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Story Hour
Shemeska's Planescape Storyhour - (Updated 14February2024)
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<blockquote data-quote="Shemeska" data-source="post: 7872061" data-attributes="member: 11697"><p>Six sets of eyes blinked in unison, not at the appearance of the necromancer, Muroth Chalmar, but at his statement, and the implication that Tristol was one of Mystra’s Chosen.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>The aasimar turned around with a brief, embarrassed smile and waved off the blizzard of questions.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>“He’ll explain later!” Nisha whispered, the bell at the end of her tail rattling excitedly. “The silverfire is SO cool!”</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>Still standing in the doorway, robed in black and silver, the necromancer awaited an explanation, while behind the party, his army of the unquiet dead stood awaiting his command, cold fire licking within hollow eye-sockets. “What brings you here?”</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>The half-elf’s voice was cautious, tinged with the fear of a man whose unquestionable talent had never fully swallowed up his own fear of rivals, or of his possible failure. While his appearance was yet youthful, his expression, mannerisms, and the weight of long years in his eyes carried his actual age and the gravity of a life lived in persecution, occasional flight, and perpetual fear.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>“I’m not here on the Lady of Mysteries’ behalf.” Tristol explained, painfully aware of the necromancer staring daggers into his eyes, and wholly unaware that within his own pupils swirled the blue and silver stars of his patron goddess’s symbol. “But on another’s behalf entirely. As we said, we’re here to deliver something to you.”</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>“Few are aware that I or my tower even sit here on the edge of the old capital.” Chalmar’s vivid golden eyes narrowed, and his fingers, stained by ink and necromantic reagents alike twitched in preparation for a storm of casting, should it be necessary. “I’ve been here for more than two hundred years in quiet solitude, alone, working on my art. You would not be the first adventuring company to come here with ultimately fatal delusions of taking some rumored treasure trove within these walls.”</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>“We are, technically, an adventuring company but that’s not why we’re here.” Toras shrugged.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>“Nor would you be the first followers of one or another god, driven to zealotry and self-righteousness with a desire to cleanse the wood of a vile necromancer…” Chalmar fixed his eyes upon Florian.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>The cleric of Tempus glanced down at her prominent holy symbol and then back up to meet the necromancer’s burning gaze, shaking her head and waving away the half-elf’s concern. “I’m not here on the Foe-Hammer’s behalf.”</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>Chalmar refocused his concern to Tristol, a twinge of jealousy dancing his eyes, “Perhaps Mystra’s newest chosen comes to me to explore avenues of magic denied to him in far-off Halrua?”</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>Tristol ignored the necromancer’s smug expression. “Necromancy isn’t a particular affinity of mine, but neither is it a forbidden school. Mystra has given me much, but neither did she send me here to you.”</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>“Then who sent you here?” Chalmar asked, genuine curiosity drowning out his prior concerns. “Name them, and produce their so-called gift.”</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>Tristol turned and motioned to Clueless to produce the box. “It was given to us by the Lie Wea…”</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>The wizard’s voice abruptly trailed off, the baernaloth’s title and name left unfinished on his tongue as Clueless lifted up the box and Chalmar caught sight of it. The response was immediate.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>“Oh…” The necromancer went still, his face paled, and his hands carried an obvious tremor.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>“Uhh…” Fyrehowl muttered as her ears twitched and swiveled a moment before she glanced back to see the undead army collapse into thousands of piles of inanimate bone and slowly dispersing clouds of ethereal protoplasm, their spirits unshackled and the magic animating them suddenly released by a master no longer requiring their protection.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>Clueless stepped forward and held up the box, which the necromancer accepted with a soft, almost inaudible sigh, a twitch present in his left eye. On the verge of mental and physical collapse, an archmage reduced to a terrified child inwardly screaming in abject horror, Chalmar reached out and took the box from Clueless with only a brief glance down at the wickedly smiling face carved into its lid.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>“You will know it when you see it…” Chalmar’s voice was a whisper as he took his eyes away from the box in his hands and looked back up at the party, his face blank and drained, his hands trembling.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>“Excuse me?” Clueless asked.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>“You will know it when you see it.” The necromancer explained, “The next step for you in your quest of three parts of which this is your first, and for me my last. Somewhere on the Ethereal Plane, on the fringe of the Border and the Deep, three days from Toril’s edge lies another Wall of Color to another sphere and other dreamers there. The dreams of that place bubble up flickering gold and other colors.”</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>In his hands, Daru’s box had begun to rattle with the internal motion of gears, dull, hollow, and distant, the sound of heavy mechanisms falling into place at a profound distance but drawing ever closer by the moment.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>Chalmar recited a series of coordinates based on a number of well-known Ethereal landmarks and repeated his first statement, “You will know it when you see it. You’ll find your way clearer after a day or two.”</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>“What’s wrong?” Tristol asked, reaching out a hand in worry and concern for the necromancer’s sudden change in attitude.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>“Are you alright?” Clueless asked, his eyes drawn to the box whose eerie face now yawned wide, almost hungry looking.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>Chalmar’s eyes flickered with a moment of rage at their concern before he turned away and stared back at the box in his hands.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>“What deal did you make with the Lie Weaver?” Tristol asked, “We might be able to help.”</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>“No. You can’t.” Chalmar whispered to himself, tears welling in his eyes. “Please leave. All of you. Time is short…”</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>Warily, Clueless and Tristol withdrew to the tower’s entryway, only to have the necromancer wave a hand and close the door with a dull, hollow thud. The last thing they saw was Chalmar staring down at the box and abjectly sobbing.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>“What.The.Hell.Was.That?” Toras bluntly asked.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>“What did we just do?” Florian’s eyes were alight with angered regret. “He knew exactly what we brought him, and he was –terrified– of even mentioning its maker’s name!”</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>As the party argued amongst themselves on Chalmar’s doorstep, Fyrehowl’s ears remained perked and her eyes continued to stare at the door, where beyond it, Chalmer remained with the box, sobbing uncontrollably. Abruptly the weeping paused and to the lupinal’s enhanced senses the necromancer grew silent and the box was opened.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>“Guys? Guys!” Fyrehowl barked, “We need to leave.”</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>“What?” Clueless asked before becoming aware of the changes a moment later.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>The air had grown cold, bitterly so, and extending out from beneath the necromancer’s door, a snowflake pattern of frost crystallized upon the stones. Inside the tower, Chalmar’s voice caught and choked.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>“We need to leave now. NOW!” Fyrehowl warned as within the tower, audible through the closed gate, Chalmar began to scream.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>“What the f*ck?!” Toras shouted as the necromancer’s screaming grew louder, beyond the scope of what his vocal chords should have been able to support and from within the tower, the sudden sound of wood and stone tearing and splintering erupted into a deafening roar.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>“RUN!” Fyrehowl shouted as the party collectively scrambled to descend the stairs, so shocked at the sudden turn of events that they hadn’t thought to teleport to immediate safety or even to fly either by wings or by magic.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>Behind them the screaming continued, pausing only for the necromancer to inhale. Around him the tower began to shake and tremble and as the layer of frost had before it, a creeping carpet of rot and decay erupted from below the door, spreading out in an all-devouring radius from where Chalmar had opened his gift.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>“Oh sh*t it’s eating the tower!” Nisha screamed, inexplicably running several inches above the actual ground.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>“F*ck f*ck f*ck!” Toras screamed, running at breakneck speed as the tower’s foundations abruptly sunk several feet into the now black, diseased, and festering ground.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>Whatever the necromancer’s gift had unleashed, it continued spreading outwards, speeding up as the tower imploded, collapsing and disintegrating in the maw of whatever devouring horror finally silenced the necromancer’s screaming.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>“KEEP RUNNING!” Florian screamed.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>“F*ck running!” Clueless yelled, sprouting wings and taking to the air as the corrosive radius reached the forest edge, leaching thousand year old evergreens of their color in seconds and tearing them down into dust.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>“Tristol do someth…!” Nisha shouted before the aasimar’s magic plucked them all to safety, leaving the necromancer’s tower and every creature living or undead to their fate, never seeing the circle of obliteration finally cease its spherical hunger more than a mile from its start.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p style="text-align: center">****</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>“What the blazing hells was that?!” Florian’s eyes were wide with terror, demanding answers just as much as her spoken question.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>“I have absolutely no idea.” Tristol replied, his ears perked and his tail bottlebrushed. “There wasn’t any obvious magic. None. It just happened.”</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>“F*cking fiends…” Toras muttered. “Let that be a lesson to anyone making deals with them!”</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>“Uh…” Nisha’s tail curled into a question mark, “Wouldn’t that kinda sorta be us right now?”</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>With that uncomfortable moment of introspective realization, the party grew silent, catching their breath from their escape from the baernaloth’s “gift”. Whatever the box had been or had contained, it seemed clear that Chalmar had been painfully aware of just what it was, and whatever his deal with the fiend had been, the arrival of the box had been expected, and the creature behind its arrival predicated a certain agonizing level of resignation and acceptance.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>With those thoughts in mind, the party drifted in space, surrounded by a manifest sea of milky, swirling gray ethereal mist. Bereft of gravity, any landmarks, and even a visible (or existent) horizon, they slowly looked about and sought to ground their location and figure out their next steps.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>“Welcome to the Ethereal Plane.” Fyrehowl waved about at the lack of recognizable detail, though she knew where she was and an idea of where to go due to the influence of the Cadence.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>“Lovely total absence of landmarks, and me without my planar compass. So where now?” Florian asked, sarcasm masking lingering terror at recent events.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>“Assuming that Chalmar was telling the truth, once we figure out how far off target we were on my planeshift,” Tristol said, pulling out an actual planar compass, “We have a solid roadmap to where we need to go… wherever that actually is. Apparently we’ll know it when we see it.”</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>“That’s not ominous at all…” Toras sighed.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>As the wizard went about figuring out their location, another ominous realization was made.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>“How did Chalmar know where to tell us where to go next?” Fyrehowl asked, “Either he was being directly instructed on what to do by that damn box or something through it, or else he was told what to tell us, whenever we arrived, whoever we were, a very long time ago. That implies a certain level of disturbing foresight. I don’t like the implication of apparent destiny when it’s being puppeteered by a baernaloth.”</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>The truth of that implication and the reason why would become apparent soon enough, but it faded away from their minds as they determined their location and the path towards their next objective. The mists of the Border Ethereal melted away into the depths and then, sometime later, perhaps hours, perhaps days in the oddness of the Deep, the mists peeled back to reveal a landscape swirling with innumerable and radiant spheres, gossamer soap bubbles foaming, forming and popping, upon the surface of a single great sphere hovering in the depths: a mortal world viewed from the Ethereal and there upon its surface a Wall of Color.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>One of the bubbles however was different from the others. It pulsed with a subtle heartbeat that caused the surrounding mists to tremble, and the color it radiated was not among those of the conventional rainbow. Impossible to describe, it yet existed distinct and unique from the others bubbling around its periphery.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>“What is this?” Florian asked, gazing out at the incredible vista stretching out for thousands of miles in all directions.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>“They’re dreamscapes on the Ethereal surface of a mortal world.” Tristol explained, pointing to the unique one that seemed to hover before them, calling and beguiling, “And that one there is a very specific one.”</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>“We’ll know it when we see it.” Clueless remarked, “That’s for sure.”</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>“So it seems.” Tristol nodded, “Though I don’t know why we’re here or whose dream we’ll be entering.”</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>Toras looked at the dreamscape warily, “How dangerous might this be?”</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>“It shouldn’t be dangerous at all.” The wizard shrugged, “And that’s honestly worrying.”</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>“At least we’re not delivering a box this time around...” Clueless tried to smile.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>Glittering in the deep, the dreamscape taunted them like a golden bauble found in the depths of desolate, danger-filled dungeon: valuable but very likely hideously cursed. Of course, like a cursed artifact, the only way to determine the value or the danger was to find out directly. The group realized this of course, and one by one they dove into it, swiftly they realized that anything touched by the corrosive attention of a baernaloth could only end in misery.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p style="text-align: center">****</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>Flung from the depths of the Ethereal Sea and grounded upon the rocky shores of that singular dreamscape, the dissonance between the two was immediate and confusing. Built from the subconscious desires and self-image of a single mortal whose slumbering mind shaped that bubble reality like the blind, stumbling will of some idiot god, such places often carried elements of the dreamer’s hopes, aspirations, worries, and fears. The dreamscape of Afa Sozhelos, Lord High Reagent of the Purple Flames was many things, but above all else it was a manifest landscape of the dreamer’s delusional self-confidence.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>They found themselves in a vast plaza lined with massive, looming statues, lake-like bronze cauldrons filled with burning oil, and distantly the sounds of a vast, unseen crowd cheering and stomping their feet.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>“Someone has a high opinion of himself…” Toras rolled his eyes, gazing up at the unblinking, smiling faces of the statues.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>The statues were carved of deep black granite, their purple robes painted and adorned with similarly painted decorations, illusory symbols and a halo of stars drifting above each carved head. Each carved face was stern and possessed of a youthful energy, but beyond the carved smile there was something deeply unsettling, if yet unseen.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>“You came. You finally came to me.”</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>The voice was smooth, mellifluous, and reflective in tone of the landscape that surrounded them.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>The group collectively turned about to face the man the statues had been modeled after, and it while it was possible that the man’s dreamscape persona was aggrandized from life, such was uncommon, and the statues that towered overhead it seemed had not unduly lionized their subject.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>Afa Sozhelos, Lord High Reagent of the Purple Flames was tall, clad in purple robes pulled, pinned, and belted in place to exposure a lean, muscular physique devoid of scar or blemish atop his dark brown, almost black skin. He smiled to expose perfect teeth, ivory white, and the hair atop his head was black and tightly coiled, while the beard at his chin was dyed a deep red. He raised his chin and motioned out of habit as if he expected his guests to bow and abase themselves, even as his smile was one of warmth, like a father to his children.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>“Were you expecting us?” Fyrehowl asked, “I apologize, but we did not know who to expect when we arrived here.”</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>“We came here on another’s words, but knew not what or who to expect. My name is…” Tristol began, only to be cut off by the High Reagent as the human walked past the group, talking to himself as if they barely existed, a slight tilt to his head.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>“No no, your ignorance was to be expected.” Afa muttered to himself, “The drop of water knows nothing of the path of the surrounding river that turns a great water wheel, or what that drives to completion. No no.” He looked back up, a terrible ferocity in his stare and the gleam of a sociopath’s madness, “You have no knowledge of this place, or I, or your role here… but I do.”</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>Madness gleamed in the man’s eyes.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>“No introductions are needed, you visitors here to my dreams.” Afa waved away any questions as he continued to walk a circuit around the party, the golden bangles on his sandals softly chiming with each step.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>The party exchanged wary, uncertain glances, while Tristol stared at the dreaming afterimage of magical auras present upon the man in real life. Despite the religious nature of the decorations on his regal garb, the auras were exclusively arcane in nature, and they were powerful: a sorcerer whose innate power had seemingly convinced him of his own faux-divine calling and fueled the rise of his own religion, no divine patron seemingly required. Such had drawn the baern’s malevolent curiosity.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>“In another dream, many years ago now,” Afa gestured to each member of the party that they might be illuminated by his wisdom, “The gods whose blood flows in my very veins came to me, and one of them gave to me a prophecy.”</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>“Pray tell us, what was that prophecy?” Clueless asked warily.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>Distantly the sounds of cheering voices grew louder like distantly rumbling on the horizon foretelling the arrival of a terrible storm.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>“I was told that you would come to me to bare revelations about my future, about my divine task set before me.” Afa’s arms were raised up into the air, and within the clouds high above there appeared images of his past as a young boy, discovering his magic, and putting it to use. The images were terrible to behold, of a child, then a young man, convinced of his own divinity in a world low in magic swiftly accruing a personal cult, then seizing political power, and then demanding worship by his nation’s subjects, all without moral guidance, and all without pity or empathy.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>“We were given no message to tell you…” Fyrehowl began, only to be cut off by the madman.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>“That matters not.” Afa laughed as the cheering grew ever louder. “Nothing you could bring to me is more than I have already realized myself. It was only the knowledge of the proper time, and your arrival itself is that knowledge.”</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>Toras and Florian exchanged worried glanced. Those believing themselves touched by divine providence without the presence of an actual deity, rarely did they come to beneficent conclusions.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>“It is time.” Afa laughed once more, his fingers unconsciously twitching in the motions of a spellcaster, motions that Tristol immediately recognized. They were the motions of various profoundly powerful spells of enchantment. None would object, none would question, none would speak contrary to your delusions –if at the feet of a master enchanter they lacked the agency to object–. “Finally time to act. Time to fulfill the great work. Time to make this world pure in the eyes of the gods.”</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>Worried glanced turned to dread, and the distant sounds of cheering began to change, now mixed with sounds of charging horses, chariot wheels, and the clash of swords and shields.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>“When the gods spoke to me so long ago, I was told to tell you something as well,” Afa explained with a smile even as the sounds of the dead and dying began to dominate the chorus on the horizon. “They told me that it would be meaningless to me, but of great providence to the divine messengers they would send to me who would bring to me the news of my destiny.”</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>“And what is that message meant for us?” Clueless asked with sincere worry.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>“From here as you came: three days, three days, and three days more. Be quick for the path is arduous and long. Delve through the misty deep in a straight path before the deep parts, but does not part. A solid wall shall stand before you with but a single window shining a pure perfect light of truth. Enter and give to the one who greets you there your burden.”</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>“Our burden?” Toras questioned.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>“You will give to the dragon your burden and your burden will be lifted.” Afa proclaimed, “This I proclaim to your from the lips of the gods. Now go with my blessing and know that when I awaken, I do the will of the gods.”</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>The enchanter who would be a priest-king turned away from the party and stared off into the distance, the sounds now of charnel fires and the sounds of trumpets and of death and suffering. He smiled and he laughed, waving a hand as if an afterthought as the dreamscape began to collapse as his mind and body stirred from their slumber.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>“They will all die as I have prophesized.” The mad enchanter whispered like a prayer before laughing with corrupt delight, “I will light the hearths of my nation with the funeral pyres of their dead. All of them will die. Corrupt. Different. Like leeches upon our glorious people, we the chosen, we the favored of the gods. All of them, herded, rounded up, penned, slaughtered. Filthy dwarves, filthy halflings, filthy elves, filthy people of the narshai community… they’re barely human anyways so best to kill them along with the rest… It will be beautiful. So beautiful.”</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>And with that genocidal revelation the dreamscape collapsed, sending them all into the ethereal, their horrified faces illuminated by the radiance of a doomed world’s Wall of Color, the dreamscapes of the innocent, soon-to-die, bubbling and frothing in their ignorance.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>“What the f*ck did we just do?” Toras blurted out, rage crossing his features as he tumbled about in the ether.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>None of them answered.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>“This was the worst thing we’ve ever done.” Nisha lamented, turning away to stare into the drifting mists of the deep. “Well, except for that thing with the potion of glibness, that box of enchanted cakes, and the wererat lich.”</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>“The what?” Tristol looked questioningly at his fiancé.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>“Huh? Oh nothing.” Nisha glanced away, her tail bell rattling tellingly, “Nothing at all. Forget I mentioned it.”</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>Turning away from the Xaositect and moving on from whatever chaotic mess she was referring to, Tristol stared at the others, all of them utterly aghast at what they’d likely just set into motion.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>“We didn’t know what we did.” Florian tried her best to rationalize the situation, “We couldn’t have known.”</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>“Oh come on!” Clueless scowled, “We made a bargain with a baernaloth! Of course it was going to be poisoned, and I think that I know the deal with making deals with ‘loths more than anyone. F*ck them all…”</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>“We have to stop him.” Toras looked back at the wall of color and its myriad dreamscapes, wondering how many of them would soon cease to be in the coming days and years as the madman set about his own twisted, hideous ideas of racial purification. “We have to stop him now.”</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>“We don’t have the time.” Fyrehowl sighed, “And it’s only one world. If we do this, even if it’s something we can fix, the ‘loths will just keep doing whatever they’re trying to do. That’s the biggest threat right now.”</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>Of course they knew that the lupinal was right. One madman on one mortal sphere might commit horrors, but it would take him time. The Oinoloth had far greater resources and far greater ambitions, even if the precise elements of his goals and methods remained unknown.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>“Where do we go next?” Toras sighed. “And gods help us whatever we find there…”</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>“Something about giving up our burden? Whatever that means?” Nisha shrugged. “And giving it to some dragon?”</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>“Our track record with dragons is not the best.” Clueless shook his head, recalling their experience in the lowest depths of Pandemonium with an insane great wyrm howling dragon.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>“We’ll find out. Two steps down, one more to go, Mystra help us.” Tristol sighed. “But whatever happens, this was my idea, wanting to learn how to read the Oblivion Compass, so however this all goes, you can blame me.”</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>Nisha gave the wizard a hug, gently brushing a hand over his ears as they slumped down against his head.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>“None of us are blaming you for any of this.” Clueless shook his head, “This is all the baern’s fault. Every element of it. We’ll finish this, we’ll find the information that you needed and…” The bladesinger’s voice abruptly trailed off with a subtle tremor of fear.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>“And what?” Fyrehowl asked, “Why’d you stop?”</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>Clueless didn’t respond. Instead, he only looked down at the object in his hands, an object that he knew well, and which hadn’t been there only a fraction of a second earlier. Feeling its weight in his hands and the cold metal of its surface he gazed down at the sneering face cast into its surface, a face whose gaping maw was now smeared with the still wet and sticky blood of a half-elf necromancer.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>Daru ib Shamiq’s box: their burden. It had returned.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p style="text-align: center">****</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Shemeska, post: 7872061, member: 11697"] Six sets of eyes blinked in unison, not at the appearance of the necromancer, Muroth Chalmar, but at his statement, and the implication that Tristol was one of Mystra’s Chosen. The aasimar turned around with a brief, embarrassed smile and waved off the blizzard of questions. “He’ll explain later!” Nisha whispered, the bell at the end of her tail rattling excitedly. “The silverfire is SO cool!” Still standing in the doorway, robed in black and silver, the necromancer awaited an explanation, while behind the party, his army of the unquiet dead stood awaiting his command, cold fire licking within hollow eye-sockets. “What brings you here?” The half-elf’s voice was cautious, tinged with the fear of a man whose unquestionable talent had never fully swallowed up his own fear of rivals, or of his possible failure. While his appearance was yet youthful, his expression, mannerisms, and the weight of long years in his eyes carried his actual age and the gravity of a life lived in persecution, occasional flight, and perpetual fear. “I’m not here on the Lady of Mysteries’ behalf.” Tristol explained, painfully aware of the necromancer staring daggers into his eyes, and wholly unaware that within his own pupils swirled the blue and silver stars of his patron goddess’s symbol. “But on another’s behalf entirely. As we said, we’re here to deliver something to you.” “Few are aware that I or my tower even sit here on the edge of the old capital.” Chalmar’s vivid golden eyes narrowed, and his fingers, stained by ink and necromantic reagents alike twitched in preparation for a storm of casting, should it be necessary. “I’ve been here for more than two hundred years in quiet solitude, alone, working on my art. You would not be the first adventuring company to come here with ultimately fatal delusions of taking some rumored treasure trove within these walls.” “We are, technically, an adventuring company but that’s not why we’re here.” Toras shrugged. “Nor would you be the first followers of one or another god, driven to zealotry and self-righteousness with a desire to cleanse the wood of a vile necromancer…” Chalmar fixed his eyes upon Florian. The cleric of Tempus glanced down at her prominent holy symbol and then back up to meet the necromancer’s burning gaze, shaking her head and waving away the half-elf’s concern. “I’m not here on the Foe-Hammer’s behalf.” Chalmar refocused his concern to Tristol, a twinge of jealousy dancing his eyes, “Perhaps Mystra’s newest chosen comes to me to explore avenues of magic denied to him in far-off Halrua?” Tristol ignored the necromancer’s smug expression. “Necromancy isn’t a particular affinity of mine, but neither is it a forbidden school. Mystra has given me much, but neither did she send me here to you.” “Then who sent you here?” Chalmar asked, genuine curiosity drowning out his prior concerns. “Name them, and produce their so-called gift.” Tristol turned and motioned to Clueless to produce the box. “It was given to us by the Lie Wea…” The wizard’s voice abruptly trailed off, the baernaloth’s title and name left unfinished on his tongue as Clueless lifted up the box and Chalmar caught sight of it. The response was immediate. “Oh…” The necromancer went still, his face paled, and his hands carried an obvious tremor. “Uhh…” Fyrehowl muttered as her ears twitched and swiveled a moment before she glanced back to see the undead army collapse into thousands of piles of inanimate bone and slowly dispersing clouds of ethereal protoplasm, their spirits unshackled and the magic animating them suddenly released by a master no longer requiring their protection. Clueless stepped forward and held up the box, which the necromancer accepted with a soft, almost inaudible sigh, a twitch present in his left eye. On the verge of mental and physical collapse, an archmage reduced to a terrified child inwardly screaming in abject horror, Chalmar reached out and took the box from Clueless with only a brief glance down at the wickedly smiling face carved into its lid. “You will know it when you see it…” Chalmar’s voice was a whisper as he took his eyes away from the box in his hands and looked back up at the party, his face blank and drained, his hands trembling. “Excuse me?” Clueless asked. “You will know it when you see it.” The necromancer explained, “The next step for you in your quest of three parts of which this is your first, and for me my last. Somewhere on the Ethereal Plane, on the fringe of the Border and the Deep, three days from Toril’s edge lies another Wall of Color to another sphere and other dreamers there. The dreams of that place bubble up flickering gold and other colors.” In his hands, Daru’s box had begun to rattle with the internal motion of gears, dull, hollow, and distant, the sound of heavy mechanisms falling into place at a profound distance but drawing ever closer by the moment. Chalmar recited a series of coordinates based on a number of well-known Ethereal landmarks and repeated his first statement, “You will know it when you see it. You’ll find your way clearer after a day or two.” “What’s wrong?” Tristol asked, reaching out a hand in worry and concern for the necromancer’s sudden change in attitude. “Are you alright?” Clueless asked, his eyes drawn to the box whose eerie face now yawned wide, almost hungry looking. Chalmar’s eyes flickered with a moment of rage at their concern before he turned away and stared back at the box in his hands. “What deal did you make with the Lie Weaver?” Tristol asked, “We might be able to help.” “No. You can’t.” Chalmar whispered to himself, tears welling in his eyes. “Please leave. All of you. Time is short…” Warily, Clueless and Tristol withdrew to the tower’s entryway, only to have the necromancer wave a hand and close the door with a dull, hollow thud. The last thing they saw was Chalmar staring down at the box and abjectly sobbing. “What.The.Hell.Was.That?” Toras bluntly asked. “What did we just do?” Florian’s eyes were alight with angered regret. “He knew exactly what we brought him, and he was –terrified– of even mentioning its maker’s name!” As the party argued amongst themselves on Chalmar’s doorstep, Fyrehowl’s ears remained perked and her eyes continued to stare at the door, where beyond it, Chalmer remained with the box, sobbing uncontrollably. Abruptly the weeping paused and to the lupinal’s enhanced senses the necromancer grew silent and the box was opened. “Guys? Guys!” Fyrehowl barked, “We need to leave.” “What?” Clueless asked before becoming aware of the changes a moment later. The air had grown cold, bitterly so, and extending out from beneath the necromancer’s door, a snowflake pattern of frost crystallized upon the stones. Inside the tower, Chalmar’s voice caught and choked. “We need to leave now. NOW!” Fyrehowl warned as within the tower, audible through the closed gate, Chalmar began to scream. “What the f*ck?!” Toras shouted as the necromancer’s screaming grew louder, beyond the scope of what his vocal chords should have been able to support and from within the tower, the sudden sound of wood and stone tearing and splintering erupted into a deafening roar. “RUN!” Fyrehowl shouted as the party collectively scrambled to descend the stairs, so shocked at the sudden turn of events that they hadn’t thought to teleport to immediate safety or even to fly either by wings or by magic. Behind them the screaming continued, pausing only for the necromancer to inhale. Around him the tower began to shake and tremble and as the layer of frost had before it, a creeping carpet of rot and decay erupted from below the door, spreading out in an all-devouring radius from where Chalmar had opened his gift. “Oh sh*t it’s eating the tower!” Nisha screamed, inexplicably running several inches above the actual ground. “F*ck f*ck f*ck!” Toras screamed, running at breakneck speed as the tower’s foundations abruptly sunk several feet into the now black, diseased, and festering ground. Whatever the necromancer’s gift had unleashed, it continued spreading outwards, speeding up as the tower imploded, collapsing and disintegrating in the maw of whatever devouring horror finally silenced the necromancer’s screaming. “KEEP RUNNING!” Florian screamed. “F*ck running!” Clueless yelled, sprouting wings and taking to the air as the corrosive radius reached the forest edge, leaching thousand year old evergreens of their color in seconds and tearing them down into dust. “Tristol do someth…!” Nisha shouted before the aasimar’s magic plucked them all to safety, leaving the necromancer’s tower and every creature living or undead to their fate, never seeing the circle of obliteration finally cease its spherical hunger more than a mile from its start. [CENTER]****[/CENTER] “What the blazing hells was that?!” Florian’s eyes were wide with terror, demanding answers just as much as her spoken question. “I have absolutely no idea.” Tristol replied, his ears perked and his tail bottlebrushed. “There wasn’t any obvious magic. None. It just happened.” “F*cking fiends…” Toras muttered. “Let that be a lesson to anyone making deals with them!” “Uh…” Nisha’s tail curled into a question mark, “Wouldn’t that kinda sorta be us right now?” With that uncomfortable moment of introspective realization, the party grew silent, catching their breath from their escape from the baernaloth’s “gift”. Whatever the box had been or had contained, it seemed clear that Chalmar had been painfully aware of just what it was, and whatever his deal with the fiend had been, the arrival of the box had been expected, and the creature behind its arrival predicated a certain agonizing level of resignation and acceptance. With those thoughts in mind, the party drifted in space, surrounded by a manifest sea of milky, swirling gray ethereal mist. Bereft of gravity, any landmarks, and even a visible (or existent) horizon, they slowly looked about and sought to ground their location and figure out their next steps. “Welcome to the Ethereal Plane.” Fyrehowl waved about at the lack of recognizable detail, though she knew where she was and an idea of where to go due to the influence of the Cadence. “Lovely total absence of landmarks, and me without my planar compass. So where now?” Florian asked, sarcasm masking lingering terror at recent events. “Assuming that Chalmar was telling the truth, once we figure out how far off target we were on my planeshift,” Tristol said, pulling out an actual planar compass, “We have a solid roadmap to where we need to go… wherever that actually is. Apparently we’ll know it when we see it.” “That’s not ominous at all…” Toras sighed. As the wizard went about figuring out their location, another ominous realization was made. “How did Chalmar know where to tell us where to go next?” Fyrehowl asked, “Either he was being directly instructed on what to do by that damn box or something through it, or else he was told what to tell us, whenever we arrived, whoever we were, a very long time ago. That implies a certain level of disturbing foresight. I don’t like the implication of apparent destiny when it’s being puppeteered by a baernaloth.” The truth of that implication and the reason why would become apparent soon enough, but it faded away from their minds as they determined their location and the path towards their next objective. The mists of the Border Ethereal melted away into the depths and then, sometime later, perhaps hours, perhaps days in the oddness of the Deep, the mists peeled back to reveal a landscape swirling with innumerable and radiant spheres, gossamer soap bubbles foaming, forming and popping, upon the surface of a single great sphere hovering in the depths: a mortal world viewed from the Ethereal and there upon its surface a Wall of Color. One of the bubbles however was different from the others. It pulsed with a subtle heartbeat that caused the surrounding mists to tremble, and the color it radiated was not among those of the conventional rainbow. Impossible to describe, it yet existed distinct and unique from the others bubbling around its periphery. “What is this?” Florian asked, gazing out at the incredible vista stretching out for thousands of miles in all directions. “They’re dreamscapes on the Ethereal surface of a mortal world.” Tristol explained, pointing to the unique one that seemed to hover before them, calling and beguiling, “And that one there is a very specific one.” “We’ll know it when we see it.” Clueless remarked, “That’s for sure.” “So it seems.” Tristol nodded, “Though I don’t know why we’re here or whose dream we’ll be entering.” Toras looked at the dreamscape warily, “How dangerous might this be?” “It shouldn’t be dangerous at all.” The wizard shrugged, “And that’s honestly worrying.” “At least we’re not delivering a box this time around...” Clueless tried to smile. Glittering in the deep, the dreamscape taunted them like a golden bauble found in the depths of desolate, danger-filled dungeon: valuable but very likely hideously cursed. Of course, like a cursed artifact, the only way to determine the value or the danger was to find out directly. The group realized this of course, and one by one they dove into it, swiftly they realized that anything touched by the corrosive attention of a baernaloth could only end in misery. [CENTER]****[/CENTER] Flung from the depths of the Ethereal Sea and grounded upon the rocky shores of that singular dreamscape, the dissonance between the two was immediate and confusing. Built from the subconscious desires and self-image of a single mortal whose slumbering mind shaped that bubble reality like the blind, stumbling will of some idiot god, such places often carried elements of the dreamer’s hopes, aspirations, worries, and fears. The dreamscape of Afa Sozhelos, Lord High Reagent of the Purple Flames was many things, but above all else it was a manifest landscape of the dreamer’s delusional self-confidence. They found themselves in a vast plaza lined with massive, looming statues, lake-like bronze cauldrons filled with burning oil, and distantly the sounds of a vast, unseen crowd cheering and stomping their feet. “Someone has a high opinion of himself…” Toras rolled his eyes, gazing up at the unblinking, smiling faces of the statues. The statues were carved of deep black granite, their purple robes painted and adorned with similarly painted decorations, illusory symbols and a halo of stars drifting above each carved head. Each carved face was stern and possessed of a youthful energy, but beyond the carved smile there was something deeply unsettling, if yet unseen. “You came. You finally came to me.” The voice was smooth, mellifluous, and reflective in tone of the landscape that surrounded them. The group collectively turned about to face the man the statues had been modeled after, and it while it was possible that the man’s dreamscape persona was aggrandized from life, such was uncommon, and the statues that towered overhead it seemed had not unduly lionized their subject. Afa Sozhelos, Lord High Reagent of the Purple Flames was tall, clad in purple robes pulled, pinned, and belted in place to exposure a lean, muscular physique devoid of scar or blemish atop his dark brown, almost black skin. He smiled to expose perfect teeth, ivory white, and the hair atop his head was black and tightly coiled, while the beard at his chin was dyed a deep red. He raised his chin and motioned out of habit as if he expected his guests to bow and abase themselves, even as his smile was one of warmth, like a father to his children. “Were you expecting us?” Fyrehowl asked, “I apologize, but we did not know who to expect when we arrived here.” “We came here on another’s words, but knew not what or who to expect. My name is…” Tristol began, only to be cut off by the High Reagent as the human walked past the group, talking to himself as if they barely existed, a slight tilt to his head. “No no, your ignorance was to be expected.” Afa muttered to himself, “The drop of water knows nothing of the path of the surrounding river that turns a great water wheel, or what that drives to completion. No no.” He looked back up, a terrible ferocity in his stare and the gleam of a sociopath’s madness, “You have no knowledge of this place, or I, or your role here… but I do.” Madness gleamed in the man’s eyes. “No introductions are needed, you visitors here to my dreams.” Afa waved away any questions as he continued to walk a circuit around the party, the golden bangles on his sandals softly chiming with each step. The party exchanged wary, uncertain glances, while Tristol stared at the dreaming afterimage of magical auras present upon the man in real life. Despite the religious nature of the decorations on his regal garb, the auras were exclusively arcane in nature, and they were powerful: a sorcerer whose innate power had seemingly convinced him of his own faux-divine calling and fueled the rise of his own religion, no divine patron seemingly required. Such had drawn the baern’s malevolent curiosity. “In another dream, many years ago now,” Afa gestured to each member of the party that they might be illuminated by his wisdom, “The gods whose blood flows in my very veins came to me, and one of them gave to me a prophecy.” “Pray tell us, what was that prophecy?” Clueless asked warily. Distantly the sounds of cheering voices grew louder like distantly rumbling on the horizon foretelling the arrival of a terrible storm. “I was told that you would come to me to bare revelations about my future, about my divine task set before me.” Afa’s arms were raised up into the air, and within the clouds high above there appeared images of his past as a young boy, discovering his magic, and putting it to use. The images were terrible to behold, of a child, then a young man, convinced of his own divinity in a world low in magic swiftly accruing a personal cult, then seizing political power, and then demanding worship by his nation’s subjects, all without moral guidance, and all without pity or empathy. “We were given no message to tell you…” Fyrehowl began, only to be cut off by the madman. “That matters not.” Afa laughed as the cheering grew ever louder. “Nothing you could bring to me is more than I have already realized myself. It was only the knowledge of the proper time, and your arrival itself is that knowledge.” Toras and Florian exchanged worried glanced. Those believing themselves touched by divine providence without the presence of an actual deity, rarely did they come to beneficent conclusions. “It is time.” Afa laughed once more, his fingers unconsciously twitching in the motions of a spellcaster, motions that Tristol immediately recognized. They were the motions of various profoundly powerful spells of enchantment. None would object, none would question, none would speak contrary to your delusions –if at the feet of a master enchanter they lacked the agency to object–. “Finally time to act. Time to fulfill the great work. Time to make this world pure in the eyes of the gods.” Worried glanced turned to dread, and the distant sounds of cheering began to change, now mixed with sounds of charging horses, chariot wheels, and the clash of swords and shields. “When the gods spoke to me so long ago, I was told to tell you something as well,” Afa explained with a smile even as the sounds of the dead and dying began to dominate the chorus on the horizon. “They told me that it would be meaningless to me, but of great providence to the divine messengers they would send to me who would bring to me the news of my destiny.” “And what is that message meant for us?” Clueless asked with sincere worry. “From here as you came: three days, three days, and three days more. Be quick for the path is arduous and long. Delve through the misty deep in a straight path before the deep parts, but does not part. A solid wall shall stand before you with but a single window shining a pure perfect light of truth. Enter and give to the one who greets you there your burden.” “Our burden?” Toras questioned. “You will give to the dragon your burden and your burden will be lifted.” Afa proclaimed, “This I proclaim to your from the lips of the gods. Now go with my blessing and know that when I awaken, I do the will of the gods.” The enchanter who would be a priest-king turned away from the party and stared off into the distance, the sounds now of charnel fires and the sounds of trumpets and of death and suffering. He smiled and he laughed, waving a hand as if an afterthought as the dreamscape began to collapse as his mind and body stirred from their slumber. “They will all die as I have prophesized.” The mad enchanter whispered like a prayer before laughing with corrupt delight, “I will light the hearths of my nation with the funeral pyres of their dead. All of them will die. Corrupt. Different. Like leeches upon our glorious people, we the chosen, we the favored of the gods. All of them, herded, rounded up, penned, slaughtered. Filthy dwarves, filthy halflings, filthy elves, filthy people of the narshai community… they’re barely human anyways so best to kill them along with the rest… It will be beautiful. So beautiful.” And with that genocidal revelation the dreamscape collapsed, sending them all into the ethereal, their horrified faces illuminated by the radiance of a doomed world’s Wall of Color, the dreamscapes of the innocent, soon-to-die, bubbling and frothing in their ignorance. “What the f*ck did we just do?” Toras blurted out, rage crossing his features as he tumbled about in the ether. None of them answered. “This was the worst thing we’ve ever done.” Nisha lamented, turning away to stare into the drifting mists of the deep. “Well, except for that thing with the potion of glibness, that box of enchanted cakes, and the wererat lich.” “The what?” Tristol looked questioningly at his fiancé. “Huh? Oh nothing.” Nisha glanced away, her tail bell rattling tellingly, “Nothing at all. Forget I mentioned it.” Turning away from the Xaositect and moving on from whatever chaotic mess she was referring to, Tristol stared at the others, all of them utterly aghast at what they’d likely just set into motion. “We didn’t know what we did.” Florian tried her best to rationalize the situation, “We couldn’t have known.” “Oh come on!” Clueless scowled, “We made a bargain with a baernaloth! Of course it was going to be poisoned, and I think that I know the deal with making deals with ‘loths more than anyone. F*ck them all…” “We have to stop him.” Toras looked back at the wall of color and its myriad dreamscapes, wondering how many of them would soon cease to be in the coming days and years as the madman set about his own twisted, hideous ideas of racial purification. “We have to stop him now.” “We don’t have the time.” Fyrehowl sighed, “And it’s only one world. If we do this, even if it’s something we can fix, the ‘loths will just keep doing whatever they’re trying to do. That’s the biggest threat right now.” Of course they knew that the lupinal was right. One madman on one mortal sphere might commit horrors, but it would take him time. The Oinoloth had far greater resources and far greater ambitions, even if the precise elements of his goals and methods remained unknown. “Where do we go next?” Toras sighed. “And gods help us whatever we find there…” “Something about giving up our burden? Whatever that means?” Nisha shrugged. “And giving it to some dragon?” “Our track record with dragons is not the best.” Clueless shook his head, recalling their experience in the lowest depths of Pandemonium with an insane great wyrm howling dragon. “We’ll find out. Two steps down, one more to go, Mystra help us.” Tristol sighed. “But whatever happens, this was my idea, wanting to learn how to read the Oblivion Compass, so however this all goes, you can blame me.” Nisha gave the wizard a hug, gently brushing a hand over his ears as they slumped down against his head. “None of us are blaming you for any of this.” Clueless shook his head, “This is all the baern’s fault. Every element of it. We’ll finish this, we’ll find the information that you needed and…” The bladesinger’s voice abruptly trailed off with a subtle tremor of fear. “And what?” Fyrehowl asked, “Why’d you stop?” Clueless didn’t respond. Instead, he only looked down at the object in his hands, an object that he knew well, and which hadn’t been there only a fraction of a second earlier. Feeling its weight in his hands and the cold metal of its surface he gazed down at the sneering face cast into its surface, a face whose gaping maw was now smeared with the still wet and sticky blood of a half-elf necromancer. Daru ib Shamiq’s box: their burden. It had returned. [CENTER]****[/CENTER] [/QUOTE]
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Shemeska's Planescape Storyhour - (Updated 14February2024)
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