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Message: <blockquote data-quote="(contact)" data-source="post: 1350711" data-attributes="member: 41">Patchwall 14, CY 59377—Quiet studies in disjoined minds. “Well f-ck,” Heydricus says.  “The king is dead.”  His tone is accusatory, although there are no convenient scapegoats for the charge to find any traction against.  He is leaning against a large stalagmite, his hands on his thighs, looking at the former King of Furyondy, slumped half-off his celestial warhorse.  Jespo Crim is making a careful circle around the paladin, examining him closely.  The warhorse whickers softly.Heydricus sighs.  “It must run in the family.”“No, no,” Jespo corrects him.  “I’ve become something of an expert on dead royalty, Heydricus.  This king is alive—he’s just . . . well, he’s gone limp.”  Jespo is prodding the plate-armored paladin with the haft of a greater magic weapon wand.  “I think he can hear us.”As the last of the fog fades and drifts away, Gwendolyn is revealed, lying where she fell.  Like Belvor, she breathes, but does not move.“And Lucius is still alive too,” Regda offers brightly, hoping to lighten the mood.  “But he’s not limp, he’s just all cut up.”  She is covered head to toe in blood, looking like a six-foot toddler left unsupervised in an ink factory.“And I am alive,” the dragon says in a rumbling voice, its diction drawn slowly across its leathery tongue.  The creature twines around one stalagmite and disappears briefly behind another before coming to a stop a few feet from Heydricus.  As a group, the Liberators regard the bronze-scaled beast, who is favoring Heydricus with both golden eyes.  It scoots closer to the tall warrior, forcing Prisantha and Jespo aside.  “We fight well together,” it says.“That we do,” Heydricus admits, beaming.  “You spared me,” the dragon hints.  “Isn’t that interesting?”“You were least of our foes,” Prisantha says.  “We prioritize.”The dragon’s head does not move, but its eye-lids narrow, and its pupils condense to twin scratches within the flecked golden orb of its eyes.  After a moment, it squares itself to Heydricus, putting its tail-end toward Prisantha.“My name is Rrrradiant,” it says.  “Introduce yourself.”“Hello, Radiant,” Heydricus begins.“Rrrradiant,” it interrupts.“Radiant?” he says.“Rrrradiant,” it insists.“I am Heydricus Tritherionson, and . . .”Before he can finish the introductions, the dragon has whirled on Prisantha and is giving her its best threatening stare.  Prisantha stares back, unimpressed.  She winks once.  After a moment, the dragon has relented.  It twines itself toward Prisantha, wrapping its serpentine neck around her body, whispering all the while.“You humans bear the mark of the Rattleskin Dragon,” it hisses.  “How is this possible?”“If you mean the creature who spoke with its mane, we freed it from imprisonment.”  Pris arches her eyebrows.The dragon rolls its eyes back in its head as it ponders, then coils another full turn around the enchantress.  “Then I am doubly in your debt.  I have a gift for you.”  The dragon places its head next to hers, and as it keeps an eye on Heydricus, whispers something into Prisantha’s ear in Draconic.-----With the bronze dragon leading the way, the Liberators are able to navigate a full mile of twisting underground passages and emerge on the surface of Calibut, a morass of well-tended contradictions and terrors.  Like the other cities of Tenh, Calibut was sacked by the men of the Stone Fist as they swarmed through the Northern mountains.  Unlike the other cities of Tenh, the sacking was not repeated at regular intervals for the next decade.  Its male population was not slaughtered, its families not dispersed, its children not sent away to bleak Dorraka for a short life of subjugation.  Calibut did not see its grand buildings and monuments destroyed, nor did it become a breeding ground for magically-created plagues and abyssal diseases.Instead, Calibut slid gently into a long, restless sleep.  For ten years, the people of the city ate enough, rested the proper amount (and not a minute more), and tended to one another with all the efficiency and care of automatons.  There was plenty of food, and mundane healing when necessary.  Conditions were impeccably sanitary.  There was no division, no strife—no profiteering at the expense of the less fortunate, no examples of the strong preying on the weak.  There were no smiles, no laughter, no humor (grim or otherwise).  There were no gentle touches, no comforting scents.  No families, no arguments, no tears, no fear and no love.There was Zeflen.  But now the Ancient is gone, and as Prisantha’s disjunction ripped his presence from the minds of Calibut’s people, the vast majority of them went mad.  Some have gone only slightly mad—afflicted with the sort of preoccupied half-terror that might provoke concerned gossip from friends and family in some other place.  The weak-minded have it far worse, unable to convince themselves that they don’t remember anything; unable to forget the cavernous vistas of breathtaking callousness.“Well you’ve got to admire his organizational skills,” Lucius says to no one in particular.  -----By the end of the first week, Gwendolyn and Belvor are able to move around somewhat, the warmth slowly returning to their limbs over the course of several days.  The Liberators have taken control of the situation and have deputized the most coherent able-bodied adults they can find.  All things considered, they have a fairly easy job; the infrastructure of the city is well-preserved, and while Spartan to an extreme, is perfectly suited for the city’s needs.  There is no trace of the rampant disease and malnutrition common in other Tenha communities.  The population of Calibut actually grew during the occupation—children are everywhere parentless and alone.  Jespo Crim immediately begins mass teleporting groups of Nevond Nevnend guardsmen to aid in the efforts, and Heydricus orders several hundred of his infantry to make for Calibut on a forced march.Two days before her appointment in Wintershiven, Prisantha prepares a vision spell, and asks, “Does Zeflen plan to return to Calibut this year?”  She receives this reply:  Zeflen is capable of neither mercy nor compassion; neither shame nor anger.  Desire is as foreign to Zeflen as love. She takes that as a “no.”------“Like I give a f-ck about the Pholtans right now.” Heydricus is fuming.  Prisantha has called together a strategy council the day before their appointment in Wintershiven.  Jespo, Pris and Heydricus are meeting over tea and rations—there are as yet no bakeries serving delicacies in Calibut.“I’ve got a feebleminded populace who can’t even lace their own boots, nonetheless feed themselves,” Heydricus complains.  “I’m getting daily reports about gang-fighting in my capital, there are massive supply problems that only get worse the further South you go, and the King of Furyondy is so far up my ass with ‘helpful suggestions’ that it hurts when I close my mouth.”“Well,” Jespo says.“I just thought that we might want to try a little strategy this time,” Prisantha says.  “Nothing elaborate, just, you know, deciding what to do?”“What do you mean, what to do?” Heydricus asks.  “We’re going to go to Wintershiven and get Tau out of there.”“We should expect trouble,” Jespo opines loftily.  “There are factions among the Pale that believe we were responsible for the assassination of the former High Prelate.”  “I’m sure I’ll care one of these days,” Heydricus says.“We could give them the Lord of Stoink,” Prisantha suggests.  “C’min and Elenthal have thoroughly reconnoitered Stoink—I am sure we could grab the Lord, and make a peace offering out of him.”“The only thing I want to give the Pholtans is trouble and grief,” Heydricus says.  “We have a treaty with Nyrond, which is tantamount to having a war with the Pale.”“What about one of the Lord’s friends?” she asks.“People like the Lord of Stoink don’t have friends.”“That’s a fair observation,” Jespo says.  Fräs purrs.  “Exactly so,” Jespo says.“Well, I’d like to know what we are getting into,” Prisantha says, removing her crystal ball of true seeing.“It sounds like a trap to me,” Jespo says.“I’m sure it’s a trap,” Heydricus grins.  “Why do you think I’m accepting the summons?”Prisantha is frowning.  “My scrying is blocked!  “The nerve of some people,” Jespo sniffs, then adds, “I’m sure scrying on a prisoner is a criminal offense in Wintershiven.”Heydricus nods.  “You know, we should keep a tally of our crimes.  Can you start one, Jespo?”“Suddenly you’re concerned about legalities?” Prisantha asks.“I’m not concerned,” Heydricus says, smiling.  “I’m interested.”Jespo is making notes on a piece of parchment.  “Say Heydricus, weren’t you part of the raid on Pholtus’ temple?”  “Oh yeah, I’d forgotten!” Heydricus says.“Ah, to rescue me,” Prisantha muses.Heydricus sighs.  “There’s no way they’re letting me out of there without a fight.  In fact, I’m counting on it; we go in, we kick ass, and we escape with Tau.  I’m not letting any friend of mine be judged by that bastard Pholtus.  We’ll know what we’re up against when we get there.”“Then we’ll kill it,” Jespo observes.  “Or die trying.  Or both.”“I’m not taking Belvor,” Heydricus says.  “Ah,” Jespo says. Prisantha sighs.  “I needed to be able to say that I tried,” she mutters to herself.  “Fine, I’ll teleport us in this evening.”</blockquote>

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