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Story Hour
Shemeska's Planescape Storyhour - (Updated 14February2024)
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<blockquote data-quote="Shemeska" data-source="post: 6903253" data-attributes="member: 11697"><p style="text-align: center">****</p><p></p><p></p><p>“’Vote for action, not barking!’... no.”</p><p></p><p>“’More guardinal, less ‘loth’… no.”</p><p></p><p>“’Vote for me and not the razorvine crowned asshat.’… tempting but no.”</p><p></p><p>“ Vote Fyrehowl for Sigil Advisory Council – action, not words’… maybe.”</p><p></p><p>Fyrehowl smiled as she stared down at the mockup campaign poster she’d commissioned, prepared for printing except for a campaign slogan which was still obviously a work in progress. She’d already set aside the coin needed to plaster them across every corner and public square in the Clerk’s Ward and possibly the Guildhall Ward if she called in some favors. The Hive didn’t have enough land owners with votes to make it worthwhile, and there and the Lower Ward alike, a celestial running for a seat on the Advisory Council probably didn’t stand much chance with the population there anyway. The other Wards would likely divide their votes among the other candidates that it was a losing proposition to even both to spread jink around on the effort there.</p><p></p><p>It wasn’t going to be easy, and it would probably create more enemies for her than not, but it would be worth it if only to elevate her onto a level where she could actually stand up to the Marauder. Best case scenario would be that she won a seat and denied one to the ‘loth.</p><p></p><p>Fyrehowl smiled and wistfully sighed at the thought, pausing only to take a sip of ale as Florian sat down next to her and admired the poster.</p><p></p><p>“She’s going to murder you if you win and she doesn’t.” The cleric made a snarling face and put her hands up next to her head, pantomiming the Marauder.</p><p></p><p>“I’m well past the point of caring.” Fyrehowl smirked, errantly swatting at a still grimacing Florian. “Besides, I’m a long shot anyways.”</p><p></p><p>“No, you’re not.” Florian’s said bluntly. “You’ve got a good shot of landing a seat. People know you. You’re a member of the Chairwoman’s old faction, and hell, you’re not a ‘loth that people hate and fear.”</p><p></p><p>“I’m used to a certain level of disappointment when it comes to their kind,” Fyrehowl shrugged, “And besides, she’s far more likely to win a seat and then proceed to rub it in my face for the next decade.”</p><p></p><p>Florian shook her head and handed the guardinal a mug, “There’s not a quota for council members with tails, so chances are that you’ll probably both get in with one of the open council seats. And try that on for size.”</p><p></p><p>Fyrehowl shrugged and sipped from a mug of the newest addition to the Portal Jammer’s beer on tap: one of the brews produced by the formerly adversarial duergar neighbors. It was overly hoppy compared to her usual tastes, but it wasn’t bad, and the bitterness suited her mood to an extent as her brain dwelled far too much on the idea of beating one specific fiend rather than just getting a seat on the Council in general.</p><p></p><p>“You’ve got name recognition among the people who can actually vote.” Florian glanced down at the poster approvingly. “You aren’t as high profile as some, sure, but you’re a safe vote without links to too many power players in the city. You might get more votes than you think.”</p><p></p><p>“I just don’t want the Marauder to actually be on the Council.” Fyrehowl gave a soft snarl and rolled her eyes. “She’s bad enough sitting in the front row and making a public scene over marginal issues.”</p><p></p><p>“Is she actually running?” Florian raised a point which in the guardinal’s bout of simultaneous hope and preparation for her own disappointment, she’d seemingly failed to consider.</p><p></p><p>“I…” Fyrhowl paused and stared over at the cleric. “I would assume so.”</p><p></p><p>“Maybe she isn’t?” Florian shrugged. “Gods above that would be amazing… but no, I think it’s an absolute given that she will. Estevan and Zadara are already on the council, and powers forbid that they have some social advantage that she doesn’t.” </p><p></p><p>Florian rolled her eyes one more time at the ‘loth and shuffled through some of the other mock posters, pointing out her favorites and suggesting spots to hang some of them in each of the various wards. Eventually she broached the topic of candidates beyond the guardinal and the ‘loth. “Do you know who else is openly running?”</p><p></p><p>“Only a few names that I’m aware of, and none that we’ve particularly run into or run afoul of.” Fyrehowl made a mental tally of the confirmed and rumored names that she’d heard of through official and unofficial channels when she’d decided to put her name into the metaphorical hat. “There’s a deadline tomorrow for people to put themselves in the running, but it’s so late in the game that I don’t think that anyone else will, barring a miracle.”</p><p></p><p>“So what you’re saying is that you have a damn fine shot of making the council.” Florian raised her glass in a toast.</p><p></p><p>Fyrehowl’s ears perked and a slow smile crossed her muzzle. “You know, I think that you’re right.”</p><p></p><p>“When you’re ready, I’ll help you hang posters.”</p><p></p><p>Unbeknownst to either of them, the full roster of announced candidates was far from finished.</p><p></p><p></p><p style="text-align: center">****</p><p></p><p></p><p>Clueless stared at the man who stood opposite him, his limbic system screaming to his brain’s higher functions every blood-flecked scream of horror that it knew. His hand clutched Razor’s hilt unconsciously, though it wouldn’t have helped him in the slightest if he’d drawn and closed the distance. His last trip to those halls, he’d seen a glimpse of what the man, or at least the man’s robed, inhuman familiar… if familiar was the most apt word.</p><p></p><p>Time seemed to stand still and ambient noise faded away until all that remained was the Jester’s implacable, wry smile and the soft wriggling of tentacles unseen just below the fringe of his small servitor’s robes. Perfect lips parted to reveal perfect teeth and the charisma and unspoken aura of grandeur and power reserved for the Lords of Hell themselves. But the Jester wasn’t one of the Nine. The Jester was something else entirely. </p><p></p><p>“So, I must ask,” The Jester asked, “How exactly did it come to your attention that I’d been watching you, ever since you left my halls?”</p><p></p><p>The Jester’s voice was smooth and cultured, touched with an accent unheard in Sigil’s streets for untold millennia, but there was something more than just the touch of the exotic. The man was beguiling, nearly hypnotic, and Clueless found himself gliding along the fine line that separated fear, respect, and allure.</p><p></p><p>“Watching…” Clueless frowned, puffing himself up to respond. “You were lodged inside of my head like an uninvited guest, not unlike more than one fiend that I’ve known.”</p><p></p><p>“At the very least, unlike those others who’ve found lodging inside of your skull, I’m not a fiend.” The Jester chuckled and his familiar peered out from behind the edge of his greatcoat, “And do remember that you entered my halls of your own volition, an uninvited guest to where I’ve been for many years, uninvolved in Sigil’s politics, simply enjoying my existence.”</p><p></p><p>“Fair enough.” Clueless inclined his head. “As for your question, I learned it from a source that I don’t care to ever meet again, but which I feel inclined to think knew what it was talking about: a baernaloth.”</p><p></p><p>Unbidden, the Jester’s familiar hissed and withdrew behind him. Unseen below the edge of his wide hat, the Jester’s eyes narrowed and he chose his next words with careful deliberation.</p><p></p><p>“And you trusted it?” He laughed and shook his head. “Lies are their vocabulary beyond any other measure of their substance, and trust me when I say that I have known some of the greatest liars in the cosmos. Your point however is true. If you encountered one of them, if it deigned to tell even a half truth, it would know what it was talking about.”</p><p></p><p>“I didn’t say that I trusted it, but the fact that you admit to knowing about their being a fiend in my head, I don’t have to blindly trust the ‘loth.” Clueless raised an eyebrow and watched a slow grin cross the Jester’s face.</p><p></p><p>“The Keeper of the Tower of the Arcanaloths…” The Jester nodded his head approvingly, “His presence lodged firmly in place, and all around him the fading but still visible footsteps of another one of their kind tracing back to the gemstone lodged in your ankle. You’ve collected quite a bit of attention from the ‘loths it seems. You have my sympathies.”</p><p></p><p>Clueless continued to stare at the Jester, continually balanced between fascinated intrigue and absolutely justified terror. For his part, the master of the underhalls remained preternaturally patient, or perhaps just a predator toying with his prey with words rather than fangs.</p><p></p><p>“Who and what are you?” Clueless asked, fully understanding that the man standing opposite him was easily thousands of years old, but outwardly human and a picture of statuesque vitality.</p><p></p><p>“Such a loaded question.” The Jester shrugged, noncommittal and still cloaked in mystery. “It very much depends on who you ask, and precious few of those who know remain alive.”</p><p></p><p>“That doesn’t even touch upon an answer.”</p><p></p><p>“That’s not a topic that I’ll be touching today, interwoven with so much of who I am and what I no longer am.”</p><p></p><p>Clueless furrowed his brow at the double meanings in the Jester’s cryptic non-answer.</p><p></p><p>“Do you know how I can get Helekanalaith out of my head?”</p><p></p><p>“It’s funny that you ask that actually. Whether I could help you or not, it doesn’t matter,” The Jester laughed, even as his expression remained tauntingly and unreadably enticing, “Because he’s no longer there.”</p><p></p><p>Clueless took a step back, confused and concerned, “What?!”</p><p></p><p></p><p style="text-align: center">****</p><p></p><p></p><p>The Keeper of the Tower sat at his desk of polished black glass, a burning stylus held in his right hand and a mortal soul stretched out upon an iron frame fresh and ready for the creation of a contract. Gehenna’s starless black void gazed down upon him from wide and distinctly one-way windows that opened out onto the endless vault and the slopes of Krangath, the former’s emptiness reflected in the absence of pity in the Keeper’s soul.</p><p></p><p>Above Helekanalaith’s desk, shedding a flickering blue-violet light down upon him and his work, the flawless, gemstone prison of his predecessor and lover, Larsdana ap Neut, hovered in its ever present position.</p><p></p><p>The Keeper twitched his whiskers, bothered by something just at the edge of his mind. His mind was deep beyond mortal comprehension, comprised of a vast and labyrinthine memory palace sorting his thoughts and memories, and keeping fast all those things he refused to enter into the archives of the Tower itself. Something was missing. It wasn’t that a door remained locked or a room empty there within his memory construct, but only the faintest impression that a room itself was missing and the blueprints that would have shed light on that vanishing themselves a palimpsest, with only the vague impression of an outline of something out of place.</p><p></p><p>Helekanalaith snarled, feeling that faded outline of metaphorical ink fading by the moment and depriving him of even the suspicion of loss. For a moment, panic flooded his senses before he returned to his calm, controlled self.</p><p></p><p>“You know, don’t you?” The Keeper narrowed his eyes and glared at the gemstone lamp, burning ceaselessly with his mentor’s essence. “Your silence on the matter is damning Larsdana.”</p><p></p><p>The Keeper focused his mind and concentrated, peering into the first Majestrix of Gehenna’s tortured mind for what glimmers of meaning he might there discern. Only her ragged screams greeted him there, devoid of meaning and empty of any clue as to what gnawed at him.</p><p></p><p>“Or you may continue to scream.” The Keeper sighed, smiling with a moment of romantic pleasure as he enjoyed the closest thing to love that a creature such as himself could experience: the brutal and unceasing torture of his former mentor and lover. He closed his eyes and listened to each subtle note in the other archfiend’s agony. “You are so very, very beautiful to me. Please, never stop.”</p><p></p><p>Seconds of the Keeper’s self-indulgence passed into minutes, into nearly an hour spent listening to Larsdana’s agonies. The act itself was not-infrequent on his part as a refuge away from the struggles of holding and enforcing his position in the Tower from every other member of his caste with aspirations for his throne. He had no desire for there to ever be a repeat of the act of beautiful betrayal that saw him replace Larsdana. His moments of listening to her agony only reaffirmed his confidence and each of her brutal screams only told him in words that he would have been unable to comprehend, that she was proud of him, the only creature that she had ever loved.</p><p></p><p>Smiling to himself, Helekanalaith opened his eyes.</p><p></p><p>“I worry too much you know Larsdana. I fear for my position purely because of your failure so long ago and I…”</p><p></p><p>Helekanalaith’s voice trailed off as she looked into the gemstone that held Larsdana’s trapped spirit, seeing his face reflected back at him, but also another entity entirely. There in the mirrored, faceted surface of the gemstone was the face of one of The Demented.</p><p></p><p>“Father/Mother…” The Keeper whispered with equal parts reverence and abject fear as he watched and then felt the primordial abomination reach up and caress his face, lean forward and open its mouth, issuing forth a wash of bitter fumes like the out gassing of a putrefying corpse.</p><p></p><p>Alashra the Dream Reaver smiled, extending a purple-black tongue to lick across the Keeper’s face. From a nearly skeletal face framed with tangled, ashen hair, the baernaloth’s eyelids were sown shut with ragged black string and the eyes beneath them visibly twitched in the spasms of deepest slumber. A low, chill fog wafted off of her body, thin tendrils of ethereal protomatter twisting and wriggling like the tongues of a thousand serpents evaporating from a wasted, starving body with unnaturally elongated limbs.</p><p></p><p>The Keeper of the Tower sat, transfixed in space as the baernaloth which had once inhabited Larsdana like a parasite slowly curled its fingers and drew out thin filaments of gossamer energy from his mind, erasing even the empty places within his memory construct, completing the hasty work that her brother/sister the Chronicler had begun.</p><p></p><p>The Chronicler hadn’t been sloppy she realized, he’d left the scuffs and paintings tilted at odd angles in an otherwise spotless mental room to torment the Keeper and also to draw her gaze to the mental link that he’d forged with a mortal, formerly a puppet of the Marauder. The link itself showed promise, as well as the fingerprints of others that touched it, hiding their presence just as surely as the Keeper had himself, or at least seeking to hide their presence.</p><p></p><p>The Dream Reaver smiled and released the Keeper back to his romantic moment with her former vessel Larsdana, then stepped back and subsumed herself into the base substance of Gehenna, finished with her task. The Keeper blinked and glanced around, momentarily distracted before he returned to the contract sitting upon his desk, none the wiser as to what had happened and what he had lost.</p><p></p><p>Having born witness to it all, but still entrapped and screaming in her endless torment, Larsdana smiled.</p><p></p><p></p><p style="text-align: center">****</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Shemeska, post: 6903253, member: 11697"] [center]****[/center] “’Vote for action, not barking!’... no.” “’More guardinal, less ‘loth’… no.” “’Vote for me and not the razorvine crowned asshat.’… tempting but no.” “ Vote Fyrehowl for Sigil Advisory Council – action, not words’… maybe.” Fyrehowl smiled as she stared down at the mockup campaign poster she’d commissioned, prepared for printing except for a campaign slogan which was still obviously a work in progress. She’d already set aside the coin needed to plaster them across every corner and public square in the Clerk’s Ward and possibly the Guildhall Ward if she called in some favors. The Hive didn’t have enough land owners with votes to make it worthwhile, and there and the Lower Ward alike, a celestial running for a seat on the Advisory Council probably didn’t stand much chance with the population there anyway. The other Wards would likely divide their votes among the other candidates that it was a losing proposition to even both to spread jink around on the effort there. It wasn’t going to be easy, and it would probably create more enemies for her than not, but it would be worth it if only to elevate her onto a level where she could actually stand up to the Marauder. Best case scenario would be that she won a seat and denied one to the ‘loth. Fyrehowl smiled and wistfully sighed at the thought, pausing only to take a sip of ale as Florian sat down next to her and admired the poster. “She’s going to murder you if you win and she doesn’t.” The cleric made a snarling face and put her hands up next to her head, pantomiming the Marauder. “I’m well past the point of caring.” Fyrehowl smirked, errantly swatting at a still grimacing Florian. “Besides, I’m a long shot anyways.” “No, you’re not.” Florian’s said bluntly. “You’ve got a good shot of landing a seat. People know you. You’re a member of the Chairwoman’s old faction, and hell, you’re not a ‘loth that people hate and fear.” “I’m used to a certain level of disappointment when it comes to their kind,” Fyrehowl shrugged, “And besides, she’s far more likely to win a seat and then proceed to rub it in my face for the next decade.” Florian shook her head and handed the guardinal a mug, “There’s not a quota for council members with tails, so chances are that you’ll probably both get in with one of the open council seats. And try that on for size.” Fyrehowl shrugged and sipped from a mug of the newest addition to the Portal Jammer’s beer on tap: one of the brews produced by the formerly adversarial duergar neighbors. It was overly hoppy compared to her usual tastes, but it wasn’t bad, and the bitterness suited her mood to an extent as her brain dwelled far too much on the idea of beating one specific fiend rather than just getting a seat on the Council in general. “You’ve got name recognition among the people who can actually vote.” Florian glanced down at the poster approvingly. “You aren’t as high profile as some, sure, but you’re a safe vote without links to too many power players in the city. You might get more votes than you think.” “I just don’t want the Marauder to actually be on the Council.” Fyrehowl gave a soft snarl and rolled her eyes. “She’s bad enough sitting in the front row and making a public scene over marginal issues.” “Is she actually running?” Florian raised a point which in the guardinal’s bout of simultaneous hope and preparation for her own disappointment, she’d seemingly failed to consider. “I…” Fyrhowl paused and stared over at the cleric. “I would assume so.” “Maybe she isn’t?” Florian shrugged. “Gods above that would be amazing… but no, I think it’s an absolute given that she will. Estevan and Zadara are already on the council, and powers forbid that they have some social advantage that she doesn’t.” Florian rolled her eyes one more time at the ‘loth and shuffled through some of the other mock posters, pointing out her favorites and suggesting spots to hang some of them in each of the various wards. Eventually she broached the topic of candidates beyond the guardinal and the ‘loth. “Do you know who else is openly running?” “Only a few names that I’m aware of, and none that we’ve particularly run into or run afoul of.” Fyrehowl made a mental tally of the confirmed and rumored names that she’d heard of through official and unofficial channels when she’d decided to put her name into the metaphorical hat. “There’s a deadline tomorrow for people to put themselves in the running, but it’s so late in the game that I don’t think that anyone else will, barring a miracle.” “So what you’re saying is that you have a damn fine shot of making the council.” Florian raised her glass in a toast. Fyrehowl’s ears perked and a slow smile crossed her muzzle. “You know, I think that you’re right.” “When you’re ready, I’ll help you hang posters.” Unbeknownst to either of them, the full roster of announced candidates was far from finished. [center]****[/center] Clueless stared at the man who stood opposite him, his limbic system screaming to his brain’s higher functions every blood-flecked scream of horror that it knew. His hand clutched Razor’s hilt unconsciously, though it wouldn’t have helped him in the slightest if he’d drawn and closed the distance. His last trip to those halls, he’d seen a glimpse of what the man, or at least the man’s robed, inhuman familiar… if familiar was the most apt word. Time seemed to stand still and ambient noise faded away until all that remained was the Jester’s implacable, wry smile and the soft wriggling of tentacles unseen just below the fringe of his small servitor’s robes. Perfect lips parted to reveal perfect teeth and the charisma and unspoken aura of grandeur and power reserved for the Lords of Hell themselves. But the Jester wasn’t one of the Nine. The Jester was something else entirely. “So, I must ask,” The Jester asked, “How exactly did it come to your attention that I’d been watching you, ever since you left my halls?” The Jester’s voice was smooth and cultured, touched with an accent unheard in Sigil’s streets for untold millennia, but there was something more than just the touch of the exotic. The man was beguiling, nearly hypnotic, and Clueless found himself gliding along the fine line that separated fear, respect, and allure. “Watching…” Clueless frowned, puffing himself up to respond. “You were lodged inside of my head like an uninvited guest, not unlike more than one fiend that I’ve known.” “At the very least, unlike those others who’ve found lodging inside of your skull, I’m not a fiend.” The Jester chuckled and his familiar peered out from behind the edge of his greatcoat, “And do remember that you entered my halls of your own volition, an uninvited guest to where I’ve been for many years, uninvolved in Sigil’s politics, simply enjoying my existence.” “Fair enough.” Clueless inclined his head. “As for your question, I learned it from a source that I don’t care to ever meet again, but which I feel inclined to think knew what it was talking about: a baernaloth.” Unbidden, the Jester’s familiar hissed and withdrew behind him. Unseen below the edge of his wide hat, the Jester’s eyes narrowed and he chose his next words with careful deliberation. “And you trusted it?” He laughed and shook his head. “Lies are their vocabulary beyond any other measure of their substance, and trust me when I say that I have known some of the greatest liars in the cosmos. Your point however is true. If you encountered one of them, if it deigned to tell even a half truth, it would know what it was talking about.” “I didn’t say that I trusted it, but the fact that you admit to knowing about their being a fiend in my head, I don’t have to blindly trust the ‘loth.” Clueless raised an eyebrow and watched a slow grin cross the Jester’s face. “The Keeper of the Tower of the Arcanaloths…” The Jester nodded his head approvingly, “His presence lodged firmly in place, and all around him the fading but still visible footsteps of another one of their kind tracing back to the gemstone lodged in your ankle. You’ve collected quite a bit of attention from the ‘loths it seems. You have my sympathies.” Clueless continued to stare at the Jester, continually balanced between fascinated intrigue and absolutely justified terror. For his part, the master of the underhalls remained preternaturally patient, or perhaps just a predator toying with his prey with words rather than fangs. “Who and what are you?” Clueless asked, fully understanding that the man standing opposite him was easily thousands of years old, but outwardly human and a picture of statuesque vitality. “Such a loaded question.” The Jester shrugged, noncommittal and still cloaked in mystery. “It very much depends on who you ask, and precious few of those who know remain alive.” “That doesn’t even touch upon an answer.” “That’s not a topic that I’ll be touching today, interwoven with so much of who I am and what I no longer am.” Clueless furrowed his brow at the double meanings in the Jester’s cryptic non-answer. “Do you know how I can get Helekanalaith out of my head?” “It’s funny that you ask that actually. Whether I could help you or not, it doesn’t matter,” The Jester laughed, even as his expression remained tauntingly and unreadably enticing, “Because he’s no longer there.” Clueless took a step back, confused and concerned, “What?!” [center]****[/center] The Keeper of the Tower sat at his desk of polished black glass, a burning stylus held in his right hand and a mortal soul stretched out upon an iron frame fresh and ready for the creation of a contract. Gehenna’s starless black void gazed down upon him from wide and distinctly one-way windows that opened out onto the endless vault and the slopes of Krangath, the former’s emptiness reflected in the absence of pity in the Keeper’s soul. Above Helekanalaith’s desk, shedding a flickering blue-violet light down upon him and his work, the flawless, gemstone prison of his predecessor and lover, Larsdana ap Neut, hovered in its ever present position. The Keeper twitched his whiskers, bothered by something just at the edge of his mind. His mind was deep beyond mortal comprehension, comprised of a vast and labyrinthine memory palace sorting his thoughts and memories, and keeping fast all those things he refused to enter into the archives of the Tower itself. Something was missing. It wasn’t that a door remained locked or a room empty there within his memory construct, but only the faintest impression that a room itself was missing and the blueprints that would have shed light on that vanishing themselves a palimpsest, with only the vague impression of an outline of something out of place. Helekanalaith snarled, feeling that faded outline of metaphorical ink fading by the moment and depriving him of even the suspicion of loss. For a moment, panic flooded his senses before he returned to his calm, controlled self. “You know, don’t you?” The Keeper narrowed his eyes and glared at the gemstone lamp, burning ceaselessly with his mentor’s essence. “Your silence on the matter is damning Larsdana.” The Keeper focused his mind and concentrated, peering into the first Majestrix of Gehenna’s tortured mind for what glimmers of meaning he might there discern. Only her ragged screams greeted him there, devoid of meaning and empty of any clue as to what gnawed at him. “Or you may continue to scream.” The Keeper sighed, smiling with a moment of romantic pleasure as he enjoyed the closest thing to love that a creature such as himself could experience: the brutal and unceasing torture of his former mentor and lover. He closed his eyes and listened to each subtle note in the other archfiend’s agony. “You are so very, very beautiful to me. Please, never stop.” Seconds of the Keeper’s self-indulgence passed into minutes, into nearly an hour spent listening to Larsdana’s agonies. The act itself was not-infrequent on his part as a refuge away from the struggles of holding and enforcing his position in the Tower from every other member of his caste with aspirations for his throne. He had no desire for there to ever be a repeat of the act of beautiful betrayal that saw him replace Larsdana. His moments of listening to her agony only reaffirmed his confidence and each of her brutal screams only told him in words that he would have been unable to comprehend, that she was proud of him, the only creature that she had ever loved. Smiling to himself, Helekanalaith opened his eyes. “I worry too much you know Larsdana. I fear for my position purely because of your failure so long ago and I…” Helekanalaith’s voice trailed off as she looked into the gemstone that held Larsdana’s trapped spirit, seeing his face reflected back at him, but also another entity entirely. There in the mirrored, faceted surface of the gemstone was the face of one of The Demented. “Father/Mother…” The Keeper whispered with equal parts reverence and abject fear as he watched and then felt the primordial abomination reach up and caress his face, lean forward and open its mouth, issuing forth a wash of bitter fumes like the out gassing of a putrefying corpse. Alashra the Dream Reaver smiled, extending a purple-black tongue to lick across the Keeper’s face. From a nearly skeletal face framed with tangled, ashen hair, the baernaloth’s eyelids were sown shut with ragged black string and the eyes beneath them visibly twitched in the spasms of deepest slumber. A low, chill fog wafted off of her body, thin tendrils of ethereal protomatter twisting and wriggling like the tongues of a thousand serpents evaporating from a wasted, starving body with unnaturally elongated limbs. The Keeper of the Tower sat, transfixed in space as the baernaloth which had once inhabited Larsdana like a parasite slowly curled its fingers and drew out thin filaments of gossamer energy from his mind, erasing even the empty places within his memory construct, completing the hasty work that her brother/sister the Chronicler had begun. The Chronicler hadn’t been sloppy she realized, he’d left the scuffs and paintings tilted at odd angles in an otherwise spotless mental room to torment the Keeper and also to draw her gaze to the mental link that he’d forged with a mortal, formerly a puppet of the Marauder. The link itself showed promise, as well as the fingerprints of others that touched it, hiding their presence just as surely as the Keeper had himself, or at least seeking to hide their presence. The Dream Reaver smiled and released the Keeper back to his romantic moment with her former vessel Larsdana, then stepped back and subsumed herself into the base substance of Gehenna, finished with her task. The Keeper blinked and glanced around, momentarily distracted before he returned to the contract sitting upon his desk, none the wiser as to what had happened and what he had lost. Having born witness to it all, but still entrapped and screaming in her endless torment, Larsdana smiled. [center]****[/center] [/QUOTE]
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Shemeska's Planescape Storyhour - (Updated 14February2024)
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