Mmm. Yes.
Er, don't mind me. I'll just...er...post a quiet update and slink off again.
Thanks for your patience, everyone. Things are pretty much back to normal with me now. Whatever 'normal' is.
And, er, Eridanis, if you could do the gardening again, it'd be much appreciated.
**
Three Webs.
Eadric rode alone from Morne to Trempa upon Contundor, passing by his own keep at Deorham without pause late in the afternoon of the second day of the journey.
His decision not to take Tatterbrand, who had been quietly at work within the Temple apiary, was based in large measure upon the knowledge that his squire – upon learning of the
Ahma's intentions – would have insisted upon accompanying his master to Afqithan. And Afqithan was a place beyond Tatterbrand's ability to comprehend and, likely, survive.
Mostin's message,
I can lock part of the demiplane. It will be possible for you to go as yourself, without duplicity, if you so desire, was a simultaneous cause of both relief and concern for him, and he considered the implications as he rode.
Somewhat later, when Eadric made camp by the wayside, Mostin himself appeared and they discussed the likely unfolding of events. Soneillon was engaged in delicate negotiations with Rhyxali, and Ortwin made overtures to Duke Ytryn in Afqithan. They waited for Nhura to rally the remaining Loquai in Faerie and Shadow, and give the signal. Mostin seemed confident that the spell that he was devising and – with the aid of Nwm and Shomei – would invoke, was proof against even Graz'zt's attempts to dispel.
"Provided, of course, that he does not enlist a cabal of his own," Eadric said drily.
"Demons are not renowned for exhibiting a preference for cooperative magic," Mostin sniffed.
"Except Soneillon?" Eadric asked.
"She is unusual in that regard, but not unique," Mostin nodded. "You know her better than most. In your judgment, will she involve herself personally, or act through others?"
Eadric shrugged. "I've no idea. I'm surprised that you trust my ability to read her."
"I don't," Mostin agreed. "But I trust mine less in this regard. And I have not been to Throile. What did…"
"I'd really prefer not to talk about it, Mostin."
"Ahh," the Alienist nodded.
"And Throile itself is under renewed attack."
"Evidently, she keeps you well informed," Mostin raised an eyebrow. "When you were there, did she…"
"Mostin…" Eadric sighed.
"I'll not ask again. Apparently you feel a little reticent to speak of it."
"How perceptive of you, Mostin. And when will your spell be ready?"
"Soon enough," the Alienist answered. "I am somewhat pressed for time, however. And Shomei is nagging me to complete my part of the cycle which will allow us to interpret the
web of motes. She is ready, and so is Nwm."
"Then don't let me keep you," Eadric said, arranging his blanket meaningfully.
"She is not idle, however," Mostin continued, ignoring the hint. "I believe she has approached several Infernal magnates regarding possible support in the Afqithan endeavour."
"On whose authority?" Eadric was aghast.
Mostin laughed. "I don't think that she requires any. Shomei is very well connected. And she is also making inquiries regarding the presence of Titivilus in the demiplane."
"This is becoming too complex." His mind boggled as he considered the connection between the
Sela and the Infernalist. A microcosm of the Irrenite perception of Oronthon and the Adversary? The Left Hand of the Numinous.
Do not start thinking that way. It leads to madness.
"What do you expect?" Mostin sighed. "The prize is enormous, after all."
"Afqithan? Hardly."
"Azzagrat is the prize, Eadric, with its untold wealth. And the fall of Graz'zt. Such events – or the promise of them – tend to attract attention.
Lots of attention."
"Mmm. Yes. I suppose they do."
"Are you actually beginning to grasp the full ramifications of this, Eadric?" Mostin asked sarcastically. "You realize that the spill-over will be immense, of course? It will be like dropping a boulder into a puddle."
"Azzagrat is a puddle?"
"Cosmically speaking, yes. And if we succeed, we create something that Abyssal nature abhors the most."
Eadric gave a quizzical look.
"A power vacuum," Mostin explained.
**
Had Rintrah been mortal, and subject to the vagaries of pride or honour, he might have rejoiced in the grace bestowed upon him, or experienced ecstasy at his newfound closeness with the Godhood. As it was, lacking in such faculties, or even a differentiated sense of self, the temporary Perfection of the celestial registered as nothing more than a recognition that he was a more efficient tool for carrying out his Shining Master's Will. His thoughts reached out to find an omnipresence which mystics might have regarded as comforting and all-embracing. Lacking an ego to begin with, the experience was less profound for the Messenger.
Wreathing himself in flame and darkness, Rintrah descended rapidly into the lowest pit of Hell. After a brief and unknowable exchange had occurred, the celestial struck out across the infinities which stretched toward the Abyss, perceived by his mind's eye as a spiral which led to Nothingness.
In Morne, the
Sela sat in a state of
saizhan, the interaction of entities of tremendous power appearing merely as facets of the dialectic revealed to consciousness. Whether his mind reflected reality, or reality responded to his intention was unknown. Causality, synchronicity and coincidence: all were meaningless terms.
The Messenger reached an interface. A bubble of separation. Sealed, inviolable; the labour of centuries of sorcery. Even before he touched it, Rintrah knew that he could not penetrate it.
Oronthon Magnified him. He passed effortlessly through.
Pain waited beyond. It was as if all the agony in the cosmos had been distilled into this single space, mere yards across: a perfect sphere, the walls of which were graven with glyphs and runes of torment. Their power passed over the celestial, and around him, and through him, but caused less than the slightest discomfort. Rintrah's eyes, incandescent with potency now, glanced upwards to behold a semblance of a form: wracked, inchoate, stretched and twisted beyond recognition, its pattern diffuse at its margins. It seemed as if the slightest of breezes would cause it to evaporate. Its grasp on existence was tenuous.
Under the force of the Planetar's selfless Will, the quiddity of the sphere began to change, and reshaped itself according to his direction. Empty space assumed pleasing forms: a tree, a small pool with lilies, a tiny rock garden. The upper hemisphere gave off a soft, azure radiance, reminiscent of a cloudless day in late summer.
Rintrah rested briefly: the effort of creation was not insignificant. He glanced at the artificial sky, still etched with sigils of dreadful power which emanated madness and pain, before his wings lifted him gently aloft. As his hand trailed lightly over the runes, each one shattered,
disjoined into its separate components. They fell like a silver dust upon the rockery, or to float upon the surface of the pool.
The formless
thing, still suspended in the centre of the sphere, quivered palpably and then relaxed. For an instant, Rintrah was concerned that the sudden removal of the tension that it had experienced might cause it to dissociate. He swiftly grasped the essence and held it in his hands. Cohesion and perception returned to it. Responsive to the celestial's ministrations, it corporeated rapidly.
Rintrah laid her by the bole of the tree,
hallowed the sphere, and vanished. Nehael slept for the first time in her immeasurably long existence.
The
Sela shifted his position, and a single bead of sweat trickled from his temple. It had been a particularly difficult meditation.
**
Ortwin, Iua and Koilimilou waited in an antechamber of blacks and muted greys, the vague and insubstantial walls of which were carved with exquisite yet gruesome scenes. They depicted torture, mutilation, and an erotic exultation in pain and depravity which upset even the Satyr's normally liberal sensibilities.
This may be the stupidest thing I have ever done, he thought to himself.
Ainhorr must know of our presence by now. Inwardly, he fretted desperately. His outward appearance was one of practiced, imperturbable nonchalance.
Ytryn, one of the most powerful of Loquai nobles, had kept the trio waiting for an hour. What counsel was he taking? Whose orders was he following? Dammit, why hasn't anything
happened yet?
The Cambion said nothing, her perfect face remained impassive, perhaps bearing the slightest hint of contempt.
Gods, I hope her name still carries some weight in these parts, Ortwin regarded Koilimilou.
I hope they buy this. And then,
He knows I am here. He must. He knows what I am, who I am. He knows that I was there when we hit Feezuu. He knows it was me – and Iua – at Khu. Why has he not acted? I should be dead by now, or at least undergoing painful dismemberment.
A pair of doors opened. Ortwin's stomach turned over, and bile rose in his throat. He smiled lazily.
"After you," he said easily to the Cambion.
Polymorphed and
mind-blanked, Ortwin and Iua followed Koilimilou into the great hall. The Satyr had assumed the shape of a sidhe again. Iua's form – a death slaad – was designed to cause maximum confusion and concern amongst Ytryn's vassals and his demonic courtiers. Ortwin hoped that she could pull it off – Iua was a fine liar, but lacked his own finesse.
Koilimilou bowed her head.
Ortwin strode forward, aware of the many gazes upon him, bowed with considerable flair before Ytryn's throne, and spoke in a calm, confident voice. His Sylvan was full of archaic inflexion, as befitted a representative of the oldest of fae lineages.
"Greetings, your Grace. My thanks for receiving this embassy, and the hospitality of your court. Queen Nhura sends her regards from her exile in Faerie, and trusts that you remember your old acquaintance."
As Ortwin's head rose, his eyes took on the full scene before him. Ytryn reclined upon a low seat. To his left, coiled and menacing, a marilith was poised like a viper. Two kelvezu flanked the Duke, and at least thirty Loquai knights stood about in silent vigil. Umbral quicklings darted around the periphery of his vision, and a palrethee hovered in the air nearby.
Sh*t, the Satyr thought.
**
Eadric's decision to attend the investiture of Skadding, Foide's' son, as Duke of Trempa, had been made quickly. Despite his ambivalence towards the House of Thahan, and his distrust of the Lord Chamberlain and his tedious plots, Eadric actually felt a measure of confidence in Skadding. The boy was naïve and overly trusting – qualities which, in many ways, the Earl of Deorham regarded as positive and which his father had, apparently, failed to divest him of.
Besides, one must fulfill one's feudal obligations, after all.
After a brief detour to visit the Abbey of Osfrith – where he instructed the nuns to arrange the transport of the insane Urqual to the Fane in Morne – Eadric rode through the open gates of the castle at Trempa on the evening before the ceremony. The outer courtyards were crammed with tents and pavillions. Knights, courtiers, maids and entertainers ate, drank and mingled in the dusk. Heads turned quickly to regard him, and from somewhere his own
ladon – his clarion call – rang out from a trumpet.
Passing swiftly beneath the Tower of Owls and into the inner bailey, his presence caused more chaos and hysteria than he was altogether comfortable with. Trempa's Oronthonians – the first to embrace the new order when it had swept across Wyre – prostrated themselves and hailed the
Ahma, a virtual demigod. The Uediians – who comprised most of Trempa's northern aristocracy – regarded him as a saviour from Temple taxes and the indentureship of pagan farmers. In that regard, he had held true to his word. Caur of Har Kumil shouted and greeted him warmly.
Foide regarded Eadric suspiciously behind a veneer of politeness and civility. The satisfaction that he had enjoyed for the past month – at his family's possession of two of Wyre's great fiefs – now turned to sourness in his mouth. Foide was reminded of one simple fact: with the blessing of King Tiuhan or no, this ceremony could only pass with the support – whether open or implicit – of Eadric of Deorham. He was above the law, whatever protestations he might make to the contrary. He was invulnerable: mortal weapons could not touch him, they said. Men would follow him happily to their death, assured of their place in paradise. And if he had wanted the duchy for himself, he could have taken it.
And he rides into Trempa, travel-stained and without an entourage, like some errant or hedge-knight.
Eadric dismounted, and knelt before Skadding, his new liege-lord. Somewhat abashed, the Duke-to-be ushered him to his feet.
"My sword is yours," Eadric bowed. "And my counsel and guidance, should you ever require it."
Foide of Lang Herath chewed his lip and brooded.
**
Mostin’s lidless green eyes were glazed and his body motionless, as he floated – transfixed – within an infinite sea of light. A hundred billion motes surrounded him.
His intellect, swollen by magic to titanic proportions, reflected briefly upon the series of spells which had brought him to this place. Potent dweomers, which only a handful of Wizards in Wyre’s long history would have been capable of mastering, seemed – from his new perspective – like paltry cantrips fit only for neophytes and dabblers.
Cradled in the palm of Mostin’s hand was Graz’zt’s mote: dark, erotic, brooding, and seething with potency. The Alienist inspected first one facet, and then another. The fact that he could not determine the location of Graz’zt – in spatiotemporal terms, at least – was indicative of the fact that the Prince was
mind blanked. But it made no difference: there was another mote, anchored by a taught radicle, in close proximity. What one could not read directly, one could infer obliquely with little effort in an expanded state such as this: Lord Kostchtchie stood before Prince Graz’zt within the great hall of the Iron Palace in Zelatar.
Mostin scowled, and rapidly plotted the trajectories of several hundred possible futures, scanning each for resonances with Eadric, Nhura, Soneillon, Rhyxali, Ainhorr, Titivilus, Nehael and himself.
Kostchtchie will move to support Ainhorr in Afqithan, he thought.
Fiendish giants, he mused,
and some are powerful sorcerers. His eye caught a new thread of probability.
What is that?
[Inspection. Analysis.]
Blightfire, he groaned inwardly. The Lord of the Ice Wastes had potent allies of his own.
Mostin returned his attention to Graz’zt’s mote, and abstracted his perspective. He noted the tenuous rapport between himself and the Prince of Azzagrat – alluding to Graz’zt’s own prescience.
But I see both more clearly and more deeply than you, he thought.
For the moment, at least. Your machinations are transparent to me. Graz’zt could not grasp the entirety of the Afqithan nodality any more than Mostin could, but the fragments of which Mostin was aware – scattered and incoherent as they were – were more complete. He considered the immense
dimensional lock that he had developed, projected the catenary of the pseudonatural Horror onto the lattice of interconnected points, and then superimposed Shomei’s glooms on top of that. The nodality rapidly reorganized itself to show a number of different probable futures.
None showed Graz'zt in Afqithan.
He is afraid, Mostin knew.
And rightly so. He is not unassailable. He will not come.
Mostin cursed. One plan at least – to lure the Lord of Azzagrat to Afqithan with the promise of Eadric's head – could not be realized. Mostin did not underestimate Graz'zt's shrewdness or cunning, but had hoped that his temper would be sufficiently unstable to betray him.
The Alienist projected a scenario which involved the swift subdual of Afqithan, the removal of Ainhorr and Kostchtchie – and whatever wights the Ice Lord brought with him – and an immediate subsequent assault upon Azzagrat itself. It required Shomei to secure twelve legions of Bathym's barbed devils
and the commitment of Rhyxali's main force of babaus in addition to her shadow demons. But there would be no second
dimensional lock and no glooms – Shomei herself had vanished from the picture, slain by kelvezu before she could articulate her own power.
He examined a string of possible futures which involved the
binding of the Horror, and its travel through a
gate to Azzagrat in order to assassinate Graz'zt. Fourteen of the twenty-three outcomes resulted in Graz'zt escaping to his sanctum before the Horror could complete its mission. Five of the remaining futures involved the coercion of the Horror by Graz'zt and its subsequent redeployment against its summoner:
I'd better make sure it's adequately buffed, If we go that route, Mostin thought. Two futures promised Graz'zt's demise, and two were ambiguous – depending on the reaction of the Arch-fiend's courtiers.
Mostin meditated upon the interaction between the motes of the Horror and Graz'zt, seeking tendrils of possibility to exploit. Graz'zt would need to be weakened – divested of a sizeable portion of his reservoir – before the Horror could be used efficiently. Of the hundreds of powerful spells within Graz'zt's repertoire, one – and the name
exquisite domination sprang unbidden to Mostin's mind – was sufficiently potent to threaten even the Horror's virtual immunity to magic.* If Graz'zt could shoot off two spells – a
superb dispelling variant followed by the compulsion – then the chances were good that the Prince could assert his will upon the pseudonatural. Graz'zt's reservoir was immense, and he could absorb an unholy amount of backlash before being troubled.
Mostin breathed deeply, and focused his mind. He remembered where he was – within the dome of Mulissu's mansion, floating within the
web of motes. His thoughts reached out to the Infernalist.
[Mostin]: [Very complex semiotic pattern] (=
The Horror cannot accomplish an assassination in Azzagrat without prior softening of the target. And he can dispel your glooms effortlessly, and still
deal with the pseudonatural. And this assumes he is not even within his sanctum.)
[Shomei]: [Complex semiotic pattern] (=
That is inconsequential. If he were, then he could prevent the gate
opening in any case. Come what may, I will send the glooms tomorrow.)
[Mostin]: !
[Shomei]: (Emphatically) [Semiotic pattern] (=
It is time that he realized he is vulnerable in a tangible way.)
[Mostin]: [Semiotic pattern] (=
He will quickly overcome them.)
[Shomei]: [Semiotic pattern] (=
He will bleed first. And they will cut deep.)
[Mostin]: [Semiotic pattern] (=
Have you seen something I have not? If so, please share it.)
[Shomei]: [Complex semiotic pattern] (=
I am walking a narrow line, Mostin. Every action I take from now onwards must be calculated for maximum effect.)
[Mostin]: [Complex semiotic pattern] (=
Please do not sink into a fugue, Shomei. I thought that you had finally made it through the nihilism.)
Shomei smiled, and shook her head.
*The prime benefit conferred by Mostin's insanely buffed Intelligence was the bonus granted to Knowledge (Arcana) checks. Whilst difficult to rationalize in terms that we might understand, the answers to questions such as "what spells does Graz'zt have in his repertoire which might affect this possible course of action " would spring into Mostin's mind at appropriate times. I had already optimized around twenty ELH spell variants for Graz'zt – i.e. increased the XP burn and pumped up the backlash to bring them within his ability. I assumed that he had several hundred more – after all, he is X billion years old, and it only seemed reasonable. It is unfortunate that it is impossible to play a character with an Int of 22, much less one with a (temporary) Intelligence of 150. What does it
mean to be that Intelligent? It is impossible to even begin to conceptualize how thought processes can work on that level. Thankfully, this has been the only time that such cosmic heights have been reached. It is simply too much of a headache to DM.
