AviLazar said:
That's irrelevant, and actually quite untrue. Gareth does care, and shows this, about others. The reason it is also irrelevant is because of the game mechanics. Gareth can turn hostile to neutral (indifferent i believe) in the middle of combat by taking 10.
So I am not sure where you are starting that gareth only cares about himself, not to forget it has nothing to do with my original statement.
I'm guessing Seekerofskill's point (correct me if I'm wrong, Seeker) was that Gareth often comes across as fixated on his personal needs and beliefs, as well as being somewhat intolerant, and one needs at least some empathy and understanding of others' perspectives to be really diplomatic. So he was speaking directly to your comment about Gareth being all about diplomacy. No need to get the chainmail knickers in a bunch
And it isn't irrelevant because you know I use circumstance bonuses to Diplomacy checks (and a lot of other things). Gareth's self-presentation would matter when making a Diplomacy check, since it could make the result more or less effective. Speaking of which, it would really be interesting to see Gareth try a Diplomacy check in a fight some time. Of course, even a great roll would be of limited utility since it's (a) going to change the recipient's reaction towards Gareth and not necessarily the entire group of PCs, and (b) lots of enemies who're in the middle of a fight and turned neutral or even friendly towards Gareth would say, "Listen, kid! I like you. Take me advice and get the hell out of here before you have to get hurt," and turn around and start kicking other PC ass. Diplomacy does not mind-affecting magic make.
Speaking of mind-affecting magic...
I got the next section done early, so here it is:
* * * * * * * * * *
The Fleshweaver glances around the area, eyes flickering over the corpse of the strangely constructed bulette and the scorched area that marks where the
delayed blast fireball carried by the unfortunate mephit had detonated.
“Sora Teraza sent you a message on our behalf,” says Gareth, watching him warily. “We are here on a mission of some urgency.”
“Yes,” rasps Mordain, the tone dispassionate beneath its harshness, “I recall a message. I see you have slain one of my creatures.” The fingers of his right hand twitch and the fringe of slim tentacles encircling it waves. Unsure whether he is about to cast a spell, Nameless quickly says, “I have recently returned from Xoriat.”
Mordain’s hand and tentacles stop dead for a moment, and he looks quickly at Nameless. “Nobody … returns from – or goes to – Xoriat.” The alienist nods, but keeps the smirk that was about to appear off his face, “Nevertheless, that is what happened. I have studied Xoriat for long. I died recently, went to Xoriat instead of Dolurrh, and returned when my companions
reincarnated me. With some intriguing changes, such as this tentacle, and one potentially problematic one. Sora Teraza told us that you might be interested in hearing about it, and could possibly help shed some light on what happened.” Mordain looks at the tentacle and then asks, “Is that a graft?” Nameless shakes his head, while rolling up his sleeve to show how the tentacle grows out of his arm. “It is part of me.” The Fleshweaver says nothing, but simply steps closer to Nameless and looks him up and down.
While he is doing so, Luna says quietly to the others, “Are you guys sure this is a good idea? Look at him – he’s seriously messed up. And look at these things he creates! That creature I flew over was some golem-thing with iron hands, and there’s this bulette with iron legs. Everything with metal hanging off it is wrong!” She pauses, looking puzzled for a moment as Korm emits a muffled snort, before noticing the person standing next to him. “Oh! Sorry, Six!”
“No problem,” says Six, as Mordain turns to the rest of the group. “I shall speak to you all,” the Fleshweaver says, “In my home.” He then turns to the dead bulette again and seems to concentrate for a few moments. Then he clicks his fingers. Almost instantly, there is a low rumbling and the corpse begins to shake. Dust rises around it, and the cadaver slowly begins to settle into the ground, which falls away below it. The source of the subsidence is quickly evident, as a number of creatures become visible around it. Though precise details are unclear, due to the dust and their position partly under the surface, the Angels see that they look like goblins that have undergone some modification. Their heads, whose eyes are large and an unvariegated gray, are squeezed down into their chests (similar to dolgrims, but further down, and consisting of only one head). Their arms have been replaced with thick, bonelike cutting blades, which are at least as long as they are tall. Two clamber over the bulette, revealing legs that are shorter and thicker than on a normal goblin, ending in large suckers. Within seconds, the creatures transport the corpse underground, leaving only a jagged hole.
“I will reuse the materials,” says Mordain, before turning to face the Angels. “You have some skill to have slain it.” Suddenly, he turns to Nameless. “What power of magic do you command?”
“Up to the sixth valence, though I have no facility with necromancy and illusion.”
“Interesting.” Mordain looks around the group again, and the Angels notice that within the glowing blue circles of the
arcane sight around his eyes, they are cold and gray, lizard-like in both their lack of feeling and in their unblinking nature. As his gaze passes over them, they feel as if they were being instantly appraised and weighed, like meat hanging before a particularly skilled butcher.
“Interesting.”
* * *
A few seconds later, the Angels appear with the Fleshweaver inside a bare stone room. Nameless notes that while it seems outwardly empty, it is interlaced with multiple dweomers, which never touch the floor but run along the walls and ceiling, especially clustering around the door in a tight network. As Mordain walks up to the door, the auras part like a wind-blown web and the door opens. “Come,” he says.
The Angels follow him along a long corridor with multiple doors. Considering that this is the home of the Fleshweaver, certainly one of the strangest of spellcasters on Khorvaire and perhaps the most powerful arcanist, what they pass is strangely free of anything remarkable. There is some furniture, most of it clearly having seen much better days, but no slobbering monstrosities or malformed creatures stitched together by a madman are in existence. Only Nameless sees the various magical auras that surround them, but that hardly seems noteworthy considering the location.
The lack of interesting sights ends at the large hall that they emerge into, where a combination of large chains and a complicated pulley system hold a carcass suspended a dozen feet above the ground. Still snarling defiance in death, fanged mouth open as if to deliver a last freezing breath, it is that of a silver dragon. The huge corpse stretches over sixty feet from nose to tail tip, seeming larger than the insane silver dragon Tyrass that the Angels had dispatched on the island near Xen’drik months ago. It is also in a state of incredibly good preservation, with only the glassy eyes and a large patch of missing skin on its left flank indicating that it is a corpse. The Angels’ eyes move from the latter section to the silver scales that are interwoven with the green skin on Mordain’s disproportionate left arm.
The Fleshweaver strides past the dragon without sparing it a glance, leading the group through a short corridor to a door, which again opens of its own accord. Inside is a large sitting room, with multiple seats and couches scattered around, each with a thick coating of dust and cobwebs. “Sit,” says Mordain, indicating the seats. As his guests move towards them, the individual seats they pick promptly clean themselves, taking on an immaculate condition in seconds.
Damn! thinks Luna.
That would go so well with our self-cleaning rugs!
Mordain himself heads towards a wall, where he turns and lowers himself as if sinking into a comfortable seat, though there is nothing beneath him. As he leans back, Nameless sees the omnipresent auras wrap comfortably around the Fleshweaver, supporting him as he folds one leg over the other. Mordain looks at him expectantly. “Begin!”
Nameless begins to explain what happened, trying to provide context as needed, especially when Mordain begins to ask questions. The others also help as needed, but within a couple of minutes, Mordain says, “Stop! This should make things easier. Do not resist.” He casts a spell, and Angels feel a
telepathic bond link their minds to each other and to him. “Now,” he says and transmits over the link, “You may continue.”
With the aid of telepathy, the narration takes only a little over a quarter hour, even with the others’ interjections and Mordain’s few questions. When Nameless is done, Mordain looks at him silently – and expressionlessly – for a few seconds and then asks, “So you have no proof of this danger but what the Hag says, but do not want to risk the possibility that she is right, and think I might use my expertise to check and confirm.”
Since it is more statement than question, Nameless simply responds with a nod. “All right,” says Mordain. “I shall perform some tests on you. It will take two or three years to be certain.” He glances at the others and begins, “You four…,” when Nameless interrupts, “Three years? That is too long. I cannot remain here.” Mordain’s gaze flashes back to him and the tentacles momentarily writhe around his right wrist. Gareth quickly adds, in a soothing tone, “Sora Teraza said the danger might be very imminent, so time matters to us. And to you two, I presume, since she said the danger is to all of Khorvaire, and would disrupt your work too.”
Mordain says nothing for a few moments, and then rises quickly. “Very well – I will see what I can find now. I will also take a sample of your tentacle for further study.” He pauses expectantly, and it takes a few seconds for Nameless to realize that he was attempting to make a request. Evidently Mordain is somewhat lacking in the ability to ask permission, perhaps due to sheer lack of practice. “Certainly,” replies the alienist.
Mordain remains silent for a few more seconds, and then says, “Thank you?” The tone says he is hazarding a guess that it is the appropriate response. The next statement is made with much more certainty. “Come with me.” He gathers the Angels and
dimension doors them away.
The Angels and he reappear in the middle of a room that strikes them with an uncomfortable sense of déjà vu. It is lit by two large crystals embedded in the ceiling and one in either wall, which cast a diffuse, slightly yellow light over the room. The center of the room is empty, but its sides are lined with various kinds of apparatus, all of which seem to protrude from the walls. Some are cases or chests of drawers, one is evidently a large sliding table (with a bulky object covered with what is either a very wet cloth or a strange membrane), and a couple are difficult to identify, but all of them bear the same pink tint as the walls. The walls also bear some closed sphincters in places. It all seems very reminiscent of the laboratories of the aberrations of Yarkuun Draal.
Mordain walks up to the largest of the sphincters and taps it, causing it to slide out an especially thick table, also of the same tint as the wall. This one is about six inches thick and bears a hollow in the rough shape of a humanoid form, about the size of an ogre. “Remove your clothes and lie there,” he tells Nameless, before gesturing to the others, “Stand away and be quiet.”
As Nameless complies, his companions look away and make quiet comments about how watching him naked is much scarier a prospect than they signed up for, but the circumstances rob the jokes of some humor. Mordain, meanwhile, slides open a set of drawers to reveal various strange instruments, almost none of which the Angels can identify, and then taps another sphincter, to produce a tray of similar tools. These ones, however, are clearly all designed for slicing flesh. He selects one, while the tentacles around his wrist pick up many more. Mordain walks back and looks down at Nameless. “This will hurt.” As he speaks, the sides of the hollowed area that the alienist lies in suddenly contract, gripping him tightly in their embrace so that there is no possibility of reflexive movement.
“Excuse me,” says Luna, watching with trepidation, “Since it’s going to hurt, can’t you do something about that?”
Mordain nods. “That is … a good point.” His lips twitch in what might be an attempt at a friendly smile, and he steps swiftly to another set of drawers. He produces a small jar, filled with some glutinous gray liquid, and removes the lid. Then he picks up a small rod with what looks like an artificial tongue attached to it, or presumably artificial, since it swirls itself in circles when he dips it in the liquid. Mordain walks back and runs the tongue over Nameless’ mouth, coating his lips liberally with the liquid. “Do not open your mouth,” he orders. Seconds later, the liquid swells and expands into what seems to be a thick coating of flesh, which now covers Nameless’ mouth completely. “Good,” says Mordain. “He will not be able to scream.”
Luna’s eyes bulge even more than Nameless’ surprised ones. “Ummm – I was thinking of something that’ll prevent the pain, actually.” Mordain stares at her uncomprehendingly for a few seconds, and then sighs, “Very well.” With a command of, “Do not resist,” he reaches out to touch Nameless’ head and cast a spell. The alienist promptly passes out.
Mordain then proceeds to perform multiple small operations, including taking a couple of thin slices off the tentacle, after which he applies another liquid which regrows the removed flesh at a considerable speed. He also casts a couple of spells while doing so. Finally, he turns and gestures at Luna. “You – come here!” As the druid walks forward, he turns back to the unconscious Nameless and slices him open from the base of his neck to his navel. As a tentacle dexterously takes the scalpel he used, Mordain slides his fingers under the flesh on either side, and then pulls them apart, revealing Nameless’ skeletal structure and internal organs. “Hold this!” he says to a shocked Luna. As she complies, he lets go. “Do not worry,” he continues, with an evident effort at being soothing. “He will not die for three minutes.”
Luna stares at him, trying to ignore the feeling of the slippery and blood-stained skin under her fingers and the soft pulse of various organs, and growls, “So can you hurry this up?”
That’s NOT reassuring!
Mordain ignores the comment. He reaches up with his left hand to pull down the collar of his shirt, revealing pallid skin beneath. Then he raises his right hand to his chest and pushes the fingers into his flesh. The skin parts, as if there were a hidden pocket of some sort, and he reaches in, feels around for a second, and pulls out a short stick or ornate wand made of six inches of bone, carved into an intertwining set of curves topped with a small purple gem.
Oh, that’s wrong! thinks Luna, watching the removal of the wand. Mordain leans forward and slowly moves it over Nameless’ form, from head to toe and then back up again, finally placing the stick gently in the middle of his open chest.
After a couple of seconds, a bright flash of light erupts from the gem. To Korm, Six and Gareth, watching from more of a distance, it seems as if the light shines through Nameless’ skin, momentarily letting them see everything that is held within. Mordain picks up the wand and studies it. Then he places it to his head and closes his eyes for a few seconds. Finally, he replaces it into the receptacle in his chest.
Having done so, he looks at Luna. “You are a healer.” She nods. “Then you should heal him now. He will be dead in forty-five … no, forty-one seconds.” Luna swears vehemently and quickly casts one of her
cocoons. Once it dissipates, Nameless is perfectly whole, but still unconscious.
“One more thing,” says Mordain, producing some magical components from another drawer. He sets up the small cones of incense around an ivory rectangle and then begins to cast the spell, which those besides Six identify as a
legend lore. Over the course of the next ten minutes, the incense catches fire of its own accord and burns away. As the last bit falls to pieces and disappears, the Fleshweaver’s eyes darken and his lips twitch slightly. “All right,” he says with finality, stepping up to revive Nameless.
When the alienist opens his eyes, Mordain says, “I have some things to tell you. Get dressed.” Nameless gestures at his mouth, causing the Fleshweaver to look at him curiously, till Luna sighs and translates, “I think he’s saying that he’d like to have his mouth back.”
* * *
A few minutes later, the Angels are back in the sitting room with Mordain. The Fleshweaver looks at Nameless and says, “That was very interesting. And I have discovered what you needed to know. You have a dormant Gate to Xoriat inside you?”
“That’s what I was afraid of,” says Nameless, before Korm says, “But Xoriat is sundered from our plane forever, isn’t it?”
“It is. But if the Gate in his chest activates, then it will not be. Whether that will mean denizens of Xoriat can only enter our world through that one Gate, or if it will create enough of an opening to link the planes again, is difficult to predict, but I believe it would be the latter.”
“That’s not good. Any of that. Can the Gate be removed or nullified?”
“Not that I have discovered. I have found two ways to activate it. One would be your death, Nameless.”
“So Sora Teraza told me.”
“She was correct.”
“What if he died but was brought back?” asks Luna. “Could that prevent it?” Six adds, “And what if his body could be kept alive but his consciousness was transferred to another, if that was possible.”
Mordain remains silent for a moment and then says, “The moment of his death would activate it, whether he was brought back to life later or not. And I believe it is tied to both his body and soul.” He looks at Nameless. “Your time in Xoriat and the contact with the mind of one of the Great Old Ones was probably the opportunity something – or someone – there used.”
“All right,” says Gareth, trying to avoid scowling. “You said there are two ways to activate it?”
“Yes. The second is to let it grow roots. The Gate is like a seed, and if he is in one place too long, it will sink roots into the location and activate.” Mordain pauses and then adds, “Those are metaphors,” in a tone which indicates he is trying to keep things simple for the benefit of the Angels.
“Too long? How long is too long?”
“It is difficult to say, but a month would definitely be far too much. Up to two weeks would certainly be safe, but I would not exceed that.”
“Two weeks?”
Damn!
“Yes. Also, if leaving a place you have been in for some days, make sure not to return to it for at least half the time you have spent there, since you will need that time away to prevent the link from being re-established by the Gate. You come from Sharn, correct? If you are in Sharn for eight days and then leave, if you return in less than four days the link will be remade and it will continue including those eight days, which will speed up the activation.”
The Angels exchange looks, the various expressions all agreeing that the news gets worse and worse. “How large an area are you referring to?” asks Six. “If it is a country or something like that, we will have to do some very creative traveling.”
“Not that large. I would estimate about a five mile diameter. Give or take a couple of miles.”
“What about if we were on a vehicle that traveled from place to place?” continues Six. “Like a ship. Or an airship.” “Damn!” interrupts Luna excitedly, “I would
love to live on an airship. Come on, guys – let’s sell our place and buy an airship!” Korm rolls his eyes. “Focus, Luna?”
Mordain waits for silence and then says, “An airship or any other vehicle would be fine as long as the geographical location was changed as I indicated.”
“What do you think would happen if we visited one of the manifest zones to Xoriat?” asks Six. “Or an area where magic is suppressed?”
“For the former, since those zones are all suppressed, it would presumably have no effect on the Gate. But I would not experiment. A permanent area of
antimagic would presumably keep it dormant, but I know of no such place.”
Great! “I am
not going anywhere near a manifest zone to Xoriat with this, Six,” says Nameless, before turning to Mordain. “Thank you for all the information. Is there anything else you can tell us?”
“Not at present.” Mordain looks around at the group and says, “I wish to make … a request of you.”
This can’t be good, thinks Luna. “You’re not about to offer us a job, are you?”
“No. I would like to take samples from all of you.”
“What?!”
“Samples. I shall remove part of you and heal you. You will not miss it.”
“Why?”
“I have a theory about body parts taken from humanoids with unusual abilities. I have not met people with your skills in a while, and especially not all together. It would be a very good way to test some of my theories.” He pauses and then adds, probably trying to be helpful, “You realize that I do not need to ask you this, do you not? I could simply take the samples. But I am being … hospitable.”
The Angels again exchange glances, tensing for a fight. Finally, Gareth says, “We understand that and appreciate the courtesy. If you do not mind, I need to test something before I answer.”
Mordain looks at him curiously. “What?” Nameless sighs and quickly answers first, “He has certain issu…,” but Gareth speaks over him. “I need to know if you are evil.”
“You are a worshipper of the Flame, so by your standards, I am. Why does that matter?”
Gareth shakes his head. “I am sorry, but I cannot give a ‘sample’ of myself to you. Your purposes may be evil, and I cannot aid in them or risk that what you take from us will be used to such ends.”
This time, it is Mordain who sighs, and his hand and tentacles twitch slightly. Then, he proceeds to explain at length why it would make perfect sense for the Angels to allow him to do what he wants, especially since he will provide significant augmentations to them which will aid in their future work, and help in protecting Nameless from harm. By the time he completes the explanation, there is little that they can use for an argument, having been completely swayed by his arguments. The Angels accompany him to his laboratories, a separate one for each of them, where he renders them unconscious for the duration of his work. Mordain does revive each of them on multiple occasions and they have some enjoyable discussions about what he is doing to them and what he is going to do. As they spend more and more time chatting with Mordain, the Angels find him quite pleasant, friendly and interesting to talk to. By the time he is done, each of them considers the Fleshweaver a fairly good friend.
