YOLANDA’S GRUESOME GLOBULES...
You have a truly warped imagination. I like it.
A wee update, I think...
****
Dragonplay
The tower was a slender, delicate structure, rising some thirty fathoms from a low hillock and twisting deliciously before reaching its crest. It was carved in intricate relief and inlayed with precious metals which seemed to capture and then amplify the perpetual twilight, and stars glistened softly at its apex. Around it, arranged in elegant symmetry, five more towers – the hues of which were subtly different – rose in close proximity to half the height of the central spire, their shoulders attached by narrow buttresses of both aesthetic and functional design.
It was the home of Shondipere, a Loquai aristocrat and vassal of Queen Menicau. Shondipere was a noble of middling means, who nonetheless boasted an excellent pedigree. His title – if translated from the Sylvan – might have been 'baron' or 'thane': in fact, the Loquai admitted to greater variation within their order of precedence than most human cultures.
Only fifteen Loquai dwelt with Shondipere, and all were related. The remainder of his household consisted of a handful of umbral quicklings who acted as messengers and spies, two
charmed fiendish trolls who served as door-wards, a dozen slow-witted gnome slaves, and the noble's pet monster – an abyssal basilisk named Turchin. Shondipere kept a stable of twenty griffons, although he seldom ventured beyond the confines of his castle, content to busy himself composing morbid verse, or indulging his dark and violent fantasies.
Shondipere had spent the last several hours – or was it days? he paid little heed to the passage of time – closeted alone in an airy rotunda pondering upon various aspects of the nature of pain. His reverie had been interrupted when two palrethees and a small troop of bar-lgura – agents of the balor Ainhorr – had arrived and required that he surrender his daughter as hostage, together with a large portion of his portable wealth. Shondipere had remained impassive, and conceded to their demands – he felt no particular attachment to his offspring, and was anxious to return to his contemplation. His primary concern regarding his daughter was that, were she to die, he would be without an heir – precipitating a need to find another mate and to sire further progeny.
Shondipere was therefore vexed when the quickling Khimpa darted into the rotunda and bowed her tiny head to the glass floor at his feet. Shondipere gestured irritably, a sign that the sprite should speak.
"Two devils require an audience, Lord," Khimpa squeaked rapidly, her malevolent face betraying a certain wicked glee at the discomfort that she knew the news would cause her master.
Shondipere observed the quickling's features, and made a mental note to have her punished for insubordination later. A brief spell with the trolls might encourage her to act with more civility, or at least hide her emotions better.
"What is their order?" Shondipere inquired coldly.
"A horned devil and an erinyes, Lord," Khimpa replied.
Shondipere scowled. What was a cornugon doing
here? He had been informed of the presence of the three dukes in Afqithan, of course, but whatever their purpose was, it didn't concern him. It seemed likely the arrival of two devils at his own gates was connected – unless it was a ruse devised by Menicau, or maybe Ainhorr himself: to test Shondipere's loyalty, or perhaps out of sheer perversity.
"Order the household to assemble," he sighed. "I will receive them in the heptagon in ten minutes."
As they approached, Shondipere – cautious of being drawn into some diabolic intrigue which he had no desire to enmesh himself in – studied the devils carefully.
Something isn't right, was his last thought.
**
Eadric and Nwm – together with Contundor, Sem and Gheim –
wind walked to Deorham. The Druid intended to dispose of the blackthorn tree which occupied the courtyard of Kyrtill's Burh, together with its grizzly fruit – the carcasses of the demons who had assailed the keep. More than a fortnight had passed since the attack, but Eadric's servants had been disinclined to deal with the spectacle, concerned that some taint might infect them, and generally shunning the northern and western parts of the bailey. And the
Ahma was anxious for things to return to normal – for their usual brief while, at least.
In the event, Eadric changed his mind. The remains of the demons should probably go, he suggested wrily, but the tree itself could stay. It would act as a reminder to himself – and any potential threats to him – that he was not without allies, albeit strange ones which he often failed to understand.
In a businesslike manner, Nwm used his magic to clean up the mess he had made, removing the flags which had shattered upon the sudden growth of the tree, and replacing them with a small garden around the blackthorn's bole. Concerned that the tree might still appear rather dark and gloomy, he caused it to flower, and tiny clusters of white and pale yellow appeared on its spiky twigs. It was out of season, but a justifiable tinkering, given the circumstances. The spell which Nwm invoked to achieve the effect was, however, of less than pinpoint accuracy, and the ivy which clung to the Steeple and the keep burgeoned into a thick cover. Eadric sighed and entered the chapel.
Of the quartet of celestials called by Tahl, the single remaining deva, Saphrez, was deputed by Eadric to guard the sanctum. The celestial remained near the altar,
invisible, and was enjoined to bestow whatever blessings it might upon those who came to pray there. The decision was both timely and unfortunate – it transpired that a group of pilgrims from Ialde were already boarded at
The Twelve Elms, the only inn in the village of Deorham, some two miles distant. When Eadric – reluctant that his home become a shrine – conveyed his concerns to Nwm, he received an unsympathetic response.
"I'm surprised it took this long, actually," the Druid said laconically. "If it troubles you that much, just ask Mostin to move in. I'm sure he would discourage any pietists from undertaking the journey here."
Eadric grumbled. It occurred to him that his intent – to have the deva act as a support for his staff, and a source of healing for those locals who required it – would rapidly foster a situation which attracted zealots and fundamentalists. But he could hardly
deny succour to those who came to Kyrtill's Burh seeking it.
"Keep the gates open," he wearily instructed his servants, "but allow visitors access to the well and the chapel only, and encourage them not to linger too long."
Later that day, after Nwm had retired to his glade, Eadric watched from a window within the Steeple as a party of twenty pilgrims with travel-stained clothes made a slow procession up the knoll, across the bridge, through the courtyard and into the chapel. Hopefully, he mused wrily, none of them were
cursed, diseased or injured, Saphrez could remain inactive, and news of miraculous goings-on at Kyrtill's Burh would be delayed for a little while. But it was only a matter of time. And if any petitioned him directly for spiritual aid, he was duty-bound to provide it. Whilst he did not resent it, he could feel no upwelling of generosity or compassion while he still had so much more to do: first and foremost, he remained a soldier.
As the
Ahma leaned upon the sill, gazed down from the tower, and ruminated on his various responsibilities, a sudden breeze caused his hackles to rise and the faint scent of death and lotus reached his nostrils. A pair of slender arms encircled his waist, and a soft face pressed against his back. Wings began to fold around him, beckoning him inwards. He swallowed, and pulled himself away.
The void-that-was-a-demon-who-was-a-girl had returned, apparently seeking reassurance.
**
Mostin rapidly changed his form, shedding his diabolic body and assuming the shape of a dragon fifty feet long which barely fit into the lofty reception chamber. His scales kindled to a searing flame, and he breathed a gout of infernal fire over Shondipere, the four knights who flanked him, and a pair of unlucky quicklings who happened to be hovering in the wrong place. All were instantly immolated.
Chaos erupted all around. Gnome slaves and sprites fled for cover, and several of the remaining Loquai immediately
plane shifted to Shadow. Others shakily targeted Mostin with spells or arrows, none of which affected him. He leapt upwards, smashing his head through the delicate glass dome, shattering the plinths either side of it, and took to the sky briefly before settling upon a slender buttress, which began to crack under his weight. Mostin flapped his wings inexpertly to compensate.
Inside of the heptagon, Shomei had taken the form of another wyrm. Hellfire erupted again briefly, before she joined Mostin above the castle, perching upon the topmost spire.
"We should give the gnomes a few minutes to escape, and then just flatten the place," she called down.
Mostin nodded enthusiastically.
Shapechange was rapidly becoming his new favourite spell.
**
"Are they yours?" Titivilus asked Furcus, smiling.
"No indeed," Furcas replied, stroking his beard.
Titivilus sighed inwardly. It was a pointless question – the Count of Rhetoric was almost as good a liar as himself.
"Apparently, they are very large ones." Titivilus said. "And they have levelled four strongholds already. I cannot
scry them – they are warded. I am returning to Dis. Duke Allocer should know."
"Is that wise?" Furcas asked. "They might be his."
"They may also be rogue," Titivilus countered, wondering whether Furcas dissembled and, if so, what his motive was.
"One, perhaps; but two? Unlikely. Murmuur would…"
"I think it best that we do not inform Murmuur," Titivilus interrupted. "If they are his, it is better that he doesn't know that we know."
"Murmuur's knights are mandated to intervene in affairs if necessary," Furcas scowled. "And he is here. Are you suggesting that we withhold information from our commander? That is a bold course to take."
"Not at all," Titivilus replied, careful to avoid any possible accusations of insubordination. "I'm merely saying that, if they
are his, then it may be that we are not meant to know. I would regret upsetting any wider plan because of our over-diligence in information gathering."
"It may be related to your former protégée's petition."
"Perhaps," Titivilus nodded, not knowing what it was that Furcas referred to, but unwilling to make that fact known, "but
which petition? Now that another has been made, it merely complicates things further." He
had to return to the Iron City, to find out what was going on. He discreetly studied the face of Furcas for a response, but the Count evinced none.
"And she may have made several others, news of which has not yet reached us," Furcas pointed out, curious as to whether Titivilus lied about the second petition and, if not, to whom it might have been addressed. "On reflection, perhaps you
should return to Dis. I will guard our interests here in the meanwhile."
The mind of Titivilus twisted, wondering whether that had been Furcas's intent from the outset. The Confuser decided to play along with it. "It might be prudent to mobilize some of your troops," he suggested, "in the event that an unknown rival Duke is involved. I could bring a communiqué to Sobel* to that effect, if you so wish."
"I would prefer to relay such a message myself, should the need arise," Furcas said drily. "I would be embarrassed if the information was somehow misapprehended."
"That is understandable," Titivilus agreed. "Perhaps you should appoint an aide whose mental faculties are more sharply honed."
Furcas smiled thinly.
"Do you then have
no requests?"
"That depends. Are you planning to visit Malbolge as well?" Furcas inquired.
"Only if our Dread Master demands it," Titivilus replied, the merest hint of sarcasm in his voice. Malbolge was a tedious, brutal environment, which lacked any sophistication: a far cry from the subtleties and intrigues of Dis.
"It might be prudent to ensure that Murmuur's troops are adequately prepared.**"
"That is a wise precaution," Titivilus concurred.
"And give my respects to our Lord, should you see him," Furcas smiled.
"Naturally," Titivilus lied.
**
Soneillon appeared in her natural form. She seemed utterly drained, although, at first, Eadric was nonetheless cautious that it might be a ruse. It was as though, somehow, the Void had diminished in stature.
Ens had polluted her, diluting her with matter and energy. It had the effect of making her seem more tangible and real than normal.
A faint tracery of scars – wounds which she had recently received, and the vestiges of which had not yet entirely vanished – covered her arms, neck, wings and torso. Blackness stained the skin beneath her ears and nostrils, where enormous backlash energies had caused her demonic body to rupture. Her hands and fingernails were caked with dried ichor: when she had spent her last spell, Eadric knew, and they had grappled her within the unlight which surrounded her, she had torn at them in a frenzy with her claws.
"The Paling*** has been breached," she smiled wrily. "Adyell
disjoined a section of it before she defected. Janiq's bar-lgura are pouring through. I am asking for your help."
Oronthon, he swore silently.
She really is vulnerable. He sighed. "Very well. How long do we have?"
"Helitihai and Chaya patched the defenses with multiple
walls of force, but they were being systematically
disintegrated by daemon mercenaries as I left. It is impossible to say. Throile must not fall, Eadric."
He nodded. "We need Mostin. Can you issue a
sending?"
"I am spent!" Soneillon snapped. "I have magic enough to return us to Throile, that is all."
"Or to issue a
sending?"
The message sped to Afqithan:
The Ahma
commands that you attend him in his stronghold. Events are spiralling out of control in Throile. Your assistance is required.
Mostin raised a draconic eyebrow. He turned to Shomei. "I have just received a
sending from Soneillon – she is labouring under the impression that I am somehow Eadric's servant. No matter. It seems as though the second Throile thread is crystallizing."
Shomei groaned. "That's the one with the ultrodaemons."
"Unfortunately, yes."
*
The pious were gathered in the courtyard, speaking amongst themselves in hushed voices, when one of them noticed the
Ahma walking towards them from the base of the Steeple. Excitedly, he pointed out Eadric to his companions.
Their sense of religious awe was replaced by a feeling of confusion as, beneath the blackthorn, Soneillon manifested. There was talk of a demoness associated with the
Ahma, of course, but rumour spoke of her being
genteel in appearance. This creature was wild, naked, bloodstained.
Effortlessly reading their thoughts, Soneillon smiled. Despite all that had transpired, the temptation to
charm these hapless mortals was still almost too much to resist. Eadric stared stonily at her.
Above them, the sky darkened momentarily and a fissure in space ripped open. As two enormous wyrms, wreathed in infernal fire thundered through a
gate, beyond them a scene from a dream – or nightmare – was briefly revealed: a twilit sky, streaked with deep indigo, saffron and vermillion.
The pilgrims fled from Kyrtill's Burh, adequately instructed, Eadric considered, in the application of the dialectic.
*Sobel – the lieutenant appointed to Furcas by Dispater – is an advanced erinyes with considerable tactical savvy. Although Furcas holds wide estates and can muster 29 legions of devils (primarily barbazu), he takes little pleasure in martial pursuits. Sobel watches the Duke of Rhetoric and communicates his activities to Dis, but Furcas still values her advice and military expertise.
** i.e. find out exactly who, and what, and how many, and whether any hellfire wyrms had been deployed.
*** The enormous magical outer defense which surrounds Soneillon's citadel in Throile. It is impenetrable to normal physical movement, and inside it
teleportation is severely restricted, although
gates may open within its confines. Access to the citadel is controlled through three portals which open or close according to Soneillon's will.
