a partially filled storeroom, Tao and Malachite are standing in front of a doorway rippling with golden energy.
As one, they walk forwards into the light. They emerge on a cloud, white and fluffy, cold wind ruffling through their hair. In front of them are two burly paladins standing next to two golden statues of griffons, and beyond the guards rises a green malachite and crystal tower that glows like emerald fire in the late afternoon sunlight. Malachite stands in shock as he realizes that he’s found the secret stronghold of his Order, a place only hinted at in rumors.
Even as the guards recognize Malachite and stands aside, Malachite turns to Tao. “You realize, that if you ever speak of this to anyone, I will have to kill you.”
Tao looks amused at his obvious statement. “Of course you will,” she answers agreeably, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world, and the two walk forward across the cloud.
To be continued….
He finally finds an old man, retired from the chaplars, who glares at him from rheumy eyes. “What er ya, stupid?” the old man asks. “Yer a wanted man. There’s word fer yer arrest. And here ya are, parading through th’ streets like it was holy day. What’er ya up to?”
Malachite responds stiffly, his back straight. “I am seeking the True Church and the remnants of our Order.” Then he falls silent and looks at the elderly knight expectantly.
The old man wriggles nervously on his bench, crinkling his wild eyebrows and picking his ear. “Fine, fine, don’t get yer scabbard all a-tangled,” he says uncomfortably. “I’ll tell ye who to go to. But make sure ye aren’t bein’ followed. I imagine they’ve set trackers out after ya.” He tells Malachite the name of a small outlying village an hour outside of Corsai, nestled up closer to the mountains. Malachite thanks him, strides out of the tavern, and looks carefully around….
And having picked something up from his nature-oriented friends, realizes that the hawk swooping overhead has been visible for hours.
About that time he hears a whisper in his ear, the result of Tao’s sending spell. “I'm finished. Where are you right now?” Malachite answers quietly. “On the western edge of Corsai on the Street of Retribution, near the Temple of Vindus. I’m being watched by a bird.” He waits a few minutes in the reflected heat of an empty alley, and then decides to expedite matters. He levitates into the cloudless sky, hoping that the bird will come into the range of searing light. It doesn’t, though, carefully staying hundreds of feat away.
Tao (along with pointing street urchins and curious merchants) sees Malachite’s tiny form silhouetted against the sky, and soon joins him as he lowers himself back down to the street.
“Greetings. As I said, I’m being followed by a bird.”
Tao stretches, glancing down at the unfamiliar pressure of her returned belt of strength. “That I can fix,” she says, and casts fly. She leaps into the air, making her way towards the hawk.
Tao soars above Corsai. From her vantage point, she can see two people on a flying carpet scudding between several temples, as well as a mounted griffon over on the other side of the dusty city. Her attention is mostly taken up by the hawk, though.
She finally closes within voice range, and calls out in hawk. “Hello there!” She’s using what animal empathy she can, mimicking its movements and flight.
The hawk wheels around in surprise. “You can speak!” it screeches.
“Of course I can. How is the flying? Have you seen much prey?”
The bird seems pleased to speak. “The flying is good. Can you not feel the updraft? There has been little prey. I have a task.” The bird turns again, keeping Malachite in sight, and Tao turns with it.
“A task?”
“Yes. I must watch that two-legs down on the ground. My Master is watching through my eyes, so I must follow him wherever he goes. He is certainly watching you right now.”
Tao digests this for a moment. “Who is your Master? What do you do when you tire?”
The bird looks at her, confused. “My Master is my Master, he who feeds me. He owns the aviary. And when I tire, at sunset, he will send another to take my place.”
Knowing birds, Tao doesn’t hope for much, but she asks the hawk to describe where the aviary is. “By the pointy building in the city of men, of course.” Tao looks down at the city of minarets, shrugs, and wishes the bird well.
Back down on the ground, Tao reports her findings to Malachite. After Malachite explains that he can’t be followed, Tao teleports the two of them to just outside of town, and then they slip back into wind walk form. Within fifteen minutes, they’ve arrived at the small town Malachite was warned about.
The Shrine of Aeos there is small, just a white-washed wooden building with a southern exposure and a shoddily made stained glass window. It is impeccably kept, however. Seeing no one on the street other than a mangy stray dog, Malachite and Tao open the wooden door and step into the shadowy interior.
An older man approaches them, weighed down with the years and his heavy religious robes. He stops short when he sees Malachite wearing his emerald surcoat, and then nods. Without a word, he directs them to an interior room.
The small room that the two heroes walk into is empty of people. A desk has a few scrolls on it, copies of the Book of the Sun; a quick look indicates that the cleric had been crossing out certain sections with ink and writing in the new church-dictated text in the margins. Malachite looks around the room, but doesn’t see anything odd, other than a small holy symbol of Aeos hanging from the door jamb of a dusty store room. He thinks for a moment, then uses his faith as a lens, focusing positive energy from his body into the holy symbol. As he does so, he and Tao are illuminated by sunlight, and there is the quiet sound of silk ripping. Seconds later, instead of a partially filled storeroom, Tao and Malachite are standing in front of a doorway rippling with golden energy.
As one, they walk forwards into the light. They emerge on a cloud, white and fluffy, cold wind ruffling through their hair. In front of them are two burly paladins standing next to two golden statues of griffons, and beyond the guards rises a green malachite and crystal tower that glows like emerald fire in the late afternoon sunlight. Malachite stands in shock as he realizes that he’s found the secret stronghold of his Order, a place only hinted at in rumors.
Even as the guards recognize Malachite and stands aside, Malachite turns to Tao. “You realize, that if you ever speak of this to anyone, I will have to kill you.”
Tao looks amused at his obvious statement. “Of course you will,” she answers agreeably, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world, and the two walk forward across the cloud.
To be continued….
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Piratecat
Sesquipedalian
Tao is seated in the anteroom and guarded, and Malachite is escorted up winding stairs to the presence of Lord-General Coronis, Commander of the Knights of the Emerald Chapel. He’s a burly man with a square face and a black curly beard that’s finally starting to go gray; a vivid pale patch scars his cheek, a trophy of a fight against undead. He stands as Malachite enters the room, and his resonant voice echoes slightly. “Malachite. It’s good to see you. I was wondering when you’d make your way here.”
They talk for more than an hour, as Malachite informs the Lord-General of the current state of the church. He explains the White Kingdom, the altered divinations, his concerns about Saint Aleax, the history of his sword Aleax, the Defenders’ suspicions, and the destruction of the Chaplars’ sacred chapel in the Mother Church. In return, Coronis tells Malachite about the two dozen Chaplars who rebelled against the dictate of the Church Militant, of the danger inherent in the proximity of the Necromancer Kings, of the safety of the sacred emerald that is the heart of their order, and of his connections that he still maintains within the church itself. “I am still friends with enough important people that I can get this information into the right ears,” the Lord-General concludes. “With luck, I’ll be able to stir up enough worry that they’ll question their assumptions and try the divinations themselves. I’ll contact you as soon as I hear back.”
Malachite frowns. “You understand the importance of the expedition to the White Kingdom, Sir?”
Lord-General Coronis leans forward. “You made it clear. Likewise, we can’t allow the expedition against the Necromancers to fail for lack of our support, whatever the false saint may feel about our Order and our services. I’ll make the determination of who to assign where once we know how the church responds to these revelations.” He leans back and tugs on his beard. “Nice work, by the way. I know you’re currently a wanted man. I’ll see what I can do about that as well, but I don’t expect miracles. Keep me informed.”
Tao and Malachite depart together, and Malachite is almost cheerful. They return through the gate to the small church, then wind walk to the rendezvous point. Mara is waiting for them there.
There is an uncomfortable silence as Mara and Malachite face each other in the heat, the slight desert wind ruffling their hair, the shadows under their feet small in the brilliant noon sunlight. Tao steps back.
Mara is the first to speak as she looks at the Hunter of the Dead worriedly. “You’re wanted by the church,” she ventures.
“Yes.” Says Malachite flatly.
“It’s my duty to arrest you and bring you to them,” she continues, looking him in the eye.
Malachite’s stance shifts subtly to a battle stance, and his gauntleted hand slides over to rest on the hilt of Aleax. He looks at Mara. “Do you intend to?”
Mara looks at him, frustrated. “I have to! It’s my duty to the Church.”
“To the False Church,” interjects Malachite.
“To the Church,” corrects Mara.
“Then do your duty.”
Mara regards him. Then she smiles as an idea strikes her. “Malachite, you are under arrest, as ordered by the Church Militant. I am personally unable to take you in. Thus, you are now my responsibility and under my protection until such point as I deliver you to proper authorities.”
Malachite stays in battle-ready stance, thinking over the consequences of Mara’s action. He slowly removes his hand from his sword hilt. “That may be a while.”
Mara nods. “I know it might be. Until then, though, you are my prisoner. As befits your rank, I will not ask for your weapons.”
Malachite nods back and his body language begins to relax. “As long as you don’t hinder me in what I must do."
Mara relaxes as well. "We’re in this together, as we knew we must be.” Then, the demands of duty satisfied, they both turn their eyes towards Tao. Together, all three teleport across the continent back to Eversink.
To be continued….
They talk for more than an hour, as Malachite informs the Lord-General of the current state of the church. He explains the White Kingdom, the altered divinations, his concerns about Saint Aleax, the history of his sword Aleax, the Defenders’ suspicions, and the destruction of the Chaplars’ sacred chapel in the Mother Church. In return, Coronis tells Malachite about the two dozen Chaplars who rebelled against the dictate of the Church Militant, of the danger inherent in the proximity of the Necromancer Kings, of the safety of the sacred emerald that is the heart of their order, and of his connections that he still maintains within the church itself. “I am still friends with enough important people that I can get this information into the right ears,” the Lord-General concludes. “With luck, I’ll be able to stir up enough worry that they’ll question their assumptions and try the divinations themselves. I’ll contact you as soon as I hear back.”
Malachite frowns. “You understand the importance of the expedition to the White Kingdom, Sir?”
Lord-General Coronis leans forward. “You made it clear. Likewise, we can’t allow the expedition against the Necromancers to fail for lack of our support, whatever the false saint may feel about our Order and our services. I’ll make the determination of who to assign where once we know how the church responds to these revelations.” He leans back and tugs on his beard. “Nice work, by the way. I know you’re currently a wanted man. I’ll see what I can do about that as well, but I don’t expect miracles. Keep me informed.”
Tao and Malachite depart together, and Malachite is almost cheerful. They return through the gate to the small church, then wind walk to the rendezvous point. Mara is waiting for them there.
There is an uncomfortable silence as Mara and Malachite face each other in the heat, the slight desert wind ruffling their hair, the shadows under their feet small in the brilliant noon sunlight. Tao steps back.
Mara is the first to speak as she looks at the Hunter of the Dead worriedly. “You’re wanted by the church,” she ventures.
“Yes.” Says Malachite flatly.
“It’s my duty to arrest you and bring you to them,” she continues, looking him in the eye.
Malachite’s stance shifts subtly to a battle stance, and his gauntleted hand slides over to rest on the hilt of Aleax. He looks at Mara. “Do you intend to?”
Mara looks at him, frustrated. “I have to! It’s my duty to the Church.”
“To the False Church,” interjects Malachite.
“To the Church,” corrects Mara.
“Then do your duty.”
Mara regards him. Then she smiles as an idea strikes her. “Malachite, you are under arrest, as ordered by the Church Militant. I am personally unable to take you in. Thus, you are now my responsibility and under my protection until such point as I deliver you to proper authorities.”
Malachite stays in battle-ready stance, thinking over the consequences of Mara’s action. He slowly removes his hand from his sword hilt. “That may be a while.”
Mara nods. “I know it might be. Until then, though, you are my prisoner. As befits your rank, I will not ask for your weapons.”
Malachite nods back and his body language begins to relax. “As long as you don’t hinder me in what I must do."
Mara relaxes as well. "We’re in this together, as we knew we must be.” Then, the demands of duty satisfied, they both turn their eyes towards Tao. Together, all three teleport across the continent back to Eversink.
To be continued….
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Piratecat
Sesquipedalian
Court is in session for the King of Gaunt.
Seated in his high-backed chair in the throne room, High Magus and Court Wizard Arcade Deltarion barely stifles a yawn. It’s been years since he’s gone on an adventure with his old friends. Nowadays, he spends his time creating magical items, dealing with minor wizardly concerns in the kingdom, and inspecting the kingdom’s defenses. Boring. The pomp and circumstance is nice, of course, but it’s hard to keep your edge when you aren’t regularly challenged.
On the far end of the gilded chamber, a woman slips in the door past the guards. She looks like a scullery wench, but Arcade can’t help but notice that the guards didn’t even seem to notice her. He catches just a glimpse of steely gray eyes….
Claris?
Sister Claris of Vindus is a pilgrim of Vindus, God of Justice and Vengeance. She has been missing for months, as she descended into the Underdark to scout out the path and progress of the advancing ghoulish army. If she’s here, then there’s probably a reason. Even as the woman slips out of the throne room, Arcade stands and makes his apologies to King Josric. The King looks at him jealously – he must be bored as well – and grants his permission. Instantly, The Master of Space and Time twists in Arcade’s hand, and the Court Wizard disappears in a pyre of green flame.
Arcade reappears just outside of the throne room, his intelligent staff warm in his hand. There is no woman anywhere in sight.
“Ahem.”
The noise is cold, precise, and directly behind him. Arcade spins – and there’s no one there.
“Behind you.”
He spins again, and Claris is standing in front of him.
“Don’t do that!” he complains. “How are you? Well? And Purity, your daughter?”
A thin sliver of a smile crosses Claris’ lips. “Well, thank you. We need to get the others. I have information to report.”
One teleport later, the two are standing outside of the Academe Sorcere in Oursk, hundreds of miles to the east. The air is fragrant with the smell of the endless sea, chilly in an early autumn gloom. Arcade and Claris stride into the school, passing the Guardian Wyrm stone statues (currently arcane marked with school colors) and moving onto the magically polished flagstone floors. It only takes them a few moments to find Dylrath's classroom.
Arcade opens the door and harrumphs self-importantly. The professor, in the midst of a lesson, pauses and raises an irritated eyebrow at the interruption. 19 year old Dylrath, the oldest student in the class by several years, sinks his face into his hand in anticipation of what he knows is coming.
"My deepest apologies for the interruption," says Arcade smoothly, "but I am Sir Arcade Deltarion, High Magus of Gaunt. We need to borrow young Master Birdhouse for an important matter."
The professor looks disgusted. "Very clever, Master Birdhouse," he says, "your stunts are becoming that much more impressive. Is this an illusion, or did you pay a visiting sailor to put on this charade?" He glares at Arcade suspiciously. "In any case, Master Birdhouse is in a lesson. Permission denied."
Arcade bristles, tossing back his chest to reveal his royal Clasp of Crown Eternal, to better display his owl-like eyes, to glare imperiously down his pointed nose at the suddenly wide-eyed professor. "Perhaps you didn't understand. Dylrath must play an essential role in an international conflict, one that could save hundreds or thousands of lives and earn him - and your Academy - substantial acclaim. I presume that with these stakes, he can miss half a session of," he squints at the chalk board, "intermediate conjuration."
Behind Arcade, Claris rolls her eyes at his lack of subtlety. Dylrath turns somewhat red as his classmates begin to chortle. And the professor's face flushes a stormy red before he gives in. "Fine!" spits the Professor. "Master Birdhouse, if you expect to pass this course, I expect your treatise on variant conjuration on my desk in two days. If you aren't too wrapped up in so-called 'international conflict'."
Dylrath says "Thank you, Professor," as he grabs his books and leaves the room . His classmates mutter all around him. He catches the phrase "..best illusion yet!" from several of his fellow students as he leaves the room.
The old friends greet each other in the hallway. Claris barely smiles at him, and Dylrath looks honored. “Oh, hi!” he says. “That lesson was boring. What’s up?” Then he stops, startled, staring at Claris for a second. He raises one eyebrow in a question, but thinks better of it. Instead he runs down the hall to his dormitory, and appears a few minutes later, his face emerging from thin air. "All set," he says, and backs away as both Arcade and Claris step through the invisible gate into his demiplane.
Dylrath’s mirror room. A small demiplane in the ethereal, it has a variant mirror of mental prowess permanently affixed to its insides. Thus, Dylrath can enter through the portal, scry someone he knows, and step out in an entirely different location. Once it was the inner sanctum of a fire mage’s academy; now it’s slung with hammocks and covered with teak flooring, lined with display shelves and cluttered with books and trophies. Ever since Dylrath gave up roguery and decided to study wizardry, this has been his secret study room.
“Can you find Nolin?”
“Oh yeah, sure. Hang on a sec.” He faces the mirror frame which shows a hallway, and suddenly it shimmers and reveals a reflection of Dylrath instead. “Hi, Htarlyd.”
“Oh, hi, Dylrath,” says his reflection as it scratches itself. “Who do we find now?”
“Nolin.”
“Sure! Let me concentrate….” Both Dylrath and the mirror concentrate as they scry for Nolin’s distinctive mental patterns. Within a few seconds, the mirror image of Dylrath disappears, and ‘Rath can see Nolin seated at a table, gesticulating with food. Dylrath turns to Claris and Arcade, gallantly waving an arm. “After you.”
To be continued….
Coming soon: A trip to the end of the multiverse! A hall full of demons! Mysterious fey! And a world that’s dying before your very eyes.
Seated in his high-backed chair in the throne room, High Magus and Court Wizard Arcade Deltarion barely stifles a yawn. It’s been years since he’s gone on an adventure with his old friends. Nowadays, he spends his time creating magical items, dealing with minor wizardly concerns in the kingdom, and inspecting the kingdom’s defenses. Boring. The pomp and circumstance is nice, of course, but it’s hard to keep your edge when you aren’t regularly challenged.
On the far end of the gilded chamber, a woman slips in the door past the guards. She looks like a scullery wench, but Arcade can’t help but notice that the guards didn’t even seem to notice her. He catches just a glimpse of steely gray eyes….
Claris?
Sister Claris of Vindus is a pilgrim of Vindus, God of Justice and Vengeance. She has been missing for months, as she descended into the Underdark to scout out the path and progress of the advancing ghoulish army. If she’s here, then there’s probably a reason. Even as the woman slips out of the throne room, Arcade stands and makes his apologies to King Josric. The King looks at him jealously – he must be bored as well – and grants his permission. Instantly, The Master of Space and Time twists in Arcade’s hand, and the Court Wizard disappears in a pyre of green flame.
Arcade reappears just outside of the throne room, his intelligent staff warm in his hand. There is no woman anywhere in sight.
“Ahem.”
The noise is cold, precise, and directly behind him. Arcade spins – and there’s no one there.
“Behind you.”
He spins again, and Claris is standing in front of him.
“Don’t do that!” he complains. “How are you? Well? And Purity, your daughter?”
A thin sliver of a smile crosses Claris’ lips. “Well, thank you. We need to get the others. I have information to report.”
One teleport later, the two are standing outside of the Academe Sorcere in Oursk, hundreds of miles to the east. The air is fragrant with the smell of the endless sea, chilly in an early autumn gloom. Arcade and Claris stride into the school, passing the Guardian Wyrm stone statues (currently arcane marked with school colors) and moving onto the magically polished flagstone floors. It only takes them a few moments to find Dylrath's classroom.
Arcade opens the door and harrumphs self-importantly. The professor, in the midst of a lesson, pauses and raises an irritated eyebrow at the interruption. 19 year old Dylrath, the oldest student in the class by several years, sinks his face into his hand in anticipation of what he knows is coming.
"My deepest apologies for the interruption," says Arcade smoothly, "but I am Sir Arcade Deltarion, High Magus of Gaunt. We need to borrow young Master Birdhouse for an important matter."
The professor looks disgusted. "Very clever, Master Birdhouse," he says, "your stunts are becoming that much more impressive. Is this an illusion, or did you pay a visiting sailor to put on this charade?" He glares at Arcade suspiciously. "In any case, Master Birdhouse is in a lesson. Permission denied."
Arcade bristles, tossing back his chest to reveal his royal Clasp of Crown Eternal, to better display his owl-like eyes, to glare imperiously down his pointed nose at the suddenly wide-eyed professor. "Perhaps you didn't understand. Dylrath must play an essential role in an international conflict, one that could save hundreds or thousands of lives and earn him - and your Academy - substantial acclaim. I presume that with these stakes, he can miss half a session of," he squints at the chalk board, "intermediate conjuration."
Behind Arcade, Claris rolls her eyes at his lack of subtlety. Dylrath turns somewhat red as his classmates begin to chortle. And the professor's face flushes a stormy red before he gives in. "Fine!" spits the Professor. "Master Birdhouse, if you expect to pass this course, I expect your treatise on variant conjuration on my desk in two days. If you aren't too wrapped up in so-called 'international conflict'."
Dylrath says "Thank you, Professor," as he grabs his books and leaves the room . His classmates mutter all around him. He catches the phrase "..best illusion yet!" from several of his fellow students as he leaves the room.
The old friends greet each other in the hallway. Claris barely smiles at him, and Dylrath looks honored. “Oh, hi!” he says. “That lesson was boring. What’s up?” Then he stops, startled, staring at Claris for a second. He raises one eyebrow in a question, but thinks better of it. Instead he runs down the hall to his dormitory, and appears a few minutes later, his face emerging from thin air. "All set," he says, and backs away as both Arcade and Claris step through the invisible gate into his demiplane.
Dylrath’s mirror room. A small demiplane in the ethereal, it has a variant mirror of mental prowess permanently affixed to its insides. Thus, Dylrath can enter through the portal, scry someone he knows, and step out in an entirely different location. Once it was the inner sanctum of a fire mage’s academy; now it’s slung with hammocks and covered with teak flooring, lined with display shelves and cluttered with books and trophies. Ever since Dylrath gave up roguery and decided to study wizardry, this has been his secret study room.
“Can you find Nolin?”
“Oh yeah, sure. Hang on a sec.” He faces the mirror frame which shows a hallway, and suddenly it shimmers and reveals a reflection of Dylrath instead. “Hi, Htarlyd.”
“Oh, hi, Dylrath,” says his reflection as it scratches itself. “Who do we find now?”
“Nolin.”
“Sure! Let me concentrate….” Both Dylrath and the mirror concentrate as they scry for Nolin’s distinctive mental patterns. Within a few seconds, the mirror image of Dylrath disappears, and ‘Rath can see Nolin seated at a table, gesticulating with food. Dylrath turns to Claris and Arcade, gallantly waving an arm. “After you.”
To be continued….
Coming soon: A trip to the end of the multiverse! A hall full of demons! Mysterious fey! And a world that’s dying before your very eyes.
- Blatant plug: if you can, go read Sialia's Cthulhu A-B-C's, at the end of this thread! You'll laugh, you'll gibber, you'll drool. Piratecat recommended, deep one approved.
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KidCthulhu
First Post
Would this be Rath discovering that he can "see" Claris? He never could get a soul impression of her before, but I seem to remember that he could get her in the mirror this time, which was certainly a first.
Piratecat
Sesquipedalian
The room is a babble of excited conversation, old stories, obscure in-jokes. Agar shows Arcade the fascinating possibilities of his tentacled familiar Proty, while Arcade looks on with a polite smile and a trapped expression. Nolin dangles shiny baubles in front of Claris’ daughter Purity. Mara tries to avoid reminding anyone of the painful time she tried to charge twenty skilled archers, a tale which never fails to get a laugh when Nolin tells it. She fails miserably; and the good-natured teasing moves on to Mara’s habit of repeatedly disarming herself by fumbling in combat. Dylrath greets Tao awkwardly, studiously avoiding the fact that they were once engaged to be married, and gleefully tells everyone how he’s been making money recently. He reports that he has been using his Mirror to sell tickets to his friends at school, so the fans of the Defenders can peek in on their adventures and watch them in action.
"Do you mean to say that folks from all over the world have been watching us like some opera, or a sporting event?" Velendo says, horrified.
"A kid's gotta buy textbooks," Dylrath says. "And where's the harm? Your fans love you guys!"
Everyone looks around self-consciously, as if strangers were watching them even now.
For a time, the clock has been turned back five years, back before anyone gave a damn about politics and the biggest worry was whether or not Arcade would decipher the obscure prophecy before the Imbindarlan Brotherhood of Night did something truly despicable. The rogue Alix Loial is missing, of course, his soul damned to the Abyss for his betrayal of the party to the God of Murder. . . but he is still remembered fondly as the heroes talk amongst themselves.
Over in a corner, Velendo, Tao and Malachite are discussing the wording of a commune designed to clarify the situation with Aleax even further. Dylrath tries to catch Malachite’s attention to suggest a solution to their problem, but fails as the focused paladin studiously deflects him. “Now’s not good, Dylrath,” says Malachite coldly, and Dylrath shrugs as he turns to chat with Agar. If the paladin doesn’t want his idea, so be it. Malachite, working on the questions, never learns that Dylrath wanted to do more than just gossip.
All good things must come to an end, unfortunately, and supplies are gathered as Agar begins his legend lore on the Citadel of Kodali’s Retreat. He has already explained that time in the Citadel runs much faster than normal, so that an hour here is a week there. Although the group is somewhat concerned, they learn the ground rules: no fighting, no permanent habitation, no conjuration, and an informal truce with other inhabitants. In order to plane shift there, the caster must use divination magic to discover its exact location. By the time that the pregnant Lady Brea of House Clearwater joins the group and Dylrath unloads enough food supplies for five months, Agar is almost done with his spell. “Here we go!” he cries out, and strikes a tuning fork at a bizarre vibrating musical note.
The world disappears.
Instantly, everyone in the room is whirled upwards and outwards into a different reality. For what could be seconds or hours, they rush through a silver wasteland of stars and writhing whirlwinds, tumbling faster and faster. The transitional time is longer than any planar travel that the Defenders have made before. Then there is a ripping sound like fabric tearing, the smell of blood and brimstone, and the abrupt cessation of motion.
Dizzily, the group looks around, and Lady Brea screams. The Defenders and their companions are standing in an ancient stone hall fifty feet tall, ceiling blackened by countless torches and cooking fires. Looming around them are more than a score of devils seeping an almost palpable evil. Velendo looks up, and realizes that he’s staring into the horned face of a pit fiend. The pit fiend looks down, and a slow toothy smile spreads across his wicked face.
“THIS IS OUR CHAMBER, WORMS,” the monster booms. It points a long flame-red hand towards a domed exit a hundred feet away, its clawed finger pointing. “SINKERS ARE DOWN THAT DIRECTION. FEY THAT WAY. I BELIEVE YOU’LL FIND SPACE PAST THEM.” Its long forked tongue flicks across blackened teeth in emphasis.
“Thanks!” says Agar, hitching up his supplies over his shoulder. “C’mon, everyone.” He starts heading in the way that the embodiment of evil pointed, Proty flying ahead of him with tentacles flapping.
Mara looks horrified. She reaches for her mace, a look of determination on her face. “Don’t,” cautions Velendo. “Remember, there’s a truce here.” He looks around at all the fiends eyeing them with delight, and quietly adds, “Besides, we’d get creamed.” His muscles creaking under the weight of his supplies, he joins the others and heads off to explore.
“YOU’RE MORE THAN WELCOME TO STAY,” the creature calls after them, eyeing the pregnant woman. “YOU HAVE POWER THAT COULD BE USED IN THE BLOOD WAR. AND I NOTICE YOU BRING A SPECIAL TREAT.”
“Keep walking.” Nolin stay near the back as everyone moves through and past the clustered fiends.
Lady Brea is pale and shaking. “I came here to deliver my baby so that my husband Lord Griggan won’t find out it isn’t his,” she gasps while trembling. “I’m not turning it over to… to demons” She spits the word out. Someone starts to correct her as to the origin of the fiends, but is shushed as Nolin tries to calm the woman. She leans against him for support, and Nolin once again curses his father for getting the woman pregnant in the first place.
The group moves through oddly shaped gigantic chambers built to a titan’s scale, doing their best to avoid any other inhabitants of the Citadel. They see several human and tiefling Doomguard from Sigil, drawn to the fortress by its natural entropy, and they pass by a corkscrew-shaped hall that the pit fiend had said leads to a group of Fey. Soon the group finds a room shaped like an inverted ziggurat, empty, with each layer ten feet below the next. The Defenders claim this as their own, and begin to stash their supplies and settle in. Agar casts a permanent illusion to make it look a little more homey, and different people claim different sections of the huge chamber.
“Oh my,” says Arcade. “You’ll want to see this.” He’s standing down on the lowest level of the floor, a full 60’ below the main entrance. His face is bathed by a flickering light, dim and unsteady. As the others join him they also see what has entranced him. The wall here appears to be made out of glass or pure force, and it reveals the unparalleled sight of a world slowly being ripped apart. The Defenders look down from perhaps a mile or so in the air. From their vantage point, they see a land where titans - or Gods? - are running amuck, reshaping a land by ripping it apart, destroying a forest by raising a volcano. There is death down there, even if the people getting killed are too small to see.
“The Citadel always looks out on a world that is dying,” Agar says quietly. “I think that we’re at the end of the Outlands, and this is where worlds come to die, forced into entropy.”
Nolin shivers as a tremendous wave slaps down on a city below. “Let’s not visit.”
To be continued….
"Do you mean to say that folks from all over the world have been watching us like some opera, or a sporting event?" Velendo says, horrified.
"A kid's gotta buy textbooks," Dylrath says. "And where's the harm? Your fans love you guys!"
Everyone looks around self-consciously, as if strangers were watching them even now.
For a time, the clock has been turned back five years, back before anyone gave a damn about politics and the biggest worry was whether or not Arcade would decipher the obscure prophecy before the Imbindarlan Brotherhood of Night did something truly despicable. The rogue Alix Loial is missing, of course, his soul damned to the Abyss for his betrayal of the party to the God of Murder. . . but he is still remembered fondly as the heroes talk amongst themselves.
Over in a corner, Velendo, Tao and Malachite are discussing the wording of a commune designed to clarify the situation with Aleax even further. Dylrath tries to catch Malachite’s attention to suggest a solution to their problem, but fails as the focused paladin studiously deflects him. “Now’s not good, Dylrath,” says Malachite coldly, and Dylrath shrugs as he turns to chat with Agar. If the paladin doesn’t want his idea, so be it. Malachite, working on the questions, never learns that Dylrath wanted to do more than just gossip.
All good things must come to an end, unfortunately, and supplies are gathered as Agar begins his legend lore on the Citadel of Kodali’s Retreat. He has already explained that time in the Citadel runs much faster than normal, so that an hour here is a week there. Although the group is somewhat concerned, they learn the ground rules: no fighting, no permanent habitation, no conjuration, and an informal truce with other inhabitants. In order to plane shift there, the caster must use divination magic to discover its exact location. By the time that the pregnant Lady Brea of House Clearwater joins the group and Dylrath unloads enough food supplies for five months, Agar is almost done with his spell. “Here we go!” he cries out, and strikes a tuning fork at a bizarre vibrating musical note.
The world disappears.
Instantly, everyone in the room is whirled upwards and outwards into a different reality. For what could be seconds or hours, they rush through a silver wasteland of stars and writhing whirlwinds, tumbling faster and faster. The transitional time is longer than any planar travel that the Defenders have made before. Then there is a ripping sound like fabric tearing, the smell of blood and brimstone, and the abrupt cessation of motion.
Dizzily, the group looks around, and Lady Brea screams. The Defenders and their companions are standing in an ancient stone hall fifty feet tall, ceiling blackened by countless torches and cooking fires. Looming around them are more than a score of devils seeping an almost palpable evil. Velendo looks up, and realizes that he’s staring into the horned face of a pit fiend. The pit fiend looks down, and a slow toothy smile spreads across his wicked face.
“THIS IS OUR CHAMBER, WORMS,” the monster booms. It points a long flame-red hand towards a domed exit a hundred feet away, its clawed finger pointing. “SINKERS ARE DOWN THAT DIRECTION. FEY THAT WAY. I BELIEVE YOU’LL FIND SPACE PAST THEM.” Its long forked tongue flicks across blackened teeth in emphasis.
“Thanks!” says Agar, hitching up his supplies over his shoulder. “C’mon, everyone.” He starts heading in the way that the embodiment of evil pointed, Proty flying ahead of him with tentacles flapping.
Mara looks horrified. She reaches for her mace, a look of determination on her face. “Don’t,” cautions Velendo. “Remember, there’s a truce here.” He looks around at all the fiends eyeing them with delight, and quietly adds, “Besides, we’d get creamed.” His muscles creaking under the weight of his supplies, he joins the others and heads off to explore.
“YOU’RE MORE THAN WELCOME TO STAY,” the creature calls after them, eyeing the pregnant woman. “YOU HAVE POWER THAT COULD BE USED IN THE BLOOD WAR. AND I NOTICE YOU BRING A SPECIAL TREAT.”
“Keep walking.” Nolin stay near the back as everyone moves through and past the clustered fiends.
Lady Brea is pale and shaking. “I came here to deliver my baby so that my husband Lord Griggan won’t find out it isn’t his,” she gasps while trembling. “I’m not turning it over to… to demons” She spits the word out. Someone starts to correct her as to the origin of the fiends, but is shushed as Nolin tries to calm the woman. She leans against him for support, and Nolin once again curses his father for getting the woman pregnant in the first place.
The group moves through oddly shaped gigantic chambers built to a titan’s scale, doing their best to avoid any other inhabitants of the Citadel. They see several human and tiefling Doomguard from Sigil, drawn to the fortress by its natural entropy, and they pass by a corkscrew-shaped hall that the pit fiend had said leads to a group of Fey. Soon the group finds a room shaped like an inverted ziggurat, empty, with each layer ten feet below the next. The Defenders claim this as their own, and begin to stash their supplies and settle in. Agar casts a permanent illusion to make it look a little more homey, and different people claim different sections of the huge chamber.
“Oh my,” says Arcade. “You’ll want to see this.” He’s standing down on the lowest level of the floor, a full 60’ below the main entrance. His face is bathed by a flickering light, dim and unsteady. As the others join him they also see what has entranced him. The wall here appears to be made out of glass or pure force, and it reveals the unparalleled sight of a world slowly being ripped apart. The Defenders look down from perhaps a mile or so in the air. From their vantage point, they see a land where titans - or Gods? - are running amuck, reshaping a land by ripping it apart, destroying a forest by raising a volcano. There is death down there, even if the people getting killed are too small to see.
“The Citadel always looks out on a world that is dying,” Agar says quietly. “I think that we’re at the end of the Outlands, and this is where worlds come to die, forced into entropy.”
Nolin shivers as a tremendous wave slaps down on a city below. “Let’s not visit.”
To be continued….
Piratecat
Sesquipedalian
The five months pass quickly as the Defenders of Daybreak train and craft items. Their sense of time hasn’t completely synchronized with this place, and Raevynn and TomTom in particular have difficulty with how quickly the days seem to pass. Velendo’s studies reveal to him the most powerful spells that Calphas can grant, and most of the heroes break through to new powers and spells. While Claris draws maps of the Underdark and records what she’s learned from her scouting missions, Arcade and Agar are busy crafting magical items for many of the heroes.
Mara in particular is pleased as Arcade hands her a shimmering cloak. She slips it on, and suddenly every eye in the huge room is drawn to her like a magnet to steel. With the cloak on, Mara seems to practically glow, her every move assured, her voice ringing with command. “It’s a cloak of charisma,” says Arcade while trying to look at her with some decorum, “the most powerful type possible.”
“Thank you,” says Mara, and her appreciation is suddenly payment enough for Arcade. He excuses himself and goes for a walk while thinking about cold baths and how much he misses his wife Adrianna.
During this time Lady Brea’s time comes, and she gives birth to a newborn son. “Boil water!” urges Nolin in panic. “Rip a sheet up into strips!” Velendo and Tao send him away in disgust, and the birth occurs without his help. She names the child Griffith (or Grith for short), the name she knew his father by, and she settles in to care for the baby.
More disturbing than the occasional visits by Sigilian Doomguard (or “Sinkers”) is the scouting forays by the dark fey. No one in the group had seen dochalsfar for years, but it wasn’t long after the room was claimed that the first one paid a visit. When the evil faerie appeared, Arcade was standing near the door.
“VROOOoooooooooooooom!” Something speeds past him, faster than sight can follow.
“What was… oh, no! I recognize that noise.” The invisible source of the zooming sound banks off a wall, circles the huge room twice, and screeches to a halt in front of Arcade.
“whoareyouandwhyareyouhere?” A tiny fey creature, with long pointed ears and slit eyes, glares at him as its body trembles with suppressed energy. Its voice is almost too fast to understand.
“What?”
The creature spins around Arcade five times in annoyance, moving so quickly it blurs. “eitheryou’restupidoryou’redeafandyou’recertainlyslowslowslowwhoareyouandwhyareyouhere?”
“Ah, yes. Arcade Deltarion. We’re here on our own business. Why are *you* here?” The creature doesn’t answer. Instead, it streaks back the way it came, laughing obscenely in a grating high-pitched giggle. “I really hate those things,” laments Arcade.
Quicklings visit on almost a daily basis, buzzing the room and then disappearing. From the few that will talk to them, the group learns that the dark fey seem to be waiting for something to happen, something to do with a child that they believe will eventually arrive in the Citadel. Until then, they wait. The group worries that Lady Brea’s child is the one that the dark fey are waiting for, but a commune by Tao confirms that this is not the case. Finally Velendo loses his patience with the quicklings and simply covers the entrance to their chamber with a wall of faith to keep them out. Everyone thinks about the possibility of a quickling hitting a wall of force at more than 100 miles an hour, and there are many anticipatory grins.
Quite a bit of conversation and debate occurs around the now-accessible memory that the King of Gaunt had a son that no one seems to be able to recall…. What magic could create such an effect? No one is sure, and everyone tries to take steps to remember the child’s disappearance, despite the fact that they’re sure to inevitably forget when they return to the Prime.
Finally, everyone is ready to return. They’re finished training, finished making magical items (“I hope the higher entropy here doesn’t create problems,” muses Agar), and finished giving birth. Everyone is more than ready for fresh food and actual sunlight. The Citadel is depressing; the dying world beneath them is almost gone, flood waters having swallowed almost all the land, noisome vapors bubbling upwards where great cities once stood.
“All set, everyone?” Agar glances around. “I like this place. It must have been around for millennia, but it’s certainly handy.” Everyone gathers around him. “Next stop: home!” He casts plane shift, and the group is flung out into the multiverse, spinning back into the void.
They reappear in a wooded swamp. Overhead, thunder rolls across the heavens, the sign of a fierce thunderstorm. Everyone instinctively looks up to see when the rain is coming… and the sky is clear, blue, and dotted with a handful of fluffy white clouds. Another peal of thunder thrums across the land. Everyone looks around nervously. “Errr,” says Velendo. “How long have we really been gone? I’m no ranger, but I’m pretty sure this isn’t right.”
Tao rolls her eyes. “You think?” she asks facetiously, and spins around as she tries to get her bearings. They seem to have planeshifted in a few hundred miles southwest of Eversink. “What do you think - something to do with the Gods?”
“Thunder when the Gods fight isn’t unheard of,” says Nolin, tapping his chin. “I’m not sure we want to be in the vicinity, though.”
“I’m not sure we can avoid the vicinity,” says Malachite worriedly as he stares at the vault of the sky, staring directly into the eye of the sun. His eyes don’t even water. “We should move.”
Everyone shifts into wind walk form (except Agar, who already shifted when he found himself surrounded by mosquitos and flies. He’s quietly screaming as he tries to avoid the insects that are flying through him.) and heads off. The thunder continues overhead in the blue and humid sky, sometimes redoubling in intensity as it shakes the vault of heaven. Birds fly in panicked flocks, and the hot air feels heavy, like flying through heavy fog. Most worrisome, it’s soon clear that the sun doesn’t seem to be moving in the sky. It is frozen above their heads, sitting in place as if nailed there.
The group descends at the first house they see. It’s a ramshackle cottage and small farm, crouching by a stream on the edge of a wide wood. The group lands, solidifies, and looks around. They can hear a dog whining in terror from somewhere under the house, and the sound of horses whinnying and cows mooing is coming from the barn. Clearly the animals are terrified by the thunder. No one is in sight, though, so Tao knocks on the door.
“Eh?” comes an elderly voice from inside, worried. “Who’s there? Who’s there!”
“Not to worry,” answers Tao soothingly. “We’re lost travelers. We just hoped to get directions and just ask you a few questions.” An old man with gnarled hands opens the door and looks around. He sees twelve pale people. Almost all are heavily armed. He catches an impression of glowing crystal armor, of solid green eyes and eyes like that of an owl, of magical stones spinning around heads, and of quiescent power that almost makes the air vibrate. He stares for a few seconds with his mouth gaping open… then he screams and slams the door again. More thunder rolls across the clear sky as if in counterpoint.
The Defenders look at each other. “What was that all about?” someone wonders, and everyone shrugs. “I could blast it open,” says Agar mischievously, and as expected he gets shushed. Tao tries again. “Please, let me in,” she urges, and this time the old man reluctantly does, hurriedly closing and latching the door behind her.
The man moves to stand protectively next to his wife, and as more thunder shakes the windows they both drop to their knees in supplication. “Please don’t hurt us,” the woman begs. “Please. We have tried not to sin. Have the Gods sent you because they’re angry?”
“No, no,” says Tao. “Please get up. You misunderstand. I am a servant of my Goddess, but we really are only here to ask a few questions. How long has that thunder been going on?”
The woman averts her eyes as she answers. “Since last night. It’s gotten worse and worse. It’s the beginning of the end times. The Gods are destroying the world, we’ll soon be taken into heaven….”
“Gods willing,” interrupts the old man.
“Gods willing we’ll soon be taken into heaven,” says the woman. “when they stop fighting, of course. When we’ve died. We’ve tried to live a dutiful life, you know. With the boys gone, it’s become a chore to keep the farm, but we do what we can. We tithe.” She looks at Tao, her eyes pleading, her voice both scared and proud.
Tao smiles. “Not to worry. I think that sounds fine. I tithe, too. So this has been happening since last night? Hmmm. Do you know if…..”
She is cut off by a blast of light and noise from outside the cottage. With the sound of a thousand angels singing, pure sunlight streams through the cracks in the door frame, the heat of a living furnace rolling through the small house. Everyone screams, and Tao drops to her knees as a rush of divine awe sweeps through her. She suddenly feels dwarfed by whatever is on the other side of the door, made tiny and fragile in comparison. The chorus of angels finishes their wordless hymn with a flourish, and for a few seconds there is nothing in the world by blinding light and pure, perfect silence. Then a Voice shivers the timbers of the house. The voice is a mixture of Mara’s, Malachite’s, and the celestial choir, the Voice of Creation itself, and with a horrified thrill Tao realizes that it sounds angry.
“I. Am. WROTH.”
To be continued….
Next update early next week.
Mara in particular is pleased as Arcade hands her a shimmering cloak. She slips it on, and suddenly every eye in the huge room is drawn to her like a magnet to steel. With the cloak on, Mara seems to practically glow, her every move assured, her voice ringing with command. “It’s a cloak of charisma,” says Arcade while trying to look at her with some decorum, “the most powerful type possible.”
“Thank you,” says Mara, and her appreciation is suddenly payment enough for Arcade. He excuses himself and goes for a walk while thinking about cold baths and how much he misses his wife Adrianna.
During this time Lady Brea’s time comes, and she gives birth to a newborn son. “Boil water!” urges Nolin in panic. “Rip a sheet up into strips!” Velendo and Tao send him away in disgust, and the birth occurs without his help. She names the child Griffith (or Grith for short), the name she knew his father by, and she settles in to care for the baby.
More disturbing than the occasional visits by Sigilian Doomguard (or “Sinkers”) is the scouting forays by the dark fey. No one in the group had seen dochalsfar for years, but it wasn’t long after the room was claimed that the first one paid a visit. When the evil faerie appeared, Arcade was standing near the door.
“VROOOoooooooooooooom!” Something speeds past him, faster than sight can follow.
“What was… oh, no! I recognize that noise.” The invisible source of the zooming sound banks off a wall, circles the huge room twice, and screeches to a halt in front of Arcade.
“whoareyouandwhyareyouhere?” A tiny fey creature, with long pointed ears and slit eyes, glares at him as its body trembles with suppressed energy. Its voice is almost too fast to understand.
“What?”
The creature spins around Arcade five times in annoyance, moving so quickly it blurs. “eitheryou’restupidoryou’redeafandyou’recertainlyslowslowslowwhoareyouandwhyareyouhere?”
“Ah, yes. Arcade Deltarion. We’re here on our own business. Why are *you* here?” The creature doesn’t answer. Instead, it streaks back the way it came, laughing obscenely in a grating high-pitched giggle. “I really hate those things,” laments Arcade.
Quicklings visit on almost a daily basis, buzzing the room and then disappearing. From the few that will talk to them, the group learns that the dark fey seem to be waiting for something to happen, something to do with a child that they believe will eventually arrive in the Citadel. Until then, they wait. The group worries that Lady Brea’s child is the one that the dark fey are waiting for, but a commune by Tao confirms that this is not the case. Finally Velendo loses his patience with the quicklings and simply covers the entrance to their chamber with a wall of faith to keep them out. Everyone thinks about the possibility of a quickling hitting a wall of force at more than 100 miles an hour, and there are many anticipatory grins.
Quite a bit of conversation and debate occurs around the now-accessible memory that the King of Gaunt had a son that no one seems to be able to recall…. What magic could create such an effect? No one is sure, and everyone tries to take steps to remember the child’s disappearance, despite the fact that they’re sure to inevitably forget when they return to the Prime.
Finally, everyone is ready to return. They’re finished training, finished making magical items (“I hope the higher entropy here doesn’t create problems,” muses Agar), and finished giving birth. Everyone is more than ready for fresh food and actual sunlight. The Citadel is depressing; the dying world beneath them is almost gone, flood waters having swallowed almost all the land, noisome vapors bubbling upwards where great cities once stood.
“All set, everyone?” Agar glances around. “I like this place. It must have been around for millennia, but it’s certainly handy.” Everyone gathers around him. “Next stop: home!” He casts plane shift, and the group is flung out into the multiverse, spinning back into the void.
They reappear in a wooded swamp. Overhead, thunder rolls across the heavens, the sign of a fierce thunderstorm. Everyone instinctively looks up to see when the rain is coming… and the sky is clear, blue, and dotted with a handful of fluffy white clouds. Another peal of thunder thrums across the land. Everyone looks around nervously. “Errr,” says Velendo. “How long have we really been gone? I’m no ranger, but I’m pretty sure this isn’t right.”
Tao rolls her eyes. “You think?” she asks facetiously, and spins around as she tries to get her bearings. They seem to have planeshifted in a few hundred miles southwest of Eversink. “What do you think - something to do with the Gods?”
“Thunder when the Gods fight isn’t unheard of,” says Nolin, tapping his chin. “I’m not sure we want to be in the vicinity, though.”
“I’m not sure we can avoid the vicinity,” says Malachite worriedly as he stares at the vault of the sky, staring directly into the eye of the sun. His eyes don’t even water. “We should move.”
Everyone shifts into wind walk form (except Agar, who already shifted when he found himself surrounded by mosquitos and flies. He’s quietly screaming as he tries to avoid the insects that are flying through him.) and heads off. The thunder continues overhead in the blue and humid sky, sometimes redoubling in intensity as it shakes the vault of heaven. Birds fly in panicked flocks, and the hot air feels heavy, like flying through heavy fog. Most worrisome, it’s soon clear that the sun doesn’t seem to be moving in the sky. It is frozen above their heads, sitting in place as if nailed there.
The group descends at the first house they see. It’s a ramshackle cottage and small farm, crouching by a stream on the edge of a wide wood. The group lands, solidifies, and looks around. They can hear a dog whining in terror from somewhere under the house, and the sound of horses whinnying and cows mooing is coming from the barn. Clearly the animals are terrified by the thunder. No one is in sight, though, so Tao knocks on the door.
“Eh?” comes an elderly voice from inside, worried. “Who’s there? Who’s there!”
“Not to worry,” answers Tao soothingly. “We’re lost travelers. We just hoped to get directions and just ask you a few questions.” An old man with gnarled hands opens the door and looks around. He sees twelve pale people. Almost all are heavily armed. He catches an impression of glowing crystal armor, of solid green eyes and eyes like that of an owl, of magical stones spinning around heads, and of quiescent power that almost makes the air vibrate. He stares for a few seconds with his mouth gaping open… then he screams and slams the door again. More thunder rolls across the clear sky as if in counterpoint.
The Defenders look at each other. “What was that all about?” someone wonders, and everyone shrugs. “I could blast it open,” says Agar mischievously, and as expected he gets shushed. Tao tries again. “Please, let me in,” she urges, and this time the old man reluctantly does, hurriedly closing and latching the door behind her.
The man moves to stand protectively next to his wife, and as more thunder shakes the windows they both drop to their knees in supplication. “Please don’t hurt us,” the woman begs. “Please. We have tried not to sin. Have the Gods sent you because they’re angry?”
“No, no,” says Tao. “Please get up. You misunderstand. I am a servant of my Goddess, but we really are only here to ask a few questions. How long has that thunder been going on?”
The woman averts her eyes as she answers. “Since last night. It’s gotten worse and worse. It’s the beginning of the end times. The Gods are destroying the world, we’ll soon be taken into heaven….”
“Gods willing,” interrupts the old man.
“Gods willing we’ll soon be taken into heaven,” says the woman. “when they stop fighting, of course. When we’ve died. We’ve tried to live a dutiful life, you know. With the boys gone, it’s become a chore to keep the farm, but we do what we can. We tithe.” She looks at Tao, her eyes pleading, her voice both scared and proud.
Tao smiles. “Not to worry. I think that sounds fine. I tithe, too. So this has been happening since last night? Hmmm. Do you know if…..”
She is cut off by a blast of light and noise from outside the cottage. With the sound of a thousand angels singing, pure sunlight streams through the cracks in the door frame, the heat of a living furnace rolling through the small house. Everyone screams, and Tao drops to her knees as a rush of divine awe sweeps through her. She suddenly feels dwarfed by whatever is on the other side of the door, made tiny and fragile in comparison. The chorus of angels finishes their wordless hymn with a flourish, and for a few seconds there is nothing in the world by blinding light and pure, perfect silence. Then a Voice shivers the timbers of the house. The voice is a mixture of Mara’s, Malachite’s, and the celestial choir, the Voice of Creation itself, and with a horrified thrill Tao realizes that it sounds angry.
“I. Am. WROTH.”
To be continued….
Next update early next week.
Plane Sailing
Astral Admin - Mwahahaha!
I like the artful way you composed this segment - the farmer overawed at the palpable power represented by the Defenders, presumably the're all feeling very good about themselves, perhaps even a bit of preening and knowing glances, and then... they find themselves in exactly the same role as the peasant when Mr Angry God (TM) appears.
Excellent!
So defenders - what were you thinking around about this moment?
Excellent!
So defenders - what were you thinking around about this moment?
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