the_mighty_agrippa
First Post
Joshua Randall said:
Thank you Herb Kornfeld.
The Liberation of Tenh (updated April 24)
- Thread starter (contact)
- Start date
Thank you Herb Kornfeld.
(contact)
Explorer
coyote6 said:
http://home.earthlink.net/~cklarock/TwentyYearsAfter_LoT.pdf
You all owe me five bucks.
(contact) said:
I would reply in kind, but I have taken The Oath. That I as a square white guy raised in the burbs, will never pretend to be or attempt to imitate a hip urban african-american.
Come on though SOMEBODY update! No piratecat for nearly a month, no (contact), no Sepulchrave in even longer. HELP, we need updates for the best story hours!
Last edited:
Joshua Randall
Legend
[thread hijack]
http://www.theonion.com/opinion/index.php?issue=4021&o=2
Although frankly that isn't one of the best columns... too bad the archives are now available only to subscribers, because Herbert's first ever column was the funniest shizznit ever. [/thread hijack]
Hah hah! I wondered if anyone would recognize my imitation of the great Accountz Reeceevable Supervisa. For those who have no idea what I'm talking about, go here:the mighty agrippa said:
http://www.theonion.com/opinion/index.php?issue=4021&o=2
Although frankly that isn't one of the best columns... too bad the archives are now available only to subscribers, because Herbert's first ever column was the funniest shizznit ever. [/thread hijack]
Thomas Hobbes
First Post
For what it's worth, I didn't recognize it but I did catch the reference when it was pointed out.
Needless to say, I was much amused.
Needless to say, I was much amused.
(contact)
Explorer
I don't want a hug anymore, thank you.
Coldeven 6, CY 593
89—Mom put an ‘e’ in ‘Dad’.
Twin suns shine warmly over a pastoral scene in the Blessed Lowlands of Arcadia, each careful not to duplicate the other’s efforts overmuch. Trees grow in perfectly ordered rows—of uniform height, depth and (most likely) weight, the orchards of Arcadia are both bountiful and predictable. The seasons are mild, more for appearance’s sake than out of any necessity. Plants grow when planted, the whole of the place responsive to the imposition of structure by its inhabitants. In Arcadia, each soul knows its place.
The Liberators rest within an orchard, careful not to be seen. Prisantha and Jespo Crim resume their ongoing game of King and Country, played from memory without a board. Prisantha wins again, prompting a hiss and a remarkably detailed curse (although not in that order). Dabus, Heydricus and Gwendolyn brainstorm the most expedient means to find and rescue Lucius.
“Or scrape together enough of him to resurrect,” Gwendolyn says.
“Ooh, that reminds me,” Jespo Crim whispers to Prisantha. “Now that Dabus is back with us, I’d like my clone destroyed. It seems counterproductive.”
“There are no clones,” Prisantha says. “It slipped my mind until it was too late. We don’t have time to grow new bodies before we begin in Dorraka.”
“Just as well,” Jespo sighs. “Dreadfully grim, not knowing what got you.”
-----
The second passage through Iggwilv’s maze goes much more quickly than the first. Nothing has disturbed the bodies, save for the finger-sized scavengers common to any cave at this elevation. When they arrive at the spherical chamber, the raven-haired woman remains upon her bier, lying as if in state. There is no evidence of any struggle, save for a slight singing directly beneath where Daoud’s Wondrous Lanthorn used to hang. The lantern is gone, and so is Lucius.
Jespo and Gwendolyn climb over the railing to have a closer look at the room’s finery, followed by a flustered Hastur. Heydricus leaps over the rail, and moves closer to the woman on the bier.
“Heydricus, that woman is undead!” his sword exclaims.
At that moment, her eyes flash open and with the smallest of movements she takes to the air, crossing fifteen feet with a single leap. By the time she lands in front of the startled Jespo Crim, her sword has snapped from its sheath, and lashed across his neck and chest.
“Ah!” Jespo cries. “I am undone!”
But Jespo’s contingency takes effect, and the blow is warded by a stoneskin spell.
“Nearly undone,” he clarifies.
Dabus strides forward purposefully and grips the woman’s shield with his right hand. He pulls it off-line and touches her just above her heart with his left. Tritherion’s unswerving integrity burns through her breastplate and harms her, pulling the flush from her cheeks and drawing her soft features taut against the bone. The creature gasps, revealing a mouth filled with sharp fangs. Heydricus takes her head off in a single stroke.
Jespo regards the thin cut running from jaw to opposite shoulder. “Ah, only partially undone, as it happens.”
Dabus absentmindedly closes Jespo’s wound with a touch, and then casts true seeing. Gwendolyn puts away her spell components, and returns to examining the imperial wealth of Iggwilv.
“Let’s bag the loot and go,” Heydricus says, handing Gwen his portable hole. “Pris—can you find Lucius?”
She shakes her head no. “He is either warded or resisting my scrying attempt.”
“Or both,” Gwendolyn snorts. “Your imp has out-clevered himself again, Heydricus.”
“We’ll find him,” Heydricus says. “If we need to, we can . . . “
“You should see this, Heydricus,” Dabus says. “This bier has a concealed lid.”
Heyrdicus and Dabus pull the top of the marble slab away, revealing a hollow interior lined with velvet and silk. Seven books are positioned reverentially within the space, alongside a tiny brass cage.
Prisantha whistles. Jespo cocks his head, detects magic and whistles. Gwendolyn quickly follows suit, as does Dabus and Heydricus. All five Liberators stare into the bier.
“Well,” Jespo says. “Perhaps my mother was wrong about me after all.”
“What?” Hastur asks. “What is it?”
“These are . . . potent items, Hastur,” Dabus says. He gingerly removes one of the books. “This one seems to be an exercise tutorial—conditioning for combatants?” Dabus reverently reads from the cover, “Gainful Exercises for The Humble Everyman, pried from the Thews of the Ancients and set forth within by T’tam the Furious, Sacrist of Tovag Baragu.”
“That is a very old book,” Prisantha says.
And five of the others are equally ancient. Pre-dating the Rain of Colorless Fire, these magical tomes detail ascetic practices meant to enhance the growth of body, mind and soul. The seven adventurers eye the six priceless books greedily, all but Hastur realizing the implications of the equation.
Even at a cursory glance, the seventh book stands clearly apart. While of newer make, it nonetheless carries a spiritual weight that bears an air of unfathomable antiquity. It is a plain-seeming tome, fairly thin, bound with some sort of reddish pebbled skin stretched tight over an ivory frame. Gwendolyn rolls the book over in her hands, caressing it and examining it with a curiously bemused look on her face.
Dabus frowns at her, and nudges Heydricus.
She regards the cover wistfully, and after a moment, she gasps. “This is the Demonomicon of Iggwilv!” she says.
Dabus frowns. “Gwendolyn, were you wise you would not open that book.”
But she is not, apparently, because she already has. Or rather, you might say she is less wise for having done so. “The . . . names . . .” she gasps before slamming the book and her eyes shut at the same time. “It’s all names!” she mutters.
“Yes, of demons,” Jespo says patronizingly. “A foul thing to be flipping through, I should think.”
“Into the bag,” Heydricus says sternly. “And put the little bird cage in there, too. Dabus, can you discern the location of Lucius’ hidden knife?”
“He keeps a hidden knife?” Hastur says.
Coldeven 6, CY 593
89—Mom put an ‘e’ in ‘Dad’.
Twin suns shine warmly over a pastoral scene in the Blessed Lowlands of Arcadia, each careful not to duplicate the other’s efforts overmuch. Trees grow in perfectly ordered rows—of uniform height, depth and (most likely) weight, the orchards of Arcadia are both bountiful and predictable. The seasons are mild, more for appearance’s sake than out of any necessity. Plants grow when planted, the whole of the place responsive to the imposition of structure by its inhabitants. In Arcadia, each soul knows its place.
The Liberators rest within an orchard, careful not to be seen. Prisantha and Jespo Crim resume their ongoing game of King and Country, played from memory without a board. Prisantha wins again, prompting a hiss and a remarkably detailed curse (although not in that order). Dabus, Heydricus and Gwendolyn brainstorm the most expedient means to find and rescue Lucius.
“Or scrape together enough of him to resurrect,” Gwendolyn says.
“Ooh, that reminds me,” Jespo Crim whispers to Prisantha. “Now that Dabus is back with us, I’d like my clone destroyed. It seems counterproductive.”
“There are no clones,” Prisantha says. “It slipped my mind until it was too late. We don’t have time to grow new bodies before we begin in Dorraka.”
“Just as well,” Jespo sighs. “Dreadfully grim, not knowing what got you.”
-----
The second passage through Iggwilv’s maze goes much more quickly than the first. Nothing has disturbed the bodies, save for the finger-sized scavengers common to any cave at this elevation. When they arrive at the spherical chamber, the raven-haired woman remains upon her bier, lying as if in state. There is no evidence of any struggle, save for a slight singing directly beneath where Daoud’s Wondrous Lanthorn used to hang. The lantern is gone, and so is Lucius.
Jespo and Gwendolyn climb over the railing to have a closer look at the room’s finery, followed by a flustered Hastur. Heydricus leaps over the rail, and moves closer to the woman on the bier.
“Heydricus, that woman is undead!” his sword exclaims.
At that moment, her eyes flash open and with the smallest of movements she takes to the air, crossing fifteen feet with a single leap. By the time she lands in front of the startled Jespo Crim, her sword has snapped from its sheath, and lashed across his neck and chest.
“Ah!” Jespo cries. “I am undone!”
But Jespo’s contingency takes effect, and the blow is warded by a stoneskin spell.
“Nearly undone,” he clarifies.
Dabus strides forward purposefully and grips the woman’s shield with his right hand. He pulls it off-line and touches her just above her heart with his left. Tritherion’s unswerving integrity burns through her breastplate and harms her, pulling the flush from her cheeks and drawing her soft features taut against the bone. The creature gasps, revealing a mouth filled with sharp fangs. Heydricus takes her head off in a single stroke.
Jespo regards the thin cut running from jaw to opposite shoulder. “Ah, only partially undone, as it happens.”
Dabus absentmindedly closes Jespo’s wound with a touch, and then casts true seeing. Gwendolyn puts away her spell components, and returns to examining the imperial wealth of Iggwilv.
“Let’s bag the loot and go,” Heydricus says, handing Gwen his portable hole. “Pris—can you find Lucius?”
She shakes her head no. “He is either warded or resisting my scrying attempt.”
“Or both,” Gwendolyn snorts. “Your imp has out-clevered himself again, Heydricus.”
“We’ll find him,” Heydricus says. “If we need to, we can . . . “
“You should see this, Heydricus,” Dabus says. “This bier has a concealed lid.”
Heyrdicus and Dabus pull the top of the marble slab away, revealing a hollow interior lined with velvet and silk. Seven books are positioned reverentially within the space, alongside a tiny brass cage.
Prisantha whistles. Jespo cocks his head, detects magic and whistles. Gwendolyn quickly follows suit, as does Dabus and Heydricus. All five Liberators stare into the bier.
“Well,” Jespo says. “Perhaps my mother was wrong about me after all.”
“What?” Hastur asks. “What is it?”
“These are . . . potent items, Hastur,” Dabus says. He gingerly removes one of the books. “This one seems to be an exercise tutorial—conditioning for combatants?” Dabus reverently reads from the cover, “Gainful Exercises for The Humble Everyman, pried from the Thews of the Ancients and set forth within by T’tam the Furious, Sacrist of Tovag Baragu.”
“That is a very old book,” Prisantha says.
And five of the others are equally ancient. Pre-dating the Rain of Colorless Fire, these magical tomes detail ascetic practices meant to enhance the growth of body, mind and soul. The seven adventurers eye the six priceless books greedily, all but Hastur realizing the implications of the equation.
Even at a cursory glance, the seventh book stands clearly apart. While of newer make, it nonetheless carries a spiritual weight that bears an air of unfathomable antiquity. It is a plain-seeming tome, fairly thin, bound with some sort of reddish pebbled skin stretched tight over an ivory frame. Gwendolyn rolls the book over in her hands, caressing it and examining it with a curiously bemused look on her face.
Dabus frowns at her, and nudges Heydricus.
She regards the cover wistfully, and after a moment, she gasps. “This is the Demonomicon of Iggwilv!” she says.
Dabus frowns. “Gwendolyn, were you wise you would not open that book.”
But she is not, apparently, because she already has. Or rather, you might say she is less wise for having done so. “The . . . names . . .” she gasps before slamming the book and her eyes shut at the same time. “It’s all names!” she mutters.
“Yes, of demons,” Jespo says patronizingly. “A foul thing to be flipping through, I should think.”
“Into the bag,” Heydricus says sternly. “And put the little bird cage in there, too. Dabus, can you discern the location of Lucius’ hidden knife?”
“He keeps a hidden knife?” Hastur says.
(contact)
Explorer
Eight legs means four . . .
Coldeven 6, CY 593
89—Mom put an ‘e’ in ‘Dad’ (continued).
Lucius’ knife (and presumably its sheath, still attached to its owner) are not far from Iggwilv’s redoubt at all. In fact, they are within a series of caverns no more than ten miles away as the pestilence-laden undead Roc flies. Of course, when you can teleport, distances become curiosities; things discussed in meaningful tones so that it won’t seem like you’ve forgotten what it was like to be mundane.
Dabus enters a brief trance, and says, “From the entrance: North through the door, to the back of the room, down the left stairs and back to the South, down again and straight on, past the square, the oval, and the diamond; into the center of the cavern, carried by Lucius, beneath . . .”
“Ufh,” Dabus says grimacing. “Never mind where. I’m ready.”
Within seconds of Dabus’ report, the Liberators of Tenh stand before the entrance to a long-forgotten structure cut from the living stone of a sheltered plateau. Atop the low peak is a two-stepped construction of basalt, a sort of flattened pyramid, completely hidden from the nearby mountain trails by surrounding peaks and rocky outgrowths. The structure’s upper story appears to be approximately eighty feet in width and depth, the lower layer doubling that, with each layer standing forty feet high. The bottom layer is bisected by wide stone steps cut into the stone that lead upward into a large portal set within the upper story, and nestled fully within the shade of a massive overhanging lintel.
Heydricus leads the way, and as the group approaches the opening, they see that the stones of the upper story are heavily carved with twining symbols of a vaguely disturbing aspect. Prisantha is able to decipher that the glyphs call for curses upon “the heads of those bringers of light, the wretched blinders, and all responsible for wrapping blackness in everlasting chains.”
“Charming,” Jespo observes dryly. “I don’t feel cursed.”
“No, Jespo, these are general curses, in the sense of insults,” Gwendolyn says.
“I doubt it,” Jespo replies. “If one is villainous, one does not normally go through the trouble to build such a structure without intending to actually wreak harm upon one’s enemies. In fact,” Jespo raises his eyebrows arily. “I would not be surprised to find either three, seven or sixteen individual twenty-by-twenty rooms, below.”
The entry is itself a twenty-by-twenty opening (Jespo insists on stopping to measure it), supported by a massive stone lintel, and carved with dire runes and sigils. The hall beyond stretches back into an inky blackness, supported by a series of strangely carved basalt pillars that seem to twist and shudder when viewed from the corner of the eye. At the back end of the hall, a pair of stair-wells are separated by a thick pillar and adjoining wall. They mirror one another downward, turning away from the center, and lead into two halves of a large dungeon complex.
“No more than seven twenty-bys here, I should think,” Jespo says to himself as the Liberators pass through the eerie dungeon rooms. “A dark sign indeed.” Fräs concurs, and mewls tentatively.
The party follows Dabus’ directions, and passes unmolested down a second set of stairs, one hundred and seven steps in all. A twenty-foot passage gives off at the base of the stairs to a larger room with exits at the cardinal directions, in the center of which a curious four-sided column of deepest purple stands guard. Each face of the column bears a niche, and each niche contains its own sculpture—a stout warrior carved of a blue stone, a dark green hooded wiazard, a blood-hued nobleman, and a faceless figure of the deepest midnight black.
“This is Tharzidun,” Dabus says slowly. “These are his aspects.”
“Well, don’t f-cking touch it,” Heydricus says. “If it starts glowing, run.”
The Liberators make their way past the four-sided column and down a long, lightless corridor. Dabus’ continual flame seems anemic in the place, and sheds progressively less light as they advance. The hallway moves through a large ritual area, past two black altars set on either side of a huge ovoid pillar spanning from floor to ceiling. In the exact center of its ebony face is an alcove containing a jet-black statue of a shrouded man-like figure.
“Black on black on black,” Gwendolyn scoffs. “For shame.”
“When confronted by the panoply of color, texture and shape that bedevils our modern age,” Pris says, quoting the Viscountess Trill’s Handbook of Ladylike Fashion, “any well-bred lady quickly discovers that black is the path of least effort. This is why it is so often favored by the weak-willed and the wicked.”
”And evil priests!” Hastur adds.
The statue is hunched forward in a beggar’s posture, holding a shallow bowl in his hands. A thin trickle of water drips from the top of the alcove and seeps down the face of this statue and into the bowl, draining slowly from its sides to puddle around the base of the obelisk. Over the years, the water has left a slight reddish mineral deposit behind, giving the impression that the figure is weeping blood.
“Can we do something about the light in here?” Gwendolyn starts to complain, when Heydricus hushes her.
“I heard it too,” Hastur growls, removing his brilliant energy morningstar from its place at his waist.
And after a moment, the group can all hear it—a series of meaty ploppings, like a giant’s tread, but eight where there should be two. The rolling gait runs up and down their spines as it approaches, causing shivers and bringing to mind thoughts of spiders, or worse. The party readies themselves, but are surprised by how large Iggwilv is—they had seen her representation within Daoud’s Wondrous Lanthorn, but her eight-legged aspect takes them all aback. The grotesque witch shuffles forward, her gait a cross between an arachnid’s scuttle and a waddle, her loose-hanging bulk lurching not only side-to-side but in all directions as her legs plop thickly into the black stone.
Lucius is held in her arms, cradled like an infant; apparently unharmed but wearing the most murderous expression any of the party have ever seen on his face.
Gwendolyn is too shocked to mock him, however.
“Iggwilv, I presume,” Heydricus begins, offering a nauseous shadow of his usual courtly manners.
“In a manner of speaking,” the foul thing wheezes, her words punctuated by thick gasps for breath. “I am the world’s memory of Iggwilv, held by the Lanthorn until your gracious arrival.” The thing slops forward and deposits Lucius in front of his companions. “You would be Heydricus, and these your followers.”
“We are his companions,” Pris clarifies.
“Semantics are a refuge for the intellectually bankrupt,” Iggwilv jiggles. “You serve his purposes, do you not?”
Gwendolyn glares at Lucius. The assassin shrugs.
Iggwilv strokes Lucius’ head cruelly, against the grain. “It has been good to have a child again,” the witch-thing wheezes. “If only for a short while. Every mother goes through it, I suppose. One day they thrust the breast from them, and the next they are after your soul.”
“Do you refer to Iuz?” Prisantha says.
“My dear, wicked naughty boy,” she murmurs with pride. “I’ve many children you see, and all but one were girls. Of course, His father was unique among my suitors.”
“Suitors? I was given to understand that Grazz’t was coerced,” Prisanatha says plainly.
Iggwilv leans close to Prisantha. “You are still a maiden, no?” She sniffs the air above Pris. “Or so close as to make no difference.” She waves a dismissive hand at the Enchantress of Verbobonc, provoking a roiling boil of flesh running down her body. “You would not understand.”
Gwendolyn arches an eyebrow, and places her hands on her hips. “Really? Tell me, mom, do you miss your daughter, yet?”
“Because we didn’t,” Prisantha finishes.
Iggwilv regards Prisantha coldly, her eyes slowly widening as she glares down at the dainty woman. “I will give you some advice, dear, for a future mother-to-be.” She slides her ponderous bulk forward until her massive fleshy head is within inches of Prisantha’s. “You can’t love them all.”
Dabus beseeches Tritherion for an anti-magic sphere, centering it upon Iggwilv, and pulling Prisantha behind him as he does so. Heydricus also steps forward and in a single motion has drawn Freedom’s Kiss and nearly cut one of Iggwilv’s fleshy legs in half. With a speed that belies her bulk, the former Tyrant of the Perrinlands leaps free of the anti-magic sphere, speaks a word, and is gone.
Prisantha stomps her foot in exasperation. “We could have gotten some more out of her, Dabus!”
“I tired of it,” the angel says. “She is a most despicable creature. It is only disheartening that I did not have a chance to strike a telling blow.”
-----
The Liberators return to Nevond Nevnend to wait for any word of the Great Adventurers’ Crusade, and for a few days life returns to normal.
Heydricus spends his time playing with his collection of orphans, Dabus discusses religion and metaphysics with Prisantha while Jespo, Hastur and Gwendolyn engage in competitive drinking games (over Fräs’ objections). Lucius, however, remains alone, subtly removing himself even further from the emotional core of his companions’ lives.
The young assassin has seen his share of suffering, and then some. As a boy, he witnessed the fall of Geoff, and later fled the Shieldlands in the wake of Iuz’ brutal occupation. He fought alongside Heydricus in the Temple of Elemental Evil, and even after his grisly death was transformed into an undead monstrosity and co-inhabited by a vile demonic spirit. From time to time, he tells snippets from these stories to his companions, usually to illustrate a point, or provoke a reaction.
But until the end of his mortal days, Lucius Maturin never reveals what happened to him during his short tenure as Iggwilv’s Second and Least Favored Son.
Coldeven 6, CY 593
89—Mom put an ‘e’ in ‘Dad’ (continued).
Lucius’ knife (and presumably its sheath, still attached to its owner) are not far from Iggwilv’s redoubt at all. In fact, they are within a series of caverns no more than ten miles away as the pestilence-laden undead Roc flies. Of course, when you can teleport, distances become curiosities; things discussed in meaningful tones so that it won’t seem like you’ve forgotten what it was like to be mundane.
Dabus enters a brief trance, and says, “From the entrance: North through the door, to the back of the room, down the left stairs and back to the South, down again and straight on, past the square, the oval, and the diamond; into the center of the cavern, carried by Lucius, beneath . . .”
“Ufh,” Dabus says grimacing. “Never mind where. I’m ready.”
Within seconds of Dabus’ report, the Liberators of Tenh stand before the entrance to a long-forgotten structure cut from the living stone of a sheltered plateau. Atop the low peak is a two-stepped construction of basalt, a sort of flattened pyramid, completely hidden from the nearby mountain trails by surrounding peaks and rocky outgrowths. The structure’s upper story appears to be approximately eighty feet in width and depth, the lower layer doubling that, with each layer standing forty feet high. The bottom layer is bisected by wide stone steps cut into the stone that lead upward into a large portal set within the upper story, and nestled fully within the shade of a massive overhanging lintel.
Heydricus leads the way, and as the group approaches the opening, they see that the stones of the upper story are heavily carved with twining symbols of a vaguely disturbing aspect. Prisantha is able to decipher that the glyphs call for curses upon “the heads of those bringers of light, the wretched blinders, and all responsible for wrapping blackness in everlasting chains.”
“Charming,” Jespo observes dryly. “I don’t feel cursed.”
“No, Jespo, these are general curses, in the sense of insults,” Gwendolyn says.
“I doubt it,” Jespo replies. “If one is villainous, one does not normally go through the trouble to build such a structure without intending to actually wreak harm upon one’s enemies. In fact,” Jespo raises his eyebrows arily. “I would not be surprised to find either three, seven or sixteen individual twenty-by-twenty rooms, below.”
The entry is itself a twenty-by-twenty opening (Jespo insists on stopping to measure it), supported by a massive stone lintel, and carved with dire runes and sigils. The hall beyond stretches back into an inky blackness, supported by a series of strangely carved basalt pillars that seem to twist and shudder when viewed from the corner of the eye. At the back end of the hall, a pair of stair-wells are separated by a thick pillar and adjoining wall. They mirror one another downward, turning away from the center, and lead into two halves of a large dungeon complex.
“No more than seven twenty-bys here, I should think,” Jespo says to himself as the Liberators pass through the eerie dungeon rooms. “A dark sign indeed.” Fräs concurs, and mewls tentatively.
The party follows Dabus’ directions, and passes unmolested down a second set of stairs, one hundred and seven steps in all. A twenty-foot passage gives off at the base of the stairs to a larger room with exits at the cardinal directions, in the center of which a curious four-sided column of deepest purple stands guard. Each face of the column bears a niche, and each niche contains its own sculpture—a stout warrior carved of a blue stone, a dark green hooded wiazard, a blood-hued nobleman, and a faceless figure of the deepest midnight black.
“This is Tharzidun,” Dabus says slowly. “These are his aspects.”
“Well, don’t f-cking touch it,” Heydricus says. “If it starts glowing, run.”
The Liberators make their way past the four-sided column and down a long, lightless corridor. Dabus’ continual flame seems anemic in the place, and sheds progressively less light as they advance. The hallway moves through a large ritual area, past two black altars set on either side of a huge ovoid pillar spanning from floor to ceiling. In the exact center of its ebony face is an alcove containing a jet-black statue of a shrouded man-like figure.
“Black on black on black,” Gwendolyn scoffs. “For shame.”
“When confronted by the panoply of color, texture and shape that bedevils our modern age,” Pris says, quoting the Viscountess Trill’s Handbook of Ladylike Fashion, “any well-bred lady quickly discovers that black is the path of least effort. This is why it is so often favored by the weak-willed and the wicked.”
”And evil priests!” Hastur adds.
The statue is hunched forward in a beggar’s posture, holding a shallow bowl in his hands. A thin trickle of water drips from the top of the alcove and seeps down the face of this statue and into the bowl, draining slowly from its sides to puddle around the base of the obelisk. Over the years, the water has left a slight reddish mineral deposit behind, giving the impression that the figure is weeping blood.
“Can we do something about the light in here?” Gwendolyn starts to complain, when Heydricus hushes her.
“I heard it too,” Hastur growls, removing his brilliant energy morningstar from its place at his waist.
And after a moment, the group can all hear it—a series of meaty ploppings, like a giant’s tread, but eight where there should be two. The rolling gait runs up and down their spines as it approaches, causing shivers and bringing to mind thoughts of spiders, or worse. The party readies themselves, but are surprised by how large Iggwilv is—they had seen her representation within Daoud’s Wondrous Lanthorn, but her eight-legged aspect takes them all aback. The grotesque witch shuffles forward, her gait a cross between an arachnid’s scuttle and a waddle, her loose-hanging bulk lurching not only side-to-side but in all directions as her legs plop thickly into the black stone.
Lucius is held in her arms, cradled like an infant; apparently unharmed but wearing the most murderous expression any of the party have ever seen on his face.
Gwendolyn is too shocked to mock him, however.
“Iggwilv, I presume,” Heydricus begins, offering a nauseous shadow of his usual courtly manners.
“In a manner of speaking,” the foul thing wheezes, her words punctuated by thick gasps for breath. “I am the world’s memory of Iggwilv, held by the Lanthorn until your gracious arrival.” The thing slops forward and deposits Lucius in front of his companions. “You would be Heydricus, and these your followers.”
“We are his companions,” Pris clarifies.
“Semantics are a refuge for the intellectually bankrupt,” Iggwilv jiggles. “You serve his purposes, do you not?”
Gwendolyn glares at Lucius. The assassin shrugs.
Iggwilv strokes Lucius’ head cruelly, against the grain. “It has been good to have a child again,” the witch-thing wheezes. “If only for a short while. Every mother goes through it, I suppose. One day they thrust the breast from them, and the next they are after your soul.”
“Do you refer to Iuz?” Prisantha says.
“My dear, wicked naughty boy,” she murmurs with pride. “I’ve many children you see, and all but one were girls. Of course, His father was unique among my suitors.”
“Suitors? I was given to understand that Grazz’t was coerced,” Prisanatha says plainly.
Iggwilv leans close to Prisantha. “You are still a maiden, no?” She sniffs the air above Pris. “Or so close as to make no difference.” She waves a dismissive hand at the Enchantress of Verbobonc, provoking a roiling boil of flesh running down her body. “You would not understand.”
Gwendolyn arches an eyebrow, and places her hands on her hips. “Really? Tell me, mom, do you miss your daughter, yet?”
“Because we didn’t,” Prisantha finishes.
Iggwilv regards Prisantha coldly, her eyes slowly widening as she glares down at the dainty woman. “I will give you some advice, dear, for a future mother-to-be.” She slides her ponderous bulk forward until her massive fleshy head is within inches of Prisantha’s. “You can’t love them all.”
Dabus beseeches Tritherion for an anti-magic sphere, centering it upon Iggwilv, and pulling Prisantha behind him as he does so. Heydricus also steps forward and in a single motion has drawn Freedom’s Kiss and nearly cut one of Iggwilv’s fleshy legs in half. With a speed that belies her bulk, the former Tyrant of the Perrinlands leaps free of the anti-magic sphere, speaks a word, and is gone.
Prisantha stomps her foot in exasperation. “We could have gotten some more out of her, Dabus!”
“I tired of it,” the angel says. “She is a most despicable creature. It is only disheartening that I did not have a chance to strike a telling blow.”
-----
The Liberators return to Nevond Nevnend to wait for any word of the Great Adventurers’ Crusade, and for a few days life returns to normal.
Heydricus spends his time playing with his collection of orphans, Dabus discusses religion and metaphysics with Prisantha while Jespo, Hastur and Gwendolyn engage in competitive drinking games (over Fräs’ objections). Lucius, however, remains alone, subtly removing himself even further from the emotional core of his companions’ lives.
The young assassin has seen his share of suffering, and then some. As a boy, he witnessed the fall of Geoff, and later fled the Shieldlands in the wake of Iuz’ brutal occupation. He fought alongside Heydricus in the Temple of Elemental Evil, and even after his grisly death was transformed into an undead monstrosity and co-inhabited by a vile demonic spirit. From time to time, he tells snippets from these stories to his companions, usually to illustrate a point, or provoke a reaction.
But until the end of his mortal days, Lucius Maturin never reveals what happened to him during his short tenure as Iggwilv’s Second and Least Favored Son.
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