The Rape of Morne [Final Update]
- Thread starter Sepulchrave II
- Start date
Lela
First Post
After five days of reading (and not doing homework I might add) I have finally caught up.
So not fair, I envy those who are just starting beyond anyone right now.
Sep, I'll be honest with you. Of all the stories in all the world, I've loved the Wheel of Time more than anything else I've ever read. Until now, I've never had anything come close. And I can't decide between you and Robert Jordan.
Now, I'm stuck with flipping a coin:
Heads
Okay, now that that's out of the way, it's good to be part of the GIANT team of fans telling you to put this in print. When I pick up some of those wanna-be Dragonlance authors or one of the billiania of FR "Look ma, I wrote's me a story" books, I often want to gag. If you were to simply mail a proposal along with that very first post (WAY back when) and send it off to almost any Fantasy publishing company, I could see them jumping at the chance to sign you.
And I do mean jumping. Up and down. A lot. Then landing on their knees and giving you the puppy dog eyes teenage girls are famous for. Then jumping again.
I love it. At least one of my players is reading it and another has promised to "get around to it." She doesn't know what she's missing.
Avarice: Do you still keep a copy of this in Word? I would love to be able to slip that out to some of my players who have limited online time. If you could send me a copy, I would really appreciate it.
P.S.
As a disclaimer, I do enjoy Dragonlance and FR. I just don't like the copycat authors who try to hook on the bandwagon. I guess I wouldn't mind so much if most of them didn't really suck.
So not fair, I envy those who are just starting beyond anyone right now.
Sep, I'll be honest with you. Of all the stories in all the world, I've loved the Wheel of Time more than anything else I've ever read. Until now, I've never had anything come close. And I can't decide between you and Robert Jordan.
Now, I'm stuck with flipping a coin:
Heads
Okay, now that that's out of the way, it's good to be part of the GIANT team of fans telling you to put this in print. When I pick up some of those wanna-be Dragonlance authors or one of the billiania of FR "Look ma, I wrote's me a story" books, I often want to gag. If you were to simply mail a proposal along with that very first post (WAY back when) and send it off to almost any Fantasy publishing company, I could see them jumping at the chance to sign you.
And I do mean jumping. Up and down. A lot. Then landing on their knees and giving you the puppy dog eyes teenage girls are famous for. Then jumping again.
I love it. At least one of my players is reading it and another has promised to "get around to it." She doesn't know what she's missing.
Avarice: Do you still keep a copy of this in Word? I would love to be able to slip that out to some of my players who have limited online time. If you could send me a copy, I would really appreciate it.
P.S.
As a disclaimer, I do enjoy Dragonlance and FR. I just don't like the copycat authors who try to hook on the bandwagon. I guess I wouldn't mind so much if most of them didn't really suck.
Last edited:
Sepulchrave II
Legend
Sooo
Life's been a trifle busy lately, so I haven't had as much time to write as I would have liked.
This is about five sessions behind in terms of updates - unfortunately, the gap is growing, not shrinking. Time. Time. Time. Always need more time.
Sigh.
**
Daunton the Diviner Teleported to Prince Tagur’s position after scrying the Prince, appearing at dusk in his campsite.
Several of Tagur’s hearthguards drew their swords.
"Your retainers are a little jumpy," the Wizard smiled. The humour immediately left his face. "Brey of Methelhar has just capitulated with Deorham."
Tagur sat silently for several moments. His mind raced.
"There is more," Daunton continued. "It would appear that the clandestine raids mounted in Hethio are more organized than we previously suspected. It is some kind of popular Uediian movement. It seems to be growing exponentially."
Tagur cocked his head. "Are they allied with the Trempans?"
"I think allied is probably too strong a word. But I suspect that some contact exists between them. Nwm the Preceptor is the most likely suspect. He is an associate of Deorham."
The Prince grimaced. He knew that much already. "And the Curia?"
"Are irrelevant," Daunton said.
"Do we have numbers?" Tagur asked.
"Assuming that most of the Templars follow Brey’s lead – and that seems likely – around twelve hundred knights, twice as many auxiliary cavalry and six or seven thousand infantry. That includes the Trempan aristocracy and militias, and around eight hundred Ardanese mercenaries."
"The Temple has been ineffective to date," The Prince said. "There is no reason to suspect otherwise from now on."
Daunton shook his head emphatically. "That is absolutely not the case. The reason that Templars were not deployed en masse was because of their vulnerability to magical assault from Nwm. That is no longer an issue. I would also remind you that a substantial number of Deorham’s footsoldiers are not levies and militiamen any more. They are Temple infantry. Finally, if Nwm chooses to actively participate in this, then there is nothing that you can do. He commands enormous power."
Tagur’s stomach tightened when he considered the rumours of the Druid’s assault upon the Temple camp, three months before. A thousand dead in five minutes, they said.
"Is there no way that any Wizard can be persuaded to intervene?"
Daunton shook his head.
"If you contacted one from outside of Wyre? An extraplanar? A Blood Magician from Shûth? It troubles me, but if forced into the arena of magical warfare…"
"Then, I regret, our association would be at an end," Daunton said sternly. "My securing magical help for you would be no different to binding a demon or throwing lightning myself. I will not risk violating the Injunction. I may impart only information. I will neither act as mediator, nor as a procurer of supernatural aid."
"You would rather see order overthrown and thousands needlessly die?"
"Yes," Daunton replied simply. Because the alternative was too terrible to contemplate.
"And Mostin’s acts?" Tagur asked.
"Were questionable, but sufficiently minor and ambiguous to warrant oversight: there is also the fact that many rumours concerning him issued from the Temple itself. Mages have little inclination to trust priests. Believe me, your Highness, when I tell you that you do not want Wizards actively participating in temporal wars."
"Or Druids," Tagur said laconically. "Daunton, I would ask that this news is relayed to the small council in full. Now is not the time for withholding information based on petty past disagreements. Inform the Lord Chamberlain that I will be in Morne in three days. I just hope that we can come to some kind of consensus before it’s too late. Sihu* will be pivotal – her troops are involved in Temple activities in the north of Trempa."
"Were involved," Daunton corrected him.
"She has also capitulated?" Tagur was aghast.
"No indeed," Daunton replied. "But the Templars there are likely to be of unsure loyalty given Brey’s reversal. Eisarn is their commander. Furthermore, they have been forced back into Thahan."
"A second assault? Already?"
"Nwm." Daunton replied.
The Prince groaned. It appeared that the Druid was already active, although his agenda was unclear. "And Iald?" He asked wearily.
"Iald is still invested by Temple troops – for the moment. News of the events on the borders of Trempa may have already reached them, however. I will maintain scrutiny on them. You may wish to consider allowing Deorham into Morne."
"And consign Wyre to even more Theocratic bullsh*t than it has already suffered? I think not."
"He advocates disestablishment," Daunton replied.
"For the moment," Tagur said bitterly. "But does his deity? And who’s to say that some other ‘revelation’ won’t descend upon him in the near future commanding him to seize the throne? Religion is so tiresome, Daunton. It stops people thinking clearly and behaving rationally."
The Wizard nodded sympathetically.
**
Eadric dreamed of death. The Temple in flames. The butchery of children upon the streets of Morne. Misery. Suffering. Anguish. Faces moved through his mind, each mutating into the next: Tahl, Nwm, Hethio, Tagur, Cynric, Nehael, Hullu, Melion, Feezuu, Soraine, Tramst. Others whom he did not recognize, too numerous to count.
Tramst, again, and his own brother, Orm.
The Paladin ripped himself out of sleep, and stood up in his tent. His knees were weak. The canvas flapped in the night wind.
Strange, he thought, the door should be over there. Ah, he realized, I’m still dreaming.
Another face appeared: huge, gnarled, with tattoos on its cheeks. The fearsome aspect of a giant or an ogre, but somehow benign. Its ancient eyes spoke of enormous wisdom and power.
Who are you?, Eadric asked.
But he received no answer, and woke up abruptly.
He lay motionless on his pallet for a few moments, gradually accepting the fact that he was, in fact, conscious. He became aware of another presence in his tent.
Nehael sat nearby upon a stool, regarding him seriously.
"What time is it?" Eadric asked.
"An hour before dawn," the Demoness replied. "The camp is beginning to stir."
"How long have you been sitting there? Do you never sleep?"
"Around two hours. And no."
Eadric thought for a moment. "What is your relationship with Rintrah, Nehael?"
"We are on amicable enough terms,’ she replied.
"Have you been in regular contact with him?"
"I wouldn’t say regular," she said, standing, and drawing her cloak closer around her. Eadric was curious at the affectation – he knew that the Succubus was impervious to the cold.
"You aren’t being terribly forthcoming," he remarked wrily. "I thought you were acting as my counsellor."
"Perhaps you are asking the wrong questions," Nehael replied.
"Are you an agent of Oronthon?" Eadric queried.
"No," she answered flatly.
"Of Uedii?"
"No," she replied again. "Although if I had to choose a particular interpretation of religious truth, then I would favour Uedii for aesthetic reasons."
The Paladin grunted. Nehael was being characteristically vague about her own loyalties. He wondered if Nwm’s conversations with her had been any more revealing.
"I dreamed that Morne was sacked. The Fane and the Temple compound put to the torch. The murder and rape of innocents. Incredible cruelty."
"War brings atrocity," she replied impassively.
"I cannot be responsible for that," Eadric said. "I will not have it on my conscience."
Nehael said nothing.
"There were many faces – too many to count," he continued. "They flashed through my mind in rapid succession."
"Numerous people and strings of events have led to the current crisis," Nehael explained. "The drawing together of many disparate threads into a single, overarching Now. You have sensed a nodality. Another occurred at Khu: Graz’zt attempted to direct it, but Mulissu’s presence thwarted his purpose. If you had been killed there, then the Church of Oronthon in this reality would have been greatly diminished. The coming nodality is likely of much wider scope."
"The last face I saw was of a giant – or an ogre. He was aware of me, but did not answer my inquiry to his identity. His face was tattooed. He radiated enormous power, but also compassion."
"I do not know," Nehael said, "but I suspect that was Jovol. He is a Wizard who lives much of his life in the realm of Dream. It is likely that he is aware of the impending crisis. Dreamers are sensitive to such vibrations."
"But why would he make his presence known to me – if not his identity? He is barred from acting in the current crisis, anyway. The Injunction prevents him."
Nehael was conspicuously silent.
"Nehael?" Eadric asked nervously.
"Old certainties are failing, Ahma. You yourself are testament to that fact."
"Mostin insists that the Injunction is inviolable. That it is contrary to the whole ethos of magic for a Wizard to embroil himself or herself in politics."
"Mostin himself has already violated the Injunction," Nehael reminded him. "He acted out of concern for his friends. He decided that the risk of doing so was acceptable, given the stakes."
"Jovol, I suspect, is motivated by compassion," Eadric said. "At least that is some reassurance."
"Perhaps," the Demoness said sceptically. "But others will be aware of the confluence of events. Bending their wills, and mobilizing their servants into action. Uedii, the Green Reality. Oronthon – who may not have revealed all of his purposes to you. Demons, maybe."
"And Devils?"
"There are always Devils, Ahma. Somewhere in the background. Waiting."
"And others?"
"Whose purposes and motivations are unknown to us, and maybe even to themselves. Random elements." She answered.
**
Mesikämmi. Honey-Paw. A wisp of vapour hurtling through the sky.
Hullu! Hullu! Hullu! She thought to herself as she flew south across Iald. Where have you gone, my pretty boy? What troubles are you finding your way into now, I wonder?
The land below, thick with forests, so different to the wild tundras of her homeland. Then settlements of stone buildings, bridges, keeps and towers, ploughed fields, rolling hills and a thousand streams, bringing waters down from the tall mountains beyond which lay the Linna.
She sighed. It was warm here, in the sun. And how much warmer it would get, as she flew yet further south! Further afield than she had ever ventured before.
At least in this small, sad world, she thought ironically.
Mesikämmi considered the spirit who had appeared to her in her revelry. An unfamiliar creature, whom she did not trust. No doubt some entity involved with the strange God worshipped in Wyre, although whether opposed to him or allied with him she did not know.
Or care.
She had conjured one of its servants: a being bright with effulgent light, winged like a bird and radiating warmth and peace.
Not that that meant anything, she thought. But now she bore its token – a talisman of unknown power and function, and travelled to heal a man she had never heard of in a land that she never knew existed.
Hullu, she thought again, and yearned for his sweet embrace. Not coerced this time, but freely given. As she raced over eastern Hethio, she scanned the ground below. He was here somewhere, she had scried him only hours before. But where? As she passed through a cloud, suddenly it was revealed.
She inhaled sharply. A sea of wagons and tents stretched before her, and plumes of smoke rose into the air. People crawling like ants on the ground below her – thousands it seemed. More than she had ever seen before.
Resisting the urge to descend, the Shamaness continued on southwards. Wyre fell behind her. She flew out over the Thalassine, and cities passed beneath her. She flew over Pandicule with its hundreds of rocky islands, over Bedesh, and across the Western Ocean.
There, below her, two hundred miles from anywhere: a surf-wracked island perhaps three miles long. It boasted a single stone building - a castle of unusual design.
Remember, she thought. The slippery spirit knows where his books are. That is enough.
Mesikämmi sighed, and wondered why such things were so important. But it would assure her Hullu of victory, and that was sufficient. And then, perhaps, he would return with her at last. This time, she would be coy, and restrained, and yielding.
"For there is nothing which I cannot teach you in the arts of love," the bright servant had informed her.
**
"A Fey?" Ulao roared. "One-Eight-Six said nothing to me about you being a Fey. And a Satyr to boot! A licentious, unprincipled erotomaniacal Satyr. It doesn’t surprise me that she was evasive about you when questioned: no doubt you have already plucked her frail maidenhood with your goatish lusts! I should have you flogged for your insolence."
Ortwin bowed theatrically. The enormous Djinn – whose girth suggested an overindulgence in whatever airy sustenance such creatures partook of – was clad wholly in crimson silk, and bore a tulwar almost as tall as Ortwin himself. He sat upon a throne of ivory in a hall of dizzying height, its domed roof supported by immense marble pillars of intricate design. Tendrils of purplish smoke, issuing from numerous braziers, clung to the columns before wafting out of great shafts hewn into the roof. Numerous creatures attended him: Djinn of lesser rank, Mephits, Elementals and Sylphs. To his right stood his chief advisor, whom Iua had already warned Ortwin of – a Marid named Shasheen – and nearby, standing in a tight group, a squad of dour Azer mercenaries from the Elemental Plane of Fire, prospective allies in the age-long hostility against the oppressive Efreet regime. Iua herself stood demurely to her father’s left – Ortwin noted that she played the role with considered ease. On a couch, a Sidhe of singular beauty reclined. His face remained impassive at Ulao’s disparaging comments regarding Feys in general.
Iua had informed the Bard that the politics of Ulao’s court – like the Inner Planes in general - were extremely complex and transient.
"Great Ulao," Ortwin said dramatically, "I bring you gifts as a token of my esteem."
From the back of the hallway, in a stately fashion, a train of Pixies flew forwards with serious looks upon their faces. They bore cushions of white velvet, upon which rested a number of fabulous items procured by Ortwin from a passing Sorcerer from an unknown world.
"First," Ortwin gloated, "the Fuliginous Grand Rill: a rose of such exquisite scent that those who experience its aroma are enraptured to the point of insensibility. It is unique, in that it requires no water or soil to sustain it, deriving its nutrition from the ecstasy evoked in those who inhale its fragrance. Be sure to smell it at least once per day, or it will perish from lack of due love and attention.
"Next," the Bard continued, "a bottled whirlwind. An amusing toy in which, I hope, the Great Ulao will discover some small pleasure. But a word of caution to the owner: the whirlwind is utterly fickle and unpredictable, and does not heed any command. If you loose the stopper, be sure to have an efficient method of escape: although such warnings are hardly necessary for one with sublime mastery of the airy realms." Ortwin thought that he ought to cover his back, nonetheless.
"Finally," he said, "obtained with great difficulty and sacrifice," although not be me, he thought, "a Pipe of Prescience: inhaling smoke through this pipe, and concentrating upon the desired subject will reveal intimations regarding future events. The hints are vague, of course, but divination is an inexact science at best." Ortwin bowed again with a flourish.
Ulao raised an eyebrow. Whoever this Ortwin fellow was, he seemed generous and had excellent taste. And the train of Feys who attended him looked suitably loyal.** His eye fell upon Mostin, who stood silently behind Ortwin, his lidless green eyes peering out from beneath his wide-brimmed hat.
"And this fellow," Ulao gestured at the Alienist, "is your attendant and advisor, I assume?"
"In a manner of speaking, your Magnificence," the Bard said smoothly. "He is a Wizard of excellent repute, called Mostin the Metagnostic. He seldom speaks, but has proven a faithful aide."
Mostin twitched reflexively, but said nothing. The situation, although amusing, would rapidly lose its charm if Ortwin persisted too far in that direction.
"Tell me, Ortwin," Ulao questioned, waving at the Pixies who fluttered around him, "do you have many such servants in your own realm? I am surprised! I had always been led to believe that sprites were intractable and unreliable. You must command great respect amongst your own kind."
Ortwin bowed graciously, and gave an expression of embarrassed modesty. False understatement was one of his specialties in the field of mendacity.
The Sidhe, hitherto silent, shifted lazily on his couch. When he spoke, his voice was like honey. "I regret that some Feys have acquired far too much…Earthiness…due to prolonged exposure to mortal soils," he mused absently. "It does not surprise me that servitude comes easily to them – they are far removed from their roots."
Ortwin looked mildly offended, noting the expressions of indignance which crossed the face of several of the Pixies. His response was inspired.
"Such rudeness! I will, however, pardon your abuse. I am a magnanimous fellow – although great Ulao may take affront at such profanity. Reference to that basest of elements will not pass my lips. I would refrain from sullying Prince Ulao’s consciousness with such vulgar thoughts: I only hope he can forgive you."
"Yes, quite," Ulao said, half-bemused. "Your concern for my sensibilities does you credit, Ortwin, although I am less easily offended than you might think." He clapped his hands, and a dozen Mephits darted off to bring large, comfortable cushions. Ulao gestured for Ortwin to sit.
Yes, he thought to himself. I’m in.
The Sidhe smiled coldly.
*The Duchess of Tomur
**Mostin used a Planar Binding to bring sixteen Pixies onto the Plane of Air from the Prime to attend Ortwin. They were paid with a vial of Nolzur’s Marvellous Pigments and several potions, which had been transferred into tiny barrels for ease of transport.
Life's been a trifle busy lately, so I haven't had as much time to write as I would have liked.
This is about five sessions behind in terms of updates - unfortunately, the gap is growing, not shrinking. Time. Time. Time. Always need more time.
Sigh.
**
Daunton the Diviner Teleported to Prince Tagur’s position after scrying the Prince, appearing at dusk in his campsite.
Several of Tagur’s hearthguards drew their swords.
"Your retainers are a little jumpy," the Wizard smiled. The humour immediately left his face. "Brey of Methelhar has just capitulated with Deorham."
Tagur sat silently for several moments. His mind raced.
"There is more," Daunton continued. "It would appear that the clandestine raids mounted in Hethio are more organized than we previously suspected. It is some kind of popular Uediian movement. It seems to be growing exponentially."
Tagur cocked his head. "Are they allied with the Trempans?"
"I think allied is probably too strong a word. But I suspect that some contact exists between them. Nwm the Preceptor is the most likely suspect. He is an associate of Deorham."
The Prince grimaced. He knew that much already. "And the Curia?"
"Are irrelevant," Daunton said.
"Do we have numbers?" Tagur asked.
"Assuming that most of the Templars follow Brey’s lead – and that seems likely – around twelve hundred knights, twice as many auxiliary cavalry and six or seven thousand infantry. That includes the Trempan aristocracy and militias, and around eight hundred Ardanese mercenaries."
"The Temple has been ineffective to date," The Prince said. "There is no reason to suspect otherwise from now on."
Daunton shook his head emphatically. "That is absolutely not the case. The reason that Templars were not deployed en masse was because of their vulnerability to magical assault from Nwm. That is no longer an issue. I would also remind you that a substantial number of Deorham’s footsoldiers are not levies and militiamen any more. They are Temple infantry. Finally, if Nwm chooses to actively participate in this, then there is nothing that you can do. He commands enormous power."
Tagur’s stomach tightened when he considered the rumours of the Druid’s assault upon the Temple camp, three months before. A thousand dead in five minutes, they said.
"Is there no way that any Wizard can be persuaded to intervene?"
Daunton shook his head.
"If you contacted one from outside of Wyre? An extraplanar? A Blood Magician from Shûth? It troubles me, but if forced into the arena of magical warfare…"
"Then, I regret, our association would be at an end," Daunton said sternly. "My securing magical help for you would be no different to binding a demon or throwing lightning myself. I will not risk violating the Injunction. I may impart only information. I will neither act as mediator, nor as a procurer of supernatural aid."
"You would rather see order overthrown and thousands needlessly die?"
"Yes," Daunton replied simply. Because the alternative was too terrible to contemplate.
"And Mostin’s acts?" Tagur asked.
"Were questionable, but sufficiently minor and ambiguous to warrant oversight: there is also the fact that many rumours concerning him issued from the Temple itself. Mages have little inclination to trust priests. Believe me, your Highness, when I tell you that you do not want Wizards actively participating in temporal wars."
"Or Druids," Tagur said laconically. "Daunton, I would ask that this news is relayed to the small council in full. Now is not the time for withholding information based on petty past disagreements. Inform the Lord Chamberlain that I will be in Morne in three days. I just hope that we can come to some kind of consensus before it’s too late. Sihu* will be pivotal – her troops are involved in Temple activities in the north of Trempa."
"Were involved," Daunton corrected him.
"She has also capitulated?" Tagur was aghast.
"No indeed," Daunton replied. "But the Templars there are likely to be of unsure loyalty given Brey’s reversal. Eisarn is their commander. Furthermore, they have been forced back into Thahan."
"A second assault? Already?"
"Nwm." Daunton replied.
The Prince groaned. It appeared that the Druid was already active, although his agenda was unclear. "And Iald?" He asked wearily.
"Iald is still invested by Temple troops – for the moment. News of the events on the borders of Trempa may have already reached them, however. I will maintain scrutiny on them. You may wish to consider allowing Deorham into Morne."
"And consign Wyre to even more Theocratic bullsh*t than it has already suffered? I think not."
"He advocates disestablishment," Daunton replied.
"For the moment," Tagur said bitterly. "But does his deity? And who’s to say that some other ‘revelation’ won’t descend upon him in the near future commanding him to seize the throne? Religion is so tiresome, Daunton. It stops people thinking clearly and behaving rationally."
The Wizard nodded sympathetically.
**
Eadric dreamed of death. The Temple in flames. The butchery of children upon the streets of Morne. Misery. Suffering. Anguish. Faces moved through his mind, each mutating into the next: Tahl, Nwm, Hethio, Tagur, Cynric, Nehael, Hullu, Melion, Feezuu, Soraine, Tramst. Others whom he did not recognize, too numerous to count.
Tramst, again, and his own brother, Orm.
The Paladin ripped himself out of sleep, and stood up in his tent. His knees were weak. The canvas flapped in the night wind.
Strange, he thought, the door should be over there. Ah, he realized, I’m still dreaming.
Another face appeared: huge, gnarled, with tattoos on its cheeks. The fearsome aspect of a giant or an ogre, but somehow benign. Its ancient eyes spoke of enormous wisdom and power.
Who are you?, Eadric asked.
But he received no answer, and woke up abruptly.
He lay motionless on his pallet for a few moments, gradually accepting the fact that he was, in fact, conscious. He became aware of another presence in his tent.
Nehael sat nearby upon a stool, regarding him seriously.
"What time is it?" Eadric asked.
"An hour before dawn," the Demoness replied. "The camp is beginning to stir."
"How long have you been sitting there? Do you never sleep?"
"Around two hours. And no."
Eadric thought for a moment. "What is your relationship with Rintrah, Nehael?"
"We are on amicable enough terms,’ she replied.
"Have you been in regular contact with him?"
"I wouldn’t say regular," she said, standing, and drawing her cloak closer around her. Eadric was curious at the affectation – he knew that the Succubus was impervious to the cold.
"You aren’t being terribly forthcoming," he remarked wrily. "I thought you were acting as my counsellor."
"Perhaps you are asking the wrong questions," Nehael replied.
"Are you an agent of Oronthon?" Eadric queried.
"No," she answered flatly.
"Of Uedii?"
"No," she replied again. "Although if I had to choose a particular interpretation of religious truth, then I would favour Uedii for aesthetic reasons."
The Paladin grunted. Nehael was being characteristically vague about her own loyalties. He wondered if Nwm’s conversations with her had been any more revealing.
"I dreamed that Morne was sacked. The Fane and the Temple compound put to the torch. The murder and rape of innocents. Incredible cruelty."
"War brings atrocity," she replied impassively.
"I cannot be responsible for that," Eadric said. "I will not have it on my conscience."
Nehael said nothing.
"There were many faces – too many to count," he continued. "They flashed through my mind in rapid succession."
"Numerous people and strings of events have led to the current crisis," Nehael explained. "The drawing together of many disparate threads into a single, overarching Now. You have sensed a nodality. Another occurred at Khu: Graz’zt attempted to direct it, but Mulissu’s presence thwarted his purpose. If you had been killed there, then the Church of Oronthon in this reality would have been greatly diminished. The coming nodality is likely of much wider scope."
"The last face I saw was of a giant – or an ogre. He was aware of me, but did not answer my inquiry to his identity. His face was tattooed. He radiated enormous power, but also compassion."
"I do not know," Nehael said, "but I suspect that was Jovol. He is a Wizard who lives much of his life in the realm of Dream. It is likely that he is aware of the impending crisis. Dreamers are sensitive to such vibrations."
"But why would he make his presence known to me – if not his identity? He is barred from acting in the current crisis, anyway. The Injunction prevents him."
Nehael was conspicuously silent.
"Nehael?" Eadric asked nervously.
"Old certainties are failing, Ahma. You yourself are testament to that fact."
"Mostin insists that the Injunction is inviolable. That it is contrary to the whole ethos of magic for a Wizard to embroil himself or herself in politics."
"Mostin himself has already violated the Injunction," Nehael reminded him. "He acted out of concern for his friends. He decided that the risk of doing so was acceptable, given the stakes."
"Jovol, I suspect, is motivated by compassion," Eadric said. "At least that is some reassurance."
"Perhaps," the Demoness said sceptically. "But others will be aware of the confluence of events. Bending their wills, and mobilizing their servants into action. Uedii, the Green Reality. Oronthon – who may not have revealed all of his purposes to you. Demons, maybe."
"And Devils?"
"There are always Devils, Ahma. Somewhere in the background. Waiting."
"And others?"
"Whose purposes and motivations are unknown to us, and maybe even to themselves. Random elements." She answered.
**
Mesikämmi. Honey-Paw. A wisp of vapour hurtling through the sky.
Hullu! Hullu! Hullu! She thought to herself as she flew south across Iald. Where have you gone, my pretty boy? What troubles are you finding your way into now, I wonder?
The land below, thick with forests, so different to the wild tundras of her homeland. Then settlements of stone buildings, bridges, keeps and towers, ploughed fields, rolling hills and a thousand streams, bringing waters down from the tall mountains beyond which lay the Linna.
She sighed. It was warm here, in the sun. And how much warmer it would get, as she flew yet further south! Further afield than she had ever ventured before.
At least in this small, sad world, she thought ironically.
Mesikämmi considered the spirit who had appeared to her in her revelry. An unfamiliar creature, whom she did not trust. No doubt some entity involved with the strange God worshipped in Wyre, although whether opposed to him or allied with him she did not know.
Or care.
She had conjured one of its servants: a being bright with effulgent light, winged like a bird and radiating warmth and peace.
Not that that meant anything, she thought. But now she bore its token – a talisman of unknown power and function, and travelled to heal a man she had never heard of in a land that she never knew existed.
Hullu, she thought again, and yearned for his sweet embrace. Not coerced this time, but freely given. As she raced over eastern Hethio, she scanned the ground below. He was here somewhere, she had scried him only hours before. But where? As she passed through a cloud, suddenly it was revealed.
She inhaled sharply. A sea of wagons and tents stretched before her, and plumes of smoke rose into the air. People crawling like ants on the ground below her – thousands it seemed. More than she had ever seen before.
Resisting the urge to descend, the Shamaness continued on southwards. Wyre fell behind her. She flew out over the Thalassine, and cities passed beneath her. She flew over Pandicule with its hundreds of rocky islands, over Bedesh, and across the Western Ocean.
There, below her, two hundred miles from anywhere: a surf-wracked island perhaps three miles long. It boasted a single stone building - a castle of unusual design.
Remember, she thought. The slippery spirit knows where his books are. That is enough.
Mesikämmi sighed, and wondered why such things were so important. But it would assure her Hullu of victory, and that was sufficient. And then, perhaps, he would return with her at last. This time, she would be coy, and restrained, and yielding.
"For there is nothing which I cannot teach you in the arts of love," the bright servant had informed her.
**
"A Fey?" Ulao roared. "One-Eight-Six said nothing to me about you being a Fey. And a Satyr to boot! A licentious, unprincipled erotomaniacal Satyr. It doesn’t surprise me that she was evasive about you when questioned: no doubt you have already plucked her frail maidenhood with your goatish lusts! I should have you flogged for your insolence."
Ortwin bowed theatrically. The enormous Djinn – whose girth suggested an overindulgence in whatever airy sustenance such creatures partook of – was clad wholly in crimson silk, and bore a tulwar almost as tall as Ortwin himself. He sat upon a throne of ivory in a hall of dizzying height, its domed roof supported by immense marble pillars of intricate design. Tendrils of purplish smoke, issuing from numerous braziers, clung to the columns before wafting out of great shafts hewn into the roof. Numerous creatures attended him: Djinn of lesser rank, Mephits, Elementals and Sylphs. To his right stood his chief advisor, whom Iua had already warned Ortwin of – a Marid named Shasheen – and nearby, standing in a tight group, a squad of dour Azer mercenaries from the Elemental Plane of Fire, prospective allies in the age-long hostility against the oppressive Efreet regime. Iua herself stood demurely to her father’s left – Ortwin noted that she played the role with considered ease. On a couch, a Sidhe of singular beauty reclined. His face remained impassive at Ulao’s disparaging comments regarding Feys in general.
Iua had informed the Bard that the politics of Ulao’s court – like the Inner Planes in general - were extremely complex and transient.
"Great Ulao," Ortwin said dramatically, "I bring you gifts as a token of my esteem."
From the back of the hallway, in a stately fashion, a train of Pixies flew forwards with serious looks upon their faces. They bore cushions of white velvet, upon which rested a number of fabulous items procured by Ortwin from a passing Sorcerer from an unknown world.
"First," Ortwin gloated, "the Fuliginous Grand Rill: a rose of such exquisite scent that those who experience its aroma are enraptured to the point of insensibility. It is unique, in that it requires no water or soil to sustain it, deriving its nutrition from the ecstasy evoked in those who inhale its fragrance. Be sure to smell it at least once per day, or it will perish from lack of due love and attention.
"Next," the Bard continued, "a bottled whirlwind. An amusing toy in which, I hope, the Great Ulao will discover some small pleasure. But a word of caution to the owner: the whirlwind is utterly fickle and unpredictable, and does not heed any command. If you loose the stopper, be sure to have an efficient method of escape: although such warnings are hardly necessary for one with sublime mastery of the airy realms." Ortwin thought that he ought to cover his back, nonetheless.
"Finally," he said, "obtained with great difficulty and sacrifice," although not be me, he thought, "a Pipe of Prescience: inhaling smoke through this pipe, and concentrating upon the desired subject will reveal intimations regarding future events. The hints are vague, of course, but divination is an inexact science at best." Ortwin bowed again with a flourish.
Ulao raised an eyebrow. Whoever this Ortwin fellow was, he seemed generous and had excellent taste. And the train of Feys who attended him looked suitably loyal.** His eye fell upon Mostin, who stood silently behind Ortwin, his lidless green eyes peering out from beneath his wide-brimmed hat.
"And this fellow," Ulao gestured at the Alienist, "is your attendant and advisor, I assume?"
"In a manner of speaking, your Magnificence," the Bard said smoothly. "He is a Wizard of excellent repute, called Mostin the Metagnostic. He seldom speaks, but has proven a faithful aide."
Mostin twitched reflexively, but said nothing. The situation, although amusing, would rapidly lose its charm if Ortwin persisted too far in that direction.
"Tell me, Ortwin," Ulao questioned, waving at the Pixies who fluttered around him, "do you have many such servants in your own realm? I am surprised! I had always been led to believe that sprites were intractable and unreliable. You must command great respect amongst your own kind."
Ortwin bowed graciously, and gave an expression of embarrassed modesty. False understatement was one of his specialties in the field of mendacity.
The Sidhe, hitherto silent, shifted lazily on his couch. When he spoke, his voice was like honey. "I regret that some Feys have acquired far too much…Earthiness…due to prolonged exposure to mortal soils," he mused absently. "It does not surprise me that servitude comes easily to them – they are far removed from their roots."
Ortwin looked mildly offended, noting the expressions of indignance which crossed the face of several of the Pixies. His response was inspired.
"Such rudeness! I will, however, pardon your abuse. I am a magnanimous fellow – although great Ulao may take affront at such profanity. Reference to that basest of elements will not pass my lips. I would refrain from sullying Prince Ulao’s consciousness with such vulgar thoughts: I only hope he can forgive you."
"Yes, quite," Ulao said, half-bemused. "Your concern for my sensibilities does you credit, Ortwin, although I am less easily offended than you might think." He clapped his hands, and a dozen Mephits darted off to bring large, comfortable cushions. Ulao gestured for Ortwin to sit.
Yes, he thought to himself. I’m in.
The Sidhe smiled coldly.
*The Duchess of Tomur
**Mostin used a Planar Binding to bring sixteen Pixies onto the Plane of Air from the Prime to attend Ortwin. They were paid with a vial of Nolzur’s Marvellous Pigments and several potions, which had been transferred into tiny barrels for ease of transport.
