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Shemeska's Planescape Storyhour - (Updated 14February2024)
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<blockquote data-quote="Shemeska" data-source="post: 8040377" data-attributes="member: 11697"><p>The cavern was devoid of light and indeed devoid of life itself, save for the chosen children of the living god, the great one in whose service the heptad of guards served with their very lives, they who presently stood silent watch over the mock doorway cut into the solid rock before them. Every hour on the hour, as the magical glow of their timepiece elapsed and reset, they collectively whispered with ardent, ingrained passion, the name of that living deity, the one betrayed and slain by his jealous compatriots when he dared to reach for apotheosis, the one whose knowledge and power had rebuked death itself, and who in his risen glory had wrought his servitors’ homeland from the stone and dust, separating it from the death and burning sunlight overhead, and then in his own image fashioned them, given them life, and given them purpose.</p><p></p><p>It was for that purpose that the seven guardians now stood watch over something that they in truth did not entirely understand. Understanding was not necessary of course, only that their living god had commanded it.</p><p></p><p>“Watch over the doorway cut into the rock, waiting for the day when it shall open forth into another world and usher forth the delivery of a blessed gift to myself, a blessed gift that will ordain the beginning of our return to the surface and the completion of my apotheosis.”</p><p></p><p>So the living god had commanded, and so his servitors obeyed, staring at the stone for hours, days, weeks, months, years, decades, and now centuries long, cycling in and out as their own limited, mortal lives allowed it. They served and thus their very purpose for existence was satisfied.</p><p></p><p>None of the seven soldiers, naked except for hardened leather that girded their weakest points but was more ornamental than not, none of them truly expected that they would see the doorway swing open within their lifetimes. But it would.</p><p></p><p>The distant sounds of their city echoed about the cavern from a tunnel at its far end, the sounds of community, craftsmanship, and worship, mingled with the erratic screaming of one or more captives being slowly flayed alive to extract information or simply an exercise in divinely-sanctioned punishment for one who had intruded upon their home, this domain of the chosen people. One of the soldiers keened her head about the cavern walls and down the tunnel, a dim sound at the edge of hearing flitting about the reptilian ear cannel in the side of her smooth, scaly head, but no, the sound, whatever it was, had not emerged from there.</p><p></p><p>“What is that noise?” Another soldier openly asked, the eyes of his compatriots and their body language making it clear that all of them had heard it, though precisely what it was and where it originated seemed to elude them all.</p><p></p><p>“I do not know.” The first soldier replied, “But it grows louder.”</p><p></p><p>“Perhaps we should send warning?” The second suggested, only to have his notion be curtly turned down by a wave of the obsidian tip of the first’s spear.</p><p></p><p>“No. We stand guard here and do not move. Our God has placed us here for a purpose.”</p><p></p><p>Prayer-like, they all said his name, followed by a litany of titles and ritualized honorifics, and then, as if their prayers had been an incantation, or simply that their prayer had been heard and answered, they received an answer to their questions and to their appointed duty.</p><p></p><p>The surface of the stone doorway erupted in blinding light, every minute crack and tracery of mineral inclusion on the surface each radiating a different color, saturating their eyes and somehow bleeding through their usual darkvision spectrum of shades of gray and for a moment providing them with burning, impossible colors screaming against their retinas and bleeding into the currents of their brains as the Gray was violently parted and the metaphysical barrier around their world was for the rarest of moments thrust open as the doorway opened.</p><p></p><p>Staggering out of the doorway, backlit by the furious spectrum of transiently shattered layers of reality, six figures emerged before the soldiers and into the space of New Guistenal.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p style="text-align: center">*****</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>Fyrehowl’s eyes were the first to adjust to the darkness, the lupinal’s celestial pupils expanding and taking in the scattered reflections harshly lit by the flicker and subsequent collapse of the planar portal behind them. Around the cavern expanded out of sight, and before stood six figures, reptilian, tall, with spears raised to meet their approach.</p><p></p><p>Instinctually the lupinal’s nostrils dilated and she breathed through her lupine snout, taking in the smells about her and her companions. Reptilian musk, dry dust devoid of moisture, and the scent of a place from which life had been leached from the very soil itself at the finest level, consumed by a magic unknown to any of them.</p><p></p><p>Collectively the others stood, squinting as their eyes flickered with natural or augmented darkvision to find themselves before the company of dray, eyes taking measure of them even as they did the same. Hands went to weapons, but did not draw them as they waited for any greeting or reaction beyond violence at their arrival. If the Lie Weaver were to be believed, their arrival and their gift was to be expected.</p><p></p><p>Clueless held up Daru’s box, gingerly offering it to the dray, “We were to give this gift to the one we met upon our arrival.”</p><p></p><p>Unseen, the snarling face upon the baernaloth artifact began to smile, though if it were an expression of delight or of hunger would have been up for debate, had it been noticed.</p><p></p><p>“Who are you?” Florian asked, the draconic soldiers still holding their weapons at the ready.</p><p></p><p>The dray narrowed their slit pupils, seemingly taking measure of the visitors and also keeping in mind their duel task: to protect the doorway and also to await those who would arrive to satisfy the prophecy of their living god. Any question in their minds, and any hesitation in their actions was satisfied when one greater than they noticed the opening of the portal and the arrival of his long-awaited, bargained-for treasure.</p><p></p><p>Like some great leviathan suddenly inhaling and smelling the flesh of intruders to its lair, the air around both dray and the companions themselves rushed out of the cavern, paused, and rushed back with a telepathic tremor. They shivered at the touch of something terrible and inhuman, a suffocating presence licking at the edges of their essence, tapping at their wards, and then momentarily snorting in dismissal at what it found except for the fiend’s box.</p><p></p><p>Toras’s hand went to his blade, only to be met by Tristol’s. The fighter met the aasimar’s gaze, finding the wizard’s eyes wide and genuinely terrified.</p><p></p><p>“We aren’t ready for this.” Tristol deadpanned, shaking his head. “</p><p></p><p>“THEY HAVE ARRIVED!!!!!” The dray captain shrieked, the others echoing her triumphant call with screams of their own, exclamations of delight, joined by a growing chorus of similar voices from beyond the cavern from the City by the Silt Sea.</p><p></p><p>The volume only grew in volume and ferocity, and with it the telepathic presence carried on its hungry breath the sensation of ancient and terrible lips parting to reveal fangs and tongue, covetous and waiting.</p><p></p><p>“What have we gotten ourselves into?” Florian glanced to Tristol, watching as flickers of silverfire danced nervously at his fingertips for the briefest of moments and then like a candle at a priest’s lips, the silverfire was snuffed.</p><p></p><p>Of the screams of the dray, be they intelligible prayers or simply emotions vented in religious ecstasy, they carried with them all one common word, one singular name: Dregoth.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p style="text-align: center">*****</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>Something was wrong.</p><p></p><p>Something was wrong.</p><p></p><p>Something was very, very wrong.</p><p></p><p>Florian’s hand not on her weapon went to the symbol of Tempus about her neck and in a single moment she understood Tristol’s terror. Rather than the comforting presence of her divine patron reaching out to touch, reassure, and invigorate her, she felt nothing, not even a barrier to silence the connection between she and the Foe Hammer.</p><p></p><p>“I’m cut off from Mystra too.” Tristol said, moving closer to the cleric. “This place, wherever we are, it’s cut off from the divine. I don’t know how.”</p><p></p><p>“What do we do?” Florian glanced back at the portal, now nothing more than blank stone, closed and cutting them off from escape just as surely as the nature of Athas had silenced their touch with the divine.</p><p></p><p>“I don’t know…” The wizard shook his head, glancing over to where Clueless held the box aloft. “Just go along with this, whatever happens and hope for the best. But whatever is out there, it’s not something that we can handle.”</p><p></p><p>“What do you mean?” Toras interjected, confusion crossing his features.</p><p></p><p>“Magic doesn’t work the same way here.” Tristol’s eyes betrayed a genuine uncertainty that none of them had ever seen him express. “Don’t cast anything. I don’t know what will happen.”</p><p></p><p>They blinked. Florian was absent her divine patron and their archmage was refusing to use his own magic.</p><p></p><p>“Whatever is here for the box…” Tristol glanced over to the baernaloth artifact as another dozen dray approached from out of the surrounding darkness, all of them dressed in more elaborate armor, bearing torches and several of them instruments for a musical procession. “Whatever it is, it knew we were here the moment we came through that portal and it is beyond what we can defeat, even if magic worked.”</p><p></p><p>Any further contemplation would have to wait however as one of the new dray, all of them Templars of Dregoth addressed the group.</p><p></p><p>“Follow us.” The most decorated of them exclaimed, less an order than a calmly stated expectation for one unused to any other creature deigning to do any otherwise. “Give to the Dread King what He expects from you.”</p><p></p><p>“The Dread King?” Toras raised an eyebrow, only to have Florian elbow him and Tristol give him a withering glance.</p><p></p><p>The dray parted ranks and the followed. After all, what other option was realistic?</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p style="text-align: center">****</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>Through the darkness of New Guistenal they marched, joined by others as they passed through tunnels and caverns of the great and hidden underground nation of Dregoth’s chosen, created children and servitors. Dozens became scores became hundreds, the cries and shouts becoming more and more ritualized as priests led the procession in the call and response of liturgy.</p><p></p><p>“Glory be to Him that Rises Above and Conquers Death!”</p><p></p><p>“Glory be to the Living God!”</p><p></p><p>“Praise be to the Ravager of Giants, Betrayed by the Slaves of Rajaat!”</p><p></p><p>“Glory be to the Living God!”</p><p></p><p>The history of Athas was beyond opaque to any of them, and so they continued, pushed along by the tidal wave of flesh, Clueless still bearing aloft the box that now rattled with the chime and clatter of internal gears.</p><p></p><p>The passages and caverns grew larger and grander, populated by the rebuilt ruins of a city long-ago razed and swallowed up by the earth itself. They continued as the dray chanted until they reached the city’s central cavern and the throne of the Lord of New Guistenal.</p><p></p><p>“Praise be to the Dread King! Praise be to Dregoth!”</p><p></p><p>“Praise be to Dregoth!”</p><p></p><p>They had arrived.</p><p></p><p>“What the…” Clueless managed as the box trembled in his hands and the ocean of dray parted at the steps leading up to a singular, gigantic throne wrought of the bones of giants.</p><p></p><p>“YOU HAVE COME.”</p><p></p><p>The voice boomed from the chamber’s heights, reflected by the acoustics of the cavern’s walls, the bones of their chests shaking with the boom of infrasound below the level of their hearing but which elicited a whine of pain from Fyrehowl. The booming voice was not alone however and it rattled within their skulls in duplicate from a telepathy far more puissant than any of them had ever encountered, bringing pain to their temples from its sheer force.</p><p></p><p>Seated atop his throne before them sat a figure of nightmares thirty feet in height, mixing reptilian and humanoid features as if a titan had physically merged with a great wyrm. The Dread King, the Living God of the Dray, was so only in ironic fashion, as his flesh clung to his bones, withered and mummified, covered in the bejeweled attire of an emperor. Within the arch-psion’s chest no living heart yet beat, and within his sunken, hollow eye sockets a burning green-black fire burned.</p><p></p><p>Ancient lips parted and the undead dragon’s fangs gleamed in the light of hundreds of torches and great basins of oil and the burning, rendered tallow of sacrificial victims. Standing, the creature’s tail slithered down the blood-soaked steps, studded in jewels, decorated with elaborate scrimshaw written with the contained power of contingent spells from a magic lexicon entirely alien to Tristol or any other the others. Rising up to the entirety of his height, Dregoth spread his wings, tattered and withered though their originally membranous flesh might have been, they cast a shadow over the crowd such that the room’s temperature dipped and continued to do so as he stepped forward.</p><p></p><p>Arch-mage, arch-psion, and some unique variety of quasi-draconic lich, Dregoth was above and beyond the scale of power that any of them had ever experienced from any creature with a mortal origin. Towering above them, the undead dragon more than rivaled their experience with the yugoloth lord Taba in the depths of Hell, even rivaling their meeting the Oinoloth’s consort Shylara the Manged. In those instances the yugoloth lord had been separated by multiple planes from that of her birth, and the Manged had not been present in the flesh upon the Astral but projected through a proxy generated from multiple color pools: Dregoth the Dread King however, he stood before them in the flesh, in his home, surrounded by his worshippers.</p><p></p><p>“THE MOMENT OF MY APOTHEOSIS HAS ARRIVED!”</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p style="text-align: center">****</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Shemeska, post: 8040377, member: 11697"] The cavern was devoid of light and indeed devoid of life itself, save for the chosen children of the living god, the great one in whose service the heptad of guards served with their very lives, they who presently stood silent watch over the mock doorway cut into the solid rock before them. Every hour on the hour, as the magical glow of their timepiece elapsed and reset, they collectively whispered with ardent, ingrained passion, the name of that living deity, the one betrayed and slain by his jealous compatriots when he dared to reach for apotheosis, the one whose knowledge and power had rebuked death itself, and who in his risen glory had wrought his servitors’ homeland from the stone and dust, separating it from the death and burning sunlight overhead, and then in his own image fashioned them, given them life, and given them purpose. It was for that purpose that the seven guardians now stood watch over something that they in truth did not entirely understand. Understanding was not necessary of course, only that their living god had commanded it. “Watch over the doorway cut into the rock, waiting for the day when it shall open forth into another world and usher forth the delivery of a blessed gift to myself, a blessed gift that will ordain the beginning of our return to the surface and the completion of my apotheosis.” So the living god had commanded, and so his servitors obeyed, staring at the stone for hours, days, weeks, months, years, decades, and now centuries long, cycling in and out as their own limited, mortal lives allowed it. They served and thus their very purpose for existence was satisfied. None of the seven soldiers, naked except for hardened leather that girded their weakest points but was more ornamental than not, none of them truly expected that they would see the doorway swing open within their lifetimes. But it would. The distant sounds of their city echoed about the cavern from a tunnel at its far end, the sounds of community, craftsmanship, and worship, mingled with the erratic screaming of one or more captives being slowly flayed alive to extract information or simply an exercise in divinely-sanctioned punishment for one who had intruded upon their home, this domain of the chosen people. One of the soldiers keened her head about the cavern walls and down the tunnel, a dim sound at the edge of hearing flitting about the reptilian ear cannel in the side of her smooth, scaly head, but no, the sound, whatever it was, had not emerged from there. “What is that noise?” Another soldier openly asked, the eyes of his compatriots and their body language making it clear that all of them had heard it, though precisely what it was and where it originated seemed to elude them all. “I do not know.” The first soldier replied, “But it grows louder.” “Perhaps we should send warning?” The second suggested, only to have his notion be curtly turned down by a wave of the obsidian tip of the first’s spear. “No. We stand guard here and do not move. Our God has placed us here for a purpose.” Prayer-like, they all said his name, followed by a litany of titles and ritualized honorifics, and then, as if their prayers had been an incantation, or simply that their prayer had been heard and answered, they received an answer to their questions and to their appointed duty. The surface of the stone doorway erupted in blinding light, every minute crack and tracery of mineral inclusion on the surface each radiating a different color, saturating their eyes and somehow bleeding through their usual darkvision spectrum of shades of gray and for a moment providing them with burning, impossible colors screaming against their retinas and bleeding into the currents of their brains as the Gray was violently parted and the metaphysical barrier around their world was for the rarest of moments thrust open as the doorway opened. Staggering out of the doorway, backlit by the furious spectrum of transiently shattered layers of reality, six figures emerged before the soldiers and into the space of New Guistenal. [center]*****[/center] Fyrehowl’s eyes were the first to adjust to the darkness, the lupinal’s celestial pupils expanding and taking in the scattered reflections harshly lit by the flicker and subsequent collapse of the planar portal behind them. Around the cavern expanded out of sight, and before stood six figures, reptilian, tall, with spears raised to meet their approach. Instinctually the lupinal’s nostrils dilated and she breathed through her lupine snout, taking in the smells about her and her companions. Reptilian musk, dry dust devoid of moisture, and the scent of a place from which life had been leached from the very soil itself at the finest level, consumed by a magic unknown to any of them. Collectively the others stood, squinting as their eyes flickered with natural or augmented darkvision to find themselves before the company of dray, eyes taking measure of them even as they did the same. Hands went to weapons, but did not draw them as they waited for any greeting or reaction beyond violence at their arrival. If the Lie Weaver were to be believed, their arrival and their gift was to be expected. Clueless held up Daru’s box, gingerly offering it to the dray, “We were to give this gift to the one we met upon our arrival.” Unseen, the snarling face upon the baernaloth artifact began to smile, though if it were an expression of delight or of hunger would have been up for debate, had it been noticed. “Who are you?” Florian asked, the draconic soldiers still holding their weapons at the ready. The dray narrowed their slit pupils, seemingly taking measure of the visitors and also keeping in mind their duel task: to protect the doorway and also to await those who would arrive to satisfy the prophecy of their living god. Any question in their minds, and any hesitation in their actions was satisfied when one greater than they noticed the opening of the portal and the arrival of his long-awaited, bargained-for treasure. Like some great leviathan suddenly inhaling and smelling the flesh of intruders to its lair, the air around both dray and the companions themselves rushed out of the cavern, paused, and rushed back with a telepathic tremor. They shivered at the touch of something terrible and inhuman, a suffocating presence licking at the edges of their essence, tapping at their wards, and then momentarily snorting in dismissal at what it found except for the fiend’s box. Toras’s hand went to his blade, only to be met by Tristol’s. The fighter met the aasimar’s gaze, finding the wizard’s eyes wide and genuinely terrified. “We aren’t ready for this.” Tristol deadpanned, shaking his head. “ “THEY HAVE ARRIVED!!!!!” The dray captain shrieked, the others echoing her triumphant call with screams of their own, exclamations of delight, joined by a growing chorus of similar voices from beyond the cavern from the City by the Silt Sea. The volume only grew in volume and ferocity, and with it the telepathic presence carried on its hungry breath the sensation of ancient and terrible lips parting to reveal fangs and tongue, covetous and waiting. “What have we gotten ourselves into?” Florian glanced to Tristol, watching as flickers of silverfire danced nervously at his fingertips for the briefest of moments and then like a candle at a priest’s lips, the silverfire was snuffed. Of the screams of the dray, be they intelligible prayers or simply emotions vented in religious ecstasy, they carried with them all one common word, one singular name: Dregoth. [center]*****[/center] Something was wrong. Something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong. Florian’s hand not on her weapon went to the symbol of Tempus about her neck and in a single moment she understood Tristol’s terror. Rather than the comforting presence of her divine patron reaching out to touch, reassure, and invigorate her, she felt nothing, not even a barrier to silence the connection between she and the Foe Hammer. “I’m cut off from Mystra too.” Tristol said, moving closer to the cleric. “This place, wherever we are, it’s cut off from the divine. I don’t know how.” “What do we do?” Florian glanced back at the portal, now nothing more than blank stone, closed and cutting them off from escape just as surely as the nature of Athas had silenced their touch with the divine. “I don’t know…” The wizard shook his head, glancing over to where Clueless held the box aloft. “Just go along with this, whatever happens and hope for the best. But whatever is out there, it’s not something that we can handle.” “What do you mean?” Toras interjected, confusion crossing his features. “Magic doesn’t work the same way here.” Tristol’s eyes betrayed a genuine uncertainty that none of them had ever seen him express. “Don’t cast anything. I don’t know what will happen.” They blinked. Florian was absent her divine patron and their archmage was refusing to use his own magic. “Whatever is here for the box…” Tristol glanced over to the baernaloth artifact as another dozen dray approached from out of the surrounding darkness, all of them dressed in more elaborate armor, bearing torches and several of them instruments for a musical procession. “Whatever it is, it knew we were here the moment we came through that portal and it is beyond what we can defeat, even if magic worked.” Any further contemplation would have to wait however as one of the new dray, all of them Templars of Dregoth addressed the group. “Follow us.” The most decorated of them exclaimed, less an order than a calmly stated expectation for one unused to any other creature deigning to do any otherwise. “Give to the Dread King what He expects from you.” “The Dread King?” Toras raised an eyebrow, only to have Florian elbow him and Tristol give him a withering glance. The dray parted ranks and the followed. After all, what other option was realistic? [center]****[/center] Through the darkness of New Guistenal they marched, joined by others as they passed through tunnels and caverns of the great and hidden underground nation of Dregoth’s chosen, created children and servitors. Dozens became scores became hundreds, the cries and shouts becoming more and more ritualized as priests led the procession in the call and response of liturgy. “Glory be to Him that Rises Above and Conquers Death!” “Glory be to the Living God!” “Praise be to the Ravager of Giants, Betrayed by the Slaves of Rajaat!” “Glory be to the Living God!” The history of Athas was beyond opaque to any of them, and so they continued, pushed along by the tidal wave of flesh, Clueless still bearing aloft the box that now rattled with the chime and clatter of internal gears. The passages and caverns grew larger and grander, populated by the rebuilt ruins of a city long-ago razed and swallowed up by the earth itself. They continued as the dray chanted until they reached the city’s central cavern and the throne of the Lord of New Guistenal. “Praise be to the Dread King! Praise be to Dregoth!” “Praise be to Dregoth!” They had arrived. “What the…” Clueless managed as the box trembled in his hands and the ocean of dray parted at the steps leading up to a singular, gigantic throne wrought of the bones of giants. “YOU HAVE COME.” The voice boomed from the chamber’s heights, reflected by the acoustics of the cavern’s walls, the bones of their chests shaking with the boom of infrasound below the level of their hearing but which elicited a whine of pain from Fyrehowl. The booming voice was not alone however and it rattled within their skulls in duplicate from a telepathy far more puissant than any of them had ever encountered, bringing pain to their temples from its sheer force. Seated atop his throne before them sat a figure of nightmares thirty feet in height, mixing reptilian and humanoid features as if a titan had physically merged with a great wyrm. The Dread King, the Living God of the Dray, was so only in ironic fashion, as his flesh clung to his bones, withered and mummified, covered in the bejeweled attire of an emperor. Within the arch-psion’s chest no living heart yet beat, and within his sunken, hollow eye sockets a burning green-black fire burned. Ancient lips parted and the undead dragon’s fangs gleamed in the light of hundreds of torches and great basins of oil and the burning, rendered tallow of sacrificial victims. Standing, the creature’s tail slithered down the blood-soaked steps, studded in jewels, decorated with elaborate scrimshaw written with the contained power of contingent spells from a magic lexicon entirely alien to Tristol or any other the others. Rising up to the entirety of his height, Dregoth spread his wings, tattered and withered though their originally membranous flesh might have been, they cast a shadow over the crowd such that the room’s temperature dipped and continued to do so as he stepped forward. Arch-mage, arch-psion, and some unique variety of quasi-draconic lich, Dregoth was above and beyond the scale of power that any of them had ever experienced from any creature with a mortal origin. Towering above them, the undead dragon more than rivaled their experience with the yugoloth lord Taba in the depths of Hell, even rivaling their meeting the Oinoloth’s consort Shylara the Manged. In those instances the yugoloth lord had been separated by multiple planes from that of her birth, and the Manged had not been present in the flesh upon the Astral but projected through a proxy generated from multiple color pools: Dregoth the Dread King however, he stood before them in the flesh, in his home, surrounded by his worshippers. “THE MOMENT OF MY APOTHEOSIS HAS ARRIVED!” [center]****[/center] [/QUOTE]
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Shemeska's Planescape Storyhour - (Updated 14February2024)
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