(contact)
Explorer
Patchwall 4, CY 593
67—I’ve got dreams, dreams to remember.
So intent is Dabus upon his captive, that he fails to fully take in the bountiful warmth and healthy smell of the most perfect glade in the Multiverse. Tritherion’s realm is within the plane of Bytopia, a place where every man and woman gets exactly what they have earned, and justice looks no further than the tip of a petitioner’s sword. Above them, on the other side of the small warm sun and soft clouds, another land mirrors the one upon which they stand, far enough away that the hills and rivers seem to be smudges in the sky.
As Regda removes Jespo’s corpse from the portable hole, Dabus dispels the statue of Gwendolyn, returning her to the flesh. She smiles coyly at Dabus, and embracing him whispers her thanks into his ear, provoking a blush from the stoic cleric. Regda, on the other hand, presents the body of Jespo Crim, clutched in her large, powerful hands.
“I will beseech my Lord Tritherion to return Jespo to life, Regda,” Dabus assures her. “But first, we have justice to attend to.” Dabus knocks the bound and gagged wizard to his knees, and places his spear at the man’s neck. “In the name of Tritherion,” he intones, “and in the name of the Furyondian Crown you conspired against, for crimes committed . . .”
Gwendolyn grabs Dabus’ spear, and pulls it away from Piscean’s throat. “Don’t be hasty,” she says. “Why don’t we talk to him before you kill him?” Dabus nods curtly.
As soon as his gag is loosened, Piscean sneers at the cleric, “Justice? A simpleton’s notion.” He looks into Dabus’ eyes. “You just don’t get it do you?”
“I get that you’re evil,” Dabus replies.
Piscean sighs. “Good and evil are concerns of the common. You three are powerful, and that distinction supersedes the mental yokes of the masses.” Despite his bonds, the wizard habitually makes sweeping gestures with his hands. “By virtue of our own will, we live on a higher plane, devoid of moral responsibility. If you choose to use your power to improve the lives of your lessers, so be it, but don’t presume to lord your lack of vision over me.”
Gwendolyn puts her hands on her hips, and attempts to dominate Piscean. The wizard resists her spell, and speaks a single word, teleporting away.
“Oh, sh-t,” Gwendolyn says.
-----
Prisantha and Heydricus are taken into custody. In light of their exalted standing, and newly-won noble titles, the guards allow them to keep their weapons, and secure a promise of compliance.
“Do you gentlefolk place yourselves within my custody, and swear to make no attempt to escape until such time as you may be judged by the peers of the court?”
“So long as I am kept safe, I swear it,” Heydricus says.
This seems good enough for the charmed guard, who takes no oath from his new best friend Prisantha, and the two are led to the spacious Windward Tower, a prestigious guest-home for visiting royalty. “I could not secure your freedom,” he says to Prisantha, “but at my discretion you are to be confined to the tower environs, excepting constitutional walks within the Lord’s Park or attendance at religious services. You shall be kept in a state befitting your rank, and a service staff will be appointed, at your discretion. If you require anything that cannot be obtained locally, you may make arrangements with the King’s seneschal.”
After the guard leaves, Prisantha and Heydricus are left alone. They wash and change clothes, but Pris complains about the ill-fitting dress. “In the morning, I’ll send for my dressmaker,” she says. “In the meantime, we should pick our rooms.”
“Rooms?” Heydricus says, “We won’t need two.”
Prisantha gasps. “We won’t?” she demures, batting her eyes.
“Hell, no,” Heydricus says, surveying the room with his hands on his hips. “That f-cker has allies—and they might try to kill us!” Heydricus tests the bar on the tower door. “I’ll sleep on the floor, and keep my armor on.”
-----
Dabus resurrects Jespo Crim. This close to Tritherion, his spells fill him with an unusual grace, and Dabus grows slightly, giving off a slight golden glow.
Jespo sits up, and pats his familiar-pouch, a concerned look on his face. I can’t feel Fräs—where is my cat?”
Regda lowers her head, and hands Jespo his familiar. “I’m sorry, baby,” she says, “she got stone-turned in the fight.”
“Petrified?” Jespo says brightly. “Child’s play!” He casts a dispel magic, but the spell fizzles. “But . . . but . . .” he stutters.
“The sun was in your eyes,” Regda says. “Try again—you can do it!”
“I cannot,” Jespo admits. “That was my last dispel. Poor Fräs!”
Dabus is praying to Tritherion, asking for assistance in the form of a greater planar ally. As he completes his spell, a shimmering figure appears—humanoid, but so perfect of form as to make every human on Oerth look like a poor casting, and this creature the true mold. It seems male, despite its asexual features, and stands easily seven feet tall at the shoulder. A pair of feathery white wings fold and unfold behind it as the celestial waits quietly for Dabus’ full attention.
Gwendolyn regards the angelic being. Something about it is familiar, she thinks, then she realizes—when Dabus invokes his righteous might, this is the form he takes! It is this celestial that he becomes!
“I am Sonahmiin Inarthulu Alpha Tritherion,” the celestial says to Dabus, “and I know you well. I am the one who grants your spells, Dabus Thrice-Born, and it is I who answer your communes. What would you have of Tritherion? What would you have of me?”
-----
Heydricus and Prisantha do not have a restful sleep. As soon as they secure their room and place their heads on their pillows, they fall into a dream. In it, Piscean stands on the Hyperborean Obverse, no more than thirty feet from the dreamers. The air is chill, but they feel no cold. Piscean seems younger, and somehow more handsomely regal.
He smiles. “Welcome to my home,” he says, waving his hands grandly. “It is humble, but it is all mine.” Piscean begins to stroll toward his tower, the dreamers following behind him without moving. “I am not, of course, the fire elementalist,” he chuckles. “It has long been the practice of the Four to claim a false element to confound our enemies. And that,” he adds laughing, “is a secret that not even the King knew.”
As the spire looms ever closer toward the dreamers, Piscean continues. “Piscean, in fact, is an assumed name. I have had many names, but my mother called me Ivid. You may call me whatever strikes you, and sounds pleasant to your ear.
“I have watched you since you first set yourself against Zinvellon, and I shared your pride at your victory. When you were the celebrated heroes of Chendl, I rejoiced with you, and it was I who ensured that your favors should come from the highest places in Furyondy and the hands of the King himself. It was I who set you above the other mercenaries and adventurers clamoring for the goodwill of the realm. When Martak perished, I was the first to know, and it has been I who have labored to keep Thrommel from your throne.
“Yes, I said your throne. I love Furyondy, more than you could know, but I do not love this current division. Ferrond needs a king, and Belvor is not that man. Nor is his churlish son fit for the task. Butrain may command loyalty, but he will never inspire love.
“I mean for Ferrond to be greater than it is, Heydricus, and I mean you to be its king. I can build the Kingdom, but the people must see you at its head. Take the beautiful Prisantha as your bride, and let us give the realm rulers fit to be worshipped! What army or ill-will could stand before you, the two greatest adventurers of modern memory—and perhaps, should you seize this opportunity—of all time?
“You have played your role. You have planted the seeds, and once the Northern and Southern Lords have spent themselves, and the land has bled for a space, they shall be grateful when you expose Belvor’s loyalists (myself included, of course) as traitors to the realm, and they shall thank you taking the Throne. It will be the most glorious beginning that our world has seen, and together, we will make of it an empire that could not be imagined by lesser men.
“Know you this,” Piscean says, floating toward the dreamers. “I offer you both power and the time required to wield it well. I have plucked the secrets of immortality from the ethers, and I can make you eternal—I do not speak of the false forever of undeath, but true immortality, stolen from the gods themselves!”
Piscean places a hand on each dreamer’s shoulders. “I will send for your reply, my children, and please, you must trust that I know what is best for us all. I have led us this far, and together we shall finish our great work.”
-----
Heydricus is the first to awaken, his armor rustling against the stone floor. He glances at the window, and notes that dawn is still hours away. Prisantha sits up and coughs gently, pulling the covers about her chin. They awaken the night-woman, and instruct her to fetch wood for a fire, and bring wine and cheese from the kitchens.
“Apparently Dabus didn’t kill him,” Prisantha says.
Heydricus nods. “Or he didn’t stay dead,” he says. “We have to try and kill him faster than he can make new clones, I imagine.”
They discuss their dreams, and Heydricus mentions that he has been having many unusual dreams of late. Prisantha pretends not to hear, and tries to change the subject by wondering what Piscean’s true goals are.
“Apparently, he desperately wants my spear up his a-s,” Heydricus says offhandedly. “Today, after we find out what happened to our friends, I’m going to kill him once and for all, and then we’ll put Belvor back on his g-ddamned throne.”
67—I’ve got dreams, dreams to remember.
So intent is Dabus upon his captive, that he fails to fully take in the bountiful warmth and healthy smell of the most perfect glade in the Multiverse. Tritherion’s realm is within the plane of Bytopia, a place where every man and woman gets exactly what they have earned, and justice looks no further than the tip of a petitioner’s sword. Above them, on the other side of the small warm sun and soft clouds, another land mirrors the one upon which they stand, far enough away that the hills and rivers seem to be smudges in the sky.
As Regda removes Jespo’s corpse from the portable hole, Dabus dispels the statue of Gwendolyn, returning her to the flesh. She smiles coyly at Dabus, and embracing him whispers her thanks into his ear, provoking a blush from the stoic cleric. Regda, on the other hand, presents the body of Jespo Crim, clutched in her large, powerful hands.
“I will beseech my Lord Tritherion to return Jespo to life, Regda,” Dabus assures her. “But first, we have justice to attend to.” Dabus knocks the bound and gagged wizard to his knees, and places his spear at the man’s neck. “In the name of Tritherion,” he intones, “and in the name of the Furyondian Crown you conspired against, for crimes committed . . .”
Gwendolyn grabs Dabus’ spear, and pulls it away from Piscean’s throat. “Don’t be hasty,” she says. “Why don’t we talk to him before you kill him?” Dabus nods curtly.
As soon as his gag is loosened, Piscean sneers at the cleric, “Justice? A simpleton’s notion.” He looks into Dabus’ eyes. “You just don’t get it do you?”
“I get that you’re evil,” Dabus replies.
Piscean sighs. “Good and evil are concerns of the common. You three are powerful, and that distinction supersedes the mental yokes of the masses.” Despite his bonds, the wizard habitually makes sweeping gestures with his hands. “By virtue of our own will, we live on a higher plane, devoid of moral responsibility. If you choose to use your power to improve the lives of your lessers, so be it, but don’t presume to lord your lack of vision over me.”
Gwendolyn puts her hands on her hips, and attempts to dominate Piscean. The wizard resists her spell, and speaks a single word, teleporting away.
“Oh, sh-t,” Gwendolyn says.
-----
Prisantha and Heydricus are taken into custody. In light of their exalted standing, and newly-won noble titles, the guards allow them to keep their weapons, and secure a promise of compliance.
“Do you gentlefolk place yourselves within my custody, and swear to make no attempt to escape until such time as you may be judged by the peers of the court?”
“So long as I am kept safe, I swear it,” Heydricus says.
This seems good enough for the charmed guard, who takes no oath from his new best friend Prisantha, and the two are led to the spacious Windward Tower, a prestigious guest-home for visiting royalty. “I could not secure your freedom,” he says to Prisantha, “but at my discretion you are to be confined to the tower environs, excepting constitutional walks within the Lord’s Park or attendance at religious services. You shall be kept in a state befitting your rank, and a service staff will be appointed, at your discretion. If you require anything that cannot be obtained locally, you may make arrangements with the King’s seneschal.”
After the guard leaves, Prisantha and Heydricus are left alone. They wash and change clothes, but Pris complains about the ill-fitting dress. “In the morning, I’ll send for my dressmaker,” she says. “In the meantime, we should pick our rooms.”
“Rooms?” Heydricus says, “We won’t need two.”
Prisantha gasps. “We won’t?” she demures, batting her eyes.
“Hell, no,” Heydricus says, surveying the room with his hands on his hips. “That f-cker has allies—and they might try to kill us!” Heydricus tests the bar on the tower door. “I’ll sleep on the floor, and keep my armor on.”
-----
Dabus resurrects Jespo Crim. This close to Tritherion, his spells fill him with an unusual grace, and Dabus grows slightly, giving off a slight golden glow.
Jespo sits up, and pats his familiar-pouch, a concerned look on his face. I can’t feel Fräs—where is my cat?”
Regda lowers her head, and hands Jespo his familiar. “I’m sorry, baby,” she says, “she got stone-turned in the fight.”
“Petrified?” Jespo says brightly. “Child’s play!” He casts a dispel magic, but the spell fizzles. “But . . . but . . .” he stutters.
“The sun was in your eyes,” Regda says. “Try again—you can do it!”
“I cannot,” Jespo admits. “That was my last dispel. Poor Fräs!”
Dabus is praying to Tritherion, asking for assistance in the form of a greater planar ally. As he completes his spell, a shimmering figure appears—humanoid, but so perfect of form as to make every human on Oerth look like a poor casting, and this creature the true mold. It seems male, despite its asexual features, and stands easily seven feet tall at the shoulder. A pair of feathery white wings fold and unfold behind it as the celestial waits quietly for Dabus’ full attention.
Gwendolyn regards the angelic being. Something about it is familiar, she thinks, then she realizes—when Dabus invokes his righteous might, this is the form he takes! It is this celestial that he becomes!
“I am Sonahmiin Inarthulu Alpha Tritherion,” the celestial says to Dabus, “and I know you well. I am the one who grants your spells, Dabus Thrice-Born, and it is I who answer your communes. What would you have of Tritherion? What would you have of me?”
-----
Heydricus and Prisantha do not have a restful sleep. As soon as they secure their room and place their heads on their pillows, they fall into a dream. In it, Piscean stands on the Hyperborean Obverse, no more than thirty feet from the dreamers. The air is chill, but they feel no cold. Piscean seems younger, and somehow more handsomely regal.
He smiles. “Welcome to my home,” he says, waving his hands grandly. “It is humble, but it is all mine.” Piscean begins to stroll toward his tower, the dreamers following behind him without moving. “I am not, of course, the fire elementalist,” he chuckles. “It has long been the practice of the Four to claim a false element to confound our enemies. And that,” he adds laughing, “is a secret that not even the King knew.”
As the spire looms ever closer toward the dreamers, Piscean continues. “Piscean, in fact, is an assumed name. I have had many names, but my mother called me Ivid. You may call me whatever strikes you, and sounds pleasant to your ear.
“I have watched you since you first set yourself against Zinvellon, and I shared your pride at your victory. When you were the celebrated heroes of Chendl, I rejoiced with you, and it was I who ensured that your favors should come from the highest places in Furyondy and the hands of the King himself. It was I who set you above the other mercenaries and adventurers clamoring for the goodwill of the realm. When Martak perished, I was the first to know, and it has been I who have labored to keep Thrommel from your throne.
“Yes, I said your throne. I love Furyondy, more than you could know, but I do not love this current division. Ferrond needs a king, and Belvor is not that man. Nor is his churlish son fit for the task. Butrain may command loyalty, but he will never inspire love.
“I mean for Ferrond to be greater than it is, Heydricus, and I mean you to be its king. I can build the Kingdom, but the people must see you at its head. Take the beautiful Prisantha as your bride, and let us give the realm rulers fit to be worshipped! What army or ill-will could stand before you, the two greatest adventurers of modern memory—and perhaps, should you seize this opportunity—of all time?
“You have played your role. You have planted the seeds, and once the Northern and Southern Lords have spent themselves, and the land has bled for a space, they shall be grateful when you expose Belvor’s loyalists (myself included, of course) as traitors to the realm, and they shall thank you taking the Throne. It will be the most glorious beginning that our world has seen, and together, we will make of it an empire that could not be imagined by lesser men.
“Know you this,” Piscean says, floating toward the dreamers. “I offer you both power and the time required to wield it well. I have plucked the secrets of immortality from the ethers, and I can make you eternal—I do not speak of the false forever of undeath, but true immortality, stolen from the gods themselves!”
Piscean places a hand on each dreamer’s shoulders. “I will send for your reply, my children, and please, you must trust that I know what is best for us all. I have led us this far, and together we shall finish our great work.”
-----
Heydricus is the first to awaken, his armor rustling against the stone floor. He glances at the window, and notes that dawn is still hours away. Prisantha sits up and coughs gently, pulling the covers about her chin. They awaken the night-woman, and instruct her to fetch wood for a fire, and bring wine and cheese from the kitchens.
“Apparently Dabus didn’t kill him,” Prisantha says.
Heydricus nods. “Or he didn’t stay dead,” he says. “We have to try and kill him faster than he can make new clones, I imagine.”
They discuss their dreams, and Heydricus mentions that he has been having many unusual dreams of late. Prisantha pretends not to hear, and tries to change the subject by wondering what Piscean’s true goals are.
“Apparently, he desperately wants my spear up his a-s,” Heydricus says offhandedly. “Today, after we find out what happened to our friends, I’m going to kill him once and for all, and then we’ll put Belvor back on his g-ddamned throne.”
Remember that many of these characterizations (particularly PCs) aren't mine, anyway! Could I write Pris? I dunno, but thankfully I don't have to.
