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Message: <blockquote data-quote="(contact)" data-source="post: 1251872" data-attributes="member: 41">Patchwall 6, CY 59375—No after-parties without the party.Merry Midwives of Mercy Downs  is always a crowd favorite—a bouncing tune, with repetitious starts and stops that provide ample opportunity to swoop in on the dancing partner of the fellow one-over.  There are several sets of commonly known lyrics that range from the scathingly political to the bawdy and nearly profane.  Of course, there is no one singing along with the musicians at Thrommel’s wedding, save for the occasional drunken Duke or inebriated Earl.  “We don't get to do much dancing,” Prisantha says.  “In our line of work, I mean.”“Yeah,” Heydricus agrees, smiling at her.  The two Liberators stand by themselves, unnoticed and unattended for the moment, an island of dazzling good looks in a sea of sweaty, unwashed Furyondian peers.  Offhandedly, he adds, “I usually only get to dance when I'm fundraising.”One enterprising young bard steps forward to lead the crowd in song, smiling broadly at his lady-fair and bowing grandly for the bride and groom.  (Well, technically he isn’t a bard, but his cousin is!   Okay, there’s really no cousin, but he did spend a rank in Perform. . . . Allright, the truth is he spent his rank in Knowledge (ale houses)—but they do like to get drunk and sing in alehouses.)  Thrommel, perhaps wanting to be polite, or perhaps merely tone-deaf, claps along heartily, and eventually drags his former wet-nurse onto the dance floor.  The elderly Duchess has grown old and feeble during Thrommel’s long absence, and has become infamous for her foul disposition, sharp tongue, and reputed ability to curse with a glance.  Nonetheless, she does her best for her future King, and the crowd roars at the sight.Prisantha frowns at Heydricus.  “Well, I'm sure there's more than dancing going on.”“Oh.  Yeah,” he scrambles, returning his mind to the conversation.   “There's . . . lots of . . . selling.”Prisantha wrinkles her nose.  “Perhaps I should do some fundraising of my own,” she suggests.“What!”“For my school.”  She arches her eyebrows.  “I'm going to have to start an academy of my own, you know.  I've spoken with many influential people about it already.”“Who—Lord Eaton?” Heydricus snaps, casting a dark glance toward the dashing young baronet, who has been cornered by a drunken Jespo Crim, and is mincing his way out of a series of widely-swung conspiratorial shoulder-clutching attempts.“Oh yes.  He’s offered ten thousand pieces of gold already.”Heyrdicus scoffs.  “Don’t besmirch yourself pandering at such a profane altar.  Eaton’s a simpleton.  Why, look at the way he slouches—he can’t even hold up his huge head.  And those thin legs, tsk.  Chicken legs.”Prisantha feigns a worldly shrug, and adds, “I’ll take his money.”“He wants to give you more than money,” Heydricus mutters darkly.“Like what?” she gasps.“I wouldn’t know,” he sniffs.  Silently, but with the better part of his mind, Heydricus is willing Jespo on.  “Hug him, Crim” he thinks.  “Then tell him about your childhood.”“Well, he did mention taking a lunch at his estate,” she muses.The grappling arts are not Jespo’s forte, and Eaton escapes without so much as a wrinkle on his cloak.   Crim turns immediately to Eaton’s companions and continues on as if he hadn’t been interrupted.  Heydricus sighs.  “It has been a long week.  Perhaps we should go outside for some fresh air.”  The two young companions stroll together into the densely-kept royal garden.  Heydricus pauses to smell a flower, and motions Prisantha to do the same.  The air is warm, the hedges high and night-birds call to the bright, nearly full moon illuminating the garden path.  Faint laughter and music can still be heard from the ballroom.“So, Thrommel’s married,” Prisantha muses as she sniffs at the lavender bud.“Yes,” Heydricus says.  “And she seems well suited for him, though he will have a narrow road to blunder down should he hope to see his throne.”“Don’t share this, but I did think for a minute about marrying Thrommel myself,” Pris whispers.“What?”  “Well, not because I like the stupid man,” Pris quickly clarifies.Heydricus puts his hands on his hips.  “You know, I’m getting sick of all this Thrommel-bashing.  I love the guy!”Prisantha dismisses the notion with a wave.  “Thrommel is lacking in many areas.  There’s more to life than power, I decided, and after all, I’ve seen all of us naked.”“You have?” Heydricus asks.   “Well . . . that’s a small thing.  Adventuring companions are like a family—and families keep no secrets from one another, nor should they be overly concerned with modesty or shame.”“Does that make us siblings, then?” Prisantha asks coyly.“Well, in songs, blooded companions are often referred to as siblings,” he replies.  “Brothers-in-war, that sort of thing.”“So, if one of us were to get involved with another member of the group, it would be incestuous?”“Who knows,”  Heydricus says, dismissing the issue.  “Dabus was the expert on matters of propriety.”  After a moment, he adds, “I know he’s happy, but I miss him.”“He did love you well,” she agrees.“He’s in a better service now,” Heydricus says, putting some cheer back into his voice.  “And hell, what a way to go, right?”Pris smiles, and clasps Heydricus’ hand.  The burly sorcerer gazes down into her eyes, and says, “the moon is lovely this evening, wouldn’t you agree?”As it happens, she would, although the only moon she sees is the one reflected in his eyes from her own.  Prisantha turns her head upwards and closes her eyes . . .“The a-shole wants to give a toast,” Lucius says.  Without warning, he has appeared behind them on the path.“Which a-shole?” Heydricus asks.“Thrommel,” the assassin replies.Heydricus removes his hand from Prisantha’s and frowns.  “What did I just say about Thrommel bashing?”Lucius scowls.  “How the f-ck should I know?”  He spares a glance for Prisantha.  “I don’t scry and spy.”  Lucius turns around and leaves the glade.  With a sigh, Prisantha follows him.Thrommel’s great wedding speech is a stiffly given, unrehearsed event.  But with Belvor at his left, and his new bride at his right, the once and future prince manages to say the right things, compliment those who need it, thank those who deserve it, and subtly leave no doubt in the minds of Furyondy’s more savvy politicians that he means to someday sit the throne.After the seemingly endless string of speeches in response to Thrommel’s, the musicians are given the signal, and the music starts up again.Prisantha and Heydricus, however, are nowhere to be seen.-----Regda carries Jespo to his room, leaving the unconscious conjurer to both his dreams and his impending hangover with a chaste kiss on the forehead.  Fräs purrs drunkenly from Jespo’s pouch, too inebriated to move.  Regda recalls suddenly that she has not completed her calisthenics for the day, what with the fancy party and all, and knocks off a couple hundred pushups before leaving for the comfort of her own bed.  There she contemplates weddings and tries to recall the vulnerable anatomy of dragons before drifting off into a deep and untroubled sleep.Lucius, keenly aware of how high he has risen since his impoverished boyhood in the Shieldlands, spends the evening dicing and conversing with the men-at-arms and bodyguards of the great Furyondian Lords—he becomes instantly popular, purposefully loosing large amounts of coin.  Heydricus may approach politics with a devil-may-care bravado, but Lucius knows how quickly politeness can turn to violence.  When it comes, he intends to be ready.  The next morning, Belvor packs his personal belongings, and readies his adventuring gear, blowing dust from his armor and reacquainting himself with his lucky whetstone.  He finds the Liberators gathered in the sunny gardens outside the chapel to Rao.  Jespo is groaning, Fräs hisses from time to time, and Regda is pouring tea.  Heydricus and Prisantha sit close to one another, and laugh at some shared joke.Gwendolyn takes her tea with a lump of sugar and a smug expression.“To Tenh, then,” Belvor says heartily.  “I have decided to accept your generous offer, and I humbly present myself to your stalwart band.  What adventures are afoot?”  The former king looks well, and seems genuinely pleased.“Well, who’s got the kill list?” Heydricus asks.“Dabus,” Gwendolyn says with a smirk.  “But I recall the gist of it.”“I’ve got the list,” Lucius says from the doorway, tapping his forehead.  “Druid f-ckers, Calibut and Zeflen, the Lord of Stoink, the Boneheart.  But not necessarily in that order.”“I don’t think we’ve decided to kill the Lord of Stoink,” Prisantha says.“Whatever,” Lucius replies.“Calibut should be first, if I may be so bold,” Belvor ventures.  “With Calibut in hand, you control the whole of Northern Tenh, and the mines there are rich.”“I agree,” Heydricus says.  “Are there any objections?”There are none, and after a hearty breakfast of gruel, eggs, swine and more gruel, the Liberators teleport back to Nevond Nevnend, and Prisanthavisions Zeflen.A Beast there is that lives only within the hearts of those that fear it; old to the Hells before the Baatezu displaced its kind.  This Beast lost its form along with its realm, and does not exist within any plane of physicality.  It is strong only where others are weak, for domination is its essence.  It is, and is not.  The Old One culls secrets from the thing, but must keep it always far from the heart of His dominion, lest he loose his own rule in the face of its inexorable hunger. “Well, that is disturbing,” Jespo says.  “Did it say, ‘inexorable?’” Gwendolyn muses. “Yes,” Prisantha says.  “It means ‘endless.’”“No it doesn’t,” Lucius says.  “It means ‘strong,’ as in ‘powerful.’”“It means relentless,” Jespo says.  “Now, you say this thing fouled your scrying last time you attempted it?”“It nearly ruined my crystal ball,” Prisantha replies.  “And I felt its presence in my mind.  It meant to dominate me, I think.”“That is ironic,” Jepso observes.“Mind blank will serve to blunt that avenue of attack,” Gwendolyn says.  “Nothing can penetrate that spell, I am sure of it.”“Now look here,” Lucius says.  “If scrying isn’t the answer, then let me have a look.  Teleport me near to Calibut, and I’ll tell you for sure what is or isn’t there—mind blank me, and we have a no-risk proposition.  Give me a teleport scroll for the return journey, and I’ll be back before nightfall.”“I like it,” Heydricus says.   “But this is a scouting mission only—don’t engage anything there.  Find out the lay of the land, and what enemies might lie in wait.  The rest of us will prepare for an assault while you are gone.”Lucius is away within the hour, and returns that evening with a strange report:  Calibut is a bee-hive of activity.  Unravaged by war, the city is well-kept and orderly; its denizens work in a silent and perfect unison, building the foundations of a massive structure in the mountains just above the town.  The construction is on an inhuman scale—so great that there is little hope of the thing reaching completion within any human’s lifetime.  The workers quietly go about their tasks, breaking only to sleep and eat.  Despite their mindless automation, they seem well-fed and healthy, and children are in evidence, raised together in large groups, and tended to carefully.  When workers eat, they step away from their task, and are immediately replaced by ready hands.  Each worker sleeps where they labor, and rarely if ever leave their posts.  The sick and injured are tended thoroughly, although mundanely—no divine magic is in evidence.Lucius notes the complete lack of any guardians or watchers—the town proper is apparently undefended, although he spots a pair of draconic silhouettes near the peak of the construction.Upon his report, the Liberator’s wizards determine to use a scrying pool to locate Zeflen—if the beast can in fact travel somehow through the scrying connection, then they will fight it where they scry.  And if not, a teleport spell will take the battle to Calibut.</blockquote>

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