Zaruthustran
The tingling means it’s working!
(contact) said:
This is good stuff.
-z
The Risen Goddess (Updated 3.10.08)
This is good stuff.
-z
(contact)
Explorer
Sorry about the long delay updating this SH. As usual, I blame society. If you've lost the story thread, our PCs are pursuing a cryptic lead about some sort of tomb within the realm of Orcus/Scaladar. Whatever this place is, even the fiends of the layer will not go there. the party has recieved intelligence about this location from both the Factol of the Athar (the sigilian faction who claim the gods are all frauds), and the liches residing within Orcus' realm themselves!
Scaladar is/was a fallen angel-- Palatin Eremath's right-hand entity, who turned to evil in the wake of her death, and waged a war against the elven court, and Corellon Larethian in particular. For his trouble, the elven high-god banished him to the Abyss, where over time he became the demon-prince Orcus.
Orcus was killed by the elven goddess Kiransalee in her bid to consolidate the portfolio of the undead. He then returned to the multiverse as Tenebrous.
Scaladorcubrous is a bad dude, but according to his liches, he's frightened of this tomb.
Scaladar is/was a fallen angel-- Palatin Eremath's right-hand entity, who turned to evil in the wake of her death, and waged a war against the elven court, and Corellon Larethian in particular. For his trouble, the elven high-god banished him to the Abyss, where over time he became the demon-prince Orcus.
Orcus was killed by the elven goddess Kiransalee in her bid to consolidate the portfolio of the undead. He then returned to the multiverse as Tenebrous.
Scaladorcubrous is a bad dude, but according to his liches, he's frightened of this tomb.
Last edited:
(contact)
Explorer
103—Around and Again, Our Pasoun
“They love not poison that do poison need, nor do I thee: though I did wish him dead, I hate the murderer, love him murdered.”
-- Shakespeare, King Richard II
The city of Nar-Tyr itself resembles a bee-hive left unattended too long in the sun; vaguely spherical constructions melt and ooze over one another alongside a riverbank that has long since left its best days behind it. The cacophony of structures have overgrown a sharply-sloping rise to the North, and larger, more impressive structures dot the rise. These structures are lit by continual flames that glitter alluringly, whispering false promises of warmth and safety.
The group descends to the frozen earth and makes the final approach to Nar-Tyr’s lower region on foot. According to their lich visitor, free-willed undead occupy the slopes and ridge; the riverbank is left for the legions of mindless undead. The group spots few corpses walking amongst the ruined structures, and discovers a suitable building to rest within.
A few moments after bedrolls have been placed down and the night’s watch order is being discussed, there is a faint scratching at the door. Taran signals for silence, and places his left hand on his hips in the casual manner that his companions recognize as the preamble to a lightning sword draw. He opens the door with a friendly smile, transformed into a dangerous lie by the look in his eyes. His calculated expression quickly turns to curiosity as he regards the long-dead body of a human male, so old as to have almost entirely stopped stinking.
Taran looks over the thing’s shoulders for the rest of the horde, but there is nothing there.
“Kiiiiiing,” the zombie wheezes. “Myyyyy houuuuse.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Taran says, laughing. “F-ck your house. This is my sword,” Taran snaps Arunshee’s Kiss from its scabbard and levels it directly between the zombie’s eyes. “So this is my house.”
Taran is about to slam the door on the creature, when it says, “Thhhousssands . . .”
“What did you say?”
“. . . of . . . ussss . . .”
Taran looks back at Thelbar who only smiles and shrugs.
“. . . five . . . of you.”
“Allright,” Taran sighs. “You’re the king, and you’ve got us outnumbered. Fine. What do you want?”
“Rrrespect.”
Taran cocks his head for an instant, then straightens up and sheathes his sword, even as he renders a deep bow. “Your majesty. We humbly request your permission to camp in this domicile for the evening, and you have our assurances that we will depart at first light.”
That settled, the zombie shuffles away without a further word.
Taran shuts the door. “Do you think that, you know, since Orcus is the god of the undead? Do you think we just met the zombie king?”
-----
Elgin Trezler discerns the location of the mysterious burial mounds that had so perplexed Factol Terrance and terrified the denizens of Orcus’ layer. They are only a few short miles from Nar-Tyr along the river’s path. As the Champions travel, they are ambushed by a strange demonic river-spirit, half snake with multicolored fish-like fins, and terrible rending claws. The creature emerges enshrouded in a mystical fire, but Thelbar dispels its protections without much trouble, and Gorquen does the rest, transforming herself into a blur of steel and black feathers.
“Sort of makes you wonder why I’m even here, doesn’t it,” Taran thinks to his brother, his tone a mixture of wonder, pride and jealousy.
Thelbar does not reply.
-----
The tombs are slight structures—three cairns no taller than Gorquen’s wing-span, each roughly hemispherical and joined to its partners approximately half-way to its top. No sculpture or relief-work decorates or marks the place, save for a half-circle of simple runes over the nearest face. No entryway is visible. There is no feeling of menace about the place, no terrifying spirits whirling about. Taran looks around and shrugs his shoulders, but Thelbar has a different response.
“Elgin, please detect magic.”
Detect magic is a simple spell, one of the most basic, and under normal circumstances it reveals the location and relative strength of magical auras within a short distance from the spell-caster. In this case, however, it reveals the three cairns as a single magical item of great potency—covered along every surface with a mosaic of interlocking runic wards in an alien and mysterious script.
“This is . . .” Elgin says. “This is an artifact.”
“Yes,” Thelbar is examining the short passage of physical runes. “These say, ‘I await my master’s hand.’”
“You shall not pass into this place of wickedness.” The voice is clear, and the words are delivered in a deep and authoritative tone. A figure emerges from a small dug-out behind the cairns and casts off a cloak. The dusty garment strikes the ground and underneath it, the adventurers see a broad-shouldered man dressed in fantastically wrought plate armor, enameled with liquid silver and chased with citurines marking holy runes sacred to the Seven Heavens.
The man draws a glittering holy sword from his side, and levels it at Thelbar. “You other two, I do not know you. You may leave this place upon your oaths never to return. But the Tar-Ilou may not. In the name of the Seven Holy Truths of Celestia, I judge you. In the name of all those you have slain, I sentence you to death.”
Elgin makes a gesture of benediction. “Friend. Our eyes are glad to behold a servant of weal in such a fearsome place, but come—you cannot mean what you say. These men are good, and true. We are humble servants of the gods, and seek no quarrel with those who bear no evil intent.”
“You have been misled, priest.” The man does not look away from Thelbar.
“No, you’ve been misled,” Taran growls, sliding toward the man, “whoever told you that you were pointing your sword at the right Tar-Ilou. Now, I’m not the patient one here, so you better have yourself a little epiphany real quick and sheathe that weapon.”
“You are the worst of them all, Taran,” the man says without moving an inch. “You know what he did, yet here you are, at your master’s heels.”
“Well, now you hurt my feelings,” Taran says, and then lashes Arunshee’s Kiss from its scabbard, and slaps the man’s blade off line before he can react. In a blur, Little Sister slides between the plates in his armor with a pop, and by the time the paladin can disengage and assess the damage, Gorquen is on him.
Taran cleans his swords on the man’s cloak and winks at Gorquen.
“That man knew you?” Elgin says, moving toward the fallen knight.
“Let us speak with him,” Thelbar suggests, and Elgin bends over the body with a brief prayer. A mote of light appears at the man’s brow, and his corpse takes a deep breath.
“How do you know the brothers Tar-Ilou?”
The corpse exhales, “We were adventuring partners once. They betrayed me.”
Taran shrugs and laughs. “Looks like you shoulda just let it go, buddy.”
“How were you betrayed?”
“I was lured into Hell, and abandoned there that the Tar-Ilou might escape.”
Thelbar nods. “That is enough. I know this man.”
“I can ask more questions,” Elgin says gently.
“No. Ressurect him, and we can send him on his way. He deserves better than a cold grave in the Abyss.”
“Hey, he started it,” Taran protests.
Elgin pauses for a moment, and says, “It may draw attention to us, using that sort of magic here.”
“This layer has no worse attention to give us than what is within that tomb,” Thelbar says. “The master of this realm knows we are here, I am sure of it.”
Elgin removes a gem from his pouch, an unusually brilliant star sapphire. “Sapphires are sacred to Palatin Eremath,” he says with a smile. “I thought you might enjoy it if I used these for ressurections.”
“Hey, that’s great,” Gorquen says. “You’re so thoughtful.”
Taran rolls his eyes.
Elgin places the gem in the body’s mouth, and begins to chant and pray over him. He makes the mark of the rising sun on the man’s brow with his own blood, combined with dirt from the ground where he died. Ilwe and Gorquen watch the ritual intently, while Thelbar takes Taran aside.
“What do you remember about our journeys in Hell?” he asks.
“I dunno, Thel, I don’t think about it. It just doesn’t seem important.”
“We have made many enemies, and we deserve them all, do you understand?”
“F-ck ‘em. Can’t bring justice to sh-t you can’t kill, Thel.”
Thelbar smiles briefly and clasps his brother’s shoulder. “Whatever transpires, you know that I do love you.”
Taran frowns and regards his boots. “Well, yeah. Hell yeah. What’s gotten in to you?”
Thelbar looks deeply into his brothers eyes. “If I explained, you would not understand.”
Taran nods, resigned and slightly ashamed. “Can you give me the dumbass summary?”
“What we are about in the Abyss is more audacious than anything we have done before.”
“Ah,” Taran furrows his brows. “What does that mean?”
The paladin sits up and clutches his chest. “Lathander!” he gasps looking into Elgin’s eyes.
“Yes,” Elgin smiles. “We bear you no ill-will, Sir Knight.”
“Unless you mouth off again.” Taran is walking toward the man, wearing the paladin’s sword in his belt. Thelbar remains behind, just at the rim of the party’s light. Beyond the small, thin circle of a continual flame, night has begun to emerge from its hiding place deep within the world, suffusing earth and sky with impenetrable mystery, and granting succor to those things that fear the sun.
“Goddamnit, Taran, shut up already,” Gorquen says. She gives the knight her hand and pulls him to his feet. “I’m sorry I killed you,” she says sheepishly. “I thought you were a demon in disguise.”
The man is watching Taran’s approach with tears welling in his eyes. “I have failed,” he says to no one in particular.
“If you think of getting brought back from the dead by the guys who just ran you through as failure, then yeah,” Taran says.
“You cannot kill me. I am already long-since dead.”
“I kill dead stuff all the f-cking time.” Taran is nose-to-nose with the man.
“Taran,” Gorquen complains.
“He didn’t call you out, did he?” Taran growls, still staring into the man’s face. After a moment, he nods and hands the man his sword back. “You got a name, f-cker?”
“My name is Kyreel.”
“Hey, no sh-t,” Taran smiles. “I knew a Kyreel.”
“Yes, you did.” The man says.
“This is the Kyreel that accompanied you into Hell,” Thelbar says. “To rescue me.”
“And thrice-cursed am I for the deed,” the man says.
“But Kyreel got reincarnated with us,” Taran says.
“Yes, she did.” Thelbar says.
Taran winces then finally shakes his head. “F-ck this,” he says, walking away. “Wake me up when something attacks us.”
“Why are you here, Sir Knight?” Elign asks.
“I have stood an epoch vigil over this place to prevent the Tar-Ilou from entering. Such was the price of my redemption.”
“And why do you wish to prevent this?” Thelbar asks softly.
The man ignores him. “I am yours, Lathanderite,” he says to Elgin. “You have my oath now.”
“Your oath is your own,” Elgin says. “You are clearly a child of the pasoun, can you not accept that these souls are not the same as the ones you recall?”
“I have broken from Ishlok,” he says coldly. “I serve a greater justice now, and these are tainted souls. There is no redemption possible for monsters such as these.”
“If that is your belief, Sir Knight, then we must remain at odds. I can return you to the Seven Heavens if that is your wish.”
“And I would thank you for it,” he says. “I must report my failure.”
“They love not poison that do poison need, nor do I thee: though I did wish him dead, I hate the murderer, love him murdered.”
-- Shakespeare, King Richard II
The city of Nar-Tyr itself resembles a bee-hive left unattended too long in the sun; vaguely spherical constructions melt and ooze over one another alongside a riverbank that has long since left its best days behind it. The cacophony of structures have overgrown a sharply-sloping rise to the North, and larger, more impressive structures dot the rise. These structures are lit by continual flames that glitter alluringly, whispering false promises of warmth and safety.
The group descends to the frozen earth and makes the final approach to Nar-Tyr’s lower region on foot. According to their lich visitor, free-willed undead occupy the slopes and ridge; the riverbank is left for the legions of mindless undead. The group spots few corpses walking amongst the ruined structures, and discovers a suitable building to rest within.
A few moments after bedrolls have been placed down and the night’s watch order is being discussed, there is a faint scratching at the door. Taran signals for silence, and places his left hand on his hips in the casual manner that his companions recognize as the preamble to a lightning sword draw. He opens the door with a friendly smile, transformed into a dangerous lie by the look in his eyes. His calculated expression quickly turns to curiosity as he regards the long-dead body of a human male, so old as to have almost entirely stopped stinking.
Taran looks over the thing’s shoulders for the rest of the horde, but there is nothing there.
“Kiiiiiing,” the zombie wheezes. “Myyyyy houuuuse.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Taran says, laughing. “F-ck your house. This is my sword,” Taran snaps Arunshee’s Kiss from its scabbard and levels it directly between the zombie’s eyes. “So this is my house.”
Taran is about to slam the door on the creature, when it says, “Thhhousssands . . .”
“What did you say?”
“. . . of . . . ussss . . .”
Taran looks back at Thelbar who only smiles and shrugs.
“. . . five . . . of you.”
“Allright,” Taran sighs. “You’re the king, and you’ve got us outnumbered. Fine. What do you want?”
“Rrrespect.”
Taran cocks his head for an instant, then straightens up and sheathes his sword, even as he renders a deep bow. “Your majesty. We humbly request your permission to camp in this domicile for the evening, and you have our assurances that we will depart at first light.”
That settled, the zombie shuffles away without a further word.
Taran shuts the door. “Do you think that, you know, since Orcus is the god of the undead? Do you think we just met the zombie king?”
-----
Elgin Trezler discerns the location of the mysterious burial mounds that had so perplexed Factol Terrance and terrified the denizens of Orcus’ layer. They are only a few short miles from Nar-Tyr along the river’s path. As the Champions travel, they are ambushed by a strange demonic river-spirit, half snake with multicolored fish-like fins, and terrible rending claws. The creature emerges enshrouded in a mystical fire, but Thelbar dispels its protections without much trouble, and Gorquen does the rest, transforming herself into a blur of steel and black feathers.
“Sort of makes you wonder why I’m even here, doesn’t it,” Taran thinks to his brother, his tone a mixture of wonder, pride and jealousy.
Thelbar does not reply.
-----
The tombs are slight structures—three cairns no taller than Gorquen’s wing-span, each roughly hemispherical and joined to its partners approximately half-way to its top. No sculpture or relief-work decorates or marks the place, save for a half-circle of simple runes over the nearest face. No entryway is visible. There is no feeling of menace about the place, no terrifying spirits whirling about. Taran looks around and shrugs his shoulders, but Thelbar has a different response.
“Elgin, please detect magic.”
Detect magic is a simple spell, one of the most basic, and under normal circumstances it reveals the location and relative strength of magical auras within a short distance from the spell-caster. In this case, however, it reveals the three cairns as a single magical item of great potency—covered along every surface with a mosaic of interlocking runic wards in an alien and mysterious script.
“This is . . .” Elgin says. “This is an artifact.”
“Yes,” Thelbar is examining the short passage of physical runes. “These say, ‘I await my master’s hand.’”
“You shall not pass into this place of wickedness.” The voice is clear, and the words are delivered in a deep and authoritative tone. A figure emerges from a small dug-out behind the cairns and casts off a cloak. The dusty garment strikes the ground and underneath it, the adventurers see a broad-shouldered man dressed in fantastically wrought plate armor, enameled with liquid silver and chased with citurines marking holy runes sacred to the Seven Heavens.
The man draws a glittering holy sword from his side, and levels it at Thelbar. “You other two, I do not know you. You may leave this place upon your oaths never to return. But the Tar-Ilou may not. In the name of the Seven Holy Truths of Celestia, I judge you. In the name of all those you have slain, I sentence you to death.”
Elgin makes a gesture of benediction. “Friend. Our eyes are glad to behold a servant of weal in such a fearsome place, but come—you cannot mean what you say. These men are good, and true. We are humble servants of the gods, and seek no quarrel with those who bear no evil intent.”
“You have been misled, priest.” The man does not look away from Thelbar.
“No, you’ve been misled,” Taran growls, sliding toward the man, “whoever told you that you were pointing your sword at the right Tar-Ilou. Now, I’m not the patient one here, so you better have yourself a little epiphany real quick and sheathe that weapon.”
“You are the worst of them all, Taran,” the man says without moving an inch. “You know what he did, yet here you are, at your master’s heels.”
“Well, now you hurt my feelings,” Taran says, and then lashes Arunshee’s Kiss from its scabbard, and slaps the man’s blade off line before he can react. In a blur, Little Sister slides between the plates in his armor with a pop, and by the time the paladin can disengage and assess the damage, Gorquen is on him.
Taran cleans his swords on the man’s cloak and winks at Gorquen.
“That man knew you?” Elgin says, moving toward the fallen knight.
“Let us speak with him,” Thelbar suggests, and Elgin bends over the body with a brief prayer. A mote of light appears at the man’s brow, and his corpse takes a deep breath.
“How do you know the brothers Tar-Ilou?”
The corpse exhales, “We were adventuring partners once. They betrayed me.”
Taran shrugs and laughs. “Looks like you shoulda just let it go, buddy.”
“How were you betrayed?”
“I was lured into Hell, and abandoned there that the Tar-Ilou might escape.”
Thelbar nods. “That is enough. I know this man.”
“I can ask more questions,” Elgin says gently.
“No. Ressurect him, and we can send him on his way. He deserves better than a cold grave in the Abyss.”
“Hey, he started it,” Taran protests.
Elgin pauses for a moment, and says, “It may draw attention to us, using that sort of magic here.”
“This layer has no worse attention to give us than what is within that tomb,” Thelbar says. “The master of this realm knows we are here, I am sure of it.”
Elgin removes a gem from his pouch, an unusually brilliant star sapphire. “Sapphires are sacred to Palatin Eremath,” he says with a smile. “I thought you might enjoy it if I used these for ressurections.”
“Hey, that’s great,” Gorquen says. “You’re so thoughtful.”
Taran rolls his eyes.
Elgin places the gem in the body’s mouth, and begins to chant and pray over him. He makes the mark of the rising sun on the man’s brow with his own blood, combined with dirt from the ground where he died. Ilwe and Gorquen watch the ritual intently, while Thelbar takes Taran aside.
“What do you remember about our journeys in Hell?” he asks.
“I dunno, Thel, I don’t think about it. It just doesn’t seem important.”
“We have made many enemies, and we deserve them all, do you understand?”
“F-ck ‘em. Can’t bring justice to sh-t you can’t kill, Thel.”
Thelbar smiles briefly and clasps his brother’s shoulder. “Whatever transpires, you know that I do love you.”
Taran frowns and regards his boots. “Well, yeah. Hell yeah. What’s gotten in to you?”
Thelbar looks deeply into his brothers eyes. “If I explained, you would not understand.”
Taran nods, resigned and slightly ashamed. “Can you give me the dumbass summary?”
“What we are about in the Abyss is more audacious than anything we have done before.”
“Ah,” Taran furrows his brows. “What does that mean?”
The paladin sits up and clutches his chest. “Lathander!” he gasps looking into Elgin’s eyes.
“Yes,” Elgin smiles. “We bear you no ill-will, Sir Knight.”
“Unless you mouth off again.” Taran is walking toward the man, wearing the paladin’s sword in his belt. Thelbar remains behind, just at the rim of the party’s light. Beyond the small, thin circle of a continual flame, night has begun to emerge from its hiding place deep within the world, suffusing earth and sky with impenetrable mystery, and granting succor to those things that fear the sun.
“Goddamnit, Taran, shut up already,” Gorquen says. She gives the knight her hand and pulls him to his feet. “I’m sorry I killed you,” she says sheepishly. “I thought you were a demon in disguise.”
The man is watching Taran’s approach with tears welling in his eyes. “I have failed,” he says to no one in particular.
“If you think of getting brought back from the dead by the guys who just ran you through as failure, then yeah,” Taran says.
“You cannot kill me. I am already long-since dead.”
“I kill dead stuff all the f-cking time.” Taran is nose-to-nose with the man.
“Taran,” Gorquen complains.
“He didn’t call you out, did he?” Taran growls, still staring into the man’s face. After a moment, he nods and hands the man his sword back. “You got a name, f-cker?”
“My name is Kyreel.”
“Hey, no sh-t,” Taran smiles. “I knew a Kyreel.”
“Yes, you did.” The man says.
“This is the Kyreel that accompanied you into Hell,” Thelbar says. “To rescue me.”
“And thrice-cursed am I for the deed,” the man says.
“But Kyreel got reincarnated with us,” Taran says.
“Yes, she did.” Thelbar says.
Taran winces then finally shakes his head. “F-ck this,” he says, walking away. “Wake me up when something attacks us.”
“Why are you here, Sir Knight?” Elign asks.
“I have stood an epoch vigil over this place to prevent the Tar-Ilou from entering. Such was the price of my redemption.”
“And why do you wish to prevent this?” Thelbar asks softly.
The man ignores him. “I am yours, Lathanderite,” he says to Elgin. “You have my oath now.”
“Your oath is your own,” Elgin says. “You are clearly a child of the pasoun, can you not accept that these souls are not the same as the ones you recall?”
“I have broken from Ishlok,” he says coldly. “I serve a greater justice now, and these are tainted souls. There is no redemption possible for monsters such as these.”
“If that is your belief, Sir Knight, then we must remain at odds. I can return you to the Seven Heavens if that is your wish.”
“And I would thank you for it,” he says. “I must report my failure.”
Last edited:
Zaruthustran
The tingling means it’s working!
(contact) said:
Wow. This guy has issues.
-z
GreyShadow
Explorer
Thanks for the update (contact).
So they go from dungeon delving in a goddess, to dungeon delving in an artifact?
So they go from dungeon delving in a goddess, to dungeon delving in an artifact?
blargney the second
blargney the minute's son
GreyShadow said:
Woah! Sounds like you're baiting Eric's Grandmother!
-blarg
ps - Still loving every minute of this story, (contact)!
Joshua Randall
Legend
Yeah, watching your home world get wasted by corrupted half-golem spellstiched giant snails will do that to you.
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