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Sins of Our Fathers - 2/10 - Final Update
- Thread starter Destan
- Start date
Cinerarium
First Post
Hi Destan --
Am I correct in assuming the last two posts since the end of the first session are what's happening in between sessions?
Basically the last two posts are summing up IC roleplaying everyone did over email in between sessions, right?
Thanks!
Am I correct in assuming the last two posts since the end of the first session are what's happening in between sessions?
Basically the last two posts are summing up IC roleplaying everyone did over email in between sessions, right?
Thanks!
Lela
First Post
grodog said:
Actually, I don't subscribe to Sep's SH or this one (the only two I'm reading): I like the surprise of looking into a thread and finding an update
I don't think I could stand not knowing right away. If I'm around at the time, I'm one of the first to ever read a post.
Of course, I spend the majority of my time in this Forum. You'll see me pop up from time to time in other places but I mostly live here.
teehee, that was a great last line. Man, I really like all your characters. Only a few weeks away from Cinerarium starting his campaign similar to yours. Oh boy I'm looking forward to it! That's btw, why he is asking you these questions, in case you didn't know. He wants to learn from a man that is proving it can be done well.
Tellerve
Tellerve
Destan
Citizen of Val Hor
To Summon a Demon...or Not
John pushed himself out of the bronze tub – the water had lost most of its heat – and wrapped a bearskin about him. He felt refreshed. Days and nights on the road were nothing new to him, but the past tenday or so had been filled with harrowing encounters.
First they had slain the Tarn Calian mercenaries masquerading as Gondian priests, then the wyvern and the wraith-like spirit of Borbidon’s cleric Morgad, and finally the hordes of dwem at Olgotha. The Pellman did not even want to recall that dark chamber wherein elves had evidently been forced into cannibalism. And through it all had danced Aramin – the very thought of the Rornman caused John’s teeth to grind.
But now…now he was clean. His cheeks were shaven, and his goatee trimmed. Certainly there was some salt in his beard, but the offending patches were nothing that a few applications of pigment could not hide.
John padded over to a water basin on naked feet, leaned forward, and splashed the liquid onto his face. He stopped, suddenly, and slowly let his hands fall from his cheeks. “Raylin. It has happened again.”
The ranger sat up within his own tub, the water sluicing off his body in waves. He looked to where John stared at his reflection in the water basin. “What? What has happened again?”
“I've grown even more handsome.”
The two of them were the last of the party to finish their baths. Excepting Vath, of course, who did not join the rest of them to wash away two weeks' accumulation of dirt. The half-troll had immediately taken a corner booth upon entering the inn, sent a number of locals scattering with one frightful growl, and then proceeded to eat as many roasted pigeons as the cooks could place in front of him.
John and Raylin toweled themselves off, donned clothes the innkeep had hastily procured, and marched up the stairwell toward their rooms. They stopped only to slip eating knives into their belts, then continued up a spiral staircase to the top floor.
A guardsman wearing the livery of the White City nodded and opened the door at the top of the steps. John and Raylin entered, hung their cloaks on pegs near the door, and joined Poridel and the rest of the party around a large oaken table.
The ensuing dinner was, John reluctantly admitted, excellent. The wine was plentiful and - surpisingly - included two bottles of Genn Purple. For the better part of an hour the party forgot their cares, the trials of the past few weeks, and the bloodshed they had endured. The mood was light and the talk simple.
Poridel proved a worthy conversationalist. The sage told how he had once seen two of the Valudian Popas fight one another with fists at the very base of the Three Throne. Baden proved a capable story-teller himself; he recounted the sights he had seen during his only journey through Deepearth while visiting Silverhand dwarves at the behest of his Dwarfking Droggi. Raylin, deep into his cups by then, knocked over a decanter of wine when he spread his arms to indicate the width of a red elk’s rack he had bagged on the outskirts of the Blackswamp. John, for his contribution, produced a piccolo and played a few stanzas from a well-known gnomish ballad.
The evening wore on and the bard, like a child fending off sleep, sought to prolong the bliss of feigned ignorance. It was not to be. Try as he might to avoid it, John's eyes were finally drawn toward the coat pegs near the door. There, leaning against the wall like a scorned mistress, was the fur-wrapped staff. Margate’s Staff.
Poridel followed John’s look, as did the others, and the mood changed. The Tower Sage stood, ushered out the servants, and closed the door.
He turned. “I believe now is the time for me to deliver upon my promise. Arn brandy, friends?”
***
The dining room was silent as Poridel filled six snifters with the expensive drink. He passed the goblets around the table before raising his own. “To your safe return, friends. May many such more await you.”
Each of the companions, save Vath, sipped their drinks quietly. Poridel turned toward Amelyssan. “With your permission, I would like to cast an abjuration upon myself.”
The elf returned his look. “What is it?”
“Nondetection.”
“You believe we are being scryed?”
“We? No. But me – perhaps.” Poridel sighed. “I believe you – all of you – are not yet known. But such is not the case for myself. It would be better for us all were I to do it.”
Amelyssan glanced around the table before inclining his head. Poridel reached into his belt and tossed sparkling dust into the air. His words thrummed with arcane energy. When he finished, he smiled. “Now, we may speak freely.”
Kellus stood. “And I would have us speak truthfully, as well.”
The former Helmite had drank only sparingly. “Master Sage, I looked into your soul before dinner. I saw no evil. But we have been betrayed only recently by one who extended his hand in friendship. I should like to enfold this table with my power which commands truth, and only truth, be spoken.”
Poridel nodded. “Of course.”
Kellus murmured his own words of power, hand pressed against his breast. He looked up. “I fear the effect shall be transitory. You had best speak quickly.”
And so Poridel did. The Tower Sage was blunt in his speech, direct in his manner. With each of his sentences the air seemed to grow heavier. He explained that Aramin was not Aramin; rather the dead mage was T’tak Witchpriest, a Rornman in the service of a dark master. He told, quickly enough, how he had been following Aramin for the better part of two months- and lost his trail outside the thorp of Black Leaf only a day’s ride west of Ciddry. The sage claimed he knew that Aramin wished to reassemble the staff and thus free Ippizicus.
John was forced to interrupt. “Why?”
“Why?” Poridel repeated the bard’s question. He looked toward Kellus as the former priest once again cast a Zone of Truth. “Because there are those who know, and believe, in the Twin Prophecies. I do. The man you knew as Aramin certainly did.”
Poridel cleared his throat after a moment's silence. “You are in grave danger, good sirs, danger of the worst sort. The staff leaning against the wall of this room holds the tormented soul of Ippizicus Child-Eater. That same demon caused no end of misery to the mothers and fathers of Tarn Cal - a misery that endured even when the Dezimond was but crumbled rock and the Sin War an unpleasant memory.”
“You talk of history, Tower Sage,” Kellus interrupted. “But we know of history, or rather we know enough to suit us. How does this tale of tragedy concern us?”
“How does it concern you?” Poridel fought and failed to appear composed. “As I said, Master Amelyssan carries the soul of a lesser demon in his staff. A demon, I might add, that now has a foothold upon this plane.”
Kellus frowned. "You know of the staff. And you know of Olgotha?" At Poridel's nod, Kellus continued, "Then you were scrying us?"
"Not you, no. Aramin. He had removed any defenses near the end, saving his power to commence the summoning."
Baden wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Aramin is dead. The dwem he had been allied with are likewise dead. The tale, however tragic or old, is over.”
Poridel’s smile did not reach his eyes. “Dwem? Those little people you slew on the slopes of Olgotha – you believe them to be dwem? Come, dwarf, you of all your companions should know better. Take a goblet,” Poridel raised his own cup for effect, “and let a single drop of the finest brandy fall into it. Then piss in it to the brim. Those dwarves you slew on Olgotha were nothing more than diluted, urine-filled abominations from centuries of inter-breeding. Certainly they have dwem ancestry, but do you really believe those puppets were made of the same stuff as Borbidan Elfkiller? For the love of Oghma, friend dwarf, a true dwem cannot even stand the sunlight for a handful of heartbeats. Call them dark dwarves, if you will, but not dwem.”
Baden shrugged, unperturbed. The night's libations had mellowed him. “Dwem or no, they be dead now.”
Raylin spoke for the first time since knocking over the wine. “If what you say is true, sage, then why not destroy that staff? Would that end your fears?”
Poridel’s eyes were on Amelyssan as he answered. “You could, certainly. Your dwarven companion could chop the staff into kindling in a few ticks. But that would not assist you, not at all. For Ippizicus is here, if only partially, and should you destroy the staff you will not know when he will possess the power to fully manifest upon this plane. More importantly, you will not know where he will manifest.”
Poridel spread his hands. “Remember, presently, he remains bound to the staff. He is not yet strong enough to extract himself from Margate’s prison.”
Amelyssan sipped his brandy, deep in thought. “Then, perhaps, we should simply lose the staff. Throw it into depths of the Saficea? Bury it under the Balantir Cor?”
“No.” Poridel shook his head. “That would be unwise. Relics not seen since the Age of Forests now appear daily. Peasants in their fields overturn the earth to find the bones of creatures we no longer recognize. There are winged monstrosities seen in the peaks east of here. Good men – faithful clerics and others – find themselves pulled toward new auras of power. Politicians grow corrupt, warriors grow thirsty for blood. I have no doubt that Margate's Staff would, in effect, find a way to be found.”
The sage walked around the edge of the table. He pointed to the staff. “Remember, friends, it lives now.”
John pushed back his uneasiness. He refused to look at the staff, and kept his gaze firmly fixed upon Poridel. “You say not to destroy it. You say not to lose it.” John tilted his head. “Yet you also, good sage, seem to believe we should not travel with it. What is it you suggest – that we give the staff to you?”
“Never.” Vath’s growl resonated from deep within his chest.
“No, friends, I do not want your staff. I have difficulty thinking of something I would want less.” Poridel walked back to his chair and sat down heavily. “The staff is not the problem; the demon trapped within is. You must defeat him.”
“Defeat him?” Kellus’ tone was incredulous. The former priest wished he had another Zone of Truth at his disposal. And a second Detect Evil while he was at it. “Are you suggesting we finish the summoning that Aramin could not? Are you suggesting we attempt to bring the demon here in his entirety?”
Raylin laid a hand on Kellus’ arm as he, too, stared hard at Poridel. “We have bled, sage, to prevent just such an event.”
Poridel had the courtesy to pause. His answer, however, left little in the way of ambiguity. “That is exactly what I am suggesting, Larrenman. More than that – I believe it is your only option.
“Otherwise, I have no doubt the lot of you will lay dead, and the staff stolen from your corpses, within a tenday.”
John pushed himself out of the bronze tub – the water had lost most of its heat – and wrapped a bearskin about him. He felt refreshed. Days and nights on the road were nothing new to him, but the past tenday or so had been filled with harrowing encounters.
First they had slain the Tarn Calian mercenaries masquerading as Gondian priests, then the wyvern and the wraith-like spirit of Borbidon’s cleric Morgad, and finally the hordes of dwem at Olgotha. The Pellman did not even want to recall that dark chamber wherein elves had evidently been forced into cannibalism. And through it all had danced Aramin – the very thought of the Rornman caused John’s teeth to grind.
But now…now he was clean. His cheeks were shaven, and his goatee trimmed. Certainly there was some salt in his beard, but the offending patches were nothing that a few applications of pigment could not hide.
John padded over to a water basin on naked feet, leaned forward, and splashed the liquid onto his face. He stopped, suddenly, and slowly let his hands fall from his cheeks. “Raylin. It has happened again.”
The ranger sat up within his own tub, the water sluicing off his body in waves. He looked to where John stared at his reflection in the water basin. “What? What has happened again?”
“I've grown even more handsome.”
The two of them were the last of the party to finish their baths. Excepting Vath, of course, who did not join the rest of them to wash away two weeks' accumulation of dirt. The half-troll had immediately taken a corner booth upon entering the inn, sent a number of locals scattering with one frightful growl, and then proceeded to eat as many roasted pigeons as the cooks could place in front of him.
John and Raylin toweled themselves off, donned clothes the innkeep had hastily procured, and marched up the stairwell toward their rooms. They stopped only to slip eating knives into their belts, then continued up a spiral staircase to the top floor.
A guardsman wearing the livery of the White City nodded and opened the door at the top of the steps. John and Raylin entered, hung their cloaks on pegs near the door, and joined Poridel and the rest of the party around a large oaken table.
The ensuing dinner was, John reluctantly admitted, excellent. The wine was plentiful and - surpisingly - included two bottles of Genn Purple. For the better part of an hour the party forgot their cares, the trials of the past few weeks, and the bloodshed they had endured. The mood was light and the talk simple.
Poridel proved a worthy conversationalist. The sage told how he had once seen two of the Valudian Popas fight one another with fists at the very base of the Three Throne. Baden proved a capable story-teller himself; he recounted the sights he had seen during his only journey through Deepearth while visiting Silverhand dwarves at the behest of his Dwarfking Droggi. Raylin, deep into his cups by then, knocked over a decanter of wine when he spread his arms to indicate the width of a red elk’s rack he had bagged on the outskirts of the Blackswamp. John, for his contribution, produced a piccolo and played a few stanzas from a well-known gnomish ballad.
The evening wore on and the bard, like a child fending off sleep, sought to prolong the bliss of feigned ignorance. It was not to be. Try as he might to avoid it, John's eyes were finally drawn toward the coat pegs near the door. There, leaning against the wall like a scorned mistress, was the fur-wrapped staff. Margate’s Staff.
Poridel followed John’s look, as did the others, and the mood changed. The Tower Sage stood, ushered out the servants, and closed the door.
He turned. “I believe now is the time for me to deliver upon my promise. Arn brandy, friends?”
***
The dining room was silent as Poridel filled six snifters with the expensive drink. He passed the goblets around the table before raising his own. “To your safe return, friends. May many such more await you.”
Each of the companions, save Vath, sipped their drinks quietly. Poridel turned toward Amelyssan. “With your permission, I would like to cast an abjuration upon myself.”
The elf returned his look. “What is it?”
“Nondetection.”
“You believe we are being scryed?”
“We? No. But me – perhaps.” Poridel sighed. “I believe you – all of you – are not yet known. But such is not the case for myself. It would be better for us all were I to do it.”
Amelyssan glanced around the table before inclining his head. Poridel reached into his belt and tossed sparkling dust into the air. His words thrummed with arcane energy. When he finished, he smiled. “Now, we may speak freely.”
Kellus stood. “And I would have us speak truthfully, as well.”
The former Helmite had drank only sparingly. “Master Sage, I looked into your soul before dinner. I saw no evil. But we have been betrayed only recently by one who extended his hand in friendship. I should like to enfold this table with my power which commands truth, and only truth, be spoken.”
Poridel nodded. “Of course.”
Kellus murmured his own words of power, hand pressed against his breast. He looked up. “I fear the effect shall be transitory. You had best speak quickly.”
And so Poridel did. The Tower Sage was blunt in his speech, direct in his manner. With each of his sentences the air seemed to grow heavier. He explained that Aramin was not Aramin; rather the dead mage was T’tak Witchpriest, a Rornman in the service of a dark master. He told, quickly enough, how he had been following Aramin for the better part of two months- and lost his trail outside the thorp of Black Leaf only a day’s ride west of Ciddry. The sage claimed he knew that Aramin wished to reassemble the staff and thus free Ippizicus.
John was forced to interrupt. “Why?”
“Why?” Poridel repeated the bard’s question. He looked toward Kellus as the former priest once again cast a Zone of Truth. “Because there are those who know, and believe, in the Twin Prophecies. I do. The man you knew as Aramin certainly did.”
Poridel cleared his throat after a moment's silence. “You are in grave danger, good sirs, danger of the worst sort. The staff leaning against the wall of this room holds the tormented soul of Ippizicus Child-Eater. That same demon caused no end of misery to the mothers and fathers of Tarn Cal - a misery that endured even when the Dezimond was but crumbled rock and the Sin War an unpleasant memory.”
“You talk of history, Tower Sage,” Kellus interrupted. “But we know of history, or rather we know enough to suit us. How does this tale of tragedy concern us?”
“How does it concern you?” Poridel fought and failed to appear composed. “As I said, Master Amelyssan carries the soul of a lesser demon in his staff. A demon, I might add, that now has a foothold upon this plane.”
Kellus frowned. "You know of the staff. And you know of Olgotha?" At Poridel's nod, Kellus continued, "Then you were scrying us?"
"Not you, no. Aramin. He had removed any defenses near the end, saving his power to commence the summoning."
Baden wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Aramin is dead. The dwem he had been allied with are likewise dead. The tale, however tragic or old, is over.”
Poridel’s smile did not reach his eyes. “Dwem? Those little people you slew on the slopes of Olgotha – you believe them to be dwem? Come, dwarf, you of all your companions should know better. Take a goblet,” Poridel raised his own cup for effect, “and let a single drop of the finest brandy fall into it. Then piss in it to the brim. Those dwarves you slew on Olgotha were nothing more than diluted, urine-filled abominations from centuries of inter-breeding. Certainly they have dwem ancestry, but do you really believe those puppets were made of the same stuff as Borbidan Elfkiller? For the love of Oghma, friend dwarf, a true dwem cannot even stand the sunlight for a handful of heartbeats. Call them dark dwarves, if you will, but not dwem.”
Baden shrugged, unperturbed. The night's libations had mellowed him. “Dwem or no, they be dead now.”
Raylin spoke for the first time since knocking over the wine. “If what you say is true, sage, then why not destroy that staff? Would that end your fears?”
Poridel’s eyes were on Amelyssan as he answered. “You could, certainly. Your dwarven companion could chop the staff into kindling in a few ticks. But that would not assist you, not at all. For Ippizicus is here, if only partially, and should you destroy the staff you will not know when he will possess the power to fully manifest upon this plane. More importantly, you will not know where he will manifest.”
Poridel spread his hands. “Remember, presently, he remains bound to the staff. He is not yet strong enough to extract himself from Margate’s prison.”
Amelyssan sipped his brandy, deep in thought. “Then, perhaps, we should simply lose the staff. Throw it into depths of the Saficea? Bury it under the Balantir Cor?”
“No.” Poridel shook his head. “That would be unwise. Relics not seen since the Age of Forests now appear daily. Peasants in their fields overturn the earth to find the bones of creatures we no longer recognize. There are winged monstrosities seen in the peaks east of here. Good men – faithful clerics and others – find themselves pulled toward new auras of power. Politicians grow corrupt, warriors grow thirsty for blood. I have no doubt that Margate's Staff would, in effect, find a way to be found.”
The sage walked around the edge of the table. He pointed to the staff. “Remember, friends, it lives now.”
John pushed back his uneasiness. He refused to look at the staff, and kept his gaze firmly fixed upon Poridel. “You say not to destroy it. You say not to lose it.” John tilted his head. “Yet you also, good sage, seem to believe we should not travel with it. What is it you suggest – that we give the staff to you?”
“Never.” Vath’s growl resonated from deep within his chest.
“No, friends, I do not want your staff. I have difficulty thinking of something I would want less.” Poridel walked back to his chair and sat down heavily. “The staff is not the problem; the demon trapped within is. You must defeat him.”
“Defeat him?” Kellus’ tone was incredulous. The former priest wished he had another Zone of Truth at his disposal. And a second Detect Evil while he was at it. “Are you suggesting we finish the summoning that Aramin could not? Are you suggesting we attempt to bring the demon here in his entirety?”
Raylin laid a hand on Kellus’ arm as he, too, stared hard at Poridel. “We have bled, sage, to prevent just such an event.”
Poridel had the courtesy to pause. His answer, however, left little in the way of ambiguity. “That is exactly what I am suggesting, Larrenman. More than that – I believe it is your only option.
“Otherwise, I have no doubt the lot of you will lay dead, and the staff stolen from your corpses, within a tenday.”
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