Ridley's Cohort
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If we are legion then is Heretical now Orthodox?
The Heretic of Wyre - Part II
- Thread starter Sepulchrave II
- Start date
Sepulchrave II
Legend
Demons and Celestials Again
Another update.
There is a significant amount of backstory in this which will prove necessary to understanding subsequent posts. We played twice last week, and there is a lot to relate. I will attempt to post again tomorrow or the day after. Things are happening fast.
A nodality, as Graz'zt would say...
**
The peninsula of Ardan, which thrust eastwards into the Ocean of Iarn was, for the most part, a wild and inhospitable country. Its central uplands – at first sight, deceptively green and welcoming – were in fact riven with many steep-sided valleys, prone to flooding in the spring thaw. The grass, although covering the hillsides abundantly, was of the short, springy variety and bespoke a poor soil, unsuitable for little besides goat-farming. Westwards, the slopes gradually became less severe, the loams more fertile, and the woodlands more abundant until, finally, they gave way to the rolling hills of Trempa and Tomur in eastern Wyre.
Ardan itself was one of Wyre’s ‘satellites.’ Never fully subdued, it technically owed tribute to its larger neighbour, although its numerous kings, lairds and chieftains – even those whose lands marched on Wyre proper – tended to be neglectful of their feudal duties. Ardan’s inhabitants were fierce, independent, conservative in their customs and immensely jealous of their traditions. The fact that they were regarded as uncouth, mead-swilling bandits did not dissuade successive Wyrish magnates from hiring contingents of Ardanese cavalry: they were generally regarded as producing the best mounted archers anywhere north of the Thalassine.
Orthodoxy was, and never had been, popular in Ardan. Oronthon was worshipped, certainly, but he was an older, less developed aspect of the divinity who had been influenced by six hundred years of Wyrish dogma and sophistry. He presided over a small pantheon of saints and quasi-deities, each of whom embodied ideals germane to the Ardanese way of life. In generations past, the Archbishops had attempted to bring Ardanese practice more in line with that in Morne, and, in the period when the Mission’s influence had outweighed that of both the Temple and Inquisition, proselytes had entered Ardan.
The fact that the Orthodox missions had accompanied punitive raids from the kings of Wyre for nonpayment of tribute, was viewed with natural cynicism by the Ardanese, who simply moved further into the hills and began protracted guerilla campaigns against their occupiers. The pattern continued for generations until, at long last, the Orthodox church gave up. The ‘Ardanese Question’ was left unresolved, and was eventually forgotten.
Ardan was, therefore, a natural choice for the communally oriented Urgic Mystics. The Urgics maintained that they represented an alternative interpretation of Oronthonianism. They made no truth claims, because part of their creed was that truth is subjective. Small groups had, with the blessing of various Ardanese chieftains (many of whom viewed them sympathetically), established peaceful communities in the hills of central Ardan, where the land was poor and space was plentiful. They coexisted amicably enough with the natives, although they maintained a certain distance. Intermarriage was rare, due to the fact that most of the Urgic Mystics were celibate. Every once in a while, those worshippers dissatisfied with Orthodoxy in Wyre would find their way into Ardan and join a group of cave-dwelling heretics, and retire from the troubles of the world.
One particular cleric, having experienced some kind of revelation, made his way there. He wasn’t entirely sure why.
"I had not expected it to be quite as easy to speak with you," Tramst said. He sat, dressed in his armour, on the floor of small cave. It was sparsely furnished and resembled a cloister in its austerity.
The cave’s occupant - a man of forty years or so - was unwashed, sported a large, matted beard, long tangled hair and wore only a simple garment, made from a single piece of coarse linen.
"We are a community, not a hierarchy. Why should speaking to me be difficult?" The man asked.
Tramst grunted. "Rintrah has informed me…" he began.
"Why do you trust a celestial’s message rather than your own insight?" The man interrupted.
"Lord Oronthon sent…" Tramst began again.
"Why do you trust a deity’s words rather than your own insight?" The man smiled.
Tramst sighed. Why had the Messenger sent him here? What could it possibly accomplish?
"Important events are occurring in Wyre which…" Tramst tried again.
"I am well aware of the events you speak of," the man interrupted again.
Tramst closed his mouth abruptly. This made no sense. Rintrah had sent him to seek advice from those who denied the ultimacy of the Celestial’s –even Oronthon’s - own words. His mind reeled.
"Good," Orm said. "That is the beginning. Paradox must precede understanding."
Tramst thought briefly. "Why am I here?" He asked.
"Why must there be a ‘Why?’" Orm retorted.
"I am here," Tramst said decisively.
Orm shook his head.
"I am."
Orm said nothing.
"I?" Tramst ventured.
Orm slapped him.
(Silence).
Orm smiled.
**
At Tahl’s behest – on advice from the Planetar Urthoon, with whom the cleric communed - Eadric consented to the calling of more celestials. The same morning that the Paladin passed judgement upon the Templars, the ex-Inquisitor performed a series of rites which brought four Movanic Devas with flaming swords onto the Prime plane. They were charged with remaining in the vicinity of Kyrtill’s Burgh, to dissuade further efforts by the Temple to capture the keep. Remaining in invisible form, they flew silently and tirelessly in the air around the castle: a warning to all those who had eyes to see.
"There is something else," Tahl informed Eadric. "I have appointed an Archon to guard you. It will remain ethereal, manifesting where required."
"Is that entirely necessary?" Eadric asked.
"It is a precautionary measure," Tahl said.
"Were you advised to do this also?"
"Explicitly," Tahl admitted. "Your life must be safeguarded."
Eadric sighed. The weight of responsibility and expectation was beginning to make itself felt.
"The Archon is called Zhuel," Tahl continued. "He has already revealed something rather disturbing, and communicated it to me."
Eadric looked quizzical.
"There are residual traces of taint in the ether nearby."
"Demons?" Eadric asked, swallowing.
"It is likely," Tahl said. He looked nervous. "Ed, they may have been there for some time. I hadn’t thought to regularly scan the ethereal around you."
The Paladin groaned. He had a good idea who might have sent them to spy on him. "We have to tell the others – especially Mostin," he said. "He is not going to like it."
**
Mostin, of course perceived the Devas around Kyrtill’s Burgh. What was felt as a stirring of the air by others present, was revealed to the Alienist as a statuesque winged form which gyred gracefully in the nearby sky, its wingtips often coming within a few feet of those standing on the battlements. They regarded Mostin with impassive, expressionless faces which nonetheless seemed to convey a judgemental quality.
"I am returning to my manse," he informed Eadric, Nwm and Ortwin, "where there are no birds. If you wish to…"
"We need to talk," Eadric said grimly.
**
Mostin sat silently and said nothing. Ortwin regarded him curiously, unsure whether the Alienist would cry, scream or explode a random object with a sonic.
"I think that it’s a safe bet that whatever it was, it was sent to spy on me," Eadric said.
Mostin did not speak.
"Well?" The Bard finally asked.
"I’m thinking," Mostin replied.
Ortwin waited.
"I am trying to recall the times during which you and I were present together," Mostin said to the Paladin, "and I can’t see that this adds any particular danger to my situation – aside from being scrutinized by the lackey of a Demon Prince. Assuming it was dispatched by Graz’zt, of course. If it – or they – were in the service of Feezuu, this might prove awkward for me."
"Zhuel said that the trace of evil was faint, and no Demons were at hand," Eadric said optimistically.
"Unfortunately, that means nothing," Mostin said. He gritted his teeth. "I will need to sniff around a little. I need to know which areas of the Prime are coterminous with the tainted ethereal. And I need to prepare several spells."
With the aid of Tahl and the Eye of Palamabron, who communicated with the ethereal Zhuel using gestures and body movements, Mostin located the residue of evil in the airs above Kyrtill’s Burgh. Tahl gestured for Eadric – and, more importantly, the celestial who watched over him – to retire to a safe distance. The Alienist made an Ethereal Jaunt and invoked a Vision.
Upon his return to the Prime, Mostin looked exhausted. "The names of Chr’ri and Chomele were revealed to me – I am unfamiliar with either of them."
"They are Succubi in the service of Graz’zt," Nehael said gloomily. "They must have Plane Shifted with the help of a spell or device. Normally demons such as they – or I – cannot remain Ethereal for long periods of time."
Mostin sighed. Too many possibilities, he thought. He was beginning to feel like a straw blown about on the wind, and he didn’t like it. Feezuu. Celestials. The violation of the Injunction. Now this.
"I am going to take counsel with Mulissu, as she is one of the few people I know who is wholly dispassionate," he said. "What are your plans?"
"To return to the marshalling grounds on the Blackwater Meadow," Eadric replied. "I feel that Deorham is secure. And Tahl needs time to inspect the scrolls confiscated from the Templars."
**
Tahl wind-walked back to the encampment with Ortwin, Iua and Nwm: this time the bear, Tostig, accompanied the Druid. Eadric led the penitent Templars and the others on horseback, and arrived two hours later.
Mostin walked to Nwm’s glade, passed through the portal to his retreat, and scried Mulissu’s abode with the looking-glass of Urm-Nahat. He walked through the mirror, and was immediately confronted with the Mephit doorward.
"You must wait," it chirped. "The Lady Mulissu is occupied."
Mostin grumbled. Did he have to endure this farce every time he wished to speak with her?
Mostin sat twiddling his thumbs for three hours before he was finally admitted.
"My apologies," Mulissu said with surprising earnestness. "I gave instructions some time ago that, should you arrive, you should be admitted promptly. Evidently, Shrix forgot this."
Mostin scowled at the Mephit, who smiled smugly back.
"I have violated the Great Injunction of Wyre, have determined that a clone of the demoness Feezuu has migrated to the Prime, and I may have been subject to scrutiny from agents of Prince Graz’zt." Mostin announced theatrically.
"Really?" Mulissu asked, half-smiling. "I never understood that tedious Injunction. What will the other wizards do? Would you like some wine?"
"I don’t know if they know yet," Mostin said. "Or even if they’ll find out. I’ll have a glass of that green stuff that you keep."
"Do you have any legal arguments prepared, in the event that they pursue you?" The Witch asked.
"I am under a death sentence from the Oronthonian Church for failing to leave Trempa – I acted in self-defense. I can cite my haranguement by zealous Oronthonians in Morne as testament to this."
"And if this fails?" The Witch asked.
"I am no longer a resident of Wyre, or even the Prime Plane. I spend more than fifty percent of my time in my extradimensional retreat, and am therefore no longer subject to the Injunction. This is a technicality, but it may be pertinent."
"And if this fails?" The Witch asked.
"I am a transcended being, and no longer subject to the Injunction. I may act with Impunity. If the council fails to recognize this, I will demand that they pursue Feezuu forthwith or brand them all as hypocrites. The assassination of Cynric was a blatantly political act."
"And if this fails?" The Witch asked.
"My actions were against an overbearing, monotheistic regime which is implementing a virtual theocracy. Oronthonian dogma threatens the ability of mages to pursue their research peacefully, and my actions were in the interests of Wyrish wizards everywhere! I will encourage them to do the same, in order to protect their rights against an increasingly oppressive church."
"And if this fails?" The Witch asked.
"Even if found guilty, I will argue that the breach I made was a minor one, and does not merit the technical maximum penalty. I will appear contrite, and will try to bribe some of those who would condemn me. Well, what do you think?"
"I have no idea," Mulissu confessed. "I think a more relevant question might be: ‘Do I have lots of magical gadgets that the other wizards want, and would they throw the book at me in order to get their dirty paws on them?’"
"Hmm," Mostin said. "You may be right. I hadn’t considered that."
"What of Feezuu?" Mulissu asked. "Does she pose a real threat to you, or are you merely being paranoid?"
"I don’t know that either," Mostin admitted. "I have no way of knowing how much of her former existence she recalls, and whether she has managed to fill the gaps in, so to speak. Which brings me to another question: how extensive is your Necromantic repertoire?"
"Somewhat underdeveloped," the Witch said. "One cannot pursue everything, and Necromancy has always struck me as a rather vulgar art."
"I concur," Mostin said. "But I assume that you would not turn down the opportunity of expanding it?"
"New dweomers are always pleasant," Mulissu confessed.
Mostin reached into his portable hole, and retrieved two slim volumes that he had pilfered from the body of the first Feezuu. The Witch inspected them carefully.
After some while, she spoke. "The value of these books is staggering," she said. "And I must admit that my greed outweighs any concerns that I might have about their owner pursuing me. Especially now that I have a permanent Magnificent Mansion – for which, incidentally, I am indebted. What do you wish in return?"
"Her permanent elimination. We could easily do it together, Mulissu."
"Mostin," she groaned, "We’ve already had this conversation. I am beginning to think that you are more than a little obsessed with her."
"Mulissu?"
"Oh, very well," the Witch sighed.
**
Prince Graz’zt rested in morbid meditation, absorbed in the dark abyss of his own thoughts.
Although aware of Feezuu’s movements, he had allowed her to act as she would, secure in the knowledge that eventually, inevitably, she would succour either Ainhorr or himself directly for aid. Ensconced on the Prime, she might yet prove of value in any plots that he had devised.
The bitch had felt that she had shaken off his yoke. He smiled coldly at the absurdity of it. As if anyone could. Ever.
Nehael, the Prince thought, bitterly. No longer under a celestial interdict – her atonement having taken a different route than initially expected – she was vulnerable again. She had precipitated a crisis in the church of the Enemy, at which Graz’zt had been perversely pleased, but now the tide was turning. His prognostications had revealed that the tide would inexorably shift in favour of the Paladin and his allies, even before Celestials had been brought into the equation. Oronthon was playing games with his followers, cleaning things up for some kind of renewal or revival. He must be thwarted.
A Planetar, Graz’zt seethed. On the Prime. His Foul 'Brightness' had gone too far, this time.
His own spies, lurking nearby in ethereal form as they had for months now, had retreated at Eniin’s arrival – even as they had at Rintrah’s - waiting for the Planetar to leave. Now they could no longer safely return: avoiding the penetrating Eye which the cleric wore around his neck was one thing – they merely had to stay out of range, and he was not always present in any case. But an Archon?
Graz’zt cursed. Just one ethereal jaunt from Nehael – that’s all it would have taken – and she’d have been fair game for the other succubi who lurked nearby. Damned Trumpet-Blower. His spies, who had reported to him instantly upon their return, had been dismissed, and they fled and left him in a mood of black contemplation.
But Graz’zt’s foresight had already detected a nodality, a point in time when a number of unresolved events would begin to fall together and a pattern – which he must shape – would emerge.
Somewhat later, he summoned Ainhorr. The Balor bowed his forehead to the ground.
"What has happened?" The Prince asked.
"Sire, moments ago, the Cambion Feezuu contacted me," Ainhorr replied. "She banished one of the demons that she had compacted – a Bar-Lgura – and instructed him to bring a message to me. She intends to call him back to the Prime. She sends greetings to her Dreadful Lord, and relays news that she is building a base of power for his glorification. She awaits your orders."
"Doubtless," Graz’zt sneered. "And Kalkja?"
"She is continuing to make reports regularly. Feezuu used one of her Quasits to commune with the Ancient.* Kalkja extracted this information from the Quasit, under threat of annihilation. The Cambion now knows that neither you nor I were instrumental in her assassination."
"Bring the Bar-Lgura," Graz’zt commanded.
Ainhorr bowed, vanished and reappeared moments later with the hairy, ape-like Demon. It quailed in the presence of the Balor and his master.
"When your mistress recalls you to the Prime," the Prince instructed smoothly, "you will relate our fondest greetings, and thank her for the efforts that she has made in our cause. You will tell her that we have not forgotten her. We will send another message – and messenger - shortly."
Graz’zt waved his hand, and the minor Demon vanished. "Bring me Uzmi,**" he ordered Ainhorr. "She has endured for a year, and I am feeling benign."
Graz’zt stepped down from his throne and entered his sanctum – a void of unhallowed despair where his most potent magicks were wrought. At his merest thought, a dark pile of snow and ice appeared.
With his own bare, six-fingered hands, the Prince began to shape it into an effigy of himself.
*Demogorgon is not Tanar’ri, and his presence predates their occupation of the Abyss. His name is never spoken, even by the most potent of Demons.
**A Marilith punished for a minor slight that Graz’zt perceived. Uzmi was chained with adamantine dimensional shackles beneath a permanent symbol of pain.
Another update.
There is a significant amount of backstory in this which will prove necessary to understanding subsequent posts. We played twice last week, and there is a lot to relate. I will attempt to post again tomorrow or the day after. Things are happening fast.
A nodality, as Graz'zt would say...
**
The peninsula of Ardan, which thrust eastwards into the Ocean of Iarn was, for the most part, a wild and inhospitable country. Its central uplands – at first sight, deceptively green and welcoming – were in fact riven with many steep-sided valleys, prone to flooding in the spring thaw. The grass, although covering the hillsides abundantly, was of the short, springy variety and bespoke a poor soil, unsuitable for little besides goat-farming. Westwards, the slopes gradually became less severe, the loams more fertile, and the woodlands more abundant until, finally, they gave way to the rolling hills of Trempa and Tomur in eastern Wyre.
Ardan itself was one of Wyre’s ‘satellites.’ Never fully subdued, it technically owed tribute to its larger neighbour, although its numerous kings, lairds and chieftains – even those whose lands marched on Wyre proper – tended to be neglectful of their feudal duties. Ardan’s inhabitants were fierce, independent, conservative in their customs and immensely jealous of their traditions. The fact that they were regarded as uncouth, mead-swilling bandits did not dissuade successive Wyrish magnates from hiring contingents of Ardanese cavalry: they were generally regarded as producing the best mounted archers anywhere north of the Thalassine.
Orthodoxy was, and never had been, popular in Ardan. Oronthon was worshipped, certainly, but he was an older, less developed aspect of the divinity who had been influenced by six hundred years of Wyrish dogma and sophistry. He presided over a small pantheon of saints and quasi-deities, each of whom embodied ideals germane to the Ardanese way of life. In generations past, the Archbishops had attempted to bring Ardanese practice more in line with that in Morne, and, in the period when the Mission’s influence had outweighed that of both the Temple and Inquisition, proselytes had entered Ardan.
The fact that the Orthodox missions had accompanied punitive raids from the kings of Wyre for nonpayment of tribute, was viewed with natural cynicism by the Ardanese, who simply moved further into the hills and began protracted guerilla campaigns against their occupiers. The pattern continued for generations until, at long last, the Orthodox church gave up. The ‘Ardanese Question’ was left unresolved, and was eventually forgotten.
Ardan was, therefore, a natural choice for the communally oriented Urgic Mystics. The Urgics maintained that they represented an alternative interpretation of Oronthonianism. They made no truth claims, because part of their creed was that truth is subjective. Small groups had, with the blessing of various Ardanese chieftains (many of whom viewed them sympathetically), established peaceful communities in the hills of central Ardan, where the land was poor and space was plentiful. They coexisted amicably enough with the natives, although they maintained a certain distance. Intermarriage was rare, due to the fact that most of the Urgic Mystics were celibate. Every once in a while, those worshippers dissatisfied with Orthodoxy in Wyre would find their way into Ardan and join a group of cave-dwelling heretics, and retire from the troubles of the world.
One particular cleric, having experienced some kind of revelation, made his way there. He wasn’t entirely sure why.
"I had not expected it to be quite as easy to speak with you," Tramst said. He sat, dressed in his armour, on the floor of small cave. It was sparsely furnished and resembled a cloister in its austerity.
The cave’s occupant - a man of forty years or so - was unwashed, sported a large, matted beard, long tangled hair and wore only a simple garment, made from a single piece of coarse linen.
"We are a community, not a hierarchy. Why should speaking to me be difficult?" The man asked.
Tramst grunted. "Rintrah has informed me…" he began.
"Why do you trust a celestial’s message rather than your own insight?" The man interrupted.
"Lord Oronthon sent…" Tramst began again.
"Why do you trust a deity’s words rather than your own insight?" The man smiled.
Tramst sighed. Why had the Messenger sent him here? What could it possibly accomplish?
"Important events are occurring in Wyre which…" Tramst tried again.
"I am well aware of the events you speak of," the man interrupted again.
Tramst closed his mouth abruptly. This made no sense. Rintrah had sent him to seek advice from those who denied the ultimacy of the Celestial’s –even Oronthon’s - own words. His mind reeled.
"Good," Orm said. "That is the beginning. Paradox must precede understanding."
Tramst thought briefly. "Why am I here?" He asked.
"Why must there be a ‘Why?’" Orm retorted.
"I am here," Tramst said decisively.
Orm shook his head.
"I am."
Orm said nothing.
"I?" Tramst ventured.
Orm slapped him.
(Silence).
Orm smiled.
**
At Tahl’s behest – on advice from the Planetar Urthoon, with whom the cleric communed - Eadric consented to the calling of more celestials. The same morning that the Paladin passed judgement upon the Templars, the ex-Inquisitor performed a series of rites which brought four Movanic Devas with flaming swords onto the Prime plane. They were charged with remaining in the vicinity of Kyrtill’s Burgh, to dissuade further efforts by the Temple to capture the keep. Remaining in invisible form, they flew silently and tirelessly in the air around the castle: a warning to all those who had eyes to see.
"There is something else," Tahl informed Eadric. "I have appointed an Archon to guard you. It will remain ethereal, manifesting where required."
"Is that entirely necessary?" Eadric asked.
"It is a precautionary measure," Tahl said.
"Were you advised to do this also?"
"Explicitly," Tahl admitted. "Your life must be safeguarded."
Eadric sighed. The weight of responsibility and expectation was beginning to make itself felt.
"The Archon is called Zhuel," Tahl continued. "He has already revealed something rather disturbing, and communicated it to me."
Eadric looked quizzical.
"There are residual traces of taint in the ether nearby."
"Demons?" Eadric asked, swallowing.
"It is likely," Tahl said. He looked nervous. "Ed, they may have been there for some time. I hadn’t thought to regularly scan the ethereal around you."
The Paladin groaned. He had a good idea who might have sent them to spy on him. "We have to tell the others – especially Mostin," he said. "He is not going to like it."
**
Mostin, of course perceived the Devas around Kyrtill’s Burgh. What was felt as a stirring of the air by others present, was revealed to the Alienist as a statuesque winged form which gyred gracefully in the nearby sky, its wingtips often coming within a few feet of those standing on the battlements. They regarded Mostin with impassive, expressionless faces which nonetheless seemed to convey a judgemental quality.
"I am returning to my manse," he informed Eadric, Nwm and Ortwin, "where there are no birds. If you wish to…"
"We need to talk," Eadric said grimly.
**
Mostin sat silently and said nothing. Ortwin regarded him curiously, unsure whether the Alienist would cry, scream or explode a random object with a sonic.
"I think that it’s a safe bet that whatever it was, it was sent to spy on me," Eadric said.
Mostin did not speak.
"Well?" The Bard finally asked.
"I’m thinking," Mostin replied.
Ortwin waited.
"I am trying to recall the times during which you and I were present together," Mostin said to the Paladin, "and I can’t see that this adds any particular danger to my situation – aside from being scrutinized by the lackey of a Demon Prince. Assuming it was dispatched by Graz’zt, of course. If it – or they – were in the service of Feezuu, this might prove awkward for me."
"Zhuel said that the trace of evil was faint, and no Demons were at hand," Eadric said optimistically.
"Unfortunately, that means nothing," Mostin said. He gritted his teeth. "I will need to sniff around a little. I need to know which areas of the Prime are coterminous with the tainted ethereal. And I need to prepare several spells."
With the aid of Tahl and the Eye of Palamabron, who communicated with the ethereal Zhuel using gestures and body movements, Mostin located the residue of evil in the airs above Kyrtill’s Burgh. Tahl gestured for Eadric – and, more importantly, the celestial who watched over him – to retire to a safe distance. The Alienist made an Ethereal Jaunt and invoked a Vision.
Upon his return to the Prime, Mostin looked exhausted. "The names of Chr’ri and Chomele were revealed to me – I am unfamiliar with either of them."
"They are Succubi in the service of Graz’zt," Nehael said gloomily. "They must have Plane Shifted with the help of a spell or device. Normally demons such as they – or I – cannot remain Ethereal for long periods of time."
Mostin sighed. Too many possibilities, he thought. He was beginning to feel like a straw blown about on the wind, and he didn’t like it. Feezuu. Celestials. The violation of the Injunction. Now this.
"I am going to take counsel with Mulissu, as she is one of the few people I know who is wholly dispassionate," he said. "What are your plans?"
"To return to the marshalling grounds on the Blackwater Meadow," Eadric replied. "I feel that Deorham is secure. And Tahl needs time to inspect the scrolls confiscated from the Templars."
**
Tahl wind-walked back to the encampment with Ortwin, Iua and Nwm: this time the bear, Tostig, accompanied the Druid. Eadric led the penitent Templars and the others on horseback, and arrived two hours later.
Mostin walked to Nwm’s glade, passed through the portal to his retreat, and scried Mulissu’s abode with the looking-glass of Urm-Nahat. He walked through the mirror, and was immediately confronted with the Mephit doorward.
"You must wait," it chirped. "The Lady Mulissu is occupied."
Mostin grumbled. Did he have to endure this farce every time he wished to speak with her?
Mostin sat twiddling his thumbs for three hours before he was finally admitted.
"My apologies," Mulissu said with surprising earnestness. "I gave instructions some time ago that, should you arrive, you should be admitted promptly. Evidently, Shrix forgot this."
Mostin scowled at the Mephit, who smiled smugly back.
"I have violated the Great Injunction of Wyre, have determined that a clone of the demoness Feezuu has migrated to the Prime, and I may have been subject to scrutiny from agents of Prince Graz’zt." Mostin announced theatrically.
"Really?" Mulissu asked, half-smiling. "I never understood that tedious Injunction. What will the other wizards do? Would you like some wine?"
"I don’t know if they know yet," Mostin said. "Or even if they’ll find out. I’ll have a glass of that green stuff that you keep."
"Do you have any legal arguments prepared, in the event that they pursue you?" The Witch asked.
"I am under a death sentence from the Oronthonian Church for failing to leave Trempa – I acted in self-defense. I can cite my haranguement by zealous Oronthonians in Morne as testament to this."
"And if this fails?" The Witch asked.
"I am no longer a resident of Wyre, or even the Prime Plane. I spend more than fifty percent of my time in my extradimensional retreat, and am therefore no longer subject to the Injunction. This is a technicality, but it may be pertinent."
"And if this fails?" The Witch asked.
"I am a transcended being, and no longer subject to the Injunction. I may act with Impunity. If the council fails to recognize this, I will demand that they pursue Feezuu forthwith or brand them all as hypocrites. The assassination of Cynric was a blatantly political act."
"And if this fails?" The Witch asked.
"My actions were against an overbearing, monotheistic regime which is implementing a virtual theocracy. Oronthonian dogma threatens the ability of mages to pursue their research peacefully, and my actions were in the interests of Wyrish wizards everywhere! I will encourage them to do the same, in order to protect their rights against an increasingly oppressive church."
"And if this fails?" The Witch asked.
"Even if found guilty, I will argue that the breach I made was a minor one, and does not merit the technical maximum penalty. I will appear contrite, and will try to bribe some of those who would condemn me. Well, what do you think?"
"I have no idea," Mulissu confessed. "I think a more relevant question might be: ‘Do I have lots of magical gadgets that the other wizards want, and would they throw the book at me in order to get their dirty paws on them?’"
"Hmm," Mostin said. "You may be right. I hadn’t considered that."
"What of Feezuu?" Mulissu asked. "Does she pose a real threat to you, or are you merely being paranoid?"
"I don’t know that either," Mostin admitted. "I have no way of knowing how much of her former existence she recalls, and whether she has managed to fill the gaps in, so to speak. Which brings me to another question: how extensive is your Necromantic repertoire?"
"Somewhat underdeveloped," the Witch said. "One cannot pursue everything, and Necromancy has always struck me as a rather vulgar art."
"I concur," Mostin said. "But I assume that you would not turn down the opportunity of expanding it?"
"New dweomers are always pleasant," Mulissu confessed.
Mostin reached into his portable hole, and retrieved two slim volumes that he had pilfered from the body of the first Feezuu. The Witch inspected them carefully.
After some while, she spoke. "The value of these books is staggering," she said. "And I must admit that my greed outweighs any concerns that I might have about their owner pursuing me. Especially now that I have a permanent Magnificent Mansion – for which, incidentally, I am indebted. What do you wish in return?"
"Her permanent elimination. We could easily do it together, Mulissu."
"Mostin," she groaned, "We’ve already had this conversation. I am beginning to think that you are more than a little obsessed with her."
"Mulissu?"
"Oh, very well," the Witch sighed.
**
Prince Graz’zt rested in morbid meditation, absorbed in the dark abyss of his own thoughts.
Although aware of Feezuu’s movements, he had allowed her to act as she would, secure in the knowledge that eventually, inevitably, she would succour either Ainhorr or himself directly for aid. Ensconced on the Prime, she might yet prove of value in any plots that he had devised.
The bitch had felt that she had shaken off his yoke. He smiled coldly at the absurdity of it. As if anyone could. Ever.
Nehael, the Prince thought, bitterly. No longer under a celestial interdict – her atonement having taken a different route than initially expected – she was vulnerable again. She had precipitated a crisis in the church of the Enemy, at which Graz’zt had been perversely pleased, but now the tide was turning. His prognostications had revealed that the tide would inexorably shift in favour of the Paladin and his allies, even before Celestials had been brought into the equation. Oronthon was playing games with his followers, cleaning things up for some kind of renewal or revival. He must be thwarted.
A Planetar, Graz’zt seethed. On the Prime. His Foul 'Brightness' had gone too far, this time.
His own spies, lurking nearby in ethereal form as they had for months now, had retreated at Eniin’s arrival – even as they had at Rintrah’s - waiting for the Planetar to leave. Now they could no longer safely return: avoiding the penetrating Eye which the cleric wore around his neck was one thing – they merely had to stay out of range, and he was not always present in any case. But an Archon?
Graz’zt cursed. Just one ethereal jaunt from Nehael – that’s all it would have taken – and she’d have been fair game for the other succubi who lurked nearby. Damned Trumpet-Blower. His spies, who had reported to him instantly upon their return, had been dismissed, and they fled and left him in a mood of black contemplation.
But Graz’zt’s foresight had already detected a nodality, a point in time when a number of unresolved events would begin to fall together and a pattern – which he must shape – would emerge.
Somewhat later, he summoned Ainhorr. The Balor bowed his forehead to the ground.
"What has happened?" The Prince asked.
"Sire, moments ago, the Cambion Feezuu contacted me," Ainhorr replied. "She banished one of the demons that she had compacted – a Bar-Lgura – and instructed him to bring a message to me. She intends to call him back to the Prime. She sends greetings to her Dreadful Lord, and relays news that she is building a base of power for his glorification. She awaits your orders."
"Doubtless," Graz’zt sneered. "And Kalkja?"
"She is continuing to make reports regularly. Feezuu used one of her Quasits to commune with the Ancient.* Kalkja extracted this information from the Quasit, under threat of annihilation. The Cambion now knows that neither you nor I were instrumental in her assassination."
"Bring the Bar-Lgura," Graz’zt commanded.
Ainhorr bowed, vanished and reappeared moments later with the hairy, ape-like Demon. It quailed in the presence of the Balor and his master.
"When your mistress recalls you to the Prime," the Prince instructed smoothly, "you will relate our fondest greetings, and thank her for the efforts that she has made in our cause. You will tell her that we have not forgotten her. We will send another message – and messenger - shortly."
Graz’zt waved his hand, and the minor Demon vanished. "Bring me Uzmi,**" he ordered Ainhorr. "She has endured for a year, and I am feeling benign."
Graz’zt stepped down from his throne and entered his sanctum – a void of unhallowed despair where his most potent magicks were wrought. At his merest thought, a dark pile of snow and ice appeared.
With his own bare, six-fingered hands, the Prince began to shape it into an effigy of himself.
*Demogorgon is not Tanar’ri, and his presence predates their occupation of the Abyss. His name is never spoken, even by the most potent of Demons.
**A Marilith punished for a minor slight that Graz’zt perceived. Uzmi was chained with adamantine dimensional shackles beneath a permanent symbol of pain.
Broccli_Head
Explorer
Re: Demons and Celestials Again
Interesting...I am wondering what this turning point could be. What does the demon prince have in store?
I see alot of plotting by the demonic forces. What about the forces of light? Or is showing their overt action enough?
LOL! Trumpet blowers
Sepulchrave II said:
Interesting...I am wondering what this turning point could be. What does the demon prince have in store?
I see alot of plotting by the demonic forces. What about the forces of light? Or is showing their overt action enough?
LOL! Trumpet blowers
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