Baron Opal
First Post
There is also the Compiled Sepulchrave Story Hour thread by Cheiromancer.
The Mésalliance. Part 2. (Updated 11/28)
grodog
Hero
Don't gorget the all-important Rogues Gallery thread at http://www.enworld.org/forums/showthread.php?t=5652
Sep has also instigated a number of rules threads on the Home Brew forums (or whatever they're called now), but at that point we're delving into esoterica....
Sep has also instigated a number of rules threads on the Home Brew forums (or whatever they're called now), but at that point we're delving into esoterica....
Cheiromancer
Adventurer
Baron Opal said:
Which also includes a list of links to the relevant parts of the rogue's gallery thread. Link is in my sig, when I have one. (I recently restored it, in anticipation of the update).
Knightfall
World of Kulan DM
Just finished re-reading the last two posts. Just to refresh my memory. I'm all set for the next post.
Somehow, I think Sep's Thanksgiving was a little more hectic then he'd anticipated. Hmm, perhaps by Monday?
Cheers!
KF72
Somehow, I think Sep's Thanksgiving was a little more hectic then he'd anticipated. Hmm, perhaps by Monday?
Cheers!
KF72
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Gez
First Post
Eridanis said:I weed when I can; hopefully, Thanksgiving break will give me a chance to work on this thread, as well as others. I'm just as eager to hear more story as you guys.
Eridanis, next time you prune this thread, and if it hasn't been updated by then, can you please got us rid of the "Finally" part of its title? Pretty please?
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Sepulchrave II
Legend
Hi. Sorry for the delay - once I started pulling things together, I realized that finding a suitable place to leave off and actually post was difficult. I anticipate that there will be several more installments of "Afqithan" after this one - things were coming to a head, and the various disparate threads were beginning to resolve.
Notice in promising an update I did write "provisional plan," however. I covered my arse, just in case
**
**
AFQITHAN - Part One
"Mulissu is dead," Daunton the Diviner announced to the assembled wizards.*
His words were greeted by a variety of reactions: by Troap, a look of stunned disbelief; by Tozinak – in the form of a sylph – with tears and a dramatic posture; by Waide, a smug grimace which conveyed the words 'I told you so – it was inevitable.' Jalael and Idro exhibited calm insouciance. A dozen other mages – and several of these were formidable in their own right – showed expressions which ranged from anguish, through curiosity, to total ignorance of the reclusive Savant's identity.
"Thank-you, Daunton," Waide said with nasal condescension. "Although…"
"There is more," Daunton interrupted, shooting the transmuter a look of barely concealed contempt. Waide surpassed him in terms of power, but Daunton enjoyed the respect of the entire magical community and the friendship of several influential personages – including Prince Tagur – outside of it. "An artifact bestowed upon her by Jovol has been stolen, along with other powerful items."
"She and Mostin were feuding, I hear," Waide ventured.
"Waide!" Daunton snapped. "There will be no rumourmongering and innuendo."
"It is hardly an idle thought," Waide persisted. "Mostin's assault upon Griel outside of the Claviger's domain is well known. Which artifact do you speak of?" Waide licked his lips.
"It is called the web of motes. It is potent."
"I have never heard of it," Waide sniffed.
"Nor I," Jalael agreed. "What is its purpose?"
Daunton sighed. "Divination," he said.
Waide laughed openly. "I think we can discern the purpose of your insistence upon this meeting, Daunton: you desire this item. And try telling me now that Mostin has no part in this."
"I make no such claim," the Diviner said dismissively. "But neither do I make the assertion that Mostin murdered Mulissu: he did not. Her own daughter, Iua, slew her. The priestesses of Jeshi confirm as much."
"Matricide?" Jalael said drily. "This gets more interesting. Where is Iua now?"
"I do not know. I suspect she is mind blanked. I have tried to discern her whereabouts twice."
"An accomplice?" Troap asked.
"Or a device," Daunton nodded. "Naturally, you suspect the former, Waide, and you suspect that it is Mostin."
"It is not his style," Tozinak sobbed. "He would have killed her with much more panache. Was Iua under a compulsion?"
"Perhaps. Graz'zt certainly bore Mulissu a grudge. He may have dominated Iua, although it would have been a potent compound spell to circumvent the temple wards – especially from Azzagrat. But the Prince had already personally assailed the Savant in her demiplane: hence her retreat to the Prime."
Waide's jaw dropped. "And she survived?"
Daunton nodded. "She was well prepared. Furthermore, Mostin anticipated the attack and provided a safe exit for her."
Waide swallowed nervously. Once he and the Alienist had been peers. But now he realized – and the knowledge caused him to grit his teeth in envy and frustration – that Mostin had utterly surpassed him.
"Had she other enemies?" Troap asked.
"Not to my knowledge – she carefully avoided making them, as a rule."
"How kind of Mostin to lend her one of his," Waide said snidely.
"It was Mulissu who invoked the cascade at Khu," Troap said drily, "not Mostin. I think that is enough to warrant the enmity of any number of powerful fiends."
"It was no doubt in response to Mostin's nagging," Waide replied.
"Because Mulissu was so weak-willed and impressionable, and Mostin so likes the company of celestials," Troap retorted acidly. The Goblin turned to Daunton. "Do you think the emerging Cheshne faction may have had a hand? They are in geographical proximity."
"The possibility had occurred to me," Daunton nodded. "Although a motive is harder to fathom."
"Mulissu could have crystallized magical resistance in Wyrish and Thalassine spellcasters, if it became required," Jalael suggested. "It may have been a preemptive strike."
"The Cult of Cheshne has never exhibited an historical desire to dominate in that manner," Daunton sighed. "Besides, why wait to remove her until after their arrival? And I am reluctant to pin every unfortunate event which transpires upon them – we do not know their agenda."
"Not good," Waide grumbled. "We know that much, at least. The Claviger may prove to be an aegis which we did not anticipate. Although maybe Jovol did."
"Jovol was not omniscient," Jalael grunted. "And his legacy has already stymied magical activity. It may yet deny us the ability to muster an effective defense."
"You seem fixated on some impending conflict, Jalael," Daunton scowled. "If it occurs – and I doubt that – it will likely be religious in nature, and will not concern us."
"If the ugras are invoked, I doubt they will make the distinction," Jalael smiled. "But the question remains: why now?"
"Nothing becomes," Daunton said grimly. "We cannot know why or where. Which brings me to events in the demiplane of Afqithan. I trust that we are all aware of what passes there?"
Jalael groaned. Tozinak fidgeted nervously. The other wizards evinced either blank stares or, in the case of Waide – ever reluctant to reveal his ignorance in such matters – an expression which could be interpreted as either inquisitiveness, or quiet understanding.
Daunton sighed. "I will tell you what I know – which is all that Mulissu related to me. Her information was, I don't doubt, incomplete. And I think that even those who are embroiled in its troubles have only a partial perspective."
"Mostin," Tozinak sighed.
"And Shomei," Daunton nodded. "But one could probably have inferred as much by their conspicuous absence from this meeting."
"The great luminaries of our magical brotherhood," Waide said snidely. "Do they even know of what has happened?"
"I issued a sending to Shomei," Daunton replied, "and instructed her to inform Mostin." The Diviner then proceeded to relate the tale of the Ahma, Graz'zt, Soneillon, and Afqithan.
After Daunton had completed his account, Tozinak – overly moved by the story – punctuated the silence with a long sigh.
"And the web of motes?" The Illusionist asked. "What exactly does it do?"
"It illuminates connections," Daunton explained. "Between people, places, thoughts, dreams, futures, and truths. It is the most potent object I have ever heard of."
"If Mulissu wasn't wildly exaggerating its power," Waide quipped.
"Why Mulissu?" The Necromancer Creq inquired. "She wasn't even Wyrish. Why did Jovol choose her?"
"Perhaps he liked her," Daunton snapped. He relaxed before continuing. "She was not alone. Shomei received something, as did Mostin, and Hlioth, and you, Waide. And you, Tozinak. All of those who took part in binding the Enforcer."
"And you?" Waide asked archly.
"A minor curio," Daunton answered. "I was the junior member, if you recall. Which, incidentally, leads me to another point: Jovol dwelt in the Thrumohars for fifty years, but where was his sanctum? There must still be a cache somewhere; a repository of knowledge and power."
"I have pondered this question," Jalael admitted. "And what else, Daunton. Have you heard what I have? I am apt to converse with demons, but I wonder what your sources tell you?"
"Rimilin," he nodded.
**
Nwm's eyes flashed open. He had been sitting beneath a fir-tree, listening to the soft pad, pad of an arctic fox, when he heard its pattern change in response to a new stimulus. Something else was close by. He waited.
The Druid inhaled sharply as she approached. She was beautiful. And curiously familiar.
She sat down in the snow before him, unabashed by her own nakedness, and smiled. Her skin possessed a soft, silver sheen, and her eyes – no longer demonic – were green within green.
"This is an unexpected pleasure," Nwm said wrily. "I should warn you: if my conversation seems stilted or awkward, it's because I haven't spoken for several months."
"Your social ineptitude was never much of a concern," she laughed.
"Can I assume that Eadric was successful in his efforts?" Nwm asked.
"Not yet." She raised an eyebrow.
"I am unsure as to whether I should worship you or not."
"That is your choice. It makes no difference to me. What were you doing?"
"You know, Nehael, I don't really know. Waiting for you, I suppose. I don't imagine that there's a rational explanation for your presence here?"
"Certainly not."
"And what happens now?" Nwm asked.
Nehael laughed. "I asked that very question myself."
"And what answer did you receive?"
"'A Viridity,'" she replied.
"That is suitably vague," Nwm sighed.
"Strange," Nehael said drily. "I had the same reaction. There is something that I would like to share with you, Nwm. A place."
"What sort of place?" Nwm asked suspiciously.
"A sanctuary. An island of Green. An unassailable bastion. A womb."
Nwm felt a frisson of excitement as she spoke, but his voice was sceptical. "In my experience, nowhere is unassailable."
"Prepare to change your mind," Nehael smiled. She held out her hand, and he took it. Stretching forwards, she lightly touched the bark of the tree.
"Step into the tree," she said.
They dissolved into an ocean of jade, emerald and celadon. Another Tree, which was the same tree – it was, in fact, all trees – appeared.
*
Nwm quaked. His mind screamed in fear, and soared in awe. His breath became rapid and shallow. He was dumbstruck, unwilling to believe, but knowing that it was there.
"Eadric's forebears would have referred to it as the Tree-ludja," Nehael said softly, touching the Tree. "Yours would have called it Derv.**"
"What have you become?" Nwm asked her.
"You know what I am," Nehael smiled. "I am merely Nehael. But now the way is open. You first showed it to me. She remembers. That is why it is Tree, and not Lake or Storm."
Nwm swallowed. She alluded to things which made him feel distinctly uncomfortable. Gingerly, he reached out.
Tree, he knew.
He looked out from the blackthorn in the courtyard of Kyrtill's Burh; from a huge banyan in Afqithan, around which demons clashed furiously; from a hornbeam with white bark and silver leaves, beneath which a goddess meditated; from a viper-tree amid a grove in Azzagrat, where acid rained and fire burned; from a lonely olive-tree on a deserted island in Pandicule; from a celestial oak which rose, impossibly perfect, upon the Blessed Plain.
Nwm withdrew his perception, and looked at Nehael.
"How?" He asked.
This Way, she showed him.***
"Is there more?"
"Oh, yes. There is much more."
"But to look into Hell? Oronthon's Heaven? These places are not…"
"Of the Green?" She offered. "I think you need to revise your understanding, Nwm. The Viridity is a transcendental principle: it does not care for conventional labels. Green just became a lot bigger."
"Who was the goddess beneath the tree?" He asked.
"Her name is Lai," Nehael smiled. "You will meet her in due course."
"What is her rôle?" He asked dubiously.
"She is a student. Of magic. Of nature. Her world is all but dead. You will like her – which is all to the good."
Nwm gave a quizzical look.
"A student needs a teacher," Nehael explained, "and a goddess needs a priest."
**
The quiescence of the spheres began exactly five seconds after the Eye of Cheshne – a large, reddish star linked with ill-fortune, miscarriage and death – anticulminated at the necropolis of Khu in the World of Men.
Thus, when Soneillon and her host arrived in Afqithan – together with the Balor Irzho and the demonist Rimilin of the Skin – a mortal would have breathed but once, before she waxed to her full power again. Her first act – before even Ainhorr had issued the telepathic command for his minions to descend upon the hordes of interlopers – was to utter an incantation which caused a shimmering wave to issue from her. Soneillon poured forth the void, transforming it, and buoying those hundreds who were closest to her with an ecstasy of negation.
The palrethees, succubi and other monsters – the half-fiendish lamias, medusae, harpies and hags which swarmed in the sky around the Demoness – greedily drank of the essence which their mistress lavished on them. Irzho and Rimilin – already bloated with Soneillon's unlight – swelled yet further. Koilimilou inhaled sharply as power coursed through her and her Will was sharpened and intensified, before she abruptly disappeared to sight. And Eadric watched in trepidation as Chaya – the succubus appointed to him – threw back her head and exulted.
As the impulse washed through the Ahma, visions of unbeing passed through his tortured consciousness. A sweet, lingering taste, heavy with the promise of annihilation. He glanced at Shomei's devils, borne upon the invocation's wind and magnified. They terrified him. He terrifed himself. And in his heart, he knew he was as potent as he had ever before been – save perhaps when he had fought at the Nund, where Grace had descended upon him. Now the darkest wards protected him. Blasphemy sustained him.
He drew his sword. At the limit of his vision, issuing in streams from Irknaan's citadel – unable to manifest closer, within the quiescence of the spheres – Ainhorr's demons were beginning to appear in ghastly flights and packs.
Fifteen minutes, Mostin had said. It would all be resolved within fifteen minutes. The mental clamour of the demons was already threatening to overwhelm him.
Mostin vanished. A bound pseudodjinn – a grotesque parody which made Eadric grateful that Iua was not there – bore the Alienist on a course which, for the sake of convenience, they had arbitrarily determined as 'west': in Afqithan, there were no cardinal directions. He sped towards a second materializing force – Kostchtchie, mounted upon his wyrm, together with his bar-lgura. Mostin purposed to eliminate the demon as quickly as possible. Ortwin and Koilimilou were with him. The three were invisible and mind blanked.
The Alienist scowled. The air was rapidly becoming thick with varrangoin above Kostchtchie, pouring through a teleportation circle: they were a group whose presence he had not foreseen. Nhura and Jetheeg, together with hundreds of Loquai aristocrats and sidhe mercenaries mounted upon umbral griffons, moved towards the Demon Lord. A vast, black cloud of shadow demons followed them. The Alienist, Satyr and Cambion swiftly overtook them all.
[Ortwin]: How long, before we intercept?
[Mostin]: Ninety seconds, give or take. We need to be patient. We must stay wind walking until we reach the boundary of the quiescence. I will be far more effective at the interface.
Momentarily, he doubted. He feared that by the time they reached the invocation's limit, most of Kostchtchie's force would already be inside the dimensionally locked area – many of the leaping demons were pressing forwards restlessly. More teleportation circles were opening outside of the quiescence. Abyssal giants – some riding white dragons – were arriving from wherever Kostchtchie's main force had been concentrated.
Mostin cursed. One of the sorcerers in the Demon Lord's train must possess an extremely potent device – there was no way that the spell could have been repeatedly cast in such short time. Doubtless, one of the varrangoin: they were not natural teleporters, and moving large numbers of them effectively would otherwise prove problematic.
As they sped onwards, the Alienist grinned: Kostchtchie himself was not moving inside the quiescence. Evidently, the Ice Lord was reluctant to surrender his ability to instantly retreat.
[Mostin]: We must achieve the perfect position before the wind walk is dismissed. We should strike the Demon with everything we've got.
[Koilimilou]: Watch for the dragons. Their noses will catch us, even if their eyes can't.
*The assembly of wizards, called by Daunton in his manse in Gibilrazen consisted of the Daunton himself (diviner 10/loremaster 5), an accomplished facilitator whose impartiality was renowned; Waide (transmuter 17), generally conceded to be a supercilious pedant; Tozinak (illusionist 18), often hysterical, and in a semi-volitional state of morphic flux; the green hag Jalael (evoker 13/archmage 2), known to have devoured her lovers on several occasions; Sarpin (illusionist 5/shadow adept 7), a Shade, and Jalael's current concubine; the goblin Troap (enchanter 14); Gholu (generalist 8/loremaster 4), a pompous eunuch and hoarder of useless magical curios; Muthollo (abjurer 12), a Bedeshi newcomer regarded with suspicion by the other wizards; Tullifer (transmuter 7/master alchemist 5), who evidenced a vulgar interest in commerce; the sprite Shuk (illusionist 10); Droom of Morne (evoker 12), who stood in minor contempt of the Injunction, and had had his lips magically sealed for one year; Creq (necromancer 11), who helped to perpetrate the worst stereotypes regarding his magical lineage; Idro (generalist 12), intellectually stunted and now verging on senile; Wigdryt (transmuter 9/plane shifter4) – a smoke mephit who had recently reappeared from a thirty-year retreat; and Poylu (enchantress 11), who dwelt in a well near the town of Banda in Ialde.
Ehieu (sorcerer 10/air savant 8), introduced to Daunton by Mulissu, was also present – although he found the proceedings tedious at best.
**The Tree probably deserves some explanation. Before the rise of Oronthonianism, the migrant Borchian tribes (from whom Eadric and his kin are descended) venerated nature spirits of various kinds, manifestations of different aspects of the Hahio ("Interwoven [Green]"). These facets ("ludjas") were numerous and diverse, and never fully systematized: for example there was a ludja for Stream, for Valley, for Gorse-bush, for Snow etc. etc. etc. Larger ludjas also subsumed smaller ones – e.g. the Stone-ludja superseded the Pebble-ludja, the Boulder-ludja etc. The three principal ludjas were considered to be Stone, Water and Tree.
Derv is a Crixi word meaning "[prototypical or archetypal] Tree." There was considerable overlap and syncretism between early beliefs in the peoples who predated the foundation of Wyre, and certain concepts were held to be parallels of one another – Derv and the Tree-ludja possessed an obvious identity. For Derv to be an actual tree however was almost nonsensical from Nwm's perspective: it is like being shown the Platonic ideal of "Tree", manifested and fully real.
***Several new spells would be revealed to Nwm by Nehael.
Notice in promising an update I did write "provisional plan," however. I covered my arse, just in case
**
**
AFQITHAN - Part One
"Mulissu is dead," Daunton the Diviner announced to the assembled wizards.*
His words were greeted by a variety of reactions: by Troap, a look of stunned disbelief; by Tozinak – in the form of a sylph – with tears and a dramatic posture; by Waide, a smug grimace which conveyed the words 'I told you so – it was inevitable.' Jalael and Idro exhibited calm insouciance. A dozen other mages – and several of these were formidable in their own right – showed expressions which ranged from anguish, through curiosity, to total ignorance of the reclusive Savant's identity.
"Thank-you, Daunton," Waide said with nasal condescension. "Although…"
"There is more," Daunton interrupted, shooting the transmuter a look of barely concealed contempt. Waide surpassed him in terms of power, but Daunton enjoyed the respect of the entire magical community and the friendship of several influential personages – including Prince Tagur – outside of it. "An artifact bestowed upon her by Jovol has been stolen, along with other powerful items."
"She and Mostin were feuding, I hear," Waide ventured.
"Waide!" Daunton snapped. "There will be no rumourmongering and innuendo."
"It is hardly an idle thought," Waide persisted. "Mostin's assault upon Griel outside of the Claviger's domain is well known. Which artifact do you speak of?" Waide licked his lips.
"It is called the web of motes. It is potent."
"I have never heard of it," Waide sniffed.
"Nor I," Jalael agreed. "What is its purpose?"
Daunton sighed. "Divination," he said.
Waide laughed openly. "I think we can discern the purpose of your insistence upon this meeting, Daunton: you desire this item. And try telling me now that Mostin has no part in this."
"I make no such claim," the Diviner said dismissively. "But neither do I make the assertion that Mostin murdered Mulissu: he did not. Her own daughter, Iua, slew her. The priestesses of Jeshi confirm as much."
"Matricide?" Jalael said drily. "This gets more interesting. Where is Iua now?"
"I do not know. I suspect she is mind blanked. I have tried to discern her whereabouts twice."
"An accomplice?" Troap asked.
"Or a device," Daunton nodded. "Naturally, you suspect the former, Waide, and you suspect that it is Mostin."
"It is not his style," Tozinak sobbed. "He would have killed her with much more panache. Was Iua under a compulsion?"
"Perhaps. Graz'zt certainly bore Mulissu a grudge. He may have dominated Iua, although it would have been a potent compound spell to circumvent the temple wards – especially from Azzagrat. But the Prince had already personally assailed the Savant in her demiplane: hence her retreat to the Prime."
Waide's jaw dropped. "And she survived?"
Daunton nodded. "She was well prepared. Furthermore, Mostin anticipated the attack and provided a safe exit for her."
Waide swallowed nervously. Once he and the Alienist had been peers. But now he realized – and the knowledge caused him to grit his teeth in envy and frustration – that Mostin had utterly surpassed him.
"Had she other enemies?" Troap asked.
"Not to my knowledge – she carefully avoided making them, as a rule."
"How kind of Mostin to lend her one of his," Waide said snidely.
"It was Mulissu who invoked the cascade at Khu," Troap said drily, "not Mostin. I think that is enough to warrant the enmity of any number of powerful fiends."
"It was no doubt in response to Mostin's nagging," Waide replied.
"Because Mulissu was so weak-willed and impressionable, and Mostin so likes the company of celestials," Troap retorted acidly. The Goblin turned to Daunton. "Do you think the emerging Cheshne faction may have had a hand? They are in geographical proximity."
"The possibility had occurred to me," Daunton nodded. "Although a motive is harder to fathom."
"Mulissu could have crystallized magical resistance in Wyrish and Thalassine spellcasters, if it became required," Jalael suggested. "It may have been a preemptive strike."
"The Cult of Cheshne has never exhibited an historical desire to dominate in that manner," Daunton sighed. "Besides, why wait to remove her until after their arrival? And I am reluctant to pin every unfortunate event which transpires upon them – we do not know their agenda."
"Not good," Waide grumbled. "We know that much, at least. The Claviger may prove to be an aegis which we did not anticipate. Although maybe Jovol did."
"Jovol was not omniscient," Jalael grunted. "And his legacy has already stymied magical activity. It may yet deny us the ability to muster an effective defense."
"You seem fixated on some impending conflict, Jalael," Daunton scowled. "If it occurs – and I doubt that – it will likely be religious in nature, and will not concern us."
"If the ugras are invoked, I doubt they will make the distinction," Jalael smiled. "But the question remains: why now?"
"Nothing becomes," Daunton said grimly. "We cannot know why or where. Which brings me to events in the demiplane of Afqithan. I trust that we are all aware of what passes there?"
Jalael groaned. Tozinak fidgeted nervously. The other wizards evinced either blank stares or, in the case of Waide – ever reluctant to reveal his ignorance in such matters – an expression which could be interpreted as either inquisitiveness, or quiet understanding.
Daunton sighed. "I will tell you what I know – which is all that Mulissu related to me. Her information was, I don't doubt, incomplete. And I think that even those who are embroiled in its troubles have only a partial perspective."
"Mostin," Tozinak sighed.
"And Shomei," Daunton nodded. "But one could probably have inferred as much by their conspicuous absence from this meeting."
"The great luminaries of our magical brotherhood," Waide said snidely. "Do they even know of what has happened?"
"I issued a sending to Shomei," Daunton replied, "and instructed her to inform Mostin." The Diviner then proceeded to relate the tale of the Ahma, Graz'zt, Soneillon, and Afqithan.
After Daunton had completed his account, Tozinak – overly moved by the story – punctuated the silence with a long sigh.
"And the web of motes?" The Illusionist asked. "What exactly does it do?"
"It illuminates connections," Daunton explained. "Between people, places, thoughts, dreams, futures, and truths. It is the most potent object I have ever heard of."
"If Mulissu wasn't wildly exaggerating its power," Waide quipped.
"Why Mulissu?" The Necromancer Creq inquired. "She wasn't even Wyrish. Why did Jovol choose her?"
"Perhaps he liked her," Daunton snapped. He relaxed before continuing. "She was not alone. Shomei received something, as did Mostin, and Hlioth, and you, Waide. And you, Tozinak. All of those who took part in binding the Enforcer."
"And you?" Waide asked archly.
"A minor curio," Daunton answered. "I was the junior member, if you recall. Which, incidentally, leads me to another point: Jovol dwelt in the Thrumohars for fifty years, but where was his sanctum? There must still be a cache somewhere; a repository of knowledge and power."
"I have pondered this question," Jalael admitted. "And what else, Daunton. Have you heard what I have? I am apt to converse with demons, but I wonder what your sources tell you?"
"Rimilin," he nodded.
**
Nwm's eyes flashed open. He had been sitting beneath a fir-tree, listening to the soft pad, pad of an arctic fox, when he heard its pattern change in response to a new stimulus. Something else was close by. He waited.
The Druid inhaled sharply as she approached. She was beautiful. And curiously familiar.
She sat down in the snow before him, unabashed by her own nakedness, and smiled. Her skin possessed a soft, silver sheen, and her eyes – no longer demonic – were green within green.
"This is an unexpected pleasure," Nwm said wrily. "I should warn you: if my conversation seems stilted or awkward, it's because I haven't spoken for several months."
"Your social ineptitude was never much of a concern," she laughed.
"Can I assume that Eadric was successful in his efforts?" Nwm asked.
"Not yet." She raised an eyebrow.
"I am unsure as to whether I should worship you or not."
"That is your choice. It makes no difference to me. What were you doing?"
"You know, Nehael, I don't really know. Waiting for you, I suppose. I don't imagine that there's a rational explanation for your presence here?"
"Certainly not."
"And what happens now?" Nwm asked.
Nehael laughed. "I asked that very question myself."
"And what answer did you receive?"
"'A Viridity,'" she replied.
"That is suitably vague," Nwm sighed.
"Strange," Nehael said drily. "I had the same reaction. There is something that I would like to share with you, Nwm. A place."
"What sort of place?" Nwm asked suspiciously.
"A sanctuary. An island of Green. An unassailable bastion. A womb."
Nwm felt a frisson of excitement as she spoke, but his voice was sceptical. "In my experience, nowhere is unassailable."
"Prepare to change your mind," Nehael smiled. She held out her hand, and he took it. Stretching forwards, she lightly touched the bark of the tree.
"Step into the tree," she said.
They dissolved into an ocean of jade, emerald and celadon. Another Tree, which was the same tree – it was, in fact, all trees – appeared.
*
Nwm quaked. His mind screamed in fear, and soared in awe. His breath became rapid and shallow. He was dumbstruck, unwilling to believe, but knowing that it was there.
"Eadric's forebears would have referred to it as the Tree-ludja," Nehael said softly, touching the Tree. "Yours would have called it Derv.**"
"What have you become?" Nwm asked her.
"You know what I am," Nehael smiled. "I am merely Nehael. But now the way is open. You first showed it to me. She remembers. That is why it is Tree, and not Lake or Storm."
Nwm swallowed. She alluded to things which made him feel distinctly uncomfortable. Gingerly, he reached out.
Tree, he knew.
He looked out from the blackthorn in the courtyard of Kyrtill's Burh; from a huge banyan in Afqithan, around which demons clashed furiously; from a hornbeam with white bark and silver leaves, beneath which a goddess meditated; from a viper-tree amid a grove in Azzagrat, where acid rained and fire burned; from a lonely olive-tree on a deserted island in Pandicule; from a celestial oak which rose, impossibly perfect, upon the Blessed Plain.
Nwm withdrew his perception, and looked at Nehael.
"How?" He asked.
This Way, she showed him.***
"Is there more?"
"Oh, yes. There is much more."
"But to look into Hell? Oronthon's Heaven? These places are not…"
"Of the Green?" She offered. "I think you need to revise your understanding, Nwm. The Viridity is a transcendental principle: it does not care for conventional labels. Green just became a lot bigger."
"Who was the goddess beneath the tree?" He asked.
"Her name is Lai," Nehael smiled. "You will meet her in due course."
"What is her rôle?" He asked dubiously.
"She is a student. Of magic. Of nature. Her world is all but dead. You will like her – which is all to the good."
Nwm gave a quizzical look.
"A student needs a teacher," Nehael explained, "and a goddess needs a priest."
**
The quiescence of the spheres began exactly five seconds after the Eye of Cheshne – a large, reddish star linked with ill-fortune, miscarriage and death – anticulminated at the necropolis of Khu in the World of Men.
Thus, when Soneillon and her host arrived in Afqithan – together with the Balor Irzho and the demonist Rimilin of the Skin – a mortal would have breathed but once, before she waxed to her full power again. Her first act – before even Ainhorr had issued the telepathic command for his minions to descend upon the hordes of interlopers – was to utter an incantation which caused a shimmering wave to issue from her. Soneillon poured forth the void, transforming it, and buoying those hundreds who were closest to her with an ecstasy of negation.
The palrethees, succubi and other monsters – the half-fiendish lamias, medusae, harpies and hags which swarmed in the sky around the Demoness – greedily drank of the essence which their mistress lavished on them. Irzho and Rimilin – already bloated with Soneillon's unlight – swelled yet further. Koilimilou inhaled sharply as power coursed through her and her Will was sharpened and intensified, before she abruptly disappeared to sight. And Eadric watched in trepidation as Chaya – the succubus appointed to him – threw back her head and exulted.
As the impulse washed through the Ahma, visions of unbeing passed through his tortured consciousness. A sweet, lingering taste, heavy with the promise of annihilation. He glanced at Shomei's devils, borne upon the invocation's wind and magnified. They terrified him. He terrifed himself. And in his heart, he knew he was as potent as he had ever before been – save perhaps when he had fought at the Nund, where Grace had descended upon him. Now the darkest wards protected him. Blasphemy sustained him.
He drew his sword. At the limit of his vision, issuing in streams from Irknaan's citadel – unable to manifest closer, within the quiescence of the spheres – Ainhorr's demons were beginning to appear in ghastly flights and packs.
Fifteen minutes, Mostin had said. It would all be resolved within fifteen minutes. The mental clamour of the demons was already threatening to overwhelm him.
Mostin vanished. A bound pseudodjinn – a grotesque parody which made Eadric grateful that Iua was not there – bore the Alienist on a course which, for the sake of convenience, they had arbitrarily determined as 'west': in Afqithan, there were no cardinal directions. He sped towards a second materializing force – Kostchtchie, mounted upon his wyrm, together with his bar-lgura. Mostin purposed to eliminate the demon as quickly as possible. Ortwin and Koilimilou were with him. The three were invisible and mind blanked.
The Alienist scowled. The air was rapidly becoming thick with varrangoin above Kostchtchie, pouring through a teleportation circle: they were a group whose presence he had not foreseen. Nhura and Jetheeg, together with hundreds of Loquai aristocrats and sidhe mercenaries mounted upon umbral griffons, moved towards the Demon Lord. A vast, black cloud of shadow demons followed them. The Alienist, Satyr and Cambion swiftly overtook them all.
[Ortwin]: How long, before we intercept?
[Mostin]: Ninety seconds, give or take. We need to be patient. We must stay wind walking until we reach the boundary of the quiescence. I will be far more effective at the interface.
Momentarily, he doubted. He feared that by the time they reached the invocation's limit, most of Kostchtchie's force would already be inside the dimensionally locked area – many of the leaping demons were pressing forwards restlessly. More teleportation circles were opening outside of the quiescence. Abyssal giants – some riding white dragons – were arriving from wherever Kostchtchie's main force had been concentrated.
Mostin cursed. One of the sorcerers in the Demon Lord's train must possess an extremely potent device – there was no way that the spell could have been repeatedly cast in such short time. Doubtless, one of the varrangoin: they were not natural teleporters, and moving large numbers of them effectively would otherwise prove problematic.
As they sped onwards, the Alienist grinned: Kostchtchie himself was not moving inside the quiescence. Evidently, the Ice Lord was reluctant to surrender his ability to instantly retreat.
[Mostin]: We must achieve the perfect position before the wind walk is dismissed. We should strike the Demon with everything we've got.
[Koilimilou]: Watch for the dragons. Their noses will catch us, even if their eyes can't.
*The assembly of wizards, called by Daunton in his manse in Gibilrazen consisted of the Daunton himself (diviner 10/loremaster 5), an accomplished facilitator whose impartiality was renowned; Waide (transmuter 17), generally conceded to be a supercilious pedant; Tozinak (illusionist 18), often hysterical, and in a semi-volitional state of morphic flux; the green hag Jalael (evoker 13/archmage 2), known to have devoured her lovers on several occasions; Sarpin (illusionist 5/shadow adept 7), a Shade, and Jalael's current concubine; the goblin Troap (enchanter 14); Gholu (generalist 8/loremaster 4), a pompous eunuch and hoarder of useless magical curios; Muthollo (abjurer 12), a Bedeshi newcomer regarded with suspicion by the other wizards; Tullifer (transmuter 7/master alchemist 5), who evidenced a vulgar interest in commerce; the sprite Shuk (illusionist 10); Droom of Morne (evoker 12), who stood in minor contempt of the Injunction, and had had his lips magically sealed for one year; Creq (necromancer 11), who helped to perpetrate the worst stereotypes regarding his magical lineage; Idro (generalist 12), intellectually stunted and now verging on senile; Wigdryt (transmuter 9/plane shifter4) – a smoke mephit who had recently reappeared from a thirty-year retreat; and Poylu (enchantress 11), who dwelt in a well near the town of Banda in Ialde.
Ehieu (sorcerer 10/air savant 8), introduced to Daunton by Mulissu, was also present – although he found the proceedings tedious at best.
**The Tree probably deserves some explanation. Before the rise of Oronthonianism, the migrant Borchian tribes (from whom Eadric and his kin are descended) venerated nature spirits of various kinds, manifestations of different aspects of the Hahio ("Interwoven [Green]"). These facets ("ludjas") were numerous and diverse, and never fully systematized: for example there was a ludja for Stream, for Valley, for Gorse-bush, for Snow etc. etc. etc. Larger ludjas also subsumed smaller ones – e.g. the Stone-ludja superseded the Pebble-ludja, the Boulder-ludja etc. The three principal ludjas were considered to be Stone, Water and Tree.
Derv is a Crixi word meaning "[prototypical or archetypal] Tree." There was considerable overlap and syncretism between early beliefs in the peoples who predated the foundation of Wyre, and certain concepts were held to be parallels of one another – Derv and the Tree-ludja possessed an obvious identity. For Derv to be an actual tree however was almost nonsensical from Nwm's perspective: it is like being shown the Platonic ideal of "Tree", manifested and fully real.
***Several new spells would be revealed to Nwm by Nehael.
Sepulchrave II
Legend
AFQITHAN - Part Two
"Show me more," Hlioth, the Green Witch demanded.
Teppu laughed, and stroked the ash-tree which they stood next to. It seemed to croon lovingly to him. "It will involve a certain loss of individuality," he smiled. "Are you jealous of your discrete existence? Your autonomy of perception and Will?"
"Certainly not," Hlioth answered. "If I hadn't determined all arguments regarding Will to be specious, then I would never have abandoned wizardry."
"You should blend all elements into a harmonious whole," Teppu said. "And your song will be different to mine. Give me your hand."
The Green Witch complied, and Teppu pressed it to the trunk of the tree. Within moments, a cascade of new impressions flooded into her mind. Multiple realities became apparent. Her breathing became rapid and shallow.
"How many layers are there visible?" She gasped.
"They cannot be measured in numbers," Teppu laughed.
"I can see Faerie."
"I am surprised that you can distinguish it so readily. Although it is less sleepy than many of the others."
"Perhaps I am predisposed to easily apprehend it. One other seems close – within reach. What is it?"
"It is the half-hidden world of the Tunthi. Were you to go to Tun Hartha, you would see it more clearly. It is closer there than here."
"It has recently stirred?" Hlioth asked.
"Twice. Great spirits were awakened. Echoes remain within the visible Green. It was roused from its torpor near Hrim Eorth, then again at Groba."
"I recall hearing of Hrim Eorth – the river became a dragon. But Groba?"
"Groba is more ancient than most know. Mesikämmi woke its genius loci."
"To what purpose?"
Teppu smiled. "To swallow a sword, and keep it safe."
Hlioth's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "You have been following her activities?"
"Amongst others," his eyes twinkled.
"Which others?"
"Nehael. Nwm."
"What does the demoness have to do with this?"
Teppu threw back his head, and laughed. "Nehael is no demoness, nor was she ever one. The past is not immutable."
Hlioth scowled. "What are you plotting, Teppu?"
"I do not plot," Teppu replied sincerely. "I merely act according to need. There is a splinter of reality which must be realigned: purged of its umbral infestation. In order to accomplish this, I will need the concerted effort of several selfless individuals."
"I think perhaps you might explain a little more."
"I mean to eradicate the seeds of taint from the demiplane of Afqithan: it will be the first manifestation of the burgeoning Viridity. Faerie must reclaim its own."
Hlioth shrugged. "What is Afqithan, and why is it significant?"
Teppu sighed. "Your knowledge of current events is lamentably scant, Hlioth. This does not surprise me, but you cannot continue to view Green within the limited terms that you have previously described to yourself. Afqithan is a finite reality where demons, devils, tainted sidhe and various other monsters struggle to assert themselves: Oronthon's Ahma is embroiled in its troubles, as is the creature Soneillon – a demoness who has transcended her ontic state.
"I am dubious of your ability to manage such an act."
"It will be simple: trust me."
"And how do you propose to accomplish this?"
"Why," Teppu laughed, "with magic, of course."
"You are Jovol," Hlioth sighed. "And Fillein."
"Yes – and no," Teppu replied.
"I understand neither you nor your motives," Hlioth groaned.
"Nor do I," Teppu admitted.
**
Eadric and Shomei rode in the blazing trail carved by Irzho through the purple skies of Afqithan. Before them, Rimilin – whose grotesque, sexless form rippled black and oily – and Soneillon – into whom all light vanished – flew within the great fume of smoke and fire which emanated from the balor. Contundor was buffeted by the gale which issued from the pit fiends – invisible but the source of a palpable malice – who flanked them both. Demons, half-fiends and evil monsters of every conceivable hue surrounded them, jostling for space.
Ahead of the Ahma, Ainhorr's forces filled immensity, blackening the skies, their numbers still swelling as demons from across Afqithan heard the summons, and teleported to the unlocked areas beyond the quiescence of the spheres. From the towers of Irknaan's palace they gushed forth in a never-ending torrent, and below the flights of chasme, succubi and palrethees, the ground and treetops seethed with bar-lgura. Eadric scowled as the standards of the Mariliths in thrall to Ainhorr were being raised beyond the spell's limit. More demons flocked around them, and those Loquai who had thrown in their lot with Graz'zt.
[Eadric]: How so quickly?
[Shomei] (ruefully): I suspect that Ainhorr has my stone of sendings. He issues a command to a subordinate, they instantly relay the message to their subordinates, and within a few minutes nearly every demon in Afqithan will be here. Redeployment is seldom a problem for fiends.
[Eadric]: And Graz'zt?
[Shomei]: I don't doubt that he was the first to know.
[Eadric]: We should climb. How long will the invisibility last?
[Shomei]: We have time yet, but avoid any conflict for the moment. We need to retain the element of surprise for as long as possible. We must find Ainhorr.
[Eadric]: Within the palace.
[Shomei]: Doubtless. He will not commit himself personally yet. You will also notice that no Nalfeshnees have appeared – they remain close by their master. There were thirty, at last count.
[Eadric]: Thirty is too many, Shomei.
[Shomei]: It is not. Just watch out for the sword.
[Eadric] (pointing with his mind): What is that? You didn't mention a dragon. I thought Mostin got the dragons.
A grotesque shape, the wings of which beat slowly and rhythmically, was moving through the demons of Ainhorr's force towards them.
[Shomei]: That is Ilistet's Steed. Graz'zt's herald.
[Eadric]: His herald? Is he here himself?
[Shomei]: Not according to Mostin.
As if to punctuate the realization, a long, sonorous blast issued from Ilistet's horn, causing the ancient, twisted trees to shake, and the Ahma's chest cavity to resonate.
Eadric, Chaya, Shomei and her quartet of devils peeled away from the main spearhead of demons, and began to climb rapidly. They were not alone: other fiends from both factions were attempting to assume positions which offered a higher vantage point.
Climb, he urged his mount.
Within one minute, they had reached nearly two thousand feet. Still, they needed to climb – flights of succubi and chasme, issuing from the tallest of the towers, had already reached that altitude. Eadric glanced downward and ahead of himself, and watched in fascination as Irzho ploughed into a mob of invisible nycadaemons which slowly revealed themselves to his sight.
**
[Mostin]: We must finish him as quickly as possible. His focus lies upon Nhura, at present, although no doubt the probability of invisible, mind-blanked assailants has occurred to him. I'm hoping that the wind-walking hasn't. We have a chance, here: it is the nature of demonic enthusiasm for a cause to crumple if the Lord or Prince who binds them – in this case Kostchtchie – is eliminated. It's all personality.
[Ortwin] (Drily): No doubt this is about us preventing him reaching you.
[Mostin]: In a nutshell, yes. The Djinn will remain nearby, wind-walking, in case you need to make a quick exit.
[Ortwin]: "You" need to make a quick exit? What's with the "You"? How will you escape?
[Mostin]: I will teleport. We will be outside of the quiescence.
[Ortwin]: So we're relying on some bitter, reluctant pseudoelemental?
[Mostin]: I have offered it suitable inducements. Do not be concerned.
[Orwtin]: Gods, Mostin. It's not just Kostchtchie. It's the dragon. And the other demons. And the other dragons. And that thing.
Mostin peered ahead. Close by the Demon Lord, shunned by demons but around whom fiendish giants grouped clumsily, a gaunt figure stood. It was clearly visible between the warriors' legs: the trio were closing rapidly, now.
[Mostin]: Sh*t. The winterwight. It's not supposed to be here.
[Ortwin]: Feeling nervous yet?
[Mostin]: You may have a point. Keep flying.
Varrangoin were all about them – although oblivious to their presence - when they materialized outside the quiescence. Hovering five hundred feet from the limit of the locked area, Mostin invoked a reality maelstrom. It was centered around Kostchtchie, the wight, and the teleportation circles. The dimensional tempest raged incoherently, stretching away from the quiescence in a sphere from which a section had been cut: along the interface between the two spells, a null-space suffused with paradoxical magical energy crackled. For a fraction of a second, Mostin became visible before hiding himself again with another spell.
[Ortwin] (Grinning): That's more like it.
[Mostin]: Brace yourself.
The magical response to the Alienist's assault was immediate and would have overwhelmed them all, had it not been for Soneillon's ward. Horrid wiltings, fireballs, a meteor swarm and numerous sonics blasted into them. The djinn was instantly vaporized, and Mostin's brief appearance had been sufficient to make him the target of three attempted disintegrations and numerous enervations. Rager varrangoin were all about him, attempting to rend his invisible form.
Centered on himself this time, as yet more spells struck them ineffectually, Mostin invoked a second reality maelstrom, content that their own wards would prevent their succumbing to it. This time, the Alienist remained invisible.
Ortwin swallowed as he stood poised on the verge of another reality. Mostin cackled, looking through the rent in space: a rift into Limbo.
[Mostin] (Madly): We're safe here.
[Ortwin]: Are you quite nuts?
Flying through the dimensional storm – and through hundreds of varrangoin being pulled helplessly to their fate – a huge white dragon powered its way purposefully towards them. It bore an ugly, squat, bandy-legged demon brandishing a great hammer.
Clinging to the flank of the dragon, of whose presence the wyrm seemed entirely oblivious, an arcanist varrangoin clung, drooling like a dog. It stretched out its hand, and delivered an empowered sonic meteor swarm to them.
Bad, Mostin thought, as several creatures nearby were disintegrated by the sound. The tassles on his hat swayed slightly. Two more dragons appeared behind the first: mounted upon each were giants wielding enormous axes.
Abruptly, the reality maelstrom vanished, struck by a greater dispelling. From the dragon's jaws a terrible cold washed over them, numbing them despite their wards.
Koilimilou, buoyant with Soneillon's power, retaliated with a soundless gaze. Black fire coursed over the wyrm, and it bellowed in agony for a second, before silently vanishing in a cloud of dark ash. The varrangoin sorcerer took to the air with its own wings, but Kostchtchie himself began to tumble towards the ground.
[Ortwin] (Gaping): What the…?
[Mostin]: Kostchtchie can't fly.
[Ortwin]: (Hysterical laughter).
But in response to its master's telepathic command, one of the other dragons wheeled about and its rider climbed from his harness, and carelessly launched himself into the air.
Mostin anticipated that Kostchtchie would attempt to teleport into the vacant saddle. He opened a gate.
Koilimilou – a sidhe-cambion seldom prone to uncontrollable outbursts – screamed. The pseudonatural Horror – simultaneously both a daemon, and a writhing thing possessed of appendages with an unknown purpose – slid through the portal.
[Symbol] = Faces.
[Mostin] (Pointing mentally at Kostchtchie): His face (and then at the dragons), their faces.
With a gusto which surprised Mostin, the Horror launched itself from the gate towards their enemies.
There had to be a catch, Mostin knew. There was always a catch. It was never that easy.
**
The demon Surab, together with his host – a half-mortal named Iua – rode upon an obsidian steed across a blasted Abyssal landscape. A great, flat, plain – riven by yawning chasms which led to the domains of a thousand different demonic magnates – stretched as far as the eye could see. Surab relaxed into his new form – young, athletic, deadlier with the blade than any of the succubi mercenaries who served Graz'zt. He might keep her for a while – she seemed quiescent enough.
Through her eyes, he scanned the terrain ahead of him, eagerly seeking a familiar portal to Azzagrat where, he knew, its Lord would shower him with favour for his success in eliminating the Savant. Although the plan had been swiftly devised, it had been flawless in its execution. Pure simplicity.
Surab congratulated himself upon his ingenuity.
After riding hard for around an hour, the Demon nudged his steed towards a pit filled with lurid green flames, entered it, and, within seconds, emerged from a gate oven in the midst of Zelatar.
The scene which greeted him was violent, chaotic, brutal and filled with seething hatred. In that regard, Azzagrat was entirely normal.
What marked the Triple Realm as changed, however, was the nature of many of the creatures present. A frenzied pack of Abyssal ghouls were feeding nearby, and a cadre of death knights – mounted upon cauchemars – thundered past with some dire purpose.
Because, acutely conscious of Graz'zt's denuded power and overextended forces, and perceiving the chink in his usually impenetrable armour, Prince Orcus – acting on the gentle promptings of Rhyxali – had determined to invest Azzagrat and test his rival's defenses with a lightning-quick assault.
Surab panicked. The Argent palace, under normal circumstances visible from all parts of Zelatar, had vanished: the demon guessed that Graz'zt had obscured it with a spell.
Commanding his steed to plane shift, Surab, his host and his mount vanished. Any forsaken realm between Hell and the Abyss was preferable to Azzagrat at that moment.
Upon his throne, Graz'zt himself reflected. The purpose of the embassy delivered by Titivilus now seemed clear to him: the Nameless Adversary had, no doubt, known of the impending situation, and chosen to maintain the existing balance of Abyssal politics by reinforcing the Prince's armies in Afqithan. It had to be Afqithan: a diabolic presence in the Abyss would have caused outrage among the other Princes. Afqithan, because of the concentration of Graz'zt's force there; because that was where the Ahma had determined to start the war; because to hold Afqithan was yet another opportunity to defy the will of Oronthon. Afqithan had become an unlikely trophy in the Great Game. New impulses were revealing themselves.
Graz'zt spat venom, and cursed. He knew he would have been overwhelmed in Afqithan. He needed the devils: in order to secure Azzagrat he was being forced to withdraw from dozens of worlds – including Yutuf, Tirche, Sisperi and Saraf – and redeploy tens of thousands of demons. And now he doubted that he hold Throile: the sweet prize dearly bought with the life of one of his favourite generals. And bitterest of all, he realized that, despite all appearances to the contrary, he himself was still the pawn of the one who had sparked the Great Revolt.
"Show me more," Hlioth, the Green Witch demanded.
Teppu laughed, and stroked the ash-tree which they stood next to. It seemed to croon lovingly to him. "It will involve a certain loss of individuality," he smiled. "Are you jealous of your discrete existence? Your autonomy of perception and Will?"
"Certainly not," Hlioth answered. "If I hadn't determined all arguments regarding Will to be specious, then I would never have abandoned wizardry."
"You should blend all elements into a harmonious whole," Teppu said. "And your song will be different to mine. Give me your hand."
The Green Witch complied, and Teppu pressed it to the trunk of the tree. Within moments, a cascade of new impressions flooded into her mind. Multiple realities became apparent. Her breathing became rapid and shallow.
"How many layers are there visible?" She gasped.
"They cannot be measured in numbers," Teppu laughed.
"I can see Faerie."
"I am surprised that you can distinguish it so readily. Although it is less sleepy than many of the others."
"Perhaps I am predisposed to easily apprehend it. One other seems close – within reach. What is it?"
"It is the half-hidden world of the Tunthi. Were you to go to Tun Hartha, you would see it more clearly. It is closer there than here."
"It has recently stirred?" Hlioth asked.
"Twice. Great spirits were awakened. Echoes remain within the visible Green. It was roused from its torpor near Hrim Eorth, then again at Groba."
"I recall hearing of Hrim Eorth – the river became a dragon. But Groba?"
"Groba is more ancient than most know. Mesikämmi woke its genius loci."
"To what purpose?"
Teppu smiled. "To swallow a sword, and keep it safe."
Hlioth's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "You have been following her activities?"
"Amongst others," his eyes twinkled.
"Which others?"
"Nehael. Nwm."
"What does the demoness have to do with this?"
Teppu threw back his head, and laughed. "Nehael is no demoness, nor was she ever one. The past is not immutable."
Hlioth scowled. "What are you plotting, Teppu?"
"I do not plot," Teppu replied sincerely. "I merely act according to need. There is a splinter of reality which must be realigned: purged of its umbral infestation. In order to accomplish this, I will need the concerted effort of several selfless individuals."
"I think perhaps you might explain a little more."
"I mean to eradicate the seeds of taint from the demiplane of Afqithan: it will be the first manifestation of the burgeoning Viridity. Faerie must reclaim its own."
Hlioth shrugged. "What is Afqithan, and why is it significant?"
Teppu sighed. "Your knowledge of current events is lamentably scant, Hlioth. This does not surprise me, but you cannot continue to view Green within the limited terms that you have previously described to yourself. Afqithan is a finite reality where demons, devils, tainted sidhe and various other monsters struggle to assert themselves: Oronthon's Ahma is embroiled in its troubles, as is the creature Soneillon – a demoness who has transcended her ontic state.
"I am dubious of your ability to manage such an act."
"It will be simple: trust me."
"And how do you propose to accomplish this?"
"Why," Teppu laughed, "with magic, of course."
"You are Jovol," Hlioth sighed. "And Fillein."
"Yes – and no," Teppu replied.
"I understand neither you nor your motives," Hlioth groaned.
"Nor do I," Teppu admitted.
**
Eadric and Shomei rode in the blazing trail carved by Irzho through the purple skies of Afqithan. Before them, Rimilin – whose grotesque, sexless form rippled black and oily – and Soneillon – into whom all light vanished – flew within the great fume of smoke and fire which emanated from the balor. Contundor was buffeted by the gale which issued from the pit fiends – invisible but the source of a palpable malice – who flanked them both. Demons, half-fiends and evil monsters of every conceivable hue surrounded them, jostling for space.
Ahead of the Ahma, Ainhorr's forces filled immensity, blackening the skies, their numbers still swelling as demons from across Afqithan heard the summons, and teleported to the unlocked areas beyond the quiescence of the spheres. From the towers of Irknaan's palace they gushed forth in a never-ending torrent, and below the flights of chasme, succubi and palrethees, the ground and treetops seethed with bar-lgura. Eadric scowled as the standards of the Mariliths in thrall to Ainhorr were being raised beyond the spell's limit. More demons flocked around them, and those Loquai who had thrown in their lot with Graz'zt.
[Eadric]: How so quickly?
[Shomei] (ruefully): I suspect that Ainhorr has my stone of sendings. He issues a command to a subordinate, they instantly relay the message to their subordinates, and within a few minutes nearly every demon in Afqithan will be here. Redeployment is seldom a problem for fiends.
[Eadric]: And Graz'zt?
[Shomei]: I don't doubt that he was the first to know.
[Eadric]: We should climb. How long will the invisibility last?
[Shomei]: We have time yet, but avoid any conflict for the moment. We need to retain the element of surprise for as long as possible. We must find Ainhorr.
[Eadric]: Within the palace.
[Shomei]: Doubtless. He will not commit himself personally yet. You will also notice that no Nalfeshnees have appeared – they remain close by their master. There were thirty, at last count.
[Eadric]: Thirty is too many, Shomei.
[Shomei]: It is not. Just watch out for the sword.
[Eadric] (pointing with his mind): What is that? You didn't mention a dragon. I thought Mostin got the dragons.
A grotesque shape, the wings of which beat slowly and rhythmically, was moving through the demons of Ainhorr's force towards them.
[Shomei]: That is Ilistet's Steed. Graz'zt's herald.
[Eadric]: His herald? Is he here himself?
[Shomei]: Not according to Mostin.
As if to punctuate the realization, a long, sonorous blast issued from Ilistet's horn, causing the ancient, twisted trees to shake, and the Ahma's chest cavity to resonate.
Eadric, Chaya, Shomei and her quartet of devils peeled away from the main spearhead of demons, and began to climb rapidly. They were not alone: other fiends from both factions were attempting to assume positions which offered a higher vantage point.
Climb, he urged his mount.
Within one minute, they had reached nearly two thousand feet. Still, they needed to climb – flights of succubi and chasme, issuing from the tallest of the towers, had already reached that altitude. Eadric glanced downward and ahead of himself, and watched in fascination as Irzho ploughed into a mob of invisible nycadaemons which slowly revealed themselves to his sight.
**
[Mostin]: We must finish him as quickly as possible. His focus lies upon Nhura, at present, although no doubt the probability of invisible, mind-blanked assailants has occurred to him. I'm hoping that the wind-walking hasn't. We have a chance, here: it is the nature of demonic enthusiasm for a cause to crumple if the Lord or Prince who binds them – in this case Kostchtchie – is eliminated. It's all personality.
[Ortwin] (Drily): No doubt this is about us preventing him reaching you.
[Mostin]: In a nutshell, yes. The Djinn will remain nearby, wind-walking, in case you need to make a quick exit.
[Ortwin]: "You" need to make a quick exit? What's with the "You"? How will you escape?
[Mostin]: I will teleport. We will be outside of the quiescence.
[Ortwin]: So we're relying on some bitter, reluctant pseudoelemental?
[Mostin]: I have offered it suitable inducements. Do not be concerned.
[Orwtin]: Gods, Mostin. It's not just Kostchtchie. It's the dragon. And the other demons. And the other dragons. And that thing.
Mostin peered ahead. Close by the Demon Lord, shunned by demons but around whom fiendish giants grouped clumsily, a gaunt figure stood. It was clearly visible between the warriors' legs: the trio were closing rapidly, now.
[Mostin]: Sh*t. The winterwight. It's not supposed to be here.
[Ortwin]: Feeling nervous yet?
[Mostin]: You may have a point. Keep flying.
Varrangoin were all about them – although oblivious to their presence - when they materialized outside the quiescence. Hovering five hundred feet from the limit of the locked area, Mostin invoked a reality maelstrom. It was centered around Kostchtchie, the wight, and the teleportation circles. The dimensional tempest raged incoherently, stretching away from the quiescence in a sphere from which a section had been cut: along the interface between the two spells, a null-space suffused with paradoxical magical energy crackled. For a fraction of a second, Mostin became visible before hiding himself again with another spell.
[Ortwin] (Grinning): That's more like it.
[Mostin]: Brace yourself.
The magical response to the Alienist's assault was immediate and would have overwhelmed them all, had it not been for Soneillon's ward. Horrid wiltings, fireballs, a meteor swarm and numerous sonics blasted into them. The djinn was instantly vaporized, and Mostin's brief appearance had been sufficient to make him the target of three attempted disintegrations and numerous enervations. Rager varrangoin were all about him, attempting to rend his invisible form.
Centered on himself this time, as yet more spells struck them ineffectually, Mostin invoked a second reality maelstrom, content that their own wards would prevent their succumbing to it. This time, the Alienist remained invisible.
Ortwin swallowed as he stood poised on the verge of another reality. Mostin cackled, looking through the rent in space: a rift into Limbo.
[Mostin] (Madly): We're safe here.
[Ortwin]: Are you quite nuts?
Flying through the dimensional storm – and through hundreds of varrangoin being pulled helplessly to their fate – a huge white dragon powered its way purposefully towards them. It bore an ugly, squat, bandy-legged demon brandishing a great hammer.
Clinging to the flank of the dragon, of whose presence the wyrm seemed entirely oblivious, an arcanist varrangoin clung, drooling like a dog. It stretched out its hand, and delivered an empowered sonic meteor swarm to them.
Bad, Mostin thought, as several creatures nearby were disintegrated by the sound. The tassles on his hat swayed slightly. Two more dragons appeared behind the first: mounted upon each were giants wielding enormous axes.
Abruptly, the reality maelstrom vanished, struck by a greater dispelling. From the dragon's jaws a terrible cold washed over them, numbing them despite their wards.
Koilimilou, buoyant with Soneillon's power, retaliated with a soundless gaze. Black fire coursed over the wyrm, and it bellowed in agony for a second, before silently vanishing in a cloud of dark ash. The varrangoin sorcerer took to the air with its own wings, but Kostchtchie himself began to tumble towards the ground.
[Ortwin] (Gaping): What the…?
[Mostin]: Kostchtchie can't fly.
[Ortwin]: (Hysterical laughter).
But in response to its master's telepathic command, one of the other dragons wheeled about and its rider climbed from his harness, and carelessly launched himself into the air.
Mostin anticipated that Kostchtchie would attempt to teleport into the vacant saddle. He opened a gate.
Koilimilou – a sidhe-cambion seldom prone to uncontrollable outbursts – screamed. The pseudonatural Horror – simultaneously both a daemon, and a writhing thing possessed of appendages with an unknown purpose – slid through the portal.
[Symbol] = Faces.
[Mostin] (Pointing mentally at Kostchtchie): His face (and then at the dragons), their faces.
With a gusto which surprised Mostin, the Horror launched itself from the gate towards their enemies.
There had to be a catch, Mostin knew. There was always a catch. It was never that easy.
**
The demon Surab, together with his host – a half-mortal named Iua – rode upon an obsidian steed across a blasted Abyssal landscape. A great, flat, plain – riven by yawning chasms which led to the domains of a thousand different demonic magnates – stretched as far as the eye could see. Surab relaxed into his new form – young, athletic, deadlier with the blade than any of the succubi mercenaries who served Graz'zt. He might keep her for a while – she seemed quiescent enough.
Through her eyes, he scanned the terrain ahead of him, eagerly seeking a familiar portal to Azzagrat where, he knew, its Lord would shower him with favour for his success in eliminating the Savant. Although the plan had been swiftly devised, it had been flawless in its execution. Pure simplicity.
Surab congratulated himself upon his ingenuity.
After riding hard for around an hour, the Demon nudged his steed towards a pit filled with lurid green flames, entered it, and, within seconds, emerged from a gate oven in the midst of Zelatar.
The scene which greeted him was violent, chaotic, brutal and filled with seething hatred. In that regard, Azzagrat was entirely normal.
What marked the Triple Realm as changed, however, was the nature of many of the creatures present. A frenzied pack of Abyssal ghouls were feeding nearby, and a cadre of death knights – mounted upon cauchemars – thundered past with some dire purpose.
Because, acutely conscious of Graz'zt's denuded power and overextended forces, and perceiving the chink in his usually impenetrable armour, Prince Orcus – acting on the gentle promptings of Rhyxali – had determined to invest Azzagrat and test his rival's defenses with a lightning-quick assault.
Surab panicked. The Argent palace, under normal circumstances visible from all parts of Zelatar, had vanished: the demon guessed that Graz'zt had obscured it with a spell.
Commanding his steed to plane shift, Surab, his host and his mount vanished. Any forsaken realm between Hell and the Abyss was preferable to Azzagrat at that moment.
Upon his throne, Graz'zt himself reflected. The purpose of the embassy delivered by Titivilus now seemed clear to him: the Nameless Adversary had, no doubt, known of the impending situation, and chosen to maintain the existing balance of Abyssal politics by reinforcing the Prince's armies in Afqithan. It had to be Afqithan: a diabolic presence in the Abyss would have caused outrage among the other Princes. Afqithan, because of the concentration of Graz'zt's force there; because that was where the Ahma had determined to start the war; because to hold Afqithan was yet another opportunity to defy the will of Oronthon. Afqithan had become an unlikely trophy in the Great Game. New impulses were revealing themselves.
Graz'zt spat venom, and cursed. He knew he would have been overwhelmed in Afqithan. He needed the devils: in order to secure Azzagrat he was being forced to withdraw from dozens of worlds – including Yutuf, Tirche, Sisperi and Saraf – and redeploy tens of thousands of demons. And now he doubted that he hold Throile: the sweet prize dearly bought with the life of one of his favourite generals. And bitterest of all, he realized that, despite all appearances to the contrary, he himself was still the pawn of the one who had sparked the Great Revolt.
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Sollir Furryfoot
Explorer
Two updates, very nice ^_^ Sep definately hasn't lost his touch, I'm still clamoring for more.
