The Risen Goddess (Updated 3.10.08)

[(contact)]

97—“Yet they, in the gentle war-dance, / One by one escape their fetters”
Goethe, The Magic Net


The spell-assault of New Ithor has already begun; earthquakes and storms of vengeance rock the landscape, shattering stone and burying the drow where they seek to hide. Helm charges at Lathander just as several bolts of lightning arc down from the skies to sweep the rooftop of the Champion’s stronghold, sending fragments of stone bursting in all directions. The party finds themselves unhurt; sheltered by a mothers’ touch. Without realizing it, the Champions of the Risen Goddess have been gathered within a protective sphere of divine goodwill. The sheltering force protects them from the terrible energies playing across the sky over New Ithor.

Lathander strikes Helm once down the center of his being, and the armored knight crumbles beneath the Dawn Lord’s staff, impossibly crushed from such a light blow. In an instant—or perhaps an eternity—Helm is destroyed, removed from this and all worlds of which he is a part.

In the skies above, at the vanguard of the Celestial Hosts, more Faerunian gods are making their presence felt. The Red Knight raises her sword, gesturing nobly to hearten her allies. In a return gesture, Torm and Tyr salute from the flanks. Illmater and Kelemvor are seen standing plainly at the front of huge columns of angels.

As the angelic horns signal the charge, the heroes’ unseen protectors reveal themselves. Arunshee stands next to Gorquen, absentmindedly stroking the fighter’s ebony wings as she coolly stares skyward at the assembled host. On Gorquen’s other side, Ilwe has come into the presence of his god without even realizing it. Arunshee points, and Solonor Thelandira fires three arrows in a blink of an eye.

Three angelic generals die.

Lathander is regarding the two elven deities with a warm and radiant smile. After a moment, he bows his head, and his gesture is repeated by both Arunshee and Solonor Thelandira. A slight and wispish dark-elven woman has appeared—she is here and not here at the same time; ghostlike and translucent. Ishlok has arrived.

-----

There are times, usually just before or just after sleep, where Taran fancies that he was chosen to fight for the cause of Ishlok because, at the core of Herself, she is just like him; that despite the high philosophy and grand experiment of the pasoun, the former war-goddess of the elven pantheon is only good at one thing.

He might be right.

The Champions of the Risen Goddess witness the immortal struggle within the sanctuary of the force-bubble. As their perceptual reality begins to shudder and fail due to the combined presence of so many points of divine power, they make out only flashes of the battle. But this much is clear—Ishlok can kill with a glance.

Illmater is the first to fall before her gaze. The Suffering God is compressed and broken under her will, and quietly plummets to the ground below. There is no fanfare, no corresponding flash of light or sound, but all the same, the god is gone. In the killing, Ishlok has grown more solid—more present, and Illmatter’s death focuses his allies’ attention fully upon the Risen Goddess.

The angelic army dives on New Ithor, but their deific leaders go for the assembled divinity standing next to the heroes. Lathander and Arunshee move forward, giving battle to angels and near-gods alike as Solonor fires volley after volley into his enemies with deadly effect.

“The sorrow you thought to inflict upon my followers will be upon you threefold,” Ishlok whispers, and as she does so, Tempus is turned inside-out.

With the act, Ishlok has become fully solid, and the remaining gods fall upon her, a general melee erupting just outside of the force-bubble protecting the Champions. Gorquen cries out, and makes to charge into the fray, but she is restrained by Taran.

“Don’t be f-cking stupid,” he growls into her ear. “I mean, stupider than usual,” he adds. “We’re worthless here.”

Below, sun and moon devas are among the drow, killing those that muster to give battle with flaming swords and lances of light and love. A day passes, perhaps more—the drow rally around Mother Talendiira, but are defeated. The prophetess is killed, and her drow scattered. A lucky few escape the town and make for the safety of the nearest Underdark bolt-hole.

Atop the stronghold at New Ithor, the assembled Faerunian gods have struck a blow—Ishlok is wounded, gravely hurt to mortal perception, and the goddess falls to one knee before her enemies. The Red Knight, Torm, Tyr and Kelemvor stand before her, and the Red Knight demands her surrender.

Taran regards the event with a crazed and thoroughly unsettled look in his eye. He has long since passed from disturbed to terrified, through terror to become overwhelmed and then through that to a state that feels like . . . clarity. He does not know the will of his ghostly goddess, but he knows what he would want.

“Gorquen, you have the sword,” he says. “And you’ve been to her corpse—you’ve seen the wound. Now you finish her.”

Gorquen is stunned. “But she can . . .”

“No,” Taran interrupts. “Better by your hand than theirs. No surrender.” Taran wraps his hands over Gorquen’s around the hilt of Soludrun, and begins to pull her toward her goddess.

Ishlok gazes into Gorquen then, and Gorquen suddenly knows. “Show them our will.”

With Taran’s hands around her own, Gorquen returns Soludrun to its home—the wound in Palatin Eremath’s side, the brother’s blow, still open after all this time.

Run through by her Divine Champion, Ishlok stiffens, smiles and dies— her corpse turns instantly to stone. Arunshee, Lathander and Solonor stop fighting for a moment, and all is still. Taran strikes a lock of hair from Ishlok’s corpse with the hilt of Arunshee’s Kiss, and places it within a hidden pocket.

Arunshee disappears, and after a moment, Solonor and Lathander follow suit.

“To me!” Thelbar cries through the telepathic bond. He has opened a gate, and one by one the Champions of a dead goddess flee through it. From Faerun they fly to a ring of standing stones on the outer plane of Concordant Opposition, and from there through a portal to safety—the multiverse’s lone refuge against the vengeance of angry gods, Sigil.

 

[coyote6]

Another change of scenery, I see. Is this going to be a Planescape campaign now, or is Sigil just the refuge from which the Champions of the (soon to be re-?) Risen Goddess will strike at their myriad enemies?

 

[(contact)]

In good news, Gorquen's player had her baby this morning about 2 a.m. In a one hour (!) labor, nonetheless. (Obligitory D&D joke regarding haste inserted here) By the time the midwife arrived, Angie was already holding her second daughter, Emily Rose.

 

[(contact)]

Interlude—Home and hope, one letter apart.

The center of all that is, Sigil is a spatial quandary—a city within a ring that floats at the apex of an infinite spire, a spire which itself rises from the center of an infinite space. Within Sigil, what might be expected is not, what could be usually is, and there is only one Will within that is of any consequence.

The heroes arrive beneath an awning covering the entrance to a busy marketplace. Planar creatures and prime beings of all sorts gather, jostling the newcomers aside as they pursue their business. Sigil is built within the inner face of a massive ring—the structures of the opposite side can be seen through the fog above, and the air is filled with a thick and vaguely chemical scent. Humans, gith and goat-men surround the heroes, and here and there a true celestial or demon can be seen. Spikes and blades protrude from nearby buildings at random angles, and the architecture seems sharp, cold and unforgiving. A bladed twining vine covers nearly every surface untrod by the feet of Sigil’s citizens.

Upon their arrival, three tall brown-skinned humanoids appear from thin air before them. The entities do not speak, but they silently lead the group across the marketplace which has grown silent and still. Standing as motionless as a statue, a lone figure regards them. A woman, she appears to be wearing a mask wrought of some strange metal—a number of bladed protrusions radiate out from the mask like the spokes of a wheel, or the rays of some unimagined sun. The Lady of Pain, mistress of Sigil is before them. This is her place, it is known. And none remain save by her consent.

The crowd parts like the ripples on a pond, hastily backing away from Sigil’s enigmatic mistress. The Lady beckons and the bewildered Champions follow. She leads them to a small dwelling, well off the beaten path, its doorway difficult to notice among the spiked and flanged architecture of its façade. Once there, she is gone as suddenly as she arrived. One of the tall creatures places an ornate brass key into Thelbar’s hand, and then they too silently disappear.

It won’t take long for word to spread—these powerful primes saw the Lady and lived.

“She spoke to me,” Elgin says, “in my mind. She said, ‘You cannot loose what you have never had.’”

Thelbar sinks to the ground, there in the doorway of his new home. He is crying, although no tears emerge. Gorquen looks around at her companions, hoping perhaps to find some comfort, but there is none to be had.

“My spells are gone,” Ilwe says to himself. “How is this possible?”

“As are my own,” Elgin replies. He absentmindedly takes the key from Thelbar’s unfeeling hand and opens the doorway. One by one, the heroes stagger in, close the door behind themselves, and find whatever solitude they can. Some cry, others pray, but none of them are able to sleep.

-----

Across Faerun, clerics of all the faiths involved in the Blood Solstice loose contact with their deities for the span of two weeks. It is a dark and fearsome time, and many conflicts that had been bubbling erupt into full bloom. The evil faiths make use of the opportunity, and sack many churches of Good—the priesthoods of Illmater, Helm and Tempus are shattered, their remnants finding sanctuary with allies, or simply fleeing civilization altogether.

For those two weeks, the Champions of the Risen Goddess lurk within their new home, too frightened to leave, and too traumatized to really rest. Elgin and Ilwe are the hardest hit—neither of them are willing to discuss their experience. Thelbar and Gorquen likewise lock themselves away, struggling to grasp those things that can not be accepted—and bury them deep. Khuumar announces that his place is alongside the drow of New Ithor. Whatever may come, they are his people, and he intends to return.

Only Taran is present to see him off. Khuumar has come a long way since they first met; gone is the cringing drow traitor following the brothers Tar-Ilou with a deific axe over his head. In his place, a committed and focused divine champion to a goddess newly reborn. Taran smiles and clasps Khuumar’s hand. “You’re still pretty much worthless,” he says, “but you were right about Nathè, and I’ll miss you.”

Alone among his friends, Taran is at ease. While his companions mourn, he practices his swordsmanship and fantasizes about revenge. For he knows one small truth—this time, he tells himself, I survived. The pasoun is an echo, lives repeating lives, but so long as life remains, so lives hope.

 

[Joshua Randall]

Wow - Angie gives birth at the same time that the campaign is re-born.

Coincidence? Or... conspiracy?!

 

[(contact)]

Wow - Angie gives birth at the same time that the campaign is re-born.

Coincidence? Or... conspiracy?!

Well, these logs are about 1 1/2 months behind the game . . . Angie gave birth just after the Risen Goddess story arc was concluding, and it was a conspiracy.

 

[(contact)]

98—No enemies arrive without also bearing allies.

Two weeks pass, and finally Elgin and Ilwe report that their spells have returned. Over the interim, the Champions slowly come back to themselves, gathering together and finding some solace in companionship. None of them have yet been able to assimilate what they witnessed, and with the exception of Taran, the mood is quiet and morose.

Thelbar determines to scry Faerun and see what has become of their former home. His findings are grim; New Ithor is crushed, the surviving drow scattered into the deeps beneath the surface. Khuumar has held to his word—he is working to gather the survivors together, and help them find a suitable home within the Underdark. True to drow tradition, this likely means displacing someone else in a violent struggle. Tragically, these elven survivors of the Blood Solstice are pitiful few. Ilwe’s family are not among these refugees, and cannot be scried.

Mother Talendiira is likewise gone, although whether she was truly killed in the fighting, or has simply fled beyond the reach of divination is unclear. Thelbar believes that he has seen a spectral visage haunting the ruins of New Ithor that could be her, but direct scrying is ineffective. New Ithor as it was is nearly gone as well. The templars of the allied faiths have disposed of the drow within mass graves, and begun the process of destroying what had been so laboriously built. Stone by stone, New Ithor is being dismantled.

“I am so sick of these as-holes wrecking my homes,” Taran says. “No offense Elgin,” he adds sheepishly.

“Scry the Sage Tree,” Ilwe suggests, in a cool and distant voice.

Thelbar shakes his head. The Sage Tree is gone, destroyed by the conquerors.

“They will pay, by my life,” Gorquen swears. “And Almuriel—I want her blood as well. Corellon knew this was coming, yet he did nothing—that makes him doubly our enemy!” The winged fighter is enraged. She has spent most of her time in this state since the Solstice, and her companions have grown used to it.

“Bulls-it,” Taran counters. “Corellon did no wrong in my book—not now, and not then. Having walked a mile in his shoes, you should know better.” Taran smiles darkly. “See, I’ve put a sword in her, too, so I’m in a unique position to appreciate what he did for us. Goddamnit, Gorquen, there is no killing what isn’t alive.”

-----

Months pass, and the group settles into an uneasy routine. Skleeve, the misbegotten necromancer first encountered by Gorquen and Ilwe on the body of Palatin Eremath, arrives unannounced one afternoon. After questioning, Skleeve is taken on by the group as a retainer of sorts, and assigned to manage the household. In exchange for this service, Skleeve receives tutoring in spellcraft, arcana and the adventurer’s life.

Despite their desire for retribution, the Champions of the Risen Goddess know that they are marked beings, and do not return to Faerun. Instead, Thelbar immerses himself in research, looking for information about the Ermathan city of Myth Iskok. Gorquen had first learned of the lost city during her earlier adventures apart from the brothers Tar-Ilou, and the group believes that Myth Iskok is the lone place where the original elven followers of Palatin Ermath were not eradicated. According to Gorquen, Myth Iskok was sealed away by Corellon Larethian, but never taken, and the souls of her last faithful followers sealed within. A great knowledge of the goddess is there, she asserts, and should be brought back into the world.

Despite her conviction, information about Myth Iskok is difficult to obtain. The elven pantheon obliterated all reference to Palatin Eremath millennia ago, and there are no readily available sources of lore.

To counter this, Thelbar makes use of Sigil’s impressive libraries and depositories of knowledge. While Thelbar studies and the others craft magic or immerse themselves in prayer, Taran spends his time carousing and telling tall tales in Sigil’s many fest-halls. He befriends a local bard, who chronicles his life story in a series of cheaply produced “tales of high adventeur (sic).” The books prove popular in the City of Doors, and Taran becomes something of a folk hero, the archetypal Powerful Prime; fantastically skilled and legendarily tough, fighting and loving his way through the strange and confusing worlds of the prime material. Of course, in the stories, it is always Taran who manages to uncover foul plots, triumph against all odds, and win the hearts of the ever-present breathless and heaving maidens. The other Champions of the Risen Goddess are rarely mentioned in these stories, much to their amusement.

Taran also takes up the practice of playing dark-spirited practical jokes on his companions, at one point hiring a planar shapeshifter to impersonate Mother Talendiira and join the group for dinner. These jokes are generally not well received.

Along with his buffoonery, Taran also engages the services of several planar adventuring groups, sending them through portals to Faerun to keep an eye on New Ithor, the Dalelands and Cormyr. Most of them never return.

Skleeve tells the group that there is a “powerful man” who wants to meet with them—the individual who leads the planar faction that Skleeve belongs to. They call themselves the Athar, are known colloquially as “the faithless” and by their enemies as “the lost.” Their doctrine is simple: the gods are frauds. The Athar hold that religion in the multiverse is a cosmic shell-game, with true believers chasing after illusions and false promises held out by the powers that be. While the Champions do not fully share this belief, some of the implications of Ishlok’s pasoun support the contentions of the Athar—Thelbar’s earlier statement that the gods are “vampires and thieves” springs to mind. The group agrees to a meeting, and Skleeve leads them to the Athar’s headquarters within a blasted and abandoned former temple to a dead god.

“This was once the home of a foolish few,” Skleeve wheezes as they make their way into the ruin. “The Pretender crossed the Lady, yes he did, and look what he received for his trouble.” Skleeve hisses a laugh. “The gods are mortal, yes they are, and they die, too, yes they do.”

Skleeve is recognized (although clearly not well liked) by the Athar guardsmen, but after a few insults are passed back and forth, the group is led to a simply appointed chamber, where a meal has been set. At the table is a small human, brown-skinned, wrinkled, and heavily tattooed.

“I am honored, truly.” the man says. “I am Factol Terrance of the Athar, and I welcome you to my home. I have something to show you that might be of interest,” he says, pulling back the sleeves of his robes to reveal a pair of matching tattoos on his forearms.

Elgin sucks in a breath, and Thelbar nods appreciatively. “We attend you, sir,” he says.

“Wait a minute,” Taran interrupts with a smile. “Gorquen can tell you that I’m the dumb one of the group, so I’m going to need it plainer than that. What am I supposed to notice, here?”

“You are rock-headed,” Gorquen says. “And it’s not funny.”

“Those are symbols of the Risen Goddess,” Elgin explains. “And very, very old ones, unless I miss my guess.”

“You do not,” Thelbar says.

“Ah,” Taran says sagely. “So?”

“You are not in Sigil by accident,” Factol Terrance explains. “You have been expected, and you have found the allies that you seek. I know of your goddess, and I have long admired her courage. She alone amongst the powers has dared to break the silence, and expose the multiverse’s greatest truth.”

“Yeah, and we’re the ones who take the heat for it,” Taran mutters.

“Shut up and listen, bonehead,” Gorquen whispers, elbowing his ribs.

Terrance continues. “As a young man, I wandered many worlds, looking for answers to questions that plagued my mind. Along my journeys I came across a small faith—a religion, true, but like no other. I have never had the temperament to accept blindly, so I wished to see for myself this living-dead goddess. It was there that I took these symbols as my own, that I might never forget the lessons won there, on her corpse.

“Ishlok,” Gorquen says.

“Yes,” he nods slowly. “She gave me many visions, among them knowledge of some power—a word, when spoken able to slay even the gods.”

“We have seen such a power,” Thelbar agrees.

“Did you take the pasoun?” Gorquen asks.

“I do not call it that, but if you ask me was I liberated from the oppression of the gods, the answer is yes.” He pauses while this sinks in, politely waiting for Taran to grasp his meaning. “I intend to unveil this doctrine,” he adds, “and make it available to my followers.”

“It is not an easy path, or one to be undertaken lightly,” Elgin says sadly.

“I do not speak of it lightly,” Factol Terrance replies. “In fact, until your arrival, I have not spoken of it at all.”

“Our freedom has not come without a price,” Gorquen muses. “We have seen our works destroyed, and our loved ones killed,” she gestures toward her companions, “save for a few.”

“Did you just say you loved me?” Taran asks, nudging her arm.

Gorquen blushes. “Not like that,” she snaps.

“Well, I didn’t mean it like that,” he replies.

“Well, of course I do,” she whispers. “Is that so strange?”

“You’ve never said it before,” Taran laughs.

“Of course I have,” she sniffs. “You are simply too dense to recall.”

Taran taps his headband of intellect. “Maybe this thing is broken,” he muses.

“Your goddess gave me many visions regarding this power,” Terrance continues. “I followed them to a terrible place—a prime world, ravaged by war, destroyed through magic, and finally pulled whole into the Abyss. Is this familiar to you?”

When told that it is not, he nods and continues. “This world was the site of a great conflict between two factions of fey creatures—her servants were in revolt against Arvandor, and the elves fought with one another in a bitter and hateful war.”

“Her servants,” Elgin muses. “Do you refer to Scaladar?”

“I do not know their names,” Terrance says. “I do know that this revolt was finally put down, the world destroyed sometime thereafter, and the remains damned. In this world, I came across a fearsom place—a tomb for some of her followers, entities of great power; I believe they were demigods.”

“Did you go in?” Taran asks.

“No,” he says. “I am deeply curious, but I am not mad.”

“Where in the abyss is this place?” Thelbar asks.

“It is the 313th layer, called Thanatos by its inhabitants,” Terrance replies.

“That is Orcus’ realm,” Elign says.

Terrance nods. “The tomb is near the undead city of Nar Tyr.”

“It was Scaladar!” Gorquen says. “Tar-Elentyr told me of that war! After his defeat, Scaladar became Orcus!”

Terrance shrugs. “I do not know much of demonology. But I do believe that many answers could be found there. The tomb itself is proscribed—even the fiends and undead of that layer will not go near it. I believe they are terrified of the place.”

“Sounds like a bad place, allright,” Taran says to his companions. “You know, I like this guy,” he gestures toward Terrance. “He’s so helpful. And direct.”

“Is this unusual?” Terrance asks politely.

“You’d be surprised,” Taran says. “Hardly anyone tells me sh-t without me threatening them first.”

“You’re such a savage,” Gorquen says.

“But I appreciate your attitude,” Taran continues. “Really I do. This conversation never would have happened in Cormyr.”

“Don’t get used to it,” Gorquen says. “Things won’t be so easy in Myth Iskok.”

“Well, you can tell me all about it when you get back,” Taran replies.

Gorquen frowns. “You’re going, Taran.”

“The hell I am. I don’t adventure anywhere with ‘Myth’ in its name.” Taran crosses his arms.

“You’re going if I have to drag you.”

Thelbar interrupts the bickering fighters. “I too, appreciate your candor,” he says to Terrance. “But if I may pry, I have a question regarding your Athar.”

“By all means,” the Factol says. “I would keep no secrets from you.”

“Your followers are faithless,” Thelbar says, “yet your home here is warded by spells that arcane wizardry cannot reproduce. How is this possible?”

Terrance nods and smiles. “Divine magic is not the sole province of the faithful. My faithless are capable of many miracles, and none of them made through bargains with the pretenders.”

“Well, if you get in a fight, could Elgin heal you, then?” Taran asks.

“I would not accept such aid,” Terrance replies. “Nor would I require it. The power of a priest is one of belief, and the gods are not the only ideas held dear that defy direct examination. On the planes, you will find that belief comes in many shapes and forms, and all are powerful in their own way, although not all equally true.”

Taran scowls. “Metaphysics,” he mutters, shaking his head.

“Well, I have proof of my goddess,” Gorquen states haughtily. “I am the divine champion of Ishlok; I am the proof.”

“Are you?” Terrance smiles. “Do you believe then, that a dead goddess is really granting your power?”

 

[Piratecat]

My group is headed back to Sigil soon. I am SO stealing ideas from you!

 

[Zaruthustran]

“I do not call it that, but if you ask me was I liberated from the oppression of the gods, the answer is yes.” He pauses while this sinks in, politely waiting for Taran to grasp his meaning.

Er, I left my Headband of Intellect at home, and my skull is impermeable to subtlety. What is his meaning?

-z

PS: I see Skleeve, but where's Aahz?

 

[Joshua Randall]

Bah. Planescape. I never liked that setting.

But now's your chance to pull out all the stops, (contact), and wow me into admitting that I've been wrong about it all these years.

A question - what level is everyone at by now? I don't require full statblocks, but a simple run-down would be nice.