The Liberation of Tenh (updated April 24)
- Thread starter (contact)
- Start date
Tharen the Damned
First Post
(contact) said:
Ooh, (Contact) replied to my humble post!
He send me a word!
A word that I, in my ignorance, don´t understand.
But I will ponder the ddeper meaning. The hidden message.
And maybe wisdom will come to me....
Tharen the Damned
First Post
No Contact with (contact)!
the Jester
Legend
So, er, what happens next?
el-remmen
Moderator Emeritus
(contact)
Explorer
Coldeven 11, CY 594
92—The Sun Does Not Here.
Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day,
And make me travel forth without my cloak,
To let base clouds o'ertake me in my way,
Hiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke?
--Shakespeare, XXXIV
Dorrakan Irregulars are perhaps the most disliked sub-set of an already very disliked group. Trained for brutal efficiency along a wide spectrum of missions that primarily focus on small-force skirmish warfare (adventuring), information gathering (torture), and indigenous pacification (targeted massacres). Aside from a high-priest’s vestment, there are few things that can bring more raw intimidation to the table than a Dorrakan Irregular Light Infantry scar chiseled messily into one’s forehead.
While technically a part of Iuz’ larger army, these most elite killers go where they will and do what they wish—provided there is no one stronger than them present to dispute their passage. Iuz, it is whispered, loves his Irregulars so much that should a even a single orc escape from a lost fight, that creature will be possessed by a divinely-inspired wrath so horrible as to transform it into a living haunt—a Tireless Killer from Before the Grave. This rumor is so widely accepted that the population of Dorraka will generally not fight with any band of Irregulars that they are not sure they can slaughter to the last orc.
This makes the Irregulars perfectly suited for Iuz’ frequent population adjustment initiatives (gentrification in Dorraka always involves wholesale massacres), and of course, as subjects for a seeming spell.
Prisantha giggles to herself as she transforms the Liberators from a large adventuring party into a small unit of Irregulars.
-----
The Liberators stand before the full-length mirrors in Heydricus’ Valet Chamber, and regard the illusion; it is perfect. Heydricus notices with some pride that he is the most handsome of all the orcs.
“Look, I’ve warts,” Jespo crows. “I look like Sister Keriann, after she . . . well.” Jespo adjusts his illusionary mail-and-plate. “And Fräs! You’re a rat, my dear!”
Fräs hisses.
“But it becomes you,” Jespo amends.
“We must be on our guard,” Prisantha says. “This seeming will serve to fool many, but not all. And we have no means to conceal the kindness in our souls.”
“We should expect to be discovered, then?” Dabus asks.
“We should hope to be discovered,” Heydricus says, flexing and contracting his hairy grey fingers.
“We are going to help them discover us, I suspect,” Jespo says.
“They won’t discover us until it is too late,” Lucius says.
“I’m re-discovering my nausea listening to you people,” Gwendolyn says.
Jespo sniffs.
-----
The Great Tyrant’s Home is one part state house, one part church, one part civic center, one part military compound, and three parts torture chamber. The two largest outgrowths of the tumor-like conglomeration squat on either side of the Opicim; the filthy river that races through the center of Dorraka, as anxious as any other sane traveler to escape the place. Along its route, the citizens of Iuz’ crown jewel dump their waste hatefully into the water, both to mark their time on Oerth as well as to (hopefully) poison those unfortunate or poor enough to live downstream.
A gilded and skull-encrusted bridge arches across the river, connecting the two halves of Iuz’ Grand Home. A full division of orcish and human conscripts control the bridge. Their stewardship primarily consists of seizing any opportunity to take out their poor diet and abusive chain-of-command on any travelers desperate enough to believe that life might be somehow less miserable on the other side of town. Tellingly, the bridge is crowded day and night, and is often the flash-point for brief and ruthlessly squelched rioting. Covert raiders use the bridge as well; Dorrakans, as a rule, dislike and hate the citizens living on the opposite bank; neither side has any illusions about the trustworthiness of the other, and cross-river skirmishing is as much a part of Dorrakan life as plague and poison.
Suspended beneath the bridge, a hidden walkway connects the dungeons of Iuz’ Temple. This “Low Way” serves as a means for the Great and Important Lords of Dorraka to cross the river without being forced to sully the hems of their robes with the kisses of the common-folk. Consequently, security at the under-gates is kept to a minimum—only a pair of hell-beasts and a swarm of curiously servile undead. (In Dorakka, the higher one’s station, the less random cruelty one is exposed to; ironically, the higher one’s station, the higher the station of those still able to expose one to planned cruelty, and therefore the greater the overall cruelty received. Less is often more when you’re really Evil.)
A huge cold-iron gate blocks the Southern end of the Low Way. Two foul wolf-things hunch by either side of the portal; bestial and sulfurous, the demons wheeze mightily, each exhalation marked by a deep phlegmatic rumbling accompanied by thick tufts of eye-watering metallic smoke from their cloven nostrils. Their forearms end in long, human-like hands, and their over-sized haunches constantly twitch and press them forward. Next to each demonic faux-wolf, a gaunt corpse wobbles uneasily on decaying legs, bowing to the occasional foot-traffic. All are dressed in the livery of the Temple Guard.
The Liberators have marked this portal as the sole aboveground passageway between the two largest sections of Dorrakan dungeon. Prisantha cried when she watched the Great Crusade through her crystal ball, and after consulting with Heydricus and Dabus, determined not to speak of the details save to say that while there might be survivors, they should expect no aid in Iuz’ realm.
The Liberators teleport to the North end of the bridge and swagger orcishly South. The demon-wolves rumble and lurch forward, baring their fangs; the Irregulars do not use the Low Way.
Usually. Rules are meant to be broken in Dorraka, better to check and be sure. “Password,” one growls, even as it pulls a morningstar from its bandoleer.
“Password?” The Heydricus orc says, glancing at the Prisantha orc.
Prisantha shrugs.
“Praise Tritherion!” Heyrdicus yells, and smashes into the demon before him even as its cadaverous keeper shambles forward, vomiting long ropy tendrils that twitch and lash around the Liberator’s waist. Dabus and Hastur leap on the unengaged wolf-thing, and as it strikes back at them with its morningstar and seizes Hastur in its mouth, it is felled by bolts of lightning from Gwenolyn’s fingertips; arcs of electricity that leap from its corpse and strike its companions. Lucius fires three arrows into the undead that has attacked Heydricus, and moves into a position on the opposite side of the wolf-demon, forcing it to split its attentions; a fatal condition, as Heydricus shortly proves.
Prisantha wiggles her ring-finger at the undead with its guts wrapped around her Heydricus and dominates it.
“Mithress,” it says around a mouthful of its own insides. “I therve.”
Prisantha smiles insincerely, out of habit, and says, “Tell us about the dungeon beyond the gate. Tell us everything.”
92—The Sun Does Not Here.
Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day,
And make me travel forth without my cloak,
To let base clouds o'ertake me in my way,
Hiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke?
--Shakespeare, XXXIV
Dorrakan Irregulars are perhaps the most disliked sub-set of an already very disliked group. Trained for brutal efficiency along a wide spectrum of missions that primarily focus on small-force skirmish warfare (adventuring), information gathering (torture), and indigenous pacification (targeted massacres). Aside from a high-priest’s vestment, there are few things that can bring more raw intimidation to the table than a Dorrakan Irregular Light Infantry scar chiseled messily into one’s forehead.
While technically a part of Iuz’ larger army, these most elite killers go where they will and do what they wish—provided there is no one stronger than them present to dispute their passage. Iuz, it is whispered, loves his Irregulars so much that should a even a single orc escape from a lost fight, that creature will be possessed by a divinely-inspired wrath so horrible as to transform it into a living haunt—a Tireless Killer from Before the Grave. This rumor is so widely accepted that the population of Dorraka will generally not fight with any band of Irregulars that they are not sure they can slaughter to the last orc.
This makes the Irregulars perfectly suited for Iuz’ frequent population adjustment initiatives (gentrification in Dorraka always involves wholesale massacres), and of course, as subjects for a seeming spell.
Prisantha giggles to herself as she transforms the Liberators from a large adventuring party into a small unit of Irregulars.
-----
The Liberators stand before the full-length mirrors in Heydricus’ Valet Chamber, and regard the illusion; it is perfect. Heydricus notices with some pride that he is the most handsome of all the orcs.
“Look, I’ve warts,” Jespo crows. “I look like Sister Keriann, after she . . . well.” Jespo adjusts his illusionary mail-and-plate. “And Fräs! You’re a rat, my dear!”
Fräs hisses.
“But it becomes you,” Jespo amends.
“We must be on our guard,” Prisantha says. “This seeming will serve to fool many, but not all. And we have no means to conceal the kindness in our souls.”
“We should expect to be discovered, then?” Dabus asks.
“We should hope to be discovered,” Heydricus says, flexing and contracting his hairy grey fingers.
“We are going to help them discover us, I suspect,” Jespo says.
“They won’t discover us until it is too late,” Lucius says.
“I’m re-discovering my nausea listening to you people,” Gwendolyn says.
Jespo sniffs.
-----
The Great Tyrant’s Home is one part state house, one part church, one part civic center, one part military compound, and three parts torture chamber. The two largest outgrowths of the tumor-like conglomeration squat on either side of the Opicim; the filthy river that races through the center of Dorraka, as anxious as any other sane traveler to escape the place. Along its route, the citizens of Iuz’ crown jewel dump their waste hatefully into the water, both to mark their time on Oerth as well as to (hopefully) poison those unfortunate or poor enough to live downstream.
A gilded and skull-encrusted bridge arches across the river, connecting the two halves of Iuz’ Grand Home. A full division of orcish and human conscripts control the bridge. Their stewardship primarily consists of seizing any opportunity to take out their poor diet and abusive chain-of-command on any travelers desperate enough to believe that life might be somehow less miserable on the other side of town. Tellingly, the bridge is crowded day and night, and is often the flash-point for brief and ruthlessly squelched rioting. Covert raiders use the bridge as well; Dorrakans, as a rule, dislike and hate the citizens living on the opposite bank; neither side has any illusions about the trustworthiness of the other, and cross-river skirmishing is as much a part of Dorrakan life as plague and poison.
Suspended beneath the bridge, a hidden walkway connects the dungeons of Iuz’ Temple. This “Low Way” serves as a means for the Great and Important Lords of Dorraka to cross the river without being forced to sully the hems of their robes with the kisses of the common-folk. Consequently, security at the under-gates is kept to a minimum—only a pair of hell-beasts and a swarm of curiously servile undead. (In Dorakka, the higher one’s station, the less random cruelty one is exposed to; ironically, the higher one’s station, the higher the station of those still able to expose one to planned cruelty, and therefore the greater the overall cruelty received. Less is often more when you’re really Evil.)
A huge cold-iron gate blocks the Southern end of the Low Way. Two foul wolf-things hunch by either side of the portal; bestial and sulfurous, the demons wheeze mightily, each exhalation marked by a deep phlegmatic rumbling accompanied by thick tufts of eye-watering metallic smoke from their cloven nostrils. Their forearms end in long, human-like hands, and their over-sized haunches constantly twitch and press them forward. Next to each demonic faux-wolf, a gaunt corpse wobbles uneasily on decaying legs, bowing to the occasional foot-traffic. All are dressed in the livery of the Temple Guard.
The Liberators have marked this portal as the sole aboveground passageway between the two largest sections of Dorrakan dungeon. Prisantha cried when she watched the Great Crusade through her crystal ball, and after consulting with Heydricus and Dabus, determined not to speak of the details save to say that while there might be survivors, they should expect no aid in Iuz’ realm.
The Liberators teleport to the North end of the bridge and swagger orcishly South. The demon-wolves rumble and lurch forward, baring their fangs; the Irregulars do not use the Low Way.
Usually. Rules are meant to be broken in Dorraka, better to check and be sure. “Password,” one growls, even as it pulls a morningstar from its bandoleer.
“Password?” The Heydricus orc says, glancing at the Prisantha orc.
Prisantha shrugs.
“Praise Tritherion!” Heyrdicus yells, and smashes into the demon before him even as its cadaverous keeper shambles forward, vomiting long ropy tendrils that twitch and lash around the Liberator’s waist. Dabus and Hastur leap on the unengaged wolf-thing, and as it strikes back at them with its morningstar and seizes Hastur in its mouth, it is felled by bolts of lightning from Gwenolyn’s fingertips; arcs of electricity that leap from its corpse and strike its companions. Lucius fires three arrows into the undead that has attacked Heydricus, and moves into a position on the opposite side of the wolf-demon, forcing it to split its attentions; a fatal condition, as Heydricus shortly proves.
Prisantha wiggles her ring-finger at the undead with its guts wrapped around her Heydricus and dominates it.
“Mithress,” it says around a mouthful of its own insides. “I therve.”
Prisantha smiles insincerely, out of habit, and says, “Tell us about the dungeon beyond the gate. Tell us everything.”
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