Cheiromancer
Adventurer
Also, what happened to the bishop of Hethio? Last we saw of him he was pretending to be sick. He's no longer part of the core bishops of the curia, but it doesn't say whether he was found to be evil or not.
The Rape of Morne [Final Update]
- Thread starter Sepulchrave II
- Start date
Jeremy
Explorer
I seem to remember something along the lines of Tramst at the battle of Nwn's Crossing calling a Celestial and being told indirectly (and comically to those of us not in the battle) that Oronthon supports Eadric.
When Tramst brought this word to the Curia they belittled his grasp of the situation (though deciding to summarily stop summoning celestials and start summoning inevitables) and told him he was jumping at shadows. After considerable time to consider what he had seen and heard for himself, I think he defected.
At least that's my recollection.. That's better left to Sep or someone who has the story hour in a word document.
When Tramst brought this word to the Curia they belittled his grasp of the situation (though deciding to summarily stop summoning celestials and start summoning inevitables) and told him he was jumping at shadows. After considerable time to consider what he had seen and heard for himself, I think he defected.
At least that's my recollection.. That's better left to Sep or someone who has the story hour in a word document.
Sepulchrave II
Legend
Actually, my mistake. It was a typo - that should read Tahl, not Tramst. Apologies for any confusion. Too many "T's" - Tahl, Tramst, Tagur, Tiuhan, Tatterbrand, Togull, Tostig, Trempa, Tomur, Thahan, etc. I get confused.
Tramst is still in Ardan at the time of the last post. (Although not for long).
The rather pathetic story of Hethio will be revealed in due course
Cyronax
Explorer
Sepulchrave II said:
That clears that up then, thanks Sep. After reading through your story hour again, I'm really impressed by the "tightness" of your narrative. You never let any holes into the plot (besides that minor minor mistake) and never forget to show how A gets to B. My praise as always.
I really dug your writeup of the conversation between Jorvol and Rintrah. I'd be interested to know if you have any game mechanics worked out for Jorvol's method of divination/lifestyle. Does he dwell on the Plane of Dreams (ala Manual of the Planes) or do you use other mechanics?
C.I.D.
BiggusGeekus@Work
Community Supporter
"When the waves are round me breaking,
As I pace the deck alone,
And my eye in vain is seeking
Some green leaf to rest upon;
What would not I give to wander
Where my old companions dwell?
Absence makes the heart grow fonder,
Isle of Beauty, fare thee well!"
-John Milton, Paradise Lost
(I'm just bumping and figured I may as well toss in a quote)
As I pace the deck alone,
And my eye in vain is seeking
Some green leaf to rest upon;
What would not I give to wander
Where my old companions dwell?
Absence makes the heart grow fonder,
Isle of Beauty, fare thee well!"
-John Milton, Paradise Lost
(I'm just bumping and figured I may as well toss in a quote)
Sepulchrave II
Legend
Okay, so these two posts are all over the place, flitting about from scene to scene without any apparent cohesion. It was originally going to be one post, but the page freaked out and couldn't cope with the size.
It's pretty long, and still I've had to gloss over some events. Ah, well.
Yes, and mostly. Jovol uses a custom Epic Divination.
**
Here and There; and This, That and the Other: Part 1
Hullu shifted his weight upon the branch, and waited. He was finding it hard to focus on the moment, to be fully aware of his surroundings. His mind was distracted by events that had come to his notice: the mustering of Morne’s city defenses; the riding of a force from Jiuhu, intent on crushing his rebellion; and the arrival of two witches in his camp, seemingly in his time of greatest need.
He had ordered Tarva to watch them, distrusting his desire to trust them.
He patted Melancholy affectionately, glad to have her cold steel – or whatever metal from which she was constructed – to hand.
Along the road, from the northwest, the sound of horses galloping came to his ear. He motioned down to where the Druid, Bodb, rested behind a bush in the form of a boar. Hullu then gave a low whistle, alerting those others in nearby trees to action.
A score of riders, moving at great speed, suddenly came into view. Their standard – a Golden Boar – fluttered above them. An ironic device, Hullu smiled, as he looked towards the Druid.
As the horsemen passed beneath him, vines suddenly sprang up from the track, and lashed out from the undergrowth on both sides of the road, wrapping themselves around the legs of the mounts. Several tripped, depositing their riders hard upon the ground. They whinnied, and riders yelled.
Abruptly, dozens of yard-long shafts began tearing into the confused group. Men toppled from their steeds, others drew swords, a handful – including the bannerbearer – broke free and fled eastwards. Hullu’s Bagaudas slew all of the remainder, except one, who broke off and ran north on foot through the trees.
The Tribesman cursed, leapt down a bone-jarring two fathoms onto the ground, and raced after him. He spotted him his quarry immediately, and began to close.
After a two-hundred yard pursuit, Hullu found that his prey – a slim man in his early forties, who wore an unassuming black robe of modest design – had turned, and was prepared to face him. He had drawn a rapier.
"Wait," the man said. "I am a simple mercenary – nothing more. I am only doing my job. Consider this, before you attack me."
Hullu drew Melancholy, and walked forwards. "I apologize," he grinned, "but you have chosen the wrong side. Such are the risks of a mercenary’s life." Hullu knew it well, as for years, he had been one himself. "Now you will suggest that perhaps you can join me, in order to save your own life."
"Yes," the man replied. "That is precisely what I had planned. I have no particular loyalty, other than to myself."
"Your honesty is admirable," Hullu grimaced, "but your sword is fine, and we need such weapons as we can acquire. And, doubtless, your purse is also fat."
"My purse you can have," the man answered, flinging it onto the ground. "But my blade is my livelihood. I am loathe to part with it."
"Then I should take it from you," Hullu replied, and leapt forwards. His power and ferocity – combined with a natural speed and a precision honed by years of practice – landed the Tribesman a solid blow.
His opponent’s face whitened visibly as the blade struck him, as if something cold had just brushed against his soul. Hullu paused briefly, and wondered why Melancholy seemed so eager to slay this man.
A brief but rapid exchange followed, in which Hullu’s opponent demonstrated considerable skill and finesse with his blade.
"Your weapon is a monstrosity," the black-clad man observed. "But, nonetheless, I will take service with you. My fee is fifty crowns a week. I have tactical expertise which may benefit you. I am also a capable cook."
Hullu laughed despite himself. The man had mettle, there was no denying it. "Lower your blade, and I will consider it."
Half to his surprise, the man complied. Both stood still, until two dozen Bagaudas had arrived, arrows nocked in their bows. With an effort of will, Hullu forced his weapon back into its scabbard.
"Bind and blindfold this one," Hullu instructed. "He may prove useful. Did you find the Prince among the slain?"
"He must have been one of those few who escaped," Tarva replied. "It is unfortunate. Bodb has taken the form of an owl, and is pursuing them."
Tagur breathed a sigh of relief, blessed his understated taste in clothes together with his diplomatic guile, and quietly acquiesced as his hands were tied and a cloth secured over his eyes.
Had whatever intelligence inhabited the sword Melancholy possessed lips, it would have smiled quietly to itself as it considered possible routes to unfettered chaos. Allowing Hullu to gain the impression that he had the blade under control served its purposes for the present. When the real personality conflict arose, the sword would be a little more assertive.
Still, it had been difficult not to force him to kill the Prince.
**
Mostin swam in a sea that was not a sea, in a place that was not a place, for a time that was not a time.
An infinity of dimensions stretched before him, each overlapping and melding with the others, joining, merging, parting. Monstrous things that were neither plants nor animals drifted, or moved under their own strange methods, past his vision. In many cases, it was hard to determine whether they were on the same plane as the Alienist, or one of a multitude of coterminous ones. The pressure on his consciousness was immense, threatening to force his mind into new modes of perception.
It was tempting to acquiesce.
Mostin stepped backwards through the Gate and reappeared in his study. Panting, he closed the portal, and walked to the Mirror of Urm-Nahat. Fresh in his mind was the image of a Pseudonatural behemoth of unknown type.
The Alienist attempted to scry it, but to no avail.
He sighed. It looked as though Gate worked, but nothing else would. How tiresome.
He pondered upon how to contact Them. Those from the far Beyond. Did they have names? If so, it may be possible to bring them.
He spent four hours skimming through books, trying to find something that might be of use to him. One name, that was all he needed.
His search was fruitless. Nothing which spoke of a name. Nothing that even mentioned Them, beyond vague rumours and warnings. He procrastinated for a while, and finally decided to pay Shomei a visit. Mostin’s library consisted of some twelve hundred books, many of which were rare and obscure. It was an impressive collection.
He knew for a fact that Shomei possessed over fifty thousand volumes.
*
"I must depart on an urgent errand," the Infernalist said hurriedly. "Feel free to peruse the library at your leisure, Mostin. Half of me hopes you find what you are looking for, the other half desperately prays that you don’t. The Spined Devils will attend to your mundane needs."
"How long will you be absent?" Mostin asked. "And why do you trust me alone in your home?"
Shomei laughed. "Mostin, I know you would never be foolish enough to steal from me. Besides, everything of value is beyond your reach. Remember: do not enter the woods near the Mansion, as infernal spirits inhabit them. If you venture into the cellar, take care in the summoning room: there is a Hag in one of the pentacles. I will return as soon as maybe."
"Where are you going?" Mostin asked.
"Hell," Shomei smiled. She grasped her rod, invoked a ward, and opened a Gate. "You can come, if you wish. You are under my protection, and I will ensure that no harm befalls you." She passed through the portal. Mostin looked at the scene beyond, agog.
A hall so vast that its ceiling was on the edge of sight. A dull red glow. Devils. Rank upon rank upon rank of them, standing in silent vigil. Thousands of them.
He ducked out of sight of the Gate’s opening, closed his eyes and waited for it to go away.
After several stiff drinks, he went to the library.
Twenty-nine hours later, exhausted, and wondering why no-one had ever seen fit to devise a spell which searched libraries, Mostin held a slender volume in his hand.
As he opened its soft, calfskin covers, his stomach twisted in recognition of the symbols amid the letters. A journal. Kept by an Alienist of unknown identity. How had it ended here? This was more than he could have hoped for.
Shaking, the Alienist began to read. So much of it seemed simplistic, almost naïve. But the final entries were of colossal importance.
11.45: The entity prefers to assume the guise of a denizen of one of the outer planes – an Ultrodaemon in this case. I can only assume that its essential nature resembles this creature, and this is a projection of such essence into the bounded cosmos. (Complex symbols and equations followed)
12.30: It does not speak, or attempt to communicate with me in any way. The circle is secure, which surprised me at first, but I must act quickly – I have no doubt that I cannot contain it for longer than a day.
20.00 Still unresponsive to my offers.
22.45 Still unresponsive. I have no doubt that it is a higher order entity.
09.30 Still no response. I will attempt to remove it with a Banishment in an hour or so.
There were no more entries, but a set of symbols indicated a name, syllables which would sound unnatural when spoken by a human voice. Mostin committed them to memory.
How maddening! Who had written the book? Was this the same entity that Vhorzhe had attempted to call? – It seemed likely. Had he gleaned the information from this tome? He had certainly not written it, as his style and script were unmistakable.
Was it the name of this creature which he had read? A Pseudonatural Ultroloth of the higher order? Would Vhorzhe have been that foolish?
Mostin considered his options.
**
Although resolved to oversee the climax of the Tagamuos rite with the Uediians who formed part of Eadric’s army, Nwm nonetheless visited Hullu’s camp two days beforehand.
It had grown into a vast sprawl of tents and wagons. There were thousands of men, women, children and animals. Nwm was staggered.
Five minutes after his arrival, having sought out Hullu, Nwm was even more shocked to observe Prince Tagur standing nearby, spit-roasting a boar. The Prince looked at him impassively, but the Druid saw his eyes flick from side to side, as if considering a possible route of escape.
"Well," Nwm said to Hullu, his eyes still upon Tagur, "things have certainly grown larger – and apparently more complex - than I had anticipated. But I somehow expected the revel to be underway by now."
"There will be no revel," Hullu said dourly.
Nwm raised an eyebrow.
"Several couriers have been intercepted – it appears that the Duke of Jiuhu is planning a surprise visit, timed to coincide with the main ceremony. He is sending a thousand or so of his friends to join us in the celebrations."
"An attack on the Solstice? That’s pretty underhanded."
"But a logical choice," Hullu replied wrily. "I suspect, however, that he deems us less organized than we in fact are."
Nwm nodded, still looking at Tagur. "What will you do?" He asked.
"I have only a handful of horses, and even fewer who can ride them," Hullu explained. "And his force is entirely mounted. I will, of course, use pikes and longbows – as many of them as I have, at least. What idiot wouldn’t? Are you hungry, Nwm? You have been looking at that boar since you arrived here."
"Yes," the Druid replied, vaguely.
"The cook is a mercenary who we captured in a raid earlier today," Hullu said easily. "I think his claims to culinary expertise were merely a way to avoid death."
"Doubtless," Nwm agreed. "Do you make a habit of picking up unknown mercenaries and inviting them into your ranks?"
Hullu laughed. "No, but the fellow certainly has a way with himself. But after I’d had him blindfolded and led here, it occurred to me that any attempts at secrecy have been a waste of time for some while. It’s just a habit that’s hard to shake."
"How so?"
"Nwm, there are twenty thousand men, women and children here. This movement is bound to be riddled with leaks. We are four days from Morne, and occupying some of the fattest farmland in Wyre. It’s not like we can be inconspicuous anymore."
"And what is your purpose now, Hullu?" Nwm asked carefully.
"Negotiation," Hullu replied in a low voice. Seeing the Druid’s expression, Hullu continued. "For autonomy and independence. The outlawing of indentureship."
Nwm swallowed nervously. "And if you fail to achieve it?" He asked.
Hullu pulled a chunk of bread off of a loaf, stuffed it into his mouth, and pointed eastwards.
"Morne is that way," he said casually.
"I think you may be overestimating your reach," Nwm said. "You have yet to deal with Jiuhu’s troops."
Hullu shook his head. "I understand how it works. Think about it Nwm: this movement is already growing at a phenomenal rate. Once we’ve beaten a Wyrish aristocrat in a pitched battle, people will see that it can be done."
"And you think you can force Wyre’s nobility to the negotiating table after one defeat?"
"Probably not," Hullu concurred. "In which case Morne is doomed."
"And how in the name of the Goddess do you propose to take Morne?" Nwm asked. "Even Eadric is cautious on that count – he has yet to make siege engines. He will be relying heavily on magic if it comes to that point."
Hullu grinned. "To be honest, Nwm, I was hoping that you’d help us on that one. But, if not, others may lend a hand. A pair of hedge-witches – sisters, maybe - have thrown in their lot with us. They seem capable."
Nwm screwed up his face. This was a new development.
"And there is always this," Hullu tapped the hilt of Melancholy.
"In a siege? I don’t think that it’ll prove much use."
"You’d be surprised," Hullu replied.
**
During the festival celebrations at the Nund crossing, Eadric took counsel with his knights and captains. Ryth, the only avowed Uediian amongst Trempa’s aristocrats (although others had sympathies), felt obligated to attend in order to make sure his people were not underrepresented. The atmosphere was tense and difficult. Neither Tahl nor Brey were present, having been detailed with approaching Eisarn – the Temple commander in Thahan – in an attempt to win his support.
Nwm arrived late, after his visit to the Uediian encampment. The news that he brought caused several of the Templars to draw breath tightly. To them, the Druid represented the worst face of radical Paganism, and only their vows to Eadric prevented an assault there and then.
The Paladin sighed, and wondered whether he could hold his alliance together. Too many factions. Too many different needs. Too much bitterness. He prayed silently.
"In less than thirty-six hours, Hullu will face four hundred trained knights, plus their retainers and men-at-arms," Nwm said. "It will be the first time that he has been tested in pitched battle. He has a minimal number of horsemen, and will be forced to fight with infantry: most of whom are enthusiastic, but incompletely disciplined. Nonetheless, he seems confident. After his victory – which he feels is assured – he will attempt to force negotiation with the Royal Council. If this fails, he believes that he can rally enough support to take Morne."
"Ahma," Sercion, a Warpriest, and leader of four Temple squadrons said, "if I might speak openly?"
Eadric nodded, with a resigned expression.
"I feel that this Hullu is no ally of ours. His goals are not our goals. The Uediians hate the Temple, that is well-known. How can you tolerate this man’s activities?"
"Because I would avoid a conflict which polarizes along purely religious lines," Eadric answered. "And because the Uediians have many valid complaints."
"There is more," Nwm said, grimly anticipating the response that it would evoke. "Aside from a number of Druids who have rallied to his movement, he has recently been joined by two witches – Sorceresses maybe. Neither seemed enthusiastic to meet with me, and I didn’t want to press the point. Both registered as major foci of magical power when I communed with the Green in that locale."
Various groans were heard from around the table.
"Also," Nwm said, half-amused, "it would appear that Prince Tagur is being held captive in the camp."
Eadric looked flabbergasted, and the revelation elicited sounds of wonder from the others present.
"Hullu is unaware of the identity of his prisoner, whom he assumes is merely a mercenary soldier. I didn’t have the heart to turn him in – and I thought that the information might prove useful. Tagur suspects – no, in fact I’m sure that he knows that I recognized him – and now he is unsure. I will keep him under surveillance. If he attempts to flee the camp, I would suggest that we intercept him before he either gets to Morne or is tracked and caught by Hullu’s men. In the meantime, I think that his experiences in the camp can do him no harm, and may even open his eyes to a fresh perspective."
"Ngaarh!" Sercion groaned. "I do not understand you or your purposes, Pagan. Why do you share this information with us? It is contrary to your interests."
"No," Nwm smiled. "It is contrary to how you would prefer to perceive my interests, to maintain your sense of simplicity in this affair. I recognize that there are some things that I cannot address alone, and I trust Eadric’s judgement in this."
"Because he is the Ahma," Sercion nodded.
"No, despite it," Nwm replied, exasperated. "Finally," he added, "I should mention the fact that I was scried on my journey here. I don’t know by whom, or for what reason, but I broke the sensor. There are dozens of possibilities."
Eadric nodded. "You are not the first to complain of tacit observation. Several of the high-ranking Templars have mentioned as much. Asser is one possibility, Daunton is another, and there may be other Diviners retained by the Royal Council – either collectively, or individually. Now we may have two Sorceresses to add to the equation."
"We would probably benefit from Mostin’s presence," Nwm suggested, to the horror of several of those present.
"I will ask Nehael to find him and bring him here," Eadric said. "We will adjourn, and meet again in two hours."
This is not an Diabolic conspiracy, Sercion repeated to himself several times.
**
"He is currently at the mansion of Shomei the Infernal," Nehael said to the reassembled council. "I Teleported into the grounds, but did not enter the building itself. I left hastily before a number of Devils descended on me, but managed to convey a message to him. He will be here presently. There is other information, but it can wait."
Sercion bit his tongue.
Lome, the erstwhile deputy steward of Deorham, and a knight who, although loyal to Trempa, had no particular religious agenda, produced a long scroll and unraveled it.
Eadric gestured for him to continue. He was eager to hear the report – much of it was news to him.
"This is the information that we’ve gathered so far regarding the disposition of already mobilized forces in Wyre. It’s long and tedious, but I’ll skip to the most salient points. Most of it was gathered by either Tahl or the Lady Nehael’s efforts, and is the most up-to-date reconnaissance that we have."
"Eisarn – who may or may not be an ally, depending on the success of Tahl and Brey’s embassy – has two hundred Templar knights and around six hundred crossbowmen in southern Thahan. Until this point, he had been cooperating closely with a large cadre of troops led by Durhm of Lossan, the chief Bannerman of Sihu of Tomur."
"Durhm is a wily opponent," Ryth said with surprising admiration. "My guerillas were hard pressed to contain his assaults."
"However," Lome continued, "it appears that Sihu has recalled him to rejoin her main force, which is currently approaching Lang Herath in Thahan. With Foide’s men, this will mean an army some six-thousand strong, on our northern flank. Command will likely fall to either Skadding, Foide’s son, or Durhm. Skadding has precedence, but Durhm is undoubtedly the more seasoned warrior."
"Shiel, as we have just heard, has deployed a thousand of his men to deal with the Uediian uprising. There is no reason to assume, therefore, that he is not already in the process of mobilizing the others – another fifteen hundred or so. If Nwm’s report is correct, then the Duke has committed almost his entire cavalry to this operation – note that the remainder of his troops consist mostly of levies, and are poorly trained and equipped."
"And a third of them are Uediians," Ryth said. "Of uncertain loyalty," he added smugly.
"I can testify to the accuracy of Nwm’s information," Nehael interjected. "I have myself just observed the army moving south from Jiuhu."
"Skilla of Mord has undoubtedly received a Royal Summons," Lome eyed Ryth, suggesting that further interruption was unwelcome, "but as yet we have no news of troop movements. Hethio’s forces are in disarray with the removal of Temple leadership.* The Duke of Kaurban, however, is already within striking distance. His force is small – less than a thousand – but highly mobile. He is three days northwest of here."
"Finally," Lome continued, "Prince Tagur’s main force has already left Gibilrazen – ten thousand, trained, disciplined and highly motivated. It will be at least a fortnight before they reach Morne, probably more. Aside from these, no other magnate presents any kind of threat. At present."
"As to Morne itself, and the King," Lome added, almost as an afterthought, "the city guard number around twelve hundred – many of them are part-time militiamen, with little or no experience of organized war. A number of Thanes and Baronets who count the King as their feudal master, as well as Captains of the Royal Demesnes, are being recalled to Morne. Tiuhan’s estates are scattered across Wyre, however: we can probably count on no more than two or three thousand being available to him within the next three weeks."
Mostin entered and sat down silently. Mogus emerged from inside of his Robe of Eyes, eliciting expressions of fear and disgust amongst several of the knights closest to him. The Alienist stroked the deformed hedgehog affectionately.
"This leaves us in a quandary," Eadric sighed. "Will the Duke of Kaurban’s force attempt to harry us and slow our progress, or will it wait until it joins with Sihu’s men? I would prefer to march on Morne immediately, but I am suspicious of investing the city while leaving an unfought army less than a week away. Further, can any of these nobles be wooed and turned?"
Sercion grunted. "Not Kaurban. Ahma, if I may? Give me three hundred Templars, and half your Ardanese riders, and I will ensure that his men are removed as a potential problem."
"Olann?" Eadric asked the de facto leader of the mercenaries.
"I don’t see why not," the wiry Ardanese Captain replied. "Provided that due respect is afforded us."
"Precisely," Eadric replied. "Sercion, your request is granted on two conditions. Firstly, you cooperate with Thane Streek of Jorbu – I would have a third of your heavy cavalry comprised of Trempans. Second, that you do not attempt to undermine Olann’s command."
Sercion stuttered. "Ahma, I must…"
"Olann will lead the brigade, Sercion."
"As you wish, Ahma."
"And take care that pride does not subtly inform your choices, Sercion," Eadric warned.
The Templar nodded dumbly.
"Nehael," Eadric sighed, "there was something else that you wished to share?"
The Succubus nodded. "Rimilin of the Skin is riding with Shiel of Jiuhu’s men," she said.
Mogus squeaked.
**
In Magathei, Ortwin relaxed amid the splendour of Ulao’s court, and the affairs of Wyre seemed remote and long ago. His ode, which the Bard personally felt was long and tedious, was received with rapturous applause by the Prince’s followers, and with a satisfied grin by Ulao himself. Ortwin had certainly done his homework in researching the Djinn’s past, and the performance captured Ulao’s triumphs and conquests – both of the romantic and military nature – admirably.
The Bard’s ability to ingratiate himself without seeming at all ingratiating, had held him in good stead, and his easy manner had endeared him to many of those who attended the Prince.
Except the Sidhe, Nunimmin.
Whether it was a perceived rivalry, or perhaps a realization on some level that they were too similar, their initial mutual dislike blossomed into a thinly-veiled hatred, and exchanges between the two were characterized by innuendos which, at times, bordered on direct insults.
Nunimmin – ancient, beautiful, cool and aloof – was a sophisticated aesthete, and a bard of exceptional talent. As a true native of Faerie, he regarded Ortwin and his ilk from the Prime Plane as being wholly inferior: wanderers in a world long overwhelmed by mortal griefs and concerns. His spite towards the Satyr was confounded yet further when his partner of several millennia – a half-elemental Nymph named Yoriel – evinced an interest in the ‘rustic charm’ that Ortwin brought to Ulao’s court.
Ortwin was smitten despite himself, and found that he shook whenever in the Nymph’s presence. He tried his best to avoid Yoriel and focus on the matter in hand which, as far as he could remember, had something to do with courtship and marriage. Iua’s attitude of amusement at his discomfort helped little. At other times, she played the role of dutiful daughter so well that the Bard wondered what he had embroiled himself in.
Under the watchful eye of Orop, a large but simple Djinn who had been entrusted with chaperoning Iua, Ortwin and the duelist met in one of the numerous small orchards in Ulao’s palace grounds
"There will be a dowry, of course," Iua said.
"Oh?" The Bard replied with poorly feigned surprise.
"Don’t play the innocent with me, Ortwin," Iua sighed. "You knew damn well there would be one."
"This may come as a revelation, Iua," Ortwin said, genuinely offended, "but I’m not doing this for the money. I actually quite like you."
"You quite like me. Well, that’s decent. We don’t want to get too carried away, do we?"
"Iua, I fall in love – or lust – on a regular basis. It’s no real gauge of my affection for someone, and doesn’t inform my decisions particularly helpfully. I was bad enough before, but since my…er…"
"Satyriasis?" She suggested.
"Yes," the Bard agreed. "Well, my hormonal urges are even more pronounced than before. It’s my basic nature."
"I know," she sighed. "Ortwin, understand that I was raised in the court of a Djinn who is considered a philanderer amongst even his own kind. I am half-Auran. I lack the moral baggage of mortals as much as you do."
"Hmm," Ortwin replied.
"Although I am less of an erotomaniac," she added.
"Hmm," Ortwin said again, somehow reassured. "How big a dowry are we talking, anyway?"
"Well, you must consider that I am his one-hundred and eighty-sixth child. I am favoured, however, and Ulao still holds a soft spot for Mulissu despite what he might say."
Ortwin nodded and gestured for her to continue.
"And," she continued in a low voice, so that Orop could not overhear, "he seems to think highly of you for some bizarre reason. He has the impression that you are some kind of bigwig."
"I am the best liar in the world," he admitted. "That is a title of some distinction. But how much?" He added, impatiently.
"Two hundred thousand gold pieces," she said.
Ortwin shook, and giggled inanely.
It's pretty long, and still I've had to gloss over some events. Ah, well.
Yes, and mostly. Jovol uses a custom Epic Divination.
**
Here and There; and This, That and the Other: Part 1
Hullu shifted his weight upon the branch, and waited. He was finding it hard to focus on the moment, to be fully aware of his surroundings. His mind was distracted by events that had come to his notice: the mustering of Morne’s city defenses; the riding of a force from Jiuhu, intent on crushing his rebellion; and the arrival of two witches in his camp, seemingly in his time of greatest need.
He had ordered Tarva to watch them, distrusting his desire to trust them.
He patted Melancholy affectionately, glad to have her cold steel – or whatever metal from which she was constructed – to hand.
Along the road, from the northwest, the sound of horses galloping came to his ear. He motioned down to where the Druid, Bodb, rested behind a bush in the form of a boar. Hullu then gave a low whistle, alerting those others in nearby trees to action.
A score of riders, moving at great speed, suddenly came into view. Their standard – a Golden Boar – fluttered above them. An ironic device, Hullu smiled, as he looked towards the Druid.
As the horsemen passed beneath him, vines suddenly sprang up from the track, and lashed out from the undergrowth on both sides of the road, wrapping themselves around the legs of the mounts. Several tripped, depositing their riders hard upon the ground. They whinnied, and riders yelled.
Abruptly, dozens of yard-long shafts began tearing into the confused group. Men toppled from their steeds, others drew swords, a handful – including the bannerbearer – broke free and fled eastwards. Hullu’s Bagaudas slew all of the remainder, except one, who broke off and ran north on foot through the trees.
The Tribesman cursed, leapt down a bone-jarring two fathoms onto the ground, and raced after him. He spotted him his quarry immediately, and began to close.
After a two-hundred yard pursuit, Hullu found that his prey – a slim man in his early forties, who wore an unassuming black robe of modest design – had turned, and was prepared to face him. He had drawn a rapier.
"Wait," the man said. "I am a simple mercenary – nothing more. I am only doing my job. Consider this, before you attack me."
Hullu drew Melancholy, and walked forwards. "I apologize," he grinned, "but you have chosen the wrong side. Such are the risks of a mercenary’s life." Hullu knew it well, as for years, he had been one himself. "Now you will suggest that perhaps you can join me, in order to save your own life."
"Yes," the man replied. "That is precisely what I had planned. I have no particular loyalty, other than to myself."
"Your honesty is admirable," Hullu grimaced, "but your sword is fine, and we need such weapons as we can acquire. And, doubtless, your purse is also fat."
"My purse you can have," the man answered, flinging it onto the ground. "But my blade is my livelihood. I am loathe to part with it."
"Then I should take it from you," Hullu replied, and leapt forwards. His power and ferocity – combined with a natural speed and a precision honed by years of practice – landed the Tribesman a solid blow.
His opponent’s face whitened visibly as the blade struck him, as if something cold had just brushed against his soul. Hullu paused briefly, and wondered why Melancholy seemed so eager to slay this man.
A brief but rapid exchange followed, in which Hullu’s opponent demonstrated considerable skill and finesse with his blade.
"Your weapon is a monstrosity," the black-clad man observed. "But, nonetheless, I will take service with you. My fee is fifty crowns a week. I have tactical expertise which may benefit you. I am also a capable cook."
Hullu laughed despite himself. The man had mettle, there was no denying it. "Lower your blade, and I will consider it."
Half to his surprise, the man complied. Both stood still, until two dozen Bagaudas had arrived, arrows nocked in their bows. With an effort of will, Hullu forced his weapon back into its scabbard.
"Bind and blindfold this one," Hullu instructed. "He may prove useful. Did you find the Prince among the slain?"
"He must have been one of those few who escaped," Tarva replied. "It is unfortunate. Bodb has taken the form of an owl, and is pursuing them."
Tagur breathed a sigh of relief, blessed his understated taste in clothes together with his diplomatic guile, and quietly acquiesced as his hands were tied and a cloth secured over his eyes.
Had whatever intelligence inhabited the sword Melancholy possessed lips, it would have smiled quietly to itself as it considered possible routes to unfettered chaos. Allowing Hullu to gain the impression that he had the blade under control served its purposes for the present. When the real personality conflict arose, the sword would be a little more assertive.
Still, it had been difficult not to force him to kill the Prince.
**
Mostin swam in a sea that was not a sea, in a place that was not a place, for a time that was not a time.
An infinity of dimensions stretched before him, each overlapping and melding with the others, joining, merging, parting. Monstrous things that were neither plants nor animals drifted, or moved under their own strange methods, past his vision. In many cases, it was hard to determine whether they were on the same plane as the Alienist, or one of a multitude of coterminous ones. The pressure on his consciousness was immense, threatening to force his mind into new modes of perception.
It was tempting to acquiesce.
Mostin stepped backwards through the Gate and reappeared in his study. Panting, he closed the portal, and walked to the Mirror of Urm-Nahat. Fresh in his mind was the image of a Pseudonatural behemoth of unknown type.
The Alienist attempted to scry it, but to no avail.
He sighed. It looked as though Gate worked, but nothing else would. How tiresome.
He pondered upon how to contact Them. Those from the far Beyond. Did they have names? If so, it may be possible to bring them.
He spent four hours skimming through books, trying to find something that might be of use to him. One name, that was all he needed.
His search was fruitless. Nothing which spoke of a name. Nothing that even mentioned Them, beyond vague rumours and warnings. He procrastinated for a while, and finally decided to pay Shomei a visit. Mostin’s library consisted of some twelve hundred books, many of which were rare and obscure. It was an impressive collection.
He knew for a fact that Shomei possessed over fifty thousand volumes.
*
"I must depart on an urgent errand," the Infernalist said hurriedly. "Feel free to peruse the library at your leisure, Mostin. Half of me hopes you find what you are looking for, the other half desperately prays that you don’t. The Spined Devils will attend to your mundane needs."
"How long will you be absent?" Mostin asked. "And why do you trust me alone in your home?"
Shomei laughed. "Mostin, I know you would never be foolish enough to steal from me. Besides, everything of value is beyond your reach. Remember: do not enter the woods near the Mansion, as infernal spirits inhabit them. If you venture into the cellar, take care in the summoning room: there is a Hag in one of the pentacles. I will return as soon as maybe."
"Where are you going?" Mostin asked.
"Hell," Shomei smiled. She grasped her rod, invoked a ward, and opened a Gate. "You can come, if you wish. You are under my protection, and I will ensure that no harm befalls you." She passed through the portal. Mostin looked at the scene beyond, agog.
A hall so vast that its ceiling was on the edge of sight. A dull red glow. Devils. Rank upon rank upon rank of them, standing in silent vigil. Thousands of them.
He ducked out of sight of the Gate’s opening, closed his eyes and waited for it to go away.
After several stiff drinks, he went to the library.
Twenty-nine hours later, exhausted, and wondering why no-one had ever seen fit to devise a spell which searched libraries, Mostin held a slender volume in his hand.
As he opened its soft, calfskin covers, his stomach twisted in recognition of the symbols amid the letters. A journal. Kept by an Alienist of unknown identity. How had it ended here? This was more than he could have hoped for.
Shaking, the Alienist began to read. So much of it seemed simplistic, almost naïve. But the final entries were of colossal importance.
11.45: The entity prefers to assume the guise of a denizen of one of the outer planes – an Ultrodaemon in this case. I can only assume that its essential nature resembles this creature, and this is a projection of such essence into the bounded cosmos. (Complex symbols and equations followed)
12.30: It does not speak, or attempt to communicate with me in any way. The circle is secure, which surprised me at first, but I must act quickly – I have no doubt that I cannot contain it for longer than a day.
20.00 Still unresponsive to my offers.
22.45 Still unresponsive. I have no doubt that it is a higher order entity.
09.30 Still no response. I will attempt to remove it with a Banishment in an hour or so.
There were no more entries, but a set of symbols indicated a name, syllables which would sound unnatural when spoken by a human voice. Mostin committed them to memory.
How maddening! Who had written the book? Was this the same entity that Vhorzhe had attempted to call? – It seemed likely. Had he gleaned the information from this tome? He had certainly not written it, as his style and script were unmistakable.
Was it the name of this creature which he had read? A Pseudonatural Ultroloth of the higher order? Would Vhorzhe have been that foolish?
Mostin considered his options.
**
Although resolved to oversee the climax of the Tagamuos rite with the Uediians who formed part of Eadric’s army, Nwm nonetheless visited Hullu’s camp two days beforehand.
It had grown into a vast sprawl of tents and wagons. There were thousands of men, women, children and animals. Nwm was staggered.
Five minutes after his arrival, having sought out Hullu, Nwm was even more shocked to observe Prince Tagur standing nearby, spit-roasting a boar. The Prince looked at him impassively, but the Druid saw his eyes flick from side to side, as if considering a possible route of escape.
"Well," Nwm said to Hullu, his eyes still upon Tagur, "things have certainly grown larger – and apparently more complex - than I had anticipated. But I somehow expected the revel to be underway by now."
"There will be no revel," Hullu said dourly.
Nwm raised an eyebrow.
"Several couriers have been intercepted – it appears that the Duke of Jiuhu is planning a surprise visit, timed to coincide with the main ceremony. He is sending a thousand or so of his friends to join us in the celebrations."
"An attack on the Solstice? That’s pretty underhanded."
"But a logical choice," Hullu replied wrily. "I suspect, however, that he deems us less organized than we in fact are."
Nwm nodded, still looking at Tagur. "What will you do?" He asked.
"I have only a handful of horses, and even fewer who can ride them," Hullu explained. "And his force is entirely mounted. I will, of course, use pikes and longbows – as many of them as I have, at least. What idiot wouldn’t? Are you hungry, Nwm? You have been looking at that boar since you arrived here."
"Yes," the Druid replied, vaguely.
"The cook is a mercenary who we captured in a raid earlier today," Hullu said easily. "I think his claims to culinary expertise were merely a way to avoid death."
"Doubtless," Nwm agreed. "Do you make a habit of picking up unknown mercenaries and inviting them into your ranks?"
Hullu laughed. "No, but the fellow certainly has a way with himself. But after I’d had him blindfolded and led here, it occurred to me that any attempts at secrecy have been a waste of time for some while. It’s just a habit that’s hard to shake."
"How so?"
"Nwm, there are twenty thousand men, women and children here. This movement is bound to be riddled with leaks. We are four days from Morne, and occupying some of the fattest farmland in Wyre. It’s not like we can be inconspicuous anymore."
"And what is your purpose now, Hullu?" Nwm asked carefully.
"Negotiation," Hullu replied in a low voice. Seeing the Druid’s expression, Hullu continued. "For autonomy and independence. The outlawing of indentureship."
Nwm swallowed nervously. "And if you fail to achieve it?" He asked.
Hullu pulled a chunk of bread off of a loaf, stuffed it into his mouth, and pointed eastwards.
"Morne is that way," he said casually.
"I think you may be overestimating your reach," Nwm said. "You have yet to deal with Jiuhu’s troops."
Hullu shook his head. "I understand how it works. Think about it Nwm: this movement is already growing at a phenomenal rate. Once we’ve beaten a Wyrish aristocrat in a pitched battle, people will see that it can be done."
"And you think you can force Wyre’s nobility to the negotiating table after one defeat?"
"Probably not," Hullu concurred. "In which case Morne is doomed."
"And how in the name of the Goddess do you propose to take Morne?" Nwm asked. "Even Eadric is cautious on that count – he has yet to make siege engines. He will be relying heavily on magic if it comes to that point."
Hullu grinned. "To be honest, Nwm, I was hoping that you’d help us on that one. But, if not, others may lend a hand. A pair of hedge-witches – sisters, maybe - have thrown in their lot with us. They seem capable."
Nwm screwed up his face. This was a new development.
"And there is always this," Hullu tapped the hilt of Melancholy.
"In a siege? I don’t think that it’ll prove much use."
"You’d be surprised," Hullu replied.
**
During the festival celebrations at the Nund crossing, Eadric took counsel with his knights and captains. Ryth, the only avowed Uediian amongst Trempa’s aristocrats (although others had sympathies), felt obligated to attend in order to make sure his people were not underrepresented. The atmosphere was tense and difficult. Neither Tahl nor Brey were present, having been detailed with approaching Eisarn – the Temple commander in Thahan – in an attempt to win his support.
Nwm arrived late, after his visit to the Uediian encampment. The news that he brought caused several of the Templars to draw breath tightly. To them, the Druid represented the worst face of radical Paganism, and only their vows to Eadric prevented an assault there and then.
The Paladin sighed, and wondered whether he could hold his alliance together. Too many factions. Too many different needs. Too much bitterness. He prayed silently.
"In less than thirty-six hours, Hullu will face four hundred trained knights, plus their retainers and men-at-arms," Nwm said. "It will be the first time that he has been tested in pitched battle. He has a minimal number of horsemen, and will be forced to fight with infantry: most of whom are enthusiastic, but incompletely disciplined. Nonetheless, he seems confident. After his victory – which he feels is assured – he will attempt to force negotiation with the Royal Council. If this fails, he believes that he can rally enough support to take Morne."
"Ahma," Sercion, a Warpriest, and leader of four Temple squadrons said, "if I might speak openly?"
Eadric nodded, with a resigned expression.
"I feel that this Hullu is no ally of ours. His goals are not our goals. The Uediians hate the Temple, that is well-known. How can you tolerate this man’s activities?"
"Because I would avoid a conflict which polarizes along purely religious lines," Eadric answered. "And because the Uediians have many valid complaints."
"There is more," Nwm said, grimly anticipating the response that it would evoke. "Aside from a number of Druids who have rallied to his movement, he has recently been joined by two witches – Sorceresses maybe. Neither seemed enthusiastic to meet with me, and I didn’t want to press the point. Both registered as major foci of magical power when I communed with the Green in that locale."
Various groans were heard from around the table.
"Also," Nwm said, half-amused, "it would appear that Prince Tagur is being held captive in the camp."
Eadric looked flabbergasted, and the revelation elicited sounds of wonder from the others present.
"Hullu is unaware of the identity of his prisoner, whom he assumes is merely a mercenary soldier. I didn’t have the heart to turn him in – and I thought that the information might prove useful. Tagur suspects – no, in fact I’m sure that he knows that I recognized him – and now he is unsure. I will keep him under surveillance. If he attempts to flee the camp, I would suggest that we intercept him before he either gets to Morne or is tracked and caught by Hullu’s men. In the meantime, I think that his experiences in the camp can do him no harm, and may even open his eyes to a fresh perspective."
"Ngaarh!" Sercion groaned. "I do not understand you or your purposes, Pagan. Why do you share this information with us? It is contrary to your interests."
"No," Nwm smiled. "It is contrary to how you would prefer to perceive my interests, to maintain your sense of simplicity in this affair. I recognize that there are some things that I cannot address alone, and I trust Eadric’s judgement in this."
"Because he is the Ahma," Sercion nodded.
"No, despite it," Nwm replied, exasperated. "Finally," he added, "I should mention the fact that I was scried on my journey here. I don’t know by whom, or for what reason, but I broke the sensor. There are dozens of possibilities."
Eadric nodded. "You are not the first to complain of tacit observation. Several of the high-ranking Templars have mentioned as much. Asser is one possibility, Daunton is another, and there may be other Diviners retained by the Royal Council – either collectively, or individually. Now we may have two Sorceresses to add to the equation."
"We would probably benefit from Mostin’s presence," Nwm suggested, to the horror of several of those present.
"I will ask Nehael to find him and bring him here," Eadric said. "We will adjourn, and meet again in two hours."
This is not an Diabolic conspiracy, Sercion repeated to himself several times.
**
"He is currently at the mansion of Shomei the Infernal," Nehael said to the reassembled council. "I Teleported into the grounds, but did not enter the building itself. I left hastily before a number of Devils descended on me, but managed to convey a message to him. He will be here presently. There is other information, but it can wait."
Sercion bit his tongue.
Lome, the erstwhile deputy steward of Deorham, and a knight who, although loyal to Trempa, had no particular religious agenda, produced a long scroll and unraveled it.
Eadric gestured for him to continue. He was eager to hear the report – much of it was news to him.
"This is the information that we’ve gathered so far regarding the disposition of already mobilized forces in Wyre. It’s long and tedious, but I’ll skip to the most salient points. Most of it was gathered by either Tahl or the Lady Nehael’s efforts, and is the most up-to-date reconnaissance that we have."
"Eisarn – who may or may not be an ally, depending on the success of Tahl and Brey’s embassy – has two hundred Templar knights and around six hundred crossbowmen in southern Thahan. Until this point, he had been cooperating closely with a large cadre of troops led by Durhm of Lossan, the chief Bannerman of Sihu of Tomur."
"Durhm is a wily opponent," Ryth said with surprising admiration. "My guerillas were hard pressed to contain his assaults."
"However," Lome continued, "it appears that Sihu has recalled him to rejoin her main force, which is currently approaching Lang Herath in Thahan. With Foide’s men, this will mean an army some six-thousand strong, on our northern flank. Command will likely fall to either Skadding, Foide’s son, or Durhm. Skadding has precedence, but Durhm is undoubtedly the more seasoned warrior."
"Shiel, as we have just heard, has deployed a thousand of his men to deal with the Uediian uprising. There is no reason to assume, therefore, that he is not already in the process of mobilizing the others – another fifteen hundred or so. If Nwm’s report is correct, then the Duke has committed almost his entire cavalry to this operation – note that the remainder of his troops consist mostly of levies, and are poorly trained and equipped."
"And a third of them are Uediians," Ryth said. "Of uncertain loyalty," he added smugly.
"I can testify to the accuracy of Nwm’s information," Nehael interjected. "I have myself just observed the army moving south from Jiuhu."
"Skilla of Mord has undoubtedly received a Royal Summons," Lome eyed Ryth, suggesting that further interruption was unwelcome, "but as yet we have no news of troop movements. Hethio’s forces are in disarray with the removal of Temple leadership.* The Duke of Kaurban, however, is already within striking distance. His force is small – less than a thousand – but highly mobile. He is three days northwest of here."
"Finally," Lome continued, "Prince Tagur’s main force has already left Gibilrazen – ten thousand, trained, disciplined and highly motivated. It will be at least a fortnight before they reach Morne, probably more. Aside from these, no other magnate presents any kind of threat. At present."
"As to Morne itself, and the King," Lome added, almost as an afterthought, "the city guard number around twelve hundred – many of them are part-time militiamen, with little or no experience of organized war. A number of Thanes and Baronets who count the King as their feudal master, as well as Captains of the Royal Demesnes, are being recalled to Morne. Tiuhan’s estates are scattered across Wyre, however: we can probably count on no more than two or three thousand being available to him within the next three weeks."
Mostin entered and sat down silently. Mogus emerged from inside of his Robe of Eyes, eliciting expressions of fear and disgust amongst several of the knights closest to him. The Alienist stroked the deformed hedgehog affectionately.
"This leaves us in a quandary," Eadric sighed. "Will the Duke of Kaurban’s force attempt to harry us and slow our progress, or will it wait until it joins with Sihu’s men? I would prefer to march on Morne immediately, but I am suspicious of investing the city while leaving an unfought army less than a week away. Further, can any of these nobles be wooed and turned?"
Sercion grunted. "Not Kaurban. Ahma, if I may? Give me three hundred Templars, and half your Ardanese riders, and I will ensure that his men are removed as a potential problem."
"Olann?" Eadric asked the de facto leader of the mercenaries.
"I don’t see why not," the wiry Ardanese Captain replied. "Provided that due respect is afforded us."
"Precisely," Eadric replied. "Sercion, your request is granted on two conditions. Firstly, you cooperate with Thane Streek of Jorbu – I would have a third of your heavy cavalry comprised of Trempans. Second, that you do not attempt to undermine Olann’s command."
Sercion stuttered. "Ahma, I must…"
"Olann will lead the brigade, Sercion."
"As you wish, Ahma."
"And take care that pride does not subtly inform your choices, Sercion," Eadric warned.
The Templar nodded dumbly.
"Nehael," Eadric sighed, "there was something else that you wished to share?"
The Succubus nodded. "Rimilin of the Skin is riding with Shiel of Jiuhu’s men," she said.
Mogus squeaked.
**
In Magathei, Ortwin relaxed amid the splendour of Ulao’s court, and the affairs of Wyre seemed remote and long ago. His ode, which the Bard personally felt was long and tedious, was received with rapturous applause by the Prince’s followers, and with a satisfied grin by Ulao himself. Ortwin had certainly done his homework in researching the Djinn’s past, and the performance captured Ulao’s triumphs and conquests – both of the romantic and military nature – admirably.
The Bard’s ability to ingratiate himself without seeming at all ingratiating, had held him in good stead, and his easy manner had endeared him to many of those who attended the Prince.
Except the Sidhe, Nunimmin.
Whether it was a perceived rivalry, or perhaps a realization on some level that they were too similar, their initial mutual dislike blossomed into a thinly-veiled hatred, and exchanges between the two were characterized by innuendos which, at times, bordered on direct insults.
Nunimmin – ancient, beautiful, cool and aloof – was a sophisticated aesthete, and a bard of exceptional talent. As a true native of Faerie, he regarded Ortwin and his ilk from the Prime Plane as being wholly inferior: wanderers in a world long overwhelmed by mortal griefs and concerns. His spite towards the Satyr was confounded yet further when his partner of several millennia – a half-elemental Nymph named Yoriel – evinced an interest in the ‘rustic charm’ that Ortwin brought to Ulao’s court.
Ortwin was smitten despite himself, and found that he shook whenever in the Nymph’s presence. He tried his best to avoid Yoriel and focus on the matter in hand which, as far as he could remember, had something to do with courtship and marriage. Iua’s attitude of amusement at his discomfort helped little. At other times, she played the role of dutiful daughter so well that the Bard wondered what he had embroiled himself in.
Under the watchful eye of Orop, a large but simple Djinn who had been entrusted with chaperoning Iua, Ortwin and the duelist met in one of the numerous small orchards in Ulao’s palace grounds
"There will be a dowry, of course," Iua said.
"Oh?" The Bard replied with poorly feigned surprise.
"Don’t play the innocent with me, Ortwin," Iua sighed. "You knew damn well there would be one."
"This may come as a revelation, Iua," Ortwin said, genuinely offended, "but I’m not doing this for the money. I actually quite like you."
"You quite like me. Well, that’s decent. We don’t want to get too carried away, do we?"
"Iua, I fall in love – or lust – on a regular basis. It’s no real gauge of my affection for someone, and doesn’t inform my decisions particularly helpfully. I was bad enough before, but since my…er…"
"Satyriasis?" She suggested.
"Yes," the Bard agreed. "Well, my hormonal urges are even more pronounced than before. It’s my basic nature."
"I know," she sighed. "Ortwin, understand that I was raised in the court of a Djinn who is considered a philanderer amongst even his own kind. I am half-Auran. I lack the moral baggage of mortals as much as you do."
"Hmm," Ortwin replied.
"Although I am less of an erotomaniac," she added.
"Hmm," Ortwin said again, somehow reassured. "How big a dowry are we talking, anyway?"
"Well, you must consider that I am his one-hundred and eighty-sixth child. I am favoured, however, and Ulao still holds a soft spot for Mulissu despite what he might say."
Ortwin nodded and gestured for her to continue.
"And," she continued in a low voice, so that Orop could not overhear, "he seems to think highly of you for some bizarre reason. He has the impression that you are some kind of bigwig."
"I am the best liar in the world," he admitted. "That is a title of some distinction. But how much?" He added, impatiently.
"Two hundred thousand gold pieces," she said.
Ortwin shook, and giggled inanely.
Sepulchrave II
Legend
(Deleted double post.)
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Sepulchrave II
Legend
Here and There; and This, That and the Other: Part 2
**
At Eadric’s request, Mostin erected his looking-glass in order to best observe the events that transpired outside of a village called Hrim Eorth, three days southwest of Morne, on the morning of the Summer Solstice. The Alienist had scried the main antagonists in the impending conflict: Hullu, and Fustil - the Baron of Utlund, and Captain of Jiuhu’s forces.
The Tunthi tribesman had elected to intercept the cavalry on a meadow formed by a broad meander in the river Nenning, next to which the main road to Morne passed. It was on open ground that, on first inspection, conferred no particular tactical advantage to his Bagaudas, and invited a mounted charge.
"I wonder what he’s playing at," Eadric mused.
Mostin concentrated yet further, and scenes too rapid to understand flashed across the surface of the mirror. Another figure appeared.
A handsome man, with an oily sheen to his skin, riding a Phantom Steed. Mostin grimaced in anticipation of his sensor being detected, but fortunately the subject did not seem to notice – or perhaps to care. There again, he thought, we’re probably not the only people watching this.
"Rimilin," the Alienist said. "A worrying development, to say the least."
"Acting in an ‘auxiliary capacity,’ I assume," Nwm suggested.
"Yes," Mostin said dubiously. "Although to my knowledge, Rimilin’s divination skills are rather lackluster."
"What does he want?" Nwm asked. "I mean, what’s his angle?"
"Power," Mostin sighed. "There is no other reason for submitting oneself to symbiosis with a demon. It arrests and distorts the native ability of bonded wizards, forcing bizarre changes upon them."
"In Wyre, that seems rather short-sighted," Nwm said. "The Injunction being what it is."
Eadric shifted uneasily, and recalled the appearance of Jovol – if it had been Jovol – in his dream, and Nehael’s words afterwards. He had yet to share his suspicions regarding the Ogre-Mage with either Mostin or Nwm.
"Other lands," Mostin said. "Other worlds and planes. If dominion is your goal, why not start out somewhere quiet, where you can build your resources carefully?"
"I would hardly call Wyre ‘quiet’ at present," Eadric remarked wrily.
Rimilin smiled, and doffed his cap several times at empty spaces in the sky. Mostin laughed despite himself.
"He is acknowledging that he is being scrutinized – I suspect that Daunton is also observing with interest, and probably others. I wonder why he hasn’t warded himself. At least he’ll play by the book. Rimilin is not popular, and is unlikely to do anything which is questionable."
A flash of insight erupted into Eadric’s mind. Patterns shifted, coalesced, and bifurcated on new levels.
"He is about to violate the Injunction," the Paladin said.
"That is unlikely," Mostin answered.
Expressions of confusion crossed the faces of those present as they looked into the mirror. From inside of his coat, the Acolyte of the Skin produced an eagle chick, not yet even a fledgling. Its short wings were bound to its sides. With one deft movement, Rimilin twisted its neck and cast it to the ground.
"A sacrifice?" Nwm asked.
"Or a message," Eadric replied.
"Observe the legs of the horses nearby," Mostin said. "They are moving to attack."
Rimilin himself, however, slowed his steed and cast a spell. An image appeared in the air next to him, seeming to float above his outstretched hand. It was of a town consumed by fire and was replaced by the ghostly face of a rather familiar Wizard.
Mostin’s jaw dropped, as he gazed at an apparition of himself. "Which town was that?" He asked.
"It looked like Jiuhu to me," Eadric replied.
The mirror went blank.
"But the battle…" Nwm protested.
"Shut up," Mostin said. He refocused and, from a great height, Jiuhu – Ortwin’s home in his prior life – appeared upon the surface of the looking-glass. A dozen or more scattered patches, each fifty or sixty feet wide, were burning amid the closely built timber homes in the town’s old quarter. Flames leapt easily from one wooden building to the next, as crowds rushed through the streets and people jostled to escape the fire.
"Sh*t," the Alienist said. "That wasn’t me."
Immediately, Nwm acted. Sprouting wings from his back, he turned to Mostin. "Keep the portal open," he said, and stepped through.
He appeared briefly in the skies above the town: it was windy, and gusts were fuelling the eager flames below. Nwm invoked the power in the Orb of Storms atop his staff.
Dead calm, torrential rain, he commanded, before stepping back through the portal.
"That should do it," the Druid said, "although it’ll take a while for the weather to reorganize itself."
By the time that Mostin had reoriented the mirror, and was looking again to the battle near Hrim Eorth, the scene was one of utter carnage.
*
Hullu ordered his archers – comprised in equal parts of longbowmen and crossbowmen – to begin shooting as soon as the front of horsemen came within range. Dozens of lightly armoured outriders on coursers fell, and horses toppled.
Behind, the ranks of plate-clad aristocrats thundered on.
Not enough archers, Hullu remarked wrily to himself.
The witches – whose names the Tunthi warrior still didn’t know – stood nearby. Hullu scratched his head dubiously, and wondered whether they possessed as much power as they claimed.
Ah, well, he sighed, too late to worry about it now. He hefted his shield, drew Melancholy from its black scabbard, and invoked the protection of his clan’s Totemic guardian.
One of the witches, who had been muttering quietly to herself for ten minutes or more, suddenly fell to the ground and began to screech and writhe, strings of bizarre syllables issuing from her mouth. The pikemen nearby looked shaken and disturbed, but Hullu’s heart leapt.
FROMTHELINNASHEISFROMTHELINNA. OHGODSANDPROTECTORSHOWCANITHANKYOU. YOUCAMETOMEINMYHOUROFNEED.
He almost wept with joy.
The river, slow and ponderous, asleep for millennia beyond count, awoke.
*
Rimilin, warded from the rain of arrows and bolts, gazed at the ranks of Uediian guerillas and farmers ahead of him, and wondered if Nwm was present. He considered his assurances to the Royal Council – not to deploy his magical armamentarium in a tactical capacity – and grinned wickedly as he remembered his agreement with Graz’zt. The Aristocrats were lowering their lances.
Let’s smoke out the Druid, he whistled merrily to himself, as he launched a Fireball at the front rank of pikemen, instantly immolating forty of them. Oops, there goes the Injunction
Fustil, the commander of Jiuhu’s forces, looked at him in disbelief.
Rimilin’s smile vanished. Agony overwhelmed him as water evaporated from his body. What the Hell? A Necromancer? Where?. All around him, knights and horses collapsed screaming. Fustil’s steed tumbled, flinging the unconscious Baron to the ground, where he was trampled by the hooves of a dozen others. Ahead, the Acolyte of the Skin detected a distortion in the air in front of the disordered Uediian front line.
Some trick of the Druid’s? He urged his mount to full speed, and it shot forward like a thunderbolt. Rimilin launched another Fireball at the distortion, which seemed to quiver under the force of the blast. A gust of frigid air wafted over him from behind, and glancing back, Rimilin saw that a huge curtain of ice – fifty yards long – had appeared between himself and the bulk of the cavalry. Knights swelled around the ends of the wall, but many of those in whose path it lay crashed into the barrier, or arrested their charge, resulting in chaos.
A wizard. It had to be a wizard, Rimilin thought desperately, but which one?. He cursed, banked his Phantom Steed away and flung another Fireball.
*
"I stand corrected," Mostin said to Eadric, as they observed the Acolyte launch another magical attack.
"What is going on there?" Nwm groaned. "Where did the Wall of Ice come from? And what is that?" He pointed to the distortion.
As if in response to his question, it shifted, and grew, and suddenly manifested. The Paladin coughed.
"Er, Ed," Nwm said, "That’s a Dragon. A big black one."
"Apparently," Mostin agreed.
*
At the appearance of the colossal winged reptile, a hundred feet or more from its snout to the tip of its tail, Rimilin veered his steed away and Teleported. He didn’t care if it was a Dragon, or a Shapechanged Wizard. Either way, he was out of his league, and was going.
Not before loosing another Fireball, however.
**
Mesikämmi leaned on her staff and smiled. Ah, the River here was ancient. He knew all kinds of tricks.
Nearby, the Succubus, Chr’ri, stood impassively. Anarchy and death – yes. Not entirely what she had anticipated, but anarchy and death nonetheless. That was good enough.
*Traditionally, Hethio, the richest province in Wyre (not counting Einir, technically a Principality), has always looked to the Temple for direction in times of crisis. Many of the Templars themselves are natives of Hethio – sons and brothers of its numerous minor nobility. With the realignment of so many Templars in favour of Eadric, the removal of a Bishop very active in temporal politics, and repeated harassment by Hullu’s Bagaudas, the ineffectual and aging Duke, Falaere, was unable to actualize his considerable resources. Furthermore, many of his bannermen were reluctant or unwilling to meet their own kin in battle.
End Note: Mesikämmi used a Spirit Ally spell to call a Greater Nature Spirit.
**
At Eadric’s request, Mostin erected his looking-glass in order to best observe the events that transpired outside of a village called Hrim Eorth, three days southwest of Morne, on the morning of the Summer Solstice. The Alienist had scried the main antagonists in the impending conflict: Hullu, and Fustil - the Baron of Utlund, and Captain of Jiuhu’s forces.
The Tunthi tribesman had elected to intercept the cavalry on a meadow formed by a broad meander in the river Nenning, next to which the main road to Morne passed. It was on open ground that, on first inspection, conferred no particular tactical advantage to his Bagaudas, and invited a mounted charge.
"I wonder what he’s playing at," Eadric mused.
Mostin concentrated yet further, and scenes too rapid to understand flashed across the surface of the mirror. Another figure appeared.
A handsome man, with an oily sheen to his skin, riding a Phantom Steed. Mostin grimaced in anticipation of his sensor being detected, but fortunately the subject did not seem to notice – or perhaps to care. There again, he thought, we’re probably not the only people watching this.
"Rimilin," the Alienist said. "A worrying development, to say the least."
"Acting in an ‘auxiliary capacity,’ I assume," Nwm suggested.
"Yes," Mostin said dubiously. "Although to my knowledge, Rimilin’s divination skills are rather lackluster."
"What does he want?" Nwm asked. "I mean, what’s his angle?"
"Power," Mostin sighed. "There is no other reason for submitting oneself to symbiosis with a demon. It arrests and distorts the native ability of bonded wizards, forcing bizarre changes upon them."
"In Wyre, that seems rather short-sighted," Nwm said. "The Injunction being what it is."
Eadric shifted uneasily, and recalled the appearance of Jovol – if it had been Jovol – in his dream, and Nehael’s words afterwards. He had yet to share his suspicions regarding the Ogre-Mage with either Mostin or Nwm.
"Other lands," Mostin said. "Other worlds and planes. If dominion is your goal, why not start out somewhere quiet, where you can build your resources carefully?"
"I would hardly call Wyre ‘quiet’ at present," Eadric remarked wrily.
Rimilin smiled, and doffed his cap several times at empty spaces in the sky. Mostin laughed despite himself.
"He is acknowledging that he is being scrutinized – I suspect that Daunton is also observing with interest, and probably others. I wonder why he hasn’t warded himself. At least he’ll play by the book. Rimilin is not popular, and is unlikely to do anything which is questionable."
A flash of insight erupted into Eadric’s mind. Patterns shifted, coalesced, and bifurcated on new levels.
"He is about to violate the Injunction," the Paladin said.
"That is unlikely," Mostin answered.
Expressions of confusion crossed the faces of those present as they looked into the mirror. From inside of his coat, the Acolyte of the Skin produced an eagle chick, not yet even a fledgling. Its short wings were bound to its sides. With one deft movement, Rimilin twisted its neck and cast it to the ground.
"A sacrifice?" Nwm asked.
"Or a message," Eadric replied.
"Observe the legs of the horses nearby," Mostin said. "They are moving to attack."
Rimilin himself, however, slowed his steed and cast a spell. An image appeared in the air next to him, seeming to float above his outstretched hand. It was of a town consumed by fire and was replaced by the ghostly face of a rather familiar Wizard.
Mostin’s jaw dropped, as he gazed at an apparition of himself. "Which town was that?" He asked.
"It looked like Jiuhu to me," Eadric replied.
The mirror went blank.
"But the battle…" Nwm protested.
"Shut up," Mostin said. He refocused and, from a great height, Jiuhu – Ortwin’s home in his prior life – appeared upon the surface of the looking-glass. A dozen or more scattered patches, each fifty or sixty feet wide, were burning amid the closely built timber homes in the town’s old quarter. Flames leapt easily from one wooden building to the next, as crowds rushed through the streets and people jostled to escape the fire.
"Sh*t," the Alienist said. "That wasn’t me."
Immediately, Nwm acted. Sprouting wings from his back, he turned to Mostin. "Keep the portal open," he said, and stepped through.
He appeared briefly in the skies above the town: it was windy, and gusts were fuelling the eager flames below. Nwm invoked the power in the Orb of Storms atop his staff.
Dead calm, torrential rain, he commanded, before stepping back through the portal.
"That should do it," the Druid said, "although it’ll take a while for the weather to reorganize itself."
By the time that Mostin had reoriented the mirror, and was looking again to the battle near Hrim Eorth, the scene was one of utter carnage.
*
Hullu ordered his archers – comprised in equal parts of longbowmen and crossbowmen – to begin shooting as soon as the front of horsemen came within range. Dozens of lightly armoured outriders on coursers fell, and horses toppled.
Behind, the ranks of plate-clad aristocrats thundered on.
Not enough archers, Hullu remarked wrily to himself.
The witches – whose names the Tunthi warrior still didn’t know – stood nearby. Hullu scratched his head dubiously, and wondered whether they possessed as much power as they claimed.
Ah, well, he sighed, too late to worry about it now. He hefted his shield, drew Melancholy from its black scabbard, and invoked the protection of his clan’s Totemic guardian.
One of the witches, who had been muttering quietly to herself for ten minutes or more, suddenly fell to the ground and began to screech and writhe, strings of bizarre syllables issuing from her mouth. The pikemen nearby looked shaken and disturbed, but Hullu’s heart leapt.
FROMTHELINNASHEISFROMTHELINNA. OHGODSANDPROTECTORSHOWCANITHANKYOU. YOUCAMETOMEINMYHOUROFNEED.
He almost wept with joy.
The river, slow and ponderous, asleep for millennia beyond count, awoke.
*
Rimilin, warded from the rain of arrows and bolts, gazed at the ranks of Uediian guerillas and farmers ahead of him, and wondered if Nwm was present. He considered his assurances to the Royal Council – not to deploy his magical armamentarium in a tactical capacity – and grinned wickedly as he remembered his agreement with Graz’zt. The Aristocrats were lowering their lances.
Let’s smoke out the Druid, he whistled merrily to himself, as he launched a Fireball at the front rank of pikemen, instantly immolating forty of them. Oops, there goes the Injunction
Fustil, the commander of Jiuhu’s forces, looked at him in disbelief.
Rimilin’s smile vanished. Agony overwhelmed him as water evaporated from his body. What the Hell? A Necromancer? Where?. All around him, knights and horses collapsed screaming. Fustil’s steed tumbled, flinging the unconscious Baron to the ground, where he was trampled by the hooves of a dozen others. Ahead, the Acolyte of the Skin detected a distortion in the air in front of the disordered Uediian front line.
Some trick of the Druid’s? He urged his mount to full speed, and it shot forward like a thunderbolt. Rimilin launched another Fireball at the distortion, which seemed to quiver under the force of the blast. A gust of frigid air wafted over him from behind, and glancing back, Rimilin saw that a huge curtain of ice – fifty yards long – had appeared between himself and the bulk of the cavalry. Knights swelled around the ends of the wall, but many of those in whose path it lay crashed into the barrier, or arrested their charge, resulting in chaos.
A wizard. It had to be a wizard, Rimilin thought desperately, but which one?. He cursed, banked his Phantom Steed away and flung another Fireball.
*
"I stand corrected," Mostin said to Eadric, as they observed the Acolyte launch another magical attack.
"What is going on there?" Nwm groaned. "Where did the Wall of Ice come from? And what is that?" He pointed to the distortion.
As if in response to his question, it shifted, and grew, and suddenly manifested. The Paladin coughed.
"Er, Ed," Nwm said, "That’s a Dragon. A big black one."
"Apparently," Mostin agreed.
*
At the appearance of the colossal winged reptile, a hundred feet or more from its snout to the tip of its tail, Rimilin veered his steed away and Teleported. He didn’t care if it was a Dragon, or a Shapechanged Wizard. Either way, he was out of his league, and was going.
Not before loosing another Fireball, however.
**
Mesikämmi leaned on her staff and smiled. Ah, the River here was ancient. He knew all kinds of tricks.
Nearby, the Succubus, Chr’ri, stood impassively. Anarchy and death – yes. Not entirely what she had anticipated, but anarchy and death nonetheless. That was good enough.
*Traditionally, Hethio, the richest province in Wyre (not counting Einir, technically a Principality), has always looked to the Temple for direction in times of crisis. Many of the Templars themselves are natives of Hethio – sons and brothers of its numerous minor nobility. With the realignment of so many Templars in favour of Eadric, the removal of a Bishop very active in temporal politics, and repeated harassment by Hullu’s Bagaudas, the ineffectual and aging Duke, Falaere, was unable to actualize his considerable resources. Furthermore, many of his bannermen were reluctant or unwilling to meet their own kin in battle.
End Note: Mesikämmi used a Spirit Ally spell to call a Greater Nature Spirit.
