# Shemeska's Planescape Storyhour (Updated 29 Jan 2014)



## Shemeska

This is starting off with a prologue and back history to set up the story for folks before the introduction of the player characters. I'm late in getting this written since the campaign is a year and five months in progress already. Oh well, better late than never.




The wind from the void contrasted bitterly as it rushed with gale force over the burning slopes of Khalas. Beneath its rage, unyielding in its face, an iron city crawled upon legs of grafted flesh over the landscape of Gehenna’s first furnace. Titanic and eternal, the Crawling Citadel had existed since before the rise of Dis in Baator and Tu’narath in the Astral. Of those cities that still existed upon the planes, only Sigil could truly claim to have utterly predated it.

Within the depths of the city the first Ultroloth, the General of Gehenna himself sat and pondered over a great table of maps, diagrams and figures. He sat tracing out the desired path of the armies of both the Baatezu and Tanar’ri, and the required actions of the Yugoloths in order to balance both sides in the war, yet make it seem as nothing more than the eternal stalemate between the sides. Let no pattern of influence fall to the eyes and minds of the other fiends. Let them remain ignorant of the truth, and even ignorant of his existence. After all, his very hand had played a role in their very creation as the waste left over from his purification of the Yugoloths.

Around his neck upon a chain of cold iron hung a black sapphire that gleamed with an inner luminescence, the Heart of Darkness, the artifact that he had created at the tutelage and instruction of his makers, the Baernaloths, the Gloom Fathers, the first fiends. The inner light of the Heart shed its faceted patterns and shadows across the maps before The General, the rest of the chamber a study in inky darkness, and empty except for its maker.

With brilliant ease the prince of Ultroloths balanced armies and tugged upon the strings of power that would profit his race and provide the raw data of their grand experiment into the nature of evil that was the Blood War. This time however, something weighed upon the being of The General, a subtle but persistent tug upon his black soul. For the first time in eons he was uncertain and troubled by this. Whatever it was, it seemed oddly familiar upon his mind as if he had once before felt its touch. The General paused and pondered, his eyes shifting in patterns of malign color, with not a drop of emotions behind them in the cold and detached clinical evil that permeated the thoughts in his brain.

In the darkness behind the General, the shadows stirred suddenly and took form, congealing rapidly into a figure that stood heads above the ultraloth prince. Milky, cataract filmed eyes gazed down upon the General as the form placed its bony hands upon his shoulders. The General did not react at the touch, seemingly unfazed and unconcerned at the being’s sudden presence.

It lurked above and behind him, gazing silently across his work with a mad and knowing gleam in its features and its mannerisms. Despite the fact that the greatest Yugoloth since the very beginning of time stood beneath this second being, the chamber felt polluted and sullied by its presence, something more foul than its normal occupant by far.

“You have a feeling in your brain that you cannot shove to the side, or destroy or dominate or explain. That troubles you my child, does it not?”

The General spoke without turning to face his better, “Yes it does. And I’ve felt it once before, when I was newly formed from the Waste, when you first spoke to me. It was there then, but I never felt it again till today. Tell me, what is it?”

The Baernaloth, Lazarius Ibn Shartalan, The Architect smiled a rictus grin down at his creation and tool. Diseased and noxious thoughts bubbled to the surface of his pit of a mind and he spoke once more, “Something stirs my little chosen one, first of your kind. Something that stirs the winds of the lower planes and forces events and processes into being in its wake. Something that would destroy you if we allowed it to do so. But that is not what we wish, and not what we have planned. You are destined for much that has not come into being yet, and neither will this deviate you from your destiny. No, it will forge it.”

The General of Gehenna turned and looked up at this one of his makers with respect bordering upon awe, “Tell me what I must do then.”

The Architect leered and replied as The Heart of Darkness dimmed at random, but seemingly in response to his words, “Then listen and do as I instruct. This is what you must do…”


*****​

In a forsaken corner of Krangath, the frozen and dead 4th furnace, a bitter wind stirred the ash of a vale cut into the flank of the mount. Sitting upon the broken block of stone that was once, and would be the foundation stone of a buttress to the shattered cathedral whose ruins stood before him, Sarkithel Fek Parthis looked up from his musings. The ashes upon the ground stirred in agitation with the fevered thoughts of the Baernaloth as his dead white eyes sparkled with madness.

“It begins, finally it begins.”

The Chronicler, 5th of the Gloom Fathers screamed aloud into the sky, a manic bellow of exultation passing from his wasted lips and echoing out across the ravaged foundations of the city that surrounded him. The incinerated and frozen ashes of fiends and celestials alike stood around him as well with expressions of shock, panic and fear patterned across their faces, statues of solid ash all of them. Sarkithel paused in his excitement as a fit of phlegmatic coughing overtook him and several minutes later he stopped and wiped flecks of blood from his sallow lips.

“Just as we said, just as we planned, everything will fall into place. All that remains to be done is to wait and to watch for the signs to manifest themselves. Isn’t that right?”

The Baern chuckled to himself and gazed once more around himself to the city of ash and its dead as the wind began to rise and the ashes began to whisper back to him in fear and apprehension of it all happening again.


*****​

At the same time deep in the hinterlands of Pluton, third layer of the Waste, the fiend once called Oinoloth, then and now called Anthraxus the Decayed seethed in displeasure. Gazing across the blighted, dead landscape of stunted trees and despair taken physical form, he felt a surge of purpose. Too much time had passed since he had stepped down from his position as Oinoloth of the Wasting Tower of Khin-Oin in favor of the Ultraloth Mydianchlarus. The words that his usurper had whispered to him had, at the time, filled him with fear and shock. At their potency alone he had abdicated the Seige Malicious and surrendered his position to his lesser.

Those words had spoken of his own doom in the shadow of Khin-Oin, of prophecy whispered by the Baernaloths, and things to come. But none of it had come to pass, not a single bit of those truths had become a reality. He had been deceived and his hunt for confirmation of those same words had come to naught, a chase after shadows, legends and half-truths. His search for confirmation had even led him to approach the deities of the Waste, those spawn of mortal belief, and to abase himself before them in hope of being granted their power as a proxy. All of them had spurned his attempts. The Godless Yugoloth had remained so.

Anthraxus turned away from his gazing across Pluton and the Hill of Bone and towards the city of Center. There it would start and it would end at Khin-Oin when he reclaimed his throne and rightful position as lord of his race. Lies would not stop him this time. The once and future Oinoloth would come into his rightful place again.


*****​

The tortured screams and agonized howls of the petitioners molded to form the walls of the Tower of Incarnate Pain were music to the ears of a jet black Arcanaloth who sat and smiled within a chamber at its apex. Vorkannis the Ebon looked with the reddish pink eyes of an albino, oddly contrasting with his shadowy coat, at the projected images of his guests. They were a cross-section of their rank within the Yugoloth hierarchy, the powerful and the influential, all unable to take their proper role under the yoke of the faceless masters of Khin-Oin.

The Ebon stood and spoke, “Mydianchlarus is worried over reports that Anthraxus seeks to regain his position atop Khin-Oin. Good, that’s how it was meant to be. Anthraxus has a burning hatred now and an eagerness for allies and old connections to fall to his side. He needs to build his base of power before he can challenge his successor.”

He sneered and bared gleaming fangs, pausing for effect as he looked at the other two looking back to him. “This is where we have our chance to play them both for fools and claim what is ours.”

The image of the red robed, chocolate furred Arcanaloth to The Ebon’s left spoke, “You sound as if you planned this from the start, or at least know more about this than you’re willing to let on. I can certainly muster a significant force on my own, and you as well from Bubonix’s old position. We all still wonder how you managed that. But again, how can you be so certain of this?”

Vorkannis smiled, amused at the question, “You sound so much like Larsdana when you have doubts. She would be proud of you, is proud of you. You will tell her I give my regards after our meeting, yes? Such a light upon your work she is still.”

Helekanalaith the Keeper of the Tower of the Arcanaloths looked taken aback and once again he pondered how in the hells his compatriot knew certain things. He’d been asking himself that question for centuries now as The Ebon had climbed the ladder of power quickly and without question. It didn’t entirely make sense. For starters he’d simply walked out of the Waste without a past, at least as far as he could tell.

“Indeed. Send me the information you promised and I’ll set the wheels into motion from my own position, only if you can assure me of certain things. And if I receive certain things. You’ve yet to ask my price for aid in this gamble, I’m risking everything.”

The Ebon glanced away from the Keeper and towards the other image where the 3rd Arcanaloth sat and slowly preened before a mirror, her ears tilted and pivoted towards her colleagues.

“And my most elegant Marauder, is your self imposed exile in Sigil still as enjoyable a game as ever? I know you’ve managed to advance your self more there than here within the lower planes, and you’ve enjoyed yourself to no end, despite other mitigating factors, despite other persons.” He smiled at her sneer at the last point.

She turns and regarded him arrogantly, “You know full well what I’m capable of, but you haven’t given me the tools I asked for. You just told me what you wanted from me, and the reasons. Now tell me how to do it and with what. Otherwise I’m content enough here dodging shadows and blunting ogres and titans. And like my erstwhile superior in Gehenna,” she smiled at Helekanalaith, “I’ve not yet been told what I will receive from our little deal. I’ll grease the wheels from my end, but I only give favors in exchange for others. You better than most others should know how we work.”

“Indeed I do, better than anyone else I assure you I know how we work.” Vorkannis glanced down and smiled inwardly before looking back to his conspirators.

“I have a question for you both, answer me and you will have what you ask and we will set this third wheel into motion, a wheel among wheels of conspiracy, the wheel within wheels.” His eyes flashed more red than the dim corpse light of Carceri and The Ebon snarled and barked out a series of words that grated the air and caused the walls to ache and distort.

The other two Arcanaloths looked disturbed at the incantation, “What was that, and in what language, I’m unfamiliar with it.” The Marauder said, dropping her typical pretense of vanity.

“That my fellows, was a question. Spoken in the tongue of the Baernaloths, the Gloom Fathers. I know it well, fluently in fact.” Vorkannis smiled again.

Helekanalaith, looking once more at ill ease replied for himself and Shemeska, “And what does it mean?”

The light of Carceri through the window sparkled in his eyes as he answered that question with one of his own, THE question perhaps, the root of damnation, “What is it you want?”

The two other fiends paused and answered their future lord in turn.

And thus it all began, bits and pieces of the puzzle sliding into place across the lower planes, all part of something greater, all the players claiming to know the answers, the plots, the details and contingencies. Thus it began.


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## Piratecat

Well written; you'd think you wrote hundreds of pages of Planescape material, or something.  

Is this off of notes, or purely from memory?


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## Liolel

You know I was just browsing this fourm when the words planescape caught my eye. Not only did I find a planescape story hour but one by one of the planewalker team. This is a great gem to find and I hope it continues being a gem. Also this post is to subscribe.


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## Salthorae

*OoooOOOo*

Wow, that was an impressive intro, I'm pretty excited about this SH as I love planescape! I look forward to it!


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## Shemeska

Re: Pkitty

That was all backstory that happened before I ever asked the players for character concepts, and so it never got notes for it per say. However all of those NPCs and most of the places and events were involved enough that I wrote down what happened. I just havn't bothered to grab my notes from a year ago at look at yet.

Re: everyone else

When I update to the point where the PCs get involved I'll be using some longhand notes jotted down on the typed out notes and I have a few chatlogs to incorporate since one of the players got started off with a solo session or two before joining in. Nothing like telling the DM "Hmm... I can't decide on equipment or backstory, make him an amnesiac." This allows me to hold up the "Screwing you now, bend over. You are my living, breathing plot hook, enjoy." sign towards the player. 

I've also got fiction from the PoV of some of the NPC's both before and during the campaign floating around. There's some random short stories and an ongoing journal by one of the fiends that is, well, not kosher for posting here.

Some of the players have been writing IC journals and I may include portions of them from time to time to get their viewpoints involved. But I probably will be updating twice a week or so just so that I can manage to catch up eventually with the current campaign a year and some months removed from the current post. *chuckle*

I'm having fun here though, and I'm taking this as a challange to write it all up in this format from the stacks of notes and such on paper. Though my writing can be awkward at times and I apologize for my habit of massive run on sentances. 

Hope you enjoy though.


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## Clueless

Shemeska said:
			
		

> R
> Nothing like telling the DM "Hmm... I can't decide on equipment or backstory, make him an amnesiac." This allows me to hold up the "Screwing you now, bend over. You are my living, breathing plot hook, enjoy." sign towards the player.




*curtsey curtsey* That would be me. This if I recall has been my character with the largest 'shoot me here' sign attached for GM pleasure.  I'm looking forwards to reading this.


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## Deodrathas

*Re: The bit parts*

Shemie, I registered here for no other reason than to remind you not to forget the bit parts.  

I wanna see every little tiny insignificant detail...
-Kiro-


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## Shemeska

Deodrathas said:
			
		

> Shemie, I registered here for no other reason than to remind you not to forget the bit parts.
> 
> I wanna see every little tiny insignificant detail...
> -Kiro-




By bit part do you mean 'plays little consequence'? Or do you mean 'you don't see him till he pops out with the stabbity death!' ?

*grin* Fun fun, Sutekh told him everything, yep.


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## Henry

Keep it comin' man, I got Story-Hour-itis and you got drugs!


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## demiurge1138

Awesome. Between this and Blackdirge, we've got two of the three fiendish races down. So, who's up for devils?

Anyway, Shemeska, I love Planescape, and this Story Hour looks great. Keep up the good work.

Demiurge out.


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## Malakar

*Fetish boy!  You know what I'm talking about.*


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## Primus

Interesting opening, oh King of the Crosstrades.  I am quite interested in seeing where these things lead.  There have been some hints of course, there are few scraps of knowledge that the Orrery misses when scouring the planes, but hints are one thing while the true story is quite another.

Further installments must be written to fill in the gaps in my records.  I do hope you will oblige.


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## Shemeska

The next update will be sometime this week. It would have been last week, but real life and job took priority. So it's on the way, and I also wanted to write enough to reach a natural pause point for the next installment. It's in the making.

And as far as where things are leading, imagine the feeling of that lookout guy on the Titanic thinking he might have seen a spot of ice on the water. That's the case here. Just the tip of the iceberg.


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## solomanii

Fantastic!


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## Jaspar Arelius

*A stately alhoon enters, followed by his thrall companion...*

*has a seat, adjusting his robes, and waits for the story to begin*

(Hey Shemeska, think I'd miss out on more of your tales?  Or chances to bug the Ooze out of you about Vecna?  Heheh...)


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## Shemeska

*Update 2: Enter 'Clueless' - this update sponsored by a snowstorm cancelling classes*

A slow and wet sensation crawled across the man’s face like the caress of a lover, but a foul smelling and gritty one… He blinked and opened his pale blue eyes, a slow drizzle of water cascading onto his face from the drainpipes of the ramshackle building that he was sprawled next to.

He brushed the mud from his face and sat up, wincing as he did so from a soreness that pained his body from no specific source. Glancing around at his surroundings, confused and uncertain, a worry ran through him of things he should have been frightened or angry over, but they had fled his mind.

He blinked again at the realization that everything had fled his mind. His name, where he was, what he was doing here, his memories were an empty slate devoid of these things.

“Huh?… what the hells…”, he looked down at himself, damp and spattered in mud as he was for any clue of what had happened. As he glanced down, the back of his head began to throb under his rain spattered blond hair. The pain suddenly made him aware of the bruise and bleeding at the back of his skull from a heavy blow that had knocked him out. A second pain erupted from his left ankle from underneath the rough homespun trousers he wore.

He was dressed in dirty peasants clothing, nothing special about them to distinguish him from any random beggar or bubber on the streets. A simple shirt and a dirty cloak completed his attire of anonymity. Hanging limply from his waist were the leather ties upon which a belt pouch had hung, though only a few inches of severed leather remained.

“…” he murmured as he glanced down the cluttered alleyway, wondering if the thieves that had bobbed him might still be close. The two buildings he sat between in the muck were poorly cared for, dilapidated and largely bleached of any colors besides muted grays, browns and blacks. In fact, everything around him seemed infested with a wet melancholy that festered on the air. He shrugged it off and stood up, his trim and athletic build flexing subtly and mostly hidden underneath the simple clothes. He winced again at a sudden pain in his ankle as he rose to his feet and put his weight upon them.

He looked down at his ankle but didn’t see any blood on the ground, or on his feet. In fact his feet were both bare and cold, the thieves evidently having gotten away with his boots as well as his jink. “Sod it all, why was I in this… wherever this is anyways?”

His ankle still throbbed and the muscles felt sore, something had happened to it even if nothing showed. He reached down to pull up the pant leg to examine the flesh, and found something that seemed even to his amnesiac mind out of place. Embedded in the flesh and perhaps bone of his ankle was a single, smooth, egg shaped cobalt blue gem. It was cool to the touch but gave off a slight tingling sensation when touched. It didn’t feel right, it didn’t seem like it should be there. 

His inspection of the gem was suddenly interrupted by the sudden noise of a door swinging open into the alleyway. The abrupt noise caused him to start as a black, reptilian humanoid stepped out of the opening and hurled a hissed curse back towards the occupants of the building he was leaving. The language was dark and guttural, conveying force and authority, and the man understand every word of it.

“You’ll have better bub next time for me or I’ll see to it you and my teeth get acquainted! That swill isn’t good enough for a piking Tanar’ri!” the reptilian creature spit at the last word he spoke and a name or designation, of ‘black abishai’ came bubbling up to man’s senses from.

The Abishai slammed the door behind itself and strode down the alley towards the man. It stretched out its draconic wings and shrugged off the effects of whatever it had drinking and strode forwards, ignoring the man who backed up against the wall to avoid it.

It passed him with a thick smell of brimstone and acrid reptile odor that washed over the air. He followed it as it passed, and as it reached the end of the alleyway it paused and turned to him with narrowed eyes.

“What exactly are you staring at mortal?” it spoke in another, less harsh language that the man also understood and knew to be planar common.

“Nothing, I just… no, nothing, sorry.” He looked away as the Baatezu growled and walked down the street.

He breathed a sigh of relief, straightened his back and stepped away from the wall out towards the main street when he stepped upon something cold and hard underfoot. He looked down to see a long metallic object partially buried in the muck that he had been sitting over. A sword of a dull greenish steel, otherwise sharp and well manufactured. He reached down to grasp it and found it familiar feeling to his touch, comforting even.

He cleaned the sword off on the edge of his cloak, then removed the garment and wrapped the sword carefully bundled in the rough cloth. “Odd that they left that, it looks nice. Hell it’s mine, at least it feels that way and I obviously took care of it.” He looked around and kicked at the mud to test if anything else of his had slipped into the mire, and finding nothing else he walked out of the alleyway onto the main street some twenty feet distant.

He gazed out of the alleyway down both sides of the street, the buildings all with the same color bleached and apathetic feeling. The few people wandering the streets were dressed in similarly muted colors, none of them seeming to be in either a hurry or to have much motivation in their movements. The dim grayish light from overhead was filtered through fog and clouds, and its mood seemed to say that the sun had withdrawn to sit and pine away the loss of the blue sky, depression taking over the roll of sunshine and washing down to light the city itself.

The street itself was muddy with the slight drizzle, but not as muck-laden as the alleyway had been. To his left the street seemed to incline slightly, and decline to the right. Looking to the right, some twenty meters distant, the Abishai walked down the street. As it closed to within distance of a small man huddled on the stoop of a building, a thin plea of “Jink?” carried on the wind. It was answered by a whistle and a crack as the fiend responded with a sudden backhanded crack.

The begger slumped, unmoving against the wall of the hovel, and the fiend continued walking, barely pausing its stride. The amnesiac frowned and moved towards the slumped figure, muttering a cautious, “…are you ok?” as his hand closed tentatively over the blade of his sword. For whatever reason it seemed that his hand was naturally gravitating back towards the hilt of the blade, unconsciously settling over it.

	But pausing to kneel next to the begger, he reached out his other hand to touch and check to see if he was alive or badly wounded. There was no response but the begger’s chest rose up and down in a slow pattern. At the very least he was alive, just not responding.

	"...hey. Are you... well. That's a really stupid question for me to be asking isn't it. I mean clearly you aren't ok, you got knocked out... um."

	He frowned again and brushed aside the cowl over the other man’s head to reveal a thin angular face, uncertain now if they were male or female. Their hair was thin, stringy and dappled with muddy water, their eyes closed but slightly almond shaped.

	"Cause if you were ok - you'd be telling me where I was I bet." He looked around and sat down on the stoop beside the unconscious man and cradled his bundled sword in his lap. "... great."

	As he sat, drizzling rainwater falling across his head and shoulders he sighed. Between glances down at the unconscious beggar he strained to remember who he was, why he was here, and anything else at all. The Abishai as he now firmly remembered it being called had seemed to be in a hurry. But to be honest he wasn’t really sure why he’d be in such a hurry. After all, what would be the use of it all. Why bother when whatever it was wouldn’t matter anyways…

	“Are you gonna wake up now?” But it wasn’t as if the sword had helped him at all. What good was it? He’d still been left for dead in that alley, cold, wet, muddy…

	“…yeah, but if I was hit from behind… I wouldn’a been able t’use it…” He paused abruptly and looked around again in confusion. His thought running all the more depressive and apathetic. Somehow he knew this wasn’t normal, even if he couldn’t even remember his own name. It was almost as if by sitting down and brooding upon things he was unconsciously reflecting the depressive, color leeched and gritty surroundings, or that wherever he was was similarly leeching the color and feelings from him.

	"... don't like this place. Ok - you're coming with me - you'll wake up in a happier place - then you'll tell me where I am, right? Right." The begger remained unconscious, but despite not getting a response he put his sword across his back, bundled in the cloak, and picked up the man at his feet.

	"I mean, I was awake and this place is getting to me. You're asleep - can't imagine what it might be doing to you.”

	The man hefted the rag bundled figure without difficulty, most of their weight apparently being clothing. They seemed unhealthily thin and malnourished. Under the cloth they had to have been a stick figure of a person.

	“You're thin. And you still can't hear me, so I'm still being silly."

	Coming further into view as the clothing slipped and settled as they were lifted up, one of beggar’s feet was a white cloven hoof, bony and emaciated. The sudden word, ‘tiefling’ sprung into his mind along with the idea that he was still somewhere upon the planes. Wherever that was. His mind was supplying words, terms and ideas without encasing them in their original context that he had apparently known before.

	"Ok. So you're a tiefling, I wonder why they call em' tieflings." He picked up the beggar and carried him down the muddy street in the hopes of finding a place seemingly less depressing, or at the least safer than in the middle of the street where a fiend had passed by only minutes before.

	The street continued on moving downwards slightly for several blocks before opening up onto a wider square. Four streets branched out crosswise from it with the buildings surrounding the square appeared to be a mixture of boarded up, abandoned and burnt out shells. Several people milled about the square, all ignoring the man and his unconscious partner, either passing through as quickly as possible or sitting still, looking as despondent as the man’s own thoughts had been minutes before.

	The man glanced around and up, suddenly filled with the odd prickling sensation of having been watched from above and behind. He stiffened to see a large blot of shadow dance across the square as something large tracked across the rainy sky but was gone by the time he turned around. He shuddered and make haste down the widest of the four streets. 

	As the street grew wider it was filled with more foot traffic, a strange mixture of depressive looking humans, tieflings and full blooded fiends, lots of fiends. Uniformly they ignored him and he passed uneventfully down the street till it split into two forks. 

	Passing down one of the forks at random he kept his eyes wide and alert, looking for an alleyway that if it were possible in this place, was less depressive than the one he had woken up in. Gradually the rain stopped but the sun, if there was a sun here, had failed to emerge from the gloom overhead. However as if to spit the city and shame the sun, the wind began to pick up making it that much more colder and uncomfortable.

	He stopped and glanced down the street to where a freestanding stone archway rose in the center of the street to a height just over the rooftop level of the surrounding buildings. Over the top of them he could also make out the rise of a similar stone arch down the path he had not taken when the street had split.

	Glancing up at the archway as he neared closer to it he put the tiefling down and shook him slightly, “Hey. You awake now?”

	The tiefling gave little reponse but a slight moan. However, this near to the archway that dominated the center of the street the air was laden with a sense of wrongness and despair. 

Something sparked in his memory and firmly told him not to proceed. Nothing definite or elaborated upon, but a creeping dread related to some past knowledge or experience. The feeling grew more intense as a tall human strode past to stand before the archway. The figure held up something indistinct in his hand, spoke a word and then vanished into nothingness through a swirling portal that appeared in the center of the archway.

The portal lasted only a few seconds, but the apathy of the town was a drop of water in an ocean compared to the sudden flood of despair and agony emenating from out of the archway. The man hesitated and backed away several steps before collecting the tiefling in his arms again.

“…oh. This doesn’t look good. Ok, no.” he turned and walked back down the street the way he had come, the portal to his back still casting traces of misery into the grief saturated air. Back towards the fork in the road, the other street seemed less drained of life than the others he had entered thus far. In fact in comparison to the area that surrounded the portal, this street seemed almost a polar opposite. He smiled.

As he somehow expected, a second similar portal stood a block away down this second path of the original fork in the road. Several minutes later and he stood at the base of the obvious portal entry and smiled up at it, his spirits perking up as he placed the tiefling against the side of the archway.

“Hey, you, wake up.” He poked his companion, “Come on…” 

While there were a few random splashes of actual color on several of the building on the street, the street was still cold and unattractive. The archway was composed of a smooth, deep white marble whereas the other one had been of grayish black granite. Glancing up at the arch, the keystone seemed to be engraved with a symbol that resembled a single large torus.

	“Wake up.” He poked the tiefling again who seemed to be regaining a portion of his color, a mild green hue. Eventually he groaned, wrinkled his face and twitched as his eyes opened.

	“…hi… oh wow, I was right – you would wake up when you were in a nice street.” The amnesiac smiled cheerfully. The tiefling blinked his eyes, their pupils having the appearance of cats eyes.

	“You got hit pretty hard by that Abishai. You’ve been out for a while. I didn’t think it would be good for you to just lay there in the open. It was wet.” Another smile at the tiefling and he simply sat there looking down and waiting for a reply.

	Seconds later he got one. The tiefling’s eyes widened and he rolled out from the archway. Backing up and crouching against the wall of a building opposite his would be savior.

	“What’dya want berk…” he snarled and glanced around nervously.

	“Umm. Were you there when I got hit on the head?”

	“Leave me alone, I don’t have anything. I ‘aint done anything to anyone, I’m clean with the Mocking…”

	“Umm… were you there when I got hit on the head?”

	The tiefling relaxed partially as he saw that no blades were being drawn and spells cast in his direction. He smiled, “…why yes. Just saw the last bit of it I did. Don’t you remember me sitting there when you walked down that alley?”

	“…just wanting to confirm what I remember…”

	The tiefling grinned as his eyes flashed from side to side and then refocused back on the man. “I don’t have much, what’s that bit of dark worth to you?”

	“Well, I coulda just left you there unconscious on the street where I got robbed before…” he glared suspiciously at the tiefling, “look… I’m lost. Not stupid.”

	“Who said you got robbed? You was out of it when they dumped you there…”

	“…” he sighed and got to his feet, “Look. I just don’t know where I am, or how I got here.”

	“Fine then Clueless, ignore me and soak up the greys why don’t you.” With that the tiefling awkwardly stood up and began to walk away down the street, pausing for just a second to look back.

	The man began to follow him, looking annoyed, “Damnit… I just need a few questions answered… they’re really simple ones…”

	“Talk is cheap for those who have something, not me. Make it quick… I have places to be.”

	The man looked down and pointed at the two slashed cords on his belt, “I don’t exactly have much of anything either. Where am I exactly?”

	The tiefling edged away a step, barely noticeable by anyone not acquainted with thieves, “You’re where, is what most of us are, Hopeless.”

	The word struck a chord within the man’s hazy, enigma riddled mind, Hopeless was the gatetown to the Grey Waste in the Outlands. Wherever that really was, but he remembered those places, just not much about them.

	The man blinked a few times then nodded, “Ok… um, can you tell me who dumped me on the street?”

	The tiefling balked, “Then you can come back and ask me when you’ve got something to give now Clueless.”

	He grated his teeth together, “..ok. you’ll be in the same place right?”

	“Sure, it’s as good as any other place in this sodding hole. Just look for the starving tiefer.”

	“…why do you stay here if you don’t like it here? I mean, it doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t seem like there’s a lot to hold you here.”

	The tiefling walked away slowly without much purpose or eagerness, it simply didn’t appear as if he actually had any places to be or things to do. A block later he vanished off into an alleyway and out of sight.

	The man sighed, “Ok…” He stood there for a moment, collecting his thoughts and trying in vain to recall much of anything. Nothing as it related to his own person seemed to be within his grasp. At best over the next ten minutes of pondering he was able to apply a bit of context to his current location, Hopeless, the concept of gate towns and the plane they inhabited, The Outlands. But beyond that, all was still a vast blank.

	He walked a few steps away from the arch idly, then paused abruptly as when he did so there seemed to be a pull, a resistance, a slight tug upon his whole body as he put distance between himself and the bound space.

	“..whoa.” he muttered and stepped around the border of the arch, testing the feeling and the boundary of it. A few minutes of testing and the feeling seemed to be emanating from the gem that was embedded into his ankle. He continued to test the feeling before walking to the side of the street and sitting down on a stoop to think again. The gem hadn’t opened the portal, or told him anything at all besides throb slightly. Nor had it changed color or anything else.

	“Well. You know what. I don’t think I’m gonna get anywhere here.” As he talked to himself, several people approached the archway from down the street, most of them shedding cloaks of muted gray and brown to reveal dress of more varied and brighter colors.

	The first in their line turned around, looked at his surroundings and showily spat at the street, giving a disdainful glance to all around. Then he abruptly vanished into a swirling whirlpool of color centered within the arch.

	The man blinked from where he sat upon the stoop and then watched the others proceed to perform the exact same ritualized display before they too vanished through the portal. An idea sparked in his mind that he might have just witnessed the portal key in use, and so he approached the archway again.

	The tug upon his ankle returned. He walked through the archway with little effect, but at the other side, the polarity of the tug on his ankle reversed back towards the portal.

	“Ok. That’s not it then. Can’t just walk through. Let’s see…” he walked around to the other side of the archway and then performed the same exaggerated routine he had witnessed the other group perform. As he did so the archway was flooded with a pale blue white light that swirled in an intricate clockwise flow. The tugging upon his ankle began to drag him forwards, urging him on towards the portal insistently. Then he stepped through.

	Connecting with the swirl of colors he was immediately struck by a momentary but breathtaking COLD that vanished in an instant as he stumbled out onto a wide square in a decidedly warmer location. The air was mildly humid, and the light a pale diffuse glow casting out of the sky. Looking up there was no sun that he beheld, just that pale glow and… city streets high above him in the distance.

	As he stood there gazing upwards in wonder, several people jostled him and cursed quietly as they bumped into him. Tall buildings rose up from the cobblestoned streets, most of them being curious examples of architecture. Most had tall, peaked eaves, guard spikes on their walls and roofs, barred windows, and a gothic otherworldly feeling. Somehow it all looked very familiar, the style of the buildings though not this particular street per say.

	“…ok…” he murmured as he began walking across the square with a feeling of relief. There was also no longer that insistent tug upon the stone in his ankle.

	“Ok, that’s weird…” he said to himself, looking down curiously at his leg where the stone sat beneath his pant leg cool and familiar now.

	“Sometimes things can be!” came a reply from several steps behind him, a slight amused chuckle to the unfamiliar voice.

	He turned around to look at the speaker, seeing a thin, elvish looking woman with red sparkling eyes, a faint golden skin tone and wind tousled auburn hair. Something about her seemed nonthreatening, and he had a vague sense of being familiar with her race, some kind of celestial that he couldn’t place.

	A half smile from him was followed up by a bemused, “I’m a little lost right now actually. I just followed some folks here because it was better than where I was… where am I actually?”

	The Firre Eladrin fell in alongside him, matching his slow wandering pace as she glanced back towards a ragged patch of torn gray stone in the wall of a building from where he’d emerged.

	“Fresh out of the Hopeless gate I take it? Can’t blame you for coming through, though you don’t look like a regular for traffic through there. Neither fiendish enough or despondent enough. Business?”

	He chuckled and adopted a much more friendly attitude, finally free of the effects of Hopeless and his encounters therein.

	“Well… I kinda woke up on the street with a cut on the back of my head there – so I’m not exactly sure how I ended up there in the first place.” He wrinkled his forehead at the thought, still vainly trying to place those missing memories and events.

	“Ahhh…” she chuckled slightly, “Clueless, but not A Clueless I take it then? I wasn’t quite so sure when you jumped through. …but I’m being terribly rude.” She extended a hand for him to take which he did without a pause as she introduced herself, “Terelia Vistari, Lady’s ward tout by trade.”

	He smiled back, her hand feeling quite warm to the touch, almost unnaturally so. “Hello and nice to meet you. I’m…” he abruptly trailed off, blinking in confusion.

	“Not sure?”

	“Umm… yeah actually.” He replied, perplexed and embarrassed at being unable to give her an answer. As he did so, he felt a sudden nagging sensation at the back of his head. Something about the color of her eyes, but beyond that he wasn’t sure quite where to place it.

	“Need help placing yourself? I might be able to help you out. It’ll be easier if you’ve been in The Cage before, more people to have seen you. Or, if not, there’s some… specialists I know who might be able to pluck the answer from your head.”

	“Um… it would be appreciated, but I can’t really pay you for it. I…” he paused and gestured vaguely at the portal behind him, “… the guy there I asked, was focused on coin.”

	She waved it away with her hand, “Psssh, you’re lucky to have gotten greed in Hopeless and not some more overt action towards feeding some berk’s greed. That’d likely be a knife in your back. Rotten folks. But, not being able to pay for my services, which would normally be an issue, there’s ways to get around that as well. I get paid by the facti… guild and I can certainly afford, and enjoy just helping someone because. You could use it I think, and you’re cute on top of it. That always helps.” She winked and smiled.

	He smiled back warmly, happy to have someone seemingly willing to give him a chance, “Thank you.”

"Well, come on along, the day is long, 'tis not even peak yet, a few people we can talk to and a ways to walk if you'll follow me." She took his hand in hers and strode down the street.

The man’s smile grew steadier as she began to pull him gently along, catching up quickly enough and taking an evaluation of the place as they both walked along. Her tug was gentle, not insistent and her hand was smooth with no calluses. Still it was abnormally warm it seemed and her hair was more active in moving like a collection of frozen flames wrapped around her head rather than normal looking hair.

He couldn’t help watching her as she walked. There was a practiced and subtle sway of her hips, probably to snag customers from the competition. Still she was dressed in a practical sense, not anything for seduction. Mostly leather and some brighter spots of cloth and adornments to the outfit.

	As they walked, he glanced over at one of the buildings at something that looked like black ivy spilling out onto the street and crawling up the side of the structure. He walked carefully, fully aware of his bare feet considering that the slithering vine stretched out onto portions of the street.

	“…what’s that?” he asked, “…some kinda ivy?”

	As he took notice of it, she fell back a step and nudged him aside with a hip, making sure that he gave the plant growth a wide berth as they walked down the street.

	She glances over at him as they passed by the main outgrowth of the plant, “Ivy? Anything but. Razorvine is what it’s called. Looks fine enough, but touching it’s not a good idea, the stems anyways. Falling into it’s like taking a bath in a tub full of razors. It’s a pest at best, a public hazard at worse, and it grows like mad here in Sigil. We have to keep it cut back all the time.”

	She glanced down, “Damn, we need to find you some shoes too. Got them stolen back in Hopeless I take it?”

	He nodded, “Nasty stuff that sounds like. And yeah, I woke up without my boots. Actually I think that I might have gotten robbed *before* Hopeless. I’m not so sure.” His toes wrinkled self-consciously as she looked him over, running her eyes up and down and frowning a bit when she reached his bare feet. In fact, her gaze lingered for a moment upon his ankle, but she said nothing about it.

	“And I have no idea what *that* is. It was there when I woke up.” he said as he noticed her peculiar interest in the stone in his ankle, deliberately not looking at it himself. 

	“Hmm? Oh, your ankle. I learn to not ask too much about most bloods if I don’t know what something is. You don’t know what it is either?” she queried.

He shook his head. “Not a clue. I haven’t tried to get it off my yet either. It’s in there pretty solid. I’m not sure it *can* be removed, not easily anyways. I guess that’s something I should keep in mind too?”

“Hmm… another question to get answered then.” They both nodded and continued to walk, passing through a number of streets, smaller squares and then finally down a long street towards a large towering building.

As they walked, his mind was once again puzzled by something. Not the reddish color he had seen first in her eyes that had triggered a vague memory of something else. No, though that still nagged him. This time there was something rattling around in the back of his mind that had been woken up by the razorvine he had seen just then. Something about it looked hauntingly familiar but the puzzle was still jumbled.

He looked over at Terelia, “…you know – I think I’ve seen that kinda vine before. Does it grow anywhere else but here?”

“All over Sigil, and all over the whole of the lower planes, maybe some prime worlds too. Doesn’t really pin down much for you I’d say.”

He shrugged, “Guess not – oh well. So… where’re we headed anyways?”

	“Well, here’s the first stop.” Terelia motioned up towards the tall structure and walked towards the wide, tree-flanked path to the main gates. “Tis the Hall of Information, a better place here now than the Hall of Records was under the Takers. Been a full cycle since then that that lot of thieves doesn’t have the place anymore. The information here is actually accessible now, which for us is a very good thing. Besides, it can’t hurt in asking.” 

	The doors, each fifteen feet high, opened into a large reception chamber with hallways going off up and down stairwells to other levels, and down to other vaults of books and records. To one wall, there was a number of windows, at which a number of lines formed with people waiting to request certain records or information from the clerks that milled about behind their counters and desks.

	He nodded as they entered the building, “Yeah, I guess it can’t hurt to ask.”

	Approaching the lines, Terelia smirked, “Look’s like it’ll be a wait, hope you don’t mind. Good thing we started early. She blinked and a glimmer of flame sparkled within.

	“…I guess. Do they actually have a line for folks who can’t remember who they are?” his eyes grew wide then looked back at her, “I guess so. Wow.”

	She smiled back, amused at his good natured naiveté, “No, this is how it usually is, but it's a longer wait if you aren't paying, or paying much. The sages take jink, the Dabus work for free, but it also means a longer line."

	Pointing towards the clerk at the nearest window she continued, “See him, or her, or it, whichever there at the window? That’s a Dabus. Ubiquitous little servants of The Lady.”

	“Dabus?” he looked and nodded, another question already forming in his mind, “Who’s the Lady?”

	Her eyes quickly glanced over and she nudged him in the ribs gently, “Not so loud there…” she makes a half unconscious sign over her heart, “I’ll explain later, or you can ask the Dabus. They’ll be happy to explain, though it might not be as informative as you might hope. But She’s a question without an answer really.”

	“I…ok.” he nodded and held back more of a similar question.

	“After here if we don’t find what we’re looking for, we can always try the Gatehouse. Amnesia and that sort of thing, head problems, are their strong point in a way. We might also try the Civic Festhall, see if your name pops up there in any of the sensory stones.” She smiles particularly at the mention of the Festhall.

	“That sounds fine with me.” He looked up a little bemused, then back at her, still not exactly sure what question to ask when they reached the top of the line.

	Eventually after about ten minutes, the line split in two as another window opened. Soon enough they both stood before the window looking up at the mostly expressionless face of the creature that stood behind it as a clerk. A shock of white hair stood upright upon its head over two pairs of horns, one goat and the other ram. It wore simple robes with little decoration or ornamentation, and seemed to bob up and down very slightly behind the window. In fact it almost seemed to be floating on the air rather than standing.

	As both of them stood there looking up at it, the air over its head shimmered and the following string of symbols appeared, floating in mid air. First an arrow pointing to the man, then [hat –T + VE, (a man climbing a mountain then slaying a dragon and being rewarded by a king) + (a man being ignored by a crowd and thrown out of a town)]

	The Dabus continued to patiently hover as the two translated, eventually folding its arms into the sleeves of its robes.

	Clueless (by default he’ll be referred to that) slowly mouthed out the words and symbols with his head tilted to the side before blinking with sudden insight, “Oh! Yeah, um. Well, I don’t actually remember who I am. Is there something here that can help me find out who I am? Or even just find out what my name is?”

	The Dabus projected more symbols and pictures over its head, “No stranger are you, for you have been here before, though with different questions then. Your name you did not leave. Though your answers lie both within Sigil, without and within. I cannot tell you more, save that some questions are best left unanswered.”

	“Oh…” Clueless nodded with faint disappointment in his voice. “Can’t you tell me what questions I asked before?”

	The Dabus nodded and projected another string of rebus symbols, “Before you asked us the portal key to one of the spheres of Carceri. You left without fully receiving the answer to that question.”

	“Carceri? Ok… odd. Thank you.”

	Tarelia looked up at the mention of Carceri, “Well, razorvine grows there, if that jogs your memories any.”

	Blocked memories stirred slightly but in the end, nothing budged and nothing revealed itself. Clueless spoke with disappointment again, “No, only vaguely.” He frowned and nodded in thanks to the Dabus. “Nothing’s really fitting together yet as to what happened.”

	As they began to step away, Clueless paused and looked back to the Dabus, “Oh yeah…”

	Terelia stopped as well, “He had one other question you could answer for him. He wishes to know about The Lady.” She cringed just slightly as she mentioned this as if uncomfortable with it.

	Above the head of the Dabus, a single picture appeared in answer to the question. A face, female in appearance, stoic, grayish or dull metallic, surrounded by a halo of jagged, slashing, razorsharp blades that sprouted like hair and seemed to merge with her head rather than being worn like a headdress. He felt instantly uneasy for having asked the question and the rebus image vanished after a few seconds.

	“O…k….” he murmured quietly, still ill at ease before looking back to the Eladrin.

	“Well, that’s probably about all the answers to your questions that we’ll find here.” She motioned with her head to the door.

	Clueless nodded back, “Yeah, still it gives me a few clues. Like where I may have gone looking for something before whatever it was got me in trouble. Something like that.”

	They walked on and out of the building but he still couldn’t help but feel cold and unnerved by the Dabus’s answer. Eventually the Eladrin led them back towards The Lady’s Ward, eventually working her way towards a similar section of the city shed repeatedly referred to as The Clerk’s Ward. It was, as she explained, the quickest way to the Gatehouse without having to pass through the bulk of the Hive as she called it.

	“The Lady’s ward is the rich part of the burg, the clerk’s ward can be in some places too. That’s got more businesses than homes though. Then there’s the Lower Ward, mostly shops, workshops, and the Great Foundry. Then there’s the Hive, the slum of the city and the location of a good chunk of the lower planar portals.”

	Clueless nodded as she gave him a general overview of the city’s different areas as they passed through them. Most of the information was coming back to him in regards to the city itself, just no specifics. Sometimes it just felt familiar as if he’d been there before, but just couldn’t say when or why.

	She continued on, “And of course there’s my own home, the Market Ward. It’s a little ways off from here, we’ve already passed through it when you weren’t looking really. The name says it all though. Most of the guilds in the city make their home one ward over in the Guildhall ward. Tradesmen and all. Make sense?”

	“…I guess it does, is there a Tout’s guild?”

	She smiled happily, “Sure is, I work as a sort of go between for them and the Entertainer’s guild at times. Though I work with the entertainers most often.”

	Clueless continued walking along, his sword still wrapped up in the bundle of his cloak kept under his arm or over his back. Every so often he commented on the city as they traversed it, “…ok –wow-, there must be a *lot* of people here…”

	"Lots, it's the center of the multiverse, the hub of the great wheel, it's to be expected I guess. Some good, some bad, some neither, but lots of them."

He nodded back hopefully, "... well, someone here's gotta know who I am then, right?"

Terelia smiled again and brushed a hand against his face, "Well we know you've been here before, so most definitely someone knows you, we just have to find them."

Clueless’s ears turned red at the brush and he gave a sheepish smile as they passed through the Clerk’s Ward. Along the street, all of the buildings seemed well maintained. Some of them were ornate, even garish in their exteriors. A few things seemed familiar to him, mostly it felt as if he’d seen them before in passing, rather than having been there enough to have known them in depth. But as they continued, about hallways down one particular block in the Administrator’s district, as Terelia had called it, they came into view of a small outdoor café of sorts. There were a fair number of cutters seated at its small tables, all of them talking, drinking, and generally having a good time.

A few loud, boisterous voices rang out over the street and the rest of the other patrons, their conversation drowning out those of the others around them. As Terelia got into range of the tables she turned to Clueless and made a face. Her ears seemed to perk just ever so slightly as she picked up the strains of the loudest conversation. She muttered unhappily under her breath, “Self aggrandizing trollop of a fiend, damn headdress looks like a Gelugon crawled atop her head and died…”

As Clueless get a better look at the group making the noise, he noticed first two people sitting down on one side of a table, one human and dressed in robes, the other some manner of tiefling and dressed in leather armor. On the other side of the table stood four well-armed tieflings, dressed in leather armor, blades at their sides, flanking one figure lounging in the other chair at the head of the table. 

A single, jackal headed fiend sat in the chair, animatedly talking to the two others at the table, dressed in a garish blue-green gown that constantly sparkled. A large number of rings, bracelets, and other jewelry were almost stacked and layered to the point of absurdity over her figure. A tangle of what looked like living razorvine sat curled atop her head, perched between her two perked, and multiply pierced ears. Loud portions of her conversation spilled out into the street, mostly consisting of boasts, insults towards names that seemed somewhat familiar to Clueless, many of them names within the city’s hierarchy.

His eyes widened a little at the sheer amount of glitter and he muttered a muted, “…whoa…” But as he passed by, that familiar nagging sensation was back in his mind, but much more urgent this time, and very much closer to home. Clueless paused and concentrated on the feeling, his eyes unfocusing slightly as he tried to hunt the root of the feeling down mentally. Losing track of where he was and what he was doing, he finally came to his senses and looked back up, finding himself looking firmly across the way into the jackal headed fiend’s eyes.

	The familiar sense he had felt from the outgrowth of razorvine earlier in the streets drew his gaze back to the fiend’s headdress then back down to her eyes, matching gazes with her. She noticed and turned to gaze back at him, her eyes narrowing and her conversation trailing away as she did so.

	He knew her. He didn’t know how or why, but the eyes glaring back at him were like burning coals in his memory. Sparkling green doors to some hell. Not red like the color in his memory, but somehow that too was linked to this fiend. A Yugoloth, that’s what she was he now remembered.

	Clueless nodded politely and took a half step back, confusion and alarm crossing his face. He still didn’t know how exactly he knew her, but butterflies were raging in his stomach either way as she glared back at him. A slow grin spread across her muzzle and recognition dawned in her eyes. Good or bad, Clueless hadn’t a clue.

	“Umm, do I know you?” he asked, a sense of dread growing in his stomach that his association with the fiend was not a pleasant thing, and that perhaps he didn’t care to remember. Then he gave a startled yelp as he was latched around the arm by Terelia, who drug him quickly away from the fiend and her entourage.

	As he was accosted away and into a side alley out of plain view he looked down with alarm at the Eladrin, “I know her, somehow… I don’t know how… I just…*do*. And she recognized me…”

	He had a frightened, spooked look in his eyes as he glances back down the street, a drop of cold sweat running down his forehead. “What does that mean? I don’t know if I knew her on friendly terms of anything… she makes me nervous…I…” one hand came up to rub at the drop of sweat on his forehead. 

	As Terelia took Clueless around the corner of the block she stopped to push him against a wall, looking into eyes and appearing more than a little nervous herself.

	“Trust the Dabus to be right… some questions are better left unanswered. I don’t know if “I” want to know just how you ended up in Hopeless without a name if you knew the likes of Shemeska the Marauder. The damned fiend runs half the crosstrades and backstabbing deals in the whole sodding burg. You just don’t know her or deal with her and come out on top. I’d put jink that whatever happened to you, she had her claws all over the deal. And that can’t be good. Nor can that.”

	She glanced down pointedly at the blue-black stone embedded firmly in Clueless’s ankle. He nodded back and followed her eyes down to it as well, “…I…” his voice trailed off and he bit his lip, freaked at the sudden turn of events.

“Come on, let’s gain some distance on the ‘loth, we’ve got some more places to ask questions anyways, if you still want to find your answers.” She spoke firmly but calmly, hinged on what Clueless wished to do at that point.

“…agreed.” He replied and breathed heavily as he followed her down the street, eager to indeed put some distance between himself and the Arcanaloth.

However, as they retreated down the street, somewhere in the back of his brain he could hear the voice of that same fiend whispering to him from a memory, “But of course I can make a deal, there's never a deal that Shemeska, the king of the crosstrade, can't make. Just the price is all that it hangs on."


----------



## Jaspar Arelius

Interesting...

*he glares at his thrall, who leaves with nothing more than a "Yes, master."*

Care to split a Clueless, Shemeska?  It's more of a delicacy than a need, nowadays, and all this intrigue has whetted my appetite.

(Edit)*looks over at "Clueless", the amnesiac*

"No offense..."

*then immediately suggests he'd be "fine for a snack" to Shemmy, by telepathy, the only -civilized- mode of conversation among the elite*


----------



## Clueless

Jaspar Arelius said:
			
		

> Interesting...
> (Edit)*looks over at "Clueless", the amnesiac*
> "No offense..."




Clueless smiles. "None taken, but I believe nowadays you'd find me a snack much more difficult to handle... this, is merely a beginning."


----------



## Zappo

Ooh, this is getting very interesting, very quickly. 
I enjoy your writing style as well.

One thing, is there a reason for which the tiefling is referred to as "they", using the plural, during the first few lines of the encounter?


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## Clueless

Zappo said:
			
		

> Ooh, this is getting very interesting, very quickly.
> I enjoy your writing style as well.
> 
> One thing, is there a reason for which the tiefling is referred to as "they", using the plural, during the first few lines of the encounter?




You know. Now that I think about it I actually don't know why I didn't notice that either when first RPing though this online, *or* in reading it. It shouldn't technically be that way... but on the other hand it feels 'right' in my head - like it makes the subject less 'familar'. I think I'll ask one of my English professors if there is just some *really* obscure rule of English that this could fit under. (English does have rules like that, it's just a really wierd language sometimes.  )


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## Shemeska

It's just my wierd usage of English showing through. I thought you could use 'they' as a non gender specific 3rd person singular. No? I've used it as such for a while. If it's horribly wrong... I blame the state of NC for teaching me lousy grammer.


----------



## GroverCleaveland

*till the radio plays something familiar*



			
				Shemeska said:
			
		

> It's just my wierd usage of English showing through. I thought you could use 'they' as a non gender specific 3rd person singular. No? I've used it as such for a while. If it's horribly wrong... I blame the state of NC for teaching me lousy grammer.




It's a new rule, which has gained acceptance in some quarters. One of my high school English teachers spoke of it favorably. Traditionally, we were supposed to use "he" as the generic third person singular, but in the last three decades people have noticed that tends to bias the reader into assuming the writer is talking about a male, which might not be the case. Since writing is supposed to be about communication, may have taken to using "they," although there are other tricks some have tried.

In other news, I like the imagery of the foul-smelling, dirty lover's caress, but I think it would be more effective if combined in a single statement instead of as an unexpected reversal, where the shocking quality of the phrase is diluted by the associations we've already gained in the sentence's first half. Unless you repeat the device elsewhere.

Am I mistaken, or does the amnesiac mutter in smilies? Is that unconscious rebus-speak?

Great story, anyway. I'm hooked. Sigil's coming alive.

(Rip)


----------



## Clueless

GroverCleaveland said:
			
		

> Am I mistaken, or does the amnesiac mutter in smilies? Is that unconscious rebus-speak?




Similies? Rebus-speak? Explain please? I mean I *know* I speak oddly - but I'm not quite getting what ya mean...


----------



## Salthorae

Clueless said:
			
		

> Similies? Rebus-speak? Explain please? I mean I *know* I speak oddly - but I'm not quite getting what ya mean...




the speech of the dabus, thats Rebus-speak if i'm not mistaken


----------



## GroverCleaveland

*he began with sticky shins*



			
				Shemeska said:
			
		

> “…” he murmured as he glanced down the cluttered alleyway




He murmured in pictures, like a dabus would. Which explains how he's able to talk to one so easily later on?


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## Clueless

GroverCleaveland said:
			
		

> He murmured in pictures, like a dabus would. Which explains how he's able to talk to one so easily later on?




Ahhhh - *chuckle*.
Yeah - there might be lots of censoring of 'interesting' non grandmotherly words. Toras's vocabulary is um... interesting. And we do have choice words for the razorvine fuzzface.


----------



## Toras

Indeed, some might find my vocabulary crude, but I rather consider it accurate.  But some of the comments are going to be censored.


----------



## Shemeska

*Update 3-5-04*

And now, one week later, just like clockwork, I update again. Hope you enjoy part 2 of 3 of Clueless's intro:

Tarelia led Clueless from the Clerk’s Ward and into the fringes of the Hive. The air gradually became more… pungent, the buildings less kept and the persons wandering the streets more shifty, downtrodden and in some cases more fiendish.

	“We’re going to the place with the memory people… right?” Clueless glanced around at the persons that passed them by, most of them either ignoring them or glaring sullenly.

	The Eladrin had yet to slow down her pace since Clueless and her encounter with the Arcanaloth.

"Now, we're going to the Gatehouse, which just unfortunately happens to well, be in middle of the bleeding Hive. But yeah, it's got the people who just might be able to help your head, one way or another, being that you're not just plain barmy."  

She grinned at Clueless with that final statement and her eyes glowed just a little redder to match a slow blush to her cheeks as she poked his nose. Clueless returned her grin and looked back curiously at the new surroundings unfolding around them.

	Glancing up he eyed a black streak of soot extending across the sky that seemed to bubble up from overhead on the far side of the city like a black gash across the sky.

	“What’s that across the ring there?”

	The tout glanced up and pointed to details on the opposite side of the city, details that she could clearly see or know by experience, but that Clueless had difficulty in discerning.

	“That group of smokestacks there across the ring, that’s the great foundry, haven’t been inside the gates myself since the Godsmen packed up and left, disbanded the whole lot of them when Factol Amber got mazed"

	“…Godsmen? Mazed?” Clueless’s expression combined a number of questions in his confused look.

	Tarelia gave a grin again and launched into a friendly rendition of her oft used lecturing mode as a tout, “Oh, one of the old factions. They ran the foundry and thought they could, anyone could, with enough hard work, ascend to divinity. Well, lets just say none of their members working the forge ever got close, in fact none of the lot did.”

"...ok.... sounds... barmy, you said the word was?"

Tarelia nodded at his use of the local cant, “And Amber got mazed, sent packing, unwilling, into a demiplane of the Lady's construction, always one way out they say, just may take you a hundred years to find it, they also say you don't age, hunger or thirst inside either... makes you wonder....I hear some Bladelings from Ocanthus run the forges now, either way business has gone smoothly.”

She paused to look down from the sky at a street sign indicating a few lackluster streets before chipping back, “And yep, barmy is the word. And don’t get too comfortable here, we’re about to hop over to the other side of 
the city there and then back. I know a shortcut.”

Clueless followed down an alley before pausing with her before a boarded up window. Tarelia knelt down to retrieve a bit of broken glass from a window pane that had once graced the now covered opening and deftly cut a thin mark into the wood. It immediately glowed a fierce orange light as the boards vanished.

“Portals don’t just have to lead outside Sigil, they can go between points inside too. You first.” She motioned him through before dropping the broken glass that had served as a portal key back onto the ground.

They both stepped out into a haze of yellow, filthy air laden with soot and smog. Clueless coughed immediately as he followed her down another street. “Shortcut or not, maybe next time we can just walk a little longer?”

	“Oh the air in the hive isn’t much better, just different.” She smirked and twitched her nose at the sulfurous tinge to the air from the smokestacks of the Foundry and the numerous cooking fires and workshop chimneys that dotted the tops of many of the buildings surrounding them.
Several minutes and two blocks later, she paused and pulled off onto another side street, casting sidelong glances down the previous.

“Sorry, not going down that street any more…” she muttered then, something about a friendly fiend.

“…why not?” Clueless said with a glance down the previous street.

	Tarelia pointed down that way to a sign hanging above a shop a half block down. The carved and brightly painted sign read, “A’kin’s The Friendly Fiend. Magical Curiosities and Treasures of the Planes.”

	“…isn’t that an oxymoron?” Clueless raised an eyebrow. “My last two run ins with fiends didn’t give me a super great impression of them you know…”

	She shrugged, “The OTHER resident 'loth in Sigil. I don't know which I'd rather choose not to be involved with, at least Shemeska acts like you’d expect. And I've never seen A'kin get angry, or yell, or be mean, makes me trust him even less..."

	Clueless nodded before coughing slightly to get rid of some of the soot.

As the two continued walking, the air became clearer of soot, but the smell became worse as the buildings slowly transitioned from utilitarian stone and wood to more beat up, ramshackle tenements and hovels. Every so often, a burbling puddle of muck dotted the road, each of them given a wide berth by any passers by.

“…I should really start watching where I step shouldn’t I…?” Clueless glanced down at his bare feet and then nervously at the burbling puddles, consciously avoiding them.

"Ooze portals, watch 'em, they like to send bloods on a one way trip to the inner planes, and one of the least pleasant ones. Half of them are bricked over, but not all of them. And we're in the Hive now, so watch yourself. Least it's not the slags..."

As they continued into the Hive the population of fiends and fiendspawn slowly increased and the dwellings became poorer. The number of beggars, and potential thieves grew, not to mention drunks and the occasional corpse.

"... okie." murmured Clueless - quieter now and shifting the bundled up sword on his back just the slightest so, that in the event of a fight, it would be more accessible. 

As they passed one of the corpses, they watched it being rapidly picked clean of anything remotely valuable by a few rag-covered humans and tieflings who then begin to drag the body onto a rude cart drawn by ragged and skeletally thin horses. Clueless’s eyes grew wide as they walked past the scene and he found himself tracking the event out of surprise.

Tarelia soon motioned down another street which they took deeper into the Hive, avoiding several fights along the way in the middle of the street between what appeared to be rival gangs, or in one case, street urchins fighting over what might have been called food in the very loosest sense of the word. But some time later, rising over the top of the local buildings off a few blocks they could see the spires and towers of possibly the largest building Clueless had seen in Sigil, or most anywhere else. Solid, black, and forbidding.

Tarelia pointed out the huge structure as soon as it came into full view, "There's the gatehouse, as depressing as the inhabitants."

"Oh. So that's what that is." Clueless gazed at the gargantuan central tower and the two wings extending out to its sides like the wings of a gigantic looming dragon. He felt a little baffled at the numbers of people that waited or milled about at the base of the building, but he felt at once both out of place and not out of place in the shadow of the towers. "I have to wonder = is the architect still alive..." Clueless said dryly.

"I sure hope not... nobody who's still around knows who actually built it, or why, just that the Bleakers used it, and still do, though they dropped the name and stayed mostly the same. They do good work, even if they lack a bit in the personality department. Not as bad as the Dusties though."

As they walked closer they noticed lines of rag clothed persons of various races entering the structure through several lines leading towards the main central tower and its truly massive rusted iron gate. Some of the people stood apparently in line for food, others for reasons unknown. All in all, the Gatehouse had the look of a giant homeless shelter and soap kitchen. 

Drawing closer towards the outer walls though, from the wailing coming from several of the towers closest to the streets, it served as a giant asylum as well. Screams and shrieks echoed out across the street from several high, barred windows, drawing Clueless’s wary gaze, but none of the other persons milling about the base of the walls or waiting in the block long lines seemed to give it any heed.

He shook his head and looked over to Tarelia, "What kinda work do they do here?"

"Unthanked work, but good work nonetheless. They take care of the poor, the hungry, the sick, the barmy. I like their work, don't like their philosophy though. They don't think the universe has a purpose, that there's no grand plan for anything."

"So they just do good stuff... just because?"

She nodded back in the affirmative, "Because they think that in the absence of any meaning in the world, they only way to find any meaning is to find it within yourself. Even if that's meaningless. I don't get them, like I said."

As he looked over at his guide, Clueless noted a small tattoo on her left shoulder. He couldn’t make out much detail though as it seemed obscured by either a scar or a burn. He made a note to ask her about it later. Lost in that thought he nearly stumbled over a loose cobblestone in the courtyard as they walked across it, avoiding the lines.

Tarelia moved away from the main lines and off towards a gated entrance beside one of the smaller towers. As they approached she paused to palm something to one of the guards who nodded at her and motioned them both through past the open portcullis to his rear into an open-air courtyard. 
Long strides and echoing footfalls heralded a robed, dour looking human who approached from another entrance to the courtyard. He nodded to them both patiently before asking, "May I help the both of you my children?"

"... um, Hi. I..." Clueless glanced at Tarelia, unsure how to handle the situation and greeting. Finally with a blush he nodded to her slightly "...I don't know my name."

She motioned towards him at the prompt, "Yes actually, my friend here, while he's not actually one of the Clueless, he took a blow to the head in Hopeless. And, well, he's lost his memory of who he is, or how he ended up where he did."

The man nodded and listened to Tarelia recount the story, glancing up into Clueless’s eyes periodically and giving him the odd impression that he was looking right through him a few of those times.

At the conclusion of the story he nodded, betraying little emotion on his long face, "Perhaps I can help, follow me if you will."

Having said that he swept one of his arms to the side over towards a smaller entryway leading deeper into the building’s interior. Accompanying Clueless and Tarelia he walked them down the dimly lit, mildly damp corridor to a small office, that was sparsely furnished with little more than a chair, a bookcase set with a number of book and bottles, and a single burning torch with a flickering blue-white light.

Clueless followed like a puppy, still awkwardly gaping and looking at everything.

The man motioned for Clueless to sit, “Please be seated if you would, this should not take very long.”

As Clueless got comfortable in the offered chair, for the first time he noticed that the man’s face was not quite normal for a human. His facial bones were more elongated than normal, his hair stringier, and his skin more sallow in the light.

As the man wrote several notes down within a journal or log book at his desk, Clueless sat down, taking the moment to wriggle his toes against the floor while absently watching him. Finally the man turned and walked over to place a hand on Clueless’s forehead. Carefully he took his patient’s right hand with the other and began to murmur to himself in a language Clueless couldn’t recall having heard before. 

"mm." Clueless’s eyes half drifted shut, a sleepy look crossing his face as the Bleaker spoke, the words making his head feel drowsy and his hearing like everything was being filtered through a thick layer of cotton. The Bleaker’s eyes gradually began to shift from the solid shiny black that they were, to a cloudy, swirling pattering of duller black and milky gray as he continued to intone. 

As he continued to speak in the same strange language, Clueless began to hear his voice within his head, but clearly, and in planar common. 
"This is strange, but not unprecedented. Your memories have not been stolen from you by injury, though an injury you did receive. Rather, your memories have been blocked by magical means, and by one of no small skill in such matters. I will attempt to remove that which was placed in your mind, however my removal of it may not be entirely complete, and it may only come back fully with time. You may soon see flashes of memory as I attempt this."

There was a sudden flash of light in Clueless’s mind's eye, a bit of resistance imagined rather than felt, and an image came unbidden to him, one of several.

Clueless stood upon a battlement in the midst of a raging battle, an army of Tanar’ri stretched out across the plane before him, battered and mindlessly hurling themselves at the Baatezu fortress and its seemingly impenetrable defenses. The fiendish commander of the Baatezu forces began to bellow an order out to his forces, but paused, sensing motion behind itself. Before it fully turned Clueless drove home the point of his greensteel sword through the chest of the Cornugon. As it collapsed to the stone of the battlement, a dim glimmer of recognition flickered in its eyes as it comprehended the betrayal.

-	Another flash and another image –

A hairless, gargoyle-like, dog headed fiend nodded in his direction, or rather to someone behind him, as Clueless fell forwards onto the ground and his vision faded to black under a deep, crimson red sky.

-	A third flash and a third image –


Clueless walked under an archway that he dimly comprehended at present to have been under the ruins of the Shattered Temple. His companions exchanged nervous, wary glances, and seemed kept in place only by the considerable profit to be made on this scavenger hunt as he had called it. Suddenly then a flash of light burned out from an adjoining passage and the scene faded.

-	A forth flash and a forth image – 

Clueless sat in a bar, sipping on a deep amber colored ale, listening to the tales of a drunken bariaur sitting next to him. The bariaur kept going on and on about the same night in Arborea that he’d heard him speak of many a times before, but he just let him keep talking, it made the Ysgardian happy, and to be honest, he was happy too.

-	A fifth flash, and a fifth image – 

The sky was a burning crimson red overhead, cloudless and Clueless could see the distant orbs on the far off horizon. But that is not what drew his gaze as he and his companions were led along, unwilling, but rather the massive hexagonal tower breaking through the red stone bedrock of the valley before them to jut up into the sky. Black, forbidding, and seemingly woven through with iron spikes like thorns on a rose bush. 

A single thought raced through Clueless’s mind in the present, echoed by one in the past, “This cannot be good.” 

-	A sixth flash and a final haunting image before he awoke – 

Clueless rested in a darkened room, surrounding by cold thin air and shadows. Out in the darkness he could hear the sounds of barefooted, clawed feet on the smooth chilled stone floor. A deep, resounding, and mirth filled voice whispered into his ear, whiskers brushing against his face, "Any deal can be made, but all that matters is the price to be paid. No? Payment is due."

The words in the memory were similar, but not exact to the words spoken to him earlier in the day in the Clerk’s Ward by Shemeska the Marauder. However the voice was NOT hers in the last memory. The voice was masculine and even in a memory sent shudders through his mind like trickles of ice freezing across a still running river. The memory alone left him feeling cold and befouled by its presence, and solely on account of the voice.

“I was a REAL crazy sob… her voice?… no… Damn…uh oh…” the thoughts and implications of the recovered memories rattled around inside Clueless’s mind as he struggled to rid himself of the unsettling, and lingering feelings of corruption that had pervaded the last flashback…

Clueless blinked and opened his eyes to see the very disgruntled face of the Bleaker standing before him, his thin and knotted arms crossed in frustration.

	“The block on your memories is… extremely strong. I was unable to fully remove its presence, only weaken it. Whoever placed it upon you, they exceed my own abilities. However the block does not appear to be permanent, and in time it will remove itself. My efforts will hasten this process, though I cannot tell you by exactly how much exactly. You will have to wait and accept what comes to you as it does. That is the best I can do.”

	Clueless nodded slowly, still shaking off the effects of a few of the memories. “Thank you…”

	He turned to Tarelia, “I think I need to just sit down somewhere and think for a while.”

	She nodded back to him, “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you. Just follow me and you’ll be fine, right?”

	She handed a few jink to the Bleaker who reluctantly accepted the payment and found her way out of the Gatehouse with Clueless following alongside her.

	“Are you ok? You look nervous. What’s coming back to you, anything?”

	Clueless shivered despite the warm air surrounding the Gatehouse from the masses of the crowds, “You could say that. I was nuts. I mean I did some barmy stuff that I can’t much understand how I had those kind of balls. Seriously. And some of the stuff was disturbing. I’m not so sure I really want to remember all of it…”

	Tarelia looked with concern at that last statement and led him back through the Hive and towards the Clerk’s Ward. “I have a place you can lie down for a while, don’t worry.”


----------



## Tokiwong

This is looking good, very good  keep it up now on my must read-list


----------



## Shemeska

*Next Update*

[Here's the latest update, but let me preface this a bit. First I'm uploading this a bit early and without as much proofreading because I'll be out of town till Monday. And I've moved the location of the Ubiquitous Wayfarer / Portal Schmortal from the Lower Ward to the Clerk's Ward. Don't ask, just accept it.]

The two spent the next twenty minutes walking back from the Hive into the Clerk's Ward. In fact, the particular section of the Clerks Ward seemed to be almost a small ghetto of sorts, a small insular neighborhood situated right on the margins of the Guildhall Ward. Close enough to commute easily to either ward for whatever reasons, but away from both the bustle of the Guildhall Ward and the... order... of the Clerks Ward.

Clueless looked around with a slight smile, “…this is a nice place…”

Tarelia smiled back as they arrived at the front of a small, two story building where several children sat and played on the front steps of the next door down. They appeared to be Aasimar by the look of them, and they giggled as they tossed a blue ball amongst themselves.

Tarelia returned a mutual wave to the children, “Good evening to you Misha and you too Tarel. Tell your parents I said hello will you?”

Clueless waved to the children as well, feeling faintly shy as the Eladrin greeted them warmly. But Tarelia removed the awkward moment as the knocked a few times on a blank doorplate on her door, no handle apparent. She closed her eyes and held her hand to the metal plate and several seconds later some unseen mechanism gave a soft ‘click!’ and the door swung open inwards. Clueless gave a fascinated look at the whole affair, his head tilted just slightly as he pondered just how the door lock worked.

Tarelia ushered Clueless inside to a slightly small but cozy room containing a table, a few chairs and a tiny cooking area. Clueless was still looking back curiously at the door, “…how did you do that door thing?”

She smiled back as she set down a few things on the table, “A little magical gift I got from a wizard I knew a few years back. I originally rented this little kip from him, then eventually I bought it when I’d finally made enough jink for myself. The door actually keys off a memory or two. You hold your hand against it and think. You remember the correct memory and the door opens for you. Pretty simple.”

Clueless grinned, “Now that’s a neat trick…”

Tarelia closed the door as a soft amber glow filled the room and flowed dimly from the doorway of another one adjacent. The glow wasn’t really centered, but seemed to fill the rooms from the air itself. Magic obviously. Meanwhile, sitting in the center of the table, on a cushion, was a large and multifaceted globe of crystal. The sphere shed a very slight white light as it refracted back the amber light of the room itself.

Clueless blinked his eyes several times as he panned around the room trying to focus on the light source. Eventually he gave up and instead began to mentally catalogue the various articles in the room.

“Table, chair, door, glowy light thing…” he muttered to himself.

Tarelia walked over to the globe as Clueless watched and placed her hands over it. She closed her eyes and relaxed for a few moments, then opened them again and covered the globe with a soft yellow velvet cloth.

"...what is that?" Clueless still peered curiously at the globe as it flickered softly beneath the cloth.

"Oh, it's a diary I guess you could call it."

"Oh, okie." He smiled at her trying his best not to do the pushy curious thing most people have a tendency to do.

The Eladrin chattered with her guest while in the process of putting down her things. She unconsciously slipped off her shoes and kicked them into a corner. “You must be famished, can I offer you anything?"

Clueless looked around a little for a place to put down the bundle he’d been carrying, finally putting it in a chair near the door, and looking down just to make sure he didn't end up tracking anything in onto the floor.

"Hmm... lets see what I can offer you. I have some fruit, some bread of course, some other little things. Please feel free to take what you like, I have more than enough for both of us."

"Are you sure?" Clueless asked, wanting to check first before he took anything.

"Would I have offered if I wasn't?" she grinned.

Clueless answered with a wry smile back, "... point... very good point..."
The food was already set out in a few bowls with a tray for the bread. A slim knife sat near to the bread ready for use. All of it seemed to have been waiting there since the morning, likely set up ahead of time for whenever the tout came home and might have been too tired to sit and prepare anything. 

Wandering towards the food as he found a chair to settle in, "Wan' me to cut you some of this?" He motioned to the bread and glanced at his host.
"Oh please if you would."

While Clueless sliced the bread, he heard the soft clink of glasses or mugs being taken down and Tarelia’s voice call to him from where she crouched on the floor in front of a small cabinet, "Care for a drink? It's nothing fancy, but it's fresh."

He nodded in the affirmative, relaxing now that he was someplace warm and safe. "It's probably be the best thing I've tasted today."

Tarelia took a slim glass bottle, popped open the cork and poured out something rich and teal colored into a small copper cup for herself and Clueless alike. She brought one of them over and offered it to him, then took a small sip of her own.

Clueless took it and sipped, relaxing further at its taste as he cored and sliced up an apple for the two of them to share. She smiled at him as she watched him slice the apple, just standing there patiently observing, looking quite relaxed. When he finished slicing the apple he held one of the wedges up to her, one eyebrow raised.

"May I?" she asked as she stood up on her tip toes and opened her mouth.

"Yep!" Clueless replied and popped one in with a grin of his own as she closed her mouth around it and happily munched away.

"Mmm, dith gut.." he said around bites from his own slice of apple.
When he finished his first bit of the fruit, she picked up one of the other slices he’d made and held it up to him, offering it. He smiled further at the game she was making the whole situation into and tilted his chin up, opening his mouth up for the slice.

She took a slim piece and popped it into his open mouth, then took a finger and pushed up on his chin to close his mouth for him. Clueless smirked at her as he munched. She proceeded to repeat this little game of hers with the rest of the fruit, clearly enjoying the mutual teasing.

After the both of them seemed to have had their fill of food, on the last slice of the apple as Clueless opened his mouth and waited for her to give him another piece, she paused a second. 

"Well, I hope this isn't too forward of me, but maybe I could help you remember a few other things you might have liked." With that she leaned in, and instead of popping a bit of bread or fruit into his mouth, she planted a kiss on his lips and laid a hand on his shoulder.

By the last slice Clueless seemed to have reached a conclusion of sorts, "...I think I liked apples. Or at least... I like ‘em now." 

There was a startled sound from him for a split second before he relaxed and his lower brain caught up with his upper. He leaned in a little as he tried to remember just how to handle such things.

She waited to judge his reaction and then tentatively gave him another kiss, a little longer this time, waiting to see if he’d go along or if she’s overstepped some unspoken boundary between two people who’d only met that day. It seemed she hadn’t as Clueless relaxed with it and slowly his instincts come back. He lifted one hand to frame her face, the other placed at her waist to steady her as he leaned into it, old skills resurfacing.

As he did so, she placed one of her hands on his chest and the other at the back of his head while she leaned in fully against him, delicately slipping her tongue into his mouth. With that, her skin flushed warmer as he responded and a happy murmur escaped her throat.

Finally after a few moments she broke off the kiss to catch her breath. Clueless smiled slightly at her sounds of approval and stroked lightly at the skin over her ribs as she broke away.

She looked down and smiled to herself before looking back up, "I think you've done that before, remembering anything more yet? Do you think I should try a little harder?"

"As for remembering... I think I was a bit distracted.... might have to have another go at it..." there was a wry yet giddy note in his voice as she smiled coyly into his eyes then took his hand and led him towards the other room. Clueless followed her but glanced behind himself briefly, just to make sure that his sword was still in place near the door, wrapped in his cloak...

The room she led Clueless into was clearly her bedroom by the look of it. It was lit by the same amber light as the other room of her kip and was arranged with a small mattress made from several cushions and some blankets towards the rear. Clueless scanned the room out of curiosity, noting little out of the ordinary except for a small household idol of sorts situated in the corner and a small, sheathed dagger on a chair near the doorway.

As the two of them reached the bed she smiled again and looked up, "You can say no now. I wouldn’t want to force anything. But if you would like...." she trailed off and her eyes sparkled with a tiny orange flicker within.

Clueless raised an eyebrow and lifted up the hand of hers that she was still holding. Gently he kissed the knuckles lightly, and replied while still looking up into her eyes, "... I would, very much so." She gave a rosy blush at the kiss.

"Lets see if this sparks any memories." She said as she reached over and started to remove his shirt. Her hands gently wandered over his muscles while she worked the clothing up and over his head. Clueless helped her with a lithe little stretch, and half ducked out of the shirt as a large series of tattoos became visible covering his back. Her hand brushed and traced over some of the lines that comprised the elaborate and obviously arcane markings that crisscrossed his back in a swirling pattern of knotwork.

	“Oh now that’s interesting. Last time I saw something like that, the only time I saw something like that was on that fellow in the Tir on the Outlands. You don’t look like an elf though… maybe you grew up somewhere with a lot of elves?” Clueless gave no reply to her question as his eyes got stuck somewhere below her chin as she examined his back.

After sating her curiosity and examining her partner’s back for a few more moments she slowly started to remove her own shirt and bodice, obviously enjoying watching Clueless’s eyes play along.

"... you're beautiful..." murmured Clueless as he helped her undo the laces to her top.

"Thank you... I should say the same of you. How someone like you ended up in Hopeless is a crime." Her sentiment was genuine as her eyes traveled over his obviously well tended physique.

Clueless laughed at that, "Well… the lump on my head agrees with you on that one!" 

He looked down to her hands and then traced back up her arms to glance at, well... other things. She tossed her shirt off to one side, stood there for a second just admiring the muscles on his chest, and then ran the tips of her fingers over it. They seemed unusually warm on Clueless’s skin and in turn she sighed happily as he ran his own hands over her skin.

[Intentional fade to black and shift to outside the room. I had to cut out around 4 pages worth of fairly well written porn here so as not to offend anyone’s grandma. Oh well, all of your loses. *waves the pages of pr0n teasingly*]

Heard from outside the room:

Clueless - "If I may?"

Tarelia - "Definately I'd say." 

Clueless - ".... I meet approval?"

Tarelia - "Care to help me now?" followed by the sound of breaches being unlaced.

A sound of giggling can be heard through the door.

Clueless - "...I'm gonna have to revise my previous statement... georgous."

Tarelia - "You flatter me, thank you..."

Clueless - "... you deserve it.."

Clueless - "And so do you, let me give you something."

Tarelia - "Mmm!"

Clueless - "That's... nice..." 

Clueless - "Do lie down..."

Various noises can be heard dimly through the door

Tarelia - "This seem familiar at all? Or shall I try again?"

Clueless - "... oh... some of it's familar... some of it wasn't ... but... oh..."

Clueless - "... this isn't fair you know... oh..."

Some assorted and distinctly happy noises on both of their parts

Tarelia - "Ooooohhh....Not... fair....please... keep doing... that...."

Clueless - "... good… no fair?" 

Tarelia - "Remembering anything more? Surely you've done this before..."

Clueless - "Oh... *quite* a bit..." 

Tarelia - "Please don't stop...."

Various assorted happy noises

Clueless - "...huh? what? Um..."

Tarelia - "Oh my! This is unexpected!"

Clueless -  ".....what did I do?" 

Tarelia – “Look back dear, we’re flying, hovering actually, mmm…” There’s a giggle from her

Clueless - "...I have wings@?!"

There was a loud ‘thump!’ of two people hitting the ground onto something padded but not quite padded enough to completely cushion the fall.

Clueless - "...um...  I have... wings?" said in a bemused voice

Clueless - "... those... are sensitive..." murmured

Tarelia - "Well, looks like I helped you remember. Well to remember ‘something’ anyways." 

Clueless - "Guess so..." 

Tarelia - "Mmmm..." 

[Back inside w/ full view again]

Both Clueless and Tarelia sat in each others’ arms, flushed and smiling, clearly basking in a serious level of afterglow. Somewhat difficult to see fully over his shoulder, but there nonetheless, were a pair of shimmering black or dark blue in color, almost iridescent, thin wings. They seemed almost like larger sized versions of those you might expect to see on a sylph, pixie, or fairy. To a person knowledgeable in such matters they would have immediately pointed to a distinctly ‘Unseelie’ origin.

But time passed and they enjoyed each other’s company for the remainder of the evening before finally falling asleep. The next morning as the both of them awoke, however, one thing was different in the kitchen and readily apparent. Sitting upon the chain on which Clueless had, the night before, left his sword and cloak, directly on top of them was a singular sealed scroll.

	Tarelia gathered a robe around herself in the cooler morning air and immediately checked the door. It was closed and the locking spell didn’t appear to have been tampered with.

	Clueless’s eyes widened as he followed her and glanced at the scroll with a confused look. “…um… could someone have put that in here magically?”

	“Possibly… but most magic like that generally doesn’t work reliably within Sigil.”

	As they both examined the scroll, the seal was cast in a fiery red wax that glittered slightly. It almost seemed as if a crushed red stone or glass had been mixed in with the wax while it was still warm.

	“…still.” Clueless murmured while looking closely at the seal, “…do you know this sigil?”

	He showed Tarelia the scroll and its seal. The symbol was clearly a wizard’s sigil looking almost like a small flame.

	“Never seen it before…” she said with a bit of apprehension.
Clueless broke the seal to read the scroll - wings fluttering behind him absently - half rubbing against each other in ill concealed nervousness. 

As his eyes scanned over the first line of the letter, they widened considerably.

The letter read: “Greetings my memory deprived fellow.”

“I first of all urge descretion in the reading and showing of this scroll. Your location and identity would fetch a high price in some hands, and so unless you wish those parties to be informed of said details you will follow my following instructions.”

"....I'm.... being... blackmailed..." there was low surprise in Clueless’s voice and he looked at Tarelia in surprise, "I can't believe this..."

The note continued: “Firstly, I desire to meet with you. Secondly, I have a task which requires completion, and one which I will admit to not wishing to undertake myself. Blackmail is not my ideal method of action, but in this case it suits me nicely. I wish for completion of a certain task by yourself, and others procured into my service in similar fashion. Once completed, you will be sent upon your way, and by which time, those seeking you will have been... sated by other means. Again, I urge your discretion. I will meet you, and your soon to be companions at the third room on the left at the top of the stairs at the former location of the Ubiquitous Wayfarer. You will be there, for I doubt that the Baatezu will act slowly upon finding out you are still quite alive. The door to the building shall be unlocked. Meet me there at Antipeak, come alone.  
– B. Trenevain”

Clueless turned again to Tarelia with astonishment playing across his face, "...I'm being blackmailed...Um... where's the…" he paused to read; "…*Former* location of the Ubiquitous Wayfarer?"

She paused to think “... well that's the old name... changed to 'Portal Schmortal' after The Lady scrambled every sodding portal in the burg after mazing the factols. Name didn't have the same ring though, and business dropped off with the portals vanishing. It went out of business shortly afterwards. It's a ten minute walk down a bit more into the Clerk’s Ward, down between the Workers district and the Administrators district.”

 Clueless nodded, "... do you know who ... B. Trenevain is?"

"I'd doubt that's a real name, but no, never heard of him."

He nodded again and looked down at his sword, "... well. Whoever they are - they know who I am... or at least know enough about me to know that I   don't know who I am..."

[With one intro finished, on to the next poor soul in our slowly unwinding, and progressively more complicated story.]


	Around the same time as Clueless was waking up to his own little surprise, an abnormally tall and broad shouldered man was waking up in his own room at the Drunken Dabus.


----------



## Clueless

Yeah. I have my own sugar momma.  She got me new boots. *completely innocent look*


----------



## Tokiwong

Yay more Planescape goodness... I want more porn!


----------



## Nifft

I've got to admit, Celestial Porn is a new concept. 

 -- N, thinking you could crib some quotes from the _Song of Solomon_ and post that, since no-one's grandma is gonna be upset with the Bible


----------



## Jaspar Arelius

You've never talked in the D&D forums, have you, Nifft?  The Bible offends me -daily.-


----------



## Nifft

Jaspar Arelius said:
			
		

> You've never talked in the D&D forums, have you, Nifft?




Do a search, tell me where I don't show up, and please understand that not all jokes come with emoticons.

 -- N, athiest


----------



## Suldulin

Shemeska said:
			
		

> [Intentional fade to black and shift to outside the room. I had to cut out around 4 pages worth of fairly well written porn here so as not to offend anyone’s grandma. Oh well, all of your loses. *waves the pages of pr0n teasingly*]




LOL

Hrm, 'tis a pity for such a thing to go to waste.  Maybe ye could e-mail said pages to those members whom are 'of age' and that request it? *grins and chuckles*


----------



## LGodamus

I cannot wait to play in a Shemeska game.....


----------



## Shemeska

LGodamus said:
			
		

> I cannot wait to play in a Shemeska game.....




*blush* NC gameday IV my friend, and check your inbox. Warning of course for spoilers in that email regarding the plotline of the storyhour here, though the storyhour will give much much more detail than that email.


----------



## Ican'tthinkofaname

I've read the stuff you've posted about your campaign here and on the WOTC boards and must say I'm a big fan of your campaign and can't wait to see the rest of the story.


----------



## Shemeska

Expect another update on Friday.


----------



## Shemeska

*And like clockwork in a rogue modron, I update...*

Toras of Andros sat at his desk, away from the thin light that current waxed through the window into his room. The fog and haze of Sigil made that light a sallow, sickly mockery of the light he was used to experiencing upon Ysgard and many of the other planes. As such, he shunned the light and relied upon the abilities granted to him by his own blood-line.

	For the past hour he had eaten his breakfast, washed and now sat reading over his daily meditations and holy scriptures of the power whom he served, and who as far as he was aware, was by way of His proxies, his sire. That Toras was a half celestial was certain to most observers, though his unique appearance might have led some less keen observers to ponder deeply just ‘what’ it was that he was descended from. Many might have guessed at some form of Archon, Eladrin, Aasimar or even an Asura. In fact the last two might have gotten the most guesses from those who wished to guess. Guardinal was right out, he simply possessed none of the slightly animal traits that defined the children of such matings, rare as they might be.

	To the eyes, Toras stood at nearly 7 feet tall, pushing the limits of what a normal human might reach. His skin was a smooth almost unnatural white, making him seem chiseled from marble like some statue rather than being normal. His hair was long and jet black, and contrasted heavily with his pale skin. Most striking perhaps though were his eyes whose pupils flickered with an inner flame, not unlike those of some fire genasi or tieflings. However there was nothing fiendish or indeed elemental about his being as he sat and prayed, dressed even then in the brushed steel and red lacquered armor of his particular militant branch of the clergy of Andros, self proclaimed protector of children, the innocent, and the infirm.

	But several hours passed by, and as he neared to the end of his devotions, there was a knock at the door. Firm but not insistent, practiced but not arrogant. The strength behind them might have been enough to wake him up, had he been asleep, but clearly it was unlikely to come from anything larger than a human.

	Toras stood up and walked to the door, pausing only to place his sword to one side, away from the door, but within his own reach should he need it. Sigil had so far been a surprisingly unwelcoming place to those who seemed to not fit in with the local populace.

	There was another knock at the door just as he unlocked and opened it. The knocking paused and there was a shifting of feet as the open door revealed a slim, well dressed tiefling standing in the hallway. The man was smiling politely and clothed in a suit that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a master of ceremonies at a banquet hall, or upon a lawyer in a courtroom. Despite his purple colored eyes and small horns curling back over his hair like a ram’s, he seemed a model of courtesy apt to put at ease even the most wary person.

	“Toras of Andros? I do apologize sir if I woke you.” The tiefling smiled and his vaguely reptilian tail swished slowly side to side behind his back.

	“And you might be?” Toras asked

	“A humble servant of greater persons, though my employers have a matter they wish me to discuss with and inform you of. I dare say that you will be most intrigued. If I might sir?” he motioned with an empty hand past Toras into the room.

	Toras hesitated then nodded and stepped to the side, walking first back into the room. The door remained open behind the newcomer.

	“First of all, I wish to say that my employers have noticed you and your past accomplishments. You have raised their attentions since entering Sigil. To that end I have an offer of employment from them to give you. However first…” he held out a sealed scroll, then lowered it as almost as an afterthought he removed a small gemstone from one jacket pocket of his suit. He handed the gem to the half-celestial with another smile. “This may persuade you into accepting our offer. A sensory stone of a memory, as witnessed by another of my employers functionaries.” Another smile, this time almost with a knowing smirk.

	Toras touched the gem and activated the memory in the form of a projected illusion in the palm of his hands. He blinked and swallowed hard involuntary at scene unfolding in his hands.

	“Surely you remember your time upon the prime world of Toril a good number of years ago. During that time you fell in love with a young woman and indeed she returned your feelings. Sadly she died, and in such a manner that prevented her return to life by the most common methods. Energy drain… such a way to pass. You honored her memory and have allowed her to enjoy her rest and enjoyment of her promised reward in the beyond as a petitioner upon the upper planes. You’ve neither sought her out in her innocent now form, but allowed her her peace and reward rather than seeking to draw her back into this life and its complications and pains. As I said, you’ve chosen to honor her memory.” The tiefling smirked and raises an eyebrow, craning his neck to see the image floating in Toras’s hands that was now playing and repeating slowly in sequence.

	“Sadly the priests of Bane my employer has contracted for this present job have not chosen to honor her in the slightest. No, they prefer to raise her, torture her till death and then repeat the process quite happily. They’ve done so a dozen times or more by this point. I’ve honestly lost count.”

	Toras was shaking visibly as he stared down at that scene of torture and the clear enjoyment on the faces of the Banite clergy in the illusory image playing out in his hands from the sensory stone. It was indeed her, and the look upon her face…

	“Mother fu*****…”

	The tiefling smiled once more, the same polite geniality showing through but tainted with an obscene confidence that belied an enjoyment of his present work.

	“Harsh words, but save them for the task my employer wishes to set you upon. The terms are this: read the scroll I have given to you and obey its terms to the letter. If done so to my employer’s satisfaction what you have seen in the gem will cease immediately, and those who carried it out will be killed. That young, and currently suffering woman you still by your reaction hold some feelings for, she will be allowed to rest and return to blissful ignorance upon the planes, wherever that might be. Am I clear?”

	Without looking up from the scene looping once again in his hands, Toras spoke with grim and steady tones, his frame rigid and tensed, “Run now, it’ll make it more fun when I catch you.”

	The tiefling was already stepping back, “Read the scroll sir and you’ll have a chance to change things. Killing me, were you capable of doing so, won’t stop her suffering. I dare say it’ll prolong it because I hold use to my employer. Enjoy the coming days sir, she won’t.” And with a brief motion with his index finger towards the illusion, he moved out the door in a burst of speed. The footsteps echoed down the hall and then abruptly stopped.

	Toras gripped the gem tightly dispelling the harrowing images and bolted after the scum, sword in hand. Out in the hallway there was no one in sight, but a glimmer from a doorframe, two rooms down, spoke of the hallmarks of a just closing portal.

	“Fu****…”, Toras cursed numerous times and slowly walked back to his room to sit with barely contained anger. His eyes flared with a need to right a serious wrong. Before it was over he would have that man and his puppet master on the end of his sword.

	“Now what in the 9 Hells was this damned employment offer I’m being fu***** blackmailed into doing?” he muttered and spit as he broke the seal on the scroll. It looked like sparkling reddish wax, emblazoned with a wizards sigil shaped like a stylized flame.

_“Dear Toras of Andros,”

“I first of all urge discretion in the reading and showing of this scroll. The eventual fate of a certain young woman lies very much on your hands at this point. The clergy of Bane in that particular location she is being held at specifically train torturers and interrogators, and even were I not paying them well they would likely continue with her for some time before moving on to another unwilling victim. If you do not wish for her to be tortured to death and routinely torn unwillingly from her afterlife to return to a mortal hell you will follow my instructions. 

Firstly, I desire to meet with you. Secondly, I have a task that requires completion, and one that I will admit to not wishing to undertake myself. Blackmail is not my ideal method of action, but in this case it suits me nicely. I wish for completion of a certain task by yourself, and others procured into my service in similar fashion. Once completed, you will be sent upon your way, and the priests of Bane who hold your former beloved will be silenced and their current charge returned to her ‘eternal reward’ in the upper planes.

Again, I urge your discretion. I will meet you, and your soon to be companions at the third room on the left at the top of the stairs at the former location of the Ubiquitous Wayfarer. You will be there, for I doubt that you can live comfortably with the images that you’ve just been shown by my servant. The door to the building shall be unlocked. Meet me there at Antipeak, come alone.  
– B. Trenevain”_

	“Bloody hell…”, he spat again and whispered a prayer to his deity. A prayer of vengeance to by action and deed see to justice and punishment those who would harm those who did not deserve such. Andros would forgive him allowing such to happen to the girl, but He would not forgive those who made her to suffer, nor would this humble servant of Andros either.

	Before then however, these new ‘employers’ would need to be met and sated in the short term. Blind rage and violence, though likely fulfilling, would not bring an end to this.

	“Well, Antipeak then it is. I want to see your face, if only to see how it looks before I decide to break it. You deserve that much I swear.”

	Hot with anger, Toras stood up and gathered his belongings to leave. After paying for his room and tipping the cook for the morning’s meal which current circumstances now had set to churning in his stomach, he needed time to learn more about the location he was to meet at, and more about his ‘employer’ if possible as well. And so full of simmering, righteous zeal he stalked out of his room.

****

Around the same time in the spireward end of The Lower Ward a silvery blue furred Lupinal was sitting down for her morning breakfast and a drink in the common room of the Green Mill situated in the heart of Little Bytopia as the squat was called by the residents. It wasn’t Elysium, but it was closer to home than most of the city, especially more so than the fiend cluttered, soot choked streets of the rest of the Lower Ward.

She was dressed in little but to make for the local social standards, in this case a white tunic over a thin layer of fine, celestial forged chain and a short chain skirt of the same manufacture. Over the bottom she wore a colored and beaded belt and cloth of a pale ivory color, chased in places with black and silver. Pretty to the eye, but not garish or presumptive as some in the City of Doors seemed to prefer to dress. Tales of warriors in red colored, spiked and bladed armor had filtered to her ears from tales she'd been told in her travels. However she'd seen none of these 'hardheads' yet as the storyteller in Ecstacy had relayed the tale to her nearly a decade ago. She shrugged and chalked it up to an invented or embellished tale on the part of the drunken bard years ago.

Fyrhowl sipped at her thin, sweet ale and smiled. As she pondered the various places within Sigil she had been told to visit, and which to avoid, her ears involuntarily swiveled to the noise of the chair opposite her being moved. Her eyes followed suit as she beheld a smiling, well dressed and genial looking tiefling standing across the table from her.

His hand resting lightly on the top of the only other chair at her table he nodded his head to the spot, “Might I join you for breakfast? If you have a moment for me, those I represent have some information for you that they wish for me to deliver to you? If I’m intruding I can wait elsewhere till it is convenient.”

She blinked and put down her ale. He only smelled faintly of brimstone, unlike most of his kind in the ward, and unlike most of them he seemed to have dressed and presented himself in a way not intended to disturb anyone or seem confrontational. As well, he wasn’t wearing a weapon.

The lupinal nodded and gave a curious smile across her muzzle, “Please, join me. How can I help you?”

The tiefling smiled graciously with practiced ease and took his place across from her and placed a thin, red waxen sealed scroll in the center of the table between the two of them…

	“I realize that you are newly arrived to Sigil. However my employers are in need of the services of one such as you. They are apparently well aware of your past services upon the planes on behalf of your celestial race, as well as your own prowess in those endeavors. Coupled with your own nature as a guardinal, they are interested in procuring your help.” He smiled again.

	“Oh? Thank you, though I’m surprised they found out where I was so quickly, I’ve been in Sigil less than a day or two already. What do they need me for? I might not need payment from them depending on what they wish.” She looked curiously at the scroll lying before her.

	“My employer’s words can probably explain their wishes and needs more clearly than I can. Please read if you would.” Again the tiefling smiled then flagged down one of the servers and ordered a drink of his own.

	Fyrhowl broke the odd looking waxen seal, noting the sparkles of glass in the wax and how the symbol upon it seemed to flicker in the morning light like a living tongue of flame. The paper even had the smell of wood smoke to her sensitive nose as she unfurled it to read.

_“Dear Fyrhowl of Elysium,”

“I first of all urge discretion in the reading and showing of this scroll. I am well aware of your sister and pack mate, Lightdancer. The last you were aware she was still on Elysium, hoping to venture off plane to follow in your own footsteps. Sadly her travels did not go far before she was taken alive by those in my employ. She is currently being held well, but confined tightly. She will come to no harm, and offers for her… purchase will be rebuffed assuming you following my instructions herein to the letter. Otherwise I begin to entertain the offers of a number of fiends and wealthy but depraved mortals.

Firstly, I desire to meet with you. Secondly, I have a task that requires completion, and one that I will admit to not wishing to undertake myself. Blackmail is not my ideal method of action, but in this case it suits me nicely. I wish for completion of a certain task by yourself, and others procured into my service in similar fashion. Once completed, you will be sent upon your way. Your sister will be released and unharmed except for some selective memories of her captors faces erased. Otherwise, no harm will come to her. 

Again, I urge your discretion. I will meet you, and your soon to be companions at the third room on the left at the top of the stairs at the former location of the Ubiquitous Wayfarer. You will be there, for I doubt that you would wish your sibling to come to harm. She does so admire you, and has whimpered several times that you would rescue her. Such idealistic heroics aside, I offer you a simple and potentially bloodless way to secure that release. The door to the building shall be unlocked. Meet me there at Antipeak, come alone.  
–	B. Trenevain”_

Her fur was bristling rapidly and an involuntary snarl was rising in her throat as she looked up from the scroll at the still smiling face of the tiefling as he sipped at his drink.

	“No need for that here, it won’t solve a thing I can assure. Your kind can act pleasant in public yes? That would be good, a scene would not endear you to this establishment, nor to ‘our’ employer, rest assured.” He downed the last of the mug’s contents as Fyrhowl simmered and bottled her anger and worry alike.

	“So… what now?” she smoothed her fur back down to normal and gritted her teeth as the fiend-spawn opposite her smiled with that same damnably cheerful innocence.

	“Now I walk away, leave you to pick up my tab and you do as your told if you wish for your sister to come to no harm. You would be amazed at the demand for a young celestial such as herself, and who might make such demands.” 

He smirked, stood up and walked away from the table with a confident and steadfast stride. If he had anything resembling qualms or conscience, they certainly didn’t show in the least as he walked out the tavern door with a smile on his face and a spring in his step.

Shortly thereafter in the Hive…

(man I wish I had the schmooze of that tiefer...  )


----------



## Clueless

THAT's what FH was blackmailed with?! Dude - harsh!


----------



## foxylady

*Something weird afoot*

In D&D, you can't resurrect an unwilling spirit, and I can't imagine why an apparently good woman would choose to be resurrected by a Banite cleric. Something rather odd is happening here


----------



## Shemeska

foxylady said:
			
		

> In D&D, you can't resurrect an unwilling spirit, and I can't imagine why an apparently good woman would choose to be resurrected by a Banite cleric. Something rather odd is happening here




1) Don't let game rules get in the way of a plotline. (though that's not the case here)
2) Yes indeed, something rather odd is happening here, trust me


----------



## LGodamus

oooooo Shem is teh sneaky (tm)


----------



## Toras

Only standard Ressurrection is limited in that fashion.  It seems that an evil diety would see the value of a forced ressurection, especially on people going to a reward.  Besides, in character Toras doesn't know metaphysics, he is a well learned fighter with some knowledge of clerical magics and alchemy, but that hardly enables him to give a desertation on how ressurections function.  

Also, even if they are only animating her corpse its still wrong.


----------



## Shemeska

In character, Toras doesn't know anything about game mechanics or the limitations of most magic to force an unwilling ressurection. So suffice to say that he thinks them capable of doing this and is abhored by it.

As I said, in this case here I'm not ignoring the limitations of the ressurection spell, so go ahead and assume that 'something' is going on, and trust that you'll find out exactly what that 'something' is eventually in the course of the story.

*keeps on being teh sneaky*


----------



## Zappo

The simplest way would be to force a Good priest to cast the spell. Then, you tell the newly revived that you are going to torture her to death over and over again, and she'd better cooperate because otherwise you're going to do it to the priest. Eeeevil. But if we work under the Planescape rule that souls don't remember anything about their past life, it could be enough to simply have the Good priest raise her over and over again.


----------



## LGodamus

Gah, update already Shem...


----------



## Shemeska

LGodamus said:
			
		

> Gah, update already Shem...




I did on friday last week, it's only been 5 days since that update! Expect another update on friday afternoon or evening at some point. I'm in the middle of a 5 day experiment in my lab that's been making me keep odd hours, plus I've got a deadline for some stuff for Planewalker this week I promised to finish, and I have to write material for the campaign to run this Sunday too. Lots of stuff! Too much stuff! Gahhh!

Glad you seem to be enjoying though, gives me extra motivation to write on this tonight as opposed to other stuff. Though by saying that I may have my players sending me threats


----------



## Clueless

Imagine it? Sitting there and having to *wait* every Sunday for him to get his butt into town (he drives up here every weekend) so we can get the next installment? You've only gotten a small taste - wait till this thing really gets rolling. Theres a *reason* three of his players nearly had a violent verbal reaction to the proposal of going to a Superbowl party instead of gaming that Sunday. Shemmie got invited by a friend and was all "... you know, it'd be fun, I think..." only to hear a chorus of three voices in unison answering for him: "NO." And darn it all we *gamed* that day, and happy for it too!


----------



## LGodamus

Clueless said:
			
		

> Imagine it? Sitting there and having to *wait* every Sunday for him to get his butt into town (he drives up here every weekend) so we can get the next installment? You've only gotten a small taste - wait till this thing really gets rolling. Theres a *reason* three of his players nearly had a violent verbal reaction to the proposal of going to a Superbowl party instead of gaming that Sunday. Shemmie got invited by a friend and was all "... you know, it'd be fun, I think..." only to hear a chorus of three voices in unison answering for him: "NO." And darn it all we *gamed* that day, and happy for it too!





We shall see if he is all he is cracked up to be...I get to play in his game at NCgameday


no pressure though


----------



## Clueless

LGodamus said:
			
		

> We shall see if he is all he is cracked up to be...I get to play in his game at NCgameday
> 
> 
> no pressure though




You won't have that rolling buildup that he can do in his full campaign - but I'm looking forwards to it. I know what I'm playing and oooohhhh this is gonna be fun. Amnesiac half fey bladesingers ain't got nothing on *this* character concept.


----------



## LGodamus

Yes I believe you will find my character quite interesting as well....He is done and background sent to shemeska as of yesterday.


----------



## LGodamus

and one bump........cause its almost friday afternoon....I swear it is......almost  


by the way Shem, so this is not just a random bump, did you get the attachment this time...  ?


----------



## Shemeska

LGodamus said:
			
		

> and one bump........cause its almost friday afternoon....I swear it is......almost
> 
> 
> by the way Shem, so this is not just a random bump, did you get the attachment this time...  ?




The next installment is written and sitting on my desktop. It'll get posted tommorow afternoon and not a moment sooner... *tempts with the update* mwhahaha... Lord I feel like a crack dealer...

And yes, I got your attachment and I'm going to have so much fun with him *cackle* Fits perfectly.


----------



## LGodamus

sweet....well its nighty night time...maybe i can sleep till tomorrow afternoon.....


----------



## Shemeska

*My players will hurt me if I don't post regularly...*

[I've got more than this written, but this is the last PC to draw into the plot for the moment. Two more will join later after the first adventure/plot. However the next bit is going to take some more review by my players to make sure I've got all the dialogue and impressions of their characters as precise (and nitpicky) as they'd like for them to be protrayed.

Expect another update thursday or next week. If not by then, it'll wait till that next monday since I'll be visiting my family for Easter.]



“Blessings of the Festhall Maiden upon you,” the young woman smiled and made a gesture of good tidings in the air before the kneeling worshipper who smiled back, kissed her hand and rose to leave.

	Aren turned around and snuffed a small candle before the shrine to the Mother of Cats and whispered a prayer. As soon as the supplicant had left and the door closed with a soft knock of wood upon wood, she smiled and placed a new candle upon the wax-spattered altar. Without so much as a word she rubbed her thumb and index finger over the wick which sparked and ignited with a sudden rush of flame from between her finger, those two fingers which she withdraw without so much as a scorch or blackened mark upon their alabaster surface.

	Standing there in the dim light of the shrine, Aren’s eyes glowed softly red in the gaze of the idol before her. Any who saw her would have seen just a young woman with raven black hair and strikingly smooth, creamy white skin that stood in distinct contrast to it. She was dressed in close fitting and revealing garments of the clergy of Bast, and except for the holy symbol that hung from a thin golden chain and dangled between her cleavage, she would not have seemed out of place at one of the many brothels that filled the Hive.

	It was a rough area of Sigil, but the land here was cheap and it was the only place upon which she had been able to lease property to build the shrine she ministered to. It was a terrible, beautiful contrast to her former existence, one that as much as she wished to put it behind her, forced her daily to hide herself, watch her words, and look for the signs that she might have been discovered. But the price of absolution was worthy of the struggle against that which ran in her veins, pumped through her blood, composed her very being. The Tanar’ri within howled in rage at the betrayal of her birth. Sometimes it brought depression, other times it brought agonizing pain, but the realization that she was something ascended over the mindless destruction and corruption that was her birthright, that was a worthy trade. Her patron deity spoke within her heart daily, reassuring her and bringing comfort within these uncertain times.

	A rapping of wood on stone brought Aren out of her thoughts. She looked out at the pews of the sanctuary to see a tiefling standing in the center aisle with a long, black cane tapping upon the flagstone under his feet. She hadn’t heard the sanctuary door open, nor had she heard his footsteps leading up the aisle where he now stood, halfway between herself and the entrance. She hadn’t heard a sound at all. Her thoughts had put her at a loss it seemed, she would atone for the lapse in her duties later. 
She blinked as he smiled and approached. “May I help you sir?” she asked, bowing with a flourish and slipping back into her place as priestess and guide to the impoverished of this place.

	The man smiled back, “Indeed I think you can. Might we speak somewhere in private for a few minutes? I come on business, not as a parishioner. If I’ve disturbed some ceremony I apologize and can wait, or return later if you wish?...” His purple eyes reflected violet in the candlelight and his long shadow stretched down the aisle behind him. But despite the harsh light he seemed polite, genuine and courteous, especially as he was dressed in the clothing of an advocate.

	Aren nodded and motioned him off towards a door that led to one of the small rooms used for private ‘counseling’, or her own personal devotions. She held open the door and ushered him within, then took a seat opposite him upon one of the small pillows scattered around the periphery of the rug in the center of the room.

	“So, what exactly may I do for you, Mr…?”, she offered him a small bowl of almonds and reclined across the floor. He smiled but ignored the bowl as he reached into his jacket pocket to produce a slim scroll case that glittered with magic under her vision.

	“You’ve done a fine job here in the Hive, providing a bit of hope and a bit of comfort to those who come to see you. Contrast I should say with the face of things, no?” he placed the scroll next to the almonds but kept his hand upon it. She looked up at him curiously but said nothing. The Tanar’ri inside was wary all of a sudden.

	“That said, you and I both may drop our pretenses. I’m fully aware of your nature, as is my employer. It would be a pity were your former Balor liege to become aware of your continued existence, especially within a place that eluded his own personal grasp. Am I wrong? I can only postulate upon the tortures reserved from a traitor in the Abyss…” he smirked triumphantly as Aren’s face grew ashen.

	“What do you mean, I kn…” she sat upright and glared at him, trying to appear angry despite a rush of fear spreading through her veins like ice upon the Styx.

	“Please, you needn’t try. Bluster is lost on me, because frankly my dear I don’t care if you wish to admit anything to me or not. My employer only wishes for me to deliver his knowledge, his threat, and his demands. Ignore them at your own peril. Your usefulness in my employer’s current situation might become rapidly out valued by the price upon your head to the right buyers in the court of Ashrathul Soultwister.” He smirked, placed the scroll before her, tossed an almond into his mouth and bit down onto it with an emphatic crunch.

	At an utter loss for words, her heart pounding within her breast she snarled at the tiefling, a pair of fangs suddenly showing over painted lips. He stood, kicked the scroll towards her and walked confidently towards the door without any seeming concern. However he paused at the door while she still snarled at his back, “Admission noted. However my dear I would keep a lid upon your nature, after all, the brimstone will frighten away the congregation…”

	With that, he slipped from the chamber and his footfalls receded into the distance. She never did hear the sanctuary door open and shut this time either. But now gradually the pounding in her chest slowed and her rage ebbed to uncertainty. She reached out to open the scroll case that bore a red, glittering wax seal with a mage’s symbol upon it shaped like a flickering flame.

	The scroll read:
_“Dear Aren, my wayward corrupter of mortals”
“I first of all urge discretion in the reading and showing of this scroll. Any attempt to involve any others besides yourself will sadly force me to reveal your current location and identity to those in the Abyss that would see you stripped down to a dretch and skewered upon a spit for eternity for your crime of transcending the evils of your race. I could care less, I simply require you for a task.”

“That said, I desire to meet with you. Secondly, I have a task that requires completion, and one that I will admit to not wishing to undertake myself. Blackmail is not my ideal method of action, but in this case it suits me nicely. I wish for completion of a certain task by yourself, and others procured into my service in similar fashion. Once completed, you will be sent upon your way. Your identity will be kept secret and you will have no more contact with myself or my agents. If you do not trust me after we amicably part ways, you are always free to retreat to the upper planes or even the domain of your fostering, redeeming patron.”

“Again, I urge your discretion. I will meet you, and your soon to be companions at the third room on the left at the top of the stairs at the former location of the Ubiquitous Wayfarer. You will be there, for I doubt that you wish to be handed over to your former Abyssal master. His power has waxed since you last knelt before him in supplication to his will, and other things…The door to the building shall be unlocked. Meet me there at Antipeak, come alone.  
B. Trenevain”_

	“Sodding hells…why does it all have to haunt me?” The risen Tanar’ri placed the scroll off to one side and slumped on the floor, letting her wings spring out behind her, not bothering to hide her form as she felt a wave of depression wash over her. Kneeling there in the dark, she whispered a soft prayer to her patron deity and wept for the burden of her blood rising once again to tread upon her back. Maybe though this time it would end well and she wouldn’t be forced to kill, that was what her kind did. They killed and they ravaged.

	“I don’t want to bring myself to that again. I left that behind. What do they want me to do anyways? Well, I’ll find out tonight then won’t I, Bast forgive me if I have to bring harm to any…”

And thus the group of wayward PCs was brought together, along with one other to join them shortly. The hours passed and the clock grew near to Antipeak. The shadows grew long and separately they said their goodbyes to those who knew them and set out to darken the doorway of the Ubiquitous Wayfarer, known for a short time as Portal Schmortal. 
The first to arrive there was Clueless…


----------



## shilsen

Excellent. I have got to steal that tiefling messenger and use him as an NPC for my own campaign. I just TPKed the party in a Greyhawk campaign last week and they're going to wake up as a bunch of evil PCs working for Bel. Over time (hopefully), they will recover their original memories and we'll see what happens then. And Shemeska is going to show up in the campaign too. Maybe not as a major villain, but definitely present.



			
				Shemeska said:
			
		

> Expect another update thursday or next week. If not by then, it'll wait till that next monday since I'll be visiting my family for Easter




Next week? Bugger that - Shemeska _is_ a major villain then! And I hope they whack her too - so there


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## Shemeska

shilsen said:
			
		

> Excellent. I have got to steal that tiefling messenger and use him as an NPC for my own campaign.




I'd be honored if you did!


----------



## shilsen

Shemeska said:
			
		

> I'd be honored if you did!



 Thanks. So in that vein of generosity, how about another update? 

Sorry, I just got back from running a bunch of yugoloths who talked the PCs into taking part in a bidding war with one of their enemies (a succubus), driving up the price (in souls, of course) of an item they really wanted, got them to promise a payment that their patron Bel hadn't authorized, and then got them to try (unsuccessfully, unfortunately) to kill off the succubus and sell back to the yugoloths what she'd just bought from them. So greed is a little on my mind right now. So, about that update...


----------



## LGodamus

bump


----------



## Shemeska

Expect the update to be posted tommorow (thursday). It's written, I'm just allowing my players the chance to make objections or such. And I'm part way into the next update as well.


----------



## Shemeska

*Another day, another storyhour. And now we meet our villains and heros all together*

The ‘sky’ of Sigil sparkled overhead with the glow of streetlamps, torches and the pyres raging in the stacks of the Great Foundry clear across the other side of the Cage. They glittered artificially as the haze that blanketed the Clerk’s Ward that evening washed over and periodically obscured some of them. It was under that mottled, fire speckled sky that Clueless walked as he navigated the streets leading up to address of the former Ubiquitous Wayfarer, briefly known after the Tempest of Doors as ‘Portal Schmortal’.

	The darkened profile of the tavern stood at the corner of two intersecting streets, neither of which held any appreciable traffic at that period of the evening, and had likely seen less since the inn had finally closed its doors. A wooden sign hung from iron brackets above the doorway, slowly swinging in the light breeze. Bits of graffiti had collected on the boarded over windows and walls of the building in the past few years, little collections of epitaphs running the gamut from crude jokes about ‘Cipher Quickies’ to random names, faction symbols scrawled, defaced and scrawled again in various substances. A few scraps of paper rustled in the wind, all of them advertisements for shops and other still successful inns located in the ward.

	Clueless paused and stopped beneath the sign as it swung in the breeze, then looked at the door. His hands gripped tightly on the wrapped bundle of his cloak that held his sword.

	“Looks like I’m the first to arrive, apparently I’m prompt.” He glanced up the two streets, looking for any of his soon to be companions. Not seeing anything but a single rat scurrying into an open sewer grate he turned his attention back to the door.

	“Or I might be late and they’re already inside…” he put his sword underneath one arm and reached out to try the door handle.

“You were instructed to arrive at the stroke of Antipeak. It is not yet antipeak, and this door will not open until that time. In the future you will pay attention to orders more closely. It is currently twelve minutes till the time at which you were instructed to arrive. Patience is expected by your employer.”

“Too prompt maybe…” Clueless paused before the door and stood there awkwardly for a few minutes, staring down at his new shoes that Tarelia had bought for him that morning after he’d gotten his blackmail note. His concentration on the new boots was broken by the muted sounds of someone or something padding softly down the street towards the inn. He looked up to see a silvery-blue furred lupinal walking confidently in his direction. Clueless nodded to her as she approached.

“I assume you’re one of the victims here as well?” she spoke and bowed slightly. Clueless put out his hand which she looked at oddly for a moment before taking and shaking it in return.

“Yeah, I’d be one of them, you too I assume.”

“Indeed”

“So, umm… I’m Clueless. You?”

She blinked at his name, clearly being uncertain if the word was an adjective or a noun, along with the meanings they carried in either case.

“Oh, that’s my name, kinda.” Clueless smiled like a rube. Fyrehowl chuckled back with a hint of confusion but her tail began to slowly wag back and forth amiably.

“I’m Fyrehowl, pleased to meet you, though I wish it was under better circumstances.” She growled softly and looked towards the inn. “So what was it they used to bring you here?”

Clueless replied with some hesitation, “These people, this Trenevain person, says he’ll turn me into the Baatezu if I don’t do what he says. Umm…I had some differences of opinion with some rather powerful Baatezu at some point in the past, and at the moment they think I’m dead. I’m safer right now assuming Trenevain is telling the truth. That’s not something you toss aside…”

Clueless frowned and the lupinal gave a nod of concerned fellowship. “Me? They have my sister, so they claim. Yeah…”

“Ouch, I…” Clueless stopped as Fyrehowl’s ears swiveled to face one of the adjoining streets. Clueless looked in that direction but saw nothing as Fyrehowl looked as well.

Walking down the street looking at the same moment both mildly paranoid and comfortably fitting in was a slim tiefling woman. Her legs appeared to be goat-like from the knees down and her footfalls gave a soft but distinctive ‘clip-clop!’ noise as she walked towards the two already gathered companions. As she drew into the light they could see that she was dressed in the typical attire of one of the denizens of the hive, more specifically one of the tiefling denizens of the Hive. That was to say, not too terribly much. However the style though, she was a bit more modest than most, and clearly not destitute by any means. If anything it could be said she was well dressed for comfort and practicality, while giving a nearly perfect appearance of being less than what she was. From the bits of leather armor just barely visible under her clothing and the concealed sword strapped to one thigh, and her quick and dodgy stance, she screamed out ‘thief’ and a not unskilled one.

The tiefling walked up, the light from one of the streetlamps falling on her mildly olive toned skin, shoulder length dark hair, and glittering in her greenish eyes. She smiled as a thin, reptilian tail jerked from side to side behind her, wrapping around one leg seemingly every other moment.

“So… you here for the ‘we’re getting pealed’ party too? I know I certainly am.” She said matter-of-factly as she pulled out a set of lock-picks and moved past Clueless and Fyrehowl to the door.

“You can’t get in there, I’ve already tried, I…” Clueless spoke as she crouched before the lock and seemed to ponder its shape for a half second before choosing a few select picks and bars.

“Suuuuure you have. That’s probably why I’m here. That and the fact that they’ve got me bent over a barrel. I woulda showed up just because if they’d asked me. Buuuut no, they had to be typical. Oh well. Anyway, you can call me Nisha. This should be easy, I…”

‘tink’ Her lockpick firmly hit the wall of force layered in front of the door and she blinked.

“Told you. And it’s gonna get preachy here in a second I think.” Clueless said as if on cue the same magic mouth appeared once again. Nisha was already making an almost comical face at the mouth as it started to rattle on.

“You were instructed to arrive at the stroke of Antipeak. It is not yet antipeak, and this door will not open until that time. In the future you will pay attention to orders more closely. It is currently six minutes till the time at which you were instructed to arrive. Patience is expected by your employer.”

	Clueless shrugged, “It did that to me too. Our employer is a control freak apparently.” Fyrehowl smirked and then tilted her head to the side slightly as Nisha rose to her feet and started pacing over the front of the inn.

	“What are you looking for?” the lupinal asked with perked, inquisitive ears.

	“Oh I’m just curious if Mr ‘Ooooh I’m a scary powerful wizard who likes force walls’ bothered to lock the windows on the second floor or block the chimney. I’m gonna break in otherwise, just because.” She chuckled and winked as she plucked a spider from a web on the side of one of the drainpipes of the inn.

	Clueless looked at the tiefling oddly as she examined the tiny arachnid, “What’s that…oh eww…” Nisha recited several words under her breath and swallowed the wriggling bug with a sour look on her face. After a moment in which she looked somewhat sick to her stomach she walked to the side of the inn and scampered lithely up the flat surface without bothering to use a rope or anything else. Just like the spider she’d swallowed, the girl skittered up the sheer rock and wood without so much as a stumble and vanished over the top of the roof.

	“Awwww, they sealed the chimney with one of those blasted force walls too. All the sodding luck in the planes, we had to get a competent wizard with something on us. Shoot.”

	Below, on the ground, Clueless and Fyrhowl both repressed an honest chuckle and then turned in the direction of heavy footsteps walking up an adjacent alley towards the inn. Striding up the alley was a tall, heavily armed and armored man with a grim, extraordinarily displeased look upon his face. He walked up to Clueless and Fyrehowl, nodded in a preoccupied manner and looked at the door.

	“So, Trenevain get something on you too?” Clueless asked.

	“Yes, you could definitely say that. He’s earned himself a sword in his gut, which is better than he deserves.”

	“Umm, yeah, I take it he has something personal on you then?”

	“Very much so.” Toras gritted his teeth in a manner that effectively silenced any more questions about his own blackmail particulars.

	Fyrehowl broke the momentary tension, “Pleased to meet you, I’m Fyrehowl, this is Clueless. And Nisha is around here… somewhere. You are?”

	Toras nodded and smiled at the celestial, “Toras of Andros, humble servant of the protector of children and the weak.”

	“Wow… you’re pretty… well armed for the job.” Clueless raised an eyebrow as he looked at the massive sword strapped to Toras’s side. Toras smiled in a way that likely would have made a fiend shiver. Fyrehowl suppressed a smile.

A small shower of dirt from above gather the attention of the three as they looked up to see what the commotion was.

“Oh pike it! They greased the sodding roof! Woah that’s slippery!” there were some muted sounds of sliding and the clatter of hooves on stone and iron.

	“Uhhh, you ok up there Nisha?” Fyrehowl said with some alarm. Several seconds passed without any reply. Clueless and the lupinal exchanged glances with each other and then both turned to look at the newly arrived half-celestial.

	“What’s she up there doing?” he asked.

	“Trying to break into the inn through a window or the chimney I think. The door’s blocked.” Clueless replied.

	“Have you just tried breaking the door? It can’t be that sturdy.” Toras asked and walked over to the door with a single gauntleted fist raised and tensed back.

	“Huh? Oh it’s not locked, it… aaand there it’s gonna go again.” Clueless sighed and Fyrhowl’s ears laid flat against her head and to the side.

	Toras’s fist feel short of the door, slamming directly into the invisible barrier with a hollow thud. The half-celestial didn’t seem to particularly phased or hurt, though he did seem surprised as the magic mouth reappeared on schedule.

	“You were instructed to arrive at the stroke of Antipeak. It is not yet antipeak, and this door will not open until that time. In the future you will pay attention to orders more closely. It is currently four minutes till the time at which you were instructed to arrive. Patience is expected by your employer.”

	“Told you.” Clueless leaned back against the wall next to the magically barricaded entrance.

	A few seconds later, Nisha dropped down to the ground next to the group with little more than a dull clatter of hooves on the ground. She brushed off her hands on the front of her vest and looked at Toras.

	“Wow, you’re tall. What are you actually? Oh, and there’s a fiend headed this way.” She sat down next to the door and looked completely unphased by anything so far, despite the unease that seemed to percolate through her companions. Fyrehowl smiled down at the tiefling and glanced over in the direction she had pointed. Walking sullenly down the street was a young human woman dressed in a cleric’s traveling robes embroidered with the holy symbol of Bast. She looked out of place in the Clerk’s Ward neighborhood, and she looked equally at ease as she approached the group assembled outside the door of the inn.

	“She’s a fiend? Since when did they get good looking?” Clueless poked Nisha’s shoulder and looked past Aren as she approached, clearly looking for a Vrock or Hamatula or something a bit more overt. Fyrehowl poked him back on the tiefling’s behalf, “She’s right actually…”

	The woman approached, only pale violet eyes betraying that she might be anything more than the comely woman that she appeared to be. Fyrehowl looked oddly at her for a moment, tensed slightly, then relaxed greatly and extended her hand.

	“You’re the last one here. I’m Fyrehowl, this is Clueless, the big one is Toras, and that’s Nisha there making faces at the door.”

	Aren smiled and nodded her head, looking better to have company and seemingly reassured to have met those in the same situation as herself. However she said nothing besides quietly introducing herself and bowing.

	Seconds later the quiet was broken by the pronounced ‘click!’ of the door’s locking mechanism as it was sprung open by some unseen device, hand, or more likely, spell. The magic mouth on the door appeared one final time.

	“It is now Antipeak and your employer is expecting you. Proceed inside to the top of the stairs and enter the third door on the left, do not tarry.” There were several muted snorts and rolling of eyes and angry twitches of tail as Nisha nudged open the door with her foot planted firmly in the jaw of the illusory mouth.

The door swung open and the five newly met companions walked into the darkness of the taproom of the inn. Light filtered through the spaces between the boards that covered the windows that faced the street. None of them however seemed to have any difficulty in making there way around in the dim light that faded into shadows near the back of the room. Several pairs of eyes gleamed red, purple or white as they made their way inside, betraying hints of darkvision and their own varied bloodlines.

Fyrehowl wrinkled her nose as she stepped into the room, “Smells like someone set a fire in here, there’s wood ash all in the air. Not fiendish though, there’s no lingering sulfur scent.”

One of the pair of reddish eyes blinked at that last comment, but otherwise said nothing. They all collected in the center of the room, letting eyes grow fully accustomed to the gloom and looking for the stairs.

The room was a shambles. Tables and chairs that had once seated patrons were scattered and tossed at random, and fully half of them seemed to have been partially consumed by flame. A layer of ash was scattered across the left side of the room and almost seemed to have been rolled in by some creature and scattered around.

“Alright, who let their pet fire mephit loose?” Nisha remarked as she moved towards the back of the room.

The old front desk and bar was on the far left of the taproom, and doors to adjoining rooms and likely the kitchen or wineceller were ajar behind the bar, under the flight of stairs at the rear of the room and stuck in the right far corner behind a charred stack of chairs. A loud ‘thud!’ echoed through the room as the tiefling collided with an invisible barrier to the right of the stairs.
“I’m getting to hate these things…” she rubbed at her forehead and winced as her tail flicked in annoyance.

“There’s another one over here too.” Toras laid his hand upon another invisible barrier, this one to the left of the stairs. Both force walls effectively blocked any access to the doors leading off from the room and only gave a single path from the entrance towards the stairs at the back.

“Cute.” Clueless rolled his eyes as he kicked at some ash and walked towards the stairs. Fyrehowl sneezed at the sudden scatter of soot into the air.
As the group paused and gazed up at the stairs and Nisha poked around the wood, looking for traps or other hazards, another magic mouth rose into existence behind one of the force walls.

“My patience is not unceasing. Not only were you to be prompt in arriving, but you had specific instructions as to where to go once you arrived. See to it that you follow - all - of your orders and not just some of them. Proceed. Now.” With that, the mouth vanished back into thin air.

“I really do hate him, really really do. Let’s go.” Toras walked past Nisha up the stairs, his weight giving way to soft protesting creaks from the wood.

“Ok, you set off the traps then. Not my way of springing any, but that works too.” Nisha waiting till the half celestial had passed then stuck out her tongue at his back. Clueless and Fyrehowl chuckled softly as the walked up the stairs as well, Nisha beamed a grin back at them.

The stairs ascended a story and then took a 90 degree turn to the left into a long corridor lined with doors and with a second set of stairs at the far end of its length. Several of the doors at even intervals were open while others seemed shut, perhaps locked. The third door on the left was closed, but through the space between the door and the floor, a pale yellow light washed out over the hallway in a semicircle.

“Looks like we’re expected people.” Clueless gripped the bundle under his arm and looked nervously at the others. Toras was already walking down the hallway, much to the chagrin of Nisha who sighed once again, rolled her eyes and put away her lock picks along with another small pouch.

The five of them clustered around the door and listened for a moment. Fyrehowl’s ears perked and strained, but she heard nothing except the sound of their own breathing. She nodded to the others and they opened the door which swung open to reveal a small twenty by twenty room. The room was lit by a bright magical glow and devoid of anything except five evenly spaced chairs along one wall opposite another door. Where there was once a window, it had been bricked over since the inn had closed.

“So much for them being prompt either,” Clueless said as he walked into the room. As he did so, yet another magic mouth activated, this one on the face of the room’s other door.

“Enter and be seated, your new employer will be meeting you shortly. This meeting will be short. You will be given a task and you will complete that given task without argument. You however, having made your betters wait, will wait yourselves. Be seated.”

Toras stood back up from where he had taken a seat and glowered in the direction of the door, but otherwise said nothing as Fyrehowl and Aren took their seats to flank Clueless. Nisha sat on the floor in front of her seat, her tail flitting side to side nervously. After a minute or so she plucked a copper piece out and flicked it across the floor towards the door opposite her. It rebounded without a sound several feet before it would have struck its target. Another wall of force.

“Yet another amazing surprise to shock and astound. I wonder what the next act’ll be?… someone kick me my coin back?” she made a face when no one did and muttered the phrases of a spell under her breath to snatch it back without having to stand and move. After she retrieved the coin she smiled and began to play with it on the floor.

“Apparently he likes force walls, a lot. Guess he thinks we might try to just kill him.” Clueless mused as he watched the tiefling spin her coin on the floor.
“I would.” Toras replied quickly, breaking his silence.

“I have to say I wouldn’t blame you…” the guardinal commented as the door across from them all opened and three figures entered.

A red robed fire genasi entered first, followed by two hulking Nycaloths who stood behind him, one to either side. Each of them held a single massive broadsword to their sides and gazed out to match the five where they sat. The wizard’s hair was a deep shade of orange and fluttered like an open flame, while his coal black eyes contrasted with his very obvious theme. Embroidered flames spiraled across his robes and dark fabric fringed the edges of the fabric like singe marks on burned cloth. Fyrehowl growled softly in the direction of the wizard’s bodyguards.

He smiled haughtily and spoke, “Welcome my little puppets. As you’ve all read my scrolls and seen my sigil upon each of them, my proper name is Bartol Trenevain. I’d apologize for the circumstances of your employment, but I don’t have to. Suffice to say, I’ve selected you all for various reasons that I needn’t share with you. But you’ll all work well together to obtain something of mine that was lost…”

“And if we say pike it to you?” Clueless asked, interrupting Trenevain.

“Then in your case you’ll end up either in the hands of the Baatezu, or a pile of ashes on the floor here as an example to your companions. Whichever I feel more appropriate at the moment.” The genasi snipped back and held up one hand that flickered with a sheath of flame he gestured out of thin air. Behind him, the Nycaloths glanced at Clueless, then to Trenevain, then oddly to each other. Diverting his attention from the wizard, Clueless blinked at that last detail.

“That settled, this is what I require of you. This… property… of mine was in transit across the first layer of Acheron when it was ambushed and taken by force by a host of orcish petitioners. They don’t have a clue what it is they possess and if my property is not recovered within a short period of time it may face irreparable damage. I will not stand for such to happen to that which is mine.”

“We can’t exactly find something of yours if you won’t tell us what it is?” Fyrehowl said as she gazed past Trenevain at the Nycaloths who had been staring at her with a lecher’s eye. Whether they intended to do such or not, their presence was making her horribly uncomfortably. And they clearly enjoyed it.

Trenevain paused and glanced back at them momentarily as one of them repressed a snicker. Both of them in turn glared back at him, and oddly he swallowed, recomposed himself and returned to his new employees. Again Clueless blinked at the play between bodyguards and their employer…
Trenevain pursed his lips angrily and continued, “You’ll find it because you’ll be provided with a planar compass that I’ve attuned to the property, or at least several items present in the same shipment. All you’ll need to do is follow the direction it gives to you. You’ll find it will hum when in close proximity to the package, and this will increase as you grow closer. When you locate the package you’re to take it safely to the nearest portal out of the plane.”

“And we…” Clueless began before Trenevain cut him off.

“Shut up boy. When in possession of my property the compass will point the way to the appropriate portal. You’ll follow its directions and it will serve as a portal key that one time, giving you access to a safe location to hand over my possessions to me.”

“You’re awful talkative for a dead man.” Toras said while looking directly at the wizard.

Again, one of the Nycaloths glanced down at Trenevain and the other drew his gaze though nothing was said. Aren narrowed her eyes at them as she sat quietly in the corner, not having said anything during the meeting as of yet. Fyrehowl glanced over at her curiously before Trenevain coughed to regain their attention.

“The door out of this room is a portal to Acheron. In this box, aside from your compass is the portal key. You’ll be leaving directly from here to that plane. However a word of advice before you go. You’ll likely be cube hopping so I’d advise you to utilize the Styx if possible. One of the ferrymen will accept you upon payment, and don’t be cheap if you wish to stay above water during your trip. Additionally, I’d hurry because the group or orcs in possession of my property are likely to be swamped by a force of goblin petitioners washing across several of the cubes presently. Getting caught in the wars between their respective pantheons would be unfortunate and likely deadly to you. Hopefully though you’ll be able to use that chaos and confusion in both of their ranks to slip in and reclaim what is mine.” With that, the genasi drew a small box out of his robe and held it out as he walked up to the boundary of the force wall.

“Take it one of you, you have placed to go and I have other matters to attend to.” He pushed the box through the force wall and held it out. The five blinked at him penetrating the barrier.

“How did you…?” Nisha asked. Trenevain ignored her question as Clueless walked up to take the box.

As he took it however he smirked at the wizard, “And oh… tell your minders we’re sorry if we have to kill you after this is over. Oh… did I say minders, I meant bodyguards. Truly I did.”

The wizard snarled at the half-fey and threw a punch through the barrier separating them both that caught Clueless across the face. Clueless fell to the ground clutching his jaw as the box clattered on the ground and Trenevain spat at him.

“Fool, I’m your owner and you’re an idiot to think any otherwise. Don’t make the mistake of taking me for less than I am ever again. Get out of my sight.” He walked towards the door he had come from originally and passed through still scowling. But sure enough as he passed his bodyguards they both looked at him in unison before following after him. Again, Aren stared in their direction with a look on intense concentration on her face.
Clueless slowly recovered and smacked the once again solid barrier with an open hand. “That’s just not sodding fair.”

“You’re telling me, I want to know how he did that!” Nisha chirped from where she still sat on the floor playing with the same copper piece. Toras muttered a string of curses and walked over to offer Clueless a hand up. “He’s dead, and so are those two Nycaloths.”

“I’ll help you, believe me. I just wish I knew more than I did about this.” Clueless replied as he stood up and opened the book that Trenevain had given them. Inside was a dried and broken bird’s wing, from its color, likely that of an executioner’s raven, now little more than a collection of feathers and bones; presumably the portal key to Acheron. Next to it and glowing a faint green was a smooth pearly orb, roughly the size of a large hen’s egg. Clueless took the wing and handed the orb to Fyrehowl then looked over towards the priestess of Bast.

“What was it that had you so quiet during that little speech?” Clueless asked.
Aren nodded back in the direction of the door that Trenevain and his bodyguards had left through. “Those two Nycaloths were talking to him most of the time he was talking to us. I couldn’t catch what they were saying, but they seemed to be telling him what to say and how to respond. Almost like they were coaching him. Bodyguards don’t do that sort of thing.”

“That was what I was thinking too. Who wants to bet that he’s as much a pawn in this as we are?” Clueless said back.

“Sounds reasonable, but I wonder just who it is we’re working for if it isn’t him.” Fyrehowl nodded and rolled the compass around between her paws.
“Just three more people to go along with that tiefling who’re going to die.” Toras said as he drew his sword and walked towards the exit, “Shall we get going?”

“Lighten up big guy, you might get to take out some of that anger here in a few minutes. Acheron has plenty of that stuff.” Nisha said without looking up from her spinning copper piece. “Plenty of that stuff, just hopefully not right on the other side of the portal, that would be bad.” She stood up and palmed the copper coin back to wherever she’d pulled it from in the first place.

The group gathered around the door and waited as Clueless took the broken bird’s wing and pushed it past the plain of the bound space of the doorway. Instantly the door vanished and was replaced with a swirling whorl of colors, mostly rusty browns and reds mixed with gray. The five companions looked at each other, drew their weapons and jumped through the portal.


----------



## LGodamus

woohoo.....I can feel the wheels of intrigue turning


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## shilsen

Very nice! So exactly what classes and races do we have in this group?


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## Clueless

1) Half fey bladesinger (This was before the half-fey template was released, so expect the rules to be slightly bent - but the template is pretty comparable.)
2) Tiefling rogue/wizard
3) Half celestial fighter (Toras? Were you into the PrC you wrote up yet?)
4) Celestial lupinal barbarian
5) Succubus Priestess of Bast


----------



## Toras

Nope, I started that after I first began to level.  A little point of interest on my origins.  Half Human, Half Quasar.  As to how that happened well, thats a story for another time.


----------



## shilsen

Clueless said:
			
		

> 1) Half fey bladesinger (This was before the half-fey template was released, so expect the rules to be slightly bent - but the template is pretty comparable.)
> 2) Tiefling rogue/wizard
> 3) Half celestial fighter (Toras? Were you into the PrC you wrote up yet?)
> 4) Celestial lupinal barbarian
> 5) Succubus Priestess of Bast



 Thanks. 

Re. Toras' comment, what's a quasar? I presume it has a meaning in Planescape besides the astronomical sense


----------



## Toras

ooc: Working from memory as I don't know what happened to my Warriors of Heaven.

They are a race of psuedo-constructs created by the guardinals, possible as warriors or servants ages ago.  They are chaotic but powerfully good-aligned.  They are intelligent but lack much in the way of social or personal aptitudes.  Only a limited number exist, but the original number was massive enough that no one knows how many exists now. 

They gain sustance from the sun, and cannot exist without it or a similar source for long periods.  They can generate devestating beams of energy far beyond even that of the eladrin.

Sometimes one will decide it is his/her time to die, and descend to the lower planes and kill as many demons/devils as they can before they are taken down.


----------



## Shemeska

shilsen said:
			
		

> Thanks.
> 
> Re. Toras' comment, what's a quasar? I presume it has a meaning in Planescape besides the astronomical sense




The Quasar are a race of celestials that are more construct than living being. They appear as vaguely humanoid beings composed of pure light, sometimes with a somewhat half-elven aspect. They are native to the swampy 3rd layer of Elysium, Belarian, but largely as a result of being created there rather than being true children of that plane.

They were created by a group of lawful Aasimon in the dim past, originally intended as servitors to the Aasimon, much as the Aasimon serve as servitors to the deities. They did their work too well and the Quasar had free will with which they decided to first question their orders and then disobey them. The Aasimon tried to force their place upon them when the true deities of Elysium stepped into the conflict and ordered a halt to it. They declared that by the nature of Elysium, such enforced lawful will had no place, and the Quasar were to be free to do as they chose in their good aligned nature. The Aasimar grudgingly allowed this.

The Quasar are few in number and largely stay in Elysium, though every so often one of them will descend into the Gray Waste or another lower plane and give their own life to obliterate as many fiends as they can. The rightious fury of a self sacrificing Quasar is one of the most terrifying sights for a fiend to ever see. Imagine a celestial glowing brighter and brighter as it fights until it erupts in an explosion of holy energy that incinerates everything around it as its last living act.

How you got a half Quasar in Toras's case, that's bit of a backstory for his character that I'll leave at his discretion.


----------



## Ican'tthinkofaname

Your writing is some of the best I have ever read, have you tried writing a book? If not you should, I would certainly buy it.


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## Shemeska

Ican'tthinkofaname said:
			
		

> Your writing is some of the best I have ever read, have you tried writing a book? If not you should, I would certainly buy it.




You flatter me, and seriously, I'm not that good. My grammer is wretched, this is what happens when a molec. biologist tries to write fiction.   

This here is the closest I'll likely ever get to writing a book. At the current rate I'll be writing this storyhour in its entirety well after the campaign it follows is ended. I'm a year and a half into what was originally planned to be somewhere around a 2-2.5 year metaplot.

I've also got a half dozen short stories floating around and ideas for a few more bouncing around my head. Oddly enough, around half of them serve as very loose backplot to this storyhour for some of the NPCs, fleshes out thei personalities more and gives a better insight into their motivations later on. However they're not needed to read the storyhour here since I wrote them well after the campaign was started, and it was largely just as an excercise for myself to help me get a firmer grip of their personalities.

Eventually I might try and write something with a snowball's chance in Phlegethos of being published (outside of a research journal). I'm considering submitting a few ideas to Dragon mag, dunno how that'll work out though. My first submission got lost in the editor transitions there, and the newest editor thought the idea was too DM focused and not player focused enough. *shrug*

I enjoy this, no need to rush to anything.


----------



## Clueless

I dunno - I'm thinkings Sigil's Guide at www.planewalker.com counts as a book - the entire chapter is what? 90 pages long?


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## Shemeska

Clueless said:
			
		

> I dunno - I'm thinkings Sigil's Guide at www.planewalker.com counts as a book - the entire chapter is what? 90 pages long?




Something like that, though it's up in a reduced font and smaller format on PW. I still like some of the shortstories more though.


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## shilsen

Shemeska said:
			
		

> You flatter me, and seriously, I'm not that good. My grammer is wretched, this is what happens when a molec. biologist tries to write fiction.




There are grounds for improvement, but I wouldn't go as far as to say your grammar is wretched. Then again, maybe I'm biased after grading sixty undergrad literature papers   

I do think, however, that you're an evocative writer and a definite pleasure to read. Admittedly part of that comes from my (and your other readers') awareness of the fact that you are writing up sessions from a game I enjoy playing and so I'm vicariously sharing in your campaign, but besides that I think you're a good writer.

So write us some more stuff, okay ?


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## Shemeska

shilsen said:
			
		

> There are grounds for improvement, but I wouldn't go as far as to say your grammar is wretched. Then again, maybe I'm biased after grading sixty undergrad literature papers
> 
> I do think, however, that you're an evocative writer and a definite pleasure to read. Admittedly part of that comes from my (and your other readers') awareness of the fact that you are writing up sessions from a game I enjoy playing and so I'm vicariously sharing in your campaign, but besides that I think you're a good writer.
> 
> So write us some more stuff, okay ?




*smiles* You poor thing, 60 undergrad lit papers. Youch. *looks balefully at the stack of 68 undergrad lab papers to grade*

Constructive criticism is a joy to receive usually, thank you 
And there's more on the way, I'm already well into the next section for this week, and I'll be revising this last update based on suggestions from my players they were kind enough to write up and give to me. *pokes Clueless*


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## LGodamus

68 papers to grade?        Is that all?  That means you should be done with a new update in no time , right?


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## Clueless

Shemeska said:
			
		

> And there's more on the way, I'm already well into the next section for this week, and I'll be revising this last update based on suggestions from my players they were kind enough to write up and give to me. *pokes Clueless*




Hey now! *pokes back* Get thee back in thy writing cage, Fuzzface. 
Sides - I like seeing you get better and better at writing


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## omrob

Excellent story. I really like the evil bastard of a wizard your'e bustin out. 

Early on, with all the Clueless stuff, was evocative of one of my favorite DnD PC Games - Torment. 

I'll keep readin


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## Shemeska

omrob said:
			
		

> Early on, with all the Clueless stuff, was evocative of one of my favorite DnD PC Games - Torment.




Thanks for the praise *smile*

Oddly enough, I'd never played PS: Torment till after I'd been running the game. However, don't worry, Clueless's stuff is rather different from the amnesiac plot of that game.


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## Shemeska

*Mmmm, the smell of orc, goblin and iron in the morning...*

[This was written late in the week mostly, and I've not had time to edit it at all. Next week I plan on going back through to make some edits as well as revise the last update as well. But I figured you'd all appreciate an update now rather than waiting most of next week for me to tweak the grammer. Apologies if anything looks funky in the sentance structure.]




In an instant Sigil was gone and replaced with a singular moment of darkness, a sensation of weightlessness and instant, terrible cold. Barely a moment later and it was gone as they all emerged onto a surface of pitted iron, a patch of ground upon the flat surface of a massive cube floating in the endless expanse of Acheron’s first layer of Avalas. Overhead the sky was pitch black but dotted with distant cubes, all in slow states of motion hung there in the sky like bloated modron corpses under a new moon.

Fyrehowl shivered despite the warm temperature emanating from the metal underfoot. The celestial was clearly uncomfortable within Acheron, but she was not the only one of the five to appear so distressed. Both Toras and Nisha looked anxious to be gone from the plane and while the fighter did his best to stomach his discomfort, the tiefling was actively pacing and hoping from thin hoof to thin hoof. Her tail fully betrayed her feelings as it whipped from side to side fitfully.

“I really, really don’t like this plane… where’re we going fuzzy… you… celestial lady… Fyrehowl, yeah. Where’s the compass point?”

Fyrehowl smiled despite her unease with the conflict of her very being with the nature of Acheron. She took out the compass and held it in her hand, then spun in a slow circle before pointing off in one particular direction. That direction wasn’t to a point on the current cube, rather it went up slightly, roughly in the direction of another cube that drifted distantly in the sky. “That way, maybe that cube off in the distance. Shall we fly, or …?”

She let the question hang and looked at her companions. Clueless was looking away and towards a glimmer perhaps a mile distant that cut across the face of the cube, drifting more or less in a line towards the direction the lupinal was pointing towards.

“I think the Styx is over that way if we don’t want to fly, I don’t think all of us can.” Clueless said as he pointed towards the infernal river.

“I can solve the can’t fly part, but I only have so many of the potions for it. I don’t carry around more than I expect to use in a week or so. I work alone usually, no sense to carry more.” Nisha pointed towards the small satchel slung around one shoulder that dangled near to her hip.

They bantered some more, discussing the benefits and risks of going by way of the Styx. Fyrehowl seemed adamantly against it, but the others seemed to think it was best, despite the dangers involved. Finally, despite the lupinal’s ill ease with travel upon the black, infernal river, they set out across the warped steel surface of the cube face towards the serpentine river as it cut its way across the landscape.

Some twenty, uneventful minutes later the group stood upon the banks of the Styx where it had worn smooth and deep the metal of the cube by untold millennia of passage. The water ran unexpectedly fast, surging along in places to send up a mist of syrupy water. The water itself was black as the void above them, foul smelling and thick with hints of shapes reaching out of the currents to snatch at anything foolish enough to swim its depths. Nisha blinked hard and shook her head as they stood upon the bank, Toras and Fyrehowl both stood some feet back from the bank, while Clueless and Aren stood close to the edge, only inches back from the water. The mist off of the river made them pause and shift as its memory sapping influence sought to insinuate itself, only a few seconds of this made all of them step further back from the bank.

“So, what now? I don’t see anyone sitting around with a boat looking friendly and wanting to give strangers rides.” Nisha sat near the bank and questioned aloud to her companions.

Clueless looked back at her, then back to the river with a vague nagging feeling in the back of his mind concerning his own loss of memory. He said nothing, but at his pause, Fyrehowl spoke.

“You just need to stand near the bank and hold out a coin, the fiends know where you are. If they want to ferry you, they’ll appear. Don’t expect them to be trustworthy though.”

The others nodded and waited near the edge. Nisha began playing with the same copper piece she had before at the inn and Toras held a pair of stingers in his hand. Aren looked over at him, “They’ll take your money, but you do know that’s going to burn them to touch, yes?”

Toras smirked, “That’s why I’m paying in silver…”

“You try that at a few bars in the Hive I know of, wow… they won’t take kindly to you. Just don’t get us capsized ok?” Nisha mused up at the half-celestial.

Barely a minute had passed by when the waters some distance upstream seemed to flicker slightly and the ripples across the surface heralded the sudden appearance of a previously unseen skiff. Seemingly emerging from the river itself, or out of thin air, a slim, flat-bottomed skiff drifted with the currents downstream. Standing motionless at the back of the craft was a tall, rail thin figure wrapped in a tattered brown robe. It held a boatman’s pole cradled in its arms but the craft seemed to move of its own accord down the river without any action on the ferryman’s part.

“Why is it I suddenly feel more like flying?” Nisha’s tail twitched nervously as the boat drifted closer, slowed its approach and came to a silent rest on the metallic riverbank.

The boatman stood motionless in the skiff, only lifting its cowled head to reveal the jaundiced, skeletal face of a Marraenoloth. Twin burning reddish eyes seethed silent and malign from its skeletal eyesockets as it slouched forwards slightly, resting its weight on the pole in its arms. It seemed to be waiting for some word or request from the group.

Aren spoke first, “We need to buy passage from here to –that- cube there. Can you take us there?” she pointed up into the sky at the distant cube. The Yugoloth ferryman turned to look up in the direction of her hand, then back to her with its emotionless gaze. It said nothing, but stepped to the side and extended one of its hands out to her, palm up as if waiting for payment.

“Thank you.” Aren said as she nodded to the rest of her companions and placed a small gem into the palm of the Marraenoloth. It closed its hand and allowed her to step into the boat before repeating its stance for Toras. When it opened its hand for the fighter however the priestess’s gem was gone even though none of them had seen the fiend stow the gem anywhere visible.
Toras placed both of his coins in the palm of the ‘loth which then curled its hand around them and let him step into the boat. As he passed by however, its gaze followed him for a moment before it turned to accept payment from Fyrehowl. 

The lupinal paid the fiend its money in gold and never once turned her gaze away from staring directly into its face, unwavering and slightly confrontational. The fiend said nothing, nor did it give her a response as it allowed her to enter the boat. Nisha paid next in a number of small gemstones that another ‘collector of donations’ might have noted to have apparently come from rings or other jewelry, pried from their original settings.

Finally Clueless was the last standing upon the bank of the river, waiting to pay the fiend for passage. He paused as his hand closed around his severed purse strings still hanging upon his belt. He stiffened and shut his eyes in frustration, only now remembering that he hadn’t a copper to his person. Still, the fiend was rigid with the same hand open for payment, two small discolorations on its flesh from where Toras’s silver coins had touched its palm.

“I can’t pay you, I don’t have any coin. Can one of my companions pay for me?” he seemed wary and self-conscious. The boatman didn’t move but kept its hand open for him as Fyrehowl began to take out several coins to pay for the bladesinger. As she did so, the ‘loth turned on her and shook its head. Angrily she put away her coin.

“How is he supposed to come with us if he doesn’t have coin, and we can’t pay for him?”

The Marraenoloth smiled grimly and touched its pole upon the edge of the bank as if to push the skiff off into the river and leave Clueless behind.

“Wait! I can’t just, I mean…” Clueless looked alarmed and so did his companions at the ferryman’s threat. Then, something odd happened. The boatman turned rapidly to look at Clueless and paused, gazing at him. He had the sudden impression that the fiend was looking -through- him, not at him. It canted its head slightly at an angle, blinked its crimson eyes and withdrew to the front of the craft to allow Clueless room to enter.

Not one to reject such an offer, he jumped about the ship and took a seat next to Fyrehowl. All of his companions looked curiously at the boatman’s back as the vessel moved away from the riverbank and rapidly moved downstream with the current.

“You’re one with words, I just hope he doesn’t drown us all now. I’ve never known them to give free rides either.” Fyrhowl bared her teeth and silently scowled at the Marraenoloth’s back as the craft sped down the river. Beside her, Clueless sat and wondered what in the hells the last minute or so meant. He couldn’t well answer it.

The boat moved across the face of the current cube till the group could see the approaching end of the current face several miles downriver. At the edge gravity seemed to flip over to the new orientation and soon they made the transition without so much as a jolt. Unexpectedly though an hour later the vessel sped off down a tributary to the sound of raging water. The boatman gave no warning and suddenly the vessel passed through a pocket of mist and churning water. The boat rocked and there was the sensation of weightlessness for a moment of two before the skiff re-emerged onto the river seemingly on another cube entirely.

Toras looked up, “The sky is different, we’re on a different cube. What does the compass say?”

The tiefling took out the compass and glanced at it. “This is the right cube I think. It’s starting to get warm actually.” She turned around in her place next to Toras and felt out the compass points for a direction. Finally, she pointed in a place roughly fifteen degrees off from where the vessel was headed. The compass –had- been held by the lupinal, and she hadn’t given it up as far as anyone had seen. Fyrehowl said nothing but quickly checked her other pouches for their proper contents.

	“This is our stop.” Toras said to the fiend’s back as the vessel was already slowing and drifting towards the edge of the bank. As the boat alighted on the bank and stopped, the Marraenoloth gestured to the shore and turned away from them, making as if to put out onto the waters again. The party complied with its unspoken wish and stepped out onto the shore of rough, knobby iron dusted with reddish black rust.

	Nisha held out the compass again with a pointed grin at the celestial. “That way. Getting pretty close it seems.” Behind her, the boatman and its skiff silently glided away with the current. Almost imperceptibly it glanced in their direction as it drifted away without a sound, its eyes glimmering like hot steel.

	As the group traveled further from the Styx, the steel of the cube became warped and disrupted. From a distance it might have seemed as if some massive hand had reached down and crushed and bent the surface. And considering the unending wars of extermination between the orcish and goblinoid pantheons on the first layer of Acheron, the cause of the damage might have been less natural than deific. Regardless of the proximate cause of the warped metal, the normally flat surface of the cube was folded and rippled into a series of sharp hills, valleys and vales. A perfect place for hiding troops from the sight of armies marching on the flat surfaces of the cube, or even from hostile forces in the next valley over.

	An hour later, having traveled in the direction of the compass’s more and more urgent pushing, the five crept along the base of a series of sharp, shallow hills. Halfway along their length, the lupinal stopped and perked her ears. She signaled for the group to pause as she strained to listen to some otherwise imperceptible sound that eluded her companions.

	“There’s something ahead, I’d guess a camp or a group of people. I can barely make out some fires, maybe some drums, pack animals maybe, iron shod boots on the cube surface… try and be quiet once we get near the top of the ridge ahead.”

	Toras drew his sword as she signaled the possible danger ahead. Aren sighed slightly and took out her wand again as Clueless drew his own blade. Nisha played with the compass some more.

	“Yep, whatever we’re looking for, that seems like where it is. Umm…” she looked at Toras specifically. “Yeeeeaaaahhh… it might be nice if we could be quiet and all sneaky like for this? I don’t do sieges, and well, even all of us couldn’t if there’s lots of people on the other side of the hills here. I can make us all invisible, and if you can fly, all the better.”

	Nisha passed around a number of vials and potion bottles, all of them in a different style and color of bottle, none of them likely paid for in the first place. Clueless spread out his wings and muted their colors to a pure, deep black without any other illumination as Fyrehowl lifted slightly off the ground. Toras looked up at the both of them and smirked as he quaffed two of the potions Nisha had given him. He too began to hover slightly as he faded from view.

	“Try not to bump into each other, invisibility doesn’t let you see anyone else you know. And there’s a story there I’ll have to tell you later.” Nisha likewise quaffed two potions and soon the entire group was aloft and hidden from view. Silently, riding the wind they edged over the top of the ridge.

	Stretching out below them, situated on the other end of the small bowl of a valley was a walled encampment. Orcs sprawled across the camp and groups of dozens of them marched in squads outside the hastily erected fortifications. Each of the four corners of the site had a squat observation tower, more for noticing anyone approaching over the hills than seeing beyond them so as not to reveal the location of the camp itself beyond the valley. Disorganized clusters of tents surrounded cookfires and several small wooden buildings seemed to comprise the barracks of officers and perhaps weapons storage. 

However, that was not the site that most garnered the group’s attention. Their gaze, and the pull of the compass in Nisha’s hand was drawn towards an iron building sitting on a small, artificial mound at the center of the camp. The building was surrounded by guards at its single gated entrance, and a great banner was erected overtop of it, emblazoned with a symbol of a crushed goblin skull within a field of red with black watery curls surrounding the primary image. Orcish runes recounted recent victories in battle by the Blood River orc clan.

	Cloaked by Nisha’s potion, Toras’s voice whispered to the others, “There’s a lot of them, but I think we can distract them enough to get into the center building. Looks like their clan trophy room and treasury. Anything important would be there, and looks like our package is there as well. Any ideas?”

	Aren spoke up, “They’ve got a mix of mortals and petitioners for what its worth. I can tell anyways.” Fyrehowl nodded unseen.

	“Looks like there’s a number of clerics walking around as well. Hopefully they expect something large, like a siege, and not a smaller pack… group, like us.”

	“Pack? We must be growing on you.” Clueless chuckled back and tried to reach out to poke the lupinal. He only grabbed on thin air though.

	“Well, I think that…umm… what in the sodding hells is that?!” Nisha’s train of thought derailed suddenly as the far side of the camp erupted in chaos. Beyond the far wall of the camp the sky was lit with the telltale flashes of teleportation magic and screaming goblins and hobgoblins descended on the orc encampment. The companions could only stare and watch in abject shock as an explosion suddenly erupted on one of the guard towers and it toppled inwards. The camp became a mass of screams, shrieks and bellows as the goblin raiders poured into the camp to meet the larger, but haphazardly organized orcs. Blade met blade, and more often than not, flesh as the mixed mortal and petitioner forces clashed openly.

	In the chaos, the guards surrounding the center building rushed from their posts to repulse those goblins that had breached the walls. As they did, a number of teleportation flashes burst near the rear of the building. The orcs seemed not to notice, but the companions did.

	“Oh pike it! They’re getting in where we need to be! Best distraction ever, move!” Nisha lamented as she flew over the walls towards the fortified building with the rest of the party in tow.

	They reached the outer door as an explosion shook the building from its rear and the sound of tortured steel rang over the din of battle. Hurriedly, Nisha picked at the lock for several seconds and it fell to the ground as Toras battered against the frame. Unlocked, the door fell inwards with the force of his blow, likely weakened in some way by the damage to other side of the structure. Several flashes of light washed over the group as they barged inside to nearly stumble over several dead orc bodies and listen to the scream of others outside rushing towards their location.

	The inside of the building, peppered with soot and burning iron as it was from the explosion that had torn a rough hole in the back wall was a sight to behold. At least seven barrels sat on the ground, each of them packed to overflowing with silver and gold coins. Open crates filled with iron and gold ingots stood opposite them on the other wall. A pile of carved and decorated goblin skulls, each inscribed with the name of the former owner stood stacked above a pile of stolen weapons, heraldry, banners and standards taken in battle from a goblin clan identified on the banners as the ‘Venom Fangs’. The standards on the items on the floor matched those borne by the goblins currently attacking the campsite.

	“What’s the compass say? Which of these is it?” Fyrehowl shouted as she and Toras moved to block the entrance against the group of five orcs rushing the hill to fight what they seemed to presume were goblins.

	Nisha’s now visible face was a mask of large, overwhelmed eyes and a giddy grin as she looked at the wealth surrounding her. She blinked and shook off the luster lust as she examined the compass. Giving a confused look she glanced back to Clueless and Aren as she moved to the back of the room and stopped near to the hole blasted in the iron wall at the rear.

	As Nisha fervently looked for the object they had come for, orcish bellows at the main entrance were suddenly cut off as Fyrehowl and Toras turned visible, their swords impaled solidly in the chests of two orcs. Those behind them screamed curses and rushed the doorway. Three fighters fought against the lupinal and half-celestial, hard pressed despite their larger numbers. Behind them however a single orc dressed in vestments of Shargaas the Nightlord pointed into the room, directing a towering, heavily tattooed companion that hefted a massive greataxe.

	Aren turned visible as she stared intently at one of the orcs. He blinked, suddenly confused and looked at his sword then up at Fyrehowl. He started to apologize for mistaking her for a goblin when Toras cleaved through his arm and into his upper chest, dropping him in a bloodied pile.

	Fyrhowl had slashed one of the other remaining orcs as the larger one laughed and approached, greataxe in hand. Behind him, the cleric was waving his hands and chanting a spell in deep, intoning language. Shouting a curse he hurled his hand out towards the party as a black wave burst outwards in the center of the room. Fyrehowl faltered and her defense dropped as she grimaced in pain from the spell, Toras seemed to mostly shrug it off as he parried the first whistling cleave of the largest orc’s axe. Clueless likewise seemed to mostly shrug off the spell’s effects as he rushed forwards, flying over the heads of the orcs at the door in an attempt to reach the spell hurling cleric. 

	Behind them all, Aren and Nisha seemed to be out of the range of the spell’s effect. Over the fighting Nisha shouted in frustration. “Pike it all, they took it!” She glanced at the ground and several items scattered there, then back to her party.

	Back at the door, Fyrehowl, sickened by the cleric’s spell, took a spear jab in her left shoulder as one of the several thrusts at her broke through her defense. Toras bellowed and swung at the orc chieftain, wounding it heavily and wiping the smirk of arrogance from its face.

	Clueless dove at the cleric, slashing his sword up the length of its forearm and disrupting its spellcasting. Landing behind the wounded orc and ducking into a crouch, several upward thrusts silenced its screams to its patron deity as it slumped heavily to the ground.

	The death scream of the cleric gathered the attention of the chieftain, and with its brief look of concern behind it, its greataxe dipped slightly as Toras jabbed his blade between its ribs. It jerked and turned to look at him, then the blade lodged in its ribs. It seemed incredulous as it tilted forwards with blank, glazed over eyes, dead.

	As the cleric and chieftain lay dead, the resolve and moral of the remaining two orcs failed and they died by Fyrehowl’s blade as they turned to run. Toras touched some minor wounds he had taken in the fight, then helped steady Fyrehowl who grimaced at the wound in her shoulder. Aren touched the wound and whispered a soft prayer to her patron, calling on her to close and heal the wound. Her hand began to glow with a pale rose light and in seconds the wound had vanished.

	“Better?” the priestess asked. Fyrehowl nodded, “Thank you. We should hurry though, they’ll be sending more soon.”

	Outside the battle still raged and dimly, the lupinal’s ears perked to listen for the sound of other approaching orcs or goblins. “We need to leave now, there’s more coming this way. What’s back there Nisha?”

	The others glanced warily at the door and approached the tiefling where she crouched on the floor next to an iron ring in the wall. A broken length of chain and a single snapped leg shackle dangled from it next to a small spattering of blood. The compass in her hand flashed with an intermittent light.

	“The what was a who… and the goblins took her.” She frowned and her tail jerked side to side in irritation. A chorus of disappointed groans echoed from the others.

	“Does the compass point to where she is now?” Clueless asked with some concern in his voice.

	“Yeah, looks like they teleported to another cube. More flying for us at the very least, and it’s down.” She pointed towards the floor. “Either the bottom of this cube, or maybe even the next layer of the plane. This isn’t going to be as easy as we’d hoped.”

	Nisha stood up and held out a long wooden case with a lock dangling open at its side, “This was chained to the wall too. The compass hums when it goes near some of the stuff in here so it looks like it was the stuff of the prisoner here. Grab some of the gold and we should leave.”

	The inside of the case held several items lain over the top of a folded black robe that swirled with runes burned into the dark velvet. A long, golden etched sword and a matched, red bladed dagger lay on top of the robe along with a set of simple but visibly glowing bracers and a pair of sparkling rings. Nisha pushed the robe to one side to reveal a slim leather spellbook or two underneath the robe. 

	“Somebody had themselves a wizard…and our employer evidently wants them. I’m not so sure I want to meet them though.” The tiefling frowned as she closed the case and slipped it into her satchel.
	“Why is that?” Aren asked curiously.

	Nisha pointed back towards her satchel as she moved to quickly dump coins from one of the barrels into it. “Because that robe was a black Archmage’s robe. Doesn’t do a think for a mage who isn’t evil, in fact, I think it hurts anyone who isn’t. And the dagger was poisoned. Lovely huh?” Then Nisha’s greed quickly got the best of her.

	For a frantic minute or two, the group gathered as much of the gold and silver as they could before they rapidly bolted from the building. Outside the orcs were beginning to rout the goblins that had begun to teleport back from where they had come from. Presumably they had spellcasters with them capable of the task. In seconds though, the five had flown beyond the range of the archers and any spellhurlers from the orc encampment and were moving with rapid speed to the east across the face of the cube, skirting the land as much as possible. 

The compass drew them onwards and as they approached the rim of the cube it became readily apparent that their target had been taken to another cube entirely. In fact, based on the direction the magical bauble was pointing them in, their path led down into the void past the point where the cubes hung solid and whole. Down in the darkness, the cubes began to appear broken and battered, incomplete and unwhole; somewhere in the depths of Thuldanin their quarry was waiting.


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## shilsen

Ah, an update! Nice way to start the weekend.

As I mentioned before, I'm running a planar campaign too and am thinking of allowing some of the spells from the 3e MotP, with a few tweaks. One which I can see being very helpful for (and detrimental to) both PCs and NPCs is Zone of Respite. I put up a question about it here. Care to comment?


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## solomanii

Shem I am curious, did this adventure start at level 1?  I assume this is before savage species came out, so are these overpowered PCs (as in high ECL so it takes more xp to level) or did you use something similiar to Savage Progression?

Keep up the good work.


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## dal673

Hi Shemeska!
I've followed your posts here at the EN boards and at WOTC's MotP and Planescape boards.
For quite some time now I've read your story here and I really love it!
My party's just escaped Ravenloft (well 2 out of 4, the others died in the final battle against Azalin's most powerfull allies over the Rift Spanner) and are up in the planes now. 
I will DEFINATELY use some of your masterful ideas here...

Keep up the good work! I'll check this page 2 to 3 times a week.

Greetz,

Dennis


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## Clueless

Started at level 10 roughly - 10 to 12 along those lines.
And for all over a year and a half plus change playing... we're level 22 now.


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## Shemeska

*I am the very model of a 'lothy individual...*

Odd, for whatever reason I've not been getting the reply notifications for the thread here. Otherwise I would have responded before Clueless did. 

Yes, they started around level 10 or so, and I did my own little ad hoc ECL determinations for some of the characters. The lupinal and the succubus being the prime examples.

And don't worry about checking so often, I'll only have the time to update 1/week at the moment, though I might speed up over the summer. We'll see. *grin*


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## solomanii

Topic notification has been disabled.


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## solomanii

This is unacceptable Shem!  Update!


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## Clueless

We've kidnapped him. If you want to see updates... deliver 20 million jink in unmarked coinage to a small hovel in Plaguemort, you will find the address attached to this scroll. Do not go to the Sons of Mercy. Do not go to the Hardheads. Do not contact celestials, if you want to see Shemmie alive.

(  )


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## dal673

I'll still check the site regurlarly... ;-)
BTW, do you know when your next post will be, Shemeska?
(hoping that my contribution to the 'kidnappers' of Shemeska will keep their promise...)

Greetz,

Dennis


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## Shemeska

It'll be sometime this week, hopefully sooner rather than later. I was done with the majority of the next update as of 4am Saturday morning, but I didn't like the flow of it and it seemed a bit rushed. So in the name of quality control and 'not wanting my players to beat me up for misrepresenting their characters' I'm sitting on it for the moment till I have time to revise it.

I'll make up for the delay by writing more onto the end. And I guess I should add that I had intended to run a varient of this plot at GenCon this year possibly, so belated spoilers. 

Or I could run a varient of the Pandemonium plot I'll get to writing up here in the storyhour eventually some time down the line... and my players can cringe at the memories of that one. Muahaha.


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## Shemeska

*I reveal a little and then leave you at a cliffhanger. Muahaha!*

With a slight bit of trepidation as the five looked at each other, they hurled themselves over the edge of the cube face to fly down into the ebon void. The air grew chill as they flew further and further into the darkness and away from the last cube. The continent sized block of metal receded at a rate far quicker than it should have, and when it began to grow suddenly distant and far off there was a slight shudder in the air as they passed the ephemeral dividing line between the first and second layer of Acheron.

	Fyrhowl looked over at Nisha as they flew onwards. The tiefling seemed even more disturbed than before, shivering every so often and looking distinctly uncomfortable.

	“Are you ok there Nisha?” the lupinal asked. The tiefling shrugged and looked around at the broken, weathered cubes and the other less distinct shapes that hung like dulled ornaments on sackcloth around them near and far.

	“No, the planes getting to me. I’m about as chaotic as they come, and well, Acheron isn’t… I’ll be fine though. It’s just going to make me feel a bit sick if we stay here much longer. If that’s all I feel though while we’re here, that’s fine. Believe me, it could get a lot worse than it has.”

	Perhaps the plane heard the Xaositect (yet though she it to hadn’t that companions she was mentioned her) and sought to pick out the chaotic irritation blundering about upon it, or perhaps true to form for the tiefling, things simply happened by random chance just because and without any real reason. As she and her companions flew down in the dark, following the direction of their planar compass, something saw them and acted.
	Turning visible at the last possible moment as it dove screaming out of the void, a green skinned, thin winged beast careened towards the group with a mind-piercing shriek. Seated upon its back in a cushioned saddle sat a richly robed, tiger headed humanoid. Before they could react, the Rakshasa loosed a spell from a wand in one backwards-pawed hand and its Yrthrak mount bellowed a cone of deafening sound.

	A tiny flaming bead closed the distance between the companions and their attacker, growing larger as it sped towards them before exploding in their midst with a pyroclastic roar. Already in motion, they avoided most of the flames, but none of them escaped unsinged or unhurt.

	“Oh son of a bitch!” Toras exclaimed as he glanced at the rider and its mount wheeling around for a second pass. Nisha’s eyes grew wide as she recognized the type of fiend attacking them and she dove downwards and away from the group should it loose another area affecting spell.

	Clueless and Fyrehowl, both of them used to flight, and attacking while doing so, shot off to intercept the Rakshasa as Toras hovered next to the priestess as she began to invoke the name of her patron power. Halfway to the fiend, the bladesinger and the lupinal saw two spells strike at the greenish, screaming mount. Tiny, flaming barbs shot out from a wand in Nisha’s hands as a golden burst of light erupted on the Yrthrak. The mount stumbled in its flight, slowing down long enough for the two fighters to close within striking distance.

	The Rakshasa bellowed a string of curses in heavily accented infernal, all of the words being half roared and half spoken. A bolt of lightning struck out at clueless and Fyrhowl as the fiend held up one paw, half an invocation for the magic, and half in a crude gesture. The bolt flung wide as the Rakshasa’s mount jerked in pain, barely missing Clueless as he rolled to his left and slashed at the mount with his sword. The blade bit deep on the creature, as it made no attempt to avoid. In fact, the Yrthrak seemed to be still in some state of shock or disorientation following Aren’s spell.

	The fiend roared again and slashed with a black bladed scimitar at Fyrehowl as her sword carved into the mount twice in long slashes across its flank before a third slash buried itself into its back. A spray of black blood drifted out, falling into the void and the mount screamed madly in pain, convulsing as it died.

	Abandoning his shuddering mount, the Rakshasa hurled himself off the mount and into open space, hurtling downwards in a flying rustle of black robes flapping in the updraft. Fyrehowl moved to return to the other three party members as the fiend fell out of sight, still snarling impotently in fainter and fainter outbursts. Clueless however did the opposite and hurled himself downwards, chasing after the sorcerer with his sword out and aimed for its heart. The half-fey’s black wings shimmered in the darkness and swept back behind him as he sped downwards towards the fiend. A second later he struck and nearly skewered the fiend through to the hilt of his blade.

	The fiend choked and spasmed as Clueless perched atop him, driving the blade in deeper till the hate in the Rakshasa’s eyed dulled and died as it did too. Before launching himself back up with a flurried beating of his own wings, the bladesinger paused to snatch at several rings on the fiend’s hands and grab the wand clutched in its rapidly hardening deathgrip.

	“Hmm… have to look at these later…” he muttered to himself as he looked up at his fellows in the distance slowly retreat as the corpse of the fiend slowly plummeted into the void. A moment later and he was speeding back towards them with the Rakshasa’s former possessions stuffed into his pockets.

	Back together, Aren was slowly healing the burns suffered by the group during the ambush. There were winces as her spells took effect, but soon enough they had all mostly recovered. Nisha was fiddling with the compass again, regaining her sense of direction and bearings.

	“Where’s it pointing towards? I hope we’re not running into a cube full of those things…” Fyrehowl said to the rogue as Toras gripped his sword and muttered a soft, “I wouldn’t mind it…”

	“Somewhere I’d rather not be? Which is about anywhere on this sodding plane?” she mused and flicked her tail to one side derisively.

	“Oh it’s not that bad. Well it is, but you get to kill things and know that they’re all better off dead. You just can’t pass that up when you have the chance.” Toras smiled as Fyrehowl did the same and nodded, “Yeah, well there is that. I can’t say it isn’t true…”

	Aren simply shrugged and Clueless chuckled, but with that momentary pause they moved in the direction indicated by Nisha. The planar compass, attuned to their target, drew them closer and closer to one specific cube that hung in the void, battered and forgotten. Deep furrows scarred the surface on three sides as it slowly spun and drifted, reflecting dim light and casting deep, long shadows over a pitted landscape burrowed through with holes like a rotting apple of cast iron hurled into the night to be feasted upon by great steel worms.

	The air was silent as they neared the surface and one of the larger holes that burrowed deep into the core of the cube.

	“Umm… damn. You go first Toras.” Nisha said as she paused at the lip of the cave mouth. Toras raised an eyebrow and looked down into the darkness.

	Fyrehowl and Aren scanned the depths of the hole before shaking their heads in concert. “It’s deep, but there’s nothing down there that I can see.” The lupinal said.

	“I really hope whatever made this hole isn’t down there… goblins I can deal with, but anything that ate its way down into there… no.” Clueless breathed deeply as he snuffed the faerie fire dancing over his wings before following Toras downwards.

	The cave was steep but oddly smooth as the party descended into the depths. After several hundred feet the air grew warm and slightly humid. Patches and dots of rust were speckled across the walls around them from the moisture, and somewhere far off in the distance they could make out the faint sounds of rushing water. Fyrehowl’s ears perked to the noise.

	“Well that’s not natural. Not for this layer of the plane anyways. And it smells… it smells nauseating almost, and there’s soot on the air as well. I’d say more but its too far off still.” The lupinal sniffed at the air and looked curiously at her companions as they continued.

	A quarter mile down the tunnel, the passage began to widen and the sound of faint water became a closer rushing of a river or waterfall. A slow and lazy mixture of warm steam and thin smoke wafted up from the depths the closer they grew to their target. Fyrhowl paused abruptly, moments before she and Nisha stopped the others with a frantic waving of the tiefling’s arms and a finger over the lupinal’s lips.
	“SSssshhh! G-o-b-l-i-n-s. A-h-e-a-d. B-e, q-u-i-e-t.” she mouthed as she pointed towards two lips of stone some thirty yards or so down the tunnel where it began to curve into a horizontal passage rather than a vertical shaft.

	The others looked towards the spots the tiefling had motioned towards. Painted to resemble normal stone, and largely obscured by several outcroppings of iron saturated rock sat two guard posts. Manning their bases and roofs were a half dozen goblinoids each, armed with pikes and wicked looking crossbows that glimmered in the darkness.

	Unspoken between them, the five crept slowly and laboriously against the cave walls above the sentries, hoping to avoid detection. The guards seemed bored and utterly at ease at their posts. In all likelihood the cube had never before been under siege by their orcish enemies, and their lax attitude worked to the advantage of the companions as they made their way past.

	Creeping along at a snails pace now, the tunnel gradually became filled with a flickering greenish glow that filtered through a haze of smoke and steam that clung to the roof like a flowing, living thing. The sounds of rushing water grew louder along with the sounds of repeated blows of metal against metal. As the tunnel opened into a large cavern, the source of the noise, light and heat became clear.

	Bisecting the cavern was a rushing black surge of syrupy water, likely a wayward tributary of the Styx. Lines of goblins made their way from the river, collecting buckets of the foul fluid, and made their way towards several squat buildings to one side of the infernal waterway. Furnaces built into the structures belched gouts of roaring greenish flames into the air along with rushes of smoke and steam that cast brilliant but harsh, flickering, and sporadic surges of light and shadows across the cavern. Another, longer line of goblins and non-goblin slaves stretched from the furnaces towards the far side of the cavern to collect raw ore cut from the cube itself.

	Sitting upon a rise in the cavern floor and stretching nearly to the roof above, watching over the whole of the forgeworks below, sat a double towered keep of bluish black steel and dressed stone. At the rear of the party, Nisha looked at the planar compass and muttered, “No, it couldn’t be one of the slaves. It had to be someone stuck in the heavily defended and fortified keep. Wonderful.”

	Clueless held back a snicker at the tieflings obvious enamored feelings about the plane and their current task. “Do you have any more invisibility potions? I really don’t think we’re going to just waltz past all of those slaves, their handlers and any guards watching from that keep and… ! Get down, they’ve got beholders!”

	The bladesinger ducked back behind a ragged chunk of rust frosted iron at the opening of the cavern. Drifting slowly into view from behind one of the clouds of smoke that rose from the furnaces was a pair of chitinous orbs, each dotted with eyestalks and a single central eye. A number of soft curses resounded from the companions as they snuck glances out to count a total of three eye tyrants patrolling the area, along with one slightly different and larger example.

	“What in the Nine Hells is that one?” Nisha asked, pointing to the larger variant orb.

	“Not good, they’ve got a spectator… it’s probably directing the others, keeping them in telepathic contact with each other. Sometimes they can see through illusions.” Fyrehowl growled softly after answering the tiefling’s question.

	“It’s a pretty regular pattern of patrols they’ve got. I think we can wait, go invisible and then make a run for it. We can make it assuming we can find a quick way into the keep. And… you do have more invisibility potions, right Nisha?” Toras said quietly with some confidence.

	“Yeah, not many more. But I carry extra, this week anyways. This gnome in the Lower Ward wasn’t… I mean to say, this potion making fiend in the Hive wasn’t being careful with his bags when… don’t look at me like that, all of you.” Nisha replied with a grin equivalent to a child being caught with their hand stuffed into a jar of cookies. She flicked her tail in the lupinal’s direction as she handed out potions.

	Toras looked at her in a mildly disapproving manner before glancing at the keep and commenting on their plan of action, “The gate’s pretty well sealed up it looks like. How about one of the towers there? They don’t look defended and there’s a stone lip around the top of them. So unless there’s guards stationed at the top, it’s probably a safe spot to hide till the beholders make another pass through the area. I’d bet there’s got to be some sort of entrance on the top there as well.”

	“Sounds good to me. Ready? On the count of three.” Nisha nodded, quaffed a potion and faded from view to leave only a faint impression in the dusting of rust on the ground, subtly moved and broken by the shifting of her tail.

	“Two, One, Three!” and with the tiefling’s out of pattern count, they bolted from behind their hiding space and launched themselves out across the cavern as the beholders moved out of direct line of sight. The smoke that billowed out across their path burned their skin and stung their eyes with fragments of burning coals and stray sparks of forge iron. But undaunted, they sped across the cavern, upwards towards the keep, to bolt over the lip of one of the towers just before the roving squad of eye tyrants returned to gaze across where they had just been.

	The group sat motionless on the iron-laced stone of the parapet until the many-eyed guards passed overhead before more closely examining their surroundings. The lip was broken by arrow slits angled out towards the main entrance to the cavern, and an iron trapdoor sat in the center of the floor. Otherwise the ramparts were unoccupied and undefended.

“So, this time are you going to let me pick the lock?” Nisha asked, looking up towards Toras as she bent over to examine the trapdoor.

	“I wasn’t planning on it, no.” he replied matter-of-factly as he nodded down towards the trapdoor where Clueless’s green steel sword was tapping at the obvious lack of a lock on the latch.

	“Oh… good, you noticed… yeah,” she stuck out her tongue at first Toras then Clueless, then turned to the other two women and repeated the process for good measure. “Showoffs. Fine go right ahead, do my job for me.”

	She gave an amused smile as the trapdoor swung open, and then cursed as the entryway gave off several multicolored sparks. “And this is why you let me check these things…pike it… they set an alarm spell on the other side.”

	Fyrehowl and Clueless jabbed blades into the opening as the heavy plate was moved to one side to show a set of stairs leading down into the main structure of the keep. Magical torches burned in their sconces at regular intervals down the stairwell, but otherwise nothing marred the progression of steps as they descended downwards.

	“I hope noone was paying attention to that ward…” Nish sighed and kicked at the trapdoor. “Hells, we’ll know soon enough.”

	Blades drawn, they descended the stairs quickly, trying to be as quiet as possible, all but Toras floating rather than walking. The fighter was too large simply said, and would have collided with the ceiling above him considering the fortress was built for goblins, perhaps hobgoblins at the largest.

	The stairs ended at a shallow portal into a connecting chamber between several hallways. Walking out into the hallway, still cloaked from vision, Nisha consulted the compass and pointed down one of the halls at an iron portcullis and several chatting hobgoblins.

	“Go kill the hobgoblins, we gotta go that way…” Nisha whispered under her breath. Several seconds later Clueless, Fyrehowl and Toras suddenly reappeared as blood marred the stone of the passage and the guards collapsed with looks of shock on their faces. Clueless gazed down the passage warily and Fyrehowl sniffed at the air with curious intent as a pair of invisible tiefling fingers grabbed a ring of keys from one of the corpses, and then fished around quickly for two coin purses with a soft whisper of success.

	Nisha unlocked the gate hurriedly and Toras raised it with a rough heave for the group to pass. Nisha paused to kick at one of the corpses, returning to visibility as she consulted the compass and floated down the corridor, going directly to where it pointed as quickly as possible.

	“You couldn’t very well follow me if I was invisible…” she said as Clueless shot her an odd glance. Behind him, Fyrehowl’s ears perked back in the direction they had come from.

	“There’s footsteps coming from down two of those corridors we ignored. Pretty distant, but there’s a good number of feet behind them.”

	Picking up speed now, the group passed several empty, mundane cells and one that contained a rotting orc corpse, before finally pausing in front of a massive steel door with an oddly glowing lock plate that seemed to swirl in random patterns of color. Nisha stopped and landed with a number of soft, abortive clip-clops of her hooves as she skidded to a halt in front of the door, to look at first the compass, then the door.

	“And here we are… so now just who are you we’re here to get?” she pocketed the compass and took out her lockpicks and sat down in front of the cell door.

	Fyrehowl glanced down the hallway again with concern as the sound of footsteps grew closer and the others began to notice it as well. Toras glanced at the group and walked down the hallway, back towards the portcullis. “If someone comes this way, I’ll stop them or warn you all. I’ll be back.”

	Before he did so, Aren took out her holy symbol, kissed it and made a sign in the half-celestial’s direction, blessing him. Toras smiled and gripped his sword with slightly more conviction than before as he walked off.

	Paused to pick the lock on the door, Nisha stopped and put down her picks to quaff a small vial. She shook her head at the evidently bitter taste and then narrowed her eyes to examine the door and the lock.

	“Strange… there’s not a drop of magic on the door, not even the lock. Ten stingers in an osyluth’s palm that whoever’s behind here’s sitting in the middle of an anti-magic field…” she wrinkled her brow some more and poked at the lock tentatively. It warped and distorted as she touched it, her pick simply sliding into it for an inch or two and moving around. She might as well have been attempting to pick a lock made of jellied arborean apples. Her head tilted curiously to one side as she poked at the lock some more, fascinated by its behavior. Down the hallway the sound of footsteps grew louder by the second.

	“Weird, seen of I these never one… oops, sorry. Bad habit… but hells, if someone cared this much to bottle you up, I’d really like to meet you. Or maybe not; doesn’t matter if can’t pop the damn lock though.”

	Above her, Clueless held his ear to the door, straining to listen for any clue of the occupant of the cell. He gave a curious look and motioned over to the lupinal to try to do the same. She pressed one of her own ears to the cold steel to try and came back with an odd look. “Sounds like someone’s chanting or repeating something over and over again behind the door. It’s faint, so they’re either whispering or there’s a space between the door and their actual cell.”

As Nisha made more and more frustrated noises and abortive attempts to pick the door’s ever shifting lock, somewhere in the depths of the keep the peal of an alarm bell was raised and reverberated through the walls and echoed down the halls.

	“Hurry up! Somebody knows we’re here! That someone’s probably the entire sodding fortress.” Toras ran back towards the party, drawing his sword and glancing back over his shoulder. Nisha glared up at him in abject frustration.

	“I’m picking the piking lock as fast as I can! I don’t think I can pick it, it’s made of some sort of chaos matter. Normally I’d think that was pretty swell, but not when I need to open it and I’m guessing that it won’t take a set form of tumblers till you think a certain thought. If I knew what that was I’d have a chance to pick it. But I don’t, and I’m not a psion or a gith so there’s not a fiend’s chance in Celestia of me popping it! I can’t, so if you have any better ideas, go right ahead.”

	Nisha spat at the door and slumped backwards angrily in defeat, staring at the glowing liquid metal patch on the iron door. A chorus of muttered curses and sighs echoed amongst the group, but in their concentration on the door, none of them looked back at Clueless.

	Standing at the rear of the group, the bladesinger’s eyes suddenly glazed over. He tilted his head to look at the door, sneered, and then, without incantation or gesture, hurled a single burst of green pulsing light at the door. The disintegration ripped the door from its hinges and incinerated it into dust before it was flung inwards more than several inches. Slowly the rest of the group looked backwards in shock at Clueless who simply stood with one hand raised out to the door, looking confused at what had just occurred. His eyes were no longer glazed over as they had been just moments before.

	“Well why in the nine hells didn’t you do that before?!” Nisha exclaimed as she stood up.

	“I… don’t have a clue…” Clueless answered honestly, feeling perplexed than he tried to let show. He didn’t know the spell he’d just seen himself cast, and when he had, he was only a spectator in it all, watching himself rather than doing it. Shaking it off he moved towards the open cell door.

	Past the door was a long stone corridor that ran some twenty feet towards a single dimly lit and cloistered cell. A frayed mat of rags lay in the center of the small cell upon which its sole occupant sat. Nisha glanced at the person, then at the planar compass, and finally nodded to the group who walked to the edge of the cell’s entrance.

	Sitting in the center of the cell, perfectly still and with their back turned to them was a single woman dressed in ill-fitting rags. She was thin, exceedingly so, likely from lack of food. Still it was obvious that she had once been in prime physical condition since her muscles were lean and taught despite her circumstances. Her skin was a pale, milky white that turned to a tiefling’s gray/green hue in places, almost a blue pallor in the dim light of the cell. Her ears were thin and pointed, further betraying the blood of a fiend running in her veins, but otherwise she would have passed as a human with tangled locks of brown hair mixed with reddish highlights tied in a loose knot at the back of her head.

	Nisha’s eyes suddenly grew wide in their sockets at her first unobstructed glance at the other tiefling. Her tail was rigid and her mouth quivered slightly in nervous fear as the others crowded around to look and meet the prisoner.

	Still unmoving as they approached her, she sat there, calm and seemingly meditating. In between soft, measured breaths she was carefully and deliberately reciting a series of mantras.

“I will uphold Justice before all else, purging the multiverse of those who break the law.”

“In all situations I shall weigh the rights and wrongs with a clear and impartial mind.”

“I shall decide where Justice must fall under the law, and I will mete out that Justice with a firm and unyielding hand.”

“I believe in the righteousness of my faction; we alone answer to the higher law of Justice.”

“I will not pass judgment on good or evil, only on law-abiding and law-breaking, for therein lies wrongdoing.”

“I will punish the guilty as the crime demands.”

“I will be diligent in my pursuit of the guilty, and while so engaged I shall remain innocent of any wrongdoing in the eyes of others.”

“I will never release a lawbreaker until his sentence has been carried out.”​
Nervous glances were exchanged behind her as she paused from her recitations, rose to her feet and turned to face her rescuers. The glimmer of madness danced in her eyes as she looked at each of them in turn, all of whom were painfully aware of the identity of the woman standing in front of them.


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## Shemeska

*Guess who...*


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## shilsen

I can't believe nobody thought of throwing a rock to distract the beholders


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## Zappo

Argh, Shilsen beat me. Yay for updates!


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## Shemeska

shilsen said:
			
		

> I can't believe nobody thought of throwing a rock to distract the beholders




Because if the DnD movie taught us nothing, it's that throwing a rock always works.


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## Shemeska

For anyone following the storyhour, I'm not likely going to have an update till early next week. I've got final exams this week, plus I've got to prep for my normal campaign, plus the oneshot game I'm running for North Carolina Gameday IV this weekend.

Chunks of the next update are already written, but I've got tons of other things that I need to pay attention to first. Be patient with me and sometime soon I'll update twice in a week.


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## Graywolf-ELM

I just pop'd in to have a look and see if this was something I might enjoy reading.  It is, but forgive my ignorance, who is that in the picture?

GW


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## Fimmtiu

Graywolf-ELM said:
			
		

> I just pop'd in to have a look and see if this was something I might enjoy reading.  It is, but forgive my ignorance, who is that in the picture?




Alisohn Nilesia, the former factol of the Mercykillers faction. She's mad as a sackful of rabid squirrels, and had a major role in instigating the Faction War that saw the factions banished from Sigil. _(if you're using the Faction War module, anyhow.)_

According to Factol's Manifesto (IIRC), she was a LE female tiefling Wiz8, but at this point in Shemeska's game she'll have had many years to advance.


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## Graywolf-ELM

Fimmtiu said:
			
		

> Alisohn Nilesia,...




Thanks for the info.  She'll have a little more meaning to me now.

GW


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## Shemeska

Fimmtiu said:
			
		

> Alisohn Nilesia, the former factol of the Mercykillers faction. She's mad as a sackful of rabid squirrels, and had a major role in instigating the Faction War that saw the factions banished from Sigil. _(if you're using the Faction War module, anyhow.)_
> 
> According to Factol's Manifesto (IIRC), she was a LE female tiefling Wiz8, but at this point in Shemeska's game she'll have had many years to advance.




Yep, at this point in the game it had been around 5-6 years post Faction War. My own incarnation of Nilesia here was somewhere along the lines of a wizard with some additional rogue levels added in, though still primarily a wizard. In any event, enough to be intimidating to the PC's aside from the mystique of being a former factol.


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## Clueless

Fimmtiu said:
			
		

> Alisohn Nilesia, the former factol of the Mercykillers faction. She's mad as a sackful of rabid squirrels, and had a major role in instigating the Faction War that saw the factions banished from Sigil. _(if you're using the Faction War module, anyhow.)_
> 
> According to Factol's Manifesto (IIRC), she was a LE female tiefling Wiz8, but at this point in Shemeska's game she'll have had many years to advance.




Yeps - well roughly. This point in the time line is about 5 years after Faction War.
And barmy doesn't *begin* to describe this nutter.


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## Shemeska

*Be shocked and amazed as I update!*

Having done so she gave the faintest of bows as she gave her introductions, though in truth, few of the companions required her name to recognize her nor the the scope of whatever it was that they themselves had now become embroiled in.

	“Factol Alisohn Nilesia. You all have my thanks for the righting of an injustice. Who sent you? My faction? Or did Rowan send you all?” subdued insanity danced in the factol’s eyes as she smiled at some memory and stepped forwards.

	The factol glanced to the box stuffed into a sack at Nisha’s waist, “I see you recovered my belongings. Again, my thanks to you all.” She extended her hand expectantly to the other tiefling who faltered and handed over the box without a word. The entire group was clearly still in some manner of shock.

	“The rulers of the fortress will be coming, they don’t wish to lose me. They view me as something of a prize since they recognized me when the orcs did not. Their guilt is not in question, but I have judgment to provide to them before I may leave.”

	Nilesia slipped on her rings, quickly donned her robes and gave her blades each a few quick and precise passes through the air to test her skill and hunger sapped strength. At first unsure of herself, within a few deft slashes and cuts through the air she seemed satisfied with herself and a level of skill that garnered respect from her rescuers. The factol glanced at her spellbooks longingly before slipping them into an inner pocket of her robe and sifting quickly through a small bag of spell components nestled in another pocket of the black garment.

	“I still have spells in memory, but I’ve had no components for some time. Still, the goblins thought it wise to place my cell inside a blanket of antimagic. Guilt leads to overprotective sheltering of crimes, and I have lingering crimes to punish when we are away from here. You will have to tell me what changes Sigil has seen since I last saw it. Someone in my faction has my blood on their hands and I will find them for what has happened to me.” She grinned with a look of eager anticipation of bloodshed that would have made a Tanar’ri feel warm by comparison.

	“It will be good to see Rowan again…” she smiled and gained a starry eyed glitter over her expression before casting a glance down the hallway and making for the exit from her cell. Her rescuers paled slightly at her last phrases.

	“She doesn’t know, does sh…” Aren glared at Nisha and silenced her verbal train of thought as all of them exchanged nervous glances.

_“Obviously no, she doesn’t. And frankly I don’t think now is the time to break the news to her about what happened. She doesn’t have a faction anymore, Darkwood is dead, and she was sold into slavery by someone, probably Darkwood himself. He never loved her, but she was, and is, clearly still head over heels in love with him. She’s BARMY!!”_ Aren’s voice rang clearly inside the minds of her companions without her lips moving as they followed Nilesia out into the hallway. They all exchanged nods of agreement on Aren’s thoughts on the matter.

	Fyrehowl’s ears twitched slightly as they moved to enter the corridor and Nilesia held up one hand suddenly and glanced down the hallway. She muttered something harshly under her breath and turned the corner out of the cell.

“Factol I…” Clueless glanced at the Factol, only to find her vanished, nowhere to be seen, as several figures came into view turning the corner into the hallway. Five hobgoblins in ornate armor and carrying spears advanced before several goblins with a brilliant bluish tint to their skin. None of them wore armor, or much more than loose fitting clothing, but each of them had a small crystal hovering about their body as they approached. Behind them, towering over even the hobgoblins was another of the blue colored goblins. However the larger one was naked, heavily muscled, and with a slight dog-like shape to its face. Its four arms were already making small motions in the air and fiendish looking spikes jutted at random from its back. It turned its luminescent, reddish eyes towards the group and bellowed out a mixed bestial roar and command to its subordinates to attack.

	As the half-fiend roared, Toras, Clueless and Fyrehowl charged to meet the Goblins. They had gotten perhaps ten feet before a blue glow erupted from the forehead of the goblin leader and an invisible force detonated in their midst. Without a sound the walls and floor vibrated with concussive force and the three were dashed to the ground, dazed and bloodied from the attack. As they struggled to regain their feet the more mundane goblins advanced, weapons out and one of their blue skinned kin touched a small gem on its forehead. Instantly there was a glowing green mass of semi-transparent filaments that burst into being around Nisha and Aren, wrapped around them and suddenly growing more solid and tangible. Nisha squirmed and rolled forwards across the floor, shedding most of the sticky material before it hardened, but Aren was not as quick in her movements. In seconds the material had formed a solid cocoon around her as she toppled to the floor, struggling but making little progress in freeing herself.

	As the group struggled to make themselves ready for the next attack, with only a bloodthirsty, crazed scream as a warning, Nilesia reappeared at the rear of the group of goblins as her invisibility spell dropped and she charged one of the psions, wreathed in a circle of blue flames and swinging her glowing, black bladed sword. Three quick cuts to the back of one of the blues and a sharp stab into the arm of one other and she vanished again. In her passing, the one blue that had taken the brunt of her attack was left crumpled on the floor and struggling to staunch the blood pouring from its back, its other companion was more stoic in its endurance of the shallow stab on its arm, but still it cradled the limb and was hampered in its movements.

	Surprised by the factol’s sudden attack and her just as sudden disappearance, the goblins faltered for a moment, disorganized and dazed. Nisha took the opportunity to draw her blade and begin cutting Aren free from the psionic entanglement she was trapped within. Rising to their feet in that moment and charging forwards were Clueless, Toras and Fyrehowl, blades drawn and faces grim. The lupinal, quicker than her two other companions, struck first. Her first cut bit deep into the shoulder of one of the goblins and a second thrust to his side drew blood as well, tearing through both armor and flesh alike. Off balance and in pain the hobgoblin barely raised his shield as she leapt for his throat and clamped her jaws down with a wet crunch; her opponent went instantly limp.

	Clueless struck next, darting up into the air as his wings suddenly sprung into motion. Several of the hobgoblins made jabs at him with their spears but he deflected them and cut at the heads of several of them. In the confusion of suddenly facing an aerial opponent as well as having lost one of their front guards, Toras managed to shoulder his way past to attack one of the psions. As he charged one of them he swung at it a single time and nearly cleaved its arm off when it raised it up defensively. It fell backwards and spit out a single curse at him, somehow manifesting a power despite the pain of effectively losing a limb.

	As Toras was struck by a burning ray of light that made him stagger backwards in pain, the half-fiend turned its attention to him. It gestured with its hands and a second pulse of light manifested from its forehead to send a wave of concussive force against Toras and Clueless both. It cackled and looked around the vanished factol.

	Clueless was flung backwards by the half-fiend’s blast and took a moment of lying on the floor before he managed to recover. Fyrehowl was already on her feet and carving through the hobgoblins with ease while Toras had somehow managed to stay on his feet despite the two attacks against him. The fighter backhanded one of the hobgoblins, killing it in one stroke, before finishing off the psion whose arm he had already separated from its shoulder as its head joined the other limb on the ground.

	The half-fiend roared as most of its fellows were left dead or dying on the ground. It closed its eyes and vanished in a burst of light, only to reappear several dozen feet away to hurl another, larger blast of concussive force at its opponents, this time not caring that it killed the remaining two of its hobgoblins in the process. Toras dove to one side as Fyrehowl ducked to avoid the rippling wave and they both seemed to avoid most of the blast, though it left them bruised and dazed in its wake.

	It was at that moment as the psion prepared to unleash yet another attack that something glimmered on the ceiling and dropped behind it into a crouching position. The sound of first one blade and then another being sheathed in flesh could be heard next as the psion stumbled forwards and coughed a spattering of blood across the floor. Nilesia stood behind it, calm and composed with both her sword and dagger dripping with the half-fiend’s blood. She looked expectantly to Toras as the psion stumbled forwards, dazed and stunned from the wounds the factol had given it. The half-celestial could only comply with her unspoken order as he followed up her attack by burying his own sword in the fiendish goblin’s chest.

	“Good, you have some measure of skill. I commend you on that.” Nilesia stalked forwards like a hunting predator before swiftly severing the head of the half-fiend without so much as a sound apart from the snap of vertebrae and the sharp report of steel on stone as her blade grazed the flagstones before she whipped it back in a spray of blood across her face. She didn’t seem to notice it at all and left the gore to speckle her face like hellish freckles.

	“They’ll have more of those, though the fiend-spawn was their leader as far as I can tell.” The factol remarked as she glanced down at the blues. As she looked back at the half-fiend, her newfound companions made no comment at the soft giggling chuckle that escaped her lips. They ignored her out of a mixture of respect and fear as they gathered their wits about them, as most of hers seemed to have fled with her sanity some time previous.

	While Nisha examined the planar compass that would tell them the direction to their exit, Aren cast a few quick spells to heal the worst of the wounds they had all suffered in the fight, and Clueless quickly picked at a number of the items their attackers had been carrying. Nilesia made certain of matters by going from corpse to corpse and brutally, but efficiently, slitting their throats with a single thrust of her sword. She looked up at the others, the flames of her fireshield flickering and dying down, spattered in blood but with a calm, almost pleasant smile upon her face, “Let’s go, shall we?” The others could only smile and nod as they hurried down the corridor the stairwell back towards the tower. 

As they ascended the stairs, the sounds of more goblins in pursuit echoed up from below, a mixture of angry barked orders and bellows of shock and dismay as it seemed that one group had discovered the bodies of at least some of their leaders down below. Hearing the sounds of the goblins behind them, Toras emerged from the trapdoor and up onto the roof, shouting back for his companions to hurry. He looked around quickly and then willed himself to rise into the air to flee. Nothing happened…

	“What the hell?” and then he glanced over the lip of the ramparts to look directly into the central eye of the Spectator orb and two of its thralls as they began to move into flanking positions on the tower and where their targets were clambering out into view.

	“Stay under the cover of the walls out here, the damned beholders are pinning us down. Flying isn’t an option…” Toras shouted as the others clambered out onto the top of the tower and took cover.

	Nilesia glanced down the stairs into the tower and began to softly chant before hurling a bolt of lightning down the stairwell. Screams and agonized dying curses filtered up from the lower reaches of the tower as a half dozen advancing goblins danced spasmodically and died amid a cloud of ozone reeking smoke. “Take care of the beholders, I have the goblins handled…” the factol’s statement was calm as she glanced down the stairs, though her face was contorted in a fanatical grin.

	Toras risked another glance over the rim of the tower, looking to one side as Fyrehowl glanced over the opposite side. “How’s it look over there?” Toras asked, fishing around in a pouch at his waist.

	“One of them on this side, but they’re just holding position to keep us pinned here. Probably thinking we’ll be overwhelmed by the goblins from down below. Too bad for them it’s not going to happen.” The lupinal said as she ducked back down for cover.

	Clueless gripped his sword and looked over to Toras as the half-celestial took out a large metal ball studded with spikes in a pyramidal arrangement; an oversized caltrop. “What’s that… oh…” he said as Toras smirked and stood up to hurl the unconventional weapon direction into the eye of the spectator beholder. It struck dead on and impaled itself up to the ball on one of the three-inch spikes just off the center of the spectator’s pupil. It let out a startled scream of pain and surprise while it turned away from the tower as blood began to well up and cloud over its iris in a smeared reddish haze. 

	"The problem with being covered with eyes is that getting things in your eyes really hurts…” Toras remarked as he dove for cover as suddenly deprived of the spectator’s leadership and coordination the other two beholders moved forwards to bombard the tower with their own eye-rays.

	One of the beholders grimaced wickedly as it approached in closer range and swung half of its eyestalks towards the party, even as the spectator writhed in agony. Streaks of color and lines of distortion passed through the air and struck at its targets, narrowly missing some of them, though Toras, Nisha, and Aren were barely struck. Toras gritted his teeth and dove for cover as the offending ray caused his exposed skin to blister and erupt in angry red welt wherever it touched. Nisha collapsed to the ground with a scream and clutched at a deep furrow cut into her shoulder, though she had managed to avoid being disintegrated by the attack. Aren was struck in the back by a single ray and seemed for but a moment to stiffen and turn slightly grayish before she dropped to the ground breathing heavily and shaking off the effects of the petrification attack.

	Nilesia glared at her rescuers as they bore the brunt of the beholder’s attack before she stood up and flung out her hand at the other eye tyrant approaching them from opposite the first. With a few arcane syllables a cone of glittering, silvery frost ignited from her outstretched fingertips to envelop the beholder in its chilling embrace. The beholder, its central eye closed in order to hurl its eye rays at the tower only saw the incoming spell at the last minute and could only attempt to dodge. It was only partially successful and the cloud of frost crystallized across nearly ¾ of its body with a sound of shattering, cracking ice and tearing exposed flesh. Though it was still clearly alive and howling in agony, several of the tyrant’s gas sacks had to have ruptured in the attack as its ice-covered body began to quickly lose altitude and drift off to one side abruptly.

	Nilesia returned to cast a withering gaze at the others before Fyrehowl stood up and repeated the same gesture as the factol had done. While the lupinal’s spell was more an innate ability and lacked most of the arcane gestures and all of the incanted words, the effect was the same as a cone shaped burst of freezing mist billowed out to strike the beholder. Having seen the fate of its companion though, it was not struck as heavily and managed to avoid any crippling damage, though several of its eyestalks hung limp and covered in a layer of ice, frozen and nonfunctional. As Fyrehowl dove back for cover and the tyrant raised another four stalks in her direction Clueless tossed a wand to Nisha.

	“Try and get that to work, it should take out the beholder if you can. Trust me!” he said to the tiefling as she caught the wand and turned it over in her hands with a curious, if slightly perplexed look upon her face. Abruptly the curiosity turned to mischievous intent as she stood up and pointed it directly at the beholder. All the others saw, taking cover as they all were, was a brilliant flash of red and orange flickering light and the boomed sound of the fireball’s detonation at close range as the shockwave passed over the tower’s top. Nisha dashed to the edge of the ramparts and looked down with an impish grin and a wave, soon joined by her other companions as they watched the beholder’s frozen and charred corpse plummet downwards before landing with a sickeningly wet crunch and bursting from the force of the impact upon the lower walls of the keep.

	“You’ll have to buy me one of these when we get back to Sigil you know, I like it.” Nisha said with a briskly twitching tail as she handed Clueless back his wand. Nilesia was by this point casting a flying spell upon herself and looking down the stairs. Fyrehowl perked her ears and joined her, “I don’t like that noise… they’re bringing something heavy up those stairs. Lets go.”

	“I couldn’t agree more, as much as they deserve for us to stay and slaughter them to the last… another time.” The factol sighed with far too obvious regret at having to leave with some of her captors still alive.

As the companions and their rescued Mercykiller alike rose into the air above the fortress they looked around at the scene below. The spectator was still floundering about in the air, hurling a half dozen rays out at random, most of which struck the cavern floor below to send goblin slaves and guards alike running for cover as the beams kicked up scatterings of rock and gravel, and occasionally killed one them unfortunate enough to have been in its path. No longer any real threat to themselves, they ignored it and made for the exit.

The group retreated with the swiftness of foxes fleeing a henhouse and dashed overhead of the field of petitioners and furnaces. Nisha glanced nervously at the planar compass every few seconds as they passed into the more confined space of the exit tunnel.

	“Sodding luck… the portal isn’t on this damn cube! Back the way we came in!” she shouted out to the others as she flew as quickly as possible back towards the exit passage back up to the cube’s surface. As she and the others continued, Nilesia turned backwards and loosed a fireball onto the field below to detonate in the midst of a rapidly organizing group of guards making a hasty pursuit. The blast of the explosion was barely a ripple on the air by the time it reached them, such was the speed of their flight. The Factol’s gaze lingered on the carnage and she cackled with manic delight before turning back to gaze over the tunnel. As she sped up to the rest of the party, Fyrehowl glanced at her warily but said nothing.

	Out of sight of the main cavern floor the group approached the point at which the tunnel sharply sloped upwards. The guard posts that lined the floor and walls of the tunnel were brightly illuminated now by a series of spells and brilliant torchlight. The metallic tips of crossbow bolts and at least one ballista were visible as the group closed the distance between themselves as the goblinoids defenders. As they grew to within the distance of the torchlight there was a loud blast of a horn from one of the fortified guard posts and the sudden sound of something heavily scraping the floor of the cavern as it launched itself up into the light.

	Rising up from the floor of the cave with a sudden and unexpected burst of speed was a gray-green reptilian form with thin, membranous wings. The draconic bulk of the creature hovered in the thin light drifting down from the opening of the tunnel, several hundred feet above. Ruby colored eyes sparkled and it roared, rust colored mist drifting from its own maw. Goblins raised crossbows and aimed them down the passage from where they huddled defensively behind the rust-dragon as it blocked the center of the passage with its bulk.

	Clueless’s eyes went wide as the dragon rose up and its roar buffeted him and his companions. Toras’s eyes grew wide as the beast’s throat convulsed slightly and it prepared to breath a cloud of metal corroding gas. The bladesinger tilted his wings abruptly to one side and veered to the wyrm’s right as a dozen crossbow bolts cut the air and hurtled towards him. All of them missed horribly as the goblins deliberately aimed low to avoid hitting their own pet drake. Clueless cut upwards at the last possible moment and slashed with him sword at the rust dragon’s flank and underbelly. The blade met resistance from the beast’s scaled hide and then bit deep. The dragon roared and shook its head, breaking its concentration as it swallowed the belch of rusting gas it would have breathed out in the next several seconds.

	Seeing his chance and already ahead of the others except for Clueless, who was now barely dodging the beast’s claws and a swipe of its barbed tail, Toras raised his sword and charged directly for the dragon. Already distracted by the pixie-winged pest to its one bleeding side, the rust dragon made no attempt to defend against the fighter till it was too late. At the last moment the dragon whipped its head around to snap at Toras as he charged through the air, but as it did so it felt the sudden, oddly cold sensation of the fighter’s greatsword buried to the hilt in its neck. The blade had to have hit the beast’s spine and snapped it almost instantly because almost as if in slow motion the dragon’s eyes glazed over, its limbs went slack, a death rattle of greenish brown gas passed from its lips, and it plummeted to the group as goblins on the cave floor screamed in terror and scrambled to avoid its body.

	In the momentary break in the crossbow cover of the tunnel as the dragon’s corpse crashed into the ground below, the group darted for the exit. As fast as they could fly they ascended the quickly sloping passage and within minutes broke out above the surface of the cube. All eyes went to Nisha as once again she paused, hovered in the air and consulted the planar compass. “There, that cube,” she pointed towards a broken, pitted cube hanging in the distance, alone in the darkness.

	“Pray for no company along the way, I’m eager to get back somewhere safe…” Nisha shivered slightly as they all hurtled through the void towards the location of the portal promised to them to exist somewhere ahead. It took them nearly two hours of constant flight to reach their destination where they paused on the rusted iron surface as Nisha surveyed a crevice leading down into the cube’s guts. The sides were lined with stone concretions that seemed composed of, or carved into the likeness of weapons of all types, chariots, parts of ships, siege engines, and other things unrecognizable. All of them turned to stone and plastered together in the darkness.

	Toras looked over the edge of the crevice, “You sure its down there Nisha?”

	“Yeah, that’s what the compass says. Not the first time I’ve said it today, but … you go first?” she gave a weary smile and looked down as the compass gave a soft hum the closer it got. Clearly something at least was drawing the compass.

	The group drifted down the cleft in the cube and into a surreal place that resembled the graveyard of some massive battlefield frozen in time and turned to stone. Bizarre shapes that had once been weapons on the battles of prime material worlds now stood broken, shattered and tossed aside here amid the fragments of other devices best left undescribed. If the tools of war could have souls, this would be their perdition.

	Toras poked his sword at several of the petrified weapons that stuck up at odd angles from the bulk of the stone. Clueless looked around with a soft sense of awe at the surroundings. Nilesia smirked.

	“The mines of Marsellin make this all pale by comparison. You have no idea of the things that we’ve dug out of the rock there. Or the things that have dug their way  –out- of the rock either.” The factol walked on, largely oblivious to the same sense of wonder that her companions displayed. “Where is the portal you said you had waiting for you?”

	Nisha glanced towards a ragged square-shaped outcropping of rock on the other side of the chasm from where they now stood at the bottom of it. “There…” she said as she approached it. The planar compass began to shine with a pale, flickered blue light as it neared the proximity of the space bound on the face of the rock. The portal activated as Nisha touched the surface of the stone and the others gathered alongside her.

	“Let’s go, we’ve done our part of this.” Clueless said as he stepped forwards through the portal, but not to where he was expecting.

	Meanwhile in Sigil…


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## Zappo

Oooh, action. 

 How big was that dragon? They seem to have taken it down quite easily.


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## Toras

The dragon was quite large (though not Wyrm size)  but few things CR 10-14 can survive 8d6 + 68 (the damage I did on a crit, its up to 12d6 + 92).  
Mercurial Greatswords are weapons to kill just about anything (we face a lot of undead, elementals, and constructs)


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## Shemeska

Zappo said:
			
		

> Oooh, action.
> 
> How big was that dragon? They seem to have taken it down quite easily.




As I recall it was a young adult, whichever was in the range of 10-13 as far as CR goes. Mercurial greatswords make me rue the day I allowed them in the game. One crit and the critter says hello to a shallow grave.


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## Shemeska

Toras said:
			
		

> The dragon was quite large (though not Wyrm size)  but few things CR 10-14 can survive 8d6 + 68 (the damage I did on a crit, its up to 12d6 + 92).
> Mercurial Greatswords are weapons to kill just about anything (we face a lot of undead, elementals, and constructs)




Only lately, and you've been wandering the positive touched quasielemental planes for a while now, so my prediction is that you'll see more elementals in the near future. 

And my apologies for the constructs, I was on a construct kick there for a while. You got the pleasure of being able to crit at least one Wyrm catagory dragon and that simulacrum/sentient illusion taken flesh, though in both cases it was a good thing for the party that you did crit them when you did.   

*tosses a disjunction at you just for the running irony of it all*


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## Clueless

<shameless plug>
Shemeska's Story hour is now being mirrored at: 
http://forums.planewalker.com
Freeform RP, planescape discussion and much more is also available there. 
(As well as a Shemmi short story if I recall...)
</shameless plug>


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## omrob

Shemeska said:
			
		

> “Let’s go, we’ve done our part of this.” Clueless said as he stepped forwards through the portal, but not to where he was expecting.
> 
> Meanwhile in Sigil…




And of course, the heroes are going to return. The nice wizard is going to return the various party hostages and keep his promises, and everyone's going to go their own way. HEH! 

That's never gonna happen...

Ok now grab that plot and TWIST!


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## Shemeska

omrob said:
			
		

> And of course, the heroes are going to return. The nice wizard is going to return the various party hostages and keep his promises, and everyone's going to go their own way. HEH!
> 
> That's never gonna happen...
> 
> Ok now grab that plot and TWIST!




*GRIN* I hope to hold up to expectations 

For what it's worth I made two of my players cry in and out of character last session because of IC events. 

(though Lord only knows when the storyhour will catch up to that, but I've started writing up each week's session the week after so I'll catch up and then have already written material to post. Finished with actual classes for school so it'll give me more time for this now).


----------



## Florian

*AHEM*

*taps foot, brandishes axe*


----------



## Shemeska

*Two more into this tangled web I weave...*

Florian Schneider sat in the tap room of the Drunken Dabus, picking at his breakfast, his mind repeatedly returning to the events of the past year that had finally grown far too much to handle. Family. It was always about family. Such things you couldn’t simply handle by spells or swords, you had to either deal with them or run from them. Well, you –could- handle it by violence, but he wasn’t going to do anything of the sort. The Foe Hammer already had to be looking poorly on his servant’s inability to deal with relatives on the whole matter that had finally led him to throw up his hands and take his leave of them. He’d eventually return, at least that’s what he’d told himself at the time before he went through that portal in a back alley of Athkatla. To run off to the capital city from Esmeltaran hadn’t been enough since both his own family and the gaggle of harpies that seemed to compose the family on the other side of that arranged marriage had followed him there. Hell, if they managed to follow him here then he’d chalk it up to the will of the gods and face it all. Otherwise he needed some space and a time to reflect on it all. He shuddered for a moment as he contemplated having to look at, let alone do anything else to, that …

	His internal debate was suddenly interrupted by the soft tapping of an ale mug being set down on his table. He glanced up into the smiling face a well dressed tiefling. “I do hope I’m not intruding sir…may I?” he motioned towards the empty seat across from Florian. 

The stocky, sandy haired cleric of Tempus shrugged, “Be my guest. Can I help you with something?”

“Yes actually, though I can wait if you’re still eating your morning meal.” He took out a letter of sorts and fingered it softly in his hands.

“Don’t mind me, go right ahead, I’m almost finished anyways.” Florian took a few quick bites of eggs and ham before sliding the plate off to the side. The food at the inn was remarkably good this morning for some reason.

The tiefling nodded, “My employer has directed me to look for persons in the city who might be in need of either jink, diversion, escape, some mixture of them all. He requires interested persons to recover something of his along with a larger group he had already sent out on this task. They were partially successful but sorely lack certain skills that he foresees them needing in the immediate future. They lack a dedicated arcane and divine spellcaster. The temple of Tempus here in Sigil was gracious enough to inform us of your presence here in the city. And being that you’re new to Sigil and as of yet not serving in any official capacity with your church here, my employer felt you to be more than fitting his needs.”

	“Interesting… I might be in need of a bit of work, if more to take my mind of some things than for the money. So what sort of thing is your boss looking for me to do exactly?” Florian bit down on another bite of his breakfast, all of it delicious. In fact he’d nearly cleaned the plate by that point. The tiefling smiled, looked at the letter he held, and then pointed with it at Florian’s food.

"And you should be aware as you consider my proposal for employment, that the food that you've just eaten was poisoned. Oh, it won't have any immediate effect, but without the antidote, or anything short of a wish, you'll be dead within 15 days. The toxin is very... specific… normal curative magic will quite simply fail in ridding it from your system. Without us, you will wither and die in the space of two weeks. That said, this letter is for you, I suggest you read it and do as asked." He smiled cordially and passed the letter across the table to the now sick looking cleric.

	“What the hells? You could have just asked you know, I would have said yes!” Florian pushed his plate of food away and glared angrily at the unconcerned tiefling.

	“Bluster all you like, you have two weeks at best before the poison runs its course. Take my employers offer or do not, it’s only your life at stake here, not mine, and frankly it matters little in the grand scheme of things. I have other people to see today if you’ll excuse me. Show up at the appointed time or do not. Good day to you cutter.”

	And with that the tiefling tipped his hat, smiled and walked confidently to the door of the inn and vanished out into the street leaving the shocked looking cleric behind with only a sealed letter.

	“Only me…” Florian sighed and opened the letter angrily. It was sealed with an odd blue wax bearing the symbol of an open palm. Though the fingers seemed unnaturally long and possessed of an extra knuckle each. The letter read: “Greetings to you my newest employee. If you wish to find yourself free of the toxin now coursing through your veins you will meet another of my latest acquisitions this evening at the former location of the Ubiquitous Wayfarer. Once there enter the front door and proceed to the second floor and enter the fifth door on the right. Further instructions will be found there, as well as any others you will shortly find yourself working with. – Patriarch Dalmar Imshenviir”

Twelve hours previously and an entire plane removed, Tristol Starweather sat brooding in his parents’ tower in the southern Faerunian nation of Halruaa on the prime world of Toril. The wizard sat sullenly in a chair and rubbed the head of his familiar, a small twintailed fox who yipped softly up at its master. The unique little fox tilted its head to one side in that ever so typical canid manner of questioning. He didn’t understand fully why Tristol was upset.
The mage looked down and gave a weak smile mixed with more than its own share of arrogance. Certainly he’d shown that trait over the past week, all coming to a head that morning. An outsider might have found a curious dichotomy between mage and familiar, since both of them had black tipped fuzzy ears and fox tails… 

Tristol Starweather was a bit of a rarity in his nation of mages, being not quite fully human but an odd little type of Aasimar, descended down from a type of celestial known as a Vulpinal. Reclusive beings found on the plane of Elysium that served as sages, inventors and artists of their kind. The aasimar heritage was passed down from his father, Kefnar Starweather, himself an aasimar. His mother, Lutra Starweather, was as purely human as you might find. How the mages who paired his parents together had made the match, Tristol wondered about it still since they were nearly opposites in so many ways. Ability came first over fondness in Halruaa, and under the laws of the land you didn’t easily shirk responsibility to produce the next generation of capable wizards.

Tristol pondered what exactly his parents were going to do with him. Whatever it was it wasn’t going to be pleasant, nor was it likely to be the idea of his father. Lutra was both the more powerful mage of the pair, and the dominant personality. Whatever happened he would likely be able to have his mother alone to thank. In fact what had started all of this coming trouble was his mother’s idea in the first place. Stupid illusion magic…

It had all started a month or so before. Tristol’s chosen area of magic was evocation; a perfectly respectable school of magic, but not at all one of the politically favored schools. Kefnar was an abjurist and Lutra was an illusionist, a powerful illusionist. This fact was apparent from the illusions that constantly flitted over the face of their tower and wandered around inside half of the rooms therein. The problem was that Tristol loathed the little wastes of magic with a passion. He didn’t find them useful, and they were one of the schools of magic that he’d forsaken in their entirety. His mother had never really gotten over that little snub. She’d wanted an illusionist or a diviner, not some hurler of flames and lightning.

“That’s what you got though, someone who uses real magic…” Tristol scoffed and thought back again. Lutra’s little figments were amusing to him as a child, but as he grew older and more skilled in magic they seemed like shadows of real spells, tricks without real use or substance. In time they grew to be very shallow seeming to him. As his open contempt for them grew his mother became displeased and put it upon herself to have her wayward son instructed in such things and made to understand that all magic had its place. And in Halruaa some magic had its place more than others.

	To that end they had provided him with a tutor by the name of Jengo, the last in a long line of wizards that had instructed him in the various schools of magic to supplement the teaching of his own parents. It had been clear by that point that their son’s prowess was approaching the point where it would soon outstrip that of his father, and potentially that of his mother as well, and that it was aspected firmly opposite to her own. Tristol had resented being lectured over and over in tolerance for all forms of magic, being told that all magic was an equally powerful blessing that Mystra had granted her servants, and that illusions had real uses. He scoffed at the waste of magic he saw them all as, but still Jengo persevered in trying to mitigate some of his pupil’s more extreme views.

	Everything had come to a head when Jengo had drug Tristol along to a mage fair and carnival of sorts on the other side of the city, specifically to guide him around a house of mirrors and illusions. It had been three hours of misery for the young evoker in which he’d been mocked by phantasms, stumbled through illusory doors just to hit his head on a real wall, all the while getting lectured on the positive aspects of illusion magic. Eventually he’d had enough. He looked in the direction of Jengo’s voice and shouted at the top of his lungs, “This is what I think of these lessons and this is what I think of this waste of magic!” His shouting hadn’t been for naught as he’d woven a greater dispelling incantation into his words and hurled them outwards into the illusions cloaking the room. Walls melted away, Jengo appeared from behind a suddenly dissolving stand of trees, and there was a shower of sparks from above them both.

	Both Tristol and Jengo looked up to see a silver sphere come crashing down to the floor where it burst into a dozen sparking pieces. The sphere had been the focus for the entire house of illusions. Jengo looked on in horror as the dispelling spread outwards and entire rooms vanished like a house of cards tumbling down upon itself. They both scrambled for the exit before the physical sections of the building finally collapsed upon themselves in a cloud of all too real smoke.

	Jengo looked aghast as he looked to the ruins of the building and back to Tristol, “I can’t believe what you did! Why did… how could…” The very act itself was shocking to him, but also the fact that his charge had hurled such a powerful spell on his own. All around there were the sounds of angry merchants, shocked and outraged wizards and the approaching sound of the city guard. Tristol had just a bit of a triumphant smirk on his face even as he was politely escorted away for detainment.

	His parents bailed him out as soon as they heard what had happened from a shocked and apologetic Jengo. As Lutra teleported herself, Kefnar and Tristol back to her tower on the outskirts of the city, there was a palpable silence amongst them all. Walking down the halls of the tower towards a sitting room, Tristol was fully aware that a number of the wandering illusions in the tower looked down at him with disapproving stares, no doubt linked in to what his mother was clearly waiting to say to him. Once they arrived and shut the door on their son, Tristol sat and worried about the day’s events.

Back in the present he looked down at his familiar and simply stared out the window in the room, making a face at the illusions that danced over the window frame. Fifteen minutes passed before his parents returned. Lutra walked in and stood in front of her son before she launched into her tirade. Kefnar skulked behind her, not fully party to her rant and clearly feeling some sort of empathy for his son. Whatever might come, if it could be toned done, it was very likely at his doing and not hers.

"Tristol..." his mother began. "I arranged to have all that mess cleared up… but at a very expensive price I must say! However, you are not allowed to set foot in the town proper for at least year, or charges will be filed." She then took a long deep breath. "And your father and I have been discussing things. We both agree it would be wise to send you out on your own for a while, so that you can get into trouble and get yourself out. You might learn some lessons while you’re out there as well since you didn’t listen to half of those we’d paid to have you taught. I’m not quite sure where I went wrong as a mother but…"

Tristol’s father broke in suddenly, stepping out from behind his wife both figuratively and literally, “We’re going to be very hands off on this. We’ve packed some of your things up for you, anything that you’ll need, but please do let us know where you are and what you’re up to so we don’t worry. I hate sending you away, but your mother thought it might be best for all of us for a while.” His ears flopped sullenly to the sides in emphasis on the last part clearly being his wife’s idea entirely. Tristol wasn’t going to let it all seen like a bad thing though, or even a punishment…

"Finally... a chance to be on my own." Tristol said, breathing a sigh of relief. "Where should I go? Waterdeep? Amn? Cormyr? Zakhara?"

"We've arranged for you to get to Sigil. It’s a bit further away from where you’re thinking, but it’s really only a door removed from here you could say.” He tried to smile to make his son more at ease with leaving, “With your ability there should be plenty of opportunity for right... or wrong. Just remember, we won't be there to bail you out." Kefnar let out a sigh and motioned with his tail over towards a table next to Lutra stacked with Tristol’s spellbooks and a travel bag.

Tristol’s mother nodded, "We’ve prepared a small travel bag for you." She then hefted the small brown bag up from the table. "It has a few changes of robes for you, random scrolls, and a few rings to help protect you. We want you to take this opportunity to get to know yourself and find your place in the world. Come back to us when you've figured it out."

	The next dozen or so hours were a whirlwind as he stepped through a portal to the Concordant Domain of the Outlands and from there teleported to the city of Trade Gate. It had taken him a few minutes to figure out how to use the portal to Sigil in that bustling city of traders, merchants, craftsmen and gnomes. In the end one of those same gnomes and approached him and handed him several links of silver chain before pointing to the archway and telling him to simply hold out the bit of chain, what he called a portal key, and he’d be in the City of Doors.

	He did just that and spent the rest of the day wandering through what he had been told was the ‘Market Ward’ of the city. He’d also been called a number of other things ranging from berk, to clueless, to sodding berk, to spellhurler, to things in languages he’d never heard of before. All of it seemed to relate to his penchant for stopping in the middle of the streets, even the crowded ones, and looking around to stare at most everything in sight.

	Eventually he’d wandered into a nicer area of the city filled with mansions and fancier buildings, even a few towers. A few more instances of asking for directions led him out of what those people had called the ‘Noble’s District’ into the other half of The Lady’s Ward. By this point he’d been wandering for hours and was getting somewhat tired and more than a bit hungry. Another person stopped and asked for directions, a few blocks walked, and Tristol noticed a sign for what seemed to be some manner of inn. The oversized sign was decorated with a large golden colored wheel above symbols of food and drink. If nothing else it would be a place to sit down and digest all of the things he’d seen so far.

	Walking in the front door he was surprised by the number of people in the esblishment that was now clearly both an inn and a gambling and Festhall as well. The sounds of dice cups, shuffling cards, and from somewhere a but more removed, the sound of some snarling animal clouding through the air and mixed with the more mundane sounds of people dining and talking. The occasional shout and groan would be the rare winners at the gambling tables and the much more frequent losers.

	Tristol walked to a large desk opposite the entrance and looked up into the face of a large green colored dragon’s head that was either affixed to, or coming out of, the wall over the desk and extending out over a bar to the side. His ears lay flat and his tail jumped for a brief moment when the dragon’s head tilted and smiled a toothy grin at him. “You look new here, can I help you find anything?” the dragon said.

“You don’t look like a green dragon… and you’re nice…” Tristol asked a bit impertinently.

	“Well, I’m green today. Tomorrow I’ll be something else likely.” The dragon shrugged, as well as it could do without shoulders anyways. In fact he looked more like a gold dragon, or some odd looking silver. But regardless of his exact species, he continued, “Something to drink? Eat? A room for the evening? Oh, and if you’ll be so kind to sign the guestbook there to your left.”

	Tristol smiled back, “Right now a room for the evening. It’s been a long day and I just need to rest for a bit to handle everything this city has tossed at me. Yeah, I’m new here if you couldn’t tell from the way I act, if not for my looks.”

	“Very well. If you’ll go up those stairs to your right back there you’ll find the inn over top of the Fortunes Wheel here, properly called the Azure Iris Inn. I warn you it’s a tad expensive, but its very nice. You’ll find a very pleasant wood elf up there, her name’s Verden. Tell her that the big green scaly thing by the bar downstairs sent you up to her. She’ll give you a little bit of a discount.” The dragon, or at least what looked like part of a dragon smiled again and pointed its snout in the direction of the stairs near the back of the common room.

	“Well thank you, I think I’ll do that.” His tail twitched happily behind him, kicking up his robes slightly as he dipped the pen on the bar into the ink well and hunted for a place to sign his name in the registry. “Hmm… might be a little cramped. Some Marauder person signed their name over half the page…”

	But Tristol signed his name, smiled up at the dragon once more and walked up the stairs to the Azure Iris inn. As he left for an evenings rest, his never saw the well dressed tiefling who emerged from a spot at one of the card tables to walk over and examine the latest name in the registry. The tiefling smiled and knocked a dash next to it as the dragon’s head hovered over him with an altogether disapproving look on its face. The tiefling simply looked up and smirked wickedly at the dragon, but both of them said nothing and the tiefling vanished back into the crowd in the gambling hall.

	The night came and went and Tristol Starweather slept soundly in his room at the end of the hall in the Azure Iris Inn. The owner, Verden was a nice enough woman, if seeming a bit cold. Maybe all elves were that way, but he wouldn’t have known since Halruaa had very very few of them within its borders. But she did give him his discount after he mentioned the dragon. As he slept his mind was growing to appreciate in some ways this little excursion from his family. Freedom was sweet as he slumbered that evening. But that, like all things, would soon change.

	The morning light slowly crept across Tristol’s face as he blinked at the hazy yellow light breaking in a line across his bed and into his eyes. “That’s daylight? You’d think they could do something about the haze out there.” He yawned and got up out of bed to splash a bit of water on his face to feel a bit more alive. Back on the bed his familiar pounced the now vacant pillow and happily claimed it as its own with a sharp bark of triumph as it curled up atop it.

	“Well fine, sleep there all day and I’ll just have to leave you here while –I – go eat breakfast. Hmm?” Tristol chuckled as he brushed out his hair and smoothed the fur on his ears and tail. The fox, at the mention of breakfast, was already at the door and waiting impatiently. Various suggestions of what he wanted to eat were already starting to filter into Tristol’s mind through the telepathic link they shared. Along with it, his own appetite was growing.

	“That’s not fair and you know it. Now stop, you’re making me hungrier than I am. Next time I go drinking I’ll do the same to you, and I can hold my liquor more than you can.”

	The mage changed into a fresh set of robes and made his way back down to the fest hall area of the Fortunes Wheel. He found an unoccupied table and took a seat. The fox barked at him from on the floor impatiently. “Oh? Mr. ‘I’m making the wizard hungry’ wants his own seat, does he?” The fox barked again in a just so fashion and Tristol stood up and slid out a chair for his vulpine companion.

	“What can I get you sir?” one of the servers, a cute looking aasimar of Eladrin heritage, asked.

	“Hmm… anything that might qualify for breakfast. It’s my first morning in the city and I’d like to try something I might not have before. But some sort of sausage for the fox over here.” The fox barked softly and wagged his oversized tails.

	“Anything to drink sir?” she asked as she jotted down the food order.

	Tristol thought for a moment, “Something to wake me up?”

	She grinned puckishly, “I can handle that, it’ll be out shortly.”

	Several minutes later a different server walked out and placed a shot glass of some fiery reddish alcohol in front of the aasimar. Tristol look at it and the fox hopped up on the table to sniff. It snuck out its tongue to lap at it before its master shooed it away. As he did so, the fox got a single slurp and a small puff of smoke shot from its nose. The familiar looked slightly dazed and flopped down on its side with a surprised yelp. Tristol himself paused and shook off the shared effects of the alcohol.

	“Wow, just what the hell is this stuff?” he pondered as he tentatively took a swallow of it, with an almost equal effect to himself. A short period later after he recovered from the bite of the wine he flagged down yet another server and asked them what it actually was.

	“Ah… that would be Baatorian firewine sir.” They said matter-of-factly. “What the hell indeed, not bad. Certainly woke me up, that’s for sure.” Tristol said to himself as he looked back towards the still slightly stunned fox. “You alright over there, or just buzzed? I told you I could handle my drink more than you could. Might have to put you in an extradimensional pouch later if you’re too drunk to walk.”

	Tristol sat back and watched the various dozens of planar and prime races that populated the taproom that morning as he waited for his food to arrive. Half of the patrons eating breakfast or getting and early start on their day’s allotment of hard drink he’d never seen before outside of some of the books he’d studied when he was learning conjuration spells. He marveled at the existence of such a place where mortals, celestials and fiends walked in shared space, as well as beings such as him with a trace of at least one of those planar races mixed in with their own prime material bloodline.

	Soon enough the same server who had brought the alcohol arrived with a tray of food and placed several dishes in front of Tristol and a second, smaller dish in front of the familiar. “I thought your companion here might appreciate a plate of his own. Is there anything else that I can get for you sir?” the tiefling serving girl asked with a smile.

	“No no, this all looks very wonderful. Thank you.” He returned her smile and hungrily launched into his breakfast, mouthful after mouthful. The fox was finished with its own smaller plate and sniffing towards Tristol’s food a few minutes later. “Fine fine, you want some more?” Tristol thought as he pushed a few links of sausage over to his familiar’s plate.

	Engrossed in his meal, the wizard failed to notice the tiefling approaching his table till the well-dressed man had tapped a small cane on the chair opposite him. “Excuse me sir, I apologize for interrupting your breakfast, but I was hoping that I might have a word with you.”

	Tristol started to reply then remembered his manners and swallowed his mouthful of food. “Umm… certainly. Please have a seat.”

	“Thank you.” The tiefling sat down and placed a small sealed letter on the table in front of him. “Where to begin, where to begin… again I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, it’s not everyday that one gets to meet a wizard from Halruaa.”

	“Wait… did my mother set you up for this? If she went out of her way to have people keep tabs on me while I was here in Sigil, I’ll…” his ears were suddenly a bit flat against his head before the tiefling waved off his concern.

	“Nothing of the sort sir, I’m personally not familiar with your family. I was however told that you were in Sigil and staying up in the Azure Iris. Another colleague of mine by the name of Tripicus keeps tabs on prime material residents from a few select spheres, it’s an honest curiosity in him. He studies people from the various primes. But I get ahead of myself.”

	The tiefling waved over the server and ordered himself a drink. “My own employers have been looking for help with certain matters, and specifically are in the need of arcane expertise. I was having an evening meal with Tripicus the other day and he mentioned you, and being from a nation of wizards on a prime world noted for wizards, I figured I might as well meet you and see if you might be interested in what my employers have to offer.”

	“Hmm… well I might be open to it. What sort of work would I be doing? Let me finish up the last of my breakfast here and we can talk about the details.”

	“All of the finer points are in the letter I have here if you’d like to look over it.” He slid the letter across the table to the wizard and took a sip of his own drink as it arrived. A moment after his shot of whiskey he paused and pointed towards Tristol’s plate, “And I believe that I would be remiss if didn’t inform you that your meal was poisoned…”

	Tristol stopped, blinked and looked up at the tiefling. “What was that you said?”

	“I’ll repeat it again in case you misheard me. I said your food was poisoned, every scrap of your breakfast in fact. The effect will be slow and subtle at first, but without the antidote, or anything short of a wish, you'll be dead within two weeks time. The alchemical toxin is quite rare and has the peculiar ability to resist clerical healing spells that would normally purge it from the body. So I’ll spare you a trip to a temple of Mystra and just tell you now that they can’t help you, but my employer can. Do exactly as this letter spells out and you will be given the antitoxin before it kills you. Choose not to agree to those terms and you’ll have two weeks, at most, to find yourself a cure without knowing what the specific poison was…”

	The tiefling stood up, tipped his hat towards the mage, and tossed the letter in front of him. “You’ll be wanting to read that. Good day to you.” And with that, he turned and walked off, vanishing into the crowd and leaving Tristol stunned and staring at the letter.

	His familiar looked at the empty plates in front of them both and whimpered softly, its two tails gone limp and curled between its hind legs. With trembling fingers, Tristol opened the letter that was sealed with a shimmering blue wax, impressed with an image of an open palm with an extra digit to each elongated finger. The letter read: “Greetings to you my newest employee. If you wish to find yourself free of the toxin now coursing through your veins you will meet another of my latest acquisitions this evening at the former location of the Ubiquitous Wayfarer. Once there past the front door, proceed to the second floor, and enter the fifth door on the right. Further instructions will be found there, as well as any others you will shortly find yourself working with. – Patriarch Dalmar Imshenviir”

	“Lady of Mysteries preserve me…” Tristol put down the letter and help his familiar in his lap as he contemplated just what exactly he would do. Assuming the food was poisoned and what that arrogant prick of a tiefling had said was true, he didn’t have much of a choice but to do what he was being forced to do. First he’d confirm that he was indeed poisoned and see if normal curative magic could heal it, unlikely but he could try in case it was all an elaborate bluff. But for the moment he sat, suddenly quiet, his own ears and tail matching the sullen and worried attitude that his familiar displayed.

	And two more were thus snared into the plot, wrapped in the same webs of guile, treachery and lies as the others they would soon meet…


----------



## Tristol

*bows graciously*

Well, now that I've been properly introduced into the grand affair of things, I thought it might be prudent to say hello. I am Archmage Tristol Starweather, servant to the Lady of Mysteries, mistress of the weave. As you've been made aware, I was roped into this group of berks by a force outside of my control. Looking back over the story being told, I don't think I'd really have had it any other way. Sure, the poisoning I could have done without, but the people I met helped shaped my life to become so much more than I was. I've been through a lot in the meantime, and our esteemed storyteller will certainly reveal all in that regard. 

There's only so much you can say while attending to seven different people and the story that goes along with it. Inevitably you loose that degree of persoal insight. In order to provide a unique, if not biased, look at what happens to the group of adventurers you're reading about, I kept a diary of our exploits. It's all from my own recollection and has my own personal thoughts on the various puzzles and events. Some of it I'm sure is a bit bland and boring, but there is a lot that is down right puzzling and emotional.

I would like to offer a word of warning to those who enjoy the current story. The diary doesn't pick up where you've been left off. It was an afterthought written a short time after I met these people, as an attempt to ensure that I would be remembered. As such, it contains insights of the future of the story and will spoil things for those who are waiting. However, I also appreciate the feedback on my work as much as anyone else does. So, if you do read it, please let me know what you think. It has its spelling errors, and perhaps grammatical mistakes, but the content is what I'm looking for input on. Having provided you that word of warning, the following is a page entirely devoted to myself. It's still got some work that needs to be done, but it is mostly complete and has links to the diary as well as other information that you'll find useful.

http://vulpes.foxpaws.net/~tristol/

I reiterate, if you feel compelled to comment, please do so. There's contact information on the page, and you can also get up with me here as well. I hope to interject more on various topics in the future, so keep an eye out for me.

Mystra's blessing on you all.


----------



## Shemeska

*Shorter update, but an update*

[I've got double this written, but the next part isn't finished so it'll wait till next time to post it. I'd post it all tommorow but I have to help friends move and that takes priorty for the moment. Enjoy hopefully]


The companions gazed out into an empty gray void stretching out as far as the eyes could see. Several brilliant, glowing orbs of light hung suspended out in the empty space around them, illuminating the large outcrop of rock that they stood upon. Like an inverted mountain it hung there in space, connected to a single black marble bridge that reached out to another, larger hanging rock suspended in the void. Hulking upon that second island of stone stood a solid and utilitarian stone fortress that could have been picked up off of any random prime world and deposited where it now stood. Some portions of it seemed of human make, others seemed to be constructed in more of a dwarven style. Nothing particularly stood out to give any real clue of the origin of its owners, or at least its makers. Certainly nothing stood out in comparison to the demiplane it sat within.

The temperature was pleasant and a slow warm breeze drifted across their faces as they gazed up at the castle sitting there motionless in space. The orbs in the empty sky shed their harsh white light over the landscape of the demiplane, stretching out their feeble illumination into the empty expanse of nothing that surrounded them.

Clueless looked at the others, “Well… so much for going right back to Sigil.”

Fyrehowl sighed angrily, “And you believed him? The man dealt with Nycaloths. That doesn’t make him trustworthy as far as I’m concerned.”

“I still hold to my previous statement that he needs to join the Dustmen. You don’t find too many walking dead men outside of that group…” Toras smirked with the anticipation of future comeuppance for the arrogant genasi wizard that had blackmailed them all into this originally.

The group walked on towards the castle, over the connecting span of stone and up to the gates themselves. The demiplane was utterly silent as they stood and gazed up at the closed doors of the fortress. Flanking the entrance stood two square stone towers with clearly visible arrow slits. None of them, nor the ramparts above, seemed to be manned. From the exterior the place looked deserted.

Nisha scampered up closer to the gates with a cautious look crossing over her face. She looked back at the group as she tapped the door, “They’re not locked. But there’s some piking strange magic around…” With the words hung on her lips the tiefling suddenly blinked out of sight, vanished.

“Umm…” Clueless’s wings blazed with a concerned flicker of faerie-fire.

“One would expect you to know your employers better, and their tactics. Just step on the stones in front of the gate it’s clearly a teleportation circle worked into the fortress.” The factol said with a bemused bit of irritation as she stepped forwards herself to vanish upon touching the marble paving stones directly before the gate. Shrugging and hoping for the best, the others followed suit.

When the spell’s effect faded, all of them stood inside a large meeting room perhaps fifty feet across and equally long. The unadorned chamber was furnished with only a large table at one end and a shimmering tapestry that hung on the wall to their left. A single door led out of the room near to the end with the table and was flanked by two unmoving dull grayish stone golems, each in the same plain and utilitarian style of the fortress itself. All of this however was not what gathered the rapt attention of the newly arrived companions and their guest.

Standing in the center of the room and flanked by two others of his kind as well as a much more elaborate looking shield golem, was a twelve foot tall, blue-skinned and richly robed humanoid. A mercane. The wizard, Bartol Trenevein was nowhere in sight.

“I congratulate you all on a job completed ahead of schedule. I hope that there were no unforeseen problems.” The voice of the primary mercane rung out loudly in the minds of the group, steady and confident. 

It then continued, “Factol Nilesia, I am honored by your presence. Your return has been too long in the making. My associates and I, we welcome you. Know that your dream remains alive, even while your faction has splintered. We seek to aid you in your goals and make that dream a reality. If you will follow my assistants, they wish to obtain the details of your absence, inform you as to the changed face of the kreigstanz, and expedite your return to the City of Doors.”

Nilesia paused at the words of the mercane, especially the part about the disintegration of the Mercykillers. A moment later and she steeled herself and walked towards the taller figure with a nod of respect and gratitude. “I extend my thanks to you as well. Whatever your motives may be you have righted a wrong. You have my respect as do those who brought me here. See that they are rewarded.”

Wordlessly and as impassive as ever the lead mercane motioned towards the single exit and the golems moved to the side as the two smaller attendant mercanes nodded to Nilesia and escorted her from the room. As soon as she and they had left the room the golems closed the doors and retook their vigil.
A sudden flash near the back of the room drew the gaze of the group and an unconcerned glance from the mercane. Standing there behind the party were two figures with a curious and wary look on their faces: an axe wielding and armored cleric bearing the symbols of the Torillian god of War, Tempus, and an orange robed aasimar wizard. The wizard’s bushy tail was nearly bottlebrushed out behind him as he looked at the party and then the mercane.

The mercane motioned in the air and a number of simple, unadorned chairs appeared for each of the members of its captive audience. “Be seated.”

“Now wait just a minute. Who in the 9 blazing Hells are you?” Toras asked, remaining standing and even walking towards the mercane a few steps. The mercane seem entirely nonplussed at it all.

“Sit down Toras of Andros before I find myself down one servant bought and paid for. My name to you may as well be ‘master’, but if it makes you sit and listen then you may also refer to me as Patriarch Dalmar Imshenviire. Two of you are already familiar with my name. Now associate a person with it.” Imshenviire gestures one elongated finger at Florian and Tristol where they sat nervously.

Fyrehowl blinked and looked around the room, sniffing curiously at some scent on the air. Clueless looked at her oddly as she glanced around the room for something he obviously wasn’t aware of. Eventually she stopped and looked back towards the mercane but the nagging look of suspicion never left her face.

“Whatever happened to that arrogant son-of-a-bitch Trenevain?” Clueless asked with a flutter of his wings beating irritatedly on the air.

“Nothing you should be concerned with. As far as you must know, you are now my property as you were his previously. The same conditions that bound you to his service apply now to me as well.” Imshenviire’s telepathic voice washed out over the group with arrogance to equal the genasi’s.

“So I take it you were his puppet master from the beginning? What was with the Nycaloths then. Don’t they make better bodyguards than golems?” Clueless egged on but the mercane ignored his questions. Fyrehowl once more glanced around the room with a distressed and paranoid look.

“Be quiet and be seated as your indentured servitude now enters its second phase. Two others, procured in similar fashion, join you in your service. You will require their aid for your next task. Now that we have the factol…” Imshenviire paused on the phrase with obvious pleasure, “….your next task is this.”

The mention of a second task drew forth irritated sighs from his subjects as he gestured with one hand to conjure forth a shimmering chest out of the air in front of the party. The chest opened of its own volition to reveal a collection of papers inside its misty interior. Nisha reached out to collect them, gave them a cursory glance and then passed them around to the others. Clearly stamped on each of the pages in brilliant but fading red ink were the following words, “BANNED BY ORDER OF FACTOL SARIN OF THE HARMONIUM, Possession of these maps is an offense punishable by fine, hard labor, imprisonment, or death.” The papers were some sort of collection of maps, each of them annotated in elaborate handwritten githyanki script.

“If you will examine those maps, they detail a specific section of the deep ethereal in which your next target lays.” The mercane patriarch waved its other hand towards Nisha and the planar compass at her belt began to glow with a soft light. “You will need that. I would go myself on this task, but I would not be… welcome. The planar compass will give you further instructions once you reach the proper location in the ethereal. From there you will take an ethereal curtain to the actual location of your task.”

Tristol looked up from the maps, clearly about to ask a question, but the mercane cut him off abruptly. “The tapestry at the rear of this chamber is an active ethereal tapestry that will lead you out into a small chamber built on the ethereal proper at the boundary of this demiplane. You may rest there as you feel the need to do so before leaving, and there is an ample supply of food and drink there as well. However I would not tarry there long as your two newest companions are living on borrowed time.”

Florian gave the mercane an icy glare and walked towards the tapestry without another word as Tristol’s face flushed a dozen shades of red and his ears flattened back onto his head, black facing up.

“Hold on.” Clueless glared up at the mercane patriarch, “This last little stunt in Acheron was supposed to be the only thing we had to do before what was taken from us was returned or the situations making us do this were reversed. What assurances do we have that we’re not going to be brought back here after risking our lives yet again just to be sent out to do some other errand?”

“You don’t,” Imshenviire replied as impassively as ever. “And considering the circumstances you have little choice but to do as I tell you. However if it will insure your prompt cooperation then very well, if you finish this next task then I will release you from my service. I have nothing more for you to perform after this nor is it in my best interests to retain your services or the conditions binding you to myself. Business may be harsh at times, but it is never overly vindictive for no reason. Return here when you are done and we will collectively wash our hands of this. Until then however you are mind to do with as I see fit. Go.”

Under the baleful watch of their mercane taskmaster the group walked back towards the shimmering veil of the ethereal curtain, one by one stepping through and vanishing from sight. Fyrehowl paused to once more look around the room with a wary look before Nisha nudged her forwards.

“Come on, let’s just get this over with. What’s wrong? You’re acting all wierded out and paranoid. At least the first part is my job, find your own shtick.”

“There’s… nevermind.” The lupinal shrugged off her feeling of lingering dread about the whole place, the entire situation really, and stepped through the curtain with Nisha trotting close behind.


----------



## Graywolf-ELM

Gratefully received and read.  The stew thickens.

GW


----------



## Shemeska

Running late with the update, though it's mostly written at this point. My players however want a chance to review it before I post it up here so I'll give them this weekend to made suggestions to what I have so far. I'll probably post the full thing Tuesday of next week.


----------



## Fimmtiu

An exquisitely torturous wait... but we'll get over it.  

Have a good weekend!


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## Shemeska

Fimmtiu said:
			
		

> An exquisitely torturous wait... but we'll get over it.
> 
> Have a good weekend!




Thank you, I'll try. I got sick last week and had to call off my game so I've had an extra week to prepare for Sunday's session. We shall see who lives and who dies, and who just feels incredibly confused by the end of it. 

I promise you all a long and lengthy update early next week. There's just a huge amount of IC dialogue I have to write up before continuing on with the plot. The next update will likely include the scene that ended up with me drawing a picture as a visual aid and Clueless's player refusing to so much as touch the paper. The first time they actually got frightened IC, and perhaps OOC as well. We'll see how you all like it.

And as a final thought, it's 4:42am, what the hell am I doing up this late...


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## Clueless

Shemeska said:
			
		

> And as a final thought, it's 4:42am, what the hell am I doing up this late...




Preparing to drink yet more coffee? I don't know.


----------



## Shemeska

*It's now 2:41am, and yes indeed I am drinking espresso...*

The chamber dissolved into a haze of muted colors and in another step vanished altogether to open into a small chamber with crystalline walls beyond which swirling gray mist floated like unyielding fog. A single stretch of wall shimmered like the curtain had before, presumably leading out into the ethereal at large. Otherwise the chamber was filled by a long wooden table carved with scenes of various mortal races eating, drinking and making merriment. Plush cushions and pillows lay scattered around the chamber to allow a person to sit and rest or even sleep on the otherwise hard glassy surface of the small pocket sheltered off from the rest of the ethereal.

	“So…” Florian began, “How did those long fingered blue bastards get you all into this mess? They poisoned me over breakfast the other morning. I would’ve said yes to their request for help. Clearly they didn’t do their homework on me. And before anyone asks, no I can’t remove the poison myself. I already made certain that yes I’ve got something in me and that it resists the normal curative spells that I know. But before I start rambling on here like an angry fool, I’m Florian, servant of the Foe Hammer, formerly of Toril.”

	“Don’t worry, you’re hardly the angriest person here…”, Toras grumbled under his breath, more to himself than otherwise.

	“Blackmail, lovely little thing that it is. All of us they’ve got something on, or they’ve got –someone- that we know and you can guess yourself from there on. Me? I’ve got holes in my memory you could march armies through. I don’t remember everything in my past so for all I know anything they claim they’ve got on me could be true.” Clueless shrugged and put his sword down at his side as he settled on one of the cushions. Fyrehowl and Florian sat adjacent to him and began to expand upon their own situations.

	Nisha walked over to the table and looked at it with sudden delight, “Well, Hashkar on a righteous bender! Evil moneygrubbers or not, they know how to feed us before sending us off to our deaths! They’ve got a hero’s table!”

	The others broke off their explanations of their own blackmail situations to look over to where the tiefling was now sitting on the table, kicking her hooves out like a child on a chair too tall for them to reach the ground, pondering something intently.

	“A what?” Toras asked, giving her an odd look (not the first time he’d ever done that).

	“A hero’s table! What’s your favorite food, somebody, anybody?” she grinned like an idiot and glanced around at her companions’ faces before finally Clueless walked over.

	“I don’t know actually what my favorite food is.” He shrugged.

	“Doesn’t matter, just think about your favorite food. Maybe if you just think about ‘my favorite food’ as an idea it’ll work. These things make whatever it is you ask them for. It’s the greatest thing since Ooze mephits in the guvners’ law library!”

	The others just chuckled politely at Nisha’s –exhuberant- opinion on such things and looked at Clueless as he looked intently at the table and put out his hands. There was a small flash of sparkling light in front of him that swirled away to reveal a small platter of food on a golden plate and an elaborate fluted glass bottle filled with a multicolored and swirling liquid.

	“Wow, you’ve got exotic tastes. What is that?” Fyrehowl asked as she sniffed in the direction of the newly created food. She stood up and wandered over to the table as well, hunger getting the best of her.

	“I’d tell you but I don’t actually know what it is. Apparently I used to like it a lot though.” Clueless said as he sat down on one of the cushions on the ground as the others gradually made their own choices from the table. 
True to Nisha’s word as they made their rounds they came away with smiles on their faces and bowls and dishes of food as well as amble amounts of drink to suit their most wild or imaginative tastes. All the while Nisha kicked her hooves back and forth happily. Eventually Tristol walked up with his familiar in tow and looked suspiciously at the table.

“It’s not poisoned is it? I’m a bit overly cautious with these people considering what they did to me to get me here. I mean… I didn’t do anything to these guys! Nothing!” the mage sighed as his familiar hopped up onto the table, apparently being in a more decisive mood than its master. Nisha cooed at the fox and put out a finger to scratch the vulpine’s head.

“Your familiar is cute. Aren’t you cute!” the tiefling said as she descended into babbling at the fox who simply looked at her with the typical canid expression of perplexion with its head tilted to one side. Tristol chuckled and looked over at her with a smile.

“He’s smarter than he looks, he just can’t talk to people. Not yet anyways.” Tristol rubbed the fox’s head lightly as a small dish of some sweetmeats popped in front of its nose. It barked happily and swished its tail as it promptly buried its muzzle in the bowl and munched away at its meal.

Tristol looked back at Nisha, “So what got you into this? I’ve heard from a few of the others. It seems like Florian over there, he and I have the same situation. And we’ve got a time limit too…” He shrugged off the gloom and tried to smile for the overly perky tiefer who sat there still swinging her legs cheerfully.

“Well, I’m mostly a thi… collector of donations from overly rich perso… overly rich evil fiends who like to punch small children in the mouth and laugh at old people. Exactly.” He chuckled and blushed slightly as she glanced over at Toras who looked at her with skepticism. “Yeah, as I was saying… I do that and I’m pretty good at it if I do say so myself. Yes I do. Well thank you Nisha you’re very kind. Oh you’re certainly welcome.” She babbled back and forth to herself a bit more, even supplying gestures for each persona switch. Tristol tried very hard not to laugh.

“But I also know a little bit of magic. Just a bit, and I’m mostly self-taught and from a few other mages I knew from here and there. However I’m at a distinct lack of my spellbook right now since that piking genasi stole it from me. Without it I know maybe two or three spells that I’ve used enough to remember without studying the book. But that’s what they’re blackmailing me with, my spellbook.” She shrugged, “I don’t think my situation is as harsh as some of the rest of you all though, you especially. That’s harsh.”

	Clueless looked up from where he sat tentatively tasting his apparently favorite food. “Well, from what I remember I used to be able to cast spells as well. Only problem is I didn’t wake up with a spellbook on me…”

	Tristol looked over towards Clueless as Nisha poked his familiar with her own tail and the fox tried to bite it. “Are you sure you needed a spellbook? Not all casters need one. Some have an innate command of the spells they know, but they usually can’t learn new spells easily. Maybe you fit into that sort of mage?”

	Clueless shook his head, “No, I remember having a book. I don’t have any spells left in memory so I can’t just write them back down to preserve it all. If I live through all of this I’m going to have to start over from scratch it seems.” With that the bladesinger took a deep draught of the bottle he’d been given by the table. With a startled look he gasped for breath as a mixture of sparkling light and colored smoke wafted from his mouth.

	“Woah…” came his response in a weak voice after he took a few moments to steady himself. “I have no idea what this is, but that’s the first time I can remember any alcohol actually doing anything to me. I tried to get drunk back in Sigil and I couldn’t. This… probably could though.”

	Fyrehowl looked at Clueless and laughed as she took a seat next to him with her own meal. Florian did the same and silently said a small prayer before taking a first few tentative bites before he dug in with gusto.

	“So… Tristol. Once we’re done with this could I possibly get you to teach me some more magic? Once I get my spellbook back that is. Kind of useless to learn stuff and not be able to write it down and all.” Nisha said with a hopeful grin.

	Tristol paused for a moment and looked over at both Clueless and Nisha before taking out his own spellbook along with some other bits of paper, thread and ink. “I can’t give you both back everything you had, but I can get you started.” With that, the wizard carefully and deliberately began tearing out blank pages from the back of his own book as well as a few selected pages already filled out with spells from his own repertoire. 

	“This should start you out… if you have anything left in memory you can put them down on paper again here after you’re done eating. If there’s a few that you really liked or want again I’m willing to part with a few of them since I’ll still have all of the more powerful ones in here to play around with. I can replace the lower sphere spells easily once we’re done here.” Tristol paused and sighed, “I also won’t really need them all unless I can get an antidote to the poison they gave me.”

	“Thank you… I’m not sure what to say besides that. That’s a real sacrifice for you to give up parts of your own spellbook.” Nisha accepted the pages that Tristol bound together with string and handed out to Clueless and her. “Maybe a little bit of your favorite drink might cheer you up? You’re getting too gloomy and we need you in better spirits if we’ll be running up against something with an allergic to fireballs out there.”

	Clueless accepted Tristol’s donation with equal humbleness and offered a drink from the bottle he held in one hand. “And if you want something that’s just… different, and potent too, there’s always this. Firewine has nothing on this stuff…”

	Tristol’s familiar’s ears perked at that mention and it would have dashed over to pilfer some of it from the half-fey before Tristol firmly grabbed it around the waist and placed it in his lap. “I don’t think so. The last time you tried Baatorian firewine you sneezed smoke and I saw stars. I don’t even want to think what –that- stuff would do to you, or me for that matter. Don’t even think about it…”

	The fox whined softly and even made one last ditch attempt to leap up onto the magical table itself to try and request some of the same alcoholic witches brew for itself. Tristol’s hand on one of its tails ended that adventure before it started. But it got Nisha and Toras both to laugh at the tiny canid’s failed exploits.

	As Tristol helped Nisha recall the spells that she had once had in her own spellbook, presumably recalling a few of them from his own memory to write down with her, Clueless laid back and tried to relax. His stomach was full and his head slightly buzzed from the fey-wine he’d just drunk. Fyrehowl and Florian both looked down at him and smiled, then they both looked up at each other and glared for a fraction of a second. Fyrehowl looked oddly at the human for a moment before looking back down to Clueless.

	“Can I try…” both Fyrehowl and Florian said simultaneously before pausing and looking at each other again. “So tell me…” again, both of them repeated the same words and yet again glared at each other.

	“Hmm?” Clueless looked up lazily at them both, still slightly buzzed on the effects of the fey-wine the hero’s table had provided him.

	Over the next half hour, Clueless sat and randomly chatted with Fyrehowl and Florian. Had Clueless not lived up to his namesake in that regard, nor had he been slightly inebriated, he might have clued into the fact that both of his companions had gradually been edging closer to him as they chatted about their own experiences and asked him to talk about his. In fact, both Florian and Fyrehowl both seemed to be attempting to outdo each other in terms of getting to know the bladesinger that they both crowded around there on the floor of the chamber.

	Nisha noticed and rolled her eyes, Tristol and his familiar were both too busy studying the wizard’s spellbook, Aren was deeply in prayer, and Toras was slumped and brooding to himself. Eventually however, Fyrehowl stood up and walked over to the table in the center of the room.

	“Anyways… I’ve not had the chance to bath since before we went to Acheron. And I’m sorry; I can’t stand the stink of that place in my fur. I feel like I’ve got a band of imps creeping up on me. Except the smell’s on me and not from any imps. Can anyone here see in the dark?” Fyrhowl grumbled as she walked over towards the far end of the table. She held out her hands and produced several goblets of water and a large bowl of the same.

	“Don’t tell me you’re going to take a bath in here…” Nisha said with a bit of exasperation. “There’s probably a joke I can make about revealing the glory of the heavens and all, but nude celestial isn’t something I like to see.” Behind her, Tristol’s familiar whined and covered its eyes with its forepaws.

	“That’s fine.” Clueless said and continued to look in her direction, seemingly oblivious to the idea that she desired some level of privacy.

	“Very funny.” The lupinal replied as she stepped to the far end of the room and a globe of darkness suddenly popped into being around her. Unphased and still not getting the hint, Clueless turned away to ponder over the spells that he knew he once had.

	Under the cover of magical darkness, all the others could hear were sounds of water hitting the floor and the occasional pleased murmur from the celestial as she washed herself. A small puddle gradually seeped out from the confines of the globe of darkness and inched its way across the floor, spreading along the bottom of the small chamber until the splashing noises stopped and Fyrehowl presumably stopped pouring out any more water.

	A drenched and water slicked hand groped out of the edge of the darkness, feeling along the top of the table to finally land upon a towel and drag it back into the darkness with the pile of clothing left on the tabletop as well. A minute later and the globe of darkness faded to reveal Fyrehowl drenched in water with her fur limp and matted down with the added weight. She stepped back a step and without warning rapidly shook from side to side like a mortal dog in from a rainstorm. A spray of water shot out from her fur as she flung the water every which way to dry herself off amid sharp and sudden howls of protest from the others in the room as they scrambled for cover from the sudden unwelcome shower of water droplets.

	“Ewww, you could have warned us. But I do approve of the spontaneity!” Nisha chuckled and patted herself dry with a cushion that she had used as cover a moment before.

	Fyrehowl smiled from under a mess of still wet fur that flanked both sides of her muzzle like a mop tossed over top of her head. “Hey, I needed it, trust me here. I don’t feel trailed by smelly imps anymore at the very least.”

	“You just look like a damp puffball now.” Clueless said as he snickered.

	“Drink less. Trust me here, drink less.” The lupinal sniped back, none too amused as she smoothed down the errant and honestly overly poofy fur that covered her.

	“Actually it’s probably a good idea to not get soused on that wine Clueless, I don’t care how good it actually is. It won’t do us any good to actually have you drunk while we wander around the ethereal here soon. I don’t want anyone to be at less than his or her best before we throw ourselves in harms way. I won’t, because I have every intention of living through this to pay back the bastards for what they did to me.” Toras sullenly growled and gained some curious looks from the others in return.

	“Just what exactly did they do to you Toras?” Aren glanced up from where she had been praying and largely ignoring the conversations of the others.

	The half-celestial chuckled very grimly and looked over at her, “It’s not pleasant. Do you really care to hear it?”

	“Please do, if it’s on your mind we should hear it.” Aren spoke up softy from where she sat opposite the fighter.

	“Well, they don’t have anything on me. Rather, they have something on the one woman I’ve ever had feelings for. She died years ago and I never got the chance to ever really tell her I loved her. I lost it after she was killed. I stormed the keep that the enemies of my local lord had occupied and I killed them to the last mine. I’ll spare you the details of what I actually did to the people directly responsible for her torture and execution, but it wasn’t pretty and I’m not proud of my rage that day.”

	Toras took a deep breath and continued as the others looked on with a mix of concern, empathy, and pity, “Trenevain, or the mercanes, or maybe both; they found her body or maybe just called her back from the dead without need of it. But they returned her to life and then tortured her to death a second time! And they’ve been repeating that each day since they first blackmailed us all. Every day that has passed I fear that they’re doing the same and there’s no way that I can stop it unless I do what they tell me. For the first time in a very long time I feel utterly powerless.”

	He slammed his hand down with a loud ‘crack!’ on the top of the table before he sat down to clear a few tears from his eyes. “They gave me a sensory stone that showed them doing that. They may have only done that once, or they may, like they claimed, be doing it over and over again, dragging her back from her rest and putting her through a hell she never deserved.”

	A palpable silence descended over the chamber as the other six looked at Toras with shock on their faces. “They’ll pay. I will put them through far worse than they’ve done to her and me before this is over. I swear by my god that I will make them pay.”

	“And we’ll help you. All of us owe them something and they’ll be paying for each and every thing they’ve done to us and put us through. I know I want to be there at your side when you get that chance.” Fyrehowl cleared a tear from her own face as she looked resolutely at Toras then glanced at the other nods of agreement from the rest of the group.

	No other real conversation could truly begin after the emotional catharsis of Toras’s story and oath, and so the group gradually drifted off to sleep. Nisha curled up under the table, Tristol gathered his familiar and spellbook close to himself and curled up with them. Clueless drifted to sleep with one hand curled around his sword and the other curled around the bottle of fey-wine. Fyrehowl and Florian both slept adjacent to Clueless, perhaps closer to the half-fey than might be considered normal for traveling companions but even had he noticed it, Clueless would have been exactly that. Finally, Aren and Toras slumped against the walls of the chamber, propped up by cushions and as content as they might be with the blackmail lurking over them omnipresent in their waking minds.


	Several hours passed and the group slept as well as they could, bracing their bodies for whatever they might soon face. They woke eventually and ate a small breakfast to suite their appetite and taste, the food once again supplied by the magical table. There was little conversation amongst them before they gathered their things, consulted the maps the mercane patriarch had provided, and left by way of the ethereal curtain at the far end of the chamber. They all felt more or less the same: uncertain of the immediate future, but resolute that they would all live to return what had been done to them. All of those feelings had no need to be placed into words as they all emerged onto the ethereal plane.

	The demiplane behind them shimmered with a blurred orange and white haze that flickered softly against the muted rolling white banks of formless fog that drifted across the void.

	“Alright Nisha, you have the compass, which way are we headed?” Clueless stretched his wings and glanced over at the tiefling.

	“Umm…” Nisha glanced at the compass and spun around in a circle before pointing at one otherwise featureless spot in the slowly swirling ethereal clouds. “There.”

	Toras floundered slightly off to one side, uncertain how to actually move about within the ephemeral ether surrounding them all. “How do we actually move around in this? Anyone?”

	Tristol glanced over as he helped usher his familiar into a small dimensional pouch, “Either fly, or swim, or just think about moving in one particular direction and you’ll go that way. No solid ground on this plane, so there’s nothing really to grip onto. But you can still move around regardless. Anyone else need help?”

	Clueless grinned and fluttered his wings slightly as Florian took a moment to get used to the odd mechanics of the plane. “Oh by the holy breasts of Sharess! Stop showing off you. That’s not fair and you know it.”

	Clueless laughed at the unexpected and novel swear before Aren turned and glanced at them both unapprovingly. “Sorry…” they both said simultaneously.

	“Alright, come on you three, we need to get moving. Some of us are on a restricted timetable here.” Fyrehowl said firmly with the smallest hint of a growl and marshaled the group together as they all went diving headfirst into the ethereal shallows surrounding them in all directions.

	Hours upon hours passed and ever so slowly the ambient light in the swirling clouds of ether grew more muted and more like an odd partial moonlight they deeper they dove. Periodically the group stopped to consult the compass and/or the maps they had been given by the mercane, but otherwise the travel went smoothly and without incident. But everything has an exception…

	Some eight hours into their travel through the ethereal, diving ever deeper into the trackless sea, the group of seven was tested in battle together for the first time as a group. Hurtling out of the misty ether and screaming in their own alien tongue, a group of eight red skinned, four armed creatures emerged. Looking like some unholy crossbreed between reptiles and insects, the Xill swarmed over the party. Natives to the deep ethereal and rumored to use living humans as host for their young, they were formed of a group of seven blade wielding warriors and a single, heavily ornamented cleric who hung back, hurling spells and supporting his lesser.

	The battle was brief and spectacular. Before the Xill had closed ranks they were struck by an explosive ball of flame conjured to life by Tristol’s sorcery in their midst. Toras, Clueless and Fyrehowl met them blow for blow as the Xill warriors surged forwards. Florian’s protective spells warded away many of the blows from the two largest Xill that might have otherwise hit before he finally conjured a blinding column of holy flames atop his Xill counterpart some twenty yards distant. Badly injured, the Xill cleric’s invocations to whatever god he served were silenced by another eruption of flame that crossed the distance between Tristol and himself before exploding in pyroclastic fury.

	Breathing heavily and smiling with the sudden release of pent up rage and anger, Toras glanced across the ethereal battlefield as the bloodied, inert and scorched corpses of the Xill slowly drifted out of view to vanish into the featureless fog from which they had first emerged.

	“Damn we’re good.” Nisha grinned with glee as the group drifted back together fresh from their first combined victory.

	Fyrehowl wiped her blade free of the thick black blood of one of the larger Xill as Clueless darted from one side of the group to the next, emotionally high from their success as a group. The half-fey’s wings glimmered with dancing flickers of faerie fire as his passage left tiny eddies in the ether.

	“Anyone need to stop and rest after that? If you do, you’ll have earned it. Otherwise we should probably keep on going.” Tristol asked and looked at each of his companions. Upon hearing not a single request to pause and rest, the group resumed their travel deeper into the ethereal.

	Hours more passed but little of mention was encountered as they passed from one unremarkable bank of ether to the next. They talked on and off during the time as they suffered no attacks, nor any natural obstacle on the plane to slow them down. However some nine hours after the encounter with the Xill, they found something that drew their attention.

Swirling through the mists surrounding the group were flocks and clouds of shimmering, multicolored beetles. Each of them the size of a human’s thumbnail they lazily drifted with barely a sound through the ether, glowing in ever changing swirls and hues of rainbow colors from one end of the spectrum to the other. Nisha chased after a few of them for a moment before giving up as they swam in circles around her. Compared to them she was clumsy and slow, and she stuck out a tongue at one of the flocks of bugs as she came to the same realization. Florian held out an open hand to one of them and it lighted down on his hand. “Pretty. I’ve never seen one of these before.”

	He paused and looked at it closer, “They’re harmless right? Not flesh eating or anything, yes? Tristol? Clueless?”

	Fyrehowl laughed, “They’re as harmless as fireflies, and you can pretty much think of them as the ethereal equivalent. I think Aren can back me up on this one.” She looked over at the priestess who nodded and smiled as a cluster of the glowing insects buzzed lazily around her outstretched arm.

	“Actually… hold on a second and let me try something. Can you keep that bug on your hand comfy Florian? I want to talk to him for a minute.” Clueless grinned and hovered for a moment in the ether, concentrating deeply on something as his wings flickered with a distinct pattern of colors.

	“Try talking to it? They’re not really intelligent. I can normally talk to just about anything, but it still has to be smart enough to speak to someone in the first place.” Fyrehowl blinked and looked curiously at the bladesinger as he stopped what he was doing and floated over to Florian’s side with a flutter of his wings.

_“Hello there little one,”_ Clueless thought more than spoke towards the single ether scarab perched happily on Florian’s hand. He hadn’t tried this trick since waking up in Hopeless and so he wasn’t honestly sure if would work on the tiny animal, or if he’d be able to make it work even if it normally would.

	There was a buzzing noise from the sparkling insect as it moved to face Clueless. Clueless smiled at it and it buzzed again. All the others heard was silence from the half-fey and a sporadic buzz and dancing by the ether scarab, almost like the ‘speech’ of a prime material honeybee.

_“Hello large winged swimmer. You rare here. Not see many your kind this deep.”_ The ether scarab’s movements and buzzing somehow made perfect sense to Clueless and he smiled widely before replying in his own mind to the little creature perched on Florian’s hand.

_“Hello to you too little one. My friends and I are looking for something deeper still, do you know if anything is down in that direction that we should be wary of.”_ Clueless mentally remembered the maps that Nisha had been carrying, and then glanced in the direction that the group had been traveling in. The beetle buzzed rapidly in return and danced around on Florian’s hand animatedly.

_“Danger. Large angry great huge large one there. Devours things swimming that way. Great ugly one.”_ The ether scarab seemed extremely insistent about the creature it was describing. In his mind Clueless had a sudden image of a gigantic crab-like beast with claws and a great fanged maw that glowed in the same strange colors as the ether scarabs. Likely all a lure to attract prey.

_“How can we avoid it if we’re going that way? We need to dive down below it.”_ Clueless projected the words into the bug’s mind and it paused for a moment and flitted about on Florian’s hand once more before buzzing in several distinct patterns.

_“Swim along edges of swirling whirlpools and currents in the deep. Great hungry thing not go there, slow swimmer. Tricks food come to it. Not hunter.”_ Clueless smiled as the beetle imparted its advice.

	Florian looked to the bladesinger, “What’d it say?” As she asked her question the scarab lifted its wings and buzzed off to rejoin its fellows as they flitted through the ether. Clueless waved to the rainbow shimmering insect and flitted his own wings towards the flock with a rush of faerie fire sparkling over them in imitation of the beetles’ own patterns.

	“Well… there’s something large and hungry in the way that we’re heading. That’s the bad news.” The others in the group groaned and glanced warily in that direction. “The good news is that the beetle knew how to avoid it and still not be too far off from where we’re going on our map.”

	Nisha pulled out the maps and drifted over towards Clueless, “Lead on, I’d rather not get eaten in transit.”

	Clueless grinned, “Thank the beetles, not me. I’m glad I remembered how to do that. Anyways, on the map here there are some areas marked as dangerous because of some storms in the ether, if I’m reading the gith here right.”

	“More ‘tornado’ than storm, but close enough.” Tristol remarked as he drifted close and glanced at the maps.

	“But all we need to do to keep away from whatever it was the scarab mentioned is to skirt along the marked area here and we should be fine. Apparently for a hungry monster this thing doesn’t like to leave home. Good for us.” Clueless tapped the center of the map with his finger where the creature likely would be lairing. Nisha marked it with the words ‘here there be monsters’. 

Before they departed, Clueless took out the remaining scraps of food he had gotten from the demiplane and scattered it out into the ether for the remaining ether scarabs to scavage. He smiled as they hungrily swarmed over the bits of food. "Enjoy little ones, you may have saved us a good deal of time and a world of hurt. That's the least you deserve."


	Hours upon hours passed while the group drifted through the nearly endless expanse of misty ether, each mile as unremarkable as the last. The trackless sea certainly was living up to its moniker as they found no landmarks, no denizens and nothing to mark their way. But eventually the ether began to drift and swirl with some unseen turbulence bubbling within its unknown depths.

	A wave of trembling mist brushed against the party as they paused, something like the electric calm before a storm seemed to be lingering out among the misty clouds in the deep surrounding them. “Ok… this would be the edge of those storms. Which way does the compass point now back in the direction that we’re headed towards? I’d rather avoid an ether cyclone just as much as I would something with sharp teeth…” Clueless’s wings shimmered with a faint purple as he spoke.

	Nisha pointed off in one direction and the rest followed along, leaving wispy trails in the ether as they continued on, brushing the edges of the more turbulent region. Over the next several hours they nearly plunged headlong into the ever fluctuating boundary of the roiling deep, the invisible winds and currents of the storms lurking within constantly making them correct their movement to avoid being lost in the churning mists that served as both a constant threat and a protection against the things that lurked out in the featureless regions surrounding them. But eventually, with frayed nerves being the only penalty for their passage, the group emerged in a more tranquil section of the ethereal.

	“Praise be to the foe hammer, now we just need to find that portal and perhaps kick some ass.” Florian touched his holy symbol as he drifted along within the remarkably still fog that marked their current region.

	“I’ll second you on that one. How do we look on the map?” Toras floated past Florian, holding his greatsword out like the figurehead slung at the front of a sailing ship.

	“Well, the writing here mentions that the area gets darker and more calm as we approach the portal. Again, that’s if I’m reading the gith right. Sodding maps in piking languages that none of us speak natively.” Nisha smirked and offered the maps to Fyrehowl who happened to drift by at that moment.

	“More or less that’s what it says.” The lupinal rolled up the maps and tucked them into her belt before plunging along with the others headlong into the mist as they all continued on following after Nisha at the urging of the planar compass.


	Three hours later the area had indeed grown darker, almost murky and hazy as opposed to the otherwise light expanses of the ethereal that they had thus far swum though. But till now they had in truth only been skimming upon the surface of the near ethereal, close to the prime and not into the unknown depths of the ethereal deeps. Now with a tentative push they plunged into the darkening mists.

As they progressed into the darkening portions of the ethereal deep it seemed even more clouded and murky than the rest of the deep ethereal in which they traveled. As they dove still deeper and deeper, by the minute the ethereal seemed… congealed, thicker somehow. Nisha glanced warily at the planar compass as they dove deeper into the murky haze. “This is where it says we’re supposed to be going. Nothing else besides that yet. The portal has to be in here somewhere though.”

	Deeper still they could begin to physically feel the space around them condense into a tenuous consistency. Less a solid fog of ether than thickening strands of it with a feel like passing one’s hands through water. The place was utterly silent as they descended into the deep, devoid of life and lit from further in by a pale white luminescence that reached out through the denser stretch of ethereal fog like grasping fingers and tendrils.

	“Anyone know what this is? This really doesn’t feel good. Tristol? Clueless, don’t you have some connection to the ethereal?” Florian asked with a worried look before he touched his holy symbol out of reverence and a need for reassurance.

	Clueless placed a hand on one of the thicker filaments of congealed ether and watched as his fingers slipped through it to leave fickle and transient lines of passage in their wake. “I don’t have a clue. This isn’t like anything I’ve ever heard of before.”

	Continuing tentatively, the strands and filaments of ethereal mist grew thicker and more numerous, almost like a spider’s web or cocoon of some sorts slowly condensing out of the ether the further they dove in. Gradually the light became less diffuse and more definite in source. The majority of the ghostly light still shown from deeper within the mass of filaments, threads and shapes that rapidly emerged out of the ether, but some of those same structures had begun to shed that same pearly luminescence of their own. Those that did were more defined in shape and structure. Tangled through the morass of ethereal protomatter were distinct shapes that resembled blocks and columns of white, translucent glowing alabaster.

	“What the hell are those?” Toras remarked as Fyrehowl squinted to make out any further details.

	“I don’t know. I can’t focus on them. They’re blurry, or the ether around them is. That’s not natural though.” The lupinal glanced at a number of the columns before rubbing at her eyes and glancing instead deeper into the core of whatever it was they were within.

	“Hold on, I’m going to go take a closer look at them.” Clueless volunteered and dove down towards the nearest column where it hung suspended among the threads and filaments of semi-solid ethereal protomatter. As he drew to within a dozen feet or so he stopped and hovered. Something about it all didn’t seem quite right. He hesitated to approach it further. Some malign but indescribable dread held him from getting any closer to the structure.

	“Can you see any more detail?” Aren’s telepathic voice drifted into Clueless’s mind as he stared intently at the sides of the column where writing or decoration of some sort seemed to scrawl across its surface. Letters, runes, pictograms; all of them blurry and hazy. For whatever reason he couldn’t seem to focus his eyes properly on them.

	Clueless flicked his wings briefly and drifted closer to the column by a few feet and descended down a half dozen more towards where the bottom of the column might be more visible. As he moved he noticed one detail that had eluded him before. The letters or runes upon the column were not in fact written or carved into the material. The letters floated nearly an inch removed from the ghostly glow that emanated from the stone.

	Clueless strained his eyes to focus in on the nearest patch of floating pictograms. His eyes seemed to sting from the strain and the glow from the column and runes alike turned a sudden shade of deep red. He blinked and looked back at his companions only to find that his vision itself had turned that solid color. His eyes had begun to bleed internally from simply focusing on the letters, whatever in the names of the powers they were. A streak of fear passed through the bladesinger then and he prepared to dash back to his waiting fellows to have either Aren or Florian heal the damage that stung the back of his eyes like a burn from hellfire. But he stopped dead in his tracks, his wings motionless, unmoving and covered in a flickering faerie fire cover of dread as his blood suddenly ran with ice at what he saw at the base of the column as he drifted into view.

	Near the base of the column the glowing alabaster-like stone changed and shifted in structure and appearance. The stone turned to a dull metallic sheen and from its surface sprouted *blades*. Hundreds of them. Razor sharp and very, very familiar in their appearance…


(And it was at that point that one of my players tossed the sheet of paper on which I'd drawn an example of the -blades- back onto the gaming table with a startled cry and Clueless's player refused to so much as touch the paper itself irl. *GRIN*)


----------



## shilsen

Shemeska said:
			
		

> (And it was at that point that one of my players tossed the sheet of paper on which I'd drawn an example of the -blades- back onto the gaming table with a startled cry and Clueless's player refused to so much as touch the paper itself irl. *GRIN*)




To quote my players: You bastard!


----------



## Shemeska

shilsen said:
			
		

> To quote my players: You bastard!




Oh I wear it like a badge. Don't worry, it gets better.


----------



## Clueless

Yes.
Yes it does. *glares and rubs at his ankle*


----------



## GroverCleaveland

*If you beat him, you will be the king of all robots!*

I like your descriptions of the Ethereal Plane.

Also, is Baatorian firewine anything like the Arborean version? Are the two planes involved in some kind of vintner competition?


----------



## Clueless

GroverCleaveland said:
			
		

> I like your descriptions of the Ethereal Plane.
> 
> Also, is Baatorian firewine anything like the Arborean version? Are the two planes involved in some kind of vintner competition?





A bit of an inclusion from a past GM. They very well could be in competition actually, that'd be amusing.  Baatorian includes razorvine essence as a component to give you an idea of it's strength. What hasn't been mentioned here is that a) Clueless is immune to poison, and b) the fey-wine *still* affected him.

Shemmie skimmed past a small competition between Clueless and Florian on wine tasting - Florian came out much the worse (and with blue tipped hair) after the fey wine. Nisha if I recall got a green toungue. Yeah - lingering small magical effects. Muahhaha.


----------



## Shemeska

*At the sound of the beep, you've been mazed...*

Clueless screamed and jerked back with a sudden flutter of his wings as they furiously swept at the ether. “Holy crap!”

	“What? What do you see over there?” Aren’s telepathic voice reached out into his mind once more with alarm.

	The others hung within the ether and looked at Clueless with a mixture of curiosity and fear as he flew back to within range of their voices. He was pale and shaking, his wings covered with an unhealthy sheen of yellow faerie fire.

	“I don’t know what the hell this place is, but I’m not going near any of those things. There’s… blades… growing out of the stone on that pillar over there. And there’s only one place I’ve ever seen blades that look like that. And we’re not in Sigil right now…” Clueless shuddered as he exhaled. His companions blinked and turned towards the pillar.

	Tristol seemed confused, but given the expressions on the others’ faces, his own ears flattened back against his head. “What do you mean? I’ve only been in Sigil for a day at the most, and I don’t remember seeing anything like that…”

	“Her Serenity.” Nisha deadpanned with a slight tremor in her voice. Tristol didn’t spark a glimmer of recognition. “Her Dread Majesty.” Nisha made one more mention of the Bladed Queen’s various titles but the wizard still hadn’t connected the phrases to the blades that grew like leaves from the column some twenty yards distant, suspended in the tangle of solidified protomatter.

	“I don’t…” Tristol murmured as he and the group drifted closer to the structure, Clueless hung back to their rear and only followed them at a distance.

	“The Lady of Pain.” The tiefling shuddered and looked distinctly uncomfortable as she invoked The Lady’s name. Tristol jerked back several feet from the column where he had been slowly floating towards it before his mind tumbled to the dark of the matter.

	“Mystra preserve me…” Tristol whispered softy, invoking his patron deity’s name like a shield against his uncertainty and his fear.

	“Somehow I don’t think that’d be enough, given past history…” Fyrehowl inhaled deeply and turned away from the column.

	A palpable silence descended over them as they hung motionless amid the tangle of ethereal webbing and the blocks and columns that seemed to emerge out of it seamlessly. They gazed around to gather the full scope of whatever it was they had wandered into. The region that surrounded them like a gigantic spider’s web with its own trappings of captured insects had to be miles across at the very least and still continued inwards. Deeper into the core of the cloud, the strands of ethereal protomatter grew thicker, denser, and seemingly more patterned.

	The more dense the strands and chords of ether became, the more blocks and columns seemed to emerge from the mass itself. All of the discrete structures glowed with the same ghostly white pallor, each of them detailed with the same burning lines of runes, and more and more they sprouted blades.

	“Turn around if you want, I don’t have that option. I have a week or so before I die of the poison in me. I don’t know what this is here, and yes it scares the hell out of me, but a frightening unknown is still better than certain death.” Tristol said with sudden conviction as he began to drift forwards.

	“Oh hell, why not. It’s not like I haven’t done stupid things before… today.” Nisha glanced around at her companions and smiled. “That was a joke, but still, I’m in. How about the rest of you.”

	“I’m not doing this for myself, but to save the life of a loved one. My own fright doesn’t mean a thing. I’m going through with this even if my own life isn’t at stake here, it might as well be.” Fyrehowl said and nodded towards Toras as he began to drift forwards after Tristol with a grim look on his face and his sword drawn.

	“You all know how I feel already…” He said without looking back.

	Clueless blinked, “I’m in. But I’m not going near anything that even reminds me of The Lady while we keep going. Not much scares me except the unknown, and that’s an even bigger unknown than what I’m being blackmailed with. Still, I can’t let you all go on alone. You go in there, so do I.”

	The bladesinger flicked his wings to follow the others as Aren softly sighed to herself, touched her holy symbol and hesitantly followed along. “You’ll need me. Hopefully not as much as I think though.”

	Together they all descended down into the murky depths of the cloudy, semi solid ether that spun out around them. Flies descending into a spider’s webbing. They altered course several times to keep their distance from the bladed structures that sprung up in greater frequency from the latticework of protomatter as they went deeper. While the area soaked up light and grew darker as they continued on with trepidation, there seemed to be a single point of light growing within the depths below. A single point of light that sparkled dimly like a candle seen through smoke or clouded glass.

As they made their way downward still, the mass of congealed ether finally grew thin and evaporated as they entered a hollow within the center of it all. Within the cavernous open space was a massive, slightly egg shaped bubble that shed a pale, silvery luminescence. Hazy lines and flaws traced across its surface like afterimages on the eyes after staring at a bright light. They wandered across the egg’s surface like a patchwork of pipes, roads or bundled tubules. Nothing moved, nothing stirred. There was only the pale ghost light of the egg and the hollow bubble of space at the core of the semi-solid ether that surrounded the party.

“What in the 9 Hells is that?” Clueless whispered to himself with more than a touch of awe in his voice. His sentiment was returned by similar comments from the others as they all slowly drifted towards the edge of the massive glowing bubble.

Nisha put out her hand to touch the surface as they came into reach of it, then she hesitated and stopped. The surface rippled and warped like it was made of liquid as her fingers stopped within a few inches of it. Whatever it was, it wasn’t solid. As they watched the ripples pass through the surface, the hazy details that they had seen within seemed to move and jostle like things suspended in a liquid. The bubble was more a membrane than anything else.

“Nisha? Where’s the portal that was supposed to be around here? Please check. This doesn’t feel right…” Fyrehowl glanced over her shoulder warily. She shuddered as the light from the egg glittered and reflected tiny motes of light on the surface of the blades that dotted the ether at the fringe of the hollow like stars upon a mist-covered sky.

	Nisha fiddled with the compass for a moment before looking back at the lupinal, “In there… it’s pointing dead center of this… whatever this is.”

	“Oh hell!” Toras swore as he looked at the surface of the bubble that gave back no reflection of himself, or the rest of the group. He slowly realized that fact and backed away from the liquid surface of the egg.

	“So, who’s going in first?” Florian asked with a wry grin to offset his own fear.

	“Tristol, can you tell us anyth…” Clueless began to say before the aasimar cut him off with a shake of his head.

	“That thing, whatever in Mystra’s name it is, it isn’t magical…” Tristol said with genuine unease.

	“Not magical? How so?” Aren asked and drifted closer.

	“Just what I said. It’s not glowing with any magical aura. The spell works because some of us are lit up like candlesticks. But aside from us, nothing in this place glows of any magic. Not the bubble, not the light it’s making, not the strands of ether out there, not the columns, not the blocks and dare I say, not the blades…” Tristol lowered his voice for the final remark and turned back towards the bubble.

	Fyrehowl breathed deeply and reached out towards the surface of the bubble out of instinct. As her fingers brushed the surface the surface rippled like the waves made from tossing a large stone onto the surface of an otherwise tranquil lake. There was a spark of light from the point of contact with her fingers and an abrupt sucking noise as the lupinal vanished from sight without a trace. Her companions jerked back, startled at the effect and worried for her safety.

	“Well… umm… who’s next?” Nisha chuckled uncomfortably as she reached out to touch the surface. A moment later she was gone with similar effect.

	One by one the others followed suit with doubt and fear running heavily through their minds before all of them were gone and vanished into the interior of the egg with not a mark left behind to detail their passage. 

All of them stood confused and disoriented on the dirty cobblestones of a city street. Buildings rose up on either side of them while the street extended for some way in either direction with frequent intersections. The air was stale and heavy with dust and age. The buildings seemed vacant, unoccupied and abandoned. The style was strikingly close to those within the Clerk’s Ward of Sigil, but the architecture was old and archaic. Many of them appeared in some manner of decay, with broken windows, rotted doors and collapsed roofs along with several buildings along the street that appeared to have been burned to their foundations. Imagine a section of Sigil spun off on its own, locked away, abandoned and moldering amid the aftermath of a war.

	“We’re in Sigil… but…” Tristol looked up, expecting to see clouds drifting overhead, partially obscuring the familiar curve of the opposite side of the city high above. Instead, he saw nothing but a black, starless void hung above them. There was no other side of Sigil to see.

	Awe, wonder and confusion strummed the air like a musician’s fingers upon a harp. The group stood there in silence, trying to contemplate just where they were and how the place had come to be. Not a sound echoed across the empty expanse of the city, only the soft noises of their own breathing and movements. Looming in the distance and rising over the rest of the cityscape, towering over the other ancient buildings like a black spear stabbing at the void above was a single, monolithic ebony tower. From their distance it barely stood out against the sky above, all of its windows as black and vacant as the void it reached out towards in either spite or supplication.

	“What the?!” Nisha dropped the planar compass as it began to glow a harsh blue in her hands and hover on its own volition. The bauble gave a rhythmic hum as it projected a recorded message to its owners.

	“Our apologies for this little deception. There is no portal here waiting for you. Rather, congratulations for having just now willingly mazed yourselves. If you have not yet realized this charming fact, you now stand within one of the mazes of The Lady of Pain, having just entered from its exterior in the deep ethereal. It took us some time to divine the exact location of this particular maze. Do not despair; there is yet hope for your escape provided you do as instructed. Listen well, this will not repeat.”

	The group came to sudden attention and glared angrily at the hovering compass as it continued, “Several centuries ago, there existed a faction, now almost entirely extinct, called nowadays ‘The Incantifers’, then simply as The Magicians or The Wanters. They believed that magic, specifically arcane magic, was the key to power, indeed the only power that mattered in the multiverse. Gain enough knowledge of magic and skill in it and you could do anything. Even challenge The Lady…. 

According to legend, at least two members of the Wanters tried just that. They died, horribly and spectacularly. Legend also says that one of them almost succeeded.  Duke Rowan Darkwood was well aware of these legends. According to our agents within the Takers, some might say he was obsessed with them. At some point in the Wanters’ history they rose to such collective heights that the other factions simply played the game according to the rules the Wanters set, everyone grasping for table scraps comparatively.

Then one day, they vanished. Cutters looked up one morning and the Tower Sorcerous, the faction headquarters of the Wanters was simply gone. Nearly all of their members vanished with it, though a scant few remain to wander the planes. Between the information the Duke gleaned from his obsessive search of Sigil’s darks, and others employed by us, you now stand in the maze to which the Lady damned the Wanters. If any of them yet live, find them and any information relevant to the mage Shekelor, once Factol of the Wanters. Engage any persons in combat only if hard pressed, and above all do not aid any of them in escape from the mazes.

The Tower Sorcerous is likely to yet be magically guarded even these many centuries later. And one more warning: even the most apprentice Incantifer is at the very least an accomplished mage. Most, if not all of them, do not age and so many are likely to yet remain alive, pending certain variables, and they have both a high resistance to magic, and an ability to absorb spells cast at them.

Upon finding any relevant information return to the spot of your entry using this planar compass, at that point you will be guided from the maze to the one exit that every of The Lady’s mazes carry. Assuming of course there is one. We are willing to take that risk. If you escape the maze and return to Sigil you will proceed immediately to the Styx Oarsman, a tavern in the Lower Ward.”

	With that, the compass sparked with a release of its last bits of magic, sputtered and died. Nisha caught the now useless trinket in her hand and frowned at it. “Sodding mercanes…”

	Toras grit his teeth, Fyrehowl snarled and Florian threw up his hands in the air before whipping out his axe. “Well, that history lesson aside, let’s get moving because I’m no closer to a cure otherwise. Tempus forbid there’s many of these people left…”

	While Florian had been speaking, Tristol had wandered over towards one of the buildings that lined the street and crouched down to examine something laying in the rubble where part of its structure had collapsed inwards. He paused, looked closely at something there in the debris and stood back up. “I don’t think there’s going to be many people left here, if any…”

Tristol pointed with his staff towards a withered, gnarled body lying in the rubble. It had once been a human of what could only be described as ‘advanced’ age, turned to stone by some ancient spell. The rotting remains of a wooden structural support still jutting out of the corpse’s chest from where the building had collapsed down upon it. Cracks radiated away from the point of impact and the head was no longer entirely connected to the rest of the body. Even had it been returned to flesh it would have been dead. However that would have been merciful given the apparent condition of the corpse when it was struck by the spell that had petrified it. At their death, the corpse, clearly that of a wizard given its clothing, had been starving. The limbs were thin and decrepit, the face’s cheeks were caved in, the ribs clearly showed through the flesh of their torso. Starving, anemic and withered.

	Tristol pointed towards a crater opposite where the first figure had fallen. “There’s another corpse over there, looks like it was burned to cinders by whatever leveled that part of the building here. I’d say a meteor swarm or fireball cast by a very, VERY powerful mage.”

	“Why do you think that nothing’s going to be left alive though? Ok, two people died fighting each other. Tempers flared when they all got mazed, I’m sure I would have been enraged as well. My temper can take down a room or two, an angry wizard’s argument can level the whole building, it happens.” Florian quipped as he walked over to look at the body.

	“Think about it though. This place is as silent as a tomb, these buildings look like they suffered through a war. I think they did.” Tristol continued.

	“How so…?” Aren asked.

	“They all ate magic. They ate other people’s magic. Spells, items, anything they could buy, steal, or otherwise get a hold of. This place is sealed off from everything. There’s no way out and you’ve got an entire faction of magic eating wizard suddenly bottled up with each other and no food source… except each other.” Tristol prodded the corpse at his feet with his staff.

	“Oh hells…” Nisha paled as she looked at the petrified corpse that appeared to have been starving at the time of its death.

	“Sure, they could have eaten items they had stored up, but eventually they would have fallen over each other like a pack of wolves, the more powerful ones killing and consuming the magic of the less powerful. Most of the damage to these buildings looks like it was done by spells. I can tell you in a few cases just what spell might have done the damage, some… I couldn’t begin to tell you. These people starved to death and turned on one another. Who knows if there are any of them left… Certainly not if these two are any indication.” Tristol shrugged. “There’s not a spark of magic left in here. Even the tower over there is dead from what I can see with the spell I’m using. They ate everything they could, even each other.”

	“Still, we have to find out. If there’s anything left, it’s probably in their faction headquarters.” Clueless said, pointing towards the tower looming off in the distance.

	“Agreed, even if there’s not a living soul left from this mess there have to be books, logs, journals, notes taken by the wizards. We might find a library or faction records that have what the mercanes are looking for and…” Tristol trailed off as he stared at Fyrehowl. The lupinal’s ears were suddenly perked and twitching, she was staring off past the group towards the end of the street where it intersected with another branch of the maze.

	“Fyrehowl? You ok?” Nisha asked curiously.

	“Sssshhh!” Fyrehowl waved her off and narrowed her gaze towards the direction that her ears were so intently focused upon. An uneasy hush fell over the group and slowly they too began to hear what it was that had perked the celestial’s attention. First Tristol with his own more keen ears, then the others.

Softly, coming in jerky spurts followed by a return of the deathly silence that cloaked the maze, there was something approaching from deeper within. Something that sounded, as faint as it was, like the scuttling of insects or the rustle of dead, dry leaves on a frigid winter’s morning.


----------



## Zappo

Are they in trouble now... (most of) the wizards are dead, and if there are any survivors, they probably aren't exactly in the mood for revealing their secrets and then waving goodbye to the visitors while they leave through the secret portal. 

 How were "the employers" able to determine the exit of a maze anyway?


----------



## Fimmtiu

Shemeska said:
			
		

> Softly, coming in jerky spurts followed by a return of the deathly silence that cloaked the maze...




So much for your R rating...


----------



## Shemeska

Zappo said:
			
		

> Are they in trouble now... (most of) the wizards are dead, and if there are any survivors, they probably aren't exactly in the mood for revealing their secrets and then waving goodbye to the visitors while they leave through the secret portal.
> 
> How were "the employers" able to determine the exit of a maze anyway?




Well it's been done before, at least finding the single exit portal for a maze anyways. The Takers and Mercykillers did it before in canon for the maze of the expansionists' factol Vartus Timlin. Presumably the PC's "employers" did something similar, though it seems in this case that they didn't bother with the portal but just found the maze itself sitting in the ethereal deep.

One point I should make however is that I'm rewriting some Planescape history here and playing around with the timeline for certain events. Shekelor was dead and incinerated before the Incantifers became a faction (1000's of years ago, versus under 1k years for the Wanters). I've altered history a bit to have Shekelor be one of the prior members of the Incanterium, its factol in fact, and I've shunted the faction's place in timeline back considerably. It's obscure lore but I figure it's only a matter of time before someone with too much time on their hands (like me) pointed that out. 

And about that R rating... (there's stuff that's going to be more censored in the future. And yes, I should go rewrite that one sentence, that sounds really really bad...)


----------



## Clueless

Zappo said:
			
		

> Are they in trouble now... (most of) the wizards are dead, and if there are any survivors, they probably aren't exactly in the mood for revealing their secrets and then waving goodbye to the visitors while they leave through the secret portal.
> 
> How were "the employers" able to determine the exit of a maze anyway?




Theres actually an answer to that. It's canon too. Faces of sigil - I'll let you take a look through that, see if you can take a guess, before it gets revealed later on.


----------



## Shemeska

Clueless said:
			
		

> Theres actually an answer to that. It's canon too. Faces of sigil - I'll let you take a look through that, see if you can take a guess, before it gets revealed later on.




I was pretty blatant about it actually. There's a direct quote from that book in the last two or three updates actually. 

Bless Ray Vallese for writing that book. *grants Ray a +1 to his saves, wherever he is*


----------



## Fimmtiu

Shemeska said:
			
		

> I was pretty blatant about it actually. There's a direct quote from that book in the last two or three updates actually.




Easy enough...



			
				Shemeska said:
			
		

> Clearly stamped on each of the pages in brilliant but fading red ink were the following words, "BANNED BY ORDER OF FACTOL SARIN OF THE HARMONIUM, Possession of these maps is an offense punishable by fine, hard labor, imprisonment, or death." The papers were some sort of collection of maps, each of them annotated in elaborate handwritten githyanki script.




"Uncaged" was certainly the best setting supplement I've ever read.


----------



## Zappo

Fair enough. I've just recently got that book and only in PDF; I haven't got round to reading it all. I know I should.


----------



## Shemeska

No update till next week, though it'll be a big one when I do. Been way to busy with other things this week.


----------



## Graywolf-ELM

Thanks for the note.  It makes waiting easier.

GW


----------



## dal673

Shemeska said:
			
		

> No update till next week, though it'll be a big one when I do. Been way to busy with other things this week.




It'll be a long wait, but a worthy one...!
I've given my players some elements of your game and they REALLY love it!

Greetz,

DaL


----------



## Shemeska

*Mazes, Spellhaunts, and Incantifers. Oh My!*

The group clustered closer together and raised their weapons in the direction of the approaching noise. Seconds later they could see the creature emerge around the corner of a building, partially floating along, partially scuttling like an insect between the wall of the building and the dusty cobblestone street. It was a tangle of twisted black lines suspended in a moving, fluid, jelly-like cloud that seemed as insubstantial as a ghost. With the same rustling, skittering noise is closed to within some thirty feet and paused, wavering slightly as it hovered and seemed to examine the group before it.

Tristol warily eyed the creature and he shrugged as Clueless and Toras glanced at him with unspoken questions. The wizard muttered several words in draconic and examined the creature for any latent dweomers. The surprise and confusion on his face was startling as the creature darted forwards.

Clueless held out his hand and gestured at the approaching beast. A flick of his sword carrying hand and a whisper under his breath called forth a crackling bolt of lighting that struck the surging form full in the bulk of its nebulous body; it made no attempt to evade. Like water to a sponge the spell was absorbed into the creatures bulk, lines of energy crackled along the black streaks within the creature’s body, and aside from the pungent reek of ozone there was no effect. The creature stopped, reoriented, and began to snake towards Clueless. The bladesinger began to backup…

	Aren invoked a spell of her own, sending a cluster of burning missiles of orange light into the beast’s side that elicited only the same effect. She too backed up as Tristol’s eyes went wide and a single word came rushing into his memory, “Spellhaunt”. With shaking hands he reached into his memory and formed the patterns for a greater dispelling. With any luck he thought he might be able to undo the structure of the living spell that would otherwise hungrily devour the magic of his entire party and himself. Meanwhile Clueless and Toras hacked ineffectually at the beast, their blades passing clean through the ephemeral body of the Spellhaunt.

	“This isn’t doing anything, there’s nothing to sodding hit!” Nisha exclaimed as she crouched at the rear of the living spell and repeatedly jabbed her sword into its interior. For all of her efforts, she may as well have been stirring a soup kettle with her blade. When the dweomers on the sword began to flicker and fade she withdrew it with a sharp exclamation and backed away hurriedly.

	Then Tristol’s spell struck. With a rush of air the creature seemed to implode and the lines within its body coursed with a black radiance. As it collapsed upon itself it coalesced and with a ragged rush of cold, black fire a black bolt of force erupted from its withering form to arc to the closest target. The bolt hit Toras clear in the chest and made the fighter stagger and have to steady himself.

	“Toras!” Aren shouted his name and helped to steady her larger companion as he grimaced and tried to remain standing.

	“I’ll be fine… that just took more than a bit out of me.” He waved away any further help and steadied his grip on his sword. “Just what in the hells was that?”

	“Something I never want to see again.” Tristol deadpanned.

	“Hmm? Do tell.” Fyrehowl asked as she made sure that Toras was fine.

	The aasimar took an unsteady breath. “A spellhaunt. A living spell. They’re mistakes and accidents. Every so often under the right, or wrong, circumstances and conditions a spell gets miscast and doesn’t just fail. When that happens the spell becomes alive in some sense, but it fades away eventually unless it can find magic to sustain itself.”

	Nisha looked at her sword with a worried expression.

	“It eats spells. It’ll drain the charges of scrolls, staves, and wands. It’ll pluck spells from my memory. The only way to destroy them is to either dispel them like any other spell, or counterspell them if you know what spell it was that went wrong originally to create it. This one was some sort of enervation spell… sorry Toras.”

	“Not a worry, I’ll be fine.”

	Fyrehowl paused and looked at Tristol. “But the faction that got shunted to this maze also ate magic. Either that thing was a mistake during their war against each other, or some bloody fool made one on purpose to take down his enemies.”

	“Oh pike it all. If it’s the second case, there’s probably more.” Nisha cursed at her magic-dead sword.

	“And if so, we’re probably the only things left alive in here, not counting any spellhaunts. They’d have drained the entire maze dry centuries ago and the wizards would have starved to death even if they could have fought off their own mistakes.” Tristol sighed with resignation.

Florian walked over to Toras, whispered a prayer and laid a softly glowing hand on his shoulder. Toras seemed suddenly more invigorated and thanked the cleric.

“Hope there aren’t more of them, I don’t have any more restoration magic for another half a day or so. Healing wounds, not a problem; causing them, even less of a problem; but restorative magic, that was all I had.”

	“We should get moving to that tower. And everyone stay alert, there might be more spellhaunts lurking around here…” Fyrehowl said as she moved down the street, pausing to glance into each building, especially the ruined ones that would have provided dozens of hiding spaces for an ambush.

	As they moved through the maze, they realized that true to its name, the streets seemed to double back upon themselves and warp in bizarre fashion. One intersection might lead to three blind alleys, then bring them back to a point they had seen, or thought they had seen, some twenty minutes and a mile earlier. While quiet and dead, the cityscape labyrinth was hardly unoccupied. As they gradually made their way towards the looming edifice of the Tower Sorcerous, the maze came alive around them. 

Spellhaunts, dozens of them, seemed to stir from a hibernating torpor instilled on them from centuries of starvation in the magic-dead maze, devoid of any prey but themselves. Each of the ravenous creatures glowed with a color corresponding to the school of the spell whose disastrous warping had birthed it. The spellhaunts seemed to unerringly seek out the magic of the group and rather than fight, they ran.

	Eventually the companions reached progressively widening streets and finally they paused at the outer defensive walls that had originally surrounded the block of land upon which the Incantifers had constructed their faction headquarters. Beyond the walls stood the Tower Sorcerous, rising dozens of stories overhead like an infernal black pike awaiting a cavalry charge from the heavens. Not a glimmer of light marked the windows that dotted its exterior.

	“Alright, here’s the damn tower. And no welcoming committee…” Fyrehowl growled and glanced back down the broad avenue behind them. Already her ears could listen to a dozen or more spellhaunts crawling like great scuttling insects, hungering for their magic.

	“Except for the welcoming committee that we’ve already been acquainted with…” Clueless smirked and stared up at the tower’s defensive walls. “Wow…”

	Even with the steady approach of waves of Spellhaunts then being heard softly in the distance, they all looked up at the fortifications surrounding the tower with awe. Most of the thick, heavy walls were intact, but they were uniformly scarred by flames, pitted by acid, and gouged with the telltale traces of lightning strikes. Craters pockmarked the streets surrounding the battlements and one or two sections of the walls, each nearly 10 feet thick, had collapsed from the ravages of time or the original war that had washed over the tower when its makers turned on each other.

	Still standing in silent vigil atop the walls were the dead and crumbling remains of twelve stone golems, each blindly looking outwards into the maze. Several iron golems remained in their own guardianship near the ravaged and crumpled remains of the main gate, the golems now little more than piles of vaguely humanoid rust. Also littering the battlements were nearly twenty human skeletons, each still dressed in the frayed remains of wizardly robes, though some had been obviously killed by spells that had incinerated their bodies ages past. One body was partially fused into the stone of the exterior wall, either the result of a failed teleportation or an insidious attack by another while the mage had been hiding within the stone by use of some now forgotten spell.

	“Umm… yeah. Let’s stop looking at the dead people and make for what used to be the gate and get inside. The spellhaunts aren’t going to stop and stare here like we are.” Nisha gave a nervous chuckle and began to move toward the twisted remains of the main gates some twenty yards distant.

	Each of the gates had once stood some twenty feet tall, crafted of glittering greensteel and embossed with runes of warding. Little was left of them. The once proud gates were both piles of twisted scrap, partially melted from heat or acid, their hinges barely clinging to the stone of the defensive walls, blasted loose by the force of the explosion that had rent them asunder.

	“There’s not even a glimmer of magic left on the gates, even where I can make out some old warding symbols. Either devoured or discharged years ago.” Tristol sighed as they picked their way through the twisted metal and entered the courtyard.

	Florian and Clueless were the first to stride across the courtyard between the gates and the tower. Thirty feet ahead of them, the silver doors of the tower still stood intact and closed. Florian stopped and turned back to look at Tristol as Nisha poked and prodded at the lumpy remains of a clockwork animal that had rusted in place on the grass that covered much of the courtyard.

	“Tristol, are the gates warded? They’re still intact and closed. There’s a pretty stark contrast between them and the gates we just walked through. I don’t think the place is as dead as we thought.”

	Tristol recast his spell to detect latent dweomers and gazed at the tower’s entrance curiously. After but a moment of concentration his head tilted sideways and he furrowed his eyebrows. “Clueless… don’t move.”

	“Huh? What did I… oh…” The bladesinger paused on the steps of the tower and looked over his shoulder to see that the nimbus of faerie fire that normally washed over his wings had died except for a glimmer of sparks at their very tip.

	Clueless’s sudden concern was broken by the overly enthusiastic laugh of the tiefling as she walked up to Clueless. “Oh wow!”

	“Wow what? Can I move Tristol or is something going to blow up?”
	Tristol shook his head, “Nothing’s going to blow up at all. Step back though.”

	“Whatever you say…” Clueless flicked his wings and fluttered back to the base of the steps. As he cleared the boundary of the cracked marble portico, the faerie fire on his wings reignited. As the other’s noticed and began to understand the exact effect, Nisha was busy with a wand of light, happily extending and removing the glowing tip from the extinguishing boundary at the foot of the stairs.

	“Antimagic… they blanketed the entire tower in antimagic. That’s incredible.” Tristol’s voice rang with frank astonishment.

	“Except didn’t they eat magic to stay alive? That’d be a self-imposed death sentence for them to do that. That doesn’t make sense.” Toras said as he walked up next to Nisha.

	“Clueless. Do me a favor and walk to the top of the steps. You’ll be fine.” Tristol walked to the fringe of the antimagic and stopped there along with the rest of the party. Clueless looked back warily and walked up slowly, step by step. As he reached the top of the stairs, a distance of perhaps ten or fifteen feet the magical fire about his wings flashed back on suddenly.

	“That’s no death sentence. They sealed themselves in a –shell- of antimagic. The spellhaunts can’t pass it. Whoever did this was trying to protect themselves from the spellhaunts they’d either created by accident or as a weapon against their fellows. No wonder the entire tower looked magic-dead from the maze.” Tristol’s eyes glittered with fascination.

	“Anything magical would be snuffed out like the cover over the light in a bullseye lantern.” Fyrehowl added with equal amazement.

	“Speaking of which, I’m not touching that door. There’re active spells on the front door. Get up here and take a look for yourselves.” Clueless said as he turned around to examine the silver doors with cautious curiosity.

	The doors, while not nearly as large as those upon the blasted exterior fortifications of the tower, were some twenty feet tall and ten feet across on either side. Embossed runes sparkled with magic upon the surface of the doors while a flight of dragons cast in silver and onyx soared along the top and bottom margins of the elaborate, but nonmagical decorations on the faces of the doors.

	As the group gathered around the doors, Tristol sat and concentrated on the patterns of magic he saw dancing across their surface. Nisha began to examine the fringes of the doors, the stone around where the recessed hinges of the doors would be, and the stone blocks immediately in front of them.

	“No traps, just spells on the door. And the doors are welded shut.” The tiefling pointed with amusement to the vertical line of fused silver that formed the centerpoint of the two doors.

	“Oh bloody balls of Tempus…” Florian sighed and leaned against the wall to his left.

	“Any progress on those spells Tristol?” Aren asked softly.

	“They’re not offensive. There’s a simple mage lock still on the doors. Though not that it matters since the original caster, or someone else, made sure of the doors never opening by fusing them together. There’s also another spell on there, also an abjuration, but I can’t figure out what it is. It’s cast on the inside of the doors, or just inside the tower on the floor. Either way it’ll be sprung by opening the doors or going past them.” Tristol mused as he stood up and dusted off his robes from the dirt and debris that caked the steps.

	“Well then it begs the question, how do we get in the place?” Nisha asked.

	“I could always just break the door down.” Toras said with a smile, seeming just a bit too eager.

	“I’ve got a spell that can ferry us in, but it’ll take me a few times of casting it. Who wants to go first?” Tristol smiled, feeling not only useful, but needed.

	“Aww, I wanted to see Toras break his arms breaking the door down!” Nisha faux pouted.

	Fyrehowl, Florian, and Clueless raised there hands and were the first of group to be transported into the tower. They vanished with a blue flash and moments later Tristol reappeared to do the same for Aren, Toras, and Nisha. Unbeknownst to them all, the moment they breached the doors, magically or not, a single spell activated, triggering an alarm that sounded in the mind of its original caster, and any other that might have been watching.

	Momentarily disoriented by the effects of Tristol’s spell, the group stood and regained their bearings. They stood in the well of a massive chamber that reaching up through the center of the tower. Twin sets of spiral stairs reached up into the heights of the tower, each of them pausing at landings at each subsequent floor to link the many levels of the tower. The stairs and the central chamber climbed up to some point around two thirds of the way up the height of the tower. Beyond that it was likely that the areas there had been restricted in some way to the rank and file of the faction.

	The chamber was desolate and quiet. Dust rose into the air with each and every footstep the companions took, filtering through the light that streamed down from overhead from the cracked but glowing stained glass window high above that had once held some mosaic, perhaps even the faction’s symbol. Now it was ruined, a mute victim of the violence that had scoured the faction’s former demesne. All around were similar physical remains of ruined glory that served as sad, ancient epitaphs to the Incanterium.

	“Well damn if this place wouldn’t have been magnificent during its heyday. Geez.” Nisha gawked at the ruined faction hall’s interior as the others spread out, slowly investigating the galleries and chambers that branched off from the central chamber at ground level.

	If they had expected to find any evidence of living faction members they found nothing of the sort. Room after room they found abandoned, cluttered with the debris of former classrooms, laboratories, scriptoriums and personal chambers. Everywhere it was deathly quiet and utterly devoid of magic. Slowly climbing the central stairwell towards the higher levels of the tower they found the same. Rooms cluttered with magical paraphernalia, wands, scrolls, books and random items, hoarded like the place had been infested by packrats or dragons that had long ago died and left their stashes behind. But uniformly all of the trappings of a faction of wizards were drained of their last sparks of magic.

	Here and there in the rooms, frequently associated with the magic-dead hoards of drained and devoured items, the group found the ancient and decayed corpses of former Incantifers. They had each died in violence where they had stolen themselves away to, each hoping to live as long as they could before starvation eventually overtook them. Hope against the hopeless inevitability that had claimed them all.

	Aren shed a tear and turned to Fyrehowl, “This is horrific. How could someone have thrown them all together like this and locked them away. The Lady had to have known what they would have done to each other!”

	Fyrehowl looked back at the succubus, “I think that was Her intention all along…”

	The lupinal’s comment seemed to draw a cold pallor over the group as they continued to find more and more victims of the original cannibalistic war of survival amongst the members of the faction. 

“Alright, I’m officially getting depressed on behalf of these poor sods as well.” Nisha frowned and her tail drooped sullenly behind her, mirroring the same exact posture on Fyrehowl and Tristol while Clueless’s wings had assumed a solid violet shade of faerie fire to reflect his own mood.

	“I’ll agree to that too. I…” Clueless paused mid sentence as they ascended the stairs to the next floor of the tower. Tristol, Aren, Florian, Clueless and Nisha paused immediately as well and glanced around with concern.

	“What in the blazes happened?” Toras asked with alarm, not privy to whatever had snagged the concern of his more magically adept fellows.

	“We just got hit with a scry.” Nisha said, trying in vain to locate the nigh invisible magical eye that was the telltale sign of the spell.

	“No, we got hit by –two- of them…” Tristol said as his tail bottlebrushed and his ears laid flat against his head.

	As the five of them struggled to locate the source of the scry spells, Fyrehowl’s ears perked with alarm. “Someone’s walking this way.” The lupinal closed her eyes and tried to discern the location of the noise that only she as yet could hear. “Much higher up, probably at the top of the stairs. Two sets of footsteps, fairly light on their feet and walking –fast-. Both of them are coming from opposite directions at the top there.”

	“Well cutters, looks like we found who we came here to find… lets hope that they’re agreeable…” Clueless’s wings shifted from their previous violet hue to a flickering staccato of blue and yellow.

	“I just hope that they’re not hungry…” Nisha said with a worried tone.

A feminine voice flooded into the minds of each of the six as they ascended the stairs and into view of the top of the two stairwells. “Hurry! The lich approaches! Hurry this way and I will protect you. He’s insane and will kill you for your magic!”

	A second voice echoed through their minds in response to the first, male, angry, and carrying with it an unsavory, but authoritative, taint. “The bitch would sooner carve you in half upon a silver platter! She will protect you only to devour you later. I will deal with you if you will hear me out.”

	The group paused and looked up at the top of the stairs where two figures stood upon the railings having just emerged from doors on opposite sides of the tower. The figure to the left was little more than bones wrapped in velvet. The mage had once been human, but long since succumbed to undeath. The ravages of time had stripped his bones of the last traces of flesh and only a crackling web of spidery silver energy bound them into a humanoid form. Where its eyes had once been, there were not the pinpricks of light normally associated with liches, but rather two featureless, glowing orbs of liquid silver.

	Opposite the lich, and glaring at him from across the chamber was a blue robed woman, half-elven by appearance. Unlike the lich however, she was alive but didn’t seem a year over forty. Her blond hair was flecked with gemstones woven into the dozen or so braids that trailed down to her shoulders and dodged a number of glowing ioun stones that circled in erratic orbits around her head. While not undead, she shared one trait with the lich opposite her: her eyes were orbs of glowing liquid silver.

	As the two wizards glared at each other some thirty feet opposite, the air was charged with a palpable electricity of raw, unbound magic. The lich turned once more to the party and his voice echoed through their minds like a breeze over an open tomb, “She is not as she seems. She started this war that decimated us. We are the last of our faction and our imprisonment has cost me my humanity, and she her mind. I am willing to deal with you rationally. She… she is starving… and you know what we are.”

	“Silence Valdros! Lying corpse!” The half-elf archmage snarled in fury and held up one hand towards the lich, violet energy played along her fingertips. The lich snapped up one skeletal hand as a bolt of energy lashed out at him to snarl and gnaw at his hastily erected warding. The woman yelled out again to the group, “The corpse lies. He was responsible for our imprisonment in the first place. He unleashed the spellhaunts upon us! You have to believe me, he will betray you for his own benefit!”

	“Will I now Areya? Shall I tell them what you did to your own apprentices?” The lich asked mockingly and hurled a half dozen flaming spheres in her direction. Like her spell at him a moment before, his too was blunted and nullified by her own defenses. A stalemate, one that had lasted centuries…

	The companions glanced at each other nervously. Either of the Incantifers was capable of incinerating them as an afterthought, and both clearly hated each other with a passion. Given their opposition, it wasn’t at all likely that they would sit down and talk and not launch into a spellbattle at the drop of a hat. They would need to approach only one of them, and likely come to some agreement with them for protection from their counterpart. Such were the circumstances.

	“Quickly now, my portion of the tower is warded against his kind. Hurry!” The sorceress’s voice was tinged with urgency that bordered on desperation.

	More spells flew between both archmages and again no damage was done to either. “Examine us, two of you are clerics, then decide who you trust…” The lich’s eyes gleamed silver as his living counterpart unleashed a flaming hailstorm against his wards and shields.

	“Aren? Florian? Who’s evil and who isn’t?” Fyrehowl asked as she nervous watched the exchange of spells between both mages.

	“He’s lawful, she’s… not. We can probably at least deal with him. Even if he’s out for himself he’ll be honorable.” Florian said as he finished a quick prayer and glanced at both Incantifers.

	“No, there’s got to be some way to dealing with them both? If we side with one, they’re going to demand we help them kill the other…” Aren’s eyes flashed red as she expressed her concerns.

	“So… who are we more afraid of? The thousands of years old lich? Or the living woman who’s held him at a standstill for all that time?…” Clueless flicked his wings and moved slightly towards the lich’s side of the tower. “Come on, we go now or we risk her blowing us to scraps.”

	“No, I can’t…” Aren sighed and stopped talking as her companions nodded in agreement with Clueless and began flying or running up the steps in the lich’s direction. She stood her ground and looked up at the half-elven woman. Her companions left her standing there, already having decided to put their trust in the lich. Clueless yelled back at her once to follow them, to hurry, but she ignored him and stepped towards the stairs up to the female archmage. As Aren watched her companions climb the stairs towards the undead archwizard, the woman he had called Areya shrieked in abject fury. “Damn you to the nine hells Valdros! If I can’t escape this powers be damned maze neither will you!”

	As she screamed, her eyes burning with silvery light and she hurled spell after spells at the lich who hovered several inches above the ground, counterspelling or absorbing each and every one of his counterpart’s curses and invocations. They were too well matched against one another. Their assaults had to have been repeated thousands of times over the long years, never with a surprise and never with an end before, nor in sight. They knew each others means and tactics.

	“That’s the thing Areya… I gave up that hope long ago…” The lich that was called Valdros laughed and cast out both of his hands. His robes fluttered without any breeze below his fleshless form and a transparent, softly glowing barrier appeared in the center of the chamber, sealing off his half of the tower from the other. He turned to the five who had climbed to his landing upon the stairs and nodded at them. “Follow me. The Spellbreaker shall destroy my barrier in short order if she deigns to expend the energy. My section of the tower is too well warded for her to make an attempt upon us therein. Please, come and we shall discuss terms. I am curious as to who sent you and why you are here. I expect that you want something…”

	Clueless looked back to the stairs below and at Aren who was sealed off from them, trapped on the other side of the lich’s defensive wall. Already the succubus had spread her wings and was slowly and warily approaching the half-elven wizardress. The bladesinger looked to the lich and pointed towards the cleric, “What about Aren? We can’t just leave her.”

	“She is dead. My fellow factor will drain her of magic and then slowly consume her soul as a delicacy. I cannot easily retrieve her from beyond my own barrier without risking your, and my, safety. She made her choice and must live with it. Just as I have had to live with mine… follow me.” The lich’s eyes sparkled with their lustrous metallic sheen as he nodded slightly and began to silently float towards the open doorway through which he had originally entered.

	As the lich walked out of sight with Aren’s companions, the succubus flew up to the other Incantifer and paused several yards from her. She smiled and bowed slightly. “May we talk? We came here looking for information this faction once had, we need it to save the lives of several people. My companions may have followed your rival but I’m willing to strike a deal with you.”

	The archmage stared at the succubus with those glowing silver eyes, not a fleck of emotion on her face.

	“I’m sure we can come to some sort of agreement.” Aren’s voice was tinged with hope.

	Archmage Areya Fenthillis the Spellbreaker, Factor of the Incanterium, began to whisper the words of a haste spell.

	“We… we don’t have to fight…” Aren’s voice was pitifully hopeful in the face of impending obliteration.

	The Spellbreaker smiled. Aren smiled back and took a tentative step forwards. The Spellbreaker looked the succubus up and down, smiled and licked her lips like she was inspecting a choice cut of meat for a feast. The air hummed with power.

	“I…” Aren’s voice quivered as she stepped backwards. The redeemed fiend knew fear and then her world went black.


…


	The lich paused as he ushered the group into a small chamber off from the main hallway he had led them down, higher into the depths of his portion of the Tower Sorcerous. They had passed by numerous wards and guardians on their way, without the lich to allow them passage it was unlikely that they could have breached them and lived, not in a hundred years. “Your companion is no more.” Archmage Valdros Peralthon, Factor of the Incantrium stood silent for a moment out of respect for his new allies though his own statement had carried the emotionless tone of one already well acquainted with death.

	There was a long moment of silence among Aren’s former companions before the lich broke the unease by gesturing them all towards a set of chairs against one wall as he sat hovering in midair across from them. “Like it or not we are now allies, and as such do not be afraid for your safety under my watch. This place is sacrosanct. I have had nothing if not time to ward my lairs. Consider yourselves my guests for the time being, I have never had any since I was condemned to this place. That said… my former colleague, Areya Fenthellis the Spellbreaker, will not allow you to leave this tower. So… who sent you and what is it that you came here for? I doubt that anyone would willingly maze themselves or blunder into one as heavily armed and enspelled as you appear to be. I am curious.”

	As the lich sat and hovered his guests looked at each other, considering how to answer him. Florian softly whispered a spell to detect evil. He was certain the lich was, but in case he wasn’t, the knowledge would be useful. As expected, Valdros glowed a brilliant, telltale glow of evil. But lawful evil was less prone to random violence and dishonor. His imprisonment had tempered and mellowed his outlook on things if nothing else.

	“Well, we’re not here willingly. Our ‘employers’, we don’t really know who they are. Led us here under false, or at least misleading pretenses. They’re blackmailing each of us, some with information, and two of us will die within a short period of time without their aid. Nice people…” Clueless said with a smirk.

	The lich nodded. “Can I get you anything? Food or drink? I do not require such, but you appear tired. As I said, I have had no guests nor anyone to speak with for a very long time. This is a joy.”

	They looked at each other again, “No” “I’m fine, but thank you.” “Umm… that’s alright.” They all politely declined.

	“What happened here?” Toras spoke up.

	“We sinned against Her Dread Majesty and were punished. Our power waxed too high, too fast. We dared to brush the steps of the bladed throne and drew the wrath of The Lady. We were given what we deserved and brought upon ourselves. When we were all mazed, all six hundred and thirty of us, we spent the first few months searching for an exit from this hell. The punishments of Her Serenity are not so easily circumvented. Our divinations failed, our mapping of the maze was fruitless and we slowly came to realize that we had little chance of escape.”

	The group nodded respectfully and the lich continued.

	“Within the maze we did not age, and food appeared in the courtyard of the Tower each and every day. But we do not eat, we consume magic. Slowly we began to realize that we would all begin to starve in a matter of time. Each of us began to covet any magic we could fine, be they objects, scrolls, potions, anything with a dweomers. Each of us took precautions to prolong our own lives against the coming winter, metaphorically speaking, and then the killing began. An apprentice or a namer killed in the hallways, a lower ranking wizard vanishing without a trace, it all started there. Full scale conflict broke out soon thereafter and you have seen its effects outside. The war killed half of us in the space of a week. Something went wrong, or one of us in spite created the first of the spellhaunts to hunt their enemies. They were drawn to each of us like flies to a rotting corpse. But then more and more of them appeared and our spells began to create more and more of them without rhyme or reason. Perhaps The Lady saw a need to slay us by our own means. I cannot say for certain.”

	“As the threat posed by our own errant, living spells grew and more and more of us died by their hands we gathered upon the steps of the Tower and sealed it away in a bubble of antimagic to preserve our own lives. The greatest spell I have ever cast, and I did so with the help of my greatest rival. We have never worked together since then. Sealed in as we were, we fell upon each other more and more to prevent ourselves from starving to death. Over the long years our numbers thinned till only Areya and myself survived. Before that point I sacrificed my humanity for undeath to stave away the hunger that flowed in my blood, and still does in hers. I still retain my powers as one of the Eaters, but I will not starve. She retained her humanity, so to speak, but is little more than a brilliant but insane fiend of a woman wrapped in the flesh of a half-elf, slowly dying and consuming the stock of magic she stole from those she killed. You were wise not to trust her.”

	Florian glanced down for a moment, feeling pity for the lich and his rival alike, trying hard not to imagine the horror that they had been through. His divinations of law and evil were both still active however and he could not help but notice something odd as he stared down at the floor. A soft glow of evil exuded from Clueless’s ankle, mostly hidden by his trousers. Florian stopped and stared as the glow was slowly growing in intensity, seeping outwards from its spot just above the knob in the ankle. As he watched the taint began to flow upwards through Clueless’s otherwise unmarked body. The half-fey was not evil himself, but with the quickness of a striking asp his entire body was awash in a pyre of evil that passed the intensity of the lich’s by easily an order of magnitude. Florian’s eyes went wide and he stared up at Clueless.

	“But we’ve thrown in our lot with you now. We came here seeking information. What do you know of Shekelor?” Clueless spoke to the lich, his tone and stance at odds to his normal behavior. The lich turned and looked at him, paused, and began to answer as the seething glow that had begun at Clueless’s ankle only increased by the second.


----------



## Toras

This was the point where the term, "A 4d6 moment" was coined.  (4d6 being our method of character gen.)


----------



## dal673

Very cool!
Now, more than ever, am I curious.

I very much like the details in your story. These details about the setting give me the true Planescape feeling.

Please continue!

Greetz,

DaL


----------



## Clueless

This session was also about when folks started realizing "DM Plot Hook" was on my character sheet, right next to "amnesiac", and "funky thing in leg". Expect a lot more 'odd' things to get put on my character sheet as this goes on, I think Clueless has become the official party holder of anything wierd, dangerous and/or likely to get one mazed if you have it in your possession.


----------



## Shemeska

dal673 said:
			
		

> Very cool!
> Now, more than ever, am I curious.
> 
> I very much like the details in your story. These details about the setting give me the true Planescape feeling.
> 
> Please continue!
> 
> Greetz,
> 
> DaL




Thank you very much! 
	

	
	
		
		

		
			





I've got over a year of game material to catch up on, I'll likely be continuing this storyhour after the campaign itself is over 
I enjoy writing it, glad you're enjoying reading it.


----------



## dal673

Shemeska,

I don't want to sound to whining or something like that, but....
when will your next update be posted in this thread?

I'm dying out here...!   ;-)

Greetz,

DaL


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## Fimmtiu

I, too, pine for an update. If you could squeeze one into your busy schedule of preening, gossiping, and beating your servants with razorvine, that'd be wonderful!


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## Shemeska

*No no, I beat -other peoples'- servents. Good flunkies are tough to find*



			
				Fimmtiu said:
			
		

> I, too, pine for an update. If you could squeeze one into your busy schedule of preening, gossiping, and beating your servants with razorvine, that'd be wonderful!




I'm writing it up at the moment. I've had a number of other things to work on since the last update and so it's been a little slow in the writing. I hope to post the next update sometime Thursday.

*goes back to preening and gossiping*


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## Shemeska

Update is written and submitted to my players. They'll have till friday evening to ask for changes, and then if not I'll post it Friday around 7pm or so.


----------



## Clueless

*taunts with advance copies* Taking bribes now in the backroom of the Portal Jammer.


----------



## Shemeska

*Like an episode of Moonlighting, except they hate each other, and one dies*

“Shekelor was our factol in the years before our exile to the mazes. The Spellbreaker and myself were two of his factors and confidants, though our rivalry began during his –prolonged- absence from Sigil.”

	Clueless stared at the lich and spoke again, impatiently, “Why did he leave Sigil in the first place. I’m well aware of the circumstances surrounding his eventual return and his death, but refresh us on that matter in case you know the details better then I. Did he say –anything- to you or anyone else within the Wanters before his public incineration?”

	Valdros paused and stared at Clueless for a moment. Perhaps something unspoken passed between the lich and the bladesinger, but regardless, the lich answered.

	“As you likely know, Shekelor left us at the apex of his and our power. He claimed to have found the location of a black gem that contained the essence of a wizard who had challenged The Lady, and nearly won. It was said that She could not kill him, but only imprison him forever, locked within a gleaming black sapphire prison. That mage was an inspiration to our faction, and perhaps it was he who laid the framework for our eventual formation. Such is lost to the past however…”

	“We distanced ourselves from his statements on the matter publicly. In private we hoped that he might succeed. He claimed that he would return to bring The Lady to Her knees. Such was not the case however and he descended into the bowels of Pandemonium. We heard nothing of him for nearly five centuries.”

	Clueless stared hard at the lich, “But you did eventually hear from him?”

	Valdros paused again, “Allow me to continue and you will learn. You’ve bought my words, you may as well listen to them.”

	“The years passed and any of us thought the factol dead. His factors, myself included began a slow jockeying for position and prepared ourselves for him never returning. Eventually we would need to elect one our own rank to take Shekelor’s position. However the factor was supremely powerful. More so than any of us his seconds, and that by itself prevented us from making our ambitions too obvious for the first few hundred years. Age was of little consequence to us, and so we presumed he was out there in the depths of the howling plane itself, wandering and searching.”

	“All good things come to an end however, and we eventually began to break down the wards upon his private chamber. One by one each of use would weaken one ward or snuff another, never more than one at a time for fear of being accused of a crime by our fellow factors. Over the years we finally broke them all down with no sign of Shekelor having noticed. With the doors open we tentatively entered and began to plunder the factol’s personal belongings. The Spellbreaker took much of his material before the rest of us did the same, though the bulk of the spellbooks are in my possession currently.”

	The lich paused again before continuing, “There was no sign that the factol had returned to his chambers in all of the long years since he departed. We were nearly ready to declare him dead and duel with one another to take his forsaken title for ourselves, but then he contacted us.”

	“He returned?” Clueless asked rapidly as his companions continued to stare at his back with perplexed expressions.

	“No, he did not. He contacted us. With us inside Sigil, and he outside of the City of Doors, he contacted us.”

	“That’s not possible.”

	“Oh but it was, and he did. He told us that he was not successful in finding the Labyrinth Stone, but that in his wanderings he had found something else there among the screaming winds and winding tunnels of Pandemonium. Something that had frightened him. He said that he was certain he had found something that would aid him in his claims and that soon he would return triumphantly to us from there. What he said exactly…”

	Valdros floated over to a wooden chest of drawers and removed a small gem from the interior. “A sensory stone of the event. I will project the contents to you.”

	He touched the gem and a voice flooded into the minds of all within the chamber, a haunting voice that seemed carried upon a nonexistent breeze that emerged howling from nowhere and vanishing back to the same. From the depths of the winds of lament it drifted unbidden into their heads, an eerie echo of the dead from an equally dead and buried past that now lay stillborn within the mazes.

	“I call to you, my factors, from the peak of Howler’s Crag here within Pandemonium. The Lady be damned, my words will reach your ears. Of that much I am certain, though the how eludes me still.”

	“I have grown weary on crawling through dank, fiend filled tunnels, the winds of this plane howling through my mind. I have failed in my efforts to find the Labyrinth Gem. But I have stumbled upon things of perhaps even greater portent yet. I speak of the Harmonica, and I speak of a path to its center.”

	“… is vast, some fifty miles by …. miles…seven hundred seventy seven cubic miles in volume exactly. Legends say that somewhere here in the vastness of it all there lays the secret to true planeswalking without spells, psionics or portals. I nearly wandered to the core of this place years ago before I realized that it was far more than it was claimed, and not what I sought.”

	“…was horrified to my core at what I found therein. They… filamentous… burning through the planes…”

	“I fled and spent the next two centuries scouring the dregs of creation in Agathion. My wandering brought me to the Crag where I now stand and I tell you that I have found something here that connects some half dozen sites scattered throughout the planes. A bit of writing here within the crag itself that I marked with my own sigil. Mithardir, Pelion, the plane of white dust that is Arborea’s third layer, said to have been the home of a race of titans, or titan-like beings of deific might. They are gone, vanished, and little to no trace of them remains. Nothing but a scattered word, a scattered symbol or phrase…”

	“Patches of writing here match those within the massive steps carved into the pillars and crags of the Harmonica… those found upon the infinite spire… 25 miles up, hundreds of yards tall and dozens of yards wide. Not enough to translate, never enough to translate. But they match those on Pelion and those locked within the ice in Cania, buried beneath the foundations of those who would call themselves ancients.”

	“…unspeakably ancient, unknown in origin… translate into musical notes? I… my return shall herald the fall of The Lady, though I shudder in fear with what I will find beyond that door in… you will see me in the Tower Sorcerous within a tendays time. If not, then I am dead and for your own lives and souls do not… I shall… the howling winds themselves… I am certain… seek the divine spiral.”

	Clueless was perched at the edge of his chair, his knuckles white and his eyes burning with curiosity as the voice faded away.

	“Anything else? Anything else at all?”

	“Nothing else to us until he returned… a harbinger of our own fate that it may have been. In the middle of the Hall of Speakers, Shekelor emerged from a hitherto unknown portal from Pandemonium that had not existed before that point, nor since then. He was wild eyed, his clothing and hair unkempt and disheveled. And he was shedding light through his skin like his own funeral pyre had been lit and ignited within him. He screamed out a single phrase, “THE SPIDERS!!!!” and dropped a handful of gemstones to the floor before the flames erupted from within and incinerated him to naught but ashes in front of some seventy witnesses.”

	“Would that I could have been granted a quick death…” Valdros muttered softly to himself as he turned from the party. “I have a number of those gemstones if you are curious. I made a point of questioning the witnesses and collecting the gems that were recovered from the scene of Shekelor’s death. They are singularly uninteresting. Non-magical, flaws in places, and blank as far as divinations are concerned. They are most definitely of a type only found within the 2nd and 3rd layers of Pandemonium however. I am certain of that.”

	As the lich finished his tale, Clueless nodded and then paused. The bladesinger blinked his eyes and for a moment appeared confused. Behind him, Florian watched as the glow of evil that had swirled through her companion’s form moments before to permeate and dominate the colors of his own alignment as it normally stood out fade and swirl down towards his ankle before vanishing. Florian said nothing but glanced nervously at his companions, motioning them to do the same.

	“What did I?… nevermind…” Clueless muttered and brushed off any concern. Inwardly though he was frightened by what had just happened. A feeling that he had vanished and been forced to watch himself perform actions and ask questions not of his making.

	Valdros looked at Clueless and answered him, “I was just answering your questions.” There was a lingering stress upon the word ‘your’ and if the lich had any eyebrows remaining on his withered and stretched flesh, he would surely have arched them at that moment.

	“So… Archmage Valdros. What can you tell us of the Spellbreaker, and what we need to be ready for since we’ve agreed to help you. You told us what we were sent here to find, we’ll hold to our part of the bargain.” Tristol addressed the lich with a mixture of awe and unease.

	“Those who sent you here… did they give you the location of the exit portal to this maze?” The lich rotated in the air to address the group bluntly. They paused and a chill passed over the chamber in their minds.

	“No. No they didn’t. Supposedly they’ll be sending someone to find us. Supposedly.” Fyrehowl broke the still.

	Valdros gave an unbreathing sigh and began to pace the room slowly, “I should not allow my hope to rise unnecessarily. I was placed here for a purpose and I have my doubts that I can escape till I am the last of us here alive. We shall see shortly what fate is to do with me and what She would have me do for the rest of my days.”

	“But as for the Spellbreaker. She and I are roughly equal in skill, though my own talents are focused towards necromancy and transmutation. She is primarily focused towards abjurations and conjurations. She has a number of unique abilities and our strengths and weaknesses have largely blunted each others’ advances over the long years to a perfect standstill. She is a master of counterspelling, adept at hurling an opponents spells back at them with the same force or stronger.”

	Tristol winced at the Lich’s descriptions of the other Incantifer’s powers. “How can we affect her then?”

	The lich, was he capable of it, would have smiled like a teacher to a student, “She and I will blunt each others effectiveness as we have always. All of you however will be able to physically attack her and assault her with additional magics not centered upon her person exactly. She will eventually be overwhelmed regardless of how well prepared she is. You are all a most wonderful and unexpected change into she and my conflict.”

	Valdros continued, “Her section of the tower is warded, like mine, against teleportation and summons of all forms, save that of the owner of that portion of the tower. That is less a worry. Most of her traps are designed entirely with myself in mind. Spells designed to rupture my connection to the negative energy plane, to destroy my undead form and then encapsulate my essence before I begin to reform. There are likely spells intended to undo the dweomers upon my phylactery, were I stupid enough to physically carry it into her domain.”

	The lich laughed. “Little chance of that…”

	“You should rest for the moment and be at your best before we assault the Spellbreaker’s domain. I will leave you and return in a number of hours, then we will make haste.” With that, the lich vanished in a blurred mixture of green light and dancing shadows.

	The group exchanged wary looks and settled into the chairs within the room. Florian spoke first, “You know, I’m actually getting worried about them sending anyone to get us. Otherwise we –don’t- have a way out.”

	“He’d have found it already…” Toras remarked grimly.

	“Well, maybe not. He’s been sealed away in here with her all this time, and the spellhaunts out there were enough to make them cooperate to protect themselves from them.” Nisha mused.

	Tristol shuddered, “Don’t even say that word. They give me the creeps.”

	“Spellhaunt.” She teased.

	“Stop it.” The aasimar protested.

	“Spellhaunt, spellhaunt spellhaunt!” She continued with a grin.

	“Aaahhhh!” He said exaggeratedly with a cry.

	“Don’t keep poking at the wizard that way. They have a nasty reputation of turning people into toads and things like that.” Clueless warned.

	“Or incinerating them.” Toras mentioned.

	“Or turning them to stone.” Florian said with a smile.

	“But… but I wouldn’t be any fun any of those ways.” She smiled and twitched her tail happily.

	The others, Tristol included, chuckled at her antics before getting more and more adjusted into their chairs for a rest. Tristol had taken out his spellbook to study and was soon followed by both Clueless and Nisha who made do with the jury-rigged spellbooks they had been given by the wizard in the first place. Florian began to pray softly while Fyrehowl stared off into space, unable to sleep, and Toras gradually drifted off and slumped to one side, eventually followed by the others as well.

	Roughly seven hours later the lich reappeared in a sparkle of magic. With their bodies rested and healed and their spells replenished Valdros’s newfound allies stood and followed him down the hallway back towards where they had first encountered him and his counterpart.

	“I will stand to the rear. As I said before, the vast majority of her wards and traps are designed to destroy me. Many of them will be unlikely to even harm the rest of you. Those that will I will dispose of them before they give you much trouble. Otherwise, please proceed.”

	“Alright then…” Fyrehowl nodded to the lich, Toras drew his blade and Clueless drifted forwards with a push from his wings.

	Tristol whispered the words of a spell to detect magic and examined the area surrounding the doorway that the Spellbreaker had first emerged from. Like everything else in the tower they had seen outside of the Lich’s domain, it was devoid of even a glimmer of magic.

	“She wouldn’t have wasted her efforts here. Continue.” Valdros intoned as he drifted in the air over to the door. Tristol nodded and stepped into the room cautiously. Seeing nothing erupt in flames or any sound of alarm from their companion, the others guardedly entered the chamber as well.

	The room was wide, some thirty feet in diameter with a single staircase starting at its far end to slowly rise upwards, spiraling along the edges of the chamber’s white alabaster walls to a single doorway high above. A pale yellow glow was spread out over the mirror polished black stone floor, radiating from a small crystal sitting at the center of the room. The crystal vibrated slightly as a tiny figure within appeared to beat upon the sides before doubling over and screaming in agony.

	“Aren…” Nisha blanched as she saw the trapped form of their companion. Fyrehowl’s ears perked to the soft sounds of the entrapped soul’s torment. All of them turned to regard the gem as one.

	“We can’t just leave her.” Nisha protested.

	“Ware… the room is heavily enspelled. Aasimar, can you see any visible dweomers within the room?” Valdros warned from the doorway, he had yet to enter the room.

	“No…” Tristol replied.

	“Then leave the gem untouched. We may return for it after killing the Spellbreaker when we will have the time to deal with any potential traps. She would not have left such an object sitting here in the open to taunt you with unless it was a lure for a trap that we have neither the time nor the resources to spend undoing it or blundering into it.” The lich gestured them towards the stairs and they followed his cue, though not without regret at leaving their former companion entrapped.

	“We’ll come back for you Aren…” Nisha whispered as they stepped towards the stairs. Clueless however, either curious or unwilling to leave the succubus in torment darted towards the gem. Before the others could react his hand had closed upon the gem which blinked out of existence to reveal the glimmering lines of a magical rune beneath the illusory image. The center of the chamber erupted with a concussive wave of force that hurled the half-fey back against the wall and staggered the others. Still standing in the doorway, Valdros was not amused.

	From somewhere overhead a voice rang out to meet the dazed ears of the party, the laughing voice of the Spellbreaker. With blatant malignancy crawling around her laughs she goaded them, “Oh, but the fun has yet to begin. Climb higher Valdros, I’ve been waiting for this for centuries.”

	The lich’s swirling liquid silver eyes glimmered with a flash of light, but otherwise the archmage said nothing as he finally entered the room and ushered his allies up the stairs. As they climbed and nursed bruises, Nisha looked to Clueless. “Not my fault this time. That was entirely yours. Sodding magical traps.”

	Several minutes later they emerged at the top of the stairs within a similarly sized chamber. The floor surrounding them was constructed of panes and stained glass, a mosaic that sprawled out around them depicting a scene of hellish magnitude. One quarter of the floor was a scene of infernal dominion and tyranny overlooked by a scaled, whip holding Cornugon taskmaster. The next showed a trident wielding insectoid fiend standing upon the flaming surface of a great volcano floating before the backdrop of three other volcanic mounts. The shadow of the Mezzoloth formed images of a tall, cloaked fiend with burning eyes and a featureless head, and another robed fiend with the head of a jackal. The next panel of the mosaic showed a disgusting, tar dripping fiend standing upon a blasted, rocky wasteland radiating red light up towards a black sky. The final quarter of the mosaic showed a vulture headed fiend wielding a lightning wreathed spear from a boat floating upon a sea of scorpions and flies.

	“Great, vacation spots of the lower planes. Perfect for that getaway with the Maralith that you’ve been dating.” Nisha quipped as they looked out at the images on the stained glass floor.

	“And why are you looking at me when you say that?” Clueless asked with a bewildered look.

	“Because you’re crazy. Trust me when I call someone nuts, I know what I’m talking about.” The tiefling quipped back with a smile.

	“Says the person who lived in the Hive.” Fyrehowl muttered.

	“Land was cheap.” Nisha said with a grin. “Squatting can get you some amazingly low rates on your taxes. So can punching members of the Fated in the face when they walk in your door, but that’s just nostalgia for you…”

	As the last of them stepped onto the black disk of stone that served as the hub of the lower planar mosaic there was a throb on the air as a contingent spell took effect.

	“Oh pike it, what is it now…” Nisha muttered.

	“Not me.” Clueless said as he readied his sword.

	Valdros looked up at them from below, as a glimmering wall of force appeared over the stairs, sealing them off from the lich while a second such wall solidified into place above the only doorway leading out of the room. With a shudder and groan of metal against glass the figures in the mosaic began to peel themselves up from the floor.

	“Oh hells…” Nisha muttered again as the stained glass figures of the Vrock, Cornugon, Mezzoloth, and Kelubar Gehreleth advanced on them with jagged weapons at the ready.

	Walking towards them ponderously with erratic movements, the fiends attacked. The stained glass Cornugon struck at Toras with its whip of jagged glass fragments to draw a line of blood across the fighter’s arm and neck. The Mezzoloth jabbed its trident at Fyrehowl as the Vrock launched itself at Clueless. The Kelubar had barely moved when Tristol struck it with a spell. A wave rippled the air between him and it and struck the beast with the force of an angry Goristro. The glass on its chest ruptured into dust and it nearly fell from the first blow before slowly standing again with a ragged sound of rending metal and glass.

	Tristol stepped back with eyes wide, “That was the only shatter spell I had guys. These things are immune to magic otherwise; so don’t bother casting at them. Just smash the heck out of them.”

	Toras hacked at the Cornugon while Nisha kicked at the kelubar and the others divided their time between the other two. As the kelubar finally ceased to move and crumbled to powder, Fyrehowl had nearly dismembered the Mezzoloth on her own though her mouth was cut and bloody from an ill-fated, if instinctual, attempt to bite at the construct’s legs. The vrock was hacked to pieces by Clueless and Florian seconds later and the Cornugon was the last the fall, but not before it had struck at Nisha and Tristol with its whip of broken, jagged glass.

	“I like this woman less and less the more she tried to kill us you know?” Nisha said as she stared at a random bit of glass and the way the light sparkled through it. She paused and handed a potion to Tristol and Toras as Florian began to heal Fyrehowl as the lupinal growled and plucked bits of glass from her gums and tongue.

	Minutes later after they had all healed themselves they looked at the exit, still sealed by an invisible, if solid wall. Valdros rose up through the stairway after he projected a green ray at the wall that had sealed him off from his allies. A second later he brought down the other wall of force by the same method. Tristol looked more and more impressed by the moment. Valdros said nothing but motioned them through the newly opened door.

	As they advanced through the doorway they emerged into a long shaft of a chamber that climbed up into the higher reached of the tower. A crystalline staircase rose up into the darkness above them. Nisha glared at the group as she strode ahead and began to examine the stairs one by one for traps, both mundane and magical, all the while muttering under her breath and chiding the others for their blunderings in the past. Five minutes later she paused her muttering and turned around with an impish grin, “But I still love all you poor sods, don’t worry.”

	The crystal was cold to the touch and seemed to hum slightly, shedding a soft white light. Inside, though it may have just been a trick of the carving of the structure, there seemed to be slowly moving and shifting ghostly forms passing through the glassy material. Forced into touching the railings and trodding upon the stairs, the companions avoided looking into the surface to avoid the feeling of unease it gave to them. Nisha made faces at the figures, being Nisha and all.

	Some time later they had managed to climb roughly half of the stairs and Nisha had yet to find any traps. “Nisha… I don’t think there’s any traps on the stairs. I think we’re just waiting our time.” Florian said with minor irritation.

	“Nonsense, I’m just being careful is all…pike it.” Nisha said as Florian pushed past her. Three seconds later the first trap was triggered.

	“Well, vindication is vindication. Malign or otherwise.” Nisha sighed as magical dweomers began winking out on members of the part before her own detection spell faded and vanished from the area dispel that Florian had triggered.

	“Good job Florian. Wonderful, you first from now on.” Tristol muttered as his own lingering detect magic spell was snuffed. From below at the base of the stairs, Valdros made no response.

	Three steps later, Florian set off the next trap and a wave of glowing energy washed over the entire party, save the lich far below them. They cringed and braced for the worse when the blast hit them but paused as the light felt warm, pleasant even and they found themselves feeling refreshed, invigorated, and their bruises from earlier vanishing.

	“Hey… wow! I don’t mind that last one.” Florian said as he smiled. 

“Thanks evil magic eating woman! We appreciate it!” Nisha yelled up the staircase.

“Positive energy. As I said, many of the traps are focused towards harming me. While it healed you, it would have had dire effects on myself I assure you. Proceed.” The dry voice of the lich echoed in the minds of the group as the lich began to ascend the stairs to follow behind them.

	At the top of the stairs the landing opened up into long unlit corridor. It was difficult to make out any details within from only the dim light shed by the stairs. From the top of the stairs, Fyrehowl wrinkled her nose and frowned. “Who brought their pet fiend? It reeks of brimstone from in there.”

	“Don’t blame the tiefling.” Nisha smirked and stepped into the room. A second later she hurriedly stepped back out of the room. “I’m not going in there.” She said as the entire hallway erupted in sheets of flame from wall to wall, illuminating the entire length of the passage. Somewhere at the passage’s end a second wave or rolling explosion erupted and raced down the hallway towards the stairs before withering away and dying a scant few footsteps from the group.

	Fyrehowl looked to Valdros, “Some help perhaps?”

	“You are perfectly capable of surviving this on your own. You are not perfectly capable of surviving what comes later. My aid will be given if you are incapable of otherwise surviving.” The lich’s response was dry and carried a note of finality.

	“So… who wants to figure out when those larger explosions happen, and when to time it to run…” Nisha grimaced as Florian began to pray for spells to ward them all against the flames coursing through the hallway.

	“Lack of a plan aside, that sounds like a plan. You first Nisha?” Tristol chuckled.

	“Race you all.” Nisha said as she bolted into the corridor with a flurry of curses streaming from her lips as she dove into the raging flames.

	“I’m not getting outdone like that.” Toras said as he too jumped into the corridor and ran. The others stared at each other dumbfounded before they too shrugged and ran.

A minute later, breathing heavily, covered in ash and soot, and nearly cooked from their dash through the flame filled corridor the group paused and rested. Valdros hovered back at the entrance to the fire wreathed passage waiting for news of the new chamber before he entered into it himself. The room was small, constructed of blank, gray stone walls that seemed pitted and scarred in placed. Otherwise it was unoccupied and a single door on the far end opened into another chamber.

	“Ok, looks all clear in here. You can probably c…wait… oh s***!” Clueless shouted back to the lich, then to himself as the Spellbreaker herself walked into the room with her hands outstretched and her lips moving in the words of a spell. At once, Clueless and Tristol launched into spellcasting as the others dashed towards the sorceress.

At once, disaster struck as the mage’s and bladesinger’s spells sparked from their minds and into reality. They knew it as the spells left their minds and crystallized into corporeality. Something grabbed at their magic and twisted, hard. Something rewove the patterns and altered the spell’s polarity as a cone of acid flashed into being to wash over the would be assassins of the Spellbreaker, fueled by their spells’ raw energies.

All of them save Toras scrambled for cover as the acid sprayed across armor and flesh alike. Clatters of metal of stone and cries of pain echoed as Toras cleaved through the Spellbreaker… and the image vanished. As his companions grimaced from their injuries as the acid evaporated back into nothingness, Toras of Andros looked up at the doorway the illusory wizardress had entered from to see the real Spellbreaker standing there and laughing at their misfortune. Her spell erupted in their midst and she vanished in the telltale flash of a teleportation before his words of warning reached the ears of his already injured companions.

The spell erupted in a concussive blast of ice and lightning. Of all of them, only Nisha escaped unscathed as she dove sideways back into the hallway where she nearly collided with the lich. The next few minutes were spent by all of them nursing their wounds with potions, gritted teeth, and spells of healing from Florian. Valdros seethed at the delay.

“And she will be even more prepared now as you pause to lick your wounds. You may feel better for the moment but may soon feel nothing if she snuffs your lives as I know she is capable of. This was not meant to kill you, but to slow you down.”

“So be it. I can’t survive more than one of those that she threw at us. It was either stop and heal myself now, or next time I wouldn’t be getting up to do the same.” Florian shrugged to the lich and cast another spell of healing upon Toras.

“Sorry for almost falling into you. Didn’t mean it.” Nisha smiled at Valdros, trying to inject at least a moment of light heartedness into the gloomy affair. Valdros made little response but to float away from the group and say nothing more till they moved on.

Eventually the room opened into a hallway, and from there into a great library. The chamber was stacked nearly floor to ceiling by cases and shelves of books, sample jars and assorted baubles and curiosities. A long golden carpet stretched down the length of the library and into another room at the far end that glimmered with light.

Valdros hung back, uncertain with the circumstances. “Beyond is her bedroom and laboratory. Most of the books here are those on mundane subjects and non magical in and of themselves. They are warded however.”

The words had scarcely left the lich’s fleshless jaws when there was a sharp crackle from one of the bookcases. In front of the books, Nisha was clutching one of her hands and staring daggers at the inanimate objects on the shelves as the sharp stench of ozone wafted over to her companions.

“Bad Nisha. Loot –after- you kill what’s guarding it.” Clueless chided the tiefling and Toras chuckled. Tristol’s eyes were wide as he looked at the contents of the library. Centuries of material and knowledge. A soft tearing sound followed by a yelp, another crackle of lightning, and yet another ozone rich cloud of smoke garnered the group’s attention once again.

“Stupid bookcases… they’re warded from the back too…” Nisha said, sucking on her singed fingers and once again staring daggers at the warded books.

“Anyways, we should get going. And there’s a few wardings to the left and right of the entrance to the room at the far end of the library, so watch out for them.” Tristol said to the others as he stepped onto the carpet and slowly walked closer to the Spellbreaker’s personal chambers. He had crossed roughly halfway down the length when the carpet jerked sideways, sending the mage sprawling on his side with a sharp exhalation of breath. Suddenly sprouting legs resembling tousles of golden yarn, the carpet furled to half of its normal length and began to constrict the wizard trapped within its coils.

“Oh you’ve got to be kidding me…” Toras said as he held his sword up and moved to flank the animated rug.

Clueless took to the air and Fyrehowl moved opposite Toras while Nisha dropped her intentions of pilfering the library. Florian began to chant a spell while Valdros once again hung to the rear and watched the entrance to the Spellbreaker’s room to the exclusion of the current battle. Temporary alliances meant little to a being consumed with a centuries old rivalry.

Tristol was struggling to speak but couldn’t manage a word as the Rug of Welcoming constricted tighter. Already he was starting to turn blue in the face as Toras and Fyrehowl began to stab and hack at the construct’s sides. Florian threw out his hand to conjure a glimmering, transparent battleaxe in the air emblazoned with the symbol of Tempus which began to batter at one of the carpet’s legs.

“Tristol? Crap he’s not moving!” Clueless shouted as he dove at the animated rug and began to slice at the bands of material wrapped around the unconscious mage. Minutes later he was joined by Nisha who barely avoided the rug’s attempts to trip her with a loose coil of carpet before it lashed the heavy material out like a whip to send Fyrehowl tumbling backwards. The attack was the carpet’s last significant struggle though as the combined cuts and slashes of its attackers took their toll and its coils gave slack and then went limp.

“Come on Tristol, wake up for me. Come on.” Florian muttered as he cast a spell on the unmoving mage. Tristol groaned, coughed and inhaled sharply as the spell took effect.

“I hate constructs. I really do hate them.” He managed to say hoarsely as he stood back up. Nisha smiled at him, “If it makes you feel any better I hate bookcases. These ones anyways.”

Clueless landed on the remains of the animated carpet and looked towards Valdros. The lich pointed towards the room and began to float forwards, finally accompanying his allies side by side. “We finish this now or we all die, one or the other.”

The room was part arcane lab and part bedroom, lavishly equipped and lavishly decorated. The floor was crafted of what appeared to be solid slabs of polished adamantium that glistened like a giant mirror underfoot. Two large windows graced the walls on two sides, open to the air of the maze through which a gentle breeze wafted in. An ornate summoning circle, useless within the maze graced the floor in a third of the chamber and stacks of books and piles of jewels, magical paraphernalia of all types and larger piles of the same that had been drained of magic and tossed to the side like rotting food scraps.

The party spread out and look at the Spellbreaker where she stood next to a partially transparent golden globe filled with some manner of liquid. She had not moved an inch but was staring firmly at her undead counterpart who, like her, was simply hovering there waiting for the other to make the first move. Then they launched into a flurry of spellcasting.

Bolts of flame leapt out towards the lich as a half dozen or so multicolored beams erupted simultaneously from the Spellbreaker’s hands. The flames vanished halfway to their target and a snarling loop of lightning from Valdros launched from his hand to strike at her. She made several motions and the lightning snaked back towards the lich to strike him full in the chest to no apparent effect.

Both of the archmages paid no attention to the party as they took out their vendetta on one another. Rage pent up over centuries of isolation in the mazes was being loosed by flame, acid, lightning and energies even more rare yet. Florian threw out his hands to call down a pillar of divine flames that struck the Spellbreaker to some effect. But it also garnered her attention.

In rapid succession she hurled a bolt of black force at Toras and a hailstorm laced with acid at Clueless, Florian and Nisha. Toras nearly crumpled from the blow and he was staggered when he finally cleared his head and looked for the screaming sorceress as she and the lich traded spell after devastating spell. She was covered in blood that seemed to seep back to her and heal by the minute while the lich was scorched and fire blackened but otherwise whole. Then with a sharp gesture she vanished.

Valdros paused and scanned the room, his hands up and ready to defend himself. He didn’t have to wait long before a pair of orange globes flickered into being across the room from one another to fly at him. He dispelled one, but the other erupted in flame across his side. Fyrehowl stopped and eyed one section of the room, her ears perked and her nose testing the air. Toras edged opposite the lupinal to flank the area as yet more spells erupted against Valdros. Toras nodded to Clueless who flicked his sword in the direction his companions had moved towards and a nimbus of flickering faerie fire rushed over an otherwise invisible figure; the Spellbreaker.

Limned by the flickering colors of the bladesinger’s spell, Fyrehowl and Toras rushed at her. Still obsessed with her spellbattle with the lich she failed to notice them fully before they had closed. She took two separate hits from them both before some manner of contingency tripped and she vanished as a fireball blossomed at her feet. Fyrehowl leapt and rolled out of the area and Toras dove for cover, escaping much of the flames. A moment later the Spellbreaker reappeared across the room, a fresh wound still showing on her left shoulder and her gut. She snarled and gestured towards the enemies she only considered to be gnats.

Suddenly a second Spellbreaker stepped out of nothing and turned to hurl a spell at her secondary targets. Her hand issued forth a burst of rainbow colored beams that struck at the group. Clueless narrowly avoided a scorching burst of flames, Fyrehowl was struck by a blue beam to no ill effect, Nisha was struck by an indigo beam to no apparent effect, and Florian was hit by a violet beam with again no effect; Toras however was broadsided by a ray of acid and a cloud of noxious gas. Tristol was untouched by the magic and he quickly took the initiative to aid the lich as he dispelled the second Spellbreaker.

She seemed on the verge of hurling yet more magic against the party, even as a green beam from the lich nearly severed her right arm. But then the room shuddered. The lich ignored the event but his opponent’s gaze was momentarily distracted by something that had shaken the permanent semi-permeable walls of force set inside her windows. Out there, deep out into the maze there had been a massive explosion that her eyes, so well trained in the subtleties of magic, could at once tell had been the death throes of a spellhaunt created from the warped casting of a meteor swarm. Over the fading light of the fiery cataclysm there was a flock of winged beings moving slowly out into the maze. 

The distraction was all her opponents needed. Nearly at once the Lich dispelled her physical protections as Fyrehowl and Nisha stabbed her in the stomach and the throat. Contingencies erupted like sparks upon dry wood into flame, and were immediately quenched by the lich as he floated towards her, snuffing the regenerative and healing spells that would have then otherwise taken effect.

Areya Fenthellis, factor of the Incanterium, The Spellbreaker, whimpered and shuddering in pain as her blood washed out over the floor and her magics sparked and died. She looked up into the emotionless face of the lich, her rival and fellow prisoner for the past nine centuries. A tear fell from her swirling silvery globes of eyes as the light in them faded and the lich smiled as she died without a word.

Valdros knelt down and physically picked up the body from the floor, he seemed stunned, uncertain and shaken with the culmination of nearly a millennia of struggle and hate. And then he opened his mouth and his eyes flared in their silver intensity as he devoured her essence, her magic and perhaps even her soul.

Seconds passed on to minutes and Valdros dropped the corpse to the floor and drifted over to a window. He placed his skeletal hands upon the frame and sighed.

“Almost a thousand years. I gave up my mortality to allow this day to come in the blind hope that after all of us had died but myself, that maybe then the lesson would be learned. Maybe after all our struggle, pain, and death at each others’ hands The Bladed Queen might have mercy upon me for my crimes. A thousand years and it is over.”

Valdros seemed to look out onto the maze, looking for answers that seemed as elusive as catching a star in one’s hand or bottling moonlight in a jar. He was given no reply. Had he been mortal he would have wept.

“Freedom is not mine today, nor is death. Perhaps one day the time will come and She will set me free from this cage of my own making. Just… just not today…”

Valdros looked around at the room and its contents. “Thank you. Our deal is concluded then. You may rest within the confines of my tower as long as you wish even if your minders do not come to reclaim you. I will not act against you so long as I am left alone to my thoughts. My mind swims with much at the moment.”

“Thank you for holding to our bargain Archmage.” Tristol said with respect.

“As for The Spellbreaker’s possessions I lay claim to only a few items, the rest you may dispense among yourselves as you wish, provided you can carry it with you. Her more potent spellbooks are mine, as is her staff and the greenstone amulet around her neck. The rest… do with as you see fit.” Valdros picked up a yellow gemstone from the pockets of his dead rival and continued as he held it up for the others to see. “I suspect in some time however that you will have company. Another group has entered the maze looking for your now dead companion Tanar’ri. Her spells that had cloaked her from detection by her former lord are likely gone and the Abyss will come to reclaim the essence of that which it holds to be a traitor.”


----------



## Fimmtiu

Ahhhhh, that's the stuff... ought to curb my addiction for another week at least.

Clueless: I can't believe you ran in there. Man, she couldn't have made it any more obvious that it was a trap unless she put a big neon sign saying "SPELLBREAKER'S TRAP EMPORIUM -- ADVENTURERS WELCOME!!!" right above the gem. I bet you were roundly pelted with pencils and dice for that one.


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## Clueless

Fimmtiu said:
			
		

> Clueless: I can't believe you ran in there. Man, she couldn't have made it any more obvious that it was a trap unless she put a big neon sign saying "SPELLBREAKER'S TRAP EMPORIUM -- ADVENTURERS WELCOME!!!" right above the gem. I bet you were roundly pelted with pencils and dice for that one.




One word: "Curiosity"

Beyond that, at this stage of the game he's an incredible goofball. (Not *nearly* so much by the point we're currently at right now, but I'll leave that for Shemmie or time to tell.) Watch for the pattern... amazingly enough, he's not dead yet, and there have been sometimes when he *really* should have been but talked his way out of it.


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## Shemeska

I'll be updating in the next few days.


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## dal673

I love the way your story goes Shemeska.
And I'll be waiting anxiously for the newest update...!

BTW: would you mind if I use some elements of your campaign and/or ideas for my own 3E Planescape Campaign?
Second question (and to be honest, completely off topic, so I do apoligize beforehand) : do you know when the next chapter(s) of the PSCS will be posted on Planewalker.com?
I really need the information for my campaign and it's been a long time since the last update.

Thanx a lot!   

Greetz,

DaL


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## Clueless

What type of information?


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## dal673

Clueless said:
			
		

> What type of information?




If I look at the chapter outline of the new D&D 3E PSCS at Planewalker one can see that various subjects has te be dealt (sp?) with.
In my case I'd like to see how the Planewalker crew handles magic on the planes.
I know from my old and current 2E PS campaign of my brother what is involved in using magic items, arcane and divine magic in the planes. And I'd like to know how the Planewalker crew handles these things in PS3E.


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## Shemeska

*Faded glory and leaking memories*

As the lich took his spoils and drifted back out to peruse his dead rival’s library, the group examined the various items in their fallen foe’s chambers. Drawing lots they slowly split up what seemed useful, valuable or simply unique in the lack of any definable use or value. Tristol selected a metallic quarterstaff that shimmered as if made of quicksilver, Fyrehowl selected a mantle and belt, Toras a gauntlet and amulet, Nisha a pair of boots and a ring, Florian a number of divine scrolls and a cloak, while Clueless picked a ring with a single glistening ruby and missing spots where two other similarly sized stones had once sat. In fact Clueless had picked near to last among the available items and the ring had inexplicably not been selected before then.

	Among the next set of items to be divvied up were the scrolls, wands, and gemstones stashed around the chamber. Tristol curled up with his newly found spellbooks while Clueless picked up a set of sending stones and gave the linked pair to Fyrehowl and Toras. Eventually the overtly magical items and overtly valuable items, including several 100lb blocks of platinum, and assorted ingots of gold, silver, mithral and adamantine were distributed and stashed away in bags of holding. The group sat down to fiddle and admire their newfound wealth while Florian and Clueless picked over a few curious items left over.

	“Well, if no one else wants this, I’ll go ahead and take it, it’s pretty if nothing else.” Clueless pointed towards a translucent golden org filled with a syrupy liquid. The orb was seamless and hadn’t glowed with any magic under close examination, but the Bladesinger found it interesting and amusing. Just how amusing, he’d find out later.

	Florian opened a lead box, carved and decorated with silver etched symbols of masking and a prominent symbol of Carceri overlaid atop a triangular glyph. “Wonder what’s in here… might as well snag it since everyone else seems pretty content with what they have.”

	Gingerly, Florian opened the box to reveal a single black triangular amulet seemingly made of obsidian. No mark or flaw graced its surface. Florian picked it up, feeling the surface with his thumb. And something opened its eyes, looking back at him the moment he touched the glassy surface of the charm. “What in the 9 Hells?!” The cleric dropped the amulet back in the box and slammed the lid shut. He turned around to see Tristol looking up from a spellbook, eyes drifting over towards the now shut box.

	“Was that what I think it was?” The mage asked.

	“What did you think it was? It was a black triangle and something noticed, somewhere, when I touched it… You recognize anything like that?” Florian asked back.

	Tristol raised an eyebrow, “That was a Gehreleth triangle. An active Gehreleth triangle…”

	Fyrehowl looked at Tristol then at Florian and gave a long, slow whistle. “Umm… leave the box closed…”

	“I take it it’s dangerous?” Florian asked as he put the box down with a peery look.

	“Each ‘leth has one of those when it’s first made, and at least according to legend, it gives them access to the racial memories of every other Gehreleth, and allows their maker, Apomps, to see through them.” Tristol said.

	“…when you kill one of them, the triangle stops working. But if you can steal one of those amulets without killing the ‘leth who had it, the link to their god remains active and the ‘leth will do anything to get it back. And the Spellbreaker has had one of them… geez…” Fyrehowl added.

	“Umm… yeah. That stays here.” Florian said, putting the box back on its shelf and placing a heavy paperweight on its lid.

	“What’s in the other box next to it?” The lupinal asked. Florian handed her the other, similarly warded box.

	“Probably another triangle, watch yourself. Whatever looked at me, from inside my head, did not seem healthy…” Florian gave a slight shudder.

	Fyrehowl opened the lid to reveal a number of papers written on fine parchment in elegant ink that glittered from flecks of gold dust mixed with the pigment. “Well, it’s not another triangle, oh my… there’s about a dozen true names here. Oh my…”

	Tristol’s ears perked and he glanced over. Written on the parchment were the names of a dozen or more creatures, with their common name and the arcane markings and symbols associated with their true names. The list encompassed everything from a Green Slaadi named Xanxost, a cervidal, a Solar, a Pit Fiend, an Arcanaloth named Larsdana Apt Neut, a modron, an ursinal, a bariaur, and others. The last page however was spattered with blood and charred in places. Fyrehowl handed the papers to Tristol to examine.

	“Do you recognize any of these?” She asked.

	The wizard examined the pages, stopping at the name of the Arcanaloth. “I’ve seen her before. I don’t remember where, but I’ve seen mention of her name at least once. And…” He trailed off as he examined the last page.

	The parchment was written in fine penmanship, detailing wards against detection by the named creature and protection for the mage who penned its true name. Where the common name and true name would have been, the parchment was scorched as if from flame or heat and a second, different hand began to write in a spattering of blood. “The clan of Baern has no names. Now babble and burn…” The rest of the page was covered in dried blood.

	Tristol inhaled deeply, shuffled the pages, and handed them back to Fyrehowl. “Keep good care of those, they might be useful later. And keep the box shut too.”


	Another hour or so later, the group had collected what they wished to keep from the Spellbreaker’s former possessions. While Tristol wished to keep studying the spellbooks he had been given by Valdros, they realized that they had the information they needed, and that soon their contact would enter the maze looking for them. At least, so they’d been told, and that Tanar’ri were now wandering the maze, looking for Aren’s trapped soul that they now possessed. Every so often they could hear the detonation of a spellhaunt or two as the fiends blundered into one of them and ripped them to shreds, likely taking heavy losses of their own in the process. They were also wary of Valdros attempting to follow them when they exited the maze, though they doubted he would try. The ancient lich seemed resigned to his fate in many ways.

	The group gave their thanks to Valdros as they left, finding him waiting at the top of the stairs in the center of the tower. As they descended down towards the first level of the former faction hall, the lich drifted past them and back into the Spellbreaker’s chambers.

	“Well, hopefully our minder will be here soon, and hopefully they’ll actually let us out of here…” Florian said as the group descended to the first floor of the tower.

	“That’s what I’m worried about. I’m not so sure that they’ll send anyone for us.” Toras said.

	“Why do you say that?” Clueless asked.

	“Whatever they’re after in all of this, we’re expendable to them from what I can tell.” Fyrehowl said with a sigh.

	“Yeah, and Tristol and I are still poisoned. Haven’t felt anything yet though, so hopefully we’ve still got time to chase those Mercane down after we leave here. I don’t think they have plans to cure us, unless maybe to make us do other errands for them. I’m not willing to keep doing work for them in the least.” Florian banged his hand on the rung of the stairwell as they reached the bottom.

	Clueless looked down at the single ruby in his ring, then at Tristol and Florian in resignation. If worse came to worse, he could save one of them. But damn if that wasn’t a situation he wanted to even consider at the moment.

	The group exchanged sighs and last glances around the tower, as they looked to Tristol to teleport them to the other side of the door. The mage chanted the words to his spell and they vanished. A moment later they stood outside the tower in the slim space between the sealed doors and the blanket of antimagic that surrounded the last stand of the Incanterium in its protective grasp.

	“Ok, this is good. No hordes of spellhaunts waiting for us outside of the shell. Not bad. Just keep your eyes peeled for Tanar’ri. They’re out here somewhere. And…” Clueless said as the rest of the group walked out into the courtyard before the tower. At the same moment the emerged from the antimagic shell, a shadow crossed over the green.

	A ragged shadow, framed by two massive feathered wings rose over the retaining wall surrounding the courtyard. The Tanar’ri gave a shrieking squawk from its hooked, vulture-like beak and pointed a brilliantly flashing sword at the companions. It locked its coal black eyes on its targets like miniature portals to the blackest regions of the Abyss that it called home. Painted upon its chest and emblazoned on its shield and helmet were the familiar iconography of a burning red downwards pointing arrow and a yellow infinity symbol; the symbol of the Abyss.

	As the vrock rose into prominence, two shadows at the base of the exterior wall, clustered around the remains of a battered and broken iron golem, opened their eyes and rose to a height of nearly seven feet tall like holes in the fabric of the maze; shadow fiends. Simultaneously, the open gates of the courtyard were flooded with a living wave of dretches and manes that began to scramble over top of one another, all in a maddened rush to devour their targets.

	“Slay them all in the name of Lord Hethradia! Butcher them! Reclaim the essence of the traitor! Wallow in their entrails!” The Vrock commander squawked above the babble of the least tanar’ri flooding into the courtyard and lowered his sword at Fyrehowl.

	“Oh, s***!” Clueless said as he stood at the fringe of the antimagic shell. Tristol flung up his hand and chanted off a spell in rapid fashion, throwing up a wall of force across the entrance to the courtyard, hoping to prevent the waves of Tanar’ri from swamping them. 

As the wall went up, Toras smiled happily and grinned, drawing upon his own innate, celestial granted abilities in a moment of righteous, if sadly unthinking, zeal. The half-celestial fighter shouted out a single word. A word filled with the holy power of his anscestory to smite those not of a similarly good nature. Unfortunately, of his companions, only himself, Fyrehowl and Nisha qualified under that banner of good.

	The Holy Word blasted across the courtyard, slamming into the Dretches and Manes with horrific force. Dozens at a time howled in agony before being banished back to their plane of origin. The Vrock grimaced but otherwise was unharmed; the two shadowfiends seemed untouched as well. Clueless, still inside the antimagic field, could only watch as Florian and Tristol were struck blind by their own companion’s spell.

	Toras laughed as he watched the lesser Tanar’ri explode and vanish, but the smile vanished from his lips as he saw Tristol unconscious and Florian staggering around, clearly unable to see. The Vrock cackled and spread its festered wings to dive as Clueless stepped forwards. As the bladesinger cleared the edge of the antimagic shell, something awakened and opened its eyes inside of him. Somewhere inside, Clueless was distantly aware that his ankle was throbbing, but he could only watch inside his own body as he lost his look on concern for his comrades and stepped forwards with an arrogant sneer on his face to throw up his hand at the Vrock and snarl out a spell in a guttural tongue.

	Toras raised his sword to parry the Vrock’s first strike as a howling column of whirling, twisting energy roared into life around the demon. A chaotic tornado of crackling lightning, studded with what seemed like teeth inside its columnar maw enveloped the fiend. In less than a second there was a sound not unlike a sausage maker’s meat grinder as the Vrock erupted in an explosive spatter of gore and feathers. Rent fragments of the fiend’s armor and shield scattered across the courtyard while its sword landed point down to sink into the ground up to the hilt as it was violently ejected from the dissipating roar of the spell.

	Clueless’s conscious mind launched back into control of himself as whatever had held its claws into his brain vanished back to whence it had come. Clueless looked at his still upraised hand, surprised and shocked at what he had seen himself do. His three standing companions all looked in his direction in shock as well. Unable to explain it, and partially not wanting to explain it, he pointed to the sword in the ground, “The sword is mine!”

	Clueless didn’t need to do much more as both shadow fiends hurled themselves at once towards those members of the group that were still standing. The first of the pair raked its insubstantial claws across Toras’s chest and forearm, making him stagger back and grimace as it seemed to draw the very life from him. The other fiend cackled at the damage its companion had inflicted on the fighter and lunged towards Clueless. Noticing the effects of its claws on Toras, Clueless bolted back towards the tower and the antimagic shell that blanketed it.

	Still stunned by the ferocity of the fiend’s shadowy claws, Toras managed only a few glancing blows to the demon. The shadow fiend grinned as all but one slipped through its umbral form to no apparent affect. Snarling, Fyrehowl drew her sword and joined Toras in assaulting the shadow fiend on him. Meanwhile, Clueless ducked inside the antimagic shell around the tower and smirked at the shadowfiend that flew to attack him.

	“Go right ahead and duck inside here. Won’t do you any good, or me any good. But…” The bladesinger taunted the fiend as he slashed at its face with his sword, broaching the boundary of the shell with the sword enough to reignite its magic while remaining sheltered from the worst of the fiend’s touch. The fiend was not amused and after taking several slashes from the half-fey, it was angered enough, and injured enough already to miss its companion fall to Fyrehowl and Toras.

	A moment later the second shadowfiend fell to Clueless and Fyrehowl, but the shadowfiends had taken their toll on Toras and the lupinal by that point. Both had deep wounds from their claws, and a cold feeling that lingered along with the more physical cuts and slashes. Still, they worked to wake Florian and Tristol from their stupor, and get Nisha out of the corner where she’d been hiding from the fiends, unable to truly effect them, but still vulnerable to their claws just the same.

	“Next time think, ok?” Fyrehowl deadpanned to Toras as she helped Tristol to his feet.

	Toras chuckled with humility, “Yeah. I rather assumed too many things. I’ll keep that in mind next time. My apologies.”

	It was then, just as Clueless stepped out of the antimagic field and Florian regained his feet, that a wave of force slammed into Fyrehowl, sending her flying across the courtyard and digging a path through the grass. A single figure shimmered and took form at the entrance, standing amid the torn forms of the dretches as they boiled away into nothingness.

	Standing perhaps six feet tall, lanky and thin with rich yellow skin and black eyes, a female githyanki dressed in fine leather armor and swathed in a crimson fringed black cloak regarded the group. She held a single hand in front of her, swirling green energy playing along her fingertips.

	“Our employers appreciate your information gained within the tower. And I’m glad that my maps led you to the proper place. However, I regret to inform you that you’ve sadly outlived your usefulness. My condolences.”

	The githyanki frowned and shrugged her shoulders as a coil of psionic energy played over her hand. A dozen yards away, Fyrehowl moaned in pain and struggled to stand. The group was almost entirely depleted in terms of spells, they’d been through too many difficult fights in the past twenty-four hours, and the Githyanki bristled with innate psionics. A fight with the Hrakk’nir would be fatal.

	“Wait! Why? Why are you doing this? We’ve been used as little better than slaves by whoever is pulling our strings, and yours. What do they have on you that’s forcing you into doing this?” Clueless shouted out.

	The gith’s black eyes sparkled but she kept her hand up.

	“Please. We havn’t had a choice in this at all. Two of us will die from a slow acting poison they slipped into our food if we can’t find a cure. The rest of us are being blackmailed on threat of death or torture to ourselves or our loved ones that they have. Who the hell are these people? What do they have on you too?” Clueless continued, “Isn’t slavery and tyranny what your own people abhor? Isn’t that what your people fought against to gain their freedom from the Illithids?”

	The bladesinger struck a nerve and the gith paused. The psionic charge she had been slowly building up sparked and hissed like an angry serpent. “What’s in this for me? I can’t simply go back, say that I killed you, and have nothing to show for letting you live. I’ll need something to make it worth my while, and worth the risk I’d take on lying to my employer.”

	Clueless paused and held up a shimmering, slightly liquid orb that he’s taken from the still cooling corpse of the half-fiend psion when they’d freed Factol Nilesia. “Do you know what this is? I took it off of a psion, a pretty powerful one, and I can’t do anything with it.”

	The gith’s eyes sparkled with greed, “Give it to me.” She gestured with her free hand and it quickly flew across to her. 

	“I have more where that came from.” Clueless said as he held up the ectoplasmic dagger he’d scavenged from one of the goblinoids psions back in Acheron.

	“I never want to see you again.” The Gith said as she snatched the item from Clueless’s hand with a motion of her chin followed by a gesture for him to hand her the other items he held.

	“The exit portal is twelve blocks past a series of three craters, heading away from the tower. The portal is a freestanding archway of stone with a blue granite dragon carved into a waterspout at its keystone. The portal key is a stone from the building rubble, a shed tear and a drop of blood atop the stone.”

	Djhek’Nlarr paused and looked at them again, “If you manage to get free of your bonds, all the better. But I can’t and won’t help you do so. The moment I leave here is the last time I have any contact with you so long as I’m employed by the same people that you’re being wretched around by. Next time you won’t have the chance to pick on my feeling on the matter because I can only reliably lie once on this without drawing suspicion to myself. And I won’t sacrifice myself for you.”

	With a motion of her hands and the flaring of a gemstone affixed to her forehead, the githyanki vanished in a blur of yellow light. The street was empty and silent again as the group sighed in relief and started their trek back into the maze of streets.

	Some time later, within the now silent chambers of the Spellbreaker, Valdros hovered in the dark and removed a slim, leaden box from the shelves. His luminous silver eyes played over the obsidian triangle within. The lich sighed and looked out over the maze as he picked up the amulet and placed it around his neck, staring at his own reflection in its polished black depths. “If She will not help me, perhaps you will…”

	Nisha hopped over a fallen pile of bricks as they made their way through the maze towards the exit portal the Gith had given them to location and portal key for. However, as she jumped, her ears perked to a sound in the distance. She turned and looked; Fyrehowl was already looking in the same direction with a worried expression on her face.

	In the distance they saw what seemed to be storm clouds bubbling up and rising over the maze. Flashes of light erupted and the sounds of explosions and discharges of magical energy reached their ears as in the depths of the maze, Spellhaunts began to unravel and erupt back into their base components as they were unmade.

	“Oh gods, the maze, it’s falling apart.” Nisha’s eyes were huge as another sound reached their ears, a sound of distantly slashing blades in the heart of the gathering storm.

	“Run! Mother****ing run!” Toras shouted as they bolted, uncaring of anything lurking in the labyrinth as they dashed for their lives for the exit portal. Scrambling for their lives they found the set of three craters that the Githyanki had told them about and ran past them, looking for the archway as the storm clouds built on the horizon above the maze. The slashing noises grew louder still and portions of the maze in the far distance seemed to fall away into nothingness.

	Nisha grabbed a rock from the ground near the portal and nicked her forearm with one of its sharp edges. She stifled a cry and a tear welled in her eyes. “Here’s hoping it works.” She touched the bloody stone to the teardrop as it ran down her olive skinned cheek and it sparkled as it mixed with the blood. The moment the portal key was formed, as the gith had told them, the gateway erupted into a swirled pinwheel of blue light.

	Tristol looked up with dread at the approaching storm as it washed out over the maze; he could swear that he saw shapes and forms moving within the thunderheads as the ringing sounds of metal on metal rang out ever more clear, tolling a requiem for the maze.

	Fyrehowl turned him around by the shoulder and pushed him through the portal as she too dove into the swirling depths of the single exit from the maze that had housed the Incanterium. Florian was the last to jump through the portal before it faded out of existence, but before he leapt, he turned back towards the Tower Sorcerous as a funnel cloud descended over top of that monument to faded glory, “Hope you got what you’d been waiting for. Maybe you’ve served your time. Good luck.”

	And with that, he stepped through the portal and vanished, as the maze was undone just as it had been made so long, long ago.

	As the group tumbled out into the depths of the trackless sea, adrift and nowhere in sight of their previous location, they all paused and rested for a moment, realizing just how lucky they had been to still be alive. And as they all reflected on the past few minutes, something turned in Clueless’s mind. A tumbler fell and the lock on his memory slipped as a blur of his past came rushing back unintended.

 Clueless stood with his companions, the same ones he recalled from his memories of the shattered temple and a raucous Sigil tavern. The Bariaur, an elven cleric of Erevan Ilesere, a moody half-ogre fighter and disgruntled former member of the Pax Harmonium, a tiefling diviner, and two twin aasimar fighters. After talking with them and dividing a large sum of jink, something relating to the proceeds of their looting of a storeroom underneath the former site of the Athar stronghold, they walked into a large inn and gambling hall. A sign outside the door read in bright gold paint, The Fortune’s Wheel. One of the bladesinger’s companions held a bag of holding which contained an item recovered from the temple, one which while they had no idea what it is, they knew to be valuable.

	Once inside, they garnished a doorman who ushers them all to a small side room to await an audience with a potential buyer. And while she had the jink, none of them were enthusiastic about dealing with Shemeska the Marauder….

	All through the meeting, the fiend played around the very issue of the item they were seeking to divest themselves of. She discussed the weather, the state of politics in Sigil, her own appearance, her own appearance again, and if she should wear the lapis bracelets instead of the gold and topaz. An hour or more later she gets to the point and demanded to see the item. She stared at it for several minutes, a claw playing with the fur on her chin idly, before she gave them something they didn’t wish to hear. “I’m not interested.”

	The companion’s faces went ashen. They’d just paid for the sole ownership of the item themselves as their only share of their ill-gotten goods, even given away jink on top of their shares. Clueless gathered some courage and looked at the fiend. 

“If you’re not interested, surely you have enough contacts and influence to know a buyer who is. Why else would we have come to you, and not say, Estavan or the titan…” Clueless knew the mention of her rivals would gall her to no end, and if for no other reason than to deny them something they might find of interest, she gave a counter offer of sorts.

“But of course I can make a deal, there's never a deal that Shemeska, the king of the crosstrade, can't make. Just the price is all that it hangs on.” She grinned and smoothed the fur under her razorvine headdress. “Of course I can give you a buyer of such items, but I will of course be wanting a finders fee of sorts, AND a cut of the final price. There’s a price to everything.”

And the memory faded to black as once again his mind closed tight again like a vice around his past.


----------



## Fimmtiu

Another update! My trousers quiver with delight. The exploits of my 3rd-level Planescape players pale in comparison.

(Super-pedantic nitpicking: Xanxost is a blue slaad.)


----------



## Shemeska

Fimmtiu said:
			
		

> Another update! My trousers quiver with delight. The exploits of my 3rd-level Planescape players pale in comparison.
> 
> (Super-pedantic nitpicking: Xanxost is a blue slaad.)




You and your quivering trousers can stay away from me 

Hmm, well drat, I was certain he was a green slaad. *checks in 'Faces of Evil'* Yep, I was wrong. Thanks for catching that there.


----------



## cmnash

Great update Shemeska - hope there's plenty more where that came from and that we'll see it soon


----------



## Shemeska

cmnash said:
			
		

> Great update Shemeska - hope there's plenty more where that came from and that we'll see it soon




Aiming for Friday of next week, I'm on a roll.


----------



## Shemeska

*A day ahead of schedule, add corn starch and the plot thickens*

Time passed as the group made their slow transit back to the border ethereal before finding, nearly at chance, an ethereal curtain that led to Arcadia. While Nisha complained about the ‘rigid, full of themselves, lawful busybodies of Arcadia’ the place was certainly safer. A short hop onto Arcadia via the shimmering curtain and a Planeshift to the Outlands and they stood in sight of the Spire, roughly 20 miles outside of Tradegate as best they could tell.

	Weary and tired they stumbled into the gatetown and made their way to the gate back to Sigil, barely stopping to rest at all. At least in Sigil they didn’t have to worry about anything suddenly gating in on top of them to finish the job that the githyanki had failed on purpose to. Unknowingly though their location was closer in some ways to danger than not.

	Florian glanced at the others as Nisha stomped her hooves on the cobblestones of the Market Ward, ‘to get off the arcadia dust’, as they pressed through the throng of merchants and buyers and pickpockets that fed on both. By the by, Nisha wound up with a tidy sum of extra coin before they pressed on into the Guildhall ward. She grinned and counted out the contents of a few purses as they strode towards edge of the Ward.

	“It’s getting late and we’ve walked an obscene distance today. My feet are killing me, can we call it an evening and just stop at an inn for the night? I really need to just sleep and collect my thoughts on what to do next.” Tristol asked as they approached a brightly lit inn with a swinging sign above the door that named it ‘The Barmy Bariuar”.

	The group looked at each other, each of them weary and tired to say the least. Without saying much of anything they turned and stepped into the inn to stay the evening.

	Alone in his room, Clueless sat and looked over the items that he had chosen from the contents of the Spellbreaker’s chamber. He still wasn’t sure what to do about the ring of 1 wish, and so after staring at it for a few minutes he placed it to the side to deal with later as he removed the translucent golden globe that he had selected as well.

	“Well, I can’t say that I took you because I had a clue what you were. But you’re pretty, so you can at least be a good decoration.”

	The bladesinger brushed his hand over the globe and smiled at it. And then globe opened. “What the hells?”

	Seamlessly the upper half of the sphere had rippled and lifted to one side leaving the liquid interior open to the air. It reflected back the room’s light dully, but otherwise made neither sound nor motion. Clueless stared at it, perplexed by it all.

	“Well damn. I guess there’s something to you after all. Let’s see what’s inside of you.”

	He carefully dipped a fingertip inside the sphere to touch the golden liquid. It was lukewarm to the touch and had a syrupy consistency. The drop of liquid rolled with gravity off of his finger and back into the sphere, leaving not a trace of itself behind, Clueless’s finger was dry in its passing.

	“Weird…” He said as he took another drop of the golden liquid and rubbed it between his fingers. He stared at the drop and pondered what indeed it might be, but only random thoughts came to mind. Then the drop shimmered and something appeared in the room with a sudden flash.

	Clueless dropped the liquid back into the sphere and spun around with his sword drawn and raised to stare at the squat, green frog-like being that stood in a state of confusion in his room. “Who the hell are you?” The half-fey asked it at swordpoint as the Slaadi gave a lopsided grin, croaked nonsensically and skipped over to the door. Clueless could only stare in confusion as the chaos exemplar opened the door, waved goodbye and walked out the door.

	“Ok… what the hell just happened? Summoning doesn’t work inside Sigil. Unless that wasn’t a summoning…” He stared nervously at the still open sphere and its liquid contents with a growing sense of wonder. What he had taken as a pretty little knickknack was probably one of the most valuable items the Spellbreaker had possessed, whatever it was…

	Heard through the doorway from down the hall there was a loud “Croak!” followed by a shrill scream, a clatter of dishes and several wet crunching noises.

	“Oh s***! Room service!” Clueless winced as he dashed to the door and looked down the hallway where the Slaadi was finishing off one of the maids while it neatly and elegantly wiped its mouth with a bed sheet after the fact.

	Slamming the door shut and wincing nervously, Clueless thought of how he could explain what just happened as he heard the Slaadi croak once more and hop down the stairs to the tap room. Almost as an afterthought he closed the globe’s top which sealed itself shut with another ripple through its glassy material and then picked up a blanket and tossed it over the top of the globe to hide it from sight.

	A minute later there was a knock on his door and he opened it slowly. Tristol was standing there with bags under his eyes and his ears flat against his head. “Yes?” The bladesinger asked.

	“Clueless… why did a Slaadi hop out of your room and just eat one of the inn staff? You don’t really see that every day…”

	“Oh, umm, that, yeah. Umm, a portal just randomly opened in my room and that thing hopped out of it. Said hi and then hopped out the door.” He said, trying to sound honest.

	Tristol raised an eyebrow and tried to look past Clueless and into the room. “Are you sure everything’s alright in there?”

	“Oh yeah, no problems. The portal sealed itself again so hopefully nothing else hops through. Sorry if that woke you up. Sorry about the maid too…”

	Tristol tried again to peer past his companion and into the room but eventually shrugged and walked off back to his own room looking like he hadn’t slept in days, and in truth he hadn’t really for any appreciable amount of time.

	Clueless waited for Tristol to close the door and leave before he let his jaw drop while he stared at the syrupy liquid inside the golden globe. “Wow. Just, wow. I just grabbed you because you looked pretty. I wonder what I can do with you…”

	Dipping his finger into the liquid and pulling up a single drop, he held it and rubbed it between his fingers. He thought for a moment and brought a spell to mind that he’d seen cast before, though he’d never before learned it himself. In an instant there was something inside his mind alongside the few spells he had still lingering in his memory. It stuck out like a sore thumb, seeming far beyond what he would normally have considered himself capable of casting. Nervously, Clueless dropped the liquid back into the container, not having diminished any appreciable amount and concentrated on the new spell.

	The dweomers inside his mind was glowing potently in his minds eye, it felt crisp and rigid, and it stunk of necromancy. Only once had he seen a ‘circle of death’ spell cast upon a battlefield, back in one of his hazy memories of a Blood War battle, but it’s effect was devastating to most of those caught inside its area of effect. And now just such a spell was inside his mind, somehow.

	“Well damn. That’s interesting…”

	A thought struck him then, since if he could use the liquid, whatever it was, to insert spells into his own mind, even ones that he normally couldn’t cast, a spell that he knew of but couldn’t cast himself might help him recover his own memories. He’d seen it cast before, a Vision spell is what he vaguely remembered a cleric calling it, and a Legend Lore was what the same or a similar spell had been termed by a wizard. Supposedly, the spell allowed one to look into the past history of an event, a person, or an item. They took time, but if you had some connection to the thing in question they took less time. And well, since Clueless was as close to himself as anything else, it might not take that long.

	Another drop of the golden liquid and a moment of thought and the spell was burning inside his mind. However it felt… odd. With the spells inside his brain, he felt sluggish and mentally fatigued, like he was trying to fit too much into a space that was only capable of holding so much. It probably wouldn’t be wise to attempt the same before he used what he had in his mind at the present.

	“Well, we’ll see how this works…”

	The spell triggered in his mind as he focused on it and willed the dweomers to tell him about himself. And then the spell in his mind was snuffed utterly. It was cast, but at the moment it did the spell simply failed.

	“Damnit…” Clueless sighed and looked over at the globe of liquid. “Oh well, that didn’t work and I was hoping that it would. Maybe on another day it will, we’ll have to see. Might be worth it to ask Tristol just what you are.”

	Disappointed but intrigued, Clueless closed the globe and watched it seal itself seamlessly shut before he placed it back within his bag of holding and went to bed. There would be well enough time later to experiment with the unique material.


Early the next morning they all awoke and assembled in the common room of the inn. Little was said over a quick breakfast and soon they were out the door and moving off towards the neighborhood on the edge of the Clerks and Guildhall Wards in which Clueless at least knew a person they could trust.

	“You sure we can trust her? I’m not exactly trusting at the moment given what we’ve been through this past while. It’s putting a stain on an otherwise fine city.” Florian asked as the passed a troupe of performers in the center of the street as they turned to avoid directly passing by the Laz School of Vivid Unpleasantness.

“Bleaknicks… ugg.” Nisha said and made a sour face as they passed, interrupting Clueless who only chuckled at the tiefling.

	“Well, she treated me to food, a tour of the city, new boots, new clothes, and well… you know.” The bladesinger replied.

	“Know what?” Nisha asked, oblivious to his meaning.

	“She screwed my brains out on impulse.” He said, without a drop of shame.

	“Not having known you even a day at that point? And neither of you were drunk or high?” Florian asked with disbelief.

	“Nope, she said I was cute and that it was something she’d never done before.” Clueless said with a smile like it was an opportune event that anyone would have accepted.

	“Never had sex? A sensate said this?” Nisha said as she started to walk a silverpiece up her knuckles.

	“No no, never picked up someone with amnesia at random and had her way with them.” He replied.

	“Clueless, you’re sodding easy.” Nisha said as she stuck her tongue out at him. Toras quietly laughed at her sentiment as Tristol rolled his eyes.

	“What?” Clueless asked, oblivious to her meaning.

	“I said you’re sodding easy.”

	“No no, I head you. I just never heard the term.” The half-fey was being patently honest.

	The tiefling snickered and took on a bemused look, “And you had no qualms about going to bed with her after just meeting her?”

	“No, not really, why? She was really nice.” Clueless said again with a blank face.

	“You’re like a bent copper piece in a thieves’ guild.” Nisha said with a wry grin.

	“Huh?” He asked, still not getting it.

	“A bent copper in a thieves’ guild. Everyone and their cousin has rubbed it between their fingers or had it in their pants at one point or another.” Nisha said as she stuck a copper piece between her mildly pointed teeth.

	“What?!” Clueless asked as he finally realized both the meaning of the phrase ‘easy’ and that he was being not so subtly jabbed verbally by Nisha.

	“What’s that light? It’s realization dawning…” Tristol said as he, Nisha, and Toras exchanged glances before laughing. Fyrehowl didn’t reply, seemingly out of politeness to Clueless.

	“Don’t worry Clueless, I still think you’re cute. Easy yes, but still cute.” Florian said to Clueless with a smile that earned him a look from Fyrehowl and a doubletake from Nisha and Toras.

	In any event, Florian was saved from explaining the comment as they arrived at the doorstep to Tarelia’s kip. Clueless walked up to the door and knocked while Toras sat down on the steps and waved to the two children playing on the adjacent stoop. As part of his faith’s creed, he was overly protective and caring towards children, quite an amusing dichotomy for a nearly seven foot tall man in heavy armor that seemed just at home carving apart fiends.

	The door cracked open and Tarelia waved them in, pausing only to kiss Clueless far too deeply, far too much in public. Florian and Fyrehowl both seemed a tad crestfallen, and both exchanged glances.

	Tarelia welcomed them into her home as she quickly closed the door to her bedroom and tossed a few items from her kitchen table in before the door was shut. “It’s good to finally meet you. I apologize for the mess, I’ve been learning to cook some different things lately and it’s been an experience, let me tell you.”

	Nisha was glancing around the place in a way that nearly screamed out casing the joint before Fyrehowl whapped her with her tail and gave her a look. “Aww…”

	Clueless and Tarelia babbled and cooed and looked altogether far too uninhibited for polite society, but the Eladrin tout lectured the group about the city in general, and her thoughts on what was their wisest course of action. All in all it was a prudent trip for them all considering the long term resident of the city giving them a tour in words that even Nisha, herself a permanent resident of Sigil, seemed to appreciate.

	Following their discussion, Tarelia managed to procure them several rooms at one of the inns down the street from her own kip, and none too subtly suggested that Clueless was free to sleep with her than evening, or any other time. Again, Fyrehowl and Florian seemed put out by the eladrin’s enjoyment of the bladesinger. Nisha noted the glance and had far too much fun suggesting to the lupinal that if she asked the other celestial, she’d probably be willing to share. Fyrehowl swatted at the giggling tiefling and didn’t bother dignifying her suggestion with a reply.

	Later, Clueless sat and pondered over the glimmer of a memory that he had experienced as they left the maze. It hadn’t been much, but he knew that he’d been with another group before, one of whom he’d seen in a memory that the gith in the Gatehouse had unlocked. However the rest of it didn’t make much sense except to confirm that he’d had dealings with the Marauder, and that she very clearly remembered him. That and her words matched almost exactly the words whispered in his ear in another of the fragmented memories he had gotten back by the Bleaker’s ministrations. It didn’t bode well, but it did seem that the process begun by the gith had at least been slowly unlocking the blocks in his memory, regardless of who or what had caused them.

	Still pondering over it, he considered going back to the Bleakers, but decided against the idea. He just needed time to sit and think, maybe relax and just stew on what memories he did have and perhaps in that way gain more details about them. Then an idea hit him, one of the things relating to the city that his girlfriend had told him during her little tour of the wards she’d given. In the highest stories of the Great Gymnasium, formerly the faction hall of the Transcendent Order, the Ciphers, there was a chamber in which Ciphers had gone to meditate and isolate themselves to, as they claimed, listen only to their own hearts, mind and body in tune with the rhythm of the planes themselves, the Cadence as they called it.

	Clueless considered the idea; certainly the chamber was little known, but it was no longer exclusive to faction members, though they still congregated in the upper floors of the now fully public gymnasium to sit, meditate, and train. If possible, he might manage to gain the peace of mind needed to remember more of his past.

	He wrote a short note to the rest of his companions explaining where he’d be if they needed him, said goodbye to his girlfriend and strode off to the adjacent ward. The Gymnasium’s white marble portico was massive, though it was hardly the largest structure in Sigil. The bladesinger walked up the stairs and entered the interior courtyard with its three pools and areas for the arts and for physical training in all manners of sports and martial regimens. The current owners and managers of the hall, two hill giant brothers from Ysgard who seemed to have been cast in bronze from the sheen on their sculpted muscles, strode among the patrons of the gymnasium, aiding where needed and directing others to the appropriate areas of the premises. Clueless strode past them, already knowing where he was going, and faced not a drop of resistance or inquiry as he ascended the stairs to the upper levels of the former faction hall.

	The second level of the gymnasium was a series of empty chambers and galleries where in the past, and still at times, higher order devotees of the Ciphers met and meditated. The halls were still well cared for, evidently they returned to keep the chambers in pristine condition, and a few padded cushions still lay arranged in one of the chambers that still received use from former ciphers. But the place was solemn and empty in its entirety as Clueless walked up the steps to the highest level of the halls, to the Cadence chamber.

	The door was closed but ajar, and opened into a pitch black chamber that was warmed from some source. Clueless looked into the oddly comforting gloom, and seeing that it was unoccupied, stepped into the darkness and dropped a few inches before hovering from some unseen force that neutralized gravity.

	“Well damn, that’s interesting. Like floating in water in here.” He smiled as he then noticed that the flicker of faerie fire upon his wings had been snuffed when he entered the chamber.

	“And magic dead too. Interesting… guess they need to seal themselves off from everything possible.” He shrugged with a smile and closed the door to the chamber, floating in the warm darkness, shut off from everything else except himself and the planes themselves.

	Silent and dark he pondered what he knew and tried to remember what he didn’t know, all of his past that was sealed off from him. The chamber was relaxing, very relaxing, and soon without realizing it he drifted off into a serene sleep, or something akin to sleep. Whatever it was, trance or slumber, he only heard the beating of his own heart and nothing else. No mystical rhythm of the planes, if indeed it existed, but he felt utterly at peace, regardless of anything else. And then something sparked inside of his mind and he remembered.

“But of course I can make a deal, there's never a deal that Shemeska, the king of the crosstrade, can't make. Just the price is all that it hangs on.” She grinned and smoothed the fur under her razorvine headdress. “Of course I can give you a buyer of such items, but I will of course be wanting a finders fee of sorts, AND a cut of the final price. There’s a price to everything.” 

The fiend paused momentarily to adjust her razorvine tiara, staring long and hard into the full-length mirror carried by one of her ubiquitous tiefling escorts. Looking back at Clueless and his companions in the mirror’s reflection, still fiddling with a strand of razorvine, she spoke again. “A finders fee of no less than five hundred Jinx, and a thirty percent cut of the completed sale. I want nothing to do with anything associated with the cult of… well, you have one their items there on the table, you knew full well what you had when you came in here to see me. Valuable, undoubtedly, but I’m neither a sage or a cleric of that religion, and being as how I’d like to not end up mazed, I’ll not so much as touch the priceless filth.”

Tilting the headdress just so, she spun back around to face the three of them, copper colored forearms resting on the table, one hand absently playing with an ostentatious ring on one finger, and elbows pressed in giving them all the uncomfortable position of staring at the fiend’s very generous cleavage. While his companions sat rigid in their chairs, wholly uncertain of how to handle the situation, whether to admire and look, or avoid the sight entirely, not sure which response might draw her ire, Clueless however leaned across the table as well, giving a sidelong, but obvious to her, glance, and grinned as he stared right back into her eyes. “Certainly we can understand your reluctance, given the item’s… nature. We also would find ourselves, and yourself the richer if the sale was made.” Then with extra emphasis, “What is there to really object to on the table, it seems more than ample to me.”

The Marauder grinned, a fanged, fiendish smile and her eyes flashed with unhampered vanity at the half-fey’s remarks. “Well then, that settled, I’ll have one of my guards fetch the proper legal documents to cement our agreement on these formalities.” She snapped a taloned finger in the air and one of her escorts vanished into the rear wall of the room, evidently either illusory or containing an intangible door of sorts.

“But as for a buyer, surely you’ll want to know their name and kip.” She held out a hand and chanted an incantation, conjuring forth a sheet of parchment, quill and inkbottle, along with a bubbling pot of warm wax and a large emerald carved into an odd shape, apparently an expensive seal. She smoothed the paper on the table before her as the pen animated and began to sketch out a map of sorts as she concentrated, drawing forth the image from her mind, literally pouring it out of memory and onto the parchment.

She pushed the paper towards her clients as she affixed her personal sigil onto one of the corners in red wax with the stopper. The seal was of a stylized arcanoloth head topped with a razorvine crown.

“The seal will vouch for you with the buyer, a titan on the plane of Carceri who goes by the name of Jorxanis. Specifically, the sphere of Othrys in the Red Prison. See, he doesn’t get out much, in fact he can’t get out. He’s the very definition of a prisoner, the very type of berk the plane exists for. He’s also both fabulously wealthy, and obsessed with escaping the plane. Your little item won’t do that for him, I dare say nothing but the Olympian deities combined could free him, seeing as how they cast him there in the first place, but your item will do more than pique his interest. It’s… well you know who it’s from, but anything associated with that late would-be master of the City of Doors and self professed deity of portals and planewalkers is certain to command both his attention and purse strings. If a dead, barmy power of portals could help free him, he’s willing to look into it. All said, a prime buyer for you.”

The King of the Crosstrade pushed a second sheet of parchment towards the bladesinger, “This map of the layer should get you to his palace. I needn’t warn you of the ‘leths on the layer,” she hissed out the slang for the Gehreleths with a distasteful expression on her muzzle, “they’ve been out in force recently, though none are certain of why, but it’s an inconvenience. I think the jink to be gained more than makes up for that, wouldn’t you say so?”

Shemeska leaned back in her chair and held up a hand, palm up, which one of her escorts immediately filled with a brimming crystal goblet of blood red wine. The fiend brought it to her lips and delicately sipped then gave a belated toast to her three clients and their agreement with her as she raised the glass towards the three of them. 

“The portal to Carceri you’ll find out of Curst, a trivial matter there, then several days overland on Othrys to Jorxanis’s palace. Accept nothing less than seventy-five thousand, highball him at two hundred fifty thousand, then drop from there. With luck, you’ll get over a hundred thousand. And if he proves surly, remind him of the seal on your map and who sent you to him, who sends ALL of his buyers with interesting artifacts to his doorstep. He won’t cross me, I assure it; no one crosses me.” The final phrase was said with utter confidence and nonchalance before she took another long, self satisfied sip as Clueless and his companions were handed agreements to sign by her returning escort from earlier who also slid a silver tray towards them, in expectation of payment of the finder’s fee. 

Both of the bladesinger’s companions looked towards him as he nodded and placed the five hundred coins upon the tray, a similar self satisfied grin coming to his face as the fiend’s words and promises sink in, foreshadowing wealth he certainly hadn’t quite expected to find so much of so soon.

	Clueless and his companions left the Fortune’s Wheel congratulating themselves on their gamble of buying the Aoskian relic from their original group, and the prospect of its sale on Carceri for far more than they had originally suspected. A short walk later they returned to the inn in which they’d been staying in their time in Sigil, the ‘Bounded Space.’ The ‘Yes! We Have Portals!’ sign hung in the still air of the Clerks Ward, the dimming light indicative of nearing antipeak. The next few hours were a blur, packing their gear, sharpening swords and making sure armor was cleaned and ready for use. As a parting friendly jab to his other companions not making the trip to Carceri, nor sharing in the profit of the trip, Clueless left a sealed letter with the innkeeper, Wilbur Cookenstein. They’d wander back to find him soon and the letter would explain things.

	Soon enough the three of them had passed through a portal near to the inn to the gate town to Curst on the Outlands, the portal key being an insult muttered under your breath and a grudge remembered. The portal swirled and deposited them all in a sprawling town of rusted iron buildings, filled with the hateful, dispossessed, manipulative and backstabbing human detritus of the planes. They all moved quickly through the center of the town, narrowly avoiding a fight between a red Slaadi and three primes, and a potentially lethal fight between two Githyanki knights and three Githzerai monks on Rrakk’ma.

	Standing before the portal to the Red Prison, Clueless gingerly held his hand tight around the bag of holding containing the relic, and imagined hatred, then stepped through to the other side, passing under the archway of bones that formed the portal boundary.

	The first layer of Carceri, Othrys stretched out before the three of them, a red litten layer of salt marshes, swamps, and patches of rocky wasteland. Mosquito swarms filled the air with a dull buzz and dimly heard were the slithering of larger, more serpentine dwellers in the endless muck.

	Their maps, provided by The Marauder, pointed off to the north, two days travel through the mire, then rockier territory beyond. The first day was mostly uneventful, save for the bariaur getting sunk to his hips in the mud on three occasions, much to the elf’s mirth. By the second day, the insects felt almost intolerable, innumerable bites tracing red-blotched patterns across exposed arms and the bariaur’s flanks. Dimly, they also realized that they were being followed. And in fact, less than a mile from the border of the swamp they were caught from two directions by a force of Gehreleths, at least ten Farastu and two Kelubar. The fight was long and hard, the bariaur taking a number of deep claw wounds to his side, and the elf was bashed to the ground by a Kelubar, the tar tainting his wounds heavily. Amazingly, Clueless managed to avoid personal injury, though the Gehreleths seemed to target him in particular. Only after dispatching the remaining with several deft displays of swordsmanship, and three lightning bolts, did he come to realize, they could smell the scent of the arcanoloth permeating his clothing and the maps. It must have drawn them from halfway across the layer, such being their hatred of the neutral evil fiends… 

	But after treating his companions as best as possible, and letting the cleric deal with his own festering wounds with his magic, Clueless ignored the bodies and doubled his pace to higher and dryer ground. An hour later, the swamps receded to dry, red packed soil, littered and strewn with broken boulders and sloping craggy hillocks. As the sky dimmed to a blackish red the group camped at the rear base of a pillar of reddish sandstone, blocking the view from the swamp, and from the direction of the wind, hopefully hiding their scent as well. 

	That night, after his watch duties were over and he ceded to the cleric, Clueless’s  dreams were unremembered, and his sleep fitful as the plane’s dread emotions poured into him: hate, spite, despair, chaotic rage. But his unremembered nightmares were nothing compared to the one awaiting him as you woke in the morning. Opening his eyes to the blood red din of the overhead sunless sky, a familiar scent assailed his nostrils. He jerked awake and reached for his sword, only to find it missing, and his camp surrounded. Some forty insectoid mezzoloths, two or three dhergoloths, and a Nycaloth captain stood grinning down at him and his two companions, one of them frozen still in place, the Nycaloth’s wand still pointed at him. The bladesinger’s weapons were held by one of the bloated mantis-like dhergoloths.

	Clueless jerked to his feet and the mezzoloths inched closer, black steel tridents raised and pointed. His eyes bore into the eight-foot tall, hairless, green skinned and vaguely doglike Nycaloth. He barked at the fiend in abyssal, “What is the meaning of this?! We came here on the guidance and behalf of the arcanoloth, Shemeska the Marauder! Her seal is on our maps and confirms our destination!”

	Clueless’s hand moved instantly down to grab the map only to find them gone, along with the bag of holding. His mouth went dry and the emotions of the plane suddenly seemed amiable.

	The Nycaloth grinned, flashing rows of fangs and held up both the map and the bag. “We’re well aware of who sent you here half-blood mortal. On your feet fool!”

	As he staggered to his feet, still trying to comprehend the turn of events, the Nycaloth hefted a sword in the air with one hand, easily a two handed sword for any human, aimed it at his troops and barked an order. “Half of you, take the mortals and deliver them to the tower. Tell the watch captain that the Marauder has sent them. The rest of you, you have petitioners to scour the plane for, I suggest you get started now! The tower won’t build itself! I will return later, I have things to deliver.” The hulking fiend grinned again in Clueless’s direction, hand clutched around the bag of holding as he vanished from sight and the cold iron manacles clamped around the bladesinger’s wrists and ankles. The Red Prison had claimed another victim of the crosstrade.

	Clueless stood in the doorway of the Cadence chamber, the darkness of the room behind him as he squinted his eyes at the light. He didn’t remember floating back over to the door and opening it, but the shock of the memory returning to him made him wince as much as the sudden return to the brightly lit hallway.

	“What the hell? You set me up. You bitch, you set me up…”

Back at the inn, perhaps a block from where Tarelia called kip, Tristol sat and nursed a drink. Nothing bad had happened yet, but lurking at the back of his mind was the fact that eventually, and at any minute, he was liable to keel over and die. Nisha sat across from him attempting to hang a spoon on her nose, and Florian sat there as well, amused at the tiefling. Toras was absent, off to find a chapter of his temple in the spiral cathedral since their presence in Sigil was small and they had no freestanding temple of their own at the moment.

Some time later, Clueless walked back into the room and sat down at the table. He seemed preoccupied, and while the others were both concerned and curious, he brushed off the questions for the moment, uncertain as to what exactly his memories meant, or how they fully involved one of the more powerful, and evil, persons in Sigil.

“So, where did you go?” Fyrehowl asked, sitting down with an ale.

“Over to the Great Gymnasium, just to gather my thoughts.”

“Hmm, the old Cipher hall? I’ve heard of them before, only because there’s a number of them on one of the layers of Elysium. Nice group of people, but I don’t know much about what it is they believe.”

“Well, I’m not a member, nor am I likely to become one. But from what I know, they believe in action over thought. Not thoughtless action, but some sort of perfect state when they’re the same thing. I can’t do it justice though, so if you want to learn more from them, you’ll have to ask one of them.”

“Well they’ve got something going on. Not chaotic enough mind you, though of course I’m biased, but look at ex-Factol Rhys. She doesn’t say much, but when she does, it’s almost always the right thing at the right time. She’s had two assassination attempts on her in the past two years. In one case she stepped out of the way just before a crossbow bolt would have hit her head, and she never stopped what she was talking about. The second time she turned, looked at the assassin and –caught- the arrow shot at her. It’s like she can tell what’s going to happen before it does, or feels how to act before she should be able to think of a reaction. Spooky.”

“They’ve been good for Sigil though, never really had enemies, and never really caused problems in the city. More than anything they kept the peace between the factions for a long damn time.” Clueless added.

“Oh, and I almost forgot. Rhys left Sigil a week before the Faction War. Claimed that she felt something bad on the horizon and skipped town before all of the other factols got mazed. Spooky.” Nisha said as she thumped a silver piece over Toras’s head as he walked into the room.

“Whoops, sorry.” She said as he smirked and raised an eyebrow.

“No your not, but you’re just being you, so it’s alright.” Toras said as he joined his companions.

“Oh well in that case I’ll make a habit of it then, except when I don’t.” Nisha chirped gleefully.

A minute of random conversation later a lean man in a uniform of the Runners guild walked into the room and up to the bartender. The barkeep pointed over towards the table the group was sitting at and the man quickly walked over to them and bowed.

“I’m looking for a group of cutters going by the names of Clueless, Nisha, Toras, Florian, and Tristol. If you are them, I have a package to deliver to you.”

“Umm, yes, that would be us. Who’s sending this?” Fyrehowl said, tentatively accepting a sealed scroll case from the man.

“Alas I cannot say, the package was delivered anonymously with payment and delivery instructions. We did examine the package and made certain it had no malign enchantments upon it keyed to activate upon being opened. However I cannot tell you who charged us with the delivery of it. If I knew I would certainly tell you.” The runner said and shrugged.

“Well thank you. Here’s something for your trouble.” Toras said as he handed the man a gold piece that lit up his eyes.

“Thank you sir, good day to you all.” The now smiling courier said as he trotted out the door.

	The scroll case was well made of a white, fine-grained wood and stoppered on both ends of red wax. The assembled group looked at the case as it sat on the tabletop with a mix of curiosity and suspicion.

	“I wonder if somebody knows that we’re still alive and back in Sigil?” Florian mused.

	“Gods I hope not…if so it’s probably trapped.” Nisha said, “Go ahead and open it Toras.”

	“Anything magical on it Tristol?” Toras asked the mage who was already chanting a few words in draconic while scanning over the case with his eyes.

	“No, nothing that I can tell. It’s probably safe to open.” Tristol said as he popped open the wax stopper on one end and slid a single vellum scroll into his hand. He slid the scroll open and placed it on the table.

	The scroll was written in a fine-handed script and signed with a sigil stamped in blue ink. The sigil was of an exaggerated, nearly comical, blue grin.

	“Well, it’s not Trenevain or Imshenviir, that’s for certain.” Florian said with relief. If it’s a new boss taking over for the others, by the foe hammer there will be heads rolling.

	And then, something happened quite unexpected that took the group, Tristol especially, by surprise. The grinning blue sigil on the paper lifted up off of the scroll and hovered a foot over the table, turning and smiling at the group.

	“No, if I was either of those two I wouldn’t be smiling at you now would I?” The grin said with a cheerful voice and the flash of illusory teeth.

	“Let’s just say that I’m someone from outside of your current plight who is both well aware of your ‘employers’ and has no love lost for them. I also know that two of you are poisoned and have less than a week or so to live. It’s a pity that I can’t directly offer you the antidote, but I can offer you something just as good, and perhaps even better.”

	The group was full of curious stares as they looked at the illusory grin as it wandered around the fringes of the table while it spoke to them. Ever the curious one, Nisha poked out her finger at the grin which opened its mouth and nipped at her finger with tiny blue fangs.

	“Eeep!” Nisha said as she jerked her finger back with tiny toothmarks on the tip, “You’re real, sorta.”

	The grin flashed its fiendish smile once more, “Indeed I am.”

	“So what are you offering us?” Tristol asked, perplexed still by his having been unable to detect the dweomers on the grin.

	“Revenge. You’ve been used and tossed the wayside like so much refuse by your so-called employers and as I said, I have no love lost for them myself. They likely never intended to offer you a cure for their poison, though they do have a dose of it with them, but only in case they accidentally ingested some themselves. Mercanes, hmmph!”

	“So how do we know we can trust you?” Clueless asked and was elbowed in the side by Florian.

	“I can’t asked you to trust me, but I can give you the location of the demiplane where the mercane are bottled up and you can do as you wish from there. It serves both of our ends and everyone walks away from the table with what they want. The scroll I’m currently floating over has detailed instructions on how to reach the curtain leading into the demiplane. The portal in the former Portal Schmortal is both too watched and too infrequently present to serve as an appropriate gateway inside their demesne.”

	“And what can we call you, just so we’ve got a name to attach to a face, or a grin in any event.” Tristol said.

	“Hmm. You know, name’s are so often impersonal and have little to do with the person standing behind them. You’ll oftentimes find a man with the surname ‘goodman’ who is anything but. They usually don’t reflect the person, so call me what I am and what form I take. The Cheshire Fiend will work well in my particular case.”

	“Oh don’t be afraid at the name, I’m helping you for mutual benefit and I’ve no stake in harming you whatsoever. In fact I’d rather like to see you survive just to spite the very people I’ll be helping you get revenge upon. But also on the paper below where my chin would be, if I had a chin, is the name and address of someone I think would be of use to you while burrowing through the ethereal deep to find your former employers. I’ve already bought her services for you, assuming you wish to take revenge.”

	Toras smiled, “Thank you. This is appreciated. Can we contact you again after this is finished?”

	“Oh don’t worry too much about that, I’ll get in touch with you. I tend to flit about from place to place as it is doing all sorts of things. I’m involved in a lot of late, most of it involved in kicking people till they stay down so they don’t harm other interests of mine. Your former employers are just a few that I can’t easily handle myself without attracting undue attention to myself and those around me.”

	“Again, thank you.” Tristol smiled and extended a hand to the grin. For its part the grin took his hand in its semi-solid teeth and ‘shook’ the wizard’s hand as much as it could.

	“You’re welcome, I wish you good luck. Now with that, I must be gone. Wheels within Wheels.” And having said so, the Cheshire Fiend vanished in a glimmer of blue sparks that faded out leaving an ephemeral afterimage resembling a series of runes arranged in multiple sets of circles, one within the other.

	Upon the paper was listed the name and address within the Market Ward, of one Skalliska, planar guide and finder of expensive items. Beneath that information were a series of detailed instructions on accessing the mercane’s demiplane, as well as details on each of the mercane therein: Patriarch Dalmar Imshenviir, Fartrenz Imshenviir and Kalteris Imshenviir. Three brothers. Also detailed were some speculations about the defenses within the castle itself, and that any antidote to the mercane poison was likely to be found with Kalteris, being the one of the three most adept at herbology and alchemy. As such it was likely he that produced the drug that Dalmar had placed into the food eaten by Tristol and Florian.

	Shortly prior to that event, in the Market Ward, Skalliska sat at her desk looking over a similar scroll that had arrived for her by courier that morning. The green, scaly kobold looked at the unmarked scroll case with curiosity before opening it…

*****​
	Helekanalaith, the Keeper of the Tower of the Arcanaloths sat at his desk, a single massive block of stone carved from the rock of Shacklers Hill in the Waste. What appeared to be the fossilized forms of petitioners in various states of agony leered out from the dull gray stone as he quenched the burning tip of his stylus in the quivering flesh of the flayed petitioner bound and stretched upon the iron frame in front of him.

	The fiend blinked as he finished his work and looked up, startled to look into the reddish-pink eyes of his co-conspirator, Vorkannis the Ebon, Lord of the Tower of Incarnate Pain. He hadn’t noticed the other fiend enter his room, nor had the wardings in place upon his chamber so much as registered that they had been breached.

	“Just how long have you been standing there Vorkannis?” The keeper asked with guarded curiosity.

	“Since shortly after you began to write; long enough. I do hope I’m not disturbing you.”

	“Just how in the Baerns’ names did you get in here without me being aware of it. The wards are still in place and it’s impossible to gate or teleport directly into this chamber anyways.”

	The reverse albino grinned, the ivory fangs contrasting heavily with his sable coat. “Apparently you didn’t take the time to properly weave them, otherwise I wouldn’t have been able to directly teleport here from Othrys.”

	“Impossible. These wards have been here since I bottled my darling little Larsdana and I’ve learned them in and out since then as well as reinforce them where I found her original protections lacking.” Helekanalaith said with a scoff as he removed his spectacles and placed them down beside the twitching petitioner splayed across his desk.

	“I knew Larsdana. Did I ever tell you that Helekanalaith? You are not her. I suggest you learn fully what she placed within your own walls before you wonder what is and what isn’t possible. I have a habit of breaking such definitions.” The Ebon’s tone carried with it the weight of self-assuredness that normally spoke of boastful arrogance, but arrogance was for those who couldn’t back up their claims when they made them.

	“So what is it you need of me? I assume that’s why you’re here.” The Keeper rose to his feet and delicately stroked a blue sapphire orb that hovered several feet above his desk.

	“Not this time, no. I’ve only come to inform you on yet another success of ours. Yet another cog in the wheel, and one that both Anthraxus and Mydianchlarus are blissfully ignorant of at the moment because the status quo has remained perfectly unchanged for now.” His eyes flashed red as he left his compatriot guessing.

	“How so. I’m juggling not only my own normal work as befits my station, but these little diversions that you’ve handed to myself and our third wheel.”

	“The Maeldur et Kavurik is ours. The coup was relatively bloodless and the change of ownership has had no discernable effects elsewhere. But when the time is right…” Another knowing, hungry smirk graced the jackal’s face.

	“And how do you suggest we give it back the rightful compliment of names assuming you’ve found some way to leave the Tanar’ri and Baatezu unaffected by this? We no longer have the Vuulge.”

	“We have no need of the Vuulge. Why is an artifact capable of translating any words into the language of the Baern necessary when I –speak- the language of the Baern myself. Flawlessly.” The Ebon’s eyes glittered and something inside Helekanalaith shuddered with awe and fear as his colleague recited his last statement in that same language that burned the senses with its ancient potency.

	“And the other fiends?” Helekanalaith asked.

	“Not a concern, our wayward children won’t feel the slightest bit of trouble.”

	Something inside Helekanalaith was troubled and would be for some time. Something about the way the Ebon spoke, the way he carried himself, the things he knew, the things he shouldn’t know but did, and the fact that he had simply come walking out of the hinterlands of the Waste a thousand years ago or so and leapt up the ladder from advisor to Ultroloths to advisor to Bubonix himself in Carceri. The fact that both Bubonix and Cholerix had vanished abruptly shortly thereafter to leave Vorkannis holding the former’s position did nothing to alleviate the keeper’s concern and suspicion, nor to lessen the way that he felt unconsciously drawn to respect and stand in awe of one who by all rights in the hierarchy of the arcanaloths was his inferior. Why then did he feel like the Ebon treated him like a curious child to an adult?

	“I trust your plants inside Anthraxus’s growing contingent near the Hill of Bones have been feeding you accurate information on his troop size?” The Ebon’s question pulled Helekanalaith out of his thoughts.

	“Indeed, his troops are swelling quite massively. Just how exactly did you goad him into taking back what was his to begin with?” The keeper replied.

	“The more pertinent question is what I told Mydianchlarus that made the Oinoloth abdicate his throne in the first place…” Another flash of ivory fangs contrasting with a jet-black coat.

	“I’m not so certain that I believe that boast.”

	“Whether you believe it or not isn’t what’s important. The seeds are planted in your mind and they’ll occupy your thoughts for days. It places you in the position of holding me in a select light, and isn’t that what a boast is for in the first place?” The Ebon said with a grin before changing the subject, “In any event I’ve dispatched one of my own to Center where she’ll be watching over the buildup of mercenary forces at the hub there. A pity for Dandy Will, she booted him out of his own castle the day she arrived with her ostensible superior, one of the Ultroloths under the Oinoloth. You remember Shylara I assume. She served you as a scribe of no particular note for several centuries before you shipped her off to Khin-Oin, and from there to Carceri shortly before I arrived there.”

	The keeper nodded after a moment’s though, “Indeed I do. Did you have a hand in her current… affliction?”

	“She plays an important part, and those who don’t fit the role I need them to fit tend to suffer some remolding to do so. She’s convinced that I love her; she thinks her condition endears her to me since she endures it so. It’s a powerful motivating force, wouldn’t you say so Helekanalaith?” The Ebon’s eyes darted from the keeper up to the sapphire gem the other ‘loth was absenting stroking.

	Helekanalaith paused and looked at the Ebon, “A powerful motivating force? Which do you mean? Agony or love?”

	“Which indeed. Ponder it and I’ll see you again in several days time, there is much to do.” The Ebon replied with a feral grin before vanishing without a word or a gesture to mark his passing.

	And as Helekanalaith, the Keeper of the Tower checked his wards once again and detected no lingering presence or hung spells where the Ebon had stood, he relaxed and sat down again before looking up at the sapphire orb that held the essence of his predecessor, Larsdana apt Neut. “Which indeed…”


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## Fimmtiu

Poor, poor Clueless. It's just so difficult being a man of mystery and intrigue with a high Charisma score... I feel for you.   

Excellent update! It's nice to see the edges of the plot starting to take shape.


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## Shemeska

Fimmtiu said:
			
		

> Excellent update! It's nice to see the edges of the plot starting to take shape.




Edges of the plot? Taking shape? *GRIN* 'Aint seen nothing yet 

It's 2 years in game beyond this point in the story hour and pieces are still dropping into place that are stumping the players and PCs alike. It just keeps getting deeper and more complex as it goes on.


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## Clueless

Fimmtiu said:
			
		

> Poor, poor Clueless. It's just so difficult being a man of mystery and intrigue with a high Charisma score... I feel for you.




*wide ear to ear grin* Ain't it though??!

And yes - the other character's stories get Much stronger as we go along - I was one of the only players who walked in *knowing* planescape, and as DM plothook some of the early stuff has a lot of stuff on him. And well - you can never pass up the chance to play truly utterly completely clueless.  A fair amount of Clueless's stuff was actually happening under the table between sessions to avoid wasting time *at* the table.

My sig line makes a lot more sense now though doesn't it?


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## Fimmtiu

Shemeska said:
			
		

> It's 2 years in game beyond this point in the story hour and pieces are still dropping into place that are stumping the players and PCs alike. It just keeps getting deeper and more complex as it goes on.




I love games like that. We've got a game that's been going since shortly after 3.0 came out, and we recently got a new player for our weekly group. "Well," I told him, "it's kind of complicated. I'll write you a summary to get you up to speed."

One thesis-sized document later...


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## RangerWickett

I will say you've cheated a bit, Shem.  Planescape is the coolest setting in the infinite multiverse, so it's almost not fair that you get to have access to all that coolness.

I think my favorite part about Planescape is that certain places can be nearly physical manifestations of certain emotions or ideas.  It's very compelling to have tangible Hopelessness.  Would Sigil be Cosmopolitanism?  Eclecticism?  Ordered Paradox?  Regardless of how I'd describe it, it makes for a great setting.

The posts are a bit long -- I've only read the prologue and the first one with Clueless -- and the writing occasionally has a few technical errors that throw off my reading groove.  But the actual cadence of the writing is usually pretty easy to read.

Clueless makes for an interesting character, in sort of the same way that the classic "assassin with amnesia" does.  He knows a lot of things I have no idea about, and as he learns what he has forgotten, I get to watch and be dazzled.  I like being dropped into the middle of a mystery, but there is a lot here to catch up on.  Care to give me a quick update on how much you've written since then, and how close things are to being done?  F'rinstance, as much as I love Piratecat's game, I got hooked early.  I couldn't imagine working my way through the whole story from the beginning.


----------



## Shemeska

Yeah, the posts trend towards the long side, but it's also the first story hour I've done 

As for how much the story has progressed since the posts that you read: Clueless has gotten back to first cohesive remnants of his memory, those being him and a former group of his being sent to Carceri to sell an Aoskian relic to a titan interested in such things. The deal was brokered by my namesake and to some extent she may have set him up for something entirely different once he went to Othrys.

I've also added in two characters, killed one and about to introduce another. The PCs ended up mazing themselves intentionally (though ignorant of this till they were inside) and were once again doublecrossed by their 'employer'. They're just to the point of taking revenge on said employer, based on information gained from a figure calling itself the 'cheshire fiend'. Meanwhile in the background the Yugoloths are stumbling ever closer to civil war.

I've written a few months worth of material towards the two years worth of plot I'm only now starting to wrap up in the actual campaign.


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## Clueless

RangerWickett said:
			
		

> Clueless makes for an interesting character, in sort of the same way that the classic "assassin with amnesia" does.... Care to give me a quick update on how much you've written since then, and how close things are to being done?




Thanks. 

And out of a two year campaign - he's covered about... 2-3 months so far, plus whatever at the tail end he's gotten set up? This gaming group is one of the absolute best I've ever played in - very focused players, so we roll right *through* on these plots. There's a lot to tell...


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## Shemeska

Next update is postponed due to GenCon. 

You want to know what happens you can track me down in Indianapolis or you can wait a week.


----------



## dal673

*GenCon delay*

Aaaaaawww.....
Does this really hav..

No, just kidding!
Have fun on GenCon.

Oh, btw: do you mind telling us if there was anything about Planescape at Con and if so, what...?

Thx a bunch!

Greetz,

DaL


----------



## Gerzel

How long before we hear about the heroic efforts of a great kobald explorer!


----------



## Clueless

... About as long as it takes her to do some....  
(sorry - it was too easy not to pick on ya  )


----------



## solomanii

Just spent the last two days catching up (reading from page 5 to 9).  Great stuff.  Really enjoying it.  Makes my PS campaign pale in comparison   

After you are done Shem would it possible to strike a bargain and have a compiled word version put together for those interested?  I want to add it to my Planescape collection.


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## Shemeska

solomanii said:
			
		

> Just spent the last two days catching up (reading from page 5 to 9).  Great stuff.  Really enjoying it.  Makes my PS campaign pale in comparison
> 
> After you are done Shem would it possible to strike a bargain and have a compiled word version put together for those interested?  I want to add it to my Planescape collection.




Thanks! 
	

	
	
		
		

		
			





Sure thing, I'm writing this all in Word anyways. However it's going to be at least a year or so before the storyhour is caught up with the actual campaign, which is likely to be over in under 5 months or so. And I've already got followup plots ready... all depends on the end of this one though. 

The next update is in progress and should be posted tommorow or thursday.


----------



## solomanii

Sounds good!


----------



## Shemeska

*Blame GenCon for the delayed update!*

At the same time, two wards away in the spireward reaches of the Market Ward, a short, green scaled kobold sat at her desk and opened a small, sealed scroll that had arrived for her that morning by way of one of the Bellringer’s messengers. Her feet kicked slowly in the air, nearly a foot above the floor, as the chair she occupied was oversized for her stature. She was dressed in a rather flamboyant coat and vest while a wide brimmed and plumed hat perched atop her head, slightly askance. She was nothing if not fashionable.

	Skalliska smiled in curiosity, a reptilian smirk crossing her face as her tiny teeth flashed a line of white across her snout. “Hmm… wonder who sent this, and with advance payment along with it…”

	The kobold counted the coins with a practiced eye and spread the parchment out before herself. _“My newest employee Skalliska, allow me to introduce myself. Payment should be included with this letter, unless the Bellringer hires untrustworthy runners, in which case he’ll be down a runner by the day’s end. The funds therein should be double your usual fee for a week’s time of services. I hope this is recompense for the short notice of employment. But this would be much easier if we were to speak in person. Please touch the sigil at the end of this document to do just that…”_

	Skalliska paused and glanced at the twin symbols at the end of the page, one of them a comical looking symbol that resembled a blue grin, and the other a ring of concentric circles composed of runes in infernal and abyssal. A quick glance was enough for her to translate their meaning, “Wheels within Wheels.”

	The kobold tapped the center of the symbol and watched as nothing happened. She tapped it again and pressed on the symbol, but still to no avail. Then she heard the thin, “Mrrpphhmmmpphhhh,” emanate from under her thumb.

	“Oh.” She said with some amusement as she removed her thumb to see the blue grin symbol rise up off the paper, sneeze, and hover before her, smiling even more.

	“Very pleased to meet you my scaly employee. Don’t you think this is a better way of going over things?” The grin said as Skalliska chuckled and leaned back in her chair.

	“This works, and it’s amusing if nothing else.” She pointed towards the pile of platinum coins, “You’ve certainly bought your time, so do tell.”

	“I thought I’d found your favorite color there, guess I wasn’t wrong. Good.” The grins floated down towards the kobold’s desk and seemed to settle atop the coins like a tiny dragon on its hoard.

	“I’ve got a group of other employees of mine that are set to track down a demiplane in which a few people they don’t really like are holed up. I’ve my own reasons to see those berks get their comeuppance, but that’s rather beside the point. I need you to help my employees find that demiplane, make sure they don’t fall prey to any traps, both magical and mundane, and that they get out alive and back to Sigil. I don’t wish to see them come to harm.”

	Skalliska nodded and plucked a coin out from under the Cheshire Fiend’s animated chin. “How long do you think this will take? I don’t have a problem taking the job, but if it’s longer than a certain period I start to charge more you understand.”

	The grin gnawed on a coin like a small puppy on a bone before answering her, “Heh heh, I could pay you now, or I could offer you a share of what the mercane in that demiplane have hoarded with them… it is substantial and I don’t personally care what happens to it. Money isn’t an issue for me, suffice to say.”

	“A share in whatever they… well, no… a share in what we recover? That’s really tempting, it really is. What sort of surprises are these, mercane you said, going to have waiting for us?” Coins danced in the kobold’s eyes and the Cheshire Fiend jumped on that glimmer of gold in her head.

	“A bevy of mercenaries, likely some traps, their own magics, and for the eldest of the three brothers a guardian golem and at least two or three stone golems. Beyond that, likely not much more. All of them are wizards, so judge your expectations accordingly.”

	Skalliska leaned back in her chair and pushed her hat down over her face as she contemplated taking the offered job. It was ever so tempting, and her illusory, or seemingly illusory employer wasn’t helping any by warping into a blue dragon and snarling and breathing sparks as it sat on top of the pile of coins on her desk. While quirky and amusing, the grinning fiend was shrewd enough to get her hooked on the offer.

	“I’m in.” She was fairly blunt as she grinning back at her employer from under the brim of her hat.

	“Well, that’s good because they’re already on their way over here. A bit of an assumption on my part that you’d agree to my terms, but, no problems encountered after all. And with that, I have other places to be, do take care of them, they’ll fill you in on any details.”

	And with that, the Cheshire Fiend dove into the pile of coins and dissipated into a shower of sparkling blue fragments that melted away into the air. The parchment displayed no lingering traces of magic, nor the grin’s symbol still on the page. But rather than any lingering questions, only the sound of cascading coins filled the kobold’s ears, just as thoughts of revenge and desperation had filled the thoughts of her soon to be compatriots.

****​
	A few hours later Nisha stood outside the address in the Market Ward, pointing up towards the sign above the entrance. In bright gold lettering, the sign read ‘Five Fellows Market of the Curious and Rare”.

	“Apparently I’m doing my Kylie impression today…” Nisha said as she continued to point up at the sign. Her companions chuckled softly behind her as they moved towards the door and stepped inside.

	The interior of the shop was brightly illuminated from a series of skylights in the roof which appeared magically augmented; the haze outside the shop wasn’t half as bright as the inside light. Tables and shelves scattered about the room, each of them littered with various exotic and strange baubles from a dozen or more different planes or primes. The desk nearest to the door had a map of the shop and fliers detailing the additional services the shop’s proprietors provided to clients. Clueless was already moving towards the desk, smiling at the elven wizardress who sat behind it. Tristol rolled his eyes as the half-fey bowed and kissed the elf’s hand, inquiring about their contact at the shop in as flirtatious a way as possible. After his question he paused, leaned in and whispered something to the woman who immediately blushed.

	“I’m flattered,” the wizardress said as Clueless kissed the back of her hand, “But I don’t think my husband would approve, even if he is out of Sigil for the next few weeks. The attention is appreciated though it’s too bad for you that I’m not a sensate.” She laughed and Clueless chuckled, “Alas, were if you were.”

	Fyrehowl chuckled, the tips of her ears growing slightly flushed, as she obviously had overheard Clueless’s whisper. As she obviously found humor in whatever he had said, she and Florian made eye contact as they both looked over towards Clueless. A slight consternation passed between them, not unlike two rag pickers in the hive both looking at the same dropped copper right before leaping for it.

	Florian coughed to interrupt Clueless’s amorous pursuits, “We’re here to meet a certain Skalliska that we were told was a partner at your establishment. Is she in at the moment?”

	“I believe so, yes.” The elf pointed towards a yellow door on the far end of the display room, “Through that door, end of the hall, and the door on the right is hers. And feel free to browse anything in the shop while you’re here.”


	Skalliska looked up at the silhouettes in the glass of the door to her office and smiled a reptilian grin as the door tentatively opened. “We’re looking for a certain Skalliska, is this the right place?” said Florian as he stepped through into the kobold’s office.

	Skalliska looked up from her chair, her face mostly hidden by the wide brim of her hat. “That would be me, I take it that you’re the folks I’m being paid to guide into the Ethereal?”

	“Yep, that would be us.” Said Clueless as he walked into the office. “I take it that you’ve already spoken to our mutual employer?”

	“Very recently actually, he was… rather unique. Smiled a lot.” She replied as her hand picked up her familiar from her shoulder, a small red-orange lizard with tiny tongues of flame licking up from its snout and seemingly at random from the rest of its body.

	“Umm… your familiar set itself on fire, you might want to…” Nisha began before Tristol tapped her shoulder and whispered something into her ear and be blushed. “Whoops, nevermind.”

	“So tell me about yourselves and where we’re going, after that we can be headed off as soon as you’d like. I’ve coin in my pocket from our grinning friend and nothing else keeping me here for the moment.” Skalliska lifted up her head to show her smile.

	“He’s not what I think of when I think of a kobold.” Nisha said, opening her mouth too much for the second time that day.

	“She, I’m female.” The very much female kobold snapped back.

	“Oh, I’m sorry.” Nisha apologized before whispering in Tristol’s ear, “How do you tell?!” Tristol held back his chuckle but ignored her question. “Later.”

	“So what –did- you expect?” Skalliska inquired, sitting up straighter in her chair as her fire lizard munched at a bug she offered it from a small pocket in her brightly colored vest.

	“Cave dwelling, baby eating, trap setting, pesky elemental?” Nisha quipped before sticking out her tongue sideways. “Joking, mostly.”

	“Not me, baby is too piking expensive in Sigil this time of year.” Skalliska fired back without a bit of hesitation and it took the tiefling a moment to realize that the kobold was actually joking. Clueless and Fyrehowl softly snickered.

	The rest of their meeting went well with only a few more random, true to form, statements from Nisha. They introduced themselves and their abilities to their guide, and in turn Skalliska told them of her specialties including her knack of finding and picking portals. In truth there was only a very fine overlap in her skills compared to Nisha, and that was in noticing and disarming traps, not something that anyone involved would lament there being two experts in the group on. But having made their introductions, the newly assembled group set out to procure last minute supplies before meeting up back at Skalliska’s office before she had them through a portal to the Ethereal a block or so away from the building and from there into the deep in search of their targeted demiplane.

****​
	True to her word, and a fine testament to her professional skill, Skalliska had her new companions hovering in the ethereal mist near to the demiplane’s border in the space of around eight hours. During their trek through the trackless sea, they managed to avoid any ether cyclones or even encounters with anything that they considered a threat. More than once they had to comment to the kobold that they were rather happy to have her aid. For her part Skalliska smiled and tipped her hat as her fire lizard gave a squeaky roar like a miniature toy red dragon perched on her shoulder.

	“And here we are as promised. One step through the curtain and we’ll be inside the demiplane, though normally you can’t tell just where you’ll appear inside. I can get us inside at more or less where you want to be though, if you prefer anyplace in particular?” The kobold smirked happily and tapped a few implements on her planar compass as she examined the shimmering border of the demiplane.

	Fyrehowl and Clueless exchanged glances with Toras, Tristol, and Florian while Nisha ignored them all in favor of making faces and noises at Skalliska’s fire lizard. “Raaaaarrrrr….”, the tiefling was oblivious to anything else, and Skalliska was completely ignoring her as she went about determining the properties of the demiplane’s border.

	“Somewhere near the gates? I don’t recall there being any other way into the keep from the outside.” Fyrehowl mused as the other pondered Skalliska’s question.

	“That works for me too, there wasn’t all that much solid ground in there, and honestly I’m not in the mood to find out what happens when you fall in there. Andros only knows how big that place actually is.” Toras suggested, his sword already drawn.

	“You’d probably hit the border and either slide with gravity around it, or appear out the other side…” Tristol said.

	“Can I have a familiar?” Nisha’s random question broke the discussion as they all turned to stare at her. She simply smiled and swished her tail slightly from side to side.

	“Yeah… we should get moving, I’m actually starting to feel a little under the weather.” Tristol said, looking first over towards Florian and then to Skalliska.

	“Same here, it’s probably starting to have an effect, so the sooner we find the antitoxin the better. You ready there Skalliska?” Florian said, trying his best to be upbeat.

	Skalliska turned back and pushed her hat back, the border was shimmering a soft blue where it had been largely colorless before. “Ready when you all are, we’ll be somewhere from a few inches to a few feet from the main gates. After you.”

	The kobold pointed to the colored patch in the demiplane border, motioning for her new companions to jump through, then she looked over towards her familiar which was breathing tiny rings of smoke at Nisha. “Best for you to stay somewhere safe till this is over with, alright?”

	The fire lizard snarled grumpily and moved towards a small pocket in Skalliska’s vest that opened up into a bottomless extra dimensional expanse. “I’ll let you out to wander around when this is over, and then you can play dragon again on some gold, alright?”

	“Can I play dragon on a pile of gold too?” Nisha asked and somewhat startled the kobold.

	“Oh, you’re still here.” Skalliska patted the pocket shut and looked a bit oddly at the tiefling. “Play dragon?”

	“Yeah, like your lizard, it sounds kinda fun actually, it’ll just take more coins for it to work with me…” Nisha chuckled happily.

	“Umm… yeah. How about we get going before this destabilizes, ok?”

	“Alright.” Nisha said as she tumbled through the demiplane boundary, grinning all the way.


	The passage through the boundary was brief and warm, like a breeze on a midsummer’s day. Once through, they all stood a few dozen feet from the gate of the mercane’s keep. Unlike when they had first ventured that way, the gate was wide open. Clueless was already in the air, his wings extended, and Tristol was already examining the area for latent dweomers while the others drew their weapons and scanned for guards.

	The entrance was dead silent and unmanned, the mercane’s apparently saw little need to man the front gate of a fortress inside an otherwise uninhabited demiplane. From their money minded perspective, it apparently made little sense to do so.

	“No teleportation spells near the entryway, we should be fine to go.” Tristol said, glancing in each direction as he whispered a spell to detect magic.

	“No guards either, let’s go on in before we’re noticed.” Fyrehowl said as she glanced to the windows high above them and their arrow slit features that promised certain death, if only they had been manned.

	Quickly and quietly the group rushed into the main entry chamber past the gate and slipped down the central hallway, ignoring the branching corridors except to glance down them for guards. They weren’t there to sneak in and gain an antidote; they were there for blood as well.

	The hallways were largely unadorned and utilitarian, though clean and free of even a speck of dust or scuffing on the flagstones. As they approached a larger intersection, Fyrehowl sniffed at the air and perked her ears before pointing to the left and the forwards. “Kitchens that way, and there’s someone sharpening a weapon straight ahead… someone snoring too, barracks maybe.”

	Florian hefted his battleaxe and charged off towards the doorway to the barracks with Fyrehowl and Toras right beside him as he kicked the door off its hinges and burst into the room to the utter horror of the six off duty guardsman. The room was spattered in blood in mere seconds and Toras’s blade was at the throat of the one sleeping guard as he woke up to find his fellows dead or unconscious around him.

	“Who are…” he said before the edge of Toras’s blade silenced his question. Florian stood over him to ask his own question. “How many guards are here? Numbers and layout of the floors. Tell us and you live.”

	“Twelve. Six of us on duty, and six off at any time…” he whimpered as he looked to the left at the bodies of two of his comrades.

	Toras furrowed his eyebrows, “Only twelve? This keep is huge. You’ve got to be kidding me. What else do they have guarding this place? What else on this floor?”

	The sharp stench of urine hit the air as the mercenary wet himself, Fyrehowl wrinkled her nose and frowned as he replied, “Some traps, but those are in the rooms that are off limits to us. And they don’t let us on the floors above this one. We’re just here pretty much to make sure the serving staff doesn’t wander and to make sure that any Nathri don’t decide to make this demiplane their next raiding target. That’s it, I don’t know anything more… please don’t kill me…”

	The guard went limp as Nisha knocked him in the back of the head with a sap. “Tie him up and leave him then? We can always dump him through a portal later.” She tossed a length of rope to Clueless and then went body to body snagging purses while chiding the mercanes on the salary they apparently paid their hired help as she counted out only silvers and coppers.

	“Hmm… makes me wonder what’s on the higher floors.” Clueless said as he bound the guard’s hands and legs.

	“Same here. I can see wizards being secretive and cloistered, but that sounds a bit extreme.” Tristol said with a shake of his head.

	A muffled cry from outside the barracks gathered the groups’ sudden attention as Skalliska poked her head in through the door. “Advice? One of the kitchen staff came to deliver lunch to the guards, and a crossbow pointed at her head is keeping her quiet for the moment…” The kobold grinned.

	The others walked out into the hallway to find Skalliska pointing a modified Cho-Ku-No up at the blanched face of a middle-aged woman dressed in a starched blue and gold uniform with the symbol of Dalmar Imshenviir promenantly displayed on her smock. She was holding a full platter of food in her arms and trembling slightly. Her eyes darted to the smirking, crossbow wielding kobold and then to Toras and finally to Fyrehowl. The sight of the lupinal seemed to both reassure and confuse her at once.

	“We’ll have our kobold lower her crossbow…” Florian said before Nisha interrupted to add, “And not cook you and eat your children, they do that sometimes if you don’t watch them.”

	“We’re not here to hurt you, so don’t scream and we’ll lower our weapons, ok?” Fyrehowl said as Skalliska lowered her crossbow, glowered at Florian, and then even more at Nisha who was snickering, quite pleased with herself.

	“Ok…” the woman said, “What do you want?”

	“Your employers tried to have us killed and we’re here to take revenge on them, and to find a cure for the poison they slipped into the food for two of us. We don’t need to do anything to you or any of the other people here on the serving staff, but take us there to the kitchens for us to explain this to them too. We don’t need anyone wandering around the halls when there’s going to be bloodshed.” Clueless said as his wings retracted.

	“Oh… ok… follow me…” she said, still shocked and a bit confused as she led them back to the kitchens where shocked silence and a few dropped pots met the group. After around ten minutes or so they had fully explained the situation and even gained sympathy from the head of the kitchen staff who introduced herself as Marlene. All of them there had apparently been paid for a stretch of time, contracted out as a group rather than individually. The same had been done with the guards as well, and, like the guards, none of the kitchen and serving staff had ever seen anything above the first floor of the keep.

	“All of you stay here and you’ll be fine. If we finish this here we’ll see to it that you’re still paid your full pay and sent on your way to wherever you like. If we don’t manage to survive, well, your employers can’t fault you for having been ‘hostages’ down here, right?” Clueless continued as Tristol and Florian talked to one of the maids about the layout of the first floor and which rooms were labeled as off limits.

	Having settled things with the staff without a drop of blood being spilt, the assembled group started back down the main hallway, headed towards one of the hallways that was apparently out of bounds for the guards and serving staff alike. As they moved down the halls, both Nisha and Skalliska kept their eyes peeled for any sign of traps, both magical and mundane, but neither saw much of anything.

	As they entered the off limits hallway, the layout and decoration was radically different from the rest of the first level of the keep, which had been clean but otherwise bland and colorless. As they stepped out into the hall, the stone floor below their feet was inlaid with several different colors of stone and woven carpets lay at even spaces down its length. Down the length of the gallery a number of statues, wall mounted carvings and mounted hunting trophies graced the periphery. Preserved and stuffed exotic animal heads from Arborea and the Beastlands were in abundance along with a snarling Gelugon head, an Ocanthan Razorwing, a Hollyphant head, and a stuffed and mounted Sympathetic.

	“Oh these guys must be sodding loaded…” Nisha said with sparkles in her eyes and her hands on her cheeks in disbelief as her inner thief did backflips of joy in her head.

	Of just a similar nature, but less chaotic in every way, Skalliska looked and mentally cataloged each and every item in the hallway, appraising their worth and estimating how easily a buyer might be found. Jink danced a victory jig in the forefront of her mind as she walked to the oversized raven with glittering red gems for eyes, the sympathetic. She registered that both of the bird’s eyes were garnets or rubies just before the eyes flashed red and she turned around.

	“Hey you guys, come take a look at these three statues over here, I think there might be a hidden door behind this one here.” Skalliska said as she put away her crossbow and walked over to the group of man sized carvings on the west wall of the hallway that leered like grinning demons flanking the doorway to another room.

	“No there isn’t…” Nisha said, stowing for the moment her running tally of the jink in the room.

	“Sure there is, come over here and look. Trust me, I know these sort of things.” Was the kobold’s reply as Toras and Florian wandered over to look closer. They walked within a few feet when the gargoyles sprang to life and attacked the charmed Skalliska’s overly curious companions. A scant few dozen seconds later and Toras and Florian stood over three piles of rubble on the scarlet carpet as Skalliska shrugged off the charm affect that had been enspelled as a proximity trap on the stuffed bird.

	“I think this one belongs to you…” Nisha said as she offered the Sympathetic to Skalliska, impaled on the end of her rapier.

	“Thanks… but where’s the two rubies it had for eyes?” The kobold replied.

	“What rubies for eyes? Dunno what you’re talking about. Haha, it must have charmed you better than you thought!” Nisha bluffed as Skalliska took the bird and snapped its neck to shower the tiefling with the downy stuffing inside with a smirk.


As they moved down the hallway, now more fully aware of the potential for traps, they entered a small room at the end of the gallery. Apparently a waiting chamber or study it was furnished with a number of comfortable tables and chairs and a small pile of books. Pausing a moment to glance their titles, Tristol turned up his nose at the volumes; all they contained were details on the trade routes across several prime worlds, very dry and specialized stuff. At the center of the room a slim spiral staircase led up while at its base there stood a statue of a slim, white marble, Erinyes holding a pitcher of water with her other hand behind her back.

Skalliska nodded to Nisha and the two of them flanked the statue as they motioned the others to stay back. Skalliska chuckled as she noted the hand behind the otherwise slim and demure stone fiend’s back held a very real and very sharp dagger.

“Florian? If you would take down the statue?” Skalliska said as Nisha opened a sack and dumped it over the top of a large silver candlestick sitting on one of the tables in the room. The candelabra began to move and wriggle violently for a few seconds before the tiefling swung the sack around her head twice before smashing the contents against the floor a dozen times till it stopped moving. Back behind her, Florian decapitated the Erinyes that twitched and jerked as its animating magic sparked and died.

Toras checked at the two doors leading out of the room as Fyrehowl stood underneath the stairwell with her ears flat against her head. The same smell she had noticed before when they had first met the mercanes was back and heavily present on the air wafting down the stairs from the keep’s second level. Mezzoloth if she wasn’t mistaken. Yet she hadn’t seen any fiends here at all, or even seen anything that hinted at their presence, except perhaps that the guards and serving staff had been forbidden to enter the higher levels of the keep. More questions, and it wasn’t fully making sense in her mind…

“Something wrong?” Clueless said as he broke the lupinal out of her thoughts.

“Oh, no, just trying to figure out what the scent on the air was. More than mercanes, but I can’t tell just what exactly just yet. So be careful.” She said back as she took a step upwards and motioned the others to follow.


	As they followed the stairs upwards the hallways grew even more posh, except for the one hallway they followed, away from the thick scent on the air and towards a smell of unwashed bodies. Fyrehowl was nervous and worried about what they would find, but the alternative was curious as they followed her towards what she was certain might be a slaves quarters or a prison. As they approached an iron-reinforced, thick wooden door she suspected the latter.

	“Go ahead and try and kick this one down Florian?” Toras jibed at the cleric and was rewarded with a scoff and “No no, this one is all yours, please.”

	“It’s unlocked, you can just open it, unless you want me to knock, I’m sure they’ll be happy to see us.” Nisha said as she rapped at the air like knocking on the door.

	The rattle of a chain from the other side of the doorway broke the discussion as the door swung open inwards to a small chamber lit by magelight and holding a corridor of prison cells. The chamber also held a small desk and large chair in front of which stood a nearly eight foot tall Minotaur holding the chain it had opened the door with and an spiked club nearly as large as Skalliska. It laughed at them and rattled the chain, taunting them with a slurred series of insults in planar common.

	Skalliska raised her crossbow and Tristol prepared a small as the gaoler lofted his club over his massively muscled frame like it weighed nothing. “Gorvash kill you quick, come and fight Gorvash weak little ones.”

	Toras raised an eyebrow, “Gorvash not speak well. Gorvash hit in head as child too many times.”

	The Minotaur smiled and replied with a swing of his club in the air that would have splattered Toras’s head with a solid blow had it been aimed at him.

	“Hey Nisha, you need some new clothes? I think we could get some good leather out of this guy if you needed a new jacket or some pants.” Clueless said with a smirk as Nisha giggled and raised a wand at the Minotaur as it lost its smile and growled.

	Clueless turned back to the gaoler again, smiling all the while before he landed another insult, “Moo.”

	The Minotaur dropped its chain and roared at the top of its lungs before charging at the party, exactly what it had been hoping they would do, rather than forcing him to do. As physically impressive as he was, any semblance of tactics was lost in his rage and he was brutally pummeled with several crossbow bolts, a series of spells, and a dozen sword and axe slashes. While its one wildly aimed blow did manage to connect solidly with Toras, the Minotaur was dead on the ground before it had the pleasure of hearing the snap of bone in the fighter’s shoulder as the long bone in his arm was dislocated from its socket.

	“Gorash actually pretty piking strong… Florian, some help please, this hurts like hell…” Toras said with both a grin and pained grimace as he dropped his sword to cradle his wounded arm. As Florian first set Toras’s arm back into place with a jarring –pop- and then began to whisper a prayer of healing, Nisha grabbed the thick ring of keys from the dead gaoler’s belt.

	“And now the lunatics are in control of the asylum! Mwahaha!” The tiefling cackled with glee as she jangled the keys and clip clopped down the hall with a bounce in her step before turning to look at the first cell and stopping cold.

	“Oh, oh s***!” she said, reaching immediately for her blade as her companions rushed over next to her.

As Skalliska raised her crossbow towards the interior of the cell, she noticed that the door was shut and barely hanging upon the hinges recessed into the stone. In fact, beyond the iron bars was only an empty cell containing a broken set of rusted shackles and leg irons attached to a ring set into the wall, as well as a fine layer of dust across the floor. For all she could see, the cell had not been used in some time. But looking around at the reactions of her companions, which ranged from shock and horror, to anger, to disbelief, they very obviously were seeing something inside that she did not. At the very least, something magical was about, perhaps similar to the enspelled sympathetic she had fallen prey to earlier, and either totally hiding something from her view, or, more likely, not affecting her in the slightest.

“Guys… snap out of it. The cell is empty. Listen to me, there’s nothing in there.” Skalliska said, looking to each of her companions in turn as they all began to fall to whatever enchantment or illusion had snagged their attention.


As Fyrehowl looked into the cell, beyond the metal bars she could smell almost before she could see, a spattered mess of blood splayed across the floor and two walls, extending up and out from the ragged, torn corpse of a lupinal laying limp on the flagstones. The silvery blue fur on her ruined body was tattered and shredded from combat or extended torture, and her throat was mangled. What immediately wrenched into Fyrehowl’s heart was not that she was a fellow lupinal, not the bloody hand and footprints of numerous fiends that despoiled and tracked across her coat, but the pale, unmoving face of her own sister that looked back up at her. 

She had been dead for some time. The smell of Tanar’ri wafted about the prison cell, permeating the air, and the lupinal’s mind leapt unbidden to the thought of her having been at the mercy of however many of the … things…. since she knew she had been abducted. Tears muddied Fyrehowl’s vision, as the loss struck hard and true and she had to face the fact that despite how hard she had tried, she wasn’t there to save her.


As Tristol approached the closed, and seemingly locked cell door, his keen senses recoiled at the scent of blood and incense, and a deep, cold crawling sensation that set the fur on the back of his ears and on his tail bristling. The cell seemed empty at first, but something was simply WRONG. He could feel it at a most basic level, like some insidious vapor on the air trickling its way into his lungs and filling him with revulsion reserved for the most debased of fiends. Then, the air shimmered.

	Standing in front of him suddenly at the very center of the cell was a thin, dusky complexioned woman dressed in jet wizard’s robes. The very light dimmed in the cell, seemingly absorbed by the folds of the sorceress’s robes, or even her dusky skin. Beneath her, her shadow twisted and curled against the floor, rising up in physical form to snake about her side like some twisted fiendish pet or familiar. She sneered and stroked a hand over the shadow creature at her side. Very easily now Tristol could make out on the woman’s robes the prominent symbol of Shar, the Mistress of Loss, Sorrow, Secrets, and Festering Hatreds.

	The woman produced from the folds of her robe a single crystal vial and held it aloft. “Something troubles you, servant of the Lady of Mysteries? Seeking this perhaps?” And with that she hurled it against the ground, shattering the vial and contents into a glittering shower of glass and spray of pale liquid. Tristol gasped in horror as what he knew to be the cure he needed was ruined upon the floor of the cell.

“Abandon your Mystra little one. You have much potential, but abase yourself to the Nightweaver and save yourself from the same death as your parents suffered in your absence.”


	“All of you, get a sodding grip, there’s nothing in the damned cell but dust.” Skalliska’s voice rose as the effect took greater effect on her fellows.


As Florian stepped closer to the cell door, which from the hallway appeared firmly locked and barred, he smelled the acrid scent of incense mixed with blood. Standing in plain sight in the center of the cell was a black shrouded priestess of Talona, Faerunian Mistress of Poisons and Disease. She chuckled as she made eye contact with Florian and the Aasimar, holding a potion bottle out in front of her. A green speckled quasit upon her shoulders cackled quietly and snapped its fangs as it regarded them. “Looking for this perhaps?” she intoned as she hurled the potion vial against the far wall where it shattered, spraying its contents across the rough finished stone.

	Florian gasped in agony as the Talontar turned back to her, “Oh how it must gall you, servant of the Foehammer. To know your death calls and Jergal’s pen begins to write your name in his book in the crystal spire. To know that you will die without glory, without passion, without heroics. That you will simply waste away and die, huddled by yourself, isolated and alone having failed in the handiwork of your god with a death as unbefitting and shameful as his creed could find.”  And as Florian began to chant one of her most powerful spells, the talontar priestess threw back her head and laughed, joined in by the tiny fiend sitting upon her shoulder.


	“Don’t make me bite your ankles! I’ll live up to the stereotype if I have to!” Skalliska grew more and more desperate to break the spell taking hold of her companions.


As Toras hurriedly approached the cell, the first thing that struck his senses was not that the door hung partially open, but rather the rank, pungent smell of slowly putrefying flesh that hung in the air. As he ignored his comanions and stepped up to open the cell door with trepidation, the slow, crawling sensation of dread from an unhallow spell scittered across his skin like a shower of insects, drifting up from the blood spattered unholy symbol of Bane placed in the center of the floor. And beyond it, slumped against the far wall, slashed, mangled and surrounded by ritual candles was the body of his former love. The bitter taste of bile rose in his throat, galled by this desecration of the one he had loved. And, almost as an afterthought, pinned to the body was a thin scroll case.


	“That’s it, I’m biting here in a few seconds damn you all…” Skalliska said with resignation as she dove for Toras’s leg .


Clueless looked into the cell, and beyond the metal bars, at first he could only see pitch darkness, but after a few seconds of staring, the darkness seemed to lift or dissipate and he began to make out details of the cell’s interior. In the shadows that still swathed the cell, he could make out two dim patches of blue glow near the floor, radiating from two figures in the center of the cell. One of them, as Clueless’s stare lingered, seemed to be standing, while the other crouched on the floor in front of it. More shadows lifted and he could tell that the standing one was humanoid, while the other appeared to be either a centaur or bariaur. 

Then in that moment a flicker of recognition passed over the bladesinger, clearing the haze of his memories and the dim light of the cell, and he recognized the figures as his two companions from Carceri, each with a glowing blue orb embedded in one ankle, just like himself. 

The half-elf stood, a glassy look of concentration upon his face as he leveled his sword to the throat of the bariaur who trembled and struggled versus unseen bonds that shackled his hoofs and arms to the ground. While he silently pleaded to his glassy eyed friend with a look of terror and confusion on his face, the elven cleric pressed the blade to his throat, drawing the slimmest of beaded red lines from the exposed skin. Glancing around quickly as the sword stopped and only the ragged panting of the bariaur broke the still, a third blue glow pierced the gloom, emanating from the far wall of the cell, hovering aloft in front of the robed form of a cowled arcanoloth that seemed to emerge from the shadows themselves like he or they were a part of each other.

The ‘loth looked up, a fiendish smirk playing across his muzzle, and a knowing look flashed in his gleaming, red tinged eyes, as he met Clueless’s gaze and the light played across his ebon fur. He clutched the hovering gem protectively, then inclined his head first left, then right, drawing the half-fey’s gaze to two other similar gems, hovering in mid air and then clutched by the taloned hands of a largely shadow obscured second and third ‘loth, before all three clutched their palms tightly around the gems, snuffing the light and plunging the room into complete darkness once again.


	All of them were jolted out of their rage, fear or agony in an instant as Skalliska triggered a scroll to dispel any latent dweomers in the area. It apparently worked as her companions looked around in confused before regaining their senses. Thankfully none of them watched as the kobold spit out a bit of leather that had formerly been attached to the cuff of Toras’s boot.

	A sudden crackle of mental static washed over them with a voice that Clueless would later recognize as the voice that had whispered to him in one of his recovered memories.

	“Fools. You should be dead, but this is apparently the result of trusting the mercanes to fully lay wardings instead of making them yourself. But regardless, since you’re still alive, please do tie up loose ends for me here. You’ll find one of them at the last cell down the hallway.”


----------



## dal673

Finally Shemeska...! A sweet, new update to the story.
I almost got withdrawal symptones...

Greetz,

DaL


----------



## shilsen

Nice update, as usual. One question - is Skalliska a PC?


----------



## Shemeska

shilsen said:
			
		

> Nice update, as usual. One question - is Skalliska a PC?




Yes, Skalliska is a PC. For the record, Nisha is an NPC, comic relief and resident Xaositect.


----------



## Fimmtiu

Just goes to show, doesn't it? The only good Simpathetic is one that's in two or more roughly equal-sized pieces...


----------



## Clueless

I remember the look on Shemmie's face as we started taunting that minotaur into charging us... So many feats, reach advantage, large and in charge... all wasted... Muahhahahahhaha.


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## Shemeska

Clueless said:
			
		

> I remember the look on Shemmie's face as we started taunting that minotaur into charging us... So many feats, reach advantage, large and in charge... all wasted... Muahhahahahhaha.




Hell it was supposed to have been a bigger challange than two of the 3 mercane brothers. Bah! 

I had my revenge eventually though.
"Wouldn't it be funny if it had like 2000hp" - Fyrehowl's player
"Haha, you jest, oh the sweet irony..." - me (because it did...)


----------



## Clueless

And on that note - I'm taking bets from readers - just *what* could have 2000 HP that we fought?


----------



## Shemeska

*A bit of art...*







A bit of art I had done to illustrate some of the campaign NPCs. My scan does not do the picture justice, and it's not as dark as it appears here. There's lots of fine detail lost in the scan, but still, here it is.

One of the better pictures of Vorkannis the Ebon. The left side of the picture is his consort, but I'll post the image of her once she enters the story in any real capacity.


----------



## Gez

I finally caught up with that story hour. Very good.  

I've a question, though.



			
				Shemeska said:
			
		

> At least, so they’d been told, and that Tanar’ri were now wandering the maze, looking for Aren’s trapped soul that they now possessed.




When did they took it? The trap gem vanished when Clueless reached for it. Also, what did they do with it? It seems they left it to gather dust in a bag of holding.


----------



## Shemeska

Gez said:
			
		

> When did they took it? The trap gem vanished when Clueless reached for it. Also, what did they do with it? It seems they left it to gather dust in a bag of holding.




The trap gem was just illusory, and the real gem w/ Aren's soul was in amongst the possessions of the Spellbreaker. They found it after they killed her, though if I omitted them finding it then I apologize and I'll need to go back and add that bit.

As for what they do with it, they havn't decided what to do yet at the current stage of the storyhour, being as how both Florian and Tristol are living on borrowed time. After that however expect the question to be answered.


----------



## Clueless

Actually I think I may have done something with it by then - to avoid us getting pounced by Tanarri on our way to revenge... but in either case, she ends up in the same place.


----------



## solomanii

Aren's player quit the game or decided to switch to the kobold?


----------



## Gez

I guess the latter.


----------



## Shemeska

Switched to the kobold. Aren's soul had been partially devoured by the time they found her again, and the character wasn't working out as well as hoped, so switched to a new character as soon as possible. And while Skalliska eventually got made into an NPC a long time down the road, for various reasons, I really liked the character.


----------



## Gerzel

Shemeska said:
			
		

> Switched to the kobold. Aren's soul had been partially devoured by the time they found her again, and the character wasn't working out as well as hoped, so switched to a new character as soon as possible. And while Skalliska eventually got made into an NPC a long time down the road, for various reasons, I really liked the character.




Wait...As I recall the character was killed outright and couldn't come back.  It wasn't that she wasn't working out so much as she was permakilled.  I might be getting some things wrong but that's how I recall it.  Having your soul partailly devourerd will do that and as I recall that was how you told me just after it happened.

The first one was a GM kill!


----------



## Clueless

I was there - you had three rounds to scoot your butt down to the antimagic shell and hide from her and you didn't... that was a GM forced to kill.


----------



## Shemeska

*The Brothers Imshenviir-azov *

The group glanced at each other as the voice faded from their minds. Something about it was unsettling, mental impressions of something indescribably foul that was there and then gone in a fleeting moment. Toras glanced down to the end of the hall and then at the other cells that lined the passage every fifteen feet.

	“So shall we start opening cells?” Nisha grinned as she held up a set of lockpicks.

	Florian nodded, “Let’s go slow though, some of them might be locked up for a reason. Just because the mercane are evil doesn’t absolutely mean they’re not possessed of some sense.”

	“Umm… you could say that…” Skalliska said as she looked into the next cell down the hall. Inside stood three silver robed Illithids, the pale light of the hallway shimmering dimly against their rubbery purple flesh. One of them approached the cell door and gestured to the lock but as its elongated fingers neared the bars and the lock a green field of energy erupted and the mind flayer withdrew its hand.

	Clueless stepped up to the cell doors next to Skalliska as the Illithid gestured to the doors again. “The field is probably suppressing their psionics if I had to guess.” Tristol said as the Illithid nodded in the affirmative.

	Fyrehowl glanced nervously at the others before looking at the Illithids. “If we release you will you leave immediately or help use?”

	“We are only here because of greed on the part of the mercane. Business gone sour… We only wish to cut our losses and depart. You wish to do them harm?” The illithid waved its tentacles as it spoke, seemingly speaking aloud only with some level of distaste.

	Nisha looked at the others as they nodded and she began to pick the lock. A minute later the tumblers clicked into place and the door swung open, dispelling the field. “My thanks.” The mental voice of the first Illithid echoed in their ears before all three of them vanished as they planeshifted out of the cell.

	The next cell contained a pair of spider-like Neogi slavers, captives of a deal gone bad, much like the Illithids, who were released only after agreeing not to attempt to leave the demiplane with any of the mercane’s former employees enslaved. After the slavers had scuttled off down the hallway the next cell contained a three foot tall, green skinned humanoid with red eyes and long black hair, dressed in a patchwork suit of armor that seemed to have been cobbled together from a mixture of various sets of chainmail and leather, none of which fit all that properly, a Nathri. After some banter with it, the cell was opened and the creature vanished in a swirl of mist as it dove back into the ethereal. But the last cell before the end of the hall held a person of note…

	“Please, I beg of you, let me out of here. I’ve been prisoner here for nearly five years, perhaps more.” The man was dressed in brown robes, balding and wearing some sort of faction symbol that he immediately hid when he saw Florian’s holy symbol. Unbeknownst to any of his saviors, it was a symbol of the Athar.

	“So, who are you?” Nisha said as she looked up at him while toyed with the lock on his cell.

	“My name is Kalidar Marthanion, and the mercane have kept me here and other similar prison cells for far too long, hoping to sell me to highest bidder. To their regret, and no small blow to my ego, they’ve not had any buyers. Free me and I will gladly help you in whatever it is you seek to do to them. I cannot claim to be much of a fighter, but I know some measure of magic and I am rather adept at healing.” Kalidar said with a bow, his eyes glittered with hope verging on begging.

	“We could definitely use another hand, magic even more actually.” Toras said, smiling at the man as Nisha worked at the lock. Surreptitiously, Florian whispered a detect evil spell and glanced at the man, seeing as how he had been put at ill ease by his presence. However the cleric of Tempus found no spark of evil in the man and so made no objection to his release.

	“Bless you all. I am certain that my superiors will see fit to reward you once I return to Sigil, the faction will be happy to see me well.” Kalidar was giddy as he stepped from the cell and embraced Nisha.

	“Eeep!” was the tiefling’s only reply as the newly freed athar hugged her before releasing her.

	“My apologies, I’m just thankful to finally be released and given the chance to seek revenge.”

	“Not a problem, but I think you’ll find that Sigil has gone through some changes…” Nisha said with some foreboding.

	“Oh?” Kalidar said, a bit of concern on his face.

	“The Faction War. Darkwood sparked a citywide conflict and most of the factols got mazed or killed. Some of the factions disintegrated, some of them disbanded, some of them left the city under threat of death by The Lady’s edict.” Skalliska said to the horrified Athar.

	“Great Unknown…” he muttered, clutching the symbol under his shirt.

	“Ah hah! Pegged as an Athar.” Nisha said, “Or at least that’s my guess. No?”

	Kalidar nodded, “Yes. Kalidar Marthanion, cleric of the Great Unknown… factor of the Athar.”

	There were some nearly audible blinks as the man mentioned his rank within the still extant but exiled faction.

	“They’re still around, just in exile at the base of the spire. Most of ‘em packed up and left after Terrance got mazed. Jaya Forlorn is the new factol if I remember right.” Skalliska added, filling the cleric in on the state of affairs for his faction.

	“When I’m done here I certainly have a trip ahead of me then. Thank you for telling me what has happened in the years of my absence, I deeply appreciate it.” Kalidar said before growing quiet, deeply in thought over the news that had been dropped on him so suddenly.


	One last door remained closed, the last cell at the end of the corridor. Nervously the group approached the cell doors and looked at the interior. A sharp scream pierced the quiet, issuing from the bloodied and obviously tortured man huddled in the rear of the cell. His robes now only rags, and bruises and cuts marring his skin, Bartol Trenevain screamed as he saw his former ‘employees’ approach.

	“No!!! Please don’t hurt me! I didn’t mean to do anything to you, it was only a job!” The genasi sorcerer pleaded, whimpering slightly as he backed away from the cell door. He seemed much thinner than the last time the group had seen him, likely from starvation.

	“Well damn, look who it is.” Clueless said, a smug tone in his voice.

	“Hmm, as I said before, you’re awful talkative for a dead man.” Toras smiled and patted a hand on his sword’s pommel.

	“So what happened? Outlived your usefulness and the mercane booted you from their employ?” Fyrehowl asked as Nisha held up her lockpicks questioningly.

	“They made me do all of those things, it was only for money and they were offering land in Sigil as well, and it was only a few days work for all of it!” Trenevain continued to plead.

	“The mercanes I assume paid you to do all this?” Clueless questioned.

	“Yes, no, I mean… Imshenviire was a middleman. I don’t know who was paying him. They were just using me as a face and him the same way now. The mercane were paying me and passing on orders, and they sent those two Nycaloths along with me to make sure I played my part well.” Trenevain said, a bit of desperation in his voice.

	“The poison. Did you have that done to us?” Tristol asked with urgency. Trenevain looked confused by the question.

	“What poison? I wasn’t paid to do anything to you, or you.” The genasi pointed to Tristol and then to Florian. “You either.” He added, pointing to Skalliska.

	“I didn’t even have anything on most of you. It was all bluff and illusion and lies. The only one of you we actually had anything solid on was the bladesinger, and that was handed to me on a silver platter along with the other scenarios and the illusions and sensory stones to go with them. And you have to admit that Aren was living on borrowed time anyways, Demogorgon’s servants would have caught up with her eventually and drug her screaming back to the Abyss. But the rest of you it was all a bluff, and you believed it!”

	“Woah, back up there… they don’t have my sister and she’s not being tortured?” Fyrehowl asked, poking the genasi in the chest.

	“No, and in fact you could have probably found that it wasn’t true all by yourself. All of you berks just believed it and didn’t question it all. I thought they’d handed me a pack of morons and…” Trenevain trailed off with a whimper as Clueless narrowed his eyes and Florian coughed while the others grew silent and stared at the man.

	“Please don’t kill me, it was only a job! I’ll give you everything they paid me! The Ubiquitious Wayfarer, I’ll sign the property over to you in the city courts!” Desperation was dripping in his voice and the genasi was on his knees.

	“Oh really?” Clueless said as behind him, Skalliska’s eyes went wide with the implications. After all, she was getting a share of all of this.

	“In the bag, we can talk later.” Clueless said bluntly and Trenevain looked confused and worried.

	“A bag of holding. We don’t want to have to worry about you making noise or slowing us down. We’ve got problems enough ourselves as it is, thanks to you…” Tristol said to the genasi, flicking his tail in annoyance behind him.

	“Get in the bag, come on.” Clueless quipped as he held the mouth of the bag open and trenevain stepped inside, vanishing into stasis as he passed the lip of the extradimensional space within.

	“Get in the bag!…” Nisha said in a deep voiced parody of Clueless then giggling. “You’d have made a great hardhead with that line you know.”

	Clueless winced at the thought.

	“Yep, spiked armor and all.” Tristol said.

	“Hardly, wouldn’t happen. Believe me.” Clueless shook his head again. “Come on, we’ve got mercane to kill.”


	And so with Kalidar in tow, the group made their way out of the prison, Bartol Trenevain safely stowed in Clueless’s bag of holding. As they walked out of the more starkly furnished area of the keep, the hallways grew more and more lavish with the trappings of a trio of mercane merchant lords.

	“Nisha, you can loot to your heart’s content after we gank these guys… you’re going to run out of space to stow stuff if you snatch every loose trinket you see…” Toras looked over, as the tiefling was busy stuffing a small statue into her knapsack.

	“I’m just warming up, hate to warn you. I’ve got two bags of holding and a portable hole on top of it. Mu-ha.” Nisha replied with a wink as the statue along with a candlestick disappeared into the sack, and then she paused and looked alert, signaling the group to halt. Likewise, Fyrehowl was glancing around nervously, sniffing at the air.

	“That smell is back and the hallway,” she pointed down a passage to their left, “that way, reeks…”

	“Which is probably good because we don’t have to go that that; the opposite way actually. But it smells like fiends you say? Can’t be good.” Clueless said with a growing feeling of unease.

	Several minutes later and they stood outside the door to the brothers’ scriptorium, the faint sounds of quill pen on parchment echoing from inside through the open doorway from which issued a wash of white arcane light. Clueless motioned towards the door and Toras and Fyrehowl burst through the door, looking into the suddenly ashen faces of two human scribes sitting at their desks copying contracts in duplicate. Rows of cubbyholes lined both sides of the room, filled with sheaves of paper and scrolls. Two large benches, dominated by stacks of books, pressing parchment and scroll paper, and ink pots with extra quills stood in a row at the center of the room between the two horrified scribes. Behind them a door to a private office sat closed.

	“No no, no screaming. Screaming would be bad.” Florian said, cradling his axe in his arms as the scribes slowly put down their pens and glanced at the people surrounding them.

	“You’re not here to pick up the contract copies for that merkhant I take it?” One of the scribes said with a nervous chuckle, running his hand over his bald head and looking at Toras.

	“No, but you two don’t have to be any part of this. Get your stuff and stay out of harm. Can I assume that one of the mercanes’ offices is through that door?” Toras said, resting his sword on the scribe’s desk.

	“Umm, yes. Yes, Fartrenz’s office. He’s in there currently, we’re just here to make copies of everything he writes up on their legitimate business.”

	“Don’t worry about your job, we’ll pay off your contract when this is over. Your bosses will be having a very bad day.” Florian smiled at the scribe who was currently edging out of the way to let them through.

	“Kick the door down? You didn’t get your chance before, so I figure now’s as good a time as any to practice your style.” Toras said over to Florian with a grin.
	“My pleasure sir.” Florian said as he sent the door flying off its hinges, hurtling into the startled face of Fartrenz Imshemviir whose seven-foot tall form crumpled to the ground from the impact.

	“Stop them!” came the mercane’s mental voice as two guardian golems sprung to life from their flanking position near to his desk. Both of them rushed at Florian who retreated back to the scriptorium where Fyrehowl and Toras stood to brace for the golems’ charge.

	A bolt of snarling electricity leapt from the office to lash at Toras and Fyrehowl from Fartrenz’s outstretched hand. “This is impossible! You were killed in the maze!” came the mercane’s mental scream as one of his golems toppled to one side, overturning a table and stack of bundled scrolls.

	“We’re harder to kill than you thought. Your mistake.” Toras said as the mercane loosed a flurry of magical, arrow shaped bolts from a wand in its hand with a mental scream of fury.

	A second volley of magic bolts flashed into being, this time hurtling from a wand in Nisha’s hand and unerringly striking at the mercane who grunted and fell backwards against the wall before it was pegged in the chest by a crossbow bolt from Skalliska.

	“I did not order you killed! It was my brother Dalmar!” The mercane’s mental voice was verging on desperation as a second stream of magic missiles struck home, this time from Tristol’s hands. Seconds later the air was split with the sound of rending metal and breaking wood as Clueless and Florian rent the second guardian golem into a jumble of broken parts.

	“Than we’ll take it up with your brother after we’re done here.” Toras’s answer was punctuated by the blade of his sword piercing the Mercane’s chest and pinning it, dead, to the wall behind it.

	“The next one is mine…” Both Tristol and Florian said at nearly the exact moment as the others began to search the office for any evidence of the antidote to the poison the mercane had used on two of them, or written hints to its location or composition; they came up empty handed, though Tristol left with the wizard’s spellbook and Nisha walked off with his wands.

	After several minutes of skulking through the mercane’s portion of the keep, and quickly silencing a pair of well-equipped guards and a hired elven sorcerer along their way, they entered a large antechamber whose entryway was inscribed three times with the symbol of Dalmar Imshenviir. Several chairs were arranged around the periphery of the chamber, all of them seeming to be of the highest quality for those awaiting an audience with the house patriarch himself. Dominating the room however was an archway of stone that rose up in its center, easily taking up ten feet of space across at its base.

	They paused to look up at the large freestanding stone archway in the center of the antechamber. Skalliska touched the surface of the stone and tilted her head in curiosity. “Well that’s a portal if I ever saw one. Not active from this side though, or locked, I’ll have to look at it later.”

	“You can look at it later when Nisha steals stuff from these guys, come on the older brother’s office in this way.” Clueless motioned the kobold away from the archway towards the small hallway leading off from the antechamber.

	“What do mean ‘later when Nisha steals stuff’? Nisha’s stealing stuff now, you’re just not seeing me do it…” The tiefling gave a ‘guilty-as-charged’ smile and twitched her scaly tail behind her. Tristol snickered as he had barely noticed her palming a silver snuffbox from one of the tables a minute earlier.

	Quietly the group continued down the small hallway from the chamber that ended at a large door of some exotic polished hardwood. The symbol of Dalmar Imshenviir was etched and glowing on the surface of the door.

	“Not warded, it’s just his symbol for vanity.” Tristol said with a smirk as he looked at the doorway’s magical dweomers. “Not half as bad as some of the mages back home. Part of the reason why I left…”

	“Alright, who wants to go first?” Clueless asked, looking from face to face.

	A chorus of “Me” erupted in whispers and ended in smirks.

	“Ok ok, fine. Whoever gets him that’s fine, we go in together and surround him on my mark.” Clueless said, ending the discussion as he abruptly stood up and swung the door inwards.

	The interior of Dalmar Imshenviir’s study was richly furnished and decorated. Two walls were dominated by shelves of books and business ledgers while another wall was covered in maps and diagrams. The room was filled with the white light or arcane magic intended to ease the eyes when reading. Under the white glow of the light that seemed to spring from the air itself, Patriarch Dalmar Imshenviir of House Imshenviir sat behind his elaborately carved desk in a high-backed chair, his back to the door and his hand extended out into the water in the open top of a water filled glass sphere, feeding a small exotic fish that lazily swum in its interior.

	At the noise of the door opening the hand jerked up in surprise and his mental voice echoed in the room as he turned in the chair to face them. “Barzikonius?…You’re early. Err… I’m happy to see you again, I trust all is well?”

	“Your meeting is cancelled.” Clueless bluntly replied to the mercane with a smirk as he raised his sword and begun casting as the others made their own moves.

	The mercane stood there for a moment, unbelieving, before triggering a stored spell and beginning to cast another of his own. A pair of golems emerged from invisibility beside his desk and moved to attack as he was enveloped in a column of flames channeled by Florian. Only slightly singed, the mercane patriarch was still casting as the roaring flames subsided.

	“Son of a…” Florian said as he ducked the punch of one of the golems while Toras swung a heavy blow at the other that scattered a fist sized chunk of stone across the floor.

	“You should be dead. Clearly others will suffer for their failure to kill you.” The mercane’s telepathic voice was calm and measured as its spells of shielding absorbed a string of magic missiles and deflected three crossbow bolts from Skalliska. That was, however, before Tristol dispelled it. Nisha meanwhile was nowhere to be seen.

	“What is it with you and golems?!” Clueless said as he savagely slashed at one of them, drawing its attention as Fyrehowl lopped off its left arm in one smooth swing of her blade. Meanwhile, Toras and Florian were enveloped in a white burst of ice from the Mercane’s outstretched hand. Florian cried out in pain though it seemed that the half-celestial was unaffected, as was the golem, which to that point they had been quickly wearing down.

	In that moment Dalmar Imshenviir laughed, and then cried out in pain as blood blossomed across his robes from a series of thrusts as Nisha darted out from under his desk to stab him. His concentration disrupted and his spells of protection already dispelled he staggered again as a crossbow bolt thudded into his right shoulder and a bolt of lightning erupted from Tristol’s hand to lance into his chest, stopping his heart as his guts boiled from the current.

	Their master dead, the remaining golem stopped, the other having been mangled by Clueless and Fyrehowl. Kalidar rushed into the room towards Florian and knelt next to the cleric of Tempus with an ironic smirk as he fingered his Athar faction symbol.

	“I think you’re fooled and deluded into worshipping your so called god. But I owe you my life, so I’ll spare you my usual speech. May the Great Unknown heal your wounds and repay even in part my debt to you.” Kalidar smiled as his hands began to glow and Florian’s wounds began to heal, the chilled and frostbitten flesh returning to normal and life returning to dead and frozen flesh.

	“That felt good. The next will feel better.” Tristol said as a crackle of lightning arced from his hand as the spell discharged its last crackle of energy. “You deserved worse you bastard. I hope you know you had it coming for you.”

	The others nodded in agreement as they began to clean themselves of rock dust and chips of stone from the golems. Nisha held up a key and grinned as she headed for the vault door that had been concealed from their original entry into Dalmar’s personal study.

	“Look but don’t take, we can always come back and look through everything in detail. Maybe he’s got some notes on where they’ll have that antidote though…” Clueless said as he started to look over the open ledger on Dalmar’s desk.

	The ledger was dotted with drops of the mercane’s blood but was fully readable and detailed current payments made to and by the trio of mercane. Of note, there were records of payment from an anonymous person for the actions the group had been blackmailed to perform. Payment to the mercane was contingent upon their entry to the maze at which point payment would be completed and the deal would be considered complete. “Other agents would take over from that point” was noted in the language of the contract.

	Other payments were included “for the disposal of Bartol Trenevain”, and seemingly connected to the same source were details on the seizure of shipments by the Planar Trade Consortium and the delivery of “shipments and foodstuffs” through a specific portal and designated delivery point in Carceri’s first layer of Othrys. Additionally there was payment information deeper in the logbook regarding certain seized boxes to be “immediately transported post haste to the Tower Arcane on the layer of Chamada in Gehenna, avoiding normal routes and intermediaries” payment was indicated as being “double standard”.

	“Hold on actually, some of this is interesting. Loot the vault Nisha, I want to read some of this…” Clueless said, looking up at his companions. Tristol was already reading the patriarch’s spellbook and the sound of Nisha’s giggling could be heard from inside the Vault.

	Reading further into the ledger, there was a loose sheet of paper pressed into the spine of the volume seemingly as almost an aside, and written in a different hand than the Mercane patriarch’s was a note regarding “transport of goods in exchange for future services rendered, to be delivered by Imshenviir as proxy to Lord of the Sixth, Malbolge. Time frame on schedule.”

	“Woah… these guys are into some pretty heavy things… you guys need to read this…” Clueless continued reading as he relayed what he learned from the mercane’s ledger.

	Finding nothing more of current interest besides normal payments for legitimate business, Clueless picked up the ledger and discovered a second, slimmer volume obscured by it. Flipping through its pages he found a list of similarly vague payments, most of them either in code or their meaning well enough known by the mercane to use shorthand names for the contracts. However many of the payment details were made regarding similar shipments to Othrys and from the Gray Waste as well as to Belarian, the 3rd layer of Elysium, “to alleviate hunger”. The payment sheet was signed by one ‘Barzikonius Ak Palin’ in Infernal, burned into the page rather than penned.

	“What the hells…?” Fyrehowl’s ears swept back in concern as she walked over to motion Clueless aside to read over the passage referring to shipments made by the mercane to Elysium. “That’s disturbing. That’s my home plane, Elysium, and that layer is barely populated except for only a single fortress of Guardinals at Rubicon. These mercane were dealing with shipping material to the lower planes, and here they have my home plane listed as well? I want to know what they were shipping and where. This can’t be good…”

	“Hmm, there’s a map here it looks like, a trade route through the layer from a portal they list. No portal key though, just ‘Belarian portal, key 5’. We’ll have to see if Skalliska can help with that, or if they have a portal log around here somewhere all the better.” Clueless replied back to the lupinal.

	“We need to go to Rubicon and let them know about this if they’re not already aware of it. After we’re done here it’s something we need to look into. I have to do this, it’s my people we’re talking about, and if there’s something ill going on in the plane of ultimate good it’s my responsibility to stop it.” The lupinal was adamant and preoccupied with the information as Clueless nodded his consent and continued shuffling through the second ledger.

	“Seems like Dalmar here was expecting a meeting with this Barzikonius chap. I’m not sure I want to be here when he shows up for that meeting.” Clueless said with some unease as his eyes flickered to the doorway, half expecting some pit fiend to come waltzing into the room.

	“Without knowing who or what he is, I’m not sure either. Anything in there on the antidote to the poison?” Tristol said as he joined Fyrehowl and Clueless.

“That’s about it though, there’s not much else here except a bunch of details on carpet sales on some prime world and the brothers’ alchemy sales in the Outlands. So maybe we find the third brother and keep him alive long enough to find out where the antidote is?” Clueless mused as he closed the volume and placed it to the side when a small scrap of paper that had been placed into the spine of the book dropped out onto the table.

	“Hello, what have we got here…” The bladesinger said as he unfolded the scrap of parchment, written in the Mercane’s hand. The few lines of script indicated that the “troops” would be receiving a visit by one “Vorkannis the Ebon, of Othrys” and that he and his consort “Shylara Akt’Atarm, the Manged” “are to be given full and unquestioned access within the demiplane”.

	“Interesting… not sure what it means, but interesting…” Clueless said, pocketing the scrap of parchment as his mind drifted back to the illusory image in the mercane’s prison block and the voice that had spoken to him there and in tattered fragments of his memories. He suppressed a shudder at his recollection of the voice.

	Tristol looked up smiling from Dalmar’s spellbook as Nisha walked out from the vault wearing a garish assortment of jewelry and wearing a nearly audible grin. “I’m liking these guys more and more, the more of their stuff I snag the better my opinion gets.”

	“Anyways, we should get going to find the last brother and get what we came here to get before he finds out that we’re here or Dalmar’s expected guest arrives.” Toras said, standing up from atop one of the broken stone golems.

	The group collected themselves and Nisha stowed her ill-gotten goods to prevent herself from sounding like the proverbial chain rattling ghost as she walked, and then made off back to Dalmar’s antechamber. As they entered the room there was a soft glow emanating from the stone archway and Skalliska’s eyes went wide. A split second later the others did the same as the portal opened onto a blasted landscape bleached of color and a single figure stepped into the room before the portal closed again.

	Standing roughly six feet tall and cloaked in gray and black robes and cloak, the fiend’s elongated head was featureless save for two oversized eyes that glowed fiercely like open vents into some forge of hell, swirling with a morass of angry colors. A nearly painful mental static washed over them as the Ultroloth, Barzikonius Ak Palin turned to regard them as fear struck in the pits of their souls under its pitiless gaze.

	Like a white-hot lance driven into their minds eye, the Ultroloth’s telepathic voice drive into their heads a single question, “Who are you?” Before the room erupted into a sudden flurry of activity.

	Springing into being from the scroll tucked into Clueless’s belt, the floating illusory image of The Cheshire Fiend emerged as three separate gates, like flaming red rips in the fabric of the planes, burst into existence surround the Ultroloth and three massive, hulking Nycaloth’s emerged, belched forth from whichever hell they led to.

	The mental razor that was the Ultroloth’s telepathy gave voice only to “What…” before the Cheshire fiend screamed out, its toothy profile suddenly and truly fiendish looking, “KILL HIM! KILL HIM NOW!!!”

	The Nycaloths needed little urging as they systematically began to butcher the Ultroloth, hacking its body to malformed bloody chunks in the space of seconds. The group simply stood there in shock as they witnessed the intentional assassination of an Ultroloth.

	“Good. It is done. You are dismissed, I have duties to perform here before I return.” The Cheshire Fiend said with contentment to its servants before it turned back to its pawns.

	“Perhaps an explanation would be in order? My sincere apologies for using you all, but it would not have boded well had I told you that I wished you to travel here in order to gain a point of reference to gate in Barzikonius’s killers. You might have said no, and that wouldn’t have seen to what I needed to do.” The fiendish grin said and seemed to shrug, as best it could using the tiny illusory lines that made up the upper portion of its avatar.

	“You used us…” Fyrehowl said, snarling slightly.

	“Unintended mutual benefit I prefer to say. You’ve had your revenge on two of the three brothers Imshenviir, and I’ll happily tell you where the third was is since he’s the one with the antidote to what ails you…” The grin answered back.

	“Then tell us.” Florian said, looking askance at the fiend while behind it under the portal arch the remains of the Ultroloth spontaneously erupted into purple flames that consumed the body quickly and utterly.

	“Poor old Barzikonius, I almost feel sorry for him. But that would be unbefitting of me to feel. Oh well, he was in the way of progress. But please, if you’ll follow me before you go about assassinations of your own?” The image began to float out of the room and the group unquestioningly followed it.

	The Cheshire Fiend floated confidently through the opulent hallways of the upper level of the keep and down the corridors that Fyrehowl had originally been wary of. The lupinal sniffed at the air and gave her companions a worried glance. The fiend slowed and looked back at her.

	“No need to worry. Their master is dead and they owe fealty to a new one. Things change. Bit by bit, but they change, sometimes faster than others, and the largest changes are usually the ones you never see coming…” The illusion flashed its perpetual grin even wider as it approached a closed door at the end of the hallway.

	“Please do open the door to me, and it would be best if I went first…” The fiend asked politely and Toras opened the door outwards to look into a barracks and nearly two dozen Yugoloths within. Fyrehowl’s fur bristled as she looked into the faces of over twenty Mezzoloths, half a dozen blind, snarling Canoloths, and a bloated, mantis-headed Dergholoth.

	The Dergholoth sergeant chattered a high pitched command in infernal but was interrupted by the Cheshire Fiend as it floated into the center of the room and spoke to them in the same language.

	“Barzikonius is dead. I, the representative of the tower, bid you welcome to our allegiance. Proceed back to the Waste as if nothing had happened here, further details will be given to you once arrived. Wheels Within Wheels.”

	The Dergholoth nodded slowly and then quickly spun its head backwards 180 degrees to chatter out a string of commands to those under its commands. With frightening quickness and coordination the fiends had their weapons in hand and marched in a doublewide column through a shimmering ethereal curtain in the north end of the chamber marked with the symbol of the Gray Waste.

	“We will speak again at some point, of that I am certain. If you haven’t done so already, I suggest you look into my dear departed Barzikonius’s dealings with these mercane. Especially you, my dear lupinal friend, you will find the details therein disturbing no doubt, I have information for you regarding that, but for the moment I have other matters to attend to. We shall speak later, but for now, Kalteris Imshenviir is most likely within his alchemical laboratory just past a hidden door off the interior garden on the first level of the keep. As like all of his brothers, he keeps pet golems, his are clay. Wallow in his blood for me if you would.” The Cheshire Fiend said the last statement with utter innocence and a golden halo of light shimmered over its image for an ironic split second before it vanished into thin air.

	“I… no we’ll deal with that later. Let’s go find the last mercane and be done with this place…” Fyrehowl twitched her nose in irritation at the reek of fiends that permeated the room even though all of them had since departed. Despite gaining revenge by way of its information, part of her rebelled at the idea of dealing with one of them, but that thought was pushed into the back of her mind as the worry regarding the mercane dealings on her own home plane rushed to the forefront of her consciousness.

****​
	Situated against the backdrop of the Hill of Bones, Anthraxus the Wasted, the deposed Oinoloth and former master of Khin-Oin the Wasting Tower looked across the blasted layer of Pluton and brooded over the army of fiends that he was amassing minute by minute and the end to which he would put them.

	“My master…” The voice of one of his attendant Ultroloths brought the Yugoloth lord out of his introspection and he turned to face the other who had spoken.

	“Yes?” Anthraxus’s voice rippled across the air like a carpet of maggots chewing their way through flesh. An outside observer might have sworn they actually witnessed an Ultroloth flinch, but it quickly overcame any awe or fear to answer its liege with haste.

	“I return along with our other envoys sent to Shacklers Hill. The Shackler would not speak to us. We were turned away and half of my troops dropped dead from no apparent effect and it was made apparent that He would not give us counsel…”

	The former Oinoloth snarled his displeasure and gazed up at the Hill of Bone, turning away from the Ultroloth as his mind ran over the potential meaning of it all. Since his departure from the Siege Malicious the Baernaloths had only rarely given to him their guiding wisdom, but never had they turned him away outright from their presence. But there was still time left before his forces would be fully gathered and they marched upon the Wasting Tower, perhaps the Baernaloths simply wished to watch their children butcher each other for the learning of some trivial, or perhaps not so trivial, lesson. They had certainly done worse in the name of strengthening their chosen, and with that thought, that remembrance of things seen, for a solitary moment Anthraxus shuddered in terror.

	“You have failed me…” The Wasted whispered as he turned around and opened his hand, snuffing his servant’s life like a match.

****​
	In the city of Center, Shylara the Manged smoothed out her robes as she rose from her chair at the side of the Ultroloth Palinarus. The sandy brown furred Arcanaloth was dressed in robes of cobalt blue and deep purple, gold and even a few silver rings piercing her ears and other places a dozen or more times. Her eyes glowed with an emerald green fire as she reached up to incessantly scratch and itch at one of her ears as she flicked its tip in annoyance. Despite the layers upon layers of illusion swathing her body and the shapechange spells atop them, her condition was slowly rising to aggravate her that day and at some point soon she would feel the need the alleviate the annoyance. Some poor berk would needlessly suffer, and she’d enjoy it all the while. Not that she needed an excuse to do such…

Quickly walking across the floor of the Palace formerly belonging to Dandy Will she hurried to fetch a new petitioner upon which to write a contract with the next mortal wizard seeking his audience to gain wealth and power in exchange for their magical support during the coming war. The fools were actually signing the contracts. Sure enough they offered much and did not require the mortal’s soul in exchange for arcane knowledge after the conclusion of the conflict, but by the end of it all, if things turned out as The Ebon wished, they would not be capable of reaping any benefit from their dealings. Chattel, all of them.

	Returning to the Ultroloth’s side she placed the steel rack heavily upon the table as the petitioner, originally dwarven by the look of it, twitched and moaned before she reached into its mouth and ripped out its tongue by the root.

	“Umm… oh my…was that really necessary?” A middle-aged human sorceress sitting across the table from the two Yugoloths looked sick as Shylara flicked the appendage across the room and looked up, smiling, into the mortal’s face.

	“That one was too noisy, I dealt with it. If it twitches too much I’ll extract his spinal column through his eye sockets, but it doesn’t seem that will be needed. My apologies if I’ve made you ill, perhaps I might add something to the contract to make you feel better?” The Manged looked up to Palinarus who nodded as she burned several more lines and terms into the flesh of the petitioner. Greed won out over morality, as it usually did if they bothered to descend into the Waste in the first place, and the contract was signed by the end of the hour.

	Palinarus looked out over the city, watching the mercenaries flock to serve under the banner of Anthraxus while his foe, Mydianchlarus, bottled himself up in the Wasting Tower like a coward. And as the Ultroloth brooded over an uncertain future, The Manged looked at the severed tongue she had picked up off the floor and wondered if it would make such a funny sounding ‘pop’ when she was able to do the same to the woman who had voiced umbrage at the act. Chattel, all of them, Palinarus not the least of them…


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## dal673

Very cool!
Like 'Wheels within Wheels'.....


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## shilsen

dal673 said:
			
		

> Very cool!
> Like 'Wheels within Wheels'.....



 More like mysteries within riddles within enigmas, I think


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## Gez

Or plots within schemes within conspiracies...


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## Dakkareth

Great update!

There's nothing as inspiring like Planescape and then so masterfully written ...


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## solomanii

Shem,
I always thought you couldn't put anything living in a Bag of Holding (or you could but it would die)?  Have I missed something or is this a holdover from older editions.  I can say that I have not read the entry for the BoH in 3.5 and I dont have the manual handy.


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## Gez

My DMG 3.0 says the same thing as the SRD 3.5:

If living creatures are placed within the bag, they can survive for up to 10 minutes, after which time they suffocate.​
I supposed Shemeska changed that, because of this quote:


			
				Shemeska said:
			
		

> “Get in the bag, come on.” Clueless quipped as he held the mouth of the bag open and trenevain stepped inside, vanishing into stasis as he passed the lip of the extradimensional space within.




The _bag of holding_ description doesn't say anything about stasis effect (contrarily to, say, _gloves of storing_).


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## Clueless

Gez said:
			
		

> My DMG 3.0 says the same thing as the SRD 3.5:
> The _bag of holding_ description doesn't say anything about stasis effect (contrarily to, say, _gloves of storing_).




If i recall (and it was a long time ago so bear with me) at the time everyone just sort of nodded and said "Ok - that makes sense." No one actually bothered to look it up - we all agreed that we could do it, the NPCs could do it - that was the way it worked....

Then we looked it up about 5 or six Get-in-the-bag's later ... and. Opps? And since we'd gone this far as it was with that? *shrug* We let it stand.

Let's me see if I can quickly run through a few of the other standing house rules/oddities:

1) The bag of holding thing as noted above.
2) The sending stones we picked up - don't operate the way normal ones do (b/c the normal ones from FR *blow* compared to the cost of the item) - the versions we have - think of them like com-units or walkie talkies, with the capability to send images as well as verbal.
3) 3.0 Haste rules (but thats to be expected)
4) Class rules - We're talking a good number of homebrew classes that were appropriate to the character's bios and the direction the character went in. Plus some merging and tweaking of classes that had multiple versions out there.
5) Fast and loose with some of the potent magics of the bad guys. You'll know what I mean when you see it.
6) The stuff Clueless got that made/summoned a Slaadi in the inn - now *that's* a funky houserule. Um. Heh. Not answering that one till it gets revealed what it *is*. I'll take guesses, i'm curious to see what the readers are speculating about. 

In fact - any speculations at all guys? I know you like this - I wanna hear where you think it's going. (Plus it rubs Shemmie's ego so delightfully he may post more, faster.)


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## Gez

Clueless said:
			
		

> 6) The stuff Clueless got that made/summoned a Slaadi in the inn - now *that's* a funky houserule. Um. Heh. Not answering that one till it gets revealed what it *is*. I'll take guesses, i'm curious to see what the readers are speculating about.




If it were IMC, from the description there is for now, it would be a globe filled with a strangely liquid form of raw leï.

(IMC: In the Ethereal layers of all plane flows what is known as the Ether, or the Leï (also spelled Ley). This is, a bit like the Force in Star Wars, the energy that makes up the whole universe. The Leï has for known phases, and maybe more: green (also known as positive energy), red (negative energy), golden (magical energy, used to weave, shape and power spells) and blue (force, the only known phase in which it is tangible). This leads to some interesting side-effect in house rules, like the capacity to heal or harm by transmuting leï from one phase to another, why wizards and sorcerers have low HD (burn much of the own life force to transmute it into spell energy), and the fact that if you're on an ethereal plane, you can see each thing's leï pattern and thus get a look at their health status and magical power -- someone who is crackling with green and golden lightnings all over his body shape, you don't want to mess with him!)


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## Clueless

*grin* I think you will find this very interesting then....
And that's a really neat idea - have you thought of writing it up for Planewalker?


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## Gez

No, I haven't. I don't know if they would be interested, by the way -- my homebrew's cosmology is very different from Planescape.


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## Clueless

In the idea at least they might - I mean it's neat, it has planar ties - sounds cool to *me* at least.


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## Ohtar Turinson

Clueless said:
			
		

> In fact - any speculations at all guys? I know you like this - I wanna hear where you think it's going. (Plus it rubs Shemmie's ego so delightfully he may post more, faster.)




You want specing? I'll give you spec-ing, especially if you think it'll hurry up the next installment.

First of, I was pondering the identity of the Cheshire Fiend- my first thought was A'kin, but that's no good. Shemeska's involved in the Wheels within Wheels so A'kin probably isn't, and besides, A'kin is too obvious. It could be any of the Arcanaloth, but my best guess is Vorkannis, who seems to be running the Arcanaloth Plot.

This in turn leads to the identity of Vorkannis- who just walked out of the waste one day, full grown, and rose swiftly through the ranks. Who speaks the language of the Baern. Who's pulling a lot of strings.
This has all the hallmarks of a Baernaloth. Sadistic, manipulative, brilliant, knowledgable... and able to bypass even the most potent defenses.

The next question is why Vorkannis appears to be rubbing off the Ultroloths. There's a reason beyond pure malice- though what I can't imagine. I need more peices of the puzzle for that to come clear- it's like trying to see the design in a mosiac where the tiles are a mile wide. And I don't have a helicopter or an airplane.

Another question is why all the meddling in the factions from whoever it was that originally blackmailed the party. (another thing I can't figure out. Clearly the Mercanes have dealings with the 'loths, but which group had them do the blackmailing? I'm guessing, based loosly on Clueless's memories, that its Wheels within Wheels- they're the ones who screwed him over I'm thinking) Why bother with the Incantarium or with the Factol of a split Faction? The Incantarium isn't too hard to guess- something to do with whatever it was that Shekelor found in Pandemonium. Based on something I recall Shemmy saying over on the WotC boards a long time ago, I'm going to guess its centered around the legendary Harmonica... but what about Nilesia? I'm not sure how to fit her in...

That's my attempt at spec-ing for now.



That was kinda incoherant. Maybe I should go to sleep before I pass out and then short out the keyboard with drool.


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## Shemeska

Gez said:
			
		

> No, I haven't. I don't know if they would be interested, by the way -- my homebrew's cosmology is very different from Planescape.




It sounds like a cool idea and a different cosmology has never prevented me from getting ideas bubbling up in my head from them.


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## Shemeska

*It's 3:30am, I can't sleep, and I'm writing this week's update currently*



			
				Ohtar Turinson said:
			
		

> You want specing? I'll give you spec-ing, especially if you think it'll hurry up the next installment.
> 
> First of, I was pondering the identity of the Cheshire Fiend- my first thought was A'kin, but that's no good. Shemeska's involved in the Wheels within Wheels so A'kin probably isn't, and besides, A'kin is too obvious. It could be any of the Arcanaloth, but my best guess is Vorkannis, who seems to be running the Arcanaloth Plot.




Two years later they're still popping up like a bad penny, and their identity is still unresolved. Their allegiences are made fairly apparent about 2-3 plot arcs from the current point in the story hour.



> This in turn leads to the identity of Vorkannis- who just walked out of the waste one day, full grown, and rose swiftly through the ranks. Who speaks the language of the Baern. Who's pulling a lot of strings.
> This has all the hallmarks of a Baernaloth. Sadistic, manipulative, brilliant, knowledgable... and able to bypass even the most potent defenses.




Another question that's still hanging like a sword of damocles in the campaign. It gets disturbingly murky and leads to some unlikely places, people and planes. His motivations and relationship to certain persons make themselves apparent gradually, but that's where I have the flow chart 

I certainly can't fault your logic on this one, but I won't say if you're correct or not yet. Keep the points in mind as you learn more and more, lots more, characters get introduced that have a roll in this all.



> The next question is why Vorkannis appears to be rubbing off the Ultroloths. There's a reason beyond pure malice- though what I can't imagine. I need more peices of the puzzle for that to come clear- it's like trying to see the design in a mosiac where the tiles are a mile wide. And I don't have a helicopter or an airplane.




Aint that that truth, and there's still an entire half of the metaplot that hasn't been introduced yet, not a drop of it. All in good time.

But as to why he's appearing to be rubbing off the Ultroloths, it's a bit more, and less than that. At once what he's attempting to do is much broader and much more select than bumping off a few well placed Ultroloths. The answer to this particular question is coming sooner than later, after the conclusion of the next plot arc.



> Another question is why all the meddling in the factions from whoever it was that originally blackmailed the party. (another thing I can't figure out. Clearly the Mercanes have dealings with the 'loths, but which group had them do the blackmailing? I'm guessing, based loosly on Clueless's memories, that its Wheels within Wheels- they're the ones who screwed him over I'm thinking) Why bother with the Incantarium or with the Factol of a split Faction? The Incantarium isn't too hard to guess- something to do with whatever it was that Shekelor found in Pandemonium. Based on something I recall Shemmy saying over on the WotC boards a long time ago, I'm going to guess its centered around the legendary Harmonica... but what about Nilesia? I'm not sure how to fit her in...




You'll find Clueless's memories flooding back within the next plot arc or so, I've already gotten them written up actually. I will say that the Imshenviir mercane are only middlemen, competant but ultimately disposable ones at that.

The faction meddling and maze diving, and the purpose behind them will become apparent in part soon, and in part over the long haul because a portion of it I didn't revist for over a year and a half real time. And some of it got a 'Holy S***!?!' from my players. One of those times I simply get to sit back and smile for having pulled a Rat Bastard DM moment.

And yes, the Harmonica will be making an appearance down the road, both as a backdrop to a plot arc in Pandemonium, and to a lesser extent as a freestanding question that's still lingering in the campaign currently. And keep in mind that there are such things as tangent plots that may never get fully revisited in the campaign, being only there for backplot and atmosphere. But if that occurs, or rather, when it occurs, I'll give some explanations about what was actually going on since it might not be central to the core metaplot.

*grins with glee* Thanks for the speculation. *GRIN*


----------



## Clueless

Told ya it'd work. (At least to get him talking more.)

Shemmie seems to post more often when there's ego stroking involved. No ego stroking? Then it's bloody near impossible to get a 'peep' out of him ...


----------



## Gerzel

Clueless said:
			
		

> Told ya it'd work. (At least to get him talking more.)
> 
> Shemmie seems to post more often when there's ego stroking involved. No ego stroking? Then it's bloody near impossible to get a 'peep' out of him ...




_"HIM" ???_ Oh well it figures.  The dresses Shemmie wears are for pretty people as well so I suppose it fits.

Now if we could just figure out how to keep the doggy off the furniture...


----------



## Gez

Cross-dressing Arcanaloth, remember? 

Not that it matters much with fiendish biology, anyway...


----------



## Shemeska

*Stormclouds gather on the Waste while a coterie of familiar faces return to Sigil*

Toras glanced into a small, interior garden nested within the confines of the mercanes’ castle. The high walls of the keep rose up on all sides while a small pool occupied the center of the garden, its surface mostly covered by lotus blossoms and more exotic red stalked water lilies. From behind the half-celestial, Skalliska glanced oddly at the plants.

	“In case anyone cares to take a minute and sniff the flowers, don’t, the lilies are poisonous. Expensive and they’ll fetch a nice price from some herbalists I know, but nasty things…” The kobold said to the others.

	“An ever better price on the Night Market!” Nisha quipped from behind the kobold.

	“In any event you two go in and find that concealed door, we’ll cover you.” Clueless said, casting a nervous glance behind himself to the empty corridor.

	A moment later, and a few whispered threats by the tiefling to the kobold regarding ‘finding out if she could swim’ and ‘wondering if they had sharks in the pool’ later, the two rogues had opened a hidden panel concealed cleverly behind a piece of finished stone. Yet another giggled taunt to the kobold by the tiefer later and a door stood open to a short stairwell leading up to the mercane’s alchemy laboratory.

	“Wait… something’s wro…” Tristol said, the moment before a fireball detonated in the center of the group, leaving only Nisha and Skalliska unharmed by virtue of their near simultaneous leaps into the center of the pool. As the companions blinked and winced at the burns and smell of scorched flesh and fur, they watched as the air in the corridor shimmered and three forms stepped into view, two clay golems in the shape of gargoyles and the third mercane brother.

	“Son of a b**** was waiting for us out there the whole time!” Florian cursed before raising his axe to deflect a blow from one of the charging golems.

	As the golems attacked, the mercane stood safetly away from the heat of combat, hurling spells to slow and hamper his opponents, nothing so offensive as his fireball from before. At least, he did so until he had a flurry of magic missiles and crossbow bolts fire in his direction from Nisha and the kobold.

	“Some help Tristol, please, these damn golems aren’t taking the damage they should be. And I don’t happen to have a collection of clubs to use instead of a sword.” Toras shouted out as he blocked a punch by one of the clay golems before smacking it to marginal effect with the flat of his blade.

	“Working on it…” Tristol said as he watched his companions being outclassed by the constructs due to their personal choice of weapons; all blades. Already Florian and Toras were bruised and bleeding from heavy blows, despite their armor, and Clueless, by virtue of his quickness, was the only one to not be hit yet. However, despite that, the bladesinger hadn’t done any damage to the golems, his sword cuts simply cutting deep and leaving no lasting impression in their bodies.

	“Ack!” Nisha said as she dived out of the way to avoid a lightning bolt sent in her direction courtesy of the mercane who managed to cast the spell despite one of Skalliska’s bolts buried to the fletches in his side.

	But as the battle continued Tristol cast a spell and one of the golems seemed to gain a sudden consistency, and suddenly the hail of blows landing on its previously resistant surface began to chop and gouge chunks of semi-soft stone from its body. While the effect was brief, the golem was hacked to unmoving chunks before its body returned to its normal clay.

	Florian backed away from the immediate battle as Tristol prepared to cast again, this time at the other golem, and the cleric began to cast a spell of his own, at the mercane. As the aasimar’s spell took effect and their companions began doing the damage they would have done already were it normally susceptible to their blows, Florian whispered a prayer to hold and constrain the mercane wizard.

	“And you think that my brothers would allow you to simply walk into my laboratory and take an antidote that doesn’t exist? They will be here in moments and you will yearn to…” The mercane’s words were silenced as he went still and rigid, held locked in place by the force of Florian’s spell.

	Nisha and Skalliska sloshed out of the pool as the others walked to the mercane, stepping over the broken remnants of the clay golem as it returned to its previous consistency. Toras knelt next to the prone form of the blue skinned wizard, his sword held under its chin; Florian took a spot next to him, his axe held out for instant use.

	“Your brothers are already dead and you can join them quickly or we can make it last far longer than it needs to. Tell us the name of the antidote and where to find it and you can spare yourself a great deal of suffering.” Clueless said in a flat voice that seemed devoid of sympathy.

	“Which is a far better fate than you would have dealt to myself and Tristol here… Tempus knows you deserve far worse, but we’re offering you a way out quickly, just tell us what we need to know when this spell wears off, oh in about a dozen seconds or so.” Florian said as he lowered his axe slightly.

	Fyrehowl sighed with resignation at the likelihood of impending torture as the mercane remained silent for several minutes before finally realizing that his brothers, by not returning his mental calls for help, were very much dead indeed. Realizing this, the mercane whispered “Gallows Adder, in the locked cabinet in the lab” before Florian’s axe came crashing down, severing his head from his shoulders quickly and efficiently.

	“Alright, we know what we need to know, let’s go find it now and have this over with finally.” Tristol said as he took the first step up the stairwell to the mercane’s lab with the others in tow.


	The interior of the alchemy lab was sprawling, with gigantic brass vessels and lines of copper pipes lining the walls. Shelves of herbs, chemicals, and once living specimens of exotic and rare animals lines the walls above and between the cauldrons. Tristol was seemingly lost, scouring the shelves out of both raw intellectual curiosity and a fervent desire, and need, to find the cure that the mercane had possessed. After all, no fool would create and use a poison if they had no antidote in case of accidental exposure.

	“Oh wow, this place is so neat!” Nisha said with glee as she watched, mesmerized, a self-stirring mortar and pestle as it rotated around, grinding away at nothing in particular.

	“Nisha? Can you come over and… nevermind.” Tristol said as Florian broke the door off of the locked cabinet he had been trying to open.

	Inside the cabinet were a series of bottles, each embossed with a glowing symbol representing a single alchemical poison. The central and smallest bottle was marked with the name of the poison that had affected them, ‘Gallows Adder’.

	His hands shaking, Tristol opened the vial and drank a third of its contents before dripping a similar amount down his familiar’s throat as it stuck its vulpine snout out of the familiar pocket it had been hiding within before handing it to Florian who did the same. The effect was near instantaneous as they shuddered and dropped to the ground. The two of them regained consciousness and looked up into the concerned faces of Fyrehowl and Nisha.

	“Good? Bad? Harmonium? What happened?” The tiefling asked, her tail nearly curled into the shape of a question mark behind her.

	Florian blinked and Tristol squinted for a moment before they both smiled. “Aside from a bit of a sour taste in my mouth, I’m feeling remarkably better. I’m still never eating in the Fortune’s Wheel again, but I’m doing good.” The mage smiled and had it returned peachily by the tiefling.

	“I’ll be buying drinks on the house for us all in our soon to be owned inn back in Sigil. Foehammer be praised, I’m feeling ten times better.” Florian grinned.

	“And judging by the contents of the mercanes’ vault and the stock of this lab, you’ll be buying a round of Heartsblood wine and not even feeling a dent in your funds.” Fyrehowl smiled as she looked at the rare stock of alchemical reagents and herbs that decorated the shelves.

	“And on that note, I get to go loot to my hearts content!” Nisha said, skipping from the room like an exuberant child given far too much sugar. The others could only chuckle and follow.


	The next six hours were spent fully exploring the rest of the mercane’s keep, taking an exhaustive inventory of the contents of each of the rooms, locating and disarming any remaining traps both magical and mundane, and discovering some interesting things in the process.

	“And just what in Baator is this thing?” Florian asked as Tristol and Skalliska circled a large device situated within one of the rooms that was located off of a side passage from Dalmar Imshenviir’s study. Looking like a series of concentric metal rings that rotated around a central pedestal, each of them embossed with symbols corresponding to certain planes. Opposite the device was a circular ring upon the wall.

	“Well as best I can guess this relates to what you said earlier, Clueless, about a portal key 5. There’s a spot here to place something in the center of this thing, and probably that along with turning the device to a specific alignment of symbols might open up a portal…” Tristol mused.

	“That’s exactly what it is. I’ve heard that the mercane were trying to make something like this, only problem being that the portals they make are one way and that they appear randomly on the target plane. Not really that useful unless you have some stiff magic of your own to get around once you get there.” Skalliska added.

	“So we’ve got a ‘dial-a-portal’ now? That’s awesome!” Florian said.

	“Not quite… we don’t know the proper alignments to make it activate, and we don’t know the portal keys for them all. Somehow I doubt the mercane actually kept a log of them all, and from all the clutter of stuff around here I doubt we’d know if anything were a spell component, alchemy component, knickknack, or portal key. It’s going to take some time and serious effort to figure it out.” Tristol answered.

	“Still… from this is looks like they had access to the four cardinal elemental planes, lightning quasielemental plane, Baator, Gehenna, the Waste, Arborea, and the Outlands. Nice…” Skalliska said as she fiddled with some of the dials on the device.

	“Hmm. Well we’ve got time now that we don’t have to worry about any of us dropping dead from poison. Might be worth our while to come back and mess with this at some point.” Clueless said.

	“Let’s find out what else they’ve got. There was a locked supply room down the hall I’m itching to break into!” Nisha said, barely constraining her urge to bolt and check it out.


	Shortly thereafter the group stood in a dusty series of chambers that were mostly filled wall to wall with large objects underneath dusty canvas tarps, seemingly packed away for long term storage. While Nisha was standing beneath one of the loose tarps, waving her arms around and making, “Booooooo….” noises like the proverbial ghost in a white sheet, Toras looked quizzically at a large metal object that rested underneath.

	“What is that?” He asked, glancing back at the others.

	“You know, if I had to say something it sorta looks like a hacked up part of a ship’s keel.” Florian said.

	“No, not hacked up. More just taken apart and stowed.” Fyrehowl added.

	“Booooo…..”, Nisha said, obviously having too much fun playing specter.

	“Actually, it kind of reminds me of a flying ship from my homeland back in Halruaa…” Tristol said.

	“… we have a spelljammer…” Skalliska said, letting the meaning of the statement sink in.

	“Boooo… huh… we what?!” The ‘ghost’ under the tarp paused and stopped before laughing and jumping up and down.

	Skalliska spent the next few minutes explaining to her fellows just what a Spelljammer was, what the mercane used them for, and how the ship was lacking a spelljamming helm and thus any ability to actually fly.

	“Actually… I’ve got an idea for it. But we’ll handle that later once we’ve had Bartol’in’the’bag sign over his inn to us when we get back to Sigil.” Clueless said with a grin that screamed out ‘trust me on this one’.


	The next room of interest that they discovered was just down the hallway from the chamber in which they had originally met the mercane brothers before being sent to the deep ethereal. In fact they all stopped dead in their tracks once they saw the door since it was emblazoned in an ornate symbol of the Mercykillers.

	“Well damn. They went out of their way to make the barmy feel at home didn’t they?” Clueless said.

	Nisha looked at Clueless and held up a lockpick curiously. “Go right ahead, we’re just as rabidly curious as you are.” Fyrehowl said as the tiefling started to pop the lock.

	“…Well crap. Forget what I said before…” Clueless said as they opened the door to the room and looked into its interior. The room had no exits and was empty except for a single chair. A small amount of blood was spattered on the floor near to the chair and Fyrehowl wrinkled her nose.

	“Fiend stench…” the lupinal said, turning away in distaste.

	“So much for a friendly debriefing for the nutcase…” Toras said as he glanced at the small bloodstain on the floor. “Definitely not fiend or mercane blood.”

	“Weird, I wonder what they did with her.” Florian said as they left the room and finished their search of the castle.

	The last tasks they performed within the keep was finding the kitchen and serving staff, as well as the two scribes, from where they had been hiding and letting them know that the castle had new owners. In fact they even offered to continue paying them their normal wages even in the absence of the mercane. That they had the mercane’s more than substantial finances, courtesy of “Dalmar Imshenviir’s generous donation” according to Nisha, the group could more than afford to pay the servants to continue upkeep of the castle. The lone remaining guard was released, apologized to, and sent packing with a bit of jink back to one of the gatetowns.

	The trip back to Sigil was uneventful in light of their time spent in the demiplane, and their hearts were lifted by their success, and their minds curious to tumble to the dark of what they had discovered in the mercane patriarch’s notebooks. Nisha kept asking to play with Tristol’s familiar most of the way back, and Skalliska was largely preoccupied with making a mental tally of just how much, down to the last bent copper, her share of the mercane’s vault would come to. Clueless was mostly preoccupied thinking about the illusion he had seen in the mercane prison, and of his two former companions, both of whom had appeared to have similar gemstones in one of their ankles, exactly like him. They had been with him in Carceri, and whatever had happened to them there had not been pleasant, and it likely wasn’t over either.


****​
	“And sir, if you would please sign on the bottom of pages three through twelve, in duplicate and you sir as well please.” The minor functionary in the Hall of Information’s Sigil Property Bureau drolled on and pointed a stubby, ink stained finger at the paperwork spread out on the counter in front of Clueless, Florian, and Skalliska as a haggard Bartol Trenevain slowly added his signatures to the documents that would officially cede to them his title to the former Ubiquitous Wayfarer.

	Clueless added his signature alongside Trenevain’s and the others’, and after each time, the half-fey smiled at the genasi as the aasimar clerk stamped that page of the document with a wax seal.

	Trenevain looked depressed and resigned as he signed over his ill-gotten gains to the same people he had first screwed over. Florian patted him on the back and Clueless gave him an ironic grin as the clerk stamped the final seal into place and made the transfer official.

	“And just so we’re clear on this, I really wouldn’t think about trying to take any sort of revenge for this. It’s really only fair you know, given what you did to us in the first place. And we did, after all, save your life in that mercane prison…” Florian said with a smile on his face.

	“And just to make sure here, it probably wouldn’t be a good idea to leave Sigil for the next while…” Clueless said, calmly resting his hand on his sword’s hilt.

	Trenevain stopped and looked up at the bladesinger, “And where else would I go? Whoever I was working for is going to kill me sooner or later anyways. They’re working with fiends and just that by itself makes Sigil one of the safer places I could be. I’m not going to exactly be welcomed on any of the upper planes to seek shelter there now will I?”

	“Stay in town and if we have any questions later we’ll get in touch with you. Understand?” Clueless said back with a tone of finality. Trenevain sighed and walked off.

	“Thank you for rescuing me. By the next time we speak though I may be dead, I don’t have any illusions of a long life.” The genasi sighed as he stepped out into the street of the Clerk’s Ward and vanished into the crowd.

	Fyrehowl looked over at Clueless, “Do you think that they’ll do something to him? Also, for that matter, that they’ll do anything to get back at us? After all, we’re supposed to be dead if they had had their way.”

	Clueless nodded to the lupinal, “It’s a worry to be sure…”

	“Why go out of their way though? We don’t know who they are even, so why risk letting us find out by sending someone after us?” Toras suggested.

	“True. Let’s hope so.” Clueless replied as they all walked the thirteen blocks or so between the Hall of Information and the building that tied all of them together, the bar and inn former known as the Ubiquitous Wayfairer.

	As they reached the building they all looked at one another and at the daylight appearance of the boarded up former inn. Nisha walked up to the front door and stuck her tongue out at it before kicking it with her left hoof. “At least it won’t mouth back like last time now.”

	“I think it’s going to need some work,” Florian said, looking at the graffiti that sprawled across much of the outside of the building.

	“Needs paint.” Nisha said.

	“Need’s a gimmick if we want to get customers. The place shut down for a reason you know. It used to have tons of permanent portals and when they largely vanished after the Tempest of Doors, so did most of the customers.” Skalliska stated then paused to look at Clueless, “Why are you grinning like that Clueless?”

	“We need a gimmick, right?” He said to a chorus of nods, “We have a spelljammer, yes?” There was another bunch of nods. “We have it built right into the inn, use part of it for the bar, have some rooms be rooms from the ship itself, and have the hull of it sticking out of the side of the building like it just dropped out of the sky and crashed into the place.”

	Clueless was all grins and charisma as the others paused and thought about it. They all seemed to like it and it was decided on that they would indeed have it shipped in pieces back from the demiplane and constructed into the inn itself. But, as for a name, they weren’t so sure. Various ideas were tossed about as they walked into the inn and took seats at one of the ash-covered tables. Finally however, Nisha came up with one that seemed to get a consensus, ‘The Portal Jammer’.

	The rest of the day was spent exploring the inn, evicting a number of rats from the cellar, and having Tristol wander from room to room detecting for possible portals, which there were a small number of. Aside from a stable portal back to their mercane’s demiplane there was a portal to elemental fire in the doorway leading from the bar back to the stockroom. There was also a portal to Limbo in a bedroom, a portal to some unknown layer of the Abyss in the frame of a broken window on the third floor, and several doors to other rooms that rotated through destinations at random, though the key was thankfully fixed and obscure on all of them.

	The next days were spent speaking to various persons to get the inn back into proper shape and allow it to be opened back in a functional capacity in short order. They spent a day talking to their cooks and other servants back in the demiplane and arranging for them to be hired on to operate their new inn back in Sigil. Another day was spent contracting a builder and their crew to make the needed repairs and revisions as the spelljammer was brought into Sigil bit by bit. And a final day was spent buying a steady supply of food and spirits, the absolutely essential requirement for an establishment as they wished the Portal Jammer to become.

	Those first few days they roomed in other inns across the city, but eventually moved into rooms of their own on the second floor of their own inn once it was cleaned and the rooms were worthy of living within, unlike the abandoned building it had been before, filled with dust, rats, and other vermin. Skalliska was an exception however, as she already had a place of her own, and so while she dropped by the Portal Jammer daily, she spent a large chunk of her time at her office. Nisha meanwhile was in and out seemingly at random, flitting from place to place and never seeming to be around till people actually began to wonder if she had fallen through a portal and gotten lost.


****​

	Clueless looked up at the outside of the inn and the Spelljammer that looked like it had simply dropped out of the sky and crash-landed in the side of the building. And, judging by the reactions of the people passing by on the street, the gimmick was drawing people’s attention as well. Already they had had a dozen or more of the people who worked in the area stop by and ask them what the place was, where they got the jammer from, and when they would be open.

	“It still need’s a little something…” Nisha said, walking up behind Clueless. She was carrying an armload of bright orange pumpkins. Clueless raised an eyebrow and looked at her.

	“What’s with the pumpkins? And speaking of it, where the heck have you been since we got back to Sigil?”

	“Places. You know me, all over and back again. Finding rich peo… fiends in the Hive willing to donate to a young tiefling lass with a pretty smile and quicker hands? Something like that.” She replied with a smile as she walked past him and into the as yet unopened inn.

	Tristol laughed as Nisha walked up the stairs to her room carrying the armload of pumpkins and he walked out to stand and look up at the jammer with the bladesinger. “Just how completely did you have the ship rebuilt? I know it’s lacking a spelljamming helm, but otherwise was it complete?” The wizard asked curiously.

	“Pretty much, heck I even had the ballistae and the catapults rigged back up again. Our inn is armed if we ever tire of the competition.” He laughed, joking with the last comment. Joking about the competition, not about the inn being armed.

	Tristol squinted and looked up at the Spelljammer and the roof of the inn. Clueless did the same as they watched a figure step out a window, scale part of the side of the building and hop onto the deck of the ship. All done while carrying a satchel of somethings round and heavy…

	“Did you say they had catapults up there?” Tristol asked, slightly nervous.

	“Yes. Why?” Clueless said.

	“Because Nisha’s up on the ship and I just watched her walk upstairs a few minutes ago with an armload of pumpkins…”

	“Oh s***!” Clueless said as the air was split by a loud *KACHUNK* and a brilliant orange missile was flung skyward, going around half a block before splattering across the cobblestones, barely missing a random collection of sigilians.

	Clueless’s wings came out and he hurtled up towards the roof as Tristol ran back inside, both of their heads suddenly filled with the horrible image of a pumpkin firing off from the top of their inn to crown a randomly passing by Dabus…

	A chorus of “AWWWW…!!!!” from a tiefling who had her fun spoiled was the norm for the next while as Clueless confiscated Nisha’s pumpkins and had Tristol help him to dismantle the catapults on the spelljammer that had previously been left in place. Nisha didn’t stay unhappy for long, in fact, ten minutes later she was smiling once more and giggling to herself as she sat on the cobblestones in front of the inn, gazing up at the spelljammer stuck into the side of the building.

	“No good is going to come of that you know?” clueless said, looking out the front window of the inn with Tristol, both of them wary of the next idea that popped up from the seemingly endless well of otherwise crazy ideas the Xaositect tiefling seemed to possess.

	“At least she’s a giddy, ‘I want to have fun’, Xaositect as opposed to one of the ‘Lets go burn something down and then build a wall around somebody’s house while they’re sleeping’ type of Xaositect. You have to admit that’s probably a plus.” Tristol said with amusement as he looked out at Nisha.

	“I’ve certainly had more fun in my life, or something like that, since I’ve been here in Sigil around you all. Better than being back home. And speaking of that I should probably send word to my family that I haven’t married a succubus or gotten eaten by a goristro at some point.” Tristol continued on, taking a periodic sip of one of the new ales they had purchased for the inn.


	Several hours passed and it grew close to peak as the smog in the sky seemed to glow a bit more than its already meager amount of what passed for daylight. Clueless was sitting down and eating lunch in the taproom that was slowly taking shape day by day as Fyrehowl walked in through the front door, tired but smiling.

“Where you been all day?” Clueless asked after swallowing a bite of his dinner.

“Oh, actually I’ve been at the Great Gymnasium. You mentioned it a little while back and I went to take a look myself. There’s some pretty interesting people there, and their philosophy is rather… interesting.” Fyrehowl answered, taking a seat next to him.

“Really? You buy all of that mysticism?” He asked.

“Oh don’t get me wrong, I haven’t gone out and joined them or anything, but at the very least I’ve been keeping my swordplay sharp. There’s some skilled people there and they’re more than willing to teach.” She said as she poured herself an ale of her own.

	At that point Nisha finally walked back into the inn, carrying an assorted jumble of things including more pumpkins and a cutlass. Clueless gave her a look like a mother to a naughty child caught with their hand in the cookie jar.

	“Nisha…?” Clueless said.

	“It’s not what you think. I was just out with my boyfriend and got a bunch of stuff. I already know I’m not allowed to toss pumpkins, or any other sort of fruit or vegetable, off the roof at people. Spoilsport. But this is for something else and you can’t forbid what you don’t know about before it happens.” The tiefling said as she grinned and walked upstairs to her room, clip’clopping all the way up the stairs.

	“The girl is going to be the death of us all one of these days. By mazing most likely. I’m not sure I want to know what she’s got planned. But keep an eye out for whatever mischief she gets into, alright?” Clueless said as he finished his lunch.

	“Sure thing.” Fyrehowl replied with a smile.

	Several more hours passed and Clueless went off to visit his girlfriend, leaving Fyrehowl sitting alone in the taproom, as Toras was off speaking to a member of his church’s clergy, Tristol was bottled up in his room reading over the spellbooks he had acquired recently, Skalliska was at her own office, and Florian was out doing something.

	It was at that point that Florian came walking in the front door to sit down next to the lupinal. “We have money now.” He said.

“Yeah, and?” Fyrehowl said slowly.

“Shopping. I have the urgent desire to go spend some of it without real concern for anything else. Care to come with me?” Florian asked.

Fyrehowl chuckled and gave Florian a wry grin, “Everything considered, yeah there’s a reason why you’d ask me to. I figure Nisha might have been on the list, except the powers only know where she’s been since we got back to Sigil, wandering in and out randomly, though I guess that fits her. That and she’d be liable to pilfer half the store before you looked at the first few shelves.”

“Yeah, there is that. She mentioned something about “her boyfriend” the other day though, so maybe that’s where she’s been. So, up for it?”

“Why not, I’ve been practicing at the Gymnasium most of the morning so I guess I could take some time off to have some fun.”

And so Florian and Fyrehowl, both of them with two swollen coin pouches, went from shop to shop, moving through the Clerk’s Ward to the Grand Bazaar and then to the Lower Ward, deciding to hit a few stores there before turning back to avoid wandering through the Hive. Near the end of their planned spending spree they stood outside of a small shop nestled in the heart of the Lower Ward, the low cloud cover gracing the top of the roof a pale yellow and a fine carpet of soot dusting their feet from the pyres at the heart of the Great Foundry a dozen blocks away. The name of the shop was proudly displayed on the carved wooden and hand painted sign that swung in the breeze over the shop’s doorway: * A’kin’s * The Friendly Fiend.

Fyrehowl raised an eyebrow at Florian questioningly, “You sure this shop is a good idea? You know, the whole ‘fiend’ thing and all?”

“Oh, but this is different. This is A’kin’s shop, A’kin the Friendly Fiend. And true to the name he’s just that, he’s friendly. I’d heard about the place before but I’ve never been inside to actually meet him. As far as anyone knows, he’s never once in anyone’s memory has he been mean to anyone. Supposedly he’s quite pleasant. But let’s find out.” Florian replied as he opened the door and gestured the wary lupinal inside.

The door closed behind them with the pleasant jingle of a silver bell hanging over the inside surface of the door. The shop was an exercise in controlled clutter, with tables and shelves sprawling with a wonderfully eclectic mixture of odds, ends, and assorted knickknacks from a dozen or more planes. A moment after the bell jingled and the door closed, the figure of the shopkeeper turned from where he was dusting a few items on a shelf. The friendly fiend was dressed in a wizard’s robe of speckled gold and teal and the ears framing his jackals head were decorated by a dozen or more earrings. A’kin was all smiles as opposed to a sulfur tinged buyer and seller of souls like most of his kin. 

“Greetings and welcome!” The arcanaloth smiled a wide grin over his face as he walked over to the front desk of the small shop and retrieved a small brass dish that he held out to his customers as he walked over to greet them.

“Arcadian mint?” The smiling ‘loth asked as he held out the dish. Florian picked one up and chewed it with a smile. Still wary, Fyrehowl picked one up as well and nibbled at it.

“Oh, don’t be scared, I won’t bite. Believe me, I’m not at all like people expect.” A’kin said.

Fyrehowl tentatively smiled, “You’ll excuse me from being unused to a smiling fiend. Most of my experiences have been bad ones.”

“Then I’m pleased to present you with an exception. Rest assured, it usually celestials that have the oddest expressions on their faces after meeting me for the first time. I like to think it’s because of the wonderful things I have for sale in here that they just can’t decide on what to get and they leave all confused; something like that. But please do look around and let me know if you need help with anything.” A’kin said with a wink as he walked over to a shelf lined with a series of dolls. “I think that you might like these. I just had them delivered this morning, but I think that they’re delightful, much like you two.”

“Oh? What are they?” Florian asked as he looked at the dolls before laughing.

“And they need no explanation…” A’kin said as he walked off to dust another shelf.

The dolls, all thirteen of them were representations of the old factols from before the time of the Faction War. Included was a small Factol Sarin in his Harmonium armor, a straightjacket’ed Factol Lhar whose jacket was printed with the words, “I went to the Grim Retreat and all I got was this straight jacket.” And each of the other dolls down the line detailed the other factols, including a wemic holding up a “We’re not a sodding faction” sign for the Indeps, and a collection of smaller dolls for the Anarchists who lacked a true factol.

“Oh, and they’re animated. They’ll act like their model, given the chance, but they’ll eventually return to their original condition. Sarin for instance, routinely falls over with an arrow stuck in his back, and Factol Karan keeps falling apart, changing colors, and dressing differently, all sorts of stuff. I like them.”

“Why is there a glass vase upturned over the top of Factol Darius?” Fyrehowl asked, poking the glass covering over atop the Signer factol.

“Oh, you can take it off to see, but after a while I couldn’t take her “imagining” everything in my shop into being, or so she claimed.” A’kin said with a chuckle.

Fyrehowl lifted the glass mug and looked into the calm face of the Veyl. “I imagine a lupinal into being! I also imagine a cleric into being! And I imagine an Arcanaloth!” The Factol Darius doll continued listing off things in the shop before Fyrehowl dropped the soundproof vase over top of the doll once more.

“See what I mean? But she is amusing, I’ll admit that. Some of them are a righteous parody of their namesakes. I particularly like Darkwood up there.” A’kin said from over at his countertop.

“I don’t see him up here.” Fyrehowl said.

“Oh, it’s a long story, but the big black gem there. That’s him.” A’kin said, gesturing in the air and making the little black sapphire hover for a moment where it rattled from something inside.

“How much for the entire lot of them?” Florian asked, opening his coin purse.

“Florian, are you sure?” Fyrehowl asked.

“How much for the lot of them A’kin?” Florian said, waving a hand at Fyrehowl dismissively. “I have my share of the money and they’re amusing.”

A’kin walked over and looked at them and their lack of price tags. “Well, let me tell you what… they’re unique in that there’s only one of each, but I like you both and you didn’t walk out of my shop all weirded out like some celestials do when they meet me, so how about 600gp for each of them, and I’ll even wrap and box each of them individually for you?”

Fyrehowl twitched at the price, but Florian would have none of it. “Sold. Would you like that it gold or platinum?”

“Anything but silver if you don’t mind actually. It tends to react poorly with me.” The smiling fiend said as he took down each of the dolls and slowly wrapped them up, despite the Indep doll’s protests about ‘living free or dying’, and handed the boxes one at a time to Florian.

“Pardon me for saying so, but you’re absolutely adorable in an utterly unexpected way for a fiend. Can I scratch your ears?” Florian asked.

“Well… normally I don’t humor people like that, but you just bought something so… oh alright.” A’kin said.

Fyrehowl twitched again as A’kin chuckled like he was enjoying a guilty pleasure of his own, and indulging the mortal in front of him, probably not the first person to ask him for such. But Florian laughed as she scratched the Friendly Fiend’s ears like an overgrown, spellcasting puppy in a robe; A’kin simply sighed contentedly and smiled as Fyrehowl was left with just a confused and perplexed expression as she left his shop with Florian in tow.

The next morning as Fyrehowl awoke and walked out the front door of the Jammer on her way to the Great Gymnasium she paused and looked up at the roof of the inn, noticing something different about the spelljammer stuck in its side. Pumpkins, squash, and melons were lined up on the deck of the ship, carved and decorated to resemble Githyanki pirates from wildspace…

	“Yarrrr!” came a voice from the prow of the spelljammer as one of the gith pirates wiggled slightly while an unseen pair of hands made the tinfoil sword at its side brandish menacingly.

	“Oh powers above…” Fyrehowl whispered as several more of the ‘pirates’ moved about across the deck, some of them with eye patches, some with peg legs attached, and some with hooks for hands.

	“Yarrrr! We be looking to plunder fer gold in this new land of Sigil! Yarrr! Hand over yer gold! Yarrrr!” The ‘pirate’ waved its ‘sword’ menacingly.

	“Good morning Nisha.” Fyrehowl said as she noticed a tail bobbing up from behind one of the ‘pirates’ on the deck of the ship.

	“Yarrr! I be not knowing this wench Nisha! Yarrr!” The ‘pirate’ continued, punctuated by a tiefling’s giggle.

	“Cap’n Nisha, your tail is showing.” Fyrehowl said as she laughed and walked off down the street.

	“Yarr… sodding Yarrr….” The ‘pirate’ said, hiding the offending appendage before sticking it up in the air once again, this time wrapped in a black flag with a skull and crossbones symbol proudly waving in the breeze.


****​
	Vorkannis the Ebon sat down on the edge of the river Styx, letting his feet dangle into the water, seemingly uncaring about its memory leaching touch. The fiend looked out across the bleak expanse of the Waste underneath a gray and uncaring sky. It was all uniformly bleak and featureless, though on the far off horizon there grew a billowing wake of black clouds, almost as if the plane itself was offering a harbinger of things to come, for a storm indeed was coming to the Three Glooms.

	The Ebon smiled as he opened his left hand, conjuring forth a pair of gleaming, blood red rubies the size of his own similarly colored eyes and without a flaw to mar their sparkling interior. Without a word the fiend idly gestured with one hand and a blasphemy spell swirled through the air, rippling the waters with its potency; one of the ways to summon the father of the Marraenoloths, Cerlic the Altraloth, known to some mortals as Charon the boatmaster of the Styx.

	The waters continued to swirl and then appeared to boil like black, molten tar as a low black skiff emerged from a sudden bank of fog that rose from the fetid waters themselves. A massive figure, skeletal and wrapped in a hooded black robe stood at the prow of the skiff, guiding the ship through the water with a simple wooden staff, its eyes like pinpoints of flame in their bony orbits.

	The Ebon smiled at the Altraloth as the skiff drew near and the archfiend regarded him. For a moment the air was still and quiet before Cerlic’s telepathic voice rung out like a whispered dying breath from a drowning soul, “I have already given your master Mydianchlarus an answer to his request. My loyalty remains with the Oinoloth, regardless of who presently holds the title. Why has he sent you then?”

	Another smile and the sable furred arcanaloth tossed one of the gems into Cerlic’s skiff and spoke aloud, “I’ve always wondered why you chose that particular method of payment from your charges. Certainly it wasn’t in place before you assumed your position as lord of the marraenoloths. I always figured it might have been something the hags wrote into your brain when they made you what you are…”

	“And what would you know of that, arcanaloth?” The Altraloths words were riddled with the contempt of a superior speaking to a lesser being. The Ebon dropped the other gem into the depths of the Styx.

	“I would know because I watched them create you; seven of them in all. Shall I name them each? Not that it matters since all of them have since died, imperfect beings that create imperfect things. Time has been a harsh mistress to them, their lives snuffed over the course of millennia since they made you what you are.” The flawless ruby in the bottom of Cerlic’s skiff was incapable of replicating the knowing gleam that danced in The Ebon’s eyes as Cerlic looked down on him.

	“I was not aware that you were that old. Are you implying that you had a hand in their deaths? Not that I much care. My power is not dependant on them, or my contract with them terminated upon their death in any event.” Cerlic’s words were tinged now with a shade of curiosity rarely heard in the thoughts of the immortal.

	“Not a thing to do with their deaths myself, no. I wouldn’t stoop to that level or waste my words butchering them. No, I’m here to speak to you Cerlic. I’m here to speak to you as myself, Vorkannis the Ebon, not as any underling to the Oinoloth Mydianchlarus.”

	“You amuse me arcanaloth. Speak with me then and do not boast or I will leave here with the Oinoloth minus a servant.” Cerlic’s words were tinged with force.

	Vorkannis leaned down to drink deeply from the black waters that swirled about his ankle, licking the last drops of that liquid corruption from his muzzle like it were a vintage wine before sitting back up and looking into Cerlic’s face. “And I would welcome you to try Cerlic. But unlike your brethren, you serve a role and you serve it well regardless of who holds the throne of Khin-Oin. That alone will spare you the fate of your makers fool.”

	“My brethen?” The Altraloth whispered but said nothing of the fact that his attempt to teleport away and summon forth a dozen of his minions to kill the impudent ‘loth had failed to function.

	“You and rest of the hagspawn. Imperfect beings made by imperfect beings. You sully yourselves for some momentary advantage. You betray your nature for scraps of power, and limit yourselves at the same time. Were I capable of pity I might actually feel it for you Cerlic. But my lack of pity is forestalled by pragmatism…”

	And Cerlic listened, and Cerlic obeyed.

****​
	Clueless staggered downstairs from his room looking more like he belonged in the Great Mortuary alongside the rest of the Dead. His hair was disheveled and he had bags under his eyes; it didn’t appear that he had slept much. Toras looked at him as he sat down and poured himself a mug of ale.

	“I take it you spent the evening with your sensate girlfriend?” The half-celestial asked.

	“Huh? Why do you say that?” Clueless asked in return, looking both tired and confused.

	“Because you don’t look like you slept a wink last night is what I think he means.” Fyrehowl said.

	“Yeah, didn’t see you around at all last night. Figured that was likely where you were so I didn’t bother giving you a call over a sending spell.” Tristol said, looking up from a copy of the one of the local ward newspapers.

	“Nope, I was here all night. In fact I went to bed early last night, don’t know why I feel like crud this morning then.” Clueless said before sipping at his drink.

	“Where’d you sleep then, in the gutter? Because you smell worse than some of Skalliska’s so-called food. That or a fiend abducted you and had their way with you all last night.” Fyrehowl said as she wrinkled her nose and moved her chair away from the half-fey. Clueless shrugged in confusion and sipped more at his ale.

	A minute or two later Nisha walked back down the stairs, still dressed in a pirate outfit complete with a stuffed bird sitting on her shoulder and an eye patch over one eye. Tristol looked up at her and put down his newspaper. “Didn’t you just go up there a half hour ago? Had enough fun for the day up there already with the ‘pirates’?”

	Nisha shook her head no rapidly and took a seat at the table next to the mage. “Two words: Angry Githzerai.”

	“Angry Githzerai? Weren’t the pumpkins githyanki though?” Tristol asked.

	“Yeah they were. All I know is that I had a couple angry githzerai shouting out something about dirty ‘yanki and throwing knives at my ‘crew’ and me. I hesitate to think what’s left of them after they run out of stuff to toss at them…” Nisha said with a resigned frown.

	Several more minutes of banter later and Skalliska walked into the inn and Florian had woken up and joined them all as well. Shortly thereafter the door swung open and a man stepped inside from the street.

	“Sorry sir, we’re not quite open for business just yet!” Florian said quickly.

	“No no no, it’s not that. I only heard just now for m’self but if you’ve got any way to get to The Lady’s Ward quickly you might want to. It’s Factol Nilesia, she’s back in Sigil. Just came barging out of the Prison with a pack of former Mercykillers and she’s gone even barmier than she was before!” The man rapidly explained before he ran out the door, heading in the direction of The Lady’s Ward.

	“Uh oh…” Nisha said, looking out the open door as the man retreated down the street. She glanced over at the others as they all grew nervous and morbidly curious at the same time before as one they all stood up from the table to find out what was going on.


----------



## Gez

I love Nisha.


----------



## shilsen

Woohoo! An update from Shem to start the weekend!


----------



## Shemeska

Gez said:
			
		

> I love Nisha.




So do I, and it shows. In a campaign that gets as depressingly dark as this one has, the comic relief is not only welcome, it's nearly required. She fits the bill nicely in between me RP'ing soulless beings of repugnant levels of evil. I never intended for her to stick around past the first adventure but the players liked her and so she's been around for all but one plot arc of the campaign.


----------



## Clueless

[shameless pimping] Watch for mentions of the Jammer in the Sensate writeup (fiction at the beginning of it) at www.planewalker.com .... Official Products/Released Products. [/shameless pimping]


----------



## Voldenuit

Clueless said:
			
		

> [shameless pimping] Watch for mentions of the Jammer in the Sensate writeup (fiction at the beginning of it) at www.planewalker.com .... Official Products/Released Products. [/shameless pimping]




Subtle. Very subtle. I wouldn't have picked up on that if you hadn't pointed it out.

However, I am hoping that the Portal Jammer in Planewalker is distinct from Portal Schmortal, since the Ubiquitous Wayfarer was such an icon of 2e Planescape...


----------



## Clueless

Voldenuit said:
			
		

> Subtle. Very subtle. I wouldn't have picked up on that if you hadn't pointed it out.
> 
> However, I am hoping that the Portal Jammer in Planewalker is distinct from Portal Schmortal, since the Ubiquitous Wayfarer was such an icon of 2e Planescape...




Completely different on Planewalker. Besides, in the SH I place the Portal Schmortal in the Clerk's Ward when in reality it should be in The Lady's Ward IIRC. Adding a new inn to the city = not too big a problem. Removing one of the most well known inns with something that popped up in the campaign you were running at the time = not cool.

Rest assured, the origin for the PJ on Planewalker differs fully from the origin of the PJ in my campaign. They just look the same and share a name.

EDIT: I am not Clueless, just shemmy using Clueless's laptop and forgetting to check who was logged in at the time...


----------



## Clueless

*The real Clueless yanks Shemmy's paw out of the puppet*
Get back in your cage, fuzzy...


----------



## Voldenuit

Clueless said:
			
		

> Completely different on Planewalker. Besides, in the SH I place the Portal Schmortal in the Clerk's Ward when in reality it should be in The Lady's Ward IIRC. Adding a new inn to the city = not too big a problem. Removing one of the most well known inns with something that popped up in the campaign you were running at the time = not cool.
> 
> Rest assured, the origin for the PJ on Planewalker differs fully from the origin of the PJ in my campaign. They just look the same and share a name.
> 
> EDIT: I am not Clueless, just shemmy using Clueless's laptop and forgetting to check who was logged in at the time...




Thanks for the reassurance, Shemmy!

I should have known better than to doubt you, buth then again, it was probably just a 'loth plot to seed misgivings in my mind and then to prove them groundless, setting the stage to make me more susceptible to trusting you in the future... ^_^


----------



## Shemeska

*Death and memories... actually make that bloody and messy deaths and memories*

The streets of The Lady’s Ward were packed with morbidly curious onlookers who watched from stoops and alleyways as a mob of former Mercykillers, dressed in full faction regalia marched from the Prison in the rough direction of the City Court, former Factol Alisohn Nilesia at their head. The ex-factol was screaming at the top of her lungs, a glint of unshuttered madness burning in her eyes, and extolling her followers with a litany of curses that flowed freely from her mouth.

	“Where are you? Answer me you bladed harlot! Where is Darkwood?! Where is he? Give him to me and show yourself!” The young tiefling’s profanity laced tirade against The Lady of Pain was causing the gathered crowd to nervously back away, though some seemed to edge closer, eager perhaps to witness the coming bloodshed…


	“S***! She’s gone completely barmy since the last time we saw her! Sure she was nuts before, but she was canny about it. Now she’s just totally lost it!” Clueless said to his companions as they huddled in the shadow of a building as the fifty or so strong pack of Mercykiller’s began to parade past them. One of the Aoskian hounds held by one of Nilesia’s lieutenants snarled and snapped in Toras’s direction, warning him to stay clear of its master’s walk, wherever they were going. It was as if Nilesia was goading The Lady to appear because the movement of her group had slowed first and then paused to allow the screaming factol to turn around and address the crowd and city itself.

	“You have sinned against the planes themselves! You have committed crimes about the multiverse, this city, and me! Release Rowan Darkwood to me from where you shelter him from my justice and I shall make your death quick and painless! You know you must answer to me bitch! Show yourself!” Nilesia’s screaming had begun to turn her voice raw and her mouth was flecked by bits of spittle at their edges, such was the state of frenzied mania she had worked herself into. Her word’s had begun to rattle even her own troops however, and not only the gathered onlookers.

	“If you will not face me I will take out your sentence on those I *can* find!” Screaming up to the sky, Nilesia drew and brandished a gleaming, red bladed sword covered in glowing symbols of the Red Death. Turning around, her bloodshot eyes focused on a being that moved down the street adjacent to the pack of her followers without paying any attention whatsoever to the crowds, a solitary Dabus.

	An instant, paralytic hush fell over the crowd in its entirety as Nilesia leapt forwards at the Dabus, opening its stomach with a single slice before spinning in a circle and slicing its head clean from its shoulders. The Dabus dropped to the ground, its head toppling over in a spray of crimson as Nilesia screamed in frustration while the crowd of onlookers began to panic and flee the scene.

	The crowd didn’t move far. Before the eyes of the decapitated Dabus had glazed over in death a massive figure appeared in the center of the street, some five yards from Nilesia and the head of her pack of collaborators. Nearly fifteen feet tall, coldly emotionless, unspeaking and serene, with blades sprouting from its face, head and shoulders, Her Serenity, The Lady of Pain gazed down upon the factol. The hem of The Lady’s robe wavered gently in a nonexistent breeze as Nilesia paused and seemed to pale ever so slightly, to waver in her composure for a split second before madness overwhelmed her and galvanized her actions.

	“You know it! You yourself came to me and admitted your crimes! Bow your head and I shall serve your sentence! Justice does not sleep!” Nilesia screamed up at the Bladed Queen as the crowd’s eyes grew to the size of plates almost collectively. Then, she charged at The Lady, hurling her sword directly at The Bladed Queen.

	Screams rose from the onlookers as a the air was split by the sound of breaking, tortured metal as a shadow leapt from The Lady of Pain to rip Nilesia’s sword apart, peppering the factol and her Mercykiller faithful with white hot fragments of steel. The factol’s eyes quivered and her knees buckled as The Lady’s shadow surged forwards, transfixing the young tiefling like a skewered hunk of meat. There was a scream from Nilesia to shake the very hells as her skin erupted into a gushing flurry of slashes, cuts, and gouges where the Bladed Queen’s shadow fell upon her.

	A red, spattering mist broke from her flesh where they shadow fell and she vainly threw out a hand, somehow managing to scream for help from her assembled faithful who could only stare at her, then at The Lady, as their factol began to slowly melt and peal to the bone on left leg, arm and torso, transfixed by The Lady’s razor edged pall. Try as she might to pull herself free, screaming till her voice croaked and broke from the hellish pain as her body was torn to bloody shreds, the shadow lanced forwards even more to fully envelop her. In the space of seconds the screaming ended with the sounds of splitting flesh and bone, and the metallic clatter and sparking of shattering armor.

	The throng of Mercykiller faithful stood in shock, none of them yet fully believing that their factol was dead, that the factol was wrong, and that she lay there in a pool of her own blood, a mess of exposed bone and shredded muscle and viscera upon the naked flagstones of The Lady’s Ward. Then The Lady turned to regard them, shifting a few degrees in the air and all hell broke loose.

	Nilesia’s troops screamed and broke rank as The Lady’s shadow moved again, lancing through their midst, catching several of them with agonizing results. Limbs were sheared off, flesh was ripped asunder to leave the victims moaning in their own guts upon the ground; but the lancing shadow did not follow them, nor even seen directed at them. The bladed shadow continued on, the Mercykillers’ catharsis only incidental. Like a flowing, ever expanding penumbral river it speared through the scattering mob of innocents and onlookers that had stood behind the members of the Red Death to fall directly upon a single figure that had stood, watching, from the rear of the gathered.

	The doomed figure attempted to flee, but try as it might, it could not escape The Lady’s pitiless gaze and it erupted into a spattering torrent of black ichor as it fell to the ground, a fiendish scream passing from their lips as they shuddered, twisted, and convulsed in dying agony. Minutes stretched onwards like an eternity till finally the figure ceased its rictus dance and a wheezing death rattle passed its lips to leave it laying still in a spreading pool of its own sizzling blood.

	The Lady hovered for but a brief several seconds before She turned, not bothering to regard the stunned and horrified crowd of assembled citizens who averted their eyes and cowered, lest Her shadow fall upon them as well. She drifted, silently, serene, and utterly unconcerned for some twenty feet down the avenue before She vanished into nothingness.

	As the crowd slowly recovered from their horror, a single Dabus emerged onto the street, floating to a stop near the factol’s mangled corpse, projecting a single rebus above its head for all to read, “Are you yourselves free of the strings you so joyously play with? This city will not tolerate your conflict within its borders.”

	The remaining Mercykillers had already dispersed to lick their wounds, both physical and emotional, and to their morale. The crowd as well was now slinking off rapidly away from the scene of The Lady’s slaughtering of the old factol and the other victim, simply wishing to get away from any action by Her Serenity. And as the minutes passed on the frequent accompaniment to many of The Lady’s appearances made itself known, a horse drawn cart manned by former Dustmen.

	Nisha looked over at Toras, “I want to go get a look at that body before they cart it off to the mortuary…”

	Toras looked at the tiefer like she had a hole in her head, “Why? He’s pretty well smeared across the pavement as it is.”

	“Because I swear I recognized him. But I can’t say for certain till I’ve seen him up close.” She finished her explanation by sticking her tongue out at the half-celestial.

	And so, having made her explanation, Nisha walked over to the body of the 2nd of The Lady’s victims, stepping carefully to avoid stepping in any of the deeper puddles of gore. Clueless, Toras, and Skalliska, who slinked out of an adjacent alleyway, having apparently been there at the scene of the crime as well, joined Nisha while the others ran over to chat up, and delay, the two gaunt looking Dusties as they drew up in their battered cart with even more battered horses to collect the dead for cremation or burial in an appropriate plane or prime world.

	Nisha’s eyes went wide as she saw the full body of the victim spread out on the cobblestones, its clothing largely shredded and its outer skin gouged and pitted with an overly large amount of blood steaming and evaporating in the open air with a smell like acid and burning pitch. The victim was very clearly not human, nor even mortal.

	“Well I’ll be a Guvner, it’s Garroth the Blind!” Nisha said, poking at its purse from where it had fallen under a nearly pulped pair of wings.

	“Who?” Clueless asked.

	“A Nycaloth who hangs out in the Hive and the Lower Ward selling information to people about the Blood War, and doing recruiting for the War while he’s at it. I wouldn’t say he’s a permanent resident of the city, like Shemeska the Marauder or A’kin the Friendly Fiend, but he’s well enough known by me and the folks I tend to hang around with in my off hours.” Nisha answered.

	“Ah, like your boyfriend?” Toras asked.

	“Who? I don… ah yeah, my boyfriend, ummhmm yeah, him.” Nisha said after a brief look of confusion.

	“Damn, looks like they can’t delay the collectors anymore…” Skalliska said as the dustmen and their cart came to collect the dead Nycaloth’s body and heap it atop the butchered remains of the former Mercykiller factol.

	“So what the hell was Garroth flayed over I have to ask…” Florian said as they watched the collectors cart the bodies away back in the direction of the Mortuary.

	“Dunno… but we do know that Trenevain said his bodyguards were more of minders to make sure he didn’t screw up his part, and the Mercane had a pretty hefty contingent of Yugoloth troops in their little demiplane. Hells, they were dealing with an Ultroloth! An Ultroloth whose assassination we witnessed! I think that’s pretty solid evidence for some sort of link between this here and the mercane that had us get Nilesia in the first place…” Nisha said as she thumbed through Garroth’s purse, frowning at the lack of much beyond copper.


	And so the group started the long trip back across the city, intentionally going the long way back to the Clerk’s Ward so as to avoid the Hive. Their trip was not incidental, as while passing through the Guildhall Ward they paused when a voice called out to them from a stoop of an adjacent building.

	“You! I know you!” Came a shrill cry from across the street, spoken by a tiny red imp.

	“Excuse us? I don’t think so; we tend to not party around with fiends. We’ll kill fiends, but not party around with them. Except maybe A’kin, and he’s a sweetheart, evil or not.” Florian said, his hands firmly planted on his hips.

	“Not you. You, the bladesinger!” The imp was pointing directly at Clueless and standing up with apparent glee.

	“Umm, can I help you?” Clueless asked, stepping forward and not afraid in the slightest over any given imp.

	“Oh Avalas the Bloodbathed will want to know that you are still alive! He still remembers the day that you stabbed him in the back during that Tanar’ri siege of his encampment! And I will have you know, that he has since ascended to Pit Fiend rank in Baator… he has power now fool, and he will not hesitate to send his minions after you once I tell him you are still alive!”

	Clueless paused and looked suddenly concerned as part of his past came barging back into the present very suddenly and unexpectedly. The imp was dancing and clapping its hands with glee.

	“He thought you dead and gone! But now he can enjoy slowly torturing you to death in Nessus where he remains stationed! You will regret having betrayed a powerful Baatezu, mortal! You will…” The imp’s rant was silenced as its features dulled, turned a flat shade of white, and its body petrified to stone as Tristol waved his hands in the air and whispered a series of words.

	“I don’t think so…” The aasimar said as he smiled at the petrified imp, now frozen into a snarl with its hands raised over its head in a menacing gesture and its scorpion tail raised high behind it. All in all, nearly comical looking.

	Clueless looked over at Tristol, “Well that’s a new one!”

	Tristol smiled at Clueless and then chuckled as Nisha walked over to the imp and struck a similar pose while hissing at it, between bouts of giggling. “Yes it is, I’ve only learned it since I got those spellbooks from the Incantifer. And that’s just one of the first, half of them I can’t even understand or cast yet. But I think this solves your problem of this guy running back to Baator to snitch on you?”

	“Yeah, it does solve the problem. Thank you. I think he’ll make a nice inn decoration if we place him as a hat rack or something. Heck, check his mouth for portals later, we might get lucky and have it breath fire or something.” Clueless said as he hefted the stone imp into the air and deposited it in one of the bags of holding he carried.

	“Hey! That was pretty good! How much you want for that puny little s*** of an imp!” A voiced cawed out from across the street where a large vrock stood with an amused expression on its face, having apparently watched the entire incident.

	“No, this one’s not for sale. Business, not pleasure. However you might ask Tristol here in the future if he’s got any more he’d be willing to part with.” Clueless said over to the greater Tanar’ri.

	“Hey… yeah, I thought I recognized you! That’s right, from the other night!” The Vrock said, suddenly smiling almost pleasantly to a suddenly very confused Clueless.

	“Don’t think I’ve ever met you actually…” The bladesinger said with a pause in his voice.

	“Sure you did! The other evening at the Styx Oarsman, you were there to see Rule-of-Three to sell something or another. I’m certain it was you, same sword and everything. And boy did you piss off one of the bouncers, spit in his face and asked if he liked licking Cornugon balls, because after one of them was done with his mother, it might enjoy round two with the son! I’ve never seen him get so flustered and so totally outclassed…” The Vrock was laughing as it walked over and slapped Clueless on the back like an old friend before it waved and snickered at the imp and walked off.

	“….” Clueless just stood there thinking as the Vrock walked off into the distance, and he didn’t say much more by the time they got back to the Portal Jammer. All he kept thinking about was the fact that he had gone to bed early the other night and woken up dead tired the next morning, almost as if he hadn’t slept at all. And that was all on the same night as the Vrock had thought he’d seen him at the Styx Oarsman, a Tanar’ri bar…


	Once they got back to the Jammer, Clueless went to his room and checked on certain things. He started cursing immediately as he started to look for the papers and maps they had taken from the mercane. Every single one of them was missing, and he had a pretty decent idea that he was probably responsible, even if he didn’t remember it.

	“Crap… I need my memory back so I can figure out what the hell is going on with me…” Clueless lamented as he sat on the edge of his bed and stared at the water filled globe with its exotic fish that he’d taken from Dalmar Imshenviir’s office. A minute later he was out the front door of the inn and headed in the direction of the Great Gymnasium, hoping that some time spent in meditation might jolt his memories some like it had the last time.

	Once there, he actually happened to see Fyrehowl in the gym, training in swordplay with a rail thin githzerai monk who was one of Rhys’s personal aide de camps, and clearly a better in swordplay by the looks of it at the moment. But the gith seemed to be toning his style down somewhat so as to instruct, rather than overwhelm, and the lupinal was clearly enjoying herself in the process as Clueless walked past and up to the higher levels of the complex.

	Originally he’d been intending to visit the Cadence chamber, but he didn’t get that far. On the level below the Cadence chamber itself, one of the long meditation halls, he walked up to a slim tiefling woman dressed in robes, with long flowing black hair and hooves nearly like Nisha; former Factol Rhys.

	“No need to bother seeking the Cadence chamber at this time, that will come later.” Rhys spoke to Clueless without opening her eyes, though she was seated to face in his direction as he entered the meditation hall. The former factol was seated in a lotus position and seemed to be so lightly touching the ground that it might at first appear as if she was floating in her trance-like state.

	“Oh excuse me, my apologies councilwoman Rhys. If I’m disturbing you I’ll leave.” Clueless backed off slightly before Rhys opened her eyes which seemed distant, glazed over, as if she were indeed in some level of trance.

	“No, this was where you were to be and where the Cadence had me be as well. Your memories, your hidden memories, they trouble you. You walk with a shadow passing over you and it sullies your waking mind with doubt and fear. Come closer.” Rhys smiled and held out one hand to beckon Clueless.

	“Yes? Can I…” Clueless stopped as the former Factol reached up and gently tapped him in the center of his forehead with a single finger.

	“Remember, if only for a moment the details that have been robbed from you. Unlock that door inside your mind and step within before it shuts once again. Learn and act upon that. Do not ponder, do not think; act.” Rhys said with utter serenity, as Clueless clutched at his forehead and winced as a flurry of memories flew back into his mind.

***​

The Yugoloth slavers, some twenty odd black, chitinous Mezzoloths and two bloated, many-limbed Dergholoth surrounded Clueless and his two companions as they shackled the three of them to each other. One of the Dergholoth’s, larger than the others, its squat bulb shaped body with its three shubby legs and four claw tipped arms shambled forwards to the three of them and rotated its mantis-like head to face the bladesinger. Its mandibles clacked and chattered, then a mental prompt of more emotion than words commanded the three of them to start marching along with the troop column. The bariaur was the first in line, and slow to start moving. The Dergholoth overseer motioned to one of its soldiers that quickly slammed the butt of its trident into his flank then parroted the others telepathic command again, this time in infernal.

	The next five hours were spent winding through a blasted rocky wasteland, nearer to one of the mountains on the current orb, the air growing slightly thinner as they ascended. The sunless, blood red sky, fading to black high above, burned down without mercy, and within the first several hours their exposed skin ached with each and every movement. The yugoloths were on constant watch for any attacks by the Gehreleth, all of the Red Prison being the home of that splinter race of fiends, which from all Clueless had heard, had some sort of racial hatred towards the ‘loths.

	But no attack came, not that it made their march any more comfortable. They were given no rest, nor water; it seemed the fiends had no use of it themselves and saw no desire, or remained unaware of their charges own need for it as mortals. Any vocal objections from those in the slave train were responded with quickly by jabs and slaps by the guards and soon they all gave up trying to have any meaningful conversation with their captors. Clueless’s own question about The Marauder brought not a slap, but unease from the Mezzoloths before their overseers barked several orders to them and glared at the half-fey icily. 

	At the sixth hour the group stopped at the base of a cliff, a network of cave mouths opening up to the surface, and were quickly greeted by an armed and armored Piscaloth. The lobster-like fiend appeared to be debriefing the Dergholoth, and for a short while the three of them, Clueless and his companions, were able to sit upon the ground and rest their weary limbs. A wooden container filled with a watery slop was rudely placed into their hands, and despite the smell and dubious origin of the food they all partook. Lesser Yugoloth cooking was not a wonder of the planes…

	Finally, their well watched solitude was interrupted by the arrival of at least five or six other similarly sized slave caravans, most bringing with them at least twenty to thirty prisoners each, ranging from adventurers like themselves, to poor berks who either stepped through a portal to Carceri by utter blunder, or were sent to the plane on purpose, unknowing or by force. They were all assembled by their own contingent of lesser Yugoloth shock troops, and all told, there must have been nearly two hundred Mezzoloths assembled. Far too many for a simple slaving operation, they must have been near a Yugoloth city or Blood War military outpost; but by any of their experience, none existed on that layer of Carceri, the Gehreleths being far too numerous, and wantonly destructive, to safely allow for any large scale ‘loth presence.

	But Clueless’s wandering mind was rudely awakened back to the present as the Piscaloth commander began to bark orders to the assembled troops and what must have been a nearly equal number of Mezzoloths as they flooded out from the tunnels at the cliff base and fell into formation. They, along with the others quickly drew Clueless, his companions, and the other prisoners into a long, single file line of slaves, and started them marching off to the north into a cleft between two mountain chains that reached high enough overhead to nearly touch the peaks of the adjacent orb. The Bariaur glanced back at Clueless, a look of worry and dread playing across his face as he then glanced around at the sheer number of Yugoloths.

The cleft opened to a blasted series of valleys, and in time the caravan reached a solid iron bridge that crossed over a black, rushing riving that bisected the valley. The scent in the air from the nearby foaming rapids made Clueless’s head swim, and once they crossed the bridge and the air cleared of the noxious mist kicked up from the river, he realized that they had likely crossed over a tributary of the Styx. No map he’d ever seen indicated such a tributary anywhere near that section of the plane.

But the river was the farthest thing from his mind as after another twenty minutes of marching, the caravan passed through some manner of magical screen, like a thin and palpable meniscus of force, apparently extending from one side of the valley at the base of the mountains to the other. What was an empty, dead ended valley of strewn boulders and hard packed soil was anything but empty as they cleared the tingling, almost burning magical field.

Centered in the valley, and rising up to rival the mountain peaks themselves was a solitary tower, if ‘tower’ really sufficed to describe the sheer scale of the structure. From their distance it dominated Clueless’s vantage and field of vision, easily several miles across at the base and rising yet miles higher. The black, hexagonal structure seemed to erupt from the bedrock and clamber towards the sky like some towering, infectious parasite breaking free from its host. Twisted metal, like thorns, erupted from the tower at random points, but the true scope of the horror the entire scene painted only became apparent as they grow closer to the towers base. 

The tower appeared to shift and quiver, like worms and insects scuttling or writhing their way through rotten meat. The entire tower appeared to be built not from just black steel and stone, but mainly from the still living bodies of petitioners grafted into one hellish nightmare of a whole, trying futilely to escape their fate as living masonry for this harrowing monument that dwarfed any other fiendish structure on the planes, Baatezu and Tanar’ri included. And, from the jagged, open spaces at the top of the tower, and flurry of figures clambering from the base to gantries and structural bracings, the tower was still being built taller and larger. Cries of panic and screams of terror echoed across the landscape and bowl of the valley as the prisoners behind Clueless passed through the illusory barrier and caught sight of the tower. Surely they didn’t mean to place them all as slave labor in building that monstrosity? Or did they mean to use them as building material?

The troops and slaves made their way to the titanic gates of the tower and were met by the bright flash of teleports as figures appeared from presumably inside the tower. Several hulking Nycaloths, each dressed in ornate armor appeared at the head of the line of troops and begin to approach and converse with the Dergholoth. One of the Nycaloths was pointed in the direction of Clueless and his two companions and, slowly, purposefully approaches, brandishing a crackling rod or wand in his hand. As he neared, already the prisoners were being herded off in one direction or another, and one sub-group was summarily executed on the spot, energy of some sort being drawn off from the corpses as they expired and bottled in large black gems held by the Nycaloths. Things did not look good.

***​And then the scene faded and another memory unlocked, a different one, and one that held more relevance to recent events.
***​
	Clueless strode into the Styx Oarsman, in his hand he carried a satchel of book and papers, the very same papers they had recovered from the mercane, Dalmar Imshenviir. Standing beside him as he entered, either drugged or magically compelled, was the elven cleric who had been there with him in Carceri. The elf’s leg was bleeding heavily, already soaking through a bandage around his leg in places. The gemstone that had been firmly embedded into his leg, down to the bone, was wrapped within a pouch at Clueless’s waist.

As they continued into the Tanar’ri bar, he had an altercation with one of the bouncers and then walked straight up the stairs and into a small waiting room where he sat down at a table with an apparent elderly githzerai, Rule-of-Three, and a massive Nycaloth, Garroth the Blind.

	Clueless watched as ‘he’ entered negotiations with Rule-of-Three, selling his former elven companion into slavery to the wizened Githzerai who was far more than he appeared to be. He also watched as Garroth the Blind acted with utter respect towards him, though the fiend used a female pronoun to describe him at one point in the negotiations, and drew and brutal blow to the center of its face, and a hail of curses in a mixture of infernal and abyssal, as well as another language that he didn’t seem to recognize. The language seemed to burn the ears and sting the mind in remembrance though, whatever it was.

	But after they sealed the deal for the elf, Clueless watched as he handed over the elf’s still bloody gemstone, and the sack of papers and documents from the mercane into Garroth’s hands. The Nycaloth accepted them humbly and made mention of “being occupied the next day in service to an order given him by ‘the 2nd Wheel’”. Clueless felt himself snicker mentally at the knowledge that the Nycaloth had been ordered into an event that would lead to his own death most likely. But such matters had to be done for everything to fall into place as it was and needed to be, The Ebon had promised them as such, and thus it would be.


----------



## Gez

Shemeska said:
			
		

> This allows me to hold up the "Screwing you now, bend over. You are my living, breathing plot hook, enjoy." sign towards the player.




Indeed.  This last update is nasty, in the "it's even worse than I thought" kind. Amnesiac, possessed, and grafted with some sort of evil gem.


----------



## Ohtar Turinson

> Amnesiac, possessed, and grafted with some sort of evil gem.




The real question of course is who controls the gem- its pretty clearly the thing allowing for the possession. I'm going with either the Shemeskra or maybe Shylara the Manged (did I spell that right?).

My bet's on the Maurader though. From what I know about her, she has a horrific temper, and is more than willing to beat the living daylights out of anyone who crosses her or does something stupid and the incredable number of insults she can roll off. The female pronoun's not a bad hint either. 

The desire to hide the female pronoun implies that its not supposed to be known to Rule-of-Three (which makes sense, him being something of a chant-monger if I recall correctly). It also means that Clueless is probably being set up for the fall, assuming that he's not scheduled for execution.


As always Shemmy- an excellent update. I didn't see the flaying coming at all. (Before this post I mean. I saw it coming once I started reading.)


----------



## Clueless

*chuckle* Watch for what Clueless does in reaction to this though... Technically some of this is out of order to how it occured, but it's all close enough to not be too bad off.


----------



## dal673

What a great update!

..."and the Wheels are turning"...

Greetz,

DaL


----------



## Shemeska

*Updated early due to NC Game Day, pardon the lack of time spent checking on grammer*

'Your world has spikes on his back and he wants to lay down on you 
Don't like what I say, you best not go away 
Take a look into my bag of wonders 
I'll pull out something special just for you 
Don't tell anyone 
It'll be our secret 
A weak and tainted soul I stole from you know who 
You want to buy it back, I'll have to charge you for two...’ –Godhead ‘I Sell Society’


	Mydianchlarus, the Oinoloth of the Wasting Tower of Khin-Oin strummed his fingers over the massive arms of the Siege Malicious and looked out over the countless miles of blasted wasteland that surrounded his tower. His tower was the symbol of his rule and the centerpiece of Yugoloth accomplishment that rose up out of the forsaken earth like a bloated fungal blight watered by the Styx and grown fat on the marrow of the dead god whose spine it was carved from entirely, nearly forty miles in length all said and done. And here he sat upon his throne, Mydianchlarus the Oinoloth, the Ultroloth Prince, and he was facing a challenge to his supreme rule.

	“Typhus has already pledged his loyalty to your rule my liege. The Infernal Front marches now two days hence to the Wasting Tower to await your command. I speak in this matter as the Altraloth’s spokesman. We stand at your side, Oinoloth of the Tower. Our allegiance is not in question.”

	The Oinoloth glanced at the speaker, a stick thin Ultroloth from Niffleheim wrapped in the sickly yellow and mottled green livery of the mercenary warlord Typhus. There was no subterfuge in the envoy’s mental voice, only confidence and a slight undercurrent of arrogance. But, those flaws aside, it and its master were loyal at this moment; its life would be forfeited any otherwise. Of course after the looming conflict it was likely that Typhus would once again become the free agent that he had always been, selling his services to the highest bidder. But now as a force threatened the pinnacle of their race’s hierarchy, the wayward mercenary had come home to where his true loyalties sat. Ideally anyways. More likely than not the Altraloth was simply attempting to curry favor with the Oinoloth, so be it.

	Mydianchlarus nodded his approval to the Ultroloth and the gathered assembly of advisors, speakers, scribes and servants shuffled amongst themselves, jockeying for position and turn to speak to their master. Ultroloths reduced to scrambling like dogs for scraps, hoping to curry favor and gain but a word to or from the Oinoloth who looked at them all with amusement. Dozens of Ultroloth lords, barons, generals and tetrarchs from the breadth of the three planes of conflict offering unasked for advice, seeking to place their rival Ultroloths into a poor light and their forces into weaker positions of battle so as to personally gain from their dismemberment in the coming war. Dozens of Ultroloths and their attendant scribes and aides, mostly Arcanaloths and a scant few Nycaloths as well to comprise that omnipresent but effectively powerless class of persons that swarmed about and amongst the petulant overclass of the Ultroloths. Except for one of them.

	Otherwise buried in the midst of the others who had flocked to the Oinoloth’s council, Vorkannis the Ebon, Overlord of Carceri and Master of the Tower of Incarnate Pain stood and gazed up at the Oinoloth, like a blot against the background of Ultroloths who swirled around, but never truly paid him heed. Not that the over glorified arcanaloth seemed to mind or pay them heed either, rather he seemed to stand distant and distinct from their midst without any seeming attempt on his part to stand out. And for the briefest of moments, the sable coated and cobalt robed jackal met the gaze of the Oinoloth. The arcanaloth’s crimson, piercing albino eyes lanced out into the swirling multicolored orbs of the Ultroloth Prince that gleamed a dozen sickly colors as they slowly wept blood across its featureless face.

	Mydianchlarus beckoned towards The Ebon, his arm leaving a gelatinous trail of partially congealed blood smeared across the arm of the throne of Khin-Oin. The constant bleeding, regenerated in seconds only to run like crimson sweat the next moment, was the duality of the Siege that was at once both a blessing and a curse. The mark of the most ancient of thrones was indelible.

	“What have you to offer up to us? I am aware that your armies are yet depleted from your conflict with your predecessors. Your position is known, but what aide you offer is not. Speak and show your betters here that you might yet be worthy of promotion after this war is fought and finished.” The Oinoloth’s voice rippled across the ether like a current in the smoke wafting up from a field of burning flesh.

	The Ebon bowed deeply as the Ultroloths grew quiet and parted to allow the Oinoloth full view of the jackal headed fiend, yet his eyes never ceased their lock with those of his superior. And, when he spoke it was with certainty and respect as befitting the station of those surrounding him; there was not a hint of arrogance or contempt, though locked within his mind it festered like a burning, gaping wound filled with salt and poison.

	“Indeed. My own armies are constrained by two factors, the defense of my own unfinished tower and that they have not yet regained the numbers they possessed under the joint command of Bubonix and Cholerix. In the… absence… of my former lords I can nonetheless offer as many Mezzoloths as possible without risking the tower itself from Gehreleth assault. I leave that to your discretion my liege as the completion of the tower is not solely my purview, but all of ours.”

	Mydianchlarus nodded at the nearly hypnotic melody of the jet-furred arcanaloth’s voice; smooth as honey blended with adder venom, sweet and pleasant even as it killed. Something about the lesser fiend struck a dissonant note however, something that the Oinoloth couldn’t place. Something familiar about the face or the voice that was intimately familiar to him but inexplicably slipped from his thoughts. There would be time later though to ponder those improbable thoughts when, after killing his predecessor Anthraxus, he planned to drink from his hollowed out skull.

	The Ebon bowed again and backed away as the Oinoloth turned his attention to others. Questions were raised and advice given and ignored by all of them. The ignorant fools were drunk with their own power and blind to their flaws and their own feet that would soon set them stumbling. And, already the noose was wrapped around each and every one of them to break their fall when they did. It would be a harsh awakening, but one that had been building for far longer than any of them knew, suspected, or had even existed to contemplate.

	The advisors and confidants of the Oinoloth discussed the amassing of troops, the merging of armies and transport of supplies and devices of war. They discussed who amongst them was a traitor to the great cause, and who within the camp of the Decayed was still loyal to their cause. They discussed with uncertainly the pall of silence that had fallen over the Baernaloths and that envoys to the Gloom Fathers and the Crawling Citadel of The General of Gehenna had either not returned or been granted no audience. They even discussed the fact that Xenghara the Fallen had vanished without a trace, his keepers having been skinned alive, fused wrist to ankle while still breathing, and suspended in the air like an obscene living wheel. The Altraloth Xenghara had always been unstable, mad even for a fiend, and the implications of his vanishing were put aside for the moment, as was the symbol that had presaged the event.

The pale corpse light of the Waste reflected off The Ebon’s fangs as he turned away from the pack of Ultroloths and their servants, gleaming as he licked his lips to taste the faint scent of uncertainty upon the air from the gathered toadies and sycophants of the elite. They weren’t convinced that they would win. A good portion of them had already made contingent plans should their former master re-ascend to his throne and they’d bottled their thoughts so deeply in their festering minds to convince themselves of victory and Mydianchlarus of their fealty. Their thoughts were like open books to the fiend who stood in their midst as the conspicuous inferior. Irony that deserved bloodshed in due time…


***


Clueless sat alone in the darkness of his room and pondered over his memories that had returned to him at the prodding of the Ciphers’ former factol. It was getting late but he’d already been sitting there next to his window, staring out into space as the light outside had first dimmed and then finally died down to be replaced with the glow of lamplight and sorcery through the haze. Nothing more had sprung to his mind as he’d been sitting there, but key parts of his past were still locked up tightly and before he ran running off to the Styx Oarsman he wanted to know just who it was that was pulling on his strings, and how.

It was that need to know that now had the bladesinger opening the small golden vessel he had taken from the dead former factor of the Incantifers and dipping his index finger into the thick, syrupy liquid inside that fairly hummed with latent magical potential. He rubbed a single drop of the material between two fingers and concentrated, blindly attempting to call forth some spell effect that he knew some mages used to search through the past of a place, person, or concept. 

The Legend Lore spell sprang forth in his mind, rushed through his body, and burned in his blood like a potent drug as the magic unleashed itself and violently ripped through the remaining holds upon his memories. Given the nature of the substance, not that Clueless truly understood what it was, that there was resistance at all should have been a harrowing thought. But, an indeterminate time later as he regained consciousness, the spell returned and he slipped into his own memories.


	The chamber was pitch black and cold, but all around was the sense of something that was alive. The tower in Carceri, built from untold millions of still living petitioners in constant agony. Clueless was inside it, held motionless and floating in the air by some unseen force while his two companions hung likewise beside him.

	Two figures stepped out of the shadows just out of Clueless’s line of sight, Vorkannis the Ebon, Lord of the Tower of Incarnate Pain, and walking with him, strolling into the chamber on his arm was a female arcanaloth, Shemeska the Marauder. She was dressed in a skintight gown that seemed to have been cut from the still supple hide of an immature silver dragon and she might as well have been poured into the dress given its cut. As she stood beside The Ebon, they were a play of opposites both in gender and with her bright copper fur contrasting readily with the sable color of his own.

	“These three should satisfy our needs? All but dropped into our collective laps. This has been a guilty pleasure to so violently screw them over when they came to me in good faith. Alas.” She smiled demurely and placed a hand over her breast as she laughed and walked over towards the three captives as they hung suspended and senseless in the air.

	“I’ll admit I find the elf attractive as far as mortals go. I think I shall select him as mine.” Shemeska smiled and ran her fingertips across the cleric’s chest.

	The Ebon turned to her and smirked, “The godslave is already spoken for, select from one of the other two as you wish and Helekanalaith will take the remaining.”

	She paused and sneered, “Feh, don’t be so petty as to deny me something simply because you can. I’m not under any pretense of equal partnership here, simply being conspirators, but why not?”

	The Ebon gestured in the air to summon forth a trio of gleaming blue gems that hovered above their intended hosts, then he turned back to The Marauder. “I appreciate the irony of controlling the cleric as my own puppet, and the decision was made far in advance. But besides, if you find him attractive and you’re in such dire need of something to f***, you’ve always got the friendly one in Sigil already…”

	“Son of b****…” Shemeska spat like she’d tasted something vile and glared at The Ebon who was chuckling at her expense.

	“Take what you’re given, the others are hardly of lesser quality. I could have made insinuations involving you and a Goristro, but I didn’t… shall we begin?” Vorkannis sneered as he walked over towards the Bladesinger, the half-fey’s body placed between himself and The Marauder.

	“Very well Vorkannis, this one shall serve well. I gave you an answer to your question; now prepare me this tool and you’ll have your results…” The fiendess said as she floated over towards Clueless and waved at his face as she snickered at the conflicting emotions of rage and fright that surged through his face despite the magical constraints on his body.

	“The memory blocks will fall into place as soon as the orb is implanted, though certain portions I’ve chosen to simply erase. Let’s leave the fool wondering which memories are true and which are fabricated. Weave those as you wish.” The Ebon’s eyes glowed in the darkness as he gestured to three Nycaloths who stood in the shadows of the room’s periphery.

	“The rest of it is set up and should fall into place within the week, though I may procure a few more patsies in case any of them die or I think it needed. More toys to play with at the very least…” She said with barely constrained delight before she turned to look at Clueless and run the back of her hand, painted claws and all, down his cheek like a valued pet.

	“Didn’t I tell you that there was no deal that Shemeska the Marauder couldn’t make? That all that mattered was the price to pay?” She smiled and leaned down till her lips nearly graced the bladesinger’s face and her whiskers tickled at his throat like lesser versions of the razorvine tiara curled atop her head.

	“Payment is due…” Came Vorkannis’s harsh whisper into the half-fey’s ear as he released the magical constraints and the bladesinger screamed as he was hurled and pinned down to a hard stone surface by a trio of Nycaloths at The Ebon’s direction. And as the Archfiend implanted the glowing gemstone into his ankle without concern or care for the blood and pain involved, all Clueless could hear ringing in his ears was the mocking laughter of The Marauder through it all, doubly so when she was handed a smaller stone to match the one buried deep within his leg.

	Even magically amplified and recreated the rest of the memories were a blur of agony filled with the screams of his companions as they too underwent the same torture as he. Through it all were the distant wail of petitioners that made up the tower and the snickering fiendish laughter of their tormentors. The last remnant of the memory was the voice of The Ebon snarling to one of the Nycaloths as he pointed to Clueless, “Take this and dump it in Hopeless, everything beyond that is arranged, you know what to do.”

	The memory of the pain flushed Clueless back to the present and he slumped against his mattress, exhausted from the recollection of the past. It was not a pleasant thing at all, not with what it brought to light regarding the jewel deep within his ankle and the personage that lurked behind it.

“B****, you’ve been playing me for a fool this entire time…” Clueless said as he glanced down warily at the gem…


***​

	Florian and Toras sat in the tap room of the Portal Jammer watching curiously as Tristol first set up the pieces and then began to teach them both the rudimentary basics of a game of wizards’ chess. The mage was smiling as he set up the board, happy to have two enthusiastic beginners to teach the game to; that and having more people to play with was an added bonus he wasn’t about to turn down.

	At the moment, Fyrehowl was out at the Great Gymnasium and Skalliska was off doing whatever it was that kobolds did when you yet them out. Probably stealing from gnomes or something like that. But Tristol’s attempts at teaching his two new eager students were abruptly put on hold as Nisha waltzed through the front door of the inn towards the stairs to the second floor. Tristol’s eyes followed the tiefling as she walked past whistling and her tail swinging, and jingling with a small silver bell tied to its tip.

	Florian commented first, “So what’s up with the new jewelry and everything?” He pointed to the half a dozen bracelets, necklaces and earrings the rogue was sporting, as well as the fact that she was dressed in a new suit of overly tight leather armor. The latter was not at all lost on Tristol who was suddenly smiling much more so than from his chance at teaching wizards chess which was rapidly slipping from his mind.

	Nisha grinned like a fool and pointed down to where her hooves were sparkling with a golden shine from what seemed to be a pair of golden horseshoes tacked onto her feet. She was also hovering around an inch off the floor. “My boyfriend was really good to me today.”

	While the tiefling giggled and jangled the bell on the tip of her tail, Florian raised an eyebrow. “You’re boyfriend huh? So when will we get to meet this fellow?”

	Tristol was trying hard not to gawk, but was failing miserably. He was saved by the fact that Nisha’s attention span was probably less than most species of fruit flies, and if she’d noticed him staring it probably simply slipped her mind.

	“Hmm? Who?” Nisha asked, twirling a new ring around her finger.

	“Your boyfriend?” Toras asked with some skepticism.

	“My what? I don’t hav… oh… him! Yeah…. Um… you wouldn’t know him.” The tiefling stammered.

	“No no, not who is he, but when do we get to meet him?” Florian asked again.

	“Uh…at some point in the indefinite future?” She asked while her tail, bell and all, curled into the rough shape of a question mark.

	“Riiiight. So who’d you bob for all the new stuff?” Florian asked with a grin.

	“Nobody! It was my new boyfriend who got it all for me, in a manner of speaking.” She was getting more flustered by the moment.

	“Ah, a new boyfriend he is now. And a ‘manner of speaking’? Hmm…” Florian said as Nisha stuck out her tongue and darted upstairs to her own room to avoid any further questions.

	“Tristol you’re liable to drool if you don’t stop staring. It’s cute and all, but she’s already taken I think. And the boy’s got jink too by the looks of it.” Florian said as Toras reached over to poke the aasimar who still had a goofy smile on his face. Tristol composed himself again and started going over the opening move of wizards chess, but the whole time Toras and Florian were glancing at each other then at Tristol, more amused by his apparent fancy to the thief than at the game.


***​
	It was dark when Clueless slunk out of the Portal Jammer towards to Lower Ward and the Styx Oarsman. In fact he hadn’t told any of his companions that he was going there, in his mind it would have raised too many questions and possibly led to them worrying about his trustworthiness. After all, he had a bitch of a fiend using him like a puppet, apparently at her fickle little whim.

	It all seemed like a plan and it all seemed to have gone off without a hitch till he was three blocks from the establishment and a familiar voice whispered into his right ear, and a soft jingle of bell rung out.

	“We need to get you to work on this whole sneaking around thing. You’re not quite as good as you think…” Nisha sounded far too chipper.

	Clueless paused and sighed, “How long have you been following me?”

	“Since I went downstairs to make a snack and saw you slip out the front door? I got curious and I didn’t have anything better to do. Besides, factol Darius was getting on my nerves, and factol Sarin was threatening to have me arrested if I didn’t ‘behave in an orderly fashion’. Can you blame me?”

	“Alright… this is sort of personal though. Promise not to tell anyone else if you stick with me tonight?” Clueless said with some seriousness.

	“No problem, Xaositect’s honor.” Nisha said with a jingle of the bell on her tail. But, despite the happy go lucky tone of her voice, she seemed serious enough about keeping Clueless’s trust on the matter and so he didn’t complain as she tailed along with him right up to the door of the Styx Oarsman.

	“Ugg… you sure you want to go in there? The beer is nasty and they threaten to eat you if you steal from them…” Nisha frowned as she looked up at the building whose walls were somewhat yellowed by the persistent smog of the Ward and spattered in a few places with the stains of old bar fights, magical scorches, and spilt food and alcohol. Otherwise, it seemed well kept for a fiend bar.

	“Yeah, I’m certain I want to go in there. I was there the other night, just not quite as myself… and I may have sold one of my old companions into slavery in the process, as well as handing over all those maps we got from the mercane into the hands of that Nycaloth who got flayed the other day…”

	Nisha’s ears perked at the mention of Garroth the Blind, “Yeah… speaking of him… well, tell you tomorrow, the doorman is looking at us weird.”

	True enough the muscular tiefling who stood outside the door of the bar was staring at the two of them with what appeared to be a silver wrapped club with a flared end. As the two of them approached the doorman sneered and lowered the ‘club’, actually a dwarven or gnomish blunderbuss, at Clueless and looked at Nisha.

	“Fiends only. You can head on in honey.” Clearly the man was enjoying his job.

	Nisha stepped closer up to him, took out a small package from her satchel and pressed it towards his hand, "How about he comes in with me? I promise he won't be too much trouble. How about it?"

	Clueless gave the slightest of a head tilt as he watched the doorman’s response to the idea, keeping his hands off his sword hilt. Nisha smiled with utter innocence as she then ran her tail across the underside of his hand as he took the package and examined their contents. Rolling out into his open hand were what appeared to be a collection of marked silver balls and small packages of gray powder with a slight acrid smell.

	He grinned and pocketed the bribe, stepping to the side, his eyes lingering on Nisha’s backside as he opened the door. Clueless nodded to him as he walked past, “Thanks…” murmured dryly as he walked in on Nisha’s heels. For her part she did her best to ignore the rude stares she was getting from the tiefling with the gun.

	As the door opened, the acrid smell of pipe smoke, alcohol, and unwashed fiends assaulted their nostrils, seeming to permeate the foul air. The bar was dark, save for a few candles on one or two of the tables that dotted the floor of the taproom. Their eyes quickly adjusted however, looking out at the glittering irises of a number of fiends, almost uniformly Tanar'ri, nursing drinks.

Clueless scanned the place on alert for the person he recognized from his memories of the event, he was also keenly on alert for any faces that seemed to recognize *him*. While he didn’t immediately see the old githzerai, Rule-Of-Three, he did see a number of persons of note scattered amongst the forty odd patrons that populated the taproom. The owner of the establishment, a shriveled looking githzerai Bleaker by the name of Egonz Vlaric who stood behind the bar, washing glasses, and the bright green quasit sitting next to him on a perch behind the bar who actually seemed to the be the one running things for its mentally numbed ‘master’.

To the rear of the chamber, a hydroloth, a hezrou, and a green slaadi sat at the same table near the back of the room by the far exit; and, leaning against the stairs up to the second floor, a cambion dressed in a rainbow colored, garish outfit, and a hulking mezzoloth nearly three times his size stood next to him keenly watching the patrons. Clueless made mental note of the two bouncers by the stairs as he took a seat next to Nisha at an empty table.

Clueless tried to stay calm and relaxed, letting himself slip into that dangerously alert mindset that presaged the beginning of the bladesong as he stayed alert for any signs of being watched at that point. He was just as alert for warning signals from his ankle as well, not that if it activated on him he’d have much of a choice in the matter…

Taking note of Clueless, the cambion started to walk over towards him and Nisha, though the hulking Mezzoloth stayed put near the stairs. Clueless noted him but otherwise tried to act like he was supposed to be there as Nisha walked back to sit down next to him with two drinks.

“So, you little s***licker, what the f*** are you doing back here so soon?” The cambion sauntered over and spoke as he stuck a booted foot up on the table. Clueless could only mentally think, ‘F***, I pissed off the bouncer here? Damn…’

“Oh I'm just here to see if the scenery improved..." Clueless said in that way that's not an insult, but might be taken as one.

Nisha looked up at him too, "I see YOU haven't changed a bit, as ‘colorful’ as ever…" She rolled her eyes at him.

He chuckled but left his foot up on the table, "So what did you actually come here for? The clientele may take a shine to at least one of you eventually, and I'd like to keep the peace, if not any order to the place."

 	"I'm interested in talking to some of the folks I was in here last with actually, if you've seen them around." Clueless said, still trying to act as if he was in exactly the place he was supposed to be.

The ‘Colorful Cambion’ took his foot off the table and crossed his arms, "Selling her this time? Busy boy. But lets see, Garroth is dead, Schliphis is over there…” He said, pointing to the table with the slaadi, tanar’ri and hydroloth, “and Rule of Three is upstairs."

Clueless glanced over at the table and took note of them before he nodded back to the bouncer, "Thanks."

The cambion hung around for a few minutes, chattering with Nisha, hitting on her but not getting anywhere. The tiefling played along but wasn’t giving anything away certainly, in any sense of the word. Eventually the bouncer wandered off as a Vrock several tables down tried to eat the face off of a rutterkin sitting next to it.

Clueless gave a low chuckle at the vrock then shook his head and looked at Nisha "Well, you up to playing along with this one?" He gave the slightest tilt of his chin in the hydroloth's direction.

Nisha looked up at him, "Tell you one thing I do know." She leaned in and whispered, "Now, I wouldn't work with them, for a number of reasons, but they're called the 3 Toads, and they run a fencing business, a good one. But they've got ties to somebody else’s purse, and I don't care to speculate on whose it is. I have my own people and I don't have to worry about them randomly eating me."

Nisha rose to get up from the table, "But I'm right behind you if you're going over there."

Clueless gave a low laugh "Well, I'm curious what I sold them in particular..." The statement was muttered but he nodding to Nisha and stretched for a half moment before getting up and heading in the direction of the 3 Toads, making it look like a casual stroll as best he could.

The two of them walked over to the rear of the bar as the mezzoloth bouncer walked past them both abruptly and they heard a dull thud from a few feet behind as something hit the floor with a pronounced crash. Looking back, the vrock was laying motionless on the floor, the 'loth standing over it with the blunt end of a green steel glaive aimed at the other tanar'ri's head while the cambion began motioning the other patrons to ignore it and go back to their drinks.

Clueless looked sharply over his shoulder since Nisha was right behind him after all, a slight rise of his eyebrow before he shrugged and turned his attention back to the Toads. As he walked up to their table, in unison all three of them looked up at him.

The Slaadi looks up and spoke first, "Doing you are how? Us with business more?" The hydroloth was eyeing them very warily and the hezrou was looking bored and off in another direction entirely.

The bladesinger gave a wry smile, not really reassuring but a little creepy, "I'm doing fine... I was curious how you'd found the deal last time to be?"

The 'loth looked up at him and hushed the Slaadi who promptly started playing with a crack in the table, pouring ale into it, and muttering in little voices about a big flood washing folks away...

"There was no deal last time. You just...." Schliphis narrowed her eyes and clammed up abruptly, a look of suspicion crossing her features.

The Hezrou looked over, and while eying Nisha, then Clueless, she spoke up, "Talk to my boy Rule of Three, he's more talkative than Schliphis.”

Nisha gave an uncomfortable look at the mention of Rule of Three, but otherwise she didn’t say a word.

"I just what?" Clueless questioned the ‘loth who only stared back at him, a bit of uncertainly playing across her face.

"Take his advice and talk to Rule of Three, I shouldn't say anything more. I follow what I'm told just like you did." She said, the fiendish stonewall very much falling into place.

Clueless stared hard at the ‘loth for a moment, then nodded, "Deals can always be made... I will let you think on that."

	Having said that, he jerked his chin at Nisha to follow him. She panned her eyes back around the room and then fell into place behind him, “Whatever you say…”

	The two of them headed towards the stairs and neither the Mezzoloth nor the cambion made any move to block them from walking up to the second story where a single open door faced the railing around the border of the awning surrounding the taproom. Through the doorway a single, wizened githzerai sat at a table nursing a trio of drinks.

	Nisha stood by the door, letting Clueless enter first, though she let her gaze wander down to the taproom below and the puzzled, and wary expression that played across the face of the hydroloth whose gaze lingered on Clueless and her as they entered Rule of Three’s office.

	The githzerai looked up from his drinks, looking for the most part calm and unsurprised, "Three toads there, three of us, they talk much."

"And three of us to the table, if ye will instead of four." Clueless replied.

Rule of Three smiled serenely and gestured for his guests to both sit, "What to discuss?"

As Clueless sat down he pulling out the three gold ingots from the mercane’s treasury and arranged them in front of the gith in a triangle, lightly tapping them in a circular fashion.

"My price paid, I take it, speak with me."

Clueless repeated the circle, making it look idle, twice more, "Curiosity runs high. I am ignorant, of past dealings."

Rule of Three sipped his drink three times, slowly, then looked back up, "You arrived here at this inn, we spoke, but WE did not speak."

Another three sips, "Gold, a friend, and betrayal."

The githzerai tapped his index finger on the ingots three times each, "But was it betrayal, or forced upon you both, by gems and others?"

Clueless replied, "... forced upon myself and him, there are three of us as such, and *I* do seek them."

"You sold him, but not all, took something too." The gith smiled and continued, "Garroth the Blind, now dead, was here as well." A second smile and he continued once more, "Schliphis the toad, took from you, what you took from the elf." A third smile and a last statement, "A gem, blue, black."

Clueless swallowed slightly and nodded, "The elf no longer carries it?"

"Yes, perhaps, no", Rule of Three shrugged and pointed at the bladesinger, "But, that was not our deal. We discussed only the sale of the elf. He was valuable, in the right places, to the right buyers."

Clueless nodded and the gith continued more, "Missing more than a stone you left him, without freedom, and without memories."

Clueless took a slow breath and queried Rule of Three, "... was he the only I have sold as such?"

"Yes for now."

He nodded back, "Where is he, for how much, to what fate?"

"To Tanar'ri slavers, 30,000 jinx, and to fight the Baatezu on the Waste.” The githzerai smiled as he sipped his drink, displaying rows of yellowed, crooked teeth.

	Clueless gritted his teeth almost to a grind before asking another question, “Price of return?”

"That is no longer possible, I serve as only the arranger of deals, not the owner." He tapped the ingots, "I can however tell you where the elf was sent by portal to meet with his new owners. That is free. Words come cheaply."

"Gratitude as well." Clueless responded quickly.

"Death of Innocence." The gith replied.

Clueless seemed confused, "Hold meaning to you, not to me… to you?" He said, looking at Nisha. The tiefling shrugged three times before the gith answered again.

"Niflheim, the second of three glooms, a shelter from the waste...", He smiled with sage-like wisdom that yet seemed malevolent despite the aid he was providing. And a moment later he continued, “Near the realm of Annwn, it staves off the gray gloom, but none know why."

"Know you more?" Clueless asked.

"Little more, I do not ask questions when yugoloths are at fault, they repulse me." He paused and drank a draught of firewine, "But to their face do I say that? Perhaps. No."

Clueless gave a soft grin as he nodded, "I do not like them, find myself bound to them, and wish free of them..." The tone of his voice was one of agreement more so than prodding.

Rule of Three smirked, "As all would." He inclined his head and said once more, "Ties bind tight, reigns not loose, contracts upon contracts." He then leaned backwards and whispered, more to himself, “But not forever…”

Clueless nodded in agreement - silent for the moment as he took a breath and digested the information. Nisha had remained largely silent and uneasy the entire time. She knew more about Rule of Three than Clueless apparently did, prime among her knowledge being that the elderly githzerai was anything but what he appeared to be, and he frightened her terribly…

Finally, Clueless asked one other question, "Words are easy, explanations maybe too, wheels within wheels?"

"That means nothing to me. The term is unfamiliar. To you perhaps not." Rule of Three shrugged honestly. "Portal to the Waste in the Lower Ward, ask the mezzoloth, the yugoloth traitor."

Clueless and Nisha both blinked slightly and their eyebrows went up at the statement as Rule of Three continued, "He lives for now, they allow him, not forever though if even Garroth is expendable."

Rule of Three collected his payment off to somewhere behind the table and asked a question of his own, "Garroth was said a traitor or deserter as well. True? False?"

"Unknown…" Clueless said after a brief pause "... traitors may be higher, or none at all. I know not."

"Finished? More to speak? Or no?" The githzerai asked, looking to Clueless and then to Nisha, standing perhaps to leave to other business himself.

"For now, none. Later visit perhaps. Meanwhile... thank you." Clueless said as he pondered his next course of action and he and Nisha stood to leave quickly.

"Indeed. Certainly. Farewell." Rule of Three whispered, his eyes vaguely trailing down to the gem that was lurking hidden behind the bladesinger’s pant leg and boot.

	And, perhaps in a prescient moment of luck, the owner of the other half of the gem in Clueless’s leg was occupied with other things and, for the moment, unaware of her errant toy’s actions. Not that it would have much mattered to her anyways, he was, after all, only a single cog in the turning of the Wheels and her prize was far more important than any chance of his gaining his freedom. If nothing else it would only prolong his torment before she ultimately disposed of him after he lost his utility, but such was an afterthought as she carried out her own portions of The Ebon’s vision.


----------



## Fimmtiu

Excellent way to render Rule-Of-Three's convoluted speaking style. I'll have to try to work him into my own game now -- that sounds like too much fun to play.

How would/did you deal with your players trying to circumvent this plot twist? I mean, if I were Clueless's player, I'd right away be either a) searching for or commissioning a wearable magic item with a continuous _Protection From Evil_ effect, or b) looking for a good-aligned cleric willing to cast _Regeneration_ on me immediately after a friend hacks off my leg at the shin. No way I'd still be walking around with that thing in more than half a session after I learned what it did.

Players are such contrary things. 

Miscellaneous edits: The second sentence of the first paragraph is a run-on. Last sentence of "Two figures stepped out of the shadows..." paragraph is seriously confused, pronoun-wise. Can't tell whose pelt is whose.


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## Clueless

I'm remarkably... nice. That and to be honest I grew up in Shadowrun - I *know* what a ticked off crimelord is like. If I'm going to take that gem out - I've got to take it out in such a way that she won't send people after me. (I still have it in my leg even now, but there's other reasons for that.)

Considering that we now know who made it... Prot Evil probably wouldn't be powerful enough a spell to disrupt the effect.


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## Shemeska

Fimmtiu said:
			
		

> Excellent way to render Rule-Of-Three's convoluted speaking style. I'll have to try to work him into my own game now -- that sounds like too much fun to play.




Fun yes. Nightmarishly hard yes. Both Clueless and I did that meeting with Ro3 over an AIM chat. All I did was transcribe it into story format, but the dialogue is the same as when we did it on the fly. 



> How would/did you deal with your players trying to circumvent this plot twist? I mean, if I were Clueless's player, I'd right away be either a) searching for or commissioning a wearable magic item with a continuous _Protection From Evil_ effect, or b) looking for a good-aligned cleric willing to cast _Regeneration_ on me immediately after a friend hacks off my leg at the shin. No way I'd still be walking around with that thing in more than half a session after I learned what it did.




I'm rather amazed this plot hook worked as long as it did. Other plot hooks lasted even longer, though they havn't sprung up in the story yet and won't for a while.

What Clueless said. He put up with it till he could find out what he'd fallen into fully, and till he could nullify it without risking her sending something or someone after him (like say, Adamok Ebon, her pet bladeling who has been ever so fun in that threatened capacity over the two years of this game...).

Eventually antimagic field came into play whenever he wanted to be certain that he was alone in his head without any lurkers.   However, the 'hack the leg off' idea was considered briefly if I recall, especially once the others found out what the heck the thing was.



> Miscellaneous edits: The second sentence of the first paragraph is a run-on. Last sentence of "Two figures stepped out of the shadows..." paragraph is seriously confused, pronoun-wise. Can't tell whose pelt is whose.




1st one I have little to no idea how to rectify that, thus it stays.
2nd one I worked on a tad, hopefully it's better.

I've had little to no time to actually proofread this update before posting it, hopefully it doesn't show too badly. Grammer is not my friend.


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## Clueless

"His tower, the symbol of his rule and the centerpiece of Yugoloth accomplishment, rose up out of the forsaken earth like a bloated fungal blight. Watered by the Styx and grown fat on the marrow of the dead god whose spine it was carved from, it was nearly forty miles in length all said and done."


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## Gez

Great update!

As long as we're grammar-nazifying:


> While the tiefling giggled and jangled the bell on the tip of her tail, Florian raised an eyebrow. “You’re boyfriend huh? So when will we get to meet this fellow?”




Indeed, if Nisha is a boyfriend now, I understand Florian's raising of an eyebrow.


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## shilsen

Clueless said:
			
		

> "His tower, the symbol of his rule and the centerpiece of Yugoloth accomplishment, rose up out of the forsaken earth like a bloated fungal blight. Watered by the Styx and grown fat on the marrow of the dead god whose spine it was carved from, it was nearly forty miles in length all said and done."



 Maybe it's just me, but I get the sense that he was compensating for something


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## Tristol

Okay, so I decided to actually post something. Call it inspiration. I remember when the whole Wizard's Chess bit was discussed that I had some interesting ideas regarding the actual makeup of the game. It's a strange cross between battle chess, regular chess, and of course, magic. Most, if not all mages need some intellectual stimulus to keep from going bored, and so Wizard's Chess was born.

The Board: Usually the board was chosen, or constructed, by the wizard proposing the game. The checkered spots were set up like a typical chess board, but the underlying terrain would vary from spot to spot. Sometimes historic epic battles could be played out between two opponents, or a completely new terrain and scenario could be constructed. Everything from mountains, rivers, flatlands, to cities and the planes themselves. Depending on the rules agreed upon before the game, the environment could effect a particular piece's abilities, but this was usually an optional rule.

The Pieces: In the event that a historic battle was being fought, the opposing sides would represent the different interests in the battle, often taking the forms of great leaders or participants in the battles. In the event of a new game however, pieces were usually constructed by each of the wizard's individually. Either through animating simple objects, illusions, or using real miniaturized people (more for the evil aligned wizards). Each individual set of pieces was crafted to represent ideals, abilities, or other things symbolic to the participants. Part of the fun of the game, was customizing each of your pieces with special spells and abilities, as well as defenses.

The Rules: Standard chess rules typically apply. Some extra options that could be added to the game were often added on as well, to make the game more challenging. One such example, would be actual battles between pieces. When a piece would attempt to 'take' another pieces from the board, there would be a show of power. Spells cast, defenses brought into existence, creatures summoned, etc. Under normal rules, the piece moving into the square would always win, as per normal chess rules. However, the optional rule allows the fight to be decided randomly, based solely off the construction of the pieces and the power imbued within it. Another optional rule would be terrain hindrance or bonuses. If a piece were more apt at being in the air, spaces that were predominantly open or air based would gain various advantages to their abilities. Pieces with a decided bias against the square would also take negatives when moving into the square.

The Effect: So, what does all this boil down to? A very flashy and showy game of chess, with some interesting quirks thrown in. Pieces combat each other, spells show off their power, and it was even known that wizards would write custom spells, just for their chess pieces, to provide that unique setting. However, there was always an incentive to play the game well. Once a piece is 'destroyed' it is either completely obliterated and can never be brought back, or once the piece fades from the playing field it becomes the possession of whoever took the piece. It really depends on who's doing the playing. Lastly, the wizard playing the game cannot interfere with the actions of any of the pieces. Just to keep things simple. The terrain and the board is fair game for modifying. The magic all the pieces wield is very real, but on a miniature level. While it might not hurt the wizards who are playing the game very much, it still has the potential to do a little harm. Death spells and other similar spells that have an effect such as paralysis or disintegration are altered when they leave the playing field so as not to injure anyone around. Some of the more thrill-seeking players often disable this safety feature, just so that they can get the extra adrenaline out of it.

Being an evoker, I tend to go with the flashier more destructive method of playing. The more excitement and variety thrown into the game the better. However, when I play, I play to capture the pieces. Starting a collection of 'victories' over other wizards is always a fun thing to do. Or, there's always a market amongst wizards to trade or purchase the pieces as well, so keeping them around can be profitable.


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## Clueless

And that's why I never play against you, Trist....


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## Fimmtiu

Tristol said:
			
		

> Another optional rule would be terrain hindrance or bonuses. If a piece were more apt at being in the air, spaces that were predominantly open or air based would gain various advantages to their abilities. Pieces with a decided bias against the square would also take negatives when moving into the square.




So we're basically talking about Archon on a real board? Sweet. I might have to steal that idea for a future game... the "game within a game" aspect might hook a couple of my players.


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## shilsen

Tristol said:
			
		

> Okay, so I decided to actually post something. Call it inspiration. I remember when the whole Wizard's Chess bit was discussed that I had some interesting ideas regarding the actual makeup of the game. It's a strange cross between battle chess, regular chess, and of course, magic. Most, if not all mages need some intellectual stimulus to keep from going bored, and so Wizard's Chess was born.
> 
> ...




Somebody seriously needs to create a computer game which allows one to play this. I'd buy it in a jiffy.


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## Clueless

Trist? C or the hated *booming voice of doom* Java */booming voice*?


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## Gez

Already made.

I remember I wanted to get Archon Ultra, back in the days, but couldn't find it.


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## Tristol

Clueless said:
			
		

> And that's why I never play against you, Trist....




Pitty, it's not like the game eats your soul or anything. I'm sure some wizards have thought of that one before though, so be careful whom you actually play with. Nisha certainly makes it interesting as she plays by the variant 'Do whatever you want.' She usually ends up winning that one.

But essentially, Yes, it's a lot like Archon, using a real board. Of course, 'real' depends on your interpretation of the word. Illusions can be made to seem and feel real, so it's a matter of perspective and power. There are lots of other variants I've got written down, and each of them adds a different twist to it, depending on how much time you spend putting together your pieces. The trick is to balance the fun with the work. As a side note, depending on the abilities of the wizards, some will even play from great distances, scrying on the pieces and playing remote games. So, if you find someone that poses a good challenge and want to play, but don't have the hours that may be required for it, simple variant games with moves every few hours or days can be played out as well.

As for Java or C. It's a game, and would likely required 3D. And if you're into effects and neat details, and want to take advantage of the hardware out there, C is the way to go.


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## Clueless

Well Nisha *cheats* - or something like that. I'm sure playing with your tail under the table constitutes some form of distracting the opponent. Naw, I don't play because I don't have time to make figurines just to have you snag em from me.  That and chess isn't where I'm my most sneaky. You know where I'm my most sneaky.


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## Shemeska

*(insert witty remark here)*

The next two days were filled with much deep thought on the part of Clueless and Fyrehowl. The bladesinger was growing more and more convinced that he would need to leave for the Waste, and soon, if he stood much chance of finding his former adventuring companion. But at the same time he was worried about the gem in his leg, and the fiendess behind it, taking exception to any actions he might take.

	Similarly, Fyrehowl was slowly managing to convince herself that she needed to go back to Elysium to either investigate the information they had found on the mercane regarding something happening on the layer of Belarian, or at least to speak with one of the Guardinal highups in the fortress of Rubicon on the same layer to inform them of anything untoward that might be happening unbeknownst to them. However, the fact that the maps and notes they had taken from the Imshenviir mercane had vanished without a trace had put a hold on her plans for the moment.

	And so, in the time that she was spending overly thinking about such matters, Fyrehowl had, with a liberal dose of irony, been spending more and more time at the Great Gymnasium, training with and speaking to a number of adherents of the philosophy of the Transcendent Order. It was just such a dose of irony, considering their teachings, which reared its ugly head one morning when she sat down next to Clueless over breakfast with Florian and Tristol.

	“So has anyone else seen Nisha since yesterday?” Tristol asked.

	“For about thirty seconds. She was in and out just to grab some food and make fun of the Factol Sarin doll. And speaking of which, the Factol Nilesia doll sprouted blades stuck all through it yesterday… word travels fast even for animated dolls it seems.” Florian remarked.

	“And some pervert asked if he could ‘rent’ the doll and a room for an hour. I mentioned something about, ‘those are sharp’ and ‘please leave’ and he wandered off…” Clueless said with a shiver.

	“Nisha seemed preoccupied with something actually. I swear that she actually looked nervous and paranoid when she was here. I stopped her and asked her if anything was wrong and she brushed it off as ‘boyfriend troubles’ and walked out.” Florian said.

	Fyrehowl edged closer to Clueless, getting a raised eyebrow from Florian as she smiled at the bladesinger. “Speaking of all of that, I’ve been meaning to ask you about something for a while, but I haven’t been able to get up the courage and wherewithal to actually ask, but ..." Florian looked at Fyrehowl again and the lupinal paused. "Actually, nevermind, I'll ask you later."

	Clueless looked at her oddly, completely oblivious to any insinuation, and to the fact that both she and Florian had actually been competing with each other for over a week or more for his attention. Both of them seemed interested in the bladesinger, and he hadn’t so much as noticed it.

Clueless was still oblivious, and Florian mentally rolled his eyes and was on the verge of saying to Fyrehowl, ‘Apparently the ciphers haven’t been teaching you much if this is any clue.’. 

	Florian looked at his ale, pushed it forwards, stood up and poured himself four fingers of Bytopian whiskey, but otherwise didn’t say more before Toras walked in carrying a stack of letters and envelopes, one of them heavily stained with some greasy material that was dripping on the floor. He dropped them on the table and took a seat with his companions with a single statement, “Junk mail…”

	“Really? Addressed to us even… didn’t take them all very long…” Clueless said as he and the others started to look over all of them.

	Among the various offers of services ranging from linen cleaning to dishwashing to security, several places of business stood out from the rest: a letter of appreciation of business from ‘The Friendly Fiend’, a letter of services offered by ‘The Sanitation Guild’ and their standard rates for monthly service, a business card from a wizard’s bar and shop in the Clerk’s Ward by the name of ‘The Pentacle’, a notice of responsibilities and voting rights for the next Sigil Advisory Council elections later in the year, and three other amusing bits of mail.

	“These look to have been there since the day the place was ours officially…” Toras said, holding up two letters that had been nailed to the front of the wooden box that served to hold their mail. Florian took them from Toras and started to look them over.

	“Two letters, one from ‘Zadara the Titan’, and another from ‘Shemeska the Marauder’. Both of them are offering to buy our inn from us. The Marauder’s was nailed on top of the titans, and it looks like someone added in ‘sleeps with Fomorians’ next to any place Zadara put her name on that letter. The Titan’s letter makes mention that we should ‘ignore any offers from gutter skimming fiends with the temerity to think themselves a king of anything’. Yep… pleasant rivalry there I’m sure.”

	Tristol rolled his eyes and Clueless stiffened at the mention of the King of the Crosstrade. “Write a polite letter back to the Titan and ignore the fiend. I don’t care that she’s offering double whatever the titan who ‘sleeps with Fomorians’ is offering.” The bladesinger said.

	“Not a problem, there’s no way I’m selling this place, not even a fraction of my share. Land is hard to own in this city, and I won’t sell out to either of those two. Though it’s amusing to watch the unabashed civility between those two, isn’t it?” Florian said, balling up both letters and tossing them to the floor before looking at the final piece of mail.

	“Toras… why is that letter dripping something? And it smells too…” Fyrehowl said, wincing as Toras opened up the letter and dropped out a moldy, partially liquefied rat corpse onto the table.

	“It’s a promotional letter and ‘free sample’ from ‘Parts and Pieces: owned and operated by Seamusxanthuszemus, merchant most excellent and slayer of fiends, aka that mephit with the hat’. Apparently he put us on his mailing list…”

	Clueless sighed, “I’ll go make sure we don’t get any more… gifts… from the mephit. It’s in the Market Ward right?”

	Toras nodded, “Sure is, feel free to take the letter too, and the rat, they’re getting pretty ripe. Threaten to shove him in his hat or something.”

	“Umm… just toss the rat into the trash. I’ll handle the mephit, how hard could it be?”

	“No, seriously, threaten to shove him into his own hat!” Toras was grinning far, far too much when Clueless left the inn to handle that tiny chore.

***​
	The entrance to the shop was a single freestanding archway in a corner of the Great Bazaar from which a single sign and a tiny, battered tin bucket hung. The sign was battered with age and covered in graffiti that had accumulated over the years, but still visible on the front of the wooden sign was the following: ‘Pieces and Parts’ painted crudely over atop of a much more finely carved name of ‘Pets and Meat’ from the shop’s previous incarnation when it had a different owner than the dust mephit who held nominal and unchallenged possession at the moment, and for the foreseeable future.

	The tin bucket, which looked like it had seen the abuse of passersby was filled with a motley collection of small animal bones from birds, mice, rats, and others of more unidentifiable origin, some still decorated with gristle and sinew as well as their attracted coterie of buzzing flies.

	Looking at the bucket and taking one of the more dry and clean bits of bone, Clueless looked at the small instructions that had been painted on the side of the bucket. In the same paint as the shop’s sign, they read: “Portal keys, free to paying customers only.”

	“So what happens if I don’t like any of the c*** you sell once I get inside. Maybe Toras was right…” Clueless said with a shrug before tossing the bone through the archway. Almost immediately the archway swirled with blue light and Clueless emerged into a poorly lit chamber that stank like a charnel house.

	The floor of the shop was piled high with neat stacks of arms, legs, heads and other parts of a wide and exotic assortment of animals from dogs, to wyverns, to cranium rats and things even more exotic. Across the room were stacks of bones, fully bereft of flesh unlike the side of the chamber that Clueless was rapidly stepping away from to escape the stink of putrefying flesh.

	“Twenty gold pieces! I never bargain!” Came a shrill, high pitched, whiny voice from the shopkeeper’s desk, hidden behind the form of an angry Night Hag who was holding out a pair of eyeballs and the leg bone of some other creature while banging her other hand on the hard surface in front of her.

	“I’ll pay you two or I’ll stuff the bones down ‘yer throat and help myself to the entire sodding shop you morbid little vermin of a mephit!” Came the hag’s voice. 

	“Two gold pieces it is! I always bargain!” Came the squeaking voice of the shopkeeper as a pair of scrawny gray hands scooped up the pair of gold coins and began counting them over and over as the hag picked up her purchases and brushed Clueless out of the way as she walked to the portal.

	“…should feed him to the larvae one of these days ‘n put up with his lip…” She muttered as she stepped through the portal.

	“Greetings! Welcome to my glorious and most awesome shop you who happen to walk in on me when I’m doing the most important thing of the day, counting out my awesome profits!” Clueless winced as the mephit’s voice grated on his ears.

	Seamusxanthuszemus was dressed in a dingy gray suit and banded gray and white stockings whose feet dangled a few loose inches off of his toes. Perched on his head was a banded, multicolored woolen hat several feet longer than his entire body. The mephit grinned and held up his two new gold pieces from the hag, removed the hat and tossed the coins in. Clueless assumed it was magical, some sort of cap of holding like a bag of the same nature. At least he assumed it until Seamus stood up and the coins fell to the base of the cap and jingled in the floor as they bounced while he walked over to greet his new customer.

	“Hi, my name’s Clueless and…”

	“Huh, looked more Eladrin to me, but all you berks look alike anyways! What can I help you with today you lousy potential piece of merchandise waiting to die and living on borrowed time?” The mephit’s voice was grating even more on Clueless as it cut him off.

	“Take us off your mailing list. We’re not intereste…”

	“Glad to know you liked your first free sample! Just one of many I assure you from Seamusxanthuszemus, Merchant Most Excellent, Purveyor of Death and Slayer of Fiends!” Seamus grinned like a fool as he help up a skull in front of him, moving the jaw up and down as he spoke.

	“No. I didn’t. I was rotting and stank up our other mail. Don’t send up anything more or I’ll send one of my friends who has far less tact and patience than I do.” Clueless said with his hand on his sword.

	“Nonsense! I never bargain!” The mephit said as he hopped back onto his desk with a resounding ‘chink’ as the coins in his hat clattered on the surface.

	“But you just told the hag you always bargain.”

	“Ahh… your ears are failing… first thing to go they say…”

	Clueless tried to explain his position again to the mephit and was nearly ready to stuff the damn shopkeeper in his own hat without relying on Toras to do so when the shop’s portal opened again. Turning around to look, he didn’t see anyone and, figuring it person messing with the portal keys back in the bazaar, he turned back to the mephit. He changed his opinion when a tall figure slipped out of the shadows without a sound less than a foot from him to drop a stunned and still living reptile across the mephit’s desk.

	Dressed in little but a loincloth, the Bladeling towered over Clueless by at least two feet and glanced down at him with violet eyes like amethysts frozen in ice. Her skin was spiked and razor tipped in places like a living suit of spiked armor and seemed to nearly blend in with the shadows in the shop. Clueless stepped back from her as she turned to look at him and then to the mephit.

	“Pay me up front this time Seamus or I bring it back to the Beastlands.” She said softly, whispered almost.

	“Of course! I never bargain!” The mephit said as he rummaged behind the counter for a moment.

	“And pay me in something other than copper this time. It would be… appreciated…” Her tone changed almost to a threat for a split second, following which the mephit put down one bag of coin, smiled and picked up another that he handed to her.

	“If you have a request for the next time, say it now or I’ll gather what’s more plentiful and leave it at that.” Adamok said, not looking at the mephit as she sliced open the top of the bag of coin with a single deft movement, belaying the fact that what Clueless had first presumed to be part of her own spiked skin were in fact a pair of semi-retractable blades strapped to her forearms or the top of her hands.

	“A hydra if you can find one. One of the ones that spits ice at people and freezes ‘em solid! Always a fun way to watch someone go, they’ve got that frozen look on their faces right before they fall over and bust into a hundred pieces!” Seamus clapped his hands together in glee at the very thought.

	Adamok smirked as she picked up the animal she had brought in and began to systematically butcher it, separating the severed body parts into piles at the mephit’s discretion. Given the bladeling’s cold skill in what she did, and was at the moment doing, Clueless shivered to think of any poor sod being hunted by her. And then Clueless remembered the story he’d heard about just whom the Bladeling worked for on a permanent retainer of sorts… The Marauder.

	On that thought, Clueless smiled and walked back towards the portal leading out of the shop. As he did he felt uncomfortable and glanced back at the Bladeling, certain that she would be staring at his back with those merciless violet eyes. But, as he looked back she was concentrating fully on her work for Seamus and not paying him the slightest bit of attention. Relieved somewhat by that fact, Clueless hurriedly exited the shop.

	“Sendings are fun. Anyways, meet me back at the inn at peak. Important.” Came Nisha’s voice bouncing around inside Clueless’s head the moment he re-emerged back in the Great Bazaar, and it also sounded inside the minds of every one of her companions wherever in Sigil they happened to be at the time.

	Glancing up at the brightness in the sky, and judging it to be near to peak, Clueless set out to return to the inn. Elsewhere in Sigil, Skalliska got up from her desk and set out across the city, on the border of the hive Toras stopped beating muggers and stealing their money, and Florian waved goodbye to A’kin after having spent an hour making small talk with the Friendly Fiend.

***​
	Clueless sat down at a corner table in the tap room of the Jammer as Nisha sat next to him, fiddling with something or another that she had either bought or stolen. She was laughing softly and ignoring him till he finally reached over and prodded her out of her fascination.

	“Did you actually pay for that? Or did you steal it? … And just what in the nine hells is that anyways?”

	Nisha held up what appeared to be a scale model of a Blue Slaadi head with large, oversized googly eyes and a whimsical expression on its face. Clueless only raised an eyebrow.

	“Do you think I’d actually take the risk and steal tacky, yet utterly amusing for knowing my taste, crap like this? No, this I paid jink for. Besides, I try not to steal too much from A’kin every month. Florian mentioned he saw this in his shop when he was there buying the dolls last time and I found it amusing.”

	Clueless paused and looked at her weirdly before asking, “Wait wait, you steal from A’kin? The fiend?”

	“He’s friendly. Besides, he knows it I think. I eventually bring it all back when I remember about it, and I think he actually puts out stuff that snags my attention just so I don’t make off with all the stuff he really wants to sell.” Nisha smiled and held up the stuffed Slaadi head. “Besides, this is just crazy enough to be worth my gold. Press the symbol on his forehead.”

	Clueless did just so and the head sprang into motion, with the tongue flapping in and out, the eyes spinning around and flashing different colors, all before it settled down and spoke, “Xanxost knows lots about mephits. Mmmm… mephits…”

	The tiefling giggled and Clueless had to laugh along with her. “Alright, that’s actually rather cute, in a seriously warped sort of way. It fits you alright.”

	Nisha just smiled as slowly their other companions gathered to take a seat and stare at her expectantly, and stare at the speaking Slaadi head with a mixture of amusement and bewilderment.

	Florian glanced over at Nisha, “Nisha! Did you steal that from A’kin?!”

	“No! Not this anyways!” She clutched at ‘Xanxost’ like some sort of chaotic teddy bear.

	“…what do you mean, not that anyways… A’kin’s a really friendly guy, and you shouldn’t take advantage of him.” Florian still had his finger out accusingly at Nisha.

	“A’kin is rather nice and friendly… for a godless abomination…” Toras said somewhat bluntly to Florian’s scowl.

	“He oh perfectly hardly, take I what knows well, give and it back always I!” Nisha’s suddenly foray into a torrent of seamless scramblespeak ended any further discussion of the matter and finally got her the silence she wanted before explaining why she had asked all of them to join her there.

	“Anyways Nisha, what was this all about anyways?” Tristol asked as Nisha put away ‘Xanxost’.

	Nisha smiled again as all eyes turned to her. “Well, you know how all the stuff from the mercane went missing?”

	“Yeah… tell me about it…” Clueless said, feeling distinctly guilty and unaware that Tristol had, for the past day, been looking oddly at the large patch of null magic around Clueless’s legs whenever he was talking about anything important.

	“I have it all.” Another grin from the tiefling.

	“… what? How? You stole it from Clueless?” Florian asked, growing slightly livid.

	“No no no. You know the guy who got flayed the other day with Nilesia? He had them… I cleaned his place out five minutes after he got penned in the dead book.”

	The unbelieving silence was deafening.

	“And a good thing I did, because the place went up in flames a few minutes later… however, I don’t know if anyone noticed me or not, and I’d have sworn that I was being trailed once or twice since then. That’s why I haven’t been around here much. I didn’t want to risk anyone torching this place too, especially with all of you in it.”

	“You’re nuts, you know that? You’re wonderful, but you’re crazy sometimes.” Toras said.

	“What happened to your boyfriend problems and all?” Florian asked.

	“I don’t have a boyfriend. What do you mean? …oh! *That* boyfriend… heheh yeah…” She gave a guilty grin and jangled the silver bell on the tip of her tail.

	“Garroth’s jink went a long ways to buying me some new stuff. Too bad we had to split up though so soon. Sniff sniff.” She winked and tapped her golden horseshoes on the taproom floor.

	“Oh, but you’ll meet the other boyfriend soon enough. I’ll bring him over for dinner at some point, though the relationship isn’t going well and you probably won’t see him all too much after that. Trust me…” another wink and a sly grin from Nisha before the others started asking questions.

	“So can we see whatever you found?” Clueless asked.

	“Oh well none of the stuff is actually here. I stuffed it in one of my little places over in the Hive.”

	“You have places in the Hive?” Fyrehowl asked with a measure of disbelief.

	“Well not the Hive really, technically it’s the Slags.”

	“Oh so much better there… are you nuts?”

	“Not always! And hey, they land is cheap. And by cheap I mean squatter style cheap. And when you trap the front door, there’s remarkably little competition for the place. And there’s always that whole little cinnamon smelling monster of an urban legend, I think, that keeps most people away from the area if they have any lick of sense to them.”

	“Is it telling that you keep a safehouse in the same area then Nisha?” Fyrehowl asked.

	“Yeah, but isn’t it?” Nisha was grinning, and none of them were quite sure if it was on purpose if she simply hadn’t gotten the insinuation from the lupinal. In any event though, she managed to convince them to follow her from the Clerk’s Ward into the southwestern border area between it and the Hive. As they passed from the Sandstone district and out into the Hive itself, a long and ragged wall stood to their south, covered in cuts and scratches that spelled out words, names, and abstract symbols.

	Nisha pointed to the wall, “And that’d be the scratchwall. If anyone’s curious I’ll tell you how to read it at some point. I’ve found job offers through it before, oddly enough. Not all the graffiti is graffiti, some of it’s code and such. But in any event, we’ve got to hop over the wall here at the next block.”

	Toras was enjoying scaring off any Hive dwellers who so much as looked at them all with an appraising eye, and Clueless was walking with his sword openly slung over his shoulder. Fyrehowl was nervous on the other hand, having the feeling that they were being watched, and not just from the impoverished citizens that watched them with sullen and avaricious eyes from the broken stoops and doorsteps of the ramshackle buildings that jutted up against the wall separating the Hive from the Slags.

	Once over the wall itself the contrast was overwhelming. Whereas the Hive had been a tattered collection of crumbling buildings, criminals, the forsaken, the forgotten, and the starving, the Slags were worse. Existing as the remnants of a Blood War spillover into Sigil hundreds of years before, the wasteland that stretched out miles in each direction beyond the wall was a harrowing sight. Steam and smoke rose up from cracks in the earth and ruins of formerly proud buildings dotted the landscape that seemed to have been plucked from Oinos and deposited in the heart of urbanized Sigil.

	“And you live here Nisha? Is this wise?” Florian asked incredulously.

	“Only when I’m hiding something, or myself from somebody. And wise? Think about it, the only people that come in here won’t mess with me, they’re all on the run from somebody else or they’re completely crazy.”

	“My point exactly…” The cleric replied, taking his axe out and cradling it in his arms.

	“Oh, and if you see any minor fiends, vargouilles, shambling undead, or anything worse, do tell the rest of us. They’re a problem sometimes.” Nisha was whistling as they walked through the war torn and forgotten sprawl, the bell on the end of her tail jingling a cheery tone that seemed bizarre given the surroundings.

	They continued at a brisk pace, and several times Fyrehowl stopped and looked around, once again swearing that she felt someone nearby watching them. However despite that, she never noticed any concrete evidence of her suspicions being true, and none of the others picked up on, or shared, her feelings by the time Nisha had stopped them all at the rubble of a ruined building. The ruin seemed to have once been a shop, though it’s windows had long since been broken with only the jagged remnants of them sticking out around the rotting frames.

	“Well, here we are. Whatcha think?” The tiefling asked as she started disarming a series of traps around the edges of what turned out to be a trapdoor leading down underneath the shell of the building.

	“It’s rather out of the way.” Clueless said.

	“I approve.” Skalliska said, poking at the dried blood around one of the traps’ areas of effect from some unfortunate who had tried in the past to get around them.

	“The neighborhood really has gone downhill I think.” Toras said with a smirk.

	Nisha chuckled and jingled the bell on her tail with each trap she disarmed. “Anyways, just follow me, shouldn’t take more than a few minutes more to disarm these all on the way down.”

	“You trapped the way down from the trapdoor?” Clueless asked as they all followed Nisha down a thin iron rung ladder into the darkness below.

	“Overkill, huh?” She said as they eventually worked their way down to the bottom and past an iron door into a cozy chamber whose magical lights sprung into effect almost instantly with a rosy glow.

	They all followed in and took to looking at the various items Nisha had stashed throughout the room on shelves, tables, the floor, hung from the ceiling and generally arranged in some madcap method that only she likely really understood; and that by itself was probably in question. In one corner enough vegetables to make up a small grocer’s cart were stacked haphazardly along with several jars of paint and what almost seemed to be several bags of plucked feathers; none of them bothered asking what might rationally explain it all.

	“Anyways, here’s all the stuff that I bobbed from Garroth the Blind’s kip the other day. Well, what I didn’t pawn off for jink that is. There’s the stuff that vanished…” She glanced at Clueless out of the corner of her eyes, “and there’s a bunch of other stuff he had too.”

	Clustered around a table that was arranged in nearly perfect and pristine order, in stark contrast to the rest of the room, just to be random apparently, were a number of curious items: several mimirs, several maps, a letter or two, and a few gems that glowed a soft light across the table.

	Florian unfurled one of the maps while Toras picked up one of the mimirs and began to sift through its recorded information while Clueless picked up the letter on the table. The first map was of Sigil itself, with notations over the Prison, the Gatehouse, and Portal Schmortal, apparently still using the old name of the inn. Other than marking locations, it held no other useful information.

	The other maps were more confusing; one of them mapped out the city of Skeinheim on Ysgard, another the city known as The Madhouse on Pandemonium, and the last was a map of the Shattered Temple.

	“Odd taste in vacation spots for a dead Yugoloth I’d say…” Florian said as he furled the maps and glanced over to Toras as the warrior activated the first mimir. Without any introduction it began to play back a recorded speech in the voice of a man who was instantly recognizable, even five years after his death at the hands of The Lady:

_"I reckon Sigil is the Lady's Cage. The Powers really don't want to get in. They've trapped her here so they can watch her like a monkey in a zoo. 'Course, it could be the other way around; maybe the universe is a cage for all the other powers, and only Sigil is free. From Sigil the Lady looks in at the Powers like they're the zoo animals. That'll all change when I'm in charge..."_

	“Spoken by Duke Rowan Darkwood, Factol of the Fated before the Hall of Speakers five years, thirty two days before present.” The mimir intoned before it began to replay more in a series of recorded speeches by the late Factol. As the mimir droned on in Rowan Darkwood’s voice, bubbling with confidence and arrogance at once, the recordings all harkened on one subject, the Duke’s ambitions and collected information in his quest to hunt down information on Sigil’s murky past. Specifically it focused on the past history of The Lady, the mage Shekelor and the unknown mage who preceded him and legends claimed had nearly struck down The Bladed Queen before, unable to kill him, She bottled him within an artifact known as The Labyrinth Gem.

	The companions listened spellbound as the mimir began to recount further information regarding the actual fate of the Duke, something which was not fully public knowledge. That the Duke had been hurled backwards in time, that bereft of his memories he had become that ancient wizard and been bottled in the Labyrinth Gem only to killed by himself when the future happened again as it had before. For all legend claimed for him, The Lady had played with him like a toy. He had never been a threat.

	The mimir ended and the last continued on regarding the contents of the Duke’s library of collected information into Sigil’s past and his mad search for clues, anything really, that might have helped him gain power or some insight into The Lady. The listing was without real rhyme or reason, but if someone were looking for information on a specific part of Sigil’s past it would have been invaluable.

	“Well damn. We might not have to do anything at all. Just let them end up getting themselves mazed or flayed if they follow up on anything Darkwood was looking into.” Toras said with a grin as he put down the mimirs.

	“I don’t know. I doubt it really, it’s almost like Garroth was just digging up dirt on Sigil’s past in general and Darkwood just ended up doing a lot of that work for him so it’s natural that there’s lots of stuff from him here.” Florian said, responding to Toras.

	Clueless was reading the letters in the meantime, all of them written to Garroth and all of them unsigned and written in the same elegant hand with ink that was doped with gold dust.

_“Once he arrives from the ethereal, take custody of the elf and deliver him to the Styx Oarsman. I will handle the rest from there as it concerns him. Additionally I will be handing you a sheaf of papers from our late patsy mercane, I trust you to memorize the material and dispose of them as you see fit. 
Secondly, the elf will be giving you a gem shortly before he regains control over himself. Be prepared to gag him once he does so to prevent his screams from attracting attention, and if it appears he may bleed to death, staunch the wound or hack the leg off and cauterize the stump.
	Finally, hand the gem over to Schliphis after you meet with me in the Oarsman. She’ll handle that matter from there and your hands will be washed clean of the matter. The others’ directives will concern you from that point onwards.”_

	The second letter was even more interesting to the bladesinger as he read over its words and his blood rose a few degrees in anger at the hand that had written them.

_“Garroth, find D’jekk Nlarr wherever the hell she is and find out what the hell went wrong in the mazes. When I say I want people dead, I want them incinerated, hacked to pieces, their killer holding their hearts in his hand, and the like; I don’t want some halfassed s*** like ‘oh I thought they were dead so I didn’t waste any more spells’. She’s still useful, so at most beat the ever living c*** out of her, rape her bloody, do what you like, but make sure she stays alive. Find me that information or else the bitch’ll be seeing me and I’ll find it out myself. You at least are competent. I’ve passed along my opinion as such to Helekanalaith, you’ll be keen to note his opinion on the matter.”_

	“B****…” Clueless whispered as he pocketed the letters while the others examined and then activated the first in a series of sensory stones containing illusory images of the events they had recorded. Nisha poked Clueless after he pocketed the notes, but otherwise she said nothing and it seemed as if the others hadn’t noticed.

	Holding up the first gem, Tristol activated it after having examined it for any malevolent dweomers. Springing into the air over the gem was an image, from Garroth’s perspective of a red and gold robed Arcanaloth with rich, chocolate brown fur and a pair of copper rimmed spectacles looking out over a landscape of erupting volcanoes and rivers of lava underneath a black void of a sky; Gehenna. The arcanaloth turned to smile at Garroth and spoke to him less as a superior than as a teacher to a promising student of many ranks lower than their own education. The arcanaloth also held a brightly glowing blue gem in his hand, roughly the size of a hen’s egg; Clueless noted it almost immediately and narrowed his eyes as he watched the image speak.

	“I am well aware that you have long awaited the opportunity to advance in caste, to finally be promoted to Arcanaloth. You have done well and I have followed the Marauder’s reports on your progress. To that end, she or I are willing to sponsor you for promotion, so confident are we in your potential.

Once you have returned Nilesia to Sigil, allow her to do as she wishes and only observe and take note of what comes to pass. I remain curious on the outcome of it all. Trust me when I tell you that your current assignment in Sigil shall be your last; your days as a Nycaloth are numbered few.”

	And with that, the image paused and withdrew back into the gem. The irony of the final statement was not lost on its audience as Toras, Florian and Fyrehowl chuckled openly.

	“Wow, there’s some dramatic irony if I’ve ever seen it. Talk about breaking a few eggs to make an omelet… there’s some loyalty for you…” Toras said as Tristol activated the last gem.

	The light in the room seemed to dim slightly as the cobalt-robed arcanaloth’s image appeared in the air, its reddish pink eyes piercing in their intensity. As it spoke, the voice was instantly recognizable as the same voice that had spoken to all of them in the mercane’s demiplane, telling them to ‘clean up loose ends’ for him. As the image played, Garroth’s voice spoke to the arcanaloth with reverence that seemed almost odd to hear from a yugoloth’s lips. ‘The Ebon’ was all that the Nycaloth referred to the arcanaloth as, but the name or title sunk into the memory of the companions as they watched the scene unfold. Clueless was fixated more than anything else on the blue gem, identical to that carried by Helekanalaith, which hovered above The Ebon’s open hand.

	“Helekanalith and I have spoken Garroth, and I concur with his and The Marauder’s opinions both. Following this last series of assignments in Sigil we feel it appropriate to test you for advancement. So keep that in mind in the next few weeks, your rebirth in the furnaces of Gehenna to emerge in a new, glorified form. Your time as a Nycaloth is short indeed, the days are limited and fast approaching an end.

	But, you came here for a bit of knowledge and I’ve given you that, but let me leave you with a few words of wisdom as well to ponder over. I once had a very wise prime say to me, ‘This is what we do. We appease their conscience. Anyone who can appease a man’s conscience can take his freedom away from him. And in the end they will lay their freedom at our feet and say ‘Make us your slaves, but feed us.’’ 

I would add further that there is no greater fault and liability than tarnished pride. Soothe a man’s sullied pride and he will lay his soul at your feet, forsaking everything that you returned to him.”

	With that, the image faded with a smile upon The Ebon’s lips that left the air feeling chill even after the gem went still and silent. Nisha however was paying little attention to the gem, but rather was at the door out of the room, listening intently at something outside and above.

	“Guys… I think someone was outside and just left. I’m positive I heard someone on the ladder going back up…”

	“And none of you believed me when I said we were being followed…” Fyrehowl sighed and drew her sword as Nisha grabbed a wand and kicked open the door with the others in fast, but cautious, pursuit.

	“Not a problem, we just kill them and they won’t do it again. Hard lesson, but I’ve found that it usually works.” Toras said as he followed.

	“Why did you have to pawn all of Garroth’s stuff within days of stealing it all? If you’d waited they might have assumed it all went up in flames! What sort of thief worth their salt does that?” Skalliska was incredulous as she scampered up after Nisha.

	Seconds later, as they clambered quickly back to the surface, Fyrehowl could just barely detect a scent that smelled almost like steel and oil. However, the thought was lost as they gathered outside the ruins atop Nisha’s safehouse and a half-dozen crossbow bolts buried themselves inches from each of them.


----------



## Clueless

Maybe a small .wav file of the mephit voice would wake people up?


----------



## shilsen

Clueless said:
			
		

> Maybe a small .wav file of the mephit voice would wake people up?



 That'll teach me to read it, say "woohoo!" and not post a response


----------



## Shemeska

Clueless said:
			
		

> Maybe a small .wav file of the mephit voice would wake people up?




Given access to a mic I'll do just that...


----------



## Graywolf-ELM

Same here.  Nice Long post.  I don't always comment.  The clepto saves the day by getting back all the plot catalysts.

GW


----------



## FyreHowl

Dont tempt me Shemeska. I have a built in microphone in my laptop. Be prepared to do a mephit recording this weekend! *insert pathetic evil laughter attempt here*


----------



## Shemeska

FyreHowl said:
			
		

> Dont tempt me Shemeska. I have a built in microphone in my laptop. Be prepared to do a mephit recording this weekend! *insert pathetic evil laughter attempt here*




Sounds good to me.

And a note for everyone, I spent most of this week doing thesis work in my lab and writing up another story only tangentially related to the storyhour so I'm not going to have this updated till sometime monday evening. (Spring break so I'm not teaching lab at all next week so I'll actually have monday evening off to write).

Well, I could stay up all tonight and not sleep and get it done, but I'd then fall asleep during the final session of Clueless's alternity game tommorow.  So expect an update monday sometime.


----------



## Shemeska

That story that was the cause of the update being pushed back till Monday, 'The Dire Shepherd, Baernaloth of The Demented'


----------



## Dakkareth

Well, I'm patient ... yet. Not sure how long that will last. It's been a while since the last fix, you know? The WotC Planescape board doesn't help anymore and what few material I own is running out, too ...


----------



## primemover003

It doesn't help I can't access Planewalker from work either (thinks it's a porn site of all things!!!).  It really get's my goat...


----------



## Clueless

*BOGGLE* Yer kidding right?!


----------



## Shemeska

*"And in the eyes of a jackal I say KABOOM" - Smashing Pumpkins 'XYU'*

Clueless, Skalliska and Nisha dove for cover behind bits of rubble while Toras and Florian raised their weapons and stood their ground. Tristol was cringing in anticipation of a second flurry of bolts even as he whispered the words to a spell of shielding. Had any of them been watching Fyrehowl they would have seen the lupinal seemingly step out of the way a split second before the bolts hit their intended target, a staggering amount of either luck or cadence guided instinct.

	Long seconds passed and no more bolts cut the air with their passing and all around there was silence and nothing more. Skalliska’s reptilian snout poked out from behind a collapsed waterspout, “…thought you were being followed? Only thought?! I think rather settles it!”

	“…oops?” Came the tiefling’s reply.

	“Umm… if you’re trying to kill us, you’re a really piss poor shot you know…” Toras said as he glared out into the surrounding rubble. No reply was forthcoming however.

	“I don’t think that was intended to kill us. I think that was a warning and nothing else. Someone doesn’t like us looking into certain things.” Clueless said as he glanced over to Nisha who was bantering over the definition of ‘safe’ in ‘safehouse’ with Skalliska.

	Slowly they all spread out into the surrounding rubble and found no evidence of anyone still remaining in the area, not that they could find anyways. Fyrehowl nearly swore that she could smell a faint lingering scent of raw steel and oil, but nothing else to betray the evidence of their assailant; then Nisha found one thing.

Laying partially concealed in line of sight of the entrance to Nisha’s safehouse were a springloaded series of crossbows that seemed primed to fire in unison when keyed from some distance away, likely from a magical charm that had since been exhausted. Lying next to the mechanism was a single sensory stone.

“Cute… they left us a message.” Florian said as he picked it up. 

As the cleric did so, both Nisha and Skalliska winced and blurted out at once, “Let me check it for traps!!”

“It’s not trapped. Not unless you count a cliché as a trap.” Florian said as he handed over the stone to his companions who listened to the message stored within the gem each in turn. The stone’s message was simple and short, “Were I hunting you, you would already be dead. Desist in your current line of investigation or I may change from watching to otherwise.”

Only Clueless recognized the voice as that of Adamok Ebon, the Bladeling he had just seen in Seamusxanthuszemus’s shop in the Market Ward who was rumored to be the pet assassin of Shemeska the Marauder. Except she had supposedly been in the beastlands for the past few days… unless seeing her in the mephit’s shop had simply been part of her watch over Clueless or his companions. It was troublesome to say the least, but the bladesinger said nothing of the matter to his companions as the walked back towards the Clerk’s Ward, though later on he would privately talk to Nisha regarding it all.

Over the next hour or so they collectively sat and discussed their next course of action on a number of topics. Clueless and Nisha put forward their intention to hunt down one of Clueless’s former companions that they had reason to believe was currently in slavery in or around the city of Death of Innocence on 2nd layer of the Gray Waste. Meanwhile Fyrehowl mentioned that she felt it prudent to speak with Chairwoman Rhys of the Sigil Advisory Council, and former Factol of the Transcendent Order, about what they had discovered about Garroth the Blind, and in a roundabout way rumored happenings in Elysium.

“Why Rhys? What connection does she have with Elysium?” Tristol asked, curious about the lupinal’s line of reasoning.

“She’s the former factol of the ciphers you know, and her faction has a fairly large number of members, or former members at least, on Elysium. Outside of Sigil you won’t find more ciphers than in Elysium, despite their tendency to be of a fully neutral alignment. Their particular aspect of neutrality is internal harmony, and it fits very well with the outward benevolence of Elysium.”

“True… I guess you have a point there.”

“And in any event she might be able to help us in getting an audience with one of the highups in Rubicon, the guardinal fortress on Belarian.”

The others nodded in unison, more or less. Skalliska seemed hesitant on the matter.

“Is there gold involved?” She asked without a drop of shame.

“…” Was the common response to the question and there was an awkward silence for several seconds before Clueless responded, “Yes there’s gold involved. Don’t worry, you’ll get a share of anything we find.”

“I’m sure we’ll find plenty of gnomes for you to kill and steal their stuff and act out stereotypes I’m sure. And if not, we’ll drop you off in Tradegate and let you work your magic.” Toras muttered under his breath and was elbowed by Florian to tell him to shutup before the kobold heard him.


***​

	And so, after a shared meal, they split and went their separate ways. Clueless and Nisha slunk towards the lower Ward and the Styx Oarsman to find a bit more information before they went to the Gray Waste, and the rest of the party gathered there things in preparation for an early trip the next morning towards ex-Factol Rhys’s office.

	“So… why exactly are we going back to a fiend bar where the patrons are likely to eat you as much as they are to laugh with you over a drink?” Nisha asked Clueless as they approached the Styx Oarsman.

	“I’d like to ask the Mezzoloth in there a few questions. Rule-of-Three mentioned he knew of a portal to the Waste fairly close to where we need to be. Whether he’ll tell us anything is another matter, but I guess we’ll find out.” Clueless said as he walked up to the doorman and handed him a bag of coin. Nisha smiled and swished her tail happily as they were both motioned in without comment.

	Inside, little had changed in the mood and demenour of the establishment since their last visit. Clueless scanned the rear of the room for the Three Toads and found the Slaadi attempting to juggle two empty mugs while the quasit behind the bar yelled at her.

	“Stupid Slaadi! You’ve broken two today already! You don’t pay me enough to break everything in here!”

	Meanwhile the githzerai behind the bar was still washing the same mugs repetitively as Clueless and Nisha sat down at a table across from the stairs. Clueless noted that the Mezzoloth was near the stairs and the other bouncer was by the front door; Rule of Three was presumably upstairs doing something in a set of three, as he was wont to do.

	The bladesinger was about to approach the Mezzoloth when the cambion near the door straightened abruptly as the door swung open suddenly, surprising him as a tall, extremely thin woman walked into the bar wearing elaborate armor and a large sword at her waist. None of the other patrons looked disturbed at the githyanki as she entered, but Nisha nearly spit her ale and Clueless immediately looked away.

	“Talk about people you don’t want to see in places you don’t want to be.” Nisha said as she wiped the ale from her face.

	“Yeah, tell me about it.”

	Djek N’larr’s skin glimmered a faint metallic blue, the same color as the blob of psionic ectoplasm that Clueless had partially bribed her with when they had last seen her in the mazes.

	“I don’t know her and she doesn’t know me…” Clueless said as he did his best act of completely ignoring her.

	The githyanki simply waltzed into the bar, supremely confidant and looking like she had a second lease on life. That Garroth the Blind was dead, and no longer harrowing her regarding her having not killed Clueless and his fellows, probably had something to do with it. But she took a seat at the bar and struck up a conversation with the quasit before she hurled a full mug of ale into the face of the githzerai bartended who barely registered the action as the alcohol splattered on him, the bar, and the floor.

	“Tell me he ‘aint a piking Bleaker…” Nisha whispered into Clueless’s ear.

	“…yeah.” He murmured back.

	The rest of the bar however was not as resigned and uncaring as the Bleaker and the room erupted into a chorus of laugher, snickers and jeers. Clueless ignored it all and tapped a bit of jewelry he was wearing, a small silver choker. He’s had the collar crafter for himself a day previous in the market ward by a gnomish jeweler. The only feature the choker had was a small glass sphere that held a minute drop of the golden liquid he had recovered from the Tower Sorcerous in the mazes, and while he still had little idea of what exactly it was, he had some small knowledge of what it was capable of. When he tapped the glass bubble a small catch was sprung and for a moment it opened and exposed the drop of liquid into contact with his skin. When he felt it contact he pictured in his mind a clairaudience spell and felt it form and burn within his mind before he activated it and removed his finger from the choker.

	Nisha simply kept sipping her drink and eavesdropping as Clueless did likewise with the aid of the spell. Over at the rear of the room he heard the Hydroloth Schliphis chuckle under her breath and say something to her fellow fences, Pollixen and the Insufferable Massix.

	“What did I tell you? Just like it was supposed to be. Our hands are washed of this now, and we’ve already been paid, so nothing to worry about at all. Let whoever’s game this is, let them play. Not like it has anything to do with us anyways.”

	“Well they get of our business now but…” the Slaad muttered.

	“And you got us into that…” The Hezrou grumbled to the ‘loth.

	“And it's only helped us since then hasn't it? She's gotten us twice the amount of buyers for the stuff that comes in here, and we barely do half the work anymore. Suits me just fine. We just need to make a delivery on that other bit down the Styx a week from now, but that's for later.” Schliphis said before she glanced over to the bar where Djek N’larr was still taunting the nominal owner of the bar. 

“I'm just waiting for those Gith to go at it, gonna happen one of these times, Bleaker or not.... Unless the Quasit has him under his thumb more than I know.” She snorted and quaffed a shot of some vile fiendish alcohol the color of tar and nearly the same consistency.

	Nisha kicked Clueless under the table suddenly and he glanced up at her. In between two sips of her drink she mouthed to him, “The Toads are looking at us… I think we need to go, talking o the Mezzoloth or not…”

	Clueless sighed and nodded then got up and quickly but calmly walked to the door, Schliphis’s eyes burning into his back the entire time. However the bladesinger never let up on his spell even as they walked out of the bar and strolled down the street. When they neared the edge of the spell’s range, Clueless motioned for Nisha to pause and wait for a moment while he continued to eavesdrop magically.

	About five minutes later he heard ‘Rule o’ Three’s upstairs Colcook.’ in the voice of the Colorful Cambion. And then his spell was snuffed, deliberately by someone on the other end.

	“Oh son of a…” he whispered as Nisha raised an eyebrow. “Someone noticed the spell and countered it. One of the Marauder’s guys just walked in there and was going upstairs to talk to your favorite githzerai.”

	“Favorite? He gives me the creeps…”

	“Half the people in there give me the creeps, the other half scare me. But I’ll be damned if I’m not trying to listen in one that meeting…” Clueless ducked out of the street and into an alley before he repeated his previous trick and called a clairaudience spell into his mind once more. The second time he tried it though it felt somewhat taxing, but he ignored the effect and tried the spell once more. 

	The banter of fiends filled his ears once again and he managed to center the spell’s area of effect on the tap room and then manipulate it from there. However, around halfway up the stairs it simply faded out, and while he could move it around further the area around Rule of Three and Colcook was a dead zone where the spell seemed to be actively suppressed.

	“…Nisha? You know a way to eavesdrop on a room covered in an antimagic field or a where the folks have antiscry magic on them?” Clueless asked while still concentrating on the spell.

	“Hang outside the window?” She said rather too honestly, grinning sheepingly like she’d tried the trick before on someone.

	“…he- I don’t think Rule of Three would appreciate that…”

	Clueless moved the spell around and tried to approach from the outside window of the chamber on the other side of the building and ran into a zone of complete and utter silence that hadn’t been there a moment before. Clearly someone was both aware of his efforts in some fashion and didn’t wish for him to listening in on their conversation.

	“Damn… no luck.” He said as he ended the spell.

	“'So.... what now? You done snooping? Neat spell, I'll have to learn it sometime.” Nisha quipped as she tossed a copper at a rat further down the alley.

	“Anyways, yeah I’m done for now. Convenient portal of not, we need to go rescue an old friend from some slavers.”

	“You been to the Waste before?” Nisha glanced at Clueless with a suddenly critical eye.

	“…yeah, but I don’t exactly have very clear memories of it though.”

	“Then it’s a good thing that I’m tagging along. Besides, the others should be fine without me for a little while. They’ve got Skalliska, and in any event there aren’t exactly going to be many traps or stuff they need to watch out for in Elysium, to say the very least.” Nisha said with a chuckle as they walked.

	“Heck I could use the backup certainly, and the rest of the group… they have things they need to be doing. Aside from probably getting us *killed* if they came along. All that Toras has to do is open his mouth..."

	Nisha snickered lightly, “So very true. And all Fyrehowl has to do is just to be there…”

	“That too. Wouldn’t that be a hoot?”

	“Considering that her kind make raids into the Waste clear across from the other side of the Great Wheel, she wouldn’t exactly be a welcome guest.”

 	Clueless nodded, “Tristol might be fine except for his own bloodline is rather obvious.”

	“Yeah, of anyone, Florian wouldn’t be a problem since she’s a cleric of a war diety. Even if it’s a war deity confined to a single prime world, it’d fit given the battles on the first layer of the plane.”

	“…she?” Clueless said as he shot Nisha a baffled look “…what’d’ya mean she?”

Nisha paused a moment and coughed, “Excuse me, him. Tongue slipped.”

	“…um. Ok then.” Clueless said and shrugged as Nisha brushed it off and pointed up towards A’kin’s shop as they approached it on their path back to the Jammer.

	Despite being fairly late in the evening there was a single light burning in the window above the Friendly Fiend. Nisha looked up at the window and remarked, “Typical.”

	“Typical?” Clueless glanced at her, then up towards the single candle in the window.

	“'Local chant is he never sleeps, that he's there running the shop all day, and most always there's lights burning upstairs. Fiends don't need much sleep at all I know, but still. I can't read him, despite him being patient with me and never being mean to anyone.”

"Yeah... Any idea what he'd be doing up there? Anyone ever try to look?"

Nisha shook her head before giving an answer, “Again, the chant is more screed than dark on this, but I hear tell he goes up there and screams his head off, hurls himself against the walls in hour long fits, all to get the frustration of being nice out of his system. Or that there's a portal to Gehenna up there, or he keeps stuff up there to torture, or he just has an everburning lamp and doesn’t bother to turn it off. Who's ever been up there to spread the supposed dark of it, that's what I want to know. All speculation. I don't believe most anything said about him. He’s just friendly and I’m pretty content to leave it at that.”

Clueless laughed, "I've got my own doubts on things..." The bladesinger gave a glance up at the 'grin' on the painted sign hanging above the shop’s door as they passed it.

	Their trip back to the Portal Jammer passed without incident and the others seemed to have already gone to sleep when they got back, likely in preparation for their own activity the next day. Factol Darius announced their return, as always, in her own uniquely annoying way, “I have imagined two mortals returning home late!”

	“Factol Darius, have you imagined a curfew for us to return home late by?” Clueless asked the doll.

	“Yes!” The doll chirped before factol Sarin announced that they’d broken curfew and Factol Nilesia began muttering about punishing dire infractions of the law.

	“What was the hour?” Clueless asked, knowing that it was close to antipeak at that moment but had not yet passed.

	“Antipeak” The doll of the Signer factol quipped.

	“Why, it *is* antipeak, and we are not in fact late Factol Darius.” Clueless said back to the doll.

	“Now that I’ve imagined you, you talk back to me. Why must my own imagination mock me…?” Darius lamented.

	Clueless leaned over and whispered to her, “Perhaps you’re trying to tell yourself something?”

	The doll said nothing else before Clueless put her underneath an empty mug.

	“Be back in a minute or so…” Nisha said as she walked up the stairs towards her own room. Clueless nodded back to her and headed up towards his own to grab a few things of his own.

	Once the half-fey walked into his own bedroom he noticed, almost immediately, that something was laying atop his dresser that hadn’t been there before he’d left to the Styx Oarsman. He glanced at the stack of scrolls and letter beneath them that were all embossed with a familiar blue grin insignia on the letterhead.

	“Well now.” He murmured “…you’ve been busy my grinning friend.”

	Clueless whispered the words to a simple cantrip to detect any latent dweomers and was surprised to see that the entire stack of papers glowed with a soft, and fairly strong telltale hue, not only the sealed letter. Glancing around the room curiously to perhaps tell how the intruder had actually entered his room, or if they might be still lurking, Clueless saw nothing else out of the ordinary.

	“Well, let’s see what you have to say…” He said as he opened the letter and began to read.

	“The friend of a friend of a friend of a fiend let it be known your ankle has been bothering you a bit more lately. These should help alleviate your problem for the time being. Each will last roughly 18 hours each, triggered by command word, rather than completing the spell.”

	“Very busy indeed…” Clueless said with a low smile to himself.

The letter was signed by the ubiquitous blue Cheshire grin, and the swirling symbol for the Wheels Within Wheels. In the margin of the letter, next to the symbol for the fiendish cabal was written a command word. Once Clueless made a mental note of the word the entire letter began to glow slightly with a pale green phosphorescent light.

	As the letter began to glow brighter, Clueless raised an eyebrow and tossed the paper into the air as it rapidly disintegrated into nothing. The paper of the letter simply aged to dust rather than dissolving or burning and was gone before it hit the floor while the scrolls, all twelve of them, still sat upon the dresser welcomingly.

	“Very nice…” Clueless said as there was a knock at the door.

	“Come in.” He said without a glance as Nisha walked in tentatively.

	“I've got my stuff, and Garroth's portal keys, though if you want to wait till the morning, that's fine, he's your friend. I'm just coming along to help if you need it.”

	"Let me just grab some jink and we'll be off." Clueless said before turning and tucking the scrolls into his backpack with a grin.

	“Sounds good to me, I'm gonna go play with the Factols. Come get me when you’re ready.” Nisha said with a chuckle as she walked off.

	A minute later and Clueless was downstairs with several bags of jink, hopefully more than enough to buy back his former elven companion twice over. As he entered the taproom, Nisha was giggling at Darius.

	“What?” Clueless asked.

	Nisha didn’t say a word, but simply pointed over towards the Darius Doll.

Clueless glanced over to look at the Signer factol who was smiling humbly and had the Factol Rhys doll standing next to her with a hand on her shoulder.

	“Rhys?” Clueless asked the doll.

	Rhys said nothing, but Darius looked up at Clueless “I have imagined a less annoying me... with some help.”

	Clueless laughed. And then burst out laughing as he heard exaggerated kissing noises coming from Nisha.

Nisha was sitting over to one side of the bar with the Factol Karan doll and the Factol Hashkar doll, making kissy noises and pressing them together with mock passion.

“The others will never understand! We can't keep our love secret forever! We have to stop seeing each other… I know it hurts… but I'll always love you!” Nisha was saying in a mock Hashkar voice as Clueless glanced over at her. She looked up at him, a puckish grin on her face and blushing heavily. 

	“…oh. That’s bad…” Clueless said once he recovered his composure.

	Nisha grinned wryly for a moment and put the dolls back up on the mantle.

	“Ready to go?” Clueless asked her.

	“About as ready as I can be. Got everything I need right here.” The tiefling replied, hoisting her ubiquitous satchel.

	Clueless nodded, “One of these days you know, I’ll ask.”

	“About what?” She asked as she silently clip clipped up next to him.

	“Oh, what alls in there.” He grinned a pulled out one of the scrolls he’d been given by the Cheshire Fiend. Whispering the command word the scroll vanished in a flash of light to leave nothing behind, not even dust. There was however, a soft light glowing around his ankle in its passing, and immediately before the globe faded slightly and began to give a soft hum, Clueless could have sworn that he felt something stir inside his head; and it was NOT happy.

Clueless grinned, "I think I pissed someone off."

	“If you say so.” Nisha said, giving a curious look down at the bladesinger’s glowing ankle. “Well, Garroth’s portal keys, they work from the gatetowns, or, best as I can tell, from the portal that Rule of Three mentioned. I’d suggest that we hit that one, not that I really trust him, but that info seems to be legit.”

The half-fey looked over at the tiefer, "Well - on with the rescue. While we have the time."

Nothing happened on the way to the Lower Ward, but as the air turned foul and hazy, Nisha looked up at you her companion, “You know, we never did ask the Mezzoloth about the portal and where it actually was you know…”

	Clueless groaned as he realized that they’d left the Styx Oarsman before being able to ask the rogue ‘loth.

“Probably a tout around here, or we could just throw rocks at A'kin’s window and see if he answers…” Nisha said, sticking out her tongue.

Clueless snickered, "I don't think so."

Nisha stomped her hooves on the pavement playfully like a small child begging its parents for a sweet it was told it couldn’t have, “Aww…it's late, we might have been able to make him have to rename himself as A'kin the usually friendly fiend!”

“Oh - why ruin a good reputation - he works hard for it.” Clueless said with a glance up toward A’kin’s shop and its perpetually lit window, knowing full well A’kin probably could hear him.

“So. A tout - after anti-peak... yeah." Clueless turned his head to one side at the very idea of trying to find one of Kylie’s guildsmen in the Lower Ward after antipeak, a daunting task if there ever was one.

Despite Clueless’s discouragement, Nisha walked to a few alleyways, looking down each one, seemingly for something specific, “I got an idea...”

	As Nisha glanced into various alleyways, Clueless followed after her with a perplexed look on his face before she finally stopped at an alleyway by a building covered in Razorvine and let out a triumphant, “Ah ha!” as she darted behind the corner.

"... huh?" Clueless asked as he ran to catch up with her.

Turning the corner, the half-fey found her standing next to a Dabus that was floating next to the wall of razorvine, holding a small sickle and a stack of razorvine cuttings.
Nisha looked up to the silent caretaker of Sigil and politely asked, “Excuse me... I'm looking for a portal to the Grey Waste and I was told it was around here. I figure if anyone would, you'd know...”

"...Hi." Clueless said with a smile to the Dabus.

The Dabus turned to regard them both, and a string of symbols appeared floating over its head: the symbol of the Gray Waste, followed by an archway, then two hatchmarks, a cube, an arrow pointing right, one hatchmark, a cube, and an arrow pointing straight, and finally an image of a small, pagoda like building and a craggy, gray and black spotted marble arch; 2 blocks right, 1 block forward.

Having answered their question, the dabus then simply turned around and began to cut at the still growing razorvine, unperturbed in the slightest.

"...Thank you." Clueless said, looking at Nisha, "...that worked."

“Wow, that was surprisingly easy.” Nisha said with a grin and with her tail flicking in delight from side to side.

"...Well, She was ticked off earlier. Maybe things are working out...? Let's.... Go. Now."

“Umm...” Nisha looked at the Dabus as Clueless referred to Her Serenity in an offhand manner. The Dabus didn’t so much as pay them the slightest glance but kept on at its laborious task of trimming back the razorvine.

Clueless smiled innocently at the Dabus and started walking after Nisha who was moving in the direction of the silent caretaker’s directions quickly. Minutes later, true to its ‘word’ the Dabus's directions led two blocks to the right, and one block forward. At the end of the path, nestled between two run down buildings and through a short, and deathly silent alleyway stood a small, crumbling, and clearly abandoned shrine of sorts. There wasn’t a bit of trash in the street, nor any beggars, squatters or rats; nothing to break the eerie silence and sterility of the venue.

	Nisha and Clueless cautiously moved down the street, both of them drawing their swords in case the silence was due to a larger predator or group of thugs hiding in the shadows. However there was nothing in the alleyway but a dull sense of dread that seemed to emanate from the dilapidated shrine at the end terminus of the street.

	The shrine or small temple was shaped like a small pagoda, though the roof had sagged and collapsed with time and the acid tinged drizzle of the atmosphere of the Lower Ward. The walls of the building were a gray marble or granite, unmarked by symbols, paint or decorations in any way. All told, there were no markings on the small building whatsoever, and the only non worn-down part of the place was the archway in front of it. 

Clueless glanced up at the archway where there might have once been a symbol that graced its capstone, but it had been long ago worn away from time or by blatant vandalism or deliberate defacement. Whatever power it once heralded was long ago forgotten except perhaps to the graveyard of the Astral.

Nisha was looking around and she was nervous for some reason. Looking unnerved by the place, she clutched her arms around herself as if trying to stave off some preternatural chill. “Weird…” The tiefling said.

“I have a bad feeling about this place too…” Clueless said to her as he glanced into the bleak interior of the fallen temple.

 	“You’re not the only one, this place is definitely creepy.” She replied as she took out the portal key to the Waste. That particular key was a black pebble, a gray pebble, and a drop of tar. Taking all three components, she dropped them all collectively into a small vial of dirty water and approached the archway with Clueless at her back.

As Nisha approached the archway it began to hum slightly. Looking past the softly glowing portal to the inside of the building, it appeared to be an arched sanctuary of sorts, not unlike a temple, but covered in dust and clearly long abandoned, not even marked by the tracks of vermin. Several dead rats and insects were piled at the door, all of them facing away from the entrance as if they died fleeing out of the interior.

"Well - I don't think that's a safe place to go into." Clueless said as he followed her to the portal.

Giving a glance back to the bladesinger, she stepped through as the portal flashed a churning and morbid gray to herald the way to the three glooms. Clueless followed immediately after her, his wings springing forth almost immediately as he passed through the archway and into the vortex.

***​
There was a sensation of falling for a brief instant before they both reappeared after a flash of utter chill that left them shivering. The two of them emerged, standing upon a rocky outcrop rising out of a soil that was half ash or dust and rock. The ground was muted gray and black, the sky was dark gray and cloudless. There was no sun but a dull and sapping grayish light all around.

Looking out onto the vast layer of Oinos, the desolate plane stretched out to the flat horizon in all directions, largely featureless, with only some small hills breaking the bleak monotony, save for one feature that demanded their attention.

Perhaps some fifty miles off in the distance, breaking up from the ground and rising out of sight was the Wasting Tower of Khin-Oin, like the spine of a dead power sticking up from its tomb in the rocky depths of the Grey Waste underfoot. A dim glimmer from the ground in that direction traced the course of a tributary of the Styx that dove into the earth perhaps a few miles from their current position.

They stood upon the first layer of the Waste, Oinos, one of the primary battlefields of the Blood War. Normally the blasted expanse of the first layer should have been literally crawling with Baatezu and Tanar'ri armies fighting each other in bloody and merciless battles of genocidal attrition, perhaps only clearing away from Khin-Oin by fifty or so miles at the least. But, in every direction, there was no fighting. Squinting to see out further in the dim light, on the horizons Clueless and Nisha could make out armies moving across the plane and some fighting even, but they were all over 400 to 500 miles away. As best as they could judge, none of them were getting near the Wasting Tower and giving it much wider berth than usual. It was odd to say the least.

Clueless peered towards the tower, looking for magic, and noticed that the earth and sky for nearly a hundred miles out from that edifice of Yugoloth domination literally boiled with magic, illusion magic. Whatever was there in the shadow of Khin-Oin was of substance enough to put a pause in the wars of the other fiends, enough to make them avoid the tower for a massive distance by any stretch of the imagination, and whatever was there was intended to be hidden from sight, whatever it was.

Nisha scuffed a hoof in the dirt. The kicked up soil was an ash gray and streaked in places with blood, all slowly being bleached of their rusted brown color by the omnipresent leaching of the Waste, “Well… no Baatezu, no Tanar'ri, no problems. Right?”

"It's not normal though. They're supposed to be around here. *All* the time around here... why are they giving this place so much room?" Clueless said with uncertainty as he looked out towards the single largest structure in the planes and whatever was lurking in its shadow.


----------



## Gez

Yummy! More troubles coming right ahead!


----------



## primemover003

Single largest structure in the planes...  I thought that moniker went to Malsheem?  Or is it just in the 'lothocentric planes you run Marauder?


----------



## Shemeska

*'lothcentric? Me? *flashes eyelashes**



			
				primemover003 said:
			
		

> Single largest structure in the planes...  I thought that moniker went to Malsheem?  Or is it just in the 'lothocentric planes you run Marauder?




Was waiting for somebody to point that out. Malsheem, in my view of it anyways, is more a city and sprawling mass of joined citadels than a single selfcontained structure like Khin-Oin. In simple volume Malsheem may cover more land, but it's more an outwards sprawl really than a single isolated building done on a massive scale.

Depending on your criteria involved Malsheem might be on top, but in my own 'loth centered way of thinking the NEs have the record for the moment, at least till they trump themselves if they ever finish the Tower of Incarnate Pain.


----------



## shilsen

Rule 1 - Don't split the party

Rule 1 (p) - Don't split the party when going to the Grey Waste. 

This should be fun


----------



## primemover003

Clueless said:
			
		

> *BOGGLE* Yer kidding right?!



Oh no kidding...  Ford Motor thinks PS is naughty


----------



## primemover003

Shemeska said:
			
		

> Was waiting for somebody to point that out. Malsheem, in my view of it anyways, is more a city and sprawling mass of joined citadels than a single selfcontained structure like Khin-Oin. In simple volume Malsheem may cover more land, but it's more an outwards sprawl really than a single isolated building done on a massive scale.
> 
> Depending on your criteria involved Malsheem might be on top, but in my own 'loth centered way of thinking the NEs have the record for the moment, at least till they trump themselves if they ever finish the Tower of Incarnate Pain.



If you put it that way I could see your point...  Malsheem is like a Planar Louvre.


----------



## Clueless

_post in error_


----------



## Clueless

shilsen said:
			
		

> Rule 1 - Don't split the party
> Rule 1 (p) - Don't split the party when going to the Grey Waste.
> This should be fun




Actually - ironicly - you'll notice something as this goes on - Clueless is a *very* capable planeswalker, he goes places alone that he really shouldn't and has no trouble doing so. At least partially due to confidence, craftiness and Razor. He's popped down to the Waste before to get ingredients for a mixed drink in under 15 minutes...

The party has actually analyzed before where our 'roles' play out. 
Nisha: thief-like sneaking
Skalliska: sneaking, but more our information source
Tristol: massive damage spells
Toras: massive damage hitter
FH: speedy medium hitter, precog
Florian: walking medpack and medium hitter
Clueless: ultimate survivor, speed and 'can't hit me' freak
If the party was ever nearly TPK'd the bets are that Clueless would live to get back and have everyone raised.


----------



## Fimmtiu

Clueless said:
			
		

> The party has actually analyzed before where our 'roles' play out...




And what about Florian?


----------



## Gez

That's Florian's problem. Clueless _totally_ ignores him (her?).


----------



## Clueless

Gez said:
			
		

> That's Florian's problem. Clueless _totally_ ignores him (her?).




And here I was wondering when someone was going to point that out. 

And yes - Clueless is actually living up to his name regarding *both* of them. It's not ignoring - he genuinely isn't *getting* it. (This is something the three players agreed on as just a cool twist to the impending love triangle.  )


----------



## Tristol

Clueless said:
			
		

> Clueless: ultimate survivor, speed and 'can't hit me' freak




If I remember rightly, you're also the 'doer of things we don't want to know about', as well as 'collector of stuff we want disposed of'. Which seems to be a more important role actually. There are times in everyone's life where there are things that need to get done, that you just don't want to have to deal with. Admittedly, it makes you look really suspicious all the time, but as long as it doesn't bite us in the rear, we're good with it.

On a completely different topic, here's the audio clip of 'that stupid mephit with a hat'. Please be gentle on the server as it's about 800k. I'll post mirrors if need be. And, there's talk of actually running our game sessions over a shoutcast stream. Likely one week behind to allow us to edit out some of the crude comments that shouldn't be uttered. The reason it'd be a shoutcast is to save my webserver the strain of dolling out 100MB MP3 files. Keep up with Shemeska and Clueless for the details, or even visit the city of doors website the mp3 file is hosted from. I'll likely post the content and stream URL there once I get it going.


----------



## Shemeska

[soft mutter]Oh Christ...[/soft mutter] that voice hurt my throat something fierce, and it's higher pitched, more nasal and more whiny in person. *laugh*


----------



## Clueless

Tristol said:
			
		

> If I remember rightly, you're also the 'doer of things we don't want to know about', as well as 'collector of stuff we want disposed of'. Which seems to be a more important role actually.




*innocent look* What? Me? Nawwww i'm just your friendly neighborhood bladesinger... Indep spymaster, conman, and holder of things that could get you mazed...


----------



## Gez

Shemeska said:
			
		

> [soft mutter]Oh Christ...[/soft mutter]




Shemeska, the King of Crosstrade, the proud Arcanoloth, muttering a prayer to Jesus Christ -- that's blackmail material worth its weight in platinum!


----------



## Shemeska

*Shemmy, who was raised a curious mix of Russian Orthodox and Presbyterian*



			
				Gez said:
			
		

> Shemeska, the King of Crosstrade, the proud Arcanoloth, muttering a prayer to Jesus Christ -- that's blackmail material worth its weight in platinum!




Don't make me send the Athar after you.


----------



## Shemeska

*Rule 1) Never split the party. ... whoops...*

The next morning, the entire group, excepting Nisha and Clueless were awake early and ready in anticipation of leaving for Elysium after they spoke to Council Chairwoman, and ex-factol, Rhys. They all said little over a quick breakfast before they ventured out into the Clerk’s Ward in a trip nearly around the city towards Rhys’s office in The Lady’s Ward.

	The council met infrequently and usually in different places and different wards around Sigil, but for the time being, Rhys’s office was housed within a former temple whose clergy had relocated shortly after the Tempest of Doors nearly five years prior. The old holy symbols had been removed and replaced with a stylized seal of sorts with Sigil’s ring surrounding a stylized image in silhouette of Her Serenity.

	Fyrehowl led the way as they entered the building that also housed several branch offices of the Hall of Information, given its recent expansion following its takeover of most of the functions of the old Hall of Records before that building had been abandoned, looted, and finally condemned and demolished of late. The cipher in training seemed to unerringly know where to go within the otherwise complex building, and as they turned a corner they realized that it was perhaps less due to any mystical ability she had gained in her sparse time learning about the philosophy of the Transcendent Order, than in her ability to smell as a lupinal.

	Halfway down the hall they spotted a githzerai wielding a sword of flowing liquid metal that extended out from his hand like a living thing on its own. He was dressed in the familiar robes of a factor of the Ciphers, and also wearing a badge of office that marked him as the personal assistant and aide de camp of Chairwoman Rhys. Fyrehowl had often trained with the githzerai at the Great Gymnasium, and more likely than not, she had simply tracked him down, knowing that he’d be near to Rhys.

	Kel’shre’tar, as the githzerai was called, was going through a series of katas with his karach blade when he turned to face the party. He bowed first to Fyrehowl and then turned to bow to the others in turn.

	“You wish to speak with the factol?” He asked, less a question than a statement.

	Fyrehowl nodded, “Yes please. I have several questions for her, and I believe that her knowledge and her links to persons in Elysium might aid us. If she is not busy that is, I know she has many things that take up her time. Is she in?”

	The gith nodded, “Indeed. You will find her waiting for you within her office.”

	Florian raised an eyebrow at the suggestion that Rhys was already aware that they were coming to see her, and was expecting them. But as the githzerai pointed down to the end of the hallway and the open door that welcomed them, the sword that had been held in the gith’s hand snapped back into a series of rings upon his fingers, shuffling itself out of sight as he walked with them.

	“Please enter, you are expected.” Came Rhys’s melodic and somewhat distant voice from just inside the room.

	Rhys was dressed in a simple white robe and a wrap of dull green that circled her waist and passed over one shoulder to drape down her back. For a woman of her level of power and influence she was dressed as simply as a clerk. Her long, raven black hair seemed to rustle and flow like that of an air genasi, like there was a constant breeze flowing through the chamber when in truth there was none. Finally, the ex-factol’s eyes were glazed over like she was in a trance, her eyes seemingly focused on some distant sight rather than the present moment; all in all it was surreal and compelling.

	“Greetings Factol,” Fyrehowl said with a bow before Rhys waved the formality away.

	“You have questions for me regarding Elysium. Ask me and I will tell you what I know, and remember that I no longer hold a formal title of factol, the reverence is not needed.” Rhys said as she stepped out from behind her desk to approach the group and bid them to sit. Her feet ended in hooves, much like Nisha’s, betraying the former factol’s tiefling heritage.

	Skalliska blinked at the uncanny, and somewhat disturbing level of prescience the factol seemed to possess. The woman seemed to anticipate events, or likely events, before they even happened, acting moments before they would to perform any action in the best possible manner given the situation. Toras had the same thought, though his mind was pondering over what poor fool might ever attempt to kill her and how poorly it would likely end for them consider that the factol moved with the grace of an expert swordsman and was reputedly a sorceress of no small ability either.

	“Fac… councilwoman Rhys, without going fully into where we recovered this information, we have reason to believe that something is happening on Elysium’s 3rd layer without the knowledge of the Guardinals of Rubicon. We found maps and records of mercanes shipping goods and materials to a point on that largely sealed layer and we have reason to believe that fiends are involved at the core of whatever this may turn out to be.” Fyrehowl explained to Rhys.

	Rhys looked away but didn’t hesitate in her answer, not for a second, picking up immediately when the lupinal ended her own statements. “And I have reason to believe that one of my own is involved as well, though the full meaning of his involvement was not fully apparent till now.”

	The group looked at Rhys curiously as she continued, “A former Factor of mine, a lupinal by the name of Tarnsilver. Following the Faction War he became disillusioned with the actions of his race. He came to feel that they were too quiescent, not proactive enough, and that drastic actions were needed to prompt them out of this. He did not tell me his plans, or of his mode of action, only that he would likely be reviled for doing what he perceived was the needed and correct method of action towards what he perceived as a greater good.”

	Fyrehowl furrowed her brow, “It seems very likely that he would be involved with this then. Whatever is happening, he would likely know how to keep any activity on the layer covert and hidden from our eyes…” 

	Again, the ex-factol picked up immediately upon the lupinal stopping. “Indeed, and I would ask that you investigate this matter, both for myself and a former member of the order, and for your own sake and that of your people in Elysium. Ask to speak with the leonal, Duke Jalinon, at Rubicon, he will explain certain things to you that I am not fully privy towards.”

	“I will. Thank you Rhys.” Fyrehowl bowed and was very nearly ready to leave as Rhys had already sat down again. But then the former factol spoke to her one more time.

	“And when you find Tarnsilver, tell him that he no longer listens to the cadence in his heart and his actions. The only voice he hears within his mind and soul is his own. The planes no longer speak to him…”

***​

	The plane was bleak and chill, though neither Nisha nor Clueless had yet been exposed to its malign presence long enough for its omnipresent effects to wash over them like a leaching wave of apathy, regret and misery. For the moment they stood unharmed by its sapping touch, but as the moments passed they felt a chill run through themselves that was not from fear, nor from any demonstrable breeze that graced their body. However, they were more concerned with other things to notice its dire effects at that time.

	Clueless glanced out at the armies that were barely visible on the horizon as they moved to clash with each other or to forge ahead to one of the planes bordering the Waste, either Gehenna or Carceri.

	“…Hmm, looks like they’re avoiding the ‘loths…”

	“They’ve gotten smart then…” Nisha said as she rolled her eyes.

	“We’ve got a problem though. We’re one layer of the plane too high. The city we’re looking for is in Nifleheim.” Clueless said as he glanced down towards the winding gash in the blasted earth that was the Styx, glimmering seductively like slowly congealing blood on black glass.

	“Well, the Styx is that way…” Clueless muttered as he continued to glance towards the River Infernal, “Trying to really recall how to get to the next layer down.”

	“Well, the Styx hits the first layer of the Waste and not any of the lower ones, though supposedly the ferrymen can navigate the river and dump you through portals to the other layers, but more often than not you end up drowned and dead, or stuck with no memories and in a position where you might as well be dead.” Nisha said with a frown.

“I don’t really want to deal with anymore Marraenoloths. The less ‘loths the better at this point.”

“Well… there’s the friendly trip down the memory sucking river with the every so trustworthy Yugoloths or there’s another way, maybe, but I’ve never tried it before…” Nisha said tentatively.

Clueless looked at her oddly as she reached into her satchel and removed a dusky glass bottle with two glittering fleshy orbs suspending in a thin layer of liquid inside. The bladesinger wrinkled his nose at the bottle.

“Looks disgusting actually. What is it?” He asked.

“Bebelith eyes, or at least part of one. I’ve never been too keen on looking a Bebelith in the face up close to get a good look. However if you swallow one you can slide up or down one layer of a plane, supposedly. I’ve never tried it myself, it was always sort of a last resort if I ever got myself into a jam on the lower planes and needed a speedy way out. The bottle keeps them fresh, I guess, but… your call.”

	“Let’s go with the eyes, especially after your last experience with one of the ferrymen…” Clueless said.

	Nisha looked at him a bit askance, “And what’d I do wrong last time with the ferryman?”

	Clueless smirked, “…you didn’t pay him the deal, and they have memories… let’s try the eyeballs. It should be an interesting new experience.”

	“Pike it, you sound like a sensate…” Nisha said as she popped the cork on the bottle to let out a strong, vaguely acidic smell, like strong vinegar or spoiled wine.

	“I’ve been hanging around the dolls too much, Erin Montgomery is a hot little thing…”

	Nisha simply rolled her eyes, smacking Clueless on the leg with her tail and handed him one of the eyes from the bottle. It was hard and roughly the size of a large kernel of corn. It was glittery and shifted colors when it was moved around, a black iridescent tone, not unlike Clueless’s own wings.

	“So… we just down them?” The half-fey asked as he fluttered his wings a bit.

	“Yep, that’s what I heard from the merchant when I bought them.” Nisha said before she grimaced slightly and swallowed it hole.

	Clueless likewise did the same, popping it into the back of his throat like a pill so he wouldn’t taste it as much as it went down. The taste was nearly beyond words and probably unhealthy to say the least. If Clueless wasn’t already immune to poison, and if Nisha, being a tiefling, wasn’t the sort of person who could survive on a diet of ash and arsenic, they both would have been in pain or worse.

	Nisha looked over to Clueless, grimacing still from the aftertaste of the Bebelith organ, and then pointed downwards as both she and the bladesinger felt a wrenching feeling assail them from their guts outward and a persistent tug that seemed to drawn them closer to the earth. A moment later there was a much more violent wrenching feeling, even more abrupt than that of a portal, and after several seconds their vision went black.

	Nisha opened her eyes and noticed Clueless standing next to her in the middle of a forest of dark gray and black trees, evergreens, but like the most verdant of their colors had been leached from them entirely. A malign chill spread throughout the air, carried along by a cold, dense mist that swirled around their ankles and clung to the trees everywhere.

	“Well, that seemed to have worked. I think I prefer portal or spells though…” Clueless said as he snapped out his sword in a defensive motion and panned around to glance among the trees.

	But, as Clueless did so, there was a cold feeling in both his and Nisha’s hearts, like emotion was subtly being drained and funneled off by the plane around them. Clueless shrugged off the effects of the Waste with little pause, he had far too much determination in his heart to allow the plane to stop him, but Nisha was not so lucky. The tiefling started looking around with a mildly unhappy, forlorn look upon her face as she curled her arms around herself like she was warding away a cold breeze.

	“Nisha, hon? You ok?” Clueless asked with some concern.

	“The plane is starting to get to me Clueless… there’s not much I can do to stop that.” She said as she looked to the bladesinger and pulled out a large map of the Waste and flipped to the 2nd layer. “…gotta get out of this wood and out where we sodding are, the map’s useless otherwise…”

	“Rightio – easy solution. Hold on.” Clueless said as he reached over and tucked her under one arm.

	Nisha gave a chuckle that broke her sullen expression for a moment, “Lead on prettyboy.”

	A moment later and a flurry of motion from the half-fey’s shimmering black wings and they were both flying high above the current patch of forest that they had both stood within, overlooking the surrounding woods and trying to gain an idea of just where on the layer they were. Taking a glance at the surrounding lay of the land, Clueless and Nisha were somewhere near the edge of a forest, maybe a mile or two inside of it. A river, perhaps the Styx, or perhaps a minor tributary, ran its course just outside the forest, roughly near to where a single white stone tower rose up. In the opposite direction they could see the forest appear to melt away into a black haze in one direction, clearly the beginning of the domain of some power or another, and in another direction, the forest rose up the side of a mountain that was capped by a ring of stones and a plume of smoke that lazily drifted up into the bleak and colorless sky.

	Nisha looked over at Clueless, looking slightly relieved. “Well, this is one way to get a landmark to look at. Don't know what the other stuff is, but that tower, it's the border marking for Arawn's domain on Annwn.”

	“So where do you want to go? That tower?” Clueless asked as they bobbed up and down slightly above the wood. “I don’t want to stay up here much longer or something might see us and take offense.”

	Nisha nodded, “Death of Innocence is located just outside of the border of Arawn's domain, so one direction or another down the Styx would probably get us there.”

	“Right…” Clueless said as he flew off in that direction, skimming the treetops to avoid any major notice by anything lurking below.

	As they flew over the river towards the near shore by the watchtower, the forest faded away under them, though as they flew, there was a caw from the forest beneath them and a flock of birds rose up from the trees to trails behind them, about a half dozen or so jet black birds, like large ravens. As the flock of birds trailed them both, Clueless and Nisha alighted near the tower on the shore of the Styx.

	Clueless glanced up at the flocks of circling birds and called out to them, invoking his own innate fey ability to speak with animals, “…hello…”

	The birds however ignored him completely and kept their distance. They only circled overhead, slowly and lazily. As they did so and Clueless surveyed the area, Nisha touched a small speck of blood on her arm that welled up from a minor scrape on her shoulder. Almost unnoticed, one of the Wastrels had drawn blood from her as she and Clueless had slowed their flight and descended to the ground.

	“F***…” Nisha muttered as she glanced up at the birds as they circled mockingly overhead.

	The slope of the riverbank leading down to the river was fairly sandy and unnaturally white, almost like the ‘sand’ was in fact ground down bleached bone. And, upon closer inspection, the white tower across the river was made not of stone, but of thousands of bones of all sizes and shapes, all plastered and cemented together into a roughly conical shape.

	“…how inspiring.” Clueless muttered as he glanced at the map again, noting that the city was off on the edge of Arawn’s domain, though he wasn’t certain if it would be to the left or the right of the tower of bone that sat across the river from them. However, his train of thought was suddenly derailed as Nisha drew a wand and aimed it up into the sky to throw a cluster of purple magical bolts up at one of the birds.

	“Whoa! Whoa! What’s that for?!” Clueless said, startled. “Nisha?!”

	Overhead the birds circled and started cawing again in unison. The sound was almost like laughter as it carried on the air and echoed off the trees. Nisha began to look more and more depressed and downtrodden as she threw another cluster of missiles up into the air. Another of the birds fell and crashed down into the Styx with a dull and muted splash, but Nisha was beginning to cry slightly and pale.

	Clueless reached out and gently caught her hand, “…hon, don’t waste ‘em. It’s going to be ok…”

	And then Clueless felt a breeze against his face and a flutter of wings as one of the birds bolted out of the sky and slashed a talon across his face when he turned to look at Nisha. He cursed and immediately felt something wash over him as the birds continued their mocking call. The birds called out like black winged and circling hyenas around a wounded savanna animal and Clueless then felt an insidious cold reaching out to drain his emotions and sap his vitality. It was just like the chill of the plane itself, but it was as if the birds were chuckling at his pain, as if the Wastrels were enjoying his misery as they fed off of him. 

	Clueless watched as Nisha began to weep as she dropped her wand and looked up with hopelessness in her eyes and fell to her knees. A surge of anger filled him and the bladesinger reached into the interior of his mind and latched onto a burning point of magic that by all means should not have been there, the spell that he didn’t know but that he had nonetheless imagined and forced into his memory back in Sigil when he had been toying with the golden liquid from the Incantifers’ maze. And with but a thought he hurled it at the flock of Wastrels.

Five of the seven shuddered in mid air as a black circle rolled through their midst, expanding outwards like a smoke ring, rippling the space around it as it traveled and dissipated. They dropped like stones with three splashing into the river and another two of them falling onto the riverbank where they stared up at the sky cold and unmoving.

The flock of Wastrels burst into motion to scatter and reform their ranks, and as one they called out again with their vitality sapping caws. Clueless shrugged it off with another surge of anger as Nisha began to stagger and weep while she began to dig around in her satchel, looking for something.

“You little b*******.” Clueless cursed at the birds as he brandished a copper gilt wand of fireballs from his belt and aimed it at the remaining birds.

A pinpoint of orange flew towards the birds and blossomed with a deafening roar of flame and smoke. One of the birds dropped to the earth, scorched and black, with tongues of flame still licking from its corpse, and another squawked in pain and cawed back as it attempted to flee back into the depths of the forest to escape.

	Nisha was pulling something out of her pack when Clueless sent another fireball into the heart of the fleeing pack of birds. The second sphere of flames erupted, sending a crashing roar out over the forest to rattle the trees and incinerate several of the remaining birds. If any of the Wastrels had survived the flurry of spells they had fled far into the forest and seemed not the least intent on returning.

	“…a little bit of everkill perhaps, but satisfying.” Clueless said as he looked over to Nisha with concern. “What’s that…”

	Nisha had taken out her stuffed blue slaadi head and was poking its nose. An instant later the bauble was babbling in Xaosspeak, drifting to normal speech, losing its train of thought, and then sticking out its tongue, puffing its cheeks, grinning goofily, and lighting up its eyes. It was… silly.

	Whether it was some magical effect from the slaadi head or simply its mundane comedic effect, ‘Xanxost’ nonetheless was making Nisha smile and slowly recover from her draining melancholy that the Wastrels had inflicted upon her. A few more lines and actions from the Slaadi head and she was softly giggling, wiping her eyes and looking genuinely happy.

	“Feeling better?” Clueless asked as he extended to hand to the tiefling to help her back to her feet.

	“To tell the truth,” Nisha said, “I think A’kin was genuinely glad to move this thing out of his shop. I used to come in and poke the nose and run off, he had to have been getting tired of it after a while.”

	“A’kin selling toys… what is this world coming to?” The bladesinger laughed.

	“Yeah, I would spend my own jink on goofy dust collectors like this, and Garroth’s jink on useful stuff. I might have been wrong in my first thoughts though, since this does seem to have a use. Bless A’kin’s heart… unless that might hurt him… hmm…” Nisha said with a thoughtful smile as she put away ‘Xanxost’.

	“…Now then.” Clueless said as he looked up the river, “…I suppose we hitch a ride…”

	The river bubbled randomly and was running rather swiftly at that point. It seemed deep and neither Nisha nor Clueless could see down beyond the first inch or so. However, Nisha’s quick inhalation and exclamation of ‘Pike it!’ drew their gaze up from the river and towards the opposite shore.

	Standing on the opposite bank, silent and unmoving, where, five minutes ago there had been nothing, stood a score or more of skeletal figures dressed in elaborate armor and holding weapons. The skeletal figures just… stared… at them both from the opposite bank, silent.

	“…Umm. Whose attention did we just get?” Clueless openly mused.

	“Arawn?…”

	“You know this place a little better than me Nisha…”

	“Whatever you say. But where’s a sodding cleric when you need one…” The tiefling replied.

	“I do swords and spells. Not turning the undead.” Clueless replied, “But they’re on the other side of the river, so it’s not that much of a bitch. Right?”

	The skeletal warriors simply stood there, completely motionless, and completely silent. They all appeared to have mortal eyes within their bony sockets however, petitioners more likely than not.

	“…Hi guys. Just passin’ through…” Clueless murmured as he glanced around their own side of the river to scan for a ferry or a sign.

	“Oh hellfires. Why not.” Clueless said with a chuckle to himself before he shouted across the river to the petitioners, “Which way to Death of Innocence!?”

	One by one the skeletal petitioners turned and began to slowly walk back into the forest behind them, melting back into the woods at the border of their god’s domain, except for one. One of the petitioners lingered for but a moment and pointed a glittering silver-tipped spear towards one end of the river, not in the direction, but at a small skiff floating from that direction. Moments later, as the skiff drew nearer, so too did the last petitioner of Arawn vanish back into the woods without a sound and without a word.

	“Um. Thanks!” Clueless called out to the empty riverbank across the river.

	Nisha glanced over to the half-fey, “And that was officially creepy…”

	Both of them then turned to look at the skiff as it approached. The small, flat-bottomed boat drifted silently forwards with a single robed figure at the helm holding a long pole or an oar to steer the craft down the Styx.

“Wonderful…” Nisha muttered.

"Yep. And we pay him well..." Clueless muttered back, "We don't need more ‘loths after our necks."

As the Maernnoloth approached, Nisha hurriedly poked ‘Xanxost’s’ nose and then just as quickly hushed it in the folds of her cloak. Dimly, Clueless could hear a muffled, “The Maernnoloth says, “…””

The bladesinger glanced down, very nearly not able to keep a straight face at Nisha’s joking. His wings fluttered sideways briefly in an ‘oh powers above…’ pose, a light blue lingering on their edges before he flipped them back to rest against his spine, pointing downwards.

“Bless your blighted black twisted heart A’kin” Nisha muttered as she stuffed ‘Xanxost’ back into her satchel and pulled out a bag of coins to begin counting out a rough handful of gold.

As the ferryman stopped the boat on the shore and stepped to one side, it held out its hand and Nisha added several platinum pieces to the gold she handed it. “To cover my last trip. I didn’t have the jink to pay then. My apologies.”

The Marraenoloth said nothing as it accepted her payment and allowed her to enter the skiff. Clueless handed it a stack of twenty-five platinum pieces as he stepped up to the boat, but he then paused instead of fully entering.

“…Death of Innocence. I’ll match this amount on a safe arrival there.” He said as the ‘loth nodded its hooded head and accepted his jink.

As the skiff launched from the riverbank, Clueless looked over to Nisha and smiled slightly, "...I actually decided to pay ahead for the next time I'm broke."

As they floated down the Styx, the forest around the river grew steadily darker as they passed through, and glittering, glowing eyes glimmered from the river’s edge in a number of places. Steadily, the mood grew darker and more repressed as the plane sought, as always, to exert its deleterious influence upon both of the ‘loth’s passengers.

Nisha and Clueless both shrugged off the chill mood and Clueless was fluttering his wings constantly, appearing to be shivering almost, but it gave off a constant light over the boat and the water’s surface near to them.

“So… much traffic on the river lately?” Clueless asked abruptly up to the Marraenoloth.

The ‘loth said nothing, nor did it seem to acknowledge that it had been asked a question.

“…so who’s winning?” Clueless asked once more.

The ‘loth immediately paused and seemed almost taken back by the question as it turned to glance at the half-fey. The skiff never changed its course by an inch, but Clueless watched as the ‘loth’s gaze flew immediately to the gemstone embedded in his ankle. Seconds passed and Clueless looked back up and into the Marraenoloth’s emotionless gaze. 

	A voice echoed in his mind, soft and chill, “Cerlic and his servants take no side. We fulfill our purpose, regardless of the outcome. Yes, much traffic.”

	Rattled or not, the Marraenoloth remained silent and simply steered its craft the rest of the trip and for the next ten minutes the boatman’s silence seemed nearly palpable as the trees melted away to scrub land on one side of the river. As they floated onwards, coming into view on that same side, the forest seemingly cut back away from it, stood a large, walled, fortified town sitting upon the bank of the Styx.

The skiff stopped softly upon the riverbank near the palisade of the city and the 'loth stepped aside and took Clueless’s payment promised and pointed a hand at the city. “Death of Innocence,” rattled through the bladesinger’s mind.

As Nisha clambered out of the boat, Clueless turned back to the Marraenoloth, “Thank you. Your purpose is appreciated.”

	The ‘loth said nothing more and moved the skiff swiftly downstream without a glance back. Clueless turned towards Nisha, “Well. I think you spooked him. Must be the tail.”

	Nisha swished her tail with a grin and poked ‘Xanxost’s’ nose once again. “The Vrock says, ‘Cockadoodle doo!’”

	Clueless was fully grinning as he and Nisha walked up towards the city, trying desperately not to laugh, “That it most certainly does!”

	“Hey, it keeps the grays away, you have to give it that!” She said with a chuckle, still swishing her tail.

The city walls were roughly thirty feet high and made of thick, rough-hewn timber that seemed freshly cut. Very freshly cut, and a steady ooze of sap ran from the exposed wood to pool along cracks, breaks in the wood, and finally to drip down upon the ground. A single gate faced the scrublands, and while it was open at the moment, there were a large number of bloods moving into and out of the city by the moment.

As Nisha and Clueless approached the main gate, they noticed something else: The city, as opposed to nearly everything else in the Waste, had color…

	Nisha glanced over at Clueless as they both noted the presence of color on and within ‘Death of Innocence’. “Lots of people waiting to get in, and not many leaving… wonder what’s going on…” She said.

	Most of those entering the city seemed to be of two types: refugees that were loaded down with packs and carts of goods and belongings, and heavily armed soldiers and mercenaries. All together they were a ragtag lot, the largest group seemed to be ten hobgoblins. There were not that many fiends at all, most non-fiendish primes and planers.

	Clueless and Nisha waiting in line for nearly an hour before the line had advanced enough for them to stand in front of the open gate. All the while Nisha had been ignoring the crowd and playing with the Slaadi head with glee and abandon. At the open gate, watching carefully over the entire waiting collection of mortals stood three guards, two tieflings and one human who were questioning each and every person seeking admission into the city. They had yet to turn anyone away from the city, but they were carefully noting weapons and anything that might be considered a danger to the population within the sticky, sap dripping walls of their town.

	As Clueless stepped up to the front of the line with Nisha still giggling and playing with ‘Xanxost’ behind him, one of the tiefling guards signaled for him to halt by holding up a gauntleted hand.

	“Reason for entry?” The guard asked.

	“Hoping to buy something back that belongs to me.” Clueless answered.

	The guard looked at him and then at Nisha, “Watch those swords, I won’t make you peace tie them, but we don’t need any more trouble here than we already have.”

	“Something going on around here?” The bladesinger asked the guard.

	The armored tiefling regarded Clueless somewhat incredulously at that point. “Something is the reason everyone's here and the city is packed twice its usual population. The whole of the Waste is waiting for war to break out from one layer down and work its way up.”

	“I just got here. Long trip, very isolated.” Clueless remarked.

	The tiefling sighed, “Half of them fleeing it, half of them rushing head first into it, all of them hoping to make some jink off it. I'd take you to be the latter?”

	Clueless and Nisha looked around and noticed that everyone there in and around the city, whatever expression they had, be it eagerness, anticipation, or fear; they actually expressed it. The Waste, for whatever reason, didn’t seem to be draining all of their feelings or their will to live. An oasis in the middle of a black desert of apathy.

	“Nope. I’m staying out of it as best I can.” Clueless answered up to the tiefling.

	“You’re the smarter crowed then… head on in.”

	Clueless nodded and proceeded on into the city with Nisha in tow. As they walked in, the city streets and even the buildings resembled nothing so much as the streets and kips of a prime world: neat, orderly, blocky, simple architecture.

	“This place doesn’t exactly fit in…” Clueless murmured to Nisha.

	Everything seemed ‘new’. All of the wood looked freshly cut. And all of the wood seemed to be bleeding sap, all except for one building off to their right that seemed to be actively bleeding. There was a thin trickle of dark red liquid pooling from a crack in one of the timbers that ran the length of the roof. 

Clueless lightly reached out and touched the dripping liquid out of curiousity. The sap was sticky and slightly warm and the blood had the consistency of actual blood, even to the point of having a light coppery smell.

Nisha glanced at the bleeding building, “Suddenly I prefer the spikes and blades and bars of Sigil, the razorvine even.”

“I’m curious what sort of wood it is actually…” Clueless said as he paused to look again in closer detail.

“Are you so sure that it’s actually wood? I’d put jink on there being petitioners in there…”

“Maybe,” Clueless said with a shake of his head “Let’s move.”

“Ask your cleric friend when we find him.” 

“Actually, I’m more worried that he’s going to try and take my head off.” He said as he self-consciously looked down at his ankle. The spell had begun to slightly fade, but the consistency of the glowing shell around the gem was still there. It had roughly five or so hours left by his measure.

Rubbing the blood-like liquid between his fingers with a raised eyebrow, the bladesinger looked to Nisha, “Well, let’s go find a guy to talk to him about an elf.”

	As the pair continued into the heart of ‘Death of Innocence’ the street was fairly wide as they approached an intersection, glancing down the streets and looking for either the Tanar’ri slavers themselves, or for the slave pens that they would likely need to pen up their captives before likely selling them.

	“Worse comes to worse I can always try to scry on the slavers…” Clueless muttered as they continued walking.

	Around thirty minutes later of walking the streets they wandered into a large square that contained both a large crowd and a large amount of noise. The center of the square was dominated by a wooden stage, newly constructed like everything else. Standing atop the stage were a score or more of nearly naked prisoners, each chained to one another and being watched over by a pair of Vrocks. Next to the stage was a series of cages that held more prisoners, themselves watched over by another pair of Vrocks.

	“This looks like what we’re looking for. And if it isn’t, they’ll know where the competition is or was…” Clueless said as he and Nisha approached.

	Prancing across the stage doing the bargaining and promotion of their mortal stock was a scantily clad Alu-Fiend, and watching her, either as a bodyguard or an actual owner, was an armored Babau. All Tanar’ri.

	“Forty seven jink and a trio of stingers!? Is that all I can get for this little c*nt of a celestial’s mortal dalliances?! Please… for that price I’d keep her myself and have her lick my toes each night simply because I could!” The Alu-Fiend listened to the jeers and taunts of the audience and was playing to them quite heartily to drive up the prices.

	“Make it fifty jink even and I’ll have her perform on stage for your pleasure if you like, or for mine if that’s your fancy! 50 jink? Can I have one of you sods offer me 50 jink?…” The Alu-fiend promptly had two higher calls for the miserable looking and obviously malnourished aasimar. All in all, it was like a meat market.

	Nisha glanced at the approaches to the stage and at the locks on the cages and on the chains on the prisoners while Clueless scanned the crowd and the prisoners for his former companion. The crowd was filled with a mix of onlookers, hecklers, protesters, and buyers. The buyers tended to be other fiends, or planars of mixed and bastardized blood.

	Clueless considered two Vrocks at once a task he could accomplish, though it would be difficult. The Babau was less dangerous physically, but it might be able to take him down from a distance. The Alu-Fiend, for all her lack of armor or visible weapons, like a Cambion, was hard to read. She might have been the easiest of them all, or quite possibly the hardest. And Clueless did not see an elf matching his description.

	As Nisha and Clueless continued to scan the crowd and the area at large, there was an argument starting near the front of the crowd over who had the winning bid on the nude aasimar woman on the stage. Two mercenary group leaders claimed it was they, and swords were being drawn as the Alu-Fiend stepped back.

"... F***ing hell... literally. Where is he...?" Clueless muttered as he flicked his wings for a moment to gain a few feet over the crowd and glance down the side streets in the event that his former comrade had already been sold and was yet in view.

The fight that was breaking out near the stage began to get more and more heated till the babau, who so far had been fairly reclusive up on the stage, walked forward, and at about a thirty foot distance simply stared at the two soldiers trading sword blows. Both soldiers immediately went rigid, clutched their heads and screamed. There was a clatter of steel on cobblestones and the crowd went silent and subdued very suddenly as the men writhed in agony on the ground.

	“Well then… I’ll restart the bidding at 45 jink and see if any of you have the gold and the brains this time around to be reasonable…” The Alu-Fiend said as the men continued to moan.

	“Well, that’s got to hurt…” Clueless said as he continued scanning the area, squirming forwards to see if he couldn’t find, and catch by the elbow, a less armored person who looked like they may have been here for a bit before himself.

	Leaving Nisha to practice pickpocketing, Clueless found one man near the front of the crowd who appeared to be a merchant, or at least employed by one. A human, he appeared to be taking notes of the people sold, but hadn't appeared to be buying, or placing bids at all.

	“Hey... may I ask you a question?" Clueless asked the man.

He turned around and raised an eyebrow before putting away his notebooks and extending a hand, “Forthran Darbus, planar trading consortium. How can I be of service cutter?”

Clueless nodded shook the man’s hand, “Clueless... I'm actually here looking for a particular elf, he got sold out in this direction by mistake.”

Forthran jerked his head back towards the stage, “Not so much mistakes involved with these I'm afraid to say. Most of them just picked up for lack of an armed escort, wherever they got taken. The consortium disapproves of the practice, but regardless, they like to keep tabs on who or what the market is supporting.”

Clueless nodded before he asked, "…Have there been elves already sold this day? Or yesterday perhaps…”

Darbus considered the question as he started flipping through his notebook. A number of pages later he looked back up and shook his head, “No… not today. However, mid morning yesterday, yes. At that time there was one elven female and one elven male sold, each of them in different lots.”

"Do you have a description of the male?"

Darbus chuckled, “I take my job seriously, they don't pay me for nothing. Estavan picks bloods for a purpose. And so yes, I do. Tall, thin, most elves are. Dressed in tattered blue and silver clothing, looks like he'd been stripped of armor but he still had a sword belt on him, empty of course. Mangled holy symbol, and had embroidered ones ripped from his clothing.”

Clueless nodded at the matching details of the description, “Could the holy symbol have at one time been Erevan Illsere?"

The planar trade consortium member pondered on it for a bit, “The colors fit, but it’s one heck of a trick to play on his own clergy... pardon my joke.”

"It wasn't his trick." Clueless said back darkly. “And may I inquire as to who picked him up and where I might find them?”

“Well, I did take note of several things: he went cheaper than expected despite his obvious martial training; something about a leg injury. He was sold to a group led by a Night Hag, she had a few Baatezu with her, they looked rogue, but I couldn't tell. My best guess is with the others they bought that morning, they're heading for the brewing conflict, what everyone else with a brain that’s not addled, is trying to avoid. Probably heading towards Center.”

Clueless frowned with some concern and then nodded a little, "Alright... ok. Now the trick is whether or not they've already left town or not..."

	Darbus humored him with a quick answer, “Well, if a teleport answers that question…”

"They... teleported out?" Clueless have a low sigh as he ran a hand back through his hair.

“Right after payment. Eager to leave it looked like. I'd put jink on where they were going though, precisely where I'm not.”

"... alright. Where?" Clueless asked.

“How much is it worth to you?” Darbus smiled like a shark in Porphatys.

Nisha walked up next to the two of them and held out a handful of coin to the merchant with a smile. At the same time she dropped two empty purses with cut purse strings to the ground behind her back.

“Like I said, Center. Couple different names, Center of Woe, Center of Misery, Dandy Will's City, the big mercenary camp at the center of the Grey Waste. See, quirk of the plane, all three layers converge at the one spot that the city is on. With rumors, or not rumors, flooding up from Pluton, the place is the rallying point for all of the soldiers of fortune this side of the great wheel.”

Clueless nodded back, "...alright." His wings stiffened a little in the Sidhe equivalent of a sigh before relaxing again,  "Alright.... how much did he go for?"

“8000 jink.”

“Garroth made around thirty thousand jink from the original sale… those slavers probably got him for some unknown price from our triple ruled friend, and they sold him for eight thousand?” Nisha said with a perplexed look on her face.

“Odd… was there a name for the buyer so I know who to ask for there? Or is she anonymous?” Clueless asked as Nisha handed Darbus some more coin, and surreptitiously dropped another empty coin purse behind her back.

“Hmm…let me look…” He said as he scanned the page of notes. “Ah, here it is. Marian Ravelsdotter.”

“Thank you.” Clueless said as he noticed that Nisha had once again slinked off into the crowd.

“'Good luck finding him. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to get back to work.” Darbus tipped his hat at the bladesinger and started jotting down notations to keep up with the last auction that was well underway

Clueless found Nisha sitting down on a rock next to one of the support timbers of a building adjacent to the cages. “You up for coming to Center with me?”

“Mmm hmm.” She smiled up at him. “Well I’ve never been to Center, so this is like a vacation for me. Of sorts. If you consider the plane of pure evil to be a vacation. Let’s just say that I’m playing sensate for a day just because, or something like that. Who says I’m supposed to ever really make perfect sense.”

Nisha stood up, “So how you want to travel? From the map, Center is about a three day journey overland from here, no Styx access.”

Nisha paused and waited for Clueless’s reaction, “But, I try to be prepared for stuff like this…” She grinned and reached into her satchel.

"And I am rapidly becoming less and less surprised by this."

“Hold this...” She said as she handed Clueless ‘Xanxost’.

Clueless took the Slaadi head and poked the nose in a bit of random curiosity. “Tanar’ri resist weapons, cold, fire, and acid. Even acid caught on fire. Xanxost has tried that once, it didn’t work either.”

Clueless snickered softly as Nisha dug around some more and took out a long copper scroll tube. She slipped out a single vellum scroll before putting back the scroll case and stuffing ‘Xanxost’ back into her bag. “Alright, there’s only one use here, so lets hope that we won’t need to leave immediately when we get there. And it’s a little… ok a lot… beyond my normal ability to trigger, so cross your fingers.”

"I'll cross every appendage that I can..." Clueless said as he flipped his wings up and crossed them across one another with a grin.

Unfurling the scroll, Nisha muttered a few words, correcting her pronunciation once or twice, before tapping the page and uttering a command word. The town faded from view instantly and there was a sense of cold as they were both temporarily superimposed upon the Astral, but then something odd happened. There was a gut-wrenching feeling, like the pull of a magnet, and they both could mentally and physically feel the spell snag on something.

The spell abruptly ended and they both reappeared standing in the middle of a gray plane dotted with scrub and a few stunted trees. Off near the horizon they could see a large, walled city. But maybe a mile from them, a large wide hill broke the gray monotony with a glassy black obsidian monolith rising from its surface, perhaps a fifth of a mile or more into the sky. Symbols larger than both Clueless and Nisha were tall dotted the surface and glowed with a pale red light. There was a sense of both attraction and dread simultaneously emanating from the colossal block of glassy stone.

“Sodding hells...” Nisha muttered before she turned around and went deathly silent as she noticed the monolith.

"Nisha, where are we?" Clueless asked the tiefling.


----------



## Gez

Shemeska said:
			
		

> “Greetings Factol,” Fyrehowl said with a bow before Rhys waved the formality away.
> 
> “You have questions for me regarding Elysium. Ask me and I will tell you what I know, and remember that I no longer hold a formal title of factol, the reverence is not needed.” Rhys said as she stepped out from behind her desk to approach the group and bid them to sit. Her feet ended in hooves, much like Nisha’s, betraying the formal factol’s tiefling heritage.




Well, she's formal or she ain't?  I suppose you meant "former".


----------



## shilsen

Woohoo! My last post found it's way into the update title !

Question - What version of the babau are you using? Presumably not the 3.5 MM one, since that one doesn't have the kind of ability it showed.


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## Shemeska

shilsen said:
			
		

> Question - What version of the babau are you using? Presumably not the 3.5 MM one, since that one doesn't have the kind of ability it showed.




Nope, didn't break open any of my books when writing, during that scene originally (which was done over a chat), or last night writing it up formally. In the PS MCI the Babau is listed as having a gaze attack from its eyes that had the effects of a ray of enfeeblement. There was also a picture in one of the later box sets, 'Hellbound' I believe, that showed a Babau using that gaze and the affected person being in excrutiating pain from it. So if I've taken some liberties with the effects of the gaze I at least had some inspiration.  

Re: And Gez... edited out that one typo. It was late.


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## Gez

I only point out typoes when they are funny or make the sentence kinda confusing. 

Otherwise, nice update, as always. I wonder if Clueless took enough jink, since there was quite an inflation on that elf's price.


----------



## Gerzel

C'mon.  The monsters in the MMs are ONLY generalizations at best.  Esp for the more chaotic races.  They are averages and many should have far different abilities than they are listed as having.  Saying "Its a barbazue it shouldnt' have x power at x strength!" Is like saying "Its just a human, and shouldnt' have any abilities to cast spells, or any to hit bonus (Which normal humans in the mm would be).

Only lawful races and "Pure" beings like elementals ect. should have a great similarity in abilities from one individual to the other.  Quite frankly its amazing that the taanari ever produced more than one of any kind of demon.  (Don't bring up the SLaad as they have extenuating circumstances.) </soapbox>


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## Clueless

Gez said:
			
		

> I only point out typoes when they are funny or make the sentence kinda confusing.
> 
> Otherwise, nice update, as always. I wonder if Clueless took enough jink, since there was quite an inflation on that elf's price.




Yes.

I planned ahead.


----------



## Florian

Shemeska said:
			
		

> The last tasks they performed within the keep was finding the kitchen and serving staff, as well as the two scribes, from where they had been hiding and letting them know that the castle had new owners. In fact they even offered to continue paying them their normal wages even in the absence of the mercane. That they had the mercane’s more than substantial finances, courtesy of “Dalmar Imshenviir’s generous donation” according to Nisha, the group could more than afford to pay the servants to continue upkeep of the castle. The lone remaining guard was released, apologized to, and sent packing with a bit of jink back to one of the gatetowns.




Now see, I preferred the way it went down at the table:

Florian: How much did they pay you?

Scribe: 5 gold per (week?  Month?  I don't remember--I think it was per week).

_Florian hands each scribe twice that amount_

Florian: You work for me now.

Lather, rinse, repeat.

God I love being Amnian.


----------



## Florian

Fimmtiu said:
			
		

> And what about Florian?




What about me?


----------



## Florian

Shemeska said:
			
		

> [soft mutter]Oh Christ...[/soft mutter] that voice hurt my throat something fierce, and it's higher pitched, more nasal and more whiny in person. *laugh*




"Who cares about arms, I have ALL the body parts!"


----------



## PhoenixDarkDirk

This is a great story so far.  I wonder if this Marian Ravelsdotter is at all related to her fellow night hag Ravel Puzzelwell from Planescape: Torment.


----------



## Gez

The name does implies she's the daughter of Ravel. How many Night Hags named Ravel are there? Yes, I know, an infinity since the Waste is infinite.


----------



## Dakkareth

In my desperation over the lack of updates I finally retrieved PS:T from its resting place - didn't have the time for it before, but now I'm *taking* my time.


----------



## Shemeska

PhoenixDarkDirk said:
			
		

> This is a great story so far.  I wonder if this Marian Ravelsdotter is at all related to her fellow night hag Ravel Puzzelwell from Planescape: Torment.




I had recently finished Torment around a month before the point where I came up with the hag's name. And since I came up with her name completely on the fly during a chat session, the name simply sprung to mind easily. If she is or isn't Ravel's daughter I leave up in the air. Never let a potential plot hook die.


----------



## Shemeska

Dakkareth said:
			
		

> In my desperation over the lack of updates I finally retrieved PS:T from its resting place - didn't have the time for it before, but now I'm *taking* my time.




Lack of updates? Bah. I updated Monday and you'll have another one on Friday. The next week the update may be late however because I've got some serious crunch time approaching on some work on my thesis I'll be preoccupied with. If it is late, I'll make up for it.


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## Clueless

Speaking of things to while about. Or that you'll make up for us... *proceeds to pester regarding a *very* long ToDo list.* And good luck with the thesis stuff....


----------



## Dakkareth

> Lack of updates? Bah. I updated Monday and you'll have another one on Friday.



See, that's three days without. Told you so 

But Planescape: Torment, while impeded by the mechanics, is wonderfully done and serves to fill my holidays 



> And good luck with the thesis stuff....



Seconded.


----------



## Shemeska

*With the turning of Wheels*

“This letter was left for you, though I’m afraid I didn’t see who brought it in. There isn’t a name on the envelope either.” The head of the serving staff said as she handed Florian a sealed envelope.

	“Oh? Addressed to me?” The cleric asked.

	“Oh, no sir, it was addressed to all of you.”

	“Really?” Florian raised an eyebrow as he walked into the back room with the others.

	“Just as long as it’s not a ransom note for Nisha and Clueless I’ll be fine with it. Bills, less so. And another offer to buy the inn, that goes right to the fire portal…” Toras said.

	The envelope was simply marked to ‘The Owners of the Portal Jammer’ and contained a single short letter and a map. Fyrehowl sniffed at the air as the letter was unfolded and placed on the tabletop for all to read.

	“Him again.” The lupinal said before the letter was fully laid out.

	The letter read: “Greetings my past collaborators and may I once again congratulate you on a job well done from when last we saw fit to work with each other. While two of your companions are off rushing headlong into the Gray Waste on errands of their own, I have information for you that should perk your interest severely. I am aware that you wish to investigate certain… trade routes… mentioned by the Imshenviir mercane, as well as their shipments to ‘alleviate hunger’ there in Elysium’s layer of Belarian. I have information relating to this that may be vital to you, and once again this appears to be a case of mutual interest. Meet me in the ruins of the Temple of Eternal Darkness in UnderSigil at antipeak this evening.”

	The letter was signed ‘The Cheshire Fiend’ and emblazoned with the triple circled symbol of the Wheels Within Wheels. The map gave a rough route down into the sewers, tunnels, and warrens below the streets of Sigil to a point and instructions to ‘follow the trail of silver’.

	Fyrehowl looked up at the group, “As much as I know I really shouldn’t trust a self admitted fiend who arguably used us once already to set up an assassination, I’m worried about what may or may not be going on in my home plane. If he has information that I can pass on to the lord of Rubicon, I need to find out at least what he has to say and then judge it from there.”

	“I’ll have to agree with you, as much as I don’t trust him as far as I could throw him.” Toras said.

	“…you could probably throw him halfway across the room without really trying. That cliché really doesn’t work for someone built like you Toras…” Skalliska said with a smirk.

	Toras smiled, “But I really trust you Skalliska. Shall we find out just how much?”

	Skalliska huffed slightly as the half celestial flexed a bicep for a moment before Tristol interjected. “Has anyone here ever actually heard of the place he’s asking us to meet him at?”

	There was silence all around before the kobold answered, if tentatively and with a pause in her voice. “I’ve never been there, it’s too close for my comfort to some rumored cranium rat hives and a few unmapped catacombs of unknown origin, definitely not Dustie. However, it was supposed to have been a Yugoloth stronghold within Sigil itself that they used to spy on the dreams of Sigil’s residents.”

	Florian was about to ask a question before Skalliska cut her off, “And no, I don’t have a clue how they could do that. Some artifact or some such they were said to have. However the whole place was nearly demolished and then abandoned in the final days of the Faction War. At least that’s what I heard.”

	“From this letter I wouldn’t be so sure that it was ever abandoned.” Tristol mused.


****​

Clueless and Nisha hovered and looked at the massive monolith that dominated their view of the plane around them. Nisha glanced off at the horizon and pointed towards the walled city that lay several miles away.

	“Well… we’re close enough to see Center…”, she said before motioning back at the monolith, “But whatever that thing is, it scragged my teleport.”

	Clueless nodded, “…good enough then I guess. Maybe it’s some form of protection for the city?”

	“Well, that’s no form of infernal that I’ve ever seen.” Nisha said as she pointed to the bizarre and glowing runes carved into its surface. “In fact, I’ve never seen any language even close to that, and I speak 6…”

Clueless peered at the runes on the obelisk closely, "You’re right, I’ve never seen it either.... I'm thinking we just shouldn't mess with it huh?"

“Sound’s good to me, it's something to ask Tristol or Skalliska about certainly.”

Clueless nodded, "Definitely."

Nisha took out a pen and started modifying her map of the Waste. As she concentrated on the map, Clueless watched with concern as the monolith began to hum just below audible range. But, while not hearing anything, he felt it vibrate through the thin membranes of his wings and he could feel the ground shaking, sending little trails running through the dust. As that occurred, the runes on the stone began to shift from red to blue and Clueless felt a wave of negative emotions rushing outwards from them like a tidal wave of crushing despair orders of magnitude worse than the normal misery of the Gray Waste.

“Um… Nisha? Uh oh…” He hastily blurted out as he reached over to grab hold of the tiefling, “…fly time.”

“Eeeep!” Nisha said with a squeal as Clueless burst into the air with her at his side while he tried to gain distance between themselves and the monolith.

Looking back at the stone spike rising up from the Waste like a headstone in the multiverse’s graveyard of morality, the runes seemed to be pulsing, almost like they were written upon a living being’s heart. The emotional agony melted away as the two grew further and further away from the stone, the emotional draining of the Waste seeming to retreat as the monolith grew more and more distant. Eventually, when they were approximately a mile away from the obelisk, it vanished, like desert mirage into a haze, and then was gone without a trace, swallowed up by the Waste.

“Disappearing monolith… fun fun…” Clueless said. Whatever the stone spire was, he felt a lingering dread at having seen it, and also that in some way it was something that was best left unseen and untouched.

	Over the next few hours Clueless and Nisha approached to within twenty or so miles of the city of Center, making good time on a combination of the half-fey’s wings and a spell of expeditious retreat. Growing closer to the city they noticed a great flurry of activity on the ground that surrounded the city, though Center was more properly a fortified, iron walled citadel than it was a city. Death of Innocence was a city full of refugees; Center was, in great contrast to that safe haven, a gigantic mercenary camp.

	While it was likely more of a trade city proper months or weeks prior, Center was currently surrounded by a sprawling mass of tent cities still popping up around the walls with masses of figures from dozens of races going through combat training. Scattered about they could also see mages here and there practicing spells and fiends marching about between the mercenary camps and the city itself which seemed as if it could barely hold the numbers straining to fit within its steel shod walls.

	While Clueless and Nisha approached Center from its Niffleheim side, as the city had one side bordering on each of the three layers of the Waste, there was a massive contingent of Yugoloths camped outside the Pluton approach of the walls. They seemed to be keeping a safe distance from Center, however there was a large amount of foot traffic between their camp and many of the mercenary camps sprawling for miles around; recruiting…

	Clueless hissed through his teeth briefly at the sight of the ‘loths as he looked for any visible night hags. Looking down the bladesinger noticed a few figures that might have been hags, each of them herding larvae and looking like they were selling them to the fiendish mercenaries, but having no luck selling them to the ‘loths.

	Continuing to fly towards the city, they were within two miles of the gates, and they were not the only persons flying towards or around the city. A good number of Alu-Fiends and some cambions were flying above the ground clutter simply to avoid it and expedite their own travels, and near the Pluton gate there was a wizard or sorcerer with wings of flame, but they appeared to be the result of a spell and not a natural gift.

	“Well,” Clueless said as he and Nisha looked for a spot to land, preferably a spot where people seemed to be registering or entering the city proper.

	“Not the Pluton side please…” Nisha pleaded, “Fewer Yugoloth the better…”

	Slowing his speed to a milling hover, they looked down at the city itself. The Yugoloths did have a large amount of traffic and there was a grandiose palace at the center of the city. The town was split into three distinct, separate sections, one of them being fully walled off from the other two, the Oinos bordering section of the city, likely to quarantine that portion of Center to avoid spreading the occasional plague from the Waste’s first layer into the other two sections of the populace.

 	After some deliberation between Nisha and himself, Clueless landed within one of the few open areas leading up to the Niffleheim bordering gate of the city.  Mercenaries of nearly every lower planar race were passing by, to and from the city and their own contingents and companies surrounding the city. Nisha looked distinctly uncomfortable but followed along after Clueless, one hand on her sword. The bladesinger as well had loosened the wrappings on his own blade, Razor, so that in the event of a confrontation he could draw it easily.

	While it took some time to work their way up to the gates, there were really no guards to speak of, no tax to enter the city, and no carts or wagons being checked. There was no security whatsoever, the encamped armies of Yugoloth allied mercenaries and the Pluton based ‘loth army that numbered well over a few hundred thousand was likely enough to dissuade any but the insane from causing anything above a drunken knife fight. However as the two walked through the open gates and into Center’s Niffleheim district, a man was shouting out that travel to the Oinos side of the town was restricted, requiring teleportation in, and a two day enforced quarantine to exit back to the rest of the city. Likely it was both for plague prevention, and that one half of the Yugoloth conflict was based on Oinos while the other side was firmly entrenched in Pluton; being that Mydianchlarus had personal command over the plagues of Oinos, it was likely that both precautions were tied together intimately…

	Once they had passed by the gates it seemed that on each street corner there were posted signs directing new mercenaries to register for employment with the Yugoloth recruiters at the palace at the center of Center. Clueless kept his eyes peeled for anyone who might look like they’d be good and open to ask directions or locations. The half-fey also retracted his wings since he didn't want to risk some clueless yelling ‘Eladrin!’, pointing at him, and starting a massive riot.

	“And where’s Kylie’s folks when you need them?” Nisha quipped as they passed a group of hooded Reaves and a cluster of fiend-touched lizardmen marching opposite them.

	“Somehow I doubt that they have touts here Nisha.” Clueless replied as they walked further into the city.

	The city streets rapidly branched out in a multitude of directions, all of them packed with people of every stripe, prime or lower planar, all of them. On some streets they passed the occasional random fight or brawl, all of them seeming to be on the law/chaos axis between Tanar’ri spawn and Baatezu spawned mortals. On the side of the street they passed a wild haired man in black robes who was alternately chanting and shouting out to passersby.

	 “The glory of the lower planes be unto Anthraxus! He shall reclaim his seat upon the Wasting Tower and the false lord shall be cast down to true death and so too to all those who support him!”

Of those who filled the streets along with Clueless and Nisha, no one seemed to be blinking at the crazed man’s statements, in fact the crowd actually seemed to support him, as he received cheers of approval from a large number of the mercenaries passing by. Clueless inhaled deeply at the whole matter and thought to himself that yes indeed, he certainly knew which side of the conflict Center and its inhabitants were on…

	Some fifteen blocks away from the center of the city the area was filled with mostly inns, buildings converted to armor and weapons repair and making shops, wizards hawking their services, and everything else a sellsword might want, including the omnipresent brothels and whorehouses that were catering to persuasion and species one might imagine possible.

Nisha poked Clueless in the ribs, “Why do I have the wonderful feeling we'll eventually need to talk to a 'loth...”

"Cause we probably will..." He replied darkly, "Typical."

“Lead on, I'm following, and I really don't want to be alone in this crowd. It could be ugly if I run into any of these mercenaries drunk... though ten pounds of smokepowder will do wonders to clear a space in a crowd....” Nisha said as she patted her satchel with a loving smile.

"I'll have to... you have!?" Clueless gave a startled look at her before shaking his head.

The tiefling just grinned and patted her satchel again, “Antimagic field? What antimagic field?”

"Riiight." Clueless said as he smirked. "Well, lets go find us this Hag."

	Several blocks more of wandering drew them closer to the palace and Clueless and Nisha continued looking for either any night hags or anyone who looked like they might be able to help them find her. While they didn’t find any hags, they did notice a number of tieflings wandering about who seemed like wandering recruiters. All of them wore a green and black uniform and they all seemed to be canvassing the people newly arrived to the city.

One of the tieflings approached the pair as they headed in his direction. The male tiefling, spiky hair and all, looked at the pair and smiled as he addressed them, “Looking for employment in the coming war? I can direct you to the right place.”

Clueless smiled back while Nisha tried to look normal, "...actually we're looking for someone. A night hag by the name of Marian Ravelsdotter."


The recruiter furrowed his brow and thought about the name for a moment. “I wouldn't know, but if she's signed up, she'd be on record with the scribes at the palace. That's where Palinarus is handling the entire recruitment effort before shipping out troops to Pluton to meet up with the larger force. One of his Lordship's assistants might know. They're available if you have good reason, He...” The tiefling paused and seemed to pale slightly, “ He isn't. Understandably, you don't just ask for a meeting with an Ultraloth.” 

Clueless nodded back and added quietly, “Alright, and yeah, you don’t.”

Nisha smiled, and thanked him along with Clueless, before the recruiter pointed them towards the palace and walked away to accost a wizard and begin extolling to him the benefits of registering for the war with the Arcanoloths, they being in charge of any wizards recruited, pay being in jink and spells. The tiefling recruiter had spoken softer whenever he had referred to the Ultroloth Palinarus.

	The pair slowly walked towards the center of the city, the crowd rushing around them, pressing in, fairly tight packed as they drew closer. Thirty minutes later they neared the palace that was built of black marble rather than the iron that was used to build most of the buildings in the Nifleheim portion of Center. In the blocks immediately surrounding the palace, traffic thinned out considerably, with most of the rank and file recruits not entering, but rather allowing their group leaders to sign them. As they looked up at the heights of the palace as it rose above the surrounding portions of the city Nisha made a disparaging comment regarding those who walked into the palace being the ones who could read and write, the rest being those who just did as they were told.

	The palace was roughly four stories high, with three towers situated at the sides bordering the three layer specific portions of the city. A vaulted dome stood at the palace's center, it having a single spire rising up, overlooking the entire city and dwarfing the rest of the buildings in the entire city. Standing at the massive gates into the palace were posted five Mezzoloths in glimmering, rune scribed platemail and a Piscaloth dressed in the same; all of them carried black iron tridents scribed with golden sigils and swirling patterns. The guards seemed to be giving all those who entered the palace a cursory glance, though every so often they asked an entrant for their reasons for being there, perhaps using some form of magical thought detection.

	Of those entering the palace it was mostly mercenary leaders along with individual warriors not aligned with a group, but the larger group was a mixture of wizards, sorcerers, and clerics. The clerics all seemed a dour or fanatical lot, all of them wearing the holy symbols of evil deities, mostly those associated with domains of death, disease, war, and conquest. Some of those entering the palace were of neutral aligned deities, but all of them being powers of war who, regardless of the exact nature of the conflict, the war furthered the power’s portfolio.

	Clueless glanced at Nisha, “Under any other circumstance I’d say ladies first, but I was the one who dragged you into this, so I’ll be the brave one.”

	And with that the bladesinger walked towards the gates. As he walked past one of the guards, the Piscaloth held up a ruby topped rod at him and Nisha, waving it slowly over them both. Neither Clueless nor Nisha felt anything, and it turned away from them both and did the same to the next group passing by behind them. Having cleared them apparently, one of the Mezzoloths waved its Oinian steel glaive at them and motioned for them to continue on inside.

Past the gates, a long marble hallway led to vaulted chamber near to the center of the palace, the first portions of the palace’s solid dome rising overhead, apparently freestanding. A large gateway on the opposite side of the chamber that likely led to the very center of the palace was closed and blocked by another group of Mezzoloths. In the center of the room was an armed tiefling who was directing new entries towards one doorway or another, or one of two staircases leading up into the palace’s central tower.

	“Greetings cutter, how might I direct you?” The tiefling said in a courteous, businesslike manner as he approached Nisha and Clueless.

	“I’m looking for someone, and I was told that they may have registered here. Marian Ravelsdotter? A night hag.”

	He nodded, “Soldier, spellcaster, fiend, prime, what sort? Ah yes, spellcaster and fiendish… you’ll need to head straight and give this to the guards by the stairs, they’ll admit you.”

	Clueless was handed a single black stone bearing a glowing arcane mark, and he swore that the tiefling had smirked as he handed it to him. The guards at the staircase the tiefling had indicated were two heavily armed and armored Nycaloths, not simply Mezzoloths. As Clueless and Nisha approached, one of the fiends simply held out his hand, the other had its hands on a sword on each hip.

	“Here you go…” Clueless said as he handed the stone to the Nycaloth.

	The Nycaloth said nothing as it took the stone, fingered a ring on its other hand, looked closely at both Clueless and Nisha and finally stood to the side and allowed them to pass. Clueless inwardly swallowed nervously, realizing just how deeply into things he and Nisha were getting, given that whoever they were being sent up to was guarded by a pair of Nycaloths, greater Yugoloths themselves.

Clueless and Nisha ascended the stairwell which led up and forwards and that eventually curved around in a long spiral, leading most likely to the top tower of the castle atop the central dome. Both of the pair looked nervously at one another as they ascended. Finally, winded from the climbing, the stairs eventually reached a single room, all of the other doors off from the stairs being locked or magically sealed.

The room they looked into was more a long gallery that had been converted into an office more than anything else. Two more Nycaloth guards flanked the open doorway but make no move to stop the pair, they only glanced at them but made no comment.

Past the door they could see in front of a large window overlooking the city a large stone desk stacked with maps and papers, and two figures. One, clearly the larger one, had its back turned to the pair, silently overlooking the city. The other was holding a long scroll and taking notes dictated from the other, though neither of them appeared to be saying anything.

	Nisha’s tail quivered in time with her lower lip as she looked at the one turned away from them which stood some nine feet tall, dressed in a plain black robe, bald and sporting a disproportionately long cranium.

	Clueless looked at the Ultroloth and whispered with incredulity, “…F*** me… and bend me over too.”

	The one taking notes from the Ultroloth was, as was typical, an Arcanaloth. She was female and dressed in pale blue and purple wizards robes, looking much like a cut-rate Marauder, almost like she was trying to actually affect that one’s style of dress and mannerisms.

	“…and here I was just looking for a night hag…” Clueless muttered under his breath as the arcanaloth held up her hand and gestured for him and Nisha to remain there for a moment as she finished scribing something.

	Finally, she blotted her pen, in reality extinguishing the glowing red tip of the iron stylus in a pot of water next to the slowly wriggling Gehennan petitioner laid flat on an iron frame. 

	“Yes?” She asked impatiently.

	“…I was looking for a certain Marian Ravelsdotter. I was told that if she had registered she would have done so here?” Clueless said nervously as Nisha tried to be as unnoticed as possible.

The Arcanaloth replied almost immediately, “A night hag, yes. She had a number of assorted sellswords and 'persuaded' help with her as well.”

“Do you know where I might find her, or more specifically, the persuaded help? I have business with them.”

Behind them, the Ultroloth began to turn around. Clueless blanched and immediately worried that somehow the fiend had recognized his voice from some portion of his past that he himself still didn’t remember. And for that brief moment he entertained the suicidal notion of drawing his blade and trying to kill it and its servitors, all of them.

As it turned around, its gray skin reflected ambient light, its luminous eyes glowing a pale orange and scarlet, unblinking. There was suddenly a voice ringing inside their heads with a sound like shattering glass and twisted iron nails being ground together, but otherwise it was merely uncomfortable. 

“I have fools for guards, they know not to bother me with trivial matters. They're to send me wizards, not people looking for them. Do not waste my time idiot mortals.”

Clueless snapped his attention to the Ultroloth feeling cowed and intimidated. Nisha was on the floor, clutching her head. Clearly the Ultroloth’s displeasure was affecting the tiefling more so than Clueless.

Clueless bowed his head, “…my apologies.” However he looked up at the Arcanaloth since his question was still there to be answered.

The Arcanaloth was looking at the bladesinger, then at Nisha, raising one furred eyebrow like she had seen it before and was still amused by it even after all of her time serving Palinarus.

The Ultroloth’s voice crashed through Nisha and Clueless’s brains again, “Shylara will answer your questions, but I have more important things to do. Leave before I flay you alive.”

	Clueless’s mind immediately paused at the Ultroloth’s mention of his scribe’s name. He’d seen the name before, and recently even. She had been mentioned in the notes of Dalmar Imshenviir, listed as having accompanied Vorkannis the Ebon to the mercane’s demiplane. Then what the hell was she doing there in Center, serving an Ultroloth as a recruiter for Anthraxus? 

Clueless remained locked to the notion as Shylara nodded and walked towards the door, snapping a finger and having one of the Nycaloth guards bodily pick Nisha up from the floor to haul her out of the chamber as well. As the three of them exited the chamber, the Arcanaloth motioned at the door and it slammed shut with a resounding crash.

Clueless was tensed and his hand once more nearly reached for his sword as he would have sworn that the ‘loth seemed at once, both surprised and dreadfully amused to see him. But yet he couldn’t fully tell if she did in fact recognize him at all, and he wasn’t willing to ask in case she didn’t…

Nisha rose her feet, rubbing her temples, from where the Nycaloth had unceremoniously dumped her. She remained silent as the ‘loth looked to Clueless, “Now, as to your question?”

Clueless reached out a hand to stabilize Nisha as the ‘loth continued. “Ravelsdotter is likely near the Oinos side of town. If not actually outside the walls, then wandering the Pluton side, selling larvae, or a number of slaves she had with her. If I might ask, why the interest in the hag?”

Cautiously Clueless responded, "It was more one of the slaves she had. I had some personal business with him that needs to be resolved."

Shylara nodded, scratching at some terribly persistent itch on one of her ears. “Slave or free, we all have a place in the war to come, and it likely won't be long now. I hear tell that Anthraxus grows impatient, among other rumors.”

	Something in the ‘loth’s tone sounded haughty, vain, belligerent even if one suspected her to be anything but utterly and completely loyal. Or perhaps Clueless was only reading too much into her tone considering who he had seen her name in connection with before.

Clueless looked to where Shylara was urgently scratching at some perceived itch with bared claws, "Um, excuse me, if I may? That seems... an awkward position for you to get at. Would you like help...?"

She stopped itching and chuckled, “No.” The answer was rather firm and Nisha noticed that where the ‘loth had been itching the fur wasn’t displaced or even tousled despite the almost frantic scratching with bared claws that she had been engaged in.

Clueless nodded, "Very well, I felt the offer would be appropriate at the least. I've actually heard of you… outside of this city..."

She snapped back, “I would doubt you have, I keep busy. In the coming days however, that is apt to change.”

Nisha jabbed Clueless in the ribs, sharply, as he said again, "No. Truly, I have."

And again Shylara answered in measured, forceful tones, “The hag likely won't remain in the city much longer, she's apt to travel to Anthraxus's camp in the next day at most. Allies flock to us like flies. Xenghara the reaper has allied himself with Lord Anthraxus even. What more can I say when the Lords of the Grey Waste increasingly choose sides, and ours at that. Now go and find your hag.”

As she turned to leave, Clueless said to her, “Good day… well wishes to your plans madam.”

Dismissing Clueless’s last statement the Arcanaloth turned and walked back into the office, immediately appearing to grovel as she opened the doors and stepped back into the Ultroloth’s presence. Her tone was abruptly different with Palinarus than it had been with Clueless.

	Clueless bit his tongue and held back from adding, “And tell the Ebon hello for me!” as Nisha kicked him in the leg and tried to drag him back down the stairs.

	Nisha stared heavily at Clueless on the way down the stairs, looking like she was on the verge of flipping out on him. Still, the tiefling winced and held the side of her head on occasion as they quickly descended the stairs.

	“Berk was doing his best mind flayer impression in there…” She complained with another wince.

	“Yep… that’s what they do… Listen Nisha, I’m sorry, - that – was unexpected.” Clueless said to her.

	As the pair reached the bottom of the stairs, Nisha groaned and held the side of her head again. One of the Nycaloth guards took back the black stone they carried and the other chuckled at Nisha’s plight. Clearly they had seen it happen before and clearly they found it to be a veritable riot. Without a word to the fiends, Clueless and Nisha quickly left the palace.

	Once outside Nisha looked Clueless, “You know, I don’t think she wanted us to be there.”

	“Probably not. In fact, I’m sure that she’s not a happy camper right now on multiple levels.” Clueless replied.

	“Good for her, overgrown puppy…” Nisha said with a smirk.

	Clueless leaned over to whisper in Nisha’s ear, “…fleas.”

	“Or something…” Nisha said as she looked to Clueless, “So, where to now? I didn’t exactly hear most of what all went on in there. I had a damned gray noodle with eyes trying to screw my brain through my nose…”


****​

	They had spent two hours walking within the pitch black tunnels of The Great Below and had seen little alive or moving, though the signs of frequent passage or habitation littered the forgotten vaults and passages that wormed their way like the midnight exploits of drunken dwarven miners. While they never saw any cranium rats alive, they did find their corpses, most of them dead without any exterior signs of damage that Tristol made mention of appearing to be due to magic of an unusual nature that he wasn’t familiar with.

	“So, Fyrehowl, any luck on smelling anything?” Toras asked the lupinal.

	“Why do you ask?” She replied.

	“I figured that an underground fortress of Yugoloths must be permeated with whatever smell they give off. Shouldn’t you be able to smell it before the rest of us?”

	“It’s pretty nasty down here anyways, and there’s not much air movement to help me tell where anything was coming from, even if I did smell the place. Plus, like Skalliska said, the place has supposedly been abandoned for onwards of five years. Smells linger, but not that strong after so many years.” Fyrehowl shrugged as they continued walking.

	“Anyways, we’re almost at the end of the map here, so start looking for a trail of silver, whatever they meant by that.” The kobold glanced down each of the side passages they passed while she kept the map levitating out a foot or so above and in front of her snout for easy reference.

	“Well hello…” Fyrehowl said as the architecture of the hallways changed abruptly over the next fifty yards of the tunnel. The rough hewn stone of the passage melted away first into smoother and almost finished stonework before transitioning into walls of fitted and polished black marble that gave the look of a mirrored ocean of darkness whose waves lapped at the light of their torches as they approached.

	Skalliska hastily put away the map and looked down at the floor of the passage where their current hallway intersected another at right angles perhaps thirty feet ahead, “Nobody step into the center of the intersection up ahead.”

	They all paused at the periphery of the junction and glanced at the circular seal that was cut and molded into the floor. Decorated in a mixture of precious metals and covered in glyphs and symbols in a mixture of Infernal and Abyssal, each of them carved and decorated in some meticulous pattern or symbology, the seal resembled nothing so much as one of the oddly beautiful manadalas of certain religious sects in Sigil’s Lotus Blossom District. However where they gave off an aura of peace and tranquility, the seal set within the mirror polished black marble gave off an aura of despair and malice.

	“And damn if that thing isn’t magical…” Tristol said, a moment after he jerked backwards, following the completion of a cantrip to detect magic.

	“Any idea of what it is, or if it’s trapped?” Fyrehowl asked the wizard.

	“Nothing that seems malign actually, unless you count a series of forbiddance spells worked into in. Undead, cranium rats… and Dabus… are warded against entry down three of these corridors, just not the one we came here from. There look like there are a few remnants of alarm spells, and a few already triggered contingencies that looked… pretty ugly.”

	“And there’s our trail of silver.” Fyrehowl said, pointing at a twisted symbol that emerged from the edge of the seal and protruded several inches into the corridor to their right. The silver etched into the marble called into mind that of the Gray Waste, while a gold and an iron symbol that were similar to the sigils of Carceri and Gehenna protruded down two of the other corridors.

	Glancing at each other, they proceeded down the marked corridor with unease. The corridor retained its mirror bright polish as they continued past a number of equally decadent side passages, turning to follow the direction of the silver symbol at each of the intersections they came to. The corridor gradually expanded in breadth and they passed a number of fragmented and long expanded wards and spelltraps intended to obliterate intruders, all of them growing in power as they approached the final destination of the passage.

	A single, cavern-like chamber stretched out around them as they emerged from the hallway. Fyrehowl, Toras, and Florian immediately winced from the nearly palpable weight of the unhallowed air that swirled around them. At the center of the vault was a massive cylindrical shaft of cracked, blood colored crystal that swirled with motes of darkness frozen into its matrix. However, the shaft was scorched by flames and broken halfway up its height and the rest of its bulk above there lay dashed across the floor of the sanctuary, broken and forgotten.

	Several chambers lay at the periphery of the vault and those of the companions who had hair on the back of the necks felt it rise in the telltale, uncomfortable sign of being observed. Toras’s hand gripped his sword and Fyrehowl tensed as they and the others looked across the abandoned temple’s expanse at the abandoned and broken fiendish weapons and armor that littered the ground where their owners had fallen in battle. But despite the signs of abandonment, the temple was by no means forgotten or wholly abandoned by all of its former kin.

	The smell of fiend was oppressive to Fyrehowl, and it surrounded them on almost all sides from the ruined chambers of the abandoned temple. The lupinal’s nose detected the heavy scent of Mezzoloths, as many or more than in the mercanes’ demiplanar castle, and a large number of Dergholoths, Piscaloths, and Canoloths; though none of them showed themselves openly.

	“Well,” a cultured and mellifluous voice said as it rippled across the chamber like poisoned honey, “My appreciation and thanks for answering my summons, I will endeavor to make this worth your time.”

	The voice came from a figure that hovered slightly off of the mirror polished black marble of the sanctuary floor, dressed in, or rather composed of, a black robe that was trimmed in gold, a pair of black gloves that hung in place at the cuffs of the robe, and a brilliant blue smile that hovered where a normal being’s head would have been. The illusory projection of the Cheshire Fiend smiled, as always, as the group approached.

	“Your letter was interesting, and you certainly have our attention, if not absolutely our trust at the moment.” Fyrehowl said to the illusionary avatar of their would-be benefactor.

	“Indeed, such is to be expected I figure, being what I am and all, I don’t have the most sterling reputation of being honest or being straightforward. However, be that as it may, this is very much a case of mutual interest as it was last time.” The fiend smiled wider and paced across the chamber, as best it could without having feet.

	Fyrehowl glanced warily at the adjacent chambers of the sanctuary as she questioned the fiend, “So what can you tell us about the mercane and Belarian?”

	“And what exactly is it you want from us for that information?” Florian added.

	The blue grin chuckled, “Trust me on this…”

	Tristol scoffed.

	“Let us simply say that I exist as part of a specific faction within the Yugoloth hierarchy.” The Cheshire Fiend held up one ‘hand’ and a shimmering illusion appeared in the air of the triple circle symbol of the Wheels Within Wheels. “War is brewing on the Waste between those of my race loyal to the former Oinoloth, Anthraxus the Decayed, and the current Oinoloth, Mydianchlarus. Within the conflict that is coming there exists opportunity to conveniently dispose of one’s rivals within the haze of events before, during, and immediately after both sides erupt into open conflict. Suffice to say, I wish to see certain groups rise while others fall.”

	The fiend paused and allowed his words to sink in before he continued. “A small group of my kind has taken refuge in Elysium, of all places, working with a nearly fallen lupinal for mutual benefit. They seek to obtain a certain prize that exists upon the plane, and the guardinal seeks, in his own way, to atone for a stain upon his home plane and upon his race. Ask Duke Jalinon, the Leonal commander of Rubicon to explain what I mean by taint. It’s your race’s secret after all, I shouldn’t go and spoil it.”

	Fyrehowl looked at the Cheshire Fiend with suspicion as it continued to speak.

	“They aren’t making as much progress as they would like, but that’s where the mercane came into play. They were delivering living mortal slaves and a number of other supplies to the fiends in Belarian. ‘To alleviate hunger’ most certainly… Suffice to say I wish to see the inhabitants within their hidden tower in Belarian to perish to the last, butcher them all. Those upon Belarian are loyal to Mydianchlarus, though they only recently they came into power in a coup over the former faction that was loyal to Anthraxus. The Wheels would have those currently in power removed utterly.”

	“So you’re willing to help Elysium, even going so far as to do something ‘good’ just to score political points in the civil war that you have brewing, so you say?” Toras asked bluntly.

	The Cheshire Fiend responded to the question with a fervor that dripped with hatred, “Very much so. You rid yourself of fiends in the heart of the plane of pure good and we rid ourselves of a bothersome element of our enemies. Our plans are not petty little machinations. The death of Mydianchlarus was foreordained. Wheels Within Wheels.”

****​


----------



## dal673

Beautifull...!
They're actually falling for it.


----------



## Shemeska

dal673 said:
			
		

> Beautifull...!
> They're actually falling for it.




And they continue to fall for it. Again, and again, and again. There wasn't much railroading in any of this, they could have said no or simply not shown up to deal with these folks a number of times, and they kept on doing it. Oh man has it been a blast though.

They've also done some seriously unexpected things to me too in all fairness, but you'll all find out eventually.


----------



## shilsen

dal673 said:
			
		

> Beautifull...!
> They're actually falling for it.



 Don't they always? In my experience, PCs usually can find a way to get themselves in far more trouble than the DM originally intends to. Which is half the fun of DMing, of course


----------



## Dakkareth

Great!  What was that about Clueless walking out of situations he shouldn't survive? I guess, it will get much worse still, but ... 

Mmmhh, random thought: 

DM: The ultroloth's eyes seem to burn right into your mind. Two minutes later you find yourself lying on the floor, only now recovering from the terrible pain  and bleeding from eyes, nose and ears.

Player: But ... but! Don't I get a saving throw? That's unfair!

DM: I rolled it for you and got a natural 20. Good for you, too ... >:>

Player: ... !


----------



## Gerzel

Dakkareth said:
			
		

> Mmmhh, random thought:
> 
> DM: The ultroloth's eyes seem to burn right into your mind. Two minutes later you find yourself lying on the floor, only now recovering from the terrible pain  and bleeding from eyes, nose and ears.
> 
> Player: But ... but! Don't I get a saving throw? That's unfair!
> 
> DM: I rolled it for you and got a natural 20. Good for you, too ... >:>
> 
> Player: ... !



Well Clueless's player does have a considerable advantage when bugging the DM for stuff, and Wes made much of the character so these things arrange themselfs.  Funny that, but then again my characters don't go around with rocks in their feet.  Ok so I'm the only one to have lost characters, though only two of them had their souls ripped apart and the second one had it done voluntailly dang it!


----------



## Clueless

Actually no - that's what a ring of mindshielding is for.
And Gerzel - *thank you for publicly insulting me*.


----------



## dostum

Hi

I just really, really had to say this.

I LOVE NISHA!!!!
I'm actually jealous that Clueless is with her all the time   




> Florian was about to ask a question before Skalliska cut *her* off




Florian's a she??


Also, as someone not very well versed in Planescape (hmm no mists), where do you get all those 'loths from, stat-wise? 
Do the "Ebon" et al actually exist somewhere, or is this campaign specific? Sorry for the silly questions, I really am quite clueless... and there're so many wheels...

Once more, just in case you forgot, NIIIISHAAAA!!!


----------



## Gez

Gerzel said:
			
		

> OK, so I'm the only one to have lost characters, though only two of them had their souls ripped apart and the second one had it done voluntarilly dang it!




Skalliska asked to get her soul ripped apart? 



			
				Dostum said:
			
		

> I LOVE NISHA!!!!
> I'm actually jealous that Clueless is with her all the time




Sod off, berk, I was there before! 



			
				Dostum said:
			
		

> Florian's a she??




It's definitely ambiguous.



			
				[URL="https://www.enworld.org/index.php?posts/1801625/ said:
			
		

> Shemeska[/URL]"] “…she?” Clueless said as he shot Nisha a baffled look “…what’d’ya mean she?”
> 
> Nisha paused a moment and coughed, “Excuse me, him. Tongue slipped.”
> 
> “…um. Ok then.” Clueless said and shrugged as Nisha brushed it off and pointed up towards A’kin’s shop as they approached it on their path back to the Jammer.


----------



## Clueless

dostum said:
			
		

> I'm actually jealous that Clueless is with her all the time



Nope - that's my little sister...
She doesn't end up with Clueless. 



			
				dostum said:
			
		

> Florian's a she??
> Also, as someone not very well versed in Planescape (hmm no mists), where do you get all those 'loths from, stat-wise?
> Do the "Ebon" et al actually exist somewhere, or is this campaign specific? Sorry for the silly questions, I really am quite clueless... and there're so many wheels...




*GRIN* Florian's... an interesting person.
The loths of the group.... Shemmie is canon, with a little extra power in this campaign. Ebon and Shylara are custom to the campaign. Helekinalith when you meet him later - is canon. But he's mentioned in one sentence in one obscure resource - so Shem did the stats in this campaign.


----------



## Shemeska

*Not all of these folks have full stats mind you.*

The Ebon is my own.
Shylara is my own.
The Cheshire Fiend is my own.

Shemeska is canon.
A'kin is canon.
Helekanalaith is canon [He is given a single quote in either Faces of Evil' or 'Planes of Conflict': "A petitioner on fire? Or a burning star falling from the void? Both are equally beautiful to me." - Helekanalaith, Keeper of the Tower of the Arcanaloths". That's the entire extent of his mention in any TSR or WotC product, his personality and physical description are my own work, and I've also written up a bit of backstory for him and Larsdana Apt Neut (who herself is canonical from a single mention, otherwise all other details on her are my own).

All of the Altraloths are canon.

All of the Baernaloths who appear in my campaign are my own with a single exception, though I elaborate on him quite a bit. (Daru Ib Shamiq from 'Hellbound' who I give the additional title of 'Lie Weaver'. You won't meet him for quite a while yet). I'm not counting Apomps in that group however, and more Baern get mentioned eventually later on (more recently in the game) then actually make a physical appearance in the plot.


----------



## Shemeska

dostum said:
			
		

> I LOVE NISHA!!!!




Nisha does eventually end up with one of the PCs and they're disgustingly cute at times. Till then Nisha just gets to serve as my own comic relief in an increasingly dark campaign; evil is oppressively more powerful in my campaign world in many ways, but they fall inwards upon themselves enough to keep them roughly balanced with the upper planes in terms of overall power. And good God do they fall inwards upon themselves... war is brewing and it'll be interesting to see who and what all steps out of the ashes.

(And it's unlikely that there will be a SH update this next week unless I write something entirely on Friday night. If so you may get something but a little shorter than usual. I'll make up the next week for it)


----------



## Clueless

Who knows - maybe I'll slap something together for you guys instead. Shem's got some serious workload this week - I'll be lucky to see him online.


----------



## Inconsequenti-AL

Just read what's been written so far and this is a really great story hour! 

Definitely be following where it goes.

Thanks!


----------



## Gez

Shemeska said:
			
		

> Nisha does eventually end up with one of the PCs and they're disgustingly cute at times.




Fyrehowl and Florian are both taken by Clueless, and we know it's not Clueless. Skalliska the Kobold is a different size category, a different order of vertebrate, and _not_ a different gender; each of these reasons being enough to suppose a romantic interest is unlikely.

So, it leaves three choices possible: Toras the big strong guy, and Tristol the kyoot wizard with a kyoot pet. (The third choice being, of course, another PC that has not been introduced yet. Hasn't Gerzel talked about the death of characters, and only the succubus was seen dead yet.)


----------



## dostum

Thanks for the info., and for adding even more stuff to my must-get-now list..
Are the Altraloths also from Faces of Evil / Planes of Conflict?




> evil is oppressively more powerful in my campaign world in many ways, but they fall inwards upon themselves enough to keep them roughly balanced with the upper planes in terms of overall power. And good God do they fall inwards upon themselves



Now that's how it should be done! Though I imagine with all the work on the 'loths, their histories, schemes, general "evilness", and just keeping the game going, this gets increasingly... difficult... to juggle.. you evil puppetmaster, you.




> Nisha does eventually end up with one of the PCs and they're disgustingly cute at times.






> So, it leaves three choices possible



^^ You forgot Florian   


*Chapeau* to the DM and players.
and Nisha


----------



## Shemeska

dostum said:
			
		

> Are the Altraloths also from Faces of Evil / Planes of Conflict?




They're detailed in an article by Ed Bonny is the Dragon mag annual #2 (as I recall).



> Now that's how it should be done! Though I imagine with all the work on the 'loths, their histories, schemes, general "evilness", and just keeping the game going, this gets increasingly... difficult... to juggle.. you evil puppetmaster, you.




That's what flowcharts are for 
It gets convoluted, but that's what killing off characters are for as well. *grin*

Plus, I took a page out of J Michael Strazinsky's playbook here in having the overall plot charted out since day 1 of the campaign with a couple possible alternate plot directions to take into account player unpredictability (which they've nailed me with a few times).


----------



## Clueless

Gez said:
			
		

> Fyrehowl and Florian are both taken by Clueless, and we know it's not Clueless.




Noowwwww *thats* interesting. *chuckle* So - any takers on how that little triangle is goin to play out? Or more like a square - Clueless is dating a Sensate at the moment. And seemingly oblivious to the PC to PC to PC relations...


----------



## Ohtar Turinson

Tristol's Diary, which he linked earlier, gives away a number of these things. 

And I seem to recall a thread on the WotC boards detailing the beginning of Fyrehowl dating Akin, and the fact that any resulting children would be... utterly demented to say the least. And a mention that Fyrehowl was with a lower level NPC for a time I think... I should find that thread again.

Edit: http://boards1.wizards.com/showthread.php?t=246596 was the thread


----------



## Clueless

Yeah but not everyone's read those.  Come on - work with me here, I'm trying to keep the conversation going.


----------



## Ohtar Turinson

> Come on - work with me here, I'm trying to keep the conversation going.




Oops. Sorry about that- not thinking (again).

Here, I'll spec about what the Wheels within Wheels are trying to accomplish... It has nothing to do with your topic of course, but that's ok right?

There's a few questions as to who its members are, at least in my mind. I'm pretty sure A'kin has absolutely nothing to do with it, and that the Cheshire Fiend is the Ebon. 

Hm... as far as we know thus far, there are 4 members- Shemeska the Maurader, Shylara the Manged, Vorkannis the Ebon, Helekanilaith of the Tower. 4 members, and each seems to control events in a different area- Shylara is in Hades, Helekanilaith in Gehenna, Shemska in Sigil and Vorkannis in Carceri. The Ebon is the leader, the eldest and probably the most dangerous- he seems to use the other three as puppets, making reference to 'using' Shylara and clearly knowing far far more than the last two.

Why the Ebon is bothering with killing off the Ultroloths still eludes me. Perhaps this is the Dementia that the Demented have? There's no clear reason to do all that- the Ultroloths are necessary for ascension, are they not? But then, maybe that's why- The Ebon has power where he is, wants more, but not at the sacrifice of what he has. The process of becoming an Ultroloth would weaken him somewhat...

Unless my last spec on the topic was right, and he's not in the running at all, but rather a Baern disguised. But why...


Then there is the question of what the Keeper, the Manged and the Maurader hope to gain from all this. Maybe the Manged hopes to stop being manged... but how could the others benefit?


Hm. I have to stop with the specing for the moment. Someone else take up the guessing; I can't be the only person who specs on matters of metaplot can I?


----------



## Shemeska

Ohtar Turinson said:
			
		

> There's a few questions as to who its members are, at least in my mind. I'm pretty sure A'kin has absolutely nothing to do with it, and that the Cheshire Fiend is the Ebon.




No comment. 
	

	
	
		
		

		
			





 The PCs just got done making a deal with the Cheshire Fiend this last current plot arc, so he/she/it is around for a long time still dealing with them, oddly enough.



> Hm... as far as we know thus far, there are 4 members- Shemeska the Maurader, Shylara the Manged, Vorkannis the Ebon, Helekanilaith of the Tower. 4 members, and each seems to control events in a different area- Shylara is in Hades, Helekanilaith in Gehenna, Shemska in Sigil and Vorkannis in Carceri. The Ebon is the leader, the eldest and probably the most dangerous- he seems to use the other three as puppets, making reference to 'using' Shylara and clearly knowing far far more than the last two.




Shylara the Manged is more or less a 4th wheel, so to speak. She's a lesser member of the group though she may be considered the lover and  protege of The Ebon in many ways. Vorkannis, Helekanalaith, and Shemeska are the three primary members of the group. What they expect to gain out of this would be whatever they answered when The Ebon asked them, "What is it you want?"

But yes, they are spread out evenly among spheres of influence aren't they...



> Why the Ebon is bothering with killing off the Ultroloths still eludes me. Perhaps this is the Dementia that the Demented have? There's no clear reason to do all that- the Ultroloths are necessary for ascension, are they not? But then, maybe that's why- The Ebon has power where he is, wants more, but not at the sacrifice of what he has. The process of becoming an Ultroloth would weaken him somewhat...




This is important, The Ebon has killed off or otherwise 'removed' two of the Altraloths, (Altraloth, not Ultroloth) Bubonix and Cholerix who formerly held his current position in Carceri. He hasn't done anything at all with any Ultroloths, though I think it was very clear that Shylara the Manged help the Ultroloth Palinarus in no small level of contempt while she was serving under it as a scribe in Center. She may have been thinking that simply from having to serve under a being she perceived as less powerful than The Ebon where he true loyalty resided, or she may have been speaking of the entire caste of Ultroloths which she is not (yet) a member of. If there's anything unclear there it will be resolved in the next one or two plot arcs of the story as the 'loth civil war turns from cold to infernally hot and the various players' loyalties and aims start getting defined.



> Unless my last spec on the topic was right, and he's not in the running at all, but rather a Baern disguised. But why...




No comment. Vorkannis's history is as gray as the Waste itself for a very long while, though you'll continually get bits and pieces of it. I won't say if you're correct or not, though I could see why you might think that given the evidence so far. He does speak fluent Baern after all.




> Then there is the question of what the Keeper, the Manged and the Maurader hope to gain from all this. Maybe the Manged hopes to stop being manged... but how could the others benefit?




There's a funny story in how Shylara earned that title in the first place. It'll come up eventually, as well as what it was she hoped to gain from her loyalty.


----------



## shilsen

Shemeska said:
			
		

> This is important, The Ebon has killed off or otherwise 'removed' two of the Altraloths, (Altraloth, not Ultroloth) *Bubonix and Cholerix*




Bubonix and Cholerix? Did you read a lot of Asterix comics as a child ?


----------



## Fimmtiu

shilsen said:
			
		

> Bubonix and Cholerix? Did you read a lot of Asterix comics as a child ?




Actually, that's all canon. Most of the Altraloths are named after various diseases: Bubonix, Cholerix, Anthraxus, Typhus, etc.


----------



## Clueless

Shemeska said:
			
		

> "What is it you want?"



Take note - this one sentence will begin to acquire more and more power to it as the campaign goes on... it's spooky how much of a reaction you can get from the players now even out of game asking them that question.



			
				Shemeska said:
			
		

> No comment. Vorkannis's history is as gray as the Waste itself for a very long while, though you'll continually get bits and pieces of it. I won't say if you're correct or not, though I could see why you might think that given the evidence so far. He does speak fluent Baern after all.



He's not the only one. But yeah - Vorkie the Scritchable (there's a story to That) has one of the best buried back histories I've ever seen.



			
				Ohtar Turinson said:
			
		

> Here, I'll spec about what the Wheels within Wheels are trying to accomplish... It has nothing to do with your topic of course, but that's ok right?




Oh definately - I enjoy it, gives me somethign to read at gawd-aweful-early in the morning when I've got insomnia.


----------



## dostum

Clueless said:
			
		

> Noowwwww *thats* interesting. *chuckle* So - any takers on how that little triangle is goin to play out? Or more like a square - Clueless is dating a Sensate at the moment. And seemingly oblivious to the PC to PC to PC relations...




Well, assuming he's still got that embedded rock, I'm going with whoever teh Marauder chooses   

And I still think there's a wheel missing somewhere... I'm fairly certain that a lot of these.. "names".. are expendable, in the higher scheme of someone(s) still uncovered.. like Terelia...


----------



## Clueless

If i recall right - about this time was when I was trying to flowchart out about 5 groups - b/c I too felt there was something... missing.


----------



## bluegodjanus

Shemeska said:
			
		

> No comment. Vorkannis's history is as gray as the Waste itself for a very long while, though you'll continually get bits and pieces of it. I won't say if you're correct or not, though I could see why you might think that given the evidence so far. He does speak fluent Baern after all.




That's not all, tricky fox. It also seems highly relevant to me what he did to that marraenoloth. Among other things.


----------



## bluegodjanus

Shemeska said:
			
		

> No comment. Vorkannis's history is as gray as the Waste itself for a very long while, though you'll continually get bits and pieces of it. I won't say if you're correct or not, though I could see why you might think that given the evidence so far. He does speak fluent Baern after all.




That's not all, tricky fox. It also seems highly relevant to me what he did to that marraenoloth. Among other things.


----------



## Shemeska

*In lieu of a Storyhour update*

Since I've been busy writing a thesis proposal this week, which is currently topping somewhere between 30 and 40 pages at the moment, I havn't been able to write an update to the storyhour yet. I'll make up for it next week if I can with either a small update midweek and the normal update on friday/saturday.

However in the meantime here's a picture of Vorkannis and Shylara (now that you've met her in the story). Drawn by a friend of mine who has, frighteningly enough, gotten better since she painted this. I don't think this will get on the nerves of anyone's grandma, but it's borderline perhaps. Nobody snitch to anyone's grandma, 'k?


----------



## Gerzel

*Caption Contest Time!*
Allright I now declair a contest to see who can provide the best caption for Shemmy's picture.

My entry:  _"See the ball?  ...See the ball, girl?  Go fetch!"_ -- Gerzel


----------



## Gez

Caption contest, heh?

What about "Yiff?"


----------



## Dakkareth

_"Mhh yes, good, sharp teeth. Now for the following _examination_ you'd have to disrobe ... Yes, you can keep your spells if you want."_  


 *leaves quickly*


----------



## Chrys

Frist off; Great stroy Shemeska and Co.   

I have say that Tristol is my Fav. Char. (only for the reason he is the only other person I herd of using/used a Fox like Aasmar besides me.  ) I feel a bit sorry for the Succubus; But I've alway love the good evil guy consept... (unless they are drow rangers) 

Now to spec. 

I think the Smiling Feind is A'kin... I have no bases for this just a gut feeling it's not the Ebon...    yeah I know I'm most likely way off.


----------



## Joker[ZW]

Nah, the smiling fiend is a leonal! (so he isn't really a fiend)
He's not fallen either, he's just messing with his greatest enemies acting as one of them and making sure they keep as far away from his home plane as possible. That would mean he had to find a reason to fool his fiendish "allies" who think he is a fiend, so that they do not get curious for why he wants our heros to get rid of the fiends in Elysium!
I mean, those leonals really are sneaky little buggers, just look at Simba! Outside all sweet and friendly, but you can see in his eyes what a cold and dizzing brain is working in this fluffy head.
Alas, he doesn't know one thing: one of his closest allies and of the few people who know his real identity, a Guardinal with the name Pumbaa, really is a shapechanged Slaad spy!
Wheels within wheels.


----------



## Shemeska

Joker[ZW] said:
			
		

> Nah, the smiling fiend is a leonal! (so he isn't really a fiend)




Sorry to burst your bubble, but he's not a leonal at least. I answer on his/her/its identity slightly in this next update. Much to some of my player's surprise I think since he/she/it is still around in the current campaign and still dealing with them, oddly enough.


----------



## Shemeska

Nisha and Clueless pressed through the crowd of mercenaries and merchants as they headed towards the Pluton district of Center. The bladesinger glanced over to the tiefling, “Well since she's about to head off to another camp tomorrow or so I figure we should start looking right now. For the moment she's likely near the Oinos side - outside the walls, or wandering the Pluton side, selling larvae. We'll try Pluton first since there’s no quarantine on the way back."

Nisha chuckled, “Thank you... disease is bad.”

"That too... I'm not in the mood to rescue the cleric, turn around and go 'oh and by the way....'"

As the two of them approached the entrance to the Pluton side of the city after a few more blocks of walking they found the streets less crowded, though it seemed that there were a larger number of spellcasters and highups wandering the streets. Rather than iron, the buildings all seemed to have been cut from one huge block of marble.

	Strolling through the black marble gateway that marked the boundary of the Pluton sector of Center they passed a group of possibly drunk half-orc and tiefling mercenaries. They red-faced, laughing and staggering men were also pulling along a shabbily dressed woman along with them and one of them audibly boasted about the price that “That withered old hag charged us for a nights worth of free whoring!”

	Clueless stopped in midstep and turned to approach the gang of sellswords, "Hold! Which hag was this?"

The men stopped and two of them drew swords before their leader held his hand up to stop them.

Clueless smirked a little, falling into the mood of things, "I already got one of those - she needs a birthday present."

The mercenary leader chuckled, “Sorry berk, but we got the last fairer sex from her. But if you're into anything else, she's got a cripple left. Down the street and past the potion peddler.”

Clueless nodded while Nisha stared daggers into his back before the merc captain laughed at them both, goosed his new property and walked off down the street with his gang in tow. As a few of the drunkards moved off they tossed a couple insults after them as the group moved away to enjoy their purchase.

“Which one of you two’s the woman?”

“Hope you didn’t pay much for him sweety!”

“He ‘aint interested in you honey, not by the looks of him. Prissy elf.”

Clueless muttered, “Thanks.” As the band moved off and then he turned to face Nisha who looked none too happy.

“You couldn’t come up with a better story than you’d bought me and wanted to get me a ‘present’? Oh please. I’d love for anyone to try. They’d be missing more than their purse by the end of it.” Nisha said pointedly, “I grew up in the Hive, believe me that could have been a career option. Same if you’d grown up there too… prissy elf boy.”

Nisha winked at the last comment, obviously enjoying passing along one of the drunkards insults to Clueless who didn’t have a drop of actual elven blood in him at all. Most simply had never seen one of his kind.

“Anyways, a bit of words aside, let’s go and we’ll yammer more about that later? Come on.”

“Sorry about that, I was looking for some way to find exactly where they’d seen that hag. Truly I’m sorry Nisha…” Clueless said as he walked alongside the tiefling who had dropped any irritation and was then simply verbally jabbing her companion for the sake of jabbing.

“Let's scoot before someone buys him up. That cripple sounds like our target.” The bladesinger said as he and Nisha quickly walked to the end of the street. There they could see a cluster of fiends and a single tall and crooked night hag standing in front of a number of larvae, and a bound, hobbling elf.

One of the five imps hanging around the hag turned around and took notice of the pair as they approached, “In the market for a slave sir? Good eating, good killing, and claims to be trained in healing. Buy ‘em and fight off the diseases of Oinos for you and your fellow swordsman.”

Clueless looked at the crippled elf dispassionately, "Oddly enough - yes I am in the market."

Nisha noted that the elf’s leg was heavily bandaged and soaked through with blood. As well, the man was dressed in tattered clerical vestments and seemed to favor his other leg heavily. In truth it seemed like the man they had come to find.

All five imps turned around then along with a robed Amnizu and the Night Hag who had a Wastrel familiar perched on her shoulder, its reddish eyes glowing dimly.

The Hag smiled a grin of broken, crooked and yellowed teeth at her two potential customers, “Now just what can Marian do for you today child?”

Clueless pointed down at the elf, "That one... he's injured... but elves live long, if they're in the right spot. What's your asking price for him?"

The elf was shoved by one of the imps and he slowly began to turn around, a wretched and despondent look on his face while the hag continued to grace the world with her own grimy yellow and mottled brown grin.

As the elf saw Clueless, at first he didn't make much of a response, then he wrinkled his face and just seemed to be confused or thinking heavily. Clueless noticed and muttered to himself and the elf in elven, “Stillness” an old codeword they had used in the past that they had used to mean that one of them had a plan and to run with it.

The Hag looked over both Clueless and then Nisha. “You can use him, so twenty thousand.”

	Both of them winced at the highball cost but gathered that she was simply tossing out an obscene sum to see if he would bite. Nisha continued to scoff at the cost and looked at the hag while she pointed down at the elf’s bundled leg, “What’s wrong with his leg? And can I at least take a look at it?”

Clueless nodded to the tiefling, "... see if it can be fixed..."

Marian nodded and grumbled, “Go ahead. It festered, but it'll heal, he can walk.”

Nisha wandered over and looked at the cleric’s bad leg. Looking under the bandages she got a wide-eyed look and almost touched the gaping wound in his ankle. Her expression of shock wasn’t put on for dramatic purpose.

“Bad is hardly a word for it.” Nisha said as she looked to Clueless and then to the hag. “It’ll end up costing us a cleric to heal it properly.”

Marian chuckled and as she grinned again so did all the imps, almost on cue. The Amnizu rolled his eyes.

Clueless nodded to Nisha then looked at the hag with a raised eyebrow, "I've got the feeling there’s a reason he's the last of your merchandise. Would you like to make a different offer, ma'am?"

“10,000 then dear…” The hag said.

Clueless nodded, "That's doable."

At the bladesinger’s acceptance of the price, Marian’s smile actually became legit. “How about I throw in a larvae too, tell your friends who you bought him from?”

"Um, sure... I'm sure they'll ask." Clueless said, taken back and befuddled by the offer somewhat.

Marian smiled again and gestured to the gaggle of imps, “Or an Imp. I'll give you one of them if that'd be better for you.”

As the hag made mention of the imps they all turned to her, eyes buggy. The Amnizu chuckled at their expense but said nothing.

"I think they would miss your presence..." Clueless said with a chuckle.

“Yeah, sure they would...” said the Amnizu with another roll of its eyes which garnered it Ravelsdotter’s familiar shooting it ‘the look’.

Clueless inwardly could only think that the rest of his party would end up freaking if he walked back with either of those two freebies. Nisha imagined chasing Toras around the inn with a wriggling larva.

As Clueless shook his head in the negative towards the imps the hag held out a bag to take her payment. After she counted the coins with a cantrip she then handed the chain attached to the elf to Nisha.

“And yer larva… take ‘em out whenever ye want. ‘Ol Marian only sells the best of them.” The hag said as she took out a small gem, spokes a command word and one of the larvae disappeared from the group in front of her while the gem began to glow.

"Thank you..." Clueless said as he took the gem and smiled. "Well wishes to your business..." 

She handed the gem to the bladesinger, smiled a gap toothed smile and walked off down the street, chatting with the Amnizu as the imps ushered the larvae to follow.

“…Damn but this has been a chase after you, you know?” Clueless said in elven as he knelt down to examine his companion’s leg while Nisha unlocked the shackles around his wrists and ankles.

The cleric looked up at them both and whispered, “I know you, one of you, but I can't remember your name, or even my own.”

Clueless reached out to brush the elf’s hair back gently, "That's ok. I don't know my name either... I've still got the thing in my leg that they took from yours."

The elf shuddered at the mention of the gem from his leg, “They put something in my leg, made me do things, like I was a spectator in my own head.”

Clueless nodded back, "Trust me, I know the feeling."

Looking down at the elf’s leg there was a gaping, bleeding hole where the gem had been and it was clearly infected. The gem appeared to have been ripped out, but removed by surgery. Nisha wrinkled her nose at the hole "And we're gonna have to get you someplace to tend to this thing."

 "I've got *lots* of questions for you, but I also have an idea where you're supposed to be. Will you trust me to get you there?" The half-fey said to his former adventuring partner.

The cleric looked up, on the verge of tears, “Yes. Please just get me away from this place though, it’s been eating away at my soul since I came here…”

Clueless nodded and supported him as they began to move again. He looked over to Nisha and motioned to the elf, "Hey Nisha, meet well - one of the other guys who used to have a rock in their ankle."

 Nisha looked at them both, “It does that, and nice to meet you. Can we leave?” She pranced back and forth nervously on her hooves. “No teleports left, no planeshifts either. I'd like to leave the lower planes though.”

"Rightio. Well..." Clueless paused to think for a moment, "I doubt we want to ask for portals out of here."

“Umm... no.” The tiefling quipped as they passed a group of cambions.

"Let's see what my next trick of the day is..." The bladesinger muttered as he tapped the bubble of golden liquid in the choker at his neck. He recalled the basic idea of a Planeshift and brought to mind the vague image of the outlands and the city of Tradegate.

	Nisha winced as Clueless took her hand and they all abruptly vanished from the streets. Clueless felt a burning in his veins as he used the liquid magic, whatever it was, and it staggered him for a moment as they blinked back into existence. It had never done that before, but neither had he attempted to use the liquid to extend himself so far beyond his own normal ability to cast spells.

	As the feeling left his head he released the button with a cough and a wince before he was doubled over by a spasm of pain that felt like his blood had been ignited. “Oh that f*ing hurt…ow.”

	“Wow, you got us back!” Nisha said almost incredulously as the cleric knelt down on his knees, kissing the ground and praying.

	“Don’t sound too surprised there Nisha…” Clueless said, as the pain receded, though not entirely.

The air was cold and they had reappeared on a flat, nearly featureless plane. The sky was hazy and with no sun, only a soft and washed out glow from no particular source, while off in the distance the spire rose up into the clouds. 

Nisha looked at Clueless, “Tradegate? Faunal? Fortitude?”

"I was aiming for Tradegate..." Clueless answered back.

“Well planeshift isn't aimed, that'd be a gate.”

The bladesinger laughed sharply, "I think a gate would have taken my head off… Do you have any teleports left?"

Nisha squirmed a bit before answering, “Yeah. Kinda. You?”

Clueless raised an eyebrow at her, "...Not really. I kind of pushed my luck already. On the other hand - I'll buy ya a new set of scrolls..."

The tiefling shrugged as she took out a scroll case made of some sort of hide, inscribed with a holy symbol of Talona. She whistled innocently as she took it out before mentioning, “Drunken spellcasters and tight crowds are my friend.”

An eyebrow went up on Clueless’s face in reply, "Fun fun fun."

Nisha popped it open and began jury-rigging the spell. As it went off after only a few attempts to trigger it they found themselves standing on the edge of the gatetown of Faunel.

“Inn & healer? Or can you cast that yourself now that we got the chains off you? They had stuff written on them that looked like curses to prevent you from casting…” Nisha asked the elf.

He nodded back slowly, “Food and water please.”

Clueless looked to Nisha, "He may not even be *aware* of the ability to do that. But,” he said, then looking over and nodding, "Food and water it is. I could use breakfast myself."

A half hour later, the three of them sat in a private room in an inn in the gatetown, Nisha having paid for it with the jink of the same drunken caster whose scroll had gotten them to the town in the first place. Clueless had cleaned the elf’s wounded leg out and changed the dressings on it while Nisha had paid for food and extra blankets to be brought up to the room.

The elf had already begun to recite a litany of prayers, and slowly but surely some color returned to his flesh and the hole in his ankle began to seal. While it would likely leave a permanent scar it would heal and he would walk again without difficulty in all likelihood. By the end of his prayers there was no lingering trace of the gem or anything else in the wound aside from the livid scar across his ankle where it had once been embedded down to the bone. 

Nearly an hour later he looked up from his devotions and whispered something, “They sent me to the mazes…”


****​

	Tristol looked at the rest of his fellows as they stood around him just outside Tradegate where they had arrived by way of its portal from Sigil. It had been several hours since they had met with the Cheshire Fiend in the depths of Sigil’s Great Below, and they were collectively worried about what they would find when they investigated the second layer of the plane of ultimate good.

	“Everyone ready?” The aasimar mage said as he twitched his tail steadily behind himself.

	There was a smattering of ‘yes’ answers from the group before Fyrehowl asked a question to them all.

	“So we’re agreed once we get there to travel to Rubicon and find out if they have any knowledge of this all, or anything else they can tell us before we go running in? I think it best to let them at least know what we know, and what the …fiend… told us before we get ourselves into trouble. After all, if we die in the process without telling them what’s going on then it’s all for naught.”
	“I can’t find a problem with that.” Florian said with a nod.

	“Same here, it’s a reasonable idea and they can at least tell us a bit about the layer we’ll be on once we arrive there.” Toras replied.

	Skalliska nodded and asked another question, “Now, correct me if I’m wrong, but for a plane of pure good I’ve heard some rather strange things about that second layer, Belarian.”

	Fyrehowl looked slightly amiss, but Tristol picked up the question. “How so, I’m not super familiar with it myself. Sure I’m a few generations descended from someone on the plane, but I’ve never actually been there or read much about it.”

	The kobold flashed a grin before she started lecturing. “Like I said, for a plane of pure good the second layer is pretty nasty and has the tendency to belch out evil creatures, usually corrupted animals and such but every so often a fiend will blunder out of the swamp.”

	Skalliska glanced to the lupinal who again could only shrug.

	“Of course they can’t leave the plane or get off the layer because it’s sealed off from the rest of the planes and even the rest of Elysium. How, nobody really knows, and the Guardinals won’t talk about it, or seem to not know the dark of it themselves. But the only way in or out of the plane is by the river Oceanus.”

	Toras interjected, “And anything evil that tries to get out that way gets roasted by the river pretty much.”

	“Exactly, it’s a river of holy water more or less. Anything there on Belarian that’s evil is trapped there. Just don’t ask me how they could have gotten in in the first place, or why they’d even be there. It’s a contradiction for the place to be like that really, and it’s confusing to say the least.”

	Again, Fyrehowl shrugged. “I don’t know what to tell you honestly. I’ve never actually been to that layer in all my years, only the other three layers. Very few people actually travel to Belarian. But,” she said, “We will soon and we’ll answer whatever questions you have I figure.”

	And with that, Tristol completed his spell and they all felt an immediate tug on their beings as the world dissolved around them in a flash of brilliant light. The transition between planes felt much more different than their previous travels to Acheron, the ethereal, or even the Outlands. After a brief burst of cold as their essence tunneled through the Astral they felt a warmth and sense of joy as the world once again took form around them when they reappeared on a mountainside in Elysium’s second layer of Eronia.

	Fyrehowl smiled, closed her eyes and slowly breathed as she once again took in the feel of the plane of her origin. As she basked in the essence of the plane the others could only stare and wonder at the plane surrounding them all. Brilliant sunlight shimmered down from a perfect blue sky that rained down sunlight upon a land of tall, majestic mountains and sheltered verdant valleys of pure, untouched natural beauty. And above it all was the sense of unquestioning belonging extending from the very air itself they breathed.

	“Don’t stare and wonder too long, it’ll make it harder to leave when we have to eventually.” The lupinal said to her friends as they shook their heads and followed her down the mountainside towards one of the forested vales below. At the edge of the vale ran the shimmering, sun-touched ribbon of blue that marked the edge of the great river Oceanus.

	“What was that?” Tristol asked he blinked. A single tear ran down his face as he turned away from the sky above.

	“Don’t become too attached or you won’t be able to leave. It’s the mirror of Hades. That plane takes away your free will, your feelings, your beliefs and your spirit and leaves you apathetic, drained and unable to leave by your own actions. Elysium though makes you unwilling to leave. Having seen the face of perfection, how could you abide to separate yourself from it? We have something to do though, come.”

	Together and resolute they moved steadily to the river on the horizon that would eventually bring them to Belarian and the fortress of Rubicon. With the sun shining down warmly and the wind at their backs they proceeded steadfast and smiling, the plane itself rewarding the will and intent to do good.


****​

	The Keeper of the Tower was smiling as he gazed down at a series of reports that lay scattered across his desk in an organized chaos of paper, petitioners and sensory stones. Helekanalaith reached up and adjusted the gold rimmed spectacles perched on his snout as habit, though in truth neither he nor any other of his kind needed them, it simply happened to be an affectation to imply greater wisdom or knowledge.

	“And I trust that you’ve sent the Elysian bastards a fine little present of well meaning deceit?” The Keeper never looked up at his current guest as he spoke.

	“Everyone involved with me gets what they want, more or less, I aim to please all. Anyone involved in this who hasn’t been dealing with me… well… let’s just say they’ll have what’s been coming to them. No?”

	Helekanalaith glanced up into the shimmering blue grin that hovered in the air in front of his desk. This time the smiling icon had affected a pair of spectacles like his own and sprouted fangs. But still, the Cheshire Fiend seemed entirely too chipper at times.

	“Everything will happen as The Ebon has planned down to the last drop of blood spilt on planes as far removed as Celestia and the Abyss. A pity I won’t be directly involved in it before it’s all reached a climax. But when is our kind ever directly involved? Let the Mezzoloths fight while we push paper and pull strings. After all, it’s how we’ve always done things.” The Keeper said as he smiled back at his representative who flashed cobalt fangs in reply.

	“But we do get to enjoy the benefits of being on a winning side, something which not everyone in this conflict will be a part of. Assuming of course that all goes as planned.”

	“It had better. I’ve already had to give up a toy of mine in this all and if things don’t work according to our plans then I’m second in line to face the consequences when the dust settles and the blood dries. The Ebon would of course be directly held accountable, not that I see any flaw in his plans in the slightest.” Helekanalaith said, hastily adding the final conditional to his last statement as he felt an unsettling chill pass over him. The same occurred whenever he had spoken his co-conspirator’s name aloud in anything but high esteem.

	“In any event my lord, do you have any further instructions for me to carryout before I return to my duties? I have to go send two more to Elysium to meet up with their fellows. They’ll be needed for what we’ve sent them to do.” The Cheshire Fiend said as it looked at the Keeper.

	Helekanalaith thought for a moment before replying. “Yes. Continue to ensure that the Marauder has little use of her own toy for the moment. Being as how I’m to be denied the use of my own to further The Ebon’s designs I feel it only equitable that she and I at least be equal partners in this all. I believe that you can accomplish that, and again, make sure that they carry out what needs to be done in Elysium. Mydianchlarus’s followers must be butchered to the last and make certain that the rogue lupinal dies quickly. I have no wish for him to be questioned, not that he knows much more than he’s been told or deludes himself into believing.”

	The Cheshire Fiend nodded back, “She won’t have access to him for several more days at the very least; more if I can help it. As for the rest of it, trust in me my lord. It’s not an entirely alien concept to us all, and you know me better than most I should think.”

	The Keeper sighed and removed his glasses before looking pointedly at his servant, “I know the meaning of trust among our kind more so than most. I know just what it means for us to express it and the logical ends to which it proceeds. I have learned through that that pragmatism is the best I should aim for in all cases, and I am ultimately pragmatic in all things including this current endeavor. As for trusting you? You’ve never failed me in anything where blame could be placed upon you, but do keep in mind that I have more offspring than just yourself…”


****​

	The cleric’s voice was soft and shaken as he repeated himself and looked up at Clueless, “They sent me to the mazes…”

	Clueless nodded to his friend, “They sent me to one too. How’d you get out?”

“They sent one of the Mercykillers after me, find out what I saw… They sent me to one of The Lady’s mazes…” He was shaking at the memory and starting to weep.

Clueless walked over and wrapped an arm around his shoulder to console him. The man seemed seconds away from a panic attack as he seemed to be recalling his memories of the events he had been a silent witness to now as the lingering touch of the Waste had lost its grip on his mind and spirit.

	“Do you know where they sent me?” The cleric asked softly.

	“The Lady’s mazes, that’s all you’ve said.”

	“No… which one?” He clarified.

	Clueless shook his head, “No, where did they send you?”

	He took a deep breath and replied with a single word, “Terrance.”

Clueless inhaled deeply as well. Terrance had been the Factol of the Athar. “...F*ck.”

The elf continued with a harrowed voice, “Me, I had my faith tested for 8 days, and I can't even remember what it was that I spoke to him about in there. It was only he and I… and the maze. It was like She'd taken a part of Sigil and spun it off into somewhere else, but changed it, altered it to how it once was. And how it never was.”

“In there,” He continued, “In the maze with Terrance, was the Shattered Temple, only it wasn't shattered. It was there, all of it, in the height of its glory. Thrown in Terrance’s face, telling him he was wrong. But it was also telling him he was right in a way. Every symbol of Aoskar in that temple was broken, torn asunder, pierced through with blades. It was a monument to every power in the multiverse and an epithet for one at the same time. She's teaching him a lesson, but I can't remember what it was. They took my memories from me…”

Clueless nodded as he listened, occasionally brushing his hair back gently and nodded. Nisha placed some food and drink before them both and let the exchange between old comrades continue without her interference otherwise. The man had been through an experience she didn’t envy, and Clueless had shared in a similar one that she could not, nor would she care to, claim.

"He might learn it eventually. There's a man that may help your memories if you wish..." Clueless said, bringing to mind the Githzerai with the Bleakers who had helped him originally.

	“I’m not certain I wish to remember. Whatever happened in there I do know that Terrance refused to answer some of the questions I heard myself asking him repeatedly. He said that he would rot in there for eternity before he told me those answers. He was frightened I think of whatever it was that I asked him, and even more afraid of answering. There was terror in his eyes…”

****​


----------



## primemover003

So the Cheshire fiend hasn't really earned his spurs eh???  And the keeper has more than one scion...  interesting.  I thought the 'loths frowned upon sexual reproduction, especially among the higher echelons.


----------



## Shemeska

primemover003 said:
			
		

> So the Cheshire fiend hasn't really earned his spurs eh???  And the keeper has more than one scion...  interesting.  I thought the 'loths frowned upon sexual reproduction, especially among the higher echelons.




Depends on what you mean by earned his spurs. He's referred to himself before as the 'Representative of the Tower' and I think this latest bit shows that he serves as the Keeper's personal envoy in many ways. That's a fairly posh position to have.

And the 'loths don't necessarily openly frown on sexual reproduction. Among the lower ranks (lesser Yugoloths) they probably screw like rabbits just to get more mezzoloths to fight in the Blood War. Among the Greater Yugoloths however, those who progress to their rank all the way from mezzoloth are given more influence and chance at advancement than those born into their rank by way of sexual reproduction. Officially all Nycaloths and Arcanaloths are equal regardless of how they got to their position, but in reality those born to their station are second class fiends.

It would seem that the Cheshire Fiend is either skilled enough to advance above and beyond this normal treatment of his type or he's a classic benefactor of nepotism.


----------



## shilsen




----------



## Chrys

So If  the keeper o' the Tower had the Elf;  and Shemeska has Clueless... what/ who was the 3rd slave? 

would the elf be a npc or Cohort for clue less?


----------



## Shemeska

Chrys said:
			
		

> So If  the keeper o' the Tower had the Elf;  and Shemeska has Clueless... what/ who was the 3rd slave?
> 
> would the elf be a npc or Cohort for clue less?




The 3rd slave is presumably the Bariaur that was with Clueless and the elf when they were captured in Carceri. His name (along with the name of the elf) gets picked up later on in the storyhour once he makes an appearance.

And the elf is solidly an NPC rather than a cohort. Neither I, nor my players, have ever really messed with the leadership feat and cohorts/followers simply because we've at times had 5-7 PCs plus Nisha floating around and it gets difficult juggling so many folks and not having some of them fade into the background.


----------



## Dakkareth

Yay 

Oh, the double-edged sword of spoilers ... you're not as amazed as you would be, but you do get to see the build-up, the small hints on the way. One post on the WotC boards here, one peek into Tristol's diary there ...


----------



## Clueless

> would the elf be a npc or Cohort for clue less?



Neither, the elf doesn't stick around long... at the time Clueless was more worried about getting him out of danger. (Darn that sense of responsibility to your party/previous party...  )


----------



## Eluvan

Mmmm... Planescape goodness. Thanks, my time spent reading up to this point has been some of the most pleasant hours I have ever spent when I really, _really_ should have been writing an essay instead.  

 Seriously, very impressive. I'm about to start a Planescape game myself down in the PbP forums of this site, and whilst I don't like directly taking ideas from other GMs you certainly have given me a lot of inspiration. 

 So, now I've caught up... I can start nagging for an update! 

 Oh, and by the by, hi Dak! I'm CA from DndStorywriters, if you were wondering...


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## Dakkareth

Hey, CA! Nice to see you here.  Damn, I haven't been on DnDSW for too long  Would that the day had 48 hours for me ...


----------



## Clueless

Eluvan said:
			
		

> Mmmm... Planescape goodness. Thanks, my time spent reading up to this point has been some of the most pleasant hours I have ever spent when I really, _really_ should have been writing an essay instead.
> 
> Seriously, very impressive. I'm about to start a Planescape game myself down in the PbP forums of this site, and whilst I don't like directly taking ideas from other GMs you certainly have given me a lot of inspiration.
> 
> So, now I've caught up... I can start nagging for an update!
> 
> Oh, and by the by, hi Dak! I'm CA from DndStorywriters, if you were wondering...




*grins* Well - glad to see we've recruited another! I'm curious what your views on it are (and of course if you want to run anything over at planewalker.com's forums too - we'd love to have the new blood.  )


----------



## Eluvan

Dakkareth said:
			
		

> Hey, CA! Nice to see you here.  Damn, I haven't been on DnDSW for too long  Would that the day had 48 hours for me ...




Yeah, I know exactly how you feel. Plus, it's not exactly encouraging when you do finally make the effort to check in and nobody has posted in two weeks. :\ It's a real shame to see that place die, I've got some very good memories from there. 



			
				Clueless said:
			
		

> *grins* Well - glad to see we've recruited another! I'm curious what your views on it are (and of course if you want to run anything over at planewalker.com's forums too - we'd love to have the new blood.)




Oooh! An invitation to waste even more of my life on the internet! Yay!

 (I have no idea if that was sarcastic or not...)  

 I'll certainly take a look over at those forums, could be interesting. 

 As for my views... well... first and most importantly, I wish I had played in it/was playing in it.  

 But other than that, well, lessee - it strikes me that the atmosphere has been captured very well, which is of course one of the most important things in a PS game. It just _feels_ like Planescape, which automatically ensures that I will like it. It's also nice to see the 'Loths given so much focus. They've always interested me, although I confess that they don't get my vote for Best Fiend - I love the Baatezu too much I'm afraid. Also, the PCs are cool. I like the way they interact, and it seems like you all get really into the spirit, which goes along way to make any game good. Plus I can respect anyone who's prepared to make a living, breathing plothook (the hot Eladrin girlfriend was the perk you got tossed in return, right? ).

 Plus I just have to give another voice to the sentiment. Nisha rocks my world. 

 Personally, I'm looking forward to some kind of expose on what was going on with Nilesia. I still can't quite figure out why anyone would have had her rescued, only to let her go off the rails and get herself flayed. They must, after all, have realised that she would.


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## Shemeska

Eluvan said:
			
		

> Personally, I'm looking forward to some kind of expose on what was going on with Nilesia. I still can't quite figure out why anyone would have had her rescued, only to let her go off the rails and get herself flayed. They must, after all, have realised that she would.




Oh that's a complicated story there, but one that I'll return to eventually. Everyone's favorite nutcase tiefling will have a lingering impact on a later plotline, but don't look for it anytime soon however, it's a long ways off and only after the dust has settled and the blood has dried on the Waste. I promise it'll be worth the wait once you find out the full story.


----------



## Shemeska

Eluvan said:
			
		

> Seriously, very impressive. I'm about to start a Planescape game myself down in the PbP forums of this site, and whilst I don't like directly taking ideas from other GMs you certainly have given me a lot of inspiration.
> 
> So, now I've caught up... I can start nagging for an update!




Update is on schedule for this Friday evening or so. Perhaps sooner since I wrapped up my thesis proposal 2nd draft, which is what I should have been solely working on last week instead of this, but alas it snagged me.

As for taking ideas from other GM's, I've taken ideas from other places but I've gone my own way with them. After this campaign is over and the storyhour finished I'm going to post a list of material and sources that I used for inspiration in tone and atmosphere and some that gave me some specific ideas as well. I will readily admit to using a writeup on, I want to say the Planescape-L list, that was the original source for the Ash Cities of Gehenna which I went my own direction with starting in the prelude and 1st post for this storyhour here. My own version of it has been written up on the WotC boards as 'The Vale of Frozen Ashes', and at some point I'll post it on the Portals section of Planewalker. It's sufficiently different from the original idea, but the inspiration is there and it deserves its share of credit.

In places a few authors get snagged including Clark Ashton Smith, M.R. James, Lovecraft, and Machen. They're heavy influences on my own style of running a game, if I can claim them while being lightyears away from their league in writing ability. Usually I don't snag whole ideas, with one noted exception who hasn't entered the plot yet, and that was more an easter egg and cameo that the players liked, and it never wholly went away. Heh.

Glad you're enjoying it, I'm having a ball writing it and sharing it with folks. Thank you!

Though at times I feel like a crack dealer...


----------



## Clueless

Shemeska said:
			
		

> with one noted exception who hasn't entered the plot yet, and that was more an easter egg and cameo that the players liked, and it never wholly went away.




*GRINS* But he's *cool*, and I shall say no more for sake of spoiling the cameo.


----------



## Eluvan

Shemeska said:
			
		

> Though at times I feel like a crack dealer...




 That's funny, I feel like a crack head... 

 But at least this is cheaper, and I don't think it causes any organ damage. 

 And incidentally, I love the Shemmie line of emoticons. Do you sell t-shirts?


----------



## Shemeska

Eluvan said:
			
		

> And incidentally, I love the Shemmie line of emoticons. Do you sell t-shirts?




Hehehe, I've got some more emoticons squirreled away somewhere. Most of them got made between the hours of 3 and 6am on massive coffee buzzes and have gotten random usage since then.


----------



## Dakkareth

Eluvan said:
			
		

> That's funny, I feel like a crack head...




I on the other hand can stop anytime I want. Really, I could just fold up the tent, take my stuff and leave this thread and PS alltogether never to return. Yeah, I do mean it, I really can. 

*takes a few steps*

 

Ahem, at the moment I don't want to. But I could.


----------



## Clueless

Dakkareth said:
			
		

> Yeah, I do mean it, I really can.
> *takes a few steps*
> 
> Ahem, at the moment I don't want to. But I could.





Of course, of course - we all believe you - here, here's a Shemmie stuffed animal to take the edge off. *offers a stuffed jackal with headdress*


----------



## dal673

*A General of the Wheel of Judgement enters...*



			
				Clueless said:
			
		

> Of course, of course - we all believe you - here, here's a Shemmie stuffed animal to take the edge off. *offers a stuffed jackal with headdress*




An Earth Genasi walks into view, problably overhearing the ongoing *loud* discussion. He wears a dented green baatorian greensteel platemail armor, with the sign of the Harmonium on his cloak on his back.
On his chest, maybe chisled in his armor, is a sign of a wheel. A shield is hanging on his shoulder, together with a mancatcher and a scimitar sized sheath at his right hip. He has a focused and otherworldly look in his eyes and generally appears to onlookers as tough...

And then his slow bass-filled voice says:
"Hey, I've bought that same Shemmie-doll at A'kin's before...! it's só cuddly."


*EPIC* lol!!!


----------



## Shemeska

*'Turning and turning in the widening gyre'...*

"And out of good still to find means of evil."​Paradise Lost. Book i. Line 165. - John Milton​

	The next two days passed in a blur of paradise as the group sailed down the river Oceanus on a slim boat while the sun shown down warmly and the breeze was always filling the ship’s sails to their fullest. They had all waited only a scant few minutes on the banks of the river when the ship had approached, slowed down and they had been hailed by the lone occupant, a cervidal who only asked them their names and where they might be going. As it happened, he was heading to the layer of Thalasia himself and had no qualms about having guests on his journey. It was, after all, a kind gesture and one that the guardinal gave without pause.

	The days were filled with pleasant talk and laughter, and the nights were brief and filled with somnolent slumber devoid of nightmares. Upon waking to the soft rocking of the boat, who could say if they were still dreaming or not when they gazed out at the perfection extending from horizon to horizon.

	“It’s a shame that Nisha and Clueless couldn’t be here you know.” Tristol said as he dipped his hand down into the cool waters of Oceanus to let the current wriggle around his fingers.

	“I’m sure they’re getting into mischief elsewhere, wherever they ended up going. Mischief more so than not when you consider Nisha.” Fyrehowl remarked.

	“I asked Clueless where all they were going and he wouldn’t really fess up to it. I swear he can’t talk openly about half the stuff that goes on with him.” Florian said.

	Tristol shrugged, “I don’t know if he knows everything about himself to really be able to talk openly about it all to tell the truth.”

	“Still, all I know is that he was going to go to the Gray Waste and he was bringing Nisha along to make sure he didn’t get into too much trouble.” Toras said.

	Underneath all of their banter about their two absent companions there was an undercurrent of unstated worry about the fate of their friends and if they would see them again. They trusted in the skill of them both, but the plane they had traveled to… it hungered eternally and when it touched mortals it left men dead inside, within if not without as well.

	At the mention of Elysium’s polar opposite their cervidal guide raised an eyebrow and looked over from where he was tending to the ship’s sails. At the same time, though perhaps it was only coincidence, there was a cool breeze that rolled off the waters and lingered slowly on the ship. It seemed almost as if the plane itself sensed some of their largely unstated worry about their companions in that pit of darkness and sought to comfort them.

	As they continued traveling Fyrehowl seemed the most taken with their surroundings, even though she had been born there upon that very same layer of Elysium, her homecoming to her native plane was a reaffirming presence in her heart and her mind, considering all that they had been through in their time together. The warmth and incarnate sense of peace that swathed the landscape was reflected in her eyes, and for once in a very long while she was neither worried nor tensed for immediate action as her training with the ciphers had taught her. There was no need for either since the very essence of the plane itself precluded their necessity. If the multiverse truly was a living thing and one could listen to the heartbeat of the planes; if one could listen to the Cadence of it all, then Elysium was where the multiverse lay still and gazed up at the clouds above it and dreamt in utter peace and security, swathed in unconditional compassion.

	On the third day they woke to a gleaming light in the east and the sound of tumbling, churning water like the currents preceding a great waterfall. They looked but they saw nothing ahead that might be causing the sound, nor was the current increasing upon the ship. While Skalliska looked paranoid and Tristol’s ears perked, Toras looked over the side of the ship and Florian whispered a prayer to his deity, the two guardinals could only chuckle politely.

	A moment later it was gone and done with as their surroundings simply melted away into the sunlight and they found themselves drifting slowly on the current in a great expanse of the widened Oceanus. Far off on the horizon they could see a distant and deep green shoreline while in the very center of the expanse of crystalline waters sat a single island and a massive glistening keep at its very center, the cathedral-fortress of Rubicon, the last outpost of the guardinals upon the layer of Belarian.

	“Wow…” Florian remarked as he looked at the radically altered surroundings while the boat drifted unerringly towards the island without any action by the cervidal captain.

	Tristol was grinning and his tail twitched in excitement as they drifted closer and closer to the island and the scale of the fortress became more and more apparent; it was massive.

	Like the proverbial city on a hill, the fortress of Rubicon was an exercise in architecture comprising both strength and aesthetic appearance that was best described as beatific. As their ship drifted closer to one of the docks on the island they noticed that the feeling that they had felt from the plane itself all the while upon the plane was subtly different. Fyrehowl felt the shift the most, but it wasn’t negative in any way, simply different from the feeling that Amoria or Eronia had radiated. The air, the wind, the sunlight and even the ground and walls of the cathedral-like fortress exuded a sense of stoic resolve and quiet grace.

	As the boat touched the shallows near the dock an equinal tossed a rope down to them and they fastened the ship in short order and clambered up onto the dock. Several guardinals were assembled to meet them, an eclectic mixture of lupinals, equinals, cervidals and avorals. All of them were dressed in the white and blue uniforms of the fortress, and while they all wore weapons, none of them had them drawn. All the guardians of the fortress had brandished were polite smiles, curious glances and, from the watchcaptain, an extended hand to help each of their guests up from the boat.

	“Greetings and warm welcomes to you all. Welcome to Rubicon.” The watch captain, an equinal taller than even Toras was, said with a bow. “I am captain Delrenth. How can we help you?”

	Fyrehowl bowed and spoke first, “We’ve come from Sigil hoping to gain an audience with the Lord of Rubicon, his regency Duke Jalinon. We happened to encounter evidence of extraplanar activities upon the mainland of Belarian, and we have strong reason to think that…” She paused and snarled softy, “…we have reason to believe that a group of Yugoloths are active upon the mainland.”

	Several of the watch exchanged glances at one another, others looked at Fyrehowl and her companions with expressions of concern, curiosity, and wariness. Seeing several looks of incredulity, Skalliska stepped forward.

	“We have actual evidence of it all if you don’t believe us at our word.”

	“I’m certain you do, but it’s not my decision in these matters. Please, follow me and I will arrange for you to have an audience with the Duke.” Delrenth said and gestured for them all to follow him while some of his soldiers saw to the boat.

	“This isn’t Sigil Skalliska, far from it. They’re not going to automatically distrust us unless we walk in with an imp on our shoulder or something similar. We need to break you of that habit while we’re here.” Florian said as he looked down at the kobold, though making a comment about how in a certain light the fire lizard on her shoulder might look like an imp wasn’t too terribly far from his mind.

	“And why haven’t they found this out on their own? I mean, really, it’s there home plane and they don’t know what alls going on out there?” Skalliska replied.

	Fyrehowl tensed slightly but didn’t say a word, remaining as accepting as the rest of her race as they were escorted up the hill towards the glittering fortress. 

In short time they passed through the massive silver and steel gates that glistened mirror bright and were escorted to a waiting chamber to await their audience with the duke. As they waited they were visited briefly by a minor cervidal functionary who inquired if they were hungry, wished for something to drink, or had any other needs that she might see to. They thanked her, but in truth they hadn’t felt hungry or thirsty during most of their journey through the plane. Perhaps the plane itself had fed them in some insubstantial way, perhaps time had passed in such a way that they hadn’t needed to eat yet, or perhaps they had eaten but didn’t remember it since the plane might have seen fit to remove the sensations of hunger or thirst from their minds to make their journey more peaceful. Whichever it was they could only speculate. But as they waited to see the duke, speculate they did, but not on their hunger or lack thereof.

	“I’m sure there’s a reason why they don’t know about what we’ve come to tell them.” Toras said to Skalliska.

	“It doesn’t make sense! Hells, from what I know of the layer it has –evil- creatures on it. So much for being the plane of perfect good if you end up with fiendish animals and sometimes minor fiends themselves wriggling out of that swamp that they call a layer of a plane.” Skalliska snapped back.

	Fyrehowl’s hackles raised slightly but she didn’t say a word.

	“A fine job they’re doing if they’re bottled up here and not going out to actually take care of the problem they very obviously have out there. The place is supposed to be crawling with evil, it just doesn’t make sense!” Skalliska continued.

	“The way I’ve heard it told is that the layer isn’t corrupted, but it’s been intentionally used by them to imprison evil creatures. What exactly is anyone’s best guess because the guardinals aren’t telling and the layer is all but entirely sealed off from the outside.” Tristol interjected.

	For a brief moment of awkward silence all eyes focused on Fyrehowl. Finally the lupinal looked up at them and blinked. “What?” She asked.

	“So what have you all got locked up out there in the swamp? An archfiend, a slaad lord, what?” Skalliska quipped.

	“… I don’t know any more than you do. I only know that the layer is largely unpopulated by anything except the Quesar, and they’re anything –but- evil. I know that we don’t have any settlements on the layer except here at Rubicon. Otherwise I only know the rumors the same as the rest of you, probably less so even.” She said honestly and openly to dispel the aura of distrust that the kobold was aiming in her direction.

	“Oh come on. Trust us here and let us in one the secret. Surely you know what’s out there.” Skalliska replied.

	Fyrehowl sighed and was about to reply when the door opened and an avoral wrapped in cloth of green and gold motioned to them with one white-feathered arm. “Duke Jalinon will see you now, please follow me.”


****​

	Factotum Del’sar Muralt of the Bleak Cabal reached out one frail and yellowed hand to snuff a candle that fluttered and slowly was dying next to a freshly burning taper in his chamber. Formerly of the Bleak Cabal anyways. By any legal standard the faction no longer existed, but, not that it really mattered anyways. He’d found his calling helping the unfortunates of the Hive in the slums of Sigil’s worst districts; it gave him purpose and meaning in a world devoid of such.

	The smoldering wick gave rise to a lazy column of sooty black smoke that spiraled like a drunken, winged dervish up towards the rafters of the ceiling. Brushing his ash blackened thumb and forefinger on his robe, the aging githzerai took out a thick journal and began to pen a daily log of those who had come to him. All of them came for some reason relating to the mind and their mental faculties. Some of them wished to recover from addictions, others to recall memories lost to clubs, falls or gauntleted fists, and some others came to him suffering from peculiarities and faults within their mind that left them unable to function or capable of harming themselves and others. All of them he helped if he could, and all of them he chronicled down as a personal log of his true calling, to restore meaning and substance back into the lives of his fellow men so that he himself might feel a fraction of that meaning reflected back within himself.

	He had just taken the pen to paper when there came a knock at his door; he’d had no more appointments for the day and it was closing in upon evening when he generally requested to be left alone to write and meditate upon his day’s activities. Still, he thought as he put the quill back in the inkpot, it was his calling and if another had arrived to request his services, he would of course comply.

	Del’sar opened the door and listened to his fellow Bleaker explain the reason for his late calling patient and his specific needs. He nodded and motioned for the fellow to follow him into his chambers. He did, and as the bariaur closed the door behind himelf, he smiled. The githzerai never noticed the glowing, glittering gemstone lodged within the bariaur’s right rear ankle, nor the sapphire glow it spread upon the floor like a cyclopic blue drake, nor did he hear the delicate hiss of steel upon oiled leather. And then it was over. Mercifully he was embraced by oblivion before he could hear and feel his limbs being severed like a sacrificial calf.


****​

	Fyrehowl had to feel a sense of pride and anticipation added to her already heady sense of homecoming as she and her companions were escorted by the avoral and a pair of armed lupinals towards the Duke’s audience hall. She looked forward to meeting the famed Leonal noble, rumored to be a distant relative of Prince Talisid himself, and gaining either the approval to investigate on the behalf of the guardinals of Rubicon, or being informed that all was well and the ‘loth and mercane information were all a scattering of lies.

	The audience hall was long and airy, supported by white marble columns carved to resemble each of the subtypes of Elysium’s celestial natives. One column resembled a flute playing cervidal while another was carved into the form of a soaring avoral. Down the list of guardinal subtypes the columns were nearly lifelike and decorated with precious metals and gemstones that caught the sunlight from the massive windows lining the chamber to scatter them in rainbow patterns across the flagstones.

	At the end of the hall was a simple but elegant throne atop which sat the leonal, Duke Jalinon, who led the guardinals of Rubicon as a father figure if not an actual leader in a true sense of a hierarchy. The leonal’s tawny mane shone like spun gold in the light and he projected a sense of majesty and strength, but his dress was simple. He wore only a blue and white cloak and a surcoat over his chest along with a simple circlet of silver around his brow and nothing more. No glittering trappings of royalty were present.

	Flanking the leonal was a robed Ursinal who announced the group, each by name as they arrived before the Duke. She adjusted a pair of glasses upon her blunt muzzle before taking out a quill pen and scribing down the following conversations between those assembled. On the duke’s opposite side was a slim vulpinal dressed in pale blue wizard’s robes who peered curiously at their guests. Tristol smiled and waved back as he twitched his own nearly identical tail in time with the vulpinal advisor’s.

	“Welcome my child. Welcome back to Elysium Fyrehowl, and I extend my welcome to the rest of you as well. Greetings and please, speak what occupies your minds. You have traveled long and far and the least I can offer you is a welcome ear.” Jalinon’s voice rumbled like distant rolling thunder, warm and baritone.

	Toras motioned towards Fyrehowl, both as a way of acknowledging her to speak for them at first, and to head off Skalliska who looked ready to launch into a speech.

	“Duke Jalinon, of late we have had encounters with a group of mercane who were themselves dealing with Yugoloths. Without getting into some of the specifics of what happened, we found records written by the leader of these mercanes that made specific reference to Belarian, routes of transit through the layer towards the deeper mainland, and vague references to ‘shipments to alleviate hunger’.” Fyrehowl said humbly.

	The Duke pondered the news and several of the others added their own thoughts on the matter as well as expanding upon the story of how they had gotten involved with the Imshenviir mercane and their Yugoloth allies in the first place.

	“Anything these mercane did upon the mainland was not with our leave or our knowledge I am afraid to say. The layer of Belarian is almost impossible to enter and almost impossible to leave except by way of the river Oceanus. River travel to Belarian is watched over by we here at Rubicon. No mercane passed this way.” The duke answered.

	“And yugoloths?” Skalliska asked.

	“It would be unlikely. However your suspicions do not ring hollow or without evidence that something is occurring.” The leonal replied.

	“And there is another matter I feel is linked to this. We had spoken to Rhys, former factol of the Transcendent Order in Sigil. She mentioned that one of her former factors, a lupinal by the name of Tarnsilver, had returned to Elysium and spoken of things that may very well be related to this current issue.” Fyrehowl said.

	“Tarnsilver…” The duke paused, “Tarnsilver is fallen from us. He has not fallen into evil, but the spark of good in him has dimmed to a flicker. He is misguided, and if he is involved in this current matter than it takes on a level of urgency that it otherwise might not have.”

	Jalinon inhaled deeply and thought for a moment before continuing, “I give you leave to travel to the mainland to investigate the truth of the matter you rightfully suspect. I empower you with my authority and the authority of Rubicon to put a stop to any fiendish activity that you find therein if you are capable of doing so. If what you find is too large for you to resolve then return here or send word and I will mobilize Rubicon itself to your aid.”

	The companions nodded to him and bowed respectfully before the duke added, “And should you find Tarnsilver, tell him that whatever he has done we would welcome him back amongst us without question.”

	“Thank you your highness.” Tristol said with another bow and the rest soon followed suit before turning and going back to their chambers to rest for the evening before heading for the mainland the following day. However as they made way from the chamber, Fyrehowl felt a tug on her robe.

	The lupinal stopped and looked down at Jalinon’s vulpinal advisor where he was tugging gently on her robe. “Yes?” She asked.

	The vulpinal smiled and bowed before quietly informing her that, “The duke wishes to speak with you privately regarding these current matters. He would request that you hear him out presently, please.”

	Fyrehowl nodded and followed the fox-like guardinal back into a private audience chamber. The leonal was already seated at a circular table and he quickly bade her to sit. The vulpinal left and closed the door after himself, leaving Fyrehowl and the Jalinon alone in counsel.

	“I have something to speak with you about Fyrehowl. You likely do not have any awareness of it, for it is rarely spoken of in our society and even more rarely outside of Elysium to any. What I must tell you concerns Belarian, its history and our history as a people.”

	Fyrehowl nodded slowly as the Duke Jalinon began, “There is no act of good greater than self sacrifice at no benefit to oneself, done on the behalf of others and done in secret. An act of benevolence done behind closed doors and away from sight where none will ever know what good you did and none will ever thank you or praise your name; an unthanked, unasked for, and unparalleled act of altruism. That is what I must speak to you about and the mark it has forever left upon Belarian.


****​

	The lupinal gazed out of the adamantine window across the marshlands and cypress forests of the layer of Belarian. He felt the presence of the Arcanaloth behind him before he smelled it or heard it speak to him. The ‘loth’s presence sullied the very essence of the plane like a gobbet of mud upon a white smock. Even after all this time it still made him uneasy and he felt in turn sullied by association. As the yugoloth’s padded footsteps echoed at the top of the stairs and its stench of brimstone wafted into the room he sighed. Regardless of his current feelings about the fiends, what he was here doing, what they would ultimately accomplish was for the greater good. What they were doing true, it would benefit the fiends in the short term, but it would remove a cross that he and his people had unduly borne for far too long and which had defiled the very essence of their plane.

	Tarnsilver still didn’t understand the original intention of his people, but he would make amends for their race’s failure here and now. It was still centuries off, but it would be gone one day, and then the ‘loths would be gone as well. Their presence there was intolerable as well, but the ultimate ends were all that mattered. He knew he was right in that, he felt it echoed in the Cadence, the very patterns of the world reflected the truth of what he was doing there in Belarian. They would welcome him back even now, but they wouldn’t understand what he was doing, and they would stop his actions out of ignorance. He wouldn’t allow that to happen.

	“You seem tense my friend, is something amiss? We have had continued success with our joint endeavor. You should be pleased.” The yugoloth commandant of the tower, an arcanaloth by the name of Parphinnias, only recently ascended to his position, spoke gently to the lupinal like a fine mixture of cream and venom.

	Tarnsilver brushed off the ‘loth’s hand as it placed it on his shoulder. Their joint work was good, that was self evident, but he still felt sick at the fiends’ close proximity. “I am pleased, but old habits die hard. A century ago I would have torn out your throat before you lifted that finger to my collarbone. Our work goes forward but I look forward to when it is complete and I can have you gone from my home plane.”

	The ‘loth smiled a jackal’s carrion-eating grin like a corrupted reflection of lupinal’s own stoic expression. The lupinal wasn’t in the mood to talk, he never really was, though Parphinias did have better luck doing so than the Ultroloth that had been his predecessor, filthy Mydianchlarus supporting wretch that he was.

	“Suit yourself, I was dining and was wondering if you wished to have something brought up to your chambers. I would have had one of the Mezzoloths bring you something from the swamp so you could prepare it yourself without us touching it beforehand overly much. I know you’re sensitive about such thing.” The black-robed arcanaloth said with a shrug.

	“No, I’m fine. Please leave me to my thoughts, I wish to spend time alone to meditate.” The lupinal replied firmly.

	“As you wish my friend.” The ‘loth replied as he exited the chamber. Only a few steps out of the door did he reach up and wipe away the smear of blood that had leaked from his mouth and onto his cheek from his meal. He glanced back and then hurried away, lucky that the lupinal had been so absorbed in his thoughts that the idealistic fool hadn’t smelled or noticed the splash of fresh cervidal blood on his cheek or lingering on his breath. But, what the lupinal didn’t know wouldn’t kill him, only others of his kind.


****​

	The pair of cornugon’s glanced questioningly at one another as they escorted their charge down the dimly lit passageway. They carried no lights, their own nature as baatezu pierced the gloom readily enough, but their ward lit the way before itself from the bright glow of its own pair of oblong eyes. The Ultroloth’s glowing orbs set within its otherwise featureless face shifted colors every few seconds and flickered like an angry, buzzing insect as it strode along with them towards the throne room of their mistress, Lilith the Hag Countess, sometimes called Malagard, Lord of the 6th of Baator.

	But that the baatezu escorted an Ultroloth, the pinnacle of Yugoloth caste, was not the cause of their concern reflected back at one another in their eyes, their expressions and their telepathic chatter between one another. No, they had seen their fair share of important individuals escorted down their current path, from Baatezu nobles to pit fiend generals to Yugoloth mercenary lords and even occasionally one of the hated Tanar’ri. No, their concern was not with the race and rank of their escorted guest, but rather in its mannerisms, as it silently walked a few paces in front of them.

	Muscles rippled beneath scaled hide and the Cornugons glanced almost awkwardly at the Ultroloth as it stumbled for but a moment as it walked before them. The ‘loth was also doing other things as well. It was whimpering… every few seconds the fiend would whimper like a wounded animal or a petitioner being slowly fed, inch by inch, to the burning cold of the waters of Stygia. And the Yugoloth was twitching at random as well, like it was experiencing massive fits of pain or an electrical surge coursing through its brain to cause it the disturbances in stride and manner as it walked.

	But yet every time the ‘loth stumbled or paused it would unerringly right itself and continue on its path towards the end of the hallway where Lilith held court. The Cornugons speculated on what was wrong with their charge, or perhaps if it was being led to their mistress as some sort of plant, or spy upon the Gray Waste to funnel her information on her former rivals amongst the gray sisters. There was also the matter of the gem embedded in the Ultroloth’s forehead.

	Smooth as glass, shaped and sized like a hen’s egg, the gemstone pulsed with an inner light of its own as the Ultroloth neared the entrance to Lilith’s throne room. Judging by the looks at its face the Cornugons had gathered when they first met the Lord of the 6th’s guest, the gemstone, whatever it was, was embedded deep enough in the ‘loth’s head to penetrate into its brain.

	The chamber shuddered ever so slightly as the Ultroloth entered Lilith’s court, the tremor only felt in the slightest there at the core of the Hag Countess’s titanic citadel of ever tumbling stone. Outside the boulder shaped fortress would have been leaving rock falls and landslides to destroy a prime city in its wake as it eternally rolled and careened down the slopes of Malbolge’s mountains and gorges. The Ultroloth didn’t pause from the rumbling of the walls, but rather from a near seizure of pain that made it pause and grip the frame of the doorway to the court.

	The Cornugons stopped at the door and turned away, holding their tridents outwards to guard the chamber, though in truth no intruder had ever passed much beyond the outermost layers of the keep. They never noticed that their mistress had dismissed her normal retinue of toadies, scribes, courtiers and advisors from the chamber, and sat alone atop her throne, brooding in the darkness as the light from the Ultroloth’s eyes washed over her and her expectant smile.

	A wave of her hand and a pulse of her will sent the doors to her court slamming shut with a tremor borne of tons of steel and marble, but in the seconds that passed before she rose to greet her guest and closed the doors to ensure her privacy, her guards heard the Ultroloth speak its greeting. The ‘loth’s voice was neither timid nor wracked with pain in the slightest. Without pause the ‘loth’s telepathic voice washed over them like a warm wind over a sailor alone and swimming upon a black ocean with a sudden and sharp undercurrent of cold, dark waters welling up from whatever hidden depths they sprung from. The ‘loths voice left them cold as it spoke in a tone of an equal, or a superior feigning equality, to their mistress, one of the most powerful Lords of Baator itself.

	The crashing slam of the doors and their attendant sequestering aura blocked the ‘loths voice and their mistress’s reply so they could not hear their conversation. Neither could the pair of Cornugons see the sable coated Arcanaloth in Carceri within his tower of millions of screaming souls concentrate and project his will across the space of planes to speak through and manipulate his servant like a puppet with invisible strings, smiling darkly as he did so.

	“Greetings Lilith, I extend my regards to your recent ascent in power. But there are other things you’ve desired…”


----------



## Clueless

I claim first post for the week!!


----------



## shilsen

Clueless said:
			
		

> I claim first post for the week!!



 Aw. phooey!


----------



## Shemeska

If anyone is curious, I posted a story over on the WotC boards the other day revolving around a future NPC in this campaign (though one whose presence is only to be inferred, not really seen. And there's no spoilers for the storyhour, so not to worry).

You'll find it here, The Book Binder - Baernaloth of The Demented


----------



## Dakkareth

Two fixes in such a short time ... a shame, that neither in German nor in English I'm any good at writing eulogies - they'd be deserved. 



> Of course, of course - we all believe you - here, here's a Shemmie stuffed animal to take the edge off. *offers a stuffed jackal with headdress*




*Looks slightly nervous* "Ahem, you sure she won't mind? That whole imitating Her bit ..."


----------



## Clueless

Dakkareth said:
			
		

> Looks slightly nervous* "Ahem, you sure she won't mind? That whole imitating Her bit ..."




Oh she finds it very complementary and all...


----------



## Eluvan

*Prepares to throw a temper tantrum if he doesn't get his own stuffed Shemmie pretty damn soon*


----------



## Shemeska

Eluvan said:
			
		

> *Prepares to throw a temper tantrum if he doesn't get his own stuffed Shemmie pretty damn soon*




Indeed. All I can say is that I want one too...


----------



## Gez

Hey, there are Cthulhu plush dolls, so why not? D&D Fiend Plush Dolls could be commercially viable.


----------



## Chrys

I'd buy and 'Loth (ultra   ); or Pit feind plushie


----------



## Dakkareth

Heck, with the attention LotR got by way of the movies there must be plush balrogs somewhere already. So if you have a liking for tanar'ri, get the next best substitute


----------



## Clueless

Here's the sad part - somewhere in my mercantile and college kid brain... I'm remembering that there is a sewing machine in the house.


----------



## Shemeska

Gez said:
			
		

> Hey, there are Cthulhu plush dolls, so why not? D&D Fiend Plush Dolls could be commercially viable.




*starts casting a bevy of _suggestion_ spells into the ears of the fine folks over at Toy Vault (the makers of the plush Cthulhus etc)*

If the minis can sell like hotcakes, surely plush critters would sell too. I know I'd have a dozen or so critters on my 'want' list, especially a Vrock, just so I can put it running away from a plastic Col. Sanders doll...

*holds up a plush Cthulhu, one of several I have*


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## TDRandall

Stupid double post - I'm really starting to look forward to the new and zippy servers!


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## TDRandall

Why do I see a new Beanie Baby craze erupting?  Centered around the desires of those "wacky and obviously demonic posessed Roleplayers - just LOOK at the horrble looking things they are buying!"

Kidding aside, I'd have to pick up at least a couple ... even if the succubus might be difficult to explain to the wife (whoops, back to kidding!)


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## Eluvan

And while we're on the subject, I want my own Xanxost doll too. He's so adorable!


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## Dakkareth

Make it big enough so you can put other plush critters inside him. As in 'eaten' of course.


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## Shemeska

Dakkareth said:
			
		

> Make it big enough so you can put other plush critters inside him. As in 'eaten' of course.




And all I can think is Xanxost proudly proclaiming, in xaos speak, as he chases after some poor mephit or quasit, to "Get in mah bellah!"


----------



## Shemeska

*A day early this week since I'll be out of town friday*

“Everything went all f*cking wrong
Chaos reigns when I’m along”  - Courtney Love, ‘Love Despite God’


****​

	Fyrehowl looked curiously at the duke as she took a seat across from him and listened intently with perked ears. The golden-maned leonal sighed deeply before he began.

	“While none of the celestial races take an active hand in the Blood War between the fiends, all for fear of uniting the lower planes, some of us do take action though it is never large scale or organized. The aasimon and archons learned that terrible lesson for us all…” Jalinon paused at the thought before continuing, “Still, some of us do make forays into the lower planes in the hopes of disrupting the fiends in any action that might involve the prime, or to damage certain factions of the fiendish hierarchies in order to create instability and further infighting amongst their kind. We guardinals are the most noted among the brethren of the upper planes to do such things and succeed; your own kind perhaps foremost among us. You sister indeed as I recall has joined one of the more prestigious bands of lupinals who take to the Waste, as did you previously. The asuras are the only other kind who do the same as we do, but we have done so since nearly the beginning of such things.”

	Fyrehowl nodded, understanding such things clearly from her own experiences in the past.

	“But sometimes our forays into the depths of the lower planes do not end as we would hope. Sometimes we face death, and we all know that we might die in our cause, but still we continue because it is what we do, because it is good. But once we faced not death at the hands of fiends, something we might have expected, but rather we found something in our travels that we never expected to find. I was there then, as was a young Talisad, and I remember it well.”

	The duke paused and seemed almost shaken by the memories of that day and it took him a moment to return to the present as Fyrehowl placed a hand over his.

	“What did you find?” The lupinal asked.

	“By all that is good and holy, it was titanic in size and terrible to behold. The Mother of Serpents, the paragon and progenitor of every species of hydra and perhaps all scaled beasts that roam the planes and prime itself, all of those with evil in their hearts, they or their ancestors sprung from that beast we found.

	“We saw its intellect and we saw its evil that seemed palpable even on the plane we found it on, and we realized that we could not suffer it to live. Had we simply left it where we found it unmolested we would have spared ourselves the bloodshed that followed but we would have risked the fiends finding it and using it. Even if they didn’t use it against some unsuspecting innocents on the prime or another plane, they would have used it against each other and it might have tipped the balance of the War Eternal to one side or the other, eventually bringing all of evil under one united banner. We could not risk that, and so we attacked the beast.”

	Fyrehowl’s eyes widened at the prospect and she asked a single question, “It’s not dead, is it?”

	The duke stared into her eyes and replied, “Oh we tried. We hurled ourselves at it heedless of our own safety and our own lives. The soil of Oinos was turned black from our blood that day and still we sought to kill it, but try as we might, we could not. We lost… our losses were nigh uncountable… but we did not give up despite our own slaughter. We realized that we could not allow it to fall into the hands of the fiends, and so rather than kill what we could not kill, we let it follow after us, hell-bent upon revenge for the pain we had inflicted upon it.”

	“It followed us, we led it on, and we brought it here with us. We brought it here to Belarian and here we trapped it for all eternity so that it would never harm any as it might if it were free. We brought the beast here to our least populated layer and let it rage against the bonds we wove into the very fabric of the layer itself. We wrought magic of such potency that it would make the archmages of Celestia and the warlocks of Gehenna weep. The layer is sealed off from without and from within, the only way in or out of Belarian is by way of the great river Oceanus and here at Rubicon we guard the egress of any seeking to travel the plane. For while we know what lurks and rages upon the mainland, others do not and we keep our eternal vigil to prevent their deaths or the release of the creature.”

	Fyrehowl was speechless, having never before heard the tale. “We tainted the plane itself. The Mother of Serpents, its presence is corrupting Belarian, isn’t it?”

	Jalinon nodded, “And so we have sacrificed of our own blood and sullied our perfect good for the betterment of an ignorant cosmos that knows not what we have done on their behalf. An act of self-sacrifice, or selfless good done in secret where none will know and none will thank you is the greatest act of all. And I am proud of what we have done, and here I have been since then to guard the way to Belarian where the beast waits impotent and trapped.”

	“It cannot swim the river?” Fyrehowl asked.

	“No, the waters of Oceanus are like acid unto it. The very touch of its currents is repulsive and painful to the creature and it will not cross the river that girds the layer. It is trapped where it is and we gladly tarnish ourselves to keep it there.”

	“I understand… thank you for telling me this. You think we’ll find something there on the mainland relating to the serpent?” Fyrehowl asked the duke.

	“I cannot say. Since that time we have used Belarian to such a purpose with other beings of evil that were best imprisoned rather than killed, and so fiends on the mainland may have been put there by ourselves, or they may have found a way onto the layer in the hopes of finding those we have exiled to the plane. Even if they did find the Mother of Serpents though, they could not remove it from Elysium even if they tried, the wardings are such that they would have to ferry it down the river and past our very gates.”

	“What of Tarnsilver?” The lupinal mused.

	“His presence here is what worries me for he knew of the beast and also of a great many other of the beings that we have locked away on the mainland, and he saw it not as a willing self sacrifice, but a shame that we kept locked away and buried away from the rest of the planes. However he knew nothing of the magics that kept the plane isolated, and the ursinals and vulpinals both have made it clear to me that the wardings on Belarian have not waned in the slightest in the eons since we laid them down originally. Those are sacrosanct and we could tell if any fiends were attempting to unravel them to release the greatest of those bottled upon Belarian.”

	“However you and your companions will soon discover the true nature of what is occurring upon the mainland. We avoid the plane itself largely, leaving the imprisoned to their exile, and we cannot divine or scry upon them as a byproduct of our own magics that block such attempts from the multiverse at large. Not even Primus of the Modrons can view the interior of Belarian, not even from his great orrery.”

	Fyrehowl nodded, “May I discuss this with my companions? The Mother of Serpents and what other things you’ve told me? They will need to know much of it for their own safety.”

	“I leave that to you to judge. Speak to them if you wish, but have them pledge to never speak of it elsewhere. The plane will hold them to their word if spoken in honesty, and you will know if they hold back on their oaths. But, having met them, I do not doubt their honesty in the matter if you wish to tell them.”

	“Thank you for telling me. When we leave in the morning I’ll tell them and we’ll find out what’s going on. When we are certain we’ll either take action, or barring that, we will inform you if we cannot handle what we find on our own.” Fyrehowl said with a bow as she stood and smiled with honor at the leonal.

	“I have nothing more to say, but you will find that a room has been prepared for you and your fellows. Sleep well and good luck in the morning.” Jalinon said as he laid a hand on the lupinals shoulder and led her back out of his audience room to rejoin her friends.


****​

	The Oinoloth, Mydianchlarus stood at he summit of Khin-Oin and paused, awestruck by his own array and display of power. Yugoloths in the millions sprawled in formation and entrenchments for miles surrounding the base of the Wasting Tower. All of them were loyal to him, and all of them were willing to die to support his claim to the throne of the Tower against the traitors in league with the one he had deposed.

	“Oinoloth Mydianchlarus,” the rough and dull witted voice of Typhus the mercenary lord broke the still of the air atop the tower.

	The Oinoloth turned and nodded to the Altraloth, a squat and twisted figure in patchwork armor and tattered black cloak, all emblazoned with the symbol of his personal army, the Infernal Front.

	“Your forces are arrayed and ready to receive the armies of the fallen lord. My own forces have now fully joined with yours, the Tower in Gehenna and those loyal to you there have begun to funnel their own forces as well and they should be here by the end of the day.” Typhus said, pointing out each of the various companies by their own specific heraldry. 

As much of an idiot as the fiend was in comparison to many of the Ultroloths and Arcanaloths who served under him, he had an instinctual grasp of tactics upon a battlefield that made him invaluable. His own tendency to plan far in advance of his own troops capabilities would have to be tempered, but in the coming battle he was a subordinate general and not the marshal of it all. That belonged to Mydianchlarus the Ultroloth Prince and Oinoloth.

“What of the Carcerian forces? I know they will be diminished from their maximum due to the threat of the Gehreleths on the tower of that over glorified arcanaloth, but how many has he sent?” The Oinoloth asked, his voice carrying out onto the winds of the void, twenty miles above the dust and blood of the Waste where his forces awaited the word to kill in his name.

“They have begun to arrive as well, and in larger numbers than the Ebon originally projected, you will be pleased at the increase. I had not expected it either, and it will be needed with the claimed joining of Xenghara with your unworthy predecessor. He and Anthraxus, my brothers, they are idiots. I would ask to be granted the honor of executing Xenghara after you have taken the head of Anthraxus.” Typhus said with a bow.

“I will consider it. Have you word of Taba, your other… sibling…?” Mydianchlarus asked.

“No. Taba has been absent for some time, roughly since we were aware of the growing silence of The General. Several of the Ultroloths under my banner have made their own inquiries and searches, and I know that The Ebon has been doing the same with even more fervor than myself. I’ve found nothing, nor has he discovered anything when I asked him.” Typhus answered.

“Very well. Let Anthraxus come hurrying to his own death. I spared him oblivion before, but a second time I will not allow him to live. Go and see to your own troops and send in the heralds that the Keeper of the Tower Arcane has sent, I have plans to discuss with them for their part in the battle ahead.”

Typhus nodded and bowed low before his master who turned away, absorbed in his own thoughts, before the Altraloth had descended the stairwell to the halls below. Mydianchlarus was worried, something not right for a being of his stupendous power. Perhaps not so much worried as he was perplexed by certain facts. The General and his city had vanished, the Baern were vacant or unresponsive, even to him. And while he referred to the Overlord of Carceri as an arcanaloth reaching beyond his station, it was true that The Ebon had been the one to point him towards the information that had been instrumental in his own toppling of Anthraxus. That alone had solidified the lesser fiend’s claims to his tower after the deaths of Bubonix and Cholerix when a hundred or more Ultroloths had been clamoring and petitioning for the title and position the Ebon now held. 

Given the information passed on by way of the Keeper of the Tower and the Oinoloth’s own informants in Carceri, the arcanaloth was loyal and keen to capitalize on the continued success of the Oinoloth. It stood to reason since Anthraxus would have him killed on the spot if he was aware of his role in his original fall. The Ebon had hitched his future existence on his loyalty to the Oinoloth and so he at least was not held suspect for the moment, though of course if his ambitions ever stretched too high, he would need to be suitably checked; such was the fate of any below the gaze of Khin-Oin’s dread king.


****​

	The morning rays of sunlight broke across Fyrehowl’s face and she stretched lazily before hopping up from her bed to look out of the window at the sparkling waters of Oceanus. She had been up late into the night simply pondering over what Jalinon had told her, and simply to sit next to the window and revel in the view.

	Night had never fully come to the layer, and it had been brief when the sun dipped below the horizon in a storm of brilliant colors reflected on the distant clouds. The twilight had been lit by a moon in brilliant intensity, and in the distance the sky above the mainland of Belarian had been aglow in the flickering, phosphorescent fires of an aurora that danced across the skies like an Eladrin prince and princess clad in rainbows.

	Fyrehowl gathered her things and stretched before collecting her other companions, most of whom had already risen and eaten breakfast. Toras and Skalliska were sitting and chatting with an ursinal who bore an expression of avid curiosity in marked contrast to the skepticism of the kobold.

	“They’re constructs! Just how in all the hells would they… mate? The logistics are just…” Skalliska shook her head, “It’s just not possible.”

	“I didn’t say it happened like that. I’m not really even sure if they have… well if they’re even capable of that.” Toras explained.

	“They aren’t.” The ursinal interjected.

	“See? It’s not possible, you have to be mistaken.” Skalliska said.

	“My deity was involved, that’s all I’ll say. Deific caveat to trump your logic, haha!” Toras said with a smirk.

	“In any event, you may actually wander across a quasar during your time on the mainland. If you do simply treat them as you would one of us. They may be overly curious, but unless you’re a being bent on doing evil you have nothing to fear whatsoever. The homelands of that race are fairly far from the areas that you indicated to Jalinon that you would be traveling towards, but still, it’s something to pay attention to.” The ursinal said with a scholarly nod. “And your own heritage Toras of Andros, it is… unique. I’ll certainly grant you that.”

	Tristol sat on a bench next two a mated pair of vulpinal wizards who sat curled on the floor with their spellbooks open before the aasimar mage who bore an obvious line of descent from one of their kind. They were happily chatting with the prime about some manner of abjuration spell, and Fyrehowl found it both comical and adorable to watch all three of the wizards’ tails twitch in synchronicity like celestial clock pendulums as they discussed arcane matters.

	Off to the side, Florian was sitting by himself and trying very hard not to chuckle at the antics going on between Tristol and the guardinal mages. Fyrehowl walked over and sat down next to the cleric. “It is rather amusing, I’ll grant you that.”

	“True, that it is. So, that’s all of us now. Shall we be headed off, or is there anything else you need to see to before we leave?” Florian asked.

	“No, I’m ready. More than ready actually. I want to see this through, even if there’s nothing there to be found, it’s something we need to settle for certain.” Fyrehowl replied.

	They all walked to the western edge of the island that Rubicon occupied and glanced back at the cathedral-fortress one last time before departing off towards the mainland. Rather than travel by boat or teleportation, since the first was impractical and the latter more or less impossible given the magical restrictions in place on the layer, they each quaffed a draught of a flying potion that the guardinals of Rubicon had given them to aid their travels.

	Soaring up into the air they quickly flew towards the distant shores of the mainland that graced the distant horizon like a dark green line to contrast with the sparkling blue of Oceanus. In truth their transit took barely a fraction of the time it might have normally taken them to fly or swim the same distance as it seemed. Perhaps the plane itself sensed their urgency and sped their transit in its own sublime way.

	Two hours later they hovered over that distant shore, more a swamp that flowed into the sea than a true beach. The plane seemed different there than at Rubicon. Gone was the stoic passion and selflessness that was carried in the very area the guardinal stronghold, and in its place was a sense of innocence lost, and the deep-rooted corruption of what was once pure and untainted. Fyrehowl seemed slightly uncomfortable in the change of feeling the surroundings gave them, and the others could tell.

	“Are you alright Fyrehowl?” Florian asked.

	The lupinal shrugged, “Just a bad feeling is all. The plane feels different here than it has anywhere else in Elysium. It’s like looking a pure white cloth and then looking at one that’s been bled upon and trampled in the mud.”

	“It’s that different here?” Tristol asked.

	“Yes… it’s that different here…” Fyrehowl said with a mild shiver as they flew out over the mud choked and drowned cypress forests that lined the coastline.

	The next hour or so was spent in silent observation of the land below as the skimmed the treetops. Things lurked down below the thick cover of the forests and marshlands as they withdrew from the touch of Oceanus, and several times they stopped to ascertain just what might be down below and gazing upwards at them. Most of the time it was simply animals, though more often than not the normal fauna was altered or twisted in one way or another, almost by a fiendish influence or touch of evil that had warped their physical forms.

	“Fyrehowl, this is really disturbing. This is a celestial plane, a layer of the plane of pure good for Mystra’s sake… why do half of the animals that we’ve seen look like they should belong on the lower planes?” Tristol asked as they passed the rotting corpse of some animal and watched a pack of scavengers scatter back out into the swamp, their eyes tinted red and their howls and barking filled with malice.

	“There’s things here on Belarian that have been purposefully put here over the eons in order to shelter the planes from them. Belarian is a bit of Elysium sacrificed for the rest of the planes, that’s the best way of putting it. The presence of some of the things that have been locked away here, they sully the land and they’ve slowly corrupted the native life of the forests.” Fyrehowl replied.

	“Wish we’d known this before for a fact. I’d heard rumor, sure, but it was just that. But…” Skalliska’s comment was cut off by the sudden rustle and beating of leathery wings from the forest below them.

	“Watch out!” Toras shouted as a vaguely draconic form burst from the trees below and shrieked past him, followed by two more of its kind.

	With snarls, flashing fangs, and whip-like stinger wielding tails, the bulk of three twisted and sickly looking wyverns rushed to attack the party, seeing them as nothing more than food. The combat was over fairly quickly though, despite the near ambush, and before it was over one of the beasts was nearly frozen solid by the lupinal, and another was dying on the forest floor below where it was burned and scorched by a series of spells from Tristol and Florian. The third wyvern escaped, but it trailed a dribble of blood in its wake from a number of slashes from Toras and a series of Skalliska’s crossbow bolts that peppered its chest, embedded to their fletches.

	Following their encounter they moved more cautiously and slower, taking keen interest in the lay of the ground below them. They managed to avoid any further combat, aside from a swarm of stirges, but those were dealt with in short order by a fireball from Tristol. Still, their close attention to the terrain did prove advantageous as they neared the regions that had been originally marked on their maps that they had taken from the Imshenviir mercane.

	“Whoa whoa whoa, stop. Take a look down there.” Toras said as he pointed his sword down towards a patch of forest that was open to the sky. From their position high above they could barely make out a set of furrows in the earth that looked unmistakably like the muddy tracks of a series of heavy wagons or other such trade vehicles.

	They turned as a group and descended down into the forest and alighted on the muddy earth near the tracks that ran nearly due west and to the southeast. The tracks looked old, a few weeks at least judging by the condition of the ground and the intervening rainfall and passage of animals.

	“I think this is where our dearly departed mercane friends passed by recently.” Florian said as he looked at the line of tracks.

	“Sad to say that they’ll be missing their next scheduled deliveries. Hope they didn’t get paid by cash.” Toras quipped with a smirk and a grin.

	They followed the tracks to the west slowly and pondered at the size and depth of the muddy furrows, commenting on how it had to have been several wagons at a time, and they had all been loaded down very heavily to create the depth of tracks that they now found and followed.

	“To alleviate hunger… I wonder what they’re feeding…” Tristol openly mused.

	Fyrehowl opened her mouth and was ready to answer his question, or at least speculate on what she worried they might find being fed in the interior of the layer. The lupinal never spoke however as they all first heard, and then saw, something that made them dash for cover in the trees.

	A fluid and rhythmic flapping of heavy wings cut the air as a dark, flat shape, cut across the sky overhead in the clear sky over the mercane trade route. Several miles off to the west still and moving perpendicular to their westward trek, it was obvious that neither the creature, nor the rider perched upon its back, belonged there on the plane.

	“What the hell…” Florian whispered as Skalliska blinked and Fyrehowl grimaced nearly in pain.

	Flying above, and moving across their field of view, was the manta shaped profile of a Slasrath, a creature native to Gehenna, most often used as mounts for Yugoloth scouts and aerial cavalry or living siege platforms. The slasrath might have been an aberration, some fluke of the corruption of the planar layer, but the being seated within the saddle on its spine, the winged form of a Nycaloth, was not. The greater Yugoloth slowly swung its mount towards the southwest with a single gesture and seemed to be deliberately scouting the area.

	“Yeah… we have problems…” Fyrehowl whispered as they watched the ‘loth and its flying mount vanish towards the southwest.


****​

	Anthraxus the Decayed lifted his arm and gestured to one of his attendant Ultroloths, nearly thirty of whom clustered around their past and current master. They and their master alike were anxious and the air itself seemed to hum with the building tension as their plans, plots and rebellion drew towards its ultimate culmination.

	“Speak and be done, for bloodshed calls to us on wings of retribution but quickly now. What has the General said of our conflict?” The former Oinoloth said with a hint of anticipation and certainty as it sat upon a throne cobbled together from the skulls and ribcages of a dozen Shator Gehreleths.

	The purple robed Ultroloth approached and bowed low before its lord and hesitated before speaking, seemingly at a loss for words. Its hesitation was removed as the massive Altraloth it knelt before placed the burning tip of the Staff of the Lower Planes at the juncture of its head and neck.

	“Speak… bother not with dressing your words. I would know what position the General of Gehenna takes on the soon to break conflict between my usurper and myself. Speak now before my patience stretches to amusement at your pain…”

	The Ultroloth’s eye’s dimmed and flickered a pale shade of green with sparks of subdued lavender. It voice was thin and uncertain as it answered the Decayed, “We could not find the Crawling Citadel…”

	A steady static hum rose from the chatter of the other Ultroloths before Anthraxus’s withering gaze silenced them. “What do you mean, you couldn’t find the General’s city upon the fourfold furnace?”

	“Lord of Agony… the city is no longer there. We found where the city had been. We followed its path across the slopes of Khalas but we did not find the city itself. It was gone. Vanished without a trace.” The Ultroloth answered.

	“What?!” The former Oinoloth bellowed with rage and leapt to his feet to begin pacing around the still kneeling Ultroloth, his terrible shadow casting a pale over the smaller fiend.

	“What do you mean that it’s gone? You cannot simply lose a citadel that measures five miles across and nearly two miles high at the tallest spires. Do you expect me to believe that the city is either destroyed or invisible? Ah, perhaps it simply jumped off into the void between the mounts. Did you look there you fool?” Anthraxus said with incredulity as he towered over the bearer of puzzling news.

	Perhaps out of daring, or perhaps because it had nothing to lose, the Ultroloth looked up at the Decayed. “The depressions from the city’s footfalls simply ended halfway up a massive cliff on Khalas and the city was nowhere to be found in the vicinity. There were no signs of battle, nor lingering traces of divine magic. Not that one of the powers would be capable of such a feat. The city is simply gone my lord, and I do not know where it was gone. The General has removed himself from us while we squabble like children…”

	Bloodshot eyes narrowed and Anthraxus flicked his lips clear of spit turned to foam as his staff glowed and slammed into the Ultroloth’s head. There was no sound of a blow, nor a splatter of blood or brains, but only the squealing agony of a larvae pinned beneath the tip of the staff where the Ultroloth had stood but a moment before.

	Turning to his other, competent generals and marshals, the once and future Oinoloth snarled and slammed his staff into the bulk of his throne. Standing amid the burning and shattered fragments of the ‘leth skulls that he had sat upon at the apex of the Hill of Bone he spoke the words his supplicants had been eagerly awaiting.

	“Marshall my armies and call upon our allies, for we march to Oinos and there we lay siege to Khin-Oin. I shall drink from the hollowed out skull of Mydianchlarus as I sit again upon my throne. What was once shall be so again.”

	Screaming out orders to their own attendants and subordinates, the Ultroloth generals of Anthraxus the Decayed vanished in the flashes of teleports and the dimension ripping flames of planar gates. The former Oinoloth himself vanished into the largest concentration of his forces encamped at the base of the hill itself, miles upon miles deep of Yugoloths that numbered in the millions at but a glance. And as he vanished the air echoed with the agonized whine of a single wriggling, wounded larva that twitched upon the ground, dimly lamenting its millennia of struggle and triumph now vanished and gone at the whim of the Decayed. It however might have been spared in some fashion the worst of what would soon come.


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## bluegodjanus

Oh, I have a question for the furball's players. Is the storyhour the first you guys get to see of these fiendish cut-scenes?


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## Shemeska

*The 'furball' speaks*



			
				bluegodjanus said:
			
		

> Oh, I have a question for the furball's players. Is the storyhour the first you guys get to see of these fiendish cut-scenes?




I'll give them first shot at answering, plus it's 3:12am and I really shouldn't be awake.


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## cmnash

Shemeska thanks for a great Storyhour - it's a fascinating, compelling read and you have inspired me to start my own SH now.

The 'wheels within wheels' line is a great tag and I'll be using it in my own game soon - if that's OK?


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## FyreHowl

As far as i can remember (oh dont even ask Shemmy about the absentmindedness of THIS player), a good number we didnt know what was going on at the time, but we found out the overall picture shortly (usually in the process of *facepalm* did we just get used as pawns AGAIN!? or...*facepalm* we are in it SO much deeper than we thought). We definately in game at that point or near the point it was written didn't get that kind of story-level detail. (that i remember, if i'm wrong, clueless, correct me).


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## Toras

The Fiendish Plot lines were by majority entirely running in Shemmy's head.
Told you (s?)he was laugh at us from inside there.


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## Shemeska

cmnash said:
			
		

> Shemeska thanks for a great Storyhour - it's a fascinating, compelling read and you have inspired me to start my own SH now.
> 
> The 'wheels within wheels' line is a great tag and I'll be using it in my own game soon - if that's OK?




Go right ahead! 

And drop me a line (and a link) when you start to post your own


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## Clueless

Myself - I was picking up on a few of these things - but the majority of them after the fact, and generally as playing catchup to whatever evil plot was going on at the time. Speaking of evil... wait for it. This little play of people gets better,m we haven't even *begun*.


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## Clueless

> "What do you mean that it’s gone? You cannot simply lose a citadel that measures five miles across and nearly two miles high at the tallest spires. Do you expect me to believe that the city is either destroyed or invisible? Ah, perhaps it simply jumped off into the void between the mounts. Did you look there you fool?” Anthraxus said with incredulity as he towered over the bearer of puzzling news"



.... Ironicly, that may be where it got put now that I think about it.


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## Ohtar Turinson

Where did the name "Taba" Come from? Most of the Altroloth have disease related names, but I can't think of any disease sounding like that...

And when I have time I'm going to spec more. This is more fun to spec on than webcomics are, and certainly better than homework...


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## Eluvan

Taba's canon... I can't remember where she's mentioned, but she is namechecked at least in an official source. Perhaps in Hellbound, or some other such 2E product? I can't remember. Anyway, if memory serves correctly, which it probably doesn't, she's pretty much the 'Loth's Loth. Sells her services as an assassin and spy to the highest bidder, I think, and tends to keep her political affiliations flexible.


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## Ohtar Turinson

Eluvan said:
			
		

> Taba's canon... I can't remember where she's mentioned, but she is namechecked at least in an official source. Perhaps in Hellbound, or some other such 2E product?




I have the Hellbound .pdf, so I know it's not in there, but that's not what I meant. I meant I was wondering about the origin of the name; is it based off of a disease? Or was it just a cool sounding name?

Maybe no one knows. ::shrugs::


----------



## Ohtar Turinson

*Idle Specing*

And now, for idle spec-ing...

I wonder what Helekanilaith is up to. The cheshire fiend seems to be under his sway, and the cheshire fiend is certainly not friendly to the Mercane. On the otherhand, I'm fairly sure that Shemeska rants in a letter to Garroth about D'jekk Nlarr not killing the PCs properly. Does that mean that the two hands don't know what the other is doing? Or does the Cheshire Fiend merely take advantage of a situation that already exists? Hh... Maybe this is a case of the Ebon making demands, and his agents being given free rein as to how. Shemeska sees the PCs as loose ends perhaps, and Helekanilaith and the Cheshire Fiend as lackeys?


----------



## Gez

Ohtar Turinson said:
			
		

> Where did the name "Taba" Come from? Most of the Altroloth have disease related names, but I can't think of any disease sounding like that...




About Taba, I'll refer you to this thread.

Taba, Cerlic, and Xenghara are not named after diseases, because they are not Altraloth of Plague. (The General of Gehenna may also be an altraloth, this was deliberately left vague.)


----------



## Clueless

*muttering quietly PockaPockaPockaPocka* ....
Ok - I'm hyper and wanted to chatter obviously. I'll toss out a blatant conversational hook: Does Tarnsilver survive this situation?


----------



## Gerzel

Clueless said:
			
		

> *muttering quietly PockaPockaPockaPocka* ....
> Ok - I'm hyper and wanted to chatter obviously. I'll toss out a blatant conversational hook: Does Tarnsilver survive this situation?





Oh definatly.  He is rescourseful and has the makings of a great recurring villian.  He's too messed up to just be let go by the gm.


----------



## Chrys

Gerzel said:
			
		

> Oh definatly.  He is rescourseful and has the makings of a great recurring villian.  He's too messed up to just be let go by the gm.




Also on that note I think that is he does not die he will 'fall' the rest of the way.


----------



## Shemeska

Chrys said:
			
		

> Also on that note I think that is he does not die he will 'fall' the rest of the way.




*licks lips* Mmm... tragic figures. And not the last one, or the least one, that Elysium will spawn over the course of this all.

And because of Thanksgiving, and me having to go back to visit my folks, if I have an update this week it'll be more brief than usual and it'll be posted tonight at some point.


----------



## Gerzel

*Thanksgiving*

Allright berks, I'm just posting  because I'm board.

Name the thing for which you are most thankful, that you didn't say and who'd you didn't say it to.

My contrabution: 
"Akin looks better in that dress than you do!" - to shemmeska
"Can I borrow the lady to peel some potatos?" - to a dabus
"So...you don't have any gods but you still have a donation plate?" - to any member of the athar.
"Now lets put our thinking caps on and be reasonable." - to any cypher
"You know she really is just an over streatched ratatask." - about shemeska -- don't worry she'd know.
"Have you heard the good news about your savior jesus crist?" - to athar
"Didn't I see you "worshiping" in a temple of Bast yesterday?" - to athar factor


----------



## Shemeska

Gerzel said:
			
		

> My contrabution:
> "Akin looks better in that dress than you do!" - to shemmeska




"No. No he doesn't. And no, don't ask me how I know this." - Shemmy


----------



## Clueless

Hm. My quote is in my sig line... *shrug*


----------



## Shemeska

Under the cover of the waterlogged forest, the companions slowly and carefully began their trek in the direction that the slasrath had been flying, hoping to find where exactly it had come from. As they continued through the swampy woodland the ground rose slightly and grew progressively less and less a swamp, and more a forest proper, as the ground grew slightly more rocky and well drained.

	“At least we’re out of the swamp, I was getting tired of that muck getting into my boots.” Florian said as he kicked a bit of slime off of his feet.

	“Hey, you don’t have to worry about a wet tail-tip…” Tristol said as he glanced over at Fyrehowl, hoping for some support.

	“Honestly I never noticed…” She said as Tristol noticed that the lupinal was still hovering slightly off the ground, her own innate ability having lasted longer than the potions the rest of them had used.

	“Anyways… through that break in the trees ahead I think there’s another trail. Can’t quite tell yet though.” Skalliska said, squinting her eyes. “And none of you were hip deep in that junk, so you have no room to complain…”

	As they continued, Fyrehowl’s ears perked every so often and she would indicate for them all to pause while she listened. Something was getting to her. Some sense that they were not at all alone in the forest, and several times she swore that she had heard the sounds of a snapping twig or scuffed footfall in the distance that wasn’t a natural sound of the forest’s inhabitants.

	But, hearing nothing to confirm her suspicions, they proceeded onwards towards the path that Skalliska had seen ahead of them where the trees thinned out slightly. Neither Fyrehowl, nor any of the others saw the ripples in a large pool of standing water they passed, nor did they feel the subtle rumble through the ground from the footsteps of something large and close, or something distant and titanic.

	“Stop…” Fyrehowl whispered harshly as she held up her hand.

	The others looked first at her and then in the direction of where her hand was pointed. There, some fifty feet distant and marching along the path they were heading towards was a small patrol of fiends.

	Toras nodded to Fyrehowl and motioned for Florian to follow him to one side while he motioned for Skalliska and Tristol to fall in behind the lupinal. As quietly as possible the two groups moved into a flanking position as they approached the column of fiends.

	Six Mezzoloths all told marched behind a bloated gray-green Dergholoth in an orderly column while a much larger lobster-like Piscaloth marched behind them. Each of the Mezzoloths carried a gleaming black trident, half of them burning with flickering violet flame, and the Dergholoth sergeant and their Piscaloth commander carried no arms or armor. All of them wore either a sash or a glowing brand in the shape of the Wasting Tower of Khin-Oin with a pair of eyes superimposed above it; the symbol of the Oinoloth.

	None of the fiends were prepared for the ambush as the five rushed at them from the forest, swinging blades or hurling spells while the fiends were caught flatfooted. One of the Mezzoloths fell in the first few seconds but the others fell back quickly and reorganized into a tight defensive formation, their training in the Blood War serving them perversely well even on a plane of good such as Elysium.

	Crying out a praise to his god, Toras swung his sword at one of the chitinous insectile ‘loths as Florian screamed likewise to the glory of the Foehammer and charged at the Piscaloth. At the same time Fyrehowl slashed deeply into the torso of the Dergholoth while Tristol hurled a bolt of lightning at the clustered ground of Mezzoloths and Skalliska sent a cluster of magical bolts to score against another of them.

	Toras grinned as four of the Mezzoloths jolted and danced spasmodically from Tristol’s lightning bolt as he stood in the midst of it as well, utterly unaffected himself. Two of the others were either resistant to the electricity, or their innate resistance to magic had spared them of its effects. However that spared none of them from Toras’s blade as he parried several trident jabs and slashed in return.

	Wounded as it was, the Dhergholoth still kept its wits about it and made little attempt to defend against Florian before taking an action of its own. Skalliska stumbled and Florian averted his eyes as the fiend yet loose a piercing scream and a burning scatter of lights erupted from its eyes. Having hoped to blind and confuse its attackers, the fiend was disappointed as only two of them seemed heavily affected.

	The next moments saw two more Mezzoloths fall before Fyrehowl was forced back by a concerted assault by two others at once, and Toras was attacked by the Piscaloth. His largely justified bravado was wiped cleanly from his face as the attacking ‘loth snapped down on his left arm with both of its massive pinchers and nearly ripped it in half at the elbow.

	As Toras fell to the ground screaming and gushing blood from his wound the Dergholoth toppled and fell as Tristol hurled a volley of flaming bolts to strike full into its chest. Skalliska and Florian were both recovering from the now dead ‘loth’s stunning attack while Fyrehowl weaved and danced around the surviving Mezzoloths, taking a few jabs from their flaming tridents but slowly wearing them down in a volley of cuts and slashes.

	“Oh son of a bitch…” Toras cursed as he held his arm and gritted his teeth while his companions cut down both the piscaloth and the remainder of the Mezzoloths.

	Standing over the bodies of the fiends, watching them slowly bubble away into pools of boiling and foul smelling acids, the air shimmered and a glimmering portal flickered into being. Weapons held aloft, the group looked up, half expecting more fiends to emerge, when Nisha and Clueless came tumbling out and nearly fell into the dissolving fiend corpses.

	“…” Clueless was speechless as he and Nisha stood over the pile of fiends and looked at their companions who were largely covered in blood, both the fiends, and in Toras’s case mostly, their own.

	“Just what the hell is going on?! Elysium! Fiends. Dead fiends. In Elysium. You standing over them!”

	“Subtlety is lost on you guys I think.” Nisha said as she peered at Toras’s arm. “Does that hurt Toras?”


****​

	Two hours earlier Nisha and Clueless had both stood in Tradegate with Clueless’s former companion and stood in watchful silence as he slumbered peacefully.

	A soft cough broke the silence.

	“Huh?” Clueless exclaimed as he turned to look.

	“Why am I not surprised to see you?” Nisha said as she looked up at the glowing blue grin that hovered in the doorway to the room.

	“Just like a clipped copper. Or something like that…” The Cheshire Fiend said as it floated into the chamber.

	“So what’s this about?” Clueless asked.

	“Your companions in Elysium, well, they’ve gotten involved in a bit more than they had originally bargained on. They could very much use and appreciate both of you about now.” The fiend said as it hovered closer.

	Clueless glanced over towards the other side of the room where his elven companion lay asleep, resting from his ordeal. As the fiend drew near, the bladesinger motioned towards the door and away from the elf.

	“Away from him, he’s been through a lot and he doesn’t need to hear any more trouble.” Clueless said.

	“We’ll have to get someone to take care of him.” Nisha thumbed over towards the slumbering elf and pointed her tail over at the same time.

	“I can have the innkeeper have someone watch over him and bring food and anything else he needs. I’ll leave a note for him when he wakes up.” Clueless added.

	The fiend coughed. “Our little chit-chat aside now, I can have you sent more or less directly to your fellows in Elysium.”

	“Oh? A Planeshift, a gate?” Nisha asked.

	“A portal actually, and one back in Sigil. You’ll have to go back through the portal here and then to the second portal there.”

	Clueless raised an eyebrow, “Where in Sigil is this portal?”

	The Cheshire Fiend glowed brilliant blue and seemed to grin in a more sly manner for a moment before it replied, “Oh, you’ve been there before…”


****​

“Lord of Blasphemy!” The arcanaloth cursed as he stared at his lupinal colleage. “You said the idiots at Rubicon wouldn’t send anyone out here. You said they would just watch and listen!”

	“Do you have something relevant to say fiend?” Tarnsilver said without turning to face the ‘loth. “Just what is this about?”

	Parphinias was livid as he put a hand on the lupinal’s shoulder to turn him around. The celestial brushed the hand away like he’d just been touched by a hot brand.

	“One of my patrols hasn’t answered back and the sergeant reported they were being attacked just before we lost contact with them.” The ‘loth said angrily.

	“It’s not Rubicon.” The lupinal answered calmly.

	“In case you hadn’t noticed, this f*cking layer of this f*cking plane doesn’t exactly have an overwhelming abundance of visitors. Who the hell else would it be?!”

	“Then send out your other troops to find out, you have enough of them.”

	“And I am, but I won’t leave this tower undefended in the event there’s more out there than one group that took down a patrol of eight. And this stupid plane won’t let me scry on anything out there to find out what the hell is going on. Do something useful for once celestial, besides being consumed by self pity, go out there and find out what the hell took down one of my patrols.”

	Tarnsilver and Parphinias exchanged withering glances that could have set wood aflame, but, in the end, the lupinal nodded and walked away from the ‘loth. The ‘loth looked at the lupinal with forced courtesy as he walked away and vanished down the stairs to the tower’s lower levels.

	“You had better pray to whatever ideals you still have left that whatever you find out there isn’t from Rubicon. If they’ve found us here you’ll end up in worse condition than the others of your kind down in the bottom of this keep, but…” The arcanaloth mused with a sudden show of fangs, “…but you would know nothing of that…”


****​

	Nisha and Clueless walked down a familiar looking alleyway in the Lower Ward each of them looking at the other nervously.

	“This place again.” Nisha said as she looked at the ruined temple looming at the end of the street.

	“Coincidence? The ‘loth sends us to the same place and the same bound space, but just with a different portal key to get to the Waste or to Elysium. I doubt it.” He replied.

	“Makes you wonder what this place was originally, and what the ‘loths have to do with it.” Nisha mused as they neared the doorway.

	Clueless reached into a small pouch and fished out the portal key that he and Nisha had purchased at the direction of the ‘loth, a bloodstone wrapped in a few links of a thin iron chain. He glanced through the doorway and into the abandoned and dustfilled interior of the temple and then back at Nisha.

	“Ready?” The bladesinger asked.

	Nisha nodded as she nudged a desiccated rat corpse at the edge of the doorway, it faced outwards and away from the temple as if it had died running from something, just like all of the remains of the small animals and insects that littered the ground around the building.

	“About as ready as I can be I guess.” She said as the doorway erupted into a swirling mass of silvery light as Clueless broke the frame’s border with the portalkey.

	Looking at each other one last time, they leapt into the open portal and burrowed their way across the planes, through space and age-old barriers, to emerge into Belarian, Elysium’s sealed 3rd layer. Hurtling through space, they emerged into the plane and nearly fell over a pile of yugoloth corpses 


****​

	“Soon, soon now. Listen to it little ones, listen to it. Listen to it starting all over again. It continues now in bits and inches, creeping towards the inevitable; towards what you have borne witness to. I see it, and so do my brothers and sisters. The thirteen. We thirteen. The Demented. Our plans now fall into place as we said they would. And the others fled, vanished or returned to the source leaving us as stewards to control and plot the development of our children and the course of all of these infinite worlds. And so we shall, and so we do. But… you already know this now don’t you…”

	Sarkithel fek Perthis lifted his head up towards the sprawling ruins of the great city that sprawled out and surrounded him for miles. One of thirteen, the Baern looked out at the devastation and cried out to the darkness that loomed like an unbound vault overhead. The cry was one of jubilation and triumph, the cry of one who stood witness to the start of something great and terrible and who knew what would happen at the end of that process.

	All around the Gloom Father stood the scattered dust and frozen ashes of the city, the remains of its great works and the remains of its dutiful worshippers and inhabitants; the ashes of the faithful who had borne witness to it all. All around the bare feet of the Chronicler, one of the very first of the fiends, the ashes danced and moved, drawn by some unseen pull back to their original places as the city slowly rebuilt itself bit by bit. And all around the fiend the ashes whispered their torment at what had been and what was to come.

	The Baernaloth opened a book and placed it upon the broken stones of what had once been a massive flying buttress to the great cathedral at the center of the city. He drew forth a pen and jabbed it into his own flesh to coat it with a drop of his blood, and there he sat and wrote in the ragged volume a litany of what he observed, of what he felt, and all that he saw come to pass.

	“Would you wish to stop it if you could?” The Baern spoke into the air to the voices that surrounded him, all of them whispering forth from the frozen lips of the statues that populated the ruins around him.

	“Would you wish to end your torment and stop it all from happening once again?” The Chronicler asked to the frozen and incinerated remains of a Solar and the Nycaloth that stood next to it. “You have seen what is to come, but you do not know the meaning of it all. You don’t quite grasp the meaning of the pain, the hollow darkness of that past and this future. No, you fumble at the meaning lurking there in that last moment before death that your spirits cling to, bound as you are to this place.”

	“It comes softly now, uncertain of the world it enters and that it left behind. And, like you my children, it too is bound to destiny and fate just as you are bound to this place. And you will see it happen again as will I. But for now, whisper your warning of it all and I shall listen to you as I have since you came to this place.” Sarkithel said as a whisper that rose just above the chorus of those that stirred the ashes and the air around him.

	“The first rumblings of that which you have witnessed, that which holds you now, and that which you whisper of impotently in warning…” The Baernaloth whispered as it looked up into the black and starless void of Gehenna. “These are but the beginnings of birth pangs…”


****​

	Florian stood next to Toras and whispered a prayer to Tempus while the fighter’s arm slowly stopped dripping a spray of crimson blood and began the process of re-stitching itself. Skalliska was averting her snout from the foul-smelling fumes the ‘loth bodies were emitting as they dissolved, and Fyrehowl was glancing nervously down the path.

	“Have I taught you all nothing?!” Clueless whispered harshly at his companions as he looked between them and the dead yugoloth patrol. “Sneaking! It’s not that hard! 

Clueless sighed, looked at the bodies once more and whispered again with exasperation, “I leave you alone for *five* *minutes*...!”

	Toras rolled his eyes at the bladesinger and deliberately ignored Nisha’s constant questioning about his arm. Tristol had to chuckle however at the tiefling’s banter.

	“No, really, what’d it feel like to have it hanging off like that? Did it kinda swing at all? Did you think it might fall off at any point? Do you like pickled eggs?” Nisha asked as she tentatively poked his bloody but healing arm.

	“…pickled eggs? What does that have to do with anything?” Toras asked, now more confused than in pain as Florian finished his spell.

	“Absolutely nothing. Why? Since when do I make sense?” Nisha said with a grin.

	Fyrehowl was still looking tense and worried as Clueless was making motions off towards the woods.

	“Here, let me show you how it’s done. We leave the fiend bodies and sneak off into the woods before they send out more to track us down and find us right where they probably expect us to be. Quickly.” The bladesinger said.

	The ground suddenly shuddered and they all paused and looked, first at the ground and then around them for the source of the tremor. Fyrehowl had redrawn her blade but had otherwise said nothing.

	“Umm… what the hell was that?” Skalliska asked.

	“The swamp rats need to go on diets?” Nisha mused with a worried look.

	“Fyrehowl, do they have dragons or anything big enough to do that here on this layer?” Clueless asked as another tremor hit.

	Fyrehowl looked past her group and took a deep breath. “No, but there’s something I should have already told you about this layer before now. I know what it is that we, the guardinals, have kept locked away on Belarian, it…”

	“I was wondering when Rubicon would send someone here looking for me. You aren’t what I expected, but regardless, what is being done here is something that must be done. It’s not something for you to stop, not now, not yet.”

	Heads snapped around to glance into the trees to the south of the road where a tall, silver furred lupinal stood calm and composed with his hands clasped in front of him. He nodded to Fyrehowl as he softly stepped onto the road with an unearthly level of grace that made him seem to flow rather than step the space between the wood and the road.

	Fyrehowl alone saw that his eyes were glazed over, much like the eyes of Factol Rhys were always. There would be only one end here on the road and the rogue lupinal had already decided what it was to be.

	“We…” Fyrehowl said as an earthshaking roar from the west drowned her voice out.

	All of them there except Tarnsilver looked to the west where the hills rose above the forest, and all of them stood transfixed in awe as they watched the first titanic reptilian head rise above the forest and above the hills as well. A second ear-bruising roar rocked the treetops with its force from miles distant as another head rose above the landscape, soon to be joined by a half-dozen more. Dragons could have perched upon the ridges over the beast’s eyes and giants could have used its scales as tower shields; the beast was more massive than anything any of them had ever seen.

	Several of them stumbled with numb shock as they took in the sheer size of the Mother of Serpents. The beast dwarfed any preconception they might possibly have prepared for themselves; even Fyrehowl who had been told of the beast stood in astonishment. Florian whispered a prayer and Clueless’s wings glowed with an orange and yellow sheen of faerie fire. Skalliska’s eyes widened in shock and Toras rose to his feet with uncertainty as Tristol tried in vain to grasp at the existence of such a creature.

	Behind them all, as calm and certain as ever, stood the fallen lupinal in a loose and ready combat stance. He spoke but briefly before acting, “Rubicon’s vigil and our shame. That is why I cannot allow you to leave here.”


----------



## Gerzel

Shemeska said:
			
		

> "No. No he doesn't. And no, don't ask me how I know this." - Shemmy





I KNOW how you know that.  I saw that picture!


----------



## Shemeska

Gerzel said:
			
		

> I KNOW how you know that.  I saw that picture!




[innocent]I have no idea what in the world you're talking about. None at all. Really. Trust me, I'm a yugoloth. Trust is my middle name.[/innocent]


----------



## Clueless

As any long term dress wearer will tell you - it all depends on the attitude. If you feel comfortable and confident in yourself, you don't have to work hard to look good in a dress, it just naturally looks stunning. I suppose that explains Shemmie's rather extreme efforts to pretty herself up... 
	

	
	
		
		

		
			





 *offers a dog collar* Maybe you'll be more comfie with this?

*ducks for cover*


----------



## shilsen

Shemeska said:
			
		

> Behind them all, as calm and certain as ever, stood the fallen lupinal in a loose and ready combat stance. He spoke but briefly before acting...




Now *that's* what I call cliffhanger! Bastard


----------



## Shemeska

*King of the Crosstrade and Storyhour Bitch - a full time job*



			
				shilsen said:
			
		

> Now *that's* what I call cliffhanger! Bastard




That's where I left them off that game session that happened in as well, right after the Mother of Serpents reared its ugly heads.


----------



## Clueless

"Bastard" is a good description of his choice of cliffhanger points.


----------



## Gerzel

Shemeska said:
			
		

> That's where I left them off that game session that happened in as well, right after the Mother of Serpents reared its ugly heads.




Careful shemmy.  If your too evil we might just have to publish the scanns of that picture on this site.  The one with you and Akin and who looks better in that dress.


----------



## Clueless

Someone's grandma would blow a gasket. So no. (Think of the Grandma!)


----------



## Gez

Shemeska said:
			
		

> [innocent]I have no idea what in the world you're talking about. None at all. Really. Trust me, I'm a yugoloth. Trust is my middle name.[/innocent]




So true. But you didn't said that your firstname was "Don't" and your family name, "Me."


----------



## Dakkareth

> “The first rumblings of that which you have witnessed, that which holds you now, and that which you whisper of impotently in warning…” The Baernaloth whispered as it looked up into the black and starless void of Gehenna. “These are but the beginnings of birth pangs…”




So this means you're going to raise the exponent higher? How much higher? 

Dakkareth, _who's a little frightened right now ..._


----------



## Shemeska

Dakkareth said:
			
		

> So this means you're going to raise the exponent higher? How much higher?
> 
> Dakkareth, _who's a little frightened right now ..._




High enough to make it worth the blasphemy of having had a Baernaloth paraphrasing Christ there?


----------



## Dakkareth

Shemeska said:
			
		

> High enough to make it worth the blasphemy of having had a Baernaloth paraphrasing Christ there?




Umm. Usually I am the one to make obscure references nobody gets, but that went right over my head . Of course I know know the bible only in my native language, but still ... care to explain? 

Edit: Mmhh, I took it as referring to the part I quoted - looking at the whole interlude I can see certain parallels. That doesn't spare you the explanation, though.


----------



## Clueless

*small smirk*


----------



## bluegodjanus

Clueless said:
			
		

> Someone's grandma would blow a gasket. So no. (Think of the Grandma!)




It could go on PW, right? Do we have a grandmother rule over there?


----------



## Shemeska

Dakkareth said:
			
		

> Edit: Mmhh, I took it as referring to the part I quoted - looking at the whole interlude I can see certain parallels. That doesn't spare you the explanation, though.




Matthew 24:8. Compare that to what Sarkithel fek Parthis said, nearly the same. In the gospel version, Christ was alluding to the events that would preceed and forshadow the eventual apocalypse/2nd coming of Christ, while here the Chronicler is alluding to something that he has seen and is waiting for, and that the dead of the Vale of Frozen Ashes have witnessed before and will witness again.


----------



## Clueless

bluegodjanus said:
			
		

> It could go on PW, right? Do we have a grandmother rule over there?




Er... having seen this one? PW would probably say no as well.


----------



## Ohtar Turinson

*Two questions*

I was reading through the whole thing again, and two questions crossed my mind- 

1) You didn't use the half-fay template from the Fiend Folio you said. So what are the stats of this template like?

2) What's the time frame of one of the stories over on the WotC boards ("Hole in the Sky") relative to the story hour?


----------



## Shemeska

Ohtar Turinson said:
			
		

> I was reading through the whole thing again, and two questions crossed my mind-
> 
> 1) You didn't use the half-fay template from the Fiend Folio you said. So what are the stats of this template like?
> 
> 2) What's the time frame of one of the stories over on the WotC boards ("Hole in the Sky") relative to the story hour?




1) no, we made the half-fey template here before the Fiend Folio was released, so it's different in a number of ways. I don't recall the numbers here off the top of my head, nor do I have a copy of Clueless's character sheet with me. However I'm sure Clueless's player can tell you.

2) The 'Hole in the Sky' story is only semi-canonical to this storyhour, but would have taken place several hundred years previous at the minimum, possibly around 1k-2k previous at the maximum. In that story Vorkannis the Ebon was an advisor to Mydianchlarus and had not made a name for himself in Carceri (yet?). However that bit aside the story was largely a good deal of speculation on my part. However since I did say 'semi-canon' I do touch upon the story later when the PCs go to Pandemonium for one of the most memorable storyarcs of the campaign.

3) That picture is never getting posted online, though I might be tempted to do so for April Fools day or so in a version of Shemmy's "If I ruled the multiverse...". It's clean, just a bit racy perhaps.


----------



## cmnash

*Rogues' Gallery?*

Hi Shemmie,  Is there a rogues' gallery thread anywhere for this excellent SH?

I wanted to use Imsheniviir (sp?) in my game and wanted to 'borrow' him ... if that's ok, could you send me his stats?

Thanks in advance


----------



## Shemeska

cmnash said:
			
		

> Hi Shemmie,  Is there a rogues' gallery thread anywhere for this excellent SH?
> 
> I wanted to use Imsheniviir (sp?) in my game and wanted to 'borrow' him ... if that's ok, could you send me his stats?
> 
> Thanks in advance




Sure, feel free to use any of the characters you like if you find them useful. I don't have a rogue's gallery set up for them, but I've got stats for most everyone around here somewhere. As I recall, Imshenviir was a mercane wizard 10. I've got his stats handy, so gimme an email address and I'll send them to you.

As far as a Rogue's gallery, what exactly are those? Just stats for them, or flavor text as well? I'm in the process of writing such, including a story, for a number of NPCs in this game.


----------



## Gez

The Rogue Gallery threads are for presentation of characters. Be they stats, background, or both is of no importance -- if it's not actual play, it would go there.

Your Baernoloth threads, over at WotC, for example, could be compiled into one RG thread at ENWorld... (Of course, people would ask for stats. )

See, for example, Eadric et al., the gigantohuge thread about the PCs, NPCs, and monsters of Sepulchrave's campaign.
For another example, the stats of PCs from various PbP are kept in Rogue Gallery as well.


----------



## Clueless

Oooorrrrrr - You could use PW's NPC forms and get them slipped into Cutters perhaps. *grins* I may be able to convince enzo to set up a Rogues Gallery section just for game characters. Not just this game - but others as well.


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## Shemeska

Gez said:
			
		

> Your Baernoloth threads, over at WotC, for example, could be compiled into one RG thread at ENWorld... (Of course, people would ask for stats. )




Heh, well I gave full stats to one of them, and he/she/it clocked it at around 2000hp. And that was it when it was literally on the other side of the multiverse (on Quasielemental Ash) from its home plane (the Waste). I'll give abilities to them, but I don't see myself giving the other 12 of them full stats. I hope to write up that one w/ stats for one of the next one or two I put out.


----------



## Gez

2000 hps? That's a lot. What's the compared power level of archfiends like Orcus and Asmodeus in your campaign? The same as in the BoVD, or something closer to the Baerns?


----------



## Shemeska

Gez said:
			
		

> 2000 hps? That's a lot. What's the compared power level of archfiends like Orcus and Asmodeus in your campaign? The same as in the BoVD, or something closer to the Baerns?




The stats in the BoVD are, IMHO, a joke if you ever have PCs above level 20 in a campaign. I treat them as comparible to deities in some ways, weaker in others, and more powerful in a few. I would handle some of the Abyssal lords as actual gods, and Asmo similarly (though his definition is rather different in some ways IMC than in the BoVD, or Guide to Hell, or other places perhaps).

I eventually delve pretty deeply into the early years of the lower planes and the rise, fall, and rise of the civilizations and races there. I've got a pretty detailed mythology and chronology for many of these guys written up in the scheme of my campaign from the first day the planes formed.


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## Daldolin15

Hey Shemmie, I'm not too familar with these boards so it may be a problem on my side but I seem to be having trouble PMing you.  I too would love to see the stats of some of the NPCs you have but I don't want to share my email address in a public post.  Maybe you could try PMing me, or should I just do so on the wizard.com boards as I know how those work a little better...

Daldolin15


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## cmnash

Shemeska said:
			
		

> Sure, feel free to use any of the characters you like if you find them useful. I don't have a rogue's gallery set up for them, but I've got stats for most everyone around here somewhere. As I recall, Imshenviir was a mercane wizard 10. I've got his stats handy, so gimme an email address and I'll send them to you.




I've sent you an email. Thanks for letting me play with your creation.



			
				Shemeska said:
			
		

> As far as a Rogue's gallery, what exactly are those? Just stats for them, or flavor text as well? I'm in the process of writing such, including a story, for a number of NPCs in this game.




I think the other readers have answered this better than I could


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## Gez

Daldolin15 said:
			
		

> Hey Shemmie, I'm not too familar with these boards so it may be a problem on my side but I seem to be having trouble PMing you.  I too would love to see the stats of some of the NPCs you have but I don't want to share my email address in a public post.  Maybe you could try PMing me, or should I just do so on the wizard.com boards as I know how those work a little better...




You are a registered user, not a community supporter. PM, the search feature, custom user titles, are only for community supporters. So, Shemmie cannot PM you -- and even if he can, then you will not be able to read the PM anyway.

If you're warry of spambots, you can always use something like "myname ad somewhere period com." Using Latin (ad) instead of English (at), and period instead of dot (it's the same character, after all), should confuse even the best spambots.


----------



## Gerzel

I think we need more bearnaloth peep shows!  

BEARNS BEARNS BEARNS GONE WILD!


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## Gez

Gerzel said:
			
		

> I think we need more bearnaloth peep shows!
> 
> BEARNS BEARNS BEARNS GONE WILD!




Winnie ibn Pooh, Bearnoloth of the Distorted (1 of 13)

Yogi Al Nottavradjh, Bearnoloth of the Distorted (2 of 13)


----------



## Shemeska

"Ok, of all the physical flaws in the world, this guy got gingivitis?" - Toras's player, last game session.

"Note to self: hit Toras first next ten encounters." - me last game session

One thing I will never ever ever write is fiction involving Baernaloth peep shows, or anything even remotely along those lines. Icky.


----------



## Clueless

Not even for the Shepardess? (In her disguised form of course.)  Or is that an even further shot than peep shows for You-Know-Who? *grinning*


----------



## cmnash

Hi Shemmie,  Did you get my email?

I also posted the start of my storyhour here.

Would like to know what you - or anyone else - thinks of it


----------



## Shemeska

cmnash said:
			
		

> Hi Shemmie,  Did you get my email?
> 
> I also posted the start of my storyhour here.
> 
> Would like to know what you - or anyone else - thinks of it




Yes I did, just haven't had time yet to properly reply. I'll try to do so today.


----------



## Gerzel

Clueless said:
			
		

> Not even for the Shepardess? (In her disguised form of course.)  Or is that an even further shot than peep shows for You-Know-Who? *grinning*





Peep shows?  Just ask the mephit in the hat!  He'll show you ALL the body parts!


----------



## Shemeska

Update will be several days late. In the meantime, here's a little bit of fiction I wrote this week: here


----------



## Dakkareth

Brilliant! The Baern that is, not the delay


----------



## Ashy

Shemeska - I do not know HOW I've missed this until now, but consider the hook FIRMLY planted in my mouth...

I AM SO HOOKED!


----------



## Shemeska

Ashy said:
			
		

> Shemeska - I do not know HOW I've missed this until now, but consider the hook FIRMLY planted in my mouth...
> 
> I AM SO HOOKED!




*giggles like a schoolgirl*

Glad you've enjoyed it! And I think that I got involved with Planewalker right after you moved on to your own stuff with Bastion Press, but I know you by reputation at least 
	

	
	
		
		

		
			





Another update in a day or so, my thesis prop got moved back a bit by my comittee so I can slack off and write for fun another day now.


----------



## Ashy

*bows* I am honored and humbled by your words...


----------



## Eluvan

Mmm... impending update... *salivates*


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## shilsen

Shemeska said:
			
		

> Another update in a day or so, my thesis prop got moved back a bit by my comittee so I can slack off and write for fun another day now.




Looking forward to it.

As for me, I've got the first of my preliminary exams for my thesis tomorrow. Only 130 texts, 8 hrs, and teaching a class immediatrly before it, since I figured I should keep my 6 year streak of never missing or cancelling a class I was supposed to teach. Hubris is fun !


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## azmodean

*need MOOORE*

AAAAAAAGGGGHHHHHH!!!!!!  I just got done reading the whole thread, and I'm loving it, but now I'm all caught up *sigh*   
Anyway, keep up the good work, and I'll likely be nabbing a good bit of this stuff once the party I'm running goes planar.  I especially like the fiendish machinations since my party is on that side of the fence (cleric/soon to be lich, two (TWO!!!) death knights, weretiger, kobold psion, and a human rogue/assassin (everyone is suspicious of the human because they aren't blatantly evil enough, it's a hoot)


----------



## Clueless

*grinning* I can offer snippets, spoilers and advance plot - but only if well bribed.


----------



## Shemeska

*Like the proverbial cult Kool-Aid. But evil Kool-Aid from Gehenna.*

“I think I’m going to need a bigger sword…” Toras said with a look of open-mouthed shock as he glanced up at the massive form of the Mother of Serpents where it stood towering over the forest several miles away.

	“Massive yes, but… it will not remain here forever. I have seen to that, though it may take centuries still.” Tarnsilver spoke calmly. “They feed it fiends. Baatezu, Tanar’ri, even their own kind hoping to make it their pet and their tool in the Blood War or to sell it to either side like they sell themselves. No different from other celestials providing them with weapons to slaughter each other and keep them busy butchering their own kind rather than harming the innocent. Keeping the Beast here is foolish pride and self destruction.”

	All eyes focused on the male lupinal as he stood calmly before them when they turned around. Tarnsilver nodded briefly at Fyrehowl, either in respect for her heritage or for the similar robes that they both wore, though his were marked with the station of a factor.

	“Yugoloths… how can you help them here?” Fyrehowl was incredulous.

	“Our losses were for nothing. The beast does nothing here but slowly corrupt the essence of our plane, a stain against our souls. Out of pride we keep it here! Out of pride we keep it chained before we would admit defeat so long ago!” The other lupinal snarled.

	Clueless slowly stepped forward and past Fyrehowl, looking directly at Tarnsilver as he spoke. “We’ve spoken to Rhys about you, and we’ve spoken to the defenders of Rubicon. They…”

	Clueless never completed the statement as the factor’s eyes glazed and the bladesinger felt dirt and blood in his mouth as he was knocked sprawling on the ground from a circle kick he never saw coming.

There was a moment of still and Tarnsilver tensed. A moment –after- he tensed, Toras charged him. The fighter was halfway through his backswing when the lupinal barely seemed to move but slammed the ball of his heel into Toras’s throat. Toras lay wincing on the ground while the former cipher factor tensed again and the others readied their own weapons or began to cast spells.

Nisha looked down at Toras while she brandished a wand and sheathed her sword. “Ah hell this isn’t going to be pretty…”

And it wasn’t. Tarnsilver seemed to slip in and out of a trance-like state as he ducked, dodged, blocked and otherwise evaded most of the attacks brought to bear against him. In fact, he seemed to anticipate things a fraction of a second before they actually happened. Out of a dozen or so blows directed against him only two of them struck, and they were only glancing blows. Tristol’s spells didn’t fare much better either as the fallen lupinal managed to evade most or all of the burst of fire that the aasimar conjured forth.

The bloodied companions looked up at Tarnsilver who stood calm and implacable in the clearing, drifting out of the trance for the moment. He chuckled at them as he gently touched and prodded the minor wounds he had taken.

“Better than most. Without the spell slinger you likely wouldn’t have landed any. How do you hit someone who knows what you’ll do next before you even decide to do it?” The fallen lupinal smirked as he gestured to Fyrehowl.

“You should know this more than the others; you’ve been inducted into the order as well. However you are only a namer, not a factor like myself. You know this is folly, and I am willing to spare you if you will listen to reason. The others have seen too much and there is too much at risk here.”

“You don’t know what you’re doing…” Fyrehowl said a moment before they charged Tarnsilver again.

Again they met with little success, as the cipher factor was a blur of kicks, punches, and spinning acrobatics that seemed to defy any sense of reality with their speed and prescience. With only a single spell and a few more glancing blows landing to any effect, the group again backed off. All of them had taken at least one hard blow in the fighting except for Clueless who, aside from the suckerpunch kick that still had him seeing spots, was the only one the factor had failed to strike. However the half-fey’s luck and evasion came less from any preternatural quickness like the lupinal, but rather from a serious combination of defensive spells in his bladesinger tradition.

Fyrehowl had stepped forward and looked at the other lupinal again and the smug smile on his face as he extended an offer to her.

“Give up and I will ensure that the Yugoloths do not harm you. The multiverse speaks and flows through me. Surely you must know that. I do what the planes themselves whisper to me is the correct actions, and in this I am resolute.”

“No… no they don’t. We spoke to Rhys and she told me to tell you that you don’t hear the planes, not anymore.”

Tarnsilver paused and his eyes lost their glazed look as he focused on Fyrehowl.

“Rhys told me to tell you that you aren’t hearing the planes, that you’re only hearing your own voice. You’re only hearing what you want to hear.”

Tarnsilver seemed to slow in that moment and in his self-doubt and uncertainty he charged her to silence the words he refused to believe. As he charged her, she struck back with all her strength and seemed to hear in the back of her mind, less as a voice and more as an instinct, something telling her when and where to strike. Tarnsilver struck hard, but harder still did Fyrehowl.

Tarnsilver stumbled and clutched at his gut. His robes were awash in crimson and he glanced at his wound and then back up at Fyrehowl with shock and disbelief.

“…how?” He shuddered and winced, “No no no, I was right in what I did, no…”

Fyrehowl’s eyes were glazed over as she walked forwards when Tarnsilver collapsed onto the ground.

The fallen lupinal coughed up blood and looked at Fyrehowl, “I was doing what was needed. I was saving us from our mistake; I was doing this for us. You, me, Rubicon, all of you. I was only trying to do what I knew was right.”

“And which of us was full of pride then?” Fyrehowl said as her scimitar severed the other lupinal’s head and her eyes lost their glaze and she stared down at his corpse.

“It’s not over. We’ve only stopped him, but we have to stop the others. We can’t allow the fiends to stay here.” The cipher was softly crying as she wrapped the fallen lupinal’s head in a white cloth. “A moment alone here please…”

The others walked away for several minutes, leaving Fyrehowl a few moments of peace and reflection before they returned, wary that the fiends would have some of their kind marching to find their lupinal ally. They did not care to be there when the ‘loths found the body.

	“They’ll be sending people to look for him most likely, we should get moving.” Nisha said as she slipped into the woods and motioned for the others.

	“From what he said it sounded like the fiends had a bit more than we thought.” Toras said.

	Clueless nodded, “That’s what worries me, that they’ll have too many of their kind here for us to handle.”

	“We’ll handle it.” Fyrehowl stated.


	As they crept through the forest they began to notice that the terrain began to slope downwards as they progressed further to the east, and that soon enough to had begun to do so at an increasingly rapid pace. Perhaps a quarter of a mile distant from the road they slowed their pace and finally stopped abruptly as they saw something ahead.

	“Holy crap…” Clueless said as he paused and looked at the structure that loomed ahead.

	Sure enough as the terrain had bottomed out, they stood in the woods on the descending slope of a natural bowl in the landscape several hundred feet below the normal lay of the land. Rising to just below the height of the treetops at normal elevation was a jagged, bladed tower that stood several stories above the ground in a clearing at the center of the depression.

	Fyrehowl motioned the group to remain quiet as they stood and peered at the scene below. The main gate at the base of the tower stood open and a dozen or more Mezzoloths stood guard, clustered around the opening, while two columns of the fiends marched in formation around the building on patrol in opposite to one another, probably forty of them all told. Mixed in with the Mezzoloths were a number of Dergholoths and Piscaloths as well.

	Fyrehowl gritted her teeth in rage and disbelief at the presence of the fiends and the insult of the tower. Skalliska was more astonished than not.

	“That’s a scale replica of the Tower Arcane in Gehenna, right down to the blades on the sides. And hell, judging from the color of the walls, they made it out of adamantium. They built the damn thing to last…” The kobold said before a flapping noise from overhead cut her off.

	Descending from out of the sky towards the tower was the Slasrath and its Nycaloth rider that they had seen earlier making an aerial patrol of the surrounding area. The black, manta-like flier swooped down and landed upon one of three mounts on the edge of one of the upper stories of the tower where two other Slasraths were tethered atop their own aeries. The Nycaloth rider atop the beast dismounted, briefly paused to look down at the marching Mezzoloths, and then disappeared inside the tower itself.

	“We’re not going to be charging the front gates, as much fun as that might be, it’d be a brief amount of fun.” Toras said as he motioned towards the troops.

	“See those carvings on the sides of the second and forth floors of the tower?” Tristol said, “I can’t tell you exactly what they are, but there’s some contingent wards on them. If you look closely at the carved figures there, arcanaloths, they’re all holding wands pointed down towards the ground. The wards there are probably spells that trigger those wands to fire on intruders who approach the tower.”

	“Broke out all the stops didn’t they…” Florian remarked.

	“And this is where the sneaking comes into play, right?” Nisha said.

	Clueless pointed away from the tower to the opposite side of the valley where the ground was considerably rockier. A few hundred feet away from the tower stood what appeared to be a mineshaft sunk into the ground and a number of blocks of cut stone that had been drug out from it, half of them gleaming partially like they were either metal or metal ores.

	“I’d hazard a guess that the shaft there might connect to the tower if it has any lower levels, and it doesn’t appear defended in any way that I can see. Opinions?”

	“The stone blocks there are just normal stone, but one of them looks like it’s been partially transmuted into the same metal the tower is built from. I’d guess they just took normal rock from the area here and used magic to shape it and make it into the proper material.” Skalliska said. “They might have abandoned the mine since the tower looks finished, but they might also have connections to the tower as well like you said. It’s worth a look.”

	The group exchanged nods and started moving away from the tower to circle around through the woods to approach from the other side. At least that was their plan, to remain in hiding and out of sight till they could sneak into the mineshaft. But, as in all things, not everything turned out as expected.

	“Oww! Sh*t…” Toras muttered as he turned and walked directly into a low hanging tree branch and snapped it off from the impact with his head. The crack of the impact was loud and resounding and not missed by the fiends in the clearing below.

	Fyrehowl, Nisha, Skalliska and Clueless stared at Toras. The fighter winced and rubbed his forehead as a bright bruise slowly spread across his face.

	“You can dodge arrows and sword slashes, but a tree manages to catch you with your guard down?” Florian asked with a chuckle.

	“Sneaking! It’s not that hard!” Clueless harshly whispered.

	Toras chuckled and blushed heavily but before he could say anything Nisha cut him off, “Move everyone, the fiends are sending guards to see what that was, so let’s move.”

	Down below, one of the two Mezzoloth contingents diverted course at the direction of their Dergholoth supervisor and swung up towards the heavily forested slopes of the valley. By the time they had marched to the spot where the sound hard originated however the group was gone and nestled near to the open mouth of the mineshaft.


****​

	“Is there anything more that my master requires?” Shylara’s tongue may have dropped honey in the Ultroloth’s presence, but her thoughts were anything but as sweet as she knelt before the other fiend whom she had obediently chafed under for months now in Center.

	Not that her service and loyalty was at the order of the Ultroloth, no, not in any way. She only served the temporary, so-called master, in order to funnel information and details of Anthraxus’s troop strength to her actual lord in Carceri. It was to He that she was loyal, and it was The Ebon who would reward her for her unquestioning loyalty, that for her bordered upon worship normally reserved for beings of higher station than even the Overlord of Carceri. But titles for those others were just words wrapped around the unworthy.

	As Palinarius’s mental voice buzzed ad droned on in her mind, her thoughts that the other ‘loth felt were ones of obedience, fear, and loyalty to their shared master, Anthraxus the Decayed. Locked away and sequestered in the core of her being though, her thoughts dripped the Ultroloth’s blood. In those thoughts she bathed in his blood and draped herself with his guts like fleshy, still twitching ribbons. But there was a time and a place for everything, and desires, hers and others, were something of a key in the next days.

	“I no longer require you in my service. I release you from my side and expect for you to report yourself for service with the appropriate taskmaster of your caste in the army of our mutual master.” Palinarius said as he turned away from the window high above Center in the palace of Dandy Will. 

Outside, the first waves of the massed army of Anthraxus, the once and future Oinoloth, marched around the city and through its wide-open gates like waves of liquid evil. The populace of Center welcomed the massed columns of Mezzoloths, hundreds of thousands of them by the hour, to cheers of victory, encouragement, and bloodthirsty screams of revenge against those loyal to the pretender Mydianchlarus.

	As Palinarius loomed over his assistant and scribe for the duration of his stay in Center, he inwardly smiled at the lesser ‘loth’s fear and worry. The silk robed arcanaloth seemed to shudder slightly at times when he gazed at her directly, always seeming to be ill at ease in his presence as were most of her kind. Behind the Ultroloth, the skies had begun to darken as the first waves of Slasraths and their riders, all of them greater yugoloths, blotted out the light above the Waste and their shadows rippled over the city. The piercing screeches of the manta-like mounts rattled the clouds as Anthraxus himself approached the city, there to make his triumphant entry before bringing his war to the coward and the coward’s army huddled and frightened around the base of the Wasting Tower.

	Millions of them above and below, wheeling through the skies and marching through the city en masse, it was beautiful as much as an Ultroloth could conceive of such things. The pain, bloodshed and misery of their enemies would be a worthy sacrifice to that which had birthed them all.

	Dismissed and cast aside, Shylara Akt’Atarm, Shylara the Manged, crept away from her former master and only looked back once, framing the Ultroloth against the window out into the skies swarming with the silhouettes of the slasraths. A last look before she left, because it was unlikely she would see him again, and woe to him if she did.

	The moment she stepped from Palinarius’s sanctum, her mind glowed with the soft caress of a sending spell. She shuddered in nearly intimate pleasure at the touch of her master as she received his instructions and listened obediently. With a shivering, anticipatory whisper of “Yes my love…” and a gesture of her hands, she was gone in the rapid flash and collapse of an opened gate.


****​

	A slow exhalation of purple smoke washed over Milton Osterson’s face from the fiend’s pursed lips, flowing over grinning fangs, and sparkling almost as much as her violet tinged eyes. Not that he could see at the moment anyways since the cocktail of hallucinogens and narcotics in the smoke had hours ago washed away any sense of lucidity from his desperate mind.

	‘Show up and sit still, wait as long as I require and endure whatever happens while you’re here and the calling point on your brother’s debts will be extended another month. All you have to do is sit there, not budge an inch, and not say a word till spoken to regardless of what happens. Such a simple thing, surely you can do that, can’t you?’

	That was what the smiling King of the Crosstrade had said earlier in the day, and Osterson was still sitting, ramrod straight on an unpadded footstool, several hours later. That he was no longer fully aware of his surroundings didn’t change the conditions of the deal, nor was the fact that his higher brain functions were so addled that it didn’t matter that he was seeing and hearing things that might have sealed his death had he been capable of understanding it all.

	The Marauder shifted slightly in her chair, dressed in a black velvet gown that might as well have been painted on her, as tight as it was. Smirking, she inhaled deeply from a bejeweled water pipe and hissed a series of long streamers of drugged smoke at the mortal while she leaned back and kept her slippered feet cradled in his lap, using him for a footrest.

	“You enjoy your position far too much my dear.” An amused chuckle came from the glowing blue avatar of the Cheshire Fiend.

	Shemeska laughed and took another hit from the pipe before blowing the smoke at the other ‘loth. “Were you in the same position, you’d enjoy doing the same. Don’t deny it in the least. I’m simply considering this a prelude to the coming events that are drawing ever so close now. My lot it pitched, my bets handed in, and well, I never bet on anything but a winning horse.”

	“Would our mutual ringleader appreciate your comparing him to a racehorse? That seems hardly fitting darling. And is it smart to talk of this with this piece of chattel in the room?” The grin said as it nibbled on Osterson’s right ear.

	“If I wanted you to have an opinion, I’d skin you and scribe it on your soul.” The fiendess replied with a sneer as she ran the tip of a painted claw over the Cheshire Fiend’s avatar.

	“Besides,” She added, “You assume that I have the intention of letting this fool walk out of here alive. Oh we made a deal and I won’t break it, but he’ll relieve his brother’s debt temporarily at the cost of his sanity, likely his life, and possibly his soul as well. The Carcerian poppies in the hookah are rather toxic you see, and in about an hour he’ll be exposed to enough to constitute an overdose. You can stay and watch the seizures if you wish, I know that I will.”

	The grin gave her an approving look, “And here I thought that you might have gotten soft of late. No, you’ve just taken out your frustrations on others since I had to deprive you of a toy.”

	“Helekanalaith couldn’t stand me having mine when the Ebon had deprived him of his. You didn’t have to facilitate it you know, I had plans for mine beyond his current usage…”

	The Cheshire Fiend scoffed politely, “I can only imagine…”

	“Words words words my smiling fellow, you’re full of too many of them.” The Marauder said as she put the pipe down and stared at the mortal expectantly while speaking to the other fiend, “That’s a difference between you and I oftentimes. You give your actions too much window-dressing while I’m open about who and what I am. I don’t hide it, I revel in it and it makes life in this sordid little city all the more enjoyable. And I do enjoy it, oh so much, and it’s afforded me a position of power and influence that will take you some time to achieve yourself you see. You can feel free to serve your sire and represent the Towers interest’s in Sigil and I’ll sit here and serve myself and no other.”

	“If you say so mistress, I won’t correct a lady. It wouldn’t be polite of me. Besides, I’d like to hush now and watch this all transpire, if you don’t mind sharing your entertainment.”

	The yugoloths laughed mutually and chatted with one another like they were having a picnic on a sunny day with not a care in the world, and then Osterson twitched as a vessel in his brain began to leak slowly and subtly.

	Outside the room in one of the upper hallways of the Fortune’s Wheel, a trio of tiefling bodyguards stood at the ready and heard nothing but the low din of the crowds below them in the gambling hall and the laughter of their mistress in the room behind them. Inside the room, and the source of the gleeful mood on the King’s part, was the mortal who had dropped to the ground slowly dying and convulsing spasmodically from the shock to his system and torment the drugs had inflicted over the hours of exposure and overdose. His last moments of life contained a single lucid moment when he looked up into the leering, razorvine crowned face of the arcanaloth who held a single black sapphire in front of his eyes and whispered with a smile, “Twenty seconds short, and so a pity about your brother too…”


****​

	Still being browbeaten by Clueless, Toras slipped out from behind the line of trees at the border of the forest and ducked behind a block of cut granite. As he crouched in the shadow of the boulder the others joined him and dashed one by one to closer vantage points near the mouth of the cave. Skalliska went first and slipped nearly unseen into the mouth of the shaft. A moment later she motioned them that the coast was clear and that they could follow her inside.

	“The place is pretty quiet, no lights and no guards as far as I can see. Looks like they’ve just been hauling stone out of hillside to built with, and there’s not been much traffic through here recently either.” Skalliska said as the others caught up with her.

	Nisha nodded, “Yep, dead on with that.”

	Cautiously they proceeded down the tunnel in the dim light, with only Florian having any difficultly seeing before Skalliska handed her a metal stick.

	“What’s this?” The cleric asked.

	“A sunrod. Tap the end against the rock if you need it to see. But hold up on it till it’s absolutely needed because it’s pretty bright and if there’s anyone down here I don’t want to give away our position till they know we’re here already. Alright?” The kobold replied.

	“Sounds good to me.” Florian said back.

	The tunnel sloped down slightly as they continued, the floors being roughly cut and scuffed from the passage of blocks of stone like those they had seen littering the ground outside. Perhaps fifty yards down the passage split left and right.

	“Hold on, I can hear something…” Fyrehowl said as she perked her ears and turned to the right.

	“What is it?” Toras asked.

	“Running water, and movement, but I can’t tell from what.” The lupinal replied.

	The others nodded and tentatively crept down the right passage. The tunnels they followed were largely deserted and they blundered across two side passages as they crept ever closer to the sound of swiftly flowing water. The dead-ending side tunnels had been empty and abandoned, filled only with the marks from where blocks of stone had been removed and nothing more.

	However, as the group followed one passage and the sounds grew louder, they found evidence of recent passage by fiends and a dim light emanating from the same source of the noise. Their slow creep down the hallway ended and became a dash when they heard a scream of pain and fright echo from that direction.

	Bursting into the cavern at the end of the tunnel the group saw the source of the scream and the reason for it made readily apparent. The chamber was bisected by what appeared to be a tributary of the river Oceanus that cut through the rock. A group of frog-like hydroloths stood near the edge of the holy river and watched as a Piscaloth and two more hydroloths stood and aimed hooked poles and some manner of wand at the immobilized form of a woman with golden hair and blue-green skin who hovered half in and half out of the rushing waters of the river. Some manner of magical beam that formed a net-like field around the woman was directed from two silvery fiendish glyphs carved into the stone at the river’s banks. 

The Noviere Eladrin struggled and meekly screamed as she was levitated out of the waters, but that was before a crackling bolt of lightning snarled two of the fiends and a roaring column of holy fire smote a third.

The fiends, taken almost completely by surprise didn’t last long and Toras took especial joy in carving through the Piscaloth while shouting righteous curses about his arm and returning the experience. As the fiend corpses slowly began to dissolve into greasy, burning splotches on the stone, Clueless and Tristol helped the Eladrin back into the water of the river.

“Thank you,” she whispered before blowing a kiss to Clueless and slipping under the surface in a sparkle of rippling gold.

Clueless blushed as he and Nisha went about breaking and disrupting the Yugoloth wards that had been designed to ensnare any intelligent creature that passed between them in the river.

“Hmm… wonder what this is…” Skalliska said as she picked up the wand that one of the ‘loths had been carrying. It was made of twin rods of black iron twisted around one another and wrapped securely around a glowing yellow topaz in its base.

The kobold cast a quick spell of identification and grinned heartily at the find. “Not useful against the ‘loths, but it’s fully charged with a cone of acid.”

Fyrehowl glanced curiously at the wand and then walked over to the kobold.

“The bastards…” She whispered before snatching the wand.

“What the…” Skalliska said as the lupinal broke the wand and shattered the gem held within.

“The bastards were powering the wand with a trapped soul. Every time that wand was used it was ripping out a piece of that soul and consuming it. Nothing deserves that.”

Any argument was ended as Fyrehowl crushed the gem and released the wispy, glowing, and indistinct spirit within that faded away into nothing. “Come on, there’s another half of the tunnels here we haven’t explored. Hopefully there’s a connection to the tower.”

Despite some minor grumbling from Skalliska, and requests from Nisha to take a swim in the river just because, they all backtracked from the cavern and returned to the first fork in the mineshaft. Following that other fork they had originally bypassed, they noticed that the stone was becoming more and more smooth and well cut as they progressed.

“Look’s like we’re on to something here…” Toras said as they approached a door set into the wall at the end of the tunnel.

With several reminders about sneaking, Nisha picked the lock and swung the door open despite Toras and Florian wanting to kick it in. Beyond the door was a long, high ceilinged, dressed stone corridor that progressed nearly fifty feet before hooking off to one side.

“Looks like we’ve found our way into the tower. But still… Nisha make sure there’s no surprise here. With all the guards they had in the front of the tower I don’t trust this way to be unguarded or otherwise unprotected.” Fyrehowl said to the rogue.

	The search didn’t take the tiefling long and she grinned with a swish of her tail as she stepped to one side of the corridor and poked at and purposefully activated a pressure plate in the floor.

	“Oh, now that’s just cute there.” Nisha said as she looked over the now opened pit that cut the corridor in half.

	“Spiked pit?” Clueless asked.

	“Yeah, pretty easy to avoid though, just don’t get near the center of the hallway and you’ll be fine.” She continued.

	“Or fly.” Fyrehowl said as she lifted off the ground slightly.

	“Showoff” Nisha said as she stuck out her tongue at the lupinal.

	“No, you’re not a showoff unless you can do it with style.” Clueless said as his own wings sparkled with a sudden rush of greenish-blue colored faerie fire.

	Nisha made another face and hopped over the trigger plate for the pit. “Anyways, nothing else… oh holy sh*t!”

	At the end of the corridor where it abruptly turned to the right, something moved out into the light, hovering a dozen feet in the air and leering down at the intruders. Nine or ten reddish, rubbery stalks grew out from a spherical central point that was alight with a single, trisected eyeball. Each of the stalks that reached out from the center was studded with multiple eyes and random, and the end of each stalk was fixed with a gaping mouth that bristled with jagged fangs and a slow shower of drool.

	The bizarre beholder-kin advanced down the corridor and lashed out at Fyrehowl with one of its mouthed tentacles. The creature struck hard and fast, drawing blood that seemed to visibly flow into the creatures mouth and energize it as a crackling web of electrical sparks flowed over its surface and an aura of evil radiated from it that the lupinal could feel just as acutely as the pain of its teeth. Whatever the beast was, it wasn’t wholly mortal and was likely the result of some fiendish experiment gone wrong, or perhaps from their perspective, gone terribly right.

	Nisha, Skalliska and Tristol scrambled backwards and fled down the hallway, all of them acutely aware that they would be next to useless in close combat with the guardian beast’s magic nullifying central eye active. As they avoided the pit trap in the floor however, something else happened. While Florian, Fyrehowl, Toras and Clueless rushed in to attack the hovering abomination, the ceiling vanished overhead of the other three of the group and gravity reversed itself with a sickening, gut-wrenching lurch.

	“AAAAAHHHH!” Nisha shouted as she looked upwards to the suddenly spiked ceiling above them as a false roof retracted and she and the others shot up towards it.

	Scrambling as fast as she could, the rogue stuck one of her hooves against the wall and stuck fast, grabbing out randomly to snag Skalliska’s tail before the kobold was impaled on the ceiling overhead. Meanwhile, in a moment of quick thinking, and even quicker spellcasting, Tristol hastily mumbled the words to a spell and his ascent towards the ceiling dropped to a snails pace, though he was still drifting up towards the spikes.

	Back down at the other end of the corridor, Florian was chopping his axe at the beholder and finding that attacking it was not as straightforward as he had hoped. The moment his weapon connected with one of the mouthed tentacles, a bolt of lightning discharged from the aura around the beast and arced towards the cleric.

	“Florian, back away from the thing and let Fyrehowl and Toras go after it, they’re resistant or immune to lightning. I’m going to try and get around this thing and nail it from behind, go help the others!” Clueless said as he burst past and over the beholder to land behind it and out of the touch of its magic sapping eye.

	Fyrehowl continued to slash and jab at the beast as it turned its attention to Toras and in the space of a few seconds it seemed to wrap around the fighter and curl its tentacles around him like it pouncing him and attempting to feed. Toras let out a strangled cry as the mouthed burrowed into his exposed flesh and gnashed and ground against armor and clothing, seeking to gorge itself.

	Several of the wounds on the beholder began to restitch themselves as it fed on the fighter’s blood until a column of flame shot down from the ceiling to curl about the backside of the beholder. Howling and gurgling with rage and pain from ten different mouths, the beholder dropped Toras to the ground and spun around to face Clueless who stood with an outstretched hand still sparkling with magic. 

As the beholder turned to the bladesinger, Fyrehowl carved into the creature with a fierce blow. There was a sound of deflating, rushing air and one of the creature’s bladders ruptured and it crashed to one side against the wall as it lost altitude. As it went down in a burst of discharging electricity, the end came quickly as both lupinal and half-fey descended upon it to finish the job.

“Florian? A bit of help here?” Tristol said as he held onto a rope from Skalliska and dangled a few inches away from the spiked ceiling.

“There’s probably a glyph or a trigger for this spell somewhere down there that we tripped when we ran through here from the opposite way.” Nisha shouted down to the cleric.

“What do you want me to do with it? I didn’t memorize any dispelling prayers today.” The cleric yelled back up.

“Kick it, hack at it, just break the sodding thing. Being sneaky falls out the window when we’re in imminent harm of being transmuted into yugoloths’ pincushions, so to speak…” The tiefling said, still dangling up from the wall by one hoof.

While Florian saw to breaking the effect of the spell entrapping Nisha, Skalliska and Tristol, Toras was recovering from his own injuries.

“Now I know how a steak feels…” Toras said with a moan as he struggled to his feet.

“I don’t want to know if they made more of these things, I sure hope not.” Clueless said.

	As Toras quaffed several potions to heal from his wounds, the others rejoined with them, Nisha still looking back at the sprung trap. “All said, that was actually pretty awesome an idea of them.”

	“Awesome is a relative term then.” Skalliska said.

	“Maybe, just so long as I’m not on the pointy end of that thing I’m fine with it.” Tristol said with a chuckle.

	Stepping over the fiendish Deathkiss beholder-kin, the group walked a half dozen feet before entering a larger chamber that seemed to have been the lair of the now dead eye tyrant. Several bodies of beings that were likely dragged by the fiends from the river Oceanus lay drained of their vital fluids and slowly rotting and stiffening on the floor, one of them bloated and near to bursting with internal pressure from the decay process and rigor mortis.

	“Please just don’t poke the bloated one? The fiend stench is already bad enough here without adding that…” Fyrehowl said as they approached a door flush into the western wall of the chamber.

	Nisha walked past the lupinal with her cheeks puffed out, eyes wide and sticking her belly out in mock imitation of the corpse.

	“Ha ha Nisha, very funny. Check the door?” Florian said.

	The tiefling exhaled and sucked her stomach back in with a grin and twitch of her tail, “Oh? You thought I was making like the dead guy? No no, I just do that sometimes randomly.”

	“Nisha? You do –anything- sometimes randomly. That’s just what you do.” Tristol said as he poked her in the ribs.

	She poked him back in the same place with her tail without turning around, “Now you’re getting the picture, randomness is what I’m all about.”

	Nisha looked back over her shoulder at the mage with a grin, “And the door’s magelocked and alarmed. This would be your thing, unless you want to wait for me to pick it my way. Dispelling it would work the easiest.”

	“I tell you, one of these times we’ll get to kick the door down and run in screaming.” Florian said to Toras.

	“Just not now, we’re still going with the whole sneaky thing.” Clueless said as he hovered in the air next to the cleric and fighter.

	Tristol nodded and slowly cast several spells to erase and undo the alarms and wards on the door. Upon whispering the last phrases of the final spell the door swung open, being otherwise unlocked, into a dimly lit and wretchedly smelling corridor.

	Fyrehowl winced and narrowed her eyes shortly before the others did as well from the stomach turning stench that wafted from the open door. The odor was a thick carpet of what smelled like rotting flesh, blood and harsh chemicals.

	“Everyone quiet and don’t mind the stink, because I think we just found their dungeons for that tower…” Clueless said as he slipped into the dressed stone corridor beyond the door with the others in close tow.

	As they slowly crept through the hallways they heard the sounds of something bubbling and thick bubbles rising and popping through a thick liquid. At the intersection of several passages they found a vat inset into an alcove in the wall and a the stink of the corridors seeming to emanate from its contents.

	“Blood,” Fyrehowl said without looking over the lip of the large vessel that seemed to have been grown into place rather that built. “Yugoloths boil victims and render them down to use as ink if they don’t devour them or put them to any other uses. We’re too late for anyone they put in there, but they might still have prisoners down here that they may have dragged out of the river behind us…”

	The lupinal’s thoughts were echoed by the sudden scream that echoed down the corridors from the passage to their left. Looking at each other and hearing the pain and agony in the voice they rushed down the passage and the closed iron door at its end with weapons drawn and at the ready.

	Halfway down the corridor, something flooded into the minds of the entire group. A sickening voice that seemed directed to the victim of the torture whose screams they could hear spoke into their minds.

_“Filthy being, not only will I eventually kill you, but you will experience this all from my perspective as I rip you apart and feast upon your agony. I shall be generous perhaps and kill you swiftly, or perhaps I shall prolong it for weeks till you expire here on this wretched plane. But first, a taste of yourself.”_

	Pausing and feeling sick, they all felt and saw in their minds the act of biting or stinging the torture victim and burrowing something into its forehead. They tasted its fear saturated sweat and the layer of fat beneath the skin, and then the taste of brain matter inside their own mouths.

_“You can still feel pain without this portion of your brain intact fool, do you like the taste of it? I savor this like I have savored it a hundred times before, though never with your kind exactly. We shall learn something here together then…”_

	The fresh screams from the end of the corridor brought the group out of their pale-faced shock and disgust. Sickened at what they had been forcibly made to experience, and that some innocent was being ravaged by a fiend, they charged the door.

	“You want to, or shall I?” Toras said to Florian as they both barreled towards the end of the corridor.

	“Your turn, enjoy.” Florian said a moment before Toras’s booted foot slammed into the door and ripped it from its moorings in the wall.

	The door slammed into a Mezzoloth who stood at the entrance and both of them landed with a carapace cracking thunder against the far wall of what looked to be a torture chamber. Glowing implements of torture lay inside a magically hot brazier between two other Mezzoloths, but the group’s focus lay on the victim and the torturer.

	Chained down to an iron slab was a broken and bleeding Nycaloth, branded upon his chest and arms with the symbol of the Oinoloth Mydianchlarus. Standing over him with a long, thin proboscis piercing into the fiend’s forehead, was a large brown-red insectoid creature with tiny black eyes and a fanged mouth that was best described as smiling as it physically burrowed into its victim’s brain and fed the sensations into the minds of others.


----------



## Clueless

Talk about a let down for our first "Valiant Rescue"...


----------



## cmnash

Splendid work as usual Shemmie!  keep it up please!


----------



## Gez

> ... a large brown-red insectoid creature with tiny black eyes and a fanged mouth...




I was expecting a mind flayer, but no. What is that thing?


----------



## shilsen

Gez said:
			
		

> I was expecting a mind flayer, but no. What is that thing?



 Could just be Shemmie taking creative license with a mindflayer to mess with the players' preconceptions, but then again, it's probably much worse than that 

Damn nice update as usual, Shemeska. One question - were there any special mechanics to Fyrehowl being the one to take Tarnsilver down, or was that just part of your (incredibly well-crafted) description of it?


----------



## Shemeska

Gez said:
			
		

> I was expecting a mind flayer, but no. What is that thing?




It's a Vaath, a native critter of Carceri that enjoys inflicting pain for no other reason than it can. It also psionically feeds the sensations from its end to the victim, and anyone else in range, while it's doing it.

Originally in the Planes of Conflict monstrous appendix, and most recently in the BoVD.


----------



## Shemeska

shilsen said:
			
		

> Damn nice update as usual, Shemeska. One question - were there any special mechanics to Fyrehowl being the one to take Tarnsilver down, or was that just part of your (incredibly well-crafted) description of it?




She rolled a nat 20 as I recall on that last hit, plus she had just taken a level of Cadence Dancer (cipher PrC) for all the spooky trance state stuff.

And Toras and tree... he rolled a 1 on a move silently check and I was feeling punchy that session.


----------



## Clueless

Yepyep. A lot of the particulars of combat really did go down that way, in this case - Tarn was most definately Fyrehowl's kill. Shem does a good job of matching combat descriptions to the rolls at the time or to the style of character if we don't have the rolls written down. (Lately I've been in the habit of recording a blow-by-blow for storyhour purposes.) You'll notice particular elements to the fighting styles of the 'combat machines' of the party. Toras is heavy damage and gets hit fairly often. Fyrehowl is medium damage, gets hit sometimes, and uses Cipher goodies to get an edge. Clueless is light damage and spells, but can't be hit. Ever. 

And yes, that was a flamestrike the blade singer tossed at the beholder. I'll put the fey template up online someplace as soon as I can for those who were curious about it.


----------



## Graywolf-ELM

Now that's the stuff.   

GW


----------



## Dakkareth

Nice series of pictures in the tower dungeons. More?


----------



## bluegodjanus

Shemeska said:
			
		

> “If I wanted you to have an opinion, I’d skin you and scribe it on your soul.” The fiendess replied with a sneer as she ran the tip of a painted claw over the Cheshire Fiend’s avatar.




Aww, one might think I'm starting to be a bad influence on you.


----------



## Dakkareth

Nice series of pictures in the tower dungeons. More?


----------



## Shemeska

bluegodjanus said:
			
		

> Aww, one might think I'm starting to be a bad influence on you.




Yes, yes you are. I've got you quoted for that in my sig on the WotC boards. I love that line.


----------



## Shemeska

Dakkareth said:
			
		

> Nice series of pictures in the tower dungeons. More?




Hmm? Whatcha mean by that?

And the next update is planned for Tuesday next week.


----------



## Clueless

I believe that was commentary on the use of imagery in this particular update.


----------



## Tristol

Clueless said:
			
		

> Clueless is light damage and spells, but can't be hit. Ever.




Well, I certainly wouldn't go THAT far. I'd say it's more that a select few of us worry for our safety if we decide to hit you. At least now anyway. And not necessarily from yourself either... but we'll leave that topic for people to read about later. :>


----------



## Dakkareth

Clueless said:
			
		

> I believe that was commentary on the use of imagery in this particular update.



Um, yeah. Proper language kinda breaks down for me at that time in the morning


----------



## Clueless

Tristol said:
			
		

> Well, I certainly wouldn't go THAT far. I'd say it's more that a select few of us worry for our safety if we decide to hit you. At least now anyway. And not necessarily from yourself either... but we'll leave that topic for people to read about later. :>




Ok, point. But that's a physical assault - not spells. And if Trist can hit a 60+ AC at our level on a physical attack, then I'll be shocked...


----------



## Tristol

Clueless said:
			
		

> Ok, point. But that's a physical assault - not spells. And if Trist can hit a 60+ AC at our level on a physical attack, then I'll be shocked...




I was referring more to the 'ever' comment. An ever is a very long length of time. :> 

As for hitting 60+ AC.. well sure. If I want to cast a particular sequence of spells, pick up an item or two, and then have those spells strip any spellcasting for a period of time, sure. But I figure it's more useful to have a wizard countering spells with 50+ saves, than it is to watch him turn from meek harmless looking fellow into a green rippled hulk :> Just remember, nearly anything is possible with the right balance of items and spells. Which is why I don't tend to pick up items. I much prefer to reserve the items for those 'desperate need' situations so that the evil guys are balanced against us, until you absolutely need to beat them. That's what items are for (In my opinion anyway). Also the same reason why when Shemmie looks at me for the physical attacks I just say 'Give me the damage'.. there's no way they're not going to hit me with a typical AC of 35 or so.


----------



## Clueless

Well, yeah - but 'ever' wasn't meant as a literally - more like an estimation of how difficult it is to pin that little fey's butt down.

And you know... I'm feeling the urge to declare Tristol's birthday in a few weeks and get you stuff. Our mage really ought to be harder to hit than that. What's your bracers of armor at?


----------



## Ashy

Shemeska said:
			
		

> Yes, Skalliska is a PC. For the record, Nisha is an NPC, comic relief and resident Xaositect.




A message from back on page 9, where I am quickly catching up to the present... I've just got to say that I LOVE Nisha - she makes me laugh out loud constantly!!!!!  Great, great job on her, Shemeska!


----------



## FyreHowl

Everyone loves Nisha. 
Warning tiny spoiler.







She stuck around far far longer than Shemmy originally intended if i recall right. 

(i mean she's around i just dont remember if she was originally intended as a permanant figure)


----------



## Clueless

She wasn't. But we liked her too much.


----------



## Shemeska

*Preludes to the Fall*

"Evil is a mortal entity and not a created one, an eternal entity and not a perishable entity: it existed before the world; it constituted the monstrous, the execrable being who was also to fashion such a hidious world. It will hence exist after the creatures which people this world." - Marquis de Sade

****​
Though their first attempt at a heroic rescue was less than expected, they did manage to butcher the remaining Mezzoloths and the Vaath torturer in several brief, blood spattered moments.

	“Not fun on the receiving end is it?” Toras shouted out with a nearly gleeful laugh as he jabbed his sword repeatedly into the insectoid native of Carceri.

	“Don’t act so happy about it Toras. And… gah! Watch where you send those bug guts flying. Evil bug guts even, ugg.” Nisha said as she gingerly stepped over a pile of the Vaath’s innards.

	But, after they had made certain the fiends were dead and no reinforcements were on their way, they gathered around the shackled Nycaloth and looked down at him. Florian whispered a simple prayer and healed most of his wounds so they could speak to him in a lucid state.

	“So, who are you and why should we not just kill you like the rest of the fiends here?” Fyrehowl said with her sword at his throat.

	“I was second in command to the Ultroloth lord, Barzikonius ak Palin, of the tower here, though he vanished shortly before the traitors overtook us. Filthy traitors to the Oinoloth, they overwhelmed us and kept myself and many of my troops alive only to torture us for their amusement.” The Nycaloth snarled and spat. “My name is Durmage the Blood Winged.”

	The group looked at each and then back at the ‘loth.

	“Funny… that was the Ultroloth we watched get assassinated a short while back, wasn’t it?” Florian mused.

	“You’re right, that was him there in the mercane demiplane. Interesting…” Tristol said.

	The ‘loth narrowed its eyes at that information but said nothing for a bit as it pondered the implications. Finally it looked up at them and spoke, “Free me…”

	“Excuse me?” Florian asked.

	“Free me. You want to stop what is going on here, yes? I know the positions and strength of the traitors here, and my troops are still loyal to me. Release me and they and I will help you finish this here.” Durmage said.

	“And how do we know that we can trust you?” Clueless said with skepticism.

	“You don’t. But you’ll be butchered three times over if you try to take the tower by yourselves…” A sly glint sparked in the Nycaloth’s eyes.

	Fyrehowl narrowed her eyes and Florian snorted softly.

	“He’s got a point, as much as I hate to admit it…” Toras said.

	“Sadly, yes.” Clueless replied without taking his eyes off the fiend.

	The ‘loth rattled the chains impatiently, “Then release me and I will tell you all I know of the forces in the tower, then we wade in their blood as we are meant to do…”

	“Why didn’t you just free yourself? You can teleport at will, and none of those chains or anything in this room have any dweomers to suppress that ability or spells like it.” Tristol asked as he surveyed the chamber slowly.

	Durmage snarled, “Somehow they stripped me of the ability. I don’t know how except that it failed me and all of my troops just before the thrice-damned followers of Anthraxus assaulted us. I assume it was some magic wielded by their commander, the arcanaloth Parphinnias. He was a potent sorcerer so I assume it was his doing.”

	“We can use his help. He’s right about being outnumbered, and he knows the layout of the tower.” Toras said.

	“If you’re sure Toras…” Nisha said as she picked the locks on the chains holding the ‘loth to the metal torturer’s slab.

	“Normally you’d be right not to trust me, but this concerns family matters, so to speak, and on this issue of loyalty the stakes are higher than any dealings with you all. My word will hold for this.” The Nycaloth said as he stretched his wings.

	“You help us, and your former troops help us, and when we take the tower you all leave back to the lower planes immediately. You don’t belong here, and if you don’t agree I’ll have the wrath of Rubicon descend on this tower and raze it to the ground so help me…” Fyrehowl said forcefully as she looked directly at Durmage.

	The ‘loth nodded its head and paused before responding, “Agreed. Help me slaughter these traitors and I will do as you ask. This place is unimportant compared to happenings back upon the Waste.”

	“Where are your troops?” Skalliska asked.

	“Down this current passage and off to the right. There will be a series of cells we kept prisoners in for torture and starvation, and beyond those are where my troops have been held in preparation for their torture and execution one by one.” Durmage said as he picked up the black iron trident of one of the dead Mezzoloths that shimmered with a coating of frost. He swung the weapon several times before smiling at the balance and pointing down the hallway.

	Following the winged greater yugoloth they snuck down the passage and into a long, wide corridor lined with cells. The scent of rotting flesh rose from several of the cells, and blood tinged the air with a metallic, cupric scent. Fyrehowl paused and looked into one of the cells with wide eyes.

	“They had guardinal prisoners. They had them and Tarnsilver did nothing to stop it?!” She snarled in disbelief and rage as she glared at the Nycaloth.

	“He was blissfully unaware of this little portion of what we did here. He knew the main details of it all, both under Barzikonius and under the traitors who came after. He was spared the fine and more bloody details so as not to trouble him and induce any unsightly episodes of a haunted conscience.” Durmage said with a shrug as he walked onwards, “Free them if you wish but I have my own troops to collect at the end of the hall.”

	“Hell no, you’re staying right here where we can see you.” Florian said as he looked to the Nycaloth.

	“As you wish, but if you wait too long before joining with my troops the tower’s defenders will have ample time to prepare themselves.” Durmage said impatiently as he pointed down the hallway. “Don’t waste your time with these fools. They will only slow us down.”

	“You can wait.” Fyrehowl said angrily as she opened the cell door and stepped inside.

	The cell’s interior was dark and coated in filth and blood. Two figures lay against the walls, chained down and unmoving. One of them, an ursinal, was covered in blood and half-healed wounds; he seemed to have been there for a prolonged period and showed signs of starvation. The other, a cervidal, was covered in the welts and scars that belayed a severe flogging, though he showed no signs of starvation like the other.

	The cervidal looked up with weary, bloodshot eyes, “Please… no more. We…” His eyes darted from the Nycaloth and to Fyrehowl and then the others, a single spark of hope lighting in their depths.

	Fyrehowl motioned Nisha over to pick the locks on their chains as she knelt down next to the prisoners. “You’re safe, and we’re going to free you before we see to the fiends here. What happened?”

	“My name is Artrus, Artrus Willowminder. I was on the mainland near the marshes that the Quesars first arose from when the fiends found me and captured me. I didn’t expect it and I wasn’t armed… why would I need to be? They took me here perhaps a week ago and they’ve been torturing me since then. I haven’t eaten in days.” The cervidal said before nodding his chin towards the semi-conscious ursinal. “His name is Tyburnis, but I haven’t been able to talk to him much…”

	Fyrehowl looked on with concern as Artrus trailed off. “How long has he been here?”

	“I can’t say for sure, but much longer than I have. He mentioned that shortly after he was brought here that there was some sort of revolt among the fiends here between two camps. He also mentioned that he’d been questioned by an Ultroloth… he whispered that in his dreams before waking up screaming…” Artrus said as Nisha finished picking the locks on his shackles. He rubbed at his sore and bleeding wrists with relief as they slid off and fell to the ground.

	“The Ultroloth was my commander. The Arcanaloth Parphinnias was likely responsible for what you saw as a prelude to his actions here… the filthy Anthraxus kisser…” Durmage whispered harshly from behind the party.

	Fyrehowl glanced back at the fiend, “What did you do to Tyburnis?”

	The ‘loth sneered, “You wouldn’t want me to go into the details Elysian… he’s alive though, so be happy. The others he was with aren’t, nor a dozen others we had found and couldn’t allow escaping with knowledge of this place.”

	Fyrehowl gritted her teeth together as she motioned Florian inside the cell to heal the wounded and tortured celestials. The ursinal regained his senses after several whispered prayers by the cleric and staggered to his feet with the same spark of hope in his eyes that Artrus had in his. “Powers of good bless you all…” he said, though his words trailed when he saw the Nycaloth. Something unspoken passed between them then and the ursinal looked away as the ‘loth bared its fangs and licked along their length.

	Fyrehowl glared at the fiend as they all exited the cell, moving slowly to support the ragged and battered guardinals they had rescued. The followed behind the yugoloth another forty paces before entering another cellblock with a fourteen or more cells, each of them holding two to three black-shelled Mezzoloths. At the sight of Durmage they all rose to their feet and the air nearly hummed with the telepathic cries of the fiends.

	“I am free and we will paint the walls with the entrails of the fallen one’s followers. Those with me fight alongside us, and I have pledged their safety.” He looked back to the newly free guardinals, “Even our former friends here. You remember them I’m sure…”

	Unlocking the cells took several minutes with the Mezzoloths clacking their jaws and leering at Skalliska and Nisha as they popped the locks. Afterwards the lesser yugoloths arranged themselves into a tight formation behind the Nycaloth and began marching out of the chamber.

	“Umm… just where are you going? The stairs to the upper layers are down that other hallway…” Toras asked as the fiends marched.

	“Before we go up towards the ground layer of the tower we have one thing to do down here. The hydroloth pool is likely to be occupied and I don’t want to fight troops behind us. After killing however many are there we take the basement above us and equip ourselves from the weapons stores there, then up to the ground layer.”

	True to his word he led them to a waterlogged chamber where the Mezzoloths charged and overwhelmed a trio of frog-like hydroloths, butchering them without quarter. Durmage smiled throughout the event and continued to do so as he led them all back out to the base of a wide, metallic set of stairs.

	Whispering as he pointed up, “The armory is likely to be guarded, and after we take it, the main garrison will be raised and quickly upon us. They outnumber us two to one, but they only have one true spellcaster, the arcanaloth, and with you all we have several. On my order we go up.”

	There were nods all around and the Mezzoloths said nothing but simply obeyed without question, as was their lot in life for their caste of yugoloth. Clueless and Fyrehowl glanced at the Nycaloth though with minor disapproval.

	“Don’t act too in charge here. We can always take our chances without you.” The bladesinger said.

	“Whatever you say my liege…” Durmage said as he motioned his troops into action and burst up the stairs with a single flap of his wings.

	The others charged up behind the fiends into the sounds of battle and claws on chitin. The sounds ended quickly and three Mezzoloths of the opposite camp lay dead and mangled on the floor as those loyal to Durmage grabbed tridents, spears and pikes as the sounds of insectoid feet on steel and stone echoed out from above moments before an alarm rang out.

	“Be ready, they know we’re here…” The Nycaloth said before screaming out orders to his troops and once again launching himself upwards.

	They met the tower’s defenders at the main level when they emerged from the stairwell. True to the nycaloth’s prediction they faced more than double, possibly triple the number of Mezzoloths that they claimed to their side, along with several other sub-species of lesser yugoloth ranging from Dergholoth to Piscaloth.

	The Mezzoloths crashed into each other like frenzied waves, but seconds later they were struck from behind by spells and from the front as Fyrehowl and Toras charged into the fray. Momentarily the opposing fiends were stunned and uncertain since they hadn’t any clue as to the identity and capability of their unknown assailants, and in that moment the tide of battle began a slow slide against them.

	Screaming out praises to the Oinoloth, the Nycaloth Durmage was a terror to behold as he physically picked up one of the opposing Mezzoloths and snapped it in half bodily like a dry twig. Even Toras, who was in the process of hacking a Piscaloth to death, seemed impressed.

	But as favorable as things seemed in that moment as they pressed their way up the staircase towards the second level of the tower, pressing the defending ‘loths back with ferocity, things swung back towards a stalemate as several things happened. First a bolt of lightning launched down the stairs and struck amongst the lines of both groups and twin globes of darkness landed atop of two Mezzoloths aligned under Durmage’s command. A pair of Nycaloths swooping down from above and wading into the battle followed the globes of darkness with howls of rage and screams demanding blood and retribution.

	“How good to see you again Forcalt, Rezzivus… traitors…” Durmage said as he glared at the two newly arrived ‘loths as they advanced upon him.

	Forcalt was struck by a blast of flame from Clueless and Florian assailed his partner a moment later. The former recovered quickly and appeared largely unharmed, and Florian was sent sprawled back down the stairs with a single smashing blow from the glistening, blurred greatsword that Rezzivus held in his hands.

	The three Nycaloths hurled themselves at each other and Clueless dove into the combat as well, his wings a blurr of obsidian as he parried the greataxe wielded by the Forcalt. Those four battled furiously as below them, Fyrehowl, Florian and Toras were busy carving up the garrison of mezzoloths. And then a second bolt of lightning snarled amongst the ranks of their own Mezzoloths and felled several of them at once.

	“What the hell?” Nisha said as she looked up at the source of the lightning and watched a small fleshy orb with multiple eyestalks and a central eye snarl and hover at the edge of the stairs.

	Nisha pointed at the eyeball beholder-kin and shouted out to Tristol. The aasimar nodded and a moment later a fireball detonated at the stairwell and the familiar screamed as it darted back up and out of sight.

	“The arcanaloth is probably watching this all through his familiar, and it looks like he can target spells and cast them through it as well…” Tristol said as he ducked a thrown trident that clattered against the tower wall.

	The fighting continued and soon Toras managed to work his way up to aid Clueless and Durmage against the other two Nycaloths who were both more massive then either of their opponents, and seemingly better armored. At three against two the odds swung against the Anthraxus supporters and they both took blow after blow. Finally, with a series of strikes from Toras, one of them collapsed and fell to the landing some twenty feet below with a sickening crunch where the battle was almost over with only a handful of Mezzoloths alive on both sides. A split second later a fireball from above killed most of those few left alive.

	“Oh damnit, you don’t give up do you?” Tristol said as he hurled a fireball back up towards where the beholder-kin familiar was taking potshots. Skalliska however signed, loaded her crossbow and darted upwards in chase.

	Ducking down and running as fast as she could, Skalliska bolted up the stairs with hardly a look backwards. Hiding as best she could and pausing but briefly at each of the three landings she passed to look for the familiar, she emerged at the top level of the tower which was composed of a single room.

	Skalliska had her crossbow drawn as she emerged into the room to see two figures, one of them who had just appeared in the room with the bright flash of light of a teleport. Rezzivus the Nycaloth, his fellow Nycaloth dead three stories below, knelt on the ground, badly wounded and bleeding. Standing above him with a look of disdain was a black robed Arcanaloth and hovering over the sorcerer’s shoulder was a tiny eyeball beholder-kin.

	“My lord Parphinnias, the battle goes poorly and Forcalt is dead. They have several spellcasters on their side and we have none. Please, you have to help us or the tower will be lost.” The Nycaloth said as it looked up at its sneering, jackal-headed superior.

	And then Skalliska snickered, “Wimp…”

	The last thing the kobold saw was the eyeball beholder-kin swivel a half-dozen eyes in her direction, followed by Parphinnias calmly extending a hand towards her and whispering a single word. The green flash that erupted from his hand left only a pile of ash scattered amongst her belongings.

	Down below, the battle was over and piles of fiendish corpses were in the slow process of erupting into flame, dissolving into pools of acidic liquid, or simply crumbling to foul-smelling ashes. Of the Mydianchlarus loyal fiends, only the Nycaloth was still alive and he was badly injured with one of his wings hanging uselessly to one side, limp.

	“The arcanaloth is still alive and we must hurry or he may flee, the coward…make certain to kill the slasraths tethered to the mounts two levels up or he may attempt to take one of them and run.” Durmage said as he breathed heavily and climbed the stairs.

	Following him the others went, stopping only briefly two levels up to do as he suggested. Then, having butchered the tethered flyers without hesitation, they charged up the stairs into the single chamber that filled the highest floor of the tower. None of them noticed the dusty pile of ashes and Skalliska’s belongings as the burst into the room.

	“Wait a minute, there isn’t anyone…” Nisha said a moment before Fyrehowl dove for cover and another moment before a fireball detonated atop of them.

	Fading into view was the current lord of the tower, the arcanaloth Parphinnias. A curl of smoke rose from his still outstretched hand as he stood some twenty paces from the group. Behind him hovered his eye-studded familiar that snarled in proxy for its chuckling master.

	The arcanaloth’s subsequent words were silenced by a roaring column of flame invoked by Florian. When the swirling pyre of divine flame vanished, there was nothing left but a charred stain upon the floor.

	“Feel victorious oh bold heroes, you have managed to valiantly butcher an illusion and I congratulate you heartily. Shall we try this once more perhaps?” The ‘loth said from a position across the room as he raised his hand.

Looking back at a howl of rage from the Nycaloth Durmage, the group noticed that the arcanaloth had encased the other fiend in a spherical shell of force, effectively removing it from the battle.

	Tristol however, didn’t look, but rather he managed to cast first before the arcanaloth completed a second spell, and hurled a gleaming, fiery bead streaking towards the fiend.

	“Oh, very amusing little mageling.” The arcanaloth said with a snicker as Tristol’s fireball was snuffed as soon as it entered within a twenty-foot boundary from him. “Shall I teach you some real magic now?”

	With a whispered word, a column of nine burning beams of light shot out from the arcanaloth’s hand blasting his startled opponents with bursts of flame, lightning, ice, and even more exotic effects that left them hurt, and in Nisha’s case staggering and drooling.

	Recovering from the prismatic spray, the group charged the fiend with their weapons drawn or hurled spells at it. A crackling bolt of lightning arced from the fiend to snarl around every member of the group but Toras managed to strike a heavy blow as he seemed to be unaffected by the electricity that had left the others stunned and badly wounded.

	The fighter’s blow cleaved the fiend nearly in half, but then something strange happened. Rather than spurting blood, the dead fiend dissolved into frost and sparks of magic as a telepathic laugh echoed through Toras’s head.

	“Idiot… once fooled shame on you, fooled twice… haha…how do you kill something my friend if you cannot find it?”

	Another fireball erupted near the center of the party as they realized that the fiend was both still alive and still within the room.

	“Damnit! He was using a simulacrum!” Tristol shouted as he tried to think of a useful spell to locate the fiend.

	“He’s somewhere on that side of the room,” Florian said, pointing, as he concentrated and felt the fiend’s presence like smelling a pile of rotting meat in a darkened room, it was evident and unmistakable.

	Tristol hurled a cone of cold towards the section of the room where Florian had indicated, only to have the fiend counterspell it with seeming ease. And once more came its mocking voice flitting through their minds.

	“Is this all that Rubicon sent? Surely they could have done better. And what will then do when you fail to return? A pity about it I’m sure…”

	The fiend’s taunts were cut off sharply as his invisible form was outlined in a halo of flickering purple and blue faerie fire. As his form became visible he was instantly the target of spells from both Tristol and Florian, as well as a wave of ice from Fyrehowl’s outstretched hand. All three incantations struck with heavy effects, both the lupinals cone of cold, Tristol’s enervation, and Florian’s flamestrike. The arcanaloth shrieked in pain, and a second time as the body of his familiar drifted into visibility at his outlined form’s feet.

	Badly wounded and his familiar dead, the arcanaloth floated backwards and seemed to concentrate on something before looking perplexed and frustrated. A second time he concentrated on the same thing and a second time whatever it was, it failed him utterly. A look of panic crossed his features before Florian called down a second flamestrike on him where he stood. As he died and was consumed by the holy flames, Parphinnias could only wonder why his teleportation ability had failed him utterly in those last moments.

	The group stood clustered around the charred remains of the arcanaloth and they smiled in relief despite their hellish wounds. A moment later the first eight inches of Clueless’s sword burst out of Durmage’s chest and the Nycaloth collapsed dead to the ground.

	All eyes focused on Clueless as the Nycaloth shuddered and began to smoulder and turn to acidic ash as it dissolved in death. Clueless flicked his sword clean in a casual yet business-like manner.

	“What the hell was that for?!” Fyrehowl shouted to the bladesinger. “We gave him our word that once he helped us he could leave back to his home plane, anywhere but here on Elysium. Why?!”

	“He knew too much. He heard us mention seeing that Ultroloth Barzikonius get assassinated, and that alone is enough. That doesn’t need to spread or else it might come back to haunt us more than it likely will. I wasn’t going to risk it and it’s too late now.”

	“Well hells, that’s the last of them then unless we want to make one quick check through the tower for anything that’s possibly left behind.” Toras said as Nisha was bent over the charred remains of the arcanaloth and happily picking through the burning remnants for his possessions.

	“We’ve secretly replaced Skalliska with ashes today, let’s see if Nisha notices the difference!” The tiefling said to noone in particular as she grabbed things and stuffed them into her satchel. “Nisha pilfers and there’s no objections from the kobold, and all is good and fine in the world. Somewhere Skalliska is angry at being left out of the grabbing and looting, but she does nothing except perhaps to billow angrily.”

	Tristol chuckled and patted Nisha on the head as he casually picked up a thick spellbook from the arcanaloth’s shelves. The book was bound in some manner of hide, but by any guess it wasn’t standard leather; it was far too supple for that. Additionally, Tristol took a quill-pen that stood next to the book within a wall-mounted fountain of blood that was magically kept warm and liquid. One look at the pen and its magical nature, as well as the fact that it appeared to have been carved from Avoral bone, and Tristol had it slipped inside his robes and away from Fyrehowl’s gaze.

	The rest of the sorcerous fiend’s possessions were gathered together to sort out later, though Clueless took the fiend’s crystal ball that had sat on a pedestal next to the shelves that had held its spellbook. The scrying ball was a deep, blood red color with occlusions of black and lighter shades of red swirling through its interior. Oddly there was no objection to the bladesinger taking it since Tristol already had a crystal ball of his own, Florian wanted little to do with the fiend created item, and Skalliska wasn’t in a position to object.

	Most of the fiends’ chambers were starkly furnished with the exception of the arcanaloth’s chamber they had already picked clean. Two rooms were different, one immediately below the top of the tower that was sealed, and the room that had served to house Tarnsilver.

	The fallen lupinal’s room was simple and humble, despite his fallibility and mad ambitions in the end. The walls were decorated with several hangings of the symbol of the Transcendent Order and scenes from the three other layers of Elysium. The group let Fyrehowl enter and spend some quiet time in reflection alone while they left her and examined the sealed chamber.

	“Hmm, looks like it’s mage locked and that the arcanaloth warded it as well. Give me a minute here…” Tristol said before he dispelled the magic bound to the door.

	“What’s the symbol on the door?” Florian asked.


	“A personal sigil, I’d guessing the symbol of the Ultroloth who was in charge of the tower before the other group of ‘loths took over. Though why they felt it wise to lock and ward it, I can’t say.” Tristol said as he swung the door open tentatively.

	“And that might be why…” Toras said as they peered into the chamber.

	The room was empty except for a single table in the center of the room atop which sat a complex device of iron and crystal within which was cradled a brilliantly glowing white sphere.

	“Tristol? What the heck is that?” Nisha asked from behind the mage.

	“… let go of my tail and I’ll tell you…” The wizard said.

	“Sorry…”

	“Whatever it is it’s covered in abjuration magic.” Tristol commented.

	“And it’s radiating good…” Florian said as he moved into the room to look at the glowing sphere within the larger contraption.

	Following the cleric’s lead the others approached and looked into the glowing sphere as well. Inside the light wasn’t steady, but moved slightly and seemed almost alive.

	“Oh they didn’t…” Toras said as he reached out to take hold of the sphere.

	“Didn’t what?” Nisha asked.

	“The other natives of Belarian, the Quesar, beings of light. One of them is trapped inside this thing. They probably found it and the Ultroloth has had it bottled up since then and the arcanaloth either didn’t know how the device worked, or what it was, but in any event he felt the good of what was inside it and was afraid to muck around with it.” The fighter said as he looked into the interior of the sphere.

	And with that he crushed the crystalline globe and released the being trapped inside. A flash of brilliant light filled the chamber with an intensity that made them all squint to avoid hurting their eyes, and then it was gone with a whisper on the air of “Thank you…” as the celestial darted from the chamber and out into the plane at large without the tower’s walls serving as a barrier in the least.

	“Well another good deed for the day then, we’ll have to mark it on our list.” Nisha said with a grin.

	“Might make up for Clueless backstabbing that ‘loth. Sorry there, but that really set me on edge what you did back there.” Florian said with a shrug. Clueless ignored it and they continued on.

	Collecting Fyrehowl they made one further check of the tower and found little else besides a journal of sorts that the arcanaloth had been keeping to chronicle his time in the tower and their goals. Reading through it, the material confirmed Tarnsilver’s statements about his and the ‘loths’ goals for the Mother of Serpents, but it also went into details that had been kept hidden from the lupinal. Tarnsilver hadn’t been aware just how many guardinals had been captured, tortured and finally killed in the depths of the tower, nor had he been fully aware of the shipments of mortals and mortal souls to the tower to serve as food and playthings for the fiend. Most of the grisly details had been kept out of the lupinal’s view. However neither did the material suggest any larger involvement than they had already found. The book and their story would follow them back to Rubicon when they presented their findings to Duke Jalinon.

	Hours later, the tower left far behind them, they approached the shores of Belarian at the delta of the river Oceanus and bay within which the fortress of Rubicon sat proudly. Triumphant and with the two rescued guardinals in tow, they landed and entered the fortress.

	Inside, they were granted audience with Duke Jalinon and explained to the guardinal lord what they had found on the mainland, the apparent schemes of the ‘loths, the collusion of the fallen lupinal Tarnsilver, and how they had cleaned the tower of its fiendish inhabitants. The two rescued guardinals both added their own tales and backed up the group’s own claims while praising them for their rescue.

	“I am proud of you all, especially you Fyrehowl. I can ask little of you all now, and I owe you a boon. You have earned rest though for the moment. I would have you all visit Eronia and give your findings there to Duke Windheir the Avoral Lord, then return to me and I will give you a gift to repay my debt to you, and that of all of us here. Your companion Skalliska will be brought back to you shortly and then you will be shown to a portal.” Jalinon said with pride and thanks.

	Elsewhere, some time later, Skalliska awoke from oblivion and looked up into the eyes of a smiling ursinal clad in the brown and blue robes of a cleric of Celestian, a neutral good power of planewalkers. “Welcome back to us, your companions are waiting for you outside. And may I express my thanks for what you and they have done, it is appreciated deeply.”

	Skalliska looked down at her self and then back up to the guardinal cleric, “Where’s all the stuff I had on me? You didn’t steal any of it did you?”

	Out in the hallway, Nisha smacked her forehead with her hand and sighed. “We need to put her together with a grumpy dwarf, a feminine male elf, and a stupid half-orc and we’ll have the party of stereotypes.”

	“She’s not exactly breaking the mold of her people.” Clueless replied.

	“She asked if the ursinal that raised her from the dead had stolen her stuff. Not thank you for bringing me back to life. Not where am I. Not even who are you. No, it was ‘you didn’t steal my stuff, did you?’. And to a celestial no less.” Fyrehowl said as she rolled her eyes.

	“Hey, she didn’t ask Jalinon for a reward at least.” Toras said.

	“Yet… give it time.” The lupinal replied.

	“Anyways, be nice when she comes out and make excuses if she wants to go reward hunting.” Nisha said as she broke into a grin once Skalliska walked back out to meet them, complete with all of her equipment.

	“Welcome back from the dead ‘hon.” Florian said, “Duke Jalinon said thank you and after we go visit some highups in Eronia he wants us back here for a reward of sorts.”

	Perhaps too true to form Skalliska was in a much better mood when they all walked through Rubicon’s portal to Elysium’s first layer where they were greeted by a number of functionaries and escorted to where they could rest for the evening before meeting with the Duke.

	Given their own separate rooms, they all prepared for a well deserved and needed rest. With content and warm consciences they all drifted off into sleep, their worries far from their minds and their hearts happy with what they had achieved. And there in the depths of sleep, something stirred and reached out to them from across the space of planes and imparted unto them all a dream, common and simultaneous, cold and malevolent.

	All of them stepped into the same dreamscape, all of the companions who had traveled to Elysium together and stopped the rogue lupinal and his Yugoloth conspirators; all of them dreamt the same dream. And at the same time they did, Duke Lucan of Elysium, one of the seven companions of Talisad, awoke in the night with a sense of dread and a feeling that something black that he had felt once in the past had awoken and for a moment stared at him and laughed.

	Everything was shrouded in darkness that swirled like ebony mist around three standing figures. Staring at them out of the dream stood Vorkannis the Ebon, the overlord of Carceri, a study in black with only his gleaming reddish-pink eyes standing out from the darkness that seemed almost part and parcel of the archfiend. Behind him stood the red and gold wrapped form of Helekanalaith the Keeper of the Tower Arcane in Gehenna. A third figure in green completed the triad and was wrapped in obscuring shadow, her face indistinct and hidden but for the glint of light upon her fangs. A glowing blue gem hovered in the jeweled hand of the third arcanaloth and another hovered in the open hand of The Ebon.

	With a voice like honey touched with poison, wrapped with the warmth of a lover and the cold of a betrayer’s blade, The Ebon spoke to them in mocking triumph.

	“Now my puppets I thank you. Know that nothing you do, nothing you create, nothing you aspire to, nothing your souls crave happens but by my will. Nothing you have done, no plans you have spoiled, no blood you have spilt, has been but by my wish and determination. By my will your hands this night are awash in blood and the death screams of Rubicon, my symphony in which you play your own parts. At the breaking of the first light of dawn on Belerian, witness my work and despair.”

****​


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## Shemeska

Ashy said:
			
		

> A message from back on page 9, where I am quickly catching up to the present... I've just got to say that I LOVE Nisha - she makes me laugh out loud constantly!!!!!  Great, great job on her, Shemeska!




Nisha is a bit of a balancing tool in some ways to let me lighten the campaign at times since overall it gets progressively darker and more fatalistic in many ways over time. So you've got the wacky, nutty CG Xaositect to balance out the 'loths and all the other lower planar critters that show up.

Thanks for the praise. Enjoy her while she's there.


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## shilsen

What dreams may come...

Very nice


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## Clueless

A minor scene skipped at the Duke's palace as we all settled down for the night:

Clueless knocked on Tristol's door - his new 'favorite' food arrayed on a platter before him. The mage opened the door and yelped as a green and jiggling cube launched at his face. In fleeing the 'gelationous cube', the mage fell backwards swiping with his staff. The 'cube' disintegrated to the laughter of the fey at the door. Clueless ducked for cover, wings flickering blue-green, as he snickered. Tristol stood up, the fur on his tail fluffed out in all directions, covered in jello.


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## Gez

Story said:
			
		

> "witness my work and despair."




Ha-ah! Now I know the secret identity of the Ebon. He's Ozymandias in disguise!

Interesting update, and with less typoes than the previous!  That said, one confusion still: "Those four battled furiously as below them, Fyrehowl, Florian and Toras were busy carving up the garrison of _Nycaloths_." I take it you meant Mezzoloths.


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## Shemeska

*His wife was a better writer, IMHO*



			
				Gez said:
			
		

> Ha-ah! Now I know the secret identity of the Ebon. He's Ozymandias in disguise!
> 
> Interesting update, and with less typoes than the previous!  That said, one confusion still: "Those four battled furiously as below them, Fyrehowl, Florian and Toras were busy carving up the garrison of _Nycaloths_." I take it you meant Mezzoloths.




1) While I end up actually quoting Shelley at one point in the campaign, this time the comparison of The Ebon's words to that poem w/ the statue of Ramses II wasn't a conscious decision, the words just fit. 

2) If there's fewer typos this time it was by luck because I posted it around 3am or so when I was about to fall asleep at the keyboard and I didn't want to wait another day before posting since I'm hoping to have a second update this week on Friday or Saturday.

3) and yes, I meant to say mezzoloths, mea culpa


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## Shemeska

*'Did you miss me? Now, so I won't be forgotten...'*

"One man's death is a tragedy, a million deaths are a statistic." -Josef Stalin responding to Churchill at the Potsdam conference

****​


6 Hours before the slide:


Shylara the Manged looked out across the flooded lowlands of Belarian and then back to the face of the Ebon. “I have come my love, just as you requested. Anthraxus has joined his forces at Center and marches now on Khin-Oin. The two armies will clash in perhaps a few hours from now. Soon the Oinoloth will wonder where you are.”

“No. No he won’t. The fool has more things to worry about, and all of the troops I promised him have been provided, and they will fight loyally to him. For now at least.” The archfiend smiled knowingly at his protégé. “That changes in six hours.”

“Explain my lord, for while I’ve been privy to portions of your plans, you’ve never told me the full scope of it; you’ve reserved that for your two compatriots…”The Manged sneered at the mention of those two and Vorkannis chuckled.

“Jealousy becomes you darling. Trust me and look around you. What do you see?” He said.

She looked out over the landscape and frowned, “Misguided righteousness that begets weakness. That is what I see. A barren land that the guardinals have used as a prison for what they could not kill. After all, what troubles them not and troubles the rest of the planes not is not a trouble at all. They lock their problems away and hope they cease to exist if the multiverse forgets about them. That is what I see.”

“Then we are in agreement. Consider this then: what better place to hide the marshalling site of evil than under the very noses of the purest of the pure. A prison and hiding place of their own making, too easily put to our use, and possession is 9/10 of the law…”

	The Ebon smiled down at his apprentice as they both looked out over the plane surrounding them where neither of them should have rightfully stood. Neither should there have been the fortress there that rose above the swamp nearly a quarter of a mile across with spires that rose into the sky almost as far. None of it should have been there, but there it was and the guardinals of Rubicon were blissfully unaware of it all; warded by The Ebon’s spells, the entire citadel was shrouded from sight and the very nature of Belarian itself prevented divinations and the like. Evil sat within Elysium, unknowingly aided by the motives of the pure.

	Thirty miles to the east stood the empty remnants of the smaller tower, a decoy that would suffice to convince Rubicon that all was over and quiet. It would convince them that all the blood that had been shed was all that would be. The fallen lupinal, Tarnsilver, who was now dead at the hands of Rubicon’s servitors, had been wholly unaware of the full scope of the fiendish involvement on the layer. He hadn’t known of the portal to Carceri that sat within the central courtyard of the other, much larger fortress to the west, framed by its three massive towers. He hadn’t been aware of that portal, ripped into the fabric of Belarian’s original wardings by the Overlord of Carceri himself, that now stood open and glowing a sickly reddish light up into the sky like a bleeding ulcerated wound. He hadn’t known of the sheer volume of traffic through that portal either, and neither would Rubicon till it was too late.


****​

6 hours later:

	They all awoke with a feeling of dread and nervousness, especially Fyrehowl and Tristol. While none of them could pin it down exactly as they rose from bed and wandered out into the hallway, they could sense that something was terribly amiss. All across Elysium it seemed for those minutes that the multiverse itself was holding its breath, but out of fear and dread rather than anticipation.

	Nisha yawned as she got up from the floor where she’d been curled up with her bed’s mattress in the hallway. “… what’s everyone doing out here? If I was snoring I’m sorry, and if it’s about the bed, well, I just felt like it on a lark. But I just had the weirdest damn dream…”

	Fyrehowl looked at Tristol, then Clueless, and then to the others as well. From a flicker of eye contact she knew the truth of the matter and said as much, “We all did…”

	“We’ve seen him before in Garroth’s sensory stones, and heard his voice in the Mercane’s demiplane. He’s had his hand in all of this, but I don’t know what for.” Clueless said warily.

	“Who were the two others with him?” Florian asked.

	“We’ve seen the one in the red robes before in Garroth’s material too, he was the Keeper of the tower arcane in Gehenna. Pretty much the head of his sub-race of fiends.” Tristol replied.

	“Not that he seemed to be calling the shots there…” Fyrehowl said.

	“No, he wasn’t. The third one was the bitch back in Sigil who f*cked me over in the first place… you know the name, I won’t repeat it.” Clueless said bitterly.

	“So what the hell do you think that meant? It was just to all of us it looks like. If a Yugoloth had sent dreams to anyone else this place would be jumping with every guardinal in sight.” Florian said.

	“I don’t know, but it isn’t good. I think we should tell…” Fyrehowl paused as she felt something strange. For a brief moment it seemed as if the Cadence, the heartbeat of the planes themselves, had trembled and skipped a beat. A second later her head swam with nausea and she felt sick like a piece of herself had just been ripped away and violated. Tristol likewise paused and felt ill before Toras helped him regain his balance.

	“Are you ok?” Skalliska said up to the lupinal.

	“No. No I’m not. Something horrible just happened, or will happen soon. It feels like something’s missing. We have to go back to Rubicon and warn them that something terrible is about to occur.” Fyrehowl said in a panic as she dashed down the hallway and back to the portal linking to Belarian.

	They all ran to the portal and arrived a minute later to find the pair of Avorals stationed by the swirling nimbus of light feeling sick themselves for reasons neither of them could explain either. With looks to one another of worry and concern, the group dove through the portal to Rubicon, or rather, what was left in the aftermath.

	They arrived on the southern slope of the hill leading up to Rubicon with the air heavily laden with brimstone and a sharp, coppery scent. As the acrid smoke of burnt flesh drifted over them they realized that they were not within the fortress as the portal had originally led but standing below and looking up into a scene wrought in hell. The island was seemingly sliced in two down the center, with half of the fortress simply missing and the rest of it in devastated ruin littered with the corpses of its defenders.

	“Oh powers above…” Fyrehowl said with a cracking voice.

	Amid the craters and scorch marks of spells that dotted the fortress and its surroundings, the stones of the walls of Rubicon were glowing in the rising light of dawn. Glowing red with the rising sun, the walls were coated and awash in the still sticky blood of tens of thousands of guardinals who hung crippled, dead and dying, crucified upon the battlements of the fortress. Moans of despair, anguish, and immortal agony echoed across the ruins from where the defenders of Elysium had been left to suffer and die, surrounded by the corpses of those they would eventually join in oblivion there, nailed to the walls of Rubicon by the hands of Yugoloths.

	Smoldering pits and outlines of bodies dotted the rubble, the bodies of fiends dissolving into nothingness. One of the towers of the cathedral-fortress still stood and crashed into its parapet was a dead slasrath, its manta-shaped body hanging limply over the ramparts to leave no doubt about who was responsible for the slaughter.

	“Oh powers above…” Fyrehowl said as she fell to her knees and wept.

	“Where’s the rest of the plane?” Tristol said as he too tried to choke back his emotions.

	“What do you mea… sh*t… look at the bay, look for the mainland.” Clueless said as he looked past the blood soaked island and out beyond it to the bay where Oceanus ran red with the aftermath of the massacre. The layer of Belarian was gone, vanished, and only a pale grayish mist swirled above the tarnished and bloodied waters of the holy river where Elysium’s third layer had once been.


----------



## Shemeska

Short update, but an update nonetheless. Enjoy as things take a hard turn into the dark.


----------



## Gerzel

Gez said:
			
		

> Ha-ah! Now I know the secret identity of the Ebon. He's Ozymandias in disguise!
> 
> Interesting update, and with less typoes than the previous!  That said, one confusion still: "Those four battled furiously as below them, Fyrehowl, Florian and Toras were busy carving up the garrison of _Nycaloths_." I take it you meant Mezzoloths.





Do you mean the fox from ozzie and millie?  That's a scary image


----------



## shilsen

Gerzel said:
			
		

> Do you mean the fox from ozzie and millie?  That's a scary image



 No, he means Ozymandias from P.B.Shelley's poem of the same name. Philistine 

Nice update, Shem. What was the players' reactions when you described the last scene?

BTW, minor typo:



> “Explain my lord, for while I’ve been privy to portions of your *planes*, you’ve never told me the full scope of it...




Though, in retrospect, portions of his planes sounds right too


----------



## Ohtar Turinson

Gerzel said:
			
		

> Do you mean the fox from ozzie and millie?  That's a scary image



 I don't know, it kinda makes sense- Millie did say that she was going 'vanquish' him on the grounds that he might conceivably be evil...


----------



## Shemeska

shilsen said:
			
		

> No, he means Ozymandias from P.B.Shelley's poem of the same name. Philistine
> 
> Nice update, Shem. What was the players' reactions when you described the last scene?




1) And he's the english major while I'm in the scientist. 

2) Damned surprised as they realized just how much they'd been played. The fallout from it all will just snowball over the next few updates.


----------



## bluegodjanus

It may have been short, but it was a very good update. I thought I was startled when I saw you had destroyed Rubicon, but that was really nothing compared to the rest.


----------



## Zappo

Whoa. He stole the bloody layer! Now that's a cool trick!


----------



## Chrys

> “No, he wasn’t. The third one was the bitch back in Sigil who f*cked me over in the first place… you know the name, I won’t repeat it.” Clueless said bitterly.




I thought Nisha was the only one who knew at that point? No did he let it slip?

Stole a whole layer  I need to try that


----------



## Clueless

Shemmie hyperbole and writer's liscence. I don't think I had actually revealed it by this point in character - but it isn't much later that they *do* find out - so it's not a huge issue.


----------



## Zappo

Pssh... update the thread title...


----------



## Clueless

Quote from GM as he looks over notes mid game: "Oh, opps! I'll do that then..."

As a side note: Shemmie writing has been archived and put up on Planewalker, at Planewalker Chronicles. A collection of all the short stories and short fictions he's put together so far this year. Check it out and scratch that need for story...


----------



## Sandain

Hello ,

Are your PC's stats posted anywhere please?


----------



## Clueless

Not at the moment they aren't, why? (Plus our stats currently in game are nearly 15 levels higher than the story hour is right now.)


----------



## Gez

shilsen said:
			
		

> No, he means Ozymandias from P.B.Shelley's poem of the same name. Philistine




Thank you, Sean Clark & Micheal Stemmle, for letting me look erudite and all when I've never read that poem.


----------



## Sandain

Only because I enjoy the number side of story hours also.  I like to know classes and levels and what the items are you loot from the bad guys you fight.


----------



## primemover003

I never would've thought of it...  But the Harmonium set the precedent.  And the Guardinals basically handed the Lower planes another layer just by seeding Belarian with all those horrors.  Talk about standing back and looking at the Big Picture.  Something the PS setting tried to drill into our heads over and over....

Excellent "Planes Shaking Event" Shemeska.  That rivals the ToT & RotAW in FR for sheer ingenuity.


----------



## Gez

RotAW?


----------



## Ohtar Turinson

Gez said:
			
		

> RotAW?



Return of the Archwizards. The name of the series Troy Denning did about the return of Shade.


----------



## Shemeska

primemover003 said:
			
		

> I never would've thought of it...  But the Harmonium set the precedent.  And the Guardinals basically handed the Lower planes another layer just by seeding Belarian with all those horrors.  Talk about standing back and looking at the Big Picture.  Something the PS setting tried to drill into our heads over and over....
> 
> Excellent "Planes Shaking Event" Shemeska.  That rivals the ToT & RotAW in FR for sheer ingenuity.




Thank you 
	

	
	
		
		

		
			





But what if I said it was only a means to an end, and spiting the guardinals was only icing on a very bloody cake? 
	

	
	
		
		

		
		
	


	




Now is when it gets interesting, and hopefully I can update still while I'm home with my family over the holidays.


----------



## Gez

Well, the guardinals emprisonned the Mother of Serpents in Belarian so that the Axis of Eeeevil p) couldn't make use of her. I guess grabbing Belarian was, in a way, a "rescue" mission to seize that monstrous asset.

Now, building that fortress of evil on Belarian was an impressive task. Wonder if it isn't tied to the disparition of the Crawling City... CC moves to Carceri, pass through the Carcerian Portal, and arrives at Belarian.


----------



## Shemeska

Gez said:
			
		

> Now, building that fortress of evil on Belarian was an impressive task. Wonder if it isn't tied to the disparition of the Crawling City... CC moves to Carceri, pass through the Carcerian Portal, and arrives at Belarian.




You'll find out the reasons behind the fiends snagging Belarian in the first bit of the next update, which should hopefully be uploaded in the next day or two. Perhaps as a Xmas present on Saturday


----------



## Clueless

Planewalker updates, and a bit of an advertisement for those of you who're already missing Shemmie's storyhour and want more:

First - a veritable bevy of works, recently joining the library of our old friend the Chronicler. (Has anyone ever actually see the old geezer? Name like that one'd think one woulda heard o' him before now.) These bein' works from - oh boy. Her. Ms. Shemeska herself: a collection of bedtime stories. Whispers Upon the Waste, Welcome to Carceri, The Inevitable, The Heart of Perdition, So tell me, what is it you want?, Lament of the Willing Damned, For There is a Hole in the Sky, Footsteps on Oinos, Fine Print.

In other news, under Planar Portals, a new class detailing the details o' the godhaters, the Athar. By Christopher Campbell, this promises t' be an interestin' read. An' useful at that if'n you plan t' meet up with any Athar anytime soon. Defiers


----------



## Shemeska

*Have yourself a 'lothy little Christmas*

“The changing of loyalty consists, in its primary step, of the eradication of existing loyalties…What can people be made to believe? They can be made to believe anything which is administered to them with sufficient brutality and force. The obedience of a populace is as good as they will believe.” – Lavrenty Beria


*1 hour before the slide:*


The Ebon hovered before the gaping, gnashing maws of the Mother of Serpents there upon Belarian as the layer shuddered and slid. The great serpent locked its eyes upon the fiend like a cobra upon a snake charmer; entranced, enthralled, captivated, controlled.

	“And now after so many years of preparation, I have need of you my pet. I have need of you now after these long centuries of waiting and gorging you on the blood of my own kind to whet your stomach to the taste.” The Ebon said as his eyes began to glow a flickering red that was soon reflected back and amplified in the depths of the Serpent’s own.

	“And now as your prison begins to break, its wardings buckling and tearing from their moorings, I have much to speak to you of the coming hour. So listen, learn, submit, and obey…”

But previously…


****​

*4 hours before the slide:*


	Anthraxus the Decayed looked up from four miles distant at the Tower that once was his, and soon would be again if all went according to plan. The ground shook as he strode between the ranks of fiends serving in his name; those who would die in his name, for death was preferable to cowardice should he succeed, and preferable to surrender should he fail. But failure was not in his mind or in his twisted heart.

	“Ensure that the mortals are ringed by at least double their number of fiends. They fear death where a Mezzoloth does not, and I want them terrified more by those at their backs driving them forwards than to whatever filth awaits them in the trenches ringing my former Tower.” The voice of the former Oinoloth rang out harshly to his attendant generals and warlords, Ultroloths all of them, perhaps twenty-five or thirty all told. Surrounding out around them were perhaps double that number of Arcanaloths and Nycaloths, who would in turn carry out the smaller details of the battle plans within their own smaller contingents.

	The precognizant scent of blood rose on the air as The Decayed spoke out once more, the Staff of the Lower Planes cradled in his arms. “Death under the pikes and spells of the enemy before us is far more preferable to you, all of you, than to risk my displeasure and all the lower planes forbid, my anger. They stand before you as cowards and I stand behind you as conqueror and savior. You have no choice but to wallow in their blood this day in honor of me. You will dance amongst their bones to the rhythm of my creed and praises in honor of me. It is birthright, it is destiny, and it is my will.”

	And Anthraxus the Decayed raised his skull-topped staff and gestured forth towards the summit of Khin-Oin miles above, laughing as the armies surged forwards around him. As the uncounted millions of fiends surged flowed like a black, chitinous tide of damned souls and evil made flesh, the air hummed with the battle cries of his soldiers and the beating of the wings of slasraths that threatened to blot out of the gray of the sky itself, while high above atop the summit of the Wasting Tower, the Oinoloth looked down.


****​

	“What, if any, suggestions do you have Typhus?” Mydianchlarus the Oinoloth said as he strummed his fingers upon the throne of Khin-Oin.

	Typhus, one of the Altraloths of Disease, looked up at his lord from where he stood on the precipice of the tower overlooking the armies below. “Your strategy is sound my lord, I can find no fault in the overall plan itself. As well, the armies are nearly evenly matched in raw numbers and in their exact composition.”

	The Oinoloth nodded, his expressionless face holding only the flickering, gleaming eyes of his species and the jaundice of his position, though his voice rang clearly and powerfully in the mind of his supplicant. “You hesitate slightly. Why? It is unlike you to pause when discussing military strategy.”

	Typhus nodded his compact, misshapen head, “The mercenaries employed by your enemy swell his force to a fraction larger than your own. Your own contingent of Mezzoloths is marginally larger, but not enough to make up the difference. While your own force of arcanaloths is nearly double that of the enemy, his hired wizards make up the difference, or nearly so, and we have nothing to counteract his use of clerics.”

	“Godslaves…” The single statement hung heavily on the air with the faint sensation or smell of burnt flesh lingering on the wind, intoned by the Oinoloth’s impression.

	“At least the Overlord of Carceri has provided a larger force than originally promised by him or projected by us. Not that he has deigned to show up in person…” Typhus put emphasis on the latter fact and smiled cunningly at the Ultroloth prince.

	“He still has time to make his presence known and to earn his continued position of leadership in the Red Prison. If he does not, well, then you and I will talk about your ambitions. But not till that point.” Mydianchlarus was firm, but the smile only grew on the Altraloth’s face.

	A moment’s concentration crossed the otherwise blank features of the Oinoloth and flickering motes of greenish, sickly light danced in the ebony ovals of his eyes as his voice reached out across the miles and into the minds of his generals and the blackened hearts of his soldiers, down to the very last canoloth.

	“Brace for them and let them charge you. Protect the casters and engines of war behind the front lines and allow them to fire into the enemy’s rear guard after the initial wave is broken. Feast upon their hearts this day my children and I will be proud of you. Serve your Oinoloth and your race.”

****​

*3 hours before the slide:*


	“The armies will fight for days and I am not in the mood for a war of attrition at this point, even if it is one that will win by virtue of the Tower and what lays below.” The Oinoloth said as he rose from the throne atop the Wasting Tower with a flaming red glint swirling within his eyes.

	His attendants nodded, Ultroloth’s all of them, perhaps thirty or more gathered together there at the summit of the spinal column that marked the birthplace of their race. None of them however replied or dared hazard a guess as to what their master meant by the statement.

	“You disappoint me, all of you. But no matter, in this matter idiocy breeds compliance and that is all I require for the moment, neither brilliance nor spontaneity, just brute force.” Mydianchlarus allowed his voice to linger on the air as a latent psionic hum for a few moments before brandishing his sword.

	His generals still said nothing.

	“My predecessor is arrogant beyond his means and we will enter the fray directly and make our way to him. When the fallen one is dead the war will be over and we may begin shipping our troops back to their battles in the Blood War, and begin the execution of those who had the temerity of choosing the wrong side.”

	“Or those not appearing in person…” Typhus said with a snicker underneath his breath. Unnoticed in his covetous moment of envy there at the summit, the Altraloth failed to notice the unnatural smile on the face of his scribe, an arcanaloth from the Tower Arcane in Gehenna. Later, though the scribe would die in the continued fighting of the siege, Typhus would remember the expression it had borne in that moment and the idiot savant of War would be perplexed by it, and, for a brief second, appreciative.

	A brief gesture was all it took from the Oinoloth and the Ultroloths separated out. Half of them clustered around their master and the other half vanished in the momentary, telltale flash of teleportation down to their own troops in the seething carpet miles below. Once more the telepathic voice of Mydianchlarus rang out into the mind of Typhus, “I would have you at my side… as further proof of your loyalty and ability to command; something that will be taken into consideration when Anthraxus is dead…”

	Typhus nodded, wiped the stream of drool from its mouth and brandished his axe as he took his place at the Oinoloth’s side. Mydianchlarus drew his own blade from out of thin air like a double-edged splinter of a moonless night gripped in his hand and wreathed in flame. Then, with the hum of defensive spells cutting the still, they vanished and reappeared upon the battlefield miles below.

	They were sandwiched between the clashing front lines of Mezzoloths and within a second those loyal to the wrong side were incinerated, disemboweled, petrified, imploded, crushed by invisible hands, or simply hacked to pieces. With a hole cleanly punched in the lines of the enemy, and with the defensive wardings of both armies impeding long range teleportation behind one another’s lines, the Oinoloth’s army surged around him and through the breach, and he soon followed.


****​

	Gregor Theodorikos, a mortal cleric of Athena stood behind the line of Mezzoloths in front of him and hurled a column of flaming, divine kissed death down upon the enemies of his current master Anthraxus. Evil was evil, there was no doubt about that, but gold was gold, and dying for gold in battle was no dishonor as long as one fought bravely and with pride. Still, the fiends made him uncomfortable in how they looked at him with every whispered prayer and invocation of Athena’s power.

	The cleric ignored them and charged forward as the line moved up to replace those who had fallen in the more heated battles in the forward groupings where there seemed to have been a sudden and tremendous break in the besiegers’ progress towards the Tower. Beside the cleric, his brother Dimitri stood and heavily gripped a pike larger than Gregor. Both cleric and soldier had seen easy profit, tales to tell their children, and things to proudly boast over when drunk in the years to come by signing over their spells and arms to Anthraxus in Center. Now however, they found themselves in more of a Hell than they could have imagined was possible.

	A massive explosion twenty yards to their right sent them sprawling with its detonation and then scrambling to avoid the rain of gore, blood and broken earth sent skyward. As the bodies of lesser yugoloths and mortals alike rained down in pieces around them the fiendish artillery on their own sides fired back, the ‘spells-long-reach’, catapults for spells, raining down explosive bolts and showers of death in retribution.

	Dmitri cried out in fear as a squadron of Slasrath’s shot over their position before turning about and hurling a wave of spells at the fiends below, not far from their own position. Had they been the intended targets they would likely have been incinerated instantly. But, just as soon as the arcanaloths had expended their spells, they were enveloped in a cloud of arrows and ballista bolts from the troops below them.

	“We’ll get out of this brother of mine, don’t you worry. Don’t you worry at all,” Gregor said to his brother.

	“How can you say that?! Look around you! If we stop, our ‘allies’ will slaughter us or worse, and if we march forward the only thing that’s waiting for us is death.” The fighter said fearfully in a quite realistic assessment of the battle for he and his brother.

	“Athena will find a way for us both. She will protect us. Have faith brother.” Gregor said as he whispered a prayer of protection to his goddess a split second before a hail of arrows descended atop their position and skewered a dozen fiends, leaving only them alive by virtue of the divine protection against such.

	“Maybe you’re right… but we’re being driven towards the break in the lines ahead, and magic won’t much prepare you from being devoured alive in close combat… we’ll see…” Dmitri said as he thrust he pike upwards to clip the wing of a low flying enemy slasrath.

	They both progressed into the hellstorm between the two armies that hurled themselves at one another in a frenzy of blind loyalty. At least the fiends did, and the mortals fought for honor, gold, and most importantly their own lives since they, unlike the fiends, feared death upon the Waste. Closer and closer to the front lines the ash of the ground became a thick, syrupy mud, thick and wet with the blood of mortals and the acidic bile and guts of the fiends. The air itself was heavy with a spray of the stuff like fear taken palpable form as it misted upon their face with each change in the wind; but still they moved forwards. With the iron tridents of their own master’s Mezzoloths at their back, they had little choice.

	Still closer, the detonations of spells and hurled missiles from fiendish siege engines that were fired almost indiscriminately from either side of the line grew even heavier while somewhere a quarter-mile or so to their right, it seemed like the armies of Mydianchlarus were surging through a sudden break in the attackers’ line while elsewhere their own line was fragmenting in response to the push of troops forward in other places. Their world was a sea of fiends with blades, pikes and banners rising above the surface of it all like the fins of swimming sharks awash in the bloody froth with which the waters had been chummed, and the latter was what the two mortals that moment felt like.


****​

	But not all in the battle was a moving sea of carnage, pain and death that ringed the Wasting Tower for miles in all direction. Not everywhere was the air cut by the curses of the living, the agonized screams of the dying, the ring of steel of steel, steel of chitin, and steel into flesh. Not everywhere was the air alive with the sound of marching feet, chanted prayers and spells, the explosive result of those arcane mutterings, or even the creak and thunderous release of the engines of war on both sides. One small spot seemed calmer, more peaceful, offset and outside the battle in way.

An outside observer to the carnage that ringed the Wasting Tower for miles upon miles around might have seen one incongruous and very out of place person sitting down amidst it all upon first glance. Perhaps a mile from the base of the tower at the point where the forces of Mydianchlarus and Anthraxus’s armies both clashed full on with one another, sat a young aasimar girl perhaps in her mid to late teens.

	The young girl was dressed in a simple robe of yellowed, homespun linen cloth but somehow the dirt, blood, and spittle of the battle did not fall upon her. Neither did she seem concerned by the war raging around her, untouched by it as she was. In fact, the fiends didn’t seem to notice her presence at all; they only seemed to avoid stepping on her by a foot or two, and even then the action seemed to come to them unconsciously rather than by a directed action on her part.

	Tellura Ibn Shartalan smiled out at the carnage, an expression of blissful innocence upon her face as she reached up to brush back her hair from her face. One half of the long hair on her head was a nearly white blond and the other a nearly purple shade of bluish-black. Curling up from under her hair was a set of gently curling horns like those of a bariaur, a ram, or a goat. Underneath it all were her brilliantly bluish eyes that sparkled with the same innocence as her smile, a comforting beacon in the depths of a hell.

	She continued gazing out at the battle with a look of expectation, wonder, and sympathy for the fighting, the injured, and the dying. She continued gazing out and leaned heavily upon a simple wooden staff, crooked at the top like that of a shepherd to tend to a flock of sheep.

	“Athena forbid! What are you doing here young one? I have to get you out of here or you’ll be slaughtered, or worse, by the fiends!” The abrupt and startled shout of one of the mortal mercenaries of Anthraxus grated upon the Shepherd’s ears and she glanced over at him.

	“Oh heavens, you look injured. Your leg, is it broken or maimed by some spell?” The mortal cleric named Gregor prattled on benevolently like an idiot.

	For a moment the ground behind the Dire Shepherd rippled with movement and a darkly malicious glint overtook her eyes before she looked up and smiled back at the mortal. The doomed soul only saw the brilliant blue eyes and the childish smile on the body of the lame but otherwise beautiful young woman. He didn’t consider the incongruity of the juxtaposition there at the base of Khin-Oin, but by that point it was too late. He never saw the girl’s shadow rise up from behind her like a living thing. He never saw the brilliant blue flickers of eyes in the shadow’s goat-like head; all he felt was the sudden shock and horrific pain as it curled around him and sunk its icy, razored fangs into his neck. And, as his world faded into darkness and his soul was rent from his body, he saw the girl whom he had only wished to help, Tellura Ibn Shartalan the Dire Shepherd, smiling up at his dying eyes with a look of perfect, childlike innocence.

	Moments later the girl’s shadow lay flat upon the ground with deceiving innocuousness and she wiped her mouth clean with the sleeve of her robe that was left bloody for the effort. The mortal corpse at her feet was almost unrecognizable as mangled as it was, but she barely concerned herself with it, except to whisper to a passing Mezzoloth to drag the body away from her sitting place. The fiend did so instantly without thought and whimpered slightly as if it were groveling in the presence of a figure of worship or adoration, like it was being smiled upon by its mother.

 The Shepherd gave only a small smile to the lesser fiend as it did her bidding, instead keeping her attention on the movement of the leaders of the battle and occasionally a fascinated glance towards the sky. The 2nd of The Demented was waiting for something greater to occur than all of her children playing happily around her as they were made to.


****​

*1 hour before the slide:*

	Halfway through the battle, perhaps a single hour before the tide of it all would radically change, something happened fifty miles from the Wasting Tower where a lone Baatezu army abruptly changed direction from skirting the edges of the Yugoloth conflict and moved on an intercept perpendicular to the slaughter. Though itself only a fraction of the size of either ‘loth force, it was not insignificant and likely was larger than the mercenary force of both sides combined. One and a half million Baatezu marching towards history under the banner of Lilith the Hag Countess, Lord of the 6th of Baator… their crash into the tide of ‘loths would be heralded in an hour by something far larger than they; something that would eclipse them entirely.

	Shortly after the Baatezu army began its slow and inexorable drive towards Khin-Oin, unnoticed and uncared for, two forces had begun to break their way through the opposing ranks: Anthraxus and his Ultroloth servitors, and Mydianchlarus and his own Ultroloth generals. Like twin forces of nature, the two groups seemed to melt through their opposition in a wall of blades and invoked devastation, heading unerringly for the other.

	Mydianchlarus the Oinoloth would simply look and snuff out the lives of fifty or more Mezzoloths standing to oppose him, their blood boiling, their flesh rotting away and leaving only their soft innards to lay upon the ground and be trodden underfoot, or their forms consumed in waves of flames to make Phlegethos seem a cool respite. His eyes flickering a staccato pattern of merciless, flashing light, the Oinoloth caught sight of his predecessor in the approaching waves of soldiers. What he had done by words and intellect before, he would soon do in cruder, more painful ways.

	The other force of nature upon the battlefield, the monstrosity that was Anthraxus the Decayed caught sight of his successor a moment later and moved to intercept with a blood soaked sneer upon his maw. He sent a dozen defenders to their deaths with a single blow from his staff, and another dozen with a spell to turn their blood to a volatile, flammable liquid. The former Oinoloth knew what powers his enemy commanded, for he had possessed them once himself, and he knew how to counter them in perhaps more ways than they current holder did himself. Stepping upon a still living Piscaloth under the banner of his enemy, Anthraxus smiled as the fiend’s skull collapsed under his hooves as he physically picked up a Yagnoloth half his size and snapped it in twain like a brittle twig before hurling it some fifty yards across the battlefield. Anthraxus was laughing as he made his way towards his opponent, a trail of blood, filth and ashes the only thing left in his wake.


****​

*The Sixth Hour:*


	Mydianchlarus stood next to the Altraloth Typhus and a coterie of Ultroloths, all of them standing a few hundred feet distant from Anthraxus and his own, all of them staring at the other. Nothing was said; nothing needed to be said. But, for a time they all held their ground and let the fighting rage around them on all sides amongst the lesser fiends while they sought to judge the condition and defenses of their opponents.

	“You know that you will die here, today, in the shadow of Khin-Oin. That much is self evident…” The voice of Mydianchlarus whispered mockingly into the mind of Anthraxus.

	“If I ever die upon this plane it will not be from the likes of you, a weakling who relies on others to provide him with secrets to topple his betters. Who told you that which forced me from the throne? You couldn’t have known that yourself, or likely discovered it yourself either… you’re too young to have witnessed that yourself… you were but a Nycaloth then and I an Ultroloth… who supported your rise to power? Tell me before you die…” Anthraxus’s own mind whispered back with sibilant promises of death carried on the gaps between the winds.

	Both of them and their allies began weaving more and more defensive spells as they approached closer. All the while, unknown to them except for a vague feeling on the part of the current and former Oinoloths, all of them were being watched from a short distance away where a young girl with a lame, crippled leg, who sat silently upon the corpses of several Mezzoloth’s piled high. Tellura Ibn Shartalan smiled at her children as they played and squabbled, and then looked up at the sky beyond the Wasting Tower a moment before planes shifted and realigned.

	Suddenly the ground began to shake with a subtle vibration that set the dust and ash swirling and dancing, quickly rising to an earthshaking tremor that left nothing upon the plain surround the Wasting Tower unmoved save the tower itself. Every fiend upon the battlefield paused and looked around in confusion as something lurched within their hearts and clouds began to gather in the sky.

	Anthraxus and Mydianchlarus both looked into a sky that was boiling above the Wasting Tower and spreading across the horizon as far as the eye could see while the pungent stench of Styx water rose in the air from vast clouds of mist that billowed out of the roiling skies as something felt suddenly and drastically different. The battle paused for both sides to access the situation when the army of the Hag Countess slammed into the left flank of the armies of the ‘loth civil war and a roar to shake the firmament pierced the still upon the air.

	Tellura Ibn Shartalan narrowed her eyes, as did those of her shadow, when the mist cleared and the Mother of Serpents emerged to wade into the middle of both armies, indiscriminately devouring and shattering both forces as the mass flash of teleportation spells signaled the arrival of a third host of Yugoloths from Belarian, the 4th Gloom, itself nearly the equal in size to either of the other two armies.

	Anthraxus stepped backwards and Mydianchlarus attempted to teleport further back to a position of safety. The former Oinoloth was pale with fear as he looked up into the malign intelligence lurking behind the bestial eyes of each of the twelve heads of the progenitor of all hydras, and something looked back as the eyes of the beast reflected a reddish-pink in the light of the Waste. And there, looking up into the army that bore down from their opposite flank, sandwiching them between itself and the Baatezu, Mydianchlarus’s teleportation failed as the Maeldur et Kavurik ignored his call. A split second later an eighth of both original armies turned on their comrades in a mass, planned defection to the army in the wake of the Mother of Serpents which bore down upon both past and current Oinoloth with the same reddish-pink gleam still lurking behind its eyes and controlling its every move like a puppet…


----------



## Clueless

"Perhaps a mile from the base of the tower at the point where the forces of Mydianchlarus and Anthraxus’s armies both clashed full on with one another, sat a young girl of perhaps an age of thirteen or fourteen."

.... she *still* creeps me out. I don't care how polite we were to each other last time we spoke. She still creeps me out.


----------



## shilsen

Clueless said:
			
		

> .... she *still* creeps me out. I don't care how polite we were to each other last time we spoke. She still creeps me out.




I'd wager the politeness is part of it. In my experience, whenever one of my NPCs is really, really nice and says "please" and "thank you", that's when the PCs start backing away and fingering their weapons. People are just so untrusting nowadays 

And Shemeska, I have two words for you - hubba hubba !


----------



## Graywolf-ELM

Merry Christmas indeed.

GW


----------



## Shemeska

Clueless said:
			
		

> "Perhaps a mile from the base of the tower at the point where the forces of Mydianchlarus and Anthraxus’s armies both clashed full on with one another, sat a young girl of perhaps an age of thirteen or fourteen."
> 
> .... she *still* creeps me out. I don't care how polite we were to each other last time we spoke. She still creeps me out.




For those curious... a little tale about The Shepherd that gives away no hints about the storyhour, but fleshes out the NPC a bit. The PCs in the campaign would meet her about a year or two later, Clueless slightly before the rest of them.


----------



## Shemeska

shilsen said:
			
		

> I'd wager the politeness is part of it. In my experience, whenever one of my NPCs is really, really nice and says "please" and "thank you", that's when the PCs start backing away and fingering their weapons. People are just so untrusting nowadays
> 
> And Shemeska, I have two words for you - hubba hubba !




About the Baernaloth, or about me? *peery look*

Perhaps I played to my tastes here a bit: deceptively innocent looking goth girls with an evil streak. 

And colored hair, cannot forget the colored hair. Sadly I had nothing as such underneath the tree waiting for me today, so bah humbug. 

Or something like that *chuckle*


----------



## Clueless

Shemmie? Why is it I always end up the one having civil 'discussions' with Baernies and their ilk? Am I just 'lucky' that way?

And I'm just now getting away from the 'tree' celebrations. There's a baby tape in the TV right now and there's really only so long I can stare at someone else's kid before my eyes start crossing - cute as a button or not.


----------



## shilsen

Shemeska said:
			
		

> About the Baernaloth, or about me? *peery look*




Actually the comment about being untrusting was aimed at my PCs/players, but now that you mention it...


----------



## FyreHowl

The comment reacted to i think is the hubba hubba


AND HUBBA HUBBA ABOUT THE SHEPARD?!!!!!?!?!??!?!?!
*and THIS lupinal runs in terror and hides under her bed*

 0.o


----------



## shilsen

FyreHowl said:
			
		

> The comment reacted to i think is the hubba hubba
> 
> 
> AND HUBBA HUBBA ABOUT THE SHEPARD?!!!!!?!?!??!?!?!
> *and THIS lupinal runs in terror and hides under her bed*
> 
> 0.o



 In that case, it was primarily for Shem, but also for the Shepherd. How can you not love a woman who makes people's heads explode by looking at them?


----------



## Clueless

... when she explodes your own.


----------



## Dakkareth

So, while my sisters are busy baking christmas cakes and stuff, I'll lean back, grab some cookies and read the christmas update. What could be better than sitting in a warm room, listening to good music and reading about the cosmic misery [Shemeska] is about to inflict on his players? 

.
.
.
(some time later)

Ok, so it's not the PCs or players who suffer, but still ... Evil vs. Evil vs. Evil²  I love the 'out of time' view of the events and the host of neat details scattered throughout the text. The feeling of Epicness (if that's a word) is brilliant. Thank you for this christmas present, Shemeska, and Merry Christmas to you, too .

-Dakkareth
_(Incidentally 'Dark Wings' by Within Temptation came up on my random tracklist during the reading. I figured I'd mention it, because it fit so perfectly )_


----------



## Krafus

Hello, everyone. I'm a long-time lurker who's finally decided to unlurk. I really enjoy this storyhour, and look forward to more of it. The sheer scope of it is amazing - heck, the battles of the last update seem to have involved literally millions of combatants. I try to picture that in mind, in comparaison to the Siege of Minas Tirith in the RotK movie, and shudder... Oh, and I wanted to congratulate Shemeska on her (*is* it her? I've made that mistake more than once) writing talent and for posting updates with commendable regularity.


----------



## Ashy

::chuckle::

Krafus - looks like you and I have similiar tastes...  First, Pkitty's SH and now this one!


----------



## FyreHowl

Krafus said:
			
		

> wanted to congratulate Shemeska on her (*is* it her? I've made that mistake more than once) writing talent and for posting updates with commendable regularity.





Shemeska the character - is female. Well, Arcanaloths are technically...neither..both...yeah. But Shemeska is "female".

Shemeska the DM/Writer- is male.


----------



## Krafus

FyreHowl said:
			
		

> Shemeska the character - is female. Well, Arcanaloths are technically...neither..both...yeah. But Shemeska is "female".
> 
> Shemeska the DM/Writer- is male.




*curses*

Thanks for the information, FyreHowl. Considering how long I've been lurking, one would think I'd have noticed the difference by now... Consider me one of the clueless...


----------



## Shemeska

Krafus said:
			
		

> Hello, everyone. I'm a long-time lurker who's finally decided to unlurk. I really enjoy this storyhour, and look forward to more of it. The sheer scope of it is amazing - heck, the battles of the last update seem to have involved literally millions of combatants. I try to picture that in mind, in comparaison to the Siege of Minas Tirith in the RotK movie, and shudder... Oh, and I wanted to congratulate Shemeska on her (*is* it her? I've made that mistake more than once) writing talent and for posting updates with commendable regularity.




You've made my day *grin* Thank you so much for the compliments, I really do appreciate it.

Shemmy the 'loth = "female", and best not the mention the rumors from 'Faces of Evil' about yugoloths being hermaphroditic, tacky to ask about that at best, and suicidal at worst.  Besides, arcanaloths can shapechange at will, so it's a moot point anyways.

Me the DM/author = male. However I've been amused enough by people's assumptions one way or the other that I've stopped correcting folks by and large. It's led to several marraige proposals on the WotC boards, and one person assuming I'm a lesbian, but alas here I am setting everyone straight on the matter. *very amused chuckle* At some point I'll have to actually put a picture of myself online.


----------



## Ashy

Nah - keep 'em guessing...


----------



## dal673

Hi Shemeska!

As a long-time reader of this storyhour I'm really astonished where you take this story to!
What a beautiful tale you lay out. And written in such a style that I could see the mega battle playing before my eyes. Again: BEAUTIFUL!!!

Greetz,

DaL673


----------



## Shemeska

*Killing the Mystery*



			
				Ashy said:
			
		

> Nah - keep 'em guessing...





Semi decent pic, ignore the scruff


----------



## Toras

That's one of those mysteries you have to kill in its sleep or else things get creepy.  I will however attempt to convey my reaction to the last post (would have made this sooner but holidays happen).

Stage 1: Denial
Its an illusion, it has to be.

Stage 2: Anger
String of Explitives, followed by vows of vengeance and violence.

Stage 3: Barginning 
Come on, let at least a view of them have made it.  Surely he can't have gotten them all.  Please let them have escapped for help.  

Stage 4: Back to Anger
More rage induced profanity, followed by minor acts of violence against random evil.


----------



## solomanii

Shem,
I am curious.  How much of this backstory you describe do the actual characters know about when you list them in chronological order of the storyhour?  Or is this all background that the characters may or may not learn bits and pieces about during the campaign?


----------



## Gez

*Dutifully notes Toras referred to the last post above, rather than the last update. He sure seems to be an overreacting fellow. *

The goatee is a good start for the "evil, mad scientist" look you're probably shooting for.


----------



## Clueless

solomanii said:
			
		

> Shem,
> I am curious.  How much of this backstory you describe do the actual characters know about when you list them in chronological order of the storyhour?  Or is this all background that the characters may or may not learn bits and pieces about during the campaign?



We end up catching up on a lot of this stuff during or after the events. A few details (The grin is WHOSE kid?) and the such are missed. But we found out pretty soon how we'd been set up and what the Ebon was doing.


----------



## Shemeska

Btw, I edited the last update because for whatever reason I had left out the fact that the Dire Shepherd appeared to be an aasimar, and that she had thin, slightly curling horns reminiscent of a bariaurs.

The next update will also be sometime tonight because I want one up for the new year and I'll be gone all of friday for a party or two.


----------



## Shemeska

*A new year, a new Oinoloth*

A sudden uncertainty ran through the minds of both Mydianchlarus and Anthraxus, a fear that the other might have called the third army into the battle, or worse, that some other enemy had entered what had been a two-sided war between them. Several seconds passed with both of them waiting for a reaction from the other.

	“They are not mine either…” The Oinoloth said preemptively before lurching into the hasty casting of a dozen defensive spells over himself.

As the newly arrived army rolled in waves onto the field of battle, the Mother of Serpents fully solidified into being upon Oinos from Belarian, the 4th Gloom, and fully three of its heads turned to focus upon the trio of archfiends.

	Anthraxus screamed in anger at the thought of his revenge, so long planned, slipping away from him at the moment of what would have been his triumph momentarily. The former Oinoloth stood his ground and raised the Staff of the Lower Planes at the progenitor of all hydras and hurled a bit of himself into the effort as the ground shook with his fury. Like a burning, falling star in reverse, leaping from the earth into the sky, the anger of the Decayed hurtled towards the Mother of Serpents, striking solidly upon one of its heads and making the sky rain blood.

	The Altraloth Typhus shuffled backwards as he watched one of the heads of the great beast explode into a bloody cloud of bone and viscera, leaving only a charred and broken stump behind while the remains fell like a storm across the landscape. Typhus screamed out in fear and attempted to teleport to safety when he saw the stump of the ruined head begin to shift, tremble, twitch and regrow… He screamed louder when his teleportation ability failed him.

	Anthraxus felt the same sensation as Typhus did when he too attempted to teleport further back into his own lines only to have the ability fail him utterly. However, unlike Typhus, he never had the chance to stumble backwards physically, as one of the massive heads of the Mother of Serpents lashed out at him with the force and speed of a falling mountain.

	The scream of pain from the former Oinoloth rose above the clamor of battle tenfold it seemed when the great serpent severed his body at the waist, snapping down to rip his legs off just below the hip and leave him helpless upon the ground and trailing a frothing stream of mangled innards. Mydianchlarus stood in shock, uncaring as Typhus dashed past him in panicked retreat, only staring at his crippled enemy as the titanic head of the serpent withdrew back up into the sky. Current and past Oinoloth watched in shock and pain blurred vision respectively, as before that head withdrew to strike down hungrily at a cluster of slasraths under the banner of Mydianchlarus, the reddish glow within its eyes sparkled, coalesced, and erupted in a flickering bolt of lightning to ground itself between them both.

	Hovering several inches above the molten crucible his entrance had sprung into being was a single figure, well known to both archfiends in his presence. Vorkannis the Ebon, installed into his position as Overlord of Carceri following the ascendancy of Mydianchlarus as Oinoloth, and the vanishing of the former Altraloth lords of the Tower of Incarnate Pain in the Red Prison. 

	The Ebon was wrapped in robes of darkest blue that seemed to fray at the edges and merge directly into the hazy flickers and tendrils of shadow that lapped up from his feet and streamed off of his body like wisps of smoke. He glanced at both archfiends with a smug sense of superiority; a study in darkness with only the odd, pinkish red of his eyes and the gleaming ivory white of his fangs giving contrast to his robes and sable dark fur.

	Mydianchlarus’s eyes glowed a brilliant reddish-orange, reflecting the Oinoloth’s anger at his subordinate’s treachery. He threw out a thin arm and motioned his retinue of Ultroloths back and away so that he would have both traitors to himself in single combat. The Ultroloths did as ordered.

	The Oinoloth’s mind sharpened to a blade and thrust out at the lesser ‘loth before it was blunted a half dozen times, the mental parries taking the sound of soft but feral laughter. The mental jousting was repeated in sorcery a moment later as both fiends sent a dozen or more spells to test and probe at each other’s defenses, protections, vulnerabilities, and contingencies. As the air hummed with hurled spells, the Ebon gave a feral smile and exaggerated bow to his lord the Oinoloth.

“I regret that it must come to this my Oinoloth, but you see child, I have grown impatient in the time that I have had. Perhaps I might even spare you the pain that I have in store for the Decayed. Swear your loyalty to me and I might spare you the same. I regret that while my hatred is directed not to you, and only tangentially directed to your predecessor, you simply happen to stand in my way. And I can’t have that…” The glint of distant explosive cascades reflected off of the Ebon’s glistening fangs as he looked to the Oinoloth and to the mangled but still living Anthraxus.

	“Who are you? What are you? No arcanaloth could have mustered this support, this level of treachery; not even one granted status as Overlord of Carceri.” The Ultroloth prince said as he pointed his blade at his very own Judas.

	The Ebon turned back to the Oinoloth with an amused look playing across his muzzle. “No. You’re right, one couldn’t. But you know me, don’t delude yourself into thinking you don’t. Or rather, perhaps I should say you knew me once in a manner, and then, thinking yourself better, abandoned me. Wrap your mind about that while I exterminate your predecessor.”

	The arcanaloth began to hover closer to the crippled body of Anthraxus, but then paused as he felt an unwelcome sensation of being watched. He snarled and began to whisper softly, nearly under his breath, a mixture of curses, invectives, and incantations. Thirty yards distant from where he and the two other archfiends stood, Tellura Ibn Shartalan watched expectantly, the Baernaloth wrapped in the guise of innocence; understated blasphemy.

	“… you are not welcome here Bitch… you had your chance, and I…” The Ebon snarled in the mother tongue of all guttural languages, Baernaloth, which the other archfiends recognized but did not themselves speak, before trailing off as he turned around to face the Shepherdess. There was nothing there where the Baernaloth had sat only moments before, and the Ebon glanced around warily for several seconds with a look of keen suspicion crossing his otherwise confident features before he was certain she was truly gone.

	No sooner had he returned his attention to The Decayed before a flurry of spells erupted from the outstretched hand of Mydianchlarus. The Ebon counterspelled or deflected all of them with an almost dispassionate series of gestures and whispers, all in the same guttural tongue he had spoken in before. Those spells he deflected shot out and devastated whole columns of troops where they struck, such was the force behind the Oinoloth’s attacks. But, the first volley of spells dismissed, he continued till he hovered over Anthraxus.

	The maimed Altraloth spat blood up at The Ebon and vainly tried to reach his staff that lay just out of his grasp. “You… you were the one who told Mydianchlarus those words. You wanted me to step down, you set us against each other to serve yourself. I’d be proud of you if I wasn’t going to feast on your heart!”

	Anthraxus’s left hand shot up and slammed into The Ebon’s chest. There was an explosion and spray of blood around the two fiends, and when it settled to the ground the Ebon was smirking.

	“Contingencies are beautiful things, especially when they’re not visible to your opponents. For what it’s worth I wasn’t expecting a physical attack and you can say you surprised me, in a way.” The Ebon said as he looked down at the other archfiend who was missing an arm from the detonation of his own spells funneled back at him and the explosive contingencies that had surrounded the Ebon.

	“And yes, I did tell those words to Mydianchlarus. Prophecy is beautiful, self-fulfilling prophecy even more so, and you played your role in it perfectly. You have at least that to be proud of, impure wretch that you are. And this is all about purity you see…” The Ebon said as he began to whisper the words of another series of spells like undertones mixed in with his own voice.


****​

	Halfway across the battlefield, nearly on the other side of Khin-Oin, the forces of Anthraxus fought a slowly losing battle versus the forces of The Ebon and a wedge of the smaller Baatezu force. Leading the counteroffensive for the forces of the former Oinoloth was the Ultroloth general Palinarius, marshal of his own regiments and those mercenary troops out of Center.

	Palinarius currently stood above the prone form of a Hamatula whose broken body had been pinned down by the tridents of two Mezzoloths. Rather than killing the Baatezu immediately, the Ultroloth was slowly torturing it to death on the battlefield. Already a bloody series of incisions laced across the bowels of the lawful fiend where the Ultroloth had begun to slowly excise its intestines, meticulously separating their loops from one another and placing hair-thin cuts across their surface to expose to the mildly acidic air. All the while, the yugoloth general taunted the lesser fiend with release if it would only curse the name of the Hag Countess.

	And then, something happened during the last stages of the torture, right before the Ultroloth was certain the hamatula would expire and exhale its last cursed breath. Right before that point, something seemed to reach in and snuff out of the fiend’s life and replace it with another.

	“Have you missed me… my lord?” The hamatula said with a mocking, almost sultry tone, as its eyes began to exude a greenish glow.

	The identity of the sorceress who had snatched away the spirit of his victim was instantly known, and Palinarius answered her question with the point-blank detonation of a crackling bolt of black lightning at the hamatula’s head. As the ozone laced smoke cleared to reveal the charred and partially melted corpse on the ground, the Ultroloth heard the voice again.

	“Perhaps you don’t remember me quite as well as I’d hoped my lord. Shall we try again?” The voice came again, mocking and acerbic, a second time from one of the two Mezzoloths that had flanked the Ultroloth.

	“The necromancy spells have done wonders for your complexion… traitor.” The air hummed with the Ultroloth’s retort before the Mezzoloth gave a hateful scream and hurled itself at the general.

	The possessed fiend was killed in short order, and the other Mezzoloth as well, a moment later, after it too succumbed to the will of the otherwise unseen arcanaloth. Palinarius touched a trident wound in his side, judging the extent of the injury, when he was struck a glancing blow from a jagged spike of lightning. His contingencies took effect almost instantly and a second later he was shielded by a series of spells and standing several yards away to look at his assailant finally in the flesh.

	Shylara the Manged stood over the two Mezzoloth corpses with a trail of black smoke slowly curling up from her taloned hand where she had hurled the bolt at her former superior. The arcanaloth was snarling and nearly foaming at the mouth in fury as she glared up at the Ultroloth, wearing what was best described as a blue velvet loincloth and two strips of blue leather wrapped around her body to only barely cover her flesh in discrete places before joining at the neck.

	“I have a new lord, and he has promised me much. You live now only because The Ebon forbid me from killing you during the time I served you in Center.” Shylara snarled before licking the blood from a cut on her forearm, “And I am under no such restrictions now…”

	Their sorcerous duel lasted nearly an hour, and for a time it seemed as if the battle raging around them avoided the vicinity due to the spells the two hurled at one another like insults. But at its conclusion, the Ultroloth was dead and the Ebon’s consort was crouched atop its body, screaming till her voice cracked, as she clawed at the dead general’s mutilated face. Shylara was herself badly injured from the battle, the illusions covering her cursed and manged appearance dispelled, her body scorched heavily and bleeding from multiple wounds as she repeatedly vented her psychotic fury at the Ultroloth’s corpse.

	“My Love will be proud of me this day. I will sit at His side and damn all of you that stand in His path. My Love will be proud of me, and you will not stand in the way of me basking in His approval…My Love will be proud of me and I will give PAIN to make it thus… don’t think this over… I will kill you for sport and wrench your spirit out of the plane itself to punish you again and again and again if my Love but wills it happen…”

	Her own troops and those of her allies left her alone to repeatedly mangle the face of the fallen Ultroloth, fearing that her own irrational hatred might be turned towards them if she was interrupted. And so, they left the blood spattered arcanaloth, a solitary, screaming figure upon the field of battle who incinerated a half dozen groups of fiends loyal to the enemies of The Ebon who strayed too closely to her position. But elsewhere, in a battle of his own, The Ebon was immensely pleased with her, his delightful, blind little tool.


****​

	Halfway across the battlefield, the Altraloth Typhus, Warlord of the Lower Planes and General of the Infernal Front, was running and fleeing the field of battle. The archfiend was screaming in shame and terror, running for his life, and abandoning all rational sense except immediate self-preservation.

	Typhus was confused, overwhelmed by the utter collapse of his plans and strategies that had, before the battle, seemed brilliant and masterful. Indeed, his battle plans designed alongside Mydianchlarus were that, except they were also inflexible and rigid, incapable of being modified to account for the sudden appearance of a third and fourth army on the field of battle. And, upon the collapse of his plans, the Altraloth reverted to a confused simpleton without a full sense of what to do and where to go, reacting only on instinct. Still, the archfiend was still that, an archfiend, and so despite his lack of wits he was still a force to be reckoned with, and those hunting him were well aware of that.

	Typhus was babbling incoherently when he slammed into an invisible barrier and sprawled on the ground for a moment before snarling and looking up. Some thirty feet above him hovered a group of fifteen arcanaloths dressed in the robes of the Tower Arcane of Gehenna, all of them having originally pledged themselves to the Oinoloth Mydianchlarus; all of them had gleefully lied. Surrounding the circle of sorcerous fiends were a flock of Nycaloths, perhaps double their number in total, and the winged fiends were slowly descending to surround the Altraloth.

	“Traitors! All of you! How dare you betray the Oinoloth!” Typhus snarled and spat as he looked up at the circle of arcanaloths and the central figure among them that his hatred was reserved for.

	Helekanalaith, the Keeper of the Tower Arcane, looked down upon the archfiend dispassionately, his hands clasped behind his back as he hovered in the air staring down, both literally and metaphorically, at Typhus through gold rimmed spectacles perched on his snout, “How dare I? Imbecile…”

	Typhus hurled a crackling greenish ray from his hand up towards the Keeper, only to have one of the Nycaloths suddenly have its eyes glaze over and promptly hurl itself into the path and be disintegrated instead of its superior. The Keeper chuckled like a teacher at a well meaning, but ultimately wrong and failing student.

	“You overreach your place arcanaloth! You follow an over glorified member of your own caste instead of your Oinoloth, the most powerful Ultroloth on the lower planes.”

	“Ah yes, so says the idiot archfiend, lecturing me, the Keeper of the Tower Arcane, on matters of caste, protocol and obedience. Tell me… you were a Mezzoloth when you bargained with the hags for your power, yes? Don’t presume to speak to me as anything less than your better if you wish to speak to me of matters of caste.” Helekanalaith snarled back at Typhus.

	Typhus brushed off the words and abruptly changed track, abandoning his previous path of logic for another. “And why do you follow the Overlord of Carceri when you are his superior by right of position amongst the members of your own caste? You are the Keeper of the Tower, the highest of your caste, and he is not. He should be following you, not the other way around.”

The Keeper seemed amused by the protests of the archfiend, “The Ebon will want you later, and you’ve been a thorn in my side for some time with your insistence on being a free agent in the Blood War. One less thing to balance on the books now, so I can’t say that I’m sorry to do this…”

By himself, the Keeper of the Tower might have had the ability to best the Altraloth, but it would have taken time, pain, and even then it would not have been a certain thing for an outcome in his favor. However, with a dozen others of his kind and double that number of Nycaloths surrounding them and penning them apart from the rest of the battle surging all around them, the task seemed almost easy, if not for the loss of half of those contributing casters beneath the blade of Typhus.

Clutching a massive emerald nearly the size of his own head and cut on each facet with glowing sigils, the Keeper smiled as he dismissed his retinue and teleported back towards where the Ebon was busy with both former and present Oinoloths. But, before he vanished from sight, he held up the gem as if giving its occupant a view of the battlefield, where the army of The Ebon was steadily taking the battle, smashing the other two opposing forces between itself and the smaller Baatezu army of the Hag Countess while above it all, the Mother of Serpents was literally wading through a blood frothed sea of Mezzoloths, crushing, devouring and spitting flame or ice down upon whatever did not obey the archfiend who held its obedience in thrall.

 And, as he showed the captive Altraloth a view of the ongoing battle, he whispered to it. “We will discuss this matter later after my lord has assumed his rightful position and I am given that which I asked for when I answered his little question. Even for an idiot, over glorified Mezzoloth like yourself, you should know that power commands respect, regardless of caste, and that loyalty is bought by the highest bidder. That explains my actions here as far as you need be concerned with for the remaining hours of your existence, though I expect that The Ebon will explain things in more detail. I’m a pragmatist above all though, so really, you truly should have seen this coming.”


****​

Very rarely do the planes see direct battle between nearly godlike entities, but there upon the Waste, in the shadow of the Wasting Tower of Khin-Oin, three of them fought to the death. Anthraxus, already cut in half and missing an arm, died quickly when his blood was transmuted into an flammable liquid and his heart erupted in a white-hot flame to spark his blood. The former Oinoloth died as his own body confused itself in a pyre of liquid, nearly living flame that left only his ribcage and head recognizable.

	 Mydianchlarus however was not already injured at the start of his battle with the Overlord of Carceri, and in fact he struck first as the Ebon sealed the fate of his predecessor. Observers to the battle might have seen what first appeared as a black cloud rising up from the hand of the Ultroloth prince that then rushed to surround the arcanaloth, taking upon itself the shape of a dozen howling, ill defined spirits all suffering from a multitude of hellish diseases.

	The spell, the swirling cloud of disease, or the concept of disease, swirled around the Ebon as he turned to face Mydianchlarus. He paused and smiled before he inhaled deeply of the cloud and sniffed at the air like the spell’s effect was a warm breeze filled with the smell of flowers or perfumes. “You haven’t had control of the power granted by your position for very long if that was your attempt at channeling it. But even if you were holding back, it wouldn’t affect me anyways.”

	The Ultroloth Prince didn’t bother asking why, or even respond at all before hurling a flurry of spells that his opponent countered, avoided, or simply allowed to take effect if he was immune to them, which was more often that not.

	“Do you know the source of the power granted by your throne atop the Wasting Tower? You’ve scratched the surface, but it and I, we were well acquainted, so to speak, before you first crawled out of the spawning vats miles beneath Khin-Oin from the rotten flesh of the tower, the blood of the Styx, and the plane itself. You are a child who would claim to touch the sky while your feet were still firmly planted in the crib.” Vorkannis said mockingly into the mind of the Oinoloth as both of them continued to hurl spells and invocations at one another at a frightening pace.

	Such was the ferocity of their battle that even the Great Serpent moved to avoid those spells of the two archfiends that either missed their intended target or were intentionally deflected by one or the other. But as the minutes of the duel stretched onwards it was clear who was the more skilled of the two.

	Mydianchlarus was fighting for his position and for his life and the strain was clearly showing by the flickering pattern of colors upon his otherwise expressionless and dispassionate face, and Vorkannis was clearly enjoying himself rather than feeling stressed. It was a dual to one of them and a game or lecturing experience for the other.

	“You know what you lack boy?” The Ebon said as he avoided a sphere of electrified ice that Mydianchlarus had counterspelled and hurled back at him. “You lack passion. You lack a driving motivation behind your actions. Certainly you can claim the promotion of dispassionate evil as a goal, but I think for some it has become a blank, bland combination of words rather than actions. It’s something you claim to represent in body, spirit and deed, but it has become a mantra only. You claim to write a book after having just learnt to pen your own name.”

	“You are an ambitious fool and nothing more. Talented, so it is a pity that I will have to kill you today as an example.” The voice of the Oinoloth sliced the psionic ether like a blade, but it seemed to blunt against a wall of oinian steel at the mind of the Overlord of Carceri. There was something about how the Ebon’s mind seemed almost to fade into the background that was unsettling to the Oinoloth, but still, they fought.

	“You would lead our race but be the lapdog of the General… surly you won’t deny that. Neither you, nor any of your predecessors could really say otherwise. You stand in the shadow of others and try to deny it exists, and I intend to cast my own.” The Ebon said as he gestured and imploded the prismatic sphere that the Oinoloth had been standing inside.

	Mydianchlarus was dazed and injured as the Ebon teleported directly in front of him, hovering silently with his hands crossed in front of him as if in prayer. The Ebon was whispering a slow and subtle litany of words in a language that burned the ears and seared into the mind of any within a hundred yards. As he whispered, his reddish-pink albino eyes glared into the Oinoloth’s own flickering orbs, and Mydianchlarus saw something in them that he recognized somehow. In that moment of recognition, something slipped through into his own mind and seared deeply where the Oinoloth’s mind touched it. Mydianchlarus stopped fighting.

	“You have something to say to me then?” The Ebon smiled as he reached out and touched the Oinoloth’s chin and made the other archfiend look up at him. Through it all, he never stopped whispering the stream of seemingly effortless incantations from the well of his mind.

	“I yield to you my lord. I submit and relinquish my claim to the throne of Khin-Oin. I offer you my loyalty.” Mydianchlarus’s mental voice was unsteady and seemingly in awe of whatever it was that he had glimpsed buried within that faint touch upon The Ebon’s mind.

	“Yes, I said I would spare you the fate and pain of Anthraxus if you pledged your loyalty to me and submitted. That I did say.” The Ebon said as he whispered the last words in Baernaloth into the air, “I lied.”

	The air seemed to crystallize into a spider’s web of spells made physical, sutured together by will and words. Woven about the Oinoloth like a hundred thousand guillotine blades they snapped taught and constricted in an instant. As the Ebon smiled and blinked his eyes, there was nothing left of Mydianchlarus but a yards wide splatter upon the ground, a fine reddish mist, and the intact head of the Oinoloth with a look of fear lodged into his eyes in their death glaze.

	Vorkannis the Ebon snapped his fingers and summoned a group of Mezzoloths. He pointed at the heads of the two former Oinoloths, “Carry them, drag them, whichever… bring them with you and follow me through the Tower. We have much to do before we climb to the top.”

	A moment later his thoughts whispered out across the battlefield where the war still raged despite the death of the lords of the two other opposing armies. The Keeper of the Tower, the Ebon’s consort, and their third wheel of their conspiracy all felt a tug at their minds as their lord called to them.

	Shylara the Manged was the first to arrive, appearing at the Ebon’s feet and clutching at his robes like a worshipper at the base of an idol. It was apparent that she had cleaned herself since butchering the Ultroloth general Palinarius, though her muzzle was still matted and stained with blood as she licked The Ebon’s hands. The Ebon minded not as he motioned her to stand, and they embraced one another passionately before Helekanalaith the Keeper of the Tower Arcane appeared in the flash of a teleport. The Ebon broke the embrace of his lover and she stepped to his side respectively and lowered her head in deference like a trained pet.

	“Typhus is waiting at your leisure, but very definitely not at all at his own.” The Keeper said as he handed the gem containing the bottled Altraloth over to The Ebon.

	“Good, though there is still much to do once we are all arrived…” He said, before whispering into his consort’s mind and handing her the gem to carry for him, something that she did without question.

	As The Ebon stood over the mangled remains of both former Oinoloths, there was a long expected flash of an opening gate off to his left and a single figure stepped through. She was dressed in an elegant green and purple gown made of an uncountable number of glass beads strung on woven gold wire, and a tiara of living razorvine was perched on her head between two erect jackal’s ears; The Marauder.

“Good of you to join us Shemeska, I was hoping that you wouldn’t remain bottled up within your Cage while we had our fun here. Tell me though, since I can’t exactly enter Sigil myself, how have the celestials reacted to losing a sizable fraction of one of their upper planes?” The Ebon said as he took the hand of the newly arrived fiendess and kissed her outstretched hand.

The Marauder turned to the Manged and smiled delicately to the other female who was only barely repressing her urge to snarl and hiss; instead she returned the petulant, thin-lipped smile of social courtesy. Inwardly the Ebon was amused to no small end.

“Let me kill her my Love… I beg of you… please…” Came Shylara’s mental begging into the mind of The Ebon. Clearly there was no love lost between the two, though whatever the reason might have been, neither of them was being forthcoming to anyone who didn’t already know.

	Vorkannis replied openly with a smile as he leaned over and rubbed his lover’s chin softly with endearment. However his mental reply, pumped directly into her mind was a terse, “No. She is useful to me, and as long as she is, she remains off limits to any ideas of revenge on your part. You as well, are very useful to me my love.”

	The Manged took the point and smiled again at the Marauder with smoldering eyes tinged with green flame. The Marauder returned the affection with a slight bow, a rim of purple flame lapping up from her own eyes. The King of the Crosstrade was laughing ever so slightly as she brushed past the Ebon’s lover.

	“Even with these fools dead, the battle will not end till I have taken the throne myself. Already at least two pretenders to the title have attempted to take the seat themselves…” The Ebon said as he looked up towards the top of Khin-Oin where the Siege Malicious waited.

	His three conspirators and his consort nodded to him and waited.

	“Our forces here at the base have the upper hand and it will not change at any point in the near future. The Mother of Serpents will wait here and deny entry to any not loyal to me once we enter Khin-Oin. As that point the army of Baatezu loyal to the Hag Countess, their loyalty purchased by me some time ago, will leave with their payment.” Vorkannis said with utter confidence.

	“And what is their price my lord?” Helekanalaith asked curiously and respectfully, despite the point that Typhus had argued with him earlier.

	“The mortal mercenaries here on all sides. That is their price, their bodies and their souls in trade for loyalty from the Baatezu. Several hundred thousand at the very least, many of them valuable prizes in their own right. And I have no need for them.” The Ebon said as he motioned towards the gates of Khin-Oin.

	“We have a long walk ahead of us from here to the summit, and much to do along the way. The lesser yugoloths here or within the tower will follow their inbred instructions and listen to commands given power by caste and power, they are not a worry. Any greater yugoloths within the tower and here without, they will be given two choices: they will swear utter loyalty to me or they will face first pain and then oblivion. Our purge of the race here at your birthplace will take several days, but it will be something to remember. Follow…”

****​


----------



## shilsen

Ecclesiastes 3:1-8


----------



## Krafus

Wonderful writing as usual, Shemeska. I hope those four will die slow, painful deaths...


----------



## Darmanicus

Thanks Shem and happy new year.


----------



## Clueless

Krafus said:
			
		

> Wonderful writing as usual, Shemeska. I hope those four will die slow, painful deaths...





So do I.


----------



## Krafus

Clueless said:
			
		

> So do I.




You mean it hasn't happened yet, despite the delay between the game and the story hour? Darn. Is it one of your group's objectives?


----------



## Clueless

Krafus said:
			
		

> You mean it hasn't happened yet, despite the delay between the game and the story hour? Darn. Is it one of your group's objectives?




Good *lord* is it so one of our goals. Heck, my character's stated goal by the end of this first arc was to *shave* the Marauder. Personally.

The trick is that these are some *big* guys we're mucking with. Admittedly we do end up seriously *F*ing up Shylara. In multiple meanings of the word in the case of one of us. You'll see what I mean as time goes on.


----------



## Lobo Lurker

*NEATO, Great Story Hour*

WOW, I started reading this story hour just after Christmas. It's been one LOOONNNG read, but well worth it. Don't worry Shemeska, your writing isn't perfect, but your sense of "timing/cadence" is dead-on.  Congrats, now I'm really jonesing to play a good and proper planescape game. ^_^

*Couple-o-questions if you don't mind:*
*How* do you organize your plotlines for yourself (ie, how do you keep things straight)?
*Is *there anything you use for inspiration for your fiend's intrigues? I myself LOVE intrigue-based games, but personally, I just don't have the head for it... though I'd love to learn.
*I* don't suppose there's any compiled book of yugoloths and other interesting lower (and upper) planar creatures are there (i.e., in one PDF volume)? With pictures?
*Is* Clueless's Half-Fey template posted anywhere? 

Again, you've got a great story-hour here. I hope to read it again soon. ^_^

Happy New Year!


----------



## Clueless

Re. plotline, since we've asked this one ourselves. One word: Flowcharts.

I know inspiration involved a lot of NIN  and Tool, with the occasional Vast.  I don't know where he got what he's got plot wise - other than perhaps historical inspirations from Russian politics - but I do know what music he listens to while plotting.

Books: Faces of Evil (http://svgames.com/tsr2630esd.html) , and Planewalker (www.planewalker.com) may have some fiend stuff and the forums have some very knowledgable folks to bounce questions off of.

Not yet. I need to dig it out and stick it up someplace. (Currently in the editor's hands at planewalker.)

But - that shall come in the morning. Having discovered that Uno: The Drinking Game - produces bad results when you lose twice in a row with gin and water close to hand...  yeah. Me. Sleep.


----------



## Krafus

Clueless said:
			
		

> Good *lord* is it so one of our goals. Heck, my character's stated goal by the end of this first arc was to *shave* the Marauder. Personally.
> 
> The trick is that these are some *big* guys we're mucking with. Admittedly we do end up seriously *F*ing up Shylara. In multiple meanings of the word in the case of one of us. You'll see what I mean as time goes on.




So you need to be higher level before tackling on some of those bastards? And "multiple meanings of the word," eh? Sounds like something pervert. Count on me being on the lookout for it.


----------



## Lobo Lurker

*Suppositions and Conjecture*

Anyone else note how the Ebon states that he can't enter Sigil... _BEFORE_ he ascends the Wasting Tower? One could assume that he's already attained archfiend status (archfiends aren't allowed in Sigil, right?) *or*, and here's the really interesting supposition for me, he's a power.

Thanks for the quick answers Clueless. Heh, go sleep off your fun from last night. lol


----------



## Gez

It makes a lot of time it's hinted that the Ebon is a Baernoloth in disguise -- or at least, something on par with that level. He sure is not a mere arcanoloth, but something more powerful and more ancient...

See the battle with the Oinoloth, he had somewhat of a ninja-ultimate-power factor with him. Two archfiends attacked him and not even inflicted him a bruise... So either he's the DM's pet, à la Elminster, or he's a Baern.

He's definitely not a yugo, anyway: "_Our_ purge of the race here at _your_ birthplace" -- with that sentence, he made it clear that the Grey Waste is not _his_ birthplace.


----------



## Clueless

... *snicker*


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## Shemeska

Lobo Lurker said:
			
		

> Anyone else note how the Ebon states that he can't enter Sigil... _BEFORE[/b] he ascends the Wasting Tower? One could assume that he's already attained archfiend status (archfiends aren't allowed in Sigil, right?) *or*, and here's the really interesting supposition for me, he's a power.
> _



_

It's perhaps a safe assumption that Vorkannis could be considered an archfiend already, simply by virtue of his place as Overlord of Carceri/Lord of the Tower of Incarnate Pain. And archfiends can't get into Sigil in general.

I won't actually answer the speculations here since it took around 2 years in game for the PCs to find out the full answer to that. Power, archfiend, Baernaloth, something else... time shall tell._


----------



## Shemeska

Gez said:
			
		

> See the battle with the Oinoloth, he had somewhat of a ninja-ultimate-power factor with him. Two archfiends attacked him and not even inflicted him a bruise... So either he's the DM's pet, à la Elminster, or he's a Baern.




He's gotten hurt before in the campaign, and I actually wrote stats out for him fairly early on. Further on in the campaign, Toras sucked punched him in a dead magic zone and seriously enjoyed the experience. "And yes, that was truly satisfying." - Toras's player



> He's definitely not a yugo, anyway: "_Our_ purge of the race here at _your_ birthplace" -- with that sentence, he made it clear that the Grey Waste is not _his_ birthplace.




Without fully answering anything, a clarification here: _Our_ was him using the royal 'we' effectively, and '_your_ birthplace' was specifically referring to Khin-Oin itself, and not the Waste in general. I should have been more clear. But, that said, you can take that to perhaps presume that Khin-Oin might not be the Ebon's birthplace.


----------



## Lobo Lurker

*More speculation...*

Hmm, it was also implied (although, I may just be reading too much into the dialogue) that the Ebon _used to be_ Oinoloth. Any comments about that Shemeshka?


----------



## dostum

or Wow, depending on your moral standpoint


----------



## Dakkareth

A little overt, but then, how better to cement your command than by showing your superiority in terms universally understood? 



> Good *lord* is it so one of our goals. Heck, my character's stated goal by the end of this first arc was to *shave* the Marauder. Personally.



Now THAT is an admirable aim. Just imagine the headlines in Sigil's newspapers ...  

And of course there's no better way or better place to spend the early morning than here, reading. I should go to sleep sometime, though.

Dakkareth, _what a way to begin a new year. well, the second day technically, but whatever._


----------



## Ohtar Turinson

*Impressive*

As always Shemmy, most impressive. Vorkannis is even more of a mystery now then before... 

I think that the interesting thing is what Vorkannis thinks of the Altraloths as 'impure' and the (now deceased) Oinoloth as a coward. I wonder why the Ebon seems to hate the leaders of the race so much? I can understand the night hag spawned Altraloths... and I suppose that he wants to rule, outside the shadow, so killing the other leaders is how to do it... hm.



> But you know me, don’t delude yourself into thinking you don’t. Or rather, perhaps I should say you knew me once in a manner, and then, thinking yourself better, abandoned me.



Ancient evils then... but then, maybe this has something more to do with the fact he definitely dealt with both of them in the past. Or maybe...


> Something stirs my little chosen one, first of your kind. Something that stirs the winds of the lower planes and forces events and processes into being in its wake. Something that would destroy you if we allowed it to do so. But that is not what we wish, and not what we have planned. You are destined for much that has not come into being yet, and neither will this deviate you from your destiny.



But would the Ebon be the agent of this stiring? Or the stiring itself? Or neither, perhaps...



> “… you are not welcome here Bitch… you had your chance, and I…” The Ebon snarled



Interesting. Calling the Dire Shepherd a bitch is very uncontroled... perhaps Vorkannis loosing his cool, something we hadn't really seen before now. But why? The knowledge that she might be able to control even him?

And most interesting, I thought...


> “You lack passion. You lack a driving motivation behind your actions. Certainly you can claim the promotion of dispassionate evil as a goal, but I think for some it has become a blank, bland combination of words rather than actions. It’s something you claim to represent in body, spirit and deed, but it has become a mantra only. You claim to write a book after having just learnt to pen your own name.”




"You lack passion"-- It's like he's doing this just so that someone who cares about the goal is in charge (and helping himself, like any 'loth). The obsession with Pure Evil is reminiscent of the Baern, but the means are more direct, it seems like, than most Baern would be. Perhaps he's a Baern who's not demented? He doesn't seem to care about law or chaos.

Maybe not though. I'm beginning to doubt my earlier conclusions...


----------



## Clueless

Half Fey Template: http://www.planewalker.com/entry.php?intEntryID=9834


----------



## Gerzel

*For Players in Planescape: An Evening's Entertainment*

I tried getting this out through the GD site but the profiles don't seem to be working and I didn't see how to email ppl from there.  

Anyhoo.

If you would like to generate your own character give me a shout out here for stats.  I can either roll them myself and tell you or I belive there are dice rollers on this site.

The method is roll 4d6 taking the highest 3 AND re-rolling 1's.   Repeat 7 times and take the 6 that you want for your 6 stats.

Also if you missed it before I am giving you 6 levels to play with.  Standard equipment as per dmg listings as long as that isn't too munchie I should be fine with it.   

Rel: I think Shemmy is still having trouble signing up for my game.  He has said that he planns on playing and I am keeping a seat open for him, but he has yet to successfully sign up on the NCGD site.


----------



## Ashy

Er...Gerzel - did I miss something here???  Or is this open to any and all?


----------



## FyreHowl

Let me clarify things a little.

Gerzel is running a Planescape game at the upcoming NC Game Day.
There are still spots open (presumably), and he's posting here, becuase Shemeska has a good PS interested audience.

What he described is how the character - generation for his game will work. 6 levels and the above dice rolling method.

Game Day is open to everyone here who can attend. Details are in a thread on ENWorld messageboards - You need to go to that thread and sign up if you want to play. It's held at NCSU, Raleigh, NC. More details....over that way. ANd i dont exactly have a link to overthat way right now. 
*needs to find that thread and sign up herself*


----------



## Clueless

Either that - or Gerz mixed up which thread he was posting in...


----------



## Ashy

Ah.....wish I could be there, suren....


----------



## Clueless

Well.... you know when and where - all you gotta handle is the how. We'd love t' have ya!  Yer not *thaaaat* far away.


----------



## Ashy

::sigh:: I know - I'm working on it!


----------



## Shemeska

Kinda off topic, so at best link to the other thread and let it stay fallow here if you don't mind.


----------



## Clueless

Pppththththhththt! http://www.enworld.org/forums/showthread.php?t=108921


----------



## Gerzel

oops...uhm thought I was replying to the other thread.  Me === Brainfart


----------



## Voldenuit

Clueless said:
			
		

> Half Fey Template: http://www.planewalker.com/entry.php?intEntryID=9834




Hey Clueless,

Any idea why Shemmy didn't use the Half-Fey template from Fiend Folio 3.0?

I know she's used critters from FF in her story hour before (the Slasrath, for example), so I'm assuming she has the book or has access to it unless she does her own conversions from Planescape).

Of course, it's also possible that your campaign started before FF3.0 came out...


Cheers,
V.


----------



## Fimmtiu

Voldenuit said:
			
		

> Any idea why Shemmy didn't use the Half-Fey template from Fiend Folio 3.0?




The campaign began after 3.0 came out, but before the Fiend Folio came out. (Also note that the Slasrath is an old Planescape monster from 2E.)


----------



## Voldenuit

Fimmtiu said:
			
		

> The campaign began after 3.0 came out, but before the Fiend Folio came out. (Also note that the Slasrath is an old Planescape monster from 2E.)




Yeah, I remember the old Slasrath being more "manta-like", and was a little taken aback at the 3e version.

Oh well, they're both good.


----------



## shilsen

Voldenuit said:
			
		

> Hey Clueless,
> 
> Any idea why Shemmy didn't use the Half-Fey template from Fiend Folio 3.0?
> 
> I know *she's* used critters from FF in *her* story hour before (the Slasrath, for example), so I'm assuming *she* has the book or has access to it unless *she* does *her* own conversions from Planescape).




Voldenuit - just for the record, Shemmy the DM is male.


----------



## Shemeska

shilsen said:
			
		

> Voldenuit - just for the record, Shemmy the DM is male.




*laugh* I've largely stopped correcting anyone on that.

As for the slasrath, yeah I used my own conversion of that before the FF came out. And geez if the original flavor and detail in the PS one wasn't better by leaps and bounds. Honestly the original one gave me a shiver when I first read it.

"... and I knew that I would not be leaving that chamber alive, or whole." - guy who made to the first slasraths upon displeasing his Ultroloth master by telling him that several of them escaped into the wilds.


----------



## Shemeska

*Soulsearching, rising and falling*

A couple notes on this update. 1) Sorry it's a little late, I was super tired last night and went to bed before it was completely finished. My gaming group will now be unhappy with me since I'll be late to the sat game. Werp.

2) This one is sort of a collaboration in parts with Fyrehowl's player who wrote up a nice portion of the material dealing with the lupinal's introspection at the time (I preserved most of in, just edited it for flow and added some material. That part is mostly the last portion of the update).

3) Just to avoid offending anyones' grandmas, I deleted a yugoloth sex scene. It would have passed, marginally, maybe the way I'd written it, but it came off as dry. And honestly, if I'm going to write up two characters f*cking each others brains out, I'm going to write it up properly and not half-a**ed like the scene here that I edited out. There's enough suggestion there though that you'll know where it was going to get stuck. *chuckle*


On with the show...

***​

…then on the shore	 
  Of the wide world I stand alone, and think,	 
  Till Love and Fame to nothingness do sink.	
John Keats, “When I have fears that I may cease to be”	


Fyrehowl felt cold, alone and introspective as she and the others stumbled back into Sigil through the gate from Elysium’s gatetown. All thoughts of Rubicon were smeared a crimson red and blurred with tears in her mind as she sat down in the Portal Jammer’s tap room, not honestly remembering much of what had happened after they had arrived in the middle of the devastation that had been wrought upon her people. Elysium had been raped in the cruelest way imaginable, and she felt that violation to her core. That it wasn’t her who had been butchered, crucified or raped and left to die in the ruins of Rubicon as they ripped away a fourth of her home plane… it didn’t matter, she felt it all the same and nothing seemed to help in either the short term, or in any long term solution.

	The alcohol that she might have drowned her pain in would have only felt akin to the numbing drain of the plane the fiends had spawned upon, and it didn’t seem to her that the rulers of Elysium had any way of making right what had happened. Where had they been…

	The lupinal wept softly by herself as the others consoled themselves in whatever way suited them best. Even Nisha seemed quiet and hurt as she sat next to Tristol and Skalliska. Skalliska was staring curiously at a crystal ball larger than her own head, watching the genocide play out upon the plains of Oinos, and Tristol watched with morbid fascination at the battle.

The Mother of Serpents was missing four of its heads, but it still fought on against the armies of the two fallen Oinoloths who likewise did the same. It seemed unlikely that mercy would be practiced by any side in the conflict.

	“I think I can guess who’s going to be the next Oinoloth.” Tristol said fatalistically.

	“Taking their sweet time climbing to the top it looks like though. Still, I want to see who arrives at the top eventually because there’s people fighting there already, and they have been since the former Oinoloth died.” Skalliska said as she poked a claw at a section of the battlefield as she panned out on the images unfolding within the scrying orb.

	“… died in rather spectacular fashion no less.” Nisha quipped.

Clueless was coping with it all in his own way as he drank down several bottles of hard alcohol, none of which were capable of getting him intoxicated, but if only to give him something to concentrate upon. Florian was alternating between prayer and ale, and as time passed, he was edging closer to Clueless who still seemed largely oblivious.

Toras was busy watching the window out of the bar, watching a steady stream of worried and tense members of the city watch and both the Sons of Mercy and the Sodkillers hurry past in the direction of the Hive.

	“Looks like they’re expecting trouble in the Hive from this all…” the half-celestial said as he turned back towards the others.

	Already most of their patrons had left and returned to their own homes or places of business as word had spread about the events in Belarian and in the Waste. The multiverse was tensed, coiled tight like a spring, and no one wished to be standing in the way if something were to snap. But if there was to be any sort of response that might spill over to Sigil, Fyrehowl at least knew it wouldn’t be at the hands of her own people…

	Toras stepped back as the door swung open and a member of the Sons of Mercy stepped into the bar. Dressed in the white armor and regalia of his faction, the man seemed uncertain but ready for what the next days might bring as he nodded to everyone in the room.

	“Can we help you sir?” Tristol said as he looked up from Skalliska’s scrying orb.

The paladin shook his head, then thought better of it and nodded. “I need to ask you all to stay inside and be alert, especially since you’re not all that far away from the Hive.”

	“Oh?” Clueless asked from behind the bar.

	“We expect trouble and we expect it very soon. The ‘loths… not sure how much you know about it…”

	Fyrehowl looked up and snarled violently.

The paladin grimaced and nodded sympathetically, “While I can’t say first hand what happened, I’ve heard the same rumors our faction has been told. Some are saying that a portion of the upper planes was ripped away into Hades. Some are saying that the Oinoloth is dead, and others are saying that the Baatezu were making off with the mortals who had served on either of the sides. That by itself is causing all hell to break loose in Torch, Hopeless and Curst.”

	“And they’re all coming here…” Nisha muttered, “…all of greed, gloom, and ‘stab you in the back just because I can’. Lovely people, open the portals right up…”

The paladin ignored the mildly tipsy tiefling,	 “What’s got them terrified are the rumors that whoever came out on top in Oinos is slaughtering anyone who had been loyal to the former Oinoloth or Anthraxus. There was a riot in Hopeless when someone claimed that a death squad had marched out of the palace of Thingol the Mocking… I don’t know what’s true or what’s not, but we may have every lower planar portal jammed with people trying to get into Sigil.”

	Toras nodded.

	“After all, no army is going to march in after them, that’s for sure, and they’re afraid that the purges are going to follow them anywhere else they might go. But in any event, just be alert if we end up with a riot in the next ward over, and it seems likely that we will.” The paladin said as he made for the door.

	“If you or anyone working with you needs a place to just sit down for a minute, something to drink or what have you, you’re more than welcome to drop in here.” Florian said.

	Tristol and Clueless both nodded before the half-fey commented, “I don’t think we’ll be going to sleep anytime soon, and we’ll be open as long as we’re awake. And in this climate, considering what happened, we’ll be here a while.”

	“Thank you, it’s appreciated. And I’ll keep the offer in mind. Take care.” And with that, the white-garbed paladin was out the door and down the street.

	“It’s going to be a long night everyone, that’s for sure.” Clueless said as he started to pull out extra glasses and ale mugs for the people that might filter in over the rest of the evening and next day.

	Fyrehowl looked up sullenly and spoke for the first time in a while, “A long night… that fits well…”


***​

	Indeed it was a very long night, and the Portal Jammer ended up attracting a rather eclectic crowd of local businessmen, city guard and faction members, and a number of refugees who had managed to get into the city through some of the less regulated portals. Many of those in the inn had never been there before, and despite the horror that had spawned it all, they were getting exposure for the bar that they hadn’t had as much of before.

	Florian and Toras took shifts serving as bouncer at the door of the inn as sporadic violence in the streets bled over from the poorer sections of the Hive where refugees had been flooding into the city from the lower planar gates. Toras took no small measure of relief in personally _handling_ any such violence in the immediate vicinity of the Portal Jammer.

	“Funny about those random head wounds ‘aint it?” Nisha said as she looked past Toras to the tiefling who was sprawled in the street behind the fighter as he walked back into the inn. The man had threatened to burn down the inn if they hadn’t given him free alcohol, and the man was now lying in the street, bleeding, and possibly comatose.

	“I didn’t mean to break anything on him! I meant to subdue!” Toras said as Nisha shot him another disbelieving look that was bordering on laughter, if only to break the otherwise oppressive atmosphere in the jammer.

	The atmosphere took a dip downwards when a haggard looking swordsman walked into the inn, injured with half healed wounds, and looking petrified with fear. His torn and scorched tabard bore the symbol of Anthraxus: one of the mortal mercenaries who had served for gold under the now dead archfiend.

Toras looked at him warily as the man shuffled in and sat down without a word. Far from being liable to start any trouble, then man had literally been to hell and back, and just needed somewhere to recover if he could. “May I have something to drink?” He asked, his stare slightly glazed over and his voice choking and cracking as he spoke.

Clueless looked at him and then at the others, the berk was alive but not intact. “Anything specific? It’s on the house.”

Dmitri Theodorikos looked up at the half-fey and managed a smile, “Just anything, I need to forget something things for a bit.”

Tristol paused from watching the kobold’s scrying orb and sat down next to the man. “What happened out there?”

The mercenary answered with a broken laugh. “My brother and I, we joined up in Center, hoping to make some easy gold. The pay was good and we didn’t think that the former Oinoloth was going to lose. He’s dead now, and so is the other one.”

	“Did your brother make it out too?” Florian asked.

	“No…” Dmitri whispered softly, “And I almost didn’t either. As soon as the fighting broke out, there was a Baatezu army that altered course and crashed into our flank. That was when the sky began to boil and…”

	He shuddered and paused to take a drink. Clueless refilled it almost immediately with better wine. Dmitri continued then, “Another army, easily comparable to either of the others, simply appeared with a great serpent, or dragon or something at its head, I thought it might have been Nidhogg but it wasn’t.”

	“It wasn’t.” Toras said as he glanced out of the window as a group of Xaositects rushed past carrying burning torches and water brigade buckets both.

	“I don’t know how I survived the fighting after that, but my brother and I got separated and it all went downhill from there. The newcomers and their army were winning. Sure their losses were horrific, but whoever their leader was I don’t think he cared, they were just property… same as all of the mortals there in the battlefield were.”

	“The Baatezu.” Clueless said.

	“Yeah, that seems to have been their price in all of it, us. The ‘loths don’t use petitioners in the same way the devils do at all, and so they sold us all before the battle even started. Traitors or agents within the first two armies started grabbing us and herding us together for the baatezu to collect as their prize once it was clear that their allies were winning.”

	“B*stards…” Florian cursed.

	“And as soon as they could they fled the field of battle, dragging off the mortals back to the Nine Hells. I only hope my brother wasn’t with them. It would be better even if he’d died earlier on in the battle, at least then he’d have a chance of arriving in his patron’s realm.” Dmitri sighed and polished off his drink, not knowing that his brother was dead in a rather permanent fashion. The exact fate of his brother’s soul however was an open and uncertain thing.

	Florian looked at the others, “His tab is on me till he’s feeling better and recovered. Make him comfortable, it’s the least we can do.”

	Dmitri smiled and wiped away his tears, “Thank you. Bless you all.”

	Feeling pleased that they could at least make the mercenary temporarily happy and removed from what he had been through, they continued as they had been throughout the evening already and then continuing on through the early morning.

	Skalliska continued observing the events unfolding on the Waste along with several of the patrons. As the battle and its aftermath progressed, they watched as bodies were hurled from the spires and ramparts of the Wasting Tower. Lesser yugoloths were simply hurled into the open air to be crushed by their impact, though some of them never hit bottom, as the Mother of Serpents would pluck them out of the air and devour them whole with one or more of its still intact heads. The rest of the great beast was curled about the base of the tower like a pet, and its other crippled or mangled heads lay on the ground oozing blood like slow rivers as they ever so slowly regenerated.

	They saw no Greater Yugoloths hurled from the heights of the Wasting Tower though; their fate was perhaps worse and much more symbolic. As the purge progressed towards to the top of the tower, greater ‘loths were hung from the spires and crags, or their heads strung like beads on a string from the ramparts. All said, the dying or dead and butchered ‘loths seemed to swing and dangle like leaves on a withered tree too long denied water and light.

	Hours passed and higher still it went till the upper portions of the symbol of Yugoloth dominion over the Waste was hung, decorated and festooned with the swinging bodies of hung and disemboweled Ultroloths. And then finally, several figures emerged onto the top of the tower to stand before the throne, the Seige Malicious, and a group of perhaps twelve Ultroloths, one of them who had already claimed it, its title, and its granted power.

	Four figures in total stepped out towards the others clustered around the throne, though others comprising all types of greater ‘loths stood back and watched, mostly Ultroloths and Arcanaloths loyal to the four. A chocolate brown male arcanaloth dressed in red and gold, a tan female dressed in little but the blood-soaked remnants of rich blue silk wrappings though she herself seemed unsullied by the gore, another female of rich copper color and dressed in green who seemed to lurk in the background and avoid direct sight from any watching, and The Ebon.

	Vorkannis the Ebon, overlord of Carceri, was a billowing black swirl of shadows that wrapped around his own blue robed body with only his piercing reddish-pink eyes and his fangs giving contrast from the gloom that cloaked him. In fact his body itself seemed darker than the rippling currents of shadow that wafted off of his body as he stepped apart from his companions, the Wheels Within Wheels, and approached the newest ruler of Khin-Oin. 

The slaughter was quick and brutal, with none of them being offered the chance to swear loyalty to the new order that had risen up against them. In under a minute the Ebon’s two primary conspirators sat upon the corpses and healed what wounds they had, though they were precious few, and the Ebon’s consort fawned upon him as she lay at his feet. Vorkannis himself was holding the head of the Ultroloth who would be Oinoloth, ripping it free from the doomed fiend and speaking to it while it somehow remained alive till he was finished. Upon finishing, he turned and sat upon the throne, letting the blood and spinal fluid of the former occupant drip upon his waiting tongue before he crushed the skull and hurled it over the edge. Khin-Oin had a new master and the Yugoloths of the Waste bowed to a new Oinoloth.

	“Well f*ck…” Florian said, breaking what had been total and unbelieving silence throughout the inn’s taproom.

	Clueless said nothing, but instead looked down at his own leg and the gem that was embedded into his ankle, the gem that had been placed there by the fiend he had just watched usurp the leadership of his entire race. The antimagic bubble around his ankle was still there, but he wouldn’t have a supply of them forever, and was at the mercy of another ‘loth to have them in the first place. No, he’d have to deal with it sooner rather than later.


****​


The Ebon smirked knowingly and smugly as he sat upon the great throne and felt the nearly sentient essence of the siege malicious reach out and touch his mind to determine his worth to sit and rule. Seeming to grow from the top of the spinal column shaped tower, it resembled more living bone than the rock of the tower itself, and it felt powerful, willful and alive as it latched onto the spirit of the one who had slain its three previous occupants.

	Like a lover’s caress it brushed across the Ebon’s thoughts and then paused as it tested the black and lightless waters of his mind, feeling the currents of the sharks swimming within those midnight depths. The tower was pleased with what it saw, overwhelmed and honored even, as it whispered to him, “Hello my lord. Hello my Oinoloth of the Waste. I give you this title and this power, as is my purpose. Be proud.”

 	Mentally turning inward, Vorkannis reached out his own mind to that of the Tower and gave it his reply, “Hello stepping stone.”

	Kneeling before him, her hands on his robes, his consort smiled up at him. “It has accepted you my Love, and I am proud of you, though this was to be expected.” The Ebon stroked her ears as she lowered her head and occupied herself with showing her own approval.

	Without a pause, the new Oinoloth looked up at his two conspirators who stood over the bodies of the Ultroloths. “And now I believe that your loyalty is to be rewarded. At the start of this I asked you each a question, and you have earned what you asked me for.”

	Helekanalaith and Shemeska nodded to the Ebon as they sat upon the bodies of the dead that littered the courtyard atop the tower. Both of them paused however as they realized something that struck their minds as anomalous: The Ebon had not changed in the slightest upon assuming the throne and being accepted by it as Oinoloth. There was no physical alteration, no warping of the body, no corruption of form as the Siege did to all who took its mantle for their own. Nothing had happened to their lord except for a minor change that they sensed was entirely of his own doing.

	The Ebon had always been surrounded by an aura of shadow that manifested as trails of darkness, black wispy tendrils that seemed to swirl about his form and evaporate from him in ephemeral traces on the air. It was still there, all of it, lapping up from his body as he settled onto the throne of Khin-Oin and his consort indulged in the carnal. But where before the trails of shadow were thin tendrils of darkness, they had taken upon themselves an additional aspect: they trailed off on the thin air like an artist’s impression of disease, like the shadowy images of plague spores and airborne corruption drifting off and emanating from the Lord of Khin-Oin. His conspirators sensed that it was at his whim though, and not a forced change according to his position as the title had always enforced, and they were inwardly uncertain as to what it meant. 

But none of that mattered as they pictured in their mind’s their rewards for their part in his ascension. Both of them had pictured cleanly in their minds what it was they had requested in exchange for their aid to the Ebon; Helekanalaith had asked for something simple: respect due his position, and importance. The Marauder had likewise asked for something of few words: independence, respect, and sole dominion over the informal Yugoloth hierarchy within Sigil.

	“Your newfound respect and importance doesn’t extend to your children Hele…” The Marauder said with a smirk after they both had reiterated their answers to Vorkannis. “Sigil only has enough room for one king, and you’re looking at her. Your son can play handmaiden or squire, something like that.”

“Not unexpected considering how much you actually despise him. Though I’ve no doubt that you’ll continue f*cking each other despite the mutual opinions.” Helekanalaith said disdainfully.

The Marauder laughed as she adjusted the razorvine circlet atop her head and ignored the mental snarl from the Ebon’s consort at the open discussion of her love life. “No, we never have. Except for that one time. And all those other times too, but maybe I’m just lying, or maybe he is. Would that I was. Which would make you more comfortable? We can call that the truth.”

“Would that you were.” The Keeper said with a shrug. “No complaint from me, since you’ve earned your prize and he hasn’t. He will still of course serve as my envoy in matters within the city. And I expect then that since I’ve lost my mortal tool in our mutual information hunt, I would expect you to lose yours as well. In fact, I’m adding that to me request…”

The Marauder narrowed her eyes briefly but then shrugged and laughed as she passed it off, while all the while the Keeper was passive but inwardly laughing at her. She was good, very good, but she wasn’t as old as he was, nor had she the years of experience in a position of power such as he did. He smiled and adjusted his spectacles.

	Shemeska looked back up at the Oinoloth and explicitly ignored his consort as if she didn’t exist except to waste air. “My lord, before I do as the Keeper would request, is there anything further you would ask of me? I would have one last use for him before he’s let loose, one person to see killed in Sigil.”

	The Oinoloth raised an eyebrow and smirked as he plucked the thoughts from her mind and replied likewise, “Yes you could, but you have others who could do the deed just as well. Kill the executioner as you like and make a public statement with it just to leave the lingering impression that we can reach inside the city at our whim. We could, but the Wheel Within Wheels are served better by the impression and fear of such, rather than the unwanted attention that we three would receive by doing so.”

	The Marauder nodded and adjusted the circlet of razorvine atop her head, playing with one of the razor sharp leaves with a single painted, poisoned claw. “I know just the way, and I’ll enjoy this one personally I think.”

	Helekanalaith smiled back at the Marauder’s leering, smug, sh*t eating grin as she laughed and wrapped a finger fully in the living razorvine. Bloody but satisfying, he wouldn’t doubt that, and Sigil had enough of the floral vermin to go around on almost any street corner, or at least it did the last time he had been inside Sigil nearly a hundred thousand years prior.

	“And by the time you are done with that, my own mortal tool will be at your doorstep to collect what you still have, and then I’ll proceed to break him. Assuming all goes well in Ysgard, Oakwright will be dead and your former toy will have a present waiting for him. You’ll see.”

	Helekanalaith and Shemeska both nodded and began to talk amongst themselves as they gathered the bodies of the dead Ultroloths and began to personally sever the heads and suspend them over the lip of the Wasting Tower’s summit.

All the while The Ebon simply watched in idle amusement at their banter as they hurled the tethered heads from the precipice to dangle like obscene ornaments from the tower. As they worked his mind was largely occupied and speaking to the Wasting Tower itself, familiarizing himself with its more subtle powers, while his body was firmly in the caress of his consort. 

The process went on for an hour or more before he silenced the tower and recalled his awareness back to the present; he had other things to do and the Wasting Tower could wait. Besides, there was little there he wouldn’t have been able to do already, it simply made it less taxing to control certain affects and properties of the plane it was tethered to. In some way that plane was more linked to him than it might have been to Khin-Oin, but power in its own right was worthless without the ability to use it, direct it, and exploit it for your own benefit. Purity, reorganization, a rebirth of focus, and revenge… all of these were worthy goals to exploit that power towards, though perhaps just a part of a larger picture by the end of it all.

Opening his eyes and fully snapping back to the present, Vorkannis smiled down at his lover. He reached down to touch Shylara’s chin and gesture her to stand. She rose and stood before him, only briefly glancing back at the Marauder and licking the side of her mouth clean. “Yes my Oinoloth?”

	“I asked these two a question some time ago, but I have never asked the same of you. Tell me, what is it you want. Answer me your desire and I will reward you with it.”

	She looked into his eyes and answered without hesitation, “I desire y…”

	He stopped her, “That is implicit and understood. Besides that.”

	She nodded and stepped forward to sit upon his lap and wrap her arms about his neck. Shylara leaned forward as the illusions and other magics cloaking her true physical appearance dropped and vanished. Gone was the pristine and immaculately groomed fiend, and in its place was a tattered and manged figure who bled and oozed from the open sores that dotted her flesh where she had scratched herself raw from itching. Gone was the arcanaloth draped in rich clothing of silk, velvet and leather, and except for a few bits of jewelry she sat naked and bloody upon the Oinoloth’s lap. Leaning into her embrace of the Ebon, she felt not an ounce of self-consciousness at her appearance, and she gave her answer to his ear with a whisper and a lick.

	“Power my love. I want power, responsibility, ascension, prestige and power. Let me stand at your side for what may come and empower me to do so more than I am now.”

	He answered her with a lingering kiss as they sat together upon the ancient symbol of power that was the Seige Malicious. Minutes later he broke the embrace and answered his breathless consort, “And that you will have.”

	She was unchanged seemingly, and then she felt it within her, at first just a subtle alteration within thought processes and then understanding flooded into her mind, seeming that her veins might ignite with what she had been granted. Outwardly though she was still the arcanaloth who sat upon his lap, naked and tattered, except where her eyes had always been a shade of lavender, they now danced with a of shifting staccato swirl of colors: violet to blue to green to orange to crimson to scarlet and back to violet… the hallmark of an Ultroloth.

	The Manged was weeping softly as she looked at her lover and her mind swirled with those she would have revenge upon with the power she felt swirling inside her mind, unlocking and unfolding mystery upon mystery with every eat of her blackened heart. The acid dripping from her eyes steaming and evaporated on the air and The Ebon’s tongue as he licked her cheek.

	“Power and ascension you have, prestige as my whore, and now something additional for the rest of your desires. I find myself with a new tower beneath me here, and an old one in Carceri that requires a lord and warden, a mistress to reign over it and all that it holds and represents…”

	She swallowed hard as she realized the implications of the gift and position she was being handed. “And the responsibility. What is it that you would have me do in my place as Mistress of the Tower of Incarnate Pain? Say it and it is done my love.”

	The Ebon’s eyes flickered crimson as he smiled up at her and held her closer. The air crystallized around them and outside of that bubble, Oinos was still and silent, time itself paused and waiting for them. “That is your position which I abdicate and give to you. And now I have something for you to do with that newfound power and position, something I need you to gather for me.”


***​

And so Fyrehowl sat, numb and cold, dead to the world as she looked back to that moment and tried to remember. She honestly didn’t remember leaving the Portal Jammer or walking into the other bar where she found herself sitting with half a mug of bitter, watered down ale. The broken fortress, the screams of the dying, the walls glowing red with the blood of the crucified in the light of dawn… she shook with a mixture of fury and misery and broke off the recollection on those details. It would take time before she could picture it, and already what exactly had happened and what she had seen there retreated into the corners of her mind, balled up and willingly, thankfully forgotten in a haze of regret.

Instead, her mind locked onto the aftermath as she and her companions had left, unable to do anything, and with only a single question rolling about her mind: why? Sigil seemed to drift away as she pondered over things in her mind and felt something change in her as she asked questions she might not have considered just days before.

Why? That same thought had seemed to come to her in an instant as she had fallen to her knees there at Rubicon with the waters of Oceanus running red with the blood of her kind, and even possibly her kin. She had simply stared, shivering from the cold numbness that seemed to enclose everything. Too disbelieving to even protest her disbelief... It seemed to take both an eternity and an instant to pull away from that battlefield of horror and the question was locked into her mind, rising above even her own horror and fear.

_”Of all the things to happen, why this? To be so shortsighted, to do what I *thought* was right and good to pave the way for even more betrayals and horrors. How could the guardinals, my own people, have been so ... righteous that we…they… brought their own downfall?

Where were the greater powers of good when all of Belarian needed them most? Where were they when armies of fiends poured into Elysium? Not even the other layers of Elysium had seen it come or happen. Talisad, Lucan, Windheir, the others… where had they been? This is...this is not how it is supposed to be!

They have been so blind, I... I have been so unfathomably blind.” _


***​

When they had emerged out of the glimmer of Tristol’s planeshift and onto the cobblestones of Tradegate’s streets it had been later in the evening. The sky was clear and still as the lights of the city stretched off and faded into the distance above, the dark of the Outland’s sky snuffing the lights of the city as well as the spire snuffed magic. Fyrehowl had wandered off on her own, needing the time to simply walk and brood, and telling the others that she would meet them later.

Unaware and unconcerned, a bat-winged tiefling scampered along the streets, between the noisy bars and the shops that were still open.  Running from the other card players who just realized they’d been cheated, he quickly cornered into an alley and doubled back on the next street near the outskirts of the city. He took little notice as he ran past a blue and cream furred lupinal, staring up at the sky, apparently talking to thin air.

Fyrehowl stood there, looking at the stars above, the fur on her cheeks matted from her tears. She spoke softly, "I know you cant hear me, but I'm sorry.  I know you had faith in me, and I… I failed. Again. I wish I could see the world like you did - have faith like you did in the things we were taught but...I can't…" 

She would have said more, but the words stuck, her voice trailing off to nothing more than a whisper. It seemed as if all that was supposed to be good and right in the planes didn't matter. No one would come to help you, no one would guide you, and no one would save you.

As hard as it had always been to believe that Elysium would always seem to take what the Lower Planes wanted to do with the rest of the multiverse, now it had taken this with its only reply being a whimper of its own agony as it curled away and whimpered for the pain to end.

The winner was painfully obvious.  Were the powers of good so content to let the fiends run everything and mow down anything in their way? Apparently so.

What was so wonderful about all the morals, all the hope, the genuine faith in right and mercy if it came with a passiveness that rendered you useless? It wasn't like the guardinals did much these days that she saw other than the unending but largely petty interference in the Blood War. Fighting evil for the sake of fighting evil was right and proper, but all that they did was meaningless in the overall scope and scale of the War Eternal. It all went on without accomplishment, other than a stalemate that seemed acceptable to them, and at a price she'd seen paid before her eyes over, and over, and over again. Belarian was neither the first, nor the last innocent blood to be spilled because of their quiescence, all born of high-minded righteousness and a fear of drawing attention to the upper planes as a threat to the fiends.

Damn the limits! Damn what they wouldn’t do. It didn’t matter when it came down to stopping bastards from the Pit like the Ebon. If it was a crime to defend yourself and your home by any way possible without betraying it, then so be it. So what if it came at a price of things that you'd rather not do, that you didn’t think were right. Watching your friends, the people you cared for, watching them die over and over again couldn't be any more right.

Thirteen hundred years and she’d yet to find the meaning or understand the way other guardinals seemed to accept their view and their world. She was starting to agree that their view was foolish… Tarnsilver may have been a traitorous, arrogant fool, but he was, in some small way, right about what Elysium had done.

But she… she would not be a traitor in the mold of that one. No, Tarnsilver rightfully lost his life for what he did to Elysium. And in the future, be it a day, a decade, or millennia, the Ebon would be worse off than to lose his head for what he had done.

As much as she thought the blame was hers for Rubicon, she knew it was shared; oh, was it shared.  It was shared among many, and the only one who seemed to be on top of that mountain of blame was the midnight black arcanaloth of nightmares. And, while what had been done could never be undone or erased, as much as Elysium would try to eventually bury it, as it had buried all it's other secrets, perhaps it would in some slight way compensate for what her own failure had caused. Nothing seemed to really make sense now, but that, at least, was a goal to hold onto.

She looked up from her mug, shoving what was left along with a bit of coin across the bar, having sat for too long absorbed in her thoughts and needing to be back to her companions. It was well past antipeak, far too late to be up, and on the other side of Sigil no less, but as she walked home, if she could have thought of a deity who might have granted her wish, she’d have prayed not to dream the dreams she knew would come…


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## Krafus

Terrific update, Shemeska.  Now I understand why Clueless mentioned the PCs' party had yet to take out your namesake or the others. Here's hoping Clueless manages to remove that damn gem before it does more damage, and that someday Fyrehowl can avenge herself on The Ebon.


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## shilsen

Shemeska said:
			
		

> The tower was pleased with what it saw, overwhelmed and honored even, as it whispered to him, “Hello my lord. Hello my Oinoloth of the Waste. I give you this title and this power, as is my purpose. Be proud.”
> 
> Mentally turning inward, Vorkannis reached out his own mind to that of the Tower and gave it his reply, “Hello stepping stone.”




I like the way he thinks


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## Clueless

Krafus said:
			
		

> Terrific update, Shemeska.  Now I understand why Clueless mentioned the PCs' party had yet to take out your namesake or the others.




*grin* 



			
				Krafus said:
			
		

> Here's hoping Clueless manages to remove that damn gem before it does more damage, and that someday Fyrehowl can avenge herself on The Ebon.




Hmmm. No comment about the gem.


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## Dakkareth

Ooohh, the horror! There's yet another update, but it is too late to read it or I will be even more f'ed tomorrow than I'll be already.


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## Ryltar

Sheer greatness. The Ebon is Macchiavelli in perfection.


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## Voldenuit

shilsen said:
			
		

> Voldenuit - just for the record, Shemmy the DM is male.




Actually, the funny thing is that I _know_ that from a purely rational standpoint already.

However, every time I think of Shemeska, it's "his" avatar that I mentally associate with the image.

Hence, I always end up calling "him" "her".

It doesn't help that "she" tends to post "in-character" on the Planescape boards... ^_^

But then, as you well know, the nature of loth "gender" is academic and open to change...


----------



## Clueless

... We pick on him in RL too sometimes... "Loth Boy"


----------



## Shemeska

Clueless said:
			
		

> ... We pick on him in RL too sometimes... "Loth Boy"




Bah. Keep picking on me 'magical accident waiting to happen boy' and we'll see who the Kadyx eats next week.   


And online I think I prefer 'King of the Crosstrade' or 'Storyhour B*itch'.


----------



## Clueless

Do you really want to flay me before the final confrontation?


----------



## Shemeska

SH update won't be till sometime early next week. I've been fairly busy with the semester starting and I've been writing another story (which I'll post a link to here in case anyone is curious, though it will have some spoilers for the SH since it's based on events that happen about a year in game from the current point).


----------



## Shemeska

Just in case anyone was curious, this was what I've been working on, and what prevented me from updating the storyhour last week. Who knew you could hit the character limit on a messageboard when you try to post a story. *chuckle*

But the story does contain spoilers for this storyhour, if minor, as it's based on later events that happen here. It's also worth a warning for extreme content, and making my players (and me when writing it) cry.

Storyhour update as per usual on Friday this week, sorry for the delay.


----------



## shilsen

Shemeska said:
			
		

> Just in case anyone was curious, this was what I've been working on, and what prevented me from updating the storyhour last week. Who knew you could hit the character limit on a messageboard when you try to post a story. *chuckle*
> 
> But the story does contain spoilers for this storyhour, if minor, as it's based on later events that happen here. It's also worth a warning for extreme content, and making my players (and me when writing it) cry.
> 
> Storyhour update as per usual on Friday this week, sorry for the delay.




No apology needed. That story was worth it, and then some. Bravo! I don't know whether I'm just getting used to your intensely warped mind (and yes, that's a compliment ), but I saw the last bit coming.


----------



## Ryltar

Great work, that!

*raises "What shilsen said" flag*

I honestly don't know how my players would have reacted to that kind of situation ... hmm ... maybe, one day I should ... 

Somehow I seem to have missed installment #3 ... can't find it on the PW boards.


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## Shemeska

Ryltar said:
			
		

> Great work, that!
> 
> *raises "What shilsen said" flag*
> 
> I honestly don't know how my players would have reacted to that kind of situation ... hmm ... maybe, one day I should ...
> 
> Somehow I seem to have missed installment #3 ... can't find it on the PW boards.




*grinning* Thank you 

#3 I believe was 'The Wanderer' and IIRC I posted that one on the WotC boards and not PW. I'll look sometime this afternoon and post a link here when I'm not busy.


----------



## Clueless

Have you put the Baernstien Baern stories up into Chronicles on Planewalker yet? That may be a good place to keep an archive of them.


----------



## Ryltar

Seconded .


----------



## Dakkareth

I am ... calm, possessed of a heightened perceptiveness.

I like your Baernaloth characterizations. They stimulate insight in respect to many things, among others, morality, lack thereof and their inversion.


----------



## bluegodjanus

Shemeska said:
			
		

> Just in case anyone was curious, this was what I've been working on, and what prevented me from updating the storyhour last week.




And it is well worth the SH delay, too.


----------



## Shemeska

*Post 666 for me. An update and the Mark of the Beast at once. How so very 'lothy*

Several days had passed. The mood about Sigil, and indeed the planes themselves, was still subdued and pensive, the nerves of some seemed set on edge, waiting to see what would happen next. A bloody, ragged hole had been torn from the heart of Elysium, and it was as if, on that matter, the planes were holding their collective breath at what response might be seen. But no response came. No crusade, no revenge, no invasion of the Waste to reclaim what did not belong to it.

	Nothing happened, though some within Sigil did indeed call loudly for something to be done. But those voices were not the voices of the important, the powerful, or the influential. All of those voices that might have mad a difference were still, hushed, and silent. Those who could have done something, they did nothing as if they were still in shock at what had transpired in so short a time, and with little to no warning.

	The influx of refugees into Sigil from The Waste and the gatetowns bordering the three planes of conflict ebbed, slowed, and finally reversed themselves. The riots were quashed, and order was restored by the efforts of the city watch, the Sons of Mercy, and the questionable, but effective methods of the Sodkillers. The status quo returned to the City of Doors, and sooner than anyone expected.

	The Blood War was uninterrupted and yugoloth presence upon the untold battlefields of the War Eternal seemed as ubiquitous as always, unperturbed by the sea change within their upper hierarchy. The status quo returned to the lower planes, and, like Sigil, faster than any might have considered possible. Rumors of bloody purges amongst their own ranks, of masses of greater yugoloths being put to the sword while their lesser watched, and of the desperate flight of Ultroloths who had failed to ally themselves with the winning side of their civil war, all those stories and more were whispered and retold in hushed tones.

	Officially, as glibly phrased from behind the glossy white fangs of the arcanaloths who served as their race’s spokesman to their clients and to the curious in general, little had changed and rumors were only that. Yes there had been a change in power, the former Oinoloth, an Ultroloth prince of minor consequence, had been deposed, and Vorkannis the Ebon ruled from Khin-Oin as Oinoloth of the Waste. That a portion of Elysium now lay merged with the Waste was glossed over and no comment was given, nor was much comment given to the reports of the uncountable thousands of bodies and severed heads that swung like obscene wind chimes, slowly rustling about in the wind as they hung from the ramparts of Khin-Oin, from base to top, decorating the Wasting Tower with their gory and silent reminders of the price of disloyalty to He who sat and ruled, twenty two miles up.

	In Sigil, such questions posed to The Marauder were scoffed at and rebuffed, though the fiend seemed in a remarkably better mood than usual. It almost seemed like the jackal-headed rumormonger and mistress of less than legal dealings had to intentionally hold back her glee at what had recently happened.

	“I buy and sell dark and rumor, but I can’t say that I’ll vouch for such rumors one way or the other. Now, I’m not any sort of official spokesman for my race, though I do hear things from time to time, and I’m pleased with what I’ve seen and heard out of the Wasting Tower of late. Beyond that, I have no comment.”

	The Marauder had then leaned back and grinned at the clustering of reporters from a half dozen of Sigil’s papers. She inhaled deeply from the long, crystalline tip of the waterpipe perched on the bejeweled and gilded skull of what looked disturbingly like a cervidal, and then blew a steam of smoke at the collective gathering of the press.

	“Now, if you’d like to do business with me, my door is open and my schedule too. But,” she said, twin streams of thin smoke curling up from her nostrils, “I run a business, and I know that none of you make very much. If you’re that curious, we can talk about making you a loan, but otherwise gentleman, I’m in a deliciously good mood, and lets not do anything to spoil that, yes?”

	“But Ma’am, we’d like a confirmation or not on some of the…” An aasimar reporter for the Tempus Sigilian said before being cut off.

	“I prefer ‘your grace’.” The King of the Cross trade said curtly to the reporter. “And again, I have better things to do than publically speculate on things you should be paying for me to speculate upon. Do dawdle off and report on something else. I heard that Aram Oakwright was scragged four days ago but his faction has been trying to keep it under wraps as they try to raise him from the dead.”

	“But… your grace…” The same reporter said, “I still don’t…”
	“That wasn’t a polite request.” The fiend said, baring several fangs, and leaning forward to point a single, manicured, claw tipped finger in the berk’s direction. “Don’t make me make an impolite request. You wouldn’t like that.”


****​

	Much like the rest of the city, the mood inside the Portal Jammer was grim and taciturn. Clueless was tending the bar and serving drinks to the slow stream of regular customers, many of whom had begun hitting the ‘jammer after the riots earlier in the week. Toras had been visiting the small chapel to his god in the Temple district of The Lady’s Ward, as had Florian, though Tyr’s temple within Sigil was significantly larger and more prosperous than that of Andros. Nisha had been wandering in and out at random, doing whatever it was that Nisha did to amuse herself. Knowing the chaotic tiefling, that was a rather long, eclectic and delightfully sporadic list of things.

	Fyrehowl had spent perhaps a day sulking and brooding angrily, but had very quickly gone to the Great Gymnasium, training more and more with various members of the Transcendent Order. In the end, most of her waking hours were split between there and the Jammer, doing rather than sitting in her room and thinking over things that she couldn’t personally change, at least not yet.

	Tristol had mainly bottled himself up in his lab, going through the spellbooks that had once belonged to the Imshenviir Mercane, and also the spellbook that had belonged to the arcanaloth Parphinias, late of the tower in Belarian. The latter was scribed in a sort of personal code, likely to keep the fiend’s own discoveries safe from his fellows. But regardless of the intend and purpose the dead fiend had behind the ciphers in the book, it was taking most of the aasimar’s time to translate the runes into infernal, and from there into draconic for him to learn the spells within. And, given the nature of the spells, most wouldn’t have cared to learn them at all. Tristol learned them anyways, even if he might never use them.

	Oddly enough, Skalliska had been staying in her own quarters back at her place of business, rather than taking a room at the Jammer. The kobold had also been embroiling herself in a bit of research concerning the pantheon of gods that had formerly served her people on her own native world. For several days, she had been clustered around a number of fairly thick books on the subject of dead gods, missing gods, obscure pantheons, and the history of kobolds on the prime material.

	During her research, Skalliska had kept mostly to herself, and hadn’t been too terribly talkative about the reasoning behind her research. Still, she seemed quite avid about whatever it was that she was looking for. During the second day of the kobold’s work, Nisha had sat down at the same table and was staring oddly at a dish of… something… that Skalliska’s was snacking on.

	“Skalliska? Why are you eating Illithid tentacles?” The tiefling said, reaching for one.

	Skalliska chuckled, “Not Illithid. Some sort of prime animal called an octopus. Illithid’s expensive and hard to get this time of year.”

	Nisha grinned and played with a number of the tentacles, making them dangle and talk to one another in a way that could only be said was exactly her way of thinking. Then she paused and looked at the kobold a bit more seriously.

	“…wait… You can get Illithid? You’ve eaten one of them before? I’m both sickened and impressed and curious at the same time.” She said with a giggle.

	Skalliska pushed the dish towards Nisha. It has heaped with several dozen of the purplish tentacles, many of them graced by oversized suckers. “Help yourself if you like them.”

	“Thank you, I think I will.” The tiefling said, hiding a mischievous grin as she picked up five of the tentacles, stuck them to her fingertips, and dangled them in front of her face…The last anyone saw, she was walking off towards the direction of Tristol’s lab.

	“Sir? I was instructed to deliver a package to you.” The messenger said as he held out a note and a box to Clueless.

	“Oh? Who from?” The half-fey asked from behind the bar as he took the two items.

	“I’m sorry sir, but I wasn’t told. They were both delivered to us anonymously with instructions to deliver them to you at this time. I’d tell you more if I knew. But, alas, I don’t.”

	Clueless nodded, tossed the runner a silver piece from behind the bar and thanked him. The runner smiled and headed quickly out the door, on his way to his next assignment, leaving his last puzzled and looking at the package.

	Clueless was about to open the box when there was a sudden, distinctly Nisha sounding, cry of “Aasimar Brains!!!!!” from Tristol’s lab, followed immediately by a distinctly Tristol sounding, “AAAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!!!” Most of the bar patrons turned to look at the screams, the subsequent crash of clattering furniture and books, then the fierce giggle and sounds of a laughing tiefling running away and up the stairs as fast as her hooves could handle.

	Tristol came walking out of his lab a few moments later, several purple tentacles still draped over his head and dangling over his forehead. He was trying very hard not to laugh himself, despite being flushed red in the face. He calmly walked over to Skalliska, his tail bottlebrushed out behind him, and plopped the tentacles down on the table.

	“Don’t encourage her, please don’t encourage her…” The mage said before he walked away, chuckling under his breath.

	Clueless laughed and offered Tristol a drink before turning back to his own package that had arrived a few minutes prior.

	“Weird, wonder who it’s from…” He said, quickly casting a minor dweomers to discern any magic upon either box or letter. A single, and paltry, spell flickered on the envelope for the letter, one likely to alert the writer if the intended recipient was the one who opened it. Otherwise, there was nothing else of note.

	Shrugging, Clueless opened the box, and immediately stepped back as he gazed at the cleanly severed humanoid hand that lay within the nestled confines of the package. He quickly moved the box out of view of the patrons of the inn while he took a closer look. The hand was clearly githzerai, probably an elderly githzerai.

	His mind pictured the face of the githzerai who had originally aided him in restoring his lost memories, and that the man had been absent the past week, and that none of his fellows seemed to know, or in typical bleaker fashion, seem to apply much meaning or import to it.

	“Sh*t…” Clueless softly cursed in a language that few in the inn would have recognized, except perhaps to mistake it for a highly ornate and bizarre derivative of elven or sylvan.

	The envelope was ripped open a second later and its short, brief contents read silently before he was gone and out the door before anyone could stop him. The contents read simply: 

_Suicide Alley. Peak._

	As Clueless rushed out the door, it was ten minutes till peak.

	The Bladesinger arrived at the filth-strewn alleyway in the Hive, not a moment late. He touched down on the ground and drew his sword immediately while his wings folded down to the sides. But, contrary to his expectations, there was no gang of thugs awaiting him, nor a boisterous and gloating yugoloth or a flunky of the same, waiting for him to deliver a mocking speech while he was expected to wait till they were finished and then act.

	There was only a single person, and they were perched at the rim of the alley, tottering by the second and threatening to fall over the side and over the edge, out of the ring of Sigil. It was the Bariaur who had once been a companion of Clueless’s, and who, like him and the elven cleric, had been deceived, captured, and drug to that Tower in Carceri where the yugoloth who now sat atop the throne of the Wasting Tower had implanted each of them with a gemstone in their ankles.

	The bariaur kicked the side of the wall to push himself off balance, and then dropped a bag to the cobblestones of the alley. As the momentum swung him over the side, his eyes grew wide with the flicker of awareness, and then it was gone as he tumbled over the edge and into oblivion with a scream.

	“No!” Clueless shouted before launching himself to the edge, but it was too late. There was _nothing_ over the edge. No void. No darkness. No blank space. _Nothing_. Unable to wrap his mind over what it was that existed beyond the edge, the half-fey averted his eyes and dropped down to the ground of Suicide Alley, so aptly named this time and for countless others.

	The bladesinger exhaled in defeat, having watched a friend vanish into oblivion, or whatever it was that awaited any who leapt from the edge of Sigil’s ring. In all of Sigil’s history, none had ever done so and returned to tell the tale. The Fraternity of Order even had a standing offer to pay the families of those wishing to kill themselves by that act, if only they would return and given an account to the faction if they did survive, before they tried some other way of killing themselves.

	“F*cking sons of b*itches…” He lamented as he kicked the wall harshly and picked up the bag. “So what the hell do you have for me that cost you your life?”

	He opened the bag and dumped the contents into the palm of his hand. A single, glimmering gemstone rolled out, glowing the same color as the orb in his leg, just smaller. The controlling gem.

	“What the hell…” Clueless said as he stared at the gem, instinctively feeling the urge to touch the gemstone in his hand with that in his leg. There was a synchronous vibration that seemed to pass between, and resonate between the two.

	A moment later he did what simply felt right. He merged the two stones. They glowed brilliantly and flowed together like droplets of water joining. The feeling was one of relief, almost analogous to shutting a window on a frigid winters day to prevent the escape of warmth from a roaring fire. Likewise, Clueless felt a door in his mind slam shut and lock, leaving only him with its key.

	Still, a pile of questions still lurked in his mind about what had happened to him, and what had just happened. Why was he given the controlling gem back? It seemed hard to believe that the Marauder would willingly return it to him. Was it simply a case of her having finished with her toys and casting them aside? Did someone else within the Wheels take it and return it to him? Was the Cheshire Fiend involved? What was the reasoning behind the tasks that he and his two other former companions had been forced to perform?

	He wasn’t sure, but he did have one more thing to look into, one more avenue to explore. Clueless gazed down at the severed githzerai hand before he walked off to find a cleric.


***​

	“Wake up.” The voice seemed familiar but distant as his conscious mind flooded back into his body, called back by a cleric of Nephthys.

	Delsar Mur’alt, factotum of the Bleak Cabal, opened his eyes and looked up into the face of the man that he had willingly betrayed. He closed his eyes, shutting them tight and grimacing. He should have refused the call to return to the world of the living…

	The sudden images of exactly where his petitioner had been wandering before that call, they lingering hauntingly in his mind. It had not been pleasant…

	“Your alive. Now what the hell happened to you? Why did friend… a friend who’s now dead… why did he kill you?” Clueless asked as he stood over the Bleaker.

	Delsar sighed and sat at, swinging around to the opposite side of the cot where the priestess had revived him. He was silent for several minutes, oblivious to the bladesinger’s questions, before finally, he answered.

	“I’m sorry.”

	“Excuse me? What?” Clueless asked.

	“Your memories that you recovered, I intentionally gave you back only a fraction of them. That was what I was paid to do by the people using you.” The gith said with pained regret.

	“…” Clueless was taken back by the admission.

	“They wanted you to think I had done my best effort, and being as good as I was with such things, that you wouldn’t dig deeper into those memories except at the safe rate at which I had set them into unraveling.” The bleaker looked up at Clueless with deep, yellowed eyes, red at the edges with emotion.

	“They had you on the payroll as well, I should have figured…” Clueless said, looking away.

	“They wanted to control every aspect of whatever it was that they were doing to you, and using you for. No, I don’t know anything about it besides what I saw in your mind, and what you already know yourself.” Delsar replied, “But still, I knew a bit too much for them, and in the end I was having second thoughts about what I had helped them do to you. They killed me for it.”

	Clueless looked at him rather pointedly, “Who was paying you?”

	“I don’t know. I was contacted mind to mind originally, bargained with by those means, and paid by hired courier. The mind was cold and dark, dreadfully so, a fiend most likely. The voice would change when they talked to me, so I can’t say if they were male, female, or something else, but regardless of how they dressed it up, the touch was the same.”

	“Why?” Clueless asked.

	“I didn’t know you, and I wasn’t directly hurting you. I didn’t know what they would do to you, and by the time I saw some of those memories you had come back into your mind, I couldn’t say no. They would have seen to it that I was punished.” Delsar said, starting to tear up. “As for why I even agreed to it? The money, it was significant, and I was donating the vast bulk of it to the orphanage and soup kitchen we run out of the Gatehouse. In the lack of any meaning in this world, none that I’ve found, none that I think exists, I can give myself a reason to exist and survive by seeing to it that I might better the harsh lives of those around me.
	You were only one man, and I was helping so many others… please forgive me for what I’ve done to you…”

	“It wasn’t your fault, and I know who it was that was doing it to me. Though I don’t know exactly all of the details.” Clueless said.

	“Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know. They killed me once, and they may do worse the next time. Please don’t give them reason.” The gith said quickly.

	“Don’t worry. I won’t tell you. And you don’t need me to forgive you. You’re not the only person that they’ve ensnared, both willing and unwilling. And you’re far from the last. It wasn’t your fault, it’s just something that I have to make right. That won’t be something I can do now, but eventually…” Clueless said calmly as the githzerai nodded and slowly rose from the cot.

	“Forgiving myself is something that I have to worry about though. Meaning comes from within, and so must forgiveness. It may take me some time to find what may be as elusive as meaning, but we shall see. Thank you for bringing me back from the dead, I will find some way to repay you eventually. Thank you, but I have a great deal of introspection and meditation to see to.”

	Clueless nodded to the Gith who shuffled off back to the Hive, and then thanked the cleric for her work. Still running through his head though, were the same questions that had sprung up back in Suicide Alley, and they didn’t have any ready answers.


***​

One week later, the tensions in Sigil had decreased even more, and it seemed that no dire predictions of bloody revenge or crusades would take place, nor the rumors of even more black and dire actions by the children of the lower planes. The status quo rained. But still, there were indications that not all was normal, and some things, once released and thrust into the light of their own making, were loathe to entirely creep back into the shadows and be dismissed or forgotten.

	Skalliska was walking between the Portal Jammer and the Great Library, taking a more roundabout path than might be normal. At the same time, Fyrehowl was returning from her daily training and meditation at the Great Gymnasium where she had been practicing with the githzerai aide to former Factol Rhys, an experience which she felt was highly beneficial to her both for her combat prowess, learning more and more about the philosophy of the now ‘officially’ defunct faction, and an experience that she had begun to involve Clueless in as well, hoping that the two of them might learn to coordinate their fighting styles for use in the future.

	Wandering home by perhaps odd paths, both Skalliska and Fyrehowl happened upon each other in front of a disturbing scene. Perhaps fifteen members of the City Watch stood in front of the outside wall of a large counting house, blocking the close observation and approach of many in the quickly growing crowd of onlookers. The lupinal noticed Skalliska and approached her.

	“Oh, hey there Fyrehowl. I was just walking past and I saw something going on here. However, my height being a bit lower than the average here, I can’t see a bit of what’s going on. What’s going on up there by the building?” Skalliska asked.

	Fyrehowl moved in and out, between and around, several members of the assembled crowd before she caught a full glimpse of what was being blocked off by the watch. It wasn’t pretty, and what she recognized made her see red.

	“Fyrehowl? Where’re you going? What’s up there? Hey!” Skalliska shouted after the lupinal as she abruptly left the scene.

	The kobold shrugged and deftly worked her way under the line of guards and finally managed to take a close look at what they were blocking off. At once she understood the lupinal’s reaction.

	The building’s wall was a snarl of only vaguely trimmed razorvine, though one patch of the wall had been cleared, and recently as well. A single naked and bloodied body was ensnarled and wrapped up within the razorvine, ragged and mangled from its apparent struggle against whoever had thrown them to their death. A silver and carnelian, Mercykiller helmet was fitted over their head, and was indeed the only article of clothing they wore, besides the razorvine that cut deep and suspended them several feet above the ground.

	Skalliska blinked as she noted that the victim appeared to have been hung by several thick strands of razorvine, dying by that just as much as they did from blood loss during their struggle to escape. And then there were the words written in the victims own blood on the patch of the wall that had been recently cleared of the razorvine.

	"_The Wheels grind slowly, but they grind exceedingly fine._"

	The words were underlined and signed with a symbol of the Wheels Within Wheels.

	Skalliska narrowed her eyes at the obvious link to the yugoloth cabal that seemed connected to every ill that had befallen them lately, and then she moved on to return back home and spread the word to the others. Several days later the press would report the victim’s identity as the former Mercykiller known only as The Lady’s Executioner. He had apparently been missing for some time, though his personal finances seemed to indicate that he had been paid a substantial amount of jink just prior to his vanishing, at which time there had been no evidence of foul play, only that he had packed for a trip and vanished by way of a portal, possibly to the Ethereal Plane.


***​

	Several days later, Clueless was checking the daily mail. He idly tossed a number of advertisements for rival inns through the fire portal, and then gingerly held one _advertisement_ away from the others. That particular advertisement was dripping some sort of foul smelling, rancid goop.

	“I told him to leave us off his damn mailing list…” Clueless said as he looked at the note that accompanied the dripping bundle that seemed to have, a week or two ago, been a cranium rat and was well into the decay process.

_You must have been drunk or not thinking straight when you asked me to stop sending you free samples and news on weekly specials. So, in your best interest, and mine, I’m sending you this.
	This week we’re running a special of spleens. Two dozen species. Fresh and bloody, pickled, dried, frozen, living, undead, you name it and I’ve got it.

- Seamusxanthuszemus, Merchant Most Excellent, Slayer of Fiends, Purveyor of Death.

	P.S. Enjoy the free assorted cranium rat parts. Best quality anywhere in Sigil. _

	Clueless tossed the putrefied remains of the rat through the fire portal as well, and then yelled out to Toras.

	“Hey Toras! Seamusxanthu…whatever the hell his name is, he sent us some more free samples.”

	There was a pause, followed by a surprised and miffed reply from the half-celestial. “He what?! I thought you went over to his shop and demanded he stop sending us stuff!”

	Clueless laughed, “Yes, I did. He put us back on his list anyways. Said he thought I was drunk or not in my right mind when I asked to be removed from the mailings.”

	There was a loud, exasperated cry from the other room. “Son of a b*tch! That damn mephit sends us anything more and I’m going over there myself and stuffing him into his own damn hat!”

	Clueless laughed, and then Toras walked into the main taproom.

	“You think I’m kidding? I’ll take him and I’ll fit him into his own damn hat, whether he fits or not, he’s going in there if I have to go to that shop myself.”

	“Toras, you’ll have entirely too much fun if you do that.” Clueless said before handing the fighter a sealed letter.

	“What’s this?” Toras asked.

	“A letter, one addressed to each of us with our named in gold ink. I haven’t gotten around to opening mine yet, so I can’t say really what it’s about.” Clueless said as he walked off to wash the rat goop off of his fingers.

	Indeed, there was a crisp and well scribed letter addressed, by name, to each of the seven. Inside each envelope was a single, delicately folded letter, baring their name and any official titles. The letters read:

_Dear X,
		You are hereby cordially invited by Jeremo the Natterer, The Lady’s Jester, to attend a grand banquet and social event at the Palace of the Jester in The Lady’s Ward, held in the honor of Sigil’s property owners, prominent citizens, and political figures. Come as you are.
		Seven past peak in two days time.

		Jeremo the Natterer, Factol of the Ring Givers _

****​


----------



## shilsen

Nice update. As they say, beware of factols bearing gifts. Or something like that


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## Shemeska

shilsen said:
			
		

> Nice update. As they say, beware of factols bearing gifts. Or something like that




Jeremo's fun


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## Dakkareth

> _Suicide Alley. Peak._



_Bring a second._

Cool update


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## primemover003

Ironically also the 555th post in this thread...  

Very cool, I've wanted to see some more of the Natterer!!!


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## Shemeska

primemover003 said:
			
		

> Ironically also the 555th post in this thread...
> 
> Very cool, I've wanted to see some more of the Natterer!!!




You'll get to see quite a lot of him in this next plot arc, and in anything involving politics in Sigil from then on for the most part. He was a fun character, though my characterization of him will differ from that written up on Planewalker in some ways.


----------



## Clueless

Jeremo's a cool character... but not my favorite NPC in the game. A pale reflection of the real thing.


----------



## Gez

Clueless said:
			
		

> A pale reflection of the real thing.




Diaglo? Is that you?


----------



## Clueless

Eh?


----------



## shilsen

Clueless said:
			
		

> Eh?



 He's referring to Diaglo's tiring old schtick of touting OD&D as the only real version of the game and 3e as a poor imitatotr thereof.


----------



## Joker[ZW]

Shemeska said:
			
		

> He was a fun character,




was?!?  
what did you do to Jerome, you badly dressed fiend!


----------



## Clueless

We're about 3 to 5 games from the end of the campaign. Was is relative to the *game* not to the character.  No worries - Jeremo is still around.


----------



## Gez

The number of time Diaglo posted the words "pale imitation of the real thing" is beyond human understanding. Kinda like Crothian's post count.


----------



## Clueless

Ruining a good phrase!! *sulks in a corner*


----------



## Krafus

Wow. And it looks like Shemeska (the 'loth) is _still_ intent on making use of Clueless. Bitch. I hope Clueless eventually gets to fulfill his vow.


----------



## Clueless

It's a long time coming. A very long time. But *oh* is it gonna be sweet. (Working up the last nails in that coffin this weekend.)


----------



## Clueless

*GIGGLING MADLY* Finally! Took me two and a half Years - but I *finally* got a bounty put on my head in game - at 3 million jink! *returns to giggling madly*


----------



## Krafus

Why are you so happy about that? I mean, Shemeska has now given himself all the latitude he needs to spring bounty hunting parties upon you at the most inopportune times... If I were you, I'd go looking for anti-divination magic, like, say, _an amulet of proof against detection and location_. If the hunters can't find you, you'll face fewer attacks.


----------



## Gez

Who's your Jabba?


----------



## Clueless

Shemeska. Not that she has put the person who did the deed together with me. In fact, I was politely asked to hunt myself not too long ago.   Hence why I'm not worried about bounty hunters right now, Krafus. 

Not that it'd be easy to find bounty hunters *capable* of taking any of the members of the party out at this time. I've had an amulet of non detection since day one, I now have a ring of sequestering - and I truly pity any bounty hunter who has the guts to even *try* a bladesinger capable of casting meteor swarm, especially when the bladesinger's allies have a response time of under thirty seconds. We're still certainly able to be killed - but it takes more than your Joe Blow from the Hive.


----------



## Dakkareth

The first thing I thought of was a solar or two going after Clueless, unaware of the full situation and/or trying to amass money to some worthy cause.


----------



## primemover003

What's the party level at now Cluless and aboot where is it at this point in the Storyhour?


----------



## Clueless

28. As we're planning our end game right now.


----------



## FyreHowl

And while we're between updates-

Storyhour art!

Reality's Nightmare: Cover art for Shemeska's Story Hour


----------



## primemover003

28th level...  Ridiculous!  Muaahahahahahahahahahaaahhhahahaha!

But seriously, what level are the characters at this point in the story hour.  10-15?


----------



## Shemeska

primemover003 said:
			
		

> 28th level...  Ridiculous!  Muaahahahahahahahahahaaahhhahahaha!
> 
> But seriously, what level are the characters at this point in the story hour.  10-15?




Around 11-13 at this point IIRC.


----------



## Clueless

We're powerful now - but it really does make *sense* when you see where the plot goes. An evil. Canny. OMG this is wicked. Sort of sense.


----------



## primemover003

True getting to confront powers as mighty as Vorkannis seems to be would obviously scream Epic levels....  

But then again I have such a hard time comprehending the mods to make a d20 skill check hit DC 100.  So I took the feat Eschew Ridiculous Levels for my Campaigns.


----------



## Shemeska

primemover003 said:
			
		

> True getting to confront powers as mighty as Vorkannis seems to be would obviously scream Epic levels....
> 
> But then again I have such a hard time comprehending the mods to make a d20 skill check hit DC 100.  So I took the feat Eschew Ridiculous Levels for my Campaigns.




I haven't even begun to get into who or what he is yet, or what players are really making moves besides him on the lower planes. But yes, epic levels are required, though I tend to eschew the very premise of [booming voice]EPIC[/booming voice] levels, or rather the style of such games as promoted by most of the WotC material such as the ELH. Honestly the higher level this game went, the less firm the stats got on things, the more ad hoc stuff there was, and the less dice got rolled.

I'll have an update posted tonight or sat morning, I've been lazy this week and worked on other things (and I got the box set of Millennium, seasons 1 and 2, so I'm a very happy 'loth at the moment).


----------



## Shemeska

*All work and no storyhour update makes Shemmy a very dull fiend*

Nisha snatched the letter out of Clueless’s hands and started reading it, softly muttering, “What to wear, what to wear… and a date, I’ll need a date for this. And hmm… never been to a real party before, unless you count crashing one with a dozen other folks, and that usually doesn’t end happily for us, even if it’s fun.”

	Clueless laughed and snatched for the letter, “Hey, I was reading that!”

	The tiefling held it up over her head and tried to keep it out of his hands, failing to realize that a game of keepaway tended to work best if you were taller than the other person. She mock pouted for a few seconds before she felt a poke to her back.

	“You know, you’ve got one yourself.” Tristol said as he held out a similar letter addressed to her. “No need to crash the party either.”

	She handed back the letter and picked up her own with a grin, “Can I pretend I’m crashing it anyways?”

	“You can do whatever the heck you want. That’s what you usually do anyways.” Tristol chuckled.

	Toras looked over towards them, “I’d put a qualifier on that though. So long as no people get hurt and there’s no major property damage or public scandal you can do whatever you want. How’s that?”

	“Workable.” Nisha said with a wink.

	Tristol laughed as she got up, snagged the Factol Karan doll and dashed out the door, saying something about ‘dolling herself up’. He looked over to Toras, “This should be interesting…”

	“That it will. I have to wonder who else is showing up, for good or for ill.”

	“True, it’s probably going to be a pretty big crowd, lots of important people and all that. Just so long as it’s not like one of the social functions my parents always tried to drag me out to, I won’t mind at all. Anything’s better than sitting in a room with a bunch of social climbing, absurdly arrogant wizards, and having to play along with it.” Tristol’s tail spruced out as he recalled his memories of such things in Halaraa, and his mother’s routine insistence that such were for his betterment.

	“No. Here we’re likely to get everyone from Rhys, Estevan, the Titan…” Toras said before Clueless interrupted.

	“…the b*tch in a razorvine headdress…” Clueless said with a smirk before he muttered to himself, “I swear I’ll have her shaved one of these days…”

	“Ok, so there’s one person who’d fit in back home… hopefully we don’t get seated next to her. Still, it sounds pretty large, and it sounds like it’ll have all types there.” Tristol mused.

	“It’s something I’m looking forward to, that’s for certain.” Clueless said with a grin.


***​

	Fyrehowl drew her blade and bowed to the githzerai monk who stood opposite her, her sparring partner of late. At first she had felt overwhelmed by the quickness and odd fighting style of the other cipher, and because of that initial surprise, she had felt doubt in her own abilities. However, by the end of their first few sessions, she had discovered a number of things that set her own style of fighting apart from Kel’shra’tar’s. First and foremost, she was probably twice as strong as the spindly monk, maybe even more; she was taller than he was by a good foot and a half; and she had her own claws and fangs, that while not commonly regarded as proper weapons for a trained fighter, she was naturally adept with them as extensions of her own body.

	She spent the next evening after their last session alone in a chamber in the gymnasium, adjusting her methods of using her sword, experimenting with incorporating her bite or claws as sudden, unexpected, offhanded attacks. A number of wooden practice dummies quickly showed the signs of the unorthodox methods, and by the end of the evening the lupinal was smiling, though at one point she did have to pause to pick a splinter or two from between her teeth.

	It was all going much smoother, as if she could feel what to do rather than sit and ponder on style, tactics, and proper movements. It might have just been the extra practice that led to her feeling more confidant and noting a smoother edge to her reflexes, but at the same time she felt oddly similar to how she had in those few spontaneous, reactive moments when she had bested the fallen lupinal, Tarnsilver, there in Belarian.

	“We’ll see how this works…” Fyrehowl said, looking down at the splintered remains of the targets with amusement.


***​

	She hadn’t told the other cipher about the changes, half expecting the spontaneity of it all to surprise him and give her the upper hand in their next match, and half expecting him to fully anticipate it and react on instinct much like she was beginning to do. Neither of them were Rhys, but compared to Fyrehowl, the gith had trained for much longer. Still, she was improving rapidly and both of them were pleased with her progress.

	Near the end of that next match, Kel’shra’tar hastily moved into a defensive position and parried a sudden low strike from Fyrehowl. Repeatedly during their match the taller and stronger lupinal had forced him back and gone on the offensive far more than in previous bouts. He had managed to fend off most of them, but the blocked impacts were jarring at times when they landed solidly, rather than being deflected off to one side, and by themselves it was taking more than a bit out of him. Still, he adjusted and eventually disarmed her, being as much quicker than her as she was stronger than him, but he noticed the improvement in her style, and more importantly in her reflexes.

	He was better than her yes, but her rate of improvement was such, that given time she was going to eventually outstrip him in ability, partially from her own racial traits, and partially because of how rapidly she seemed to be adapting to the philosophy that he himself had been taught by Rhys and her factors, and which he was now teaching to her. He didn’t admit all of it to her immediately, but she seemed to sense it anyways, which was an affirmation of the feeling anyways.

	“I have a question to ask you.” She said as she rolled backwards and stood up.

	“Ask,” he said, handing her back her sword from where it lay on the ground.

	She nodded and spoke as they walked out of the training chamber, “One of my companions, a bladesinger and member of the Indeps, Clueless, I think you’ve met him before. I wanted to bring him along the next time we sparred, hopefully so that he and I might coordinate some of our tactics. Would you mind?”

	“Not at all, though I may be hard pressed against the both of you. You have improved, and his style is largely unfamiliar to me. I am at a disadvantage, but the challenge is welcome. Ask him and bring him along. Perhaps tommorow?”

	She nodded and sheathed her sword, “That sounds good. Again, thank you. And the compliment is well received. See you then.”


***​

	“So why am I here again?” Clueless asked as he stood in the center of the Great Gymnasium, looking at the hundred odd persons milling about the central courtyard.

	“Spontaneity! Because I asked you to. Is it that bad of an idea?” The grinning lupinal said to the half-fey.

	Clueless shrugged and quirked an eyebrow, “Spontaneity isn’t bad, and it’s something your new group embraces from what I know. But isn’t this whole idea of planning and working on coordination of our fighting styles a bit… well… defeating the whole purpose of being spontaneous?”

	“Your not a cipher, hence we need to train. Besides, you don’t just wake up one day and hear the heartbeat of the multiverse and know what to do when you need to do it. That takes practice, even if it slowly replaces the need for you to consciously think before acting.” Fyrehowl said with a soft chuckle as she opened the door to the separate courtyard used for swordplay.

	“Besides,” She said, brushing an idle speck of dirt off of her otherwise spotless robes, “This gets you out of the Portal Jammer. You’ve been stuck behind the bar, serving drinks for a solid week now. You need to get out more.”

	“And you need to be around more, because I’ve only been tending bar for a shift or two at a time. Besides, I rather enjoy it. I get to chat up the regular customers, get to know their faces, and I have the added bonus of making sure that Nisha doesn’t burn the place down by accident.”

	“Burn the place down?”

	“She swore she only did that to one place, one time, and it wasn’t entirely her fault. Something about dancing Slaadi and large amounts of alcohol. I just keep reminding myself that we don’t have dancing Slaadi.” Clueless said, his wings flushing with a bit of color at the very idea of dancing Slaadi. “Plus, if you must pry, I’ve found that Factol Montgomery is a rather good conversationalist for an animated doll. She’s cute, and she makes fun of Darkwood. And she’s more than a little hot.”

	“Still, you can’t just stay bottled up in the bar if your social life revolves around little animated dolls. Even if some of them are amusing, or objects of your weird fantasies” Fyrehowl said, poking Clueless in the shoulder.

	“Hey, I’ve got a girlfriend, and I’ve been spending just a _tiny_ little bit of time with her. Let’s just say that we haven’t been spending our hours together playing Arcadian Bridge. She’s a Sensate, I’m half Sidhe, allow your mind to wander from there.”
	Fyrehowl shrugged and very nearly said, ‘Is she actually your girlfriend, or do you two just get together to have fun?’ but, in a very uncipher-like fashion, she paused, hesitated and reconsidered.

	“I can only imagine.” She said with a hesitant chuckle, hesitating rather than acting, and as funny as some might find it, they’d need to approach the subject eventually, just not at the present. Fyrehowl pushed the idea out of the forefront of her mind.

	“So whom are we supposed to be sparring with today? Rhys’s gofor?” Clueless said as he stretched in the center of a marked practice yard.

	Fyrehowl chuckled, “I wouldn’t call him that, but that’s him. Kel. He’s pretty damn fast, even if he’s not exceptionally strong. You’re probably stronger than him, but he’s confidant enough to train against us both.”

	Clueless raised an eyebrow as he stripped out of his shirt and tossed it to the side. “Yeah, that probably says something. But I still say that we should try out what we talked about earlier.”

	The lupinal paused and hesitated before replying, staring overly long at the bladesinger’s chiseled physique and the elaborate knot work tattoo that covered most of his back except for his wings. Clueless was exceptionally fit, and despite his being neither a lupinal, nor any type of celestial in the first place, Fyrehowl found herself admiring what she saw.

	“Fyrehowl? About what we talked about earlier?” Clueless prodded her with the question again.

	“Oh! I’m sorry, I was thinking about something.” She said with a slight startle.

	Clueless grinned, “Isn’t that what you’re not supposed to be doing? The whole cipher thing and all?”

	She poked him in the ribs, “Yeah yeah yeah. Hey, it’s better than lingering on other things. I’m doing my best here to not be utterly depressed.”

	He nodded, “Actually yeah, you’re right. You’ve been tossing yourself into this, and its been keeping you occupied. I can’t say that’s bad. Anyways I think our sparring partner is here.”

	Council Chairwoman Rhys’s assistant and understudy walked onto the sand of the sparring ring and bowed to both Clueless and Fyrehowl. They exchanged greetings and made small talk for several minutes before they took their positions at opposite ends of the ring. The githzerai held up his hand and the metallic bracers that he had been wearing seemed to flow like liquid, pool in his hand, and form an intricate longsword; karach.

	Clueless glanced down at his sword, Razor and whispered to it, “Hey now, don’t get jealous. I promise I won’t leave you here and elope with any other swords. I’m more than happy with you, and I think you know that.”

	Fyrehowl raised an eyebrow, but otherwise said nothing about Clueless talking to his sword like it was a living thing. “So… like we talked about before?”

	Clueless nodded, “That works for me. We’ll see how it works out.”


***​

	They walked out of the Great Gymnasium tired but happy, Fyrehowl smiling and flushed, and Clueless stumbling in his walk due the spasms of laughter he was having as they left. His wings were flushed green as he glanced over at the lupinal and began snickering, a tear or two running down his face.

She rolled her eyes and poked him in the ribs, “Hey, it seemed like a good idea at the time.”

	Clueless was still laughing, “Well, that’s rather the point of the group isn’t it? Still…”

	“Oh it wasn’t _that_ funny. You’ll make me regret having done that.”

	“No, the people who happened to be there at the time who’ll likely tell it to all their friends will. I won’t tell a soul, I swear. I won’t need to.” The bladesinger said, still flushed and laughing.

	“Bah. It worked didn’t it? Who cares so long as it did?”


Two hours earlier…


	Clueless deflected the gith’s last slash with a backhanded cut of his own sword and then ducked in low, cutting hard and quick and attempting to force the gith to either retreat further or trip. The gith was already stepping to the side however, and his blade was already moving to counter and nullify the tactic. Or at least it would have, had he not suddenly faltered, paused, and been knocked flat to the ground, still staring, not at Clueless, but at Fyrehowl.

	The lupinal’s robes were pulled down to her waist, she was bent forwards, and flashing her breasts as the githzerai. It lasted barely a second or two before she covered herself, leapt and pinned the stunned cipher on which the faint trace of a blush was showing under the pale yellow of his cheeks; and Clueless was laughing hysterically.

	Several dozen other people in that section of the gymnasium were also staring slack jawed over in their direction, including several ciphers, a bard who had nearly choked on his flute, and one of the hill giants who owned and operated the building. Some distractions affect more than their intended targets, and Fyrehowl’s had done just that. 

	“I think we just won…” She said with a mixture of embarrassment and satisfaction over towards Clueless as she moved and helped Kel up from the floor.

	“…” He said little as he molded the liquid karach of his sword back down into a ring on his dominant hand. He then simply stared over towards the two, and while he said nothing at first, the karach seemed to twitch slightly, almost as if it were laughing for him by proxy in response to his thoughts. A few seconds later he started laughing too.

	“I must admit, I wasn’t expecting anything like that.” He said, his cheeks flushed.

	“Score one for us then.” Clueless said with a grin.

	The githzerai motioned them towards the exit as their session was over, but he lingered just long enough to ask Fyrehowl a question. “Was that planned in advance?”

	She shook her head, “No. No, it wasn’t. I needed a distraction and I just did that without thinking, it just felt like it would work and I did it without really considering it.”

	Kel smiled and bowed, “Then you’re learning. Very good.”

	She smiled back, “Thank you, I’ll see you in a day or two again.”

	He bowed once more and she departed, walking out towards the entrance where Clueless seemed on the verge of falling over with laughter. He didn’t seem like he was going to let her hear the end of that little incident.


***​

	Back at the Portal Jammer, Skalliska sat at one of the back tables, away from the customers, and poured over a new stack of books fresh from the Great Library. Her reptilian nose twitched in annoyance as, once again, another supposedly comprehensive source of lore relating to her own race left much to be desired.

	“F*ck him, and the same to his worshippers.” She muttered harshly in her own native language, referring to the figure pictured on the current page of the tome.

	“He’s too damn entrenched, or else I may be looking in the wrong places. One or the other.” Skalliska said in a softer tone as she rubbed a finger along the knobby spine of her familiar. The fire lizard growled softly in support as it nibbled at the end of a bit of meat the kobold had given it to gnaw on as she did her research.

	“Son of a…” She cursed again, this time in planar common as she tossed the book off the table in disgust at the content of the chapters relating to religion amongst kobolds. She mentally swore that every damn world that had kobolds, and that was most of them, held Kurtulmak as their patron, himself just an overblown and self-important archfiend.

	“Can I help you with something?” She said, trying to regain her composure as she stared at one of the inn’s patrons who had been staring silently at her since she had tossed the book off of her table and tumbling under his.

	“Not you…” The bald human said in a surprisingly monotone voice before he went back to sipping at an empty glass.

	“Whatever… sorry about the book.” Skalliska replied, but the black clad berk had already turned away to stare off distantly towards the bar. Though not that she could see his eyes, what with them being behind a pair of black metallic goggles.

	She shrugged and went back to her reading, leaving the man to stare off into space. Probably a bleaker or a dustie, considering the void that made up his personality, his pale, waxy complexion, and his drab choice of clothing. Still, the bar had seen weirder types…

	“Skalliska, what exactly is it that you’re working on? You’ve been at it for a couple days now…” Toras said as he walked over to the table, a curious look on his face. He motioned to the chair across from the kobold.

	“Sure, you’ll just need to move the books though… go right ahead.” Skalliska said without looking up. Her familiar puffed a small gout of flames from its nose towards the fighter, acting all the part of a miniature red dragon.

	Toras sat down and glanced at the titles of the books that sprawled across the table’s surface. He frowned slightly.

	“What?” Skalliska said as she looked up and tilted her hat back to look up at his face.

	“I can’t really say I approve really. Kurtulmak isn’t exactly high on my own patron’s list of friendly deities. I can give you some much more pleasant options, so can Florian as well.” Toras said with the tone of a concerned parent who just caught their kid with a hand in the liquor cabinet.

	The fire lizard snorted another puff of flame in Toras’s direction. Though it was little more than a matchstick’s worth, it accurately reflected Skalliska’s expression. She groaned and knocked her head against the table with a soft *thunk*.

	“What?” Toras said as he reached over to pick up the book and look closer at it. There was a full-page illustration of Kurtulmak, sitting atop the skulls of various humanoids, gnomes primarily. “Nice guy…”

	Another snort and a puff of smoke from the familiar as Skalliska glanced up at Toras, her beady eyes peering down the length of her snout unhappily. “Exactly, and that’s my problem.”

	“Oh?”

	She pointed unhappily at the illustration. “Same thing in that book and most all of these others. Same thing over and over for the past week of reading. Kurtulmak, Kurtulmak, Kurtulmak! I’m sick and tired of Kurtulmak!”

	“I take back my previous statements.” Toras said with a wide smile. “Doing some soul searching then I take it? Not happy with your race’s standard options?”

	Skalliska leaned back in her chair, propping it against the wall on two legs and putting her feet on top of the tome, and the picture of the ubiquitous evil god of kobolds; she seemed far too comfortable in the position.

	“Did I ever tell you about the prime world that I originally came from?” She asked as she picked up her familiar.

	“No, not really. I always assumed that you were planar, given your profession and all. Do tell.”

	“Not much to tell. Or rather, there’s not much left of the place. There was my own race and the Illithids; both of us controlled about half of the sphere. It ended poorly and the world is more or less dead and spinning in the void now. However before it all fell apart, my people, we had our own gods. An entire pantheon of them, and Kurtulmak wasn’t among their number.” She scowled at the mention of that particular power’s name.

	Toras nodded, “And once you got out here, all you could find was him, and almost all of your kind tend to worship, or at least revere and respect him.”

	“Pretty much how it’s been. After all that happened recently I started to look around for information on if any of the members of my world’s pantheon survived the destruction of our world and the dispersal of our people. F*cking squidheads scoured the surface of the world clean. Think magical sandstorms of white hot glass, constantly, over the entire surface.”

	“Not my idea of a fun time, no.” Toras said as he closed the book. “Any luck so far though?”

	Skalliska shook her head, “No. At least not yet anyways. I’ve got time, and if worse comes to worse I can always just go to the astral and see who amongst them _isn’t_ there…”

	Toras nodded, “It’s an idea. If I can help you, you know, all you need to do is ask.”

	The kobold grinned, “I appreciate it, but for the moment this is something that I’d like to do on my own. Spiritual, personal stuff, I think you’ll understand my need to go this alone for now?”

	Toras nodded respectfully, “Yeah, I sure can. Anyways, I have to go out and do some shopping for some new clothes for this party that we’re all invited to. It says come as you are, but considering how much jink that Jeremo is supposed to have, I think I’m going to do my best to look good.”

	Skalliska chuckled, “I should too at some point actually.”

	“Anyways, anything I can get for you before I leave?”

	Skalliska motioned her snout over towards the berk at the other table, “Yeah. Get me a drink and get that berk over there to leave? He’s been there staring at the bar for two hours, and he just starting drinking the lamp oil at the table. I think he’s a bleaker or something.”

	“Not a problem, I’ll handle it. But anyways, I’ll see you later. Keep an eye out for Nisha when I leave, make sure she doesn’t get into anything she shouldn’t. She’s like everyone’s mischievous but lovable little sister, but three times more innocently destructive…”


***​

	Tristol glanced around the shop, a tiny thing about three blocks in the direction of The Lady’s Ward from the Friendly Fiend. He knew that because he had walked from the Portal Jammer to there along with Florian, dropped the cleric off and then gone about looking for any shops that might commission custom articles of clothing.

	After all, if he was going to a party, any sort of party, he wanted to look nice for the occasion. Sure, he wasn’t dressing up to impress anyone really besides himself perhaps, it wasn’t like such functions back home, but this would be the first real official function he had attended since he had come to Sigil. He wanted to look nice, even if it wasn’t for anyone but himself.

	Florian wasn’t with him as he stepped into the silversmith’s shop a few blocks from the Great Foundry, the stacks still belching their acrid clouds of soot high into the yellow haze of the Ward’s sky. The cleric had insisted on dropping by the Friendly Fiend, saying something about ‘A’kin is such a sweetheart’, or some such. Tristol shook his head in bewilderment. He was a fiend, regardless of the smile, and though he’d always been pleasant, Tristol honestly wasn’t sure what to make of him. Fyrehowl seemed to feel the same way, Toras thought he was what happened when a fiend went barmy, and Nisha seemed to adore him, at least in as much as the ‘loth put up with her random petty theft.

	“Can I help you sir?” The shopkeeper inquired with a pleasant tone. He was a gnome, and former member of the Godsmen, apparent by the golden symbol around his neck.

	“Yes actually,” Tristol said. “Earlier today I purchased a new staff down in The Lady’s Ward, and while it’s nice, it’s rather plain. I was wondering if I might be able to commission a decorative headpiece for it.”

	“Absolutely, it seems a simple enough prospect. What sort of metal might you have in mind? I’m well enough versed in gold, silver, brass, most any base metal, and one or two exotics, though I tend to need advance notice for any of them.”

	Tristol held out the staff, a long, smooth, simple shaft of some dark hardwood, stained almost black. “I was thinking silver. It’ll offset the color of the wood nicely I think.”

	The craftsman looked at the wood and nodded, “That seems like a decent prospect. What sort of decoration might you be interested in? Either describe something and I can sketch it out, or if you already have a model for me to work from; I can do either.”

	“Actually, I have a model for you that I think will work.” Tristol said with a grin as he reached into his robes, and the extradimensional pocket contained within.

	The silversmith chuckled, “I think I can work with that. In fact, if you leave him here for a while I can get started on it now and have it finished by the morning.”

	Tristol smiled, “I’ll wait if you don’t mind, he doesn’t like to wander.”


***​

	“Clueless? Why are you laughing?” Florian said as he walked over to the bar where the half-fey was trying to pour a drink while giggling.

	“Oh… nothing….” He replied, obviously failing any attempts at restraint.

	“Come on, spill it.” He insisted. “You’ve got me curious.”

	Clueless looked around for Fyrehowl then leaned in closely, “Distraction in the middle of a sparring match, Fyrehowl flashed Rhys’s apprentice. Poor berk was too stunned to react and we had him down almost instantly after that. Trouble is, about half the gymnasium may have seen it too. Maybe just the aftermath, but I’m sure it wasn’t just me and Kel.”

	Florian started to laugh, “Honestly?!”

	“Honestly. And hells, it worked like a charm. The look on his face was priceless, and so was hers after the fact.” Clueless said, still pouring ale into an already full cup as he laughed.

	Florian was laughing just as hard before he leaned over the counter, took Clueless by the shoulders, said, “Oh what the hell.” and kissed him full on the lips.

	Clueless pulled back with a stupefied look and put down the bottle on the counter. Earning his namesake, he just stared in bewilderment as Florian laughed again, blushed, smiled and walked up to his room.

	“What the hell was that about?” He said a few seconds after the cleric had departed. “Not that I minded. Not that he’s a bad kisser, but still…”

	Sitting at a table and watching what had just transpired, Nisha began to giggle and said nothing to alleviate Clueless’s utter bewilderment at the situation. She saw no need to ruin a source of amusement.

	“What?” Clueless asked her. “Is there something I’m missing here?”

	“No, nothing at all. Really.” Nisha said as she drank deeply from her mug, using it to hide her grin. A little white lie never hurt anyone, especially not when keeping it that way made for amusing times.


----------



## shilsen

I settle down to start my Saturday morning with Shemeska's latest addition to the story hour and what do I find? A lupinal flashing a githzerai, a kobold undergoing philosophical turmoil, and a half-fey having the moves put on him by a party-member! Life is good


----------



## Gez

Oh, a Keeper watching Skalliska!

And what (who) did Tristol brought to the gnome craftman? One of the dolls, I suppose? Xanxost?


----------



## Clueless

shilsen said:
			
		

> I settle down to start my Saturday morning with Shemeska's latest addition to the story hour and what do I find? A lupinal flashing a githzerai, a kobold undergoing philosophical turmoil, and a half-fey having the moves put on him by a party-member! Life is good




Technically two  But one of them is thinking about it too much and hesitating... (ironic that, being a cipher)...

But yes, very nice posting this go around - I'm hoping you'll start really getting a feel for what sort of characters these are as we swing into part two of hte story.


----------



## Krafus

Nice to see some "downtime" of the party members. I wonder how far word of the flashing incident will spread? Anyway, I look forward to the party - sounds like it will be a major event.

I really enjoyed this, Shemeska. Your writing's quality and the regularity of your updates are why your story hour is one of my favorites.


----------



## Shemeska

Gez said:
			
		

> Oh, a Keeper watching Skalliska!
> 
> And what (who) did Tristol brought to the gnome craftman? One of the dolls, I suppose? Xanxost?




I was hoping that someone would notice that *grin* You haven't disappointed me oh you of sharp eyes and quick mind.   

Yes it's a Keeper, but no, it wasn't there for Skalliska. Where that goes, who they're watching, and why, is something that I'll touch upon not this next plot arc w/ Jeremo's party, but the following one.


----------



## Dakkareth

shilsen said:
			
		

> I settle down to start my Saturday morning with Shemeska's latest addition to the story hour and what do I find? A lupinal flashing a githzerai, a kobold undergoing philosophical turmoil, and a half-fey having the moves put on him by a party-member! Life is good




Replace 'Saturday morning' with 'Sunday evening' for me.


----------



## Ohtar Turinson

Ahh. Keepers. Those are a lot of fun. My PCs ran into a few of those a while ago... they're still confused about that. Out of curiosity, how much about them will be revealed in this? I've had fun keeping my players in the dark, but a few of them read this... though I've changed them enough that it shouldn't be an issue I suppose.

Was it really two hours between the amazing flashing lupinal and their exit from the Gymnasium? That seems like a very very long time for clueless to laugh...

On another note, this seems to have finally caught up with the beginning of Tristol's Diary.


----------



## Clueless

The flash was the end of the session - or should have been. But Clueless holds on to a prank glow for quite some time. (Much like player) So likely he just spontanously snickered as they were leaving.


----------



## Shemeska

Ohtar Turinson said:
			
		

> Ahh. Keepers. Those are a lot of fun. My PCs ran into a few of those a while ago... they're still confused about that. Out of curiosity, how much about them will be revealed in this? I've had fun keeping my players in the dark, but a few of them read this... though I've changed them enough that it shouldn't be an issue I suppose.




I eventually explain who or what they're interested in w/ the PCs, and some backhistory relating to that (going back a few millennia, but that's about 3-4 plot arcs in the future, in Pandemonium). I don't delve into the origin of the Keepers any more than the details in their entry in the PSMC II that they first appeared in. At least I haven't ever picked up on it, and their interest eventually dropped off. (I was tossing out plot hooks at the time and looking to see which the players went for, and its one of those I tossed out that didn't see as much development as some of the others).


----------



## Tristol

Ohtar Turinson said:
			
		

> On another note, this seems to have finally caught up with the beginning of Tristol's Diary.




As the preface to the diary suggests, not everything is in chronological order. I think there were one or two segments I wrote some time after they happened, rather than immediately after they happened. So if you page through it, there's a tidbit somewhere that seems completely out of order, and well, that's because it is. If I had a consistent dating system, or could figure out a good way to apply 'Dale Reckoning' (what Tristol would most likely use anyway) to the planes, then it'd be a bit more clear, but the purpose isn't lost anyway. However, yes, somewhere around this time is where my notes started picking up. So the diary and the story hour should at least follow a similar path. If you're curious where the rest of the diary is (as in our last big encounter, and the stuff leading up to 'endgame'), then you're not alone. I've just been busy and creativity usually gets spent on work before pleasure. Hopefully I can fill in the dots soon.



			
				Gez said:
			
		

> And what (who) did Tristol brought to the gnome craftman? One of the dolls, I suppose? Xanxost?




That's alright, everyone else forgets about him too. I suppose it's in his nature to keep out of the lime light. I gather you'll see soon enough, and I'll post a picture of the final result of Tristol's dressing up after the next story hour update (allthough the location of the picture is not the palace party, but somewhere further in the game).


----------



## Clueless

Shemeska said:
			
		

> At least I haven't ever picked up on it, and their interest eventually dropped off. (I was tossing out plot hooks at the time and looking to see which the players went for, and its one of those I tossed out that didn't see as much development as some of the others).




Well, once we (or at least I) got the basics of the story from the history chambers - I wasn't too curious about poking more into them - more annoyed at them for showing up. Though I suppose now that I think about it, if I backtrack to their source there's soem serious goodies that we may be able to take from them. Assuming they didn't just destroy anything they retrieved.


----------



## Clueless

Tristol said:
			
		

> That's alright, everyone else forgets about him too. I suppose it's in his nature to keep out of the lime light. I gather you'll see soon enough, and I'll post a picture of the final result of Tristol's dressing up after the next story hour update (allthough the location of the picture is not the palace party, but somewhere further in the game).




It's not that we forget about him. You *hide* the poor thing! What, does he not *like* us or something?! I'll make sure mine don't eat him if that's the worry!


----------



## Gez

Mmh, it's the familiar, then?


----------



## bluegodjanus

Gez said:
			
		

> Mmh, it's the familiar, then?




Oh, yes, it could be that, too. I was starting to think it was Trevelyan (he's still in someone's bag, right?).


----------



## Shemeska

bluegodjanus said:
			
		

> Oh, yes, it could be that, too. I was starting to think it was Trevelyan (he's still in someone's bag, right?).




They let out Bartol Trenevain and he signed over the Portal Jammer to them afterwards. He's still wandering around Sigil as far as the PCs know. I'll be detailing what he's up to after this current plot arc w/ Jeremo's party.


----------



## Kage Tenjin

Shem, how do you keep your group playing?  It seems like this campaign has no real bright points, just moment of evil wins to moment of evil tricked you, used you and won.  Maybe one of your players can ship in here, but it seems like it would be incredibly depressing to play in, with the feeling that good can never triumph because evil is always one step ahead and much more powerful.


----------



## Clueless

Um.

It *is* that dark.

The PC's *are* the bright points.

You'll notice the party gets more and more...  morbidly humourous about the situation actually. There's the occasional bright moments (and we pull some GOOD stunts on the baddies towards the end) but I'll freely admit - it's a d**ned dark game. We make a lot of jokes at the table - and they're in character at that - because the dark is so bad the characters have to laugh or they'll cry. If you've read through the Clockmaker's story you can see a little bit of *just* how dark things can get. I suppose it helps to produce a strong emotion and desire to see the game through so we can *slam* the bad guys good and hard. (Which we are doing - it took time but we's winning now.)

It probably helps that Shemmy isn't a confrontational DM. He makes a very good effort to let us know that he's on *our* side and not on the side of the bad guys. It really helps us as players trust his storylines that we'll win in the end. Plus, he'll let us do the unexpected things that radically change the layout of the game world - if we can make the roll or figure out how to do it - we *can*. Even if it removes one of his big players from the board for awhile. So it's that combination of things, that he wants us to win, that we trust him to screw the characters with the intention of winning later, and that when we surprise him - he lets it go through - no DM fiat'ing to avoid it.


----------



## Fimmtiu

And speaking of leftover plot threads... whatever did happen to Aren's soul after she got herself all corspified in the Incantifiers' Maze?


----------



## Clueless

It was a little nibbled on - but was returned to the temple of Bast shortly after we went back to Sigil (along with the majority of weapons and 'holy items').


----------



## Kage Tenjin

Clueless said:
			
		

> It probably helps that Shemmy isn't a confrontational DM. He makes a very good effort to let us know that he's on *our* side and not on the side of the bad guys. It really helps us as players trust his storylines that we'll win in the end. Plus, he'll let us do the unexpected things that radically change the layout of the game world - if we can make the roll or figure out how to do it - we *can*. Even if it removes one of his big players from the board for awhile. So it's that combination of things, that he wants us to win, that we trust him to screw the characters with the intention of winning later, and that when we surprise him - he lets it go through - no DM fiat'ing to avoid it.




That's probably the key thing that I wasn't sure of, it seemed like with a plot this dark you might have that problem of even the *players* believing that they can never win, and I wondered how that got handled.

So I suppose my hat's off the the 'Lolth, cause that seems like a hard line to walk.


----------



## Shemeska

Kage Tenjin said:
			
		

> So I suppose my hat's off the the 'Lolth, cause that seems like a hard line to walk.




*mutters something about a 'crummy spider queen' but appreciates the compliment*


----------



## Toras

The jokes definitely help (a number of them are semi-out of character, and thus have not made it in)  I think we compiled a list of them as some point.  I may have posted part of it before.

At random points of down time, Toras will go to the Orphanage and heals the child of their respective illnesses and hurts.  He spends a bit of time with them, and then goes to the hive, where he will randomly stomp a fiend for looking at him funny.  (their running low on Mezzeloths) The characters often have things to look for release.

That and personally Toras has been marking a list (a facsimile of those kept by his order), and as soon as we get done laying the smacketh down on those who shall not be named, he is going to go around like a sadistic Santa visiting each of them in turn (saving the tiefling from the beginning for last) . But that's just me


----------



## Clueless

Kage Tenjin said:
			
		

> That's probably the key thing that I wasn't sure of, it seemed like with a plot this dark you might have that problem of even the *players* believing that they can never win, and I wondered how that got handled.




There's been some moments like that - but we manage.


----------



## FyreHowl

Dark?

My dears, it's not even dusk....


----------



## bluegodjanus

FyreHowl said:
			
		

> Dark?
> 
> My dears, it's not even dusk....




Indeed. We're not even at the part where Shemeska made you guys cry.


----------



## Clueless

It's done.
Story to be provided on suitable bribe.


----------



## Shemeska

[horror movie cliche line] "It's over. It's finally over..."[/horror movie cliche line]


----------



## Dakkareth

So ... when do we hear about it? Along with all the way in between?


----------



## Shemeska

*Gender bending surprises, dinner, dates, and fiends that show up late*

Fyrehowl stood on the stairwell just above the taproom of the inn, her tail twitching randomly from side to side, curling slightly inwards towards her legs as it did so. She’d been standing there for nearly an hour, running over and over in her mind how she would finally ask Clueless out.

	“Oh yeah, you’re doing real well here. You’ve willingly faced a small army of lesser Tanar’ri; you’ve fought an archmage inside one of The Lady’s mazes, and you’ve ventured into every single one of the lower planes. But yet you can’t work up the nerve to ask a friend out on a date.”

	Fyrehowl sighed and rubbed a hand over the side of her muzzle, “Now I know what ‘s meant by ‘nothings sadder to see than watching a cipher trip’…”

	Another deep breath and she closed her eyes, steeled herself and walked down into the main room of the inn. Clueless sat behind the counter washing several dirty glasses and keeping a loose eye on the patrons. He looked up as the lupinal sat down in the seat in front of him with a smile.

	“Hey there, want something to drink?” He asked, putting down the mug and the dishrag he’d been using to clean.

	She paused, smiled again and popped the question. “Would you be willing to go out with me at some point? Maybe grab dinner somewhere nice? I know that you’ve got a girlfriend, but from what I gather you and her are pretty much in it for sex and not much else. I’m looking for something possibly leading a bit deeper and meaningful than that.”

	Clueless paused and his wings twitched.

	“You don’t have to answer now, maybe just think about it.”

	Clueless’s mouth hung open awkwardly for a few more moments before he blinked and managed to reply. “Umm… no.”

	Fyrehowl winced.

	“No no no,” Clueless shook his head and put a hand over hers. “It’s not that you’re not interesting or that I wouldn’t be interested. I won’t date or have any sort of relationship with anyone within the party, it’s simply something I make off limits. I did in my previous adventuring groups, and I’m keeping that in place now. It keeps tension down and jealousy at a minimum, depending on who all makes up the group.”

	Fyrehowl’s sullen frown lessened slightly and she nodded, “Well, that makes some sense I guess. I figure that I should tell Florian too since…since he was interested in you too.”

	Clueless’s eyes went wide, “Florian too?! Am I that oblivious to these things? I didn’t really know that either of you had any interest in me whatsoever…”

	The lupinal laughed, “Yeah, since almost the first time we met you. Remember when we were working for the mercane and were resting before going out into the ethereal?”

	Clueless nodded slowly, “Yeah, and?”

	“Well, the two of us were trying to get close to you without trying to look like we were competing with each other to snuggle up closer…”

	Clueless put his hands on his hips, “Yeah, I am that oblivious then. I didn’t catch any of that at the time… the namesake fits apparently.”

	Fyrehowl laughed genuinely, “Yeah, it does.”

	The half-fey gave a bewildered shake of his head, “I hope you’re not angry at me. If I’d actually realized this was such a big deal to you both, well, I’d have explained myself earlier.”

	She nodded back, “Yeah, I guess I do. I’m sorry for not being as direct as I should have originally.”

	“Well no, don’t feel sorry. It’s as much my fault as not, and so long as we understand each other here I don’t think it’s anyone’s fault. Sorry if you were hoping to have me as a date for Jeremo’s party though. At this rate I don’t think that any of us are going to have dates. My sensate is in Arborea for the next week or so, so I’ll be doing this alone too.” Clueless said with a shrug as he poured Fyrehowl and himself a drink.


****​

	Fyrehowl sat across from Florian in the latter’s room on the second floor of the Portal Jammer and looked at the outfit spread across the cleric’s bed. She nodded her approval.

	“Well, I approve. Are you sure that you want to wear it though?” She asked up to Florian.

	Florian laughed, “Yeah, I think so. And for two reasons.” He frowned slightly for a moment before sitting up straighter with a look of firm resolution.

	The lupinal perked an eyebrow, “Do tell.”

He nodded and pointed a finger at the ceiling, “One: I honestly don’t give a damn if anyone notices and I seriously doubt that anyone is going to recognize me and send word back to my family.”

Fyrehowl nodded.

“Secondly: I just want to see the look on their faces.” Florian said as he gestured at the outfit that he’d had custom tailored the day before to wear to Jeremo’s party.

	“Nisha knows.” Fyrehowl said with a chuckle. “Or, rather, I’m pretty sure she knows, but she wouldn’t admit to it.”

	“Wouldn’t admit to it?”

	“Oh, you know. She knows, or at least I think so, but she was playing clueless and waiting for me to say it myself.” Fyrehowl said.

	“Aaaaaand when you admitted anything she was going to act like she didn’t know a thing. Yeah, that sounds like her. Amusing, greatly amusing.” Florian laughed.

	“Anyways, speaking of Clueless, you understand what I said before about his reasons for not dating either of us?”

	Florian held the outfit up in front of him, posing with it in front of a mirror as he looked back to reply to Fyrehowl’s question. “Yeah, though to tell the truth I’d more or less given up on it. I was going to let you take your chance and not get involved with it unless you broke it off for whatever reason. He’s cute, but he lives up to that name of his…”

	“Yeah, he does that sometimes. Though given that he’s seeing a sensate, and from his reactions to things, I really don’t think it mattered to him, all things considered. Him, more than anyone else, I want to see how he reacts to that outfit.”

	The cleric unlaced the back of the gold and scarlet bundle of cloth, “Give me a bit to get into this and we’ll see. Besides, the party is tonight so I may as well get dressed now. I’ll meet you downstairs at five past peak, alright?”

	Fyrehowl stood up from where she had been sitting, “Works for me. And besides, while my clothes aren’t as elaborate as yours, I need the time to just brush myself out.”

	“Never thought about that, but yeah, it makes sense. See you then.” Florian said as he waved to Fyrehowl, closed the door and got dressed.


****​

	It was nearly five past peak, only two hours before the Natterer’s party, when the group began to assemble in the back room of the Portal Jammer. Toras was dressed in an elaborate and gilded ornamental breastplate, fine silk trousers and a long red cloak. He smiled as Clueless walked into the room dressed much the way he normally did, though the clothes were new and of a tighter cut than normal.

	Tristol showed up several minutes later dressed in a fine orange robe with faded to white in the front and darkened to black at the cuffs and bottom trim. Clearly his inspiration for the color scheme was solidly grounded in his ancestry and even his own appearance. He smiled as he knocked on the inside of the doorframe with the silver head of his new staff, tapping a pattern on the wood with the silver fox that perched atop its tip.

	“You look nice,” came Skalliska’s reply as she looked up at him.

	“And you look…” Tristol paused and searched for words as he looked down at the very nearly nude kobold.

	Skalliska was dressed in almost nothing besides her plumed hat and a cane. Anything socially import was obscured by a swatch of cloth and not much else, though her scales were either painted or somehow tattooed by a swirling, slowly changing pattern of abstract designs and illustrated scenes from their past encounters in the Ethereal, Acheron, and Elysium.

	“Ok, that’s impressive. Magical I assume? Who did it?” The mage asked, impressed both at the level of artistry, as where the others in the room, and with whatever technique was used to create them.

	“A little tattoo parlor in the Hive, run by a Dabus. Fell. He does good work, even if some people get scared away by what he is.”

	“And by the fact that every so often his tattoos come alive and act on their own when he makes them.” Nisha said as she poked her head through the doorway.

 “Wow…” Tristol said with a blink as Nisha walked into the room with a soft clip-clop from her hooves.

She blushed and chuckled softly, then stuck her tongue out as she shifted awkwardly in the short, tight, restrictive evening gown she was dressed in.

“You have no idea how awkward this is for me.” The tiefling said as the others looked at her.

Nisha’s dress was a soft green in color, shot through with bits and flashes of scarlet and silver. It was cut around mid-thigh, and was strapless and moderately low cut up top as well. Judging from the girl’s self-consciousness about the attire, she wasn’t used to dressing up in any way.

“Ugg. I don’t look completely out of place do I?” She said as she reached up and poked at the boning in the front of the dress.

“Honestly? You look really nice Nisha.” Tristol said.

“Are you wearing makeup?” Clueless said with a chuckle.

“…I hate to be the one to have to ask, but why is the Factol Karan doll wedged in your cleavage?” Fyrehowl asked as she slipped into the room.

Nisha looked at them oddly like it was a normal, everyday thing and they were the weird ones for asking such a question. She hold up a finger and answered, “One: They don’t make pockets in evening gowns. Two: I don’t have my satchel. Three: It was convenient and he didn’t seem to protest! Besides, I brought him along for the fashion advice! It’s not like I’ve ever dressed up for a night on the town before. We didn’t exactly have high culture in the Hive when I was squatting in the Slags.”

	“Eh, true. I’ll grant you that.” The lupinal said.

	“Karan gives good fashion advice. You should take his shopping with you more often if this is what he brings back to us.” Tristol said with a wink.

	Nisha grinned, crossed her eyes and grabbed Karan, promptly putting her hair up and weaving him into the braid for no reason other than she could. “Just keep telling me that it’s only for one night and that I’ll probably never see half of those people again. This is seriously uncomfortable you guys, I don’t have a clue how certain folks pull this off all the time.”

	“Oh, now if you don’t mind, I have something to show you all…” Fyrehowl said as she motioned to someone outside the room.

	“What? Your new robes? They look nice.” Toras said.

	“I swear, they didn’t make evening gowns for people with tails…” Nisha said, fairly oblivious to anything else.

	“Come on in Florian…” Fyrehowl said as she moved out of the way and Florian stepped into the room in her new dress for the evening.

	The silence was deafening outside of Nisha’s fussing with putting a hole for her tail in the back of her gown. Florian stepped into the room in a red and gold evening gown, and it fit her without any awkwardness in the least.

	“Since when did you have breasts?” Skalliska asked with confusion. “I thought only female humans had them…”

	“Well sh*t…” Clueless said, absolutely stupefied.

	“Surpriiiiise…” Florian said as she smiled at the largely flabbergasted group.

	Tristol blinked, “You’re a woman?!”

	“How nice of you to notice.” She replied before patting the wizard on the head.

	“…wha…” Toras said, feeling incredibly dense at never having noticed.

	“Who knew and didn’t tell me?” Clueless asked.

	“I knew fairly early on and she asked me not to tell. And Nisha knew, but I don’t know when, or how.”

	The tiefling looked up from where she had been magically mending the back of her gown to let her tail through. “Oh, a month or two ago I think. I was climbing around the side of the building and Florian’s window was open. I didn’t look for more than a second, but some things are obvious.”

	Clueless looked at her, “I won’t ask why you were doing that.”

	“I’ll ask later, this has to be good.” Tristol replied.

	“Ok… why?” Clueless asked Florian. “Why pretend to be male for so long and not tell us?”

	“Well, for starters, it’s safer when traveling, at least where I’m from. And secondly, I didn’t want to be recognized by anyone and word to be sent back to my family.” Florian said, making a face at the mention of her house. “Suffice to say that my parents have an arranged marriage set up for me, and if I ever go back there, or get forced into going back there, I’ll probably not be able to get out of it. And the guy is a real jerk. Rich yes. Connected yes. Ugly and with the personality of drunken bulezau, most definitely.”

	Skalliska shuddered, “I don’t want to see a drunken bulezau, or any other type of Tanar’ri drunk… I’ll take your word for it.”

	“I don’t think we can blame you at all, but still, it’s a bit of a shock. So don’t be surprised if you refer to you as a guy for a while still. You look really good though, very nice outfit.” Clueless said.

“Oh, and before we go, we got two letters with offers of employment in the mail today.” Toras said, holding up the two envelopes.

“Oh? Who from, we can deal with them when we get back.” Fyrehowl asked curiously.

“Someone in Sylvania, and someone in Rigus.” Toras replied, looking briefly over the headers of the two offers. “Some Institute in the first gatetown, and the other from a Professor Cilret Leobtav in Rigus. I think the two might be connected, but I didn’t read them fully yet.”

Clueless shrugged, “Eh, something to deal with later if we’re interested and need the money.”

“But now, we have a party to crash, without crashing it, because we’re invited, but because I can still pretend I’m crashing it anyways!” Nisha said with a grin and a pat on Karan’s head.

“And because…” Tristol said.

“And I’m all out of becauses.” The tiefling replied as she ruffled the mage’s tail just because.


***​

Dressed up and smiling, the group of seven walked several blocks from their inn and through a portal that led to the Noble’s District of The Lady’s Ward. From there it was only a short walk towards the northern edge of the Triad District where the massive and sprawling edifice that was the Palace of the Jester rose up across from the Square of the Singing Fountain and the City Courts. In truth, the Palace of the Jester could have comfortably held both of the former, such was the sheer size of the area of land that it occupied.

	Already the hazy sky of Sigil was dotted with its own constellations of flickering ‘stars’, the cooking fires, streetlamps, and smokestacks of the opposite side of the city all filtered dimly through the smog and smoke. The darkness of the hour was offset by the rosy glow of newly hung lanterns atop the spires that dotted the exterior retaining walls of the Palace itself. The gates of the Palace were open into the largely empty courtyard that, during the day, would have held a circus-like atmosphere of performers, debates, speakers on varied subjects, and a ripe atmosphere for the more underhanded political intrigues of Sigil.

	But, given the hour, the sprawling expanse of the courtyard was empty and deserted, and a trio of armored pikemen and an air genasi dressed in a spangled courtier’s costume flanked the gates. The genasi held a list of names and was admitting those invited guests who arrived by foot, magic, or carriage, while the pikemen turned away those who might attempt to crash the evenings festivities.

	Beyond the gates, the lights of the Palace could be seen dimly, and a golden, glittering path meandered through the darkness towards the warm glow of the open entrance. The way was lit by a path of brilliantly glowing, gilded lanterns that hung from etched and inlayed wrought-iron poles set into the ground. Every twenty feet the color of the lanterns changed as their source of fuel shifted by some internal mechanism, either mundane or magical, and the path alternated with bands of rose, blue, golden, and emerald light all the way up to the entrance to the palace proper.

	The palace itself was truly grandiose, seeming to be a combination of dozens or more styles of architecture, unified by the common themes of spikes, spires, and bladed ornamental buttresses that seemed ubiquitous within Sigil. But Jeremo’s kip itself was ancient, and even its commonalities to the mansions and chateaux of the Nobles District were superficial, like they were simply copies, cut from the original mold of the Palace of the Jester.

	“And so I told him, that’s what I said the other week!” Came the loud punchline to a joke, followed by a burst of laughter from a group of richly attired nobles and merchants who stood around the first speaker, an even more richly robed, blue-skinned ogre-magi who stood several heads above his cadre of fellow merchants, admirers and toadies.

	Clueless smirked as Estevan of the Planar Trade Consortium turned and motioned his fellows through the open entrance and into the warm light that flowed like golden honey out into the sooty air of Sigil.

	“Don’t like him?” Florian asked the bladesinger as they slowed their approach so as not to catch up within hearing range of the powerful merchant lord and company.

	Clueless made a face, “My inner Indep can’t stand his business practices. He’s corrupt as they come, and he’s been making moves on trade in Tradegate ever since he lost some of his pull in Sigil. Long story there, ask me about it later. The walls here may have ears.”

	The cleric nodded back and stepped to one side as another newly arrived guest floated along towards the entrance. A Lillend, one of the natives of Ysgard and the Infinite Staircase, the woman had the lower body of a green and golden serpent, and her upper body was wrapped in a gossamer wrap of lapis silk and minute tassels of orange beads. As she passed the group she greeted them briefly in a fluted dialect of celestial from behind a silver and porcelain harlequins mask she held in front of her face.

	“Good evening to you Milori, good to see you invited as well. Perhaps we can talk later if time permits.” Skalliska said up to the floating Lillend.

	“We shall see, though I expect I may be busy with prior engagements. But it is good to see you again Skalliska, perhaps you’ll even meet someone this evening.” Milori said with a friendly chuckle as she removed the mask and smiled back to the kobold before floating past and into the palace.

	“Worked with her before?” Clueless asked as his eyes followed the drifting coils of the woman’s lower body till she was out of sight.

	“Yes, she’s translated some material for me before and she taught me some bits and pieces of Ignan when I was first learned that language. She’s a nice person, if usually extremely busy and in demand for her services. It’s good to see her here though.” Skalliska replied.

	“So, are we going to sit here outside and wait for it to rain, or are we going into the party?” Florian asked.

	“Rain would be bad.” Tristol said, “And I for one happen to be curious about this place. I’ve heard of it before, but since I’ve not been in Sigil for very long I’ve never actually been inside.”

	“Besides, the longer you wait out here, the more impatient I get, and an impatient Nisha is a Nisha who dashes inside, leaves you behind, and tries to walk out with expensive furniture.” Nisha quipped, motioning towards the warmth of inside with her tail, softly jingling with an attached silver bell as she did so.

	Nisha gazed up at the surroundings as they wandered through the corridors of the Palace of the Jester. She seemed to be nearly drooling at the level of wealth that the very architecture itself seemed to insinuate. The walls were a combination of exotic marbles, equally or more exotic woods, and plaster that was decorated in exquisite frescos or mosaics more often than not. All said it was gorgeous and breathtaking, but designed in such a way that it never became ostentatious or overbearing.

“Someone? Please pinch me. I think I’m dreaming, I really do. And I’m probably passed out in the Hive somewhere in a gutter, maybe even drooling all over myself in my sleep.”

“Owwww!” Nisha jumped forward a few steps and nearly blundered into Toras before she rubbed at her tail tip.

Clueless snickered softly when the tiefling glanced back at him and stuck out her tongue.

Tristol leaned over to her and whispered as they walked forwards, “Hey, don’t do that. I have it on good authority from some Halruaan transmuters that if you keep doing that, your face’ll stick that way.”

Fyrehowl repressed a laugh as Nisha only redoubled her efforts at sticking her tongue out, first to Clueless and then at Tristol, adding sound effects when she made faces at the mage. A few moments later and she tired of it all and went back to drooling over the surroundings some more as they passed into a crystal tiled chamber and were directed into a second corridor that branched off to the right.

“They have to be absolutely loaded here. What I wouldn’t give to just hide here and wait till after the party and…” Nisha idly mused.

“I wouldn’t suggest it. Jeremo isn’t loaded for no good reason, and I’d put a wager on this place having more security than the Prison and the Barracks combined.” Toras said preemptively.

“Maybe, I haven’t seen too many guards since we’ve been here though. Still, they’ve closed all the doors into adjoining rooms and closed off most of the other hallways except for the route into where the party is being held.” Fyrehowl said, “And I’d wager that they’re doing so to discourage people from wandering and taken home souvenirs.”

“Than I’ll feel special that they had me in mind when they set everything up tonight, because all of those doors are locked a dozen times over and more. I’ve checked.” Nisha said as her tail flicked happily from side to side while she grinned.

“You checked? When?” Tristol asked.

Nisha looked at him cross-eyed, “When I tried to get in earlier today, that’s when.”

She looked at the blank stares from the others, “What? I was curious. I didn’t take anything, and I barely got a few hundred feet inside. The place is very unfriendly to unannounced guests.”	

They continued walking and chatting at a leisurely pace for several more minutes before Tristol paused abruptly in the hallway.

Nisha looked back at him, “I got over ogling the décor Tristol, you can too. Hurry up or we’ll leave you behind and I’ll steal your chair.”

“No… hold on guys, this is just weird.” He said, looking intently at the shut door that would have otherwise led off from the hallway.

“What?” Skalliska asked.

Tristol looked at the doors that branched off of the hallway that they were in and he narrowed his eye as they sparkled with the dim hint of magic. As he examined the doors, the floor, the walls and even the ceiling, the entire structure of the palace seemed nearly alive with magic. The doors were not only locked, if what Nisha had said was true, they appeared to have been mage locked, sealed with walls of force and a number of contingencies seemed veritably layered upon their surfaces, all keyed to activate if the doors were forced open.

“This place is locked down tighter than an archmage’s study or a king’s treasury.” He said with some certainty.

“I told you…” Nisha said as she tried to peer through one of the keyholes unsuccessfully.

“No, but it’s weird. I’d swear that those wards are all pointed _in_ to those rooms, not out into the hallway here.” Tristol said, looking at the doors warily.

“Anyways, someone else is coming down the hall, let’s get going. Maybe Jeremo’ll explain later if we ask him.” Fyrehowl said as her ears swiveled and perked at the sound of approaching footsteps and laughter from another newly arrived reveler.

And so they continued down the marked path, deeper and deeper into the heart of the Palace of the Jester, the single oldest structure in Sigil, heading towards the great banquet hall that the Lady’s Jester had prepared for his guests. Still, something was nagging on their minds as they entered the lush chamber, some incongruity in the event and the level of protection placed upon the palace itself. Tristol was certain it was for the protection of Jeremo’s guests, rather than protecting the Jester’s possessions from any attempts at theft. And considering the sheer level of those protections, frankly it frightened him.

“Wow,” Skalliska said as she looked up into the banquet hall of the palace. A dozen lengthy tables, apparently carved from single pieces of Arcadian hardwood, stood in rows within the chamber. Each of the tables was decorated with exquisite floral decorations and arrangements, gleaming golden tableware and lush padded seats for the guests. Clearly Jeremo was sparing no expense.

“Oh, that’s just cute.” Nisha said as she dashed over to a seat on one of the tables near to the entrance. The chair was taller than she was, and it stood out from all of the others in the room. A small card upon the golden plate set at the spot on the table the chair faced, read “Zadara, the Titan of Potential.”. Clearly the chair was reserved for her, and, looking around, each spot at the various tables was reserved for a specific guest, with the chairs and even the choice of dinnerware being selected and appropriate for the assigned.

“Awww… no silver silverware.” Nisha mock pouted as she pointed to the uniform use of gold.

“I thought you’d be happy with more expensive dishes and utensils?” Tristol said as he poked her in the ribs.

“Well yeah, there is that, but that’d be rude to steal it now. No, what I meant is that we don’t get to watch any fiends light up on fire when they tried to eat dinner with a silver fork.” She winked as she walked back to join the others.

“Honored guests, if I might have your invitation and your names, I’ll direct you to your seats if you wish me to help you. There are several hundred of you here tonight and so the seating arrangement is in a specific order to suit all involved.” One of Jeremo’s servants said to the group as they approached him. The man was dressed in a uniform of black and green with highlights of gold trim, and by the looks of him he was probably some flavor of aasimar.

	They handed him their invitations and he escorted them to a group of seven chairs arranged across from one another together on one of the tables along the outside edge of the chamber, facing the rear of the room where Jeremo’s throne sat upon a small dais. Nisha giggled again as she noted that her chair, along with Skalliska’s and Fyrehowl’s all had open backs to accommodate their tails. Additionally, the kobold’s chair was slightly smaller, but raised up to provide her with an equal vantage point for the evening’s festivities.

	Toras smiled as he walked over to pull out the chairs for each of the female party members, and they graciously accepted, although Nisha had already jumped over the back of her own chair and taken a seat. Once they were seated, they began to take a look at the names of those that were to be sitting around them for the evening.

	Clueless glanced over to his left, reading the name on the card. It read, “Lissandra the Portal Seeker, Guildmistress of the Doorsnoops Guild.” The half-fey smiled puckishly across the table to where Tristol sat. The mage simply chuckled and rolled his eyes as he looked at the nametag next to himself that read, “Alluvius Ruskin, Tivum’s Antiquities.”

	On the other side of their group, Nisha was giggling from where she sat between Tristol and Toras on one side of the table.

Toras looked over at her, “What?”

She said nothing but pointed over to the nametag on the plate next to Toras. It read, “Seamusxanthuszemus, Purveyor of Death, Merchant Most Excellent, Slayer of Fiends: ‘Parts and Pieces’.”

“Oh hells no!” Toras said with a string of curses added onto the end of the statement. Nisha was nearly snorting her glass of water as she hysterically laughed at the fighter’s plight of seating partners.

Across from Toras, Fyrehowl warily glanced over at the card next to where she herself sat, hoping to avoid the same plight as Toras. There was no plate at the spot next to her, though there was still a name at the spot that read simply, “Ylem”. The name meant little to her and so she simply shrugged and glanced over sympathetically to Toras.

“There’s no way I’m sitting next to that over glorified dustbunny! I’ll end up stuffing him into his hat by the time the drinks arrive!” Toras said in a harsh whisper.

Next to him, Nisha continued to giggle.

“It can’t be that bad Toras, Florian said from across the table before failing to suppress a chuckle of her own.”

“It is that bad. He’ll probably walk in dressed up in a rotting skull or a dress of cobwebs or something. He’ll stink, regardless of how f*cking annoying he is. I’m not putting up with that for the next couple hours.” Toras replied, getting more and more adamant about it.

“A dress? Do mephits even have proper genders?” Nisha asked, abruptly ending her snicker fit.

Opposite Toras, Fyrehowl’s ears swiveled back towards the entrance and the sound of a high pitched, incessantly annoying voice. “Don’t look now, but I can hear the mephit walking up the hall.”

“And you thought you wouldn’t have a dinner date for this evening…” Clueless said with a snicker over towards the fighter who had started to grit his teeth as he began to hear the mephit’s voice echo up from the entrance hall.

“The hell with that, I’m not sitting next to elemental annoying, someone else will, like it or not.” Toras said as he stood up and grabbed Seamus’s seating card and dashed across the room to the next table and a row of unoccupied seats.

He glanced at the names on the open seats, looking for any that might be less offensive to him to sit next to. “No, not sitting next to the high priest of the Temple of the Abyss, definitely not…”

He continued to muse over the names, before noticing one name in particular. The chair was elegant, high backed, and more well padded than any of the others, and the name tag upon the golden and bejeweled plate that sat in front of it read, “Shemeska the Marauder, King of the Crosstrade”.

Toras grinned evilly as he snatched up the nametag on the chair next to the Marauder’s and replaced it with the dust mephit’s name. “Enjoy your date together sweethearts, I’m sure you’ll make a lovely couple tonight.”

Having exchanged the nametags, he hurried back to his own chair, still snickering with malicious glee, and placed the nametag of his new dinner companion on the spot previously reserved for the mephit. The new nametag read, “Verden, owner and proprieter: Azure Iris Inn, Lady’s Ward.”

	Over the next fifteen minutes or so, most of the few hundred invited guests had arrived and taken their seats, slowly filling in the open spaces at the tables, though Toras noted that the Marauder had yet to arrive when Jeremo himself entered the chamber and jumped onto his throne with a startling level of exuberance.

“This is going to be interesting,” He said as he watched Seamusxanthuszemus march up to his assigned seat with his own bit of pomp and circumstance, dragging his hat on the floor behind him, trailing, rather than gathering dust the entire time.

The mephit grinned like a fool as he twirled the loose end of his hat in the air like a parade baton and climbed up into his seat. “Let the festivities begin! Seamusxanthuszemus, Merchant Most Excellent has arrived!”

There was a groaned murmur of discontent from those at the same table as the dust mephit, and a few muffled calls of “Pike it!” “Shut it you sodding mephit!” and “If you like death so much, please, go right ahead and take the plunge yourself and save us the misery of your company!”. Seamus, as odd as it might seem, seemed pleased as punch with the reaction as he grabbed a knife and fork in his grubby little hands and stuffed the tablecloth under his collar in preparation for a meal.

From his throne, the Lady’s Jester chuckled from under the rim of his goblet of wine as his eyes focused on the mephit and then moved to mentally catalogue those guests present and those few not.

Toras snickered as he wondered what would happen when the mephit’s honored dinner companion arrived. A moment later, a frizzy haired old tiefling woman, Allusvius Ruskin, “Old ‘Lu”, sat down next to Tristol, bundled up in a dozen layers of scarves, shirts, sweaters and a woolen cloak, even gloves on her hands. She turned and greeted Tristol with a crooked toothed but friendly smile, though a pair of dark spectacles perched on her nose obscured her eyes.

Fyrehowl likewise watched as her own neighbor at the table, Ylem, approached and moved his chair out from under the table. The rogue modron looked nothing so much as a metallic box with spindly arms, legs, and a stubby pair of metal wings. It looked up at the lupinal without any real emotion on its vaguely humanoid face that was dotted with a small, reddish, star-shaped pattern on its forehead.

“Greetings to you berk! Pleased to make kip with you this evening. Hopefully we will tumble to the jink of it together.”

Fyrehowl just sort of stared at the odd looking modron before giving him/her/it a confused but polite smile and a hasty reply of, “Uhh, yes, sure.”

She edged her chair closer to Florian, “Switch seats with me? Please? I’m sitting next to a barmy modron, if that’s possible.”

Florian laughed, “Not a chance!”

Fyrehowl warily glanced back over to the modron that was just staring blankly at her. “Please? Whatever it is, it’s completely daffy!”

“Enjoy.” Florian said with a snicker before turning around to talk to Clueless.

	Clueless was meanwhile chatting up a young wizardress garbed in a light purple robe and a silver shawl. Lissandra was chatting the half-fey up quite happily, and Clueless was likewise enjoying their conversation. Soon enough their two person discussion was joined by both Tristol and Old Lu, all of them mages of some sort or another.

Toras abruptly stopped his chuckling at the Dust Mephit’s new seating arrangement when a slim, gorgeous wood elf women dressed in a shimmering blue down stepped up to the table next to him. Verden smiled at the fighter with a face framed by coppery brown hair and glowing with a warm, light brown complexion.

“Good evening to you, let me help you with your chair.” Toras said almost immediately, standing up and moving the elf’s chair out, letting her sit and them pushing her close to the table.

“Thank you, it’s so uncommon to find a gentleman.” She said with a gracious laugh as she extended a hand daintily to Toras. “Too often I have to put up with the worst of high society: rich noblemen on midnight escapades of gambling and other less palatable pursuits, and women of less than noble bearing seeking to snare them after a few too many drinks. It gets to be too much sometimes and it’s a pleasure to have a change from that here tonight. Pleased to meet you.”

	Toras took the offered hand and kissed it softly before launching into smalltalk with her. From across the table, Clueless gave an impish thumb up to the fighter, though he didn’t really see it, as entranced as he was with his dinner companion. Florian laughed, Fyrehowl rolled her eyes, and Skalliska and Tristol were too busy chiding Nisha who was biting the golden knife and fork one her plate to test their metal content.

	The man known as The Lady’s Jester, owner of the Palace of the Jester, Factol of the Ring-Givers, and one of the richest men upon the planes, Jeremo the Natterer, sat upon his throne and smiled at the assembled crowd. He was dressed in a richly tailored but intentionally mismatched costume of green and gold breeches and a patchwork tunic of cloth from a hundred different worlds and planes. His straw colored hair was short but fussy and almost uncombed by design as he adjusted a tarnished crown atop his head so that it would sit ever so slightly off angle. Even the Jester’s eyes kept the same pattern of designed disorganization, one of them brilliant blue and the other chocolate brown and shimmering with a canny understanding of the people around him.

The notoriously garrulous factol grinned like a little boy with delight as he looked out at the assembled crowd. Jeremo lounged crosswise on his throne, legs over one of the arms of the chair, as informal and at home as an important man of power and prestige might appear, and it seemed to come naturally like he bubbled up charisma from some hidden wellspring deep inside.

	He took a sip from a golden chalice in his right hand, pouring the liquid down into his mouth from where he leaned his head backwards over the other arm of his throne, and then without a moments warning he leapt to his feet and placed the cup down. He clapped his hands and immediately gained the attention of the suddenly quiet room, the center of attention for all of Sigil’s rich and powerful, and he smiled.

	“Greetings my friends, my fellows, my peers. Fiends, celestials, primes, planars… all of you my honored guests, welcome.”


***​


----------



## Florian

And now is part where we dance.


----------



## Ohtar Turinson

You were determined to use every single character in Uncaged, weren't you Shemmy?

Oh, and Ylem rocks


----------



## Shemeska

Ohtar Turinson said:
			
		

> You were determined to use every single character in Uncaged, weren't you Shemmy?
> 
> Oh, and Ylem rocks




Almost all of them made at least a cameo appearance, being all either landowners or important people in the whole of the city. Jeremo cast a pretty wide net for his party.

Ylem only makes a brief appearance.


----------



## shilsen

So when does Shemmy (the NPC, not the evil PC-molesting DM ) show up to the party?


----------



## Shemeska

shilsen said:
			
		

> So when does Shemmy (the NPC, not the evil PC-molesting DM ) show up to the party?




Fashionably late. 

So far in the storyhour she's just been an ass to Clueless, but not gone out of her way to make such an impression on the rest of the PCs. That changes relatively soon. Of course, it might be safe to assume that Jeremo is fully aware of the personalities of those he's invited. I so enjoyed having Seamus and Shemmy sitting next to each other during that party, so unexpected for them to pull that seat switch. *giggle*

I'll have another update friday or this weekend for what happens at the party.


----------



## Gez

Sorry but the spelling cop in me is too strong for me to resist this time.



			
				Shemeska said:
			
		

> But Jeremo’s kip itself was ancient, and even its commonalities to the mansions and chateauxs of the Nobles District...
> 
> A Lilland, one of the natives of Ysgard and the Infinite Staircase...
> 
> ...It’s good to see her hear though.” Skalliska replied.
> 
> “This is going to be interesting,” He said as he watched Seamusxanthuszemus march up to his assigned seat with his own bit of pomp and circumstance, dragging his hat on the floor behind him, trailing, rather than gather dust the entire time.




Chateaux being already the plural form of chateau, it does never have an s. It's not Lilland, but Lillend (error made twice). Shouldn't be "good to see her here"? And something is odd in the last sentence about trailing and gathering dust.

And now I stop being obnoxious. 



			
				Shemeska said:
			
		

> Toras grinned evilly as he snatched up the nametag on the chair next to the Marauder’s and replaced it with the dust mephit’s name. “Enjoy your date together sweethearts, I’m sure you’ll make a lovely couple tonight.”




I loved that passage.


----------



## Shemeska

Gez said:
			
		

> Sorry but the spelling cop in me is too strong for me to resist this time.
> 
> Chateaux being already the plural form of chateau, it does never have an s.




I bow to your superior knowledge of the plural form of french words 
Seriously, I didn't have a clue how to handle that one and I was lazy and didn't look it up. Mea culpa.

And I edited all the errors that jumped out at you. Hmm, and that was after I did a quick spelling/grammer check on it. I'll be more strict about it next time.




> I loved that passage.




It'll get better. I almost feel bad for what that mephit went through... no, no I didn't.   
She however... she deserved what she got.


----------



## Bryon_Soulweaver

Just finished reading, and wow. Nice work. What are the levels of the characters, just for some insight so I can guess what skills, feats, ect. they have.


----------



## Clueless

By this point? 12ish 13 maybe? This was over two years ago so I don't recall *exactly*.


----------



## Krafus

Wonderful description of the party, Shemeska. I look forward to reading about your counterpart's appearance, and more about the party itself.


----------



## Shemeska

Next update is mostly written, but give me an extra day or two to finish it, as I'm feeling extremely sick at the moment. Cold from hell. I'll make it worth it when I do post it though, lots of amusement, and even a catfight.


----------



## Ohtar Turinson

Shemeska said:
			
		

> Cold from hell.



 I should think colds would fit better on Oinos.


----------



## Bryon_Soulweaver

Clueless said:
			
		

> By this point? 12ish 13 maybe? This was over two years ago so I don't recall *exactly*.




Sorry, didnt phrase it right. What are the class levels and such. like Nisha is rogue and anything else? Clueless is bladesinger and what? Such stuff like that


----------



## Shemeska

Bryon_Soulweaver said:
			
		

> Sorry, didnt phrase it right. What are the class levels and such. like Nisha is rogue and anything else? Clueless is bladesinger and what? Such stuff like that




Off the top of my head here:

Florian: Cleric of Tempus
Toras: Fighter/Custom PrC
Skalliska: Rogue/Wizard
Nisha: Rogue/Wizard/Xaositect
Clueless: Fighter/Wizard/Bladesinger
Fyrehowl: Barbarian/Cipher
Tristol: Wizard


----------



## Clueless

We'll keep you updated on Clueless. I ran out of space for his PrClasses after awhile. *shakes head at the multiclassed from heck character sheet*


----------



## Shemeska

*Prodigy, 'Fat of the Land', Track 1. *

The Factol rubbed his hands together and glanced across the crowd once more, making eye contact with many of those present, and smiling or otherwise giving some cue that he had noticed them. And, once again, he spoke.

	“Many of you know me, many of you have worked with me before on various occasions. Some of you may even not like me, and I hope to smooth over any such feelings this evening. However, for a plurality of you here tonight, we don’t much know each other. Perhaps a familiar name on paper but never having spoken; perhaps even less familiarity than that, and for all of those cases I want to get to know you more and I hope to give all of you a better acquaintance with myself. This banquet and all of tonight’s festivities are for you, and for that purpose.”

	Jeremo paused as a number of people in the crowd voiced their thanks and support for their invite and his efforts to be social. After the chink of wine glasses had ceased, he continued.

	“Now, I’ve been in possession of the Palace of the Jester for some time now, but I’ve always had only a very small hand in its role as a place of commerce, politics and intrigue. I’ve much more recently found myself in command of the Ring-Givers. Some might even call me a factol…” Jeremo intentionally paused at that, letting the disquiet of the room voice itself in mutters and whispers. 

As of yet, he had not officially declared himself the Factol of the Ring-Givers, nor the sect an official Faction within Sigil, based in the Palace of the Jester. Whether such a decision and declaration would cross The Lady’s ban upon the factions was an open question, and Jeremo seemed to be riding that line, but not quite crossing it.

	“Such a declaration, if I do make it, is not for tonight. We’ll save that for the next time perhaps. You’ll have to wait and see I guess…” He said with a wink and a laugh as the tension and uncertainty in the room faded back to a dull whisper.

	“But, for this evening I’ve placed you all in the open arms of my hospitality, and as a good and proper host, I’ve seen to it that you will all be both entertained, well fed, and well watered, be it wine or whatever else you prefer to your tastes. I won’t be too discerning, but you may if that’s your pleasure.” Jeremo bowed with a flourish and tipped his crown to his guests before motioning to a few dozen servants.

	“Appetizers?” Fyrehowl asked curiously as two servants approached their table, one with a list and a pen, and the other with a tray of small boxes.

	“Drinks?” Clueless said in turn.

	“Butternut squash?” Nisha said, breaking the train of thought.

	“No, I think… butternut squash?” Tristol said with a weird look over towards the grinning Xaositect.

	“Gifts…” Skalliska said, “The whole Ring Giver shtick. You give people presents and it gets you respect, owed favors and eventually the multiverse sees to it that you get paid back ten times over. At least that’s their claim on the matter.”

	“So its entirely selfish?” Toras asked.

	“Not really. At least according to their philosophy the ‘getting back’ part is incidental, and the giving has to be gracious and honest for it to work.” Skalliska replied.

	“So he’s just a nice guy then. I think I like him.” Florian said.

	“Heh. That’s the point of this all.” The kobold said a moment before she smiled and accepted the small box handed to her by one of the Natterer’s servants.

 	And so it went as Jeremo’s servants walked about the room, handing similar small boxes to each of the nearly three hundred guests, and, at the same time, taking requests for drinks. The Jester himself had taken a seat once more upon his throne and was giddy with anticipation while his guests seemed puzzled and curious about what he might have given them.

	“Now, as I’m sure some of you may have noticed already, the boxes are locked by magic and won’t open till I’ve given the command word. So be patient, let your assumptions develop, let your imaginations run wild, and we’ll get to that soon enough.” Jeremo said with a grin.

	“Awww…” Came a sullen whisper from Nisha.

	Tristol looked over at her as she shook the box and seemed on the verge of gnawing on it, “Left the lockpicks at home, right?”

	“…yes…” She said before patiently putting it down and staring at it intently.

	“Any ideas on what it might be?” The mage asked her.

	“Not a clue, and it doesn’t weigh anything at all.” She replied.

	“Really?” Tristol said as he lightly hefted hers and compared it to the weight of his own. Sure enough, the tiefling’s was much lighter in weight.

	“Maybe he customized it for everyone? Yours feels lighter than mine. Odd.” He said as he handed her back the box.

	Jeremo waited a few minutes before continuing, “Before we proceed with anything else, I simply wanted to give a warm welcome to those of you that I know better perhaps than others. There are quite a few of you, so I can’t promise that I’ll say something to all of you. This is just whimsy, and the names that leap to my mind as I’m saying them.”

	The next dozen minutes were spent as The Lady’s Jester recited a laundry list of names of Sigil’s elite, wealthy and otherwise influential. Guildmasters, highpriests, former faction highups and more, were among those he mentioned and singled out.

	“Sigil’s representative within the Planar Trade Consortium, Estevan, good to see you made it instead of being busy with paperwork all evening as I swear you must too often be. Never do see you out and about; a shame I see you so rarely.” Jeremo said to the blue-skinned ogremagi who occupied a chair at one of the three banquet tables.

	“Notice something? Jeremo put Estevan, Zadara and Shemeska at different tables.” Clueless pointed out, “And A’kin is about as far away from the latter as is possible…”

	“Good. Otherwise they’d complain about whose chair was better or who got to sit where. It’d be a nightmare.” Skalliska said, obviously having seen such an instance before, if the tone of her voice gave any inference.

	“She’d probably try to _accidentally_ spill stuff on A’kin if she was near him. Oh hell, who am I kidding? She’d throw a fit and go after him…” Florian said.

	“A’kin doesn’t deserve it either, he’s a nice guy. Say what you will, but I like him.” Nisha said with a grin as she pointed up to the Factol Karan doll in her hair.

	Jeremo continued to rattle off names, “My personal thanks Lissandra, to the work of your people as of late. They’ve been a great help in plumbing many of the portals in the upper floors of the Palace that had, till recently, been largely unmapped since the Tempest.”

	The young Torillian wizardress seated next to Clueless smiled at the Jester as he called out to her from across the room.

	“Ah… my favorite arms dealer in all of Sigil, Spiral Hal’Oight. Tell me, who pays more, the Baatezu? The Tanar’ri? The ‘loths?”

	“All of my sales are to legitimate buyers! I don’t sell arms to anyone that doesn’t need them or shouldn’t have them. I don’t honestly know what you’re getting on about Jeremo.” The young Golden Lord shouted back to the Jester.

	“Suuuure you don’t. How’s it feel to be a puppet to the ‘loths and the archons both? I’m sure it pays well though.” Jeremo muttered under his breath.

	“What’s so great about arms?! I sell *ALL* the body parts!” Came the sudden and confused shout from Seamusxanthuszemus.

	“A’kin, the friendliest fiend I know, and perhaps the better half of Sigil’s pair of resident Yugoloths. You at least know the meaning of punctuality, and I find you much more pleasant to deal with, even if I sodding can’t figure out what’s up with you. You’re always pleasant, I’ll grant you that.” Jeremo said towards where A’kin sat jovially talking in a low voice with the people seated around him. The turquoise, black, and gold velvet robed Friendly Fiend smiled and waved back towards the Jester before going back to his ongoing conversation.

	“And we’re still waiting on your bitter half to show up…she’s late…” Jeremo once again muttered.

	“My friend Fell, it’s good to see you in attendance this evening.” Jeremo spoke and waved to the fallen Dabus who sat slightly apart from the others at his table, those seated around him having moved as far away as possible.

	“Oh, now that’s just cool.” Nisha said as she watched the words that Jeremo spoke to Fell take the form of glowing, dabus-like rebuses above his head, seemingly emerging from his tarnished, off-kilter crown. “Can you make me one of those whatever he has Tristol?”

	“Illusions…” Tristol muttered, though he had to admit mentally to himself that it was a rather nifty thing for the Jester to do, considering what Fell was and all. A moment later and the tiefling wasn’t pleading for him to make her a rebus speaking whatever it was that Jeremo had, but rather she was making faces at Ylem the modron who was still blankly staring at Fyrehowl, much to the lupinal’s disquietude.

	“Lady’s Grace to you too Fell…” Jeremo said to himself, again in a soft whisper, and making sure than his words did not manifest in rebus above his head. “Lady’s Grace to you, be it a curse or a blessing Fell…”

	Over the next few minutes, Jeremo called out and mentioned a dozen or so other persons and bantered with them as his servants brought out any requested drinks to the attendees of the party. As soon as that mundane business had been attended to, he gave his guests several more moments to taste their liquid pleasures and then he spoke again.

“And, on that note, you’ll find that your gifts are open. I hope you enjoy. A few of them are personalized to the receiver, though with the simple amount of people here tonight I could do that for all of you.” Jeremo waved his hands to encourage everyone to open their gift, and his expression was like that of a cat who’d just been given a bowl full of cream; he was enjoying himself greatly.

	Almost immediately the room was filled with gasps and commotion as people opened their boxes and discovered what was inside each of them. Collectively, the group looked at one another, shrugged and opened their gifts to much the same response as the rest of the room.

	“Oh! Oh my!” Florian said as she held up an emerald the size of a hen’s egg.

	“How much money does this guy have?!” Toras exclaimed, hastily adding, “Not that I’m complaining!” He held a yellow topaz of equal or larger size in his own hand.

	“YES!!!!” Came Nisha’s response as she grabbed something from her own giftbox before tossing the box aside, jumping up and dancing for a few seconds of glee.

	Clueless looked over at her with bemusement as he admired his own reflection in the smooth surface of a polished opal the size of his fist. “Someone’s happy with what they got, eh Nisha?”

	“No no no, I didn’t get a gemstone. I got a treasure map of sorts. I get to go find mine and pretend I’m stealing it.” The tiefling was giggling with glee as she handed the tiny, folded map to Factol Karan’s open hands poking up out of her hair.

	Tristol laughed, “Well, I think someone noticed your past breaking and entering attempt…”

	“Probably. Nothing in this place goes on without him knowing, but honestly, he’s just a genuinely nice person from what I can tell.” She replied, still jubilant and with her tail smacking back and forth against her chair in excitement.

	“He must be. He must have just dropped a few million jink on his guests on that alone.” Fyrehowl said with a note of disbelief to her voice.

	Jeremo was standing again, seemingly unable to actually sit still for more than a moment. Between that and his penchant for speaking, it wasn’t any surprise that he was known as ‘The Natterer’. He seemed honestly happy at the responses his gifts had garnered, and he humbly brushed off most of the appreciative ‘thank you’s that he received from those in the crowd seated near him.

	“I thought that you might appreciate that small gift from me to you. It’s a little thing, both for old friends, new acquaintances, and perhaps a rekindling of relationships gone sour in times past. And so welcome, all of you. And now I…”

	Jeremo’s speech and welcome was suddenly and abruptly interrupted by the crash of the banquet hall entrance doors flinging themselves open and slamming into the walls they were hinged to. The assembled crowd turned as one to look at the smug, grinning face of the fiend and her entourage who stood centered in the open doorway, a crackle of dispersing magic still flickering from her single, outstretched hand.

	“Starting without me?” The Marauder’s voice was elegant, presumptive and absurdly petulant, as she stood framed by the gilded entryway. She was dressed in a glimmering blue evening gown whose material resembled the scales of a sapphire dragon, and for most appearances it may as well have been something she dipped herself in, such was the snug tightness of the fit. The King of the Crosstrade was also draped in a long golden stole of a loose, silken material that was wrapped about her neck and hung across her shoulders to hang loosely at her sides and trail upon the floor.

	“My darling Jeremo, you know you simply cannot have a social event of this size and prestige without me in attendance. But, as we all know, it wouldn’t do with me arriving with everyone else. That would be far too mundane and gauche. So here I am, fashionably late.” Shemeska said, the level of arrogance almost dripping like poison off her tongue.

	Somehow Jeremo looked neither upset nor surprised at the fiend’s late arrival, and as she strolled into the room and made for her seat, it was anyone’s best guess if he had been aware of her impending presence before she had kicked the doors in. He managed to remain calm and even pleased that she had arrived, and not a single harsh comment passed his lips. Still, a puckish light seemed to flicker in his eyes like this was all something that he’d frankly hoped for as he ran a hand through his fussy blond hair.

	“We’ve all been awaiting your presence with bated breath my darling. But, now that you’re here, my compliments on your attire for the evening.” Jeremo said, putting on at least the polite pretense of cordiality.

	“You’re too kind Jeremo. I like you, I really do. Now, be a gracious host to an honored guest and escort me to my seat?” The fiend held out her arm and waited for the Jester to personally lead her to her seat.

	Clueless frowned over towards the Marauder’s direction, “And once again everyone just rolls over when she tells them to. Doesn’t anyone in this damn city have a backbone when it comes to that b*tch?”

	Lissandra leaned in closer to Clueless, “Don’t worry. If I know Jeremo at all, he’ll see to it that she’s paid back tenfold for embarrassing him at his own celebration.”

	“One can only hope…” Clueless said grudgingly.

	Jeremo led the Marauder towards her table, pointed out her chair and was abruptly handed her stole. “Anything else Madame?”

	“Hmm….” The fiendess pondered for a moment before batting her eyelashes and extending her hand to the Jester’s lips for him to kiss. He politely gave a forced smile and kissed the knuckle on her third finger before walking away and letting her take her seat. About halfway back to his own throne, he handed her gaudy stole to one of his servants to take away till after the party was over.

	“A pity. Normally they pay someone to make sure the dogs stay confined to the kennel out back during these things…” The Titan said under her breath as she looked vaguely in Jeremo’s direction. If Shemeska heard it, she made no response as she walked to her chair.

	“Oh no! The b*itch and the titan are wearing the same dress! One of them’s gonna have to go home and change now! Byebye shemmy!” Toras muttered in a voice barely above a whisper.

	“Oh if only that were the case.” Clueless said to the fighter, noting that while both the fiend and the titan were both wearing some shade of blue, both were wearing entirely unique attires for the evening, and so the normal rules of such things weren’t going to raise their ugly heads for the current event. A pity.

	“How does she walk in that dress?” Florian asked. “No, seriously. What mold did they pour her in and then paint that dress on her for tonight.”

	“You can’t seriously tell me that you’re jealous.” Skalliska said over to Florian.

	“Right right, says the woman without breasts.” Florian replied.

	“Mammals…” Skalliska sniped back.

	Nisha rolled her eyes and said nothing.

	“They’re fake.” Tristol said softly without looking over at the Marauder.

	“Excuse me?” Florian asked.

	“They’re fake. She’s an arcanaloth. They can shapechange at will into pretty much anything from a flea to a dragon. So, in a manner of speaking, they’re fake.” He clarified, still not willing to look in the ‘loth’s direction when he was talking about her.

	Fyrehowl smirked, “I still don’t feel much better. She’s like a walking stereotype of every evil sorceress you’ve ever heard of. Powerful, b*tchy, vain, and with big t*ts.”

	“And judging from that dress, she likes people to look at them.” Clueless said with a smirk. “But, on a more serious note…one word: exemplar. You should know Fyrehowl, you’re one too, just a different flavor entirely. They don’t just reflect a concept, they –are- a concept in a way. So yeah, she pretty much is a mix of every evil sorceress you’ve ever heard of, just maybe more arrogant, and very much in need of a shave. And before I die, I’m going to see her shaved bald.”

	“And distribute a sensory stone of it to anyone who wants it.” Florian added.

	“I’ll help.” Toras said.

	“That’s fine, but I’d like to be the one doing the shaving…” Clueless said with a wicked grin.

	As the party chattered amongst themselves, the King of the Crosstrade was busy dismissing her normal entourage of toadies and guards.

“Do be polite and wait outside till the party is over. Trust me dears, I’ll be fine. Jeremo’s a fine gentleman. He won’t try to take advantage of me. Though I can’t say I won’t try the same of him.” Shemeska said with a laugh to her collection of tiefling groomer-guards and they quickly excused themselves and left as she walked to her seat.

	“Very nice indeed. You have excellent taste Jeremo, just as I do and… oh you’ve got to be f*cking kidding me…” The Marauder paused and changed her tone of voice abruptly as she looked at who was to be seated next to her: Seamusxanthuszemus.

	“I could have saved you jink on the scales for that dress, I’ve got a special on drake hide this week, only slightly moldy!” The Dust Mephit said in a high-pitched voice as he looked up at the fiend, the tablecloth stuffed like a napkin into his shirt’s collar, and holding his oversized silverware in his hands like a kid at the adult table.

	“…what the f*ck is this?! Who in the Oinoloth’s name sat this pissant little gutterlicker next to me?!” Shemeska whirled around to face Jeremo, jingling as she did from the veritable jewelers case worth of bracelets, earrings, necklaces and other adornments that she was adorned with.

	Jeremo was actually taken aback by the situation, being that he hadn’t actually seated the King of the Crosstrade and the Merchant Most Excellent next to one another. He smiled and motioned her over disarmingly. Softly, the titan snickered, and this time the fiend noticed, glaring daggers back at the other woman.

	“I have to wonder what he’s saying to her.” Clueless mused as he and the others at the table glanced towards the Factol and the fiend as they chatted softly.

	“Doggie treats, a nice thick T-bone, and a squeaky chewtoy if she behaves at the people table like a good girl.” Toras said 

	Clueless nearly gagged on his wine as Toras ratcheted up his insults even more, barely hiding that one.

	“After the party, ask me about some of the stuff that I’ve seen, and heard, out of that one. I think that you’ll find it amusing.” Verden said softly to Toras with a wink and a chuckle. Toras blushed and took her offered hand.

	Jeremo and the Marauder bantered softly back and forth, with the Ring-Giver’s factol seeming to reassure her that the situation was not by design or intention. Fyrehowl perked her ears and tried to listen in on the conversation, though it seemed that they were using some manner of magic to keep their words concealed. 

A few moments later Jeremo patted the arcanaloth’s shoulder, they exchanged smiles, and the fiend walked calmly back to her seat. Fyrehowl shrugged, stopped leaning forwards, and sat back down more comfortably in her chair, only to notice uncomfortably that Ylem was still blankly staring at her. She whimpered slightly, “I’d have preferred the Dust Mephit…”

	The Marauder smiled at the other gentleman seated next to her, a well-dressed, pale golden skinned aasimar by the name of Spiral Hal’Oight. She cleared her throat and smiled at him again expectantly.

	“Ah, my apologies my dear king.” Spiral said awkwardly as he rose to his feet and pulled out Shemeska’s chair for her, waited for her to sit down and then pushed her up to the table. She smiled back at him like she’d just given him a present.

	“Hey! Watch where you’re sitting, you’re taking up…” Came the squeaky complaint of the Merchant Most Excellent as the Marauder scooted up to the table and starting moving the mephit’s tableware out of the way to make more room for herself.

*SMACK*

	The echo of the backhand that the fiend slapped upside the mephit’s head rebounded around the room, drowning out the fiend’s guttural statement in infernal of, “Elemental vermin!”

	Seamus picked himself up off the floor and climbed back into his chair, complaining loudly about “overblown, hussy fiends”. The Marauder wasn’t looking at the mephit when she backhanded him again, smacking Seamus off of his chair and onto the wall behind them, some fifteen feet distant; she was looking towards Zadara as she felt the mephit’s face distort from the force of the blow.

	The Slayer of Fiends slowly slid down the wall, leaving the onlookers half expecting him to give off a squeak or leave a trail on the paneling as he slowly slumped to the ground.

	“Was that really necessary?” The aasimar seated next to the King of the Crosstrade asked with some concern as Seamus staggered to his feet and slowly stumbled back towards his chair.

	“Not only necessary my little golden lord, but pleasing. Rarely do the two coincide unless you’re in my line of work.” She said with her fangs slightly bared at the Titan. “Observe.”

	Seamus had barely gotten halfway back to the table when the Marauder gently motioned with the fingers of her outstretched hand and an invisible force struck the mephit first in the gut, doubling him over, and then to the head, sending him sailing through the air to smack into the wall once more with an even louder, and wetter, crunch.

	Across the room, Zadara snorted and patted the handle of her maul, itself probably double the size of the Marauder. Shemeska simply smiled back at her rival as she dismissed the last flickers of the telekinesis effect she had used to mercilessly pummel her former dinner partner. The mephit was out cold and slumped motionless at the base of the wall where she had hurled him.

	“Anytime b*tch.” Shemeska said softly as she continued to glance over towards the Titan, making certain that her lip motions could be clearly read from where Zadara was sitting.

	Back with the group, away from the public spectacle that the Marauder and Zadara were working on starting, Nisha was making faces at Ylem. The rogue modron was still blankly staring at Fyrehowl and every so often a new circular eyepiece would rotate out of a slot in its side and slip over its left eye like it was looking at the wayward lupinal like something in a zoo.

	“Nisha, stop messing with the modron…” Florian said to the tiefling.

	“Aaaaaahhh, blut ith…wait sorry, forgot to put my tongue back in my mouth,” Nisha said with a whine, “Let’s try this again. Awwwww, but its fuuuuun! I promise I won’t steal silverware if you let me!”

“Don’t pick on the modron.” Florian said.

“Go right ahead.” Fyrehowl said as she glanced awkwardly over at the barmy lawful exemplar.

“I swear this is like watching a little kid get told no on something and then going to ask their other parent…” Toras said with a resigned laugh, joined a moment later by the wood elf seated next to him who seemed to have taken a shine to the fighter.

	Tristol meanwhile had struck up a fairly involved conversation with the other tiefling seated next to him, Alluvius Ruskin. There was something about the old tiefer that seemed somewhat familiar, though for the life of him, he couldn’t place what it was exactly. But, regardless of that nagging feeling of something familiar about her, they were chatting in fairly complex terms about the operation of portals and gates, and the difference between the two. Almost inevitably, the two of them were joined in the topic by Lissandra, also a mage and as much an expert on such matters as there existed in Sigil.

	“So, bets on when the b*tch in a razorvine headdress gets into a fight with the titan?” Skalliska mused.

	Clueless shook his head, “Not going to happen. They’re both too smart to do that in public. They’ll just get pissy with one another but it won’t go beyond that.”

	“I don’t know, they keep glancing at one another across the room.” Fyrehowl said as she watched the pair shooting hateful stares at each other.

	“Flirting.” Clueless said with a laugh.

	Fyrehowl made a face like she was going to be sick, “Oh ick… Clueless, that’s just disgusting…”

	“What? Shemeska is a yugoloth, and well, you know what they say about them and their gender, right?” Clueless was clearly just picking on the lupinal by that point, but it seemed to be lost on Fyrehowl nonetheless.

	“No, I really don’t want to think about that. I seriously don’t want to start up speculation about what is or isn’t under her skirts. Are you honestly trying to make me sick?” Fyrehowl said with a queasy look playing across her muzzle.

	“Yes, he is.” Nisha said, breaking from making faces at Ylem for a brief moment.

	“Heh.” Fyrehowl said, relieved at least for that, “Still, it’s nasty. Talk about something else.” Clueless only laughed.

	Once again, Jeremo seemed to anticipate just when his intervention was needed to restore some semblance of civility to his own party, given the fractious nature of some of the guests with one another. He cleared his throat and addressed the room as his servants began to bring out the first round of food for the evening’s meal.

	“Allow me to become the center of attention for a bit as I share with you all another gift. This one is shared freely and carries no expectation of future reciprocation. After all, it’s just information; words really and nothing more. But, I do hope that it might serve to seed your conversations throughout the evenings based on what darks I spill before you.”

	“Hmm, this ought to be good.” Clueless said as he turned to listen more closely.

	“Better watch out Shemmy, Jeremo might steal your job and then you’ll have to call yourself the Queen of the Crosstrade. Uh oh, he’s even got a nicer crown than you.” Toras jabbed again at the fiend.

	Jeremo smiled as he held up a large, flat stone. “Now, as many of you know, the Ring Givers, to whom I belong, recently gifted the city of Skeinheim in Ysgard to the exiled Takers.”

	Bryn Ohm, the Guildmaster of the Innkeeper’s Guild snorted softly at the Jester’s mention of that gift. The bariaur had not departed Sigil with many of his former faction members, and many of them who had not departed Sigil for Ysgard felt that it was a slight on them all for their faction to have accepted the charity of others when they settled in Skeinheim.

	“Thank you Bryn…” Jeremo said before he continued, “But from a number of the former members of old Rowan’s faction, I managed to find out a number of things regarding the Duke’s involvement in the Faction War. It’s all on here. A record made by Darkwood himself out of simple ego during the full swing of the war.”

	A ripple of murmurs and commentary moved around the room before Jeremo activated the stone and let his guests listen to the distinctive and much hated voice of the late Factol of the Takers detail his instigation of almost every stage of the Faction War. While certain members of the audience had likely already been aware of the information, it had never been made public, or in such great and personal detail.

	“I’ll be donating the stone to the Civic Festhall at the end of the week if anyone would like to give it a second listen.” Jeremo said as he put the stone down and picked up a large yellow apple.

	The Natterer took a large bite out of it, chewed and swallowed as he panned the crowd to focus on one of the lesser Golden Lords, a man by the name of Wei Ming Lee, an apothecary on a grand scale, and a seller of potions he claimed could make the old young again.

	“My good acquaintance, the honorable Golden Lord Wei Minh Lee, the master of youth and proxy of the Lord of Longevity, Shou-Hsing… Thor says hello.”

	The white bearded and silk robed Golden Lord who sat several chairs down from Estevan nearly choked on his wine and seemed pale at an otherwise puzzling comment from the Jester. Otherwise he made no other reaction one way or the other and didn’t say anything in retort, but his eyes were already glancing over towards the exit.

	Jeremo moved on as he finished the apple.

	“Now, I heard some other things from the Takers in Ysgard aside from what I’ve already said. One of them in particular had a long and detailed conversation with me a little while ago, a relatively new convert to the factol and a former burgler and forger. A githzerai by the name of Mantello the Jeweler.” Jeremo said in an overly cheerful voice. Almost immediately he had the Marauder’s attention and she was making motions across her throat for him to shut the hell up while he was still ahead. Well, Jeremo saw her and kept right on talking with the same grin plastered across his face.

	“Oh, this should be good. I remember Mantello. He and you seemed quite close…” Zadara said openly, just loud enough for her rival to hear. Shemeska snarled back at the titan with a loud hiss.

	“Mantello mentioned, oh just a bit, his former business partner, and lover, the King of the Crosstrade. He wondered quite openly how you’ve been passing your time since he left you, and if you’ve spent your nights, and I quote, ‘cold and alone, pining for your former lover to grace your august presence between the sheets.’” Jeremo prattled on while the King of the Crosstrade got up from her chair and waved her arms wildly for him to stop, making cutting motions repeatedly across her throat. At the next table over, Zadara was starting to laugh.

“And then he went on to describe what the two of you did in bed,” Jeremo said with a laugh, raising his eyebrows a few times to insinuate any number of lewd activities without actually listing them. “To start, Mantello said that you particularly liked it when he…”

“SHUT UP!!!! ENOUGH!!” Shemeska was standing on top of the table and screaming at the top of her lungs as she stomped her feet and kicked at the dishes and table decorations.

“Hells does that woman know how to pitch a freaking fit…” Florian said with amusement.

“I didn’t come here to be insulted in front of half of the city, and all of the city than frankly matters. And unless you intend to have your tongue on my plate for a main course you can shut your nattering mouth *now* Jeremo. Do not splay the details of my love life around in front of your damned guests.” Shemeska snarled at the Jester as she climbed down from the tabletop and retook her seat, though when she put her hands down on the arm rests of the chair, the wood was beginning to blacken and singe.

	But, while the Marauder was trying to calm down, Zadara was laughing to the point of having difficultly breathing, “Details were hardly the only thing splayed about apparently!”

	“Oh shut up you oversized harpy! Don’t you know when to shut up?! Or has the coin gone to your undersized brain like how we can all tell its gone to your oversized *ss?” The Marauder was back on her feet, flecks of violet flame spurting from the corners of her eyes that were already glowing with rage.

	Beside her, Spiral Hal’Oight cringed and said nothing, his own frustration with Jeremo’s rather public nattering having vanished when the fiend seated next to him had begun to snarl, growl, and smell of brimstone.

	Zadara calmly smiled with a sense of triumph as her rival made a public fool of herself. She sipped from her goblet of wine and responded mockingly to the fiend, “Bark. Bark. Bark.”

	The sound of breaking crystal and splashing wine rang above the clamor of the crowd as the Marauder snarled something in a guttural tongue and shoved a hand in the titan’s direction. Zadara’s goblet exploded in her hand, showering her and those seated around her with wine and broken crystal. She had only the time to register the attack before a second spell was hurled at her, more snarled and spit out than properly intoned and cast. Whatever it was, there was no apparent effect upon the titan aside from a stutter and a cough.

	“F*ck this! To hell with you all! Kiss my *ss Zadara!” The Marauder screamed as she bolted for the door and ripped her stole out of the hands of one of Jeremo’s servants on her way. Her shrieks of rage continued to echo down the hall as Zadara came to her senses about the same time that the rest of the room fully registered what had just happened.

	“Holy cr*p…” Tristol’s eyes were wide as he whispered the intonations to allow him to view any lingering traces of the spells that had just been cast in the Marauder and Titan’s altercation.

	“What? What did she actually cast?” Clueless asked with concern and alarm.

	Everyone seemed taken back by the public brawl the two women had just been involved in. Even Ylem seemed shocked and dismayed, and Nisha was no longer making faces at him either.

	Tristol blinked in surprise. “She tried to kill her.” He whispered to the others, “She threw some type of death spell at her that I’m not entirely familiar with. Zadara was lucky, that’s all I can say.”

	“Well sh*t.” Toras said, realizing just how quickly and how far things were escalating. 

	“B*tch! How dare you! Get back here!” Zadara bellowed as she stood to her feet and brandished her maul in one smooth motion before she ran for the door, chasing after the Yugoloth.

	Jeremo adjusted his crown and looked across the room, his eyes going from Seamusxanthuszemus’s prone and limp body, to the broken fragments of Zadara’s goblet, to where the two powerful women were apparently about to bring their public spat outside. “Well… this wasn’t what I’d been aiming for. So much for well made plans…”

	“Everyone remain calm, they’ll work things out and there’s nothing to worry among the rest of us here. My apologies for the rudeness of some people…” Jeremo hastily but genuinely said to his guests before bolting over to confer with his guards away from the party and out of earshot of the crowd.

	“Umm… guys. They aren’t going to work anything out, I think someone needs to actually get involved before…” Fyrehowl said before being cut off by the dim echo of an explosion and flash of light from the hallway.

	“…as I was saying…” She said as the sound of more spells erupting outside the Palace could be heard.

	“We can come back to the party, but they’ll level a block or two if they keep going after each other. And I’ll be damned if I let the Marauder get away with murder.” Clueless said as he made for the exit.

	“Come on Zadara!” Toras said jokingly before immediately feeling guilty for saying it, with a half dozen people glaring at him. “Ok, sorry, poor taste…”

	The poor tasted jest was forgotten as the group ran for the exit along with perhaps five other concerned persons. A minute or two later they had managed to run through the veritable mazework of passageways leading out of the interior of the Palace of the Jester and into the lantern-lit courtyard.

	“Cr*p…” Tristol blurted out as they walked out onto the flame scorched flagstones of the courtyard and saw what was there waiting for them.

That there had been a spellbattle was obvious, and the ground was pitted and scarred by fire and acid while the air was hung with the pungent stench of ozone. The corpse of one of the Marauder’s guards was splayed and broken into pulp near the entrance of the Palace, probably killed by a single blow from the titan’s hammer. But that was not what fixed their attention. Rather, they all stared in numb shock at Zadara’s sprawled and motionless body in the center of the courtyard. Her hammer lay beside her, the head smeared a brilliant scarlet and the Marauder was nowhere to be seen.


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## dal673

*Zadara Murdered?!?*

I can say only one thing: "Uh oh...."

Greetz,

DaL


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## Fimmtiu

dal673 said:
			
		

> I can say only one thing: "Uh oh...."




Ooooh. Someone's just made a big, big mistake. Especially since someone will probably have Zadara resurrected in under a day...


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## ajanders

*Imagine that*

Huh.
I figured Nisha for the dead-book, but not until the soup course.
There's just too many things I can see her doing with soup...


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## shilsen

Curiouser and curiouser


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## Krafus

Wow. What a catfight. I suspected sparks were going to fly somehow at that party, but I had no idea it would go this way. Too bad it's Zadara who got her ass kicked. Wonder what this will do to the Marauder's reputation? I hope the next update comes soon...


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## Shemeska

Krafus said:
			
		

> Wow. What a catfight. I suspected sparks were going to fly somehow at that party, but I had no idea it would go this way. Too bad it's Zadara who got her ass kicked. Wonder what this will do to the Marauder's reputation? I hope the next update comes soon...




I didn't actually say that Zadara was dead 
The catfight resumes next update for a conclusion that involves other folks. Homicidal rages by fiends. Yummy.


----------



## Bryon_Soulweaver

Civil war in Sigil?

*taking character sheet of mostly used person-Alex Whiterock*

What, and leave me here do to nothing?


----------



## Gez

Shemeska said:
			
		

> Lissandra leaned in closer to Clueless, “Don’t worry. If I know Jeremo at all, he’ll see to it that she’s paid back tenfold for embarrassing him at his own celebration.”




Indeed:



			
				Shemeska said:
			
		

> “And then he went on to describe what the two of you did in bed,” Jeremo said with a laugh, raising his eyebrows a few times to insinuate any number of lewd activities without actually listing them. “To start, Mantello said that you particularly liked it when he…”






			
				Shemeska said:
			
		

> Clueless shook his head, “Not going to happen. They’re both too smart to do that in public. They’ll just get pissy with one another but it won’t go beyond that.”




Guess they're not _that_ smart.


----------



## Clueless

No. No they're not. And neither are we. 

God that game session was fun...


----------



## Dakkareth

Hehe. Oh, erh, Sorry.  

Ha*cough*.

Mww. Mwwwww. Mwahahahahhahah!


----------



## Joker[ZW]

Wow, what a party! 

Just one question: where is Rhys? was she not invited?


----------



## Dakkareth

She probably had a bad feeling about this


----------



## Shemeska

Joker[ZW] said:
			
		

> Wow, what a party!
> 
> Just one question: where is Rhys? was she not invited?




IIRC in hindsight (since this happened in game about two years ago), Rhys was invited but was one one of the polite no shows, having been busy with a previous engagement. Aka Rhys had a bad feeling about it and didn't show up. Or at least that might be inferred. I'll give some IC reference to that over the next update or two, though in this case I'm going to hit my notes, and pick my players' brains to see what it was exactly that I mentioned regarding the former factol.

But of course, there's more going on than angry, social climbing, preppy fiends and titans.  They're just a rather obvious, loud, and explosive, happenstance.


----------



## Polynike

just caught up..what a rivetting story
well done and give us more come on!!!!


----------



## Shemeska

Polynike said:
			
		

> just caught up..what a rivetting story
> well done and give us more come on!!!!




This week's update will be late. I spent my week writing a story for Clueless and the latter part of the week since then has kept me insanely busy with work.


----------



## Shemeska

*Stupid Titan! Bark Bark Bark!*

Toras’s eyes went wide as they all stopped dead in their tracks near Zadara’s prone form. She wasn’t breathing.

	“Oh sh*t she’s dead! Florian can you…” Toras blurted out before being cut off by the cleric.

	“She’s not dead.” Florian said as she pointed to Zadara’s eyes.

	The titan of potential was motionless and still, but her eyes were open and filled with pools of rage. Whatever spell had felled it, it had simply paralyzed or otherwise immobilized her, not snuffed her life.

	“…cr*p…” Tristol muttered again for the second time in as many minutes as there was a sudden flash of light roughly thirty feet from where they stood.

	Standing in the fading light of her teleportation spell, the Marauder snarled as she walked closer to Zadara. The King of the Crosstrade’s previously elegant evening gown was disheveled, scorched in several places, and she looked more like a slavering hellhound in a dress that had run headlong through a patch of razorvine than one of Jeremo’s invited guests.

	“Ok, whatever the two of you got into, I think that we can all calm down and go our separate ways.” Tristol said hastily, and perhaps a bit overly optimistic in his tone.

	Shemeska glanced at the mage briefly, baring her fangs as her eyes leaked scarlet flame, and completely ignored him as she launched into casting another spell.

	“Tristol, she’s not listening and I don’t think…” Toras was cut off abruptly as the fiend spat out an intonation in a harsh, guttural language and flicked an obscene gesture at the motionless titan.

	Tristol, acting entirely on instinct and shock, did the first thing that sprang to mind: he defended himself. The bubble of antimagic rippled outwards from the mage and enveloped his companions and a solid chunk of the titan where she lay on the ground. Whatever spell the ‘loth had cast was negated wholly and with a scream she hurled a second spell, cast in a more mundane language that Tristol recognized.

	“Sh*t!” Tristol cringed as the disjunction erupted around him and evaporated his own antimagic field like a raindrop hurled into a fire. It was unexpected and the Marauder tossed it with more than a comfortable level of ease, and that frightened Tristol. He had always assumed the fiendess to be a sorceress, that much came with being what she was, but he hadn’t thought her to be on the level of an archmage.

	However, as surprised as Tristol might have been at the moment, while the fiend’s spell had obliterated his hasty defense, it also dispelled whatever previous magic had ensnared the titan…

	Zadara’s eyes widened and she was on her feet and reaching for her hammer in under a second. There was a crackle of spell energy as the Marauder vanished and reappeared a distance away, out of viable range of any immediate attack.

	The two women glared murderously at one another as the clatter of armor and steel shod boots heralded the arrival of two-dozen guards, both from inside the palace and from the front gates of the courtyard.

	“F*ck…” The King of the Crosstrade snarled as the guards arrived. Witnesses to murder would not be easy to bribe when they worked for someone with more money than some gods of wealth…

	Zadara dropped her hammer as the guard’s arrived, though she was still looking like something that would have put a pause in one of the members of the Olympian pantheon if they blundered into her in some dark alley.

	“Back to the party then? I’d like to go hear more from the Jester about his story he was telling us before you started barking…” Zadara said mockingly to the hovering fiendess.

	“This isn’t over you gold guzzling whore…” The Marauder said as she adjusted the coil of razorvine above her head. “I hope you choke on your wine. But you’ve already spoiled the party for me, and I’ll make that clear when I otherwise praise Jeremo when I talk to him next.”

	Zadara snorted.

	“Ta-ta…” Shemeska said with a sneer, grabbing herself briefly in an obscene gesture directed towards the Titan, before vanishing in the flash of a teleport.

	Zadara glanced at the approaching guards and then at Tristol and the others. “Thank you for the aid. I’ll properly thank you later after I’ve calmed down. I’ll need to speak with these gentlemen first. Go back and enjoy the party…”


***​

	“Staring down death at the hands of an angry fiend is not an experience I care to repeat. Remind me never again to want excitement in my life. After tonight, I’ve had all that I can handle for a while.” Tristol said as he tried to calm himself down as they walked down the hallway back towards Jeremo’s party.

	“Awwww…” Nisha said, garnering herself a worried stare from several people.

	Clueless changed the subject away from whatever it was Nisha had in mind to randomly excite their lives. “Even if we pissed off Shemmy tonight, we’ve got a titan who is pretty damn well pleased with us.”

	“It still pisses me off that there won’t be any charges filed on anyone.” Toras complained.

	“Yeah, well, nobody actually saw the two of them fight, just the aftermath. Plus, they both probably have witnesses bought and paid for if it ever came to that in the courts. Still, we stopped her from getting away with murder…” Florian said.

	“True, and I’m sorry, but Tristol, I’ll take to my grave the look on her face when her spell failed. Good job.” Skalliska said with a toothy grin.

	“You’re welcome, but frankly that was just instinct on my part. I wasn’t expecting her to just randomly throw out a 9th sphere spell. I didn’t know that she was that sodding powerful a sorceress.” He said with a shudder.

	“Hehe, you said sodding. Sigil cant is rubbing off on you.” Nisha giggled.

	“She’s that powerful, she just doesn’t use it that openly, all that often. Plus, her spellcasting isn’t entirely normal.” Clueless muttered.

	“The language she was using…” Tristol said.

	“Exactly. I’ve heard it before, and while she’s not an expert in it, she learned it from someone who was.” Clueless replied.

	Fyrehowl softly growled.

	“She has powerful friends. I’m not going to say his name though if you don’t mind.” Clueless said grimly with distaste.

	“Hey at least the party was really nice, and profitable, before that all happened, right?” Skalliska said with a grin as she held out the gem that had been her gift from the Jester.

	Florian chuckled, “You’d have thought that with security as tight as it was, Jeremo could have made sure that his guests didn’t get into public brawls.”

	Tristol stopped and glanced around.

	“Hmm?” Fyrehowl asked, motioning the others to stop.

	Tristol motioned to one of the locked and magically sealed doors. “Even if he was worried that some of his guests might be lost in this place, which might be easy to do if it wasn’t sealed up more than Nessus, or if he was worried that they might get into a fight with one another, that still doesn’t make a really valid reason for all of this…”

	“It _is_ a bit extreme I guess.” Skalliska said as she started to examine the multiple wards on the doorway.

	“Extreme is a light way of saying it. And Jeremo doesn’t strike me as the sort who’s just paranoid or fanatical about the security of his home.” Tristol said as he motioned again to the doorway.

	“Self assured, yeah. A bit talkative, yeah. But you’re right it does seem extreme. Heck, if we asked him he might tell us what was going on. I’m sure he’s got a valid reason for it.” Florian said jovially.

	“Umm… guys…” Fyrehowl said warily.

	That was when they saw the creature that was staring at them.

	Looking up at them with glassy pink eyes was a small rat, barely the size of one of their hands. The rodent was nestled in a small hole that had seemingly been gnawed out into the hallway from the other side of the wall, and it pushed at a small pile of chipped wood as it emerged out fully into the passageway. The rat’s braincase was fully exposed, enlarged beyond normal, and pulsing with a soft, subdued glow: a cranium rat.

	“What the hell…” Nisha said as she stared at the rat, already reaching for something to throw at it. In her hair, Factol Karan ducked down and held on.

	“Guys, I really think we should back up away from that thing. If there’s more than one of them anywhere near here, we’re screwed if it decides to mess with us. One cranium rat isn’t an issue, but a dozen or more and you’ve got a serious problem.” Skalliska was similarly reaching for something, anything really, to throw at the vermin should it make a hostile move. But, like Nisha, she was lamenting having worn clothing appropriate for a party, not for hunting psionic vermin…

	The rat was suddenly scooped up in a bag by a man dressed in the standard outfits of one of Jeremo’s servants. The rail-thin githzerai seemed bowed and immediately took an apologetic tone. “My apologies. My lord Jeremo has had me scurrying about for the past week trying to catch this little fellow. We’ve been trying to catch him since it wandered into the palace earlier, but he seems to have taken an interest in you just long enough for me to capture him.”

	The gith bowed again and smiled, “My apologies lords and ladies. This disruption of the evening’s festivities is uncalled for and I am deeply sorry for the trouble it may have caused. Now, if you will excuse me, the Natterer has other duties for me.”

	The servant was gone and down the hallway before they had much of a chance to respond.

	“That was odd…” Toras remarked.

	“Yeah, especially considering that he ran off for the palace exit. There weren’t any other open doorways down that passage.” Clueless said, looking back down the hallway where the servant had hurriedly vanished off.

	“Weird. He was dressed like one of the servants around here. Maybe they have access to doors that we don’t.” Fyrehowl mused.

	“Well, it’s something to ask Jeremo about. Whoever he was, I his tone seemed more than a bit suspect. When’s the last time you saw someone catch a cranium rat with a bag and their bare hands?” Skalliska said warily.


****​

	They hadn’t noticed the githzerai apologize to the rat after he had passed out of sight and let it out of the bag. The rat crawled up his arm and perched on his shoulder, staring up at his head before he cupped it in one hand and held it before his face like a friend. 

	“No, of course not. The servant will not be found till after I am gone. It was unwise for You to have made Your presence known to those few. If word of Your activity here grows outside of these walls it may bring unwanted attention, and perhaps even draw the wrath of …” The githzerai paused as the rat began to chitter and its brain began to sparkle with trails of psionic energy.

	“Yes, as You wish. My apologies. Though our goals are shared, I am but a servant. And despite my concern, I overstepped my bounds. I am sorry to have doubted You.” Parrak’s face was lined with regret, honest regret as the collective mind lurking behind the eyes of its single representative in his hand whispered a rebuke back to him. This time it did not bring him pain, and it would not unless it was earned on his part. He was loyal and It knew he acted only out of concern, thus he would not be punished.

	He spoke to the cranium rat for a few more moments before releasing it back down onto the floor with seeming reverence. The rat vanished through another hole and back into the walls where the others waited.


***​

	Jeremo had little need to provoke chit-chat or ladle out topics of conversation after the group got back to his party. The public spat between two of Sigil’s most powerful women had seen to that. Jeremo did however spend his time apologizing to many of his guests in person over the antics and problems of ‘some people’.

	But, for all the problems that it might have caused, The Jester seemed to emerge out of it all as clean as could be, and most seemed to take it as a memorable occurrence rather than a sour note on the party. It was a winning situation for the Natterer if he could leave such a positive impression on most of his guests over the course of the evening. It didn’t stop him from getting his hands dirty and talking to most of them personally though.

	Still, Jeremo wasn’t the only person making rounds about and amongst the party guests. Giving the Lady’s Jester a rival for most active and apologetic was A’kin. The Friendly Fiend seemed positively mortified by what had happened and he was going table-to-table, guest-to-guest and apologizing ‘on behalf of the entire yugoloth race’ for the ‘dreadful attitude and actions’ that his counterpart that evening had demonstrated.

	Sigil’s other resident arcanaloth seemed embarrassed almost to the point of tears by the time he got around to speaking with Tristol and the rest of the group.

	“I’m so terribly terribly sorry for what happened outside. I just heard from one of the guards about it all. Please, please let me just express to you how embarrassed I am over this. I try to be nice, I try to be friendly, but sometimes every step I take towards making people realize that not all of us are bloodthirsty fiends out to snag their souls, she just ruins it all…” A’kin ended in sniffles with his head on Florian’s shoulder.

	Fyrehowl looked on with a mixed reaction of disbelief and honest sympathy.

	“We know you’re not like that A’kin. We like you for who you are, even if she’s in contention for the biggest b*tch in the multiverse award most of the time. You aren’t her, the Foehammer be praised, and whatever she does it doesn’t rub off on you by association. Trust me. People like you.” Florian said as she rubbed the Friendly Fiend’s ears like a sullen puppy-dog.

	“It’s ok A’kin, we love you anyways.” Nisha said comfortingly to the ‘loth before adding with a touch of guilt,  “And I’ll put the chocolate mephit back in your shop by tomorrow, or I’ll leave the money for it on your desk. Sorry.”

	A’kin sniffed and tried to compose himself again, “Thank you Florian. And that’s fine Nisha, just keep him. I can make more. But the sympathy really means a lot. I’ll find a way to make this up to you all. The sentiment is appreciated.”

	“Why? Why does she have to pull cr*p like that? All the time.” Fyrehowl asked a weepy-eyed A’kin. “Attitude, fake tail, fake t… oh fake pretty much everything!”

	“Compensating for me?” A’kin offered up with a shrug. “Long, complicated story and much to my lament perhaps, it’s not something that’s going to change with her anytime in the foreseeable future. It doesn’t stop me from trying to compensate for her, just as much as she seems to do for me. Again, I really do hope you know how sorry I am over all of that. We’re not all like that.”

	“Maybe I’ve read you wrong A’kin. Thanks for not being like her.” Fyrehowl said with a smile.

	A’kin smiled graciously, “I’m not much like her except perhaps for shared origin. I’m glad that you don’t think that I’m like her. If I can change your mind, being where you’re from, it gives me some hope for everyone else.”

	“Anyways, if you don’t mind, I have to go wake up Seamus and make sure that he’s fine. Everyone seems to have forgotten about him and left him lying there in a dusty little pile of mephit, the poor thing… Maybe I’ll see some of you later.” A’kin said before giving them all a hug and wandering over to where the Merchant Most Excellent was still passed out cold from where Shemeska had belted him against the wall. As far as most of the other guests were concerned, the elemental annoying was better left that way, and he was certainly less of a pain in the *ss in such a state.

	Meanwhile, Florian excused herself away from the group and made her way over to where Jeremo was talking to several of his guards about what had gone on outside. It would be curious to see what Jeremo had to say about the oddly spectacular level of warding on the palace, plus about the rat they had seen…


----------



## Clueless

Oh yeah. "Her thanks" - did she ever get back to us on that? Nooooo. *frumps* *sets Toras up on a date*


----------



## shilsen

Shemeska said:
			
		

> The servant was gone and down the hallway before they had much of a chance to respond.




Aw, come on! What kind of adventurers let poor, hapless servants go off without jumping on them and interrogating them for doing their normal duties? Okay, so this guy wasn't a poor, halpess servant, but you know what I mean. Right?


----------



## Gez

Clueless said:
			
		

> Oh yeah. "Her thanks" - did she ever get back to us on that? Nooooo. *frumps* *sets Toras up on a date*




Have you ever asked her for a favor?

And are you setting Toras up on a date with her?


----------



## Clueless

Naw, she just kept offering to buy the inn.

And um. Yes. *grin* It's a long story....


----------



## Gez




----------



## primemover003

What could the Us and Illsenine have to do with Jeremo or the Palace of the Jester???  Curiouser and curiouser...

And Shemmy dropping the MDJ-bomb would be a scary sight!  Was the language Baern?  Even if she is a high level sorceress from past episodes I don't take her to be anywhere near the level of even Helekanalaith or Vorkannis.


----------



## Shemeska

primemover003 said:
			
		

> What could the Us and Illsenine have to do with Jeremo or the Palace of the Jester???  Curiouser and curiouser...
> 
> And Shemmy dropping the MDJ-bomb would be a scary sight!  Was the language Baern?  Even if she is a high level sorceress from past episodes I don't take her to be anywhere near the level of even Helekanalaith or Vorkannis.




She's nowhere close to those two. The former is an archfiend for all intents and purposes, and the latter is solidly an archfiend, maybe even outside of his newfound status as Oinoloth. The Marauder is influential, but she's simply not in the same catagory of raw power as those two.

She was casting some of her spells in Baernaloth, learned from the Ebon as part of her price for supporting his ascension to Oinoloth. She's not fully fluent in it, and perhaps not capable of it in the same way as the original speakers and some others. At best, she's casting in a bastardized mix of infernal/abyssal/Baern at times that gives her spells a bit more punch than standard.

At this point in the storyhour, I think I had her pegged at a Sorc 19 or so (With 12 of those levels being racial though I have some wierd houserules w/ the racial spellcasting abilities of arcanaloths. I more or less have them learning spells as wizards, but capable of casting them spontaneously as sorcerers. It's overpowered yes, but it fits their flavor).

The stats that I wrote for Shemmy over at Planewalker (plus snazzy art) probably fit her more or less at this point, aside from the Baern wierdness she learned from Vorkannis. You'll find it here.


----------



## Aneul

Great story, Shemeska, I've just caught up!
This most recent was one of your best updates, the presence of Cranium rats in Jeremo's palace is worrying/intrieging indeed, a good way to top off the already troubling events of the party.


----------



## Clueless

*giggles a little* One of my favorite plot arcs coming up next. Has my favorite NPC in the entire game.


----------



## bluegodjanus

Clueless said:
			
		

> *giggles a little* One of my favorite plot arcs coming up next. Has my favorite NPC in the entire game.




You mean Seamuszanthusxemus, Slayer of Fiends, Merchant Most Excellent, Purveyor of Death isn't your favourite? Whyever not?


----------



## Aneul

A somewhat random question- but what are your sword's stats, Clueless?
The descriptions of it at the story hour's opening and durring your sparring match with the Githzerai (sp?) Cypher who's name escapes me sparked my intrest.


----------



## Clueless

Razor gets more  fun over time. I think it's after the next arc when I start upgrading. As he is - you're looking at a +2 maybe? ghost touch longsword. The personality that's implied in him is more the RP of a bladesinger's close relation to his blade. There's a bladesinger only spell that we established in game actually - which is essentially a instant recall to my hand if I get disarmed or the blade gets stolen.


----------



## Shemeska

bluegodjanus said:
			
		

> You mean Seamuszanthusxemus, Slayer of Fiends, Merchant Most Excellent, Purveyor of Death isn't your favourite? Whyever not?




No, because anytime I have to RP that little bastard I have to do so in his voice, and that squeaky mephit voice hurts my throat after a while. *scoff*


----------



## Florian

Shemeska said:
			
		

> No, because anytime I have to RP that little bastard I have to do so in his voice, and that squeaky mephit voice hurts my throat after a while. *scoff*




Now see, you say that like it's a bad thing.

Of course, I'm the one with the Elastic Vocal Cords of 1000 Voices, so....


----------



## Krafus

I am _so_ going to enjoy reading when Clueless finally gets his wish of shaving that bitch Shemeska...

Oh, and the more A'kin tries to act according to his name, the more I'm wary of that 'loth. I have a suspicion that someday all the acceptance they adventurers have given him is going to come back and bite them hard in the ass.

Excellent writing as usual, Shemeska.


----------



## Clueless

Heh. And double heh.


----------



## FyreHowl

*glances up, and bites tounge*

mmphhh mpphhh pphhrrhhh mhphhh!


----------



## Shemeska

*Iconic Indian Giver = Me*



			
				Krafus said:
			
		

> I am _so_ going to enjoy reading when Clueless finally gets his wish of shaving that bitch Shemeska...




*innocent 'lothy whistle*


----------



## Clueless

You*owe* me for that. You know it.


----------



## Krafus

Shemeska said:
			
		

> *innocent 'lothy whistle*




There is no such thing as an innocent 'lothy whistle. When a yugoloth is pretending to whistle innocently, it's because he/she/it has some nefarious plan in mind... Most likely one that involves the soon-to-be demise of all those within hearing range.


----------



## Dakkareth

... which is of course implied. But yes, I really think, that dress suits you. You look simply stunning! 
(Please don't kill me.)


Edit: Post #666, Yeah!


----------



## Shemeska

Dakkareth said:
			
		

> ... which is of course implied. But yes, I really think, that dress suits you. You look simply stunning!
> (Please don't kill me.)
> 
> 
> Edit: Post #666, Yeah!




"Wait for April Fools Day next month and I'll show you just how good I look in that dress."

*wink wink, nod nod*

And drat, I was hoping to have post 666 on the thread. Congrats and consider your soul mine now.


----------



## Shemeska

*Strange things, strange women, and strange strangeness*

A bright yellow question mark appeared and hovered over Jeremo’s head as Florian approached him. The odd effects of his crown seemed to anticipate his next statement, or it might have simply allowed him to visualize his thoughts. Still, the effect was the same.

	“What’s on your mind…” The Natterer asked with a lopsided grin, adding after a moment’s thought, “…Florian?”

	The cleric smiled, “Not bad, you remembered my name out of everyone here. I’m impressed.”

	Jeremo shrugged, “I try, though for the life of me I was confused earlier on this evening. Everything I’d been told had led me to believe that you were male. My dearest apologies for my confusion.”

	Florian chuckled and waved away his concern, “That’s a long story, but not your fault at all.”

	“So, what can I do for you?” He asked politely.

	“Well, I wanted to ask you about the security of the palace.”

	“Oh? I should think that it’s all the better to ensure that my guests are as safe here as they would be in their own homes. Some of you all consider that paramount.” Jeremo said before adding offhandedly, “Some more than others. The Titan wanted a list of who would be invited, especially any clerics or proxies. Noshtoreth wanted to make sure that I wasn’t inviting any full-blooded Baatezu, and tonight’s fuzzy entertainment wanted to know what the decorum would be so she could arrive in something fashionably out of place and clashing.”

	“Well, she got the out of place and clashing part down…” Florian coughed softly.

	“But it’s impolite of me to speak poorly of my guests and peers in the city. Anything at all else about the security?” Jeremo said deferentially.

	“It seems to be a bit much… and it’s all oriented seemingly to prevent something from getting –out- into the palace, not to just prevent the guests from wandering off…” Florian asked skeptically.

	Jeremo laughed and waved a hand dismissively, “Not at all the case. Seriously now, I’m just a bit overprotective about my guests and I don’t spare any expense. So if you’ll excuse me, I have some other things I really should attend to.”

	Jeremo gave a tip of his crown, turned, and made an attempt to leave. Florian stopped him dead in his tracks with a single statement. “We saw a cranium rat in the palace.”

	Jeremo paused and slowly turned around, his previous joking demeanor gone and replaced with a much more serious expression.

	“It gnawed its way out from behind one of the walls before one of your servants snagged it.” She added to the now dour and frowning Jester.

	Jeremo sighed, “I need to ask you in all honestly to not repeat to anyone else outside of myself and my servants what you saw today. To say that I have a problem is only the least that you could say about it. To an extent, today’s festivities were to put off any rumors that something was amiss in the palace and keeping me from having many visitors.”

	“The rumor mill was starting to get you worried about people finding out?” Florian asked.

	Jeremo nodded and pursed his lips. “Aye, both the polite and casual mill, and the paid gossip mongers of the city were close to having a field day with the speculations of what they perceived. Incidentally, that was also a reason for one or two of my jabs tonight. She took it harshly… a pity…”

	The Jester gave a puckish smirk at his last comment before returning to a more serious tone and affectation.

	“Suffice it to say, I have every intention of snuffing the vermin out before they pose a real risk to myself and others. But damn it all, there’s more in the bowels of the palace than I care to speculate on. Whatever it is, they’re less interested in me and my faction is seems, than on the underhalls of my home. Why they’re here or what they’re so keen on finding is an open question.” Jeremo mused, “Either they know something I don’t about the history of the place, or they’re using it to hide from one or two of the other rat hives in the city.”

	“There’s more than one hive of those things in Sigil?” Florian asked with some alarm.

	“At least two; and from what I understand, one of them has gone rogue on the God Brain. I can’t speak of their squabbles with one another much, but I do know that there’s an established hive or two in the Slags, the two or three ‘Great Minds’, but one of them has done its damnedest trying to move into the Palace of the Jester over the last cycle.”

	Florian was about to ask another question except for Jeremo kept right on talking. The Natterer wasn’t a hollow nickname…

	“…but did you say a servant of mine found it? Odd. I hadn’t heard about it yet. Who was he?”

	Florian replied before Jeremo could launch into babbling any more. “I don’t know his name. Some githzerai.”

	Jeremo fixed his different colored eyes on her harshly, “I don’t employ any githzerai…”

	Florian found that odd. After all, the fellow had been dressed in one of the Jester’s servants’ uniforms. Still, he had been acting odd.

	Jeremo adjusted his crown again, “How would you like to earn some jink or otherwise gain me in your debt?”

	“Excuse me?” Florian asked.

	Jeremo crossed his hands and grinned like a child with a treasure map. “I have a problem and you and your fellows have seemed resourceful from all that I’ve heard. I have more money than some powers of wealth, and so price isn’t much an issue.”

	“Is this an employment offer?” Florian asked with a chuckle.

	“Quite.”

	“Well, I can certainly ask the others if they’re interested.” Florian said.

	“Please do, and if you decide to take the offer I’ll be waiting. Let me know in the next several days and I’ll provide you with some more detailed information about the situation I have on my hands. Of course, I’d really appreciate it and suffice it to say that the pay will be commensurate to my means…” Jeremo said with a wink and a nod.

	Florian grinned, the image of jink floating about her mind. “I’ll ask them and I’ll let you know what they say. And I swear to you on the Foe Hammer that I won’t mention any of what I’ve seen here to anyone outside of them.”

	“Thank you, I appreciate it.” Jeremo tipped his tarnished crown. “But do go on and enjoy the rest of the evening. I’ll leave you to that, but I have a few things to discuss with the guards now, so if you’ll excuse me. Good evening to you.”


****​ 

	“So, Toras… I was wondering what you have planned for later on this evening?” Verden said seductively into the fighter’s ear as he chuckled in amusement and over consumption of the Jester’s free flowing alcohol.

	“Excuse me?” His face was flushed with an equal mixture of gleeful surprise and drunkenness.

	“I’ve enjoyed your company here tonight and I’m inviting you back to my place. You can go home in the morning…” Verden said softly as she rubbed a thumb over the back of Toras’s hand.

	Toras’s eyes grew wide as he finally realized just how heavily the rather attractive owner of the Azure Iris was coming onto him. She was just as tipsy as he was, and so some small part of his mind was leaning towards saying no just to make sure than neither of them would regret anything in the morning, but that part was losing.

	“Well, I’ve enjoyed your company as well. You’re quite attractive and its been a pleasure chatting with you all evening. My apologies for that unpleasantness earlier.” Toras said before she took his face in her hands and kissed him full on the lips with a drunken giggle.

	“I promised that I’d tell you about some of the stuff I’ve seen from that one over the years, and you can ask me about that, and most anything else when we’re in bed together.” She was tugging him up from his chair as she winked at him.

	Nisha rolled her eyes as Toras and Verden both staggered away from the table and made their way towards the exit.

	“See you guys in the morning!” Toras muttered as he and the wood elf left with only a select few things on their minds.

	“Oh, this is going to be interesting…” Fyrehowl said as Toras and the elf left.

	“Mammals…” Skalliska muttered under her breath.

	“Not a chance, I’m already taken.” Came the soft but argent and preemptive reply by Lissandra the Gateseeker to Clueless who was smiling at the young guildmistress as the previous impromptu couple made their way out.

	“Damn. Oh well, can’t blame me.” Clueless said to the flattered wizardress.

	“I’ll let you know if the situation changes, but it’s not likely.” Lissandra said with amusement as she gave a chuckle at the bladesinger.

	Toras never noticed that Verden wasn’t intoxicated in the slightest as he left with her, his mind being run by organs other than his brain, and her own mind being filled with a hunger not of the carnal variety either.


****​

	The telepathic web of the hive stretched across miles and among the minds of hundreds upon hundreds of those who had rejected the poisoned succor of the most hated Godbrain. The psionic impulses of thought rocketed from mind to mind and point to point along that web that stretched invisibly through the burrowed tunnels in the Sigilrock of the Great Below and now into the forgotten hallways of the Palace of the Jester.

	“The Natterer, he knows that we are not here for him and his own.” A single thought was shared by the many minds of the collective, spread out across the underhalls of the palace and the sewers and forgotten places in between.

	“But does he know our purpose here? Does he know what we seek?” The voices asked themselves, pondering the thoughts of the single mind of The Jester above them. His thoughts were locked to them, by spell or by simply titanic force of will. But regardless, they had not managed to divine his own insight into their activities.

	“He seals us away from the places he walks and the places he knows. He has made no organized move to seek us out here in the levels below that which he knows.”

	The minds of the Us gave thought to what they had found in the labyrinthine network of chambers and forgotten halls below the Jester’s demesne.

	“He does not know of what lies below his feet. He knows down to a depth, but nothing beyond it. He is ignorant of the history of his own house beyond a few centuries. Scattered names of former holders of his position perhaps are known to him, but nothing more…”

	There was a pause again in the thoughts of the Us; a certain wariness about what it had found there beneath the streets of Sigil.

	“There are thoughts here below, strange and distant, stronger as we travel further down and into the past. The walls are alive. We feel it, and whatever is here eludes our touch and evades our sight. It plays with us, prevents us from reaching whatever it covets and hides.”

	For a brief moment a touch of fear rose from a minority of the collective, a fear of something that it did not recognize. The Palace of the Jester was Sigil’s oldest extant structure, and its past was shrouded in mystery. The underhalls were unmappable. The walls moved, shifted and changed to prevent any true understanding of its sprawling network of empty catacombs and abandoned chambers. It was Sigils past made manifest, and it was as alive as its present…

	“Swalk’kur knew of this. He knew what was here. The visionary also avoided it and his lingering spirit only laughed at us when we found his tomb. It was shallow in this place compared to where we wander now amongst the laughing, watching galleries.”

	The undercurrent of fear rose again amongst the component minds of the Us and the bulk of itself suppressed the feelings as best as it could.

“The Dabus are wary here. The Dabus are afraid of this place! But that is foolishness; if anything they avoid the depths simply because of ourself and nothing more. We do not concern ourself with the Dabus, but only with what we may find amid the labyrinth. There is power here…”


****​

	Florian had gestured them all together and into the back room almost as soon as they had gotten back from the Jester’s party. Despite having been away from them for a good while, speaking to the Natterer, she hadn’t said a word to the rest of her group during the course of the evening for fear of it being overheard. Besides, she had the nagging suspicion that Jeremo might have had his own people close at hand to let him know if she actually did spread word of what she had seen. The man seemed genuinely amicable, but he didn’t reach his position of power and influence by not knowing how to watch his own affairs and carefully cultivate public opinions, and frankly that was what he had been doing that entire evening: positioning himself in the eyes of his peers.

	“So, what exactly is this about?” Skalliska said as she stroked the head of her familiar, whose head was currently flickering a soft halo of orange flames.

	“Why not just tell us while we were at the party? Besides, it’s obscenely late.” Tristol yawned.

	“Alright, you all saw the cranium rat in the palace, right?” Florian asked rhetorically.

	“Sure, they had a few of them and Jeremo had his servants chasing them down. Big deal.” Fyrehowl said with a shrug.

	Florian waved her hand in the negative, “Jeremo doesn’t have any gith on his staff…”

	There was silence, and even Nisha paused and paid rapt attention.

	“Whoever that was, he wasn’t one of Jeremo’s people. And there are more than just a handful of rats in the palace. Jeremo has a serious problem with them; he thinks a hive of them has managed to burrow into the underhalls of the place…” Florian explained to a half dozen open mouths.

	“Well sh*t!” Clueless said bluntly.

	Tristol nodded, “Damn. That explains all the crazy wards the place had while we were there. Jeremo wasn’t taking any sodding chances with the rats and his guests, considering that most of Sigil’s elite were there tonight.”

	“Not that we’d have minded if the rats ever got to one or two of those elite…” Fyrehowl said as she rolled her eyes. “That’s going to come back and bite us you know.”

	“What the hell are the rat’s doing there? Trying to influence everyone around the palace? I know that Autochon’s Runner’s Guild operates out of a wing of the palace. Maybe trying to get into the heads of the people in Jeremo’s ‘this is a faction on everything but paper’.” Clueless mused.

	“Jeremo isn’t sure, but he’s not taking any chances. From what he’s told me, he’s managed to keep them confined to the lower levels of the palace, and they don’t seem to be at all aggressive about trying to break through into the parts of his property that he’s more or less sealed off from them.” Florian explained, “And that’s what worries him. He’s not certain what they’re doing down there, and he’d like to find out.”

	“Do we get to name our own price?!” Nisha said with a glimmer in her eyes as she leapt forward, placed both hands on the table and jingled the silver bell at the end of her tail.

	Florian chuckled and Nisha’s belled tail jingled again as Tristol tapped it.

	“He made it clear that cost wasn’t much of a concern of his if you’re curious.” She said.

	“Has he sent other people down there yet?” Clueless asked while Nisha continued to babble about ‘gods only know what all is down there’.

	“I would assume so given what he talked to me about.” Florian said.

	“And I think it safe to assume that so far none of them have come back?” Fyrehowl asked.

	“Probably a safe bet. Cranium rats aren’t friendly neighbors, and hives of them are territorial.” Skalliska said, “And scary…”

	Everyone nodded.

	“And tasty if you marinate them in alcohol…” The kobold added.

	“Ewwww…” Nisha said with a twisted expression. “I’ve eaten ashes spiced with arsenic just because nominally I can survive on it, but cranium rats? Yuck.”

	“Suit yourself, you’re the person who wouldn’t eat fried bugs just…” Skalliska said before being cut off.

	“Aaaaaand changing the topic of conversation…” Clueless said abruptly.

	“So, I guess the question is are we up for taking Jeremo’s offer?” Fyrehowl said. “Personally I don’t mind going for it. Besides, having Jeremo owing us a favor may just end up helping to shield up from another certain someone’s displeasure in the future, and I don’t think we can put a price tag on that.”

	The benefits and dangers of it all went around for some time, with both Nisha and Skalliska giving their previous experience with cranium rats to the group. Eventually though it was decided: they would accept Jeremo’s offer and meet him in the next day or two to find out the full details. Following the decision, they variously went for a bottle or yawned, or both before staggering up to their own rooms.


****​

	Clueless sat in his room surrounded by a few dozen random items that he’d managed to collect from the Astral, places around Sigil, and even back on Acheron. For hours upon hours he had sat nearly motionless there, surrounded by the odd and otherwise unremarkable sundry items that he’d assembled, and one at a time he had tapped the small collar around his neck. Each time, the single droplet of golden liquid it contained made contact with his skin, and each time he plucked into his mind the arcane symbols of a single legend lore spell. Despite that he was unable to actually case the spell himself, whatever the liquid that he had found in the Tower Sorcerous actually was, it was providing him a window into the history and background of the items.

	Hours had passed as he looked into the background of those items. He watched in his mind as a scrap of the late Factol Alisohn Nilesia’s robe from Acheron blossomed into fragments and snapshots of her time in slavery, and then how her husband, the late Duke Rowan Darkwood, had callously and purposefully sold her into slavery on the plane of war eternal.

	He watched as fragments of time from the Incantifers’ genocidal war of self-destruction began and ended in a haze of death, misery, and unintended consequences. He even watched a chronicle of just where a single silver piece had been in the past three weeks before it had first graced his purse. A single coin and it had passed from hand to hand in that time from aasimar to gnome, from archon to succubi, from abishai to mephit, and from a Nycaloth whose hand the silver in the coin had burned, right down to Nisha who the ‘loth had hurled the coin at a minute before she had cut his purse strings and made off with the rest of his jink.

	Still, there were events that his magic failed to illuminate. Anything related to his experience in Carceri, or rather, anything surrounding the tower there on Othrys: it was all shrouded in what seemed to manifest as an impenetrable mental fog. The closer that he got to anything even remotely related to the newly ascended Oinoloth, the thicker that the block became.

	“Oh you son of a b*tch, how the hell is it that nothing about you has any background? You can’t just have appeared out of sodding nowhere!” Clueless cursed as he concentrated on another question about The Ebon, only to have the magic fail him once more.

	The feelings of interference only increased the closer that the bladesinger probed, and only gradually did he recognize a cold malevolence that underpinned the haze that shrouded any of the information that he sought. If it weren’t impossible for something to be aware of the interior of Sigil while not within Sigil itself, Clueless would have sworn that something was aware of his attempts. He ended that train of legend lore attempts abruptly and with a disturbed feeling playing about his mind as he glanced down at the gem in his ankle. He’d sworn that it had been glowing before he had canceled the spell’s effects.

	“New subject… definitely a new subject…” Clueless muttered as his wings flickered with traces of faerie-fire that mirrored his discomfort.

	Tapping the bubble of golden liquid on his neck, he called once more into his mind the inscrutable symbols and patterns of a legend lore spell, pulled it into his mind and then concentrated on a subject of interest: Bartol Trenevain and his work with the King of the Crosstrade.

	Information on the fire genasi evoker wasn’t blocked in any way, and it was apparent from what glimmers of information the spell provided to the half-fey, that Trenevain had indeed been a complete and utter pawn under the clawed thumb of the Marauder. Trenevain was apparently openly loathed by his Nycaloth minders, and at least one of them was eager for the chance to kill the mortal as soon as he had outlived his usefulness to the nycaloth’s mistress.

	Clueless snorted, “Figures that you’d break your toys so nobody else could play with them. But this only makes me want to look old Bartol up again and see what he has to say about a few things…”

	The bladesinger moved on to other topics, but as soon as he asked a question that directly fell upon the Marauder or actions she had personally taken a part in, he hit a solid wall. The spell didn’t end, but his mind was abruptly filled with an image of a room in the Fortunes Wheel, the same one in which he had signed away his freedom to the gossip monger along with the freedom of another friend and the life of another.

	“What the hell…” Clueless said as the image in his mind’s eye focused on the Marauder, sitting and relaxing on a cushioned chair. The fiendess was smirking and her tongue was partially stuck out at an angle, petulantly bitten between her fangs. Her eyes glimmered violet as the image of her shook its head and waved a finger as if to say ‘no’. Questions about her operations within Sigil were warded, and warded well.

	Clueless snuffed the effects of the spell and the magic rapidly faded away from his mind, leaving him drained and exhausted from the effort of it all.

	“B*tch… figures that you’d pull something like that.  Otherwise everyone with money for magic would be divining everything about you and where you’ve got your clawed little hands sunk into the pie.” He sighed, “And you’re immune to mind affecting spells, so I might as well try and get Nisha to act rationale for an hour or two as I might try to pluck details from your twisted little head.”

	Clueless paused and winced for a moment.

	“What the hell?” He said as he reached up to rub at his neck. His fingers came back dappled in blood.

	Clueless launched forwards and went for a mirror, looking at his neck. Where the collar had held the droplet of magical liquid against his neck, the skin was inflamed and there was a small and angry blister at the exact point of contact: the source of the blood on his hand.

	“Alright… that’s not good.” He said as he dabbed up the blood from the broken skin. There was a small ring of white, seemingly dead skin that surrounded the blister. Obviously he’d had some sort of reaction to the repeated use of the substance, whatever the hell it was.

	“Hmm…” he thought as his wings once again reflected his mood. “Time to lay off using this for a while. At least till I actually know what that stuff is. We’ll have to see what Tristol might know about it, because I’m not going to use it again to find out what it is and where it came from originally if I don’t know if it’ll blow my head apart to use it again.”

	Still flushed from the experience of channeling magic beyond his normal means, and intrigued by much of what he’d discovered, Clueless placed the collar and its bubble of golden, and apparently dangerous, liquid in a locked drawer to stay safe for the moment. He rubbed the raw spot on his neck, and he didn’t plan on wearing the collar again for a while, at least until he was a bit more certain about what it was that it contained. He glanced at where he’d placed the collar for a few seconds, and at the globe that contained the bulk of the liquid, and having done that, he wandered downstairs from his room in search of Tristol.


****​


	Sitting at a table near the back of the taproom, sat three nearly identical men. They were all bald, dressed in black leather overcoats, and wearing dark glasses or spectacles each. They had walked into the Portal Jammer and sat down without saying a word to anyone, and ignoring the initial drink or food queries from the serving staff as if the employees simply didn’t exist.

After an hour or two of staring off into space, they had apparently noticed that everyone else in the room was drinking or eating, and so one of them asked for “what is normal”. A wary staffer served them ale and a scattered assortment of food, and then watched as the Keepers prodded at the food for nearly twenty minutes before making any attempt to actually eat it. Eventually the odd trio seemed to catch on, and the waitress wandered over to ask them a question.

“So, what plane are you all from? I can’t say that I’ve ever seen your kind around here.”

All three of them stared at her uncomfortably.

“The normal plane where everyone else is from of course. And no, you have never seen us around here before. I repeat, you have never seen us around here before, but not that we are out of place at all. You may be assured of that.”

She raised an eyebrow, “Uhh… yeah. So, uh, what are you here in town for?”

Again they all stared at her in silence before another one replied, in the exact same voice as the first had. “You ask many questions. Asking many questions is not something that you should do.”

The third answered quickly as the waitress wrinkled her forehead, “We are only here to wait for someone else. Nothing to be concerned about at all.”

“No, absolutely nothing to be concerned about at all. Everything is normal and as you might expect.” The first Keeper replied in a blank monotone, despite the awkward smile it tried to make.

	“Umm, sure… alright…” The server said awkwardly as she walked away from the three odd and identical gentlemen. One of them was smiling awkwardly at her over a mug of lamp oil while the other two stared off into space as she walked away.

	Several minutes later, Clueless walked down and made for the room that Tristol had been converting into an arcane lab for himself. The walk required him to make a quick transit through the common room of the bar, and as he did so, a sextuplet of eyes tracked him. The bladesinger swaggered across the floor towards that particular room where the mage had more or less locked himself away since they had been back in Sigil, identifying the glut of items that they had found previously. As he made for the door, the goggle-hidden eyes of the three men at the back of the room followed him silently. All three Keepers watched him before he was out of their sight.

	“Watch him, he is going for the mage. The aasimar will have it undoubtedly for he would have recognized it for what it truly is. A few more cycles of observation before we make ourselves known. Till then, we act as the others do, till more of ourselves enter this place.”

	“Agreed. We watch and then take it from the wizard.”

	“Yes, agreed.”


----------



## Dakkareth

Shemeska said:
			
		

> "Wait for April Fools Day next month and I'll show you just how good I look in that dress."
> 
> *wink wink, nod nod*
> 
> And drat, I was hoping to have post 666 on the thread. Congrats and consider your soul mine now.




It will be a delight, I'm sure.
_(Now where was that one-way portal people talked about the other day? Now might be a good time for some exploration ...)_


And you still have *reply* #666, so not all is lost. Or maybe I shouldn't have said that, considering the unclear ownership situation of my soul ...

Edit: Mmmhhhh, hive minds and arcane mysteries. Tasty.


----------



## Gez

Ooh, the Keeper plot thickens. And Toras got hit upon by what, a vampire? A lot of foreshadowing there.


----------



## Clueless

Not so much mystery there - look up the NPC in Faces of Sigil and it tells you in the DM's Dark.


----------



## Ryltar

Looking forward to how Toras gets out of *that* . How'd that situation come up? Planned by His Devious DM'ness or just player initiative?


----------



## Shemeska

Ryltar said:
			
		

> Looking forward to how Toras gets out of *that* . How'd that situation come up? Planned by His Devious DM'ness or just player initiative?




*devious smile*

She was sitting next to him on the seating chart for their table at that party (some of the people there were planned (Ylem) and others just tossed in to see what happened). And I wanted to see what he did and how his character reacted to getting hit upon by 'the amazing energy draining woman'. I knew and I think Clueless's player knew OOC who and what she was, but Toras's player was delightfully clueless OOC and so there was no objection to going back and getting screwed all evening by this fairly attractive elf woman. Given Clueless's luck in such things, I figure that there was an assumption that I was just being an equal opportunity DM and handing the opportunity to a player.

Me: alright, the next morning you have a massive hangover, she's gone and left you a note to grab your stuff and close the door on your way out. Oh, and take 2 negative levels.

Toras's player: Cripes! She rocked my world!

Then, after Toras's player realized what Verden was he had the following to say: Christ! I just thought that she really screwed my brains out and made me sore the next morning. I didn't think she'd been feeding on me!

Thing with me is that nothing is coincidence and there's always a potential plot hook waiting for even the most trivial inclusion of an otherwise random detail. It's just that only the ones that get bitten, so to speak, are the ones that I ever fully develop. I've got whole plotlines that never got developed, and at least one of them I'm keeping in play for the sequal to this campaign (which I'm currently planning, and for which I'll be posting a storyhour introduction after the first session of. No spoilers for this storyhour in it though, since it'll be about 150 years in the future and several planes removed from this action, but still reverberating from this ones fallout to some extent).


----------



## Clueless

*steals the sign*


----------



## shilsen

Shemeska said:
			
		

> Thing with me is that nothing is coincidence and there's always a potential plot hook waiting for even the most trivial inclusion of an otherwise random detail. It's just that only the ones that get bitten, so to speak, are the ones that I ever fully develop. I've got whole plotlines that never got developed, and at least one of them I'm keeping in play for the sequal to this campaign (which I'm currently planning, and for which I'll be posting a storyhour introduction after the first session of. No spoilers for this storyhour in it though, since it'll be about 150 years in the future and several planes removed from this action, but still reverberating from this ones fallout to some extent).




That's precisely the approach to DMing I try to take. It really gives the players a sense that they have a hand in the creation of the story, as well as giving them a great sense of satisfaction (both in and OOC) when they manage to tease out a strand and realize how much of the past events were dependent on the specific choices they made, however innocuous. Admittedly there's a little less satisfaction when they realize how badly they've screwed themselves and how many options they had not to do so, but them's the breaks


----------



## Toras

It might not have been that simple, but she did match the description of someone else in his past.  It worked out well as a rebound thing.  Though he did crawl his way to the inn in search of a cleric.  I believe the words of "Medic, Man down." and Florain's reply "that loose women would be the death of me" where brought up, though it was thought that it was shear exaustion and soreness was the culprit. 

His choices get slight better though much more deadly as the game goes on.


----------



## Ryltar

Shemeska said:
			
		

> Thing with me is that nothing is coincidence and there's always a potential plot hook waiting for even the most trivial inclusion of an otherwise random detail. It's just that only the ones that get bitten, so to speak, are the ones that I ever fully develop. I've got whole plotlines that never got developed, and at least one of them I'm keeping in play for the sequal to this campaign




This is what makes DM'ing worthwile for me, too. I try to offer as many half-developed plot-hooks as possible; half of them come from my notes, the other half from things the players just brought up offhandedly during play and that are just too good to ignore. Especially the "He wouldn't do that ... it would be too easy. So this whole thing has got to be more complicated!" conspiracy theories, which get them into even greater trouble than I had intended . It's a little sad to see some plot opportunities go unnoticed, though, but I always collect those for  possible later use. You cannot run from my plots!


----------



## Clueless

*chuckle* We've inserted some doozies into the plot - but it all does end up evolving around shemmies plans in the end - *shrug*


----------



## Shemeska

Clueless said:
			
		

> *chuckle* We've inserted some doozies into the plot - but it all does end up evolving around shemmies plans in the end - *shrug*




*changes name to Shemmy Hilton, shaves self with a poodle pattern, dances in front of a mirror and leaks the sensory stone onto the Night Market*

There's a quote by Mick Jagger here that might be appropriate 'You don't always...' etc.

*runs from nonplussed player who knows where I live*


----------



## Clueless

I know where and when and how to hurt you. Remember this.

*settles back from creepy moment with a smile*
Just make it up to me, ok? Because it really *did* disappoint me.


----------



## dostum

hehe!!

I don't have Faces of Evil [so don't give too much away please, at least not 'til after the update!] and this looks like terrible fun! It's always nice when you're sleeping with the *evil*, and even nicer when, you know, you're still alive after it all 

I do hope there's more info about Verden soon, and she doesn't just vanish. Glad to see she's actually a "planned" encounter/bait.

Also, do you mind if I *borrow* some of your plot and npc's for my own adventure? Not all of it, it's too big for me, but just some of the more.. satisfyingly depressing.. parts   My party is currently in Dis [Fires of Dis adventure] and it would be interesting I think to follow up with another plane being dragged away   

You are *the* King!
(Please don't kill me)


----------



## Shemeska

dostum said:
			
		

> I don't have Faces of Evil [so don't give too much away please, at least not 'til after the update!] and this looks like terrible fun!




I'll have to scan in some images of some of the NPCs that are in faces of evil, maybe put up a link to them here. I presume WotC doesn't mind me putting bits of art online from an oop book.



> Also, do you mind if I *borrow* some of your plot and npc's for my own adventure? Not all of it, it's too big for me, but just some of the more.. satisfyingly depressing.. parts   My party is currently in Dis [Fires of Dis adventure] and it would be interesting I think to follow up with another plane being dragged away
> [/SIZE]




Please, be my guest and go right ahead. Pilfer to your hearts content. You have no idea just how flattered I am when anyone gets inspired by anything I've written. It's a seriously warm feeling, sorta similar to bits and pieces of BBQ petitioner on the way down.


----------



## dostum

Shemeska said:
			
		

> I'll have to scan in some images of some of the NPCs that are in faces of evil, maybe put up a link to them here. I presume WotC doesn't mind me putting bits of art online from an oop book.




Thanks! That would be great, if you've got some free time I'd really appreciate it 



> Please, be my guest and go right ahead. Pilfer to your hearts content. You have no idea just how flattered I am when anyone gets inspired by anything I've written. It's a seriously warm feeling, sorta similar to bits and pieces of BBQ petitioner on the way down.




Mr Burns: *Excellent*

I do hope I can instill the same feelings of depression and utter "bleakness" that I've enjoyed in you story.. heh heh   

Gracias


----------



## Krafus

Ooh, the plot thickens... And I hope for Toras that he was able to get those levels back before going cranium rat-hunting (and that he took this as a lesson - in Sigil, _don't_ go out with girls you don't know). Excellent writing as usual, Shemeska. I wonder just what power is under Jeremo's Palace? Guess I'll find out sooner or later.


----------



## Clueless

Heads up folks! Latest lothy flavor writing over at Planewalker, a short story featuring one of the 13 Baern: http://www.planewalker.com/forums/viewtopic.php?t=562


----------



## A Crazy Fool

eek! you've given me ideas my NPC wizard, also comic releif has EXACTLY the personality of nisha, now I have ideas, *evil laughter*. and i'm going to borrow the dust mephit, poor, poor players.


----------



## Shemeska

*Today is Shemmy's birthday *toothy, birthday-loth grin**

Tristol sat in the dim recesses of the back room that he’d converted into a makeshift arcane laboratory. His eyes were half-lidded from lack of sleep but they remained focused on his tasks of both identifying the host of magical items that they had all recovered in the past while, and to learning from the spellbooks he had taken from the Imshenviir mercane, and from the arcanaloth, Parphinias.

	“Tristol? Helloooo….” Florian’s voice broke the mage’s concentration and drew his unhappy gaze.

	Tristol sighed and his tail was bottlebrushed behind him. “Yes? I’m rather busy…”

	“You need to eat. The last time I was in here you said that you’d take a break and do that.”

	“Yeah yeah, whatever.” Tristol said dismissively before turning his eyes back to the spellbook in front of him.

	Florian pulled the spellbook away, “You said that seven hours ago…”

	The mage’s ears folded back and to the side as he looked up at the cleric, “I’m busy. Send something in if you’re concerned.”

	Florian pushed the book back with a sigh, “I’ll have the kitchen send something in.”

	“Yeah yeah, whatever…”

	More time passed and Tristol flipped through a few more pages, arriving at a lovely spell called ‘Parphinias’s Corrupting Touch’. Even if he might not cast it himself, the aasimar was having a grand time just learning magic from a tradition so utterly alien to his own. Still, it was mildly disturbing that the book seemed to be bound in some form of nondescript humanoid flesh, and also appeared to move slightly when you didn’t watch it closely.

	A pair of slim hands suddenly descended over his eyes.

	“Florian I said that…”

	“Guess who?” A voice said with a giggle, sounding very much unlike Florian and very much like a certain tiefling.

	“Toras.” Tristol answered.

	“Toras? Nope.” The unknown person said.

	“Judge Gabberslug of the Court of Woe?” Tristol said as he snickered.

	“… hey! You’re just being mean now.” One of the fingers thumped him on the forehead.

	“Someone who’s going to get bitten if she doesn’t take her hands off my face?” Tristol asked.

	“Oh! I know who you are! You’re a wizard with fuzzy ears!” The hands snagged the tips of his ears and wiggled them around.

	“… wasn’t I the one asking the questions?” Tristol said as he swatted at the hands on his ears.

	“Were you? I dunno.” The tiefling said as she abruptly abandoned his head for another random whimsy.

	Nisha took off her hands and abruptly wandered over towards the shelves where Tristol kept a number of spellbooks, research tomes on a hundred or so different topics, and piles of various and sundry arcane scrolls.

	Tristol yawned, stretched and immediately went back to his reading. He’d just gotten to the next paragraph, notes that the arcanaloth had written or somehow burnt into the material that the spellbook was penned in, when he was interrupted again. Nisha was humming some random ditty as she thumbed through some of the scrolls.

	“Nisha?” Tristol asked with a soft whine.

	“That’s ‘great and powerful archmage Nisha’” The tiefling corrected him with a grin and soft jangle of the bell on her tail.

	“…” Tristol closed his eyes and breathed in and out a few times. “Great and powerful archmage Nisha?”

	“Yeeeeees?” She said, very obviously amused with herself.

	“Is there something you want from me, or are you just pretending to be a mephit?” He said in slow, measured tones.

	“No, I’m pretending to be an Archmage today. Silly wizard, you’d think that you’d know the difference by now.”

	Tristol’s ears went down again, “Please… I’m very busy. What do you want?”

	The tiefling grinned…

	“Anything?” She said as the bell on her tail rattled loudly, perhaps with an ominous foreshadowing.

	“Yeah yeah whatever…” Tristol said as he got back into the spellbook.

	“Can I have a scroll?” She asked nicely.

	“Sure, yeah, whatever…” Tristol replied.

	“Can I have a couple of random spell components from the middle shelf?” Nisha added.

	“Yeah yeah, whatever…” Tristol replied once more.

	“Can I make you my familiar? Being a great archmage and all I need one.” Nisha said without skipping a beat.

	Tristol replied once more with the same unconcerned reply in the affirmative.

	“Alright!” Nisha chirped.

	The room went silent suddenly and it was several more minutes before Tristol heard the door softly close as Nisha left. Something felt wrong since the tiefling had left without actually doing anything insane…

	Tristol looked around but didn’t see anything missing except for a scroll of jump and some rather inconsequential spell components. Strange to say the least, but he smiled and returned to his work, happy to finally have some peace and quiet. That respite lasted around ten minutes before Clueless walked in through the door.

	“Hey Tristol, I had a few questions for you.”

	Tristol banged his head against the spellbook emphatically with a groan.

	“I’m just not going to get any work done today. None at all…” Tristol said with a resigned sigh.

	Clueless sat down opposite the mage, “Oh, the bell and the bow look cute by the way.”

	“Excuse me?” Tristol looked at the half-fey with a confused expression.

	“The bell and the bow that you’ve got.” Clueless replied.

	Tristol looked perplexed until the bladesinger whispered a phrase and made a motion with his hand. There was suddenly a soft jingling noise from behind the aasimar and Tristol felt a soft tug against the tip of his tail. There was a brilliant pink bow tied to the tip of the mage’s tail and a tiny silver bell as well, just like the one on Nisha.

	Tristol smacked his head down against the spellbook once more.

	“The dread pirate Nisha strikes again I see.” Clueless said with a smirk.

	Tristol whimpered softly as the bladesinger jangled the bell a few more times with his cantrip.

	“So, what is it you want?” Tristol muttered from his prone position against the book.

	“I was curious if there’s such a thing as liquid magic. Maybe something like stuff in limbo, or stuff in the deep ethereal that just does stuff when you concentrate on it.”

	Tristol’s ears perked slightly and he looked up. “What? Like Karach or protomatter? Something like that?”

	Clueless shrugged, “Maybe, but those just sort of become what you think about and then go back or collapse if you stop concentrating on them. This stuff didn’t change itself, it just made things happen when you touch it and think about things.”

	Tristol sat up with the rapid jingle of the bell, “Why do you ask?”

	Clueless shrugged again, “Just curious. Something I was reading about.”

	“Yeah, I’ve heard of stuff like that, but it’s mostly a legend and no one seems to know how to make it anymore. It was mostly an accident in the first place. Lemme get you a book…”

	Tristol got up and walked over to his bookcase and thumbed over a few of the books written in a dialect of Halruaan.

	“What color was it, out of curiosity?” Clueless asked.

	“It was sort of a syrupy stuff if I remember the stories about it correctly.” Tristol said offhandedly as he pulled out a book titled, ‘Netheril’s Golden Age’.

	“Was it gold colored?” Clueless asked again.

	Tristol paused and thought, “Yeah, actually it was if I recall it right. Why?”

	Clueless held out a small vial of shimmering golden liquid, a portion of the larger store that he had recovered from the Tower Sorcerous. “Like this?”

	Tristol dropped the book. “Get it away from me…”

	There was a moment of sublime silence as Tristol and Clueless simply stared at one another, then at the sample of golden liquid, and then back at each other once more.

“So…” Clueless said, breaking the silence.

	“Keep that away from me.” Tristol said once more.

	“Why?” Clueless asked.

	“Because the only person I know who was ever capable of creating what I think that is, they nearly killed themselves experimenting with it…” Tristol held open the book and pushed it across the table. He still wasn’t getting near to the bottle however, and as Clueless glanced at the pages the mage was keeping a wary eye on the stuff.

	Clueless read over several pages of material that detailed a dead archmage who had been known as Karsus. The mage had created a substance known as ‘Heavy Magic’ by accident really, and had found that it held spells cast into it and functioned almost like a physical expression of magic that could be molded, shaped, or worked like wood or metal would be worked by a sculptor or a craftsman. Karsus had largely abandoned his research after he had nearly obliterated his enclave, some sort of floating city he ruled, by reckless experimentation with the material.

	“Where did you get that stuff?” Tristol finally asked.

	“I picked it up at random from the material we found on the Incantifer, back in the mazes. I just thought it looked pretty…” Clueless said with a shrug.

	“You randomly picked up what was probably the most valuable and most dangerous thing in that entire tower. Mystra forbid…” Tristol was as white as a sheet.

	“It’s rather interesting stuff. I’ve been messing around with it and…” Clueless said before the mage interrupted him.

	“You’ve what? _Messing around_ with it? You’re crazy…”

	“What’s the worst that could happen?” Clueless asked.

	“I don’t know, and I really don’t want to find out. Listen, the most powerful wizard that my world has ever known abandoned research on that stuff because it was too dangerous for his tastes. And he eventually destroyed his entire culture in another foolhardy experiment that he thought was safer.” Tristol said adamantly.

	“When did Karsus make his version of this?”

	“About two thousand years ago…” Tristol answered.

	“Then he didn’t make this, because unless he was inside that maze, it’s been around for longer than that.” Clueless said as he looked at the bottle of golden liquid.

	Tristol put his hands over his ears, “Then one of them figured out how to make it than probably. It might even be different from what Karsus made. Please promise me than you’ll hold off on it for a while before I can do some more reading on it?”

	Clueless frowned, “I won’t do anything more than I already have.”

	“I hesitate to ask what exactly you *have* done. But please?” Tristol asked plaintively.

	“Alright, I’ll be careful, I promise.”

	Tristol looked at the vial and then back at Clueless. “Just keep it away from me.”

	They chatted about the liquid for another twenty or so minutes before Clueless gathered his things and left. He never mentioned the raw spot on his neck, mostly because he didn’t want to worry his friend, nor did he want for Tristol to demand that he dispose of the heavy magic or give it into the safekeeping of someone more magically adept than either of them.


***​

	“Things have changed.” One of the Keepers said as it looked across at the door to Tristol’s lab.

	“Something has happened.” Another of the beings said.

	“Perhaps he is aware that we are here.” The third Keeper said as lamp oil dribbled out of his open mouth.

	“We will move preemptively now, even if others have not arrived. Now.”

	Tristol walked out of the door from his lab, still looking nervous from what Clueless had shown to him. He was so taken back from it that he hadn’t bothered to remove the florid bow and silver bell from the tip of his tail. He’d gotten perhaps ten feet from the door when he was surrounded by the three identical looking men, all wearing dark goggles, all of them bald, all of them dressed in rubbery black clothing and having stark white skin.

	“Umm… can I help you gentlemen?” Tristol said wearily. “I swear, everyone’s been asking for stuff today and I only want to sit down and study…”

	“Give us the Orb.” Came the monotone request from the first Keeper.

	Tristol blinked, “Excuse me? The what?”

	“The Orb. Give it to us.” The second Keeper asked in the same voice as the first.

	Tristol looked up uneasily at the close proximity and blank expressions of the three men. “I don’t know you’re talking about. Now if you’ll please move out of my way…”

	They didn’t budge an inch.

	“Tell us where you have put the orb. Bring us to it and give it to us and we will leave you unharmed.” There was an implied threat to the Keeper’s voice even if its tone hadn’t changed.

	“I don’t have any idea what the hell you’re talking about. Now get out of my way and get out of my inn!” Tristol’s ears lay flat against his head as he lost his temper for the odd and stubborn questioning.

	“Do not lie to us wizard. You would have it or know where it is. Tell us and speak of it to no one and we will not harm you.”

	“Toras! Fyrehowl!” Tristol shouted out into the taproom as he brought the words of a spell to mind.

	Halfway up the stairs going back to his room, Clueless paused and turned back when he heard Tristol’s shouting. Toras and Fyrehowl both looked up from their own table near the door where they’d been serving as relaxed quality control on who entered the inn and in what condition they left.

	Tristol called into his mind the words of a petrification spell as he ducked out from under the circle of three Keepers as a stern looking Toras and Fyrehowl approached. One of the Keepers turned to face Tristol, one turned to face the fighter and lupinal, and a third turned outwards to address the entire room and its occupants.

	“There is no scuffle or untoward activity occurring in the slightest! Nothing at all! All of you would be best served by returning to your normal activities. Forget that we are here. Everything is normal!”

	One of the other Keepers was about to speak as well, but that was before Toras threw it halfway across the room.

	“I think you’ve had a little too much lamp oil sir.” Toras said with a smile on his face as he walked over to the sprawled form on the floor.

	Fyrehowl drew her sword as the other two Keepers smiled and held up their arms. She backed up slightly and took a defensive posture as their flesh seemed to ripple from the inside, shift, and reform into flesh-colored, rubbery hammers at the ends of their arms.

	“Oh to hell with that!” Clueless shouted out as one of the Keepers swung at the lupinal and the other made ready to do the same. Calling to mind a spell that he wasn’t able to cast, but had called into being in his mind earlier in the day from the heavy magic, he hurled it at one of the two keepers.

	A cylindrical column of force sprung into being around one of the two Keepers near Fyrehowl, penning it in and separating it from her. Clueless shouted in triumph, but a moment later his grin vanished as the Keeper paused and then seemed to melt through the wall of force like it wasn’t there.

	“Oh hells! That’s just not fair!” Clueless shouted again as he drew his sword.

	Toras walked over to where the Keeper that he’d thrown now lay sprawled on the floor. He stood over the body and then stumbled back as it seemed to ripple like it was of liquid and abruptly invert itself from being facedown on the floor to looking back up at him.

	Flat against one of the exterior walls, Tristol watched as Fyrehowl slashed at one of the Keepers with her blade. Whatever the thing was, it didn’t bleed, and she might as well have been fighting an animated hunk of putty. It didn’t seen to register pain either, though the damage did seem to be slowing it.

	Tristol continued to watch as Toras picked up the one on the floor and began smacking it around like an abusing child with a rag doll.

“Stop hitting yourself! Stop hitting yourself!” Toras shouted with a laugh as he smacked the Keeper in the face with its own fist several times over. Toras stopped abruptly when the Keeper’s black goggles flew off of its face and landed on the floor. There were no eyes on the thing’s head beneath them, only blank, pasty skin.

	Tristol saw it as well and hurled his spell at the second Keeper that Fyrehowl was fending off. The being hesitated, stopped, and began to change color as the spell took effect to transmute it to rock. All three Keeper’s began to laugh in a single voice as they turned to look at the mage. A split second later, the petrifying Keeper collapsed into a puddle of oily muck and resin, apparently ending its own life rather than be held captive by the spell.

	“Nisha! Hit the fire portal!” Toras shouted as he tried to hold the one Keeper as far away from himself as possible, ignoring its heavy smacks against his arm and shoulder as best he could.

	The tiefling dashed over to grab a bent copper key and then thrust it into a framed portion of the back wall. The moment she did the wall vanished and a glimmering scene appeared in its place: the elemental plane of fire. Waves of undulating lava and sheets of flaming wind rushed past the other side of the portal as Nisha moved out of the way.

	“Enjoy!” Toras said as he shoved the Keeper through the portal and followed it up a moment later with the other one. The two beings vanished through the portal, but before it closed itself, he could see one of them bobbing in the flaming ocean, blankly staring back at them like a eerie, possibly retarded, fire mephit. 

	There was a small amount of scattered applause from the patrons of the inn who hadn’t bolted at the first signs of a fight. Toras bowed and Nisha claimed the vanished Keeper’s drinks. Tristol however glanced down at the puddle that was all that remained of the Keeper that he’d attempted to turn to stone, and then up at Clueless.

“Clueless, do you have any idea what in Mystra’s name that was?” Tristol said as he tried to wave away the smell from the dissolved Keeper.

Clueless blinked, “Nothing at all. Those guys have been here around the inn for a few days and they’ve just sat there drinking weird things that even Nisha said were weird.”

Nisha grinned as she sniffed idly at one of the mugs of lamp oil.

	“Alright that was weird…” Toras said as he looked at the puddle on the floor. “If anyone asks… Skalliska had an accident. Something strange and female kobold related. Alright?”

	Fyrehowl raised an eyebrow at Toras, “Works for me. Let’s all just watch out for any more of those… whatever they are, alright?”

	They all nodded in agreement, though Clueless had already picked up and pocketed the pair of goggles that had fallen off of one of the Keepers. At some point he had the intention of attempting to use some divinations on them, if only because he was almost certain that they’d been looking for the golden globe of heavy magic that he had sitting in his room… not that he was going to volunteer that information to anyone else presently.


***​

	The vast psionic intelligence of the Us was uncertain. Several of its component minds stood over the edge of a stairwell that coiled downwards into the rock and spiraled down into cool darkness.

	“This place is no longer within Sigil. Something is different here, even stranger than the labyrinth. And portions of it felt the same as we made our way through its corridors…”

	The air was silent and chill as several dozen cranium rats peered down over the edge and into the abyss below. The hive was not only uncertain, it was frightened, and it had been for some time whether it wished to admit it to itself or not.

	“The walls continue to mock us, as does that which walks within them, watching us scramble about blindly.” The rats that sprawled across the warren of ancient passages there beneath the Palace of the Jester, they all peered about with uncertainty.

	“The presence that we feel, it has still refused to show itself, but not out of fear. It knows this place, but the stairwell is separate from it. The depths below are something else. This is malign, but below is…”

	A ripple of fear crossed the gestalt mind of the Us. It was at a loss to describe what it felt, only cold, ancient, and alien. There was power there in the forgotten places of the Great Below, power that reminded hidden, but there was more there than what they had originally thought to find in the depths of the Palace. Something else indeed.

	“The door to the upper layers has been opened. The Natterer is sending others down to hunt us. The depths can wait for now.” 


***​

The appointed time came, and the group stood in one of the nonpublic regions of the Palace of the Jester, accompanied by Jeremo the Natterer and several of his guards and faction members. He had escorted them all through the sprawling corridors of the street level area of the palace and down a long flight of stairs into the first subterranean level, one of many as he explained it. At the bottom of the stairs was a barred and warded set of double doors. The magical protections on the portal were even stronger than the other warded doorways that Tristol had seen within the palace to that point entirely.

“If you’ll take a look at the map that I’ve provided you.” Jeremo said with a grin as his words crystallized in pictures above the tarnished crown atop his head.

Florian held up the first page in the series of oilcloth maps that Jeremo had provided them with.

“I’ve had this door marked off on your map, and each sheet details one of the sublevels of the palace, all the way down to the third. The routes to the staircases down to the next floor are marked for the quickest routes, and the stairwells themselves are circled. There shouldn’t be much of a problem on those floors at all… excepting the bloody rats of course.” Jeremo said.

	Fyrehowl held up a hand, “Jeremo, if I can call you Jeremo…?”

	The Natterer brushed away a stray lock of blond hair from his face, “Please do. And yes?”

	The lupinal nodded and continued, “The maps cover the first three levels of the underhalls, but there’s a stairwell marked as going down to the fourth level. Is that in error, are we missing a map, or do you not have it mapped?”

	Jeremo snapped his fingers and chuckled, “A map of the fourth level and further down would be useless. Hence you don’t have a map of it. But oh there’s floors below that point, and I can’t tell you how many.”

“Why will it be useless?” Skalliska asked.

Jeremo answered with a wistful smirk, “Because the walls move and rearrange. It’s impossible to map since it all changes. Believe me, we’ve tried it more times than you can imagine.”

Clueless spoke up, “We’re not the first people to go down here are we?”

Another chuckle from the Jester, “To explore it, or for this latest… problem?”

“Yes.” Came a chorus of answers.

“Obviously I’m curious about the building given its history, size, etc etc etc.” Jeremo said as he scratched at his chin, “I’ve been down there myself and eventually I gave up with trying to map it all. Plus it gets dangerous further down, all I can really say. Malevolent? Perhaps, it just doesn’t feel friendly down there. As far as the rats though, yes, you’re not the first.”

“What did they find?” Fyrehowl asked cautiously.

“Beats the hell out of me. They never came back…” Jeremo gave a nervous chuckle. “If you find any of them down there I’ll pay you extra for dragging them, or a piece of them, back so I can have them raised. Same extends to you all obviously as well.”

	“Wonderful…” Tristol muttered.

	“Don’t worry Tristol. You’ve got the great and powerful archmage Nisha here to protect you from big-brained rats!” Nisha chirped and Tristol felt something being deftly and quickly attached to the tip of his tail.

“I have to seal the doors after you go down there, and communication won’t pass through the wards, just to make sure that the rat’s can’t influence my people from under the floors and through the walls where we can’t see them.” Jeremo continued, trying not to stare at the bright red bow and glittering silver bell that dangled from the end of the wizard’s tail.

	“Sounds fair enough.” Toras said.

“If I don’t see you for a week I’ll consider you dead and I’ll be sending others, just so you know.” Jeremo added.

	“That shouldn’t be necessary, but we’ll see you when we see you.” Florian said with a nod to the Jester.

	“Then so I shall. Good luck and my pre-emptive thanks.” Jeremo’s head was a whirl of symbols and animate pictures, reading off his last words of luck and encouragement to the group before he signaled to have the doors closed after them all.

	The doors sealed with a heavy and hollow boom that echoed down the empty corridors of the Palace. A thin layer of dust caked the floor, but it was disturbed by a series of footprints that led down the passage in the exact same way that they themselves were preparing to head.

	Skalliska glanced down at the dust and then back up at the others. “There were eight of them; more than us. And one of them tramples over the original tracks, coming back in this direction before they just end.”

	“Rats?” Fyrehowl asked.

	Skalliska chuckled grimly, “Tracks all over the place…”

	Clueless asked the unsettling question that lingered on all of their minds as Nisha glanced back at the very much sealed exit: “If someone came running back here, where’s the body?”


----------



## Gez

Gotta love the keepers, despite their "maninblackhood", they're weird and creepy enough on their own right.

And yes, I guess Clueless' guess was a success.


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## Clueless

*squirms - waiting for Shemmy to get to the coolness!*


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## Fimmtiu

Gez said:
			
		

> Gotta love the keepers, despite their "maninblackhood", they're weird and creepy enough on their own right.




Somehow they're a little less creepy when someone's playing the "Stop hitting yourself!" game with them, though.  

I like the idea of disposing of unruly patrons through a portal to elemental Fire, too. Brutal but effective...


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## Ryltar

Somehow, the whole "Clueless and the sphere" situation seems to call for a sudden catastrophic event . Oh, did anyone (=the other PCs) notice that the spell he cast vs. the keepers was beyond his usual capabilities?


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## Shemeska

Fimmtiu said:
			
		

> Somehow they're a little less creepy when someone's playing the "Stop hitting yourself!" game with them, though.




*grin* He's done that on multiple occasions, much to the lament of numerous LBEGs. Eventually however I did manage to get some level of satisfaction, and it was named 'Mords Disjunction'. By the end of the campaign Toras was openly claiming that he was going to go to Oerth, track that b*astard down and make him pay for inventing that spell. 

Beating up on my creepy villains...   



> I like the idea of disposing of unruly patrons through a portal to elemental Fire, too. Brutal but effective...




They had too much fun with that. And where the portals in the inn went, most of them were randomly rolled up. *grin*


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## Shemeska

Ryltar said:
			
		

> Somehow, the whole "Clueless and the sphere" situation seems to call for a sudden catastrophic event . Oh, did anyone (=the other PCs) notice that the spell he cast vs. the keepers was beyond his usual capabilities?




At one point Clueless was around 4 percentile points on a d100 away from spontaneous and spectacular incineration on one of his attempts to use the stuff.   

And yes, they started to notice quickly when he started tossing out level 5+ spells that weren't tied to his fey nature, or commonly associated with bladesingers. And as usual, Tristol's response was pretty much 'Keep it away from me!'.

I still find it funny that Clueless just picked that thing up because it looked cool and for no other reason. The most powerful thing in that collection of items and it only got taken on the last round of choices. A room full of powerful magic items, and there's one that doesn't radiate magic but looks all spiffy... yummy artifacts...


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## Clueless

Fimmtiu said:
			
		

> I like the idea of disposing of unruly patrons through a portal to elemental Fire, too. Brutal but effective...



We also toss them through one way force wall windows later in the game.  It's amusing to see someone get bounced out through the big open window - and thinking it's just an open space, because it looks like it - try to jump back in. (splat) It's something that may or maynot have been mentioned by now is that that's a varient we've seen in the game and Clueless snatched up the spell with glee.


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## Clueless

Shemeska said:
			
		

> At one point Clueless was around 4 percentile points on a d100 away from spontaneous and spectacular incineration on one of his attempts to use the stuff.
> And yes, they started to notice quickly when he started tossing out level 5+ spells that weren't tied to his fey nature, or commonly associated with bladesingers.




Well, to be honest - they were all witnesses OOC to the Slaadi creation incident - so they knew from the get go what I had. The spells were an interestingly useful thing and they didn't know at first about the percentile roll - until I failed one. Or rather, until *Tristol* failed one. (opps)

How it worked as near as I could figure:

1) I could create objects by willing them into existance (Slaadi, other magical effect proof containers like the orb). This used up a droplet of the material.

2) Permanitize magical effects on items (one way force wall window, an anti-scrying device later in the game, amongst other things). This used up a droplet of the material.

3) Recall to memory any magical spell effect up to 6th level such as force wall. This did *not* use up the material so long as the spell wasn't over 6th level. This was the most used ability in the game. This is also what got me to OD on legend lore spells. It hasn't come up in the game yet - but I had a habit of knocking myself unconscious with that spell - and for awhile there I was getting LL flashes on things I touched at random.

4) Enhance the effect of any spell beyond it's normal capacity, I never really got into this one but I suspect it was a way of putting metamagic feats on a existing spell.

In all cases, it took far too long to figure out that the DM was rolling dice in the background to try to kill me. Tristol discovered it before I did in an emergency situation when he had to 'cheat' as well. Generally the effects of whatever happened couldn't be fixed either - so natural healing is fuuuun - stupid stat drain.

I liked the depleted heavy magic that we picked up later Much better.


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## Clueless

Shemeska said:
			
		

> I still find it funny that Clueless just picked that thing up because it looked cool and for no other reason. The most powerful thing in that collection of items and it only got taken on the last round of choices. A room full of powerful magic items, and there's one that doesn't radiate magic but looks all spiffy... yummy artifacts...




I thought it'd make a cool paperweight! Seriously - I was thinking of my desk at the inn, put the fish form the mercane on one end, and the shiney globe of golden water at the other. And I'd have cubicle toys! But what did we learn from this? Never give a fey a toy based on chaos - they'll keep playing till they get burned. And then maybe a little more after that. Clueless seemed to have the most gadawful luck in picking up the wierd stuff, and it seemed to *work* considering his nature.


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## Ryltar

*grins* Well, I'm willing to bet that at least one PC in my campaign would do the same in your situation ... we'll see .

Anyway: that was pretty powerful stuff there, Clueless. *chuckle* Did you ever empty the globe?


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## Clueless

Ryltar said:
			
		

> Anyway: that way pretty powerful stuff there, Clueless. *chuckle* Did you ever empty the globe?



Oh no where *near* to empty, I went through maybe a tablespoon.


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## A Crazy Fool

what are the keepers?


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## Dakkareth

Oooohhh, nice update .

And happy birthday, Shemeska!


----------



## Toras

Shemeska said:
			
		

> *grin* He's done that on multiple occasions, much to the lament of numerous LBEGs. Eventually however I did manage to get some level of satisfaction, and it was named 'Mords Disjunction'. By the end of the campaign Toras was openly claiming that he was going to go to Oerth, track that b*astard down and make him pay for inventing that spell.
> 
> Beating up on my creepy villains...
> 
> 
> 
> They had too much fun with that. And where the portals in the inn went, most of them were randomly rolled up. *grin*




Yeah, as a chaotic good character it was my mission not to let the creepy get to me.  Though in retrospeced the stop hitting yourself thing seems a little more mean spirited.  Its around this point the character starts to lighten up more and things get amusing.  I will have to start posting the slightly out of character jokes after the story hour.


----------



## Clueless

There were a whole lot of interesting inversions for all of our characters I think. A very dynamic crew for this game.


----------



## IcyCool

A Crazy Fool said:
			
		

> what are the keepers?




Hi Shemeska!  I'm a longtime reader of this thread.  You've got some really great stuff here. 

I have to second the above statement, who or what are the keepers?  And where might I find more info on them?


----------



## Gez

Keepers are a planescape critters. In their 3rd edition version, they're in the Fiend Folio.

They are as Shemie described them -- weird amorphous Men in Black who can shape their bodies to create melee weaponry. Nobody knows exactly _where_ they're from. They usually pop up somewhere to prevent people from knowing "Truths they're not meant to know" or to, as in this case, retrieve "Items people are not meant to have"... Through combat if need be. Typical  men in black. And yes, they're oozelike and rubbery, wear googles to mask their lack of eyes, and melt when they're slain. They have a few other tactical assets, like instant transposition (allowing a wounded keeper and a healthy one to switch place). And some sort of hive mind.


----------



## Shemeska

Gez said:
			
		

> Keepers are a planescape critters. In their 3rd edition version, they're in the Fiend Folio.




And they're very very fun to use, even if not for a major plot event but for something lingering in the background and raising its head every so often. Reminds me to bring them back for the followup campaign. Lots of loose ends there to tug on. *winks at players*


----------



## IcyCool

Shemeska said:
			
		

> And they're very very fun to use, even if not for a major plot event but for something lingering in the background and raising its head every so often. Reminds me to bring them back for the followup campaign. Lots of loose ends there to tug on. *winks at players*




*smacks forehead*  Yep, I knew what they were all right, but due to Shemmy's masterful presentation of them, it just didn't click in my head.  I hope you don't mind my stealing your representation of them? 

*wanders off muttering about stupid cranium rats and memory thieves*


----------



## Clueless

Shemeska said:
			
		

> And they're very very fun to use, even if not for a major plot event but for something lingering in the background and raising its head every so often. Reminds me to bring them back for the followup campaign. Lots of loose ends there to tug on. *winks at players*




That reminds me - I need an answer to a particular question I asked you over a week ago.


----------



## Shemeska

[Officer Barbrady] Nothing to see here! Move along! [/Officer Barbrady]


----------



## A Crazy Fool

easter vacation, good time to post shemmie


----------



## Fimmtiu

A Crazy Fool said:
			
		

> easter vacation, good time to post shemmie




Astutely put! Not such a crazy fool after all, are you?


----------



## Shemeska

A Crazy Fool said:
			
		

> easter vacation, good time to post shemmie




Friday or Saturday. I'll be writing it while ostensibly I'm on campus doing research, which is my excuse for not visiting my family earlier than Easter Sunday. 

I'm also writing a new entry in the Baernaloth series of stories, and I've written most of the prelude to my 2nd story hour. It won't have tons of spoilers for this storyhour, but perhaps if you read between the lines it might. So once I post the first entry of that one, keep it in mind.


----------



## Shemeska

http://www.enworld.org/showthread.php?p=2121287#post2121287

Storyhour #2 prologue is posted. Still working on this week's update for this one (which will be favored in terms of updates, still 1/week. The otherone will be less than that)


----------



## Shemeska

***​

	Ten minutes previous, they had all been walking alongside Jeremo the Natterer and a flock of his attendants, guards and servants. Jeremo had never seemed to actually look where he was going, and simply turned at the last minute before walking into a wall or going down the wrong hallway, never pausing or even slowing down when he did. The factol in all but name just kept chatting them all up as they kept up with him and his staff.

	“And so this little bauble is going to be key to your fun,” The Jester had said as he held up a ring in the palm of his hand. It was carved from ivory and inlayed with silver, the gilded head decorated with the symbol of the Ring-Givers.

	“More presents?” Florian had asked him as she accepted it.

	Jeremo had shaken his head, “Sort of, and frankly if you make it back you can keep the rings. There’s one for each of you.”

	Somewhere near the rear of the party, Nisha had squealed with glee when Jeremo had mentioned that little fact.

	“As you’ve noticed, everything is warded around here, and you’d just as soon ruffle Her Serenity’s skirts than try to break your way through some of these that I’ve had set up. Thus keys are a bit impractical in the sense of such things, and as always a bit gauche on the less practical side of things.” Jeremo had said as he held up one of the rings before handing it to Tristol.

	“The rings are a way around the wards without being flash fried, immolated, melted, turned to stone, or any one of a dozen other things I saw to be woven into them like a particularly expensive and prickly coat of paint on the walls.” Jeremo had said with a twinkle in his eyes. “Just concentrate on the ring and think of being back outside of this place. There’s a contingent teleport on the rings that is keyed to you and only you. Activate it thusly and you’ll immediately return to the room at the end of our little walk without whatever monstrosity or psionic, cheese eating, rodent menace might have been chasing you.”

	“They actually eat cheese?” Nisha’s voice had said, piping up at the back of the group again. Skalliska had then muttered something under her breath and Fyrehowl had chuckled.


****​

	Now, solidly back in the present moment, Fyrehowl wasn’t chuckling as she and the others stood on the other side of those very same wards. Skalliska and Nisha were both tracing the patterns and trails of rat tracks that patterned the dust and tracked tiny footprints of bright crimson in their wake from the trail of blood that lead away and out of the chamber through the northern corridor.

	“Skalliska? How many rats were here? Can you tell?” Florian asked.

	Nisha looked over at Fyrehowl, “Hey Fyrehowl.” The lupinal was batting at her muzzle in irritation, probably from the dust that they were all kicking up into the air.

	The kobold looked back at the cleric, “At least forty. Maybe more.”

	Nisha tried to get the lupinals attention again, but once more Fyrehowl was trying to hold back a fit of sneezing from the omnipresent dust and didn't hear her.

	“How bad can forty of them be?” Toras asked tentatively.

	Florian looked around at the trail of blood and then back up at Toras, “Apparently bad enough for some poor berk.”

	Toras nodded to the cleric, “Point taken.”

	Nisha finally glanced over at Fyrehowl, “Hey, bignosed goodie goodie with a tail!”

	Fyrehowl glanced up with an odd expression, “Goodie goodie?”

	“Oh sure, take offense at that and not the nose comment. Anyway, can you actually get any idea of how many people were down here and maybe how many of them got into trouble in the immediate area? Or is the dust too much?” Nisha said as she tapped the lupinal’s nose.

	“Well I do have a big nose, comparatively speaking. And no, I really can’t tell other than there isn’t much blood on the ground outside of that smear.” Fyrehowl shrugged as she moved out of the room in the direction of the trail of blood, and the route towards the next stairwell down.

	The blood traced a series of crimson lines through the dust for about another forty feet or so before turning into a smaller passage off from their mapped route. They didn’t have to look hard to find the corpse though, and there was no doubt as to how it had died. The body of a human, probably a swordsman, was sprawled against the side of the adjacent passage surrounded by a spattered circle of bloody rat tracks.

	“Rough way to go…” Skalliska said as she approached the body. The kobold whispered a cantrip to make sure that the body wasn’t trapped by any spells, and then she crouched over it for a closer inspection.

	“Nibbled to death.” Toras said with faint amusement.

	“Eaten by food.” Skalliska said as Nisha made a face at the very idea of considering cranium rats to be worthy of snackage.

	The corpse was desiccated from the exposure to the dry, overly dusty and stagnant air of the sealed off underhalls of the palace. But more so it was almost entirely drained of blood from a thousand tiny slashes and bites that covered every exposed portion of its flesh from the face down to the frayed fingertips. The rats had bled it dry in what had to have been a very lingering and painful death.

	“So, who wants to raise him back to life?” Clueless asked.

	Florian shook her head, “Not me. We’ll bring his body back with us on our way out, assuming we have better luck than him. I’m not wasting the spell now when he’s got it coming to him from Jeremo eventually.”

	Skalliska held out a ring that was clutched in the hands of the corpse. It was nearly identical to the ring that each of them had been given by Jeremo, though apparently the poor fool hadn’t had the chance to use it before the rats had killed him.

	“Either he couldn’t concentrate, or the rats blocked it from working because the charge is still there latent on the ring.”

	Skalliska then paused for a moment and glanced around cautiously.

	“Something wrong there?” Fyrehowl asked the mage as he continued to glance around.

	“Maybe. Felt like I had something reach out and touch my mind, almost like a wizard or a squidhead tried to probe my thoughts. It wasn’t a spell.” She said with a soft snarl.

	Clueless swore, “Cr*p… they know that we’re here…”

	“That’s what I’m worried about. Though it seemed more curious than angry.” Skalliska said with a nervous shrug.

	“Alright. Then let’s get moving towards the spot on the map before they take a less friendly look at us.” Florian said as she motioned them away from the corpse and back to their original path.


***​

_“They are disturbed by the corpse. No matter, he was one of the Natterer’s hired killers and deserved no mercy. We offered him much and he declined, thus sealing his fate. We will extent the same to these others.”_

	Several members of the hivemind crept through the burrowed tunnels that honeycombed the walls of the upper layers of the labyrinth, the only place they could since the walls below not only healed but reacted… negatively… to their attempts.

_“The kobold, the one that we touched, she has killed one of the slaves of the Godbrain before. She enjoyed the act, it shows like flame upon her mind. She may serve even if the others will die. We will follow and observe before acting…”_


***​

	Over the next fifteen minutes the group passed though one empty hallway, chamber, and gallery after another. Everything was cold, dark and empty, but with a lingering atmosphere of forgotten grandeur. While dust seemed to cake the floors and festoon itself from the moldings and archways like ancient decorations for one of the Jester’s parties, it still retained an aura of prestige and beauty.

	Whoever built this place had style, that’s for certain.” Florian remarked as they passed beneath an archway carved to resemble two asuras with their flaming wings touching at the keystone. Carnelian and stained glass sparkled along the length of the sculptures.

	“Damn, same here.” Clueless added as he looked back at it from the next room over, noting that from the other side, the asuras were replaced with erinyes, and each feather in the fiends’ wings seemed to have been carved from ivory, frosted glass or some feathery crystalline mineral.

	“And don’t look at me, I’m just as impressed as you are and I’m not even pondering snagging any souvenirs.” Nisha said preemptively as they passed into another long corridor of clear glass floors suspended above what might have been the layer below them.

	“Still too dusty…” Fyrehowl said with a soft sneeze. “But it’s still damn pretty.”

	They continued on without any sign of the rats, though Fyrehowl did stop several times and glance around with a preternatural sense that they were not alone in the halls. But each time there was nothing there to be seen or heard, and strangely enough none of their attempts at scrying or divination worked: they simply failed without comment.

	Several moments later they stood on the staircase down to the next level of the underhalls and glanced down the wide, spiraling length of stairs. They seemed worn smooth by the passage of the years, though by the dust that covered their wide, shallow steps, they had not seen active use in centuries at the very least. Railings of darker stone curved down to follow the stairs, and carved scenes of wild game, stags and pursuing hounds decorated it from top to bottom along its length.

	They slowly walked down the flight of stairs, though Nisha insisted on sliding down the banister. Her soft cry of “wheeee!” echoed up from the bottom and then it ended sharply.

	“Nisha?” Tristol shouted down to her.

	“Yeah I’m fine, just… just come down here…” Came the tiefling’s reply.

	They quickly followed, if without her initial exuberance, and quickly discovered what had gotten her attention. The dust, or rather the complete lack of dust. The floors and walls were spotless as they emerged into a wide chamber of wooden walls, studded with mirrors and amber mosaics that seemed to glow of their own accord, reflecting back the magical illumination that Toras and Tristol had been providing.

	“Alright that’s just strange.” Clueless said as he looked at Tristol. “Spells on the area to keep it clean?”

	Tristol shook his head. “Spotless. There isn’t any magic on the walls that I can see.”

	Fyrehowl furrowed her brows as she glanced at the mirrors. “The reflections are wrong.”

	“Huh?” Florian asked as she walked over to where the lupinal was glancing into a series of the mirror panels between two scenes in amber that depicted a golden portrait of woodlands and a great manor house that seemed to be a stylized depiction of the Palace itself.

	Fyrehowl pointed into the mirror, “That’s not the reflection that should be showing in the mirror. It’s showing a reflection from about thirty degrees off from where it should.”

	The effect was subtle, but every one of the mirrored panels showed a reflection that was off from what they should have been showing. There was even one of the smaller panels that seemed to display an image as if it were positioned behind the person, showing them from behind on the far side of the room, looking into one of the mirrors there.

	“Weird.” Florian said.

	“Not weird. Awesome.” Nisha pointed out as she goofed around with the mirrors. Tristol however was simply unnerved by it all, given the lack of obvious magic.

	Eventually they passed out of the chamber, off towards the stairwell marked on their map that would lead down to the next level. As they walked under the archway out of the room and down a long corridor to the south, they never noticed that in the amber mosaics one of the tiny, depicted figures turned and watched them leave…

	The hallway traveled perhaps a hundred feet or so before Clueless looked over at the map in confusion. “There’re connecting hallways here that aren’t on our map.”

	“Then I suggest we don’t take them.” Skalliska added bluntly, glancing around in seeming irritation.

	“Well no, the main corridors and chambers we’ve seen down here have all been clearly marked on the map, but the fine details are starting to go the way of the factions…” Clueless replied.

	“Skalliska? Are you alright?” Tristol asked as his tail swished idly.

	“Someone’s reading my thoughts…” The kobold said through gritted teeth, “And given my past history with Illithids I don’t take kindly to the attempts whoever the hell you are!”

	Clueless glanced around, “Not appreciated!”

	Tristol’s tail suddenly bottlebrushed as he too felt something rustle around in the contents of his mind and then vanish back into the woodwork, probably just as literally as figuratively.

	“At least they haven’t gone after us.” Florian said.

	“Yet.” Toras added. “They haven’t gone after us _yet_.”

	“Or stolen our cheese.” Nisha said as she did her best imitation of a squinted up rodent’s face.

	“Come on, let’s get moving…” Skalliska said as she concentrated on keeping out any untoward visitors in her head.

	The passage continued southerly and ran directly under the hallway in the level above where they had seen a glass floor. The current hallway at about the halfway mark had an arched glass ceiling that seemed to have either been cast in place or cut from a solid block of the material.

	“I want to live here. I really do.” Nisha said as she looked up through the glass.

	“What the hell?” Fyrehowl said as she did the same.

	Above them, rather than seeing the hallway in the floor above them, they saw nothing of the sort. Through the thick glass was a perfect, inverted representation of the hallway they were currently in, rather than what should have been above them given the map and what they had seen earlier.

	“This place is like a funhouse…” Clueless said.

	“No, the architect was huffing opium…” Toras said as he tried to make relative sense at the warped layout of the passages that increasingly had begun to deviate from the map.

_“The Natterer sent you._ The direct and disembodied voice abruptly echoed in all of their minds.

	The group looked around hastily, trying to find the location of the speaker.

_“We have done nothing to him. He is a fool, ignorant of what he sits atop, and we have greater need for it. Purer, more just purpose to put it to our use. We would ignore him if he did not sent murderers down to seek us.”_

	“You killed one of his servants.” Clueless said bluntly.

_“They were a hindrance and so we removed it like you would pluck a splinter from your finger. In the grand scheme of thing they were nothing and do not matter.”_

	Fyrehowl quickly motioned them all towards a ragged spot in the carved molding at the base of the western wall. A small hole was burrowed into the stone and in it was nestled a single cranium rat. The vermin’s exposed braincase glowed with a pale green radiance as it twitched its whiskers and glanced at them with black, distant eyes and a mind that was very much more than the sum of its parts.

	“So why have you been snooping around in our minds?” Tristol asked as he drew a series of spells into the forefront of his mind in case things escalated.

_“To determine if we should kill you immediately, or give you the opportunity to serve us.”_ The telepathic whisper of the Us had not a shred of pity or compassion.

	“Some choice…” Clueless said with irritation.

	“How about we let the kobold eat you.” Toras said to the rat just as bluntly as the hive had spoken to them.

	Skalliska glanced back angrily at Toras, “Not now…”

_“You have killed Illithids before. You agree with us on what must be done. Serve us and you will achieve that goal. You would be valued.”_

	“No thank you. I’d be valuable perhaps, but I wouldn’t be valued.” Skalliska said as she too drew a spell into her immediate memory.

_“Rethink your rash statements. Your bodies would never be recovered down here. Consider our offer and reply within the next two minutes.”_

	“Not going to change.” The kobold replied immediately.

	Clueless was about to comment when he felt a sudden chill race over his mind like something had just opened his skull like a jar and dipped fingers of ice into the interior. Something wrapped around his thoughts, and for a moment he felt as if he was on the verge of losing control over his actions before the influence slipped, snarled and fell away.

	“Now that was just f*cking uncalled for!” Clueless said with a shout as he turned about to glance at the offending cranium rat that watched them from the hole in the wall. Then, purely out of instinct, he hurled a spell at the rat, beyond it, and back into the spaces behind the wall: a spell that he shouldn’t have been able to cast by any stretch of the imagination, but one that had been nestled uncomfortably in his mind since his first experiments with heavy magic…

	The spell raced out of his mind and enveloped the rat with a dull halo of black, expanding light before. A split second later the hallway was transfixed in a chaos of telepathic shrieks of agony for a brief, flickering moment before the wall detonated outwards in a wash of pure retaliatory hatred.

***​


----------



## Clueless

What was skimmed of int *that* discussions was that we were completely in sympathy with the Rat's hate of the GodBrain - we were just politely asking them to move along to another place of residence. Or at least to leave the Natter alone.. and then what do these egotistical Mickey Mice do? They try to dominate us... they *earned* that retaliation.  
*grins at the area effect of Circle of Death*

You aren't gonna forget hte history halls are ya shemmie?


----------



## Shemeska

Clueless said:
			
		

> You aren't gonna forget hte history halls are ya shemmie?




Already have next week's update planned, and that's in there (depending on how long other stuff ends up being). There's a lot going on down there, and some of the exact timing may be swapped to make for better flow in the SH, but I'll avoid lots of changes in timing if I can avoid it. But nothing will be left out.


----------



## Krafus

Aah, one of my favorite story hours gets updated... Always a joy. Out of curiosity, was Clueless the only target of the domination, or did Shemeska single him out as the POV for that passage because he was the one who retaliated?


----------



## omrob

*Welcome to Sigil, Home of Tricks, Trixters, Fiends, Gangstas...*

RPG'in in the DEEP south has never been so good.

Best lower planes campaign I've ever had the pleasure to read about. 

Now that you've finished this gamin madness, how much of the campaign has made it to storyhour at this point? 30% ? more ?


----------



## Clueless

Krafus said:
			
		

> Aah, one of my favorite story hours gets updated... Always a joy. Out of curiosity, was Clueless the only target of the domination, or did Shemeska single him out as the POV for that passage because he was the one who retaliated?




I don't recall if it was me directly - I think it may have been an area electrical shock that just didn't hurt as much as it should have when the game was actually played. But Clueless is a little sensitive about domination effects so this worked too.


----------



## Clueless

omrob said:
			
		

> Now that you've finished this gamin madness, how much of the campaign has made it to storyhour at this point? 30% ? more ?




15%?


----------



## Dakkareth

We do not approve of this depiction of Us.  </failed will save>

Ahhh, hive minds ...


----------



## demiurge1138

I've finally caught up!

I read this story hour in the very beginning... then, for some reason I don't recall, stopped. But I have returned, and finished the whole thing, and...

Wow.
Damn good work, Shemmie. A pleasure to read, and a great source of things to rip off for my own Planescape game. I already know that the Cheshire Fiend, the "Tickle-Me-Xanxost", Seamusxanthuszeamus and your descriptions of the Keepers are all going to make appearances sooner or later.

And now there's _another_ Story Hour? I can't wait.

Demiurge out.


----------



## Porcus the Wombat

I just finished reading this entire story hour following the link from your WOTC boards sig, and I have subscribed to these forums solely to be able to follow this story hour. Incidentally, is it possible to overdose on literary crack? 'cause I already feel withdrawl coming on...


----------



## Gez

If you're feeling withdrawal, here's another drug.

I'd say half of EN World is already addicted to it. Supply has now run short, but there's still months of reading!


----------



## Shemeska

When the dust settled out of the air, their vision cleared, and the ringing in their ears ended, they all looked up. A ragged hole was punched in the wall from whatever force the rats had launched outwards in desperate, reflexive rage. Dozens of their corpses lay lifeless on the ground, in the rubble, and still plugging a network of burrowed holes deeper in the wall.

_Pain! How dare you harm us! Reduce us, make us fewer, and make us weaker! Death!_

	The shrill psionic screams of the collective burned out on the ether and into the still recovering minds of their foes. Tristol glanced over at Clueless.

	“… you said you’d hold off on using that stuff!”

	Clueless leapt to his feet with a flick of his wings, “I didn’t! Sorta… Complain later because they’re _pissed_.”

	“No sh*t.” Florian said as she looked at the hole in the wall.

	The group regained their footing and stood back up as the seething anger that seemed to reverberate all around them began to pump and pulse like a living thing. Fyrehowl’s ears were flat against her head and Skalliska and Nisha were glancing nervously at the ground where the dust, gravel, and flakes of ragged stone were beginning to dance from an unseen force building up below them all and growing stronger by the second.

	“Guys, we need to move. Now!” Fyrehowl shouted a split second after her feet were already bursting into motion and carrying here out of the way. The warning was not unfounded, and a moment after they all dashed from the immediate area and down the hallway, the floor where they had been standing erupted in a fiery glaze of green and white liquid flames.

 	Not even Nisha glanced back for more than a moment at the lapping, sloshing flames that roared out of nothingness to flood the hallway. They bolted, weapons drawn and spells in mind as they turned a random corner, forgetting for the moment any pretense of following the directions from Jeremo’s map. Turn after turn down the mazework of ancient, elegant corridors, and they were thoroughly lost. But still, they continued to run.

	“Guys? I think we’ve lost them for the moment.” Florian said as she glanced behind them.

	Fyrehowl chuckled, “Lost them? Too quiet for that.”

	Spoken like a true Cipher apparently, as a moment later they turned a blind corner and came face to face with a dozen rats in the center of the hallway, staring intently at them with unblinking eyes and lightning crackles of energy flashing in concert between and amongst their exposed brains. Then there was suddenly something else.

	Toras flew backward with a cry as a semisolid, vaguely humanoid being of glowing, writhing ectoplasm manifested out of thin air and charged him, standing between them all and the circle of concentrating cranium rats who had formed it out of sheer force of will.

	Clueless, Fyrehowl and Florian didn’t stop their charge either, but slammed into the astral construct nearly as hard as it had slammed into Toras. They drove it back with a number of blows, leaving splatters of ectoplasmic goo to splash across the hallway and quickly evaporate into nothing. However it soon recovered from their attacks as the rats only continued to blankly stare while mental energies danced between their heads with an intensity to rival the white knuckled hatred in their pink, glistening eyes.

	Another series of blows to the conjured beast and it was starting to falter, but at the same time it had dealt a series of blows to its attackers. Toras steadied himself and rejoined the conflict, but the moment he struck a final blow to the creature, making it erupt into steaming fragments of semisolid jelly, the rats were gone, scampering down the hall with some form of warding that deflected Skalliska’s crossbow bolts and a flurry of magical bolts from Nisha’s wand.

	“Oh, hell no. You’re not getting away that easily.” Toras said as he dashed off in pursuit of the rats.

	Another blind corner turned and the fighter realized how poor an idea that was as he ran into the same group of rats, as well as two more of the conjured astral constructs and the glistening shockwave of a bolt of concussive force that slammed into him solidly in the chest.

	The others turned the corner as well a split second later and barely had time to fend off to two smaller, but much quicker, glowing attackers as the rats seemed to ready themselves to launch another mental detonation. Tristol had other idea however.

	“Someone hit the damn rats or else we’ll be doing this over again like a bunch of…” Nisha didn’t finish the sentence before the rat’s hurled another bolt of glistening, rippling force at her.

	Tristol hurled a bolt of lightning into their midst a moment later and it detonated with a thunderous crack and the harsh stench of ozone. Half of the rats were dead, roasted and turned to cinders, but where the others had stood there was the telltale trace and flickers of teleportation magic. The rats were gone.

	“Oh hell with that! They hurt Nisha!” Clueless shouted as he flicked a bolt of lightning from the end of his sword and into the chest of one of the two lingering constructs.

	As the bladesinger’s spell detonated on one of the two, Fyrehowl was all but dancing around the other. The lupinal was making it seem slow by comparison as she darted and weaved out of the way of its blows and left gouges and slashes across its weak side every time it tried to strike at her.

	By the time Toras had helped Nisha up to her feet, Florian had caved in the translucent skull of one of the constructs and Tristol had turned another to stone.

	The mage brushed down the fur on his tail as he looked over to the tiefling, “It’s not going anywhere soon Nisha. It’s all yours for the taking if you want to break it apart into as many pieces as you like.”

	Nisha looked at him like he had a hole in his head.

	“No? Seeing as how the rats took off to regroup, you’ve got your chance to break something of theirs while you have it still.”

	Nisha just held up her rapier. “Sneak sneak, poke poke. That’s what I do. I don’t have the habit of going around up to things twice my size and going, ‘RAAARRRR! Me Toras! Me smash! RAAAAAARRRR! And me give presents and candy to orphans and small children in general! RAAAARRRR!’”

	She smiled over at Toras who only raised an eyebrow as he stood with his sword slung over his shoulder.

	“Can I have candy?” Clueless asked hopefully.

	“I’ll break it for you, but I’m not saying that when I do it.” He said, more than slightly bemused. “And what’s wrong with that at all? I think that’s a perfectly reasonable way to go about life.”

	“Awww…” She said halfheartedly before she stepped to the side to let Toras shatter the transmuted construct with a few solidly placed blows.

	Skalliska, with a more serious tone, glanced over at Fyrehowl. “Anything you can sense around here? I can’t see any traces of them in the area, but your nose is better than mine.”

	Fyrehowl shook her head, “No. They took off when the first few times didn’t kill us immediately.”

	“They’re smarter than that.” Tristol said.

	Clueless nodded, “Yep. They’ve got an idea of what we’re capable of, and they’ll probably just wait and either let us find them and maybe get ourselves killed in the process as the pull more stunts like that on us.”

	“Plus, we’re lost.” Skalliska said with a sigh.

	“…yeah. That too.” Clueless said as he glanced around at the marble columns that supported a crystal dome overhead. The dome was studded with flickering beljurils, each of them a tiny star in a series of constellations inset into the artificial night ‘sky’.

	 “As much as I’d love to make some wishes on some falling, pried out stars from up over top of us, let’s try to find our way back onto that map.” Nisha said as she stared up at the flickering gemstones in the ceiling of the chamber.

	Forty minutes later they had managed to do just that, and without any interference from the cranium rats. In fact there had been a disturbing silence from the rats since their last attack, though they did feel keenly aware that –something- was watching them. The feeling only increased as they made their way to the stairwell down to the next level and to the point at which, according to what Jeremo had told them, the map would cease to be of use.

	“That’s a long staircase…” Fyrehowl said as she glanced down the shaft that the spiral staircase descended down into.

	The stairs actually seemed to vanish after a point, curving out of sight and into darkness. Tristol shook his head as far as portals or magical traps were concerned, but nonetheless, Skalliska found herself being volunteered to check the stairs for any surprises left by the psionic vermin who where still lurking out there in the walls, waiting and regrouping.

	“Fine fine, I’ll go first.” Skalliska said as she tapped a sunrod on the ground and held it aloft to light her way down the stairs.

	“Set off any traps!” Nisha shouted after her.

	“Surely you mean disarm them. Right?” Skalliska responded quickly.

	“Same thing in the end!” Nisha shouted back down.

	An uncomfortable amount of time passed, and Skalliska’s glow passed out of immediate view as she descended. Eventually, the others became worried and called out after her.

	“Everything alright down there?” Florian shouted.

	“… yes. Just come down here. I think you’ll want to see this…” Skalliska replied with a sense of awe.

	The others followed and as they wandered into range of the kobold’s light, they too were struck by what she had seen. Florian immediately whispered a prayer to Tempus and conjured a brilliant flare of daylight to banish the shadows that cloaked the shaft that surrounded the stairs. What she revealed even more of was amazing.

	While the stairs they stood upon wrapped around and meandered about the shaft, eventually going down, there were other stairwells that did the same. Some of them passed back up the shaft along the walls, some of them sideways, some of them upside down, etc. It was a massive recreation of perhaps fifty landings on the Infinite Staircase; all of them pulled out of some mad, genius architect’s grandest dreaming.

	 “Who in the hell built this place?” Clueless asked as he flicked his wings and darted over to another of the stairways. Gravity immediately reoriented itself as he touched down, the same way as it would have on the actual Infinite Staircase.

	Tristol chuckled, “Whoever it was, they certainly had a sense of imagination.”

	“Or a sense of the crazies.” Nisha replied. “And I don’t say that as a bad thing…”

	Fyrehowl glanced over to one of the landings that seemed to stand out more than the others. In fact, it wasn’t a true landing at all, but rather a doorway that simply hovered in space, surrounded by a tangle of staircases that weaved around it as they meandered through the shaft like spider webs.

	“Tristol or Skalliska? Take a look at that doorway over there.” The lupinal said as she pointed towards the door.

	They both looked over towards the closed doorway that simply hovered in the void and they looked puzzled and intrigued at the same time. A moment and a whispered spell later they were both staring more intently at the bound space contained within the doorframe.

	“That’s a portal.” They both said at the same time.

	“Where to?” Clueless shouted over from the adjacent staircase.

	“If there’s portals down here, maybe that’s how the rats got in.” Toras mused as Tristol whispered a few phrases in draconic and then began to float off the ground.

	“Be back in a minute, I just want to check something out…” The aasimar said as he drifted quickly over towards the doorway, opened it and peered through.

	Tristol laughed with glee as he stared through to the other side and then vanished through it. A few moments later his head reappeared through the doorframe and he was smiling.

	“Amusing architecture on this side or not, it’s an actual door onto the Infinite Staircase. Give me a minute here. Be back in a second.”

	Tristol dashed back through the door and paused on the other side, looking up at the disorienting but awe-inspiring sight on the other side. Out into a featureless void spun the stairs and landings of the Infinite Staircase off and out of sight in every direction, each of its landings holding a single door that led off to places of inspiration, culture, art, creativity, and passion. And he had just found such a doorway leading into a very mysterious place, and he wanted a way to find it again without having to beg Jeremo for permission to walk around without an escort.

	“Can’t turn this opportunity down. Lady of Mysteries be praised, but certainly won’t be me to let this slip by.” Tristol said with a giddy grin as he whispered a few words and inscribed his personal arcane mark into the corner of the doorframe.

	“There. Now you’ll be easier to find later from this side of things and spare me from red tape and favors.”

	That said, Tristol stepped back through and hovered in midair in the open void of the replica Staircase in the depths of the Jester’s Palace.

	“Well,” He said to the others, “If we need another way out of here, there’s our ticket.”

	Clueless nodded, “Damn good idea.”

	Tristol only smiled at his good fortune and wondered idly what the information might be valued by certain persons in Sigil if he ever needed some information from them, or a spell, or some arcane knowledge they might be willing to trade. 

And so as he continued to smile inwardly to himself, they slowly made their way down the stairs and onto the next level of the underhalls. As they stepped out from the stairs, they emerged into a circular chamber of wood and rose colored marble, the walls adorned with tapestries that still glimmered with magically preserved images of wild beasts and scenes from the legends of a dozen worlds.

	Fyrehowl’s ears immediately perked, and Tristol’s did as well a split second later.

	“What?” Florian asked with some alarm as she handled her holy symbol gingerly, half expecting a swarm of rats to burst into the room.

	“… music. I hear music.” Fyrehowl said with slight confusion.

	Tristol nodded as well, “Same here. Down the larger hallway.”

	Florian glanced at Skalliska, “So, which way now? You’ve got the map.”

	Skalliska tossed the map to Nisha who then tossed it over to Clueless.

	“Hell if I know. The map doesn’t have anything on this level. I shows this room yes, but it shows it as having four exits, not three like we’ve got now. We’re on our own at this point.” The kobold replied.

	Clueless pocketed the map and looked over to Fyrehowl and her perked, attentive ears.

	“Alright, the music is coming from,” Fyrehowl pointed down one of the passages, “That direction.”

	“Cranium rats don’t play music do they?” Nisha asked randomly.

	“Not to my knowledge, no.” Skalliska replied as she glanced down the hallway in that direction.

	“Because if they do, well, they’ve really been practicing.” Nisha said, continuing to ramble about cheese and musical instruments for rodents.

	“Please tell me that whatever is making the music is magical? Because frankly I don’t treasure the idea of someone else down here practicing their musical skills in a warren of forgotten tunnels and chambers. That’s just not healthy.” Toras said as they all started to walk towards the source of the sounds.

	“Not healthy at all. Besides, that’s not one instrument I can hear. That’s a full orchestra, or at least most of one.” Fyrehowl said as her ears continued to twitch as she began to distinguish between flutes, horns, and a variety of stringed instruments.

	“That sounds almost like music that you’d play at an overly fancy party…” Florian said as she strained to listen to the song as it filtered through the otherwise deathly silent, walnut paneled corridor.

	Toras snickered, “Someone needs to tell the Marauder that there’s a secret party down here and that she wasn’t invited by the cranium rats. She’ll go berserk and solve the problem for us….”

	Clueless chuckled, “I’d put my money, and my satisfaction, on the rats frankly… I’m going to shave that b*tch one of these days…”

	“Heh. There’s an idea…” Nisha said with a grin. The moment that she did, Tristol’s tail reflexively curled out of sight under his robes and Fyrehowl started putting some distance between herself and the tiefling.

	Ten minutes later they emerged out of the hallway and into a larger chamber with a tiled mosaic on the floor that depicted the Lady’s Ward in Sigil as seen from the Palace of the Jester, though not one of the buildings seemed even remarkably familiar with the exception of the singing fountain.

	A series of smaller passages led off from the chamber, with the sounds of music leading off from one of the halls to the right. Suddenly, Fyrehowl’s ears perked and swiveled to the opposite direction.

	“Guys, get ready, there’s something coming this way.” She said as she drew her sword.

	Expecting a tide of hive minded rats to swarm at them from the tunnels, they were shocked when the last thing they expected appeared out of the passage and into the radius of their lights: a Dabus.

	“What the hell?” Fyrehowl said as she immediately lowered her sword and stepped to the side.

	The Dabus was carrying a trowel and a bucket of crushed morter as it drifted silently out of the passage and into the room, simply passing through as if it were just crossing the street in the Lower Ward to patch a pothole in the cobblestones. It barely regarded the group’s presence as it passed by them, though it did slow down when Nisha waved hello.

	As it slowed down, a symbol of a (stone Well), (-W), (+ O) appeared over its head, and then it simply passed by, ignoring them and going about whatever business it had. The group was left in puzzled silence as they watched it depart back the way that they had entered the room.

	“It said hello!” Nisha chirped with glee as everyone else was largely disturbed to see a Dabus so far below ground.

	“Why would a Dabus be underground?” Clueless openly asked.

	Skalliska shrugged, “Popular rumor is that the Dabus live in hidden warrens underneath the streets and emerge every day to do what work they need to do. Nobody has ever found one of the places, or managed to follow one of them back there, but they do seem to all emerge up out of the Great Below and then return there at times. Maybe there’s a larger connection between the labyrinth here and the sewers and tunnels of UnderSigil?”

	“So where now?” Toras asked, “Eventually we’ll wander into those rats again, but frankly I’m curious now what all is down here that got their attention in the first place.”

	“Same here.” Clueless replied.

	The entryways to the passages that branched out from the room all seemed to have labels over them, either a symbol or a set or words. Among them was a symbol of musical instruments, another had an open book and the draconic word for ‘history’, and several other similarly vague descriptors.

	The ‘history’ label immediately appealed to Clueless, Skalliska, and Tristol, and so because of that, and the eerie undertone to the music filtering down the other passage, they entered its corresponding entryway instead. The walls were largely blank and the passage thin, but soon it opened up into a long, wide chamber.

	The room was simple enough, a short gallery with another exit on the far end that seemed to lead into another chamber of similar construction. Along the walls, in regular spacing, were elaborate mosaics that depicted the symbols of the old factions at the time of the Faction War. All of them glowed faintly, though all of them seemed to have had the color leached out of them except for the symbol of the Transcendent Order and to a lesser degree, the Bleak Cabal. The symbols of the Harmonium and the rest of the factions were a shade of gray.

	“The ones that were killed, the ones that lived, and the ones that got mazed I guess.” Toras said as he looked at the mosaics.

	“Is anyone else disturbed by the fact that these are the contemporary factions, and this place down here was built probably several thousands of years ago? Some of these factions didn’t exist that far back. The Harmonium is fairly recent even…” Clueless asked with an odd expression.

	“And yeah, of all of them, Rhys is still alive. But it’s like you think Toras, why is the Bleak Cabal not darkened out?” Fyrehowl mused.

	“Not true.” Skalliska said as she pointed at the symbol for the Bleak Cabal. “Factol Lahar went completely insane the week before the Faction War, the ‘Grim Retreat’ as they would have called it. They stuck him into the asylum and he didn’t get mazed. Rather, his replacement did. Poor guy.”

	“Lahar the barmy, or his replacement?” Nisha asked.

	“I meant his replacement that got mazed, but might as well apply to both of them. They’ve got two other former factols of theirs bottled up in the Gatehouse as well: Esmus and Tollysalmon, and they’re even crazier. Apparently the Bleakers, or rather the former Bleakers, don’t like to talk about it.” Skalliska said with a shrug.

	Clueless looked at the faction symbols again, trying to puzzle out the meaning. “Alright, the ones that are normal colored are the ones with living factols. And actually, the others aren’t all the same color.”

	Sure enough, the symbols for the Harmonium and Fraternity of Order were a darker shade of gray than the others. Sarin had been killed by an arrow, and Hashkar had been stabbed to death the same week. They were very much dead. The other faction symbols seemed to represent those factols who had been mazed, or rather had been acted upon by The Lady. The lot of them had been mazed, except for Nilesia who had been flayed at a later period, and then Darkwood whose fate was… complex.

	“Weird that they have Nilesia and the others in the same category. They got mazed and she was flayed.” Fyrehowl said with a shrug.

	“It still creeps me out that stuff from the present, more or less, is here down in a place that predates all of them…” Clueless said with a shiver.

	“It might just be that those are the ones that all fell afoul of The Lady.” Toras suggested.

	Florian nodded, “Seems to be the case.”

	Tristol was staring intently at the symbols of the old factions. The patterns of magic woven into them were extraordinarily powerful, and seeming to shift and change by the second as if they were nearly alive with active spells.

	“I’m not entirely sure what they are, but they’re seriously magical, and active. So I wouldn’t suggest touching them. Odd though, it almost reminds me of sensory stones in a way.”

	“So what happens if I touch one?” Nisha asked with a jingle of the bell on her tail.

	“I’m not entirely sure what happen. Why?” Tristol replied.

	“Because I just did.” Came her reply as they all stared at the symbol of the Athar. 

The odd, abstract symbol of the Lost swirled with a halo of colors and a figure seemed to form in the center of the room, flickering into existence from the light shed by the faction symbol.

The figure nodded sagely to them as he took on more and more solidity by the second. He was dressed in the robes of a high ranking member of the Athar, his head was nearly bald, but his face was calm and soothing, like the look of a man who had lost his way utterly and then found it again.

And then Terrence spoke, “Blessings of the Great Unknown to you all. Welcome to this place, a moment in time snatched from the jaws of oblivion and penned down for posterity. I am what was and what is, here even when I am no more. Ask of me what you wish and learn what you will of what I am willing to give.”


----------



## Clueless

*first post!*


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## Ryltar

Damned cliffhangers .


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## Dakkareth

I want this labyrinth, too .

Edit: By the way, was there a compilation to be downloaded somewhere? I think I'll start once more from the beginning and that would make it a little easier ...


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## Shemeska

Dakkareth said:
			
		

> I want this labyrinth, too .
> 
> Edit: By the way, was there a compilation to be downloaded somewhere? I think I'll start once more from the beginning and that would make it a little easier ...




I had fun with the labyrinth, and it hasn't really even started to get fun yet.

No there isn't. Not even on my desktop where it's scattered between several different hundred page or so .docs. *chuckle* Controlled disorganization at its finest.

I'll be looking into putting up a compilation however. Would you prefer a word .doc or a pdf?


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## Ryltar

I'd go with pdf, definitely.


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## Gez

I'd prefer doc, myself.

(In fact, I'd prefer HTML!)


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## Allanon

Well here's the unedited unformatted txt and PDF for those who want them (both compressed as RAR files). Updated with the latest addition (04-01-2005) to this great storyhour . Hope this is satisfies everyone’s diverse taste for file extensions . I hope Shemeska doesn't mind me posting his/her compiled works for the masses  

BTW: Without editing out Shemmy's gratuitous use of white space (which does enhance readability and thus serves a purpose) were officially at 254 pages, you can lose allot of pages by editing out the white space or reducing the font but that makes it harder to read onscreen for those who wish to print it all.


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## Ryltar

Thanks, great job, man .


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## Shemeska

Allanon said:
			
		

> Well here's the unedited unformatted txt and PDF for those who want them (both compressed as RAR files). Updated with the latest addition (04-01-2005) to this great storyhour . Hope this is satisfies everyone’s diverse taste for file extensions . I hope Shemeska doesn't mind me posting his/her compiled works for the masses





Hell no I don't mind at all! Bless you! 
	

	
	
		
		

		
			





This was a really cool surprise, and it tops off my weekend of getting to start running my second campaign finally. Storyhour for that one will be something in the next week most likely. I'm going to need some time to see how I'll be spacing the updates for this 1st SH and the new one. This one is likely to continue getting an update every week, with the new one getting it maybe every other week. We'll see.


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## scipio

Shemmie - terrific stuff.  I read through it all in the last few days after getting reeled in by the moral dilemma Baernaloth adventure session.  I had not really given planescape much of a chance.  Reading your stuff makes it clear that planar adventuring can be fun for the DM and players.  I doubt my group would elect to play a gaggle of furries, and my players would probably have come up with a way to nudge Nisha off a cliff after the 3rd or 4th session (I won't elaborate since Nisha is popular on the boards, and probably in your group, given her status in that later adventure).  I ran an experimental session that went quite well, and the group seemed to enjoy playing races with nifty powers.  Thanks for the great SH and keep up the good work!


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## Shemeska

scipio said:
			
		

> Thanks for the great SH and keep up the good work!




Thanks for the praise! 
	

	
	
		
		

		
		
	


	




Storyhour #2 for updated this week and this one, #1, won't be till next week most likely. Been busy.


----------



## Shemeska

Seven heads immediately turned to stare slack-jawed at the former factol of the Athar. The aging apostate of Mishakal, the former shepherd of The Lost, was solid and seemed real enough as he stood and examined his guests. He was dressed as a priest, though he lacked a holy symbol, and a gossamer trail of white light seemed to tether his body to the symbol of the Athar that hung upon the wall.

	“Who are you?” Florian asked with uncertainty.

	“You seem to already know the answer my child. But,” He smiled and paused for a moment, “You would know me as Terrence, factol of the Athar.”

	“How’s the maze thing working out for you?” Toras said with a grin.

	Nisha kicked Toras in the leg while Clueless gave the fighter a stern look.

	Terrence took the mocking question in stride, “That’s one of the things that I find myself unable, or unwilling to speak of. Her Serenity put me there for a purpose, and I suppose that I may one day fully understand it. But till then, and till I am free of my sentence, I will not speak of it.”

	“Won’t or can’t?” Fyrehowl questioned.

	“Wait,” Clueless asked, “Are you actually Terrence, or not?”

	“That’s a complex question on both accounts.” Terrence said with a sigh. “I am all that Terrence was and is. What I… what Terrence thinks and knows, so do I. For all purposes, and from my perspective, he and I are both the same; different aspects of a single person. If you had to define in strict terms like Hashkar would, you might think of me as a magical construct somewhat akin to a sentient mimir or sensory stone, linked somehow to the mind of a living person.”

	“Not much difference between you and him then.” Skalliska said respectfully.

	“Indeed.” The factol said with a smile as he began to pace the room.

	“And so it is the same with all of my fellow factols, though Rhys and Lahar are both free of our sentence, and Sarin and others have passed beyond the veil and into the embrace of the Great Unknown.”

	Florian rolled her eyes.

	“Think me a fool if you wish. But I’ve stood where you are now, cleric of Tempus. I’ve had my faith broken and destroyed, only to find it again. Sooner or later you may come to the same conclusions.” Terrence said with a mixture of sympathy and candor to the cleric.

	“Not likely.” Florian replied.

	“That was what I thought at the time too.”

	“Anyways…” Clueless said, breaking up the argument that was brewing between the chief priest of the Lost and their own cleric of Tempus.

	“Surely you have questions for me? Otherwise I would seek to return to my penance.” Terrence said with a tired sigh.

	“Who else is here? What is the purpose of this place?” Tristol asked, his ears perked and his mind hungry for the knowledge.

	“All of us that have been from time to time. The factions put in place following the Great Upheaval, and others that have come and gone. Those of us who are dead will be more frank in our responses since we no longer care for the most part, and those among us who are still alive will be more selective in what they are willing to answer.
	And as for this place’s purpose? Well, it’s a repository of knowledge. Sigil has a tendency to swallow its past and wholly digest it, leaving nothing behind for scholars to examine. Whether this is by design, or simply happenstance over the past three millennia, I cannot say, but this place was designed to remember all that has passed, and remember it through the eyes and voices of those who made this history; those who made this city what it is.”

	Tristol’s ears were fully perked as he mentally absorbed what Terrence had said, and Clueless seemed just as raptly at attention as well. Nisha on the other hand had summoned forth a copy of the mazed Xaositect Factol, the githzerai Karan, and was engaged in a nearly incomprehensible babble of scramblespeak with him.

	Clueless licked his lips and asked a question, “Do you know what was asked of you when an elf cleric spoke to you inside the mazes recently? He was sent there by a yugoloth, controlled and forced into it all. What would he have been looking for from you? Because after we managed to free him from the ‘loths’ control, he said that you had refused to answer their questions adamantly.”

“Nisha, stop making faces at Factol Karan.” Toras said halfheartedly while the tiefling was busy standing on her head and giving the githzerai factol a series of loud raspberries.

	“I can’t wholly answer that, things being what they are you understand…” Terrence furrowed his brow. “But I can guess what they would have been curious about. They’d probably have tried to find Factol Ambar to ask him the same question. He wouldn’t tell them either if I know him at all. Nor will I answer that question now, you’re not ready for it, and I won’t risk the knowledge spreading from you to those who would abuse it.”

	“Damn…” Clueless said.

	“But yugoloths you say? That’s worrisome. They hold the gods in contempt, so why…” Terrence shook his head. “I’ve said enough of nothing. This topic won’t go any further than this. They may have threatened my life in the maze, but they didn’t get a word from me. Kill me and I simply go to a better place than what awaits them beyond the veil.”

	“That’s fine sir. Thank you for talking to us anyway.” Tristol said with a courteous smile.

	“Would you too terribly mind if we ever came back and talked to you about other things?” Clueless asked.

	Terrence smiled like a kindly grandfather being visited by his relatives, “Not at all. Till that time…”

	And with that the form of the factol shimmered and withdrew back into the symbol on the wall. Ten minutes after that, Nisha had her fill of babbling with her old factol and picking on Sarin and Hashkar. The group let her have her fun, and the tiefling was positively bubbly as they walked towards the next chamber.

	“I keep forgetting just how much fun that guy was when he was still around. Except of course when he quit being factol because we were all ‘too crazy’ or ‘not crazy enough’. Ahhh… nostalgia.” Nisha reminisced with a grin.

	“Alright, I’m curious about what other factions Terrence seemed to suggest that this place had information about.” Tristol said with a knowledge hungry gleam in his eyes.

	“Ooooh… maybe I can pick on the Sodkillers!” Nisha said with just as hungry a gleam in her own eyes.

	They chuckled and strode towards the door and into a gallery almost identical to the first. Lining the walls were still the symbols of the factions, but some of them were gone and replaced with others. The Harmonium was missing, as were the Mercykillers. The latter was replaced by the Sodkillers and the Sons of the Mercy: once and future factions.

	“Do you guys recognize these?” Fyrehowl asked as she pointed at two unfamiliar symbols.

	Skalliska squinted her eyes and looked at them. “The Communals and the Expansionists.”

	“… why does it show the expansionist factol as still being alive?” Fyrehowl said with curiosity.

	“I’ve heard this one.” Tristol said. “Vartus Timlin, their factol started the faction and made it the most powerful in the city in a very short period of time.”

	“Sounds like Darkwood.”

	Tristol chuckled, “Almost. Well, eventually the other factions got together and agreed that something needed to be done about him and his faction. So they supposedly petitioned The Lady to do something about him since they considered Timlin and his faction a threat to Sigil, and more importantly to them, a threat to themselves.”

	“Petition The Lady?” Nisha perked an eyebrow and giggled.

	Florian raised a finger, “The Twelve Factols. That inn in the Lady’s Ward. The statues they have are about the meeting of the other factols regarding Timlin.”

	“Exactly.” Skalliska said.

	“Well, whatever came of that, Timlin announced in the next week his intention to take down The Lady. How he intended to do so was an open question for history, but one evening he said that he was going to take a walk to clear his mind. Well, he never returned and rumor was that he’d been mazed.” Tristol said as he motioned towards the symbol on the wall.

	“And?” Clueless asked.

	“Well he apparently was because the Takers and the Mercykillers broke into his maze about six years ago with the intention of stealing the nigh legendary sword Timlin was said to possess. They went in with the knowledge of the maze’s exit and never came back out. Timlin popped out into Sigil not a day older than when he first entered the maze and he left by the first portal he found and could activate.”

	“How long was he in there?” Florian asked.

	“About two thousand years…” Skalliska said to a chorus of winces and slow whistles.

	“What about the other group over there? The Communals?” Fyrehowl asked the aasimar.

	“I’m not familiar with them,” Tristol said with a twitch of his ears, “Skalliska?”

	“About the same here. I just know that they believed in sharing… everything. And eventually they demanded that The Lady share control of Sigil with them. A day later they and their entire faction headquarters were mazed.”

	They nodded to the kobold as she finished.

	Tristol motioned to the symbols on the wall, “And of course, the Dusties are still here the same as ever.”

	“They’re supposedly the oldest of the modern factions. How old, I can’t really say. But apparently as old as Timlin’s bunch.” Skalliska said as they continued walking.

	The next chamber in, the floor was dusted with a carpet of swirling fog, almost like the metaphorical mists of time swallowing up history. Of the symbols on the walls, the only one that was truly recognizable outside of what seemed to be an earlier incarnation of the Fraternity of Order, was that of the Dustmen, with Skall’s faction symbol glowing with the soft indication of his status of having been mazed. Of the others, all of them were dead or mazed.

	“Wait…” Clueless said as he recognized one of the symbols. “Well there’s the Incanterium. I wonder if Shekelor might have something to say.”

	“You sure it’s a good idea?” Fyrehowl asked.

	“Since when has that stopped him?” Tristol deadpanned.

	“He’s crazy I tell you.” Nisha whispered conspiratorially in Tristol’s ear.

	“Haha. But seriously, I have a few questions for him if he’s willing to talk.” The bladesinger said as he approached the symbol of the ancient faction.

	Meanwhile Nisha had ruffled through Tristol’s spell components and pulled out a small glass vial with a live spider dancing around inside. And so while Clueless walked up to speak with Shekelor, the Xaositect rattled the vial around while softly mock shouting, ‘The SPIDERS!!! AAHHHH!!!’

	A soft chorus of laughter echoed around Clueless as he touched the symbol of the Incanterium. He ignored it and thought back to his reasons he had for asking the Magicians’ factol a question. It had been nearly a week previous and he had been randomly musing over the golden heavy magic that he had recovered from the Tower Sorcerous. He had very nearly used some of it on the magical tattoo on his back, and on his sword as well, but he’d hesitated at the last moment and decided to hold off till he knew a little more about the material and its history. That the Keepers were interested in it made him even more wary, and more interested as well.

	And so, given the thoughts in his head at the time, he had used a legend-lore spell to divine information on the nigh unbreakable globe that had contained the heavy magic itself. Normally such visions gave a random glimmer of disjointed scenes and impressions surrounding a topic. But this time it had given almost a stereo playback of two scenes with the old Factol at stage center.


***​

	The first of the scenes had been from Shekelor’s point of view. He had been inside a dust caked ruin or cave. Examining some unknown script that ran in circles around a series of pillars, he brushed off the top of a cask or vessel of some sorts. It might have even been some sort of canopic jar, given the surroundings, but when he disintegrated the stone lid there was a familiar looking globe of golden liquid contained inside.

	Shekelor had removed the globe and seemed surprised at it; openly wondering about what it was. He hadn’t been looking for it and seemed to have found it by chance and considered it an oddity.

	The next scene showed the mage, obviously years later, sitting in his study within the heights of the Tower Sorcerous. His desk had been covered in various tomes and manuscripts, and the globe and its golden interior had taken a prominent place at the center of that organized chaos.

	Open and showing the signs of frequent use was a book titled, ‘Laws, Order, and the Utilization of the Sublime Loopholes Therein – Darius Garmundi, 1st factor of the Brotherhood of Order.’

	“Not bad. The concept is similar to what I’ve been plumbing here in my spare time. Still, it’s not much more than a curiosity as far as I’m concerned. You pull your things out of raw probability from places that don’t exist till you make them so, and I create things de novo from the raw magic that permeates this world. It’ll be the death of you one of these days for certain…”

	Shekelor pushed aside the book and looked at his reflection swirling in the golden depths of the orb in the center of his desk.

	“But I have my eyes set on larger prizes. I’ll see the bladed whore on her knees before this is over. She has a weakness. Otherwise why would she have simply imprisoned my predecessor rather than killing him? I’ll find out when I find him. And I’ve got a damn fine idea where you are…”


***​

The image of the Incantifers’ symbol pulsed with magic and a moment afterwards a seemingly living Shekelor stood before them. The mage was dressed in robes of black and gold but otherwise simple in their decoration. The man had no need of pretension or elaboration of his person, his power spoke for itself and it had been unquestioned during his centuries long life.

	Shekelor looked at the group that had summoned him into existence with an amused scowl on his face. The look and demeanor he conveyed wouldn’t have looked out of place on the muzzle of the Oinoloth.

	“So…” He said calmly as he stroked a finger over his closely cropped beard and turned his dark eyes towards Clueless. “You expect me to answer your questions like a mimir of sorts, or perhaps sit and passively tell stories like Swalk’kur?”

	“Well, I had a question for you, yes. We’ve been inside the maze that the rest of your faction was consigned to.”

	Shekelor chuckled, “Have my two foremost puppets killed each other yet? I was always waiting for one of them to take the initiative.”

	“Well, yes actually.” Clueless answered.

	“Which one? The corpse or the whore? Mewling children, both of them…”

	“The lich. We helped him.”

	Shekelor nodded to himself, “Not bad. She’d have killed you. So would I, but she’d have done so just to feed. I’d have enjoyed it.”

	“So kind of you…” Clueless said as he rolled his eyes.

	The mage grinned like a fiend.

	“An orb. Full of golden liquid. Heavy magic. We found it and I have it.”

	Shekelor chuckled, “Found it did you? They ransacked my chambers like fiends in an orphanage of angels a few years after I went looking for the Labyrinth stone. Never found it, but…”

	“Where did you find it? And what all can I do with it besides the obvious?” Clueless asked.

	The wizard scoffed, “Find that out yourself whelp. I won’t coddle anyone. Not in life and not in death. You want power you go find it your own damn self because I’ve always been too busy looking for the same to help the competition.”

	“So what _did_ you find down there in Pandemonium?” The bladesinger asked, changing the topic of conversation.

	Shekelor paused and seemed struck by a terrible recollection of something in his memory. He visibly shook for a brief moment.

	“Something else. Pain. Horror. Death. Wonder. Majesty. Glory. Take your pick and go look for yourself, obviously my end was somewhat ignonymous in Sigil’s annals of deaths of the powerful. And to think, my entry didn’t end with my being flayed by Her Serenity. Irony if there ever was such a thing.”

	Clueless glared back at him. “The orb though. You didn’t make it. You found it. Did you figure out what it was?”

	“Enough that others were jealous. I figure you’ve met them as well if you’ve been using it.” The mage said with a sneer, “And I’m right aren’t I? Your reaction says it all. They won’t stop you know. They’ll hunt you down and they’ll find you till they have what they want. They don’t sleep. Of course, neither did I, and they were nothing more than an annoyance to me. I guess you’ll find out if you’re up to it, and you aren’t anywhere close to where I was.”

	Clueless didn’t get a chance to respond as Shekelor’s simulacrum vanished in a flash of light, banished by itself apparently.

	“Ass of the highest order.” Clueless deadpanned.

	“What is it with super powerful wizards and arrogance?” Toras asked.

	“Don’t look at me!” Tristol said defensively.

	“You’re a super powerful wizard with a tail, I don’t think you count.” Nisha said as she tapped the bell on its tip.

	Clueless sighed in frustration as he stared at the Incantifer’s symbol. The mage wasn’t going to be of any help to him if that was any indication of the man’s personality.

	“Guys. As interesting as this place is, I really think that we need to get moving.” Florian said.

	Clueless and Tristol both cast sullen glances at the cleric.

	“I take it you’re grumpy over Terrence? We can wait here if he and you want to kiss and make up.” Nisha said with perfect innocence, punctuated by a jingle of the bell on her tail.

	“Haha. Hardly,” Florian said with a genuine chuckle. “Terrence isn’t bad. He’s just wrong.”

	“But yeah, she’s right guys. The rats won’t just sit around forever and wait for us to find them. If we sit here and talk to the dead for hours on end they’ll come hunting us down after they regroup.” Toras said with a nod of his head towards the door at the far end of the gallery.

	“Alright…” Both Clueless and Tristol said as they cast forlorn glances at the collective knowledge contained within the walls.


***​

	Something watched and smiled, footsteps echoing down the forgotten hallways as an echo of the past. Actions were taken by malign, methodical intention, but as yet only by instinct. The weight of the years was long and heavy, and what was observed was yet as if though but a dream.

	The rats were changing that and the actions were becoming more overt and planned. The intelligence behind them was stirring from slumber and half formed ideas were lurking in its mind, none of them pleasant for those who had invaded its somnolent exile.

	In the darkness, something stirred, and it acted.


***​

_Where are they?!_ The Us wondered openly as the psionic trail of their hunters and soon to be victims simply ended at a blank wall. There had been a trio of passages there moments before but they had seen nothing.

_It mocks us. Behind and in the walls it is watching us and laughing…_

	The walls gave no reply to the fury of the rats at being denied their prizes.

_Irregardless, they will emerge eventually. We will meet them below and kill them when they find their way down to that place… whatever it is…_

	There was uncertainty in the voice of the collective as they pondered what they had found in the depths as they swarmed like a tide of bodies over the lip of the crevice and down the miles below to the vaults.


***​

	The gallery was followed by another that was mostly nondescript. Vague patterns in darkness and light upon the walls seemed to suggest another set of even older factions, or perhaps their identity was known to whoever built the history chambers but never integrated into the spells that gave it life. Another possibility was that the chamber was destined to contain details on whatever factions arose –after- the modern factions were all relegated to the dust of another era.

	Several twists and turns of the corridors and they found themselves walking through a massive banquet hall decorated with the trappings of opulence. The room would not have looked out of place in the mansions of the Golden Lords of Sigil even in its dust-shrouded state. The tables were still set for a meal with unlit candles, the dust of what had once been flowers and fruit displays, and place settings of silverware and napkins still covering them.

	“Well at least there’s no vampires or yugoloths down here!” Nisha said as she was pocketing the silverware on the table.

	“Are you sure you should be pilfering the place randomly?” Skalliska asked.

	“They’re dead. They don’t care.”

	“That’s not always the case Nisha…” Tristol said as he tapped the bell on her tail.

	The tiefling didn’t respond but instead starting making faces and a soft, ‘Woooooooooo….’ noise like the groaning of a ghost or specter.

	Toras glanced over to Florian, “You can turn undead right?”

	“Hmm?” She replied.

	“In case Nisha actually pisses some of them off down here?”

	“Yeah, not a problem…”

	Tristol and Clueless just looked at each other and chuckled as Nisha pocketed a few ivory napkin rings.

	Outside of the faded opulence of the banquet room, there was little of interest and they simply took one of the hallways branching off from it and kept on walking. Fifteen minutes later however the corridors seemed increasingly familiar and they had yet to encounter any further actual rooms.

	“Guys? We’ve been this way before.” Fyrehowl said with a glance over towards Skalliska.

	The kobold looked around, “You’re right. We just came through this way a minute ago.”

	“There wasn’t any turn in the hallway though.” Nisha said.

	“Yeah, I know.” The kobold said as she tried to get her bearings set again.

	“And the last time there wasn’t a room at the end of the hallway.” Fyrehowl said as she peered ahead.

	The walls were reorganizing themselves silently as they continued walking.

	“Ok, nobody touch anything.” Florian said.

	“Sorry I took your silverware…” Nisha said plaintively.

	“Sh*t…” Clueless said bluntly as they walked into the room that stood at the intersection of eight different corridors all identical to the one they had been walking through. The floor of the intersection was paved with a glittering mosaic of the placid, serene face of The Lady of Pain.

	“I’m not touching anything…” Nisha said as she moved behind Tristol and Clueless.

	“Umm… one second. I want to try something.” Clueless said as he warily edged around the edge of the mosaic of Her Serenity, careful not to touch it.

	Once on the other side of the mosaic, the bladesinger spread his wings and darted down the passage with a shout of “Be right back!”

	“Geez I hope so.” Fyrehowl said warily.

	“…” Clueless stared blankly as he suddenly emerged from another of the intersecting passages.

	“Space isn’t supposed to work that way Clueless.” Skalliska said as she looked at where he had gone compared to where he had returned.

	“I didn’t turn at all. I just went along in a straight line. Wonderful…” He muttered as he darted off down another passage.

	A minute later he was back in much the same fashion as before. All of the corridors led back to the same room. They were trapped.

	Tristol whispered the words to a spell and examined the latent dweomers within the room. Nothing made sense. The mosaic was … different…

	“You alright there Tristol?” Florian asked.

	The mage shrugged with confusion, “I’m fine. But there are colors I don’t recognize covering that mosaic. It’s bizarre. The magic is just all wrong.”

	“That isn’t good.” Skalliska said.

	“Clueless! Something dangerous and stupid for you to do! Go for it!” Nisha shouted.

	Clueless smirked, though he was already moving towards the mosaic.

	Nisha made no further comment except for a puckish grin.

	“In case something happens, you might want to step back.” The half-fey said as he prepared to step onto the mosaic’s surface.

	“Huh?” was his only comment as the eyes of The Lady opened with a blinding flash of white light and enveloped him.

	The others slowly recovered and blinked their eyes, focusing on where Clueless had been standing just moments before. He was gone and the eyelids of The Lady still glimmered with a trickle of light from where they had opened. Clueless was nowhere to be seen.

****​


----------



## Allanon

Darn cliffhanger  . Great post Shemeska!
For those interested I'll update the PDF and the TXT when I get back from work tonight.

EDIT:
btw, Shemmy, there a small typo in the post.


			
				Shemeska said:
			
		

> “Think me a fool if you wish. But I’ve stood where you are now, cleric *if* Tempus. I’ve had my faith broken and destroyed, only to find it again. Sooner or later you may come to the same conclusions.” Terrence said with a mixture of sympathy and candor to the cleric.


----------



## Gez

And another:


			
				Shemeska said:
			
		

> _*Irregardless*, they will emerge eventually. We will meet them below and kill them when they find their way down to that place… whatever it is…_




Should probably be "Anyway" instead. I don't picture the Us using such a word as irregardless. 

*Usage Note:* Irregardless is a word that many mistakenly believe to be correct usage in formal style, when in fact it is used chiefly in nonstandard speech or casual writing. Coined in the United States in the early 20th century, it has met with a blizzard of condemnation for being an improper yoking of irrespective and regardless and for the logical absurdity of combining the negative ir- prefix and -less suffix in a single term. Although one might reasonably argue that it is no different from words with redundant affixes like debone and unravel, it has been considered a blunder for decades and will probably continue to be so.​


----------



## Shemeska

Gez said:
			
		

> And another:
> 
> 
> 
> Shemeska said:
> 
> 
> 
> 
> _*Irregardless*, they will emerge eventually. We will meet them below and kill them when they find their way down to that place… whatever it is…_
> 
> 
> 
> 
> 
> I'm aware it's nonstandard usage. But I like the word. It's not like I'm peppering the writing with words like hizzy or shizzle.
> 
> You didn't grow up speaking english as a 1st language, which means that you actually learned the real rules behind it. Those of us in Britain, America, Oz, etc just learned it with common usage for our region, not the legit rules for proper english. You probably have a better formal grasp of the language than I do Gez
Click to expand...


----------



## Dakkareth

> “Sh*t…” Clueless said bluntly as they walked into the room that stood at the intersection of eight different corridors all identical to the one they had been walking through. The floor of the intersection was paved with a glittering mosaic of the placid, serene face of The Lady of Pain.
> [...]
> “Space isn’t supposed to work that way Clueless.”




Ok, for me as player that would have been reason enough to panic big time. You get used to bizarre shifts in spatial geometry, but in conjunction with that mosaic ...   

Great fun


----------



## Allanon

Shemeska said:
			
		

> I'm aware it's nonstandard usage. But I like the word. It's not like I'm peppering the writing with words like hizzy or shizzle.





			
				Sh3m3ska said:
			
		

> Seven heezees immediately turned ta stare slack-jawed at tha forma factol of tha athar . Yippie yo, you can't see my flow. tha aging apostate of mishakal, tha wanna be gangsta shepherd of tha lost, was solid n seemed real enough as he stood n examined his guests. he was dressed as a priest, though he lacked a hizzle symbol, n a gossama trail of white light seemed ta tetha his body ta tha symbol of tha athar that hung upon tha wall.
> 
> “who is you?” florian asked wit uncertainty.
> 
> “you seem ta already kizzle tha wanna be gangsta mah child . It's your homie snoop dogg from the dpg. B-to-tha-izzut,” he smiled n paused fo` a moment, “you would K-N-to-tha-izzow me as terrence, factol of tha athar.”
> 
> “how’s tha maze thing work'n out fo` you?” toras said witta gizzle.




Well a couple of more hos wouldnt hizzle tha story, n some more shizzle n hizzy would give it some mizzy street cred   

Sorry couldn't help myself


----------



## Shemeska

Allanon said:
			
		

> Well a couple of more hos wouldnt hizzle tha story, n some more shizzle n hizzy would give it some mizzy street cred
> 
> Sorry couldn't help myself




Priceless.

'Couldn't help myself'. That was how I felt when I had a picture drawn of my namesake in a pimp outfit trying to sell Akin on a streetcorner.


----------



## Allanon

Shemeska said:
			
		

> Priceless.
> 
> 'Couldn't help myself'. That was how I felt when I had a picture drawn of my namesake in a pimp outfit trying to sell Akin on a streetcorner.



 Any chance of providing a link to said picture?


----------



## Clueless

*facepalm*

And yeah - 'I touch it' at the gaming table that day made the GM grin and the players go '...clueless, no! Bad clueless!'


----------



## Inconsequenti-AL

I've been having a story hour binge for the last few days. Had fallen behind with this - just caught up and 'Wow!'. I've read a lot of published novels that aren't half as interesting as this. 

The evil DMing certainly shows through. That scene with the Rubicon was just too good: 

"Well done, you've beaten the nasty loths. Have some compliments and soon you'll get a big pile 'o treasure. Now you wake up to see...". 

It's just mean.    

Out of curiousity, how did the players react to it? Did they have any idea it was coming, or was it a sucker punch?

Anyway, thanks for the story. 

Think I'll head over to storyhour 2 now.


----------



## demiurge1138

Wait a minute...

Did Clueless just get himself mazed? Again?

Poor Clueless...
Demiurge out.


----------



## Clueless

T'was a sucker punch.

And re: mazing - um. You'll see.


----------



## Shemeska

Inconsequenti-AL said:
			
		

> The evil DMing certainly shows through. That scene with the Rubicon was just too good:
> 
> "Well done, you've beaten the nasty loths. Have some compliments and soon you'll get a big pile 'o treasure. Now you wake up to see...".
> 
> It's just mean.




Much later on in the campaign I revisted that event and gave some details on the battle itself and the immediate aftermath of what happened before the slide. In a word it disturbed both PC and player who were curious about it all at the time.

There's no immediate return to 'lothy goodness, but over the next month or so I'll be including some updates here on events in the lower planes happening in the background. I've already gotten some of them written up (yay for office hours when nobody shows up).


----------



## Eluvan

Aaaahhh... been away from EnWorld for a while, but it sure does feel good to get back and catch up on what's been going on in this Story Hour. Shemmy, I'm in awe of your 'Lothy goodness. 

 I particularly liked Jeremo's dinner party. Seemed like it must have been such a great session to play in...


----------



## FyreHowl

*Lothy Goodness*

Disturbed? Just a *little*. Then again someone's gotta take the fall when the loth's start plotting....

But speaking of lothy goodness, what do you get when you have the following?
1 Dark and Depressing (and incredibly awesome) D&D Campaign
1 slightly insane artist who was in said campaign
1 glass blackberry wine
and an hour or two of time spent not doing homework?

This





And This






Enjoy *grin*


----------



## Gez

Careloths 

Shemeska and Vorkanis the Sulking are easy enough to identify, but who's the one with glasses?


----------



## Ohtar Turinson

Gez said:
			
		

> but who's the one with glasses?




The Keeper of the Tower on Gehenna, I'd assume...


----------



## Clueless

Got it in one.


----------



## Shemeska

*giggle fit*

God that is so wrong... so incredibly wrong. But adorable.

And yeah, the one giving Vorky bunnyears is Helekanalaith.

Here's an earlier picture with Helekanalaith on the far left which makes it easy to see where the carebear 'loth version of him came from.

Of course this just means that the next time Vorky appears in the SH, I'll just have to make him more evil. *glances at a partially written excerpt* Done.


----------



## Aneul

Who is the picture in the above link by? It does not seem to consitent with Fyrehowl's style, but its not (overly) reminisant of the picture done of Shylara(sp?) and Vorkanis done way back on page #9. At any rate, its good (as are the Care-a-loths, in a completely different way).


----------



## Clueless

An artist friend that we know locally - she's not doing quite as much in that style anymore but we can certainly hook you up with her if you'd like to commission work.


----------



## Shemeska

Clueless said:
			
		

> An artist friend that we know locally - she's not doing quite as much in that style anymore but we can certainly hook you up with her if you'd like to commission work.




She's also going nuts at the moment doing some paid comic work and an animation offer she got the other day, so I dunno what her commish list looks like at the moment. She has a distinctive style.

I will say that I adore the style of the artist from the pic on page 9, and I'll eventually try to commission a pic from her of Nisha.


----------



## PhoenixDarkDirk

Regarding Allanon's reworked passage:  Brain hurts.   It's a little like this.

This is a great story.


----------



## Shemeska

*Short update, but 2 in one week to catch up for none last week.*

Fyrehowl’s eyes were wide as she gazed at the fading nimbus of light that surrounded the face of The Lady.

	“Guys… f*ck…”

	“What she said…” Nisha said without her usual flippancy.

	“Don’t look at me,” Tristol said nervously, “I don’t have any better of an idea of what happened than you do.”

	“Not like we have any other way out of here…” Skalliska muttered under her breath before switching into an obscure kobold dialect and adding some additional, and very colorful, thoughts on the matter that included numerous references to ‘I’m not getting paid enough for this’ and ‘Dammit I can’t make fun of Her’.

	“So. Who wants to go first and join Clueless?” Toras asked, very obviously not taking a step forward.

	Florian sighed. “Fine…”

	The cleric edged towards the mosaic with a plaintive look, clearly dreading touching it. For all she and the others knew, it was simply a death trap and nothing more. But otherwise it was a likely death by dehydration or starvation, given that the halls wrapped back on themselves.

	“Hmm… doesn’t look like anything is happening.” Florian said as she stepped out onto the tiles of the mosaic.

	“There’s…” Florian’s voice was suddenly snuffed as she vanished in a burst of white light as the eyes of The Lady opened and shut without comment.

	“Oh hell, we all have to do this now don’t we?” Toras asked rhetorically.

	Meanwhile Skalliska was still softly cursing in a variant of undercommon.

	“Me next!” Nisha said as she jumped headfirst towards the mosaic.

	“Gaaah!” Tristol exclaimed as the tiefling vanished an inch before she would have hit the ground face first.

	And still Skalliska cursed softly in undercommon, only now she was kicking the wall with her foot. It ended when Toras shoved her onto the mosaic.

	“That really wasn’t needed you know.” Tristol said to the fighter.

	“No, but it sure as hell was fun. And dammit, if I’m about to be incinerated, mazed, or killed by something creepy, I’m having fun before I go out.” Toras said with a laugh, right before he stepped into a flash of light from The Lady’s eyes.

	Tristol and Fyrehowl glanced at each other.

	“So is the cadence telling you this is a piss poor idea?” Tristol asked the cipher.

	“It’s not saying jack. I’m scared sh*tless for reasons all my own. Some things you don’t need to be able to feel the inner workings of the planes to know that they’re a bad idea.”

	“Aaaand this would be one of them right?”

	“Yeah. Pretty much, yeah.” Fyrehowl replied. “You or me?”

	Tristol shrugged and stepped forward, vanishing in a flash of light like all the others.

	Fyrehowl sighed, glanced around and then down at the serene, emotionless face on the mosaic. “Oh hells…”

	And then she was gone. The mosaic of Her Serenity was unchanged and placid, with only the eyes slowly closing and sealing off their inner light. And then, it too was gone.


***​

	“If this is death, or if I just got mazed with all of you berks, I’m going to be really bored and unhappy.” Skalliska said as he picked herself up off of the floor and glanced back at Toras.

	Toras just grinned puckishly as he and the others glanced at their surroundings.

	They stood in another room, the walls made of dressed and fitted stone. A single passage stretched out as the only exit and a pale light suffused the area from no specific location. It was cold but the air was still and stagnant, at least till a voice rang out in their minds.

_“Welcome to the Maze of the Jester. There is but one exit from this place. Find it or perish.”_

	“Maze of the Jester?” Skalliska asked openly.

	“That wasn’t Jeremo’s voice…” Fyrehowl said.

	“Jeremo didn’t have that title before he took over the Palace of the Jester did he?” Clueless mused.

	“Just a guess, but whoever built this little funhouse was probably one of Jeremo’s predecessors.” Florian said, hazarding a guess.

	“I’m not getting paid enough for this.” Skalliska said as she started to walk off down the passage. “But I’m not getting paid at all unless we get out of here. Come on.”

	The others glanced around, shrugged, and having no other recourse they followed after the kobold down the passage. A short time later, the hall eventually reached a fork.

	“Alright, I say we go right.” Nisha said with a chuckle.

	The others followed her gaze to the left passage where a massive block of rusted iron blocked most of the passage. Several skeletal limbs jutted out awkwardly from under the iron.

	“Funhouse…” The kobold muttered as they glanced at the bodies, at least two or three, whose desiccated remains lay crushed by the several tons of metal.

	“Well, at least we know to expect traps…” Nisha said as she started paying more attention to where she was walking.

	“Anyone have any way to get through that block in the other hallway? Otherwise we’re pretty much stuck going the way Nisha suggests.” Skalliska asked.

	“Because Nisha is always right.” Clueless said.

	“Except when she’s not.” Tristol commented.

	“Now you’re catching on.” The tiefling said with a chuckle.

	The kobold considered just how impossible it would be to move the rusted block. Honestly it looked like it hadn’t been moved in centuries. All that remained were bones and dried flecks of blood spattered on the stone.

	“Alright, we go to the right.” Toras said.

	“We may have blundered into a broken down funhouse guys. That trap didn’t reset after the last time it killed whoever those poor berks were. Stuff may not work or it may just be automated by magic. Hopefully there’s still a viable way out. That’s all I’m hoping for.” Skalliska mused with a worry. “Definitely did not get offered enough jink for this.”

	As they progressed down the open passage, the hallway turned to the right abruptly and opened into a small chamber. A single monstrous figure dominated a platform in the center of the room. Its appearance generated a flurry of startled shouts and a number of blades being drawn before they realized that it was inanimate.

	“Not enough jink indeed…” Clueless speculated as he gazed up at the statue.

	Life sized and intricately carved, looking half alive as if it might animate at any second, the statue was a perfect model in steel and gold of a Bebelith. The demon spider and hunter of Tanar’ri glared down at them from eyes fashioned in chips of crystal set in sockets of gleaming gold. Its mandibles were wide as if about to devour its prey, and its legs were spread as if it might suddenly leap up off of the platform it was nestled upon.

	“Wow…” Skalliska said as she mentally began to appraise the worth of even a fraction of the statue.

	“Hey Tristol? There’s something written on the base of the dais here, can you translate it?” Toras said as he pointed to a series of verses written beneath the golden fangs of the leering monstrosity.

	“Nobody touch it, alright? I just have a bad feeling about this…” Fyrehowl said as she cradled her sword in her arms.

	Tristol walked over to the statue and examined the verses, all of it written in a dialect of Abyssal. He translated: 

_ Long we live, and long we weave. Till we have filled this space. Then, as before, we will leave. To hunt another place. Our task ends when the weak are gone. Then fill new spaces with our spawn._

	“Yeah, not touching it…” Tristol said as he finished reading the poem.

	“Neither am I actually. I can’t find any traps, nor is it magical as far as I can tell. But… no.” Skalliska said with regret as she turned away from the hulking, elegantly grotesque statue.

	As they walked away and further down the hallway, the crystalline eyes of the fiend glittered in the light, and somewhere, something smiled and the walls moved in accordance.

	Thirty feet further, the hallway opened to another room.

	“Do. Not. Touch.” Florian said as they gazed inside.

Within, the chamber was supported by three columns, each decorated with carved scenes of war, strife and death. Each bore the image of the Reaper, astride a nightmare or skeletal horse collecting its allotment of the fallen and ushering their souls to torment or paradise. Bas-reliefs of battles, executions, plague and famine decorated the corners of the chamber drawing a macabre appreciation. But there in the center of the chamber, lying prone atop a slab of cold black marble lay the broken form of a Marut. Its armor was broken and battered, covered in furious gouges and slashes that sunk deep into its metallic skin. Likewise pitting by acid and flame, it lay in state. The severed head of the Inevitable lay next to the body, ripped and twisted free rather than cleanly cut. Carved in a variant of draconic and infernal, a single, ironic refrain was repeated on the slab and on each of the three columns:

*“Whether by age, plague, war, or the hangman’s noose, the inevitability of death waits for none.”*


----------



## Ryltar

Nice update. Poor marut, however .

I'm looking forward to how this all ties in with the Jester and Many-As-One, because, right now, I'm feeling a little lost .


----------



## Shemeska

Ryltar said:
			
		

> Nice update. Poor marut, however .
> 
> I'm looking forward to how this all ties in with the Jester and Many-As-One, because, right now, I'm feeling a little lost .




Some of it does tie in, some of it is its own thing entirely. The players were confused too, and worried. Also, I may mention something and only have it come back around and mean something a year or more later


----------



## Gez

Shemeska said:
			
		

> I will say that I adore the style of the artist from the pic on page 9, and I'll eventually try to commission a pic from her of Nisha.




What pic? I don't see any.

*pauses*

*computes*

9*40/50=7.

Oh, you meant on page 7?  

I'm surprised Nisha didn't pull out a crowbar from one of her bag of holdings and ask Toras to start prying the legs out of the Golden Bebilith.


----------



## Hellraider

Found you...

Shemeska...

Shall we fight it out at once, and end it?

Check your PMs at WoTC.
On a completely unrelated note, awesome storyhour. I`m a soon-to-be DM, and I find your work really inspiring.
...
...

...
(thinks whether got anything else to say)
...
Good job.
...


----------



## Clueless

It's supposed to be a little confusing. There's something going on here that well - there's no real way we would have known about. But this is still my favorite plot arc - for sheer moodiness.


----------



## Aneul

Clueless said:
			
		

> An artist friend that we know locally - she's not doing quite as much in that style anymore but we can certainly hook you up with her if you'd like to commission work.




Thanks, but unfortunately, I'm not in the postion to be comisioning works from anyone, and never have been... oh well. Great picture anyway, though. You guys should see if you can get her to do a picture of your party to match that one of the campaign's villians.



			
				Shemeska said:
			
		

> *“Whether by age, plague, war, or the hangman’s noose, the inevitability of death waits for none.”*




Poor Marut is right! Out of curiosity, is this the same marut and chamber as in the short story you posted on Planeswalker a while back?


----------



## dal673

I am thinking the exact same thing, Aneul!
Enjoyed that story to.
Furthermore: I'm still highly enjoying and inspired by your StoryHour, Shemeska. Thanks again.

Greetz,

DaL673


----------



## Clueless

Aneul said:
			
		

> Poor Marut is right! Out of curiosity, is this the same marut and chamber as in the short story you posted on Planeswalker a while back?


----------



## Dakkareth

Curse you, Shemeska, for making me stay up so long. Curse you for making me search through ebay, trying to acquire Planescape material in print (and spending way too much money). Curse you for making me write long-winded fiction in bad English. Curse you, Shemeska for making me stay up this long!







Please don't stop .


----------



## Ryltar

As an aside:

[very minor WotSQ spoiler ahead - nothing serious, though.]


Spoiler



I just got Resurrection in the mail yesterday, it being the final book in the War of the Spider Queen series (which, thus far, I rather liked). The book itself is nice, though there's this one thing ...

... see, it's got 'loths in it. And while I usually dig Paul Kemp's work, their appearance in Resurrection is rather ... ugh. Khalas got renamed to Calaas (coolness going way up, eh?), the Oinoloth is named Kexxon (I wonder if his vileness is rated in barrels?), and the Yugoloths are evil only in a "I decorate my walls with dead people" kind of way.

I'm about 3/4 through now. Maybe it'll get better toward the end ... but this portrayal of 'loths alone makes me appreciate this SH so much more. Thanks again, Shemeshka.



You can find a sample Loth chapter - Chp. 1 - at O Love's page.


----------



## Shemeska

Ryltar said:
			
		

> As an aside:




Paul also had yugoloths generating from larvae, which they don't, ever, so I think it safe to assume that while he may have given a tip of the hat to 'loths, he didn't read previous material in much depth before he wrote what he did. The sentiment was appreciated, but I'm still going to laugh at the 3e FR cosmology.


----------



## Ashy

You and me both, Shemmy, you and me both.


----------



## Shemeska

Ashy said:
			
		

> You and me both, Shemmy, you and me both.









Now we just need for me to win the lottery and start building a massive amount of Hasbro stock, or just buy WotC from Hasbro all at once. And then, to quote ol' Duke Rowan, "Things will change when I'm in charge."

*grin*

Wishful thinking, but good wishful thinking. 

But regardless, I've got this week's storyhour update finished for this SH, but #2 won't be finished since I've got two seperate games to run this weekend and been busy with research this week. Will update #2 next week.


----------



## Clueless

You laugh. But I do have plans if I ever win one. Which reminds me- I need to check how the lotto bill is going in NC's legislature.

Oh - and preliminary heads up to the two of you: http://www.planewalker.com/forums/viewtopic.php?t=654

A sort of 'warm up' thread...


----------



## Shemeska

“Don’t touch anything…” Florian said, directing her statement to Nisha, Clueless, and Skalliska.

	“Hey, they killed a marut, I can’t exactly complain about whoever built this place.” Nisha said as she did a quick impression of an inevitable, and then an inevitable keeling over dead.

	“What exactly did Maruts enforce?” Toras asked the others as he examined the jagged, rent metal at the point where the marut’s neck had been. “I know that inevitables are pretty much mindless constructs who go out with specific orders in order to punish people who break specific universal laws.” 

	Nisha stuck out her tongue.

	“Death.” Tristol said. “Everything is supposed to die eventually. That’s a natural thing and people who cheat death for any reason risk a marut coming after them to remedy the situation. This one failed…”

	“I’d say so.” Clueless said as he moved around the room to avoid the dead construct.

	“The delicious oh irony.” Nisha quipped in scramblespeak right into the marut’s insensate ear.

	“Don’t taunt the dead Nisha,” Florian said.

	“For the second time in a day or so: He’s dead, he doesn’t care. And if he gets back up, the manifest irony will kill me anyways.”

	“Anyway, there’s nothing else here, and I can’t find any traps or passages. So let’s go ahead and move.” Skalliska said to the others.

	Clueless was bothered though, “If maruts are supposed to make sure people die when they should, might it be safe to assume that its target might still be walking around somewhere? Down here?”

	Florian glanced at her holy symbol, “Let’s not think about that too much.”

	Fyrehowl and Tristol both stood looking into the next room, or what they could see of it through a short, connecting hallway. Fyrehowl was tensed and Tristol’s tail was bottlebrushed.

	“…what?” Clueless asked warily.

	“It’s not too late to turn back is it?” Tristol asked.

	As they gazed into the next room, nearly thirty statues of Dabus stared back at them. Each was carved in immaculate detail, but each in a different shade of stone. Only a thin border of stone surrounded the field of statues.

	“And we find a pattern: don’t touch anything.” Florian said with a poke into Nisha’s ribs.

	“No such thing as patterns.” Nisha added defiantly.

Florian chuckled, “Ok, patterns or not, we all scoot around the edge of the room and nobody touches and of Fell’s petrified, retarded cousins. Deal?” 

	None of them disagreed in the slightest. And so, one by one, they slowly worked their way around the room and to the single exit on the other side. Once they were all collected together at the exit they gave one last disturbed glance at the Dabus collection and then continued on.

	As they turned the corner, the hallway opened into a small, featureless white chamber with only two objects in view: a single chair and a hovering chessboard complete with all the pieces for a new game.

	“Told you so.” Nisha said with a smirk. “So much for don’t touch anything.”

	“No exit.” Skalliska quipped.

	“Who can play chess?” Toras asked as he indicated with a face that his own skill might not be up to snuff.

	“I can play wizards chess, but it’s not completely the same game.” Tristol ventured.

	The others glanced around and shook their heads.

“Better than the rest of us.” Clueless said as he pulled out the chair for Tristol to sit down on.

Tristol raised his eyebrows and took a deep breath before he sat down on the chair. As he did so the board slowly turned to orient itself with the white pieces facing him.

“Alright, white is mine. Guess I’ll be going first.” The aasimar said as he reached out with his index finger paused above one of his queen’s pawns.

He moved the pawn forward and immediately one of the black pawns slid silently across the board to block and oppose his move. Tristol furrowed his eyebrows and considered his next move. It was a slightly different game than he was used to playing, but it was still chess at its most basic and he knew how to play. However he was out of practice and it was really going to depend on how good the unseen other player was.

Tristol brought a knight into play and a black bishop slid across the board in turn. Another pause and then he moved his queen out, followed several turns later by a king’s rook. Pieces were traded in turn largely for no advantage but then the mage managed to capture one of the white bishops without losing a piece or compromising his position.

“Looks like you’ve got an opening there Tristol.” Florian said.

The aasimar nodded sagely, but his ears twitched with nervousness and his tail was tapping against one of the legs of his chair. Clearly he was still worried despite his momentary gain against his opponent.

“So I do. I still don’t know what happens if I lose though…”

Florian paused and looked concerned, “Sh*t. Yeah you’re right.”

Meanwhile Skalliska was suddenly looking up towards the ceiling for any traps. There were none, but it didn’t wholly alleviate her nerves.

“Check.” Tristol said as he threatened the black king with a bishop.

The black king saved itself by moving a pawn to block the way. However Tristol’s next move removed one of its knights from play. From that point on the game was largely over. Tristol lost a rook but took the black queen in the process and slowly ground the other side down to little more than a surrounded king when he finally called out, “Checkmate.”

As soon as Tristol finished the game the board drew back several inches and a doorway appeared in the far wall opposite them where none had previously stood. Tristol had won and so they had their way forward; hopefully they had their way out.

	The next chamber was dark and cavernous, home to a giant planar orrery and models of the various planes of existence. The only illumination came from the glowing crystalline details of each of the planes, and each seemed to rotate in turn, allowing them to gaze at them in a slow progression of details. However as they gazed at the crystal, steel and bejeweled representations of the planes and their layers, something wasn’t quite normal about it.

	“Arcadia still has three layers up there.” Skalliska stated, pointing at the layer which had in the past decade been sent hurtling into Mechanus by the misguided actions of the Harmonium.

	“That’s not the only one. Some of them have layers missing, or extra layers. Some of the layers of planes are given slightly different names even. This thing is sodding old…” Fyrehowl said with admiration.

	Clueless was staring at the mist filled interior of a globe that represented the trackless sea of the ethereal. Deep within its depths, jewels hovered and danced, representations of the demiplanes that dotted the ethereal depths like foam upon an endless ocean shore. And then two of the demiplanes moved, drawing close to the surface and then retreating: One of them was black and shadowy with tendrils of black mist trailing like tendrils across the space to the globe that represented the prime material. A sense of dream emanated from it and skeletal faces seemed to press and strain against its glassy surface.

	The other was glimmering and double sided, one luminous and golden, the other dim and silvered. Clueless grinned as he looked into that particular globe and felt a sensation of fey laughter echo from within, at once both alluring and whimsical and also bitter and contemptuous: home.

	“Well, at least nothing is leaping out to kill us.” Florian said as she glanced at the door on the other side of the chamber.

Tristol nodded, “Aye. And as much as I might love to just sit here and scribble down some notes on the differences between this and the planes as they are now, we don’t have the time to spare really. A shame.”

As they left the dimly lit chamber and its model of the planes, the exit led them to an intersection of two hallways. They glanced down each of the three possible exits but they snaked out of sight and no real detail could be garnered without actually venturing down them. Nisha glanced at Fyrehowl, wondering if the lupinal had any feelings one way or the other about the choices.

“Not a clue. Do your thing and pick randomly. That’s probably about the best we can do.” The cipher replied with a shrug.

“We go right!” The Xaositect said as she went to the left.

Clueless chuckled as he and the others followed her down the corridor. They didn’t walk far however as the hallway ended at a sealed doorway less than fifty feet later.

The door was made of gilded wood and carved with an ornate passage. Several glyphs were also cut into the surface at seemingly random points along with faded paintings of ashen men and women who all seemed to be asleep. Skalliska walked up to the door and narrowed her eyes, glaring down her snout at the symbols.

“Ok, I recognize them. But damn they’re old.” She said without touching the door.

“What’s it say?” Tristol said, equally recognizing the singularly antique quality of the dialect of draconic used in the passage.

Skalliska paused and read over it once more, then spoke the passage to the others aloud, “Sleep long and sleep silently Brothers of the Dreaming, lest you awaken and tempt the Bladed One to end your immortal days.”

A silence descended over the group and Toras was already backing away from the door. The mention of ‘Bladed One’ in the context of their current location was simply too much to expect any of them to actually venture past the door, whatever was behind it. Quickly, and without a glance back, they all walked back to the intersection and took one of the other routes.

Tristol glanced at Skalliska, “Any idea of who or what a ‘Brother of the Dreaming’ is or was?”

The kobold shook her head, “Not a clue. Sure I’m curious, but given what the door said I’m not willing to break it down just to satisfy my curiosity.”

“Effective warning then…” Florian said with a chuckle. “Just add that on your tomb if you’re buried in Sigil and you can be sure that no berk is going to break into it.”

“I don’t plan on dying of old age in Sigil.” Toras said with a pat of his hand on his sword.

“I don’t plan on dying of old age anywhere. I can’t.” Fyrehowl said.

“I don’t plan on dying at all!” Clueless said.

	A minute later they all ascended a staircase and emerged into the very center of a much larger room; and it was far from empty. Radiating outwards from them in a pattern seemingly modeled after the Great Wheel were statues, nearly a hundred in all, each in perfect, lifelike detail. Archons, guardinals, eladrin, modron, slaadi, and all of the fiends and the lesser examples of the natives of the planes all stood in stony glory within the vaulted chamber, all staring at them.

	“Creepy…” Florian said.

	“Wow. I don’t recognize all of these even.” Tristol added.

	Toras and Clueless drew their swords. “Not taking chances on if any of these are alive…”

	And indeed, most of the figures seemed to have been carved in poses most befitting their nature, some even as if they might have been caught and transmuted to stone or metal. And then Florian touched a statue of a vrock…

	“Sh*t!” She screamed as the fiend was immediately enveloped in a flash of light, burst into motion and lunged at her with a murderous shriek.

	Heads snapped and weapons were suddenly drawn as the Tanar’ri howled in rage and raked its claws across the cleric’s midsection. Far from a statue, the thing had either been turned to stone or simply been held in some form of temporal stasis, preserved like an insect in amber through the long years.

	Rising up with a crimson swath spattered across its wings, the fiend was enveloped in a cone of bitter cold from Fyrehowl’s outstretched hand and ragged beam of energy from Tristol. It screamed in mindless pain and rage as the spells blasted it free from its bloody quarry and dashed it across the floor. When it died it did not revert to stone; it was an actual vrock.

	“Holy breasts of Sharess! What in the name of Tempus was that for?!” Florian bellowed out from the floor, looking at the battered corpse of the fiend. “No! Seriously!  That was a sodding statue!”

	Toras helped her up from the floor and healed most of the wound across her torso. Florian whispered an incensed prayer to Tempus and finished the job as she glanced in irritation, and then wariness at the multitude of statues that dotted the chamber. The others immediately jumped to the same unhealthy conclusion.

	“Oh hells…” Clueless said as he stepped back from a perfect representation of a Glabrezu.

	“Every sodding one of these. Cr*p…” Skalliska whispered with wide eyes as she glanced at the cold marble form of a Gelugon that towered over her less than two feet away.

	Nisha shook her head, “Not all of them.”

	“Why do you say that?” Tristol asked.

	“Because nothing happened when I threw myself into the arms of the incubi statue over there. Hey, forbidden love and all, and it’s not like I’m crazy enough to try the real ones. Too deadly, and they’re the type of guys who never go for second dates.” Nisha said with a pout as she gave the seductive looking statue a smack on its rear.

	Toras blinked, speechless.

	“There’s protection for that sort of thing you know.” Clueless said abruptly.

	Toras blinked again.

“…or so some Sensates have told me.” The half-fey added quickly.

Fyrehowl snickered as she glanced at the various celestials and fiends, half tempted to touch the guardinals. However she held back, unsure as she was as to if they might be controlled by magic even if they were actual members of her race held in stasis.

	“Ok. So some of them are real and some of them are just statues. Some of them are made of gold, silver and other valuables. Thief bait and curiosity killers… cute.” Florian said with a shake of her head.

	“Yeah yeah yeah… don’t touch anything…” Nisha said with a pout.

Meanwhile, Tristol was glancing at the fiend statues with a perplexed look on his face. “I don’t really recognize all of them though. There are some of the statues on the Baatezu side that aren’t actual fiends that I know of. There’s a nupperibo, and then one of them with tentacles, and one larger than that with… spikes… sprouting out of its back.”

The mage motioned to the bloated forms of those fiends, and how the Baatezu near to them seemed antagonistic in pose and expression. The archons cattycorner to them also seemed posed defensively; it all made little sense.

Clueless was glancing at the gleaming metallic forms of the various Rilmani, largely at the golden face of the aurumach and the silver of the argenach.

“Heh. Never seen any of them before. Heard of them, but never seen them.”

Skalliska glanced up at them, “You probably won’t either. Argenachs are supposed to always go around in disguise, and most Rilmani will probably never see an aurumach. That’s what the golden ones are called.”

	And then the curious silence was broken by a sudden, “What the hell?…”

	All eyes suddenly focused on Fyrehowl.

	“What the hell is that –thing-?” Fyrehowl asked as she pointed to a looming figure that stood mostly in shadow behind the collected figures of each of the yugoloth subtypes.

	It was carved of sickly gray marble that was streaked with imperfections, spots and minute flaws that gave it a tired, aged, decrepit appearance. It had a smug grin across its skeletal, vaguely reptilian or goat-like muzzle, and sunken, dead white eyes. Its arms were raised dramatically, and given the source of illumination in the chamber, the light streaming down through the dusty air gave it the appearance of holding puppet strings that trailed down to the yugoloths that stood in front of it.

	“What kind of yugoloth is –that-?” The lupinal asked.

	If a fiend could look old, ancient by comparison to the others, this one did. It was carved in a marble whose patina of spots and inclusions seemed like age spots and open sores across its sallow, parchment thin hide. Standing, cloaking in shadow as it was, it was heads above the other ‘loths and exuded a palpable menace simply by its posturing.

	“For the love of Tempus himself, don’t touch it.” Florian said as they gathered around the base of the figure and examined a phrase carved into the marble base that it stood upon.

_And do as thou wilt shall be the whole of the law._

***​


----------



## Dakkareth

I claim first post!

Fun, fun, fun ... good thing nobody touched other statures during the fight. Except Nisha that is, but she's always the exception. Except when she isn't .


----------



## Lobo Lurker

SWEET!  The groups first encounter with a baernoloth I take it?

Question for the players: Did you guys/gals ever figure out just who/what Vorkanis the Ebon actually was? (yes/no will suffice).


----------



## Shemeska

Lobo Lurker said:
			
		

> SWEET!  The groups first encounter with a baernoloth I take it?




"It's only a model."

First time they've been aware that they exist, though this one is just a statue and not the real thing.



> Question for the players: Did you guys/gals ever figure out just who/what Vorkanis the Ebon actually was? (yes/no will suffice).




Yes.


----------



## Gez

The whole chess part reminded me of... Harry Potter. From "I play Wizards' chess" to the door opening. 

You should update the thread title to tell it's been updated today!

Like the Rabelais reference, although I'm not sure what it's doing there exactly. Foreshadowing by the narrator about the headless actions of Nisha?


----------



## Shemeska

Gez said:
			
		

> You should update the thread title to tell it's been updated today!




Done! *grin* Thanks for the reminder.



> Like the Rabelais reference, although I'm not sure what it's doing there exactly. Foreshadowing by the narrator about the headless actions of Nisha?




Rabelais? *ears perk*


----------



## Gez

"And do as thou wilt shall be the whole of the law" is the common English translation of the full content of the Book of Law of the Abbey of Thélème -- a fictionnal place described in _Gargantua_, chapter 55.

Here's the relevant excerpt, in all its barely-understandable-even-for-me "Olde Frenche" glory (as written in year 1534):

Toute leur vie estoit employé non par loix, statuz ou reigles, mais scelon leur vouloir & franc arbitre. Se levoient du lict quand bon leur sembloit: beuvoient/ mangeoient/ travailloient/ dormoient quand le desir leurs venoit. Nul ne les esveilloit/ nul ne les parforceoyt ny à boyre/ ny à manger/ ny à faire chose aultre quelconques. Ainsi l'avoit estably Gargantua. En leur reigle n'estoit que ceste clause. Faictz ce que vouldras.​
In modern English, this gives: _"Their whole life was governed not by law, status, or rules; but according to their free will. They rose from bed when they felt it fine; drank, ate, worked and slept when they desired it. No one was watching them, nor forcing them to drink, nor eat, nor to do anything. As was established by Gargantua, in their law was only this rule: “do as you will”."_


----------



## Toras

Naw, as I remember it, Shemmy was quoting Crowley.  That was one of many quotes from deverse sources like the Bible, Stalin, and Crowley.


----------



## Shemeska

I was quoting Crowley since I'm fairly familiar with him. Besides, it fits the 'loth ethos so very well. But now I know where he was probably pulling that from originally.


----------



## Ashy

IMC, there's an arcanoloth named Crowley...  Crowleian'crucius, actually...but he goes by Crowley.  My players hated him!


----------



## Gez

Looking around the web for Crowley, yes, indeed he himself quoted good old Rabelais.
http://tim.maroney.org/CrowleyIntro/Do_What_Thou_Wilt.html
http://www.gaiaguys.net/Crowley-biography.htm

The latter link features an English version of the excerpt I quoted, except it's numbered Chapter 57 rather than Chapter 55.


----------



## Ryltar

This update rocketh mightily. Yessir.


----------



## demiurge1138

There's a 'loth named Crowley? That's pretty cool.

And yes, that was an awesome update. I especially like the description of the baernoloth's outstretched arms and the dust giving it the air of a puppeteer. Creepy...

Demiurge out.


----------



## Clueless

He wasn't expecting anyone at the table - save maybe me - to get the reference. Instead he read it out loud and there was this... silence... as everyone gave him the hairy eyeball.


----------



## Hellraider

*Traslation*

By "stone well" -W, I think he meant a stone well without water, but what`s the +O? Oxygen? Oxymoron? Oh my god, run the hell away? Ozone? Ozzie? Ombligo? Olor a podrido? Or "Open plot hook"?


----------



## demiurge1138

According to Milori's _Dabus-Common Phrasebook_, "Well-W+O" is Rebus-speak for "hello". It's phonetic.

Demiurge out.


----------



## Gez

Oh, the dabu. I forgot about him and was wondering what hellraider was talking about.

Using Well-W is more friendly than using hell, even if hell+o would have been graphically more exact.


----------



## bluegodjanus

Shemeska said:
			
		

> Now we just need for me to win the lottery and start building a massive amount of Hasbro stock, or just buy WotC from Hasbro all at once. And then, to quote ol' Duke Rowan, "Things will change when I'm in charge."




Buying WotC? I live about 40 miles south of their HQ. Need anybody there abducted for "re-education"?


----------



## demiurge1138

Gez said:
			
		

> Oh, the *dabu*. I forgot about him and was wondering what hellraider was talking about.



 Emphasis mine.

In the words of the dabus (another except from the _Dabus-Common Phrasebook_), "Awl+C Meat-T A 'Dog-G Boot-T' Egg+N Hand-H Isle Kilt-T Ewe".

Ahh... I love Uncaged.

Demiurge out.


----------



## Krafus

Heh heh, nice statue in the latest update... I wonder would have happened had one of the players touched it? A TPK doesn't sound implausible...


----------



## Shemeska

Krafus said:
			
		

> Heh heh, nice statue in the latest update... I wonder would have happened had one of the players touched it? A TPK doesn't sound implausible...




That one was just a statue. About half of the statues where actual creatures in temporal stasis or turned to stone, and the other half were normal statues with illusory componants to demonstrate their nature in life. However it wasn't always the weak ones that were the real thing held in stasis.


----------



## Dakkareth

... if it wasn't, just WHAT would have put the spell on it?


----------



## Shemeska

Dakkareth said:
			
		

> ... if it wasn't, just WHAT would have put the spell on it?




You'll find out as this arc develops


----------



## Aneul

Dakkareth said:
			
		

> ... if it wasn't, just WHAT would have put the spell on it?




My geuss (Likely incorect) is whatever killed the Marut probably also bespelled the various exemplars in that chamber. Killing a marut is no mean feat, and neither is placing a powerful fiend in stasis, and there are not all that many beings out there which could do either or both (assuming that both cases are the work of an individual, and yes, I know that there are actualy a ton of beings capable of that sort of thing, but given the size of the planes, they are proportionaly uncommon).


----------



## Shemeska

*Take a look into my bag of wonders, I'll pull out something special just for you...*

“Tempus doesn’t need to worry because I’m not going near that thing…” Nisha said as she backed away from the statue of the Baernaloth.

	Clueless glanced at Tristol and then Tristol glanced at Fyrehowl, but none of them had any knowledge of what type of yugoloth the statue was meant to represent. But even without that knowledge, the _thing_ gave them a cold feeling.

	“It isn’t a real one, there’s no dweomer on it.” Tristol said as he peered at the largest of the yugoloth statues with relief in his voice. “That ones just a statue.”

	“Still doesn’t answer what it actually is though. One of the unique ‘loths? A former Oinoloth maybe? I guess it kind of looks like Anthraxus…” Florian mused.

	“Not sure, but that little refrain does seem to summarize their nature… rotten hearted little bastards…” Clueless stated.

	“I don’t recognize some of the … things… mixed in with the Baatezu either. And I don’t have any intention of touching them to find out anything.” Tristol said.

	“Alright…” Skalliska said as she glanced at the exit, “Shall we forgo any mammalian curiosity to do something dangerous and dumb and perhaps start moving again?”

	Toras smiled and patted the kobold on the head as he walked past her to the exit. She nipped her teeth at the air.

	As they walked into the next chamber their sense of dread vanished and was replaced with an equal amount of amazement and wonder. The ‘room’ was a corridor, really a walkway, which hung suspended through the center of a massive model of the torus of Sigil itself. Each of the streets, all of the buildings and even the razorvine was modeled down to the last cobblestone. And the model was slowly rotating to give those standing on the walkway a chance to examine every one of the wards in turn.

	“Whoa…” Clueless said with a giddy grin.

	They all stared transfixed with the level of detail on the diorama, and then they noticed suddenly that the city was crawling with illusory figures of the inhabitants: tieflings, humans, fiends, celestials, rogue modrons, and all the others right down to the dabus patching holes in the roads. Enraptured by the tiny moving figures making their way through the city they realized that it was a living model of Sigil as it currently existed. The illusory people were doing the same things that their real counterparts were doing in the actual City of Doors.

	“Oh cool! There’s Kylie the Tout!” Nisha said with a giggle as she pointed to the ubiquitous guildmistress of the Tout’s guild as she strolled through the Lower Ward.

	“Hmm…” Clueless said as he pointed up towards the tiny sign outside A’kin’s shop several streets over. “I wonder if you can see inside the shop and find out what he’s really up to?”

	Florian laughed, “Yeah just pop the roof off and look in. Probably catch A’kin taking a bath or feeding starving kittens or something amusing like that. He’s a nice guy.”

	Fyrehowl gave a wry grin, “He’s different. I’ll grant him that.”

	They chuckled some and continued to glance around at the various wards of the city, every so often managing to pick out notable individuals of the city. However they did notice two things: there was no figure of The Lady present at all regardless of how many times the city rotated around them. They passed it off as probably a good thing. And then there was the fact that the Dabus seemed to look up at them as they watched them working…

	Nervous glances were exchanged.

	“Maybe it’s just something enchanted into the magic of the model?” Clueless mused nervously.

	“Creepy. Very.” Florian said.

	Nisha squealed and pointed at the tiny illusory figure of Factol Rhys as she walked out of a building in The Lady’s Ward. The tiefling waved at the factol with a giggle, and then the tiny figure of Rhys paused and looked around as if she had noticed or felt that she was being observed. Nisha immediately stopped and looked over to Fyrehowl.

	Fyrehowl smiled and had a similar look of amazement in her expression as she answered, “I wouldn’t put it past her to have noticed that. The last time someone tried to assassinate her she acted to stop it before the berk had released the arrow from his bow. She just stepped out of the way of one, caught another and kept right on talking to the people she was with. She doesn’t think about it, she just acts instinctively, and she feels that all the time. You’ve seen me go into a trance. Rhys never leaves that state of mind.”

	Nisha nodded, but the idea that the model might have some actual connection to the city and its inhabitants had made them wary of looking at it too closely. After a few more minutes of looking and then gleefully finding their own inn and the spelljammer sticking out of its roof they smiled proudly and passed through the model and out the exit.

	Ahead, the passage branched in two directions, and much to Nisha’s content the group chose one of them at random to proceed down. Moments later they discovered that the other passage sealed itself off the moment they had made their choice.

	“Lovely. So much for going back if we don’t like this one.” Skalliska muttered as they continued.

	They walked for several more minutes and noticed a slight dip in the ambient temperature, and then a slight trace of moisture on the floor as they approached a larger room at the corridor’s end.

	“Fog?” Toras asked with a perplexed expression.

	“The hell with the fog. I smell trees…” Fyrehowl said with a sniff at the air. “Evergreens.”

	And sure enough, the corridor opened into a massive, dimly lit natural cavern that resembled nothing so much as a forest plucked up from a prime world and deposited inside an underground labyrinth. The ground was no longer stone but thick, moist, dark soil. Mist cloaked the ground and the thick verdant treetops rose out of sight above them. The air was moist and fresh but cold, and outside of the trees there were no other signs of life. A true forest would have contained the sounds of small animals, birds, insects and the like, but all was silence as cold as the fog that shrouded the trees up to knee height.

Clueless was grinning like a fool. “Well damn, this is just impressive. Whoever set this up, I mean, they had to provide for actual water down here and I’ll presume that there’s a day/night cycle in here as well.”

	“It’s trees. Nothing special, they’ve got some stunted ones in the elf ghetto in Sigil. Big deal.” Skalliska said with a bored tone to her voice.

	“Actually, yes it is special.” Clueless quipped back as he walked over to the nearest stand of massive pines. “Because if you’ll excuse me for a few minutes, I’m going to talk to the trees.”

	“Talk to the trees? Huh?” The kobold said with confusion.

	Tristol chuckled, “He’s part fey.”

	The grinning half-fey walked over to a cluster of trees and sat down next to them, looking up into their branches. Since he had lost his memories to the yugoloths he hadn’t had the opportunity to use his innate ability to converse with trees till now.

	“Hello there.” Clueless said as he called out to the pines with his mind, making the connection with them as he laid his hands on the trunk of the closest tree.

	“Hello.” The trees answered back collectively.

	“I didn’t expect to find a forest down here, it’s very nice. I was wondering if you knew anything about this place or what things you might have seen before down here.” Clueless asked them.

	“It has been a long time since anyone came through here except for the two. You are the first in a very long time. It is good to see you here. Welcome.” The trees responded back.

	“Two? Who are they?” He asked curiously.

	“The tall one, the Holder of the Keys. And the little one, his servant, the one who tends to us, takes care of us, brings us those who come here.”

	“Brings you…?”

	“Food. Sustenance. Richness of the soil.”

	“Hmm? What was that?” Clueless asked them back.

	“Those who have passed through here before. They come back to us. The little one brings them back. They nourish our roots.”

	Clueless paused suddenly, a cold feeling rising at the edges of his mind as he pondered what the trees were telling him.

	“Show me if you can.” Clueless said to the trees, half wanting to know and half dreading the answer.

	A series of sensations flooded into his mind from the trees. The disjointed memories and sensations were slowly filtered into images by his mind and he watched from the perspective of the trees as something approached them out of the fog. It was small, perhaps half the height of a human and dressed in a hooded robe under which no details could be seen. And it was dragging something behind it, something the trees were happy to have delivered to them. The small figure seemed to slither across the ground without any motion under the robes to suggest walking, and it began to bury what it had carried: an elf, its face frozen in a look of horror in death, mangled almost beyond recognition.

	Clueless jumped at the images as the tiny figure pushed the corpse down into the earth, feeding the trees nourishment that was otherwise absent in their isolated ecosystem. Its long, heavy sleeves gave no indication of arms or a distinct form. It was almost fluid in how it moved…

	As the images faded from his mind, Clueless looked down at where he was sitting. The soil was thick and rich with organic material, and what he had originally taken to be stick, cones or pebbles in the soil were in fact bones, hundreds of them. The ground was littered with them including a series of phalanges sticking up out of the earth where the hand of some previous unfortunate had been buried to nourish the trees.

	“We’re leaving. Now!” Clueless jumped up from where he was sitting and gave a worried look at the mounds of earth that surrounded each of the trees in the forest whose purpose and origin he knew all too well.

	“What?” Florian asked as the others gave worried glances at the bladesinger’s sudden change in attitude and expression.

	“Don’t ask. You don’t want to know. This place was designed as a deathtrap.”

	Clueless pointed to the bones scattered within the soil of the forest and then without comment made for the exit door at the far end of the cavern. The others noticed with obvious discontent and quickly followed as fast as they were able.

	“The trees were hoping that we were going to be more fertilizer.” The half fey said while they proceeded up the passage and left the cold chill of the wood behind them.

	“Evil trees?” Nisha asked with a weird expression.

Clueless shook his head, “No, just pragmatic. There’s no real ecology down here, so whatever poor berks died down here in the past ended up getting buried for mulch in there to keep the forest alive; creepy but practical. Whoever made this place though…”

	Ahead of them again the passage branched and they took the left fork. Several hundred feet later it ended abruptly at a set of polished wooden doors. Muffled sounds of laughter and revelry could be heard through them. Confused glances were exchanged.

	Nisha flicked her tail side to side and mused, “And now is when Jeremo pops out and goes, ‘Haha! It was aaaallll a joke! Hehehe!’ ?

	“Oh if only…” Clueless said with a hopeful grin.

	“I’d kill him.” Toras stated with a chuckle.

	“Remind me never to play any jokes on Toras from now on.” Nisha whispered to Fyrehowl.

	“You just don’t take jokes that well.” Florian said to the fighter. “Lighten up some.”

	“Oh I’d laugh at it yes. But I’d also be hacking him apart at the same time. Jokes don’t include rats trying to fry my brain like a cracked egg.” Toras said with a firm smile as he opened the doors.

	Beyond the doors was no dungeon, no passage, no trapped chambers of death and dismemberment. Beyond the doors was a massive grand ballroom decorated in an antique style that would have put to shame the chamber that Jeremo had held his own party within.

	“What the hell?” Florian said as she looked at the figures within.

	Nearly a hundred semi translucent people cavorted across the floor. Dancing in joyous revelry to put a Bacchanal to shame, they were dressed in rich but ancient and outdated clothing, easily centuries or more out of fashion for Sigil’s elite. They danced in rapture to the sounds of a translucent orchestra and they seemed to be aware of the entrance of guests.

	One of the translucent figures broke away from the dance and approached the group with a radiant expression. She twirled one and inhaled deeply from exhaustion as she strode up to Clueless.

	“More guests for the Jester’s high revelry. Welcome, all of you are welcome. The players are struck, the cups are a’high and we’ll not stop till the moon is broken ‘neath the bends.”

	Clueless smiled back at the woman who seemed to be some manner of aasimar. Her accent was _old_ and her version of Sigil’s cant was equally antique. Still, there was something about her that struck the half-fey as attractive.

	“Greetings m’lady. I would be pleased.”

	Fyrehowl protested as the bladesinger took the woman’s hand and began to dance with her to the tune of the translucent players. Other dancers called out to them to join in the dance but they resisted as best they could.

	“This isn’t right, whatever it is.” Fyrehowl said in muted tones to the others. “We need to get Clueless out of there and leave. This doesn’t feel right at all.”

	Clueless smiled at the woman as he took her hand and began to dance with her. Still, as much as he was enjoying himself he wasn’t sure why he did so so readily. It was as if he was watching himself laugh and chuckle and enjoy himself without actually being a part of it. And then he began to notice himself starting to fade into the consistency of the other dancers.

	The half-fey winced and tried to divorce himself from the sounds of the music, the laughter of his dance partner, and the shuffle of his feat to the spectral players. It was beguiling and it was seductive, but it wasn’t right. As he fought the effects of the dancers around him he became aware of the shouts of warning from his companions and then the trance was broken.

	“No! Come dance with us! Dance with us forever!”

	Clueless ignored the woman and stumbled back to his fellows as they made for the door on the other side of the spectral revelers. Clueless was nearly transparent but as they closed the door behind themselves and shut out the sounds of the music and laughter, he slowly regained his consistency.

	“You alright?” Florian asked Clueless.

	“Just too many weird things happening down here. I don’t like this place anymore.” He said as he shook with a cold feeling.

	“Heh. I could have told you that an hour ago.” Skalliska said with a frown.

The air grew warmer as they left behind the spectral dancers and their grand high revelry while Clueless regained his color and healthy pallor. They continued and eventually the passage branched into several other directions that they took at random. Very quickly they noticed that the quality of the stone was becoming more and more elaborate and the passages wider at the same time. Fyrehowl was also glancing over her shoulder at the oddest moments.

“What is it?” Clueless asked her.

“Just the weirdest sensation that something is following us…” The cipher replied.

Clueless shrugged as they turned another corner, and then he saw it. A tiny robed figure that turned its hooded face in their direction for a split second before it vanished around the bend in the passage. It was the same thing that he had seen in the memories of the trees. 

“What in the bloody hell was that?” Florian said as she held up her holy symbol, thinking it a wraith or specter of some manner. 

Clueless was about to explain what he had seen in the visions from the trees, but then he saw it again as it peered out from an intersecting corridor at them. Where its hand should have been on the wall, there was only its heavy sleeve and a mass of wriggling tentacles. The half-fey coughed, startled by the thing’s appearance and paled as it then walked, almost slithered, with unnatural speed across the corridor to vanish out of sight.

“Run. Run now.”

***​


----------



## shilsen

Shemeska said:
			
		

> “Run. Run now.”




They see a little guy with tentacles and start running? Shem - I think you're having a debilitating effect on your PCs


----------



## Clueless

... *bites tongue regarding what the thing is* 

On some level what's missing here is that Shemmie as a GM is *very very* good at heightening tension in a party. The Little One is very. Very. Disturbing.


----------



## Vurt

Sweet!  It's Mini-me.  With tentacles!

Cheers,
Vurt


----------



## demiurge1138

I like Little One. A lot. And I forgot to mention how happy the dark hints at the Ancient Baatorians in the statue room made me last installment; this one reminded me. 

Damn, I love this Story Hour.

Demiurge out.


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## Dakkareth

Better not take the chance, that the 'little one' might also be the one to have build all this. The cautious planewalker retreats .


----------



## Aneul

Dakkareth said:
			
		

> Better not take the chance, that the 'little one' might also be the one to have build all this. The cautious planewalker retreats .




My normal response to this would be somthing like "The cautious planewalker never has his name sung from every spiky rooftop and dripping gutter in the Cage by adoring hoards of Sigilians whilst he feasts on the fruits of his labour (unless, ofcource, he doese )" but, given that Shemeska is DMing this, I agree with you whole heartedly.


----------



## Shemeska

A bit of artwork in progress for NPCs of the storyhour that a friend of mine is working on. Here it is showing Helekanalaith and Shemeska. The artist isn't happy with it and she was pondering redoing it in its entirety, and I think she's crazy. Hele's head is slightly too small, but damn if it doesn't look fine otherwise.


----------



## shilsen

Shemeska said:
			
		

> A bit of artwork in progress for NPCs of the storyhour that a friend of mine is working on. Here it is showing Helekanalaith and Shemeska. The artist isn't happy with it and she was pondering redoing it in its entirety, and I think she's crazy. Hele's head is slightly too small, but damn if it doesn't look fine otherwise.




I'm with you. Very nice work.


----------



## Aneul

Shemeska said:
			
		

> The artist isn't happy with it and she was pondering redoing it in its entirety, and I think she's crazy. Hele's head is slightly too small, but damn if it doesn't look fine otherwise.




She's crazy, but then most gifted artists usualy are . Would that I could draw like that!


----------



## Shemeska

"Run. Run now."

And they did. The passage continued to grow more and more elaborate with stone replaced by marble and stained wood paneling like the grandest chambers of the Palace of the Jester. The ceiling of stone was replaced with high vaulted ceilings of crystal and stained glass through which light streamed down from above like simulated moonlight.

“What the hell is that thing?!” Tristol shouted as they dashed down the corridor blindly.

Clueless answered as they ran, “I don’t know. But I saw it in the memories the trees showed me. Whatever that thing was it was delivering bodies to the trees like a caretaker. It’s not human or anything else remotely close.”

	Five minutes of running later and they were noticing the same side passages reoccurring almost as if the corridors were herding them in a specific direction. The hallways continued to become more and more grand and nearly spotless without a speck of dust, age or decay. And then they saw it in the center of the widening passage.

	In the center of the corridor was a monument or tomb of some sort. A massive block of white marble topped with a life-like statue of a man cast in either bronze or iron in high relief. The block of stone seemed to lie atop and partially encase a massive oblong box or sarcophagus of black marble encircled with a set of seven silver or platinum bands, each sealed with an ornate iron and silver lock. The figure looming atop the apparent tomb was smirking at them in so lifelike a pose that they paused their run and stared at it.

	“What the hell?” Toras said as he looked at the statue of the man atop the tomb.

	“Wow, he’s taller than you are Toras.” Nisha said as she too looked at the statue.

	He was perhaps seven feet tall and dressed in an elaborate and archaic dark cloak and greatcoat that curled around his boots almost like a prosaic form of wizard’s garments, though the man’s build would have been more fitting upon a fighter. He stood ramrod straight, and in one hand he held a staff and in the other an open tome or codex. Looking up to his face, obscured above the nose under the edge of a wide brimmed hat, the man was charismatic in a way that Jeremo himself would be hard pressed to approach on the best of days. The man was smiling, smirking almost; a knowing look that could have held multiple meanings.

	Tristol was looking at the base of the statue and the words carved into the stone there: “The Lady’s Jester.”

	The base of the statue was carved with images of a tiny figure, draped in a heavy robe, its head cowled, and its arms folded patiently as if it were waiting. The form gave no true features, but they had already seen it and they knew that it was nothing natural. The figures all seemed to be staring at them ominously; and what more, as they circled the tomb each of them saw the statue always turned exactly towards them, its enigmatic smirk always looking down at them sardonically.

	Clueless broke away from staring at the face of the man whose gaze might have been equally at place in the parlors of Sigil or the courts of Baator.

	“That sounds like he, whoever he was, didn’t take that title from anyone. Wow, umm… well I think we know who built the Palace of the Jester.”

	“And this labyrinth.” Skalliska replied.

	“And…”  **CLICK**  Clueless trailed off as one of the silver and iron locks on the side of the sarcophagi popped open with a sudden, unnerving, and heavy click as it clattered discordantly to the marble floor.

	“…Nisha?” Clueless said without turning to look.

	“…not me.” Nisha replied almost immediately. She wasn’t even close to the tomb.

	“The lock is how many centuries old? Coincidence.”

**CLICK**

	All eyes went to the side of the sarcophagi where a second of the great silver locks had clattered to the floor untouched by any of them. They glanced at each other and then back up to the statue of The Jester, where for the first time they noticed the second figure that curled about the man’s ankles like a bizarre familiar: a small thing, dressed in a loose robe that covered its whole body except for the tentacles that sprouted from its open sleeves as it peered out from behind the leg of its master.

**CLICK**

	“…coincidence…” Skalliska said as she began to edge away from the sarcophagi and warily look up into the grinning face of The Jester.

	And then, without preamble, they saw the figure of a tall man, swathed in black standing some fifty feet away from them back down the way they had come. His face still largely shrouded by the brim of his hat, they could see the glimmer of teeth and that same enigmatic smile on the face of the statue that equally looked down upon them.

**CLICK**

	Three seals remained upon the casket when they turned and ran from the tomb and from the unmoving shade of the man who had constructed the Palace in the first place. As they ran they heard the remaining seals break and open in smooth, equally spaced sequence. They never looked back and they blindly ran, faster than when they had seen the man’s familiar, whatever it was.


***​

	Behind them the man smiled and chuckled to himself before reaching down to pat his hand across the cowled head of the smaller figure that had appeared next to him from out of nowhere. Like a favored pet it pressed into the gesture of affection and then soundlessly they both vanished, but the man was still darkly smiling with an interest that was now sparked and active.


***​

The air grew warmer as they ran and they soon noticed a dusting of sand across the floor that was crisscrossed by footprints. Further along there was more sand but there was no real way to determine how old they were. For all they knew they could have been millennia old or only a few hours.

Clueless glanced behind them as they momentarily slowed as the details of their surroundings changed.

“No sign that either of them is chasing us down. But for all I know they could just step out of the walls. I think we’re safe for the moment.”

	“Oh ouch…” Fyrehowl said as her keen eyes fixed on something in the center of the passage.

	“Hmm? Oh…” Florian said as she and the other noticed the same feature.

	Another trap, this one sprung already, stood before them with the corpse of its last victim still suspended upon it. A set of nine silvered pikes, glaives or spears stood upright with a corpse impaled on at least six of its points cleanly through the chest. The force of the pikes had lifted the deceased up to head height above the passage and the sand was discolored with its dried blood. The man had been bled to death from the puncture wounds, one of them probably going into his heart, aorta or other major vessel to spill pints worth of his blood across the sandy floor.

	They warily approached the corpse and glanced at it. The body wasn’t rotted or desiccated. Outside of being pale from blood loss the corpse was fresh. Toras looked over the body and commented on the man having been obviously a swordsman… and then the corpse twitched and opened its eyes.

	“Sh*t! It’s undead!” Toras shouted a second before driving his sword into the corpse.

	Blood dripped down the fighter’s sword, pulsing slightly from the fresh wound in the corpse… the man had been alive.

	“…” Toras pursed his lips and looked at the fresh blood on his sword. “Oh hells…”

	“He was alive?!” Fyrehowl blurted out.

	Tristol whispered a few words and glanced at the pikes the man had been suspended upon. They glowed a complex series of colors, difficult to understand, but the end result was definite.

	“So it would seem. He was alive. Barely. Those pikes were keeping him alive, healing him whenever he began to slip away.” The mage said with disgust.

	Toras grew pale.

	“Toras don’t feel bad. What you did was better than what he was going through.” Florian said as she put a hand on his shoulder.

	“And he was working for Jeremo…” Skalliska said as she picked up the man’s now dead and limp hand. There was a familiar signet ring on his finger, identical to those that they wore themselves. The man had been a member of the previous group the Ring Giver Factol had sent down into the depths of the palace.

	Florian glanced at the others for confirmation and then began to chant over the man’s corpse to invoke the power of her deity to bring him back to life. Moments later his corpse began to softly glow, there were the distant sounds of swords clashing upon shields and faint calls of warriors to battle and then he opened his eyes.

	“All the gods above bless you…” He began to cry as he whispered up to Florian and then to Toras, saying the same blessings over and over again. He had been at a state of death for days, conscious the entire time; the agony must have been unimaginable…

	“Who are you? Another of Jeremo’s hires?” Florian asked the man.

	He kissed her hand as she helped him to his feet. “Yes. My name is Jerimin Rovalis out of Fortitude; Jeremo hired some of my fellows and me and then put us in with another group. Sent us down here. I may be the last one alive though.”

	“What happened?” Clueless asked.

	“The rats.” He said with a distant voice and hollow eyes. “The rats were upon us almost immediately after the doors were sealed behind us. They swarmed and we ran. We lost the map soon after and then we lost track of each other as we blindly ran through this place. I haven’t seen the rats since I was pulled into this deathtrap.”

	The others nodded and glanced warily behind themselves back up the passage as something, a figure or the shadow of a figure seemed to cross paths with it further up. They could talk later.

	“We can talk later Jerimin. Nice to meet you, my name’s Florian and you’re with us till we all get out of here alive.” Florian slapped him on the back and flashed her ring from Jeremo.

	Jerimin nodded and asked them for a spare weapon if they had any to give to him. “I’m pulling my weight if I’m going along with you. You saved me and I want the change to repay that debt.”

	Toras nodded and handed him a spare blade, unremarkable but perfectly serviceable. Jerimin thanked him and they continued walking, though they soon regretted the act.

	The passage opened up into the basin of an arena, a subterranean coliseum strewn with sand and sawdust and dried blood: gladiators had lived and died here while those above in the stands had watched. Three massive portcullises stood in the marble walls of the area and atop walls thirty feet high stood rows upon rows of benches.

	The exit back out suddenly slammed shut as a glittering crystalline wall, not unlike a wall of force, flickered into existence and sealed off their only true point of egress. Then a low droning noise like the sound of a horn reverberated through the air of the arena and the stands were suddenly flooded with either the illusory images of or the specters of long dead spectators, citizens of Sigil dressed in archaic clothing, silently cheering or heckling those living or dying for their pleasure below.

	“Ah… sh*t…” Florian said as she glanced up at the laughing, jeering faces of the long dead amoral socialites of Sigil of old.

	Clueless was looking up too, and for a moment he would have sworn that he saw a single more substantive figure standing there among the crowd: a tall man in swathed in black and gazing down with that damning, knowing smile. And then he was gone, vanished like a figment of the imagination of a hunted man.

	The dust and sand that covered the arena floor began to stir and swirl with unseen currents of air and the three sealed gates swung wide and shimmered with the sudden activation of portals…

	From one of the portals emerged two creatures that seemed composed of living darkness. They had either two or three heads, a lashing tail or pair of tails, and they seemed to phase in and out of existence as they charged out of the portal with a dim reddish glow in their eyes.

	From the next portal came a glittering metallic beast wrought in steel or adamantine with the head a madman, the body of a twisted lion, and a tail that was studded with an exaggerated array of bristling spikes.

	Finally, from the third and largest gate, the one at the center of the opposite wall of the arena came an impossibly large figure. Standing partially hunched over, it still rose to triple Toras’s height with its cloven hooves the size of shields on their sides and its twisted bulls head making it look like some nightmarish Minotaur of the Abyss. A Goristro, one of the living siege engines of the Tanar’ri, it screamed a bellow wrought with rage and indiscriminate destructive anger as it charged.

	“Oh sh*t! They’ve got a Goristro?!” Tristol said unbelievingly as he launched into a flurry of spellcasting.

	“The shadow critters are mine. Fyrehowl and Toras you go for the Goristro and keep it away from the casters. Florian you smite anything that gets past us.” Clueless said as he flicked his wings and darted towards the pair of umbral creatures with his sword swinging and a spell upon his lips.

	Nisha darted to the side as Toras and Fyrehowl charged the Goristro in a valiant but perhaps unrealistic defiance of shear scale; the Tanar’ri was massive by comparison, but not for long. Florian didn’t charge with the cipher and the fighter, but instead called out a prayer to Tempus and hurled it at Toras who instantly doubled in size as the power of the cleric’s spell coursed through him.

	Clueless darted between the sporadic lashes of the shadow creature’s tail and slashed at one while hurling a bolt of lightning at the other. As the first of the pair jerked in the grip of the electricity it was also struck by a pair of explosive-tipped bolts from Skalliska who stood across the arena and out of immediate harms way.

	Tristol hurled a beam of pale green energy at the adamantine manticore and it struck dead on and burrowed a hole into the beast but failed to fully affect it, enraging the mechanical beast rather than killing it. Its human face snarled and glared at the wizard as its tail whistled through the air and loosed a volley of spikes not unlike javelins.

	Toras slammed into the Goristro and struck it a glancing blow with his sword as it punched its shoulder into his chest and sent him flying backwards. Fyrehowl slashed and hacked at its legs on the other side of it and left furrows and gouges in her wake across its hide before it aimed a kick for her that she narrowly avoided. The fiend’s blood rained down on the dusty floor of the arena but it only seemed to make the beast all the more rabid for slaughter. That was the case at least till a roaring column of holy fire descended down upon it from Florian’s outstretched hand.

	“Oh lord! Smite that unholy f*ck!” The cleric bellowed out at the top of her lungs with glee and holy conviction.

	Nisha meanwhile was somewhere dangerously on the other side of the Tanar’ri as it was engulfed in flames.

	Tristol and Skalliska dove for cover as the hail of spikes from the manticore shot through the air. Skalliska managed to avoid them but one of them, a ragged spike of silvery metal a foot long and an inch wide lodged in his thigh. The mage gritted his teeth and threw another spell at the mechanical beast, conjuring forth a wall of stone several meters high to block off its line of sight and sparing them from another such immediate attack.

	Meanwhile, one of the umbral beasts was dead and Clueless was slashing like a man possessed at the other despite having taken several bites and lashes from their heads and tails in the process. Another combination of spells and swordplay and the second was dead as well, and not a moment too soon as the manticore slunk with a predatory gleam in its glimmering eyes around the other side of the wall that had blocked it from the casters.

	Meanwhile Florian had turned her attention to healing Tristol’s wound as Toras, Fyrehowl, and the Goristro traded blows. The fighters jabbed their swords into the Tanar’ri’s flank as it gored them with its horns or swung at them with its hammer-like fists, and then it stumbled as one of its legs seemed to buckle and give way. Toras stepped back and swung at its suddenly unprotected chest, and Fyrehowl jammed her blade into its lung as it fell to one knee. Nisha darted out from behind the beast with her sword bloody and trailing remnants of the Goristro’s achilles tendon.

	“Gaaah!” Clueless shouted as the manticore let loose another volley of metallic spines to hurtle through the air.

	The bladesinger tumbled through the air as he tried to evade the deadly shower of spikes. He didn’t entirely succeed and several of them lodged in his side or grazed him through his layers of magical protection. He landed in a defensive crouch behind the corpse of one of the umbral beasts as the manticore came out fully into the open just as Toras and Fyrehowl finished off the Goristro.

	Florian charged the creature to avoid giving it the opportunity to fire off another cloud of spikes from its tail and the strategy seemed to work as it leapt at her, fiercely biting and clawing as she approached within range. It was then distracted as Fyrehowl and Toras charged it from its other side, joined moments later by a still injured Clueless. Still, despite their numerical advantage, the monstrosity was preternaturally quick despite being a construct and it seemed to resist the damage inflicted by most of their weapons that were all edged and did only marginal damage to its thick metallic hide.

	Minutes later, bloody and hurting, they finally inflicted enough damage upon the adamantine manticore that it collapsed, gave several spasms with a sound of metal against metal, and then lay still and motionless. They had it down but the cost was high given the multitude of wounds that it had been able to inflict upon them all and healing them all would likely drain Florian of most of her ability to heal all said and done.

	A low droning horn echoed out above the arena once more and the spectral crowd above them continued to jeer and silently mock them. 

	“Oh no… not more of this…” Fyrehowl said wearily as she and the others half expected more portals to appear for the purpose of belching forth more horrors against them.

Then, as one, the spectral crowd began to disperse from the stadium as a single portal, the one that had issued forth the Goristro, appeared in the arena and nothing leapt out to attack them. It seemed that they had passed whatever mocking test it had been, or at least they had survived and were simply being shunted off to some other portion of the labyrinth and the deathtraps that awaited them there. That said, they gave it only a moment’s thought however before they jumped through the portal.


***​

	Finally free of the arena and its jeering specters of some bizarre and malign fragment of Sigil’s past, they crept onwards through the passage as Florian slowly healed their wounds as they walked and limped along, finally glad to have a moment’s respite. 

Eventually as they progressed they found themselves standing within another chamber, this one roughly as large as the arena had been, but it was not thankfully another such trial. The huge chamber, which they seemed to have entered near the top, had a low ceiling that descended down into a depression by way of broad, shallow stairs ringing the room.

	In the center of the chamber, situated at the heart of the depression was a gigantic binding circle with a number of chains set into the stone of the floor with large iron rings. They appeared to be loose and unoccupied, the circle long since having been vacated.

	“Looks like something flew the coop.” Nisha said as she glanced at the chains on the floor. Something within her blood screamed at her that the chains were made of cold iron.

	“Can’t say I mind. Hell it might have been that Goristro actually.” Tristol said as they descended the steps.

	The chains rattled with subtle movement.

	“Or not…” Florian said as she paused her descent.

	Something like an electric crackle ran through the dry air of the chamber and the chains shifted as if an occupant was suddenly active and aware of their presence. There was a low, bestial growl and a serpentine hiss as something shimmered and faded into view within the circle, bound in the chains.

	The fiend was roughly 12 feet tall, heavily muscular and dressed in ornate bronze platemail with a sash of copper colored fabric and a long gray cloak. Its skin was a dusky red and its head was like that of a massive dire wolf while a second head like that of a equally monstrous serpent sprouted from its shoulders as well. Both heads turned to regard the group…


----------



## Shemeska

*"What can he do but lock his door and cry to God?"*

The Jester was originally a little bit of flavor I tossed in as an easter egg to myself, based on the works of M.R. James, specifically his story 'Count Magnus' . The character's base idea is straight from James' work, but anything else is my own, but no spoilers from me.

Clueless's player recognized this almost immediately given our shared taste in fiction.


----------



## Clueless

And he's still hot. 

(gift gif for shemmie)


----------



## shilsen

Shemeska said:
			
		

> In the center of the chamber, situated at the heart of the depression was a gigantic binding circle with a number of chains set into the stone of the floor with large iron rings. They appeared to be loose and unoccupied, the circle long since having been unoccupied.




I read this bit and my first thought was, "Yeah, riiiiight!"


----------



## Florian

Flamestrike for the win!

*blows sulfur residue off her fingers*


----------



## Gez

Oooohhh... A molydeus!

Took me a while to catch up with that update, and I still have to read the other SH's update now... I enjoyed Florian's prayer during the fight with the Goristro. 

Grammar nitpicking time (yay!):
Tristol hurled a beam of pale green energy at the adamantine manticore and it struck dead on and burrowed a hole into the beast but failed to fully *missing verb* it, enraging the mechanical beast rather than killing it. It’s *no, its* human face snarled and glared at the wizard as its tail whistled through the air and loosed a volley of spikes not unlike javelins.

The mage gritted his teeth and threw another spell at the mechanical beast, conjuring forth a wall of stone several meters high to block off its line of site *no, sight* and sparing them from another such immediate attack.​
That's all my sleepy eyes noticed.  (I can't help it. I should get a job as an editor...)


----------



## Shemeska

Gez said:
			
		

> That's all my sleepy eyes noticed.  (I can't help it. I should get a job as an editor...)




Fixed.


----------



## dal673

*Molydeus*

Great update!
BTW: what stats did you use for the Molydeus? This 2E Planescape critter isn't officially converted by WOTC, IIRC.

Anyway: I've found the following link with the 3.5E stats of a Molydeus:
http://www.enworld.org/cc/converted/view_c.php?CreatureID=750

Greetz,

DaL


----------



## Shemeska

dal673 said:
			
		

> Great update!
> BTW: what stats did you use for the Molydeus? This 2E Planescape critter isn't officially converted by WOTC, IIRC.
> 
> Anyway: I've found the following link with the 3.5E stats of a Molydeus:
> http://www.enworld.org/cc/converted/view_c.php?CreatureID=750
> 
> Greetz,
> 
> DaL




Why thank you 

I converted it on the fly, which for the most part is how I handle critters that haven't been converted yet or (in the case of the Molydeus) are likely to not be converted (the Klurichnir was a thinly veiled replacement). I'm not sure if I had stats written up in my original notes for that session or if I penned them in by hand the day or so before.


----------



## Krafus

All right, a fight! And a molydeus at the end... This should be interesting.


----------



## primemover003

the Klurichnir was garbage.  They should have done the Molydeus plain and simple.  Grrrr.


----------



## Arkhandus

Ack!  What is this?!?!!!?!?  I'm finally all caught up?!?!?!?!
*NNNNNNNNNNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!*

_*whimper of despair*_


----------



## dal673

*Klurichnir*



			
				Shemeska said:
			
		

> Why thank you
> 
> I converted it on the fly, which for the most part is how I handle critters that haven't been converted yet or (in the case of the Molydeus) are likely to not be converted (*the Klurichnir* was a thinly veiled replacement). I'm not sure if I had stats written up in my original notes for that session or if I penned them in by hand the day or so before.




What is a Klurichnir and in which book is it detailed (for 3E)?
Is it in your storyhour Shemeska?


----------



## demiurge1138

Klurichir are from the 3e Fiend Folio. They're lesser demon princes, with four arms and a mouth imbedded in their stomach. The concept was good, but the mechanics were shoddy. There's a good semi-conversion on these boards. Go to Homebrews, search for Pants' Demon/ Devil/ Yugoloth conversions, which also have a good interpretation of the molydeus.

Demiurge out.


----------



## Ryltar

Yep, I think it's in here somewhere , redubbed as the Klaruchar.


----------



## Shemeska

*No rest for the wicked*

No updates this week. I've been stuck in my lab past 10pm twice this week with some experiments, and I'll be visiting my family today and then I've got Clueless's graduation on Saturday. I'll post both SH's sometime next week. Plus I've been working on another of the Baern stories this week, so much to do and little time; no rest for the wicked indeed.


----------



## Shemeska

1) yes, update this week.

2) the other story that I'd been working on lately, is here. Another of the Baernaloths gets some detail, and no spoilers therein for the storyhour. Unless you count me numbering a few of The Demented. And they as a group obviously play a significant role in this campaign.

3) And I learned from that story that yes, the WotC boards have a character limit. Which I killed, cut up, and subsequently BBQ'd.


----------



## Dakkareth

Worth the wait, squared .


----------



## Shemeska

“Woah! Hello there…” Florian exclaimed as her hands went reflexively to her holy symbol and the handle of her axe.

Toras muttered under his breath, “Don’t look at the fiend children. Just ignore him. Smile and wave if you must, but keep walking.”

The Molydeus tilted its feral lupine head while its serpent head softly hissed and tasted them on the air with the rapid, grotesque, and obscene flicker of its tongue. It tasted weakness. It tasted uncertainty. It tasted fear. And it tasted opportunity.

“Greetings mortals…” The voice was the howl of a war dog and the grim orders of an executioner at once, inhuman and terrible.

“Greetings to you as well.” Tristol said, without lifting his eyes up from the elegant and intricately inscribed binding circle that contained the fiend. It was old and it was impeccable.

	“And who would you be?” Florian asked the beast.

	The wolven muzzle of the Molydeus lifted its black lips back in a difficult and forced smile as the serpent head lowered itself to the ground in humble greeting, still tasting the air.

	“I am Garthranix, one of the legion of the Molydeus, guardians of the Tanar’ri, enforcers of chaos and bloodshed of the lawful, prolongers of the Blood War.”

	“This isn’t a good idea…” Toras complained again, the second time loud enough for all of his companions to overhear.

	The ears atop the fiend’s primary head swiveled and perked in the fighter’s direction. It sneered.

	“Say nothing till you know the circumstances of what binds me here. I am bound here with words of iron and power, but I cannot starve. You are lost, you are tired, and you are only mortal… I can help you perhaps.”

	Toras and Fyrehowl scoffed, Clueless raised an eyebrow, Florian gave the fiend a wary look, Tristol paced around the circle without saying anything, and Nisha held onto Skalliska’s tail to stop her from walking off without the rest of the group.

	“How can you help us?” Clueless asked.

	The fiend nodded both of its heads and spread its hands in some manner of gracious gesture. “I am bound to not reveal the reasons or initial conditions of my binding here till I am free from the labyrinth and have guided another out of my own free will.”

	Garthranix rattled the massive iron chains at his wrists and ankles. “ I am also bound that I cannot free myself from my own chains. Another must voluntarily release me, in return for my aid or not, and that I must…speak the truth while bound here thusly. It is most …uncomfortable…”

	The fiend sneered at the very idea of being held truthful by magical means. It all seemed to sorely conflict with its chaotic mind.

	“So you can lead us out of this place if we release you?” Florian asked.

	“Yes.”

	“And you have to tell the truth while you’re bound in there?” Skalliska said before swatting at Nisha's hand on her tail.

	It rolled its wolf’s eyes and the serpent head yawned. “Again, yes.”

	“Then why do we even bother letting you out if we can just ask you how to get out of here and you have to answer truthfully?” Toras asked.

	The fiend smiled, “Because I could simply say nothing and watch you either starve, die of old age, or be slaughtered by any number of the beasts that roam these halls. And I would enjoy doing so to be perfectly honest.”

	“Oh…”

	Florian smacked the fighter in the back of the head.

	Clueless stepped forward till he stood at the boundary of the circle. “We let you out on the condition that you lead us out of this place and don’t harm us now or afterwards, nor do you hurt our relatives or descendants.” 

	“Agreed.” The fiend said without hesitation as the serpent head leaned closer with its tongue lashing the air like a master to a beast of burden.

	Garthranix leaned in closer towards the wizard and bladesinger, and very carefully and slowly asked them a question. “Do you break the boundary of the circle and remove my chains out of your own free will, devoid of magical compulsions or force? Do you free me by your own hands by choice?”

	Tristol looked at the runes of the circle, all of them wrought of iron and molded into slots cut into the stone of the floor. Portions of the decorative designs that focused them were carved into the stone without any inlay of metal and could be defaced to break the circle. There was no evidence of any retributive wards either.

	Clueless glanced at Tristol for some sort of confirmation before he nodded to the fiend and gave his reply. “Yes, we do this of our own free will.”

	The Tanar’ri closed its eyes and smiled as if from the sudden rush of a drug. A moment later Tristol motioned for a series of lines for Clueless and Florian to deface and break the circle. As soon as they had, the chains on the fiend began to smoke, then fracture, and then crumble to dust.

	There was a single awkward moment when the fiend abruptly stood up and strode past them towards the exit on the far side of the chamber. They were worried that it had lied and would suddenly attack them, but he did no such thing, rather he simply stood waiting next to the exit door impatiently, both snarling and hissing at them softly.

	“See, not so bad at all.” Clueless said with a shrug towards Toras and Fyrehowl. They seemed largely unconvinced still.

	“All right, now you can run off and be first into the traps.” Nisha said as she released Skalliska’s tail. The kobold however was no longer moving quite so rapidly towards the exit, what with the towering fiend standing next to it.

	And so with the hulking Molydeus leading the way, the group passed beyond the chamber and through a mazework of passages and corridors. The fiend moved with speed and prescience through a number of minor traps and obstacles, showing a very obvious knowledge of the layout of the labyrinth to an extent.

	“Certain portions of the maze have changed since my imprisonment here.” Garthranix muttered back to them, turning his wolven head to speak while the serpent looked forwards. “You will have to take your chances at some point if I am uncertain.”

	Tristol raised an eyebrow. “Alright. Let us know when.”

	Behind him, Toras, Fyrehowl and Florian exchanged glances. The fighter’s and lupinal’s expressions seemed to indicate a ‘told you so’ to the cleric without them actually saying it. Toras was smiling smugly as they approached a small room at the end of the current corridor.

The fiend paused and looked at the trio of exists from the chamber. Three archways opened into dark passages. The first archway was of polished jade, dulled with time. The second was of glass that was flecked and chipped, and the third was of gold that was slowly flaking away from a lead interior like the gilding of an ancient icon.

	“I am unfamiliar with the archways leading out of the room. They will eventually reach the same point, but I cannot say what properties the exits themselves have, if any. Nor would they be likely to affect me in the first place. You however…”

	Garthranix sat down and smiled as he waited for them to decide.

	Tristol reached down into one of his pockets for a bent copper piece that they had earlier decided was ‘Tristol’s lucky copper’. He didn’t find it where he’d last put it. Nisha however pulled it out of his ear with a flamboyant ‘ooooooooooh magic’ and then tossed it a few feet down the jade passage.

	There was a crackle of magic from the corridor as the copper sailed through.

	“Heh, and you’re going to go get the copper back now.” Tristol said to the tiefling as he crossed his arms and tried to look imposing. “Pick my pocket and see where it gets you.”

	“A copper richer?” She said with a grin as her tail flicked side to side happily.

	Behind them the fiend snarled loudly.

Tristol ignored the Molydeus as he answered Nisha, “Get it back and we’ll try the next one. The archway was a dispelling screen, so it won’t hurt you.”

Nisha grinned and whispered a few arcane phrases under her breath. “I love magic.”

She gestured her hand out towards the copper on the ground, gesturing for it to respond to the magic she had invoked. Instead of flying to her hand, there was instead a crackle of magic from the archway as it dispelled her cantrip.

	“And we now know it resets itself.” Clueless said.

Nisha frowned and slunk through the archway to retrieve the copper, muttering a soft, “Pike it” as she walked back and handed the coin to Tristol.

	Tristol took the coin from her as she backed up a few steps and he tossed it through the glass archway. Nothing happened at all.

	“Nothing obvious at least.” The mage said with a shrug as he walked over and picked up the coin and promptly tossed it down the leaded gold archway.

	“Hmm, nothing there either.” Tristol said as the coin plinked down the dark passage with no obvious effect. He was very nearly ready to walk down to retrieve it when something tossed the coin back at him. Inside the corridor, the darkness opened its eyes and charged at them.

	Tristol immediately fell back behind Toras and Fyrehowl as something like a squat, six-foot tall toad with jet black skin ran babbling out of the corridor with a gleaming black, smoking sword brandished over its head. It was partially transparent and wispy looking, and it glowed with the telltale flicker of conjuration magic. It may have looked like a black slaadi, but it was more like the crafted astral puppets of the cranium rats than a true harbinger of chaos.

	Garthranix smiled and did nothing as his mortal comrades surrounded and rapidly took down the solitary creature. It was all over quickly, though Toras did suffer a blow from the creature’s sword and he was stumbling after it died and evaporated to leave nothing of itself or its weapon behind.

	Fyrehowl shot the fiend a scathing look. “You could have helped us.”

	“Could have. I could have helped you. I was under no obligation to do so celestial.” Both of its heads stared her down till she turned away and back to Toras.

	“Guys… I can’t see.” The fighter said as he held onto Florian’s shoulder to steady himself.

	Florian winced as she looked at Toras’s eyes. The sword blow had struck him in the side, not the face, and so whatever was causing his blindness was magical and not actual physical harm to his eyes.

The cleric sighed, “It’s magical, and I’m out of anything that could help. I used most of my best spells against those things in the arena.”

	“Stop looking pleased. Abyssal filth…” Fyrehowl said as she glanced back at the still idly lounging Molydeus. It gave no reply.

Clueless waved away their concern as he reached into a bag of holding at his waist and pulled out a slim, light blue staff. 

“Don’t worry at all. Remember all the stuff we got in the Incantifers’ tower? Well this wasn’t in there, but my share of that all went towards buying this.”

“I adore you.” Florian said as she took the proffered staff of healing. A slight prayer to Tempus later and she invoked the power of the staff and restored Toras’ sight to him once again.

	“I’ll stop making jokes about you and the Sensates now I promise.” Toras said to Clueless as he blinked his eyes and smiled in thanks.

	Clueless shrugged and put the staff away for later. “Don’t mention it. And if the jokes are funny I’m sure my girlfriend would love to hear them actually.”

	The sudden snarling, hissing twofold voice of the Molydeus broke the feeling of camaraderie. “When you are done expending resources on the weak, I am ready.”

	Skalliska rolled her eyes and Fyrehowl made no comment. The fiend was simply trying to goad her into doing something most likely to do what it could to circumvent what bound it from its normal actions in their presence.

	“Alright. Fine. Down the central archway.” Tristol said as he pointed. “And you first.”

	The fiend stood up and walked through the glass archway and they followed in turn. The blank and dusty hallway continued for some time before it forked. The fiend paused and directed them down one fork as opposed to the other, and again at a subsequent fork in the passage. Eventually it ended in a series of two rooms, their doors facing opposite to one another.

	“The one on the right.” Garthranix said without further commentary as motioned to the doorway.

	The others followed his cue and stepped into the relatively small chamber and glanced at the interior. It was small and circular with a high vaulted ceiling and long panes of colored glass set into it. Shafts of glimmering, colored light streamed down from above like daylight through cathedral windows. A soft bubbling sound of water filled the tiny room from a fountain in the room’s center.

	Reluctantly the fiend stepped in after them. “The fountain has something to do with getting out. That’s all I know.”

	Punctuating his statement, the doorway glimmered and a slab of crystal seemed to materialize in place, sealing off the exit. A split second later a multicolored wall appeared, sandwiched over it, and something else as well that snuffed a portion of the faerie fire on Clueless’s wings: an antimagic field that overlapped the prismatic wall blocking the entrance…

	Fyrehowl looked at the fiend who simply shrugged as he looked at the fountain.

	“I don’t know everything about this place. Besides, the fountain not the doorway is what matters.”

	The wandered to the fountain and glanced down at the separate spouts and their common basin. As he looked at the fountain curiously a sudden telepathic voice echoed in the minds of all of them: _ Drink but one sip of one of the founts and find your freedom through the door with safety, read the riddle, know the signs and hearken the Rule of Three _

	And then the fiend vanished. Fyrehowl sighed and turned to say something to Clueless about fiends, except the bladesinger was no longer there. None of her companions were there in the room with her; she was alone with the bubbling fountain, and the door and its suicidal exit were there as well.

	Likewise, all of them were standing in their own version of the same chamber, each of them having just seen their companions vanish to leave them alone with the fountain, there to examine it and make their own decisions. Garthranix meanwhile was smiling. Alone in his own version of the room, his dual heads stared at one another, mutually pleased, as he held out his hand and called to the weapon bound to his essence…

	Separated from one another, they each spent their time cursing the situation, pondering the telepathic message, pondering if they would survive a trip through a prismatic wall, or in one tiefling’s case, singing and tossing coins into the fountain for ten minutes till they realized that everyone else was gone. 

The fountain itself was unique in that it had three separate upper waterspouts, each with a collecting basin that spilled out into a common lower pool as they each bubbled over. The common basin was made of marble and the water was pure and glistening. In fact, the bottom pool’s water was perfectly normal, if aside from a slight metallic taste. The upper basins then were all identical, except for the material they were crafted from: one of silver, one of copper, and one of gold.

Around the bottom of that common pool of the fountain, inscribed in the random tile mosaic of its base, and repeated upon the ground ringing the fountain as well was a riddle, or a refrain of some sort.

*‘Of gold I am, and by gold I’m plied, drink of copper and find no peace, but drink of me and find release.’*

*‘Copper gilt, and burnished bright, bright as sun where there is no night, wise men chained and wise men seek, bubbling visions not for the weak.’*

*‘Silent flow and silent passage, archon, guardinal, eladrin drink, cross chaos and order, but good alone, tainted of evil, drink and atone.’*

***​
	In his own chamber the fiend snarled and braced himself as he drank from the fountain of his choice.

***​
	Nisha, once she realized that everyone was gone and that she had to drink, she flipped a coin that she’d snagged from Tristol’s pocket. Eventually she realized that a two-sided object wasn’t going to handle a three-sided decision in any real way, and, befitting the Xaositect, she picked at random and gargled from the copper fountain.

***​
	“I like gold, and it’s talking about release. And well, I’m stuck in here.” Skalliska thought to herself as she glanced at the riddle and the fountains. “Well, gold it is.”

***​
	Fyrehowl glanced at the riddle and then at the fountains. “No question here…”

She smiled and took a sip from the silver fountain.

***​
	“Three fountains, three planar rivers. Duh.” Clueless said as he pondered his choice. “Please please please, nobody drink from the gold one…”

***​	Like Clueless, Tristol had reached the same conclusion: Styx, Ma’at, and Oceanus. Neither wanting to end up a bereft of his memories or a delusional if sometimes prophetic madman, he drank from the silver fountain.

***​
	Florian said a prayer before she drank from the silver fountain since it seemed to be the least hostile choice unless there was a trick somehow. “Tempus, I pray that I don’t end up dead for this…”

***​
	Toras glanced down at the water and the riddle. “I should have listened to Tristol more on this stuff… oh hells… your fault Nisha if anything goes poorly.”

	He took a deep breath and drank randomly.


----------



## Gez

Poor Kobold, it's not easy being green... 
No wonder nobody listen to her advice, though, with decisions like this.

I found only one typo, a missing 'y' at "The wandered to the fountain..."


----------



## Fimmtiu

Shemeska said:
			
		

> Like Clueless, Tristol had reached the same conclusion: Styx, Ma’at, and Oceanus. Neither wanting to end up a bereft of his memories or a delusional if sometimes prophetic madman, he drank from the silver fountain.




Man. Talk about not coddling your players!

Where's the source in the PS material for the River Ma'at? Don't remember that one. Been a while since I read the originals, though.


----------



## Shemeska

Gez said:
			
		

> I found only only typo, a missing 'y' at "The wandered to the fountain..."




You found "only only[sic] typo" ? 

And yes, the character made a bad decision that the player thought would be a good one, it happens. She gets better, and honestly I enjoy the character enough to use her as an NPC if it came up.


----------



## Shemeska

Fimmtiu said:
			
		

> Man. Talk about not coddling your players!
> 
> Where's the source in the PS material for the River Ma'at? Don't remember that one. Been a while since I read the originals, though.




Tough love.   

I honestly don't know. Campaign setting box set I think. Or it may have been from a brief mention by the DM in one of the first PS games I played in when first getting into DnD, and he's one of my prime inspirations as a DM as far as style. He made a comment about holy men of some pantheons tethering themselves to rocks on the shore of the Ma'at and wading into the water to their waist and undergoing hallucinations, sometimes violent ones, in order to predict the future or gain a closer connection to their patron power while in the river granted delerium.

And that DM, I'll be going to his wedding in a week or so cross half the country. Before he moved away he was in this campaign for a few months, and damn can't wait till we get to that plot arc. It's coming up shortly. Remember Skalliska doing research on her old home world's pantheon, it'll pick up on that and her search for them.


----------



## Fimmtiu

Shemeska said:
			
		

> I honestly don't know. Campaign setting box set I think. Or it may have been from a brief mention by the DM in one of the first PS games I played in when first getting into DnD...




Hmm. It's mentioned in the descriptions of Thoth's Realm in both the _Player's Guide to the Outlands_ and the "Sigil & the Outlands" section of the boxed set, but just as a river that runs along the 7th ring from Torch to Excelsior, with no reference to special qualities or pathways or anything. Might be in one of the modules or something, not sure.

On the other hand, if it's just a campaign-specific addition, I think I'll have to borrow it the next time I run a PS game. The Rule of Threes demands it!


----------



## Shemeska

Fimmtiu said:
			
		

> On the other hand, if it's just a campaign-specific addition, I think I'll have to borrow it the next time I run a PS game. The Rule of Threes demands it!




Hell, it might be to an extent, but it's one that I've always used. Even if it's not within the canon material, I still think it was a cool idea and I'll still use it. Will might have made that up as a little bit of flavor, and I might have just assumed it was canon and never actually looked up to see if it wasn't.


----------



## demiurge1138

Vicious riddle. Really, really vicious. 

I really like the moral dilemma of the molydeus. Should they release it? Should they trust it? Hopefully, the choice won't come back to bite them with both heads (after all, they made no reference of it not harming their friends, only descendants and relatives...)

Demiurge out.


----------



## Gez

Are molydei immune to styx water? Because, presumably, he did not choose Oceanus. A good way to forget all promises...


----------



## Ryltar

This is really, really wicked.


----------



## Shemeska

demiurge1138 said:
			
		

> Vicious riddle. Really, really vicious.
> 
> I really like the moral dilemma of the molydeus. Should they release it? Should they trust it? Hopefully, the choice won't come back to bite them with both heads (after all, they made no reference of it not harming their friends, only descendants and relatives...)
> 
> Demiurge out.




Moral dilemma yes, but it didn't play out as much as that. There was no debate at the time by the players over this at all. They were spooked enough by previous stuff in the labyrinth that they accepted Garthranix's offer at face value. Running through my head the entire time was 'holy crap! You trusted him, at his word, that he had to tell the truth inside that binding circle?' *facepalm*

Consider what's coming to be karmic retribution for Clueless backstabbing that Nycaloth in Elysium, who had bargained with them truthfully and wouldn't have dicked them over, for once for a fiend.



			
				Gez said:
			
		

> Are molydei immune to styx water? Because, presumably, he did not choose Oceanus. A good way to forget all promises...




No, they're not. He took a very painful sip, but he'll recover damage quickly enough.


----------



## Aneul

I know the Styx and Oceanus- but I was guessing that the copper fountain was representative of the Lethe (sp?). Granted, that made little sense, but I don't know all that much about the Planar Rivers. So, what exactly is the Ma'at? Seeing as Tristol's rationel against drinking from it is that he doesn't want to become an insane prophet (whyever not?), I would assume its qualities are sort of like those mountains in Scottish folk lore which either grant you poetic geniues or insanity when you reach the top.

Once again and as always, great update!


----------



## Tristol

Shemeska said:
			
		

> Moral dilemma yes, but it didn't play out as much as that. There was no debate at the time by the players over this at all. They were spooked enough by previous stuff in the labyrinth that they accepted Garthranix's offer at face value. Running through my head the entire time was 'holy crap! You trusted him, at his word, that he had to tell the truth inside that binding circle?' *facepalm*




And you also have to remember, you're dealing with a party of people who were expecting to be slaying rats, and have instead been dealing with fiends and other stuff down there. So truth-seeking spells (and abilities later on) weren't in our list of things to memorize. So it's not like we could have really tested his word. He said he knew something, and if there was a chance to get out of there before exhausting all of our spells, energy, and resources, then it was worth a risk. At the least, we expected a double-cross at some point (fiends being fiends and all), but would just have to take it at face value. The IC/OOC discussion according to my notes was something like 'So, do we let him go?' - 'We don't have many options if we want out of here soon.' And that's about it really. We didn't want to spend any more time in a maze within a maze than we had to. Of course, what came after this wasn't exactly all that comforting to the characters either, but certainly did become quite a popular spot later in the game.


----------



## Darmanicus

Wow. This SH just gets better and better. 

Going back some, why the hell did they run away from tentacle dwarf boy? Do you, like, freak your players out, outside of the game as well because I'm not seeing any sense in a group of planar travellers running away from that thing!?

Also in that room full of statues what gave there? Our group would have probably gone, 'mmmmmm, XP room, right I'll touch it and you lot get ready with readied actions.'


----------



## Ohtar Turinson

Aneul said:
			
		

> So, what exactly is the Ma'at?



 It's an ancient Egyptian Concept. It's sometimes translated as "Truth" I think.


----------



## Clueless

Shemeska said:
			
		

> Consider what's coming to be karmic retribution for Clueless backstabbing that Nycaloth in Elysium, who had bargained with them truthfully and wouldn't have dicked them over, for once for a fiend.




And he would have been fine too. If the party hadn't let things slip at the table that it was really best didn't get out to his superiors... 

Though wow was FH ticked at me for that - just about took my head off when I nailed him.


----------



## Clueless

> Of course, what came after this wasn't exactly all that comforting to the characters either, but certainly did become quite a popular spot later in the game.



 Well - the Jester's True Palace was just generally popular for many reasons. 



> Going back some, why the hell did they run away from tentacle dwarf boy? Do you, like, freak your players out, outside of the game as well because I'm not seeing any sense in a group of planar travellers running away from that thing!?



There's a great deal of atmospheric elements from the day that are missing in the write up actually. Shemmie built the tension up a good deal more than he did in the story here and the pair came of as genuinely malevolent while at the table. He conveyed a feeling of being toyed with - slowly stalked and nipped at just to see which way we'd run. All of this before showing the actual Little One, or the Jester himself. That build up is honestly one of the only sections of the story hour that I'd say really needs a rewrite - just to make sure that the build up works for the reader as well. We've had a few years of dealing with the creepy - so for *us* the mention of Jman and the Little One is enough for a good response (as you'll see later in the game towards the very end when speculation about him ran wild) - but this is not so for most readers.



> Also in that room full of statues what gave there? Our group would have probably gone, 'mmmmmm, XP room, right I'll touch it and you lot get ready with readied actions.'



An awareness that we are killable characters - why ask for trouble when you already have plenty on your plate. 

Also, these are vastly different playing styles, Shemmie doesn't bother telling anyone what their XP totals are. We tend to just get told at the end of a session: "Ok guys, level up." We level when it seems right, or when we need to to deal with what's next. Which works perfectly fine for us. It means we don't bother worrying about what we fight or trying to build up XP just because we want power - we worry about making it through the story, getting the goals laid out before us and playing the character personalities. 

I think if Shemmie had been the sort to tell us what XP we got for each encounter - then the game tone would be very different and this storyhour wouldn't exist, probably because the game wouldn't have lasted as long or been as well played.


----------



## Darmanicus

Clueless said:
			
		

> An awareness that we are killable characters - why ask for trouble when you already have plenty on your plate.
> 
> Also, these are vastly different playing styles, Shemmie doesn't bother telling anyone what their XP totals are. We tend to just get told at the end of a session: "Ok guys, level up." We level when it seems right, or when we need to to deal with what's next. Which works perfectly fine for us. It means we don't bother worrying about what we fight or trying to build up XP just because we want power - we worry about making it through the story, getting the goals laid out before us and playing the character personalities.
> 
> I think if Shemmie had been the sort to tell us what XP we got for each encounter - then the game tone would be very different and this storyhour wouldn't exist, probably because the game wouldn't have lasted as long or been as well played.




That's quite a cool way about going about things ie. levelling up. Saves a bit of time and at least keeps everyone 'equal'.

I've gotta ask, are you guys/gals in character throughout the session? What I mean is do you do voices and personality?


----------



## Clueless

Darmanicus said:
			
		

> That's quite a cool way about going about things ie. levelling up. Saves a bit of time and at least keeps everyone 'equal'.
> I've gotta ask, are you guys/gals in character throughout the session? What I mean is do you do voices and personality?




The leveling method certianly works - keeps people focused on the story not the numbers. For being in/out of character... we waver a lot actually. It's like carrying two conversations at once. 

On the one hand - out of character we're making jokes (Or Toras's player is stealing Lewis Black jokes) - and we're socalizing around the table as a group of friends. That's for the entirely out of game conversation though. 

When we are in dealing with the game though - we approach it from an in character perspective. The only one of us who does voices is Shemmie (because he can - see the mephit recording from earlier). The rest of us - personality. A lot of personality. 

We rarely do anything like "Clueless tells so and so he'll be dead if he doesn't..." we cut right to the chase and just hold the conversation directly. But some of us have a strong tactical sense - so once a *fight* starts we switch into 'combat mode' - that's when you'll see the most metagaming in the group for coordinating attacks and the like.


----------



## Darmanicus

A LONG time ago we used to do the voices and personality for all apart from when OOC and parts of combat. I really used to enjoy that however with the group we have now it hardly ever happens which I think is a shame because it's SOOO much fun. It's only ever me DM's who do this now, (inparticular our DC heroes DM does a wicked Joker).

I suppose that's what happens when ya 'grow up'.


----------



## Gez

Clueless said:
			
		

> The leveling method certianly works - keeps people focused on the story not the numbers.




I'd use that too, if it weren't for item creation and other things that cost XPs. So I don't just level up the characters, but give XP. Otherwise, it's the same, since XP is utterly disconnected from encounters, it depends only on my estimation of how clever they were and how fast they should progress for the story's sake.


----------



## Clueless

Or grow down. 

You could always start doing it again - usually the DM likes to interact with an IC personality... when you start getting attention for it - maybve the others will follow? Raise the bar yourself? For example - Shemmies game, you wouldn't know it to tell it, but the majority of the players were *completely* new to Planescape. And at least half of them relatively new to tabletop gaming and 3rd ed. They picked up on the roleplaying lead really quickly though so by now with the new campaign - we have a whole colelction of strong personalities.



> I'd use that too, if it weren't for item creation and other things that cost XPs. So I don't just level up the characters, but give XP. Otherwise, it's the same, since XP is utterly disconnected from encounters, it depends only on my estimation of how clever they were and how fast they should progress for the story's sake.



I think Shemmie does keep a private count of such things, but he doesn't tell us. And since most of us didn't get heavy into making items (with a few notable exceptions) it didn't cause too much headache.


----------



## Shemeska

Gez said:
			
		

> I'd use that too, if it weren't for item creation and other things that cost XPs. So I don't just level up the characters, but give XP. Otherwise, it's the same, since XP is utterly disconnected from encounters, it depends only on my estimation of how clever they were and how fast they should progress for the story's sake.




I gave out XP for about the first two months of the game, then I stopped doing so cold turkey just because I truly feel that giving the total to players runs the risk of some of them viewing it as a fairness issue or a contest to level up the fastest. And that's not something I want to promote in the game. So I make it a case of you level up when it's appropriate based on what you've done/encountered and having adequate time to make it based in some sense of reality.

That said, if people picked up item creation feats and gave some warning about planning to make items with them, I'd have an XP total for them if needed, and if you started using wishes or other spells that had XP componants, I'd take it into account and you wouldn't level up at the exact same time that everyone else did.


----------



## Shemeska

Darmanicus said:
			
		

> I've gotta ask, are you guys/gals in character throughout the session? What I mean is do you do voices and personality?




Assuming I don't go off on a tangent OOC, I'm IC for handling NPCs. I don't go as extreme as Seamusxanthuszemus for all of them, but I try to change my voice and mannerisms to match the character I'm trying to come across as. Shemmy comes off as a vain b*tch, Shekelor as arrogant and power hungry, the Marauder's eventual apprentice Nerath ap Jerran comes off as a ponce, etc.

Flavor is good


----------



## FyreHowl

*grins* of course, then certain unintentional themes start popping up....

Such as all raksashas are apparently british....*grin*


----------



## Clueless

By way of India.


----------



## Shemeska

FyreHowl said:
			
		

> *grins* of course, then certain unintentional themes start popping up....
> 
> Such as all raksashas are apparently british....*grin*




Well, given that they're from Indian myth it's not much of a stretch to give them an Indian accent. And seriously, most upper class and/or highly educated Indian people that I've heard speak tend to have learnt British English and the accent carries over. It's unintentional on my part, but when I try to do an Indian accent for a Rakshasa is comes out british sounding.


----------



## Gez

FyreHowl said:
			
		

> Such as all raksashas are apparently british....*grin*




Maybe they had an identity crisis after learning of the Rakasta from Mystara's Savage Coast.    British tigermen... lol: To go with the Lupin, the French wolfmen...)


----------



## Toras

Clueless said:
			
		

> On the one hand - out of character we're making jokes (Or Toras's player is stealing Lewis Black jokes) - and we're socalizing around the table as a group of friends. That's for the entirely out of game conversation though.
> .




Naw Lewis Black is too context oriented to work.  A combination of Robin Williams, early SNL, and some of my own style of observational fit in.  Something to know about me is that I am total smart ass (in and out of character.) Most of the jokes that don't make it are OOC but game related, and I likely will be hosting the ones that we remembered.


----------



## Florian

Toras said:
			
		

> Most of the jokes that don't make it are OOC but game related, and I likely will be hosting the ones that we remembered.




Like: "Yeah?  Well Shut Up You Crazy Bitch In A Razorvine Headdress Magazine says otherwise."

My personal favorite. 

F


----------



## Shemeska

*Words from that 'Crazy Bitch In The Razorvine Headdress'*

Update on Monday since I just blasted out an update for SH#2 that was longer than expected, and I won't have time tommorow to do the revisions and last page of a fight. I'll be in Denver this weekend attending a good friend's wedding, the same guy who first introduced me to Planescape actually (and you'll meet his PC in a future plot arc).

[Placeholder to be removed when update is ready]


----------



## Darmanicus

Shemeska said:
			
		

> Update on Monday since I just blasted out an update for SH#2 that was longer than expected, and I won't have time tommorow to do the revisions and last page of a fight. I'll be in Denver this weekend attending a good friend's wedding, the same guy who first introduced me to Planescape actually (and you'll meet his PC in a future plot arc).
> 
> [Placeholder to be removed when update is ready]




Roll on Monday then. Hope the wedding's interesting.


----------



## Shemeska

Toras smiled as he felt a sudden invigorating sense rush through him as he drank from the silver fountain. The water was utterly pure and tasted almost sweet to the tongue as it left him feeling healthy and refreshed.

	The fighter stood there smiling in the bliss of his drink, only noticing then that the others had suddenly reappeared in the room as well and that the prismatic wall that had been blocking the exit was gone. That was when the double-headed axe buried itself in his chest.

	The Molydeus roared with a force that distorted the air as a gleaming brazen axe flashed into substance in its hands seconds before it cleaved into Toras and sent him flying across the room with the sheer power behind the swing. The fiend’s lupine mouth was dripping blood and water and its serpentine jaws on the other head were bared wide, flashing hollow tipped fangs, each dripping with venom.

	Confusion turned to horror around the room as the others suddenly realized that the fiend was no longer bound to them, that the fiend probably had never been bound to them, but had only waited till it could have them separated and possibly weakened by circumstance before it could slaughter them.

	“You said you couldn’t hurt us!!” Tristol screamed as he backed away from the guardian Tanar’ri as it hefted its axe once more.

	“Than you are fools!” The Molydeus screamed at him with one head while the other laughed with manic pleasure. “You assumed that I was telling the truth! You willingly released me!”

	The bloody axe whistled down again, narrowly missing Florian, but cleaving several inches free from the top edge of her shield.

	“Sh*t!” The cleric screamed as she too backed away from the fiend. She was outmatched; she was sorely, terribly outmatched by it. The Molydeii were few, but they were feared by the rest of the denizens of the Abyss, even by Balors, empowered as they were by the Abyssal Lords themselves, and one of them lusted to wallow in their entrails.

	Fyrehowl and Clueless looked at one another with honest fear as they drew their blades and approached the Tanar’ri from opposite sides in an attempt to separate it from Tristol. The fiend allowed them the opportunity as it continued to attack Florian while one of its heads frothed in psychotic anger and the other laughed with disturbing glee.

	While the two attempted to flank the fiend, they also saw two things that the Molydeus had probably been banking on: Skalliska was wandering around the room with utter confusion, glancing one way and then the other before huddling in a corner and screaming, and Nisha was only slightly better off. The tiefling was giggling hysterically as she sat on the edge of the fountain and pretended to have tea with some imaginary factol of an imaginary faction. Whatever Nisha had drunk, she was hallucinating worse than a sensate in the Gilded Hall of Arborea.

	Florian gained a momentary respite as both Clueless and Fyrehowl’s swords lanced out at the fiend. The cleric backed up and began to chant the words of another prayer to Tempus. As she did so, the lupinal and bladesinger both scored shallow wounds on the Tanar’ri, but both wounds seemed to already be in the process of knitting themselves shut.

	Separated from immediate danger, Tristol concentrated and whispered words of power as he hurled a spell at the approaching fiend. It failed spectacularly. His spell never took effect at all, like he’d simply hurled water at a giant sponge.

	The wolven head turned to him, blood spattered foam dripping from its black lips, “Despair little mage. Watch while I slaughter your companions and you can do nothing to save them. You are ineffectual, your magics naught to one who has stood before the rebuke of Lynkhab and given orders to Balors born before your world was risen from the void.”

	Tristol backed away as the serpentine head reared back to give a hissing cackle and seemed to ignore the attacks that it faced. Half of Fyrehowl and Clueless’s blows simply failed to affect it when they hit, and the other half were slowly regenerating. The fiend seemed to honestly feed off of their growing despair, allowing them to hurt it simply to experience their dread as they did far less damage to it than expected.

	Meanwhile Florian paused in her casting as she noticed how ineffectual Tristol’s magic had been. There was no sense in trying to directly affect such a beast with her own spells if it had simply devoured those of a wizard who numbered among the most powerful she had ever personally met. No, something different was required, and this was keenly in her mind as she turned to where Toras lay slumped against the wall, alive but terribly injured, and momentarily ignored by the Molydeus.

	The fiend was still laughing and gloating when she cast her spell to no apparent effect. A moment later Fyrehowl abruptly paused in her dance of swordplay to extend a hand and engulf the fiend in a glittering cone of frost. Given the fiend’s disregard for their attacks, it didn’t dodge, and whether by luck or honest power, the celestial’s invocation seemed to actually work.

	Distracted by the burning cold, Clueless scored another series of shallow blows against its flank before he was thrown backwards by a wild backhanded slash from the fiend’s axe. But even if his own attacks did little more than inconvenience the Molydeus, it was distracted and no longer playing with them. The fiend grimaced and the expression on both of its faces reflected its change of heart as blood flecked ice melted from its hide to run in bloody rivulets onto the ground.

	Florian was preparing to cast again as Fyrehowl barely dodged a heavy slash from the fiend, but she didn’t have the chance as the serpent head of the Tanar’ri flashed forwards and spat a foaming, sizzling gobbet of venom directly at her face. She only managed to deflect the attack by dropping her casting attempt and raising her shield to deflect it.

	But between themselves they had distracted the fiend to the point that it was ignoring the three persons that it considered no longer a threat: the bloody form of Toras on the opposite side of the room, a hallucinating Nisha, and a confused and terrified Skalliska. The first of those assumptions by the fiend was a mistake however given Florian’s last successful spell.

	With a scream of holy rage, a still badly injured Toras reared up behind the fiend who had completely missed him as he had stood up, brandished his weapon and charged it from behind. The fighter plunged his blade nearly a foot into its side, sinking deep into the flesh, muscle and viscera exposed between the edge of two heavy plates of its armor.

	Perhaps because of Florian’s spell, perhaps because of Toras’s rage, or perhaps even due to his sword in and of itself, the Tanar’ri was massively injured by the blow compared to any previous physical attacks. The sudden surprise attack was also not being regenerated at the same rate as its other injuries, and it was suddenly focused on the fighter.

	Garthranix bellowed with rage and swiveled around to backhand the fighter with his fist. Toras ducked the poorly aimed blow and sunk his sword in deeper before the fiend’s serpent head struck and sunk its fangs into his shoulder. He shuddered from the venom but ignored the pain as he drew back his blade, and with another righteous scream of fury stabbed into the junction of flesh between the fiend’s two separate heads. It bit surprisingly and astoundingly deep, just as much so as his surprise attack that had caught the fiend from behind, and honest disbelief washed over the lupine head’s eyes for a moment before it released a thunderous scream of agony. 

	The guardian Tanar’ri contorted in a spasm as great torrents of blood washed out in waves from its wounds and it dropped its axe onto the ground and sank to its knees. It babbled incoherent promises of death and pain as its serpent head jerked side to side and a glaze passed over the eyes of the other. Toras himself dropped to the ground as the Tanar’ri convulsed one last time and both it and its axe dissolved into a putrid wave of random discolored filth and a brief chorus of screams that lingered in their ears for several moments.

	As soon as the beast was dead, Florian was immediately at Toras’s side to purge the poison from his system and Clueless was there not a moment afterwards to heal his wounds. Even after the half-fey had healed him, Toras just lay on the ground for a moment with a smile plastered across his face and the occasional chuckle towards the slowly evaporating remains of the Molydeus. The others left him there, allowing him the time to bask in the realization of what he had done.

	“Florian? Can you do something for Nisha and Skalliska?” Fyrehowl said as she looked at the still babbling tiefling and the terrified kobold who was huddled against the wall and giving furtive glances at the remains of the fiend.

	The cleric shook her head, “Maybe. Depends on which fountain they drank. One of them was Styx water and the other I wasn’t sure about.”

	All eyes turned to Skalliska.

	The kobold quivered and blinked in abject confusion, “Why are you all staring at me? Where the hell am I?!”

	Clueless sighed, “Yeah, that would be Styx water.”

	Florian inhaled deeply before answering. “She could have been worse. She still knows who she is; she just might not remember anything from the past few weeks. This might be painful, because there’s nothing I, or anyone, can do to bring that all back as far as I know.”

	Tristol sat down next to Nisha and the tiefling handed him an imaginary cup of tea.

	“Care for some tea fuzzy head? My friend A’kin and his girlfriend Shemmy were just telling me about the gumdrop fortress in the butterfly fields of the Abyss. Doesn’t it sound lovely?”

	Fyrehowl gave a start and looked oddly at the tiefling as she went back to sipping tea with her hallucinatory friends.

	“Nisha could be worse. Hell, she’s almost normal as it is.” Tristol said as he gave a soft chuckle while he played along and sipped tea as well when Nisha handed him a glass.

The tiefling gave a furtive sideways glance and whispered to Fyrehowl, “Now, about A’kin’s girlfriend… Sure she’s nice and polite and all, but she’s a guy you know. I’m not sure if A’kin knows that. This is awkward.”

	Fyrehowl quickly turned around to avoid snickering openly.

	“Clueless? The healing staff might be helpful right about now.” Tristol said.

	Florian waved the bladesinger and the staff away, “Won’t work, but I can handle it.”

	She whispered a soft prayer to Tempus and invoked the spell’s power on Nisha to purge her mind of the unwanted influence. Nisha paused, blinked and paused again as her lips first pursed, then gave a slight smile as she went right back to her teatime chat with her imaginary guests.

	“Yeah, she’s back to normal.” Tristol said as he got back up and smiled down at her.

	He looked over at Skalliska who still sat in the corner looking worried and confused. He also glanced over at Toras who was also still sitting on the floor with a triumphant grin and looking almost as astounded that he had taken down the fiend as the fiend probably was as it hurtled back to the Abyss that spawned it.

	All of them also became dimly aware of Jerimin, the man that Toras had inadvertently killed and who they’d resurrected, standing off to the side with a look of utter dumbfounded shock and disbelief. He’d effectively melted into the background after they had saved him and he was stupefied by what he’d just witnessed.

	After he had regained his senses and Fyrehowl had helped him up off the floor, Toras wandered over to the man and slapped him on the back. “I do this all the time actually; both the killing things that I shouldn’t be able to, and getting horrifically injured by them in the process. It’s a pattern with me sometimes.”

	The Natterer’s fellow employee just looked up at the fighter and returned a feeble smile. “You won’t see me complain sir.”

	Toras just smiled and slapped him on the back again.

	Skalliska was looking terribly confused however as once again she plaintively asked, “Where am I and what’s going on?”

	Clueless looked at the others. “I’ll handle this.”

	The bladesinger sat down next to the kobold and began to chat with her about what she did and didn’t remember. As it turned out, she’d lost nearly two weeks of memories to her ill choice of fountains to drink from. She didn’t remember that Jeremo had hired them, nor where they were, and it was difficult to fully explain to her all that she had lost.

	“Just trust us on this and stay with us for now. When we get out of here either one of the others or I will make a sensory stone of the major events of the past two weeks and we’ll let you go through all of it. You’ll be fine.”

	The kobold nodded slowly, “That should work. But damn it all, this is going to be hard to understand before then.”

	A few more minutes were spent with all of them mentioning more of the events that Skalliska had lost recollection of, and between them all they managed to fill in most of the holes in her memory even though she would never recall her own experience of those events herself. But she was better, Nisha was back to being Nisha, and the fiend was dead. With those three things resolved, they exited the chamber to see what their experience had netted them and if the Molydeus had been telling them the truth in any form about how they could escape.

	Walking out of the room, it seemed as if it might have been as they emerged into an altogether different place than from where they had entered. A single long corridor stretched out before them towards a door at the far end, perhaps a hundred feet off. They shrugged and slowly proceeded down, making sure that there were no traps along the way as they did.

	Halfway down the passage they did find something, but not a trap or any sort. Along one wall were a series of mosaics each showing a rustic pastoral scene in late autumn or early winter. At the edge of a thick wood at the top of a hill stood a tall, dark cloaked man hefting a hunter’s horn. Stylized wisps of wind and blown leaves extended through the air from the wood and curled towards another figure that seemed to be running in full flight from the dark man through a field of wheat or tall grass. The figure’s expression was of stark terror.

	“And again with the creepy…” Nisha said as she backed away from the wall.

	“I for one am all for just walking on and leaving this.” Toras said. “Anyone else?”

	Clueless however was curious, and his curiosity was finally overriding his previous fear.

	Tristol stopped and looked suddenly at the bladesinger. “Clueless, what are you doing?”

	Clueless ignored him as he tapped the tiny bubble of heavy magic at his neck and called to mind a legend lore spell. Moments later the mage’s warnings meant nothing, as Clueless no longer heard them when he activated the spell and the world melted away.

	“What the hell?”

	Clueless opened his eyes and went rigid. He was no longer in the labyrinth, no longer casting a spell and touching a mosaic on a wall. Normally when he used that particular divination upon an object he might see flashes of images, flickers of events, sometimes mental playbacks of the past, but not this time; he was standing there at the edge of a dark wood, waist high in tall grass.

	The glow upon his wings suddenly snuffed itself and the half-fey felt cold, bitterly cold, and not just from the chill wind that rustled the grass with the gelid promise of winter’s arrival.

	The half-fey was afraid and disturbed, not honestly sure if what he was seeing was real or just an effect of the spell that he had cast. But given that, he remained as calm as possible in light of what would transpire as a figure emerged from the wood and gazed out with a pleased smile at the fields that stretched out before him.

	He was tall, and built like a man with something more than mortal blood running through his veins. There was no sound as he moved into the light other than the soft crackle of dry kindling underfoot as he strode out of the woods and drew forth a large and ornate hunters horn to place against his lips.

	Clueless looked up at the man who stood only a few feet from him. “What is it that you’re hunting?”

	The Jester didn’t answer him with words, but he lowered the horn and then pointed with his hand out into the fields before returning the horn to his lips.

	A sudden, terrified scream rent the air above the sound of the horn as a figure burst from the edge of the woods and into the fields where Clueless was watching to where the Jester had pointed. A single man, panicked and haggard, his clothes torn and tattered by the impact of branches and the snarling of briars in the underbrush, he ran as fast as he could while casting a terrified glance over his shoulder.

The sharp, ascending note of the horn, pure and clear on the chill autumn wind, caused the frantic screaming of the running man to increase in pitch and severity. But with the call of the horn, something else emerged into view, something answering the Jester’s summons.

	Clueless watched, silent and seemingly rooted to the spot, calm but disturbed, as the screaming man stumbled and fell into the tall grass before rapidly getting back to his feet and running again as something gave pursuit. Whatever it was, like a trained hound or a falconer’s tame bird of prey, it leapt forward through the tall grass at its master’s bidding, tearing off with frightening velocity and without a sound after its chosen victim and cutting a swath of grass underfoot in a jagged zigzag path towards the fleeing man.

	Clueless did nothing but stand there and watch, feeling the windblown grass brush against his clothing and the chill of the wind slowly insinuate itself into his flesh. This was no magic granted memory of the past; this was something much more frighteningly real.

	Try as he might to outrun his fate, the screaming man could not evade what pursued him as it cut through the fields with only the sound of crushed grass to herald its passing before it was upon him. The man bellowed out a final horrified scream for help as he pitched forward and vanished below the surface of the field. The screams ended abruptly as the grass was ravaged with bright splashes of crimson far more vivid than the shade of the turning leaves on the trees.

	Up above the scene, still standing upon the hilltop at the edge of the woods, the Jester looked down upon the slaughter. He looked down at what his servant had done at his behest in punishment for whatever transgression the doomed man had committed to offend him so, if indeed the man had done anything at all. And then the Jester turned and looked directly at the half-fey who had watched the hunt. He smiled and Clueless felt a brief shudder but he remained calm and neither flinched nor looked away, rather just looking up back at him and then slowly back towards the fields as something returned to its master.

The tiny robed figure, his pet, familiar, or something altogether more sinister, Clueless couldn’t say as it crept out of the tall grass to stand beside its master, keening its head to the taller man. As it moved towards the Jester’s outstretched hand, there was a disturbing and constant ripple of movement from under its robes that hinted at a wriggling, unruly mass kept constrained only by the fabric.

The Jester allowed it to touch or brush against his hand like a hound nuzzling its master, and where it did, the man’s hand was coated red with the blood of its kill. The Jester smiled down at the figure and stroked his bloodied hand over its head, and Clueless would have sworn that the creature quivered and gave some manner of alien, vaguely content animal murmur.

	Clueless then blinked and shook his head as he suddenly stood back in the corridor in the labyrinth. His companions stood around him with expressions of concern and worry that soon turned to words of comfort or berating as he mentioned what he had felt when, according to them, he had simply gone insensate and unresponsive after touching the mural.

	The bladesinger gave only the sparsest of details from what he had witnessed inside his mind or perhaps inside of the mural, but one thing was still lingering on his thoughts as his companions began to walk towards the end of the corridor. The Jester had spoken but one phrase before the spell ended, “You amuse me.” 

	Clueless was still shaken and a pale shade of white, the blood leached from his face, but a grin was still present when they walked on down to the end of the corridor and the yawning doorway at its terminus. Spooked and intrigued at the same time, the bladesinger looked back at the mosaic. The figure of the tall man was gone from the image.

	The doorway at the end of the passage opened up into a small, cloistered chamber whose walls were formed by walls that resembled pillars of frosted glass. There was no apparent exit, though there were three pedestals in the center of the room that rose up to perhaps waist height. Atop each of the pedestals were blocks of clear crystal with vague humanoid forms suspended inside each of them. No firm details could be made out.

	Skalliska approached the pedestals, largely free as she was of the sense of horrific danger and fear that pervaded the maze, none of which she remembered. The kobold’s hand reached up to the first block, touching it warily. The crystal was bitterly cold to the touch but free of ice or condensation.

	“The things in here are alive.” She said with a perplexed expression. “I can feel a heartbeat when I touch the surface.”

	Cautiously the others approached to examine the blocks.

	“There’s something on the pillar over here on the wall.” Nisha said from across the room where she stood, looking at the frosted, opaque surface of the pillar that stood opposite the entrance like some oversized icicle.

	“What is it?” Clueless asked her.

	The Xaositect gave an exaggerated groan before she read it to them. “Release two of the three occupants, come what may, and the exit shall be given to you from this place.”

	“Lovely.” Florian said as she rolled her eyes and glanced more closely at the pedestals.

	Some form of bizarre writing was carved into the surface of each, two distinct languages and scripts in fact. Below the lines of script there were two small gemstones on the surface: one green and one orange. On each of them, the green gemstones were glowing.

	“Anyone know what this says? Or even what language these are?” Toras asked curiously.

	Skalliska glanced at them and then looked back at him, “Not a clue on the first one, but the lower one is gith, and a damned old dialect of it.”

	“And it says?” Tristol asked.

	Skalliska went from one to the next and read off the names in sequence:


Par’rash’ket – Fourth consort and bodyguard of Vlaakith, aid to Her Glory, Gith the Unshackler.

Far’tel’las – 9th Disciple of He who divided the sky, walker in the footsteps of those who contemplate freedom.

Sithfallen – Mind lord and Savant of the 354th house of the Jaded of Penumbra

	Tristol blinked, “Umm…”

	“Sh*t they’re old!” Toras exclaimed.

	“Sh*t they’re important!” Clueless said.

	“I want to choose!” Nisha said as she dashed back over to their side of the chamber.

	They glanced at one another warily before giving way to any commentary on the choices facing them.

	“I’m not letting out a damned mind flayer.” Fyrehowl said as her ears flattened back against her skull.

	“I’m not sure if letting out two types of gith, different types of gith, is going to be so hot either.” Clueless said.

	“The wall doesn’t say anything about letting them live…” Skalliska said with genuine malice as the others turned to her. “We let the Illithid out with just enough time to see the swords sticking through him and realize that he’s dying. And then I want the head.”

	“That’s disgusting.” Fyrehowl.

	“Let’s get into moral issues later…” Florian said.

	The lupinal shook her head, “Moral issues nothing. She wants to cook it and eat it. I made the mistake of asking about her prime world once.”

	Skalliska gave a smile and looked at the entombed Illithid like one might glance at frozen cuts of cattle at a butcher.

	“If we let the Illithid out we not get the chance if he melts our brains out of our ears first. He’s old and we don’t know how powerful he might be.” Tristol objected.

	“It.” Skalliska said, “It. Illithids don’t have gender. Or rather, they’re both. Sort of like yugoloths.”

	Florian had a sudden terrible thought involving A’kin but she shook her head vigorously and dismissed it.

	Fyrehowl winced, “I really don’t want to go thinking about fiend gender or Illithid gender, please, that’s disgusting…”

	Nisha sipped at her cup of imaginary tea from before as she glanced at Fyrehowl. “Told you.”

	“Well, a githzerai is less likely to just try and kill us for no apparent reason than a ‘yanki or mind flayer. I think we can agree on that.” Florian said as she glanced at the blocks of crystal.

	Tristol slumped down on the ground with an exhausted expression. “Well, how about we sit down and rest for a minute before we actually make a decision? I’m almost out of most of my useful spells, and I know Florian is as well. We’ve been walking through this deathtrap for how long now without a pause? I think we need it, and we should take the time to really consider the choices we have here.”

	The others nodded and agreed. They were all tired and they had yet to actually rest, even briefly, since they had entered the underhalls of the Jester’s Palace, or wherever they were currently. They needed to regain their spells, rest sore muscles, and put a decent amount of thought into the latest whimsical and likely deadly puzzle they were presented with. They would make their decision after a few hours of rest.


----------



## Bryon_Soulweaver

And then the Illithid jumps out and says, "Yummy, brain food!"


----------



## ajanders

W00T!  First post!


----------



## Fimmtiu

So what exactly did Florian do to make Toras badass enough to kill a molydeus in a couple hits? Still can't believe that they let it out...

Nice update. I like the suspense-building with the Jester.


----------



## Clueless

Jman has always been... impressive.


----------



## Shemeska

Fimmtiu said:
			
		

> So what exactly did Florian do to make Toras badass enough to kill a molydeus in a couple hits? Still can't believe that they let it out...
> 
> Nice update. I like the suspense-building with the Jester.




He actually killed it in either two or three hits; all of them being criticals. It was sick, and this is the reason that mercurial greatswords will never again feature in my campaigns. 

I think Florian cast either greater magic weapon on his sword (to break the Molydeus's DR) or divine power (if that is more than a personal only spell). I don't exactly recall which one.


----------



## Ryltar

Shemeska said:
			
		

> Spooked and intrigued at the same time, the bladesinger looked back at the mosaic. The figure of the tall man was gone from the image.




Heh. Another M.R. James reference?

Nice work, although I weep for the poor molydeus .
What did you actually have in mind for the party at that point of time - anything besides open battle?


----------



## Shemeska

*Oddly enough, MR James based Magnus on a real person*



			
				Ryltar said:
			
		

> Heh. Another M.R. James reference?
> 
> Nice work, although I weep for the poor molydeus .
> What did you actually have in mind for the party at that point of time - anything besides open battle?




M.R. James was the man. I adore his writing, and the Jester was a little bit of a tribute to him that ended up being more than a cameo.

1) I never really expected them to let the thing out. That's the largest thing.

2) It depended on what room the thing finally decided to go after them in. As a group it was a difficult fight but not a PC killer, and some rooms would have made it harder or easier to kill the thing. Some rooms would have made a fight rather impossible, but the PCs didn't actually go through all the possible rooms down there in the labyrinth.

3) I don't always have something in particular planned, but my players typically end up surprising me with what they end up doing. This has at times resulted in me faux weeping on top of a stack of 20 odd pages of notes that were never going to be used because the PCs skipped right over them


----------



## Ryltar

Shemeska said:
			
		

> M.R. James was the man. I adore his writing, and the Jester was a little bit of a tribute to him that ended up being more than a cameo.




Ah, I was referring to the "man vanishing from image" scene. I think there's a story by MRJ that uses similar symbology: a figure that is [different every time you look at a picture, and at one point it's] gone from the frame. Quite scary when I first read it .



> This has at times resulted in me faux weeping on top of a stack of 20 odd pages of notes that were never going to be used because the PCs skipped right over them




I feel your pain. This has led me to seek (mock) revenge on my players by bestowing the _Seeking_ enchantment on these sheets of paper  - you can run, but you cannot hide from this quest! (In other words, many ideas can be partially reused at a later date.)


----------



## Shemeska

Ryltar said:
			
		

> Ah, I was referring to the "man vanishing from image" scene. I think there's a story by MRJ that uses similar symbology: a figure that is [different every time you look at a picture, and at one point it's] gone from the frame. Quite scary when I first read it .




I'm not familiar with that one then. Its been a while since I seriously sat down and read his stories. Lately I've been re-reading C.A. Smith and devouring Mieville's novels.





> I feel your pain. This has led me to seek (mock) revenge on my players by bestowing the _Seeking_ enchantment on these sheets of paper  - you can run, but you cannot hide from this quest! (In other words, many ideas can be partially reused at a later date.)




So true. So very true. I've reused places from earlier plot arcs that never got used, just sticking them into later places where they applied. This was especially true about halfway through the entire campaign when there was a series of rather extensive delvings into some towers scattered about the planes that became about as close to dungeon crawls as I come (the current plot arc included). Can't say anymore though without giving things away.


----------



## Darmanicus

So Shemmy, what does exactly a mercurial greatsword do?

Me paladin can chop when necessary but that sounds lethal!!!!


----------



## Shemeska

Darmanicus said:
			
		

> So Shemmy, what does exactly a mercurial greatsword do?
> 
> Me paladin can chop when necessary but that sounds lethal!!!!




It was an exotic weapon with something like an X3 or X4 crit. I regret having not looked at it closely before allowing it. *chuckle*


----------



## shilsen

Shemeska said:
			
		

> All of them also became dimly aware of Jerimin, the man that Toras had inadvertently killed and who they’d resurrected, standing off to the side with a look of utter dumbfounded shock and disbelief. He’d effectively melted into the background after they had saved him and he was stupefied by what he’d just witnessed.




Is that a polite way of saying, "Damn, I forgot about the NPC" ?


----------



## Eco-Mono

Awesome update Shemmy, as usual!   


			
				Shemeska said:
			
		

> It was an exotic weapon with something like an X3 or X4 crit. I regret having not looked at it closely before allowing it. *chuckle*



2d6 damage, x4 critical. Yeah, a few twenties and those puppies tend to take down anything XD


----------



## Toras

Yep, at the time this began the Mercurial as far as I knew was a 2d8 x4 of doom.  It was dropped to 2d6 by updates.  By this point, I have a scabbard of keen edges, and improved crit. with that thing.  (Add some serious strength and it gets nasty).  He orginally began as a much'ed mechanics exercise (when I thought it would be a one shot)

Just to give you some idea of how to picture Toras's style/weapon, I always viewed the mercurial as secondary (in the look).  He fights and is built much like Guts from Beserk.  (Though his personality is 1 part Xander / 1 part Father Anderson (hellsing managa, not anime))


----------



## Ryltar

Shemeska said:
			
		

> I'm not familiar with that one then. Its been a while since I seriously sat down and read his stories. Lately I've been re-reading C.A. Smith and devouring Mieville's novels.




Smith I am not familiar with, but Mieville is the uncrowned king of post-planescape fiction .


----------



## Shemeska

Ryltar said:
			
		

> Smith I am not familiar with, but Mieville is the uncrowned king of post-planescape fiction .




Clark Ashton Smith, a fellow pulp horror writer, friend and contemporary of Lovecraft. Honestly in some ways he was a better writer than Lovecraft. Here you'll find stuff about him and some of his works. My personal favorites are 'The Double Shadow', 'The Light From The Pole', 'The Coming of the White Worm', and 'The Seed from the Sepulchre'.


----------



## ajanders

*Waait a minute*

Nisha drinks from the river of Maat, which provides insane insight, and hallucinates she's having tea with A'kin and his girlfriend Shemeska?
Is that foreshadowing?


----------



## Ashy

Shemeska said:
			
		

> Clark Ashton Smith, a fellow pulp horror writer, friend and contemporary of Lovecraft. Honestly in some ways he was a better writer than Lovecraft. Here you'll find stuff about him and some of his works. My personal favorites are 'The Double Shadow', 'The Light From The Pole', 'The Coming of the White Worm', and 'The Seed from the Sepulchre'.




WOW!  Thanks for the link, Shemmie!  This rocks!  Excellent inspiration!


----------



## Shemeska

ajanders said:
			
		

> Nisha drinks from the river of Maat, which provides insane insight, and hallucinates she's having tea with A'kin and his girlfriend Shemeska?
> Is that foreshadowing?




*looks all flustered and irate* 
	

	
	
		
		

		
			






Draw your own conclusions from that, I won't say anything.


----------



## Clueless

Ah - our favorite cross dressing fiend and all. *chuckle* *leans over and scritches behind the fuzzy ear*

Re: the NPC - a few of these events are quite out of order, leaving our intrepid writer realizing, only half way through things that 'wait - this guy wasn't supposed to be here - hm. Ok - he does nothing.' Forgiveness is due though, it *was* a few years ago and not everyone has my memory or obsessive note taking.


----------



## Eluvan

Oooh, more nice updates!

 Very cool. I particularly like the Pseuodonatural Midget.  

 Thanks for mentioning Mieville, too. I hadn't heard of him before but this prompted me to go take a look at Perdido Street Station in the town library, and after perusing it for a few minutes I promptly went to a bookshop and bought it. Enjoying it lots so far.


----------



## Shemeska

*In Nomine Mysterium*

Hours, and several changes of watch later, the group woke and stared back up once more at the trio of crystalline prisons. None of them had moved during the three separate watches that they had held, despite Skalliska’s worry that the Illithid would wake up at any point and devour their brains.

	Clueless spoke first. “So I think we can agree to let the githzerai out first? They’re less likely to attack us for no reason. Then we can maybe ask him if they know anything about the others.”

	“Hell, for all we know the Illithid is a pacifist and the other two are psychotic.” Florian said wistfully.

	“Still, be ready in case anything happens.” Toras said as he reached forward to touch the orange gemstone on the base of the githzerai’s pedestal.

	The moment he touched it there was soft hum from the crystalline block and it grew more and more transparent by the second. Gradually it faded from sight and its inhabitant slumped to the ground and seemed to awake with a start as if he had been asleep and deeply dreaming.

	The githzerai glanced up at his surroundings and immediately adopted a defensive stance of sorts. He was dressed in simple brown robes and only a single gemstone adorned him, seemingly attached to his forehead. He blinked coal black eyes and took in the details of where he was and who stood before him with caution. Slowly, he tilted his head to the side in curiosity as his sense of danger to himself faded since the group made no move to raise weapons or harm him.

	He coughed, clearing his throat, and then asked something in an archaic form of gith. Getting no response from his incomprehensible question he paused, seemed to concentrate for a moment, and then he spoke again. While none of them recognized his words, they knew precisely what he was saying somehow.

	“Who are you and where am I?”

	Fyrehowl spoke to him first in celestial, though there was an odd undercurrent of the words that seemed to oddly resemble what the githzerai was speaking in.

	“We’re trapped in this place as well. Somewhere within the City of Doors, far beneath the streets under a place known as the Palace of the Jester.”

	The githzerai nodded and scowled. “I had come to Sigil for reasons of my own, hoping to find allies among the representatives of the celestials or others.”

	He furrowed his yellow skinned brow and sighed. “How long has it been? Did Gith devour my people? Did she ruin us all in her madness of blood, revenge, and empire?”

	“It has been… it has been a long time.” Fyrehowl said slowly, “Some of those events are legends to us.”

	He winced and inhaled deeply. “What has become of us? Do not spare me harsh details. I need to know this.”

	The lupinal nodded. “Your race remained split in two. Your people, the githzerai, fled to Limbo and there they remain. Gith’s followers, the githyanki, they traveled to the Astral plane and they’re still there. No one knows where Gith is, vanished or perhaps dead; the race is ruled by the lich queen Vlaakith, a descendant of the original.”

	Slowly they explained to him, Far’tel’las was his name, what had transpired since those times. He calmly took in the details, though he seemed rattled by mention of the githzerai Wizard-King, Zaerith Menyar Ag Gith. Following their conversation he stood up and paced the room.

	Clueless asked him in modern githzerai, “We were hoping that you could help us. In order to leave this place we have to release another of those who were imprisoned along with you.”

	The ‘zerai understood him but waited some time before answering.

	“I was alone when I came here. The duplicitous hypocrite who was responsible for me being here would have put them here out of irony.” He glanced at the crystalline columns. “One of Gith’s followers and one of the most hated slave masters, bastard spawn of Illsensine. Release the githyanki and let me speak to her. If there is conflict, it is not yours to interfere in. Do I make myself clear?”

	They nodded and backed up as the ‘zerai pressed the glittering orange gem below where the githyanki was held in stasis. As her prison walls evaporated, they exposed a bony female githyanki. Her skin was as sallow as the rest of her kind though she had a series of elaborate, glowing tattoos scrawled across her flesh and a flowing, never still sword of silvery metal in one hand.

	The ‘zerai backed up and presented his open palms to her when she looked up and saw him. He spat out something in their ancient language and she paused from where her hands had gripped her sword. She snarled at him and spat back at him in return. Names were exchanged, and while they did not know the other, they did seem to vaguely recognize the other by reputation.

	They seemed to argue for some time, and the words “Gith” and “Vlaakith” were repeated over and over again like curses. At some point the githyanki dropped her sword and screamed at the top of her lungs in what seemed like agonized disbelief. She began to weep.

	Fyrehowl shook her head, “She was a handmaiden or bodyguard, perhaps a consort even, to the first Vlaakith. He told her about Gith, what we had told him about her vanishing. She realized that her mistress betrayed the mother of their race. She may have suspected back so many years ago that Vlaakith was planning something, but now she knows…”

	The githzerai made no move to help her up or console her, but he stepped back and pointed to the Illithid.

	“This is going to be bloody.” Skalliska said as she moved to get a closer view. She was eager for the coming slaughter.

	Far’tel’las, the githzerai, and Par’rash’ket, the githyanki, calmly approached the crystalline block that held the Illithid, some noble of long ago Penumbra. During their time imprisoned, both of the children of Gith had been asleep, dreaming away the centuries. When Far’tel’las pressed the orange gemstone and released the Illithid, all knew immediately that something had gone differently, gone terribly wrong for it.

	In the split second before the monk’s hand burst through the illithid’s chest and its head was cleaved in twain by the antipaladin, there was a mind rattling psionic scream of terror and madness that erupted from the squid-like head of the mind flayer. The Illithid had been awake and conscious for all of the eons of its entrapment; it was insane beyond any measure of the word.

	Far’tel’las whispered some benediction to himself, a prayer, as he let the illithid’s sickly blood drip from his hand. Opposite him, Par’rash’ket ripped away the head of the kill and stepped away with her grisly trophy held by the dangling spinal column.

	There was an unpleasant silence as both gith looked at one another for some time. Some unspoken communication or rapport passed between them both and they nodded to one another.

	The githyanki hefted the illithid’s head and held it next to her own as she turned towards a suddenly visible exit from the room. “This is done. If ever we meet again it will be different. I must go now, I have ancient sins to punish.”

	The githzerai nodded to her, neither showing anger nor sympathy. He understood clearly that if they ever did meet again, one of them would die.

	“So it must be.”

	The githyanki passed through the door and vanished in a flicker of light.

	Tristol jerked upright. “That was a teleport.”

	They glanced at one another and immediately made for the same exit that had flickered into appearance on the far wall, set within the frosted glass surface. They weren’t going to pass up a chance to escape the confines of the whimsical but deadly labyrinth they had been trapped within.

	Far’tel’las cleaned his hands of the illithid’s blood and followed them out of the chamber, giving one last scathing look at the walls and freely showing his contempt for the individual who had trapped him there so long ago, ushering him to his palace under false pretense as one of the great benefactors of gleaming Sigil. The Jester of old, that black-cloaked Tartuffe would have made a saint of Baalzebul, and he was probably still alive and laughing. The gith spat on the floor and followed his rescuers.


***​

As soon as they passed through the door there was a vague sense of something watching them, and oddly enough something being satisfied with them, willingly letting them go, releasing them from where it had entrapped them. But still, as they left, that same eye was yet turned in their direction as it continued stirring from slumber. He was intrigued.

	“Alright, we’re out of that damned funhouse finally.” Florian said, followed by a loud curse in Tempus’s name.

	“Indeed we are.” The githzerai said, as he closed his eyes and sighed with relief. Then, after a long pause, pregnant with silence, he thanked them. “Thank you for releasing me. I fear from what you have told me that my own people have wandered from the path of my mentor just as much as the githyanki have been led astray by first Gith herself and then by Vlaakith and her descendants alike.”

	“You’re welcome to come with us. We’re all still stuck in the tunnels and passages down here. And what we’re hunting are former servants of the Illithid deity. You could help us with what you know.” Fyrehowl said as she bowed to the githzerai monk, an original disciple of Zerthimon himself.

	“My path is my own, and I need time to gather my thoughts before I decide what to do. There is much to ponder before I act.”

	Clueless stepped forward. “I’m curious though. About what you know, about the time you’re from. So much of that is myth and legend to us. I’d like to learn from someone who was there to witness it.”

	“Then sit and I will answer.”

	Far’tel’las gestured and sat down on the cold stone and talked to them for some time. He told them of Gith, of Zerthimon, how the two had been lovers and bitter ideological enemies both before the war with the Illithids was won and how afterwards there was no reconciliation. He spoke of Zerthimon’s agony over his actions that split the race of Gith in two and caused so much misery, but that it was better for all of creation than the blood laden crusade that Gith would have placed them all upon.

	So many details he gave: descriptions of battles, the grown and engineered living weapons of the Illithids, the siege of Penumbra itself, and the spread of the revolt to all the far flung worlds of the empire in the prime, the ethereal, and beyond to even the whispering, hidden cities of the astral and the forgotten city of Slaan in the depths of the inner planes.

	So much that he knew first hand was either a mystery to planar scholars or so far lost and forgotten that they didn’t have the questions to ask to obtain them as answers. But he told them as much as they wished to hear before he spread his hands and stood up without preamble.

	“I may see you again. I may not. When I am able, if I am able, I will send you a more proper way of thanks. But for now I must find myself in a world in which I may no longer be relevant, no longer viewed as a leader or one of the enlightened. I may have to free my people a second time from ourselves. Goodbye.”

	And with that he nodded to them all and silently walked off down one of the passages that spread out before them, eventually to make his way back up to Sigil far above them. They watched him go with some measure of awe reserved for pieces of living history, proxies, archfiends or gods. They didn’t know if they would see him again.

	Nisha scuffed a hoof on the stone and looked up at the others. “So… what now?”

	“What are we here looking for again?” Skalliska asked plaintively.

	“Rats.” Clueless said. “We’re here hunting rats. Maybe trying to find out what it was down here that they were looking for too.”

	Tristol nodded. “And we don’t have a clue where they are, just down here somewhere and probably waiting to jump out at us when we least expect it.”

	“And curdle our brains like expensive cheese and…” Fyrehowl paused and glanced down the passage. “…does anyone else feel that?”

	The rest of the group paused and looked intensely in the direction they were walking. At first they felt nothing, but then gradually they became aware of what the cipher’s own preternatural senses had told her of: there was a cool, fresh wind blowing at them faintly from that direction.

	Cautiously they moved forward down the passage and up to the source of the chill.

	“Whoa…” Tristol said as he paused at the lip of the shaft and looked down. A gentle breeze wafted up from the darkness below to rustle the fur at the tips of his vulpine ears.

	They stood clustered around a twenty foot or so wide shaft that plunged down into darkness beyond the range of their vision or their lights. The walls of the shaft were smooth, featureless stone and a spiral staircase was notched into the lip that curled around the sides as far down as they could follow.

	“Hey Tristol, gimme that lucky copper again.” Nisha said as she fumbled in one of the mage’s pockets with a free hand and continued to stare down into the gloom.

	“No! Get your own, I don’t want to…” *plink*

	Tristol sighed as Nisha dropped the copper down the shaft with a flick of a finger. It sailed out of sight and they watched and waited for a sound that it had hit bottom. No sound reached up to grace their ears.

	A minute later Fyrehowl nodded softly. “I heard something, but it might have just been the wind. I can’t say how deep that goes.”

	“So, who wants to go down there?” Skalliska asked as she glanced into the shaft.

	Fyrehowl sniffed at the air again. “The rats have been this way. Recently.”

	Toras fingered the hilt of his sword. “That settles it then.”

	Jerimin looked up at the fighter and then down into the darkness. He hesitated and was about to voice an objection.

	“We’ll let you out when everything is safe.” Toras said as he held open the mouth of a bag of holding. “Drop the sword, check for sharp objects and then into the bag with you.”


***​

	Twenty minutes earlier at the same spot, thirty or forty cranium rats peered over the lip of the shaft. Their whiskers twitched in the wind and their exposed braincases crackled with flickers of psionic energy.

_This is the source of what we have felt. The power that has lain hidden under this place. The lurker in the walls has kept us hidden from it thus far, but here is it before us._

	The rats, hundreds of them, blinked in unison as they communed and pondered across their interconnected minds. The being within the underhalls had mocked them, stymied them without ever revealing itself, and the Natterer’s hunters who had hurt them so were still at large, sheltered in some manner by that former entity. But regardless of that, they stood congregated at the edge of what they had come seeking and they were not willing to risk losing access to it, whatever it actually was.

_We are intrigued. We are delighted with curiosity. Revenge against the Natterer’s pawns can wait till we have found what it is that this place hides in the bowels of the city. It will be ours and we will make the Godbrain suffer._

	The hivemind of vermin swarmed and rushed forwards. Like a living wave the legion of rats hurled themselves as one over the sides of the shaft and down into the depths for whatever waited for them below.


***​

	“Has anyone paused to ask themselves just who actually built all of this? Tunneled down into Sigil’s bedrock and built all of this fun?” Toras asked wryly.

	Skalliska held up a finger and pointed to the smooth, gray surface of the shaft. “Sigil doesn’t have bedrock. It has Sigilrock, and if you’ll notice, that’s what this goes down into or has been for the past twenty minutes while we’ve been walking.”

	“How far down are we? We’ve been walking forever…” Nisha said with a groan. “I’d rather be back up there hallucinating. That was kinda fun.”

	“About a mile or so down I think.” Fyrehowl said.

	“How is that even possible?” Clueless asked. “I mean, going down we’re technically going into the ring of Sigil. How thick is the ring? There’s got to be a limit of how far down we can go, right?”

	The others had no answer, and as far as the bladesinger’s last question, they weren’t sure if they wanted to know the answer. Twenty minutes later the rock changed.

	“What the hell…” Skalliska had stopped dead in her tracks to stare at the walls of the shaft.

	The gray, chalk-like Sigilrock had transitioned to a dense, almost metallic mineral, vaguely reminiscent of something biological: the spongy tissue of a liver or a lung or the hollow of a long bone. But yet it was stone, still hard and cold to the touch as the walls of the shaft made a fluid transition from one type of rock to the next.

	“Anyone know what that is?” Toras asked curiously.

	“I’ve never seen anything like it before. I don’t have a clue.” Skalliska said with a shrug. “There was a rumor though, that in portions of the Great Below near the Ditch, somewhere around where Tattershade, the Lord of Sigil’s wererats was lairing, that they found, or claimed to have found, an abandoned Dabus warren. There was something in the rumor about stone that was alive, or stone that didn’t act like normal Sigilrock. I didn’t put any truth in the matter though; it was probably just to spook anyone who might intrude into Tattershade’s so-called kingdom. I never liked having to deal with his people at all in the past.”

	The insinuation of that rumor, and any possible link to what they saw in the transition of the stone as they progressed further and further down the stairs, it largely snuffed their conversation with each other. As they continued deeper they had only the darkness above, the darkness below, and the cool wind that rushed about them from the umbra like the shallow breath of a god, pensive and frightened, hiding in the depths.

	Admitting it or not, they were all frightened.


***​

	Four miles down from the top of the shaft they reached the bottom. The stairs extended into a small chamber with a series of smooth arches leading off in several random directions. The cool breeze that had wafted up the shaft blew in soft gusts from the various passages.

	“Here’s your copper back.” Nisha quipped as she picked up the coin where it lay against a wall. “It’s a bit bent from the fall, but oh well.”

	Tristol accepted it back with a chuckle. “So who wants to pick this time?” He glanced down the various passages that led away from the stairs.

	“Anyone but a fiend this time.” Florian said.

	Toras smirked. “That wasn’t fun. Not till the very end it wasn’t.”

	Nisha looked up from where she’d taken a seat. “I’m part fiend, does that count?”

	Skalliska was already moving towards one of the exits. “For now yes. And I’m making a map. That’s something that we’ve been damn remiss about doing so far. Though who knows if it’ll work at all down here, if this is even considered part of the Jester’s Palace and all.”

	Florian nodded, “Good idea.”

	Ten minutes later they walked back into the same room.

	“What the hell?” Skalliska said in disbelief as she looked up from her rough map. “This can’t be the room we started in. We walked in a straight line and didn’t take any of the intervening passages we found. We didn’t turn any corners and there weren’t any portals in the way.”

	“Maybe it’s a similar room and not the same one?” Tristol mused.

	“Can’t be.” Nisha said, picking up something on the ground. “Here’s a copper piece of my own that I left.”

	“Than why is it bent just like mine?” The mage asked as one of his ears twitched.

	“…you weren’t supposed to ask that.” The tiefling said as she handed it back to him.

	Skalliska tossed the map up in the air and took a seat by the stairs. “Alright. Fine. This place doesn’t want to behave like normal space should. Lovely. I’m up for wandering. Anyone else?”

	“That’s worked for us so far down here. I don’t see why not.” Fyrehowl said with a shrug.

	And so they wandered. Several times they ended up back where they started or seemed to follow the same path despite having started and ended up on different sides of the chamber with the stairs. After some time however they did stumble upon a unique room, and it was not empty by any means.

	The chamber was surreal in its contents: what initially appeared to be a rough-hewn block of stone sat in its center. It was a golem, or perhaps a half-finished statue cut from black marble and shot through with shimmering veins of gold.

	Whatever it was, it was surrounded by some manner of warding circle that took the form of runes written into the floor that shimmered and faded in and out of sight. The symbols didn’t actually touch the stone; they floated above it like Dabus rebuses, seeming to exist only partially in phase with the stone of the floor they hovered above in a constant flux.

	Looking warily at the symbols that made up the circle they could make out three distinct and separate rings of runes, one of them fading into nothing while two others remained manifest. When they shifted, the two extant rings seemed to rotate several degrees counter to one another, and always they remained blurry. In fact they seemed to grow fuzzy and indistinct upon examination, only gaining detail in half glances out of the corner of one’s eyes. They blurred almost as if the eyes couldn’t focus on them or they defied definition. They hurt the eyes to stare at them. They were the same sets of symbols that had been present upon the solidified protomatter filaments that wound round the exterior of the mazes of Her Serenity within the depths of the Trackless Sea.

	“F*ck if I’m going near that, whatever it is!” Clueless said bluntly as he backed up from the silently shifting rings of runes.

	Even without any further explanation from the bladesinger, the others slowly realized that same connection between the runes and what they had previously witnessed in the weblike manifestations that cloaked the maze in the deep ethereal.

	Tristol whispered a few words and glanced at the circle and the figure within. His vision didn’t change, despite the spell taking effect.

	“It’s not magical, whatever it is. I don’t have any idea what it might be. No idea at all…”

	Fyrehowl was spooked but cautiously approached the shifting rings. There were several things laying on the ground near the ring that the others hadn’t noticed, and she had smelt the acrid, copper scent of spilt blood.

	Seven cranium rat corpses lay at the edge of the outermost ring of symbols, all of them unmoving and dead. Where they had touched the circle they simply ceased to exist, heads and limbs severed and simply gone. It was as if they had plunged into a prismatic wall, testing it for vulnerabilities, or blundered into the serrated shadow of The Lady.

	Fyrehowl shuddered and backed away from the deadly trio of flickering circles.

	“The rats have been here. They tried to step through the circle.” The lupinal motioned to the corpses at the edge of the wardings. “They died.”

	“What is that thing in there? A statue? A golem or something?” Toras asked curiously. “Tristol? Skalliska? You know anything resembling that?”

	They both shook their heads in the negative.

	“Is this what the rats were down here looking for?” Florian asked as she walked a slow circle around the figure, making certain that she didn’t tread near the deadly barrier.

	Clueless shrugged. “Maybe, I don’t know. There might be more things down here.”

	“I’m not so sure I want to go looking for them though…” Fyrehowl said, perhaps a bit of cipher’s intuition seeping into her mind if not yet her actions.

	Florian stopped and glanced not at the wards, but at the ground in front of the odd figure held within their bladed embrace.

	“There’s something written on the floor in front of this thing. In Chondathan, my first language…”

	Tristol walked up next to her, looked at the lines of text and shook his head. “No, it’s in Halruaan.”

	“Unless Halruaan looks like celestial, than no.” Fyrehowl said as she glanced at it.

	And so it was with all of them. The lines appeared to have been written in whatever language the seven of them spoke best, and still, despite those things, Tristol saw no emanation of magic from the wards, the golem, or anywhere else in the chamber outside of his companions and himself.

	Gathered together around the three deadly rings surrounding the statue they read the refrain at its base:

_‘In silence, in solitude, entombed here in the depths of Her Serenity’s vaults I wait. Patient as the Great Spire and fearing none, for I see where others do not. Only by our Lady’s Will does darkness cloud my eyes as I wait for *HUBRIS* to shake the Heavens and Hells._

	“Her Serenity’s Vaults?…” Fyrehowl asked warily. “I don’t think we should be down here.”

	Toras backed away from the figure in the center of the room slightly. “I’ve already been in a maze once. I don’t want to ever be in one to call my own, thank you very much.”

	Clueless asked a question. “Who or what is Hubris?”

	“Pride? SIRBUH spelled backwards all ominous like?” Nisha said with a chuckle.

	Florian patted the Xaositect on the head. “Not a rhetorical question Nisha.”

	Skalliska mused. “Well that might be a name. Maybe of this whatever it is that’s sitting here in the circle. I don’t know.”

	“Whatever it is, the cranium rats seemed interested in it, and gave up trying to get to it. I mean, if that passage is actually suggesting that whatever is down here was put here by” Florian lowered her voice, “…you know who… than I don’t think the rats were going to get into it.”

	The cleric received some nods in reply. It seemed like a sensible enough notion.

	“But since we know the rats are actually down here, or were at some point, I think we should at least look around some more. Yes it’s creepy but still.” Clueless replied with a gesture to one of the three archways out of the room.

	And so off they went through a nondescript maze of passages that seemed to continually loop back on themselves in defiance of any sort of spatial laws. Twice they ended back up in the room with the stairway and its miles high shaft, and another time they ended up back in the room with the warding circles in which they had started. In fact, none of the passages seemed to lead to the same destination twice or even to follow the same path each time they would take it.

Not even marking the passages with chalk, ink, paint, or string remedied the situation. The marks they made would vanish, appear in different places, or make no sense at all if one tried to follow them in a straight line. And all the while, Tristol noticed not a drop of magic to be present.

Eventually however, they did find a second unique chamber. The room was roughly the same size as the previous one, and again a single object stood at its center. A three-sided glass obelisk perhaps seven feet tall, it hovered above the floor by several inches. Odd symbols hovered above its surface causing discomfort and pain to the eyes if they were focused upon.

	Periodically the obelisk turned to expose a different one of its faces to each of the three exits from the chamber. As it did so the runes seemed to shimmer for an instant but otherwise they remained the same.

	And again, just like the last chamber, a half dozen cranium rats littered the floor around the object, their blood and gore spattered explosively about their forms but leaving the obelisk untouched by even a single drop. And still Tristol saw no evidence of magic despite everything else they beheld.

	“Don’t look too closely at it. Trust me on this one. Bleeding eyes aren’t fun.” Clueless said.

	Florian nodded and pointed to the rats. “And don’t touch is an operative term again. Thanks to the rats for illustrating this for us.”

	They stared at the odd, hovering object for some time before shrugging and pondering the exact reason for its motion and its changes when it did move.

	Clueless stood and looked at the obelisk and then at the exits. “Maybe there’s a pattern to what rooms the exits lead to depending on which side of the obelisk is facing each of them? It’s an idea.”

	“Perhaps. It’s worth a try. I’ve still got string and chalk.” Skalliska said as she avoided glancing at the object.

	“Actually _I’ve_ got your string and chalk. But same difference.” Nisha said as she handed them to Skalliska.

	The kobold gave her a look and then walked towards one of the entrances. 

Some time later they had wandered in and out of the same featureless tunnels, the entrance to the current warren, and the other previous chamber they had found. Eventually they gave up. There was no apparent pattern to the exits and the position of the obelisk. There was however a detail of the obelisk that they had not before noticed.

Within its translucent interior, when it shifted its position, there was a flicker of an image within that seemed to linger, ghostlike, for a split second before vanishing. Three separate images that were present in sequence, one for each time the object turned and the runes shimmered.

Clueless and Nisha looked at one another as the first image flickered and was gone. They had both seen it before. A marble standing stone there in the gloom of the second layer of the Gray Waste, one of the Loadstones of Misery. When the obelisk had cycled fully and returned to the Loadstone image, it was subtly different. Another cycle later and it was different once more. Three Loadstones in all, each of them present in the crystalline interior of the hovering monolith.

The second image within the interior was the otherwise familiar Infinite Spire within the Outlands. Oddly though, Sigil was absent at its summit in the obelisk’s image.

“Well, there’s one we recognize. Sort of, there’s just no Sigil.” Fyrehowl said.

	“So what’s the pattern? Sort of spires or big rocks on the planes? There isn’t a third one.” Skalliska said with a shrug.

	The third was one they didn’t recognize: some column of gleaming, burning moonlight rising up out of some body of water or a calm ocean. For whatever reason its appearance seemed both calming and guilt forming, as if they had seen something that wasn’t meant to be seen. Or perhaps it wasn’t guilt, but rather a sense of longing or a sense of regret at something that once was, but was no longer.

	“That almost looked like Thalasia. But there’s nothing like that there. At least nothing that I know of.” Fyrehowl looked confused at the very notion. None of the others could really question her though being that of them, she was the only native of Elysium. If there were something like that there, certainly she would have known about it, no?

	With a bit more confusion they wandered out of the chamber and blindly sought another one. Two unique chambers, each with three exits and a single object in the center, and they always kept finding their way back to the spots that they began. It only seemed to stand to reason that there would be a third unique room like the other two that would fulfill the rule of three, center of all, and unity of rings as they seemed to be present in each. But of course, the only truth about the rules tended to be that they usually never truly and easily applied unless you went out of your way looking for them, if even then.

	Nearly an hour later of aimless wandering though, they finally noticed an incongruity in the soft gusts of wind and a bit of light from the end of one side passage. The air seemed colder and fresher than anywhere else, and the light was almost natural seeming. Curiously they looked at one another and then turned down that particular passage. At the end of it was an archway, much like those that had graced the entrances to the other two previous unique chambers, or vaults as they might have been. But something was distinctly odd about what they could see through the entrance, and near the rear of the group as they walked, Fyrehowl was increasingly nervous and skittish.

	Tristol’s voice choked up as they passed through the portal. “This isn’t possible…”

Above them there was no ceiling of rock or stone, but only an empty, open sky that stretched out into a featureless blue-green nothingness. Underground, four miles below the streets of Sigil, they looked up and saw the sky above them reaching out over the walls of a room that was otherwise like the other two, save what was there that should not have been. They all walked into a courtyard in the depths of Sigil open to a sky that should not have existed.

	Opposite them, perhaps a hundred feet away, was another archway that stood separate from the courtyard. The arch was obviously a portal of sorts, though it did not register as one, nor did it flicker with the telltale glow of magic, but another of the nondescript tunnels was visible through it.

	A cold wind drifted down from the expanse of sky above them, the source of the breeze that had crept up from the vaults and the miles long staircase that had led them there, wherever _there_ was.

	But the void above was not what frightened them by comparison. At the very center of the courtyard, atop a low pedestal, stood a life-sized statue of Her Serenity, The Lady of Pain. Cut from the purest white marble, blades of glimmering silver sprouted like organic, living things from the stone. The marble seemed to actually transmute from rock to metal where they emerged, seemingly having been grown rather than made. Not a speck of dust marred the statue’s surface, nor any marks of age or weathering, and like Her Bladed Majesty, its gaze was unreadable, emotionless, and implacable.

	“…We… we shouldn’t be here.” Clueless said with an almost frightened solemnity.

	Skalliska had a worried tone to her voice as she asked, “How is there a sky here? We’re miles underground and we haven’t gone through a single actual damn portal down here.”

	“Is it possible to come out on the other side of the ring and look… out?” Florian asked as she stared up into the infinite blank reach of the cold, cloudless sky above them.

	Skalliska whispered several words and began to float up from the ground. “There’s one way to find out. I’m going to go look.”

	“Skalliska, I don’t think you should, uh, be doing that…” Fyrehowl said as a warning before she glanced back at the statue of Her Serenity.

	The others nervously milled about as the kobold drifted up to the top of the courtyard and looked up into the sky and over the edge of walls that anywhere else would have touched and bordered upon a ceiling. What she saw took her breath away. The stone surface extended out infinitely in a flat plane in every direction without any hint of curvature. The cold expanse of the sky gazed down over all of it without an end in sight. There was no hint of clouds, or ground, or the spire.

	Skalliska gripped the edge tightly and glanced back at the others. “There’s no spire. Just the sky and a flat surface of rock over the edges that just… goes on…”

	Tristol looked up at her, his tail was tucked between his legs and his ears were flat against his head. “Come on down now. We should leave.”

	She didn’t object, and still holding on to the stone she drifted back down to the ground and consciously avoided looking at the statue of The Lady at any point during her descent.

	“So, how about we leave now and see if we can find the rats on the way back? If they’re down here, I don’t think they should be and I dare say that they can’t do anything they shouldn’t…” Clueless said as he glanced once more over at the statue.

	“Good idea. I haven’t said anything about it, but guys…” Fyrehowl paused and sounded actually disturbed. “Nothing down here feels right. The Cadence… I can’t describe it at all. Please, let’s leave.”

	The cipher turned towards the archway that wasn’t a portal but yet was, intending to leave, but then she stopped and abruptly turned towards the other exit across the courtyard. She had barely the time to scream a warning to her companions and roll for cover as The Us, all of them, hundreds upon hundreds of cranium rats, burst through and into the courtyard with nothing but hatred seething across their raging, undulating carpet of eyes, teeth, claws and brains.


***​


----------



## Gez

Great update!

That's what is nice with the outer planes, they don't bother themselves with euclidian geometry. 

On the typo front, there's just one, but a funny:


> He was dressed in simple brown robes and only *a single gemstone adored him*, seemingly attached to his forehead.




You're the one that I adore, you'll always be my fore...


----------



## Ohtar Turinson

Shemeska said:
			
		

> _‘In silence, in solitude, entombed here in the depths of Her Serenity’s vaults I wait. Patient as the Great Spire and fearing none, for I see where others do not. Only by our Lady’s Will does darkness cloud my eyes as I wait for *HUBRIS* to shake the Heavens and Hells._




Isn't Hubris what 'Vorkannis' means? Vorkannis has certainly shaken the Heavens and Hells. Looks like whatever it is that is imprisoned there is going to get out soon...


----------



## Clueless

We didn't know yet about the meaning of fuzzy face's name... but yeah, you're pretty close to right there.


----------



## PhoenixDarkDirk

This last update rather nicely reminds me of the movie _Labyrinth_.


----------



## Shemeska

Ohtar Turinson said:
			
		

> Isn't Hubris what 'Vorkannis' means? Vorkannis has certainly shaken the Heavens and Hells. Looks like whatever it is that is imprisoned there is going to get out soon...




The PCs didn't find out the meaning of his name for quite some time later. We'll get back to him, but not immediately.


----------



## Gez

Ohtar Turinson said:
			
		

> Isn't Hubris what 'Vorkannis' means?




I don't know, but Voorkennis is Dutch for "priviledged information."


----------



## Shemeska

Gez said:
			
		

> I don't know, but Voorkennis is Dutch for "priviledged information."




That's amusing on a number of levels. 

I wasn't aware of that at all. After the storyhour is over (not anytime soon at all) I'm sitting on a document I typed up randomly that goes into the slow evolution of some of primary NPCs, who they were, name original, how they changed from their original conception etc. Given that it started out as a oneshot game with nothing planned past the Nilesia plot arc, some of them changed massively. Once it killed the game that was on hiatus for Xmas vacation when it started I sat down and had most everything hammered out loosely for the next 2-3 years of metaplot.

Of course, the source of that 'priviledged information' in game ended up being The Lie Weaver. Which itself was an amusing plot arc, but I shall say no more.


----------



## Bryon_Soulweaver

Sooooooo, how about that update?


----------



## Clueless

Hush, he's busy killing the party right now.


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## Ohtar Turinson

*pokes thread*

Is this SH going to update this week?


----------



## Shemeska

Ohtar Turinson said:
			
		

> *pokes thread*
> 
> Is this SH going to update this week?




Next week. I updated #2 this week, and was writing some random stuff for some other stories. Plus a horror movie marathon friday night, didn't have the time to do justice to this SH. What I have so far on this one is barely 5 pages, so it'll wait till next week, probably thursday.


----------



## Dakkareth

*counts*

THREE updates to read once my tests tomorrow are over. How's that for a reward?


----------



## Clueless

Dakkareth said:
			
		

> *counts*
> THREE updates to read once my tests tomorrow are over. How's that for a reward?




More self control than I have - I'll tell ya that. Good luck with the tests


----------



## Shemeska

*End of one plot arc, the start of another.*

***​

	Fyrehowl dove and rolled for cover as the rats poured into the courtyard. Already there was a hum in the air as a great billowing sphere of flame seemed to collect and flicker into being above the Us, their hatred taking physical form, tethered by crackles of psionic force to each of their brains.

	While the flickering sphere of flame continued to build and collect, gathering its strength above the hive, a wave of rippling psionic force washed out in front of them, crashing into Toras, Florian, and Clueless before fading. A raging chorus composed of tattered, random fragments of angry, visceral screams could be heard lashing out from the minds of the cranium rats.

_Killers of Us… Die!… Kill you… Feast on your thoughts! … We… crack open your skulls and drink!…Hatred…Death!_

	The group staggered to their feet from where they had fallen, they hastily cast defensive spells, or moved into a wider stance to divide the attentions of the swarm. Only Fyrehowl was quick enough to act immediately as she thrust out her hand and the air crackled with a billowing cone of utter cold. It slammed into the rats’ flank and shattered dozens of them with its frozen touch, burning others with the sudden exposure. It also goaded the rats into acting perhaps sooner than was wise, their fury overriding their otherwise godlike intellect.

	The gathering sphere of flame above the hive lanced out in a half dozen directions, streaking into the midst of the rats’ enemies and detonating with ferocious power. But the rats had unleashed their rage too soon. It was too unfocused, and one of the beams missed the lupinal and coursed past her, streaking further into the courtyard, an errant missile moving towards the statue of The Lady. It struck the marble midsection of the serene figure, and erupted in a roar of flame, broken, clattering fragments of burnt stone and shards of molted silvery metal.

	Time seemed to stop.

	The minds of the collective paused, horror etched on their expressions and their mental patterns; they waiting for something to happen. Be it The Lady Herself appearing to obliterate them, cast them into a maze, or something worse, it was an unknown quantity, and they did nothing, could do nothing, but watch.

	Fyrehowl blinked. Whatever feeling she had felt from the Cadence simply did not make sense to her at all.

	The others also watched from where they had fallen or taken their stand, waiting for the rats’ attack. The smoke cleared, the fire sputtered and died, and there was the sound of moving stones and clinking metal; the broken fragments of the statue were being pulled back like bits of iron to a magnet.

	They all watched, spellbound and terrified, even the Us, as bits of stone and metal met, fused like drops of oil, and rolled back to the broken base of the statue where the marble hem of The Lady’s robes brushed the ground. The smooth base of the statue rippled like a sculpture of water held in a solid, seamless form, the broken pieces merging with it, fusing with it, and it began to regenerate like a living thing. Within moments the enigmatic gaze of the statue of the Bladed Queen stared back at them as before, pristine and terrible, deadly grace repeated in stone and silver; not a mark remained of the damage.

	Time began again.

	Clueless thrust out of his hand and began to chant as his wings fluttered and drew him up above the melee. A column of roaring flame descended upon the hive, flickered against some warding that soaked it up like a sponge, but left several score of their kind scorched and enraged by pain.

	Toras stepped in front of Florian, willing to take any blow directed against the cleric as she invoked the power of her deity. A raging, holy twin of the half-fey’s conjuration blasted down upon the rats, more heavily the second time.

	The next moments were an agony of psionic lashes, bursts of pain directed against the minds of the hated enemies of the Us. A greenish ray scored the ground and burst against the chest of Toras, knocking him over and threatening to consume him before he managed to resist it. A ball of electricity erupted from nothing in the midst of where Skalliska, Nisha, and Tristol stood, and a ripple of force nearly hurled Clueless against one of the courtyard walls. But through it all, nothing again came even close to the baleful gaze of the statue of The Lady.

	Tristol saw the overwhelming force that the Us, as a single collective, was hurling out at them, moment by moment, and he knew that if it did not end soon, they would not survive. Then he remembered something: a metallic rod that he had taken from the possessions of the Incantifer Archmage, the insane wizardress Areya Fenthellis, known as the Spellbreaker. He gripped it in his hand and began to cast.

	The bolt of lightning was not any more especially powerful than normal, but it was a potent thing nonetheless, and there were hundreds of rats, none of them more than inches apart from one another. The lightning arced, the air was ripped with the scent of ozone, and as the first bolt struck one of the members of the Us, it forked, struck two, then forked again, and again, and again, flowing out over the hive, each separate lance of current striking more than a single target, the bolts overlapping in which rats they caused to shudder, dance, ignite and burst.

	As the spell ended, a hundred, maybe two hundred members of the hive were naught but bone and ash. The air was rent with screams of agony both real and mental. The collective was in shock with the sudden loss of perhaps a third of its number, and the concurrent drop in its own faculties and intelligence. Too much pain. Too much loss. They could not stay or they would lose more, and they had lost far too much. They had to run. They had to flee and escape.

	The thoughts were incoherent on the air as the remaining members of the hive turned and ran for the archway they had first come through, running and trying to find their way to the stairway back to the Palace of the Jester, and from there to the unmapped warrens and sewers of Sigil’s Great Below. Of course, their enemies that they left behind were in little better condition.

	“Oh you don’t want more? Come back, we can try again!” Toras said, rather ineffectually, as he winced against the pain. He lay there on the ground with his breastplate punched through by the rats’ magic, a warm stain slowly spreading outwards.

	“Tristol, you’re a saint. An oftentimes very destructive one, but a saint nonetheless.” Florian said as she stood up, wincing as she did.

	“Don’t look at me.” The mage replied incredulously. “I didn’t think it’d work, but I was running out of options. A few more seconds and they’d have turned the rest of you to ash, and I wouldn’t have been too far behind.”

	Nisha meanwhile had snagged several of the roasted cranium rats and tossed them into a bag. “Evidence for Jeremo” she called it, and the others found it not a bad idea at all.

	“So this opens the question. Where did the rats end up going?” Clueless said.

	Fyrehowl gave a shrug. “I don’t think they’re down here. I can’t really say why though. It’s just a feeling. And that said, I really, truly don’t want to be down here any longer than I have to.”

	They all gave an uneasy look towards the statue at the courtyard’s center.

	“Yeah, let’s get out of here.” Tristol said.

	Not even Nisha made an objection as they made their way back to the stairs. It took them nearly an hour, during which time they stopped to rest and heal most of their more serious wounds. As they finally found the correct path back to the central chamber where the stairs entered, they found a trail of bloody footsteps and one or two more rat corpses; stragglers who had died in their flight back towards safety.

	The stairs themselves were a canvas of blood from the hundreds of passing rats. It was obvious that they had fled upwards, and probably wouldn’t stop once they reached the top. Jeremo seemed to have his problem taken care of.

	Skalliska looked up the stairs and whimpered.

	“Hmm? Skalliska?” Fyrehowl asked.

	“How long was the way down here?” The kobold asked.

	“About, what? Two miles or so?” The lupinal replied.

	Skalliska whimpered again.

	“Oh for the Foehammer…” Florian stammered.

	“Sh*t.” Toras said bluntly as he realized the implication.

	“I love my wings. I really do.” Clueless said as he started to hover and ascend the stairs with Fyrehowl floating behind him for as long as her spell would last. The others grumbled and trudged behind them on foot.


***​

The long, slow climb up those miles of stairs was terribly difficult, but it was all the more liberating when they finally emerged over the lip of the crevice and out into the normal expanse of the Great Below. They variously staggered and collapsed around the edge, panting and breathing deeply of the still, stagnant air as the cooler, fresher air from below wafted at their skin and brushed at hair and fur. Now of course they knew the source of that chill wind, or perhaps, all things considered, they knew less of the nature of that source than they did before.

	“Remind me to send hate mail to the Planewalkers Guild.” Toras mumbled.

	“Excuse me?” Skalliska said as she lay there against the cold stone floor. “Why?”

	“The Infinite Staircase.” Tristol said between catching his breath. “That’s where they’re headquartered.”

	“Hate mail for promoting the idea of stairs.” Toras said, half a laugh and half a wheeze. “Mother-F*cking stairs…”

	“Just think of kicking Seamus down them.” Nisha said.

	For a brief moment before they all got up and activated their rings that Jeremo had given them, the bemused smile that played across Toras’s face was priceless.

	“I never bargaaaaaaaaaaagggggghhhhhh!” Toras said to himself, mimicking the dust mephit’s nasal and annoying voice for a moment. “Oh, in a perfect world…”


***​

	The glow of the teleport quickly faded and they found themselves there at the bottom of the stairs up into the Palace of the Jester proper. It was right where they had started, and Jeremo was sitting there on the stairs, twirling his crown around one hand like a toy as he smiled down at them.

	“A perfect world?” The Natterer said curiously as he glanced at his employees.

	“Oh, nothing. Just talking to myself. Nevermind.” Toras said.

	“Have you been waiting for us this whole time?” Florian asked with some shock. She hadn’t expected Jeremo to be there for them whenever they finally finished what he had tasked for them to do.

	The Jester waved one hand while brushing his hair out of his face with the other.

	“No no no, hardly no, not at all. I had a ring keyed to those I gave you. As soon as you came back it brought me here. So… what news?”

	He had a keenly interested, gregarious expression on his face as he looked at them all and the various healing wounds and scorched equipment they carried. Quite obviously they had done more than just wander about for a while before giving up. And unlike the previous group, they’d come back.

	“Problem solved.” Clueless said. “At least for now. They’re down about a third of their number.”

	Nisha tossed out one of the rats that she had collected down below. Jeremo winced at the smell of cooked meat and burned fur.

	“With a loss like that they’ll likely try to build their numbers back up before doing anything else like this.” Fyrehowl said. “I think you’re going to be rat free for some time.”

	“Oh, and one other thing.” Toras said as he opened up his bag of holding and dumped first a desiccated corpse, and then a living person out of the interior. “Out of the bag with you. We’re back up top finally.”

	Jerimin clambered out of the bag and onto the floor. He seemed more than a bit claustrophobic regarding where he had just been, and it took him several moments to realize that Jeremo was sitting on the steps and kicking his heels out back and forth. As soon as he saw him and recognized him, Jerimin straightened out and gave a bow.

	“Factol!”

	Jeremo waved off the formality as unnecessary.

	“Well, you at least made it back alive.” The Natterer said. “Can’t say too terribly much about this other fellow here. Not good. Any idea on the other three that went down with you?”

	“Umm… no sir.” Jerimin replied. “I can’t really say. We were attacked by the rats almost immediately and were separated from that point on. I wouldn’t have made it out expect for these fine fellows you sent down after my group. I owe them a debt, and you know how we handle that.”

	“Quite seriously.” Jeremo said with a smile. Obviously his hireling was also a member of the Ring-Givers.

	“You don’t want us to go back down there and try to find those other people in that first group, do you?” Florian said curiously.

	“Not your problem. I sent them down there and I’ll pay another group to go recover them.” Jeremo replied. “Besides, with the rats not an issue for the moment, or at least chased off till they recover their numbers, the place should at least be less dangerous, if still not entirely coherent. Plus it’ll give me a chance to have a confirmation that the cranium rats are indeed gone.”

	“Sounds fair enough.” Skalliska said.

	“Anything I can get you? You look like you just walked halfway across the city.” Jeremo said with childlike curiosity.

	“That’s about right probably.” Toras replied.

	“You’d be surprised.” Fyrehowl said.

	Jeremo cocked his head to the side. Somehow his crown stayed on, despite the ridiculous angle it usually sat at.

	“Tell me about it over a drink and something to eat. You deserve to relax and I’ve got a kitchen staff that’ll make you anything you want. Besides, I want to hear about what all you found. Follow me.” Jeremo said before hopping up to his feet and motioning them forwards. A number of servants collected the corpse as well, presumably to take it to a cleric to have the poor sod raised from the dead.

	And so for several hours they relaxed as best they could while Jeremo lavished them with anything they might want. The Natterer also never stopped talking for more than a scant few seconds when he wasn’t listening to an answer. He simply prattled on and on for all the time that they were in his company, though his questions all did have relevance to what he had employed them to do; the man was simply talkative.

	Eventually though, Jeremo was finally exhausted of questions for them, or at least he had the sense to stop, offer them their payment, and let them be on their way with his thanks. Toras was still grumbling about stairs, Clueless was oddly quiet, and Nisha was playing ‘bitey bitey brain zappy rat’ at odd intervals, and the Xaositect still had the rats that she’d collected, though none of the others had noticed apparently.

	But, within the hour they were back at the Portal Jammer for a chance to finally and wholly relax in whatever way they cared to. Tristol promptly took a nap, Nisha vanished to wherever she cared to vanish to, Florian said her daily devotions and passed out, Skalliska went back to her research that she’d been working on the prior week, Clueless, still spooked, tended the bar, Fyrehowl left to go meditate, and Toras just sat and watched people in the taproom.

	For the next twenty-four hours or so, life progressed normally for them without any oddities.


***​

Clueless was still thinking back to their time in the depths of the Jester’s Palace. Not to the cranium rat hive, not even to the eerie contents of the Vaults they had stumbled across. The half-fey was thinking nervously to the scenes that he had witnessed when talking to that grove of trees there in the labyrinths, the tomb and its smirking statue, and the events he had seen inside the murals depicting The Jester.

	The bladesinger was wary of that still, and he was continually looking behind him as he walked through the streets of the Guildhall Ward, making his way towards the Great Bazaar. He’d intended to simply go and have a drink at a place reputed, in his outsider’s way of knowing such things, to be a place where members of the Free League met. The faction wasn’t really a faction now, nor had it ever been if you asked members, and so there was no formal way of getting into the group or learning about it. Clueless figured that if he felt certain things about the world that they apparently did as well, and made himself present in places that members of the group frequented, one of them might take notice and clue in the clueless, so to speak.

	But damn if he couldn’t stop being paranoid and spooked by what had happened down there in the warrens beneath the Jester’s Palace. Every wizard he saw wearing a dark cloak, every halfling with a covered head moving about the crowd, anything even remotely similar in form to the Jester and his… companion… familiar… thing… was raising his heartbeat up a notch reflexively.

	He turned a corner into the sprawling, organized chaos of the Great Bazaar, and then he stopped dead in his tracks. They were here in Sigil. Almost like they were waiting for him, the two of them. Standing no more than ten feet away, an overly tall man in a long cloak and a wide brimmed hat stood at the edge of the sprawl of tents and stands. Standing at no more than to his thigh was a smaller figure in enveloping, drab colored robes.

	They both turned, and for a moment Clueless nearly bolted back the way that he had come. His eyes went wide with sudden terror.

	The half ogre in the cloak glanced down, said something not heard over the din of the crowds, and laughed at his companion. The monk looked up at him, the edge of his stereotypically dwarven beard showing out of the lower lip of the robe’s hood.

	“Oh son of a…” Clueless said as his pulse returned to normal. He cursed somewhere between to himself and at the pair of berks who happened to be dressed in the absolute wrong way for their respective heights as might be possible given his current mindset.

	“I need to stop being so damned skittish. I’ll be sitting in this place and be so nervous that half the crowd will think that I’m a Hardhead plant, and the other half will assume that I’ve been using too many drugs in the Civic Festhall.”

	He shook his head and continued on into the sprawl of the marketplace, trying ever so hard to divest himself of those lingering thoughts about what he’d seen and who he’d spoken to down there in the depths of the Great Below.


***​

A day later, and back in the Portal Jammer:


	“We have a letter. Two of them.” Toras announced as he placed one down in front of Skalliska.
	“And another ‘free sample’ from Seamusxanthuszemus, but I’ll handle that in my own time this week.” Toras said with a roll of his eyes.

	“But this first letter is for all of us…” He added as he put it down in the center of the table to stare at like it was a venomous snake.

	Fyrehowl groaned when she glanced at what was written in gold foil on the envelope. “To the owners of the Portal Jammer, the sincerest apologies of The King of the Crosstrade.”

	“Oh for the Foehammer…” Florian said as she snatched it up, ripped off the top and looked at the text of the letter. “Ten jink says she hasn’t written her own missives in a century.”

	The cleric cleared her throat as she read it out loud, “Dear fellow landowners of Sigil, very nearly my peers perhaps.”

	“Nearly her peers?” Clueless said with an offended tone.

	“I haven’t bathed in the gutter lately, so I’m not a peer of hers.” Tristol said with a frown.

	“I don’t frequent Tanar’ri brothels, so how could I be a peer…” Fyrehowl remarked with a snort.

	“Hush!” Florian said with a faux smack of her hand. “Let me finish. This is good. And by good I mean so laughingly fake, pretentious, and put on.”

	The letter read: Dear fellow landowners of Sigil, very nearly my peers perhaps. I must sincerely apologize for the horrific events of the past week that put such a pall over the celebration held by the esteemed Jeremo the Natterer, my friend for some time now even before his ascension to Factol of the Ring-Givers. It is such a terrible thing that some persons sometimes lose their sense of social rank, their ego grows too over inflated beyond their means to support it legitimately, and they feel that by causing a scene at the expense of others that they might elevate their own standing in the eyes of those who might have previously called them a peer. I was shocked (shocked!) by the horrific attitude and subsequent actions of Zadara the Titan. I simply cannot fathom what was going through her mind when she disrupted Jeremo’s party so.”

	The letter went on in a similar fashion for another two pages, not once making mention of the Marauder’s screaming outburst, public attack on an otherwise dismally perceived Dust Mephit, and her attempted murder of the Titan. Mostly it rambled on and on in five jink words about how horrible Zadara was.

	“Well, at least some good has come out of it.” Florian stated.

	“Oh?” Toras asked.

	Skalliska was, by that point, ignoring them and reading the letter addressed to her. Whatever the contents, it had her peering intently at it, scratching her chin in curiosity and pursing her lips.

	“Indeed. It’s made me remember just how much blistering disdain I actually have for the b*tch. Back me up on this one Clueless.” Florian said.

	Clueless smirked and nodded, “Such a lovely women…” He muttered, before his tone became more vindictive.

“I’m going to see her shaved.” He said, holding a hand to his collarbone and moving it down to his navel. “From here, to here. In public. I swear to you, that’s what I’ll do.”

	“Not bad…” Fyrehowl said with a chuckle. “Maybe put it into little patterns like some of the wealthy folks in the Lady’s Ward do for their puppies?”

	Florian grinned. “Not bad? That’s genius. Tempus would approve.”

	Skalliska had put down the letter she’d been reading and wandered over to the bar, blissfully ignoring the commentary by her companions. Once there, she walked around to the back and chugged nearly a third of a bottle of wine. Clearly something had gotten her attention in what she’d read.


***​

The Oinoloth stood in the bowels of Khin-Oin, walking on a platform high above the spawning pits, the fossilized sacral vertebrae of the Wasting Tower’s foundations riding high above him like a mummified firmament over the hell beneath.  Below the gaze of The Ebon and his collection of scribes that followed him like mewling puppies, they watched the processes of the pits several hundred feet beneath them. In the bubbling and roiling toxic expanse of the pools below, Mezzoloths were formed and created; their essence ripped up from the very flesh of the Waste, their bodies extruded from the bloody innards of that which birthed them.

Vorkannis smiled through air thick with bursts of flame, electrical discharge, and noxious fumes from below as the newborn fiends rose to the surface and slowly formed, becoming more and more distinct by the minute. He smiled more when the air was ripped by thousands of pained screams. In that moment, the newly born yugoloths began to slaughter one another, killing and slaying in an orgiastic fratricide. As the screams of the dying faded away, only one of them from each monstrous vat was left alive to climb up and out of the pool where it would take its place as a cog of multiversal evil.

Hundreds of thousands of such spawning pools rose in the distance in the vaults there below the ossified foundations of the Wasting Tower, below the vaults, below the tributaries of the Styx, and below nearly thirty miles of ash, dust and solidified evil. It was one of three such places where they burrowed deep, worrying the flesh of the plane, ripping up the bloody, raw moral effluvium and forging it into their own shapes. It was more efficient that way; it allowed them to complete the process in quicker time than simply waiting for the mezzoloths to break free from the surface up above on Oinos, or crawl out as whimpering, hungry newborns on the banks of the Styx. This method ensured that only the strong and merciless survived.

It was one of three such places: Just like the great machines, the infernal devices that tapped the furnaces of Gehenna beneath the vaults and archives of the Tower Arcane; just like the cage wrought of misery and bound souls within the hollow interior shaft of the Tower of Incarnate Pain. They were things of beauty in his eyes.

	He allowed himself that moment of pleasure before moving onwards with his underlings. They turned and approached a new pool at the periphery of the spawning pits, one that was constructed to his elaborate specifications.

As they approached the pool, a pair of nycaloths flanked the Ebon as ceremonial guards, and a group of arcanaloths followed after him, in awe of him and giddily attentive to his instructions; they hung on every word he spoke. Several steps behind them, three ultroloths followed along silently as well, watching, observing, and learning with more subdued attention that the jackal headed fiends.

They, the arcanaloths, were scribes, cogs of evil, but of late they had been more headstrong given that one of their own ranks had assumed the position of Oinoloth. The Ebon didn’t treat them any differently than had previous Oinoloths. He did not elevate that caste above their traditional position, his bizarre promotion of The Manged notwithstanding, nor did he look down on the Ultroloths. Very early on however he had made it clear that any Ultroloth who harbored even a speck of disdain for his nominal caste would not be long in this world. The corpses that still hung from the spires of Khin-Oin, swinging in the wind like grotesque fruit from a withered tree, they attested to this fact. To The Ebon, caste was nothing, only power and fitness mattered, and he would be an iconoclast if that served his own goals and those of their racial creed. Those who argued otherwise ceased to exist. The Ultroloths remained silent as they followed behind their Oinoloth and his sycophants.

	The pool was a basin of iron bound with rings of jet stone that flickered with a pale green light from some manner of mineral inclusion. Intricate runes covered the outside rim of the vat and down deep into its interior, deep carved spaces filled with still liquid mercury, too heavy and too dense to leak from their hollows and into the boiling contents of the pool itself. A single figure grew and gestated therein, and The Ebon and his following stopped and watched it in silence.

	“You have questions burning in your brains.” The Ebon said without looking away from the vat where the sickly light from his eyes reflected back in tiny, guttering pinpoints of red. “You are uncertain of the manner of sorcery I have used. You are uncertain of what manner of creature I am growing. And each of you is too fearful to be the first to ask what all of you are wondering.”

	Those arcanaloths who possessed tails hung them between their legs under their robes, but still they did not answer their Oinoloth; they were afraid more than they were curious.

	“You should all be well acquainted with the process that goes on about us for miles and miles. That process has not changed in millennia, and is unlikely to change unless We determine that it necessary to change the very nature of the least of our kind; to change the nature of the mezzoloth. In this instance, no radical changes are required. Purity is something to be striven for; it is an evolution of form gained by conflict, strife and painful learning. Misery makes you whole.”

	He gesticulated back towards the mezzoloth vats in the distance.

	“It is undesirable to make them different than they are now. That would defeat the progression from one caste to the next, the slow purification of the self that most of us have undergone. It is this painful process of learning, this unhallowed passage to maturity that causes many to look down upon those of higher caste who are born into their station rather than rising to the top and surviving by skill and merit.”

	He looked back and nodded in approval as a single mezzoloth emerged from out of one of the nearby vats. It had just slaughtered its birth mates and earned itself the right of existence: The Ebon’s example in microcosm.

One of the arcanaloth scribes, one who had been born into his caste, shook slightly at the Oinoloth’s implication. He shuddered, his tail jerked spastically between his legs in terror, and he remained utterly silent.

	“But this creature is different, in both form, purpose, and ontogeny.” The Ebon said, as a tendril of shadow from around his feet curled up and seemed to point like an exaggerated finger at the body in the vat before them all.

	The crooning arcanaloths and silent Ultroloths alike pushed forwards to gain a closer look.

	All they could see of the creature growing in the interior of the vat was a mass of semisolid tentacles and an eyeless face that seemed to be merely braincase and gnashing teeth. Whatever it was, it was nearly double the size of the largest nycaloths, perhaps bordering on the scale of a Goristro Tanar’ri, but it was agonizingly thin, like a leper’s idol or a starving godling.

	A few curious souls asked him questions, and he smiled as he answered them.

“Oh I have made it from the essence of the depths, a place I am well acquainted with, but I have not given it the capacity for independent thought as of yet.”

	They asked him more questions, clarifications of intent, when the beast would think on its own, and other more prosaic items. The Ebon flashed ivory fangs.

“I require obedience and instinct from this creature and its type, not independence. I have need of puppets, perfection without fawning and idolatry.” The Ebon glanced at the scribes who flocked around him. “And I have need of abilities not possessed innately by any extant yugoloth. And so, I make them myself to suit my needs for each given task and I scribe my mandates upon their minds and their most basic essence. While you are mirrors of perfection, seeking to emulate it, I am making tools to be held by the one who sees only these distorted reflections surrounding him.”

	None of them replied, especially not the Ultroloths. Eventually though, one of them asked another question.

	“How will you implant conscious thought into the creature? Is it more a construct of flesh and bone, an infusion of positive energy, negative energy, or will it develop some rudimentary thought patterns of its own as its organs develop and its brain grows more complex?” One of the arcanaloths asked tentatively. “You said that you had not given it the capacity for independent thought, ‘as of yet’. Does that mean that it will require some form of vital spark before it develops in that direction? How will you accomplish this?”

The Ebon turned and faced the scribe. The others around him backed away.

“You will suffice…”

The lesser fiend was hurled towards the spawning pool, suspended above the burning waters with a simple thought on the part of the Oinoloth, the same thought stripping the fiend of its contingencies and protective wardings as if they were tissue paper; meaningless to one such as Him. The Ebon said nothing, made no movements or gestures as he caused the arcanaloth to be ripped apart, flensed and butchered in such a way to maximize its agony. The shadows that swirled about his feet like a cloud of plague spores reached out to pull at flesh and viscera, pulling out and stripping it of something more basic than its physical body. The scribe’s infantile screams, his begging, his pleading for mercy that would never come, they poured, funnel-like into the hitherto lifeless body in the tank, pared, plucked, and tapped by the Ebon to fuel its birth. The creature of brain, fang, claw and obedience, it slowly stirred to life as The Ebon began to whisper in the words of the Baern.


***​

	Skalliska was potently drunk by that time and she had staggered over to a table and fallen promptly asleep in a puddle of her own drool. Nisha briefly considered playing some manner of prank, but a stern look from Florian ended her fun before it began. Still, Skalliska’s letter lay otherwise unnoticed where she had left it back on the other table.

The envelope had been addressed to her. It was unsigned, and neither did the paper carry any identifying marks. It simply began by saying, “My friend, you will find this interesting in relation to your current crises of faith. 
“You have been searching for clues relating to the pantheon of your old home world upon the prime. In the Outlands, within the Mausoleum of Chronepsis, there is a portal formed by the bounded space between an ancient, ragged archway of ivy covered stone near to the hourglass of a great red wyrm of some renown. The portal may be activated only through the permission of the deity himself if one has the will to approach him. This portal leads to the Astral, and from that point, two days travel will bring you to the godisle of Abiormach. Seventy hours hence will find you atop the corpse of Ibrandul, and another five hours will find you at the godisle of Maanzicorian. From the deific corpse of the Illithid god of secrets, forward from his head another day and you will find what you have been looking for. Answers await you there. Perhaps some you hope for, perhaps others that you dread. You will discover this yourself.”


----------



## Gez

The new plot arc is Skalliska's, while the Ebon's ebonny activities are just the ongoing metaplot. Wonder what he just created, some homebrew monster I guess?

Anyway, an astral trip around godisle sounds like fun! I'm eager to read that! 

[sblock]"rat's end" should be "rats end"

I had a ring keyed to those you gave me.
Shouldn't it be "those I gave to you" instead? I remember the Natterer giving our valiant heroes rings, but I don't remember the reverse occuring. Or is that some odd mannerism from the Jester?[/sblock]


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## Shemeska

Gez said:
			
		

> The new plot arc is Skalliska's, while the Ebon's ebonny activities are just the ongoing metaplot. Wonder what he just created, some homebrew monster I guess?
> 
> Anyway, an astral trip around godisle sounds like fun! I'm eager to read that!




A critter that eventually shows up, but not for a while. Think a yugoloth analogue to some types of Devas and Abiormach Rilmani. Sort of a created being like a guardian yugoloth that is adapted to the transitive and inner planes. Lots of incorporeal touch attacks and lots of stat drain, but a serious vulnerability to holy damage and blessed weapons. You'll recognize it when it when you see it.

And for this next plot arc, lots of Astral fun, then some time off the Astral before going back for some closure. This was one of the plot arcs that I specifically enjoyed, and which brought me both moments of pleasure and moments of wanting to get drunk (nothing like the PCs skipping 15 pages worth of prepped material and jumping right to the end of a bunch of stuff).

[sblock]Those little things you pointed out are fixed, thanks for noticing them.[/sblock]


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## Clueless

Shemeska said:
			
		

> nothing like the PCs skipping 15 pages worth of prepped material and jumping right to the end of a bunch of stuff.



Two old style shadowrun players calling the shots on our team tactics and you *weren't* expecting the "... forget the army. Go straight for the head. Assassin time." tactic? *chuckle*


----------



## omrob

*Cranium rats on a stick??*

_Originally Posted by Shemeska
nothing like the PCs skipping 15 pages worth of prepped material and jumping right to the end of a bunch of stuff._

As high level players armed with divination and teleport say "Hello!"  

Your game is just never the same after that. 

At least mebbe it can be worked into another campaign or tournament or something ye hopes.

Anyway - great udpate. 

Looking forward to the next arc


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## Clueless

There's spells around that tactic - Shemmie makes extensive (and sometimes annoying and not just to characters) use of them.


----------



## Shemeska

omrob said:
			
		

> As high level players armed with divination and teleport say "Hello!"




I actually made it a specific point to start campaign #2 at a level lower than they could have had teleport at, largely because it would have nullified them being trapped where they were.

And that specific instance in this campaign that was mentioned before, it wasn't teleport at all, or even divination really. It was scry, looking for areas that couldn't be viewed by the spell, and physically traveling there. Things that ward against scry all but to the point of reaching out and punching the caster on the other end of the spell will feature rather heavily here in the next plot arc actually. And the method of those wardings was rather amusing.

And nobody ever really uses Divination in my campaigns. Augury, yes. Scry, hell yes and they make damn good use of the spell typically. Divination, never as far as I can recall. And scry can get you noticed in unhealthy ways depending on who you scry on, so it's not always the best idea. It's probably safer to shout out 'Haster!' three times in a row 



> At least mebbe it can be worked into another campaign or tournament or something ye hopes.




I ended up reusing around 65% of that material after making various changes to it. I don't let cool ideas go to waste if I can avoid it.


----------



## Clueless

*chuckle* Don't forget to include the 'Bad Poetry' so our commentary on it later makes sense.


----------



## Clueless

Shemeska said:
			
		

> And nobody ever really uses Divination in my campaigns... Divination, never as far as I can recall.




Because it's jinxed. Like detect alignment - we just don't bother wasting our resources on something that's going to be useless and misleading in the long run.


----------



## omrob

*Bamf!*



			
				Clueless said:
			
		

> Because it's jinxed. Like detect alignment - we just don't bother wasting our resources on something that's going to be useless and misleading in the long run.




Wow that sounds liberating and refreshing. Our party has an epic diviner in it and lots of divine casters. Consequently we are fairly divination heavy and have utilized it to bypass some of the Jester's well developed material in a similar fashion.  Mostly Contact Other Planes, and Communes, with the occasional Divination thrown in...

As a non divination pc though sometimes it can hold up the flow of the game, but it can make things easier.


----------



## Toras

Shemeska said:
			
		

> (nothing like the PCs skipping 15 pages worth of prepped material and jumping right to the end of a bunch of stuff).




At least we didn't blow it up, Francium Boy. <To the Waste with you and your precious laws of Thermodynamics>

Yeah,  a scry block has to be at least ninth level  before it actually goes out and beats up the caster for you.


----------



## Graywolf-ELM

Did I miss something?  I thought Skaliska had memory loss that wiped recent memories.  Did she get them back and I just read over it?  She seemed to pick up where she left off, without another thought.

GW


----------



## Shemeska

Graywolf-ELM said:
			
		

> Did I miss something?  I thought Skaliska had memory loss that wiped recent memories.  Did she get them back and I just read over it?  She seemed to pick up where she left off, without another thought.
> 
> GW




She lost a few days worth of memories, but she knew what she'd been working on and her notes were pretty decent. She was pretty driven on the whole matter so it's not too surprising to have her pick up on it so cleanly. I just didn't stress the memory loss much after the fact.


----------



## Ryltar

Hmm. The mention of Maanzecorian ... you didn't tie in Dead Gods at this point, did you?

Otherwise, nice update. I especially liked 



> For the next twenty-four hours or so, life progressed normally for them without any oddities.




As for the new loth in town, we'll just have to wait and see what develops  as of now, it's "just another loth", but maybe that will change once it meets the PCs.


----------



## Shemeska

Ryltar said:
			
		

> Hmm. The mention of Maanzecorian ... you didn't tie in Dead Gods at this point, did you?




Not really outside of the use of Maanzicorian's godisle. Like I said, this was probably my favorite overall plot arc of the campaign that we'll get into next week. And you can't have the Astral without lots of Githyanki


----------



## Dakkareth

Ahhhh ... back from my trip to the USA, my tests all over and now time to read this SH .

(And of course, all the Planescape stuff I brought with me from overseas. And the fact, that the DM in our group is a PS fan and might be running a game once we've whipped the CotSQ - times are good )


----------



## Clueless

How was the trip? And does your DM know about planewalker?


----------



## Bloodcookie

Hey Shemeska,

Long-time reader, first-time poster here 
Just wanted to tip my hat to ya on some impressive(ly complex) storytelling.


----------



## Shemeska

Bloodcookie said:
			
		

> Hey Shemeska,
> 
> Long-time reader, first-time poster here
> Just wanted to tip my hat to ya on some impressive(ly complex) storytelling.




*blushes* Why thank you, it's very much appreciated. 

I'll have both storyhours updated this week.


----------



## Dakkareth

Clueless said:
			
		

> How was the trip? And does your DM know about planewalker?




The trip was simply great - so many incredible nation parks . And if he doesn't, I'm going to tell him .


----------



## Shemeska

***​

	The tiny silver bell above the door jingled merrily. Florian smiled as she walked into the cluttered, eclectic and quirky confines of the Friendly Fiend where it seemed that A’kin was in the midst of unpacking several boxes and rearranging the contents of one of the shelves.

	“Come in! Come in!” The ‘loth said as he turned at the sound of the bell.

	“Hey there A’kin.” Florian said as the fiend recognized her.

	“Just browsing today Florian, or perhaps looking for something particular? I do try to keep my customers happy and coming back as best I can.”

	“You’re a sweetheart A’kin,” Florian replied. “And frankly you’re a much needed contrast to miss … oh you know who.”

	A’kin winced. “My apologies again for that unpleasantness. I can’t really say why she feels the need to be that way, I really don’t.”

	“No need to apologize pal, you’re not in the same category as she is. I won’t tar and feather you by reputation based on her.”

	A’kin smiled courteously and began to unwrap a number of items for the open shelf space.

	“Anything new?” Florian asked as she scanned the shelves for anything that had been added since the last time she was in the shop.

	The smiling arcanaloth perked up considerably as she asked, taking his mind off of his decidedly more fiendish Sigilian compatriot.

	“Let’s just say that I’ve got space on my shelves all of a sudden and I have to find something to fill them with.” He said.

	“Oh?”

	He leaned in closer. “Now I hate to talk business and money with a customer, but I like you, and you’re part of the reason actually for this all. I have been getting a –ton- of business from word of mouth advertising just because of those darling little animated dolls that I was selling. All of you down at the Portal Jammer have been using them as a lure and conversation piece of your own, and it’s rubbing off on me since I sold them to you in the first place. Can’t say I blame you, I found them rather cute.”

	Florian grinned. “Well that’s great to hear that you’ve been getting something out of that as well.”

	“Now, they’ve been selling so well that I’ve had a hard time actually getting my supplier of them to make enough to keep up with demand. It’s gotten to the point that I’ve been considering trying my own hand at making a few of my own. It seems fairly simple enough and I’m not really any slouch when it comes to crafting little bits of magic here and there.”

	“The racial reputation actually rubs off in your favor there I’d think.” Florian said.

	The fiend shrugged. “Actually, and don’t spread this around. But ok, I’ve actually made a few of them already to tell the truth. Just one or two, but they’ve really, really turned out well. However, for the moment I’m going to wait till the demand rises a bit higher.”

	A’kin looked a bit guilty by the admission.

	“It’s business, it’s not evil.” Florian said as she reached out and patted him on the head briefly.

	“’There’s a difference?’ At least that’s the line the Baatezu use.” He replied as he leaned in ever so slightly to her hand like an oversized puppy.

	“You’re not a baatezu A’kin. Too… fuzzy… for that. Among other things.” She said with a grin.

	A’kin smiled and withdrew his head despite the fact that he seemed to enjoy it. It just wouldn’t seem proper to have another customer walk in and see that.

“Suffice to say, I’ve got a couple that I’ve made, and one or two that I know that you’ll enjoy particularly. I’ll be putting those up for auction in the next week or two.” He said as he rummaged around in a box, looking for something that didn’t seem to be there. “And, uh… the auction is likely to be invitation only just to prevent a few persons from possibly throwing another tantrum if they don’t particularly care for my sense of humor. All in fun you realize.”

	Florian nodded as he emptied the box and finally turned it over and gave it a shake.

	“And where did you go you covetous little bauble you?” He said. “Apparently the box wasn’t a good enough lair for you.”

	Florian gave him an odd look.

	“Sorry, thought something was in here, but he’s not.” A’kin said with a twitch of his whiskers. “I’ll be right back, just need to go to the back room and get something. Do take a look around.”

	Florian browsed along the shelves as A’kin went to retrieve that nebulous ‘something’ from the back room of the shop. Among the items she saw were a number of random trinkets from a dozen odd planes: dust collectors, knickknacks and gewgaws, though some of them might work as portal keys or foci if you knew enough about the plane they originated on. Most of the things that A’kin sold usually had more than an obvious use, not that he advertised them as such. His clientele usually bought from him as a seller of curiosities simply for the novelty of their purchase, or his wiser and keener clients bought from him because of what wasn’t there at face value.

	“Hmm, what the heck is this?” Florian said as she glanced at an item laying, partially wrapped in oilcloth, with bits of frost collecting on its edges.

	She unwrapped the object as she heard the Friendly Fiend humming some random ditty to himself, the tune filtering out from the back room of the shop. Inside the oilcloth was a piece of bitterly cold, translucent black metal set within a steel frame of sorts and with a brass handle that seemed magically warded against itself being cold to the touch. It was a razorblade, or so it seemed.

	A’kin walked out from the stock room carrying a few bottles of various tagged contents and a tiny stuffed figurine of a red dragon. The tiny chromatic drake was perched atop a tiny pile of gold and glanced covetously from side to side every so often.

	“Grrr! Roar! Snarl!” It said in an unnaturally high-pitched voice for a dragon. A’kin put it down on his front desk next to the service bell and patted it on the head.

	“Oh that’s cute. How much?” Florian said as she grinned.

	“Not this one.” The fiend said. “This was a bit of a first attempt for me, and he’s rather cute. So I’m just going to keep him around for a while as I try to make a few more, but I already mentioned that I think.”

	Florian snapped her fingers in defeat. “Oh well. But anyway, what’s this thing here?”

	The cleric held up the odd looking razor.

	“It’s a razorblade, but it can also be used as a paring knife, or probably for meaner things as well if you’re into that. It’s made from a shard of Ocanthan ice. Somewhat like metal, somewhat more like ice. It won’t melt, not with the enchantment on it, and it’s very very sharp.”

	Florian had a sudden evil thought.

	“You know what?” A’kin said. “I really should put that in a case or at least put a warning label on it. I’d hate to see someone hurt themselves with in.”

	“Don’t bother. How much is it?”

	A’kin shuffled over and glanced at the razor and its cloth wrapping. There didn’t appear to be a price tag.

	“Hmm, no price tag. Oh well, how about I let you have it for say, 75 jink? It’s a bit hard to come by and it’s rather nice. Does that sound fair?”

	“We’re shaving Shemeska.”

	“Plus I know that your inn has been doing a brisk business, and…” A’kin paused and blinked. “Excuse me?!”

	“Clueless does. He hates the bitch. And he mentioned the other day that he wants to see her shaved like an expensive lapdog in the Lady’s Ward. And I think I’ve found him a nice little razorblade for the job as a present.”

	“Like I said, 50 jink sounds about right for it.” The fiend said without skipping a beat.

	Florian grinned.

	“And how about I throw in a bar of arcadian soap with it too.” A’kin continued as he took the razor and put it into a giftbox. “Rather nice stuff, smells like wildflowers from the first layer of the plane. Plus it strikes up a –really- nice lather, great stuff for a close shave I’m told.”

	The ‘loth was getting out wrapping paper and a bow to pretty up the box like a birthday present.

	“You’re a sweetheart A’kin. Do you have any sensory stones for sale?”

	“Oh?” The jackal headed shopkeep asked. “Yes actually. Just above the petrified treant leg in the corner. There’s a stack of them next to the wind up armanite racetrack toy.”

	“How much? We’re going to record this when we make it happen.”

	A’kin paused again and tried to suppress a blush and a giggle. “Ten jink.”

	“How much for two? I’m making you a copy.”

	A’kin pursed his lips, inhaled deeply, raised his eyebrows conspiratorially and began to whistle with a grin plastered across his face. He took the two sensory stones, the bar of soap and the razor, and wrapped them up in the box, frilly bow and all. He slid it across the counter to Florian and took her money.

	“Don’t leave yet, you’ve got change.” The ‘loth said as he counted back coins. “You gave me too much. It was all only 40 jink for everything. And I wouldn’t want to have a dissatisfied customer.”

	“Did I mention how much I like you A’kin?” Florian said as she took her present for Clueless and her change. “I really do. I can’t when or if we’ll make this happen, but you’ll have a copy of it once we do.”

	“I wouldn’t know anything about it.” A’kin said with an innocent smile and shrug. “But you have fun with your purchase as I’m sure you will. Visit me again sometime. It’s always a pleasure. Oh, and tell Nisha that I’ll have some smokepowder in sometime next week for her to pick up.

	Florian paused at the mention of Nisha and smokepowder, but she shook her head and put it out of her mind. 

	“I will. And you take care too A’kin. I’ll be back next week or so to check on those animated dolls. The dragon is adorable.”

She snagged a mint from the tray on A’kin’s counter as she left before the tiny animated drake claimed it as its ‘hoard’. She was smiling more so than she had in a while as she walked out of the Friendly Fiend and into the much less pleasant streets of the Lower Ward. Back in his shop A’kin was still smiling, giggling, and shaking his head as another customer walked in.


***​

	Clueless sat in his room, looking curiously at a pair of rubbery black goggles. The odd pair of eyewear had been knocked from the face of one of the Keepers that had assaulted them recently, but it hadn’t turned to muck after its wearer had died. Given that the enigmatic beings had seemed keenly interested in the golden globe of heavy magic that he had found in the Incantifers’ maze, the bladesinger wanted to learn a bit more about who they were and why they were after him.

	The golden liquid was warm and thin between the fingers of his left hand as he held the goggles in the other and concentrated upon calling the proper spell into his mind. As it had done before, it did so again, and visions of the past flooded into his mind.

	A short balding man with a beard stood in either an office or a lab, stacks of books piled on tables around him, and chalkboards covered over in arcane scrawlings. He had a devious look upon his face and something was circled on the board, some formula or theorem. There was a symbol on some of the books, an odd symbol of a knife and a book. It bore an uncanny resemblance to the symbol of the Fraternity of Order.

	“That spell eating bastard isn’t the only one who can work wonders.” The man said as he rubbed his hands together and seemed to concentrate, staring off into space at something that only he seemed able to focus on. “But he’d never believe me even if I told him. He would, but I’d have to tell him the loophole that isn’t, and that’ll never happen. Course it didn’t work in Sigil, still not sure why, it should have. But now that we’re in someplace a bit more conducive to meddling, let’s see what we can do…”

	The spell couldn’t convey what all the ancient sage saw or did, but it implied that either he reached somewhere that simply didn’t exist, making it so and drawing something out of it, or he imagined something that didn’t exist and never had, and then found a place, a reality where they did exist, and yanked them out and into our own. Wherever it was, it was… different…

	Keepers.  First one, then another, then a dozen and then more. The sage, wizard, whatever and whoever he was seemed ecstatic about his creations, or what he’d brought forth into the world, and they in turn seemed to answer to his beck and call like extensions of his will. They obeyed, but they simply didn’t fit. They didn’t belong.

	How many he eventually called, Clueless wasn’t sure, but it was evident that he was using them as spies and saboteurs. He’d sent them out to gather secrets, both suspected by him and anything that others might try to keep for themselves. Shekelor had their still living, severed heads sent back to him; called them an ‘interesting creation, wonder where you found them. They don’t seem right. What have you found? They remind me of something, but I can’t really say what. You have me perplexed, and that is rare enough in itself. Consider yourself…’

	The spell skipped, jumped track somehow, leaping forward in time to another pivotal moment in the Keeper’s history. “You’ve gotten too many people interested in you. You’ve been too high profile in your tasks for me. I want you to make sure that no one ever finds out where you came from and what you are.”

	True to his instructions, that they did. They slaughtered him on the spot and his secrets died with him whoever he had been. The Keepers, wherever they had originated, were still in the world. They were still carrying out their warped versions of a dead man’s orders, still finding secrets and taking them, hoarding them, and keeping them safe for no reason other than it was what they did. But their maker, or their finder, had known Shekelor and had sent them after something of his at some point in the far-flung past. And they were still alive, still looking for it.

	The spell ended abruptly and Clueless looked immediately to the globe and its golden liquid. That was what they were looking for, still after so many years. They would never stop.


***​

	Back in the main room of the Portal Jammer and later that evening, Toras sat by himself at one of the back tables, smiling and nursing a pale Bytopian ale as he watched the customers filter in and out of the tavern. Clueless was at the bar itself, taking and filling orders, and chatting up random people. Over the past day a few of the people that had stopped to chat up the bladesinger had worn symbols of the Free League, or had the same tattooed on their bodies somewhere. Toras had noticed it when he had been playing bouncer for the inn, but he hadn’t said anything. After all, if Clueless was joining a faction, at least it wasn’t the Takers or the Mercykillers. 

Besides, if he was hanging out with free leaguers, it probably meant that he wasn’t going constantly hanging out with Sensates and whatever they tended to do, inhaling drugs or having orgies or whatever it was they did when you got a bunch of them together in one place. The fighter didn’t know particularly much about the intricacies of the factions, or the groups who used to be factions as it might be. As long as they didn’t mess with him or mess with people who didn’t need messing with, they were fine as far as he cared. At least Clueless wasn’t running with Xaositects though, they already had enough randomness in their lives with Nisha, though she did it in such a way as to be utterly endearing, if occasionally dangerous to all involved.

“Toras? Why is there blood on your hand?” Florian asked with some concern, jolting the fighter out of his thoughts as he relaxed over his drink.

“Oh man, I thought I washed it all off.” Toras replied as he picked up a napkin on the table, dapped it with condensation from his drink, and wiped it off as best he could.

“That doesn’t answer my question.” The cleric said.

Toras shrugged. “I got into a fight.”

Fyrehowl raised an eyebrow as she took a seat. Clearly she had heard the conversation thus far.

“I got into a couple fights actually.”

“Why?” Florian asked. “With who?”

Fyrehowl snickered. She knew what had happened; she’d seen it happen before.

Toras gave a guilty smile.

“Well you don’t look hurt at all.” The cleric said. “Did you clean yourself up mostly before you came back here or was it just that lopsided? Tell. What happened?”

That guilty smile was still there. Over at the bar, Clueless was watching and listening. Like Fyrehowl, he seemed to know already what had happened, either from previous incidents or about the current one.

“I was in the hive…” Toras admitted. “…picking fights with muggers, thieves, and pimps.”

	Florian took a deep drink from her ale.

	“Why?” She asked. “Eventually you’re going to run into someone that’s tougher than you, or who has too many friends. Beat up the wrong criminals and you’ll have gangs all over the inn. And Tempus forbid you piss of anyone in one of the organized underworld groups.”

	Fyrehowl briefly made her best impression of the King of the Crosstrade.

	Toras waved it away. “I’m smarter than that. Besides, I doubt she has her claws into pickpockets and smalltime pimps.”

	“Yeah,” Fyrehowl mumbled. “She’s only into the high priced callgirls you know.”

	“How long have you been doing this?” Florian asked.

	Toras shrugged. “About a month or so? It’s fun.”

	Florian took another drink. “What, are you trying to work your way up to fiends or something?”

	Toras had that guilty grin again.

	“For the Foehammer!" Florian said with an exasperated sigh. “Just be careful. I don’t want to find out that you were tossed through an ooze portal by an osyluth after you got too cocky down there.”

Breaking the course of the conversation, Fyrehowl turned her head to one side to look at something, a moment after Nisha walked past.

“Why does she have a cranium rat on a stick?” The lupinal asked bluntly. “And why was she making squeaking noises?”

“Wasn’t that one of the ones that we showed Jeremo?” Toras said. “One of the rats I mean.”

	Tristol meanwhile had walked into the room and noticed them gathering together. He pulled up a chair and sat down to listen.

“Squeaking?” Florian said with a confused chuckle.

“It’s Nisha, don’t ask.” Fyrehowl explained.

“Well, that explains why she wanted a scroll of gentle repose from my stock of scrolls.” Tristol said. “I let her borrow stuff from there if it’s not too terribly expensive and she doesn’t burn the inn down in the process.”

“Better than smokepowder.” Florian said with a shrug.

Tristol shuddered. “Mystra forbid she ever gets her hands on alchemical explosives.”

The mage paused and stared hard at Florian. “She didn’t? Did she?”

“Talk to A’kin. I’m not at fault here.” Florian replied.

Tristol and Toras both looked worried.

	“You guys look like you just pissed off a lich. What happened?” Skalliska said as she walked up to the table.

	“Nothing hopefully.” Tristol said. “If wake up in a smoking crater one day, ask us again.”

	“Anyway,” Skalliska said. “I had something to ask all of you. Everyone is here except for Nisha, so I figured I might as well ask.”

	“Nisha is around here somewhere playing ratcatcher or something.” Fyrehowl said.

	Skalliska nodded. She seemed a bit nervous about whatever it was that she was going to ask them. As she was about to say what it was that was on her mind, Nisha wandered past again, cranium rat on a stick in hand, only it was now wearing the Factol Darius doll’s wimple. 

	Florian motioned to the tiefling.

	“Hey Nisha, what are you up to?” She asked, eying the cranium rat.

	“Hmm?” Nisha replied. “Oh, me and Factol Squeakums were just going over faction business. It’s faction stuff. You wouldn’t understand.”

	“…I… see…” Florian said.

	“Nisha, put the rat…” Toras said patiently but firmly.

	“Factol Squeakums.” She corrected him with a poke of the rat and its factol hat into his face.

	“Put Factol Squeakums away and sit still for five minutes, Skalliska had something to ask us all I think.” Fyrehowl said to her.

	“Why? What’s the fun in that?” She replied.

	“Because if you do I’ll tell you what A’kin told me to tell you about smokepowder.” Florian answered.

	Nisha jumped into a seat and assumed a demure and polite posture.

	“There is method to my madness.” She said with a smile. “Except when there isn’t of course.”

	“You had something for us Skalliska?” Clueless asked as he finished up at the bar and took a seat with the others.

	The kobold nodded and pushed a letter to the center of the table.

	“I got this in the post the other day.” She said, gesturing to the letter. “And you all know how I’ve been searching the Great Library and just about every sage worth their coppers here in Sigil to try and find anything, anything at all, related to the old pantheon of my original homeworld on the prime.”

	Toras nodded. “You were telling me about it.”

	Tristol looked at the letter as Skalliska continued.

	“Well, that letter gives a location for a portal in the Outlands, somewhere within the domain of Chronepsis.”

	“The hourglass dragon.” Nisha said. Factol Squeakums nodded his assent.

	“Yes, the big hourglass collecting dragon.” Skalliska replied. “Well that portal leads to the Astral. Once there, the letter has instructions and details for how to reach what it seems to claim are the godisles of some of my old pantheon.”

	Fyrehowl nodded. “So some of them might be dead, but if they’re not there, than you’ve got some of them that are still alive.”

	“It would be closure at least.” Clueless said.

	“And I take it that you’d like our help in finding this place?” Florian asked.

She and the others left out saying 'Is there gold involved?', though it was very much hanging on the tips of their tongues.

	“Or at least your help in making sure that this isn’t a complete setup on someone else’s part. Those are never fun.” Clueless added. “…bitch…”

	“Nothing on the letter to indicate that she sent it. Besides, Skalliska hasn’t ever done anything to her.” Tristol said. He’d scanned over the letter for any glyphs, symbols and signs that it might contain any form of magical trap or tracking dweomer. It didn’t as far as he could tell.

	“I’m up for it. I could use a break from Sigil’s air.” Clueless said.

“So, we’re agreed?” Skalliska said hopefully.

“I don’t think anyone here minds.” Florian said. “You’re a business partner and you’re our friend. Given that what you’ve got there doesn’t have any detail on who sent it, or why they sent it, I think that it might be wise if you didn’t go alone.”

The others nodded their agreement.

	“I think that settles it then.” Skalliska said with a smile. “We’ll start off in the morning?”

	“Anyone here ever been to the Astral before?” Tristol asked.

	“I have. Not that I remember it though.” Clueless replied.

	“I’ve been there briefly.” Skalliska said. “You’re fine so long as you don’t anger the Githyanki. It’s pretty barren, all things considered. It’s probably more empty than the ethereal, and I think that you’d all mentioned having been there in the recent past, before you met me.”

	“Aye, that we did.” Clueless said. “So it shouldn’t be all that much as long as whoever sent you that letter isn’t out for you. You don’t have any past enemies you know of, do you?”

	“Not that wouldn’t just burst into my office and try to kill me there.” Skalliska said. “No, this seems legit, if a bit mysterious.”

	“Well that’s reassuring to some extent. Sort of.” Florian said. “But yeah, that settles it I think. I don’t have much that I need to put on hold for this. Just let us set up people to work extra shifts here in the inn while we’re gone and we’ll get together to leave in the morning.”

	“I’ll handle the shifts for the staff.” Clueless said as he walked back over to the bar.

	Nisha had already vanished, though she’d left behind something scrawled on a napkin with a goofy looking cranium rat face doodled on it. ‘Ha ha! I’m not really Factol Squeakums! I’m an anarchist and I dissolve this faction! Muahaha!’

	Skalliska ignored the Xaositect’s behavioral, possibly mental quirks. She was smiling, and far too happy to finally be close to gaining some closure on something that had been bothering her on and off for years.


***​

	From Sigil to Tradegate was a simple excursion, a normal method of leaving Sigil in order to reach the outlands. As far as they were concerned for the most part, Tradegate was the best match for their tastes of a combination of being safe, friendly, and having enough of a true organized town past the end of the gate from Sigil. From there it was a short teleport between gate towns till they reached the nearest to where Chronepsis’s domain lay. They marched out into the wilds of the Outlands that morning and walked through a largely featureless terrain of fields and forests, broken only by rolling hills and the occasional stream. 

Upon nightfall they set up camp and slept well, all except for Skalliska. The kobold stayed up most of the evening and into morning, listless and simply not tired. She couldn’t sleep. She was too tense to drift away to sleep when she stood so close to finding some of the answers that she’d been longing for. Did any of her world’s pantheon survive? And if they did, would they be any of those that she would care to worship? She finally fell asleep to the sound of crickets and the far off glimmer of a spire butterfly or two, there in the wane light of early morning upon the Outlands.

	The next morning they broke camp after breakfast and marched off into rougher territory that had seemed to spring up almost overnight. They hadn’t noticed it the previous day, and perhaps their belief, their intention to reach a specific spot in The Land simply drew them to it, or it to them. Who could say?

The ground was more rocky, growing more and more mountainous, and every so often the soil would tremor, possibly from the distant influence of the Caverns of Illsensine there somewhere unseen beneath the soil of the plane that took those who were balanced and those who simply fit nowhere else. They avoided trekking further in the direction of the baleful domain of the Godbrain, but it did give them a better idea of their location in relation to the domain of Chronepsis. And indeed they made their way to that deity’s home near mid-afternoon.

	There was no great sense of entering something different, something greater than the raw surroundings of the Outlands. There was no sign, no grand entrance, and no servitors of the deity barring their path or shouting a welcome or warning. But oh how they immediately knew when they were truly standing within the confines of Chronepsis’ domain.

	“…Wow…” Tristol said with utter amazement as he looked out over the realm of a god.

	The valley stretched out as far as the eye could see, rolling hills punctuated only by the crumbling, ancient rubble of a vast cathedral. Here and there, pillars of marble rose up from the landscape like the tallest of trees; arches vaulted across the sky and skimmed the clouds where they still stood intact. In other places great chunks of stone littered the ground where they had fallen, overgrown by moss or lichen. It was as if the valley itself was a great sanctum, miles long and wide, built by titans with ranges of mountain as its outer walls to buttress its majesty in a way that no carved structure could. But no titan had ever graced this place but as a visitor perhaps.

	Everywhere they looked they saw them: hourglasses. The ground was covered in those sand filled timepieces on open ground and on top of fallen stone. If the place took the form of an ancient holy sanctum, they would be its worshippers.

	The hourglasses were arrayed in all shapes and sizes, some brilliantly ornate and carved from gold and studded with jewels while others were simple constructions of glass and wood. Some were larger than a giant and others were smaller than a closed fist. But most all of them were counting down their allotted currency of time, be it with sand, golden dust that shimmered as it fell, or something more like solidified starlight that twinkled and shed a ghostly luminescence as it dropped away into the lower basin of the glass.

They were the lives of dragons, one for each and every one of them that lived or –would- ever live, each counting down their days till the dragon passed into death and shed its mortal coil, cares and concerns, tragedies and joys alike. Chronepsis was the draconic god of fate, time, death and destiny, and the timepieces were his wards and possibly his petitioners as well, each counting down the life of every dragon in the myriad planes of existence.

	Somewhere within the domain of the god would be an hourglass that they would recognize, some dragon of legend perhaps, and near it a portal to the astral. But somehow they would need to find the deity; petition Chronepsis himself. To use the portal, even once they found it, they would be required to ask his leave and gain his permission before it would trigger. And as they gazed out over the hourglass sea, listening to the rustle and trickle of sand from each, somewhere in the distance within the depths of the ancient ruin of columns, archways, galleries and sanctums, Chronepsis himself lay in wait, and some things are easier said than done.


***​


----------



## Dakkareth

> “And where did you go you covetous little bauble you?” He said. “Apparently the box wasn’t a good enough lair for you.”




And there I'd thought, A'kin had gone and done it ... a figurine of his counterpart


----------



## Shemeska

Dakkareth said:
			
		

> And there I'd thought, A'kin had gone and done it ... a figurine of his counterpart




Wait 

The auction of more figurines is by invitation only. *snicker*


----------



## Krafus

Your description of Chronepsis's domain was really evocative, Shemeska. I had no trouble picturing the place in my mind, and what a picture that was. 

Oh, and I'm looking forward to A'kin's auction. I wonder if there will be new kinds of figurines there? (The red dragon one earned a laugh from me.)

Keep writing, please.


----------



## Gez

Dakkareth said:
			
		

> And there I'd thought, A'kin had gone and done it ... a figurine of his counterpart




Me too. 



			
				Shemeska said:
			
		

> Wait
> 
> The auction of more figurines is by invitation only. *snicker*




Now,  he'll have to make one that is shaved like a poodle, and that smells like arcadian soap.


----------



## Shemeska

Gez said:
			
		

> Now,  he'll have to make one that is shaved like a poodle, and that smells like arcadian soap.




It won't be till after this next plot arc on the Astral and other places. This all goes places unexpected


----------



## Fimmtiu

And after all this preparation and anticipation, you never let them do the actual shaving? How terrible!


----------



## Clueless

Yes. Sorta. And he's still being blamed for that. But the actual event of shaving falls firmly under 'Shall not be posted due to Eric's grandmother rule.'


----------



## Shemeska

Clueless said:
			
		

> Yes. Sorta. And he's still being blamed for that. But the actual event of shaving falls firmly under 'Shall not be posted due to Eric's grandmother rule.'




There's several portions of the SH that I cannot post for violation of the Erics gramma rule, and inevitably it involves a fiend somewhere along the line.

One of them that's coming up in the next couple plot arcs I'll possibly just handle with a 'fade to black' but I may still write it up and host it in a doc outside of enworld if people wanted to read it. It's ... not friendly stuff... I'm surprised I wrote some of it originally, and it might just be better handled by fragments and disjointed pieces of what happened plus the 'fade to black'.

We'll see. I'm more concerned with possible spoilers for SH#1 in the next several updates for SH#2, but I'll either gloss over them or omit them so as to not spoil future events here.

For the moment I can't wait to update the trip to the Astral here this week.

(And yes, A'kin will have more types of dolls eventually. He'll have a veritable cottage industry in his shop with those eventually.)


----------



## Clueless

And they were so *cute*! Adorable dolls really. Too bad certian folks took offense at them.


----------



## A Crazy Fool

it's summer now you ought to post more, please.


----------



## Clueless

Summer? What's this 'summer' thing you speak of? Aka - grad school waits not for man, nor for summer vacation.

(Shemmie's still in the middle of writing his thesis = not a huge amount of time.)


----------



## Graywolf-ELM

Where is the other story hour of which you speak?  I've poked around here on Enworld and haven't found it.

There was a link at some point to another board, that I didn't have membership to, so I didn't visit.  Was that it?

GW


----------



## Clueless

Both storyhours:
http://www.enworld.org/showthread.php?t=77613
http://www.enworld.org/showthread.php?t=125944

And the other board was *probably* a link to Planewalker's forums ( http://www.planewalker.com/forums/ . Which is well worth it and browsing doesn't require membership (just posting) much like here.


----------



## Gez

It could also have been a link to boards1.wizards.com, as the Baerney Files are there.


----------



## Dakkareth

The B-Files ...


----------



## Shemeska

Gez said:
			
		

> It could also have been a link to boards1.wizards.com, as the Baerney Files are there.




Possibly. I need to collect all of those in one place, especially as I've got 3 in-progress stories for that sitting on my desktop.


----------



## Clueless

Well.... I do happen to know of this one little place that archives fiction and lets you view it online...


----------



## Shemeska

*'We are fake, we are afraid. You know it's far from over.'*

Nisha stared through the blue interior of an hourglass and grinned. Her face was distorted by the shape of its contours, and the tiefling giggled as she made faces at herself just to see her own warped reflection looking back at her. The timepiece was a large steel bound hourglass that sparkled with tiny flickers of electricity as each and every grain of sand fell from into the bottom of the vessel. The sand in its base swirled like a desert storm, and every indication would have pointed that somewhere on the prime material plane, a blue dragon was living, breathing, and slowly aging towards their last days.

	The proverbial gears inside Nisha’s head were grinding together like the sabotaged guts of a Modron’s clockwork paradise gone horribly horribly wrong. She giggled whimsically as she turned her head sideways and continued to stare at the tiny flicks of sand as they filtered down through the bottleneck.

	“I wonder what happens if you turn one of these over?” The Xaositect mused openly. “Does a dragon somewhere start aging in reverse? That would be really awesome if they did.”

	Disturbed and worried faces turned towards her.

	“Or what happens if you stop the sand from flowing? Do they just pause and stop moving with nothing happening to them till it starts again?” Nisha was full-out rambling to herself, oblivious of anything else. “Or maybe they just live forever. And then what if you break one by accident? Does a dragon somewhere just keel over and die? That wouldn’t be good. And what does the hourglass of a dracolich here look like?”

	“Don’t even think about it Nisha.” Toras said preemptively.

	Nisha grinned knowingly at them through the distorting glass of the blue dragon’s vessel.

	“Never considered it. I just wanted to see your reaction.” Her distorted image laughed. “Xaos and self preservation aren’t mutually exclusive. I’m random, not insane.”

	“It’s hard to tell sometimes though.” Tristol remarked.

	“Then I’m doing my job right.” She grinned just so and jiggled the bell on the tip of her tail.

	Clueless chuckled. “We should probably stop goofing around and look for either this archway or whatever famous dragon has an hourglass next to it.”

	“Awww…” Nisha said.

	“Besides,” The bladesinger said. “Skalliska’s already walking away, so it’s probably a good idea.”

	And so they did, catching up with the kobold and searching for the portal. They wandered more or less, and the domain around them seemed to subtly change as they did. In one moment there would be a tree, the next moment a weathered statue of a rearing dragon, and in another mount a great hourglass just as tall as its predecessors. The landscape was dynamic, but always with the same feel of age, nobility, quiet tranquility, and acceptance of the inevitable.

	An hour later they found what they were looking for. Skalliska stood at the base of a great, weather archway of ivy-covered marble and glanced at its bound space with eyes that sparkled with the magic of a spell.

	“This looks like it.” She said.

	The others were looking less at the archway than at the towering hourglass that stood only a few meters away. It was massive, wrought of ruby colored glass that seemed blown and sculpted into shapes of smaller dragons, caught within its confines and struggling to break free, or swirling as images and inclusions within its sanguine matrix. The base and handles that bound the towering timepiece were wrought of gold and took the shape of four columns of stacked dragon skulls of all types and sizes.

	This was the life made manifest of a Great Wyrm, or maybe something more.  And whoever they were, they were dead and passed beyond. The base of the monstrous hourglass was cracked and shattered, and a carpet of black gemstones spilled out onto the marble and grass of the great sanctuary it occupied like an archbishop among the penitent.

	“Wow.” Tristol said as he looked at the massive hourglass.

	“That’s the second time today that you’ve said that you know.” Nisha said with wide eyes. “I’ve been counting.”

	“Tempus forbid, that’s huge.” Florian remarked. “I’d hate to have seen the dragon it was connected to.”

	“It’s probably not a great idea to mention another deity in the home of one.” Clueless whispered. “Just my advice.”

	They glanced at the base of the hourglass where a series of draconic runes stood out in relief against the golden base, partially obscured by the spill of black diamonds from the interior. Florian knelt and brushed them aside.

	“Malystryx…” She said. “I’ve heard that name before.”

	“Krynn.” Skalliska said.

	Tristol rolled his eyes and muttered something about ‘stupid rules and stupid moons. Can’t get themselves a real goddess of magic’.

	Nisha poked the wizard in the ribs. 

	The cleric shrugged and picked up one of the stray gems that had served as grains of sand for the lifespan of the great dragon Malys, once Red Dragon Overlord of Krynn. No sooner had she picked it up and formed the intention of taking it as a unique souvenir, when the air trembled with a resounding “*NO*” that washed over the landscape and caused the hourglass sea to rattle with the displeasure of a god.

	Florian dropped it immediately with an obedient whisper of “Yes sir…”

	Where there had previously been only an hourglass strewn plain of rubble, there was suddenly a great depression in the landscape, easily hundreds of feet across, and at its center, nestled amongst a horde of draconic souls in hourglass form, was the Great Watcher himself. The draconic deity of fate, time, and death was huge, with scales the size of shields and the color of an overcast sky that loomed with the threat of a storm. A slow curl of smoke rose from his nostrils to flutter away and disperse from a breeze where there was no wind, and his eyes seemed more potent and piercing than the greatest of mortal mystics and seers combined. 

	Chronepsis looked up at them with both eyes open and utterly alert, but otherwise he had not moved. The hourglass sea around him was once again perfectly still and tranquil with only the slow rise and fall of his chest and the perpetual trickle of sand to break the silence.

	“Ask.” The god said patiently after a moment of pregnant silence.

	Fyrehowl prodded Skalliska forward.

	“Great Watcher,” She began. “I and my companions, we’ve come to your domain in search of a portal, and in search of you actually. It leads to the astral and a place where I hope to find the fate of the gods of the pantheon of my former homeworld.”

	Chronepsis’ eyes stayed locked on her, but the others felt observed in a way that made them seem utterly transparent.

	“I’ve been searching for this information for years.” She continued. “And now, finally I’m so very close. But, great sir, I need your permission for the portal to activate. And I beg of you, please.”

	Chronepsis gave a heavy sigh and nodded his head.

	“You have my permission.” He said. “It is for the best anyway. Go, find what you are looking for. Perhaps the honored dead will find their deserved rest.”

	Skalliska gave a bow and stumbled with a protracted string of praise and thanks. But the god wasn’t listening really. The great dragon, be it Chronepsis himself or only an avatar, his great eyelids were already closed and the rise and fall of his chest had resumed a normal pattern of deep slumber.

	“I think we have what we need.” Florian said as she glanced at now lichen-covered archway across from the great ruby colored hourglass.

	Skalliska nodded and hesitantly approached. The portal swirled with a blue-white glow as it activated, Chronepsis’ permission given to allow it to function. The kobold hesitated still and took a deep breath.

	“What’s the problem?” Toras asked with genuine sympathy.

	“There isn’t, not really.” She said. “I’m just nervous and elated at the same time. I’m worried about what I’ll find on the other side, and the anticipation has my gut in a knot. Yeah, I’m afraid.”

	“Yeah, but you’ll have some answers.” He replied.

	The kobold gave a silent nod.

	“Besides,” Florian said from behind them. “Chronepsis was kind enough to give us use of the portal. He might appreciate it if we used it and didn’t bother him anymore.”

	The cleric glanced back. “And sorry sir about the gem. I apologize again.”

	Chronepsis was gone however. The great depression in the landscape in which he had lain, surrounded by the hourglasses of a hundred thousand dragons’ lives, it had vanished into thin air. Where he had been there was only a series of rolling hills and crumbling pillars, each decorated with the slowly sifting sands of the lives of innumerable mortal dragons, and each ticking away their allotted time till death brought them home to this place.

	“Come on. It’s time to go.” Fyrehowl said as she tapped the kobold’s shoulder.

	Skalliska looked back and tipped her hat graciously towards the distance. Manifest or not, Chronepsis would see the gesture, and she meant it in all thanks. Smiling, and with her heart thumping in her chest, she stepped through the portal and the others followed soon after.


***​

	There was a burst of cold and they were suspended in space, a perfect, pure nothingness: the silvery void of the astral plane. All around them stretched a silver-blue expanse of manifest thought; what conceptually might be considered the backstage of the outer planes. In the distance their vision faded into a silvery, swirling fog, disturbed only by the sparkles of a random color pool in the void, or the wormlike cyclones of astral conduits that crossed the expanse of the plane, ferrying the dead to their reward or travelers from plane to plane.

	Clueless beat his wings ineffectually. He didn’t move an inch beyond the slight forwards drift from the momentum of their step through the portal in the outlands.

	“How do we move?” The bladesinger asked. “Anyone been here before? Skalliska? Nisha?”

	Skalliska was moving forwards slightly, and then she stopped, turned to face Clueless and just hovered there motionless.

	“How do you do that?” Toras asked.

	Tristol looked at Skalliska. “Your trip, you can explain.”

	The mage wasn’t having any difficulty at all, and it seemed like only he, the kobold, and oddly enough, Nisha, were the only ones who seemed to be aware of how to control their motion within the void.

	“There isn’t anything here that’s real. Not anything physical, not unless it was brought into the plane by a portal, or by the death of a dead god.”

	“I’ve heard about that actually.” Florian said. “That if a god dies of lack of worship or they’re killed by a another divine being, that they appear on the Astral as a hunk of rock.”

	“More or less, yeah. They petrify and drift as islands of rock in the void. Sometimes they’ll take on some shape or feature that resembles what they stood for in life. And that’s why we’re here really.”

	“But about movement?” Toras said as he began to tilt sideways.

	“Ah yes, that.” Skalliska continued. “Since there’s no real matter here, there’s no air to fly against and no gravity to pull you ‘down’ towards anything. Everything here is just based on thought and perception.”

	“So if I concentrate enough I can think myself into flying somewhere?” The fighter asked.

	“Pretty much.” She replied.

	Clueless took to it quickly, though he still flicked his wings out of habit as he moved forwards and learned how to control his speed and direction. He’d probably known how to do it at one point in his life, but clearly, given past circumstances, he’d since forgotten it.

	Florian and Toras took a moment more and then they both seemed quite capable of the act. It might not be as fluid as those who had done it before, or simply came naturally to it, but they’d improve the longer they practiced.

	“Anything else we should know about this place?”

	“Don’t touch color pools unless you want to jump to another plane. Don’t mess with ugly yellow looking humanoids with liquid swords, and…”

	“Wizards go crazy here!” Nisha said with far too much of a grin as she concentrated and tumbled in erratic motion around the others in a wide circle.

	“That too.” Skalliska said. “Magic is more powerful, more ‘pure’, and it’s a rush like a shot of good alcohol. Now I’ve never had a problem with it. And before you ask Florian, it only applies to arcane magic. I’m not sure why though.”

	“I’m a wizard too you know.” Nisha said with a wider grin.

	Tristol patted her on the head.

	“We couldn’t probably tell the difference.” He said.

	The others didn’t tell him when the tip of his tail turned purple a few minutes later once they began to move off in the direction that Skalliska directed. Nisha grinned like a fool as she realized that the raw belief of the astral could be manipulated in ever so slight ways, just like the probability of the ethereal deep, or the chaos of limbo. It would be fun…


***​

	Roughly two days of travel later, and a few color changes to Tristol’s tail, they hovered within the slight gravity well of an oblong, vaguely humanoid slab of black basalt rock. A vague sense of sadness surrounded the corpse of Abiormach, and they did not approach it. But still, they had a landmark, and they had made the first leg of their trip without incident. In fact, they hadn’t seen a single living thing in the entirety of those three days. The astral was truly desolate as a plane: beautiful perhaps, but largely vacant of life.

	They hung there in the void above the corpse and looked at Skalliska. She glanced at her map and plotted the direction towards the distant godisle of Ibrandul. It would likely take them another three days to reach that dead Torilian deity according to her map.

	“Isn’t this a city in Baator?” Toras asked, pointing down towards the coal-black corpse of the dead god.

	Fyrehowl nodded. “That it is. On the 4th layer, Phlegethos.”

	“The Baatezu claim that the city’s foundations are built on the corpse of the deity, and that Asmodeus killed him.” 

	“Then if the corpse is there… why is there a godisle on the astral?” Nisha asked with a perplexed expression.

	“Can’t say. Might just be Baatezu propaganda.” Skalliska replied.

	“Not that there’s eeeeeever any of that.” Fyrehowl said with a smirk. “Never, not ever, hardly ever.

	“Or that thing in Baator might be a physical corpse,” Skalliska continued. “And this here might be a sort of metaphysical aspect of the dead god become solid on the astral.”

	“Either way, it’s a dead evil deity and we’re not here to worship it or cry tears of remorse at their passing.” Florian said. “They’re probably better off this way. Now where are we off to next?”

	“Next we’ve got a couple days travel till we reach the corpse of Ibrandul.” Skalliska said.

	“Since when was Ibrandul dead?” Florian asked.

	“That was what I said originally.” The kobold replied. “But apparently they are. And we’ll find out here once we reach it.”

	Without further discussion they continued off swiftly into the silvery void towards the godisle of the former Torilian deity of caverns.


***​

	They proceeded at that brisk pace for another three days. Their only break of the silvery monotony of the plane were the sporadic blotches of color that heralded the openings of color pools, the astral equivalent of portals. Every so often the distance would be darkened by the presence of another unnamed deific corpse, the lines of astral conduits stretching from horizon to horizon, but little else. Vacant and sterile it all seemed, but it was utterly peaceful in its absence of anything foreign.

	Eventually the godisle of Ibrandul loomed out of the silvery mist, a vague serpentine shape like an elongated dragon. Another of the honored dead in its final resting place, and one that would, like all the others, eventually be forgotten in every way except that they had once existed.

"And here I thought that Ibrandul was still alive." Florian said. "Hells, I know he still has worshippers, and they're still praying for spells just as much as I am."

"Well," Skalliska said. "That -is- Ibrandul, the corpse even looks like him."

Florian drifted closer into the gravity well of the godisle, her curiosity perked. She'd seen worshippers of the apparently dead Torilian god back in Amn only a few months back. It simply didn't make sense that they would still worship him if he was dead, plus still granting prayers. It all made sense when she touched the surface.

Not audible before she landed upon the rocky surface, something roared through her ears like a distant, rolling clap of thunder from stormclouds on the horizon. A voice, the last plaintive and agonized roar of a dead god. 

_"SHAAAAARRRRRR..."_

Florian blinked and shook her head in sudden understanding. "Yeah, that might explain things a bit. Damn, she killed him."

Back up and above the godisle, the others were bantering as Skalliska tried to work out their next course.

	“Well, at least we don’t get hungry while we’re here.” Nisha said.

	“Say that when we leave. You’ll feel like you’d be willing to eat your shoes.” Skalliska replied.

	The Xaositect looked at her hooves.

	“I don’t wear shoes.” She replied. “Unless you mean the horseshoes, and those are made of metal. I don’t think I’d ever be that hungry, unless I was a rust monster. And I don’t feel like being a rust monster today.”

	Tristol laughed.

	“You don’t mind that do you Toras?” Nisha stuck up two fingers to the side of her head like antennae, grinned lustfully and looked at the fighter’s sword and armor.

	He stuck out his tongue. “Bloody rust monsters. They’re like some evil, vindictive god’s cruel joke on the multiverse.”

	Clueless clutched his sword’s hilt protectively. “Agreed.”

	“Well,” Skalliska said as she looked up from the map. “We’ve got about…”

	“What the hell is that?” Fyrehowl interrupted, pointed to something dark looking fast out of the silvery mist in the distance.

	It was a ship.

	“Sh*t! Githyanki! Hide!” Skalliska blurted out as she recognized the profile of a ‘yanki astral carrack.

	“Hide where?!” Toras shouted in dismay a moment before moving closer to the godisle below.

	Tristol, Clueless and Skalliska had simply gone invisible at the first sight of the approaching carrack. Florian was still down on Ibrandul's corpse, and Nisha was bolting down towards the godisle to join her a step after Toras, but Fyrehowl hadn’t moved.

	“Guys? Hold on. Look at the ship.” The lupinal said called out to them.

	The carrack was rapidly approaching them yes, but as they watched it, they saw that it was slowly tumbling awkwardly along one axis. The ship was adrift.

	They watched it approach closer, and they saw that there was not a soul to be seen aboard its main deck. To compare it to a sailing ship upon the prime, the vessel was dead in the water.

	Tristol, Clueless and Skalliska faded back into view as their spells wore off, and the others drifted back up to rejoin Fyrehowl as she continued to peer at the ship.

	“Who wants a ship?” Clueless asked bluntly, much to Nisha’s delight.

	“Wonder what the hell happened to them… we’re pretty much out in the middle of nowhere.” Skalliska said. “There’s no ‘yanki cities within a week’s travel of here. I made certain of that before we came. I half expected to be attacked when we went through that portal in the Outlands to be honest.”

	Fyrehowl nodded. “Seemed prudent, especially since you don’t know who sent that letter. Has to be a kink in that somewhere.”

	“At the least we can board the ship, make sure that it’s really abandoned and all.” Clueless said. “And perhaps there’s something onboard that we can salvage to make it worth our time.”

	Nisha grinned and was joined by Skalliska in the sentiment.

	Approaching the vessel from the top it was clear that it was not originally a military vessel, but rather a transport or a merchant vessel. The magical sails hung useless, their knots having come loose in the time since it had been abandoned, and nothing moved across the deck except the clap of an open door as it moved back and forth with the tumbling motion of the ship.

	“Creepy.” Tristol said as he whispered the words to a spell.

	The mage peered at the vessel, his eyesight enhanced to detect even the faintest lingering dweomers, particularly those left in place for wards or traps. He saw nothing upon the deck; the magical spectrum was just as deathly quiet as everything else.

	Once aboard the deck itself they paused to reorient themselves to the motion of the ship, and to slow the course of the ship as best they could. In the absence of gravity in the astral there was no reason to feel that they were spinning, and so after those moments or concentration it appeared that Ibrandul’s godisle itself was moving with respect to them.

	The top deck of the ship, perhaps a hundred feet from stem to stern showed no signs of conflict or struggle. It appeared as if the crew had simply abandoned the ship for no apparently reason. It was deeply disturbing, and their eyes kept darting back to Fyrehowl. They reasoned that if the Cipher felt that things were ok, that they’d be fine. It was like making vacation plans outside of Sigil on short notice whenever Factol Rhys abruptly left town for whatever reason.

	Cautiously, deck-by-deck they searched the ship. Everywhere it was the same: empty corridors with doors open and unlocked, but with nothing at all missing except any sign of life. They crew was gone, food was left on tables to go stale as if they’d simply gotten up from their meals and walked off into the silvery void on the influence of some astral siren song in the depths.

	“There’s no sign of attack at all.” Tristol said. “No blood, no lingering traces of spells.”

	“Still doesn’t explain where the crew is.” Florian said.

	“Hell, doesn’t explain why this ship is all the way out here.” Skalliska said as she stared at a cargo hold still stocked with bags of what looked like flour and bricks of a bland but edible fungus the ‘yanki were known to cultivate on certain godisles of former deities of agriculture.

	Nothing was stolen, nothing except the crew it seemed. But they found some answers, or hints of answers, when they examined the captain’s quarters.

	It too was as empty as an athar reliquary, but Clueless found what he was looking for, even if the captain himself was gone.

	“He or she might be gone, but the captains’ log isn’t.” The bladesinger said as he examined a thick leather journal that seemed to be wrapped in a purplish hide of sorts: Illithid.

	“Interesting…” He said as he skimmed the last week’s worth of entries.

	“What’s it say?” Toras asked.

	Clueless looked up from the journal of the Githyanki captain. Whatever had happened they hadn’t been attacked by anyone interested in plunder. The ship’s holds were fully stocked with what the captain had recorded at their last port of call: food and materials from the prime material, maybe some other goods from an outlying Githyanki city. But there in the Captain’s records from their last stop was something out of the ordinary. 

They had picked up a singularly interesting passenger: a Knight, a high ranking one at that. She had effectively taken command of the ship and caused it to divert course, apparently commandeering the vessel in her hunt for several “traitors who would deny the will of our Queen”. Beyond that, the Knight had given no further details to the captain, nor to the crew. The captain spoke in awe of the woman and the silver sword that she carried. She was no rank and file soldier, and even though she came with no others of her kind, the captain seemed to feel that she didn’t need any.

	Clueless related the details to the others and they nodded.

	“And according to the log’s last entry,” He said, “The ship has been adrift for a while now, about a week if I read their notation for dates correctly.”

	Skalliska said nothing as she glanced at the logbook. Before it had been set adrift, the ship had been traveling in roughly the same direction that they themselves would be heading as they neared the godisle of Maanzicorian. That was a bit much to be coincidence.

	“Any ideas?” Florian asked.

	Skalliska shrugged. “If she was hunting someone like that, it’s either because they stole a sword like the one she herself had, they consider them holy, or she was chasing a renegade member of her own race.”

	“Would make sense.” Fyrehowl said. “Especially when the log mentions her chasing someone who had denied the will of the Lich Queen. Sounds like she was hunting a gith who had, for whatever reason, forsworn Vlaakith.”

	Nisha perked an eyebrow curiously.

	“When githyanki get powerful, eventually their Queen eats their souls.” Skalliska explained. “They consider it an honor and a requirement. Sometimes though one of them doesn’t like the idea and they run.”

	“Might be what this Knight was doing. But it still doesn’t explain the missing crew.” Clueless said. “But if you don’t mind, I’m going to try something.”

	“Oh no…” Tristol muttered. He’d already felt a bit exhilarated when he had cast even minor spells while on the plane. The scant bit he’d incanted had left him giddy to an extent, though it wasn’t a bad feeling.

	“Don’t go craaaaaazy.” Nisha said. 

The bell on Tristol’s tail, the one he’d never noticed her tie on it, jingle softly.

	The half-fey nodded and smiled as he tapped the bead on his neck and called the spell into his mind. Oddly, it didn’t seem different despite being on the astral. Perhaps the ‘pure’ magic of the astral simply didn’t come into account since he was drawing the power from the liquid itself and not from the plane.

	But regardless, the spell filtered into his senses and he watched events in the ship’s past flash before his mind. They’d indeed been attacked, but it had been utterly by surprise, and aided by apparently potent magic. They’d never seen it coming before at least a dozen other githyanki, armed to the teeth, had appeared on the deck and inside the ship by magic. And it was not only another group of Githyanki. There was another being with them.

	A Rakshasa had been with them, watching the seizure of the ship with patience and apparently having cloaked his force from sight before it was too late for the ship’s crew. The tiger-headed fiend was oddly colored for his kind, a stark white fur with black stripes as opposed to the orange and black of a typical member of his race. And he’d smiled when they dragged the crew up to the deck and hurled the Knight to the ground in front of him; he seemed to be expecting her.

	The spell ended without any further information, leaving Clueless both curious and disturbed.

	He relayed the details to the others, but like him they were as equally disturbed and no closer to an explanation.

	“Renegade githyanki in league with a Rakshasa?” Florian said. “Strange bedfellows.”

	“So long as they’re not going to mess with us I don’t care if they eat the crew.” Toras said with a shrug.

	“I doubt it.” Fyrehowl said. “This looked like a targeted attack, not just an ambush of anyone that might be passing through. If we don’t interfere with them I doubt that they’d go out of their way to go after us, a fiend with them or not.”

Clueless nodded as he glanced around the captain’s cabin. He walked over to where the captain’s last meal sat half eaten, and picked up a clean bowl and filled it from a pitcher sitting off to one side.

	“I want to see where they went. No need for us to get mixed up in this if we can avoid them.”

	Glancing down at the bowl, he whispered the words to a spell of scrying and waited for an image to appear upon the liquid surface. Nothing happened.

	Tristol glanced at the bowl. “Oh that’s not good.”

	“No it’s not.” Clueless replied with a frown. “The spell worked but I’m simply not getting anything. They might have gone off plane, or they’re more likely to just be warded against a casual scry.”

	“Don’t fret, you only saw them through a spell.” The mage said. “You’d have had more luck if they’d left anything behind to focus on.”

	“But they were pretty smooth about it.” Clueless said.

	“Don’t worry. If we happen on them later, we’ll at least know that they’ve got a fiend with them.” Tristol replied. 

Clueless nodded as he disposed of the bowl of water and canceled the spell.

	“And if we get attacked by regular Githyanki we can probably save ourselves trouble by telling them about this.” Fyrehowl added.

	“True.” Skalliska said. “They may be xenophobic, but they’re insane when it comes to loyalty to their Queen.”

	They discussed it some more there in the empty interior of the ship, but came no closer to having any real answers to the questions that were lurking in their heads, especially Skalliska’s. Eventually they left the ship without taking anything; there really wasn’t anything of value to them that they could easily cart away.

	Once back out of the drifting vessel, they looked to Skalliska to point them in the direction of Maanzicorian’s godisle, the next leg of their journey. She did so, but she was deeply worried that they would find more than they bargained for along the way. After all, it would only take them another five hours to reach the corpse of the dead Illithid god of secrets.

	But off they went, vigilant and doubly prepared for any sudden assault of ambush along the way. But truly, given the nature of the Astral there really was nowhere to hide and wait to ambush anyone, nor was it possible to simply spot an ambush and evade it given that the plane was an empty void. What would come would be what would come, there’d be little way to avoid it.


***​

	Five hours later they stood and looked at the mountain suspended in the silvery void in the distance. It was empty, just as empty as the drifting carrack had been. But something was off. Something simply wasn’t right.

	They paused and gazed at the godisle of the dead Illithid god of secrets. It looked normal; a twisted, gnarled figure with a vaguely squid-like head, roughly a half-mile from head to feet. The surface was rough, but largely free of the marks of age that the dead gods of the astral tended to accumulate over time as they slipped further and further into oblivion.

	“What the hell is that?” Fyrehowl asked as she turned to look at something in the distance as it passed out of a bank of silvery mist nearly a mile past the godisle itself.

	The creature was itself massive, a hulking being that seemed comprised of a slavering maw, a single massive eye, twin arms that ended in wicked chitin pinchers, and a body that spiraled off behind it as a gleaming silver chord off into infinity in the silvery depths.

	It was circling the godisle of Maanzecorian, observing it, never looking away from it. It was looking for something.

	“That’s an Astral Dreadnaught.” Skalliska said breathlessly.

	It was terrible to behold, but it didn’t even seem to see them as they stood there watching it in the distance. It was solely preoccupied with the seemingly vacant deific corpse.

	“What do they do?” Florian asked.

	“It won’t bother us.” Tristol said. “If anything astrally projects, they’ll go after them mercilessly. But if you’re here in the astral physically, they just ignore you. No one knows why really.”

	Skalliska nodded. “And they also seem to prevent anyone from desecrating the corpses of the dead gods, like followers of an old rival deity, and they prevent anyone from building on them invasively, mining them, etc.”

	“So then why is it here?” Toras asked. “There’s nothing here.”

	“Not sure.” Clueless said.

	“Something isn’t as it should be about this place.” Fyrehowl said. “I can just feel it. And whatever it is, that –thing- feels it too.”

	The Astral Dreadnought continued to circle the godisle, always keeping to around a mile out from the corpse. And it always kept looking directly at the surface. When the group approached closer, they immediately knew why the Dreadnaught was there.

	“Holy…” Toras said as he and the others passed through some sort of tangible barrier surrounding the godisle itself, just under a mile or so out from the surface.

	“Mystra preserve…” Tristol added as he too saw the activity upon the surface of the ravaged corpse.

	Two buildings of githyanki architecture hung like bloated moons in orbit within the godisle’s gravity well. Four separate githyanki astral carracks were moored on a platform that linked the two buildings. They were the least of what had attracted the attention of the Dreadnaught however.

	Upon the surface of the dead god, a large gleaming tower rose up from its foundations sunk deep into the chest of the deific corpse. The tower gleamed white and seemed to emit a spherical pulse of energy every few seconds. The bursts of energy erupted out and formed an ephemeral shell at the boundary of where the Dreadnaught lurked and waited, smelling but not seeing that which it hunted.

	Maanzecorian’s petrified flesh, which from a distance and beyond the confines of the glittering barrier, had seemed unmolested, was utterly ravaged. The dead god’s surface looked as if it was being strip-mined. A swarm of figures, githyanki and some other manner of humanoids, goblins perhaps, sprawled across the surface. Collectively, they appeared to be ripping up hunks of the dead god’s flesh. Deep ruts and furrows raced across the corpse giving the appearance of bleeding wounds, or the ragged flesh of a fresh kill being slowly dissected and hacked apart before being consumed. They were mining the corpse of the god.


***​


----------



## Gez

Cool scenes, as usual. 

[sblock]You might want to change "Chronepsis might was kind" and maybe the repetition in "the typical orange and black of a typical member..."[/sblock]


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## shilsen

Shemeska said:
			
		

> Maanzicorian’s petrified flesh, which from a distance and beyond the confines of the glittering barrier, had seemed unmolested, was utterly ravaged. The dead god’s surface looked as if it was being strip-mined. A swarm of figures, githyanki and some other manner of humanoids, goblins perhaps, sprawled across the surface. Collectively, they appeared to be ripping up hunks of the dead god’s flesh. Deep ruts and furrows raced across the corpse giving the appearance of bleeding wounds, or the ragged flesh of a fresh kill being slowly dissected and hacked apart before being consumed. They were mining the corpse of the god.





God-flesh! God-flesh! Get your fresh ... um, relatively fresh ... god-flesh here! 27 coppers a can while stocks last!

Very nice


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## Fimmtiu

Shemeska said:
			
		

> Maanzicorian’s petrified flesh, which from a distance and beyond the confines of the glittering barrier, had seemed unmolested, was utterly ravaged. The dead god’s surface looked as if it was being strip-mined. A swarm of figures, githyanki and some other manner of humanoids, goblins perhaps, sprawled across the surface.




Or _kobolds_, perhaps?

If you will forgive me a minor pedantic correction: "Maanz*e*corian".Nice bit with the ghost ship there... I see what you mean about "scattering plot hooks about".


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## Shemeska

Fimmtiu said:
			
		

> Or _kobolds_, perhaps?




You'll find out in a week. *grin*



> If you will forgive me a minor pedantic correction: "Maanz*e*corian".




Notices that for the first time.  Umm ... he's dead, he doesn't care   



> Nice bit with the ghost ship there... I see what you mean about "scattering plot hooks about".




The Marie Celeste of the Astral.


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## Shemeska

FWIW, I added a tiny bit about Ibrandul, and a tad about Clueless trying to scry on the Rakshasa and its githyanki companions. I'd intended to write them in originally, but it skipped my mind when I posted this last update.


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## Clueless

YAY! The... joys... of scrying. *headshake*


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## primemover003

What is  good ole Chac Mool not interested in the 'Yanki's strip mining ol Maanzi???  Strange that the Dreadnaught's Anti-magic gaze didn't suppress the Illusion.  Curiouser and cusiouser...

And What's with the Rakshasa...  not the first time the groups run into one of those fiends.  Last time one was on the Yrthakk in the Void between Cubes on Acheron (by far one of my favorite random encounters you've described)!!!


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## Shemeska

primemover003 said:
			
		

> What is  good ole Chac Mool not interested in the 'Yanki's strip mining ol Maanzi???  Strange that the Dreadnaught's Anti-magic gaze didn't suppress the Illusion.  Curiouser and cusiouser...




Was waiting for somebody to ask that question. *grin*

He would be, but for whatever reason the Dreadnaught isn't able to see what's really going on. And whether this is something in canon or not, I have the Dreadnaughts serving in some oblique way as servitors of The Guardian of Dead Gods.

And for the record, don't necessarily infer and connection between this current plot and the scene in the prologue of the 2nd storyhour featuring Anubis and a second, unnamed figure. That's 150 years removed from this all.



> And What's with the Rakshasa...  not the first time the groups run into one of those fiends.  Last time one was on the Yrthakk in the Void between Cubes on Acheron (by far one of my favorite random encounters you've described)!!!




You'll meet him this next update, and not at all for the last time. To quote Indiana Jones, "I'm like a bad penny, I always turn up."


----------



## Shemeska

*Not your parents' Gautama obviously*

“Back back back! We don’t want to be seen!” Florian said.

	They withdrew back beyond the border of the illusion that seemed to cloak the godisle. Hopefully it worked both ways they figured, shrouding the persons and constructions beyond, and likewise shrouding anything outside from detection from within.

	“Ok, not anticipated.” Toras said to Skalliska. “Later on we give you to the bloodthirsty tiefling.”

	“Muahahahaha!” Nisha said without skipping a beat, rubbing her hands together as she latching onto Toras’s random comment like it was second nature. And for her it just happened to be.

	The others warily glanced at one another before looking down for a reaction from Skalliska regarding what she wanted to do. The kobold wasn’t looking at them however as she glanced down at her map again. 

There had indeed been no mention on it of anything like this surrounding the corpse of Maanzecorian. But there was something else, something that had not been on the map previously: a new section of script and a small glowing symbol.

	“Guys…?” The kobold said. “There’s something new on the map.”

	“Let me guess, the friend who sent you that letter and map knew exactly what was going on here, and now there’s a catch to this?” Toras asked with a smirk.

	“Yeah, you could say that.” She replied.

	The new passage of text on the map read as follows:

_When this is visible you will have come within two miles of the corpse of Maanzecorian, or at least what is left of him. Yes, I and those I serve were aware of something involving this particular godisle, and several others. However, we did not wish to have our knowledge of this, nor our involvement made aware to those unknown persons responsible. As such, you provided a convenient, if unwilling means for me to gain firsthand information on this place and those involved.
	When needed, I have provided a summoning symbol upon the map which will call me to you when you wish to talk face to face. For your aid in this matter, we can discuss terms of your payment then.
-	Yours in service to Tiamat and Bel_

“I don’t like being used.” Skalliska said with a frown. “You want to talk, we’ll talk now.”

	The kobold reached down and pressed the tip of a claw to the glowing symbol of Baator upon the parchment.

	“Don’t!” Florian said. “You want the githyanki down there to see us?”

	It was too late however. The symbol on the page gleamed with emerald light and briefly caught fire, singing the ink into the surface of the paper as the spell’s latent energy was expended.

	“Most definitely you don’t wish to be seen.” The voice came out of nowhere to address them.

	Weapons were drawn almost immediately as they scrambled to locate the source of the voice. There was an amused laugh in response.

	“No, put those away. I’m not with them, nor am I going to raise their attention to you. I take it that you’ve been following my letter Skalliska.”

	They paused and waited. Skalliska’s eyes narrowed.

	There was a brief shimmer in the air as a figure dismissed their invisibility. A woman with pale white skin, sea green eyes, and a pair of white-feathered wings. She was dressed in a plain white tunic and skirt, a few bits of jewelry and nothing else. The woman smiled and fangs appeared over her ruby lips: an erinyes.

	“Greetings.” She said as she flexed her wings. 

	The baatezu looked around, briefly sticking her head past the barrier, then frowned. “Hmm, I didn’t think that you’d have summoned me so early. But, too late to change that. A bit of an explanation I suppose would be in order.”

	Tristol pointed down towards the godisle and its illusion cloaked inhabitants.

“What about…”

	She waved a hand. “They can’t see anything beyond the barrier that keeps –us- from seeing –them-. It’s powerful but it isn’t perfect, even if I have no idea how they’re powering it.”

	“So who are you?” Skalliska asked cautiously.

	“My name is Marissa the Serpent Touched, a servant of Bel, the Warlord of Avernus, and also in this instance a servant of Tiamat.”

	“What does this have to do with me?” The kobold replied.

	“Nothing really.” The Baatezu said. “But given your interest in looking for dead gods, it gave me a chance to have someone else look into certain regions of the Astral. It allowed Lord Bel to keep his hands free of this.”

	“And what is _this_?” Fyrehowl asked.

	“That’s the question on a great many people’s minds.” She said. “On one hand the Githyanki are concerned with a number of traitors that seem to have banded together and then vanished from the scopes of the Knights tasked by Vlaakith to hunt them. Vlaakith seeks to devour their souls obviously, and she is enraged over this failure to find them by all accounts. Likewise, this has gained Tiamat’s interest. The five headed Queen, by way of Ephelemon’s pact with the Githyanki race is curious as well. By way of Tiamat, Bel has expressed interest as a way to improve relations with that goddess.”

	“Yay entangling alliances.” Clueless said.

	“Indeed, there’s no other kind.” Marissa replied. “But what we find here is most disturbing, because I do not know what they are doing.”

	“How did you even know about me?” Skalliska pressed. “How did you know that I was searching for my old pantheon and would eventually be looking for astral corpses, just so you could send me passing over a few that held your own interest? Answer me that if you would.”

	“Your deity, Kurtulmak resides within Baator.” The Erinyes replied. “It’s as simple as that.”

	“Kurtulmak is not my deity.” Skalliska spat.

“The god of kobolds would disagree.” She said with a shrug. “But regardless of your feelings on the matter, and his, I really don’t care mind you, information flows readily from those deities within the Pit to its overlords. Your name was passed on to us by Kurtulmak who seems to have wished you to see the fate of your old pantheon in the hopes that it would bring the wayward lamb back, so to speak.”

	Skalliska snarled.

	“But you came to my lord’s attention, and Tiamat expressed her own interest.” Marissa said. “From there I was tasked with prompting you onto your current path. And now, here I am asking for your help in this. What is your price?”

	“I’ve been asked that too many times before.” Clueless said with a shudder.

	“How do we know we can trust you?” Toras asked.

	“Because of what I am.” She said, looking hurt. “I’m not a Tanar’ri or a Yugoloth. I want to formalize our working relationship, do this on a firm contractual basis so we know where we stand and what we are and aren’t obligated to do.”

	“Considering what you are,” Fyrehowl said. “Let’s keep the formal agreement as informal as possible.”

	Marissa’s ears perked as the lupinal continued.

	“Let’s consider this a favor for a favor. We help you find out what’s going on down there, help you fight them if needed, and in return you, or your lord, owe us a favor in the future of equal merit.”

	“My lord will hold to this.” The Erinyes replied with a nod. “A favor for a favor then. Are you all in agreement with this?”

	They looked at one another for a long moment, but there was no dissent. Of them all, Nisha stuck out her tongue at the Erinyes after nodding in the affirmative, and while Fyrehowl was suspicious of the fiend, she gave her assent.

	“Well then,” Toras said. “What’s your idea for what we do next?”

	Marissa glanced down at the corpse and then back towards the Astral Dreadnaught slowly circling at a mile out.

	“I’d like to get a look at the tower they’ve built on the surface, and the surface itself. Whatever they’re doing we’ll find out down there, and I also suspect that something in that tower is what’s keeping the Dreadnaught at bay. Remove that and the Dreadnaught slaughters them all.”

	“But if it did that, you’d have to pick through the rubble to find out any answers.” Toras said.

	“Indeed.” She replied with a sigh. “So that’s out as an immediate option.”

	“Besides,” The fighter said. “They’d be all over us in a minute if we went directly down to the surface. It’s crawling with githyanki and those other things; didn’t get too good of a look at them, they looked like goblins maybe.”

	Clueless nodded. “Then we sneak into one of the two buildings in orbit, find out what we can, and try to take down whoever we find.”

	“That’s really the best option I think.” Fyrehowl said.

	The Erinyes stretched her wings slightly. She seemed unused to the lack of gravity, or the lack of an atmosphere in which to use them.

	“I suggest that we be invisible when we first approach the building.” She said. “And then pray to the Lord of the 9th that they don’t have any warlocks capable of still seeing us.”

	Tristol, Clueless and Skalliska provided the spells from their own limited number of castings, and Marissa blinked out of sight on her own accord. They agreed to go towards the building on the left, cautiously enter and take care of any guards while their invisibility was still active.

	With that, they launched through the glistening barrier surrounding the godisle, and then shot towards the two buildings suspended in the gravity well. Despite their paranoia about being noticed by the githyanki below them, there was no indication that they had been noticed. On their way however, they did manage to discern a bit more detail: the githyanki were forcing goblins into manual labor on the surface of the dead Illithid god. They had a Rakshasa after all, was it too much of a stretch that they would then have an ample supply of goblinoid petitioners from Acheron? It seemed likely, even if that still didn’t answer the question of what that Rakshasa was doing there on the Astral, on Maanzecorian’s godisle, in the first place.

	They skirted past the row of four githyanki carracks on the metal bridge between the two buildings. All of them showed signs of battle damage, likely inflicted when they were seized from their original crews by force, or in battles against other githyanki perhaps. They were a motley collection by any standard, comprised of a merchant vessel, a heavily armored but lightly armed treasury ship, a scout vessel, and a larger dreadnaught that bristled with catapults, ballistae, and a number of odd metal tubes with fire scorched ends.

	But they would worry about the ships later. As it was, none of them seemed occupied, all of them tethered to the dock. They passed them by and stood collected outside the entrance to the leftward building. The door was wooden and seemed to be only barely reinforced. The githyanki had not seemed to anticipate or even worry about a siege or any sort of attack, given that they were almost wholly shielded from outside attention and notice.

	They quietly drew their weapons and waited. Nisha pushed the door open and glanced through with a mirror in her hand. Four armed, but bored-looking githyanki warriors sat within the room beyond. The tiefling withdrew her hand and whispered what she had seen. It took little more than that and the door was kicked open to the utter surprise of the gith defenders. Bleeding wounds erupted across their bodies before their attackers had even faded into view. As their invisibility spells dropped, the gith were either already dead or bleeding out onto the stone of the floor. But one of them had shouted for help.

	Clueless slit the gith’s throat with a single, smooth slash of his sword.

“Sh*t. Get ready if he was heard.” Toras said as he raised his sword.

Fyrehowl glanced at the staircase that led up from the single room that occupied the ground floor of the building, and then down at another stairwell that led ‘up’ into the other half of the tower, githyanki architecture being what it was in the Astral plane. The attack however would come from neither of those places.

	There was no warning before the arcane flashes of dimension door spells lit the room and nearly a dozen githyanki appeared in their midst screaming with rage. There were at least nine warriors, but with three other individual gith that appeared distinct and more of a threat. Of that trio, there was a lightly armored ‘yanki with a pair of long daggers, a gish, there was a robed warlock, and there was an ornately armored githyanki who wielded a massive two-handed sword like it was weightless: a knight, one of the so-called githyanki anti-paladins.

	There was no time to shout a warning, nor time to regroup and think over tactics. It all went to hell in the space of a few chaotic seconds. All they did was react on instinct.

	Fyrehowl of course was used to such action, and it was almost as if she had started to move before the githyanki had arrived. A series of sword slashes disemboweled one of the assaulting githyanki warriors a moment after he appeared.

	Tristol backed away and hurled a spell at one of the warriors who stood poised to swing his blade at Clueless’s back. The warrior froze in place in an instant, his flesh turned to solid stone with a single incantation from Tristol’s lips. Clueless still ducked and only a split second later realized what had happened. He gave an appreciative glance to the wizard before hurling a lightning bolt from the tip of his own sword against the gish that was charging forwards.

	The others did less obvious things: Florian chanted a blessing upon them all, Marissa simply vanished from sight, Skalliska began to move faster, and Nisha immobilized one of the gith warriors with a wand.

	It was harder on them from that point on. The gish wasn’t so much as singed by the bladesinger’s spell as it semi-cartwheeled and semi-levitated, diving out and over the path of the bolt of electricity. The warlock meanwhile stared in shock at one of his fights having been turned to stone, and a moment later he hurled a column of ice showering down on Tristol and Skalliska.

	The two of them managed to evade the worst of it, but the frigid burns were painful and distracting. Still, Tristol hurled another spell of petrification at another warrior adjacent to the gith warlock.

	By then however, the knight had closed ranks with Toras and Clueless both, not looking intimidated in the slightest. The anti-paladin had no need to worry. She was surrounded by a dozen lesser warriors, and they were confident in their own supremacy, both racial and in terms of skill.

	The knight struck first, screaming out some invocation to Gith and empowering her blade with a reverse of the same holy power that a paladin might use to smite an evil foe. It struck and Toras spun away to the side from the force of the impact. He hadn’t been expecting that, but in a testament to his own ability to recover, he was picking himself up off the ground soon thereafter and slashing back at the knight’s legs.

	The next seconds or minutes, they all lost track of it, was a flurry of blades and spellcasting. In the end it took Clueless, Toras, and Fyrehowl combined to finally take down the githyanki knight, and not without injuries of their own to show as a result when they turned their attentions away from the lesser warriors. 

At the same time as they were occupied with the knight, Florian had waded into a number of those other gith that were harrying her companions, hacking at them mercilessly with her axe. Somewhere below waist height, Skalliska was darting and slashing at legs, exposed heels, and the back of their knees. More than a few githyanki were hamstrung before Florian dispatched them with a cry to Tempus.

	Tristol, after having petrified two gith, had made himself a target, and only a lightning bolt at close range had kept a number of the githyanki from charging him directly. That however did not prevent the gish from getting to within a direct, unimpeded line of sight.

	The gish drew a pair of long daggers and prepared to throw them at the aasimar, but by the time he had moved his arms back to throw, it was too late for him. With an obscene scream of fury, the erinyes spread her wings and dove onto the githyanki. He let out a startled, frantic scream as she landed on his shoulders, gripped his head with her claws and wrapped her wings around his body, obscuring it above the waist. There was a thrashing and an erratic spray of blood, then the gish twitched and collapsed.

	There was a peal of thunder as a bolt of lightning struck from the warlock and onto Toras, Clueless, and Fyrehowl. The githyanki wizard was screaming invectives at them while the wave of electricity shot towards them as they stood over the corpse of the knight. Clueless shot up towards the ceiling with a quick flicker of his wings, only receiving a few minor jolts from the larger area of effect, but Fyrehowl and Toras didn’t so much as move. In fact, the two of them smiled back at the warlock as the spell coursed through them and caused them not the slightest discomfort.

	A few feet away from the panicking warlock, Marissa stood up from the corpse of the mangled gish and folded back her wings. Blood coated her mouth and her hands. She scowled at the corpse with disdain as she licked the blood from her lips and hands, cleaning herself with compulsive detail. The warlock watched her and changed his course of action considerably.

	Shouting out something in githyanki, he called out to the three remaining warriors who moved and stood before him like a wall, cutting him off from the erinyes and the warriors he had just seen kill the knight. That done, he turned and bolted up the stairs in full out retreat. Marissa screamed out a mocking insult in Infernal as the spellcaster fled. The three other githyanki that blocked the stairs were dead a minute later.

	“Oh hells, there’s no way that we’re letting him escape.” Florian said as she hefted her axe and made for the stairs.

	The others ran after her, up to the second floor of the building. No sooner had they gotten within sight of the top of the stairs than there was a thunderous roar and a belch of flame swept like a wave down and over them with the smell of brimstone. Two goblin petitioners, a smoking metal tube as large as themselves, and the grinning warlock faded into view.

	As the smoke from the tube’s blast cleared from the air, the stairwell was covered in blood and soot. Tristol was nearly unconscious, Toras and Florian were both badly injured, and only Skalliska and Nisha had seemed to avoid the blast in any way at all. The warlock was still laughing at their plight when a fireball detonated on top of him and the two petitioners, catching the yet unused powder charges alight and setting them off directly in their midst.

	For a second time in as many seconds, the staircase was awash in blood.

	The warlock blinked through a bloody haze and staggered to his feet. The goblins were dead and his body ached with burns and the grapeshot charge that had left bits of metal dug into his flesh. He hadn’t expected that; he’d hoped that the cannon would kill or disable all of the intruders. It had to have been a misfire from the cannon, or a bit of powder had caught from the first blast and smoldered atop the other charges. He’d seen their wizard nearly killed, and he’d never expected that they would have any others capable of hurling any spells that might have touched off the powder.

	The warlock screamed as Fyrehowl and Clueless walked out of the smoke, swords raised. His pain ended shortly thereafter.

	“F*ck…” Toras said bluntly as he staggered to get back up. He was badly wounded as it was, and the surface of the stairs were slippery with his blood, his companions’ and the rapidly evaporating guts of the petitioners.

	“What the hell was that?” Skalliska shouted out from where she’d landed at the bottom of the stairs.

	“Bloody gnomish contraption.” Tristol cursed.

	“Hmm?” Florian said as she was already calling prayers of healing into her mind.

	“It’s a cannon.” The aasimar replied as he stumbled up the stairs to look at it. “Alchemical explosives and either a ball of iron, or smaller pellets of the same.”

	“Either it’s something from Acheron,” Marissa said. “Or they just picked up the things from a planar arms merchant. They’re not unknown, not to me, we’ve used them in the Blood War, but they’re not up to snuff compared to what a single wizard can do.”

	“You can train idiots to use those however.” Tristol said before wincing in pain from his injuries. “It doesn’t take the years to train a wizard to do the same effect by magic.”

	“Enough.” Marissa said as she picked gore from out of her wings and glanced about. “There might be more. And some of you need to heal yourselves before doing anything else.”

	“There aren’t.” Clueless said from up above. “There’s two other rooms up here, and there’s no one around.”

	The Erinyes nodded. “Pray that no one heard all of this…”

	The minutes passed as they recovered from their wounds, either by potion or scroll or prayer, and while they expected another set of githyanki warriors to appear out of nowhere, screaming for their blood, none came. Improbable as it might have been, they hadn’t been noticed outside of the defenders of the current building. And that building, as they searched its rooms, was occupied only by them and the corpses of the newly dead.

	The building was fairly spartan, typical for githyanki architecture. There was a barracks for the githyanki warriors, and a separate room that was likely to serve as the same for the goblin petitioners. Then there were the cannons. In the top chamber of the tower sat five of the iron tubes and a small supply of powder and shot. They didn’t seem to be in use, or planned use. Most likely they were to prevent attack and siege, but with the magical shroud that cloaked them from detection, what was the use of it?

	The only chamber of interest though was the shrine.

	“Hey guys,” Florian said as she looked into the chamber. “What do you make of this?”

	“Hold on.” Clueless said. “Nisha, you want to check the door for wards or traps?”

	“Already did.” The Xaositect replied. “Nothing there.”

	Florian nodded and stepped into the room. She was rewarded with a surge of electricity that arced from her head and left by her feet before it knocked her backwards. She blinked and moaned before her head cleared enough to let her feel lucid again.

	“Nothing there huh?” Florian asked over towards Nisha.

	“Nothing I saw.” She said obstinately. “And I checked it. There wasn’t anything there that I saw. I’d have told you if I’d noticed.”

	“Don’t worry Nisha.” Toras said. “You missed one. No problem. Just play it safe from now on and double check the doors.”

	Nisha frowned with a bruised ego, as her tail twitched and the bell that hung from its tip jangled with irritation like the tip of a rattlesnake’s tail.

	The small room was bare except for an elaborate rug covering the center of the room, and a shaft of silvery light that descended down from a plug of crystal set into a circular hole in the ceiling. On either side of the chamber there were two altars, but they were mirror opposites of one another.

	On the right there was a gilded shrine to Gith, complete with panels depicting her victory over the Illithids, and the flight of the Githzerai to Limbo. The glimmering idol of the Great Liberator was surrounded by lit candles and the burned out remains of blocks of incense and bits of blood. It was something clearly in use by the inhabitants.

	“Doesn’t the Lich Queen dissuade actual worship of Gith?” Clueless asked.

	“In a way, yes.” The Erinyes replied. “This is out of the ordinary.”

	What was truly out of the ordinary however was the other altar. It was covered in the dried remnants of spittle, and the idol of a female githyanki lich with burning eyes, bedecked in gold and carrying a scepter in the shape of red dragon’s head, it sat in a puddle of urine. Cracks ran down portions of the panels of the altar, the impacts seeming consistent with blows from githyanki fists and heels. The altar of Vlaakith the Lich Queen was an object of detestation.

	“Holy…” Fyrehowl said.

	“Nothing holy about any of this.” The Erinyes replied with a smirk before taking a deep breath and seeming honestly astounded by what she saw.

	“They’ve turned against the Lich Queen?” Clueless said. “Why?”

	“Not a clue.” Florian said. “But the knight that almost took you apart down there was probably looking at having her soul devoured if she ever stepped foot back on Tunarath.”

	“That’s one reason.” Toras replied.

	“Things get more interesting.” Marissa said, musing to herself out loud. “Renegade githyanki who by all appearance have forsworn Vlaakith, banding together with an Acheronian fiend, mining the corpse of at least one dead power… why?”

	“Speaking of which, you know, we’ve still got that fiend from Acheron who’s strip-mining a dead god…” Florian said. “He’s still alive around here, and it’s probably only a matter of time before we’re found out.”

	Fyrehowl nodded.

	“We’re damned lucky that the ‘yanki on the surface don’t realize that we just cleared out one of their towers up here. We’re screwed if all of them turn on us at once.”

	“So…” Nisha said. “What do we do now since there’s still that freaky handed tiger walking around like Florian said?”

	They nodded to one another, conspicuously ignoring that Skalliska was shoving no fewer than three of the cannons, and as much powder as she could fit, into a bag of holding. As soon as the kobold had finished ransacking the powder keg, they descended back down to the ground floor and picked over the bodies for what useful items were present. None of them once considered looting the shrines of Gith and Vlaakith.

	“We can’t risk going down to the surface to look at that one tower,” Clueless said, as he looked at a dagger the gish had held. “Not yet anyway. We should probably go after the other building up here in orbit before we even think about the surface.”

	“Agreed,” Marissa said as she flicked an errant drop of blood from her fingertip. “We can’t risk the presence of spellcasters behind us. And they’re accorded status among the gith enough that they wouldn’t likely be serving to herd petitioners down on Maanzecorian’s corpse.”

	They glanced across to the second building and the bridge that linked it to the first. If they ran, they probably wouldn’t be noticed.

	“Preemptive wheeeeeeee!” Nisha whispered a moment before she bolted across the neck between the two buildings.

	The Erinyes flickered out of sight as she exited the building, followed soon after be an invisible Clueless. The others made up for their lack of such wards by running as fast as they could. Suffice to say, Fyrehowl was the first to the other side despite having been the last out of the door.

	Thirty seconds later, they huddled in the shadow of one of the carracks there tethered to the bridge, nestled inside the doorway to the second building. Skalliska peered warily down at the figures on the corpse of the god far below. It did not appear as if any of them were yet aware that anything was amiss high above them.

	“They’re comfortable in their security.” Marissa whispered with contempt. “They’ve kept the Dreadnaught at bay, and no one can tell that there is anything amiss on the surface. They have no need to expect anyone. Baator does not suffer the incompetent.”

	“How’s the door?” Clueless asked.

	Nisha glanced at it and the doorframe for a few long moments before giving a shrug. The door didn’t appear locked. In fact, it didn’t have a keyhole or a lock at all. It was a simple latch and nothing else. And as far as the tiefling could tell, it wasn’t trapped in any way.

	The tiefling tentatively opened the door and swung it open. The crackle of discharging magic made them jump back. Something lanced between them and stung their eyes before it flickered out of sight, but nothing seemed to happen.

	The tiefling shot an agonized look at her companions. She honestly seemed on the verge of tears since for the second time in under an hour she had simply failed to notice a lurking ward. Her grief turned to anger almost immediately and she began to quietly sulk, avoiding looking at any of her companions.

	Tristol felt bad for her. To an extent he felt like he should have been helping her out in looking out for wholly magical wards. Of course, given the Xaositect’s already wounded pride, that might mess with her own sense of worth and ability if she needed help. Still, the warding hadn’t affected them as far as he could tell. Presumably they’d all resisted its intended effect, or it was something that wasn’t meant for them in the first place.

	Something wasn’t right. Fyrehowl felt a nagging feeling in her gut, but she couldn’t really discern what it was in the slightest. Still, she felt no different.

	Past the door was a large, open chamber with a curving stairwell along the outer wall, rising up to a chamber above. The air was warm, the illumination was bright but not harsh, and the room smelled of faint incense. No githyanki lived here. The walls were made of richer material, the wood paneled floors carpeted, and decorative accents applied wherever it would have been appropriate. Everything spoke of wealth and nobility: the tenured position of any powerful Rakshasa.

	The cautiously walked into the chamber and looked up above at what seemed to be a massive library in the upper chamber. Fyrehowl noticed oddly that the others had put away their weapons.

	From above, a mellifluous voice called out to them.

	“Please, step inside. It’s much more pleasant in here I assure you. Standing on my doorstep expecting a block of iron to fall on your heads if you enter without my approval. Tsk tsk tsk. There’s no lock for two reasons: I’m a reasonable man, there’s no need for you to expect me to slaughter you like I was some Tanar’ri. I have culture that they lack. And secondly, I have absolutely nothing to fear from any that might wish to speak with me.”

	They hesitated and looked up. The richly robed figure of a white furred Rakshasa stood at the lip of a balcony above them. The fiend looked down on them as he smoked a large pipe from the corner of his mouth, and held a cup of tea in one of its backwards paws.

	“Get off of my doorstep like reasonable people.” He called down to them calmly. “I extend you my invitation and welcome, be polite and mannered and accept it.”

	Tristol and Fyrehowl only vaguely realized that the others had considered it and moved to ascend the staircase. Marissa had a confused look on her face, which she quickly suppressed as she motioned the wizard and cipher to follow.

	The upper chamber was dominated by an ornate and well-stocked library. In the room’s center was a small table, a number of chairs and divans, and a bubbling samovar of what smelled like chamomile tea. The Rakshasa had already taken the largest chair and was sipping at his cup, motioning them to sit as well.

	Simply out of habit, Toras concentrated and tried to detect the presence of evil, wondering if the fiend had any associates lurking nearby. The fiend glowed, and so did everyone else with the exception of Tristol and Fyrehowl. But somehow, that didn’t so much as phase the fighter. There was no sign of lurking assailants, and the Rakshasa had politely invited them to sit. What harm was there in that?

	Before they realized it, they had made their introductions to the charming and well-cultured fiend and were sipping tea along with him. Marissa was playing along without pause, but Tristol and Fyrehowl were just sitting there holding their cups with dumbfounded looks on their faces.

	“And who would you be?” Clueless asked.

	“You may refer to me as his Lordship Siddhartha,” He said, as he removed his pipe from his mouth and a cloud of scented tobacco drifted lazily away. “Noble of the House of the Blackened Paw of Acheron.”

	“I must profess that I didn’t expect quite so much of a formal welcome, devoid of violence.” The bladesinger stated appreciatively.

	“That would be impolite.” Siddhartha replied with a soft feline chuffle.

	“But you can’t really be pleased at what we’ve done to the gith that you had working for you.” Toras said.

“Am I pleased regarding my warlock, gish, and knight that you seem to have killed?” Siddhartha sniffed at the air and frowned. “Their scent lingers on you, as well as their blood. No matter. I can find more where they came from. They’re chattel, worthless compared to my goals here. Just a means to an end.”

	“And those goals would be?” Marissa prompted in a polite voice.

	The Rakshasa ignored her.

	“Still, I confess that you’ve done me a favor in a way. If my servants died by your hands, they were not fit for the work I had entrusted to them. Ultimately you’ve done me a good deed, and I properly must thank you for it.”

	“A pleasure to be of service.” Clueless said.

	“It was actually rather fun.” Nisha said with genuine malice as she raised her teacup in a salute to the fiend. “I don’t have too much opportunity to slit throats like that. Thank you.”

	Tristol blinked. He’d never once heard the tiefling actually speak out like that. He’d rarely even heard her sound angry. This wasn’t the Nisha that he knew, nor were the others acting like themselves either. The symbol on the doorway, it had to have altered their state of mind, made them more agreeable and willing to talk.

	And with that, they descended into polite chitchat and small talk. Nearly an hour later, Tristol realized that the Rakshasa had spent most of his efforts in trying to convince his magically influenced comrades that he was up to nothing untoward at all, without giving them any specific details. In fact he was even openly suggesting that they join him, given that he had open spots, what with his best githyanki being dead and all. But as the hour progressed, the tiger-headed fiend was growing increasingly more agitated as he was unable to persuade them all to his point of view and his whim.

	Whatever spell had affected them all, made them open to influence, it probably had a time limit of an hour, or very close to it. That hour was rapidly reaching its conclusion and the fiend wasn’t happy. It was likely that their apparent change in morality might be permanent if they did agree to his terms before that limit was up, and if not, than there would be blood spilled. It was not a short wait for that result.

	“And if we have already had a better offer from elsewhere? If we don’t wish to work for you?” Marissa said politely, much to the other fiend’s displeasure. “Being such a polite gentlemen, surely you’ll wish us farewell on a pledge to not spread word of your work here atop Maanzecorian’s corpse?”

	His whiskers bristled and his tail was twitching in agitation behind his cushioned chair.

	“You must realize that I cannot allow the knowledge of my activities here to escape beyond the confines of this godisle.” The Rakshasa said bluntly. Marissa clutched the side of her head and winced like a drill was boring into her skull. “Especially when it would leap to the ears of a second rate draconic goddess and to the Lord of the 5th.” 

“Bel?” He scoffed and sneered, black lips curling up over ivory fangs. “Your motives and allegiances are entirely transparent my dear. And to the rest of you, from the moment you stepped within the confines of my warding about this place you were never going to be allowed to leave intact. To think otherwise is the depths of foolishness.”

“And so my dear erinyes,” The Rakshasa said with a rough hiss. “It has been an hour, and I grow tired of your prattle.”

	And with that, he flicked the fingers of a backwards paw at the other fiend and snarled an invocation. The erinyes’ scream was brief as she spontaneously combusted, leaving behind naught but a pile of ashes where she had been sitting. The Rakshasa seemed entirely indifferent to the entire affair originally, calm, proper and mellow, but having been growing more ill at ease by the moment, he was starting to fray at the edges.

	The fiend sighed and put down his still steaming teacup on its china saucer. He seemed entirely bored with the situation, like it was nothing to him at all to simply execute a greater Baatezu. And for the others, they were simply fools beneath his station.

The only exits out of the library were directly over the edge of the balcony, or by way of the stairs down to the ground floor. Without word from the Rakshasa, or pause in his conversation with them, a wall of force shimmered into place a few feet before the balcony and a second githyanki warlock appeared behind it. A moment later, blocking the way down the stairs stood a ground of four goblins, each holding smaller versions of the cannons that they had seen before, crude constructions of iron and wood.

The Rakshasa stood up, took one last puff of his pipe and exhaled the bitter smoke at his guests.

	“Your attention has been appreciated for our time together,” He said with a tone of finality. “But I regret that we were unable to reach some matter of agreement. A pity.”


***​


----------



## Clueless

And once again - he thought he was being cute with the naming of this particular cat.  He looked around the table and the entire group was giving him the hairy eyeball. It was a very very fun session. *grin*


----------



## Dakkareth

> “And so my dear erinyes,” The Rakshasa said with a rough hiss. “It has been an hour, and I grow tired of your prattle.”
> 
> And with that, he flicked the fingers of a backwards paw at the other fiend and snarled an invocation. The erinyes’ scream was brief as she spontaneously combusted, leaving behind naught but a pile of ashes where she had been sitting. _The Rakshasa seemed entirely nonplussed at the entire affair, but having been growing more ill at ease by the moment, he was starting to fray at the edges._
> 
> The fiend sighed and put down his still steaming teacup on its china saucer.




I'm a little confused here ... the Rakshasa is surprised by his own actions?

But a great update


----------



## Shemeska

Dakkareth said:
			
		

> I'm a little confused here ... the Rakshasa is surprised by his own actions?
> 
> But a great update




Changed it.

[Prince's Bride]"I do not that that means what you think it means" [/Prince's Bride]


----------



## demiurge1138

Very nice update; that's really how a rakshasa should be played. Still, isn't Bel Lord of the the First Hell, not the 5th as you referred to him? Or is this homebrew cosmological tinkering?

Demiurge out.


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## Dakkareth

> “Considering what you are,” Fyrehowl said. “Let’s keep the formal agreement as informal as possible.”




Good thing the rakshasa destroyed her ... informal agreement, oh my!


----------



## Shemeska

demiurge1138 said:
			
		

> Very nice update; that's really how a rakshasa should be played. Still, isn't Bel Lord of the the First Hell, not the 5th as you referred to him? Or is this homebrew cosmological tinkering?
> 
> Demiurge out.




She's not working for Bel. 

She said she was, but she's not. Tiamat, yes. But which archfiend she's allied with, the Rakshasa seemed aware of: Lord of the 5th, Levistus.


----------



## Clueless

Dakkareth said:
			
		

> Good thing the rakshasa destroyed her ... informal agreement, oh my!




Actually that turned out better than you'd think really. We seem to have decent (if slightly awkward at times) dealing when it comes to LE beings. I think the general rule that we keep in mind with them, especially the mortal LE as opposed to fiendish, is "Evil people have friends too."

... This becomes relevant later.


----------



## Dakkareth

Well, with evil people you can deal. It's the Evil people that are problematic. 

And I was reminded of _Fire and Dust_ where there's a Cipher acting on instict but without knowing (as another Cipher would put it), but maybe Fyrehowl _knew_ it was going to turn out ok. *shrug* You never know with those Feel-the-Cadence types ...


----------



## Shemeska

Dakkareth said:
			
		

> Well, with evil people you can deal. It's the Evil people that are problematic.
> 
> And I was reminded of _Fire and Dust_ where there's a Cipher acting on instict but without knowing (as another Cipher would put it), but maybe Fyrehowl _knew_ it was going to turn out ok. *shrug* You never know with those Feel-the-Cadence types ...




No, she and Tristol just made their saves against what IIRC was a symbol of persuasion of something similar. And they were curious OOC too, hoping for the 'I'm Mr. Big Bad Evil, with a British accent by way of Bangalore, let me tell you my evil plans before I kill you.' speech.

They didn't fall for the 'join me' speech though, and as the time limit for that symbol wore off, it got ugly.

Fyrehowl's cadence thing was hit or miss sometimes. I'd give hints to her player, but I have a tendency to be far, far too vague at times to the point where my hint might be useless. In this case though, she was curious.


----------



## Toras

Minor point, twas Toras and Florian that made the save for the Symbol (for reasons that will be come apparent as we continue)


----------



## Tristol

Toras said:
			
		

> Minor point, twas Toras and Florian that made the save for the Symbol (for reasons that will be come apparent as we continue)




*prods Toras with his quarter-staff* Diary, page 7. Tristol made the save, and I recall talking to Florian about it in hushed whispers. I don't think the winged friend of ours made the save, but I do believe it was you, myself, and Florian. There's also this wonderful thing called artistic license that lets him write it however he wants, despite the tiny inconsistencies with the actual turn of events. Sometimes it doesn't really matter :>

As for how it was played, we sort of suspended the game play for a moment when the symbol hit and we tried to figure out how we could still do what we wanted, but be cooperative. Symbols of persuasion don't say you need to fall on your knees and trust people, or that you have to be wholly cooperative with them. So, those that were hit opted for the midground on it. Talk with him, answer questions, enjoy the company, but no commitments. And that's primarily what we did. But boy did he get ticked when it wasn't working out exactly how he expected it to.

And for those curious, this is about where Tristol's Diary picks up the story. Might be a spot or two that's missing as it is the beginning, but the information starts there. Shemmy here will likely use it to figure out the details of who said what and how things got done, but it's not really detailed on all the combat and everyone's words or thoughts. More of Tristol's internal reflection on the events. I would recommend reading the story hour stuff first, and then stopping in the diary so you don't spoil anything. You get a much more unbiased point of view here than you do with the diary.


----------



## Clueless

Yeah. We all sorta paused and looked at the DM and went. "Wait? We're LE now?" looked around at each other... "Um. What does that actually change guys? Now we'll work together... we'll be *cranky*?" 

Which is sorta what it turned out like, as the cat's offers just didn't appeal, and we were lawful so we weren't going to just drop the idea of what we were doing.


----------



## Graywolf-ELM

Tristol said:
			
		

> *prods Toras with his quarter-staff* Diary, page 7. Tristol made the save, and I recall talking to Florian about it in hushed whispers. I don't think the winged friend of ours made the save, but I do believe it was you, myself, and Florian. There's also this wonderful thing called artistic license that lets him write it however he wants, despite the tiny inconsistencies with the actual turn of events. Sometimes it doesn't really matter :>
> ...
> And for those curious, this is about where Tristol's Diary picks up the story. Might be a spot or two that's missing as it is the beginning, but the information starts there. Shemmy here will likely use it to figure out the details of who said what and how things got done, but it's not really detailed on all the combat and everyone's words or thoughts. More of Tristol's internal reflection on the events. I would recommend reading the story hour stuff first, and then stopping in the diary so you don't spoil anything. You get a much more unbiased point of view here than you do with the diary.




Where can we read the diary?  Or is that possible.

Thank you,
GW


----------



## Gez

Graywolf-ELM said:
			
		

> Where can we read the diary?  Or is that possible.
> 
> Thank you,
> GW



There: http://vulpes.foxpaws.net/

Look for a PDF entitled, surprisingly, Tristol's Diary.pdf...


----------



## Tristol

Graywolf-ELM said:
			
		

> Where can we read the diary?  Or is that possible.




A more direct link to it is: http://vulpes.foxpaws.net/Tristol's%20Diary.pdf. I would caution you about it on several points: 1) It goes WAY ahead of the story hour so will spoil a lot of stuff. 2) It's written from a biased point of view. There's a good bit of summary of what happened at various stages, but you won't see the thoughts of other characters. You will get a lot of insight into my head though at the various stages to make up for the lack of omniscience. 3) It's not checked for typos and grammatical issues. Word did a splendid job of doing the spell check for me, but I likely butchered names, places, and other things. I don't want corrections either, unless it's truly horrible and doesn't make any sense. 4) It's incomplete. There are some events not described (because I was lazy or didn't see it as needed), and the whole last few weeks of the session are out too. So, there's at least some mystery left. I just wasn't motivated enough to finish it up.

Having covered all that, enjoy! Remember not to spoil things, as Shemmy is doing a rather bang up job of covering it from all angles. I would recommend sticking here for the overall adventure, and then reading the diary to catch it from a character perspective. And if you feel like commenting, please do. I appreciate the time taken to let me know what you think.


----------



## Graywolf-ELM

Tristol said:
			
		

> Having covered all that, enjoy! Remember not to spoil things, as Shemmy is doing a rather bang up job of covering it from all angles. I would recommend sticking here for the overall adventure, and then reading the diary to catch it from a character perspective. And if you feel like commenting, please do. I appreciate the time taken to let me know what you think.




That is how I intended to handle it.  With the way Shemmy lays the story down, I wouldn't want to read ahead.

Thank you,
GW


----------



## Bryon_Soulweaver

Graywolf-ELM said:
			
		

> That is how I intended to handle it. With the way Shemmy lays the story down, I wouldn't want to read ahead.
> 
> Thank you,
> GW




Copy that.


----------



## demiurge1138

Shemeska said:
			
		

> She's not working for Bel.
> 
> She said she was, but she's not. Tiamat, yes. But which archfiend she's allied with, the Rakshasa seemed aware of: Lord of the 5th, Levistus.



Damn those lying baatezu! So, I assume this turns out to be a plot point in the near future, yes?

Demiurge out.


----------



## Zuoken

After having finished reading all 24 pages of this storyhour and enjoying every last word of it, I have but one thing to say:

*DAMN!!!!*

Shemmy, you are the master of labyrinthine plots and despicable villains; I hate you, I hate you, I hate you, and I want to be just like you. Consider this little blubbering man to be yet another fan of your storyhour.

Now on with the show!


----------



## Shemeska

Zuoken said:
			
		

> After having finished reading all 24 pages of this storyhour and enjoying every last word of it, I have but one thing to say:
> 
> *DAMN!!!!*
> 
> Shemmy, you are the master of labyrinthine plots and despicable villains; I hate you, I hate you, I hate you, and I want to be just like you. Consider this little blubbering man to be yet another fan of your storyhour.
> 
> Now on with the show!




*grinning like a fool*  
	

	
	
		
		

		
			





Thank you very much! Now, given how far into the plot the storyhour is, and how long the campaign was, you'll be getting an update a week for probably at least another year and a half to two years, maybe more.

I just need to juggle when to update this one and the 2nd one. Both might get updated this week if I can, but I also fizzled out my creative fuse by writing this little story... which covers the period of time during which Anthraxus wandered the lower planes after Mydianchlarus took his position as Oinoloth: a prelude of sorts to some elements of this storyhour. No spoilers, so don't worry.


----------



## Shemeska

The others didn’t immediately act, but Tristol and Fyrehowl were under no such restrictions. Tristol had already called a spell into his mind and a moment later he hurled it at the wall of force that blocked one of their routes of egress. A thin greenish ray shot from his outstretched finger and disintegrated the wall without pause while he brought a second spell to mind.

	Fyrehowl had drawn her sword and raced towards the goblins. She was nearly there already when they lowered the barrels of their weapons and fired, swallowing her and them both in a cloud of powder smoke.

	Clueless snarled and drew his blade while Toras calmly invoked an innate power of his celestial heritage, summoning a holy aura to surround and protect him and his companions. As the shining light of the spell enveloped him and the others, it had a secondary effect as well: it dismissed the effects of the Rakshasa’s symbol of persuasion entirely. They blinked in some momentary confusion as they came to realize just how fully they had fallen under magical influence, and as they paused, the Rakshasa and its pet githyanki acted.

	Given the innate resistance to magic that all Rakshasa possessed, the githyanki warlock felt no compunction against simply hurling his spells into the midst of the fight; they simply wouldn’t affect his liege at all. The mage whispered an invocation and hurled a blistering cone of frost directly into the melee since the wall of force was no longer blocking any direct, line of sight spells.

	The spell hit hard, blasting all except Tristol and Fyrehowl with full force. And for the latter of those two, she was still unseen within the confines of the cloud of smoke loosed from the goblins’ weapons. The only positive aspect of that last detail were the screams of goblins that could be heard, though the exact results could not yet be seen.

	The Rakshasa smiled and pointed his hand at Florian, the cleric being the one opponent capable of blessing any crossbow bolts, the bane of any Rakshasa. The fiend gestured with that outstretched finger, and whispered a single word: Die.

	Florian stumbled as if she had just been punched in the gut. She doubled over and coughed, straining her eyes and wincing as the spell washed over her but failed to realize its full potential. The cleric steadied herself on the haft of her axe as she shuddered and slowly recovered from the spell. It had left her sick and in pain, but it had not killed her as intended.

	Tristol, having seen the potency of the Rakshasa’s spellcasting, and his full willingness to hurl about death spells like they were mere cantrips, cast his most powerful spell in memory. A rainbow of colored light erupted from the aasimar’s hand as he cast the prismatic spray, a single beam striking the githyanki mage and two separate beams striking the Rakshasa.

	The warlock managed half a scream before it died in his throat and a contingency activated, whisking him away by magic to some predetermined safe harbor. It would do little good though if it was known only to him however; the prismatic spray had turned him to stone.

	As the two beams struck the tiger-headed fiend, he seemed a mixture of politely impressed and dismissive of the threat. He had nothing to fear from the mage. However the two swordsman charging towards him… they did matter. Clueless and Toras both slashed at Siddhartha, both of them scoring several hits, though some manner of protective spell on the fiend seemed to negate a large amount of the damage.

	Florian invoked a prayer to aid her companions as the Rakshasa calmly stepped back and placed his still smoking pipe to his lips. In the midst of the battle it seemed almost comical, but then he triggered some spell latent upon the item and a shockwave of sonic energy erupted in a circle around him. Clueless and Toras were both hurled backwards by a wall of sound that took the form of a thousand screaming souls like something dredged from the depths of pandemonium.

	Behind them, the smoke had cleared and Fyrehowl emerged over the dead bodies of the goblins, though she herself has bleeding from a number of deep wounds their alchemical weapons had inflicted upon her. She gave a bestial snarl at the Rakshasa before charging towards him, soon to be joined by Clueless and Toras again.

	Siddhartha attempted to retreat to a safer position, but he never made it, and soon his protective magics began to fail and the slashes upon his flesh began to bleed more and more. His smug attitude began to rupture into concern, and then to hatred as he cast another spell.

	The Rakshasa threw back his head and screamed at the top of his lungs. The air rippled around him as if a portal to Hell had ripped itself open within his larynx, and its insane petitioners had wailed their fury and misery out into the world through him. It wasn’t the roaring of a tiger or any other great cat, but a scream like a damned, tortured soul venting its hatred on the living. Tristol recognized the spell with widened eyes a second before the tidal wave of necromancy engulfed them all, and both Clueless and Nisha dropped dead.

	Tristol panicked and cast the first spell that came to his mind, a rather simple spell to conjure a force effect onto a simple weapon. It was quick and it was reactionary, and the fiend was already badly injured. Without any training in combat, but just a measure of gut instinct and pure, random luck, he slammed the end of his staff into the Rakshasa’s head. The fiend jerked and imploded, vanishing in the sudden activation of some sort of contingent planeshift or teleport.

	Tristol dropped back and sat down in one of the fiend’s chairs. His heart was pounding and his veins felt as if on fire from the massive expenditure of spells he had cast, an oddly pleasant feeling as he realized that they had won. He only then realized that both Nisha and Clueless were lying there, cold and still, snuffed out by the Rakshasa’s parting incantation.

	“Sh*t…” He said, echoed by Toras and Florian.

	“Florian, can you…?” Fyrehowl asked the cleric.

	She shook her head. “I didn’t memorize anything of the sort today. And what I have isn’t perfect. They’ll be alive again, but it’s going to take something out of them. They won’t be quite up to their normal selves for some time. They’ll take time to recover.”

	A sullen mood descended over them all as they looked down at the pair of corpses. But no sooner had they felt depression hitting hard, then there was a sudden flash of light and the sound of ice grinding upon ice. They abruptly looked up, half expecting more githyanki, or a rejuvenated Rakshasa, but it was something altogether different.

	An imp, tinged green and smelling of seawater, it slowly approached them and held out a bag nearly as large as it was.

	“The Lord of the 5th, Prince Levistus, pays his debt of service to you for aid rendered.”

	Florian accepted the bag as the imp gave her a polite grin. Well, as polite as a naked fiend with a scorpion’s tail waving behind it leisurely could be.

	“You should find these an appropriate ‘favor for a favor’.” The Imp said as he glanced around at the carnage that despoiled the otherwise gentile surroundings. Then, without further comment, it vanished in the flash of a planeshift, called back by the Archdevil who had sent it.

	“What’s in the bag?” Skalliska asked as Florian glanced inside warily.

	The cleric’s eyes widened as she withdrew a scroll case and two flawless sea-green emeralds the size of her fist.

	“Holy…” Skalliska said as she glanced at the gems.

	Florian had an astonished grin on her face as she opened the scroll case. She seemed to already anticipate what was waiting for her within.

	“Gawk while you can Skalliska. These gems won’t be here for much longer. They’re just components…”

	Toras nodded as he came to the same realization as Florian had. The gems were simply the material component to a spell that was far above and beyond any of their capability to cast on their own, but if they were provided on a scroll, than their power would simply need to be channeled and directed.

	“Wish me luck, this is beyond my normal ability.” Florian said as she took the first gem and its bundled scroll and began to chant over Clueless’s corpse.

	The strain was evident as she began to read from the scroll. The gem in her other hand began to glow, and crackles of energy leap from her, to the scroll, to the gem, and then down to Clueless’s body. Florian winced in pain more than once as she finished reading, but her concentration held as finally the gemstone crumbled to dust, the words on the scroll faded away, and the bladesinger opened his eyes.

	“Welcome back.” Fyrehowl said as she helped Clueless up to his feet.

	“What the hell was that?” He asked. “And… I don’t feel any different.”

	“That was a 9th sphere spell…” Tristol said. “A Wail of the Banshee. The Rakshasa killed you and Nisha with it before…”

	“Is that b*stard dead?” Clueless said, interrupting Tristol.

	Tristol paused and looked away as Florian began to chant over Nisha’s body.

	“Looked like a planeshift or a teleport.” Fyrehowl said with a sigh. “Yeah, he got away. But there wasn’t anything we could do about it.”

	“Ten jink says we see him again.” Skalliska said.

	By that time Florian was finished, and once again her concentration held, but it had clearly taken something out of her. She was tired and had to sit down as the spell took effect and Nisha opened her eyes.

	“I’ve been doing this a lot.” The Xaositect said as she regained awareness. “I’m hanging out with the wrong crowd I think. You all keep getting me into bad situations with bad people. And those people, they keep killing me.”

	Toras helped her up off the floor.

	“You know, you could have just walked off after we were done with the whole blackmail and forced employment thing. You didn’t have to stick around with us.”

	“Yeah, I could have.” She replied. “But then who would get you into trouble?”

	“But didn’t you just say that it was our bad influence that got –you- into trouble?” Clueless asked.

	“Nope.” She replied.

	“That’s not making sense Nisha…” Skalliska complained.

	“Shhh…” Nisha whispered to the kobold. “Logic and me, we’re not on good terms, you’ll make them feel bitter.”

	The tiefling flashed a smile and Skalliska felt confused.

	Florian coughed.

	“So what do we do now?” The cleric asked as she slumped in one of the Rakshasa’s chairs.

	“Well, Marissa isn’t exactly with us anymore…” Toras said as he gazed as the scorch mark on the floor where the Erinyes had been sitting earlier.

	“So that brings up a question I guess,” Tristol said. “Do we still bother with the githyanki, or anything else around here?”

	They glanced at each other questioningly.

	“I’d say yes.” Clueless said. “Nisha and I are alive again.”

	Florian nodded. “I’d say we should, if just to make it clear that we were thorough in fulfilling our end of that bargain. The Erinyes did, and I’d say we owe it to her patron to see this out as much as we can.”

	“Plus,” Fyrehowl said. “We don’t want to just leave and have them, or the githyanki here respectively deciding to come after us for reneging on a deal, or for revenge.”

	There was a sudden crackle of energy in the air of the library and a flash of light. But it wasn’t heralding the presence of any new threat, rather it was something leaving. In quick succession, a number of items around the room that had been in the possession of the Rakshasa and the warlock who had served him simply winked out of existence, called back to some safe location for their owners to retrieve them.

	Tristol cursed.

	“The b*stard marked them with a summoning rune. Nothing we can do about it now though.”

	Skalliska sat down next to Florian, hopping into the chair that the Rakshasa had previously been sitting in.

	“Aye.” She said. “Had we known it, we might have stowed them in a bag of holding, but even then I’m not sure they wouldn’t have simply vanished the moment we took them out again.”

	“I take it this means that those two are still alive?” Florian asked.

	“Maybe.” Tristol said. “They might have been contingent spells, triggered when they were killed or incapacitated. The warlock isn’t going to be using them anytime soon though.”

	“Why is that?” Fyrehowl asked.

	“The spell I hit him with,” The wizard explained. “The part that affected him right before he teleported out by a contingent spell, it turned him to stone.”

	Clueless winced. “Yeah, that would do it.”

	“It might be a wise idea to try and scry where they might have gone after everything here is squared away.” Skalliska said, glancing to Clueless and Tristol.

	“And pilfer the library of all it’s worth.” Nisha said. “Sooner, rather than later.”

	They glanced at each other and then began to quickly loot any materials that seemed relevant to why the Rakshasa was there in the Astral, records of what they had been doing, anything else that struck them as interesting. But there wasn’t much. The library was mostly fiction and dry histories of the planes, tales of wars on the prime material, tales of wars in Acheron, and reams upon reams of lore relating to dynastic succession within a number of kingdoms, both prime material and planar. It was the library of a cultured nobleman, and anything that would have been specific to his actions in the Astral had been summoned back to him already, regardless of what state he might be in.

	Nisha was unhappy of course, though she did take the samovar when the others weren’t looking. Eventually though the others suggested that they wouldn’t find anything else outside of a few books that seemed to indicate a loose record of supplies and other arrivals to, and departures from, the godisle. They would look at that later, but in the meantime, there was the surface, and the tower that it held.


***​

	The Rakshasa appeared in the flash of a teleport in a dimly lit chamber elsewhere upon the Astral. He’d felt the momentary disruption as his essence poured through the wardings and the continent sized hell of the astral storm that raged beyond the walls of that place, his sanctum, his shelter, the place where he returned now in abject failure.

	Siddhartha tightly clenched his eyes, she would not be pleased with him. She would be insane with rage. He took his breaths of sterile air, charged with magic, while he still could in relative peace as he sat down and simply waited for what would come.

	Several githyanki were staring at him, more servants, exiles and fugitives who had joined them under his or the other’s command. They stared at him with worried, questioning expressions on their faces. They hadn’t expected to see him, not so soon, and not in so ragged of a condition even as his body began to heal itself from his physical injuries.

	They continued to stare in the intervening minutes as his possessions began to appear around him, summoned back to his person by magic he had placed in them some time ago. He turned his eyes upon them and a wordless communication passed in between: leave him be and do not ask.

	The githyanki were well aware that his return meant conflict, and that meant failure in some way. They, just as well as he, knew that those two things would draw the ire of the other one, the second Rakshasa, his sibling. Siddhartha said nothing to them as he collected his things and put them to one side. He sat there silently, consumed with a bitter resignation, as his mind was set to vibrating with a distant mental touch. She knew. She was aware that he was here, she knew what that meant, and she was unhappy. 

He could have mentally called out to her, answered her questions preemptively, made his excuses, given his explanations, but that would serve no purpose. He would suffer, the failure would be extracted from him in a toll of blood and agony, and her answers would be ripped from his mind before she released him to rectify his failures, to take revenge.

He closed his eyes and lowered his head submissively as the door to the chamber opened. The scent of poppies drifted on the air as his counterpart, if he could use that term so loosely, stepped into the room. The githyanki looked and immediately lowered their gaze from hers, those eyes gleaming like luminescent jade in the dim light, aflame with fury. Padded feet tapped across the floor and claws clacked against the stone in rhythmic pattern there in the darkness as a deep feline purr transposed to a feral roar.

To Siddhartha’s coming admiration and patent surprise in some cloistered, sheltered portion of his mind, his capacity for, and understanding of pain, would soon be expanded and redefined.


***​

	Much to Tristol’s grudging approval, Clueless had insisted on providing an area of invisibility for them all before they made their way out of the building and down to the surface of the godisle. Clueless had brushed it off, said he had had the spell earlier, but it had slipped his mind to use before. Tristol, knowing the truth, said nothing though some tiny portion of himself wished that it could have been the one doing the spellcasting. The spells during the fight had felt rather good, pleasurable almost.

	The invisibility had held when they drifted down from the buildings high in orbit, and down to the surface of Maanzecorian’s corpse. None of the githyanki below, and certainly none of the goblins had noticed a thing.

	Thankfully though, there were no guards positioned at the tower itself, and the doorway at its base was out of immediate line of sight of the teams of goblin petitioners and their githyanki taskmasters.

	The tower was built of a rough base metal, not anything mined from the godisle that it rose up from. Looking at it closely, Tristol and Florian both agreed that the material was probably created by sorcery and then molded into the desired shape from the foundations up. Given the two to three story high rise of the tower, like a spear that had gored the dead god, rising up like a spike from its chest, it would have taken either considerable time to craft, or a potent spellcaster.

	The door was likewise of solid but unrefined construction. It suited its designed purpose, and would have probably stood up to a battering ram, but it was nothing so fine as the interior of the buildings that hung above it in orbit.

	“This wasn’t built to be permanent.” Toras said. “This just calls out ‘functional’ and not much else.”

	“I’ve got to agree with you there.” Skalliska said as she studied the exterior of the tower. “If a Rakshasa had intended to stay here with this, they’d have made it look pretty.”

	“And refined and _worthy_ of their noble presence.” Clueless said smugly. “B*stard killed me…”

	As they speculated on the tower, Nisha was already looking closely at the door itself. She looked at something cut into the surface briefly, snatched her hand away and made a face at it.

	“Eww…” She said before taking out a file and chipping away it for a moment.

	“What was that Nisha?” Fyrehowl asked, her ears swiveling at the earlier comment.

	“Oh, nothing.” The tiefling replied as she leaned on the door, covering up the now ruined symbol with her hand.

	Eventually the others glanced at her.

	“So, are there any wards on the door?” Florian asked.

	“None.” Nisha replied.

	Florian paused and asked again. “Are you –sure- that there aren’t any wards on the door?”

“This time I’m actually sure of that.” Nisha said. “I’ve already died here once, and yes this has apparently gotten to be a habit with me and spellcasters, so if you want I’ll open it and you all can stand back.”

	“No, we trust you.” Tristol said. “If you’re sure of it, we’ll stand right here.”

	Skalliska was already moving back, and would have gone back further, except Toras grabbed her and held her in place.

	“There was one glyph. A symbol like before, just different.” The Xaositect said with a shrug.

	“A symbol? Which kind?” Clueless asked her.

	“Death.” Nisha said without a bit of worry. “At least I think it was death symbol...”

	Skalliska tried to break free from where Toras was holding her. And to be honest, he was considering if the kobold’s idea wasn’t all that bad of one.

	“Oh, bah.” Nisha replied, moving her hand off the inactive symbol. “I already defaced it. If I hadn’t, we’d have triggered it by now, and you’d all be dead. So trust me when I say that I’ve got it.”

	Clueless looked up at the symbol on the door, expertly deactivated as it was.

	“Not bad.” The bladesinger said as they swung the door inward.

	No sooner had the door opened then they were nearly incapacitated with an overwhelming stench of blood and decay that rolled in a nauseating wave from out of the dimly lit interior of the tower.

	Fyrehowl winced and tried to cover her nose, more sensitive than the others. Tears streamed down from her eyes as the cloying reek washed over them all.

	“Oh gods…” Florian said, gagging. “What the hell is that?”

	Tristol snapped his fingers and conjured a glowing ball of light in the center of the tower’s interior as they cautiously moved within, fighting the acrid stench. They stepped into a charnel house.

	“What the…” Skalliska openly wondered as the light of Tristol’s spell illuminated the source of the smell.

	The tower was hollow, with no stairs leading up or down, though high above, near the top of the tower’s interior, a stable platform seemed to hover in place. From that platform, something shed a pale silvery light down to illuminate the raw, pitted and petrified godflesh of Maanzecorian, a half dozen mangled githyanki corpses, and the walls…

	Nearly every inch of the interior of the tower was covered in blood and spattered gore. The walls of the tower were literally painted in a mixture of what appeared to be the blood of the defiled, mangled githyanki corpses and ink, all of it scrawled into bizarre patterns across the exposed walls. Bloody Rakshasa footprints traced across the floor in trails between the bodies, body parts, and the walls, as if the githyanki had been kept alive and made to witness before more ‘ink’ was required, thus precipitating their slaughter, one by one.

	Nisha made to throw up, Tristol whispered a prayer to Mystra, and even Toras paled as they took in the full scope of it all, what was there, shielding the corpse of Maanzecorian from all prying eyes.

	The carnage wasn’t random, not in the least. The wash of blood that coated the walls in a sticky, rotting patina on a metal canvas was actually formed of individual letters. Infernal, Abyssal, and even some Draconic runes, they raced in mad, swirling patterns across the walls. Collections of the smallest runes, themselves minuscule, in turn formed larger glyphs, and those formed words. A bizarre litany of poetry, its component letters forming a massive collection of disturbingly intricate wardings of frightening potency, it danced and cavorted across the walls, written in blood and gore from the castaway bodies of the githyanki.

	A spattering of bile might form the letters to a series of spells, the sentences curled and twisted with a length of viscera, blood and bits of liver, to form the portion of a larger letter in a higher order object, it then forming the start of a word in a mocking, repetitious poem. There were at least 4 separate orders of spells, poetry, and abstract patterns that decorated the walls in mad progression. The dead Githyanki were tossed like refuse on the floor, discarded bottles of ink or paint, garbage left in the wake of an artist; but their hollow eyes, those who still had eyes, were all positioned to look up upon what their deaths had created.

_
In the face of the Tsunami I spit with my last dying breath and curse the divine.
Forsaken, I spill my lifeblood to spill yours, oh Maanzecorian.
I dance upon your grave, and sh*t upon your tomb.
Belief can be shattered, and so can you.
Your body our bread, your ichor our wine, suffer death to not come unto you, for such is our kingdom, Oh Maanzecorian.
I laugh at your fall oh Maanzecorian, brought low by the dead to join them.
By your death another ascended, but indignity does not end there oh keeper of dark and hidden things.
Stripped of your riches and plundered of your essence, I laugh and I dance.
I sing and I shudder.
Bare wide the gates of your hell, for you are not alone in your fall, Oh Maanzecorian.
_


***​


----------



## Clueless

And now begins the joke: "Bad poetry."


----------



## Krafus

Damn, the last part is pretty disgusting... I wonder what the poem or whatever it was means? Guess we'll find out sooner or later.


----------



## Clueless

Disguisting?... We're not done yet. It gets worse as you realize just what was done there... I think Shemmie has managed to squick players not used to his style at a gameday once. The party started to get really... flippant and sassy over a few years in response to this sort of stuff, out of self defense. If you've not read the Baern story of the Blind Clockmaker yet...


----------



## Gerzel

Jeeze have we finally gotten to the first of these things?  

Dang it haven't those loth's heard of using INK?!


----------



## shilsen

Gerzel said:
			
		

> Jeeze have we finally gotten to the first of these things?
> 
> Dang it haven't those loth's heard of using INK?!



 Nah! Ink's no good when you need to take a quick drink break while writing


----------



## Zuoken

Clueless said:
			
		

> Disguisting?... We're not done yet. It gets worse as you realize just what was done there... I think Shemmie has managed to squick players not used to his style at a gameday once. The party started to get really... flippant and sassy over a few years in response to this sort of stuff, out of self defense. If you've not read the Baern story of the Blind Clockmaker yet...




Just as a warning to anyone who hasn't read it yet, it does contain some spoilers for the storyhour and it is one of the more graphic pieces of fiction that I've read.

Brilliant, but evil dosen't even begin to describe the Clockmaker; I really don't think that Shemmy was lying when he said that it brought some of the party to the verge of tears.


----------



## Shemeska

Zuoken said:
			
		

> Just as a warning to anyone who hasn't read it yet, it does contain some spoilers for the storyhour and it is one of the more graphic pieces of fiction that I've read.
> 
> Brilliant, but evil dosen't even begin to describe the Clockmaker; I really don't think that Shemmy was lying when he said that it brought some of the party to the verge of tears.




I don't pull punches when describing things. 

I don't go out of my way for disturbing descriptions simply for their own sake, but when it's appropriate to hammer a point, I will. It's not a pervasive thing, but there are instances where it simply gets intense. But don't worry, there's no slippage into 'BoVD type gross and icky being used as a substitute for evil'.

I've got the fingerpainting of the tower interior scene also written up from the perspective of the githyanki victims, but it isn't likely to become part of the storyhour outside of other reasons, simply because it takes a giths' silver sword to the Eric's Gramma rule more than I'm willing to chop.


----------



## Clueless

Send that to me at email plz? I'm sorta curious.


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## Gerzel

Hey Shemmykins!

I need you to put up the entries for the Baerns for my loth list on www.planewalker.com.


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## Darmanicus

Clueless said:
			
		

> Send that to me at email plz? I'm sorta curious.




Me too please, I'm a big fan of gory, horror type stuff!


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## Shemeska

Darmanicus said:
			
		

> Me too please, I'm a big fan of gory, horror type stuff!




Too many spoilers 

I might be persuaded to send it after the SH has passed the relevant points, but it won't be for a while yet.


----------



## Clueless

... *chuckle*


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## primemover003

Tears...  how bad could it be?  Whenever the SH permits without giving too much away I wanna see this story.  I'm up for some good gore.


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## Clueless

It's not the gore. It's... *very* not the gore.

http://www.planewalker.com/forums/viewTopic.php?intTopicID=353


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## Shemeska

primemover003 said:
			
		

> Tears...  how bad could it be?




God forbid... Keep in mind I'm in a good mood when I write this stuff. I can step back and go 'no this is messed up' if it comes to that. You likely do not want to see me channeling any sort of crushing depression IRL into my writing   

BTW, for anyone reading the SH, if the gore in the tower recently was actually over the top for you, or of questionable taste, please tell me now so I'll know in the future (as it may apply) to potentially put a warning if anything more explicite comes up. I know I have stuff that falls afoul of the Eric Grandma rule eventually just on the sex, but does blood and violence fall afoul of the rule as well? Because some of the NPCs are *not nice people*. And heck, one of the PCs has his moments as well *eyes Clueless*.


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## Clueless

*blink* *innocent look* Noooo - I didn't traumatize *any* other players or PC's.... well. Not till they found *out* at least.


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## Dakkareth

Clueless said:
			
		

> It's not the gore. It's... *very* not the gore.
> 
> http://www.planewalker.com/forums/viewTopic.php?intTopicID=353





This portal isn't working, it dumps me in the Astral  . Details follow by runner ...

Edit: On a second thought ... I can't even get out of the Astral - not even to Sigil. A bad time for a Planewalker, commercial or not, it seems  :\ .


----------



## Clueless

Runner message recieved - try again.


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## Dakkareth

Portal works . But I won't go THERE again, not now ... maybe some other time  .


----------



## Shemeska

*The last section might offend those of delicate sensibilities, don't say I didnt warn*

***​


They stood there stupefied at the sight of it all, mouths open, eyes wide, just gawking at it even as their eyes watered from the acrid, coppery ammonia tang of blood and festering flesh.

	Nisha swallowed hard as she stepped further into the room, the others followed behind her as they took in the full magnitude of the gory details that sprawled across the walls.

	“Where the hell did this all come from?” Toras asked.

	Clueless pointed to the ravaged githyanki corpses.

	“No.” Toras said. “You think the Rakshasa up there did all of this? A tea sipping perfectionist who might have you flogged for not using a coaster under your drinks at dinner. This is messed up, like he’d gone insane.”

	“Tanar’ri interior decorators…” Nisha said, wincing at the burning, cloying stench.

	“No, I see where you’re going. It doesn’t entirely make sense, not from what we saw of him before.” Clueless said.

	“Whoever did this was pissed at someone or completely f*cking insane.” Florian said. “But I think we’re safe to assume that a Rakshasa did in fact do this…”

	The cleric pointed to the bloody footprints that tracked across the rocky godflesh of Maanzecorian, and to the paw prints on the walls. There was no mistaking the shape; they were distinctive enough to be certain. But it raised the specter of not one, but two Rakshasas.

	“Take a look at this.” Fyrehowl said as she looked down at something on the floor.

	Two things actually: a gleaming silvery sword that was impaled several inches into the floor, and the severed head of the githyanki who had once wielded it.

	“That’s her.” Clueless said as he looked at the head, the silver sword, and the ravaged body.

	“Who?” Skalliska asked.

	“The githyanki knight who had been traveling on that derelict ship we came across.” The bladesinger replied. “She fits the description the captain of the ship wrote in his journal.”

	“Beheaded with her own sword…” Fyrehowl said, wincing.

	“There’s the irony. But she did find what she came looking for.” Toras said with a frown. “A hell of a way to go however. Gods above what that must have been like…”

	“And then there’s whatever is above us.” Fyrehowl pointed up where something glowed with a faint silvery-blue light on a floating platform nearly two stories up.

	Clueless looked down at the Knight’s sword, impaled in the floor. It was beautiful.

	“Hmm…” The bladesinger said as he looked at it, then curled his fingers around his own sword, the only one he had used in perhaps decades, maybe longer.

	The githyanki blade was one of the liquid metal blades of the githyanki, one of the so-called silver swords. The githyanki considered them to be holy artifacts, and the secrets of their manufacture were jealously guarded by the gith who crafted them; some were even said to be created by the Lich Queen herself.

	Clueless touched the other sword briefly, considering taking it even more briefly. Glittering jewels floated within the flowing matrix of the silver sword’s hilt, and the letters of a githyanki hymn ran along the center of the blade, true artistry in contrast to the bloody horror that spattered the walls.

	Finally though, he moved away from the dead knight’s sword and shook his head. He was more than happy with his own blade, and more importantly, he was comfortable with it.

	The bladesinger turned away from the sword impaled in the ground and joined the others in looking up towards the platform above them.

	“So then, shall we check it out?” He asked.

	“Sounds like a plan to me.” Fyrehowl said as she covered her nose with the sleeve of her robes. The smell was seriously making the lupinal wince, even more so than any of the others, and she was eager to hopefully escape from the range of the gagging odor.

	As so as they turned to ascend towards the platform, where all of the bloody poetry seemed to spiral up towards and converge, Florian had a nagging thought stick in her mind. What if the githyanki corpses were undead, or might animate if the tower’s wards were interrupted? What if the Rakshasa-come-bloody calligraphist had used their victims as something more than simply inkwells?

	“You alright Florian?” Toras asked, noticing the pause on the cleric’s face as she glanced over her shoulder at the bodies.

	Florian waved away the fighter’s concern.

	“Yeah, just a dumb thought I had in my head.” She said. “Nothing to worry about.”

	The moment they began to break free from the gravity well, half a dozen eyes opened…


***​

	Silently, with a minor mental struggle against the gravity of Maanzecorian’s corpse below them, they ascended up to the floating platform. It was spartan, but while the platform itself was simple, the bloody writing upon the walls proceeded the entire distance up from the floor and onto the vaulted ceiling of the tower. There, directly above them, pointing to a pedestal in the center of the platform, the ceiling inverted into a sharply descending spike. The bloody script wrapped around the spike like a dagger pointing at a victim. And indeed, in a manner of speaking, a power’s corpse did indeed lie below.

	Atop the platform and below the spike in the ceiling was a simple metal pedestal, though its smooth shaft was painted reddish brown in elaborate, ascending patterns writ in blood. Hovering an inch off the pedestal itself was a plain iron bowl filled to the brim with a shimmering silvery liquid, glowing with the pale wan light they had seen from below. Tristol looked at it curiously. His reflection played across its surface, polished like a mirror. It was liquid metal, almost like mercury in a way, and similar perhaps to the liquid metal used by the githyanki for their Knights’ swords.

	In fact that’s exactly what it was, the enchanted silvery metal known to the Githyanki artificers as ‘godsblood’. The githyanki extracted the liquid from the bodies of certain dead gods by a technique considered sacred and holy to their race, and never shared with outsiders.

	But then the surface shifted and changed, for a moment clouding over like drops of blood had fallen into water to dilute and disperse, clouding the previous purity of the surface. In that moment the bloody painted lines on the pedestal, bowl and interior of the tower itself all seemed to converge on the bowl and its liquid interior, completing the unholy dweomer like an artist’s signature upon a masterpiece with a mental impression of the disjointed, collective screams of the dead githyanki below. In the space of a second they witnessed the githyanki being slaughtered through the eyes of their killer.

	Tristol stepped back, white as a sheet.

And then, without a sound, it was gone and the bowl’s interior was but glistening metal once again.

They heard them first; the snap of bones locking back into dislocated sockets, the wet slump of organs shifting in chest cavities open to the air, the intake of breath into slashed or torn throats, the clatter of broken armor as it moved, and from one of them a snarl as it retrieved its severed head and ripped its sword free from its godflesh scabbard.

	“Oh sh*t…” Florian said as she whispered a prayer to detect the presence of undead.

	The cleric’s eyes went wide.

	They all turned and looked over the edge of the platform, but it was the worst thing they could have done. Below them, looking up, the beheaded corpse of the knight pointed its glistening, silvery sword as its eye sockets erupted in a greenish flame. The other six corpses were on their feet as well, and they each stared upwards, eyes burning with an utter hatred of the living. Six puissant gazes each polluted by a death at the hands of an evil great enough to linger on past the original unholy act, they stared upwards…

	Florian clutched at her chest and toppled over the edge of the platform. Skalliska crumpled and dropped to the edge, lifeless.

	The others looked into the eyes of the githyanki bodaks and felt something reach out from the eyes, wrenching into their chests, seeking their souls to snuff them out like candles. 

	“Gaaaah!” Toras shouted as pain flooded through his body for a moment before receding.

	The same cries of pain came from the others, but also when the shouts were finished, they were all still breathing, all still alive.

	They stood there in shock at the sight of Skalliska laying still and cold at the platform’s edge, and Florian’s body some forty feet below, sprawled on the ground with her neck twisted at a freakish angle.

	Tristol went first, turning his gaze from the bodaks and hurling a tiny, sparkling bead down towards them, narrowly avoiding Florian’s body at the same time. The ball of fire erupted amongst the undead and caused them to snarl and shriek with inhuman voices.

	“Don’t look at them. Avert your eyes and they can’t affect you.” Toras shouted.

	Below, the solitary death knight cackled and pointed its sword at the fighter even as Clueless repeated Tristol’s previous spell and Fyrehowl loosed a frigid cone of ice upon the pack of shambling bodaks. Their aim might have been poor, their nerves shot from the shock of watching their friends die only moment’s before, but it was sufficient to leave all but one of the bodaks burnt or frozen, dead once more, upon the floor of the tower.

	The death knight was untouched. The spells had either failed to affect it, or never touched it, the magic simply being absorbed like water to a sponge. And the unliving blasphemy was laughing at them as it returned their efforts full force.

	Toras was hit first, and then Fyrehowl and Nisha as well. Erupting from the glistening, flowing metallic tip of its silver sword, a roaring column of black fire lanced up towards the platform where they stood. They dove for cover as best they could, and Clueless and Toras both jumped over the edge to fight the creature in close combat.

	The remaining bodak was simply standing there, looking down at the crumpled githyanki bodies around it, then at the bloody walls. It screamed and clutched its head, then it ran its fingers across the mass of unbleeding wounds that had caused its death originally. It was remembering what happened to it and how it died. It was reliving the death of its fellows and then finally its merciful own. 

	Taking the initiative while the last bodak was stunned, not wanting it capable of using its gaze against her companions once more, Fyrehowl flung her sword at its head in a single fluid movement. There was a sickening crunch, a sound of bone and flesh crumpling as it fell to the floor, and then the clatter of metal on stone as her sword hit the stone a moment later.

	Lacking anything that could cross the distance, and being rather ill equipped to fight the undead, Nisha simply stepped back and cringed. That of course lasted all of a few seconds before she hopped on top of Skalliska’s body and began to yell at her corpse about how she was ‘never going to go on any of her bloody adventures anymore. They were too dangerous. And too gross. And they smelled. And they had undead! She was going to stick to less dangerous pastimes… like tickling Slaadi or drinking in Tanar’ri bars!’

	Meanwhile, on the surface, Toras and Clueless were both fending off the blows of the undead githyanki knight. While they would have been a formidable foe in life, in death they were as much an unholy terror as possibly the creature than had fashioned them as a watchdog for all intents and purposed. The death knight’s style of fighting was bizarre, and its sword was never the same shape from moment to moment, slash to slash, and stab to stab. They could only guess as to where exactly to block, or parry.

	Still though, they had the odds in their favor, and eventually sent the pitiable creature back into death’s embrace more surely perhaps than the corpse of the god whom they fought upon.

	Clueless put his foot against the death knight’s chest and freed his sword from where it had become lodged in the undead’s spine in his final, killing blow.

	“Told you that you were better than any damn silver sword.” He said to his own sword like an old, cherished friend before impaling the knight’s sword back into the ground.

	“Florian can raise them.” Nisha said as she descended down with Skalliska’s body held by the tail. 

	Toras looked at her like she had a hole in head.

	Nisha dropped the kobold and looked at the cleric’s corpse.

“Wait…” She said, her tail drooping. “Sh*t…”

	“Yeah…” Fyrehowl said as she too descended down. “Our only cleric is dead.”

	“And we have bigger problems than that however.” Toras said. “Bodaks.”

	“Which we killed.” Clueless replied.

	Fyrehowl winced as she realized what Toras was implying.

	“Oh hells…” Clueless said.

	“Yeah.” Toras added. “We’ve got just under twenty four hours to get them raised from the dead or consecrated, or else they’ll be raised for us, and not exactly in the way we want.”

	“Well what about all of this up here?!” Tristol shouted from above.

	Nisha danced about nervously. 

“Do what I’d do!” She shouted up to the aasimar.

	“How the hell should I know what you’d do?!” Tristol shouted back down. “Since when are you predictable? I don’t know what you’d do.”

	“Neither do I!” Nisha replied. Then in a softer voice, “That’s disturbing, ‘aint it?”

	Tristol didn’t reply as he glanced down at the magic flowing through the pedestal. The sheer complexity of the wardings on the tower that extended out for nearly two miles, it boggled his mind, and the raw power floating through it was like almost nothing he had ever seen. He didn’t have a clue where to begin in unwinding the dweomers and dispelling the wards, and that assumed that he was powerful enough to accomplish that to begin with.

	He glanced down over the edge to where the others had gathered Skalliska and Florian’s bodies, removed anything sharp, and dumped them both in a bag of holding. Tristol fidgeted nervously, much more so than perhaps he should have. The feel of the spells focused a few inches away were almost intoxicating, and the feeling was at once both distracting and enthralling. He simply couldn’t concentrate on what he needed to do.

	“To hell with this.” He said, opting instead for whatever it was that Nisha might do.

	Tristol kicked the pedestal as hard as he could, a spur of the moment action that seemed appropriate at the time. Not that he was really thinking, and in that Fyrehowl might have approved, but it wasn’t as if he’d had any great perception on what was appropriate or not, he just did it randomly for lack of any better idea.

	The bowl of liquid metal rattled and tipped over the side of the pedestal, wildly careening to one side and spilling its contents over the spirals of bloody tracings, poetry and designs that it had previously been channeling and amplifying. As simply as that, the godisle’s warding was broken irrevocably.

	A tremor raced through the tower and the bloody script scrawled upon its walls began to smoke and sizzle. Sudden, terrified screams could be heard dimly through the entryway.

	“The Dreadnaught…” Fyrehowl said bluntly.

	They looked at one another and bolted from the building.

	The surface was a scene of absolute pandemonium. The githyanki were in full flight, abandoning their goblinoid slaves and scattering about in confusion. Some of them were simply vanishing in the glow of planeshifting magic if they were capable of it, and others stayed still in shock and terror, but most of them were making for the two buildings tethered in orbit, and the astral carracks docked along their connecting bridgework.

	That was the worst thing that they could have done.

	The silvery, timeless solitude of the Astral was broken in that moment as an ear-shattering roar washed over the surface of the godisle, jarring and terrible to behold. The Astral Dreadnaught bore witness to what had hitherto eluded its sight, flaunting and mocking its charge, and the beast was enraged beyond all reason.

	Its silver chord spiraling back into the infinite depths of the Astral behind it, they watched as the Dreadnaught, servant of the Guardian of Dead Gods, crossed those two miles with frightening velocity, hurtling like a falling star towards the buildings in orbit, and the astral carracks that were just then hurling away the tethers to their moorings. It was too late for them.

	The Dreadnaught slammed into the first of the buildings, ripping it fully in half with a single swipe of one massive arm. The rubble hurtled off into the silvery depths, and the beast opened its slavering maw as if to roar once more; that it did.

	There was no sound. That was the first thing that they all noticed. But something else, something that erupted from the Dreadnaught’s mouth a moment later, they saw rather than heard. A rippling wave expanded from the Dreadnaught, currents of force slamming into the githyanki ships, rocking them forwards, sending one of them crashing into the second building were it erupted in flames as its magazine or magical engines detonated. The flames billowed over the Rakshasa’s tower in dribbling spheres as the lack of gravity caused them the ripple and wash like a liquid through the entirety of the structure. 

The flames gutted the tower in those few moments before the wave of force from the Dreadnaught crossed the space between and blasted it into a cloud of broken stone after shredding the githyanki ships one by one in agonizing sequence. Twisted deck plates, broken timbers, and shattered stone hurtled off at random, mad trajectories through the void while a fine red mist drifted up like bloody froth from the largest remaining portions of the gutted ships as they spun off out of sight.

	There could have been no survivors; the destruction was almost absolute. And oddly, the Dreadnaught never once looked down at the mortals who had broken the wards keeping it at bay. By luck or intent, its terrible, magic nullifying gaze passed them over and its fury never gave them worry. Not so for the few remaining githyanki or the hapless petitioners upon the surface though. In the next, scant few minutes, the Dreadnaught crushed them in its claws or simply devoured them whole, picking them out of the air or scooping them up from the surface as it passed back and forth over the godisle.

	Perhaps ten minutes later and it was gone, back off into the void with only the dead and its mortal accomplices left upon the surface. In astonishment they looked up after it for some time, gazing speechlessly at the carnage orbiting within the gravity well of the godisle, a cloud of blood and ruin.

	“…” Nisha opened her mouth but nothing came out. Whatever she had planned to say, it simply stuck in her throat, the statement stillborn.

	“Holy f*ck!” Clueless said after some uncertain time in which they’d just stared without a word said.

	There was little else to be said, truth be told. And while they still had the remainder of Skalliska’s original journey to complete, the kobold was dead, and so was their cleric. They had twenty-four hours to return to Sigil, or anywhere that they might be able to raise them both before they rose on their own accord as bodaks. Neither Levistus nor any other powerful patron owed them any favors; this would be entirely their own problem to fix, and time was passing…

	With only a cursory check on Skalliska’s planar sextant, hoping to find an appropriate portal or color pool, they shot off into the silvery void without another word, praying that they wouldn’t run out of time.


***​

	The room was awash in blood. The githyanki watched on as it happened, though truth be told, they were sickened by it, and they watched only out of fear of their Rakshasa mistress and her brother who lay immobilized and under her knife, gutted open but somehow alive, conscious, and utterly silent through it all. He had not said a word as she slowly tore him apart, inch-by-inch; not a single scream, not even a whimper. Nothing.

	She stared into Siddhartha’s eyes, glowing and quivering against the pain. She smiled and twisted the knife more. Eventually he would break and he would scream, admitting to his failure and his inferiority in station compared to her. She flicked the tip of the blade against the 10th cranial nerve, applying just the right amount of pressure to make it fire. The magically immobilized Rakshasa’s gut twitched and jerked, his bowels voiding themselves uncontrollably upon the floor.

	“And that is what you are to me now.” She said. “Sh*t. Filth. Waste.”

	He looked up at her, somehow remaining conscious through it all, but he did not reply. She would have her enjoyment and then it would be over. He was too useful to her to be killed. Like any feline predator, he would be toyed with before she killed him, and there was still far too much time, far too much to accomplish, for her to care enough to dispose of him. He simply had to wait and endure. He had no say, he had no choice in the matter, and his failure had simply given her the opportunity to indulge herself.

	She snarled and twitched the tip of her tail impatiently. Her hand held the knife in place but her mind reached out to caress the 9th cranial nerve, touching it, manipulating its pattern of information that his brain would interpret as coming from his tongue.

	“As I said.” She whispered lovingly. “That is what you are to me now.”

	He gagged at the taste that flooded his mouth. He said nothing in reply as her snarling, feral maw came closer and her mind touched his.

_I must commend you on your show of endurance. After all, you couldn’t appear weak to the githyanki that will serve you once more after this is said and done. But we have days before I set you loose to make amends for your failure. Till then however, and shortly from now, all pretense is dropped, I dismiss our servants, and I begin to take this personally you do realize…_

	Softly, Siddhartha began to whimper.


***​


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## Darmanicus

Note to self........never EVER piss off a dreadnought!   

Nice update Shem. 

What level are the group to fall under the gazes of some wussy Bodak's? You just can't get the staff these days!   

Also, Clueless, what is that blade you wield? Must be something special to not want to take that silver sword?


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## Dakkareth

When in doubt, kick it . And nothing like having your enemy beat itself. Disturb some warding circle, provide information to the right persons, destroy the only thing keeping an astral dreadnought away from them ...  


Edit: Baatorian Greensteel and his only reminder from before his amnesia, that's what I remember. Also you don't *keep* silver swords without making a lot of enemies and Clueless sure has enough of those ...


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## Shemeska

Darmanicus said:
			
		

> Note to self........never EVER piss off a dreadnought!
> 
> Nice update Shem.
> 
> What level are the group to fall under the gazes of some wussy Bodak's? You just can't get the staff these days!
> 
> Also, Clueless, what is that blade you wield? Must be something special to not want to take that silver sword?




They were level 13 at the time IIRC. And as I recall, Florian's player rolled a 1, and Skalliska's player rolled a 3 on that particular save. I didn't intend for it to be that bad, but granted there were 6 fort saves to make from that since they pretty much said, 'Undead? Naaaah, that's paranoid. And prompty got bushwacked by them shortly thereafter.

Clueless had a sword that was getting rather weak by that point, but as a bladesinger he can't just pick up a new weapon without taking a year or so IIRC to acclimate himself to it before he can use any of his bladesinger abilities with it.

And yeah, the fact that the githyanki will hunt you down mercilessly if you have it. And yeah, it was indeed a +5 vorpal one. And I put it out there wondering if anyone would bite. And they didn't. I was proud of 'em 

Edit: and yeah, that greensteel sword will be getting better fairly soon. Nearly killed himself in the process too.


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## Clueless

Darmanicus said:
			
		

> Also, Clueless, what is that blade you wield? Must be something special to not want to take that silver sword?




Razor, is a green Ba'atorian steel longsword, fairly slender profile, with an iron pixie curled around the pommel as a counterweight. He starts as a simple, ghost touch +2 blade - and I think that's what he is at this point in the story. 

As a bladesinger, Clueless has probably an equal respect for his blade as the knight did for hers. Switching blades 'just because this ones cooler' would have been an insult to both blades and his training as a bladesinger. He left the silver sword as a testiment to its owner. 

In either case, Razor *does* make improvements later on as you'll see. By the end of the campaign, Razor is an artifact. (Fey + Heavy Magic = Much Risk Taking and DM Fun)



			
				The Fuzzy One said:
			
		

> Clueless had a sword that was getting rather weak by that point, but as a bladesinger he can't just pick up a new weapon without taking a year or so IIRC to acclimate himself to it before he can use any of his bladesinger abilities with it.



Actually no - there was nothing but a pure RP thought involved in this. Some of the bladesinger only spells I created would have fallen under this requirement, but the general abilities of the class wouldn't have. The primary reason it was left behind is as noted above.


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## demiurge1138

Wow... just wow.

Excellent update, Shemmie. It went from bad... to worse... to even worse. And that's the best use for bodak's I've seen. Also, the female rakshasa seems to have learned a few torture tips from the vaathi.

Demiurge out.


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## primemover003

Shemeska said:
			
		

> God forbid... Keep in mind I'm in a good mood when I write this stuff. I can step back and go 'no this is messed up' if it comes to that. You likely do not want to see me channeling any sort of crushing depression IRL into my writing



Crushing Despair???  No, I'm no Sinker or Madman, just a humble Seeker...   Rage would be my response.  I'd be too like Toras' player!

I saw that end coming though.  Of course the Baern weren't doing for altruistic purposes...  I thought it might have been something a wee bit different, like being a lodestone of misery stretched across the multiverse...  it is "rooted" in the plane of ultimate evil (though devotees of the domain of dread may disagree).

Bravo...  give them a moral quandry that interferes with the timeline of their original goals.  Would hate to want to play an Exalted character in your campaign!


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## Eco-Mono

primemover003 said:
			
		

> I saw that end coming though.  Of course the Baern weren't doing for altruistic purposes...  I thought it might have been something a wee bit different, like being a lodestone of misery stretched across the multiverse...  it is "rooted" in the plane of ultimate evil (though devotees of the domain of dread may disagree).



See, that's always where they getcha! If you notice the 'loth going on and on about the suspicious part, you gotta look at the part they're NOT mentioning... vague favors that allow for maximum immorality are their stock in trade!


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## Clueless

Hey wow - this SH is mentioned on the front page! Cool!


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## Toras

primemover003 said:
			
		

> Crushing Despair???  No, I'm no Sinker or Madman, just a humble Seeker...   Rage would be my response.  I'd be too like Toras' player!
> ..
> Bravo...  give them a moral quandry that interferes with the timeline of their original goals.  Would hate to want to play an Exalted character in your campaign!




Yep, violence tends to be my balwick in that case.  (Stomp it until it stops fighting back)  But you really haven't seen Toras 'angry'.  (For a clue, he has been going up in a custom Defender of Children/Avenger class).

As for the Book of Exalted Deeds, I only managed to use one thing from that book (the good align poisons).  Rest of it is a bit too good to exist in shemmy's world (except as maybe a paladin).


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## Shemeska

Toras said:
			
		

> As for the Book of Exalted Deeds, I only managed to use one thing from that book (the good align poisons).  Rest of it is a bit too good to exist in shemmy's world (except as maybe a paladin).




I was seemingly asleep when I ok'd 'ravages' and I wasn't willing to retcon the usage, so they stayed.

But regarding stuff from the BoED, I'm not convinced of the actual level of 'good' in the BoED. A lot of it seems to me to just be 'yes this is evil, but it's not actually evil, because we're using it against evil people so that makes it alright'.

Honestly a paladin played by the book would likely lose their powers at some point during the campaign. Put it this way, there's a full blooded Guardinal as a PC, and watch how she reacts to what is tossed at her.


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## Shemeska

Btw, while according to my unwritten schedule of such things both storyhours would be updated this week, it's not going to happen barring me taking crystal meth to be up to it. I'm moving apartments this week, and I've been doing all the moving myself, so suffice to say I've been either too busy or two tired to write any this week.

Both will be updated next week.

Edit: I'm joking about taking meth


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## Bryon_Soulweaver

Shemeska said:
			
		

> me taking crystal meth



Tell me thats a joke.


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## Shemeska

Bryon_Soulweaver said:
			
		

> Tell me thats a joke.




Very, very much a joke.


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## primemover003

Shemeska said:
			
		

> I was seemingly asleep when I ok'd 'ravages' and I wasn't willing to retcon the usage, so they stayed.
> 
> But regarding stuff from the BoED, I'm not convinced of the actual level of 'good' in the BoED. A lot of it seems to me to just be 'yes this is evil, but it's not actually evil, because we're using it against evil people so that makes it alright'.
> 
> Honestly a paladin played by the book would likely lose their powers at some point during the campaign. Put it this way, there's a full blooded Guardinal as a PC, and watch how she reacts to what is tossed at her.



No even from what you've thrown out I'd say a Paladin could make it through your campaign...  You'd have to make the adjustments though, not the player.  The campaign, no matter how dark would have to allow for such a paragon of goodness to exist...  The Upper Planes haven't fallen yet (barring Belerian and Nemausus!).  

However I do understand where your campaign is coming from...  mine is the exact opposite I think.  I try to push my players to become champions of good, though a few are determined to remain Mercenaries till the bitter end!  One in particluar, the tiefling wizard has told me, "I'm sick of rescuing towns or saving the world.  Give me a nice dungeon to plunder!"

I also have to defend the BoED.  I think it's perhaps the best book done on what being a Champion or a Hero really means.  Sure some of the Mechanics are wonky, but the philosophy in the first chapter is dead on.


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## Clueless

Mmmm - it's less that Paladin's don't exist. It's more that the game - got *that* dark. Dark enough for the best to eventually break (and be reborn hopefully). Every character who played through from beginning to end developed into a dynamic character - some changes were more subtle than others.


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## primemover003

Are you saying Paladins can't be Dynamic? ;p


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## Clueless

nopes - but the chances of that dynamic being dark... very high.


----------



## Toras

Ironically Toras, being the chaotic bastard that he is became more light as the game went on.  But that's him being contary (won't let the creepy get to me)


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## Shemeska

They arrived in Tradegate with barely an hour to spare before the bodaks’ gazes would have wrenched their dead companions back to a blasphemous unlife. Initially, the cleric they approached, an elderly priestess of Garl Glittergold had been reluctant to aid them, given that they were not worshippers of her patron. Mention of how long it had been since their friends had died, and just what had killed them, and that the two bodies lay sprawled in a pile on the cleric’s doorstep was sufficient motivation however for her to change her mind, and change her mind quickly.

	The cleric had probably not moved that quickly in the past half a century, but with her ample motivation at hand and soon to rise up uncalled for, she shuffled her arthritic bones like a woman half her age. The ground was hallowed and the bodies blessed before they were both pulled back from the beyond.

	Despite the priestesses original reluctance, she was well paid for her aid, and after that they took an evenings rest in an inn that Clueless recommended, and in which he somehow managed to get them all put up for next to nothing after a brief chat with the innkeeper. Clueless seemed pleased with himself and spent most of the evening talking with the man and a couple of his friends while the others called it an early evening and slept.

	The next morning they departed back to Sigil and went about taking care of their own typical activities in the City of Doors, and seeing to anything that might have popped up during their time on the Astral. And indeed, a number of things had, or soon would.


***​

	“Why does no good mail arrive when we’re gone doing something outside of Sigil?” Toras asked as he sorted through a pile of letters that had collected in their recent absence.

	“Eh?” Florian asked as she looked up from a mug of ale.

	“Yeah, I mean that when we’re not here we just get junk mail and bad news.”

	“And employment offers.” Nisha chipped in as she tapped against the glass of the bell jar that she’d stuck over top of the Factol Hashkar and Factol Karan dolls.

	“True,” Florian said. “At some point we should really sit down and take a look at those two that we got a while back.”

	“At the least give the sender a yes or a no.” Toras replied. “Some response to let them know that we’re not just ignoring them.”

	“While we’ve been ignoring them of course.” Nisha said with a grin.

	“Son of a…” Toras said.

	The letter he held up was dripping some sort of musty grease. The crudely lettered envelope was labeled “Free Sample!”.

	“Weren’t you going to stuff him in his own hat?” Nisha asked.

	“…” Toras didn’t respond.

	Florian snickered as Nisha began to softly sing ‘Toras is afraid of the mephit’.

	“The hell I am! He’s just annoying and we already told him to remove us from his advertising list. One more time like this,” Toras held up the envelope with some matter of putrefied animal carcass stuffed haphazardly into it. “One more time and I’m going to go over there and kick his ass.”

	“And stuff him into his hat.” Nisha added.

	“That too.” Toras said as he tossed the envelope through the fire portal.

	“Retribution.” Nisha said.

	“Huh?” Florian asked.

	“Mephit retribution.” The tiefer replied. “Seamus is just being Seamus because you keep tossing junk into the elemental plane of fire. You ever wonder if maybe you hit a fire mephit on the head or something at some point and maybe some weird form of mephit solidarity exists and Seamus is just being a pain in the tail because of something you did in the first place?”

	Toras looked at her like she had a hole in her head.

	“Do you actually believe that?” He asked.

	“Not in the least, but I said it anyway.” She said with a grin. “So what else is there in the mailbox today?”

	“A couple advertisements, nothing much to say about them, and…” Toras paused and held up a think letter. “And a letter from Harnack and Associates, Public Advocates, on behalf of… what the hell?”

	The letter was emblazoned with an advocates seal and the seal of the prominent Lady’s Ward inn and tavern known as The Twelve Factols.

	Florian asked for the letter politely.

	“This cannot be good.” She said with a firm tone to her voice.

	And indeed it wasn’t.

_ Dear sirs,

	On the advice of legal aides, the owner and proprietor of the first party, The Twelve Factols, the well known and centuries standing Lady’s Ward inn, respectfully demands that the second party, the relatively new Clerk’s Ward drinking hole known as the Portal Jammer, cease and desist using an advertising gimmick that directly infringes upon a similar device used by the first party.

	For several centuries, the first party has gained fame and renown for its association with the carved representations of the 12 factols who met upon the future site of the first party during the waning days of the then faction known as the Expansionists. These twelve carved statues have become inextricably linked with the first party and are both a commonly associated source of advertising and visual symbol of the inn.

	It has come to the attention of the first party that the second party has used a series of factol related figurines in their own establishment in order to garner a portion of the first party’s public name recognition and a source of profit at the expense of the first party. Due to the extreme similarity between the long-standing and pre-existing use of this device by the first party, it is advised that the second party immediately cease and desist in the public display of their own similar advertising tool, and make no further display of them in public.

	If this is not met within a tenday, the first party has been advised to seek legal recourse in the City Courts, including, but not limited to, injunction against use of said device by the second party, sanction by the Innkeeper’s Guild, and financial restitution to the fullest extent allowed by law for those profits gained by fraudulent association with said advertising device of the first party.

-	Harnack and Associates, legal representatives of the 12 Factols_


Nisha turned her head sideways and held the Factol Karan doll protectively.

	“I imagine legal trouble!” The Factol Darius doll proclaimed loudly, one of the Anarchist cell leader dolls having apparently let her out from under her soundproof bell jar.

	“The hell?” Toras said as he stared at Florian and the letter.

	“They’re f*cked in the head.” Florian said angrily. “Uppity Lady’s Ward sons of b*tches.”

	“Oh they can’t be serious.” Toras replied. “It’s an intimidation tactic. We’ve gotten tons of business lately, and even though we’re on the other side of the city, they’ll just throwing a temper tantrum.”

	“Yes, they are.” Florian said. “And I’m going to take care of this before it goes any further.”

	“Don’t do what I’d do!” Nisha warned.

	“What would you do?” Florian asked as she grabbed the letter and made to leave.

	“I don’t honestly know.” The tiefling replied. “But it’d be inventive I figure.”

	“Heh.” The cleric said with a chuckle. “See you all in a few hours. I’ll be getting a lawyer on retainer and then going to the 12 Factols in person.”


***​

	Jurgen Reiersen sat in his office, a small room set off to one side of Deep Hall in the recesses of the 12 Factols. He was sipping a glass of port and reading a copy of the Tempus Sigilian, taking his mind away from anything to do with business. He’d spent the majority of the past day in meetings in the room above Brynn Ohm’s tavern, the Dancing Dragon, going over Innkeepers’ Guild business.

	“At some point the Black Sails, Styx Oarsman, and powers forbid, the Bottle and Jug will simply realize that they’re not considered peers and they won’t get into the guild’s good graces, or hells, the guild itself.”

	He rolled his eyes at the very idea of allowing those establishments, and similar, smaller upstarts in that same class into the fellowship that he himself was a noted member of. It wasn’t going to happen anytime soon, and it worked best to ignore some of them, bully others, speak kindly and do nothing for some in deft game of hollow promises, and just ignore others entirely. Obviously one didn’t bully the Styx Oarsman… the clientele wouldn’t exactly take kindly to it, but others that worked well, sort of like the legal barrage he’d fired off at the Johnnies-Come-Lately in the Clerks Ward, the Portal Jammer or whatever in Hashkar’s name they called themselves.

	“The Wayfarer was much more pleasant than them.” Jurgen muttered. “Why’d it have to change its name, go out of business, and fall into new hands?”

	The answer was obvious though in some ways: the portals that had been its trademark had scrambled or vanished during the Tempest of Doors and thus taken away its claim to fame. The name change to Portal Schmortal hadn’t saved it, but the new owners apparently had a better gimmick.

	He leaned back in his chair and gave a disgruntled sigh. The door crashed open a moment later.

	“Who the hell are you?!” Jurgen sputtered as he jumped up from his chair. “Get out of my o…”

	The smack of parchment against his face shut him up.

	Florian glared at him as he snatched the letter off of his face and looked at, then back up at her, finally recognizing who she was.

	“You’ve heard from my advocates,” He said, puffing up his chest. “I think that’s all that I need to say. You?”

	Florian clasped her hands in front of herself before tossing the remainder of the pages of the letter in Jurgen’s face.

	“You have no case! F*ck off!”

	The owner of the 12 Factols sneered as she left and slammed the door to his office shut. His desk rattled and his wineglass tipped over, drawing let more ire to his face. Fine, shun his polite bullying; he’d be impolite the next time. He was important, he was rich, and he was well connected within the Innkeepers Guild, something that they very definitely were not, and would never be at this point.

	“Have it your way.” He said with a smirk, an idea already forming in his mind.


***​

	Later on that afternoon, Tristol and Clueless sat in the back room of the inn looking over the various items that they had taken from the Rakshasa Siddhartha. Unfortunately most of the fiend’s possessions that might have shed some light on his intentions and activities on the Astral had all been called back to him in the moments following his escape. Still though, they had a name, and they had a book that seemed to be some manner of log regarding arrivals to Maanzecorian’s godisle.

	“Now this is interesting.” Clueless said, pointing to a passage in the book. “This is written in githyanki, and it looks like the warlock, not the Rakshasa actually penned this all.”

	Tristol glanced over and nodded.

	“Let me know if you find anything in there.” He said. “I’m not having a huge amount of luck on finding anything about that Rakshasa based on his name or his claimed house.”

	The aasimar was surrounded on his side of the table by stacks upon stacks of books on Acheron, Rakshasas in general, and purported histories of the noble houses of their society in Acheron. It had been slow going, and there had been no reference found to Siddhartha, or to any ‘House of the Blackened Paw’, at least no yet.

	“Ok, now this is interesting.” Clueless said as he read the warlock’s book.

	“The warlock made a record of one ‘Lady Brampandra’ arriving at the godisle about a month ago.” Clueless explained. “And the warlock included some comment on that after the fact. And I quote, ‘Lord Siddhartha’s sister arrived today. My request to take part in the warding creation was denied, as was my request to watch. She told me that I wouldn’t understand the process. ‘Mageling’ she called me. That her brother has promised me much, and has always kept to his word, is the only thing keeping me from killing the presumptuous bitch for that insult.’”

	Tristol blinked.

	“By comparison he might have been.” He said. “The magic in the warding over Maanzecorian’s corpse was freakishly powerful, and I don’t fully understand it myself. Whoever she is, she’s more powerful than her brother apparently.”

	“Maybe not as sane either,” Clueless added, “Given how she took apart those githyanki to use them as components of that spell.”

	“I’ve got to agree with you there.” Tristol said. “And actually, I found something here to back up what Siddhartha said about his house.”

	Clueless leaned over to look as Tristol pointed at a symbol of black silhouette tiger’s paw surrounded by a halo of stylized flame.

	“According to this book there _is_ a house by that name, ‘the Blackened Paw’, it is, or rather –was- a minor noble house on Acheron’s first layer of Avalas.” Tristol said as he read from the book.

	“Now it doesn’t mention any names of the family members, mostly because the notes seem to say that it was largely destroyed by a more powerful, rival house, at some point in the past century. Though it does say that it’s believed that at least some lesser members of the house did manage to survive and go into exile.”

	“Leaves it open for our brother and sister pair of fiends to be members of that house.” Clueless said.

	“And it might explain why they’re on the Astral, and not in Acheron.” Tristol added.

	“With a bunch of fellow exiles too, renegade githyanki they were working with.” Clueless said.

	“Still doesn’t give us a full idea of what they were actually doing there with Maanzecorian’s corpse.” Tristol mused. “It might be worth it to go out there again and look around some. Besides, Skalliska still needs to go see what she originally went out to find anyway.”

	“When she’s up for it, I don’t have a problem with it at all.” Clueless said.


***​

	Tristol sat with Fyrehowl, trying to relax and rest his eyes after his earlier book combing with Clueless. The mage was musing over what it all might mean, but his musing was really halfhearted as he sipped from his drink and finally, for once since their time in the Astral, started to settle down into a more calm state of mind.

	“So what’s your opinion about the whole mess with the 12 Factols?” The lupinal asked. “I don’t really think there’s all that much similarity between our dolls and their statues. They’re not all the same factions, and none of them are the same people.”

	Tristol nodded and took a drink, not noticing as Fyrehowl surreptitiously glanced over his shoulder and then immediately glanced back to him as if avoiding staring at something in that direction.

	“Well, Florian can handle that.” The mage said. “From what she’s told me before, back on Toril she, or one of her relatives had some manner of schooling in law. She can handle it.”

	Fyrehowl stood up, still consciously avoiding looking behind Tristol, towards the entrance to the inn.

	“Somewhere to go?” Tristol asked.

	“Yeah…” Fyrehowl said. “I remembered that I had a practice session at the Great Gymnasium in a little while. What with all of the stuff going on today, it nearly slipped my mind. See you later!”

	Fyrehowl turned and walked upstairs, never once looking behind her. Plausible deniability. You don’t have to say hello and feign politeness if you never saw the person in question…

	Tristol had a sense of dread all of a sudden. Cipher abruptly leaving the room without any real plausible reason, not ever good. His tail bottlebrushed when he did slowly turn to look towards the entrance, and sadly he made eye contact.

	The King of the Crosstrade stood in the doorway to the inn.

	Tristol squinted his eyes in a moment of painful anticipation. This couldn’t be good.

	The fiend looked at him, smiled and slinked across the room in his direction. The Marauder was dressed in a sparkling green and teal gown, and bedecked in her typical gaudy array of jewelry that could have been auctioned off to feed the Hive for months. Oddly, for her at least, she seemed in a pleasant mood as she made a beeline towards Tristol, followed behind by her pack of guards and toadies.

	Tristol opened his mouth to say something, either a curse under his breath or a feigned greeting, though he really truly found himself wishing that banishment spells worked within Sigil. The Marauder didn’t give him the chance to speak first as she waltzed up.

	“Fancy meeting you again Starweather.” She purred. 

	“Yes, fancy seeing him again at his own bar.” Clueless muttered under his breath as he watched it all nervously.

“So, Miss Marauder,” Tristol said cautiously. “To what do I owe this visit?”

She smiled back at him, looking a perplexing juxtaposition of a perky socialite and a hungry animal picking out a choice portion of a sun-bloated carcass.

“I simply happened to be in this area of the city” She answered. “And I said to myself that I just  –had- to drop by and speak with you, plus I’ve heard a little bit about your inn. Color me curious.”

	Tristol’s tail was still poofed out from his discomfort.

	“We did so happen to get off on a bad foot last time we saw each other. Didn’t we?” She said, a tinge of apology lingering on her tongue.

	Tristol opened his mouth but she spoke again after a moment’s pause.

	“Yes we did, and I really should apologize for that.” She said to the mage.

	“Drop dead.” Clueless thought to himself. “That’ll serve as an apology.” 

	“But since we did get off to such a poor start, I think I really do need to make a fresh start with you, get to know you, and find some commonalities.”

	“I…” Tristol said haltingly before she once more cut him off.

	“Walk with me.” She said abruptly as she leaned in and hooked an arm around his waist like she was accompanying him to a dance floor as his date.

	Clueless winced and shook his head as a startled and really overwhelmed Tristol stumbled along speechlessly with the King of the Crosstrade out of the more densely populated center of the common room of the inn.

	“I trust that you received my letter of apology.” She said, leaning a bit into Tristol’s shoulder.

	“Yes, we did.” He replied.

	“That’s good, but I figured that it wouldn’t be taken as well as a face to face apology would.” She said. “And so I’m sorry for having involved you in that poorly conceived showing of Zadara and my long-running conflict. It’s been building for a long time and it simply boiled over that evening at Jeremo’s party.”

	She seemed genuine, and Tristol didn’t know what to say.

	“It really seems unfair to have any lingering unpleasantries between you and I, and your fellow owners of the Portal Jammer who were there that night, over a spat that you weren’t and aren’t really involved in.”

	She put a bit of pressure on the arm wrapped around Tristol’s waist, nearly a polite hug if it didn’t seem so very alien to be coming from a yugoloth.

	“Plus, I have been hearing interesting news about your inn.” She continued, leaning her head on Tristol’s shoulder. “Seems that you’ve carved out quite a nice group of regular patrons in this district of the Clerk’s Ward, and you’ve got a unique way of advertising, what with the spelljammer built into the inn, and those dolls of whom I’m doing my best to ignore who happened to make them. It all adds up to a place with promise, and it doesn’t deserve the negative accusations heaped upon you so recently by a jealous berk over in my neck of the woods so to speak.”

	Tristol’s ears perked and he momentarily overlooked that he had a soul-sucking fiend leaning on his shoulder like a succubi to a virgin paladin.

	“You know about that?” He asked with some surprise.

	“My dear mage, I know –everything- in this city.” She crooned before reaching up to tap a few painted claws across his shoulder.

	“I suppose so, but we only found out this morning ourselves.” Tristol said.

	“Reiersen is an idiot and he’s been vocal about this latest fabricated hassle to his fellows in the Innkeeper’s Guild since before he sent you that legal statement.” She explained. “It’s unfair what he’s doing obviously, and you don’t deserve it. Fight it, take it to him, that’s what I’d do.”

	She paused and pondered.

	“Well, no. Actually I’d move a Tanar’ri brothel into the building next to his as a first step, a polite nudge before I decided to take it personal. Suffice to say he’s being a daft pompous fool without any merit to his claims, and you don’t deserve any of it.”

	“Well, thank you.” Tristol said with a nod.

	“It really would be a shame I suppose if anything untoward happened to him…” She said with a smile as she looked up at the aasimar.

	Again, Tristol wasn’t really sure what to say. Was she honestly concerned about them, or just showing off her level of potential influence?

	“Well, it has been pleasant meeting you again Tristol.” She said as she removed her arm from around his side and stepped back to look at him face to face. “I’ve enjoyed seeing your establishment, and perhaps I’ll take a closer look in the future. But till then, take my apology for what it was, and let’s hope that we understand each other a little bit better now, yes?”

	For just a moment, Tristol was honestly pleased with what was happening. Though she might not have been entirely sincere (as a yugoloth could she be?) in her apology, her public show of regret would at least do something for him and the Portal Jammer simply because of who she was, and the words she was saying, regardless of the fiend’s true feelings. And perhaps she did actually harbor some glimmer of sincerity in her apology.

	“So,” Shemeska said as she flashed as a mouth of fangs at Tristol in a fiendish smile. “Can we let the past be the past, and just forgive and forget all of that previous unpleasantness? Again, I truly am sorry for it all you must know.”

	Tristol smiled back and his tail began to swish slightly behind him.

	“I think we can.” He said. “It was very thoughtful of you. Thank you.”

	But it was too good to last, and while Tristol was momentarily caught up in the hope that she might actually, for once in her life, be acting in a kind way, she shattered that hope and stomped on it.

	“Good boy!” The fiend said abruptly as she reached up to pet Tristol square between the ears like a puppy.

	She ruffled her hand atop his head, scratching him there between his suddenly drooping ears like she might have done to a pet for but that one stunned moment before turning around and gracefully walking out of the inn as if nothing untoward had happened. 

Perhaps she was simply that oblivious to others…’ Tristol thought as he just stood there stunned by what she had done. But no, no way in hell, he realized, that wasn’t just an unthinking social faux pas on her part. The bitch had built him up and treated him like a child, like a puppy, there in front of his employees, his customers, and his friends. She’d done that entirely on purpose to spite him.

	Tristol grew red in the face and fumed with rage as the yugoloth walked out the door with her gaggle of toadies and purchased admirers in tow. A telepathic laugh echoed in his mind just as she left, though it was faint and might have been from somewhere else in the dull commotion in the inn, but real or not, it sealed in his mind what her entire purpose had been there just then.

	The b*tch had set him up and played him, just to see him stumble, just to mock him in public, just because she could. And at the moment, outside of rage and not giving her the pleasure of seeing him fiercely upset or being foolish enough to do something rash about her petulant, childish abuse, there was precious little that he could do to counter it.

	He’s been back in Sigil for less than twenty-four hours and already it had gone from relaxing to pissant, and the night was not yet over.


***​

	Clueless opened his eyes in the dark, stepping back from the proverbial wall of sleep. Something was not right. The room was filled with a soft silvery glow from its single window, and the hair on the back of his neck was erect with that prescient feeling that he was not alone.

	The bladesinger was on his feet in an instant, and he knew then that he was still asleep as he looked through the window and saw the bizarre, otherworldly scene beyond.

	Through the open window there was not Sigil, not the Clerk’s Ward, but rather the silvery void of the Astral Plane. The view turned slightly as he watched it, as if his room itself was free floating in the gravity well of the stripped corpse of Maanzecorian that he saw distantly below, tethering the room to it proximity.

	He looked around for signs of anyone else within his room, but it was cold and empty, devoid of any intruder in both the imagined surroundings and his mind it was all playing out in presumably as he slumbered. Still, wary and nervous, he walked the few feet over towards the window and stared out at the void beyond the windowpane.

	Clueless found himself scanning over the fine details of the godisle below as a hand closed over his shoulder, firm and heavy and sudden. He immediately gave an involuntary shudder but held rooted to the spot, unable to turn around immediately. There was a very intense sense that the hand holding onto him, the being whose hand it was, could simply and effortlessly intrude into his dreams, passing into them unbidden, implying a certain sense of power…

	In the reflection off the glass of the upper half of the window, not one figure, but two stood next to him, looking down and occasionally out into the space beyond, one much larger and overshadowing the other, smaller one. A tall man in a heavy black greatcoat and wide brimmed hat, and his formless, robed servant: the Jester and his companion.

	Clueless inhaled deeply and calmed himself as he watched the dim reflection of the smaller figure incline its cowled head to follow his each and every small skittish movement as it stood obediently next to its master. The taller man released his hand from the bladesinger’s shoulder and clasped them behind his back, and stood there watching the Astral for a few more silent moments before speaking.

“Most…. Curious,” He said, more with contemplative amusement than worry,  “the winds at work upon the silver void and the powers at play. So many new things you bring to my attention in your travels into which I peer but every so often in my boredom.”

	The Jester smiled at the bladesinger.

	“I’m glad you find it amusing sir.” Clueless replied.

	“I did say before that I found you amusing.” The Jester said before motioning towards the window and the scene upon the Astral.

“I will admit to a bit of personal interest here.” He continued. “How quaint to see Maanzecorian and so many others fall into eternal slumber before myself. How… unfortunate …for those seeking to plunder his corpse to involve not only the Githyanki but now the Baatezu as well. The fiend in exiles clothing, the Rakshasa, will have much to account for won’t he?”

The man’s servant curled a robed cuff about his hand briefly like a familiar or a child to an adult.

“I also wait to see the repercussions of your letting free my githyanki prisoner of oh so long ago. I fear she will not like the changes in her society that will be readily apparent to her. She may strike out in anger and find her death quickly, or flee to fight another day and bring her society to its knees eventually. But, as I said, curious the winds at work upon the silver void and the powers at play. So many variables to take into account.”

	Clueless listened curiously. He wasn’t really afraid, more curious than anything else. But whatever questions he might have wished to ask, he didn’t have the chance, not yet anyway, as the Jester paused and chuckled knowingly at something he might have sensed.

“But… alas we are not alone,” He said. “For another seeks to intrude here, and I shant be rude to them and obstruct their time or words with you and yours. Till we speak again may The Lady’s Shadow pass you by, or at least may you have the sense to vacate the field before raising her ire as in my own unique case. Farewell.”  

The man nodded, tipped his hat towards Clueless, and then stepped towards an adjacent wall where he vanished in a haze of emerald light, not unlike the fierce glow of a portal. He was gone, but with an unspoken sense that whatever had transpired there was a private matter and not to be spoken of to others. It was a heady, implied threat that he did not wish to be known within a multiverse in which he had so long been vacant. And Clueless was left alone in his dreamscape, but the dreams of that night were far from over.


***​

	The Portal Jammer was empty and silent as a tomb. The candles had burned to their wicks in the common room, the fires were naught but white ash swirling in an errant draft or two. Not a sound carried through wall or window into the cloistered interior where its owners slept as a single, pure flame was sparked in the dark recess of the taproom.

They all opened their eyes as a low, bestial growl awakened them from their slumber.

	They felt anticipation and dread, but no sense of oddity as they each moved from their own rooms and down to the common room whence the sound had broken the still of the early morning. They moved slowly as if swimming through water, their senses dull and incomplete, details glossed over or ignored where they did not exist within their dreaming, nightmare state.

	Together they converged within the glowing interior of the taproom where a figure sat at one of the tables, illuminated by a single candle that fell over its robed form and reflected ominously back from its feline eyes. The Rakshasa, Siddhartha sat calmly and patiently there as he lifted a cup of tea to his lips and drank.

	They watched him as he put down his drink, lifted a cloth to his whiskered lips and habitually cleaned himself before turning to acknowledge the recipients of his dream-sending.

	The tiger-headed fiend smiled at them, fangs glinting with unspoken promise of violence in the faint candlelight that shed a wan yellow glow over wood and stone and velvet, fur and ivory claws.

	“My near-death is purely a temporary inconvenience I assure you, and a minor setback. I do not forgive my grudges easily.”

	They all awoke with a start, drenched in cold sweat with only the vague half-remembrance of a fading dream of what they had all seen in the moments between Siddhartha’s promise of revenge and when the spell had ended. They had seen a pair of eyes, green at first in the fading light, and then flickering as the candle was snuffed and a wave of displeasure and hatred assailed them with near physical intensity.

	They had not seen the last of the Rakshasa. No, not in the least.


***​


----------



## Gerzel

Silly Raksasha


----------



## shilsen

Gerzel said:
			
		

> Silly Raksasha



 ...Trix are for kids?


----------



## Gerzel

shilsen said:
			
		

> ...Trix are for kids?



Or for Taanari


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## Dakkareth

Ouch. Miss Marauder is making friends as usual. And freaky nocturnal guests. And lawyers. Mmmhhh, a pity that the party's favors with certain Lords of the Pit are used up. Nothing better than a baatezu lawyer (and a tanar'ri brothel with unruly clientele set up next to the opponent's kip, our favourite Crosstrader has something there), if you got into a legal argument ...


----------



## Clueless

Yeah. Nocternal guests are... amusing. Quite. Amusing.


----------



## A Crazy Fool

no update on friday, boohoo


----------



## Shemeska

This is just a very short, quick update here to tide folks over while I'm at GenCon. My apologies in advance if I missed any typos here in my hurry to finish it before I had to pack etc.



***​

The next morning was a solemn affair once they all awoke and gathered to discuss the dream of the previous night. Clueless was unusually quiet, but the others didn’t take it as a sign of anything particularly wrong.

	“Ten jink says that we see something from that whiskered rug-to-be in the next week.” Toras said.

	“Can I have the hug?” Nisha asked. “Will it have the backwards paws and everything?”

	Tristol chuckled.

	“We’ll get you something like that even if Siddhartha doesn’t waltz into Sigil looking to kill us.”

	“I really doubt he will.” Florian said. “Not his style.”

	“Too demeaning to do it himself.” Fyrehowl said. “He might spill his tea.”

	“Hired killers perhaps?” Toras asked.

	“Seems likely.” Fyrehowl replied.

	“Where’s Skalliska?” Clueless asked.

	They glanced around, realizing that the kobold hadn’t gotten together with them that morning.

	“She’s out shopping.” Nisha said. “She mentioned something about going down to buy something from Seamusxanthuszemus.”

	“Oh don’t encourage that damn mephit…” Toras muttered.

	“Whenever she gets back, whoever sees her first just make sure to mention to her that wandering around Sigil alone probably isn’t the best thing to be doing right now.” Fyrehowl said.

	“We’ve got an angry noble Rakshasa pissed at us, and if he sends people into Sigil to kill us, which seems likely, we shouldn’t be out alone.”

	Fyrehowl had just finished with that point when a piercing, rattling whine sounded through the door to the room. The lupinal’s ears twitched in instant aversion at the jarring sound.

	“What the hell is that?” She asked as she walked over towards the door.

	The sound wasn’t fading, though it seemed to fluctuate slightly along with a lower, base percussion that filtered through the door as well as a growing din of unhappy bar patrons.

	By that point the others with less sensitive ears could make out the racket as well, though none of them seemed happy about it. It was truly atrocious and discomforting whatever it was, like nails on a chalkboard or slaadi mating calls, both things that nobody, absolutely nobody wanted to be within close proximity to witness.

	“That’s not ending.” Florian said with a confused expression. “It’s getting louder. What the hell’s going on out there?”

	“Meeting adjourned,” Clueless said. “If anyone has any other ideas mention them later.”

	There was no objection and so they crept over towards the door, opened it and walked out into the main room of the Portal Jammer. None of the patrons seemed happy, many of them seemed on the verge of leaving, and some of them appeared to have already departed with only a drink left behind to perspire on the table they had otherwise been occupying.

	“Are you going to do something about those two dullards out in front of the place? I come here after I work to relax, not listen to that mess!” One of the regular patrons, a mid-level functionary in the Hall of Information complained loudly.

	“We’re seeing to it sir.” Florian replied as she gazed past the man, out the front door and to the two figures and their angry audience of hecklers out in the street in front of the Portal Jammer.

	Nisha blinked and her tail drooped immediately.

	“Oh not those two.” She said disparagingly. “Bleaknicks…”

	Standing there on a stage made from an overturned rain barrel in the middle of the street was a garish black-clad figure gesturing with emphatic melodrama as he spouted lines of putrid, drawn out poetry. Next to him stood another figure all in black seated on a stool and playing a flute made from some form of fiend skull, occasionally banging a rhythm on a pale white drum.

	Two male fensir twins, a type of troll or giant-kin unique to the plane of Ysgard, tall and spindly with gray skin, pronounced noses and chins and hideous fashion sense, they seemed intent to perform their wretched craft in the middle of the street there in front of the Portal Jammer. The speaker on top of the barrel squeaked from the movement of leather boots that went up to his knees as he motioned from one side to the next and spouted out lines of nonsensical so-called poetry. His head was shaved and tattooed with a black eclipsed sun and dark rings of wood ash circled his sunken blue eyes like a depressed mime.

	The musician, his brother, was dressed and dolled up in a much less unique way, with simple black wool clothes, and only a shining silver ring in his nose standing out in any way. He piped away on his howler-skull flute, the source of the blaring noise driving away inn patrons, providing musical accompaniment to his brother’s poetry. While the fellow had a sense of rhythm, and actual talent, it wasn’t a style suited for public consumption outside of drunks in some of the avant-garde watering holes in the Hive near to the Gatehouse.

	“Hey!” Florian shouted above the so-called music. “You can’t play here!”

	They ignored her and continued, launching into another poem, much to the groans and catcalls of the crowd.

	“Ohhhhhhhh Death…”

	A discordant piping of the howler flute.

	“Ohhhhhhh Misery…”

	A rattled bang upon the drum.

	“You make me laugh!”

	A skyward wringing of the poet’s hands. A wheeze and shrill tone from the flute.

	“You make me cry…”

	A gloomy droning in lower tones from the howler-skull instrument.

	“The point of it all…?”

	The poet, Morvun hung his head and draped his arms in some exaggerated show of grief as the poem ended.

	“Listen to me.” Florian shouted. “You can’t play here, you’re running off our customers.”

	Again they ignored her and launched into another poem, Morvun’s _in_famous Death #258. Of course the crowd never heard them, and they never heard the crowd’s happy cheer because Florian grumbled and dropped a spell of silence over the brothers.

	Eventually they realized what was going on and they paused, stopped, and moved over fifteen feet or so till they were out of the magical silence and free to start up once again. And, once more, Florian responded by dropped a bubble of silence over them again.

	This happened three more times before she finally managed to get a response out of the pair of sullen performers.

	“Why are you doing this?” She asked them.

	“Well this is where we were hired to play today.” Morvun said.

	“We never hired you.” Florian replied. “I’d have a massive hangover today if I had gotten drunk enough to willingly do so.”

	Morvun frowned and looked away dramatically, his ego bruised.

	“Never said –you- hired us.” Phineas said. “Just that we were indeed paid to play here.”

	“By who?” Florian asked, though she already suspected the answer.

	“Chap who owns the 12 Factols.” Phineas replied.

	“Son of a…” Florian cursed. “How much did he pay you?”

	“Enough to soothe this tormented genius’ soul…” Morvun said.

	Phineas replied with an actual number.

	“How about I pay you to stop playing?” Florian asked.

	“An affront to my poetic genius I tell you.” Morvun replied quickly.

	Phineas sighed.

	“How about I pay you double to perform back in front of the 12 Factols?” Florian said, a slow grin appearing on her face.

	Much more practical than his brother, Phineas took the hint, and double the payment, as he packed up his instruments and walked off with his brother over towards the Lady’s Ward and their next venue of performance.

	“Not bad.” Toras said to Florian. “I just hope that jack*ss in the Lady’s Ward doesn’t just pay them to come right back here.”

	The cleric shrugged.

	“I doubt it. And I hope not. My ears couldn’t take much more of that garbage. Tempus forbid, that stuff was terrible.”

	“Eh,” Toras said with a shrug. “We’ll see how it turns out. Can’t get much worse than that mess.”


***​

An hour later and on the other side of Sigil, Reiersen was beside himself as he marched out into the street and right up to the two so-called performers that he’d earlier hired to play outside of the Portal Jammer. He’d been sitting and looking over financial figures for the last month when the blaring racket from up on the street had filtered down to his ears and he realized what it was. He was not pleased in the slightest.

	“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” He said, jamming a finger into Morvun’s stomach, looking up angrily at the so-called poet.

	“Performing… a bit of sullen irony… a flash of gloom…”

	“Shut up.” Reiersen said, jabbing his finger into the poet again. “I didn’t pay you to run away –my- customers you idiot. What wasn’t clear about where I paid you to go perform?”

	“Nothing sir.” Phineas said as he brushed his hair out of his eyes. “They didn’t care for us so they paid us more to come back here and perform for you and yours.”

	“WHAT?!” Reiersen sputtered in fury.

	“Quite lucrative actually.” The musician said as he readied his howler-skull flute for the next piece.

	The owner of the 12 Factols was seeing red as he smacked at the musician’s flute and tried to push the fensir out of the way.

“Well if you don’t quit playing that sh*t you call music I’ll go hire myself a damn high hierophant of Ra! And once they have you turned into two sodding ugly hunks of stone I’ll have you carved down into something less depressing and rename my place the bloody 14 Factols!”

	The two brothers glanced at one another.

	“How much more you willing to pay us to go back to the Jammer?” Phineas asked.

	Reiersen’s eyes went wide and he simply began screaming incoherent threats at them as they gathered up their meager belongings and left. After they left he stalked back to his office and began plotting some other way of snubbing the Portal Jammer, though his first idea met with little success. 

Though it seemed like a great idea at the time: hiring some Xaositects to deface the front of his rivals’ inn, his attempts to actually hire them all seemed to come to naught. For whatever reason none of them wanted to work for him, and the most he ended up with was a letter penned back to him on what appeared to be upside down Fraternity of Order legal stationary. Written largely in scramblespeak and at least eight or nine languages, the only thing he could make out of it was a repeated phrase of ‘Nyah nyah nyah nyah nyah!’ and a signature of ‘Nisha, high lord of Xaos and bringer of frustration to spoiled Lady’s Ward tavern owners, except on every 6th Friday of the month when she’s known as Ygorl the cuddliest slaadi’.

	Ultimately Reiersen decided to simply take the matter to court, maybe shop around for which judge he could buy off, given that the less than legal but not criminal route wasn’t exactly working. But of course, his actions and intentions hadn’t been missed by other persons watching such things.


***​

	It was eight hours after peak when they arrived, just as the light had fully slipped over towards the hazy gloom of twilight and evening. Seventy-five garrulous dwarves, all members of the same clan and all members of the same massive mercenary and adventuring party. They were already singing as they moved down the street of that section of the Lady’s Ward, congregating outside of the façade of the 12 Factols, heady with wine purchased in Glorium only an hour earlier.

	With shouts and slurred chanting they gathered there on Dossy Street, raising fists and weapons into the air amid the echo of their clan name and jubilation over their recent looting of the horde of a young fang dragon in the mountains south of Glorium there in the Outlands. They were laden with as much of their wealth as they could manage to carry into Sigil and they were in a mood to spend it till they passed out.

	An hour earlier they had arranged for a massive delivery of ale and wine to the 12 Factols, an establishment that they were assured was large enough and well equipped enough to handle their numbers, their tastes, and their intended raucous celebration. Of course, things being what they were, while the alcohol had arrived in the storerooms and festhalls of the 12 Factols according to their needs, the letters and reservation of the rooms that they had sent along to the staff and owners of the establishment had suffered in transit…

	“Sir?” Aranath Neilson asked over towards Jurgen Reiersen. 

Aranath was a middle aged aasimar who served as the major domo for any larger festivities in the 12 Factols, but while he was normally a placid calm amidst any revelry, he had a worried expression on his face and in his tone of voice as he tried to catch the attention of his employer as he stood there in the door of his office.

	“What is it Aran?” Reiersen asked without looking up from his copy of the Tempus Sigilian.

	“Sir? The dwarves we set up for Storm Hall this evening. How many of them were there supposed to be?”

	Reierson grumbled and looked up impatiently.

	“Nine of them.” He said, “That’s what their letter said when they asked us to prepare a portion of the room. You should know that already, or am I paying you too much to do your job poorly?”

	Aranath didn’t reply, and he didn’t need to as a low rumble and roar reached their ears. Reiersen’s wine glass began to rattle and then tipped over as he hurriedly dashed from his desk, pushing his employee aside and burst out into the open festhall beyond.

	His eyes went wide as he watched the living tide of dwarves pouring down the 88 steps down from the street and into Storm Hall, shouting singing and already falling over one another onto the furniture and current patrons as they dashed for the alcohol.

	“Dance with me sweetheart!” A drunken, stumbling dwarf slurred lustfully as he fell onto Reierson, knocking him over with the seemingly unending avalanche of already tipsy revelers.

	Reierson was screaming at the top of his lungs as he could already see the potential for damage as the first few dozen dwarves began to make their way across the hall in a sprawl of stumbling bodies, broken furniture, and startled cries of more civilized patrons.

“Get off me! You can’t come in here! You didn’t tell us ahead of time! We can’t handle this many people! This is an upstanding establishment not the Bottle and Jug down in the damn Hive!”

“You’re a right fine doxy!” The drunkard said as he felt up the inn’s owner who could only watch and whimper.

	“NOOoooooooooooo…..!!!!!”

	Outside the crash and din of the joyous obliteration of the 12 Factols main tap room, a tiefling turned and smiled at the fiend standing next to him. Her ears were perked to the sounds rising up and out of the entrance to the formerly high-class inn.

	“I saw to the change in the number of revelers the 12 Factols were expecting,” The tiefling said politely to his employer. “I saw to inviting others as well. By the end of the evening they’ll likely see over three hundred, and the wine will be supplied to them for free the whole time, at least till they’re all drunk and wanting more, then they’ll probably break into the stocks in the storerooms down there. It should be amusing mistress.”

	The King of the Crosstrade simply smiled.

	“I’m such a whore for misery.”


----------



## Kage Tenjin

My goodness, that's evil...
And so funny.

I don't want to know why she's doing this.

Actually, I think I know why.  She's being honest about about being a whore for misery, and in this simple mischief, it's easier to taunt to the party and heap misery upon Jurgen Reiersen, because the party is more likely to react as adventurers tend to, meaning everyone's miserable with the least amount of effort and risk on her part.

But I could be totally off.


----------



## demiurge1138

Personally, I think she wants to ensure Clueless' party's success as businessmen so she can continue to toy with them.

Demiurge out.


----------



## Clueless

Or the 12 factols' overcharged her for a drink. (By which I mean - they charged her.)


----------



## Bryon_Soulweaver

Overcharging a yugoloth, funny.


----------



## Gez

Very funny update! I love that conflict with the other inn. 

Return of the Typo Corrector, episode IXMCCVI: "looting of the *hoard* of a young fang dragon." It's one of my pet peeves, the horde/hoard confusion. A dragon's horde would be a swarm of sycophantic goblins, I guess.


----------



## Gez

Very funny update! I love that conflict with the other inn. 

Return of the Typo Corrector, episode IXMCCVI: "looting of the *hoard* of a young fang dragon." It's one of my pet peeves, the horde/hoard confusion. A dragon's horde would be a swarm of sycophantic goblins, I guess.


----------



## Dakkareth

Yay for lower-planar management styles


----------



## Clueless

Kage Tenjin said:
			
		

> My goodness, that's evil...
> And so funny.
> 
> I don't want to know why she's doing this.




This is shemmy posting this, and clueless's computer won't let me log out of her account to post as myself here for some wierd reason.

Shemeska's reason for all this was pretty much her hiking her dress up, 'whipping it out' and saying 'wooo! Look how big it is!'. Showing off what all she could do just because she could.

And speaking of which.... planewalker won an Ennie! Wooo!

*that aforementioned metaphor*


----------



## Fimmtiu

Clueless said:
			
		

> This is shemmy posting this, and clueless's computer won't let me log out of her account to post as myself here for some wierd reason.




Seen that before myself. You've got two sets of cookies, one from enworld.org and one from www.enworld.org, or similar. You've got to go in and delete all your enworld-related cookies manually and then log back in, and then you should be able to log out normally.


----------



## Clueless

*clueless gets back on the computer and shoos the loth away*


----------



## Dakkareth

Clueless said:
			
		

> And speaking of which.... planewalker won an Ennie! Wooo![/img]




And most deservedly .


... poor Shemeska, who can't actually touch it . Ow, it burns us!


----------



## A Crazy Fool

the ennie is silver?


----------



## Clueless

Not literally - the Ennie we won was silver, as opposed to gold (which the srd20 got).


----------



## Shemeska

“It’s a bad idea…” Tristol said as he sat and nursed a drink at the table behind where Clueless knelt on the floor.

	“Oh I’ll be fine.” Clueless replied. “Considering how much these pissed us off originally, I think it’s ironic justice of a sort.”

	Tristol bit his lower lip. “I’m not going to argue that it’s not.”

	“Then don’t. Just sit back and enjoy the new windows.” The bladesinger said as he finished calling the spell to mind again. He then whispered the spell as he traced a line of golden liquid around the edges of one of the front windows of the Portal Jammer.

	Tristol wrung his hands. “It’s not the spell, I know where that came from. It’s you painting with bloody heavy magic like it’s a common spell component you might pick up in the Market Ward!”

	“Well then don’t ask about it and don’t watch.” Clueless said with a grin as the spell crystallized into place, glittering as a permanent and one-way force wall solidified within the window frame.

	Over the past hour, he’d been replacing all of the glass windows in the Jammer with permanent walls of force, each of them the one-way force walls that Bartol Trenevain, the fire genasi sorcerer, had received as partial payment for his work for the Marauder back when he had been blackmailing them all on her behalf. On top of being more sturdy and easier to clean of the general grime and soot that carried on Sigil’s wind, they also wouldn’t break if Toras, Florian, or Fyrehowl needed to toss a stubborn drunkard out of the bar and into the street.

	“So tempted to punch you like Trenevain did that time…” Tristol muttered as Clueless moved on to the next windowpane.

	“But you’re too afraid that I’ll blow up myself,” Clueless replied, waving a finger covered in golden liquid. “And afraid I’ll blow up you, and the entire block of the city, if you do while I’m using this stuff.”

	“Like I said when you first told me about that stuff…” Tristol continued.

	“Keep it away from me!” Clueless said with exaggerated fright, mimicking the aasimar’s reaction from that time.

	“Don’t blame me when you try to do too much and get yourself mazed.” Tristol said.

	“I’ve been mazed before.” Clueless replied with a smirk as he stood back up.

	“Your own maze.” Tristol said.

	“Besides, Nisha is probably more likely to get us all mazed than me.” Clueless said sagely.

	Tristol blinked and pondered that thought.

	“You know, I don’t think I can dispute that.” The mage said. “Does she know about that stuff?”

	“Gods forbid, no.” Clueless replied immediately.

	“Good.” Tristol said, as not a minute later Nisha wandered in and noticed the new windows, and their peculiar properties.

	“So,” Tristol asked, as they both watched the Xaositect toss peanuts at people in the street, only to giggle as they threw them back at her and hit the solid side of the ‘windows’. “What ever happened to Trenevain?”

	Clueless had to think about it for a second.

	“Well we warned him to stay in Sigil, but to be honest I haven’t really kept up with him. For all I know he might have skipped town after that first week following us getting the deed to the Portal Jammer.”

	Tristol nodded and handed Nisha a dish of pretzels to toss at people on the street.

	“Might be something to look into, just to make sure that he’s not planning anything to get back at us.”

	“I’ll look into it sometime in the next few days.” Clueless said. “He’s probably up to no good, but nothing to mess with us. He learned his lesson already I think.”


***​

	Skalliska blinked her eyes as she stepped out of the portal from Parts & Pieces and into the brighter light and commotion of the Market Ward. Well, brighter by comparison with the gloom that the dust mephit proprietor seemed to prefer in his shop.

	The portal closed behind her and she noticed a few passerby shoppers and merchants winced and glancing in her direction, presumably at the lingering smell of dust and rot carried on the efflux of air from Seamus’s more recent, and fleshy, sales. The kobold paused and scowled halfheartedly at the offended expressions she received, and probably would be seeing later on that afternoon once she walked back to the Clerk’s Ward and her companions noticed her purchases from the mephit, and any lingering smell.

	“Toras can go blow himself.” She said with an amused shrug.

	Honestly the smell didn’t bother her all that much, and you could find much much worse simply walking through the Hive and the Lower Ward, yet they didn’t pick on A’kin for where he lived. Plus A’kin didn’t sell exotic bones on the cheap like the mephit did. Toras had simply gotten off on the wrong foot with Seamus, or something like that. Still, no need to worry about it at the moment. The day was still young and she’d be taking the bones she had purchased to a number of craftsmen to get their estimates for the work she wanted done before she went back to the Portal Jammer. By that point any lingering evidence of Seamus’s wares would likely have evaporated.

	And with that she hefted the bag of bones over her shoulder and walked off towards the Guildhall Ward. As she did so, six pairs of eyes were watching her from out of the crowd, and they paced her for the next several blocks.

	Twenty minutes later when Skalliska stepped out of the shop they were still watching her.

	“Do I get to eat it?” The sorcerer’s familiar asked with a sneer as they both looked at their mark from cover of magical invisibility.

	The tiefling gave no reply to the quasit sitting on his shoulder.

	“Maybe smoke the meat a little bit, burn it crispy at the edges…”

	“Will you tell that stupid little f*cker to shut up?” A heavily muscled ogre standing behind the tiefling sorcerer said with agitation.

	The quasit snarled and blew the ogre a kiss, followed a moment later with an obscene gesture.

	“I’ve got one sack for the kobold here,” The ogre replied sternly. “Won’t take all that much effort to have a second one for you too.”

	“Both of you shut up.” The tiefling sorcerer said with a sigh. “You can tolerate each other for another day or so before we get paid.”

	“Oh he knows I love him.” The quasit said, tasting the air with its tongue and darting the stinger on its tail vaguely in the ogre’s direction. It had been picking on and taunting the fighter almost constantly for the past day.

	“Little tanar’ri sh*t…” The fighter muttered.

	The three other human fighters were doing their abject best to ignore the increasingly hostile banter between the least Tanar’ri and the Ogre. One of them had a pet sorcerer in its pocket and the other was three times the size of any of the rest of them.

	“You can eat him after we deliver back in Colothys.” The mage said before snapping his fingers and pointing into the scrying globe it had focused on their target across the street.

	“You better be talking about the sodding kobold…” The fighter snarled as he moved into position.

	The five of them and the quasit moved out of the shadows and into place, scattered in place to anywhere the kobold might conceivably flee to if she noticed anything. And then all they had to do was wait.

	Ten minutes later, Skalliska walked out of the shop and they made their move.

	“Excuse me ma’am?” One of the humans said, walking up to the kobold, dressed and acting as a stereotypical clueless prime.

	“Eh?” She said, turning around and looking up at the man.

	The human seemed rather befuddled, something that she’d seen plenty of times before. She knew his expression and she knew his type. The kobold chuckled and sighed as she waiting for the forthcoming questions.

	“I’m rather new to Sigil and I seem to have lost my way…” The man said, scratching his head before looking up and the curve of the city’s opposite side far overhead.

	“Where are you looking to be?” She asked, feeling more at ease and a bit smugly pleased with herself and her planar knowledge compared to him.

“Yes,” He said. “Do you know which way I go to find the City Courts?”

	Skalliska paused and pointed overhead. “Well, for starters you’re on the wrong side of the city, and…”

	The last thing she saw was the smile on the man’s face before a burst of white light blossomed in her field of vision from the leaded sap impacting at the base of her skull. A second later she was stuffed into the Ogre’s sack and being carried insensate across the city with the sorcerer’s familiar hanging onto the burlap and whispering sweet nothings.


***​

	Normally Clueless would be the one tending the bar at that particular point in the day, but for whatever reason Fyrehowl had taken to handling drink orders simply as a change of pace, and to give Clueless a chance to rest for a day or so since he’d been exerting himself lately with the windows and something else with ‘wardings’ on the back room. He’d been rather deliberately vague about what all he’d done, and Tristol had refused to answer on his behalf, though he seemed to know.

	For the first few hours everything went well; the lupinal handed out drinks, gave food orders to the kitchen staff for some of the regular customers, and chatted with some of the patrons off and on informally. Eventually though she noticed a man walk into the inn, glance around curiously and finally take a seat at the bar.

	“Can I get you something?” Fyrehowl asked him.

	The man blinked and looked up at her, he seemed tired and a bit forlorn or down on his luck. She’d seen his type before, usually they ended up utterly drunk by the time they left the bar.

	“Oh, no thank you.” He said. “I’m fine… I’ll be fine. I just wanted a place to sit for a moment.”

He paused and caught his breath, just sort of giving a blank stare and calmly sitting there. 

“Is it alright if I just sit here?” He asked cautiously.

	“Yeah, sure.” Fyrehowl replied. “It’s not a problem at all. Sit there as long as you like.”

	“Thank you.” He said, bowing his head and clasping his hands together in some manner of religious gesture. “Sutekh bless you.”

	For another twenty minutes Fyrehowl continued serving other patrons and simply let the man sit there. He didn’t bother anyone, he didn’t ask for anything, and he largely just faded into the normal crowd, not standing out really in any particular way. But as perceptive as the lupinal was, she couldn’t help but eventually notice that he was glancing longingly at the food the other patrons nibbled at and he seemed more than a bit hungry and generally underfed.

	The man was praying silently as Fyrehowl rapped her knuckles on the counter and slid a plate in front of him. He looked up into the celestial’s smiling face and then at the sandwich on the plate.

	“Enjoy.” Fyrehowl said, pushing the plate forwards and into his hands. It took him a moment to realize that she was offering it to him for free.

	“Oh, thank you.” He replied, taking the sandwich tentatively. “I don’t have very much money though, I might not be able to pay for…”

	“Consider it on the house.” Fyrehowl said to the man. “You look hungry.”

	“You’re very kind.” He said with a smile as he took the sandwich, “I haven’t really gotten to eat much since I came to Sigil.”

	“Why is that?” The lupinal asked.

	Meanwhile, a dozen feet away, Florian and Toras both sat together at one of the inn’s tables. They were both watching the scene unfolding at the bar.

	“This is why Clueless tends bar usually.” The cleric said to Toras. “Fyrehowl’s going to give the place away if she stays there too much longer. Some poor berk sits down and looks hungry and she just hands him food.”

	“She’s a celestial.” Toras said. “You expected differently?”

	“Not really,” She replied. “But if she makes a trend we’ll have a line around the block stretching back to the Hive.”

	“True…” Toras replied as Florian got up and walked over to the bar.

	The man was thin, extremely thin, and he looked like he’d been walking for days before taking a seat there at the bar. He wasn’t wearing any armor and didn’t seem to have any magical trinkets about him. His hair was a thin, pale blond mop and his eyes were an unremarkable chocolate brown. His drab colored, homespun clothes were covered with a sprinkling of dust, the ends of his sleeves were thread worn, and his pants were patched in various places; worn but well tended.

	Florian listened as the man finished the meager meal and explained himself to Fyrehowl.

	“I’ve been on my own for a while, about a week or so.” He said. “That’s how long it took me to travel from my village in the Outlands to a portal to Sigil.”

	“Why’d you leave? You don’t really look like you took much with you.” Fyrehowl asked.

	“Well…” He gave a soft, resigned sigh. “Khaasta attacked the village and I hid. They didn’t find me. I just kept quiet and prayed to my deity to keep me hidden. But by the time I knew it was safe to come out there wasn’t anyone left.”

	Fyrehowl winced.

“I’d heard of Sigil and so I simply started walking, hoping to make my way here.” He said, spreading his hands. “I put my trust in the wisdom of my deity and he whispered to me where to walk and where to travel in safety. And so here I am.”

	“I take it you served as a cleric in your village?” Florian asked him, extending her hand. “Florian of Amn, priestess of Tempus.”

	“Kiro,” He said, shaking Florian’s hand. “I guess you could say I’m a cleric of sorts. I was a cleric in training, but my training is pretty much ended at this point. My mentor was killed or carried off by the Khaasta, and so I’m all that’s left to carry on the traditions of our village.”

	“Pleased to meet you Kiro.” Fyrehowl said, echoed a moment later by Florian.

	The man opened the satchel on his back and removed a large, leather-bound book. It was old and hand mended across its surface, showing the signs of repair over the space of many years and reverent care at the hands of its keepers. Kiro placed it on the counter and brushed his hands across the surface where Florian could see the stitch marks from where pages had been bound by string into the spine.

	“This is really all that I brought with me aside from a few bits of food, some water, a simple weapon. But this was all that truly mattered to me, the chronicles of our village, our tales, our legends and the traditions of our faith.” He said. “I don’t matter as much so long as I can keep our faith alive. Sutekh has kept me safe and provided for me, and so I keep my faith in him strong.”

	Florian nodded. “I have to commend you then.”

	“Thank you.” Kiro said, brushing his hand across the surface of the book. “I’m not really sure what I’ll be doing now that I’m in Sigil. This is a pretty amazing place, it’s hard to not just be overwhelmed. It’s all so really new to me. But I trust in Sutekh, and he will tell me what to do.”


***​

	Meanwhile, across the street from the Portal Jammer, and forty feet above street level, a single person knelt with a heavy heart at the edge of the roof overlooking the front entrance of the inn. The woman’s hands were steady as she reached into a satchel at her feet and removed a series of ornately articulated steel and wooden objects. She fit them together, sliding them into place and assembling the barrel of the weapon, feeling it nearly come alive in her hands, puissant with magical and alchemical might.

	Her hands were steady as she selected a single iron ball, silver runes etched into its surface, glinting in the light, and kissed it as she placed it into the rifled barrel of the weapon. Her hands were steady and her aim expert as she lowered the tip of the weapon over the edge of the room and narrowed her eyes. And all the while her heart was screaming no and her eyes wept.

	She looked across the street, waiting for the moment when she would act, her body and her hands acting with her skill but not with her own free will. Her actions had not been her own for a very long time. Choice had been denied to her; she could only obey and watch as she carried out the will of her masters.

	Her right hand loaded the alchemical charge into the chamber, sliding the enchanted shot into place and she could do nothing but watch as she acted as a tool of death. That same right hand steadying the weapon in place, taking aim, it burned with the agonizing brand and symbol of her masters, the source of the compulsion raging through her mind, burning in her blood, forcing her to act.

	She still heard them in her mind, the Rakshasas softly whispering to her and the others that had once willingly served them for gold, whispering those instructions over and over again, repetitious, soothing, and seductive. She saw them in her mind still, anchored to the blackened symbol upon her hand, one of them whispering their wishes, the other one silently watching and weaving the spells to reaffirm the curse upon she and the others destined to be their unwilling servants.

	Their service had been done and they had returned to them in their palace expecting payment. Would that it had been that simple. Their service had continued past that point, and though she had died three times since then, or should have died, should have been allowed to mercifully die, she was still here, still breathing, still serving them. They would not allow her die.

	She wept as she lowered the barrel and watched the aasimar mage step into view through the open door to the inn below, across the street.

	“Know that I am sorry.” She said, her voice trembling. “Know that I am so very sorry for this.”

	Aimed an inch above his heart, the cold iron ball, wrought of avalan ore, branded with arcane sigils, whistled as it cut through the air.

	“I am truly sorry…”


***​


----------



## Eco-Mono

*First!*

...aaaaand the Tiger Twins make their move.


----------



## Ryltar

Sounds like a PC's past is coming back to haunt him ... but I may just be reading too much into the assassin's thoughts .

This is a dire turn of events for the characters, indeed ... I'm looking forward to how the Skalliska arc develops.

Nice writing, as usual .


----------



## shilsen

Nice place to end ... ratbastard


----------



## Clueless

It was certainly an amusing point in game for Us at the time. And yay!! Kiro has arrived! *glee*


----------



## primemover003

Musket ball of Slaying?


----------



## A Crazy Fool

shemmy! why did you wait till they put the one way force windows on the jammer you could have gotten so manny more of them.


----------



## Clueless

*grin* Good. Somebody noticed. 
He didn't wait - I just had Very good timing.


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## Dakkareth

... and some luck presumably, avoiding to blow up and all that  .


----------



## Clueless

Yep. Though there's one worse coming up here (Involved 7 percentile rolls at a risk of Dead dead. Like - no resurection dead.)


----------



## demiurge1138

Wait... is Kiro a new PC (presumably, because Skalliska has been kidnapped)? Or just a favorite NPC?

Demiurge out.


----------



## Clueless

PC. We may have mentioned this in the past - but a good friend of ours was shipping out at the end of the summer to California. Being one of the best GMs we've ever played under and a serious Planescape fan, he got slipped into the game for a short amount of time as a last round of fun. He played Kiro, with highly memorable style.


----------



## Graywolf-ELM

I'm looking forward to the new turn to the story, and the new character.

GW

Oh, the update was as good as ever.


----------



## Deodrathas

Dire turn of events? It gets better... 

-Kiro


----------



## Krafus

Great update. Looks like the PCs will have no choice but to go hunting the rakshasa after this... if they manage to figure out who's behind the attack. Looking forward to learning whether the victim survives.


----------



## Shemeska

“It is an interesting city.” Kiro said, thinking for a moment. “I’ve never really seen anything so huge. It’s just amazing really…”

	At that moment Tristol stood up and walked over towards the bar where Florian and Fyrehowl were chatting up the clueless looking patron. In doing so, he walked in line of sight to the main entrance to the building. He lingered there for scantly a second before moving to the side, letting a customer edge past him as they got up from their own chair. Glass shattered, ears rung, wood splintered and caught fire as something struck the floor inches from where he had been standing.

	Tristol stood there, stunned and shocked as he looked at the burning furrow gouged into the floor. It was oddly silent for him there in that moment; he didn’t hear the screams of the bar’s patrons erupting in fright or the shouts for him to get out of the way, screams of warning and incomprehensible bellows from people rushing past him for the entrance.

	“Tristol! Move!” Florian shouted to the aasimar.

	He wasn’t listening and in the moment he didn’t realize that the assailant was probably aiming for him again. She was.

	A second ensorcelled slug of iron and alchemical silver tore into the table behind where Tristol had stood, upending it and hurling it, spinning, a few feet away with a ragged hole torn in its surface. But once more, the mage hadn’t been standing in the path of the shot that would have otherwise taken his head from his shoulders. Seeing his inaction, Kiro had glanced around hurriedly and then tackled the mage to the ground, throwing him out of the way and probably saving his life.

	Tristol came to his senses and picked himself up off the floor as the skinny looking priest ran a hand through his hair. Kiro seemed a bit shocked at his own actions, almost like the sudden heroism wasn’t normal to him in the least.

	They both looked around as the room was a blur of chaos and stampeding people, broken glasses, spilt alcohol and upended furniture. Fyrehowl grabbed Tristol, dragging him backwards, and Florian pushed Kiro away from the entrance where the unseen assassin was getting aim at them.

	“Everyone out of the way of the door!”

	“Get away from the windows!”

	Clueless grinned and abruptly walked in front of the large, bay window at the front of the inn. The one man screamed at him and a few other huddled patrons turned away, expecting to see his brains splattered across the floor in seconds.

	Not quite.

	The bladesinger craned his neck and peered across the street, vainly trying to see where the assassin was standing. A split second later there was a loud ‘crack!’ as something impacted on the window, newly replaced with force walls, exactly in line with Clueless’s face. He blinked in a bit of sudden surprise.

	“Across the street. On top of the counting house.” Clueless said. “Can’t see them directly, but that’s where the shots are coming from.”

	“Nobody run out the door!” Toras shouted as a patron was shot in the side as they bolted from the inn.

	“Stay here.” He continued, holding up his arms and trying to get the attention of the screaming, frightened patrons, some of them drunk. “Stay behind something or go into the kitchens or upstairs and hide till we have this taken care of!”

	Most of them listened, some of them didn’t, but it was the best that they could do as they quickly gathered together in the back room of the inn to quickly make some sort of plan. Florian made it a point of bringing Kiro in along with them given his quick thinking before.

	Once gathered together they stared at one another with grim expressions and cast periodic glances towards the door. Every minute or so Fyrehowl opened the door a crack and glanced out to make sure the assassin hadn’t followed them into the inn.

	“Alright, they’ve got us pinned in here.” Clueless said.

	“And whose idea was it not to put in a secondary entrance when we remodeled this place?” Florian asked.

	“They’re on the roof across the street though.” Toras said. “I’m going up to our roof and looking for them. And if they make a move on street level, they’ll be getting a nasty surprise.”

	“Jumping off the roof might be a bad idea…” Nisha said with a tad of concern. “You’re not me, and you don’t have wings.”

	“Ring of feather fall.” Toras said with a dismissive shrug.

	“So alright, you’re going for the roof.” Clueless said, nodding to Toras. “Fyrehowl and I can go out the front door and draw their attention.”

	Kiro glanced at them awkwardly and waved a hand tentatively.

	“I just came in looking for a place to sit down and maybe get something to drink…”

	“Congrats, you’re involved now.” Florian said, slapping the bewildered looking cleric on the back.

	“And you got a sandwich out of it too.” Nisha said. “Our sandwiches come with attempted assassination plots. New sales gimmick!”

	“Ignore Nisha.” Toras said.

	“Yeah, she’s craaaaazy.” The tiefling stuck her tongue out as she got up and glanced out the door again.

	“Ok…” Kiro said meekly. “What do you suggest I do?”

	“Well, what –can- you do?” Tristol asked.

	“A little bit of magic.” He said. “Whatever Sutekh wishes to provide me with. I listen and he guides me, I can’t say much more than that. I just follow what he wishes of me.”

	“Alright, stay back and hang around with Tristol and Florian.” Clueless said. “Just be ready to throw spells if you see the assassin or they come down to street level.”

	“Sh*t.” Toras said suddenly.

	“What?” Fyrehowl said.

	“Skalliska.” The fighter muttered. “Anyone know where the hell she is?”

	“Damnit.” Florian muttered. “If she’s out alone she’s making a target of herself, and I doubt that stupid Rakshasa would be so cheap as to only send one assassin.”

	“Rakshasa?” Kiro asked, still looking awkward and folding his hands in a bit of self-conscious prayer. “Just who did you anger enough to kill you?”

	“Long story.” Florian said. “You’ll find out soon enough.”

	“Alright.” Clueless said. “We’ve got a plan, so let’s go.”

	Of course, all good plans never work out exactly as hoped.

	Toras was struck in the back by a sword as he emerged from the back room, and as he stumbled backwards a series of flaming, arrow shaped bolts erupted from the outstretched hand of another man that lashed out and hurtled into Clueless and Fyrehowl.

	Both of the men, one of them human, the other one an aasimar, were dressed in slick, black armor and carried a combination of equipment that marked them as both fighters and some manner of magic user as well. And both of them had black tattoos glowing softly on the back of their left hands: a dark, backward facing tiger’s paw surrounded with a halo of stylized flames. It was a symbol that Clueless and Tristol would later recognize as the personal, and former noble house symbol, of the Rakshasa, Lord Siddhartha.

	Toras jerked to the side, avoiding a deeper wound by the slim tapered blade of the first assassin. He slashed back at the man but missed as the hired killer simply fell backwards and vanished into a patch of shadow cast by a ruined, overturned table, reappearing across the room, preparing to cast a spell.

	The next few minutes were a complicated blur of frenzied swordplay and spellcasting, but the way the assassins were fighting was unholy. At some point during the fight, one of them, the shadowdancer, was stabbed through the heart by Fyrehowl and he died then and there. Only, he never stopped fighting and a moment later the ragged hole in his chest was sealed and be began breathing again.

	“F*ck this.” Toras said. “Go join the Keepers.”

	Regeneration or not, the assassin’s screams were short-lived when he was hurled through the fire portal on a one way trip out of Sigil and out of range of his intended targets.

	The shadowdancer snarled and backed away towards one of the darker corners of the room, near to where he could easily escape the same fate as his companion, and dart out of range with his own supernatural affinity for shadows if need be.

	“Siddhartha will keep sending us.” The man said. “He or Brampandra will keep sending us or others till they have your heads on pikes or silver platters. They will not let this matter rest.”

	The man jerked and dodged a blast of ice and cold from Fyrehowl.

	“It doesn’t matter what you do, you can’t kill us.” He said grimly. “They won’t let us die.”

	“We’ll find out.” Clueless answered.

	More minutes passed and while they slashed his armor to ribbons, his wounds still healed; likely a property of the magical tattoo the fiend had engraved on the man’s hand. Conventional fighting was getting them nowhere, and the longer the fight dragged on the more the main room of the inn was being devastated and the better a condition the assassin was looking.

	Finally, Florian grew tired of it, invoked the power of her deity, and slapped her hand across the shadowdancer’s chest. The assassin shuddered and dropped to the ground, his life snuffed out by the force of the spell. They watched though in horror as the tattoo on the man’s hand began to pulse as if were going to restore him to life, or simply take direct control of his body like an animated object.

	“Cut his hand off!” Fyrehowl shouted.

	With a single stroke of his blade, Clueless did just that, but the effect was not what was expected.

	Like a living thing of its own, the severed hand scuttled across the floor like an obscene insect, leaping up with fingers as legs, dangling limp tendons from its severed wrist and leaving a trail of blood and viscera. The tattoo was still active and still seeking to carry out its creator’s will.

	“Holy!” Toras said as the hand sprung from the floor and leapt at his throat.

	He caught the undying appendage and struggled to keep it away from his neck, but then realized that as he kept it from strangling him, its fingers were jerking as if it where trying to cast a spell.

	“Somebody stab the damn thing and pin it down!” He shouted as he slammed it down onto the surface of an adjacent table.

	Nisha’s sword was impaled through the thing’s animating tattoo a split second later and finally the gore spattered hand stopped moving as the tattoo itself was gradually mangled by its own frantic movements to escape its impalement.

	“Mystra preserve…” Tristol said with a mixture of nervous amazement and honest fear.

	“So was it one of these two who were shooting at us?” Fyrehowl asked.

	“Good question.” Toras said as he picked up the corpse and tossed it out the door.

	Before the corpse hit the ground it jerked as something struck its chest and sent it spinning off to one side with a hole punched through it. The force of the blow was such that after punching into the body from across the street where the assassin was still situated it still had force enough to crack one of the cobblestones beneath it.

	“Well…” Florian said. “That answers that.”

	They could only nod as they reverted back to their original plan from minutes before.

	“Ok. –now- I’m going up to the roof.” Toras said as he bolted up the stairs. “Meet you out there.”

	Clueless glanced around and shrugged as he saw the hem of Kiro’s robe vanish around the edge of the door leading upstairs. The cleric was probably just overwhelmed and spooked by it all. It wasn’t everyday that you saw the dead come back to life to kill you, or severed hands crawling around with the same intent. Given all of that, it wouldn’t have been out of the blue if he’d simply decided to run and hide till it was safe. Besides, that was what those few patrons who hadn’t fled the inn in panic were doing.

	Normally the quickest, most preemptively agile of them all, Fyrehowl bolted outside. The cipher was largely a blur of silvery blue fur and white robes, her sword already drawn and her ears and eyes keen for any hint of the exact location of the assassin.

	“The hell…?” She said bluntly as she realized that she wasn’t alone outside.

	Kiro stood in the middle of the street, glancing up at where the assassin was now standing and preparing to leap down to the street. He didn’t seem quite so meek as before, and the lupinal only then noticed the pair of gleaming swords slung through the cleric’s belt; she didn’t recall having seen them earlier when he was eating his sandwich in the bar.

But regardless, Fyrehowl shrugged and readied herself to charge the assassin once they dropped down to the street, but Kiro moved first. Acting out of the blue with a freakish level of making some manner of gesture or prayer and hurling a bolt of black energy at the killer on the rooftop. The assassin was struck in the chest and she stumbled in pain and weakness. Then, only partially recovered, she half leapt and half fell off the building to land awkwardly on the street below a moment later brandishing a pair of gleaming knives.


***​

	Three stories above the street, Toras looked over the edge of the roof and smiled. There was no sign of any further hired killers, and so the one below was ripe for the picking, and Toras wanted to do it in style. Style however seemed to be the only thing in his mind rather than common sense, and certainly not that tiny voice in the back of his head screaming in vain that he wasn’t wearing his ring of feather falling.

	“Not even looking up. Totally preoccupied with them down there. You won’t see what hit you.”

	Toras grinned to himself as he aimed his sword at the figure of the assassin down below and hurled himself over the edge of the roof.

	Only seconds later with the wind whistling in his ears that voice of reason in the back of his head finally made itself known. With the ground rushing up to meet him, he realized that his ring of feather falling was in his other set of pants.

	“Sh*t…”


***​

	The woman snarled and slashed at Fyrehowl even as a cluster of magic missiles struck her from Nisha and a moment later a flamestrike conjured by Florian enveloped her. Like the other two assassins she didn’t seem to be bothered by pain, and her wounds were regenerating even as they fought her.

	“Why the hell are you doing this?” Clueless demanded as he parried a slash from her blade as she darted away from the lupinal and towards him.

	“I have to kill you.” She said, breathing raggedly. “I don’t have a choice in this.”

	The black tattoo on her hand pulsed with a sickly glow and she staggered from a stab to her midsection.

	“How many of you are there?” Fyrehowl demanded.

	“It hurts…” The woman said, her eyes and tone of voice giving a very different impression than the scowl on her face. “We obey him and the pain is lessened. We obey or he sends us punishment and we do as he wishes regardless.”

	Fyrehowl was about to say something else when she noticed a shadow falling across the street. Her ears perked and swiveled at the sound of rushing air and a scream from above. She glanced up and dove out of the way a moment later when Toras slammed into the street at a speed of three stories worth of freefall.

	The assassin didn’t look and didn’t pause, and instead stabbed at Clueless before a lightning bolt from Tristol spun her sideways and sprawling across the street.

	“We served him before. Willingly. He has no honor, only goals and tools.” The woman’s expression strained to be anything but coldly merciless. 

	She was stabbed repeatedly, barely noticing it all, but in turn she left Clueless stumbling backwards from a half dozen wounds, each of them bleeding far more than they should have been.

“Kill me.” She said, even as she flicked a knife into Tristol’s shoulder.

“Please. Please stop this. He won’t end this. Ever.”

	She lunged for where Florian was tending to Toras on the ground, but she stumbled and coughed as Kiro had managed to dart around behind her while her attention had been on Clueless.

	The skinny, passive cleric withdrew his swords from where they were lodged, side-by-side in the assassin’s back. A keen observer might have noted that one blade had penetrated her heart and the other had gone through a lung - absolutely crippling blows – but after a brief pause and stumble, her body seemed to tighten and attempt to attack again with unnatural vigor, even as her head lolled lifelessly. 

The woman was dead, but her service to the Rakshasa, like the other two assassins before her, would not be ended by something so pithy as mortality.

	Blood bubbled up and foamed on her lips, a glaze settled across her eyes and slowly her ravaged body was beginning to knit itself back together with the infernal magic that bound her into service to the Rakshasa. Willing or not, she would be alive and conscious again in minutes, but till then her body was still being forced to serve like a grotesque puppet of meat and bone.

	Tristol ended it with a spell, hurling a greenish beam of light across the street to strike the woman’s chest and disintegrate her to naught but dust and ash. It was a merciful thing.

	“Sutekh preserve.” Kiro said as he prayed over the spot where the assassin had fallen. 

Fyrehowl sheathed her own sword while Kiro softly wiped the blood from both of his own, whispering softly in a language she wasn’t familiar with. He’d likely saved Tristol’s life earlier and he’d gotten himself involved really when he didn’t have to, and in the process he’d have drawn the ire of the tiger headed fiend currently with a vendetta against them all. She couldn’t complain at all, and having seen him in action, she had to say that for a cleric he was damn quick on his feet.

	Toras regained consciousness a minute later.

	“I hate gravity.” Came his pained mumble as Florian and Clueless helped him up from the pavement.

	“Wow Toras, that was kinda cool!” Nisha said with a giggle as the fighter winced and stood up fully.

	“That would have worked much better if I’d been wearing my ring of feather fall…” He replied to a resigned chuckle from Tristol and Florian smacking her palm across her face.

	“Hey.” He said. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”


***​

	The sorcerer stood in the corner of the building’s darkened interior, softly whispering to himself. The arcane phrases of the sending spell lilted off of his forked tongue and sparked the power of the incantation, hurling his subsequent words across the wards of Sigil. There was no reply from any of the intended recipients on the first team of assassins.

	“F*ck…” He whispered.

	Behind him, sitting under a ball of conjured light sat the human fighters, the raw hired muscle. They were playing cards and largely ignoring everything else. Beside them and paying attention the ogre was watching the sack and their captive within, making sure that she stayed bound and gagged.

	“What now?” The ogre asked with a sigh, correctly guessing what had happened. The first team was dead, or at least incapacitated. In any event they had failed in their task and so made life suddenly more difficult and more involved for them, the second team.

	“Hell if I know.” The sorcerer muttered. “They weren’t supposed to fail.”

	“They were supposed to kill their targets.” The Quasit said, nuzzling up to the side of the burlap bag where Skalliska was bound and stuffed. 

The familiar continued, whispering into the bag where it knew the kobold was conscious and listening. “Then we could cut the b*tch’s throat and be done with it…”

	Inside the bag, Skalliska jerked and gave a muffled scream through the gag roughly shoved in her mouth. The quasit cackled and groped her obscenely, relishing the petty torment.

	The ogre aimed a sudden kick at the quasit. There was obviously no love lost between the two of them. But the familiar jerked out of the way at the last minute and the kick instead impact the bound kobold and knocked her over with a sudden groan and soft thud from the impact.

	“Quit f*cking with her, and each other.” The sorcerer said as he traced a ring of oil and crushed cinnabar on the wall to form a bound space. “That includes you Scrappletoe. He’s competent even if he’s too lawful for your tastes.”

	The quasit sneered at the ogre and made another crude gesture with its tail and its mouth. The ogre ignored the pissant little least fiend as its master whispered the phrase to activate the portal latent in the newly formed bound space.

	The portal arose in a swirl of color and immediately the tiefling whispered another spell of sending, this time calling out to their collective master and informing the Rakshasa of the change in the situation. The answer was quick to come and indeed the contingency for failure on the behalf of the first group had been already anticipated well in advance.

	“So what now?” The ogre asked, brushing a hand roughly over the tabletop where the other fighters had stacked their wagers and discarded hands.

	“Plan B.” The sorcerer said. “Pack up, bring everything with you. Toss the ransom note into the inn here in the next hour and then skip town. We make the drop off in Cathrys at Lord Siddhartha’s palace in the jungles there and then we get paid.”

	The gambling fighters nodded and put away their cards and jink, rapidly getting their gear in order. The tiefling glanced at one of them before putting the sensory stone down on the table.

	“Toss it in through one of the windows and then meet us back at the portal down on Black Boot lane. We’ve a long walk ahead of us.”


***​

	They sat in the back room of the Portal Jammer with the door open and in full view of the shambles of the main room. Furniture was smashed, alcohol was spilt across the floor and slowly drying to a fine, sticky layer across the floorboards; the place was a mess by any standard, but most importantly they were still alive.

	“I apologize for getting involved in this.” Kiro said apologetically with his hands folded in front of him.

	“To hell with that.” Florian said.

	“You saved me from having a slug of iron in my chest.” Tristol added, looking at Kiro. “Don’t apologize. I’m sorry now that you’ve gotten yourself into this mess.”

	Kiro shrugged. “It just felt like what Sutekh wished for me to do. If I helped out, then that’s all the better.”

	“Except now you may have a Rakshasa venting his anger and likely sending people after you as well.” Florian said. “And I’m sorry for that, because you weren’t otherwise going to be a target.”

	“Well if there’s any way that I could help you resolve this, I…”

	“Oh, trust me.” Florian said, cutting him off. “We’re going to skin this guy and have him hung over the bar. Your help would be appreciated.”

	“Hey, I already got promised a rug made out of him.” Nisha protested.

	“And hell,” Florian continued. “Since you’re going to be with us for a while, let’s at least make you feel a little bit at home, especially after what happened to your village back on the Outlands.”

	A minute later Kiro was staring at a hastily written but still quite official document giving him ownership of 1% of Florian’s share in the Portal Jammer. He didn’t know what to say, and neither did any of the others.

	“I…I…” Kiro said with a bit of a stutter. He was back to the meek and humble cleric that they’d met him as, the skinny clueless new to Sigil.

	“Enjoy.” Florian said with a dismissive wave as Clueless got up for another drink for himself, and a stiff one for the new cleric.

	However there was little time left for conversation or planning as a loud but muted ‘thump!’ echoed from out in the main room. Already up, Clueless drew his sword and walked out to investigate.

	It was a sensory stone, hurled like a brick at the window. He’d seen enough of them simply by virtue of being involved with a Sensate and so he picked it up and walked back into the inn after making sure that there was no one lurking outside.

	“Someone tried to throw this through the front window.” The bladesinger said.

	“Surprise on them.” Tristol said.

	“So what does that broken wristed rug-to-be have to say?” Toras asked.

	Clueless nodded, activated the stone, and they each placed their hands upon it, soaking up its recorded message. Siddhartha’s voice began as an angry snarl that presaged a calm, coldly cultured demand.

“Sadly you are still alive. A pity.

At the edge of the Slags there is a burned out shell of a building with a blue domed roof on the easterly side nearest to the Hive. Come to this location, unarmed and alone, all of you, or the kobold dies a most… prolonged death.

It is amazing how much pain can be given before the body simply collapses and ceases to function. And pain is something I am VERY well acquainted with, no thanks to your piddling mageling aasimar. 

Till then…”

In the next few moments as the voice of the Rakshasa faded from the stone, there was a sudden, brief flicker of an image that burned itself in their minds: Skalliska bound and bleeding in a dark chamber, the red carapace of a Vaath lurking over her, its proboscis snaking out towards her head.


***​


----------



## Clueless

And so the phrase "stabbity death!" came into being, with the first appearance of Kiro in a fight. Bloody speed demon.

I think dinners at the Portal Jammer can best be summarized as follows: "The Portal Jammer, awesome sandwichs, charming bar staff... and the floor show is to Die for."


----------



## Eco-Mono

Aaah, mobilization. And severe pwnage. And a hostage to save.

Great update Shemmy, as usual. *:**D*


----------



## Shemeska

Eco-Mono said:
			
		

> Aaah, mobilization. And severe pwnage. And a hostage to save.
> 
> Great update Shemmy, as usual. *:**D*




Nice avatar you've got there


----------



## demiurge1138

Love the vaath, love Kiro and I especially love the phrase "grotesque puppets of meat and bone". Always one of my favorites. Great update!

Demiurge out.


----------



## Shemeska

demiurge1138 said:
			
		

> Love the vaath, love Kiro and I especially love the phrase "grotesque puppets of meat and bone". Always one of my favorites. Great update!
> 
> Demiurge out.




Of course, keep in mind that the message was delivered while Skalliska was still technically in Sigil. So Vaath? What Vaath   Makes for good intimidation though if your enemies don't know that you're making it all up to lure them into the Slags.


----------



## Eco-Mono

Shemeska said:
			
		

> Nice avatar you've got there



Thanks, though I'm rather surprised at the cordiality, coming from you and all. *;D*


----------



## shilsen

Ah, an update to start the weekend with. Excellent!


----------



## Ryltar

Nice work .

How exactly did you handle the "sharpshooting" assassin? Did she miss for drama's sake, or did the dice work against you ?

I'm looking forward to the meeting with Shir Kh ... uh, Siddhartha. Something tells me to expect carnage.


----------



## Clueless

Dramatic liscence. In the original game session - one way force wall.


----------



## Dakkareth

You know, if this wasn't my favourite active Story Hour already, it would get the post for being regular enough for me to say "It's saturday evening, I'm going to read the new part of Shemeska's SH now." 

Now onwards to actual reading 


Edit: And, of course, I am not disappointed. Freaky assassins, stylishly delivered threats and ass-kicking priests. Just what kind of deity is this Sutekh anyway?


----------



## Ryltar

Sutekh is 



Spoiler



Set


, I think.


----------



## Dakkareth

I didn't make *that* connection, but I thought something like this ...


----------



## FreeXenon

Long time reader, first time poster!! 
Hi All! 


			
				Nisha said:
			
		

> And you got a sandwich out of it too.” Nisha said. “Our sandwiches come with attempted assassination plots. New sales gimmick!”



 Now, that is funny!     

Shemmy, where can I attend Shemmy Story Telling Classes!! Huh!!! 
Where, Where!, Where!!  TEEEELLLL MMMEEEEEE!!!! Please!   

Thanks Shemmy! You Rock! Keep'em coming!


----------



## Clueless

Ryltar said:
			
		

> Sutekh is
> 
> 
> 
> Spoiler
> 
> 
> 
> Set
> 
> 
> , I think.




Well. Someone caught it at least. Cause *we* sure as heck didn't in the course of play.


----------



## Quanqued

Of course Shemmy just delighted in slowly revealing that connection to me piece by agonizing piece.  'Loths; 'nuff said.


----------



## Inconsequenti-AL

That was a great update to a fantastic stroy... Who doesn't love unkillable assasins.  And Rakshasa's really don't come up often enough in my gaming experience - great to see!

I wanted to read Tristols diary - unfortunately, the link I had doesn't seem to be working. Would be cool if anyone could help with that?


----------



## Shemeska

*Lupinals, Rakshasas, Arcanaloths... when did we start playing Ironclaw?!?!*



			
				Inconsequenti-AL said:
			
		

> That was a great update to a fantastic stroy... Who doesn't love unkillable assasins.  And Rakshasa's really don't come up often enough in my gaming experience - great to see!
> 
> I wanted to read Tristols diary - unfortunately, the link I had doesn't seem to be working. Would be cool if anyone could help with that?




There (will be) a Rakshasa in Storyhour #2 as well, fairly early on in the story.


----------



## Inconsequenti-AL

Shemeska said:
			
		

> There (will be) a Rakshasa in Storyhour #2 as well, fairly early on in the story.




Cool! Any relative of this delightful brother and sister team? Or is that wandering into spoiler territory...

I'm reading the 2nd story hour as well, but still playing catch up. 

Saw you suggest a link to this WoTC thread in the general forums - that ripvanwormer guy had some really great stuff. Got a shiny bookmark for planning my next campaign!


----------



## Shemeska

Inconsequenti-AL said:
			
		

> Cool! Any relative of this delightful brother and sister team? Or is that wandering into spoiler territory...
> 
> I'm reading the 2nd story hour as well, but still playing catch up.
> 
> Saw you suggest a link to this WoTC thread in the general forums - that ripvanwormer guy had some really great stuff. Got a shiny bookmark for planning my next campaign!




I won't answer that first question. 

And yes, Rip has some fraggin awesome stuff. I got the chance to have him in a game I ran at GenCon this year.


----------



## Dakkareth

Shemeska said:
			
		

> And yes, Rip has some fraggin awesome stuff. I got the chance to have him in a game I ran at GenCon this year.




I wonder ... where's the critical mass of awesomeness? Among the two of you it must have been close


----------



## Tristol

Inconsequenti-AL said:
			
		

> I wanted to read Tristols diary - unfortunately, the link I had doesn't seem to be working. Would be cool if anyone could help with that?




I can help you with that quite easily. Sorry about not getting back to you sooner, but I typically only check around on the weekends. Here's the URL for the diary, just remember that it goes quite a bit further into the future than the story hour is currently. I think the diary starts somewhere around here, or at least I back-wrote some of this stuff, so you should be able to follow allong now.

http://vulpes.foxpaws.net/~tristol/Tristol%27s%20Diary.pdf


----------



## Inconsequenti-AL

Tristol said:
			
		

> I can help you with that quite easily. Sorry about not getting back to you sooner, but I typically only check around on the weekends. Here's the URL for the diary, just remember that it goes quite a bit further into the future than the story hour is currently. I think the diary starts somewhere around here, or at least I back-wrote some of this stuff, so you should be able to follow allong now.
> 
> http://vulpes.foxpaws.net/~tristol/Tristol%27s%20Diary.pdf




No problem! Thanks for getting back to me about it! 

Saw mention of it earlier in the thread and want to give it a read now I'm up to date with the story hours. 

I'll try not to read further ahead than this has gone. But might fail my will save. 

Damn that joke makes me feel cheap.


----------



## Shemeska

*Familiar plane, different neighbors*

***​

	“Why do I have to carry the scaly b*tch?”

	That was the first thing that Skalliska heard when she regained consciousness. Her hands were bound behind her back and she was inside a rough burlap sack hefted over the shoulder of the owner of that first voice.

	She could hear her captors through the material of the bag, and it was the same group of men that had assaulted her in Sigil.

	“Because you’re the strongest.” Came one voice.

	“And the dumbest…” Another voice said, one that that obviously belonged to that damned quasit.

	“Scrappletoe be quiet.” Came the voice of its master.

	“But I…”

	“Shut up or I’ll make bets against you in the Bottle and Jug on Baatezu night.”

	That seemed to quell the demon more than a bit.

	“Should’ve gotten a normal familiar. A rat, or even a little bird. But no…” The sorcerer’s complaints faded away as he seemed to mess with something.

	The quasit bitched and moaned some more, but it was ignored as Skalliska listened more and tested out her bonds. They were tight, but not impossible to escape from.

	“A tuft of fur from an animal killed by poison. Interesting portal key…”

	Sh*t, they were leaving Sigil and going to who knew what plane. She was good as dead if they did. She couldn’t let them, and so Skalliska savagely fought against her bonds, struggling for a few brief seconds to get loose before she was knocked unconscious by a flurry of heavy punches. Had she managed to stay still for a few moments more she might have heard her captors discuss where they were going.

	“Well missy, serves you right, but hell if I care. We get paid pretty much regardless of what condition you arrive in.” The ogre said as he looked into the bag and tightened her restraints.

	Behind them the portal was open and glowing and the sorcerer gestured them through and out of Sigil.

	“Gentlemen, welcome to Carceri.”


***​

	Everyone was looking at Nisha. 

Well, they were after a few discordant minutes of violent cursing, some more futile attempts to scry her location, some time spent closing the inn and cleaning up the wreckage in the taproom, and the agreement among them all that they were going to immediately make any attempt needed to find the kobold.

	Then they all looked to Nisha.

	“What?” The Xaositect asked, pausing and glancing at everyone, wilting a bit under the sudden attention.

	“So…” Florian said, looking at her.

	“You’re our resident expert on the Hive.” Clueless said. “You know about this place in the Slags?”

	“That second word there – Slags – not – Hive-.” Nisha said, putting the Factol Hashkar doll on her shoulder and going into lecture mode. “Very different.”

	Kiro looked confused, both from being suddenly thrown into his current circumstances with people he barely knew, and from not having the slightest clue about what those people were talking about.

	“What are the Slags? And what’s the Hive for that matter.” The cleric asked tentatively, very obviously out of his element and wholly new to Sigil.

	“If you would Nisha.” Tristol said.

	Nisha stuck her tongue out and hugged the Hashkar doll. Back on the shelf the Factol Karan doll looked sullen and dejected, wearing a comic pout on its face.

	“Fine fine fine…” She said, launching into her explanation. “The Hive, where I grew up, it’s a giant slum, a shantytown, and altogether icky place with lots of easy marks.”

	Toras raised an eyebrow.

	“And by easy marks,” Nisha said smoothly. “I mean rich fiends who like to make donations to me to sooth their consciences.”

	Clueless chuckled and the tiefling continued.

	“Aaaaaand the Slags are a portion of the Hive that’s even worse.” She said. “But you’ll find that out shortly I suppose…”

	“Nisha had, or rather still does have, at least one get away on the border between the Hive and the Slags.” Tristol said.

	“Hey the land was cheap.” She said with a shrug. “And by cheap I mean nobody else is crazy enough to want it.”

	“You make the place seem dangerous, not just run down… why?” Kiro asked.

	“Random least Tanar’ri, vargouilles, undead, aaaaand cinnamon scented killing machines.” She said, saying the last part rapidly, glossing over it.

	“What was that last one again?” Kiro asked.

	“The Kadyx.” Nisha said.

	“Which is?” The cleric prompted.

	“Beats the hell out of me. No ones ever seen it… and lived…” Nisha said with a melodramatic shake of her hands and mock fright.

	“Every so often people show up dead in weird and crazy ways, murdered with extreme irony, and people just blame this thing called the Kadyx.” Nisha explained. “It’s probably just a bunch of random murders and an urban legend built up over the centuries.”

	“Well, we’ll not find out hopefully.” Tristol said as his ears drooped to either side.

	“Yeah, it’s probably just an urban legend.” Nisha said before pausing. “Or it might be an unstoppable fiendish horror from the Abyss.”

	They could only give a polite, nervous chuckle after that while Nisha detailed the route they would take, the preparations they would make, and what they expected to be waiting for them.


***​

	An hour later they were walking through Sigil’s urban wasteland known as the Slags. It was desolate, marked by dusty ashen soil, odd smells, centuries old rubble and the shells of collapsed and burned down buildings. The only signs of any life at all were scant numbers of insects, rats, tracks of some sort of fiend, some scattered bones of dubious origin, and a single cranium rat that watched them motionlessly from the edge of a ruined fountain, its exposed braincase glowing ominously.

	But nothing attacked them or truthfully saw any need to make itself known as they followed Nisha through the remains of the Slags, the ugly scar upon Sigil left behind in the wake of its only known Blood War spillover. The War Eternal had touched even the City of Doors, and once so marked, the carnage had simply festered and the wound upon the Hive had been abandoned, never rebuilt and never resettled for a multitude of reasons.

	“Grrrrr! I’m the Kadyx! Grrrrrr!” Nisha said as she took heavy, long stomping paces behind the others. “Run from my ironic gallows humor and fear my yummy cinnamon breath! Grrrrr!”

	Kiro looked back at Nisha surreptitiously and then walked up closer to Clueless, motioning back to the tiefling.

	“Is she, you know… all there?” He asked the bladesinger.

	“Grrrrrrrrrrr….”

	Florian snickered, overhearing Kiro’s question.

	“In a word: no.” She said. “But she’s ours.”

	Kiro just raised an eyebrow and glanced back at the Xaositect again.

	“She’s there enough.” Clueless said. “She’s not the amnesiac.”

	Kiro was left to ponder that as the bladesinger didn’t answer just who was.

	“Grrrrr! I am the urban legend that smells like a pastry shop! Grrrr!” Nisha gave a few more emphatic stomps before devolving into a few minutes of giggles.

	“She’s something alright.” The spindly cleric of Sutekh said with a chuckle.

	By the time Nisha had stopped laughing at herself, and come to dryly hope that ‘I hope the real Kadyx doesn’t show up’, they had gotten deep into the Slags and in sight of the building that the Rakshasa had directed them to.

	It had formerly been a temple of some sort, or perhaps a meeting hall for some organization. Regardless, it was now an empty shell of beige stone walls, open arches where doors had once stood, and a domed roof still covered over with blue ceramic tiles faded by the passage of years and the acrid Sigilian air.

	There was no sign of recent usage, or any footprints in the dusty soil to indicate that anyone else had arrived. Unless they had flown or teleported, and they realized this as they tentatively approached the open doorway, gazing into the dimly illuminated interior.

	Fyrehowl moved in first, and as she entered the empty interior of the building she saw only the age ravaged walls and floor, its once expansive mosaics worn down since its heyday, and there in the center of the room a fist sized, octagonal stone.

	“Guys, there’s something like a sensory stone in here and nothing else.” She said as she floated above the floor, wanting to avoid any possible traps that had been lain in wait for them.

	Fyrehowl approached the sensory stone and knelt to examine it.

	“Weird.” She said. “There’s something else…”

There was a spark on its surface and she dropped dead.


***​

	Skalliska regained consciousness and blinked, trying not to move and alert her captors. They were slowing down, talking, stopping for some reason.

	“That’s going to carry us all? You’re barmy.” One voice said, muffled as it was by the thick burlap of the bag Skalliska was in.

	“Complain about it too much and I’ll dump you over the side.” Came another voice.

	The ogre carrying her moved again and the ground seemed to shift, wobble, rock. There was the sound of lapping water. They were getting into a boat.

	“Dump me in the water and you’ll have a knife between your ribs.”

	“You can try.” The second voice said. “Who knows which parts of the swamp here are water and which parts are fed by a Styx tributary though.”

	“Dip in the Styx’ll do you wonders…” The quasit. “Now shut up before you attract a ‘leth.”

	Skalliska held silent and still as her captors boarded the skiff and pushed off from the shore. An hour or so passed before they began to talk again, presumably because they were getting close to the location of their employer, or somewhere safe from the normal natives of the plane. She’d managed to remain silent that entire time, slowly loosening her bonds and managing to get them to the point that with a quick burst of movement she’d be able to break free.

	“So how much are we getting as a bonus do you suppose?”

	“Hell if I know.”

	“Don’t say hell… pissant little plane…”

	“Tell your imp to shut up.”

	There was a low snarl from the quasit and some curse in Abyssal.

	“Insult my familiar and you insult me.”

	“Then I’ll insult you. One stiff breeze and you’d snap in half.”

	There was a sudden sizzling sound, a sharp cry, and a splash.

	“Our bonus is proportionately larger now gentlemen.”

	“All thanks to this little bitch in the end.”

	The quasit leapt onto the sack Skalliska was in, rubbing itself against the burlap exterior.

	“Tell Scrappletoe to please refrain from getting himself off on something I’m holding. You can’t kill me in one shot, not before I could kill you and him both…” The Ogre finally spoke.

	The ragged breathing and obscene thrusting from the quasit ended abruptly. The fiend hissed some minor curse and decided to take out its frustration, sinking its teeth into Skalliska through the bag. The poison was quick and the kobold blacked out in short order.


***​

	Fyrehowl opened her eyes with Florian standing over her and whispering the last fading bits of a prayer to her deity. She’d been dead, snuffed out. The b*stard had left a symbol of death waiting for them along with his message.

	“Son of a…” The lupinal snarled as she got to her feet. “Thank you Florian.”

	“Not a problem, I understand that first part wasn’t said to me.” Florian replied. “I’m just damned glad I’d memorized that today. It’s not something I ever wanted to have to use.”

	Fyrehowl gathered up the stone and glanced at it warily, half expecting another trap. The symbol engraved on the rock sparked and hissed as its dweomer faded and died. I had been just out of sight when they entered and set to trigger when they approached.

	Snarling and breathing heavily, Fyrehowl activated its message.

Siddhartha’s voice rumbled out of the stone, echoing around the domed shell of the building, a petulant, mocking croon.

“Alas,” The Rakshasa said. “Sigil lost its charms to me many years ago, and so I’ve taken the pleasure of leaving for more comfortable regions. Do follow indeed.”

	The Rakshasa, or its servitors, had left the stone there as a taunt, or as a death sentence if possible. Now that they stood within the center of the chamber they could see that the tile patterns upon the floor formed a bound space, presumably a portal to wherever the fiend was waiting for them; wherever it had Skalliska at his mercy.

	“The stone is the portal key.” Tristol said as he glanced at both of them for a moment, whispering the words of a spell.

	They nodded and drew their weapons. Each of them knew full well that there would be a likely ambush on the other side. The portal flickered a telling shade of scarlet and they emerged onto Colothys.


***​

	Siddhartha stood at the edge of a crumbling marble balcony, carved figures of petitioners and demons cavorting across surface in high relief: prisoners and torturers. Which one of them he felt more like at the moment was certainly up for discussion as a breeze smelling of rot and corpsethorn blossoms drifted up from the scarlet jungle lowlands below.

	The updraft ruffled the long hem of his robe as he inhaled deeply from the Gehreleth bone pipe at his lips. He savored the taste for a few long seconds before his whiskers twitched in amusement; he felt the portal alarm in the jungle trigger. Seconds later he smiled as he then felt the pair of symbols of pain at the same location activate as well.

	“A prelude.” He thought to himself. “A taste of what I have suffered because of your actions on the Astral.”

	He turned and glanced over at one of his servants who stood in the doorway behind him, motioning for the tiefling to approach as he slowly exhaled a thin stream of smoke from his nostrils and from between the fangs in his mouth. The pungent tobacco swirled in tiny eddies, seeming to take the form of dozens of screaming faces caught in the currents of ash and hot breath.

	“Prepare a full meal and a set of guest chambers for my guests.” He instructed in smooth, cultured tones that obscured the roiling hatred he felt. “They are competent and at least some of them are likely to survive to reach this place. Make them feel comfortable till I deal with them.”

	“Yes my lord.” The tiefling replied with utmost obedience as she was dismissed. Somewhere, lingering in the back of her mind was a tiny fragment of free will weeping against the influence of the blackened symbol burnt into her left hand.

	The Rakshasa snuffed his pipe and glanced out from the balcony where he stood. His eyes focused with a whisper of infernal and a wave of one paw. He saw his paid mercenaries approaching quickly by way of the boat left for their use; they were only a few miles away.

	“The sooner you mortals arrive, the sooner I can be done with you and have some satisfaction. The sooner I have this episode in my penance complete, the sooner I’ll be out from under her yoke.”

	He snarled with fury, tightened the silk rope around his waist and softly padded out of the room, the tip of his tail flicking side to side as he sought to calm himself. It would be worth the wait in the end.


***​

	They stepped out into the second layer of Carceri: Colothys the Scarlet Jungle. It was oppressively hot and the jungle surrounded them on all sides, growing up thick in all directions around the clearing they stood within. They could not see the sky through the roiling, snarled tangle of trees, vines and all manner of grotesque flowering plants. Bloodthorns, corpseblossoms, and even more esoteric varieties of deadly vegetation, they seemed to move and sway like cobras to the piping of a demonic jungle shaman, twitching on their own accord like they could smell the approach of bodies, soon to be corpses to feed their poisoned roots.

	It should have been dark. After all, the jungle blocked out the sky. But the jungle was lit crimson, like it was painted with blood, not from the sky but leaking up hot and sickly from the ground like the flesh of the plane was hemorrhaging.

	They warily glanced around, expecting at any moment for the jungle to come alive with rampaging beasts or psychotic Gehreleths. Their portal had been one way, and there was no evidence of a bound space or natural portal there in the clearing they had arrived in. But, as they adjusted to the bloody red corpse light of the plane, their eyes brushed over another glimmering rock, another message left for them to retrieve, and a pair of delicately placed symbols.

	The pain came quickly and lingered till their vision was dotted with floating, wandering spots of alternating color and darkness. They lay on the ground with bodies jerking in agony as the Rakshasa’s dweomers engulfed them. Some of them managed to resist the immediate wave of pain, shrugging off the effects in a manner of seconds rather than minutes, but they could do little but watch the others jerk, spasm and scream, waiting for the spell’s effects to end.

	“I’m getting tired of this a**hole.” Toras said as they all picked themselves off the ground, wincing at lingering traces of pain in limbs and joints where their muscles had pulled hard, nearly to seizure intensity.

	The fighter didn’t notice that anything was amiss, he wouldn’t have by virtue of what he was, neither did Tristol or Fyrehowl for the same reasons. Clueless didn’t notice anything either, the gem in his ankle did that thanklessly, a side effect of the intentions of its original creator’s intended purposes for him. But as the pain of the Rakshasa’s symbols faded, the others still felt something amiss, and it was growing.

	The air was thick with a stench of rot, a minute drizzle of pollen and sap that hung like a sickly mist, oppressive with the pungent, sharp tang of acid. Their eyes began to water within seconds, their faces grew flush, their breathing became more labored and stung with a taste like that of rancid vinegar on their tongues. Less than sixty seconds later their skin began to hiss, smoke and burn.

	“Holy hell!” Florian shouted as the acidic air burned into her skin as well as Nisha’s, and caused a slow corrosion to creep over the clothing of several of the others.

	Tristol leapt into action, calling to mind a simply protective dweomer to shield Nisha, Florian and Kiro from the very air of the layer they stood upon.

	Kiro waved him off gently as he folded his hands and inaudibly whispered some manner of prayer to his own deity, invoking the same protection upon himself.

	“Lovely place.” Fyrehowl said.

	“Why can’t this b*stard be a normal Rakshasa and live in Acheron?” Toras complained. “At least then we wouldn’t end up ruining our clothes just by walking around.”

"Because he's an exile." Tristol said. "Him and his sister both. For whatever reason back on Acheron they no longer have house or title, and so here they are."

"Popular place for exiles, Carceri." Fyrehowl said with a roll of her eyes and a twitch of her nose. The smell was getting to her more than the others.

"Better here than one layer up..." Clueless said with a shudder that drew a curious stare from Kiro. He brushed it off and didn't elaborate.

Tristol finished casting his protective spells and brushed some of the acidic sap off of his robes as Florian complained about the environs to Toras.

	“You worry about your clothes, I’ll worry about my skin and my lungs.” Florian said as she recovered from the brief exposure to the unmitigated fury of the scarlet jungle.

	Nisha knelt down and picked up the rock on the ground, a modified sensory stone intended to broadcast its message in a wide area, not just the one person activating it. She made a feline hiss and acted like she was a tiger before smirking, twitching her tail and tapping the vessel of their welcoming message.

	The stone contained a simple recorded voice message, polite on the surface but with an inflection of contempt. For the second time in a short period, Siddhartha’s voice washed out over them mockingly.

“Twelve miles to the north my children. Assuming… the jungles do not hamper your flight entirely too much, or the Gehreleths, or other creatures. But now, that would be the point of bringing you here would it not? To kill you most…deliciously?”

	“Well,” Kiro said. “He’s certainly full of himself.”

	“Couldn’t have said it better myself.” Florian said.

	The cleric of Tempus poked an elbow into the ribs of the cleric of Sutekh with a grin.

	“I’m starting to like you more and more.” She said.

	Kiro just shrugged and gave a weak smile. “It seemed appropriate to say at the time. If I said something wrong, I…”

	“Don’t worry.” Toras said. “None of us are going to dispute you on it.”

	Fyrehowl rubbed her nose. “No way in hell we’ll know where we’re going in that jungle. Twelve miles of blind wandering, and I don’t have a clue which direction is north.”

	“That’s the point I think.” Clueless said. “Tell us where he is, and then watch us fumble around getting ourselves killed trying to find the place.”

	“Fits him.” Tristol said as he looked around.

	“Go ahead scry boy.” Nisha said to the mage.

	Tristol’s ear’s swiveled around towards where the tiefling sat looking at him. He shook his head as he took out a mirror and whispered the words of a scrying spell.

Several minutes passed as they waited for the aasimar to determine where they where heading. Eventually Tristol squinted, gave an odd expression, and sighed.

	“There’s nothing there.” He said, throwing up his hands in frustration. “The whole area is blank. Wherever they have Skalliska, it’s warded the same way that they warded their operation in the Astral.”

	“Lovely.” Fyrehowl said, pacing back and forth and twitching her nose amid the sickly sweet aroma of the flora of the Scarlet Jungle.

	“There’s no way to break through the wardings or just concentrate and try to find some detail?” Florian asked.

	“I can try, but I really doubt it.” Tristol replied.

	“Wait,” Toras asked. “How big of an area are we talking about here that’s hidden from divinations?”

	“Something like 200 square miles?” Tristol said. “That’s a wild guess though.”

	The aasimar tried again at Florian’s suggestion, but eventually he gave up in disgust. It was honestly pointless. The power of the wardings was something that was clearly beyond his own ability to fracture, or even fully understand in the first place.

	Clueless pondered something before reaching into a bag of holding at his waist.

	“Hey,” The bladesinger said. “I’ve got an idea.”

	Clueless held a crystal ball in his hand, blood red, bordering on crimson near the surface in tiny internal flaws and fissures. It was the crystal ball that they had taken from the arcanaloth, ‘Parphinias’ during their siege of the (decoy) tower in Elysium’s layer of Belarian.

	Despite its unhealthy appearance, and its unholy origin, a tool was a tool. Plus, given that Tristol had not memorized any more scry spells for that day, Clueless figured that the object would serve his purposes nicely.

	“Didn’t you get that from that arcanaloth we killed?” Fyrehowl asked.

	“Yeah, the one that disintegrated Skalliska.” Clueless replied.

	“Points for the irony.” Nisha said, looking over from where she was picking flowers.

	“So why the scry globe?” Tristol asked. “I already tried to scry where she was, and the whole area is warded against it.”

	“Exactly.” Clueless said as he flicked his wings and began to ascend up above canopy of the jungle.

	“That doesn’t answer my question!” The aasimar shouted up at the bladesinger.

	“I’m not scrying on Skalliska. I’m not even looking for her at all. I’m looking for where she is or where she’d have been taken.” Clueless shouted down. “Wherever the warding is coming from, that’s likely where she is, and where the Rakshasa is too. I’m looking to see what parts of the jungle are warded and which aren’t.”

	Tristol thought for a moment before realizing the tactic.

	“Look for the boundaries of the wards and then head for the center.” He said. “And with the globe you don’t have to keep casting the spell over and over.”

	“Sutekh approves.” Kiro said as he gently kicked at a vine that was creeping out of the undergrowth and moving towards where Nisha was picking its blossoms.

	High above them, Clueless went about his task without difficulty, activating the powers of the scry globe. He spent the next fifteen minutes roughly plotting the boundaries of the warded region of the jungle, noting that it seemed to be centered upon a thickly forested plateau that rose up over the jungle perhaps twenty miles from their current location. To reach it, they would have to traverse the jungle, though several miles ahead the scarlet landscape seemed to change, giving them two alternate routes of travel. Towards the west it seemed to descend into a waterlogged lowland swamp, while to the east it opened up as the jungle receded before a strangely placid looking grassland. 

	“Alright,” Clueless said as he shifted his wings. The bladesinger drifted down on the pungent currents of air swirling over the jungle that smelled of rot, blood, and aromatic pollen, touching down next to where his companions stood casting wary glances at the unbroachable depths of the undergrowth.

	“About twenty miles from here is where the wardings seem to be centered, though it does shift a little bit and isn’t perfectly symmetrical.” Clueless continued. “That’s also where the land rises up into a nice vantage point.”

	They all nodded.

	“So then, let’s go.” Florian said. “I want a new rug for the inn before the end of the day.”

	And so, without complaint or any further ado they began to make their way into the depths of the jungle, heading northwards towards where the Rakshasa was waiting for them.

	Were that it was that simple however…

As they vanished into the rancid jungles Clueless put away his scry globe and thought nothing else of it. But something had. Something sparked and awoke in the bladesinger’s mind, germinating and taking root without the bladesinger being any the wiser. Two planes of existence distant, something watched with absolute amusement in the brief moments of time that it had to spare to such frivolities.


***​


----------



## Clueless

And lo - everyone grab your score cards - how many people are in Clueless's head *now*.... ?

(Yay! First post!)


----------



## demiurge1138

Two planes away... Gehenna or Pandemonium... considering where Clueless got the item, I'd say Gehenna. Curiouser and curiouser.

Demiurge out.


----------



## Gez

I love it when a villain is invinting the heroes to come and get him, thinking they'll be slain by traps and monsters in the meantime. These plans always backfire.  



			
				Shemeska said:
			
		

> And so, without complaint or any further adieu




Isn't it further ado? Adieu means farewell, they aren't leaving anyone behind, are they?


----------



## shilsen

Clueless said:
			
		

> And lo - everyone grab your score cards - how many people are in Clueless's head *now*.... ?




Whatever the number, I bet it's still less than the voices in Nisha's


----------



## Ohtar Turinson

My money's on the Keeper of the Tower Arcane, however you spell his zarking name.

Very nice as always Shemmy. I think I'll make this required reading for my new group, even though we aren't playing PS (trying an Eberron game, but the creeping horror and the "oops, you're screwed" fits Eberron just fine...)


----------



## Shemeska

Ohtar Turinson said:
			
		

> My money's on the Keeper of the Tower Arcane, however you spell his zarking name.




Well, you'll find out. 

FWIW, the cursed crystal ball was originally made as greedy kobold bait. I was kicking myself though when Clueless picked it up (for the whole 'multiple people inside Clueless' head' thing that has become a theme).

...

And re: Gez, you're right, edited to replace mismatched word.


----------



## Shemeska

Gez said:
			
		

> I love it when a villain is invinting the heroes to come and get him, thinking they'll be slain by traps and monsters in the meantime. These plans always backfire.




Hey, he's not doing too bad so far. He already killed one of them with a symbol of death (the player rolled a natural 1 on her save).


----------



## Gez

Natural 1 on save-or-die effects is something I know very well. My first (and so far only) D&D casualty as a player.


----------



## PhoenixDarkDirk

Somebody likes those symbol spells.

This has all been good reading.


----------



## Shemeska

No update this week, but to tide folks over till next week, here's a story I wrote for WotC's UnCon Fiction contest this week involving Larsdana Ap Neut, the predecessor and one-time lover of Helekanalaith.

The Dreamer and the Fiend 

And I have no idea if the story will win anything, or even how it compares to the other contest entries. There was a harsh word limitation on the story, and I'm going to rewrite and expand it in the future compared to the version there now.

*blink* I take that back, I actually won the contest! *glee!*


----------



## Dakkareth

> And I have no idea if the story will win anything




It did. What a surprise . Nicely done!


... not that the prize does much for you as you won the one before that, too .


----------



## Shemeska

*Nice kitty. Niiiiice kitty. Oh God it's eating my face!*

The jungle was alive, both in the metaphorical sense that its red shrouded depths and hidden places resounded with the suggestive drip of water and the rustle of unseen denizens, and the literal as well. The flora was attracted to the warm bodies that passed through it; blossoms that might open to a sun on the prime bloomed and keened towards the scent of passing creatures. Vines decorated with minute and delicate flowers would drift and coil out towards the sounds of footsteps, rows of barbed thorns revealed as they unwrapped, seeking to entrap and devour.

	“What the hell is wrong with evil people?” Toras asked as they cut their way through the jungle. “Why can’t they have their homes on sandy beaches with sunshine and cool breezes?”

	Kiro chuckled. “Keeps nosy neighbors from dropping in on you I suppose.”

	“Reminds me of my mom’s place…” Clueless said with a mild shudder. “And that’s not a good thing.”

	“Evil trees?” Nisha asked randomly.

	“Yeah, you could say that.” The half-fey replied. “Different climate, but yeah.”

	“Evil trees.” Nisha repeated with a giggle.

	They trekked through the scarlet jungle for nearly six miles without incident before they paused to rest. They were lucky, nothing had attacked them at that point, though they had to remain wary and watchful, hacking at or kicking away some of the more animate plant-life from time to time.

	“We’ve got a choice to make here shortly folks.” Clueless said as they slowed down and looked at him.

	The ground had been getting gradually moister for the past mile or so, the soil more spongy and giving to their footfalls. In short, the further they went in their current direction, they were heading towards a lowland swamp.

	The bladesinger pointed first in one direction, directly ahead, and then a bit off to the right.

	“First way is going to hit a swamp, probably a Styx tributary. The other way is going to hit more stable ground, but opens up into grassland. Neither of which is probably all that much safer in the long run.”

	“Yeah but I’d rather dodge things in tall grass where I can run, than get stuck in mud fighting things where I can’t.” Fyrehowl said. “Plus, you can fly over the grass. There’s no tree cover stopping you like in a swamp.”

	“Point.” Florian said.

	“Either way should be fine really.” Kiro said with deference. “Whichever you all decide.”

	“Swamp equals bad.” Nisha said, pointing towards her hooves. “I sink.”

	“You also float above the ground by about an inch.” Tristol mentioned.

	The tiefling stuck her tongue out at him.

	“I’m actually inclined to avoid a swamp too.” Clueless said. “Chalk it up to bad experiences with the Styx. Or something like that.”

	“Besides, like I said, we can always fly over the top of the grass.” Fyrehowl said. “If anything happens to be running around under it, they probably won’t be able to honestly reach us.”

	It sounded like a good idea at the time, and so they deviated off in the direction of the plain. Slowly, over the next hour the ground grew firmer, the jungle receded back, and they looked out onto a sea of razor edged grass. Twenty feet high, nothing could be seen lurking under the surface as the deadly flora swayed in the breeze with an otherwise almost tranquil quality.

	“Hmm.” Nisha said. “Maybe the swamp wasn’t so bad after all.”

	It had sounded like a good idea at the time.


***​

	The boat was slowing, Skalliska could tell as she regained consciousness. There was a soft lapping of water against the hull, a shudder and noise as the boat came to a stop. The boat rocked side to side and water slapped against wood as her captors stepped from the boat and onto the hard surface of what sounded like a dock of sorts.

	“Wasn’t so bad was it?”

	“Could have been better. Your damn quasit was making faces at me the entire time.”

	“ It’s ‘cause I like you…” The least fiend crooned out in a way both endearing and sickening at the same time.

	The ogre carrying her stepped onto the hard surface of the dock, or perhaps a stone platform nestled against the edge of the canal. The sound of their boots was hard, sharp, without the echo and rattle of wood. So yes, likely stone.

	“Hope you like stairs and switchbacks.”

	“Better than going through the jungle.”

	“It’s under a mile walk up to the top. Not bad at all. But with his money you think he’d make some magic to get us up there.”

	“How do you mean?”

	“You know. You’re the sorcerer, you explain it.”

	“Humor me.”

	“Magic us up the side of the plateau. Step on some magic rock, and bamf you’re there. Can’t fiends do that? Teleport things?”

	“Easier said than done. And Rakshasas can’t teleport like that. Only the true fiends can.”

	Skalliska was ignoring their banter as they began to climb up some sort of staircase. The sounds of their boots on stone hid the noise of her hands as she loosened the remaining knots on her bonds and began to weaken the threads in a patch of the sack that she was held within. Given time she’d have a hole in the sack, and given luck she’d be able to break loose and hopefully outrun her captors.

	Still, she didn’t know where she was on the plane, or how she’d get off of it. Plus they’d stripped her naked before tying her up. Running around a lower plane without equipment or clothing wasn’t a pleasant thing to contemplate.

	Some indeterminate period of time passed and they ascended up the side of the mountain, or whatever rise in the land they were seeking the top of, presumably where their employer was in residence.

	“So how much are we getting again?”

	“We’ll find out.”

	“Oh come on, you know. Tell us.”

	“You’ll be f*cking two whores a night for the next year. If that’s an indication.”

	There were some slow whistles as they continued. The ground leveled out, they quickened their pace. They were near to their destination. 

	“Alright… damn he’s got a big place up here…”

	“With his money you think he’d keep it something other than ruined though.”

	“You try keeping stone intact in this air. With this sort of jungle snapping at its foundations? Good luck with that. We’d be skeletons by now if he hadn’t given us protections against the environment.”

	“Alright. True. Hadn’t thought about that.”

	“Idiot…” The quasit sneered.

	Skalliska peered out through a hole she’d managed to gnaw in the side of the sack. The scarlet jungle only grudgingly seemed held back atop the mountain or plateau they stood atop, a sprawling palace of limestone and marble rising up from the bedrock with a breathtaking suddenness. There was jungle, and then there it was breaking free. Towers both intact and fallen pierced the sky above the treetops, all festooned with flowering vines that coiled like garrotes around thousands of figures: mortals, angels, and fiends alike, carved into the walls.

	They walked further, stepping into a paved courtyard before the columned main entrance of the palace. A single figure stood in the doorway, reclined casually against the pitted limestone that was badly eaten by the acid of the jungle’s proximity, though garbed in silk he seemed not to notice the harshness of the environment that must have been gnawing away at his home for centuries.

	“Greetings and welcome to my home.”


***​

	The grasslands were an illusion in superficial amber and green, windblown grasses undulating atop a scarlet ocean in whose depths and under whose waves predators swam. The sea of grass stretched out for miles upon miles out and away from the jungle behind them, and distantly they could see the mountain where the Rakshasa, and presumably Skalliska, were waiting.

	“Are we so sure that this is the best way to go?” Nisha asked cautiously as she looked at the swaying grass, tall as trees.

	“We can fly. It won’t be a problem really.” Tristol said with a smile as he started to cast the spell.

	Moments later they were all hovering a few feet above the surface of the grassy sea, their misgivings fading away as they slipped free from the bonds of gravity. Scarlet light leaked up from below, casting a reddish speckled shroud over them as they flew above the surface towards the plateau in the distance.

	A series of eight separate currents drifted through the sea of razored tall grasses, trailing the flying prey above, tracking them silently, growing closer and closer.

	There was a rustle from below a few minutes later.

	“Guys?” Florian asked suddenly as she glanced down at the placid, softly swaying grass below. “What was that?”

	No answer. The deadly carpet of grass below was silent but for the wind.

	“I can’t hear anything.” Fyrehowl said, glancing down.

	They shrugged and began to move again, letting their guard down for just a moment.

	There was a sudden flurry of noise from below and something shot up through the scarlet tinted grass. Like a cross between a rabid hyena and a porcupine, it snarled and cackled madly as its legs extended and it leapt towards Florian.

	“Holy!” Florian shouted as the fiend rocketed past her, its jaws snapping with bone crunching force on empty air as it narrowly missed her by inches.

	The razorgrass below them erupted into a chaos of snarls and cackling howls. Two more of the beasts burst through the top of the veldt and snapped at their intended prey, again missing only by inches.

	“Everyone fly higher!” Clueless shouted as once more another howler launched itself skyward.

	Ascending another twenty feet higher, they looked down and felt themselves momentarily safe. Looking closer they could see the trampled paths through the grass, see where the beasts had crept up on them, stalked them before pouncing.

	“Ok, maybe the swamp was better…” Tristol said, glancing at Nisha who wore an ‘I told you so’ look on her face.

	“No, we just let our guard down. Just, be on the look out.” Toras said.

	The razorgrass sea was calm. Pensive. Down below came soft growls, snarls and erratic barks. They were talking, thinking, planning.

	“Alright. We’re safe.” Florian said. “We just need to…GAH!!!”

	Florian screamed and clutched her side as a jagged, erratic hail of two to three foot long spines shot up from the grassy sea. Bony flechettes with barbed tips, Howler spines, they arced skyward and stabbed with the force of a horse’s kick into her and Fyrehowl.

	Another pause in the grass and a Howler came leaping up again, aiming for Florian as she drifted lower, the pain causing her to lose concentration on the spell keeping her aloft.

	“Watch it!” Toras shouted as he dove to intercept the fiend, stabbing it with a quick thrust of his blade and letting it crash down into the unseen depths below.

	The injured howler screamed in pain and spite back up at them, and the razorgrass rustled as it turned and fired another volley of jagged quills at them. But its injuries were great, and it was living on borrowed time. Its pack-mates were hungry, perhaps starving, and they smelled blood and opportunity.

	“Serves you right, you son of…” Florian cursed down at the blood-spattered frenzy below.

	She winced and cursed again a moment later as Kiro pulled the spine from her back where it was still lodged.

	Sorely tempted as she was, Florian held her spells in reserve, and so did the others.

	“You’ll need them more later.” Kiro said. “Save them for when you do.”

	Tristol glanced down at the Howlers as they left them behind to feed on their former sibling. Nasty creatures they were, deserving of a fireball, but the cleric was right and so he kept his instinct in check as they resumed their flight across the scarlet sea of grass.

	Nothing happened for another hour or two as they flew at a higher distance above the ground.

	“Guys. Stop.” Fyrehowl said, peering into the distance and keening her ears in the same direction.

	Something was moving beneath the grass, churning and grinding a huge swath of it underfoot. Like a wave, it rushed forward a constant, frightening speed, roughly perpendicular to them.

	“What is that?” Florian asked warily.

	It grew closer and they began to make out the sounds of its motion: harsh, angry, heavy, mechanical; eight heavy pounding noises of limbs crashing through the grass in rapid fashion, accompanied by the roar of engines and scream of metal on metal.

	“Guys, I don’t like whatever that is.” Nisha said nervously. “Whatever it is.”

	Something jerked above the level of the grass. A white and purple head and tip of a wing it seemed. There was a scream of gearwork and the swath of trodden grass shifting and changed direction. Whatever it was, it had seen them.

	They were waiting for it when it grew to within a few hundred feet and two creatures, escorts or handlers, Vrocks, flew up over the grass and into the open air. The two of them squawked angrily, spittle flying from their swollen tongues and jagged beaks as they screamed out curses and commands in Abyssal.

	Kiro and Fyrehowl dove near simultaneously as the Vrocks gave commands to the Retriever.

	A gargantuan spider of flesh and steel, hellfire and rage molded into physical form, the thing rose up over the surface of the razorgrass sea and fixed its eyes on the targets it had been commanded to obliterate. Eyes of jelly and crystal, living and mechanical at once, they narrowed, focused, and burned with light and fury as the construct rattled with the sound and fury of furnaces and capacitors.

	A bolt of lightning from one eye alone cut across the sky with a thunderclap that sent a wave through the grass with its force. A second eye let loose a horizontal column of liquid flame, igniting a swath of the grass and incinerating the path before it. A third eye spat a line of blistering, boiling acid through the sky.

	Thought left and instinct took its place. Pain, injury and urgency had caused the former to become superfluous.

	Tristol would remember hurling a fireball at the massive Tanar’ri construct while Fyrehowl hurled a cone of ice at one of the two Vrocks. Toras had vague recollection of being caught by a bolt of lightning that drove him backwards and rattled his teeth with its force even as the bolt ran through his body and caused him no harm. Clueless and Florian would both hurl spells at both the Vrocks and the massive Retriever, though Florian would mostly recall wondering openly why she was never taught such things in her temple when she watched Kiro cut the wings off of one of the pair of Vrocks and send it screaming to the ground in a hail of feathers of spores.

	Scorched and bleeding they looked down at the trampled, burning expanse of bloodied veldt below them. Their own injuries, some of them severe, were ignored as they exhaled and hung there in the air, more than a bit stunned at what they had just done and at the devastation below them spread out like a mad artist’s nightmare tableau. One Vrock was dead from a dozen slashes and covered in sorcerous burns, the other somehow still alive and writhing in impotent agony on the ground, clutching madly for its own severed wings as it bled to death. Between them though lay the broken and battered Retriever, its shattered gears still spinning away madly inside, the furnaces growing cold and its infernal engines ticking away to likely detonation in the next few minutes.

	They were a mile away when they did, seeing the flash a moment before the blast wave rocked them forwards and sent a spherical shock through the grassy sea below them.

	Nisha glanced back at the burning Retriever behind them. “Anyone else think taking on the Rakshasa again might be anticlimactic after that?”

	“That was satisfying.” Toras replied. “Always room for more. Don’t worry.”

	“We’ll be fine.” Kiro replied with a humble smile. “Sutekh will watch over us. He has thus far, and will continue to.”

	No one could argue with either of them.

	Within the hour they reached the edge of the plain where it grew rocky and the highland plateau rose up above them. Dimly, in the distance, the wreckage of the Retriever belched a column of smoke into the sky and billowed erratic bursts of flame out into the grass to ignite a local inferno. It would likely attract attention, but they were far enough away that it spared them the unwelcome notice of any other denizens of the plane.

	They hovered a safe distance above the shifting grass and took appraisal of their situation.

	“We’ll be noticed easily if we just skirt up the side of the mountain.” Fyrehowl said. “We’ll probably attract more predators too.”

	At that, most of group glanced up into the darkness overhead where the scarlet light of the ground grew pale, swallowed up by the void overhead. Distantly, high in the distance, crimson stars stood against the sackcloth sky like drops of blood against the ebony flesh of Carceri itself. Anything could be up there lurking in the darkness, held aloft on leathery wings or sorcery; anything could be waiting to dart down upon unsuspecting prey.

	“You’re right.” Clueless said. “We should stick close to the rock itself. There’s more light there and we’ll at least be able to see anything coming for us.”

	“Anyone else have a better idea?” Florian asked.

	Tristol shook his head. “I’d say a dimension door but I don’t have enough of a clue of the top of the plateau to risk it. Normally I could just scry, but…”

	“Stupid Rakshasa.” Nisha said.

	Kiro pointed to a spot of shadow nestled between a narrow furrow in the stone and a minor rockfall: a cave mouth.

	“Then how about we go into the mountain itself and work our way up?” He suggested. “The rock is pretty soft it looks like, and with the type of rain you’ll probably find the whole mountain riddled with caves from top to bottom.”

	Clueless nodded and the others were quick to agree.

	“The only problem might be finding a passage large enough to navigate, but I think we’ll be lucky, Sutekh willing.”

	Kiro drifted over to the cave mouth, glanced inside briefly and seemed to whisper a prayer of sorts.

	“We’ll be fine.” He said.


***​

	Siddhartha stood in the doorway of the ruined palace, looking down at them with some small measure of impatient disdain. Behind him, his tail flicked side to side in a predatory gesture. His hired mercenaries didn’t see it coming. They were blinded by their greed.

	“We have her. The kobold you wanted.” The sorcerer called out to the fiend.

	The ogre hefted the sack holding Skalliska. Inside, the kobold could see scarlet light filtering up through the frayed stitches in the side of her burlap prison. One swift motion and she’d be free. But did she dare make the attempt with the Rakshasa standing so close?

	“So go ahead man, let’s see the gold.” One of the other mercenaries said as they all walked up to the fiend, crossing the courtyard between them.

	Siddhartha smiled as they did so. Under his sight the courtyard was not the battered field of weathered, acid pitted flagstones grown weary and settled over a millennia of existence. Under his sight the courtyard did not leak scarlet light dimly through the cracks, it was not spotted with hungry, poisonous weeds and clumps of angry red moss. Under his sight the courtyard was illuminated by the overlapping lines of dozens of spells, racing like razor slashes into an exposed arm, bleeding up magic like welling venous blood, pooling in the courtyard’s center where the mercenaries were walking.

	“One of you is missing.” The Rakshasa stated, his voice a soft rumble like approaching thunder. “Dead I assume?”

	“Yes. An accident...” The sorcerer said warily. “Is that a problem?”

	“No.” Siddhartha replied. “It simply means the rest of you split the payment one way less.”

	Several of the mercenaries laughed and smacked each other around in celebration. Their pre-emptive jubilation echoed across the courtyard.

	“Give me the kobold and I’ll give you your payment as we agreed.” The Rakshasa said as he watched them approach. He was hungry for what would come.

	They walked further, stopped next to the ruined reflecting pool in the courtyard. It was filled with tangles of water lilies growing somehow in the muddy, tainted water that they were suspended in. Siddhartha watched as their movements broke the lines of the wardings one by one, snapping them like cords supporting a heavy weight, putting tension on the others, building to a critical point where they would simultaneously collapse and trigger. There was a smile on his face, anticipation if anything to the pointless slaughter approaching.

	The sorcerer strode a few steps ahead of his fellows who were still slapping each other on the back and already speculating about how they’d be spending their newfound wealth. It was a substantial amount certainly. The Rakshasa was still staring at them.

	“She’s here in the bag.” The aasimar said. “Pay us and you’ll have her for whatever you want.”

	“Certainly.”  Siddhartha purred and smiled.

The last line snapped like a taught string.

	The quasit on its doomed master’s shoulder suddenly tensed and looked up at the Rakshasa. He saw something there in those eyes, something unexpected, something terrible beyond expectation. The quasit screamed as the wards collapsed and triggered.


***​

	Be it divine prescience or blind luck, Kiro was right about the caves. They ascended up into a maze of meandering passages, each eaten away by the action of dripping acidic rainwater over centuries or millennia. Tristol and Toras both held conjured balls of light aloft to light their way, and after an hour of slow, cautious ascent they had yet to run into anything dangerous.

	“Any idea of which way to take guys?” Florian asked. “The higher we go there’s more and more splits in the passages.”

	Fyrehowl sniffed at the air and gave a good, hard look down several of the tunnel branches.

	“Can’t really say for sure. There’s a weird scent down some of them though.” The lupinal said.

	Kiro paused and sat down on the stone, taking out a bit of cloth, a bit of flint and a dagger.

	“Normally there’s going to be a draft through the tunnels if there’s an opening up top since the air at the base of the caves was much warmer than presumably up top.”

	The cleric struck a spark and ignited the tip of the cloth. The flame shed a warm yellow-orange glow across them all and fluttered in multiple directions. There seemed to be multiple paths to open air above.

	Fyrehowl’s ears perked and swiveled a split second before a few pebbles clattered down from a passage some ten feet above them.

	“That light’ll attract someone you know.” Came a voice from above, calm and measured, human.

	Kiro looked up, holding the flame higher to illuminate the source of the voice. A dirty man in rags sat there looking down at them. He had a slight furtive air about him, but he was smiling.

	“Indeed. And it did.” Kiro said to the stranger as Toras moved his own light into place.

	The cleric extinguished the flame with another whispered invocation to his deity.

	“Who are you?” Clueless asked the man.

	“Garret. At least that’s the name I go by.” The man said, making a wave to them all.

	“And you live here?” Tristol asked.

	The man glanced around and shrugged. “If you want to call it living I suppose. Surviving is more like it.”

	Fyrehowl leaned over towards Toras and whispered. “Petitioner. Don’t trust him. Not on this layer of the plane. Not ever.”

	“You know these caves then?” Florian asked.

	“More than you might think. What’s it worth to you then?” He said, holding out his palm. “You’re trying to find a safe way through this place, and I know where to go and where to avoid going at all costs. I’m willing to share that information perhaps.”

	Toras removed a ring from one of his fingers. A ring of feather fall, he didn’t particularly need it since he was flying rather than climbing.

	“How about this then?” The fighter asked, holding the ring up into the path of the light.

	The petitioner’s eyes glittered with momentary greed. The ring was a slim band of band topped with a swirling bit of carved filigree, and it glittered with a slight dim glow of magic. Though the man was not a mage, or trained in magic, he could tell it was valuable.

	He paused as if thinking, perhaps hoping to get a better offer. None came, but it didn’t matter, because in the back of his head was the knowledge of where he’d be leading them, and knowing that after their flesh was picked clean, he’d have his choice of what was left intact.

	“That works for me.” He said.

	Kiro took the ring from Toras and drifted upwards to hand it to the their newfound guide.

	The man happily snatched the ring from Kiro’s hand.

	“Follow me and I’ll see you to the top.” He said, gesturing to one of the passages. “Trust me, I know these caves.”

Kiro smiled back. “Lead on.”


***​

	Skalliska stared from the underbrush of the jungle at the smoking, bloody devastation that speckled the courtyard of the Rakshasa’s palace. Smoking corpses lay strewn about in a lingering haze of ozone, acid fumes, and smoke. Several of them had been turned to stone and them shattered by subsequent spells, the broken pieces tossed about to litter the courtyard like the fallen petals of jungle flowers. It had to have been a dozen prismatic sprays at the very least: pointless gloating overkill.

She dared not breath nor utter a word as she hid in the undergrowth. She had run there blindly in a panic after she had heard the first screams from her captors as their employer betrayed them. She hadn’t managed to completely free herself from the burlap sack; only her legs had been free to allow her to run, but it had probably afforded her enough cover to somehow escape the spelltrap that had slaughtered her captors.

Naked, she looked over the gory aftermath, hiding herself partially under the burlap sack and partially beneath the fronds of some sticky, rancid smelling vine covered in orange blossoms. The Rakshasa smiled and floated over the bloody remains, pausing to gesture at the sorcerer’s electrocuted corpse.

	Skalliska watched as it whispered and gestured, levitating the body up into the air, running a claw over the back of the dead man’s hand. Blood welled up from the scratch of the claw in soft flesh and erupted into flames, burning a symbol in place, cauterizing and blackening skin and subcutaneous fat.

	The eyes of the corpse shot open, he jerked and whimpered.

	Skalliska darted into the bushes and never looked back. She was free, that was all that mattered. She only paused to rest a few hundred yards away, fully out of sight of the palace and its fiendish master.

	“Holy…” She whispered breathlessly on the heavy, pungent air. “Kidnap nothing, he didn’t give two sh*ts about me. He just wants all of us dead for screwing with his work in the Astral, but he wanted to do it himself. Now how the hell do I get out of Carceri…”

	Her exposed skin began to sizzle and burn. 

Her eyes widened.

	“Oh bloody hell!”

	She dove back into the burlap sack, having far more to immediately worry about than escaping.


----------



## shilsen

Very nice! Revenge is a dish best served ... well, any which way 

And a minor correction:



			
				Shemeska said:
			
		

> Nisha glanced back at the burning Retriever behind them. “Anyone else think taking on the Rakshasa again might me melodramatic after that?”




Did you mean anticlimactic, instead of melodramatic? Also, "be" instead of "me".


----------



## Ryltar

Nice update, once again . I guess the "high grass" scene was (at least somewhat) inspired by the 'raptors in Jurassic Park (2, I think it was)?

Oh, and what did you do to the retriever - did you "template" it somehow, or was it just a fluff change? That was seriously wicked imagery .

Taking a page out of Gez's book:


Spoiler



Some minor nitpicks and typo corrections:
 A bolt of lightning from one eye alone cut across the sky with a thunderclap that send a wave through the grass with its force --> should probably be sen*t*

A second eye let loose a horizontal column of liquid flame, igniting a swatch of the grass and incinerating the path before it --> swa*th*

Nisha glanced back at the burning Retriever behind them. “Anyone else think taking on the Rakshasa again might me melodramatic after that?” --> might *be*

It was filled with tangles of water lilies growing somehow in the muddle, tainted water --> muddle*d*


----------



## Shemeska

*And fixed those typos too.*



			
				Ryltar said:
			
		

> Nice update, once again . I guess the "high grass" scene was (at least somewhat) inspired by the 'raptors in Jurassic Park (2, I think it was)?




Yes. The Howlers in the grass were directly inspired by that scene. 



> Oh, and what did you do to the retriever - did you "template" it somehow, or was it just a fluff change? That was seriously wicked imagery .




No, it was just a big Retriever. A -really- big Retriever. I don't think I added any templates to it, the descriptions of the fight were just flavor to spice it up.


----------



## Ectoplasmoid

Out of curiosity, what level are the characters at this point?

Are all of your games like this?


----------



## Clueless

13ish? Something like that. Maybe 14.

And yes. He has an intensely immersive game technique, which shows most strongly in the retelling of the story. At the table we roll just as many dice as the next group, but we also consider the acting and character development, so scenes and plots like this develop easily. (Check the SH2 for some of that as well, that's what we're currently playing.)


----------



## dostum

> The quasit on its doomed master’s shoulder suddenly tensed and looked up at the Rakshasa. He saw something there in those eyes, something unexpected, something terrible beyond expectation. The quasit screamed as the wards collapsed and triggered.




 

Awesome. Absolutely awesome. Can't wait for the next installment!


----------



## Dakkareth

Second page? Blasphemy!

Now to reading ...

Ahh, the smell of sorcery and blood in the morning. It's good to be a Rakshasa. Unless you have some PCs as enemies, then it sucks. Or will suck at one point.


----------



## Hellraider

*Just my humble opinion...*

Well, about one comment done looong ago on the thread, about the similarity between Clueless and the Nameless One (From Planescape Torment).
My 2 cents... In my new, badass, dumb, funky drunkard style:

Drunkard: Nuthin´ like drinkin´ a few kegs outta Styx water, the one that makes you forget all your probs, ´n then findin´ yerself all a high ´n´ mighty guy thrownup in the potential core of the mult´ verse´s treets, so someone gives ye a hnd n explains ya effrthing!
Pecially f your new to Plan Escape! Hey, bartender, twoo more roooo... teern... passes... sets of mug... eh... drink... liquid... uh... strong funny-tasting planar drink made out of rasos... rose... sharp unhealthy local plant plague!  
Bartender: Sure... hey, what´s with you, you haven´t draught nothing yet and you´re drunk already! :\ 
Drunkard: Me´s gotta weird accent, ven there in Zigg... Zagg... Funny sigilrock-based, importation-built ring-in-the-top-of-the-spire city...! Mean no harm anyway.
(Focus on the bartender´s face)  
Bartender: I hope you have enough jink to pay for it. :
Drunkard: ... Actually, nope. Nevermind. Just gotta quest-shuns, eh... wherr doI join the Xebosi... Cabosti... Travesti... Funny-acting chaos-encased guys?  
Bartender: I dunno. They are actually too weird to talk to. :\ 
Drunkard: I can´t bello...! truest....! booy...! uh... think it´s true! Anyway, let m´ sniff that stuff. I´m from a race that drinks by smelling ´em.  
Bartender: Then this is your bill... you smelled these things under MY stablishment.  
Drunkard: Eh... Tell me about the Lady of Serenity.  
Bartender: Do you want problem so SOON?  
Drunkard: True that she mazes you when you worsheep... venerable...  give her your faith and belief? :\ 
Bartender: I don´t know nor want to know. Your bill...,
Drunkard: Wait a while...  
(Produces a bladed rag doll from his pockets, and begins whispering something)
(Focus on the bartender´s face)
Bartender: Don´t do that here...  
(Refocus on the drunkard´s chair. Empty, and several crickets are playing)
Bartender: Now that was a barmy blood... Todd! You cannot make cricket juice with live crickets!


----------



## Dakkareth

Well, to a brave (and by that I mean totally barmy) bobber bringing out the Her Serenity doll could work nicely to avoid paying the tabs. "Yeesh, ok, I'll leave your bar. No idea what you're saying about blood stains on your floor, but whatever ..."

Of course, the real trick lies in knowing when to stop. Hint: That's not dependant on the barkeepers' moods .

Grrr, that 'LoP flaying a worshipper' smiley is hard to find ...


----------



## Clueless

Unfortunately. That just wouldn't work with the Jammer's bartender.


----------



## IcyCool

*checks calendar*

You still there Shemmie?

*waits hopefully for storyhour update to either this story hour or #2*


----------



## Shemeska

*I feel like a crack dealer *



			
				IcyCool said:
			
		

> *checks calendar*
> 
> You still there Shemmie?
> 
> *waits hopefully for storyhour update to either this story hour or #2*




#2 got updated last week, and this week #1 will get an update, likely Friday evening/Sat morning. I've also been somewhat preoccupied with another Baernaloth cycle story, and a little something called a thesis defense here in the next month or so.


----------



## Clueless

*taps foot impatiently*


----------



## Bryon_Soulweaver

*With Clueless*


----------



## IcyCool

*taps foot in time with Clueless and Byron*

Say, that beat is kinda catchy!


----------



## FreeXenon

*taps foot in time with Clueless, Byron, and IcyCool*

*Starting to clap hands*


----------



## Clueless

*starts up a rythmn line from Tool's Triad*


----------



## Dakkareth

*is absolutely clueless p) but joins in anyway*


----------



## Shemeska

***​

	“No, turn right up ahead.” The petitioner said. “And watch for the loose rocks. They tend to collect there from the shaft above.”

	“You seem to know a lot about these caves.” Clueless commented.

	“I live here.” Their guide replied. “It’s expected.”

	Nisha nearly hit her head on a sudden outcrop of rock as the tunnel grew tighter.

	“Waaaatch your head.” The petitioner warned them.

	Fyrehowl was still as alert as ever. She didn’t seem to trust the man in the slightest, and she kept glancing at him sidelong when she didn’t think he was looking. The petitioner ignored her and kept steering them through the maze of tunnels, ever so slowly rising higher and higher through the passage-riddled limestone of the mountain.

	As they walked, the guide periodically slipped on the ring they had given him, testing it with a giddy expression on his face. He’d activate its magic and hop up in the air at which point the ring would take effect and cause him to ever so slowly drift down to solid ground. It was certainly useful to him, and he was seemingly overjoyed with his luck.

	“We only have about another twenty minutes of walking left.” He said, pointing them down yet another junction in the tunnel.

	Overjoyed was just a start. His eyes were nearly bugging out of his head at the total amount of finely crafted and likely magical equipment his eventual victims were openly carrying. But he could wait. The Bebeliths would kill them soon enough after he and they parted ways.

	“So, where are we headed?” Toras asked.

	Kiro smiled happily at their guide while Fyrehowl continued to regard the petitioner with suspicion.

	“Just up this tunnel the rock will start to change color.” He replied. “At that point you’ll only have a short way to go before you reach the top, and we’ll be parting ways.”

	They nodded and followed him. Soon enough the rock shifted from white, water smoothed limestone to a rougher stone discolored by the influx of acids and organic compounds from the jungle above. The passage angled up more and more as they progressed, and eventually their guide paused and motioned them on.

	“There you go.” He said. “From here it’s a straight shot to the top.”

	“Thank you.” Kiro said.

	“No thanks needed.” He said with a shrug. “I helped you because you paid me. That’s how things work down here.”

	He bowed to them, putting especial emphasis on Fyrehowl, and then he was gone, swallowed up by the yawning darkness of the cave network that riddled the mountainside.

	They waited till he was fully gone to proceed. Fyrehowl continued looking at the darkness for a few more moments, half expecting their guide to return with a group of his fellows in ambush. Kiro patted her on the back though and dissuaded her of the concern.

	“Don’t worry about him.” The cleric said. “Sure he’s a Carcerian petitioner, but…”

	“Which makes me implicitly not trust him.” Fyrehowl replied.

	“We’re fine with him.” Kiro tried to reassure her. “I’d just worry about where he’s sending us.”

	“We’ll find out.” Florian said as she proceeded up the tunnel.

	Ahead in the darkness, their voices bounced off of the walls and carried far ahead of them. And there in the darkness, a pair of creatures were listening. Tiny hairs twitched and responded, focusing on the sounds, and multiple eyes blinked and gazed out into the shadows. The Bebeliths lurked and waited.

	As they continued their climb, they quickly began to notice tatters of thin, gossamer material on the floor of the passage, and strands of gooey rope-like silk on the ceiling and covering smaller side passages.

	“Guys.” Fyrehowl said. “That’s not good.”

	“To say the least…” Tristol said as he sent his light hovering out a few more feet ahead of the group.

	Kiro peered over his shoulder warily.

	“I felt it too…” Fyrehowl said.

	“We’ve been screwed over by that damn petitioner…” Clueless said.

	“Told you so.” Fyrehowl said with a soft snarl.

	A soft scuttling sound echoed through the caves, muted by the presence of the webbing. Something was out there, following them, likely hedging them into specific tunnels as they found others blocked by webs.

	“One’s behind us.” Kiro said as he drew his swords. “Be ready, there’s probably more than one.”

	They were prepared, barely, when two massive Bebeliths burst into the tunnel, one on each side. The spider-like fiends barely fit into the passage, both penning their victims in except for webbed over side tunnels, and limiting their own maneuverability.

	Clueless struck first, hurling a bolt of lightning into the gnashing mandibles of one of the two fiends, causing it to screech and lash out randomly. Tristol and Florian went next, both of them hurling spells into the open maw closing in on them despite its wounds. They left it a smoking, twitching corpse seconds later.

	The other Bebelith twisted and a shower of thick, liquid silk splattered from its abdomen across the tunnel, holding Florian and Clueless fast to the walls, bound up in the webbing. The others though managed to avoid the sticky strands or they cut themselves out of it in mere moments.

	Emboldened, not hampered by the webs, Toras charged. It struck first, its legs ripping into the fighter’s chest with the sound of rending metal before it hurled him backwards. Toras didn’t seem badly hurt, but his armor had been torn apart and lay in fragments on the ground.

	“Son of a b*tch!” He shouted, as Fyrehowl and Kiro dashed past him to stab at the remaining fiend.

	It was over seconds later, and glancing gingerly at the twitching corpses penning them in, Florian began to heal the wounds the creatures had managed to inflict. In the meantime, Kiro and Fyrehowl opened up the webbing blocking one of the side passages, given that the two Bebelith corpses were blocking their current passage fully with their bulk. Toras however was not happy, and he growled as Nisha patted his shoulder.

	“Oh hells…” Toras said as he picked up the torn and mangled remains of his breastplate.

	The armor was damaged beyond recovery, and the fighter sulked miserably as he looked at the massive gouges scored deep into the metal caused by the Bebelith’s claws.

	“Hey, some of us get along quite well without all that much armor.” Nisha said. “Besides, now you won’t clank so much when we need to be sneaky.”

	“I don’t clank.” He replied before he kicked the dead Bebelith with a pronounced rattle of metal.

	Nisha stared at him with a cockeyed glance.

	“Take it out on the tiger headed jackass we’ll be finding shortly.” Florian said, trying to console him.

	Toras shrugged and grumbled.

	It was then that Kiro paused as if he’d suddenly remembered something. The cleric reached into his pocket and took something out.

	“Oh, Toras.” He said. “Here’s your ring back by the way.”

	“Excuse me?” Toras asked.

	“Here you go.” Kiro said, putting the ring into Toras’s hand. “I figured our guide was going to screw us over so I swiped your ring from him and slipped him another one.”

	Nisha gave Kiro an appreciative glance. “I approve!”


***​

	“Well,” The petitioner said as he sat down on the edge of a steep chasm in the rock. “They actually fell for it.”

	He threw back his head and laughed. Either they had assumed him bought off by the ring, or too outnumbered to stab them in the back; perhaps they simply hadn’t known how the world worked quite like he understood it. Betrayers and the betrayed, that was all there was in the world, and he knew clearly which side he was on.

	“About now the Bebeliths should be getting full on your flesh.” He continued with a chuckle.

	Greed danced in his mind as he considered the likely pickings he’d find after the Bebeliths were done ripping the flesh off of the corpses. As they always had, they left behind anything they couldn’t eat, and this time he’d be plundering a king’s ransom if his guesses were right. 

He relaxed and gave a contented sigh, spinning the paltry little ring on his finger that they had willingly given him. But for the moment there was nothing to do but wait. It wouldn’t be safe to intrude upon the feasting Bebeliths for several hours, and even then he’d have to take multiple trips to plunder the remains.

	“Got what was coming to me.” He said with another laugh as he pushed off the side of the shaft to enjoy his new toy.

	He dropped like a stone. He screamed and scrambled madly for a handhold, but found none as he tumbled. A second before he plummeted the final three hundred feet down to his death, he noticed that the ring on his finger wasn’t the same one that he’d been handed originally.

	Somewhere else, Kiro was smiling.


***​

	It took them another thirty minutes of blind wandering to find their way out of the tunnels and up onto the plateau above. Mostly it was less true wandering than simply cutting their way through the Bebelith webs that were strung up across a majority of the passages they had to pass through. But eventually they did, and they stepped out of a shallow rocky opening, swathed in layers of sticky, debris-laden silk.

	“Normally we’d emerge up into bright sunlight and fresh air.” Florian said. “And we’d be happy.”

	“Yeah well, we’ll have to make do with crimson light and sticky acidic air.” Clueless said.

	“Oy…” Florian replied as she climbed up and into the jungle.

	“And yes Nisha, you’re very scary as a spider.” Tristol said, glancing up at Nisha.

	Nisha grinned and got down from the clump of webs she’d been perched in, moving her hands like spider mandibles next to her mouth. The others had blissfully ignored her for the most part, usually that worked, it didn’t help to encourage her.

	The jungle that shrouded the top of the mountain wasn’t nearly as thick as that in the lowland basin. They praised this point as they made their way slowly and cautiously towards the area that was located at the center of the wardings that extended over miles upon miles of the scarlet lit layer.

	A short time later they emerged onto a thin path that cut through the jungle, running alongside the edge of the plateau. Paved in eroded flagstones, the group slowly progressed along its length, looking down periodically over the side at the swampy lowlands below. Deadly choking acidic clouds hung like mobile ornaments, drifting over the jungle canopy below, almost sublime if not for the horrors they knew dwelt beneath.

	“Stop!” Fyrehowl suddenly hissed, holding up a hand in warning.

	“What?” Tristol asked.

	The guardinal paused and knelt down, pointing to a vine stretched across the path. The vine had tension, almost like it was some sort of crude, improvised tripwire.

	“That would be a trap.” Nisha said.

	“Or an alarm.” Kiro said, motioning to a set of metal scraps and rocks tied into the vine just off the side of the path.

	“Wow.” Toras said. “The Rakshasa must have really blown his budget with his early traps. By the time we reach him he’ll just have some shallow holes to make us trip, or perhaps some buckets of water over doorways…”

	“I don’t buy it…” Clueless said.

	“Don’t buy it?” Toras asked.

	“It’s out of place.” The bladesinger replied.

	Kiro shrugged, stepped forwards and tugged on the vine. It rattled and made noise.

	“And now we wait for the fiends to jump out and kill us…?” Florian mused.

	Something burst out of the undergrowth.

	“It’s a bag with legs holding a spear! Run!” Nisha screamed.

	“…Skalliska?”	 Fyrehowl said as the thing in a bag ineffectually jabbed a spear at them in a vaguely threatening manner.

	“Why are you wearing a potato sack?” Nisha asked.

	The sack with legs and a spear paused and mumbled, lowering its weapon.

	“How the hell did you get out here Skalliska?!” Toras exclaimed.

	The bag mumbled again.

	“Oh for…” Florian said as she yanked the bag off of Skalliska.

	“No no no!” The naked kobold shouted. “Acid!”

	“Oh sh*t!” Florian said, stuffing Skalliska back in the bag as the kobold started to sizzle.

	Tristol bit his lower lip and tried to avoid snickering as he muttered the words to a spell, granting the kobold the same resistance as the rest of them had.

	“What happened to your clothes?” Nisha asked.

	Skalliska paused from hugging Florian long enough to answer.

	“I never thought I’d see you all again. Some b*stards grabbed me in Sigil and tried to drag me to that damn Rakshasa.” She said. “How’d you know to come after me?”

	“Some others tried to kill us as well.” Clueless said. “The Rakshasa sent us a note claiming he had you and that he’d kill you if we didn’t follow his instructions.”

	“Who’s he?” Skalliska asked all of a sudden, looking at Kiro.

	Kiro smiled politely and bowed his head.

	“That’s Kiro. He got involved in all of this pretty much by chance.” Fyrehowl said. “We’ll formally introduce you two later.”

	“He’s cool.” Florian said, smacking the other cleric happily on the back.

	Kiro chuckled and gave a fairly humble smile. “I like to think that I’ve been useful.”

	“So how did you escape?” Clueless asked.

	“I got loose just as they met up with the Rakshasa.” Skalliska explained, glancing warily in the path’s direction behind her. “He killed them all.”

	Fyrehowl blinked.

	“Killed them?” She asked.

	“In pretty spectacular fashion…” The kobold replied.

	“So that’s where your clothes went?” Nisha asked.

	Skalliska paused. “Yes. That’s where my clothes went. Good to see you too Nisha. The kidnappers took everything on me, including clothes. I was too busy avoiding prismatic sprays to look for where they had them.”

	Nisha grinned without a care in the world.

	“Back to the Rakshasa though…” Toras said. “Where is he?”

	Skalliska pointed back along the path.

	“Follow me…”


***​

	They stepped into the courtyard behind Skalliska. The bodies of her captors were gone with not a spot of blood left on the stones, nor a single mark of the magical cascade that had slaughtered them.

	“Ok, color me impressed.” Clueless said as he gazed up at the ruined yet sprawling expanse of the Rakshasa’s palace that rose up out of the jungle.

	“His palace isn’t exactly much to look at…” Florian said as she gazed up at the weathered and acid ravaged stone of the once exquisite sculptures that covered the walls.

	“I’m not looking at the palace.” Clueless said. “I’m looking at the damn wardings around the place.”

	Tristol whistled as he did the same. “Ok… yeah.”

	“Details.” Florian said. “Details would be useful.”

	“How can I say this best?” Tristol said. “Most of that weathering isn’t real for starters. It’s all illusionary. Every window and door is covered with walls of force, and the courtyard is covered with so many interlocking wards it’s hurting my eyes to look at it.”

	“To say the least.” Clueless replied. “This is… I’m not sure how we’ll get in there…”

	“I wouldn’t suggest walking in the front door.” Skalliska said. “Not considering what I saw the wards do to the last people who tried to walk through it.”

	“Well there’s got to be a way to dispel them and…” Nisha said.

	“I don’t even know where to begin on this.” Tristol said. “And if I did, I don’t have enough magic left in my head to start.”

	Before they had any further opportunity to discuss their situation however, a figure appeared in the doorway.

“Welcome. His Lordship Siddhartha has been waiting for you.”

	The single figure that stood barefoot in the doorway was dressed in a fine silk sarong and vest, and held no weapons. A tiefling, Skalliska instantly recognized him as the sorcerer who had abducted her, save that his eyes appeared to have been plucked from their sockets to leave on open bloody holes in his smiling face. The man was dressed as a servant, and he seemed to be acting perfectly for the roll.

	“That was the sorcerer that led the group who kidnapped me back in Sigil.” Skalliska whispered.

	“What the hell happened to him?” Clueless asked in a hushed voice.

	“I watched him die…” Skalliska replied.

	“Waiting for us? Where is he?” Florian demanded. “It’s about time that he showed himself.”

	The tiefling gestured humbly with his hands.

“There is no need to stand in the jungle and be of ill temper. My master has been waiting, and you are welcome as his guests. It would be impolite of him to allow you to stand on the doorstep when the sky threatens rain imminently.”

	“You’ve –got- to be kidding me…” Toras muttered.

	“Given his nature, it makes sense though.” Kiro said.

	The sorcerer motioned them forwards.

“Please, the wards are not intended for you but for errant Tanar’ri or Gehreleths wandering the jungles. Impolite neighbors. Please, you are welcome and my Lord would see you comfortable, rested and well treated before he speaks with you and sees an end to this current affair.”

	“Sees an end to this current affair?” Florian asked with no small measure of skepticism bordering on contempt.

	The servant smiled politely.  “My master is both civil and refined. He would not think of killing you when you are tired, hungry, and hardly worthy of his majesty and malign intent.”

	“There’s a new one…” Fyrehowl muttered.

	“Please, allow me to extend my master’s welcome to you.” The tiefling said with unnerving politeness. “Follow me, I will show you his palace within the boundaries that he has instructed me to keep, and I will have rooms prepared for your evening’s rest. As well, a meal is being prepared for you as we speak. Hopefully it will be to your liking. His lordship spares no expense.”

They looked at one another, then up to the unnaturally smiling face of the servant as a trickle of blood dripped from his hollow eye sockets and onto the ground. He didn’t seem to notice. He only smiled at them obediently as ordered, his mind screaming in ineffectual agony as the brand on his wrist compelled him to serve.


***​

	“How does it feel to be so alone?”

	That single statement lingered on the air as Siddhartha looked down upon his victim, one of many kept hidden away in the depths of the palace. This one was special however, worth more to him than perhaps any of the others, and for good reason. His current lot in life was made worth living by virtue of his time with this single prisoner.

	“What is silence like?” He continued. “Alone, disconnected, that presence that filled you, made you, it is vacant. What are you then without it? Without Him?”

	The victim was silent. It had never broken under his torment, even when he had extracted bits of its brain in an attempt to rip into its memories. It would never show him weakness, even when it was in such a position of vulnerability. It would die before giving him that satisfaction, and in that alone did the creature have anything of value in his eyes. Its own position of powerlessness mirrored his in so many ways, and the pain he gave to it mirrored that which failure would bring him from his own mistress.

	The victim opened a single eyelid and glanced up. Rage shined in that eye for a moment, but its body was suspended in a shaft of light whose magic prevented it from making any hostile movements. It had no hope of escape, and it was aware of this. It resisted him purely out of spite and nothing else.

	The Rakshasa spat upon it as he touched a gleaming crystal to record the results of his current session of taunting, torture, and experimentation. In these moments underneath the palace, away from the sight of others, alone, he felt more like himself. But that was to change soon. He already saw it in the minds of his servants: the kobold’s companions had finally arrived. And what was more, they had brought her with them.

	“They will be comforted, given rest, given food.” Siddhartha whispered with a smile. “They will know fear and then they will be killed. Just like all others before them. These however have purpose behind their pain.”

	The subject’s eyes opened and its face broke into a wide, mocking smile.

	“Does this f…”

	Siddhartha slammed his fist into the fiend’s neck, leaving it gasping for air and cutting off its insult. The damage was done however. He’d heard the full question in its mind, and it was cutting. It would suffer later. It would suffer greatly for that, and simply for what it was.

	The Rakshasa turned and left the room without glancing back, slamming the cell door shut. The moment he did however, the prisoner began to laugh. It was a raw, bloody sound born of scar tissue, phlegm and tar. It pained it to laugh, but it couldn’t stop, and without the object kept from it, suspended only feet away, maddeningly taunting it, it didn’t matter, nothing mattered in its absence.

	“Run away Yethmiil. Run away to pay for your failure. Run away and tell your keeper. Make her happy with you once more.”


***​


----------



## Aneul

Arives a bit to late to join in the foot tapping.
But first post!

I especialy like the tiefling buttler, very creepy.


----------



## Eco-Mono

Dakkareth said:
			
		

> Grrr, that 'LoP flaying a worshipper' smiley is hard to find ...



You mean 
	

	
	
		
		

		
			





?

Great update as always, Shemmy. In fact, you may have inspired me to start writing a storyhour of MY campaign... just as soon as I find the time that is ;D


----------



## shilsen

Shemeska said:
			
		

> The servant smiled politely.  “My master is both civil and refined. He would not think of killing you when you are tired, hungry, and hardly worthy of his majesty and malign intent.”




I love cocky BBEGs


----------



## PhoenixDarkDirk

Shemeska said:
			
		

> A short time later they emerged onto a thin path that cut through the jungle, running alongside the edge of the plateau. Paved in eroded flagstones, the group slowly progressed along its length, looking down periodically over the side at the swampy lowlands below.




This makes it seem like the group is paved in eroded flagstones. I'd shift that part to the previous sentence.

Kiro's ring trick was rather fun.


----------



## Gez

So, Siddharta's actually named Yethmiil ?


----------



## Ohtar Turinson

I like Kiro. Nice, low-key, and very much a follower of his diety. Very cool. I think it's funny how well a cleric of that deity gets along with the party.


----------



## Shemeska

Gez said:
			
		

> So, Siddharta's actually named Yethmiil ?




At least that's what that particular prisoner called him.



			
				Ohtar Turinson said:
			
		

> I like Kiro. Nice, low-key, and very much a follower of his diety. Very cool. I think it's funny how well a cleric of that deity gets along with the party.




*chuckle* They didn't know, in or out of character, that Sutekh = Set. Sutekh is a more mellow aspect of Set certainly, but still. They simply took Kiro to be a humble cleric of this rather ascetic, wise and low key deity worshipped somewhere on the Outlands as Kiro told the tale. Hehehehe.


----------



## Shemeska

Just out of curiousity, would anyone be interested if I made a Rogue's Gallery thread for this storyhour, and Storyhour #1, both for the PCs, and potentially for some of the NPCs as well? And what sort of stuff is expected for such a thread? Is it stats blocks and a description, or also concerned with motivations, history, etc?


----------



## IcyCool

I'd be interested in something like that.  I know I really enjoyed looking through the Rogues Gallery for Sepulchrave's story hour.


----------



## shilsen

I'd definitely enjoy seeing a Rogues Gallery too, though I'd be much less interested in stats and more in things like background and motivations.


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## Darmanicus

Nice update Shem. I've gotta admit, I really like Nisha, she's just hillarious. A rogues gallery would be really cool; just give us everything you've got......as long as it doesn't interfere with regular updates.


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## Aneul

A rogue's gallery write up would be great- as Shilsen said, stats would be of less importance then backstorys- but I'd still really like to see those as well. I know I'm just repeating what has already been said, but if you want to know what such a thread would entail, the best example you can get would be the "the Paladin and his Friends" thread for Sepulchrave's storyhour.
*Edit* The above mentioned Rogue's Gallery thread seems to have disapeared . Well, If you've read it you know what I meen.


----------



## Shemeska

Aneul said:
			
		

> A rogue's gallery write up would be great- as Shilsen said, stats would be of less importance then backstorys- but I'd still really like to see those as well.




Rogues Gallery for Storyhour 1 
and
Rogues Gallery for Storyhour 2

I'll provide stats for some of them, but I'm the sort that doesn't give stats to archfiends or deities, except for cases of avatars or planar projections etc (which happened on a few occasions). If I have them I'll provide them, but it'll be rare for full stat blocks. I'll give enough backhistory to drown you though for some of the characters, but some I'll wait on to provide certain levels of detail so I don't spoil things.

And unlikely to have a storyhour update this week, I've got my sister's 16th Bday party to attend this weekend, and I'm working pretty heavily on stuff for school.


----------



## Bryan898

Finally caught up, now I get to eagerly await the next update with the rest.    Shemmie, your writing/DMing is some of the most brilliant and inspirational stuff I've ever read.  You've got me to dust off the old Planescape box and move my campaign into some planar intrigue again.  I bow to your superior DM-fu and look forward to more of the story.  Now just to start to your other story hour...


----------



## Shemeska

Slow trickles of blood running down his face from his hollow eye sockets, the sorcerer turned servant politely smiled at them, clasped his hands in front of himself and waited for their response. It was disturbing, and provided a harsh dichotomy to the scene a third time over: a palace in the middle of the Scarlet Jungle, gorgeous stonework neglected and ravaged by the elements, the polite and elegant, but mangled servant.

	“So…” Nisha said, glancing oddly up at the major domo who was waiting for their answer.

	“I don’t think we have much of a choice actually.” Kiro said.

	“I really –really- don’t want to follow him inside.” Skalliska said with a harsh whisper. “I saw him die and I saw what happened to him. I honestly don’t want to get any deeper into this than we already are. How about we go back?”

	“No. I’m killing that bastard.” Toras said bluntly to a resolute nod of agreement from Florian.

	“Guys,” Tristol said. “There really isn’t any other way into that palace unless we accept this invitation.”

	“Yes it’s a trap,” Clueless said. “Of course it’s a trap, but he’s just toying with us for as long as we amuse him like a housecat with a bug.”

	“And we’ve already shown that we can take him down if we can get close enough.” Florian replied.

	“We’re walking into his home though.” Tristol said. “It might not be as easy as it was last time. We’re not on the Astral, and some of us won’t be tossing out spells at double the normal rate like we could then.”

	“Don’t worry.” Florian said. “Trust me.”

	“Oh?” Kiro asked.

	Florian just grinned.

	“Do tell?” Clueless prompted the cleric.

	She smiled, turned away from the still eerily grinning servant, and withdrew a single crossbow bolt from a bag at her waist. Several symbols of her deity were carved into the surface. It was very obviously blessed, and blessed with particularly fervent devotion towards its intended aim.

	“Oh yes.” Florian said. “This is for him.”

	There was a pause, a pregnant silence, and some shared glances. Collectively they turned around to face the waiting servant.

	“Yes, we would be honored to accept your master’s invitation.” Florian said with a beaming smile. “Please. Do lead on.”


***​

	Nothing happened as they crossed the courtyard. Though apprehension was nearly tangible on the air itself, the wards remained intact and undisturbed. Under Tristol and Clueless’s vision the glowing, deadly filaments of magic that crisscrossed the courtyard like a dweomer fattened spider’s web, remained intact and didn’t so much as register their passage. The taught wires of energy simply passed through them as they crossed the distance to the waiting servant.

	True to his word, the Rakshasa had allowed them entry into his home. He could have killed them in that moment, but seemingly true to his kind’s bizarre noble pretensions, such an act would be rude. But of course, it was simply to instill a sense of complacency and false security among his victim-guests. From time to time he would watch them when not otherwise occupied with his other duties that were of far more importance than this eventual, and simple, act of self-serving slaughter.

	Of course, his victims suspected as much as they walked up the marble steps of the main entrance of his palace. Tristol was paying particular attention, and the level of magic he saw was sobering. Despite his own upbringing in the magocracy of Halruaa, where archmages built towers into the sky and raced flying ships in open, ostentatious displays of their power, there were subtle elements in the blanket of magic that permeated the walls of the palace that made all of those prior examples pale by comparison. 

In fact, the aasimar mage noticed that there were two distinct patterns to the magic literally stamped upon and embedded into the structure of the stones that the palace was constructed from. One was impressive on its own, more powerful than Tristol’s own ability, and from a very different school and style of casting. It was distasteful, reeking of a subtle, powerful evil like the scent of death that could never fully be cleansed from the scene of a brutal murder even years after the fact. That magic was everywhere, lacing like cracks or veins of minerals through the stone, and it fit what they had seen the Rakshasa capable of on his own: 9th sphere magic.

	Then there was another pattern as well, and it was distinct from the Rakshasa’s. It was present in only small, minute amounts, seeming to shift and hide within the other, omnipresent dweomers like an ocean going predator slipping between the currents and only occasionally giving prey the image of a fin breaking the surface. It wasn’t there long enough to analyze it, and Tristol didn’t much have the chance to stop and stare at the walls as he and his companions were being led forwards. But what he did see was frightening, and on a level clearly leagues beyond their be-whiskered host. And it wasn’t just distasteful like that one’s magic. Though the two shared some common elements, the second one was ugly and rancid, sickening to the touch even from what brief exposure to it the mage felt. It was there for a moment, hideous in what was seen, and then it was subsumed by the Rakshasa’s.

	There were two of them of course. Siddhartha had a sister, another Rakshasa noble like himself. And from what they had seen or inferred, there seemed little to dispute that she was the more powerful of the two. Tristol shuddered as he walked on and tried not to consider the possibility that they might have to fight both of them at once.

	The silk wrapped major domo gestured them forwards through the length of a wide, tall-ceilinged foyer paved in broken, weathered flagstones, many of them shifted and tilted at odd angles from settling over the centuries. Tiny trickles of water ran through cracks in the vaulted roof of the chamber, dripping with a slow pitter-patter of water, tiny manifestations of neglect. The gray, milky colored walls were covered in weathered carvings, worn down and rough from the acid laced water that left mineral deposits, strings of tiny, pale violet crystals in its wake where it had dried.

	For a palace it was in shambles, the faded glory of a fallen noble house and its Lord and Lady.

	“Do not mind the magic above the proper entrance of the palace ahead.” The servant advised them as they neared the end of the chamber. “It is simply to prevent the elements from entering the home of my master.”

	Nisha splashed at a puddle in front of her.

	“Well it hasn’t been doing its job so far I don’t think.” She said.

	“You will see…” The servant replied as he stepped through the rune-covered final archway and into what appeared to be a slowly collapsing central chamber.

	There was a slight pause as they all glanced at the symbols carved deeply and cleanly into the stone. The glyphs did not appear to have been so much as touched by the erosion that had pitted nearly every other inch of the palace’s stones so far.

	Fyrehowl walked through first, and to no apparent ill effect. She stepped through onto the other side and immediately seemed taken back by something, letting out a slow whistle. She was seeing something that none of the others were yet privy to.

	“What’s on the other side?” Skalliska asked.

	“Just walk through. It’s safe.” The lupinal replied with no elaboration.

	And so they followed.

	Indeed, nothing undue happened to them as they passed under the final arch of the foyer, the true entrance into the Rakshasa’s palace. The only thing they noticed was an odd, disturbing feeling, like cold insects crawling over their skin then scuttling off just as quickly. And then, as it faded, they stepped through the boundary of the illusions and their eyes were opened.

	“Holy…” Florian said in amazement.

	“Anything but.” Kiro said, correcting her softly.

	The palace was not ruined. In fact it was likely that –none- of the palace was even so much as scuffed by the acidic environment, except for the most exterior of its decorative stonework. The entire structure was swathed in illusions and other magic that shielded its true nature from sight, and now inside of those wards, they could see just how breathtaking it actually was.

	They stood in a sprawling circular chamber, perhaps fifty feet in diameter, which extended out underneath a high, wholly intact dome decorated in intricately carved bas-reliefs of tiger-headed fiends presiding over courts of artists, musicians, and slaves. The floor was paved in inch wide blocks of exotic, mirror-polished stone, each of different colors, arranged into a mosaic of metallic cubes suspended on a field of darkness. There was no question as to who lived in the palace simply from that image.

	But that was hardly the object of their gaze. A pair of massive statues dominated the chamber, each of them towering fifteen feet high. Two Rakshasas, both of them carved from milky white marble, with claws of red carnelian and brilliantly sculpted clothing and features that were lifelike in a way that was breathtaking to behold. One of the two was male, and its snarling visage was clearly that of their host Siddhartha. His eyes, a pair of large fire opals, leered down at them. The other, his sister, whom they had only heard of but never seen, was carved in the same life-like detail, snarling, with glittering orbs of jade set within her eye sockets. Both of them were ominous to behold by size and realism, on top of their snarling expressions, and the eyes had been carved in such a way so that their gaze seemed to follow you.	

	“My Lord is suited to live in comfort and luxury, as you now can see.” The servant said. “There is no rush. You may ask me to pause to allow you to admire my Lord’s house at any point.”

	“Clearly…” Clueless said as he peered up at the female of the pair of statues.

	They paused under the pretense of admiration, though in truth there was some of that as well, taking full stock of their surroundings. Three wide hallways led off from the chamber, one left, one right, and one directly ahead of them.

	“The guest wing is to the right, and that is where you have rooms prepared for yourselves.” The servant said, taking notice of their curiosity. “The entirety of that wing is open to you. The servants’ chambers, banquet hall, library and kitchens are directly ahead of us, and you may wander freely there as well if you wish. My Lord has opened his home to you for your admiration for the time being.”

	“Before he kills us, yeah yeah.” Florian said.

	“Indeed.” The former mercenary turned slave replied bluntly.

	“What about the other hallway?” Fyrehowl asked, pointing down the left passage.

	“That is the Lord and Lady’s wing.” The servant replied. “That way is off limits.”

	Clueless glanced down that direction. The hallway was dark save for the distant flicker of magic. They’d be going that way eventually. Just not yet, not while the fiend’s servant was present.

	Before they left, following the major domo, Tristol took a long, hard look at the pair of statues. He couldn’t confirm it, but he could swear that they were both watching him beyond the fact that their eyes were carved in a way to give that impression. It was odd, and disquieting. Fyrehowl felt it too. Something simply didn’t feel right as she passed between the statues, there between their gaze. She couldn’t put a finger on it, not yet.

	Unable to find a reason to pause and linger further to examine the statues, they followed their escort.


***​

	A few minutes later the disturbingly cheerful ex-sorcerer had led them through the palatial length of the central hallway, and through several open galleries decorated with grim, sometimes gruesome, but truly inspired works of art. Though the style might have clashed with their own sensibilities, the Rakshasa, or pair of Rakshasas, had taste and the money to cater to it.

	They said little to their escort as they walked, but they memorized the layout of the palace as best they could. One thing was certain from the outset: the interior of the structure was larger than the illusion on the exterior had led them to believe. The height of the ceilings was deceptively high, especially from their collapsed appearance from outside.

	Soon they approached the end of one particular hallway and stood before a set of double doors at which their escort paused and gestured. The doors swung upon with a flicker of magic and he motioned them into what appeared to be the palace dining room.

	“Please enter and be seated.” He said. “Though my Lord and Lady will not be in attendance this evening to dine, the food will be as exquisite as is normal in their house.”

	The banquet chamber was large and rectangular, paneled in richly stained and carved wood, and hung with numerous tapestries that depicted war and conquest, marching armies and feasting Rakshasas. The chamber itself was seemingly built around a massive stone table that extended almost its entire length and which appeared to have been carved as a single piece from some giant petrified log. Magical, flickering candelabras sat at even intervals on the table, and the ten places had been set before ten chairs. Eight guests, ten chairs, two of which were significantly larger than the others.

	Their escort gestured them towards eight of the place settings and the bowls of water and washcloths present for them to wash their face and hands before eating.

	“Dinner will be served shortly, and it is my hope, and my Lord’s hope, that you enjoy his hospitality.” He said. “If you have any questions for me as you eat, I have been given leave by the Master to answer what I can for you.”

	They sat down at their assigned places, four of them on each side of the long table. Their escort did not sit, but stood at attention, out of sight but within the range of conversation. As soon as they had all settled in their seats, the tiefling snapped his fingers and a dozen other servants entered from the kitchen with bottles of wine, water, and platters of freshly cooked food whose very scent made the mouth water.

The ends of the table were each set, despite being unoccupied, and both were served with food, and served first. That was where the pair of Rakshasas would have sat, had they deigned to eat with their victim-guests. The staff of servants seemed trained to routinely prepare meals for both of them, even when only one or neither of them were in attendance, just on the chance that they might arrive and desire food or drink.

	But wine was poured, food was served, and then for a few moments nothing happened. They simply stared at the dishes with uncertain expressions. Yes they were hungry, famished in fact. But they were also worried about being drugged or poisoned, which made holding back from eating the food which was absolutely splendid in both appearance and in smell, a difficult but perhaps required task.

	“Please eat.” The major domo requested as he stepped closer. “My Lord wishes to show you the sort of man he is before the end approaches. You will dine on the same food that he does regularly, food befitting his station, enjoying the experience but at the same time being in awe over what is normal for him.”

	They glanced down at the meal set upon their dishes. It was some sort of braised, seared meat over roasted apples and cabbage, all of it smelling faintly of some exotic, hardwood smoke. The wine sparkled in their glasses and shed a pale yellow shine across the bowls of rice drizzled with sesame seeds and other spices that accompanied the main course. It looked absolutely delicious; a meal of a quality that most of them had never had before. But for the moment they just stared at it.

	“Your distrust is assumed,” The bleeding sorcerer stated. “But it would bring our Lord no pleasure to poison you. Poison is a method of death reserved for other nobility, men and women of high station. None of you are fit of deserving such. Please use your magic to discern that there is no poison in your food if you desire.”

	Florian rolled her eyes and did just that.

	“It’s fine to eat guys.” She said a moment later. “It’s not poisoned.”

	And so tentatively they ate, testing small bits of the meal at first, and then smiling, moaning through mouthfuls of the meal, and giving giddy expressions over the breathtaking delicacy they were being given as a literal last meal. Some of the food seemed to be native to the prime, though it seemed likely that many of the spices were native to the current layer of Carceri, Cathrys.

	“This is quite good.” Kiro said. “Thank you. Your master is a man of refined taste.”

	“I am pleased that you enjoy.” He replied, pausing only to wipe a drop of blood from his chin before it dropped to the ground. He could hardly allow any of his own blood to touch the ground and sully his Lord’s immaculately polished floors.

	They asked little as they enjoyed the food, but like trained monkeys, or more appropriately puppets, the dozen servants each waited patiently along the room’s fringes, obediently present to refill drinks, bring additional food, or offer any requested spices. Each was dressed in the same style of silken uniform as the former sorcerer who seemed to have been put in charge of them all. And, like the blind, bleeding tiefling, all of the other servants bore black symbols burned into the back of their left hands.

	Eventually though, their curiosity got the best of them.

	“I have to ask.” Florian said to one of the servants, a young female aasimar who had just finished pouring her more wine. “This food is wonderful, but I can’t place what animal the meat is from. What is it?”

	“Elf.” The woman replied with a thin, just-so smile.

	Several gagging coughs resounded around the table.

	Florian paled and pushed her plate forwards. The others paused mid swallow as well. Fyrehowl looked disgusted and Tristol looked sick. Skalliska kept right on eating, and Kiro gave a mild shrug and took a few more now informed bites.

	When a dessert of chilled plums and dried figs was served minutes later, most of them had fully lost their appetite from the revelation. Plus it was difficult to eat when their tiefling escort’s empty eye sockets kept on steadily bleeding down his face.

	“So…” Fyrehowl asked. “Where exactly are your master and mistress?”

	At the direct question regarding the fiends, the tiefling seemed to momentarily flinch before answering.

	“The Lady is away, and at the moment, the Lord is preoccupied with his own affairs. You will see him though come the morning.”

	Clueless and Fyrehowl glanced at one another. They had noticed the tiefling flinch.

	Making the pretense of tasting the dessert and then wiping his mouth with his napkin, the bladesinger softly whispered the words of a thought detection spell and glanced at the tiefling. The man was smiling but his mind was not. The only thoughts he had, the ones that blanketed the surface of his mind, were those dwelling on the agony of having had his eyes ripped from their sockets by the Rakshasa who had killed him, brought him back from the dead and then enslaved him.

	Clueless turned and looked at one of the other servants, and the thoughts on that one’s mind were similar. They had been betrayed and enslaved by the fiend’s magic after becoming superfluous. The moment they were no longer of use they lost their freedom and their free will, and the symbol on their hands both marked them as property, and seemed to taunt each and every one of them with some fragment of just how they had become chattel. Each and every one of them among the dozen servants; some of their minds even dwelled upon suicide, but the ability to do such was denied them.

	“So.” Florian said abruptly. “Dinner was quite good, thank you. Now you had mentioned something about rooms for the evening so we could rest?”

	Clueless ended his spell. The thoughts were too miserable to listen to, and the more he heard it the more it filled him with a mixture of fury and dread.

	“Indeed.” The tiefling replied. “If you would follow me, I will lead you back to the guest wing.”

	Collectively they pushed back from the table and stood up from their chairs to follow him, both full from and somewhat queasy from their meal given its quality and its origin. The moment they had stepped away from the table the other servants were already in motion to clear it of uneaten food, used dishes and silverware. Like clockwork automatons they worked without comment or complain; but constructs weren’t tormented like the fiends’ servants were.

	It was only a short walk back to the massive central chamber with its lifelike, larger than life statues of the palace’s owners, both of them still seeming to gaze upon and follow them all. From there, the tiefling walked them down the corridor that entered the small guest wing of the palace. It was no less grand than the areas they had already seen, and in some ways it was even more spectacular. After all, what good was wealth and splendor if it wasn’t used to impress upon others just how much of it you possessed?

	The guest wing was centered upon another domed chamber, though smaller than the massive one at the palace’s center. It was focused around a sculpted fountain with a statue of a coiled brass sea serpent rising up from the center. The coiled metal wyrm spat a stream of water out from its mouth, cascading up into the air, and back down to the sapphire tiled pool below. And, once more, the serpent’s bejeweled eyes were cut in just such a way so that they seemed to linger upon and follow you almost regardless of where in the room you were standing.

	Beyond the fountain, several doors led off from the chamber, and the tiefling pointed out the three of them that already stood open.

	“Several rooms have been prepared for your rest.” He said. “One set for the men, one set for the women, and one for the kobold.”

	Skalliska shot her former captor an ugly look as Nisha first tried, and then failed, to suppress a snicker. Their escort continued as if he hadn’t noticed a thing, almost as if he was progressing along a script or a series of instructions given to him by the brand on his wrist.

“The three open doors lead to the three sets of rooms, and you’ll find that each are complete with a bed for each of you, a selection of alcohol, incense, changes of bedclothes, and a water basin for your use before retiring for the evening.”

	“Thank you.” Toras said as he motioned Clueless, Kiro, and Tristol to follow him down their appointed hallway.

	“We’ll be waiting to meet your master in the morning then.” Florian said with an artificial smile.

	“Indeed.” Fyrehowl added.

	“I shall wake you in the morning.” The servant said. “Good night.”

	The tiefling turned and walked from the room, but his charges said and did nothing till his footsteps had fully retreated some distance down the hallway.

	“One room for the women and one room for the kobold?” Skalliska said with some indignity. “I’m female too you know. And…”

	“Well you are still wearing a burlap sack.” Nisha said.

	They all turned to look at the kobold who was indeed, still dressed in nothing but a burlap sack with holes for her head and arms to poke through. In fact, she’d been dressed in nothing but that sack through dinner and they hadn’t really said much about it.

	“It’s not my bloody fault! They took my clothes and everything else when they kidnapped me!” Skalliska said with a frown. “The Rakshasa presumably took all of my things with him when he was turning that tiefling from a sorcerer into a house boy.”

	“Yeah…” Florian said. “Speaking of which, there’s no way in hell that I’m sleeping here.”

	“It would not be advised given our host.” Kiro said.

	“I don’t particularly feel like waking up and being killed or tortured to death.” Clueless said. “Or, more likely, ending up like his servants.”

	Toras nodded. “I noticed that too. All of them have those brands on their wrists.”

	“And there’s something else I noticed as well.” Tristol said. “This whole place is covered in some seriously impressive magic. Most of it seems in line with what you’d expect from our ever so gracious host, if I can call him that.”

	“A future rug.” Toras said.

	Nisha giggled.

	“Well, there’s also some bits and pieces of magic flitting through the place that are seriously beyond what I think him capable of. And if anything, it reminds me of the tower on Maanzicorian’s godisle.”

	“Makes sense,” Clueless said. “Since this palace and the jungle around it were largely blocked from any sort of divination magic, much like that godisle was.”

	“So if the Rakshasa didn’t cast it then…?” Nisha prompted.

	“The other Rakshasa. Siddhartha’s sister.” Fyrehowl said. “Who we haven’t met, and who seems to be the more powerful of the pair.”

	“And I really, really don’t want to cross paths with her.” Tristol said. The magic that she seemed capable of was simply beyond anything they could handle. Though it seemed increasingly likely that eventually they would indeed cross paths with her.

	“But she doesn’t seem to be here.” Clueless said. “Thankfully. Though I’ll admit to being curious what she and her brother were up to in the first place when we ran into him on the Astral.”

	“Indeed.” Fyrehowl said.

	“So since sleep seems to be out of the question.” Kiro said. “Shall we make ourselves at home in the fiend’s home and take liberties with the place?”

	“Let’s go where we’re not supposed to go!” Nisha gleefully suggested to the much more humble cleric beside her.

	“The private wing.” Florian said with a nod. “That’s definitely top on my list of things to take a look at. And there’s also the library that was mentioned. That might give us an idea of what this pair is up to, or why they’re exiled so sodding far from their native plane. And I’ve got some morbid curiosity regarding the kitchen of this place.”

	Nisha stuck out her tongue. “Elf even tastes pretentious.”

	Florian chuckled.

	“And it might also be a good idea to… what the hell…” Florian trailed off abruptly. She was staring at something.

They all followed Florian’s gaze warily, suddenly silent at what they saw.

She had been distracted by something seeping out from under the base of the one door in the guest wing that was not among those leading to their own rooms. Liquid, reflecting black in the suppressed light; blood was pooled under the door, leaking out from something beyond.

	Tristol’s eye grew larger as he realized just what the puddle of liquid was.

	“What’s behind the door?”

***​


----------



## shilsen

Shemeska said:
			
		

> “I have to ask.” Florian said to one of the servants, a young female aasimar who had just finished pouring her more wine. “This food is wonderful, but I can’t place what animal the meat is from. What is it?”
> 
> “Elf.” The woman replied with a thin, just-so smile.




Maybe it's just me, but I saw that coming a mile away. And no, you didn't prefigure it in any way - it's just what I would have had done in the same situation 

Damn nice update.


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## Gez

At least an update! I was waiting for this one!

I'm still impressed the PCs decided to simply walk into the fiend's trap.



			
				Shemeska said:
			
		

> The taught wires of energy simply passed through them as they crossed the distance to the waiting servant.




Should be taut, unless they form a neural network able to learn. 




			
				Shemeska said:
			
		

> Nisha stuck out her tongue. “Elf even tastes pretentious.”
> 
> Florian chuckled.




I did, too.


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## shilsen

Gez said:
			
		

> At least an update! I was waiting for this one!




Shouldn't that be "at last"? Unless you were expecting more than an update, that is. Sorry - it was just too tempting to pass up a typo in a post about errors


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## Fimmtiu

shilsen said:
			
		

> Shouldn't that be "at last"? Unless you were expecting more than an update, that is. Sorry - it was just too tempting to pass up a typo in a post about errors




Meta-pedantry!

An excellent tension-building update. Must have been frustrating for your players to walk into their enemy's lair without a single chance to kick any ass.


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## Shemeska

Fimmtiu said:
			
		

> Meta-pedantry!
> 
> An excellent tension-building update. Must have been frustrating for your players to walk into their enemy's lair without a single chance to kick any ass.




A combination of things:

1) they were worried by the level of magic outside the palace, springing magical traps etc. One part that I seem to have not included was a brief attempt to break into the place using a stoneshape spell on one of the outside walls. The spell failed miserably. Not a good sign.

2) They were half expecting him to give a stereotypical villain speech, along the lines of, 'but before I kill you, let me reveal my master plan' sort of thing. And given his attention to protocol and aristocratic pretensions, they figured they had a decent chance of getting one of those at some point if they let him. Hell, the PCs and players alike were rather curious about what all this guy was up to in the Astral in the first place. 

The frustration wasn't there till later, in what was probably my most rat bastard moment as a DM.


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## shilsen

Shemeska said:
			
		

> The frustration wasn't there till later, in what was probably my most rat bastard moment as a DM.




See, now you're just teasing us and being a rat bastard story hour author


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## Gez

shilsen said:
			
		

> Shouldn't that be "at last"? Unless you were expecting more than an update, that is.




And I was! There are _two_ Shemmie Hours!


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## Shemeska

Update postponed till Monday night on account of visiting girlfriend. Blame Clueless.


----------



## bluegodjanus

Shemeska said:
			
		

> Update postponed till Monday night on account of visiting girlfriend. Blame Clueless.




Oh, we _will_. And she should be working on patching up PW, not distracting you from your SH.


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## Clueless

I am, I am! I swear, I go online and poof it breaks just to distract me!  Now... about those articles you were gonna write up for planewalker.... *toothy grin*


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## bluegodjanus

Which ones were those again? I seem to have gotten distracted.


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## Vurt

Shemeska said:
			
		

> Update postponed till Monday night on account of visiting girlfriend. Blame Clueless.




Erm...  Now that just puts Clueless' fantasy of shaving Shemeska in a _whole_ other light...

Cheers,
Vurt


----------



## Clueless

*blink* ... *chokes on coffee*


----------



## shilsen

Vurt said:
			
		

> Erm...  Now that just puts Clueless' fantasy of shaving Shemeska in a _whole_ other light...
> 
> Cheers,
> Vurt


----------



## Eco-Mono

*patience dance*

(>'_' )>
<( '_'<)
(>'_' )>
<( '_'<)

*disco music plays*


----------



## Shemeska

Tristol winced and reached for the door. He expected the worst when he opened it, but a stiff rattle from the locked handle spared him having to immediately find out.

	He glanced back at Nisha. “Nisha? Would you?”

	Nisha quirked an eyebrow and gave a disdainful, questioning smirk, not at Tristol, but at the puddle of blood slowly leaking out from under the door’s bottom edge.

	“Next evil fortress we’re in,” She said. “We’re skipping the obviously icky rooms behind locked doors.”

	Toras gave a polite chuckle.

	“No. I’m serious.” Nisha said, shooting him a look. “I’ll open anything here, but the next weird place we’re in, I’m going to make a point of reminding everyone of this.”

	That said, she popped the lock with practiced skill and stepped back hesitantly as the door swung open a few inches.

	The pool of blood that had collected under the door was fed by a trail extending down the short, magically illuminated hallway. Twenty feet down, the hall opened into another chamber, dark and devoid of light, but the source of the blood was obvious, sitting nestled in the open doorway: a severed leg.

	“That’s a leg.” Florian said. “Where’s the rest of the body?”

	Warily they approached, and the smell of blood increased with every step, mixed with the rancid stench of burnt flesh. Ten feet in, they were all wincing at the smell, not only Fyrehowl, and they could see that the leg was something out of the ordinary.

	The limb was flayed and severed at the upper thigh. The skin had been completely removed, and the major muscles had each been removed at the attachment points on the bones.

	Several feet further in, looming out of the dim recesses of the room at the hall’s end, there was another leg. It too had been flayed and dissected. Laying next to it was an arm that had been neatly removed from its owner with surgical precision; the ball at the end of the upper arm’s long bone was still intact and glistening with the white of cartilage, while barely a drop of blood was present except for where the flesh had been intentionally cut.

	“What the hell is this?” Fyrehowl asked as her eyes narrowed and adjusted to the light.

	A second arm emerged into view, and something else as well, shrouded in the darkness. There was a figure in the room, upright in its center, unmoving.

	Toras raised his sword and conjured a globe of light, flushing the shadows from the chamber and illuminating its contents. What they saw in the room was sickening.

The chamber was empty except for a table and the body atop it. A human, his arms and legs had been severed and the wounds cauterized to prevent bleeding. Spittle, blood, and sputum ran down his chest, both dried and fresh, and from an empty plate and spatters of food on the table and the floor, it seemed that he had been forcibly fed. His head was slumped forward and he didn’t seem to notice the light, or their approach, but his chest was rising and falling ever so slowly as he breathed. The man was alive.

	Nisha turned around and walked away, sickened by what she’d seen. Toras and Fyrehowl were both enraged, and Florian rushed forward with concern. The man gurgled incoherently as she touched him, but then lapsed into a sudden and ragged scream.

	“Can’t you do something about him?!” Nisha yelled from down the hallway, more than bit disturbed and not full of her usual good-humored whimsy.

	Clueless was looking at a series of surgical tools that lay next to the man, and a pile of notes, written in infernal, that indicated what appeared to be a schedule of torture and precise observations on when and how each of the man’s limbs had been severed. The man was referred to as ‘subject’, and only briefly was he mentioned as a ‘former mercenary’. Clearly, the man had run afoul of his employer.

	“I can’t help him.” Florian said. “He’s too far gone.”

	Kiro drew a sword and tentatively looked at the man. His body was ravaged beyond what any of them could fix, and he had suffered so much trauma there was little hope of his ever being whole.

	Clueless didn’t give an answer immediately, but instead he looked at the man and recited the words of a spell to peer into his mind. It was his hope to find some information about who the man was, what he had done, and why the Rakshasa had so brutalized him. Of course the answer seemed obvious, he was simply a superfluous tool that had been broken and placed there in the guest wing of the palace to unnerve them, the fiend’s current prey, and give them promises of what was to come for them. The torture was sick and hideously deliberate; nothing of it was random.

	The bladesinger’s mind reached out and made contact. The man’s eyes opened and focused, but only for a moment before he whimpered and trembled. Inside his mind there was only a single mindless scream. Inside his mind he had no need to breath, and the scream was without end. He had long since lapsed into madness.

	Clueless concentrated more, searching for any of the man’s memories that might flicker to the surface. It was unpleasant, as in flickers and fragments of sounds and images he bore witness to the man’s slow, calculated mangling at the hands of the Rakshasa as time and time again it loomed out of the darkness with claw, scalpel and bone saw. Quickly, wincing at the shared experience, he cancelled his spell.

	“He’s insane.” Clueless said, shaking his head wearily. “I couldn’t find much out from his mind. He’s been through too much.”

	“What do you want to do?” Florian asked.

	“Don’t kill him.” Fyrehowl asked. “Please. We might be able to help him later.”

	“It’s a thin hope.” Kiro said. “But it’s your call.”

	They glanced at the mangled wretch. And yes, killing him might have ended his misery, but the man deserved better for having been put through the seemingly pointless tortures that he had suffered.

	Toras opened the bag at his waist, one of several of their bags of holding, and collected the man’s severed limbs before picking up and stuffing the man himself inside.

	“I can’t say when he’ll get out of there.” Toras said as he closed the bag. “But in the meantime, he won’t suffer any more.”

	“This was meant for us, but it won’t have the intended effect.” Fyrehowl snarled.

	“Indeed.” Florian said, once again patting the crossbow bolt at her waist. “Let’s see what else we can find around here then…”


***​

	The palace was deathly quiet, without a single servant to be found, nor any trace of their presence. Likely they were compelled to retire at a certain hour, and following the dinner they had done just that. But still, despite the rationalization, the empty expanse of the palace was disturbing.

	As they explored the central wing they found only empty salons, vacant sitting rooms, and galleries of artwork, all of them richly appointed but nearly sterile in their cleanliness. It all seemed on display, not truly lived in and enjoyed by a proper reagent and his subjects. It was cold, but obviously attuned to the tastes of the pair of Rakshasas.

	They gleaned little insight from it all though, except into the harsh aesthetic tastes of the brother and sister fiends. The library was expansive, but its books were entirely mundane in nature, containing only histories, and works on art, war, and philosophy. If anything it was simply a scaled up version of the library that they had found in Siddhartha’s tower in the Astral.

	“This is boring.” Nisha said. “Especially since you won’t let me steal art. Not that I appreciate much of it.”

	“Hey.” Florian said. “You were the one that wanted to avoid anything icky.”

	“…” Nisha stuck out her tongue and rattled the bell at the tip of her tail. “I’m still holding to that statement too. This is me we’re talking about. I can embrace contradictory sides of an issue. I do all the time.”

	Kiro broke into a smile in response as they walked across the length of the fiends’ dining room and towards the kitchens and servants quarters.

	“This might not be empty.” Toras said. “So be ready.”

	They tentatively opened the doors into the palace kitchens and peered within. On some level they expected what they found, but on another level they half expected a blood-spattered slaughterhouse. The kitchen was pristine though, and the Rakshasas’ servants evidently cleaned it after each meal in accordance with their masters’ wills. As they stepped inside and peered into the cabinets and ascertained the contents of the shelves, it became clear that the fiends spared no expense in cultivating their air of nobility. The kitchen was stocked with virtually every spice they could name, and many others that they had never seen before.

	Adjoining doors led off towards the servants’ quarters, back into the banquet hall, but it was a thicker, more solid wooden door carved with figures of feasting Rakshasas that Florian was moving towards with morbid curiosity.

	“Do we really have to go in there?” Nisha asked plaintively as the door was opened. “Again with the wanting to avoid icky places.”

	Florian waved away the tiefling’s concern and otherwise didn’t immediately respond as she reached out and tugged on the door handle. The door rattled heavily on its hinges but didn’t open.

	“It’s locked.” The cleric said. “And… the handle is cold.”

	She waved her hand along the margins of the door, and sure enough, there was a gentle vent of frigid air from the interior.

	Nisha frowned immediately but was already getting out her lock picks when Florian turned to her.

	“Don’t worry. I’ll open the door.” She said. “Just like the last door, and I won’t be happy this time either I figure. So go ahead and take a look at the elf-sickles, but I’ll stay outside, thank you very much.”

	“Nisha open the door. Nisha check for traps. Nisha don’t make a mess. Nisha stop trying to toss deviled eggs at the Tanar’ri because you find it ironic. Nisha…”

	The Xaositect twitched her tail and lapsed into a garble of irritated scramblespeak.

	“Hopefully this will be better than the last of the Rakshasas’ doors we asked you to open for us.” Tristol said, trying to defuse Nisha’s discontent.

	Nisha stuck out her tongue and didn’t comment.

Toras and Kiro glanced at one another and mutually shrugged as the Xaositect popped the lock on the door. The tiefling stood off to one side and motioned towards the door with a lopsided frown.

	“go you There, door the open ‘s.” She said.

	“Thank you Nisha.” Florian replied as she swung it open wide.

Immediately there was a burst of frigid, frost-laden air that rushed out of the Rakshasa larder into the warmer expanse of the kitchen. Minute ice crystals glittered for a few brief moments before evaporating and revealing the chamber’s interior. Nisha wasn’t looking intentionally. She had a fair idea of what they’d find inside given both the last door she’d opened in the palace, and what the serving staff had even told them up front about what they had eaten.

	Inside the unlit, ice crusted interior, there were fully twenty naked bodies of humanoids hung upside down from the ceiling like sides of beef. The heads, hands and feet had been cut from each of the corpses, and bloody icicles extended down from the wounds where the bodies dangled from their iron hooks. They had been alive when they had been butchered like cattle.

	Fyrehowl grimaced as she noticed a stack of perhaps thirty or forty hands and feet stacked like firewood off to one side of the larder. Her nose twitched and it appeared that some of them had been rubbed with spices before being set aside and organized separately from the aging meat of the corpses hung above them swinging idly in the chilled expanse of the larder.

	“Alright, my curiosity is sated.” Florian said with a disturbed shake of her head. “So is any chance of me eating in the next while and keeping it down.”

	“Told you.” Nisha said as Florian and the others walked back out of the Rakshasas’ larder.

	“So they like mortal flesh.” Tristol said. “Doesn’t tell us much really. We know to expect them to do that, and to be as brutal as they feel they need to be within their own little perverse set of faux-noble guidelines.”

	“So what do you suggest?” Fyrehowl asked.

	“That we ignore this part of the palace and not waste more time wandering around looking at bad art.” Tristol answered.

	Kiro nodded in agreement. “We’re not going to find anything unless we go into the private wing.”

	“Which we’ve avoided so far.” Clueless said.

	“And which we shouldn’t continue to do.” Fyrehowl replied. “Especially after what we’ve seen elsewhere so far.”

	“Alright.” Florian said. “We turn around and go back to the private wing. Expect a fight though.”

	“I expect one.” Fyrehowl added.


***​

	Back under the massive domed chamber in the center of the palace, the group stared across the wide expanse of the floor and towards the hallway into the private wing. Like before, the eyes of the huge marble Rakshasa statues seemed to follow them, and it caused them all to hesitate.

	“So…” Clueless asked. “Who wants to step through the likely trap first?”

	“You asked, you go.” Florian said, much to the bladesinger’s _absolute delight_.

	“Lovely.” Clueless replied as he stepped forward.

	The effect was almost immediate as the statue of Siddhartha shuddered and turned to directly face him. Its eyes flickered crimson and some form of spell triggered, but whatever it was, it failed to affect the half-fey. But, like clockwork, the statue of Siddhartha’s sister turned and tried the same where its sibling had failed. The female Rakshasa statue’s eyes glittered a harsh green and a bolt of black, crackling energy lanced out to strike Clueless solidly on the chest.

	The half-fey tumbled back, pale and shaken, laying still for a moment, unmoving, before wincing and scrambling to his feet as the pair of huge golems fully animated and leapt down from their pedestals with frightening agility.

	The others didn’t wait for him to recover though before launching their own attacks. A fireball blossomed from Tristol’s outstretched hand, but as the flames flickered and faded, both of the statues emerged without so much as a single chip or singe upon their surface.

	“Watch out! They’ve got golem immunities!” Tristol shouted out as the others spread out towards the statues.

	Seemingly from out of nowhere, a burst of acid shot from Kiro’s fingertips and impacted on the female’s statue. The acid bubbled and sizzled, but the stone seemed unfazed by the caustic liquid. Kiro narrowed his eyes and vanished, but not before shouting out another warning.

	“And they’re not normal stone golems either.” He warned. “That should have worked!”

	Toras and Fyrehowl met the male golem directly, hacking and slashing at its body with their blades. While the effect of the blows was dampened by the magical protections worked into its form, they added up, and both of them were fast enough to avoid most of the blows that it aimed at them.

	It was the female golem that presented a problem though, and Florian and Clueless took turns testing it with physical and magical attacks. They made little progress though till Kiro darted out from behind it, once again seemingly from out of nowhere, and tripped the massive golem with a solidly placed blow to its right knee.

	The trip itself was a seconds respite and a chance to attack the fallen construct, but that was also the moment that Tristol flung a stone to flesh spell at it. In an instant, for a scant few seconds, the marble of the golem’s body grew soft and spongy, yielding like flesh before their concentrated attacks before it slammed its fist into Florian and flung her across the chamber. But, as it rapidly congealed back to its normal consistency, it was hobbling and there were huge gashes in one leg and across its midsection.

	Meanwhile, Nisha and Skalliska had both managed to hurl a series of minor, but effective sonic based spells at the upper body of the male golem. Small, fist sized craters pock marked its chest and rocked it back as Toras and Fyrehowl continued their assault, though both of them sported numerous bloody slashes from the marble fiend’s own carnelian tipped claws.

	Across the chamber, Florian winced and stumbled to her feet, breathing through the pain of several broken ribs and bruises that blanketed her back.

	“Son of a b*tch…” She said, pausing from the fight to chant and heal her own wounds. She would be of no use in the state she was in.

	Meanwhile, Fyrehowl only partially dodged a heavy blow, and the lupinal was tossed back a dozen feet with almost paltry effort by the towering construct, but the effort had left it vulnerable and exposed. Fyrehowl was struggling to pick herself up off of the floor, leaving bloody smear across the stone in the process, but Toras, though himself injured, struck a heavy blow of his own.

	There was a loud, resounding crack that echoed across the chamber, and a series of cracks raced up from the point of impact on the male golem’s thigh. The marble fiend paused, swayed awkwardly, and toppled to one side as its legs gave way under its own weight and its body came crashing down, still and broken.

	“A little help here!” Clueless shouted as he dodged a cumbersome blow from the remaining golem and then tumbled through the air as a sudden and unexpected wash of flame erupted from its mouth.

	Fyrehowl struggled to approach, but Tristol stopped her as he forced her to drink down a potion to at least stop the bleeding from her numerous injuries. Her heart was in the right place, but another blow might have killed her.

	Florian looked up and over at them, now fully healed and ready to fight again. And she had an idea, especially given the damage that had already been done to the last golem’s leg.

	Again Clueless dodged another blow, and the golem turned back to take a swipe of its marble paw at Kiro where the cleric was stabbing at the back of its legs. But when it turned, it gave Florian the chance she needed, and she was chanting as she ran up beside it.

	Florian’s final prayer finished the job, as with the last word from her lips she reached out to touch the golem’s thigh. Immediately the stone rippled and became like putty under her touch, discorporating and explosively falling apart by some bizarre effect of the stoneshape spell. Seconds later the golem’s lower body was a field of rounded, misshapen hunks of marble, and its body above the waist was immobile and inanimate.

	“And that is that.” The cleric said with a cutting motion of her arms. “Praise be to Tempus.” 

	“And this time I’ll grant you that.” Kiro said as he stepped out of nowhere from behind her with a grin. “I won’t argue. That was nice.”

	“You alright Clueless?” Florian asked, turning away from the shattered golems and glancing at the bladesinger.

	“No.” He replied. “The golem had some sort of energy drain, which is what it hit me with. I don’t remember all the spells I had before, and I’m feeling pretty weak.”

	Florian glanced at Kiro.

	“Go ahead, I don’t have anything to restore him in memory.” The cleric of Sutekh said with a humble shrug.

	Florian nodded.

“No problem. I’ll take care of it.” She said, walking over to remove the necromantic curse from the bladesinger and then to start the process of healing all of the others of their injuries.

It was then that Fyrehowl noticed it again, that same feeling that she had nagging at the edge of her mind when they had first entered the palace and stood there briefly in the junction of the various palace wings. This time though, they weren’t being watched by one of the Rakshasas’ servants, and she had the time to stand there and ponder the feeling.

	The feeling wasn’t just a feeling though, it was something very real that she hadn’t consciously taken note of before. There was a smell in the air, something ephemeral and not lingering when she did catch note of it, but there nonetheless. She twitched her nose, knelt down and inhaled deeply. Ammonia. Ammonia tinged with a coppery undertone.

	“What is it?” Toras asked, sitting atop the broken head of one of the two statues.

	“I don’t know.” Fyrehowl answered. “There’s an odd smell on the air here, but I can’t place where it’s coming from. It’s here one second and then gone the next.”

	“Blood?” Skalliska asked. “It might be something left over from when the Rakshasa killed the half dozen people that kidnapped me.”

	“No.” The lupinal said, standing back up. “If it’s blood than it’s not recent. It’s almost sour tasting on the air whatever it is.”

	“I don’t notice anything.” Florian said.

	“It’s there.” Kiro added. “It’s subtle, but it is there.”

	“You have a nose Florian, not a muzzle.” Tristol said. “Fyrehowl does.”

	“Eh, true.” Florian replied.

Nisha meanwhile was putting a hand up over her own face and extending it out like she was judging the length of a big nose that wasn’t there. Fyrehowl shrugged and chuckled in response.

	“Whatever it is, I don’t think it’s here in this room.” The lupinal said. “It’s seeping in from somewhere else. We’ll find it eventually.”

	“Plus,” Kiro said. “With the noise we just made, we might want to go ahead and be somewhere else when someone or something comes looking.”

	They glanced over in the direction of the private wing of the palace, looked at one another, and walked into the gloom.


***​

	Lord Siddhartha stared in rapt attention at the image floating in the air before him called up by his scry. He’d only briefly considered that the golems might actually kill his victims, but it was an ill-founded hope, and his irritation was a transient thought.

	He’d been watching them ever since they had discovered the dismembered human in the guest wing, and he had enjoyed watching their reactions. There was little they could accomplish, and likely they would run afoul of traps and his own wards as they attempted to explore his own private areas of the palace. Still though, he particularly enjoyed the thoughts of slaughtering the celestial, the half-celestial and the aasimars, and slowly torturing the others to death. To be certain, it would be a pleasure when the time came.

_“Yethmiil…”_

	The voice was a sudden and unwelcome presence within his consciousness. It rattled his attention away from his scrying, an insidious whisper with a fierce potency that carried across the planes with terrible ease.

_“Your presence is required on the Astral.”_

	There was no reply requested, nor was one needed since any reply would be irrelevant on his part. Obedience and compliance were not only presumed, they were required by force as a part of his penance and part of what ensured that he stayed alive.

	“Bitch!” He snarled with a sudden, uncharacteristic burst of true fury.

	He was cursing, but it was impotent rage, and it didn’t prevent him from gating to a very specific spot on the Astral. She would be waiting for him, and any delay would lead to pain. There was only one thought in his mind aside from that as he glanced up into the swirling, titanic face of the continent wide astral storm which surrounded the citadel of his mistress, and that was that his current victims would be allowed to wander blindly through his palace until the time that he was finished abasing himself elsewhere. His wardings and guardians would have to suffice till he returned.


***​

	The hallway terminated after fifty feet at a pair of locked, heavy mahogany doors set into the walls on golden hinges. A dim, ambient glow spread throughout the air, leaving the doors and the area immediately in front of them as the only illuminated section of the corridor, a single huddled island in an otherwise sea of gloom. The dim magical illumination glinted off of the nearly reflective marble floor and the carvings on the doors of Rakshasas in various scenes of warfare, spellcasting, dining, reclining, drinking and smoking.

	“I’m not even going near those doors till someone takes a look at them.” Florian said.

	“It’s locked.” Nisha replied after a brief examination of the lock. “Gimme a minute, this one’s pretty complex.”

	“That’s odd…” Tristol said in the meantime. “There’s no magic surrounding the doors.”

	“I don’t believe it.” Fyrehowl said. “Something doesn’t feel right about them.”

	Nisha briefly paused at Fyrehowl’s apprehension. Normally the cipher’s intuition was right.

	“Should I open it or not?” The tiefling asked her.

	Fyrehowl wrinkled her brow in thought, but then shook her head.

	“No.” She replied. “Go ahead.”

	“Alright.” Nisha replied. “If you say so.”

	The lock gave a series of clicks as the tumblers fell into place, one by one, and finally the latch fell free. Nisha glanced back at the others.

“Don’t worry Nisha.” Kiro said. “I’ll get the next door for you, regardless of how this one turns out.”

	Nisha shrugged and gave a smile to the cleric. “If you say so, but I’ll be standing back a bit.”

	“Not a problem.” Kiro replied.

	“Don’t blame me if we blow up.” She said as she stepped back and nudged the doors open with one hoof.

	They swung open silently with no ill effect, though there seemed to be a very sudden, very brief surge of magic, under Tristol’s sight. The hallway continued onwards beyond them for another twenty yards till it seemed to open up into a crimson illuminated interior courtyard.

	Clueless stepped forward into the corridor, followed shortly thereafter by Kiro, and then Florian. The first two were fine, nothing happened to them, but Florian’s body seized and fell to the ground amid a convulsive series of agonized coughs and belabored inhalations as the cleric struggled to breath. Tristol could only watch as Kiro dragged her forwards and off of the source of the curse.

	“Son of a…” Fyrehowl said as she walked up to the line of the door and stopped dead in her tracks, looking at the boundary between the corridor and the private section beyond. A series of glyphs stretched along the line, inset into the doorframe above and below. Minute inscriptions written in infernal, they glittered like tiny black diamonds scattered in a row across the dividing line, previously hidden from sight by the closed and locked door, and mostly blending into the dark, polished surface of the palace flagstones.

	Kiro was on the ground, bracing Florian and keeping the hilt of a dagger in her mouth to prevent her from biting off her own tongue as the pain induced seizure ran its course. A minute later he was looking down at her with concern, and gently smacking her on the cheek, letting her get her bearings.

	“You alright?” Kiro asked. “You triggered some sort of contingent ward. I don’t know why it triggered on you, but not myself and Clueless.”

	Florian winced and stood back up with a stolid expression on her face.

	“I’m fine.” She said.

	“Tristol?” Clueless asked, glancing between the glyphs and the aasimar. 

	“I’m already looking at it.” Tristol replied. “It’s permanent, it’s triggered for anyone who isn’t evil or doesn’t resist it. This might take me several tries to dispel it, if I can.”

	“Don’t bother.” Toras said. “Save your spells. It’s just a pissy little pain glyph. At worst it’ll hurt, but it’s not lethal.”

	“I’m beyond tired of this bast*rd’s symbols and glyphs.” Florian said.

	“Are you sure?” Tristol asked back at Toras and the others on the other side of the line of glyphs.

	Nisha looked down at the boundary and shook her head rapidly. Toras nodded his assent, and she smacked her forehead as he walked across. Thankfully though, he resisted the ward.

	“Nisha? Tristol? Fyrehowl? Skalliska?” Clueless asked. “You going to be all right?”

	“Hopefully yes?” Nisha said as she backed up, braced herself, and then did a running leap over the boundary.

	Landing on the other side with the gentle rattle of the bell on her tail, she winced and paused, finally opening one eye and looking around. She’d resisted the ward.

	A few moments later and the others crossed over as well, though unfortunately Fyrehowl and Skalliska had a much rougher time than Tristol, spending time seizing up in a brief period of magically induced agony. The pain didn’t dissuade them though. The pain only made them more firm in their desire to take revenge upon their fiendish tormentor, wherever in his palace he was lurking.

	“Come on.” Fyrehowl said as she looked down the corridor. “Let’s go find this jack*ss.”


***​

	Kiro glanced back at the line of wards, and far beyond it the shattered remains of the twin golems. Something about it didn’t seem right to him, though he really had little to base the feeling upon. For what it was worth, the fiend’s palace was feeling less and less like a comfortable sanctum of exotic grandeur and ill gained wealth to be displayed before the execution of those who displeased him, and more like a perverse, delicately planned scenario in many ways, initiated and set up for the Rakshasa’s enjoyment. How much of it might have been intended, and how much of that plan they had disrupted by their own actions thus far, well that was yet to be determined; that, among other things.


***​

	A harsh glow of bright crimson, a gentle trickle of flowing water, and the aroma of hundreds of flowers, these were the trio of impressions that greeted them as they walked to the end of the hallway and emerged in the courtyard at the center of the palace’s private wing.

	A small interior courtyard, its center was open to the sky and was filled by an open-air garden of sorts. Rising up from the native earth of the plane, twisting vines and exotic flowers filled the air with an oddly beguiling but yet off-putting scent. Bitter and slightly acidic to the nose, the flora was beautiful and represented a unique collection of the most spectacular, yet sinister, purple, scarlet, and green flowers from across the entire layer of Cathrys.

The garden itself surrounded a small trickling pond fed by a trio of streams flowing from three decorative stone dragons perched upon the three columns supporting the interior palace terraces that ringed around the courtyard. Each of them resembled an Acheronian rust dragon intricately carved from stone which had a lifelike tone and sheen to its surface, flecked with reddish brown mineral deposits and shimmering green crystals. One would almost think them alive, looking down upon the garden, ready to swoop down and devour intruders.

	“I’m not looking at the flowers in the garden guys.” Tristol said. “Look at the shadow cast across it, and then look up.”

	Indeed there was a slim shadow cast across the breadth of the courtyard, and, high above on its south side, a tall tower rose up from the palace, deeper within the Rakshasas’ private wing.

	“Wasn’t that tower toppled over to one side?” Clueless asked.

	“Yeah, it was.” Toras said. “The whole thing was collapsed in on itself.”

	“But we know the whole palace was covered with an illusion.” Tristol said. “And to be honest, most of the more powerful magic that I’ve seen laced into the walls here converges on that tower. I want to know what’s in there.”

	They all glanced up at the tower, noting the slight pulsing glow that seemed to envelop its upper stories. Their attention was distracted though by Fyrehowl.

	“Awww…” The lupinal said as she walked towards one of the carved stone pillars.

	On the pillar, hung from the tail of the stone rust dragon carved atop it, was a brass cage. Inside was a single, tiny faerie dragon that peered up cautiously at the lupinal. The dragon was young and its wings seemed faded from their original bright luster.

	Tristol turned away from his examination of the magic that swirled around the tower and looked towards the cage and its tiny, draconic prisoner. The bars of the cage were warded some form of specific forbiddance dweomer to entrap the dragon, and the cage’s interior was blanketed with an antimagic field. Clearly the dragon’s keepers were taking no chances with its escape, given the innate magical abilities of its kind.

The faerie dragon looked up at them with oversized bright blue eyes, tinged red at the edges with recent tears. Its amber colored scales were dulled from hunger, and it seemed almost hesitant to feel even a glimmer of hope that it might be released.

	“Hello there little guy.” Toras said. “What’s your name?”

	The faerie dragon gave a feeble twitch of its speckled, wildly colored butterfly wings and edged as close to the bars of the cage as the wards would allow it. He craned his neck up to look at Toras and slowly blinked, but he didn’t quite manage a smile.

	The faerie dragon rattled off an incomprehensibly long name in high pitched, fluting draconic. “But you can call me Amberblue.”

	“How long have you been here Amberblue?” Toras asked.

	The dragon paused and looked around, expecting either of its fiendish masters to appear at any moment.

	“I don’t know how long.” He said with an almost guilty, plaintive chirp. “There’s no sun here, not like Arborea. I can’t tell when its day or night… I’m sorry…”

	The faerie dragon slunk down at the admission.

	“No, it’s alright. That’s not your fault.” The fighter reassured him. “Do the Rakshasas keep you locked up here?”

	Amberblue nodded and cringed.

	“Well,” Toras said gently. “We’re going to let you out and make sure that they can’t hurt you, or lock you or anyone else up ever again.”

	“NOOO!” Amberblue exclaimed with a sudden surge of fear. “Doooooon’t! You’ll make them angry! Please don’t make them angry!”

	The tiny dragon was on the verge of tears, almost pleading to –NOT- be released.

	“I… I’ve seen what they do to people that make them angry.” He whimpered as tears welled in his eyes, rolled down and dropped from the end of his snout. “You don’t know what they can do. I’ve seen them. She’s the worst when she’s here…”


***​


----------



## Gez

What? The dragon is _not_ a trap?


----------



## Clueless

Nopes! Amberblue is soon to be adopted by Clueless.  Technically it was Clueless going all 'Awwwww' over the little fellow, not Toras. (The others were too scared of the idea of a five year old with Wish.)


----------



## Shemeska

Clueless said:
			
		

> (The others were too scared of the idea of a five year old with Wish.)




As a bit of a houserule, I have faerie dragons (regardless of age catagory) all having a Wish 1/day. They usually use it on something stupid though, like apple tarts. *grin*


----------



## solomanii

Finally I am caught up.  Great campaign albeit a bit dark for my liking.  I stopped reading at page 18 due to a house/country move and have just finally caught up.  Will start SH2 now.  Thanks for the enjoyable read Shem.


----------



## Pale Violet Light

Indeed, a very good story hour. Your plotting, in particular, is wonderfully epic and convoluted (in a good way). The dark tone is a nice change to many of the other story hours - I get the impression that someone listens to too much heavy metal.....


----------



## Clueless

As a rule: Tool, NIN, Vast, and Perfect Circle. Add a few touches from Disturbed and Godhead and Stabbing Westward. (We would drive cross state lines to get to a Tool concert.)


----------



## primemover003

VAST...  man I didn't even know he made another album!  Gotta throw in some Dream Theatre and Helmet and we have a rock festival!


----------



## Shemeska

As much as I hate to say this, this week's update is sitting on my desktop only about 70% finished. I've only had two days this week to work on it, was out of town to see Trans-Siberian Orchestra on Monday, and I'm going to be away from home, and my computer, till Sunday because of Thanksgiving.

The update that was scheduled for Friday of this week will be posted Sunday evening or Monday afternoon. Next week will also have its own update later in the week as well.

My apologies for the disruption in the regular updates.


----------



## FreeXenon

TSO Rocks!


----------



## bluegodjanus

I think you're spending too much time with A'kin. Going on dates with him to the Civic Festhall, now? My, my... what would the people of Sigil think if they heard about this?


----------



## Quanqued

FreeXenon said:
			
		

> TSO Rocks!



Indeed they do, and did.  I failed to see them last year; I wasn't about to let them go through on tour for another year without seeing them.


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## Eco-Mono

bluegodjanus said:
			
		

> I think you're spending too much time with A'kin. Going on dates with him to the Civic Festhall, now? My, my... what would the people of Sigil think if they heard about this?



>XD


----------



## Shemeska

*Nothing like the taste of sweet decline*

A note on this update. It's seriously late now as I update it, but it's longer than a normal update, by about 50 or 60%. However, I haven't had a chance to read over it as closely as I'd like, so pardon anything I missed. Just email me if anything sticks out and I'll correct it. Now, I go sleep.

-------




“Well, as far as we know, she’s not here.” Clueless said. “And her brother isn’t either. He’s hiding somewhere because –he’s- frightened of –us-. We came here looking for him because he’d had some very unfriendly people snatch one of our friends to do to them what he did to you.”

	Clueless pointed to Skalliska.

	“We got her back, and nothing bad happened to her.” Toras said, motioning again to the kobold.

	Amberblue peered at the Skalliska. A glimmer of hope seemed to spark in the tiny dragon’s eyes.

	“Can I come with you?” The dragon asked hesitantly.

	“We’d be happy to help you get out of here.” Nisha said, smiling at Amberblue. “It’s far too unpleasant and icky of a place here for a dragon as good looking as you to be in.”

	The bell on the end of Nisha’s tail rattled cheerily as she picked the lock of the dragon’s cage.

	“That’s Nisha by the way.” Clueless said. “And I’m Clueless.”

	The bladesinger pointed at the others in turn, and they all introduced themselves to Amberblue. The dragon smiled and waved his tail gently in greeting. The collection of friendly faces around him seemed to brighten his spirits, and when Nisha opened the door to his cage, Amberblue fluttered his wings and landed on her shoulder.

	“Fey! Dragon fey!” Clueless whispered as he looked at Fyrehowl. “He’s like a little cousin!”

	“You’ll have plenty of time to dote on him them.” The lupinal replied with a smile.

	Nisha grinned with sincere enjoyment as the faerie dragon softly nuzzled her neck in appreciation.

	“Thank you.” He said, smiling at his new friends.

	“You hungry little guy?” Toras asked, knowing by the dragon’s pallor that he’d been fed infrequently, and poorly.

	Amberblue nodded and paused in thought for a moment.

	“They didn’t feed me very much. And never anything I liked.” He said. “I wish I had an apple.”

	And suddenly there was an apple in the dragon’s outstretched hands, just small enough for him to keep steady on Nisha’s shoulder as he nibbled at it.

	There was a pause as everyone realized just what had happened. Faerie dragons had an innate ability to simply wish things into existence. It was a frighteningly powerful talent, one normally held only by terribly experienced spellcasters, but the tiny, dragon fey had it innately, even if they might not actually recognize the significance of it all. It was simply how the world worked in their innocent minds, nothing special at all. And so, unburdened by the cost of, and responsibility required, for such powerful magic, they tended to use it for almost innocuous and insignificant requests.

	Amberblue nibbled on the apple and looked up at Nisha and Clueless, the latter of which had been edging closer with a look on glee on his face.

	“You waan som appur?” The dragon said to them both through a mouthful of fruit.

“You’re like the familiar I never had.” Nisha said with glee as she accepted a tiny bit of apple from Amberblue.

Tristol had a sudden metaphorical pain in his chest at the very thought of Nisha with a faerie dragon familiar. He’d seen some things back in Halruaa that were over the top, and he’d heard of other things even further into the realm of the overblown and bizarre, but all of them were positively normal, and comparatively safe, as opposed to a Xaositect with a faerie dragon.

	“Well Amberblue,” Clueless said. “You stay with us while we look around the palace here. And when we leave, we’ll bring you with us!”

	Amberblue smiled up at him and happily fluttered his wings, all the while continuing to nibble at his apple.

	“Well, let’s see what else is around here.” Fyrehowl said, growing a bit weary of the sickly sweet smell of the garden’s array of carcerian flowers.


***​

	Leaving the inner courtyard and its garden behind, they stepped through the largest of the three archways and into the short corridor. The hallway, glittering with reddish light reflecting from its black marble flagstones, opened into another chamber. Like the garden before it, this chamber too was open to the sky above. However, rather than a garden, its center was dominated by a single massive boulder of raw jade.

	The boulder sat in the room’s center, directly between the four doorways, one in each of the chamber’s walls. Seemingly picked up from a mountainside and deposited into the palace by magic, it was larger than any of the archways into the room, and weighed many tons. On its own, its raw, uncarved beauty would be something to behold, but an artist, or a team of them, had depicted, carved into its surface, from its base and stretching up to its top, some fifteen feet high, a massive Blood War battle scene. Armies of the three major fiendish races, along with celestials and mortals as well, all sprawled in tiny, inch high relief across the entirety of the jadeite boulder. By happenstance, magic, or genius, each of the opposing armies had been carved from portions of the stone with varying colors and types of jade. One army in emerald green, another in pearly, almost translucent white, another in a reddish hue, and the others in their own unique shade of jade, separate and distinct, carved in place where the stone had shifted colors with the impurities of its birth.

	“Andros on high…” Toras said almost breathlessly. “That’s incredible.”

	They were all staring at the carvings that sprawled across the boulder of jade. Each of the tiny mezzoloths locked in battle with a planetar, each of the inch high dretches being goaded forwards by a coiled and screaming maralith, and the hordes of miniature barbazu marching in formation: all of them had been carved with their own unique features, with no two of them alike.

	“Wow.” Clueless said.

	“This had to have taken a lifetime to carve.” Tristol said.

	“More than one.” Kiro said. “Generations had to have slaved over this.”

	“Slave being the operative term.” Clueless said with a sigh. “Given our generous hosts’ nature.”

	“There was a reason I used that specific verb.” Kiro said with a gentle nod of his head at the boulder.

	Skalliska was pacing around the stone, glancing at the archways leading off from the chamber. Of all of them, she wasn’t staring at the artwork. After all, they could always come back to pilfer the place, but at the moment she was dressed in a burlap sack, without any of her weapons, wands, or possessions from back in Sigil before she’d been kidnapped. To say that she was bitter and anxious was something of an understatement.

	The kobold completed her circuit of the stone just as the others were finishing their own praise-laden observations of the carvings on its surface. Even Nisha was taking a wholly respectful stance around it.

	“Where to now though?” Skalliska asked. “I’ve had enough of art of questionable taste to be a bit blunt.”

	To Skalliska’s question, they took scope of the trio of archways leading off from the room.

	Of the three other exits from the chamber, one of them led to a spiral stairwell rising up into the heights of the tower that they had seen earlier, the one that cast its shadow over the interior courtyard, and the same one which had appeared broken and crumbled from the outside of the palace. Under Tristol’s gaze, the magic there was more potent than anywhere else in the palace.

	The other two archways opened into short, connecting hallways, both of which ended at heavy, closed wooden doors. Each of them was carved with a rampant likeness of one of the two Rakshasas; presumably each door led to their respective bedrooms and other private chambers.

	Tristol pointed to the tower. 

“I’m curious about that. The other room’s can wait. But they obviously felt it something worth obscuring from view outside of the palace.”

	Skalliska frowned slightly, muttering something to herself about still being effectively naked and wanting to find where the hell her stuff had been stashed. But despite the objections, she followed Tristol and the others as they entered the stairway up into the tower.

	“Any idea of what’s up here?” Florian mused openly.

	“Something like what we saw on the Astral I figure.” Tristol said, pausing his ascent on the stairs. “The magic I can see in the tower walls is similar, but it’s not quite the same. That might mean that it’s something altogether different, or just that we’re in Carceri and not the Astral.”

	Fyrehowl wrinkled her nose at the memory of the contents of that similar tower on the Astral.

	“It’s already different though.” The lupinal said. “Sure the palace was shielded from divinations, but this place has been clean to the point of sterility. I can’t honestly see a Rakshasa with a room full of mangled corpses spattered across the walls of a room in his own palace. Especially not in the private wing of the place.”

	“Something like that.” Clueless said. “But since we haven’t seen him yet, or anything that honestly he’d worry about us finding, I’m willing to bet that there’s some hidden rooms around here somewhere.”

	The others agreed, either voicing their opinion, or simply nodding. But, be that as it was, they honestly expected to find something grisly in the tower; something to match what they had found in the Astral. But they found nothing of that sort at all.


***​


	After ascending two stories along the smooth, featureless stone of the spiral stairwell, they emerged into an open chamber at the summit of the tower. The room was open to the sky, and the sickly sweet smell of the scarlet jungle drifted in on the wind under the elaborate stone cupola that topped the tower’s summit. 

The small chamber glimmered with a soft, silvery light that emanated from a smooth crystalline orb suspended in the room’s center. The light from the orb flickered and wavered like moonlight falling on the surface of a softly undulating ocean, scattering across the chamber as its liquid interior gently pulsed and quivered in time with the strands of magic that centered upon it. All of the filaments and threads of magic that Tristol had seen in the palace seemed to focus upon the orb, extending up through the tower and ending as they disappeared into its interior.

	But, and it was something that Tristol noted immediately, the odd magic flowed into the orb, but it did not originate there. It was coming from somewhere else, and simply being focused by the orb, and the silvery liquid it contained, something nearly identical to the bowl of the same liquid that they had found on the astral, focusing the magic rising up from walls spattered with the putrid remains of a half dozen butchered githyanki.

	“Given what happened last time,” Toras said. “Can I please suggest that we don’t mess with this thing?”

	Nisha tilted her head to one side. “Why? There aren’t Astral Dreadnaughts in Carceri.”

	“No, but…” Toras said, right before Nisha began to ramble.

	“Unless they vacation here. But who would want to vacation here. Except Skalliska, but that was a free vacation.”

	“Hey, I’m standing right here you know.” The kobold said, poking the tiefling with the tip of a claw.

	“No, Nisha, there aren’t any Astral Dreadnaughts here.” Clueless said.

	“But there are Gehreleths.” Fyrehowl said as she looked out at the jungles surrounding the palace.

	“Ok, yeah.” Nisha said with a nod. “That would be a good reason not to mess with it.”

	“So where does that leave us then?” Florian asked, glancing down at the sphere and its silvery contents.

	“It leaves us with stairs to walk down.” Skalliska said with a sigh. “That’s what it leaves us with.”

	“But it does mean that Clueless was right before.” Kiro added. “There’s something similar here in the palace to that charnel house on the astral. We just haven’t found it yet. There’s undoubtedly a concealed portion of the palace.”

	Fyrehowl nodded. “Then I suggest we go find it.”

	“Let’s go check out the private rooms downstairs.” Clueless said. “At the least, we’ll find out some more about what the Rakshasas might be up to in the broad scope of things.”

	As Clueless mentioned the fiends, there was a soft, crooning whimper from Amberblue. The tiny faerie dragon was quivering like a leaf in the wind from where it was perched on Nisha’s shoulder.

	“Don’t be nervous little guy.” Nisha said, reaching up to stroke a finger over the dragon’s snout.

	“I don’t want to go where they might be…” Amberblue said softly. “They’ll be angry…”

	Toras and Clueless looked at one another, then back to the dragon.

	“Well, how about we give you somewhere safe to hide till we’re done here?” Clueless asked.

	Amberblue blinked curiously and nodded.

	Clueless opened the bag of holding at his waist and motioned towards the opening.

	“It’s a bag of holding.” He said. “It’s not really a bag, it’s more of a magical hidey hole.”

	“Normally I keep my familiar in something similar.” Tristol said. “He stays inside all warm and safe till we’re out of any sort of danger.”

	Amberblue seemed to ponder it for a moment, looking up at Nisha for some reassurance. She smiled and gave him a gentle peck on the tip of his snout.

	“You’ll be fine Amberblue.” Nisha said. “We’ll get you out when we’re gone and back somewhere safe.”

	The faerie dragon curled his tail around the Xaositect’s finger momentarily before fluttering his wings and diving into Clueless’ bag of holding.

	The moment Clueless closed the bag there was an unspoken feeling of relief that seemed to radiate from Tristol. There was just something dangerous about Nisha having a tiny creature capable of wishes curled up on her shoulder. Not that he was going to say anything about it of course, the little butterfly winged dragon was adorable, and it was the least that they could do to get him away from the clutches of a pair of fiends who treated him as little better than an exotic songbird.

	A minute or two later, they stood back at the bottom of the stairs, clustered around the massive block of jade, glancing at the two other exits from the chamber.

	“So which one first?” Florian asked, motioned to the two doors.

	“I’ll admit,” Fyrehowl said. “As much as I’d like to even the score between us and Siddhartha sooner rather than later, I’m terribly interested in what sort of person his sister is.”

	“Same here. Siddhartha isn’t going anywhere, he wants to kill us anyway, and he’s likely to come to us eventually. We might as well take the opportunity to learn a bit.”

	There were no objections, and so they approached the door presumably leading into the female fiend’s chambers. Nisha gave the door a cursory check for traps, finding nothing, and Tristol couldn’t sense any peculiar dweomers lingering in the area either.

	The heavy mahogany door swung open without a sound, and much to their relief, without triggering any mundane or magical traps. Silence and opulent sterility greeted them through the doorway.

	The Lady Rakshasa’s chamber was large, much larger than a single person required, and it was decorated and outfitted with the luxuries and amenities of someone of royal blood. Elaborate rugs, cushions, lacquered furniture, and delicate works of art sprawled across the room, but they seemed barely used. Most of the room’s furniture looked new, appearing static and untouched, like a mock-up of a queen’s chambers, and not the room of a living, breathing queen in residence. In fact, outside of a faint lingering scent of incense in the room, the chamber might as well have seemed like it had never once had its owner spend a night in her bed therein.

	“Nice place.” Clueless commented as they stepped into the room.

	“There’s not a speck of dust on the floor.” Skalliska said, while next to her Nisha was making faces at her reflection in the polished surface.

	“Dust requires someone, anyone to be living in a place.” Kiro said as he glanced at the bed and the desk next to it.

	“Something tells me that the Lady of the House is only rarely in attendance.” Florian said.

	“Rarely, if ever.” Fyrehowl said. “I can’t smell anything recent in the room. Just her brother’s scent, and that’s wafting in through the open door.”

	Clueless opened his bag of holding and held his finger out as Amberblue’s head poked out.

	“Are we someplace safe yet?” The faerie dragon asked.

	“Not quite yet actually Amberblue.” Clueless said. “I had a question for you, then you can go back where it’s safer.”

	Amberblue glanced around the room and shivered as he realized where they were. He’d seen the chamber before at some point, and he did not seem comfortable in the least.

	“Can we leave?” Came Amberblue’s plaintive request.

	“Do you know anything about the female Rakshasa who lives here?” Clueless said.

	The faerie dragon perched on his hand, butterfly wings tapping nervously at the air.

	“She doesn’t live here.” Amberblue said. “But she visits.”

	“Recently?” Clueless asked.

	“… I don’t know…” The faerie dragon said. “When she does visit though, it’s when she’s angry.”

	Clueless nodded and opened the bag back up.

	“…very angry…” Amberblue said as he gave one last look around the room and ducked back into the bag’s extradimensional space.

	“Let’s leave Amberblue be for a while if we can.” Toras said. “He’s been neglected pretty badly, and he’s probably seen some things out of the fiend’s that have impacted him pretty badly. He’s seriously young for one of his kind, and while for the most part they’re all like perpetually innocent children, he’s probably even more so. He’s frightened of this place.”

	“We’ll take him out for something to eat once we’re back in Sigil.” Kiro said. “Least we can do.”

	That said, there really was little else of note in the fiend’s bedchamber. They spent another ten minutes scouring it for any sign of hidden doors or something, anything, which might have been initially overlooked. But alas, there was nothing. True to Amberblue’s words, Siddhartha’s sister was an infrequent guest and as such, there were no personal effects to be found.

	Wandering out of the female fiend’s bedroom, they walked around the jade boulder and towards the other Rakshasa’s room. And, like hers, it was similarly devoid of either a lock or any magical wardings to keep secure from intruders. Apparently the fiend had figured the earlier wards at the initial entryway to the private wing of the palace were enough. Or perhaps there was nothing in his chambers of sufficient worth to bother protecting. They would find out which it was soon enough.

	In another striking similarity to his sister’s bedroom, Siddhartha’s was lush to the point of seeming obscene. But while his sister’s was suited for the occasional, infrequent stay, Siddhartha’s room was more functional, if still seeming artificially sterile in many other ways.

	Half of the chamber was dominated by cushions, a large bed, and a circle of divans centered around an elaborate brass water-pipe. What gathered more attention though was the other half of the chamber that was decorated as, and stocked as, a full arcane laboratory.

	“Ok, now this is interesting.” Tristol said as he quickly walked over to examine the workbenches and shelves, all heavily laden with alchemical reagents.

	The benches were covered in scorch marks and the poorly cleaned residue of past experiments. A number of well recognized alchemical texts lay on the shelves alongside bottles and boxes of assorted materials. But beyond those textbooks, most of which Tristol owned copies of himself, there were no spellbooks, and no research notes to be found.

	“Hey Fyrehowl.” Tristol said. “Take a look at these.”

	The lupinal glanced over at a trio of large, flat stones the aasimar was examining. Each of them were inscribed with partially finished arcane symbols, incomplete versions of the same objects which Siddhartha had left for them to stumble upon back in Sigil, and back in the jungle.

	“Lovely…” Fyrehowl said derisively.

	“Pain, persuasion, and discord.” Tristol said, pointing each one out in turn. “They’re very nearly completed. Apparently he expected us to take a bit more time to get here than we did.”

	Skalliska coughed to get their attention, motioning them over towards the far side of the laboratory.

	“Take a look at this.” She said.

	The workbenches were covered in a fine layer of charcoal and a few errant pieces of a yellow-white mineral. But that wasn’t what Skalliska was pointing out. Next to the workbenches, there were a series of circular rings on the floor where a number of objects had very recently been.

	“Remember those barrels of powder we found on the Astral?” She asked. “Same size as the markings on the floor here.”

	“He probably made them here.” Tristol said. “He’s got the equipment for it in the lab to make it easily. I just can’t easily imagine him having to do all of the mucking around with reagents himself.”

	“Well, we already know he’s the lesser of the two of them.” Toras said. “His sister probably doesn’t give him a choice in the matter.”

	“Among other tasks.” Kiro said, pointing to the next workbench.

	Where the cleric pointed to sat a pair of partially constructed hand-cannons, the same type that the goblinoid petitioners had been using back on the Astral when they had first come into conflict with Siddhartha.

	“Seems like he’s been put to work here more than a bit by his sister.” Fyrehowl said. “I’m sure it galls him.”

	“Surely.” Kiro said in agreement. “For someone with such noble pretensions, it certainly would.”

	Putting aside for the moment all of the various sundries that littered the Rakshasa’s laboratory, they glanced at the trio of doors that branched off from the room. All of them were closed, all were constructed flush with the walls, with heavy and partially recessed hinges, and there were some small differences between them. The first glistened with the dull sheen of a layer of hammered lead, the second was covered in tiny engraved glyphs upon its surface, and the last was wholly unadorned.

	“Tristol?” Fyrehowl asked.

	“One second.” The aasimar said. “Already looking at it.”

	The wizard peered at the symbols on the middle door, and then gave the others a cursory glance. He came up mostly with shrugs, but he didn’t seem too terribly concerned.

	“The first one looks like a precaution to keep something out, or something in. The lead ‘ll keep anything incorporeal from drifting through. Normally that’s only used for something on the ethereal.”

	“But there isn’t an ethereal overlap here.” Skalliska said.

	“So either it’s just decoration, or it’s to prevent scrying, since the lead usually blocks that as well. Or, it’s something weird.”

	“Oooh, there’s a shocker.” Nisha said, already removing her lockpicks.

	“And the other doors?” Kiro asked.

	“The middle one looks like the symbols are partially decoration, and partially wardings.” Tristol replied.

	“Wardings?” Florian asked.

	Tristol shook his head with an obvious lack of concern.

	“All pointing inwards.” He said. “They’re just added protection for what’s likely another set of the same inside the room past the door.”

	 “And the last door?” Skalliska asked. “None of these sound promising for where all of my stuff got stashed.”

	Tristol shrugged. “Nothing special about that door. Not even a bit of magic to it.”

	Skalliska sighed and marched up to the last door. She didn’t get further than there though, as the door handle gave the heavy, pregnant click of a locked set of tumblers when she tried the handle.

	“Nisha, if you would.” Clueless asked the Xaositect while the kobold kicked the door.

	Skalliska would have to wait though, as Nisha started at the lead lined door first, intending to open the largely unremarkable door last. She was at the middle door when Kiro preemptively defused the kobold’s anxiousness by putting a hand on her shoulder and picking the lock on the last door for her.

	“Not bad.” Skalliska commented as the cleric put away a slim set of picks. 

Kiro had picked the lock with practiced ease, though in truth he’d been slow at the task and acted as if he was unused to the skill. Of course, as he opened the door for Skalliska, the others were largely occupied with examining the interior of the other two rooms, and they didn’t really pay him any particular notice. Of course, that was how it should be.

	Inside the first chamber, there was very little except for a single table and some scant magical illumination. A red glass orb sat atop the table, swirling with motion and a constant blur of colors, much like an agitated mix of colored oils and water.

	Florian glanced down at the orb, and then down at the stack of notes laying next to it. Written in Siddhartha’s script, the notes seemed to detail the ‘hunger’ of the creature contained in the orb, at what stage of starvation it slowed down, and how long before it entered a state of torpor. Of specific note were observations that the creature was ‘unable to leech upon the innate abilities of fiends unless they possess some learned spellcasting ability beyond their native faculties. I’m curious to see its reaction to the tiefling and his little abyssal vermin of a familiar once they return.’

	Florian seemed perplexed by the notes, but she abruptly stood back from the orb when the fiend’s notes finally named the creature in the glass vessel: A Hakeshar.

	“Woah!” Florian exclaimed. “He’s got a bottled Nishruu!”

	“Don’t touch it!” Came an inarticulate shout from both Clueless and Tristol from the other room.

	Both of them came bolting into the room a moment later.

	“Don’t expect me to touch it in the least.” Florian said. “I know what they can do without being reminded of it.”

	Tristol glanced over the notes with avid curiosity.

	“He’s got another laboratory around here somewhere.” The aasimar said.

	“Oh?” Florian asked.

	“The notes.” Tristol replied. “He talks about using this critter on other fiends, so clearly he has, or did have, somewhere that he was keeping some imprisoned as experimental subjects.”

	“What about the other room you were in just now?” Florian asked.

	Clueless shook his head. “It’s an empty summoning and binding chamber.”

	“It’s extremely well crafted,” Tristol said. “And he could summon most anything short of a balor. But it’s not for long term entrapment of anything.”

	“Yes!!!” Came Skalliska’s jubilant shout from the third room.

	“I take it that she found her stuff.” Florian said.

	“Let’s go take a look.” Clueless said, walking towards the door.

	“Maybe she’ll have clothes again.” Tristol said.

	As Tristol and Clueless left, Florian paused and glanced at the orb.

	“Ah hell, why not?” She said before snatching up the orb and stuffing it into a bag of holding. “Might find a use for you one of these days. You never know.”

	Meanwhile, in the 3rd chamber off from Siddhartha’s laboratory, Skalliska’s pilfered equipment was laid out on a table that dominated most of the small room. Each item was neatly laid out, and it seemed readily apparent that her possessions had each been examined and cataloged after the slaughter of the mercenaries who had kidnapped her.

	She only briefly glanced at the Rakshasa’s detailed list of the equipment though; she was much more concerned with getting dressed again.

	Kiro stepped past her and glanced at the list of items. The fiend had neatly listed each of the items, and even made brief notations on the strength and quality of the magic in many of the items. But what intrigued him more though, was a notation regarding the pile of brass cannons which sat in the room’s corner, which had been taken from Skalliska’s bag of holding.

	Originally, the cannons had each been part of the defenses of the two towers in orbit around the godisle of Maanzicorian on the Astral. And the Rakshasa it seemed, from the notations written under the list of cannons, was very keen on returning them to the silvery void post haste.

_“Repossessed cannons to be shipped back to the Astral. Sister can use, better than casting new ones.”_

	“Interesting.” Kiro murmured to himself while next to him, Skalliska was adjusting the oversized, plumed feather in her hat.

	“Haha! Finally!” Skalliska shouted as she left the room, a neatly folded burlap sack left in place of her reclaimed possessions.

	Meanwhile the others were combing over the Rakshasa’s laboratory, looking for some indication of where the fiend might be lurking. But they had little luck, and left with no further answers.

	“So everything’s a wash then…” Florian said. “Anyone have any ideas of where to look?”

	“Well, we never actually looked in the servants quarters you know.” Clueless suggested.

	“There is that.” Toras said. “And it might be worthwhile to check the tower again.”

	“It’s worth a shot.” Tristol said as they walked out into the connecting chamber between the fiends’ chambers and the tower. “The magic is clearly coming from somewhere else.”

	“Though it’s something that… wait…”

	Fyrehowl abruptly paused as an oddly familiar smell flooded her nostrils. It was the same smell that she had first, momentarily, noticed under the central dome of the chamber that connected the three wings of the palace. At the time it had been a sharp, acrid smell of ammonia and copper, putrid and rancid like fat left in the sun. Now it was stronger, it was closer, and it flowed on the air like syrup to stick in the back of the throat with a gagging, rotting presence.

	Acting more so than pausing to think about it, Fyrehowl approached the jadeite boulder, lingering around a specific portion. She sniffed at the air and ran the tips of her fingers over the stone, searching for something.

	“Find something?” Florian asked, moments before a heavy *click!* rang out, and there was a sound of shifting gears below the floor.

	Nisha backed away from the boulder hesitantly, but nothing adverse seemed to happen. No trap was sprung, and in fact, nothing else happened at all.

	“There’s something here.” Fyrehowl said. “Or rather, there’s something under here.”

	Under the lupinal’s fingers, one of the tiny jade figures, a deep green nycaloth hunching and preparing to leap aloft, had depressed slightly and triggered a pressure plate somewhere in the interior of the boulder. The massive stone was apparently hollow and fitted with some sort of internal mechanism, presumably to trigger a trap door.

	Fyrehowl moved a few feet over and brushed her fingers over the reddish colored ranks of Baatezu, ultimately pressing down upon the milky colored body of a tiny osyluth. The fiend was depressed and there was again another loud click, soon coupled with the shifting of weights and gears under their feet.

	“Are you entirely sure we should be doing this?” Nisha asked from the shelter of one of the archways. “Not that I’m usually averse to messing around with things just for the sake of messing around with them.”

	Fyrehowl didn’t reply, but her index finger was paused over the inch tall figure of a violet and green colored maralith, carved in intricate detail, right down to the individual scales on her lower body. The lupinal glanced over at her companions, uncertain if she should proceed.

	“Go ahead.” Toras said. “The rest of the palace is empty. If there’s anything else to be found, this is how we’ll be getting down there.”

	Fyrehowl looked from the fighter and over to the others. They were uniformly wary for the most part, though Skalliska seemed more anxious than anything else, and Kiro was just as calm and placid as ever.

	A few slow seconds passed and there were no objections, though Nisha was busy crossing as many fingers as possible, and poking her tail at Tristol to get him to do the same.

	“Then it’s settled.” Fyrehowl said.

*click!*

	And with that, the last figure depressed with a sudden rattle of falling weights deep below the floor. There was a pause, and the sounds stopped but for a prolonged series of ticks. Then, with a sound of releasing tension deep below, the boulder slid several feet to the side to reveal a stairwell descending down into darkness. A rank chemical odor of alchemical reagents, blood, bile, and putrefied flesh rose from the opening.


***​


----------



## Ryltar

This. Made. My. Day. (Or rather, morning, but still ...) 

Great evocative writing, kudos once again . I know I'd rather not be in the PC's boots as they explore yet more of Siddharta's experimental labs!

I'm really looking forward to your Rogues' Gallery updates.


----------



## shilsen

Nice. Very nice. The "oh my god, what have we here?" type of nice, of course


----------



## Florian

Fear the Nishruu Grenade!


----------



## Eco-Mono

Yay! Cute Widdle Dragon!


----------



## Shemeska

Eco-Mono said:
			
		

> Yay! Cute Widdle Dragon!




With a Wish 1/day. Be frightened. The players eventually grew to cringe everytime that dragon prefaced anything with "I wish..."


----------



## Fimmtiu

Shemeska said:
			
		

> “Ah hell, why not?” She said before snatching up the orb and stuffing it into a bag of holding. “Might find a use for you one of these days. You never know.”




Oh no... this can't end well.

Nice update. Good to see you back and posting again.


----------



## dostum

Shemeska said:
			
		

> Florian seemed perplexed by the notes, but she abruptly stood back from the orb when the fiend’s notes finally named the creature in the glass vessel: A Hakeshar.
> 
> “Woah!” Florian exclaimed. “He’s got a bottled Nishruu!”




For the ignorant, a what-now?


Really looking forward to seeing the lady Rakshasa, what a buildup. 

Also, Faery Dragon + Nisha   . You Evil evil man


----------



## Shemeska

dostum said:
			
		

> For the ignorant, a what-now?




Nishruu = vaporous, magic-devouring critter. Lots of them in quasielemental dust.




> Really looking forward to seeing the lady Rakshasa, what a buildup.
> 
> Also, Faery Dragon + Nisha   . You Evil evil man




She was fun, but it's going to be a while yet. By the time the PCs messed with her directly, back in the Astral, they'd gained another level or so. And they needed it.

And yes, Faerie Dragon + Nisha was particularly fun. Dangerously fun. Amberblue eventually, for their own safety, parted ways with them, but Nisha liked the idea of having one. So near the end of the campaign she finally got herself a familiar: a chaos imp in the form of a faerie dragon.


----------



## Gez

And hakeashars are a stronger variant of Nishruus. Realms-specific IIRC.


----------



## Clueless

Shemeska said:
			
		

> With a Wish 1/day. Be frightened. The players eventually grew to cringe everytime that dragon prefaced anything with "I wish..."




Most of em did.  I just made the little guy get us apple pies for selling for free in the inn and animated ship sails.


----------



## Eco-Mono

Y'know...

I'd be saying something like "The plot thickens!" right now, except that if this plot did any more thickening you could drive a nail into it and hang up your coat.

Excellent as usual


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## Gez

Clueless said:
			
		

> Most of em did.  I just made the little guy get us apple pies for selling for free in the inn and animated ship sails.




Sure, that's the best way to defuse the bomb. Everyday, as soon as the dragon wakes up, you say: _"Hey there, little buddy, good mornin'! Don't you wish we had a nice pile of yummy apple pies for breakfast?"_ and the risk is avoided.

(Except if the DM then has everybody suffocating under a kilometer-high pile of giant apple pies, but that would be ridiculous.)


----------



## Gold Roger

Ok, I'm finally through. Great storyhour, alone for the fact that it has sparked my interest in Planescape. Special admiration goes to the recent presentation of the Rakshasa. Propably my favored critter and played almost exactly the way I imagine them myself. Especially the humanoid-flesh-dinner-trick is just to evil and tempting to not pull off.

But seriously, wtf is up with Kiro? That he's a Setite makes sense and he may be a Yuan-Ty Fullblood for all I know, though there wasn't any direct indication for that. He isn't exactly good  at least. I'm pretty sure he isn't a cleric or more cleric than a few levels and he propably is a rogue, for his flanking and hiting critical places from behind fighting style more than the picking of locks and pockets. But because of his fighting skill, supreme speed and "spells" I'd say he's a psychic warrior or at least psionic charakter. So he's a rogue/psychic warrior or something like that?


----------



## Clueless

*GRIN* You will love this when you see what is up with him. I knew ooc at the time so I was biting my lip on it instead of poking into it as hard as i could have/should have in character.  What's with him doesn't get revealed for quite some time though...


----------



## Hammerhead

I say Kiro is all rogue, with a high UMD score


----------



## A Crazy Fool

you're both wrong, tristol's diary had lotsa spoilers


----------



## Inconsequenti-AL

Just wow! What an update... 

Thanks very much for all the effort you put into these two stories!


----------



## Eco-Mono

*waits in suspense*


----------



## A Crazy Fool

Nooo, need update!


----------



## Shemeska

Writing it at this very moment. It ran away from me, so it's about twenty pages right now, which would be making it one of the longest updates I've had so far.

I'll post it when it's finished.


----------



## Dakkareth

*laughs with maniacal glee*


----------



## Shemeska

*Cliffhangers and a moment of supreme DM rat bastardry.*

“Oh Cyric’s scrawny *ss…” Florian said with a look of disgust. “That smells wretched down there.”

	Fyrehowl gave a high-pitched involuntary whine as she stood looking down into the darkness. The stench was heavy and wet, something that had permeated the air of its source for some time, and something that was still present, not simply an old scent lingering on the air.

	“Why couldn’t they just have just stayed with incense, gaudy flowers and bad art for their basement?” Nisha asked.

	“Make room for the bad poetry?” Clueless asked with a smirk.

	“Yeah, something like that’s around here somewhere.” Tristol said. “But this smells a bit different, and more like a working laboratory.”

	“Laboratory?” Toras asked.

	“Back in Halruaa.” The aasimar said. “Necromancers and some transmuters had workshops where they’d work with corpses. And this smells almost like those.”

	“Remind me never to visit your home…” Nisha said, sticking her tongue out.

	“It’s not all like that.” Tristol replied. “It’s usually much more pretentious.”

	Kiro chuckled and stepped past Fyrehowl onto the stairs.

	“There’s a single hallway down here.” He called up from below. “It’s dark, but that’s about it. No traps.”

	There was a distinct pause from below.

	“No –obvious- traps at least.”

	Florian looked down the stairs before turning back to the others.

	“He’s a cleric.” She said. “Go help him Nisha.”

	Nisha nodded and followed along after Kiro, but, true to the cleric of Sutekh’s word, there was no evidence of traps or wards as they walked down the corridor towards the doorway at its far end. But there was something, though it was momentary.

	Kiro spun around, looking for something behind them in the hallway.

	“What was that?” Nisha asked him.

	“Nothing.” He replied. “I thought that I’d heard something. Nothing there though.”

	He hadn’t heard much of anything actually. But back in the darkness he could have sworn that he’d seen the stone ripple like so much open, standing water. And what was more, he’d been certain that the stone had rippled with the waves of something passing under its surface, cresting above the surface of the floor like a stone diving sea serpent before once again slipping back below the level of the corridor.

	Kiro could only shrug. Whatever it was, it was gone and there was no sign of it reappearing as he watched. Still though, it was unnerving, and periodically he looked back to see if it was following them. But as they reached the end of the hallway, there was nothing there, and so he and Nisha called up to the others that the coast was clear.

	Once they had gathered at the end of the hallway, they stepped into the chamber at its end. It was fairly small, and a closed door stood directly opposite from them as they entered. But that wasn’t all in the chamber. There were four alcoves inset within the wall, set in positions impossible to have seen before entering the room.

And, just as their maker had intended, flickering pinpoints of light erupted into being underneath the visors of each of the four elaborate suits of armor standing in each of the alcoves as beings other than himself passed under their gaze.

“Ah sh*t.” Florian said.

	One of the baroque suits of animated armor flared with internal light as it raised a crossbow, firing a bolt of flame at Toras, striking the fighter in the side. The others raised melee weapons: an ice shrouded mace, a sword dripping acid, and a metal club sheathed in sparks and flashes of electricity.

	Tristol acted first, turning one of the helmed horrors into a pile of dust outright with a disintegrate spell.

	Meanwhile, Clueless was dodging a series of blow from one of the others, making it seem slow by comparison.

	“Oh… you will regret that…” Toras said, raising his sword and ignoring his injury as best he could as he charged one of the constructs seeking to flank Clueless.

	Moments later, thee of the constructs were destroyed and the one holding only a flaming crossbow was looking at them, seeming to waver between firing at them or giving up. When Clueless put his hand out, prepared to cast a spell, the construct dropped its weapon onto the floor and stepped back up into its original position.

	“Well, that looks like it was the extent of the security.” Fyrehowl said, giving a hard glance at the single quiescent Helmed Horror.

	The last guardian gave no reply, and remained still and inactive. Whatever limited self awareness its maker had granted it, it was apparently enough to make it realize that it was incapable of putting forward any effective opposition if it wished to remain alive.

	Toras and Florian both kept looking at the helmed horror regardless though, even as the door was opened and the stepped into the chamber beyond.

	“Looks more like a prison.” Clueless said with some discomfort.

	The chamber was relatively spartan, resembling a cellblock more than a laboratory. There were six doors leading off from the room: three on the north side, two on the south side, and one larger doorway across from the entrance.

	“Prison?” Kiro asked as he examined the two south doors. “Not quite.”

	The cleric exhaled onto the glass window set into one of the southerly doors. The vapor in his breath spread across the surface, freezing almost instantly into a spider web pattern of frost.

	“What the…” Fyrehowl said.

	The lupinal walked across the room and stood next to Kiro, looking through the window of first door and then the other. Both doors were metal and both were frigidly cold to the touch.

	“Not quite a prison.” Fyrehowl said. “Specimen storage. Frozen.”

	Indeed, looking through the windows set into each door, they could see two small holding cells. The walls were caked in frost, and a single slumped corpse was positioned in the center of the floor, unceremoniously dumped there after they had apparently expired during torture or experimentation.

	Inside the first of the frozen chambers was a naked human. His flesh was bleached and blue-white from the exposure to the cold, but it was evident that he had died long before he had been frozen. The body showed evidence of surgical scars and burns, and a caustic burn across its neck, but there was no evidence of the typical signs of frost burn and tissue death from exposure to freezing temperatures while the victim had still been alive.

	“Poor sod.” Fyrehowl said with a sigh. “Got to wonder what he did to get on the fiend’s bad side.”

	“Does he need an excuse?” Kiro asked. “It seems like he feels entitled, and anything not judged to be of a similar standing in power, wealth, or race is simply a subject to do with as he pleases. Whoever this guy was, Siddhartha didn’t perceive him as a person, just a subject for experimentation.”

	Clueless frowned and looked at the other doors. It was likely that some of them contained living subjects.

	The next chamber also contained a body, but one that was anything but human.

	“What… what is that thing?” Fyrehowl mused, peering through the frost-dusted glass. “An Alu-Fiend?”

	Slumped in the center of the chamber was a slim, lithe form with angular features, pointed ears, and a set of leathery, bat-like wings sprouting from her shoulders.

	“Possibly.” Kiro said, peering at the corpse. “It’s odd to see a half-fiend based on mortal blood other than human, but Tanar’ri aren’t particularly selective I suppose.”

	The elven half-fiend was marked in a similar way as the dead human one cell over. Surgical scars dotted her chest and abdomen, and from bruises on the inside of one arm, and blue-black tract marks across the other suggested that she had been repeatedly bled and infused with some substance or chemical mixture. Either way, she hadn’t survived it obviously.

	“Not an alu-fiend.” Tristol said. “It’s a fey-ri.”

	“Not one of my relatives for sure.” Clueless said, giving a skeptical look to first Tristol and then the corpse in the cell.

	“Fey-ri. Not Faerie. Not fey at all.” Tristol replied. “It’s a specific sort of Tanar’ri blooded half-fiend gold elf. The name refers to half-fiend gold elves of a specific elven family that was largely killed off centuries ago on Toril. But she fits the bill: half fiend gold elf.”

	“Ugly and evil.” Florian said. “Still didn’t deserve whatever seems to have happened to her though.”

	“Nothing we can do for them now.” Toras said. “They’re too mangled to easily raise from the dead. And let’s be honest, we don’t know anything about them, so it might not be a wise idea to randomly bring them back.”

	“No objections from me.” Skalliska said as she walked over towards one of the doors on the opposite wall.

	The kobold wandered across to one of the doors and touched it tentatively, then the next, and then the next. She didn’t bother checking for traps or wards. After all, this was the fiend’s private workshop and laboratory as far as they could tell, or an antechamber to it, and it would have only been a hindrance to trap things that he might conceivably be using on frequent occasion.

	“None of them are cold.” She said, turning to the others.

	“None of them are unlocked either.” Clueless said as he tried the handle of the first door.

	“Anyone inside them?” Nisha asked.

	Clueless looked into the chamber through the glass plate and jerked back as a poorly dressed human banged at the door from the inside.

	“Help me! You’ve got to help me!” The man screamed, his voice muffled by the thick door.

	“Woah!” Clueless said, moving back a few feet.

	The banging on the door stopped as the battered looking human looked at his potential saviors through the glass.

	“Who are you?” Florian asked.

	The man’s eyes twitched and quivered with nervous exuberance.

	“Please! You’ve got to let me go before the fiend returns! He’ll going to…”

	“Tell us who you are.” Florian said, cutting the man off. “We won’t let you go unless we trust you, and don’t think that you’ll be dangerous to us.”

	The man tried to calm himself enough to answer.

	“I’m a mercenary. The Rakshasa hired me to hunt someone down, several people actually, several months ago. We only managed to find some, but not all of them. He refused to pay us, and when we demanded partial payment, he killed some of us and imprisoned the rest of us here.”

	“Hmm.” Florian said, glancing at the man.

	True enough, he had the build for mercenary work, if a bit thinner from lack of food, and his clothing was correct for someone who would have worn armor atop it. Plus, the story fit perfectly with what they had come to expect from Siddhartha.

 	“Anyone object?” Florian asked her companions.

	No one could find any real reason to say otherwise, and so Nisha picked the lock and they released the cell’s occupant. He shouted with glee as the door opened, and moved to embrace the first person he could, presumptively to hug them and thank them.

	Kiro deftly stepped up and in between the released prisoner and Florian. The moment the man hugged Kiro, Kiro’s voice echoed in his head.

_“Please leave now and do not attempt to touch any of these people here. As a greater doppelganger, you could do too much harm if you did.”_

	The man they had released stiffened slightly as he hugged Kiro, but was still smiling to the others, still crying with happiness at his release from captivity.

_“Who are you?”_ The ‘man’ asked Kiro, projecting his own telepathic voice.

	Kiro released him and answered calmly, still in his head.

_“You’re free. Go about your way. I don’t have any say or stake in what you do after you leave this room. That’s entirely irrelevant to me, and that’s all you need to know. Smile at us now and be on your way.”_

	“Thank you all.” The released man said to them. “I can’t thank you enough. Do you have a spare blade I can use? I’ll need it in the jungle if I try to make my way back to the portal I came here though.”

	He didn’t show outwardly any indication of his and Kiro’s mental discussion.

	“Back down the corridor you’ll find some weapons on the floor left over from some of the guardians we took care of.” Toras said.

	The man smiled and bowed.

	“Thank you. Bless you all.”

	He turned to leave, only looking back once to smile for one last time before leaving. In that moment though, minds touched one last time, first from the doppelganger and then Kiro’s response.

_“We will not meet again. Nor would you recognize me if we did.”_

_“Indeed. And some might not recognize you, but you wouldn’t so much as even see me.”_

	“Well, there’s one good deed to our names.” Nisha said, beaming a cheerful smile around the room which Kiro made a point of returning equally.

	“It’s a start.” Fyrehowl said. “I still feel guilty over the meal earlier.”

	“Uggg, you had to mention that.” Florian said, looking a bit sick. “Especially with how much this place smells.”

	“In any event, we’ve got two more doors.” Clueless said. “Nisha? Would you mind picking the lock to this one?”

	Nisha nodded and picked the lock without complaint. Unlike the last door though, the second door, and the third as well, did not contain windows into the rooms beyond them. Unable to have any advance warning of what might be lurking within, they had their weapons out and ready as the door was swung open.

	Nothing lunged out at them, much to their relief, and they peered into the chamber beyond.

	Large and spherical, it was significantly larger than the first cell, and from the edge of the chamber where it met the door, extending several feet into the room were delicately inscribed warding sigils, all pointed inwards. The chamber was intended to keep and contain something, and that thing was immediately obvious.

	“Uhh… close the door?” Florian blurted out as she looked into the chamber. “Now?”

	A fleshy orb, roughly eight feet across hovered in the center of the wardings. At first they suspected it to be a beholder or some manner of beholder-kin, but it deviated from them in several ways. It had no central eye, nor did it have a mouth on its body. Rather, numerous eyes dotted its leathery body at random, and a number of thick tentacles extended out from its flesh as well. Some of those tentacles ended in eyes, some in fanged, almost reptilian mouths, and some were simply shaped for use in grappling objects.

	“Holy hell what was that?!” Skalliska blurted out.

	“He’s got a bloody Deepspawn.” Florian said.

	“Which is what?” Clueless asked. “I’m not familiar with them, outside of having heard the name, and now apparently having seen one.”

	“Bad things. Very bad, very hungry things.” Florian said, putting her foot at the base of the door, like it might help keep the thing contained in its cell, should its wardings fail.

	“They eat people.” Tristol said.

	“Like Skalliska if she was hungry and desperate enough?” Nisha asked.

	Skalliska didn’t object. She just shrugged.

	“They eat people and then can spit out copies of them after a day or so.” Florian explained. “Those copies have memories of the original person, and even skills, and they’re under the control of the Deepspawn.”

	“It’s a monster factory basically.” Tristol said.

	“Hmm.” Fyrehowl mused. “Well we know now where Siddhartha might be getting replacements for experiments he does.”

	“So…” Skalliska said. “What do you suggest we do with it?”

	“Well…” Toras began.

	“How about we don’t?” Florian said, cutting Toras off abruptly.

	“Why?” Fyrehowl replied. “If we end up leaving after killing Siddhartha, we’re just going to be condemning this thing to death by starvation. That doesn’t exactly leave me feeling good about myself, dangerous creature or not.”

	“Is it intelligent?” Toras asked.

	“Uh…why are we worried about letting it loose here in Carceri anyways?” Nisha asked. “It’s like letting a slaadi lose in Mechanus. Brief, but incredibly fun.”

	Florian paused and held up one hand.

	“Ok. Point.” She said. “Let’s at least see what it has to say then.”

	The door swung back open to reveal the Deepspawn hovering much closer than it had originally been. It now hovered at the very edge of its magical prison; it had been listening to them talk about it.

	Several of the aberration’s eyes swiveled and dilated, focusing on Florian, Fyrehowl and Clueless as they stepped into the room. From the doorway, Kiro peered in to watch.

	“Who are you?” one of the Deepspawn’s vaguely draconic mouths said in a surprisingly glib tone.

	Florian glanced back at the others before responding.

	“First, tell us who you are, and what you’re doing here.” She said.

	Several eyes the size of plates all turned to focus on her. The creature’s tentacles wriggled and two of them rubbed against one another, some form of bizarre nervous affectation like it was pondering the situation and how to properly answer.

	“My name is Furnacefang.” The deepspawn replied. “I feed, I learn, I answer questions to he who feeds me, and I provide to him copies of those I am fed. My life is relatively simple. If I obey I am fed and I am spared the treatment given to those others within this place.”

	“How long have you been here?” Clueless asked.

	“Since the memories of my first feeding flooded my mind.” The creature replied, speaking in tandem through both of its tentacles sporting functional mouths. “… a considerable time. Roughly a century.”

	“Why does your master feed creatures to you?” Fyrehowl asked.

	“To keep me alive.” Furnacefang stated bluntly. “But that is secondary for him. He uses me to punish prisoners, to dispose of failed experiments, and to produce more subjects for his work.”

	“And you enjoy this I take it?” Florian asked.

	“It is what I am.” Furnacefang replied with an idle shrug of its left mouth and several more of its other tentacles.

	“You are uncertain of what to do with me.” The deepspawn continued. “I would greatly prefer to be released from my prison cell in this place. I have everything I require, but nothing more. Understandably, my existence is a rather sterile one.”

	One of Furnacefang’s mouths gave an audible sigh and several of its eyes allowed their lids to droop.

	“One moment please.” Florian said, motioning the others outside of the deepspawn’s cell with her.

	“I don’t mind letting it go.” Fyrehowl said. “It can’t do much more than devour fiends here, and it’s unlikely that it’ll do much more harm than that. It was imprisoned here intentionally, so some of the odd effects of Carceri might apply to it, with gates not functioning properly for it if it attempts to leave the plane.”

	“I don’t trust it completely.” Florian said. “But that’s just my experience with them from back in Amn. Clueless?”

	“I say we wait till we’re done looking around.” He replied. “Then we let it out once it’s safe to do so. It can’t do much harm out in the jungle.”

	Florian nodded and stepped back into the room with the deepspawn.

	“Have you come to some agreement?” Furnacefang asked, tilting its fanged mouths to one side in a strange approximation of how certain mundane animals expressed a questioning attitude.

“Umm…” Florian said. “Lets just say that we’ll release you. But only after we’re finished exploring the full extent of this place, once we’ve killed the fiend who keeps you here, and after we’ve broken the wardings on this place.”

	Furnacefang hissed softly. It had been hoping for something more immediate, and two of its jawed tentacles undulated slowly in deliberation.

	“If the wardings are broken on this place I can release myself.” The Deepspawn said slowly, speaking with one mouth while the other gnawed at the air. “The walls are simple stone, even if magically molded into their desired shape. The wards on this room are linked to the larger ones that extend over this entire palace. Break them, and I can handle myself.”

	“And you will not harm us if we do so?” Florian asked.

	“I have no need to do so.” It replied.

	Kiro peered at the bloated aberration as if he was judging its trustworthiness. He shrugged and nodded in agreement to Florian.

	“Fine.” Florian said. “When we’re finished here, we’ll break the wards and you’re free to go, so long as you don’t interfere with us, or anything that we’re doing here.”

	“Agreed.” Furnacefang replied. “From what I know, gleaning from the memories of my food, the wardings for this place are contained behind a heavy, sealed door located in the laboratory that joins the room outside of my cell here. The door is likely protected by traps, though I do not know what sort.”

	They nodded to the tentacle and eye studded creature before leaving and closing the door behind them.

	“Well, we know what’s through one of these doors now at least.” Clueless said.

	“How about the last cell though first?” Florian asked. “Hopefully it’s something a bit more mundane.”

	“Maybe.” Clueless said. “But you’re right. It’s best to know what all the fiend has bottled up in here before we go in further. 

	Florian walked to the last cell door and giggled the handle. It was solidly locked.

“Nisha, if you could get the door?” Clueless asked.

“Deepspawn…” Florian said with a shudder.

	Nisha unlocked the door and stepped aside, giving the door a tug and swinging it open.

	What they saw inside, bloody and suspended in a column of light, made the deepspawn mundane by comparison.


***​

	The fiend hovered several inches above the ground, unburdened by the constant downward tug of gravity. In that tiny way at least, the Astral plane had something to offer him. Siddhartha’s robes dangled and drifted in the wind, really psionic currents of thought manifesting themselves as pressure or force in the silvery void. And out into the endless empty expanse of the void was where he was currently looking, staring out at nothing in particular as he stood on a balcony of the tower where he’d been summoned.

	It was hers, her primary residence during their collaborative work upon the Astral, though he suspected that she kept at least one or two demiplanes accessible from her personal chamber which now stood at his back. He deeply wished to examine the room for evidence of such, to say nothing of simply being allowed to observe and learn from the patterns of magic that she had embedded into the tower’s structure to shield it from detection. That same magic, or some variant of it, also managed to shield the tower from the full force of the continent sized astral storm that seemed to perpetually rotate around the godisle down below where the structure’s foundations sunk deep, wisely or not.

	The storm wasn’t natural; it was too large and too powerful to be. Yethmiil also suspected that it was her magic that kept the storm anchored in place, swirling around them and hiding their activities from the Githyanki, and most of all, from the Guardian. All other potential concerns paled in comparison to that entity.

	Of course, he was seemingly relegated to a secondary role in it all, especially after his failure on one of the secondary godisles they had been stripping and mining. Of course, that godisle was far from the region surrounding her tower, its godisle and the storm surrounding it. The storm overlapped another eight islands of stone and forgotten faith, all of which were similarly shielded, and all of which ultimately would be of use to them.

“So why did you call me here?” Yethmiil asked without turning around.

	She was there behind him, he’d sensed her approach, felt her eyes upon his back. In the purity of the Astral, he could even sense something palpable on the air from the very nearly living magic and dozens of contingent spells effectively painted on her person. Extravagance suited her.

	“Because I can. Because you must obey.” She whispered back with a chuckle. “Do I need any other reason?”

	“No.” He replied. “But outside of simply displaying your power, why did you take me away from my own affairs? I was busy.”

	“You were amusing your own petty interests. They can wait.” She said, seemingly without regard for his own personal exploits.

	“As you wish.” He said.

“My interests take precedence.” She continued, matter-of-factly. “And already you’ve been made aware of the price of failing achieve what portion of them I hand over to you. Or do you forget that exquisite intimacy?”

	He didn’t give a reply. But none was really needed.

	She stepped forward and out onto the balcony, dragging a claw across his shoulder as she passed him and spread her hands across the railing. She disgusted him at the very same time that he envied her and appreciated her power, probably the closest equivalent thing to feeling lust that he possessed.

	“Ghyris Vast has outlived his usefulness.” She said, looking up and out into the tumult of the storm where the distant magical envelopes visible under her sight could be seen surrounding the other godisles she had claimed, much like holes punched in the silver sky.

“Oh?” He asked, honestly curious what she had done with the Bleaker.

“For the moment.” She replied with some idle satisfaction. “But in the event that I need him in the future I haven’t killed him, which was tempting. Idiot insane mortal. He’s brilliant for his kind, but it was a task getting him to focus enough to teach me what his research had shown, and how to construct the bloody thing. I ended up simply stripping his memories from him moment by moment. Immortality does not imply patience.”

“As you’ve made patently clear Mistress.” Yethmiil said rather bluntly.

	Rather than take offense though, she laughed.

	“Indeed I have, and you will never be in a position to know otherwise. But outside of my ability to pull your strings and make you dance in a puppet show for beings even more marionettes than yourself, I have something else for you to do when you are ready.”

	He inclined his head curiously, letting her insults and pretensions pass.

“I want you to be ready to assume control of a cessation of our activities at several outlaying godisles in the next month. When the goblins and the gith are done there, you will handle the deconstruction of the towers and the stripping of any evidence to tie the two of us to the defiling of the unlamented dead. Cast the blame on Gith’s wretched mortal progeny, and if we’re lucky, Vlaakith can face the Guardian’s wrath in place of us, and perhaps even in place of her own renegades working in our name.”

	He nodded silently.

	“Give me the additional forces needed to ensure that there are no witnesses left alive when we cleanse them godisles of evidence.”

	“You will have what you need.” She said, smiling a mouthful of fangs up at the void.

	“Good.” He replied. “Then allow me to return to Carceri and finish cleaning up things of my own there.”

	She shrugged and gave a dismissive wave of her hand. It wasn’t much of an answer, but it was all he needed as he strode back out of her chamber.


***​

The figure suspended in a column of pale red light was a Farastu Gehreleth, and though it was horribly bruised, burned, and covered in both recent marks of torture and old surgical scars, it was alive. Slowly its fatigued and bruised ribcage expanded to draw in a ragged breath, exhaling it with equal labor a moment later. The creature hung onto life out of what seemed to be spite, something that its kind possessed in spades.

	The light that suspended the fiend above the ground stretched from floor to ceiling between two rune scribed disks, while on a table just out of its reach, had it been free to move its arms outside of the light, sat a tray of various implements of surgery and torture.

Next to the tools of its tormentor hovered an orange crystal that sparkled with magic of unknown purpose. And then, there was the open book of notes and observations, all penned in the familiar hand of the Rakshasa. The book noted with a dispassionate medical style of observation the ‘subject’s’ tolerance to pain, its immunities to certain mind probing spells and psionic effects, and anything that it might have said during periods of excruciating pain or duress. The notes treated the fiend as chattel rather than a living being. 

But what was perhaps most noteworthy, outside of the gehreleth itself, was that it lacked the obsidian triangle that was the prized birthright of each and every member of its race. That triangle was its link into its racial collective memory, and the link of its deity and creator into its mind. But there, on the other side of the room, a triangle of cold, black volcanic glass was held suspended from a chain within a localized antimagic bubble.

	The gehreleth had been cut off from its race and its creator, made to be alone, truly alone, for the first time in its existence, and then taunted with the damningly close proximity to torture it even more. Perhaps Siddhartha had intended to attempt to draw information from the triangle’s link to Apomps, the deity/creator of the Gehreleth race. After all, with his palace situated in the jungles of Cathrys, surrounded by an unknown number of Gehreleths lurking in the depths of that scarlet hell of nauseating flora, he might have considered it a worthwhile attempt to tap into their racial memory if only to warn himself of any attack by others of their kind on his home.

Meanwhile, as they examined the chamber’s macabre contents, the ‘leth’s eyes were rolled back in its head, and two diamond shaped bumps surrounded by discolored scar tissue stood out against the slick brown and gray flesh of its head: the hallmarks of healed trepanation. It had been through horrors in that chamber that they could scarcely imagine.

	The fiend groaned and coughed as it sensed them enter the room, spewing fine droplets of tar and bloody phlegm into the air and onto the floor directly in front of where it was suspended.

“He knows you Yethmiil.” It softly crooned, rage having long ago given way to wishful thinking and a complete disregard for its own chances of escape. “He knows you. He knows you well. The Three Faced Lord will torment you far more than you ever could I.”
	Fyrehowl looked over to Clueless, and then to the others. Yethmiil? The name was new to them. And it was obvious that the fiend, in its depression and torture borne incoherence, had assumed that they were someone else entirely when they had entered its cell.

	The gehreleth mumbled incoherently to itself for several moments before stopping and suddenly sniffing at the air. It gave a confused wrinkle of the fleshy ridges above its eyes, realizing that ‘Yethmiil’ whoever that was, was not the person who had entered its cell.

	Fyrehowl was standing in front of the ‘leth when its eyes shot open with sudden ferocity, pupils constricting as its rheumy eyes focused on her.

	“Who are you?” It croaked. “You are not Yethmiil. Nor do you wear his mark.”

	“The Rakshasa you mean?” Fyrehowl asked, not flinching as the fiend glared at her with a fluid mixture of arrogant, implicit hatred of what she was, and almost pitiful levels of hope.

	The gehreleth tilted its head to one side for a moment before answering.

	“I/We knew him as Yethmiil. He may go by other names.”

	“Lord Siddhartha.” Clueless answered the fiend. “That was what he called himself.”

	The ‘leth snarled at the mention of the name. An almost unfathomable well of hatred was boiling beneath its skin as they watched it. The creature was struggling to contain it in order to have rational communication with them.

	“What can you tell us about him?” Fyrehowl asked.

	The ‘leth’s eyes turned towards the triangle across the room.

	“Give me the triangle.” It said.

	“Answer our questions.” Florian retorted.

	The fiend turned to look at the cleric.

	“Give. Me. The. Triangle.” It repeated slowly and tensely.

	“What does it mean to you?” Toras asked.

	“EVERYTHING!” The fiend screamed. It was shaking, trembling, losing self-control.

	“I am alone…” The fiend whispered. “This…you cannot fathom this feeling. You cannot know what this means.”

	The fiend was drooling and its eyes were glistening at the edges.

“I cannot hear Him.” It whimpered. “We are vessels for Him, and I have been emptied, made nothing, devoid of His whispers, His caress, His love. Everything that I am and was made to be has been stripped away from me. I have nothing left to give for I am nothing without that.”

	The gehreleth hung like a rag doll in its suspending column of force, defeated, broken, begging for the only object that meant anything to it.

	“Please…” The fiend continued, looking up at them, drops of watery tar dripping from the corners of its eyes. “Give it to me. I BEG OF YOU!”

“I don’t know…” Fyrehowl said. “We can’t trust you.”

	“You come to kill my tormentor? We have something in common then.” It whimpered. “Please…”

	The ‘leth hung its head and ignored them, not caring what they had to say to it. It didn’t matter, because unless they provided it with its link to Apomps, they could rot for all eternity. It continued to ignore them until it felt the weight of a metal chain around its neck, and something erupted within its mind, flooding its senses.

	“I hope we don’t regret this…” Fyrehowl said.

The moment the gehreleth touched the obsidian triangle, its eyes went wide and it clutched the triangle with obscene, religious ecstasy. In fact, its entire body seemed to undergo a ferocious seizure before it began to whisper to itself, having a dialogue with a being that wasn’t present in the room.

	“…yes… we shall… no… as you wish father/mother… I will…” The Gehreleth clutched the triangle and looked up at its would-be saviors. “No, they do not know.”

	“Umm…?” Clueless said warily as the fiend smiled up at them and something happened.

	As the ‘leth looked at them, for a single moment they watched as its eyes turned a solid, glossy black, and they had the sensation that something powerful, something terrible, was staring back at them –through- the fiend. It smiled, and then as it blinked, its eyes returned to normal.

	“I/We will help you.”

	Kiro stepped back into the room. It seemed that he’d stepped out for a moment when they had been deliberating about giving the fiend back its link to its deity.

	“Alright. Talk to us then.” Tristol said, though Fyrehowl and Florian remained skeptical.

	“I/We will give you what aid I/We can. Revenge for all these petty tortures. I/We do not forgive. Not anything. And your adversaries deserve torment more than most.”

	The fiend’s earlier expression of weariness and depression was gone, replaced with utter and complete resolve.

“Why should we trust you?” Kiro asked. “Why do you hate them? Any specific reasons?”

“Does it matter?” The gehreleth asked, looking at the cleric awkwardly for a moment, a look of suspicion in its eyes, but it shook it off and continued. “I/We offer to you aid and information and ask nothing in return but that you break the wards concealing this place from the rest of myself/ourselves.”

The ‘leth motioned emphatically to its scars, bruises and even more graphic hallmarks of the tortures that it had been subjected to. 

“This is the only reason that you need to know.” It hissed.

	“So what can you do for us?” Clueless asked.

	“Break the wards and we will raze this place to nothing but blood and scarlet glowing rubble under the void.” It replied. “But that it only momentary satisfaction for petty crimes against myself/ourselves. We can help you more, later.”

	“How so?” Skalliska asked.

	“Xideous. Xideous will help you. Return to Sigil and my/his/our eyes and hands will bring you to where he is. Xideous is one of our greatest, and you have earned a debt which he will repay for you when the time is right.”

	“Where is he in Sigil?” Kiro asked, openly curious.

	“That I will not say.” The gehreleth replied firmly. “Xideous has important work, and his/our enemies would slay him in an instant. He will find you and bring you to where he is hidden when the time is right.”

	“Now go and find Yethmiil, Siddhartha, whatever name he calls himself presently. Slaughter him, cut out of his bleeding heart and feast upon it while he still lives. Take revenge for what he has done and what he is. He does not deserve to live upon this most blessed soil of the Father/Mother. His essence sullies it.”

	They left then as the fiend began to once more whisper to itself, or the triangle around its neck, ignoring them entirely. The experience left them with the impression though, than the Rakshasa was involved in larger things than they had yet fully come to witness and understand the importance of. And so, with that in mind, they opened to door to his laboratory, hoping to find some further answers to the questions raised in the back of their minds by the fiend’s gehreleth prisoner.

	What they had seen in the holding cells could not have prepared them for the horrors that sprawled out in front of them as they stepped into the fiend’s perverse laboratory. Dozens of bodies lay chained to slabs and workbenches that filled most of the floorspace in the chamber, while others were suspended, either living or preserved in death, within tanks of bubbling alchemical fluids.

	“What in Mystra’s name was he doing down here?” Tristol asked with disgust as his eyes wandered across chamber and its grisly contents.

	Several tables held mortals, and among their number, some of them were copies of the same original person, experimented on in ways that must have been attempts to further enhance the abilities of his unwilling puppet-like assassins. One human subject, breathing in ragged, forced motions of her chest, had apparently had gills grafted to her waist. Others had limbs, additional eyes, and even apparently internal organs grafted onto them from other species, all in some warped attempt to ‘improve’ them.

	“This is sick.” Fyrehowl said. “At the very least, we need to put them out of their misery.”

	None of the subjects appeared to have been given any drugs for the pain, and most of them were in comatose conditions, or their minds had simply given up any meaningful interactions with a world that only gave their bodies agony upon agony without respite.

	Looking further, they saw an ogre nailed to a table with what might have been the eye of a dragon grafted into one of his own eye sockets, bulging and deforming the side of his head as the flesh had been coaxed to expanded and accept the alien organ.

	But the mortal experiments were the least of the Rakshasa’s sins. Those were reserved for a half dozen minor tanar’ri, baatezu, and yugoloths. The fiends lay twitching and shrieking from the metal slabs they were bolted down to, and for a circle of the three types of fiends, it appeared that tubing, pulsing with flowing blood, reached between bronze valves implanted in their necks, sharing blood between them.

	A spinagon twitched and gasped for breath while a pair of vrock wings grafted to its back twitched spasmodically, dripping puss from between the ensorcelled stitches that held them in place within swollen flesh that rebelled at their very touch.

	Next to it, a piscaloth jerked in the midst of fever-wrought delirium next to an already dead amnizu. Their heads had been severed and reattached on one another’s bodies.

	“What. The. F*ck.” Florian cursed. “What was the point of any of this?!”

	“The pursuit of knowledge without ethics.” Kiro said. “He simply put to its furthest here. Or at least as far as he could, given that he seems to be exiled in some way or another.”

	“I guess it makes sense.” Clueless said. “For him at least.”

	Kiro shrugged. “In context it does I suppose.”

	Fyrehowl closed her eyes briefly and snarled before walking over to where Nisha stood in front of a pair of thick bronze doors. The tiefling had walked past most of the horrors of the fiend’s experiments without glancing at them, and Fyrehowl, along with most of the others, likewise wished that they had done the same. The ghoulish experiments spread through the laboratory would be haunting them in their nightmares for some time to come.

	“How does the door look Nisha?” Fyrehowl asked.

	The Xaositect looked up from where she had been peering into the lock.

	“Big, heavy and mundane.” She replied. “It’ll take some time, or a summoned Goristro to kick it in. And there’s a magical trap somewhere.”

	“Hmm.” Kiro said, stepping up to peer at it.

	Nisha wriggled her nose. “Smell the ozone?”

	Kiro and Fyrehowl nodded.

	“I wouldn’t suggest touching the door. Not… quite… yet…” Nisha continued.

	“Allow me.” Kiro said, bowing his head in prayer.

	“Suit yourself.” Nisha said, backing up a bit.

Kiro touched the lock and a shower of blue-white electrical sparks burst through the air as the cleric’s touch frayed and dispelled the wards on the doors’ locks.

“You might find it a bit easier now.” He said, helping Nisha back up to her feet.

Nisha smiled and went to work picking the doors. And though it took her some time to finally turn all of the tumblers into their proper position, finally they swung inwards a few inches with a dull, heavy pop.

	Toras stepped forward to push the doors open, but as he did, a rush of air from beyond, and into the lab made their eyes water with ammonia, and the heavy stench of rotting flesh and spilt blood, even worse than within the lab itself, or their time upon the Astral.


***​

Yethmiil left his keeper’s chamber with a sour mood stewing heavily upon his mind. His keeper. He preferred to call her that as opposed to anything else. It suited her, and it allowed him to deny her a bit of influence and prestige in his own mind, even if he had to feign obedience anywhere else. But she had power enough to enforce her mandates, and that extended to what he had to do as well, it was simply a fact of his current existence that he had to accept, even if he seethed under her.

“Our fortunes have changed before, and they will again.” He whispered to himself as he stepped out from the entrance of one of her towers and out onto the frozen, stony flesh of their godisle foundation.

“And the next time they do, I intend for our positions of rank to reverse themselves. Your contempt makes for a waste of my abilities.”

The stone was cold beneath his bare feet, and for the first time during his current excursion into the silvery void, he didn’t hover or fly, he walked. By some bizarre combination of gloating contempt, the dead power serving as a surrogate for what he could not express to his mistress, and also humble respect, Yethmiil chose to walk upon the bare flesh of the godisle. 

The complex of towers that loomed behind him as he left, they had all been constructed upon that single massive godisle, one of the largest that he had ever before seen. Despite his own nature, the expression of horror frozen into the petrified face of the dead god beneath his feet… it gave him pause, and perhaps something close to fear. But he was in no position to question his collusion with his mistress there upon the Astral and there upon that broken corpse of shattered divinity. Such was his punishment, and he trusted that she knew what she was doing, or at least he was forced to trust her.

He glanced down one last time at that long fallen deity, its life snuffed out by its own transgressions, murdered and exterminated. He couldn’t help but worry about what they were doing while the silvery light glinting from the center of the godisle reflected back into the void and back into his own eyes. That gleaming reflection was the last thing of the Astral that he saw before opening a gate back to Carceri, back to his palace, and back to more petty matters of murder.


***​

	The heavy, reinforced door swung open into a single, enormous chamber lit by flickering, sporadic flashes of green light: excess energy bleeding off of the dweomers anchored into the stone like swarms of fiendish fireflies humming about and feeding upon the dead. And the dead were everywhere.

	The floor of the chamber was littered with dozens of bodies, all in various states of decay, ravaged and tossed aside like trash and refuse after they had been put to brutal, sadistic use.

	“Tempus…” Florian said with a hushed whisper as she covered her face with her sleeve.

	Every inch of the chamber, the walls, the floors, and even the ceiling, they were all spattered with blood and gore, the fluid and entrails of the dead having been drawn and painted as patterns of runes in infernal, those runes then swirling about to form the shapes of other runes and higher order structures on the walls. In blood and bile, the magic saturated walls were an artist’s canvas and a poet’s tablet all at once.

	“She’s f*cked in the head.” Toras said with disgust as they read the words upon the walls.

_“With the scarlet litten orbs seeping hate and chaos into the starless void, so my own black heart burns with envy, hatred, and dispassionate rage.

Dancing among the dead I slather myself in their still warm blood and laugh at the yet living as they consign themselves to death, knowing full well that torment ends not there. My grasp is long indeed and I shackle them in chains of iron, envy, and fear, all fueling the inevitable.

Hatred within hatred, indignity and exile for the prisoner and warden of the doomed alike. Let the hatred rise and soar in pitch and effect and crush the souls of the objects of my loathing.

Bend, twist, and forge the fires of hatred and pain to mask from sight and scry both my servant’s home and the inviolable truth, the unseen rationale behind my bloodlust.

Let the skies burn and the seas boil along with my heart as it is unfilled and wanting. The screams of others as they die by my hand my only solace.”_


***​

	“I can see that you appreciate my sister’s handiwork.”

	Siddhartha’s voice rang out from behind them. The fading spiral of light from a closing gate backlit the Rakshasa, framing his robed figure in the doorway ominously as he appeared from out of nowhere.

	“Accept my apologies for not having been present to kill you before now. I was busy elsewhere.”

	The fiend extended a hand out towards them, magic already flickering from the tips of his claws.

“But unfortunately, you’ve seen too much, this game has gone on for far longer than I had intended, and now it will be ended.”

	The fiend’s whiskers twitched and his lip curled as he prepared to invoke a spell. But before he could incant a syllable, there was a sharp metallic crack and a high-pitched whistle from Florian’s crossbow.

	The bolt, a blessed bolt, shot across the distance in a flash, time itself seeming to hang still in a single moment of breathless uncertainty before it struck home, dead center on Siddhartha’s heart.

	He looked down at the bolt in his chest as it buried itself inches deep, a mixture of surprise and befuddled confusion momentarily replacing that smug certainty from just moments earlier before his eyes rolled back in his head and momentum hurled him backwards. The impact splattered blood across the hallway and flung the fiend through the air and onto the floor, spread-eagled on the stone, motionless.


***​


----------



## shilsen

Dammit - I was just getting really, really fond of Siddhartha !

And where lies the rat-bastardry? The fact that they killed the guy they were so worried about with one shot? Assuming, of course, that they have killed him.


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## Ohtar Turinson

Nice Shot.  (The real question is... did it take?)

Excellent update Shemmy. You keep making 'em longer and longer...


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## Shemeska

shilsen said:
			
		

> Dammit - I was just getting really, really fond of Siddhartha !
> 
> And where lies the rat-bastardry? The fact that they killed the guy they were so worried about with one shot? Assuming, of course, that they have killed him.




Well, let me just say that Florian's player rolled a nat 20 on that shot with the blessed crossbow bolt. When she did, Florian's player got up and began to quite literally dance around the table with her hands up in the air, shouting, "Nat 20! Boo-yah!"

"Wait...Why are you smiling?" was one of the next things she said.

But as for what the case actually might have been, you'll have to wait till the next update.


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## shilsen

Shemeska said:
			
		

> "Wait...Why are you smiling?" was one of the next things she said.




I get that too. Players can be such suspicious creatures sometime. I never understand why 



> But as for what the case actually might have been, you'll have to wait till the next update.




*goes off to bate breath*


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## Florian

Shemeska said:
			
		

> Well, let me just say that Florian's player rolled a nat 20 on that shot with the blessed crossbow bolt. When she did, Florian's player got up and began to quite literally dance around the table with her hands up in the air, shouting, "Nat 20! Boo-yah!"
> 
> "Wait...Why are you smiling?" was one of the next things she said.
> 
> But as for what the case actually might have been, you'll have to wait till the next update.




I still say yer a right bastard for that.

*grumbles and lumbers off*


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## dostum

Shemeska said:
			
		

> Well, let me just say that Florian's player rolled a nat 20 on that shot with the blessed crossbow bolt. When she did, Florian's player got up and began to quite literally dance around the table with her hands up in the air, shouting, "Nat 20! Boo-yah!"
> 
> "Wait...Why are you smiling?" was one of the next things she said.
> 
> But as for what the case actually might have been, you'll have to wait till the next update.





Ooh I'm hoping for that lovely "Thou art my slave tattoo" somewhere on his person   

Awesome update. <3 the lady rakshasa


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## Look_a_Unicorn

*shivers in anticipation*


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## hbarsquared

Well, *Shem*, here is another one of your fans posting for the first time in your story hour.  I just finished reading it yesterday: well done!

Not only have I thoroughly enjoyed your character hooks and plot twists, but I would also like to congratulate you on an impressive and ever-improving writing style.  It's been a great read, and I look forward to the next two years or so worth of updates you still have to put up!

Also, coincidentally, I read the Planescape article in the latest _Dragon_ (#339) today, and I would also like to congratulate you your contribution to the official Planescape canon within its pages.  I read the small bit about Alisohn Nilesia and her fate at the hands (or, rather, blades) of the Lady and thought it sounded extremely familiar...

Count me in as one of your junkies!


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## Shemeska

New story in the Baernaloth cycle. Finally finished number 8 in the series. 

Storyhour updates are unlikely till after Xmas, but I may post a short update on this one tommorow evening if time permits.


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## mkb152

*PS rocks, and so does Shemmy,,,*

Hey I;ve been reading this since you've started, but never posted on it.  I just wanted to say great job, and I can tell you are having fun telling your story.  I hope my new story hour (starts tomorrow hopefully) can be half as engaging as yours!  Keep it up!


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## Ohtar Turinson

Is there ever any explanation as to why these particular people got screwed over by the 'loths and forced into this string of events? I guess we know about Clueless... but what about the others? Just coincidence?


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## Eco-Mono

Ohtar Turinson said:
			
		

> Is there ever any explanation as to why these particular people got screwed over by the 'loths and forced into this string of events? I guess we know about Clueless... but what about the others? Just coincidence?



Association. They all have been working together since that fiasco at the beginning (which merely gathered a bunch of qualified adventurers) and since Clueless is in the party, they became a prime choice as a pack of do-gooders to use. Once that happened, they basically all want to get back at the 'loths, which somewhat perpetuates matters, eh? ;D


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## Shemeska

It was known as Pitiless, and the name well suited it as its latest inmate arrived to be handed over into its iron embrace.

Ghyris Vast slouched were he stood and gazed up with disinterest at the trio of guards, frost giants all of them, who stood around where he and his keeper’s waited. Slouching was really all that he could do; the chains that connected to the iron rings at his wrists, ankles, and neck didn’t much give him the option of moving or looking around the place at his whimsy. 

But no matter, he was sure to get the guided tour, at least for a little while, and after that, well… he’d have a long while to examine the place up close and personal. Cozy even. Perhaps they’d give him a pleasant cell.

	A vacation. That was a nice little spin upon it all. Some time away from his incessant work, slave labor under any other name, indentured servitude to that fuzzy, manic bitch on the Astral.

	He really detested her. Not that it mattered though.

	“Is this the prisoner?”

	The words broke the silent calm that had descended over the chamber for the past few minutes, minutes punctuated by only his own thoughts and the soft clatter of his own chains. He appreciated that. Silence was important to him in its own specific ways, now more than ever.

	“Yes. This is him.” Came the voice of one of the two githyanki who stood behind him: his keepers.

	A rough hand on his shoulder pushed him forward, rattling his chains. His keepers didn’t seem to think too highly of him, he’d gathered that much already during their momentary transit through the Astral, teleporting to the very edge of the bubble of oddly… quiet… void that surrounded the prison known as Pitiless.

	“And why exactly do you wish to place him in our custody?”

	The speaker, a dour faced dwarf dressed in robes that concealed armor, glared up at him with a mixture of curiosity and loathing. The dwarf paid particular attention to the tattoos of the Bleak Cabal on the back of his hands, that being the source of his derision, especially given that he iron medallion emblazoned with the symbol of the Doomguard.

	“Don’t worry about faction politics.” Ghyris said. “I don’t think it’ll cause any disturbances. And truth be told, I really don’t think I’ll have the opportunity to voice my grievances in any Hall of Speakers here…”

	The dwarf chuckled. “No, you won’t. And unless given permission, you will not speak at all.”

	That was certainly rude. Irrelevant though it might be.

	“I repeat myself.” The dwarf said, a second time more forcefully. “Why do you wish to place him in our care?”

	Vast’s keepers shifted warily.

	“We were not aware that a reason was required. And our mistress informed us that you had already agreed to this transfer, and had been given the specifics of our deal.” One of them replied. “Besides, you gain another person to watch whither away over the eons; something more to test your philosophy upon.”

	“Things fall apart…” A new voice said from the back of the room. Another dwarf, he’d been lurking quietly behind the row of giants that had been assembled in the room.

	“I don’t believe you’ve met my brother Jaich, co-warden of Pitiless.” The first dwarf said.

	“Jaich with No Spirit.” His brother corrected.

	One of the githyanki gave a short bow before returning to the proper topic of their business.

	“In any event Aorth, reasons?”

	The first dwarf, Aorth with No Heart, waved a hand dismissively.

	“I was curious, that’s all.” He said. “But no reason is needed.”

	“Good.” The githyanki replied. “Our mistress requires discretion.”

	“There is some information that we do require though.” Jaich said softly with a smile that just vaguely hid a streak of smug malevolence.

	“Like they’re aware of much…” Ghyris muttered.

	And really, they weren’t. They were more tools than he was. He at least had had creative freedom, more or less, while they were simply puppets that did as they were told. That didn’t prevent them from belting him across the back of his head though.

	“What information do you need?” One of Vast’s two minders asked.

	“Things relevant to what amount of security we provide to imprison him, and what he is capable of should he resort to violence while in our care.”

	Vast’s keepers nodded.

	“Firstly,” Aorth said. “He appears human. Is he? Because you appear to be githyanki but most certainly are not.”

	“We can tell.” Jaich said with a wink, wriggling his pinky finger and the glittering jewel there fixed upon a ring.

	“And given the purpose of this place, and the contents here and forever contained,” Aorth continued. “We justly prefer to know who in fact we’re dealing with.” 

	Jaich gave an idle shrug and waved his hands. “Please dispense with the pretensions of mortality if you would.”

	Ghyris giggled as his keepers glanced at one another.

	“I know a secret…” He said softly.

	There was a sudden snapping of bones and resculpting of flesh as one of his two keepers resumed their native form, its wings casting a heavy shadow across both of the dwarves. Looking down, though just barely now, the giant mentally reassessed the potential threat the pair of ‘githyanki’ represented should their dealings with the wardens of Pitiless go sour.

	“Unexpected.” Jaich said blunty, looking up into the fanged maw of the creature.

	“Unexpected but irrelevant.” His brother stated. “Your kind have other prisoners here, and this is simply another log upon the pyre.”

	Behind him, Jaich spread his hands and wriggled his fingers as if he were sifting dust or sand.

	“Ashes to ashes.”

	The other faux-githyanki remained in its assumed form, fully half the height of its partner, but both of them stood there waiting for another set of questions from the dwarfs.

	“As you said,” Jaich stated. “We’re already aware of the specific details of this prisoner and his transfer here. Your mistress, the honored Lady Brampandra, was quite succinct in her dealings with us.”

	“What my brother means to say is that we have nothing more of substance to converse about.” Aorth said. “You’re free to go.”

	The faux-githyanki nodded and it hulking companion bent forward, spreading its wings in a conciliatory gesture, though truth be told, it was more a mocking farewell to their former charge. For his part, Vast waved back at them before they turned to leave the prison.

	“You belong to us now.” Jaich bluntly stated.

	Vast ignored him and glanced back at the departing forms of his keepers, both now in their true forms.

	“That wasn’t the secret…” He said knowingly.

	“Come with us.” Aorth said, taking a firm hold of Vast’s chains. “We will take you to your cell and explain certain things to you as we must.”

	“And if you don’t, we’ll have you beaten, bound, and carried there.” Jaich said with a smile.

	Vast turned away and muttered something inaudible in reply. But regardless, he followed them, though he was under no allusions that if he did not they wouldn’t simply drag him kicking and screaming to his cell. Dramatics were entirely unnecessary at this stage. He’d served his purpose to two separate sets of would-be masters now, or so each of them thought of course, and all the while he’d been free to continue his Great Work, his masterpiece.

	And there was still that tiny matter of a secret. Oh yes.

	“You are to be placed within the high security ward of this prison.”

	Aorth’s words were largely ignored by Vast, he was largely muttering to himself and glancing up and around like a child at everything to be seen as they moved through the various wards of Pitiless.

	The first hallway was several hundred feet long, while high above them, far out of easy reach, elevated walkways crisscrossed the heights, providing the guards with a birds eye view of the floor.

	“We do like to keep a close eye on all of you.” Jaich said. “And we’ve never once had a subject escape.”

	“I dare say that it’s impossible.” Aorth said with a grin. “Teleportation, planeshifting, even opening a gate is impossibly within the confines of Pitiless.”

	“And we’ve never seen evidence of a portal from Sigil either.” Jaich added.

	“If I am wanted, I will be taken.” Vast murmured.

	“If your prior owners wish to reclaim you, they simply have to request it.” Aorth retorted.

	“I wasn’t referring to them…” Vast replied.

	“Then who are talking about?” Aorth asked, though he frankly didn’t care. The man was insane, he’d been made aware of this by Vast’s owners before they had brought him to Pitiless. Vast was a Bleaker, and one long since lapsed into the Grim Retreat or just barely clinging to the raw, bleeding edge of lucidity and not entirely condemned to that Abyss quite yet.

	“Who am I talking about?” Vast asked rhetorically. “I suppose we’ll know sooner or later.”

	“Just ignore him brother…” Jaich said, rolling his eyes.

	“You don’t want to know.” Vast said, slipping into a whisper. “I wish I didn’t either. It’s my secret you see.”

	Aorth followed his brother’s advice, and he and Jaich both ignored Vast’s incoherent rambling till they had made their way through the warehouse and up to the security check and the massive gate leading into the first cellblock.

	There, at the end of the hallway they paused and from high above the guards, a pair of frost giants, pulled open the gate. Cold iron it seemed, laced with a sparkle of silver in places. Vast smiled at their paltry use of alchemy in the forge, but it certainly helped to contain fiends if they had any bottled up with him.

	Fiends…

	Vast paused and grew pale at the thought. He shuddered, something not missed by his wardens. They would be watching him more closely.

	“Proceed.” Aorth said, prodding him forward with the end of an iron rod. “We have a distance to walk to reach your cell, and teleportation and similar magics do not function within the confines of the prison.”

	“So I –do- receive the guided tour then!” Vast said, the manic switch in the back of his Bleaker’s mind flipping over suddenly. “Splendid!”

	“Just walk.” Jaich said. “And touch nothing.”

	Beyond the gates was a massive warehouse, a storeroom of items, objects, parcels, and the inanimate left in safekeeping. Sequestered. Abandoned. Wanted or unwanted they were left to molder and rust. Thousands of objects, maybe more, ranging from golden statues and imperial regalia to worthless trinkets of sentimental value to persons long dead, and speaking of which there was even a marble mausoleum situated upon the storehouse floor, complete down to its last block of stone, picked up and deposited there for safekeeping.

	“Quite a collection you have here.” Ghyris said with a smile. “She’d love to go digging through it all I suspect.”

	“She?” Aorth asked, nudging Vast forward, pointing out that yes indeed he was still a prisoner.

	“The one who sent me here to visit you. Greedy little bitch.” Vast replied with a wink. “Powerful. Incredibly powerful. But a bit unhinged in the head. Crazy…”

	The bleaker spun a finger through the air and laughed without a care in the world.

	“You don’t say…” Jaich replied with a snicker.

	“I like the decorations!” Vast said, pointing up and grinning at the black spheres that hung suspended in the air over the warehouse floor, likely to scry upon and perhaps channel spells in the event something became active or free.

	“They’re like sad little Mediators, lost and away from home.” He said, the manic shine to his attitude bleeding away as something flicked the ephemeral little switch in his brain once more.

	“I’m afraid…” Vast whispered as they approached the gates to the next section of the prison and waited for them to open.

	“Of what?” Aorth said. “This place is sacrosanct. There’s no way in or out, and half the major powers across the planes have people stuffed away in here.”

	“Second only to Carceri itself.” Jaich said with a nod as the gate swung open.

	“And each of those people, or groups, races or powers with a card from their hand shuffled away here, they have it in their best interest to keep this place secure.” Aorth continued. “Nothing can disturb this place unless it wishes to disturb all of those persons who want this prison to be secure and inviolable.”

	Vast didn’t reply. It wouldn’t have helped.

	“Continue forward,” Aorth said as the door settled into its open position. “And do not stare overly long at any of the prisoners in the cells of the next block of the prison.”

	Vast shambled forwards and tried to listen to those orders, but he couldn’t help but feel that the inmates in their cells were staring at him. Of course, they were all out on display, penned, put under glass, exhibited… Could you blame them for doing the same?

	The hall was several hundred feet long, lined with cells on each side, each of them staggered in arrangement to prevent direct prisoner-to-prisoner contact. Most of the occupants were individuals, all of them locked away for one reason or another, by their own will or not. Most of them simply sat and did nothing, but several prisoners entertained an audience.

	Halfway down the hall, a Maralith was coiled at the edge of one cell, staring at its occupant, likely conversing telepathically, while a pair of Bulezau stood behind her. Similarly, further down the hallway, a trio of robed figures were floating through an opened gateway leading to the third, more secure, portion of Pitiless.

	Ghyris Vast ignored the visitors, and as he was marched down the hallway he only stopped to look at the inhabitants of one cell; the others were just ignored or maybe given a passing glance. But no, one cell was given more than just a look.

	There were five of them packed together in a single cell, all of them identical to the casual viewer, and all of them acting seemingly in unison. Devetes, odd little creatures of chaos, born in the dim past of Xaos, the Outlands gatetown to Limbo, or so legend said. They were small of stature, vaguely reptilian, with blue skinned, sinuous bodies and oversized, luminous eyes that blinked as they turned to look at Ghyris.

	Devetes were typically whimsical and harmless when encountered along, but when they gathered in groups, they became something altogether different. This group, known as the Devete Choir, it acted as a hivemind of sorts, but without a defined personality in some ways. They were an emotional sink, a sponge of thoughts and ideas, clay in the hands of their environment, a mirror to the minds of the people around them.

	Vast turned to stare directly at them and the Devete Choir stared back.

	“You understand…”

	The Devetes skin, mildly chameleon-like, blanched from sapphire blue to a sickly gray pallor. Their eyes bulged and they shuddered as one.

	“What are you doing?!” Aorth demanded as he pulled up on the slack in Vast’s chains.

	“You understand perfectly…”

	In their cell, the Devetes began to scream.

	Aorth and Jaich dragged Vast the remainder of the way through the cellblock, listening to the obviously insane Bleaker chuckle and mutter to himself as they passed the other cells. It would take an hour for the Devetes to regain some semblance of sanity and rationale behavior, an hour to stop their agonized shrieking.

	Eventually though, Vast regained his wits and they allowed him to walk again, though his proverbial and literal leash was shorter. The wardens would be glad when he was locked away in his cell, secluded and out of their hair, just another subject to keep and observe.

	And then, beyond one last set of heavy gates, they arrived. The chamber held five massive, oversized cells, the living graves of creatures far too large for the other chambers within the prison: dangerous and deadly things. One was empty, one was flooded with shadows and the sinuous form of a shadow dragon within, and another held a horrific being best described as a segmented, multi-limbed worm with multiple eyes and a massive, fanged maw.

	“Delightful little beast you have there.” Ghyris said to Aorth. “A hungry little thing…”

	Jaich rolled his eyes. Vast was waving at the Entrope like it was a lost puppy.

The other two larger cells Vast couldn’t see from his vantage point, and given his prior experience with the Devetes, they didn’t allow him the leeway.

	“Your cell is over here.” Aorth said, tugging on Vast’s chains.

	There were a dozen smaller cells within the block, each bordered by layers upon layers of wards, permanent walls of force, and even less prosaic things to contain, to shackle, to guard, to protect…

	Where they keeping him there out of malice or were they protecting him?

	All of the high security cells were separated from one another by a full forty feet, and staggered in such a way that the prisoners on one side of the chamber could not gain an unimpeded view of the cells across from them. It was all very well thought out, and the prisoners were truly isolated both from the outside world and from one another. Not that it really mattered to Vast, not that it really mattered at all. Nothing did, but here the Doomguard were, trying to prove meaning in a meaningless void.

	Vast stepped forward a bit and glanced around his cell. The dwarves weren’t pushing him too much, they had time certainly, and they probably figured that if they didn’t treat him too harshly on his first day of incarceration he was probably less liable to attempt to cause trouble. It wasn’t him they had to worry about though… oh no…not him they needed to concern themselves with.

	From the cell across the chamber there was a commotion. A trio of robed, hooded figures had just departed from where they had been conversing with one of the inmates. Mocking and tormenting him though was more like it. The wizards, they were floating off the ground by a few inches, chuckling amongst themselves in a dialect of abyssal Vast was fluent in.

	Oh yes, they were mocking him. Rightfully so it would seem. He’d done them wrong, done them all wrong, fallen from its pinnacle of dark grace. He shouldn’t have been aware of that, but he knew it intuitively.

	Whatever his exact sin, or lack of them, the other prisoner was weeping, both audibly, tapping against the tympanic membranes in Vast’s all too mortal skull, and telepathically, slipping across the distance like a pure note from a tarnished instrument left too long in the rain.

	The feel of that mind against his, though of a very different kind than before, it brought back memories, unpleasant ones.

	Vast paused and shuddered.

A fiend. Not the same, not the same, no not the same… he’d been warned, ordered, and he’d so far obeyed. But It would know if he violated those warnings.

	It was watching. Cold. Merciless. Giving but taking. Addition by subtraction. Those eyes…

	Vast turned around with a start and glanced at the cells and their hidden occupants. But no, never, no, it was silly to think that It was lurking behind the walls, around a corner, in a distant cell like some kind of bogey-man whispered of to Hiver children to get them to sleep so their parents could go f*ck in the room down the hall.

	There was little chance that… what was he saying… It could butcher him at any moment if It willed it to be so. He had seen Its face, seen himself reflected in Its eyes, seen it staring back at him behind his eyes in the mirror’s reflection, in his head, inside of him.

	“In the cell with you.” Jaich said. “We have eternity here to watch you rot, but I don’t want to be on my feet in here that whole time. Move.”

	In the cell with you? In the cell with him? The cell was empty, that couldn’t be it. In his head. It had to be. Making him go mad. That was it. That was Its gift, Its price, Its inevitable effects upon his fragile psyche. Madness from the mad, to the mad.

	Not of course that he’d ever intentionally sought It out. Quiet the opposite, It had come to him, attracted like a moth to a candle, fluttering up on bleached wings and rancid unholy thought, whispering, instructing, teaching. And oh yes, he’d listened all the time as It had helped him complete his Great Work, his Device.

	Not that his keepers had been aware of this when they’d come for him, dragging him off of that distant Godisle, torturing him to make him work for them, prying apart his thoughts, making him teach them how it worked and how he’d created it. She’d understood, well, most of it. She was intelligent enough, monstrously so, but still, some of the concepts were hellishly complex, and it would take her time to fully tumble to those darks, him helping her just as It had spoken to him. And she didn’t know.

	“I have a secret you know…”

None of it mattered of course. Things simply happened because they happened, not because of any grand pattern or purpose or reason lurking behind the curtain draped across a cold and uncaring multiverse. But even so, Ghyris Vast was frightened. He tried not to show it as the wardens motioned him one last time into his cell.

Ghyris Vast was terrified. It was staring at him, looking at him from the corners of his vision, glaring at him from the back of his jailers’ eyes, It had been there in the countenances of the guards looking down on them, and It had been there in the hollow stares of the other prisoners that they’d passed along the way, the wretches long ago resolved to their fate. 

It shouldn’t, It couldn’t follow him, but then again… he knew what It was even if the others didn’t, and that was his little secret. No need to tell them, even as they tossed him to the side like so much rubbish. He lived on borrowed time.

	“You can’t protect me you know.” Vast muttered as he stepped into his cell, a hollow ten by ten space of stone, iron, and magic.

Cells could keep you safe. Padded walls could prevent you from harm. Wards and walls and guards would keep you hidden and safe. Nothing could penetrate within Pitiless, which was simply the way things worked. But Ghyris knew what It was.

	The cell door closed, the lock gave a heavy shudder, and the wards sprung into being. Might they keep him safe and sound? Could they?

What if it was still inside of him?


***​

“YES!!!!” Florian shouted at the top of her lungs.

She tossed her crossbow to the side and threw her arms up in the air, letting loose a cry of absolute triumph.

"I've been saving that for you!" 

Florian kept shouting, the justice of her act expressed in a grin spreading across her face in between jubilant cackles, and the intensity of her stare down at the pool of blood spreading out from the bolt buried in Siddhartha's chest.

All around, Florian's mood of triumph was spreading into a chorus of shouts, raised hands and pumping fists. The fiend had been a thorn buried in their side, just as they had been one in his, and they had finally come out on top.

All around they felt relief. Nothing could rob them of that victory. Nothing.

But be it Cipher's intuition or not, Fyrehowl's smile died stillborn a moment later.


***​


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## Shemeska

***​

	Siddhartha was standing again. 

	“What the hell…” Florian sputtered breathlessly as all color drained from her face.

Siddhartha chuckled as he brushed at his clothing from where he had fallen, and then glanced down at the crossbow bolt buried in his chest like it was a splinter. The blood was gone, vanished, evaporated, and a moment later the fiend plucked the bolt from the wound without so much as a wince and it sealed like it had never been there.

	“What the bloody hell…” Florian sputtered again, absolutely deflated from her exuberance of seconds prior.

	The fiend laughed, and tossed the crossbow bolt to the side like a piece of trash, a contemptuous, gloating smirk playing across his face.

	“You have absolutely no idea what it is that you blundered into.” Siddhartha said, his tail twitching erratically like a demon’s metronome. “All because of that idiot Baatezu on behalf of the f*cking Lord of the 5th. Their curiosity, all on behalf of Tiamat by way of Vlaakith, that rotting mortal’s corpse too long awaiting a grave… it has become a problem.”

	Siddhartha’s voice was changing as he spoke. The mellifluous, cultured, nearly poetic tones of the exiled Rakshasa were bleeding away, leaving only the hatred behind, a slick and sickening tone like drops of acid on the mind.

	“A f*cking deity.” The fiend said with utter contempt. “Her stupid prodding of the Baatezu was trouble enough, but they could be easily manipulated from other directions. You though have proven unfortunate.”

	His lips were no longer moving, but he was still speaking to them, his voice simply resonating in their heads, seeping like an infection into their brains, and coiling around their neurons like a clutch of vipers.

	“Oh sh*t…” Clueless blurted out as he realized that he had felt the same mental intrusion before, or rather one very much like it, in the city of Center.

	Siddhartha’s eyes: they were glowing a harsh and angry red, shifting to orange, fading to violet, dancing between colors. There was a single final smirk upon the Rakshasa’s face before his features melted away, running like hot wax as he dropped all pretensions of being what he had claimed and appeared to be.

	Gone was the elegantly dressed, tiger headed fiend from Acheron. Gone was the lawful but bloodthirsty tyrant wrapped in the guise of nobility. All that remained was a tall, gaunt figure in a flowing black robe with its featureless, elongated cranium, without mouth, without nose, with only the burning eyes of an Ultroloth.

	Elation at striking what had seemed a mortal blow on Siddhartha was replaced by shock and fear. An Ultroloth. That changed everything. Every inconsistency from before fell into place as everything else was screaming ‘you’re f*cked’.

	Of all of them, only Kiro showed no horrified shock or surprise. In fact, his feelings were more along the lines of calm, measured confirmation of something already suspected. What he’d been told was correct, though that should have come as no surprise in and of itself either; it was rare for them to be wrong before dispatching one of his kind. More thought and more confirmation would come later though.

	“I cannot suffer yet another setback at your hands!” The words exploded in their minds with white-hot ferocity, a fraction of the Ultroloth’s own experience in failure translating in the words spoken as tiny white motes of light erupting across their vision.

	Somewhere behind them, where it had been lurking for some time awaiting the command of its master, something swam through the stone of the palace foundations, and the floor silently rippled like water.

“I will not open myself to that misery once more!” The yugoloth screamed into their minds. “You have no idea what – agony - you caused me! You cannot understand what she did to me because of you!”

	There was virtually no warning to what happened next as the Ultroloth gestured with an outstretched hand and a chaotic stream of color burst from his palm. As the streams of acid, flame, crackling lightning, and other effects swallowed the group, the ‘loth’s defensive contingencies triggered.

	The prismatic spray had done its damage, with Skalliska, Florian, and Clueless burned and singed to one degree or another, but they had managed to avoid any of the spell’s more deadly potential effects. However, just as they managed to recover from that first sudden wave of magic, the ‘loth prepared to cast again, and its lurking watchdog of a creation burst from the ground.

	Fyrehowl barely managed to evade the creature as its head and serpentine body broke the surface of the stone floor like a sea-serpent cresting to attack a merchant ship. The creature was a construct, and obviously so. The ‘loth had already shown itself to be fond of such unthinking servants, and this one was no different, if significantly larger than the others.

	The beast was constructed of segments of gleaming steel, each sculpted and articulated as individual scales on a true serpent or drake, or at least that was the creature’s initial appearance as it lunged at the lupinal and belatedly slapped its tail into Toras’s chest. The Cipher dove and tumbled out of the way, but the edges of her fur briefly caught fire as the flank of the creature’s body rushed past her and back into the stone like the floor was some calcified ocean.

	As it happened, the construct wasn’t made out of steel, even if its surface gleamed with the appearance of such. No, the metallic skin of the creature was simply white hot, and as it ripped free from the stone a second time, there were clearly visible bursts of flame erupting from between its scales, where major portions of its body had been engraved with arcane symbols, and also glowing in the depths of its maw like some hellish vault.

	Burned by the last pass of the construct, Skalliska hissed and tossed a crackling arc of lightning at the ‘loth from the tip of a wand. Rakshasas were immune to such magic, but Ultroloths were not, at least not by default. Unfortunately the ‘loth had defensive measures in place, they’d been required for posing as a largely magic immune Rakshasa, and the bolt of electricity was snuffed out several feet before it would have struck its target.

	“He’s got a globe of invulnerability of some sort!” Tristol shouted out in warning as he hurled a cone of cold onto the face of the oncoming serpentine construct as it launched itself from below in a rapid succession of passes.

	Clueless nodded in response to the mage’s observation. It explained why their spells hadn’t affected the fiend in their encounter on the Astral: they’d been nullified by just such a ward, or they’d been swallowed by its own resistance to spells, giving the appearance of a true Rakshasa’s magic immunities.

	So few spells the bladesinger possessed would directly affect the Ultroloth, but then the one he had presently called into his mind wasn’t going to be cast directly against the fiend anyways.

	Meanwhile, as the bladesinger hurled his own spell, Tristol was madly diving out of the path of the ‘loth’s construct and struggling to keep a hand steady enough to discharge a second spell: a dimensional anchor. Moments later, by pure luck, the spell hit the Ultroloth and appeared to penetrate its wards, though the ‘loth seemed entirely unconcerned.

The fiendish construct meanwhile hadn’t been so much as slowed by the burst of ice thrown at its head. Whatever its unique form classified it as, it appeared to have a whole host of standard golem magic immunities. That left the aasimar wizard largely useless against it, but he’d known what spell Clueless was preparing to hurl at the Ultroloth, and he’d known something to compliment it.

	Magic immunities did not however make the burning metallic serpent immune to raw physical damage, and it had taken several blows to its face and midsection each of the times that it had burst up from below to attack them. It would have taken considerably more, but the creature was obscenely quick, and it was approaching from different positions and different angles each and every time it surfaced. Consequently, only Kiro, and to a lesser extent, Fyrehowl, had managed to react quickly enough to land any solid blows.

	And then there was the Ultroloth whose mental laughter and mocking commentary echoed through their heads as they futilely stabbed at its construct and made largely ineffective attacks against it. Already the ‘loth had simply shrugged off a flamestrike from Florian, and moments later it tossed another spell at them, causing Florian and Toras to stagger and gasp as it seemed to threaten every drop of water in their bodies with evaporation.

	As they struggled to resist the fiend’s spell, or at least cope with its horrid damage, Clueless’ spell was completed, though to no visible or immediately obvious effect. Still, it would be noticed when the ‘loth moved, and the irony was that he’d learned it from a fire genasi who’d been handed it by a yugoloth. And oh, what a useful spell it had proven to be.

_“You’ve already caused me too much disruption in what I have been tasked to do.”_ The Ultroloth broadcast, rattling their skulls. _ “At least you will die with less prolonged agony at my hands than by my… sister’s.”_

	That last word, referring to Brampandra as his sibling, there was an almost amused inflection given to it. Yethmiil very clearly didn’t have any siblings, and whatever his so-called sister was in actuality, she was not, and never had been his sister.

_ “… interesting…”_ The fiend then muttered as it stepped forward and into the wall of the invisible bubble of force that Clueless had conjured into place over it, confining it to a space only a few feet across. 

_ “Still, it is irrelevant.”_ He said as he raised a gray, elongated hand to cast once more.

	Florian was healing Nisha, Tristol was casting a spell of Haste on Toras, and Kiro was dislodging one his two swords from the serpentine construct’s back when the Ultroloth’s spell manifested as a living wave of minute imp-like beings composed of flame.

	The wave broke on them just as Kiro and Toras landed killing blows upon the fiendish construct. Kiro leapt over the oncoming tide of living flame and Toras wildly dove for cover next to the rapidly cooling construct, though the former escaped with considerably less harm, and the others were spared the worst of it by a moment of prescient action when Fyrehowl hurled a cone of cold directly into the flames, extinguishing a swathe of the tiny creatures.

	As the spell faded there was a moment of calm, brief though it was, as the ‘loth surveyed the damage. It hadn’t done nearly enough, and though several of them were terribly injured, with Nisha and Skalliska wincing against burns and slashes inflicted by the serpent, the pain only galvanized them for what came next.

	The Ultroloth was trapped under a bubble of force, overconfident in the extreme, and wholly unprepared for the fact that it was confined in an enclosed space and unable to teleport out. Too late it realized its error, and just what sort of unique variation on a typical wall of force spell had been thrown over him when Clueless stabbed through the wall and into the fiend’s chest.

	A raw crash of anger and pain washed over them all as the fiend’s mind projected a mental impression of its wounds, and a sudden desperation that was so violently atypical for the cold, calm and always prepared aura that surrounded Ultroloths almost by default.

	It had been a horrid mistake to fight them against such numerical odds, doubly so in that he’d expended his most powerful spells earlier in the day with a pair of Gates. The thought kept intruding into his mind over and over again of how much of a mockery his existence had become under that subcreature he called a mistress. And now because of her in no small way, Yethmiil was trapped, a point only reinforced by a flurry of rapid stabs into his back by Kiro, who like always, just seemed to be in the right place at the right time, normal space and normal speed being no issue.

	A rapid stream of poisonous invectives and a sequence of perverse, disturbing images pumped into their minds as the Ultroloth flooded their minds with his anger, and what amounted to telepathic swearing. His swearing though was less of concern than the necromantic spell he tossed a second later, exploding in a circle of darkness that momentarily threatening to snuff out their lives.

	Sadly though, Florian had already granted them all some measure of protection, and though that protective ward buckled and failed against the ‘loth’s spell, the circle of death was likewise nullified. Another spell might have been forthcoming from its seemingly endless well of destructive incantations, but it never had the chance as Toras and Clueless both drove their swords through the wall of force and into the fiend.

	Already bleeding from a dozen wounds, the Ultroloth’s eyes flared violet with pain and disbelief. It had been a mistake to be so completely unprepared, and all of it was because of the b*tch who held him in thrall in the first place. Going to and from her residence upon the Astral had drained him of his most powerful spells, and it was necessity that had pulled him back to die. He’d never had a chance as depleted as he’d been; the battlefield had not been one of his choosing, either in locations physical or temporal.

	“What the hell is this all about?!” Clueless demanded angrily.

	The sword slipped an inch deeper, but it was really unnecessary, and wouldn’t have made a difference. She’d geased him, geased an Ultroloth; he couldn’t have told them any relevant, critical information even if he had been willing to, which he wasn’t. But even as their crude, tentative application of pain embedded itself further into his mind, he could already feel something else fraying at the edges of his sense of self, invading… his vision was fading, not to black, but to crimson.

“No… not again….” The telepathic outburst was panicked.

Carceri was feeding on him. The Red Prison was sucking his essence into itself. The ‘loths had not yet linked themselves to the plane, not fully, and so while the plane might hunger for him, it could not keep him long. But regardless, he was dying then and there for the second time in his existence. He recognized this not with anger and rage, but with fear. The first time had been different, long ago and in Gehenna, but this time, She would never let the plane itself claim him, locking him into the centuries long process that it would take for him to reform and coalesce as a distinct being once more. 

No, his fate would be much worse.

“Kill him and be done with it.” Skalliska said bluntly as she sat on the wreckage of the ‘loth’s construct, still bleeding from several wounds.

	“Not yet.” Clueless said without turning away from the fiend. “I’ll enjoy it when we do, but I want to know what all the hell is going on here. They’ve f*cked me over before and I’ll be damned if I’ll just drop this without some information.”

	The fiend’s mental emanations were growing sluggish like coagulating blood, or the Styx grown clogged on a thousand bloated corpses. It was getting slower by the moment, and his robes were drenched in his own blood. He was dying.

“You have no idea what she’ll do to you...” Yethmiil whispered in their minds, both as a final exclamation to them, and a harrowed, foreboding statement of what would be awaiting him.

And with that, he began to blur at the edges, merging with the red light of the plane for a few brief moments before imploding like a bloated star, trailing motes of his essence, sparkling pinpricks of light, up towards some unseen point high above on the surface. They watched him die, but they also watched him being called back by something else, snatched up, summoned.

	“What in Tempus’ name are we involved in here?” Florian asked as the last bits of the fiend’s essence spiraled away into nothing.

	There was no easy answer of course, and the ‘loth hadn’t given them anything else to work on, save for the fact that he had never been a Rakshasa. Siddhartha was an assumed identity, and there might have never been a fiend by that name. Or, if there had, he’d been long dead and his identity assumed out of convenience by the Ultroloth.

	No easy answers, but plenty of questions. If Siddhartha, or rather Yethmiil, as the Gehreleth had called him, had been an Ultroloth, and very obviously been a lesser to his ‘sister’, the Lady Brampandra, another so-called Rakshasa, then who or what was she? The bloody poetry written into the wardings in the Astral, and there in Carceri, she’d penned them it would seem, and they had never seemed to be something a true Rakshasa would have created. Not ordered enough, not structured and proper, too grotesque and wild despite the layers of organization that was there beneath the crimson spattered chaos.

	If she wasn’t a Rakshasa, just what the hell was she? What had they been doing on the Astral? Where was she? And what would happen now?

	Things were terribly, horribly different from what they had so far assumed about their enemy. And as they stood there in the depths of a fake Rakshasa’s palace in Cathrys, the silence of uncertainty was deafening.


***​

The crimson glow of Cathrys faded from his eyes as his corporeal form dissolved. For a moment Yethmiil kal’Suth was suspended between layers of Carceri, a cold and bitter void, a place that might have existed before the formation of the orbs, or might not have existed beyond the abstract. But then there was a touch, a summons, a burst of anger. The moment was over and in an instant he was siphoned through a hole in reality, not entirely unlike the touch of the Maeldur, but guided and initiated by a force altogether more malevolent.

The transition was harsh and abrupt, but indeed he had felt it before, eons ago. That first instance he had been killed by a Balor, Argrazoth of the Brine Flats, in a particularly key battle on the slopes of Mungoth. It had taken him two centuries to fully reform, but for what it was worth, he still had the soul of that Tanar’ri entrapped in a gem buried a mile deep, still conscious in its imprisonment.

	But this time was different. That had been during an earlier time, an earlier era when Anthraxus still held the Siege Malicious, and under the regime of that prior Oinoloth, he had held considerable sway as far as the lawful evil planes were concerned. Death at the hands of Argrazoth, especially when that being of chaos was so far removed from its native element, had been a disaster. In his absence during the time his scattered essence gathered itself and reformed on the Waste, his fellow Ultroloths had carved apart his holdings in Gehenna and the Waste so that when he returned his prestige was solid, but his actual power was a drop of what it had been at his height.

	He had eventually recovered from that death. Almost. He’d tortured Argrazoth to death, and the Tanar’ri’s agony had proven to be a succor to his own losses, even as the Waste sapped at the less tangible joys of the act itself. It had been a horrible execution leading up to the imprisonment, even by the standards of Ultroloths, and one that he was certain his current overseer and mistress would at once find both brilliant and blasphemous. He’d birthed a quartet of arcanaloths in full view of Argrazoth, instructing the newborn ‘loths in the subtleties of applied pain, slowly letting them feed upon the Balor piece by piece as it was flensed and dissected. A bit of flesh on their lips, marrow to fight amongst one another over, a ligament to strip free of muscle and bone to gnaw upon in the room’s corner like an infinitely more intelligent version of some Night Hag’s pet Yeth Hound.

	That had satisfied him. The rhythms of pain, the vibration of twitching muscles and thundering arteries, vocal chords screaming and compressing the air, raw psionic tremors of the Balor’s brain playing the aether like a madman’s lute. Satisfaction, if not joy. The Waste denied pleasure, true pleasure, to its chosen.

	It had taken him millennia to recoup his fall from dark grace, and in the end he had crawled into a position of power in the court of Mydianchlarus. And it was in that position that he had first met The Ebon, and during his late tenure there in the Wasting Tower, he had heard rumors of the Wheels Within Wheels, and their spinning had brought him close like some metaphysical centripetal force of fate. He had once been mighty, and they would offer him that prestige once more.

	But they had demanded loyalty, and they seemed, somehow, to be capable of enforcing such.

	In true yugoloth fashion he had wavered back and forth between the offers of power that they had whispered to him from a dozen different speakers, and then later when Anthraxus began to muster his army at the Hill of Bone, he’d danced with the altraloth’s promises and entreaties as well. Mydianchlarus, Anthraxus, The Wheels… he’d played with the three of them and never given his loyalty till it was far too late. He’d meant to throw his support to Mydianchlarus at the last moment, but something in the back of his mind had stopped him. Whatever it was, if anything but whimsy, it had prevented him from decorating the spires of the Wasting Tower with his corpse, but it had not placed him among those Ultroloths counted as loyal to the new order.

	He wasn’t willing to place himself under the authority of a lesser entity. He served The Ebon out of respect for power, service at the point of a sword, but there was always a loathing for such an abject, wanton disruption in the roles, rank, and caste of their race. Even with what he had become, Anthraxus had been an Ultroloth before his transition and his attainment of the throne of Khin-Oin. The Ebon was an arcanaloth, a lesser being, a subcreature by comparison, though in his presence that never felt like the case. In that one’s presence, there was something that simply did not feel right, or perhaps something maddeningly familiar that he could never appropriately quantify.

	And the newly crowned Oinoloth had been well aware of those feelings it seemed, and so had she. She had played her cards correctly, she had danced with the Ebon from the start, and with his rise in status, she too had gained prestige and power commensurate to her loyalty.

	She’d requested his subservience. She’d fixed her eyes on his, a wild miasma of colors reflected back between them both, a single commonality bridging the gulf between them. He was an Ultroloth, the apex of purity. She was an abomination, a mockery of transcendence.

	Why? Why had she requested him? She reveled in her newfound power, and in fact she was still holding the severed head of Palinarius, her former master, when she made her request. He was simply another middling symbol of her triumph, a trophy of her sick gloating that made him and the others under her command into objects.

	Of course, he’d have done much the same, even if his reasons were different, and even if his mind simply worked different from hers. His was a razor, cold, unadorned and sterile; he would never have abased himself on his knees before the Oinoloth, any Oinoloth, begging and bleeding on the floor.

	She’d pleaded for power and influence, and an Ultroloth as a puppet.

And in the end, the Oinoloth had acquiesced to her demand.

	The thoughts of those events were not pleasant ones, and they grew worse as he mulled over the evolution of their master and servant relationship, the farce of assumed identities only barely changing that dynamic.

	The first time that he had failed her she had tortured him for several days. It had impressed him on one level, but it was different from what he would have done. She enjoyed it; she was capable of emotional involvement in the act, while he would have done the same even without the capacity for such unrefined thoughts. 

Again, those thoughts of her as an abomination, thoughts that she knew fully well he harbored, and for which she punished him with manic, sadistic glee. There was something wrong with her brain, or perhaps it simply had to do with her origin. She might have been birthed as a mezzoloth by Carceri, one of the rare few of that kind, still influenced by the marginal chaos the Red Prison clutched to its withered breast. Irony more, how fitting might it have been had she been one of those four that he himself had created several thousand years ago, birthed as momentary executioner’s tools. He’d dismissed those newborns to the Tower Arcane and never given them a moment’s attention afterwards. 

Had he forged his own shackles? He’d likely never know, truth be told.

And now he would find himself at her mercy for a second time, though in a broader sense of things, taking into account that the Oinoloth had probably intended to execute him eventually had he not been placed under the bitch’s authority, it was the third time that his continued existence relied upon her acidic whimsy.


***​

	That momentary transition was over, and with it his recollections of what had brought him to that point and to that place. The glow of Carceri was still present, but brighter, of a different tone and texture to his senses. She had not plucked him away to the Astral, nor the demiplane that she had forcibly tethered to the towers built at the heart of the storm there on that godisle, that particular godisle…

	He was still in Carceri, and she would not have brought him there unless she was present as well. She was actually there, physically present, not simply projecting. There was a flicker of magic and she was in the room, wrapped in the darkness. Even enraged and filled with homicidal intent, she was self-conscious of her physical condition, likely having allowed it to fester during her long periods of projection to various places outside of Carceri.

	The air was alive with the mental presence of something that simply dwarfed his own, something to put all of his pretensions of inferior and superior beings into a shallow grave. Likewise the air was pungent with a fierce contrast of perfume and open wounds. A pity he would remember that.

	Yethmiil closed his eyes and locked those last few moments of freedom into his memory, hoping to dwell on them for what was to come.

	Emerald eyes lit the darkness, slowly shifting colors, and a feral snarl cut the air.

	The Tower would soon welcome yet one more living, screaming brick.


***​


----------



## Shemeska

“So what do we do now?” Clueless asked.

	Blank stares, furrowed brows, the nervous tapping of fingers… and Nisha’s stuck out tongue, those were the only immediate responses to the question. No easy answers certainly as their minds were still puzzling over the implications of just what had happened back in Carceri, and just what the next step would be.

	There had certainly been repercussions when the Ultroloth had still been holding to his assumed identity as a Rakshasa. With him gone, or at least temporarily out of the picture, it was an open question with whether his so-called sibling, or superior… whatever she was… would likewise take action against them.

	Whatever she was.

	“I need another drink.” Florian said, idly running her finger through a layer of foam ringing the lip of her mug.

	Clueless topped off the glass without comment and then went back to nursing his own.

	The back room of the Portal Jammer was quiet as they sat around the table. Every so often one of them would pause and open his or her mouth, mumbling something before stopping and letting uncomfortable silence drift back down over them all. At least the still and cold quiet there, back in Sigil, was more comfortable than the atmosphere during their trip back from Carceri.

Their flight from the scarlet jungles of Cathrys had been uneventful and without conflict of any sort. But perhaps that was to be expected on some level.

	They’d broken the wards in the depths of the palace; that macabre, bloody poetry on the walls and floor, embedded with a hideous sprawl of magic and malice. They still weren’t entirely sure who had penned it now that it seemed that neither of the so-called Rakshasas were anything of the sort.

	Just more uncertainties, more questions, more worries to mute their sense of victory over Siddhartha… whatever the fiend’s name was.

	They had not stayed long in the palace after they had killed the fiend; really, only long enough to search for any records that might aid them later, but they found little of the sort. Ultimately they had given up, broken the wards and released the Deepspawn from its cell.

	When they had climbed back up from the hidden basement halls and out into the crimson glow of the jungle on the surface, they knew immediately that they were not alone, even if they couldn’t see anything. Fyrehowl’s fur had stood on end, and the jungle itself had been deathly quiet.

	Something, perhaps many things, were simply waiting for them to leave, giving them the grace of a few moments to escape, purchased mercy.

	The trip back to the portal had been brief and somewhat sullen, quiet and still, much like their current mood in some ways. The wards were broken, and with that, their ability to teleport was restored, and they’d used it to return to the portal to Sigil once they emerged out of the palace.

	They had briefly lingered outside the portal to turn back at look in the direction from which they had come. Through the holes in the forest canopy they could already see the smoke from the inferno that had begun to consume the yugoloth’s fortress, the flames sparked the moment they had vanished.

	The last thing that Fyrehowl saw before stepping through the portal and back into Sigil was the leering, grinning face of a Farastu staring at her out of the depths of the scarlet jungle. Purchased mercy.

	“Yeah.” Fyrehowl said. “What do we do now?”

	“And when it’s the Cipher saying that…” Tristol muttered.

	“We’ve got nothing.” Florian said.

	“For the moment.” Kiro said softly. “Regardless of whether we eventually want it or not, the Gehreleth we freed back in Carceri did say that we would be given help. Or at least that someone would contact us.”

	“Xideous.” Skalliska said. “Whoever that is.”

	“Presumably another fiend.” Fyrehowl said with a sigh. “I’m getting tired of them.”

	“At least it’s not another yugoloth.” Clueless said, pushing another drink in front of the lupinal.

	“Yeah. At least it’s not another f*cking yugoloth.” Fyrehowl muttered, sputtering with her muzzle an inch into her ale. “I’m understandably sick and tired of them.”

	“We’ve still got Siddhartha’s so-called sister.” Clueless said. “And she might decide to come after us now that we’ve taken down her compatriot.”

	“We still can’t say for certain what she is.” Kiro said. “Though it’s likely that she’s a yugoloth as well.”

	“I think we can assume that the original Lord Siddhartha and Lady Brampandra are dead.” Tristol said. “At some point they might have fallen afoul of the ‘loths, or they might have been dead already and just served as convenient covers for them to adopt.”

	“Still doesn’t answer why they were posing as Rakshasas though.” Toras said.

	“Whatever they’re doing.” Kiro said. “They probably just don’t want the attention of the celestials, the other fiends, the githyanki, or actual deities.”

	“Not like they’ve done that before.” Fyrehowl muttered. “Even more so now that they’ve got a new Oinoloth.”

	The cipher slipped into a soft, bitter soliloquy of cursing in celestial.

	“Well don’t worry about it now.” Clueless said. “We can worry about it tomorrow.”

	“Unless she sends assassins after us tonight.” Fyrehowl said.

	“Which is a possibility I suppose.” Kiro said. “But we’ve handled them before, and it’s quit possible that they’ll simply try to cut their losses and not risk further exposure.”

	“Possibly.” Florian said.

	“But now that this is over…” Skalliska began.

	“Over for the moment.” Fyrehowl bluntly stated.

	“But now that this is over,” The kobold continued. “I would like to actually finish up what I’d originally gone to the Astral for in the first place.”

“A search for faith is always something to support.” Kiro said with a soft smile. “Would you like any company?”

	“It’s appreciated,” Skalliska replied. “But I’d like to do this on my own.”

	Kiro and Florian nodded to her.

	“So sometime in the next few days I’m likely to skip town and backtrack our steps.” She said. “Don’t worry about me.”

	“Hopefully we won’t have anything to worry about ourselves.” Nisha said as she tossed a grape at Amberblue who was currently perched on a detached seat cushion next to Clueless.

	“I’m still confused to all hell what the ‘loth and his ‘sister’ were up to on the Astral.” Clueless said, watching the Faeriedragon munch the grape. “But my head’s too cloudy to really wrap itself around any real possibilities.”

	“Then don’t worry about it.” Florian said. “Like Kiro said, we’ve handled their goons before, and if they’re much more powerful than that Ultroloth, they won’t be able to get into Sigil anyways.”

	“I don’t really want to consider if they’re much more powerful than that Ultroloth.” Tristol said, his ears drooping slightly.

	“We can worry about it later.” Kiro said, raising a glass. “After all. By Sutekh’s grace, we’re all still here to be able to worry about it later. I think that certainly says something in our favor.”

	“True enough.” Toras said, raising his own glass in response.

	Those last statements certainly ended their discussion as a group on a more positive note before they adjourned and went about their own concerns now that they were back in Sigil. Clueless went back to tending the bar, Skalliska went back to her other office, and the others went back to more mundane tasks, except perhaps Nisha who was rapidly trying to compete with Clueless as Amberblue’s bestest friend, for better or for worse.


***​

	Two flights of stairs, two stories of the inn, and a thin wooden door stood between Kiro and the others, muffling all sound from the common room below, and putting a bit of temporal and metaphorical distance between his thoughts and theirs. And at the moment, that was necessary.

	“Things have certainly been more interesting than I expected.” Kiro said to himself with a chuckle as he pinned a note to the door, softly closed it, and knelt down in the center of the room.

	The room itself was fairly spartan and unlived in, decorated with only a few amenities. There was a mirror, a bowl of water, some towels, a few symbols of his faith to decorate the wall and really nothing much else. But of course, he hadn’t been living there for very long at all before he’d been whisked away first to the Astral plane and then to Carceri. And even accepting that as an excuse there wasn’t much more to expect from a fairly ascetic follower of Sutekh.

	Not that he’d actually been living there.

	The cleric relaxed and removed the small satchel he carried at his side, placing it down on the floor in front of him, both that homespun bag and his large book of rituals and prayers as well. Nothing was out of place, nothing at all. A priest going about meditation or prayer, and nothing more.

_‘I’ve gone to the grand bazaar to purchase some candles and incense appropriate for my evening prayers. I may wander some when I get there, never having had the chance to visit that place before, so don’t expect me back before evening. – Kiro’_

	The note was succinct and to the point, nothing at all odd about its content, and everything in line with his motivations as a priest.

	Not that he was one of course.

	He set the book to the side, the one filled with prayers he didn’t believe in, and pages of illustrations, hymns, liturgical chants, and doctrines with which he was intimately familiar, but nonetheless wholly unfaithful towards. Neither respect nor disrespect intended to the Lord of Ankhwugaht, but the trappings of his faith provided a useful background and ready persona to adopt.

	Emptied of its contents, the satchel was carefully laid down on the floor atop the book. It had contained only a few paltry things: a mirror, a bit of incense, a few unlabled potions, one of which was a fairly mundane poison, some dried food and a waterskin, and some bundled sheets of parchment. Mundane things to be expected amongst the possessions of a priest, the typical trappings of a true believer.

	And then there was the box that had been nestled in and amongst those blasé things.

	The box was a tiny thing, just over the size of a closed fist. It had dozens of seams where different pieces and types of wood had been fused together by a layer of glue or laccquer. It was a jewel box, a curio container, or quite possibly a small reliquary from all indications.

	But, like its owner, it was anything but what it might have appeared to be.

	Deftly, Kiro reached out and touched several of the seams of the box in quick sequence. Without a sound the box began to undergo a transformation. One of the wooden panels folded outwards, followed by others, and the box itself began to blossom like a flower of angles and spaces that shouldn’t have existed.

	Seconds later and the room was empty and Kiro was gone, swallowed up and vanished into the extradimensional spaces hidden within the box.


***​

	All that distance. All those years of uncertainty. All those years in which the spiritual hollow in her soul had been just as much of a void as the silver depths that surrounded her. All of her waking moments ultimately leading her to the Astral in search of the fate of her dead world’s pantheon, and she had never gotten there, derailed and detoured by happenstance and inconvenient conflict.

	Though it might not be appropriate to call the Erinyes’ actions happenstance. They’d been calculated and measured, tailored to fit the goals of her own infernal master and at least one deity. Skalliska and her companions had simply been a tool in that, and the kobold’s search for faith and substance had simply been a vehicle for those others’, a loose thread to pull upon and tug.

	But despite that initial deceit, the Erinyes, or perhaps rather her infernal patron, Prince Levistus, had proven loyal to their bargain in the end. But that deceit had still only used the kobold and her companions as tools to Baator’s ends, and never actually given her the answers that she had been looking for in the first place.

	Still wondering if there had been any truth to the Erinyes’ claims which had first led her and her companions to the Astral in the first place, Skalliska found herself back where she had left off, hovering in the void above the petrified corpse of Maanzicorian.

	“What the hell?” The kobold muttered to herself as she looked down upon the godisle.

	They had last left the corpse surrounded by a field of debris and corpses. Shattered stone, rent metal, splintered wood and the dead; Maanzicorian’s gravity well had clung to them tenaciously, leaving the refuse to swirl around it like a cloud.

	The godisle was scoured clean.

	Only the broken foundations of the tower remained as any evidence of what they had seen, and what they had put a stop too. The bodies were gone, the broken remnants of the githyanki carracks were gone, and the rubble of the two orbiting towers had vanished without a trace.

	Someone had removed every last trace of their involvement. Knowing what they knew about the true identity of Siddhartha, there was little doubt as to whom.


***​

	“The mail arrived.” Tristol said, as he sat down at one of the tables in the common room.

	“Anything interesting?” Florian asked, looking up from her drink.

	“So long as there’s nothing dripping.” Toras said. “I don’t want to have to walk over to the Market Ward again to threaten that mephit.”

	Florian chuckled and glanced at the fighter.

	“How many times now have you had to do that?” She asked. “Two or three times?”

	“Twice now.” Toras replied. “Next time I may need you as an alibi.”

	Tristol chuckled. “Nothing from Seamus this time.”

	“So, anything decent?” Fyrehowl asked, taking a seat at the table next to Nisha.

	Nisha, for her part, was completely absorbed in chitchat with Amberblue. The tiny faerie dragon was spending his time between the tiefling and nibbling at the food that Clueless had had prepared for him in the kitchen. Already the dragon was regaining his healthy glow, and while Nisha was simply fascinated with the creature, Clueless was both concerned for the dragon’s health, and concerned with the health of everyone else around him: once Amberblue was healthy again, he’d be wishing for things. Wishes in the hands of gleefully whimsical creatures, even well meaning ones, were things to handle with kid gloves, especially when other gleefully whimsical creatures named Nisha were involved.

	“Some advertisements for alcohol, some thinly veiled extortion attempts from the Sodkillers, and a sealed letter addressed to all of us.” Tristol said, tossing the letters on the table.

	“Extortion?” Toras asked.

	“Advertising their services for protection from thieves and criminals.” Tristol said. “Strongly hinting that people who don’t buy their services get hit with more crime.”

	Florian scoffed.

	“We can handle ourselves.” She said.

	“They’re welcome to try.” Toras added. “But what’s the other letter.”

	“Remember what A’kin said a while back?” Tristol asked. “About auctioning off the next batch of animated dolls that he got?”

	Florian beamed a smile. “When and where?”

	Fyrehowl had already opened the envelope with a claw and placed the letter in the center of the table to read.

_	Dear valued customer, patron, and/or friend,

You are hereby formally invited to an auction of my latest, more exclusive collectable works. The proceedings will be held at and preceded over by the auction house of Maris and Grimble, security to be provided by the Sodkillers. There will be a full bar and other such amenities provided during the period of the auction. Payment will be made directly to the auction house and no advance purchases will be available do to the limited number of pieces.

Time: 7 after peak, four days from the date of this notice.
Location: Auction Hall of Maris and Grimble, 1287 Silvertinge Avenue, Guildhall Ward.

Sample list of items to be sold (aka the dolls):
Noshtoreth of the Umber Scales (w/ Bells of Baphomet)
Guildmaster Autochon of the Runner’s Guild (w/ after affects of Bells of Baphomet)
Yeenoghu, Demon Lord of Gnolls 
Jeremo the Natterer, Factol of the Ring Givers (who will be in attendance. Please, please get into a bidding war)
Shemeska the Marauder, King of the Crosstrade (w/ mirror)

… and others.

I look forward to seeing you all in attendance,
A’kin_


	And, handwritten near the bottom of the notice was the following: 

_Please, please, please, do not let the time and location of this slip into the hands of you know who. I swear she makes it her sole purpose in life to be an annoyance to everyone around her and an embarrassment to my entire species. And given the nature of certain things to be auctioned off, unless you want to be there when she barges in and pitches a public fit a dozen times worse than at Jeremo’s last party, you won’t let this worm its way into her ears in any way. Please, for my sake, don’t let her become aware of this. – A’kin_

	“I am so going to that.” Florian said with a grin.

	“I think I’ll be joining you.” Fyrehowl said.

	“…You’re going for that last one, aren’t you?” Toras asked.

	Two grins were the only reply.

	“I’ll have to show up too.” Tristol said. “This should be good.”

“AAAAHHHHHHHH!!!!!!”

	A sudden shout of alarm echoed through the inn’s common room, followed shortly after by the sound of a few dropped and broken mugs and dishes. One of the patrons, a middle aged human woman who was a semi-regular customer, had stepped back from her table in apparent and utter shock.

	“It’s Hashkar!” She said, mouth open wide in shock, hands cradling her cheeks. “It’s bloody Factol Hashkar back from the dead!”

	A sudden murmur of shock and nervous fear washed over the bar patrons and then subsided just as quickly. They looked around and realized that no, there was no vengeful specter of the former Guvner Factol lurking about in the room come to get a drink, or perhaps just returned from the dead like a revenant of boredom.

	“It’s Hashkar!” The woman shouted again. “He’s back!”

	Toras glanced at the woman and then up to the mantle where, speak of the devil, A’kin’s Factol Hashkar doll was sitting in plain view under the clear glass of a bell jar. Obviously the woman had had a bit much to drink, and perhaps the tiny Hashkar figurine had simply confused her. Or something. But in any event she’d reached her cutoff point for liquor.

	“Ma’am?” Clueless asked from over behind the bar. “That’s just our Factol Hashkar doll. It’s animated you know. Moves around, does stuff, talks if you let it out from under that jar.”

	She looked over at the half-fey and then over at the tiny doll.

	“That’s just a doll ma’am.” He continued. “That’s not the actual, real Factol Hashkar.”

	“Goodness Thanks,” Nisha said with relief. “Death bore to us He’d.”

	“Not the bloody doll you berk.” The woman said, pointing at the plate on her table. “In me cinnamon bun! It’s blooming Factol Hashkar in me cinnamon bun, staring up at me plain as day!”

	“Huh?!” Clueless said, stepping away from the bar and looking at the gooey pastry now cupped reverently in the woman’s hands.

	Sure enough, there was something on the bun. A smudge of cinnamon and a bit of a burn from the oven perhaps, but if you squinted a bit and looked at it from a certain angle, it –did- look something like the dour old dwarf that Hashkar had been.

	“You see! You see!” The woman shouted. “Hashkar’s back! He’s given us a sign! Factol Hashkar has returned!”

	Nisha’s tail went limp and there was a soft jingle as the bell at its tip clattered against the floor. Perched on the mantle, looking down at the doll of the bearded dwarf that was Hashkar, Amberblue turned and glanced over at Nisha.

	Nisha was giving a cockeyed stare at the gleefully shouting woman holding the cinnamon bun like a holy relic. A moment later and the woman, along with her Hashkar in a cinnamon bun, were out the door and gone, with her joyful shouting growing fainter as she ran down the street.

	“And here we were finally rid of him.” Nisha said. “Hashkar’s come back to haunt us with boredom from beyond the grave.”

	“Do cinnamon buns haunt people?” The faeriedragon asked with a mix of innocent curiosity and naïve concern.

	“Yes Amberblue.” Nisha said as sudden smile tinged her features and erased her prior worry. “Yes. Yes they do. But only in a good way.”

	“…” Toras was still staring out the door where the woman and the Hashkar bun had ran.

	“…O.K…” Tristol said, also staring at the door. “That was bizarre enough for me for a week or more.”

	“Hashkar in a cinnamon bun?” Fyrehowl asked, bewildered.

	“Hashkar in a cinnamon bun.” Nisha replied with a grin.


***​

	Later that evening after last call, after they had shooed all of the remaining customers out of the inn or provided them with a room if they were drunk or too tired to walk the streets, everyone turned in and called it a night.

	Skalliska was still absent, but she’d given them all notice of where she was going to be, and Kiro had returned from the market ward shortly before the staff had been sent home and the doors locked.

	It was their first night back in Sigil after returning from Carceri, and as they lay in their beds awaiting sleep and the soft touch of dreams, their minds wandered back to thoughts of the Red Prison and what the future held in store for them. Every time that they had struck a blow against Siddhartha he had struck back at them, and his identity as an Ultroloth did not bode well. Other ‘loths would be involved more assuredly, and his superior, whoever she was, was likely to take action of her own, now that her servant had been killed. 

Thoughts of reprisal -worries really- were on the minds as the drifted off to an uneasy, wary sleep, and their sleep did not last very long.

Four hours after peak: voices drifting up from the street, commotion, and a clatter of activity at the door to the inn…


***​


----------



## Shemeska

Fyrehowl’s ears twitched and she sat up in bed.

	“What the hell?” She whispered as the sounds of activity filtered up from the street and through her window.

	Outside her room she heard a door in the hallway open and saw light spill out, casting a flood of illumination into her own room from under the doorway. Toras was awake and was waking the others up.

	Hastily the lupinal donned a robe and grabbed her sword.

	Peering through the windowpane, there was little that she could see. The angle of the building, combined with the location of the inn’s front door, prevented her from getting a clear look at the source of the noise.

	Light cast by a continual flame lamp down at street level threw the shadows of at least five figures out onto the street, exaggerated and flickering, dancing across the cobblestones. They were armed, all of them, holding what seemed to be clubs and swords, perhaps rods or wands even, and by their features they were fiends, or at least fiend blooded.

	More mercenaries. More of the geased assassins that they’d seen before. That was the first thought in Fyrehowl’s mind, and in the minds of her companions as they all made their way as quickly as possible to various exits of the inn, hoping to assault and confront their early morning assailants by surprise.

	They burst out from two of the windows above the front door, from atop the roof, and on ground level from around the corner alley, weapons drawn and prepared for a fight. They expected more of what the Ultroloth gone Rakshasa had hurled at them before: mercenaries geased and compelled to hunt them down and kill them, death being no boundary to their success.

	They did not find geased assassins, nor did they find a pack of yugoloths waiting outside their door, they didn’t even find anything all that threatening, unless perhaps you happened to be a member of the Harmonium or the Fraternity of Order.

	No assassins, nothing of that sort at all.

	“Hey there!” Nisha shouted as she recognized the pack of figured loitering outside the front of the inn. “Late doing up so whatcha, love your and I work!”

	Not assassins, unless assassins of good taste counted. Not assassins, but a gaggle of tieflings lugging buckets of paint and holding not swords or wands, but brushes and pallets.

	Nisha was already standing next to one of the tieflings and giggling, looking first at the front of the inn, and then at the painted carnage that the gang of Xaositects had left in their midnight passage.

	“Guys!” Nisha said, giggling like a schoolgirl. “Meet The Painter! She’s awesome! I’m such a fan of her work!”

	“…oh… my… god…” Clueless sputtered as he looked at the graffiti on the front of the Portal Jammer.

HASHKAR LIVES!!!!!!!!!!!!!

	Emblazoned in a dozen garish colors and incorporating a goofy, giant caricature of the late Factol of the Fraternity of Order, recently come back from the grave via cinnamon laced pastries, the refrain of ‘Hashkar Lives!’ was splattered in paint across the front of the inn.

	“Oh Mystra forbid…” Tristol said while Florian was nearly doubled over with laughter.

	“It’s Hashkar! Hashkar in me cinnamon bun!” Fyrehowl whispered, giggling to herself.

	Nisha was by that point babbling incoherently in Xaosspeak with The Painter, and the Painter’s apprentices, or groupies, or whatever they wished to call themselves that day, were already moving down the street and slapping their Hashkar toting refrain on anything they saw fit. Those targets of Xaotic desecration ended up being everything from a lightpost, to a door, to a wall, to very nearly a guard dog sleeping on a doorstep.

	“A word with you Nisha?” Clueless said, stepping up to the still babbling tiefling and tapping her on the shoulder.

	“Hmm?” Nisha asked, pausing and then waving goodbye to the retreated form of the Painter. “See you later! Love your stuff! Hashkar lives!”

	“Nisha?” Clueless prodded again.

	“Yeah?” Nisha said. “What was it?”

	“Mind having a little talk with your friends?” The half-fey asked. “Just try and ask them if they’ll not paint all over the Portal Jammer anymore? Or maybe just not do anything like that after antipeak?”

	“Don’t worry about it.” Nisha replied, looking at the chaos down the street as the roving gang of paint splatterers dashed murals of Hashkar all over the Ward. “Plenty of other places of paint.”

	“You know them?” Toras asked.

	“Oh yeah!” Nisha said, walking back towards the inn and looking up at the Hashkar mural.

	“Big surprise.” Tristol said with a shake of his head and a chuckle.

	“I like the Painter.” Nisha said. “She’s great!”

	“Maybe we can get some sleep now?” Florian asked before adding a belated, “… I’ll clean up Hashkar in the morning I suppose.”

	“Works for me.” Fyrehowl said. “I can deal with Xaositects better than I can deal with ‘loths.”

	And so they watched as the Xaositects vanished down the street, much relieved that it had simply been the Painter and her ilk, apparently friends of Nisha’s in some way or another, and not retribution from the yugoloths. No doubt that retribution was going to be coming at some point, just not that evening. So with that thought in mind, they yawned and dragged themselves back to bed. Still, they did so with the distinctly perky warning of ‘Like the Kadyx, the pastry dwelling ghost of Hashkar smells of cinnamon before claiming yet another victim! Muahahaha!’ mentioned by Nisha.


***​

	Clueless wandered back up to his room, still shaking his head over the whole affair with the Hashkar bun, and now the Painter and her gang of Xaositects deciding to latch onto it for their next public graffiti campaign. It was something alright… but it was late, and he wanted a decent night’s sleep.

	He drifted off to sleep quite easily but some indeterminate period of time later he shifted in bed and woke as a diffuse, green light lit his bedchamber. He didn’t make any movements as the glow seeped through his closed eyelids, and from what little he could discern from it, the glow was inside his room and not simply something out beyond his window; someone was there.

	He cracked open his eyes, and looked around the room, already bringing a minor offensive spell to mind that didn’t require either a verbal or somatic component. There wasn’t anything or anyone visible at first glance, just the light, and there wasn’t a sound, save for the typical creak and shudder of wood against stone in the inn’s walls and floors, and the background noise from the streets of Sigil at that early hour.

	The greenish light was subtle and faint, not enough for most people to see by, but enough to make the room like day for anyone with even a drop of outsider blood, or in his case, fey blood.

	But if there wasn’t anyone in the room that he could see, they might be up above him, or behind him. Clueless’s eyes drifted towards the mirror on the wall, hoping to catch the intruder in reflection.

	There was someone standing behind him.

	His eyes locked on the looming figure captured by the mirror and without a sound it looked back at him, slowly tipping the corner of its wide brimmed hat at him and smiling like a vampire just invited over the threshold.

	“Despite your thoughts, I don’t require any sort of invitation nor permission.” The Jester said. “I’ve always been here in a manner of speaking.”

	The man tapped a finger to the side of Clueless’s head in the reflection, though the bladesinger didn’t feel the touch itself.

	“It’s getting a bit crowded up in my head I think.” Clueless said, glancing back ever so briefly.

	There was nothing in the room behind him. The Jester was only present in the reflection within the mirror.

	“Perhaps more so than you think.” The Jester said sardonically. “Suffice it to say that your involvement with the yugoloths has sparked my interest.”

	“I was half expecting you to be one of them.” Clueless said. “They have a tendency to try and kill us in the middle of the night. And you showed up to talk with me the last time they did.”

	“If they’re planning something similar once I’m gone, I’m not aware of it.” The Jester said. “And there’s little that I’m not.”

	“How so?” Clueless asked.

	The man reflected in the mirror simply smiled and gave no further explanation.

	“I don’t care for the yugoloths either.” The Jester continued. “But the exact reasons why, are for the moment my own concern. I normally wouldn’t care one way or the other, but their presence on the Astral raises my interest.”

	He paused and raised a finger.

	“Especially when they take so obvious extremes to remain unlinked to their actions.”

	Clueless nodded and glanced down at his ankle.

	“A Rakshasa of all things.” The Jester said with some mirth.

	“So, what is it…” Clueless began before stopping and rephrasing. “What are you going to use me for while you’re up there?”

	‘What is it you want?’ The phrase had far too heavy of an unpleasant connotation and history for the bladesinger to feel comfortable using it. Honestly, it made his skin crawl.

	“I simply wish to observe.” The Jester said. “You’ve sparked my interest twice now, and my time away from the multiverse has left me woefully curious now that I’ve stirred from slumber.”

	“And yes, the gem inset within your ankle is also something that sparked my interest.” The Jester added. “My knowledge of the Oinoloth has increased considerably due to your own activities on various planes. He created that gem of yours, and it is impressive to say the least. I give him credit for it most certainly.”

	The figure in the mirror turned to leave, the long hem of his heavy cape catching the air and visibly blowing at the half-fey’s hair in the reflection, but not in real life.

	Clueless inhaled and felt his pulse heavy in his chest as the Jester’s image in the mirror was leaving. Gauging himself to finally speak up with something of substance that wasn’t simply an answer, or reactive to something already in discussion, he called out to the man in the mirror, causing him to stop.

	“So you just want to observe things through me?” Clueless asked. “I don’t have a choice in this matter do I?”

	The Jester’s smirk answered the question without words

	“Now as I said before.” The Jester said, his reflection turning back more fully to smile. “There’s no need for this to be unpleasant, and in the end if might even have some benefit to you as well.”

	“Who are you?” Clueless asked.

	“Someone long vanished from Sigil.” He answered. “You’ve seen my Palace. You’ve seen the maze. You’ve had a taste of who I am more so than most I knew so very long ago when I still numbered among the Lords of Gold; Golden Lords to go with the term used now. In time you will learn more as you ask, or as you are shown.”

	“But now, for the moment.” He continued. “I’ve said what I wished to say, and the terms of this arrangement seem firmly understood.”

	The mirror rippled like water under which something had just swum, and when the ripples had passed, the reflection had returned to normal. Gone were any lingering traces of the Jester, but still, Clueless felt cold and more than slightly awed. And while he felt nothing different about himself, glancing down at the gem in his ankle, remembering that experience, he knew that he was certainly not alone.


***​

	Maanzicorian’s godisle was left long behind in both distance and thought as Skalliska’s eyes narrowed and she gazed down upon a cluster of rocky islands floating alone and unlamented in the vastness of the Astral.

	They were recent, pristine by comparison to the rough, pitted nature of many of the Astral’s honored dead. Skalliska had left her world only twenty years earlier, but the slip into twilight by her people’s pantheon had happened centuries earlier. During her youth, the kobold had known of those gods in stories, but the tenets of that faith had long before passed into obscurity and obsolescence. Those gods had no clerics among her people, though rumors claimed that other communities elsewhere in the tunnels of that world’s underdark still held their appointed servants who continued to spread the words of the dying, clawing their way back from nonexistence to save their people.

	Legends, while grounded in a nugget of truth like a tiny grain of sand about which a pearl accretes, they were all surrounded and built upon by so terribly much more than that original bit of fact. Those legends of her youth she realized, gazing down at the cluster of islands, the forgotten, petrified faith of an entire people… those legends had been far too optimistic.

	“They’re all gone.” She whispered, mentally counting the godisles, cataloging each of them with a name from her memories.

	Mezenthet, the deity of knowledge and history, her divine, petrified form was curled into a fetal position as it loomed largest below Skalliska. A quarter mile distant, the body of Yuradnash, the deity of hunting and fertility drifted silently. Protrelev, the god of sorcery and warfare, was there as well, partially obscured by the godisle of Zwarelt, the demideity of community and healing. Two other, lesser divinities, cluttered the astral as well, and as she watched them tumble in the void, a tear welled in Skalliska’s right eye.

	“Wait…” She said, flicking the tear away with a claw. “That’s only seven.”

	There had been nine in the original legends, nine members of their homeworld’s kobold pantheon that had stood distinct and separate from the Kertulmak worshippers that seemed to plague the rest of the prime material.

	“There were nine.” Skalliska whispered.

	And indeed there had originally been nine in the legends of her youth.

	There were only seven floating forgotten and dead in the Astral.

	Raznorel, the deity of magic and deception, and his twin brother, Saravtesh, the deity of shadows and illusions.

	Skalliska mentally tallied the dead gods once more, to the same result.

	Those two were not present in the Astral, not buried in the graveyard of belief, not consigned to the same fate as the remainder of their pantheon. And, gazing down in contemplation on the empty spaces that those two should have occupied, the hollows like icons, Skalliska smiled, closed her eyes, and whispered a prayer.


***​

	A’kin looked out at the crowd and smiled, waving briefly as he reviewed the faces of the clients who had shown up for the auction, or for the agents that they had sent in their stead. It was a rather large turnout, and for the moment it didn’t appear as if anyone… or a specific someone… had crashed the event.

	The auction house had done a very nice job at setting the place up to handle the types of people that he’d invited: everyone from golden lords to a cobbler who had a workshop down the street from the Friendly Fiend. All of them were of course people who had purchased one of the dolls from him before, or who had expressed interest in them, or who had dolls of themselves up for auction that evening.

	“I figure I’ll give you all first shot at buying yourselves.” The ‘loth said with a chuckle as he gazed out at the crowd. “Or at least some of you can have that chance. Not so much for others of you.”

	‘Thankfully, she hasn’t shown up yet.’ A’kin thought to himself before rapping his left hand on the wood of his chair.

	With that ever so pleasant thought in his mind, he gazed out over the crowd again, making eye contact with various ones of them, and returning a few smiles or waves. The owners of the Portal Jammer were making their way to their seats by that point. He hadn’t seen them walk in, probably when he was chattering with that Erinyes and that one Athar cleric that she’d fallen for.

_Good to see you all here._ A’kin projected to Florian, Fyrehowl, Tristol and Clueless.

	Fyrehowl glanced up to the stage where the ‘loth sat and gave a smile while Florian waved gleefully.

	Oddly enough the cleric, Florian, the cleric of all people, seemed to like him the most. The multiverse was odd sometimes, even for his taste, but at least it was amusing. And that thought temporarily drove out any worries of uninvited guests from his head as the last members of the crowd took their seats and settled themselves as the auction began. 

	A well-dressed aasimar of obvious elven or eladrin descent, possibly both, stepped up to the wooden sales podium and rapped a gavel to gather the crowd’s attention. He leaned over smiling and whispered something to A’kin. The friendly fiend replied and they both chuckled before A’kin motioned with his hands for the planetouched auctioneer to go on with the proceedings.

	“Good afternoon to you all, honored guests, friends, and distinguished clients.” He said in a smooth, well-cultured voice. “On behalf of Maris & Grimble, allow me to state several rules of the auction. First, this is not a silent auction. If you don’t speak up either verbally, or telepathically addressed to myself, you will not be counted as having made a bid on a specific item as I present it for bidding. Secondly, refrain for violence or personal insults against other bidders.”

	A’kin’s eyes drifted across the room to settle onto the soft smile on the face of Noshtoreth of the Umber Scales, high priest of the Temple of the Abyss. A’kin returned the smile.

_Play nice_ He whispered into the cambion’s mind.

_You’re the one selling the Autochon doll._ Noshtoreth replied with a knowing chuckle.

	A’kin gave a soft shrug and went back to listening to the auctioneer.

	“The first item up for auction this evening will be one not announced on the advance list: an animated Lissandra the Gate Seeker, guildmistress of the Doorsnoop Guild.”

	The aasimar took a slim black cloth off from over the doll, displaying it to the crowd.

	“Bidding will begin at five hundred jink.”

	Florian looked over at Fyrehowl, Tristol, and Clueless.

	“This is going to get expensive.” The cleric said. “But I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.”

	“I have one thousand from Lissandra the Gate Seeker!” The auctioneer called out. “Do I have fifteen hundred?”

	“Save your money up for one that you’re really interested in.” Fyrehowl said.

	“Let some of these folks blow their budgets before we start bidding on some of them.” Clueless added. “I’m waiting on the b*tch in the razorvine headdress…”

	The bidding meanwhile continued.

	“Any that you’re really interested in otherwise?” Tristol asked.

	“I’m not really sure.” Florian said with a shrug. “Jeremo maybe.”

	“Jeremo is actually here.” Fyrehowl said, twitching an ear over towards the Factol who was presently smiling like a fool and tapping his feet against the back of the chair of one of Noshtoreth’s attendant priests.

	“Jeremo has more money than Tempus.” Clueless added.

	“Alright,” Florian said. “So that one’s a pipe dream. But we’ll see what gets offered.”

	“Sold! To Lissandra the Gate Seeker for fifteen thousand eight hundred and twenty four jink, and two copper pieces.” The auctioneer shouted, punctuated by a slam of his gavel on the lectern.

	A’kin was beaming as the wizardress stepped up to him and accepted the tiny, stuffed version of herself.

	“It’ll take far more drinks in me for you to explore –that- portal!” The tiny doll giggled as Lissandra stuffed it in a bag of holding.

	A’kin gave a grin and a soft, embarrassed chuckle as the guildmistress gave him a disapproving look. The doll hadn’t been overheard by the crowd, but still.

	“I wasn’t that drunk at the time A’kin.” She whispered to him harshly. “And that was nearly ten years ago. Did he put you up to…”

	“Enjoy your purchase Lissandra.” The ‘loth said. “It’s a limited edition, so there won’t be any others. And I’ll be having a chat with the supplier most certainly.”

	“Supplier…” Lissandra said with a smirk. “Riiiiight…”

	“Next up we have…” The auctioneer began as Lissandra stepped away towards the exit.

	“I got off light didn’t I?” Lissandra asked, turning back towards A’kin momentarily. “Your sense of humor is sitting around latent in all of these isn’t it?”

	For his part, A’kin just gave an innocent looking shrug.

	What followed next was a quick set of auctions of a doll patterned after the Mercykiller Wyrm, and another resembling an executioner’s raven. One was purchased by a member of the Sodkillers and the other by a member of the Society of the Luminiferous Aether whose familiar was, sure enough, an executioner’s raven.

	The aasimar handed them their purchases and unveiled the next doll: Jeremo the Natterer, already babbling softly as soon as it saw the crowd. There were several giggles from the crowd in response, including from Jeremo himself who apparently was able to take the lampooning in good humor.

	“Next up we have Jeremo the Natterer. Bidding will begin at…”

	“Five hundred thousand jink!” Jeremo called out with a laugh.

	The crowd went silent for a moment and Jeremo propped his feet up on the back of the chair in front of himself and leaned back with his hands behind his head.

	“And I’ll match any other serious bid.” The Ring Giver factol called out with glee just before waving at A’kin.

	One of Zadara the Titan’s sword archon servants, and Estavan of the Planar Trade Consortium were both turned around, staring at Jeremo. Estevan was shaking his head and laughing politely. Zadara’s servant sighed and waved a wingtip in defeat.

	“Sold! To Jeremo the Lady’s Jester for five hundred thousand jink!”

	Jeremo quite literally had a skip in his step as he walked up to A’kin and bowed before accepting the miniature representation of himself. It, like him, was wearing a battered, tarnished crown just off kilter on its head, on top of a mop of haphazardly kept blond hair.

	Jeremo shared some private joke with the ‘loth, a joke which his doll chipped in on, before he shook A’kin’s hand and walked back to his seat with a grin across his face.

	The next auction that followed was for the doll of Autochon the Bellringer. The figure was dressed up in the full plate armor that Autochon himself was wont to wear, and the doll could be heard complaining about how hot it was, or how heavy it was, or even clutching its head and lamenting ‘The Bells! The Bells! Arrrggghhh!’.

	Out in the audience, Autochon himself was not amused, though beneath the visor of his dull gray platemail, his expression could not be seen. He trembled slightly in anger though when one of Noshtoreth’s tiefling underpriests snickered.

	What followed was a bidding war between Autochon and Noshtoreth, though probably the High Priest of the Temple of the Abyss was more concerned with spiting the Guildmaster of the Runner’s Guild and driving up the price than he was in actually owning the doll.

	The doll eventually sold for nearly ninety five thousand jink to Autochon, after which the armor-clad man glared back at the cambion all the while as one of his runners retrieved the doll. Noshtoreth gave a slim smile back at the Bellringer, the same man whom he had cursed years before for sleeping with one of his functionaries.

	All the while A’kin switched his gaze between the two men with a nervous smile on his face, seemingly very wary of having the two publicly antagonize one another, and even more wary of letting his own attention on them lead to others noticing the situation and possibly making it worse. Much to the ‘loth’s relief though, the two men stopped short of any actual argument, settling for periodic glares at one another.

And then the tables were reversed, with perhaps an intentionally planned event, or a very unfortunate quirk of scheduling, though to his credit, A’kin seemed to wince as the next doll was unveiled. That next doll set upon the auction podium was a tiny representation of Noshtoreth himself standing next to a tiny set of tinkling bells, each emblazoned with the symbol of the Abyss and the symbol of the Abyssal Lord Baphomet.

	“Seventy five thousand!” Autochon called out, before the doll’s identity had even been announced.

	“Fifty thousand!” Noshtoreth shouted at virtually the same time, followed by a hard stare in the guildmaster’s direction.

	Up on the stage, A’kin twiddled his thumbs awkwardly as the auctioneer held up his hands.

	“Yes yes,” the Auctioneer called out. “The bidding is now at seventy five thousand jink for the representation of Noshtoreth of the Umber Scales, High Priest of the Temple of the Abyss, complete with miniature Bells of Baphomet.”

	“Eighty five!” Noshtoreth countered.

	“One hundred!” Autochon quickly retorted, breaking the amount that the cambion had pushed his own namesake doll up to.

	Noshtoreth paused and sneered at the man under the armor, and perhaps something telepathic passed from his mind and into the guildmaster’s, because he soon gave a higher bid and it was not challenged. An alu-fiend shortly thereafter approached the stage and accepted the doll for the sum of one hundred and ten thousand jink. Once she had returned with the purchase, Noshtoreth and his retinue then excused themselves and quietly left.

	A’kin seemed almost happy to see them go, given that they were among the most likely to commit violence over a dispute. And, all said, that was probably for the best, as the very next doll to be slated for the auction block was none other than Yeenoghu, the Demon Lord of Gnolls.

	The first bid was placed by Estevan the Ogre Mage, perhaps out of whimsy, perhaps out of simply wanting to collect one of the collectable items, and perhaps out of intent to sell it to Noshtoreth or someone else in the Temple at a later date. But regardless, the bid was at twenty thousand, a respectable sum but not too terribly high.

	“I think I might go for this one.” Florian whispered to the others. “It’s cute and it’s not too terribly high priced.”

	“How is it cute?” Fyrehowl asked. “You can’t even see it.”

	And indeed, it hadn’t exactly been properly displayed as it was still inside a box that was padlocked and periodically rattled like an animal railing at the bars of a zoo cage.

	“You can hear the little hyena giggle from inside in between the snarls and the curses in Abyssal.” Florian explained. “Thus, he’s cute.”

	“And you’d be bidding against people with more money than you.” Clueless said.

	Up on the stage, the box rattled some more and the hyena headed prince of gnolls gave that ever so distinctive cackle once more.

	“He’s a little feisty.” A’kin said in explanation. “So handle with care, whoever ends up buying the little fellow.”

	“Twenty five!” Florian called out.

	“Thirty!” Another bidder shouted.

	“Thirty one!” Shouted Bryn Ohm from somewhere in the back to some sighs and grumbles.

	“Cheapskate…” Was muttered from somewhere in the middle of the crowd, though Ohm didn’t seem to notice it, or care if he had. The bariuar was guildmaster of the Innkeeper’s Fellowship, and he was notoriously cheap to the point of being considered a miser.

	“Thirty two!” Florian shouted.

	“Thirty five!” Ohm called out again.

	A’kin motioned over the auctioneer and whispered something to him.

	“I’ve been instructed,” The aasimar said, clearing his throat. “To inform the audience that the next doll up for auction is one of Mr. Ohm himself, so please keep that in mind while bidding.”

	“I retract my bid!” Ohm called out to a chorus of snickers.

	“Retractions of bids are not allowed under the rules of the auction house I’m sorry to inform.” The auctioneer added while scanning the crowd for further bids.

	“Thirty six!” Florian called out as somewhere in the back of the room, the bariuar stomped a hoof.

	A minute later Florian was walking back to her seat with the box containing the snarling, giggling Yeenoghu doll. Ohm was sulking and glaring at her the whole time of course, and it didn’t help any when on the very next item for auction, the doll of himself, he was woefully outbid by a member of the Entertainer’s Guild.

	Thankfully though, there were only glares, not words, and no hint of violence, much to the possible lament of the Sodkillers standing at the back exits.

	Over the next hour several more dolls came up and were sold off, though one or two of them ended up sparking a bidding war between two or even three people. Of them, a tiny doll modeled after Estavan of the Planar Trade Consortium ended up sparking one of those bidding wars when Estavan himself and proxy bidders for Zadara and two other Sigilian golden lords began tossing money around like it was nothing to them. Through it all, Jeremo the Natterer just sat and played with the doll of himself that he’d purchased, even going so far as to debate with ‘himself’ if he should suddenly swoop down and purchase it himself, even for the ridiculous sum of money that it was quickly rising to.

	“Sold! For three hundred seventy two thousand to Estavan.” The auctioneer shouted, putting an end to the bidding, promptly handing the doll over to an at once very triumphant and very sullen ogre mage.

	“I hadn’t intended to pay that much for myself.” Estavan commented to A’kin as he took the doll. “You’re worse than your counterpart. I can at least feel justified in hating her when she makes me pay for something, except now with you, here you are selling me something I don’t even need and you’re smiling the whole time.”

	“Do enjoy it?” A’kin suggested with mild bewilderment. “I hope?”

	“I’ve got you figured out ‘loth!” Estavan chided, waving an index finger at the fiend. “You’ve got a racket going on here and I can respect that. And I am enjoying myself, even if I’m spending far too much in the process. So yes, keep on smiling ‘loth, you’ve earned it I suppose.”

	The ogre mage chuckled and tapped A’kin on the shoulder before walking back to his seat in the audience, though before the next item was unveiled he did shake a finger in mock accusation at the fiend one further time.

	“Is anyone but me still wondering about what the hell is up with A’kin?” Clueless asked.

	“Beats the hell out of me.” Florian answered. “I’m not sure I’d call him good. But I’m not sure I’d call him evil either.”

	“A’kin is A’kin.” Fyrehowl said with a shrug.

	But as they discussed the possibility of A’kin as a redeemed fiend, or perhaps simply a nice guy with a bad family history, the ‘loth was twiddling his thumbs again. He seemed incredibly nervous, though more out of apprehension, be it giddy or worrisome, than anything else.

	“What’s got A’kin so jittery?” Fyrehowl asked.

	“The reason why I’m here.” Florian answered.

	“Me too.” Clueless added. “You place the bet, I’ll pitch in as needed.”

	“The Marauder doll…” Tristol whispered as the cloth was taken off of the tiny doll dressed in its trademark gown of minute, green glass beads, admiring itself in a large mirror, with a coil of razorvine perched between its ears.

	“Our next doll is of the King of the Crosstrade.” The announcer stated.

	There was some nervous chatter across the crowd and a few people glanced at the exits, seemingly waiting for the doll’s namesake to come bursting in through one of the doors. But, much to their collective relief, she didn’t.

	“Bidding will begin at twenty five thousand jink.”

	“And you better not pay in silver!” The doll shouted out afterwards. “Like holy water in my wine, or small mortal children calling me ‘puppy lady’, that joke got old about eight thousand years ago!”

	“Twenty five thousand!” Came a near simultaneous shout from Clueless, Florian and Fyrehowl.

	Tristol was glancing at the exits and slinking down a few inches in his chair.

	“I pissed her off last time.” The mage muttered. “I’m not going for a second try.”

	“…tempting as it is…” He added a moment later with a guilty grin. “Count me in for money.”

	There was a calm hush across the crowd like prospective bidders were still worried that the moment they placed a bid that a well dressed banshee of a yugoloth would swoop down on them in a whirlwind of socially elegant malice. That alone was keeping bidders away from the doll. It was a weird situation since the doll that many of them wanted the most was also the one that most of them worried the most about having in their possession.
	“Fifty thousand!” Came a tentative bid from Annali Webspinner of the Entertainer’s Guild.

	“Sixty. Just to say I did!” Came a whimsical shout from Jeremo, followed shortly thereafter by a shrug and a chuckle.

	“Seventy!” Florian countered.

	“Seventy five!” Shouted one of Zadara’s sword archons.

	“One hundred thousand!”

	“One hundred fifteen!”

	“One forty five!”

	The bidding was starting to get obscene as some of the wealthier people with little to fear from the King of the Crosstrade were getting into the mix.

	“Think we can spend money that isn’t ours to spend?” Florian whispered to the others.

	“I think that Nisha wouldn’t mind pitching in.” Tristol said.

	“And I –know- that Toras would approve.” Fyrehowl said.

	“Go ahead then.” Clueless prompted. “Bump it up again. We might get lucky and people might not be willing to piss off the b*tch, and plus they’ve already bid on other things earlier on.”

	“Alright…” Florian said before raising her hand. “Two hundred thousand!”

	She paused and glanced over towards a few of the other bidders.

	“Two hundred thousand and the spare change in my pockets!” She shouted emphatically.

	Off to one side, Jeremo was giggling profusely, or his doll was, it was hard to tell at times. Opposite him, Estavan was grinning and moving his hands in a show of defeat.

	“Once. Twice. Sold to Florian of Tempus!” The aasimar pronounced.

	“Better you than me.” Muttered a proxy bidder for Wi Ming Lee as Florian walked up to claim the doll.

	A few steps further and there was a hand in her side as Estavan stopped her.

	“Just a moment of your time.” The ogre mage said softly. “And don’t take offense at my own bidding on it, please do enjoy it. I only ask that if Shemeska finds out about the little bauble and pitches a fit in the middle of your establishment that a transcript of the events finds its way into my hands.”

	“Don’t worry.” Florian said, moving the golden lord’s hand out of the way and walking up to take the doll from A’kin’s hands.

	The ‘loth seemed a tad guilty.

	“Don’t blame me for anything that happens.” He said, an ear twitching nervously. “And I feel bad about taking so much jink for it too.”

	“Tell me I’m pretty! Now!” The Marauder doll demanded in an off pitch, shrill voice, stomping one of its slippered feet on the tabletop where A’kin had placed it and its mirror.

	“It’s not pretentious when you really ARE the best!” The doll continued before turning and seemingly admiring its own backside in the mirror.

	“Wow.” Florian said, looking down. “I’d swear that you’d just shrunk her and tried to pawn her off as is.”

	A’kin tried to hide a smile.

	“You might want to wrap that up before you go home tonight.” He said.

	“And it better be the best wrapping money can buy!” The doll demanded. “Only the best for me or heads will roll!”

	Florian flashed a triumphant smile as she imagined just what the actual King of the Crosstrade’s reaction might be. Of course, all things said, she wasn’t going to have to wait very long.


----------



## Shemeska

***​

	Alone in his room, Clueless sat on his bed and removed the heavy cloth cover from a spherical object sitting on a stand off to one side.

He glanced down at the glassy orb and the shimmering golden liquid within. He’d used it before, on a lark, and ended up realizing that he’d found something of far greater value and utility than perhaps anything else that they had managed to claim from the possessions of one of the former factors of the Incantifers. What it actually was, he still hadn’t a clue.

	“Well, before when I held some of this in my hands and thought of something, that something happened… time to find out just what exactly I can do with you…”

Clueless drew his sword, Razor, and held it out, balanced in the palm of his right hand. His left hand he dipped ever so cautiously into the viscous golden liquid. The syrupy substance was slightly warm to the touch as he collected a few droplets at the end of his fingers and held them out over the blade.

“And powers above, if I end up losing you…” Clueless said. He shuddered at the thought. Given the close association of a bladesinger with their sword, it would be like a wizard losing a familiar if he accidentally destroyed it.

Vaguely pondering the general concept of a more powerful sword, Clueless dropped a single glimmering drop onto the sword’s blade and watched as they flashed and vanished on impact, seemingly drawn into the sword like water on a sponge.

“Alright, no explosion. This is good…” He said as he exhaled with relief.

The normal pallor of the blade’s Baatorian green steel was changing as the droplets of liquid magic spread in tiny ripples across the surface and penetrated into every inch of the metal. Where it had previously been a mirror-bright, metallic green, it was now tinged with flecks of gold.

Clueless raised an eyebrow as he felt a subtle change in the way the sword felt in his hands. He couldn’t put the feeling into words. It was simply something that he knew, and something that perhaps only another bladesinger might fully understand. And, as strange as it might seem, Razor seemed… happy… as he cradled the softly glowing sword in the palm of his one hand.

“Well, if it was good enough to experiment on you, I can’t rightly say that I shouldn’t be a little adventurous myself…” The half-fey had a mischievous grin on his face as he looked at his other hand and the small number of droplets of the gleaming liquid he still had in his palm.

“Besides,” He said. “My girlfriend would probably say I was the better for having tried out something new. All about the experience, or so they say.”

	He paused and the golden liquid in his hand rippled.

	“Speaking of which…” He said, putting the liquid back into the orb. “I think I could use the help for this. And the supervision in case I kill myself by accident.”

	Twenty minutes and a ‘whispering wind’ spell later, there was a knock on the door and Clueless answered it.

	“So what was this about?” Tarelia asked, a little flicker of flame dancing in the Firre’s eyes.

	The Eladrin stepped into the room and glanced over at the orb of golden liquid.

	“I’ve mentioned this before, right?” Clueless asked, motioning towards the orb.

	The Sensate nodded and glanced at the bladesinger’s sword.

	“Your sword looks different.” She said.

	“That.” She continued, pointing to the orb.

	“Did that?” She said, pointing to Razor.

	Clueless nodded.

	“One drop did that actually.” He answered.

	The Eladrin’s eyes went wide. 

“And you actually want to try it on yourself?” She asked. “On the tattoo on your back?”

	Clueless nodded and gave a guilty grin. “Yeah.”

	“Let’s go for it then.” Tarelia replied. “Let’s see what happens.”

	So much for Nisha being the most carefree person that Clueless knew.

The bladesinger nodded and sat down on his bed, moving the liquid filled globe to a more easily accessible position and making room for Tarelia to sit down next to him. 

	“You sure about this?” She asked as she delicately undid his shirt, exposing the tattoos that sprawled across his shoulders and back. 

	“Yeah.” He replied, turning to kiss her. “I think so. Just a few drops though, and do them one at a time in case something bad happens.”

She nodded as he took a deep breath and glanced at his reflection in a mirror while she held out a few droplets over the magical tattoos.

“I’m crazy for doing this, but what the hell…” He said. “Go for it.”

	She let a single heavy, syrupy droplet roll across her palm to dangle in the air and shimmer for a moment before letting to drop onto Clueless’ back.

The liquid was absorbed the instant that it touched his skin, releasing a tingling shock that penetrated deeply into the muscles of his back. Clueless winced slightly at the obscenely strange feelings as he felt…something…occur, but he couldn’t tell exactly what. Several minutes passed and the sensations faded down into a warm glow that spread throughout his body.

	“Well I haven’t blown up, that’s good.” He said with an amused and thankful giggle. 

	“Feeling alright?” Tarelia asked, rubbing his right shoulder with a free hand.

	“Yeah, I think so.” He said. “Go ahead and use a few more drops.”

	“I can’t.” She replied. “I already used them all the first time.”

	Then, almost like a delayed reaction, that was when it hit him.

Clueless giggled, feeling far too happy. 

“Really?” He asked. “How many drops?”

“Three or four?” Tarelia answered. “Something like that?”

Whatever it was, it hadn’t killed him or harmed him, but either from the fact that it hadn’t, or something intrinsic to the substance itself, Clueless was higher than an air mephit sucked into a hookah…

	“What’s it feel like?” She prompted in true Sensate fashion.

	Clueless giggled again as the warm, heady feeling continued to envelop him, and he tried to explain it. Once he’d described it as best he could, the two of them began to kiss and she began to gently touch portions of the tattoo on his back, asking him to describe how it felt.

	Things went on from there, and some time later she was rocking back and forth atop of him, both of them fully naked, lost in a mental haze of entirely different origins. After they’d f*cked several times, they lay nestled against one another in bed, with Clueless rambling and still giggling to himself as the magically addled mental state of his only seemed to be slowly making any sort of decrease.

	Tarelia made certain to linger around next to her lover long enough to make certain that he was safe from any lingering affects of the liquid that she had dribbled onto his back. Once she was certain that he was, she kissed him, dressed herself and left, apparently quite eager to return home and record the experience for posterity, and quite possibly experience it again by virtue of a sensory stone.

	When, two hours later, Clueless regained some measure of lucidity, he put his shirt back on and muttered with a bit of a giggle to himself that he should probably go tend to the bar down in the common room. That was the idea at least, and about ten minutes after that realization he blinked and stopped staring blankly at the wall with a goofy, crooked smile on his face. Truth be told, he was giddy, high from the heavy magic, and wrapped in a blissful haze that was fogging his mind more thickly than the Great Foundry’s smoke shrouded the Lower Ward.

	“Yeah I should go handle the bar…” Clueless said, glancing out the window and looking at the rough hour of the day.

	“…handle the bar…” He said slowly before giggling again and thinking back to his favorite Sensate.

	“It’s been a good day…”


***​

	Down in the common room, Florian, Fyrehowl, Tristol, and Toras were sitting together at a table and gabbing over mugs of ale. Kiro was sitting across from them, occasionally helping out the staff and clearing off tables if they looked like they needed the help. Nisha was off somewhere, possibly with Amberblue, an issue that they all tried to ignore just because if they did think about it, they’d worry about it.

Conversation hadn’t really stayed on anything specific, though there had been some chuckles earlier on when they had watched Clueless’ girlfriend descend down the stairs from where she had presumably been with the bladesinger. She’d been giggling softly when she’d left the inn. Clueless and a giggling Sensate… the boy had apparently done something well.

	They’d rambled at random over the next while before Clueless himself walked down the stairs and back to behind the bar. He was grinning. He was grinning way too much, with a sort of weird, drugged out haze, and his wings were glittering with a flickering dance of wild colors, like a sheen of oil on top of a puddle of water. Of course, outside of some initial commentary on the color of his wings, they all just assumed that he’d had a very good and exhausting time with a Sensate and didn’t give it much of a second thought.

	“I still can’t get over those nutcases that Nisha knows.” Florian said, sipping at her drink and turning away from looking at Clueless gradually regaining some measure of giddy lucidity.

	“Nisha –is- one of those nutcases.” Tristol replied.

	For her part, Nisha just grinned happily.

	“Alright, true.” Florian replied. “And hey… where you going Fyrehowl?”

	The cipher had suddenly and abruptly stood up and made her way towards the door leading into the kitchen, and beyond it, the rear door to the inn.

	“Uh…” She said, thinking for a moment as her hand touched the door. “I just remembered that I uh, had to go to the Gymnasium today to meditate. Like right now. Be back later.”

	And without giving any time to listen to any more questions, Fyrehowl opened the door and was gone.

	“Well,” Florian said. “That was weird. I wonder what got into her…”

	Tristol’s eyes all of a sudden went wide.

	“Cipher.” He said bluntly.

	“And?” Florian asked.

	“Cipher leaving all of a sudden without any obvious reason.” Tristol explained, his ears flattening slightly.

	Florian’s face twitched in recognition as a shadow passed over the light streaming into the inn from the front door.

	“Oh hells!” Toras said, looking up at the figure standing in the doorway.

	The backlit silhouette in the doorway had a pair of erect canine ears and a coil of tangled vines perched between them.

	Florian pushed her chair back and made for the stairs.

	“What’s your excuse?!” Clueless called from the bar. “Don’t leave me here alone!”

	The half-fey glanced over at the door with an odd mixture of loathing and resignation, topped off with a giggle.

	“Tempus calls!” Florian said before holding up a finger, licking it and brandishing it towards the looming fiend as if testing the air. “I detect an overwhelming aura of BULLSH*T!”

	Toras was gone a moment later, bolting for the back door with a sputtered cry of “Hark! The sound of someone in trouble!”

	Kiro looked up towards the King of the Crosstrade, shrugged, and looked back at Tristol.

	“Who’s she?” The cleric asked.

	Tristol’s ears were flat as he looked up from his drink at the cleric’s question and realized he had no easy excuse to simply cut and run, and a teleport would have been far too obvious and insulting. He whined and his tail curled around the leg of his chair, while up at the bar Clueless looked like a deer caught exposed in a hunter’s lamplight.

	The bladesinger sighed as circumstance did its best to put a damper on his magically elated mood, and then glanced around at his vanishing companions as the ‘loth sauntered into the room with her typical collection of tieflings.

	“Oh son of a…” He muttered. “Why me?”

	A pair of the King of the Crosstrade’s tieflings took up position flanking the front door, and two others, one of them familiar to Clueless’ eyes, carried a small mirror and a comb, the other with a very obviously displayed short sword, proceeded to evict the customers at the two tables nearest to where the fiend was going.

	The door to the kitchen opened and Nisha walked out whistling a merry and made up on the spot tune. The Xaositect took one look at the Marauder, then to Tristol who was emphatically tilting his head in the ‘loth’s direction. Nisha’s lips pursed, the whistling stopped for a moment, and without any further ado she spun on one hoof and walked right back to where she’d come from.

“I imagine the presence of someone who exists to make your life miserable!” The Factol Darius Doll said from under her bell jar on the mantelpiece a few feet away from Clueless.

	The bladesinger glanced over at Kiro and Tristol. The mage was decidedly looking the other way, trying to blissfully ignore the fiend; he hadn’t exactly had a good experience in meeting her the last several times that they had occasion to do so.

	“Oh you’re no help…” Clueless muttered.

	Kiro shrugged, stood up and walked over to clear away and tidy up the tables claimed by two of the Marauder’s groomer-guards and the table that she herself was standing next to, eyeing with a bit of disdain. The cleric had never met her before, and neither had she ever met him, nor did she have any hint of recognition in her eyes when he started to clean the table.

	“Thank you for the help Kiro.” Clueless said to himself, and up in thanks towards the ceiling, up towards whatever gods might be listening, metaphorically speaking.

	Meanwhile, as the bladesinger geared himself up to handling the Marauder, the ‘loth was being seated in as pretentious a way possible. One of her tieflings, Colcook, the one with mirror and comb, was pulling her chair out for her, sweeping it off with a brush, then letting her sit down, and finally pushing her in and up to the table.

	There was an emphatic tip-tapping of claws on wood as Clueless walked up to Shemeska’s table.

	The Marauder was dressed in her favorite gown, the blue-green dress of tens of thousands of tiny glass beads all strung upon thread and woven into something fairly flattering to her figure, and at the moment it wasn’t so mind numbingly tight as to appear painted on, as she had appeared at Jeremo’s party, putting herself on public display more or less. No, at the moment she actually appeared tastefully dressed, as tastefully dressed as a yugoloth of her status might be capable of at least.

	She was fiddling with the coil of razorvine atop her head as the bladesinger approached. She was also giving him a vague smile. Something was up. Something had to be up.

	“Can I get you something to drink?” Clueless asked hesitantly, but slathered in horribly put on politeness, made more possible by being quite high at the time. “Maybe something to eat as well?”

	It was amazing just how much a fiend can look down on you while looking up at you, so to speak, but the King of the Crosstrade did just that as she spouted off an answer without glancing at the drink list or the food menu.

	“I’ll have a Marauder’s Mirth.” She cooed. “And unless you happen to have pickled Bebelith eggs, I’m not too terribly hungry. Besides, I really doubt that you carry the food that I’m accustomed to.”

	“We might, or we might be able to quickly get it for you.” Clueless suggested.

	“Or you call them customers.” She added as an afterthought, more to herself with a slight toss of her hair, but just audible enough for him to hear.

	Clueless ignored the statement just as much as he ignored the display of cleavage staring up at him from the ‘loth’s chest.

	“What’s in a Marauder’s Mirth?” He asked cautiously.

	“THE Marauder’s Mirth.” She corrected him, punctuated with a tap of a claw on and into the table.

	“It’s my favorite drink.” She explained. “The Fortune’s Wheel coined it after me and I expect that most of the upper tier inns and taverns in Sigil carry it.”

“And then there was a complete non sequitur from the ‘loth, with a sudden, almost barked demand of: Colcook! Mirror!”

	Clueless just stood there patiently as she ignored him in favor of her own reflection in a small handheld mirror held up in place by the tiefling to her left. She pursed her lips as with a telepathic prompt, Colcook applied a new layer of black lipstick and then promptly started to comb out the long, coppery-blond hair she had at the moment.

	And then, without any acknowledgement of the pause, she jumped back to the prior conversation.

	“Don’t know my favorite drink…” She said with a bit of a sneer. “A pity really. I’d been led to believe that you were to be numbered among them… the best inns in Sigil that is.”

	“We might be able to make one for you, but… and my apologies, I’m not familiar with the ingredients.” Clueless said, trying so hard to sound genuine.

	“I bet the 12 Factols would have known what goes in it…” Shemeska muttered to herself.

	Clueless ignored the statement.

“And even if I can’t make one for you now,” He said. “This way we’ll know in the future to have what’s needed. Just for you.”

	She smiled up at him and batted her eyelashes. “Admittedly, this –is- an unannounced visit, and it’s not a formal thing to actually judge the place on. I’ll be making that visit eventually, but you’ll have advance warning of that.”

	‘Peachy.’ He thought. ‘Just peachy…’

	Colcook meanwhile continued to brush out his mistress’s hair, which she might have actually lengthened during the process, just to give him more to do.

“But, in any event,” She purred. “My favorite drink is a mixture of four fingers of Bytopian Brandy, honey, puréed dretch pineal gland, two fingers of Styx water, with a sprig of razorvine and some gold leaf floating on the top.”

	Clueless raised an eyebrow and wrote the ingredients down.

“The fo… the customers you have here in the Clerk’s Ward probably can’t appreciate the drink.” She added. “A pity really.”

	“I’m not really certain that we can make this at the moment.” Clueless said.

“It really does take a special person to appreciate the drink. Especially the Styx water. Don’t you agree?” She asked, looking directly into Clueless’ eyes, without a drop of shame in the statement.

	If he hadn’t been high on heavy magic in his bloodstream, he’d have considered spitting in her face.

	‘Bitch…’ He inwardly thought as he put on a smile to her statement.

	“Would you like something else to drink?”

	“Your fiendish majesty.” She said.

	“Hmm?” Clueless asked, confused.

	“Would you like something else to drink your fiendish majesty.” She said, correcting him, extending the claw on a finger and motioning for him to restate the question properly.

	‘I hate you. You disgust me. I want to kill you here and now.’ He wanted to say, but he didn’t.

	“Would you like something else to drink your fiendish majesty?” Clueless asked, much to the fiend’s delight.

	“Just a glass of something Baatorian.” She answered. “Surprise me.”

	“As the King wishes.” Clueless said before turning and walking back to the bar.

	‘Something Baatorian?’ He thought. ‘Sure, lemme go find an imp to piss in a goblet. That’ll work.’

Meanwhile, Kiro glanced over at the fiend as he sat down next to where Tristol was trying to get himself lost in the bottom of a drink.

	“Who exactly is that women?” Kiro asked. “She’s a pain in the ass.”

	Tristol looked up at him.

	“Not so loud please…” He said, ears still folded back and to the side. “She’ll pitch a temper tantrum, and I really don’t want to clean up the room after she sets it, and possibly some people, on fire in the process.”

	“And no one actually does anything about her?” Kiro asked with a bit of incredulity. “You just let her get away with it?”

	“It’s complicated.” Tristol replied. “But yeah, we just let her get away with it most of the time.”

That however, was when Tristol’s eyes moved over to look at the Marauder. The fiend was doing something with a hand under the table.

	“Hold on a second…” Tristol said, whispering the words of a ‘detect magic’ spell.

	The Marauder lit up like a booze-covered Hiver given a hug by a fire elemental, but that was to be expected. Over by the bar, Clueless was sparkling with a wild snarl of random magical auras, something to ask him about later. But no, what drew Tristol’s attention was that the underside of Shemeska’s table was glittering with a mixture of universal and divination auras.

	“Cute…” Tristol muttered. “We’ll have to sand the table down now.”

	“Oh?” Kiro asked.

	The ‘random’ tapping of claws by the ‘loth on the table had never been random. For most of her stay, which had already been far, far too long for anyone’s comfort level, she’d been drawing the lines of some sort of divination focus onto the underside of the table, along with a bit of self promoting graffiti on the top.

	“I’ll have to tell Clueless about that later.” Tristol said with a sigh.

	Clueless had, by that point, done his best to abandon the Marauder. He’d taken her order, mixed her drink, and given it to a random member of the serving staff to hand off in his stead. He’d busied himself with other customers, and hoped that the ‘loth would grow bored without him to torment, and eventually leave. Wishful thinking.

	“That’s Shemeska the Marauder,” Tristol explained to the cleric next to him. “Aka the King of the Crosstrade. She’s a gossipmonger on the surface, she owns a little under a third of the land in Sigil, and she likely has a hand in half of the illicit goings on in the Cage at any point in time. And she revels in that little worst kept secret in the city as to what she actually is and how much influence she actually has.”

“Do people not realize just how full of bullsh*t she is?” Kiro asked Tristol.

	“No.” The aasimar replied, lowering his voice. “Everyone knows full well.”

	“She doesn’t know me from anyone else.” Kiro said. “I could, you know, -accidentally- walk past and drop a bucket of dishwater on her when I clear one of the other tables.”

	“She’d be liable to kill you.” Tristol said.

	‘She’s welcome to try’ was very nearly out of Kiro’s mouth, but he wasn’t honestly planning to do anything of the sort, not at the moment, not with Jermorille standing next to her and brushing out her hair. The Exile didn’t have a clue, and his presence in Sigil was somewhere between actual exile, being in a place where he couldn’t do too much damage, and just being a useful idiot from time to time.

	“Then never mind that.” Kiro said. “That’s a bit harsh…”

	Back over at the bar, Clueless was being beckoned to by the Marauder again.

	“Oh hells…” He muttered for the second time in under an hour. By the end of the night he might have more of them than Baator’s nine if things didn’t improve.

	The ‘loth was sipping approvingly at her drink. At least that had seemed to be the cause for her look of approval, the drink. Or not…

	“F*ck…” Clueless whispered.

The Marauder had both hands on the table, and was leaning down and looking into the eyes of the Shemeska doll that they’d purchased from A’kin’s auction.


***​


----------



## Shemeska

“Aren’t I the prettiest fiend in Sigil?!” The tiny doll snarled up in a whiny version of the Marauder’s own voice.

	The fiendess arched her eyebrows and leaned back slightly.

	“Don’t I have the prettiest smile?!” The doll said, flashing a ragged, drooling mouthful of fangs.

	A hush fell over that corner of the inn. Tristol’s head was down on the table and his tail curled around the leg of his chair. Clueless had sudden images of their inn demolished by a series of explosions in the next few seconds.

	“Yes I am.” Shemeska crooned down at the doll. “And yes I do.”

	The doll looked up at its namesake and there was some whispered comment it made, something crude, something involving a ‘friendly fiend’ and a Balor. What followed were a few startled coughs, the rattle of glasses in unsteady hands, and silence from the ‘loth.

	Without looking away from the doll, the Marauder extended a hand and beckoned with a finger to Clueless.

	“Please don’t pitch a fit…” Clueless muttered as he winced and reluctantly walked over to the fiend’s table.

	Of course his reluctance never showed as he put a gracious smile upon his face, even as his head swum with a duality of magic induced euphoria and the thought of ‘…you arrogant b*tch. Why don’t you go screw the spire.’

	As Clueless walked up to the table, the little doll was looking at its reflection in the tiny mirror that came along with it, apparently admiring the way its gown flattered its ass. The real Marauder was simply watching its own antics in miniature played out on the table, a thin-lipped smile on her face, either on the verge of a grin or a snarl.

	“So…” She asked, twirling a finger through the coil of razorvine atop her head, still without looking up. “What’s your opinion of the doll?”

	Given the relative hush that had fallen over that portion of the inn, Tristol could hear the question from where he was sitting, even if he was trying to avoid looking. A dozen potential counterspells danced through his mind along with a dozen horrible, terrible ways the situation could fall apart.

	“It really doesn’t hold a candle to you…” Clueless said, belated and forcibly adding, “…your fiendish majesty.”

	“And if people don’t flatter me.” The doll squeaked out. “I pull that little trick with nails, a tree, intestines, and hellhounds!”

	The ‘loth didn’t respond, and Clueless held his breath.

	“But it’s most fun to just make people do what you want them to do.” The doll continued, as it played around with changing the colors of the paint on its claws. “Blackmail, threats, implied threats, magic…”

	“Among other classics.” The real Marauder crooned, turning up towards Clueless and flashing a smile.

	“You know, I am impressed on a number of levels.” She continued. “From what I’d gathered, all these little dolls were quite lifelike and well matched up to their namesakes. But I never expected this one to be so well modeled.”

	Clueless blinked.

	“You knew about this one?” He asked.

	“Well of course I did.” She replied. “It concerns me. You really didn’t think that you’d be able to keep a present for me concealed? I don’t handle surprises well, but I do appreciate the intent.”

	“Present?” Clueless asked, a sudden change of tone creeping into his voice.

	“Well of course.” The fiendess replied with pompous self-assurance. “I wasn’t invited to the auction by that outcast little bootlicker in the Lower Ward. So, knowing that I like gifts, and knowing how much I do so like me, you bid on it as a present for me.”

	“Umm…” Clueless stammered.

	“And dear,” She said, reaching out running a claw down the bladesinger’s chest gently. “I really am touched by the gesture.”

	Had he not been high at the time, Clueless would have screamed. Not only was she going to steal something they’d all purchased together in mockery of her, but also the way her finger was tracing its way down his chest… she seemed far too familiar with the contours of his musculature for his comfort.

	“It was a good choice on your behalf, and it really is so very lifelike. I half expect that the craftsman might have spent his evenings peeking into my bedchambers and taking notes.” She said with a laugh, withdrawing her hand and touching it daintily to her chest. “Oh for them to be so lucky though I suppose.”

	Clueless repressed a snarl and a sudden, intense desire to slit her throat.

	“So my trip to the Clerk’s Ward hasn’t been the ordeal I though it would be.” The King of the Crosstrade continued. “I get to see your quaint little place again, with all the nostalgia for the Ubiquitous Wayfarer it invokes, and I’m gifted with this darling little version of myself.”

	“I’m glad that you enjoy ma’am.” Clueless forced himself to say at about the point that she started to ignore him entirely.

	“Let’s go find a place that –actually- knows how to make my favorite drink.” The doll said with a shrill little bark.

	“Perhaps, but while you look gorgeous with a figure so very much like my own down to the sparkle in your eyes, you need to learn a thing about tact.” The Marauder instructed the doll.

	“You see, each and every insult needs to be directed like a bolt of lightning rather than a wail of the banshee. Be precise in your mockery, and despite the illusion and appearance of whimsy, always mean what you say when you offend. And yes, I’m sure we can find a shot of higher end spirits at one of the nicer bars in the city.”

	The Marauder’s lips curled back in a sneer as she adjusted the tangle of razorvine atop her head, and the doll proceeded to do much the same.

	“But now you darling little facsimile,” Shemeska said down to the doll. “There’s misery in the Cage, and it’s high time we found some to partake of.”

	Clueless was livid as the fiend gestured one of her servants over to pull back her chair, drape a black silk stole across her lower back between her arms, and place the doll inside a padded box they’d apparently arrived with. She’d come simply to pick up what she’d wanted, and in fact she’d probably had one of her people find the damn doll and bring it down to the common room for her to discover and graciously accept as a gift with the entire Cage’s supply of false humility.

	It went without saying that there was neither payment nor a tip for the food her people had ordered as she stepped away and walked towards the exit, finally breaking into laughter as soon as she reached the street.

	“Shaved.” Clueless exclaimed. “Definitely not good enough.”

	With the fiend’s barking mockery fading into the distance, Clueless put his head down on the bar and exhaled. His head was swimming, his back was tingling like it had fallen asleep, and he was having random flickers of light play across his field of vision in time with the beating of his heart.

	Either the Marauder had pushed his blood pressure up to near lethal levels with her little display, or he was having side effects of his experimentation with his back and the globe of syrupy, liquid magic earlier in the day. And though the ‘loth had done her fickle best, that wasn’t likely to be the cause of it all.

	“Are you alright?” Tristol asked, walking up to the bar, the fur on his ears still slightly on end from the fiend.

	“Hmm?” Clueless mumbled off key as he looked up.

	“You don’t look very good.” The aasimar replied with some concern. “She do something to you?”

	“No…” Clueless replied. “I just…”

	The bladesinger’s speech slurred and he giggled.

	“…” Tristol looked suddenly more worried.

	“I’m just, y… I’ll be back later…” Clueless said as he stepped out from behind the bar. “Sleep…”

	“You do that.” Tristol said. “I’ll have someone else fill in at the bar.”

	“You have fuzzy ears.” Clueless said with a gleeful giggle as he staggered away.

	Tristol frowned and paused to respond, or maybe even stop him to make certain that he hadn’t been drugged or something. But he let him go, watching him firmly till the bladesinger vanished up the stairs on the way to his room, resolving to check up on him later.


***​

	Clueless slumped against the surface of his door and fumbled with the latch. His head was getting worse and his back felt numb. But strangely enough he wasn’t worried in the slightest, suffused as he was with a general sense of euphoria. 

Only seconds later, as he stepped into the room and sat down on the bed, something happened. Something popped in the back of his mind, his vision contorted and his eyes ached for a few painful seconds. But when it was over his perspective had suddenly changed, his surroundings vanishing and being replaced with somewhere else entirely. He was watching something but not controlling it, like a vision through a sensory stone or through a legend lore spell. He was having another flashback triggered by the globules of heavy magic spinning their way through his tattoo and into his flesh. But this time, he wasn’t choosing anything of what he was being shown.

	The room was smaller and darker, the flickering light of a few sparkling globes, each filled with the bound essence of a lantern archon, illuminated only those portions of ‘his’ vision that he wished. A table, covered in a chaotic mess of loose papers, open books… and a golden globe filled with a glistening, honey-like liquid.

	“Too old. Too old.” He said. “The Ape Who Would Fly discovered it independently, and much too late in the historical record to match where I found this little bauble.”

	The view suddenly shifted back to focus on the speaker, revealing the supremely arrogant, hawk nosed countenance of Shekelor seated at his desk, glancing back and forth between a pair of books and his own reflection in the orb of golden liquid.

	“I wonder… no, that couldn’t be it.” He said, openly musing to himself. “They wouldn’t have had a hand in this.”

	The two massive tomes sprawled open upon Shekelor’s desk, they were like bookends upon the globe of heavy magic, each of them scrawled with the Incantifer’s own scrawled notes in the margins. The first book, ‘Magic and Antimagic – Karsus, Archwizard of Eileanar Enclave’ was bound in a heavy, maroon cover, with an exquisitely illuminated interior. But despite the obvious value of the book itself, the Factol of the Magicians treated it with a certain level of intellectual nonchalance.

	Slipping a finger over a series of equations and schematics relating to the binding of specific types of magical energies together into a larger, self-sustaining whole, Shekelor smiled. Much like mathematics was a thing of beauty to a Guvner, so too was the working of magic something similar to the lord of the Incanterium. Like poetic little quatrains, he recited the words in Old Loross that described one tiny facet of the interactions between the threads of a mythallar, and stabilized heavy magic, and he smiled, genuinely happy for a brief few moments.

	But then it was gone, his reverie broken, and his impatient, hungry mind moving on to another page entirely, looking for answers and ignoring the rest as superfluous.

“The Netherese were dolts…” He muttered, reaching out to underline something in the Karsus text. “A shame they’re no longer extant. They had promise and potential. What fun they would have been.”

His last statement was laced through with hunger, and it seemed that for a moment, lost in contemplation, he might very well drool upon the pages of the open book.

	“I have to wonder though, did you really come up with the idea all on your own?” The Magician pondered. “Was it a stupendous, glorious mistake on your part? Did you die with some natal insight into the workings of the stuff, never deigning to write it down out of jealous pride?” 

	Shekelor smirked, “Believe me, I could have respected that.”

	That said, he flipped another page and examined a few more details on the practical applications of the material, though for the most part, the first two pages were merely prefaced with statements of caution and blatant warnings as to the extreme volatility of such endeavors. Ultimately, after seeming to gain little from the text that he didn’t already know, Shekelor moved from the book and gazed into the depths of the glassy sphere itself.

	“It’s a shame that I have other, more important things on my mind.” He said, speaking to the golden liquid. “I’ve got another little bauble to find, and I’ll be leaving shortly to find it. Had I more time I’d like deeply to learn just where you first came from.”

	In the vision, reflected back in the surface of the orb, Shekelor’s luminous, liquid silver eyes gazed back at Clueless. Those hungry, inhuman orbs peered back at him in that flicker of disjointed memory, carried across the years by the same liquid he’d sat there in Sigil pondering over so very long ago.

	And then, without warning, the memory skipped track, launching forward an uncertain period of time.

	When his vision cleared again, Shekelor was still there at his desk, the globe of heavy magic still situated in front of him, only now he was glancing down at the second book he’d had upon his desk. That other tome was bound in simple brown leather, not given over to any overly elaborate decoration. It was a very simple, unassuming thing, in marked contrast to the first of the books he’d been studying.

‘The Sublime Laws of the Arcane: implications and loopholes’, that was the name of the book; and while there was no author’s name given, the upper right corner of each page was stamped with a symbol very much like that of the Fraternity of Order.

	“And if Karsus might have kept secrets, I –know- that you do.” Shekelor hissed as he glanced over a page that seemed to be more math than actual script. “Bloody brilliant in your own way, but too obsessed with the search for knowledge and understand how it all works in the minute, than you are with actually taking advantage of it.”

	The Incantifer paused and circled a few portions of a page, jotting down some notes in some sort of personalized shorthand for later.

	“At least with you, I can actually walk down to your damn office and ask you something myself.”

	Shekelor obviously knew the author. That wasn’t entirely expected.

	“Of course I have to deal with your fellow faction members’ peery eyes.” He said with some scorn. “But at least I’ll have an intelligent conversation if you’re around. Though you ask too many questions and you’re far too keen to play this little game of one-upmanship we’ve developed over the years. You’ve already lost simply because you picked the wrong faction my friend, and no amount of subtle insinuation that you’ve ‘found the biggest secret of all’ or ‘found other places’ and ‘found how to call to them’ or that you’ve ‘found some friends all your own’ will really make any difference in the matter. You’re not practical enough, and one of these days, it’s going to kill you.”

	The curious condescension in the wizard’s voice was nearly palpable.

	“And that last sending of yours, were you bragging?” Shekelor mused. “Babble about Keeping and Loopholes and Others. By the time you do anything practical I’ll have already found the Labyrinth Stone. Stop hitting the Arborean wine and you’ll make something of yourself.”

	And with that, Clueless’s vision swam, the memory faded and be blacked out.

	It might have been only a few minutes, or it might have been a few hours, he wasn’t immediately certain of how much time had passed when he came to and shook his head.

	“That was different…” Clueless said to himself, standing up on unsteady feet.

	His head was swimming still, but unlike a dream, the memory was firmly cemented into his mind and the details were curious to say the least. If he was learning things simply by association with objects, like some sort of random and unasked for bursts of physiognomy, it opened up avenues of inquiry that otherwise would have been firmly locked away in the past’s silent crypt.

	“So Shekelor didn’t make you.” He said, looking at the orb of heavy magic. “And he didn’t know who did either.”

	And then there were the books.

	“I’ll have to ask Tristol if he knows where I can find a copy of the first one. I’ve got the name of the author for that one at least. The second one… that might take some more work.”

	If nothing else, it might take the wizard’s mind off of the day’s experiences with the Marauder. Of course in the meantime though, Clueless himself was still a bit on edge about his own little episodes of unasked for divinations.

“Hopefully I don’t start randomly getting flashes of memories like that.” He said as he tossed a cloth over top of the globe. “At least with divinations you can control when and what you’re looking at.”


***​

	Tristol was sitting at one of the tables in the back room that he’d converted to a lab and a magical library. He’d retreated there and closed the door after the Marauder’s little escapade earlier, simply wanting to avoid people and any sort of bother, finding some solace in his books.

	He’d even managed to find some of that desired peace in the time he’d spent there reading. No drunken customers, no pissant yugoloths, no dangerously amusing Xaositects. Well no, that last one he had a bit more tolerance for, more than tolerance actually, even if she was amazingly able to cause trouble.

	But that solace thing he’d briefly managed to find, well, it didn’t last much longer once there was a knock at the door and Clueless stuck his head in.

	“I’ve got a question for you Tristol.”


----------



## Shemeska

Tristol looked up from his spellbook with more than a bit of consternation playing across his face.

	“The last time you poked your head in here you were mucking around with Heavy Magic.” The aasimar said, looking warily over to see if Clueless had brought any of the freakishly unstable liquid with him.

	“I ask a question and you immediately think I’m doing something dangerous?” The bladesinger asked with a puckish grin, still touched by his earlier mental haze even as he tried to hide it.

	“What have you been doing with it lately?” Tristol asked. “I know you can’t get drunk, so something would have to explain the way that you were acting earlier… and still are acting.”

	“And you immediately think I’m still messing with heavy magic?” Clueless asked again.

	Tristol raised an eyebrow.

	“The last time you did, I told you what it was.” The mage said. “Well, at least what little I or anyone else really knew about it, and to…”

	“Yeah yeah yeah.” Clueless replied. “You said ‘Keep it away from me!’ and then tried to hide under your tail.”

	“Do you blame me?” The mage replied with a frown, noting the guilty grin playing across the half-fey’s face.

	“So what is it this time?” Tristol continued with a sigh. “Just don’t get me anywhere near the stuff itself. I’ll answer any questions if I can, just to try to keep you from blowing yourself to pieces, and me, and the inn, and never let Nisha become aware of it!”

	Even in his current state, Clueless had to shiver at that last one.

	“Last time I asked about heavy magic you mentioned Karsus.” The bladesinger said. “But have you ever heard of a book that he wrote called ‘Magic and Antimagic’?”

	“Eh?” Tristol said with a bit of surprise.

	“Have you heard of it before?” Clueless asked. “Is ‘eh’ a yes or a no?”

	“Well, yes.” Tristol said. “I’ve read some portions of it before, but usually in other books. It’s a rare bit of lore, even in Halruaa.”

	“So you don’t have a copy?” Clueless quipped.

	“No…” Tristol replied. “But what got you interested in the book? And where did you hear about it in the first place?”

	“It’s about the heavy magic…” Clueless said. “And… well…”

	“Say no more…” Tristol said, cutting him off. The mention of the heavy magic ended his wanting to know anything further, simply for his own safety.

	“So you –do- have a copy?” Clueless prompted with a burgeoning grin.

	“No, like I said, it’s pretty damn rare.” Tristol said with a shrug. “It was written thousands of years ago. 

	Clueless looked momentarily crestfallen, just before Tristol added, “But… I do know someone that I can likely get a copy from.”

	And that person was Lothar, Master of the Bones.


***​

	“I probably should have sprung for a tout.” Tristol said to himself as he glanced up at the battered, soot-covered signs at the street corner.

	He stood and turned full circle, trying to orient himself in the foggy streets of the Lower Ward. The air was thick with ash, the rotten egg smell of sulfur wafting from the smokestacks of the Great Foundry, and a less certain smell vaguely reminiscent of vinegar that clung to the tongue like a bitter aftertaste of cheap wine.

	“Hell, I should have asked Nisha to come along with me.” He said. “She knows the streets better than I do.”

	The warren of streets that he had ventured down was not in the more traveled sections of the Ward. Far from the more popular workshops, businesses, and the wider thoroughfares that accommodated their to and from traffic, Tristol was easily losing his way.

	“And… and I enjoy her company.” He added, a small smile crossing his face. “Hopefully she feels the same about me. I think she does, I hope she does. I just need to get up the courage to ask her.”

	Now it was true, he though, Nisha and he were technically different species: him an aasimar and she a tiefling. True, they’d grown up in drastically different backgrounds: he’d been one of the privileged within the magocracy of Halruaa, and she’d grown up with nothing on the streets of the Hive. But despite that, perhaps even because of that, she made him smile and he’d been realizing that more and more lately.

	His mind continued to wander for a moment as he passed through another thick patch of fog. What would his family say about Nisha if he brought her back to Halagard to visit their tower? Lutra would probably… no, Lutra would absolutely pitch a fit, and the idea brought a smile to his face and set his tail to wagging like a happy puppy.

	“Just to get up the courage now...” Tristol said.

	But with that thought, the smog broke abruptly as he reached the end of the street and looked down, stopping himself with a bit of an awkward shuffle of his feet.

	“What sort of place does Lothar live in?” Tristol mused with uncertainty.

Twitching his tail and stepping back slightly from the edge, he gazed down at the wide cleft in the street, and the steep fifty-foot drop inches in front of him: The Ditch. The street simply ended at what was best described as an urban wound stretching for blocks in either direction across the edge of the Lower Ward, slicing into the city’s flesh. Frowning at the expanse and contents of the chasm, Tristol thought back to Lothar and his’ initial meeting some time ago.

	Tristol had first encountered the man at Jeremo’s dinner at the Palace of the Jester. The so-called Master of Bones had been sitting across from him looking rather socially out of place, and so, thinking the elderly gentleman a mage, based on the robes he was wearing, he’d struck up a conversation. Lothar had apparently shown up only following a pair of requests by the Jester himself, probably because Jeremo had wanted another level headed and powerful spellcaster in case things went sour between some of his more opinionated guests who refused to play well with others. But, as it happened, Lothar hadn’t needed to do a thing, since Tristol and his companions had jumped into the fray instead.

	Unfortunately the Marauder and the Titan of Wealth had launched into their spat just shortly after Tristol and Lothar had gotten to know one another, putting a halt on their socialization. But at the same time, they had spoken briefly after the party was over, exchanged addresses, and provided an open invitation to one another to visit if they ever wanted to simply chat, or if they wished to deal as sages of the arcane.

	Well, given Clueless’s request for a book by Karsus himself, Tristol found the time was right to give the Master of Bones a calling.

	This of course was founded on the presumption that he could actually –find- Lothar’s address in the first place amid the reeking, trash filled expanse of the worst of the Lower Ward. The smell in the ward was typically foul, but it seemed to have gotten as bad as it might possibly get unless he fell into a portal to the Abyss.

	Suffice to say, as Tristol held his breath and looked down, the Ditch was making a poor impression on him, especially given that the intermittent portals to Oceanus had not flushed the chasm in any recent period, leaving it choked with refuse, debris, and water that seemed very nearly to have the consistency of syrup. A few desperate berks, along with a multitude of rats, cranium and mundane both, fished the muck for anything edible, or anything of use that might have been dumped or discarded there. And, given the crime within the ward and the adjacent Hive, more than a few corpses lay partially submerged along the trough.

	“Alright. Took a wrong turn somewhere.” Tristol said, covering his nose with a sleeve of his robe and turning away from the edge.

	The stench of rot and standing water was nauseating, and holding his breath with a grimace, he quickly hurried back along the street.

	Several blocks and several turns later, Tristol’s eyes were still watering from the mild drizzle of rain seeping out of the smog-ridden sky and turning the fog into acrid smelling vapor more like vinegar than water. The streets were thinner, the cobblestones more chipped and cracked, and the few passersby less welcoming to requests for direction. Altogether, it wasn’t the Hive or the worst of the barrens of the Shattered Temple District, but it was damn near the worst of the Lower Ward.

	Still covering his nose from the rank odor that swirled around him, likely picked up from the breeze passing over the Ditch, Tristol was nearly on the verge of turning around and going home when he arrived at the address that Lothar had given him.

	“This can’t be right.” Tristol muttered, looking up at the battered iron plate that gave the street number, and then up at the house itself.

	His ears twitched in confusion as his eyes played over the burned out, apparently abandoned house that occupied the site. The windows were broken, bits of refuse and graffiti littered the stoop, and the place gave no indication of recent occupation beyond a squatter or two; certainly the place didn’t seem to fit a spellcaster of Lothar’s capacity.

	“I’m tempted to just go visit A’kin and ask if he’s got a copy of the book.” Tristol said as he cautiously walked up towards the front door. “This hasn’t been a pleasant trip so far, and at least A’kin might offer me a smile and a cookie for the visit.”

	The front door was laying off to one side of course, the hinges having long ago been pried loose and stolen for scrap. A dead executioner’s raven, rotten and partially eaten, was also tossed off to one side. They were not exactly the most welcoming portents when looking for a wizard’s abode.

	“Hmm.” Tristol mumbled hopefully. “Maybe it’s just an illusion to keep vagrants away.”

	Once past the doorway though, the interior wasn’t much better. The floor was covered in dust and a few errant tracks left in recent weeks by squatters, or simply the curious who happened to explore the place.

	“So much for this just being an illusion.” Tristol said, scuffing at some of the ash and dust with the tip of his staff. “I’m still not convinced that I’ve just got the wrong address and some prankster didn’t simply switch the… wait…”

	Now that was odd. Tristol squinted and craned his neck to look up.

In the middle of the squalor, seemingly untouched by the passage of years, the tarnish of neglect, and the ravages of Sigil’s own unique brand of elements, there was a single, unbroken and virtually new, stained glass window high on one wall.

	“If that’s not a hint of magic, I’m not a mage.” He said, already whispering a divination spell under his breath.

	The window began to glow just a bit more brightly, giving away a telltale trace of the protective abjurations that had kept it safe over the years, shedding its multicolored rays across the floor of the gutted, ruined house despite any conditions that might preclude the passage of light, be it fog, rain, or anything else.

	Tristol smiled and stepped into the path of the window’s light, half expecting some magical effect, and half just admiring the mixture of colors. While no magical display was forthcoming, he did notice something about the dust-covered floor below him: it was hollow under his footfalls in the area colored by the window’s light.

	“Well that’s interesting.” Tristol said, stepping back at taking note of a recessed latch and handle mostly covered by the dust.

	A trapdoor.

	He tapped the door a few times with his staff, finding its dimensions, and then pulled it up and open to reveal the rungs of a ladder constructed from, or carved into the shape of bones. A bit of warm, pleasantly fresh air drifted up from the darkness below, stirring the dust and soot above.

	Casting a minor cantrip to illuminate the gloom as he descended the ladder, Tristol closed the trapdoor back to the surface and examined his new surroundings. With the darkness suppressed and held back, the room was rather nicer than the hovel that sat perched over it. The ladder emptied into a small, wood paneled room mostly free of dust that was comfortably warm compared to outside in the chill, rank fog of the Lower Ward.

	Neat but sparse, that was the overall tone of the place. But that did fit the impression that Tristol had gotten from Lothar when they’d briefly spoken at Jeremo’s party. And with that thought in mind, brushing a bit of soot off of his robes with a bit of anxious self-consciousness, Tristol approached what appeared to be the front door opposite the stairs and politely gave a knock.

	There wasn’t a bit of sound in response from the other side of the door.

	“Hmm.” Tristol said. “I wonder if he’s home.”

	A soft hiss of another door opening made the aasimar turn his head to the side and look. Off to the right, an obscured door had opened to reveal a dark figure draped in a hooded robe, looking expectantly at Tristol. It wasn’t Lothar however, it was too hunched over for that, and as it took a few steps forward, it was far too lithe and quick on its feet to match the venerable old man that Tristol remembered.

	“I’m here to see Lothar.” Tristol said, fishing in his pocket for a card. “He’d wished to exchange some information with me.”

	The cowled figure veritably scurried forward and extended a gnarled hand to accept the card, bringing it close to its hood and seeming to sniff at it. Tristol felt the urge to step back from the figure’s odd behavior, but he held firm even as who he assumed to be a servant or perhaps the doorman pulled back his cowl to reveal a face more rat than human, replete with elongated, protruding incisors and long, twitching whiskers.

	“The Master of Bones is present.” The were-rat said with a bit of a hiss. “Does he expect you?”

	“We’ve met before, a few months ago.” Tristol replied. “He extended an open invitation to me then, and I have a request and an offer for him regarding a book.”

	The humanoid vermin twitched its ears and seemed to ponder for a moment before pulling out a large, antique looking key and moving towards the door Tristol had originally knocked at.

	“I didn’t catch your name.” The mage said. “Who might you be?”

	The doorman rolled his eyes before turning around to face his master’s guest.

	“I would be Tattershade.” He replied with a straight face. “King of the were-rats.”

	The doorman turned and opened the door, once again rolling his eyes and doing his best to seem polite while responding as little as possible to a few questions and attempts at conversation on Tristol’s part.

	Eventually though, ‘Tattershade’ motioned Tristol forwards into Lothar’s waiting room and scurried off to presumably fetch the master himself, leaving his guest to stare in awed revulsion at the contents of the room.

	Skulls. Thousands of them. The walls of the vaulted chamber were covered in shelves and bookcases packed with orderly rows of bleached white, grinning skulls of all shapes and sizes, each categorized and tagged with a small nameplate below the spot where they sat.

	“Wow.” Tristol said. “The name fits I suppose.”

	Tristol stepped further into the room, letting his eyes wander across one of the shelves and the rest of the room as well. A few chairs and sofas dotted the floor along with a podium or two with a spot for a book and inkwell, and on the far end of the chamber a decorative, wrought iron spiral staircase spiraled up and down into other chambers. But the skulls were by far the dominating aspect of the room, leering down like a chorus of grinning imps just finished with their last architectural project in Avernus.

	Most of the skulls were old, missing teeth, cracked in places, and showing the evidence of prior burial or abandonment in various circumstances for long periods of time. The collection also ran the range from humanoids of all sizes and types, to even a few fiends and celestials.

	Virtually all of the skulls were identified by species, age, and even where they had come from. What more, most of the skulls were named, presumably the name of the individual they had come from in the first place. But what drew Tristol’s attention was a tag affixed below one of the skulls.

	“Will not talk. Fix later.” Tristol mumbled, reading the small, concise notation affixed to the nameless, apparently newly added skull.

	“That almost makes it seem like Lothar manages to make them talk to him.” Tristol openly mused, feeling respectful and disturbed at once. “I know some clerics can make a corpse speak through magic, but this… this is a bit beyond that.”

	His back turned to the other half of the collection, he suddenly felt painfully aware of the skulls behind him staring at him. Thousands of hollow sockets devoid of eyes, devoid of life, still somehow animate, it was like being in a prison, or more like a zoo with sentient animals set out on display.

	“I’m not a necromancer though.” Tristol said, looking at a few of the skulls above his head on the shelf. “I wouldn’t know the first thing about holding a conversation with you.”

	Seemingly spurred by his comment, a series of staccato chatters of teeth, like skeletal laughter, echoed behind him. Tristol spun around at the noise.

	“…” He held his tongue, looking for perhaps Lothar or one of his servants that might have caused the noise.

	Some of the skulls had moved and were now positioned to look directly at him.

	*clack*

	One of them moved on its own accord, rapping its teeth together, catching the mage’s attention.

	*chatter*

	“You’re undead?” Tristol questioned one of the animate skulls, moving closer to them.

	“No.” One of them whispered, its hollow voice barely audible.

	“We…” Another began before being silenced by another.

	“Silence! The Master approaches!” Several exclaimed before likewise falling still and hush.

	Tristol perked an eyebrow as a hush seemed to descend over the skulls in their entirely. Something like fear mixed with resentment, seemed to swallow the skeletal chorus, stealing away any of the sense of life that some of them had expressed when faced with the lone mage.

	Footsteps echoed on the spiral stairs and Tristol turned to look.

	“Master Starweather,” Came Lothar’s warm greeting. “It is good to see you again. To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”

	In contrast to his rich, confidant voice, the man descending the staircase was frail and ancient looking. The bulk of his frame seemed filled out by the rather plain robe he wore, and he was leaning heavily on his staff as he stepped down each stair, making his way into the skull chamber.

	“It’s good to see you as well Lothar.” Tristol replied, giving a bow. “I knew about your collection of bones from when we spoke at the Palace of the Jester, but I have to admit that I’m more than a bit overwhelmed now that I’m here looking at it.”

	The skulls remained silent and inanimate, like they were collectively holding their dusty breath and minding their manners while their master entertained a guest. But even if the skulls seemed verily terrified on some level, Lothar himself didn’t give off anything even close to the disturbing aura of fear and questionable morals that a powerful necromancer, lich, or priest of a deity of death might shed like the light of a torch. Quite to the contrary, and in sharp contrast to the skulls lining the walls like some great catacomb of the Dustmen, the Master of Bones seemed friendly, warm, and quite pleasant to be around.

	“This is but a portion of my full collection I will admit.” Lothar said, taking a seat on one of the chairs. “I have my servants arrange them according to those I might seek to consult, all depending on what topic I happen to be researching at any moment.”

	“It’s rather fascinating, if quite out of my range of specialization.” Tristol replied. “I take it that you manage to gain something from them beyond normal divinations and searching through libraries?”

	Lothar nodded sagely. “Unlike people, unlike an author’s lines in a tome, and without the ambiguity inherent in most divinations, the dead cannot lie.”

	Upon one of the shelves, a few skulls rattled like frightened puppies given a few sharp words by their owner.

	“But I’m to understand that you had some offer for me?” Lothar said, swinging the conversation away from his collection of the dead.

	“Yes.” Tristol replied, taking a seat as well. “I was wondering if you have a copy of a certain book.”

	“Perhaps. It really depends on the subject and relevance to my studies.” Lothar said. “Despite popular opinion among some, and perhaps appearances, I’m not a necromancer, nor even a wizard. I consider myself a priest, nothing more.”

	Tristol nodded, aware from prior conversation that Lothar, like Oridi Malefin of the Dustmen, was a cleric of the Abstract Concept of Death, venerating the process itself in a way that might be beyond the grasp of a priest of Osiris, Hades, Arawn, Kelemvor, or any others.

	“It’s a book by the Archmage Karsus, late of Toril, titled ‘Magic and Antimagic’.” The aasimar continued. “It’s quite rare, and several thousand years old.”

	“I’m familiar with it.” Lothar responded with a smile. “And I do have a copy of it in my library.”

	Tristol’s ears perked almost immediately. For someone who wasn’t a wizard, Lothar had more sorcerous goods at hand than most mages did, perhaps as references or perhaps just as bargaining tools for the future.

	“Would it be possible for…” Tristol began.

	“Yes.” Lothar replied. “You may borrow it for a ten-day without cost.”

	“Might I be able to make a copy of it?” Tristol asked politely.

	And honestly, that was his own request, and not simply a favor by proxy for Clueless. Clueless simply wanted one snippet of information from the book, viewing it as more a curiosity than anything else. Tristol on the other hand viewed the book from the context of his own people’s history in Halruaa, the heirs and descendants of fallen Netheril. To him, the book contained what his people sought to preserve in some cases and recreate in others, and having one more copy of that knowledge was another step along that path, a tangible prayer for the honored fallen.

“Yes… but.” Lothar explained, putting up a finger. “If you wish to copy it I will require some manner of favor in exchange.”

	“What sort of favor?” Tristol asked.

	“I don’t quite know as of yet.” The cleric said with a shrug. “But we can discuss those terms and specifics later when I have the book retrieved and brought down here. For the moment however, I’m curious as to what transpired when Jeremo hired you and your fellows to look into, and apparently fix, his little cranium rat problem.”

	“You knew about that?” Tristol asked.

	“I have several were-rats in my employ.” The Master of Bones explained. “I was probably aware of the migration of that particular Hive into his palace before Jeremo first noticed them.”

	“Well,” Tristol began. “Jeremo provided us with maps of the first few layers below the street level, and warned us that beyond that point…”

	He paused and pondered how to phrase it.

	“…beyond that point the hallways move and rearrange themselves.”

	“Interesting.” Lothar commented. “Jeremo’s Palace existed long before he was born, and it has an interesting history in and of its own. Do go on.”

	“We got lost, very quickly in fact. And the rats were not in any sort of mood to converse.” Tristol explained. “We fought them off and chased them down for hours, but the halls under the Palace were a maze by that point, and almost like one of the original occupants had –intended- it to be a maze.”

	“That’s quite possible.” Lothar said, not giving away if he was aware or not of any of the detail that Tristol was skirting or not wholly explaining.

	But nonetheless, Lothar continued to listen as Tristol explained their flight through the maze and eventual discovery of the stairway that seemed virtually grown into the rock and stretching down for miles. With reluctance and curiosity both raging, he explained how they had walked down the seemingly bottomless stairwell, wondering all the time if they were even still within the City of Doors.

	“I very much doubt that you were in Sigil at that point.” Lothar finally said, a wary sound creeping into his voice for the first time. “But do continue.”

	Tristol detailed the vaults as they found them, including the chamber with the floating, non-magical obelisk, and the other chamber filled with its warding circle of unreadable symbols, its statue or golem of sorts, and its riddle that spoke of something, or someone, known as HUBRIS.

	Lothar was fascinated, leaning forwards on his staff with rapt attention.

	“And then there was the other chamber that we found.” Tristol said, pausing both for effect and the chill that crept over his spine at the memory. “It was open to the sky.”

	Lothar’s eyes narrowed.

	“A sky?”

	“Just… a sky.” Tristol explained. “It wasn’t an illusion, there wasn’t a horizon, and we didn’t see the Spire or the Outlands, just void stretching off.”

	“And there was a statue of The Lady…” He continued.

	“Stop!” Lothar said firmly, silencing him with an open hand. “Please do not continue with anything beyond that. I have no need, nor interest in learning any further on this topic.”

	Lothar seemed honestly worried.

	“But in any event, we drove off the rats.” Tristol said with a nod, skipping over things a bit. “Jeremo was quite happy with the results.”

	“As should be expected.” Lothar said, happy at the change in topic. “And I should expect that he compensated you each accordingly. He’s usually quite reliable in that regard. He can chatter more than any skull of mine if you let him, and he’s perhaps a bit too motivated at times, but he keeps to his word.”

	Tristol was in agreement as there was a heavy shuffle upon the staircase. He turned and watched as what first appeared to be a ghoul descended into the chamber holding a book in its outstretched, wickedly clawed hands.

	“And here is your prize.” Lothar said, motioning the ghoul to hand Tristol the thick tome it carried.

	Rather than being a ghoul however, the creature was a golem, and an exquisitely crafted one at that. The Master’s pet construct was carved from a natural piece of dusky colored bloodstone, flecked with other minerals so as to give the appearance of the slick, putrescent flesh of an actual ghoul.

	“Thank you.” Tristol said, accepting the book from the golem. “But since I would like to make a copy of this, what sort of price do you think will be appropriate?”

	“Information of some sort.” Lothar said while the golem retreated to a position against a wall. “Nothing more than that, and I won’t specify much at this point. If I come with a question or two, that might suffice, or otherwise if you come across a secret or two that you feel would be appropriate, that should satisfy me as well. I won’t be too demanding; the cost is really only a formality with me.”

	Tristol cocked his head and pondered what might suffice.

	“How would you like to know a way into the underhalls of the Palace of the Jester?” He suggested. “I can provide you with maps, though they won’t be of much use as you probably gathered before. But, and this might suffice for what you want, there’s a way in that doesn’t involve the Palace itself or the catacombs under the Lady’s Ward.”

	Lothar inclined his head and listened.

“The Infinite Staircase opens into it.” Tristol said. “And I can tell you where the doorway is on both sides.”


***​


----------



## Shemeska

The chamber was small, barely large enough to contain a scrying pool and a number of portals leading to other, far-flung places across the astral. Though it had been crafted recently, and relatively few had given their lives to fuel its expansion as a pseudo-demiplane upon the Astral, illusions and warped space made it seem all the larger. Barely thirty feet wide, it resembled an open-air cupola at the summit of a tower, overlooking a vast evergreen forest eternally perched on the twilight cusp of dusk or dawn.

It wasn’t home; it was far too normal for that. It had only the pretensions of comfort, and while some might marvel at the magical prowess displayed in its creation, it was never to be anything more than a temporary tool. It was a nexus point, a place used to go to other places but never truly feeling like any sort of home beyond the temporary. 

But yet, there she was.

	The ‘Lady Brampandra’ sat perched in mid-air, feeling the illusory winds carry on them a hint of burning embers and death somewhere in the intangible realms always out of reach beyond the boundary of the tower’s expanse. It was comforting in a way, but she was more interested in the breeze passing through one of the portals. Through that sculpted hole in the fabric of the plane, the winds of the astral blew across her bare flesh, the tingle of thoughts bringing a shiver and a reminder of other places, if only so very distantly.

	Her eyes opened for a moment and gazed through the portal, glancing at the bizarre, sprawling device that had been constructed by Ghyris Vast. The human was now rotting in Pitiless, insurance in the event that the device didn’t work or worked improperly. The motley collection of cylinders, capacitors, oddly shaped and enchanted coils, and the maze of wires that connected them… she understood the interrelation between them all, she knew how to built it again from scratch, but as much as it pained her to admit it, she didn’t have the closest notion as to why the device could do what it promised to. 

That troubled her of course, but she didn’t allow the thought pattern to unduly intrude upon her conscious mind as she traced her eyes across the device, nestled there in its chamber beyond the portal. Those errant worries, she tossed them to the side just as she had discarded her clothing when she’d retreated from her githyanki underlings to meditate.

	She had just closed her eyes again when something in the chamber, in her, seemed to change. It was subtle, and only something that she would have been able to sense since it was something happening on the other side of the multiverse.

	It was a touch, puissant and erotic, first upon her face, then tracing a line down her neck, her breasts, her stomach…

	“The Divinity Leach is assembled.” She whispered, exhaling and shuddering at the lingering promise of violation. “It is nearly ready to test…”

	She twitched, still hung in midair, feeling beautiful for several moments, briefly unaware and unreminded of the pool of her own blood that had slowly dripped from her flesh onto the floor below. Obedient and eager, she turned to face another of the portals as it flickered and opened.

	The portal swirled with crimson and pitch, flooding the chamber with a tumult of screams that Pandemonium itself would have had difficulty matching. Within the open gate, the darkness seemed to smile, and a pair of eyes opened in the distance, looking across the planes at her.

“I have something for you.”

	The darkness crooned like a proud father to her. Its voice said nothing about the failure of her former servant, nor did it give comment on the punishment that she had delivered to the Ultroloth. The darkness was accepting, empowering, awesome and terrible.

	“What is it you bring my love?” She whispered, feeling the other’s hand or telekinetic influence toy with her physical body.

	“A tool. A servant.” He replied, the darkness sprouting the ivory flicker of grinning fangs. “A new creation for you to test, and one which has been tailored perfectly to the environment of the transitive planes.”

	Her head tilted to the side in curiosity, her ears twitched and she waited for her gift subserviently to arrive. But rather than emerge through the portal, the creature flickered and phased into being directly in the center of the chamber.

	“Examine it.” The darkness whispered through the portal. “You will find it malleable to your will, much more so than a true yugoloth. It has no free will of its own.”

	She gazed up at the creature, the first of them, which hovered silently above her.

	“This is what you have been toiling with of late?” She asked.

	“Among other things.” Her master answered. “What was seemingly lost on the prior two Oinoloths is the fact that the spawning pools beneath Khin-Oin are like a potter’s wheel or a silversmith’s workshop, not simply a collection of molds and the raw material to fill them with. They are places to create and design, to shape as needed, but the status quo was apparently sufficient for eons.”

	She examined the beast as its maker mentally snarled in disdain and creative arrogance.

	It was huge, suspended there in the twilight, fully twice the size of a mature Nycaloth, though a translucent Nycaloth starved and stretched till its limbs were painfully thin and elongated. It seemed delicate, almost frail in a way, its frame almost skeletally thin. But in that vague body plan was where the similarities to the first of the greater yugoloth castes ended, for the creature seemed more jellyfish than fiend.

	Sprouting from the creatures back and sides, rippling through the air and trailing below it, touching, sniffing, tasting the ether, were nearly fifty tentacles or pseudopods. Tiny flickers of sickly light glittered through the tendrils and the rest of the creature like the lures of a predatory, deep ocean fish. The creature was created as something to swim the depths of the trackless sea, the shadow deep, or the silvery void with equal skill, obeying its masters without thought and without question.

Had it been based on a Nycaloth though, it would have been a blind one, for the creature’s eye sockets were empty, with translucent bone and flesh stretched tight over the vacant sockets; vestigial orbits that had never been filled by the full sensory organs.

	“How many?” She questioned as a drop of her own spittle rolled down her chin.

	“Many.” The Oinoloth replied. “This is only the first to become mature. Others will follow for you to use as you see fit.”

	But the creature was aware, incredibly so. Bereft of sight, the creature could feel it way through any darkness, drifting silent and hungry till it was ready to devour its prey. It was a tool that only needed to be given a task.

	“These were created with you and your present task in mind.” The Ebon whispered. “Do with the Astraloths as you will, but testing them is secondary to other concerns.”

	She had other questions, other words of praise, other things to beg for, but the portal closed abruptly before she could find the words to speak.

	The contact severed, she slumped to the floor, sprawling naked on the marble, smearing involuntary patterns there in her own blood. Those few minutes of contact, brief as they were, even though they had been through the portal and not in person, they had been like a religious experience. She trembled, cold and exhausted, left in a mixture of awe and withdrawal as she scrambled up to her feet and gazed at the first of the creatures that had been gifted to her.

	It was hideous. It was perfect.

	And in hindsight, that was probably the feeling that its creator held regarding her.

	“A replacement for prior slaves.” She said, glancing up at the newborn yugoloth construct. “Unlike others, you will serve without question, and hopefully you will suffice to finish what others failed to do.”

	Pointedly, before instructing the Astraloth to its first task, she snarled and gazed down at the gemstone lying atop the pile of her discarded clothing that held the essence of Yethmil Kal’Suth.


***​

	“Is it just me or has Skalliska been in a much better mood lately?” Florian asked as she sat at with Toras at one of the inn’s tables.

	“Skalliska’s back?” Toras said. “I honestly haven’t noticed.”

	“Well it’s a little hard to not notice Sigil’s most flamboyantly dressed kobold with a spring in her step.” Florian commented.

	“You do have to grant her that.” Clueless said from over at the bar. “She does have a pretty good sense of style.”

	“So do Bleaknicks.” The fighter replied.

	“She said something about having found her faith again.” Clueless said. “Pretty much right after she got back from the Astral, she seemed rather intent on something.”

“It’s a powerful thing. Faith that is.” Florian added. “Sounds like she found what she’d gone out there to find in the first place.”

	“Hopefully it’ll give her a better sense to not be so impulsive.” Toras said. “I’m happy for her. Really, I am.”

The fighter held up his finger. 

“But if I have to drag her soul back kicking and screaming when she gets disintegrated for the umpteenth time yet again, I’m leaving her drifting off wherever it is that well dressed kobolds with large hats go when they die.”

	Florian shook her head at his impatience as he took a long, deliberate swig from his mug of ale.

	“Where’s that?” Came a soft, fluting, draconic voice.

	Toras looked up from his drink and into Amberblue’s draconic eyes, sparkling with curiosity and childlike innocence. Despite whatever the dragon had been through during his time in Carceri, which he had avoided speaking about, he’d regained almost all of his original nature, both as a faerie dragon and as a child.

	Of course, since then, the young dragon had spent most of his time divided between Nisha and Clueless, the former for her carefree and chaotic nature, and the latter for his fey heritage.

	“Here you go little guy.” Toras said, dodging the question, taking a bright and shiny apple out from the bag of holding at his waist.

	Amberblue’s tail flicked happily and his wings fluttered in anticipation.

	“For me?!” He chirped.

	“Who else?” Toras said, putting the apple down on top of the table. “I picked it up for you today when I was in the Market Ward.”

	The tiny dragon munched on the apple, wings still fluttering as the remainder of his body was wrapped around the piece of fruit.

	“Everyone here is awesome!” Amberblue said between mouthfuls of apple. “Toras is super nice too. He even got me the type of apple I like best of all!”

	Toras smiled with a warmth that would have seemed totally alien to anyone who had ever seen him in combat against a fiend.

	“Don’t you agree?” Amberblue asked, looking down at seemingly no one in particular before taking another munch from the apple.

	The table rocked back and forth.

	“What the hell was that?” Florian asked, picking up her mug of ale and sliding her chair back.

	“Oh, that was the table.” Amberblue stated matter-of-factly.

	Toras glanced at the faerie dragon questioningly.

	“The table?” He asked, looking down at the still slightly rocking piece of bar furniture.

	Florian glanced under the table, looking for a foot, or maybe a Nisha that might have pushed the table to make it jostle back and forth. There wasn’t either of those things however, just the floor, a few bits of apple, and nothing else to explain it.

	“What about the table?” Toras asked again.

	“Oh.” The dragon said with a toothy, apple-decorated smile. “I animated it yesterday!”

	“You what?” Florian asked.

	“I made the table my friend.” Amberblue said, once more through a massive mouthful of red delicious. “Yesterday.”

	“How?” Toras asked as the table rattled like a happy puppy.

	“I dunno… I just did.” Amberblue said with a tiny shrug. “I just asked nicely, wishing I could…”

	Florian held up a finger. “You can wish?”

	“I guess so…” Came the innocent reply and another shrug from the dragon.

	Florian and Toras were looking intently at one another. A little kid with wishes. Not exactly always safe.

	“This is a good apple uncle Toras.” Amberblue said, flashing a wide grin as his wings glittered a few different shades of sparkling colors, reflecting his mood.

	“Will you promise me that you won’t animate any more furniture?” Toras asked politely.

	“Umm, ok!” Amberblue replied. “But I also made the hutch over on the other wall my friend too. About a day before I animated the table here.”

	The table bounced slightly, and in seeming response, the hutch over by the back room rattled back with a clatter of silverware and napkin-rings.

	“Breasts of Sharess…” Florian muttered. “Umm…”

	“I like apples a lot.” Amberblue prattled on gleefully, completely and blissfully ignorant. “I like them by themselves. I like apple pie. I like apple tarts. And I even had a kamaerl… kamarel…caramel apple one time too! Apples are the most yummy things there is.”

	Toras warily smiled and nodded.

	“I wish I had a whole bunch more apples.” The dragon chirped even as his scaled tummy was starting to bulge.

	“Oh sh*t…” Florian said, a moment before the wish took effect.

	*CLATTER RUMBLE CRASH!*

	In the space of a single, pregnant moment, the doors from the kitchen, Tristol’s lab, and the back room were flung open and a veritable tide of apples rushed in, flooding the common room in several feet of ripe, juicy apples of every color imaginable.

	There was a chorus of startled cries from patrons, cooks, servers, and from the Portal Jammer’s owners as well, punctuated by a overjoyed, gleeful chirp of “Yay! Apples!”

	“What the hell happened?! Clueless?! Nisha!?” Tristol exclaimed as he climbed out of his lab, scrambling over a snowdrift of fruit several feet high.

	“We have apples.” Toras said, glancing over at Amberblue.

	“I have lots of apples!” The dragon responded, fluttering over to land atop a particularly large Granny Smith.

	Over at the bar, standing amid a pile of yellow and red apples, Clueless shook his head and gave an innocent expression. It hadn’t been him, not this time. At the same time, one of the regulars, a fairly heavy drinker, looked at his freshly drained shot glass and then at the room full of apples.

	“This is good stuff.” He said. “I’ll have another shot if you don’t mind.”

	“I think I may join you myself.” Clueless replied, gazing out at the hundreds of pounds of apples that filled the Portal Jammer.

	Once they cleared the place of apples, or found something to do with them, they would need to do something about the Faerie Dragon and his wishes. They already had a Xaositect, they already had  a half-fey with heavy magic, they didn’t need a little kid with wishes running amuck as well.


***​

	Several days passed, the inn was cleared of fruit, and relatively little of note transpired beyond a continued effort to ensure that Amberblue used his wishes early, and on something small and/or constructive. Business at the Inn was steady, Kiro and Skalliska were out and about on various errands, and Nisha was busy with the Faerie Dragon up on the roof, doing… something… and not answering any questions just as to what exactly she had up her sleeve.

And of course, the Portal Jammer was still running a special on Apple Pie.

	“Interesting.” Toras said, holding up a long, slim envelope as he walked up to where Florian, Tristol, Fyrehowl and Clueless were sitting. “We had some mail in the box.”

	“Who for?” Florian asked. “And don’t tell me that it’s more cr*p from the Mephit.”

	“No.” The fighter said, shaking his head. “Not the mephit. For one, the letter isn’t dripping and leaving a greasy residue on my hand. And two, it looks like actual professional level scribing and expensive paper.”

	“So who is it for and who is it from?” Tristol asked.

	“_To the owners of the Portal Jammer._” Toras said, reading the elegant script upon the letter’s front. “It doesn’t have a sender listed on the front though.”

	The fighter turned the letter over in his hand, looking for a name on the back. There was no name, but the glob of sealing wax he saw, and the symbol impressed upon it, a stylized S crowned by a thorny circlet, made it completely apparent who the sender was.

	Toras frowned, gingerly placed the letter down on the table, and looked to Tristol.

	“Please tell me that wasn’t cursed or otherwise ensorcelled?” He asked, shooting the letter a look of disdain. “Because if not, I’m going to go wash my hand after touching that.”

	Tristol gave the letter a quick once over, and didn’t notice any overt dweomers. The ink itself did seem to contain a milk sparkle of latent magic, but no curses, symbols, or any of the other more popular spells that might entrap such a letter. No, the ‘loth hadn’t sent them a malign contingency via post, the ‘loth was simply being herself: vain, intrusive, flippant, and self-serving.

	“The letter’s fine.” Tristol said.

	“Did she put perfume on the letter?” Fyrehowl said, sniffing the air and looking at the envelope.

“Yeah, smells like her.” Tristol replied. “Same perfume she had on last time she was here.”

	“Oh don’t say that!” Toras said, shaking his hand a bit more vigorously. “I don’t ever want any part of me to smell like her!”

	“You didn’t have to sleep with her...” Clueless thought to himself.

	“So, care to see what she has to say?” Tristol asked, breaking the seal and taking out several sheets of overly expensive paper.

	“No.” Florian answered. “But if we ignore her, it’ll only get worse…”

	“Shave her?” Toras muttered to himself. “Hell with that, one of these days I’m putting her through a window.”

	Tristol waited for the comments and bile to pass, and then recited the fiend’s ever so pleasant letter…


***​


----------



## Shemeska

Much has transpired in the recent past across the whole of Sigil’s social scene, events that ultimately of course led to my interest in your own inn, and my recent visit. 

You can only imagine my shock and dismay at the events of the past month that occurred in the establishment of your rivals at The Twelve Factols. Dreadful business that was, and with a ring of irony about it too. To think a highly respected, and upper class inn, tavern and gambling hall such as they would allow an adventuring band of drunken Glorium dwarves onto their premises and on top of that provide them with further alcohol and bawdry entertainment that ended up causing a liquor induced riot. I happened to be in that section of the Ward the next morning and I simply had to stop by to see the after effects.

I nearly soiled my feet by stepping into a puddle of urine left by one of the dwarves who was passed out upon the doorstep of the inn, and in fact I had to levitate within the building to avoid stepping in that and even worse detritus upon the floor. The sour smell of stale, spilt alcohol burned my nose, among other worse smells I can assure you.

Simply dreadful that such could happen to a well respected establishment such as the 12 Factols. I must say they’ve lost some of my respect following this, and I’ll likely turn my esteemed patronage elsewhere. After all, those places that I tend to frequent must keep themselves to a high standard for my enjoyment and benefit I deserve, and in turn they benefit by my business and association with them.

That said, during my brief visit to the Portal Jammer, I noticed a good number of traits that your own establishment has that pique my interest, but more so a good number that it lacks. Thus, here are my recommendations of changes to the menu, alcohol listing, decorum and other such accoutrements your inn could benefit from.


Décor: 

Nicer furniture is needed, especially open backed chairs for those patrons with tails or extended abdomens such as Formians or Gelugons. That’s one point I really did notice, despite having no tail myself. Though I could if I thought it might improve my figure, but then again, how could you improve upon my figure? I chuckle at the very idea.

	Beyond that, the main taproom could use more padding and cushioning on the chairs, more light and more space between the current tables. Candles might help at the tables, as well as some more magical lighting, and use either white light or reddish, my personal favorites anyways.

And while the force walls are a very nice touch, the magical protections on the building are rather pitiful. And really, who can’t scry into that attempted safe room in the rear of the tavern? I roll my eyes at whoever cast those spells. I do hope you didn’t pay for it. If you’d like I can suggest several mages in the city who could do a much better job, assuming you care to part with the jink they take to hire.

And do change the color of the glass in the largest window in the taproom, something with a pale tint to it.

And the rooms could use better quality sheets, plumper pillows, and more amenities for discriminating clients.

Have you thought about renting out the back chamber from the main taproom to business clients? That would certainly defray some of the costs to upgrade the inn.


Wines and Liquors: 

Your establishment does have some nicer and more palatable lower and middle end alcohols, but you do tend to lack a selection of finer wines and spirits, especially of the lower planar variety. And a touch of home is deeply appreciated by myself.

Kytonish Malbolge Brandy

Gehennan Grasshopper (lava poured over a living Grasshopper and vodka)

Pluton wines of most any variety, except for Hag spirits, they are simply dreadful, much like the hags that brew them.

The Marauder’s Mirth (my own drink, recently improved. 3 parts Scotch (lower planar origin*), 2 parts Razorvine sap, 1 part pureed Hordeling pineal gland (Grey Waste petitioner), and 1 part Carcerian lemon peel)

*None of that Bytopian swill, too light and far too often blessed in some manner. If I wanted to hurt myself, there’s more enjoyable ways than all but lighting my throat on fire in the process of getting drunk.


Entertainment:

I would very much suggest you never again have those dreadful Bleakers recite their poetry and play their airborne filth that passes for music again. More so, live music of a better variety would be appreciated. NO TANAR’RI COMPOSERS. Tanar’ri are really only good for one thing, much like certain Eladrin, but I doubt you have the space in your establishment for the proper rooms to be set aside for such carnal pleasures. Besides, there’s enough competition for such within the Clerks Ward already, no use in engaging in a useless expenditure. Some animated instruments even would add a touch of background music, but only have that during later business hours, not during the course of the day, and never before peak.


Food:

	And the food… where to begin... You need to have your cooking staff drawn and quartered. I can actually suggest a few Baatezu and even a Yugoloth or two that could do that for you cheap, or even free if you don’t mind more of a mess in the last case.

	Suffice to say, the food leaves much to be desired. The menu is small, bland, and doesn’t have any of the sweetmeats and delicacies I’m used to finding on the menus of similar establishments. 

	Daily specials are good, but it makes you seem like you’re just serving whatever you could buy cheap that morning just before it would have spoiled in the great bazaar. More deserts to go with an expanded selection of cognac and dry, sweet wines, as well as some delicacies like living food, pickled larvae steaks and select cuts from the same. And if you really want to start a rage and draw in business, serve some more exotic meats. Aquatic elf comes to mind, though I hear that Drow slow cooked in dilute spider venom has a tangy, smoky flavor as well. I had the chance recently to try that dish and I highly recommend it.

	If nothing else try to get some more exotic, and decidedly non-sentient outlands varieties of edible meats such of Khaasta, Quill, and Leomarsh. Bebelith eggs are quite nice with a dash of cinnamon, lemon, and brown sugar. Either raw or poached. But I’m sure you can find some decent cooks within Sigil to pry away from other better tasting kitchens across the wards.

	Good luck implementing my suggestions and better sense of taste, hopefully money isn’t an issue in all of them. I’ll have to make a point of stopping by in the near future to judge how you’re doing.

Love and platitudes,
Shemeska the Marauder


***​

	“Clueless?” Toras asked. “Can you replace one of the front windows with plate glass again?”

	“Why?” The bladesinger asked cautiously.

	“Because I’m gonna put her through one of them.”

	Florian chuckled.

	“She’s going through a window…” Toras repeated.

	“It is good advice though.” Florian said. “Sure she’s a vile, hellish b*tch of a godless abomination, but there was some good advice in there.”

	“Good advice under a pissy, self-serving pretence however.” Clueless said. “She’s going to visit again…”

	“About those windows?” Toras asked again.

	Clueless waved his hands. “She’s going to be judging us on just how much we cater to her whims, which means her suggestions in the letter.”

	“But they’re not all that bad.” Florian reiterated. “We can leave out some of the cr*p she snuck in there and just go with the sensible ones. We can see if some of the things specific to her can be done easily, and if so, we’ll humor her. If we do a decent job of not pissing her off, we might get advertisement.”

	“Maybe…” Toras said.

	“She’s going to show up anyhow.” Florian argued. “We might as well pacify her and get what we can out of it.”

	“What has she ever done for us?” Toras deadpanned.

	Clueless narrowed his eyes, inwardly seethed and grit his teeth.

	“Trashed the 12 Factols?” The cleric suggested. “What? You think it’s random that they were threatening us with legal action and all of a sudden a bunch of drunken dwarves flash mob their place a day or so after Miz Fuzzy just happens to mention it all.”

	Toras shrugged.

	“Of course the b*tch had their place trashed!” Florian said. “And I’m happy she did! I can’t stand that uppity bastard who owned the place! He deserved it.”

	“She was showing off, not doing us a favor.” Toras complained.

	“We can make a show of stroking her ego.” Florian said. “Yes it’ll be painful to smile and take the abuse, but it’s the best we can manage at the moment.”

	“_Better than having to stroke anything else of hers…_” Clueless thought to himself.

	“Make the best of a bad situation.” Florian continued. “We can at least get her off our backs for the moment. We have more important things to worry about than her.”

	They were still bickering over just how to respond to the Marauder’s letter and ‘suggestions’ when Tristol walked down into the taproom, somewhat dressed up, and on his way out apparently. There was something to the way he was moving too. Not quite a spring in his step, not quite nervousness, but a little of both.

	“Where are you headed out to?” Florian asked.

	“And why all dressed up?” Clueless said.

	The aasimar paused and looked at the others who were now of course all staring at him.

	“What?” He asked.

	“You’re nervous and you’re dressed nice.” Florian said. “What’s up?”

	Tristol blushed slightly. “Well… I’m taking Nisha out for dinner.”

	Clueless raised an eyebrow and gave him a quick once-over look.

	“I offered to treat her for dinner anywhere in the city.” Tristol said, still blushing. “And she said yes.”

	He smiled and quickly excused himself, eager to be on his way. But the moment the door closed and he was out of earshot, there was a distinct and prolonged, “Awwwww…”


***​

	Nisha was giggling slightly at the random blush that seemed to manifest every so often at the tips of Tristol’s ears. The mage was some curious mixture of nerves and smiles as he sat across the table from the tiefling, who despite her giggles at his mood was feeling much the same as him, with her tail twitching to and fro behind her chair.

	“This is a really nice place you picked out Nisha.” Tristol said as the waiter, an elven-descended aasimar, poured them both a glass of wine.

	“It’s out of the way.” She replied. “Cozy really. And the food’s just as good as anything you’d find in the Lady’s Ward, just without the people from the Lady’s Ward ruining the experience.”

	The restaurant, a tiny little out of the way place nestled in the Clerk’s Ward, was known as the ‘Cutter’s Vineyard’. It was a play on words really, since the restaurant itself was in the middle of a group of smaller buildings that had been intentionally allowed to become overgrown with razorvine. The dining area was on the rooftop, framed by vineyard type latticework covered in snarls of the abyssal plant, an elegant place with the contrast of a vineyard for Cutters and vines very capable of slashing a berk to ribbons.

	“You’ve got good taste.” Tristol said. “There’s a reason I suggested that you pick the restaurant and I’d pick up the tab. Well, multiple reasons really.”

	Nisha grinned.

	“It’s as good as anything in the Lady’s Ward.” She repeated. “We even get fancy bits of razorvine without any fiends wearing them.”

	Tristol laughed as Nisha made a face in mockery of the razorvine crowned King herself.

	“I swear…” Tristol said. “If I’m lucky to ever come to know half the little spots in Sigil, good, bad, or otherwise that you seem to know like the back of your hand, I’ll count myself in good shape.”

	“You’ve been in Sigil for what? Less than a year?” The tiefling prodded, tapping a finger on the table. “You’ve officially shed any Clueless Prime designation you ever had.”

	“Well, that’s certainly a positive thing.” He replied. “I’m glad I’ve gotten better.”

	“You should have seen yourself the first time I met you.” Nisha said with a chuckle. “All wide eyed, nervous… like a modron in Limbo…”

	Tristol raised an eyebrow and grinning. “And if I recall correctly, you almost fell off a roof the first time I met you.”

	“It was slippery…” Nisha replied. “And though nobody saw it up there, there was… a… glabrezu… with a grease spell… yes, exactly! That’s why I almost fell. Yes…”

	Tristol laughed as Nisha’s tail twitched, rattling its bell.

	“Anyways, you did fill out the paperwork for shedding your ‘Clueless Prime’ designation yes?” Nisha asked with as straight of a face as she could muster.

	Tristol paused and tilted his head sideways. “Say what?”

	“Yeah, the paperwork for those sorts of things.” Nisha said. “Very important. And you know how I am with dotting my I’s and crossing my T’s on all things official and all such. There’s a tax if you haven’t filled it out.”

	“A tax?”

	“Yeah, I think you have to pay for dessert too!” She said with a wink.

	They giggled some more and reminisced a bit over their first experiences together when they were being blackmailed by Bartol Trenevain and his dubious masters. The nostalgia was pleasant, despite some of the circumstances that it had involved, and the honestly short period of time that had elapsed since.

	But dinner soon arrived and there was a momentary lull in conversation, replaced with a clatter of silverware on china and pleasant murmurs of appreciation at the food. In between bits of chicken, mouthfuls of salad greens or chunks of bread there were glances and smiles between them both.

	There was certainly something there between them, but also the uncertainty that was always a prelude to something beyond friendship, perched there on the windowsill of intimacy as a bit of a stumbling block, waiting for one person or the other to make the bold first step.

	“So…” Nisha said, dabbing her chin with her napkin. “What do you think about me?

	Behind him, Tristol’s tail poofed out slightly.

	“Well…” He said, trying to avoid coughing on the piece of food he’d awkwardly swallowed. “I like you a lot.”

	“That’s not descriptive.” Nisha quipped back. “And you’ll have your turn to do the same. Be blunt.”

	“You’re spontaneous.” Tristol said almost immediately. “You’re a free spirit, and you seem to really have found yourself a niche in life.”

	Nisha grinned. “I can accept that I think.”

	“Now I know that Skalliska and Toras have called you crazy before…”

	Nisha stuck out her tongue and smiled.

	“But I prefer to think of you as whimsical.”

	“Not bad… Not bad…” Nisha said, mulling over the descriptors in her mind.

	“My turn now.” Tristol said. “What do you think about me?”

	“I think you’re cute.” She replied.

	“Cute?” Tristol asked, one ear twitching. “Not the first thing I’d think to describe myself as.”

	“Oh sure, argue with me…” Nisha replied with a smile, reaching across the table and tapping Tristol’s hand. “I think you’re cute.”

	“Anything else?”

	“Hmm…” She pondered for a moment. “You’ve got a head for magic, and I really like that too. You’re really talented.”

	“I like magic, though on another level it came with expectations.” He said. “Home was all about magic and nothing much else. It’s both good and bad in different ways.”

	“You’ll have to tell me about where you grew up sometime then.” She said, perching her head on her elbows. “You’ve mentioned Halruaa before, and it sounds pretty exotic, and certainly different from where I grew up.”

	The last statement came with her tail idly gesturing in multiple directions, up, down, left, right, Sigil itself.

	“I wouldn’t call Sigil something other than exotic now.” Tristol said. “Halruaa was an interesting place, but it doesn’t compare to a fraction of what happens in Sigil on a daily basis. Mages everywhere in Halruaa, but hardly anyone ever visits because they’re paranoid about their magic being exposed to anyone on the outside. So day in day out you don’t have much anything different.”

	“I wasn’t always able to appreciate Sigil in the same way though.” Nisha replied. “The Hive never really gave much luxury for a good chunk of my life. I was more concerned about eating and staying safe than sightseeing. I’m jaded to the place with the best of them.”

	Tristol nodded. “But you’ve done well for yourself in every way.”

	Nisha shrugged.

	“And you even managed to learn magic along the way too.” Tristol added. “How did you actually manage that?”

	“There’s a story behind that of course.” She said with a grin. “And I only know a little magic, so let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

	“Still, you’re a wizard nonetheless.”

	She held up a finger to correct him. “Technically I’m a wild mage.”

	One of Tristol’s ears twitched. “So…”

	“Yep! Every time I cast a spell there’s a random chance of a wild surge!”

	Tristol went for his wine rather abruptly and downed the remainder of the glass.

	“Aren’t you glad that you’re the one casting most of the magic and leaving the sneaky stuff to me and Skalliska?” Nisha asked with a perky grin.

	“I’m glad that you’re good at what you do.” Tristol said, eyes blurry from the quick shot of alcohol.

	“I’ll learn more magic at some point.” Nisha said. “I might even ask you to teach me.”

	“I’d be happy to do so, though we might have some differences in how we cast certain things.”

	“I’ll get around to it eventually.” Nisha said with a shrug. “I’m just not one for sitting down and studying. It’s a bit too ordered for me.”

	“You seem to very happily embrace Chaos.” Tristol replied. “And speaking of which, you’ll have to tell me about the Xaositects some time.”

	“They’re oh so fun…” She said. “When the time’s right I might take you to meet some of them that I hang around with when I just vanish from the inn every so often.”

	“Is that a threat or a promise?” Tristol asked with a grin. “They have an interesting reputation suffice to say.”

	“-I- have an interesting reputation.” She replied. “Just ask Toras or Skalliska. Yet you still asked me out to dinner tonight.”

	Nisha held up a finger dabbed in gravy and grinned.

	“You have a point.” Tristol said, moments before he had a dab of said gravy on the tip of his nose.

	“And you have gravy on your nose.” Nisha giggled.

	Tristol dabbed himself with his napkin and chuckled. The tiefling was impulsive, that was for certain. But soon enough, dessert arrived and they both smiled and nibbled at the pastries and custard, quite enamored with the course of the evening and happily warmed emotionally.

	“I have to ask one thing.” Tristol said, poking his fork at a bit of apple pie. “What have you been up to with Amberblue the past day or two?”

	The bell on the tip of Nisha’s tail rattled.

	“You’re grinning.” Tristol said. “And I’ve noticed that you have the habit of jingling that bell whenever you’re up to something.”

	“Usually.” She corrected him with a grin fit for a chaos imp.

	“Usually?”

	“I just do that sometimes to break any pattern and keep people on their toes.” She replied. “What? You expect me to be predictable?”

	Tristol chuckled and shook his head.

	“No, not really, though I can hope for close guessing on my part.”

	Nisha was giggling again.

	“Trust me.” She said. “You’ll find out what I’ve been up to with Amberblue. Nothing explosive, not this time, and nothing illegal.”

	“Well that’s good.” He replied. “A relief actually. But you’ve got me even more curious now.”

	“That’s the point silly…”

	Nisha didn’t relent on that though, only telling him that he’d find out, that he’d enjoy it, and above all, it’d keep the faerie dragon from conjuring even more apples into the Portal Jammer. That seemed to pacify him, and the once again lapsed into talking about their views on various subjects, their likes and dislikes, and other things as they nibbled at dessert.

	When they were finished, and Tristol had left a very generous tip, they walked back out to the street below. They were more than just smiling and comfortable as they left the Cutter’s Vineyard, they were emotionally giddy. He’d enjoyed their dinner together and so had she. Despite their differences they really did make a curiously appropriate pair, a cute couple to any passersby.

	Of course, the karmic wheel of the multiverse was much more apt to turn when given a little nudge.

It didn’t have to wait long though, as it was only a few blocks later on the way back to the Portal Jammer when Nisha leaned in and gave Tristol a kiss.


***​

	Back in his room, Clueless opened a window, conjured an extra light and opened the book that Tristol had somehow managed to obtain a copy of.

	“Magic and Antimagic – Karsus of Eileanar” Clueless said, letting his tongue wander over the title of the book.

	Despite the apparent rarity of the tome, which according to Tristol was originally written thousands of years ago, the book that now lay open on the table in front of him was in remarkable condition. Though small segments of the book seemed to have been repeatedly and obsessively perused at some point in the past, the majority of the pages were virtually as crisp as the day that they had been first set within the binding.

	“How the hell did you manage to find a copy of this Tristol?”

	The aasimar had never actually mentioned where he had found a copy. He’d simply vanished for an afternoon and come back to the inn with the heavy book and a pleasant smile upon his face, smelling of the distinctive reek of the Lower Ward.

	“Apparently A’kin has his claws on more than just oddities.” Clueless said with a bit of a whistle. “I knew he was talented, and he carried all sorts of stuff that wasn’t on public display, but this? This is more than I’d have expected out of him.”

	Be it a random, a fluke of chance, storm clouds of some dark providence, or the twisted turn of some karmic Wheel, something stirred in the bladesinger’s mind. Something opened its eyes and looked out of his, something that had last done so in a pique of malignant curiosity on Carceri’s layer of Cathrys. That time had been brief: a moment’s glimpse across the planes to peer out through a window of flesh and spirit, a periscope of will and want boring through the fragile membranes of its mortal host but for a short time before once more lapsing into quiescence.

	This time was different.

	This time it would make its presence known.


***​


----------



## demiurge1138

Wow. Nice job restoring everything. It's impressive how much stuff has been lost, maybe permanently, after the crash.

Demiurge out.


----------



## Clueless

Yeah - I've been noticing how much is just ... *toast*. It's amazing how much conversation these boards have over just a few months.


----------



## Shemeska

demiurge1138 said:
			
		

> Wow. Nice job restoring everything. It's impressive how much stuff has been lost, maybe permanently, after the crash.
> 
> Demiurge out.




It was convenient (if that applies) that the last backup was at the end of 2005, since I started new documents for my SHs as of Jan 1st this year, and then it's parsed by update. So just a lot of copy and paste on my end to bring everything back up to speed.

But the loss of comments, and more so the loss of entire storyhours, threads, etc is a lot worse than inconveniance on my end.


----------



## demiurge1138

Shemeska said:
			
		

> It was convenient (if that applies) that the last backup was at the end of 2005, since I started new documents for my SHs as of Jan 1st this year, and then it's parsed by update. So just a lot of copy and paste on my end to bring everything back up to speed.
> 
> But the loss of comments, and more so the loss of entire storyhours, threads, etc is a lot worse than inconveniance on my end.



On anyone's end. It's pretty depressing all round. Hopefully things can get back to speed quickly and it's good to see so many people trying their best to making that happen. 

Speaking of which, I'm going to go restart that thread in Homebrews that got wiped out...

Demiurge out.


----------



## Shemeska

Clueless looked down at the page and its intricate mystical diagrams, each interspersed with dozens of blocks of text and even more notations regarding various footnotes and asides. The material was incredibly complex, and written in such a way as to require a large amount of background knowledge on various topics that while obscure during the height of Netheril’s Shadowed Age, were virtually unheard of in most mortal societies now, thousands of years later.

	“This is going to take longer than I expected.” Clueless said, having spent a good and solid thirty minutes trying to make sense of one particular page.

	“Karsus was either a genius or just completely insane…” He continued, sliding the book back with a sigh.

“He was a bit of both as I’m to understand it.”

	The sudden commentary was crisp, measured and distinct, punctuating the silence of the room like the sharp stab of a knife.

	Clueless had been alone, and he’d locked the door to his room earlier.

	“What the hell?” He whispered as he spun around, knocking his chair over and drawing Razor before the furniture had actually touched the floorboards.

	His breathing shallow, the bladesinger’s eyes darted from side to side, searching for the intruder in his room or any signs of a scry focus lurking in view. There were no sign of either however, and the only sounds to be heard were Clueless’s own breathing and the hush background of the Clerk’s Ward through the still securely sealed window overlooking the street.

	His hand still tight around the hilt of his blade, apprehension and tension both leaching his knuckles of blood, leaving them white against the leather, Clueless turned a complete circle about his room.

	Nothing.

	“Maybe I just need more sleep.” He whispered to himself before rubbing a hand over his still tender back. “Or maybe… no, I think I’d have noticed side effects of that before now.”

	The room was empty, the door was still locked when he checked the knob, and the window was still firmly latched. He must have been mistaken, or more likely he’d momentarily fallen asleep while trying to understand the intricacies of Karsus’s theories.

	 He yawned and looked out the window and down at the lights of the street below, just before there was the sound of rustled vellum behind him as a single page in the book was turned. Clueless’s eyes went wide and he slowly turned around.

	Hovering in the air above his desk, one clawed hand outstretched towards the tome with a single talon having just turned the page, an arcanaloth glanced up and made eye contact with Clueless, a sly grin playing across its muzzle.

	The ‘loth had fur of a chocolate brown color, fading to a lighter tan around his hands and feet, with speckles of black and light brown around his ears and down his neck. Somewhere, Clueless had seen him before. The fiend was dressed in a red sorcerer’s robe, trimmed in gold at the edges around the cuffs of the sleeves, and at the hem where it hung loosely in the air below the ‘loth’s hovering form. The robe was gathered at the fiend’s waist by a sash cut from the hide of a Rakshasa, the two backwards articulated paws dangling like macabre tassels.

	The fiend smiled that knowing smile once more and opened a slim book of his own, setting it down in his lap before likewise producing an inkpot out of nowhere to drift in loose orbit around his body.

	Clueless had indeed seen him before. The ‘loth had been standing there as colleague and co-conspirator at the side of the Ebon when the Oinoloth had taken control of Khin-Oin. And now he sat suspended in the air, legs crossed and book in lap, deftly licking the tip of a pen.

	“Lord Helekanalaith…” Clueless began warily.

	It couldn’t be real. The Keeper of the Tower Arcane was an archfiend by any standard, even before his rise in influence under the new Oinoloth, and The Lady uniformly barred such beings from entry into Sigil.

	“And indeed She does.” The Keeper said, as if on cue. “I’m not here in person, not physically at least. That much eludes even myself, though I suppose I should appreciate and feel flattered by your impression of my power and ability.”

	Clueless released his grip on his sword and sat down. There was really little he could do, and the subsequent bemused smile on the Yugoloth lord’s face added a bit of confirmation to the notion that the fiend could indeed parse through his thoughts.

“Oh it is –most- tedious to link a spell from the lower planes into the City of Doors.” The fiend said as he turned away from Clueless and drifted across the room to hover before the window. 

“Her Serenity is fickle about what passes through her portals. But it is more sieve than shield, and this mind you, manages to pass unabraded.”  Helekanalaith continued, unconsciously scribbling in his book.

	There was precedent for such at least. Skall, the late Factol of the Dustmen was apparently able to project himself, in some illusory manner, into Sigil from the Citadel of the Soul in the Negative Energy Plane. A yugoloth lord doing something very similar wasn’t too much a stretch from there.

“It is a beautiful city I will ready admit,” The Keeper said, his eyes shedding a faint golden glow onto the glass. “Though the Lower Ward reminds me more of home than current whereabouts. I can see why The Marauder does so enjoy this place, among other reasons.”

The fiend vanished and reappeared directly in front of Clueless.

“And you see, that is what makes this situation of mutual benefit.” He said. “I gain another ear inside this place, and wherever you may happen to travel, as well as yet another motivated person who despises The Marauder. But that matters not.”

	Clueless wrinkled his brow at the mention of Shemeska’s name. Evidently she was not on perfect terms with the Keeper, but the archfiend did not elaborate on his meaning as he continued to speak.

“I’ll repeat a question for you that I myself was asked once, and I answered, as you will too.” Helekanalaith said, pointing at Clueless with the tip of his pen. “What is it you want? For you see, I have much, much that I could provide, much that I could give. Some of it could come freely, some with a price attached. But I am nothing if not amenable.”

	“Why would I want something from you?” Clueless asked. “And how did you get inside my head?”

	Helekanalaith smiled and held out one of his hands, palm up.

	“Because you have no other way of ridding yourself of my ability to riffle through your mind, and given your past experience with the Marauder and that bauble in your ankle I think that my presence would not be high on your list of passionate unions.”

	Clueless snarled at the memory.

	“Exactly.” Helekanalaith said. “You might as well either profit in some way from my presence, or earn yourself free of it. And given your interest in the Free League, I should think you amenable to trading information. Why not make this a two-way relationship by cooperation? Because otherwise I might be content to simply siphon away what I find interesting.”

	The fiend’s last statement was decidedly colder and more matter-of-fact. 

	“You’ve had time to look around inside my head.” Clueless said. “So why not tell me how you got in there in the first place?”

	The fiend smiled and an image appeared within his still outstretched and open hand. Cupped within his palm, cradled by his claws, was a blood red scrying orb.

	“Son of a b*tch…” Clueless sighed as he recognized the globe that he had taken from the dead arcanaloth, Parphinias, in Elysium’s third layer.

	“If it makes you feel any better, it was never intended for you.” Helekanalaith said as he dissolved the illusion in his hand. “It was simply a little cursed bauble to be passed around in the ranks below me, allowing me to occupy the minds of various underlings. I’m rather amused by the fact that it happened to fall into your hands, doubly so the irony since you were Shemeska’s puppet at one time. The chances of such…”

	“What was _your_ answer to that question?” Clueless asked. “The one you said that you’d been asked before.”

	The fiend didn’t reply, but seemed to underline something in his book, flashing that knowing smile again and seemingly amused.

“One thing I will require of you however,” Helekanalaith said, looking back up, “is the True Name of my late, departed, missing, dearest Larsdana.”

	Involuntarily, Clueless thought back to a tiny box of true names that they had discovered in the Incantifers’ maze. Larsdana Ap Neut had been one of those entities whose true name was listed. Remembering that and making eye contact with the fiend, the ‘loth tilted his head in acknowledgement of the truth of the memory.

“She meant much to me,” He said with false humility. “So much more in her absence than in her life though you understand. Stumbling blocks, regardless of their nature must inevitably be cleared.  Do me this small mandatory favor, and perhaps I shall do one for you.”

	“And if I don’t?” Clueless asked.

	“You are only one of many ears, eyes, or hands that I have within the City of Doors.” The fiend said as a simple statement of fact, not so much a threat. “That said, deliver the original paper within the next hour to the locality beyond a portal bound by the third and forth exterior columns on the eastern wall of an abandoned temple in the Lower Ward, which you have in the past visited. The portal key is a bit of ash rubbed upon your forehead in the shape of a circle."

	“And how do I get you to leave me alone and take your leave from my head?” Clueless asked. “You said there were ways of that.”

	“Indeed there are two such things that immediately spring to my mind.” Helekanalaith explained. “Two little thorns in my side that I do wish to ultimately see removed as such, but which either lie outside of my sphere of influence at present, are problems with no easy solution, or are simply questions with no answer in sight.”

	“Go ahead and tell me if you would.”

	The ‘loth nodded and seemed to relax as he hung suspended in the air, losing any adversarial sense and assuming a tone of master to pupil or taskmaster to loyal servant. Indeed, the fiend had only something to gain out of the bladesinger, and had never in the past, or at the current time, come into conflict with Clueless or his fellows directly.

	“The first of the tasks that I would accept as payment for release from this sort of quiescent servitude is thusly: in the third layer of Baator, Minauros, within the Kyton city of Jangling Hiter there is something that I want, something that belongs to me.
	Specifically, there is an object within one of the towers of the fortress of Panos Qytel there in the Kyton ward of that city.”

	“And just what is this object?” Clueless asked.

	“We will call it an object and leave it at that.” The ‘loth replied. “I have more of them, but I want this particular one back for various reasons. It was gifted to Quaheim, the late co-regent of the city, and currently rests in the ignorant possession of his brother Quimath. The fool does not know what he has, only that his brother considered it important and had been given it by a Nycaloth in service to some Gehennan Ultroloth.”

	“Well…” Helekanalaith said with a frown and a snarl. “That Ultroloth is now dead, dangling from the spires of Khin-Oin, slowly feeding the Wastrels. He foolishly gave away what was not his to give, and I want it back.”

	“So I walk into the fortress of a Kyton lord and steal one of his prized possessions?” Clueless asked with a skeptical tone.

	“I never said these tasks were easy.” The fiend replied. “That one is difficult if not suicidal, but it will more than earn you enough favor from me to release you from being another looking glass of mine into the City of Doors.”

	“And the other task?”

	“The other one is less defined.” Helekanalaith said. “But frankly more of interest to me. Simply stated, find me the person known to be creating a revision to the Book of Keeping. I want them alive, their copy of the book and their notes intact in my hands or incinerated utterly, and if you must kill them, I want their body, and their soul or truename if possible.”

	“Who are they?” Clueless asked.

	“If I knew that I wouldn’t be tasking you to hunt them down.” He replied, flicking one of his ears in mild irritation. “Suffice to say, they are a considerable and nagging thorn in my side. Finding their location and identity would earn you favor, possibly above and beyond release from my service.”

	“You don’t sound like other ‘loths, not entirely.” Clueless said, apparently much to the Keeper’s chagrin.

	“I could of course channel the one you have been most familiar with, our most beloved King of the Crosstrade, and state that it’s because I’m ‘not most other ‘loths’.” Helekanalaith said with a smirk. “But no, I have no need for bluster and dramatics for dramatics sake. I think you’ll simply find me pragmatic above all else.”

	Clueless shrugged.

	“You, by way of odd, unfortunate circumstance, have me lurking in your mind.” The ‘loth continued. “Naturally I seek to gain something out of this sudden and unexpected relationship, though it is by no means anything of large importance to me in the grand scheme of things. I can simply sit back and filter information to myself through you, which may or may not negatively impact you and yours, or I can do so while giving you objectives that would buy your release, and provide me with a windfall should you achieve them.
	Ultimately I’m not at any loss at any stage of this, and I have only something to gain by giving you a bit of extra motivation. Something a tad sweeter than my Oinoloth would call the Illusion of Hope, but it is there in tangible form nonetheless. Not quite a carrot to be dangled in front of you, but the analogy suffices for the most part.
	I am pragmatic, and I am equitable.”

	“Better than some others.” Clueless replied.

	The fiend shrugged and then his voice assumed a much colder tone.

	“Do not however make the mistake of assuming that I am also merciful in any way.” Helekanalaith said very firmly. “You would be sorely mistaken to view me as anything other than what I am.”

	“Noted…” Clueless said. “But on that note, I do have one question for you.”

	The fiend inclined his muzzle and peered down at the bladesinger.

	“Why haven’t you just sent someone to kill me and my companions? You must know what we’ve done on the Astral, and in Carceri. We know that yugoloths are involved there, somehow wrapped up in all of that, though we’re still not sure why.”

	The fiend chuckled.

	“I’m not involved there.” He said. “You aren’t impacting my interests in the least, and so…”

	The ‘loth shrugged and remained mum on the subject. In reality he was well aware of the involvement of the Ebon’s protégé, but didn’t really care one way or the other if the warped little harlot suffered any setbacks or not in her current pursuits at the Ebon’s beck and call. Difficultly on her part simply made him and his own look better by comparison, just as similar situations had each and every time that the late Bubonix had his tower razed to the ground by the Gehreleths.

The various ideological factions of the yugoloth hierarchy, the Ebon’s own conspirators within the Wheels and his favorites alike were united only to a certain extent, loyal within limitations and subject to caveats; they were yugoloths after all.

	“Do as you will.” He explained. “I have no stake in the matter, but neither will you find me any sort of wellspring of information on the topic either.”

	The fiend gazed out of the window once more and closed his book as his eyes seemed to grow distant for a moment, like his attention was being distracted by events or topics of conversation elsewhere.

“Understand,” he said, turning back to Clueless, “as much as I might enjoy being inside your head each passing moment of the day, The Tower keeps me occupied dearly. What with the Blood War’s day to day progress passing through my hands and a million contracts and blood oaths to pull, twist and manipulate to fill the coffers of me and mine, it is a busy life. All too often there is so much to do and so little time to sit back and observe things beyond the prosaic details of the day. But I make the time as I do now with you my mortal friend.”

	Clueless could only sigh at the mild intonation of delight in the fiend’s voice.

	“But now, I have other duties to attend to, the hour is late and you have something to deliver.” The fiend instructed. “I would advise you to do so posthaste…”

	And with that last instruction lingering on the air, the fiend evaporated like so much smoke, leaving not a trace of his presence behind, leaving Clueless to slump back in his chair, cursing circumstance and his own dumb luck.

	Exactly six seconds later he blacked out.


***​

	“All praise and glory to Doragon the lord of Might and Storms, light of a million souls, master of the prime material!”

	Skalliska turned and winced at the sudden outburst by the garishly dressed cleric brandishing a lightning bolt shaped rod.

	“Pay homage to him with coin and prayer!” The cleric continued. “And in his mercy he will give his favor unto thee!”

	Skalliska rolled her eyes again and continued walking past him and his tiny cubicle of a shrine.

	“No! Have faith in Learix the Mother of Wine and Song!” Shouted a rival cleric in the next shrine as Skalliska walked past it as well.

	“Listen not to all of these falsehoods!” A third cleric called out. “Only faith in Finder will bring you happiness!”

	“Then why have I never heard of any of you?” Skalliska muttered to herself as she brushed past them all and a hundred other fanatical clerics of a hundred other minor and unheard of powers in the lowest level of the Spiral Cathedral.

	The sprawling complex on the border of the Lower and Lady’s Ward was a veritable hedge maze of stalls, niches, and shrines of each and every saint, demigod and power too obscure or otherwise new to Sigil to have a base of followers to support having an established place of worship therein.

	As such, the warren of minor temples was a place of open, brutal, and sweltering competition between minor and upstart faiths, all seeking to further establish themselves within Sigil, all in cold or oftentimes open conflict with one another for the hearts, minds, and purse strings of the public. Each of the clerics tending to their so-called temples ranged from naïve and idealistic to jaded to pushy to outright dangerous, depending on the exact tenets of their particular faith.

	Skalliska however wasn’t honestly interested in any of them that she passed. She was only interested in one of the upper floors of the complex, where most of the non-humanoid faiths had covered just over a third of the area. That was the one place where she might manage to find a cleric of a power she had assumed long dead, one who sparked something in her heart that might well be considered hope.

	But of course, this entailed working her way through the crowd of semi-itinerant preachers, priests, moral shepherds, shysters, frauds, would-be messiahs, and fishers of souls that packed every available inch of land where they might conceivably hang an icon, drape a prayer cloth, or pitch an altar. The kobold was thankfully short enough though to weave her way through the babbling and proselytizing crowd at around hip height, avoiding the worst of it all.

	She was only interested in finding a shrine, or even just a single follower or priest of Saravtesh, lord of shadows and illusions. In the myths of her childhood, the Scaled Shadow was one who rewarded the quick of wit and hand. He was a subtle god, neither good nor evil, but nestled somewhere in the twilight between the two, focused upon the needs of his faithful more so than any grand ideological battles beyond his chosen people.

	But of course, finding a deity of shadows, stealth and illusion might be easier said than done, especially in the clerical madhouse that Skalliska currently wandered. Eventually the powers of humans, elves and others gave way to dwarves, gnomes, and hin, followed by dozens of others and finally giving way to those faiths worshipped by beings termed ‘monstrous’ by some.

	Passing by the delicate and ornate Ashram of Ravanna, then an apparently abandoned and defaced shrine to Manzicorian, nestled close to a shrine to Urdlen, Skalliska once more tried to gain her bearings. If the deity who seemed to call out to her was present in some way within the confines of the Cathedral, his shrine would be somewhere close by, given the other powers represented in the area.

	If only she could find it. 

Or maybe he would send someone to her.

	“You seem confused child.” Came a voice in pidgin-draconic from behind Skalliska.

	The voice was distinctly kobold in accent and intonation, and for a moment, Skalliska’s heart raced with hope.

	“I see you wandering, looking, searching, seeking, hoping…” The kobold cleric whispered in a sing-song voice. “But there is only one place that you need seek, and you have found it. Or rather this humble hand of the Horned Sorcerer has found you amid this labyrinth of falsehood that you have wandered till now.”

	Skalliska turned around to face the cleric, her hopes being dashed when she saw the carved gnome skull transfixed by a spike hung upon the wall of the shrine.

“Our father Kurtulmak welcomes all of his children.”


***​

	Clueless opened his eyes and looked around in no small amount of confusion. He was still sitting upright at his desk, not slumped over atop the Karsus tome as he would have been had he simply fallen asleep.

	The most immediate thought in his head was that he had indeed fallen asleep, and he had something to deliver on the other bloody side of Sigil. But a quick glance out the window showed that the level of light in the sky had not changed, so he hadn’t been out long.

	“F*cking ‘loth…” Clueless then cursed, glancing down immediately to the gem in his ankle, seriously worried that the ‘loth might have managed a way to activate it, once more making him a puppet at the fiend’s pleasure.

	But no, the gem had not changed, and it felt the same as it had since he’d regained full control over himself.

	Then he noticed that his hand was deftly clutching a pen, the Karsus tome had been pushed to one side, and there was a sheet of parchment atop the desk covered in a few brief bits of writing in his own hand, with the exception of a single baroque sigil, the letter J in the Infernal alphabet superimposed above a classical symbol of a maze or labyrinth.

	“F*ck my crowded head…” Clueless muttered to himself with a mixture of resignation, bemusement, and curiosity as he looked down at what he had been compelled to write.

_ “I thought this as appropriate a time as ever to have a word with you, given that you’ve started to read that particular book by Karsus, and with the other occupant in your head making himself known.

	As I believe I said before, you seem to attract things of power, so here’re a few words, a quotation in fact by someone who is not held in high regards by either of us. And in case you weren’t already aware of them and their content, now you are:

	“And the blackest of pleasures when I whispered into the ear of the Archwizard Karsus, telling him secrets not meant for the ears of mortal or mundane fiend alike. His arrogance was his downfall, and that of his empire and the goddess he worshipped as well. Thus did a fiend conspire to slay a god… and succeed.” – Vorkannis the Ebon _


***​


----------



## Clueless

And no. That blasted scry ball was *not* meant for Me! My luck in this game ran towards the ridiculous...


----------



## demiurge1138

So, wait... how many horrible things have taken up shop in Clueless' head at this rate? I count at least four by now.

Demiurge out.


----------



## Clueless

So far in game: Shemmie via AnkleRock (no longer resident), Helekanalaith (current resident), The Jester (current resident); technically you could say Razor but I don't think that counts.


----------



## shilsen

Clueless said:
			
		

> And no. That blasted scry ball was *not* meant for Me! My luck in this game ran towards the ridiculous...



 At least you can say you were by far the most popular of the PCs. In a manner of speaking


----------



## Clueless

Yeah, but I wasn't able to charge any of them rent. And I never *did* get rid of one of em.


----------



## Shemeska

shilsen said:
			
		

> At least you can say you were by far the most popular of the PCs. In a manner of speaking




That scry globe was intended to be kobold bait, so to speak, because she had been incredibly greedy around that time. And then she passes it up, the most valuable item in that particular encounter, and Clueless snagged it. *facepalm*


----------



## Ohtar Turinson

Well now... that gives a whole new meaning to the often repeated phrase in Realmslore about how Hubris caused the downfall of the Netherese, doesn't it...


----------



## Bryon_Soulweaver

Clueless said:
			
		

> Yeah, but I wasn't able to charge any of them rent. And I never *did* get rid of one of em.



Set cleric guy? I forgot his name, but I'm pretty sure you gave him the boot.


----------



## Clueless

Kiro?! No - no Kiro's not in my head.


----------



## Krafus

Shemeska said:
			
		

> That scry globe was intended to be kobold bait, so to speak, because she had been incredibly greedy around that time. And then she passes it up, the most valuable item in that particular encounter, and Clueless snagged it. *facepalm*




So were you as happy as the 'loth when you realized the opportunities?

Oh, and fine update, as usual.


----------



## Clueless

I think he was *born* snickering behind the screens. 

And the sad part is the only reason I ended up with the scry ball was b/c I really wanted the vials of pain but the kobold insisted on having those so I picked up item #2 cause if Tristol was ever out of things we needed someone who could scry... *facepalm*


----------



## Krafus

Clueless said:
			
		

> I think he was *born* snickering behind the screens.
> 
> And the sad part is the only reason I ended up with the scry ball was b/c I really wanted the vials of pain but the kobold insisted on having those so I picked up item #2 cause if Tristol was ever out of things we needed someone who could scry... *facepalm*




So it's a case of best intentions... And we all know what road is paved with those.

Especially when Shemmie is the cackling maniac paving the road.


----------



## Eco-Mono

Awesome update as always. Also, I hate crystal hypnosis balls, and this is one of the reasons.


----------



## Shemeska

Clueless’s head was swimming with dozens of thoughts and dozens of worries as he stood up from his chair. Glancing first at the paper in front of him, and then the pen in his hand, he finally looked over towards the box that they had all taken from the Tower Sorcerous, the box that contained a list of true names.

	But Karsus… Clueless looked down at the book he’d been reading, and his mind was flooded with what he knew of the history of that mage from what Tristol had mentioned to him before. The implications of the single quotation were disturbing.

	“Son of a b*tch!” He cursed, bewildered more than angered.

	Before the Ebon usurped the throne of Khin-Oin and reshaped the Yugoloth hierarchy in a short, bloody period; before he’d dragged a layer of Elysium across the Great Wheel; before any of that, he’d handed Karsus the Mad the tools to snuff out the life of Toril’s goddess of magic.

	Karsus, from what Tristol had said, had acted out of massive hubris yes, but he’d also intended to use the power he would have gained from Mystryl to save the Netherese from the ravages of their conflict against the Phaerrim lurking below the increasingly expanding Anaurach desert. 

But something had gone horribly wrong.

	The spell worked. Yes, the spell worked as Karsus had intended, ripping away the godhood of Mystryl and swelling his form with the sudden influx of divine power. But too late did he realize that he could not control it, that for the split second that he was a deity, magic itself across the face of Toril was failing and dying in the absence of its divine caretaker. And ultimately, in that split second, Mystryl sacrificed herself to protect the future use of magic on Toril.

	The weave momentarily failed when Mystryl and Karsus died, saving itself from permanent obliteration only when a new goddess of magic, Mystra, rose to take its stewardship. But in the interim of course, hundreds of thousands had died across the face of that world when the tap of magic had run dry, the greatest mortal mage in the planet’s history had ascended only to plummet and die in abject misery, and a goddess had been snuffed like a candle flame.

	Karsus could not have known the tragic results of his actions before he finished the casting of his Avatar spell. But the fiend who had handed him the key components of it like crumbs from a table, he had known exactly what would happen in the end.

	All of these notions flew like Sympathetics through the bladesinger’s head, subverting his thoughts as he hurried from the door of the Portal Jammer and into the streets of the Clerks Ward.

	It would have taken him far too long to walk across the entirety of the distance separating him from the Lower Ward in one direction, and he was in no mood at present to deal with crossing through the Hive by going the other way. Portals were always an option, but touts were scant at that time of night, and he didn’t have the time to hunt one down on the off chance that they knew of a relevant portal and its associated key.

	“This should be a joy.” Clueless said, stopping in the middle of the street and looking up. “It always is…”

	He spread his wings and shot upwards into Sigil’s ‘sky’, bolting across the gap between opposite sides of the city’s ring.

	At first the air was cool, the wind blowing gently as he gained altitude over the rooftops of the Ward. Then, a few hundred feet later, he entered the clouds swirling overhead, their thin cloak of congealed moisture caking him with a dusting of vaguely acidic raindrops, like cheap, diluted vinegar.

	Closing his eyes and wincing at the dousing of lukewarm rain and then the sudden evaporative chill brought on by his speed, he reached the center point of the ring, the region of null gravity.

	“This is awkward.” He muttered, trying to avoid looking to either side and out of the plane of the city, into the formless nothing beyond.

	He hung there for a moment, suspended at the balance point, drifting. But then his momentum carried him forward, and to his perspective he was suddenly caught and dragged into the sky, literally falling up before his mind reoriented itself and he caught sight of the ring below.

	Face forward to the ground, wings swept back, he plummeted down towards the streets of the Lower Ward below, holding his breath as he broke the boundary of the smog that hung above it like a sickly yellow shroud. A moment later he flicked those same wings and righted himself, turning his feet to the ground and slowing his descent, ultimately landing with a brief skip onto the ash dusted cobbles a few blocks from the Great Foundry.

	Clueless coughed and snorted, expelling the soot his fall from the sky had forced into his nose and lungs. Then, brushing his face with his sleeve, and checking the box clutched against his chest, held tight in his other hand, he walked off into the warren of side streets on the Hive side of the Ward.

	Ten minutes later, he found himself approaching the location of the fiend’s portal.

The place was familiar, of course, disconcertingly so. Though it lay at the end of a blind alley, nestled in a cul-de-sac like a desiccated mummy within its charnel niche, the path by which Clueless had found it this second time had been very different than in the past. 

The temple was the same, the immediate environs were likewise exact, but the silent, haunting walls that abutted it and the winding network of desolate streets that led to it, the capillary beds of an urban teratoma, they were wholly different. It was as if the location were mobile, a fixed thing within an ever shifting flesh of cobbles, urban blight, and the stain of the Lower Ward's air.

But regardless of the troubling nature of its migration within the borders of the Ward, it was there, looming and disturbing in its desolation. At once the crumbling sanctuary was both welcoming and anathema, and standing at the threshold, seeking its portals, the hair stood up on the back of one's neck from the undefined and lurking sense of wrongness that hung about it like a shroud. But at the same time, it provided a necessity in its portals, another seemingly fixed feature in its parasitical burrowing across the city, open for the parasites of its portals like a plague carrier to its infestation, wandering the streets without pause.

"Nothing good ever comes from this damn place..." Clueless muttered as he glanced at the husks of insects and rats gathered dead at the threshold of the sanctuary.

Much to his relief however, he didn’t have to actually enter the building, where from past experience he knew there lay at the very least a semi-permanent, if not wholly fixed, portal to the Gray Waste. That of course brought back memories, and he briefly paused and looked in, before skirting past the archway and along the eastern retaining wall.

There was not much space between the crumbling eastern wall and the surrounding buildings as Clueless clambered over piles of brick, plaster and slate shingles, squeezing between the temple and the abutting walls, which from all appearances had been built virtually right up to the edge of the much older structure. The other possibility, an unhealthy one, was that the temple had simply pushed the other buildings aside, warping the underlying structure of the city and making a place for itself amidst the mundane structures of Sigil like some burghal parasite.

Catching his hand against the ragged exterior of the temple to steady himself as he passed the first of the buttresses, it was clear that the temple as it currently stood, abandoned and collapsing, was in fact a later construction built atop of a much earlier one. The buttresses were not original, and in fact seemed to be the youngest portion of the entire structure. Stopping and looking at them, they weren’t there to support the weight of the temple’s canopy pressing against the lower structures, nor were they simply decorative, so much as they were built to prop up the crumbling walls of the previous renovations to the site.

	Clueless stumbled slightly as his weight on the wall caused it to partially give way, producing a shower of failing bricks and interior fill stone. Catching himself again, and avoiding the hazard, he could see what was probably the original, underlying stone of the temple. Unremarkable gray rock, something imported into Sigil, rather than resembling any of the typical magically created stone commonly conjured for the same purpose.

	Unbeknownst to him at that moment, it was also the same rock that formed the bound space of the temple’s portal to Oinos, and also the portal that he and Nisha had used to get to Elysium’s sealed layer of Belarian. Coincidence?

Clueless studied the otherwise unremarkable stone, idly wondering what the original structure had looked like, or even been, before gingerly making his way to the stretch of wall between the third and forth buttresses.

Standing there atop a sprawling pile of brick, he stared at the tracery of cracks, pealing paint and the pitted stucco of murals and decorations that had long since failed to time and the unnatural elements of the Ward. The later additions, the later construction, the layers of brick and mortar, worm-eaten wood, stucco and paint, they were all fallen and stripped from the original stone backing like rotting flesh on an abscessed wound revealing the underlying stone like the temple’s bone and fascia.

	Flat gray stone gazed back at him, the same as he’d seen before. This time however, the rock was bound by the later additions, and displayed a faint tracery of scratches, maybe claw marks, maybe just errant wear patterns, framing a bound space and forming the boundary of Helekanalaith’s portal.

	“Key…” Clueless muttered. “The portal key. Son of a…”

	A bit of ash, he’d forgotten to take some from the fireplace in the inn before he’d left. His head had been preoccupied by other thoughts, and it was now far too late to fly back across the city again.

	Pausing for a moment and thinking, he realized that he was standing in the Lower Ward. With any luck, running his finger across any flat surface perpendicular to the sky would probably collect more than enough soot to serve his purpose.

	And in fact, looking down at his feet, he didn’t have to go very far. At the base of the wall was a loose pile of particulate ash, likely blown there from above and caught by the currents of wind in the abscess between the buttresses.

	“Well, at least the filth is convenient filth.” He quipped with a chuckle, reaching down and dabbing a finger in the soot.

	Taking a deep breath to ready himself, Clueless marked the key upon his forehead and stepped through the portal as it activated with a harsh, flickering glow. A moment later and it closed, preventing him from ever noticing that the stone itself was the source of the ash, which bubbled up from the rock like tears of blood welling in the eyes of a weeping icon of the Theotokos.

Clueless never saw that, and it might not have mattered even if he had as he hurtled across the planes. It was bitterly cold for but a moment, and then the feeling was gone and he emerged from the portal standing under a black, starless sky, volcanic heat washing over him like a wave. Directly in his line of sight, distorted by the heat across a span of iron and obsidian that crossed a well of molten fire far below, sizzling from the environment, were the gates and the looming structure of the Tower Arcane itself.

"Sh*t..."


***​

Standing there, waiting for Skalliska’s response, the cleric was dressed in long green and gray robes, patterned across by silver thread to give the appearance of dragon scales. Atop her head was a headdress likewise patterned after the more robust, and certainly distinct skeletal structure of the skull of a true dragon, though hers was more decorative and symbolic, a wire fusion of the chromatics in general.

And indeed, the cleric was female, though the distinction between kobold genders was generally lost on other races. Their secondary sex characteristics were subtle, nothing so overt as most humanoid races, usually doing more with color patterns on their hides and minor differences in the lines of certain bones and the weight of specific muscles. Suffice to say it would have been lost on any non-kobolds, but it stuck out like a sore thumb to her.

Skalliska’s eyes narrowed to slits as she looked skeptically at the other kobold, who was, to her, something between a wretched abomination and what she herself could have become and spent much of her life trying to distance herself from.

"Kurtulmak's blessings upon you my wayward child." The cleric intoned. "Have you finally come to pay homage at this most humble shrine Skalliska?"

"How do you know my name?" Skalliska immediately responded with.

"You are a kobold, you live within Sigil on a permanent basis, or at least mostly so." She replied. "As one of my prospective flock, and a rather well to do one, I keep myself familiar with your name at the least, though I wait for you to come to me, rather than the other way around."

Skalliska raised one of the ridges over her right eye.

"That is why you have come here today yes?" The cleric asked. "To seek my advice, to seek the blessing of your god, to pay tribute to the father of our kind?"

Suddenly the cleric seemed less omniscient and threatening, and more an idealistic object of pity. She knew her name. Big deal, so did a few thousand people at least on a daily basis passing by her office. There weren't many kobolds in Sigil, certainly few as flamboyant as herself, and it probably was within the range of a middling cleric to simply find out about her with a routine divination.

This wasn't the time to punch Kurtulmak in the snout by proxy, nor was this the time to simply run the other way. No, playing along was best, because ultimately she wanted to have fun at the cleric's expense.

	Skalliska broke into the widest smile she could force herself to produce.

	“I’m so glad to have found you!” She said, clapping her hands together. “I’m not sure how much you know of my past, but the world I originally came from, belief was dying. I was never really exposed to Kurtulmak’s…”

	She paused, thinking of how to further bullsh*t her way out of the situation.

	“Wisdom.” She added quickly. “I’ve always felt something was missing in my life because of it.”

	“And so you have finally come to me.” The cleric responded, gesturing for Skalliska to follow her into the shrine proper.

	“Yes…” Skalliska replied, glancing warily at the interior of cleric’s small temple. “But I didn’t think that I would manage to find you so quickly.”

	“Oh?” The cleric cocked her head to the side.

	“Indeed.” Skalliska continued. “And so I didn’t bring with me any of what I had hoped to tithe.”

	At that last word, the priestess of Kurtulmak broke into a wild grin.

	“Might I return later to bring those things?” Skalliska asked, adding more than a dash of false penitence. “I wish to make my first entry into a house of the Horned Sorcerer a proper entry.”

	The cleric laid a hand on Skalliska’s shoulder, and the other kobold did her best not to squirm or punch her in the gut.

	“Do so if that is your wish child.” The priestess said, only barely disguising her greed. “I will wait for you, and prepare a ritual service that you may participate in alongside me.”

	“Oh thank you! And please, pray for me if you would!” Skalliska said gleefully, turning away to roll her eyes as she scrambled out and back into one of the main arteries of the Spiral Cathedral.

	Outside, her shoulders slumped and she did so likewise on the ground, pulling her hat down over her eyes. Kurtulmak would not allow a rival for his faithful to exist anywhere in close proximity to a shrine of his, and so it was a lost cause to expect to find a shrine or cleric of her own deity within the Cathedral. She was running out of places to find spiritual support in her quest, but she certainly had someone now to take her frustrations out upon.

	“Tell hell with you.” She snarled. “Prepare a ritual service for me? I think not.”

	Hissing and gritting her teeth, she unfurled a scroll from her waist and whispered the words to a spell of sending while picturing Nisha in her head. That tiefling’s own particular brand of Xaos was called for.

	“Nisha, are you available right now?” Skalliska began, giving the message to the spell. “I need you for something, preferably destructive and untraceable to me.”

	This was handing mischief to the Xaositect on a silver platter of course, so it had to work. When did Nisha ever have anyone –requesting- for her to do something stupid, willingly letting her do her worst? It was guaranteed to have her burning the place down with hog-tied fire mephits in funny hats, something, anything idiotic and typically atypical. Anything would work of course, anything to thumb her nose at that f*cking cleric of Kurtulmak, her and her damned deity who was the source of their mutual race’s problems since time immemorial.

	This was Skalliska’s hope of course. But then Nisha’s reply to the sending came, in typical atypicality.

_“Can’t talk, making out with Tristol. Go away!”_


***​

Tristol's tail looked like he'd taken a stray lightning bolt, or shared a room with a dozen lightning mephits, given how every bit of fur stuck out, bristled on end. His tail was also seemingly possessed with a life of its own at the moment as well, rapidly wagging side to side, completely betraying his emotional state as he walked with Nisha.

The aasimar was blushing heavily, looking happily overwhelmed as they approached the Portal Jammer. It had only been a single, quick kiss, but it was a turning point in their relationship. They were far past friendship now.

“Mind if we avoid the front door?” Tristol asked.

Nisha turned and glanced down at his tail.

“For your sake and mine,” She said. “Given how badly we’re already going to be teased by the others, that sounds like a good idea. Your tail is going to get us in trouble if they see us, to say nothing of mine.”

	Nisha’s own tail wasn’t so much wagging as it was erratically twitching, setting the bell at its tip at a constant, soft rattle. She was just as nervously giddy as her boyfriend, and this time around her ‘boyfriend’ wasn’t the type to get tossed off of a catapult or turned into a pie. Turn people _into_ pies, perhaps if she talked him into it, but not made into one.

	“I’m rather obvious.” Tristol said. “But so are you. Just in a different way.”

	Nisha giggled as the aasimar twitched his ears.

	“But yeah. Going back through the kitchen sounds like the best idea.” Tristol said. “Besides, the staff should have already packed up and gone home for the evening by this hour.”

	And so they snuck around to the back and made their way through the rear entrance of the inn, doing their best not to make any noise in the event that any of their companions might still be down in the common room.

	“I don’t hear anyone.” Nisha said, her ear stuck up against the inside of the kitchen door leading out to the taproom.

	“Three people including Toras.” Tristol said. “He’s distinctive.”

	“Fuzzy eared showoff.” She retorted, turning around and sticking out her tongue.

	“Hey, they come in use sometimes!” He replied with a grin.

	“Useful? Hmm, well they are an off button.”

	“An off button?”

	Tristol then slumped forward with a look of content bliss on his face as Nisha reached up and began to rub his ears like he was some overgrown, magic using puppy.

	“That’s not fair…” He said, grinning like a drunkard.

	“And you haven’t told me to stop.” She replied, leaning in and giving him a kiss on the nose. “But more for you later. My idea of fun and relaxing after a date doesn’t take place in a kitchen.”

	“What are your ideas for fun and relaxation after a date?” He asked.

	“Hell if I know!” Nisha replied with a grin and an emphatic shrug. “I’ve never done this before!”

	“You just know that it doesn’t involve a kitchen?”

	“Pretty much.”

Tristol smiled. “So, any ideas for getting past them all?”

	“Cutting holes in the ceiling and climbing through is out as an option I suppose.” She mused, before reaching into a small pouch at her waist. “So drink this and follow me.”

	“What’s this?” He asked, looking at the bottles that the tiefling had removed from what seemed to be a small bag of holding.

	“Potions of invisibility.” She replied. “You should know that oh great and powerful wizard.”

	“This would imply that you brought potions of invisibility out on our date?” He said, quirking an eyebrow with open puzzlement. “Why? What would you do with a potion of invisibility on a date?”

	“Oh I don’t know… lots of things! Sneaky things!” She replied. “Like let’s say that I…”

	“On second thought,” Tristol said, hushing her. “Tell me all about it when we’re somewhere… well anywhere outside of a kitchen.”

	“Bottoms up then.” Nisha quipped, gulping down her potion and vanishing in an instant.

	Likewise Tristol did the same, and the two of them nervously opened the door to the common room. A few late night patrons, including two of them probably sleeping off their alcohol, were sitting scattered around the room, and Toras was sitting behind the bar. He normally didn’t handle that post, but apparently Clueless and the others were out and about doing other things that evening.

	Toras didn’t quite notice the door to the kitchen open, it was pretty silent after all, but he did however notice the shuffle of feet and clatter of hooves on the staircase. Slow at first, very obviously trying to be quiet, but then about halfway up the first flight transitioning into a run, punctuated by a distinct set of paired giggles.

	“That’s disturbingly cute…” The half-celestial commented to himself as he listening to the pair bolting up the stairs.

	Up above, still invisible and catching their breath, Nisha and Tristol stood in the hallway next to his room.

	“So…” Nisha said. “What do we do now?”

	“Good question.” Tristol replied. “Umm…”

	They were both in love, but neither of them had ever formally gone through anything even remotely resembling courtship, or dating, or anything of the like before. So there was a bit of an awkward silence, but since they were both still invisible, they couldn’t see one another’s expressions as they each pursed their lips and mulled over what to say next.

	Eventually Tristol and Nisha were both about to say something, each willing to make the next move, but that was when Skalliska’s sending spell kicked in.

	“Oh of all the sodding times…” Nisha exclaimed, her tail’s bell rattling like an angry serpent’s.

	“Huh?” Tristol asked, a bit confused.

	“Skalliska. Sending. Umm…” The tiefling said, apparently listening to the kobold’s request at the same time.

	Five seconds later Nisha suddenly became visible when she grabbed Tristol and kissed him.

	“There.” The tiefling said, breaking the kiss and catching her breath, blushing heavily. “I’m busy and can’t deal with Skalliska. And that was fun. How’s that for what to do next?”

	Tristol smiled, returned the blush, and emphatically returned the favor.


***​

	Clueless slumped his shoulders and stared up at the Tower Arcane, the resounding thought of ‘why me?’ running through his head in competition with the notion that a sudden planeshift might be in order.

	The Tower itself was massive, dominating almost the entirety of his field of vision despite the fact that the bridge spanning the distance to its gate was itself several miles long. Constructed of a bizarre shade of blue-white steel, the surface was inscribed on nearly every inch of its surface in blazing, burning runes, symbols, and incantations in the yugoloth tongue that literally throbbed with a life all their own, setting the air trembling with its own infernal heartbeat, dizzying the bladesinger’s vision. 

Far from some simple monolithic construction, and striking its own unique style apart from the Wasting Tower of Khin-Oin, the Gehennan tower sprouted blades, spires and decorative spikes that would not have looked out of place in Sigil itself. The Tower was a monument to the Yugoloth domination of Gehenna, the focus of their manipulation of the Blood War, and the second infernal spike their kind had driven into the flesh of the planes of conflict, marking what was theirs.

	Gazing up, Clueless felt suddenly and overwhelmingly watched, stripped, and deconstructed by a hundred thousand, a million different eyes gazing down in contempt, curiosity, hunger, hatred, apathy, mockery… and then something dwarfed them all, turned its attention on him, and gazed down.

*“Good. You are at least punctual.”*

	The air seemed to tremble from the voice’s force, rumbling with a presence that seemed to resonate through the entirety of the Tower and down through the bedrock it was anchored to, sucking from the arteries of Gehenna itself.

*“Produce the name. Place it upon the ground.”*

	Clueless hesitated for a single moment.

*“Look up and realize where you are mortal. Now take the name and place it upon the ground in front of you. It is a simple request and a simple action.”*

	Clueless winced at the sick feeling in his gut the proximity to the Tower seemed to induce, along with what may or may not have been simply a psychosomatic twitch within his ankle against its still embedded gemstone.

	He was out of his element and he was out of his league. Helekanalaith wasn’t exactly honorable, not in the slightest, he was a yugoloth after all, but he was pragmatic and Clueless recognized that. Give the fiend what he wanted, he reasoned, and he won’t have cause to do waste effort on doing you harm, especially when you still offer him value in a passive way at the very least.

	Even as he thought those things, he was already opening the box, though he had only included the paper containing Larsdana’s name, not any of the others.

	“Enjoy.” Clueless said, putting the slim piece of paper down upon the edge of the bridge where the obsidian merged with the glowing basalt of Chamada itself.

	In an instant the paper turned to ash, immolated by the sudden exposure to the full blistering force of the plane as it left the relative protection afforded by close proximity to Clueless and his own wards against such. It was gone, consumed in a flash, but the ink that penned her name, Larsdana Ap Neut, the designer of the Tower Arcane, its first and former Keeper, it lingered behind for a single suspended moment, glittering alone and detached, poignant before it too was devoured. The presence, the diffuse manifestation of the Keeper, extended through the Tower, the bedrock, and the heat washing from burning rune and molten river, it seemed to smile in triumph.

	“You’re welcome.” Clueless said, averting his eyes from the ambient glow of magic radiating from the tower as much or more than the heat pouring from the 2nd Furnace of Perdition under his feet.

*“My thanks for your compliance.”* The Keeper’s voice rumbled, jarring the bladesinger’s bones.

	There was a hum in the air next to Clueless, and he turned to look as a swirling portal opened in mid air, opaque and giving no details as to where it might lead.

*“You have done as I wished and you may now depart. I have no further immediate use for you.”*

	Clueless glanced at the gate, wary to where it might lead now that the yugoloth lord had what he wanted. The fiend sensed his apprehension.

* “You would not survive in your present location for more than a few brief minutes at most.”* Helekanalaith said, causing the portal to flicker, punctuating his statement. *“I may yet gain something from you mortal. It would do me no good to allow you to perish on my doorstep. The portal will remain open for another two minutes. Accept it or not at your discretion.”*

	Clueless glanced around, noticing the teleportation flashes of first dozens, then hundreds of fiends: slavering mezzoloths crouching atop volcanic outcroppings, nycaloths folding their wings and looking at him with contempt, and of course some of the robed sorcerers of the Tower itself, hovering high above and watching the lone mortal living at the sufferance of their master.

	Clueless took the point and stepped through the portal, accepting his metaphorical gift horse without question.


***​


----------



## Shemeska

Just to let everyone know, my updates may or may not be on schedule for the next few weeks. I just started my new job (first post grad school, first 'real' job) and the transition to a 9-5 job is hitting hard as I get adjusted to it. I've been coming home and feeling too tired to actually sit down and write anything, and third of this update was written during my lunch breaks during the week.

I just barely finished this update two days late, and I never had time this week to actually sit down and plan for my own normal campaign today. Apologies to my players.

I'll do my best to keep on regular updates, but be aware that I have distinctly less free time right now (school or briefly unemployed versus nice full time job).


----------



## shilsen

Shemeska said:
			
		

> Clueless took the point and stepped through the portal, accepting his metaphorical gift horse without question.




Does it still count as a gift horse after it's kicked you in the nuts and dragged you around Gehenna?


----------



## Serenity

*De-Lurking*

Just thought I would de-lurk and let you know how much I enjoy this story hour.  Of course, catching up to the present post could have cost me my job (supervisor's are amazingly intolerent about reading message boards when you are supposed to be working) but it is well worth it.

Shemmy,
I hope the job works out, you will get used to it.  I now have a full time job, a little one (19 months) and another on the way.  You just find a way to get it all in.  Hang in there and you will find a routine that works for you... and us!!  More updates!!!


----------



## Zarnam

Share with us another piece of your fantastic storyhour !!   

Shemmy !! Oooohh Sheeeeemmyyy !!


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## Shemeska

Zarnam said:
			
		

> Share with us another piece of your fantastic storyhour !!
> 
> Shemmy !! Oooohh Sheeeeemmyyy !!




Work and other things have hit hard, but an update is partially written. I may have it up monday, or I may wait till next week. We'll see.


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## Sheltem

Finally finished reading all this and i have to admit it is great!

Please keep on writing.


----------



## FreeXenon

Keep it up Shemmy!


----------



## Shemeska

Now normally, in most cases, blind trust in a yugoloth is a bad thing, something distinctly unwise even in the direst circumstances. Of course, this blanket statement assumes some manner of choice in the matter: something that Clueless didn't really have as he stepped through Helekanalaith’s gate. ‘Accept my offer of transit without question or stay here and die. That is your choice’: it was a very blunt and one-sided thing. And so rather than blind trust, Clueless simply had a reluctant, grudging acceptance of the situation.

In this case though, trust or not, it could have turned out much worse as the bladesinger emerged on the other side. It was cold, but not dangerously so, something in stark contrast to where he had just been, though the ground itself was disturbingly warm. Volcanism he realized, looking at the red, rocky landscape that surrounded him and the scent of windblown sulfur carried on the thin air. Then, turning around and gazing up at the source of the harsh, red illumination that bathed the landscape, he immediately realized where he was.

A giant, perpetually open gate hung suspended above him like a chancre in the sky, a crimson ulcer in the fabric of the Outlands, the portal to Gehenna. He was in Torch, the gatetown to Helekanalaith's home plane.

"It's better than Hopeless at least." Clueless said with a sigh. "Though I suppose that that's not saying much."

He glanced up at the portal high above, watching the threatening pulse and swirl of its harsh, lambent glow. It of course did nothing, but seemed to stare back, serving like a mute, symbolic proxy for the Keeper himself gazing down mockingly over all of Torch and Clueless himself, like Lovecraft's Pole Star.

	Looking down at his surroundings, much like the portal looking down at him, he could see the volcanic cones that comprised the upper reaches of Torch, and then the shantytowns far below, huddled at their bases in the margins of solid land set against the ever encroaching Blood Marsh. It was all highly evocative of the situation on the other side of the gate, a recreation of the style and substance of Gehenna in microcosm, be it intentional or not. The powerful lived atop the mounts, be they yugoloths in Gehenna or rich mortals and mercilessly competing gangs of semi-organized thieves in Torch, and then the less successful, be they the poor of Torch or the petitioners of Gehenna, living in squalor below the notice or concern of their betters and simply below in raw spatial terms.

Clueless didn’t honestly care for the politics of the gatetown, or its attempt to model itself, consciously or not, on the plane it perpetually bordered upon, he simply wished to leave and return to Sigil. The further away from the reach of the fiends that he was, all the better. In fact, catching his breath in the rarified air there on an outcropping of rock on the eastern flank of the central mountain, Maygel, he pondered flicking the city and its denizens an obscene gesture. 

It would have done no good though, so instead he simply turned his back and unsheathed Razor, whispering the words to a spell. Using the mirror bright surface of the blade to scry, an image took form within the metal: that of a ring shaped outcropping of rock located at the fringes of the Blood Marsh.

	Spreading his wings and diving off the side of the cone, he plummeted through the clouds of vapor and volcanic sulfur, keeping his eyes closed to avoid acidic fumes. Bitterly cold, despite the presence of the volcanic mounts, the wind slashed at him angrily before he leveled his descent, slowing himself to glide out over the red tinted swamp surrounding the gatetown.

	Shortly thereafter, he touched down in front of the outcropping of rock that formed the gate to Sigil. As a permanent gate, its portal key was common enough that Clueless had it on him, which saved him the undue and potentially dangerous hassle of finding the identity of the key, and purchasing it, from someone in Torch. And so after a few moments of fishing around in the assorted pockets and pouches in his clothing, he withdrew a slim piece of iron a few inches long and tapped it on the rock.

	Instantly, the portal burst into being, and with a disdainful look back at Torch, he stepped through and into Sigil.

“Wonderful.” Clueless muttered, scowling at the way the evening had developed, now that he was back in Sigil and had the time to reflect. “Just wonderful. I go for a useful thing and I end up giving someone a ticket into my head.”

“Not that my head isn't already occupied...” He added with a bemused shake of his head. “But this time it's my own damn fault.”

He glanced around, trying to find his bearings, as he'd never -to his recollection- entered into Sigil through the gate from Torch. Somewhere in the Market Ward it looked like, in the warehouse district perhaps where it would be sheltered from the masses and open for the merchants sending goods to and from Torch and Gehenna.

"Hey there!" Came a shout from behind him.

Clueless reflexively put a hand to Razor's hilt and turned around, looking into the smiling, low-key face of Kiro.

“What are you doing all the way over on this side of the city?" Clueless asked, more than a bit taken back to run into the cleric out of the blue.

"I was wondering that myself to some extent really." Kiro replied with a shrug. "I just felt the urge to wander a bit, just get to know the rest of the city since I've only been in Sigil for a very short time."

"Sutekh telling you what to do again?"

Kiro smiled and chuckled softly. "Not this time, no. Sigil is Sigil. But granted wisdom doesn't always come to mind immediately, and I suppose that in the absence of anything happening I just got to thinking. Divine inspiration or not, I think the notion to wander the city seems to have had something behind it. I ran into you after all. That can't just be chance."

Clueless wasn't entirely sure what to make of that, but the cleric's expression and stance didn't suggest anything beyond fuzzy coincidence or divine guidance, certainly nothing ulterior.

"It's very different from the Outlands." The cleric said, brushing some soot from his shoulder.

"Is that a bad thing?"

"Well..." Kiro paused and hung on the thought for a minute. "Not bad, just very different. Many more people, much more crowded, rather dirty in places, but if Sutekh wishes me to be here, well then surely he has a purpose in that. I've been able to do some good so far."

"Where in the Outlands was your village actually?" Clueless asked as they walked towards the Guildhall Ward, passing by the sprawling sides of one of the Planar Trade Consortium’s many nameless, numbered but otherwise nondescript storage buildings in the district.

"I'm not sure that I could give you directions really." Kiro answered. "I was wandering for some time after I left. But I believe it was several... what is the term... rings inwards towards the spire, not very far from a branch of the river Ma'at."

Clueless listened while Kiro gave some further details about the region surrounding his village, at least before it was destroyed by a band of Khasta, something that happened with regularity in some areas of the Outlands. From the lay of the land, and what Clueless himself knew about the plane itself, Kiro's village might have been somewhere on the other side, away from the spire, from Thoth's domain on the Outlands. Somewhere in the back of his mind, the bladesinger had some inkling of a connection between Thoth, the Ibis headed Egyptian god of scribes and knowledge, and Kiro's divine patron of Sutekh, but for the moment he couldn't make a firm connection.

"So what were you doing out on this side of the city?" Kiro asked. "On your way across town to visit that one fellow... A'kin I think it was? I heard something earlier today about you going to visit him later on, or actually that might have been Nisha now that I think about it. Regardless, Florian mentioned that he ran a shop in the Lower Ward of some kind. I haven't met the fellow, but she was talking about him the other day, and I think Fyrehowl dropped his name at some point."

How ironic.

This was awkward of course, as Clueless didn't want to appear to be outright lying to the priest, but at the same time he really had no intention of letting it be public knowledge that he had a bloody archfiend using him as something like a scrying device at will. Yes, that would go over quite well, 'I'm rid of the Marauder inside my head and all that unhealthy business. But! Everyone meet my new cerebral renter, Helekanalaith the Lord of the Tower Arcane! I'm not quite sure how long he'll be with me, but get used to it, because he'll be watching everything when I'm around.'

"What was that?" Clueless asked, feigning not having heard the question as he mentally scrambled for something to say.

Were he observing any of this back in Gehenna, the Keeper would have been amused doubtlessly.

"It's nearly anti-peak, I was wondering what you were doing near the ugly end of the Market Ward."

"Funny you should ask about A’kin. I was on my way back from the Lower Ward actually, and there’s less foot traffic here than in the Market itself. I could have flown across the city but… meh.”

	Clueless shrugged.

	“Is he actually open for business at this hour?” Kiro asked. “Or was it a more personal visit? Nisha seems to be friends with him as far as I gathered.”

“It's all about a book you see." Clueless explained. "Tristol had given me a copy of a particular book, and actually he got it from someone in this ward too, though I didn't ask him much about them. But it got me to thinking about a few things, and I wanted to see if A'kin had a few things on hand related to that. I swear, he has just about anything under the sun if you ask him about it."

"Find what you were looking for then?"

“No, not really.” He replied. "The shop was closed, and I didn't bother knocking. I don't really know if he sleeps, or if he even lives there above the place when he closes up at night. I might have to ask, it'd be really sad if he doesn't sleep but just sits there, alone, all night long.”

"Sutekh preserve." Kiro said with a frown. "That would be terrible. But I doubt he does that, sit alone by himself all night, really any more than I believe any of the other rumors about him that I've heard passed around."

"Rumors are rumors are rumors and nothing more." Clueless said. "It's a bit of a shame some of them that get tossed about regarding him, probably by the other resident loth too. He really is a pleasant guy."

Kiro nodded as they passed into the Guildhall Ward.

"I'll have to get to meet him at some point." He said. "I guess I'll be meeting the 'other one', as you called her, rather soon too."

Clueless made an expression of absolute loathing.

"Yeah..."

Clueless didn't stop ranting about that ‘other one’ till they were well into the Clerks Ward, by which time Kiro was firmly versed in just how much the bladesinger despised the King of the Crosstrade. As they walked he learned just what she had done to Clueless, as far as he knew, and how things suddenly happened to be taking a turn for the bizarre with a 'loth, a different 'loth yes, but still a 'loth, behind the events that had ultimately led to Kiro being forced by circumstance into an association with them all.

"I am enjoying myself." Kiro said. "The transition has been much less difficult with you all to help me and openly teach me about all of this. I don't believe that I've actually had anyone in the city call me a Clueless yet, pardon me for saying so Clueless."

"Easier... heh." Clueless said with a chuckle. "What with undying assassins being sent after you by Ultroloths posing as Rakshasas. Easier..."

"Well, I'm still alive." Kiro said. "Sutekh has seen fit to preserve me thus far, and I think that being thrown in with you and the others was his intention from the start, both to help me, and if I can do so, to help you."

Clueless couldn't complain. The cleric had been more than he seemed virtually any time that they were in over their heads. Regardless of the odd circumstances that had thrown his lot in with theirs, or perhaps divine intent that he be so connected with them, they had been all that much the better by way of it.

"I won't argue with that." Clueless said, smiling. "We should talk more you know. I've been busy doing my own things lately, and I figure you've been learning about the city in the meantime, but we really should get to know one another better and maybe hang out some. Just because I think you're a nice guy, and also frankly because we don't know when what got you in with us is going to bite us back again."

And of course, that had been his intent from the very start.

These people were important. Events were swirling around them, bits of larger events themselves, and these people had touched too many things for that to be just coincidence. What he had been told in the Outlands was true, that was certain, not that he had doubted it, but he was seeing it himself all the more now as the situation developed in Sigil, in the Astral, in Carceri... 

He could have told them more, and doubtless more was known than he had been told in the first place, but he was there to watch, to learn, and ultimately to intervene as he saw fit to do so, preserving what must be preserved.

"We should." Kiro said, returning the smile. "I'd very much like that."


***​

Back in the Clerks Ward, Nisha and Tristol sat across from one another, blushing and grinning like fools. After having snuck back into the Portal Jammer and then snuck their way back upstairs, they had spent a solid part of an hour or so learning just how to kiss someone you were falling in love with. A few kisses were invariably followed by silence and the catching of breath, or a few comments or questions, and then right back to the fun that even though it was only a kiss, still felt naughty on some level to them both.

	Time had started to slip away from them both however, and in their fun they hadn’t really noticed what hour it was.

"Wait, what time is it?" Nisha said, glancing out the window. "Is it after antipeak?"

"Umm... why?" Tristol replied.

"Something happens at anti-peak." Nisha replied. "Nothing to worry about."

"Huh?"

"I mean you don't turn into a pumpkin or anything at the strike of the clock or anything like that." She answered with a grin.

Tristol's ears kinked to one side in confusion.

"It's a secret." Nisha said, leaning in to kiss him again. "It's one of those things we talked about over dinner that I said you'll find out about eventually."

"If you keep kissing me whenever I ask about it, I think I might need to keep asking." He said, grinning.

A few kisses later, they were catching their breath again. It was a fun little activity, but you had to stop and breath eventually! Inconvenient air! Stupid need for oxygen messing up romance! The elemental plane of air had to be lawful, there was no other explanation for it! It was all a conspiracy by oppressive, quick-to-spoil-enjoyment-in-life Law! Arrrgghh!

"But my first question, is it after anti-peak?" Nisha asked, happy and giddy at what seemed to be, to both her and Tristol, a newfound guilty little pleasure to share.

"Just by a little bit, yeah I think." Tristol answered as a bit of a glow illuminated the room from outside the window, followed seconds later by a rapid series of tiny knocks.

"Eeep!" Nisha exclaimed.

	Hovering outside of Tristol’s window was the glowing, grinning form of Amberblue. The faerie dragon was wearing some sort of tiny hat, a sailors cap actually, as he hovered there, tip-tapping on the windowpane, trying to get Nisha’s attention. He also didn’t really seem to understand what he had seen the tiefling and the aasimar doing, regardless of it not having really been much at all.

“Get blinds or curtains for next time.” Nisha said, self-conscious over being caught in the act by the drake. 

	“I don’t expect people to knock on my windows past anti-peak!” He said defensively. “Actually I don’t expect people to knock on my windows at all. I have a door for that!”

“You're a wizard, get a prismatic wall, or maybe a prismatic window or something.” Nisha said as she got up to open the window for Amberblue. “Next time I'm dropping a globe of darkness over us both.”

	The tiny dragon fluttered into the room as soon as Nisha opened the window.

	“Alright Amberblue.” The tiefling said with apology. “Sorry I’m running late. Follow me and we’ll get started.”

	Tristol watched with bewilderment as Nisha did her best to herd Amberblue towards the door to the hallway, turning around as soon as the dragon was out of sight to blow the aasimar a kiss and wave goodbye, mouthing that she’d had fun on their first date. Tristol could only smile, the tiefling really didn’t want to leave but it seemed that she had some manner of prior commitment. Hopefully nothing exploded, and hopefully whatever happened it was reversible.

	Out in the hallway, Nisha was doing her best to play ignorant of anything and everything the young dragon might have seen her and her boyfriend doing.

“What were you doing with Tristol in there just now?” The faerie dragon asked with befuddled innocence.

Nisha blushed in the relative darkness, thankful that the little fellow couldn't see her full expression.

"Oh nothing, we were just talking about something that happened the other day." She replied back, trying her best to brush off the question. "I was just..."

“You were so close to him, it looked like you were doing something to his face.” The dragon said, tilting his head to the side. “And why is your tail rattling?”

"Oh you little traitor!" Nisha whispered to her tail as she snagged it in one hand.

"Traitor?" Amberblue asked.

"Tristol! Tristol, yes Tristol. He had something on his cheek and I was just helping him with it... yeah..."

"Umm... I don't believe you…" He whined. “…I’m confused…”

"I'm confused... Captain." Nisha corrected him, holding up a finger.

"Opps!" The faerie dragon quickly corrected himself, straightening up in the air where he hovered. "I'm confused Captain Nisha."

"Dread Captain Nisha! Haharrrrggghhh!" Nisha said with faux sternness followed by a wink.  "Don't worry about it First Mate Amberblue. We have much work to do now that it’s after Antipeak!"

"What will we be doing tonight Captain?" First Mate Amberblue asked his Captain.

"Oh, you'll see.” Dread Captain Nisha instructed. “A proper vessel needs a proper sail!”


***​

Skalliska waited, watching to see just what the cleric of Kurtulmak would end up doing, waiting for the opportunity to do something herself.

She'd believed her story, that was the amusing part, and over the next twenty minutes she variously prayed and whispered about 'jink' to the idol of her deity, and collected together a large assortment of various ritualistic items.

"What -are- you doing?" Skalliska muttered, looking at the collection of objects intended for the ritual that she was never going to willingly take part of.

There was a collection of garments, two pairs in fact, one presumably for the priestess, and the other one intended for the newly re-exposed faithful, Skalliska in other words. There were a number of bowls, a number of small idols or fetishes, and an incense burner in the shape of a snarling head of Kurtulmak that seemed to double as a pipe.

And then there was the incense and the drugs.

Bowls of colored powders that Skalliska vaguely knew of, all of them intended to induce various intensities and durations of hallucinogenic trance.

"Saravtesh be praised," Skalliska said. "You're handing me this on a silver platter. With or without that tiefling, not a problem."

Of course at that statement, she twitched and recalled Nisha's curt reply to her earlier sending.

"Making out..." She muttered, mildly disturbed. "...with Tristol."

Skalliska stuck her tongue out and shuddered. "Mammals... eww.”

The cleric of Kurtulmak in the meantime had begun arranging the objects of her planned ritual. First she stepped to one side, out of common view, and dressed in the more elaborate vestments that she had selected. And that was when Skalliska took action.

The incense burner and the hallucinogens, they were intended for use together, but the latter were intended to be cut and mixed with the less toxic, more aromatic mixtures. They were all simply powders, with little but color to distinguish them from one another until they were mixed and burned.

By the time the cleric had returned, the colors had been switched and the bowls had been rearranged to match. The alterations wouldn't last of course, but they didn't need to. They only needed to deceive till they'd been mixed, in inverse proportion of incense of drug, the burner lit, and the smoke inhaled by the cleric.

After that, all bets were off.

“Oh most great one, first and greatest of us.” The cleric prayed, bowing her head to the idol as she placed the incense burner next to it. “Lord of buried wealth and holder of hatreds long simmering, grant me your wisdom as I bring one more of your children to your hands.”

	“Not likely…” Skalliska muttered to herself.

	“Accept her into your heart, accept her faith as nourishment and accept her wealth and power into service of your mortal church.”

	The cleric moved closer to the altar and set the incense alight. Purple smoke welled up in the vessel’s basin, and to the cleric seemed to swirl and gather around the body of Kurtulmak’s idol as if the god himself was holding his breath, waiting to exhale with some great pronouncement. What the cleric couldn’t see however as she leaned forwards, hands clasped in prayer, was Skalliska whispering the words to a number of spells, manipulating the smoke and preparing to do her best impression of Kurtulmak himself.

	“Guide me Kurtulmak.” The cleric whispered. “Empower and enrich me, especially with the jink of this new fool.”

	Skalliska saw red and snarled as the cleric snickered with unrepressed greed. A moment later, seemingly in response to the cleric’s request for guidance, the idol exhaled, engulfing the cleric in a cloud of burning hallucinogens, almost immediately reducing her to a delusional, wailing idiot.

	Thirty minutes later the shrine was in shambles, both from Skalliska’s actions and from the deluded thrashings of the cleric of Kurtulmak. The priestess was still screaming and hacking holes in the walls of her own shrine, trying to ferret out the greedy gnomes lurking therein who were waiting to steal everything when she looked away. For her part, Skalliska was openly laughing, both as herself and throwing her voice to make it seem as if Kurtulmak’s idol was laughing at the whole surreal scene himself.

	Eventually the cleric passed out, drooling on the floor amidst piles of broken wood, shattered ceramic, and whatever spilled coins Skalliska hadn’t expropriated for herself.

	“Serves you right.” She said, grinning as she left the shrine.

	For their part, as Skalliska left, the other clerics in adjacent shrines did their best to not watch and not get themselves involved in any way. It didn’t affect them, and if anything the lack of one shrine in the end was a benefit to the rest of them.

	As for Skalliska, after putting some distance between herself and the scene of her crime, she handed over her stolen jink to the first gnome she could find who didn’t run away from her.

	“What the hell is this?” The gnome asked, looking at the bag of gold and silver coins.

"It's a long story." Skalliska said to the peery gnome. "If you happen to see the shrine of Kurtulmak, you'll understand, and I'm sure your pantheon's head will likewise appreciate it."

	The gnome continued his peery look, but after examining the jink and finding it legit, he didn’t make any protest and simply watching the kobold walk off and around the corner. Jink is jink, even if it comes from a kobold he supposed.

"Sarevtesh's will be done." Skalliska said, brushing her hands free of the remnants of incense and dust that she'd collected in her vengeful little exploit. "Not as subtle as it could have been, but she's none the wiser and all the worse off, so all's good in the end. Intrigue is intrigue, and my hands are clean from the actions of swift mind, swift tongue and swift hand."

She chuckled, well pleased with herself and made a simple, subtle gesture, mixed with a hissed phrase in draconic: a prayer to her deity.

She walked away, light on her feet and swinging her staff, newly decorated with a number of obscured, embedded, and understated holy symbols. And as she walked away from the scene of her crime a pair of eyes from the shadows were keenly watching her.

It was another kobold, one who seemed to blend into the shadows themselves. In fact, he'd been watching her for some time, virtually since the first time that she had prayed and whispered the phrases of a prayer, a divine spell, eager to see what next step she would take.

"Indeed." He said, lifting his holy symbol to his lips. "Let Sarevtesh's will be done indeed."


***​

	Several days passed, and in that time Skalliska had been largely absent from the inn, Nisha and Amberblue had been doing… something… that both of them refused to pony up to when asked. Actually, to be fair, Nisha simply grinned and professed ignorance, while Amberblue said he couldn’t say because he’d promised to, and that he’d have to ‘walk the plank’ if he did.

	Suffice to say, at least for that pairs’ activities, the others were curiously worried what was up.

	That however was the least of the things on their minds that caused its own fair share of worry. For the last couple of days, several of Shemeska’s boys –and Toras insisted on referring to them as her ‘boys’- had been showing up at the inn and simply sitting and observing, casing the place, taking note of things. Their mistress was keeping tabs on any changes being made in accordance with her letter’s suggestions, looking for progress before she made her visit.


“Guys, we should probably talk about a few issues.” Florian said. “For starters, your foil and mine, the 12 Factols is still 'closed for renovations', thanks either to a flash mob of drunken dwarves or everyone’s favorite b*tch in a razorvine headdress.”

"And I should be concerned about them why?" Toras asked.

"Because it allows us time to capitalize on their misfortune." Florian replied.

Clueless smirked. "I think the b*tch would approve..."

“Incidental, but probably true.” Florian said with a nod. “And speaking of the b*tch, we have a week before she visits.”

“I feel so honored." Fyrehowl grumbled. "And now I know how Rhys felt the week before she skipped town before the faction war."

“As a Cipher... you don't have an unnatural sense of foreboding about this do you?" Tristol asked warily.

"Dreading it yes.” The lupinal replied. “Dreading it in that sense, no. Don't worry."

	With that answer, the others collectively felt a sense of relief. Nothing good ever came with worried ciphers, unless of course you noticed them noticing something and likewise got the heck out of town when they did.

Behind the gathered group, Nisha stepped into the room with Amberblue perched on her shoulder, and a stuffed parrot perched on the other. As much as she could be, the tiefling was dressed in a makeshift pirate’s outfit, cobbled together from whatever stories she had heard over the years about what pirates where like, be they on the seas of the prime, the phlogiston of the prime, or the Styx. It might have been jury-rigged, but the oversized black pirate captain’s hat and the eye patch over one eye, not to mention the Jolly Roger pattern on the cloth tied around her waist, it instantly made her the center of attention.

	Tristol grinned; he should have seen something like this coming.

"So yeah, speaking of renovations." Florian said, not having noticed the pirate-tiefer-Xaositect… Nisha thing approach. “I’ve already arranged to… what in the 9 Hells Nisha…?”

Nisha stepped past the dumbfounded cleric of Tempus and tapped the table with a wooden peg leg. Not one attached to her own leg replacing a lost limb, no, just a wooden peg leg held in her hand like a jury-rigged gavel or sorts. Odd yes, but given that it was Nisha, and given the whole pirate motif, it somehow fit.

"But first, if you don't too terribly mind." Nisha announced.

"Scurvy dogs..." Amberblue whispered in her ear.

"And now, if you don't too terribly mind, ye scurvy dogs!" Nisha said, slipping into character. "Not to suggest that two of you might happen to have scurvy."

Tristol and Fyrehowl glanced at one another.

"Having shanghaied this gathering of landlubbing berks, we have some renovations of our own to announce!"

"Aaaaarrrrrggggghhhhh." Amberblue quickly added.


***​


----------



## Shemeska

Sheltem said:
			
		

> Finally finished reading all this and i have to admit it is great!
> 
> Please keep on writing.






			
				FreeZenon said:
			
		

> Keep it up Shemmy!




I'm glad you enjoy it!  Thank you for the encouragement guys *grins*


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## Fimmtiu

Excellent update! Piratey goodness, and more suspenseful scheming from Kiro. (The references to Lovecraft and flash mobs might be a little too OOC, though.)

Keep it up! I eagerly await the next installment.


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## shilsen

Very nice update. I'm looking forward to seeing what Nisha's next bright idea is. And the fact that she has a Wish-granting pseudodragon along for the ride can only be a bad thing 

Here's a DMing question: I notice that your PCs are often off doing things on their own when in Sigil. How exactly do you handle that? Handle it over email? Skip from one to the other in-game? The same thing happens a lot in my Eberron game when the PCs are in Sharn, and though I've never had a problem with it I'm curious to see how other DMs handle it.


----------



## mkb152

*Just a shameless bump and props for the story hour...*

Shemmy, just wanted to give the story a little bump.  The story hour still rocks.  Hope the 9-5 isn't kicking you butt too much.  It is definately a change after college (where the is a lot of work to do but you usually choose when to do it   ).


Mike


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## Shemeska

mkb152 said:
			
		

> Shemmy, just wanted to give the story a little bump.  The story hour still rocks.  Hope the 9-5 isn't kicking you butt too much.  It is definately a change after college (where the is a lot of work to do but you usually choose when to do it   ).
> 
> 
> Mike




It's been a bit rough. I've actually had to make my campaign every other weekend rather than each sunday. Of course I've also got my fingers in a lot of things right now, writing on a lot of seperate things at the same time. I've been getting a nice bit of writing done, but it's spread out enough that at the moment nothing individually has gotten done.

Stick with me though, things will be updated as I get a chance to devote time to 'em.


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## Darmanicus

Get on with it Shemmy, my lunch breaks suck ass


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## Mr Baron

*Wonderful stuff  *

Shemmy...keep up the goodness...


----------



## Shemeska

"Nisha." Florian said. "You're insane."

"Wary ye, or ye be walking the plank!" Amberblue chattered in mock warning as Nisha continued grinning like a fool while two of the still animated tables rattled, apparently tossing their input into the matter.

"Speaking of which, we do have a plank now." She said. "I could make you walk it too!"

"Nisha? What have you done?" Toras asked, a loaded question if ever there was one.

"First mate Amberblue and I have been having fun with wishes, and all sorts of little things that I can do."

Another grin from the tiefer.

"And what exactly does that mean?" Florian asked warily.

"Come outside and you'll see." She replied, taking a moment to switch her eye patch to the other eye.

	They hesitated and glanced at one another, considering, and worrying, about what Nisha and the faerie dragon might have done.

"Comeoncomeoncomeoncomeon come on!" Amberblue said excitedly like the relative child that he was. "You'll like it! Come on!"

The group looked at one another one more, then to the Xaositect and Faerie dragon 'pirates'. 

What did they have to lose after all? Well, actually quite a bit, but given that Fyrehowl was still there and not diving through the nearest portal, and given that the ever so lovely combination of wish granting dragon and Nisha hadn't already by that point blown up the Portal Jammer or gotten them all mazed, they were probably safe.

One by one they walked out the door and into the street, glancing around and not immediately seeing anything special, or dangerous, or really indicative of the assumed mischief Nisha was foreshadowing. Then, punctuated with a rolling "Arrrrrrrr!" they looked up and back at the Portal Jammer.

"Nisha, you are a joy." Florian said. “I take back anything I might have ever said about you.”

Clueless looked up and immediately his wings began to sparkle a brilliant shade of green mixed with streaks of yellow.

	“Except maybe the crazy part.” Florian amended. “But that’s a good thing in your case.”

Looking up, the Spelljamming ship, the inn's namesake, the one that appeared to be crashed into the top of the inn itself, had undergone a rather spectacular renovation in the past few days. It sparkled with glittering lights on the forecastle and along its sides, and motes of starlight or swirling phlogiston swam around edges of the ship like dancing, drunken coures.

"Wow." Tristol said. "Halruan ships have nothing on this."

Then with a great rustle of illusory wind and flapping of canvas, the ship's sails filled as if it had caught hold of the phlogiston's current or the breath of a Djinn, making the vessel appear in full flight, in full impact onto the inn. The effect was nothing short of amazing.

	“Nisha, you have outdone yourself.” Toras said. “I have to really commend you.”

	“I think they like it!” Nisha said to an equally enthused Amberblue, holding her hands to her chest and bouncing lightly on her hooves. Not very pirate-like, but quite Nisha-like to say the least.

	“We absolutely like it.” Clueless said, watching the undulation of the sails in a nonexistent wind.

	“No plank walking then!” Amberblue shouted happily.

	Nisha whispered something else into the faerie dragon’s ear frill.

	“Ah, okie.” He said. “And we’re open to suggestions for more things to add.”

	Already a few ideas were forming in Clueless’s head, even if making them a reality involved begging wishes off of the dragon. He would have to talk to Nisha, or maybe just Amberblue, about them later.

	Once the group had stopped gawking at the inn’s improvements, and also to avoid the gathering local crowd that was starting to do the same, they wandered back inside to get back to their original discussion.

"So now we need to discuss what all we're going to do regarding the fuzzy." Florian said.

"You know, calling her 'the fuzzy' really downplays just how sickening she and most of her kind are." Fyrehowl said.

	“They’re not –all- bad.” Nisha interjected.

	“I said most of them, not all of them.” The lupinal replied. “Don’t worry, I won’t paint A’kin with the same brush.”

"But ‘fuzzy’? Yeah, I'm sure the change would do wonders for cautionary bedtime stories." Toras said. "Be good kids or the fuzzy will come eat you! Ooooooooh."

Fyrehowl made no comment, but her ears cringed a bit self-consciously.

"Sorry there." Florian said. "Wasn't intending to paint everything with fur with the same brush either."

Nisha raised a finger, about to say something, but the cipher was quicker.

"I know you know the Painter." Fyrehowl said. "But do -not- get any bright ideas."

"But yeah." Florian said, getting them back on track. "I've already gone over a lot of the 'suggestions' we had in her letter."

	Tristol nodded. “It might help if we split up handling the changes we think we want to make, and those we can stomach on a temporary basis.”

"I'll handle the food and booze." Clueless said. "I handle the bar enough as it is, but I could use your input on the food half of that Florian, you’ve got a cook handle on our kitchen staff."

	“No problem.” Florian said. “But for what the fuzzy had in mind for a meal the last time she graced us with her presence, I’m not really sure where we’ll find a Bebelith egg. Anyone have an idea, short of a visit to the Abyss?”

"Actually…" Clueless said, turning to Nisha "When we were on the Gray Waste, you know that Bebelith eye you had?"

"Yeah?"

"Where did you actually get that at?"

"It was an eye, not an egg." She answered. "And it was pickled. I think. Or maybe just old.”

	Clueless winced at the memory of the taste.

	“Still tasted icky either way.” Nisha said, turning to look at Tristol with a grin.

Looking at her boyfriend, the tiefling opened her mouth and pantomimed picking up the Bebelith eye.

"They go -pop!-.” She said. “All kinds of gooshy! Just imagine the egg."

Tristol tried not to gag as the tiefer giggled, and likewise Clueless again tried not to remember what the rancid little thing had actually tasted like. Pickled or not, it had been revolting.

	“I’ll go talk to A’kin.” The bladesinger said. “He might have some eggs, or know someone who would.”

"Bebelith eyes, Bebelith eyes..." Nisha muttered in singsong to herself, doing a tiny little dance while the others talked.

	“I’ll handle the entertainment.” Toras volunteered. “I’ll get something good. No Bleakers, no mephits, nothing so avant-garde as to be hideous.”

"Roly-poly Bebelith eyes..."

	“I’ll see if I can’t start on the furniture changes.” Tristol added. “The chairs meant for people with tails was actually a good idea.”

"Bebelith eyes, Bebelith eyes..."

	“I’ll help on that and the other decoration suggestions.” Fyrehowl said. “And with that, I think we’ll have everything ready.”

"...eat them up yumm..."


***​

	Some time later, Clueless stood outside of A’kin’s shop in the Lower Ward, looking up at the gleeful caricature of a grin carved and painted into the shop’s sign. Odd that A’kin just always seemed to have –just- what you needed if you asked him, like he had bound Efreet or bottled Djinn stuffed into a back room somewhere. Or maybe he just carried odd things for odd people.

	Clueless shrugged at the notion and stepped into the shop.

	The tiny silver bell jingled overhead as he looked around for A’kin, hoping to discretely ask him if he had any other parts of whatever Bebelith the eyes that he’d sold to Nisha had come from. Assuming of course that he’d sold them to her and she hadn’t just lifted them from him, or she’d forgotten where in the heck she had in fact gotten them, and figured that A’kin was as good a postulated source as anywhere else.

	“How in the hell did you get loose?!” Came a frustrated, exasperated voice from the rear of the shop.

	Clueless raised an eyebrow. That had been A’kin’s voice.

	“This is twice now you’ve gotten out.” The ‘loth muttered. “And the lock is broken. Great. Now I have to change it again. Lovely.”

	Clueless moved around to the rear of the shop, looking for the fiend, following the sound of his voice that was gradually slipping over from common into his native tongue. He finally found him standing over a table, hands on top of a small lockbox, trying to hold the lid shut or force something into it.

	“Yes I know this looks bad.” A’kin said, not turning around but keeping his hands firmly on the top of the box.

	Under his grip, something in the box rattled and shed light.

"What's that?" Clueless asked, looking at the object that A'kin was doing his damndest to keep in the box.

"Hmm?" The Friendly Fiend asked, seeming a bit rattled and preoccupied.

"What's in the box?"

"Oh. This?" A'kin asked. "You don... oh don't you dare! Get back in there!"

Clueless looked askance at the buzzing, humming, glowing object A'kin suddenly and with little warning was doing his damnedest to cram back into the box as it tried to escape. Whatever the hell it was, it was doing its own damnedest to get out, and the thing was putting up a fight.

It looked odd. That was for certain. In fact, some random berk walking into the shop might even have assumed the worst, thinking that the shop's fiendish proprietor was snarling whilst shoving an eladrin into a box. Clueless at least was going to wait and give him the benefit of the doubt.

"A mistake!" A'kin said, finally closing the lid and popping the latch into place before whispering the words of a spell to seal the box magically at least for the time being.

That said, with a sigh, the 'loth slumped back, hovering on the air like he'd fallen into the restful retreat of a favorite chair after a long day at work.

"A mistake?" Clueless asked.

	“Yes. A mistake.” A’kin replied.

	Clueless gave him a peery look, but waited for the fiend to catch his breath and calm down.

	“It’s not exactly a cursed item.” A’kin said. “At least it wasn’t intended to be.”

	“What is it though?”

	“You’ve seen dull gray ioun stones, yes?”

	Clueless nodded at the fiend.

	“They just orbit around and don’t really do anything.” A’kin continued. “Well, at least nothing conventional for most mages, but that’s neither here nor there. But this little bastard item was supposed to be a joking extension of that.”

	“Uh oh.”

	“Indeed.” A’kin said, rolling his eyes. “It flies around, it makes noise, it moves at random, it makes an annoyance of itself. That was the plan.”

	“But this thing.” He added, jerking his muzzle towards the box. “This thing is above and beyond just being annoying. It’s maddening. And it keeps getting out.”

	“… How much?” Clueless asked.

	“Very funny.” A’kin replied, laughing and giving a shake of his head.

	“Seriously. How much for it?” Clueless repeated.

	A’kin glanced over at him with a strange look on his face, and then pantomimed clearing out his ears with his claws.

	“Excuse me, I don’t think I heard you right there. Did you just ask to buy that thing? Why in the name of a giggling Hashkar would you do that?”

	“Because if I buy it now, then Nisha can’t.” The bladesinger replied in a very sober tone.

	A’kin pursed his lips and extended a finger. “You have a point.”

	“We’ll handle the price later.” Clueless said. “But I’m actually here for a specific thing, and oddly enough Nisha pointed me in your direction.”

	“What exactly are you looking for?” A’kin asked, tilting forwards from where he hung, seated in the air.

	“Nisha said she’d gotten some Bebelith eyes from you.” Clueless explained. “And they were very useful by the way. But I needed to know if you had any Bebelith eggs.”

	“Bebelith eggs you say? Why ever do you want one of them?”

	“We need a few to serve to, well…” Clueless reluctantly started to explain, before slipping into his own bit of pantomime, cupping his hands like he had breasts, and then sneering while using his hands as big, pointed ears.

	“Say no more…” A’kin said, easily getting the point.

	“Have any?” Clueless asked, stopping his mocking little mimicry of the -other- ‘loth.

	“How many do you need?” He asked. “I can probably come up with a few of them. Preserved or fresh?”

	“…” Clueless stared at the fiend. “…Fresh obviously. You can eat them otherwise?”

	“Pickled, rotten, embalmed…” A’kin said, trailing off. “Poison and disease isn’t exactly an issue, and depending on the pallet…”

	“Fresh please.” Clueless said. “I’ll assume fresh and then the cook can prepare them as he wishes from there.”

	“Probably a safe bet.” The ‘loth said with a smile, hopping down from his perch. “I’ll go get them for you.”

	Clueless nodded and settled down to wait, and of course stare at the periodically rattling box left on the table. But sure enough, a short time later, A’kin emerged from the curtain-shrouded doorway that led into the rear stockroom of his shop, holding a glass jar. Inside the jar, still warm and slathered in jelly-like, blood spotted mucus, were a half dozen bloated eggs, all probably within a week of hatching. All said, they were as fresh as Clueless might have hoped for.

	One thing down, several more to go.


***​

	Toras stepped into a small office just off of the main entry corridor of the Public Festhall. The place smelled conspicuously like a mixture of sunflowers and sandalwood, with a half dozen other assorted undertones that defied his nose and brain to identify them. But that of course was the intention of the former Sensates who ran the Festhall, and by extension the Entertainer’s Guild.

	The fighter looked around and finally approached a desk that sat directly underneath a multi-tiered mobile decorated with a large variety of musical instruments. A single guild functionary, an aasimar with some obvious eladrin blood, sat at the desk, looking through a large book to the ticking sound of a metronome while humming something under her breath.

	“I’m not certain I’m at the right place.” Toras said, tapping a finger on the desk. “But I’m looking to hire some musicians from the guild.”

	“Well you’ve found the right place.” The clerk said, looking up with a smile and stopping the ticking, timekeeping device on the table. “What sort of thing are you looking for? We have a large number of members crossing every sort of musical genre you might find.”

"In general, a nice mix of things.” Toras said. “Especially people looking for a venue for their music, especially if they're relatively new but decently skilled."

Getting known as a place to see up and coming musicians was never bad press.

"But for a specific date here." He said, pointing to the date circled in red and underlined repeatedly on the calendar. "I want something more upscale, very classy, worth the lamentably expensive tastes of ...."

He half coughed and half mumbled 'the King of the Crosstrade'.

"Excuse me?" The aasimar asked. "I didn't make out that last part."

Suppressing a frown or a snarl, Toras coughed out the name again. But again, the clerk didn’t exactly catch it.

"Say what?"

"...The Marauder." He finally said, bluntly. "Shemeska. The King of the Crosstrade."

"Ah..." The functionary said, trying to tread the thin line between wary but polite sympathy and self-preserving non-response.

"Lucky us." Toras grumbled.

	Caught between a grimace and a smile, the aasimar began to rattle off a list of suggestions, finally settling on a musical quartet of an eladrin and three elven tieflings.

	“Are they any good?” Toras asked.

"Facto..." She began, before correcting herself. "Guildmistress Annali rather likes them herself."

"Will it fit the tastes of a fiend though?”

"Depends." She replied. "Is she looking for something she enjoys on grounds of personal musical taste, or does she just want someone to give her the best of something regardless, or simply spend money on her behalf?"

Toras had to admit that in either case he was kosher for it all.

“Well spoken. We'll take them.”

They continued talking, eventually signing an agreement for established groups or individuals to perform on certain nights of the week, and then on other nights to have the floor open to groups new to the guild and still perfecting their art. Hopefully at some point they might find a few uncut diamonds amongst the pebbles, both furthering themselves and the musicians in the process.

	But all through the discussions however, Toras was making sure to keep some quality control on just what made it into the inn. No harpies, most undead were right out, and one other group was permanently banned from making an appearance.

"And I swear to my god, if any of you ever send us Bleakniks I will hunt you down and throw you to into the plane of fire.”

	The clerk politely smiled.

	“I’ve done it before.” Toras said. “No Bleakniks. None of them. Ever.”

	But they wouldn’t be getting any of that artistic school of bad taste in the coming days. No, they had other things in green gowns and razorvine tiaras to worry about, equally known for questionable taste in and of themselves.


***​

	Clueless was already thinking about where he was going to find a cook for the Bebelith eggs, but for the moment he needed to find the needed ingredients for the fiend’s favorite drink: Hordeling pineal gland. That of course meant a trip to the Waste, but hopefully a quick one.

	Taking a decent sized amount of jink, and a few minor magical items if he needed to trade for one. Clueless figured that he could either find a Hordeling himself, or deal with a Night Hag, because there was no way that he was going to deal with any ‘loths for the pleasure of another ‘loth.

"I'll be back within an hour." Clueless said to Tristol and Fyrehowl as he walked downstairs and into the taproom. "If I'm not... please come find me."

"Just where are you going?" Tristol asked, looking up from some swatches of cloth.

"Where else am I going to find Hordeling pineal gland?" He replied. “The Waste.”

"True and uggghhh..." Fyrehowl said with a smirk. "Be careful though."

"I will." Clueless replied.

"Sure you don't want anyone along with?" Tristol asked. “We can tag along.”

"No, I'll be fine." Clueless replied. "Besides, you all have other things to take care of."

	He was confident at least, having been to the Waste before. But it was hardly a trip to Elysium or a weekend respite in Arborea, it was a descent into the collective pit of mortal despair and misery. But as dangerous as the time there would be, getting there in and of itself might be a trial.

"I have time at least." Clueless said after he had left the inn. "So how to get there, how to get there… And hell if I'm using portals suggested by fiends, even if they're fixed in place and I have their key."


***​


----------



## Shemeska

Of note, the action is a bit slow right now, but after the upcoming visit by my namesake to the Portal Jammer, the pace will take off.


----------



## Graywolf-ELM

Story enough for enjoyment.  I rather enjoy the downtime, and non-combat updates.

Thank you,
GW


----------



## Eco-Mono

And the suspense is building.

And A'kin is still both awesome and slightly disturbing.


----------



## shilsen

Shemeska said:
			
		

> Of note, the action is a bit slow right now, but after the upcoming visit by my namesake to the Portal Jammer, the pace will take off.



 Somehow I find it very easy to believe that 

By the way, Shemeska, you didn't answer my question from a couple posts ago. I'm hoping you just missed it, so I'm repeating it here: 

Here's a DMing question - I notice that your PCs are often off doing things on their own when in Sigil. How exactly do you handle that? Handle it over email? Skip from one to the other in-game? The same thing happens a lot in my Eberron game when the PCs are in Sharn, and though I've never had a problem with it I'm curious to see how other DMs handle it.


----------



## Shemeska

shilsen said:
			
		

> Here's a DMing question - I notice that your PCs are often off doing things on their own when in Sigil. How exactly do you handle that? Handle it over email? Skip from one to the other in-game? The same thing happens a lot in my Eberron game when the PCs are in Sharn, and though I've never had a problem with it I'm curious to see how other DMs handle it.




Oops, I did miss that. 

They go off and do stuff on their own in Sigil quite a bit. At about this time in the SH, in game I think we had two or three weeks without rolling dice, just having PCs talk with one another and with various NPCs in Sigil. I'm certain I've lost some degree of detail on that all, as I'm writing this three years after the fact (for instance at some point Skalliska gets a color changing, limbo-infused cat, and Toras 'gets into a fight' with Seamusxanthuszemus). Some things are getting ever so slightly jumbled around, but I'm trying to preserve as much as I can without writing two months of storyhour without significant metaplot development.

But back to the question, I let the PCs do what they want, and generally it's done at the table. From time to time I'll have them come talk with me in another room if they want to do something in secret or make something a surprise for other PCs. Very rarely have I done RP outside of the normal Sunday game hours or over AIM during the week, and occasionally the players will RP over AIM and send me the chat log.

Any similar to what you do, or do you go about it differently?


----------



## Gez

Had a lot to catch up, haven't followed SH threads for a while. 

I like the annoying ioun stone. It seems the perfect gift to make to a distinguished collector of magical baubles...

Attack of teh grammer nazi, episode 37: Bebilith, not Bebelith.


----------



## shilsen

Shemeska said:
			
		

> But back to the question, I let the PCs do what they want, and generally it's done at the table. From time to time I'll have them come talk with me in another room if they want to do something in secret or make something a surprise for other PCs. Very rarely have I done RP outside of the normal Sunday game hours or over AIM during the week, and occasionally the players will RP over AIM and send me the chat log.
> 
> Any similar to what you do, or do you go about it differently?




It sounds pretty much like what I do. I'm a big believer in the concept of letting PCs do whatever they want (and screwing them based on their choices, but that's another story ), so if the five PCs head in five directions, that's cool. I'll just switch back and forth between them and it's never been a problem in-game. 

What I sometimes do is skip from one to another before the first's encounter is done, usually right after something important has been said to or asked of the first PC (so it gives the player a few minutes to digest it and think of a response). And then come back to the first PC after dealing with another one or two. That means less of a gap between various players having something to do in-character. 

Sometimes, when a particular interaction will have no immediate effect on the game, we'll handle it over email. I've found that my players suggest that as often as me, since they're pretty good at not wanting their face time to take away from time for the group.


----------



## Mastema

Loving this storyhour, but I have a rather ungratefull sounding question....

Do you have any plans to restore and continue your baernoloth of the demented series on planewalker, since it has been wiped out - or is that material that is gone forever?

btw I "umpteenth" the previous comments that you could make a living as a professional writer.

fingers crossed here...


----------



## Clueless

*confused look* Which ones are missing (and why didn't you tell *me*?!)

Shemmie's Collection of Work on PW

Keep in mind - I don't believe he's actually put all of the Baern stories up on Planewalker.


----------



## Mastema

Ahh right, I knew that the umbrasal gravelands links were all dead, and for some reason when I access the planewalker search page it only shows two demented tales - but I just managed to link to another through google on planewalker - but that too only shows up if i enter the baerns name rather than say "baernoloth demented" or "baernoloth clockmaker" etc  which was what I was searching under the rest of the time...

I can only apologise, I'll keep searching under their names that seems to do the trick.

Its the baernoloth withdrawals not thinking straight. 

edit: Oh i get it they're in the civic festhall instead of the fiction section - sorry again


----------



## Shemeska

Mastema said:
			
		

> Loving this storyhour, but I have a rather ungratefull sounding question....
> 
> Do you have any plans to restore and continue your baernoloth of the demented series on planewalker, since it has been wiped out - or is that material that is gone forever?
> 
> btw I "umpteenth" the previous comments that you could make a living as a professional writer.
> 
> fingers crossed here...




I think that only two of the Baern stories were ever submitted to Planewalker as official submissions to the Chronicles section of the site. Others were either posted on the PW forums, or at least one of them was posted to the WotC boards.

By this weekend I'll submit them all to PW so that they'll all be in one neat place rather than being so scattered.

I also have about 70% of the story for Sarkithel fek Parthis 'The Chronicler' (who shows up in the first few pages of the Storyhour) finished. At some point I intend to finish that, but work has been difficult on my trying to focus on writing when I get home each day, plus I've been working on some revisions to a potential ecology article.

And I appreciate the kind words, thank you.


----------



## Mr. Draco

Shemeska, I've just spent the past three days reading through the entire story hour up to this point, and it's been an absolute delight.  Bravo!  From the crushing evil to Amberblue's piratey "Aaarrrrggghhh" of recent updates you've had me the whole way through, either in anger at the 'loths, awe at the presentation of the Joker and his maze, or just laughing out loud as I pictured the little fairy dragon with a sailor's cap and doing her (his?) very best pirate impression.  It's been a delight, and I'm now subscribed to this thread! :-D


----------



## Clueless

*cough* Jester. 
But yeah - it was a fun game.


----------



## Zarnam

Clueless, I wanted to ask you a very spoiling question about the Jester...  

Did you ever learn who/what he really is/was ??

Thanks


----------



## Mr. Draco

Clueless said:
			
		

> *cough* Jester.





Yeah... him...


----------



## Clueless

Zarnam said:
			
		

> Clueless, I wanted to ask you a very spoiling question about the Jester...
> Did you ever learn who/what he really is/was ??
> Thanks




Hmm. Not too bad a spoiler....
Your answer:  "Yes."


----------



## Zarnam

And how far would that be, counting from the current point in the SH ?? (or Tristol's Diary for example ??)



P.S. and since the SH has slowed down due to Shemmy's new job at VORKANNIS C.O Astroloth breeding vats   , would it be possible for you to send me a spoiler - conviniently an email    )


----------



## Clueless

LOL My inner loth says "Charge him! Peel him for all he's worth! Secure his longterm and inevitable loyalty... and that of every friend and confidant he has...  " But I shall wait for what my outer loth Shemmy says on the subject.


----------



## Zarnam

Shemeska said:
			
		

> I told Clueless's player some stuff after the campaign ended. However the Jester was largely a big unknown for the PCs over the course of the campaign.




Hmmm...would it be possible to enlighten me as well  ???



			
				Shemeska said:
			
		

> ... For my job I actually _am_ trying to grow things up in vats... *giggle* Stem cell work.




Yep, read the Prosetylizing


----------



## Shemeska

Mastema said:
			
		

> Its the baernoloth withdrawals not thinking straight.




I submitted all of the Baern stories as PW entries last night (with the exception of the Blind Clockmaker, which I'll submit tonight).


----------



## Shemeska

Zarnam said:
			
		

> And how far would that be, counting from the current point in the SH ?? (or Tristol's Diary for example ??)




I told Clueless's player some stuff after the campaign ended. However the Jester was largely a big unknown for the PCs over the course of the campaign.



> P.S. and since the SH has slowed down due to Shemmy's new job at VORKANNIS C.O Astroloth breeding vats   ,




... For my job I actually _am_ trying to grow things up in vats... *giggle* Stem cell work.


----------



## Eco-Mono

Note to all: Zarnam can time travel.


----------



## Zarnam

MWA HA HA HA !!

Behold my dark powers 

So, Clueless or Shemmy, what will it be with the Jester ??


----------



## Shemeska

He shuddered at the disquiet that surrounded his memories of that particular spot in the Lower Ward. Unless by force, he was never going to visit that ruined temple again, even if it would make the transit to the Waste or Gehenna easier. That of course, left open several other options, most of them either fairly roundabout or simply out of the question.

	“Tradegate isn’t all that bad this time of year…” Clueless remarked as he strode off in the direction of the portal to Bytopia’s gatetown.

	And indeed, the industrious gatetown, swarming with merchants, gnomes, members of the Free League, and buyers and sellers of goods from across the multiverse, was rather nice as he momentarily paused to look around once he’d arrived through the gate. But the pause was brief, and in a flash of magic the bladesinger was sent hurtling across the planes and into the disease-ridden expanse of the Waste’s first layer of Oinos.

	A deep breath, a cold and bitter stare at the endless Gloom and the spire of Oinos far in the distance, and Clueless cast another spell, transferring him deeper into the plane, to the 2nd Gloom, and ironically enough, away from the immediate danger of the Blood War while he searched for a native of plane that he might bargain with.

Clueless shivered as he emerged into the darkness of Niflheim, reacting more to the innate moral chill and his memories of the place, than to the cold mist drafting through the stunted, malformed evergreens of the forest that surrounded him. He hoped that he wouldn’t be exposed to the touch of the plane very long, but at the very least, if it took him too long to find a seller of what he needed, or the raw source itself, he’d simply leave the plane and recover from the exposure back on the Outlands.

	As it was though, he was looking for a Night Hag. While the ‘loths could have easily sold him just what he needed, the pineal gland of a Hordeling, he was in no mood to deal with any of their kind, especially when it was going to pacify another of their wretched ilk. Hordelings themselves were common enough, especially on the first layer of the Waste, but they typically traveled in roving packs, and given that, plus the other obstacles that the first Gloom presented, that wasn’t an attractive option either. 

Thus the Hags.

	The crones of the Waste were its itinerant merchants of larvae, they had their hands mixed into the cross-planar trade of soul gems as well, and they seemed to be nominally free of the ‘loths influence. Either that or the ‘loths simply didn’t care, but in any event, they were at least one step removed from the true children of the Waste, and Clueless had fewer qualms in dealing with them.

	Once he steeled himself against the draining chill of Niflheim and walked through the tangle of trees, seeking one of the Hags. He didn’t have to search long, almost as if the plane itself delivered him into the clutches of what normally would have been a dire thing for any random planar traveler.

	It stood in the middle of a wide, fenced in clearing in the forest, a small wooden hut on a plot of blasted, dead soil, decorated at the eaves with wind chimes and dream catchers of bone and string. The wriggling motion of several larvae at the fringe of the hut gave clear confirmation of just what manner of creature called it home, and where Clueless would have to go knocking.

As he approached the hut there was a sharp and discordant avian squawk and rattle of chains. A pair of tattered, starving diakka regarded the bladesinger with sunken, hollow eyes, craning their elongated necks up and staring at him from across a yard swarming with wriggling but otherwise silent larvae.

Clueless slowed his approach as he reached the gate, a construction of bones, frayed lengths of flesh, and errant bits of silver wire. Upon closer inspection, the fence itself was held together in similar fashion, cobbled together from the various bones of animals, lesser fiends, and a fair number of mortals.

Across the yard, up an ill defined pathway cobbled in half-buried craniums, flanked by the diakka, the open doorway to the hut yawned dark, threatening, and coldly enticing.

Clueless gave another glance at the diakka, staring hard but not moving to open the gate. He wasn't there to cause trouble, he just wanted to purchase something, assuming the resident Hag could supply it.

The darkness in the hut swam with the hints of movement and the sounds of myriad footsteps, claws on bare earth, the shuffle of pages of parchment, and the whimper of a small child.

"What is it you're looking for dearie?"

The voice was indirect, an echo from the interior of the hut, a sort of chilling pseudo-maternal warmth that reminded Clueless of his own mother, a noblewoman among the Unseelie courts. His mother was not evil in the same sense, but the false concern in the Hag's words played the same timbre on his heartstrings.

"I wanted to purchase something from you." He said, still not able to discern the source of the hag's voice. "

A sharp snap of bone, a wet wriggle across a dusty floor, another whimper, a matronly chuckle. The darkness continued to swim, hiding its occupants.

"You're hardly the sort to be purchasing what I sell." Came the darkly amused reply. "Neither fiend nor lich... you remind me of an Eladrin I once had o..."

The Hag trailed off, her words slipping into incomprehensibility.

"Then I can take my business elsewhere." Clueless stated. "Come out and we can talk, otherwise I'll find one of your sisters."

A gnarled hand emerged from the darkness of the hut's interior, long, brittle, yellowed fingernails curling around the doorframe to preface the emergence of the Night Hag herself. Had she wished to conceal herself as simply an elderly, hideous woman, she might have been able to do so, but the smoldering touch of her eyes, the larva cradled in her arms, wrapped in cloth like an infant, and the aura of sickness she exuded made it clear that she was anything but.

"No need for that child, I'll deal with you." She said with a grin, lips parting to show a row of chipped and rotting teeth. "What might you be looking for?"

Clueless stood firm at the edge of the gate while the hag strode up the path, making hollow echoes of her footsteps on the buried skulls.

"Not quite a larva." He said, giving an incidental glance at the wriggling petitioner cradled in her arms. Tiny drops of blood despoiled the blanket from where the crone's touch had cut or punctured the creature's flesh, incidental or intentionally, it didn't change the discordant image that was presented.

"I sell plenty of them." She replied, squinting one eye and peering at him with the other like some sort of gypsy evil eye. "But I didn't figure that's what you wanted."

"Something a bit more evolved than a larva."

"What do you want one of them for?" She replied, clearly knowing just what he wanted.

"Not the whole creature actually." He said, "Just its brain, a specific part of it. The pineal gland."

	The hag raised an eyebrow. “For yourself or for another? You don’t strike me as the type to be needing that sort of thing, pardon me for saying so.”

	“A bit of both.” Clueless replied. “But in any event I need it, and while it’d be simple enough for me to find a random hordeling and just cut the whole brain out on my own, I don’t care to go digging around in gray matter trying to find a specific portion of it and risk having to go get another if I slice the wrong direction.”

	The hag’s suspicion seemed to abate, though she continued to stare at him for several more moments, judging his character, or simply trying to determine how much he might be able to pay.

	“I can get you what you need.” She finally said. “How much are you willing to pay?”

	“How much are you asking?”

	“Depends on what you’re offering in payment in the first place.”

	Clueless reached a hand down to open his coin purse but the hag shook her head in the negative.

	“Worthless to me.” She said. “I might visit Center or somewhere else that values coin once or twice a century… give me something practical.”

	He nodded and reached into the smaller bag of holding at his belt. He’d been prepared for having to trade items rather than simply purchasing the gland with raw coin, but at least the hag wasn’t asking for favors or anything disgustingly personal.

	“How about this?” Clueless asked, removing a series of wands, all lower level spells with varying amounts of charges remaining.

	The hag looked at him skeptically. “What else do you have?”

	Clueless shrugged and put held up several scrolls.

	“Something else that I ‘ave a reasonable chance of being able to use myself.” The hag complained dismissively. “I’m neither a wizard nor a priestess. Make this worth my time.”

	“Alright.” The bladesinger said. “Let’s see what else I have to offer.”

	Over the next few minutes, Clueless removed a dozen minor magical items that he’s picked up in various places. Rings, wands, a pair of bracers, anything that the hag might conceivably take as payment for a bit of a hordeling, but for all of them the hag simply shook her head with increasing boredom as if her time was being wasted.

	Finally, getting desperate, Clueless took out the only other item he had that wasn’t far more valuable than the ability to pacify the Marauder with her favorite drink: the idiotic cursed little bauble that he’d bought off of A’kin on a lark only a few hours earlier.

	“What’s in there?” The hag asked, pointing a ragged fingernail at the box in the bladesinger’s hand.

	“If you don’t mind, I’d rather not open it up.” Clueless said. “It’s a cursed item.”

	“Keep talking.” The hag prodded.

	Clueless gave a surprised look and then deliberately rattled the box containing the ioun stone. Predictably the stone rattled back violently, and the air was split by a jarring, discordant buzz as angry flashes of colored light leaked out from the seams of the container.

	“It’s a cursed ioun stone.” The bladesinger explained. “It’ll latch onto the person it’s put near and then do its best to circle around them. Supposedly it has the habit of running into them, running into things of theirs around them, and annoying the hell out of whoever has the misfortune of being in the area.”

	The hag muttered something under her breath.

	“Pardon?” Clueless asked.

	The hag smiled a mouthful of broken, blackened teeth. “Just talking about a dear sister of mine… that sounds like a lovely gift for her…”

	Clueless said nothing as he handed the box over to the hag.

	“Wait here and I’ll get you yer pound of flesh.” She said, wandering back towards her hut, rattling the box and listening to its angry buzzing as she did.

	Over the next few minutes it was relatively silent, and nothing, not a sound, escaped the still unnaturally dark opening into the hag’s demesne. Eventually though, there were some whispers, just inaudible, and a series of animal whimpers and something dragging nails or claws against wood. Then another pause before there was a sudden, sharp *snap!* of bone followed by the sickening crunch of breaking, tearing cartilage, and the sound of a wet, fleshy scoop.

Clueless winced in distaste before the hag returned from her hut, cradling the box with the ioun stone under one arm, and in the other hand holding a sack weighted down with something heavy and wet.

	“Enjoy it dear.” The hag said, handing over the sack and its soft, giggling contents. “What you want is about the size of one of your eyes, a bit off color from the rest of the brain in there.”

	He muttered his thanks, collected the other things he’d offered, and then taking hold of the dripping, bloody satchel in one hand, Clueless strode away from the night hag’s home, only briefly turning back to watch her snickering as she clutched the cursed ioun stone. He had what he needed, wrapped in a cushioning layer of brain and length of cheesecloth, and the hag had something she would using to torment another one of her kind with. All in all, in a perverse sort of way, the Waste had outdone itself and its joy in misery had gone towards something in Clueless’s favor for once.

Unless of course things were ultimately just going to fall apart when one of the Waste’s children back in Sigil got her manicured claws involved. Clueless certainly hoped not.


***​

"What -is- that?" The head cook asked, his head tilted askance, as Clueless stood in the doorway of the Portal Jammer’s kitchen and held up the warm, mucus filled jar of Bebelith eggs.

"Very funny." Clueless said. "You ever tried to poach one of these before?"

The kitchen was dead silent as the staff stood and stared at the clutch of fiendish eggs, and also at the other bloody satchel that their boss carried like some sort of mad butcher’s boy.

"I'm serious." The cook replied. "Not only haven't I poached one of those before, I don't have any bloody idea what they are or what they came from."

	“Bebelith eggs.” Clueless explained. “Fresh and raw. You’ve never cooked one of them?”

	“I’ve never even seen one of them…”

"Lovely." Clueless muttered. "We have two days before fuzzy McB*tch visits the inn, and none of you can cook the food she wants."

"I can try." The cook offered. "If we can get more I can see what makes it work best."

Clueless shook his head. "It's a limited supply. Very limited. That won't fly."

	The cooking staff made their apologies, but clueless wasn’t much paying attention. No, the bladesinger was thinking about what to do so that his kitchen staff wouldn’t have to overextend themselves into an area of the culinary world that they rightfully had no experience in.

"Guys, I'm going to go find another cook." Clueless said as he walked back into the common room.

"What, our own can't handle it?" Tristol asked as he glanced up from a newly delivered batch of cutlery, glasses, and plates. He and Fyrehowl had, in a very short period of time, gone about some major cosmetic improvements to the common room of the inn.

The bladesinger glanced back into the kitchen. "It's so far out of the range of the food they normally handle... no."

Fyrehowl glanced up from one of the new chairs, her tail happily swishing behind it, courtesy of a partially open back.

	“What’s in the sack?” The lupinal asked, her nose twitching in obvious disturbance as the lump of hordeling brain slowly leaked its rancid fluid through the cloth to evaporate into the air.

	“Ah… yes, that.” Clueless said. “Some hordeling brain for a certain fiend’s favorite drink.”

	“Does it have to slowly go putrid here in the taproom?” Fyrehowl asked.

	Clueless nodded and walked around the bar, putting the sack and its runny contents into an unused cabinet.

	“Whenever Florian gets back can you ask her to keep it from spoiling?” The bladesinger asked.

	“At the very least.” The lupinal replied. “That’s pretty awful. I might hire the first priest I see to make sure it doesn’t spoil here in the next hour.”

	Clueless shot her an apologetic look. “My apologies. Good luck with that. But in the meantime I’ll be over at the Black Sails trying to buy the time of one or more of their people. I should be back in about an hour or so. And since I haven’t said anything about it since I got back, nice job on the redecorating!”


***​

"Funny. You don't look like a Baatezu." Zaren, the proprietor of the Black Sails tavern said as he looked up at the bladesinger from his desk, there in his office high in the stern of the galleon that served as the building’s frame.

"No no no." Clueless said, raising an eyebrow. "I said I wanted to -hire- one of your cooks, not -buy- one of your cooks."

"Ah." The man said. "Large difference."

"A considerable one." Clueless replied.

"Don't you have cooks of your own?"

"Yes, but I need someone to cook food for one evening that's rather different than what we normally serve."

The human gave a nod of his ashen complexioned face and listened.

"While neither of us is the Bottle and Jug or the Styx Oarsman, let's be honest, you cater to more fiends than we do. I was hoping that we might be able to reach some arrangement where I'd hire one of your cooks for an evening, either paying you directly or paying him plus a fee of convenience to you if it causes scheduling issues with your own staff."

	“I don’t have a problem with it myself.” Zaren said. “You’re not competitors, and so long as you don’t try to hire my best cooks at your place on a permanent basis, what they do on their own time off shift isn’t my concern.”

	Clueless nodded as the man continued.

	“Plus, both of our establishments have the ignominious honor of being excluded from membership in the Innkeeper’s Fellowship.” The owner of the Black Sails added, holding up a signet ring emblazoned with the symbol of the Free League. “Some mutual friends have also spoken well of you. Go ahead and see if any of the cooks want the extra work, and they’ll set their price.”

	It seemed that he had permission to speak to their cooks, and not only that, he had a tacit confirmation of his own acceptance into the informal ranks of the Indeps. Nothing more than that needed to be said, and so they exchanged handshakes, shared a shot of whisky, and that was that. Suffice to say, Clueless was smiling when he made his way into the kitchen, looking for a particular member of the staff, a minotaur named Garzech.

	It wasn’t difficult to find him, being that he towered a full two heads or more over any of the other staff in the Sail’s kitchen.

	“Pleased to make your acquaintance.” Clueless said to the minotaur as he was currently hacking apart the hindquarters of what looked like some breed of nic’epona.

	For his part the cook didn’t immediately respond except for a cursory glance as he methodically took the corpse apart and separated it into separate cuts of meat, slid them down the line to a pair of apprentice cooks, and bellowed out his orders.

	Clueless patiently waited and eventually the cook turned to him.

	“So what is it that you want?” He asked, sinking his cleaver an inch into the butcher’s block.

	“I’m looking to hire a cook, and you came recommended by your boss.” Clueless explained.

	“Go on.”

	“My own cooks don’t have a clue how to cook for a fiend’s taste.” He continued. “And I have to cook a meal for one here rather shortly.”

	“Just one evening?”

	“Only for one evening yes. And I’ve already cleared it with your boss, assuming that you’re up for the additional work.”

	The minotaur nodded. “Potentially. Tell me more.”

	“I’ll make it worth your while, and my normal staff will be at your beck and call for whatever you need them to do for you. The kitchen will be yours for the duration of your stay, and we’ll get you whatever you need.”

	Garzech chuckled. “That’s appreciated. What sort of fiend do you want me to cook for, and did they give you a menu ahead of time?”

	“A greater yugoloth. You’ll have heard of her. And can you poach Bebelith eggs?”

	The minotaur rubbed a thumb across the polished, elaborately engraved length of his left horn, clearly considering the offer.

	“Yes I can, so long as you have them and they’re not more than three days old.” He answered. “That said, I’m interested. Let’s talk specifics over a few drinks once I’m finished in the kitchen tonight in a few hours.”

	Clueless smiled. Things were working out well, and so long as Toras, back at the Portal Jammer, didn’t feel the need to repeat his previous verbal deconstruction of a minotaur with the new chef, there didn’t seem to be any problems looming on the horizon, at least not outside of the fiend they’d be catering to.


***​

"Well tonight is the night." The fiend said to her reflection in the mirror.

The Marauder closed her mouth and held still as one of her flock of groomers reached up to paint her lips a glossy black with reflective undertones of red. Of course, that only caused her to switch over to telepathy, and what was previously her act of thinking out loud in the conventional sense, was suddenly all the more true to its name.

_"Go with the blue diamond and fire opal necklace."_

	They took her comments as gospel, and they swarmed over her, adjusting clothing, changing out items as they fit or failed to fit their mistress’s specifications or momentary whimsy for how she cared to appear that evening. And all the while, she rambled about that evening and anything else on her mind.

_“Seems that the owners of the Portal Jammer have been scurrying about like brainless little Formians for the past week.”_

	There was a malign little snicker from the fiend and she rolled her eyes.

_“We’ll have to see if they can hold up to my standards of course. I did give them enough notions of how to cater to me.”_

	She pursed her lips, evening out the layer of gloss before turning her head slightly towards the mirror and giving an approving head nod to the servant.

	“If they’re willing to kowtow, I’ll turn my attentions elsewhere for people to take especial pleasure in f*cking over. I have more options than them, and other people can absorb my ministrations while that pack of fools enjoys a respite.”

She paused and tapped a claw against a fang. “At least for a while. There’s too much incidental history, too much delicious sin to completely let them go. So a grace period then, a moment of détente, that brief period of silent, numb oblivion after each little death.”

	Her tongue lashed out to tap the end of her nose. “Hold the mirror higher Colcook.”

	“And in any event, send out another polite little letter to our friend in Carceri.” The King of the Crosstrade said. “The darling dear needs to remember her place in the world and in this city, my city. Despite her current elevation in status, she’ll always be something less than me, even if she unconsciously patterns a few points of personality based on my example. In fact I’m sure she has a special place in her rancid little black heart for me based on the duration of her apprenticeship under my thumb. Lingering affection, spite, or both, I’m getting tired of her sending minions in her employ into Sigil, whatever they’re doing. She gets a pointed letter this time, but next time she’ll be getting back their limbs, gift wrapped in a box.”

	Her groomers let her ramble as they adjusted her dress, attached each and every bauble, polished her claws and made certain that her fur was brushed –exactly- to her specifications by mundane means rather than by magic. Circumstance wasn’t letting her move, and so in the absence of that freedom she was letting her tongue make up the perceived difference, cutting the air with her spite, letting its crass hatred boil over her pack of tieflings.

	“Of course, it may also be jealousy on my part for her current position in Carceri.” She said, giving first a sneer and then a chuckle. “But if so, I think jealousy is rather becoming of me. I’ll happily continue to brew my own personal stock and vintage of that delicious little vice.”

“What about the Oinoloth ma’am?” Colcook asked her.

She twisted her features at the question.

“The Ebon.” She said with particular reverence. “Has nothing to do with this. These current incidents were entirely on his b*tch’s time. He has my respect and has purchased my loyalty, while as for her, well… I can smile as she slowly rots away, and she can thank me for that.”

	None of her toadies made a comment, both on account of knowing their place and that when she desired them to comment, she would make her wishes known verbally, or they would be able to tell by virtue of her body language, a talent that they’d each honed out of necessity during their employment. Plus, none of them, Colcook included, had been alive in the centuries previous when that bit of history had occurred.

	The Marauder smiled at herself in the mirror once again as on her tieflings crowned the top of her head with a freshly braided tiara of living razorvine, a single strand left intentionally loose in the likely event that she felt the need to lash out with more than her tongue.

“History is the heart’s cupboard of vice,” The ‘loth began. “All stored up and preserved, sins treasured for lean times. And I’ve a history with both of them I suppose, both that tattered little b*tch from Carceri, and the berks serving tonight’s dinner, especially the half-fey. I rather enjoyed him. Shame I had to let that songbird fly, I was just getting to appreciate him. At least we get to see him and his fellows tonight.”

	Fully dressed, she turned to those of her tieflings who would be accompanying her as an entourage.

	“Stay at hand, scatter through the rest of the inn, but don’t actually cause any trouble. Make a decent show of suggesting that you might, but just to keep them on edge. I want them jumpy.”


***​


----------



## Darmanicus

Oh man, I can't wait for the next episode it should be a blast!

Nice one Shem.


----------



## KitamiBurzum

*Greetings, and well met!*

Hello guys, and ladies, of course!

From Italy, you just got another faithful reader, Shemeska! I've subscribed just to give my thanks to all of you, for bringing life to the planes, it's the least I could do...

Excellent work, DM, and congratulations to the players, too!

Bye, see you soon


----------



## Clueless

Thank you  Feel free to settle in for a good long time - this story isn't even half way done yet...


----------



## Miles Pilitus

That's cool, but does that mean Shemmy's going to be starting a Story Hour 3 before he's finished with this one?


----------



## Shemeska

*Dead Pellican Head*



			
				Miles Pilitus said:
			
		

> That's cool, but does that mean Shemmy's going to be starting a Story Hour 3 before he's finished with this one?




You have my permission to haul me off and stick me in a padded cell next to former Bleaker factols Tollysalmon, Esmus, and Lhar in the Criminally and Irretrievably Insane Ward of the Gatehouse if I ever try anything that delightfully loony.

Full time job + two storyhours + campaign + other writing projects = I'm overextended as is and unless I develop a real life version of Timestop, I can't manage anything else on my plate, as much fun as it might be to do more stuff.


----------



## Shemeska

“I take it that the new chef is all settled in?” Florian asked.

	Clueless nodded from behind the bar. “Already settled in nicely, but perhaps a bit too nicely.”

	“Oh?” Tristol asked.

	“A bit more demanding than our normal head cooks, who have the night off.”

	“I’ll give the staff time and a half for the night then.”

	“Sounds fair to me.”

	“For the moment at least then, things seem to be working out nicely. Toras hasn’t even picked on the new guy.”

	The fighter snickered and picked at a bit of leather on his chair. 

“Hey look! Your mom!” He said, recalling the insult he’d made to another minotaur some time ago.

	“Yeah yeah.” Clueless said. “Get it out of your system now.”

	Toras simply smiled. “I’ll be on my best behavior. And by that, I mean I’ll be in my room, reconsecrating the place in the hopes that our happy little guest tonight won’t give me trouble sleeping.”

	“I think Nisha is off doing something of her own as well.” Tristol said.

	“That’s probably for the best…” Fyrehowl replied.

	Tristol smiled and gave a shrug. “She took Amberblue with her, and said that she’ll be back later. I’ll cover any damages I suppose.”

	“But at least we’ve got some time to relax before we have to cater to the Marauder.”

	He’d no sooner knocked on the wood of the table when one of the King of the Crosstrade’s tieflings walked in the door and took a seat at the bar.

	“No more talking for you!” Florian said.

	Toras frowned and stood up, turning back to them as he reached the foot of the stairs. “And once again, I think I hear the sound of someone in trouble! Away I go!”

	“She’s not showing up early is she?” Tristol asked, he tail starting to fluff up from nerves.

	It didn’t seem as such. The tiefling was simply looking over the room from time to time, scouting the place out to make sure that everything was appropriate for his mistress when she did show up, hopefully at the appointed time and not a moment early.

	“Fyrehowl hasn’t bolted through a portal yet, so we’re probably safe.” Florian said. “And on that note, I’m going to make sure that the band has everything they need.”

And so over the next half hour, another two of the Marauder’s tiefling’s made their way into the bar and took tables adjacent to the ones that appears to have been reserved for the fiend. By then of course, the band had taken to the stage and its members were busily tuning their instruments. The live music included, the bar’s regular patrons seemed to largely appreciate the recent slew of changes and improvements, especially given that while the menu had expanded, the prices hadn't.

	It was only a few minutes after the band had set themselves up that the main event, so to speak, made her presence known as the first of her formal escort stood framed in the doorway. Fyrehowl and Florian looked at each other and steeled themselves for the coming abuse, while Tristol whispered a little prayer to Mystra. Hopefully everything would go well.

	Over at the bar, Clueless inhaled and then gave a sigh as the fiend’s entourage made its way into the inn. Though the tieflings that she had sent in a half hour earlier had been dressed in plainclothes outfits to help them fit into the normal cliental of the Portal Jammer, her clique of bodyguards were all dressed in matching dress outfits of tight brown leather armor with shorter half coats of darker and finer fabrics masking the armor underneath. They pressed into the inn, causing a hush to go over the normal patrons, and a few errant notes to escape from the musicians on stage.

	“Who’s the dope with the mirror?” Kiro whispered to Clueless as they both watched one of the tieflings maneuver through the doorway carrying a floor-length mirror larger than himself.

	Clueless bit his lip to avoid a chuckle. “That would be Colcook. He’s one of the Marauder’s favorites.”

	“You get in her good graces and she makes you carry heavy things?” The cleric replied, watching the awkward acrobatics the tiefling was going through to get the mirror into the inn.

	“Apparently.” Clueless replied. “You won’t see me beating down the door to apply for the job.”

	Kiro nodded and stared at Colcook before walking back into the kitchen. A moment later the tiefling paused and almost dropped the mirror as he awkwardly glanced around the room for no apparent reason. But he quickly recovered and soon thereafter the fiend herself made her entrance.

	“And I even get an awed silence as I make my entry.” Came the smug voice of the Marauder as she stepped into the inn. “I’m flattered, but don’t mind me, go about your normal routines. Keep it authentic, that’s what I came to see.”

	The fiend was dressed in a snug-fitting, sleeveless, floor length black velvet gown, and in places the silk backing could be seen where the velvet had been burned out in elaborate patterns that danced down the plunge of her cleavage and along her sides from bust to ankle, providing translucent windows onto her own coppery fur. It was a different look from her normal attire, but outside of the dress she was still adorned in typical fashion with a dozen jeweled bracelets and armbands, a series of belled platinum anklets, and a glittering blue diamond and fire opal necklace decorating her almost to the point of being obnoxious in their expense.

	Flashing just enough hints of skin through the burned velvet to nauseate Toras, make Fyrehowl feel like rolling her eyes, and exciting and pissing off Clueless, the fiend made her way to her appointed table, arm in arm with two of her boys. Once there, having given her an escort across all of twenty feet of floor space, they pulled out her chair, brushed the seat cushion off and let her sit.

	Shemeska was all smiles as she gazed over at the band, then the regular inn patrons, and finally at the owners themselves who were on hand. She didn’t seem to recognize Kiro, as she completely skipped over him when her eye’s settled on Clueless and she motioned him over with a beckoning finger.

	“Joy…” The bladesinger muttered under his breath as he picked up a menu and a wine list and managed to obscure his lips with them for a brief moment.

	But he was all smiles as well, mirroring the fiend’s pretensions, as he walked over to her table, gave a slight bow and tried to hand her the menu.

	“So good to see you again dear.” She said, brushing away the offered menu with a hand. “I like what you’ve done to the place, so far that I’ve seen it.”

	“We took your suggestions to heart.” Clueless replied, still holding out the menu.

	“Now I would like to keep the experience as authentic as possible.” She quipped. “This isn’t slumming, not entirely, but it –is- the Clerks Ward after all. Go ahead and read me the menu, I had my claws polished and I don’t know who might have touched that before me.”

	“…Alright ma’am.” Clueless said, trying to let her barbs just wash over him without making a fuss.

	He began reading her the menu while Florian walked over to the table and set it with a fresh set of napkins and explicitly non-silver silverware before lighting the candles that they’d used to mark out the Marauder’s reserved table. In response to all of the attention, the ‘loth largely ignored them both, seemingly paying more attention to the new windows with her eyes, and the band with her ears.

	Clueless kept on reading the menu though, and was stopped on three occasions by a terse, ‘I’ll take that. Please continue.’ from the fiend’s glossed lips. To no surprise of course, she ordered a pair of pouched Bebelith eggs, and then out of whimsy she added a dish of pickled terlen roe, and an ounce of seared bezikira loin.

	“Very nice choices… your fiendish majesty.” Clueless said with as much grace as he could stomach.

	“You remembered my preferred appellation.” Shemeska said, finally turning her head back towards the bladesinger turned waiter.

	“You specified it the last time that you were here.” He said. “I made it a point to remember.”

	She gave a mocking smirk that quickly turned into a smile as she pointed her snout towards one of the inn’s windows.

	“You have a good memory I should say. And very nice taste in spells.”

	“Spells?”

	“The new windows. The one-way force walls? That was a rather nice spell, and as I recall it was something that the previous owner of the inn had in his repertoire.”

	“Really?”

	“Yes, that fire genasi gentleman. Trenevain I think his name was.” She said. “A pity what happened to him of course.”

	Of course the fiend knew exactly what his name was, she’d hired him and used him as a tool when she’d been blackmailing Clueless and the rest of them before they’d managed to wriggle out from under her palm.

	“What happened to him?” Clueless asked.

	“Oh I don’t recall.” She said with a shrug of her shoulders. “He wasn’t anything of import in Sigil after he lost the property and you managed to snag it. I didn’t exactly keep up with him.”

	Clueless kept a straight face and didn’t mention anything about her involvement in that matter, despite her suggestions that Trenevain was dead, or that she might have had him disposed of.

	“Would you like to hear our drink list?” He asked.

	“Not necessary.” She replied. “You know my favorite drink I believe?”

	“The Marauder’s Mirth.” Clueless answered. ‘Of course I can have that prepared for you.”

	She looked at him expectantly. “Good.”

	Her tone made it rather clear that he’d said all he needed to say, and he turned and left, narrowly avoiding noticing her shooing him off with one hand. But she’d soured his mood, and it showed in his features when he walked up to Fyrehowl behind the bar.

	“If you could handle the drinks Fyrehowl.” Clueless said through a smile bristling with clenched teeth.

	The lupinal winced slightly and looked over towards the seated fiend and then back to the half-fey.

	“I’m going to do something I regret if I have to be around her any more.” Clueless said. “The recipe for her drink is on the counter, and the pineal gland is already pureed. Please, please make it up and serve it to her.”

	“You owe me.” She said, putting a hand on his shoulder.

	Having passed off the task to the lupinal, Clueless left for the kitchen, mouthing a very quick ‘thank you!’ to her as his eyes brimmed with bottled up stress.

	Back at the Marauder’s table, she was busy commenting about the various changes to the inn, both those she approved of, and those she thought had been half heartedly done, or done improperly. But, oddly enough, she seemed to be having trouble finding things to genuinely criticize, and one of her ears seemed perpetually swiveled back towards the band.

	“They’re not bad.” She said, looking directly over towards Tristol. “They’re obviously new, but they do have some promise. What do you think?”

	Tristol just stared back for a moment awkwardly, he hadn’t expected the ‘loth to actually bother talking to him.

	“You have big ears, surely you can hear them yes?” She prompted him.

	“Umm, actually I’m not certain what I think about them.” He replied. “They’re talented yes, but I haven’t had a chance to listen much to their style of music.”

	She nodded back. “You should get out more. Yes yes, I appreciate that you’re happy with your nose in a book, considering what I am, but you do yourself a disservice by not having a social life. I can suggest some places to broaden your horizons.”

	Tristol blinked, unsure how to take her comment.

	“I…”

	“We could get you out, get you dressing better and more confidently like your friend the bladesinger does, and maybe even get you a girl without having to pay her by the trick, though I think you could use that too. Not to suggest of course that… ah but my drink has arrived.”

Fyrehowl smiled and placed the vile looking concoction in front of the fiend before leaving as quickly as she could.

	The ‘loth took a sip of her drink, staring over it and the tip of her muzzle all the while, curious to see if Tristol would take her statements in stride, or have some other reaction. To his credit though, he just nodded and tried to make some courteous small talk.

	Eventually though, the food was ready and someone had to present it to her. Clueless had already begged off once, and so it fell to him and Florian. Carrying her meal on separate platters they flanked her and placed the dishes down one by one, announcing their contents and removing the lids as elegantly as they could manage.

	“You know, I’ve been thinking about running for election in Sigil.” She said as she crackled the shell on one of the Bebelith eggs.

	“What position are you thinking of running for?” Fyrehowl tentatively asked.

	“Councilwoman.” She said, barely hiding the fact that she was actually drooling at the scent of the egg. 

	Councilwoman? The Marauder with legitimate political power and a public outlet for her views was hardly a pleasant notion.

“Yes, I understand that several of the current council members are up for re-election in about a years time, though I think Chairwoman Rhys still has a longer term remaining beyond that and…this really is excellently prepared.”

	The fiend rapidly hushed herself as she slipped a spoon of the white and then a gelatinous dollop of the thick yolk into her mouth with an almost obscene vocalization of approval. A moment later she slumped slightly in her chair and inclined her head back, letting the meal slide down her throat on its own, allowing her to savor it on the back of her tongue before gravity took its hold and she swallowed.

	“Give whatever cook you hired for me tonight a bonus.” She said after she had finished the first bite and sat back up in a more dignified manner.

	“We’ll give him your regards.” Florian said. “We made certain that he knew how to prepare meals that you’d like.”

	“This is excellent.” The ‘loth said as she took a second, more yolky bite, her lips quivering slightly to the taste like she was eating a wriggling soul of an innocent or something similar.

	“This almost erases any notions of moving someone in next door to you all.” She continued with a pleased tone.

	“Eh?”

	“Yes,” She said. “I own all the adjacent buildings, and one of the tenants was late on a payment recently. I haven’t decided who, if anyone, to move in.”

	This couldn’t be good, but the ‘loth still had an obscene smile on her face from the food.

	“I’d been considering a Tanar’ri brothel actually.” She said. “And that idea might help you with what we’d talked about earlier Tristol.”

	She popped the spoon out of her mouth and waved it in the aasimar’s direction. “Maybe an Alu-fiend, or a cambion I suppose, whichever you prefer.”

	She said no more at that point, but left hanging the obvious notion that she could swap and rearrange their neighbors at whimsy. Thankfully the food, her favorite drink, and the music that she rather seemed to appreciate, kept her occupied and not flinging barbs from her tongue.

	After that point the ‘loth made only a bit of small talk, including some additional comments on current Sigilian politics and some pointed questions to Fyrehowl about former Factol and current council Chairwoman Rhys. She seemed serious on the politics, but she also seemed happy, either from the food, the alcohol, or the fact that everyone had been catering especially to her. Either way, she was less hostile than they had hoped for.

	“I approve.” She finally said, tapping her lips on the edge of her napkin. “You’ve made something with promise, given where you started, and considering what it first looked like when I was last here.”

	“Thank you.” Clueless said. “Your suggestions certainly helped.”

	“Besides them.” She said bluntly. “It’s not a luxury restaurant, but it was never intended to be. However for what it is, it’s one of the better ones in the city, and I’ll be open about my opinion as such when I talk to other people who follow and keep track of such things.”

	Her approval, genuine approval at that, came as something of a shock. They’d played her little game, they’d catered to her whimsy, and they’d pampered her as much as they could stomach, but at best they had hoped to avoid any great abuse at her hands. Having her actually offering to do something positive on their behalf, it seemed too good to be true.

	“And with your stunned silence in my wake. I’ll be taking my leave.” She said, standing up as one of her tiefling’s pulled out her chair.

	“It’s been a pleasure.” She continued. “And we’ll have to do this again.”

	She started to turn to make her exit, but paused ever so briefly. She seemed caught between just leaving and letting them off the hook, and extending her hand and making them kiss her fingers. She did neither, and let her hand hang there for a moment, waiting to see if any of them would take the initiative, guessing that she meant for them to kiss it. But then after a moment she withdrew the hand, pursed her lips and blew a bit of dry wine from the tip of a claw before flashing a grinning mouthful of fangs and waltzing out into the night.


***​

Less than an hour after the evening's "pleasantries" had passed and the King of the Crosstrade had left, taking along her gaggle of tiefling's in tow, the metaphorical stench of fiend had almost evaporated from the Portal Jammer itself and from where it had hung like a rain-laden thundercloud, dark and threatening, over the thoughts of the Inn's owners. But it was not gone entirely, and in the wee hours of the morning, some time after anti-peak, it came from a distinctly different source.

	Situated on the rooftop of one of the buildings across from the Jammer two figures milled about, in fact they stood atop the building that had in previous weeks been the perch of the magically dominated assassin who had done her best to kill Tristol. But the two fiends who now stood there, were not under any domination, nor any compulsions whatsoever, they were there because they desired to be, and because they hoped to advance themselves in the process.

“A shame that we cannot handle this ourselves.” The first of the fiends said as he gazed at the remaining lights burning in the Jammer’s windows.

"Indeed a shame, I must concur." The second of the fiends replied in lockstep with the first, like they were both reading each other’s minds and simply verbalizing shared and concurrent thoughts.

	The first speaker, a jackal-headed arcanaloth by the name of Alpthis, was dressed in black robes with cobalt blue swirls crisscrossing their folds, and had dusky gray fur with faded reddish brown highlights. Of note however was the ragged notch taken out of his left ear, and the irritated and hairless patch of flesh that surrounded it. Like a brand on a prized steer, it was present on his brother and him with similar meaning, a mark of ownership on a greater yugoloth.

	The second fiend, Apteris, was almost a reversed image of his brother. Also a jackal-headed arcanaloth, his own fur was a faded reddish brown color, streaked through with dusky gray highlights, and his right ear was notched and barren in the exact same manner as his sibling’s, a shared mark of loyalty, a shared brand of servitude. But while Alpthis was dressed as a sorcerer, his clothing elegant and decorative, Apteris was clad in a simple red robe that was gathered at the waist by a monochrome black sash. His brother’s feet were clad in silk slippers, and they hovered off the ground, but his were bare and openly touched the rooftop.

"The mistress does forbid us from such of course..." Alpthis said, gazing with disdain down at the Portal Jammer.

"She wants it done by other means, but where's the joy in that for us."

"Outside of the joy of her service of course."

"Of course."

They glanced at one another with matching smiles, wry and hungry, like they were exchanging a bevy of known, shared secrets with each glimmer of light on tooth and iris.

"It would be so much easier if we needn't worry about disturbing others of our kind in this city."

"A pity that we have to tiptoe around them, it does make our task less direct."

"Professional protocol is entirely too cumbersome."

"You were always the more impulsive of us brother."

"Indeed I am, but we balance one another nicely, and given our current position, I hardly feel at ill standing."

They continued their telepathic banter, idly speaking as they kept their eyes locked on the Jammer, their ears perked and more than a mortal's share of senses plucking more esoteric information from the ether.

"Seems that they'll be leaving." Apteris said.

"Only two of them?"

"And no kobold this time, rather the half-breed and the cleric, the new one, not the old one."

"And this time there will be no mortal mercenaries to let their quarry slip their noose."

	They both looked at one another and rolled their eyes in unison at the shared memories of that group of now very dead mortals.

"I blame the quasit." Apteris said with a sneer.

"The quasit?"

"We should have handed Yethmiil a better group of mortals. A quasit familiar didn't speak well for the sorcerer in that group."

Alpthis shrugged, "Pray to the Oinoloth that we fare better than Yethmiil in our task."

"Unfortunate what happened to him."

"But deserved."

"Of course."

	“Absolutely.”

	Once again they exchanged glances at the exact same moment, flashing smiles in disturbing parity with the other. They had seen what fate had befallen that particular Ultroloth, and his current status had been an object lesson for all of their mistress’s servants, themselves included. And while their loyalty was not in question, they had no desire to experience even one small fraction of that agony that came with failure.

"Next roof, I want to have a better angle for the portal scry." Alpthis said before vanishing with a gesture, reappearing in an instant a dozen yards away, crouching like a jackal-headed gargoyle on the rooftop across the street.

	His brother followed him, but rather than using magic, he simply jumped the distance between the rooftops with a disturbing level of litheness. In fact, near the end of his leap, the ‘loth seemed to hang in the air for a moment, suspended, before gently settling down on the shingles.

“Not a bad assortment of portals I have to say." Alpthis said, narrowing his eyes as his magic peeled away the walls, revealing a glittering assortment of bound spaces, each of them like discrete membranes floating in the air.

	“I’ve heard that it was better before the Tempest.”

	“Ever the contrarian, you.”

	“Regardless of their assortment of portals,” Apteris said, shifting his eyes with the same spell as his brother. “I’m more concerned with the ones they’ll be using here in the next while. As soon as we have a location, the matter is out of our hands.”

	“And here I thought you preferred to use your hands.” Alpthis said in faux mockery.

	“I prefer what it most expedient to the wishes of our mistress.” Apteris said with a grin as one of the portals flickered into life. “The exact same as you brother.”

	“Indeed.” Alpthis replied, licking his lips.

	“Indeed.”


----------



## demiurge1138

LOVE the Brothers. Such polite banter, but with such horrible purpose. They're like the Goofy Gophers of Gehenna. 

And, to Gez for a moment, I assume that “You’ve made something with promise, given where you started, and considering what it first looked like when I was last her” should read "...was last here."

Demiurge out.


----------



## Mr. Draco

An update!  It's like Christmas! :-D


----------



## shilsen

Shemeska said:
			
		

> Her approval, genuine approval at that, came as something of a shock. They’d played her little game, they’d catered to her whimsy, and they’d pampered her as much as they could stomach, but at best they had hoped to avoid any great abuse at her hands. Having her actually offering to do something positive on their behalf, it seemed too good to be true.




NPCs one loves to hate are no problem. When they start to be nice is when players/PCs start to get really worried. Nicely done, Shemmie!


----------



## bluegodjanus

I like the arcanaloth brothers. They're nifty.


----------



## Shemeska

bluegodjanus said:
			
		

> I like the arcanaloth brothers. They're nifty.




They don't run into the PCs directly, face to face, till much later in the game but they seemed to make for a memorable impression. The eventual comeuppance was deserved, if a long time coming.

I also used these two guys as IC voices in one of the Planewalker.com chapters... I believe the chapter on either life on the planes, or coins and commerce.


----------



## Eco-Mono

Shemeska said:
			
		

> I also used these two guys as IC voices in one of the Planewalker.com chapters... I believe the chapter on either life on the planes, or coins and commerce.



The latter, or at least a subsection thereof. If I recall correctly, they were discussing slavery...


----------



## Schulbub

*Question*

Hey Shemi, 

could you please repost the stats of the baernoloth you once posted somewhere on the i-net. I tried everything to find them...it´s so frustrating. If I remember correctly, your party met this particular baernoloth on the plane of dust.


----------



## Shemeska

Schulbub said:
			
		

> Hey Shemi,
> 
> could you please repost the stats of the baernoloth you once posted somewhere on the i-net. I tried everything to find them...it´s so frustrating. If I remember correctly, your party met this particular baernoloth on the plane of dust.




Aye, that would be their encounter with Methikus sar Telmuril 'the Flesh Sculptor'. I'll repost those stats tonight over on the Rogues Gallery thread and add a link here in this post.


----------



## bluegodjanus

Shemeska said:
			
		

> I also used these two guys as IC voices in one of the Planewalker.com chapters... I believe the chapter on either life on the planes, or coins and commerce.




Oh yeah, you did. They were good there, too.


----------



## Shemeska

I just posted up a new Baern cycle story over on Planewalker.com, and I also put up a link in a new thread in the main storyhour forum here. This one handles The Chronicler, who has shown up already in this storyhour, and who we'll certainly see again before all is said and done.


----------



## Reality Key

I finally caught up.   excellent story Shemy! Pro quality as allways. 
But one thing is nagging me though. 
Why haven't the Upper Planes (esp. Guardinals) done anything about the loss of the layer? Granted charging into the Gray Waste onmass would be counterproductive if not futile as past examples have shown (i.e The Vale). At the very least try to find a way to seperate the part of the layer not contaminated by the Mother of Serpents and the Yugoloths.

Slightly off topic thought; If the Baernloths made the Yugoloths. Then who made the Guardinals? Perhaps a ancient predescessors of Guardinals that decided to step back and let thier decendents run Elysium.  I'm a fan of the Guardinals and just wondered.
Sorry for any spelling mistakes.


----------



## Shemeska

Reality Key said:
			
		

> I finally caught up.   excellent story Shemy! Pro quality as allways.
> But one thing is nagging me though.
> Why haven't the Upper Planes (esp. Guardinals) done anything about the loss of the layer? Granted charging into the Gray Waste onmass would be counterproductive if not futile as past examples have shown (i.e The Vale). At the very least try to find a way to seperate the part of the layer not contaminated by the Mother of Serpents and the Yugoloths.




Good question. They're not doing anything immediately for a very good reason, and there's a very bloody past lesson lurking in their minds that has for the moment made them sit back and internally struggle with things, several of their leaders if not necessarily the race as a whole. Talasid and several of the others have a more informed view of what's going on. If anything, the Rilmani right now are probably more active than anyone, but that's not something that's revealed till it's heavily implied in a later plot arc that bounces between Pandemonium and the Outlands. The Waste doesn't keep Belarian for much longer.



> Slightly off topic thought; If the Baernloths made the Yugoloths. Then who made the Guardinals? Perhaps a ancient predescessors of Guardinals that decided to step back and let thier decendents run Elysium.  I'm a fan of the Guardinals and just wondered.
> Sorry for any spelling mistakes.




*languid little grin*

Who made the Guardinals indeed. I do get around to this particular question, but it's a damn long time coming, though there's a reason for this too. I've already touched upon the idea of a pre-Eladrin CG race in my story of 'The Wanderer', and the prehistory suggested in that story holds for the storyhour here as well. I also have lurking on my computer somewhere, an outline for a story covering the creation of the Eladrin by their lost and self-exiled parents, which I'll polish off one of these days. 

I never really delve into anything similar for the LG side of things, but the NG side of things gets at least two pretty hefty plot arcs before all is said and done. The first of them centers largely around Fyrehowl, and gets into the past history of the Companions of Elysium. I think I might have vaguely alluded to something back around when Belarian slid of at least one of the Guardinal Lords feeling something like a shadow passing over his grave, or something that seemed far too familiar, a horrible memory that tried to resurface, etc. I'd rather not spoil anything beyond that however.

One of the Guardinal progenitors makes a cameo in Storyhour 2, speaking to FH's daughter, but I think that we'll learn about them directly in SH1 before we get to that point in SH2.

Edit: Here's the relevant quote from earlier in the SH


			
				earlier in the SH said:
			
		

> All of them stepped into the same dreamscape, all of the companions who had traveled to Elysium together and stopped the rogue lupinal and his Yugoloth conspirators; all of them dreamt the same dream. And at the same time they did, Duke Lucan of Elysium, one of the seven companions of Talisad, awoke in the night with a sense of dread and a feeling that something black that he had felt once in the past had awoken and for a moment stared at him and laughed.
> 
> Everything was shrouded in darkness that swirled like ebony mist around three standing figures. Staring at them out of the dream stood Vorkannis the Ebon, the overlord of Carceri, a study in black with only his gleaming reddish-pink eyes standing out from the darkness that seemed almost part and parcel of the archfiend. Behind him stood the red and gold wrapped form of Helekanalaith the Keeper of the Tower Arcane in Gehenna. A third figure in green completed the triad and was wrapped in obscuring shadow, her face indistinct and hidden but for the glint of light upon her fangs. A glowing blue gem hovered in the jeweled hand of the third arcanaloth and another hovered in the open hand of The Ebon.
> 
> With a voice like honey touched with poison, wrapped with the warmth of a lover and the cold of a betrayer’s blade, The Ebon spoke to them in mocking triumph.
> 
> “Now my puppets I thank you. Know that nothing you do, nothing you create, nothing you aspire to, nothing your souls crave happens but by my will. Nothing you have done, no plans you have spoiled, no blood you have spilt, has been but by my wish and determination. By my will your hands this night are awash in blood and the death screams of Rubicon, my symphony in which you play your own parts. At the breaking of the first light of dawn on Belerian, witness my work and despair.”


----------



## Reality Key

Shemeska said:
			
		

> Good question. They're not doing anything immediately for a very good reason, and there's a very bloody past lesson lurking in their minds that has for the moment made them sit back and internally struggle with things, several of their leaders if not necessarily the race as a whole. Talasid and several of the others have a more informed view of what's going on. If anything, the Rilmani right now are probably more active than anyone, but that's not something that's revealed till it's heavily implied in a later plot arc that bounces between Pandemonium and the Outlands. The Waste doesn't keep Belarian for much longer.




The Rilmani?! I totally forgot about them. It will be interesting to see how they handle/react to the situation at hand. *grin* Wonder how Ebon is react when Belarian slides out of the Waste. 
Smart money says he's NOT going to be too happy, but not show his displeasure in front the underlings. But then again it could be all part of a much more larger and sinister plan.

As for the Guardianal's orgins, I can't wait when that comes around.


----------



## recentcoin

I rather like the two assassins.  They remind me a lot of Heckle and Jeckle....

RC


----------



## Clueless

I like what we did to them later.


----------



## Eco-Mono

Reality Key said:
			
		

> The Rilmani?! I totally forgot about them.



Surprising how easy it is to do that. Part of what gives them their influence, methinks. 







> It will be interesting to see how they handle/react to the situation at hand. *grin* Wonder how Ebon is react when Belarian slides out of the Waste. Smart money says he's NOT going to be too happy, but not show his displeasure in front the underlings.



Why would he care? The slide served its purpose: to give his forces a sudden, ridiculously powerful boost in the war over the Wasting Tower. He doesn't need Belarian anymore, so I don't think he'd really have strong feelings over its return, one way or the other.

On a slightly different note, the fact that it's Duke Lucan who is awoken and disturbed by the presence of Vorkannis reeks of creepy coincidence - IIRC Lucan's form is essentially that of a black lupinal.


----------



## Reality Key

Eco-Mono said:
			
		

> Why would he care? The slide served its purpose: to give his forces a sudden, ridiculously powerful boost in the war over the Wasting Tower. He doesn't need Belarian anymore, so I don't think he'd really have strong feelings over its return, one way or the other.
> 
> On a slightly different note, the fact that it's Duke Lucan who is awoken and disturbed by the presence of Vorkannis reeks of creepy coincidence - IIRC Lucan's form is essentially that of a black lupinal.




 You got a point there Eco. Best to let the layer slide than let any potental rival (though unlikely at this stage) use it.

As for Duke Lucan...this eerie coincidence does raise a question of the orgin of the Guardinals. Where they made as mockery of the Yugoloths or where the Yugoloths made in mockery of them?


----------



## Eco-Mono

Reality Key said:
			
		

> Were they made as mockery of the Yugoloths or where the Yugoloths made in mockery of them?



It's always struck me as a natural effect of the Rule of Threes. Every action's equal and opposite reaction would logically come out to be a "mockery" of its counterpart.


----------



## Clueless

Re: the slide of Belarian.... Eco - you've pretty much got it right. And as for the Duke... heh - you'll see


----------



## Shemeska

***​

"Do you mind if we come in and keep you company?" Nisha asked, opening the door to Tristol’s study a crack and peering in, followed moments later by the grinning face of a faerie dragon in tow.

Tristol glanced up from the book that he'd been reading. "I suppose so, just so long as no books or potions start dancing on their own, and I don't lose anything dangerous."

"Will he consider a wand of web dangerous?" Amberblue whispered to the tiefling.

"Shhhh... don't tell." She said, hushing him with a fingertip to his nose. “Besides, no more than the sovereign glue, and I get enough of that regularly.”

	“Do I need to speak to A’kin about that?” Tristol warily asked. “…And is he even aware that you’ve been taking that stuff from his shop?”

	Nisha paused and put a finger to her lips, apparently having to think for a moment of that particular question. “I assume so…”

	“That doesn’t exactly comfort me on the issue.” He replied. “He’s still a fiend, and what do you need sovereign glue for anyway?”

	“Oh he’s a sweetheart.” The tiefling said with cheerful dismissal, ignoring the second half of the question.

	Tristol raised an eyebrow and chuckled in resignation. No use arguing against Xaositect logic.

	“But you were reading.” Nisha chirped. “Don’t mind us, go back to your book as it’s sooooo much more important than little ‘ol me and Amberblue.”

	Tristol raised an eyebrow once again but took her advice, though he was certain that he’d regret it sooner or later. Nisha never acted innocent without some ulterior motive, even if that motive was random rather than malign.

The books spread out on the wizard's desk were the papers and notes that they had taken from the astral study and carcerian palace of the Ultroloth, Yethmiil Kal'suth. The former were written largely in the affected style of a Rakshasa, with tiny glimmers of the underlying cold, clinical and merciless attitude of the yugoloth's true demeanor that was fully evident in the sickening notes that they'd found in Cathrys. The biological experiments in Carceri were seemingly a pastime of the fiend, something that he'd been involved with long before what he referred to as his "hideous loss of status with the rise of a new Oinoloth".

While sick and disturbing, those warped experiments had nothing to do with what he'd been doing in Rakshasa guise on the Astral, nor anything to do with his 'sister', who like him, was more likely than not, something other than an exiled scion of a fallen noble house of Acheron. What exactly was going on, what he and she were doing on the Astral, and why it was important enough to try on multiple occasions to kill those who disrupted their activities, that was a question still lurking in Tristol's mind, and it was for that reason that he was once again pouring through the notes and records currently piled atop his desk.

	The research might have gone easier of course, but he kept hearing giggles and whispers and odd noises from behind him. But of course inevitably whenever he’d look back, Nisha and Amberblue weren’t doing anything at all, except for the one time that she was grinning and the faeriedragon was holding a tin halo over her head.

	Innocent? Hardly. But she was cute enough to overlook it.

	Well, that was Tristol’s intent anyways, to overlook whatever mischief that they were up to, but that was before he heard a startled, ‘Wait, no no not the tanglefoot bag!’ right before something hit the floor, snarled around a chair and knocked into the table, sending piles of books onto the floor, very nearly including Tristol alongside them.

With a bewildered sigh, Tristol stooped down to pick up the books from where they had fallen. He’d have to move the tangle of roots later.

"Soooooorry..." Amberblue chirped from where he'd darted behind a crystal ball on one of the shelves, distorted like a funhouse mirror in the process.

"No, it's alright." Tristol said. He really had trouble actually getting angry at the tiny drake, and even more so with Nisha, even as borderline nuts as she was sometimes.

Nisha meanwhile wasn't saying a word, but there was a conspicuous globe of darkness standing right where she'd been. Like a cat sticking its head in a box and being convinced that because it couldn't see you, you couldn't see it, the tiefer was naught to be seen except for the tip of her tail that was breaking the boundary of shadow.

It wasn't a big deal really, nothing had been broken, nothing had caught on fire, and nobody had been hurt. He'd just have to spend a few minutes organizing papers before getting started on his reading again... but what was this?

Tristol held up the book he'd been reading, staring at a slight imperfection on the edge of one of the pages that he'd read about an hour before. It wasn't a flaw in the grain of the paper, it was two pages that had for whatever reason become stuck together and he'd never noticed.

"What's that?" Amberblue asked, the tip of his snout and his eyes blown up ten times and out of proportion by the scrying globe.

"There's an extra page in here." Tristol said, tossing the book down and carefully peeling them apart.

"A new page? What's it say?"

"I don't know yet, lemme read it. This is all new to me though."

"Aha!" Came a distinctive voice from inside the globe of darkness. "My plan went off flawlessly!"

Tristol paused and silently giggled, smiling at the tiefling.

But the page was written in the matter-of-fact tone and distinctively angled handwriting of the Ultroloth when he'd assumed the form of a Rakshasa. It was a chronicle of some of the last things that had occurred on the godisle of Maanzicorian.

_Given that I was unable to finish my reports from before, and the original document appears to have been destroyed, this will serve as an addendum to current activities. Postdated by several weeks, surface stripping of the godisle is complete, and the outermost rock and crystalline layers of the corpse have been sent for processing and evaluation at the Citadel of Broken Faith. Already though, it seems unsuitable for use in the Crown, but there are others that have already been deemed suited for that purpose, and alternate use remains, though she has not deigned to inform me of just what purposes she intends to use them for beyond the immediately obvious.

Now in the present time it seems that the prisoner has been transferred away from the Citadel and into Pitiless. He may have outlived his use to my mistress; she's gutted his brain for all it’s worth it seems, though she hasn't shared but a fraction of that with me. I don't think she understood all of what he told her, which is odd. She’s brilliant, even as unstable as she might be, but I cannot grasp that a mortal would be capable of creating some of the things that she has forced him to collaborate upon with her. I will have to visit Vast after this current matter of revenge is completed._

The small notation of D-37r was scribed in the margin of the page. Tristol paused on the number, the odd mentions of a prisoner, the vague mentions of godisle mining, and creations. Without the context the 'loth had known, the words were devoid of meaning in many ways, but whoever he was, this Vast, he might be able to tell them something more.

	“So what the hell is Pitiless?” He mused.

	“A really bad character adjective? Personality traits for devoted Mercykillers?” Nisha suggested.

	Tristol chucked as he glanced up at his bookshelves. “Something about it sounds familiar…Nisha, could you get me the 5th book from the right on the shelf behind you? Yeah, the one with the red binding.”

	It was obviously a location, but he’d never really heard of the place except some vague recollection of it being in the Astral. He’d heard the name Vast before too, but again it was only a vague memory. About an hour later, having combed through several books, he had an answer on both topics.

	From Zelif Ashikar’s ‘Travels Upon the Astral’:

_The Doomguard has operated Pitiless as a prison and storehouse for approximately nine centuries. Its role as a prison is largely incidental, as the entire purpose behind the sprawling structure is to facilitate the observation of physical objects and persons in the supposedly timeless, zero-entropy environment that the silver void presents. If objects decay even in the Astral, it would represent a major confirmation of the faction’s ideology and their prophecy towards the ultimate fate of the multiverse.
	Pitiless exists at the center of an apparently naturally occurring bubble of empty space in the Astral, devoid of color pools, godisles, and the normal Astral winds. It is isolated from external influences, locked and frozen outside of time, the perfect location for the observation of the decay of all things. At least this is the hope of its wardens, Aorth and Jaitch.
	The prison complex accepts additional subjects from time to time for a nominal fee to the Faction. Operating costs are virtually nonexistent outside of the pay given to some of its non-faction guards, as there is no need for repairs, food, or other normal costs for typical prisons.
	The objects and persons incarcerated in Pitiless are, with virtually no exception, some of the most dangerous of their kind in the multiverse. They are individuals cursed by deities, things imprisoned for the safety of entire spheres on the prime, artifacts of dreadful potency, and things best left unknown. And Pitiless gathers them like unstable moths to a flame.
	Still, it is possibly the most secure location on the planes, with the sole exceptions of Malsheem in Nessus, or Chronias atop the Seven-Tiered Mount. No prisoner has ever escaped Pitiless in its history nor been killed, nor have any objects been stolen. By unspoken contract, Pitiless is viewed as neutral ground by all parties who avail themselves of its purpose. The threat of uniformly angering Powers, Archfiends, Factions, and even Celestial hierarchs has served to additionally keep the prison secure above and beyond their own security measures. Pitiless is sacrosanct for prisoner and experiment alike. _

	“Lovely place…” Tristol muttered as he marked the page containing a brief sketch of the prison and a rough map of its location.

	“I don’t think that sounds like a nice place for a date you know.” Nisha said, peering over her boyfriend’s shoulder. “I was hoping maybe the Pinwheel in Limbo, or maybe the Gilded Hall if we wanted to get out of Sigil. But not Pitiless.”

	“Don’t worry, I’ll take you someplace better for a date when we’re done with this stuff.”

	Behind them both, Amberblue made a very distinct, “Awwwwwwwwww…”

	“Don’t get too saccharin there.” Nisha told the dragon. “You might make us kiss or something cute and icky like that.”

	That seemed to hush the dragon, though his reaction to that, viewed through the crystal ball was priceless. But that aside, Tristol went back to reading.

	From the last book he had an answer on Pitiless, but the name of Vast had also rung a bell in Tristol’s head, and as he glanced over an entry in another book covering the Astral, his answer to who the man was had a strange synchronicity with other things.

	The Rakshasas. The sibling Rakshasas of the exiled House of the Blackened Paw; their names were attached to that of one Ghyris Vast.

From Telligar the Alienist’s History of Madmen:

_Among the ranks of the Bleak Cabal, madness is common, virtually an expected condition among their higher-ranking members. Their philosophy can be one of incredible release, or one of mind crushing despair. Recent history has led several factols into the grip of the so-called Grim Retreat (and this pair is described in further detail in the next chapter) but others have remained extant, outside of Sigil and the well-meaning incarceration of their fellows.

	First among this group is the mad inventor Ghyris Vast. Entirely self-taught, Vast began his career spouting bizarre theories in the lecture halls of the Civic Festhall, and several times it seems that he was expelled from the Fortress of Enlightened Discipline by the orthodox members of that other faction, seemingly above the objections of their Mathematician sub-sect. Vast’s theories…_

	Tristol flipped a few pages, skipping over the man’s theories. He could always go back and look at them later, but they seemed more mathematical and abstract than anything concrete, and they weren’t something that he’d ever studied in depth given how they didn’t seem to relate to arcane magic, at least not directly.

_Expelled from Mechanus, and with the looming threat of incarceration in the Gatehouse by members of his own faction eager to avoid official problems with the Guvners, Vast retreated into the Astral. Once there he began to construct a device that he referred to as ‘The Divinity Leech’, something that he claimed could extract some nebulous form of latent divine energy locked within a targeted godisle.
	The device itself is reported to be a device out of a god of invention’s nightmares, a sprawling thing which appears to have gone through multiple revisions of dramatically different form and style. Vast has stayed consistent in his claims, but most sages admit that they cannot understand his arguments for how it works, and others claim he’s simply spouting off ideas that he himself doesn’t understand, essentially making the device a worthless piece of junk. Of course, very few scholars have deigned to visit him, afraid as they are that his device, if it works, or even if it doesn’t, will attract the attention of the Guardian of Dead Gods, and by extension the Astral Dreadnaughts.
	On top of that last threat, there are also the Githyanki who claim exclusive right to remove any magical or alchemical radicals from the surface of the dead gods of the Astral. To hedge against them, Vast has apparently hired a troupe of Reave mercenaries from Acheron, and a pair of exiled Rakshasa from the same plane. Siddhartha and Brampandra don’t appear to legitimately believe in Vast’s claims, but they’re well positioned to profit from them if in fact he has managed to do as he claims._

	And there was the connection. 

Regardless of the actual truth or fiction in the identities of the Rakshasas, there was the connection between them, the godisles, and the so-called ‘prisoner’, Ghyris Vast. Tristol’s mind rolled over the facts and their repercussions, mentally tasting them like sugared treats.

	“Nisha, you’re awesome.” He said suddenly, taking hold of the book before standing up and planting a kiss on the tiefling’s face. “Follow me, we need to get the others.”

	And like that, Tristol was out the door leaving Nisha blushing and grinning in her fading globe of conjured darkness.

	“Was that another one of your ‘Aha! I planned that all along!’ moments?” Amberblue asked, alighting down upon the remaining stack of books on the table.

	“Yep!” The Xaositect replied. “And even if it wasn’t, which it wasn’t, I doubt I’d be complaining!”


***​

"Guys! Hold up!" Tristol shouted.

The portal framed by the doorway flickered, backlighting Kiro and Clueless as they turned to glance at the mage.

"What is it?" Clueless asked. "We were just about to go check up on things in the demiplane. According to the staff, it looked like someone had been there and tried to pick one of the locks."

"A pretty amateur attempt they said." Kiro added. "They said it might have been some... Nathri I think it was? We just wanted to check on the place, plus I've never had the chance to see it, though I've heard enough about it."

"I don't think Nathri will burn the place down if we wait a few more days." Tristol said. "I've found something..."

Twenty minutes later, he’d explained the matter to first the bladesinger and the cleric, and then to Fyrehowl and Toras, and finally to Florian. Of course each time he explained the affair, he had to, and was prompted to each time, to recognize Nisha and Amberblue as 'master sages and finders of nifty hidden stuff'. Of course, each time he did, he had a grinning tiefling rub his ears and give him a kiss on the cheek, so he wasn't exactly complaining.

"Alright I think we're agreed then?" Tristol said as something else suddenly popped into his mind. "Wait... anyone know where Skalliska is?"

"I saw her earlier." Kiro replied. "I think she was going to her room."

The kobold had been seriously busy with _something_ over the past few days, and she'd suddenly seemed chipper, which was quite a bit of a change from the moody and irritable thing that she'd been previously. It had been a bit of a swing: she'd started out elated at finding a god of her pantheon still alive and she'd seemed to have found something to believe in, but then when she'd had trouble actually finding a temple or a cleric of that god in Sigil she'd lost some of that high. But now something seemed to have changed.

"Let's go fetch her." Florian said, glancing over at Fyrehowl.

"Give us a minute." The lupinal said. "We'll see if she's up for the trip, and I'll ask her if she knows anything about the place too."

A few minutes later, Florian stepped up to the door and gave it a series of polite knocks. About the same time she did, Fyrehowl's ears perked and she glanced around with an odd expression on her face.

"Did you hear something?" The cipher asked.

"Hear what?" Florian said. The cleric’s ears were distinctly smaller than the lupinal’s, and she hadn’t heard a thing.

"One minute." Came Skalliska's voice from inside her room, followed shortly after by the clatter of kobold feet on the floorboards.

"It was like she was talking to someone in there." Fyrehowl whispered.

Florian looked askance at her, "Who did it sound like?"

"Maybe she has guy friends over?" The lupinal suggested.

"Guy friends?" Florian asked with a wrinkle to her face, poking two fingers together and missing each time. "I don't know how that works with kobolds, and I'm not sure I want to know."

"Hell,” Fyrehowl said. “It'd explain why she's been happier lately."

Florian shook her head dismissively. "Eh…like you know much about that."

Fyrehowl grabbed the knob and held it fast, turning to the cleric. "Wait wait... excuse me?"

"When's the last time you went on a date?" Florian asked with a good-humored chuckle.

Fyrehowl just stared at her. "..."

"And you were acting as goofy as a schoolgirl with a first crush when you had that thing for Clueless back when we all first met. You can't tell me that you've got much experience. Experience... if you know what I mean."

The doorknob rattled. 

"Guys? I think the door's stuck." Came Skalliska’s voice, muffled though it was by her door.

Fyrehowl lowered her voice to a whisper, "I'm not justifying that with a comment. You were the one who was cross-dressing, and you had a thing for him too! So hush!"

Both of them had managed to remove the blush from their faces and clear the air of the lingering aura of girly banter when Fyrehowl let go of the door and it opened.

Skalliska peered out at them. "Weird, the door was a bit squeaky last week, but this is the first time it stuck. Anyways, what's up?"

The cleric and the cipher both stared past the kobold and into her room. It was empty, which surprised Fyrehowl since she'd been certain that she'd heard another voice besides Skalliska's a moment earlier. But no, the room looked lived in, but she didn't notice anyone else, hidden or not.

	“Tristol found something.” Florian said. “Have you ever heard of a place called Pitiless, or a guy named Ghyris Vast?”

	The kobold thought for a minute. “Pitiless? It’s a prison on the Astral. Why?”

	Florian and Skalliska talked, but Fyrehowl wasn’t paying as much attention to them as she was to Skalliska’s room. The room was empty, at least it seemed empty, and there wasn’t anything to suggest much other than that. But still, something didn’t sit right with the lupinal.

	When the cleric and the kobold had finished talking, Fyrehowl was still staring into the open room. There’d been someone else in there. Had to be. She was certain of it.

	“You ready? Fyrehowl?” Florian asked. “Hey, radar-ears! You with us?”

	“Hmm?” Fyrehowl asked, snapping out of her preoccupation with Skalliska’s room.

	“We’re ready to go.”

	“Ah, ok.” The lupinal muttered, turning and walking away.

	What Fyrehowl didn’t notice was a very brief smile and wave by the kobold back into her room when she closed the door. Had Skalliska been a mammal, she would have blown a kiss back to the dusky scaled kobold that stood there in the shadows, waving back at her and giving a protective blessing in the name of their shared patron deity.


***​

"Oh for lust..." Alpthis snarled. "They stopped!"

"Oh?" Apteris asked.

"They closed the bloody portal and stayed in the damn city." The sorcerer hissed, eyes glowing red momentarily from the irritation.

"So much for our own pastiche of Yethmiil's escapades then." His brother replied.

"Oh that’s to be lamented there..." Alpthis mocked.

	“Probably wise. Outside of his ascension to Ultroloth status, there’s precious little of his I’d care to ape. But do try to be more patient than him brother.”

	The sorcerer huffed at the suggestion but did his best to take his brother’s advice regardless.

Conversation trailed off however as they continued watching, eventually growing bored and incinerating a few stray executioners ravens that sought to join them on the rooftop, till a freshly opened portal gathered there attention once more. Both brothers narrowed their eyes and glanced at the bound space hovering like a transparent rectangular membrane in the air on the second story of the building. They couldn’t see the interior of the Jammer, nor its occupants, but they could tell between active and inactive portals, and when they transmitted a body.

"To the demiplane, all of them." Alpthis muttered, watching the portal flicker with the passage of each of their quarries.

"Hmm... awkward.” His brother fretted. “Perhaps another time would be better."

"I have to wonder what they're doing there though."

Apteris shrugged. "Perhaps we should visit and avail ourselves of the late Imshenviirs' living quarters? They did have style, at least for Mercane.”

"Perhaps.” Alpthis answered. “But I'm more curious if they're just using it as a convenient egress from Sigil and from there to somewhere else... and I'm a veritable seer! They just shifted out and... wait..."

	The sorcerer’s canid ears instinctively flattened back again the side of his head and his eyes narrowed in confusion.

"Wait what?” Apteris asked. “Have your powers of prognostication failed you dear brother?"

Alpthis snarled. "They bloody well vanished!"

"Give me that!" Apteris said, snatching at the smoky crystalline globe in his brother's hand.

"Like a virgin f*cking succubus!” The sorcerer ranted. “Nonexistent!"

"That can't be right." Apteris said, furrowing his brow and snarling as he looked into the sphere. But sure enough, like his brother had said, they'd planeshifted out and then... vanished. Normally that would mean that they'd entered a portal to Sigil.

"Are they back here?" The sorcerer-monk asked without looking up.

"No. That was the first thing that I suspected." Alpthis replied with a frown. "They're not back here to share our company. They're just gone."

Unless they'd dipped their toes into a power's domain: that was the other possibility, but it was one that didn't help the 'loths at all. Antipathy to deities notwithstanding, they weren’t going to disturb one, not now, not directly.

"Deities..." The brothers both said with disgust, coming to the same revolting conclusion.

"Then let's wait for them to come back.” Alpthis suggested. “They'll have to come back eventually."

"Or they die and settle the matter for us." The other suggested.

	A moment passed and the two ‘loths frowned. Their task wasn’t going to be finished at any point in the immediate future. Circumstance was conspiring against them more than any puppet master, and puppet masters could be idolized and mimicked, whereas circumstance was simply a bitch.

"So what now?” Alpthis asked, gazing out at the lights of the Clerks Ward. “Orphans into the ooze portals? It's been some time since we could be so pettily cruel."

"If only.” His brother replied. “I don't care to piss off either of the city’s resident puppeteers, the Marauder or that grinning little bastard child of the Keeper of the Tower either."

"They probably heard that." Alpthis warned, lowering his voice and glancing around with wary, shifting eyes.

"Let them!" Apteris said. "We haven't done anything but roast a few pigeons out of boredom and snarl at a Hiver or two. They can spit all they want, but they'll have to take it up with the mistress, assuming that they're not already too occupied."

"Probably f*cking one another senseless."

"I wouldn’t doubt it."


***​

The glow of Tristol's planeshift slowly faded from their eyes and the group was left adrift in the silver void of the Astral.

"So how far off are we?" Nisha asked.

"Doesn't matter much, distance is only relative here." Tristol answered.

Clueless glanced around at their surroundings, his wings glowing a pale shade of yellow. "Does anyone feel... off...?"

Fyrehowl nodded. "It's quiet."

Normally the Astral winds manifested as something akin to a pleasant breeze, the mind of the planewalker warping their metaphysics into something physically recognizable. And with the wind came thoughts, errant gusts of thoughts, notions and ideas from a hundred thousand sources meandering through the intangible medium of the plane, filtering through the brains of wandering souls traversing the void. But at present the 'air' was still and calm, the rush of wind absent and with it there was an almost deafening silence, cold and lonely.

"Notice anything else?" The bladesinger asked.

"No. Nothing."  Florian said, peering around.

"That's because there isn't anything." Fyrehowl replied. "It's empty. No godisles, no color pools, no githyanki, nothing at all."

	“Well, that sounds like what the books said about Pitiless.” Tristol said.

	“Yep.” Skalliska agreed. “It’s in a bubble of empty space, just the prison and nothing else. We’re not far off from it then.”

And true to the kobold’s word, soon enough the unforgiving ramparts of Pitiless emerged out of the nothingness like the prow of some cursed slave ship filled to the brim with a cargo of damned and hellbound souls. Cold and still, emblazoned with a great symbol of the Doomguard, the gates of the prison beckoned in the perpetual half-light, and deep inside, Ghyris Vast waited.


***​


----------



## recentcoin

Wheeeee!

An update!  

*does happy dance*


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## Eco-Mono

Shemeska said:
			
		

> "If only.” His brother replied. “I don't care to piss off either of the city’s resident puppeteers, the Marauder or that grinning little bastard child of the Keeper of the Tower either."



Well, you've been hinting at it ever since Vorkannis became Oinoloth and started handing out prizes. :\


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## Shemeska

Eco-Mono said:
			
		

> Well, you've been hinting at it ever since Vorkannis became Oinoloth and started handing out prizes. :\




Don't read too much into that I suppose.

I've already stated that the Cheshire Fiend is a/the child of Helekanalaith [in fact he's the surviving child of Helekanalaith and Larsdana Ap Neut in my story 'The Dreamer and the Fiend']. Whether the Cheshire Fiend and A'kin are to be conflated in my version of Sigil is up in the air. A'kin is A'kin, and his story (a very complicated one) has yet to be told in this storyhour (and the 2nd storyhour as well). I'll be hinting, probing, winking and whispering about him and his background for some time to come.


----------



## Mr. Draco

A new reply!  Excellent!

And a bit of grammar policing:


> Conversation trailed off however as they continued watching, eventually growing bored and incinerating a few stray executioners ravens that sought to join them on the rooftop, till a freshly opened portal gathered *their* attention once more.


----------



## Dialexis

Another excellent post, complete with humor and suspense.  Especially since it seems that the down-time has come to a close, and the PCs are headed towards some action (of one kind or another).  I was thinking that Xideous and the Gehreleths might show up sometime soon -any possibilities on getting a rough estimate of how long till the story reaches that point?  

Also, I am just curious; what level (on average) are the PCs at this point in time?


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## Shemeska

Dialexis said:
			
		

> Another excellent post, complete with humor and suspense.  Especially since it seems that the down-time has come to a close, and the PCs are headed towards some action (of one kind or another).  I was thinking that Xideous and the Gehreleths might show up sometime soon -any possibilities on getting a rough estimate of how long till the story reaches that point?




I don't have my notes with me, but I want to say that Xideous comes into the picture sometime within the next plot arc (after the business on the Astral is fully finished).

As for level... maybe 14th? Clueless should be able to answer that one more easily.


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## Delemental

Shem, I've just finished catching up, and I must say I'm impressed.  You've got another admiring fan here.

Out of curiosity, did the PC's ever try to ask A'kin what he knew about his fellow 'loths?  I'm thinking in particular about the statue of the Baernaloth in the Jester's Maze.  Did they think to ask the Friendly Fiend what it was?


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## Shemeska

Delemental said:
			
		

> Out of curiosity, did the PC's ever try to ask A'kin what he knew about his fellow 'loths?  I'm thinking in particular about the statue of the Baernaloth in the Jester's Maze.  Did they think to ask the Friendly Fiend what it was?




Yes. Eventually they did once they got to know him more, though certain things he simply didn't feel comfortable talking about with them. For the longest time he was rather evasive about his past, his status within the yugoloth heirarchy, his relationship with the Marauder (especially when they both ran for the same spot in public office), etc etc. A'kin eventually answered a lot of questions they put forward to him, though w/ regards to Baernaloths he either didn't know much or didn't care to speak of them.

A'kin is a complicated character in many ways. He's probably one of the more complex characters in the entire SH, truth be told, and you'll be seeing a lot of him over time.

A'kin is A'kin.

He'll be interesting to watch develop as the SH continues.

"Care for a slice of cake?" - A'kin
"What kind?" - Clueless
"Lemon. It's rather good." - A'kin
"Sure, I'll have a small piece." - Clueless
"Alright, but now as I was mentioning before... what?" - A'kin
"What are you cutting that with?" - Clueless

A'kin glances down at the rune covered obsidian knife in his hand, already half in the lemon cake.

"Isn't that the type of knife you use to flay nycaloths alive with when you promote them?" - Clueless
"Hmm, so it is. One slice or two?" - A'kin
"...." - Clueless, giving a wierded out stare.
"... well it was right here and it was handy!" - A'kin, giving an awkward smile


----------



## Clueless

By the time we got that comfortable talking to him we had other resources on who and what the baern were anyways.


----------



## Mr. Draco

Shemeska said:
			
		

> "Care for a slice of cake?" - A'kin
> "What kind?" - Clueless
> "Lemon. It's rather good." - A'kin
> "Sure, I'll have a small piece." - Clueless
> "Alright, but now as I was mentioning before... what?" - A'kin
> "What are you cutting that with?" - Clueless
> 
> A'kin glances down at the rune covered obsidian knife in his hand, already half in the lemon cake.
> 
> "Isn't that the type of knife you use to flay nycaloths alive with when you promote them?" - Clueless
> "Hmm, so it is. One slice or two?" - A'kin
> "...." - Clueless, giving a wierded out stare.
> "... well it was right here and it was handy!" - A'kin, giving an awkward smile





This segment is priceless! :-D


----------



## Shemeska

I'll be away at GenCon the rest of the week, so this update is about double the length of a normal one, or maybe double and a half. I'm rushing a bit to put this out, so pardon any grammar goofs. 



***​

There was little preamble before the bells of Pitiless rang out a clear, hard note, signaling the approach of visitors. It was not a strange event, as many of the prisoners were not simply abandoned to rot, but they were regularly observed and their status checked upon by those who had incarcerated them in the first place, or the servants or descendants of those. 

            The bell was a formality really, as the prison-fortress had never been put under siege during its long history. But still, the wardens and guards of the edifice took no chances, and when the gates swung wide to admit its latest motley group of visitors, it did so with heavily armed formality.

            A trio of blue skinned frost giants stood in the gap and stared down at the group, easily two to three times any of their heights. They said nothing for a few long moments, just observing them, before finally one of them, an officer, stepped forward and asked their purpose for coming to Pitiless.

            “Are you here to deliver a prisoner, petition for one’s release, or speak to one?”

            “Well… that depends.” Clueless said, looking up into the giant's face. “We wanted to speak to one particular prisoner, assuming that he’s still here. But if we can ask for his release and take him with us, that’d work out too.”

            “Speaking with a prisoner should be no issue, though you will have to explain your reasons, answer other questions, and we will have to determine that you pose no threat to our security.” The watch captain said. “Anything beyond speaking with a prisoner depends on the circumstances and strictures placed upon them at the time of their incarceration.”

Kiro looked at the giants. "We're not here to cause any trouble. We just wished to speak with one man."

"Besides," Florian said. "If you're the greeting party, I really don't think that we're a threat to the place."

The giant looked amused by the cleric's sentiments, and he even chuckled, but not once did his hand leave the hilt of his sword, nor did his deputies take their eyes from the group.

            “Well that’s good that we shouldn't have issues talking to him.” Skalliska stated. “How would we go about finding out the details.”

            “Step through, you’ll be escorted to a room and one of the wardens will speak with you." The captain continued. "Aorth or Jaitch will determine the specifics of your visit.”

"Well I suppose we're off to a good start at least." Nisha said as they followed down a series of twisting hallways. 

Of course as they followed the guards, she looked first at Skalliska and then to the giants, pantomiming the size difference with her hands with a giggle.

"It would have been a better start if you'd yet me bring along Amberblue." Nisha quipped after a few minutes of walking.

"This isn't a place for fairiedragons and you know it." Toras said. "At some point we do need to figure out what to do with him, but let's keep walking and we'll handle that later."

Nisha shrugged. "Maybe they'll have dragons in here."

"Several of them actually." One of the giants said, turning to mention that to the tiefling. "But follow us, Aorth will speak to you shortly."


***​

They didn't have to wait long, a few minutes really, before a door opened to admit a lightly armored dwarf dressed in garments similar to the fire giant guards, and bearing the distinctive symbology of the Doomguard.

"Do you think he knows that the doomies fell apart five years ago?" Nisha whispered, just low enough that the warden didn't hear her.

"Interesting." Skalliska said, ignoring the xaositect and addressing the approaching dwarf. "I wasn't aware that the Doomguard still operated Pitiless. I take it that you're a member of one of the faction's splinter sects?"

"Salt." He gruffly replied. "I've thrown my lot in with the Salters, though it's more an expression of their preeminence among the splinter groups than ideological agreement with them in particular. It makes sense for our stability, and stability allows us to continue to observe our prisoners, watching for the inevitable decay of all things, even here in the Astral."

Based out of Citadel Sealt in the great brine expanse of Quasielemental Salt, under the rule of Greater Doomlord Roth, their branch of the Doomguard held that the collapse of all things was not happening fast enough, and that the process needed to be encouraged when appropriate. They were the most radical of the surviving groups, and their numbers had swollen in recent years along with rumors that they had managed to take control of a Ship of Chaos, and had used it in their siege and destruction of Citadel Vacuous, and the more moderate Vacuum sect of the faction. The wardens of Pitiless had gone with power and resources, something the Salt sect had in spades.

Aorth pulled back a chair and took a seat opposite them, running his fingers across an obviously divinatory medallion around his neck.

"Now that explains what we do here, but not who I am, and what we need to discuss." He explained. "My name is Aorth with No Heart, co-warden of Pitiless along with my brother Jaitch with No Spirit. What brings you to my fortress?"

"Do you have prisoner here named Ghyris Vast?" Tristol asked.

The dwarf studied him intently, his hands folded in front of his face, obscuring any reaction he might have immediately had to the question. One by one his eyes moved to the others, finally returning to the aasimar.

"Yes we do." He replied calmly. "And why would you be interested in him?"

"Less him than the people who put him here actually." Clueless said. "We've had some ugly dealings with them, and we were hoping Vast could tell us something about them."

"Hmm." Aorth said, fingering his medallion again, perhaps attempting to sift through the surface thoughts of his guests. "I doubt that you had worse relations with them than Vast did himself. His parting with them was not of his choosing, and he doesn't seem to much care for them."

Behind the dwarf, the same door that he'd entered through opened and admitted his brother. Similarly dressed, though he seemed more ragged than his brother in appearance and attitude, the familial link was obvious.

"They've had unfortunate run-ins with Vast's owners as well." Aorth said to his brother.

"F*cking Rakshasas..." Clueless muttered, curious if that would garner any response from the wardens, or if they knew the true nature of Vast's 'owners' as they termed them.

The statement gained a cocked head and cold chuckle from Jaitch almost immediately. "Rakshasas eh?" He asked questioningly.

"That was what they presented themselves as, isn't it?" Fyrehowl said. "Or did they take another guise around you when they delivered him?"

"Rakshasas..." There was a vaguely bemused tone in Aorth's voice. "Well, I'm not at liberty to discuss anything about who placed him here, or what the conditions of his release were. If Vast wishes to be frank with that matter, that is between you and him, but I won't provide you any details on the subject."

"So we can speak with him?" Tristol asked.

Aorth nodded and put away his amulet. "You can speak with any prisoner here so long as they'll humor you, though with many prisoners due to their nature or their tendency to become violent, we limit the duration of such visits."

Kiro hadn't said a word the entire time, but he occasionally glanced up at Jaitch. The other warden of Pitiless was watching the party, toying with a ring on his finger, and Kiro was likewise staring back at that ring. For a moment he seemed a bit on edge, but when Jaitch glanced at him and said nothing, he fully relaxed.

The two brothers looked at one another, a shrug and a nod confirming their mutual lack of objection.

"We don't judge you to be a hazard." Aorth said. "Therefore we will allow you to speak for a short time with Vast. However, security is paramount here and you will be observed and under supervision at all times. If the prisoner does not wish to speak with you, you will leave."


***​

Pitiless was simple in layout once past the front gates, a series of mostly linear cell blocks each separated by gates and checkpoints. The sections of the prison were separated and subdivided into increasingly more secure sections, holding prisoners judged to be more dangerous or problematic than others the further one walked through the prison.

The first section however was not precisely a cellblock, being that it held no living prisoners. Rather, it was a carefully organized warehouse, a massive chamber holding thousands of crates, chests, tagged and segregated items of all kinds kept secret, hidden, protected, or simply forgotten.

"Do not touch any of the objects." Aorth said as the group stared at the mass of objects within just the first ten feet from the walk. "Though if you must, you may visually examine them."

Books, royal regalia, heirlooms, weapons made famous for who they had killed, who had used them, or simply from latent power thrumming through their length, the storehouse was a treasure trove fit for a god. All of it was observed though, just as much as any prisoner was.

High above them, wide iron gantryways crisscrossed the heights, and more guards, giants all of them, gazed down on both visitors and objects alike. At the same time, like black and bejeweled apples hung by a fiendish deity, black and glittering orbs hung suspended thirty feet high, each fifty foot increment in a grid pattern over the chamber. Constructs or magical scrying devices, they emitted a low hum and rotated a random 90 degrees every other minute.

Tempting as it might have been for Nisha to make faces at her reflection in one of the polished orbs suspending above, she was more curious about the fully constructed stone mausoleum of pale grayish marble that occupied a substantial footprint of space.

"Dare I ask if there's someone inside that tomb?" Florian asked. "That's just rather creepy."

The tomb was ancient, whatever it was, and it showed heavy wear from the roots and tendrils of adherent, climbing vines and lichens, the green, almost verdigris stain of which still marked the stone in places, and had left only the vague and tantalizing outlines of old runes and low relief carvings left to adorn its sides. But outside of age and wear, it was well built and seemed to have been either moved in one piece, or deconstructed and then rebuilt stone by stone inside Pitiless itself.

"Well it's one way to get your tomb free from looters I suppose." Fyrehowl said.

Aorth didn't reply, but his knowing grin probably said that they were more right than not.

They continued on through the chamber, reaching the halfway point before stopping once more to look at one of the objects. This time it was a relatively small thing, only a few feet wide, long, and tall, but they felt it more so than saw it immediately.

It was a solid block of ice sitting upon the floor, but instead of being surrounded by a pool of spreading meltwater, it was bordered by a radius of frost and cracked stone; unmelting despite the room's temperature. But such things, while rare, were not unknown, and the coldest regions of Paraelemental Ice did provide non-magical, unmelting ice.

"There's something inside of it." Skalliska said, peering at the very center of the ice, careful not to actually touch it.

"No." Fyrehowl said. "There's _nothing_ inside of it."

Skalliska frowned and pointed at an obvious dark shape in the center of the ice.

"It's not something inside the ice." Fyrehowl explained. "It's a hollow in the ice of some sort."

And indeed it was a hollow, a shape, an abscess in the ice. A word. A rune. Locked in the ice was a shape, and though it was bizarre and distorted, viewed through the bars of its frozen tomb, it did resemble a symbol or word of sorts. It was an odd thing, and even more disquieting, the cold that radiated from it seemed to leak over onto an emotional level as well, chilling the heart just as much as it did the flesh.

"Weird..." Clueless said. "Don't know why, but that reminds me of something I've read about before."

Tristol gave a wistful shrug. "I could probably spend a decade just looking at everything in here."

"But I won't give you that long." Aorth said, motioning them all forward towards the gate and checkpoint at the rear of the chamber. "Please try to restrain your curiosity and not look at everything."

They took the hint and continued on their way, progressing finally into the first of the formal cellblocks. It was starkly arranged, that was certain: a single long hallway with cells each forty feet, staggered and set on each side so that no two prisoners had direct eye to eye contact with one another. Prisoners were separated: from the rest of the multiverse, from time, even from one another.

Be that as it might, the hallway was far from entirely empty though, as several of the cells and their occupants had visitors present, ostensibly to speak with them, or perhaps simply to watch or torment them during their incarceration. The largest and most visible such group was centered around a cell near the end of the hall, where a pair of babau and a trio of ragged and diseased bulezau stood as escorts for a marilith who hissed and cursed at the occupant of one cell, her massive coils tightening and relaxing by the second.

Thankfully though, they and the Tanar'ri were not there to speak to the same prisoner.

Aorth noticed them staring at the cells. “As I’d mentioned before, you’re free to speak with any of the prisoners here, though if they’re already occupied you’ll have to wait as long as their visitors remain. Do not take overly long though.”

Not as far off, nor as colorful as the Tanar'ri contingent, perhaps a dozen yards down the hallway a single pentadrone modron stood before a cell, blankly staring at whatever was inside. Behind the hierarch, a group of four spherical monodrones stood in perfect, equidistant alignment, a golden glow flickering across their metallic bodies from whatever it was that had gathered their superior’s attention.

“Hehee! Modrons!” Nisha said, giggling and pointing at the group of geometric beings as they suddenly turned and began to move away from the cell.

Aorth gestured them all out of the way of the marching exemplars of law, and the modrons passed them without comment, or even any acknowledgement that they were there. Whatever it was that they had been concerned with, it had been in the cell, and they seemed oblivious to anything else.

“What the hell was that about?” Florian asked, turning to watch

            “They were here for me.”

            The voice echoed from out of the cell, a sound that was as beautiful as it was cold, and the group turned immediately to face its source. A single figure, at first glance she appeared to be a tall, almost spindly woman with chalk-white skin dressed in a form-fitting black leather gown. But she was not human; her face was unmoving, appearing as a sculpted porcelain mask topped with black, bristled tufts of hair that faded to gold at their tips. Golden light poured through her rigid lips and glassy, sculpted eyes, betraying the presence of a single ball of coruscating golden light that hovered in the blackened hollow behind the mask. The prisoner was a parai, one of Mechanus’s native races, and one who embodied a different aspect of universal Law than the Modrons.

            They stared at her for a few moments and the corners of her porcelain mask shifted and turned to a smile before she spoke again, lips parting and leaking golden light once more.

“What is it you seek here within the walls of Pitiless, this place of entropy’s death?”

            “We…” Clueless began, uncertain how to answer her, and uncertain _if_ he should provide her an answer.

            Skalliska however was less uncertain. 

“You’re not a normal parai.” The kobold said. “What exactly are you?”

“What am I?” The parai responded, her voice a thing of sterile, musical beauty. “I am perfection taken form, laws and truth given beauty, given purpose and life. I am what all will be.”

            Parai believed that beauty was perfection was law, and examples of each were to be made to conform to that logic, brought by force and assimilation into their own race. They reproduced by absorbing the traits or knowledge of a victim that they saw as beautiful, burning off any remaining substance as dross, and recasting that victim as one of their own. This parai though, it was different. It had more emotion that normal, and its patterns of color differed from the standard of its race, making it more unique than others of its kind.

Without any response, she continued. “The Modrons fear me, what I am, what my existence entails and foreshadows regarding their own fate and domination of Law. But of course, you have yet to explain to me what it is that you came here for. I doubt that you are here for me.”

She turned and gazed in the direction that the modrons had gone, casting a golden aura out across the hallway.

            “We’re here to see a mortal.” Fyrehowl answer. “A human named Ghyris Vast.”

            The golden orb seemed to turn and rotate upon its axis, shedding its light through the mask’s open lips in waves, almost like the parai was thinking, pondering the lupinal’s response.

            “The mad inventor. The Bleaker.” She finally said. “His mind was beautiful, complex, terrible to behold. I would have gone to him, but alas my imprisonment makes his beauty a caged songbird, something I cannot touch and tend.”

“What exactly are the conditions of your release?” Clueless asked. “Not that I’m inclined to release you. I’m just curious.”

            “Umm… good.” Nisha muttered. “Don’t release scary lawful things, that’s one rule I’ll happily go with.”

“I cannot be released from here while the fortress yet stands.” The parai said, regarding the Xaositect with a mixture of scorn and pity before continuing. “I was imprisoned not by The One and the Prime, but the pretender, slayer and usurper of the Gears, and He is dead and fallen, no longer The Prime.”

            “Why?” Kiro asked, finally speaking up for the first time in their trip to Pitiless. He seemed honestly curious.

"I saw Him for what he was,” The parai said, staring at the cleric of Sutekh oddly for a moment. “I saw the changes within him, the shadow that he was, the burning within him that sucked at his soul, withered him from within and ultimately consumed him. I saw that, and so out of fear, worry, jealousy I was confined by Him rather than risk my death spilling his secrets across the gears. And so, here I am, perfection. Perfection exists, and is unattainable to the multiverse at large… for now. But this place is not perfect, and it shall not last forever, and then I will be free.”

            Kiro shrugged, but already the others had left the parai and begun to wander down the hallway with Aorth, put off and mildly disturbed by the cold manner of the lawful exemplar in the cell.

            Further down the corridor, the group passed by several cells, only giving them a cursory glance but not stopping: an empty cell filled with nothing but a blue haze and exuding a dull malevolence, a catatonic human with pitch black eyes slumped in the corner of their cell, another empty cell that echoed with the sounds of bestial snuffling and heavy, plodding footsteps, and one cell holding a lizardman or similar reptilian creature dressed in a pale yellow robe and simply staring off into space.

            “Lovely things you have here.” Florian said to the warden as they passed a cell with a small black lacquer box containing in three warding circles.

            “We have a rather diverse group of inmates. Sanity is not something all of them keep however. They were put here to remain here, and we’re only concerned with watching them linger and potentially die despite the so-called timelessness of the Astral. Their mental well being is a separate issue entirely.”

            “The prison is well named.” Tristol said with a frown.

            “So am I.” Aorth replied.

            They continued, passing into another cellblock, but eventually they stopped as Toras paused and looked into one cell. It contained a bleached pile of bones, some of them inscribed with symbols and runes, a grinning skull perched atop of them all with a halo of pale green flame licking from its eye sockets.

            “Wow.” Toras said. “This is one of those times that you don’t even need to bother with a ‘do not tap the glass’ sign.”

            Tristol looked into the cell, whispered a spell and then stepped back. The entire cell was warded with multiple anti-magic fields and layered with walls of force. Whatever the object, or prisoner was, Pitiless was taking no chances with its escape.

"What'd you see?" Florian asked, taking note of Tristol's expression.

Tristol gave a nervous chuckle. "Very powerful. Very undead. Whoever they are, or where, they're doing their best Larloch impression."

"Who's Larloch?" Fyrehowl asked, getting another nervous chuckle from the halruaan.

Meanwhile Clueless was also taking his time looking at the patterns of magic radiating off of the bones. 

"Wow," he said, turning to Florian. "It might as well be grinning and holding up a sign that says, 'Please, please try to turn me. I haven't laughed in millennia. Give me reason to do so puny mortal.'"

Toras grinned. "Then he won't mind me taking my time to make obscene gestures to very powerful evil undead."

"Umm... is that really wise?" Skalliska asked.

"I'll agree with Toras here." Florian said. "When will we ever have the chance again to flip off a demilich with impunity."

"Still though, is it wise?" The kobold repeated. "Sure it's just sitting there now grinning like only a lich's skull can do. But what if it does something?"

            “The demilich, or whatever it is, hasn’t ever responded to anyone.” A voice called out from the cell opposite. “Tap the glass all you like, I’ve never seen it respond to anything, nor have any visitors.”

            The group turned away from the burning pile of bones and towards the source of the voice. Seated in the center of the cell, gazing out at them with tired looking green eyes was an elf with tattoo covered, coppery skin and long, jet-black hair.

"It's been some time since I spoke with anyone myself for that matter.” The elf remarked.

"Who are you?" Clueless asked.

He shrugged. "To tell the truth, I don't remember my name. It hasn't been spoken since I locked myself away in this place."

"You locked yourself away here?" Fyrehowl asked.

The elf nodded in the affirmative. "I'm a different sort of creature than the others here. I can walk out of my cell at any point you see. The only thing keeping me here is me. I put myself here, and I don't wish to leave, it's safer for me that way."

"Besides, even if I left, I don't have anything to return to. My world is dead. Threnody is gone and lost, and I'm the last of my kind. But those who killed us, they would finish their genocide in an instant if I opened myself to their eyes and gave them the opportunity."

"But surely you..." Tristol began to say.

He waved a hand, "This is my place. I can leave at any point, but I won't. I have my own conditions that might change that, but that's for me and my own inner solace to ponder. I've made peace with my fate, but I appreciate your words."

	They felt bad for him as they walked off, following the warden, but he seemed at peace, as much as he could be.

	“At least the bones aren’t annoying.” The elf said wistfully as they left. “Better boring than loud I suppose. I have solace here at the very least.”

As they continued down the corridor, further into the prison, Aorth didn't bother talking to them. Their repeated stops along the way however had started to get on his nerves and he was pushing them forwards a bit more intently, especially when they passed the cell containing the Devete Choir. The creatures were still acting disturbed since their collective attempt to mimic Ghyris Vast, and since this new group of visitors was looking to speak to that man, he didn't want them causing problems with the blue skinned mental chameleons.

Likewise he whisked the group past the cell adjacent to the Devetes, the one containing the glittering, multicolored fog. The Scile, the Ravagers of Color, had the habit of attracting people to stare at them, and on rare occasions they’d been known to feed on the colors of those who’d gotten too close to their cell. It wasn’t lethal, but it was dangerous and it was difficult to reverse given the advanced nature of that particular colony, which probably was the reason behind their imprisonment in Pitiless, especially given who had put them there in the first place.

	But the dwarf rapidly put his mind off of that old matter, and back to the present as he gestured the new visitors into the next block of cells. Though once they did, they'd barely had a chance to look at it and the even more incredible level of wardings, when a prisoner called out to them from the first cell. The voice was pleading, desperate, and spoken in an archaic dialect of Elysian.

"Help me!"

	Almost pressed against the invisible force barrier of her cell door was an avoral guardinal. Her hands were splayed out on the ground at first, but once they looked at her, she clasped them together on her chest as if she were praying.

	“You!” She pleaded, looking directly at Fyrehowl. “You have to help me. Please.”

	She was weeping, and her eyes were red and bloodshot with grief, while the rest of her body seemed to have suffered from the rigors of seclusion. Her feathers were dulled, a mixture of black and speckles of gray, and the floor of her cell was littered with a considerable number of them. Exquisite tattoos danced down from her face, swirling around her neck in plunging rings, and then crisscrossing her bare chest on flesh and feathers alike.

"Who are you?" Toras asked, oddly enough being quicker on the take than Fyrehowl who had been the imprisoned guardinal’s target.

Standing slightly behind him, quiet and tense, the cipher had yet to say a word. In fact she was looking intently, almost warily at the avoral in the cell, lips pursed and coiled as tight as a spring. Something wasn't right.

The avoral looked up at the fighter. "I have no name," She said with a weary, tired voice. "They took it from me, so long ago. Since then, I have known only despair."

	“This is disgusting.” Florian said, turning to look at Aorth.

	The warden shrugged, showing absolutely no concern. “You had no complaints for the lich, the parai, the balor, the alu-fiend, or anything else. We don’t have any philosophical bias in who we incarcerate. But this is between you and the avoral.”

"How long have you been here?" Tristol asked the imprisoned celestial.

"Over a thousand years." She replied, looking with a glimmer of hope in her eyes up at the aasimar. "So long I can barely remember my home. Elysium is a memory, and it pains me to remember it, so bittersweet the thoughts are. How I long to soar above Oceanus, flit above the warm air of Belarian, soar above the great seas of Thalasia. They have denied me that."

	Tears welled in the avoral’s eyes, and gut-wrenching pity flooded through Florian, Toras, and Tristol alike.

"You can release me though.” She said to Tristol, wiping her face on a hand half bereft of feathers. “Please, I just want to go home. You…you or the lupinal can open the door."

	Florian motioned the aasimar forward, and almost without hesitation he moved towards the cell and the avoral.

"Don't." Fyrehowl said, abruptly and deftly snagging Tristol's hand and holding him back.

The figure in the cell might have sneered, or it might have just been the light.

"Who put you here?” Fyrehowl asked. “And why?”

“Please, this place is torture.” The avoral pleaded. “Removed from Elysium's grace for so long is agony. You have the power to release me...”

	The prisoner began to cry again, her despair at being denied release by her own kind seemingly too much to bear. The emotional catharsis was having an effect on her would be rescuers as well, and Florian and Toras were staring at Fyrehowl.

"The Guardinals put you here didn't they? They wouldn't kill you." Fyrehowl said with calm composure. "What was it that you did? Why did you fall?"

	Tristol’s ears fell to the side with Fyrehowl’s accusation, and likewise it took the others largely off guard as well, though Kiro seemed entirely to take it in stride. But their manner of surprise was short lived, and was soon replaced with surprise of another matter entirely.

The avoral snarled, a sound of absolute and utter contempt. "Stupid b*tch, all it would take is you or the vulpinal blooded one to willingly open the door and I would be free.”

	“Guys, let’s go.” Fyrehowl said. “We don’t have anything else to do here.”

	“Don’t you even want to know why I fell?” The sneering, fall celestial asked.

	“No.” Fyrehowl said bluntly. “I don’t really care to know.”

	“You can still let me out.” The avoral retorted. “You can have mercy on me, that wretched little virtue I don’t have to believe in to benefit from. Is it right to let me suffer here? Isn’t it better to release me in the hopes that I’ll find redemption outside?”

	Fyrehowl motioned the others to walk away, but she lingered for a moment more.

	“You only need a guardinal to release you.” She said. “You’re capable of redemption here, here where you can’t hurt anyone else. If you rise, you’ll be able to free yourself. I won’t set you lose, I know what you’ll do.”

	The fallen avoral hissed and spat, her talons seeming all the more wicked and her feathers darker and more like serpentine scales. Fyrehowl didn’t response though, she just turned and walked away.

"You're not so different you and I!" The avoral screamed out, raw and ragged at the lupinal. "I've stood at that edge! I've looked over into that void! I'm just looking at it from the bottom now! We are not so different you and I, but even though I rot inside this cell, I'm more free than you will ever be."

We are not so different you and I... something in Fyrehowl felt cold and sick from that statement as she walked down the central corridor of Pitiless with her companions. Elysium's child felt nauseated at the idea of a willing fall from grace, an abandonment of universal altruism, it was alien and horrific. But something else, the lupinal weeping at the blood soaked walls of Rubicon, crying out in misery to ask Elysium, asking herself, asking a cold and unforgiving reality why it sat by and did nothing in the face of atrocity... that part of her felt something very different.

"Fyrehowl? Fyrehowl? You ok?" Florian asked.

The cleric’s voice prompted the lupinal out of her thoughts and she waved away the concern.

"Sorry, that just disturbed me before. Don't worry about me."

Yes, yes it did disturb her.


***​

	The group had moved forward into the final section of the prison, facing several massive cells, the oversized holding pens of some of the largest and most dangerous of the prisoner’s residents. Aorth didn’t seem to want them to linger, especially in front of the nearly utter gloom that seemed to fill the first of the cells.

	“What’s in there?” Clueless asked, noting that his own eyesight wasn’t helping him any in regards to the darkness beyond the walls of force.

	The darkness momentarily swam in response to his question, and when a pair of massive yellowed eyes opened in the midst of the darkness, he had his answer. Despite its lack of obvious substance, the shadow wyrm was gigantic, and it was an impressive feat that someone had ever trapped it in the first place in order to confine it to its cell in Pitiless.

	But the shadow dragon paled in comparison to the occupant of the next cell. A twenty foot long segmented worm with jointed, centipede-like legs, pinchered foreclaws, and a vaguely humanoid and vaguely insectile head that sprouted a ragged mouth full of tentacles and fangs.

	“What the hell is that thing?” Florian asked, watching as the creature drooled upon the floor and shimmered a dozen different colors like the surface of its skin was a film of grease atop a puddle of water.

	Aorth grinned like a proud parent but said nothing, instead letting Skalliska take the question.

	“It’s an Entrope.” The kobold answered, glancing back at the warden. “I’d never seen one before now, but they were something that the Doomguard created. They can eat their way through virtually anything, including weak spots between adjacent planes. Thing is, everyone thought that they were lost, or had been killed around the time that the Doomguard as a full faction collapsed in on itself.

	“Seems you were wrong.” Kiro said, a vague bit of distaste in his voice as he looked into the segmented eyes of the beast.

Finally, turning away from the two massive cells containing the Entrope and the Shadow Wyrm, the group followed Aorth along towards a block of smaller, more compact cells, each of which glowed like bonfires under any sort of divinations.

"Son of a..." Toras muttered as they turned the corner. "Do these jokers have to show up -everywhere- we go?"

The next cell down the corridor had gathered a crowd of yugoloths and thus Toras's unamused ire. Clustered together some thirty feet distant, the group comprised several mezzoloths, three snarling and laughing arcanaloths, and the tall and spindly figure of a lone ultroloth.

"Sh*t!" Clueless said. "...I don't want to be around this guy if they're already there watching him. I don't want them to even suspect we know much more about them than they think we might."

"That's not the cell that I'm taking you to." Aorth said brusquely, giving a cursory glance and nod towards the yugoloths. "They're here to see another prisoner entirely. They always are. Every three days for as long as I've been warden of Pitiless. If you wish to speak with their ward, you may do so after they've left."

"Oh..." Clueless said, dropping his notions of just leaving to avoid the 'loths.

Of course his words, or at least the general gist of them, his displeasure at their very presence, had been overheard by one of the arcanaloths and the ultroloth as well. As Aorth motioned the group off to one side to pass the 'loths, one of the jackal headed fiends perked his ears and snarled, and a wave of cold malevolence from the Ultroloth washed over their minds like swimmers caught in the undercurrents of a freezing riptide.

"It seems the mortals take offense at our presence." Came the ultroloth's voice like a buzzing cloud of angry wasps hurling themselves at a pane of thin glass.

The trio of arcanaloths turned and sniffed at the air, curling their lips up and snarling at Fyrehowl as if her proximity fouled the air.

Aorth felt the tension in the air and touched a second amulet around his neck.

"The feeling is likewise though." The faceless fiend explained, his eyes burning and discordant above the mocking, sterile cadence of his voice.

The lupinal shot back with a hard stare, but the 'loth wasn't finished.

"Is it not enough that a layer of your worthless plane and so many of your dead along with it must rot upon the Waste, that you feel the need to personally appear and become an affront to our senses now, in person?"

Fyrehowl snarled violently and her hand snapped to the hilt of her sword a split second before the hard rattle of footsteps on the iron walkways above heralded the arrival of a squad of guards, and exactly timed with Kiro laying a hand on her shoulder.

The air was taught and the lupinal only barely managed to hold back from gutting the fiend then and there. Her nerves had been rattled, her anger provoked, a bitter memory stoked, and a race's collective wound made to run fresh upon her heart. The ultroloth's mouthless face gave no expression, but the sick and petty smile could be felt regardless of its lack of a grin.

"But I wouldn't wish to cause difficulty for our hosts." The 'loth said, turning and bowing its head ever so slightly to the warden. "We've had our customary time with this piece of incarcerated filth, and we'll return again as we always do. But for now, the stench is growing so thick that it disturbs the mezzoloths, and it would be best if we left."

With Fyrehowl still snarling at them, the group of 'loths hurled their last insults at the prisoner they had been tormenting, and then departed down the hallway, the arcanaloths laughing amongst themselves and the trailing, telepathic touch of the ultroloth licking at the minds of those left in their wake like a serpent tasting the air.

"Irredeemable son of a b*tch." Fyrehowl spat as she watched the fiends depart, letting her rage simmer for a moment before turning to thank Kiro. Had it not been for him at that moment, she probably would have acted, and very likely would not have survived. The cleric's timing was as good as hers normally was.

But that said, as she regained her composure, she glanced over towards the cell that the 'loths had been gathered around in the first place. What she saw inside made her previous comment a twisted bit of irony.

Small and stark, a single pale gray figure was seated on the floor, resting his back against the rear wall, his chest rising and falling slowly and erratic like the pattern of a grieving man. The light was pale and cold, almost physically so, and either the cell or its prisoner seemed to radiate a tangible aura of sorrow, melancholy and resignation, though under it all there might have been a twinge of hope that flickered like a tiny smoldering candle flame. 

The figure was slumped, and it was clear that it had been weeping, or hiding its face in the folds of its robe, avoiding the gaze and mockery that its yugoloth tormentors had been inflicting on it. But regardless, the being was distinctive enough that it didn't have to lift its head and show its face for them to realize that it was an ultroloth.

Normally the telepathic voice of an ultroloth was a terrible thing to behold, words like poisoned knives, a state of mental corruption honed and sharpened like razors, but this one... it was different.

"And are you here to mock me as well?" The ultroloth's voice was a hollow thing, mental words that resonated through a recipient’s skull but which did so only gently, with reluctance, a weapon grown dull with misery and shame.

"No, we..." Tristol began.

"Do as you will.” The ‘loth said with a sigh. “They have done worse than you could. Though perhaps I deserve it.”

"Who are you?" Clueless asked.

"I was known as Felthis Ap’Jerran, but that was a distant time." His head was still slumped, his wide, luminous eyes casting flickers of color across the floor. "But none have used that name for a very long time. They simply call me traitor, filth, heretic, abomination, wretch..."

"Why?" Fyrehowl asked, her own voice touched by a bit of lingering emotion from her spat with the fallen avoral.

"Guardinal, let me ask you a question." He said, looking up and fixing his luminous eyes on the cipher, their gaze and his blank expression somehow soothing to her in a way she couldn't explain. “Does salvation exist for evil? True evil? Does it exist for what I was, what I still may be? Can one such as myself find redemption?”

	Could she answer him? Could she say, ‘Yes?’ or maybe just, ‘I want to believe that it does.’ Too many conflicting ideas were filling her mind, and honestly she wasn’t sure how to answer. Could she even trust the fiend?

	“I want to believe that you can.” She answered, though with some hesitation.

“Seeking redemption.” The ‘loth replied. “That was my sin against my kind. I rejected everything of theirs once I ascended the pinnacle of their mountain of purity in vice. I stood at the summit and looked down, and I was horrified. I fell, or maybe I sought to rise, depends on your perspective I suppose. But my kind will never allow me to escape. This makes certain of that, on top of my own reluctance to use many of my abilities, and they’ve stripped me of many others.”

	“How can you escape?” Tristol asked.

	“Nothing so simple.” He answered. “You’d have to find mercy among those who even then would have been my superiors. It’s a concept that makes me smile, that warms my heart, but even so it still feels alien. Could they feel it for an instant and release me? No. But perhaps that’s just another drop of penance for my crimes, and those are many.”

	Fyrehowl felt inwardly sick. Something inside of her felt shame by comparison. The guardinal standing on Rubicon, suffering a crisis of faith was watching her own candle be eclipsed by a creature that’d climbed his way up from an abyss of utter darkness. He suffered, and here she was with doubts regarding everything that she’d thought herself composed of. This was difficult. Could the ‘loth be a risen fiend?

“I partook of actions that would make a celestial weep, but I pray to whatever powers might hear me to forgive me, because my victims are far beyond my ability to ask of them what I do.”

"They locked you away here simply to prolong your torment?" Fyrehowl managed to ask without her voice breaking.

Felthis nodded sullenly and his voice echoed in their heads, “They won’t kill me, they won’t grant me the gift of oblivion, which is perhaps more than I deserve. They’ll keep me here, make me live forever in this cage they can, but they won’t allow me to reclaim anything of the twisted bits of soulstuff I once possessed. There was a spark of something better there at the beginning, and though millennia of promotion and purification might have done their best to scour and sterilize it, they only cut it free and allowed it to surface."

A risen _Ultroloth_? Such a thing was unlikely. Perhaps the fiend was just another puppeteer, experimenting on those _outside_ the cage rather than the other way around. Or might he be telling the truth? They might not kill him for fear of letting an infection or flaw resurface in the flesh of another mezzoloth, or spread to others. Bottling him up in Pitiless might have been worse than death anyways, being that it would never allow for the fiend to actually complete any rise that he'd begun on the Waste. He'd never find true redemption and they'd dangle that in his face for eternity.

The ultroloth turned to look down the hallway where his kindred had departed. Their mocking laughter was still audible both in barks and insectile chitters, and from telepathic broadcast alike.

He sighed once they had fully departed, and then continued. "I’m a hollow shell of a thing seeking to find itself, having given itself up so so long ago, but I have only myself to see and search, my own mind to plumb. And what exists here but sorrow, regret, and the inability to change the past? A broken creature condemned by its own kind."

They looked at him with pity, and though by default they didn't trust him, simply being what he was, his self-loathing misery and bittersweet desire for penitence made them wish they could help him.

"We know how they are, we've had dealings with them before.” Clueless said. “That's somewhat why we're here to see another prisoner."

	Felthis nodded. “If your prisoner has had interaction with my kind, then nothing on the surface may be valid.”

	“We’ve already learned that to some extent.” The bladesinger continued. “We didn’t even know till recently that we were dealing with yugoloths in the first place.

"Never trust my kind." The ‘loth said emphatically. "Don’t trust them, not in anything. That was my first mistake, perhaps my greatest. Carceri and Gehenna simply hold the overflow of the traitors from their sister plane, its source that bubbles over, with the Styx the merest trickle. Beware, and take care of yourselves.”

	“Can’t we help you?” Clueless asked.

The ‘loth shook his head. “I doubt you could, not now anyways. Maybe one day, but for now go speak with the prisoner you came here to see. Perhaps later if you think I could provide some insight, I’ll be here to speak with you. Temporary release from my own isolation would be the most you could give me, and I would enjoy that.”

There was a cough from behind the group.

"When you're ready, Vast's cell is right across from you." Aorth said with a bored tone to his voice. 

The dwarf gestured with one hand towards a cell virtually opposite from the ultroloth's, one that seemed even more insanely overly warded for a single occupant.

“You have fifteen minutes after you start." He said, the bored tone of his voice shifting steely and authoritative. "Try not to rile him up, he may seek to hurt himself again."


***​

	The man was sitting in the middle of his cell, tracing his finger along the stones in the floor like they were a chalkboard, and perhaps in his mind it was, because he muttered to himself incessantly, and even glanced down from time to time as if double checking notes. He was a spindly thing, wasted from lack of food prior to his incarceration, and less well dressed and kempt than any but the most absentminded member of the Fraternity of Order. A single look at him left no doubt why his own faction had tried to incarcerate him in the bowels of the Gatehouse, but the yugoloths had done them one better in Pitiless.

	“Ghyris Vast?” Clueless asked the deranged looking man.

	Vast stopped and very slowly turned to look at the bladesinger.

	“Hello…” Clueless began, trying to avoid looking at the disturbingly intense look in the mad Bleaker’s eyes.

	Vast grinned as the bladesinger turned back to his companions.

	“So how exactly do we start this? We’re here, what do we ask him?”

	“I figure that you want what everyone wants from me.” Vast muttered proudly. “You want to know about my machine… my creation…”

	Clueless turned back to the madman. “Alright, that’s a start I suppose.”

“Yes I created it, not that it matters…” Vast admitted before turning and looking at the floor. “Oh look, another crack in the floor…” 

“It’s talking to me…” He whispered before putting his ear to the floor and giggling softly.

	“And you call _me_ crazy.” Nisha said, tapping Tristol with her tail.

“Oh yes I do too, thank you for asking.” Vast said in a singsong voice to the crack in the floor that had gathered his rapt attention.

	The group looked to one another awkwardly. Getting information from Vast might have been easier said than done. His grip on lucidity was tenuous at best.

“GET OUT! Go away! Don’t you see that you’re upsetting him!?” Vast bellowed at them, startling them with his sudden outburst, pounding his hands on the floor before mellowing in an instant like a switch had been flipped in his brain.

“My name is Ghyris.” He said. “Have we met before?’

“No, we haven't.” Kiro said. “But we've heard of you."

"I'm famous!” Vast said, clapping his hands together. “A captive with an audience!"

	His audience grinned at him, hoping to keep him in good humor.

"What to talk about what to talk about...” Vast muttered. “I've all the time in the world you see. No hunger, no sleep, no wine, no woman, not much to do but slowly go mad."

He was far past that point.

"I'd read something about you.” Tristol said. “It said that for a while you'd hired some reave mercenaries to guard you and your work on the Astral, and that you'd been working with a pair of Rakshasas, Siddhartha and Brampandra."

A disturbing grin spread across the man's face.

“Oh, the Rhakshasas? Them? Those two?” He asked.

There was a sparkle in his eyes, and he seemed absorbed by a moment of nostalgia.

	“Yes, them.” Toras answered.

“Oh, they were killed.” Vast blurted out rather matter-of-factly.

	No surprise there of course. It would make sense that they’d killed the original Rakshasas before they stole their identity.

“Someone named Yethmiil.” Vast continued. “He had a lot of interest in me and the device…HE STOLE MY MACHINE!… Nice chap he was. Didn’t talk much, not in that sense anyways. Said stuff, just didn’t talk.”

Telepathy. The ultroloth's mind had spoken as much as any tongue, and even without a mouth, his voice still rattled cold and discordant in their memory.

"Then there was the woman, kept him on the proverbial leash, what a BARMY she was…” His voice trailed off and he turned his head before bickering back and forth with himself. “Oh you’re one to talk Ghyris…Shut up you….”

	They let him babble to himself, and eventually his pride made him turn back to them, the intensity back in his eyes, and his focus returned.

“Heh…” He said derisively. “Mangy little furballs, both of ‘em. Mostly her in comparison. Manged I mean. Powerful, but still… Ragged little rag doll of a b*tch. Never explained to me what she wanted, too busy killing those Godsmen to really appreciate the view of the storm from Aoskar’s corpse. Not that it mattered of course.”

Fyrehowl glanced at Clueless, then to the others. Busy killing godsmen? Storm? Aoskar’s corpse?

"Finger painting..." Vast explained, holding up his hands and wriggling his fingers before adding the sound effects and pantomime of a person ripping open a victim's chest and drawing with their guts and viscera.

The bleaker gave a whimsical shrug as his audience expressed their disgust. They knew what he was talking about. She’d painted the wards that they’d seen on the Astral and in Carceri.

“She had sparkly eyes.” Vast said. “Bits of green and blue and red and orange all flicking and dancing. I remember that.”

	Another Ultroloth? It certainly sounded like Vast was describing an ultroloth’s flickering, multicolored eyes.

Anything further on that train of thought was lost though as it flew off its tracks. "Oh you don’t remember much you nutter…Didn’t I tell you to shut up?"

	“What did they want from you?” Clueless asked.

They wanted everything that I'd worked on.” Vast explained. “They valued me, they believed me, they -needed- me."

“What did they need you for?” Tristol prompted.

	Vast might not have heard the question, but he began to ramble nonetheless.

“Oh... but they've had their fun with me.” He snarled. “They've taken my device and plundered my brain, and now they think they know everything they need to know."

Vast laughed, a bitter and vindictive sound. “But there's something I didn’t tell them you see, something they don't even suspect...” 

	They hinged on his answer, and he didn’t disappoint, even pausing for dramatic effect.

“I. Had. Help.” He giggled and gave an insane grin. 

	Vast had help in constructing his device, whatever the hell it was? This was something new. Something the ‘loths didn’t seem to know in the slightest if Vast was right.

“Never told me his name… OLD f*cker… Just as crazy as me!” He said with a cackle. “Said EVERYTHING was falling into place even if it took them eons.” 

	They collectively felt cold at his answer, even if they didn’t necessarily understand what it meant.

Vast clapped his hands again and gave a wild shrug. “But not that it matters of course! Sad he was… depressed… full o’ despair… Much like me, but worse… told me I wasn’t supposed to EVER tell anyone about him. But… then again… that was before I gone and went barmy off my sodding skull! SURE he’ll kill me!” 

“But!” He exclaimed, punctuating his mad ramble with a poke of his finger against the force walls of his cell. “Not that it matters, he muttered about it being a present for an old friend, long time in the making. It seemed to bring a gleam to his white eyes.”

	What the hell did much any of that mean?

	Vast looked around as the pendulum of his mood shifted back from its extreme.

"Ah but there... I've gone and said too much I think." Vast muttered, looking away and tugging repetitiously at a loose thread on his right sleeve.

"You're locked inside a high security cell in Pitiless." Toras said. "You're in no danger of anyone killing you, not there."

Vast smiled, eyes ablaze with a frightening intensity, his expression set somewhere between fear and pride. "You really think so? You really think so... that I could retain that ignorance still and die in my sleep."

What use were wards and veils, symbols and sigils? What use were doors and locks and gates? What use were any of those things when it could simply rip and tear its way across and through the planes, burning the spaces between them... escape was a hollow word, sanctuary a foolish notion, Pitiless was only a postponed damnation.

"It isn't right for them to take my ideas! It isn't right for them to steal my device! It's mine! They have no right to profit from what they do not understand!"

And again, like a switch being flicked, Vast flipped from righteous indignation to whispering and bitter pride.

“...even if they where supposed to do so in the first place... that was the plan..."

	“What does it do? What did they want with it in the first place?” Clueless asked him.

	“Please leave.” His request was simple, cold, and given the rules of Pitiless, final.

	“Time is up.” Aorth called out to them. “He’s requested that you leave. Come with me.”

	They didn’t have all of their answers that they’d wanted. The man’s insanity had prevented that. But they had little option otherwise. And of course, Vast was already muttering to himself as they walked away.

"I listened. I learned from you. Oh please... please don't... I did everything that you asked me to do... oh please... please please please..."

Vast watched them go, eyes blurry with tears. Ah but at least he'd made a name for himself, he'd had a chance to stand out from the crowd, he'd been a made man in a universe where nothing was given, where the utter meaninglessness of it all was as much opportunity as it was damnation. He'd done as he'd wanted, even during his so-called slavery to the mock-tigers, but he'd done so willingly, a price paid for a glimpse into theories undreamt of.

So much for a last meal before the headsman's axe, no need to eat within the Astral.

And then he felt it. He was no longer alone. It was there. It had come.

A last pair of teardrops fell, poetic and simultaneous. One of them froze before it struck the floor, the other boiled away in an instant. But without turning to look, he'd seen its terrible face reflected in their surface.

"Please, make this quick..."

Behind him, Lazarius Ibn Shartalan smiled.


***​


----------



## shilsen

Shemeska said:
			
		

> I'll be away at GenCon the rest of the week, so this update is about double the length of a normal one, or maybe double and a half.




I protest! Foisting an extra long update on us faithful readers of your story hour is incredibly mean and unfair. How dare you give us so much more material, all of it oozing Planescapey atmosphere and goodness? Sheesh - story hour authors nowadays!


----------



## Toras

Bits that wouldn't quite work in the story hour.
Toras: "Get F...,You reject from a KFC franchise."

And the debate about the pro's and cons of Demilich soccer.


----------



## demiurge1138

I was waiting for the Baerns to show up again... poor Bleaker.

And that ultroloth was wonderful.

Demiurge out.


----------



## Gez

Shemeska said:
			
		

> I'm rushing a bit to put this out, so pardon any grammar goofs.




And here I am to answer your summon.  

[sblock]

"It would have been a better start if you'd yet me bring along Amberblue." Nisha quipped after a few minutes of walking.​Let, not yet.


They didn't have to wait long, a few minutes really, before a door opened to admit a lightly armored dwarf dressed in garments similar to the fire giant guards, and bearing the distinctive symbology of the Doomguard.​Fire giant guards? The only giants we've seen at this point in Pitiless were frost giants.

"Do you have prisoner here named Ghyris Vast?" Tristol asked.​Do you have *a* prisoner...

gantryways​Here's an unusual word. Not in my dictionaries. Gantry-ways seems to be more widely accepted.

"We've had our customary time with this piece of incarcerated filth, and we'll return again as we always do. But for now, the stench is growing so thinkthat it disturbs the mezzoloths, and it would be best if we left."​
Thick, not think.[/sblock]

Great update! At last the characters begin to unfold some part of the plot, though the meatiest parts were still hidden to them. Great part from Fyrehowl as well, with the fallen avoral.


----------



## Darmanicus

Great update Shem, you could write several books on just the occupants of Pitiless and their histories!

One thing though......you describe the shadow worm as gigantic etc. and then go on to desribe the next occupant paling it in comparison as a .......20ft long insecty thing  :\  Didn't quite do it for me.


----------



## Drowbane

I've caught up to Storyhour!

Now what? :/

Hmm, didn't someone mention a 2nd SL around here somewhere?

Great stuff Shem!


----------



## Clueless

Drowbane said:
			
		

> I've caught up to Storyhour!
> 
> Now what? :/
> 
> Hmm, didn't someone mention a 2nd SL around here somewhere?
> 
> Great stuff Shem!




*The gem in Clueless's ankle glows with a fierce internal light and his eyes go vacant for a brief moment before he suddenly smiles, his mannerisms abruptly change, and he answers the question with a bit of a different inflection to his voice*

Assuming by 2nd SL, you mean my 2nd storyhour, it's over here. It's updated far less frequently, but it's probably going to be updated this next week most likely.

*Shemmy smiles by proxy before letting Clueless go back to normal*


----------



## bluegodjanus

Wow! I didn't know that thing still worked.


----------



## recentcoin

So instead of having remote control cars, planes, boats, etc. you have remote control PC's......niiice!

So...can you make him do anything that will turn a profit?  

*wicked grin*

RC


----------



## Band2

*New Fan!*

Shemmie, Shemmie, Go Shemmie
Shemmie, Shemmie rocks!
(doing the butterchurn)

Started reading this Story Hour a month ago, and finally caught up.  Its great.  Shemeska, you have another ravid fan.  Cannot wait for the next update.  But in the meantime, I have the second story hour to start reading.

And here is to Tristol for scoring with Nisha.

(while doing the running man)
Go Tristol, its your birthday!
Go Tristol, its your birthday!


Now, I am off to go take better dance lessons.


----------



## Shemeska

Band2 said:
			
		

> Started reading this Story Hour a month ago, and finally caught up.  Its great.  Shemeska, you have another ravid fan.  Cannot wait for the next update.  But in the meantime, I have the second story hour to start reading.




*grin*

I'll be updating SH2 sometime this weekend. Didn't start writing the update till today though, been rather tired since getting back from GenCon, and work has been very busy this week. Should be a decent update, and should see the PCs finally enter the central Barrow mound.


----------



## recentcoin

Oooooo....please update soon!


----------



## Clueless

bluegodjanus said:
			
		

> Wow! I didn't know that thing still worked.



*snort*
I need to buy that fuzzy twit her own laptop so she doesn't have to borrow mine to post from at Gencon.


----------



## Shemeska

*Interlude time*

***​

Azcajal ap Shelloth stood and looked out across the Waste from his vantage point above Oinos, three miles up on a balcony carved from the tower of his ultroloth master. The arcanaloth's hands gripped the railing with such intensity that his knuckles were white and his claws curved back to the point of cutting into his palms. He was not afraid of falling from that height, nor was he pensive. No, he was terrified.

Time ticked by with only the wind in his face as a reminder of the passage of a commodity he treasured in his present state even more than he ever had. An immortal being, he suddenly felt as a mortal must when confronted with their own mortality, realizing that their mayfly lives would shortly end. Azcajal felt old, he felt mortal, firmly aware of the insignificance of his own existence, and he had felt that way for an hour; ever since he had been summoned by his master and escorted to speak to his.

He had been given a task.

Already twitching from the periodic gusts of wind that whipped erratic at that altitude, one of the 'loth's ears canted and swiveled at the sound of approaching footsteps. As his master had taken him, so too would he escort another in the same capacity, but blessedly this time he...

Azcajal shuddered and pushed the thoughts from his mind. He at least would survive, but as for the fiend who now approached, that was a question whose answer he did not care to know.

The arcanaloth's nose inhaled reflexively and his tongue tasted the air like a serpent as his mind reached out to do the same to the dull but promising psyche behind him. Without turning his head, without betraying the fear and dread in his eyes, he already knew the identity of the other fiend. It was a nycaloth, Narsaleth the Brooding, a relatively young and ambitious fiend who he had previously marked as being potentially worthy of promotion to arcanaloth. Azcajal had followed and tracked the progress of the other fiend till eventually he had met with him, tested him, and agreed to sponsor his trial before their mutual ultroloth masters.

The wolf-headed arcanaloth frowned and held up his hands, letting their wounds heal before turning to face the nycaloth. Narsaleth had waited months to learn how the ultroloths had taken his bid for promotion, if they would consider him or not, and the lesser fiend likely believed that the purpose for his summoning would be news on that front.

Twice his size, the nycaloth nonetheless knelt and looked up at him, spreading his wings and putting one pair of hands on the floor and holding the other up in a sign of plaintive submission. 

"What did they say?" Narsaleth's eyes were anxious, pleading, even though he otherwise held his breath. His promotion was at stake. He was at the cusp of advancement, surely he was.

"I..." Looking down at him, Azcajal seemed to pause before answering, it was awkward. Could they have denied his petition even before judgment? "My advocacy of you has been taken into consideration."

That was a start. It was not a negative. But the answer was evasive, the arcanoloth had minced his words and twisted them together, but he hadn't actually answered the question.

"Yes... but what did they say?" Narseleth asked a second time, hoping for a clarification.

"You will be judged." Azcajal said. "Today."

The words struck the nycaloth like a hammer blow and Narsaleth shook in anticipation. Tiny shudders, nervous jitters, ran down the length of his wings and the nail beds beneath his claws ached as the muscles in his hands unconsciously tensed and relaxed.

The higher fiend bade him to stand, a perfunctory gesture that foreshadowed their approaching equal status in terms of caste. At least that was the nycaloth's impression.

"However I will not be present with you during your judgment." Azcajal said, drawing his robes together and crossing his arms. "...things are going be... altered from their normal progression."

What? Azcajal was his sponsor. If he failed, then his life would be forsaken as well, and Oinoloth knew that the spires of Khin-Oin still dripped with blood as it was. Why was the protocol of advancement being altered?

The arcanaloth looked directly at him, not sounding weary, but proud, sympathetic even. "You will be judged, that is your honor. Follow me and I will bring you to the place where you will be questioned, your worth determined, and your purity ascertained."

Leaving Narsaleth filled with uneasy pride, Azcajal drifted past his protégé and off of the balcony, back into the darkness of Khin-Oin, motioning for the nycaloth to follow. As they departed, the wind whistling off of the empty ramparts seemed to snicker.


***​

There was the great tumult of the spawning pools as they descended, a roar of flowing, draining liquid, a silky soft and heavy sound like bubbling syrup or rendering fat, punctuated by the birthing cries of newborn mezzoloths. It was the place in which both Azcajal and Narsaleth had both first clawed their way from nothingness, nonexistence, and then become beings, individuals distinct from the Waste.

Instinctively they felt the thrum of the place in their bones, in their blood, and memories resurfaced: their first breaths, their first step, their first scream, first pain, first act of drawing blood and taking the life of the first thing they encountered, where they became the first stage of what they had become.

With perverse nostalgia fresh upon their minds, both 'loths knew that those same spawning pools had seen a major increase in activity in recent weeks, though the output of mezzoloths had only seen a marginal increase. Rumors that filtered down to the nycaloth and were recorded by the arcanaloth said that a great many ultroloths and the higher tiers of arcanaloth researchers from Gehenna and Carceri had visited the lowest levels of Khin-Oin. But to what purpose they could only speculate.

Only briefly did the two of them cross over those caverns and vaults. A hundred yards and they passed beyond them by, though they did pause to take in the sight, if but for a moment. Massive by any measure, they were filled with newborn mezzoloths crawling and feeding upon one another, filled with others yet only half formed, pools and engines, blood and pain, unending screams, and the ossified viscera of a dead god like a cradle for its killers' young.

Eventually though, and without a word spoken between them, they both arrived at the door, a simple thing of petrified bone. 

"We have arrived." Azcajal stated.

Narsaleth blinked. Somehow he had expected more, something grander. Surely a circle of Ultroloths could not be expected to convene in the depths and judge him in such a paltry, banal chamber. They were better than that, and he deserved more. He glanced down at his patron, had he lied? Did he seek to betray him for some slight?

The arcanaloth motioned with his hand towards the door. "Step inside." He instructed. "Be judged. Be cleansed. Be purified."

Narsaleth hesitated. If his patron was not deceiving him, he should not show temerity in the face of promotion, he would best show his worth by grasping it. But of course perhaps a deception here, now, that could conceivably be a part of his trial, a part of his judgment and their masters could be watching now for any signs of weakness on his part. A middle ground between blind faith and foolish disregard would serve him best.

He reached out to touch the door, but turned to Azcajal first. "Why will you not accompany me?"

The arcanaloth bowed his head and spread his hands. "I was told to remain outside."

"Why?" Narsaleth asked. "Why so many changes to the trial?"

A momentary swell of pride surged through Azcajal. His protégé doubted him, expected duplicity, felt a hunger for answers, for secrets... he was ready for promotion. That pride let him suppress his own worry and maintain his composure.

"Because this is no longer the Khin-Oin of Mydianchlarus." He said. "We are no longer ruled by Anthraxus, nor does the General of Gehenna dictate upon our race from afar. We are living in a new age. You are the child of a new era. Things have changed and they will never again be the same. Do you understand this? This is why things are different."

Because He has made them different.

Because He wishes them to be so.

Because He spoke to me.

Azcajal pushed that from his mind and continued. "But you would not be here if I did not suspect that somewhere in your heart you knew this, or at least suspected this. You will be found worthy. I would not jeopardize myself otherwise. My selfishness is your gain. I believe that you are worthy, but beyond that door... we shall see."

Narsaleth took in his sponsor's words and nodded. It frightened him and uplifted him at once. There was a place for him, a position and rank prepared for him; he would seize it, make it his, take his place among the elect.

"Yes. I understand."

The door opened and Narsaleth slipped inside, headstrong and feeling worthy, his elevation imminent. The arcanaloth did not follow, he could not even look, in fact he turned away, averting his gaze and holding his breath, trembling unconsciously.

The door closed with a hiss, and Azcajal exhaled with one of his own, his knuckles white as he removed his hand from door's handle.

"I will not accompany you because I am not worthy." He whispered to himself, his voice beginning to break like the first lines of a self-abusive mantra.

He slumped down and clutched his head, weeping and shaking. 

"And also because I am terrified."


***​

Narsaleth entered the chamber expecting to bow before the gaze and burning minds of a council of Ultroloths. But as he stepped into the gloom he saw nothing before all was swallowed by shadow, the momentary light from the corridor betraying only an empty floor devoid of all but dust.

The light was fading and his shadow stretched out before him, racing across the chamber to meet the embrace of the deepest dark. Narsaleth turned to look as the door began to shut, expecting to see it drift with gravity, or perhaps a last glimpse of his mentor's hand. But no, the door simply seemed to swing on its own accord.

His eyes averted momentarily, the nycaloth never saw the dust of the floor twitch and move, showing the articulated lines of thousands of words traced in their medium. Nor did the fiend see the darkness ripple and move where his own figure painted in black stretched and touched them. He never saw the multitude of fingers reaching out to caress and paw at his shadow though. He never saw them, he only felt a cold chill and the thrill of apprehension when his shadow was pulled, writhing and contorting, by those hands into the curtain of pitch.

But that was the space of split second, and then the door closed behind him with a whisper and a click of bone on bone, leaving the only light in the chamber a thin sliver from underneath the door's margin. A second more and then it was snuffed completely and he was alone. 

All was darkness.

	Narsaleth’s eyes adjusted, or tried to adjust. His pupil’s dilated and his retinas slipped from their normal spectrum to something unnatural, the quasi-magical sight that would normally allow him to see in anything but the most profound magical darkness. He expected to see the breadth of the chamber, to see the council of Ultroloths who would test him, but the gloom refused to retreat beyond a certain depth, and he saw nothing.

	“I am here.” He said, addressing his unseen masters. “I am ready.”

	Nothing.

All was silent. The darkness gave no reply, but Narsaleth waited and listened anyways. Somewhere beyond the range of his vision he expected his ultroloth judges lurked and observed, taking cues on his fitness before they even whispered a response.

But there was no circle of ultroloths. There was only the darkness, and the darkness had already made its judgment before the nycaloth had stepped through the door and into its presence.

*clatter*

A metallic object landed at Narsaleth's feet, sliding out of the gloom and across the floor, coming to a rest only a few inches away from him. The fiend looked down and tilted his head as he recognized the object for what it was: a knife, a dagger, a blade, a shard of obsidian.

	The fiend looked at the blade and waited, though for what he wasn’t entirely certain. The obsidian glittered, jewel-like in the faint circle of dim illumination where the ‘loth’s eyes managed to peel back the otherwise complete gloom. Surely the ultroloths who would judge him would expect him to wait for their commands; that was the proper role, the proper protocol, orthodoxy.

_"Pick it up."_

The nycaloth instinctively knelt at the command and reached for the blade, but still his eyes searched the darkness for the speaker. And that was the disturbing fact of it all, that there had been a speaker in the first place. Ultroloths had no mouths. They did not speak except with their minds, but his ears had clearly keened to an audible voice, and he had obeyed it.

	And oddly as well, he’d begun to kneel before he’d even registered the sound in his ears. Commanding, seductive, hypnotic; a succinct trio.

One of Narsaleth's hands curled around the blade's hilt and he stood back up, still scanning the darkness.

The voice spoke again, this time echoing in his head as well as his ears. "What is the object in your hands?"

The nycaloth turned the blade over in his hands. Ragged and unbalanced, it was not a blade that was ever intended for use in a battle. Runes in high yugoloth were etched into the glass, weaving in decorative and poetic spirals across its entire length, while deeper still, beneath the black mirrored surface, even more glyphs hung suspended like bubbles; deadly little insects with promises sealed upon their lips in their tomb of jet amber.

"An obsidian blade." Narsaleth replied. “A work of art and a tool at the same time.”

"A very special type of blade yes. What about such things do you know?"

Narsaleth though for a moment, paused and then gave his reply. "It is the object of a nycaloth's ascendancy to arcanaloth status. It is what I seek."

"And is that so?" There was an amusement in the voice, a paternal tone, a hunger. 

"Yes. Yes I do."

"You desire its caress?"

Thoughts flooded into the nycaloth's mind, burning their way into his consciousness. For the briefest flicker of a moment he stood on Khalas as his heart was gutted from his chest, he felt the flicker of flame on his flayed skin still cold from shock and blood loss, he felt his bones hum as the sigils were carved into the soft plates at the ends of his long bones, and he begged for more as he choked and drowned on his own blood from the knife embedded through his neck.

And then it was gone. A hundred thousand flickers and flashes of memories of promotions from the perspective of the promoted and from some other observer.

"What you saw, is that is what you want?"

Narsaleth knelt on the floor, bracing himself with two arms even as the other two cradled the blade. His legs had buckled from the intensity of the visions but he'd held the knife like a mortal gripped to their soul or a priest to their faith.

"Yes..." He whimpered, still tasting blood on his tongue from the visions like a physical afterimage.

"Look at the blade and tell me about it. Feel it, understand it."

	The nycaloth nodded and traced first one finger and then two down the blunt edge, rounding the tip and pricking his flesh in the process. A single drop of blood welled from the wound and traced down tiny, cunningly crafted channels carved into the blade like little sanguine rivers.

	“It draws away my blood.” He said, watching that same blood fill the patterns and whorls of decorative glyphs. “The runes speak of purification, pain as a doorway to release, glorification of the self and submission to Evil. It’s poetic.”

	“Poetic?”

	“Yes, the words, the patterns. I never considered some of what they say, little word plays and hidden, double meanings.”

	Absorbed in the task, he ran his fingers over the razored edge of the blade, slicing deep, intentionally cutting his flesh simply to feel, and the pain felt different, the suffering was tinged with a spiritual aspect that it had never possessed before. It might have been the blade, it might have been his mindset at the moment, or it might have been that he was already being promoted, in mind if not yet in body.

	“You are already learning then. Good.”

Narsaleth turned the blade and its glossy, mirrored surface caught a reflection at a distant angle. The reflection wavered and his ears heard the wet slip of lips parting over teeth.

"Look up child."

	Obediently, the nycaloth look up and at his judge, the speaker whose voice filled his ears and mind.

Teeth and eyes. That was what he saw, that was -all- he saw in the darkness, and he very nearly dropped the blade.

Ivory white fangs, perfect and glistening with a sheen of spittle; a pair of reddish-pink eyes like burning souls suspended in ruby cages; they seemed to hover in the dark, suspended in a formless wash of darkness, not so much standing before him but surrounding him, encasing him, swallowing the light.

A fraction of a second passed and in that moment the darkness seemed animate, swimming, writhing like some shapeless abomination...

Narsaleth blinked and the trick of the light, for that was what it had to have been, resolved itself. The figure stepped forward and the darkness peeled back to reveal him, or perhaps the darkness congealed to form him, but regardless of that, the nycaloth's judge stood before him.

Teeth parted as a tongue licked at a fang and tasted the air, crimson-pink eyes glittering and now distinct from the shadows, locked within the skull of an arcanaloth.

The Oinoloth stood before him, physically present, physically manifest at his judgment. Narsaleth knew this, understood the incongruity of the situation, and intellectually understood the enormity of it all... but it never registered to him. He was already numb, already slipping into a state of expectant religious ecstasy to do anything but obey.

	The Ebon pointed to the obsidian blade. “Normally you would be slaughtered for touching that blade before you were ready.”

	The nycaloth stumbled to answer, but there was no need.

	“But I asked you to do so, I felt that you were ready, that you needed to learn from the past before embracing the future, and the blade is simply another aspect of that past. The knife you hold, it was the same blade used to promote Anthraxus, and the knife that he used on himself when he underwent his process of self-mutilation in order to ape his makers, attempting to ascend to something better on his own. He failed, in numerous ways, and of course I punished him for that impurity and that failure.”

	The Oinoloth stepped closer and held up his hands, displaying his claws.

	“That blade, if you had been judged by a council of Ultroloths and been found worthy, they would have flayed your skin from your muscle, then sliced the muscle from the bone, and carved into you like a block of marble to reflect your metaphysical essence, all before setting you into the furnaces of Gehenna, the pools that already today you have seen, or the reflective chasm in Carceri. Normally this process is long, lengthy, protracted, inefficient, rote, routine, archaic…

	The Oinoloth’s claws extended and shimmered ivory against his flesh and coat, glittering like scalpels in their own right, set against the darkness.

“The process is long and protracted.” He repeated. “Unless of course I choose to expedite the process in my own fashion…”

	The nycaloth barely had time to register the archfiend’s meaning before the claws burrowed into his chest and clutched at his sternum, digging and twisted, slicing and carving skin from muscle and symbol to bone. In fact, the only reaction that Narsaleth made was to relax his arms at his side, to accept what came. 

Willingness was key.

It might have taken a minute, an hour, a day… time lost its meaning to the nycaloth as his world became a blank haze of pained ecstasy and a blossom of darkness flooding his vision. Claws of liquid darkness slipped into flesh and ripped him open, forcing the transition and shedding the metaphysical cocoon of the nycaloth. 

Claws and fangs and septic mind, they lanced deeper than any blade, slipping through suddenly plastic and liquid flesh like a potter to clay, a sculptor freeing a statue embedded in its marble tomb; not creating so much as releasing. There was no blade, no invocations, no ritual, no runes, no furnace but the light from his eyes.

	Time passed and eventually the screams and pain ceased.

	All was silence.

	All was darkness.

Blood dripped from claws and teeth, slicked and matted fur, and where the thrown off corpse of the nycaloth had come to rest it streaked the bone-white godflesh under their feet a shade of crimson.

Narsaleth was dead and Narsaleth was reborn. Shaking and trembling, naked and slathered in his own blood like some perverse amniotic fluid, the newborn arcanaloth looked down at the corpse, his corpse; the ba staring at the sekhu. At the arcanaloth’s feet, the nycaloth husk was a mangled pile of flesh and viscera, but from it he had stepped like a moth from a cocoon, and though spattered with blood its face was unmistakably his own, and he smiled when he saw his new form reflected in the glazed and frozen eyes of the old.

“I have given you what you wanted. Remade in body and spirit into what you desired. The flesh of the nycaloth, the lesser fiend, the impure fiend, that you were, you have shed and that is forever behind you. Welcome child to the next stage of your existence.”

	Left unsaid was a final line of the Ebon’s welcome, ‘But there is of course, something that I need of you.’

Impurity had been physically shed, and Narsaleth stumbled at the realization of his ascendancy even as the floodgates of his newly sculpted mind opened and touched him, kissed him with the birthright that Larsdana Ap Neut had tethered, millennia ago, to their kind in Gehenna. But in all of that knowledge, in the collective archive of their racial memory, the Ebon who stood silently behind him like a shadow, he was entirely absent.

	The Oinoloth might have been absent from that tide, but something was also seeping into Narsaleth’s mind like a slow trickle of oil atop the raging floodwaters of information, secrets and illumination. He knew him. Somehow he recognized him. He felt it in his bones and in his blood like a wave of cold sepsis.

	Numb with his increasing αποκαλυψις, his dawning revelation, the ‘loth turned around, looking for the Ebon like a pilgrim searching for their prophet, their icon, their saint. The Ebon was gone, but after turning a complete circle, the ‘loth stopped and gazed back at his own face, a reflection trapped in the surface of the obsidian dagger that he’d held and examined before his promotion. The blade hung suspended in the air and though he had not been standing there a moment before, the Oinoloth’s eyes and teeth shimmered in the reflection as well, disembodied in the darkness.

“These blades are simply tools.” The Ebon’s voice whispered from out of the knife and in the arcanaloth’s ears. “They are artifacts and ephemera of a species grown corrupt and blind, content to accept a status quo blindly without any conception of their potential. The words of the faithless have accepted a gospel that has been handed to them and they do not question it. The yugoloths have become a false vacuum waiting for the pressure to collapse and fall.”

	The cold shock in his blood leached higher, deeper, like a man drowning in frigid, unholy water. The cold brought knowledge. The pain brought illumination. He was close to something. He was close to understanding.

“Step to the edge and tell me what you see.”

Narsaleth opened his eyes and stared at those of the Oinoloth.

“What do you see?”

The young arcanaloth’s lips curled back into a grin and a trickle of acidic tears began to roll down his face. Like Azcajal before him, he was terrified and overwhelmed, but unlike his former master, he was caught up in zeal and a desire to prove worthy of his new status.

	They might have walked, they might have teleported, or the room itself might have altered and shifted in response to the Oinoloth’s will. But as Narsaleth stared into the Ebon’s eyes with idolatry and a dozen incarnations of servile lust, there was water at their feet, water at their ankles, water at their waist; the cold, murky, dark waters of the Styx welled up from the arterial branches of the river, the place where some of the first yugoloths had been spawned beneath the Wasting Tower.

The Ebon kissed the other fiend, slowly and deliberately licking away his tears and then sharing the taste upon his tongue like a sort of sacrament.

“You have seen.” Vorkannis whispered. “Now what will you do?”

“Anything, absolutely anything Father. Anything that you ask of me.”

	The Oinoloth cradled the other’s chin, bracing his hands against the sides of Narsaleth’s muzzle.

Again, willingness was key. 

The astraloths were unthinking beings, individual automatons, but the creations bubbling in their vats, slipping towards sentience now, they required a willing mind spread through their essence. The newest slaves of the Oinoloth required a martyr within the synapses, a crucifer to sustain them and link them in their obeisance. And that sacrifice now looked with quasi-religious ecstasy into the eyes of his whispering master.

“Pressure to collapse and fall…” The Ebon dipped his finger in the water and then stroked the other’s cheek. “That was what I said your race required before it could be purified a second time. Perched on the edge as you are now, there is no need to push, no need for pressure, no need to force this purification, because after all, why should I push when you will willingly jump?”

	A telepathic spark leapt between them both, but that further instruction was unnecessary, because already the newborn arcanaloth understood his role. He understood what he needed to do to prove himself worthy and to please the Oinoloth, though that title was paltry when compared to what he’d been shown.

	Narsaleth kissed the Ebon and stared longingly into that one’s burning eyes before kneeling and slipping below the surface of the numbing, soul sucking waters.

	Even as the darkness of the water obscured his vision and began to cloud his mind, he knew what had to be done. _Anything you ask of me_. Without hesitation, without compulsion, the fiend parted his lips and inhaled.


***​


----------



## Fimmtiu

Wow. This may be your best installment yet. Wonderfully creepy without being excessive.


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## shilsen

Excellent.


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## Gez

Αποκαλυψις (apocalypsis). Now here's a word you don't see everyday -- at least, spelt in Greek.


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## Shemeska

Gez said:
			
		

> Αποκαλυψις (apocalypsis). Now here's a word you don't see everyday -- at least, spelt in Greek.




*grin* I used the original Greek version largely because the english translation apocalypse tends to carry a different meaning (end of the world/cataclysm) rather than the original meaning (revelation).


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## recentcoin

Deliciously creepy...

(in an HP Lovecraft and not Stephen King kinda way)

RC


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## Shemeska

Sorry for no update last week. I'm shooting for one this week but no promises, I've been writing something that had a deadline on it and it took priority. I'll try and make it worth it when I do.


----------



## Shemeska

They weren't entirely sure what to think as they walked down the corridor and away from Ghyris Vast's cell, leaving the madman to his babbling, delusional psychosis.

"So what do you think?" Clueless asked.

Florian shook her head. "I think he's a nutter."

"Well yeah." Clueless said. "Besides that."

Behind them, back in his cell, Vast began to whimper.

"The 'loths were interested in him," Toras said. "And _they_ certainly took his ideas seriously, and _they_ acted on them."

Fyrehowl nodded. "They did, and they were cautious enough to hide their involvement as best they could, and then to bottle him away in case they needed him later. I'd say that's enough to get us interested in what he said as well."

"It'd be easier if he wasn't a bloody loon." Florian said, rolling her eyes.

"But still, I..." Clueless began and then abruptly stopped. Vast had begun to scream, and then it was snuffed like a flame with an explosive, wet splatter.

Florian spun around to look. "What the hell...?!"

Vast was no longer sitting in the center of his cell, and in fact they couldn't see him at all. Gazing in horror through the transparent walls of force that had girded the cell, they saw only a fine crimson mist. Only slowly condensing and dripping down the walls like a red rain, aerosolized blood hung like a fogbank within the cell, completely obscuring the interior except for the darker stains and outlines of larger bits of flesh and viscera.

Barely registering above their shock, Aorth was shouting and running, and an alarm bell began to ring.

Florian stammered, "Bloody f*ck!"

They watched as the wall of force ran with a liquid covering of blood as it continued to fall out of the air and condense, peppering the conjured surface with bits of flesh like the alluvial silt of a perverse, hellish river delta.

Suddenly a shape loomed out of the red and a hand slammed up against the interior of the wall, smearing the blood, slowly and deliberately wiping the surface and clearing it of the madman's remains.

The hand was too big to be human, easily three of four times as large, and thin, sickly, elongated and completely untouched by the slaughter. In the space, a window into the cell, the carnage could be seen, and standing amidst it, leering out of the gap was something out of nightmare.

It was huge, barely fitting inside despite its hunched, stooped position as it leaned forwards and gazed out of the cell. A wasted, nearly skeletal head craned close and a serpentine, milky white eye peered outwards before retreating and gracing the gap with a smile of teeth set in rotting, dripping gums.

But the eye, in those few brief seconds, when it moved and twitched, it seemed to swim with symbols, like runes tattooed upon the corneas, formed within the capillary beds upon the retina, and floating and adrift in the humour, all of them glowing and forming the whole. But then with a blink the notion was gone, the flesh was real and the face retreated from the impromptu window.

"Holy f*ck!" Toras stammered.

The others wanted to say something, they wanted to verbalize some fraction of the thoughts in their heads, but their tongues, like their legs, simply refused to move. They had no words to describe it as the claxons blared louder and the distant footsteps of giants gave a rattle of metal on metal.

The red curtain still covered the cell and they watched it dribble and pool with the faintest of sounds like heavy raindrops on temple steps, gradually obscuring the cleared swathe once more. All was still within the cell, no movement, no sound, nothing. 

Where had Vast's killer gone, and what was it? He'd known it. He'd known it was coming for him whatever it was.

Florian’s eyes went wide, "What the bloody f*ck was that?!"

No sooner had she spoken though, when the wall of force rippled like water and Ghyris Vast's executioner stepped through, summarily ignoring the wards in their entirety as if they didn't even exist, emerging from the constricting quarters of the cell and standing up to its full 15 foot height. Despite its massive size, easily as large or larger than the frost giant guards that formed the backbone of the security forces of Pitiless, the fiend was hideously thin and wasted, looking like some fanatical ascetic or a man dying either from disease or starvation.

Tristol blanched. He hadn't seen any magic being performed. The wards had simply parted, bending to the side and flowing around the creature that had stepped through them like they hadn't existed. That wasn't possible.

The Baernaloth's flesh was sickly and pale, stretched tight across its underlying muscle and bone, almost bleached white under the prison's illumination, and as it looked first down the corridor in each direction, and then towards the cell across from Vast's, its flesh seemed to crawl and move.

Tristol saw something different though. He didn't see the Baernaloth's sickly frame, skin gray as the Waste, nor the cold and dead eyes, nor the shimmer of movement on its flesh. He didn't see that, in fact he didn't even see a physical body standing there under the lights of Pitiless. Tristol saw a hollow, an empty space defined only by a seething, writhing carpet of alien glyphs and runes all moving, mating, merging, and cavorting across an oily skein of nothingness. The Baernaloth didn't glow with magic so much as it was composed of it, defined by ancient and alien symbols that burned the eyes and refused to be understood by the mind of a mere mortal.

The aasimar looked away. It was like staring into the sun.

The Baernaloth glanced to either side, looking at the guards marshalling at the corridor's end, and then towards Vast's last guests and beyond them another troupe of giants. The look was barely cursory, more curiosity than worry as it paused for a moment outside of the cell, stretching with an almost callous disregard for the alarms and approaching guards; it didn't seem worried in the slightest.

Aorth's screams could only distantly be heard over the ringing alarms and the rising screams of the other prisoners, those who had seen the event, and those who simply used the opportunity to add to the chaos out of spiteful rage. But the cells closest to the scene of the slaughter, they were deathly silent, and no more so than the cell in which Felthis ap Jerran sat.

With one last look back at Vast's mangled, pulped remains, the proto-fiend turned and looked directly at the imprisoned ultroloth. It chuckled and waved, strumming the fingers of one hand upon the air and gazing into the eyes of its flawed and risen child as if to say, "Hello there. Funny that -you- would be here isn't it? So good to see you again, did you miss me?"

But within his cell, the ironic gesture was something else entirely to the 'loth who sat there paralyzed with fear. Had he lips he would have gibbered, stricken as he was with a sense of revulsion and horror from the proximity of one of the Father/Mothers, a being who he'd thought mythical to that point, and one which had just so casually strode into the prison and slaughtered a man before his very eyes.

Would he be next? Would it so calmly butcher him as it had Ghyris Vast?

	For a single long moment the Baernaloth stared at the lesser fiend, looming over him in physical stature and sheer presence alike. Felthis ap Jerran was frozen in place, unable to move, with his eyes spontaneously bleeding from shock and unwillingly fixated on the white orbs set in the sunken sockets of his ancient creator’s skull. Neither of them said anything as the Baern broke into a sadistic, uncaring smile, and if any communication had passed between the two of them, it hadn't been verbal; the Baernaloth had never made a sound.

Lazarius Ibn Shartalan gave one last derisive sneer of contempt at the risen ultroloth and then turned away, taking two steps before abruptly vanishing without a trace, slipping into the spaces between the planes with a method of transit older even than the paeans of the lesser fiends to the Maeldur et Kavurik. When the guards arrived only moments later there was nothing there for them to fight or detain, not a scrap of flesh or speck of dust to use as a material focus for a scry, nor even a single lingering dweomer to show that something had ripped open the impregnable prison's wards like they'd been crafted in haste by an apprentice mage. There were only the soulless remains of the man formerly known as Ghyris Vast and the whimpering of a risen fiend who'd looked the Devil in the eyes.

	The next few minutes were a confused blur as they rushed towards Vast’s cell and stared at the carnage and heard the nearly insensate whimpers and mutters of ‘The Architect…’ from the ultroloth who’d born witness to it all. They had precious little time on the scene though, as the wardens of Pitiless were fiercely quick to order a full facility lockdown and security sweep to ensure that the intruder was no longer within the prison, nor was anything else in their care at risk. Something had punctured a thousand years of foolproof security in a place kept safe by agreement amongst factions, sects, races, even entire pantheons… and something had shattered those thousand years of sanctity with a brutal murder. Given the horrors bottled up elsewhere in the prison, they couldn’t risk that the same intruder wouldn’t plunder as well.

	Hours of interrogation followed the incident, and the wardens were loath to admit their failures. Aorth and Jaitch only wanted someone to blame, but they didn’t know how the murder had happened, or even what manner of creature had been responsible. What had happened should not have happened, and the brothers were performing damage control as best they could.

	Jaitch had been particularly unhappy after their ‘talk’, as no amount of magic had given him any definitive answers. “On behalf of the Doomguard, we strongly urge you to not speak of this event. There might be repercussions from other outside groups that we cannot control. And beyond that, we may have other questions for you. Please don’t drink from the Styx before that point. Anything else we can work around.”

	Their subsequent expulsion from Pitiless was as quick and harsh as the slam of its gates.


***​

Back in Sigil, they all went straight to the inn's private meeting room at the rear of the bar. They hadn't talked much on the way back, and the mood was cold, quiet and glum, at least until liberal amounts of alcohol began to loosen their tongues.

Clueless downed a shot of whisky. "I need a break from anything remotely dangerous. And I don't really want to burden myself with anything involving deep thought."

"Go pick fights in the Hive." Toras replied.

Nisha waved a finger at the fighter. "I've seen you doing that. One of these days you're going to run into something bigger than you."

Clueless just looked at the tiefling. "Nisha, I've seen you throw pumpkins off of rooftops at Cornugons while shouting 'In Hashkar's name!'"

Tristol's ears perked and he looked at the tiefling. "You what?!"

The Xaositect slunk down in her chair and gave a guilty grin. "It seemed like a good idea at the time..."

Clueless shook his head and downed another shot. "Nisha that's your motto in life." 

"Hasn't failed me yet." She replied, sitting back up. "Hashkar would be proud - Xaos be unto him."

The bladesinger paused and looked at the empty shot glass. "I want to get drunk. Why the hell am I drinking this, it doesn't even faze me."

Florian finally asked the question burning on their minds. "So what the bloody f*ck did we see in Pitiless?"

No one answered immediately.

"Vast is dead. Something killed him.” She continued. “In bloody Pitiless of all places. It just ignored the wards."

"That's not possible." Skalliska said. "At least it's not supposed to be possible."

Florian threw her hands up in resignation. "Well, someone go find him and tell him that, because he didn't get that memo apparently."

"So what the hell was it?" Toras asked.

"I don’t know.” Fyrehowl said with considerable apprehension. “I can't answer that, but I'm guessing that's who Vast was worried about would kill him if he talked to anyone."

Kiro was disturbed. Why leave Vast open and available to even talk to anyone in the first place? Why not just kill him before that point? Perhaps doing so would have revealed that being's hand before it wished to step out from behind the puppeteer's drape. 

"And do as thou wilt shall be the whole of the law." Clueless deadpanned. "That statue under the Palace of the Jester…"

Realization dawned upon them as they recognized the creature for what it had been: a Baernaloth.

	“Aww sh*t…” Florian said.

	Fyrehowl dug her claws into the tabletop. “F*cking ‘loths.”

	“Something doesn’t make sense though.” Tristol said. “Vast was talking like the yugoloths he was working for weren’t aware of certain things.”

	“We saw a damn Baernaloth.” Clueless. “But I don’t think it was working with the yugoloths we’ve been tangling with.”

	Nisha was holding her head and dramatically swaying to either side. That didn’t make sense: Yugoloths doing something on the Astral, getting help from a human madman who’d been the vector for a Baernaloth’s manipulation of the yugoloths, all of who seemed to be unaware of its role in those events. But still, why had Vast still been alive to spill those secrets then?

Kiro was thinking the same thing. Perhaps the information Vast had been killed for revealing wasn't a secret in the first place, or at least not one of great importance, not except for the strings that would be tugged were it known to various players across the cosmic stage. Kiro didn't know, but since when did the Gloom Fathers remove a playing piece from their board till they were finished with them? Maybe Vast’s hellish execution had just been a way to pull the strings of those who had seen it, including him. Everything was an idle game to the Gloom Fathers, but in this instance, they weren’t the only ones on the playing field, just the ones that he knew the least about. His own lords presumably knew more, but they’d neglected to tell him if they’d suspected such.

	“So what now?” Tristol asked.

	“I need a break.” Clueless said. “After everything that just happened I need to take my mind off of things and get some perspective on it all.”

	The feeling was almost universal. They all needed to think about what had happened, and what it meant, especially in light of their own conflicts with at least two powerful yugoloths, one of which was still lurking out there.

	“I’ll be visiting the temple of Andros.” Toras said.

	Skalliska looked up at the fighter. “Divine guidance is a good thing.”

	“And you suddenly gained religion… when?” Nisha asked. “Or did I miss a memo somewhere as well?”

	The kobold smiled and looked slightly evasive. “Don’t worry about it.”

	Back at the bar, Clueless was preoccupied with looking at the wine bottles and ale casks.

	“Something wrong?” Florian asked.

	He held up an empty bottle. “We’re running low on booze.”

	“That bad?” The cleric asked. “I can have the staff pick up some more from the stocks back on the demiplane.”

	“Don’t bother.” The half-fey replied. “Before we went to Pitiless I’d wanted to go there anyway.”

	Fyrehowl tapped a claw against the table. “I remember the staff mentioning something about squatters.”

	“My fault.” Tristol said.

	“You hardly look like a squatter dear.” Nisha replied.

	The aasimar gave her a look as he chuckled. “No no. Not that I’m a squatter, just that Clueless and Kiro were on their way there when I drug us all out to the Astral. Sorry for all that.”

	The bladesinger waved a hand dismissively. “Not an issue. I don’t expect the alcohol to just have vanished.”

	“It better not have!” Florian said. She’d handled the contracts for their suppliers in the first place, and she’d be pissed if it had all been stolen.

	Fyrehowl tapped Tristol’s sleeve. “Besides, the trip to Pitiless was something…” She paused. “…It’s something alright… don’t fret over it.”

	The wizard smiled and tried to relax. He’d probably just relax and maybe work on a spell or two in the next few days.

	“Mind if I come along this time too?” Kiro asked, looking towards Clueless. “I’ve never actually seen the place.”

	Clueless smiled. “Please do. I could use an extra pair of eyes.”

	The cleric stood up and gathered his things.

	“So when should we expect you back?” Florian asked.

Clueless thought for a moment. "Nothing more than a few hours. It's probably just some Nathri messing with the place."

"Or the mercane's creditors." Florian mused. "Which I suppose is actually a legitimate notion. We never looked heavily into their background after we assumed control of the place."

"In any event,” Clueless said. “We'll be back after we find out who was messing with the locks and some of the exterior of the keep."

	From there it was only a quick trip up to the second floor and a portal away from the demiplane. But it wasn’t Nathri they had to worry about.


***​

The creature inhaled, if the analogy really held, smelling/tasting the ether upon the edges of the demiplane. The fringes of the near and the deep had rung like a bell, a single pure note to its psionic awareness when it was broached by one of Sigil's portals. It was a thing of beauty, but the yugoloth construct had never been given any sense of beauty, no notion of art, no notions at all outside of obedience and ferocity as it hung there in the roiling mists, half suspended between a trio of planes like a spider feeling the touch of insects upon the strands of its web.

It hungered. All of its kind hungered. And it had been given a target.

The mistress had told it what to hunt, the mistress the chosen and favored of the Maker, the Creator, the Father. He had granted her authority, and by virtue of that, she was to be obeyed till that authority was rescinded.

She desired the removal of a shallow scratch, a minor thing that could fester if allowed to. She wished for blood and death, and so the creature desired the same.

The demiplane loomed larger as it plunged through the mists, the ether shifting consistency as it neared the fringe of the little bubble the mercane had constructed a century prior. It felt its prey, it felt them close, and so with one last flick of its trailing pseudopods, it added one final burst of speed and hurtled downwards into the demiplane.


***​

Kiro gazed up at the demiplane's violet sky with wonder, and then with equal amazement at the castle hovering in the void across the bridge from where the portal from Sigil had opened.

"It's one thing hearing about this place. But it's really something else to actually see it in person."

Clueless grinned. "Whatever else I can say about them, the mercane we took this place from, they had a pretty good design sense."

"It's certainly something." Kiro said as he looked over the side of the bridge. "Thanks for taking me along."

"I'm surprised that we hadn't shown you this place before."

Kiro shrugged. "It happens. We had other things to worry about."

"Very true." Clueless said. "But still, thanks for coming along. The staff said it looked like someone tried to break into the place, but we don't keep anything here except some things the mercane left behind, and a bunch of foodstuffs and the generic booze, none of the more expensive types. There isn't much to steal, so whoever came after the place, if anyone did, it's probably only a cleanup job for one person."

The gate did indeed show signs of tampering as they approached it, and very crude tampering at that. In fact it looked as though someone had tried to burn down the door, than hack a hole in it, and then finally tried to pick the lock. The last attempt had been successful.

"Ah... damnit." Clueless said, noting the damage to the gates and that they were ajar.

"I thought you said there wasn't anything to steal?"

Clueless gave a resigned shrug. "I'm less worried about theft than I am about vandalism now. This is pretty inept for burglary. They better not have trashed the place..."

It wasn't petty theft however that had Kiro concerned, nor was it a desire to see the mercane's demiplane that had led Kiro to accompany the bladesinger. Not at all. He was there for the same reason that he'd first stepped into the Portal Jammer in the first place: he needed to watch over them.

Unfelt by them both, something sensed them and began to move to intercept.

"They used to have this place pretty well trapped." Clueless said, motioning towards a stuffed Simpathetic and a broken statue. Both had originally been animated to attack intruders, but since the mercanes had died, they'd just sat and collected dust.

"So I gather." Kiro replied. "But if you have problems with vandals, it might be a good idea to try the same, especially if you'll be leaving the keep unoccupied for long stretches of time."

Clueless nodded and pondered the idea as they stepped into what had once been a courtyard near the center of the keep's ground floor. Some of the plants that had grown there looked trampled, and someone had scattered some broken dishes on the ground. Obviously they'd had visitors, probably a small tribe of Nathri.

Useless humanoid vermin of the ethereal, there wasn't any real way of getting rid of them, except for the obvious method: killing them. But that hardly seemed fair in some ways; a bit heavy-handed in Clueless's mind. Perhaps Tristol might be able to create some sort of antipathy warding to exclude them from approaching the demiplane, or...

Clueless paused and extended his hand. There was a breeze in the courtyard all of a sudden. He turned to Kiro, "Does it feel cold in here to you?"

The cleric's eyes suddenly went wide as he looked past the bladesinger.

Translucent, jellyfish-like tentacles congealed out of nothing, shifting between the dimensions like fingers dipped below the surface of a pond. They lashed out blindly at first, stabbing and slashing at the open air before the rest of the creature fully solidified and gave the pseudopods lethal direction.

Kiro darted instinctively to one side, rolling out of the way of a dozen tentacles. Half of them struck open air, still others seemed to slip ghostlike into the hard surface of the floor, and one grazed his shoulder, sending a cold and painful numbness spreading through his flesh. His arm was barely bruised, the flesh wasn't broken, and there were no traces of poison; the creature fed upon soulstuff.

They had no cleric. Protections against energy draining effects were usually superfluous and unnecessary unless you were planning on encountering the undead. It was a demiplane, their demiplane, there were no undead.

But while Kiro had managed to dodge, Clueless caught the brunt of its surprise attack. At least five of its tentacles slapped against his flesh and sent shockwaves of negative energy through his body as he managed to flick his wings and retreat just out of range.

"What the hell is that thing?!" He screamed out in shock as he drew razor. He felt like he'd been dunked in frigid water, and the numbness was spreading from where the thing had sunk its tendrils into his skin.

Kiro didn't verbalize a response, and for once, his calm demeanor seemed broken. His eyes were wide and he could only shrug; he hadn't the faintest idea what the thing was. But that was no surprise since the astraloths had never been used outside of the halls of Khin-Oin and the demiplane of their mistress. Yes, they'd fed on restrained tanar'ri and baatezu, screaming petitioners, and enslaved mortals, even some lesser yugoloths, but they'd never tasted the life force of anyone who harbored hope of survival. It was sweet, and the creature hungered for more.

Clueless flicked his wings and darted further back out of range as the astraloth's tentacles drifted and undulated around the bulk of its elongated, sickly frame. The thing was only partially corporeal, portions of it seeming to drift in and out of phase with everything else as it hung suspended in mid-air as the bladesinger dodged out of the way of its stupendous reach.

The creature let him retreat, giving only a few half-serious slaps of its tendrils, all of which failed to strike. Its nostrils quivered and it grinned. The attacks weren't meant to truly harm, not again, not yet, they were only intended to taunt. It enjoyed the struggle. It anticipated it.

Having had a moment to recover, Clueless pointed razor at the creature's chest and began to chant. The tip of the sword danced in a tight spiral, jumping slightly to either side at each pause and break in the song, and all the while a charge was building.

The lightning bolts erupted both from the tip of the blade and from Clueless's other outstretched hand, crossing the space between the astraloth and him in a flash of light and delayed clap of thunder. The creature made no move to evade the spells however as the first bolt of lightning was snuffed several feet from its target, failing against its innate resistance to magic, and the other made contact but likewise failed to harm it.

"Son of a b*tch!" Clueless shouted as he barely managed to dodge a trio of the thing's tentacles.

"Try something other than lightning!" Kiro shouted back as he faded from sight and tried to move into a flanking position.

Clueless dodged again, hacking at one of the slower moving tentacles, only to watch his blade slip through it like he was flailing at an illusion. But undeterred, he followed through with the intricate motions of a bladesong, invoking another spell in the hopes of finding something to pierce through the creature's resistances.

Kiro struck first however, and though he was invisible, the impacts of both of his swords into the astraloth’s back were visible like trails through mist or ripples though water as they repeatedly stabbed and slashed. The thing hadn't moved to defend itself, perhaps it hadn't noticed him, but neither had it responded to any of his attacks, not in any negative fashion.

The blades hadn't caused any damage, none at all, and Kiro realized that fact a moment too late as the creature grinned and stared down at him. The 'loth's empty eye sockets should have made it apparent that it wouldn't have been affected by invisibility. It had no eyes, and so it didn't rely on vision or any other mundane senses to target its prey.

Kiro's flesh tingled with the touch of psionic fingers a moment before the astraloth's claws and tentacles lunged for him. He tried to dodge, and normally he would have been able to do so, but it had lured him in too close, and he only had two arms and two swords to block with, while it had its own claws and a shifting, swirling mass of pseudopods all lashing independently of one another; it was inevitable that some would break through his defenses, no matter his level of skill.

The astraloth struck quick and hard, raking its claws across Kiro's arms and chest while several of its tentacles passed through the cleric causing him to jerk and shudder in pain. He exhaled in ragged stutters and dropped to one knee, completely open to further attack as he struggled to shake off the effects of the life-sapping energy drain.

The fiendish construct loomed over him, cackling with a wet, rasping laugh, and it would have continued against its injured and drained opponent, but a burst of flame erupted across its shoulders causing it to hiss and turn to face Clueless. Its translucent frame was clouded and discolored at the point of impact, and while a second flame arrow was snuffed against its magic resistance, the result was clear: it had no innate protections against flame.

Visible once more, the spell absorbed or dispelled by the creature's attacks, Kiro limped out of range. He wasn't visibly injured except for a deep gouge on his chest from one pass of its claws, but he shivered from the effects of the energy drain, only some of which he'd managed to resist.

"It's not immune to fire!" Clueless shouted as he dodged several attacks. "Use it if you have it!"

Kiro shook his head. "My swords aren't doing -anything- to it. And I don't have much else to use, not today... Sutekh preserve..."

That his swords hadn't worked had been a shock. They were enchanted near to the pinnacle of his people's ability and considered a bane to most every exemplar race across the Wheel, and they'd failed to so much as draw a scratch. On top of it all even, the thing didn't seem to possess any vulnerable points to its anatomy, it was more construct than living thing, and that made his own abilities almost worthless. It was a harrowing feeling.

Clueless inhaled deeply, still fighting the cold shock of the astraloth's first attacks, realizing that he only had two more fire based spells left, and that his own attacks against the creature had failed to affect it as well. Normally his blade bit through any normal resistances to damage.

The astraloth was grinning, hovering there amidst the writhing cloud of its own tentacles, drifting in place like it was soaking up the fear and worry leaching off of its targets. It was toying with them, and that moment of respite when it indulged the tastes imbued by its makers, it was the moment that Clueless and Kiro needed.

Clueless motioned to Kiro as he began to chant. It wasn't an offensive spell, and typically it wasn't necessary, but for whatever reason, be it random chance or brilliant foresight, he'd memorized it earlier that day. The spell was designed to increase the magical potency of a weapon, and at its completion Razor was glowing more brightly than ever, and with a brief touch of blades, so were Kiro's 'Twins'.

The astraloth inclined its head, sensing both the movement of its targets, the change in their emotional state, and the scent of the waxing dweomers upon their weapons. It snarled and dropped its fickle toying with them, lashing out in a frenzy of pseudopods and claws.

Kiro and Clueless responded in their own way, darting to either side and circling around it, slashing and stabbing at every opportunity, working off of one another's attacks as much as possible. They both relied on speed more than strength, and while their fighting styles were different: Clueless with his unseelie supplied style, and Kiro with his own techniques that seemed alien to a cleric of a mystical aspect of Set, the styles meshed.

It was difficult at first to determine who was causing more damage, the yugoloth construct with its claws and energy draining pseudopods that both seemed to ignore material armor, or the cleric and the bladesinger who dancing around the creature in a flurry of slashes. While previously, the astraloth had been able to completely ignore their weapons, the temporary boost to their enchantments had removed that immunity, and the ground was slick with a translucent, half-corporeal oily blood.

It might have been seconds or minutes, but it seemed much longer to Clueless and Kiro. Time had seemed to slow down as they repeatedly struck against the creature, drawing deeper and deeper wounds even as their bodies burned and they felt cold and sick from the astraloth's killing, sapping touch. They fought as if in a trance, moving automatically in a way that would have made Fyrehowl or Rhys smile, but in the end they broke out of it as their eardrums rattled with a bloodcurdling shriek of pain that resonated on the inside of their skulls like an ultroloth's screaming.

Numb with shock and injury, they staggered and fell to the floor, only vaguely aware of the astraloth as it flicked its tentacles in unison towards the floor like some perverse deep-sea squid, hurtling towards the ceiling and rapidly slipping out of phase and back into the depths of the trackless sea. Facing death it had fled, the selfishness of its yugoloth creators trickling down into their creations as a flattering little flaw.

Pain followed swiftly on the realization that they were both still alive, a combination of burning pain from cuts and slashes from its claws, and the utter chill of its draining touch. They didn't say a word as they staggered to their feet and helped each other limp towards the portal back to Sigil, eventually collapsing in the hallway across from a very startled Nisha.


***​


----------



## shilsen

Beautiful, as always.



			
				Shemeska said:
			
		

> Numb with shock and injury, they staggered and fell to the floor, only vaguely aware of the astraloth as it flicked its tentacles in unison towards the floor like some perverse deep-sea squid, hurtling towards the ceiling and rapidly slipping out of phase and back into the depths of the trackless sea. Facing death it had fled, the selfishness of its yugoloth creators trickling down into their creations as a flattering little flaw.




Is that a polite way of saying you decided not to kill off two PCs and gave them an out? Or maybe that's just me being cynical


----------



## Shemeska

shilsen said:
			
		

> Is that a polite way of saying you decided not to kill off two PCs and gave them an out? Or maybe that's just me being cynical




Nope, once they'd bumped their weapons up to +5, they had the edge on it. Once it dipped to under 10% HP, I had it flee. It had them both pretty heavily level drained by that point though.

I'd actually expected them to flee from the thing, but managed to squeek it out after they used a 'greater magic weapon', and broke the thing's pretty hefty DR.


----------



## shilsen

Shemeska said:
			
		

> Nope, once they'd bumped their weapons up to +5, they had the edge on it. Once it dipped to under 10% HP, I had it flee. It had them both pretty heavily level drained by that point though.




I thought that was the toughest aspect of the encounter. Level draining, with the way it gives negatives to just about everything, is one of the nastiest things in 3e. Speaking of which, was this played under 3.0 rules or using 3.0 DR? In 3.5, DR X/magic has replaced all the X/+1 to X/+5 versions.


----------



## Shemeska

shilsen said:
			
		

> I thought that was the toughest aspect of the encounter. Level draining, with the way it gives negatives to just about everything, is one of the nastiest things in 3e. Speaking of which, was this played under 3.0 rules or using 3.0 DR? In 3.5, DR X/magic has replaced all the X/+1 to X/+5 versions.




3.0 (I've never actually used 3.5 DR). Though I've altered some monster's DR anyways to reflect some of the 2e flavor (such as 'loths and Baatezu being harmed by silver, and Tanar'ri by cold iron, etc). So a 'loth that normally would take a +2 weapon to break DR, you might only need a +1 or even a normal weapon to pierce if the weapon is made of silver, etc. The Astraloths however, they were a special case, I'll have to look through my notes and find their stats [It was something like a combination DR 5/- and DR 20/+5, maybe higher on the last one).


----------



## Fimmtiu

And this marks the first time that you've mentioned in-story that Kiro is a priest of Set. The party is still unaware of this, right?


----------



## Shemeska

Fimmtiu said:
			
		

> And this marks the first time that you've mentioned in-story that Kiro is a priest of Set. The party is still unaware of this, right?




Yep, they never made the connection between Sutekh and Set in character (or out of character till later).


----------



## Clueless

And Shemmy spruced it up for drama's sake but yeah - Kiro and Clueless were just about a perfect match of spells and speed combat for this particular fight. 

We were hard (very hard) for the thing to hit - otherwise we'd have had something like 8 levels drained each in that first round - they have *that* many tentacles. And once we got the magic weapon cast.... we just went stabbity-death on the thing.  

It was a good fight, legitimately won. He expected us to flee.


----------



## Shemeska

"What the hell happened to you guys?!" A voice lulled them out of a dreamless slumber.

Clueless and Kiro both lay on beds in one of the inn's guest rooms, the closest one to where they'd collapsed in the middle of the hall. Florian stood over them, whispering a prayer of healing and firmly tapping each of their cheeks to get their attention as they regained consciousness. The others stood further back against the wall or in the doorway looking in with concern.

Clueless winced and muttered a curse as he tried to sit up. Dots of color swam across his vision and he slumped back down prone on the bed.

"Not something very pleasant." He finally answered, his voice still sluggish and groggy.

Kiro opened his eyes and blinked. "And I didn't even get a free sandwich out of it this time."

The implication was pretty clear and a wave of mutters washed through the room.

"Tell us what happened." Toras asked. "How many people did they send after you?"

Clueless gave a bewildered chuckle. "People?"

"I don't like the sound of that." Fyrehowl said.

"We don't actually know what it was." Kiro replied, sitting up a bit. "Some kind of fiend, but nothing I've ever seen before."

The lupinal twitched her nose. Something didn't smell right, something lingered in the air around both Kiro and Clueless, something distinctly fiendish, but on another level she couldn't place just what it was.

"Describe it if you can..." Fyrehowl asked.

None of them liked what they heard as both Clueless and Kiro described the astraloth, its appearance, its attack, and its eventual flight from the demiplane.

"What the hell..." Skalliska muttered. "I don't have any idea what that thing was."

It certainly didn't match up with any type of known fiend, yugoloth or not, both in terms of appearance or abilities.

"It's almost like someone felt imaginative when they made a batch of guardian yugoloths." Fyrehowl said.

"And then they promptly sent one of them after us." Clueless replied. "I feel so honored."

"You're alive though." Toras said.

Clueless frowned. "Barely. The thing was a few seconds away from leaving Kiro and me both just husks on the floor."

"We need to talk about what we're going to do." Florian said. "The partner of our dearly departed faux-Rakshasa, whoever or whatever she actually is, isn't willing to let things slide."

Clueless frowned again. "Now it's just gotten to the point of being pissy. She sends assassins after us that can track us down inside a demiplane... she's serious about killing us."

The cleric of Tempus strummed her fingers impatiently. "This little circle of retribution is getting out of hand."

“I’ve been at that point for a while now…” Toras said, pursing his lips and throwing a mock punch.

The mood was shared amongst the others. Each time that they’d encountered the ‘loths, the ‘loths had struck back, and the level of violence had increased each and every time. With the death of an ultroloth on their hands, they’d hoped that they’d dissuaded the fiends from further fickle vendettas, but Yethmiil’s mistress apparently had other plans. They needed to figure out what they were going to do to settle the issue; there was no chance of any sort of détente, they were far past that point.

"I'll be back later." Clueless said, getting up from the bed and stretching the last few remaining sore spots out of his muscles.

Nisha shook her head and muttered in scramblespeak, “Crazy you and me call.”

Without a word but with a look of determination, the bladesinger picked up Razor and made for the door.

	“It shouldn’t take me more than an hour or two.”

Fyrehowl looked up at him hesitantly. "What won’t take you more than an hour? Only an hour ago something almost killed you when you went wandering off. Don't you think it's safer to stay in Sigil, at least for the moment, where you’re not as likely to have fiends trying to kill you?"

"Not that they won't try surrogate assassins..." Tristol muttered, remembering his own brush with death along those lines.

Clueless waved away the concern. "I'm not leaving Sigil. I just need to ask someone about something. I'll be back in a few hours."

He didn't provide any further details as to whom he was going to see, or just what he was going to be asking them once he got there. They were only left to wonder as he walked away and out the door, but once he was gone that wonder turned to concern in the light of what had very recently happened.

"Don't you think one of us should find out where he's going?" Skalliska asked. "You know, just in case he gets into trouble?"

Nisha rolled her eyes. "Nooooo chance of that happening... never... gracious no."

Without a word, Kiro started to get up.

Nisha chuckled and put a hand on his shoulder. "I got it handled this time around, don't worry about it. You stay put Kiro, I'll shadow him."

	“You sure?” Kiro asked. “I’m feeling better, I mean I can…”

	Nisha waved her hand dismissively. “I’m good at this sort of thing. Don’t worry.”


***​

	Nisha whistled to herself as she trotted after Clueless, carefully and adeptly staying out of sight. But as she followed him along surreptitiously through the streets of Sigil, Nisha had her own ideas about where the bladesinger might have been going: probably the Indeps, who despite their own 'we're not a bloody faction!' status, still had a decent if informal information network through a few of the wards and various spots across the planes. But no, no dice on that idea. A'kin maybe? No, he wasn't going anywhere near the Lower Ward, rather he was headed in a beeline towards the Lady's Ward. Perhaps... no that would be crazy, could he be going to bargain with the Marauder?

That was an icky thought, and a shudder ran through the tiefling's spine, but no, it wasn't the thought about the b*tch in a razorvine headdress. Even worse than her, it was the looming blocky faces of the City Courts, the Prison, and the Armory: Sigil's own little trio of institutionalized boring.

Nisha paused. Wait. What was she thinking about before?

_Beats me. I wonder if Black Marian is over by the fountain today, or no, she only does that every other day, or was that the schedule for Cupgrass going on a bender? No, that's every day. Maybe I can trot behind a pony cab in just enough of an offset pace to annoy them into... but wasn't today when I was going to pick up that one thing for Tristol I'd promised him a month ago and then forgot about? Hmm, that must have been it... Oh cool! A thri-kreen!_

Needless to say, Clueless was long gone by that point.


***​

The elaborate symbol of the Athar glowed from its position on the wall, still shedding a phosphor glow in indication of the status of its former factol: locked away in perpetuity within the Mazes. Clueless had been there before along with the others when they'd delved into the labyrinth beneath the Palace of the Jester.

	The last time they hadn’t lingered for very long, but they’d spoken with several of the figures contained within the symbols. Mostly he’d been interested in Shekelor at the time, but he’d also spoken with Terrance, or rather an elaborate simulacrum of the man, and at that time the former factol had held onto his secrets. Times had changed however, and the bladesinger had knowledge that might render the ex-hierophant’s tongue less prone to secrecy.

Clueless reached out and touched the symbol.

"I see that you've returned." Terrance said with a patient, if sad smile. "I remember saying last time that I wouldn’t mind speaking in the future about other things. So what brings you here?"

"Where is it?" Clueless bluntly demanded.

Terrance looked at him blankly, "I'm not sure that I know what you're talking about."

"You know exactly what I’m talking about." He fired back. “Remember my friend, the elven cleric...”

The factol tensed, like a man remembering a difficult time in his life, a bitter memory.

"Him? What about him?"

"I take it you remember him then."

"If 'him' is an accurate description. His body yes, but it wasn't him that I was speaking to when we did. As I mentioned when we last spoke, the fiend who was controlling him did not obtain their answers from me."

"Did you know who in specific was asking you those questions?"

The ex-factol turned to question in response. "You know?"

It was Clueless's turn to nod in reply. "The yugoloths, I’ve known that since the start, but you were loathe to discuss the whole affair. Did they admit their involvement to you?"

"Admit it?” Terrence scoffed. “He openly told me who he was even before he asked his questions. ‘Did your Great Unknown ever mention me? Did your Great Unknown promise you this? Do you still hold your faith old man, or have you simply abandoned this new and nameless divinity the same way that you abandoned Mishakal?' The fiend mocked me."

"What did you tell him?"

"That is personal I'm afraid. Deeply personal. But regardless of what exactly I said, I removed the smile from his face."

Clueless smiled. The factol still believed, even during imprisonment, even in the face of mockery.

	“He asked you questions of course.”

"So very interested in gods, divinity, the nature of divinity, its purpose, its flaws, and the consequences of its death. Obviously my faction was concerned with many of these notions, and he as a yugoloth was as well, but from a -very- different perspective. I don't hate the gods, I don't hate their believers. I feel pity for those who cling to false powers, thinking they have embraced the truly divine. But him? He hated them, he despised them, he embraced the despair of lost faith, and he was hoping to see that in me as well."

Terrance frowned, obviously remembering the experience.

"The gods are powerful beings," The factol continued. "And I might even be capable of respecting that power and respecting their actions towards the furthering of many things and many goals, but I cannot respect their deceit. They aren't divine. True divinity is beyond us all, unknowable at least in this stage of our existence, but it exists and it is there if we are willing to step free of our cradle and look beyond."

	Clueless motioned with his hand. “You’re changing the subject from my own question.”

Terrance smiled and shook his head. "I'm proselytizing as badly as any of their priests. I apologize. But I told you when we last spoke, I didn’t give them what they wanted, and it’s not something I’ll discuss. We can talk about much anything else of course, I do appreciate the ability to speak with someone else."

"I suppose you appreciate having someone to talk with." Clueless said, losing a bit of his previous edge, hoping to cajole the former priest. “It has to be lonely where you are.”

A shadow passed over the factol's features. "I never said that I was alone in my maze..."

Clueless looked at him curiously, wordlessly asking for an explanation, but none was forthcoming. For a very brief moment the Factol’s face seemed transfixed with emotions, somewhere between humbled, haunted, and terrified. But whatever he meant, he said nothing more, and the awkward silence served to prompt Clueless to continue trying to find out other things.

"Which one of them was it?" Clueless asked. "I already suspect which one of course."

Terrance frowned. "Helekanalaith.”

“The Keeper of the Tower.”

“Cold, pragmatic, and cruel.” Terrance said bitterly. He’d suffered the fiend’s questioning. “He epitomizes their kind. I suppose it was only a matter of time before he sought power beyond his caste."

	So what exactly did that mean? Unless the Keeper had told his plans of revolution to the factol, an unlikely prospect, whatever he’d demanded from Terrance must have involved something of power, or a way to power. What was so special about a single specific godisle that had a factol refusing to so much as speak of its location, and had the yugoloths obsessed with it?

	“He’s a bit of an ass…” Clueless said, suddenly and fervently hoping that the Keeper himself wasn’t aware of the current conversation. In fact that was a risk, that one ‘loth would work with the others, but so far that had never seemed to be the case. The entire affair on the Astral wasn’t something of his, he’d admitted so much himself, but then promptly refused to say anything more.

	Terrance gave a curious look, but t*t-for-tat, the bladesinger gave no elaboration on the topic.

"But let me get to my point." Clueless said. "They're mining the dead gods. One of their kind, we don't know which one exactly, is doing something deep in the Astral and they're centered upon Aoskar's godisle."

Terrance closed his eyes and grit his teeth, "Faithless abominations!"

"You refused to tell them where it was, but they found it regardless." Clueless said. "Where is it Terrance? I need to know where it is."

	The factol still had a look of fury on his face, a countenance completely at odds with his typical serenity. He’d taken the secret to the mazes with him, and he’d held out from betraying it to the yugoloths once, but it seemed to have all been for naught.

	Terrance looked back up, “Listen well…”


***​

Things had escalated in the past twenty-four hours. Ghyis Vast was dead, butchered at the hands of a Baernaloth, and the unnamed lord or partner of the ultroloth Yethmiil kal Suth had directed an overtly yugoloth construct to attack her enemies. The radical alteration of the status quo required more information, if information was forthcoming, and it required advice.

Kiro sat cross-legged in the center of a small extradimensional pocket. From the exterior, his room in the inn would have appeared empty, with the hidden space contained within a tiny wooden box sitting upon the edge of his bed.

"Aszira, speaker to the 9th of They-Who-Sit-Beneath-the-Spire." He intoned, requesting an audience with one of his superiors. The message was brief, it had to be, as within Sigil the sendings were at the mercy of any open portals to the Outlands through which to route themselves.

Kiro waited, inhaled and then opened his eyes as a silvery light flooded the tiny demiplane.

"What are your concerns Deodrathas?" The voice from the light asked.

"Things are developing quickly, and in unexpected directions. The issue of the yugoloths is more complicated than expected."

"The council is aware of these matters so far as I am aware. They have not given me any firm answers when it comes to the Baernaloth though. It remains one of two large variables, and one about which I have little knowledge or details upon. The golden ones are likely to know more, but they have not shared this outside of themselves."

Kiro nodded. "The group is likely to return to the Astral shortly, presumably to seek revenge on the other yugoloth. What can you tell me that I do not already know?"

The silvery light paused, either in thought or because the portals had shifted. "Follow them and continue to protect them. The council has deemed them important, and so far you have done well in shadowing them. You have full authority to take actions as you see fit should they encounter the archfiend."

"Archfiend?" Kiro asked. "Another ultroloth, or something else? Just who is involved in this?"

Another pause, "We have suspicions, but no firm answers. The yugoloths have been particularly secretive in certain affairs since the arrival of their new Oinoloth. One of our contacts in Khin-Oin was restrained and feasted upon, while still alive, by the Oinoloth and several others of his kind less than an hour after taking his position. A dozen severed heads were also hurled through the gate in Hopeless less than a day later, and what few remaining members of our kind we had there have gone silent intentionally or have vanished. We have gained considerably less insight into the fiends’ activities since then, and given their activities of late, this is incredibly troubling to us."

	Very troubling, but there was no firm connection between the activities on the Astral and anything else the yugoloths were known to be doing on the lower planes. Where was the connection?

	“Much of our resources have been devoted to the situation with Belarian.” Aszira explained. “For obvious reasons this is a priority, and the events on the Astral are smaller in scale, and for any immediate impact. On the former we are acting, and in the latter case, we need you to find out the truth of the matter.”

Kiro nodded. "I'm to discover just what they're doing on the Astral, and which of their kind is controlling it... Understandable."

	Kiro had what answers he would be given, but many more of them were ones he’d have to find out on his own.


***​

	Three hours after he’d left, Clueless walked back into the Portal Jammer.

"So where were you?" Florian asked, glancing up at him.

The bladesinger raised an eyebrow. "I'd have thought you'd have tried to scry me, or maybe send someone to follow me. No?"

Tristol coughed and Nisha gave a guilty chuckle. 

"I got distracted..." she said.

Clueless shrugged and did his best to avoid commenting on the fact that Nisha appeared to have been dyed a spectacular shade of green, and her hair a brilliant, florid red. Everyone else was doing the same.

"What?" The Xaositect asked.

Tristol cocked his head to one side. "And why aren't your clothes dyed as well?"

Nisha blushed and leaned over to whisper something to the aasimar. A moment later he returned the blush and she giggled.

"So anyways," Florian said, trying to ignore Nisha's adventures in skinny-dipping. "Run-ins with a dye factory or a winepress aside, where'd you actually go?"

"I went to talk to Factol Terrance." Clueless answered.

Florian gave a cockeyed look. "'Scure me?"

"Not the real one obviously. But the simulacrum of him, you remember in the room under Jeremo's palace?"

"Interesting..." Skalliska said. "Why?"

Clueless grinned. "Ghyris Vast mentioned Aoskar, and I knew that the Athar used to know of a portal that opened into the Astral near his godisle. I also knew that the 'loths had tried to find out something from the real Terrance in his maze some time back."

"Not too far of a jump from there." Fyrehowl said. "What'd his replica have to say?"

Clueless gave a determined grin. "I know where we need to go."


***​


----------



## recentcoin

Yay!  Shemmy, it's awesome!

Bonus points to Clueless, too.  Viva La Fey!

RC


----------



## PhoenixDarkDirk

Does this mean Kiro's working for the rilmani?


----------



## Dialexis

> Does this mean Kiro's working for the rilmani?




Haha -that's hilarious -all these obvious hints and still people think he is a priest of Sutekh -much less Set.  

Though I'm not Shemeska, I'll brave the answer: Kiro=Deodrathas is a Cuprilach (Rilmani) or Dialexis is a Mercane!

Anyways, as always, the update Shemeska is wonderful.  

I am curious, do you still have the stats you created for the Astraloths?  If so, have you posted them on any of these or other boards?  As the expert on Yugoloths, I give canon-credence to your works -so, if you say there are astraloths -it is a good as existing in the FC III (at least in my mental version of the book, that is).  I'd love to see (and use) the astraloth, but would like to use your version to give credence -if that makes sense.  

And once again -terrific story -and story telling!


----------



## Krafus

So, a bit of successful investigation by Clueless. Does he do that a lot?

Oh, and if the party does seek to attack the yugoloths on the godisle, I hope for their sake that they go in (literally) prepared for war - the 'loths must have a strong defense there.


----------



## Shemeska

Dialexis said:
			
		

> Haha -that's hilarious -all these obvious hints and still people think he is a priest of Sutekh -much less Set.
> 
> Though I'm not Shemeska, I'll brave the answer: Kiro=Deodrathas is a Cuprilach (Rilmani) or Dialexis is a Mercane!




Hehehehe. 

It was a surprise to the PCs and players alike.



> I am curious, do you still have the stats you created for the Astraloths?  If so, have you posted them on any of these or other boards?  As the expert on Yugoloths, I give canon-credence to your works -so, if you say there are astraloths -it is a good as existing in the FC III (at least in my mental version of the book, that is).  I'd love to see (and use) the astraloth, but would like to use your version to give credence -if that makes sense.




Yes I do. I'll have to find them in my stack of notes, but sometime later this week I'll post the stats in the Rogue's Gallery for this storyhour [Assuming the thread still exists and wasn't demolished back during the big enworld crash.]


----------



## Shemeska

Krafus said:
			
		

> Oh, and if the party does seek to attack the yugoloths on the godisle, I hope for their sake that they go in (literally) prepared for war - the 'loths must have a strong defense there.




Think about all of the other godisles the 'loths had: each of them covered by hefty wards to hide activity and largely to keep the githyanki and even moreso the Astral Dreadnaughts out of their hair. And then on top of that they used mostly renegade githyanki and enslaved humanoids or petitioners, nothing to directly link any of the godisle mining to the yugoloths themselves.

Now as to whether Aoskar's corpse, and the surrounding godisles are similarly handled, or if the 'loths are more open about themselves in the areas they're most interested in, well you'll find out soon [Aoskar's godisle is just one of several in the area. It's a constellation of godisles revolving in proximity to the massive psionic storm I've shown in the story already]


----------



## Dialexis

Rogues Gallery?  Where is this site of which you speak?


----------



## Shemeska

Dialexis said:
			
		

> Rogues Gallery?  Where is this site of which you speak?




Here it is, including the Astraloth stats


----------



## Graywolf-ELM

Dialexis said:
			
		

> Rogues Gallery?  Where is this site of which you speak?




All of my subscribed links went bye-bye because of board E-mail problems, and the work around to fix it. 

Thanks for the updated link Shemmy.

GW


----------



## Dialexis

Shemeska, 

I just posted on the Rogues Gallery relative to stat clarification/suggestions for the Astraloth and am curious to see what you think -at your leisure.


----------



## Hellraider

Y´ now, I´d been thinking about that fallen ultroloth at Pitiless. Poor guy... I came up with an idea. This would be so funny...
*Afro of opposite alignment:* This dreaded, rainbow-colored afro toupee carries a very, very, _very_ heavy curse. Anybody who wears the afro must immediately do a Will save DC 34 or become forevermore of the diametrically opposed alignment until a carefully worded _wish_ or _miracle_ spell is used to restore his condition.
Even if he succeeds, he must save again every round he wears the afro or suffer its curse. The afro itself can reverse alignment only once, after which it is devoid of all magical abilities, but it can fail any number of times. It is otherwise equal to the _helm of opposite alignment_ presented on page 275 of the Dungeon Master´s Guide.
Strong transmutation; CL 20th; Craft Wondrous item, Greater Spell focus (Transmutation), Greater Spell focus (Enchantment), Heighten spell, _Magic Circle against (any)_, _Polymorph any object_, _Dominate monster_, _Analyze dweomer_, _Detect thoughts_, _Planar binding, greater_, _Unluck_, _Sword of Deception_, _Symbol of Persuasion_, _Charm monster_, _Geas/Quest_, _Transmute rock to mud_, _trap the soul_, _feeblemind_, _Owl´s wisdom, improved_, _Wish or Miracle_, _Gate_, _Assay resistance_; Creator must have a minimum caster level of 20th and be an archmage with the spell power +1 class feature; Price 50.000 gp.
Power to the afro!
You just need to back it up with another thing... The one in page 266 and 267 of the same book. And a "The Simpsons" reference. I don´t think greater yugoloths carry Universal Solvent for no particular reason... nor expect an afro to be put on their heads. Not even Batman expected that!
And, last, it´s cheaper than the doll of our favourite furry... unless you´ve been to some shady sites and have another favourite furry. :S



Anyway, great storyhour, Shemmy! Caught up after almost three lives a year of forgetting this site existed, and I´d never expected that it´d still be ongoing... The rakshasa was actually a yugoloth in disguise, and even then he feinted death for a while. Reminds me of Dran´s transformation in EOB2...
And now it seems that you had put that part where the Ebon kills an arcanoloth for asking how to empower with a sentience the new type of ´loth had something foreshadowing... I thought he was just showing off he was so kewl he could mess with the (anti-)natural order!
And the visit to Pitiless, I´m glad now I didn´t buy any books about Planescape. Seen through what your players did to your patience and then how it reflects on your eyes, I´d bet it´s better than the mostly objective official outlook. Except for the stats (and absence of such), but they really don´t seem necessary. I mean, I´m still pumped in assasination-planning rage from that LoP-kill thread at WoTC back then in 2003... or was it 2004?
And Lothar got a cameo... well, he got to do something. You portrait him quite... unexpected. I´d have never thought of him as a nice, patient or even social person.
Wow, how many "and"s have I used already? Neffermind. The wish dragon... He could be more powerful than the dragons in the Munchkin Dreaming Handbook (ELH).
Or even than customized dragons... Good lord. It makes me shudder to think how many apples could that be... [munchkin] Wish can create 25.000 gp worth of goods... I´d say that apples are worth about their weight in wheat. That´s a violent and monstrous 1 cp per pound... 25.000 gp are 2.500.000 cp... 2.500.000 pounds of apples.
What´s his CR? That thing could take on a cyborg ninja demon pirate Hulking Hurler god space monster riding a giant dinosaur (and the dinosaur too) with his sheer lust for apples! Take that, succubi, incubi, alu-fiends, dragon parents, any and all creatures somehow related to lust, and any and all creatures that derive an inherited half-template, THIS is lust! How did Tristol survive that little thing?[/munchkin]
And the fiendish food critic coming... I really looked forward to it. But the focus of the action was kind of off, really; I didn´t care for Clueless and his little play as a waiter. I´d have liked to see more of Garzech in the kitchen! I love cooking, but that´s just me, I guess... And the critic drooled? Great Unknown, she must really like poached bebilith eggs.
About which... Clueless using limited edition artifacts as drugs and taking it all in a single dose just for adult scenes we can´t share? Sacrilege! Selfishness! You, you... er... you! You let the thingy be used just for a couple hours of unbound, free, magically enhanced sex at the verge of potential destruction with one of the persons you most love in the world, who has the strange ability granted by belief to express her sensations rather clearly, and is some kind of chaotic celestial from Arborea (AKA Peaceable kingdoms, AKA hippie paradise), place being incarnation and incarnator of wilderness and loveliness, or whatever those firre eladrins are? WHAT are you? And... hey... (recalls all the details he mentioned previously) was it good? 
And, to Shemmy, who most likely plays the Firre Eladrin, lest Clueless does it too: I jess zat vas a method to keep him from being near killing himself with a major artifact anymore, right? Hit me for even thinking that...
As fer Lazarius Ibn Shartalan, Ghyris´ teacher... The same guy who was called "The Architect" at the start! Jess they din´t call him like that just because he was arch-tectonic, duh.
And Narsaleth... Nice guy. Sorry he´s going to be busy now... But something tells me, we´re going to see him again, right? It can´t be that first I see somebody showing off when it´s somebody foreshadowing, and now I see foreshadowing where there´s just show-off.
God, what a post count! Should check on more places around here, huh! But so far, your SH is all I´ve seen, and even then, I´ve had to download it as a TXT and then take it in a diskette home... If I tried to read it here, a whole day would not be enough. At my speed, at least...
Booyakha-bye!

P.S: Whatever... When you started this storyhour, two years, seven months and three weeks ago, you had started that game some time before. Right now, how far behind are we lagging to the facts? (When I say we´re lagging behind the facts, I mean it with all my respect)
Y´now what, I´m starting to get an idea. If I can get my hands on a recorder, I might try to make a flash of myself desecrating your storyhour with rampant fanboyishness... After I get started on the previous year´s Planewalker Idol contest´s sensory stone, of course!
And talking of which... Gotta go and find witnesses... Lundi and Matador´s jobs are never finished! Hope PW´s buggedness has been fixed already... (also, respectfully)!


----------



## Clueless

Krafus said:
			
		

> So, a bit of successful investigation by Clueless. Does he do that a lot?



Yes. Lots. 



> Oh, and if the party does seek to attack the yugoloths on the godisle, I hope for their sake that they go in (literally) prepared for war - the 'loths must have a strong defense there.



*GRIN* You'll see.


----------



## Bryon_Soulweaver

Clueless said:
			
		

> *GRIN* You'll see.



Gonna blow up a godisle?


----------



## Fimmtiu

Bryon_Soulweaver said:
			
		

> Gonna blow up a godisle?




No, I suspect it's going to have something to do with the _other_ jackal-headed sonofabitch with an interest in these matters. Always nice to have allies handed to you on a plate...


----------



## bluegodjanus

Clueless said:
			
		

> *GRIN* You'll see.




Is this how Skalliska dies again?

"Here, Skalliska, take this."
"What is it, Clueless?"
"Good luck. Just fly towards the isle and think explosive thoughts."
*Three days later*
"Clueless Clueless Clueless!"
"Yes, Nisha?"
"I need some of your heavy magic, quick!"
"...I'm going to be glad that I don't have it anymore."
"Awww... what'd you do with it?"
"Remember that jaunt to the Astral we just had...?"


----------



## Shemeska

bluegodjanus said:
			
		

> Is this how Skalliska dies again?




I'm not actually sure if Skalliska dies again. And if she does, it's not permenant.


----------



## Solarious

The latest version of the Astraloth stat blocks are up. As a bonus to Shemeska fans everywhere, Delinaser, the Astraloth Mindspy is also up.

I call for evil cackles from the audience and groans from Clueless!


----------



## Clueless

Skalliska doesn't die again as far as I remember. Thankfully... considering. This is however getting close to the 'end' of her as a character.

As for blowing up godisles - no. We don't do that. Eventually we blow up a *god* but that's a whole other story.


----------



## bluegodjanus

Shemeska said:
			
		

> I'm not actually sure if Skalliska dies again. And if she does, it's not permenant.




Oh? I thought her player ended up with a different character by the end of the campaign.


----------



## Shemeska

bluegodjanus said:
			
		

> Oh? I thought her player ended up with a different character by the end of the campaign.




That's true, but the character doesn't die. She becomes an NPC, for various reasons having been roleplayed out of PC status. She's still around by the end of the campaign actually [I rather liked the character].


----------



## Tal Rasha

Hello everyone, and a special hello to our resident writer Shemeska.

What originally started as an attempt to find more information about the planescape setting in general has eventually lead me to find this most engrossing story hour. My commendations on an excellent story. Speaking as someone who has had some experience with computer D&D games but who has never played a table version of one, I can say that I am really enjoying the story, and I can only imagine how much more the players are enjoying it as they are experiencing it live. I am really glad to have caught up with the story, as I was getting worried that my teachers might notice me incessantly reading some random web page that doesn't really deal with Java.  As others have said, Shemeska, you should really consider compiling a PDF of your story and selling it at least online, if not in print. I have no doubt it would work out.

I also have a question, and I will preface it by saying that my perspective is not exactly objective, having spent the last seven days reading almost nothing but this. Do you ever get worried that the dark, oppressive feeling which permeates most every aspect of your campaign will become boring for players/readers? As they say, too much of anything is a bad thing. 

Regards,
Tal Rasha


----------



## Shemeska

Tal Rasha said:
			
		

> I also have a question, and I will preface it by saying that my perspective is not exactly objective, having spent the last seven days reading almost nothing but this. Do you ever get worried that the dark, oppressive feeling which permeates most every aspect of your campaign will become boring for players/readers? As they say, too much of anything is a bad thing.
> 
> Regards,
> Tal Rasha




Yep, but there was always the OOC point of me saying "players, trust me. I'm wanting you guys to come out on top in this all, and there will be come uppance for the large number of rotting, goat-headed bastards and also the jackal-headed bastards that seem to be bending the multiverse over and having their way with it all".

The players also took a bit of a humerous tone when they could to lighten up the mood and tone.


----------



## Toras

That, and a good portion of the humor (gallows or nay) doesn't really translate during the story hour.   (And some of it we couldn't post up anyway)


----------



## Shemeska

Only ten years prior, during the waning days of the Golden Age of the Factions, the Athar had occupied the sprawling ruins at the heart of the titular Shattered Temple district. There the faction derisively known as the 'Lost' established the heart of their organization. In their conception the place was a pinnacle of truth rising up in the ancient bastion of a false and fallen so-called god, and to their enemies it was blasphemy and arrogance of the highest order.

Oh to be certain, the members of the faction viewed their headquarters in different ways. Some saw it as cosmic irony, others as a pointed observation on the transience and ultimate mortality of the gods, and others enjoyed it with more spite towards the faithful than anything else. The factol in those days, the former high priest of Mishakal named Terrance, he personally saw it as the second of those three, and he rather loathed the third, but he had other reasons to value the precise location of his faction's most holy place.

Long before the Athar were conceived of and founded by Dunn and Ciro, long before the rise of any of the current faction, and long before the rise of the city-spanning guilds, millennia ago, the shattered temple had been the grand cathedral of Aoskar the Portal Father, god of portals and planewalkers. When the power's greed for Sigil had waxed to its zenith and his hold over the faithful of the City of Doors had become nearly monolithic, like the later founders of the Athar, he too fell from grace. In a few bloody moments of shadows and blades, his temple and much of the surrounding district were razed to the ground, his priests were slaughtered, and he himself was made an example of. With the dust settled and the blood still fresh and slowly steaming upon the cobblestones, Aoskar's corpse drifted within the Astral, petrified and pierced through with dozens of immediately recognizable blades.

Legends of that time and those events glossed over much of the original facts, letting them slip away into the mists of the collective past of the multiverse, but the lore of factions and sages told things that held closer to the truth. Terrance had been aware of much of that truth, and he'd known that the Shattered Temple held fragments of the portfolio of long-dead Aoskar. Even with the death of the power, the slaughter of his clergy, the staggering death toll among his most faithful, and the virtual nonexistence of his faith thousands of years later, the site of his destruction by the Lady of Pain was still linked to him in subtle and mysterious ways.

It was always rumored that the Athar knew of a portal that opened onto the Astral, a stable portal leading to Aoskar's drifting godisle in the silvery twilight of the graveyard of dead gods. It was true, but while the Athar sometimes spread the tale as proof of the falsehood of the so-called divine, they never shared access to the portal itself, nor to the location of the petrified corpse either. For some reason the corpse and its environs terrified them. Even as they sat clustered around the Bois Verduros, unified in their faith of faithlessness, sacrificing the holy objects of a thousand different powers, unafraid of the wrath of those gods and the rage of their servants, somehow the visage of the petrified corpse of Aoskar was the one thing that truly frightened them.

But Terrance was locked away within his maze, entrapped by the one who'd slain the Portal Father in the first place, and despite his knowledge and his worries and laments, he couldn't see the godisle, nor the hurricane of psionic wind that centered upon it, nor the men that he'd left in place to watch over it. Locked away in his maze, he had no way of knowing the fate that had befallen them.


***​

Deep in the freezing, fog shrouded depths of Niflheim, a single figure stepped out from the trees and into a solitary hollow in the heart of the layer. She emerged out of the forest and out of nothingness, the space between spaces, and began to walk uphill with intent but with difficulty at the same time.

A chorus of cries cut the air as her first footfall broke the soil and the thin, gossamer layer of frozen water that had formed as a crust atop of it. A slow and awkward drag and then another step, and the screaming and mewling grew in pitch. Hundreds of larvae lay within the forest clearing, cluttering the hillside like stranded and suffocating fish gasping for breath. The placid, almost serenely happy look upon the young girl's face stood in stark contrast to the cries of agony of the wriggling, dying petitioners.

She ignored them and continued onwards, smiling as she gazed up at the massive obelisk that dominated the top of the hill. The Niflheim Loadstone shed an ambient blue glow from the runes cut into the mottled surface of its stone, looking like a cross between stone, meteoric iron, and long-dead marrow.

At her feet, blocking her way, a starving hordeling looked up at her with flecks of bloody foam on its lips and a ragged, raw sound rattling up from its trachea, begging her for more, begging for release, begging for something it couldn't comprehend or understand.

The young girl moved awkwardly, repositioning her lame left leg, leaning on her crooked shepherd’s staff, and bending down to take the wretched thing's chin in the palm of her hand. It snarled and purred and whined as blood swam in the humour of its eyes, blinded by the stress hemorrhages in its retinas. It could not comprehend its agony, nor the yearning that had drawn it to the second of the three great monoliths.

Tellura Ibn Shartalan smiled, false innocence sparkling on her face and dancing in her eyes as she shushed it with pursed lips.

It looked up, blind and helpless, pleading.

"Your agony is meaningless."

The hordeling, whether it could understand her or not, paused and was still in her hands, all a moment before the proto-fiend's shadow snatched it with two dimensional hands and hurled it to the tree line with a hissing snarl.

The young girl smiled, stood up, and resumed her climb as if nothing had happened.

	Once at the summit of the hill, she leaned once more upon her staff and stiffly, awkwardly sat down. She brushed the dust from homespun clothes, moved her one crippled leg into a more comfortable position, and laid her staff across her knees before turning towards the Loadstone.

"Speak with me Brother."

The dust and frost at the base of the Loadstone sublimated and for a brief moment the errant fog hung in the air and seemed to cling to and define a figure rising up from the earth, partially embedded in the stone of the monolith. The shape tilted its head, the glow of the runes turned from blue to red and the particulates fell out of the air and the Shepherdess was once again alone, at least apparently.

She gave no expression but her shadow smirked.

"The matter within Pitiless is concluded." The Architect’s voice echoed across the clearing.

She touched the stone and immediately her mind was filled with a recollection of the events from a dozen different perspectives, including Vast's in his last moments.

Tellura closed her eyes and smiled, soaking in the experience. Momentarily she indulged in Vast's murder from his and the Architect's perspective until the radiating aura of sick malice drove the surrounding field of larvae into a screaming chorus.

"Be silent..." she muttered, taking her hand from the monolith, breaking contact and turning to face the soul-worms.

Wretched little filth of the mortal realm, they had their uses in the current era yes, but they were flawed, filthy things who had only the most vague conception of the alignment tethered to their souls.

She snapped her fingers brusquely and turned back to the Loadstone with a sour look of distaste crossing her features. Silence resumed its reign over the clearing as all around the Baernaloth the vocal chords of each and every larvae and hordeling were severed with a whim.

"We have our silence again Brother." She said, a calm but cold smile returning to her face. "You seem to have enjoyed yourself most recently. But more of interest, how have our children dealt with our gifts given to them through Vast?”

"The Overlord of Carceri has most of what she desires."

Tellura nodded. "Given the godisles she already stripped, with and without access to the divinity leach, she can reasonably finish the Carcerian tower, and she has enough of what her owner requires."

"Through her, the Ebon has much of what he desires, but not everything." The Architect said with a peculiar intonation as he spoke of the Oinoloth. "They will fall short."

"Heavens no…" Tellura laughed with a malicious grin. "We can't spoil them, handing them everything they need. That does them nothing, and benefits us little."

"There are enough parties opposed to them in the Astral at this point. One of them will take action given enough motivation and pointed in the right direction. Vast did well in that regard."

"We spite their face and let them struggle, thinking they have accomplished something. Let them dance on their own, but we'll supply a tune for the marionettes to rattle to."

The mental presence of the Architect nodded. "That is the intention so far as this current matter is concerned. Whether the Ebon will dance or not is something else entirely. Through his subordinates we can force the affair of course, but for the moment it appears that he is not aware of the full scope of our interest and action.”

"Are we certain though?" A bit of hesitancy crept into her voice and her shadow's eyes narrowed.

"There are aspects that remain uncertain." Lazarius stated calmly, firmly. He had the same hesitancy though, all of The Demented did, even if they didn't care to admit to it.

The shepherdess stood up and leaned heavily on her staff, tapping her fingers out of nervous habit, thinking and absorbed in her thoughts, temporarily beyond the reach of her brother.

_Aspects? Funny to use that thrice-bedamned word. Aspects indeed. We've had half of eternity on this. Assumptions will do us no good when the stakes are so large. We've set our stage, populated it with our chosen actors, chosen scenes, chosen f*cking lines in many cases. Now is not the moment to lose control to someone else, something else, especially when we've been worried about it since the start._

"The Clockmaker has told us that..." The Architect began, taking his sister from her worried speculation.

_Crippled fool that he is_ she thought as her shadow sneered and dug into claws into the soil. Uncertainly was frustrating.

She gave a resigned sigh and cut off her sibling. “Harishek can say what he wants, but at the heart of the matter his resources, our resources, on the issue are not infallible.”

"The future is an uncertain thing." The Architect replied. "While we may guess and grasp at possibilities, I am not convinced. I accept none of this at face value, and while some of the others may question the need to so closely watch and manipulate events, there are other variables involved."

"We need to find out for certain." She narrowed her eyes, shadow and shepherdess alike now. "Do you actually think that..."

"Yes.” Lazarius replied. “It is a concern."


***​

_Back here once again,_ Skalliska thought as she stepped through the portal and emerged into the silver expanse of the Astral. _The last two times have been a mixture of hope, exploitation, and revelation. I'm not exactly certain which of those, if any of them, might apply this time around. I just hope that closure is one of the things we find, one way or another._

	She drifted as gravity slipped away and inertia carried her free of the glittering, swirling portal behind her as the others emerged to join her. They chattered behind her and reflexively drew their weapons, scanning the endless omni-directional sky for githyanki, psurlon, and any other hazards of the plane. Skalliska however was still plumbing her memories, deep in thought.

	An image of a dark scaled kobold flooded into her mind. He’d taught her so many things in the short time that she had known him, and known their mutual god. She thought back to the last evening she’d spent along with him, whispering prayers and burning incense, going through a specific ceremony marking the anniversary of her flight from her world and onto the planes. The date held old memories, old significance, and now held the promise of a close of another chapter of her life and the start of another.

	The soft current of the astral breeze gently caressed Skalliska’s snout and she smiled, thinking of Sekeledar’s touch, gentle and reassuring, wise, calm yet passionate, the smell of his scales mixing with the incense and…

“You ok Skalliska?” Nisha asked, tugging on the kobold’s tail and breaking her out of her moment of introversion. “You were drifting off to the side there for a bit.”

	Skalliska blinked and shook her head, “Oh yeah, I’m fine. The wind had something weird on it, snagged my thoughts for a moment. Sorry about that.”

	Were she a mammal, she would have been blushing tremendously.

	Of course with Nisha being a mammal, of perhaps dubious admixture of blood, she would have turned purple if she blushed, given that her skin was still a faint shade of green, even after having taken a bath. With her hair still colored red, and looking something like burning absinthe on hooves, Tristol was amused, and he suspected that when she’d washed up after… well… whatever she’d done in the first place, she’d spent more time playing with bubbles in the tub than actually getting clean.

Bubbles provided by a young faerie dragon of course. And speaking of Amberblue, the tiny drake was back in Sigil for his own safety, and perhaps everyone else’s. "A camping adventure all by himself in a wild and untamed bar in the Clerk's Ward!" At least that was how Toras had tried to play it off as. 

The tiny drake was more than a bit suspect; even he wasn't that entirely naive, not always at least. They couldn't risk taking him along, it was simply too dangerous, but than again, it was perhaps just as risky leaving an immature, wish-wielding, butterfly-winged dragon back in Sigil with only the kitchen staff to watch after him.

	“So… where exactly are we?” Florian asked as she gazed out at the largely featureless void they’d emerged out into.

	The cleric very immediately paused to add one particularly salient point: “First person who says, ‘The Astral’ gets punted through a color pool.”

	And what good timing it was, as Nisha babbled a few syllables of nonsense, good sense catching her tongue before it went off on its own. “No fun at all…”

	“The question remains though.” The cleric said. “Are we anywhere close to Aoskar’s godisle?”

	“I think we’ve got a while yet to travel.” Skalliska answered, orienting herself and looking at her planar sextant for some sense of direction.

	“We did the best we could though.” Clueless said, giving a shrug.

	“At least we won’t get hungry on the way there!” Toras said, chuckling.

	“Hey, I would have suggested another portal, but it wasn’t an option.” Clueless explained. “Best we have is a location and some known landmarks to get there.”

They were some distance away in fact since the portal in Sigil that they had taken, a stained glass window on the flank of an arboretum in the noble's district, it hadn't opened up directly onto Aoskar's godisle. The original portal within the Shattered Temple had, but after the Tempest of Doors, it had ceased to function. And in any event, even if it were still in operation, the site was inaccessible due to the squatters, thugs loyal to Muriov Garianas, who kept it free of Athar influence, or anyone else for that matter, pending their employer's petition to build a temple of Pluto atop the ruins.

	But the hours passed, and time slipped away from them, leading to long periods of silent travel through the silver sea juxtaposed with moments during which the psionic winds sent random, errant visions filtering through their heads, nudging them from their mutual solitude and prompting them into conversation.

	Landmarks passed by, one waypoint of their journey falling behind and melding into the others as they continued to travel, the distance slipping away as much as the passage of time. And ultimately, they drew closer and closer to their destination, the godisle of the Portal Father, Aoskar.

	“Does anyone notice anything different?” Tristol asked, brushing his hair out of his face.

	“That’s your line Fyrehowl.” Nisha interjected.

	Kiro drifted to a halt, having rapidly adapted to the unique mode of transit the plane presented. He might have said he’d never been there before, but he’d seemed to skip over the awkward period of adjustment that most newcomers to the experience underwent. The others didn’t notice or had other things on their minds though.

“The wind.” He said, “It’s getting stronger.”

	“You’re right.” Fyrehowl agreed. “For a while now. Just random sensations.”

	They were on the right course then, because from what they’d been told by Clueless, according to a semi-tangible simulacrum of Terrance, the location was surrounded by an astral storm to dwarf all astral storms.

	It didn’t take them long to confirm that either, as soon the silvery light of the plane grew choppy and blurred at the edges of their sight. Less than an hour later the sky seemed to lift back to reveal a massive, continent sized whirlpool of turbulence, color, and congealed thoughts spinning and whispering in the void.

"Somewhere Talos is drooling over this." Florian said, adding a mild curse, not out of anger but out of wonder.

They stood at the fringes of the largest astral storm they had ever seen, a psionic maelstrom of such size that it staggered the imagination. Even there at the fringe of the storm they could hear and feel bits of errant thoughts and random perceptions slip into their minds like less physical sensory equivalents of the ‘dark birds’ of an ocanthan bladestorm slicing through Hriste.

"And this is where they're bottled up?" Toras asked, motioning towards the roiling, multicolored hellstorm. "In there?"

	The fighter inhaled and shook his head. It wasn’t a pleasant place.

Clueless nodded, wholly sharing the sentiment. "So it would seem."

"Just one question though." Florian asked. "How long has this storm been out here?"

Fyrehowl twitched an ear and looked out at the storm. "Why is that?"

"Because if it's recent, I'm going home." The cleric said with a half chuckle. "Bye, see you later sort of thing. Anyone capable of making a storm that big... yeah."

Clueless shook his head, "No, it's been here for as long as anyone can remember."

"Fiends or not though, that's beyond anything we've seen out of them." Fyrehowl added. "They've been keen to hide themselves, and they're probably happy to use the storm as a natural feature to keep anyone else away."

Skalliska nodded. "The githyanki, even the psurlon too, they consider this whole area as cursed. If someone was here, they wouldn't be bothered."

"Which brings us to another question." Toras said. "How are we supposed to handle the storm? I'd rather not lose my mind or get separated from everyone, only to find myself with no way back to Sigil."

	“I can help with that.” Florian said. “I can’t completely deal with the issue, but I can at least make it less dangerous.”

	The cleric looked out at the storm and then back to the other spellcasters. “Tristol? Skalliska? Kiro? Do you have anything?”

	Tristol shook his head, “Not at the moment no.”

	Skalliska likewise gave a shrug, “I can keep myself safe, and if it comes to it, I have a scroll of planeshift in my pack that you’re welcome to.”

	“Assuming we don’t get disintegrated.” Nisha added with a giggle.

	Kiro smiled, “I trust that Sutekh will keep us safe, but he hasn’t provided me with any specific protections. Have faith, I take that as a good sign, rather than a bad one.”

	Toras winced, “I’ll try. But I still don’t relish the idea of just diving into a storm.”

	“Well be fine.” Fyrehowl said.

	Without anything further to say, the group paused at the edge of the storm and let the casters take what few precautions they had which might help them against the winds. Once they had done so, they gathered close to one another and dove into the swirling currents.

	Perhaps oddly, the influence of the storm wasn’t immediate, only a bit of mental static that clouded the senses and nothing more. But then they began to daydream, or at least that was the closest descriptor of what they experienced. Random thoughts, random images, the dreams and musings of uncounted millions rotating in space and flitting around lost, forever separated from those that had first dreamed them. It was distracting, but the deeper into the storm they progressed, the harder and harder it became to just shrug them off and keep to the task at hand. Confusion came easily, and combined with the ever increasing barrage of lights and the physically manifest current, they were likely in trouble if they had any preconceptions about staying on course into the heart of the storm.

	It might not be possible.

_But… what is that?_ Fyrehowl thought to herself as she noticed something within the storm. She’d been fighting off the constant infiltration of alien thoughts and perceptions into her mind, but what she saw seemed different. It began as just a weight in her mind, an urge to turn and look, then a physical tug like a gravity well, something more than just an errant thought from out of the storm. There was something there.

"Wait..." Fyrehowl called out, barely audible. "Does anyone else see that?"

Almost imperceptible against the swirling immaterial winds of the storm, there was an imperfection in the void, a massive volume of space that seemed somehow distorted, almost like a spot in which some deific poet had imperfectly erased a line of verse, leaving the parchment smudged.

The distortion was oblong, nearly spherical, almost exactly like the shape of the wardings that had surrounded Maanzicorian’s godisle. Set against the storm, they perceived another warded and obscured god-husk.

"Hmm..." Nisha said. "That was quick."

It was. It was far too soon in fact.

"I know that distance is almost entirely subjective on the Astral," Toras said. " But with all due respect to Nisha's mayfly attention span, there's no way we can be here already."

Florian gestured to the distortion. "I agree, on both actually, but then what's that?"

And she had a point. There was something there, seemingly a godisle, and one that was either warded or by some natural trait was warping the storm around it. If it was the former, there was a chance it was hiding something, and if the latter if might actually be Aoskar's corpse. They couldn't be sure till the actually looked.

All eyes looked to Fyrehowl, their decision seemingly hinged on the cipher's sense of horrible impending doom or lack thereof.

"What?" The lupinal asked. "I'm not Rhys you know."

"She's not objecting, I think we're safe then." Clueless said with a nudge.

Florian grinned, "Well then, that settles it, we check it out."

Fyrehowl rolled her eyes. They gave her far too much credit, though in truth she'd begun to have those sorts of hunches and premonitions more and more of late, half the time acting on them before she felt it, the responses flowing naturally as needed.

"Just so long as you don't blame me when something attacks us the moment we go through." She said. "Or if the wards disintegrate anyone, not that we've had anyone disintegrated before..."

"Buzz buzz." Nisha chirped, doing her best mayfly impression.

	Kiro smiled at the Xaositect, but his mind was preoccupied on other things. He was worried about what they might find inside the distortion. But no need to concern the others with his thoughts, best to show them the outward appearance of a faithful, ever certain priest of a deity of wisdom and mysticism.

Breaking the barrier there was a gentle ripple, like an insect slipping between the gossamer meniscus of a pond's surface, but as their vision cleared and they came into view of the interior of the hollow, there were no indications of any dire wardings in place.

"No storm." Tristol said, his mind suddenly silent of the storm's mad whispers and sensations.

The interior was entirely devoid of psionic turbulence, a shelter against the current, and sitting nestled in its heart was a godisle. Rising up out of the void like an ancient and petrified dragon, the rocky island was large and reptilian, some ancient and nameless saurian power long since having slipped into eternal twilight.

The group drifted to a swift halt as they drew close enough to see the fortress constructed atop the godisle and a githyanki carrack tethered to a platform carved into the dead god's snout.

"Ah sh*t."  Skalliska said, immediately moving to chant a spell from a scroll to conceal them all from sight.

Once invisible however, they drifted gradually closer. The upper floors of the keep bristled with cannons, the same as they'd seen earlier, but from the exterior the structure seemed almost vacant. Only a few of the crystalline windows burned with light, and but a handful of githyanki stood guard on the ship, but none at the main entrance; whatever the place was, it seemed to be run on a skeleton crew.

Fyrehowl paused and furrowed her brow. "Does this strike anyone else as being odd?"

"How so?" Skalliska asked.

"That's not Aoskar's godisle." The lupinal said. "We're nowhere near the center of the storm."

She had a point. If the 'loths were so keenly interested in that specific godisle, why was there a massive structure built atop what appeared to be another god-husk barely inside the fringes of the storm. If they'd occupied another unrelated godisle, why had they done so, how many resources had they hidden inside, and how many other such places drifted within the current of the storm like breakers above the tide.

A shadow suddenly passed over them, slowly drifting across the godisle, the keep, and the githyanki. The shell of wardings shimmered and crackled momentarily, reinforcing itself as the distorted shape of a pair of astral dreadnaughts passed overhead and then out of sight, passing by and continuing deeper into the storm. The guards didn't so much as give it a cursory look, the entire affair seemed almost routine to them.

Like Maanzicorian's godisle, the desecration of the divine corpses drew the attention of the Guardian of Dead Gods and his servants, but they seemed unable to pierce the wards to vent their fury on the 'loths' servants.

	Fyrehowl narrowed her eyes and looked at the building. It was solidly built, almost like a fortress, but the defenses were incomplete, almost an afterthought really, and half of them seemed like they’d been partially dismantled recently. But then moving down to the windows, a majority of them seemed to have heavy bars in place across them.

	Less a fortress, the building was a prison.


***​


----------



## Clueless

*giggle* Breeching this prison was *fun*.


----------



## shilsen

Clueless said:
			
		

> *giggle* Breeching this prison was *fun*.



 I presume that's a typo and not a really bad pun, which is a pity, since it raises so many possibilities


----------



## Tal Rasha

Nice update. One random question: how did you and Fyrehowl's player handle the premonitions that Fyrehowl has in the game? I assume there isn't some die you roll which alows the DM to impart knowledge...  

Regards,
Tal Rasha


----------



## Shemeska

Tal Rasha said:
			
		

> Nice update. One random question: how did you and Fyrehowl's player handle the premonitions that Fyrehowl has in the game? I assume there isn't some die you roll which alows the DM to impart knowledge...
> 
> Regards,
> Tal Rasha




It didn't really have any game mechanic behind it, it was just a good in-character explanation for me giving them a hint, or pushing them in a particularly plot relevant direction. In some cases, the premonitions had a 'Foresight' effect once she got higher in level in a PrC she was taking (but I'd have to look at the PrC in question to say what all it gave that was mechanics based). The PrC was a Cipher one from the Kreigstanz website which is here.

At some point later on, they actually spun Fyrehowl around in a circle and just went in the direction that her nose was pointing when she stopped. They did that a couple of times actually, at least till she got dizzy and wouldn't let them anymore.


----------



## FyreHowl

Although I will mention, the Kreigstanz apparently revised it slightly (and added whirling dervish) sometime during the campaign (if i recall correctly), and there was one deviation from the RAW there, and the last 3-4 levels of the PrC were custom made. I'll go back and try to recreate them out of the character sheets and type it up for folks.

But no, there wasn't a set game mechanic for how the fyrehowl knowing stuff worked. shemmy would just say, or sometimes I'd ask if I knew something or had any idea. it could be a double edged sword though....


----------



## Solarious

Well, of course. You can't rely on a RBDM's good graces to lead you all the time... you'll just end up screwing yourself all over again.

As a plugin, I'll note that Dialexis, The First Among Astraloths, has been up for a while. Look for it in the Rogue's Gallery in Shemmy's SH1 Rogue Gallery.


----------



## Shemeska

"Well, it's not Aoskar's corpse." Clueless said. "But damn did they arm this place to heck."

They noted the towers and the half dozen cannons that each of them sported. While the bulk of the building looked cold and dark, the outermost defenses still seemed potent by any measure, though probably more suited to larger attackers like Astral Dreadnaughts or fully manned githyanki carracks, not small groups of invisible raiders.

"I'd say we just fly over the walls and open a window or a trapdoor on the roof," Nisha mused. "But they're githyanki, they assume you're flying and they plan for that. Bah."

"Front door then?" Florian asked.

Fyrehowl raised an eyebrow, "That's right in line of two of those towers and their guns. Plus the door's heavy and probably locked, with who knows how many defenders inside. Bad idea."

"But she's a cipher," Nisha said. "She has bad feelings about our reckless and foolishly brave plans. Again, bah I say."

Clueless glanced up at the towers, noting the arrow slits built into each of them in about eight places around their circumference, plus the slight openings around each of the cannon muzzles.

The bladesinger grinned, "Need a distraction?"

Skalliska looked up at him skeptically. "You're willing to stay out here and draw fire?"

He shrugged, "Let them try."

There was a sly look on his face though, and it was getting a slew of suspicious looks from the others.

Tristol turned to the bladesinger, "You're grinning like Nisha."

"Exactly!" The tiefling said, at first beaming with glee before narrowing her eyes conspiratorially. "What mischief’s afoot?"

Tristol chuckled and the others prompted the bladesinger to elaborate on whatever he had planned.

Clueless held up a slim length of reddish crystal, "I have a wand of fireballs."


***​

Three githyanki and a pair of goblinoid petitioners sat at their positions inside the tower, overlooking the interior of their artificial bubble that encompassed the godisle. Two of the githyanki were in the midst of priming a number of the cannons, checking the seals and the integrity of the hollow, explosive filled metallic spheres used as ammunition.

Behind them, a single githyanki warlock ignored them as he gazed intently into a psionic version of a crystal ball, watching the interior of the bubble for any signs of intrusion. In the past week they'd seen an errant elsewhale drift into the space, purely by accident of course since the creature was badly confused and disoriented by the storm by the time it reached them, but the intrusion had raised the ire of their commander Dzukash, and through him the Rakshasas had probably been informed.

Yes, it was utterly monotonous drudge work, but the warlock felt secure that he'd prefer being bored for a few hours rather than being at the mercy of his half-blooded commander, a powerful and menacing sorcerer, who as far as he knew, was some manner of duth'ka'gith.

"How are the cannons?" The warlock asked his subordinates without looking up.

"So far they're in good condition." The first of the engineers said. "But we'd be further along if the goblins hadn't taken an hour longer than expected to drag the black powder up here."

"They're slow." The second guard-engineer frowned and set his coal-black eyes towards a stack of twelve barrels and the pair of goblinoid petitioners who were presently stacking another into position. 

The petitioners were still several barrels behind, and it was taking them in upwards of a half hour to just bring a single container up from the armory and into the summit of the tower.

The warlock, Fesz'ri'kal, rolled his eyes in agreement. The physical spirits that the Rakshasas had brought in as slaves weren't ideally suited to the Astral, at least not anywhere near the base competency that was inborn to githyanki. But at least they were there to handle the physical labor so it didn't fall to him or his subordinates, though on the other hand it left them with nothing much to do at times.

Oh there were the interrogations of some of the prisoners, but that didn't interest him in the slightest. Those sessions, they were just recreational torture on the part of his commander and _his_ superior who'd visited on several occasions, an absurdly tall githyanki with a curious abnormality, one of his arms was either grossly overdeveloped or doubled in size from some magical accident.

Fesz'ri'kal shrugged and took his attention back to his crystal ball, half hoping on some level, just to break the tedium, that something interesting might happen.


***​

"So how long before we're finally done with the whole pissant lot of them?"

Dzukash Ibn Gariseth paused in his writing and glanced up at his familiar. The nalg was perched at the edge of the desk curled around an ornate, smoky quartz crystal ball. A bit of a mixed blessing, the imp-like creature had originally been a gift to the half-fiend githyanki by the nycaloth who'd birthed him after coupling with his father, a githyanki warlock in Vlaakith's service.

"Hmm?" The nalg prompted its master.

The familiar was certainly an odd looking thing, something like a sickly imp with the head of a hairless fox. Its hairless, violet skin was stretched tight over its nearly skeletal frame, and a scorpion-like tail twitched behind it, a trace bit of pearly venom slowly evaporating on the end of the barb.

Looking down at him, Dzukash's fiendish blood was blatant. The normally jaundiced skin of the githyanki race had taken a greenish tinge, and his facial features were ever so slightly elongated, like the blunt muzzle of his nycaloth mother. But those were the subtle features his blood had granted, with the wings and multiple arms mirroring his parent’s being as blatant as possible.

"Sooner rather than later." Dzukash replied, putting his pen down and folding his lower set of hands before resting his chin on the palm of one upper hand and reaching out to rub the chin of his familiar with the other.

"Good." The nalg said, gnawing impotently on its master's clawed index finger.

"You seem to like them even less than I do." The half-yugoloth said. "I don't particularly care much one way or the other, but you're just bloodthirsty this week."

The nalg shrugged and nuzzled his master's hand. More a yugoloth construct than a true child of the Waste, the creature was the embodiment of a particularly petty, cowardly and selfish evil more so than true depravity, but he had his uses both to his master and his master's masters. The part-githyanki sorcerer, warden and overseer of the prison and its local godisle, knew that "gifts" such as his familiar were most often given out by powerful yugoloths in order to corrupt mortal wizards. The familiars would steer their so-called masters towards actions that would benefit the 'loths in general, or the specific 'loth who'd presented their mortal tool with the familiar in the first place. 

Imps and quasits were interested primarily in souls; they were working as much for themselves in the hopes of becoming true fiends as they were for any other purpose, but nalgs operated under slightly different precepts. Yugoloths had no interest in mortal souls, not in the same way as the other fiends, and so they wanted their mortals to have a direct benefit in their actions, and the general spread of their alignment across reality, not just cherry picking of specific souls like choice, low-hanging fruit. The nalgs were the puppet strings they'd first manipulate and then finally hang those mortals with.

The nalg of course could never become a true yugoloth, and so it obeyed by virtue of what it had been programmed on some base level to do.

Dzukash of course was fully aware of all of this. He knew the nalg was as much his familiar, his tool, as it was a method by which his full-blooded parent race would loosely monitor him. He'd also noticed something about the tiny pseudo-fiend: while it reflected his moods, and he shared its thoughts and emotions, the nalg also appeared to soak up and reflect the nascent mood of any powerful yugoloths in the areas.

The violet-skinned little bottle of hate had been particularly irritable and anxious of late, apprehensive more so than usual, and its master strongly suspected that it was unconsciously, unknowingly playing ambulatory drain to the actual mood of their mutual mistress lairing near the heart of the storm.

"You're thinking of something." The nalg said, tapping its claws against the crystal ball. "You've got that look on your face again."

Dzugash shrugged. "Things are winding down here, and I'm simply curious how long before we'll be moving on to something else. We've less than fifty prisoners at this point, and only the factor is left as anything resembling a valued one."

The familiar gave a cackling hiss, its canid sneer being blown up and distorted by the reflection in the crystal ball.

_Blood and viscera and blood and screams and blood and mortals being put upon the slabanddissectedforthesoulstuff..._

"Yes, I suppose some of them will." Dzukash replied back as the little fiend's mind rambled with a dozen concepts it cherished but was largely incapable of ever doing on its own.

It was true however, that they'd already divested themselves of most of the valued prisoners, and those that remained would likely be fed to the Astraloths, or shipped off like so many individually wrapped souls to clients in Gehenna or Carceri. One could only speculate on the factor's fate, but it wasn't likely to be pleasant, given how much he and some of his men had already been tortured for sport.

The nalg made a face and stretched its tail, “At least we’re rid of Vast.”

The sorcerer snarled at the mention of the madman. He'd only kept the crazed inventor for a week after he'd been dismissed by The Manged, but after those few days, he'd been happy to have shipped the man away to Pitiless. He supposed that he might see Vast again if his mistress ever required it, but the thought wasn't a pleasant one.

"I doubt it." The nalg commented, sharing the thought. "I think the mistress will have us just wash our hands of everything here. Including the githyanki."

Half-'yanki himself, Dzukash neither doubted the statement nor did he resent it on the grounds of any racial loyalty. After all, he had no loyalty to them or his late father. His bloodline was more fiendish than githyanki, his father's contribution had been momentary and fleeting, after which his mother had feasted on the man. 

Loyalty to the githyanki that worked for him on the bizarre assumption that they were all working on some level against the lich queen along with a pair of sorcerous Rakshasas? Loyalty? He’d never been loyal to anyone but himself, and his current work for the fiends provided him with opportunities he would never have had under Vlaakith, or under the cosmic liability that opposing the lich-queen while a part of githyanki society would have gained him. 

"I fully expect it." He said. "On some level I almost think it likely that they'll be the first to go, even before some of the prisoners. We'll see I suppose..."

The nalg smiled and snarled gleefully as his master batted at his tail with a claw.

"But once I've finished this ledger and sent my report to Alsikelius, we can go back to our fun with the godless cleric..."

He never finished the sentence though, cut off by a sudden explosion that rocked the chamber, flickering the magical illumination and deafening him momentarily while it sent his crystal ball flying off the table to shatter on the floor, spilled wine across his papers, and launched his familiar into a scrambling, screeching paroxysm.


***​

The githyanki warlock gazed up from his scrying crystal just in time to scream before the fireball blossomed.

Jets of sorcerous flame shot from the arrow slits and the cannon slots, forced by pressure to expand out of the confined space of the turret chamber. The flame would have gutted the interior as it was, consuming the defenders entirely or leaving them to die of suffocation from lungs too badly seared to breath, but that was hardly the result, something far too mundane for the combination of such a superbly lucky shot, and the unfortunate presence of the explosive powder.

"I think you got their attention." Fyrehowl said, moments before the barrels went off.

With a deliciously symbolic delay as the vacuum literally inhaled, sucking in air to feed itself, the top twenty feet of the tower exploded with a deafening roar into a massive fireball.

Toras reflexively winced, "Holy sh*t!"

Scorched rubble and spherical gobbets of burning, imperfectly combusted explosive powder expanded out from the ruined tower, peppering the battlements of the fortress and the godisle it sat upon like a bloated tick.

"Shave my head and call me a thayan, that's one hell of a distraction!" Florian said, eyes wide at the results of a single spell.

"Yes!" Clueless cackled with glee as he looked at the tower and then at his wand.

Within seconds there was a flurry of movement as the few guards posted at ground level alternately ran for cover from the burning hailstorm of rubble, searched the sky for attackers, or ran to aid any survivors trapped in the standing portions of the tower.

"If you're going for the door, I suggest you go now!" Clueless shouted as a magical alarm bell began to peal across the void and the cannons on the other towers began to swivel into activity.

"And leave you out here alone?" Fyrehowl asked, incredulously. "Are you nuts?"

There was a sharp crack and then a trio more from atop one of the towers as musket fire erupted and whizzed past the bladesinger, all of them striking close but deflecting ever so slightly against his protective spells.

"Let 'em try and hit me." Clueless said, raising the wand again as he turned towards the source of the gunfire. "Assuming they can see me."

The bladesinger faded from sight once again as he whispered the words to another spell of invisibility, and darted across the void like a spell-hurling firefly dancing about a silvery night. Shouts echoed out as githyanki launched up from the ground

"Alright, do what the crazy man says." Nisha said, prompting the others to move as she started to descend down towards the godisle.

The others followed, still cloaked with invisibility as they watched a group of githyanki burst from the main entrance of the keep and another smaller group emerge from the carrack tethered at the other end of the island. Meanwhile, still invisible himself, and cackling with glee, Clueless flitted about above the fray, hurling spell after spell at whatever targets presented themselves.

Time and time again, a fireball erupted against the side of the keep or atop some of the githyanki vainly hunting for their source. Each and every time there was an explosion, a cackle of laughter, and the sudden flickering image of a gossamer winged caster darting across the sky before he vanished once again with a recasting of the spell.

But with one last glance out towards where their companion was gleefully drawing fire and returning more than that, the rest of the group dashed through the main entrance of the prison-fortress.


***​

"No welcoming party." Toras said as they approached a wide-open portcullis at the end of a defensive narrowing in the hallway.

Florian grinned, "No love for you."

Still invisible and somewhat perplexed by the utter lack of resistance, they peered into the chamber past the archway as from outside they continued to hear the partially muffled din of spells and explosions. Past the portcullis the chamber was wide, a meeting point of two main side-wings of the structure, and two doors, one of them open and leading into what appeared to be a barracks.

"Looks like Clueless cleaned out the barracks." Florian speculated, noting the lack of occupants.

"Cleaned them out?" Skalliska asked. "I saw maybe a dozen people out there. I’d expect them to have more guards than that.”

Kiro peered into the open chamber, noting that most of the bunks appeared unused, and the armory was largely cleaned out of any usable weapons and armor.

"This place is desolate." The cleric said, motioning to the state of the barracks before deftly popped the lock on the other door.

"Nice." Nisha said, lightly kicking the heavy iron lock where it had fallen. "Sutekh seems like a pretty cool guy sometimes."

Kiro smiled and shrugged, gently pushing the door inwards and drawing his swords.

	“Our brave and intrepid explorer has discovered a storeroom.” Florian said as they looked into the chamber, expecting… something other than boxes of mundane odds and ends.

	“Bravo brave hero. Bravo.” Toras added.

	Kiro raised an eyebrow and smiled. “For my sake, we’ll just close the door and assume we avoided an ambush by a room full of mimics.”

	Fyrehowl grinned and moved away to peer down one of the corridors that branched off from the room. She listened for the footsteps of any guards, and hearing none, she motioned the others over to follow.

	They passed an unmanned guard post, and found themselves walking down a long corridor lined with empty prison cells. Twenty yards later they turned around after curiously finding nothing of note, and made their way down the opposite corridor on the other side of the keep’s central chamber.

	“Another batch of cells.” Kiro said as they entered the other wing, nearly identical to the previous one.

As they entered the second cellblock, the keep’s structure regularly rattled with the retort of cannon fire high above, and shuddered at uneven interval from Clueless's fireball bombardment, but the stone was well built and there was never any risk of collapse. But as they wandered through the empty hallway, that it had been solidly built was no surprise, given that had indeed been a prison.

"No prisoners though." Toras said, looking at pair upon pair of empty cells.

"So I've noticed." Fyrehowl said, tapping her nose briefly as she looked into one empty cell. "They haven't been gone for more than a week. And there were a lot of them."

"So where'd they go?" The fighter questioned.

"Nowhere pleasant I'm sure." Kiro said, tapping the tip of his sword on a large, dried bloodstain on the floor of one of the cells.

Fyrehowl nodded grimly, "The whole place smells like blood, most of it human, but some other types of mortals tossed in there as well."

"Torture?" Florian speculated, looking at the pattern of the stains. "It looks like less than if they'd been executed in their cells."

The lupinal sniffed at the air some more and nodded. "Torture probably. And there were fiends here."

Toras grimaced. "What kind?"

"Not many, and they weren't here populating the place." Fyrehowl said, doing her best to sort out the lingering scents. "It's mostly githyanki, some petitioners, and a dull trace of something that sort of smells like a nycaloth, but not quite, and something that was definitely a yagnaloth."

Florian nodded, "We should get moving and maybe try to take out one of those towers before they blow Clueless out of the sky."

And then, as if on cue, the entire structure shook with the force of a godquake as another lucky shot detonated the gunpowder in another one of the prison's towers.

	Tristol cringed at the sudden shudder and there was a soft giggle as Nisha laughed at how his tail involuntarily fluffed itself.

	“Clueless is having way too much fun out there.” The mage said with a chuckle, self conscious of the fact that his ears were likewise bristled from the surprise like a chimney sweep’s tools of trade.

	“Fyrehowl just hides it better.” Nisha whispered to him, “Plus, I think she’s older than you.”

	The cipher chuckled and rolled her eyes in good humor as she stepped away from the open cell. But as she did so, she paused and tasted the air.

"And one other thing." Fyrehowl said, a confused look on her face. "There's something else on the air. Fiendish, yugoloth, but I can't place it. It's not something I've ever smelled."

	“I doubt the ‘loths would be so obsessive about hiding themselves here.” Tristol said. “Inside an astral storm, shielded by magic, they’re probably not too concerned about anyone knowing, so we should expect at least a few of them.”

	Florian nodded. “And that said, we have some of them to kill, but not here in this corridor.”

	Nisha spun around on one hoof, “We go up!”

	Swiftly moving back towards the barracks, they stumbled upon and just as quickly disposed of a pair of githyanki swordsmen. Between Kiro’s blades and a lightning bolt from Tristol’s fingers, the astral natives never had a chance despite being on their home ground.

	“Bad timing boys.” Florian said as she reached down and picked up a set of keys from one of them.

	Nisha looked at the cleric like she had a hole in her head. “You have me and Kiro. Me, Nisha, and Kiro the discoverer of horrid ambushes of fiendish mimics and you need a set of keys?”

	“Backup is good.” The cleric said. “In case something happens to you!”

That seemed to mollify the tiefling and so, after carefully making sure there were no further guards waiting for them in ambush above, they ascended up to the keep's second floor through a hole in the ceiling, a uniquely githyanki bit of architecture made to replace staircases in the absence of gravity. One level up, they then emerged into a second barracks, virtually identical to the one below.

	Like it had been below, a pair of hallways branched off into opposite prison wings, but a cloud of smoke was rapidly billowing out of one of them, presumably from the explosions that they’d been hearing out of Clueless and his little ‘distraction’. A moment later, a pair of goblins came stumbling out of the smoke, looking harried and distracted, struggling to move a badly singed barrel of gunpowder away from the source of the flames.

	Unfortunately for the petitioners though, they never noticed the danger before both of them were frozen nearly solid by a blistering cone of frost from Fyrehowl’s outstretched hand. The slaves crumpled to the ground with the dry crunch of frozen flesh, and suddenly removed from all heat, the barrel of powder was suddenly the most stable it had been in the past hour.

	“Everyone watch out now.” Florian said as she tightened her grip on her axe. “It’s not entirely empty, we might run into more githyanki, and this next time they might not be caught off balance.”

	They didn’t see any guards, but with Clueless outside somewhere, kicking the metaphorical hornets’ nest, it was probably only a matter of time before some from the other side of the keep came rushing through the area. But in the meantime, the smoke from the direction of the burning watchtowers was growing thicker and thicker, and from the smoke itself, and the risk of further explosions if the githyanki had a battery somewhere near to the flames, that direction was effectively blocked off.

	“Ok,” Toras said, glancing down the smoke-filled corridor. “We’re not going that way.”

	“Prisoners?” Nisha asked with some concern.

	Fyrehowl shook her head, “I don’t hear anyone calling out, so I think we’re safe passing on that side.”

	As the lupinal’s ears were perked and listening down the one hallway, Kiro was quickly scouting down the other. A minute later he returned and shook his head as well as his sword, cleaning a bit of obvious githyanki blood from the tip of one of them.

	“The other side’s empty too.” He said, “Empty of prisoners at least, and now it’s also down a guard who wandered down from one of those towers on the other side.”

	“Nice catch.” Florian said, “Anything else?”

	Fyrehowl motioned them all into a quick silence as her ears suddenly perked. Something was coming down the burning hallway. “Someone’s coming, be ready.”

	A moment later, screaming and brandishing his blade like he’d been intending to ambush a barracks full of githyanki, Clueless burst from the smoke and into the room. His scream and his expression, intended as menacing to any githyanki, died stillborn as he all but stumbled in mid-air, beating his wings backwards to stop himself as he realized he’d found his friends.

	“Not a bad show out there…” Kiro said. “Considering you burst in here on the attack, and not running from a gang of githyanki.”

	Clueless grinned and touched down on the floor. “You’ve got your distraction, and they’re down a pair of towers and a half dozen guards.”

	“A half dozen?” Nisha asked, counting on her fingers with a perplexed look.

	Clueless waved his hand. “I know. There were more than that chasing me. And they still are. They’re just all still outside, flying around without a clue I’m in here.”

	“That’s a hell of a distraction.” Toras said, “And I think Tristol agrees. Or his tail did at least.”

	Tristol’s ears lay back and he gave a face to both the fighter and bladesinger.

	“Sorry about the noise.” Clueless said, apologizing. “But anyways, what’s in this place?”

	Florian shrugged. “Not a whole hell of a lot. It _was_ a prison, but we can’t find any prisoners, and the place seems to be in the middle of cleaning itself out. It’s mostly empty, and not too many guards either.”

	Clueless nodded. “Well there’s one more level to this place so far as I could see from the outside.”

	Nisha poked him in the ribs, “When you weren’t zipping around dodging certain doom at least.”

	“I came out of that pretty well.” The bladesinger said, looking down at a few burns and a single shallow sword cut on one arm. “They got lucky once or twice, and believe me, look down that hallway and tell me they didn’t come out of that worse off than me.”

	There was no argument from anyone on the issue, and so with one quick glance down the burning hallway, they drifted up from the ground and passed through to the third level of the prison.

	“Another barracks.” Florian said. “What a surprise.”

	“This one was actually used though.” Kiro said, noting the state of the beds and the spare weapons and trophies scattered about each of the bunks.

	The chamber was somewhat larger than the others, probably to contain more troops closer to the top of the building where attack was more likely to take place in the three dimensional space of the Astral. There was also a large cage or pen that took up the back half of the room.

	Fyrehowl walked over to the cage. No prisoners, but the smell of unwashed bodies and greasy metal made it almost a given that it was a virtual stockyard for the Acheron petitioners the ‘yanki, or their fiendish employers, utilized as slaves.

	“And no welcoming party up here either.” Toras mock grumbled. “Though I suppose you don’t need lots of people to defend… nothing.”

	Kiro nodded. “True, this place looks like it used to have a large number of prisoners, and guards for them, but they were all moved elsewhere. If there’s a commander’s office in this place, we might be able to find out what they did with them.”

	“The layout is a bit different up here it looks like.” Fyrehowl said as she glanced at the reinforced door on side of the room, and a short connecting hallway opposite. The previous floors had each had two prison wings, but the third level seemed different.

	“I’d possibly suggest we split up and check both directions while the githyanki are still occupied outside and with that fire,” Skalliska mused. “But something really tells me that Fyrehowl, to say nothing of common sense, might suggest otherwise.”

	Clueless grinned, “It’s tempting. But anyways, let’s check the hallway, then we hit the door.”

	Without objection they followed Clueless down the hallway, eventually turning into a relatively large torture chamber. The rust-brown stains and ferric odor that liberally filled the room attested to recent use, and there was a heavy undercurrent of githyanki and fiend. But what was most disturbing was that there were no actual implements of torture.

	“Big room, lots of use, and no tools.” Toras said. “What? Packed up their favorite toys first?”

	Kiro shrugged. “No, I’m not so sure they needed the tools.”

	“Fiends…” Fyrehowl said. “If there’s a nycaloth here, it has claws enough to not need anything else.”

	The prisoners, if any remained, had been brutalized if the chamber was any indication. In fact, they might have been kept as amusement and practice, but if so that wouldn’t entirely explain why the place was still occupied without any other purpose. Something had been kept here, or someone, and it was likely that behind the fortified door they might find out what.


***​

	Back in the main chamber, they found the door disturbingly untrapped, unwarded, and not even locked. If the place was still serving as a prison, the prisoners were either locked away to the point where they didn’t need even the least security, or else they’d simply been broken to the point of not seeking freedom.

	The actual truth of it was, unfortunately, more disturbing: even if they did escape, they had nowhere to go where they wouldn’t be found. Obedience ensured a temporary respite from anything but the random torture, but it left open the chance of eventual discovery and release from an outside source. The chance was virtually nonexistent, but flight was certain death given what the prisoners at least knew of what flitted about on the winds of the storm.


----------



## Zen79

Yeah! Finally caught up AND getting the first post...
You are doing such a great job Shemmie, this storyhour is a wonderful and compelling read.
I was always a bit disappointed there are so few good novels in the Planescape setting, but storyhours like yours (and publications on planewalker.com) do really make up for this.

Keep on the good work!


----------



## Graywolf-ELM

There is nothing like ensuring your prisoner's desire not to escape, but then would the death by anything out there in the Astral be worse than the death they have surely heard at the hands of their captors?

GW


----------



## Shemeska

Graywolf-ELM said:
			
		

> There is nothing like ensuring your prisoner's desire not to escape, but then would the death by anything out there in the Astral be worse than the death they have surely heard at the hands of their captors?
> 
> GW




Flee, you get eaten by an astraloth. Stay here and you might suffer a less permenant fate like just being killed, or maybe sold into slavery. 

Ever so pleasant folks.


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## Graywolf-ELM

Shemeska said:
			
		

> Flee, you get eaten by an astraloth. Stay here and you might suffer a less permenant fate like just being killed, or maybe sold into slavery.
> 
> Ever so pleasant folks.




Ok, so there *are* possible alternatives other than being tortured and killed by loth's there.

 

I just want to say that this and your other, are two of my favorite story hours here.  Thanks for making the time to keep them up.

GW


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## DrZombie

Bugger. Finished reading. I now have to wait like any lesser mortal for an update.

Very well written, nice plotline, good dark mood. Top 3 of the story hours I've read on the boards so far. Now that I've finished this one, can anyone recommend another (besides storyhour 2)


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## Fimmtiu

DrZombie said:
			
		

> Bugger. Finished reading. I now have to wait like any lesser mortal for an update.
> 
> Very well written, nice plotline, good dark mood. Top 3 of the story hours I've read on the boards so far. Now that I've finished this one, can anyone recommend another (besides storyhour 2)




Compiled Sepulchrave Story Hour, Sagiro's Story Hour (get the PDFs), and Welcome to the Halmae would be my top three non-Shemeska suggestions. Welcome to the limbo of the poor bastards waiting for the next update...


----------



## Shemeska

Fimmtiu said:
			
		

> Welcome to the limbo of the poor bastards waiting for the next update...




I just need to finish a fight scene and I'll post this week's update for this one  So sometime Saturday.


----------



## Shemeska

The door swung open to one last corridor lined with prison cells, but unlike all of the others previously, its cells were occupied. Huddled away from the light, many of them showed the signs of torture and oddly enough, starvation, despite the astral removing their need for sustenance. Each cell held a collection of humans, demihumans, and planetouched, roughly four to a cell, all of them wearing faded, tattered, and bloodstained clothing decorated with symbols of the Athar and the Godsmen.

"Athar?" Florian asked, feeling a bit of uncharacteristic pity for the prisoners, given their ideology.

Clueless shrugged. Terrance's illusionary copy hadn't mentioned anything relevant, though it was possible they'd all been abducted in the process of the 'loths finding where Aoskar's godisle lay.

The Athar were at least relevant in some way to where they were, given what the 'loths were after, and their own faction's historical involvement. But what made no sense at all were the men and women bearing tattoos of the Believers of the Source. What were godsmen doing there?

	Toras approached one of the cells and called out to a despondent looking elf slumped against the rear wall. “Who are you and what are you all doing here?”

	The man didn’t answer, in fact he looked away, almost as if he feared rescue, or the risk of a rescue gone wrong, more so than simply staying there in his cage.

	The fighter called out to him again, and then to another of his cage-mates, but neither of them answered.

	“Toras,” Fyrehowl said. “We can come back for them once we’ve made sure the place is safe. If they’re frightened to leave, we need to kill whoever’s got them conditioned.”

Perhaps reluctantly, followed by the haunting stares of the inmates, they continued on down the corridor, expecting githyanki guards, or something worse, to confront them at any moment. But nothing did, and eventually the corridor ended at a pair of doors, one leading into what seemed to be a warded, high security cell, and directly opposite it, a finely decorated archway cut with a githyanki symbol for ‘Kith’rak’ or Captain, smelling of a quixotic mixture of fiend, candle smoke, and incense: presumably the warden's chamber.

"Run you fools!"

A pained, terrified voice called out to them from the cell.

They turned to see a man huddled at the far end of the cell. Dressed in the robes of a high-ranking member of the Athar, factor or factotum, he showed the signs of hideous and recent torture. Thin and shaking from starvation, he was missing an eye and one of his legs was bent at an awkward angle from multiple breaks that had healed without proper care. Throwing aside his torture ravaged body, he would have been forty, assuming he hadn't been on the Astral for centuries, but he looked more like a man in his early elderly years, showing the ravages of energy draining magic.

	“The astral fiends!” He shouted, self-consciously touching the darkened, smoky trails that discolored his skin. “Run! Run now!”

Whoever he was, the man was a hollow, walking shell of his former self. From whatever horrors he'd been through during his incarceration, his face showed more an expression of dread and fear of what might come, than any measure of hope.

"Whoever you are, you need to run." He said, glancing around his cell nervously, seemingly expecting something to come through the walls. "Leave as fast as you can and they might not catch you."

Toras pointed to Clueless, "He's already taken down half the guards here. I don't think we need to worry about them."

"No. Not the githyanki. The astral fiends." He self-consciously looked at the bruised trails along his skin. "I don't know what they are but they watch this place, flitting through the walls and the storm, they serve Her."

Clueless and Kiro both looked at one another. They knew what the man was terrified of. They'd fought one of them before.

"Just who are you?" Tristol asked.

"You're Athar." Clueless said. "And so are a number of the other men here, I know why you're all here. But why the godsmen?"

"And who do you mean by _Her_" Kiro very pointedly asked.

"My name is Tethonas Marfall." The man explained. "Factor of the Athar, priest of the Great Unknown."

Florian raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

"Never heard of you..." Nisha said. "I know how many of you guys were around when Terrance went all 'I need some time alone by myself'."

Skalliska nodded, "She's right. I don't ever recall hearing your name in connection with the leadership of the Athar. And that still doesn't explain the godsmen."

Marfal's hands shook and he gave another nervous glance at the walls. "You wouldn't have heard of me. I was a secret appointment by Factol Terrance, and co-appointed by Ambar Vargrove of the Believers of the Source. Nothing was ever said publicly, or outside of the leadership of both factions about what we were all doing here on the Astral."

"Watching over Aoskar?" Kiro asked. "The Athar for their own reasons, and the Godsmen for their interests, with some slight overlap?"

The factor nodded, "Yes. And even after the factions fell I stayed here out of duty, necessity, and respect as did all of my men, even if many of them didn't know perhaps all of the original rationale behind why we'd constructed the citadel, or that it was Aoskar's corpse that it overlooked."

Kiro looked hard at the man and repeated his earlier question, "Who did you mean by _Her_. Who is doing all of this?"

The factor trembled and grew even paler at some half suppressed memory. He'd seen her. She'd questioned him. She'd done to him what had been done to Terrance. She'd tried to break him.

"Her... the fiend."

"The yugoloth yes." Kiro said. "Which one?"

He shuddered again, "You don't know the half of what’s going on here, nor do you want to. She... this is much larger and goes much deeper than you know. I…"

The room grew cold and something like a shudder ran through the psychic space of the astral like a ripple across the surface of a lake when something passed from one side to the other.

Marfal jerked and screamed as something burst through the ceiling and began to take physical form. "Its here! You brought it here with you! It followed you in! RUN! Great Unknown, run!" 

With a horrified look upon his face, like he was staring into the depths of a portal to hell itself, the factor went rigid. Coalescing out of some space only vaguely connected to the Astral, a space between spaces, a dozen glistening, translucent tentacles lashed out and wrapped around him. His flesh turned black as they pulsed with negative energy and dug deep into his core, and his eyes went wide and then glazed over as he went limp and began to age and shrivel in the space of seconds.

Glistening with ectoplasmic mucus, looking like the bastard spawn of some hellish jellyfish and a starving and deformed nycaloth, the astraloth fully congealed and turned towards the intruders it had been called to dispose of, a rictus grin upon its blind and eyeless face.

Florian stepped back in shock, "What the f*ck is that?!"

Clueless and Kiro looked at one another, having only recently survived against the same type of creature.

	But by then, a fraction of a second had passed, and the astraloth had finished feasting upon the already withered lifeforce of the Athar factor, and it lurched through the air towards fresher victims.

	“Watch out for the thing’s f*cking tentacles!” Clueless shouted as he dove to the side, barely managing to avoid a pair of the things.

	The astraloth was looking at the bladesinger and Kiro both. In fact, it seemed to somehow recognize them. It might have been the same one that had earlier tried to kill them in the demiplane, or the abominations might have had some sort of shared memory. In fact it was the latter, but the possibility of the first gave the pair additional motivation for revenge.

	“Son of a…!” Toras cried out as he moved his sword to block a swipe of the astraloth’s claws, only to have the hand flicker immaterial just long enough to avoid the flat of the blade and dig into his flesh like his armor wasn’t there.

	Skalliska hurled a series of glittering orbs at the fiend, and watched as they all struck, but apparently to no harm whatsoever. While the spell had managed to avoid the creature’s partially corporeal nature, it wasn’t powerful enough to overcome its innate resistance to magic.

	“Ah sh*t.” The kobold said as the fiend spun in mid-air, completely ignoring a flurry of slashes from Fyrehowl.

	Small as she was, and quicker than most, Skalliska wasn’t fast enough to dodge all of the tentacles that flicked out from where they hung down behind the astraloth’s back. Two of them missed, from another three of them lashed into and partially through her, dragging their telltale discolorations through her flesh like they’d done to the now-dead factor.

	Florian’s eyes went wide as she watched the astraloth drain Skalliska. She remembered what had happened to Clueless and Kiro, and with what they’d seen happen to the dead factor. She immediately began to whisper a prayer to protect her companions and herself against the astraloth’s draining touch.

	The spell took effect, and the next few tentacles strikes by the creature failed to do any damage, but neither did any attacks directed against the thing either.

"Don't worry about anything else.” Clueless shouted. “You can heal us later Florian, just get some extra enchantments on our weapons."

	Kiro looked at Tristol, “Use fire if you’ve got it!”

	The mage complied as Florian backed away and began to chant a spell of her own as Toras, Fyrehowl, Kiro and Clueless did their best to keep the thing’s attention, causing it whatever minor damage they could at the moment.

	Fyrehowl and Clueless both winced at their wounds and worried as they could feel Florian’s protective warding slowly weaken and begin to buckle under the astraloth’s draining touch. The fiend was striking at them and the others with supernatural quickness, and most of the time it was largely ignoring any armor when it hit, which was more and more often as the seconds stretched by.

	A moment of respite came however when Tristol detonated a pair of fireballs near the top of the chamber, aided as he was by the quickening effects of the Astral on magic. The flames blossomed above his companions’ heads, missing them by inches, but both burning spheres enveloped the astraloth as they erupted.

	The air in the room seemed to shake from the fiend’s psionic roar of pain, and though it immediately lashed out in fury at its attackers, they were ready for it, and they met it with blades tempered by the might of Florian’s deific patron. Time and again blades bit deep and hard, and while only half of them interacted with the astraloth’s bizarrely incorporeal form, those that did inflicted heavy wounds.

	“Not so easy when it’s not two people by themselves is it?!” Clueless snarled at the fiend as he hacked at its flank.

	The fiend was bleeding something like syrupy mist, some of which made contact with the floor but most of which drift off like immaterial globules of liquid in a vacuum. Despite its wounds though, the creature continued to claw and bite even when it realized that its tentacles were having little effect, but then a burning column of holy flame struck it across the shoulders, directed by Florian.

	Letting loose an unearthly scream, the astraloth abandoned its mission, and fled with a downwards stroke of all of its tentacles.


***​

Dzukash's eyes went wide as the creature he knew as an astraloth, and more formally as a Spawn of the Ebon, screamed and rocketed upwards through the ceiling in full flight. It had fled! While they nominally served him in patrolling the regions around the prison, and occasionally taking their pick of prisoners he selected to feed to them, he didn't control them, and few things put fear into his own fiendish heart like they did.

Yet one of them had just been gravely injured and driven off, forced to flee! He'd seen them feed upon a captive goristro before, and he'd never seen them actually harmed at any point. So far as he was concerned, they were the handmaidens of the Oinoloth and his consort.

So now what the hell do I do?" He thought, sorting through his mental catalog of spells, already feeling the urge to flee that radiated from his familiar.

There were eight of them, and he was grossly outnumbered, but some of them were injured and they were all within an enclosed space.

"They'll kill you!" The nalg hissed as it feebly hopped up and down, togging on his lower right arm.

He didn't bother looking down at the quasi-fiend, "The Manged will do more than kill me."

It was true, and his fear of her vastly overrode his fear of the people he'd just watched take down an astraloth.


***​

	“Just how the hell did the two of you survive one of those things?!” Florian asked, incredulous as the room returned to the normal, ambient temperature of the Astral.

	“We’re just good like that.” Clueless said with a grin as he shrugged off the touch of an astraloth for the second time in as many days.

	Florian knelt next to the factor’s body and shook her head after only a brief inspection. His body was withered from the thing’s touch, and past experience told the cleric that his soul was probably in tatters, if anything remained of it, and it was probably a useless thing to attempt to heal the body when there’d be nothing to inhabit it.

	“The factor isn’t coming back.” She said, passing a hand over his eyes and oddly for her, but out of respect for the dead man, she refrained from whispering a prayer in blessing.

	“Guys,” Fyrehowl said. “We need to consider something. Just how many of these things are we going to be facing?”

	It was a concern, and consideration passed through the heads of her companions, but then another look came over the cipher’s face: concern.

	Before she opened her mouth to shout a warning, Fyrehowl was already diving out of the way as a cone of flame erupted into their midst from the outstretched hand of the prison’s half-fiend warden.

	Bodies tumbled and the air was filled with a mixture of shouts of surprise and pain as the unholy flame burned hot and true, taking all of them but Fyrehowl off balance. She snarled and leapt to her feet and charged the half-fiend, but with two sets of hands, the sorcerer could cast multiple spells at once.

	A bolt of force that took the shape of the massive, grossly overdeveloped arm and fist of a Yagnaloth took form in the air and slammed into the lupinal with enough force to hurl her backwards across the room.

	Having turned his attention to the guardinal, playing towards the bias of his blood, the sorcerer hadn’t given enough credit to the others, and as he prepared to send the force construct slamming into Fyrehowl a second time, he left himself open.

	Aided by the side effects of being on the astral, Tristol was the first to go, especially as how he’d been unharmed by the astraloth. He made a quick gesture and spat a series of words, hurling a fireball at the four-armed githyanki mage.

	The fireball erupted, but outside of the shock and surprise on the face of the sorcerer, it had no effect. By some protective spell, or by nature of his fiendish heritage, the flames did nothing. The same could not however, be said about the lightning bolt that Tristol sent streaking after him a split second later.

	The half-fiend abandoned his spell as it was about to slam into Fyrehowl, and he dove out of the way, narrowly avoiding the worst of the bolt. He was only mildly injured, but the pause in his attacks gave the others the chance they needed, even injured by the astraloth as they were.

	Spinning around in a blur, Kiro let go of one of his swords and watched it spiral across the hallway towards the warden, but it wasn’t aimed at the half-‘loth, it never was. The warden assumed it was, and dove to the side accordingly, but a sudden shriek and the sound of metal impaling flesh and wood preceded his recognition of what happened a split second before the loss of his familiar rocked his senses.

	Dzugash’s nalg was nailed to the door like some living proclamation spiked by a king’s messenger to a signpost. The cleric’s sword had pierced the quasi-fiend’s heart, severed its spinal column and embedded itself three inches into the door leading to the other room.

	The half-fiend screamed and hurled his arms out, shouting in a garbled, expletive laced mix of yugoloth and githyanki. A spell was quick to his tongue and a bead of flame flashed across the distance… and fizzled.

	“Like hell you will.” Tristol said, the last words of the very same incantation freshly dropped from his own tongue as a counterspell.

	Desperate now, and in pain from the loss of his familiar, the half-‘loth pointed at the cleric who’d thrown the sword and let fly a bolt of acid that forked like a bolt of living electricity. It connected solidly on Kiro, and burst from there to strike at the others around him.

	But something was wrong.

He only realized a moment later that neither the priest who’d been the primary target, nor the half-celestial fighter next to him had been harmed by the acid. But by then it was too late, and by the time he’d half completed his next spell, a protective spell even, they’d closed the distance and virtually hacked him to pieces.


***​

Stepping over the sorcerer’s remains, and around the tiefling who was busy making faces at the dead nalg, Kiro pushed the door to the warden's chamber open with the flat of one of his swords. 

"Sorry Nisha.” He said. “No mimics this time around."

"Don't worry," Nisha said. "Sutekh will find you more mimics I suppose."

Kiro grinned and opened the door.

"Anything else in there?" Toras asked, not yet walking forward and looking back down the corridor to the prison cells.

"Nothing alive and waiting to kill us." Clueless said. "Well, nothing yet that I can tell."

The fighter nodded, "Then in that case, stay alive ten minutes without me, I want to let all of the prisoners out and make sure they can at least get outside on their own."

"I'll be going with." Florian said. "And I'll even be polite to the Athar. I can't offer them a planeshift or a gate, but Toras, you and I can at least get them outside of this place. I doubt that flying jellyfish from Hades is going to be coming back, at least not immediately."

Fyrehowl nodded. "If you need any help, just come get us."

Florian and Toras nodded and walked back down the hall to handle the prisoners, leaving the others to inspect and pilfer the commandant's office.

The fortress had been rather spartan up to that point, and outside of their own weapons and armor, githyanki tended to have little use for decorations, the warden's personal quarters were distinctly different: A combination of baroque githyanki elegance and the personal, and grotesque, luxury found in the lairs of the more intelligent breeds of fiends.

Half of the room was occupied with bookcases filled with books of questionable content and even more questionable binding, a cushioned familiar's perch, and a desk covered in a pile of wine-stained papers and the broken fragments of a scrying globe. By themselves it gave the impression of a relatively powerful arcane spellcaster, though one who seemed to rely more on inborn spontaneous ability than on study and research. By itself it was impressive on a number of levels, if of a radically different style than any of the group's casters were used to, or comfortable with.

But what was most immediately noteworthy were the illusory maps and diagrams of the astral storm that floated in mid-air throughout the latter half of the chamber.

"I might hold back on my normal opinions here," Tristol said. "That's almost impressive."

Kiro gave the mage a confused expression. "Normal opinion?"

"Oh, he's just got something agains..." Nisha tried to explain, but Tristol cut her off with a terse, "Illusions suck."

The wizard's ears were flat against his head and there was a bit of fluff to his tail.

"I'll let Tristol explain about that some time." Nisha said, trying hard not to giggle slightly at her boyfriend's reaction.

That said, the group stood and watched the illusion as it slowly spun with hurricane-like rotation around a central eye. Floating within the intricately detailed model were more than a dozen objects like bubbles or hollows in the storm, more locations, more warded godisles just like the one they found themselves in at the moment.

"Holy cr*p." Skalliska said, taking note of the number of locations hidden within the turbulence. "That's a lot of places to take down."

"And take a look at this." Fyrehowl said, walking into the illusion and peering closer at some specific spots as they drifted past her in transit. "Some of these are marked with names."

Sure enough, it seemed as though the half-fiend sorcerer had taken it upon himself to write descriptors of some of the spots in his own hand, incorporating them into the illusion. Some of them were given names, and some of them had notes on what had been sent there from his prison and at what time.

"Lots of movement of 'githyanki' and 'petitioners'" Fyrehowl said. "The way he marks it, he doesn't seem to have really considered himself a githyanki."

Clueless rolled his eyes, "Yeah, that would be the 'loth in him showing itself."

Meanwhile, Tristol moved over to the warden's desk and began to sort through the papers, some of them half-penned scrolls, and a wine-soaked journal of sorts. But as he looked over that, the others continued to look at the illusory map.

"Interesting names on some of these places." Kiro said. "Kleerik, stillborn child of Io. The green hollow. Nameless humanoid god of the forge."

The cleric of Sutekh looked disturbed. "All of them names of dead gods. What are they doing with all of them?"

"Probably what we saw them do to Maanzicorian's corpse." Fyrehowl said. "And probably related to what Vast babbled about before he died."

Kiro only looked more disturbed by the implications.

Oblivious to the cleric's worries, Tristol glanced down at the most recent entries into the warden's logbook. They were written in githyanki and seemed to denote the movement of prisoners into and out of the prison.

"They've been clearing this place out in the past month." He said, running a fingertip over several lines of text. Some of them it looks like they just killed, some of them they sold into slavery, though this seems to indicate they only sold their souls."

Fyrehowl snarled and muttered something under her breath.

Tristol pointed to a few of the bubbles floating within the illusory diagram of the astral storm. "Looks like they moved a bunch of supplies, weapons, and most of the guards to several of the other godisles that they've occupied."

"They're abandoning most of the godisles and pulling back, consolidating." Kiro mused.

Clueless nodded, "That's certainly what it looks like."

"And here's the most recent entry," Tristol said, reading it out loud. "Factor Tethonas Marfall to be transported in ten days time to Pitiless. Remaining prisoners at that time to be moved to the eye of the tempest and transferred to the..."

He paused and looked at the text with a more critical eye. "That's odd, the text switches over from githyanki and uses a yugoloth word."

"Where does it say they were to be moved to?" Skalliska asked.

"The Citadel of Shattered Faith"


***​

She drifted down from above and gently made contact with the rough, pitted surface of the dead god. Padded feet flexed and felt the cold chill of petrified, dead faith beneath them. Her feet were bare, and although cloaked in a dozen layers of illusion to hide her ravaged, manged coat, she was virtually naked, wearing an outfit composed only of a loincloth and a single long ribbon of blue elf-leather that wrapped about her body to give the barest level of modesty.

Power provided her with a vanity that transcended her actual physical capacity for such, but she was heedless of that dichotomy at the moment. The fiend smiled as she walked across the deific corpse, enjoying the profound symbolism of a yugoloth walking across such a being. Exquisite profanity.

"You've been dead long enough Aoskar." She whispered in a pidgin of yugoloth and its own older, root tongue. "You've festered in your grave undisturbed, and now we rape your corpse."

The cold stone underneath her feet gave no response, though she smiled as she thought she felt a mild tremor in the subtle, psychic ether that radiated up from the rock, a subconscious mixture of the dead god's memories and dreams leaking into reality.

The archfiend crouched upon the ground, slowly bleeding from a dozen open, weeping wounds as she spread her hands out upon the ground like she was caressing her victim. "I have every intention of wrapping my tower in your flesh, carving it with hymns to me and to my lord, I may even drape myself in a portion of your hide."

Light glittered down on the Overlord of Carceri from a dozen points overhead, and from the sickly emerald fire in her own eyes as each source touched and refracted through the many glass tubes and cylinders that composed Ghyris Vast's so-called Divinity Leach.

"Already we've skinned your flesh, mined your body in ways the githyanki barely understand after tens of thousands of years, and now... now I give the Oinoloth what he desires for himself."

The fiend gestured with a hand and telekinetically flipped a lever to fully activate the Leech.

She waited and held her breath as at first, nothing happened, and there was only the whine and static crackle of crude, arcane capacitors to show that anything had changed. The ether trembled, she smiled, the tremors increased and the rocky island began to physically shake as if the dead god were wracked by a seizure and screaming in agony. Light poured from the glass of the Leech and arcs of bizarre, uncategorized energies leapt and arced up to meet it, playing along its surface and seemingly absorbed into it and taking a physical, liquid form.

"Bleed for me broken one." She whispered, leaning forward to whisper to the rock like some defamed icon usurped and perverted by a perverse, unholy being.

The ground continued to shudder and the stone grew warm, almost sticky.

"Bleed for me Aoskar." She whispered, reverting to a spoken mixture of yugoloth and Baern.

The volume of the Leech increased and the ground into which it was anchored began to glow with a dull, reddish light and all the while, the Oinoloth's consort whispered in words that predated herself. The words made her ears sting, words that caused her wounds to open and speckle her arms and legs like a multitude of crimson raindrops, and in a warped reflection of that, the godisle itself began to bleed.

Glistening silvery liquid bubbled up and precipitated from the petrified godflesh, forming a shallow lake of mercury around the Leech, mixing with the archfiend's blood as she cackled and fiercely bit into her forearm, drawing blood and letting it dribble and cascade down on herself and onto the desecrated godisle.

"Bleed like I do." She said with the conviction of a fanatic. "Bleed because we will it to be so."

She knelt and licked the rock. "Bleed for me god. Give my master his desires. Feed us."


***​

It was near to antipeak in the Lower Ward, and many of the ward's businesses had long since shut their doors, and only a few shop windows still burned with the waxy yellow light of oil lamps or magical flames. It might have been a flux in the wind across the ring, some shift in the operations of the Foundry, or perhaps even the opening of portals to paraelemental ice, but regardless of the reasons, the night felt colder than normal.

In one of those shops whose windows still shed light out upon cold, cobblestone streets, its proprietor felt the cold on multiple levels both physical and metaphorical. Something was wrong. The city was holding its breath. The night was cold, and he was worried at what portent the City seemed to dangle before him.

Fell the fallen dabus turned and locked the door to his studio. Something was wrong and he wished to be alone.

He'd walked halfway to the back room when he felt it, a scream that he'd only heard once before, the day that Her shadow fell upon the Portal Father. Since that time, he'd felt his god's dreams, the lingering passing memories, the hopes and wishes of the power that flowed to his last proxy. Fell had been condemned to survive, alone and shunned, an object lesson for his betrayal.

Perhaps it was Her knowledge all along of what would transpire. Perhaps She left him alive to make him suffer for his crimes. The other dabus did not know, nor did he. Fell had heard his god whispering to him for millennia, a bittersweet comfort. But now, but now with a scream that echoed his first death, that voice was gone.

Silently, with not a symbol above his head to show his grief, Fell wept, and outside in the darkness of the streets, a bladed shadow drifted past with neither explanation nor pity.


***​

	“Well damn.” Toras said. “We’ve got our choice of where to go next.”

	“Hopefully they won’t know we’re coming.” Tristol added. “With that astral fiend, for lack of a better term for it, with that thing having fled, let’s just hope it doesn’t put a few hundred githyanki and whatever else they’ve got on high alert.”

	Clueless shook his head. “Let them be on high alert. Let ‘em come here, let them fortify the godisles that are the closest to here.”

	“Excuse me?” Florian asked. “Why in the Foehammer’s name would you be that suicidal?”

	“Because we won’t be here.” The bladesinger said. “And we won’t be going to any of those other places either.”

	Kiro began to grin. He knew what the half-fey had on his mind.

	“Kiro?” Clueless asked. “How do you deal with a snake?”

	The cleric's smile widened. “You cut off its head.”

“Correct.” Clueless replied, pointing with the tip of his sword to the eye of the storm. “We'll be going right for the center.”


----------



## Clueless

At which point the DM looked down at the *12 pages* of notes he'd written for all of those god isles... and cursed us mightily.


----------



## Bryon_Soulweaver

Clueless said:
			
		

> At which point the DM looked down at the *12 pages* of notes he'd written for all of those god isles... and cursed us mightily.



Bet Kiro and Clueless, the character and the player, had a fun time.


----------



## Fimmtiu

Shemeska said:
			
		

> The cleric’s sword had pierced the quasi-fiend’s heart, severed its spinal column and embedded itself three inches into the door leading to the other room.




Kiro is so my favourite character. Such a self-effacing badass. Did you use the Fiend Folio rilmani, or was he a custom conversion? (Hopefully the latter, as ISTR that the FF cuprilach was like ECL 17.)


----------



## shilsen

Clueless said:
			
		

> At which point the DM looked down at the *12 pages* of notes he'd written for all of those god isles... and cursed us mightily.





That's the precise reason I never prepare actual notes for anything unless I'm absolutely sure the PCs are going there.


----------



## Shemeska

Fimmtiu said:
			
		

> Kiro is so my favourite character. Such a self-effacing badass. Did you use the Fiend Folio rilmani, or was he a custom conversion? (Hopefully the latter, as ISTR that the FF cuprilach was like ECL 17.)




It was the FF version with some tweaks done to it. I didn't worry as much about balance though, because I knew the player was going to be moving across the country by a certain date, and because the player had about 5x my own experience as a player and DM and that he wouldn't abuse any power advantage he might have.

If you want to blame anyone for hooking me on Planescape, blame Kiro's player   
(and Florian's player to a lesser extent, because she ran us through the modules in 'Hellbound' about a year before I started this campaign).



			
				Shilsen said:
			
		

> That's the precise reason I never prepare actual notes for anything unless I'm absolutely sure the PCs are going there.




My exact words (after smacking my head into the table) were: "Son of a b*tch!..."


----------



## Burningspear

*Woohoo *

Finally i am up to scedual, and what a wicked story it is.

I love the detail of how the 'loths are portrayed, very nicely done..
nice characters, good plotting as well, it just makes me drool, hehehe


Another rabid fan u have now...

thanks for indulging us with your stories and gameplay. 


Daniel


----------



## Inconsequenti-AL

I love this storyhour 

Hope you managed to find a use for your 11 pages of notes?

Partial to a bit of recycling myself...


----------



## Shemeska

Inconsequenti-AL said:
			
		

> Hope you managed to find a use for your 11 pages of notes?
> 
> Partial to a bit of recycling myself...




Oh heck yes.

The PCs eventually went back to a few of them, but a few others that were never used in the game I think I ended up reusing and recycling into the details of demiplanes, other godisles, and even a 'loth fortress elsewhere. Good ideas never go to waste, even if you have to wait a while to use them.


----------



## Krafus

If anyone cares, I'm still here and still reading. Oh, and is Kiro's player leaving the group? I hope not - I think Kiro has become my favorite character. Or does Shemeska intend to turn Kiro into a NPC like Nisha?


----------



## Shemeska

Krafus said:
			
		

> If anyone cares, I'm still here and still reading. Oh, and is Kiro's player leaving the group? I hope not - I think Kiro has become my favorite character. Or does Shemeska intend to turn Kiro into a NPC like Nisha?




Kiro's player left the group several years ago, I'm writing the storyhour of the campaign after the fact. 

Kiro the character became an NPC eventually.


----------



## Tal Rasha

Cool installment, as per usual. One of the things I really love about this campaign is how it teaches you so much about the planes and their many important denizens. I was very pleased to read something about Lothar, and the Jester is one of the most interesting NPCs here. Any chance you'll be dealing with Coaxmetal at some point in the future?


----------



## Shemeska

Tal Rasha said:
			
		

> Any chance you'll be dealing with Coaxmetal at some point in the future?




Sadly no, though as far as adherents of Entropy go, I do give the Doomguard (and one of their quasielemental citadels) a good bit of love as the backdrop for a plot arc in the back half of the campaign.


----------



## sciborg2

shemmy -- the scenes in pitiless were amazing. Just about everything in there from the first few prisoners to the friggin' Architect showing up (I figured a baern might pop in but not that one) just flowed. 

this is one hell of a story you have going on...


----------



## Burningspear

:\ 
What does it  take to get noticed here?, i gave a dozen or so compliments and not even a nod of appreciation  

o whell, i am getting impatient anyway for the next part of the story hours..


----------



## IcyCool

Burningspear said:
			
		

> :\
> What does it  take to get noticed here?, i gave a dozen or so compliments and not even a nod of appreciation




Well, unless you gave those dozen compliments in two posts, I think your number is a bit inflated.  Anyway, sometimes messages get missed in a thread.  If you want recognition though, I can handle that!

[Shemmy Voice]Thanks for the compliments Burningspear![/Shemmy Voice]


----------



## Shemeska

Burningspear said:
			
		

> :\
> What does it  take to get noticed here?, i gave a dozen or so compliments and not even a nod of appreciation
> 
> o whell, i am getting impatient anyway for the next part of the story hours..




[Vorkannis voice]Shemmy appreciates your compliments.[/Vorkannis voice]

I appreciate the compliments, I really do. While I do tend to try not to post to the thread unless it's to answer questions, or to post an update, I think I just missed your post. Enworld of late, or my mail account, hasn't always been telling me when a new post is made (I think my thread subscriptions were wiped out briefly).

And as a heads up, I'll be updating SH2 this week.


----------



## Burningspear

hehehe, *bows*

thank u for aknowledging me, 

Anyway, how do u get subscribed to this forum to get mails for being a member of this particular list?

i have never received such a mail


----------



## Delemental

Burningspear said:
			
		

> hehehe, *bows*
> 
> thank u for aknowledging me,
> 
> Anyway, how do u get subscribed to this forum to get mails for being a member of this particular list?
> 
> i have never received such a mail




I heard a while back that the email notices for thread updates was shut off, due to a problem with a spammer co-opting the system.  Apparently it's still not back on.  I'd pop over to Meta and see if anyone knows if that feature will be returning (these days I check ENWorld often enough that the notices would be redundant, but in the past I've appreciated them).


----------



## weiknarf

Delemental said:
			
		

> I heard a while back that the email notices for thread updates was shut off, due to a problem with a spammer co-opting the system.  Apparently it's still not back on.  I'd pop over to Meta and see if anyone knows if that feature will be returning (these days I check ENWorld often enough that the notices would be redundant, but in the past I've appreciated them).




I get emails...


----------



## Clueless

Bryon_Soulweaver said:
			
		

> Bet Kiro and Clueless, the character and the player, had a fun time.




That we did.


----------



## Clueless

Tal Rasha said:
			
		

> One of the things I really love about this campaign is how it teaches you so much about the planes and their many important denizens. I was very pleased to read something about Lothar, and the Jester is one of the most interesting NPCs here.




Which Jester? Jeremo the Jester (factol of the Ringgivers?) Or The Lady's Jester in Undersigil, the creator of the maze/learning tutorial we went through - he of the creepy hat, coat, and tentacley Igor?


----------



## Arytiss

Just felt it necessary to register to say thanks. I love reading this storyhour. It's inspired me to start my own game of Planescape which has now been going for a few months.


----------



## recentcoin

You know, so often it's the DM that throws the PCs a curve ball.  It's kinda nice to see the PC's returning the favor


----------



## Graywolf-ELM

weiknarf said:
			
		

> I get emails...




Some of us had most of our older thread subscriptions deleted, and had to go back and try to find them all.  I lost track of some good ones that I am sad about.  At least I was able to find Shemeska's threads again. 

GW


----------



## Tal Rasha

Clueless said:
			
		

> Which Jester? Jeremo the Jester (factol of the Ringgivers?) Or The Lady's Jester in Undersigil, the creator of the maze/learning tutorial we went through - he of the creepy hat, coat, and tentacley Igor?




He of the hat and coat  . Not that the Natterer isn't cool, it's just that this guy has a certain... demeanor about him. Plus I had read "The Inevitable" on planewalker prior to the storyhour so I was already intrigued.

Actually, since we are talking about him, I didn't really get the idea behind his tentacled puppy. Why exactly was everybody running scared from it? I mean yes, it's a small slimy monster that can kill you quickly, but I feel there's something missing, or that I'm missing.


----------



## Shemeska

*"What can he do but lock his door and cry to God?"*



			
				Tal Rasha said:
			
		

> Actually, since we are talking about him, I didn't really get the idea behind his tentacled puppy. Why exactly was everybody running scared from it? I mean yes, it's a small slimy monster that can kill you quickly, but I feel there's something missing, or that I'm missing.




This particular story by M.R. James was the inspiration behind the Jester, and where a large chunk of the flavor comes from. The players later found out a bit more about his history in the campaign world, and the nature of the 'tentacled puppy'.


----------



## Shemeska

Headsup and FYI: We've been under a bit of a crunch to make some headway on a number of experiments at work lately, and half my coworkers have been on vacation, so I've had very little time this week to write. I might have this SH updated this weekend, or it might not be till friday of next week.


----------



## Moral Decay

Delurking to say I've caught up and I love this story. Nearly every premise aside from your Demented seems wrong, but from what you say I gather you'll explain some of that later. And I can hardly blame you for the fact that the prisoner of Elysium in general makes no sense -- you've already solved one of the problems I see with the standard premise there. I appreciate your Citadel of Shattered Faith even though I like the theory that nobody can logically complete the tower of Carceri. Oh, and I like the Magnus Jester as well.


----------



## Shemeska

Moral Decay said:
			
		

> I appreciate your Citadel of Shattered Faith even though I like the theory that nobody can logically complete the tower of Carceri. Oh, and I like the Magnus Jester as well.




The next update will show the Citadel of Shattered Faith. And as far as completing the Tower or Incarnate Pain, the new Oinoloth has tended to do things on a very large scale, in a very rapid manner, moving away from the slower (and he would say 'apathetic') approach of his predecessors. But it still remains to be seen if the 'loths will end up finishing that tower, or if finishing the tower is even their primary goal with the dead gods on the Astral.


----------



## Shemeska

Fyrehowl paused and tilted her head as a thought bubbled up in the back of her mind. It wasn't that she'd noticed something, no; it was more something that they hadn't found.

"Poetry." She said.

Nisha frowned, "Poetry?"

"The wardings on the first godisle, and on the palace in Carceri." The lupinal explained, brushing a hand against the wall like she was painting with her fingertips. "That poetry."

She gave a shudder at the recollection, both the imagery in her mind’s eye, the smell when they had found it, and the horror that must have been its creation. Though she had no way of knowing, the githyanki who'd served as paint and pallet on Maanzicorian's godisle, they'd been alive when the walls were decorated with their wardings. One by one they'd been killed, piece by piece at times, forced to watch as their killer wove her spells wearing nothing but a sticky coating of their blood. Their agony had been prolonged as much as possible, and the emotional taint that had hung over the place like the blessing of a dark power still haunted the lupinal.

But while their current location was just as warded and concealed as the earlier locales had been, they'd yet to see any hint of the same frescoes of blood, bile, and pulped viscera. That didn't make sense. What was serving to produce the same type of wardings?

"We've been through every room in this prison." Fyrehowl said. "And we've even searched the ship and its moorings, but we haven't found anything making the warding."

“That’s not something you easily hide…” Skalliska said, repressing a shudder of her own.

Clueless gave a smirk, “Not like they even tried to hide it the last few times. Hell, they enjoyed it.”

“They made a spectacle of it.” Toras said, shaking his head. “They only put it out of the way just to avoid it getting messed with.”

The fiend that had painted those wardings had treated it as much an art as she had spellcasting. Grisly, perverse art, adjoined with brilliant, frightening spellcraft.

	“I don’t think it’s here then.” Fyrehowl said. “Tristol, do you think they could have anchored the spells somewhere else and still had them effect this prison all the way out here?”

	Tristol blinked. “Well…”

	It was a frightening thought. Magic was boosted on the Astral plane yes, but as it was, the wardings themselves -from what he’d experienced of them- were hideously powerful spells as it was. They seemed to have been cast as rituals, anchored to a location, which would allow a spellcaster to create more powerful effects if they put time and sacrifice -of one form or another- into the casting process. But still, he didn’t honestly want to meet anyone capable of working that sort of magic, given how they’d cast it.

	“It’s possible.” He reluctantly admitted, a double-edged mixture of worry and respect in his voice. “But I’m not sure I want to really think about how powerful you’d have to be to create that sort of effect. And from what we saw before with the painting, I really don’t want to see what the place where they cast it looks like.”


***​

Tristol’s thoughts weighed heavily upon them when they left the prison complex and plunged back into the storm, leaving the godisle’s bloodied and bewildered defenders –those that were left- to lick their wounds and ponder how they’d explain the loss of their prisoners. But while it was unintended, those same defenders wouldn’t have anyone to explain themselves to in short order if all went according to plan.

But protected against the storm as much as was possible, the group hurtled through the currents ever deeper towards its heart, towards the eye of the tempest, and towards the waiting corpse of Aoskar.

Though the astral winds screamed in their ears and pulsed against their flesh with random sensations, they were silent as they passed through the constellation of warded godisles that they knew also haunted the storm as bleeding, desecrated companions to the godisle of the Portal Father. They paid them no attention though, avoiding them as much as they could from their vague awareness of where they were from the map they’d found among the half-blooded githyanki warlock’s chambers.

They passed by a half dozen warded godisles in their line of transit, each of them sealed safe and invisible inside their own bubble of wardings. They passed them by without a second thought, without the guilty aftermath of curiosity’s ever-present war versus pragmatism.

The first to be left behind unmolested and untouched was the drifting and severed head of an unknown, unnamed god whose rocky flesh sprouted thirty iron pillars, each of them serving to tether a githyanki carrack. Shelter against the storm and a marshalling point for the fiends’ githyanki servants, virtually none of whom had a clue who they actually served. Over two hundred of them stared up at the winds swirling against the magical bubble like a skein of oil on a soap bubble’s surface, and they were passed by like so many inanimate objects.

_Every portal key is sacred to me. Every bounded space is a window into my heart. Every portal is a piece of me._

Miles deeper into the storm and they passed the strip-mined corpse of a long dead elven power mutually ignorant of the githyanki defenders encamped upon its surface. They drifted past without a second thought while far below, a githyanki warlock sat and barked orders to his troops while his familiar, a hordeling that looked like a stunted, twisted, insectile human infant drooled and chattered upon his shoulder.

The swirling, raging currents of Aoskar's storm only increased, but they didn't pause or seek shelter from the screaming metaphysical wind. Even when it threatened to push inside their heads with the agony of a dead god's last screams and stillborn hopes, they continued on, deeper towards the center.

_Sigil flocks to me, and my name is synonymous with the very act of planewalking itself. This is right, this is proper, and this is only the beginning._

"How much further do we still have to go?" Nisha asked.

Her words fell on deafened ears. None of the others seemed to have even noticed her ask the question, and given the howling metaphysical wind in their ears and their minds, they could hardly be blamed.

The Xaositect said it again, shouting the second time, “I said how much further till we reach the center!"

She frowned and drifted closer to Tristol. Another shout and another lack of a response, and at that point there was only one thing to do: she pulled his tail.

"Hey!" Tristol shouted, not even hearing his own words over the storm.

The mage turned around and looked into Nisha's face, watching her lips move but not hearing a thing.

"What?!" He shouted in reply as she let go of his tail and shouted something back.

Same result. None of them were hearing anything, so deep were they within the storm.

	That in mind, Tristol paused and whispered a relatively weak spell, but one that hopefully would let them talk to one another despite the storm. The spell went off, and oddly enough, despite the howl of the storm and the discomfort the psionic winds had been up to that point, he suddenly felt incredibly happy. 

That was a pretty nifty spell; Tristol thought to himself, it was really fun to cast. It’s not all that bad out here either.

	“Is this working?” Tristol said in an unusually cheerful voice, telepathically speaking into the minds of his companions.

	“Working like a charm.” Toras replied, thinking the words rather than speaking them.

	Skalliska mentally nodded. “Don’t have to worry about sending stones or anything else.”

	“Is anyone else having weird thoughts getting inside their head?” Florian asked.

	“Always.” Nisha replied without a pause. “But that’s normal. But yeah, the whispering, I know what you mean.”

	Clueless nodded, “As if it wasn’t already feeling crowded up here, I’m feeling it too. Not just little stray thoughts either, it’s entire memories and bits of perception. It doesn’t make much sense out of context though.”

	Tristol found himself pondering what sort of spell he could cast that might tell him more about it. But to his frustration he couldn’t think of one; but the frustration came more from the lack of an excuse to cast a spell than from any inability to help relieve some of their confusion about what the storm was bringing them.

	“Well at least I know I’m not going crazy.” Florian said. “At least not yet. This is getting pretty bad as we go deeper, and I’m half expecting some yugoloth jellyfish… things… to come flying out of the storm at us.”

	Fyrehowl grimaced as they plunged through a glistening barrage of filamentous, silvery astral wind, “I’m still worried about that last part.”

But worries or not, deeper still they continued, past the forest covered corpse of a god of raw and bloody nature, unseen from the surface by the packs of fiendish gnolls who kept watch under the eyes of their leader, a half-fiend gnoll cleric whose holy symbol of a snarling crimson canid head in profile his followers foolishly thought to be Yeenoghu.

_"This is my will Imendor. This is my vision of what is to come. Already they view me in their hearts as master of Sigil. All that remains to be done is to solidify their perceptions into reality. Go now, speak to the Dabus, and spread my will among them. The Lady does nothing; she dares not. I am not some mortal wizard seeking to claim the City, so go and influence the belief of her servants, bring them to me, welcome them, reveal to them the mysteries that I have shown to you. They will listen. Surely they will listen."_

Closer still, and nearly at the heart of the storm, they passed a dead power of fire, forges and craftsmanship, blissfully ignorant that the flaming glow that licked up from the open cavity beneath the arches of its ribcage was an open portal to Gehenna that had been constructed there by the fiends. Not everything to be mined was for the use of the Overlord of Carceri, and in fact her intentions were a secondary objective when all was said and done.

But all of that was gone and past them in an instant as they broke through a nearly physical wall of multicolored astral wind and into the hollow beyond.

Suddenly the storm was calm and all was silent.

"What the hell..." Toras whispered, his voice standing out once again.

They hung in the eye of the storm, a massive hollow almost a hundred miles across lit by the electric crackle of the swirling, rotating eyewall that encompassed its boundaries. They hung there alone in the silence, suspended in the silvery and unnatural calm amid, drifting in the vast emptiness where Aoskar's godisle should have been.

"Where the hell is it?" The fighter asked.

"It's here." Kiro replied. "Right in front of us."

Fyrehowl blinked. She felt something, something that felt wrong, something that screamed to her to flee, but she couldn't see it.

	“Right in front of us where?” Florian asked. “I’m not seeing anything.”

	Kiro turned and looked at her and the others. “Move forward about a dozen feet.”

	Clueless hesitated. “They warded they entire eye of the storm?”

	Tristol whispered a minor spell to see the auras of magic and smiled, “…wow…”

The bubble was massive. Not only did it encompass the entirety of the eye of the storm, but also it seemed to agitate the natural rotation of the maelstrom, turning it, twisting it further and faster than it would have otherwise. It wasn’t enough to hide themselves; the fiends had made the environment even more hellish and turbulent.

“Warded or not.” Clueless said, holding back from breaking the boundary. “We haven’t seen anyone yet. That worries me.”

Kiro nodded, “Same here.”

Somewhere in the back of his mind he honestly worried that the fiends and their ignorant servitors might have been well aware of the intruders in the heart of their storm. Was it a trap just waiting to be sprung? Or were they so worried about betraying their presence for what they actually were, and so secure in the idea that their wards and the storm would keep them safe, that most of their forces were still encamped on the dozen other godisles hurtling along with the current?

Whispering a silent prayer, already able to see the godisle at the storm’s heart, he hoped that it was the latter.

            “Lets not worry about that though.” Clueless said as he and the others neared the boundary of the wardings. “They might be able to sense when we go through, so let’s go in as fast as we can before they can react, and then do as much damage as possible.”

            Fyrehowl nodded. “But the first fiend we see is mine.”

Worried and tentative, but as headstrong and confident as they could be, with a round of prayers, chanted spells, and pleading, hoping whispers to powers and planes alike, they burst through the bubble and into the eye of the storm. The wardings rippled at their combined passage, something they hadn’t done when Kiro had breached them, subtle enchantments reacting to thoughts and life more so than movement. 

The cascade of magic built and reached threshold, collapsing and screaming a single message across the planes to the ears of its creator:

_Someone has discovered us._


***​

Xolikarth Fem’at nodded. "As you requested mistress, the scaffolding above the third Spoke of Torment will proceed, followed by the others. Aoskar's flesh will be reserved for the Crown of Agony."

The ultroloth's eyes flickered with their own malignant glow, but that particular quality was barely perceptible over the cold, sapping corona of light that washed over him and the rest of the chamber he stood within. Behind him, his own underlings, a trio of arcanaloth sorcerer-scribes, stood cringing back ever so slightly in the face of the frigid, burning touch of the light their mistress delighted in. Whatever she had become, she was no longer one of them.

A dozen yards ahead -he had no desire to approach any closer- the darkened outline of her figure stood with her back to him, like a spot against the sun, before a pair of open doors and the source of the indescribable light. She enjoyed it he figured, awash in emotions he had shed millennia before her birth, and at first there was little sign that she'd even heard his statement as she basked like a drowsy lizard sunning itself upon a rock in the euphoric/masochistic glow that spilled forth from the Reflective Chasm.

By intent or as a side effect of the heart of the Tower’s proximity, his mistress’s layers of illusions were absent, and only scattered patches of fur stood on end, bristling from the static amid the occasional crackles of purple lightning; most of her exposed flesh was raw and bloody, manged as much as her name would indicate. However there in the hellish light of the Chasm, any self-consciousness on her part was lost, or only an afterthought.

A reptile might sun itself upon a rock, and even a great wyrm might enjoy such an opportunity to indulge itself in a moment of vain, lazy relaxation. But she was hardly a reptile, she was hardly mortal in any way, and no reptile would have shivered with arms spread wide, listening to the deluge of screams that erupted from the Chasm like music.

Was she even listening? The ultroloth stepped forward, his robes brushing against the obsidian floor, casting shadows over the screaming visages of the petitioners locked beneath the glass like tormented insects in amber.

Four steps forward and the floor rippled, losing the glassy consistency it had held a moment before to rise up like a fleshy wave, prompting the greater yugoloth to stop and reminding all present of the true nature of the Tower. Whatever bits of the structure seemed like rock, obsidian, or steel, they were only illusions and affectations, soulstuff forged into the likeness of physical materials. The Tower was a living thing, a gestalt of billions of souls cobbled together and fused into a single massive construct; an edifice wrought of endless suffering.

“Good.” Was all she said in reply, not turning to her underling even to acknowledge him with eye contact, but for the briefest moment the agonized faces locked in the floor below the ultroloth smiled up at him with the same flickering, multicolored eyes as hers.

She was absorbed in the sensations of the chasm, and though Xolikarth knew that he was looking at her actual physical body, her mind was probably dispersed through the entirety of the Tower, to say nothing about any avatars she might have manifested and cast out across Carceri or the other planes. She wasn’t the Oinoloth, she was young, but she was learning more and more to use the powers and abilities that her predecessors had possessed.

“Additionally, the first shipments of godsblood have been received and accepted at the Wasting Tower. The…”

The ultroloth continued on with the details, confidant that at least some fraction of the Overlord of Carceri’s mind was listening to him, despite being more intent on listening to the deafening screams of the Tower’s living bricks and watching the patterns in the chasm. He spoke and she listened, mixing his positive reports with the narcotic rush of the agony that was channeled, funneled, amplified, and purified by the hollow spine of her tower.

Twenty minutes passed by and he was midway through his report when a ripple passed through the chamber and the archfiend’s ears flattened against her head.

“…What?” She whispered softly, speaking to herself as the words were simultaneously mouthed by tens of thousands of wriggling petitioners accreted into the walls.

Obediently, Xolikarth and his retinue remained quiet as their mistress tilted her head to the side and ignored him.

Something had gathered her attention.

“Remain here.” She said abruptly as hands formed and reached up from the floor to ensnare their ankles. “I will hear the remainder of your report when I return. Matters elsewhere require my attention.”


***​

Aoskar's petrified corpse hung within the void, nestled within the relative calm of the eye of the storm that its presence generated within the Astral. The former god of portals and planewalkers had died in an instant of horror, a fate recorded in Sigilian legend, but a fate that history did not elaborate upon the nature of, such was the shock of those long past events. But there in the silvery void, free of the wind of the storm, free of the whispers and free of the screams, the Portal Father's death was laid bare, stark and harrowing for all to see.

Several miles of slate colored stone were twisted into the rough, weathered shape of a tall and bearded man of indeterminate age. The dead god's face was young, but his eyes and the weight of the lines upon his features bespoke of ancient age, and the weariness that accompanied the elderly after a hard and distraught lifetime.

Virtually all of the dead powers that littered the Astral had a sort of austere grace about them. They hung in the void with an air of former glory that still gathered respect and a certain amount of awe at the lingering presence of what they had once been. But Aoskar's corpse presented not any sense of grace, but one of absolute, chilling horror.

The Portal Father's petrified mouth was frozen in a permanent expression of terror and shock, one massive stone limb held up as if to ward off an attack. The godisle was like a man's death mask as he looked down at the blade in his stomach, simply writ large, a concept taken to its extremes and solidified as an example for each and every god in the multiverse.

"Holy..." Florian whispered as she focused on the corpse.

Clueless went pale as he noticed the details, noticed the light reflecting back from the corpse.

In no fewer than twenty places, Aoskar's corpse was pierced through by massive, building sized, perfectly formed _blades_ of a shape and style that made them instantly recognizable. Where they pierced the god's flesh, the rock was discolored and a dull hum filled the air, seeming to visibly disrupt the very fabric of the astral, while the light that glinted off of their mirrored surface couldn't have been colder than the feelings they invoked simply by their presence, and by their implication.

"Mystra preserve..." Tristol whispered, a noticeable tremor in his voice.

But the horror of millennia past was not the only indignity that Aoskar had felt, no, it was only the first. Death had not spared him of anything further. Carefully avoiding the area around the blades, great clefts and furrows crisscrossed the isle where lengths of petrified godflesh had been ripped from the corpse across virtually 60% of its surface. The 'loths had treated the godisle like a freshly buried corpse in a shallow grave still fresh and fit to drag to the surface and repeatedly rape as one more act of pointless rage against the divine.

But the blades were not the only things to defile the would-be lord of Sigil.

Like a spear piercing the breast of the recently deceased, a gnarled tree tapped for its sap by an iron spike, or a mocking, defiling monument in place of a headstone, a tower, or rather a conjoined trio of towers, rose up from the center of the godisle. Sunk down into the rock, very much like a tower whose memory lurked in the back of Clueless's mind, a trio of towers rose up to half the overall structure's height. The towers were linked by dozens of crosswalks, passages and connecting walls like spittle stretched between teeth, before the smaller towers merging and fused together into a twisted, almost organic upper spire.

Light, like immaterial blood leaking from the corpse, erupted up at the tower's base and flooding the hollow, reflecting dimly upon the otherwise invisible walls of force that seemed to fill the gaps between the towers. It wasn't normal light either, it was a mixture of cold, gray light centered about halfway up the tower's height, and a multicolored, shifting halo of light erupting from the stone itself.

"That's not originally fiendish." Fyrehowl said.

Indeed it hadn't been, and those familiar with fiendish architecture, or the styles of Sigil over the past several centuries would have immediately noticed that the towers were rebuilt from an earlier, original structure.

Skalliska took immediate notice of its original architecture. "That was an Athar building..."

"...which was originally in orbit." Tristol said, remembering in some small measure the floating castles and buildings of old Netheril. "The fiends drove it into the corpse like a knife."

And like a sacrificial victim improperly restrained, Aoskar's lingering divine presence was reacting violently to the intruding presence, while somewhere in the back of their minds, the connection was made between the light rising from the godisle, and Vast's Divinity Leach. While the fiends bled the dead power dry, random flashes of light and burst of crackling energy erupted from the stone and raced along the rocky flesh of the godisle, leaping up as multicolored bolts of lightning and arcing towards the spires and cornices of the tower.

But outside of the presence of the tower, the hollow at the heart of the storm seemed almost desolate, a sterile blasphemy, a mocking silence around a desecrated tomb.

"I like the guards they've got." Toras said.

Skalliska looked at him, "There aren't any guards. Not a single one."

"Exactly." They replied.

"Not that they really need them." Clueless said as another burst of lightning erupted out into the void before curling back and grounding on the tower's top spire.

	“So what now?” Nisha asked. “We make a mad dash inside and make like Slaadi during the Modron March? Because I’m fine with that you realize.”

	“Well…” Clueless said, glancing at the _blades_ embedded in the corpse. “That’s the only place on top of the corpse I’m frankly willing to go. And it’s not like the entryways are guarded.”

	“They don’t have any doors either.” Florian remarked, pointing to the open archways at the base of each lower tower portion.

	“Hold on.” Fyrehowl said abruptly, a fraction of a second before Kiro put his hand on Nisha’s shoulder to hold back the oft impulsive tiefling.

	Following the lupinal’s line of sight, and what Kiro had likewise seen, was a translucent figure high above the tower. Glistening and ghostly, it flitted about the boundary of the storm, leaping out and drawing bolts of the crackling lightning before then diving back into the eyewall once again. Almost as if it were playing, like a mad sea dragon cavorting at the base of a waterspout, it didn't seem to notice them in the slightest.

	Not yet at least.

	“Yeah…” Clueless said as they all came to the same rapid conclusion. “We make a mad dash for the door.”


***​

Someone had found Aoskar's godisle? Impossible; at least anyone finding it intentionally. Certainly some creatures, and more often their corpses, had drifted blindly through the storm and pierced the protective, obscuring bubbles that she'd sealed each of her godisles in like treasured trinkets under glass, promised little heirlooms as part of a bride's dowry.

But someone intentionally seeking out and finding the godisle where she'd found so many wonderful, wonderful treasures to give to the Oinoloth? It seemed impossible. The storm waylaid most, the Dreadnaughts were blind to their presence, the psurlons and githyanki had no reason to intrude, and the astraloths were keen to devour anything that they smelled upon the currents. Perhaps it was a false alarm, a false positive upon her contingent divinations.

Surely that was it.

The Overlord of Carceri shrugged and closed the door to her private chambers, shedding her illusions as soon as the physical closure was made, and as soon as the layered, overlapping wards sealed her inside from less prosaic avenues.

"I wonder if it's her... it..." She pondered to herself as she unconsciously began to itch at an open sore. "We never did manage to find you Taba, errant little ghost of a thing that you are. You're a fleeting little abomination that should never have been born."

It was a possibility, but she doubted it. The Infiltrator of the Planes was better than that, and probably would have gotten deeper into the godisle's defenses before she'd been noticed. So no, unlikely that the altraloth was responsible for the intrusion.

"So who indeed might you be?" The archfiend whispered as she leaned forward and perched over a golden bowl filled to the brim with Styx water.

Momentarily remembering to stop her violent worrying of her affliction, she reached forward one hand and dipped a claw into the surface as she whispered a few sibilant words in a language that vastly predated her own existence. A drop of puss on the tip of the claw contacted the liquid surface, diluting immediately into a gossamer membrane across the already polluted pool, and a moment later betraying an image of several mortals.

Now that was interesting. And unexpected. Especially that one. She remembered him from a chance encounter in Center.

Though the chamber was filled with the screams of petitioners that composed the walls, there was the distinct and subtle sound of spreading spittle and parting lips as Shylara smiled with a moment of entirely inappropriate glee. Licking her teeth with a raw and bloody tongue, she cancelled the spell and turned to one side to stare at the wall.

"And there you have it." She said, looking into the wide eyes of the ultroloth embedded into the writhing mass of conjoined petitioners. "I know you can still hear me, even through everything else. A pity you couldn't kill them in the first place, little gnats that they are. Consider it a gift from me to you, because very shortly they'll be joining you Yethmiil."


***​


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## carrot

Awesome....


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## Burningspear

*jup*

Absolutely wicked beyond believe... we want more of it!!!!!.........


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## Tal Rasha

Looking forward to Kiro's meeting with the Arcanaloth with great impatience...


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## The Forsaken One

Finally finished all 1200 pages of your stuff .

gogo new stuffszz!!


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## Shemeska

The Forsaken One said:
			
		

> Finally finished all 1200 pages of your stuff .
> 
> gogo new stuffszz!!




Update to be posted on Saturday.


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## Shemeska

*Have yourself a 'lothy little Christmas*

"Ok," Nisha said, peering through the door of the tower. "They're not so much for doors, and not so much for normal architecture either."

"Not so much for guards either." Toras muttered with more surprise than anything else, not that he lowered his guard for a minute though.

Clueless looked through the door as well, then leaned back and gazed up at the rising exterior of the building to compare. They didn't seem to match, not entirely, but extradimensional spaces weren't normally possible on the Astral, so it had to be some bizarre trick of design and optical trickery on the part of the interior; on the astral or not, geometry brooked no violations.

Abruptly, a crackling bolt of lightning erupted from the pitted, rocky flesh of the godisle and launched up into the sky to ground against the tower's summit, rebounding a moment later and striking back at the ground in a dozen places. Any guards left outside of the tower would eventually draw the bolts simply by accidental discharge, or sooner if the tortured and enraged essence of the dead god of portals could direct his rage anything more than blindly.

"Guys," Tristol said. "I really think we should get outside before one of those takes us out. As pretty looking as it might be, and as amazing as the magic behind it might be to me, we need to move."

Fyrehowl nodded her head, "Lightning or not, we need to get inside before the bloody jellyfish 'loth notices!"

They took her advice and stepped inside, onto the lowest level of the bizarre structure. True to what Nisha and Clueless had ascertained before, the interior of the tower was spacious but contorted, like the twists of some petrified esophagus or spinal chord, with most of its interior space being dominated by a juxtaposition of curling stairwells, open space, and elaborate interior buttressing rather than rooms, chambers, or anything functional one might expect inside of such a large structure. The tower was more decorative than anything else, a monument rather than a living building.

"Maybe they've got rooms elsewhere." Florian mused as she approached the bottom of the stairs.

Kiro shrugged, "Maybe there aren't any rooms at all."

They slowly made their way up the wide steps of the stairwell, inching their way towards the first landing

Florian looked back at Kiro. "What do you mean maybe there aren't any rooms at all?"

Kiro turned to Tristol for a deeper explanation.

"Portals, extraplanar spaces, that sort of thing." The mage explained. "Now while it’s probably just an optical illusion, it does look bigger in here than I might have expected from the outside."

"Even though it’s not possible to do that here." Clueless said.

Tristol gave a troubled look. "Lets not think about that."

They didn't give too much thought to it, though it was certainly lurking there in the back of their minds as they started to ascend the stairs.

"There's normal gravity in here." Clueless said, twitching one of his wings against the air.

Kiro nodded. "I've noticed that. It explains why they built stairs rather than just having an open space and a shaft to ascend up like in githyanki buildings."

"Maybe." Fyrehowl said. "If they cobbled this place together from an older, original building that the Athar had made, it might just be that the gravity is a lingering effect that they kept in place."

"And hey," Skalliska said, turning around to look at her chattering companions. "Let's just keep loudly talking and alert whatever guards they might have lurking around here, especially when we can't fly away if they do find us."

Having said that, Skalliska turned back around, and coming around a blind twist in the stairs, nearly fell backwards as she found herself at eye level with the grimacing face of a githyanki. Almost instantly there was a wand in her hand and the sounds of steel being drawn preemptively from behind her as all concern for their earlier discussion, and her rebuke to it, was put firmly out of mine and forgotten. 

But the weapons and wands were an unnecessary precaution. The githyanki wasn't a githyanki, not entirely, not anymore. But it was a familiar face nonetheless.

"Wow." Fyrehowl said. "Nice touch in decorations they've got here..."

Situated in the center of the landing, arranged like any other statue taking up space, collecting dust, and providing a bit of ambiance, there was a stone githyanki cradling its own severed stone head in its arms.

"So that's what happened to that son of a b*tch." Skalliska said as her wand hand relaxed.

Staring up at her with a shocked expression was the petrified face of the githyanki warlock who had attacked them during their fight with his faux-rakshasa master, the ultroloth Yethmiil, when they'd first ventured onto the Astral. The last they'd seen of him had been the fading flash of a contingent planeshift spell. They hadn't known at the time where he'd gone, or what had transpired to him after his master's inglorious defeat.

Florian chuckled, "Isn't that the...?"

"That's him alright." Toras answered, sharing the mood.

The statue was pristine, immune to anything but deliberate damage while on the Astral, but it was covered in slashes and obvious claw marks in places, all of which had been inflicted prior to petrification. Mercifully though, the head had been cracked off -after- the mage had been transmuted to stone, rather than before or during. But regardless, his killer's point was clear, and an example had been made for her other servants to see.

Decoratively carved into the floor, transmuted by magic rather than cut by tools, a single phrase in Infernal repeated itself in a winding circuit around the statue: “The Price of Failure”.

They weren't able to spend time pondering who had killed the warlock, as a shout of alarm rang out from the stairs above them.

"We've got company..." Fyrehowl said as she raised her hand and sent a cone of cold swirling over a trio of githyanki soldiers on patrol.

"No time to gawk at the poor sense of style!" Clueless shouted. "Up the stairs!"

Running up from the landing, they barreled past the githyanki patrol still stunned and injured by Fyrehowl's spell, pausing only long enough to send another, uninjured gith, flying off of the stairs and plummeting to the floor far below. But whether it was his death scream as he fell, or the shouts of his companions a moment earlier, or something else, the seemingly vacant expanse of the tower exploded into a flurry of activity.

Alerted to the presence of intruders, githyanki soldiers swarmed up the stairs from below, apparently teleporting from elsewhere to give chase.

The githyanki, although handicapped by fighting within a gravity well, were intimately familiar with the layout of the building and the turn of its winding stairs. A short time later, the first group of guards caught up with the invaders, and the fighting began.

Toras readied himself and parried the first blow, using his size to block any of the approaching githyanki from getting around him and threatening the less heavily protected members of his party. Steel clashed against steel, and the fighter blocked another strike against the flat of his sword, giving his more spellcasting oriented companions the moment they needed to take an action of their own.

Tristol hurled a bolt of lightning and Clueless did the same, each of them catching one or two soldiers in the path of their blue-white bolts. Florian was busily casting a number of defensive spells, and apparently feeling that clerical niche already filled, Kiro pointed at the githyanki in combat with Toras and launched a sizzling bolt of acid that caught it full across the face and chest.

"What the hell?!" Toras said as the githyanki simply brushed the bubbling acid off of its face like it was sweat and nothing more.

The gith's actions took him off guard, and before he could recover, the knight turned a blade under his guard and stabbed his shoulder. Toras grunted and stabbed back, striking the soldier but seemingly doing no damage despite having felt his blade slide into flesh.

Something wasn't right.

Again he parried a blow, and again his companions hurled their spells. Nisha and Skalliska both sent a flurry of magic missiles into the soldiers further down the stairs, and Clueless hurled a fireball into the midst of a newly arrived group of gith who'd just burst through the main doors at the tower's base. Tristol however, didn't use a directly offensive spell, and after he spoke the last words of his spell, the githyanki on the stairs shuddered and began to move sluggishly, fighting as if they were numbed by cold or fighting a constant watery current.

That was all that Toras needed, and his next strike caught his opponent completely open.

The githyanki shuddered as his sword pierced its breastplate and sunk into its chest, nearly lodging in its spine. It exhaled in a single ragged breath, spilling the remaining air in his punctured lungs like so much blood as his last abortive moments of life flickered briefly. With no breath left to use, he couldn't scream as he died, it wasn't physically possible, but he did anyway.

Even as Toras wrenched his blade free and turned to meet the advance of the next knight, the air was split by an inhuman, insectile shriek issued forth by the one he'd just skewered.

"F*ck!" He shouted in surprise as the githyanki underwent a sudden, hideous change.

Red blood turned milky green and sap-like before it hit the ground, half of it boiling off on the air and the rest erupting in a burst of flame as the corpse of the githyanki erupted through a monstrous transformation into something wholly inhuman, and not even mortal in the first place.

Rather than a dead githyanki bleeding out upon the floor in front of him, Toras looked down at the twitching, chitinous corpse of a full-blooded mezzoloth. In the middle of their innermost sanctum, even if they'd never expected invaders, the yugoloths had tasked their own kind for defense alongside their duped mortal pawns.

Toras took several steps back, and for a moment his sword dipped from its ready stance purely out of shock, and he wasn't the only one to have such a reaction. Standing behind the fallen fiend, several githyanki stood dumbfounded as well, apparently ignorant of the true nature of their own masters.

	“Run!” Toras shouted as he clenched his fist and a pulse of golden, celestially empowered light enveloped the stunned githyanki and the true fiends embedded in their midst.

	Some of the githyanki staggered in pain and confusion, while a scattered handful of them -the glimmered or shapechanged yugoloths- roared in agony from the holy power of the spell. Below them, already blocked by corpses and living but stunned soldiers, further reinforcements faced a bottleneck and were and unable to immediately give chase.

Given the opportunity, Toras took his own advice and turned and ran, him and his companions all using the moment to gain ground on the tower’s defenders.

A minute or so later, and several hundred feet of stairs higher in the tower, Clueless turned around and pointed Razor. The bladesinger chanted and hurled a bolt of lightning to ensnarl the first three githyanki that had recovered and were rushing up the stairs at them, still a number of flights and turns below still. They screamed in pain, and one of them fell backwards, either dead or badly injured, but either way their fall would slow the progress of their fellows that would follow behind them.

"You've got to be kidding me!" Toras shouted, catching Clueless's attention as he turned back around.

The bladesinger stopped in his tracks as he saw the two figures standing at the top of the stairs: two figures dressed in richly appointed robes, two figures covered in striped fur, with backwards oriented forepaws, and the heads of snarling tigers. Rakshasas, but Rakshasas that looked to have died and been raised from their graves years before, slowly rotting despite the timelessness of the Astral, shambling on in some state of quasi-undeath or magical compulsion that cared nothing for the limitations of life or death.

"What the f*ck are they?" Skalliska asked, feeling the chill of undeath radiate off of the Acheronian fiends, and knowing the contradiction that they represented. Undeath normally couldn't claim true outsiders since they had no body to animate, yet the fiends were moving along with the periodic crackle of emerald energy flickering from their joints.

"They're our old pals!" Toras shouted, feeling almost like clapping. "The original ones!"

Still dressed in the clothes that they'd been executed in, both fiends still wore jewelry emblazoned with their family emblem of a withered silhouette of a black tigers paw. One male, and one female, they were the original Lady Brampandra and Lord Siddhartha who had been the late allies and guardians of Ghyris Vast, the fiends whose identities had been usurped by fiends of an altogether different sort.

Kiro inwardly smiled. That answered some questions of what had actually happened to the original pair. It had been possible that the female had escaped, or played some actual role in all of these events, but her walking corpse standing in front of him seemed to put those possibilities into the grave as much as she was. The yugoloths had slaughtered them both at the same time, probably within hours of seizing Vast and his device.

The undead rakshasas opened their mouths and snarled, dry and hollow death rattles only amplified in volume.

Florian grinned and raised her hand, taking aim with a crossbow. "And just like the last time, this time I'm ready for you bastards, and this time it's for real and not some bloody Yugoloth impersonating you. Enjoy becoming rug material."

Neither tiger-headed fiend responded; they didn't even seem to notice that the cleric had said anything at all as they both raised their hands and began a stiff, disjointed, unnatural series of spellcasting movements. Florian didn't seem to care that they were casting either, and she didn't move an inch for cover after pulling the trigger and letting the blessed bolt fly.

It should have slammed into the fiend and buried itself to the fletching. I should have slain it without pause. But it did nothing of the sort as if the multiverse, or just perhaps Ravenna himself, were mocking Florian in the worst possible way.

"Sons of b*tchs!" Florian shouted as the bolt embedded itself in the rakshasa's chest but didn't seem to cause any major injury, though a web of emerald energy was leeching out of its skin and crackling around the offending missile.

The fiend didn't seem to notice, and the impact's damage was marginal and irrelevant as the corpse raised its hand to cast, joined a split second later by its sibling. Stiffened, rotting lips moving without sounds, desiccated finger bones moving in arcane gestures, both rakshasas hurled their spells.

Tristol was quick to counterspell one of the undead fiends, shouting out a series of arcane phrases causing the hands of the female to crackle with the abortive magics of a failed casting. Her male counterpart, the original Siddhartha, didn't seem to notice however and a cone of frigid air burst from his outstretched fingers to engulf the group.

It would have caused much more damage, but thankfully they'd already wrapped themselves in protective spells earlier, and it at least abrogated the worst of it.

"Son of a....!" Florian growled as she clenched ice-coated fingers around her holy symbol, unable to feel the object through the icy numbness as she incanted a prayer to her god.

Injured and frostbitten though she might have been, her god's fury lashed out nonetheless and wrapped the long-dead fiend in a column of holy flames. But a moment later, the fiend emerged from the fires without a singe upon its flesh.

"Stupid! Stupid!" Florian snarled at herself. "They're still immune to most magic. The bastards gained the benefits of not exactly being alive anymore, without losing the benefits they had before they died."

Kiro nodded and dove into melee, wildly slashing at the female from a crouched position off to one side and almost behind her as Toras hacked at her directly from the front. Being undead, or something to the same effect, she didn't seem to care at the damage she took by the moment, but the alternating blows to the front and the back made it impossible for her to remain steady enough to cast, and unable to defend herself even had she tried. 

The original Brampandra was reduced to a fiendish rag doll, batted back and forth by the enemies of her killer, and alive or dead, oblivion was swift to reach up and find her, while her brother faced a similar situation as he fought Fyrehowl and Clueless.

The lupinal's strikes were being blunted by a defensive spell that absorbed most of the damage, and though Clueless's strikes were able to pierce the wardings, he had much less force behind his than did Fyrehowl, leaving the fiend able to manage to cast. Before it was over, they both were twice enveloped in fireballs that the former Siddhartha cast directly on himself, and a lesser variety of energy drain, but ultimately the fiend was defeated by raw numbers and what seemed to be a necromantic compulsion to fight till he was literally dismembered.

"Anyone have a healing potion?" Clueless asked as he winced at the burns that he'd taken from the fiend's spells.

Skalliska uncorked one and tossed it in his direction, "Here you go."

Florian could have healed her companions more quickly, but for the time being she was a bit preoccupied. She smiled triumphantly as she looked down at the mangled rakshasa corpses, both of them finally dead in permanent fashion, though it might have been arguable that they'd died months or even years earlier. That felt good. That felt incredibly good. Justice that even the Mercykillers couldn't have supplied any better, even if it was only the start of what justice needed to be given.

"Glory be to the Foehammer." Florian said. "That felt good."

Toras grinned. "Anyone up for the makings of a nice rug?"

"I'm not sure even Seamus could do anything with that pair." Skalliska replied, noting the advanced stage of dry rot that the two fiends were in. "They're pretty far gone."

"F*cking mephit."

"Well, I take that back." The kobold said, nudging the first corpse with her toe. "I'm sure he could do _something_ with them, just not making rugs that you'd want to use."

Nisha stuck her tongue out at the very idea of the Mephit crawling around through the bodies collecting the next daily special for his shop.

But surely there had to be more.

"Something doesn't feel right." Fyrehowl said, glancing around in vain, itching a notion in the back of her mind that felt like someone was about to jump out at them in ambush. Rarely were such feelings just a mundane bit of paranoia.

Clueless looked down at the corpses and whispered a minor spell to examine any lingering bits of magic on the corpses, because for all he knew, they might behave in the same undying capacity as had the mortal assassins the fiends had sent into Sigil, and beyond that whatever animated the tiger-headed fiends hadn't been something normal, because normally such beings had no true physical body to animate. The magic had to have been something that shackled their essence into a quasi-physical existence rather than dispersing back to Acheron upon their original death. 

He'd hoped to find something to clue him in on what the case with the "undead" Rakshasas might have been, but instead as the spell went off, he found something else entirely, and not a moment too soon. Clueless's eyes went wide immediately as he recognized the burgeoning glow of a contingent spell on each of the corpses rapidly ticking its way down to detonation.

"Oh sh*t!" He cursed as he made an immediate grab for the nearest corpse. "Get 'em over the side! Now!"

Fyrehowl looked at the bodies and realized that her worries hadn't been unfounded, and she and Kiro both dashed to help the bladesinger as the bodies began to leak bits of crimson light from their eyes and their wounds.

Increasingly swollen with the glow of triggered spells, they dumped the bodies over the side of the railing and watched them drop, just seconds before their magic triggered. Then, with a roar of flame and the startled screams of githyanki soldiers caught on the stairs, both contingencies triggered and the inside of the tower was momentarily painted in orange and yellow. It hadn't been simple fireballs either, nor relatively conventional delayed versions of the same spell; the spells entrapped upon the dead rakshasas had been grossly amplified to the absolute height of their capacity, and the disturbing lack of pained groans from below attested to their death-dealing efficacy.

Kiro looked over the side at the spherical scorch patterns on the stairs and walls below, and at the charred remains of a dozen githyanki knights. That didn't much concern him honestly, but the eight other figures standing on the stairs in the middle of the carnage, all of them seemingly unharmed, they did. Yugoloths were typically resistant to flame, but whatever exact subtype the pseudo-githyanki were, either they'd been bred more resilient than the norm, carried magical protections, or by some virtue of the source of the flames, they'd been spared its fury.

Florian looked back up from where she'd ducked down for cover. "Yes sir, overkill, I'm very pleased to meet you..."

Kiro shook his head, "Don't say that quite yet. It didn't get them all."

Then, as if to punctuate his statement, the first flashes of teleporting fiends flickered across the interior walls of the tower. The 'loths had abandoned any pretense of being something other than what they were.

"And now is when we run!" Clueless shouted, his wings already starting to beat at the air.

And so they ran, bolting towards the top of the tower in a breakneck spiral as more and more fiends gave chase. Higher and higher they went, following the twisting, contorting stairs that wound their way up the interior hollow, but to their confusion they didn't encounter any resistance on the upwards ascent: the fiends were only appearing at ground level, and from there giving chase. Something seemed to be preventing open access into the tower through magic, affecting both defenders and intruders alike.

The respite didn't last forever though, as soon enough the stairs intersected with the openings to the various connecting passages that ran between the tower and its two adjacent neighbors. At the first such passage they were caught unaware, ambushed by a trio of mezzoloths and misshapen, insectile half-fiend githyanki warlock. The 'loths hadn't just gained the loyalty of duped, misguided githyanki renegades on the run from the lich-queen, nor had they just brought in their own resources from the lower planes, no, they'd also bred soldiers from the unholy union between them.

Fyrehowl and Toras absorbed most of the assault, and replied with a deadly mixture of attacks of their own, forcing the fiends to retreat and leaving two of their own behind, writhing and missing limbs. Reinforced by troops in the next tower over, the fiends would have surged back, but they never had the chance as Tristol abruptly stopped on the landing and passed his hand over the passage's entrance.

"What are you doing?" Nisha asked, hastily tugging on the mage's tail. "Come on!"

Tristol mumbled something that didn't seem to her to be an answer, if he'd ever heard her in the first place. She trotting in place for three random, noncommittal paces before grimacing and gesturing down the stairs towards a group of approaching fiends as they came into view three turns of the spiral below.

Their spells went off more or less simultaneously, with a colored hailstorm of flashing nonsensical colors washing over the mezzoloths below, and a solid, crystalline wall of force sealing off the passage in front of Tristol just in time for a charging fiend to slam into its surface.

"I have no idea how I did that. But damn that was fun!" Nisha grinned at the disoriented roars from down below, and the sound of several fiends losing their balance and crashing into still more of their kind rising up from below.

"We can find out how later!" Florian shouted a flight of stairs above. "Grab Tristol and get up here!"

The cleric would have phrased it differently, but Tristol was still somewhat oblivious. In fact the wizard was standing in front of his freshly created wall of force with a wide, inappropriate grin on his face, admiring the spell and watching the last flickers of magic fade from his hands. It was only a single spell, and there was a snarling mezzoloth only inches away behind the wall, but nonetheless Tristol was still admiring his handiwork.

Nisha didn't stop to think why, though she did make a face at the mezzoloth trapped behind the magical barrier, before she grabbed her boyfriend's hand, getting his attention and yanking him up the stairs after her.

Nearing the top of the tower where the three lower structures merged and joined, there were more cross connections, but already clued in by Tristol's earlier idea, Clueless had sealed a pair of them and blocked off any further attacks.

	Finally, the stairs ended at an open, unguarded archway and a dimly lit passage that snaked off into the interior of the top tower. Tristol paused as they prepared to dash down the corridor, then whispered a spell and simply sat down.

	Something had caught the wizard’s attention.

"Umm... what are you waiting for?" Toras asked as the shrieking of mezzoloths grew louder and louder in his ears.

Clueless and Kiro looked back at the fighter and gave nervous chuckles.

"What?" Toras asked again, not liking the bewildered tone in their voices and carried on their faces.

The bladesinger pursed his lips and took a deep breath as Tristol continued to just sit in the middle of the hallway and stare into space.

"We're not going anywhere right now." Clueless said, jerking his head back towards the seemingly vacant corridor. "It's... well..."

Tristol answered for him. "The magic is giving me a headache."

"F*ck." Florian said as she looked down the stairs and gripped her holy symbol, preparing to cast. "What sort of headache are we talking about Tristol? The "This will take some time but it's well within my capacity to handle?" or "I have no idea what I'm looking at, but it's deadly and unstable?""

Nisha raised her eyebrows for the peanut gallery, "I know that feeling a lot..."

"Someone warded this place all to hell." Tristol explained. "It's like I'm looking at a spider's web made of magic, and half of the threads are coated in poison and woven into one another. It's made to collapse and trigger if you try to pick apart the individual spells that are set up as wards."

Florian grimaced and held her holy symbol high, calling forth a wall of blades into existence at the top of the stairs, catching several fiends in its path and turning them into paste and bloody mist within seconds. Enraged screams and telepathic taunts rung out as the wave of lesser fiends was, for the moment, held at bay.

"That won't last forever guys. Can you or can you not take down those wards?"

Tristol's tail bristled at the pressure, "I'll try, but damn it... I'm out of my league against some of these spells. Some of them I don't know how to cast, some I've never seen before, and some of them you're not supposed to able to hang on contingent triggers like this. Some of them look like they’re just dummy wards meant to trigger more deadly spells when they drop, and frankly the whole thing looks like it’s intended to just toy with anyone who has skill in magic. It’s taunting me to just slip up once and make a mistake. But I’ll try.”

Clueless looked back at the blade barrier and the pack of mezzoloths behind it, one hand moving up towards the captive bead of heavy magic at his neck. If it came to that, he'd invoke it and try to brute force his way through the wardings in front of them, but he didn't have any idea if it would act differently here on the Astral, much less atop the body of a dead god.

Tristol began to cast, visualizing the act as trying to unravel and untangle a series of knots without having any of the individual clusters of thread touch one another. It was maddeningly complex as each tug of metaphorical string revealed the details of the things woven beneath them. Geysers of acid, fireballs, lightning storms, antimagic effects, curses, chained petrification spells, and death effects upon death effects were layered and sandwiched like a tapestry of perverted magic, and Tristol was having to pick them apart one by one.

Time passed and Tristol was oblivious to the outside world as first one and then another spell unraveled and vanished from the webbing. But for each few moments of success he had, there was the inevitable failure to spot effects hinged to detonate upon the dispelling of other spells that bore their metaphysical weight, and several spells went off inside the hallway, but thankfully none of them proved instantly lethal and beyond the ability of Florian to heal.

"Florian?" Tristol said. "This next bit has about a half dozen death effects, so if you or anyone else has anything to protect us from it, I'd rather not repeat the time we met some bodaks."

He was vaguely aware of the spell being cast, but thankfully for everyone involved he never took his eyes off of the task, even when Toras was struck by an energy drain effect, and when something triggered and sent Clueless and Kiro both diving to the side to avoid a burst of crimson colored lightning.

An uncertain period of time later, Tristol was white as a ghost as the last ward dropped and nothing else triggered. His hands were shaking from worry even as his head swam with a combination of giddy pleasure from the act of spellcasting on the Astral, and the boost to his ego from the success against the spells of a more powerful caster.

Kiro tugged on the mage's sleeve, "Sutekh's wisdom suggests that we go."

The cleric's suggestion, divinely inspired or not, was a wide one, and the group rapidly sprinted down the hallway. Clueless let the others go first, and as he prepared to follow, he tapped his finger to the collar at his neck and willed a spell effect into place in the middle of the hallway, setting a wall of force in place to block the fiends' pursuit.

Moments later when the bladesinger caught up with his companions, they stood in the center point of the upper portion of the tower, crowded around the chamber that stood at the connection point of the lower three. They were all variously looking straight up, straight down, or at the center of the room, all of them framed by the harsh shadows cast by a flashing array of light that shown through the floor.

Fyrehowl stared straight up, looking at the unlit stretch of space that spiraled up above them all. The upper portion of the tower was nothing but a shell, a single unoccupied space, a vault above the platform between the three lower towers.

Florian was looking down through a number of clear crystalline sections of the floor, windows down into the interior hollow bounded by the lower towers. Perched upon the rock far below, the Ghyris Vast's Divinity Leach issued forth a cold and surreal light that washed up and over her, highlighting the graven, artistic spirals of fiendish runes that had been hand carved into the frozen flesh of the godisle; flesh that was bleeding. The spirals were an open, weeping wound on the dead god’s flesh, wounds filled with silvery blood that seemed tinged with scarlet, leaking reddish light like the orbs of Carceri did. The carved designs and runes were where the wards that protected the other godisles in the storm were anchored, it was a power drawn up from and powered by the torment and desecration of Aoskar's corpse.

Kiro was looking at the floor itself, and the mosaics that covered the floor in a unique and disturbing iconography. There were nine crimson spheres set in a circular motif, each of them composed of a smaller, recursive spiral of nestled orbs; all symbols of Carceri, and each of them was marked and discolored by tarnish, verdigris, and unpolished sections as if the orbs were diseased or rotting. The yugoloth dream of a conquered Carceri bent to their will, infected by their kind just like they'd done to Gehenna when they'd bubbled out of the Waste into that adjacent plane.

But regardless of what individual things caught their attention, eventually all eyes turned to the center of the room where a sparkling portal hovered several inches above the floor like a bleeding wound wrenched open in the flesh of the Astral.

"So who wants to go first?" Toras asked.

"Umm..." Florian replied, "This isn't what I expected truth be told."

Nisha asked the obvious question, "Where's it go?"

"Please not the lower planes..." Fyrehowl said, glancing back down towards another portal far below that shed the light of the Waste onto the godisle and Vast's device alike.

"No, it doesn't." Tristol said, casting a minor divination spell. "It's a keyed portal to multiple places."

"Where's it go now?" Clueless asked. "And where else can it go?"

He shrugged, "It's hard to tell, but the keys appear to be the whim of whoever made it. And right now it's going to the ethereal, but it can also go to Othrys."

"A demiplane." Kiro said. The ethereal was the spawning ground of such creations.

"Carceri..." Clueless muttered. Othrys was its first layer, and he'd been there before, and never in pleasant circumstances.

"Are we ready then?" Florian asked. "Now or never."

They inhaled, readied their weapons for whatever they might find on the other side, and tried to ignore the idea that wherever they went, they might not all survive. Kiro more than the others knew this was a possibility, but he wasn't as worried, not so long as the Balance was served, and with that in mind he was the first person through the portal, followed closely afterwards by Clueless who was also trying to ignore a familiar itch in his ankle.


***​

"Do come in..."


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## shilsen

Shemeska said:
			
		

> "Do come in..."




  

That was just beautiful, Shemmie!


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## bluegodjanus

I'll consider this a Christmas present from you to all of us. And it's quite a wonderful present, at that.


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## recentcoin

I second that.....Merry Christmas, Shemmy et. al.


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## Shemeska

*Have a very 'lothy New Year!*

The voice was syrupy, thick with amusement and clotted with malice. "As I said, do come in, the quicker to get this over with."

They stood in an open air chamber at the peak of a high tower, a vaulted stone cupola whose arched terraces overlooked a dark, perpetually twilight landscape of thick forest bathed in the light of a full moon. The air was cool and carried the scent of wood smoke and tiny particulate ash, hinting at the some hellish forest fire just beyond the edge of the dusky horizon. The portal that had deposited them there was gone, apparently having been one way, and from where it had dropped them in the middle of the demiplane, they stood looking up into the face of a fiend.

Playing with a crystalline scrying globe in one backwards oriented paw, a tiger-headed rakshasa looking down at them from where she lounged in a padded chair, a look of petulant amusement across her face. Her form being what it was, they already knew that whatever her true identity, she had killed the Lady Brampandra and it was that other fiend's form that cloaked her as much as the blue and silver robe that she wore.

The faux-rakshasa cupped the scry globe in both hands and grinned at her guests with a wide tigerish smile. She didn't seem concerned at the group of eight standing less than twenty feet from her with weapons drawn; in fact she looked to be perched somewhere on the line between petty amusement and uncaring brutality. So full of herself, so self-assured, she might be goaded into violence with a single wrong statement.

The gem in Clueless's ankle was itching. Beyond the point of distraction, it was almost painful. Fyrehowl had the urge to run, except that there was no apparent exit, and the demiplane's visual appearance didn't seem to translate into its actual physical dimensions. Tristol's tail was fluffed out like the brush of a Sigilian chimneysweep, and he felt an almost static ripple when the fiend's eyes passed over him, such was the intensity of magic that seemed present on her person.

Kiro however... Kiro didn't seem worried in the same way. Somewhere between confident and calm resignation, his gaze hadn't left the fiend's eyes once.

"I’ve grown tired of you pin pricking at me and mine," She said, snarling softly. "And likewise I haven't appreciated you sending Yethmiil back to me a bloodied husk on two separate occasions now. But I can assure you that he suffered more at my hands than yours. It speaks well of your competence, but as much as that is an admirable quality, I can’t have you disrupting my activities here anymore than you have already. With everything you’ve done, you haven’t changed ANYTHING."

"Just what the f*ck are you?" Toras asked.

“What am I?" She asked in reply, looking down at one of her own backwards paws.

"I already know -what- you are." Kiro explained. "It's who exactly you are that I don't."

Something in the cleric's tone was odd. Even for a Settite, there was too much cold confidence there.

"We know that you're a 'loth." Clueless said. "You can drop the pretense."

"Agreed," She said, tossing the globe off to one side where it hung in mid-air. "This ruse is tiring, but necessary I will admit. My Love does not desire the gith, or the psurlon, or The Guardian to find out what we seek. Though in truth, the psurlon and gith are soon to be embroiled in their own war presently and do not pose a threat, though Vlaakith has done her best to peer inside even here… and been rebuffed harshly each and every time. I would like to see the look of frustration on her withered, blackened face, but alas she has wardings nearly as potent as mine, and I have neither the time nor the motivation to do so. Other things are more important you see."

She shrugged and snapped her fingers, and they watched as the features of a noble rakshasa melted away and evaporated like spilled wine, leaving in its passage not the dregs of the bottle, but a corruption altogether worse.

They'd expected an ultroloth, but the lithe, jackal-headed figure seated in front of them was anything but one of the faceless lords of the Waste. An expression of exuberant, fanatical malice was written in the lines of her face, the sheen of spittle on fangs, and the tension of lean muscle under tan fur. She was an arcanaloth, at least that was what their first impression was, except that her eyes were glowing and flickering with the fierce patterns of an ultroloth's.

Clueless's eyes went wide. "Ah sh*t..."

He'd seen her before.

Behind the bladesinger, Nisha cringed and a hand went to her mouth. As whimsical and chaotic as her mind might have been at times, certain things burned themselves indelibly into the brain's fabric, and her memory lurched back to earlier that year in the Palace of Dandy Will in the City-at-the-Center.

Shylara Akt'Atarm. That was the name she had been called at the time by her erstwhile lord, the ultroloth Palinarius, himself a servitor of Anthraxus. The former Oinoloth was dead, executed, and very likely the same thing had befallen the arcanaloth's former liege. But something suggested that she'd never truly been working for him at all, and that her loyalties had always lain elsewhere. Given the flicker in her eyes, whatever that truly implied about her nature, betrayal had improved her lot in life.

She'd been a scribe then, just another one of the rank and file of her caste, endlessly jotting down the names of the damned, the prices of souls, and the contractual obligations of the purchased or deceived. She'd been the dutiful scribe, the obedient servitor, or she'd at least put on a good show of such at the time.

Clueless and Nisha had last seen her dressed in simple blue robes, nothing very special, with fingertips singed and lacquered in a veneer of caramelized blood, much like a mortal scribe's fingers might be stained with ink and gum. But no longer, as the fiend sitting before them glittered with nearly two dozen rings and earrings, and rather than robes, she was dressed, if the word truly applied, in what amounted to little more than a blue satin loincloth and a single long ribbon of blue leather that crisscrossed her body, obscuring a select few inches of her breasts but otherwise leaving nothing to the imagination.

"Now as for two of you, I believe that we've already met." She said with a chuckle, looking at Clueless and Nisha. "Though admittedly, circumstances were very different at the time, weren't they halfbreed?"

Idly she reached up and itched at her neck, and a moment later at her ear. Clueless remembered her doing that in the same habitual manner when he'd met her in Center. He also recalled that at the time she'd been glowing with illusion magic, though he hadn't had the chance to try to see beneath it, and he figured that if she'd previously wrapped herself in illusions when playing a rakshasa, who was to say that she still wasn't masking something about herself.

"Quite different." Clueless replied.

Aping a nervous gesture and grasping a hand to the side of his neck, he tapped the bubble of heavy magic nestled against the skin there, and willed a spell of true seeing into effect, hoping to pierce whatever illusions might still be wrapped around the fiend. Immediately the magic welled up inside of him like honey in his veins, thick and sweet, and a dozen layers of deception went transparent around the 'loth, but Clueless immediately wished that he could take it back and scrub the image from his mind permanently.

Far from the elegant, brushed and decorated fiend that sat before them preening and dressed as provocatively as possible, the figure beneath the illusions was abhorrent. Clueless suddenly understood why when he'd first met her, she'd been unconsciously itching, scratching and worrying some unseen irritation: her flesh was a bleeding and manged patchwork of inflamed and irritated skin covered in self-inflicted cuts, interposed by clumps of ragged, blood-slicked fur and open, weeping sores.

Blanching slightly and swallowing hard, Clueless tried his best to mask his disgust as simply worry or fear, something that played across the faces of every one of his companions. 

"But for the rest of you yet to make my acquaintance, mortals and otherwise, know that you stand in the presence of Shylara the Manged, Overlord of Carceri, consort to the Oinoloth." The archfiend spread her hands in mock hospitality. "But your presence here is an unfortunate one..."

The room grew uncomfortably silent and the wind whistled softly through the chamber's open heights.

"I could kill you one by one." Shylara continued, leaning forward. "Rip out your organs, paint the walls in your blood, give you the same experience I've given to quite a few githyanki in the past year."

"You're welcome to try." Florian said, keeping her composure.

She laughed and snapped her fingers, "Bluster all you like godslave, but you stand before an archfiend." 

The space flanking the yugoloth lord shimmered and rippled, and the drifting, billowing forms of a pair of astraloths congealed into being at the side of their mistress. They took no action, but their blind heads craned towards her like slavering, obedient puppies held tight on a very tenuous leash. They were eager for a sign, but her eyes were closed for the moment, and there was a visible shiver that coursed through her body, a tremble through her breasts and twitch of her tongue as she bit her lower lip and soaked up the welling sense of despair that filled the room.

"You'll be stopped." Fyrehowl said. "You'll be made to account for what you did to Elysium."

Shylara's eyes sprung open and focused on the lupinal for the first time. "The filth can speak! Would you like to know just what happened there at Rubicon? I could tell you..."

She sneered and Fyrehowl snarled, the first tear welling in one eye.

"Alas, I was not there to see it myself." She lamented. "I was not granted that pleasure, but the Ebon has told me what he saw. He was there you know. The Oinoloth himself stood on your plane before he ripped a piece of it away and drew it across the breadth of the planes with him. He was there for the slaughter, the executions, and the defilement. He painted the walls, he drove the nails, he..."

Toras and Florian held Fyrehowl back before she launched herself across the room.

"But I am not the Ebon." She continued. "Though every child of the Waste might act in emulation of him, if even in the smallest way. I might emulate him, I might willingly submit to him as his whore, but I am not him. I am a flawed creature."

She paused for dramatic effect.

"And so I will be merciful to you."

What? They stared at the fiend, uncertain of how to respond. Surely she was mocking them, toying with them, giving them false hope somehow. She was yugoloth, the closest thing to an elemental of lies that there was.

"What?" Skalliska asked.

"I will provide you with the means of your salvation." She explained, rapping the claws of one hand across the side of her chair, and to Clueless's vision leaving a smear of blood and puss behind.

"One of you will die." She said. "One of you will willingly die at my hands, and in return, as a flawed and imperfect fiend, I will release the rest of you to go upon your way. You will be free to leave, and I will give you egress away from my demiplane, but one of you must choose to die here. Now. Permanently and without hope of resurrection. Serve yourself up upon my gilded platter, suffer for the sake of the others."

"B*tch..." Toras said, shaking his head and looking at his feet.

Fyrehowl snarled. The fiend was toying with them. She would dangle them hope and then snatch it away, but the offer was one that more than likely several of them would actually consider in order to save the others. The fiend would make their deaths meaningless and hollow, but before that point the chance to save companions, friends, or loved ones was too much to dismiss.

"You know what I am." Shylara said. "You've seen what I am capable of. I could kill you with an afterthought if I wished it. You have your chance at mercy. Will you accept it?"

The room was cold and quiet. The astraloths drifted, the archfiend licked her lips, and eyes darted to eyes as the question weighed heavily upon their hearts.

"Who will be my martyr?"

"Kill me." Kiro said, abruptly stepping forward before any of his companions could say a word otherwise.

The fiend blinked. The Settite. How unexpected.

"So be it." She said, masking her surprise at the priest's sacrifice.

But that was not the end of her surprise, or that of anyone else’s.

Kiro put his hands at his sides, seemingly at peace with his impending death. But his eyes were locked on the fiend, and he was smiling at her as if he knew some secret that she did not.

"We are aware of you." He said calmly, a moment before his features blurred, shifted and melted away.

Gone was the spindly human cleric in homespun clothes, and in his place was a lithe, copper-skinned humanoid with eyes like liquid, molten bronze. The cuprilach rilmani was still smiling at her, even as his former companions stared slack jawed in surprise at his true nature. They'd never once suspected him of being anything other than what he had claimed and seemed.

"Destroy a world and we will piece it back together. Build a nation and we will tear it down. Steal and plane and surely, surely you cannot expect for us not to act against you."

Shylara the Manged, the archfiend of Othrys was speechless, and if but for a moment she seemed completely taken back. A rilmani?! Kiro's revelation seemed to have blindsided her, combined with the fact that she hadn't discerned the cuprilach's nature before that point. Doubtless the Oinoloth was aware of their meddling, but had seen no need to inform her, or perhaps he'd known and considered it a test for her. A discrete portion of her mind tumbled over the possibilities while the rest stayed focused on the present and the slaughter soon to be.

Kiro turned back to his companions. "Do not worry for me."

He turned back to the fiend and once again smiled, "We know of you yugoloth. Kill me and let them go. May the Balance be served."

"Done." She snarled at him, standing up and barking a single invocation.

Kiro flinched, felt the air ripple and something wash over him... and then he looked back up at the fiend. Florian's death ward. The cleric of Tempus had cast one on him earlier in the day, and somehow it had held and nullified the fiend's incantation. He'd forgotten about the ward himself, and the fiend had never bothered to strip him of any protections before trying to execute him.

Florian's eyes went wide as she realized what had happened, and the others did a moment later as well as Shylara snarled in embarrassed rage.

"F*ck your Balance." She hissed, her lips peeled back in a snarl as she pointed at the Rilmani and hurled a second spell.

A crackling greenish ray burst from a claw and lanced towards her victim.

"I don't think so." Tristol blurted out.

The mage wasn't sure why he did it. It was part desperation, part the wish to save a friend, and frankly it just felt like the right thing to do at the time. When he spoke his hands were also moving on instinct, weaving the motions of a counterspell, weaving the same exact spell that Shylara had chosen to execute Kiro.

The spell's glow had barely left the surface of her eyes when it returned, as Tristol's conterspell caused the original disintegration to reflect back to its source. It struck her square in the chest, totally off guard and unprepared, and though it was blunted and absorbed by her own magical protections, her pride had been gored savagely and her composure snapped along with whatever veneer of stability she'd managed to present.

"YYYEEEAAAAAARRRRRGGGGHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!" She screamed with mad rage, eye's erupting with emerald flame, her hands down at her sides, and her fur standing on end. "DIE! ALL OF YOU!!!"

She was still shrieking when they attacked first and the two astraloths launched forward to protect her.

"Who the hell do we attack first?!" Toras shouted as he clenched his fist and invoked his celestial heritage to hurl a spell at the yugoloth constructs.

It was a good question. They fought a pair of astraloths, both of whom were only selectively vulnerable to damage or spells, and both of whom could easily decimate them with their energy draining touch. But ignore them at the expense of allowing their archfiend mistress to do whatever she was capable of?! What a choice...

The incorporeal fiends hissed and recoiled, repelled by the holy force, but it was only for a moment before they struck in a flailing, lashing storm of tentacles around Toras, Fyrehowl, and Kiro. The result would have been hideous, but for the moment still, they had the protections and wards from earlier, and an entire slew of beneficial spells that Tristol and Florian had cast before they had ever entered the tower atop Aoskar's corpse.

For the moment they held.

Florian held her holy symbol high and a column of holy flame descended on the Oinoloth's consort. The rage of Tempus was hot and strong, but his servant's ability to channel it paled against the archfiend's ability, and the spell was snuffed before it touched her, but the process of targeting the spell activated and launched the first of the fiend's contingencies.

From Shylara's perspective Clueless was a dozen feet away in the midst of casting, Tristol likewise, the kobold and Xaositect had yet to act, and the astraloths were enmeshed in combat with the rest of her enemies, spinning mobiles of life-sucking tentacles frozen in mid-air, frozen in time. The contingent time-stop afforded her the ability to layer the battlefield with spells before a single beat of her enemies hearts, and though she was at the nadir of her power for the present, her nature there in the demiplane being what it was, she was capable of much.

Time resumed and the air was cut with a hideous scream like the sound that surely must have echoed across Carceri when Cronus deposed his father Uranus. A circular wave of necromantic energy erupted from the fiend's mouth along with bloody spittle, a web of lightning lashed to each and every one of her enemies, and a bolt of darkness leapt from her finger towards Florian's chest.

All in the space of a scant few seconds the spells struck with the rising scent of ozone to herald their passage. Florian's death ward was still in place to blunt the force of the wail, but Kiro shuddered and struggled to resist it with all the force of his being even as he lashed with his swords at the tentacles of one of the astraloths. The lightning's effect was much more direct though, and the smell of burnt flesh soon joined the stench of ozone as the fiend's last spell struck Florian with full force.

The mortal was a cleric, a representative of a deity, one of the ignorant and overblown children of simpering mortal faith and worship. It was an object of faith, an object of belief, an icon of hope in whatever flavor it might present, and these things were anathema to the misery and hopelessness embodied by the yugoloth ideal; of course Shylara would target the godslave.

Florian staggered back and clutched her chest, feeling her heart quiver and skip a beat, and then another and then another as the fiend's spell sought to snuff her life-force. Shylara sought to will her death like she was a solitary yugoloth blowing out the last candle in the last temple upon a freshly sterilized world on the prime, snuffing the light into darkness before sending the world's star to nova.

Florian's hand clenched tight around her holy symbol, a prayer to Tempus tumbled from her lips, and she resisted, somehow she resisted. Somehow. And the fight raged on.

Blades flashed and tentacles dug into flesh, spells flickered and died against wards or innate and inborn resistance to magic. Everything seemed to happen so quickly in a maddening blur, but paradoxically to all occur in a sluggish fog moment by moment and action by action with each beat of the heart. The fiend was laughing, cackling with mad abandon and sadistic glee, acting without any apparent regard to herself, offering no defense outside of whatever she might have prepared earlier.

But that might have been enough as a bolt of lightning from Clueless's sword, and a cone of cold from Fyrehowl's hand both dissipated against Shylara's body without touching her in the slightest. Her astraloths were faring poorly as they darted to cover her, opening themselves to opportunistic strikes by Kiro, but they were giving as much damage as they took, leaving their targets drained multiple times over, Toras especially.

Tristol saw the toll the astral fiends were inflicting, and likewise the brutality of the archfiend's spells. Even one of Shylara's spells might kill, or kill multiple times over, and their own defenses simply weren't sufficient; in fact he was surprised that they were still alive, and he wanted to remain that way as he cast his next spell.

"Nisha! Skalliska!" He shouted as his spell blanketed him in a bubble of antimagic. "Get close to me! The rest of you too!"

In an instant Nisha was next to him, hugging tight around his chest almost to the point of hindering his ability to breath, let alone cast, but the others seemed far too preoccupied with the fight to consider a tactical retreat away from the archfiend's magic or the worst effect's of the astraloth's tentacles.

Meanwhile a slice from Razor clipped the archfiend's flesh and drew blood just before once again, for the second time, time stood still. Again, it was only a scant few moments, but the fiend used her time to layer the air thick with spells without giving any regard to the quarter inch of steel that had just opened a bleeding line across her abdomen.

The demiplane returned to the proper flow of time, and became like Phlegethos in an instant as a trio of massive fireballs detonated directly atop of Shylara and expanded outwards to envelope the entire chamber and everything in it. Air turned to flame and lungs were burned and wounds cauterized wherever wards and resistances did not at least protect from some of the damage, but the astraloths were struck just as much, and their nature seemed to preclude their resistance to that element in the slightest.

Her servants or not, she didn't care; the Ebon would create more for her. Let them die. She called more spells to mind and simply watched them absorb more and more wounds from her mortal and immortal foes, themselves brutally injured or near death as it was. It would all end shortly.

Toras plunged his sword into the center of the nearest Astraloth and watched it dissolve upon death, falling backwards and out of phase and visibility as its twin was consumed in a column of flame invoked by Florian. All that was left was the fiend.

"She's about the cast again!" Skalliska shouted. "Someone f*cking stop her!"

Tristol whimpered and his tail twitched nervously as he half expected a shout of "Get her Tristol!" to erupt from somewhere. He might be able to stop her from casting if he got close to her, but she was an archfiend, and magic or not she could rip him to pieces with her bare hands if needed.

Time didn't stop for a third time, but her actions were supernaturally sped up nonetheless, and before they could act to counter her, she was hurling spells again. First a burning column of multicolored light leapt from one hand and struck Clueless, some manner of single target prismatic spray, covering him in a sheet of flame and cloud of poison. The bladesinger was burned, but the spell's effects could have been much worse, and his fey heritage protected him from its other effects, but then the second spell went from the fiend's mind and into reality.

From inside his antimagic field Tristol watched the spell erupt from the fiend as a thousand drops of syrupy black blood leaking from her every pore and orifice, evaporating into sinuous tendrils of glistening, sickly vapor that swirled about her body before enveloping the chamber and surging towards nostrils and mouths, open wounds and anywhere they might find purchase and avenue of infection. Whatever it was it was unique and personal, something 9th sphere or maybe higher, he couldn't tell but only he and Nisha were safe from its cloying touch.

"Get out of there!" He screamed while Shylara laughed and then kissed two of her fingers like she was giving a perverse blessing to the spell.

He turned away when the fiend's gestures grew obscene and his companions began to stagger and choke, sores erupting on their body from contagion, as the spell sought to siphon away their physical and mental abilities. The effects were hideous, and for a moment he thought Skalliska and Toras might have been dead, even as Kiro, Clueless and Fyrehowl shuddered and contorted in agony, resisting the spell's worst effects through pure force of will. But then Florian gripped her holy symbol and hurled a spell while the fiend was still knuckledeep in self-indulgent perversity and unprepared for any counterattack.

It was the highest sphere spell that Florian still retained in memory, and it was a powerful spell at that. Directly invoking the wrath of her god, Florian called out for the fiend's utter and complete destruction, and somehow it seemed to actually work.

Shylara paused and shuddered as her spell abruptly ended and her hands went slack. Her eyes went wide and their light dimmed as the flame that had previously licked from her sockets guttered and died. She stumbled on her feet and blinked, momentarily disoriented before she finally looked back up for one last moment of eye contact before her body imploded upon itself, leaving behind only a ragged stain of slurried blood and ashes.

"...f*ck..." Florian said, falling to her knees and catching her breath amid the pain.

Clueless blinked in disbelief and looked over at Kiro, shocked and overwhelmed that they had survived. They were both brutally injured and covered in lesions from virtually head to toe, weakened terribly in mind and body alike, but they were alive.

Suddenly from behind them, there was a sound.

*CLAP* 

A pair of hands slowly and deliberately smacked together. 

*CLAP* 

Again. 

*CLAP* 

A third time.

They spun around to see the fading glow of a closing gate and the snarling, blood slicked figure of Shylara the Manged, devoid of illusions, as she walked towards them leaving a trail of crimson footprints in her wake. No words. No dire speech. Just a bestial expression and a rapid gesture in the air before their moment of shock had passed.

How?! She was dead! They'd watched her die! F*ck!

One gesture from the archfiend's hand and Tristol watched as she called down a 9th sphere evocation, one of the most powerful spells he was even aware of short of a wish. In a split second the roof of the chamber was ripped apart and open as a burning globe of hatred and molten iron hurtled from out of the sky directly onto where Kiro stood, striking home and then exploding, immolating the rilmani and sending everyone, himself included scrambling, screaming, tumbling for shelter from the rain of burning metal and fragmented stone.

He couldn't see anything except for the archfiend's form standing black against the smoke, alone on the rim of the crater overlooking Kiro's atomized remains. Tristol didn't know if anyone besides himself and Nisha were still alive. He didn't have the slightest clue.

Time seemed to stand still for a moment, and then for the second time that day, Tristol acted purely on instinct, something Fyrehowl or any other Cipher would have been proud of, but to tell the truth the second time around it was purely desperation. It was the first spell that came to mind, a random enough choice to make Nisha proud, desperation or not.

Each arcane syllable fell from his lips in perfect sequence, each dropping into place with the skill of an archwizard, and with a finality that would have resonated with his Netherese ancestors, it forced its way into reality and found a chink within the archfiend's wards. Perhaps she hadn't planned for it, perhaps he'd been lucky, perhaps her fury had distracted her from making the proper defense, perhaps perhaps perhaps but the end result was the same. 

Frozen in mid-snarl, the Overlord of Carceri stood there on the crater's rim petrified fast in stone, while deep within the bowels of the Tower of Incarnate Pain, the archfiend's true physical body lay catatonic and sessile, unable to act and unable to withdraw her mind from its stony tomb.


***​

Flickering blue light filtered down upon a desk carved from fossilized bones, a block of slate cut from the depths of the furnace of Krangath, the last traces of an ancient battlefield long since buried from a time only shortly after the beginning of the Blood War. A dozen books lay neatly arranged alongside a similar stack of bound and framed petitioners, all of them holding their own share of infernal knowledge, but for the time being they'd been roughly shoved aside, as roughly as their fastidious master might treat such things.

It wasn't a book that occupied the primary surface of the desk, not a book at all, but rather the feet of the desk's owner that lay sprawled atop it as he leaned back on his chair with another book leisurely perched in his lap. Pen moved across paper, and the pages were filled with an intricate array of flowing script, arranged in elaborate detail so as to convey a picture in the spacing and placement of their lines and characters.

There was a soft chuckle as the last word was penned into place and the picture of script was finished, having taken the form of the Overlord of Carceri's face at the moment of the petrification of her surrogate astral body. There was another chuckle and a claw brushed the surface of the page like its author were stroking the face of a child who'd fallen, bruised their knee, and then come running to cry and whimper to an adult.

Another chuckle, another smile at the page, and finally Helekanalaith broke into laughter.


***​


----------



## shilsen

Damn!

I mean ... well ... damn !


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## Burningspear

....."absolute silence".... and then, Whow....................................... WICKED!!!!!!!!!!!!!!


All Hail Shemmy

(and the players in the campaign ofcourse)

btw, Happy New Year.


----------



## Shemeska

A couple of comments on the game those events happened in:

Tristol's player rolled a nat 20 on the flesh to stone, and I rolled a critical miss for Shylara on her save versus the spell.

When they "killed" her the first time, it was nearly a TPK already from the pure number of spells she was tossing out in the space of every round, and there was silence when I took a break to go get a drink, and then walked back into the room doing the clapping and all and told them what they saw. Shylara was pulling a little trick with astral projection: projecting from Carceri and then diving through a color pool to form a surrogate body.

In the surrogate body she was then just gating or planeshifting to the demiplane or wherever else she needed to be. If "killed" in that form no harm to her, she'd just wake up in Carceri and do it again. But the petrification denied her the ability to end her projection, or do much of anything, and she was so recently ascended to her position of power that she hadn't yet learned to do planar projections like other more powerful archfiends rather than using the color pool trick. Lots and lots of power, but just not the experience to use it as fully as other similar beings might be capable of.

So what do you do with an archfiend if you happen to find yourself in possession of one? That's the ten million jink question.


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## jensun

Excellent update.

How did your players react when the realised they had to fight her for the first time?

What about the second?

As for the body 2 options spring to mind.  Leave it the hell alone and run, very fast and very far or take it somewhere it cant be retrieved.  Pitiless or an upper plane perhaps? 

For true meaness if you have a party member willing to commit suicide take it to Sigil and then break the spell and let the Lady of Pain do your work for you.  Of course, none of them might ever be able to go back again after it.


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## Eco-Mono

Shemeska said:
			
		

> So what do you do with an archfiend if you happen to find yourself in possession of one? That's the ten million jink question.



Are you implying that they should sell her back for ten million jink?


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## The Forsaken One

Sep 2 updates and here 2 updates! *drool*

best christmas ever


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## Toras

Ahh. The Wack-a-Loth moment.  

We had a few options.
1) Throw her into the blades in the God Corpse of Aoskar
2) Stone Shape her into something fitting, and hand her over to the Rilmani
3) Bring her to Sigil and throw her over the side (dangerous)
4) Hand her over to Apomps (amusing)


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## jensun

One quick question from someone unfamiliar with Palnescape.

Who or what are the Rilmani?  I get the impression they aresome sort of defenders of the balance  ut thats about it.  Are they more concerned with the good/evil or law/chaos struggle or both?  Given the powers involved on either side how do they manage to make any sort of difference.


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## Shemeska

jensun said:
			
		

> One quick question from someone unfamiliar with Palnescape.
> 
> Who or what are the Rilmani?  I get the impression they aresome sort of defenders of the balance  ut thats about it.  Are they more concerned with the good/evil or law/chaos struggle or both?  Given the powers involved on either side how do they manage to make any sort of difference.




The Rilmani are true neutral outsider race, native to the Outlands. They personify the idea of active neutrality, a Balance between and of the other alignments rather than an absence of them. They're typically very reclusive, and seek to keep the other alignments balanced on the planes, on the prime, even going so far as to act to keep alignments and elements balanced against one another on the inner planes.

Rilmani first popped up in the 2e PSMC II, and the Aurumach, Ferrumach, and Cuplilach rilmani appear in 3e in the Fiend Folio. Kiro is a cuprilach, and Shemeska's guard/groomer/assassin/mirror holder Colcook is an argenach (not that she appears to be aware of his nature). The Rilmani will continue to make an appearance in my campaign/storyhour as the story progresses, largely because the fiends have already tilted the Balance in some ways, and will threaten to do so on a much grander scale in the future. Fun stuff.


----------



## Belen

Hey Shemeska will you and your crew be at the January gameday?  Just checking since we have not heard anything from you guys.


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## Shemeska

BelenUmeria said:
			
		

> Hey Shemeska will you and your crew be at the January gameday?  Just checking since we have not heard anything from you guys.




I honestly can't say. I'm not running anything obviously, and I've yet to sign up for any games. Between my job, my normal campaign on the weekends, and a number of writing projects on the side, my time has been a rapidly shrinking thing.

At the very least I'll show up for the dinner to see everyone and chatter and be social, but I can't honestly say if I'll be there for any games.


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## Inconsequenti-AL

Wow!

Thanks.


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## sciborg2

Tristol reminds of Shippo from Inuyasha, I find myself wondering why he doesn't yell "Fox Magic!" before each spell he casts....


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## PhoenixDarkDirk

sciborg2 said:
			
		

> Tristol reminds of Shippo from Inuyasha, I find myself wondering why he doesn't yell "Fox Magic!" before each spell he casts....




But Tristol says that illusions suck, and Shippo hardly has anything but illusions.


----------



## Graywolf-ELM

I love returning to the boards after time away, and coming back to read multiple updates like that.  I feel like I finished a Novel, and now it is time for the next in the series.

Thank you much,
Graywolf


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## sciborg2

<<But Tristol says that illusions suck, and Shippo hardly has anything but illusions.>>

Hmmm....good point. Perhaps Shippo is his ancestor or something...


----------



## A Crazy Fool

Toras said:
			
		

> Ahh. The Wack-a-Loth moment.
> 
> We had a few options.
> 1) Throw her into the blades in the God Corpse of Aoskar
> 2) Stone Shape her into something fitting, and hand her over to the Rilmani
> 3) Bring her to Sigil and throw her over the side (dangerous)
> 4) Hand her over to Apomps (amusing)





my players might have thought of #1, maybe #2 as well, but throw shylara off the edge of sigil or hand her over to apomps? that's brilliant (apomps sounds fun  ).


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## Tal Rasha

I assume that the players did not have too much time to think about this. A pity really, one could sit about for hours discussing what to do with the Oinoloth's consort. So, let's play a game and try to find some other cool options until Shemeska tells us what actually happened. Possibilities:

1) Take her to the Positive/Negative Energy Plane or some other highly destructive place.

2) Ransom her for that missing piece of Elysium or for something else of value.

3) Cut off the statue's head and place it in front of the Marauder's shop with a note saying: "The PCs hack slow, but they hack exceedingly fine"   

Two things that aren't clear to me: Would Shylara die if you destroyed her stone shape? And, why would it have been dangerous to throw her over Sigil's side?


----------



## Eco-Mono

Tal Rasha said:
			
		

> Would Shylara die if you destroyed her stone shape?



Presumably, yes. I'd rule it that way. And if she died, she'd wake back up in her _real_ body and be back to her old tricks.







> And, why would it have been dangerous to throw her over Sigil's side?



Because taking an Archfiend - even a petrified one - into Sigil is bending the "no gods" rule, and most people aren't comfortable bending that particular class of rule.


----------



## Toras

1) Any archfiend worth their salt has attunement effects, and even if we did take her there it would be the same as smashing her save slightly slower.

2) Ransom assumes both affection and the ability to do business with anyone of similar or even less ranking stature.

3) Would be effective say for that whole Archfiends in Sigil, not wanting to be connected to it, and really, it could simply be a stone head.  (also possibly destructive)


----------



## Tristol

Tal Rasha said:
			
		

> Two things that aren't clear to me: Would Shylara die if you destroyed her stone shape? And, why would it have been dangerous to throw her over Sigil's side?




Most people would like to say 'Yes', but in this case we reasoned a no. We discussed how we could even beat the archfiend in the first place, and given that if we just kept killing her we'd just have to wait until she ran out of spells to get her here. But, if she were a smart fiend (which they typically are) she'd be doing this from some relatively safe location with plenty of access to scrolls and other magical items for the purpose of continuing this on. As PC's we didn't have enough spells and such to keep this up that long, and being trapped in a demi-plane sort of puts a damper on escaping. So, the logic happened that if we turned her into stone we have a chance of at least 'taking a breather'. The Astral Projection spell pretty much states that if your projection dies, you don't die, you just retutn to your body. So, destroying the stone fiend was out of the question. We also reasoned that if you're petrified, you don't really have the ability to dismiss a spell (similar to not being able to use magical abilities when petrified), and you're also not dead, so it was an effective stopgap to a 9th level no-time-limit spell. Fortunately, our DM agreed with us, and we had a frozen loth to play with.

We came up with a LOT of options of what to do with her. The one favored by myself was finding the silver astral cord and cutting it, killing the original and the copy. Finding one of those cords would be a pain though, since we had no clue what portals and color pools she was using (nor at that moment did we really know the exact nature of how she was surviving, just an in character theory or two). Tossing her over Sigil wasn't destroying the stone copy, but we figured it'd be difficult at best to even attempt it. And the other options, well, mostly just amusing. You also have to consider the PC motivations. A petrified archfiend makes for a good bargaining chip as well. In retrospect, what we ultimately ended up doing with the fiend was something that shouldn't have happened, but when someone else makes the decisions for you (in more than one way), this party seldom argued about it (being the neutral to good trusting fools that they are). But, instead of spoiling it for you, I'll let you read on for the next installment.

And for those of you who are keeping up with the diary, this particulal sequence started on page 32. You'll want to stop with the end of the paragraph at the beginning of page 38 to keep up.


----------



## Dakkareth

> *Welcome, Dakkareth.*
> You last visited: 12-25-05 at 05:32 PM



It can't have been this long, can it? Have I really been Out of Town for over a year?

*shakes his head*

Know, oh Shemeska, that if the infinities of Exalted and Planescape clash violently in my head, breaking my mind, it will be your fault.   And I suspect, I will thank you for it.

But for now, there's a Story Hour to read ... it's the reason I came back, after all  .


----------



## Shemeska

Several long minutes passed in complete silence, but nothing happened. The petrified yugoloth lord's statue remained cold and frozen, the spell didn't fail nor did some delayed counterspell on her part release her, and no further projected copies of the archfiend sprang into existence.

"What in the name of Tempus just happened?" Florian asked, still recovering from the double-edged shock of the archfiend’s reappearance, and her subsequent petrification.

The snarling, hideous granite visage of Shylara the Manged gave no reply.

	“Grace of Mystra.” Tristol exhaled. “That actually worked.”

	Florian turned and looked at the mage. “What Tristol? What just worked?”

	“I petrified her.” He replied, breaking into a grin. “Stone to Flesh.”

	“Why don’t you look worried?” Skalliska asked. “We just killed her a minute ago and she came back. For all we know she’s just sending avatars after us.”

	Tristol nodded, “She was astrally projecting from somewhere else, probably Carceri, and then…”

	Skalliska’s eyes went wide and a grin sprouted on her snout as she understood where the wizard was going. “She’s stuck! Hah!”

	“Somebody explain to the non-wizard please.” Toras asked, not quite as relaxed as the others.

	“I figure she was astrally projecting, and then diving through a color pool somewhere, or multiple color pools.” Tristol explained. “And when you do that combination of things, you form a surrogate astral body on whatever plane the pool goes to.”

	“It makes a perfect copy of you.” Skalliska added. “Complete with everything you might have had on you.”

	“She didn’t exactly have much on her…” Fyrehowl said with a mock gag.

	Clueless looked at the naked statue of the archfiend, and fey heritage or not, the lack of clothing wasn’t helping anything.

	“But yeah.” Tristol said. “We kill that form and she just wakes back up, slightly pissed off, but no worse for wear. A few minutes is all it takes and she’s back here going after us again. But she’s not dead.”

	Toras smacked his hands together. “You can’t end that spell if you’re petrified. How long is she stuck for?”

	“In theory, in perpetuity.” Tristol said. “The petrification is permanent unless you counteract it with another spell, and astral projection lasts till you end the spell.”

	“Which the b*tch can’t do.” Florian said triumphantly.

	“We have our own archfiend.” Clueless said. “We. Have. Our. Own. Archfiend.”

	All eyes turned to the statue, but once again the petrified form of Shylara the Manged gave no reply.

	The fight was over, the smoke had cleared both physically and metaphorically, but there was no apparent exit from the demiplane, and the lurid chunk of imprisoned archfiend was still there like a metaphorical 800lb fiendish gorilla in the room.

	Nisha noticed the proverbial gorilla. “So what the hell do we do now?”

	Good question. Very good question.

	“We can’t destroy the statue.” Clueless said. “She’ll just wake up back in Carceri.”

	“We’ll stick her in Pitiless.” Florian suggested.

	It was a nice idea. But the wardens of the prison weren’t likely to accept such an occupant from them given their recent experience there. Plus, the ‘loths seemed likely to raze the prison to its foundations just to get one of their own back, and to hell with the consequences of various displeased persons and deities who might have had things squirreled away there as well. A dragon, a phylactery, a risen fiend, a fallen avoral… they paled in importance compared to an actual archfiend.

	Fyrehowl shook her head. “I’m not sure they’ll even agree to see us, let along take Shylara off our hands.”

	Clueless had to agree. “She won’t stay there a week. Her servants or the Oinoloth, or someone who owes her a favor will break her out.”

	So no dice on that option. But it was a large multiverse, and there were other choices left; plenty of choices.

	“We dump her into the Negative Energy Plane.” Toras mused.

	“She’ll eventually decay and _die_.” Skalliska countered. “Matter doesn’t last long there.”

	The fighter tilted his head. “The Positive Energy Plane then?”

	Again the kobold shook her head. The sentiment was nice, and it was a hellish place if there ever was one, but without a way to keep it safe from the environment, it wouldn’t last long there either.

	“Like ice in the plane of fire.” She explained. “It’d last longer in Negative.”

	Fyrehowl waved her hands, “Alright, maybe we’re looking at this the wrong way. Rather than thinking about _where_ to stick her statue, maybe we should think about who might think it valuable, and who might take it off our hands.”

	Toras started to snicker.

	“What?” Fyrehowl asked, looking at him oddly.

	“How about we stoneshape her into an awkward position, and then give her to the Marauder?”

	Behind the fighter, Clueless opened his mouth and cupped his hand just in front of his chin.

	“Dude!” Florian said, trying to avoid choking. “I don’t think she’s got one of those to…”

	The cleric shook her head violently, breaking off that line of thought entirely. “No. You know, I really don’t want to know the answer to that question. That’s knowledge I can bloody well live without. Eeeeehhhhhh….”

	Clueless and Fyrehowl both laughed and the tips of Tristol’s ears grew red.

	“Ok. But seriously.” Fyrehowl asked. “Any ideas?”

	“I was being somewhat serious.” Toras said. “At least maybe with the stoneshape part…”

	“I’m still worried about her underlings coming after us.” Tristol said. “Or the Oinoloth himself.”

	Clueless shrugged. “Her underlings are probably more inclined to kill her and take her place once they discover that she’s in a coma more or less.”

	“Loyalty isn’t their strong point.” Fyrehowl said. “And considering how much they were worried about letting their activities here be widely known, I’d bet that the Oinoloth would let her suffer for any failure.”

	“And she seems to love him.” Clueless muttered, shaking his head. “She’s messed up.”

	“Be that as it might, it’s still a risk we need to consider.” Florian said. “If she gets out, they’ll be coming for us. So we need to think long term solutions.”

	“We can always just dump her into one of the upper planes.” Fyrehowl suggested. “You take Belarian, we take one of your lords. Kiro might like the sense of Balance.”

	There was a momentary silence at the mention of Kiro’s name. Rilmani or not, he was dead for the moment, and given who killed him, and what he was, it was an open question if they’d ever see him again. It was too soon.

	“Maybe.” Toras said with a nod. “Or we could find a god that wants to take her into their domain for safe keeping.”

	“How about another archfiend?” Clueless suggested. “Evil isn’t monolithic by any means. And surely Shylara has some enemies on the lower planes.”

	One very immediate answer was bubbling up like hot tar in their minds, but no one wanted to be the first to suggest it as a possible answer to their dilemma. There was always one singular, or triplicate, figure on the lower planes who hated the ‘loths with a passion, and they’d already had some manner of communication with it, or at least one of its creations/children/proxies. But was it safe making a deal with an exiled deity/Baernaloth?

	“We could sell her to Apomps.” Florian said, speaking what everyone else was thinking.

	Fyrehowl raised an eyebrow. “And you’re willing to travel to Agathys to go ask him? And that’s on Carceri, right in the thick of where she holds power.”

	“Well, we’ve already spoken to a gehreleth,” Florian said. “And it’s almost as if he can see through them. We just need to find another one, and there was that Xideous fellow that was supposed to get back up with us at some point anyway.”

	“I’d rather not deal with yet more fiends.” Fyrehowl said.

	“Alright, so no fiends. Let’s take her to Sigil, and throw her over the side.” Skalliska suggested. “I don’t have a clue what actually might happen, but nothing that’s ever been hurled over the edge, be it object or person, has ever been found again.”

	Tristol’s tail twitched uncomfortably. “But umm… we’d have to take an archfiend into Sigil. I don’t think that’s exactly safe.”

	Nisha stuck her tongue out. “Mazing equals not fun.”

	“Point taken.” The kobold replied.

	They continued to discuss other alternatives, and Tristol and Skalliska started to examine the interior of the demiplane/tower summit more closely for some hints of an exit, or latent portals. But in the meantime, Clueless was in a mood to gloat, even if the imprisoned archfiend wasn’t in a position to reply, or likely even be aware of what was being said.

	“Funny isn’t it.” The half-fey said as he leaned in close to the statue and looked it in the eyes. “I bet none of this ever crossed your mind when we met in Center. Well b*tch, the jokes on you I think.”

	He laughed in her face and tapped the top of her muzzle like he was correcting the behavior of an ill-mannered puppydog.

	“Oh man…” He said, grinning a mile-wide grin. “I just wish I knew what the hell was going through your head right now. I’d enjoy that frustration of yours more than anything.”

	Clueless reached up and comically scratched between her ears, then under her chin, then between her cleavage. “I wonder if you’ve got an itch while you’re stuck like this? Like that spot between your shoulder blades that you can’t quite reach to scratch, but on your entire body, and worse than anything I’ve ever seen. Stuck like that with an itch you can’t worry for a few decades, or centuries, or longer… suits you.”

	It felt good to mock her from a position where she couldn’t act against him. Something in the bladesinger wanted more though, either to know what she was thinking, or to have a few questions answered by her from her current position of powerlessness. She didn’t have a mind currently, so a normal spell to detect thoughts wasn’t an option, and she was neither dead nor did she have a regular tongue to use necromancy to speak with her body. But the statue was inanimate for any relevant purpose, so it didn’t seem absurd to attempt to legend lore the hunk of intricate, grotesque stone and maybe glean a few tidbits of information about the fiend and her plans.

	Clueless turned around self-consciously. There wasn’t anyone directly watching him to object to his idea, as the others were still discussing what to do with her, or looking for any exit from the demiplane.

Toras grinned at Fyrehowl, “Elysium maybe, but I still say that we should just take her and dump her in the shallows on Celestia’s first layer in view of Bahamut’s domain. I’m past just useful location now and into indignity.”

	No, they weren’t paying attention at all. And so all it would take would be a delicate tap of the heavy magic bubble on his neck and another slap of the archfiend’s petrified muzzle. It was easy, it was elegant, and it was a needless and hideous risk to plumb the mind of such a creature.

	Clueless tapped his neck and felt the magic well within him as the spell took shape within his mind. A simple spell to use, and it would hopefully take little more than a few moments of real time. The fiend was frozen in stone, and despite her snarling face only a few inches from his own grin, she couldn’t do a thing; of course not. But when he triggered the magic and touched his index finger to her tongue with a soft chuckle, something felt suddenly terribly, horribly wrong.


***​

	In retrospect, it felt like the momentary pause after jumping over the edge of a massive canyon, that single moment before gravity’s clutches took their hold and pulled you down to earth. Except the abyss he stood over wasn’t some physical chasm, but the unplumbed watery, frigid depths of an archfiend’s mind. The depths were hungry and enraged, and Clueless felt the gravity of his mistake in that one moment before he was ensnared by a multitude of grasping, gripping fingers that pulled him down into liquid darkness.


	“What the hell…” Clueless said as he opened his eyes and looked around.

	He was no longer in the demiplane, and though his finger was still outstretched in front of him from where he’d touched Shylara’s statue, the archfiend-gone-lawn-ornament was gone. Gone was the gentle breeze and open tower cupola of the demiplane, and Clueless gazed around with a growing tightness in his gut as he saw what had replaced it.

	A breeze washed across his face like the breath of a corpse or the wind off of a distant, stagnant ocean bobbing with bloated corpses, warm air that smelled of steel and blood. Clueless blinked and coughed. A moment later his reaction echoed back at him with a rustle of chains, steel on steel, and his first step forward was uncertain as the ground shifted and clattered under his weight.

	Clueless stood at the center of an endless jungle of glittering steel chains. The ground was an endless field of free lengths and coils of dulled, worn links spotted with rust, verdigris, sticky patches of blood and viscera, all of which periodically moved, gave slack, or tightened like the coiling of a slowly undulating sea of metallic serpents.

	“F*ck…” Clueless said as he spread his wings and lifted off of the ground.

	His ascent was blunted only a few feet up, and the hanging canopy of barbed, gore coated chains hung like macabre serpents from great trees composed of upright, coiled columns of the same steel links. The entire forest slithered and shifted, and a dozen barbs lengths gently brushed against the half-fey’s back, some of them touching his neck and cheek where a moment before there had been no chains within reach to do so.

	The forest was alive, and it did not take long for Clueless to realize just where he was, and how powerless he might be.

	“Sit down mortal.” Shylara the Manged called out. “We have things to discuss, and you are hardly in a position to disagree. Welcome to the mind of an archfiend little subcreature.”

	Clueless shuddered as the archfiend was suddenly behind him. He hadn’t seen her move, but it was almost as if the landscape was simply shifting to her whim around him. Hot, wet breath exhaled onto the back of his neck, and several drops of liquid, spittle or blood, dropped onto his back and slowly dribbled down his spine.

	“We had such a short time to speak in Center, you and I.”

	Clueless closed his eyes and tensed as a claw traced its way across his shoulder blades.

	“Other business intervened you see.” She continued, panting softly as the chains rustled in time with her movements. “But you see, you have interfered with much later, much more important business of mine, and again you are here intruding. Twice now, and my irritation is rising.”

	“We have your astral form.” Clueless said, eliciting a low growl from the fiend. “I believe that you’ve confused just who controls what.”

	Claws dug into the bladesinger’s flesh, just deep enough to draw blood, and reality or not, the pain was sharp and excruciating. He hissed and started to turn, but stopped short in a mixture of revulsion and something else when he felt a tongue slide up his neck to lap at the wound.

	“We’re frozen in a moment of time, you and I.” Shylara cooed, slipping from fury to seduction. “I can make this last as long as I want mortal. I can make this agony if I cared, but first a few things for you to consider.”

	Clueless shuddered as she licked his ear and tapped her claws along the side of his neck.

	“Do you think that the Oinoloth will leave his lover in mortal hands?”

	“Do you think something like him actually cares about you?”

	Abruptly the chain forest’s light turned red and half of the trees and vines and shifting, slithering iron floor were slick with blood and covered in barbs and blades. He’d touched a nerve, and the environment had responded perfectly in time to her emotions, if not necessarily her direct will. It might have been accurate and daring, but in the short term it might not have been wise.

	“What do you know of the Oinoloth, little mortal sh*t?!” 

The fiend was no longer behind him, and her snarling, bleeding maw was only inches from his face. Rivulets of emerald flame were seeping out of the corners of her eyes, and her appearance had shifted back to its natural, ravaged state.

	“How dare you question something you cannot understand!” She snarled. “You of all people.”

	Clueless coughed as the gem in his ankle suddenly erupted with a pulse of agony.

	“You might no longer be an assassin, thief, or f*ck toy to that pissant little painted whore in Sigil. But I am the beloved of the very creator of those baubles, and do you think that he would not use you to secure my freedom?”

	Clueless spit in her face. “You’re terrified of what he’ll do to you for failing him.”

	Her reply was much colder than he expected. Perhaps he’d goaded her too far. “You overestimate your position of power at the moment mortal, and your power back in reality.”

	Something snapped at that moment, and his breath was choked off as she closed a hand around his throat and slammed him onto the ground. With the archfiend straddling him, fangs bared and claws pressing into his flesh, multiple things seemed to happen at once. It all washed by in a disjointed, mottled haze of sensations and terrible, violent, lurid moments of clarity that would later haunt him.

*- [Incredibly violent, gratuitous, and disturbingly perverse sex with an archfiend excluded for the sake of the Grandma Rule, and the fact that I’m frankly not willing to post that in public just based on the content which certainly qualifies for the "Have you ever crossed a line" thread over in the general section] -*

	It would end with Shylara looking into his eyes, naked and bleeding from a hideous array of wounds, both self-inflicted and from his hands, leaning back with a lingering line of spittle still stretching from his lips to his tongue.

	“Tell me mortal.” She softly snarled. “How do you like the illusion of control?”


***​

	Clueless shook his head and looked up at the petrified archfiend, unchanged from when he’d touched her. The energy of his spell was dissipated, but his body ached and a phantom sense of pain was only slowly working its way out of his flesh from where he remembered the fiend touching him. He recalled what had happened, what she’d said, what she’d revealed, but it had left him shaken and disturbed to experience even that brief exposure to the interior of her mind, or more likely, what fraction of her mind she’d allowed him to access. He wasn’t sure what to make of any of it.

	The illusion of control indeed.


----------



## shilsen

Shemeska said:
			
		

> The illusion of control indeed.








> *- [Incredibly violent, gratuitous, and disturbingly perverse sex with an archfiend excluded for the sake of the Grandma Rule, and the fact that I’m frankly not willing to post that in public just based on the content which certainly qualifies for the "Have you ever crossed a line" thread over in the general section] -*




Probably a good idea, but am I very, very bad to say that I'm a trifle disappointed?

And here's a more apropos question - how exactly did you handle the above at the table? Or was it something you handled between sessions?


----------



## Shemeska

*What is it with me and psychotic, powerful women? *



			
				shilsen said:
			
		

> And here's a more apropos question - how exactly did you handle the above at the table? Or was it something you handled between sessions?




Suffice to say, there's a chat log.

And some art (originals by Charlene Reed):


----------



## Solarious

shilsen said:
			
		

> Probably a good idea, but am I very, very bad to say that I'm a trifle disappointed?



Yes. Now go stand in the corner, I don't want to see that face turn for a week.


----------



## shilsen

Solarious said:
			
		

> Yes. Now go stand in the corner, I don't want to see that face turn for a week.



 Darn! There go the Story Hour updates then


----------



## Burningspear

shilsen said:
			
		

> Probably a good idea, but am I very, very bad to say that I'm a trifle disappointed?





Aren't we all ...lol..

Nice update, albeit(h?) 70% was already foretold in the interludes, so it feels a bit emptyhanded, had hoped for more  ,
but at least the foretellings have mood and atmosphere now.

..go Shemmy go..


----------



## Shemeska

Burningspear said:
			
		

> Nice update, albeith 70% was already foretold in the interludes, so it feels a bit emptyhanded, had hoped for more  ,




Sadly the content rather precluded me from posting it up here.

But, that said, we 'aint done yet  There's going to be quite a bit of fallout over this all before we break into the 2nd half of the campaign.


----------



## Dialexis

Perhaps an off-beat question:

What did you think as a DM would happen when the PCs encountered her?  I mean, they seemed clearly incapable of defeating her in any predictable scenario (since you said that even with the flesh to stone, she rolled abysmally low).

So, other than the unexpected triumph (short term) of Tristol, what did you plan for: clearly not the destruction of all the PCs? 

Or did you think they would take her up on her offer to just kill 1 and let them be free?  

I am curious on this as you are a story-driven DM, and often story-driven campaigns (which are the best IMO) often die when PCs face unbeatable situations.

What was your expected solution to the dilemma?


----------



## Tal Rasha

And a random question from your Planescape scholar. I was just reviewing the start of the campaign and was wondering, is there a distinction between an Ultraloth and an Ultroloth? The General of Gehenna is said to be the first of the Ultraloths in this story hour's beginning. I was thinking of some distinction between 'loths who advance themselves and those who are "created" by night hags, but I think the general somewhat predates the hags. Ideas?


----------



## Shemeska

Tal Rasha said:
			
		

> And a random question from your Planescape scholar. I was just reviewing the start of the campaign and was wondering, is there a distinction between an Ultraloth and an Ultroloth? The General of Gehenna is said to be the first of the Ultraloths in this story hour's beginning. I was thinking of some distinction between 'loths who advance themselves and those who are "created" by night hags, but I think the general somewhat predates the hags. Ideas?




No, it's a problem of my having added the wrong spelling of ultroloth into spellcheck years ago, and accidentally switching from ultro to ultra randomly when I write. There's no difference, and it should always be ultroloth.

It was altraloth that was the different type of creature, empowered and given unique forms by bargaining with night hags. And the General completely predates the hags in my continuity.


----------



## Shemeska

Dialexis said:
			
		

> Perhaps an off-beat question:
> 
> What did you think as a DM would happen when the PCs encountered her?  I mean, they seemed clearly incapable of defeating her in any predictable scenario (since you said that even with the flesh to stone, she rolled abysmally low).
> 
> So, other than the unexpected triumph (short term) of Tristol, what did you plan for: clearly not the destruction of all the PCs?
> 
> Or did you think they would take her up on her offer to just kill 1 and let them be free?
> 
> I am curious on this as you are a story-driven DM, and often story-driven campaigns (which are the best IMO) often die when PCs face unbeatable situations.
> 
> What was your expected solution to the dilemma?




Good question.

I don't recall exactly, and on some level I'm not certain if I'd actually had an intended outcome in mind that I might have expected and planned for. The PCs' solution to that particular problem blindsided me in a good way, and I'd grown used to them coming up with unique solutions to problems, and being able to handle things much stronger than themselves. I'd vaguely expected them to flee after killing her the first time and noticing her little color pool diving trick, or perhaps I figured that they (Clueless) might have tried something brilliantly foolish with heavy magic.

I can't honestly say I had it mapped out. After all, I'd only been running that campaign for a little over a year, maybe two years, at that point IIRC. Young DM, and inexperience was talking. I had some likely dialogue from her written out, but much of that was off the cuff and impromptu. Had it turned towards a TPK I might have done something, but as much as I want the PCs to succeed, I loathe the idea of using my DM powers to shift things to their advantage. I want their success to be actual success, and not lessened by the suggestion that the DM might have given it to them. But in this case I didn't do anything on their behalf and the success was entirely theres, much to my pride (Shylara's projected avatar was strong, very strong, but not obscenely above their possibility of taking down given the imbalance in numbers and her arrogance. Would have been different had it been her physically there, and such a situation of PCs versus physically present archfiend shows up much later in the campaign/SH when the PCs encounter that one lingering Altraloth who was never accounted for...).

It ended up working out cool as hell though, and my group pleasently blindsided me.


----------



## Shemeska

“Clueless? Clueless?!”

	The bladesinger blinked and shook his head, gradually becoming aware of Florian’s voice.

	“Hey!” She shouted, tapping his head. “Impulsive winged thing! What stupid thing did you do this time and are you alright?”

	The mental fog lifted and Clueless looked up and focused.

	“Damn it…” He muttered. “Shylara is a freak of the first order.”

	His companions just looked at him.

	“What did you do?” Fyrehowl asked warily.

	Clueless winced, shook his head and got to his feet. They gave him room and backed away on the off chance that he wasn’t himself.

“Just don’t try to legend lore the statue.” He said, trying to rid himself of select portions of his memories of the experience inside the fiend’s mind. “That wasn’t pleasant.”

	“What happened?” Tristol asked.

	“She was aware of it, and she made it rather…” Clueless started and trailed off. “Actually… let’s just say it was unpleasant and leave it at that.”

	The statue itself hadn’t changed in the slightest. Whatever the archfiend’s ability to rule over the fortress of her own diseased mind, she was still imprisoned fast in stone.

	“How long was I out?” Clueless asked, half expecting an hour or more, which was how long his time inside of the forest of chains had roughly lasted from his perspective.

	“Not long.” Toras said. “You cast a spell, touched Madame Baldy’s muzzle, and hit the floor. About three seconds.”

	He nodded. “So then what exactly are we going to do with her? Is there a consensus? She’s not exactly happy where she is.”

	Meanwhile, having apparently learned no lesson by proxy from Clueless, Nisha walked up to the statue.

	“Hey! Tristol!” She called out to him.

	Tristol looked over to find his girlfriend standing next to the statue, slowly rubbing herself against the stone, one leg up and curled around the archfiend’s hip in the classical exotic pose. Blood immediately left his brain and rushed to the tips of his ears, and a moment later elsewhere as Nisha leaned in and passionately French-kissed the petrified ‘loth.

	Tristol didn’t know what to think, and neither did anyone else, but a part of the aasimar was getting far too turned on by watching it all, a fact that his tail conveniently helped cover in a heartbeat. He was still staring when Nisha broke the kiss and her lusty woman act and fell into a furious giggle.

“Nisha!” Florian said, fighting back a gag. “What the hell?! I didn’t even know you were into that.”

“Statues, ‘loths or girls?” Clueless asked.

“None of the above!” She giggled, shaking her head before glancing over to Tristol. “But the reaction on his face was priceless nonetheless!”

	Tristol’s eyes were still wide and his ear tips were flushed as Nisha trotted up next to him, still giggling, to give him a hug. She was still giggling even after she’d calmed her boyfriend down, looked back at the statue, made a disgusted expression and spit out a bit of gravel. She also used the opportunity to slip a sensory stone into his hand along with a well-intentioned pat on his tail.

	In the meantime, Clueless had something else on his mind to worry about, so to speak, as there was suddenly a deep, familiar chuckle inside his head.

_“This was unexpected.”_ The agonizingly familiar voice exclaimed. _“Truly unexpected.”_

Helekanalaith. What the hell did he want? How was he involved?

Clueless tried to look normal as the archfiend made his mental presence known. The others didn’t know about his presence there, lurking in the back of his head, and it would truly look bad if they found out suddenly that he’d kept something like that from them, especially when they were preparing to abscond with the bloody Overlord of Carceri.

The arcanaloth lord’s presence seemed to grin. _“Tsk tsk…”_ He chided. _“Arrogance is unbecoming of you…”_

Clueless’s heart skipped a beat. “I’m being arrogant?” he thought.

If the fiend took notice, it didn’t matter, because his next words made the context of the phrase much more clear. _“And arrogance Shylara is rather dangerous, but it’s a trait that’s not out of the ordinary for you in my experience.”_

	His companions talked, and Clueless nodded and made his way towards the edge, putting his hands on the stone of one of the cupola’s open window arches like he was turning away to think and gather his thoughts. In a way he was, just not at all in the manner they expected.

_“Do what you will to the godisles, but you will relinquish her trapped surrogate body into my care.”_

	Almost immediately after the archfiend’s declaration, a surge of information flooded into the bladesinger’s mind giving him the location of a specific color pool on the Astral.

_”Dump the body in and do what you will from there.”_

_“For what benefit Lord Helekanalaith?”_ Clueless mentally replied. _“Our deal was for information. I had expected you to be a bidder if we’d decided to sell Shylara’s imprisoned form. Why should I not hold her till you’re willing to buy.”_

_“Our deal provides you information when it suits me mortal.”_ The Keeper of the Tower replied. _“But not to worry. I won’t leave you with nothing for your efforts.”_

_“Oh?”_

_“As for why you shouldn’t hold her and seek to solicit bids, consider fifty gates opening on you ten seconds hence and more fiends than you can count spilling out of them. And not all of them would necessarily be mine. The longer you hold on to her is the longer you risk some contingency plan of hers swinging into effect, or the Oinoloth seeking to reclaim what is his property in every meaning of the word.”_

Clueless paled and turned away as he was, he didn’t notice Fyrehowl looking at him oddly.

_“Alright, you’ve got a point there…”_ Clueless replied. _“But what insurance do we have that she won’t strike us upon her freedom? I know your power. I know hers. Have no doubt of that, but the others seem to have no understanding of her rank. I would dearly like her True Name or some guarantee of a sequence of spells on her to keep us protected.”_

_“She will be… preoccupied for some time once in my tender care.”_

	The archfiend’s voice was chilling.

_“How long?”_ Clueless asked, not wanting to know what his plans might be.

_“At the least, 9 months.”_ The Keeper of the Tower replied. _“But beyond that on my part, once free she will have other issues to deal with of her own.”_

_“Long enough.”_ Clueless said, nodding. _“But my companions will have to become aware of this deal, and of you.”_

_“Then tell them. And impress upon them its urgency. She will not remain entrapped forever.”_

_“Noted.”_

	“Clueless?” Fyrehowl asked, looking directly at the half-fey and poking him in the chest as he finally turned around. “This is twice now that you’ve completely zoned out on us. What’s going on?”

	He gave an awkward look and she backed away to give him space. “We’ve got someone interested in taking Shylara off of our hands.”

	“Excuse me?” The lupinal asked.

	“Helekanalaith.” He replied, looking away. “Gods this is awkward…”

	There was nothing but a silence that Shylara’s statue would have had difficulty matching.

	“Remember that crystal ball I took from the tower in Elysium?” He said with a guilty voice. “When I used it in Carceri… well… it was cursed. Apparently it had been floating around between various ‘loths for centuries and I just happened to be the next person in line to use it.”

	“F*ck!” Florian said. “How much is he aware of, and how much can he do?”

	“He can look but that’s it.” Clueless replied. “He seems to regard me as a curiosity more than anything else. And him wanting Shylara wasn’t entirely an option we’re being offered.”

	Florian turned and flipped off Shylara. “I repeat what I just said.”

	“Is he bailing her out?” Fyrehowl asked, gesturing to the statue. “Or something else?”

	“He’s taking her off our hands, and supposedly she’ll be out of our hair for close to a year, possibly more. She’ll be out eventually, but he seemed to suggest that she’ll have a wrecked home back in Carceri, and we’ll be the furthest thing from her mind when she’s back in the world at large.”

	They didn’t want to be angry at Clueless, after all the crystal ball was something any of them could have picked up and used. It was freakish chance that the archfiend had wormed into his mind, but he’d kept it from them for some time. Still, the offer or non-offer as might have been, wasn’t as bad as some ideas that they’d originally proposed.

	“And if we refuse?” Toras asked. “I take it he knows where you are?”

	Clueless nodded and grimaced. “You can guess…”

	“Fine.” Skalliska said. “It’s better than some options. What do we have to do?”


***​

	Twenty minutes of debate, group agreement, and twenty minutes of travel later, they stood at the edge of a massive, deep russet color pool in the Astral.

	Tristol looked warily at the swirling tear in the fabric of the Astral, half expecting a horde of fiends to come bubbling up out of it. “Keep in mind that if something goes wrong, I’m pretty much out of spells.”

	Tristol had used his last planeshift getting them to the Astral, and they’d been lucky to avoid any conflict on their way to the pool, following the directions that Clueless had been given, carrying the petrified archfiend in tow.

	“I think that we’ll be fine.” Clueless said. “At least when it suits him, Helekanalaith seems to be a man of his word.”

	Fyrehowl rolled her eyes and kicked Shylara’s statue as hard as she could, sending the fiend spiraling head over heels towards the pool.

	“Enjoy whatever happens to you.” She growled. “Tell your master to go f*ck himself.”

	The swirling color pool swallowed Shylara’s petrified body and almost immediately there was a response inside Clueless’s mind. It ignored the lupinal’s sentiment, but seemed positively beaming over the statue they’d gifted him with.

_“Package received.”_


***​

The two ‘loths stood on the edge of the natural bowl of land that surrounded the Tower of Incarnate Pain, high up on the rust-red escarpment, just inside the veil of illusions and other wards that segregated them from the rest of Othrys. One of them sat on the cliff, legs dangling over the side, and the other stood several feet back, gazing out at the tower as the wind at those heights buffeted at his robes.

They stood there in silence, having both arrived several minutes earlier, just after things had gone to hell within the tower below. They’d been there when Bubonix and Cholerix, the first lords of the tower, had been toppled. They’d been nycaloths at the time, and though they’d since been promoted, they had retained a pact, a contingency plan that would leap into effect if the leadership of the tower were to ever experience a state of flux.

That time had arrived.

Some of them had sensed it from the tower itself, or seen the ripple in the wards, or the momentary flicker of the furnace of cold illumination burning within the heart of the Reflective Chasm, and then rumor had spread from brain to tongue to ear and loyalty collapsed as should have been expected. The mistress was in a vulnerable state, imprisoned or otherwise detained off plane, while her physical body lay like a corpse in state within her personal chambers.

The ranks of her senior advisors and agents had, in a black little heartbeat, become the ranks of her would-be killers and successors.

“Hmm…” The first arcanaloth mused as he kicked his feet into the wind and felt the cold penetrate through his slippers and kiss at his toes. “…This is a setback.” 

“A setback?” The second arcanaloth asked. “Or an opportunity?”

Despite the whistle of the wind and the ambient wail of the tower’s petitioners, the brothers’ smiles were audible.

“She’ll be upset you know.” Alpthis commented. “When she returns.”

“Absolutely.” Apteris replied. “The ashes outside her chamber at the edge of the wards were only two inches deep by the end of the hour. She’ll have wanted more, and she’ll find the lack of treachery as a fault no doubt.”

Seated upon the edge of the cliff, the sorcerer nodded. “Oh indeed, there will be executions.”

	They both smiled and went silent, looking down at the base of the tower where the lesser yugoloths in service to the Manged still continued their tasks, ignorant of the situation that absorbed each and every nycaloth, arcanaloth, and ultroloth in the tower above them. The tower’s mistress had stumbled, but her lowest servants still served nonetheless, and the tower still screamed with the misery of its living bricks.

	The two arcanaloths said nothing, either verbally or telepathically for some time as they watched the tower. Finally, one of them spoke and broke the silence.

“So what is it that you’re holding there?” Apteris asked, taking a step closer. “I can smell it on the wind, and the normal pitch is different from when we otherwise come up here to chat.”

Alpthis chuckled and moved his hand to place a fist-sized object on the edge of the cliff.

Apteris wrinkled his nose and looked at the black lump of ragged flesh.

It was a heart, freshly removed from its recent body, likely by magic, probably within the last few minutes, and there was a rather pronounced bite that had been taken from the left ventricle.

“So who was the victim?” The sorcerer-monk asked.

“She was a traitor you see. Plotting against the mistress.” Alpthis explained, licking a bit of blood off of his lower lip. “At least that’s my excuse and I’ll be keeping to it.”

Apteris said nothing as he gestured to the heart and telekinetically brought it to his right hand. He looked at the heart, sniffed at it like some expensive delicacy, and then bit into it like it were an apple.

“So?” Alpthis asked while his brother finished his taste. “Your opinion on the matter brother?”

“I recognize the taste. Lucinda Ap Fireth.” He said, taking a second bite before tossing it back for his brother to finish. “I -should- recognize the taste. I was f*cking her you know.”

“Only when I wasn’t.”

“Not even then always.”

They shared a mutual chuckle; a rival out of the way, even if their beds might lack a partner for the short term.

“I’ve shared, both admission of sin and a bite of a stolen heart.” Alpthis said, turning around to look at his brother for the first time. “So now it’s my turn to ask: what’s in your left hand?”

The standing ‘loth tossed the head to the ground where it rolled to a halt a short distance from his brother, the glaze of death dulling the formerly blazing eyes of the ultroloth.

“Congratulations brother.” Alpthis said, poking at the claw divots in the scalp of the severed head. “Seems that you found him before I did.”

Apteris gave a perfunctory bow. “I apologize for the state of the cut, it’s a bit ragged I know, but I was in a hurry.”

“Such can be forgiven.” His brother replied, grinning ear to ear. “I suppose we can share the brain before he begins to dissolve. We’ve never dined on ultroloth before.”

“It would have been the heart.” Alpthis explained, looking at the palm of his hand. “But unfortunately that happened to explode in his chest at some point. Seems that today was my turn to be the impulsive one.”

Again they shared a look, a grin, and a conspiratorial chuckle as glanced from heart to head and back towards the tower of their once and future mistress. Opportunity came to those who had the presence of mind to see it and had the will to grasp it, and at the moment, in the moment of their lady’s weakness, they had an abundance of both.

A minute later and their fingers were scooped into the brain of the former ultroloth, Malzigran of the Fetid Heart, and with a look and feeling of disturbing satisfaction playing across their muzzles and beating a rhythm through their skulls, they shared in their victory meal, consuming their kills while they looked up at the distant tower.

“Here’s to opportunity!”


***​

Within the tower, at its heart and nerve center, in the personal chambers of the Overlord of Carceri, things were different. There were no toasts, no smiles, no greedy shared looks of lust for power, nor any words or curses or sounds of any kind.

In the darkness where the mistress of the Tower of Incarnate Pain lay sprawled, naked and catatonic, there was only the vacant expression upon her face and nothing more.

The screams were silent.

The walls of petitioner flesh were frozen in place, faces and merged bodies pushing against one another like they were bricks trying to flee their spots in a tower’s foundations. Once-mortal souls fused together into the unholy abomination that was the Tower of Incarnate Pain… their agony was indescribable, but for the moment they were absolutely quiet.

Tongues were still, eyes futilely sought to close themselves, fragments of individuals trembled and sought to bury themselves beneath the churning mass of their fellow amalgamated prisoners. The entirety of the tower felt the status of their mistress, and their awareness of her titanic fury and shame would have driven the flesh of her home to fever pitched wailing.

But instead, the silence was deafening.

“Despite your claims to the contrary, I know that you won’t delude yourself into thinking that I’ll so much as lift a finger to help you out of the situation that you’ve so foolishly placed yourself within.”

The reddish albino eyes opened in the gloom and the tip of a claw traced along the line of the catatonic archfiend’s jaw. Despite her status, caught between two planes of existence, the muscles of her jaw twitched involuntarily.

“You will suffer for your failure child. And whenever you return to me, it will be on your knees, and the suffering will be more violent.”

Spittle coated teeth, lips parted, and the Oinoloth grinned.

“Of course you are keenly aware of this, but you will be reminded of it nonetheless.”

Claws tapped on cold stone, the same floor that had once been part of his office, and whose walls remembered him keenly. Their silence was out of terror, not respect.

“Still, this impacts me little.” The Ebon remarked, once more tracing fingers along her flesh. “Most of the constructions and wards upon the Astral will collapse in the absence of your active control, and the storm will erase the evidence of our activities in short order. The former Athar citadel atop Aoskar’s corpse will suffer somewhat more of course, both from the additional contingencies that you placed across the area, and a few of my own that you were unaware of.”

Archfiend stood over archfiend and smiled as the wards of the chamber shuddered ever so slightly, vibrated like a harp’s strings, soft yet discordant. Someone had attempted to breach the first of the three doors that led to Shylara’s chambers, but with that action Oinoloth knew that the wards would react, and as if on cue they did. Exerting a bit of influence over his former tower, he dipped his foot into the suddenly liquid surface of the floor and stirred his toes in their substance. He felt the essence of the disintegrated greater yugoloth merge with the substance of the tower’s billionfold tormented bricks.

“One more to join you.” He said to the walls.

The walls remained taught and silent.

“Another one into your collection my love…” He said to the tower’s mistress, sneering in contempt at the last word of that sentence.

“You warded yourself well though.” He added, “And I doubt that they will succeed in killing you anytime soon, probably not at all. But I already have what I want from the Astral, and Vast’s device has already been dismantled and returned to me along with its harvest. That is all that matters.”

The Oinoloth sighed with no little pleasure and leaned down to kiss his lover and protégé, even though she couldn’t have been aware of any of it.

“Let Helekanalaith have his fun with you.” He said, breaking the kiss. “For whatever it is that he might manage to gain, it honestly doesn’t concern me. But know that when you come crawling back, my touch will be anything but kind. Suffer for me.”


***​

	The color pool still swirled with the telltale glow of its linked plane, but nothing more was forthcoming, for better or for worse. They’d delivered the petrified astral body of the Archfiend of Carceri, but afterwards… nothing.

	“We’re still alive…” Florian said. “This is a very good thing.”

	“But we’re still here on the Astral.” Skalliska said, backlit by the whirlpool. “And I’m out of planeshifts.”

	Clueless waited, expecting the Gehennan archfiend to provide a gate, or at least give some form of acknowledgement beyond his rather terse statement of receipt a minute earlier. But no response was forthcoming.

	“Lord Helekanalaith?” Clueless asked, looking at the color pool. “Would you mind sending us somewhere else now that we’ve gone to the effort of delivering your prize?”

	The color pool remained silent, and no words resounded inside the bladesinger’s head.

	“Don’t look at me.” Tristol said. “I used up my last planeshift getting us here to the Astral.”

	Fyrehowl sighed. “I should have expected this. I really should have.”

	Clueless gave a plaintive shrug. “He’s probably preoccupied at the moment.”

	And truth be told, the Keeper of the Tower was incredibly preoccupied. Some slim fragment of his consciousness was still tapped into Clueless’s mind, but he wasn’t paying attention given what had just been handed to him.

	“The f*cker stranded us out here!” Toras shouted towards the color pool. “We should have given her to the Marauder!”

	Fyrehowl gave them all an awkward look. “Let’s vaguely insult him once we’re back home and not standing in front of a color pool to Gehenna.”

	Tristol sighed, looking irritated. “But we don’t have any way back.”

	Nisha rubbed his shoulder and gave him a kiss, “I’d love to say that I had a scroll or something that I’d been holding in reserve… but no. Sorry.”

	The wizard sighed and kissed the tiefling back, noticeably relaxing towards his girlfriend at least. “I hate to ask then, but you’ll have to use… you know…”

	He was referring of course to the bubble of heavy magic affixed to the bladesinger’s collar, but Clueless immediately waved that off as a possibility, and he didn’t indicate it either. They’d never told Skalliska about it, expecting –rightfully so- that the kobold would want in on it.

	“Not going to happen.” He replied. “I’ve used it too much recently, and I just did to poke around inside Shylara’s mind… for all that got me… and it’s irritated. I don’t want to mess around with that.”

	Tristol groaned, “We don’t really have any other option though. We’re almost completely out of spells, and we’re stuck on the Astral. It won’t be pretty if we run into a pack of githyanki while we’re out here, and who knows how long it might take to find a color pool to a less hostile plane.”

	Skalliska looked up from her planar sextant. “About two days to an Outlands color pool.”

	Florian winced. “Joy.”

	“Still though…” Clueless shook his head. “I’d rather not… you know… more than I have to. I’ve done stupid things with this, but never one after another. For all I know my head might explode.”

	Tristol sighed. “Fine then. Give it to me. I’ll use it.”


----------



## bluegodjanus

Shemeska said:
			
		

> Tristol sighed. “Fine then. Give it to me. I’ll use it.”




Oh my. My Cipher intuition tells me this will be interesting.

And I _love_ the arcanaloth brothers. They are excellent characters. I'm pleased anytime they show up in the storyhour.


----------



## The Forsaken One

Oeee update <3. And haha @ tristol using that stuff, whats the world comming to. 

The arcanaloth brothers are cool characters I must admit. Especially since their paradoxal trusting nature considering their species. Should be interesting!

Keepem commingg!!!


----------



## Eco-Mono

Shemeska said:
			
		

> _“She will be… preoccupied for some time once in my tender care.”_
> 
> The archfiend’s voice was chilling.
> 
> _“How long?”_ Clueless asked, not wanting to know what his plans might be.
> 
> _“At the least, 9 months.”_ The Keeper of the Tower replied. _“But beyond that on my part, once free she will have other issues to deal with of her own.”_



Um.

Is Helekanalaith talking about what I _think _he's talking about?


----------



## Aneul

> Is Helekanalaith talking about what I think he's talking about?




I had that thought myself... it'll be interesting to see how this turns out. 
Actualy, the possibilities presented here reminded me of a short story Shemeska wrote  featuring Larsdona (sp?) and the fate of her children- presumably by Helekanalaith. Between them and the Chechire Fiend, it seems like whatever plan's Helekanalaith may have for Shylara are going to bear interesting fruit.


----------



## Shemeska

Eco-Mono said:
			
		

> Um.
> 
> Is Helekanalaith talking about what I _think _he's talking about?




[edit of previous answer] We'll find out I suppose 




			
				Aneul said:
			
		

> I had that thought myself... it'll be interesting to see how this turns out.
> Actualy, the possibilities presented here reminded me of a short story Shemeska wrote featuring Larsdona (sp?) and the fate of her children- presumably by Helekanalaith. Between them and the Chechire Fiend, it seems like whatever plan's Helekanalaith may have for Shylara are going to bear interesting fruit.




Helekanalaith had two children. One of them was sacrificed by Larsdana on the Gray Waste, and the other was born into caste as an arcanaloth, and their subsequent fate is unknown. We also know that the Cheshire Fiend is a child of Helekanalaith, but it's uncertain who the mother might be. It's possible that the Cheshire Fiend is the one surviving child between the first two Keepers of the Tower Arcane, but I haven't said for certain.

Part of that is addressed in this storyhour, and it's further addressed in SH2 (Larsdana herself is a semi-recurrent character).


----------



## Band2

Shemeska said:
			
		

> What is it with me and psychotic, powerful women?




You forgot Hairy.
In your story hours they are all psychotic, powerful, and hairy women.


----------



## Shemeska

Band2 said:
			
		

> You forgot Hairy.
> In your story hours they are all psychotic, powerful, and hairy women.




So far 

Ex-Factol Tollysalmon of the Bleak Cabal is certainly powerful and barmy, but she isn't what you'd call hairy. We'll ever so briefly meet her at some point in this SH or the next eventually. Nor is The Risen in SH2 hairy (and there is method to that madness).

But yes, lots of powerful and crazy, and occasionally some powerful, crazy, and in need of a bottle of nair. Hehehe.


----------



## Tal Rasha

Hey, random question, apologies for my not using the search function more thoroughly: if I start reading the second story hour, will I come across spoilers for the first one? If the common opinion is that one should wait for the first SH to finish before starting on the second one, that's fine. Patience is a virtue


----------



## Shemeska

Tal Rasha said:
			
		

> Hey, random question, apologies for my not using the search function more thoroughly: if I start reading the second story hour, will I come across spoilers for the first one? If the common opinion is that one should wait for the first SH to finish before starting on the second one, that's fine. Patience is a virtue




So far there aren't many spoilers, and I've tried my best to keep that intentionally the case. However there will eventually be some that I can't avoid, but I'll say something before those updates as a warning to folks who want to avoid it.

Thus far the only true spoiler is something regarding the fate/status of Shylara the Manged in the two centuries that elapse between SH1 and SH2. In the future, at the conclusion of the first true plot arc for SH2 I'll be revisiting a meeting between Phaedra and her father A'kin, which by its nature will have some spoilers about him (and Phaedra's mother). But as the 'loths don't take a major role in SH2, the plot of SH2 impacts SH1 very little most of the time.

I was going to hold off on updating SH2 till I'd reached roughly the transition from the first to 2nd half of SH1, but that's going to be more updates that I expected, so I'll give SH2 some love sooner rather than later. This week has been very busy however, and I just got moved to a new cube at work which doesn't afford me the privacy to write SH stuff during the time I'm not in the lab or doing other work related stuff.


----------



## Clueless

Shemeska said:
			
		

> Nor is The Risen in SH2 hairy (and there is method to that madness).




Hm... The Risen. *GRIN* I still like her.


----------



## Inconsequenti-AL

I love this story. Really impressed with the list of enemies your PCs are racking up? 

Charlene Reed's artwork is impressive. Like those 2 you posted up the thread a little. Is there any online gallery of her stuff? Be interested in seeing more!


----------



## Shemeska

Inconsequenti-AL said:
			
		

> I love this story. Really impressed with the list of enemies your PCs are racking up?




FYI, next update will be on Monday evening. 



> Charlene Reed's artwork is impressive. Like those 2 you posted up the thread a little. Is there any online gallery of her stuff? Be interested in seeing more!




She did some more artwork for the SH as well, and I used to have a thread in the art forum here on Enworld with all of them, but it got erased during the one big crash we had a while back. Yes she has a gallery, and I'll find the link and post it later.


----------



## Burningspear

Shemeska said:
			
		

> FYI, next update will be on Monday evening.





Yeay  , but still, the little storyline is catching dust... :\


----------



## Clueless

BTW - Char's professional site is here: http://www.charrartist.com/ (And she does commissions if you'd like to feed da artist a bit.  )


----------



## Jeremo_the_Natterer

G'day Shemmy! I've been awaiting the next post with ginormous anticipation. Please post it soon. You wouldn't want me _sharing_ secrets about you,  now would you?   THAT'S a good girl.


----------



## Shemeska

Clueless drifted backwards from the wizard, his wings fluttering in the absence of air purely out of habit.

	“What?” Tristol said, still holding out his hand. “Do you have a better idea?”

	If Skalliska had had eyebrows she would have been perking them, and just as the spark of covetous curiosity would have gone alight in her brain, Fyrehowl conveniently, presciently drifted in between.

	“Well…” Clueless began. “You just seemed insistent up till now that I…”

	“KEEP IT AWAY!!!!… from him.” Nisha giggled from where she hovered behind the mage.

	“Yeah, you did seem pretty intent on not wanting to mess around with it.” The bladesinger said. “Why the sudden change of heart?”

	Tristol looked away and reiterated his earlier position. “Like I already said: no spells, tired, typical githyanki social graces or lack thereof. I’m willing to risk it more than I’m willing to risk two days unprotected travel out here.”

	There was a soft rattle of a bell. “Can I try?”

	Clueless and Tristol gave one another a look of unadulterated dread before the tiefer added a belated, “Juuuuust joking…”

	The Xaositect chuckled one last time and drifted off to let them discuss matters, and to be honest they were happy to see her carried away by the latest in her life’s series of absolutely tangent whimsies, which at the moment was apparently the desire to see if she could turn Fyrehowl’s tail purple by concentrating really hard while on the Astral. Nisha plus heavy magic was not a pleasant idea. It would be like handing a slaadi a ring of wishes. As it was, back in Sigil they had a faerie dragon which was bad enough, and eventually they’d have to find something to do about him.

	“But yeah.” Clueless said, pushing those concerns out of his mind and returning to the heavy magic. “I mean, if you’re certain.”

	“At my own risk, I understand that. Besides, so far you’ve been fine as long as you haven’t abused it.”

	“You’re sure?”

	“Yes.”

	“Absolutely sure?”

	Tristol frowned and held his hand out. “Keep that up and you’ll tempt me to leave you. Yes I’m absolutely sure.”

	“Alright…” Clueless said, reaching up to take off the choker from around his neck.

	Tristol accepted it and turned it over once in his hands. “How do I work the mechanism here?”

	Clueless pointed out the spot to push to expose the raw, liquid bead of golden liquid. “Expose it, touch it, and think of the spell you want to bring to mind. You can do more than that, but you wanted to play it safe.”

	Tristol nodded and did just that, smiling with no small amount of wonder as the light glittered on the surface of the bead in the moment before he touched it. It was warm and viscous, and it felt almost pleasurable when he felt some of that warmth begin to move up his fingertip even before he’d tried to call to mind a simple planeshift spell.

	The sensation increased and his finger tingled as the warmth increased. Something in the back of Tristol’s mind wanted to giggle and absorb the entirety of the tiny bubble of liquid magic right then and there. But astral addiction or not, the borderline thaumaturgical junky was still not far enough down that particular road to where the craving, the need, overwhelmed his normal sense of self-preservation.

	“Just something simple like a planeshift.” Clueless said. “As much as a gate might be nice, I wouldn’t push it.”

	Tristol barely heard the bladesinger, and the blood was pounding in his ears as he did just that and willed the feeling spreading through his senses to reproduce that particular spell. The spell blossomed in his mind like a fireball, after the fact, when he recovered, he would vaguely recall that he had the wherewithal to mold the magic and focus enough to direct his companions and himself to the Outlands near the vicinity of Tradegate.

	But the ecstasy of the magic transitioned into something altogether different a moment after the spell took effect, and for a brief moment before he blissfully lost consciousness, his blood felt like it was on fire and his mind felt like a nest of fire ants that had been poked and goaded by an unwary child. Something went wrong. Something about the fickle, whimsical, unrestrained nature of the heavy magic erupted inside of him like Shar herself was stabbing him in the eyes and mocking him for his presumptions. Perhaps Karsus had felt the same sort of transition, albeit orders of magnitude larger, moments before the fall of Netheril.

	Thankfully though, Tristol had no memories of appearing a dozen miles from the gatetown seizing and frothing at the mouth, screaming and babbling incoherently as his mind and body were both wracked by a magical drain that would have put a vampire lord and Prolonger’s touches to shame. Florian attempted to immediately heal him, but for whatever reason her prayers did nothing to abate or reverse the damage, and it was all that they could do to pick him up and carry him the distance to the gatetown. 

Several hours later his body had ceased rebelling against itself, but he didn’t return to consciousness for another three days, and when he did it became immediately apparent that while the damage wasn’t permanent, the healing process would be a slow and natural one. He’d learned a lesson, and Clueless had as well by proxy, and so when they finally stepped through the gate and into Sigil, the bladesinger wasn’t wearing the collar, and he wouldn’t for a while to come.


***​

	At roughly the same time the next morning after they had returned to Sigil, while Tristol was still bedridden, having spent the night puking and repeatedly wishing that he were dead, Skalliska sat up in bed and yawned. The scales across her back and legs were warmer than normal, the only sign that her priest and lover, a proxy of her newfound deity had spent the evening next to her. He hadn’t been there when she’d fallen asleep, and his appearance hadn’t woken her, but the fact that he’d been there warmed her more than the lingering traces of body heat ever could.

	Everything seemed to be going right in her life.

	“Saravtesh be praised.” She whispered, kissing the holy symbol around her neck as she glanced at the shadows, half expecting her lover to be there.

	But no, the other kobold was gone once again, busy with whatever inscrutable tasks their mutual divinity assigned to them. Of course, Skalliska realized, she was yet a neophyte priest, though possessed of the fervor of a newly enlightened convert, while he was something more. Her lover was a proxy, invested with a fraction of their god’s power to serve as a direct intermediary on his behalf.

	“I wonder what you’re up to today?” Skalliska mused as she rolled over and into the shallow depression that he’d left behind.

	She inhaled and her nostrils flared ever so slightly as they caught the briefest trace of reptilian musk still present and lingering. She smiled again and closed her eyes, laying there in bed without a care in the world, drifting in and out of sleep and hovering on the edge of dreaming for the space of several long minutes. She was happy, and the tumult that had been her life was suddenly, finally looking stable, even with a Xaositect thrown into the mix.

	“Well, I can’t stay here all day.” She sighed contentedly.

	“Besides.” She continued, looking at the shadows where her lover had vanished. “You set an example for me, and I have to try to stay faithful to it. Last night was enough self-absorbed bliss on my part, I should get up and find out what everyone else doing.”

	Scaled, clawed feet swung over the side of the bed and hit the floor a moment later as Skalliska hopped out of bed. Her toes wriggled and the lean muscles in her legs twitched at the sudden cold of the stone, a far cry from her recently shared bed. One step, then another, and that was when the wave of nausea hit and sent her down on one knee, retching and shuddering.

	Morning sickness.


***​

	As it had before, and as it would many more times in the future, many of the group’s more interesting experiences, and many of their troubles alike, would begin with the receipt of a letter. Later that same afternoon, just such a thing would land itself in the letter box of the Portal Jammer.

	Toras was the first to check the mail that day, and he found the curious envelope mixed in with the more typical assortment of business offers, bills, and junk mail sent to the Inn. It was a rather large envelope, and the first thing out of the fighter’s mouth was a curse of “oh you stupid gods-damned mephit”, because the letter was sealed with a large glob of wax that initially looked like one of Seamusxanthusxemus’s special promotionals leaking from the interior.

	Upon closer inspection however, Toras’s expression changed from homicidal mephit-killing rage to curiosity. The wax seal was impressed with the symbol of the Bleak Cabal, the same symbol that was used by the current administration of the Gatehouse since they were no longer nominally a faction. In any event however, the letter carried a bit more weight than the typical business offer.

_Toras of Andros. Clueless. Skalliska. Tristol Starweather. Nisha. Florian of Amn. Fyrehowl of Elysium._

	Interesting. The letter was formally addressed to each of them and not just a generic greeting.

	“Hmm…” He said, leaving the rest of the mail in the box for the moment as he walked back inside.

	“Hey Florian!” Toras called out as he walked towards where the cleric was sitting. “Take a look at this if you would.”

	Florian glanced up as the fighter took a seat next to her and held up the letter.

	“Umm. Normally letters addressed like that involve legal disputes.” She said with a worried expression. “Did this just arrive?”

	Toras nodded as Florian snapped a finger and called the others over.

	Tristol’s ears twitched from where he currently sat, head down on the table, cushioned by his sleeve. “Who’s it for?”

	“All of us.” Toras replied, holding the envelope up and giving it a speculative look.

	The mage mumbled some non-committal, incoherent response in reply without looking up. He was feeling better, but not completely recovered from his unfortunate experience with Clueless’s heavy magic. In fact he still felt wretched in some ways, like a drug addict coming off of a high, and so sitting in public rather than staying in his room was the best that Nisha had been able to coax him into. Being seen and being semi-social was something he’d acquiesced to. Being pleasant was something else altogether.

	Clueless looked over from the bar. “Does it say “all of us?” or maybe “owners of the Portal Jammer?” or what?”

	Toras shook his head, “No, it’s addressed to each of us, by name. Well, everyone except for Kiro, but…”

	Clueless’s wings dipped slightly and their color dulled briefly. They missed him. Cleric of Sutekh or cuprilach rilmani, they really did miss him.

	Florian held up her drink, “To Kiro.”

	Tristol’s ears perked and he sat up to join in the impromptu toast, an act which made him feel a bit better, and made them all feel a bit better. What followed was a pregnant moment of silence, solemn smiles all around, and several minutes later their attention turned back to the letter.

	Skalliska meanwhile was silent, still pondering when, if, and how to tell them all that she was pregnant. She’d been the only one without a drink, and she’d only held her hand up and pantomimed the raising of a mug, waving off Clueless when he offered the real thing since he was tending the bar. Eventually she’d have to tell them, but now seemed like an inopportune moment. Another inopportune moment in the future would have to suffice.

	But breaking the mood of remembrance on behalf of their fallen companion, Toras held the letter up and into the path of one of the inn’s magical globes of light.

	“No watermarks, nothing concealed inside, and nothing funny looking.” He said with a shrug. “Just looks like a letter. And here I was expecting to have the ‘loths coming after us, even with… you know…”

	Fyrehowl nodded as Toras slipped his voice lower and gave an evasive, secretive look. There was no need to go into specifics. They all knew what he meant, and it wouldn’t be a wise thing to openly talk about it in public, within earshot of anyone else.

	Florian looked up from her mug of ale. “So if it’s not from someone wishing us death, who’s it from?”

	“Well the envelope was sealed with the symbol of the Bleakers.” Toras replied, holding the letter up again to show.

	“Hey now.” Nisha said, interjecting. “So it’s from the Bleakers. They might still want us dead… not that they’d have a particular reason for it or that it would matter one way or the other to them.”

	Florian spit her ale across the table, and Fyrehowl preemptively ducked for cover while Amberblue giggled from his position perched atop the head of the ex-Factol L’har doll on the mantelpiece.

	“You timed that Nisha.” Florian said as she wiped her mouth of ale. “I swear you time those things.”

	“But that wouldn’t be random…” The Xoasitect giggled back. “And the Bleakers still might want to kill us. You never know. Sneaky fellows. They might have a gang of depressive assassins hiding in their soup kitchen or something.”

	Toras shook his head and broke the seal on the letter. “No explosion. We’re on the right track so far then.”

	“What’s it say?” Clueless asked as the fighter unfolded the parchment and gave it an odd look.

	Toras quickly scanned the page, then scanned it again much more slowly. “Dunno what to make of this. I’ll read it out loud.”

_Greetings to you all,
In light of recent events, one of my guests would very much like to speak with you. Typically it’s somewhat difficult to obtain easy access to myself or much of the atypical portions of the gatehouse unless you happen to be a member, former member now, of the Bleak Cabal. The crowds at this time of year are long, and at times insufferably loud and you would do well to avoid them by taking a route through the orphanage.
	When you arrive at your convenience in the next few days, please ask to speak with Guildmaster (or former factor) Tessali. If you are asked by any of the gatehouse staff who you are there to see specifically tell them my name, and that you are also there to see Marason the Shackled Warden, or some variation of that name.

	Guildmaster Tessali of the Gatehouse_

The letter was penned in an elaborate script, not something that might ordinarily be expected from the often dour members of the Bleak Cabal. While the faction might nominally have disbanded, most of the staff in the gatehouse still operating its kitchens, orphanage, and asylum were all former Bleakers. Perhaps Tessali, who Skalliska vaguely recalled being an elf, or maybe a half elf, something out of the Sigilian ordinary, was different from the typical member of his group.

“Weird.” Toras said, laying the letter flat upon the table and letting the others crowd around and take a look.

	“Looks legit.” Florian said. “But I’m not sure what to make of the offer.”

	Fyrehowl turned to the kobold. “Skalliska, have you ever heard of anyone called Marason, or the Shackled Warden, in the gatehouse or otherwise?”

	She shook her head. “It’s not ringing a bell.”

	“Hmm.” Florian said. “So what do you want to do about it?”

	Toras shrugged. “It’s weird, but it has me curious. Even if it’s not from their guildmaster, whoever wrote it has some connection inside the gatehouse at least. And if it’s a hoax or a trap, I’ll still want to see who’s behind it.”

	Fyrehowl had an odd feeling about the whole thing, not that she could pin down the exact reason for her vague concern though. It might have been the Cipher in her, or it might have been the fact that she was a guardinal, increasingly lapsed in her status as a guardinal notwithstanding. Something didn’t entirely add up, but the words of a farastu gehreleth in Carceri hadn’t yet bubbled like so much tar to the forefront of her mind.

	Clueless tapped the hilt of his sword, “Then it’s a trip through the Hive then?”


***​

True to the letter’s words, the line of beggars spiraled down the hill that the ancient, massive structure of the Gatehouse lay nestled atop. Thousands of the Hive’s residents awaited whatever meager handouts they might gain from the efforts of the former faction that still operated the facilities even bereft of political power. Ideology remained behind and in the hearts of the faithful, even in the absence of organized, official power.

“This place smells.” Tristol said, still feeling frazzled and ragged despite being back up and on his feet.

Nisha gave him a quick snug on his shoulder, “Well, you don’t have to wait in line. It’s the archmage privilege.”

Tristol had to smile, even if just for her efforts to cheer him up.

Clueless checked his purse as they passed a cluster of beggars, given that they all rather stood out as not being from the Hive, “I didn't seem to need the archmage privilege when I was here before."

Skalliska looked up at the bladesinger and checked her own purse. "You had a member in good standing with the tout's guild leading you around at the time."

"And they thought that he was crazy too." Nisha pointed out.

Clueless shrugged and smiled as they moved through the crowd and under an archway crowded with bored-looking children.

	Quickly moving through the orphanage, the group was largely ignored by the staff and avoided by all but the most adventurous children. Toras smiled and waved at the few brave orphans, and one or two of them waved back, though another made faces, and Nisha made a face right back, sending the young tiefling running back to the safety of some hiding place elsewhere in the building. But compared to the kitchens and its waiting, loitering throngs, there was little traffic and no one approached them till they made it to a door leading into the originally Bleaker specific portion of the Gatehouse where a pair of guards were casually posted.

	“May we help you?” One of them asked, looking curiously at the group.

	“If you’re looking for the kitchens, you’ll want to go to the back of…”

	Toras waved a hand and cut the man off. “Actually we’re just trying to avoid the crowd. We had a letter of summons from the guildmaster. Apparently he wanted to see us about something.”

	The guards looked at each other and then looked at the letter itself. They nodded approvingly, confirming the identity of the writer, or at least the legitimacy of the seal on the paper.

	“Very well then. Past this door go down the hallway, take the second left and the factor Te… excuse me, guildmaster Tessali’s office is at the midpoint down the corridor. If you can’t find it, anyone you come across can direct you.”

	Toras thanked them and the group continued on, deeper into the gatehouse and into regions that in years past would have been completely off limits to anyone not a member of the faction. Had they been members though, they wouldn’t have learned any hidden secrets or amazing revelations though, because there wasn’t much to see. Perhaps it was just the Bleakers’ sensibilities, but as they stood outside the office of the man who in other times would have been their factol, there was little to be impressed about.

	The simple wooden door to Guildmaster Tessali’s office was open, revealing a relatively sparse room filled with paperwork and a few curling wisps of incense rising up from an antique, blown-glass incense burner of arborean design. The guildmaster, a slender gray elf dressed in simple, relatively unadorned robes, sat at his desk looking over a spellbook while the remnants of his lunch sat slowly cooling to one side on a chipped ceramic plate.

	Clueless looked at Fyrehowl and they both shrugged.

	“Hrrrmmpphhh.” Toras cleared his throat and knocked on the frame of the door.

	“Yes?” Tessali said, not looking up from his studies. “Just put the reports on the corner of the desk. And actually, while you’re here, I want you to go find Tyvold and have him speak to that one merchant out of Bedlam when he arrives later today.”

	Obviously the guildmaster had been expecting someone else.

	“Actually we’re here for something else entirely.” Toras replied, getting the elf’s attention. “You sent us a letter asking us to come see you about something?”

	“Excuse me?” The gray-elf asked, looking up from his desk. He blinked and studied their faces for a moment before frowning. “I can’t say I know who you all are. I didn’t send you or anyone else any letters, or request any sort of meeting. I’m sorry, I really am, but you must be mistaken.”

	Standing there in his door, they looked at one another with some confusion. The letter had been sent from the gatehouse, sealed with the symbol of the Bleakers, and signed in the guildmaster’s name. So why wouldn’t he be aware of it?

	Toras looked at the letter and then back at the elf. “Well your letter mentioned that you knew us, and wanted us to speak with you about someone by the name of Marason.”

	And then something odd happened. The guildmaster abruptly stopped and put down his pen in a disturbingly mechanical fashion. He looked up with glazed, unfocused eyed and gestured towards the door.

	“My apologies.” He said, his words slow and deliberate, lacking inflection. “That matter must have slipped my mind.”

	Fyrehowl glanced to Florian with a look rapidly shared by the others. It was like the mention of Marason’s name, whoever he was, had flipped a switch in the man’s mind. Might he have been in the grips of the Grim Retreat and developed multiple personalities? He was a bleaker after all. Or might it have been a magical compulsion or powerful geas? They didn’t know, but all of those ideas were plausible ones.

	“If you’ll follow me please.” Tessali said as he walked to the door. “It’s only a short walk to his cell.”

	“His cell?” Toras asked as they followed the man.

	Tessali led them away from the more public areas of the Gatehouse, down a long, twisting corridor towards a heavy iron portcullis. He paused at the gate and knocked on the iron to summon the guards on the other side.

	“Yes, his cell.” He finally explained, turning back to Toras. “Marason is locked away in this portion of the asylum.”

	“What’s he in here for?” Clueless asked.

	Tessali paused and a stronger look of confusion crossed his features. “I… I don’t know.”

	In fact, the guildmaster seemed to just forget that he’d been asked the question, much less that he didn’t know the answer. Parts of his brain appeared to be running like a bit of wound up clockwork.

	On the other side of the portcullis, a paid of guards appeared and looked at the group and Tessali. Rather unlike the average bleaker seeing to the normal operation of the Gatehouse, they were armed and armored. That was odd. What portion of the place was Tessali leading them into?

	Fyrehowl’s ears perked and she tried to listen to the words passing between the half-elf and the guards. She didn’t hear most of it, but as soon as the name of Marason was dropped, both guards immediately went to open the door like they were zombies, slow, stiff, unthinking. There went the idea of split personalities. Something or someone was controlling the wardens of the Gatehouse.

	The portcullis cranked open with a heavy grating noise of metal on stone and the thud of landing counterweights somewhere behind the masonry. Beyond the entryway the stone seemed thicker and less polished, with more grime and dirt to evidence a lack of open concern with appearances. Whatever portion of the gatehouse that it was, it wasn’t public, and the bleakers had absolutely no concern about giving it the care due to a public place.

	Tessali led them down another short passage and then through another set of iron doors, ones that this time he held the keys to himself. Past the door they ascended a long flight of stairs and emerged into a secluded hallway that held only a handful of darkened cells to either side and the glow of candlelight from the cell at the corridor’s end.

	“Just what part of the Gatehouse are we in?” Skalliska asked. “This isn’t on any of the maps of the place that I’ve ever seen.”

	The elf frowned. “It’s part of the center wing of the building, but it’s not something we like to talk about. Welcome to the irretrievably and criminally insane ward. Special prisoners, and any of our members who fall into the Grim Retreat, are kept isolated here away from the public, for the mutual good and safety of all involved.”

	Isolated was the key word as they walked down the dimly lit corridor past walls that ran with bits of nitre and dripping water. The place was deathly quiet, and except for the drip of water from the walls, there was no sound other than their breathing and their footsteps. Pitiless was a vacation spot by comparison to the atrocious condition of the cells, since while they were doubtless secure against escape, absolutely no concern seemed given to the comfort or health of the prisoners.

	Fyrehowl glanced at the cells and an odd, wary look crossed over her features. It was an odd expression, and an even stranger feeling for the cipher. To be honest, outside of a sense of apprehension, she didn’t know what to think.

	A sudden scream from one of the cells broke the silence. “She’s coming for me! The bladed Lady! She knows where I am!”

	Tessali looked at the cell and shook his head sadly. “Former factol L’har is a broken man. He fell into the Grim Retreat a week before the Faction War, and conveniently enough he was no longer Factol when his successor was mazed. L’har seems to think that Her Serenity made a mistake and will eventually come back for him. We can’t put any illumination in his cell or he screams to the point of hurting himself when the light throws shadows across the room.”

	Florian glanced to the mad factol’s cell and then towards the other three.

	Tessali held up his hand, “Please don’t touch the doors. I’d rather Esmus and Tollysalmon not be disturbed. They…”

	The guildmaster shuddered and trailed off. “Trust me. When I’ve let you into Marason’s cell I’ll be leaving. Call for me when you’re finished and I’ll return to let you out. I’d prefer not to remain in the ex-factols’ presence.”

	“Why?” Florian asked.

	“They’re still bitter.” There was an evasive look in the guildmaster’s eyes.

	The cleric raised an eyebrow. “About what?”

	“The last time we tried to kill them.”

	Clueless turned and looked at the former Bleaker. “What?”

	“Not that we could…” Tessali shuddered again. “But we had to try.”

	From somewhere in the darkness of the cell opposite the elf, someone giggled.

	Tessali glanced at the cell and hurriedly took out his keys. “Take your time. I don’t care to come back here soon.”

	The moment the key entered the lock, the guildmaster resumed his marionette act, slowly and unthinkingly unlocking the door and gesturing them forwards. A moment later he turned and left, leaving the door open as he walked away in a daze.

	“Please come in.” Came the voice from the cell’s interior. “I’ve been waiting to speak with you for a while, and I’m sure that you’ll find me a much better conversationalist than the barmies in the neighboring cells.”

	As if on cue there was another unhealthy giggle from ex-Factol Esmus and in the darkness of his cell a pair of luminous eyes opened and were just as quickly shut. Fyrehowl stepped back and away from the former factol’s door, disturbed by the even brief expression of something altogether unnatural from the madman to her right. She looked away and across to the cell reserved for Tollysalmon, the githyanki ex-factol who had preceded Esmus. 

The cell was pitch black and silent, but even without seeing so much as a darkened outline of the woman, she felt watched nonetheless. Disturbed, she turned away and shook her head, looking towards Marason’s cell, but as she did so the fur on the lupinal’s head visibly moved with a rush of static, and she felt a sensation that could only be described as something cold ever so faintly brushing against her mind. Tessali’s overreaction had been anything but.

	Standing in contrast to the impression given off by the adjacent cells, the open doorway to Marason’s chamber seemed positively inviting by comparison. Looking inside the cell there was a single table, a small cot and a lone candle pushing back the darkness. Outside of having a source of light though, it was incredibly spartan, dirty, and had little to differentiate it from any of the other cells in the asylum.

	“Greetings.” Said a thin man seated behind the table. He was dirty but rather nondescript, and outside of his smile there was nothing remarkable about him save that his fingers were stained heavily with ink. There didn’t seem to be a pen or paper on the desk however as he rapped his knuckles on the wooden surface and welcomed his guests.

	“Do we know you?” Toras asked.

	“In a round about way yes, you might say so.” His fingers toyed with the air at the base of his neck as if he were toying with a piece of jewelry, or repeating some old, ingrained habit.

	Fyrehowl saw the motion of his fingers and something started to form in her memories. “I take it you’re the person who wrote Tessali’s letter to us?”

	He grinned and held up his fingers. “You’d think so I suppose. I composed the letter but I didn’t write it, not really. Tessali’s fingers held the pen. I just directed him and gave him the words to write. Assign authorship as you wish.”

	The candle’s flame flickered and they stared at the man who was obviously more than just a mortal man.

	“So who and what are you?” Fyrehowl asked, unwilling to come right out and voice her suspicions.

	Marason spread his hands and the veil of illusion that cloaked his cell lifted, revealing a room cluttered with dozens of stacks of books, open handwritten ledgers, and piles of paper and loose manuscripts. Rather than a single candle burning in solitude, a dozen globes of light drifted through the air, illuminating the writer at his desk and casting a distinctly inhuman shadow across the floor.

	“Back in Carceri you were promised aid.” He said. “You were also told that someone would eventually contact you. And in light of your recent, and might I add brilliant, crippling insult against the rotting little bitch of Othrys, I found it to be the time to make your acquaintance and introduce myself.”

	The man’s form rippled, shifted and expanded to fill the opposite side of the table’s width. The chair creaked and groaned under the sudden stress, and the light glinted off of the being’s glistening teeth and the simple black triangle that hung around its neck.

	The shator gehreleth folded its hands across the book upon the table and smiled.

	“Had we made a bargain over what you did, I would count myself in your debt right now. But in the absence of that, let me just say that I admire your actions and appreciate their consequences. Allow me to introduce myself then as an admirer of your deeds and a kindred spirit in terms of our displeasure with the yugoloths, wretched abortions of the Waste that they are. In the event that you might have heard of me or my work, my name is Xideous.”


----------



## shilsen

Shemeska said:
			
		

> In the event that you might have heard of me or my work, my name is Xideous.”




You forgot the "Darth"


----------



## Inconsequenti-AL

Youch. That gave me a little bit of fear just from the reading. What a thoroughly creepy thing to find in a creepy place.   

Thanks for the link, by the way... Lots of good things, and Felthis particularly rocks!


----------



## The Forsaken One

Dun dun dun .


[mega Starwars flashback too haha]


----------



## Toras

Jedi at the Bleakers.

"This is not the apathy you are looking for"


----------



## Burningspear

I dont have that Darth feelling, but it is interesting none the less.

keep up the good work and keep it comming regularly 

Dawai, i should say (russian for something vaguely similar to: "get going, get your back into it"


----------



## sciborg2

Like bluecheese this gets better as time goes on.


----------



## Jeremo_the_Natterer

Shemmy, you seriously need to get  published.


----------



## Shemeska

Jeremo_the_Natterer said:
			
		

> Shemmy, you seriously need to get  published.




I got into Dragon 

So as soon as their check arrives, according to Steven King I'll officially be a writer since I'll have written something, gotten a check from a publisher, and been able to pay my electric bill with the proceeds.

And on a side note, SH2 will be updated this week. I'm most of the way through it, but I've been slammed with a cold for the past few days, and fever chills tend to put a damper on creativity (though not quite so much for dreams, if my fever induced dream of an evil, D&D magic using Nikola Tesla leading an army of evil monsters invading NY city were any indication).


----------



## Azriael

Shemeska said:
			
		

> fever chills tend to put a damper on creativity (though not quite so much for dreams, if my fever induced dream of an evil, D&D magic using Nikola Tesla leading an army of evil monsters invading NY city were any indication).




Coming soon in Shemmy's Story Hour 3!

btw - love the story hour, hope you're feeling better


----------



## Eco-Mono

Shemeska said:
			
		

> [. . .] an evil, D&D magic using Nikola Tesla leading an army of evil monsters invading NY city [. . .]



If I wanted, I could build a machine that could _crack the Earth in two!!_


----------



## A Crazy Fool

Shemeska said:
			
		

> fever chills tend to put a damper on creativity (though not quite so much for dreams, if my fever induced dream of an evil, D&D magic using Nikola Tesla leading an army of evil monsters invading NY city were any indication).




I can't really picture Shemmy running a pulp campaign, but if he did, I'd play(if only to see the darkness).


----------



## Krafus

Been a while since I posted here. Just wanted to let Shemeska know I'm still reading and still enjoying. Here's hoping Kiro returns soon as a NPC. And a shator gehreleth for an ally... Should be fun. I wonder if he'll go with the party directly or be a stay-in-the-background, support type of character.


----------



## Clueless

....an ally... *chuckle* Um. Yeah... heh.


----------



## HeavenShallBurn

Krafus said:
			
		

> And a shator gehreleth for an ally... .




don't you mean conveniently placed spirit of malicious betrayal?


----------



## Shemeska

Ally? *grin*

Don't get too attached to Xideous is all I'll say.


----------



## Burningspear

Hehe, by how you write and the impression i have of you "Shemmy"  would have thought you older then your profile gives you 
Hmmz, 7 years younger then me, lol. 

O Whell, Keep up the good work, Youngky,


----------



## Ty

Shemie,

I've been reading this and your second SH for over a year and I just want to say thanks for the fantastic stories.


----------



## Shemeska

I'm glad you like it guys! It's been seriously fun to write.

I've got another update for SH1 in the works currently, but I started a few days late. Look for the reappearance of an old friend who hasn't been seen for a while in the plot. *grin*


----------



## Bryon_Soulweaver

Shemeska said:
			
		

> I've got another update for SH1 in the works currently, but I started a few days late. Look for the reappearance of an old friend who hasn't been seen for a while in the plot. *grin*



 The succubus priestess of Bast?


----------



## bluegodjanus

Bryon_Soulweaver said:
			
		

> The succubus priestess of Bast?




I thought she died. Poor choices in a demiplanar maze.


----------



## Bryon_Soulweaver

bluegodjanus said:
			
		

> I thought she died. Poor choices in a demiplanar maze.



But she hasn't been seen for a while.


----------



## Azriael

Cheshire Fiend perhaps?


----------



## Jeremo_the_Natterer

Aren, plz make it Aren!


----------



## Shemeska

The speculation is seriously amusing.


----------



## Ohtar Turinson

Jeremo_the_Natterer said:
			
		

> Aren, plz make it Aren!



 She got part of her soul eaten by an insane archmage, I believe. I would be very disappointed if she somehow came back from that.


----------



## bluegodjanus

Bryon_Soulweaver said:
			
		

> But she hasn't been seen for a while.




Neither has Abraham Lincoln. Because they're both dead.


----------



## Clueless

*facepalm*


----------



## Jeremo_the_Natterer

facepalm??

was that an old character?

who is this facepalm you speak of?


----------



## Quanqued

bluegodjanus said:
			
		

> Neither has Abraham Lincoln. Because they're both dead.



Dead? _Dead?!_  What has dead got anything to do with it?  Since when have minor matters such as death or destruction or a devoured soul actually prevented someone (or something) from turning up again?


----------



## Clueless

... since they were PCs.


----------



## Fimmtiu

Clueless said:
			
		

> ... since they were PCs.




Oh, man. Abraham Lincoln is a PC in your game? Hardcore!


----------



## Shemeska

Fimmtiu said:
			
		

> Oh, man. Abraham Lincoln is a PC in your game? Hardcore!




Abraham Lincoln is so totally hardcore. He totally messed up the other guys in the pit fighting at the Bottle and Jug in the Hive


----------



## Shemeska

Shators were massive creatures by any measure. As tall as a pit fiend or balor, they were easily twice as broad, and unlike kelubar gehreleths who might be described as corpulent, shators presented something more muscular, and Xideous was no exception. Almost as wide as the table that sat in the center of the cell, muscles rippled just below the semi-reptilian fiend's flesh, flexing with each movement as it looked down at its potential allies. 

Beings of xenophobic hatred and callous cruelty, an aura of power and intimidation exuded in his presence, but it also seemed apparent that the 'leth was intentionally holding back in whatever sublime way he could in order to present a more amiable, more cultured, and more trusting appearance. Still though, it was difficult not to be apprehensive, especially given their experience with a mere farastu back in Carceri.

"Would we know who you are?" Toras asked, not showing any recognition.

"By name or by deeds?" The fiend asked, a boastful tone creeping into his voice. "By name I would certainly hope not. I've done my best to make sure that my presence here in Sigil is completely unknown to anyone who might care, and likewise to those who wouldn't. And by deeds, for the moment perhaps, but the full scope of what I'm doing has yet to be completed, hence the desire for privacy." 

The fiend was waiting for them to ask him what it was that he was working on; that much was obvious. It was odd in a way, for a being as massive as a shator, one of the most powerful fiends, to be as superficially giddy like a child hiding a surprise behind their back and asking their parents to guess what it was.

Normally that sort of act would be met with a laugh and some comment or another, but the 'leth was standing less than five feet from them, and could probably rip half of them to pieces before they had the door open if they angered him. Humoring the 'leth was probably the wisest course of action, especially when a being of his stature was also dangling an offer of mutual aid.

Clueless motioned at the books, "Why the concern for privacy? What is it that you're working on that you need the secrecy for?"

Xideous chuckled.

"My privacy allows me to complete my work." He explained as his smile grew wider to reveal a maw full of glistening, ragged fangs and he gestured back at the stacks of books that surrounded him. "I'm something of an author you see, and I happen to share enemies with you. In fact I can assure you that the upper echelons of the yugoloth hierarchy have more reason to kill me than for anything that you have done, including what you've done to the Oinoloth's rotting little harlot."

Fyrehowl raised an eyebrow. They'd turned the Overlord of Carceri to stone and aborted her plans on the Astral, probably thrown a wrench into the Oinoloth's plans as well. What would make any particular shator a greater concern? Just what had Xideous done?

The gehreleth set down his pen, leaned forward across the table ever so slightly and grinned.

"On that last part, I really do have to say that you've made something of a name for yourselves."

"For better or for worse." Clueless said, knowing that it was only politics, petty internal politics even, that might manage to keep them from an endless succession of assassination attempts. "I'd have preferred to f*ck the 'loths over without my name being known."

Nisha peered out from behind Tristol. "...Are we actually known for what we did?"

Xideous shook his head. "To me yes. But I do keep my finger on the pulse of who has done what to engender the hatred of any of the 'loths. Your name probably isn't a known quantity among the 'loths except for a select few, and it won't be spread because it would be politically embarrassing to some of them. Their infighting and self-obsessive power mongering works to your benefit."

The Xaositect let out a sigh of relief and went back to nuzzling Tristol's tail. The others echoed her sigh, either outwardly or inwardly.

"So you're an author." Fyrehowl prompted. "What exactly is it that you're writing?"

Xideous had been waiting for them to ask, and he happily gave them an answer. "Have you ever heard of the Book of Keeping?"

Something in the back of Clueless's mind felt uneasy with where the conversation was going.

"I've heard of it." Tristol said, nodding. "It's supposed to be a book that details how to summon and bind yugoloths."

Xideous nodded back. "You would be correct mortal."

"I also know that it's hideously rare," Tristol continued. "And most of the copies that exist are just copies of copies; imperfect ones at that. Supposedly the 'loths have tried to suppress it, and when they find one of them, they do their best to destroy it."

"Correct again." The 'leth's grin was growing.

"Makes sense though." Florian said. "Especially if it wasn't a book they put out themselves. It'd piss them off to be yanked down to the prime by some random mage and forced into service by their truename or some other trick the book mentioned."

"They despise the notion." Xideous said. "Their sense of superiority cannot accept servitude to a mortal, or anything else, and the book was something else anathemic to them: it was truthful in what it told. It laid bare what its authors knew about the 'loths, their society, their caste structure, the structure of their language, massive lists of truenames and rituals specific to each type of 'loth; everything needed to shackle them."

The shator gave a deep, rumbling cackle and strummed his fingers across the top of the tome that had occupied a central position on his desk since they'd entered. The book drew the spotlight and no one noticed just how much Clueless’s wings were nervously twitching.

"Oh..." Toras began. "You're sh*tting me."

Xideous grinned. "There exists one remaining complete copy of the Book of Keeping, and yes, I possess it."

Powers above! No wonder he wanted to remain low-key!

The 'leth was not finished speaking however.

"And who better than I to not only possess it, but to undertake a revision and expansion to the material? When I am done, the Shator Revision of the Book of Keeping will be distributed like larvae from the hags. I will make the 'loths suffer and they will learn their proper place in the multiverse. The true names of their lords will dot the pages like worms in over-ripe meat."

_Mistake._ The voice of the Jester echoed suddenly inside Clueless's mind.

Clueless's eyes went wide, not at the lurking presence of the Jester, not at the admissions of the shator standing in front of him, but for another reason entirely. Helekanalaith. The Keeper of the Tower. The veritable master of Gehenna was hunting the "author of the revised Book of Keeping", he just didn't have a name, or hadn't provided one. Xideous was not safe. The 'loths might already know. The f*cking Keeper himself might have already taken notice. Sh*t!

"I want a copy." Toras said, the moment the 'leth paused.

"That is a very open possibility." The fiend replied. "But I am not finished, not yet. And that is where my idea of mutual aid comes into play."

"I'm with Toras too." Tristol said. "What do you want in exchange for a copy?"

"I propose an even exchange of information." Xideous offered. "You provide what you discover about the yugoloths to me: names, associations, descriptions, roles, anything you feel pertinent. In exchange I will give you any information about them that I am aware of myself, anything within the pages of the book, and anything granted to me by the Triple Aspected himself."

Clueless wanted to scream. It might already be too late.

"What's the catch?" Fyrehowl asked. "Forgive me for asking, but there has to be a catch."

Xideous smirked and pointed the tip of his pen in her direction. "Given what you are, I expect that sentiment. But my loathing to the spawn of the Demented utterly outweighs anything your kind could ever represent or do to my race or me. You provide information and I will do so in return. As for the rest of you, your mortality offends me less than the notion that even a single 'loth resides in Carceri."

Fyrehowl nodded. The fiend seemed genuine in his sentiment. She didn't detect any sense of duplicity regarding his motives at all. His hatred for the 'loths might even outstrip her own, but his capacity for hatred was also something alien to her people, even if her loss might be more poignant and much more recent.

"You've also done my kind a service." Xideous continued. "When you removed Shylara the Manged from being an active presence in Carceri, she was in the beginning stages of an attempt to flush the Red Prison of the gehreleths, layer by layer. The completion of her tower might have given her the ability to do so, and she and her lover before her, are a far cry from the ineffectual rulership of Bubonix. You may have delayed, or destroyed, her dreams of a genocidal crusade across Othrys, Cathrys, and Minethys, maybe even deeper."

It took a moment for that revelation to settle in.

"Ambitious little b*tch..." Fyrehowl muttered.

"So you see," Xideous said. "My appreciation isn't just something out of shared goals and shared enemies. You've done something even more tangible than you thought."

Toras tapped his fist on the wall, "Well she won't be doing anything for a while, that's for sure."

Behind the fighter, Nisha happily did her best almost caricatured impression of Shylara's petrified form.

Xideous chuckled, "I wish I could have been there to see it. But that said, I leave it open to you to consider my offer. It is not extended without risk to myself."

Of course if they refused, the threat posed by the fiend was still there lurking in the background, as well as the enmity of an entire race. But in truth, there was precious little reason to not accept the deal as offered. There was only a moment of shared glances and nods and that was that.

"We'll accept." Fyrehowl said, speaking for the group.

Xideous didn't immediately expect any flow of information in either direction, though when pointedly asked, he regretfully admitted that he was not aware of the Marauder's truename, though he sorely desired it. He did spend some time discussing the dynamics of the 'loth occupation of Othrys, and how it had differed through the tenures of the various 'loth overlords of the Tower of Incarnate Pain.

Eventually though they had said all they had to say, and given the depth of the shator's knowledge, they needed more time to come up with specific questions to ask him, and he promised to have a compiled list of questions for them, as well as a veiled promise of a copy of the incomplete tome at some point in the future.

The desire to leave however was not monolithic.

As the others thanked the fiend and moved towards the door, Clueless held back. "Guys, I'd like to stay a moment more and discuss something in private with him."

Glancing at him but making no comment, the gehreleth simply folded his hands and waited.

Florian was more questioning though. "Hmm? What about?"

"It should only take a minute or two." He explained, motioning them on. "Just wait for me outside."

After a few abortive attempts to worm out of the bladesinger just what he needed to ask that couldn't be done with them present, they reluctantly left and walked back out to the hallway. It hadn't so much stoked their interest though, so much as it had raised the lurking specter of distrust and resentment over Clueless keeping secrets from them. Be that as it might though, his secrecy was well meaning, and at the moment more self-preservation.


***​

As soon as the door to the cell closed behind his companions, Clueless turned to face Xideous. Without bluntly, openly admitting to the situation, he had to somehow relate to the fiend the danger he was in.

"You have an astounding amount of guts to be doing what you are."

The fiend still had a patient but curious look upon his face. "My race has an astounding amount of reason for our hatred of them."

Clueless nodded, "And I share the perspective. But you're in the middle of a swarm of their influence. What would you do if the 'loths found out where you are?"

The Shator smirked and cracked the knuckles on his left hand, "I'd make certain that their informant was slaughtered and their heart delivered to Agathys in a goblet made of a silver-plated 'loth's skull."

Clueless inwardly blanched. So much for telling him the truth. 'Hi there Xideous, one of the lords of Gehenna is probably looking at you right now...' No. That wouldn't work.

"Are you certain that you're safe in Sigil?"

Xideous snorted. "I've been here since two years before the Faction War, seven years, and in all that time I haven't been disturbed once. The 'loths would have burned the Gatehouse to the ground along with everyone inside if they even suspected that I was inside."

Clueless looked away for a moment. He wasn't taking the hint.

"Is it still safe here given the recent upheaval among the 'loths?" He asked. "The new Oinoloth is more proactive, and we know for a fact that the Marauder at least has significantly more power under the current order than before. The atmosphere in Sigil hasn't been healthy for their enemies. They've tried to kill us a few times, and though it's been a while now, you'll remember when they killed the former high executioner for the Mercykillers."

"And they haven't in all that time even sent a single agent into the Gatehouse, despite having a network of them crawling across the Hive." Xideous explained, not showing much concern. "I won't claim to know each and every stooge on their payroll, or blackmailed into servitude in some capacity, but I don't feel it's a risk."

"What I'm saying is that we've had far too many dealings with the 'loths here in the city." Clueless said, trying to still hint to the shator without overtly saying it. "The place is crawling with them, or people loyal to them. I don't..."

Xideous waved off his concern. "Trust my judgment in this mortal. I've been here where I am for long enough to observe the dynamics of the city. If you must know, I have a large number of the former Bleakers affected by a permanents mindspider of sorts, and I'll be well aware of anyone looking for me before they could do anything. If I have to leave, I have contingent plans."

It wasn't going to work. And Clueless wasn't going to tell him the truth, because the truth was that he was doomed.


***​

Outside in the hallway, the group stood and speculated on what had held Clueless behind.

"No, I don't like him keeping secrets from me." Tristol said with a frown. "It's annoying to no end."

"He's like that." Fyrehowl said with a shrug.

"Annoying?" Nisha asked. "I wouldn't say..."

The lupinal chuckled and shook her head, "I meant he can be secretive."

"All the time though." Tristol complained, ears flat against his head. "He's like that all the time and it's getting to be seriously annoying."

Toras sighed and gave a shrug. "It is, but it hasn't been malicious on his part. He's had good reason and decent intentions behind it."

"But it doesn't make me feel like he trusts his friends as much as he could when he doesn't tell us about things that are incredibly important."

"Then ask him when he's finished talking with the 'leth." Florian said. "Tell him that it's important, tell him how you feel. Just don't let it build up. I mean..."

Florian paused abruptly and stared over Fyrehowl's shoulder at the barred window looking into ex-factol Tollysalmon's cell. There'd been nothing but darkness there only a moment before, but suddenly, without actually seeing any movement, the ex-factol was standing there immediately behind the bars, staring at them.

The githyanki's face was a sallow shade of mottled gray, made sickly and gaunt by her incarceration. A few strands of knotted hair hung past her face and though her expression was almost entirely blank, there was the faintest, enigmatic hint of amusement, though her eyes were a solid, iris-less black.

"Sh*t!" Florian shouted as she jerked back a few feet, followed almost immediately by a similar scramble from her companions.

And then, just as quick as she'd appeared, the githyanki factol vanished back into the shadows.

_"You can't stop it..."_ A hissing, trailing whisper echoed from the cell and inside their heads at once.

The group was twenty feet away in the space of a few seconds, clustered back at the stairs and as far away from the mad bleakers as they could get and still be within view of where Clueless would exit after he was finished with Xideous. They hadn't been intending to eavesdrop on the Shator and the bladesinger, though in retrospect the appearance of such wouldn't have been a wise thing to present, but the ex-factols were unsettling. Tessali was perfectly justified in his worry regarding those madmen, and just like him, they simply didn't want to be anywhere near them.

Fyrehowl hadn't felt anything; she hadn't heard the woman's footsteps, or her breathing. Nothing. She'd just been there. Either she wasn't a threat at all, or the Cadence hadn't felt her, or maybe a bit of both. The cipher wasn't certain anymore than she understand what the gith had whispered to them, assuming it was anything more than the ramblings of insanity.

Nisha broke the silence, jerking her tail to point back down the hall. "So now that we're away from factol spooky, anyone want to speculate what Clueless is doing in there?"

Toras rolled his eyes, "The fiend?"

"Huh?" Skalliska asked, clearly confused. In fact it was the first time that she'd said anything the whole time. The kobold's mind was fixated on something else entirely.

"You know..."

"Huh?" Skalliska asked again.

Toras slapped his hands together rhythmically. "You know..."

"Toras!" Florian exclaimed, blushing.

"Well that's what he did with the Manged back in Carceri! Kinda. Sorta. And for all I know the Marauder probably screwed his brains out too. He's got a record of this you know."

Nisha was giggling and blushing, the tips of Tristol's ears were red, and Fyrehowl shook her head.

"That's absolutely disgusting." Florian said. "Please Toras, don't go into detail. I'd like to keep my mind from remembering those episodes."

"Apparently manifest Evil finds him hot!" Toras said, continuing his inappropriate line of joking. "Or maybe he finds Evil hot. I dunno. He screwed the freaking Manged. I'm immune to disease and even I'm going there. So pardon me for speculating on the next one in line."

Xideous's cell door swung open and Clueless walked back to rejoin the group. The conversation quickly died away once they heard his footsteps and the heavy slam of the gehreleth's cell door sliding shut, but he heard enough to know what they were talking and joking about. He didn't say anything, or acknowledge that he'd heard them, but the comments hurt.

Nothing of the sort had happened with the 'leth -the very idea was repulsive to him- and he'd stayed behind to speak out of a desire to save its life and keep him as an ally. He'd had good intentions and his friends were making jokes about him f*cking it.

Clueless looked away and frowned. When he finally bottled up his feelings and turned back to his companions he managed to hold his tongue and hold their questions at bay. Tristol likewise didn't mention his feelings on the topic, though in truth, soon enough they'd be irrelevant.


***​ 

When they left the Gatehouse and wandered back through the Hive and into the Clerk's Ward, back to the Portal Jammer, the sky was thick with smog and haze, already beginning to darken as the city slipped further and further from Peak and its modicum of daylight. From across the ring of the city, lights could already be seen like erstwhile stars dotting the dusk, props for Sigil's play of night, each slowly being dragged out from the city's backstage. 

Despite Sigil's trappings of filth and age, and the Hive's unique stench, the burgeoning night seemed tinged with a positive note as they walked back home. They'd managed in the past week to have the yugoloth overlord of Carceri pulled off of their backs, and by virtue of their actions against her, they'd attracted the attentions of a powerful ally. Yes it was another fiend, but even if they had to metaphorically rob Peter to pay Paul, simply on a practical level they could dirty their hands if it meant empowering themselves alongside another enemy of the 'loths.

That was the predominant feeling at least. Clueless though felt remarkably different. As much as he tried to put on a show of attitude similar to the others, he knew what was going to happen. It was only a question of when. Xideous was a marked man.

But Clueless and his hidden feelings were not for the moment a shared anchorstone dragging on the hearts of his companions, and once they arrived back at the Portal Jammer, there was an impromptu round of drinks free on the house to those customers who were there for a late dinner or an evening drink. No explanation was given, and the regulars happily accepted the free liquor without pressing the issue, but the owners were clearly excited about something as they passed out the drinks, took their own and retired to the private room in the back of the inn.

Well, again, most of them were.

Skalliska had vanished back to her room with something clearly on her mind as far as her companions were aware, but it didn't seem as if anything was terribly amiss. Whatever it was they'd find out eventually they figured, but it couldn't be anything bad, and they didn't let to sully their mood.

Clueless was drinking sure enough, but for an entirely different reason. There was no celebration when he raised his glass, and there was no happiness to be found in the bottom as a mug, just the bitter taste of the dregs on the tip of his tongue to match his mood.

"To Xideous." The bladesinger said, raising his glass in a toast.

"To Xideous and to us." The response from the others came.

Celebration? It felt like a wake.

"Here's to screwing the 'loths over!" Florian called out, raising her glass.

"getting Here's to drunk!" Nisha shouted, slipping into scramblespeak, having kept up in volume with the others despite being significantly lighter.

Tristol delicately took away her drink and gave her a kiss.

"Here's to still skeptical lupinals." Fyrehowl said. "I'm excited but we'll see how this goes. Fiends are fiends still I suppose."

Florian nudged her, "Don't break the mood 'hun."

"I suppose not." The cipher replied. "Call it a feeling I suppose. But what the heck, I don't want to be a downer, so... here's to us and here's to drinking!"

"wOHoo XoAs!" Nisha countered drunkenly.

Another twenty minutes of celebration more and Clueless couldn't handle the difference in mood through the room compared to how he truly felt.

"Guys?" The bladesinger asked. "I'm feeling a bit tired, maybe a little out of it from everything that happened today. So if you don't mind, I'm going to be going to bed early tonight. I'll see you all in the morning."

Florian nodded, "Don't worry about it."

"You sure?" He questioned. "You won't mind handling closing time?"

Not at all. It wouldn't be a problem at all was the response. The mood was too good to care. Clueless's mind was clouding with guilt when he walked up the stairs to his room, and his heart was heavy when he finally, fitfully fell asleep an hour later, dreading the likely call of some fiendish psychopomp on its way to the gatehouse.

The others called an end to the evening eventually, retiring to their own rooms to sleep or study or pray, ignorant of that looming nightingale on the horizon calling out its song to the tune of 'loth.


***​

"Hello Toras..."

Sitting on his bed, reciting from a book of prayers, the fighter cringed and slowly turned around to a voice that was immediately recognizable.

Hovering next to the window, turned to look out into the street was the quasi-illusory projection of the Cheshire Fiend. As always, the fiend's avatar was smiling, shedding a bright white glow across Toras's room to dwarf the normal light from the street and his own reading lamp on the table.

"It's a beautiful night tonight." The fiend said, unreadable in tone, still looking out the window. "Wouldn't you agree?"

Toras didn't have a clue what to think, either about the Grin's comment or about his very presence. The last time they'd had any dealings with him, while they hadn't been harmed, they'd been used like puppets of convenience, and there was still some distrust and animosity regarding that. Truth be told, the Cheshire Fiend's loyalties and motivations were still as entirely inscrutable as they'd ever been, and while he'd nominally advanced the cause of the current Oinoloth prior to his ascension, all indications were that in true 'loth form he was ultimately loyal to the only thing that mattered to him: him.

Toras looked at the fiend's avatar but didn't reply. He crossed his arms and waited for the illusion to say something worth responding to.

"Did I say something to offend?" The glowing grin turned a bit to either side and then down, like he were staring at a body he didn't have, looking for something awkward in what he'd worn.

"Not yet I suppose." Toras replied.

It grinned wider. That might have been good, it might have been a horrible omen. Toras wasn't sure.


----------



## Clueless

*first post!*


----------



## Burningspear

Clueless said:
			
		

> *first post!*




hehe, i second that 

just to show i am still here and reading...


----------



## Tal Rasha

Strange though, that the others did not remember about Clueless's mental roommate. A temporary lapse in memory?


----------



## Shemeska

Tal Rasha said:
			
		

> Strange though, that the others did not remember about Clueless's mental roommate. A temporary lapse in memory?




They didn't know about Helekanalaith's hate-on for the author of the Book of Keeping revision, and till they were already inside talking to Xideous, Clueless didn't know about that he was who he was. The rest of the party wasn't aware of how much, or how active, Helekanalaith's observations were.

Mostly he wasn't doing much, but certain things likely triggered his attention, and a gehreleth, especially a shator, would be one of those. 

For various reasons the PCs didn't consider it a major risk at the time they went to talk to the 'leth. Memory lapse is probably partially to blame, but the other players weren't heavily privy to the specifics of the Keeper's window into Clueless's mind.


----------



## Tal Rasha

This I understand. Also, great update and 'tis really good to see a sign of the Jester again.


----------



## Ghostknight

Just finished reading the SH to date- fantastic going Shemmy.  I've never run a Planescape campaign, but this defintiely spikes my interest to do so!


----------



## Shemeska

"I realize perhaps that we last spoke on somewhat awkward terms." The fiend explained, "But I'm here with a smile."

"You always smile." Toras said.

"But this time I actually mean it!" He explained. "I'm actually happy at the moment. And the cause of my being happy is something that deserves to be shared!"

"And what would that be?"

The fiend hummed and bobbed a bit in the air. Clearly he was excited.

"Now I'd intended to tell you all at the same time."

"Same time as what?"

"I'm getting there mortal." He interjected. "Allow me my moment."

Toras sighed and gestured for him to continue his ego-feeding.

"I've come here tonight as a harbinger of news."

"Autochon the Bellringer needed another news boy and you got the job?" Toras asked without a pause. "Congrats to you, but I don't see why I should care if you're making a few extra jink on the side."

"Your sarcasm is impressive." The fiend replied. "Amusing at times as well. But I think you'll be interested in the news that I was carrying."

"Go ahead." He sighed. "You're so evil, blah blah blah. We cannot be stopped, blah blah blah. That's the usual content anyways."

"There's substance this time." The Cheshire Fiend explained, ignoring the insults. "In fact there's going to be a dead fiend very shortly. I hope you didn't get too attached to Xideous in the short time that you knew him."

The reaction he got out of Toras wasn't entirely what he expected.

"And why should I care?" The fighter asked. "Another fiend dies. He's not one of the fiends on my list of fiends that deserve to die, and yes I have just such a list, but still I can easily live with that."

The Grin smirked. Clearly he wasn't going to faze Toras without tweaking him a bit.

"I should also point out that there's an orphanage adjacent to the wing of the Gatehouse."

"..."

"A pity really if anything were to accidentally befall them in the process of..."

Toras's eyes went wide and his hand went immediately to a wooden tablet to his left. The fiend was starting to chuckle despicably when the fighter held the tablet and its inscribed surface up in the air.

"Symbol of Pain!"

Not expecting it, the fiend's illusory avatar twisted and distorted as he looked at the symbol and caught the effect with full force.

"Gahhh!" The Cheshire Fiend exclaimed with a gargle in his voice a moment before he either cancelled his projection into Toras's room, or lost the concentration necessary to maintain it.

In either event however, Toras was already out the door and running towards the Hive with the hope that whatever was planned, he would get there in time to prevent mass casualties. But even at his pace, he wasn't actually the first person to bolt from the inn.


***​

Meanwhile, at the same time Toras had been speaking with the Cheshire Fiend, the exact same conversation was happening in the other rooms of the Jammer where the grinning 'loth had manifested in order to gloat, or goad, or simply to banter with the rest of the inn's owners. Given that each conversation was happening at once, it had interesting implications.

Fyrehowl narrowed her eyes and looked at the perpetually smiling avatar. "Nothing good ever happens when you show up."

"Odd circumstance really, nothing more." The fiend replied. "You know, in my defense I've never actually done anything to harm you and yours. Not me, not directly."

Fyrehowl rolled her eyes, "Not yet."

The air shimmered above the corners of the fiend's illusory mouth, giving the distinct appearance of a disembodied shrug. "I suppose I have to shoulder the burden of my race's reputation. A pity really, because I try to be an amiable fellow."

"So what do you want now?"

The grin turned towards the window where it had first manifested. "Take a look towards the Hive."

Something wasn't right. Fyrehowl felt something wrong. And before her mind had even had time to speculate on just what the Cheshire Fiend was there to announce, even before the fiend had opened his mouth to tell her what she was looking for out the window, the window was open and Fyrehowl was gone.

"Because tonight you..." The fiend stopped and actually stuttered. "Well damn. That was unexpected."

He looked out of the window and down to the street. The lupinal was already gone, vanished off into the night, and she'd leapt a full two stories in the process without even a pause. Perhaps it had been a mistake to talk to her before the fact rather than after that night's events had fully transpired.

"You're fast my dear." He said, adding a short bit of a whistle. "But thankfully not quite fast enough. We'll be finished before you get there, but I'll be taking note of just how far you make it before then. It'll be nice to know for the future just how much lead-time I'll have in case you have reason to track me down..."


***​

Tristol's ears were flattened against his head as he sat up in bed and blinked against the glow of a simple dweomer that he'd invoked to light the room.

"I was asleep you know." The wizard mumbled as he adjusted to the light. "And your face is hardly my first choice to wake up to."

"Alas, I'm not fluent in scramblespeak." The fiend replied, getting no reaction from Tristol one way or the other. "But I do bring some good news. Of a sort."

Tristol's ears perked at the mention, even though he wasn't certain it would actually be anything good.

"Good news?"

"Well," The fiend explained. "News of events that will put you in my good graces certainly."

The aasimar gave only a skeptical expression in return. "That's not high on my list of the most wonderful things in the world. But okay I suppose."

"Oh please Tristol, you wound me." The Cheshire Fiend prattled on whimsically. "I'm an influential person. Being in my favor is something that could improve your life, grease wheels, even Wheels I suppose."

Tristol smirked, "Talking like that I half expect you to be the Marauder."

The Cheshire Fiend laughed, then paused, and then stuck out a tongue.

Tristol returned the expression, but without the same humor. "Not that I expect you to admit it, even if it's accurate."

"You could always ask her yourself." The fiend suggested with a tone of amusement. "But do yet me know ahead of time, because I'd love to see her reaction, and I'd feel compelled to pay for the healer, or the undertaker as it might be."

Tristol's ears flattened once again.

"Trust me Tristol." The fiend said. "The relationship is complex, but she wouldn't appreciate the comparison. Not at all."

Fully awake by that point, Tristol wanted some answers rather than banter. "So what did you come here tonight to say? I'm awake now, so whatever it is I'll be able to appreciate it, or despise it whichever the case might be."

Before the Grin could reply however, he twitched. "And Nisha is awake and having far too much fun at my expense."

"Oh?" He asked. "I take it you're talking to everyone?"

The Cheshire Fiend nodded and for a brief moment his illusory avatar sported a gloss of what appeared to be a coating of rather garishly applied lipstick and blush.

"As I said, too much fun at my expense."

Tristol chuckled, put almost at ease by the thought of Nisha having fun dolling up the fiend's avatar. But unfortunately his mood would quickly sour.

"So what was it you were going to tell me in the first place?"

The fiend moved towards the window and turned back to face Tristol.

"Tonight..."


***​ 

"Evening to you Clueless."

Clueless had Razor drawn and pointed at the Cheshire Fiend by the time he spun around to face the unexpected visitor.

The fiend's glowing avatar drifted forwards and nibbled on the point of the sword. "You're a bit more hostile than the others..."

Clueless narrowed his eyes, much the same expression that Fyrehowl had made. "Just what the hell do you want?"

Belatedly, he cursed and looked away, already knowing just why the fiend was there.

"Being threatened apparently." He replied, drifting back away from the sword's point. "Actually I'm here to congratulate you."

"F*ck..." Clueless spat.

"Smart boy. You already know what I'm referring to."

"The moment we find something to even possibly..." The bladesinger sighed. "You take it away. And this is my fault."

The fiend said nothing and let Clueless simmer in self-hatred and frustration. Gone was the friendly veneer that the fiend had adopted with the others at least at first. With Clueless the grinning was as fake as ever.

"Is he already dead?"

"Might as well be." The fiend replied. "Might be better for him. But since you've already stumbled to what I came here to mention to you all, I should direct you to the window, because I assure you, you'll want to see this."

Suddenly the fiend's avatar twitched and he actually snarled. "And Toras is a very unpleasant man when you poke at his convictions. I'll have to remember that he keeps an unhealthy number of inscribed symbols laying around."

Clueless snorted. "Serves you right."

The fiend tilted noncommittally. "Contrary to what poor Nilesia might have said on the matter, there's no such thing as Justice. But having said that, you'll want to look out the window because tonight..."


***​ 

"Tonight..." The Cheshire Fiend spoke to each of the Portal Jammer's owners with the conviction of a zealot.

He laughed, unable to contain his giddy feelings.

"Tonight the sky of Sigil will bleed red with the fury of my Lord Helekanalaith. The Gatehouse will burn, the cursed life of the gehreleth known as Xideous will be snuffed, and his work shall be erased from existence. Tonight bear witness to the fate of those who would defy the Lord of Gehenna. Let his will be done."

The moment the last syllable left the fiend's illusory lips, the explosion rattled the windows and the sound of fallen and breaking slate tiles echoed up from the street. The sound from the Hive washed over the Clerk's ward like a peal of thunder of such intensity that Lei-Kung or Thor would have had stopped, paused and wondered, had gods been allowed in the City of Doors.

The haze-covered sky in the direction of the Hive was awash in a dozen flickering shades of red and yellow from the flames roaring up from the Gatehouse. After the immediate eruption of flame, a vast plume of smoke rose into the sky and as the colors mixed and deepened, the skies of Sigil did indeed appear to be bleeding. But as violent an event as the sky might have suggested, the true extent of the damage was only visible to someone there at the scene.

And by the time the first flames had sparked into existence, Fyrehowl was already halfway there, running without consciously thinking where she was even going, moving as fast as her legs would carry her.  When she was almost within view of the Gatehouse it happened, and she actually saw the immediate aftermath, felt the first heat of the expanding flames wash over her and was there for the rain of molten metal and stone dripping out of the sky like the Lady herself were crying for the violation of the City of Doors.

The center wing of the Gatehouse was an inferno, and flames poured the windows near the back quarter of its length, but it was immediately clear just where it had started.

"You b*stards..." Fyrehowl whispered as she paused for only a moment.

The rear of the Irretrievably and Criminally Insane Ward of the Gatehouse looked as if some great hand had descended from the sky and ripped it open. The metal frame of the roof was peeled back and partially melted from the force of the explosion, and the flames that had been ignited by that event were, from even a cursory glance, simply an uncaring side effect of an assassination, heartless overkill by the fiends. There was no way that Xideous, or any of the scores of prisoners in that section of the structure could have survived.

As fruitless as any attempt to have saved or even warned the gehreleth might have been, the building was still on fire, and its occupants still in grave danger. Fyrehowl, and Toras once he arrived shortly thereafter, knew that they could lament Xideous's death as soon as the flames were extinguished and the people of the area safe.


***​

"And now Clueless." The fiend said, turning away from the window once the glow in the sky had shifted to a more sullen shade of red. "It can only go without saying that the terms of my Lord Helekanalaith's agreement with you will be amended in some manner."

Clueless paused. "What?!"

"Don't go killing the messenger now." The fiend replied defensively. "Toras already made the attempt. But do keep in mind that your finding of Xideous was purely incidental, not some grand master stroke on your part to gain the favor of the 'leths and thus gain your ticket into a very brief, very abortive collusion with the late, unlamented author in the gatehouse. You won't be gaining your freedom by chance, regardless of your view on any presumed facade of pragmatism, or his 'word', the Keeper does not operate by such except when it suits him."

"Get him." Clueless spat. "I want to speak with him. Now."

The Cheshire Fiend shrugged. "He operates by his schedule alone, barring perhaps a few minor exceptions. And unless you happen be the Oinoloth or one of the Gloom Fathers, you my boy do not qualify as one of those exceptions. He will contact you at a time and place of his choosing."

"Son of a b*tch..."

The fiend chuckled, "I have to wonder how Larsdana would respond to that..."

Clueless paused, uncertain what to make of the statement. It certainly said something about the fiend hovering a few feet away from him, but the ramifications would be a very long time coming.

"But now Clueless, if you'll excuse me, I have other things to do. Perhaps a party to attend, perhaps a party to crash, perhaps I'll just go watch the Gatehouse burn. Enjoy your evening, and know that when I raise a glass to tonight's events, the first toast will be to you."


***​

Following the fiend's pronouncements there was little that could be done except meet in the taproom and begin the process of numbing themselves into oblivion. Only Fyrehowl and Toras were there at the scene, and they were performing after-the-fact cleanup and preventing further damage, but the worst was already done. Toras at least had a silver lining to his mad dash from the Clerks Ward to the Hive: the orphanage was untouched by the flames and despite the Cheshire Fiend's mocking suggestions, the children had never been in danger.

Elsewhere in the city, and soon swirling around the Portal Jammer as well, confusion was followed swiftly by outrage, and on the coattails of that came rumor and finally the first fragments of information from Sigil's debatably independent press.  But of course, nowhere in the press was there any declaration of just what had caused the destruction in the first place, at least not any declaration that was accurate. The only people who knew that were one, maybe two 'loths in Sigil, and the owners of the Portal Jammer who for the moment lacked any solid proof to back up their knowledge.

Fire guts central wing of Gatehouse! one headline read, Mayhem and Madmen! read another. Destruction and Death in the Hive. Arson Not Ruled Out. No mention of fiends. No mention of the very selective explosion that occurred before the fires began. Some papers blamed Xaositects, some blamed resurgent Anarchists, some even blamed one or another sect of the Doomguard.

"F*ckers..." Clueless cursed as he skimmed through a pile of newspapers, still warm or wet from the press, his hands stained with about as much cheap ink as metaphorical blood.

Not a drop of coverage suggesting that the 'loths, or even any fiends at all had caused the destruction. Nothing. Either certain 'loths were pulling strings on the printing houses, or more like the press simply had no clue what had happened. Given how thoroughly many of the upper tier ex-Bleakers had been in thrall to Xideous, they were probably too out of their senses to make heads or tales of anything for the moment.

The press was ignorant, and for all of the other suspected reasons, be they arson, anarchists or others, the press already had a pair of scapegoats that had been handed to them on silver platters.

Madmen Missing From Gatehouse Asylum, Ex-Factols Vanish, No Bodies Found, Ex-Factol Lhar Found Wandering The Hive, Back In Custody. Esmus And Tollysalmon Still At Large, Rewards Offered

Clueless frowned as he read the last headlines, "Why do I get the feeling that this is going to come back to haunt us somehow?"

Florian looked over at him, "This in general or the barmies?"

"Little of column A, little of column B..."

The papers went on to report that Lhar had never gotten far, and they'd found him wandering in a daze, talking to himself, intermittently screaming at shadows. Esmus however had apparently bolted from the Gatehouse as soon as the walls of his cell had been ripped apart by the explosion. A number of people had seen him dashing through the street, and the last reliable witness claimed to have seen him dive through a portal leading to the Bleaker city known as the Madhouse in Pandemonium. Of course none of the papers really dwelled too heavily on the fact that he'd apparently been able to survive the explosion in the first place.

As for Tollysalmon, the papers were silent on her fate. A few witnesses reported seeing her calmly walking away from the Gatehouse, or standing there watching the flames, but then for all intents and purposes she simply vanished and there were no leads readily apparent. But within the hour the former Bleakers had put out news of a substantial reward for the return of their former factols, dead or alive, or for information on their current whereabouts.

"How much are they offering for a reward?" Skalliska asked as Clueless related the gist of what he was reading in the various papers. "We could always go find them you know."

Just having returned from the Hive, Fyrehowl's fur bristled at the thought. "I know we don't have a ton of stuff planned for the immediate future at the moment, but I don't want anything to do with them. They disturb me. It doesn't feel right around them."

Nisha grinned, "That would be Cipherspeak for "Now I know what it felt for Rhys right before the Faction War.""

"Cipherspeak?" Amberblue asked, perched on the bar atop a "hoard" of spare coins left as tips. The faerie dragon was largely in the dark about everything, and they were trying to keep him that way.

"Yep. Cipherspeak." Nisha nodded. "Would you prefer it in Xaos?"

"No. Not really." Fyrehowl responded after downing a shot of brandy, her 9th. "I felt disturbed around them, but not something from the Cadence. I didn't feel them in the Cadence. It was like they simply were there, or they didn't fit. Disturbing."

Florian nodded. "So no hunting them down for likely lowballed reward money out of the good of our hearts then?"

"I could go for a vacation, but tracking down that pair of nutters isn't something on my list." The lupinal punctuated that declaration with yet another shot of liquor. It was going to be a long night, and there was a significantly larger amount of alcohol to be consumed before it was over.


***​

Despite the prevailing mood within the Portal Jammer, the mood was quite different elsewhere in the multiverse. 

Within the Fortune's Wheel there was a celebration of sorts going on, one stocked with expensive wine, one very particular woman, and more laughter than song. Of course, despite her jubilation, despite the fact that her celebration had started with giddy anticipation an hour before the events in the Hive, and had even taken place in the Stargazer's Tower with a perfect and unobstructed view of the Gatehouse on the opposite side of the city, despite all of that, the Marauder hadn't lifted a painted claw in any of the carnage. Oh, she was happy for the end result -far be it for her to miss wallowing in someone else's misery or cause the death of one of Apomps's children- but she was purely an admiring spectator.

Meanwhile in Gehenna there was a much more subdued celebration taking place in a chamber at the summit of the Tower Arcane.

"It's amusing whose names have made it into the pages of this book over the eons. Wouldn't you agree?"

Blue light played across the ivory fangs of the Keeper of the Tower as he stared back at his reflection distorted and reflected back within the depths of the glittering sapphire sphere that perpetually hung above his desk.

"I can only speculate of course by what route many of these names reached the ears and pens of the various authors. I know a few that I fed to the ears of mortals as a method of punishment for particularly disobedient underlings, and it's amusing that it spread into here. Presumably the 'leth had access to other copies of the tome, or more likely given the handwriting progression through the pages, a succession of revisions by different conjurers and sages have added names known through various routes to them as individuals."

Helekanalaith closed the book and then closed his eyes, running his hand across the leather binding of the Shator Revision to the Book of Keeping. The binding was fresh and the leather still supple and yet to fully tighten against the cover and spine due to a remaining bit of mucus-like liquid in the porous layers of the dermis, but that was typical of gehreleth flesh, and there’d been no reason to suspect that Xideous's flayed hide would have proven any different.

"But the end result of course is that Xideous is dead and has been made an example of those who would defy the might of the yugoloth race." The Keeper smiled and pushed the book to one side, looking back at the gem containing the spirit of Larsdana ap Neut.

"It is of course purely an added benefit that Xideous's book has in the end come to rest upon my desk. Blasphemous as it might be in the hands of non-yugoloths, there's no reason whatsoever that it cannot find some practical use in mine. You would have done the same."

Helekanalaith lifted a glass of fermented petitioners' blood, toasting his imprisoned lover in a bizarrely sentimental expression. "Glory be to us the chosen of Evil. Cheers Larsdana."

But the fiends' gloating was not entirely finished.


***​


----------



## Graywolf-ELM

I wondered how he would meet his end.  Would that be some form of epic spell, or group casting?  I'm just curious if you use game mechanics for the over the top stuff like that, or if it is just "known" how much power certain entities have.

I know, long since I posted a comment here, but I still read regularly.

GW


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## Shemeska

Graywolf-ELM said:
			
		

> I wondered how he would meet his end.  Would that be some form of epic spell, or group casting?  I'm just curious if you use game mechanics for the over the top stuff like that, or if it is just "known" how much power certain entities have.




In this particular case I don't believe I ever confirmed if Xideous was killed by one person casting an epic spell or using an artifact, or if it was the combined efforts of several casters. I think I might have implied at a later point in the game that it was largely done by the Cheshire Fiend, but that he might have had secondary/contributing casters.


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## Graywolf-ELM

Shemeska said:
			
		

> In this particular case I don't believe I ever confirmed if Xideous was killed by one person casting an epic spell or using an artifact, or if it was the combined efforts of several casters. I think I might have implied at a later point in the game that it was largely done by the Cheshire Fiend, but that he might have had secondary/contributing casters.




Thanks Shemmy,  I still run to the boards here when I get a little E-mail saying there has been an update.  It's fun reading what you, your players, and the other readers have to say.

GW


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## Shemeska

Graywolf-ELM said:
			
		

> Thanks Shemmy,  I still run to the boards here when I get a little E-mail saying there has been an update.  It's fun reading what you, your players, and the other readers have to say.
> 
> GW




I will say that it was not Helekanalaith who wrecked a wing of the Gatehouse. For all his obscene power, he can't waltz into Sigil himself except for an illusory projection. Now there are two particular things (people or objects) that exist over the course of the campaign that seem capable of breaking the Lady's restrictions over the portals of Sigil, but Helekanalaith isn't one of them [The Shadow Sorcelled Key mentioned in 'In the Cage' is one of them, and when it becomes relevant to the plot I'll be writing up a side storyhour of sorts to cover the oneshot game I ran for that bit of offtotheside action that was parallel to the campaign proper].

Actually now that you ask about it, at some future point in the storyhour I'll actually make a confirmation on the particulars of the Gatehouse event, becuase something similar happens again in a later plot arc. At this point in the campaign, the Cheshire Fiend has around 6 caster levels above the Marauder, so as far as antagonistic 'loths operating in Sigil, he's got more personal power in the sorcery department.


----------



## Zen79

Just wanted to show I'm still here, checking every day for another update of this great and fascinating story. Although I do seldom post, I'm a big fan. 
I wonder how many 'silent' readers are out there?
Thank you very much Shemmie, and keep up the good work (and the regulary updates...   )


----------



## Tal Rasha

Now I really hope I don't spoil anything here, but would Shekelor be one person who could access Sigil outside normal channels? I seem to remember this instance where he spoke to his disciples from within Pandemonium...


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## Shemeska

Tal Rasha said:
			
		

> Now I really hope I don't spoil anything here, but would Shekelor be one person who could access Sigil outside normal channels? I seem to remember this instance where he spoke to his disciples from within Pandemonium...




Not him 

That said, we'll see Shekelor again, but only in flashback because he's very very very much dead.

Sending a message from outside of Sigil to inside Sigil is possible if you manage to know how to route it through open portals, and that's what Shekelor was doing (or some variation of the sort of planar projections that Skall and Helekanalaith appear capable of). But there's a gulf between that and actually opening portals, influencing things inside the city, etc.


----------



## Ohtar Turinson

Things that can get in out of Sigil without following the usual route...
::chuckles:: There's the Scratcher, right? I used him in my high school Planescape game. Probably won't in my current one.

In the Cage always seems like a bit of a mixed bag to me. Seriously- Arcadian Ponies are stupid. It's a pony... with a TENTACLE! Why would they put that in?  Ahem. Sorry about that.


----------



## Shemeska

Fyrehowl stood up from her chair, slightly buzzed but not drunk. She wasn’t a small person, and as a celestial, even a jaded one if labels had to be applied, it took a lot of alcohol to affect her. Twelve shots and she was feeling warm and pleasant, but only starting down the road to inebriation.

Still, the night was young, and not in any sense over.

“Guys?” The lupinal asked. “Does anyone mind if I go out for a while?”

	Florian looked up from her own drink. “Eh? Our company isn’t good enough?”

	Clueless paused in his stacking of mugs up at the bar. “My booze isn’t strong enough?”

“Well no, it’s just…” She started. “I’d like to be a bit more downwind from the Gatehouse, and to be honest I’d like to chat with some other celestials, especially since I’m in a mood to know how others might handle it.”

	“That’s it Amberblue.” Nisha said to the faeriedragon. “It’s official. We’re becoming boring.”

	Tristol chuckled and gave Nisha a hug, which was probably what she wanted in the first place, and for his part the tiny dragon next to her wasn’t all that concerned either. He wasn’t because he was busily munching on a tray of chocolate-coated mints that looked very much like the tray of mints that had, an hour before, been sitting on A’kin’s front counter in the Friendly Fiend. A’kin seemed rather patient with Xaositects, or at least one particular Xaositect, or maybe just a softie for ones with faeriedragons.

	But regardless, Fyrehowl didn’t seem bothered by Nisha’s comment about her thinking them boring, and Tristol’s next words helped put her fully at ease.

“You’ve got a unique perspective.” He said. “So if you think that’ll help, then by all means do so. We’ll still be here when you get back.”

Fyrehowl smiled as Toras raised a glass to her in salute. They really didn’t mind, and they honestly didn’t feel slighted or rejected that she wanted to spend some time out, drinking with other people.

“I really appreciate it guys.” She said, “Now I don’t know how long I’ll be out, and that may be past closing time. 

	“Again, not a problem.” Clueless said.

“You can lock the doors when you close down.” Fyrehowl added. “I’ve got a key, and I’ll try not to make much noise when I get back, drunk or not.”

	“You can always just go through your window,” Nisha quipped. “You keep it unlocked.”

	Fyrehowl paused. “Wait. How do you know that?”

	The Xaositect slouched a bit in her chair.

	Tristol poked her shoulder, “Now I’m curious. Spill it.”

	“I had to!” She finally admitted with a blush. “I was trying to sneak in at some point, I really don’t remember what it was even for, that happens to me a lot you know, and well… Toras keeps magical explody things in his room and I wasn’t messing with that.”

	Toras grinned over his mug. “Yeah… I do. Ask the Cheshire Fiend.”

	Nisha stuck out her tongue, “Fyrehowl’s room was next in line on the ledge.”

	“Just don’t make a habit of it.” The lupinal walked over and patted Nisha on the head. “But I’ll see you all later. Take care.”

	Wisely though, uncharacteristically wise in fact, Nisha had just then omitted any mention of just how momentarily weirded out she’d been when she’d snuck into the lupinal’s room and wandered across a tail nailed to the wall. It had belonged to the fallen lupinal Tarnsilver, the corrupt cipher who’d been almost as responsible for the slide of Belarian as the fiends had been. It wasn’t exactly a stuffed fiendish moose’s head, but it served the same purpose, and even though fiendish moose could talk half the time and so could lupinals, even fallen ones, it was still rather creepy. And if it was creepy, Nisha wanted little to do with it.

	But of course, as Fyrehowl walked out of the bar and into the night on her way to happily drink herself to numbness, that one step removed memory of Belarian flickering through Nisha’s jumbled up mind was ironic considering what was about to happen that evening in only a few hours.


***​

The figure drifted softly on the wind, descending like an ashen snowflake on the herald breeze of a forest fire, inhaling with a smile as he slowed his descent and the harsh, acrid musk of the colossal reptile rose to meet his nostrils. Teleportation would have been more expedient perhaps, but the descent from the tower’s summit gave such a view, such a perspective of the Waste from so many different heights, and an opportunity to listen to the wind scream in his ears like an infant, carrying the scents of a hundred million pointless deaths. Such beauty was not to be missed.

Clawed feet touched a flank, a ridge of muscled neck so large it was literally a scaled landscape, then ankles folded, knees bent, silken robes pooled and the Lord of Khin-Oin settled himself atop the beast below. Staring off into the distance at a pair of Tanar'ri and Baatezu armies, the Oinoloth reached down and stroked a palm across the creature's hide, generating a deep, almost infrasound rumble of contentedness. The Mother of Serpents was purring.

"We've done much, you and I, haven't we?" The Ebon asked.

	The beast gently writhed below him, and the undulations of its belly against the earth at the base of the Wasting Tower sent minute tremors through the land for several miles. The beast was happy, and it replied in a wordless, obedient manner.

	“Khin-Oin is mine.” The Oinoloth said matter-of-factly. “For the first time in our history, our race has some semblance of a unified hierarchy, devoid of much of the infighting except that which I choose to allow, and that which I even choose to promote. Everything is being orchestrated; everything is planned. Everything is as I choose for it to be.”

	He closed his eyes and felt the rumble of the serpent’s blood surging through its veins, the memories of a hundred thousand guardinal deaths so many long eons ago still pulsing with the opening and closing of its arterial valves. Convenient how history had repeated itself, but his opposites were not the Oinoloth’s primary concern.

	“But yet there is still the matter of the General.” He hissed, unconsciously slipping once more into the reality-corrupting language of the Baernaloths. “And there is still the one altraloth who escaped capitulation or execution, but as of yet, Taba has been quiet. Still, she will likely make a pain of herself in the future. But they are both puppets, or puppets of puppets.”

	Neither of them were his true worry, and like a tiny aneurysm in the back of his brain, the Demented were collectively a lingering worry of an idea in his mind, festering and occluding his thoughts because they were something that had to be accounted for, but by their nature they could not be accounted for. The architects of despair were the only opponents he feared.

	He opened his eyes again and sighed. “What exactly have you and your diseased ilk been up to Tellura?”

	Ever since his brief encounter with the Dire Shepherd there on the Waste, only a half mile from where he presently sat atop the Mother of Serpents, the Demented had not made any further appearance, and the Waste was silent about their location. Tellura ibn Shartalan had been smiling at that earlier time. She’d been waiting for him there in the shadow of Khin-Oin, and so the metaphorical aneurysm of a worry only grew as time continued to pass without some further development.

	“The Father/Mothers can…”

The Ebon paused and his words trailed off, when in the distance there was a brilliant burst of light, a glow of purity, a martyr's death like a falling star confined to the earth. It was a prick against his eye and he felt it resonate through the Waste, another discomfort at the back of his mind that though it was a minor thing in comparison to the other, it forced him to take notice.

He frowned, knowing immediately the source of the irritation. The Fourth Gloom, the ravaged layer of Elysium whose festering corpse pulsed blood through the vessels, veins, and drainpipes of the Loadstones while inch by inch an infinity of purity was sucked dry and left rotting and black under a sky of perfect gray. But more things than the dead of Rubicon and the imprisoned hydra progenitor had plummeted to the Waste when it was ripped from Elysium's flesh.

"The shame of the aasimon. The quasars." The Oinoloth cursed in his native tongue.

Ancient Baernaloth had no word for quasar, no word for aasimon, but it spewed a guttural filth that was more than demonstrative of the Ebon's distaste, words that momentarily discolored and tarnished the scales of the great serpent, words to reflect the Ebon's mood.

"Nuisances." He said, reverting to high yugoloth.

The quasar had found themselves a purpose when Belarian fell, and they despoiled an otherwise poetic and absolute dismemberment of a quarter of Elysium. The creatures were more constructs than living things, and they'd proven immune to disease, even the dozen newly tailored plagues that the Oinoloth had scattered onto their home in an idle attempt to rid himself of their presence.

But no, those attempts had done nothing, and the quasar had become something of a bother, something that presented difficulties for those servants of his that had sought to plunder the layer of the other buried terrors that the guardinals had shackled over the eons in pitiable mimicry of their own progenitors. In the absence of those ancients, their children suffered, but the martyrdom of the quasars was a blemish on the Ebon's use of the layer.

"Why must you sully my triumph with your idealistic purity?”

	The future was only going to hold a need to divert resources into the 4th Gloom to slaughter the quasar and fully cement the layer into the fabric of the Waste. But that was never truly something that he’d planned; he’d never actually wanted Belarian, just the horrors that Belarian had kept imprisoned.

	“Do I really want you any more?” He mused.

The layer still held treasures, still held prisoners, but nothing the Ebon needed, nothing that he required. He'd had his fill, the Waste had dined, and the scraps were left to his children. Perhaps a change was required.

	“Do I need you at all?” He asked, his eyes drifting across the marshes studded with half-formed and inanimate quasars, the shriveled husks of fiends starved of sustenance and mummified by the alien soil of Belarian’s original plane. They might recover in time, but it would be decades before they stirred, and anything of immediate use would need to be intentionally hunted down, released from whatever bonds had shackled them down originally, and they’d need to be broken and controlled, more effort that might not be worth the expenditure.

His vision snapped back to the immediate and he stroked the Mother of Serpents again with his fingertips, brushing claw against scale, sneering slightly before giving a shrug.

"I suppose it has lived beyond its purpose, its immediate purpose, and it does tarnish our unholy symmetry so. It hasn't always been three, no, but long enough that I appreciate the number and the appearance beyond any sort of matter of fact acceptance, and nostalgia for that earliest era is pointless. Three feels correct. Anything more or less feels like we've lost something, the Waste and I."

	The decision was made.

"We've gained the Seige Malicious yes, but more than that, it has been our second slap at Elysium, our second time to spit in the face of simpering innocence. But of course, what innocence remained after the first time?" He said, stroking the serpent's flesh, stroking the union of scale and burning, glittering gemstone.

"We hurt their pride and we destroyed their sense of inviolate safety once before. We drew blood, emotional blood the first time, and drew more visceral blood from all of them the second time. Their lords can stare into the pool and stare at their reflection, avoiding the past and hiding their shame, but they cannot protect the innocence of their kind after an entire layer of the plane was ripped away. Ignore me, pretend that I did nothing before, revel in your ignorant innocence and you do nothing but tempt me to act again. Elysium is not safe. Not from me..."

Vorkannis smiled, and below him in perfect time, so did the Mother of Serpents.

"We've had our use of Belarian. We've raped its corpse and rolled ourselves in its blood. Let's see if they still wish to have it back…”

	The Oinoloth blurred and simultaneously he stepped into the mud of the swamp and onto the summit of Khin-Oin, with the faintest of wet paw-prints evaporating as he took five steps and sat upon the throne. The Ebon’s eyes rolled back in his head from the concentration, and his claws sifted through silt at the same time that they dug into the stone of his throne and into the backs of the severed and rotting, still partially conscious heads of the last two Oinoloths.

	Words were spoken and the air hummed as Belarian was rocked by tremors and a sense of separation washed over the land. In the City-at-the-Center, the hastily constructed gate opening into the 4th Gloom swung open and was ripped from its hinges by a pronounced quake, revealing not the swamps of Belarian, but a black wall of nothingness slowly bleeding silvery astral light. And through it all, two infinities distant on Elysium’s second layer of Eronia, a bottomless, crystalline pool in a secluded patch of disturbingly empty forest began to froth and boil.


***​

Of course, before that point, Fyrehowl had already been drowning her sorrows in alcohol. She was in the Lady’s Ward sitting in the Golden Bariaur Inn, chatting and drinking with a pair of avorals, a coure, and a bariaur who was drunkenly singing off-key. Fyrehowl was enjoying herself, enjoying the community of commiseration as it was, but that ended the moment that a portal to the Gray Waste was opened –intentionally as it turns out- and a form of sending spell of obscene power and reach filtered through into the City of Doors.

	As broad as it was, the spell –if indeed it was a spell- was also quite specific, affecting only guardinals and half-celestials of guardinal descent. The sending was not just auditory as most such spells were, but it also carried with it a visual hallucination of its sender, relaying his expression as he spoke his bitter, poison message.

	Hello again my friends. Surely you remember me…

	Guardinals stood transfixed, guardinals whimpered, they snarled, they screamed, they twisted and they shuddered at even the touch of something so diametrically opposite them.

	It so happens that I have something of yours…

	The other celestials in the Golden Bariaur could only stare in shock as it washed over their Elysian compatriots sending them into silence, or drooling paroxysms. There was little they could do before it was over, but thankfully, mercifully, it was short.

	Take it back if you wish, take it back if you can, but of course my offer is extended to any and all parties…

	And then his presence was gone, and so was Belarian from the Waste. When the Oinoloth’s message had been sent, the 4th Gloom had been perched on the edge of sliding, and such was the force of his influence upon and connection to the Waste, that his pronouncement was enough to tip the metaphysical balance. Gone was Belarian the 4th Gloom, but Belarian the 3rd layer of Elysium, despoiled as it might have been, was not yet ready to return to its bleeding home.

	In the shadow of the Infinite Spire, one hundred miles ringward of Hopeless, the earth trembled, the cloudless sky crackled with thunder, and the curtain of the Hinterlands was thrown back to make room for something new, something massive.

	Of course, while the Oinoloth’s sending to them had happened over the space of seconds, it would be years before any of the guardinals thus affected would willingly discuss the full content of those few moments with any other celestial, let alone any mortals. Subjectively it had been longer, and they’d been forced to stare into the eyes, and thus the void of the Oinoloth’s soul, far longer than any being should have ever been forced to do.

	Yet their layer was free of the shackles of the Waste. The ‘loths had withdrawn their claws, ceased their gnawing at the layer’s marrow, and given it up to history. The guardinals knew where Belarian was, and despite the insult and sickening fashion by which they’d been given that knowledge, they had the chance to reclaim what was still theirs. They knew that Belarian was in the Outlands.

	Unfortunately, within the hour so would the Tanar’ri and the Baatezu, the Rilmani had felt the shudder in their plane before it had arrived, and the diseased fragment of Elysium would draw a hundred other competing parties like flies to a rotten corpse before the claims were settled.


***​

	“Fyrehowl?” Clueless asked as the lupinal staggered through the door. “Are you alright?”

	Her eyes focused on the bladesinger only briefly, and they were bloodshot and swollen as if she’d been crying. She had, and Clueless picked up on that fact within seconds, but he didn’t know why. News of Belarian’s fate had not yet spread through the Cage as common knowledge.

	“F*ck the Oinoloth.” She snarled in celestial as she sat down at the bar, belatedly and sullenly adding. “I don’t really want to talk about the specifics.”

	Clueless didn’t press the issue, but he was curious enough to want to find out later what she was talking about.

Fyrehowl held up a half-empty bottle of Arcadian whisky that she’d been holding when she walked in the door, “Do you have anything stronger? Because this really isn’t doing much.”

	“I might but are you sure that…” He didn’t argue when she looked up at him, miserable even more so than she’d been earlier that evening. “Yeah, but I don’t have much, and I don’t really know what it’ll do to you.”

	Fyrehowl mumbled something incoherently as Clueless reached under the bar and retrieved a hand carved wooden box. Inside was a delicate and twisted bottle of multicolored glass, something clearly fey in origin.

	“Be careful now.” Clueless said as he took out a shot glass. “This is pretty strong stuff. I normally can’t get drunk… except on this.”

	“Pour me a shot.” Fyrehowl said before he’d finished. “Actually, make it two shots.”

	The moment the liquid was poured, the glass was in the air and the liquid down the lupinal’s throat. A half-dozen shots later and Clueless had removed the bottle and put it back under lock and key, because Fyrehowl was ready to fall out of her chair, and was blubbering in the worst drunken stupor that he’d ever seen her in. But at least she was a happy drunk, be it her normal attitude to being wasted, or just the effects of the fey-wine.

	“Thish is good stuffs…” Fyrehowl slurred as a bevy of colors waltzed across her field of vision. “Good shtuffs, good st… but maybe I drunks two, maybe I’m drank too mu… now what’s the right way to say that…”

	Language was failing the lupinal, and the disturbingly potent wine was to blame. And it was going to be a source of blame for a while yet, but not the only source of blame.

	“Why hellooooo there Fyrehowl!” Came a voice from over her shoulder.

	Fyrehowl turned around to look directly into the face of former Factol Rhys. Or at least that was what Fyrehowl’s beer goggles were seeing, rather than who was actually there.

	“Oh my gosh!” The actual cipher exclaimed, sputtering on her mouthful of alcohol. “I’m so sorry that I’m like this. I… I…”

	“Factol Rhys” leaned in and gave Fyrehowl a hug. “Oh don’t worry Fyrehowl, you can be drunk! I can be drunk too! But not now!”

	“Why?” Fyrehowl asked, perplexed and out of her senses. “Is there something that…”

	“No no! I cannot say!” “Factol Rhys” exclaimed in a weird little singsong voice. “But only because I’m so spoooooky and mysteeeerious!”

	Nisha was somehow managing to suppress her giggling as she stood there playing off of Fyrehowl’s utter intoxication, dressed in a pretty decent facsimile of Rhys’s factol-era robes. The fact that Nisha was a tiefling like Rhys, and just like the current council chairwoman also had goat-like lower legs, only added to the illusion. To top it off, the long black, potentially animated wig, and what appeared to actually be a staff of the magi completed the look, though it wasn’t a sobering thought if Nisha somehow had managed to get a hold of one of those minor-artifacts.

	“But… but… but…” Fyrehowl’s ears were off-kilter and her senses were starting to fail her as the fey-wine combined with the nonsensical situation in front of her.

	“Now if you’ll excuse me,” “Rhys” said, “I have to go speak with a particularly wise Xaositect named Nisha! And by wise I mean awesome!”

	And on that note, “Rhys” tapped Fyrehowl on the nose with the tip of her staff, and with cipher-esque timing, the lupinal fell off her chair and passed out in front of the bar.

	“I knew that was going to happen!”

Stepped back so as not to slip in the rapidly growing puddle of drool from the drunk lupinal, Nisha, dressed up as Rhys, with a giggling faerie-dragon sitting on her shoulder, began laughing so hard that she started crying. Whenever Fyrehowl eventually woke up and tumbled to what had happened, what she thought had happened, and what had actually happened, it was going to be interesting.

	Thus began the prank war.

The first salvo had just been fired in something that would eventually resonate within certain quarters of the Cage as legendary. Drinking songs would eventually come out it and they would be sung centuries later. Nisha had started it, Fyrehowl had already accepted it in her mind, and the next battle in that war would be swift in coming.


***​

	Mungoth, 31 years earlier…


----------



## Ghostknight

The Prank War?  I dunno know- a celestial vs a xoasitect in a prank war can have but one winner- and its generally not the celestial.


----------



## Clueless

*giggle* It was amusing. But I hid the booze for a few weeks afterwards...


----------



## Mike Powell

LOL a prank war. I just finally caught up after lurking around here and just recently joined. And the D20M campaign that I am part of is darker than this. Crazy fool is my DM and can vouch for me.

Oh and about the statue I would have shrunk it and turned it into a bracelet/keychain and painted it electric blue and neon yellow green. I am a very chaotic person.


----------



## Burningspear

I am getting addiction effects now, NEED MORE.......SHEMMY....got to get my daily dosis....

Ghaack....gargle...wimper.....sigh.... :\


----------



## Clueless

Mike Powell said:
			
		

> And the D20M campaign that I am part of is darker than this. Crazy fool is my DM and can vouch for me.



It's not dark yet. This is merely twilight.


----------



## Shemeska

Clueless said:
			
		

> It's not dark yet. This is merely twilight.




We're about to see a bit of it however, because the metaplot is maturing.


----------



## Mike Powell

then again we have not actually started the campaign, we just finished the year-long intro which involved us jacking nukes and brought the other player almost to tears. So probably they are of equal darkness.


----------



## joshhg

Whew, I love me some Ebon. But I have to say: Twilight? The Rubicon was Twilight? The Jester was just creepy? Shylara the Manged was just the start?
 I don't know whether to be happy or terrified.
 But I do know the Clockmaker comes closer.


By the way, this sentence:







> But of course, as Fyrehowl walked out of the bar and into the night on her way to happily drink herself to numbness, that one step removed memory of Belarian flickering through Nisha’s jumbled up mind was ironic considering what was about to happen that evening in only a few hours.



Was a bit unclear. It really should have been two sentences. It took me three reading to make it totally clear. No offense, but I though it was worth mentioning.

Buckling up;
JHG


----------



## Shemeska

joshhg said:
			
		

> Whew, I love me some Ebon. But I have to say: Twilight? The Rubicon was Twilight? The Jester was just creepy? Shylara the Manged was just the start?
> I don't know whether to be happy or terrified.
> But I do know the Clockmaker comes closer.




We'll eventually be revisiting the events at Rubicon for a bit of a closer, more personal look. Next plot arc is going to have some of my favorite moments of creepy and claustrophobic, and next update we'll be getting a prelude of that, though we'll have seen hints of it before (after next update, some of the banter between the Dire Shepherd and the Architect may hold more meaning). And don't worry, Shylara gets more messed up in the head as time goes on (which is saying something...). Plus, we've still got a renegade arch-'loth named Taba running around.

The Clockmaker is some of the darkest though, yes. Not sure I've topped that. Not sure I want to top that.  




> By the way, this sentence:
> Was a bit unclear. It really should have been two sentences. It took me three reading to make it totally clear. No offense, but I though it was worth mentioning.




Thanks for mentioning it. I'll have to go back and revise it a tad


----------



## Clueless

Shemeska said:
			
		

> The Clockmaker is some of the darkest though, yes. Not sure I've topped that. Not sure I want to top that.




I sorta rather y'didn't really.


----------



## Mike Powell

Hey I have an awesomely Grinchy idea. Post your lemons from this campaign on FF.net.
HEE HEE HEE I AM A GENIUS.

P.S. Could you post pics of Your PC's Pleeeeez.

edit numero dos: When I read Tristols description I get the feeling that he looks like the protrayal of Naruto here
 4th Panel
this is the on clearest one I could find in a hurry there are probably better ones in the doujin. to see other pages go to Onin's gallery.


----------



## bluegodjanus

Shemeska said:
			
		

> The Clockmaker is some of the darkest though, yes. Not sure I've topped that. Not sure I want to top that.




The Clockmaker made some of Shemmy's players _cry_. I wish I could make my players cry.


----------



## Burningspear

Mike Powell said:
			
		

> edit numero dos: When I read Tristols description I get the feeling that he looks like the protrayal of Naruto here





btw, your link does not work like that....


----------



## Mike Powell

The link is now fix-ed.


----------



## Tristol

Mike Powell said:
			
		

> When I read Tristols description I get the feeling that he looks like the protrayal of Naruto




Given the mass amount of speculation going on and the comparisons to Naruto I figured I'd share a few random words with the audience. While on a purely looks based idea, Naruto is a relatively decent match. In the picture, the idea is very similar: ears, tail, short hair. However, he's not quite as headstrong or annoying as Naruto. Personality wise he's entirely different. I'd consider him rather emotional, but quiet and contemplative. Most of his responses are measured and give very little away. But what he doesn't say verbally he expresses with the tail and ears. There's numerous points in the game where the other PC's would look at Tristol and say "What's wrong?" based purely on the position of his ears or the rate at which his tail is twitching. However, despite his quietness, if it's a casual conversation, he'd talk your ear off as long as there were something to say.

I'm sure it'd be easier to answer specific questions about Tristol, rather than trying to generalize him. So, if there are specifics that you're curious about, feel free to ask. In the interim, I've posted this picture of Tristol. It's a picture from a bit later in the campaign, but I think it'd provide more speculation on what exactly happened to bring that about than it would by looking at it. It's the only character art I've got of him, so hopefully it suffices until some point later when I get around to having more done.


----------



## Clueless

I have never seen that pic before! You holding out on us foxboy!?


----------



## Tristol

Clueless said:
			
		

> I have never seen that pic before! You holding out on us foxboy!?




Sure you've seen it before. I had that one done back in late 2003. I brought in the laptop and showed it off to everyone at the time. I think this was in the midst of a bunch of other character art that had been trickling into the group. So it likely didn't make as big a splash to be remembered. That, and I never bothered to really post it anywhere. Up until now, there'd been no real reason as you guys already knew what Tristol looked like.


----------



## Clueless

That's probably it then.


----------



## Mike Powell

Tristol said:
			
		

> Given the mass amount of speculation going on and the comparisons to Naruto I figured I'd share a few random words with the audience. While on a purely looks based idea, Naruto is a relatively decent match. In the picture, the idea is very similar: ears, tail, short hair. However, he's not quite as headstrong or annoying as Naruto. Personality wise he's entirely different. I'd consider him rather emotional, but quiet and contemplative. Most of his responses are measured and give very little away. But what he doesn't say verbally he expresses with the tail and ears. There's numerous points in the game where the other PC's would look at Tristol and say "What's wrong?" based purely on the position of his ears or the rate at which his tail is twitching. However, despite his quietness, if it's a casual conversation, he'd talk your ear off as long as there were something to say.
> 
> I'm sure it'd be easier to answer specific questions about Tristol, rather than trying to generalize him. So, if there are specifics that you're curious about, feel free to ask. In the interim, I've posted this picture of Tristol. It's a picture from a bit later in the campaign, but I think it'd provide more speculation on what exactly happened to bring that about than it would by looking at it. It's the only character art I've got of him, so hopefully it suffices until some point later when I get around to having more done.




Sorry I ment in appearence not in personality. that was the only comparison I was trying to make Sorry if you thought I was calling you an idiot.

Edit: Oh and Shemmy, What do you think of my awesomely Grinchy idea, I mean If its possible then that would be just so awesome.

edit numero dos: Where does Nisha's (thats who it is right?) arm go in the picture you linked to, tristol. It just dissappear


----------



## Tal Rasha

There is this one reference that I don't get:



			
				Shemeska said:
			
		

> And through it all, two infinities distant on Elysium’s second layer of Eronia, a bottomless, crystalline pool in a secluded patch of disturbingly empty forest began to froth and boil.




Is this crystalline pool part of the canon Planescape setting? If so, could anyone tell me where I could find some info on it?


----------



## Shemeska

Tal Rasha said:
			
		

> Is this crystalline pool part of the canon Planescape setting? If so, could anyone tell me where I could find some info on it?




It's not something from canon, and it's something that hasn't been referenced before in the storyhour. But it's a location that we'll be seeing more of in the future.


----------



## Burningspear

Tal Rasha said:
			
		

> There is this one reference that I don't get:
> 
> 
> 
> Is this crystalline pool part of the canon Planescape setting? If so, could anyone tell me where I could find some info on it?




At least its grammatically correct


----------



## Toras

Shemeska said:
			
		

> We'll eventually be revisiting the events at Rubicon for a bit of a closer, more personal look. Next plot arc is going to have some of my favorite moments of creepy and claustrophobic, and next update we'll be getting a prelude of that, though we'll have seen hints of it before (after next update, some of the banter between the Dire Shepherd and the Architect may hold more meaning). And don't worry, Shylara gets more messed up in the head as time goes on (which is saying something...). Plus, we've still got a renegade arch-'loth named Taba running around.
> 
> The Clockmaker is some of the darkest though, yes. Not sure I've topped that. Not sure I want to top that.




Indeed, it does tend towards the dark.  (Though a good deal of the humor doesn't make it to the story hour, for reasons of tone, context, or slightly ooc nature.  That does tend to add a bit of light to the darkness)


----------



## A Crazy Fool

SPZ, the d20m campaign is more hopeless than this campaign, definately not darker


----------



## Mike Powell

okay yeah. so says the DM

edit: read your diary tristol. Damn. Or rather WTF? whats with the all the discrepencies between the SH and the diary? I am suprised nobody commented on this before considering the humongous amount of discrepencies.


----------



## Shemeska

Mungoth, the third furnace of Gehenna was ancient, formed along with the other layers of the plane in time immemorial by the proto-yugoloths as a reaction to the exile of Apomps and the creation of Carceri. That was one version of the orthodox history of the plane at least, but the history of the event was shrouded in mystery, with a number of apocryphal variants existing within the libraries of Khin-Oin and the archives of the Tower Arcane. The second great ‘loth tower was eons younger than Gehenna itself of course, though many historians, even among the fiends, simply assumed that when Larsdana Ap Neut had sunk the first foundation stones of her tower onto the burning slopes of Chamada, the plane to which she had linked the essence of her entire caste of yugoloths had only recently been formed from the metaphysical nothingness between the primordial, unmixed planes of the pure alignments.

	Apocrypha spoke differently, and it spoke in a void of tangible historical facts. Larsdana had conveniently enough failed to include swathes of history into her tower’s memory pool, and though assumed dead, her own memories were not within the tower’s communal memories either. The records failed to address the earliest moments of Gehenna’s history, and only a discrete few beings, those who had personally lives during that period of proto-history still remembered the truth of the matter. For anyone not among their select number, apocrypha would have to suffice.

	Apocrypha spoke legends at odds with the speculations of the rank and file scribes and scholars of the yugoloth race. Even among a race of fiends who collectively knew a version of history more factual than their younger cousins in the Abyss and Baator respectively, their knowledge of Gehenna’s origins was occluded by a lack of material and perhaps deliberate muddying of history.

	Gehenna was formed by the migration of yugoloths from the Waste seeking to react against the formation of Carceri by Apomp’s thrice-damned brood. That was one version. The fourfold furnace was formed when the General of Gehenna ripped up whole sections of the Waste and hurled them into the unformed void of what would become his namesake plane. Another version that happily flattered the yugoloth orthodoxy. These were not the only legends though.

	Gehenna was formed by the exile of those yugoloths who defied the General of Gehenna and refused to submit to his authority and the purge of Law and Chaos from their essence at the order of the Baernaloths whom later generations would call The Demented. Was this version of history fact, or simply another subjective truth?

	The furnaces formed around the footsteps of Hazarik Ap Neut, ‘The Shackler’ as he carried the larvae that would become the Baatezu, or perhaps the Ancient Baatorians, as he wandered his way towards the nascent Plane of Law with a poisoned brood and a smile on his lips, whispering to serpents all the while.

	The furnaces crystallized around the entombed bodies of Yrsinius the Elder, Joleb Ap Corpus, Phleboerus zef Thiragoth, and Trypanos vath Chagarn. The Diseased Trinity and the Rotting Prince were killed or dismembered, their bodies hurled into the void between the proto-Waste and the plane of proto-Law, spreading their spiritual filth like an infection, forming the islands of pain and flame which their wayward children would come to populate in time as a second homeland.

	Lazarius, Chorazin, Tellura, and Ghoresh Ibn Shartalan had each formed and sculpted one of the furnaces from the living bodies of four titanic beings that had inhabited the empty void. The First House had come upon then, whispered them to slumber and then like egg-laden wasps they had planted their seed in fallow flesh like living incubators for a metaphysical form that would spawn from them to replace the nothingness and populate the void for the yugoloths who would come.

	But for all the apocryphal tales, the exact version was of little meaning, irrelevant really, within the confines of a patch of frozen ground obscured upon the flank of the third furnace of Mungoth. Seven square miles of land, a thin strip of forsaken ground, dusted with ice and ashes, where history didn’t matter and where the laws of reality didn’t entirely apply. 

The Vale of Frozen Ashes was a place that wasn’t supposed to exist.

	Sarkithel fek Parthis knew this of course, and that, among a host of other reasons, was why his primary manifestation had lived in contemplative solitude in the ruined city within the Vale for eons, keeping vigil over something he and his kindred only vaguely understood. The Chronicler knew the true origin of Gehenna’s furnaces, but such things were far from the forefront of his godlike mind as he sat at the edge of a weathered ritual bath.

	The Baernaloth closed his eyes and listened to the wind, listened to the voices carried by the swirling currents of ash and ice that whispered and warned of what had happened and what would come. The open book in his lap danced with myriad lines of ink and tears and blood, painting an image quite literally with the flow of their pictograms and syllabic words, recording the proto-fiend’s observations there in the present while a dozen other avatars of his danced about the multiverse following the scent of misery wherever it might lead them to a greater understanding of the concept.

	In time he would recall his diffuse presence into a single physical form, the one which sat there listening to the sifting ashes of the dead, but there was still time before his concentration would be needed to that degree. For the moment all he had to do was monitor and record the progress of something which was already known and acknowledged.

	But perhaps he and his kindred were wrong.

Half a city away, something else moved, a dozen somethings. Mortals. Sages and priests and mercenaries, mortal and immortal alike: a motley group of the soon-to-be-damned. They shuddered against the cold as their gate from the Outlands flickered and finally closed behind them.

The Chronicler failed to notice their arrival. That should have been impossible.

	But even if Sarkithel had noticed them, he wouldn’t have harmed them, oddly enough. But then again he wouldn’t have helped them either, and he would have watched as the drifting flocks of Phiuls came to rend them limb from limb, or when their curiosity about the statues of frozen ashes led them to join that forsaken group’s eternal agony. The dead whispered and warned, but their touch was deadly, and the Vale was one of the most innately hostile locations in Gehenna, and one that had existed, precipitated out of nothing mere moments after the third furnace had solidified.

	The Vale should not have existed, and the mortals’ intrusion was both unexpected and undesired by the Baernaloth. But still as he stirred his fingers through the dry and perverse font at his back, feeling the ashes and children and elders against his claws, the mortals were hidden from his perceptions. In a place where the laws of reality did not entirely apply, the laws themselves suddenly pitched and twisted on their own accord, by the hand of another.

	The mortals went about their explorations on their own, ignorant of the Baernaloth and the Baernaloth ignorant of them in turn. Chance had drawn the mortals to the Vale, but it wasn’t chance that veiled them from the city’s immortal guardian and watcher. No, that was something else entirely, another something which should not have existed.

	Twelve miles away, the group of mortals gazed in horror at the city’s occupants, the thousands, tens of thousands of statues, all of them looking towards a single spot in the city, a look of ecstatic terror frozen upon their faces. The ashes grew deep, pooling around their ankles as they made their way through the avenue that led to the open gates of the cathedral with no name and no deity.

	The group, twenty strong, had already seen the phiuls, and they had seen the dozen carbonized and flash frozen ultroloths standing only feet away from the similarly petrified forms of a sobbing leonal and weeping solar. The group began to question their own safety, and the wisdom of having come to the Vale. Their footsteps through the ashes slowed and stopped, and arguments were made over whether to stay or to go back to the safety of the gatetown of Sylvania where they had started their journey from hours before.

	But as they argued and wondered and worried, the wind whispered in their ears and the ashes crawled, a twisted current running towards the center of the city, to the center of the great and nameless cathedral. Preoccupied with worry and debate, their senses dulled by the wind and bitter, deathly chill, the group failed to notice that their number had fallen to nineteen.

	Halfway across the city, Sarkithel fek Parthis likewise failed to notice the lone mortal who strayed from his fellows and entered the cathedral, following the currents, following the whispers, following the voice that spoke into his heart. Something called to him. Something promised greatness. Something promised meaning. Something had chosen him for a purpose.

	“Who are you?” The mortal whispered, kneeling before the broken remains of an altar, hip-deep in a swirling pool of ashes.

	The whispers that had filled the cathedral stopped and the ashes fell silent. He trembled at the change, but then the mortal’s eyes went wide as something reached out and answered his question, touching his mind and filling his consciousness with a truth of its own.

	Half a city away, Sarkithel fek Parthis looked up abruptly, nearly dropping his book into the dust. Something wasn’t right. Something was…

	The Baernaloth tilted his head to the side and listened to the wind, and for a very brief moment it seemed as if the fearful whispers of the unlamented dead were holding back sneering laughter… but no, it was nothing. 

Sarkithel inhaled and clenched his eyes shut for a few brief moments. He felt uneasy. He felt a certain distant… something… He’d felt it before, or rather, he’d feel it again, but the time was not yet right. The precise sequence was still being formulated though the exact moment was open to change. It was not yet time. The Oblivion Compass, the Architect’s Oinian Clock had yet to strike, that was a certainty. It *–had-* to be a certainty. Anything else… anything else meant that their original plans for this creation, this multiverse, were flawed. 

No. No, they’d planned it, they’d set the variables. They’d set the conditions and all the outcomes were predetermined. The Clockmaker and the Architect had witnessed the paths that history would take, might take, could take, and collectively the Demented had warped the path of history to a perverted end of their own design. All was known. All was set. All was predestined. It had to be.

	Surely it had to be…

Meanwhile, hidden from the Gloom Father’s sight, in the nameless cathedral the mortal shuddered and seized with the influx of corrupting knowledge as he was marked, chosen, and wholly damned in the ashen baptismal font. The mortal wept and clawed at his own flesh, knowing in an instant what had happened there in the Vale, viewing it as a flashback from another’s memories, knowing what would happen again, and understanding his intimate role in the horror that would come.

	“Yes my lord, I understand.”

	His flesh tingled as blood vessels burst beneath the skin and his teeth chattered from muscles involuntarily firing, his senses overwhelmed by the presence surrounding him, permeating the cathedral, soaked into the city like blood in the soil of an ancient battlefield. The presence was also inside of him, and he would carry a fragment of it out of the Vale and into the world.

	“I understand it now.” The mortal whispered. “It is not enough to wait for the signs to manifest themselves.”

And in the darkness beyond the darkness, something smiled.


***​


----------



## Shemeska

Just as a note, with that little interlude gearing up for the next plot arc, I'm going to be spending the next month or so on SH2.


----------



## BDS

Shemeska & others - 

I've been following your story hours for about a year now & I just wanted to tell you, as I'm sure you're aware: Excellent Work.

Thanks for the great reading.

BDS


----------



## Burningspear

I was almost falling asleep on this side of the pond 

nice update, we want more....


----------



## Arytiss

Ah, the oblivion compass. i've been wondering when that would crop up. And things outside the control of The Demented. Who'd have thought it?



			
				Shemeska said:
			
		

> The Clockmaker is some of the darkest though, yes. Not sure I've topped that. Not sure I want to top that.




I'm not sure I'd want you to top it. That Demented story gave me nightmares.


----------



## Ghostknight

AH well- so get us intringued, hint at failed baernoloth plans, and then make us wait.  I tell ya, the pain and agaiony of waiting...


----------



## bluegodjanus

Ghostknight said:
			
		

> I tell ya, the pain and agaiony of waiting...




Our favoured writer here _is_ an arcanaloth, after all.


----------



## Burningspear

bluegodjanus said:
			
		

> Our favoured writer here _is_ an arcanaloth, after all.




Our favorite he/ she is indeed, but i think there has to come a bigger demon/ devil with a cattle prod made out of a elephants hind leg, enchanted to do a full lightning bolt with each prod, to make our scribe wiggle his ink pen made of a human femur go a tat little faster...

hmmz, i wonder what type of blood he would use to work as the ink he writes with...lol...


----------



## HeavenShallBurn

Arytiss said:
			
		

> I'm not sure I'd want you to top it. That Demented story gave me nightmares.




Nightmares?  It wasn't bad, nor the Fleshweaver which may have been one of Shemmy's best Baern stories.


----------



## sciborg2

month's up 'loth. tell us yer secrets....


----------



## Shemeska

sciborg2 said:
			
		

> month's up 'loth. tell us yer secrets....




SH2 this week(end) actually.    [But it too should provide some food for thought before I switch back to SH1 again].

_Edit_ SH2 was planned for this weekend, but life is intervening it looks like. We shall see.


----------



## Burningspear

Burningspear said:
			
		

> Our favorite he/ she is indeed, but i think there has to come a bigger demon/ devil with a cattle prod made out of a elephants hind leg, enchanted to do a full lightning bolt with each prod, to make our scribe wiggle his ink pen made of a human femur go a tat little faster...
> 
> hmmz, i wonder what type of blood he would use to work as the ink he writes with...lol...




I think I'll have to dust my "Demon's-Prod" off again


----------



## Ctenosaur

Just want to step out of the Plane of Shadows for a moment to say how much I enjoy this Story Hour.  _Planecape_ was a setting with great potential and it is always interesting to see what directions peoples' campaigns have taken.


----------



## Burningspear

Ctenosaur said:
			
		

> _Planecape_




Uhm, not to be a wise guy, but its not a cape, not some dress part, lol...


----------



## Burningspear

Burningspear said:
			
		

> I think I'll have to dust my "Demon's-Prod" off again




and to put word to deed: *PROD* ...Sizzle/crack/pop...knispers of lightning arcing on the scribes back, spastic body wracks making the scribe move faster, if unwanting...

write..my dear, he hears in a sickingly sweet voice behind him, a voice he cannot make out if it is female, male or neither... but the tangible power coming from the voice reeks with magic of persuasion...


...giggle...


----------



## Tal Rasha

I was just re-reading some passages from this story hour, and I had this most pleasant realisation.

In the preface to "The Silmarillion" I think, Christopher Tolkien describes the fascination with the unknown that the Lord of the Rings books evoked. That feeling you get when you hear of long-gone heroes and deeds, when you are reading a story and you get some subtle hint or another regarding something that happened 1000 years ago, or something that is ineffable, or something that is just on the horizon, but still out of reach. Well, the thing is, I had never noticed this. In everything I read (or played through), any mystery, no matter how interesting, only evoked curiosity, not fascination. Things were either inconsequential, or they merited discovery.

Until now. I must say, the aura that surrounds the Oinoloth is incredibly enjoyable. I almost wish we wouldn't (eventually) find out what he actually is. Almost   .

So, to sum up, and to avoid being accused of idle flattery: good writing. Regard this post as a subtle way of saying "update please".


----------



## Burningspear

seems like a 10D6 electrical demon prod is not enough, must upgrade, must make scribe write more, must .....ehm, what was i doing?


----------



## Shemeska

Burningspear said:
			
		

> seems like a 10D6 electrical demon prod is not enough, must upgrade, must make scribe write more, must .....ehm, what was i doing?




I just started a new job, and the schedule is wierd (I'll be processing a monkey liver at 2:30am tommorow morning). That's why the writing is a little slow at the moment, plus I'm working on a pair of stories on the side, and writing a bunch of stuff for the current campaign since lots of stuff is all happening at once (like two archfiends dying or being imprisoned within the space of a week w/ the PCs complicit in both to some degree).

I'll be posting a SH2 update (that touches some issues and mild spoilers for SH1) tonight as soon as I proof it.


----------



## Clueless

Shemeska said:
			
		

> (like two archfiends dying or being imprisoned within the space of a week w/ the PCs complicit in both to some degree).




.... and so far. No bounties on our heads. Velk is in so much trouble.


----------



## Toras

Shemeska said:
			
		

> (like two archfiends dying or being imprisoned within the space of a week w/ the PCs complicit in both to some degree).




Still doesn't match the body count of the first game. (though I think if we are implicated in 2 more we get the Grizit merit badge)


----------



## Clueless

How about 8 more? I'd be good with that.


----------



## joshhg

Hum, a group of ten archfiends. Who could it be, realisticly? Lets go ahead and knock off the ones it can't be: The Demented and the Nine, and _maybe_ some of the big boys in the Abyssal kiddy-pool.

I think some kind of Infernal Dukes from the nine hells. But that's not a final answer.


----------



## Toras

I think at 8 we would be just passed our tally for the first game.  (Toras polishes his fighter ace-esque killer marks)  And let's just say you'll be suprised who some of them are.


----------



## Shemeska

*Nisha = Xaos, or oXsA, or blueberry pie. Whichever seems appropriate at the time.*







Quick and dirty scan -and I apologize for the scanner not being big enough to avoid cutting off her feet and horns- but here's some art I had unexpectedly dropped into my lap this week by a friend when she was cleaning out a bunch of artwork in her apartment before she moves to Norway. Supposedly there's a few other pieces inspired by characters in SH1 (and SH2) in her sketchbook, and as I get them I'll share the scans here.

I thought it was a pretty good picture of my favorite Xaositect.


----------



## Zuoken

Just showin my support for the Storyhour Shemmy   .


----------



## Zen79

*Just can't await the storyhour to continue...*

(have I mentioned this is my very FAVORITE storyhour?)


----------



## Shemeska

It'll continue, by all means it'll continue. Work schedule has been crazy, and last week I had some stuff for Dragon I was writing. Though I got called into work tonight starting at 7pm, I've got both storyhour's in progress for their next updates. Hopefully they'll be finished sooner rather than later, and hopefully they're fun reads.


----------



## Burningspear

Shemeska said:
			
		

> It'll continue, by all means it'll continue. Work schedule has been crazy, and last week I had some stuff for Dragon I was writing. Though I got called into work tonight starting at 7pm, I've got both storyhour's in progress for their next updates. Hopefully they'll be finished sooner rather than later, and hopefully they're fun reads.




By all means then , do put your back into it, you demonspawn , ...*Krzzzzzappp...10D6 demon prod of lightning*...


----------



## PhoenixDarkDirk

Would a demon prod work on a yugoloth?


----------



## Bryon_Soulweaver

PhoenixDarkDirk said:
			
		

> Would a demon prod work on a yugoloth?



 No, yugoloth prods only work on yugoloths.


----------



## Burningspear

Bryon_Soulweaver said:
			
		

> No, yugoloth prods only work on yugoloths.




mine is a: "whateveryouneedittobeprod"  at 10D6 Lightning...


----------



## PhoenixDarkDirk

I withdraw my objection. Proceed with all due prodding.


----------



## Shemeska

SH2 will update Saturday evening. Almost finished with it now (but have to work Sat), and I've got a story that should be posted on Planewalker once it's approved and put up. SH1 will be resuming next.


----------



## Burningspear

PhoenixDarkDirk said:
			
		

> I withdraw my objection. Proceed with all due prodding.




lol, a well, i keep it light hearted i hope, and indirectly show my support for our dear Yugo writer


----------



## Suldulin

Burningspear said:
			
		

> mine is a: "whateveryouneedittobeprod"  at 10D6 Lightning...




some things are immune to lightning though. . . would not a "prodwhateverfiendyouneedto" prod that does 10d6 holy damage be better?


----------



## Burningspear

Suldulin said:
			
		

> some things are immune to lightning though. . . would not a "prodwhateverfiendyouneedto" prod that does 10d6 holy damage be better?




thats why it's a "whateveruneedittobetypeofprod", so instead of lightning as a basis, when immune to that, it automatically becomes holy , so yes you were assuming correctly  

(and yes, i was being a "smartass"  )


----------



## Dialexis

Shemmy, what is the planned article for Planewalker (title-wise so I and others can keep a head's up).  Of course, an update on SH1 would be nice too...


----------



## Shemeska

Dialexis said:
			
		

> Shemmy, what is the planned article for Planewalker (title-wise so I and others can keep a head's up).  Of course, an update on SH1 would be nice too...




The story for Planewalker just got released by the submission system there this morning. It's called Evil Still Seeps Through. It's a followup story to a very short piece I wrote some time ago about 3e FR's retroactive cosmology changes.

The SH1 update is currently sketched out and in-progress. Would have been finished last night, but I was on call, got called into work and didn't get home till 4am'ish this morning. I'm going to try to finish it today, because I'm working the entire weekend.


----------



## joshhg

Shemeska said:
			
		

> The SH1 update is currently sketched out and in-progress. Would have been finished last night, but I was on call, got called into work and didn't get home till 4am'ish this morning. I'm going to try to finish it today, because I'm working the entire weekend.



Thanks for the hard work on the story! And good story on Planewalker too   .


----------



## Clueless

Check in tomorrow we should have a conversion for 3.5 of one of the older modules up. (There were lots of *nice* entries this week.)


----------



## Reality Key

Finally I caught up! 
Great story Shemmy ,It was nice to see that Belarian left the Gray Waste. So what are the high -ups in Elysium going to do about bringing it back to Elysium and  what they paln to do about Ebon?




 Of course now i'm gonna have wait like everyone else  for the answers *whips out holy cat o'nine tails * ^_^


----------



## Burningspear

Reality Key said:
			
		

> Finally I caught up!
> Of course now i'm gonna have wait like everyone else  for the answers *whips out holy cat o'nine tails * ^_^




Shall we take turns in Prodding him with my Demon prod and your cat  o'nine tails?


----------



## Shemeska

***​

	Two stories above the Guildhall Ward at #210 Greenglass Avenue, Marlene Brittlestone shuffled the papers on her desk and diligently checked to make sure that everything was in order with the files that her employer had requested. The professor wasn’t nearly as crusty as some other Guvners could be, but everything still needed to be neatly ordered or else he’d mark corrections in red and give her a polite little chat later - and Sunnis forbid, you never wanted to get one of them going on trivial minutia, they’d nag you for hours on end, or maybe haunt you from a cinnamon bun or something.

	The earth genasi glanced over the names on the summary page and smiled. A motley lot of people, all of them talented, some of having past work with the Whitefire Institute of History, but most of them fresh faces full of potential and question marks at once. Of course, the Institute was going through a money crunch, and funds were low, so hiring for the security detail was dragging the bottom of the barrel while still attempting to get qualified bashers for a pauper’s price. Dodgy didn’t begin to describe one or two of those people.

	She knocked on the door into Professor Leobtav’s office and waited. From inside there was a vague, noncommittal grunt –ostensibly the graybeard himself- and a moment later there was a much more animated chirp of “I think there’s someone at the door. Can they come in? … Ok! You can come in!”

	Marlene smiled at the pseudodragon’s voice and opened the door.

	The faintly sweet smell of lingering pipe-smoke greeted her nostrils as she walked into the office, and also the smell of a recent rain. She looked past the professor’s desk where he sat in the same clothes she’d seen him in the day before, hunched over a stack of papers, and noticed that the window was open and had apparently been left open since the other day, the night’s pouring rain having apparently gone unnoticed.

	“You left the window open last night sir.”

	Another mumble and the professor toyed with his thin beard, adjusted his spectacles and turned the page of the volume he was reading.

	“It was great!” Leobtav’s familiar Ficklebarb chirped from atop his master’s head. “I got to eat the bugs that flew in!”

	The genasi suppressed a chuckle. They were an odd pair to be certain. The little red pseudodragon was bubbly and innocently cute, prone to randomness, and his master was a dusty old ex-Guvner scholar nearing fifty, prone to being absentminded and oftentimes oblivious once he found something of academic curiosity.

	“I have the reports on the people that we’ll be sending letters to.” Marlene said, at least catching Ficklbarb’s attention if not his master’s. “I had Doran sign off on everything yesterday. You seemed busy and neither of us wanted to disturb you.”

	Besides, the elf was capable of taking his nose out of a book in linguistics for more than ten minutes to handle the logistics of the whole expedition.

	Several minutes passed with his secretary standing there before finally his familiar dangled its tail in front of his face and waved its stinger around. That got his attention, and with a blush, Leobtav looked up and accepted the stack of papers from the genasi.

	“Thank you Marlene.” He said, sounding a bit tired and sleep deprived.

	“Not a problem sir, but you’ll want to look over their names and see if anyone looks too out of the ordinary, or if you see any red flags pop up. We’ve got the lilland again, that’s good, but a lot of new people on the magical and mundane security side of things.”

	Leobtav scratched his chin. “I’m glad that we’ve got Larill along with us again, but why? We’ll be going to Pandemonium, and she’s a bard by profession.”

	His secretary shrugged, “Doran added her name to the list. Said he wanted someone familiar who wasn’t a scholar or a porter. You can ask him yourself when he’s back in Sigil in five days. He wanted to meet with you before the expedition left, but after we got back acceptances or rejections from everyone we were sending out employment offers to.”

	The professor masked a yawn. He’d been reading for… he didn’t actually remember how long actually. It must have been some time though, and he’d just gotten wrapped up in it and lost track of the hours and all.

	“You should get some sleep sir. You look dreadfully tired.”

	“I’ll get some sleep soon.” He replied, trying to dismiss her concern. “Just leave those papers on my desk and I’ll get to them afterwards. And let Doran know that I’m looking forward to seeing him at the end of the week.”

	She nodded, left the stack of papers on his desk and left after reaching out and giving the tiny pseudodragon a rub under his chin. He gave his best draconic equivalent of a purr, but as soon as the genasi had left and the door closed shut behind her, he tapped his master’s head gently.

	“Not just sleep.” Ficklebarb said, laying his tail over Leobtav’s left ear. “You need to go eat. When you’re hungry, I’m hungry too, even if I’ve eaten.”

	“Can it wait till I’ve finished this section of the book?” There were still another three hundred pages of text and diagrams to finish before that point.

	“Go eat something or I’ll eat another moth.” Ficklebarb said. “I know you grimace when I do that because you can taste it too. Let’s go home and fix you some breakfast, I don’t want anything bad happening to you.”

	“Alright.” He finally said, bring a smile to the dragon’s face. “We can go home and get some food, and then I’ll take a nap. But after that I need to read over these files and check into some of these people. I don’t want to have something unplanned for happen down there in the dark.”

	Ficklebark beamed, but it was the last time for some time that he would find himself genuinely smiling. Pandemonium’s screaming darkness would not bring happiness to either master or familiar.


***​

	The noonday sun reached through the windows and pierced the curtains, falling upon a pair of figures sprawled upon a bed, partially entangled in the sheets and in one another’s arms. One of them was breathing, but the other had given up the ghost hours before.

	Frollis Terpense groaned as the light irritated his eyes. He preferred darkness, but the copious amount of alcohol that he’d drunk the previous night only worsened the harsh glare of that hatefully burning orb in the sky whose fingers reached through the crystalline panes like the ethereal fingers of a vengeful revenant. Such a metaphor was ironic all things considered.

	The man groaned a second time and winced as he tried to sit up. Blood pounded in his ears and his senses swam with nausea, the lingering aftereffects of drink, and everything else that he’d pumped into his system during the course of the evening.

	“Good morning my dear.” He said, leaning over to plant a kiss on the whore’s right breast. She was still warm, but a chill had already spread to her fingertips and toes.

An empty bottle of wine lay broken on the floor, drugged through and through, but as he looked into the dead woman’s glazed eyes with blurry ones of his own, he wasn’t honestly able to say if it had been an overdose on the drugs that had killed her, or –judging by the bruises- his hands around her neck. Then again, judging by the scratches down his back, she’d been entirely willing at first, and she’d embraced the last evening of her life –and him- with considerable gusto.

	“Your life ended well I should say.” Frollis said as his mind recalled bits and pieces of their activities the previous night as the fog of sleep and drugs slowly lifted. “But you were marked. You had done something to make yourself thusly chosen. And if it makes your soul rise, or plummet, any easier, I never knew what your crime was. I only knew that you would be dead before the morning. I do not question the why of my actions, I merely obey what the wind on the horizon calls for me to do.”

	The corpse gave no reply, and by that point the blush upon her cheeks was the only color left on her face. The blood had already begun to pool with gravity, the moments of their ecstasy were over, and his task was complete.

	“It is better that I do not know.”

	He sighed, remembering her smile, remembering her laughter, remembering how she’d clung to him as they coupled time and time again before she’d slipped into a poisoned torpor and he’d ended it before passing out as well. Whatever she had done, it was avenged and with the morning came his time to move on.

	Frollis climbed out of the bed and stretched, naked in the sunlight, lean and taught from the dual abuses of pushing his body to its limit, and from whatever he could find to numb himself into oblivion when possible. It was better that he did not know, did not remember the things that he himself did.

	Silently he dressed, strapping on pants, shirt, cloak, boots and blades before finally turning and looking at her face one last time. She was still beautiful, and he longed to kiss her one last time, but the moment had passed and it would not be right to do so, it would only haunt him later.

	“Praise be unto you.” He whispered, touching the holy symbol around his neck and rubbing his index finger across the raised symbol of his deific patron. “And unto you as well.”

	Hidden from the light, his thumb likewise caressed the second sigil on the back of his holy symbol, that second one hidden behind the first like the dual faces of Selune, one visible and bright, the other perpetually dark. Both of them whispered, both of them called, and to both of them he pledged his soul.

	He never looked back at the woman that he’d killed from that point on. Quietly, silently, and efficiently he collected the coins, jewels, and other valuables that she’d carried and stripped the bedchamber of anything associated with himself. Before the noon sun began its descent he was gone, slipped away into the Shadow border, one more soul to his tally and a few thousand jink in pilfered riches lining his pockets. Hopefully the latter would make the task less likely to haunt him in the coming weeks before the wind whispered to him yet another name.


***​

Settys al Khylian gazed down at the water lapping at the shoreline of the River Maat. Entranced and hallucinated by the river’s vapor he stumbled on his feet as he walked along the water’s edge before finally falling to his knees. Illusions and memories and fleeting visions tumbled through his mind and he found himself unable to sort truth from lie from illuminated inspiration. 

Footsteps in the wet sand surrounded him in bizarre spirals and madcap designs, half of them extending off into dry land beyond the riverbank and into the marshes beyond, but they all eventually returned to the River of Mysteries once again. He was hungry and his stomach ached. Truth be told, he couldn’t say when he’d first arrived there and where he’d wandered in the interim before coming back, following the visions and seeking to find himself finally.

	A face that had seen thirty some seasons gazed back up at him from the waters. The face was healthy, unmarked by injury or disease, radiating a supernatural aura of health though it was only his own strength reflected in the water, not any granted power of Thoth’s empowering his health. His head was shaved bald except for a single lock of long, black hair that hung to his shoulders. The hair was damp with the Maat’s water and beads of sweat and river vapor caused his skin to shimmer a rich, tanned brown in the light of the Outlands. Lines of kohl decorated his eyes, and golden pigment painted a wadjet upon one of them, marking his profession and also marking him as someone women had always coveted.

	He sighed. Of course he’d allowed his youth to pass by without giving them much attention. On the times that he’d given himself to a woman’s touch, he’d never allowed himself to fall in love. To give his heart to another would be a sign of weakness, a sign of impropriety, and a failure to devote himself wholly to his deific patron. It wasn’t too late of course, but so much time had been devoted… devoted to what and why?

He touched the silver Ibis symbol at his neck and frowned. His faith, any true faith that he’s once possessed, had died years ago, but he still made the motions of a faithful scribe of souls and paladin of the book. Thoth had abandoned him and he had done likewise, but what had he become in that absence? What were his motivations? What did he believe? What was real and what was only the whisper of the Maat?

He didn’t know, and that was why he was there drinking the vapors of the river, staring at his reflection, gazing into the depths and hoping to find something beyond his own face staring back. Would he die before finding an answer? Would he end his days as one of those madmen who chained themselves to the shore and exposed themselves to the waters while seeking enlightenment?

	Time passed and he wandered and returned a dozen times. He babbled and he prayed, he beseeched the multiverse for some reason beyond devotion to Thoth purely because it was expected of him, and because he had already wasted his youth and a dozen years of his adult life in the Scrivener’s service, and to abandon that now would be to admit something he could admit to, not just that he’d wasted the years but that he himself was worthless.

	Perhaps eventually the Athar would find him. Perhaps eventually Set would come slithering into his heart. Perhaps the latter already had and perhaps the Father of Jackals was responsible for his loss of faith in Thoth. Perhaps. Perhaps. Perhaps. Only possibilities and no firm answers.

Settys paused. There was something in his hand. A parchment envelope, still sealed with blue wax, addressed to him: Settys al Khylian, Paladin of Thoth. He had no idea when it had appeared there, or where he had gotten it. His grip on time was tenuous, but his surprise and curiosity was rapidly shaking him free of the river’s enchanted grasp.

“What mockery is this?” He wondered aloud as he opened the letter and read over its offer.

“Was this your doing? Are you drawing me back, or letting me go?” Settys wasn’t sure, but his eyes glanced north, towards the fringes of Thoth’s deific domain. He didn’t know, but when he turned from the Maat and took his first steps towards Automata, and from there to Sigil, he knew that where he was going, he had either been directed or he had been called.

	He never heard the call of an ibis echo out across the marshy sea of river reeds when he passed out of sight of the river.


***​

	The raven cawed impatiently and ruffled the leading edges of its wings.

	Doran Highsilver looked up and paused with an overlarge pine-nut pinched between two fingers only an inch away from his mouth.

	“You know Melisyyn.” He said. “You could always just ask and I’d be more than happy to share.”

	He tossed the raven one of the nuts and watched it snatch it out of the air and gobble it up without preamble.

	“By all means, I won’t turn down more.” His familiar said with another ruffle of its wings.

	Highsilver rolled his eyes and lay the dish down on the tabletop for the raven to share with him. She was something alright, and at the moment he wasn’t going to tell her no to anything. Where they were going, he wasn’t going to be giving her much freedom, if any at all, and in all likelihood she might spend the entire trip inside an extradimensional pocket.

	“You wouldn’t dare.” Melisyyn replied. “I know that you’re worried but…”

	“That’s an understatement.” The elf said, inhaling and slowly exhaling as he looked out over the edge of the balcony onto the surrounding forest and dotted buildings there at the outskirts of Arborea’s gatetown of Sylvania. The institute didn’t afford him a salary enough to afford the villa, but inheritance had seen to that.

	“We’ll be going to Pandemonium.” Doran explained, though his familiar was privy to his thoughts and already knew the scope of what they were doing and were they were going.

	“I’m well aware of that.”

	“We’ll be going to X, with no firsthand guides, fifty unprepared sages and scholars, half of whom have never ventured to any of the lower planes. That’s my first concern.”

	The raven swallowed another nut.

	“Howlers, tanar’ri, madmen, insane petitioners, and the environment itself. You can’t cherish flying blind in total darkness in gale-force winds can you?”

	Melisynn wasn’t going to admit to anything. She was far too strong willed for that, even if the abjurer she was bound to was right and justified in his concern.

	“And then we’ve got a relatively unknown group of hired muscle and magic to keep them all corralled, keep them all from wandering off into the dark to fall and kill themselves, or be eaten by some fiend or fiends. You’ve seen the people on the list, the lilland is the only one I know and trust completely. The others?”

	He shrugged and wished he had a bottle of wine to drink from for dramatic effect.

	“Let’s see. A tiefling Xaositect… that always goes well. An evoker from the prime, he has some promise, but I suspect we can’t pay him enough to come. An amnesiac bladesinger, all better now I’m led to understand. A half-celestial fighter whose past I know nothing about. A cleric of a war god. A paladin of Thoth. A rather jaded guardinal. A kobold who split her time between portal finding and running a high-end magic shop. And saving the best for last, a shadowdancer apparently wanted for questioning by the Harmonium.”

	Melissyn looked away and cawed. “You get to meet these people first, yes? You’re not going to go hiring ex-Blood War mercenaries because they came cheap or came recommended by the neighborhood yugoloths or anything right?”

	“I’d like to meet them all.” Doran said. “Hopefully I can arrange something with the wizard and the clerics. I’m tempted to pay them out of my own pocket if they’re talented enough. I want multiple people beside myself to move people around in a hurry. I can’t teleport or planeshift nearly threescore people by myself, but with help it’ll be possible. And I’m not a combat mage by any means. I’m an abjurer, and that’s what I’ll be using my spells for, protecting people from the environment so we don’t all go mad, or deaf, or mad and deaf.”

	The raven twitched her tail feathers. “That extradimensional pocket is sounding more attractive now that you put it that way.”

Tired of just wishing for that alcohol, Doran cast a spell, conjured some into his hand, and took a deep drink. It was going to be hell getting to where they were going, but hopefully it would all proceed with as little incident as possible. It would be better than his last trip to the lower planes. He knew it would be. Secrets were not worth that much blood. And the secrets of Howler’s Crag were no exception.


***​

	The soft, diffuse light of the Infinite Staircase fell upon scales and skin and feathers. Wings beat the air and the long, serpentine coil of Larill Moonshadow’s lower body set down upon the last landing of the Stair that she would see for some time. Spiralling around her within the void, the insane weavings and twistings of the Stair made for a schizophrenic’s exercise in perspective, or as far as she was concerned, a rapture of creativity unbound by rules and restrictions; the Stair touched where it was called, and each landing reflected a portion of that summoning aesthetic.

	The local cluster of landings glittered like winking stars as bits of metal, glass, crystal, or stone reflected errant bits of light from further off in the void, or from time to time one or another doorway would open and flood the Stair with the light of some far off place. Larill’s scales glittered emerald and gold regardless of the source of the light, and the whimsical currents of illumination reflected off of her to spread what seemed a carpet of jeweled dust across the deceptively mundane landing that she’d paused upon.

	The stone was white but otherwise unremarkable, the railing was polished oak, and the doorframe was carved from bone. Nothing seemed special, but if one looked closely enough, the rock was curiously identical to that of the Spire -in form but not in function- and the frame was dotted with a mixture of rilmani and guardinal iconography. Those along might have been explanation enough of where the doorway led, but it was the more immaterial quality that they possessed which currently had the lillend smiling.

	To be sure, it wasn’t simply nostalgia for the Stair, or wanting to take it in fully before departing that held her still and momentarily silent in the song that she’d been singing for the past dozen hours as she’d passed from landing to landing. No, it was the flood of well-being that emanated from the doorway itself that had her smiling.

	A turn of the doorknob and a few feet forward and a weary traveler would find themselves in the gatetown of Ecstasy, only a short walk from the Court of the Philosopher King, and a mile or so from the city’s gate to Sigil which was Larill’s ultimate destination. She was going there to accompany an old friend of hers, the elven mage Doran Highsilver, though at the moment she wasn’t absolutely certain of the particulars of his group’s currently planned expedition. She’d find out, and the revelation would be just as much a pleasure as the trip itself would likely be.

	The words of a song came to her lips and the Lilland closed her eyes and imagined what Ecstasy would look like in the current season since she’d last passed through the gatetown. The song rose in pitch as her mind continued looking forward, imagining Sigil and its wonders that still managed to thrill her mind though so many of its residents themselves seemed ever so jaded to her perception. All of it moments away, just beyond the door and…

	She paused at the threshold with her hand wrapped around the handle.

	Cold. Fear. Watched.

	The notes of her song fell flat and she turned to look behind herself.

	The pale, ambient light of the Stair washed over her face the same as it ever had, and there was nothing obviously out of the ordinary. None of the doorways in the local cluster had opened, nor were there any other climbers traversing the landings that might have given rise to the peculiar feeling that had just then washed over her.

	For a moment there she’d felt bitterly cold, something unnatural and malign had been staring down at her, piercing into her soul. That’s what it had felt like. But then it was gone, and with a shrug the song returned to her lips once more as she opened the doorway and stepped through.

She was gone and safe within Ecstasy, yet high above, burning emerald eyes continue to bore down upon where she had been. Fate twisted and wove her tapestry around many disparate threads, but if you knew where to begin you could follow those threads and see the picture that they would make. Of course, having already seen the future made the process of pulling and following those threads all the much easier. The Stair to Ecstasy to Sigil to Pandemonium and then… Darkness.

High above on a landing of the Stair from where he’d followed her progress, Severeth Na’Halastrian hissed. She was linked, but she was not Touched. It would be one of the others whom she would follow into the screaming depths. It would be one of them. But which one?

	“This is not what we had planned. This was not supposed to happen.”

The Wanderer snarled and opened the adjacent doorway. The Eladrins’ sires could wait. What he now hunted was more important, and much more of a danger. The light through the door washed over his flesh as he stepped through, and once it closed the clock of Larill Moonshadow’s life began its first steps towards its midnight oblivion toll.


***​

	“We need a vacation.” Nisha said.

	The tiefling’s feet were propped up on a table and her tail was gently twitching from side to side in time with the same motion from Tristol’s tail. He was reading a book, the same one that he’d gotten from Lothar, or Lolthar, or Lolth or… no definitely not Lolth. Not enough legs or webs for that.

	Nisha blinked as her train of thought plunged over the side of the ring. “What was I thinking about?”

	“About needing a vacation.” Tristol said, smiling behind his book as he batted at her tail with his own. “Clueless was saying the same thing the other day actually.”

	She leaned her head on the aasimar’s shoulder. “So what sort of vacation might you have in mind if we took one?”

	Of course, unbeknownst to them both, as they were discussing vacation ideas, Toras was thumbing through the mail when he found a set of seven letters, each of them addressed by individual name to the owners of the Portal Jammer.


***​


----------



## joshhg

Oooh, nice begining for a new arc. Interesting new NPC's, exotic locations, and a hint of something greater. Ah, can't wait for the next one.

A few questions though. Will the merc. that the Ebon touched be in this arc? What is important enough for the Wanderer to pause in his hunt for whatever he was looking for? What happened to the fairy dragon? And did the player's really express an interest in vacation, or was that just narrative licence? *Deep Breath*

I could go on, but I'll stop for now. Thanks again!
Josh


----------



## FreeXenon

Thanks for the update, Shemmy! 
Wow, I feel so much better now.


----------



## Shemeska

joshhg said:
			
		

> A few questions though. Will the merc. that the Ebon touched be in this arc?




Which one was that? Remind me if you would who that was/when that was.



> What is important enough for the Wanderer to pause in his hunt for whatever he was looking for?




Something that openly gnaws at the confidence of the Demented. I already hinted at it in an earlier scene where the Shepherdess and the Architect were discussing things at the base of one of the Loadstones of Misery. And there might be a hint in the story for the Blind Clockmaker (which itself chronicles an event that happens later on in the SH).

It's also connected to what the Chronicler is obsessed with, which was there right from the first post of the SH. "It is happening again. Just like I told them it would."

How this connects with the Oinoloth, if it does, we'll find out I suppose as this continues.   



> What happened to the fairy dragon?




Amberblue is still there, but with the PCs potentially going to Pandemonium, and them already iffy about having (effectively) a little kid with innate wish spells running around (with Nisha sometimes), they'll be finding something to do with him.



> And did the player's really express an interest in vacation, or was that just narrative licence? *Deep Breath*




It was their term, not mine. 

This was one of my personal favorite plot arcs of the campaign.


----------



## Clueless

After defeating and kidnapping a greater loth - we sorta... you know - figured it would Be a vacation comparatively...


----------



## joshhg

The mortal in the Vale of Frozen Ashes, from the update before this one. But I was wrong, it didn't say that is was the Ebon, that was just a guess on my part. Merc. was short for mercenary, which I assumed he was.

Thanks for the answers, both of you!


----------



## Burningspear

WHooHoo...  The prodding seems to have helped i guess... lol...

Voice neither male nor female, singing hymns of demons dancing and devils prancing,
of rilmani glancing and angels in shock...

...Giggle...


----------



## Shemeska

joshhg said:
			
		

> The mortal in the Vale of Frozen Ashes, from the update before this one. But I was wrong, it didn't say that is was the Ebon, that was just a guess on my part.




You'll find out if that mortal shows up. *grin*

And no, I didn't give any specifics on who was talking to him either.


----------



## Toras

Vaction = PC code for getting out of town while the next round of assassins try to kill us so they don't break our nice things or injury our good help.  (Trick is to keep a protective ring of people trying to kill you around at all times to block sneak attacks by unexpected foes).

The waste the wish on something harmless today so we don't get mazed game gets just a whee bit old.


----------



## Clueless

Toras said:
			
		

> The waste the wish on something harmless today so we don't get mazed game gets just a whee bit old.



Mmmm faerie dragons, *fun*. Wyrmling faerie dragons + Chaositects + half-fey... More Fun! 

But we got a very nice set of glowing lights, moving sails and a flickering neon sign out of it... and a *lot* of apple pies ("Free! Apple pie with every meal! We don't care if you don't like apple - Take It!")


----------



## Eco-Mono

Shemeska said:
			
		

> You'll find out if that mortal shows up. *grin*
> 
> And no, I didn't give any specifics on who was talking to him either.



Well, I have my own theories on this matter, and the possible connection to Dr. Hubris, but I'll not speak out without a bit more circumstantial evidence. Best to "wait for the signs to manifest" as it were


----------



## Shemeska

Eco-Mono said:
			
		

> Well, I have my own theories on this matter, and the possible connection to Dr. Hubris, but I'll not speak out without a bit more circumstantial evidence. Best to "wait for the signs to manifest" as it were




I'm rather curious what your theories on the matter are. If you have a chance at some point, send me a PM or an email or an inscribed petitioner or something. 

Of course, not all of the players are necessarily on the board at this point, so to speak. We haven't heard much from the celestials yet, the Rilmani obviously know something enough to be concerned, the Oinoloth's past is still a blank slate (at this point in the story), and not all of the baernaloths were or are members of The Demented (such as Apomps, and others who will show up). I've still got quite a number of tricks (and major plotlines) up my sleeve.

Lots of stuff to tell to both illuminate and perhaps muddy the waters as we continue this little joyride, and we're only halfway there. *GRIN*


----------



## Burningspear

Shemeska said:
			
		

> I'm rather curious what your theories on the matter are. If you have a chance at some point, send me a PM or an email or an inscribed petitioner or something.
> 
> Of course, not all of the players are necessarily on the board at this point, so to speak. We haven't heard much from the celestials yet, the Rilmani obviously know something enough to be concerned, the Oinoloth's past is still a blank slate (at this point in the story), and not all of the baernaloths were or are members of The Demented (such as Apomps, and others who will show up). I've still got quite a number of tricks (and major plotlines) up my sleeve.
> 
> Lots of stuff to tell to both illuminate and perhaps muddy the waters as we continue this little joyride, and we're only halfway there. *GRIN*





I don't have any clue, but i enjoy the story none-the-less


----------



## Burningspear

PhoenixDarkDirk said:
			
		

> I withdraw my objection. Proceed with all due prodding.





Seems like i have to whip up some Prod of "whateverineedittobetypeofprod" again, 

So without further ado:

*do put your back into it, you demon spawn , ...*Krzzzzzappp..Plop...ZZZrrraaarr.....maximized 10D6 demon prod of Holy lightning*...


----------



## Eco-Mono

Burningspear said:
			
		

> Seems like i have to whip up some Prod of "whateverineedittobetypeofprod" again,
> 
> So without further ado:
> 
> *do put your back into it, you demon spawn , ...*Krzzzzzappp..Plop...ZZZrrraaarr.....maximized 10D6 demon prod of Holy lightning*...



Be patient, dude. Anyone's going to be dog tired after snacking on petitioners' livers all night long.


----------



## Shemeska

Eco-Mono said:
			
		

> Be patient, dude. Anyone's going to be dog tired after snacking on petitioners' livers all night long.




And I had to work both days of the weekend. Not fun.


----------



## Burningspear

Eco-Mono said:
			
		

> Be patient, dude. Anyone's going to be dog tired after snacking on petitioners' livers all night long.




Apart from personality fans like  Eco-mono(not insultingly meant), i have no idea what goes on in other peoples lives apart from the fiction they write on the net...

And this goes for a lot of people i meet on the net, they only give so much information about themselves, and even then u have to take it 50/50 because it might be "fictional".
Meaning, i meet some nice girl, we speak for 3 months, and she is "all in love" and 2 weeks after that she has met someone else (this is fact, it happened to me),  but i just give this as an example of having distorted info about the other ends real life.

I love your writing, do not think for a second that i do this just because i feel like it, no, it is meant as a motivator to write and keep coming up with all the nice crazy stuff you come up with.

Kudos to you (who even invented the word Kudos? .)

Daniel


----------



## Shemeska

*Post GenCon update*

Back from GenCon. I'm planning on having an update Friday or Saturday here, plus I return with artwork from characters from both Storyhours to share (plus the original Lupinal and Cervidal artwork from the 3e MM2). As soon as I get them scanned in, I'll post them here (for this SH it'll be a picture of Nisha and one of Tellura Ibn Shartalan by Scott James).


----------



## Shemeska

Nisha Starweather, by Scott James

Admittedly, Nisha only has like a 12 Charisma. The picture gives her a wee bit higher, and apparently a boob job. I doubt Tristol would complain. 

Tellura Ibn Shartalan, the Dire Shepherd, by Scott James 

Another pic by Scott James, I rather like the sidelong glance that she's got going on. Missing the shadow however, but the picture was done on seriously short notice (like an hour or two before he was planning on packing things up).


----------



## Burningspear

Shemeska said:
			
		

> Nisha Starweather, by Scott James
> 
> Admittedly, Nisha only has like a 12 Charisma. The picture gives her a wee bit higher, and apparently a boob job. I doubt Tristol would complain.
> 
> Tellura Ibn Shartalan, the Dire Shepherd, by Scott James
> 
> Another pic by Scott James, I rather like the sidelong glance that she's got going on. Missing the shadow however, but the picture was done on seriously short notice (like an hour or two before he was planning on packing things up).




Nice pics, can he do them on commission?


----------



## Shemeska

“Sylvania Institute of Archaeological Research?” Toras shrugged and picked out the letter with his name on it.

He neatly removed the wax seal and teased open the envelope. “This better not be some fundraising drive.”

	His eyes skimmed over the text and it was readily apparent that it wasn’t a fundraising drive, but honestly something quite the reverse of it: an employment offer. The fighter’s mind rattled back several months and he recalled a previous employment offer -maybe more than one- that they’d received from the same people. At the time they’d been uninterested or disgustingly busy dodging assassination attempts and the like, so employment by some random group of scholars hadn’t really registered as a valid issue.

	“Pandemonium?” Toras’s eyebrows went up and his head bobbed side to side as he pondered the text. “They’ll pay me to shadow some scholars in Pandemonium and keep them safe. No. Wait. They’ll –pay- me to kill any fiends that threaten them while they’re there.”

	Andros preserve him. That was like a paid vacation.

	The grin breaking out of Toras’s face told his opinion on the matter even before he called the others down to take a look at the offer themselves.


***​

	“Apotheosis.” Nisha blurted out.

	“Huh?” Florian asked, looking at the tiefling with a slightly confused look as she glanced up from her employment letter.

	“I was just talking upstairs to Tristol about how I needed a vacation.” Nisha explained, twirling her hands and wiggling her fingers. “And lo and behold, the multiverse offers up a vacation.”

	“And what does that have to do with ten jink words that Tristol seems to have rubbed off on your vocabulary?”

	Tristol grinned.

	“There’s only one answer: I’ve become a deity.”

	Tristol whispered a spell and moved his shadow to cross over the tiefling’s.

	Nisha’s tail drooped slightly and she looked over at him. “On second thought, I renounce my godhood!”

	“Xaos aside.” Clueless said. “This is interesting here, this offer from this Sylvania Institute etc.”

	“I get paid to have fun doing fun things.” Toras said. “I’m all for it.”

	Fyrehowl got his meaning, and admittedly the notion of getting paid to kill a few tanar’ri wasn’t that bad of an idea. A strange vacation, a little dangerous, and certain out of the way of most rational tourist destinations, but it had its charms.

	“Now pardon my relative ignorance, but what’s in Pandemonium?” Florian asked. “I’m not as familiar with that plane.”

	“Wind, barmies, howlers, and more howlers.” Skalliska replied. “Oh, and more wind. Bring earplugs.”

	“Nisha’s rubbing off on you now.” Tristol said. “I know we all need some time to relax, clear our heads of all the junk we’ve been through recently, and take a vacation completely unrelated to anything in the last year… but are you seriously considering going to Pandemonium for that?”

	“Hon?” Nisha asked, leaning in close and putting her head on Tristol’s shoulder. “I’m contagious.”

	“Yes, you’re all crazy now.” Tristol replied before whispering something into the tiefling’s ear.

	Nisha smiled, blushed, and nuzzled his neck. “Me too.”

	Skalliska shook her head. “Mammals… So did they quote a figure for anyone else in terms of payment?”

	Well at least one person was acting perfectly normal for themselves.

	“Looks like a sliding scale that’s up for negotiation.” Clueless said. “It’s not that much really compared to what we might make going out on our own.”

	Money however wasn’t really a concern for any of them. The Portal Jammer was profitable enough that each of them could live comfortably –not in the lap of luxury perhaps- but comfortably for the foreseeable future even if they packed up their books, holy symbols or blades and retired. Still though, a meager profit and an exotic location, despite the danger, was an attractive combination for a group of people wanting to flush their minds of yugoloths, githyanki, and certain yugoloth archfiends.

	“So…” Nisha said to Tristol. “We need a wizard to keep me from going barmy in Pandemonium. Willing to tag along?”

	“Well if you put it that way…” Tristol replied. “Somebody needs to keep you from going crazy. So yes.”

	“Besides, your tail makes for a great pillow.”

	Florian chuckled, “The two of you are going to make the plane slide on account of the cuteness.”

_I write to you on behalf of the Sylvania Institute of Archaeological Research with an offer of employment. Our group employs a substantial number of scholars, sages, and historians, and our work frequently takes us into planes and places therein with hostile environments and hostile inhabitants. Most of our scholars have little expertise in manners of swordplay or magic, and we contract out matters of security to persons as skilled in those fields as we might be in more scholarly pursuits.
	Suffice to say, your name has come to our attention as being particularly suited to such for an upcoming research expedition to the plane of Pandemonium, specifically the plane’s second layer of Cocytus. The expedition will depart within the next month, for a period of no more than three weeks. Your time and expenses will be duly compensated for, as well as an upfront initial fee for signing on to join us. Clerics, wizards, and persons of races possessing innate spellcasting abilities will receive a premium on top of the standard range of pay dependant upon skill and experience.
	We look forward to hearing back from you, and if interested, or if you have any specific questions about the offer you may contact us at either our Sigilian office, or our office in Arborea’s gatetown of Sylvania.
	Sincerely,
	Professor Cilret Leobtav_

	The matter was settled then, more or less. They were open to the letter’s offer. But two issues were running through various minds, Clueless with one of them, and Skalliska with another. A bit quicker, Clueless spoke first.

“So what do we do about you know…” Clueless asked, briefly unfolding his wings in a pantomime of Amberblue. “We can’t take a kid to Pandemonium.”

Nisha crossed her eyes, “Yeah, just imagine if _he_ went crazy.”

Florian’s head suddenly hurt from the very thought of an insane faerie dragon. By comparison, a tanar’ri wild-mage might have been positively tame.

“Let’s not even ponder the thought.” The cleric replied. “That’s frightening.”

“We can’t leave him here either.” Clueless said.

Florian shuddered, “Tempus forbid. We’d come back and find the inn singing and dancing and trying to waltz away down the street… and don’t even get that look on your face Nisha.”

The Xaositect stuck out her tongue and blew an emphatic raspberry, “No sense of fun.”

“But one of self-preservation.”

Tristol patted Nisha’s head and also grabbed her tail, keeping her firmly planted in place as she threatened to derail everyone else’s train of thought with her own ubiquitously Xaotic quarter on the tracks.

“Eeek!”

“Anyway, back to the issue at hand…” Clueless said. “What do we do?”

“Well where is he from in the first place?” Fyrehowl asked. “We found him locked up in a cage in Carceri, but before that he had to have come from somewhere else.”

Toras shrugged. “Good question. I don’t know where Shy…that ‘loth took him from. He hasn’t exactly opened up about a lot of his time there in Cathrys, not that I blame him at all for not wanting to revisit that.”

Nisha started to say something, then said something muffled as Tristol dropped a localized silence spell on her. A moment later and she was drawing in chalk on the tabletop and talking to herself soundlessly, “Hah! Silence this! But no, seriously, Amberblue doesn’t know either. He hatched there in Carceri, alone.”

Toras nodded, “That answers that then.”

“And it brings up another question.” Florian said. “Where are faerie dragons native to in the first place?”

“Mostly Ysgard and Arborea.” Tristol answered. “Though you might find them wandering around when they’re older, and sometimes they’ll pop up on the prime alongside actual fey.”

Fyrehowl nodded, “I suppose we could find some other faerie dragons and see if they won’t mind him tagging along. Either of those planes are usually pretty safe, and something tells me that faerie dragons in groups have very little to worry about.”

“Flocks of marauding faerie dragons…” Florian muttered. “That’s going to give me nightmares now.”

Clueless chuckled, “Barring going to either of those planes, I suppose that it’s possible that we could have him adopted, for lack of a better term, by another dragon of some other type.”

“Copper, brass, and bronze might fit well in terms of personality.” Skalliska said.

“True.” Toras conceded. “But I think that he’d be better off with his own kind.”

It was certainly true, but –Nisha excepted- none of the others were particularly keen on going to one of the chaotic upper planes to meet up with one of those “flocks of marauding faerie dragons” as Florian had put it. Still though, Toras’s heart was in the right place, and after a few minutes of pushing the point, he managed to convince the others that it was for the best.

“So when do you want to do all of this?” Fyrehowl asked.

“…Problem solved if you’d let me have him as a familiar…” Nisha mock pouted.

Tristol patted her on the head again. “Sometime before we go off on this _vacation_, but I figure maybe after we meet with our prospective employers and see if we’re actually still up for it.”

“Fly by night archaeologists.” Nisha quipped, no longer pouting. “The bane of Sigil, I know…”

Clueless chuckled. “Well, not that I’d think they’re shifty or anything, but more that they’re prepared for a trip to Pandemonium, and it’s well put together and all that.”

Skalliska shrugged, “We’ll be fine. I’m not too worried about it really.”

	The kobold paused for a moment and toyed with the feather sprouting off of her hat. She was feeling a little bit slower on her feet lately, and putting on some weight, but they wouldn’t be long in Pandemonium so it wouldn’t be an issue. Still though, it probably might be a good thing to mention to the others the whole deal with her being pregnant and all.

	Another appropriately awkward moment was soon to arrive for her to spring that little tidbit of information.

	“Well their address here in Sigil isn’t that long of a walk.” Florian said. “We don’t have anything else major to do this afternoon, so I figure we could just drop in on them now and see what they have to say.”

	There were no objections, and frankly everyone was curious about what was down in Pandemonium to interest historians, and why they were on some stodgy institute’s list for prospective hires for such a trip. It would only take them an hour or so to walk the distance, assuming they didn’t find any portals to shorten the trip, but they didn’t get much past the door and out into the street when something stopped them dead in their tracks.

	“By the way. I’m pregnant.”

	Stunned silence.

	Raised hackles.

	Cringes.

	Widened eyes.

	More silence.

	“WHAT?!” They all said in unison.

	Skalliska shrugged. “I’d been meaning to tell you guys for a while now.”

	“Oh and now’s the perfect time!” Florian said with astonishment. “When we’re about to waltz off to Pandemonium!”

	“Who knocked you up?” Nisha asked, going for the blunt angle.

	“Oh…” Toras said, holding up his hands. “There’s no way you’re going to Pandemonium if you’re pregnant.”

	“How far along are you?” Florian asked, still in a bit of shock.

	“A few months.” Skalliska said, shrinking down a little under the response she’d gotten to the ill-timed revelation. “And you don’t know the father. He’s a proxy of my deity. I’m sure that you’ll meet him eventually, but he’s usually pretty busy, and pretty secretive by default.” 

	Fyrehowl put a hand on Skalliska’s head and stopped her in her tracks, “You’re nuts if you think you’re going to a lower plane while you’re pregnant.”

	“Even I’m not that crazy.” Nisha said. “Not that I’m pregnant.”

	Tristol blushed.

	“I’ll be fine!” Skalliska said. “Besides. I’ve been to Pandemonium before. I know more about the place than anyone else here. 9 Hells, my original world was filled with tunnels and I’m frankly more at home in the sort of environment you’ll find in Pandemonium than on any random street in Sigil. I’ll be fine.”

	“You maybe.” Toras said before pointing to the kobold’s stomach. “But what about any kids you might have?”

"No. Absolutely Not!” Clueless protested, realizing in horror that she’d probably been pregnant when they’d encountered Shylara. “Back on the Astral. You realize if she had killed you - there's no guarantee a raise dead would have brought them back too? No way are you waltzing to any other lower plane.”

	Twenty minutes of arguing later, they’d finally convinced Skalliska to stay home, at the very least until she’d laid her eggs. Still however, Skalliska wasn’t happy about that, and she wanted to feel somehow useful to them all, despite their adamant decision that she remain behind in Sigil.

Skalliska put her hands up in defeat. “If I can’t go with you, at least let me do something of use before you go off to get yourselves eaten by Howlers.”


***​

24 hours later:

	True to what she’d said, as a bit of a gift in lieu of her helping out in Pandemonium, or really doing much else for a minimum of 9 months or so, Skalliska had talked to people in the know about such things, she’d garnished a few palms and greased a few sages’ and clerks’ memories, and a day after her little social faux-pas about pregnancy, she’d come back with some details on their potential employer and his organization.

	“Well, first thing first.” Skalliska said as she thumbed through a stack of papers with a claw. “They’re pretty solid and legit.”

	Nisha paused and sniffed the air, wrinkling her face into a strange expression. “I detect the unwelcome aura of a Guvner. Please tell me I’m wrong.”

	“Ex-Guvner actually.” Skalliska explained. “The current director of the institute, one Professor Leobtav, seems to have spent a stretch of years as a factotum within the Fraternity of Order, including three years in Mechanus within the archives of the Citadel of Enlightened Discipline.”

	“Did he leave or did they boot him?” Nisha asked. “Make him awesome for some massive drama involved in that.”

	The kobold shrugged. “Nothing big. He was involved with the Mathematicians sect, but it looks like he just felt that he could do more for his field of study on his own, rather than working within the framework of the larger faction. No drama involved.”

	Nisha made some noncommittal mutter and shrug.

	Skalliska continued. “The Institute itself existed before he joined; it’s maybe around two hundred years old, started by an elven loremaster by the name of Marius Glenshadow. And as far as I can tell, they don’t have any history of not paying people, and they’ve been generous in cases where people ended up getting killed on hostile planes.”

	All in all, they sounded legitimate. No fly-by-night archaeologists as Nisha might have phrased it. Nothing to really be worried about, but still a number of questions to get answered that only a conversation with someone in charge at the institute might settle.


***​

Later that afternoon, the group tidied themselves up and walked from the Portal Jammer in the Clerk’s Ward across the Cage, eventually stopping in the Guildhall Ward at #210 Greenglass Avenue. It wasn’t a particularly impressive building, and it was obvious from the multiple doors and signs above them at ground level that more than one tenant occupied the place. One of those small signs pointed towards a stairwell at the side of the structure, labeled “Sylvania Institute of Archaeology” in common, celestial, and elven.

	Walking up the stairs and passing through a door led into a small reception room, where the group was met by a smiling earth genasi secretary dressed in a stereotypical assemblage of earthy, almost drab colored clothing.

	“Good afternoon to you cutters.” Marlene Brittlestone said in a pleasant, but slightly rumbling voice.

	“Well met.” Tristol said as he stepped inside. “We’re here about a letter we received. We were hoping to speak to someone about more information if possible.”

	Outside of the genasi and her desk, the room was decorated with an eclectic assortment of objects, everything from a marble leomarsh, a stuffed Elysian thrush, and a collection of coins from a dozen prime material worlds. Several doors branched off from the reception room, several of them unmarked, but two of them with small nameplates: Prof. Leobtav, and Prof. Highsilver.

	“Ah!” The genasi said. “Professor Highsilver is still in Sylvania, but Professor Leobtav is here if you’d like to speak with him.”

	Tristol’s tail swished happily from side to side. “That would be great.”

	“If you’ll wait just a moment I’ll see if he’s available.” Marlene said. “He’s a bit bookish, and I’m not sure if he went home last night. Hopefully he’s prepared for guests.”

	Nisha stuck out her tongue. “Guvners…”

	The genasi walked over to the office door and knocked, opened the door and exchanged a few muffled words with someone inside. A moment later she turned back to the group, chuckled slightly and closed the door.

	“The dragon says he’ll be awake in a minute, and to give him a moment to clean his desk off, then he’ll be happy to see you and handle any questions you had.”

	“The dragon?” Clueless asked.

	The genasi nodded as the door’s latched clicked. “Ficklebarb, his familiar.”

	“He’s got a dragon as a familiar?” Florian asked.

	The genasi chuckled again. “Pseudodragon.”

	A few minutes later the professor, or at least his familiar, seemed ready to receive them.

	“Ok! Come on in!” Called out a mildly high-pitched and distinctly draconic voice from inside the office. It was similar to Amberblue in terms of tone and enunciation, but while the faerie dragon sounded like the hatchling he was, the voice from the office was obviously older and more mature, reflecting its role as a familiar to a late middle-aged man.

	The group took the invitation and stepped into Leobtav’s office, noting its disheveled appearance and very lived-in character. Books were overflowing from sagging bookshelves on each wall, rising a foot or two above the room’s single window that overlooked the street, partially obscuring the view. A few plates and a trio of half-filled coffee cups still sat on the edge of a large, antique mahogany desk and a pile of clothing was stuffed into the drawer of a filing cabinet. Papers, documents and maps sprawled over the surface of the desk, looking utterly disorganized but given the professor’s background, more like than not they were simply arranged in a manner too complex for anyone but himself to make heads or tales of.

	“Sorry for the mess.” A small, red-scaled pseudodragon chirped from atop his perch on a marble bust of Lariset the Inescapable. His corner of the room was distinctly less cluttered than the rest of the professor’s office.

	“I hope I didn’t keep you bloods waiting too long.” Professor Leobtav said as he hastily cleared his desk of the dishes and all but one of the mugs. “As Ficklebarb said, my apologies for the clutter. It’s more a working environment than anything else. Doran usually handles interviews.”

	Leobtav was human, somewhere in his fifth decade of life, and looked every bit the stereotypical absentminded professor. His clothes were a bit wrinkled, his balding hair a bit unkempt, and his goatee a bit out of style, but behind the clutter and his unstylish appearance, behind his circular, wire-framed glasses, his eyes glittered with an intelligence that rivaled that of any archmage.

	Tristol noted that while they were fewer in number than the more mundane history books and tomes on obscure languages and cultures, there was a respectable collection of actual spellbooks on the man’s bookshelves. They hadn’t been moved and read recently, given the thin layer of dust they’d collected, but at some point the professor had studied the arcane.

	Leobtav paused and adjusted his glasses, glancing at his guests and running a mental tally. “Fey-blooded, lupinal, cleric, tiefling, fighter, aasimar… I take it this is about the letters we sent out?”

	“That’d be correct.” Clueless said as they all took a seat wherever they could find a chair, or a stack of books, or anything else that might serve the purpose. “And I can’t say we were completely surprised to get your letter.”

“A few months ago.” Toras said. “I remember you sending us a previous offer.”

Ficklebarb looked up from where he’d been munching on an apple and having a staring content with Nisha. “Yeah, you never replied to it either.”

What followed was a momentarily awkward silence before Leobtav cleared his throat.

“I take it that your schedules are considerably more open at the moment then?” He asked. “Forgive me for saying so, but you’re here in my office a day after we sent the letters out to yourselves and a few other people.”

“Couldn’t have come at a better time actually.” Tristol said.

Ficklebarb swallowed a chunk of apple. “Maybe they’re broke.”

Nisha broke out into a grin. “I like you!”

	“I take it that you’re interested?” The professor smiled and reached for a stack of papers and a vial of ink. “Though I don’t see the kobold. Did she not get her letter?”

	“She won’t be able to go.” Clueless said.

	Fyrehowl shook her head. “Not for a lack of wanting to however.”

	Leobtav nodded, looking reassured. “I was worried that our offer wouldn’t be enough for her. Understandably, our resources aren’t massive, so we aren’t able to offer as much as say the Mercykillers, or the fiends, or the Planar Trade Consortium.”

	“Money isn’t really an issue actually.” Tristol said. “Frankly we’re looking for a vacation.”

	“Vacation?” Leobtav asked, slightly confused. He looked to his familiar and the dragon gave a shrug in reply. “Well for money, that was a bit of a worry for me. Given that you were all staying at a rather nice inn, it seemed like you had more than a bit of jink to your names as it was.”

“Actually, we own the place.” Clueless said.

“Oh… I didn’t realize that.” The professor looked disappointed and more than a little embarrassed. “I understand that inn, your inn, is doing rather well. The money we’re able to offer really can’t compare. I apologize for wasting your time, I really do.”

	The pseudo-dragon tapped the stinger at the end of his tail against the marble bust of the old Guvner factol. “They already said they were interested.”

	“What he said.” Toras replied. “Money isn’t that big of a deal.”

	“Well in that case, what questions might you have?”

	Nisha was back to making faces at Ficklebarb, and the pseudodragon was happily returning them. Meanwhile Tristol was making a mental catalog of just what sort of things the dragon’s master was a professor of.

	“So,” Tristol asked. “Maybe tell us a little about yourself and what exactly this expedition will be looking for in Pandemonium?”

“Well, I’m primarily a linguist, with a bit of expertise on lost and dead languages.” Leobtav explained. “And the expedition that we’re planning relates to something from one of our previous trips, a series of trips over the last three years actually. I think one of my previous employment offers might have actually been for the last of those that we took.”

“And where were those going to?” The aasimar asked.

“Minethys.” He replied. “Carceri’s third layer.”

Fyrehowl frowned. She’d had far too much of Carceri in the past six months, regardless of what layer a group of historians might be interested in.

Tristol’s head tilted to the side. “So how does something on Minethys relate to this upcoming trip to Pandemonium? They’re a plane separated from one another.”

Asking Tristol about magic or Nisha about Xaos was on the same order as asking a career historian to explain the connection between two obscure points of his chosen field. Leobtav and his pseudo-dragon both perked up at the invitation.

“I’m glad you asked!” He said, spreading out a hand-drawn map of Carceri, the Abyss, and Pandemonium, with a series of bizarre glyphs or pictograms penned into the margins. 

A few locations in Carceri’s third layer were circled, labeled Expedition 1: Mesrikoth Tor, Expedition 2: Voornoth of the 9 Pillars, Expedition 3: Subsumed periphery of Kholesh?” along with several question marks drawn atop one specific location in Pandemonium: Howler’s Crag.

“During our previous work in Carceri, we’ve been searching for samples of Gautish, the dead written language of the Gautiere. They were originally known as the Tiere, natives to another plane, possibly a world on the prime material, but they’re long extinct. Some number of their race ended up imprisoned on Carceri’s third layer of Minethys, and we’d hoped that the cities buried beneath its sands might have been constructed by them. Had they been, we might have found enough samples to construct a working lexicon of the tongue, its structure, and perhaps gather some detail about their history and original nature.”

“I take it that your work in Carceri didn’t provide you with what you were looking for?” Clueless asked.

Leobtav shook his head. “No, it didn’t. It’s unfortunate. We did find quite a number of samples of the language, but without some dual text there’s nothing to use to decipher what the language actually says. It’s not even clear if it’s a syllabic alphabet or pictograms.”

“What about magic?” Tristol asked, pointing to the Gautish text on the map. “I’d think that you’d be able to decipher it fairly quickly with some relatively simple spells.”

“You’d think so, and so did we.” Leobtav replied with a sigh. “The spells uniformly fail. I’ve tried it, my colleague Doran has tried it, and we’ve even had some clerics attempt a divine version of the same spells. Still, it hasn’t gotten us any closer to knowing what any patches of the text say, or much about the underlying language itself.”

Fyrehowl’s whiskers twitched, “Why wouldn’t they work?”

Normally it would be a simple task to gain some rudimentary understanding of a written language via magic. It might not tell you what each letter or glyph said, but it would let you understand what a given body of text said in your own language. That sort of magical translation, while imperfect in many ways, was often the first step to unlocking a language’s secrets in its native form. Only innately magical tongues –and those were few and far between- might reasonably resist such attempts.

“Good question.” Leobtav replied. “The Gautiere on Mithethys, who’ve woefully lost effectively every trace of their former culture, were imprisoned there either by a deity, or a divine curse issued upon the death of a god. The precise nature of those events is muddied, and the Gautiere themselves are incredibly xenophobic, but even so, the evidence suggests some divine anathema placed upon their language. Perhaps it was keep them severed from what they’d been, like some sort of mandated fall from grace.”

Clueless bit his lip and pondered the situation, while Tristol scanned over the alien text on the maps. A moment later they’d arrived at the same question, and they were both pointing at the single circled location in Pandemonium.

“So what’s Howler’s Crag?” They both asked.

Again with the asking of scholarly questions to a scholar: the floodgates poured open.

“Would you like some tea?” Ficklebarb chirped. “This may take a while.”


----------



## Shemeska

Burningspear said:
			
		

> Nice pics, can he do them on commission?




Well he did sketches at GenCon. I suppose you'd need to ask him if he was still open to anything else now.


----------



## The Forsaken One

Zing zing skeet skeet thwap thwap y0.

<3


----------



## sciborg2

by odin's lost eye, you've hooked me once more loth...


----------



## Shemeska

sciborg2 said:
			
		

> by odin's lost eye, you've hooked me once more loth...




*GRIN*

I'll be baiting the hook once more with an update sometime (ultra) late this evening / monday early morning.


----------



## Shemeska

*ONOZ! ZOMG! Faerie Dragons!*

“Howler’s Crag.” Leobtav stated as he pointed to the map’s circled region. “It’s a location on Pandemonium’s layer of Cocytus. It’s also a more than a small mystery in terms of its origin.”

	Ficklebarb spit an apple seed into the open mouth of a stuffed and mounted Arcadian skink, “But that’s not why we’re going there.”

	“You see…” Leobtav retrieved the seed from his familiar’s improvised spittoon. “Howler’s Crag is a spire of rock and surrounding rubble, looking nothing-so-much like the broken rafters and foundation stones of a titan’s cottage. It’s a mountain built from gigantic, megalithic stones, old enough that erosion has fused much of it together, littering it with tunnels and blind shafts like a pockmarked cairn.”

	“So what connection does this place have with writing in Carceri?” Clueless asked.

	“Oh, you’ll see.” The professor said, holding up his hand and getting a twinkle in his eyes.

	Ficklebarb set down his apple and paid closer attention to the story, sharing his master’s enthusiasm for the topic, probably because of their empathic link more than anything else.

	“There are lots of legends surrounding the Crag,” Leobtav explained. “And one of them is that if you climb to the top of the crag, exposing yourself to the full force of the winds, and call out to a specific person, that regardless of where in the planes they are, whatever you cry out next, they’ll hear you.”
	“Now that might or might not be true, but the whole theme of languages and communication swirls around the place, and for reasons that aren’t just spooky mythology. All of those caves that riddle the Crag, virtually all of them contain some form of writing carved into the rock walls, chiseled into the ceilings, or even burned or melted into place. Thousands, tens of thousands of languages of all ages and origins fill those caves, even dead ones or magical ones. No one knows why.”
	“Some scholars think that the site is the location of a tomb or temple to a long dead god of language, or that a culture of giants constructed the Crag as a temple to lost words, thematically burying them in gentle repose within the screaming winds of the Howling Plane itself. Who’s to say.”

	Tristol leapt to the connection. “You think you’ll be able to find a sample of Gautish there.”

	“Precisely.” Leobtav nodded vigorously. “And not just that, but oftentimes a single cave will contain the same passage of writing replicated in more than one ancient tongue. I’m hoping to find the language and some key of deciphering it.”

	“But how do you know that you’ll actually find it?” Toras asked with some skepticism. “It’s a sprawling site. It’s an entire mountain in the depths of a pitch black, screaming maelstrom, with who knows what lurking in the darkness. Even if it’s there, who’s to say that you’ll ever find it?”

	“Because I already know that it’s there.”

	Blind conviction, a zealot’s hope, or did the old man actually have something up his sleeve?

	“Let me show you something.” He said, reaching for a collection of loose papers next to the map.

	Spreading out a few of them, they appeared to be reconstructed copies of an older book or journal. Written in a very different hand than his own notes on the map that they’d seen, it was obvious that he hadn’t penned it.

	“About five months ago an old colleague of mine in the Fraternity of Order told me that he’d seen these same letters before.” Leobtav gestured to the samples of Gautish. “But he hadn’t seen it in regards to the Gautiere of Carceri. No, he’d seen it within the fragmented notes of Ulricon, one of the often overlooked members of the faction’s earliest attempts to catalog the layers of the Lower Planes.”

	“I can’t say I’ve heard of him before.” Tristol said, rubbing his chin.

	“Don’t feel bad. It’s not a surprise that you haven’t, even as an accomplished wizard.” Leobtav said. “The Guvners don’t like to talk about him. His early accomplishments were really amazing, but eventually, well…”

	“He went crazy in Pandemonium.” Ficklebarb interjected. “Then ran off and started a cult in the Abyss.”

	Leobtav winced with embarrassment as his familiar acted like an unfiltered tap into his thoughts. “We –really- don’t like to talk about his later… work… so to speak.”

	The professor glanced at the pseudodragon and the familiar responded by hiding his head behind the remaining core of his apple. Leobtav sighed and shook his head.

	“As you were saying about Ulricon’s journal?” Clueless prompted.

	“Ulricon’s journal.” Leobtav nodded. “Some portion of his work was cataloged, and then apparently misfiled and so spared a purge of his work three Factols later. Apparently some of the remaining material detailed his exploration of Cocytus, including Howler’s Crag.”

	“And you’ve got a copy of it…” Clueless said as the others saw just where the old Guvner’s logic was leading.

	“I managed to get a copy before it vanished into the sealed archives.” Leobtav explained. “I’m no longer a formal member of the Order, but I have enough friends that I managed to gain access to the library to copy it.”

	“I knocked over a bronze statue of Raiden and he snuck into the library.” Ficklebarb explained.

	“Well the Thunderer was true to his name.” Leobtav said as he looked at Ficklebarb again. “That’s all I’ll say.”

	Nisha giggled at the familiar’s continual admissions. For a stodgy Guvner, the little red-scaled fellow was a perfect compliment, or an amazingly well done curse.

	“But before the dragon gets me in any more trouble.”

	Ficklebarb smiled and flitted his wings, “Quite the other way around book-worm.”

	“But before the red terror gets me into any more trouble, yes, Ulricon found a sample of Gautish, and it was accompanied by a passage in Rilmani, a passage in an unnamed fiendish tongue, and an obscure branch of Sylvan.”

	“Not bad.” Tristol said. “Not bad at all.”

	It was beginning to sound like it was going to be anything _but_ a snipe hunt in the depths. They had a treasure and they had a treasure map.

	“So how many people are you bringing along on this trip?” Florian asked. “Sounds like you don’t need a whole expedition for this.”

	“If only.” Leobtav admitted. “It’s not as easy as X marks the spot. Sadly, Ulricon’s notes don’t tell where at Howler’s Crag he found this particular cave. Time hasn’t been kind to his journals from that period, and he vanished hundreds of years ago, so we can’t ask him either.”

	“So we’re back to hunting randomly?” Fyrehowl asked.

	Leobtav shook his head, “Not quite. The remaining notes indicate several points of interest, spots that Ulricon found worthy of putting on a map, we just lack a key of what he found at each specific spot.”

	There were a dozen or so spots listed on a much cruder map, or not given a location, but instead described in a brief travelogue. None of the descriptions gave a clear indication of which might have contained the Gautiere text, but it was a firm starting point, and well within the means of a group of scholars who’d already cut their teeth in the sandstorms of Minethys.

	“Well, you’ve got my interest.” Clueless said. “So what role would you want us to fill beyond keeping watch for the natives, so to speak?”

	“Keeping everyone on the expedition safe, and some of you have some unique talents that might help us scout the Crag more effectively and provide additional magical aid.”

	They nodded and listened along as the ex-Guvner gave them an overly detailed rundown on the local fauna, additional and often superfluous details about environmental hazards, and some of the finer points of what their duties would be. The man still seemed shocked that they were viewing it as more a vacation than a job, but he wasn’t apparently going to look that gift horse in the mouth, and within the hour they’d signed and countersigned the contracts that he’d prepared for them.

	“I appreciate this.” He said, shaking each of their hands in turn. “I really do.”

	“Because otherwise we’d only have the introverted cleric slash paladin, a bard - in Pandemonium - the most useful thing in the world to have in such a place – and Mr Dodgy I hide in my own shadows McDodgy.”

	Ficklebarb’s enthusiasm for the other non-scholars on the trip wasn’t exactly glowing, but if one had been there during the interviews, it might reasonably have been said that none of them were particularly glowing either, in any sense of the word. Limited funds didn’t allow for selectivity, and skill tended to overshadow a person’s past, or any shortcomings they might have had otherwise, and in the bard’s case, she wasn’t asking for any money, so who was going to argue.

	“Such a glowing endorsement…” Fyrehowl deadpanned.

	“Well, it’s possible that you’ll have a chance to meet with them before we leave.” Leobtav said with a blush. “They’re talented people, they’ve just had a checkered past in some cases. But I suppose a spotted, or awkward record for various reasons isn’t much of a concern when you’re fighting a pack of Howlers, or you need an extra set of eyes to watch for tanar’ri, or anything worse.”

	It was Pandemonium after all. Any of those possibilities might be legitimate worries. But there were seven of them, and the others that had been hired for the same job of protecting the decidedly non-martially trained scholars, so at the least they had a solid line of defense against what the Howling Depths might throw at them. Yet unbeknownst to them at the time, that assumption was incredibly, fatally wrong, and what they’d find revealed in the depths of Cocytus was something that belonged neither there, nor anywhere else.

	But the future was yet to be written, and so all things said, they left their meeting with Professor Leobtav in good spirits, with high expectations for the strangest vacation that any mortal with any sense of self-preservation might have conceived of. It was an intellectually rewarding endeavor, and despite Nisha’s hesitancy about the man’s past with the Fraternity of Order, he’d left a good impression on them. His familiar, Ficklebarb had obviously helped things along, especially so for the Xaositect who was rather taken in by the “red terror” to the point of ignoring her feelings about his other half, so to speak.

	But perhaps it was also a lingering desire to retain some measure of cute draconic influence in their lives. Amberblue hadn’t left the Portal Jammer yet, but they were already having nostalgic thoughts intrude upon their minds.

	“Ok.” Tristol admitted as they passed the Gymnasium. “The pseudodragon is pretty cute.”

	“But he’s not a faerie dragon.” Nisha softy protested.

	Florian shook her head and laughed, “For our future well being, praise Tempus.”

	“Oh, I’m certain that we’ll see him again.” Clueless said, talking about Amberblue. “But we can’t be a permanent family for him.”

	“Oh, we all understand that.” Florian said. “We’re just waiting for the eight hundred pound gorillon to make an appearance.”

	“Who gets the lucky pleasure of going to Ysgard to face a flock of faerie dragons?” Fyrehowl said.

	Florian snapped her fingers. “That’d be the one.”

	All the time, Nisha was hopping up and down with a distinct clip-clop of hooves on the cobblestones, waving her hands and grinning. Well, there was one person who was going.

	“Toras volunteers.” Florian said, pushing the fighter a bit forward with a bump of her hip.

	“Yep.” Tristol agreed, much to Toras’s bewilderment. “Your god lives on Ysgard. He’ll save you if things go horribly wrong with a chorus of wishes. Hopefully.”

	Toras had to admit he’d opened himself up to that when he’d told them that Andros lived on that plane. “Alright…”

	Ten minutes and some rolled dice later, Florian and Fyrehowl were added to the list of those going to Ysgard while Clueless and Tristol were volunteered for cleaning up the Portal Jammer of any lingering remains of wish-induced chaos, and probably self-volunteered to avail themselves of the good liquor to toast their good fortune as well.


***​

	Brilliant sunlight flickered down through a canopy of evergreens and oaks on Ysgard’s first layer. The entire area seemed infused with a vibrant spark of life, spontaneity, and more than its fair share of Xaos if you knew where to look.

“You know,” Toras said as they wandered through the forest. “This is like the opposite of Elysium.” 

	Fyrehowl looked at him oddly. “How do you mean?”

“We’re wandering around Ysgard actively looking for faerie dragons.” He explained, tossing a rock into some bushes. “It’s like the opposite of Elysium’s effect on such things. We’re looking for trouble incarnate and by the gods we’re going to find some!”

	“Why are we looking for trouble?” Amberblue asked out of pure naiveté.

	“He’s just making a joke.” Fyrehowl said.

	“Is there any trouble here though?” Amberblue asked again, curling around one of Nisha’s horns.

	“Not really.” Toras said. “Not for us at least.”

	“Maybe a stray drunken bariaur, or the occasional flock of…” Florian cut herself off.

	“The occasional flock of what?” The dragon asked again, much like a small child repeatedly questioning an adult on random topics.

	“Butterflies!” Florian answered, fumbling for an answer. After all, the faerie dragon had never seen a vicious flock of butterflies, so he wouldn’t know the difference.

	Suddenly, as if on cue, several dozen butterflies burst from the bushes and darted out amidst the trees.

	“Eeek!” Nisha and Amberblue both shouted out.

	Of course, the butterflies did nothing, though one of them landed on an apple blossom high in a nearby tree, and from the flower’s perspective, it might have been posturing with considerable menace.

	“Hey…” Nisha said, as she looked first at the butterfly and then to Florian. “You said they were vicious.”

	“Yes and you’re not seven years old any more.” The cleric replied.

	Still, something had conjured butterflies on demand…

A tiny, iridescent dragon’s head extended upside down from behind a pinecone directly above and in front of Toras. “Are you hiding too?”

	Toras went pale for a moment. Trouble had found them.

“Hiding from what?” The fighter asked, returning the faerie-dragon’s puckish smile. “The butterflies?”

“No, no, something much worse.” Prismscales replied. “The giant squirrels.”

Above them from somewhere in the canopy there was a soft chorus of “Giant squirrels. Oh absolutely. That’s right. Horrible monsters they are. Spoooky.”

“Giant squirrels?” Fyrehowl asked.

“Yeah, you gotta watch for them.” Prismscales assured them as he descended on a pair of oversized butterfly wings. “Veeeeery dangerous.”

“Definitely. Bloodthirsty creatures. Gigantic! Ten feet tall!” The faerie dragon peanut gallery chattered in the canopy above.

Toras put his hands on his hips and looked heroic, a stance he normally had no trouble assuming, especially on a plane like Ysgard. “Oh, I can handle any giant squirrel.”

As if on cue, a dozen large acorns connected with Toras’s head from a dozen different spots in the forest.

“Clearly.” Florian snickered.

Bonk! Thunk! Thunk! A few acorns connected with the cleric’s head from another disparate spots in the canopy.

“The squirrels are very territorial you know.” Prismscales warned with a giggle.

	Toras and Florian sighed as Nisha and Amberblue softly giggled. Fyrehowl chuckled and then moved aside a moment before an acorn would have connected with her forehead.

	“You missed.” Came one of the unseen ‘giant squirrels’ voices.

	“She’s sneaky like that.” Nisha whispered back up. “Keep trying!”

	The lupinal’s ears drooped slightly.

	“So who might you be, oh fearless hunter of giant squirrels?” Toras asked.

	“My name’s Prismscales, grand conqueror of trolls, giants, and other big ugly things. And sometimes candy corn.”

	“Candy corn! Vicious creatures they are! Very dangerous!” Echoed the peanut gallery once again with a chorus of giggles and fluttering butterfly wings.

	A few pieces of candy corn rained down on Florian, though one piece landed in Amberblue’s deliberately open mouth.

	“And who are you?” Prismscales asked Amberblue.

	“Pleased to make your acquaintance King Prismscales.” Amberblue said with adopted regal flare as Nisha bowed with him still perched on one of her horns.

	“I would be Amberblue, a foreign faerie dragon from far away lands, noted conqueror of pirates, pumpkins, and portal jammers!”

	“Oooooh portal jammers! Very dangerous beasties! Scourges of wildspace!”

	“Do you have stories to tell?” Prismscales asked.

	Amberblue nodded.

	“Do you like apples?”

	Amberblue nodded rapidly with a gleam in his eyes.

	“Do you like stories involving apples?”

	Another nod.

	“Would you like to help us redecorate Asgard tomorrow?”

	Amberblue nodded a fourth time.

	“I think he’s in!” Came one of the voices from the trees.

	“Yay! Yippee! Apples for everyone! Candycorn for the wolfy thing!”

	Candycorn rained down on Fyrehowl’s head.

	“You guys won’t mind if Amberblue sticks around?” Toras asked.

	Thunk! An acorn hit the fighter’s head.

	“Of course we don’t mind.” Prismscales said. “We like him. I think your question upset the giant squirrels too.”

	“Chitter chitter! Angry chitter! Gnashing of buckteeth!”

	Amberblue grinned with absolute joy. “I wish I had some apple tarts like the cook from the Portal Jammer made that one time!”

	“Yay! Apple tarts! Whee! One of us! One of us!”

	-That- finally drew the peanut gallery out into the open, and Florian’s heart almost stopped and skipped a beat as fully two dozen butterfly winged dragons descended down to gorge themselves upon Amberblue’s conjured-into-existence pile of warm, cinnamon and powdered sugar dusted apple tarts.

	Amberblue seemed genuinely happy, though in-between mouthfuls of warm apple, he did extract a promise from the group to come back and visit him and his newfound friends. And they had to bring stories to tell, and maybe some other tangible, ie edible, tribute or else the giant, bloodthirsty Ysgardian giant squirrels might become angered. The promise was made rather quickly amidst the expecting silence and attention of twenty-five wish-bearing faerie dragons.

	It was also about that point that they collectively realized that without Tristol or Clueless in their company, they didn’t have a planeshift or gate available to quickly get back to the Outlands. They had a long walk and the whims of a planar compass ahead of them to find a gate, and to be certain the flock of butterfly-winged trouble followed them almost the entire way back.

	Three hours, a rather persistent –and periodically giggling- “giant squirrel”, and several different shades of plaid later, they finally made it back to a gate to the Outlands, and from there back to Sigil. Truth be told, as whimsical as it might have been, going straight to Pandemonium might have been less stressful.

	“I never want to visit that plane again.”

	“The phrase “I wish” should be an excuse for murder.”

	“I’m excused for going psycho on the first bloody ratatosk I see. I’ll throw them right off of Yggdrasil if they so much as look at me the wrong way.”

	“I still want a faerie dragon familiar…”


***​

	Three days later and the time was near to leave with the expedition to Howler’s Crag. Arrangements had been made with the Portal Jammer’s staff to handle their absence, and legal arrangements had been made in the pessimistic but practical notion that something horrible might happen down in the Howling Depths. All that was left to do was to grab any remaining things they might need –faerie dragon familiar not included in such necessities despite one particular tiefling’s protests- and then to meet up with the expedition’s members.

	Finally, an hour before their departure there was a knock on the door as a dark haired, pale-skinned moon elf wearing wizard’s robes stepped into the Jammer. A thick leather satchel for carrying spellbooks hung across one shoulder, and a large raven sat perched upon the other, taking in every face in the room from its perch. The familiar kept its eyes on the people in the taproom, but its master had his eyes entirely occupied on a list of names held in his hands.

	“I’m looking for a group of mercenaries.”


----------



## Arytiss

Nice update. I loved the (pack?/swarm?/hoard?/plague?) of faerie dragons. Reminds me of Xaositects.



			
				Shemeska said:
			
		

> “I’m excused for going psycho on the first bloody ratatosk I see. I’ll throw them right off of Yggdrasil if they so much as look at me the wrong way.”




Out of sheer ironic curiosity, are they likely to encounter any ratatosk's before that buisness with the Clockmaker?


----------



## Shemeska

Arytiss said:
			
		

> Out of sheer ironic curiosity, are they likely to encounter any ratatosk's before that buisness with the Clockmaker?




I don't believe so. Though at some point when they did go back to visit Amberblue, there actually -was- a giant squirrel (presumably conjured by a wish).


----------



## Burningspear

funny and nicely done updates...


----------



## Zurai

I want a faerie dragon familiar too


----------



## A Crazy Fool

I _Wish_ I had a Faerie dragon familiar.


----------



## Burningspear

And I _wish_ the writer wrote a bit more/ faster


----------



## Inconsequenti-AL

I'm up to date again.... And this story hour just keeps getting better. 

Thanks!

Faerie Dragon swarms.


----------



## Shemeska

Inconsequenti-AL said:
			
		

> Thanks!




Pleasure is all mine 

I'm hoping to have more sometime this weekend.


----------



## Bryon_Soulweaver

Inconsequenti-AL said:
			
		

> ...Faerie Dragon swarms.



_That_ is not funny.


----------



## Burningspear

Shemeska said:
			
		

> Pleasure is all mine
> 
> I'm hoping to have more sometime this weekend.




Woohoo  here's a happy face as well then when you do


----------



## Shemeska

Well, calling them mercenaries was something of a misnomer. The owners of the Portal Jammer didn’t really need the jink, and they would have likely gone along with little or no pay if the request had been polite enough and their skills needed for what they considered an intriguing expedition. The whole affair was a vacation for all involved, as after staring into the eyes of an irate, unstable, and bloodthirsty archfiend on the Astral plane while atop the deific corpse of Aoskar, a dangerous trek through a plane of manifest madness seemed almost tame by comparison. Everything being relative, it was indeed shaping up to be a bit of relaxing escapism.

	Still though, Doran Highsilver’s statement in the Portal Jammer’s common room _did_ have a partial ring of applicable truth to it as well. In Toras’s own words, they were getting paid to waltz through one of the lower planes and kill whatever fiends they came across.

	“Wrong bar…” Florian called out from where she sat with Tristol and Toras, reading an oversized book on Pandemonium. “I think you’re looking for the Bottle and Jug.”

	She’d said that without looking up to see who had done the asking, or to see the amused smile on the elf’s face at her reply. But no matter, because Fyrehowl had already propped her legs up on another chair, effectively blocking the wizard’s path of easy exit from the bar.

	Over from where he was pouring drinks, Clueless nodded to the lupinal and chuckled. “I don’t know if that was irony or not, but we’re probably the ones that you’re looking for.”

	“It got your attention I suppose.” The elf said as he bowed slightly, causing Florian to blush as she looked up at him.

	“One of our soon-to-be employer’s people?” Fyrehowl asked.

	Doran thought about that for a moment. “I suppose you could say that. I’m one of Leobtav’s colleagues in the Institute.”

	Nisha leaned in and whispered into Tristol’s ear, “I think he’s our boss.”

	“I think the professor mentioned you actually.” Tristol said as he stood up to shake the other wizard’s hand. “Doran?”

	“Ah good.” The elf said, happily shaking Tristol’s hand. “I was hoping that Cilret would at least mention some of the other people going along on the expedition, not the least those that you’d be working with, or directly assisting.”

	“That would be a big no.” Nisha said before briefly sticking out her tongue.

	Doran shrugged. “But you probably got an hour’s lecture on Pandemonium, a lecture on Gautish that amounted to “we don’t know very much”, and some other bits of history.”

	“Oh did we ever.” Nisha deadpanned again. “Mr. Lawfulpants likes to talk.”

	Tristol turned about and gave Nisha a look.

	“But his familiar is adorable.” She said contritely. “I rather like Ficklebarb.”

	“He’s something alright.” Doran replied. His familiar cawed out in agreement, and something said that the bird had been chased more than once by Leobtav’s little “red terror”.

	“So in any event,” Clueless asked. “I take it you’re here to take us to meet up with the rest of the group? We didn’t expect you for another hour or two.”

	He nodded. “I rather suspected that while you probably had a picture perfect rundown on the _place_ and its history, you wouldn’t get much in terms of the human element.”

	Clueless grinned and walked out from behind the bar with a glass of wine for their employer. “Then take a seat and feel free to give us the rundown before we actually meet up with everyone.”

	Highsilver nodded and thanked him for the wine. He swirled it once, sniffed at it, and apparently having decided its worth, took an approving sip.

	“On the expedition we’ll have thirty five scholars of various disciplines, but they’ll be working with Leobtav and me for the most part, so you needn’t really worry about them in that capacity. Outside of them we’ll have a few shy of a dozen porters and a pair of cooks tagging along. Most all of them are pretty green however; in fact only fifteen of them have ever been beyond the Outlands. In theory they know exactly what they’ll be up against, but they don’t have any practical experience. Watching out for them, and anything that might try to eat them is what you’ll be here for.”

	“So who else is helping us out in that regard?” Toras asked.

	“Outside of yourselves, we’ve hired two others, and I have a third person tagging along because she wanted to and I wasn’t going to tell her otherwise.” Doran paused and sipped at his wine again. “The first is Settys al Khylian, a cleric and paladin of Thoth.”

	“Militant scribes. Spooky.” Nisha whispered. “Overdue fines for Thoth’s Library must be stiff…”

	Tristol leaned in and put his mouth on her shoulder, poking his teeth in but not actually biting. He said something muffled into her arm and she promptly pantomimed zipping her lips shut.

	“Remind me never to keep a book late from a library.” Toras said, thinking the same thing Nisha had.

	Doran chuckled. “We needed clerical magic, and he’s a bit more martially adept than your typical priest. All said, that’s probably a wise idea in Pandemonium, and as far as I know, he’s not pushy about religion or theology, so you don’t have anything to worry about there.”

	“That’s good to know.” Florian said. “I take it I’ll be working with him in some capacity?”

	“That’s what we’d planned.” Doran answered. “When we’re moving as a group, we’re planning on having the fighters at front, the scholars, sages and wizards in the middle, and likely the clerics and another fighter or two at the rear.”

	It made tactical sense at least, assuming everyone got along, especially in the claustrophobic atmosphere of Pandemonium’s tunnels and caverns, in the darkness, nearly deafened by the wind.

	“So what about the other two?” Clueless asked.

	“The next person is Frollis Terpense. He’s something of a fighter, something of a rogue, and I’ll probably have him running point or scouting ahead whenever we’re moving.” Doran explained and then pointed to Clueless and Fyrehowl. “I’ll probably have him pair up with one of you.”

	“Because we’ve got similar styles and capabilities?” Fyrehowl asked.

	Clueless narrowed his eyes. “Or because you don’t trust him?”

	“Yes.” Doran answered, unusually blunt.

	That brought some raised eyebrows and perked ears. The elf paused and sipped his wine again, then downed the remainder of the glass.

	“The wine is quite good.” He said, breaking from his previous train of thought. “Thank you.”

	Florian looked at him pointedly. “Should we be worried, or keep a watch on this guy or something?”

	“We’re going to be in Pandemonium.” Fyrehowl stated. “So why did you hire someone you aren’t sure you can trust or not?”

	Doran held up his hands. “Our budget doesn’t allow us to be selective like we were hiring for a king’s guard. We have to compromise between talent and personality sometimes.”

	“My personality stinks?” Nisha asked as her tail drooped.

	“No no.” Doran backpedaled. “I didn’t say that at all.”

	“Then I’m incompetent?” The tiefling slunk down in her chair and the elf closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

	Xaositects were… well… they were either too much fun, or a nightmare to associate with. At least one person in his employ wasn’t going to have to worry about going mad in the winds, probably because the winds might offer an improvement.

	“You’re skilled and everyone likes you, especially me.” Tristol said. “Now let him finish or I _will_ bite you.”

	“So you were saying now?” Clueless prompted, handing the elf the remainder of the bottle.

	“His past is a blank spot for the most part, though he has some rather extensive yet seemingly unofficial links with the church of Assuran.”

	“A follower of Hoar?” Florian asked. Hoar was the Torillian name of Assuran of the Babylonian pantheon, a god of justice and retribution.

	“Apparently.” Doran said. “But he was also a member in good standing with one of Torch’s thieves’ guilds, and that information came to me by way of a priestess of Sung-Chiang who from her tone was respectful of him, but in the way of a very skilled craftsman talking about a competitor.”

	Fyrehowl tilted her head in something of curiosity and confusion.

	“Make of that what you will.” Doran said. “But you’ll meet him soon enough and you can make your judgment then. I’m not asking you to be biased against him -that might be truly counterproductive if he’s on the straight and narrow- but do keep your eyes on him.”

	A few contemplative moments passed before the wizard finally took up the third member of his collection of employees, and his description of her brought even more of a reaction than Frollis had.

	“A bloody freaking bard?!”

	Doran nodded and held up his hands again. “I know. I know. Music doesn’t matter if you’re deaf, have your ears plugged to avoid _going_ deaf, or if the wind is howling in your ears to the point where you couldn’t hear her if she was singing an aria right next to you. Still, she was insistent upon coming with us, and the local area around the Crag makes her more useful than you’d think. Plus, being from Ysgard, she’s a bit more attuned to the level of ambient chaos that Pandemonium will have, for what it’s worth. She’ll be comfortable with that at least, if not the evil tainting the plane.”

	Fyrehowl nodded. “We’ve been through worse.”

	“So why would a bard be useful?” Toras asked.

	“Because much of the Crag is relatively sheltered from the wind around its base.” Doran explained. “It’s in a bit of a natural depression, and only about halfway up towards the summit are you exposed to the normal torrents of wind. It’s not placid by any means below that point, but her magic won’t be automatically drowned out and useless.”

	That made some sense, and even made the trip sound marginally less dangerous, barring hungry howler packs and ever-hungrier tanar’ri.

	“But enough about the others.” Doran said, pushing his glass forward to decline any further fills. “Lets go over what you’ve got and what you’ll need.”

	Having said that, the wizard ran through a mental checklist of things to badger them about. It might be tacky, it might be intrusive and controlling –which was the last thing he wanted to be, and pretty alien to his personality- but it was a necessary evil given where he was taking them. The worst thing in the world would be to have them arrive in the Howling Plane and only during a scrape with a pack of tanar’ri realize that they’d left spell components, or a spellbook, or a divine focus, or their favorite dagger back in Sigil. Better to be repetitive now than handicapped later.

	“Have your spellbooks that you want to bring along?”

	Tristol nodded and Nisha held up a satchel full of traveling tomes.

	Doran glanced at a mechanical timepiece on the wall. “Well, we have about an hour before we’re meeting the rest of the group. That should give us plenty of time to get to the portal.”

	“Where’s the portal that we’re meeting them at?” Tristol asked.

	“Good question.” Doran said. “But I’d rather show you than tell you. It’s a one-way portal inside Sigil that’ll place us roughly 25 miles from the Crag.”

	“Humor me, I’m curious.” Tristol asked. “I hadn’t heard of that one before, especially being so close to a noted landmark on its connecting plane.”

	Doran hesitated. “Again, I’d rather show you than tell you.”

	Fyrehowl looked at him skeptically. “Why the evasiveness?”

	The elf waved his hands. “Because it took more than a wee bit of jink to tease that portal and its key out of Lissandra and her ilk. They have access to a commodity in the knowledge they hoard, and they know how much it’s worth. Plus, beyond the raw cost, they made a condition of our bargain being that I’d restrict knowledge and access to the location to Leobtav, one or two others on our board of directors, and myself. Expensive and they want to retain their future business with others so it’s a hassle on us, but it sure as hell beats juggling planeshifts and teleports for a group of close to forty people, or going in through Bedlam.”

	Tristol, Nisha and Clueless were still curious though, and eventually Skalliska –looking a bit more visibly plump by the day- walked into the room and tried to pry it out of the elf as well. He didn’t break down however, and finally they gave up trying to find it out, figuring that they’d just break down the location from the landmarks they passed on the way there. But once they packed all of their gear and did all of their last minute checks, they came to realize just how difficult a prospect that was.


***​

	Transit to the portal was a rather roundabout affair, and by Nisha’s reckoning they probably crossed two Wards on foot, hopped at least six portals to other places inside of Sigil, and might have even left the City of Doors once. But be that as it might, when they eventually arrived at the portal’s location, they didn’t have a clue for how to easily find it again.

	Overcast skies loomed overhead, a mixture of Sigil’s ubiquitous haze, some low hanging rain clouds, and a mixture of thick black smoke, either from stoves or some industrial use. They couldn’t make out any features above them on the opposite side of the ring, so they couldn’t be absolutely certain which Ward they were in, but the rather rundown yet not quite squalid appearance of the warehouses that surrounded them suggested somewhere in the Hive, Lower Ward, or the lower districts of the Marketplace Ward.

	They also weren’t the first people to arrive, much to Highsilver’s consternation.

	“Beaten to the punch again.” The wizard said, shaking his head wistfully before looking back at his new employees. “Stay tight, see if you can find Settys or Frollis, and I’ll be with Leobtav for a few minutes going over anything last minute. We’ll call out to everyone when we’re ready to leave.”

	Doran took his leave and wandered through a milling crowd of people, probably forty of them in all, and quickly vanished into the mix.

	“We’ve got our work cut out for us.” Florian lamented, looking out at the assembled scholars.

	“Bingo…” Toras agreed. “We’ll be earning our pay with these folks.”

	Half of the assembled sages looked like they’d just barely gotten out of a scholarly conference. Their dress wasn’t entirely appropriate, and for most of them any traveling clothes and associated gear fit for a stint in the wilderness of Cocytus looked brand new and unused, and one sage in particular who was acting cocky and talking about his recent trip to Torch of all places, still had the price tags attached to his coat and rucksack.

	“Very lawful howler chow.” Nisha deadpanned. “Sorry you guys have to handle them.”

	“What do you mean sorry _you_ guys?” Tristol asked as he poked her in the belly.

	“Because I have to worry about _you_.” She replied, grinning as she returned the poke.

	Fyrehowl rolled her eyes and smiled. “Howlers are allergic to cute. You two will chase them all away from miles distant. We’ve got nothing to worry about.”

	“As long as we can keep these guys from wandering, it won’t be a problem I don’t think.” Clueless said. “I’m more worried about things coming after us down there that are a bit more intelligent than howlers.”

	Toras grinned and patted his hand on his sword’s grip. “I’m looking forward to it.”

	In turn, Fyrehowl patted the fighter on the head.

	Looking over the lot of them, not all of the scholars were as woefully fresh faced and naïve about where they were going though. A small but distinct group of them, probably ten in all, were dressed in well worn and very appropriate clothing, and their stance and expressions all spoke to their having been to the more inhospitable planes numerous times; some of them were likely veterans on the institute’s expeditions to Carceri.

	“Wonder if our fellow sellswords have arrived yet.” Clueless asked, and true to form, indeed they had, either with Leobtav’s group or on their own.

Off to the other side of the scholars, hands folded gently across his lap, cradling a sword, sat their cleric of Thoth. Given the dress typical to his priesthood, and the cultures that typically held reverence for its associated pantheon, he definitely stood out. Standing rather tall –only Toras and Fyrehowl were taller- his silver ibis holy symbol hung around his neck catching the dim light a bit more brilliantly than the chain armor beneath his simple white linen vestments, complimented by a few pieces of polished and engraved plate. That combined with his khol and gold wadjet painted over his left eye and his shaved head would have been distinctive enough, but the flaming kopesh he held in his hands made him impossible to miss.

	At least a few of the more awkwardly dressed scholars seemed to linger in his proximity, feeling safer either because of his capacity as a cleric of a respected and well-known deity, or purely because he seemed friendly, was on their side, and carried a flaming sword. He didn’t seem to mind, and between prayers he didn’t seem at all averse to talking with them and reassuring them about the looming descent into the lower planes. Someone of his profession and appearance was hard to miss, and he didn’t try to downplay his role at all.

	Meanwhile, less a bastion of calm security, strength, and wisdom, Larill Moonshadow, the lillend bard, wandered about the crowd of scholars speaking to each and every one of them, gathering their name and trying to make each little clique of academic specialists mix with one another. Drifting a foot off of the ground, with the lower body of a gold and emerald scaled serpent, and a pair of white-feathered wings sprouting from her back, she was impossible to overlook. She dressed in little more than a length of white and gold cloth wrapped about her torso and held in place with a silver cloak-pin, and outside of a pair of flutes and a small bag hanging from a cinched cord around her neck, she carried nothing else of note. To say the least, she wasn’t going to be on the front lines, and her role was probably more than anything else going to be focused on keeping everyone happy and secure against both the effects of the winds and any mundane arguments or petty conflicts of feelings or words that might spark between various researchers.

In contrast to the cleric and the bard however, Frollis Terpense blended in to a disturbing degree. In fact it took a moment for anyone to truly notice him there, slouched as he was in the shadow of a rain barrel at the corner of one of the warehouses, and another moment to realize that he wasn't a tout in an out of the way area, a local resident, or simply some vagrant. The man was average height, average build, and once he glanced up at his newly arrived compatriots, it was easy to see that he had generically average looks as well, with no peculiar bloodline or ethnic heritage to set him out of a random crowd of Sigilians, or even a random crowd on any dozen prime material worlds or in any trade city on most of the planes. 

He was dressed in a cloak, worn boots, and what Tristol could tell in a moment was a suit of heavily glimmered and silenced leather armor. His weapons weren’t visible, but upon a closer look and a bit of concentration with a spell, two distinct auras stood out from their scabbards obscured by his back and his cloak, but either by some property of their own, or that of their sheathes, it wasn’t clear just how they were enchanted. 

Either feeling watched, or having earlier noticed them and finally wanting to acknowledge them all, Frollis looked up and gave them an upwards jerk of his head in greeting, though without anything verbal before he yawned and settled back into his slouch. Say what you would about him, but the man blended in to the point that most people wouldn’t give him a second glance, and nor would they be prepared if he decided to put a knife at their back.

	“I think everyone is here.” Ficklebarb said from atop a pile of crates, looking down and grinning as he saw his distorted reflection in his master’s bald spot.

	Professor Leobtav nodded and went through his list while Doran did the same, checking that each person who was there was in fact supposed to be there, and that everyone on the list was present and accounted for. It would do them no good to leave a linguist, or a porter carrying some vital portion of their supplies, standing alone in a Sigilian back alley while they were already off in Pandemonium.

	“Everyone!” The professor called out, mustering perhaps the most authoritative voice –in a social context as opposed to an academic one- that most anyone there had ever heard him produce.

	“We need everyone’s attention!” Doran Highsilver called out, just as loudly as his compatriot had, echoed by a loud whistle and flutter of wings from his familiar Mellisan.

	Just as they’d hoped, everyone looked up and the low dim of conversation trailed away into nothing. Even Frollis had his attention focused on both of their mutual employers, Leobtav and Highsilver, but only Clueless and Fyrehowl noticed that he was suddenly standing up; they hadn’t seen him move from his slouched position. Either he’d been that quick that they hadn’t noticed, he’d never been sitting there at the corner, or he was a more complicated person than they might have suspected.

	Not to be left out, Ficklebarb sat up on his haunches and called out as best he could, “Almost time to leave!”

	Leobtav took the momentary attention placed on his familiar to quickly remove and wipe off the lenses of his thin, rounded spectacles. Once back on the bridge of his nose again, he looked out at the suddenly less blurry crowd and smiled.

	“You’ve all studied up on where we’ll be going.” He began, addressing the scholars more so than the others. “Remember to keep track of where you are in relation to the rest of each of your groups, and don’t wander off. Keep your ears plugged in case the wind increases to the point where it becomes a danger, and hopefully we won’t encounter any problems on the way from the other end of the portal till we reach the Crag.
	Once we get there we’ll be setting up camp, and some of our other people will be scouting the area to make sure that we won’t run across anything dangerous before we start exploring the various caves and other potential locations that I’ve marked on the maps that each of your team leaders have been given.”

	“Lawfulpants is right.” Nisha muttered as she lost track of his words and let her mind wander off to trying to see pictures formed by the cracks in the cobblestones beneath her hooves.

	“He’s not always boring.” Ficklebarb said to her, having flown over and landed on a horizontal beam of an empty lamppost next to her. “I like him. You just need to get to know him and he’s not all that bad of a guy.”

	Nisha looked up at the pseudodragon along with Clueless and Tristol.

	“A little dry, but he’s only like that when he’s on something academic. When he doesn’t have his nose buried in a book he can be pretty fun. I know you’re a Xaositect and all, but give him a chance.”

	The pseudodragon smiled, and having so recently handed over Amberblue to his native plane, how could she or the others really resist taking the familiar’s advice to heart? Well, at least for a day maybe. After that, cute familiar or not, all bets were off.

	Meanwhile the professor had finished and Doran had made his own speech, at which point they both took out what might have been portal keys, or dummy portal keys if the actual key wasn’t physical, and pushed them through the bound space formed by a faded Harry Hatchis mural advertisement on the warehouse wall behind them.

	Swirling, gleaming silver, and filled with a faint whispering, the way into Pandemonium was open.


***​

	Darkness and screaming winds: those were Pandemonium’s gifts to any who walked its unhallowed tunnels. Intermittent and fickle, befitting the Chaos that pervaded its every ancient bone, the wind, be it a gentle breeze whispering deluded promises, or hurricane force gales screaming with the rage of mad, blind god entombed and left to die in the depths, it carried the Howling Plane’s second gift: madness.

	Carrying with it an oppressive, punishing weight that the rock of the Elemental Plane of Earth lacked, while simultaneously eschewing the solidity and firmness espoused by that inner plane, Pandemonium’s tunnels were less caverns suspended in the stone than they were pockets of infection worming their way through diseased flesh. Unlike elemental earth, the snarling passages ran madcap through their environment, presenting a labyrinthine warren filled with dangers that seemed intentionally placed, and the caves within the stone of the elemental plane didn’t appear to have been carved out by the feverish, desperate motions of clawed hands, like a god -buried alive- holding its breath and rending at its prison, hoping to reach the light before it suffocated in the lightless depths.

	The rocks were slippery, and in between the ebb and pulse of the winds, the momentary silence was punctuated by a ubiquitous trickle and drip of water precipitating upon the stone or leaking through tiny fissures and cracks like the weeping emphysema of a gasping titan. It went without saying of course, that no small portion of that water ultimately came from the subtle, insipid percolation of the Styx, though each drop might have taken a thousand years to penetrate from layer to layer, ultimately pooling at the feet of the explorers who now crowded together for safety, huddled by the dozens around what feeble, flickering light they managed to hold steady against both gloom and gale.

_I want a head count of everyone here._ Came Doran’s telepathic instruction, piercing the darkness to reassure and focus his and Leobtav’s pack of scholars. _Everyone is going to call back their names to me, and we’ll be repeating this every fifteen minutes. If at any point before we reach the Crag we end up missing anyone’s name, we’ll be stopping and not going any further till they catch up with us or else we find where they went._

	The wizard paused and both he and the Professor each conjured another globe of artificial sunlight. The illumination was altogether too little, and the warped, unsteady lay of the passage made any movement throw dozens of shadows to dance across what might have otherwise been a solid field of light pushing back the darkness. Still though, the glow was a beacon for each of the group’s members to stay focused upon as they prepared for the miles of hiking that lay between them and Howler’s Crag.

_Are we clear on that?_

	“Perfectly…” Frollis said, squinting against the mage’s illumination as he slipped back into the shadows at the edge of the party, partially blending in and almost merging with them in the process if anyone had been paying him any attention, but of course, it might have just been a trick of the light. “And in the meantime, you go right ahead and make yourself a target for every howler pack for miles around with that light.”

	Oddly enough though, while there were four separate packs of howlers lairing in the tunnels leading towards the Crag, none of them harried the group in the slightest beyond trailing them for a few miles before ultimately breaking off their half-hearted pursuit twenty miles from the base of Howlers Crag. They might have thought themselves lucky, but the howlers were keeping their distance intentionally. Like hyenas kept at bay by the presence of a pack of lions at the edge of a heard of antelope on some prime material savanna, the howlers kept their distance because they themselves were disturbed by the presence of something else entirely, something unnatural even in the hellish labyrinth of Cocytus. Something lurked in the darkness, and that something terrified the native hunters and baying scavengers alike.


***​

	It sat in the darkness, hunched atop the barren summit of the Crag, hands pressed against the rock, head lifted into the full force of the wind, eyes closed, teeth bared.

	“Wherever you are, wherever you have fled, know that this is only a temporary respite.”

	Of course, those words would never reach their intended recipients. The legend that had built itself around the Crag was simply that, a legend with no grounding in fact, though it certainly fit the tone of the locale, being the gravesite of a nameless power known only in ages afterwards as the Phoenix.

	But that past held nothing of especial concern to the being that perched atop that cairn built of weathered godbones. The Wanderer had crouched atop the corpses of other gods before, and he’d sit atop more of them in the ages to come if all went according to his kindred’s vision of what was to be. Not the past, but the path of the future was his concern there at the present moment as he opened his eyes and lit the darkness with a burning emerald radiance streaming from those unholy orbs. A mile away, a pack of howlers whined and winced at the light, and at the presence of the Gloom Father as it perverted the darkness to something altogether more malign than the shadows of Pandemonium were wont to be.

	“This is where you’re coming. But why?” He questioned. “What does this place hold for you?”

	Unless of course the place was entirely meaningless. Perhaps it wasn’t the place, but rather the people who would gather there. Perhaps none of it held meaning at all, but was only a single event in a chain of events that would themselves give rise to a greater, emergent and meaningful whole in the future that was to be.

	The Wanderer snarled. It was enough that his great pursuit had been sidetracked momentarily, but the dangerous enigma that had led him away was yielding no answers, and Pandemonium itself was little comfort to the baernaloth, situated as it was on the very periphery of the hegemony of universal Evil, the shallows of his native lightless sea lapping at foreign shores. The plane’s essence was yet too polluted by Chaos, and his power was diluted accordingly. Admittedly, he was likely still the single most powerful being present upon the plane, but he was removed from his element, far from the depths of his place of power, metaphysically speaking.

	“You already know our tongue. You already know the tongue of the first celestials. Chaos and Law are meaningless, though you’d find them here as well. The mortal tongues are nothing, so why here? The legend of the Crag is hollow. What draws your presence here?”

	The wind screamed, carrying with it his frustration, and a taunting harbinger of what would come next in moments, and the screams that would follow in the days to come.

	Somewhere, a few dozen miles away at most, a portal opened and Severeth Na’Halastrian was immediately aware of it. Oh, to be certain, normally his senses would have noticed not just the portal as it opened, but he would have known instantly where it was coming from, what the portal key had been, and who and what was passing through it. Saturated by Chaos as it was, Pandemonium yet nominally fell into some synchronicity with the true Lower Planes.

	But that was not what the Wanderer felt. He felt pain. He felt worry. He felt detachment. His godlike senses dulled and what amounted to a blizzard of metaphysical static blanketed the place like windblown snow. 

The sensation, as jarring as it was, it was not a new sensation upon his mind. He’d felt it before, staring at him from the depths of the Clockwork Gap while the winds of the Demiplane of Time howled just as mockingly as those screaming now in Pandemonium.

The Architect and the Clockmaker had miscalculated.


***​


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## Burningspear

....And as usual you amaze me with the words that you pen down, my little deamon...

'She' said, with voice neither completely female, nor male.. and the giggle that came afterwards.. did not make you think you were any safer within your own thoughts as if the words were your own, or within your own mind.. even soul... but not quite as silent as words would ring when so close to your own being....


; )


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## Burningspear

***Bump...

'Clear'!

KRRRZZZAAppp....

A little lightning here to get the juices flowing again, holy lightning that is


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## Shemeska

It's in progress, but as is becoming a usual explanation, I simply haven't had the time to sit down and write lately. By no means is it a lack of stuff to write down, or a lack of knowing exactly where I'm going with the next updates for both storyhours, but just to not being awake enough when I get home to be able to concentrate on writing.

Around mid/late January my lab will be relocating to a new facility that's 10 minutes from my apartment, rather than the 50 minutes it currently is. I suspect I'll be updating more regularly when that happens, but till that point please trust that I'm updating when I'm able to do so. Regardless of 4e disillusionment on my part, both storyhours will be going to completion, regardless of how many more years that ends up being.


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## darkhall-nestor

What (pause) you are still posting?


Who are you again?



Oh wait you are the author of this really great story hour



Now maybe we could get piratecat to post again

lol


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## Iavas

Huh... 

What an odd feeling. I'm caught up. After more than a year of slow, casual, and desultory reading of this most wonderful story hour, I am finally caught up. What do I do now?

Well, to start, allow me to finally say, in situ, as it were, that you are a stupendous storyteller, Shemeska. I've said it before elsewhere, probably ad nauseam, but I would be remiss not to repeat it again here, given that I am finally as far along as extrinsically possible. Heh... I'm caught up.

Maybe I should start on the second story hour. I'm unsure if I should or wait to finish this one first. It'll only be a scant three years, if we are halfway done.  

Oh, and so as to not make this post entirely worthless, I have to ask: which particular cultural naming scheme, if any, are the full names of your baern, 'loths, and mercane based upon? Clueless suggested Arabic, but Ibn's aside, there are certain aspects to them that I do not recognize. If they are fabricated, then they are done quite convincingly and deserve an especial kudos.

Oh well... now I guess I wait. *sigh*


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## Burningspear

Shemeska said:
			
		

> It's in progress, but as is becoming a usual explanation, I simply haven't had the time to sit down and write lately. By no means is it a lack of stuff to write down, or a lack of knowing exactly where I'm going with the next updates for both storyhours, but just to not being awake enough when I get home to be able to concentrate on writing.
> 
> Around mid/late January my lab will be relocating to a new facility that's 10 minutes from my apartment, rather than the 50 minutes it currently is. I suspect I'll be updating more regularly when that happens, but till that point please trust that I'm updating when I'm able to do so. Regardless of 4e disillusionment on my part, both storyhours will be going to completion, regardless of how many more years that ends up being.




At least its good to know your still alive and kicking, ...if barely...

just keep going 3, 3.5 and we will be happy... (i know i wont be buying 4e crap .)
Your story does not need 4e, its good enough by itself...and Jon's story as well btw... yeay.


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## Shemeska

Iavas said:
			
		

> Oh, and so as to not make this post entirely worthless, I have to ask: which particular cultural naming scheme, if any, are the full names of your baern, 'loths, and mercane based upon? Clueless suggested Arabic, but Ibn's aside, there are certain aspects to them that I do not recognize. If they are fabricated, then they are done quite convincingly and deserve an especial kudos.




Good question. Short answer is that they're mostly fabricated.

I've spun my 'loth names very loosely based on the examples of Daru Ib Shamiq, and Larsdana Ap Neut. The former is Arabic sounding with the Ib/Ibn, and the Ap in Larsdana Ap Neut is actually Welsh in origin. I don't follow any true naming scheme except that I try to make them sound exotic, and vaguely in line with names that have appeared in canon before. Hopefully I succeed.


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## Burningspear

Shemeska said:
			
		

> Good question. Short answer is that they're mostly fabricated.
> 
> I've spun my 'loth names very loosely based on the examples of Daru Ib Shamiq, and Larsdana Ap Neut. The former is Arabic sounding with the Ib/Ibn, and the Ap in Larsdana Ap Neut is actually Welsh in origin. I don't follow any true naming scheme except that I try to make them sound exotic, and vaguely in line with names that have appeared in canon before. Hopefully I succeed.




In particular i liked the Siddharta name, and i use it for a chara cter of my own, with last name Bodrisahr, so Siddharta Bodrisahr (Werelion, as i thought the Indian/ Pakistani kind of naming and the fact that the former owner of the original name was a Rakshasa, or at least pretending to be such...fits that flavor)


----------



## A Crazy Fool

I'd just like to point out that you have (at the time of this post) over 140,000 views. That's a lot of peer pressure, dude


----------



## Arytiss

Just been re-reading the storyhour for the *counts on fingers* fourth time, and I noticed something odd.

At one point in the SH, Fyrehowl got hit by a symbol of death and then, apparantly, got ressurected.

How did you deal with outsider death?


----------



## Clueless

Treats it much the same as a PC death (true res works) - mostly to avoid the stress and frustration of players at the table playing outsiders.


----------



## Toras

Before then, the cleric always had one Revive Outsider prepared.  Bodies stick around, but Outsiders fade pretty rapidly.


----------



## Burningspear

Toras said:
			
		

> Before then, the cleric always had one Revive Outsider prepared.  Bodies stick around, but Outsiders fade pretty rapidly.




Cool, i am about to start an amnesiac Rakshasa (yes yes, not very original, i know), 
and this is a nice spell to know about i guess... can you give me details of where to find it, or send me to my email a copy of that spell?  ( dbernadina@gmail.com ).

The fun part about it is that he has to learn he has all those nifty abilities, so when i start playing him at 2 hit dice, i wont know jack-squad , although having in a humanoid form dark vision, to keep from spoiling it, it has to be a humanoid which has racial dark vision as well.

For the player playing the amnesiac, how did he justify the use of the feats/ class/ race abilities that he had upon startup? how did you guys do that?
for example, having a feat you have to activate, but not knowing you have it, and yet it is taken upon character setup/ creation, how did u guys work that out? 

And alignment wise?, i want to play the Rakshasa as L.N., but they are normally L.E., so would he have just become L.N. because his evil has also been wiped from his memory? is that a reasonable explanation? 

What about passiva abilities? like Dark vision and Dam red., and even Detect thoughts in my case?, how would that be done?  any suggestions? 

thnx in advance


----------



## Toras

I think it was in the Manual of the Planes.

The problem you are going to run into using amnesia to strip abilities from your Rakasha is that you have a number of abilities are inherent.  The most obvious and the most troublesome you are going to deal with is the overwhelming spell resistance (either immune to <9 or high sr).  The first time someone tosses a spell you are going to figure that out.  The same with DR, but that's easier to explain away. 

You might want to have something strip his powers from his soul.  Having a powerful enough wizard ripping that power from him to power some manner of spell, and then wiping his mind to cover up his crime.  

Then you can design a progression up to the natural hit dice.  So gradually he is recovering his powers.


----------



## Shemeska

A Crazy Fool said:
			
		

> I'd just like to point out that you have (at the time of this post) over 140,000 views. That's a lot of peer pressure, dude




I know, and I'm feeling terrible for having gone so long without an update. One is currently in progress however, and as soon as I can have it finished, I'll be posting it.


----------



## Burningspear

Toras said:
			
		

> I think it was in the Manual of the Planes.
> 
> The problem you are going to run into using amnesia to strip abilities from your Rakasha is that you have a number of abilities are inherent.  The most obvious and the most troublesome you are going to deal with is the overwhelming spell resistance (either immune to <9 or high sr).  The first time someone tosses a spell you are going to figure that out.  The same with DR, but that's easier to explain away.



Well, we came up with the idea that while he is in humanoid form, he does not benefit from spell resistance, and when you shapechange, you lose your supernatural abilities...



> You might want to have something strip his powers from his soul.  Having a powerful enough wizard ripping that power from him to power some manner of spell, and then wiping his mind to cover up his crime.
> 
> Then you can design a progression up to the natural hit dice.  So gradually he is recovering his powers.




Thnx for the reply...that first off all 
The other players will find him after a great magical spell battle blew up a village, and guess what, they find me, and the other culprit in the epicentre...
And I agreed with the DM that he would use piercing weapons mainly to attack me with, and only when he wants me to see a hint about my actual race, then hell use other weapon types..
Isn't Dam.red. a Su ability?


----------



## Clueless

Can be - but the thought Toras is coming from - is based on a character in a game that Tristol's player is currently running for us. A celestial whose True Name was robbed from him by a very powerful and very evil wizard of Shade. Mechanically the character is human - no powers, nothing fancy whatsoever - it's just in the description that he's got a tail and ears and is a vulpinal. 

That was the sort of approach he was suggesting. 

Whenever the character regains his True Name he'll get the powers back.


----------



## Burningspear

Clueless said:
			
		

> Can be - but the thought Toras is coming from - is based on a character in a game that Tristol's player is currently running for us. A celestial whose True Name was robbed from him by a very powerful and very evil wizard of Shade. Mechanically the character is human - no powers, nothing fancy whatsoever - it's just in the description that he's got a tail and ears and is a vulpinal.
> 
> That was the sort of approach he was suggesting.
> 
> Whenever the character regains his True Name he'll get the powers back.





Thnx for the info , sounds nifty though...


----------



## Quanqued

Burningspear said:
			
		

> What about passiva abilities? like Dark vision and Dam red., and even Detect thoughts in my case?, how would that be done?  any suggestions?
> 
> thnx in advance



FYI: There's already a book that handles the mechanics of breaking down a monstrous race into multiple levels.  Take a look at _Savage Species_.  It's not really my favorite book, but it's tailored for just this sort of question.

You can then make whatever justification seems most entertaining for RP reasons in game.

    ~Quan


----------



## Burningspear

Quanqued said:
			
		

> FYI: There's already a book that handles the mechanics of breaking down a monstrous race into multiple levels.  Take a look at _Savage Species_.  It's not really my favorite book, but it's tailored for just this sort of question.
> 
> You can then make whatever justification seems most entertaining for RP reasons in game.
> 
> ~Quan




Yes, i knew that one existed, although i could not remember its title, but thnx for the reference.. i had a digital version of it, until i had a comp crash, if anybody can help me find it to download again, much obliged...


----------



## Archimedes314

Burningspear said:
			
		

> For the player playing the amnesiac, how did he justify the use of the feats/ class/ race abilities that he had upon startup? how did you guys do that?
> for example, having a feat you have to activate, but not knowing you have it, and yet it is taken upon character setup/ creation, how did u guys work that out?




In general, real world cases of retrograde amnesia retain procedural knowledge while losing some or all of their propositional knowledge (although it is possible to lose both, or to lose only portions of procedural knowledge), the most prevalent explanation being that they are stored differently in the brain. What this means is that your character would know _how_ to do things he knew before the event that caused the amnesia, but have no idea when or where he learned to do them.


----------



## Burningspear

Sorry Shemeska, for railroading your storyline here, but i am actually getting better and far more useful replies here then i think i would get anywhere else..

Thnx Archimedes , 

How is this for a revision from 3.0 Rakshasa (which is very much more  powerful then the current one) to 3.5?;

•	Outsider (lawful, evil); all simple weapons; all martial weapons; base speed 40 feet; dark vision to 60 feet; monster class skills are bluff, craft, disguise, listen, move silently, perform, profession, sense motive, and spot.
•	
•	Level 1: First hit die; +2 con, +2 cha; 2 claws 1d4 + strength bonus, alternate form 1/day (1 hour),
•	Level 2: Second hit die ,Spells as sorcerer equal to hitdice, bite 1d6 + 1/2 strength bonus, +2 int
•	
•	Level 3:; +2 str, +2 dex, Detect thoughts 1/day
•	
•	Level 4: Third hit die; Alternate form 3/day (2 hours), , exchange for spell resistance, equal to 20 +hd/ class lvl’s)
•	Level 5: Fourth hit die; +2 dex
•	
•	Level 6: Detect thoughts 3/day; +2 con, 
•	
•	Level 7: Fifth hit die, +2 wis, Damage reduction 10/ good + piercing,
•	
•	Level 8: Sixth hit die, Detect thoughts at will, +2 cha,
•	Level 9: Alternate form at will; +2 cha
•	
•	Level 10: Seventh hit die; +2 con, Damage reduction 15/ good + piercing 


Is this reasonable balanced? thoughts?


----------



## Burningspear

And the former replies made me so hopeful i would get some meaningful feedback on my ramblings , i'll keep hope up though 

Thanks for the reply though, Clueless


----------



## Clueless

Unfortunately, most of the game group are not really number crunchers aside from whatever makes the DM happy and lets the concept shine through. So not really up our alley much.


----------



## Burningspear

I guess RL has taken its toll on our beloved Demon?


----------



## Clueless

Yeps. Mind you - the overtime is wonderful. The stagger home, vague grunt, and pass out into bed with the shoes still on - probably hasn't helped the writing.


----------



## Burningspear

Clueless said:
			
		

> Yeps. Mind you - the overtime is wonderful. The stagger home, vague grunt, and pass out into bed with the shoes still on - probably hasn't helped the writing.




The way you describe this, makes me never want to get a real life like that, but money makes the world do go round so...sigh, have to comply at least in some regard, in a short while i'll be a bouncer, so, i'll get to kick ass and get payed for it.. lol.
( not really so easy, but o well, i can dream . )


----------



## Burningspear

Bump, Himalaya high dust pile needs to be swept under the rug once more by our esteemed and beloved demonic writer


----------



## Tal Rasha

Just wanted to drop by to wish a Merry Christmas to everybody and especially to our resident writer. Wish you all a good time.

Tal Rasha.


----------



## Shemeska

Update by Thursday evening. Pretty much once I get back home from Xmas at my folks. Little bit of a late Xmas gift to folks


----------



## D_E

Whoohoo!

...


<honestly not addicted at all>


----------



## Shemeska

“The next person who asks “Are we there yet?” gets to walk up front with me.” Toras called back to the group of tired, haggard scholars in tow behind him. They grumbled, but it was quickly silenced by another gust of bitterly cold wind, and the fact that the fighter was serious.

Clueless chuckled as he listened in on Toras and his group, able to hear them over the wind only by virtue of his fey-heritage, standing as he was a hundred feet or so ahead of them in the tunnel.

“What’s so funny?” Frollis Terpense asked as he glanced at Clueless. 

“Hmm?” It took the half-fey a moment to register that he’d had said something, because till that point the man had been virtually silent, and at times Clueless had worried that he’d wandered off, but almost as soon as he did the rogue was back more or less alongside him, skirting the edges of the group’s lights.

“You were laughing at something.” The rogue said. “There something going on I should know about? Or should I just send you back to the clerics because you’ve been listening to the wind a bit too much?”

Clueless tapped his ears. “Something that the folks back behind us said. They’re not used to walking around anywhere like this, and they were complaining.”

“They’re going to be doing that quite a bit over the next few days.” Frollis shook his head and looked away, leaving Clueless with the distinct suspicion that he was rolling his eyes.

“Why do you say that?”

“Because with slim exception they’re a bunch of clueless, greener than gnomes walking into Urdlen’s domain because they think all caves hide gemstones and happy cave dwelling animals. The whole lot of them are just varying shades of liability.”

	The wind picked up and forced them both to brace against the walls, briefly howling with deafening force and spattering their faces with stinging grit and foul-smelling water before ebbing and retreating back to little more than a breeze. The tunnels were winding and tangled, and the wind was just as erratic as the path.

	Several shouts and curses resounded in the passage behind them as people struggled to gather up things sent flying free by the recent gust. Beyond some scattered equipment and a few bruises, everyone seemed to have survived without much harm. Still, it was going to become a regular occurrence, and over the miles to come it was going to wear them down even if they didn’t encounter anything beyond a few blind cave crickets.

	“Sodding bookworms…” Frollis said with a frown as he unconsciously checked and rechecked the bindings on his own equipment.

Clueless brushed his hair back from his face and looked at the man, sharing a portion of his opinion but not the extent of his jaded outlook in the competence of their wards. “Don’t think you can handle them?”

“I didn’t say that.” Frollis replied. “It’s just going to be a pain making sure they don’t wander off, get blown away by the wind, or go insane. I’m less worried about the things that might eat them than I am about how they’ll make it more difficult on me to prevent that.”

“They’ll be in the dark, in unfamiliar territory.” Clueless interjected. “I really don’t think that they’ll be as dumb as to wander very far. The less experienced they are, the less likely they are to be a worry for you, and me.”

“I hope you’re right.” Frollis said, clambering over a ridge of dark, worn rock. “Because I’m betting we don’t go two days without some sort of incident.”


***​

Tired and battered, the group finally emerged from the tunnels twelve hours later and staggered into the vast cavern of Howler’s Crag. The wind still screamed in their ears, and a third of the group was nearly deaf despite protections, but out of the snaking passages they no longer had to worry about falling rock and dripping Styx water. Still, the differences in surroundings were almost academic at that point given the condition of most of the group’s academic fraction.

“We should set up camp as soon as possible.” Leobtav suggested as he squinted into the gloom and conjured a globe of sunlight.

“It’s still too dark.” Ficklebarb complained from his master’s shoulder.

	Though better than a simple cantrip, the spell seemed little more than a candle flame in the face of the overwhelming gloom.

“I’m in agreement with you there.” Highsilver nodded from the professor’s side. “Soon as we’re able, we need to find somewhere sheltered and defensible.”

The two scholars glanced back at their coterie of sages, most of them used to libraries or secluded locations in less hostile planes, and nodded to one another. They were dirty, tired, bruised, scuffed, and hideously tired from the forced twenty-mile trek through Cocytus; they needed a rest and they needed one soon.

_Gather everyone up, centered on the light I just conjured. We’re probably just a bit too far out to tell yet, but we’re here. I’d like to speak with everyone before we head in._

	Leobtav’s voice reached out as a telepathic echo into the minds of his hires, and they reacted with a prompt efficiency that made him and Highsilver smile. Whatever reservations they might have had, so far everything was working out smoothly.

	“Fyrehowl?” Nisha asked as she tagged along with the lupinal behind a group of stubborn and tired scholars.

	“Yes Nisha?” Fyrehowl said. “And if this is about how I look like a dog herding sheep…”

	“No, not that.” The tiefling replied with a blush. “…And sorry about bleating before.”

	“Then what is it?” She was trying to be patient, but between doing her job, the physical level of irritation from the plane itself, and something else that she couldn’t really define, Nisha was being a distraction.

	“I don’t exactly see anything, and we’re supposed to be at the Crag. Can you tell anything?”

	“We’re there.” Fyrehowl said with a tone of certainty mixed with a shade of disquiet. “I can’t see it yet either. But believe me, I know it’s there.”

	Something felt _off_ as they neared the outskirts of the Crag. The rock felt stained by past events, though the lupinal hadn’t a clue what they might have been. There was also something else, something that subtly wrenched at her stomach, and while it began with the approach to the Crag, its source was distinctly not part of the Crag. Despite being a Cipher, Fyrehowl wasn’t able to feel that second sensation as distinct from the first. There was only disquiet, but its source was murky, hidden by the gloom as much as the Crag itself.

	“We’re here.” Leobtav announced as he stood before the assembled group.

	A level of tension evaporated from the throng, replaced just as quickly by an equal level of anticipation. Yet despite their excitement at the approaching end of their journey, there was nothing to see beyond the two expedition leaders, only the same darkness that yawned out in welcome like some frozen wave of a black ocean. Although the darkness stretched out before them like a thick and confining wall, it carried a monstrous sense of size, depth, and vulnerable openness. The tunnels of Cocytus were deadly and confining, but the cavern that housed Howler’s Crag offered a decidedly different flavor of the same danger.

	“Our campsite is about a quarter mile from here, and once we’re there we’re going to set up shelter as quickly as possible.”

	“We’ll go as a group and –no one- strays.” Highsilver cautioned, backing up the professor. “We’re limited by the range of our lights, and we don’t have a clue what might be lairing in or around the Crag at present.”

	Murmurs of worry and discontent simmered through the crowd. Regardless of what the darkness might hold, their imaginations were filling it with all manner of beasts.

	“The main group will move slowly, and we’ll be surrounded at all times.”

	Clueless smiled and raised his hand to draw the crowd’s attention. “That would be us.”

	The crowd looked over to the bladesinger, flanked as he was by Toras and Fyrehowl. The trio cut an imposing figure, literally shedding light from themselves, their eyes, their wings, or items that they carried, and the beleaguered crowd seemed heartened even though they’d been with them the entire way already. Eventually the crowd’s eyes moved from them to take in Nisha, Florian, Tristol, Settys, and Frollis who seemed on some level to resent the attention.

	“Save the slinking around for later.” Larill Moonshadow said, pushing him forward with the emerald scaled tip of her tail as she hovered a few inches above the ground behind him.

	The rogue shot her an unappreciative look, but for the moment remained where he stood, presenting a unified and brave face for Leobtav’s scholars.

	“Slow and steady everyone.” Leobtav called out as the group was quickly organized and started to move. “Once we’re there safe and sound we can set up and start getting to the work that we’re here to do.”

	Ten minutes later, they’d arrived without any confrontation or hints of danger, though a few lone howlers bayed discordantly in the distance, miles away in the darkness that blanketed the Crag and the vast cavern beyond. But in the immediate area, there was nothing, oddly enough.

True to expectations, their intended camp was situated in something of a natural bowl in the landscape. On one side the ragged flank of the Crag itself loomed high above them, the ruined debris of a fallen monolith shrouded another adjacent side, and the other two sides were graced by a generally descending, boulder strewn landscape. By no means did they have perfect cover, but they were safe from the worst of the environmental hazards that Cocytus had to offer.

Beyond that shelter however, it afforded them little concealment from anything lurking in the dark. Their tents would be out in the open, nestled against and around some of the larger boulders, and the lights of their campfires and in their tents would be visible to anything on the Crag, or lurking for a mile or so around their periphery. It was a liability, but that was why they had hired security for the scholars who otherwise might end up torn to shreds by a wandering pack of howlers or worse.

"You'll want to secure that a bit more." Leobtav said, passing by a tent being shared by a pair of rather inexperienced sages. "One good wind and it's gone along with your books and other equipment."

The professor wandered the campsite, seemingly eager to be sure that everyone was readied for the days ahead, and eager to begin once they'd had a chance to rest from the journey through the layer's cold and cramped tunnels and passages. Perched on his shoulder, and occasionally his head, Ficklebarb was considerably less enthusiastic.

"It's too dark around here." The drake said, hunched over with his wings spread around himself like a cloak.

	As if on cue, a small globe of light appeared over Ficklebarb’s head. He squinted and looked up at.

	“Does that help any?” Toras asked with a grin.

	Ficklebarb didn’t reply, at least not verbally, as he was preoccupied with making faces at his distorted reflection in the glossy, semi-transparent surface of the conjured globe of light.

	“What he means to say is that he appreciates it.” Leobtav said, looking over at Toras.

	The fighter stood amid a pile of large boxes that had, hitherto now, been kept inside bags of holding. However, now that they’d arrived at the Crag, they needed to be taken out and unpacked. Given their size, and the apparent lack of anything evil and/or carnivorous in the immediate vicinity, Toras had been the man of the hour.

	“Not a problem at all.” Toras said. “He looked like he needed it.” 

	Helping with the unpacking as well, Fyrehowl looked out from behind a pile of rations. “He looked rather spooked by the dark if you ask me.”

	“Sorta kinda.” The pseudodragon replied. “I can’t see past the edge of the light around here, and I’m worried about stuff happening out there.”

	“You’ll be safe little guy.” Toras reassured him. “Don’t you worry.”

	Ficklebarb blinked and tapped the light with his tail’s stinger. “Not me. I’m not going out there! It’s everyone else I’m worried for. Spooky stuff out there with… you know… really bad intentions.”

	“You’ll be fine.” Fyrehowl said. “Clueless and Frollis are both scouting the edge of camp right now, and so far there doesn’t seem to be anything out there. It’s just us and the wind for the moment.”

	“If you say so.” Ficklebarb said, only half-believing her.

	Leobtav shook his head as he pitched in to open a few boxes and organize their contents. “You worry too much. Or I worry too much subconsciously. I’m not sure which is worse for me.”

	Toras and Fyrehowl could only chuckle as they went back to unpacking.


***​

Some time later, once their camp was largely set up and the immediate perimeter scouted and secured, Highsilver and Leobtav turned to planning for the next day’s activities.

Leobtav exhaled with relief and sat down on an impromptu chair of unpacked crates piled in the corner of his tent. “Well, we’re finally here.”

Highsilver nodded and finally seemed to relax as his colleague’s statement sank in and relieved his tension. The wind still whipped against the fabric of the tent, and the moving folds of cloth caused shadows to dance as the flickering light of the campfire outside and the magical light inside clashed and dueled on the canvas covering.

“That could have gone considerably worse.” The elf said. “All things considered. I was expecting packs of howlers, or worse. The place is relatively deserted.”

	Leobtav uncorked a bottle of wine and poured two glasses, handing one to Highsilver.

	“Cheers.” He said, toasting to their success. “I’ll admit that I’m feeling much the same level of surprise as you. No major problems so far, only a few falls; nothing that our clerics couldn’t fix.”

	Highsilver quaffed his wine in a single, quick shot. He coughed slightly as the alcohol went down, his cheeks flushed, and he squinted slightly, but he was all smiles a few seconds later.

	“Cheers indeed.”

“It’s still too dark and it’s still too cold,” Came a complaining, draconic voice. “Too damp too.”

Atop a glowing, two-foot high column of glass that burned with something like natural sunlight, Ficklebarb perched and curled his tail about himself, occasionally twitching the tiny barb at its base. The magical bauble, something like a fancy lantern, was fitted with a mechanical base and a glowing clock’s dial, showing the time versus the Sigilian standard even in the absence of a true night and day in such places as Pandemonium.

	“You know, you can always stay inside the tent.” Leobtav said, looking up at his familiar. “It’s perfectly fine with me. Nobody says you have to come with when we start searching the Crag.”

	Ficklebarb paused and seemed to consider the option for a moment, looking at his master and then looking over to the elf whose own familiar was safely ensconced inside a tiny extra-dimensional pocket.

	“Nope.” He concluded, flexing and curling his barbed tail. “I think I’ll go with and make sure you don’t get into trouble out there. I get to do that like a responsible dragon, and I get to show up that feathered thingy that Doran has under his hat or something.”

	“She’s not under my hat.” The elf said with mock offense. “And I don’t think she’d appreciate being called a “feathered thing” either. But being a responsible familiar has its benefits I suppose. Plus you get to complain about everything in the meantime.”

	“Absolutely!” Ficklebarb bobbed his head authoritatively.

	“Unfortunately.” His master said, giving a look of resignation.

	Highsilver stretched and looked up at Leobtav. “So shall we discuss the plan of action?”

	Leobtav nodded and hunted around for the secured, warded tube that held their maps. “We’ve had such luck already, I’m eager to begin.”

	Like many of his subordinate scholars, the professor was almost giddy to begin scouring the caves that wormed through Howler’s Crag, throwing caution to the wind in the process if that or common sense proved to be in the way of discovery. Ficklebarb seemed to be soaking up and expressing most of his concerns and potential worries about their location and what might yet be discovered.

Doran held up his glass and caught Leobtav’s attention, “Actually, if you don’t mind, I’d like to bring in Starweather on this.”


***​


----------



## Shemeska

A hand pushed back the edge of the heavy burlap tent flap and Tristol peered inside. He squinted momentarily at the brighter light inside, but he was smiling as he stepped out of the wind and into something that half resembled a patch of stability and civilization amidst the plane’s chaos. “You wanted to see me?”

	“Please, do come in.” Highsilver said, motioning the other wizard to take a seat on a box as Leobtav produced another glass and poured a third drink.

	“Your blindfold got sidetracked by about six inches…” Ficklebarb chirped as the aasimar stepped inside and sat down.

Tristol looked confused for a moment and then blushed. “Yeah, that would be Nisha’s doing, but it’s actually practical.”

His fox’s ears were muffled a bit by a strip of cloth wrapped around his head to dampen the ambient noise of the wind. No magic involved at all, but it worked, and he was a bit more susceptible to it than the others with noticeably smaller ears.

	“I can only imagine how the lupinal is handling it.” Leobtav said. “The wind, and the nature of the plane itself. That can’t feel pleasant to her.”

	Ficklebarb didn’t add any choice bits of wisdom, but for the moment he’d hopped down from his perch and was playfully amusing himself by snapping at the air as Tristol’s tail twitched side to side.

	“You’d be surprised.” Tristol replied. “She’s been around worse, and she wasn’t having any of wearing something around her ears. Nisha tried it on her first.”

	Tristol sat down and took a sip of the wine. “This is good. Thank you.”

	“I’m glad you like.” Leobtav said, raising his own glass in toast. “Doran and I were just taking a moment to celebrate our amazingly good luck so far.”

	Tristol nodded. “I’ll admit that I’m surprised. I expected us to arrive here and find the place crawling with howlers, tanar’ri, and all sorts of other things.”

	Both of Tristol’s employers glanced warily at one another.

	“Well, to tell the truth… we’re worried about that.” Highsilver replied. “Because it either means that the site itself is warded against creatures, or they’re staying away for a specific reason.”

	Tristol frowned. “I haven’t seen any indication of active wards anywhere.”

	“Indeed.” Leobtav said. “Which suggests that we’re either incredibly lucky, or there’s something keeping them away that they’re afraid of.”

	“We’re not –that- lucky.” The elf agreed.

	“So perhaps we should start out small, and stay close to the camp till we’re sure which of those it might be.” Tristol suggested.

	“That was our thought as well.” Leobtav said. “It should also give us the time to determine how much the Crag has changed since our maps were made. And if there’s something powerful lairing at the Crag proper, we’ll see the signs before we run afoul of it by accident if we search too hastily.”

	Tristol nodded. “The rest of the folks you hired and I should be fine with splitting up and leading each of those smaller groups, if we go with that idea, but if you’re expecting anything larger than a howler, it might constrain how many groups can go out at once.”

	“Not if you included the two of us among in there.” Highsilver said, motioning to himself and the professor.

	Tristol nodded, but gave Leobtav some more skepticism than the elf. “I know you were a member of the Guvners, and with a familiar you know at least a bit of spellcraft, but how much magic do you know?”

	Ficklebarb sat up on his haunches, held a hand out and pinched two fingers together with a grin. Leobtav waved away his vote of confidence with a guffaw and a quick, “Bah!”

	“Your dragon’s opinion aside, how long has it been since you regularly studied a spellbook?”

	Leobtav pulled out a set of well worn but old books and patted a hand on top of them. Their spines still had the symbol of the Fraternity of Order proudly emblazoned on their spines, and he hadn’t been a formal member of that faction for years, which in and of itself dated his achievements.

	“I know a fair bit of magic, and at one point a bit of fighting, but I haven’t picked up a sword in years. I’ve kept up with magic, but let’s just say I haven’t managed to find the time to progress any beyond where I was back before I met Doran here.”

	Highsilver inclined his head to the human, “He’s not shabby by any means.”

	“Nothing beyond sixth sphere.” Leobtav admitted, which put him a notch or two below the two more dedicated wizards in his company. “Admitting my shortcomings here, I might be no match for you in a spell duel, but I’d like to think that I’m versed enough in magic to keep myself safe from most things we might find here near the crag.”

	“Unless we stumble upon a Balor or a dragon.” Doran said, slapping the professor on the shoulder with a grin.

	Leobtav grinned and looked past Tristol. “Well I think you’re safe from the only dragon you’re likely to find around here.”

	“Mrrrpgghhhh!” Ficklebarb said unintelligibly through a mouthful of fluff on the tip of Tristol’s tail, having finally caught that ever so elusive prey.

	Tristol laughed and twitched his tail free. “He’s not exactly Garyx.”

	“I think he aspires more for Hlal than anything else if you ask me.” Highsilver laughed.

	Ficklebarb shrugged and hopped up onto an impromptu stack of books.

	“Oh, a few other questions.” Tristol added, rubbing his chin. “Now I know what my group can handle, and you’ve told me about yourselves, but I don’t want to say that I know our other three non-scholars to the same degree. Clueless seems like he’s chatted up Frollis a bit, or tried to at least, and Florian looked like she was holding a little impromptu prayer with Settys before I came in here, but I haven’t really had the opportunity or the inclination to feel them out.”

	Leobtav nodded. “Settys isn’t your average priest.”

“Certainly not.” Doran agreed. “He’s deceptively skilled with that khopesh of his.”

Ficklebarb tapped his claws noisily atop one of the elf’s spellbooks. “Library fines for Thoth’s Library: veeeery steep…”

“Well that’s good to hear.” Tristol said. “What about spellcasting ability? I don’t think I’ve seen him use any clerical magic, at least anything obvious, though a few things on his person have a fairly strong glow of the divine about them.”

	Doran gave a wrinkled grin and shrugged. “I’m not the person to ask. I know he’s a priest, but I couldn’t begin to tell you anything about divine magic. Cilret?”

	The professor gave a shrug. “I’m no better on the topic. Laws not gods I say.”

	“Ppppthhbbbttttt!” Ficklebarb blew a raspberry at his master, which was to be honest, a rather unique expression coming from a forked tongue.

	Tristol chuckled and his tail twitched with amusement. “I’ll ask Florian when I’m done here.”

	A sudden gust of wind rustled angrily at the tent and rattled its frame. The gale outside whistled with only somewhat muted fury, causing some of the real candle flames that dotted the room to flicker, sending the pseudodragon dashing for safety. Moments later he peeked out from over the lip of a large pot, seemingly meant for the camp cook, but conveniently for him misplaced for the moment.

Doran smiled and shook his head, glad for the moment that his own familiar had been skittish but also smart enough to hide in an extra-dimensional pocket for the time being.

“But in any event, that brings us to Frollis.” Doran continued. “And it raises the question of what all he’s capable of. For starters, he’s damn good with his swords, but he’s also not going to use them in a straight up fight, rushing head on into melee. He’s a bit like your half-fey friend in that regard, plus he’s got some magical ability to boot.”

Tristol’s ears perked. “What sort?”

The answer came quickly and was both informative and not at the same time, “Both clerical and divine.”

“Eh?” Tristol raised an eyebrow. The man was all full of surprises.

“I don’t know if he’s a cleric or a wizard of any sort, but he’s used quite a few tricks that I can’t honestly say if they’re all from scrolls, wands, or any sort of triggered trinkets. He carries all sorts of odd little things, most of them enchanted to some degree or another.”

“And all dolled up with some Nystul’s auras so you can’t truthfully tell what is magical and what isn’t. He’s the sort of skilled man that you hire knowing that he’s good for the job, but you don’t ask too much.” Leobtav explained, looked away, paused, and then looked back with a frown. “That came off as way too creepy. My apologies. Frollis has a bit of a questionable past, but while he plays his cards close to his chest, he’s not a bad person.”

	Tristol nodded and made a mental note to watch the man, despite the professor’s assurances. Clueless might be the best to shadow him, and as it was they’d already put them together once, and so they’d probably have those two working together again.

	“So what about the bard?” Tristol asked. “A bard in Pandemonium?”

	Doran smiled and nodded. “I think Cilret might have explained back in Sigil, she wanted to come along.”

	“Quite insistent actually.” The professor explained. “She had her heart set on going with us.”

	“Not asking to be paid was a big help too.” Ficklebarb chirped.

	“Hush you.” Leobtav retorted. “I’m not that cheap.”

	The dragon giggled and ducked back inside his pot-as-fort.

	Doran shook his head at the incongruity of the pair. “In any event, she’s a pleasant person to be around, and she’s good with people and smoothing over edges and tempers if they happen to flare. In Pandemonium, even if her magic is probably next to useless, she’s welcome on that alone.”

	Tristol nodded. He hadn’t met a lilland before, and so he figured that over the next day or so he might chat her up.

	“So does that cover your questions?” Leobtav asked.

	“About the people? Yes.” He replied. “But now that we’ve got camp more or less set up, I’m curious about where we go from here, and how we’ll be handling that.”

	Leobtav smiled and pulled out his map. “Get comfortable and we’ll fill you in now. You can help us organize it all once we’re done.”

	Tristol inwardly sighed. There was nothing like volunteering yourself for extra work, intentionally or not.

	“So we’re thinking of about three places close to camp on day one, and from there…”


***​

	Tristol lifted up the tent flap and made his exit, spilling brighter light out into the dimmer confines of the campsite. Their tents were arranged in a nested ring, two thick, surrounding a central campfire, with several smaller fires guttering and batting back the darkness at various points within the ring. Somewhere out amid the tents, he needed to find his companions and fill them in on their assignments while Highsilver and Leobtav found the others and did likewise.

	Three locations, all near to the camp, and apparently they didn’t expect to find much, at least on the first full day of searching. Of course, not everyone wanted to wait a night before beginning their search of the Crag, or at least its periphery. In the morning there would be three full groups heading out to the three specific locations that Tristol had talked over with Leobtav and Highsilver, but before that there were going to be two smaller groups hunting the boulder-strewn fields of rubble leading up to those locations.

	Tristol wasn’t in favor of that last idea, but some of the scholars seemed hellbent on going out and looking under rocks as soon as possible. It wasn’t going to find what they’d come for in the first place, but those same scholars wanted to use those two early searches to get a better clue of the lay of the area, and changes to it compared to their old maps, before the full searches in the morning.

	“Hey Tristol.” A certain tiefling whispered into his ear a moment before she lightly hugged him around the waist. “Looking for me?”

	“Everyone actually.” Tristol replied, returning the hug and giving her a kiss. “But you first.”

	“Anything interesting going on?” She asked, looking back towards Leobtav’s tent curiously.

	“Quite a bit actually.” He explained. “But nothing for us till the morning.”

	“We get to sleep in?” Nisha teased, poking the small of Tristol’s back with the tip of her tail.

	Tristol didn’t reply to the tease, but he smiled nonetheless. “We’ll be splitting up into groups then, but…”

	“Am I with you?”

	“Absolutely.”

	“But as I was saying, some of the more impatient scholars want to go out tonight as soon as the camp is fully set up.”

	Nisha nodded, “They’ll be going soon then, because we finished a few minutes ago.”

	That would explain what she was wandering around looking for mischief.

	“I think they’ve got Frollis set up to watch one small group, and then if Clueless doesn’t mind, they want him to watch over the other.”

	Nisha shot a look at two random sages as they wandered past carrying assorted digging tools. She seemed skeptical. “You think they’ll be ok?”

	Tristol nodded. “We didn’t find anything lurking out there earlier, and being so close to camp, I think they’ll be fine. Besides, if they have problems, we’ll be close by to help.”

	Nisha was still giving that same look of skepticism. “They can find ancient runes, but I don’t think half of them could tie their own bootlaces without a book to give them step by step instructions.”

	“Trust me.” Tristol said. “They’ll be fine.”

	Several hours later once those first two groups went out into the gloom beyond the fringes of the camp’s feeble firelight, Tristol’s reassurances would be proven grossly premature.


***​


----------



## Shemeska

***​

“Doesn’t it make you nervous out here?” Corwin Briggs asked as he looked up from his map and out at the field of shadow-frocked boulders. The wind tousled his hair and threatened to knock the parchment from his hands.

“It gives me the creeps out here.” His companion put down his lamp and looked over his shoulder. “I think I preferred Carceri. At least there you could see the things that wanted to eat you before they tried to do so. Out here? Pitch black and you can’t hear a thing over the wind.”

“What’s up with you?” Corwin asked.

The other man, a fellow archaeologist out of Silvania by the name of Logan the Persistent, looked up and frowned. “What do you mean?”

	“You’re scared of the dark.” Corwin said. “Aren’t you?”

	Logan scoffed a bit too much. “Of course not!”

“There’s nothing out there man.”

The sudden voice startled them both and they looked up at its source. Despite laughing at his friend, Corwin nearly leapt out of his skin.

“Where the hell did you sneak out from?” Logan asked, catching his breath as he picked the lantern back up.

Frollis chuckled and took a seat atop a flat-topped boulder, calmly and effortlessly jumping the distance from the bottom. Well, that wasn’t quite right. He didn’t so much leap the distance as leap and then seem to just appear at the top of the rock, skipping the transitory distance like he’d walked into one patch of darkness and stepped out of another a yard or two higher.

“That’s why they pay me to watch you and not the other way around.” He smirked as he drew a dagger and lazily balanced the blade in the palm of one hand.

“Well that’s ever so helpful.” Logan complained. “You didn’t answer my question at all.”

“Quite true.” The response still didn’t answer the question.

Corwin frowned. “So just how long have you been lurking about listening in on us?”

“For some time now.” He grinned. “I’m paid to follow you around and watch. There’s nothing in anything I signed that said I have to let you know I’m here while I’m doing that. Don’t mind me at all.”

The first scholar shrugged and went back to his work, not wanting to waste his breath with a sell-sword. The man was probably illiterate anyways, so even if he’d been listening in on their conversation, fat chance of him being able to contribute to it.

“In any event, the answer to your friend’s question is no.” Frollis said out of the blue.

	“Eh?” Corwin asked, confused.

“No.” The rogue reiterated. “There isn’t anything out there. We’ve scouted the immediate area around here for anything lurking beneath a rock or in your shadow. There’s nothing out there moving, just rocks and inscriptions which is for you to deal with. And they don’t bite, not unless they’re symbols or explosive runes, and I’d have found those if there were any to be found because I’m good like that.”

	“We’re a bit busy here.” Corwin said, politely dismissing the rogue. “I appreciate you doing your job, but we’re fine here. If you’re so inclined, you might even go tell the others in the group that we’ve found a few inscriptions on some of the larger rocks that fell from somewhere up on the south slope. With any luck we can match them to a spot and investigate it once we move on to that area.”

	The rogue looked at him like a man who didn’t have any sense of what he was talking about, or a man who really didn’t care and wanted to deflate the scholar’s ego.

	“Most of them have moved on to the next section of the grid, it’ll take me a few minutes to reach them. Besides, they won’t have found anything by the time I get there. They might have started, but they won’t have found much of importance if there’s anything to be found. Besides, I felt it best to check up on you two. Don’t mind me.”

	Somewhat humbled, Corwin shrugged and turned back to his work, though he felt the rogue’s eyes on his back a bit too much. A few uncomfortable minutes later and a rock distracted him, taking his mind off of the rogue and whatever social unpleasantness he’d brought in tow. Frollis sat quietly and watched without comment.

	Several minutes stretched onwards to thirty, and the scholars continued to catalog rocks amid the wind-whipped gloom. They were mapping and making comparisons to older maps and old accounts of the site’s terrain, but to a layman they were cataloging rocks, and it seemed rather droll and boring. Faced with such enrapturing activities by a pair of not so socially brilliant men, eventually their watch grew bored atop his perch, not that he’d interrupted them, and not that they’d paid him much attention in return.

“Have fun scraping around the dirt like a pair of hungry hens.” Frollis said as he stood up and stretched, seemingly bored with the men. “I’ve got another dozen bits of mutton to follow around. See you later.”

“Whatever…” Corwin didn’t bother looking up to see if he’d left or not, and his companion was too absorbed looking at a curious rock formation to care one way or the other.

	Without bracing himself, Frollis fell backwards off of the boulder. They might have expected a heavy thump and some cursing had they been paying him any attention, but no sound of a landing was apparent. It was as if the gloom had swallowed him up whole, or he’d landed in the waiting gullet of some hungry beast that he’d woefully failed to notice. His dancing with shadows went without view or notice though, not that he’d particularly done it out of a wish to impress them; it was simply his style.

Ten more minutes passed and the two scholars fell into their element, insulated from their cold and the dark surroundings by professional curiosity. A herd of Arborean bison set on fire and driven on by cackling fire mephitis could have snuck past them at full gallop had they been there to make the attempt. Minutes passed on to an hour and the men lost all track of time as they wandered deeper from where they’d begun.

“Did you hear that?” Logan asked, peering out into the gloom. It had sounded like footsteps, or something scraping against one of the stone piles that littered the area.

“It’s probably just Frollis again.” Corwin said.

Logan looked at his companion. “Do you think he’s still around somewhere?”

“That cagey bastard?” Corwin asked. “Probably.”

“Hey! Frollis!” Logan called out. “You out there?”

The wind whistled and the gloom ate impotently at the edge of their magical illumination, but the shouted questioned garnered no reply.

“Guess not.” Logan shrugged. “I don’t think he’s out there.”

“He wouldn’t show himself if he was.” Corwin scoffed. “He’s just going to let you yell your lungs sore, or make you jump at nothing by kicking a rock around when you’re already jumpy.”

“Hey! Frollis!” Logan waited and heard only the wind in reply. He frowned and picked up the lantern. “I’ll be right back.”

Corwin rolled his eyes as his companion walked off still calling the mercenary’s name. His footsteps receded till they were swallowed up by the wind, and his light vanished down into a dim glow, tossing shadows from behind a dozen spires and crags of rock. Twenty seconds and he was out of contact and Corwin was left alone with his work and a lantern for a bubble of protection from the gloom.

A minute passed before the light came bobbing back out of the gloom, pushing Corwin’s shadow long and thin.

“Did you find him?” He called out above the wind, not turning around.

Footsteps echoed behind him, crunching lightly on the loose gravel.

“I take it that’s a no?” He asked, still concentrating on the edges of a broken rock that might have held a weathered, worn down symbol. Logan had been rather quick about coming back after all. “What? Got scared of the dark?”

	“Hello.” The voice was cold and devoid of inflection, with the odd, off-putting tremble of a person mentally coaching himself before an uncertain action.

	The wind roared again and the lamplight caused his shadow to writhe and dance.

“Oh!” He said as he turned around, startled slightly. “I didn’t expect you to be standing there. Did you see Corwin? I think he went looking for…”

	Cast against the illumination, fleeing for the edges of the light that its owner could not, Corwin’s shadow writhed for another reason entirely.

The scholar’s eyes went wide as the blade punctured his ribcage and punched a hole in his diaphragm with a single, smooth, quick motion. He screamed soundlessly, giving only a hoarse, caustic rattle from his voice box, unable to force a breath past his lips. His eyes bulged as his killer grabbed and supported his slumping body, whispering something to himself over and over again like a prayer or ritualized chant.

	Abruptly another light bobbed out of the darkness and boots crunched on the gravel. His hand trembling with sudden nervousness, the killer shut his eyes tight and silently cursed to himself. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be.

“I couldn’t find…” Logan’s voice died with an inarticulate croak as he saw Corwin covered in blood, gasping for breath and heard the low whistle of a punctured lung as the other man’s sword slipped free of the dying man’s chest with a wet hiss.

“I only wanted *one* of you.” The killer’s voice was cold, devoid of inflection, and awkward with an odd, off-putting tremble like a schoolboy caught kissing with a young woman by their teacher.

Logan recognized that voice immediately, even if he’d yet to see its owner’s face, and stood shocked and dumbfounded. What use would running be now?

The killer turned around with eyes clenched tight and mouth pursed, almost as if he were trying to find something to say that would explain it all, make it all better. He never had the chance though, as the scholar turned and ran. Of course, just like Corwin, Logan never had a chance either.

Everything happened in an instant, purely by reflex as he raised his right arm and held his sword parallel to the ground, but it could have been that something was guiding his actions more overtly rather than just giving him purpose and inspiration. The words to the invocation came quick to his lips, soundless as the spell had been prepared to operate within Cocytus, and the telekinetic grasp on the fleeing man’s body was instantaneous. Had the winds not drowned the sounds in a sea of white noise, he would have heard the peculiar wet slice and the sudden release of air, rather than just feeling the sudden, jarring impact on his sword-arm when the man’s neck slammed into his waiting blade and was neatly, deftly decapitated.

The body collapsed with gravity’s pull and awkwardly slid a few inches across the gravel, finally stopping, slumped on its knees with arms slack and limps in a perverse semblance of prayer. Blood spurted from the carotid in several quick, rapidly failing pulses, mixing with clear spinal fluid on the artist’s pallet of the severed stump as the head rolled end over end to finally smack into a boulder and come to a halt, ending up facing his killer, eyes glazed over but still showing a sense of utter surprise and shock.

“I’m sorry.” He said, almost with a hint of contrition.

They were only men, and they had done him no wrong, but that didn’t matter in the grand scheme of things. Blood taken in justified rage or in cold, insensate dispassion was blood spilt in His name nonetheless. It wasn’t always this difficult, but it had been some time since the Voice had beckoned and called him to action.

“I obey my Lord.” His voice was a whisper, slightly trembling as he looked at the blood on the blade and on his hands.

He shouldn’t have felt remorse, but the nagging voice of conscience was still present like a deep and unhealed wound. The first killing a moment before had been awkward and stilted, without any grace or artistry. Without surprise the man might have even cried out and alerted one of his fellows further out within the gloom. That would have been a mistake, and that was also the reason for the second killing.

He hadn’t intended to take two lives. Before the first he wasn’t even sure if he would have been capable of it on the first attempt. Between nerves and the worrying irritation of the other voice -the one from within rather than without-, between those two things he’d almost sat in silence from the shadows and just watched the man who now lay dead before him, running over in his mind the ways that he might have killed him, practicing mentally for when he felt his unholy confidence rise to the occasion.

By comparison the second death had been much easier. His conscience had squealed with the blade’s first bite and taste of blood, but at the second that tugging at his mind turned frantic. Humanity was losing to the touch of the Other that called. Altriusm was dying one deathrattle at a time. Death by death, he was reaching towards the goal that the Waste had whispered to him paradoxically years earlier in that tiny, frozen vale on Mungoth’s slopes.

He smiled, hands trembling less now as he cleaned the blade and prepared to dispose of the bodies. “Glory be to the Ashsinger. This is how it begins.”

This is how it begins. 
This is how it happens once again. 
This is how it happens just like it did before.
This is the first of the signs.


***​


----------



## FreeXenon

Thanks Shemmy. Great stuff. 

*hands start to slowly stop shaking*


----------



## Burningspear

FreeXenon said:
			
		

> Thanks Shemmy. Great stuff.
> 
> *hands start to slowly stop shaking*




Harf-Harf, as you can see from my own quote, your not the only addict here 



			
				Burningspear said:
			
		

> Ehrm.. silent again?, and the other board equally so  ... i am NOT an addict, honestly!


----------



## Shemeska

I have new arts for the storyhour, care of my friend Charlene. Link


----------



## Burningspear

Shemeska said:
			
		

> I have new arts for the storyhour, care of my friend Charlene. Link





Very nice, i especially like Akin...


----------



## HeavenShallBurn

Yet Another Addiction Served


----------



## Graywolf-ELM

spooky, but you could feel the buildup.

GW


----------



## Zuoken

I love coming back from college and having wonderful new pages of this storyhour to look forward to!   

Keep up the great work Shemmy!

PS Anyone have any other recommendations for story hours? No job means I have little to do other than browse forums all day, it's not a very productive life but I might as well get something out of it lol.


----------



## Burningspear

Zuoken said:
			
		

> PS Anyone have any other recommendations for story hours? No job means I have little to do other than browse forums all day, it's not a very productive life but I might as well get something out of it lol.




These are the ones i prefer: (apart from Shemmy's)
Jon Potters SH:
http://www.enworld.org/showthread.php?t=27929&page=1&pp=40

Lazybones SH:
http://www.enworld.org/showthread.php?t=172826&page=1&pp=30

have fun reading


----------



## Camris

*And a...*

And a BUMP!


----------



## Burningspear

Camris said:
			
		

> And a BUMP!





Agreed


----------



## Neurotic

*Welcome to Halmae*

Try this one:
http://www.enworld.org/showthread.php?t=42423&page=1&pp=30

There is several PDF compiled years of story before this thread, there is link somewhere in there...


----------



## Shemeska

***​

Roughly a half mile from their camp, Florian walked away from a group of the expedition’s scholars, trying hard to not roll her eyes. She’d spent the better part of the past hour trying to keep them calm when they were convinced that the area was crawling with hungry monsters.

	What had spooked them so thoroughly? A few old footprints in the dirt at the edge of a cave mouth, and a few desiccated, gnawed bones that she’d found maybe ten feet further back where the cave abruptly ended. The footprints were old, and the bones even older, but the sages were loathe to accept her judgment on the matter and they insisted that she spend the time to search for anything that might be stalking in the shadows.

	“If you don’t want to do your job and scout the area, then just perform a divination.” One of the men had demanded.

	“Of course wise sir.” Florian had told him, and he hadn’t noticed the sarcasm. “I’m certain that I have a detect howler prayer to whisper to Tempus. Or perhaps a detect lurking unknown monster that drools in the night.”

	The scholar had frowned and muttered under his breath, then finally replied, “Just perform a divination to detect evil in the area. You’ll screen out all of us, and only notice anything that might be a threat. Honestly, you should have thought of that before.”

	“You are so naïve that it hurts my brain to think about it.” Florian had said to him.

	“Excuse me?” He’d asked, growing annoyed.

	“What plane are we on?” She prompted him.

	“Pandemonium,” He’d replied. “The layer of Cocytus to be exact. Why?”

	“What is the alignment that Pandemonium represents?”

	“A metaphysical mixture of Chaos and Evil, biased towards the chaotic end of the spectrum. Again, why does that matter?”

	“So as the metaphysical personification of malign chaos, with the very rocks around us being a manifestation of evil and chaos, a divination to detect evil will…”

	“Oh…”

	“Yeah,” Florian said as the man’s expression and ego deflated like a stabbed beholder.

	“So,” Another sage then asked. “Does that mean you’ll scout the area since you can’t cast a divination?”

	An hour later, she had them finally calmed down, and she’d found nothing of note except for a few more scattered bones and an old bent piece of gold lost by some nameless traveler who might have also been the source of that howler’s last meal. She’d reported back to the scholars, and then taken her leave of them, walking away to ostensibly continue her search of the area just to keep their nerves alleviated, but in reality she just wanted to time away from them to grumble.

	“You seem like you need a drink.”

	Florian paused and looked over to see Settys the cleric and paladin of Thoth approach.

	Florian shook her head with a look of overwhelmed resignation. “Tell me about it.”

	“Would you care for one?” Settys asked, uncorking a clay bottle and offering it.

	“What is it?” She asked, sniffing at it hesitantly.

	“I doubt you’re familiar with it, but it’s similar enough to ale.” He replied. “It’s based on honey and wheat.”

	Florian paused a moment to consider, but eventually the other cleric’s smile and the smell of the mild, sweet alcohol won her over and she took a swig.

	“This is pretty good.” She said. “Thank you.”

	“You’re most welcome.” He replied, accepting back the flask and taking a swig of his own.

	Settys had been fairly quiet for most of their time in Pandemonium thus far, and outside of his devotionals and morning prayers led for some of their wards, he’d kept to himself. He was a good public speaker, and his entreaties to Thoth had helped the workers’ spirits, but he’d otherwise been fairly insular. Perhaps now was a chance to get a better feeling for the man, and besides, even for a servant of a radically different deity from her own, he was good looking.

	“I saw you leading a devotional this morning for some of the scholars.” Florian said, making eye contact and hoping to coax him out of his shell. “Now admittedly, I’m not very familiar with your faith and its trappings, but were they fellow followers of Thoth, and was there particular significance for the ritual?”

	“None of them were followers of Thoth.” Settys smiled and gave a half chuckle of uncertain significance. “But to feel that they had a similarly focused power smiling down upon their work, it improved their mood and pushed them towards success. Even if they did not worship the scribe of the gods, it was worth the effort to perform the ritual.”

	Florian nodded. It made sense certainly, and Settys seemed to have his heart in the right place.

	“But if you were curious, the ritual was called Finding the Whispers of the Ibis’s Wisdom in the Rustle of the Thousand Reeds at the River’s Edge. The name is much shorter in my native tongue of course, but that’s a decent translation.”

	“Thank you.” Florian said. “I’m glad you could help them. My own faith doesn’t exactly mesh well with their professions or their interests in life. They honestly seem to view me as a fighter more than a priest.”

	“I suspect that it’s the armor more than anything else.” Settys replied, motioning to the fact that her armor was more elaborate and more obvious than his.

	“Perhaps,” She admitted. “But I still think they’d ignore my preaching if I was only wearing a robe and carrying a walking stick.”

	Settys chuckled. “Though admittedly, you haven’t had to be much of a fighter so far.”

	“True, it’s been fairly slow here so far.” Florian said with a shrug.

	Settys nodded. “I suspect that has to run counter to what you expected, especially as a cleric of a god of war.”

	“Certainly,” Florian replied. “I expected packs of howlers, some tanar’ri, maybe some other things lurking in the dark that I’d never even heard of.”

	They’d only just begun what was looking to be a long and fruitful conversation and exchange of ideas, but perhaps being Pandemonium, nothing normal could happen according to plans before chaos grinned and threw metaphorical stones.

	“Hello lovebirds.”

	Settys looked up startled, and Florian rolled her eyes as Frollis slipped out from the first cleric’s shadow.

	“You have the worst timing in the world.” Florian said as the rogue extracted himself from the in-between shadow realm he used to jump from place to place.

	“Bad timing?” Frollis asked, feigned innocence. “Was I correct then in my greeting? Need some more alone time?”

	Settys stared daggers into the shadowdancer.

	“Was there a point to you dropping in on us?” Florian asked.

	Frollis hesitated in his reply, dragging the moment out, apparently to just irritate the Egyptian priest, but Settys didn’t bite, and eventually the rogue gave an honest reply.

	“We found another cave.” He said. “Five of them in fact.”

	Not unexpected, but to find five of them within a relatively short time was mildly disquieting, since it suggested that their stay in Pandemonium might be much longer than expected if the list of potential locations that might hold a sample text in gautish were multiplied many times over.

	“Did something inside clue you off to them, or did you happen across them while searching around the area?” Florian asked.

	“Very much the latter.” Frollis said. “There’s nothing around here except us.”

	Florian grew curious. “So what’s inside? Did you notice anything of interest?”

	“Well, there’s no way to tell for certain unless we actually explore them.” Frollis grinned. “Anyone up for it?”

	“It wouldn’t be wise.” Settys replied, throwing cold water on the shadowdancer’s hopes.

	Frollis sat down on a rock and frowned. “Listen, if you’re unhappy with my joking earlier, just say so and don’t be an *ss about it.”

	Florian sighed. Hopefully she could ask Leobtav or Highsilver to move Frollis to another group the next day. Settys and he simply weren’t capable of getting along, and the rogue didn’t seem the kind of person to just agree to disagree. Frankly he was the type of person that caused friction and eventually fratricide among mercenary groups, and from his record he’d seemingly always worked along, but Florian wasn’t certain if that might have been a symptom or a cause.

	Not biting at a verbal barb for a second time, Settys took a deep breath, looked away for a moment, and then replied. “Our wards are already on edge, and probably more so if they rightly suspect that the ground is riddled with a larger cave system than they expected for this area. None of them would be properly capable of defending themselves from attack, and if the three of us -or even one of us for that matter- broke away to explore the caves, we’d leave them in considerable danger.”

	Frollis frowned, but the cleric had a point. “You have absolutely no sense of fun.”

	It remained tense over the next ten minutes, but Frollis knew that he’d been taken down a peg, and so he remained quiet rather than return to the same arguments.

	Still, despite not exploring the caves fully, they did take notes and give them a cursory glance to determine their contents or just their size and extent. Par for the day, they didn’t find anything lurking within, but all of them descended into the rock beyond the range of their lights. What they did pin down however, was that all five cave entrances were likely connected as part of a single system. Whatever they contained, they were probably vast enough that exploring them would likely become the task for a day or more down the line.

	Eventually, growing tired and hungry, when they finally pacified their curiosity for the day and left the cave system behind, they did so without having noticed the tangle of gossamer thin, translucent material clinging to a rock outside the largest of the cave mouths. Had they discovered it, they would have immediately recognized it as webbing, and distinctly webbing composed of freshly extruded bebelith silk.


***​

	Meanwhile, a quarter mile away, the second group was exploring an altogether different location.

	The area that Tristol, Clueless, and Nisha found themselves in, watching over two dozen scholars, was nestled against the flank of the Crag itself, just far enough from the camp to be obscured from a direct line of sight. It wasn’t exceptionally far away, but the ragged side of the Crag, and dozens of larger pieces of stone did their collective part to keep them relatively isolated. It was a worry, but as far as they could tell, the area was largely unoccupied by anything that might pose a danger.

	The sages had found a few impromptu graves of indeterminate age, quite a few random bones and the remains of a dead howler, but nothing of particular importance, nor anything to positively attach the area to any of the specific regions of the Crag as mapped by its original chroniclers in the Fraternity of Order.

Of course, they had yet to actually explore the Crag proper, just the debris field extending away from it.

	Tristol’s ears twitched in irritation. 

	“What’s up with him?” Clueless asked.

	Nisha shrugged. “I dunno. But it’s kinda cute though.” 

The tiefling opened her mouth as if to say something more, but a split second later she abandoned the idea in favor of squinting and wriggling her face, trying to make her own ears twitch. While amusing, it wasn’t quite the same, and it was clear that she was just as clueless as Clueless regarding Tristol’s perceived problem.

The aasimar didn’t seem too troubled, but his ears were flat against his head, laid back as if to muffle his hearing. The wind wasn’t particularly loud though, and none of the others seemed bothered by whatever it was that was setting his ears to their sporadic little dance.

	“You don’t hear that?” Tristol asked.

	“Hear what?” Clueless asked. The bladesinger heard the omnipresent howl of the wind all around them, but nothing in particular to differentiate it from any other time over the past forty right hours.

	“There’s a whine.” Tristol said. “And it’s really high pitched.”

	Nisha and Clueless strained to listen, hoping to catch what it was that Tristol clearly heard and was even more clearly unhappy with.

	“Well there’s what’s irritating you.” Clueless said, pointing towards two massive pillars of stone in the distance, just at the edge of their light’s radius.

	Tristol’s tail drooped as he saw just what Clueless was looking at.

	“We find the source and there’s absolutely nothing that I can do about it.” Tristol sighed. “Well, short of a week’s worth of disintegrate spells that is.”

	Easily twenty or thirty feet across, the gigantic stone pillars had fallen from the main bulk of the Crag millennia earlier in whatever cataclysm had ruined the original structure. Heavily eroded by windblown grit and water, the pillars nonetheless still stood solidly braced against one another, forming a crude triangular archway, and much to Tristol’s lament a perfect aperture for the winds to whistle through like the reed of a titan’s lost flute.

	“That’s going to be annoying me the entire time that we’re here isn’t it?” Tristol complained.

	“You and Fyrehowl both I think.” Clueless said.

	“Earmuffs,” Nisha pointed out. “I brought them for you, you know. They’re back in your tent.”

	That made the aasimar smile.

	“We can always switch you out for somewhere on the other side of the Crag.” Clueless said.

	Tristol shrugged. “I can put up with it. Besides, we’ll only be here at this spot today and tomorrow.”

	Each periodic burst of wind caused a low base vibration and then moments later a full whistle as the harmonics aligned and produced a high, steady note. It was loud and grating up close, even for those without overly large ears. The sound however wasn’t the pillars’ most intriguing feature.

	“Huh.” Tristol said as he approached the base of the archway. “That’s strange.”

	Nisha tilted her head and trotted up behind him, following with her eyes as he looked at something that wound its way across their surface. Something was carved into the rock.

	“That’s really strange.” Tristol continued, whispering a minor divination before tracing his finger across the stone.

	Someone or something had carved runes in the draconic alphabet deep into the pillars. Easily two or three feet across, the letters curled around the pillars in a single, repetitive phrase, repeated over and over again from the base of one pillar up and over to the base of its neighbor on the opposite side of the archway.

	“That’s pretty damn deep.” Clueless said as he peered into one of the letters. “Wow.”

	Either they’d been carved by a stupendous use of magic, a team of stonecarvers working for unknown reasons for weeks or months in the depths of Pandemonium, or they had been carved by something exceedingly –large-. Neither of those prospects was very comforting.

	“So what does it say?” Nisha asked. “I know draconic, kinda sorta, but it’s not making a gigantic amount of sense to me.”

	“Well it’s not normal draconic.” Tristol explained as he looked over the letters. “It’s actually a dialect of Old High Wyrm, but…”

	Tristol’s expression grew puzzled and he stepped back and crossed his arms.

	“But what?” Clueless asked. “Is it warded?”

	“No.” Tristol said, still looking perplexed. “Not as far as I can tell. It’s just that whoever carved it changed the order of the words in a few places, or wrote some of it backwards, or swapped some of the words for anagrams. Whoever wrote it either had an amazing sense of artistic whimsy or they didn’t have their head screwed on tight.”

	“Hey, there’s no reason those two have to be mutually exclusive.” Nisha protested.

	Tristol gave her a kiss on the cheek.

	“…not that I was referring to myself…” Nisha added with a sidelong glance at Tristol. “People that I know… that you’ve never met… yeah…”

	Clueless shook his head. “So what does it say?”

	Tristol smiled and proceeded to translate:

*“Howl into the winds of lament, scream in the face of the storm and be not surprised to find the Howling answer back in turn.”*

	“Well that doesn’t exactly seem pleasant.” Clueless said, crossing his arms like Tristol.

	“What’s it mean?” Nisha asked.

	Tristol shrugged. “That reads like a summoning if you ask me.”

	Clueless took a step back from the archway. “Let’s not accidentally summon something then.”

	“Intentionally then?” Nisha asked. “Perhaps maybe yes please?”

	Tristol shook his head. “I don’t know enough about the history of this place to risk it. Besides, if it’s related to whatever carved the text in the first place, I’m not sure I want to meet them.”

	Nisha stuck out her tongue. “Awww…”

	“Still, it’s the most interesting thing that we’ve seen so far around here today.” Clueless said. “At the very least we can let Highsilver and Leobtav know about it. They might know something more, or if Nisha’s lucky they might send us back tomorrow to intentionally check it out.”

	The tiefling beamed a grin.

	Tristol glanced back over his shoulder to the diffuse collection of bobbing, individual lights back in the direction that they’d originally come from. Though they were virtually certain that the local area was devoid of anything larger than a blind cave cricket -or maybe a fiendish rat or two- it wasn’t wise to leave their group largely unattended, even if they’d managed to find something of far more interest than the group of sages had.

	“I think we should be heading back now.” Tristol said. “They might start running from their own shadows or something.”

	Nisha made an impromptu shadow puppet of a howler and giggled.

	Clueless nodded back towards the pillars. “I’ll handle the paperwork on writing this up tonight if you want.”

	“Sure thing.” Tristol said.

	Finally, moving back towards the group of sages they’d been tasked to watch, the three of them left the archway and its enigmatic inscription behind, leaving only footprints in the dirt, with the whistling wind through the pillars chasing their shadows as they departed.


***​

	Relatively close to the campsite, the third of the day’s designated areas for examination 

	Toras glanced over at the lupinal, “Weren’t you supposed to be working with Tristol and Clueless today?”

	Fyrehowl nodded. “I was, but I swapped out with Nisha this morning. She didn’t mind at all, nor did Tristol.”

	Toras chuckled. “That’s adorable.”

	“Oh, it’s worse than that.” Fyrehowl said. “It’s a level of cute that could burn a ‘loth by simple proximity.”

	“Dare I ask?”

	Fyrehowl shook her head and laughed. “Nisha woke him up this morning by growling and batting at his tent.”

	“She’s lucky he didn’t throw a fireball by accident.”

	“Oh, the shadow puppet made it obvious.”

	“Shadow puppet?”

	“Yeah.” Fyrehowl explained. “She was making a shadow puppet like a dog with spiky hair. And the growling was punctuated by, “Grrr. I’m a howler. I’m crazy for you.””

	“Burning a ‘loth nothing.” Toras said with a grin. “I think that’ll burn me by proximity.”

	“Well you’re safe here.” Fyrehowl said. “Safe from ‘loths, sugary sweet cuteness, and well, frankly, anything that might be even vaguely malign.”

	“Tell me about it.” Toras lamented, seeming honestly let down over a lack of danger that would have let him play hero for the day.

	“Bored?”

	“A little.” Toras said. “But I suspect that things will pick up once we leave the area around the Crag and actually start climbing the Crag itself. There’s no way in Andros’s name that all the caves that riddle its interior are going to be empty.”

	“Probably not.” Fyrehowl said. “Still, just call it a feeling…”

	Toras glanced around warily. “And we know about your feelings.”

	The cipher nodded. “Just call it a feeling, but even with it being grossly boring at the moment, I don’t think that we’ll be waiting till we get into those caves to have something more happen.”

	True to the lupinal’s perceptions, they wouldn’t be waiting long at all.


***​

6 hours later, back at the camp:

	Leobtav shuffled through several pages of his notes from the day and accepted a thick stack of reports from several of his more senior subordinate scholars, nodding and murmuring as he glanced over them in turn.

	“Rocks, rocks, wind, dusty rocks, howler poo, more rocks.” Ficklebarb said from his perch on the professor’s shoulder. “Not a very successful day.”

	“Quite the contrary.” Leobtav said, looking rather cheerful. “We found quite a few caves on the edges of the Crag today. That was a bit of a surprise, since originally we’d only thought the caves to be inside the rubble that makes up the crag itself -hollows within the fallen, piled up rocks- but some of these new ones look to have been bored out of the underlying rock as well.”

	“Creepy.” Ficklebarb said. “Dragons? Big worms? Acid breathing fiends? Angry fiendish woodchucks that like stone inside of trees?”

	Leobtav rolled his eyes. “What’s more, they seem to line up with the location of some of the caves on Ulricon’s old maps.”

	“Seem to line up?” The pseudo-dragon looked skeptical.

	“Well two of them –really- line up with the old map, but three of them weren’t there in the old notes. Either they weren’t noticed, or were on the parts of the notes that were missing, or they’re new.”

	“New?” Ficklebarb asked warily. “Like “Nom nom nom I like rock” sort of new?”

	“Well, yes.” Leobtav said, not seeming troubled in the least. “That’s possible as well I suppose. But those two tunnels on the map might very well have what we’re looking for, and I’m hoping to send out people there tomorrow if at all possible.”

	The professor had the gleam of impending discovery in his eyes, but his familiar seemed more worried than anything else as Doran Highsilver stepped into the tent.

	“Is everyone back yet?” Doran asked as he dropped a few bits of birdseed into his magical familiar pocket.

	“I believe so.” Leobtav said, fishing out the master list of their expedition members. “Clueless’s group just got back, and they were the furthest from camp, so we should be good for the evening, such as it is.”

	A happy chirp echoed up from Doran’s familiar and he sprinkled a few more seeds into the extradimensional hollow.

	“Well if you’ve got the list and want to make the counts, I can get started on the maps for tomorrow.”

	“When I’m done I’ll meet you back at the tent.” Leobtav nodded and handed the elf the day’s notes.

	Doran grinned. “Those caves look extremely promising! And Tristol found something that I’m keen to take a look at as well.”

	“Oh?” Leobtav asked. “I haven’t spoken to him yet today. What did he find?”

	“Tell you when you get back.” The elf promised. “Make sure we’re all accounted for and I’ll give you a formal write-up when you’re done.”

	Leobtav nodded and quickly left the tent. The sooner he was done with making the inventories, the sooner he could find out just what it was that Doran was talking about. As oppressive as the darkness and wind might have seemed, he could all but taste how closely he was to finding that sample of gautish, and the looming discovery gave him jitters as he walked from tent to tent, peering in and getting signatures next to each name on his list.

	Knowledge beckoned somewhere beneath the weight of years and tens of tons of fallen rock.

	“Wait a minute.” Leobtav said fifteen minutes later. He paused and looked up to glance over the crowd assembled around the camp’s cook-fire, looking for a pair of faces that should have been there to match the names on the list his index finger was perched upon.

	“Has anyone seen Corwin or Logan?” He asked.

	“I haven’t seen them all day.” A tiefling linguist by the name of Jander Breckinridge said as he stepped out of his tent. “Why?”

	“Weren’t they supposed to be part of your group?” Leobtav asked.

	The tiefling shook his head. “Not as far as I knew. I haven’t seen them since yesterday, so I assumed that they’d been moved over to another group at the last minute.”

	“Hmm.” Leobtav mused. “That’s disturbing. Hopefully they’re in one of the groups that just got back.”

	The next group came and went, but the two blanks on the list remained as empty as before. Ficklebarb’s tail drooped like an ill-omen even before he and his master got to the cluster of tents that held the last group on the list.

	Nothing; the men simply weren’t in the camp.

	“Is there a problem?” Tristol asked, looking up at the sullen-looking pseudodragon first, and then to the professor.

	Leobtav frowned. “We’re missing two people.”

	Up on his shoulder, Ficklebarb looked worried and curled his wings around his body, suddenly even more self-conscious of the darkness. “Werp.”


***​


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## Shemeska

Btw, my apologies for only now getting that latest update posted. My lab is relocating, and we're dealing with that, plus we're getting bought out by Invitrogen so there's stuff there as well. I've been working 50-60 hour weeks for the last few weeks, and it's likely to continue for the immediate short term. So please understand the stop and go nature of the updates. Work is eating me like a hungry tanar'ri does a yummy yummy larvae.


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## D_E

Heck, you won't catch me complaining (rocking back and forth like a kid trying to make a car go faster?  Maybe.  But not complaining).


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## FreeXenon

Good Luck with the move and buy-out! We'll be here in fetal position waiting for your yummy fix. =)


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## Burningspear

standing up in the line to agree with those posts of support for your real life probs, hear hear!...

we will await our fix indeed


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## Shemeska

Folks did notice the update on the 24th yes? I didn't make a new post for it, I just edited the last post where I'd promised an update and then replaced that with the update itself.

Regardless, I hope to have another update sometime this weekend, or Monday of next week.


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## D_E

Don't worry, we all did.  We're just that impatient.

I blame these last few updates.  You've really done a good job of building up tension here.  The down side is, we just can't wait to find out what happens next!


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## Flame_Drake

Great as always Shemmy! I'm curious, way back in the early pages, the Ebon said that they had taken control of Maeldur et Kavurik. Was this a result of Daru taking back Maeldur afer it teleports itself off of the Relentless and went for a swim in the Styx, or did something else happen afterwards? If this is dealt with later, just say so. 

Also, its not another storyhour, but I was partially inspired by this storyhour to start a new Planescape game on the Wizards Real Adventures board, right now its revolving around the Rouge Modron March, but some of your NPCs will also be showing up, as long as you don't object. You can find it here.

Drake


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## Shemeska

Flame_Drake said:
			
		

> Great as always Shemmy! I'm curious, way back in the early pages, the Ebon said that they had taken control of Maeldur et Kavurik. Was this a result of Daru taking back Maeldur afer it teleports itself off of the Relentless and went for a swim in the Styx, or did something else happen afterwards?




Within the storyhour continuity, the events of Squaring the Circle from Hellbound: The Blood War happen, with the 'loths regaining the Maeldur after its plunge into the Styx. The particular twist upon that plot was written up in the one story of mine that centered on Daru Ib Shamiq.

The Ebon took control of the Maeldur a few years after that. It's also not something that I'm likely to pick back up on (it didn't come up in the campaign), though I might include him in a future interlude scene.


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## The_Warlock

Absolutely awesome. Finally got around to reading this SH. Took a week and a half, but it was worth it.

I love Pandemonium. Nothing says wake up like a Fiendish Purple Worm burrowing right up into your Leomund's (Supposedly) Secure Shelter. Try it some time, I'm sure your player's will love it. (Insane cackle)


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## Shemeska

The_One_Warlock said:
			
		

> Absolutely awesome. Finally got around to reading this SH. Took a week and a half, but it was worth it.




I'd glad you liked it. 

I'm hoping to have an update later this week.



> I love Pandemonium. Nothing says wake up like a Fiendish Purple Worm burrowing right up into your Leomund's (Supposedly) Secure Shelter. Try it some time, I'm sure your player's will love it. (Insane cackle)




Oh that's nice. I can't say I had anything like that, but there's at least one thing lurking around the crag that's rather large. Gargantuan actually. However The Howling won't exactly be the biggest problem they'll have to worry about.


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## The_Warlock

Shemeska said:
			
		

> I'd glad you liked it.
> 
> I'm hoping to have an update later this week.




I'm very impressed with everything I've read, sounds like an immensely engrossing campaign. And having detoured my own campaign through Pandemonium to play through Dead Gods (with several additions beyond the bare bones of the module), I have a soft spot in my heart for the Plane of Crazy Winds.




> Oh that's nice. I can't say I had anything like that, but there's at least one thing lurking around the crag that's rather large. Gargantuan actually. However The Howling won't exactly be the biggest problem they'll have to worry about.




The Baern are involved in your campaign, nothing else will ever be the biggest problem they have to worry about. chuckle

One question. I know relative timing has been asked several times as the SH progressed, but how far along in the campaign was the Pandemonium Expedition relative to the start and end of the campaign as a whole?

I'm curious because the SH suggests a very dense campaign packed with lots of arcs and encounters, not even counting the cut scenes to villains which the PCs rarely if ever saw during the campaign.

Either way, it's a great story, well done, and please don't stop. I need to know how everyone dies....


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## Shemeska

The_One_Warlock said:
			
		

> The Baern are involved in your campaign, nothing else will ever be the biggest problem they have to worry about.




Unless it's something the Baern are concerned about.   



> One question. I know relative timing has been asked several times as the SH progressed, but how far along in the campaign was the Pandemonium Expedition relative to the start and end of the campaign as a whole?




About 1.5 to 2 years in. I think.



> I'm curious because the SH suggests a very dense campaign packed with lots of arcs and encounters, not even counting the cut scenes to villains which the PCs rarely if ever saw during the campaign.




It was pretty dense. We had a ton going on plot-wise, plus my group will sit and RP for hours at a time among themselves and an NPC or two with little push needed on my part. They're an absolute joy. However for much of this campaign we were running 7-8 hour sessions, so we got lots done.



> Either way, it's a great story, well done, and please don't stop. I need to know how everyone dies....




There's a pretty massive death toll, including quite a few sacred cows. And of course there's death, DEATH, and _death..._. It was ultimately an ending that I was happy with, and proud of my players for them letting me be along for the ride.


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## Shemeska

Btw, after this upcoming SH update, I may be a bit slow on the next one after. Without saying much (and I don't know a ton yet for details) I just accepted what should be a really nice freelance gig that should take around a month. Once I get started on that, it's on the front burner for any writing I do until I turn it in.

So please be patient with me for the duration of that.


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## HeavenShallBurn

Good for you the 'Lothy one triumphs again
Addicted as we all are we can wait for the real thing.  Your SHs are in the top five ENW story hours ever.

In no particular order Blackdirge's Dretch to Demon Lord, Sep's Story Hour, Wulf Ratbane, and yours.  I can't figure out how to rank them either they're all so close.  I'm not alone in thinking that your stuff here is publishable quality, better in fact than many so called novels I've read in the past decade.


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## Shemeska

***​

The air stank with the reek of Styx water, a smell so very similar to that which permeated the robes of the skeletal marraenoloths who had escorted them from the heart of Gaping Maw to the Steeping Isle to the Plain of Infinite Portals, and from there to Pandemonium. Freedom from obligation smelled like the waters of the Styx as they dribbled through the rocks of Cocytus, which was ironic of course. The Styx offered a poisoned egress from one hell to another, giving freedom from one torment while delivering one to another, and all the while its poisoned touch offered freedom from the pleasures and pains of memory and self, shackling each doomed soul to amnesia or oblivion.

	Be that as it might, the air was free -blissfully free- from the brine-soaked bitch and ophidian reek that swirled about in the wake of Larisith, the molydeus proxy of Demogorgon. The two headed fiend had trailed them from the 88th layer of the Abyss, but she had either been called away on some other infernal task, or had lost their trail and given them up for lost. Either instance was absolute serendipity, given her role and her power within the Abyss.

	“She’s no longer following us.” Came the stilted speech of Bormoth the Infested, one of two maurezhi that had survived their exodus.

	“The bitch is gone.” Agreed the hulking, nameless hezrou that loomed behind the corpse-like fiend.

	“Are you certain?” Asked another voice from the dark recess of the cave.

	“I am absolutely certain.” Melish’goth clicked the pinchers of his larger forearms reflexively and smiled, sniffing at the air one final time not in worry or trepidation, but in anticipation.

	The nine of them snarled, barked, hissed and chattered in various dialects of abyssal, or just bestial, non-intelligent animal sounds, but the collective mood was one of relief and hunger.

	“So how many of them are there?” Belikesh the hezrou asked. The question was preceded and followed by a runny spatter of drool on the rocky floor of the cave.

	“Several dozen.” The glabrezu replied. “But they’re clustered together, so it’s difficult to tell.”

	“In other words: plenty to gorge ourselves upon.” The hezrou added to a chorus of hungry snarls and yet more free-flowing drool.

	“And the bebeliths?” One of the vrocks asked. “What about them?”

	“I hurled one of the last dretchs into their cave twelve hours ago.” Melish’goth replied. “They should be busy feeding on it for some time, and well out of our way.”

	“Good.”

	“If there are any aasimar, I claim them now.” Hissed the second maurezhi with unrestrained greed.

	Vrelesiir hissed, leaned forward and snapped its chipped, battle-scarred beak at the lesser fiend. “You will scavenge for what is left, less Orosokth revert you into a dretch and we feed you to the spiders next!”

	They’d invoked the nalfeshnee’s name, and there was an immediate hush that spread over their number. Though he hadn’t spoken yet, the bloated, boar-headed fiend was the most powerful of their kind, and to casually invoke its name –even if the meaning had been accurate- was to anger it, and that anger was a terrible thing to behold.

	“The mortals aren’t going anywhere.” Orosokth’s voice rumbled out of the back of the cave. The true tanar’ri sat upon the bones of a trio of howlers and periodically broke open the bones of a fourth to suck out the greasy marrow within.

	The other fiends shivered and listened, relieved that the nalfeshnee didn’t seem upset.

	“But Melish’goth, what of anything else?” Orosokth asked, leaning forward with the clatter of bones displaced by flexing muscle and sweaty folds of almost porcine blubber. “Do you smell anything else?”

	The nalfeshnee didn’t name it, but the glabrezu and the others knew exactly what it was talking about, even if the Styx odor serving to hide their own presence had obscured any remaining traces of it. There had been something terrible at the Crag when they’d arrived through the portal from the layer below, but whatever it was had recently departed or gone into torpor. Whatever it had been –and the fiend felt it disturbingly close to what he’d felt in the physical presence of an abyssal lord twelve centuries before- it was gone.

	The mortals had arrived shortly thereafter, unaware and naive of the tanar’ri, the bebeliths lairing in the caves, and whatever power had briefly turned its attention to the Crag. But when they’d come, something had arrived with them, similar in many ways, but somehow disturbingly off. Unsettling. Like the difference between standing in the presence of Vucarik versus that of Pale Night. The nalfeshnee was concerned, but hardly frightened. Still, it was something to consider before they struck at the mortals.

	“It’s still there.” The glabrezu said, its nostrils flaring and repeatedly sniffing heavily at the air. “It smells of…”

	“It smells of what?” Orosokth prodded.

	The glabrezu whined in apparent confusion and the pinchers on its larger forearms clacked together reflexively. “I don’t know. It’s mortal one moment, and then it’s something else.”

	Unwilling to say anything further and betray weakness, Melish’goth left unspoken that the other quality that he sensed was something that terrified him. Some part of his being was instinctively retreating from its touch like a skittish mortal’s inborn fear of insects or serpents.

	The nalfeshnee was growing impatient, “That tells us nothing…”

	“Wait…” The glabrezu said, a sudden smile creasing its maw. “It’s moving away. The mortals are breaking into two groups. They’re wandering back towards the Crag.”

	The wind blowing through the cave mouth was momentarily still, and through the darkness the air was alive with the sounds of spattering drool and tongues lapping at the air. The fiends were hungry, and their chance at sating their bloodlust had arrived.


***​

	“What do you mean?” Clueless asked.

	“We’re ah…” Leobtav bit his lip and hesitated. “We’ve come up two people short versus yesterday.”

	“Well I’m not so sure that we should be jumping to the worst conclusion.” Tristol said, seeing the nervous look on the professor’s face, and the much more worried expression playing across Ficklebarb’s snout.

	Before the aasimar had finished however, Fyrehowl shook her head.

	“Oh.” Tristol said. “That’s not good.”

	When the Cipher was concerned, it was never a good sign at all, and given their environment, every potential explanation for the missing men began as ominous and only got worse from there.

	“Doran and I already covered the camp itself, and they’re nowhere to be found.” Leobtav said. “And worse still, no one has seen them since yesterday.”

_”And speaking of which, that’s kinda odd…”_ Tristol thought as he looked around, peering from face to face in the crowd, searching for Doran and failing to find the elf. As co-leader of the expedition, and having just been mentioned by his comrade, it was weird that he wasn’t present to be taking a lead in organizing some sort of search party for the missing men.

	“Who you looking for?” Nisha whispered, tapping Tristol with her tail.

	“Doran.” He replied in a hushed tone, trying not to raise any concern from those around them. “I’m just wondering where he is. It’s weird that he’s not here.”

	“I’m sure he’s fine.” Nisha said. “Familiar emergency or something.”

	Tristol wasn’t sure if the tiefling was being serious, or just joking to lighten the mood. But either way it worked. Whatever the other wizard was doing, it probably wasn’t anything to worry about, and so Tristol looked back to Leobtav as the scholar continued with the matter at hand.

	Obviously more concerned than anyone else, the professor’s pseudodragon whimpered softly. Fyrehowl looked up at the familiar and tried to give him a reassuring smile, and in doing so she noticed something that seemed to have eluded the others: Frollis rolled his eyes and gave a brief scowl. Something was clearly on the rogue’s mind regarding the two missing sages, but he wasn’t saying anything yet.

"So where were they last seen?" Toras asked.

"They were scheduled to be part of the team that was searching a promising portion of the rubble field to the southwest of the crag." Leobtav explained.

	As if on cue, Doran pushed his way through the back of the crowd and took a spot next to Leobtav.

	“Well there’s your elf.” Nisha said. “Looks like he’s out of breath though.”

	Indeed he did, though he didn’t look like he’d been running. His face was white, and the color was only gradually coming back to his features. Something was on the man’s mind, and even when Leobtav mentioned some salient point about the missing men, Doran clearly seemed preoccupied with something else.

"They -and the rest of that entire group-,” Leobtav said. “They were absolutely insistent on getting a jump on things and starting early. They were ambitious and proactive, and neither myself nor Doran wanted to tell them no."

Doran nodded in agreement, putting on a more composed demeanor "We thought that the area had already been well scouted, and since it wasn't that far away from the campsite, we agreed."

"Apparently it wasn't that well scouted." Fyrehowl remarked, hoping to get a response from the still frowning shadowdancer.

"Excuse me?" Frollis interjected. "It was damn well scouted before anyone went out there to poke at rocks and spend hours navel gazing. There wasn't anything larger than a rat out there to threaten those berks."

"Well there was obviously -something- out there." Fyrehowl replied. "Now don't think that anyone is blaming you..."

"Oh please. That's exactly what's going on!" The shadow-dancer shot back. His eyes were narrowed and that deep, condescending scowl reappeared on his face.

Fyrehowl sighed and looked away from the rogue, breaking his stare not out of any notion of backing down, but not wanting to feed his apparent persecution complex. He didn’t seem particularly upset about the disappearance, just the idea of being blamed for it. True to the story of his past being somewhat sketchy, she had the impression that he was something of a head case, and head cases in Pandemonium were people who needed to have a close eye kept on them.

Leobtav coughed, followed a second or two later by Ficklebarb.

	“Whatever happened, we need to start looking for them.” Clueless said.

	“You think it’s likely that they’re still alive?” Tristol asked. “I mean, the options aren’t exactly good out there.”

	Twenty odd heads turned at the aasimar’s words and glanced in the direction of the Crag, a lighter shade of black looming against the darkness. For the previous day they had all blissfully labored under the naïve assumption that somehow the environs of the Crag were safe, insulated from the chaotic terrors that populated the twisting, winding passages of Pandemonium like insane worms chewing their way through a corpse.

	That assumption was now dead, and their collective sense of wonder was now turned to worry.

	Speaking for the first time at their impromptu gathering, Settys touched his holy symbol and tried to reassure the crowd. “It’s possible I suppose.”

	“Well at least one of us can be full to the brim with optimism.” Frollis said sarcastically.

	Settys shot the rogue a harsh look, but denied him any sort of verbal reply as he continued to the others. “They may have gotten lost in the dark and confused by the winds. If so, they may still be out there, lost and wandering, but otherwise unharmed.”

	The cleric had a point. While the region around the Crag was largely sheltered to the worst of the plane’s maddening winds, a sudden mind-wrenching gale wasn’t unheard of, and the two men could have been thusly afflicting. If so, there might still be some genuine hope, and as slim a chance as it might be, the other members of the expedition needed that hope to latch onto.

	“It’s also possible that they were attacked by something native to the area, but not outright killed.”

	“Like what?” One of the sages asked. “Howlers aren’t exactly intelligent.”

	“But demons are.” The cleric replied. “And as much as it wouldn’t be good to think too much about that possibility, they might still be alive if they were taken by a wandering fiend, or a group of them.”

	“They might have even just gotten hurt.” Florian added. “For whatever reason they might be unable to get back to us. We found some caves near the Crag earlier, and it’s not inconceivable that they might have gone into a branch of the same system and gotten lost or stuck.”

	A succession of positive assessments was turning the tide, and some looks of hopeful determination were quickly spreading over the faces of the assembled men and women, though it wasn’t shared by everyone. Ficklebarb looked like a small child whose puppy had run away from home, Clueless was looking away from the group with a much more somber and pragmatic assessment, Frollis seemed angry and on the verge of stalking off, and Doran of all people seemed spooked.

	“Doran?” Tristol asked the elf. “Are you alright?”

	“Just worried about the men.” The wizard replied, a bit too quickly. “I knew them, and I’m hoping that nothing happened.”

	“I think everyone is getting a positive outlook on this.” Toras said, stepping forward and taking advantage of his clear height advantage over everyone else present, though Fyrehowl was only an inch or two behind.

	“Do you want to take a group out and comb over their last known location?” Leobtav asked. “Take maybe five or six people with martial training and leave the rest here so the camp isn’t undefended?”

	“We could probably take an equal number of non-combatants too, just to have some extra eyes and ears out there.” Clueless said. “I’m still hoping for a more mundane explanation to our missing men.”

	“Alright then.” Leobtav nodded. “If you and Toras would like to take point on that, I’m all for it. You know how to handle this sort of thing better than I do. Good luck.”


***​

	As they broke up to gather their equipment before heading out to look for the missing pair, Tristol caught up to Doran and put a hand on his shoulder.

	“What was that about just now?” Tristol asked him.

	Doran quickly glanced around, and only replied after being sure that they were relatively alone and shielded from snooping by the background of the wind.

	“No, I’m not alright.” Doran answered with a tone that actually made Tristol take a step back. The elf looked disturbed, and almost frightened.

	“What the hell happened?” Tristol asked, unsure what he’d meant. “Do you know something more about the two guys who’re missing?”

	“No, I don’t.” Doran said. “And that’s precisely why I’m so worried.”

	Tristol gave him a look of confusion and the elf went on into detail.

	“I didn’t say anything about it, because I didn’t want to get anyone’s hopes up prematurely, only to let them down if the result wasn’t a positive one, but a few minutes ago I tried to cast a divination to find our missing men.” Doran bit his lip and hesitated. “The spell failed. Grotesquely so.”

	“Do you think that they’re somewhere shielded against the spell? Maybe something could be blocking it.”

	“Maybe so.” Doran said. “But that’s not the whole story, because I tried casting a few other divinations on other subjects entirely, just as a control, and they failed too. All of them were just snuffed out, and that wasn’t at all the case two days ago. My spells were working fine then, but ever since those men vanished, the whole area is just as useful as a dead magic zone as far as that entire school of magic is concerned.”

	Doran wasn’t an archmage, but he was a talented mage nonetheless. If something was silencing the spells of a diviner of his skill, it was deeply troubling, not in the least because Tristol didn’t have a clue how something could even do that in the first place.

	“Just what the hell is out there?” Tristol asked, dreading any answer he might receive.


***​

	Ever fickle, the winds blowing and whistling off of the Crag’s ramparts suddenly changed direction, blowing down from its heights and cascading down over the group, bringing with it a chorus like the screams of ten-thousand murderers being sent to the gallows, and something else.

	“Fyrehowl?” Toras asked the lupinal. “You alright?”

	She had a strange expression on her face, and twice already since they’d left, she’d turned and glanced back towards the camp. A puzzled cipher was not something you saw every day.

	“There’s something out here.” Fyrehowl said. “I can feel it towards the Crag, but there’s something else that I can’t focus on. For the life of me, I want to go back to the camp and yet I don’t.”

	Seeing her expression, Mellisan the lilland bard drifted closer. “You’re just worried about leaving everyone behind without as many guards.”

	The lupinal shrugged. Florian, Settys, Frollis, and Tristol had stayed behind along with the expedition leaders, while she, Clueless, Toras, and Nisha had ventured out with the lilland and a half dozen sages to scour the edge of the Crag for the missing men. They had plenty of martial and magical defenses back at the camp, and likewise for the group she was part of. So why did she feel so uncomfortable leaving camp?

	Less than five minutes later, just as the lights of the camp began to grow more distant, muted, and diffuse against the backdrop of shadow, the wind intensified and carried with it the stench of brimstone, rot, and unwashed flesh.

	“Stop.” Fyrehowl said as her fur prickled. “Tanar’ri.”

	“Everyone get together!” Clueless shouted as his wings opened and the first sounds of motion picked up all around them, and most strongly –above- them.

“Huh?” One of the sages asked, turning around to face the celestial, leaving his back to the approaching fiends and their wind-borne herald.

	The ear-piercing shriek of the Vrock came only a split second before the man’s scream. Talon’s pierced his back and the fiend wrenched him away from the earth, carrying him up into the windy, black vault above, leaving behind only a splattered gush of blood and a drifting, deadly cloud of spores in its wake.

	More vrocks screamed high above, circling and preparing for another dive as bits of torn flesh rained down as the first of their number satisfied his gluttony. The untrained men and women on the ground screamed in terror and quickly began to break ranks, running back towards the camp, but too late their guardians realized that the rest of the tanar’ri would be waiting for them, having circled around them in the dark.

	“Stay here!” Clueless shouted. “Damn it! They want to separate us!”

	There was a flash of light and the barking roar of a glabrezu halfway back towards the camp, and the bladesinger knew with a sickening wrench in his gut that he’d been proven right.


***​

_“Tanar’ri…”_ The man thought, snorting derisively as he heard the vrocks shriek overheard as they hurtled down towards the camp. On one hand they were a complication, potentially a gross complication if they impinged upon his purpose there at the Crag, but on the other hand they conceivably provided a cover for his earlier, overly hesitant and clumsy actions.

	Several vrocks, assorted least fiends, a pair of undead-like maurezhi, and somewhere lurking behind the hulking glabrezu and hezrou –he could feel it- there was a nalfeshnee.

	A sudden hiss and wet snarl took his attention back to the present and away from his thoughts like a frantic tapping upon his shoulder. A dozen feet away, crawling over a pile of rubble was the bloated silhouette of a dretch, backlit by one of the camp’s torches, drooling and sniffing at the air as it bared its fangs and prepared to charge, hoping for easy meat with which to sate its hunger and hopefully avoid the whimsical punishments of its superiors.

	“Pathetic.” He muttered, turning towards the fiend and doing what seemed most appropriate at the time. That’s what the voice told him. _‘Raise your arm and invoke that which you now feel.’_ The voice was less distant now that he had killed, and its promises of power came with little effort, though its use still came with awkwardness, and perhaps some faint regret.

	The dretch clambered to the top of the rocks and tensed its legs to leap, but instead of flying though the air it paused and uttered a faint, almost plaintive mewl. Something bulged within its chest and then vanished back into the greasy folds of muscle and fat once more, and then without so much as a sound, the dretch collapsed and fell forward with a dull, wet smack of its head cracking against the ground.

	A thousand years before, Velgrak the Bloody had been a competent but otherwise unspectacular soldier on an otherwise unremarkable prime material world. He’d raided and killed over a trio of decades before he died not on the field of battle, not during some session of rape and conquest, but of a heart attack late one evening: a tremble and collapse of his heart’s mitral valve; an unremarkable death if there ever was one. And now, a thousand years later, the least fiend that his soul had become in death now died of the same ironic infliction.

	One dretch dead, but a dozen or more, more powerful fiends remained. Best to put forth a show of sincere effort in killing them, but not too little to endanger what still needed to be done. The fiends remained a diversion, almost as much as his fading conscience.


***​


----------



## Burningspear

Doing!, OMG, hehe a new update, yeay! (havent read it yet, will do now after i oposted my dance of joy in the firepit...) lol


----------



## D_E

Yahoo!


----------



## Fimmtiu

Well, we all knew the carnage would happen sooner or later. Can't have that many soft, tasty researchers on Pandemonium without anyone getting eaten, after all...


----------



## Clueless

Yep - but Ooooooh did that tick us off. We were joking about putting them all in bags of holding to keep them "safe" by that point.


----------



## Fimmtiu

It's like that old quote from Wulf's story hour: "Shoulda brought a _Heward's Handy Bodybag_."


----------



## Graywolf-ELM

Has anyone figured out which is the person that has the hidden helper inside?

GW

Oh, great update btw.


----------



## darkhall-nestor

tell me if it was inappropriate to post a link here but i think this artist is on a similar wavelength  and it made me think of this story hour and wish for a new update

http://www.waynebarlowe.com/barlowe_pages/index_inferno.htm

its is better to ask forgiveness than to ask for permission


----------



## Shemeska

darkhall-nestor said:
			
		

> tell me if it was inappropriate to post a link here but i think this artist is on a similar wavelength  and it made me think of this story hour and wish for a new update
> 
> http://www.waynebarlowe.com/barlowe_pages/index_inferno.htm
> 
> its is better to ask forgiveness than to ask for permission




Wayne Barlowe has some awesome, creepy stuff.


----------



## Shemeska

Graywolf-ELM said:
			
		

> Has anyone figured out which is the person that has the hidden helper inside?




Which is the hidden helper? Or who they're working for? Both are relevant to the future plot in a major way.

I finished with my stuff for Paizo this morning (first freelancing for a book! yay!) so next week should see an update here to SH1. In the meantime though, if anyone cares to speculate on either of those questions, I'm really curious to see what folks think.


----------



## HeavenShallBurn

The Lothy One returns!!!  All Hail the Lothy One!!!  We Are Not Worthy!!!

It's an wonderful feeling isn't it?  The idea that somewhere someone actually wants to give you money to write stuff just makes you want to leap in circles for joy.


----------



## Nyarlathotep

Shemeska said:
			
		

> I finished with my stuff for Paizo this morning (first freelancing for a book! yay!)




Congratulations on that. Any hints you can provide as to its contents? (Module/Sourcebook/When it's being released )


----------



## Shemeska

Nyarlathotep said:
			
		

> Congratulations on that. Any hints you can provide as to its contents? (Module/Sourcebook/When it's being released )




Their Pathfinder Chronicles Campaign Setting.

They've asked me to be mum on what portions I worked on however (I worked on two different bits), so you'll have to wait on those details for the moment.


----------



## Nyarlathotep

Man, Pathfinder just keeps getting better and better. Here's hoping your contribution is something .... "planar". 

Congrats again on that!

PS: Has anyone put together a PDF version of either of your storyhours (a la Sagiro's)?


----------



## Shemeska

Nyarlathotep said:
			
		

> PS: Has anyone put together a PDF version of either of your storyhours (a la Sagiro's)?




It's been in the works for some time. I had all of the raw text up to a point compiled as a trio of word .docs, and I had help in handling breaks between updates, some text formatting issues, and the use of phbb code within some of the text which wouldn't do the same thing in a pdf and needed to be gutted and then manually formatted back to look right.

However life has really gotten in the way and I haven't touched it for months now. For instance, tonight I just back from work after 12 hours in my lab. Fun but taxing.


----------



## HeavenShallBurn

Shemeska said:
			
		

> It's been in the works for some time. I had all of the raw text up to a point compiled as a trio of word .docs, and I had help in handling breaks between updates, some text formatting issues, and the use of phbb code within some of the text which wouldn't do the same thing in a pdf and needed to be gutted and then manually formatted back to look right....However life has really gotten in the way and I haven't touched it for months now. For instance, tonight I just back from work after 12 hours in my lab. Fun but taxing.



I know what you're talking about.  And you have it relatively easy since you started with a small number of word processor documents.  If I weren't already in the midst of editing/formating/and publishing the work of an acquiantance of mine I'd offer.  I had to consolidate and reformat 37 separate files in a mixture of html, rtf, doc, and others with over 2500 pages of total text.  Only now are they finally getting to the publishing service, but all the early work I put in on the consolidation and editing has really paid off in the final formating stage.


----------



## Tal Rasha

Shemeska said:
			
		

> In the meantime though, if anyone cares to speculate on either of those questions, I'm really curious to see what folks think.




Really? Aren't you worried that someone will have a flash of insight and spoil your story line? For example, I recently found some plot hooks buried deep in Planewalker that have some eerie familiarity to your story. Pity the server is down though.

Anyway, it's been a while since I last reread the thread, I could give it a try.


----------



## Clueless

We're up for the moment at http://www.dev-planewalker.com while we wait for the domain name issue to sort itself out.


----------



## Clueless

Hey all, I'm sure you've noticed by now, www.planewalker.com is back up! So have at! We have a lot of articles for you to read up on and enjoy that got posted up.


----------



## Shemeska

Tal Rasha said:
			
		

> Really? Aren't you worried that someone will have a flash of insight and spoil your story line? For example, I recently found some plot hooks buried deep in Planewalker that have some eerie familiarity to your story. Pity the server is down though.
> 
> Anyway, it's been a while since I last reread the thread, I could give it a try.




I'm curious what folks are thinking and where they see the plot going.


----------



## Flame_Drake

From the Baern cycle, I'm thinking that the Ebon isn't an out and out Baern, but something equally powerful. Its clear to me that he is not simply a powerful arcanaloth, although I have no idea why he takes that form. He seems big on change as opposed to stagnation, so perhaps it is simple change from the most powerful form being that of the ultroloth. [Tangent] In a way, he almost seems to be like Leto II, God - Emperor of Dune[/Tangent]. His form when he is speaking to Mydianchlarus, his guise harkens back to that of the Ineffable, so although we haven't seen him in Baern form, he definitely has a connection to them. It just seems too simple that he would be a Baern, but all evidence points to that. I'm positive that he is not one of the Demented and does indeed think that they have lost their way given how he reacts when called mother/father.

I'm thinking that we're going have the first _real_ face to face with a Baern sometime soon, and that the path that leads to the Oblivion Clock is also going to come to light before the party returns to Sigil.

Drake


----------



## Shemeska

Spoiler about upcoming PC / baern encounters:
[sblock] Daru ib Shamiq is the first baernaloth the PCs will directly encounter [/sblock]


----------



## darkhall-nestor

is there a good source or glossary for all things loth and demonic
as i often find myself lost  when reading this story hour

which is quite good by the way


----------



## Shemeska

darkhall-nestor said:
			
		

> is there a good source or glossary for all things loth and demonic
> as i often find myself lost  when reading this story hour
> 
> which is quite good by the way




Planewalker.com's Encyclopedia of the Planes is a pretty snazzy resource. The wikipedia list on demonlords is pretty good as well (but the 'loth article on wiki is in need of either improvement or euthanasia).

Depending on what's being talked about in the SH, much of it is spun around stuff already extant in the planescape/D&D planes. A quick read of the PDFs of the 2e Planescape stuff will cover much of it, and it's rather cost effective too.


----------



## Shemeska

Just a note to folks: I'm still alive, and I'll be returning to a semi-regular update schedule shortly. I just finished a second round of freelance work, and I'm no longer regularly on-call with my job (yay lateral promotion). Next update is about 50% done.


----------



## Burningspear

yeay, and a light question, how is the 2nd storyhour coming along? that pile of dust is really getting himalaya high by now


----------



## kinddrow

*Shemeska=Planescape*

I just caught up with the end of this story hour, and like many others, Shemeska, I have to say what you do with the Planescape setting is really amazing.  As both a DM and a reader, I'm impressed.  This story is the best instance of an ongoing villain I have seen, and since he (it?) is so much more powerful than the PCs, from the very beginning, but still a like-level antagonist, makes the game really work from both a story and game perspective.  And I really like the grand scope of repercussions you put into your story, especially the various factols wandering around.  

I personally hope you turn this into a book, or full published adventure path, though just reading it was a treat for me.


----------



## sciborg2

Shemmy, just checking in. Had a quick question figured I ask here for you and your fans input.

What's the best way to get acquainted with Pathfinder? I like the stuff from the first issues but I have no group to play with right now.


----------



## Veltharis ap Rylix

I realize you've heard this before, but I felt the need to express it once again.

I stumbled across this storyhour mostly by accident and have spent the past few weeks reading it up to the current (about to start on SH2). Shemeska (may I call you "Shemmy"?), you have won yourself another fan. I'm a bit of a lurker mostly, but you can be sure I'll be around. Great work. Hope to see an update (relatively) soon.

- Arathyn


----------



## Shemeska

sciborg2 said:
			
		

> Shemmy, just checking in. Had a quick question figured I ask here for you and your fans input.
> 
> What's the best way to get acquainted with Pathfinder? I like the stuff from the first issues but I have no group to play with right now.




Don't worry. I got a relatively late start on the material as well. A good point of entry is probably the Pathfinder Gazetteer. The pdf is pretty nice, and a pre-release version of it was actually used as something of a writers bible when I was working on my contributions to the campaign setting.

Then there's the Pathfinder Chronicles material which are going to be a series of small regional supplement books to add depth to the setting alongside the Pathfinder modules and the campaign setting hardcover.


----------



## Shemeska

Arathyn said:
			
		

> I realize you've heard this before, but I felt the need to express it once again.
> 
> I stumbled across this storyhour mostly by accident and have spent the past few weeks reading it up to the current (about to start on SH2). Shemeska (may I call you "Shemmy"?), you have won yourself another fan. I'm a bit of a lurker mostly, but you can be sure I'll be around. Great work. Hope to see an update (relatively) soon.
> 
> - Arathyn




I'm glad that you're enjoying! Life, work, and some scattered freelancing has taken its toll on my productivity (and my sleep) lately, so the updates have been horribly slow. I apologize for that.

When the next update is posted, I'll see if I can't include a link to some artwork of some of the characters I had done recently. That might be a decent recompense for making everyone wait on me.


----------



## Flame_Drake

Bu-bump.

Thanks for the comments on the Incarnum article BTW. I thought that having the outsiders become incarnates of their alignments was the logical step for introducing Incarnum to the planes, even thought the book never got into it. That and the idea of a marraenoloth totemist was just plain cool. I'm glad that someone else found it interesting.

Drake


----------



## Shemeska

Flame_Drake said:
			
		

> Bu-bump.
> 
> Thanks for the comments on the Incarnum article BTW. I thought that having the outsiders become incarnates of their alignments was the logical step for introducing Incarnum to the planes, even thought the book never got into it. That and the idea of a marraenoloth totemist was just plain cool. I'm glad that someone else found it interesting.
> 
> Drake




It was a really cool read.  

And for what it's worth, I'm a fight scene away from having an update ready. Saturday? We'll see.


----------



## Shemeska

*ZOMG! An update!*

***​

	“Get it off me! Get it off me! Arrrrggghhh!” One of the expedition’s sages screamed and batted at his left arm where a dozen vrock spores had lodged into his flesh and were quickly planting their roots.

	“Be ready to deal with those spores!” Florian shouted over her shoulder to Settys. “Even if we kill them quickly, the wind is going to be throwing them all over the place!”

	She didn’t get a response, only a rapid series of curses in the cleric’s native tongue and the metallic ring of his sword rapidly blocking the claws of a fiend. Glancing rapidly towards him, she watched as he neatly severed the arm of an advancing dretch and then was forced backwards by the massive upper arms of a glabrezu emerging from the darkness. His eyes were wide, but he seemed more than capable of defending himself, but the combat was going to take away his ability to help with those spores.

	“Stop moving, they’ll only dig deeper.” Florian said as she grabbed the injured sage by the arm.

	The man gritted his teeth as the twisted, vine-like protrusions from his skin coiled underneath his flesh by the second, but he gave a sigh of relief as Florian’s prayers began to manifest to reverse the infestation.

	“Once this is done, I want you to find cover and stay there.” She instructed as she examined his skin for any remaining traces of the spores. “If nothing else, it should keep you clear of any of this same infection in the wind. After that…”

	Suddenly a vrock’s piercing shriek cut the air and drowned out Florian’s voice as a shadow fell over both her and the sage. Throwing the sage to the ground and off to one side, she rolled onto her back, brandishing her axe to meet the fiend’s descent, grimacing all the while as she knew the impact of its dive was going to be painful.

	That impact never happened…

	The vrock’s descent ended abruptly as it slammed into some intangible solid object in its path and the air resounded with the distant peal of bells, or perhaps more appropriately the hollow ring of two colliding cubes in Acheron. The fiend howled in pain as the suddenly crystalline air rammed into it like the invisible fist of a furious angel, and as the spell faded it was obvious how serious the damage had been.

	Slightly out of breath, Professor Leobtav stood a dozen feet away with his hand held up in the air, the source of the spell. Apparently the Fraternity of Order had taught him a few tricks when it came to chaotic creatures.

	“Yay!” Came a happy, draconic chirp from Leobtav’s shoulder.

	“Not bad!” Tristol shouted over towards the ex-Guvner and his familiar as he simultaneously hurled a frigid cone of ice to finish off the injured tanar’ri.

	“No no.” Ficklebarb correct. “Not yay for getting the demon. Yay for him actually remembering that spell!”

	The drake grinned down at his master. “But getting the vrock was good too!”

	“We can’t stay here.” Florian said. “They’ll be coming at the camp from all angles. We’ll need to split up and take them as they come in.”

	Tristol nodded, and on cue so did Nisha, ducking out of a nearby tent with blade in hand. “We’ll try to meet up with one of the fighter-types, either Toras or Fyrehowl.”

	“Doran? Leobtav?” Florian asked, looking at the two wizards, one of them competent but probably rusty. “Tag along with me?”

	The elf looked at the professor. “I think we’ll be fine actually. Between the two of us, we can handle things rather, well, handily.”

	Up on Leobtav’s shoulder, Ficklebarb sighed and shook his head. “Wizard yes. Poet no. Socially awkward at times? Most certainly.”

	Doran rolled his eyes with a smile. “We’ll be fine Florian.”

	She nodded and ran out towards the nearest sound of screaming, hoping to catch the fiends before they took too many lives in the process, and hoping that everyone who thought they were capable was actually as good as they were supposed to be. She didn’t need anyone playing hero when they weren’t up to the task.


***​

	Distantly, Fyrehowl ran between several rows of tents towards the sounds of a woman screaming and pleading for something to put her down. The screams increased amid the sounds of guttural, almost barking laughter, and then abruptly the screaming stopped as she burst into the clear.

	Towering above her at least twice her height, a powerfully muscled, dog-headed glabrezu held one of the camp’s linguists at chest height -9 feet up- gripped chest and legs in the crab-like pinchers of its upper pair of arms. The woman’s clothing was red with blood, and the point of a sword was visible under the skin of her back, punched through by one of the fiend’s smaller arms.

	Fyrehowl involuntarily cursed as she realized that she’d arrived a moment too late to save its victim. In acknowledgement of her arrival, the fiend turned to look in her direction, still holding the corpse like a perverse rag-doll or a bloody chew-toy.

	“Have you ever wondered what your own innards tasted like celestial?” The glabrezu snarled with a chuckle as it calmly wrenched the body in its upper arms apart, spattering blood and rent viscera across the ground.

	“A pity you won’t have the chance to tell me.” Fyrehowl replied, calmly pointing her sword at its chest and adopting a defensive stance. “As it is, I’m not sure I’d trust you to know. You don’t look like you’ve been eating well lately. Not cut out for your rank in the Abyss?”

	The fiend’s eyes narrowed and a low growl rose deep within its throat; glabrezu weren’t particularly known for being subtle in their emotions. After the danger it had been through to escape the Abyss, and more so the molydeus that had been hunting it, how dare a celestial question its fitness.

	A split second later it charged, and Fyrehowl was ready and waiting for it.

	As large as it was, the fiend was deceptively quick despite its bulk. It was only on account of her supernatural reflexes that she managed to avoid being caught by either its pinchers, or the blades it held in the hands of its smaller set of arms. Still, that advantage worked well for her, and as she managed to score one or two cuts with her sword before retreating, its rage only grew to the point of recklessness.

	It was clumsy, but it was still dangerous, and in the next minute it struck solidly several times with its pinchers and claws, wounding her but never managing to catch hold of her. But for each time it managed to hit, she struck once, twice, or three times in return.

	Furious, it swung its arm out wide and overreached, and in that moment Fyrehowl darted beneath its reach and clipped its right ankle with her sword. She heard its tendons tear and snap, and with a roar of pain and anger the fiend collapsed onto the knee of its other leg. Bellowing, it grabbed for her with its other pinchered arm, only to see her instinctively back flip over its head and score a flurry of deep slashes along its back and shoulders before landing on her feet and wholly out of its reach.

	Crippled and losing blood, the fight was effectively over. Scrambling for ideas, the fiend invoked a storm of chaotic energy down on Fyrehowl, but to little effect as she dodged most of the spell’s force. The fiend attempted the same ability again, to equally moot success, and finally in absolute desperation it called out for its fellows –a poor fiend’s summoning- only to receive the plane’s own howling wind in reply.

	A freezing cone of ice from her extended hand and one final and deadly blow from her sword ended it all.

	Fyrehowl stood atop the glabrezu’s corpse, resting heavily on the point of her blade, breathing hard from exertion. She was bruised across much of her left side where she’d taken a heavy blow from one of the tanar’ri’s clawed upper arms, and a dozen minor wounds and burns dotted her body elsewhere. Still, she was in decidedly better shape than it. The fiend was now slack and limp, staring up at the black vault above them with glassy eyes, its head separated from its body by a good ten yards.

Distantly she heard another series of explosions, probably Clueless or Tristol having fun at the fiends’ expense, but then she felt a distinctly odd premonition. For whatever reason she had the urge to move out of the way, and while it came with the typically gut instinct of the Cadence, it had a decidedly odd flavor.

	“I f*cking hate Vrocks.” Frollis Terpense said with resigned annoyance, appearing out of thin air as far as Fyrehowl could tell. Maybe a teleport or dimension door, but the rogue clearly had some tricks up his sleeve. He was covered in blood and feathers, most of the former not his, and of course none of the latter.

	“Vrocks?” Fyrehowl asked. “I think they hate you more based on how you look.”

	That odd feeling returned.

	“No,” Frollis said. “They hate you when you jump through the bare fringe of the Shadow plane that touches here, and you land on their back while they’re four hundred feet up in the air. A dagger in its kidney a moment later didn’t endear me in its heart either I suppose. Not that I was intending to do that exactly, getting on top of it and all, but I suppose it worked.”

	The rogue pulled a few feathers out of his armor and dashed some sort of liquid on a vrock spore lingering on his cloak. Having cleaned himself up slightly, he looked up at the celestial.

	“What’s with the weird look on your face?” He asked with a puzzled expression of his own.

	All of a sudden a few pebbles landed at the rogue’s feet with a pronounced clatter. Frollis looked up towards the top of the adjacent rocky crag, but Fyrehowl had already followed her earlier urge to move.

	“Sh*t!” The rogue shouted out with some alarm as the massive tanar’ri careened over the edge of the crag and toppled towards him with a garbled shout of its own.

	“Sorry!” Nisha shouted, peering over the edge a moment later. “It wasn’t cooperating with the stabbity stabbity, so I got frustrated…”

	Frollis rolled his eyes and dove into his own shadow, vanishing a split second before the fiend hit the ground with a bone-snapping crunch and a pained bellow.

	“You can thank me for the grease spell!” Nisha shouted out again with a grin. “And Tristol for the telekinesis, and Toras for the boot to its head. The combination works wonders at the edge of a cliff!”

	Fyrehowl grinned back up at the tiefling, but she didn’t relax her stance, because even as Tristol, Toras, and Nisha were looking down from the top of the cliff, the Nalfeshnee was getting back up to its feet with an absolutely murderous look in its eyes.

	Things weren’t over yet. Not by a long shot.


***​

	Having just managed to avoid a bolt of lightning thrown from the ground, and a subsequent column of reversed gravity, Clueless slowed his speed of flight and turned a long, slow circuit above the camp, looking for his next obvious target among the remaining fiends.

	He watched as Fyrehowl dove to avoid a spell thrown by a decidedly angry Nalfeshnee, and he briefly considered helping, but the sight of Toras diving off of a cliff towards the fiend’s exposed back made him decide otherwise. They didn’t need him at the moment.

	There was Florian charging something hedged in by a pair of blade barriers, and the other cleric was there with her. They seemed fine, and fifty feet away it looked like Leobtav had another glabrezu fully encapsulated inside a sphere of force while Doran was busily working on a banishment of some sort to take care of their snarling but otherwise harmless bottled fiend.

	That was when he noticed the vrock circling on the other side of the camp opposite him, doing its own slow circuit and looking for easy targets just as he was. The vrock flapped its tattered, rotten-looking wings and gave an amused, bloodthirsty cry as it pinpointed its next prey, and then cued off, Clueless saw it a moment later.

	In the middle of the camp, hidden from view at ground level, but fully visible from the air, one of the expedition’s sages huddled, unaware of his vulnerability, and ignorant of the vrock high above him. When the vrock dove down from the darkness, he never saw it coming, and he would have been dead upon impact had Clueless not intercepted the fiend less than twenty feet above him.

	Feathers, blood, and a diffuse cloud of spores rained down on the sage as Clueless slammed into the fiends back and sent it awkwardly cartwheeling into a nearby boulder. The sage screamed and looked for a place to scramble too, but as he stood up to run, the vrock had already recovered and was making its way to its feet. Faced with the odds of outrunning an angry tanar’ri, the sage ducked down and hid a second time.

	“Poor move mortal…” The vrock said, spitting blood and shoveling dirt from its beak with a mottled purple tongue.

	Clueless didn’t respond except to gesture with the tip of his sword. The subsequent shower of flaming missiles struck the unsuspecting fiend full in the chest and hurled it back against the rock with a dull crack from one of its wings.

	“No, it was a poor move to pause and talk.” Clueless replied, but only after he’d whispered a quick incantation to hasten his speed.

	Angered and now partially crippled, the tanar’ri met the bladesinger’s charge with a flurry of claws and bites. The watching sage could scarcely tell what was happening, so quickly was the fight occurring. It wasn’t till he’d heard a strangled gurgle and the sound of a sword being pulled through several layers of wet flesh, after which the cloud of dust and spores settled, that he was really sure who had come out the victor.

	The fiend lay on the ground, burned and bleeding from several deep wounds -including one that appeared to have pierced its chest and gone out its back. Clueless on the other hand was injured as well, mostly cuts from the fiend’s claws, and one spot where he’d contacted one of its spores, but otherwise he was in much better shape than the sage would have expected. 

	“I can’t thank you enough.” The man said, visibly shaking at having come so close to death.

	“Don’t worry about it.” Clueless said as he wiped Razor clean on the tattered feathers of the dead vrock’s wings. “Just find a spot and stay hidden. They’re beaten, but a few of them are still out there.”

	“Oh.” He said, suddenly looking around for the nearest cover. “Oh dear.”

	“This should be over soon.” Clueless said as he flicked his wings and moved away, back towards the continuing sounds of battle.

	“I hope so.” The sage said as he squeezed between a toppled tent and a cluster of boulders that largely obscured him from sight.

	Jalo Temeric III wasn’t normally such a skittish person, but his close encounter with a disease ridden, flesh devouring demon had changed that. He’d felt its carrion-laced breath on his neck and its claws had probably been seconds away from snatching him up into the sky before one of the camp’s mercenary hirelings had dispatched it. Whatever they were paying those people, it clearly wasn’t enough, and as soon as everything was over and back on track, he’d be telling Highsilver and Leobtav just that.

	Distantly, another fireball erupted and a fiend shrieked in pain, but the sounds of combat were growing both more distant and less frequent by the minute, slowly being replaced by the regular ubiquity of the wind and Jalo’s own slowly relaxed breath. He was safe and it was over.

	“Maybe things won’t turn out so bad.” He sighed, trying to smile.

	A moment later he felt a hand clamp over his mouth and everything went dark.


***​


----------



## Shemeska

***​

	He felt as if he were falling, and he felt cold -bitterly cold- if only for a split second. A sudden impact forced the air from his lungs and he gasped for breath as he roughly collapsed on a hard, dirty stone surface.

_Where the hell am I?!_ was the only coherent thought in his mind as his lungs refilled with air, but he never had the chance to vocalize them either as a rag was roughly forced into his mouth. Still in shock, he barely struggled as he felt a pair of hands grab his arms and begin to tie them together with rope; he also dimly felt a dozen other things pulling at his clothing and legs -cold and inhuman like cold tentacles- constraining his movements as those same hands did their work.

	For a moment after he was fully bound, there was only silence as his captor must have paused and looked down with content satisfaction. But that was soon over and he heard the crunch of leather boots on loose gravel and then the muttered words of a cantrip as a globe of light flickered into being just overheard.

	A small cave. The rock was the same color and consistency of the crag. He hadn’t been moved far at all. No smell on the air, no sign of habitation, and no obvious evidence of the tanar’ri that had just attacked the camp. Who the hell then had…

	Then, without preamble, as simple as that, his captor crouched down in front of him and leaned forwards into the light. It wasn’t a face he’d been expecting.

	“Hello.”

Jalo’s eyes went wide as his captor whispered a phrase and smiled as magic touched both of their minds, linking them telepathically. Gagged and bound as he was, the sage’s thoughts were of shock and terror.

_They’ll see you missing! They’ll see me missing! They’ll come find me and they’ll stop you! What the f*ck is wrong with you?!_

“No, no they won’t.” His captor said with an incongruously pleasant smile. “They’ll just assume that one of the tanar’ri killed you and dragged your body away to devour. They won’t give it a passing thought, and by the time anyone would even consider raising you from the dead… things will have changed.”

_They’ll suspect you immediately. Walking away during the middle of an attack like that?! They’ll stop you._

“No they won’t.” He said, chiding softly and clicking his tongue. “You see, I’m not missing at all.”

_What?_ Confusion crossed the captive’s face even as he continued to struggle.

A soft hiss of metal on leather cut the silence as the sage inched back against the wall and squealed as his tormentor knelt before him. He expected death to come quickly as the man held up a slender blade, but that would have been merciful. Instead of gutting him then and there, the man smirked… and calmly severed one of his own fingers.

Not a flinch. No hesitation. No blood.

Falling to the ground, the severed finger immediately began to melt, dissolving into a slurry of ice, rapidly bleeding away its form and color.

_Simulacrum…_ His thoughts raced and his heart sank. They wouldn’t miss him at all, because he was probably there in the thick of things, obviously present. 

“And that is why they won’t suspect a thing.”

	He let his words sink in for a long, silent minute, and simply stared at his captive, calmly reading the surface thoughts as they bubbled forth. Desperation and fear were the primary flavors, but as the man looked into his eyes and the yawning void behind those windows into the soul, the little self-contained bubbles of thoughts and emotions shifted like an outgoing tide into sadness, resignation, and memories of home and family.

_Why are you doing this?_

	“You aren’t the first, and you won’t be the last.” He answered as he leaned forward and began to inscribe a deft series of symbols into the ground in preparation for the coming ritual. “More of the others will die in the coming days, snuffed in the name of my master as I prepare myself to enact his will in this world. I am not yet worthy of his presence, nor his full gifts.”

	Confusion again mixed with sorrow, and that latter emotion angered him. That sense of sorrow and self-pity was too close a reminder of his own situation, but that would soon end. Perhaps as soon as this next death he would be free of his anchorstone of mortal frailty and morality. There was only one way to determine if it would be so soon, or if others would die for that purpose –as opposed to having entirely meaningless deaths-

	Jalo glanced down at the symbols his captor was so carefully inscribing in the dirt. He recognized some of them: odd versions of abyssal and infernal, or perhaps a root tongue of them both. But there were also letters he couldn’t read. Now that wasn’t to say that he didn’t understand what they meant -Jalo could read a dozen languages- rather it was that his eyes couldn’t focus on the letters themselves. At the core of the fiendish script was a block of text that his mind simply refused to recognize. It was difficult to explain because he saw it, he just couldn’t describe it as anything distinct. It was like trying to describe what your eyes observed when looking over the edge of Sigil’s ring. There were letters and words, but beyond that, nothing more could be said.

“There is nothing to distract me now. Not for the moment at least.” He finally said, having finished the last of his scribbling in the dirt. “My hesitation, my humanity, my conscience… it will not save you. I am progressing beyond its power you see, becoming what the whisperer says that I must become. It is not enough to wait for the signs.”

_The Whisperer?_ What was he talking about? Surely the poor fool had gone mad from the plane’s howling winds.

	He chuckled softly and shook his head. “Oh no. No no no. That which calls to me I made my pact with long ago, years before now. It spoke to me in Gehenna, or more specifically, a piece of Hades ripped from its proper place -in every meaning of the word- and deposited there in an exiled solitude of ice and ashes. Pandemonium has nothing to do with this. Pandemonium in only the incidental backdrop to my worship of It.”

	Jalo’s features didn’t change. He still clearly thought that madness had gone to the man’s head, rather than any sort of secret pact with some god or fiend. If it was madness, he could feel pity and he could forgive, even though he was going to die regardless.

	“Keep your pity to yourself.” The man said with knowing contempt. “Believe me or not Jalo, you will see my Lord revealed to you before you die.”

	He smiled down at his captive and whispered an indistinct phrase. To Jalo it still sounded like the ramblings of a madman, and indeed nothing happened at first. A full minute passed and still nothing, but then Jalo realized –as his breath turned to glittered fog- that the temperature had dropped precipitously in a manner of seconds.

“And now my friend,” His captor said with a coldly welcoming smile. “Listen as it speaks through me.”

Then, like demons called by a summoner’s hand, the air seethed with movement and the lantern flame guttered and dimmed, touched by an immaterial wind, throwing off dozens of erratic, shifting shadows on the cave’s walls. Fingers and hands of darkness, tendrils of shadow, fangs and teeth as black as the void of Agathys reached for their sacrifice…


***​

	The camp was a shambles in the aftermath of the tanar’ri attack. Tents and their contents were scattered –two of them burned to cinders by the campfires when they collapsed- , the bodies of four mortals lay in repose, covered by tarps, and many more tanar’ri lay piled together in a bubbling, dissolving mess near the edge of camp. Three more men were still missing, either hiding or carried away by one of the fleeing demons when the tide of combat had turned against them.

	“This is hideous.” One of the sages remarked as he removed a partially eaten body from underneath a fiend’s corpse.

	“And damn this smells.” Frollis said, wincing as he hurled a spade-full of dirt over the slowly dissolving corpse of the vrock, now free of any entangled human remains.

	“Have some respect.” Settys said to the rogue with a pronounced frown.

	“I do you moralizing twit.” Frollis shot back. “I’ve been helping shovel tanar’ri guts for the past hour so it wouldn’t disturb anyone else as it spontaneously caught on fire or belched out insects. If I’d been disrespectful I’d be acting like there wasn’t anything wrong. I’m being surly and practical like I usually am.”

	Settys said nothing and looked away.

	“It could have been a whole hell of a lot worse.” Tristol said as he whispered another cantrip to try to dull the smell and clean up as much of the spattered blood as possible.

	“I’m not entirely sure how.” Another man said with a sigh. He’d lost a friend in the first few moments of the attack. Even though resurrection was a possibility, even the most jaded of men couldn’t stomach the knowledge of the sort of pain a deceased companion went through before they expired.

	“Don’t look despondent yet.” Florian said, with Fyrehowl and Nisha nodding in agreement.

	“I’ve lost men before.” Doran lamented. “But it’s still hard. And this.”
The elf gestured to the ruined camp. “This was senseless. We’ve made little progress to show for the people who… damnit…”

	As used to picking on the elf as he was, up on his master’s shoulder, Ficklebarb gave him a sympathetic look. “Don’t be so sad Doran. It was really rough in Carceri too, and still, things turned out well in the end. We can clean stuff up, and maybe bring folks back when we’re done? Can we do that?”

	“Usually.” The man who’d lost a comrade remarked. “But not always. Even with magic and even with priests, death isn’t something to trivialize.”

	The comment was as accurate as it was sobering, and wise or not, it cast a momentary pall over them all.

	“As long as we don’t wait too long, and as long as we have something even so small as a fingernail from their pinky finger, we should be able to bring them back.” Nisha chirped. 

	All eyes turned to the Xaositect, never previously known as any sort of expert on raising the dead, or clerical magic at all.

“You know, speaking as a person who never cast a single prayer in her life, even by accident…” She said as the tips of her ears went a shade red. “But I know clerics! Like Florian, and Settys, and maybe Skalliska, and that one frumpy cleric of Tyr who called me a rotten dirty heretic a few years ago. Didn’t get along with her all that well, and she didn’t particularly care for the mural we decided to draw in her chapel, but that’s neither here nor now.”

	She paused. “What was I talking about again?”

	Tristol patted her on the head.

	“It hasn’t been too long right?” Ficklebarb said, like a small child trying to rationalize the death of a pet they’d been told had “joined the circus”. “We can pay a priest to bring them back to life. They didn’t get turned to stone, or turned into zombies, or anything like that. It’s not too late is it?”

	Leobtav rubbed the pseudodragon’s head. “We’ll do everything we can. And with Florian and Settys here, we can do it even before we have camp put back together.”

	“Really?” Ficklebarb lifted his head up and turned a smile in the two clerics’ direction.

All said, the tiny drake seemed pretty torn up by having watched the worst of the attack as it happened, and he looked physically drained by it all: his wingtips drooped ever so slightly, his eyes were a bit rheumy, and his tail a little less active than it had been before the attack.

	“We’ll do our best.” Florian said. “I promise.”


****​

	Twenty minutes later, they had the least damaged body laid on a table in one of the repaired tents. A sheet covered most of the corpse to prevent any of the obvious wounds from showing, but the face was visible and with the mouth opened and eyes pressed shut, they almost looked as if they were sleeping.

	Settys dabbed a stylus in a small vial of ink and delicately painted the elaborate pictograms of his religion across the corpse’s forehead, writing their name within a cartouche and invoking the names of Anubis, Osiris, Nephthys, and Thoth in calling their soul back from the light of Heliopolis.

	The cleric/paladin lit incense and whispered a prayer as he proceeded through each stage of the ritual, calling the dead man’s name and asking each of his pantheon’s gods to shepherd the soul back to a restored physical body, watching over the man’s spirit as it made its journey back to the flesh. The ritual was elaborate, precise, and respectful, but as he spoke the last words of the prayer and closed the corpse’s mouth as the spirit should have made its way back into the body, absolutely nothing happened.

	Settys sighed and looked away as Florian gave him a confused look.

	“What happened?” She asked, perplexed that he hadn’t been able to bring the man back to life. The damage to the corpse was heavy –they’d been almost completely disemboweled- but it was entirely mundane rather than magical.

 “Their manner of death seems to preclude my ability.” Settys lamented. “That, or they refused to return.”

Ficklebarb frowned and a tear whelmed up in one of his eyes.

“Would you please attempt Florian?” Settys asked as he stepped to one side, giving the tiny pseudodragon a look of sympathy. “You’re capable of channeling your deity on a stronger level than I am. You might succeed where I failed.”

	“Please try?” Ficklebarb asked. “Please?”

	She couldn’t say no to that, and on another level entirely she had good reason to try on her own as well. But those questions were rapidly pushed to the back of her mind as she nodded and prepared to enact her own ritual of casting.

	“I’ll do my best Ficklebarb.” She said, smiling at him.

At the conclusion of her own ritual, Florian felt the spark of divine magic flow through her body, invoked by her prayers to Tempus. She felt it flow into the corpse and as it always was, she waited for the body to become whole and the man to open his eyes. She felt it enter the corpse, but it was like pouring water down a drain. The deific blessing simply vanished, wasted and gone without having taken effect. Sometimes the lower planes or a corpse’s manner of death precluded a simple spell to raise the dead, but she had enough experience to know when that was the case, or when a dead man’s soul simply refused to return. Neither of those was the case at present though, and what she felt –or didn’t feel- sent a chill down her spine.

	Settys looked at the corpse and then to her.

“We might not be able to bring them back till we’re no longer in Pandemonium.” Florian said, lying about what had actually happened. “It’s going to take a more powerful priest. But for the moment, we can keep the bodies in repose and safe from decomposition.”

	Ficklebarb sniffled, but seemed to understand that all would be better once they left the plane. He didn’t catch her lie, nor her extreme worry at what had actually happened.

“Inepwt preserve.” Settys whispered reverently, passing a hand over the dead man’s eyes and closing their lids.

Florian looked at the other cleric and looked at him hard. His prayers had been genuine, the words inflected properly, and his gestures appropriate for what she knew of the Egyptian priesthood, but his spell had never manifested. Like a farmer performing an archmage’s gestures and words, expecting to invoke a meteor shower, he’d faithfully aped the magic, but there hadn’t been any power invoked by his actions. What the hell? She wasn’t sure what to make of it, and as she thought about it, she hadn’t actually seen Settys cast a single spell that wasn’t invoked from an item since they’d been in Pandemonium. Combined with the grotesque failure of her own magic, it wasn’t the time to ask, or say anything in public, but she’d be damn sure to keep her eyes on him.


****​


----------



## Shemeska

And have some art of various characters from the storyhour:

Disclaimers by each picture if needed (and standard disclaimer warning of omgfurry in the case of some of the 'loth antagonists). I have some Nisha art on the way as well, as well as art of the Dire Shepherd at some point.

Chibi Marauder - by NervousAcidDrinker 
Shylara - by Kalamu (NSFW: bloody) 
Shylara - by Azelyn (NSFW: bloody, very risque clothing, partial nudity) 
Shemeska the Marauder - by Azelyn 
Vorkannis the Ebon - by Azelyn


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## Clueless

First! (And no Clueless's were harmed in the creation of Shylara pic #1)


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## D_E

Second!  (Yay?)

And great as always, Shemy.


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## Burningspear

nice update...


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## Andry

Nicely done!


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## Graywolf-ELM

Late with the cheers, but finally back to reading too.

Thanks,

GW


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## Reality Key

Finally caught up. Great work as usual Shemmy!


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## MrApothecary

Wow...

Very well done. I applaud your DMing and writing skills.

I wish I had such excellent roleplayers as a group. If presented with a plot as rich such as this one, they'd draw blanks. "So...how much XP is a baernaloth?" would be the general reaction...

I love how in those dramatic fights, particulary the battle with Shylara, your players always seem to make the best roll, good or bad, to make a scene awesome.


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## arcanaman

Bravo very descriptive and hey what? maybe if you gave us more to work with you would see what happens not that you written anything like that at all


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## MrApothecary

arcanaman said:


> Bravo very descriptive and hey what? maybe if you gave us more to work with you would see what happens not that you written anything like that at all




You might want to have referred that you were talking to me for that second sentence there, *insert your real name here*. And when I said my gaming group, I mean Buckley and Nelson and LeRoy-elder. You and LeRoy-younger roleplay. Kemple is what we refer to as a watcher.

And of course I've never written anything as good as this. I really have never seen a campaign this well done.


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## Shemeska

Btw everyone, the reason there's not another update yet is that since the last update, I've gotten some more freelance work. Currently working on the flavor text half of a regional sourcebook, and a second (not yet announced) book that I'm getting to write the entirety of. So suffice to say, I'm crazy busy at the moment.

Hopefully the end result is something folks like though.


----------



## sciborg2

> a second (not yet announced) book that I'm getting to write the entirety of. So suffice to say, I'm crazy busy at the moment.




Is this the Great Beyond? Can't wait to see what you have in store for the daemons. 

Also, please for my sake put in an alternate history for the dragons as I really disliked the Apsu-Tiamat story. 

congrats again!

Sci


----------



## Shemeska

sciborg2 said:


> Is this the Great Beyond? Can't wait to see what you have in store for the daemons.




Yeps! It's the Great Beyond book for Paizo. I just turned in a rough draft for the Paizo'verse's daemons and demodands last night. I had fun. There might be some easter eggs from my home game therein once the book is out, but way too early to say for certain [and any easter eggs won't necessarily remain the exact same. I'm trying to avoid holding onto any preconceived notions here and make them distinct enough from the 'loths, while also staying true to my and their thematic roots]


----------



## Valthosian

Just wanted to say this is the best storyhour ever. I delurk, hoping that some time in the near future there will be more.

I've just started prep'ing a planescape 3.5 campaign for my son as his first exposure to the game and I hope to approach the level of skill with which you spun this wonderful web.

Thanks Shemmy, love your work, I'm currently reading everything I can find by you on Planewalker and I'm looking forward to more on all fronts.


----------



## Shemeska

Valthosian said:


> Just wanted to say this is the best storyhour ever. I delurk, hoping that some time in the near future there will be more.




As soon as my freelancing commitments are wrapped up, I'll be returning to the storyhour. 



> I've just started prep'ing a planescape 3.5 campaign for my son as his first exposure to the game and I hope to approach the level of skill with which you spun this wonderful web.
> 
> Thanks Shemmy, love your work, I'm currently reading everything I can find by you on Planewalker and I'm looking forward to more on all fronts.




I'm absolutely flattered.  That really means a lot to me. Good luck introducing your son to this awesome hobby. My parents just complained about the game being "something you shouldn't do" and "dangerous" because they knew someone how knew somehow who'd heard it was a bad influence. I would have had so much fun when I was younger if I'd had exposure to the game prior to actually being in college when I picked it up. Your son will have a blast!


----------



## BLACKDIRGE

Shemeska said:


> Yeps! It's the Great Beyond book for Paizo. I just turned in a rough draft for the Paizo'verse's daemons and demodands last night. I had fun. There might be some easter eggs from my home game therein once the book is out, but way too early to say for certain [and any easter eggs won't necessarily remain the exact same. I'm trying to avoid holding onto any preconceived notions here and make them distinct enough from the 'loths, while also staying true to my and their thematic roots]




That sounds awesome, man. Great to see you getting high profile freelance work - you deserve it. 

Quick question for you. How instrumental, in your opinion, was your story hour in the getting of said freelance work? I know my own story hours and monster threads were very helpful in getting my own RPG career started. 

BD


----------



## Shemeska

BLACKDIRGE said:


> Quick question for you. How instrumental, in your opinion, was your story hour in the getting of said freelance work? I know my own story hours and monster threads were very helpful in getting my own RPG career started.
> 
> BD




Very. Between it and the baernaloth stories I'd posted up on Planewalker and elsewhere, it helped me get my name out there. When I first submitted some queries to Dragon, one of the editors knew me right off the bat from those stories. And prior to that, they'd incorporated an idea from a storyhour excerpt that I'd posted into a plot hook in a planescape campaign classics article in dragon (the one that rumored about Factol Nilesia being flayed by the Lady of Pain)*. Any way of getting your name and your work out there in public is a good thing towards getting industry folks to notice you. I hesitate to call it that, but shameless self promotion will get you places.

While that first particular query never made it to print -a big piece on baernaloths- the next few queries did. And it was the various things in Dragon and Dungeon I had that I think got me in the door for work with the guys at Paizo now with Pathfinder.

*and it's honestly unfortunate they went with that instance from the storyhour, because well... it wasn't so black and white of a thing, Nilesia being flayed to death in public. We aren't there yet, but her story is by no means over in this storyhour.


----------



## BLACKDIRGE

Shemeska said:


> Very. Between it and the baernaloth stories I'd posted up on Planewalker and elsewhere, it helped me get my name out there. When I first submitted some queries to Dragon, one of the editors knew me right off the bat from those stories. And prior to that, they'd incorporated an idea from a storyhour excerpt that I'd posted into a plot hook in a planescape campaign classics article in dragon (the one that rumored about Factol Nilesia being flayed by the Lady of Pain)*. Any way of getting your name and your work out there in public is a good thing towards getting industry folks to notice you. I hesitate to call it that, but shameless self promotion will get you places.
> 
> While that first particular query never made it to print -a big piece on baernaloths- the next few queries did. And it was the various things in Dragon and Dungeon I had that I think got me in the door for work with the guys at Paizo now with Pathfinder.
> 
> *and it's honestly unfortunate they went with that instance from the storyhour, because well... it wasn't so black and white of a thing, Nilesia being flayed to death in public. We aren't there yet, but her story is by no means over in this storyhour.




My experience was similar. My story hours and monster threads gained the attention of a few publishers, Goodman Games most prominent among them, and I started to find that people were already familiar with my work when I submitted queries. In the beginning I did a lot of editing/stat work, and that opened the door for larger projects, and eventually led to a full-time position with Goodman.

You know, I’m currently writing a 4E monster supplement for daemons. Maybe I should let you fact check it before it sees print. 

BD


----------



## Herzog

nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo


I've reached the end! woe unto me, I'll have to wait for the next update like all those others I took pity upon when reading through the previous pages.......

but, this gives me the chance to thank you for an excellent story. One I hoped for I would never reach the end to. And which hasn't ended yet, so more goodness to come I hope!

Also, some shocks for me while reading through all the posts that I just have to share:

1. Wait. Shemeska the DM is a guy? (mentioned before....)
2. Wait. Clueless the player is a girl?
3. Wait. What's Shemeska doing behind Clueless' laptop. Waitaminute......

Now, I don't want to get into your personal lives, so I don't expect any comments on this. Just had to share my thoughts.....

And again, great story!


----------



## 81Dagon

**Pokes the dead carcass of the thread**

Any luck Shem?


----------



## Shemeska

81Dagon said:


> **Pokes the dead carcass of the thread**
> 
> Any luck Shem?




While I've written enough to update the Storyhour, the scene I wrote doesn't happen till after the current plot arc. Need to back up and pick up where I last left off, not what bit of plot snagged my brain but which wouldn't make sense to anyone else till the intervening stuff is detailed.  I write like that -a lot-; I jump around and end up going back and filling in the spaces depending on what sounds cool to me at the moment to write. I have pages dealing with A'kin written well into the future of the campaign, stuff set in Baator, and even a scene set in the inner planes of all places, but not any of the stuff ultimately linking them into the coherent storyhour yet. 

As me again in a week's time or so, and we'll see where we are. I don't have any current freelance projects in progress, but been taking it relatively easy on the creative bits of my brain lately, aside from a few random bits of fiction not posted around here, and some planning for starting to run for my group again in a month or two.


----------



## Zanticor

You asked us to ask you so here is my round of poking. I've truly enjoyed this story hour and pray to the gods Shemeska will keep going at it. If you write something new elsewhere, just post the link up here if you like because your planescape is such a big inspiration to us all. I'm trying to get a player of mine to change his chaotic neutral ways by threatening him with an eternity in Pandemonium and your story hour scares him out of his wits. He has been raised three times so I make him dream of the place and he knows that there won't be a fourth time. If you're description of the place gets any more desolate and creepy I'm sure I'll scare him into taking some CG cleric levels (he is a level 16 rogue).

Your fan, 
Zanticor


----------



## Tal Rasha

I really miss my quasi-regular installments of Planescape lothy goodness...


----------



## Veltharis ap Rylix

We all do. 

Come back to us, Shemmy!


----------



## 81Dagon

**Starts beginning some esoteric blood rite for summoning fiends, complete with razorvine**


----------



## Tsuga C

81Dagon said:


> **Starts beginning some esoteric blood rite for summoning fiends, complete with razorvine**




_**contributes heart flesh from a score of sentient species to the ritual**_

Your work stands head and shoulders above the rest, oh Marauding One.

_**sweeping bow**_


I'm active on the BioWare forums, but this is my first post here.  I've been enthralled by your planar tales and very much desire them to continue as Wankers of the Crotch aren't likely to ever revisit the Planescape milieu.  Write on, Shemeska, write on...


----------



## Zuoken

I can't believe that I've been reading (and rereading) this storyhour since halfway through high school until the end of my sophomore year of college now. Worth every minute.


----------



## 81Dagon

*Pokes the Thread*

We're not going to let this die ... this story is too awesome.

Just be glad you have devoted fans if we ever start driving you nuts


----------



## Briar Tangleblade

Well this is the 5th time I have read through the Story Hour in the last few years. It is the first time in a year or so and I must say I am still amazed by it. I hope Shemmy posts again soon


----------



## Burningspear

I have to agree, Shemeska, come back, here and in the other thread, its a shame your under the dust atm.


----------



## Shemeska

Yeah, I keep picking up freelance work, and between that and my normal job I don't have the time to write fiction of my own including the Storyhour.

But here's Nisha and a Modron:


----------



## Briar Tangleblade

Bump for the sheer Awesomness of this thread and Please come back Shemmy!


----------



## Shemeska

Briar Tangleblade said:


> Bump for the sheer Awesomness of this thread and Please come back Shemmy!




Freelancing has rather consumed the time I previously spent each week working on the storyhour. For instance, in the past two weeks I've turned in two projects for Paizo, I have a third in progress, and likely going to jump on board for another once that's finished. Can't say what those projects are of course, since they haven't announced one of them yet at all, and not attached author names to the others. I've been getting my planar fix with a distinctly Golarion bent to it lately (don't read into that necessarily), and it's possible that you might see a familiar tiefling show up in some form, or one heavily inspired by her at least, depending on edits. 

And I just bought a PS3 and Disgaea 3 so my time is going to be devoured even more in the short term I suspect. I've got too much invested in the characters though, so eventually, with no promised date, there will be more here, even though it will be years before this is fully finished.


----------



## Briar Tangleblade

Fly by Bump


----------



## recentcoin

Would you mind horribly if I picked your brain a bit?  I and a co-author have been working on a set of novels.  We've got the first one, sans some editing, in the bag.  We've got parts of the next two in the story arc written.  The second one is about 60% and the third one is about 30%.  I'd love to talk to you about how to get them in front of a publisher.  So far, I've talked to a few agents.  I've been told that they're quite good but "not what I do" and to keep shopping for an agent or publisher.  Its obvious to me that hunting down an agent off the internet isn't as easy as one would think.  They often don't describe the genre(s) that they're interested in.  Some I flatly consider to be unprofessional.  Who, in their right mind, uses @hotmail.com as their business email address?  Really???  Others won't deal with you unless it's via snail mail.   Riiiight.... I'm going to print and mail you my 1000 page+ novel so that you can toss it in the trash because it's not what you're looking for.   Then there are the scammers who want to charge you upfront.  GRRRRR.... It's just hard and I'd appreciate some pointers on how to find someone.


----------



## Shemeska

recentcoin said:


> Would you mind horribly if I picked your brain a bit?




Feel free to pick my brain.  I will say upfront though, I don't have an agent and have never had an agent. I've always worked with publishers directly, and I don't have a clue if this is normal or out of the ordinary.


----------



## 81Dagon

Bumpity bump bump...

Valentine's present maybe?


----------



## TanithT

This was his Valentine's present.  *evil grin*  It does have a heart in it.


----------



## Andry

Run by bumping


----------



## ShadowBite

Any updates? Please, would love to see more of the story.


----------



## Funeris

Shemmy, I have finally managed to catch up with your first story hour.  I loved your story the first time I started reading it back in '06 or so, but I was waylaid by real life and other responsibilities (just as your updating has been).  I just went back and reread the whole thing over the course of a two week period and was still quite impressed.

This is some of the finest writing and best storytelling on the boards here.  Thank you for the writing.  Now, I need to reread all of SH #2.  

~Fune


----------



## Shemeska

Update on stuff:

Will I ever return from hiatus on this storyhour? Yes, I'd very much like to do so. Time to do so between other projects and just life in general is something else entirely. Freelancing stuff, normal job, and my SO have this habit of devouring my time and energy for their own nefarious and fun purposes (...and Starcraft 2 is in the process of installing as we speak, which won't help me out here...).

I'm currently working on a trio of stories for Golarion/Pathfinder, and when they're done I'm going to try to start working on this storyhour again, because I'm starting to get that creative itch for it once more. We shall see.

In the meantime, here's some artwork of Tellura ibn Shartalan [Artwork by SatouGaki]






And here's my opinion on tiefling styles   [Artwork by Vera / Bethany Van Scott]
[sblock]
	

	
	
		
		

		
		
	


	




[/sblock]


----------



## Tsuga C

Wonderous news--new artwork and the tantalizing possibility that our collective craving for another installment will finally be satisfied.  This was a fortuitous day in which to check back in!  It's good to know that you haven't been lost to us, oh malignant King of the Crosstrade.

Edit:  www.laughingfiend.com isn't operational yet, but I'm looking forward to seeing what you do with it.


----------



## Wasteland Knight

I was browsing the Story Hour a while back and saw Funeris had posted a comment to this thread.  After reading his praises, I decided to check out the story and was immediately hooked.  I've been reading whenever possible, and just finished catching up yesterday.  It's been an amazing read.  Definitely among the best story hours I've ever read.  Considering your talent at story telling, it's not surprising you have plenty of freelance work to occupy yourself with.  I hope you can find the time to pick this story up at some point, because I really want to know what happens next!


----------



## Veltharis ap Rylix

*Fly-by Bump*

Still a big fan of your work, Shemmy. Look forward to the time when your are able to update this (and SH 2) again.


----------



## 81Dagon

Time for the monthly bump. Happy Halloween everyone!


----------



## Andry

Almost Turkey Day Bump. I wonder if the Devils have stuffed Vrocks for Thanksgiving


----------



## Burningspear

Gez said:


> I don't know, but Voorkennis is Dutch for "priviledged information."




Not to dust out old comments just for a lark, but his comment is not entirely true.
Voorkennis actually means "pre-emptive knowledge", meaning, having knowledge beforehand, before some happening.
op voorkennis handelen, to act upon knowledge you know before a certain this is about to happen and act in a certain way thus because you have that particular knowledge.

Just so people know


----------



## Shemeska

Burningspear said:


> Not to dust out old comments just for a lark, but his comment is not entirely true.
> Voorkennis actually means "pre-emptive knowledge", meaning, having knowledge beforehand, before some happening.
> op voorkennis handelen, to act upon knowledge you know before a certain this is about to happen and act in a certain way thus because you have that particular knowledge.
> 
> Just so people know




That's an utter coincidence, but God damn that's a spooky one (considering material yet to be written here).

Shem


----------



## Andry

Hoping everyone will have a very Lothy Christmas!


----------



## Shemeska

There will be an update in the coming days...


----------



## Veltharis ap Rylix

Looking forward to it, Shemmy, though I think I'm going to reread from the beginning, seeing as it has been a while.


----------



## Erevanden

Yeeehaaaw


----------



## Ryltar

woot!


----------



## Andry

Oh My!


----------



## Shemeska

*Merry belated Orthodox Christmas *

Twenty four hours passed rapidly, with most of the time spent with the group’s resources divided between repairing the damage from the tanar’ri attack, and exploring sites further towards the Crag. It was an odd mixture of emotions too that crossed the minds of each and every one of them as well: distress and lament over their loss –as the bodies lay covered and magically preserved at the edge of camp- and excitement at finally having approval to explore the most promising of the crag’s many possible locations. A sample of Gautish was there on the forbidding, shadow swathed flanks of Howler’s Crag, and soon they hoped to find it.

	But as Pandemonium had already shown them, the darkness held physical horrors as well as the terrors of pareidolia, borne of shadows and howling wind, and it would not be long before they discovered both.


***​

	Brennan Olerik stumbled forwards and fell roughly to his hands and knees as the ground shifted and fell away from beneath his feet with a soft metallic chorus. The darkness was overwhelming and claustrophobic, yet at the same time he had the distinct impression that the room around him was massive, even if he couldn’t see his own hands.

	He hadn’t meant to do it. It was a mistake and he’d thought himself clever for figuring out the riddle, but now he was lost and along, stranded somewhere without light or any conceivable way of getting back.

	“Beshaba f*ck me…” Brennan cursed. “Where the hell am I?”

	He moved his hands forwards, trying to gain some bearing on his surroundings. Another soft chorus of clinking, sliding metal and some other scattered, hard to identify sounds. What the hell was covering the ground? It was cold, whatever it was.

	Gingerly, Brennan picked up one of the small objects and felt its dimensions between his fingers. Even bringing it up to his face he wasn’t able to make out any detail, but even so, it was clear that it was a coin of some sort.

	He shuffled his knees and spread his hands out again, and everywhere he touched the carpet of coins shifted and moved. Far from covering the floor, he was sprawled on top of a massive hoard of treasure as far as he could feel, and given his odd sense of the room’s monstrous size, it probably held more wealth than he could conceivably count in a lifetime.

	“Forget your damned sister.” Brennan whispered incredulously. “Tymora, I love you. Whatever I’ve ever done to gain your fortune, it certainly paid off this time.”

	He laughed and hurled handfuls of gold up into the air –presumably at least some of it was gold- and cackled as it fell to the ground all around him. He was rich beyond his wildest dreams. More coins sifted between his fingers along with what felt like cut gemstones, a necklace of some sort, and what felt like some manner of statuary.

	“I’m f*cking rich.” Brennan exclaimed several times in succession before coming to another realization. “…but where the hell am I and what use is that if I can’t f*cking get back to use it.”

	That sullied his mood for a moment, but only temporarily. Greed rapidly overwhelmed common sense, but he was no fool and his brain was already spinning his options. He wasn’t a mage, but it was very likely that the portal wasn’t one way, and it probably had the same or a similar method of activation. Had the riddle on the portal been just some archmage’s cruel joke from millennia past, he likely would have stumbled into a pile of skeletons rather than the sea of wealth he currently found himself marooned within.

	Brennan rose unsteadily to his feet as the coins shifted in response to his weight. He still couldn’t see a thing, even though his eyes should have adjusted to the lack of light. That likely meant that there simply was no light to be found; the chamber of cavern he’d discovered was likely sealed off from anything else that might have provided any measure of illumination, natural or not.

	“Probably in Agathion.” He reasoned. “Some sort of hoard forgotten for a damn long time. If anyone valued it, I’d already be dead because they would have left traps or wards. Plus, the riddle was probably a test of sorts. Only someone who could speak the language would have found this, so it’s probably mine for the taking.”

	He grinned in the darkness, realizing that even if he couldn’t find a way out on his own, his group would be frantic about finding him. They might demand a share of his newfound wealth, but 9 Hells and a bottomless Abyss, there was plenty to go around.

	“Let them take what they want.” Brennan shouted. “I’m f*cking rich.”

	His voice echoed around the cavern, but the delay was so long that the chamber must have measured a mile or more across. That was when he noticed it though: the smell.

	Concentrating so much on sound and his useless sense of sight, plus flooded with adrenaline as he was, he hadn’t really taken the cavern’s smell into consideration. There was the dull, heavy scent of stone and the sharp tang of copper and silver as they both slowly oxidized within a sea of untouched gold. But that was not all that Brennan noticed.

	“Oh gods…”

	White flashed before the mortal’s eyes, painfully stinging his retinas as the darkness was thrown back like a sash before his pupils contracted furiously. Grimacing, Brennan shaded his eyes and looked up as burning yellow light washed over him and the surrounding sea of treasure. Amid the wash of heavy serpentine odor that passed over him like a cresting wave, he gazed up at a single, gargantuan eye whose slit pupil was easily twice the size of a horse.

	“HeLLo LiTtLE tHiEf…”


***​

	Tristol’s ears perked and then immediately fell back against his head. He sighed and hung his head.

	“When did you notice?” He asked.

	“Well… a few minutes ago.” One of the sages hesitantly said, noticing the mage’s expression of disappointment. “But umm… none of us really remember seeing him for at least an hour or two.”

	Tristol turned away and muttered several uncouth words in Aquan, and at least one of the sages understood him based on how their expression twitched. It wasn’t a kind phrase, but after all that had happened in the past day, they’d wandered up to him sullenly with the news that one of their group had gone missing. It had happened before, but after they had killed the tanar’ri, it had seemed patently obvious that most of their problems lurking in the dark wilds around the crag were over.

	Apparently not.

_Clueless?_ Tristol called out over a conjured telepathic link._We have a problem… again…_

	Tristol’s portion of their current group of a dozen sages had already covered and recovered the ground that they’d been searching for writing samples that day by the time that Clueless arrived with his contingent. Tristol seemed annoyed and the sages were on edge with nervous guilt.

	“One more time we go over everything.” Tristol said, his tail slightly bottlebrushed and twitching rapidly in short, back and forth motions. “With luck he just took a nap behind a rock and we left him behind hours ago as we moved up the edge of the Crag.”

	Thirty minutes later though, they found not a trace of him, but they did run across something that they’d found days before.

Clueless glanced at Tristol and both of them looked up at the pair of partially fallen columns of stone and its keyed portal that lay in the space between them. It seemed like a stretch, and then was no way to know where precisely it led, not given the nature of the Crag.

“It’s the only place that we haven’t looked.” Clueless said.

“Assuming something didn’t eat him and wander off back into the dark.” Tristol replied. “But we’re not being paid to chalk it up to that without looking everywhere we can.”

_Nisha?_ Tristol called out through the link. _Have you or Toras found anything over on your side of the crag?_

_I found a bug under a rock. But I don’t think that counts. Unless a mad wizard is on the loose, transmuting his victims into entomology samples to pin to his collection board in a horrible display of depraved…_

_I really, really don’t that’s the case Nisha._ Tristol replied, cutting her off. _But you keep looking, and let me know if you find an insane wizard._

_OK!_

Tristol shook his head and smiled. “Nothing over there either.”

Clueless grinned, “Does Nisha count as an insane wizard? Technically she might.”

“She can only cast like three spells, but don’t give her that idea regardless.” Tristol said, one ear twitching at the thought. “She’ll run around asking people to call her the grand butterfly mage or something like that.”

“You’d find it adorable.”

“Yes. Yes I would.” Tristol blushed.

The wind whistled strongly, gusting through the pillars with an ear-splitting whistle, breaking their train of thought and bringing them back to the matter at hand. Despite the risk and question surrounding the portal, it was the only likely choice at the moment.

“So how do you want to do this?” Tristol asked. “If our missing sage is just trapped on the other side of a one-way portal, or hurt and unable to move, or just doesn’t know the portal key on the other side it’s an easy enough trip. But if there’s something on the other side that’s a danger, it’s not going to be a wise idea to have one of us go in alone.”

“I’ll go with you, but I can’t leave the rest of the group out here in the dark unsupervised.” Clueless glanced out towards where the other sages sat and waited for some decision for what to do next.

“Everyone! Listen closely!” Tristol announced to their assembled charges. “We’re pretty sure that our missing man stumbled through a portal here by accident. The key is a simple one, and he could have triggered it without intending to. We don’t think something came out and snatched him up, and most likely he’s just stuck on the other side, scared, cold, and thirsty. With luck it won’t take long to get him and then be back here.”

“Is the portal two way?” One voice asked.

“We believe so, yes.” Clueless answered. “But we can’t be absolutely certain, so we’re going to have Tristol go with me.”

Some mutters of discontent and worry drifted up from the group.

“We’re not going to leave you all here unprotected while we vanish into a portal.” Tristol explained, trying to pacify the crowd. “You’ll all be going with us. We could call one of the other groups over here and have you stay with them, but that’s going to take far too long, and in that time our man on the other side of the portal might hurt himself if he hasn’t already. It’s the safest way and the quickest way to get everyone back safe to the campsite.”

They seemed skeptical, but with all that had happened in the past few days, not a one of them cared to be left alone in the tumult. They’d be more at risk of an accidental fall or a demon’s claws if they stayed behind or walked back to camp on their own versus the unknown risks beyond the portal when they had a pair of more than competent guards, one of them a wizard and the other with his own pronounced magical talents as well.

“Is there anyone who wants to object to this?” Clueless called out. “If you do, raise a hand and let us know what your concern is.”

More murmurs and discussion went on with a low rumble, dampened by the wind, but after a few minutes of back and forth discussion between the sages, not a one of them raised a hand. For better or for worse, they were all going together.

“That settles it then!” Clueless said. “We’ll open the portal, and then we’ll let you know how we’ll handle it from there. Hold still for a few.”

The bladesinger turned back to Tristol and smiled. “That went well. I expected more dissent.”

“They’re more afraid of tanar’ri in the dark than they are of us apparently.” Tristol mused. “Which is either a good thing or we’re losing a bit of something as they get to know us more.”

Clueless chuckled. “Let me tell a few others where we’re going, and to send help if we’re not back in an hour or two. Take a look at that portal again while I’m at it.”

Tristol nodded as Clueless stepped off to one side and used their link to touch base with Toras, Florian, and Fyrehowl. Meanwhile he glanced up at the script on the pair of pillars leaning against one another.

“Howl into the winds of lament. Scream into the face of the storm and be not surprised to find the Howling answer back in turn.” Tristol intoned in the same language the runes were carved in. Simply repeating the words didn’t trigger the portal, but yelling into the gap would. Though one thing did stand out: the odd way that the words said “Howling”. At first he assumed that it just meant that the wind would scream back full-force when the portal opened, but the phrasing was imprecise and odd, used in a way he wasn’t entirely familiar with, and as such it didn’t cross his mind to consider that it might have been a proper name.

“You want the honors?” Clueless asked as he walked back over to the wizard. “Or shall I?”

“Be my guest.” Tristol said, turning his ears down slightly and back in case one scream triggered another.

Clueless nodded and stepped forward, directly in front of the pair of toppled pillars and their bound space. Inhaling deeply he let out a scream as loud as he could manage, and as the scream rebounded across the stones and echoed back, it seemed magnified, louder than it should have been. For a brief moment the surrounding wind simply stopped, snuffed out and left Clueless and the others pensive about what would happen next. The air was still, the darkness secondary to the unnatural quiet, and in unison the runes on both columns began to glow a sickly pale-yellow light.

“And there you go!” Tristol said, smiling as a swirling yellow portal formed with a crackle of energy and a sudden resumption of the wind. His ears twitched with some small measure of satisfaction. “Just get the group together and we can go in. Though I can’t say how long it’ll stay open, the key is simple enough we can just do it again.”

Clueless nodded and turned around to face the assembled sages. “Alright everyone, we don’t have a clue what’s on the other side, just that we won’t be heading to the Abyss or anywhere else blatantly hostile. But I need everyone to follow closely and above all, don’t bloody touch anything unless it tries to bite you.”

There were some murmurs of discontent, worry, and one or two questions about how precisely they knew that it didn’t lead straight into Demogorgon’s larder or Malcanthet’s bedroom. But in the end they packed together into a close group, following behind Clueless, with Tristol to bring up the rear, intending to force open the portal in the event that something horrific actually did wait on the other side.

At first there was oppressive silence, an utter absence of wind, and darkness. As their eyes adjusted to the gloom and the light provided by the slowly closing portal and their own quickly lit torches, they found just where they’d been taken. The cavern, a bubble inside the stone of Agathion, stretched out of sight while the cavern wall behind them was alternately smooth, or carved into massive and beautiful high-relief sculptures, juxtaposed with wide swathes of random draconic script rambling and meandering across the walls in all directions, reversing itself, written upside down or backwards at times like the end result of a windstorm and a draconic lectionary: or the results of rampant insanity.

“There’s gold everywhere!” Came the amazed voice of one sage as he realized that his shifting position and stance came from the clinking movement of piles of coin underfoot.

The chorus grew in excitement as lights were lifted high and they took in the truly awesome scope of the hoard. Piles of treasure heaped as high as a dozen men in places washed out over the floor of the cavern as far as the limit of the light, flickering and returning the illumination in the glitter of gold and silver and the sparkling, twinkling reflection and refraction in gemstones. In fact, they quickly realized that at no point could they even actually see the presumed stone floor of the chamber at all; for all they knew the treasure of a dozen kingdoms extended down even deeper underfoot.

_“Tristol…”_ Clueless quickly and silently intoned over the link. _”naughty word we have a problem. Get to working on that portal NOW.”_

Missed by the vast majority of the sages in their sudden tidal wave of overwhelmed greed were two things: the oppressive and building reptilian odor of the chamber that perfused the treasure with the electric, static charge of an impending thunderstorm, and the soft, desperate whimpering of a single figure a few dozen feet ahead of them – their lost and now found sage.

“Oh thank the Gods…” His voice trembled and broke with emotion. To a more sensitive nose he would have reeked with urine and abject fear. “Please, please help me. I don’t know where it is. It can move without a sound! It thinks that…”

His desperate, whimpered plea was silenced as without warning the chamber flooded with brilliant illumination as something titanic opened its eyes, washing them with a sickly yellow glow like flames from the yawning mouths of twin portals to Hell. One eye a pool of light centered around a tiny pinprick of a pupil, the other pupil blown, massive and limned with only the smallest coronal fringe of brilliant light, cross-dilated with the trappings of madness.

“ThE HOWL AnsWeRs BAcK MoRTaLs…”


***​

Meanwhile, back in camp, Doran offered Ficklebarb a bit of candy. Ever since the tanar’ri attack the pseudodragon had been increasingly more and more skittish. Every errant noise was a monster beyond the firelight, each aberrant shadow a looming demon, and he seemed preoccupied and overwhelmed at all that had happened.

“Not hungry?” The elf asked.

“Not really.” Ficklebarb said, shaking his head as he slumped across a pile of books on his master’s desk. Leobtav was out discussing the plan for the next day with the first group that had returned to camp, and would speak to the others once they returned. There was apparently some sort of problem with Clueless and Tristol’s group. Something about a giant bug and a boulder, but Nisha hadn’t been very clear about it, just that she had the situation under control.

“I’m worried.” Ficklebarb lamented. “I’m scared that the bad person is going to come back and kill someone again.”

“Oh you poor thing.” Doran said with a smile, “There’s no bad man out there. We’ve had some problems with the wind and some monsters out there in the dark, but we have some very brave and very talented people working for us. They know what’s out there now and they know how to handle it. You needn’t worry. And besides, you’re a dragon. What does a dragon have to worry about?”

“But the bad man…” Ficklebarb began before Doran shushed him with a wave of his hand.

“Don’t worry.” The elf explained. “I’ll see if we can’t all do something this evening around the campfire that puts everyone into a better mood, and something that will put a more positive edge on your spirits. And I’ll see if your master can’t let you have some fun while he and I go over the script samples we found today. How does that sound?”

“That sounds pretty good actually.” Ficklebarb chirped, trying to smile. “I’d like that a lot.”

“See?” Doran said. “You’ve always been good like that since I’ve known you. No matter what happens you always seem to be able to pick right back up and be the same happy, mischievous, red-scaled terror I’ve come to know.”

Ficklebarb smiled as the elf rubbed him under the chin.

“I’ll be back in a little bit.” Doran explained, turning towards the door. “I’ve got to talk to Toras and his group, but I’ll have someone come back and chatter with you. Maybe Nisha; she seems to like you quite a lot.”

The expedition’s co-leader gave the tiny dragon one last smile and made his exit, but the moment that he did, the familiar’s happy expression faded considerably.

“The bad man isn’t out there in the darkness. He’s not a monster or a demon. He wasn’t something we found here. He came here with us. And I’ve seen him…” 


***​


----------



## Funeris

WooHoo!  Amazing stuff!  Thanks for the belated gift


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## Andry

Another masterpiece Shemmy! I hope it won't take as long between updates


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## Veltharis ap Rylix

Finally caught back up after rereading the Storyhour from the beginning.  As always, incredible work Shemmy, and I look forward to your next  update, whenever that may be. 

 I'm curious about who people think the "bad man" (as Ficklebarb puts it)  is... What has been implied thus far leads me to think of Frollis, but  that feels too easy, like he's an intentional red herring.

 Let's get some speculation going! I hear it encourages the 'loth to write more! 

EDIT: On a semi-related matter, how many of your Demented side-stories have you posted, Shemmy? I found 1-8 on Planewalker, but I thought I saw something that implied 9 ('The Chronicler') was out as well, though I couldn't find the story itself.


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## Shemeska

Arathyn said:


> Finally caught back up after rereading the Storyhour from the beginning.  As always, incredible work Shemmy, and I look forward to your next  update, whenever that may be.
> 
> I'm curious about who people think the "bad man" (as Ficklebarb puts it)  is... What has been implied thus far leads me to think of Frollis, but  that feels too easy, like he's an intentional red herring.
> 
> Let's get some speculation going! I hear it encourages the 'loth to write more!
> 
> EDIT: On a semi-related matter, how many of your Demented side-stories have you posted, Shemmy? I found 1-8 on Planewalker, but I thought I saw something that implied 9 ('The Chronicler') was out as well, though I couldn't find the story itself.




My day job is killing me, so it'll be slow in coming. But not the 2 year hiatus it had been. I've gotten a good chunk of the next update done, and stuff for one or two after that as well. More hints on who the 'bad man' is on the way, along with the some side scenes from some other places and familiar faces. Just remember the Chronicler from the first post of the Storyhour, where he was and what he was talking about. That links in.

And The Chronicler is out there, let me try to find a link that's active. They were all (all the finished ones) on Planewalker, but after one of the site redesigns some of the links became invalid. Off the top of my head the Ineffable, the Architect, the Dreamer and one other are still unfinished.


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## Veltharis ap Rylix

Shemeska said:


> My day job is killing me, so it'll be slow in coming. But not the 2 year hiatus it had been. I've gotten a good chunk of the next update done, and stuff for one or two after that as well. More hints on who the 'bad man' is on the way, along with the some side scenes from some other places and familiar faces. Just remember the Chronicler from the first post of the Storyhour, where he was and what he was talking about. That links in.



I look forward to it, and I definitely understand the job thing. Nothing so intellectually stimulating as yours, but the job I had up until a few months ago drained my time and energy like nobody's business... No need to rush on my account, I've got nothing but time. 



Shemeska said:


> And The Chronicler is out there, let me try to find a link that's active. They were all (all the finished ones) on Planewalker, but after one of the site redesigns some of the links became invalid. Off the top of my head the Ineffable, the Architect, the Dreamer and one other are still unfinished.



It's greatly appreciated. As to the "one other", was The Shackler one of the Demented? And does he have a connection to good-ole' Larsdana, as his name would suggest?

*is too curious for his own good*


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## Shemeska

Arathyn said:


> It's greatly appreciated. As to the "one other", was The Shackler one of the Demented? And does he have a connection to good-ole' Larsdana, as his name would suggest?
> 
> *is too curious for his own good*




I'm just going to post it up here on Enworld. Link

As for the Shackler, he's the other one I couldn't remember from the list of unfinished baern stories. No direct connection to Larsdana - she gets to play host of sorts to Alashra the Dream Eater / Dreamer, though that's a bit complex given her current status as imprisoned within a gem floating next to Helekanalaith. But of course, even that's a bit complex and her status and role and the identity/fate of her two children (see The Dreamer and the Fiend) in this all remains to be explored.

Hint: she was a prominant character late in the 2nd storyhour's campaign. And she was one of my favorites to work with.


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## Veltharis ap Rylix

Once again, greatly appreciated, Shemmy (not to mention highly intriguing). I look forward to your next update.

This is something of a tangent, but do you like mystery stories? If so, you might want to look into a Japanese visual novel series called "Umineko no Naku Koro ni". Based on what I've read of your work, I think you'd really enjoy it, especially once the metaphysical elements start to show up in force during Episode II.


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## 81Dagon

Awesome as usual Shem! It's great to know this is up and running again.


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## Veltharis ap Rylix

Much as I hate making another request so soon, would you (or anyone else) happen to know where I might find a copy of 'The Dreamer and the Fiend'? I know it was published in Wizard's 'Knowledge Arcana' web-zines, but as far as I can tell they no longer host them... T_T

I came to the party too late. >_<

EDIT: Scratch that... Looked up 'Knowledge Arcana' and - lo and behold - there it was. 

Let's just call this a shameless bump and leave it at that.


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## Krellic

I've been remiss in not looking at this Story Hour before as I'm not experienced in the Planescape setting at all, I bought the box set years ago so I recognise some of the references.  Even though most of the stuff about yugoloths has been zooming well over my head, at least without going through all my Monster Manuals, my compliments on a story well written and told.

Not surprised that the sharp folks at Paizo have been putting you to work...


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## Andry

Bump!!


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## Andry

Have you forgotten your rabid fans Shemmy?


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## Shemeska

Andry said:


> Have you forgotten your rabid fans Shemmy?




Life intrudes. Currently writing 'Book of the Damned vol 3: Horsemen of the Apocalypse' for Paizo. It's their NE fiend book.


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## Andry

Awesome! While I have played Pathfinder a bit I don't own any of the books.
When this one comes out I will be sure to pick it up. Cheers to you for finally getting paid for your awesome writing.


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## sciborg3

Starting this from the beginning, as well as checking out your Demented stuff...must have been smoke in my eyes when I got to the story about the Clockmaker.

This story revolving around yugoloth schemes is terrifying, hilarious, epic, and really just plain fun. Now that I'm going back (because I don't remember what came before) I can see how much I grew to care about the PCs!


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## Burningspear

I dislike Paizo, for killing the magazine in paper form and for a lot more...
Hate them with a passion for interfering in the setting Dark Sun with their crap impression of how it should be changed, and more then. 
And finally for demanding so much time of Shemeska, that he cannot write his storyhours... just egging my opinion.


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## sciborg3

Burningspear said:


> I dislike Paizo, for killing the magazine in paper form and for a lot more...
> Hate them with a passion for interfering in the setting Dark Sun with their crap impression of how it should be changed, and more then.
> And finally for demanding so much time of Shemeska, that he cannot write his storyhours... just egging my opinion.




Not to feed trolls, and I suspect this is tongue in cheek, but Wizards discontinued the license with Paizo that allowed it to publish Dragon and Dungeon in paper formats. Whether that is good or bad is a discussion for another thread I suspect.

I don't have a clear memory of Paizo's Dark Sun update, but did they actually change much except update it to 3.5? I don't recall drastic setting rewrites.

And finally, I love this story hour, one of the best Planescape pieces out there, but I think we should all be happy Shemmy has been so acknowledged in the D&D world that she was given the opportunity to write The Great Beyond and the upcoming Book of the Damned on Daemons for Pathfinder.


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## Burningspear

sciborg3 said:


> Not to feed trolls, and I suspect this is tongue in cheek, but Wizards discontinued the license with Paizo that allowed it to publish Dragon and Dungeon in paper formats. Whether that is good or bad is a discussion for another thread I suspect.



Did not know WotC crapped them, but agree, not here to rant on about that.



> I don't have a clear memory of Paizo's Dark Sun update, but did they actually change much except update it to 3.5? I don't recall drastic setting rewrites.



They ruined the original setting by changing iron's status in the world and changing some major NPC's looks and introducing races that had nothing to do with the original setting at all, etc, enough to crap my day in that setting, sop happy I have the original setting books and Dark Sun. Org pdf's to counter Piazo's meddling .



> And finally, I love this story hour, one of the best Planescape pieces out there, but I think we should all be happy Shemmy has been so acknowledged in the D&D world that she was given the opportunity to write The Great Beyond and the upcoming Book of the Damned on Daemons for Pathfinder.



Agreed, I guess so, meh


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## Andry

A "this story hour kicks so much ass" bump


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## Shemeska

Just to keep folks updated, I'm done with my latest thing for Paizo (two races in the Advanced Races Guide). Next on my plate is a story for the PF Chronicler fiction contest round 2, which will be done in a week and a half, and I'll be working in some yet to be determined capacity on Open Design's 'Dark Roads and Golden Hells' which will be awesome. After that I intend to take a serious break from paid work in order to actually get some stuff done for myself (which includes this storyhour). 

However I'm also starting a new position, which while it pays more is also going to be a 3rd shift thing (science on the graveyard shift, fun fun). We will see how that goes, and I don't want to make a ton of promises, but after spending time over GenCon babbling about some of the stuff yet to show up in the story here, damnit I want to eventually get there.

Oh, and if you like the fiends in this storyhour, 'Book of the Damned 3' from Paizo is going to be good. I normally have a wretched opinion of my own work, but this one, I'm proud of it.


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## smarnil

*Historical correction*



Burningspear said:


> I dislike Paizo, for killing the magazine in paper form and for a lot more...
> Hate them with a passion for interfering in the setting Dark Sun with their crap impression of how it should be changed, and more then.
> And finally for demanding so much time of Shemeska, that he cannot write his storyhours... just egging my opinion.




As you will probably guess, I do not share your feelings about Paizo... Just to get facts straight, the 'Dark Sun job' in Dragon/Dungeon was the work of David Noonan, who was a WotC guy from 1998 to 2008 (he got laid off as many old timers), and not a part of the Paizo team.

At the time, Dragon/Dungeon was edited by Paizo (from issue #94), but was still WotC mouthpiece (and so included quite a lot of promotional content for the last products). WotC got last word on the editorial content, and did yank back the licence when some big wig at Hasbro realized that the magazine was making money after all and/or constituted a valuable intellectual property. On the bright side, they did agree to wait for the Savage Tide Adventure Path to conclude, though.

Then they did mess up said license by going all electronic... We agree on that!

I don't intend to start a flamewar here. But you do earn yourself a bad karma point for not checking your facts before "hating people with a passion" for wrong reasons.


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## Shemeska

Not an update yet, but my last post I mentioned some of the things that were taking up my creative time, and I included a story for the Pathfinder Chronicler fiction contest.

If anyone wants to read my fiction from the contest (I got second place in the end), here you go:

Round 1 story:
Hunger - I'm proud of this one. Terrible things happen.

Round 2 story:
Completing the Circle - Wait, I wrote a story that has a happy ending? Kinda sorta? Yep!


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## Erevanden

By the power of the Oinoloth, Bump !!


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## Andry

The Keeper of the Tower demands a Bump!


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## jefgorbach

:: bump ::


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## Burningspear

smarnil said:


> As you will probably guess, I do not share your feelings about Paizo... Just to get facts straight, the 'Dark Sun job' in Dragon/Dungeon was the work of David Noonan, who was a WotC guy from 1998 to 2008 (he got laid off as many old timers), and not a part of the Paizo team.



Well, regardless of who, it got crapped up, but cheers for noting who is the real culprit, doesn't change my antipathy towards Paizo.



> At the time, Dragon/Dungeon was edited by Paizo (from issue #94), but was still WotC mouthpiece (and so included quite a lot of promotional content for the last products). WotC got last word on the editorial content, and did yank back the licence when some big wig at Hasbro realized that the magazine was making money after all and/or constituted a valuable intellectual property. On the bright side, they did agree to wait for the Savage Tide Adventure Path to conclude, though.
> 
> Then they did mess up said license by going all electronic... We agree on that!







> I don't intend to start a flamewar here. But you do earn yourself a bad karma point for not checking your facts before "hating people with a passion" for wrong reasons.



, I dont think you are in any position to give "karma"...


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## Shemeska

Just as an FYI, I'm kinda pressed for time with the holidays and such, but I'm planning on getting all of you far-too-patient-with-me-people an update for the Storyhour while I'm on vacation. Actually wrote a few pages the other day (technically wrote it in my head while on a boring 3 hour car trip and then feaverishly ran to my office to type it all while it was still there in memory once I got home). 

I can't estimate length of it, or when precisely I'll do it in the next two weeks or so, but I do plan on getting one posted as either a late Xmas present or New Years present to everyone.


----------



## Shemeska

“Ficklebarb?” Doran said, looking down at the seemingly depressed pseudodragon. “What do you mean the bad man is here? That he came here with us?”

Ficklebarb glanced up at the elf. “I know who he is, but I can’t stop him from doing what he does.”

“Who is he?”

“I… I can’t tell you.” The tiny familiar looked both worried and stricken by a desire to tell everything that he knew, but was holding back against all reason. “He won’t let me. If I say than he’ll be all bad and worse things will happen.”

“Tell me Ficklebarb. Please, you need to tell me who it is who’s been doing these things.”

The pseudodragon gave a soft moan and his tail twitched unhappily. “They aren’t all bad. They aren’t all gone to bad. They’re still good, just a little, on the inside. Nobody is all bad. But they will be if I tell anyone what I know.”

“We can stop them if you tell me. We can get them help if they need it.”

The last statement put a brief flicker of hope into the dragon’s features, and for a moment he seemed his normal, happy self.

“You could help them be good again?”

“Yes we can. I promise you that we can. We have clerics, we have wizards. We can keep them safe from themselves and from anything that might be influencing them. At worse we take them back to Sigil and let them spend some time with the Bleakers if they’ve gone mad.”

But then that moment of normalcy was gone and replaced with a distant, glazed over look on his face as if his mind were elsewhere and wholly preoccupied.

“No. I can’t say anything.” Ficklebarb said with a shake of his snout side to side. “I’ve seen them doing things, and if I say anything they’ll be worse.”

“They’ve murdered people, they’ve tortured them. What worse could they do?” Doran asked, only to be shaken by the dragon’s reply.

“Worse. Much worse. You have no idea, but I do.”

The elf shivered at the certainty and terror that he heard.

“Ok,” Doran said, “I won’t ask you anything more if you can’t tell me. But if you decide that you can, I’m here to listen. And elves have large ears, and I can listen a lot when you’re ready for me to help, and to help this person.”

Ficklebarb gave a sullen nod. “Ok.”

“Why don’t you have a nap then, and maybe you’ll feel a little bit better.” He reached over and turned up the flame on one of the oil lamps that gave a warmer, more natural glow than the everburning, illusory flames most often used since they’d been in Pandemonium. Hopefully the light would make the familiar a bit more comfortable while he stewed on what it had said, and the implications thereof.

“I won’t tell what you’ve told me to anyone else if that’s ok.” Doran added as he stepped towards the exit out of Leobtav’s tent. “I’ll be back in my tent later if you want to visit, but for now I need to go find Nisha and see what’s wrong with Clueless and Tristol’s group.”

“That’s good. Please don’t tell anyone else. He might hurt more people if you do.”

Doran nodded and stepped out into the gloom, his mind a flurry of thoughts and uncertainty. Ever since the murders had started, he and everyone else had assumed that it was some native denizen of Pandemonium, or a demon or other fiend wandered about in the darkness. But Leobtav’s familiar had obviously seen someone and recognized them as a member of the expedition while in the middle of one of their killings. The poor creature was scared half to death and irrationally afraid that he’d been noticed.

Walking towards his own tent, he continued with a mental list of who might be suspect. Obviously it was someone who knew magic and a good deal of it given the circumstances of when and how they’d found the bodies, and if it wasn’t entirely done by magic, that person was very adept at sneaking and hiding. Of the mercenaries there were several possibilities: Frollis obviously given his association with the Church of Mask, Clueless given his ability with both swordplay and sorcery –and a subtle but present vibe that Doran had gotten from him that just struck him as cold-, and perhaps Nisha as well. The Xaositect wasn’t an obvious choice, but their kind was barking mad and despite her never serious nature and relatively slender knowledge of magic, it was entirely possible that she had an alternate personality of some sort.

On to less obvious choices: Tristol was probably the most skilled mage on the expedition, and one of the more naturally adept that he’d ever met, but then he was an evoker and apparently unable to cast spells from the illusion school. Possibly he and Nisha combined as a pair of killers to cover their own deficiencies… no that was retarded and overly complex. There wasn’t any suggestion that more than one person was responsible, and Ficklebarb had been specific that it was one person, and not multiple people.

That was all there was among the mercenaries, because they were the only ones who really had the training to be capable of the crimes. After all, the Institute needed to go for outside help since their own staff uniformly lacked any real capacity or experience to do the same job of protecting their academic members. But at the same time it was always possible that one of the academic staff or hired scholars simply hadn’t reported any such abilities or training, and compared to the more… “colorful” backgrounds and past associations of the mercenaries, the academic hires hadn’t been subjected to the same level of background and reference checks. It would just as easily be one of the archaeologists, planar sages, philologists or cartographers, and there were a lot more of them to consider as suspects if that was the case.

Doran sighed. Hopefully he could tease more information out of Ficklebarb about who he’d seen before there were any more deaths.

***​
Clueless gazed up into the eyes of the single largest dragon that he’d ever seen as the behemoth’s glowing irises –each larger across than he was from head to toe- cast a sickly yellow glow across its already golden and glittering hoard.

“THiEvEs! LooTErS! ComE tO TAKE, buT NO… DEaTh Is All YoU FiND in MY LaIR.”

The dragon alternated between a thundering roar and a hissing, whispering susurrus like the breeze between the gusts of a thundering hurricane. But hurricanes were forces of nature, unthinking and in their randomness they were predictable in a way, and the creature before Clueless was 


_”I think we may have found our killer.”_ Tristol spoke to Clueless over the telepathic link.

“KiLLeR?” The great wyrm howling dragon questioned with a sense of puzzled offense. “I hAVe YeT to KiLL, bUt ThIEvEs I wILL, YoU WhO WhiSPer, whisper whisper speaking secrets hiding things scheming to deceive and plunder…”

Tristol’s eyes went wide as the dragon obviously was privy to their magical mental link. One false word and the creature could swallow them alive or blast them into pulp with its breath weapon, whatever it might be since it wasn’t one of the standard chromatics or metallics.

Clueless matched Tristol’s look and silently motioned behind his back to stay quiet.

“We didn’t come to steal from you, great…” he trailed off to allow the wyrm to give them a name if it so desired.

“PaRaVaSHTaCroNoX thE HOwLInG…” The dragon whispered through bared and clenched teeth, each the size of one of the tiny humanoids that whimpered beneath its gaze, each smelling of fear as its tongue erratically flickered between the gaps of its fangs a dozen feet out and in again.

“Great Paravashtacronox allow me to apologize for the intrusion. I and those who came with me, we came looking for the one that came to you before us, he was lost and wandered off and arrived here by accident through the same portal that we used.”

The dragon’s eyes narrowed to slits, though still displaying the cross-dilated pupils like a stroke victim. The light from the one eye with a constricted pupil shown down on the whimpering academic who’d first stumbled into his lair, highlighting him with an inverse spotlight of shadow.

“BuT ThIS thief… THIEF… fell UpoN mY HoArD WiTH GrEeD…”

“Great one, we have only come to retrieve our lost companion. Nothing more and nothing less. I apologize if your rest has been disturbed and if…”

The dragon hissed with displeasure, nearly knocking Clueless over with the sudden expulsion of rancid, stale and ozone-tinged breath.

“WhY sHoULD I nOT KiLL yoU ALL tO Be certain mY LaiR –reMaINs- sAfE fRom pLunDer? TeLL Me tHat?

Deliberately and slowly, Clueless opened his belt pouch and tossed its contents out into the ocean of gold that he stood upon, adding a few dozen coins to the dragon’s hoard.

“Tribute to you as an apology for having intruded into your domain, but we only wish to leave, having found our lost companion. He did not come here seeking to plunder your treasure, he was seeking an inscription upon Howler’s Crag and errantly opened the portal here with another, unrelated inscription on the bound space.”

Paravashtacronox hissed at the bladesinger and then turned back to the academic. “My gOLd Is StILL UpON HiS PerSoN! He DeSerVeS DeAtH FoR this OffeNSe!”

Nodding slowly and hearing the rising but still soft tide of panic behind him from the others, Clueless stepped forwards towards the dragon till he stood behind the whimpering scholar pinned as a thief. The man was hurriedly dumping his pockets out of anything and everything, including a number of gemstones and non-standard coins very evidently taken from the dragon’s hoard in his first moments of discovering the sealed off bubble of stone. He had indeed stolen from the wyrm.

“Yes great one,” Clueless said, looking at the sage and then up at the dragon. “He does deserve to die as punishment for theft. You are correct.”

And with that sudden statement, Clueless’s sword emerged from the stunned scholar’s chest, buried to the hilt in his back just above the heart, instantly killing him.

“The thief is dead.” The bladesinger pronounced, looking directly up at the dragon. “Again my apologies. With your leave may we depart?”

Paravashtacronox tilted his head to the side, curiously gazing out at the half-fey and then beyond to where Tristol stood with the clustered scholars. He sniffed the air and finally gave a crooked, draconic smile.

“I aM SatiSFiED LiTtLe OnE. Do NoT ReTuRn…”

Behind them the portal flickered open once more and Tristol hurried the scholars through and back to the relative safety of the Crag, away from the insane wyrm. Clueless waited for them all to pass through the portal before nodding to the dragon and stepping through as well.

When the portal sealed shut a moment later, Paravashtacronox the Howling smiled. His lair was safe, the portals were all closed and he and his treasure remained sealed away from the world.

“ThEY aRe GonE. NeVeR to ReTurN. LeT PanDemOniUM SwALLoW ThEm FoR All I CaRe.”

“They will return.” Something whispered to the dragon, inside of its mind. “I foresee this. They will return one day. They will return and they will come hunting for you. You are not immortal, not truly immortal my warden.”

The Howling hissed and snarled. “SiLeNCE!!”

“You are deceived little one. They will be the death of you one day. Not soon, but eventually. And then, then I will be free.”

Once again the Howling snarled and curled upon his treasure, closing his eyes and returning to fitful dreamless slumber. But as he slumbered, trapped within his body powerless and impotent in the face of its host’s yawning, overwhelming madness, Nyovox the Third Avatar of Garyx the Devourer smiled.


***​

_“Just what the hell did you do in there?!”_ Tristol mentally shouted out to Clueless as he emerged from the closing gateway.

The cluster of sages looked at the bladesinger with wide eyes and slack jaws for a dozen pregnant and silent moments before finally one of them spoke their collective thought.

“You murdered that man in cold blood!”
“Why did you do that?!”
“You killed him!”
“He wasn’t a thief and you stabbed him in the back!”
“Maybe you’re the one who killed those other two men!”

Clueless sheathed his sword and held up something tightly gripped and previously concealed in his other hand: a finger, neatly severed at the third knuckle.

“There was no way out of that cavern unless the dragon opened that portal up for us. The thing was far too large for even a madman to even momentarily consider fighting, and it was on the verge of deeming us thieves and looters as well. That would have been a death sentence. If I hadn’t killed him, every single one of us would be dead and the rest of the expedition would have come looking for us and likely wound up dead as well.”

“What’s that?” One of the sages asked, pointing to the severed pinkie finger in Clueless’s hand.

_”Damn but you’re good.” Tristol told Clueless as he realized the meaning behind the bladesinger’s full set of actions. He’d killed the man, but only in the temporary sense. He’d smuggled out a bit of the corpse, and it was enough for a resurrection once they got back to Sigil.

“It’s one of his fingers.” Clueless explained. “And it’s enough for a resurrection, which I’ll pay for myself if the Institute won’t cover the costs. I didn’t have a choice in killing him to save the rest of us, but he’ll be back amongst us eventually. I’m not a murderer. I’m just brutally pragmatic when I have to be.”

The formerly angry, accusatory faces softened and turned to admiration and thanks.

“I’m sorry for calling you a murder…”
“I didn’t understand what I was saying; please don’t hold it against me.”
“I really didn’t mean what I said…”
“That was really smart and very brave of you.”

Clueless smiled as they came to understand his actions, and truly appreciate his gambit inside of the wyrm’s lair. “How about we get back to camp?”


***​
	The remainder of the night passed without incident, though Clueless and Tristol spent nearly an hour in debate with Leobtav and Doran regarding the importance or lack thereof of the portal that they’d found, and any link between it and the murders around the camp. In the end they agreed to put the immediate area around the portal off limits, and that while a thing of incredible curiosity and a convenient explanation for the two bizarre killings, the insane great wyrm was utterly unconnected to the Crag and to the murders.

Clueless took a sip of thin ale and glanced around. For whatever reason the shadows seemed darker that evening, and the expedition members clustered together a bit tighter against the cold and the dangers that they’d come to discover first hand over the past several days. Next to one tent, Florien shared tales with a group of those who’d been in the thickest bit of the tanar’ri attack, regaling them with other tales of danger and the proud glory that came to those who stood brave in its face. Turning his head more he saw Nisha and Tristol sitting together, the tiefling making shadow puppets against a hanging flap of tent fabric that seemed to dance around and nip at the aasimar’s tail while professor Leobtav and Ficklebarb watched. The pseudodragon seemed to enjoy the show, looking happier than he had and Doran smiled as the familiar’s master conjured a few of his own to buy him a moment’s respite and time to study more of the day’s results.

“Fyrehowl?” Clueless asked to his left once he finished panning around the entire group. “Do you notice something? Someone missing?”

The lupinal nodded. “Frollis isn’t here. I haven’t seen him since we got back from the portal.”

“He’s been doing that for a while.” Clueless said. “Vanishing off to… wherever… for a few hours or half a day at a time since we’ve gotten here. I thought he was just off with another group, but I’ve asked around and he’s been ducking away from camp more often than not.”

Fyrehowl looked hard at him. “Do you want to say something to Doran or Leobtav yet?”

“Not yet.” Clueless replied. “We can’t prove anything.”

“Well,” The lupinal sighed. “Let’s hope that nobody else dies before we can. But at the rate we’re going, the plane itself is going to knock off half of the group before then, with or without any help from some freelance psycho.”

They didn’t have to wait for very long.


***​

“When did you find him?” Professor Leobtav asked, glancing up at the corpse with a profoundly disturbed look upon his face. “He was on the cooking detail last night. He wasn’t on one of the teams that left camp.”

Doran nodded. “Either he wandered outside of camp…”

“Or something came in and took him.” Leobtav answered his second’s line of thinking. “We’ll have to post a tighter watch tonight and from now on, and seriously restrict movement unless it’s in groups.”

“I would have to agree.” Doran replied, glancing over at Leobtav’s familiar who likewise nodded in agreement. Whatever the little familiar might have known, he was keeping true to his word and not telling anyone else if he could avoid it, including it would seem, his master, or else Leobtav was holding to the same promise that the pseudodragon had exacted from him. “As for the body, we found him this morning when one of the first groups went out towards the next section of the Crag. They got here, just outside of the light from camp when they found him. I sent them on up to the Crag, and they’re still looking over this portion of the area and several of the caves leading into the rock.”

“This happened so close to camp…” Leobtav fretted. “Nobody heard a thing? Have you asked around?”

“I did, and it’s not surprising. Even so close to camp you could be screaming and the wind would have still muted it out in all of the white noise and echoes off of the rocks.”

The body they both stood below had been found suspended from an overhand of rock above a cave mouth less than ten yards from the camp, arms bound together by the excised tendons of their own sartorius muscles from the left and right legs. Their diaphragm had been punctured to prevent screaming, and a depression in the earth before the body made it readily apparent that the killer had sat and watched as their victim slowly suffocated to death in front of them.

Ten yards from camp. Ten yards.

Doran took in the news and stewed on the fact that it was now more obvious that it was only one person, rather than multiple ones. This time they watched their victim die and they prolonged it. They were escalating the violence as all mass murderers did eventually, but on a much quicker timetable than any normal madman would have. Perhaps the plane’s winds had sparked some ember of insanity into a roaring flame in an otherwise normally sane man.


***​

Up on the crag three groups scoured through more than a dozen caves that burrowed into Howler’s Crag like meandering worm trails into a rotten apple. Both clerics accompanied one group, Tristol, Nisha, Fyrehowl and Clueless headed up a second group, while Frollis, Toras, and the lilland comprised the third.

Most of the caves were short and only extended into the Crag a few dozen feet to small chambers. They all appeared carved by hand, and many contained one or two rough stone benches cut into the walls, and occasionally what seemed like an empty devotional niche or blank altar. The walls however were all uniformly covered in a bizarre patchwork of symbols, strings of numbers and mathematical formulas, and psalms and liturgies in languages long since considered dead or lost.

The symbols in the caves ran the gamut from obscure, to bizarre, to untranslatable by magical means. In only a short period of time Tristol identified examples of Netherese, ancient versions of Celestials, Abyssal, and the Infernal alphabet, along with symbols that transmitted feelings when read and shifted color as the mood of the phrase changed like a form of Qualith not exclusive to illithids.

“This stuff is strange.” Tristol remarked as he walked down the cave, slowly translating bits of script and jotting down notations on their meaning, location, and any words that he was unable to identify since those might comprise the elusive Gautish script that the Institute was searching for.

“Define strange?” Nisha asked.

Fyrehowl grinned at the tiefling. “You.”

“Circular logic gets you everywhere?” Nisha quipped back as she whispered a phrase in draconic and started walking along the ceiling more to amuse herself than to examine the few lines of script that reached that high up.

“There’s a few portals around here too, but nothing that’s currently active. The Abyss, Limbo, Shadow, and the Ethereal.” Tristol added. “And as far as weird, this goes far beyond Nisha’s amusing randomness. This stuff is downright bizarre.”

“Humor me.” Said the lupinal.

The aasimar rattled off the contents of the last few lines and stanzas from the walls that he’d translated or gathered a rough meaning for: the honeycombed depths; the vaults of the powers and their hidden keys; the grave of creation; For there is a hole in the sky; the tomb of the smoldering Phoenix god; the ashes of betrayed powers; hello…; the last refuge of the Wind Dukes from the onslaught of the undead Lords of Brass; The Palace of Radiant Suffering; Saelt, Alluvius, Exhalus, Cavitius… true entropy lies within the Crumbling Citadel alone; a reference to ‘Unknowable Skeletal Lords of the Misty Prison’; and one line that felt oddly familiar, “HUBRIS lies not dead but waiting… though the hidden hands of fate dictates action and not greed or envy.”_


----------



## Burningspear

Yeay!


----------



## Veltharis ap Rylix

Shemmy, I just want reaffirm this: You are awesome!

I'mma go reread the Pandemonium arc now...


----------



## Shemeska

Arathyn said:


> Shemmy, I just want reaffirm this: You are awesome!
> 
> I'mma go reread the Pandemonium arc now...






More to come. I'd like the finish this arc within reason now since it was stalled for over a year. After the current arc I'll probably be writing a sidetrek of events that happen in Sigil in parallel (a oneshot I ran at NC Gameday and at GenCon one year) which later come back into view in the primary storyline. Actually writing the prelude scene of that tonight.


----------



## Tal Rasha

Shemeska said:


> More to come.



I'll say. A little birdie told me the Pandemonium arc must have been role-played no later than the year 2004. And I suppose the campaign went on for a while after that.

It can't be easy to write such a good story hour so long after the events have been role-played. Well done. Please keep at it.


----------



## Clueless

Heh.  I remember seeing at least one of the other players go pale on that scene. Pretty sure I surprised the GM on that one too. ("You do *what*?!")


----------



## 81Dagon

And there's another NPC I'm stealling for my game. Fitting that I was just rereading the Jester's arc. Did this led to mass paranoia on the player's behalves?


----------



## Shemeska

Tal Rasha said:


> I'll say. A little birdie told me the Pandemonium arc must have been role-played no later than the year 2004. And I suppose the campaign went on for a while after that.
> 
> It can't be easy to write such a good story hour so long after the events have been role-played. Well done. Please keep at it.




I have an insane amount of notes taken at the table when I ran that entire campaign. In-character quotes and pretty extensive notes on PC actions etc. So while yeah, it's getting on 7 years since then, it's not as hard as it could be to write it up now.


----------



## Shemeska

81Dagon said:


> And there's another NPC I'm stealling for my game. Fitting that I was just rereading the Jester's arc. Did this led to mass paranoia on the player's behalves?




Which one is that, the howling dragon? We'll be seeing him again (a looooong way down the road, but hey Unity of Rings and all that).


----------



## 81Dagon

Shemeska said:


> Which one is that, the howling dragon? We'll be seeing him again (a looooong way down the road, but hey Unity of Rings and all that).




Ooh yeah! Insane dragons work great when you're running a game based around Ragnarök. How far are we through the campaign anyhow? Jman's palace was about 15%, so is this about 30-40%?

*I ask as I listen to an audio book of Count Magnus*


----------



## Shemeska

81Dagon said:


> Ooh yeah! Insane dragons work great when you're running a game based around Ragnarök. How far are we through the campaign anyhow? Jman's palace was about 15%, so is this about 30-40%?
> 
> *I ask as I listen to an audio book of Count Magnus*




Something like 35-40% once we're out of Pandemonium. There are several subplots and the second major plot arc of the campaign yet to go, and a large number of familiar faces to see again.

Count Magnus was an awesome story


----------



## 81Dagon

Shemeska said:


> Oh that's a complicated story there, but one that I'll return to eventually. Everyone's favorite nutcase tiefling will have a lingering impact on a later plotline, but don't look for it anytime soon however, it's a long ways off and only after the dust has settled and the blood has dried on the Waste. I promise it'll be worth the wait once you find out the full story.




Also, are we anywhere close to this? It's been bugging me for years now. Or did I just miss it somewhere way back there?


----------



## Shemeska

81Dagon said:


> Also, are we anywhere close to this? It's been bugging me for years now. Or did I just miss it somewhere way back there?




Several plot arcs to go, intimately tied to the second half of the campaign. We will get there, even if it takes me a while.


----------



## 81Dagon

I know, I'm just rereading the storyhour in preparation for my own 'lothy plots and trying to resist the urge to ask a million questions about stuff written way back when.

Just picked up Book of the Damned 3 BTW, it's awesome! Now to find some way to integrate as much as possible with my next campaign...


----------



## Tsuga C

Shemeska said:


> Several plot arcs to go, intimately tied to the second half of the campaign. We will get there, even if it takes me a while.




This is most welcome news, given your publishing commitments and such.


----------



## 81Dagon

And finally, I have finished rereading the entire campaign. So is the Ashsinger one of your own creations or is he someone from the mythology that I'm just not familar with? 

I've also narrowed down my suspect list. The killer's either Frollis or Leobtav. Comments?

Edit: is there also any chance you could repost the Demented Cycle on Enworld? Both the WotC versions and Planeswalker versions have been nommed by Xanxost as far as I can tell..  Found them, all's good just some broken links but no Xanxost noms.


----------



## Shemeska

81Dagon said:


> And finally, I have finished rereading the entire campaign. So is the Ashsinger one of your own creations or is he someone from the mythology that I'm just not familar with?




One of my own creations. -Much- more metaplot relating to him/it in this story arc and in the following interlude bits (which are actually already written). Just remember that very little over the course of this storyhour is ever just tossed out and abandoned. Unity of Rings and all that. Lots of 'and out of nowhere X NPC from a year ago shows up unexpectedly, even the dead ones'.



> I've also narrowed down my suspect list. The killer's either Frollis or Leobtav. Comments?




I appreciate the speculation.  You should find out within the next two updates, whenever I can find the time to work on them. Currently two projects on tap, and my better half introduced me to Dragon Age: Origins last week.


----------



## 81Dagon

Shemeska said:


> I appreciate the speculation.  You should find out within the next two updates, whenever I can find the time to work on them. Currently two projects on tap, and my better half introduced me to Dragon Age: Origins last week.



Curses! Did you at least get the Ultimate Edition so you have Awakening too?


----------



## TanithT

81Dagon said:


> Curses! Did you at least get the Ultimate Edition so you have Awakening too?




Yes, he has all of it.  I bought all the DA stuff that I could get my hands on, which is to say every bit of it that Bioware has produced to date.  Then I went and downloaded a ton of fan-created content and mods, some of which is good, some of which is meh, and some of which is not exactly PG rated.  I am not normally a huge computer gaming fan, but the compelling storylines, the well drawn world background and the incredibly complex interactions with the in-game characters got me addicted.  

And then I had to go and spread the addiction by sharing.  Folks who are eagerly awaiting updates here may be sorry that I did this, but trust me when I say I'm probably going to be even sorrier.  Oh well, when he's busy playing DA for hours on end, I can either kibbitz over his shoulder or play DA2.  Eventually I figure the novelty will wear off and we'll get back to interacting more in the real world.

In the meantime, we've been merrily comparing our in-character romances with the various NPC's.   My Dalish elf Warden married the sexypants elvish assassin in the Origins endgame; his character started out flirting with the gloomy emo/goth mage chick, but gave up and switched to Leliana.  Probably for the possibility of Isabela joining in later.  LOL

Yeah, we're having way too much fun with Dragon Age.


----------



## Clueless

I've got a character started on XBox that I'm going to try a triple play with, see if I can get more three of the NPCs in one play through. Dragon Age - America's answer to Japanese dating games... 

Also re: Planewalker's copy of the demented series. I've got a PDF collection of them that I'm going to upload shortly so that they'll be easy to locate from there.


----------



## NecroticPunch

You wouldn't mind if I created a PDF for this storyhour, would you?  I'm bored and need a new project, y'see, and I might as well do something that will benefit lots of people.


----------



## Shemeska

Clueless said:


> I've got a character started on XBox that I'm going to try a triple play with, see if I can get more three of the NPCs in one play through. Dragon Age - America's answer to Japanese dating games...
> 
> Also re: Planewalker's copy of the demented series. I've got a PDF collection of them that I'm going to upload shortly so that they'll be easy to locate from there.




For what it's worth, among the remaining Demented that I haven't finished a story for, I've restarted work on The Architect (and which won't have massive spoilers for the SH oddly enough).


----------



## 81Dagon

TanithT said:


> In the meantime, we've been merrily comparing our in-character romances with the various NPC's.   My Dalish elf Warden married the sexypants elvish assassin in the Origins endgame; his character started out flirting with the gloomy emo/goth mage chick, but gave up and switched to Leliana.  Probably for the possibility of Isabela joining in later.  LOL
> 
> Yeah, we're having way too much fun with Dragon Age.




And then there's the fun of shutting down Oghren's brain.


Edit: 

Random speculation time: 
The Ebon is Ghoresh Ibn Shartalan. He walked out of the waste thousands of years ago. Who's betting it was at the same time the Ghoresh Chasm opened up?


----------



## TanithT

81Dagon said:


> And then there's the fun of shutting down Oghren's brain.




Ahh, Oghren of the creative oaths.  I'd missed that bit of dialogue, mostly because you would have to download an awful lot of mods to change that bit of scenery over to involve Zevran and Alistair instead of Isabela and Leliana.  

Come to think of it, I do believe I should investigate this possibility.


----------



## Shemeska

81Dagon said:


> Random speculation time:
> The Ebon is Ghoresh Ibn Shartalan. He walked out of the waste thousands of years ago. Who's betting it was at the same time the Ghoresh Chasm opened up?




As far as the Ebon's origins, there will be another peek into that after this current plot arc. Otherwise, I say nothing yet. But congrats for pulling out an obscure name. 

Also, in the future the SH will be meeting Chorazin Ibn Shartalan (who I'm pretty sure has been mentioned before).


----------



## 81Dagon

Shemeska said:


> As far as the Ebon's origins, there will be another peek into that after this current plot arc. Otherwise, I say nothing yet. But congrats for pulling out an obscure name.
> 
> Also, in the future the SH will be meeting Chorazin Ibn Shartalan (who I'm pretty sure has been mentioned before).




I was rereading the demented series. I know I've heard them talk about the Ghoresh incident before. The question is if, and how that relates to what's going on now.

Chorazin's the Architect, right?


----------



## Shemeska

81Dagon said:


> I was rereading the demented series. I know I've heard them talk about the Ghoresh incident before. The question is if, and how that relates to what's going on now.
> 
> Chorazin's the Architect, right?




I've named four different Ibn Shartalans before: Lazarius (the Architect), Tellura (the Dire Shepherd), Chorazin (the Thrice Damned), and Ghoresh (of Ghoresh Chasm fame).


----------



## NecroticPunch

NecroticPunch said:


> You wouldn't mind if I created a PDF for this storyhour, would you?  I'm bored and need a new project, y'see, and I might as well do something that will benefit lots of people.




In case ya'll didn't see it.


----------



## Shemeska

NecroticPunch said:


> In case ya'll didn't see it.




Please, by all means go right ahead!

At some point a few years ago, someone did a pdf compilation but IIRC there were some issues with changing over from the forum posts to a pdf and the formatting carrying over in all cases.


----------



## 81Dagon

I'm assuming this is okay Shemmy, since it's basically fanart, but let me know. 

So my PCs are currently stranded on Baator and desperately trying to find their way out. It also just so happens that a particular arcanaloth is currently in the service of the Lord of the First and looking for "allies" he could use in Sigil and the Upper Planes. I decided to sketch this up on my iPad to give my players a bit of a visual and help set the mood and thought some people here might be interested if I shared. 

The Cheshire Fiend's Avatar

It's still a bit rough and I want to touch it up at a later date, but that's going to be some time down the road. 

Thoughts?


----------



## Shemeska

81Dagon said:


> I'm assuming this is okay Shemmy, since it's basically fanart, but let me know.
> 
> So my PCs are currently stranded on Baator and desperately trying to find their way out. It also just so happens that a particular arcanaloth is currently in the service of the Lord of the First and looking for "allies" he could use in Sigil and the Upper Planes. I decided to sketch this up on my iPad to give my players a bit of a visual and help set the mood and thought some people here might be interested if I shared.
> 
> The Cheshire Fiend's Avatar
> 
> It's still a bit rough and I want to touch it up at a later date, but that's going to be some time down the road.
> 
> Thoughts?




I'm flattered 

And it works. To tell the truth, I never actually drew an image for my players.


----------



## Tsuga C

Any word on either the Laughing Fiend website or another update?  You're the lion's share of why I stop by EN World, Shemeska, and I'm sure that I'm not alone in this outlook.


----------



## Shemeska

Tsuga C said:


> Any word on either the Laughing Fiend website or another update?  You're the lion's share of why I stop by EN World, Shemeska, and I'm sure that I'm not alone in this outlook.




The website is on hold at the moment after the artist stopped responding to emails after two rounds of 'oh so sorry I'll have stuff soon'. Thankfully I hadn't paid them in advance. They're the second artist to have started work and then vanished with no response. Professionalism is lacking to say the least.

I probably won't even move on it again till after GenCon when I get up with another artist I have in mind, who while much more expensive, they're professional.

Storyhour nothing much recently. Currently have a project to finish up by the end of the month. After that I'll try to have an update the first few weeks of April.


----------



## 81Dagon

This thought just crossed my mind as I was writing down some plot points from Uncaged, but please say that Clueless fed some of the Heavy Magic to Woolly Cupgrass at some point.


----------



## Tsuga C

Shemeska said:


> After that I'll try to have an update the first few weeks of April.




Wonderful news!  I'm very much looking forward to the next installment.


----------



## Andry

Easter Bump!


----------



## Shemeska

Andry said:


> Easter Bump!




Large project turned in, so I can work on an update now.


----------



## Tsuga C

Shemeska said:


> Large project turned in, so I can work on an update now.




*Mr. Burns voice*  Eeeeeexcellent.  This'll give us all a smile to counterbalance our frowns on Tax Day, (April 17th this year).


----------



## HeavenShallBurn

Shemeska said:


> At some point a few years ago, someone did a pdf compilation but IIRC there were some issues with changing over from the forum posts to a pdf and the formatting carrying over in all cases.



I think that might be me, I remember making a pdf back in around 2006-2007 but the formatting got really screwed up in the conversion.  Don't remember whether I posted it anywhere, the formatting really did suck and by now it would be years out of date anyway.  This is like the fifth time I've been back to the site since just after 4e released.

EDIT:  I have spare time right now as I'm between jobs.  Would there be interest in a print version?  Cause I have the entire thread downloaded and if I'm going to make a cleaned up version it wouldn't take much more effort to turn it into a POD version at cost via Lulu.


----------



## Tsuga C

*Conspicuous By Their Absence...*

Shemeska,

I'm not sure why this never occurred to me before, but I just realized that you've never utilized yagnoloths in either of your story hours.  Do they not appeal to you or did they simply not fit well into the hierarchy of your campaign versions of the NE fiends because of their indolent, parasitic nature?  Just curious.

Foulest Regards,
Tsuga C

Edit: Note that there was a yagnoloth snapped in half by Anthraxus during the yugoloth civil war, but that's the only one I can recall even being mentioned.


----------



## Tsuga C

*Might anyone know...*

...what's happened to Shemseka?  He indicated that he was ready to work on an update at the end of March, but nothing's happened to date.

I hope nothing untoward has happened to him or in his work or personal life.


----------



## 81Dagon

I suspect he's buried under a pile of work... again. We'd have heard if anything serious had happened. On the note of work though, the Advanced Races Guide is awesome! I will definatly get a lot of millage out of it, and if anyone else even thinks they might, it's worth picking up. Great work Shemmie!


----------



## Shemeska

Tsuga C said:


> ...what's happened to Shemseka?  He indicated that he was ready to work on an update at the end of March, but nothing's happened to date.
> 
> I hope nothing untoward has happened to him or in his work or personal life.




Several things of debateable impact. Rank them for yourself.

In no specific order:
1) Freelancing work
2) Day job scientific publication (Journal of Pharmaceutical Sciences)
3) Diablo 3


----------



## Shemeska

81Dagon said:


> I suspect he's buried under a pile of work... again. We'd have heard if anything serious had happened. On the note of work though, the Advanced Races Guide is awesome! I will definatly get a lot of millage out of it, and if anyone else even thinks they might, it's worth picking up. Great work Shemmie!




I'm glad that you like it. I only wrote a small amount therein (the tiefling section and the fetchling section), but it was really fun to work on. I just got my contributor copies the other week, and it's pretty snazzy to say the least.


----------



## Shemeska

Tsuga C said:


> Shemeska,
> 
> I'm not sure why this never occurred to me before, but I just realized that you've never utilized yagnoloths in either of your story hours.  Do they not appeal to you or did they simply not fit well into the hierarchy of your campaign versions of the NE fiends because of their indolent, parasitic nature?  Just curious.
> 
> Foulest Regards,
> Tsuga C
> 
> Edit: Note that there was a yagnoloth snapped in half by Anthraxus during the yugoloth civil war, but that's the only one I can recall even being mentioned.




Oddly enough it looks like I just didn't use them as much in the campaign the SH follows. For the most part since they ruled as petty fiendish lords, but rarely outside of their native planes, the PCs just didn't run into them as much. The arcanaloths and ultroloths really got much more screentime than anyone else because of the former's role as public faces of their race and the latter as the most personally powerful (sort of diminished after the change in Oinoloth, and perhaps tangentially seen as exacerbated even more in what I wrote for SH2 which takes place a century later). I largely used mezzoloths and nycaloths as generic cannon fodder and elite troops (joined later on by the astraloths that would eventually become Pathfinder's astradaemons).


----------



## 81Dagon

Shemeska said:


> I'm glad that you like it. I only wrote a small amount therein (the tiefling section and the fetchling section), but it was really fun to work on. I just got my contributor copies the other week, and it's pretty snazzy to say the least.




I *knew* there was a reason the Tiefer's alternate racial traits looked perfect for Planescape.


----------



## Andry

Middle of Summer Bump!


----------



## 81Dagon

Out of curiosity, did we ever get an explanation as to how exactly Toras is a half-Quesar? I'm writing a bit for Planewalker on celestials and currently this is of great interest to me.


----------



## Shemeska

81Dagon said:


> Out of curiosity, did we ever get an explanation as to how exactly Toras is a half-Quesar? I'm writing a bit for Planewalker on celestials and currently this is of great interest to me.




Not yet in the storyhour (and I'd have to actually look back to my campaign notes to see if there was an explanation from his player, though I think there was).


----------



## Shemeska

Demonomicon of Iggwilv - Shemeshka the Marauder

I'll just drop that link here and grin like a fool. I'm incredibly happy with that, and while I'm not sure how many folks here have the ability to read it since it's behind the DDI paywall, it's relevant to this storyhour. 

It's relatively edition free, though nominally within the 4e cosmology rather than the Great Wheel. But my coauthor Brian James and I pulled from every edition worth of lore that we could, from 2e, 3e, and 4e. And yes, there are some easter eggs some readers of the storyhour will notice. Crazy, manged, NE easter eggs.


----------



## sciborg3

not sure if have i ever wanted Wotc to sell Dragon on its own more than i do now...


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## Shemeska

sciborg3 said:


> not sure if have i ever wanted Wotc to sell Dragon on its own more than i do now...




If it makes you feel any better, I don't have a subscription either, so it took me a day and asking for a pdf copy to see the final version that went to print (so to speak).

I'm totally stoked that I got to work on this, but at the same time I realize that it might have a relatively lower number of readers compared to the folks online that have followed my work in the past. You can't browse a magazine in the store anymore or borrow a copy from a friend. Things possibly have a lot less exposure behind the DDI paywall, especially when the fanbase splintered as it did.

That said, I'm pretty happy with the final version, though I will admit that some of the material prior to a rewrite was some of the better stuff I've produced. It's possible I suppose that it might get reused in some capacity, but given that it's intertwined with restricted IP, it's more likely I might just share the cut bits if I'm able to do so at some point.


----------



## sciborg3

I wouldn't worry too much, I suspect the DDI is going to expand into the Planescape cosmos when Next comes around so many of your followers will likely read this and probably some other stuff that they'll commission you for!


----------



## Tsuga C

*Drat!*



Shemeska said:


> Demonomicon of Iggwilv - Shemeshka the Marauder
> 
> ...I'm not sure how many folks here have the ability to read it since it's behind the DDI paywall, it's relevant to this storyhour.




Aaaannnnd I'm officially let down because I'm one of the multitudes who'd certainly enjoy reading this piece, but I'm not currently and never will be a subscriber.  

Crap.  Still, it's good to see that you're still doing what you do so well.


----------



## Toras

I can actually field that. 

The overall shtick is that his parents were the guardians of one of Andros's (God of Smiting/Childcare) Orphanages on a prime world.  I don't know if I ever specified which, but you get the basic jist.   They had a Scarlet Witch/Vision style romance, and after they fell defending said orphanage against a horde of the undead, they were taken into the realm of their god and there granted a son born of divine magic.    (Classic Miracle, just as Issac)

I reverse engineered the personality of Alexander Anderson (From Hellsing) and tried to create an environment and genetic combination that would make the resulting personality a rational progression.   

In many ways, I liked justiposing the uplifting (Divine reward, Heaven) with the mad (Raised by the Dead, Unnatural, and Surrounded by an endless battle that everyone is enjoying and no one takes too seriously).  In a very real way, Toras isn't conventionally sane but he comes by it honestly.


----------



## Tsuga C

*Executive Summary, Perhaps?*

Dear Shemeska:

I understand that you're quite busy, so if you've given up on providing us with a "novelized" compendium of both adventures, perhaps you might offer us an anthology of each instead.  Encounters of lesser importance could be summarized briefly and those of greater importance could be fleshed out properly in order to save time.  This would at least let your following here enjoy some sort of resolution to your fine story hours.  *crosses fingers*

Respectfully,
Tsuga C


----------



## Andry

+1 to that


----------



## Shemeska

Tsuga C said:


> Dear Shemeska:
> 
> I understand that you're quite busy, so if you've given up on providing us with a "novelized" compendium of both adventures, perhaps you might offer us an anthology of each instead.  Encounters of lesser importance could be summarized briefly and those of greater importance could be fleshed out properly in order to save time.  This would at least let your following here enjoy some sort of resolution to your fine story hours.  *crosses fingers*
> 
> Respectfully,
> Tsuga C




It's a nice idea, and there will be an update this week. 

Currently writing it, about 75% done. I am however skipping random/not important fight scenes. I'll probably do that in the future, but won't be skipping metaplot and character development stuff.


----------



## Shemeska

Elsewhere, the third group stood before the largest of the caves, and in fact they’d been standing there for some time. Standing there with them, Toras couldn’t entirely blame them since the rock was almost completely obscured with a dense blanket of white, gauzy webbing.

Glancing into the darkness of the yawning cave mouth, with his hands on both of his sword pommels, Frollis Terpence smiled at Toras, “You go first.”

Toras raised an eyebrow, “Really? Seriously? I haven’t heard a word out of you in a day and a half –I don’t think I even saw you yesterday- and the first thing out of your mouth is ‘you go first’?”

“Gallantry is over-rated my friend.” The rogue quipped. “And that’s not normal white lichen covering on the rocks. You’re a much bigger and much better armored target for whatever caused it.”

“Gee, thanks for the endorsement of my function here.”

Frollis bowed and motioned the half-celestial forward. “Consider it a Pandemonium version of having a friend be the first to walk a new trail in the woods, breaking all of the spider webs across the way in doing so. I’m not just being safe, I’m giving you the endorsement of my view of your capacity for courage.”

“Yeah…” Toras trailed off. “Just stay close by.”

“I’ll be in your shadow, don’t worry.”

-fades away slightly as the larger, half-celestial’s shadow passed over him. 

“You know, I haven’t really gotten much of a chance to actually talk to you that much.” Toras said, looking the rogue over and wondering just what sort of person he was. 

Dressed almost completely in black and wearing not one, but two holy symbols around his neck, one of which was Mask, the Faerunian god of thieves, he didn’t exactly seem the most wholesome of a person. Having talked with Fyrehowl and Florian earlier that day, they’d been of rather the same opinion, and Clueless had had his eyes on him for a while longer. Still though, it seemed too obvious to blame random and horrific murders on someone just because they wore black, were a rogueish sort, and wait… just because the other holy symbol around their neck was the Faerunian god of retribution. Hmm.

“That’s an odd collection of jewelry around your neck.” Toras remarked, glancing at the rogue’s holy symbols.

Frollis chuckled but didn’t make any attempt to hide either of them. “We’re both tools of a god aren’t we? It’s just that you only have to deal with one; lucky you. There’s more than one holy worm in my ears. It can be annoying at times, but their intentions and methods aren’t always all that different.”

“Oh?”

“Justice and shadows, that’s what I’m all about.” Frollis explained. “Mask for instance is the patron of stealth and intrigue.”

“And thieves.” Toras added.

Frollis raised an eyebrow and shrugged. “So he is, but your tiefling friend is both a nutter and a thief, and you seem to get along quite well with her. Hmm?”

Nutter? Absolutely. Thief? Well that was a matter of perspective. Nisha was Nisha.

“Hoar the Doombringer is the god of poetic justice and retribution. I prefer to carry out the latter god’s will via the former’s.” Frollis flashed a self-satisfied grin.

“How so?”

“Justice doesn’t have to be about kicking in the door at noon, dressing in silver armor and loudly bashing heads and arresting someone for a crime. Punishment doesn’t have to be by the rule of law or the rule of men. Sometimes the best kind of justice is that which takes place without a single soul knowing about it except for the one that deserves it.”

Toras nodded, partially out of understanding and partially out of uncertainty. “The person carrying it out would know as well.”

“So I would.” Frollis said with a grin. “The shadows don’t have to be the rule of thieves and those hiding out of selfishness. Evil needs to fear the darkness just as it does the light. You can’t hide from justice.”

“And now you sound like a Mercykiller.”

Frollis wrinkled his face as if he’d tasted bad wine turned to vinegar. “So I do. That’s…”

He paused abruptly and moved to the cave wall, motioning Toras to do the same.

Further down the passage, something was moving. It was abrupt, and then it stopped; paused, waiting. It was a series of brief, whispered taps of something hard on stone in rapid succession. Whatever caused it, the sound was something very unlike humanoid feet, booted or otherwise.

“I heard it too.” Toras whispered. “What the hell is that?”

Frollis gave Toras an annoyed stare and motioned to his lips, then shrugged as a reply to the question. Still though, he drew both of his blades and eased back into the half-celestial’s shadow.

A dozen feet away, the shadow-dancer stepped out of one pool of darkness and then hopped to the next, trying to scout out the location of whatever had made the noise. Watching him, and barely managing to keep track of his location each time he stepped between shadows, Toras gave a nod to himself. That’s what he was capable of, and that’s why he seemed to simply vanish with barely a second’s notice. Half the time he bolted, he might have simply been a few feet away but largely out of sight. Still, it just raised more questions since clearly he was more capable than anyone had initially suspected.

A tap on his shoulder took Toras from his thoughts and sent a hand to his sword grip before he heard a sigh and the same hand slap at his. Frollis now stood behind him, having jumped back into his shadow.

“Well?” Toras asked as quietly as possible.

Frollis shrugged uselessly, throwing his hands up.

And that of course was when they were both illuminated in a wash of sickly yellow light. From directly above them came a bellowing roar and the chattering rustle of mandibles and pedipalps as the head and forelegs of a massive bebelith erupted from out of a previously hidden side tunnel. Toras and his shadow-dwelling companion dove to the side as the creature dropped down, filling the entirety of the passage with its steel-grey and pale violet carapace. Down the tunnel came nearly a dozen eruptions of insectile whines and shrieks, followed shortly thereafter by the shouts of men and the movement of torchlight and franticly dancing shadows.

Toras glanced up, gripping his sword tightly, looking at his face reflected back in miniature from across the multitude of the spider-like fiend’s compound eyes. The creature grinned, cherishing the chance to rend something beyond its normal prey, belying the intelligence of something far beyond and far more malevolent than simply a giant, monstrous spider.


***​

Meanwhile back with the second group, there was more to come with the bizarre material written upon the walls, and momentarily they dismissed the one oddly and disturbingly familiar line of text that harkened back to a name –HUBRIS– written at the base of an ancient statue or golem, miles below the streets of Sigil.

Tristol moved to examine some of the strange writing, glancing at the same portion of the wall that currently occupied Fyrehowl’s attention.

“What’s that one say?” The lupinal tapped the mage on the shoulder and inclined her nose towards one of the meandering stanzas.

Tristol looked at her oddly, “I thought guardinals could understand pretty much every language.”

Fyrehowl shook her head. “We can, sort of. It’s spoken languages only. And it’s not exactly the same as knowing the language itself. We can understand anything spoken, but unless I go out and learn the language I don’t get all of the quirks and subtleties, and it doesn’t work at all when it’s written down.”

Tristol nodded, “Nice ability though nonetheless. I took me years to learn all of the ones that I’ve picked up.”

“How many do you know? You’ve seemed to do pretty well so far with most of what we’ve seen.”

Tristol had to think for a moment, and he silently tapped a few fingers on one hand and then another. “Twelve at the moment.”

“Twelve?” Fyrehowl’s looked impressed, ears canted forward. “That’s quite a number. I can pull half of that, and I’ve had a lot longer to learn them.”

The aasimar smiled. “You haven’t needed to learn them though, you get to cheat.”

She shrugged, “It’s more fun to actually learn the real language though. It’s easier to just ‘cheat’ as you say it, but it doesn’t feel as authentic, or as close to truly understanding someone. But it works for most things, although it doesn’t come close to knowing what Xaositects are babbling about half of the time.” She glanced over at Nisha as the tiefling stood upside down on the cave ceiling, crouching like a bat, wordlessly opening her mouth in batty pantomime.

“Here’s a secret.” Tristol whispered. “I don’t think Xaositects know what Xaositects are saying half the time either.”

Up on the ceiling, the Nisha-Bat nodded vigorously with a grin on her face. A moment later she paused and looked confused, babbled to herself in xaos-speak, and then promptly understood herself perfectly well.

“I’m inclined to agree with you.” Fyrehowl said, chuckling at Tristol as they both glanced at Nisha.

Ignoring the tiefling-come-bat, the two of them studied the brief bits of writing that dotted the tunnel, reading them or using magic to translate when they didn’t fully understand the source languages. Most of them were mundane things, but one of them scrawled its way across the ceiling and initially refused translation. In the end they could only gather that it spoke of something related to ‘the howling madness and the wisdom of the Demented.’

But that was quickly forgotten once they reached another stretch of text. This one was easy to read, except that when they let their eyes play over the text –written in archaic planar common- they swore that for a moment they heard claws scratching at the stone and a distant shrill whistle of wind, almost like a far-off howling.

‘Do you hear the code? Can you listen to the keen and wail of the winds and hear their secret whisperings even the gods deign to ignore out of ignorance… and fear?’

They stared at the text again, slowly rereading it, and once again they heard the same things. Ears erect and glancing about with more than a small bit of paranoia, no one else in the tunnel seemed to have heard anything. Clueless was looking at a patch of wall a ways down from them, seemingly unconcerned and unaware of what they’d heard, several of their academics were likewise paying rapt attention to bits of text, and equally unaware. Nisha for her part was busy chomping at imaginary bugs, still embroiled in her bat pantomime.

“Bebeliths are yummy!” She quipped down at Tristol and Fyrehowl, flapping her arms like wings. She took their worried reactions to pertain to her own brand of crazy. “Teeny tiny bebeliths…”

Less concerned with Nisha than on the apparently supernatural element of the wall’s text, Tristol and Fyrehowl looked back at the text, reading it over and over.

While both the aasimar and lupinal were both staring blankly at the wall for far too long than was probably healthy, Clueless had found something of his own to be concerned about. Below a line of text on the wall which he hadn’t pondered long enough to translate, a single mage rune was neatly and intricately melted into the stone. Below that very familiar symbol -a mage’s personal rune melted into the stone- the text from above picked back up in the same language as the earlier text.


***​
-Insert fight with multiple bebeliths and several immature ones.-

***​

Clueless stared at the mage rune melted into the rock. Like the eye of some slumbering, dreaming serpent long buried over by the earth, it gazed back, insensate but like a slumbering dragon’s eye, it served a warning to not disturb its resting place. Clueless had no intention of simply ignoring it however as he looked more intensely at it, and its surroundings.

What disturbed him the most was that from the wear patterns on the rock, the top inscription was obviously oldest, nearly worn away in places. By contrast the mage rune was ancient as well, but orders of magnitude younger, and the next line of text was roughly the same age as it. But both top and bottom texts were in the same script and seemingly by the same hand, almost as if the words in the stone had reacted to the defacing of the wall with the mage rune where some ancient wizard had marked his self-important coming.

“naughty word…” Clueless muttered to himself. He recognized the symbol from when he’d looked into information on heavy magic and stumbled upon the story of Shekelor. The details of the last factol of the Incanterium came back to the forefront of his mind with eerie recall. Shekelor had vanished into the depths of Pandemonium, searching for something and claiming that when he returned to Sigil, he would do so to topple The Lady. That hadn’t happened, and instead he’d come back screaming, babbling nonsense, and publically incinerating. The full details of his time in Pandemonium weren’t fully known, but apparently at some point he’d come here to Howler’s Crag.

The translation was simple enough with magic: ‘We gather where the rock grows jagged, where the wind whistles its tune, where the hole in the sky rests beneath the bedrock of all chaos and madness’

Glancing back at his companions, still staring intently at another distant wall, or in Nisha’s case simply being Nisha, Clueless inhaled and whispered the words of a _legend lore_ spell as he dipped his finger into the tiny fraction of heavy magic he kept on his person. Shekelor had found the orb and its contents, and while it wasn’t what had compelled him to abruptly abandon his factol, depart Sigil, and trek through the bowels of the multiverse, what he’d considered a fascinating if trivial anomaly might help unravel what he’d been looking for at Howler’s Crag, and why he’d marked the place with his personal symbol.


***​

Conjured light illuminated the cave, throwing heavy shadows from some of the smaller, jagged outcroppings of rock, pooling within the many niches and recessed shrines. Footsteps approached from the mouth of the tunnel, sending a scatter of rocks and pebbles before their master, his footsteps unsteady and awkward – not out of any notion of wariness or fear, but rather they were the steps of someone unused to physically walking when teleportation and flight were but a thought away. But certain things required exertion and deigning unhallowed ground with their presence, and this cave within Howler’s Crag was one such thing.

Clueless watched the conjured vision continue as a familiar person stepped into view and approached the same set of carvings upon the cave wall. Shekelor, the Archmage, the once-factol of the Incanterium. He’d left everything behind on his quest to bring the Lady low, or so he’d claimed. Clueless had met his apprentice factors, and in their maze they’d achieved an immortality of a sorts, and they hadn’t fallen far from their master’s example.

Shekelor’s eyes glowed with a dull platinum light, swirling with muted reflections, the hallmark of his decision to physically embrace his faction’s ideology. Magic is everything.

He smiled, tracing his fingers over the lines, obviously gaining some knowledge from them that eluded the half-fey watching his actions millennia later.

“How interesting…” His smile turned introspective, his thoughts wandering for a long moment before he whispered a phrase and traced his mage-rune into the wall where Clueless had found it.

But then the light shifted as another set of shadows interrupted his, followed in turn by a synchronized series of footfalls. A trio of figured melted out of the darkness, gaunt men with blank expressions, dressed in oily black from head to foot, black goggles hiding their eyes.

“Give us the Orb.” The first of their number demanded without inflection or emotion.

Shekelor turned and scowled at the Keepers.

 “I am growing tired of you and your kind. I’ve already killed a dozen of you. How many more must I waste my time with?” 

“Give us what we want and we will let you be.”

“And why are you so interested in it?” Shekelor’s eyes narrowed. “It’s a powerful curiosity, but it has nothing to do with you. You just show up, repeatedly, and demand that I give it to you. You’ve hassled me on five different planes, and I repeat, I am growing tired of you and your kind.”

The Keepers glanced at one another and as one turned back to coldly stare at the archmage. Their gaze was unnerving, and Shekelor knew full well that no eyes stared back from below their goggles, and no heart beat within their pale, rubbery chests. But for that matter his own eyes were anything but human, nor any more, and his life existed independent of the normal substances that sustained virtually every other being. Why should they disturb him, whatever they were, wherever they were from, and regardless of what they demanded?

“You’ve seen what I’m capable of.” The Incantifer bluntly stated. “I neither sleep nor tire, and outside of proving yourselves an annoyance, you have no capacity to threaten me. Leave now and never bother me again. This is my last warning.”

The silence was oppressive as neither the mage nor the Keepers moved, not even to breath, since none of them required it. Shekelor sneered with an elitism borne of tremendous power and tremendous ego, and for their part the construct-like beings that hounded him now and before gave no emotion or other indication of worry at his threat.

“Give us the Orb.”

With sudden abruptness, and speed belying his outwardly late-middle age appearance, Shekelor clapped his hands together. The fabric of space distorted, rippling as the clap echoed through across the cave. Simultaneously, all three Keepers imploded, falling to the ground as dissolving amalgamations of clothing and flesh, crushed to pulp in the space of a moment.

“No.” The archmage dryly pronounced as he stepped around their bubbling, evaporating essence, laughing at their deaths as he left.

Shekelor was gone and his conjured light began to fade when it happened. The factol never saw it, but it might have served a warning if he had. The letters on the wall that he’d searched for, the writing that he’d travelled so far to find, the answer to whatever question he had, it began adding to itself. A second line formed of its own accord, seeping out of the rock like wriggling insects. “…and long shall you gaze.”

The spell ended abruptly, wrenching Clueless’s mind out of that conjured moment of the past and back to the present. The bladesinger shivered as looked up at the complete line of text, knowing that it had reacted to Shekelor’s passing, and the archmage had never noticed. He shivered again, almost like a thousand tiny spiders crawling on his skin. Spiders…

“Oh hell with that.” Clueless softly cursed, knowing all too well what the factol’s last words had been. He shook the memory out of his head as much as he could. Evidently the factol had found what he’d been searching for, or perhaps it had found him.


***​

The Ward of Masks was alife with the skipper skapper of tongues heralding the looming festival of lamps run by the merchants of the copper district. Soon their dancing lights would themselves pay prophet to the groundbreaking of the Festhall one ward over. Crowds had already gathered for the ceremonial lighting.

The firre and his coterie of coure lampers stood upon their podium and the assembled crowd watched as the silver and burgundy clad eladrin raised his hands in welcome. A warm glow began at his fingertips, and then, unexpectedly, the courtyard flashed with colors entirely outside of his planning. The crowd gasped and turned as a portal flickered into being, outlined by the arms of a pair of statues and a tiny spider’s web that branched between their outstretched fingers.

Crimson turned to inky black as the portal opened, blowing a hollow, metallic scent upon the air as a single figure stumbled out of the darkness. He stumbled as he exited from wherever he’d come, losing his grip and sending a handful of sparkling gemstones scattered out onto the ground and amidst the shocked crowds’ feet. He was dirty, once fine robes smudged with dirt and ashes. His hair was wild and unwashed, but a palpable sense of –power- exuded from his very being.

The portal closed with a resounding crackle of energy and its former boundaries, the twin statues, shuddered. Lightning sparked between the marble fingers, incinerating the spider and its web into a fine dust of ashes, and a moment later the statues themselves cracked and crumbled to dust. The portal was closed, the air was still, but light still cascaded across the plaza.

The man stumbled forward another step. He looked confused, and above and beyond that, he seemed terrified. Light was shining from his body, illuminating an outline of his body beneath his robes, and every second that passed the intensity grew. Too shocked at his sudden appearance, the crowd was yet silent.

The light grew brighter, shining from his flesh brighter even than the firre who stood a score of yards distant. The eladrin felt something terribly wrong. Something had touched this man. Something terrible. Something –wrong-. But he couldn’t tell if it was evil or not.

Something horrible was about to happen.

Shekelor’s senses screamed. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Why was he here? Could they have followed? Oh gods above, what he’d seen in The Harmonica. His flesh burned from within, and he grew aware of the building light that even now seared his fingers.

Distantly, beyond the crowd, the archmage saw a single figure drifting into view; tall, regal, serene. Hovering, She turned and looked at him, making eye contact as the pain became unbearable.

He had to warn them. He had to warn them all, before it was too late.

“THE SPIDERS!!!!”

The crowd’s hush broke into a screaming, scrambling frenzy as the man burst into flame, erupting into a searing glow, screaming madly for a second more before he completely incinerated into nothing. Nothing remained but for the scattering of stones, each of them glowing with inner light, lost to the scramble of the crowd, kicked and dispersed in the passing of feet, claws, hooves.

Shekelor was gone, his vision to topple The Lady uncompleted. His mad, grand claims snuffed out like a candle flame in Pandemonium’s winds.

The figure turned and drifted away, as silent and serene as before.


***​

Toras made a face as he tried in vain to get the sticky, disgusting mess of bebelith silk and blood off of his sword, off of his armor, and out of his hair. It reeked, and unlike tanar’ri it didn’t seem to evaporate once they died, or flashed away in a cloud of fire, or turned into luminescent corpse flies. That would be fine on the grand scale of things; anything but the mess that was left after he’d taken on a bebelith hive. And where the hell had Frollis up and vanished off to?

Back down the warren of tunnels, away from where Toras was venting his frustration and kicking a dead bebelith, Settys Al Khylian walked through the caves, gingerly avoiding each bunch of burning webbing, letting them smolder and light his way. Brandishing his glowing khopesh, he went about neatly and methodically severing the heads of each bebelith corpse he encountered, ensuring that the creatures were and stayed dead. 

Walking alongside the cleric, both Doran and Leobtav followed along, staying close in the event that something was still alive in the cave, both of them carrying conjured globes of light. Behind them, a small number of academics followed along dutifully, taking notes on the symbols on the cave walls, mapping the tunnel itself, or simply curious to watch as his went about his business.

“I’d also advise that we incinerate the remains along with any eggs.” The priest of Thoth warned. “If one of them hatches, they rapidly mature and we have too many things out in the dark already.”

“How much do you know about them? Bebeliths I mean.” Leobtav asked.

“I’ve run across them before near Curst, south of one of the tributaries of Maat. Difficult, violent creatures, but I haven’t studied them extensively beyond knowing how to handle them in a practical manner.”

“Then you aren’t aware of their feeding and hunting habits no?” Leobtav was going somewhere with his commentary, and beside him, Doran winced as he came to the same realization.

“They subsist almost entirely on tanar’ri flesh.” The elf explained in his colleague’s stead. “They hunt and eat demons.”

“The irony is that they probably preyed more on the fiends out there than anything else.” Leobtav remarked. “With the bebeliths gone, it might actually be more dangerous for us here in the long run.”

As they talked, Leobtav felt a tiny tug on his collar. Looking down, Ficklebarb caught his attention and motioned with his tail directly above them. Previously covered by a large swathe of bebelith webbing, a spidery collection of runes danced across the ceiling. When the last of the arachnid demons fell, its dying spasms had dislodged the covering and revealed the writing.

“I have to wonder if the bebelith hive might not be the source of our latest problems.” Doran asked, glancing at the massive body of one of the fiends. “They’re intelligent, so it’s not entirely out of the question I suppose. And I’ve never personally seen a hive this large.”

“Perhaps,” Settys mused. “But I seriously doubt it. They wouldn’t toy with us, and something clearly is doing just that. And we’re still missing two people. If we don’t find them dismembered and half-eaten somewhere in the caves here, covered in webbing and bebelith spittle, I think that notion can be dropped.”

The cleric clearly didn’t think much of the idea, but the elf was honestly more interested in his reaction. Based on the past few days, they needed to be open to the idea that one of their own had gone mad, and it wasn’t some fiend out in the shrieking darkness preying on them.

“What’s your opinion?” Doran asked, glancing over at Leobtav.

Leobtav wasn’t paying attention though. His eyes were fixed on a portion of the ceiling and a tracing of symbols that ran back and forth across the hand-carved stone back and forth for several dozen lines. His eyes were wide as he glanced between the symbols and his field journal. Perched on his shoulder, Ficklebarb’s head craned back and forth in alternating pattern to his master’s from book to script and back.

“Do you think…?” The pseudodragon asked with some hesitation.

Leobtav was preoccupied however, flipping back and forth, comparing samples in his journal with those on the stone. Each time he went from stone to book his expression lifted, growing more and more excited, grinning ear to ear.

“Sir?” Highsilver asked again. His voice trailed off though upon noticing his colleague’s expression.

It would evade magical translation as every other sample of the language had before – something to do with the tieres’ self-made damnation. But mundane translation was something else entirely. _“Our glorious father, creator and protector. Our lives we gave, our tears we wept, children we raised in adoration of you. The labor of centuries we gave, poured forth from our midst to build unto you an eternal Cathedral in honor and obeisance of You our patron and maker._

It continued for paragraphs more, and while the fine details would need to be painstakingly deciphered, word by word, this was it: Gautish.

The professor’s voice was ecstatic. “I think we’ve found it.”

***​


----------



## Andry

Well worth the wait sir!


----------



## Tsuga C

*He's Alive!!!!  *

Halloween isn't for a couple of weeks yet, but I count this as a very fine treat.  Thanks for getting back to us, Shemeska.


----------



## Shemeska

Painstakingly copied from cave-wall to paper, the gautish script was easily the largest such sample that had been found written within the passages that honeycombed Howler’s Crag. It was also one of the most well preserved, almost as if the hatred of the people once known as the tiere continued down through the ages, reaching across the planes from their long-since become native Carceri to preserve and protect it like some sort of stranglehold upon the memory of their origin, and their great crime of virtual deicide.

None of the researchers, not even Highsilver or Leobtav had yet managed to fully decipher the text, and so for the moment it sat, illuminated by lamplight on Leobtav’s desk. His familiar though glanced at it warily, a look of worry on his face as if the poisoned thoughts of the gautiere might reach out like a sort of worm-word empowered by Pandemonium’s winds. It might indeed have, but it wasn’t the cause of the group’s current problem that stalked them in the darkness, killing them one by one.

And be that as it might, the text still held its secrets. The text contained both the lamentation of the tiere, the tale of their self-initiated damnation, and buried within its words the encoded location of their fall. It was there, waiting to be unlocked, and out in the darkness, someone was willing to kill for it.

_“Our glorious father, creator and protector. Our lives we gave, our tears we wept, children we raised in adoration of you. The labor of centuries we gave, poured forth from our midst to build unto you an eternal Cathedral in honor and obeisance of You our patron and maker.
	Why then did you hide? Why did you seek shelter inside our greatest creation, made in your name? Why did you forsake us then to our enemies and their powers when in anger and jealousy they came to steal away from you and we our eternal offering? Why did you hide as if a child within the depths of your palace we built for you with our pain and glory? Why did you seal fast the doors, bar your children entry, and leave us to the mercy of your feared rivals? Why oh mighty one?
	Were you afraid? Did you fear more for your own life than those of your followers who feared not for their own in the face of death, but served you faithfully? Who then is the righteous and who is the damned? Who shows the spark of the divine, and who is but a pale reflection of it? Oh mighty one indeed. You seal the doors at the approaching hoof beats and drums of the armies and listen not to the wailings of your chosen, now forgotten and forsaken people.
	RAGE to sunder the heavens we felt! All of our centuries of faith to you, forgotten in an instant! We will die not at the hands of your enemies who come to slay you and we in envy of how we glorified you. Raising our hands, voices, and spirits we scream to the multiverse and the planes themselves to take our hatred, our bitterness, our anger and our betrayal of you. To take these and shackled you for eternity in a prison of our making. No longer the Eternal Cathedral of our most beloved god, but your tomb. Our lives consumed, our souls twisted, the anger flowing out to gird your hands, and bind your feet, to cut out your tongue and blind your eyes. You will never die, but lie in undying impotence and suffering in the misty shadow of the Spire of Magic Death, betrayed by those you sought to betray yourself.
	We are no longer your chosen, no longer your servants, no longer your slaves, no longer the Tiere, but the Gautiere.”_


***​

“This is amazing!” Leobtav was babbling as he looked over a copy of the script from the cave. “It’s going to take days to translate but…”

“Sir?” One of the associate researchers interrupted him. “Why is that? Can’t we just translate it with magic? That seems the simplest way.”

“Because we can’t,” The professor explained. “That was one of the first things that I tried, but it doesn’t do anything but provide a vague transliteration. You’re more than welcome to try if you can cast the spell, but I don’t think that it’s a protective ward that just tries to resist the effect. As far as I can tell there’s something intrinsic to the language itself that defies magical decipherment. If we want to read it, we’ll have to do this the old-fashioned way. Thankfully we have some small samples, mostly bits and pieces from Carceri. I’ve included those samples on the copies of the raw script that I passed out.”

Tristol’s ears twitched. Something intrinsic to the script itself? That wasn’t so out of the question, especially given what he’d experienced with another, unrelated text elsewhere on the Crag earlier that day. That one at least could be deciphered, but it didn’t really make sense. Hopefully Leobtav and the others could make quick work of theirs. The earlier experience was beginning to really bother him.

Leobtav whispered a few phrases to an amanuensis spell and smiled, satisfied as the conjured force dutifully began transcribing another stack of paper copies of the text, a transliteration, and a further page of notes that he and Doran had both added.

“No more going out into the dark?” Leobtav’s pseudodragon chirped from where he currently sat, curled up atop a pile of books between his master and Tristol.

Leobtav shuffled the stack of freshly penned pages, “No more going out into the dark. We’ve got what we came here for, and while the Crag has its mysteries and a treasure trove of philological information, I don’t want to risk anyone’s safety.”

“Yay!” The pseudodragon beamed. For the first time in two days he seemed genuinely happy.

The little familiar’s smile was infectious, and soon the others in the room were smiling as well. When they left in the next hour their mood spread along with the professor’s pronouncement that they would soon be leaving the howling hell of Pandemonium. Ale was drunk, food was shared, stories were told and laughs exchanged. Like embers scattered in the wind spreading a warm, roaring flame their happiness carried for an evening of respite from the present troubles.

Trouble cared not for their attempts, and it would jar them back to reality with brutal force in short order.


***​

Had he stood in his current position overlooking the camp on some terrestrial world it would have been at the back edge of twilight, with the sun slipping beyond a distant range of hills, with the first stars faintly appearing and the lanterns and cook fires down below only now being stoked. He looked down, watching the little ants scurry about, readying their tents for sleep, putting away their implements of a day’s work, collecting together to talk, discuss, socialize like insects, with as much mindless absence of importance. He also noted that the hired mercenaries were now walking the perimeter, watching the edges of the darkness; they were starting to worry for their safety as much as the others.

The man smiled and returned to his work, eager to finish in full view of his victims, embracing the darkness within as much as the darkness surrounding. Quickly and efficiently, with grace that belied his lack of recent practice, he arranged each of his newest victim’s bones as he desired one after another to produce the desired tableau. His shoulder was heavy, like a piece of his master perched there, watching him with approval as he moved onwards to the next corpse.

“Closer now, ever closer.” He whispered, admiring his handiwork. “Thy will be done.”

In the artificial morning of their arbitrary sleep-cycle, they would find his work.


***​

Doran’s eyes were bloodshot, his hair unkempt, and he stifled a grossly inappropriate yawn as he looked down at the bodies. They’d been found only an hour earlier, but he hadn’t yet slept a wink, neither he nor Leobtav; they’d both been bottled up inside of their respective tents, obsessively pouring over the gautiere text. The text –as far as they’d translated thus far- told the tieres’ history, almost as a rationalization of their great crime, but in a way it was less disturbing than what he looked down upon.

Atop a small ridge of rock that overlooked the camp, two bodies lay on the ground, though it was more complicated than saying precisely that. One body lay on the ground by itself, limp and wrinkled, partially collapsed in on itself. It was flesh only, with every bone removed, bloodlessly and without a single obvious incision. Its skeleton lay a dozen feet off to the side, partially buried in the rocky soil, with the second corpse posed and positioned, kneeling over it with a brush and trowel, as if excavating a find. The second man seemed to have been killed by a single, clean slash to the jugular, but once again it was more complicated. Something had petrified his bones after death, holding him in his rigid, staged position, and the blood that emerged from his neck was transmuted to a trickle of crimson sand.

“What kind of fiend would do this?” One of the other academics asked.

“A sick man, a sick woman… I don’t know.” Doran sighed. He should have known. He was a diviner for all that was holy! But divinations were worthless. He’d tried to ascertain who had performed the earlier murders. He’d even tried to witness them through various forms of psychomancy, but they’d failed. Either the Crag’s proximity limited their use, or the killer was able to thwart such methods of discovery. You cannot stop what you cannot find.

Drawn in a trail of crimson sand upon the ground, the killer had left them a taunting message, ‘You cannot find us. We will kill you all, one by one, and smile. Are you afraid?’

It was written in planar common, with no peculiarities of spelling or word use that might indicate a native plane or race. They were out there in the dark, likely watching the discovery, possibly even amongst those currently milling about. It was maddening.

“Do we know who they are? The dead I mean.” Doran asked, looking away from the bodies. “I recognize the one on the left. The complete one. He was one of the cooks.”

“He’s a cartographer.” Mellisan the lilland explained. “I actually talked to him two nights ago quite a bit. The dark and the wind were starting to get to him, he looked lonely, and I felt it an imperative to cheer him up. He actually had a decent singing voice. I haven’t seen him since then, but I didn’t think anything of it.”

“We have a lot of people,” Doran lamented. “If they’re not in your group that you work with each day, there’s no reason or ability to keep up.”

“This is getting obscene Doran…” Mellisan whispered in a distinctly harsher tone than her normally melodic, sing-song voice.

The elf scowled down at the corpses and didn’t look up to meet the lilland’s gaze as they burned holes into his head.

“We need to consider leaving.” Her voice was tinged softer now, and very much a whisper so as not to be overheard. “If we can’t find the person responsible for this, we have a responsibility to our colleagues and hires to keep them safe.”

“I know that!” Doran snipped back, clenching his left fist in the hem of his robe. “I’m not ready to make that call yet. We’ve faced worse things before. You remember Porphatys, and that’s what lead us here remember? We’re close to deciphering one of the largest remaining mysteries in planar languages!”

The lilland paused, clearly about to say something, but she turned away having evidently felt it better to hold her tongue. Below her waist, her serpentine body curled and twisted, reflecting ambient light in a mixture of green and golden scatters.

“You want to say something Mellisan.”

“You already know what I wanted to say.”

“Am I making a mistake here?” He asked, glancing from the bodies to the bard.

She flicked a wing and drifting closer to put a hand on his shoulder. “That’s neither my call nor my decision. But think about it closely because you’ll have to live with it.”

The lilland gave him a soft embrace and drifted off, back in the direction of the camp’s lights, there to break the news of more killings and to do her best to sooth nerves and fears in its wake.

Doran sighed and watched her leave, “Assuming that I live through it…”


***​

Much like the others before them, the bodies were preserved from decay through magical means, and when they returned to a safer plane, they’d be returned to life. That was the hope at least. Earlier attempts had failed in the same haunting way that divinations had failed.

“I don’t like this at all.” Toras grumbled. “We’re sitting here letting some twisted little prick pick people off at their leisure.”

“Then why don’t we go out and find them?” Florian asked, clenching a mail-covered fist. “Tempus sure as hell wouldn’t want me to sit here and act scared. We should be out looking or setting a trap.”

“We?” Nisha looked up at the cleric as she held Tristol’s tail like an overly fluffy scarf and tickled her nose with its tip. “I’m not so sure about this whole we thing. I’m getting spooked.”

Tristol stroked the back of her head. “Going out into the dark won’t help us find anything when it seems likely that it’s someone inside of our own camp.”

Clueless glanced out at the lights flickering inside of a dozen or more tents. “Hunting them down, I’m not so sure about. Setting a trap though…”

“You have anyone in mind?” Toras asked, with Florian and Fyrehowl looking up with interest.

“Possibly.” The bladesinger frowned. He suspected the shadowdancer, but he couldn’t prove anything yet.

“We might not have to do anything.” Tristol interjected. “I doubt that we’ll be here more than another day or two. Doran and Leobtav have made some really nice leaps in the translation of the gautish text.”

Conversation trailed off and they went their separate ways. Clueless wandered through the camp, looking for various persons and quietly asking about what they’d been up to in the past day. Toras and Florian both did the same on their own, while Tristol and Nisha wandered back to Leobtav’s tent –mostly so Nisha could play with his familiar- and Fyrehowl simply tried to relax. 

Every time the lupinal closed her eyes though, she felt she was being watched and her ears would twitch as if alerted from some odd, unnatural sound in the distance. It was unnerving, and Tristol would have noticed the same thing except he hadn’t yet tried to sleep. The line of text from the Crag that they’d read, concentrated upon, and indeed been touched by, they would discover its impact in due time alongside other events swiftly building to a climax. 


***​

Later that day they all tried to take their minds off of the murders and several of them took the time to study more on the gautish text that the expedition had searched for and found at great cost. Both Leobtav and Highsilver had been pouring over it, comparing their ideas, and glancing over a multitude of references in books that sprawled across both of their tents. Tentatively they were making some progress, but it was proving to be much more difficult than they originally thought.

“I’m just not sure that the original text that we copied from the tunnel is accurate.” Leobtav grimaced and tapped his fingers on the table.

Doran looked at him over a pile of books as the professor’s familiar stared out into the darkness, preoccupied and afraid. The tiny dragon still couldn’t talk more about what he might have known or seen. But he didn’t seem to want to stay in their present location.

Milling about the tent, looking out into the dark as well, or simply listening to the expedition leaders’ talk, most of the other hires had assembled, with Tristol and Clueless paying especial attention.

“How so?” Doran asked. “The text was absolutely crisp for its age. It barely seems to have suffered any erosion, and no intentional damage despite its age.”

“The letters are old, and I’m starting to think that the original tiere alphabet lacked diacritical marks.”

“I’m not sure I get where you’re going with that.” Highsilver scratched his head, while behind him, having overheard the conversation, Tristol winced at the implication.

“The text is written in gautish, but I think that it’s expressing a text that was originally composed in the tiere language. It isn’t pure, and what we’re seeing was composed at a time when the gautiere had evolved and diverged from its original form. What we have are diacritical marks on our transcript…”

“And the original didn’t.” Tristol finished his thought for him. “And what we have may have applied them in such a way to partially garble the text it was attempting to express.”

“Sh*t…” Doran slowly smacked his head into the stack of books.

“It’s going to take more time to figure this out.” The professor sighed. “Our transcript doesn’t take some of the spacing and positioning into full account, and that’s going to be needed in the next day or two.”

“I want to leave…”

“Darkness is boring…” Nisha added in.

“Honestly I think we’ll make some better headway on this once we’re back at the institute. It’s a lot more comfortable than a tent in the middle of Pandemonium.”

Ficklebarb looked up and smiled, though he was still looking under the weather.

Looking over from where he slouched against the far wall, Frollis nodded in agreement, “Best idea that I’ve heard in a damn long while.”

“We don’t want her bored.” Tristol interjected, pointing at Nisha.

Quietly, Leobtav donned a pair of pristine white gloves for no apparent reason.

“I agree.” Highsilver concurred. “About leaving, not the tiefling being bored. We’ve already accomplished everything we came here to do, and staying here just puts us unnecessarily at further risk. And we have more than one person to resurrect once we’re back. Hopefully in the next few days we can have everything wrapped up and be ready to head back.”

Without prior explanation once again Leobtav stood up and walked over to the tiefling. 

“Hi!” Nisha looked up and smiled.

The professor frowned disapprovingly and held out his gloved hands.

“What?” Nisha gave a quizzical look before suddenly remembering something. “Oh, yeah, that…”

Calmly, gingerly Leobtav removed a rare volume of the 1st edition of Asterguard’s ‘Languages and Dialects of the Arcadian/Mithardiir Wastes’ from the xaositect’s hands as she produced the book from the depths of a portable hole residing on the top of her head.

“Sorry about that…”

The professor said not a word but shook his head and sighed. Ficklebarb giggled for his own part.

Frollis took a sip of whiskey and broke the silence, “What was that about, and what happens if she gets bored?”

“Nothing good happens apparently!” Leobtav answered, glaring back at the tiefling. “That was in a locked case…”

Nisha grinned. Her tanar’ri ancestors couldn’t have done a much better job.



***​

High above the crag, peering down through the darkness like a subterranean bird of prey, a gaunt and emaciated figure flapped its membranous wings and rose on a sharp updraft. One of the varrangoin, its kind were ancient when the first tanar’ri emerged to seize control of the Abyss, but in the eons since that time they now lived as exiles within their own home plane, and it, Zoragothmrrus, dwelled in exile within Pandemonium. The savage wonders of the Abyss -the original Abyss- were but a distant memory to even the legends told by the eldest of its tribe. Hissing at the thought, it gazed down at the Titan’s grave, the Pheonix’s Tomb, the Mountain of Dead Words  –it had a thousand different names-  and paused. 

It should have turned back, the bebeliths hungered and despite his height above the towering edifice, it knew that it wasn’t safe. But something told it otherwise. Hitting a second up thrust of air it inhaled deeply, sifting through the scents of ancient dust, freshly spilt bebelith blood, wood smoke, tobacco, wine, gruel, and other, non-native smells that wafted up from the sheltered basin at the Crag’s base. 

The demon-hunters were dead. All of them. New flesh claimed the Crag. Zoragothmrrus smiled and shrieked at the top of its lungs, piercing the air with a wild, ecstatic cry that went unheard except for his multitude of kin that prowled the tunnels a league distant. Their prey upon the ground heard nothing above the howling winds, and even if the winds had been silenced, their ears would never have detected it as anything but a buzzing such was its pitch. They would be oblivious till death came for them.


***​

-insert varangoin attack


***​

Zoragothmrrus bled heavily upon the stone, washing the rock with sticky, black ichor that stank of rot and copper. The celestial had deeply wounded his side, and had he not managed to take to the air and escape beyond the range of their lights, the lupinal would surely have ended his life between her teeth or her blade.

Claws dug into the stone and the arcanist varangoin screamed with rage and bruised pride as much as from the considerable pain of his wounds.

“Stupid guardinal b*itch! I will…”

Abruptly the fiend paused.

He was not alone. 

There was another creature present. No, more than one, multiple creatures. He could smell them over the reek of his own blood. The most prominent was dragging another, presumably a victim of one of Zoragothmrrus’s brethren and he was breathing heavily from the burden. Providence had delivered more victims. His tribe would be avenged for their losses this day.

The varangoin twisted in place, turning towards the other and gasping with a deep wince of pain. He snarled and hissed a death curse at the outline of a single humanoid figure and the body that lay limply at his feet.

“Die mortal wrech! Die for the…”

Calmly, coldly the mortal cut him off.

“You are not one of mine,” The mortal spoke in fluent varangoin, “But you will suffice all the same.”

Zoragothmrrus paused, taken utterly aback by his would-be victim’s attitude and the very fact that he spoke his tongue, something that would never be taught to a mortal. Something was wrong. Another voice was whispering something, and then the man snarled a response back into the darkness.

“Who are you?” Zoragothmrrus clawed the ground with uncertainty, hoping to show a position of strength and hide his wounded status. “How do you know the tongue of the people of the Abyssal skies?”

The mortal looked down at the body at his feet and then back at the fiend. He smiled and the distant light sparkled in perfect circles. Again he spoke in the fiend’s tongue with perfect fluency, “My master cares neither for them, nor for you.”

Zoragothmrrus never had the chance to react as the man opened his mouth and a gout of liquid shadows erupted like a hundred knife blades, lancing into his dying form and a hundred hands cupped to receive his blood. His killer would be painting tonight with the blood of more than one victim.


***​


----------



## Shemeska

Another update for you. Might be a little while before another, because I have three freelance projects coming up before the end of the year.


----------



## Tal Rasha

Good stuff Shemeska. More and more curious.


----------



## Tsuga C

*Who Dunnit?*

My money is on the cleric of Thoth or one of the associate scholars, but I wouldn't wager too much.  Shemeska is moving a lot of players around the board and there's power afoot that can't be linked to anyone directly...yet.


----------



## Factioneer

Hi Shemmie, long time fan here.

 Dropped by to tell you that you may be interested/horrified to know that I've been writing a Planescape crossover fanfiction with My Little Pony, with you as undoubtedly my biggest formative influence on the Planescape side of things. I'm so sorry.


----------



## Voran Mith'aj

I have created a (monster) LaTeX-generated PDF of the story thus far, everyone can find and download it here:

https://dl.dropbox.com/s/43dk2m7vn7cfvsn/shemeskas_psh.pdf

It's rough, and only a first pass. I am happy to take suggestions and editing advice, especially from the author. 

Enjoy.


----------



## Shemeska

Factioneer said:


> Hi Shemmie, long time fan here.
> 
> Dropped by to tell you that you may be interested/horrified to know that I've been writing a Planescape crossover fanfiction with My Little Pony, with you as undoubtedly my biggest formative influence on the Planescape side of things. I'm so sorry.




Haven't had the chance to read it yet, but...




The Great and Powerful Marauder is mildly amused nonetheless

Friend of mine doing MLP commissions over on DeviantArt. *chuckle*


----------



## 81Dagon

Voran Mith'aj said:


> I have created a (monster) LaTeX-generated PDF of the story thus far, everyone can find and download it here:
> 
> https://dl.dropbox.com/s/43dk2m7vn7cfvsn/shemeskas_psh.pdf
> 
> It's rough, and only a first pass. I am happy to take suggestions and editing advice, especially from the author.
> 
> Enjoy.




Awesome job!


----------



## Belabras

I'm all but certain the mysterious killer is Doran.


----------



## Shemeska

Update relatively soon.

However I also realized that at some point I accidentally changed the lilland's name from Larill Moonshadow (who we first met while she was on the Infinite Staircase being watched by the Wanderer) to Mellisan. Taking a year + break from writing the SH apparently will do that when you start writing without referencing notes and just go by memory. I have no idea how that happened, and since I can't search through the thread, it's going to take a while to go back through and change it to what it should be.

And the speculation on the killer's identity is awesome, and more hints and then a reveal in the next two updates.


----------



## Shemeska

They’d been lucky. That certainty rang like a single, clear warning bell through all of their minds as they clustered together in the middle of the camp: staff, scholars, hired support, and mercenaries alike. Somehow they hadn’t suffered any losses in what seemed to have been a single charmed moment granted by Pandemonium’s fickle and too often cruel whimsy.

Around them the camp was a wreck. Several tents had collapsed and caught on fire, burning most of their contents to cinders. Several others sported holes in their coverings and snapped supports when one or another varangoin had tumbled from the black, howling vault that stretched out above, dead or dying.

They’d been lucky this time. The next time might not be so charmed.

Clueless looked out across the wrecked camp and cleaned Razor’s bloody length on a snarled length of tent fabric. “We can’t stay here anymore.”

Toras, Fyrehowl, and several others turned and nodded in the bladesinger’s direction. They were thinking the exact same thing.

“It’s too open and not defensible.” Clueless continued. “The past day alone should make that abundantly clear.”

“Where do you suggest we go?” Fyrehowl asked.

“Sigil?” Nisha quipped, somewhat genuine in a desire to leave.

Tristol ruffled her hair. “Soon enough.”

Nisha stuck out her tongue, but didn’t otherwise hamper the discussion about what they best ought to do in light of the current state of the camp, and likely future problems. As they talked, members of the expeditions began gathering around them, and more than anything else came repeated calls that they simply go home. Both Doran and Leobtav did their best to immediately shoot the idea down as untenable, especially as they were almost finished with their work, and besides, they hadn’t suffered any casualties in the varangoin attack.

“We can take shelter in some of the caves near the base of the Crag.”

“Say what?!” One of the cartographers shouted. “You want us to go where?! We haven’t explored a tenth of that honeycombed deathtrap! We don’t have a clue what’s lurking there!”

Toras spread his arms and motioned to tamp down the scholar’s protestations. “There won’t be anything much lurking around the caves where the bebeliths were lairing.”

As ludicrous as it sounded, Toras had a point.

“Excuse me?” The cartographer asked, knowing virtually nothing about the Abyssal spiders and what exactly they hunted and ate.

Nisha grinned and proceeded to pantomime the itsy-bitsy spider up Tristol’s arm, muttering the lyrics in Abyssal to be as ironic as possible. Tristol did his best not to laugh.

“No, he’s right.” Clueless nodded at the half-celestial. “Bebeliths eat demons, and they’ll have scared away anything from lairing near their caves.”

Toras continued his explanation to the gathering crowd. “We’ve already mapped that whole local cave system. We cleared out the webbing and we made certain to destroy any eggs that we found. There’s nothing left alive in there, and it only has a single entrance. We can defend it easily and we can monitor who goes in and out. It’s the safest place to be.”

Murmurs of discontent shifted to mild discomfort and then slowly to wary optimism.

Toras turned to the expedition’s leaders and looked for confirmation on the plan. Doran and Leobtav took a moment to converse between themselves, seemingly debating a few points of order. Eventually they reconciled on whatever worries or disagreements they had about the idea of moving the campsite and they both turned and nodded in agreement.

Everything seemed to be settled then, and word began to disseminate as to their plans as everyone gathered together in the center of the wrecked campsite. Everything seemed to be going as well as it could, given the current circumstances. That didn’t last long.

One of the support staff, a rather rotund arcadian dwarf who served as one of the camp porters, raised a hand. “We can’t find Hedra.”

“Hedra? Who the hell is Hedra?” Frollis mused with more than a little indifference as he emerged out of a patch of darkness, probably having been standing there, paradoxically unseen in plain view for the past few minutes.

Nisha gently kicked the shadowdander and glared at him somewhat uncharacteristically. He winced, waved her off, and rolled his eyes once he’d turned away and she couldn’t see his response. A scattering of various voices informed him of just who she was.

“One of the camp cooks.”

“Did she make that cured leomarsh stew the other day?”

“Yeah, that was Hedra’s.”

“Crap…”

“She’s missing, or she’s dead?”

“Don’t know. Her tent burned down along with a lot of supplies, but we didn’t find a body yet.”

Leobtav sighed and glanced out in the direction of the Crag. “One of the varangoins must have managed to get away. It might have snatched her as it flew off.”

Doran winced. “So much for no casualties. But I’ll look through her tent and see if there’s anything left with a decent enough personal connection to her. I’ll try to divine where her corpse is, if nothing else we’ll know with some certainty what happened.”

Up on Leobtav’s shoulder, Ficklebarb sulked. “Why did she have to die? She was really nice, and I really liked her stew.”

Leobtav rubbed the pseudodragon’s chin and turned to his colleage, “Please do, as soon as you have a free moment. And if you need help, I’m available once I can assign someone to pack up the contents of my tent for moving. Hopefully we won’t need to stay in the caves for very long.”

Ficklebarb fluttered off again, leaving the two leaders of the expedition to their own devices. Around them, their demoralized employees and hires trudged through the remains of their tents and stored supplies, gathering what was salvageable. Leobtav handled most of their direction, and letting the elf go about his divinations on their lost cook.

Over the next few hours, they managed to pack everything that was needed for a few more days of work, and small group by small group, they traveled to the base of the Crag and the cave that would be their home, albeit hopefully a temporary one. Under orders from Leobtav, none of the groups went without at least a two person escort from the group’s mercenaries, and groups were limited to one at a time lest the former main camp be entirely divested of protection.

Whispers and rumors filled the air with relatively quick succession, with many of the expedition’s scholars openly wondering if the cook had indeed been carried off by a varangoin, or if she’d been yet another victim of the killer that had been stalking the group from somewhere out in the dark.


***​

Doran sighed as he gingerly made his way through the presumably deceased Hedra’s ruined tent. Half of it had burned to ashes and the rest lay beneath a tangled mess of broken tent supports and tangled canvas. Soot caked the diviner’s hands and patches of his robes as he searched for something like a hairbrush, a favored kitchen knife, or a personal memento that he could use to scry upon the woman or most likely, her corpse.

A movement in the corner of his eyes caused him to glance up as Ficklebarb landed on a stack of precariously balanced stewpots. The tiny dragon glanced around at the cook’s despoiled tent and lowered his head down, sulking in draconic fashion.

“We’re not going to be safe are we?”

Ficklebarb didn’t seem healthy, and it showed in more than just his worried question. The pseudodragon seemed thinner, his scales having lost a bit of their color. Rather than a vibrant red, they seemed pale, almost jaundiced, on his underbelly.

“We should be safe in the caves.” Doran said, pausing his search to address the dragon. “But you don’t look well.”

Ficklebarb didn’t respond.

“You know you can talk to me if you want.”

Ficklebarb looked away and nervously stepped side to side on the pot he perched atop. It almost seemed as if he wanted to talk, but couldn’t.

Doran stared at the familiar, silently urging him to talk. He’d avoided demanding that the dragon tell him what he’d seen. All he knew was that Ficklebarb had apparently witnessed one of the killings done by the “bad man”. Yet since then he’d never mentioned it except in extreme circumspection. Was the pseudodragon under some sort of magical compulsion? A geas?

“Doran!” A voice called out to the elf and drew his attention away.

Gingerly stepped across the remains of an adjacent tent, Settys the Thothite cleric raised his voice.

“You’re needed back at your tent. Leobtav wants everything packed up and ready to go, and we’ve got two porters waiting for you to tell them what should be packed and what left behind.”

Doran nodded and looked back at Ficklebarb. The dragon said nothing, and only have a cursory glance at Settys.

“I’m pretty much done here.” Doran called out to the priest. “Wait for me, I’ll be there in a moment.”

Settys waved and then smiled at Ficklebarb. No longer his normal self, the familiar looked away and continued his uncharacteristic silence.

Ficklebarb watched as the elf gathered together what he’d found in the tent and departed with Settys back to his own tent, one of the few that remained standing. The pseudodragon winced and frowned in obvious discomfort, inhaling in sharp, stunted movements. He needed to warn everyone, he needed to tell them to leave, to go away, but he couldn’t. It hurt when he tried.

“Help me Doran…” The pseudodragon whimpered just above a whisper. “You’ve always been my friend. Please help me.”


***​

Several hours later, the camp was deserted. Anything vitally important had been moved to their new, hopefully temporary, camp in one of the smaller and easily defensible caves near the base of the Crag. Tristol and Fyrehowl stood outside, watching the perimeter and making sure that no one entered or left without their movements being tracked.

Ever so faintly a long, high-pitched howl carried on the wind, rising just barely above Pandemonium’s perpetual derecho. Several seconds later it repeated.

“What in the 9 Hells was that?” Tristol asked, glancing over at the lupinal.

Fyrehowl’s ears twitched and she squinted, looking into the distance. Slowly, emerging out of the darkness just on the edge of the limits of vision, she watched as drifting phosphor lights radiated and vanished, only to reappear elsewhere from the gloom. Cold, sickly, and greenish they emerged in time with the faint howling they’d heard, slowly gaining in volume but still at barely a whisper over the wind.

“You seeing that too Tristol?”

The aasimar nodded. Goosbumps covered his skin and next to him, Fyrehowl’s fur bristled with unease.

The howling continued, and though it might have been an artifact from the surrounding wind, it broke apart into a staccato pattern. If they didn’t know any better, the howling seemed almost like the eerie laughter of a mad ghost.

So intent upon staring at the ghostly lights drifting in the distance, emerging and sublimating into the darkness, neither Tristol nor Fyrehowl noticed Florian emerge from the cave behind them. The cleric glanced at them, and then into the black, featureless vault as well, studying it for a few seconds and then looking back at the two of them with a look of confusion playing across her face.

“Guys? You two alright?”

Tristol yelped and Fyrehowl briefly dropped into a crouched, defensive posture.

Florian backed up, surprised at their reaction. They’d been so transfixed on well, something, out there in the dark that neither of them had even noticed her approach. And they had ears easily five times the size of hers.

“Did you see that/Did you hear that?!” Both of them shouted a once with a garbled jumble of words and worries tumbling out of their mouths afterwards.

“Did I see what?” Florian asked. She gave them another odd look, and in return they glanced warily at each other. Clearly the cleric hadn’t seen anything out there in the darkness.

“Nothing...” Tristol said, his ears drooping. “We’ve been awake too long and we thought we saw something out there in the darkness. We probably fell asleep and you woke us up.”

“You both fell asleep? At once?”

Tristol shrugged, “Yeah.”

“…Fyrehowl doesn’t need to sleep.”

The guardinal and the mage nervously and awkwardly stared in silence at Florian.

“We’re just on edge from everything that’s been happening.” Fyrehowl said finally, trying to sound as honest and convincing as she could under the circumstances.

Tristol quickly glanced back into the darkness. Whatever had been there, or perhaps hadn’t been there, was gone. Nothing disturbed the entombed night, and no sounds rose above the wind.

Florian noticed the glance, and despite Fyrehowl’s attempted explanation, she still seemed unconvinced. “Either way, you too look spooked. Why don’t you get some sleep Tristol, and Fyrehowl you go sit down and have a drink. You could use it, and I can spell you on watch. Send someone else out to help me when you’re back inside. Ok?” 

Tristol and Fyrehowl nodded and promised to send someone else back to join the cleric, but as they walked back into the cave, they kept exchanging worried glances. Florian hadn’t seen a thing out there, and so whatever it was, they’d been hallucinating and hearing things. The laughing howls hadn’t been out there in the night, they’d been firmly inside of their heads, and simultaneous for both of them…


****​

Nearby, but caring not in the slightest for the three that stood guard over the cave mouth, a man stood above his most recent work. Standing in the darkness, reaching out with his psyche into his victim’s brain like a puppeteer to a living marionette, the man felt rather than saw his way. He needn’t see to find his way to the aorta, to nick the vessel walls and wash his hands in warm, living blood. A tiny bit of his conscience whimpered, pleading for him to stop but it was far too late for that. This needed to end before they knew too much.

Dragging fingers across the stone, he painted with his victim’s blood, painting glyphs in a tongue that caused the eyes to blur and ache, stressing the senses even in the absence of sight. So aberrant was it that the same small part of him pleading against the bloodshed wanted to run and hide. But he continued, painting the woman’s dying blood onto the walls in versus and prayers that warped the very fabric of the planes, distorting the tenuous connection between the Astral and the layer of Pandemonium that Howler’s Crag existed upon. He smiled as he felt that connection twist and then break, cutting off most any route of egress.

They were trapped. They were his.


****​

Ensconced within the former bebelith hive, the expedition found shelter from the wind even more than the natural depression that served as their previous camp. Despite their worries and their fears, they did their best to make it seem comfortable and homey rather than cold and claustrophobic. In that at least they succeeded. Magical smokeless flames warmed their bodies and tales of their own, individual exploits and stories told both spoken and song by the bard, Larill, warmed their spirits.

They were warm and happy. Protected by walls of stone, wards cast by Doran and Leobtav, and watched over by guards posted at the only entrance in or out of their shelter, they thought themselves safe.

Their precautions were for naught.

The next morning they discovered the cook’s body. A dead varrangoin lay at her feet. The grotesque manner in which it had died made it obvious that the fiend hadn’t been responsible for her murder. Both corpses lay ten yards from the mouth of the group’s new base within the caves, just behind a boulder in view of the entrance. The killer had worked in broad view of his victims, leaving them yet another bloody, mocking present. Except it hadn’t been a bloody present. No exactly.

“We can’t let anyone out of the caves to see this.” Leobtav looked away in disgust.

Toras and Clueless nodded in unison.

The Professor glared off into the distance, sighed, and adjusted his glasses before turning back to them. “And no one on watch last night saw a thing? A little over two dozen feet away and nothing? Nothing heard and nothing seen?”

“Absolutely nothing.” Clueless admitted. “I already spoke with Fyrehowl and she didn’t smell anything either.”

“The wind wouldn’t have allowed for that,” Leobtav sighed. “So I can hardly blame her on that account. But this is beyond disturbing how they got away with this, and without our being aware.”

“Whoever it was has to have used magic to shield themselves from detection, and presumably they used a spell or some sort of item to leap in and out of the cave.”

Clueless almost added that he suspected some variety of shadow magic to perfectly fit the bill, but he held his tongue as Frollis, Tristol, and Nisha emerged from out of the cave to take their own turn on watch. If the shadowdancer was indeed the killer, they needn’t clue him in on their suspicions.

“Do what you can to clean this up.” Leobtav told them. “If you can find anything they might have left behind, or some damn purpose to all of this, let Doran or I know. Please take your time and try to make some sense of this. If you need me, I’ll either be in the cave with my notes, or back at the Gautish script, taking a second look. I need to try to finish our work as soon as possible. The sooner we can leave, the sooner this here will be behind us.”

They watched their employer leave, looking drained and tired, and then collectively they looked down at what the killer had left behind for them.

The varangoin had been reduced to a pulp, but rather than crushed or mashed as the result of a heavy fall from the sky –as had been the fate of its clanmates- this one had been rendered into hundred of pieces as if it had passed through a cleric’s bladestorm and then been telekinetically drawn back and forth across the line. Yet for all the violence its body had experienced, there wasn’t a stray drop of blood to be found spattered more than an inch or two from its mess of a corpse.

The cook’s body lay splayed on the ground in front of the boulder, motionless. In contrast to the state of the fiend at her feet, at first glance she could have simply been sleeping if not for the scene on the stone behind her, and the condition of her body once fully inspected. Her hands were covered in a sticky coating of blood, but otherwise, nothing was out of place on her hands and feet, nor her head. But underneath her clothing her skin was a mess of hundreds or thousands of tiny cuts and slashes, and one final one between the ribs atop the heart. Somehow, inexplicably, her clothing was itself unspoiled and hadn’t been removed at any point despite the horrors it covered.

“There isn’t a drop of blood left in her.” Tristol said, making a slow circuit around her corpse.

“Not with that mess behind her…” Frollis quipped, drawing a glare from the others.

The shadowdancer had a point though. The boulder was painted with Hedra’s bloody handprints, a horrific garble of twisting symbols and a tracing of legible words, seemingly by her hand as well. She had help however, or something. Clearly she couldn’t have painted herself, without a drop of blood despoiling her clothing, and with having been exsanguinated already by some outside power.

Not all of the handprints on the boulder were human. Some of them were larger, some smaller, others weirdly disproportionate, some like tentacles, others with hideous talons that scraped the stones where they’d left their bloody impression. Traced with the cook’s finger, but not at all in her handwriting –and she wasn’t fluent in celestial which is what the writing was penned in- were the words, “IT SPEAKS.”

Toras gave the text a confused, disdainful look. “What the hell speaks?”

Tristol ignored them and continued looking at the stone.

Nisha winced, “I don’t really care to know.”

Their eyes collectively drifted down the horrific painting to a second line of legible text. Again, written in celestial, a second and different hand picked up in a sort of hellish call and response, “AND I LISTEN.”

“Creeeeepy…” Nisha muttered.

Tristol rubbed the tiefling’s arm reassuringly and then looked uneasily at the other symbols painted onto the rock. The lines in celestial were a taunt, but nothing more. The other symbols were something else entirely. He didn’t recognize them, and he spoke a significant number of languages. That alone would be disturbing enough, but the letters themselves weren’t right. They weren’t normal. They hurt his eyes, and no matter how hard he squinted and tried to focus, they remained blurry, indistinct, and freakishly morphic, refusing any and all comprehension.

“Is it magical?” Toras said, squinting his eyes at the script.

“In my opinion?” Tristol asked. “Yes.”

“In your opinion?” Frollis gave a cough. “That should be a yes or a no. It’s not a subjective thing.”

Tristol’s ears lay back and his tail flicked side to side with confused annoyance. “That’s the thing. It doesn’t register as magical. Yet it moves and blurs and that’s not normal.”

Nisha glanced at the script, briefly crossed her eyes, and looked back at Tristol, “Anytime we’ve seen anything like this, it hasn’t been anything good or safe.”

She thought back to a circle of symbols they’d found miles below UnderSigil, somewhere that might or might not have actually still been within the City of Doors. But unless Her Serenity had gone psychopathic and moved to Pandemonium, they were safe from that being at all connected.

Tristol shivered at the same memory, “Thankfully this looks nothing like, well, *those* symbols.”

Frollis raised an eyebrow. “Something to share?”

Tristol waved it away. “Really old, unknown script we came across a sample of in Sigil. We didn’t mess around with it. But there’s no similarity here. Frankly, I’ve never seen any of these here.”

Conversation trailed off, and their investigation of the bodies began. But other than the gruesome details and unnerving evidence of non-magical magic still in place, they found nothing new, and certainly nothing to indicate the identity of the killer. An hour later they’d cleaned the area, scoured away the blood, and stuffed Hegra’s corpse into a bag of holding for an attempted raising once they were out of harm’s way. Ideally, no one outside of the expedition leadership or their mercenaries would know about what had happened.

The ideal did not happen.


****​

Despite their attempts to keep quiet the fact that they’d found the cook’s body, and that she hadn’t been carried off by one of the varangoin, but by whatever demented killer stalked their group, word managed to spread. In light of that failure, the best that could be done for the moment was to continue posting active watches at the cave’s mouth.

Eager to finish their work and be done with their stay in Pandemonium, Doran and Leobtav set out for the Crag early in the day. Trying to strike a balance between protecting themselves and ensuring maximum security at the cave, they took along Larill, Tristol, Toras, and a select few scholars, heading back up to the cave with the sample of Gautish script. Everyone else stayed behind, closely under guard. Remarkably, blessedly, nothing awry occurred. With luck, the extra security and lack of any outside disturbances had stymied the killer.

Six hours later the group returned from the Crag. Tired from their trek up and down the artificial mountain, except for the lilland, they put away their things or simply dropped them on the floor, and retired to sleep. Larill remained awake, but retired to a smaller, side chamber to meditate away from the rest of the expedition and their noise.

As for the rest of the expedition, they passed away their time in the cave in various pursuits, ranging from cards, dice, drinking, smoking just inside the cave entrance –much to Frollis and Fyrehowl’s chagrin as that particular crowd expanded- and for a number of others, talking and storytelling around an illusory campfire.

One of the camp cooks went first, telling a story about his first job with the Institute, and how it was both an amazing adventure, a professional delight, and absolutely ten times worse than anything that they had experienced thus far in Pandemonium. He was one of the Institute’s longstanding employees, and as such, his tale was new to most of those gathered around the fire. His tale started out at the end of a branch of the World Ash where it dipped into the incarnate Chaos of Limbo.

“The Pinwheel?”

“The Pinwheel.” The cook confirmed. “Thirty of us went there looking for a parasitic plant, akin to mistletoe, that colonized that patch of Limbo from Yggdrasil. It didn’t stay the same after a few generations, and the Fraternity of Order was paying us good jink to bring back samples from closer to and further out from the Tree. If you ask me, they weren’t paying us nearly enough.”

The cook took a long drink from a silver flask of some variety of brandy and then offered it around for anyone else before he continued.

“So yes. They sent us to the damn Pinwheel.”

“That place is so damn fun!”

Heads turned to a beaming, suddenly excited Nisha as she fiddled with the cap on the cook’s brandy flask. She’d been to the Pinwheel before.

“Fun?” The cook shot the tiefling an incredulous expression.”You’ve been there?”

“Yep!” Nisha took a long sip. “A couple times actually.” She took another sip. “First time it was by accident actually and the portal was one way. But at least I got to visit the ratatosks.” Sip number three. “But then they marched me back to Limbo and I had to wait a few weeks for a portal to open to get back to Sigil. That was a really fun vacation.”

Sip number four.

“A fun vacation?” The cook looked at Nisha like she had a hole in her head. “When you’ve encountered chaos beasts, a drunken githzerai, a sky that randomly changes color and induces nausea if you look at it too long, weather that includes random substances falling from the sky, and an amorous green slaad, you…”

“Oh you met Brimblembumb!” Nisha quipped, suddenly much more chipper and jangling the bell at the end of her tail. Clearly she’d met the slaad in question.

Sip five.

“Brimbl… who?”

“The green slaad. You called him amorous. That’s probably an understatement, but yeah, you met him. How was he?”

Tristol deftly snatched the flask of booze before the tiefling took a sip number six. Xaositects were Xaositects, and so was Nisha, and a tipsy Nisha was liable to end nowhere good for anyone, especially when the words ‘amorous green slaad’ were part of her story.

The cook sputtered and rapidly regained his role as speaker, leaving it up to Tristol to handle the tiefling. True to form she ignored the cook and bothered the aasimar who took away the brandy, briefly doing her best ‘amorous slaad’ impression on his cheek. Tristol blushed furiously, but most of the crowd seemed to be following the cook’s continuing story. 

Except for Florian and Clueless. They snickered and pointed for the remainder of the cook’s story.

“And that’s why I’m never ever going back to Limbo.” The cook exclaimed, wrapping up his story. “So called stable patch of the plane… hah!”

Another of the expedition associates coughed and gained everyone’s attention. No longer playing kissy slaad with Tristol’s cheek, Nisha wrinkled her face, having clearly wanted to be the next storyteller. The man who’d coughed, an elven-blooded aasimar –a historian by profession- wore a wry grin on his face.

“I was there at the Pinwheel, and yes it was annoying. But I’ve been here longer than you. I was there in Porphatys along with quite a few others here still now, and ten years before that I was there when we went to Gehenna searching after a tumble of ruins on one of the lower furnaces. Only a handful of people still with the Institute were there, but if you ask them, they’re tell you how bad it was. That is, if they’re willing to talk about it.”

“So how many people did you lose?” The cook asked, taking a sip of his own brandy as it made its way back.

“That’s the thing, we didn’t actually lose anyone, but there were some really, really close calls. We came damn close to losing most of us to ‘loths on the way in and the way out. For whatever reason they never ventured close to where we were going, but getting there and getting out… very close calls.”

Several faces around the fire twitched at the very mention of the word ‘loth. They’d had their fill of them in the past year and wanted precious little to ever do with them again.

“You say you didn’t lose anyone, so how was it worse than the Pinwheel?” Another associate asked, pulling a blanket over his shoulders. “Actually, for that matter, how is it any worse than where we are now?”

“Pandemonium on its own is bad. It’s dark, the wind can make you deaf, the tunnels can drive you insane, and things lurk around every hidden corner waiting to kill and devour you. Gehenna on its own just ups the open level of danger and the outright malevolence of the natives; it doesn’t want to drive you insane, it just wants to hurt and exploit you.”  The historian brushed a strand of hair back from his eyes. “But where we went on Mungoth wasn’t like that. It was almost like someone had taken a patch of the Waste and vomited it up on the slopes of the third furnace. It drained off life and hope as much as the cold drained away warmth.”

“And I’ve been to the Waste too.” Another associate countered. “But what made this place special and worse than anything else in Gehenna or the Waste?”

“Well for starters the whole damn place was overrun by phiuls.” The aasimar let that sink in for a moment. Phiuls were an enigma because their origins weren’t known, they didn’t fit well into the cycle of souls on the lower planes, and precious little was known about their nature because of their aggression and life-draining touch. At least you could bargain with a ‘loth.

“We didn’t expect the phiuls, but we managed to avoid them somehow. I mentioned that we didn’t suffer any deaths, but that’s not entirely correct.”

“So what exactly happened.”

“No one died there, but several men and women came back completely mad in the head. One of them eventually came around, but he never spoke about it again or just what had happened when he touched one of the statues that he’d come across. Another one killed himself, or at least we think he did. The barmy threw himself over the edge of the torus in Sigil.”

Eyes around the fire went wide.

“Another one went to the madhouse.” The historian lamented. “Lasted a few years and then just stopped eating. He’s no longer with us either.”

He let it sink in and accepted the cook’s offered flask of brandy, toasting the dead and damaged before taking a long swig and offering it back. The flask made a circuit around the fire but was drained before it went halfway around.

“What were you there looking for?” Tristol asked.

“We went there hunting for some pretty damn obscure history,” He explained. “But we never actually found it. The ruins we found didn’t have a single damn connection to the particular would-be god who’d stolen a parcel of divinity from his former patron and then hoped to make it big on one of the Lower Planes. Absolutely no link.”

“So what was there?” Florian prompted as she passed around a bottle of her own.

“Ruins older than anything I’ve ever seen. Statues that looked like they’d all been actual people turned to stone. The whole place was bone-chillingly cold –colder than Krangath even- and utterly silent except for the crunch of ashes and frost under your boots.”

“Statues?” Several around the circle asked, puzzled, intrigued, and unnerved. The flickering shadows cast by their own forms and the firelight didn’t help.

“They were the damndest things, and they littered the place. There were some fiends, but the ones that I saw and really got a good look at as far as we bothered to venture into the place were celestials; and all kinds too. I saw everything from lantern archons to solars, leonals to coures, and everything in-between.”

Fyrehowl involuntarily whimpered. “Someone went mad from touching one of them?”

“He said they’d been whispering to him.”

The lupinal cocked her head sideways, confused and distinctly unnerved, “Whispering or not, you can’t petrify a celestial.”

“I didn’t say they were stone.” The historian explained, taking a drink from Florian’s bottle, now disturbed by his own memories and telling of them. “If you had to ask me, they’d been burned to ashes and frozen in place.”


****​


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## Tsuga C

Shemeska said:


> The lupinal cocked her head sideways, confused and distinctly unnerved, “Whispering or not, you can’t petrify a celestial.”
> 
> “I didn’t say they were stone.” The historian explained, taking a drink from Florian’s bottle, now disturbed by his own memories and telling of them. “If you had to ask me, they’d been burned to ashes and frozen in place.”
> 
> 
> ****​




Memorable stuff, King of the Crosstrade.  *tips hat*  This storyhour just keeps getting better and better.


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## Shemeska

Tsuga C said:


> Memorable stuff, King of the Crosstrade.  *tips hat*  This storyhour just keeps getting better and better.




Thank you! 

And since this storyhour has been to a lot of places, the place that was just talked about around the fire, the "Vale of Frozen Ashes" is the same location that was mentioned in a flashback just prior to the Pandemonium arc, and in the first post of the SH itself where the baernaloth 'The Chronicler' was. This will be connecting to the rest of the plot in a very large way.


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## Tsuga C

Yes, I recognized it immediately and that bodes ill for our party.  One does not lightly brush up against events that old (eons?) and malefic without some sort of contamination or fallout.


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## Band2

I have not checked the storyhour in a while and when I do I see a couple of updates. They are great as always Shemeska. That inspired me to go back and reread your storyhour from the beginning. I am not that familiar with the planescape lore. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions as I progress through the storyhour?

I have to give credit to your players. They are a very ingenious group. Not just hack and slash to solve every problem. They have run from fights, bribed their opponent, used stealth to get pass others, and fought when they need to. Sounds like a fun group to game with.

The characters are interesting too. The first time through I was very interested in Clueless and Tristol. The second time I find myself following Toras and Fyrehowl closer. But I am still confused as to what Toras is. He is an aasimar that is half-quesar? I do not know what a quesar is. Also his class. He is called a fighter, not a paladin, but many of his abilities are similiar to a paladin's. Are they from a prestige class or are they racial abilities?

One last question, how far along in the campaign are we in pandemonium? Are we half way through?


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## Shemeska

Band2 said:


> I have not checked the storyhour in a while and when I do I see a couple of updates. They are great as always Shemeska. That inspired me to go back and reread your storyhour from the beginning. I am not that familiar with the planescape lore. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions as I progress through the storyhour?




Ask away 



> I have to give credit to your players. They are a very ingenious group. Not just hack and slash to solve every problem. They have run from fights, bribed their opponent, used stealth to get pass others, and fought when they need to. Sounds like a fun group to game with.




My players were and are awesome. I will admit to occasionally putting them in situations well beyond their capacity to fight, and they routinely thought up some pretty ingenious ways out of it, or way that had them come out on top.



> The characters are interesting too. The first time through I was very interested in Clueless and Tristol. The second time I find myself following Toras and Fyrehowl closer. But I am still confused as to what Toras is. He is an aasimar that is half-quesar? I do not know what a quesar is. Also his class. He is called a fighter, not a paladin, but many of his abilities are similiar to a paladin's. Are they from a prestige class or are they racial abilities?




Toras was a half-celestial, not an aasimar. And a quesar was an obscure 2e celestial. Most of his obscure abilities are from his template. He was a CG fighter with later some other stuff thrown in, but I'd need to look back to my notes.



> One last question, how far along in the campaign are we in pandemonium? Are we half way through?




Around the halfway point, yes.

And look for an update in the next week.


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## Band2

Shemeska said:


> Ask away
> 
> And look for an update in the next week.





I look forward to it.  I have my guess as to who the murderer is.  Originally I was thinking the lilland, but since you pointed out the name confusion/change, I figure you would not make such a mistake with her name if she were the murderer.  So I am going with Leobtav.


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## Clueless

Band2 said:


> I have to give credit to your players. They are a very ingenious group. Not just hack and slash to solve every problem. They have run from fights, bribed their opponent, used stealth to get pass others, and fought when they need to. Sounds like a fun group to game with.




Much belated thanks for that complement.  At this time in our gaming group we were playing DnD the way other groups play Shadowrun. Lots of planning, and canny side-ways solutions.


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## Toras

Shemeska said:


> Ask away
> Toras was a half-celestial, not an aasimar. And a quesar was an obscure 2e celestial. Most of his obscure abilities are from his template. He was a CG fighter with later some other stuff thrown in, but I'd need to look back to my notes.




To provide a bit more detail.  Quesar's are pseudo-construct CG celestials that show up on a wide range of planes.  They basically go buck wild/crazy when encounter any manner of evil and when they decide they are ready to die, they descend into the lower planes and go on a one celestial killing spree until someone manages to bring them down.  Technically they can't have offspring, but the idea was that Andros (his deity went all Isaac on them in return for their sacrifice and service). Basically Scarlet Witch + Vision only if the vision was 

Toras's base personality and religion were designed around Alexander Anderson (from Hellsing), or rather a church were he was a normal card member.  Orphanages and schools on one hand, bloody handed avengers of the innocent on the other.  

Toras has a number of odd abilities.
1) Half-Celestial Template (Healing goodies + a few other nifties)
2) Custom Class - (Half the abilities related to protecting children/other Half made for murder)
3) Divine Champion (Eventually)
4) Aasmar feats (from Forgotten Realm)


----------



## Shemeska

“Ultimately though, we got out of that forsaken place. I don’t know its origin or its history, and I’m not honestly sure that I actually –do- want to know. And that’s saying something for someone who’s a historian by trade.”

Having concluded his story, the aasimar-elf historian resumed a more comfortable stance and let someone else pick up the metaphorical baton. Nisha’s eyes lit up again, and once again she was sniped.

“And with that horrible tale and one of nearly the same level before it, I do think that it’s time for something a bit more uplifting.”

All eyes turned up towards Larill’s song-like voice. The lilland smiled as she drifted in from out of the dark, setting golden reflections scattering off of her scales from the firelight.

“I thought you were off meditating?” Tristol asked as Larill looked for some place to fit into the circle. Wings and a serpentine lower body didn’t always make for the best maneuvering in tight quarters.

“I was, but I finished and well, none of the lillendi can ever pass up the opportunity to share stories. So here I am.”

“And you apparently can’t pass up the chance to not let me talk…” Nisha whispered. “Grumble. Mutter.”

“I can’t really share any tales of existential horror. I’m from the Upper Planes and I’ve done my best to avoid the Blood War and most of the less pleasant regions of the planes for most of my existence. But I can share more than a few stories from centuries of telling stories and singing songs while mortals in the audience got roaring drunk and proceeded to make memorable fools of themselves; that I have a wealth of.”

“Where’d that flask of brandy go?” Someone called out. “Let’s have it around again. This is going to be good.”

“History repeats itself!” Larill gave a chuckle and a wry grin. “We need some levity, a lack of brevity, and the brandy can’t hurt developing either of those. So please let me lighten the mood as best that I can.”

The assembled circle of speakers and listeners moved and adjusted, clearing the winged and serpent-tailed celestial a space to coil her lower body and join them. Nisha on the other hand was pouting.

“…Dumb celestial snake. With wings. And shinier hair than me…” The tiefling muttered under her breath, with an absolutely sour expression on her face, like she’d bitten into a filth-lemon from Cathrys.

If Larill heard Nisha, she didn’t say a word in response, instead setting about her story for the assembled crowd as they eagerly jostled for a better position to listen and watch.

“You can be next, I promise.” Tristol said, giving Nisha a hug. She muttered something in response that he couldn’t make out, but she did at least return the hug.

The audience settled in to listen to the bard.

“Perhaps you’ve heard of Whistling Niim and the drunken imp?” Larill asked her audience. Not a single hand was raised, and the bard didn’t miss a beat. “Good! Because that’s totally not the story I have to tell!”

Several chuckles erupted around the campfire and the lillend smiled broadly before continuing.

“You see, nine years ago I was present in Arborea’s Gilded Hall, the Sensate post unofficially reserved for shuffling off the more hedonistic and less ideologically devoted members of the faction. I was there for a week doing a stint as storyteller in residence, and on one particular evening…”

True to her race and her profession’s reputation, the lillend was a very fine storyteller, being a trained bard and a celestial of a variety that epitomized the act of creation and imagination in many of its facets. The group’s hired mercenaries hadn’t been able to really get to know her in depth over the duration of their work since her role was largely non-combat. Doran and Leobtav had hired her primarily to supplement and bolster the moral of the scholars and support staff who by and large weren’t prepared for the horrors that Pandemonium presented; by all accounts she’d been doing a very, very good job.

“…at which point the brandy had already begun to flow and the room was filled with laughter.” Larill continued, stifling a few chuckles of her own, having lived the very tale she told. “Now present that evening while I played an arcadian lute –something rather beautiful despite the stodgy reputation of its natal plane- was a young human woman by the name of Elliusandra Willowbranch, born William Willowbranch.”

“Obvious or not?” One of the sages asked.

Larill flashed a wry grin, “Not at all obvious unless you took her home and ravished her, even if you were entirely sober. Sober however was something that Elliusandra –bless her heart- was very much not that evening.”

“Why the grin…?” Toras asked. “There’s some other detail here that we’re missing.”

Larill blushed, “The detail upon which my story predicates is that dear Elliusandra fancied herself an Erin Montgomery impersonator.”

Silence descended upon the assembled crowd as they took in the name and what it promised to portend. Nisha snickered softly.

“Yes, at that time it was Factol Erin Montgomery. To much of the tipsy crowd it very much appeared that a rosy-cheeked and brandy-loosened Factol of the Society of Sensation had crashed the party in a low-cut dress.”

Clueless snickered, “Oh my…”

“Now unbeknownst to Elliusandra or anyone else at that party was a small but ultimately noteworthy thing: Factol Montgomery had made plans to attend as well, hoping to listen to my playing, and hoping to meet a number of new faction members with perhaps overly ambitious aspirations of factotum.”

“Oh gods above, below, and elsewhere…” Florian muttered. “This could not have ended well.”

“It gets better.” Larill promised, “It gets immensely better, because prior to Erin’s arrival, our dear faux-but-fetching-Erin-double had the opportunity to partake in body-shots of ysgardian mead. In the course of an hour she enjoyed taking them off of a young elven man, a tiefling bard, and even a stone statue of a rather well endowed bariuar.”

“Edinya...” Nisha blurted out randomly, followed by a giggle.

“Huh?” Tristol asked at her complete non sequitur. Clueless , Toras, and Fyrehowl were now staring at her as well as Larill continued her story unabated.

“The tiefling bard.” Nisha said matter-of-factly as if the answer was obvious. “The one from the body-shots. That was Edinya, she’s a Xaositect I knew. I’ve heard this story before. Only I heard it from her perspective. She was drunker than Elliusandra as I understand it.”

Tristol’s eyes widened a bit, garnering a giggle from his tiefer.

“Don’t worry, I was a worse influence on her the few times we hung out.”

“Dare I ask?”

Nisha grinned and said nothing.

“…I can’t say I have.” Larill said with a flourish, quoting Factol Montgomery. “But I think tonight might be a chance to try, and not just vicariously my dear.”

The crowd lost it at that, dissolving into a chorus of laughter, various exclamations, and good natured profanity. Larill’s story had done its intended goal of making them laugh and forget their current troubles.

“Seriously? She said that?” Florian laughed, struggling for breath.

Larill blushed, “As true as the moon shines on Selune’s Gates.”

Softly Nisha giggled, still not having fully answered Tristol. But as much as she enjoyed teasing the aasimar, she was waiting for Larill to formally give up her spot as speaker. The sing of that abdication wasn’t long in coming, though not in the fashion that might have been expected. Rather than taking questions about the story and perhaps the subsequent fate of its characters, the lillend paused and tilted her head to the side. Utterly preoccupied, she seemed to be listening to something.

 “Something up?” Clueless asked.

Larill didn’t reply for a moment, but then nodded to herself and looked down at the bladesinger with a smile and waved off his concern. 

“What happened to the bottle of mead?”

“Did anyone drink it afterwards?”

Larill held out her hands to dampen down the mass of questions, “I’m deeply appreciative that you all enjoyed my tale. It was a pleasure in the telling, and even more of a pleasure in seeing your reactions. I’ll field those questions both asked and unasked a little bit later. But in the interim actually, if you could all excuse me for a bit, I have to go take care of something. This shouldn’t take too terribly long. Save a few stories for me once I get back?”

Tristol and a few of the others moved aside and made room for the lillend to uncoil and get up. Making apologies for her awkwardness at leaving on an errand so soon, she drifted off back down the tunnel.

“What was that all about?” Toras gazed down the tunnel as Larill drifted out of sight, neither hurrying nor looking at all troubled.

Tristol shrugged, “I dunno. But by the way her head was tilted it looked like she’d gotten a sending about something.”

The lillend was gone, the fire was crackling, the crowd grew quieter and settled with only a few remaining snickers and guffaws to pass between one another. That of course was the opening that Nish had been waiting for. 

“MY TURN!!!!” The tiefling more or less lunched forwards from a crouch and nearly stuck her face in the fire in the process.

Juxtaposed stunned silence and a smattering of shocked yelps heralded her turn as speaker. The magical campfire under her face granted her an altogether undeservedly sinister appearance to match her horns, but which paired well with her gusto in seizing the next speaker’s slot.

Nisha rubbed her hands together as she looked out at the crowd. Behind her, dancing in Tristol’s face, the silver bell at the tip of her tail rattled with mischievous enthusiasm.

“So my story begins in the Hive and ends with a riot in the very same place.” Eyes wide and grinning gleefully, the Xaositect clapped her hands. “It’s a story of dashing adventure! A story of hilarity! A story of danger and risk! Pilfered purses! And Xaos!”

“Oh boy we’re in for something…” Toras muttered.

“Something?” A sage next to the half-celestial asked with an odd expression.

“It’ll be… interesting.” Fyrehowl answered for him.

Interesting was a heavy and pronounced stress on the first syllable was perhaps the best way to describe it. Meandering was perhaps the next best way to describe it.

A young scribe caught Clueless’s attention with a gentle nudge. “What is she talking about?”

Clueless could only shrug as Nisha occasionally slipped into Xaos-speak and bounced around between various tangents and side-stories. While the individual vignettes that he caught were amusing as all heck, she wasn’t telling them in necessarily chronological order. Nisha was being Nisha, or perhaps sticking it to some metaphorical chronological and causal Man.

“Honestly, I have no idea.” Clueless replied to her with a shrug.

Fyrehowl raised an eyebrow but otherwise said nothing and let the tiefling continue her rambling if-amusing story. Toras meanwhile repressed a snicker of his own as he realized the source and nature of the story even as the crowd at large grew alternatively confused and shaking with laughter even if they didn’t exactly know what was going on in the story at large.

Toras had his head in his hands groaning as Nisha began to giggle at her own story to point of having trouble finishing its last leg.

“And that’s the tale of one purple slaad’s adventures in Sigil!” Nisha exclaimed.

Tristol tugged on her tail gently, “Nisha ‘hon? That wasn’t about a purple slaadi’s adventures in Sigil. That was you. You did all of that stuff.”

The tiefling blinked and gave an ever so brief and ever so confused look at Tristol before turning back to her audience.

“Ribbit.”

Not sure if she’d intended the entire story to have a punchline at the end, or if Nisha was simply being a Xaositect and didn’t know at the time that her story was autobiographical or not, Clueless jumped in to spare her any questions.

“My turn!”

The bladesinger’s tale was enjoyable on its own, and certainly made much more sense than Nisha’s. It was also a bit on the ribald side of things and indeed featured some tipsy sensates as well. All told, it made a wonderful followup to Larill’s earlier, similarly purple story.

After fifteen minutes of sharing laughs with the crowd, Clueless finished his story and sat back down with a smile on his face. Forgetting for a moment even the horrors that he’d personally seen in Pandemonium –which went above and beyond those most of the expedition’s people had witnessed- he turned to his right and to the man seated there bundled up in a heavy cloak. Several stories earlier, the bundled up sage had softly mentioned the outline of his own tale he’d eventually be sharing with the crowd.

“Alright,” Clueless said. “I’ve said my bit and now it’s your turn.”

The man didn’t respond. Beneath the cowl of his cloak, he was still smiling from the last story. The guttering firelight cast flickering shadows across his features.

“I said it’s your turn now.”

The man still didn’t respond, and his expression remained unchanged.

Clueless sighed, “Don’t tell me you fell asleep…”

Florian glanced over at the two of them. “Yeah I think you did. Ouch. This is why you’re not a bard.”

The bladesinger rolled his eyes, “This is why I date one I suppose.”

“Tristol?” Nisha asked. “Can you summon a bowl of warm water?”

“He doesn’t deserve anything that bad.” Clueless waved off any notion of waking up the man in that manner. He turned back to the smiling, dozing man and smiled sheepishly. “I didn’t think my story was all –that- bad, was it?”

Still no response.

Off to the side, Frollis poked his head out from behind a much larger member of the expedition whose bulk had effectively hidden him, assuming he hadn’t just wandered into the story-sharing circle. He slowly, softly pantomimed his hands in a round of applause. “Apparently it was that bad oh master bard. Way to go!”

The bladesinger furrowed his brow and turned away, rolling his eyes at the shadow-dancer. “Jack*ss…”

Regardless of Frollis’s mockery, the man had a story, he’d wanted a turn, and now was as good a time as ever. Besides, it wouldn’t be proper to let him just sleep and miss any more tales. Clueless leaned over to wake the man up. Pushing at his shoulder, rather than waking him up, Clueless’s hand met no resistance and continued inwards. He jerked his hand back like he’d touched a burning coal, but it was too late. Disturbed by the push, the man collapsed forward, his body falling apart and crumbling as he did. Clueless’s hand caught on the man’s heavy cloak and held it in place as the body beneath was reduced to a pile of ashes, carbonized without any outwards signs that a thing had even occurred.

“F*CK!” Clueless dropped the cloak as if it were coated in poison.

The ashes settled, partially snuffing the light of the conjured fire to the abject horror of the previously laughing and jovial crowd as they watched helplessly. The cave erupted into a cacophony of screams and startled shouts.

“He’s dead!”

“Get out! Get out!”

“He’s here! Run!”

“Gods help us! We have to get out of here! Now!”

In the space of seconds everything had gone to hell. The crowd dissolves and burst for the exit, or ran down the tunnel in the wrong direction, screaming and causing panic everywhere else in the cave as they did so. The screams and panic spread like fire in a dry, sun-soaked veldt.

The killer had struck again, in their midst, without them noticing a thing even as it happened under their noses. Without a question, he was there among them, and had been there among them since the start.

The expedition had moved there into the former bebelith warren expressly for the purpose of being safe from the killer and anything else out in the darkness. They’d wanted to keep track of who entered and who left, and now, completely betraying any sense of order and organization, the cave emptied. Like swarming bees erupting from a bloated hive jostled by a hungry bear, every member of the expedition burst out into the darkness in a state of panic and confusion. Voices called out for an explanation of what had happened. Other voices demanded answers. Still others just whimpered or cried.

“I watched him disintegrate!”

“How in all the 9 Hells could that have happened?!”

“We were supposed to be safe in there!”

“Damn it!” Clueless shouted, vainly trying to watch who went where. “Everyone stay close together!”

Terrified from a man in their midst dying, the crowd had still borne witness to Pandemonium’s inherent terrors as well as its transient guest horrors to know to listen, even in their state of panic. Far from silent with their worries -they were still wise enough to not scatter into the darkness of Pandemonium on their own- the crowd packed together at the cave mouth under the glare of a half-dozen conjured orbs of light. In shock at what had just happened and the implications of it all, the air erupted in shouting and arguing, demands for leaving, and demands for justice – mostly breathless paeans to return to Arborea’s Gatetown or frankly anywhere else with the exception of the Abyss.

“We can’t stay here.”

“Get us the hell out of here!”

“To hell with our pay and to hell with this mission!’

“Speak for yourself about to hell with my pay, but I’m for bailing on this benighted project!”

Doran slumped against a boulder, watching as his expedition and their goals collapsed in on themselves. He shut his eyes and reached a hand into the dimensional pocket that he’d conjured for his familiar. He reached a hand inside to feel the familiar nuzzle and mental contact of his best friend, allowing himself a moment of respite from the screams and demands of his employees.

“Doran!” Clueless’s shout finally broke through the diviner’s moment of sullen introspection.

The elf opened his eyes and looked up. Clueless, Toras, Fyrehowl, and Tristol stood around him casting expectant looks.

“I don’t know what the hell to do.” Doran lamented. “My people are dying and I can’t stop it.”

“We leave.” Fyrehowl bluntly stated. The others nodded in firm agreement.

Doran winced, “But we’re so damn close. I can’t…”

Toras sighed and put a hand on the much smaller wizard’s shoulder, “Yes. Yes you can.”

“Cilret and I have been looking for a translation of Tiere for years now, him even longer than I have. We can’t give up on this, not when we finally found a sample of it.” He breathed in deep and exhaled, a look of determination in his eyes as to what they needed to do. “We won’t give up, but we can leave it for now. We can get everyone to safety and come back later with a new expedition, or even just ourselves to finish the work.”

Behind them the crowd was starting to self-organize in the absence of any firm directive from their leaders. Fyrehowl moved to the side, letting Nisha and Florian in as Doran rose to his feet.

Doran managed a smile, “We’re getting out of here now. All of us. We can come back later once we’ve figured out what the hell is going on and who the hell is murdering my people. We aim for Sylvania, carrying back as many as we can manage at a time.”

Tristol nodded in agreement. “I can help out, taking a few at a time as well.”

Doran mused over the logistics of it all. They had a lot of people, and it would take them some time without a gate or a portal. “I’ll grab some scrolls on the first trip back. Not cheap but I don’t care. We can’t leave anyone here behind after what just happened. Does anyone object to that?”

None did.

“Everyone! Listen up!” Doran shouted as he motioned, moving the drifting lights to center on him, gathering the crowd’s attention. “We can’t stay here. Tristol and I will be taking as many as we can at a time and planeshifting to Sylvania. We’ll do that as often as we can, recruiting help in the gatetown as needed to get more at a time. But we’re not staying here in the dark a day more.”

The crowd was silent before it erupted into a chorus of joyous shouts and a few scattered sobs.

“We can each only take a little under a dozen at a time,” Tristol called out as Doran finished his announcement. “Everyone please get into small groups so we can make this as fast as we can.”

“Are we leaving everything here?” One sage called out.

“We can come back for it.” Doran replied. “Anything you brought that gets left behind, we’ll pay for its replacement. My peoples’ lives are more important to me that jink.”

“I’m proud of you Doran.” Toras said, looking down at the diviner.

Doran smiled and looked at Toras and the others. “Do you all mind staying here till Tristol and I can get everyone out?”

“We’ll make sure everyone is safe till the two of you can ferry them all out.” Clueless confirmed.

Off to one side, Nisha smiled as Tristol’s tail surreptitiously curled around hers. Betraying her mood, the silver bell she wore at its tip jingled side to side.

“You’re in the first group back to Sylvania.” Tristol whispered over to the tiefling as he nestled in closer.

Nisha opened her mouth to argue, but seeing the worry behind Tristol’s eyes she didn’t say a word as he hugged her. He was terrified of losing her, and given how the expedition’s members had been killed and then resisted attempts to raise them from the dead clearly had him more rattled than any time before.

“…Love you…” She whispered back to him, putting a smile to his face and a blush to his fuzzy ear tips.

As the crowd segregated and prepared to leave, Doran and Tristol readied themselves for their castings. With hope they would arrive in relative proximity to their destination.

“Ready?” Doran asked, glancing over to Tristol and Nisha. “Remember the city and the institute’s offices clearly enough to get the location fixed?”

They nodded back, gathered their first group close together linked hand in hand and began. Casting first, Highsilver raised his hands and chanted a few well practiced phrases in draconic, preparing to feel the magic wash over his body and transport him and nearly a dozen others to the Outlands, hopefully nearer to Arborea’s gatetown than not.

Nothing happened.

“What the…” The elf was speechless.

“What just happened?” Clueless asked, looking over to where Doran stood. Tristol had paused his own casting for the moment.

“My spell failed.” Doran explained. “That’s never happened before.”

Florian muttered something about men always saying that. Nudging Tristol, Nisha giggled, though Settys and several others gave a frowning, disapproving look.

Tristol shrugged off Doran’s concern, “You’re upset and distracted. Don’t worry, I’ve got more than one casting of the same spell, so it’s not a gigantic problem if you run short. We should be fine.”

Doran shrugged and repeated the spell. A second time nothing happened, absolutely nothing. The magic simply fizzled without so much as a flash of light.

“Ok…” Doran said with disbelief. “I’m getting worried now. Tristol if you would.”

Nisha leaned over and kissed the aasimar’s cheek for good luck. Tristol smiled and began his own casting. He’d cast the spell dozens of times before, and like most magic it came intuitively with the skill borne of both exceeding natural skill and considerable practice. The words came smoothly, the motions of his hands and tail easy and smooth, and he felt the magic flow through his body as the syntax of the spell formed its complex structure in his mind.

Nothing happened.

“…”

“Tristol?” Nisha looked up at him, worry crossing her features. “What happened?”

Doran caught the aasimar’s gaze. Both wizards were flabbergasted. They didn’t mess up spells like that. Both of them were skilled enough to hurl their most powerful spells with someone in their face, shouting, and perhaps even if they’d been punched in the middle of the process. And yet their planeshifting failed.

“Something is snuffing my spells out.” Tristol said, adamant that his own casting had been without flaw. “It’s like I hurled it into a beholder’s face in the middle of a staring contest with its central eye.”

Doran stuttered and looked at the crowd he’d just promised salvation in short order, “We’re trapped here.”

Not yet having grasped the failure of both wizards’ spells, from somewhere in the midst of the crowd, someone asked a question. It rose up over the expectant silence with a gentle tenor of worry, “Has anyone seen Larill?”

Floating, with emerald colored wings and golden scales, the bard couldn’t hide in a crowd if she’d wanted too. But even as Doran spread his hands and moved more floating lights into place, pulling back the curtain of darkness at the base of the crag, the lilland was nowhere to be seen.

With keener hearing than most, Fyrehowl caught the question before the others and glanced out over the crowd. Quickly doing a headcount, she ended up four short: Larill, Leobtav, Frollis and Settys were nowhere to be seen, and the last of them she’d seen only minutes earlier. What the hell was going on?


----------



## Ryltar

Shem,

you may not recall this, but an eternity ago (literally, this must have been around 2004) I had PM'ed you for permission to borrow heavily from this SH / campaign. We played Planescape for a few years, then switched to other settings before our group had to give up gaming for a time. This year, we finally managed to get the band back together to discuss what campaign we would like to revisit. The reply was unanimous: they wanted to revisit Planescape, because even after ten years, each of them still had vivid memories of the campaign start you dreamed up - the fire genasi sorcerer, Acheron, Factol Nilesia's predicament and so forth. Kudos and hats off to you - you managed to make a lasting impression far beyond the scope of this thread .


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## Tsuga C

*And Then There Were Four...Suspects*

Yep, I saw the dimensional anchor coming as a logical extension of the power of the elusive assassin.  Why let your prey scurry away to safety when you can prolong the hunt and heighten their terror by locking down their best means of egress?

The question is, of course, who's the simulacrum?  Setty?  No, he's a cleric questioning his faith or faith in general.  Frollis?  Too obvious, so he's just a canard.  Leobtav or Larill?  Yeah, one of them for sure and I'm leaning toward Leobtav as I think I remember the pseudodragon familiar seeing a male perpetrator whilst hiding in a tent some pages back.


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## Crossposter Erzuli

WOW. Excited to see this getting updated again!

Yay!


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## Band2

Toras said:


> To provide a bit more detail.




Thanks for the clarification Toras. As I mentioned, I do not have much background on Planescape just the first 2 monstrous compendiums, and neither has the quesars.



Toras said:


> Toras has a number of odd abilities.
> 2) Custom Class - (Half the abilities related to protecting children/other Half made for murder)




That is an interesting combination. Not sure that we have seen any of those yet in the story hour.

Another question for Shemeska, this time about the yugoloths. You have described them as a very interesting race. All the monstrous compendiums had to say about them were that they were mercenaries in the Blood War. But in the storyhour they are much more complex than that simple description. Their racial hatred of the all gods is very interesting, as it differentiates them from tanar'ri who tend to serve evil gods. How much of that is your creation or where the yugoloths expanded on in some of the planescape products?

I will end with this quote from the back of the second planescape MC, which strangely only has 1 yugoloth in it: 
"Clueless is as good as dead."


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## Shemeska

Band2 said:


> Thanks for the clarification Toras. As I mentioned, I do not have much background on Planescape just the first 2 monstrous compendiums, and neither has the quesars.




They're in the Planes of Conflict box set.




> Another question for Shemeska, this time about the yugoloths. You have described them as a very interesting race. All the monstrous compendiums had to say about them were that they were mercenaries in the Blood War. But in the storyhour they are much more complex than that simple description. Their racial hatred of the all gods is very interesting, as it differentiates them from tanar'ri who tend to serve evil gods. How much of that is your creation or where the yugoloths expanded on in some of the planescape products?




They had an amazing level of detail and complexity in 2e Planescape. Specifically in the Planes of Conflict box set, Hellbound: The Blood War, and Faces of Evil: The Fiends.

Most of my usage of the 'loths in the storyhour comes from there, with the thing that's my big addition being the specific baernaloths and adding in to the personality of a lot of figures who might have existed in canon sources as just a name or a title. (I managed to put Shylara the Manged into print in the past year in the Dungeon magazine Demonomicon writeup for the Marauder. It's ostensibly written for 4e, but I wasn't going to be picky. One of the Baern would have made a guest appearance in the backstory for the Marauder, but it totally didn't make it to print, sigh.)


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## Shemeska

Tsuga C said:


> Yep, I saw the dimensional anchor coming as a logical extension of the power of the elusive assassin.  Why let your prey scurry away to safety when you can prolong the hunt and heighten their terror by locking down their best means of egress?
> 
> The question is, of course, who's the simulacrum?  Setty?  No, he's a cleric questioning his faith or faith in general.  Frollis?  Too obvious, so he's just a canard.  Leobtav or Larill?  Yeah, one of them for sure and I'm leaning toward Leobtav as I think I remember the pseudodragon familiar seeing a male perpetrator whilst hiding in a tent some pages back.




You'll find out in the next update


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## Shemeska

Ryltar said:


> Shem,
> 
> you may not recall this, but an eternity ago (literally, this must have been around 2004) I had PM'ed you for permission to borrow heavily from this SH / campaign. We played Planescape for a few years, then switched to other settings before our group had to give up gaming for a time. This year, we finally managed to get the band back together to discuss what campaign we would like to revisit. The reply was unanimous: they wanted to revisit Planescape, because even after ten years, each of them still had vivid memories of the campaign start you dreamed up - the fire genasi sorcerer, Acheron, Factol Nilesia's predicament and so forth. Kudos and hats off to you - you managed to make a lasting impression far beyond the scope of this thread .




*BLUSH*


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## Band2

Shemeska said:


> They had an amazing level of detail and complexity in 2e Planescape. Specifically in the Planes of Conflict box set, Hellbound: The Blood War, and Faces of Evil: The Fiends.




Since Wizards is planning to release all of their previous edition products on pdf I will be on the lookout for those. Any other recommendations for Planescape products?



Shemeska said:


> Most of my usage of the 'loths in the storyhour comes from there, with the thing that's my big addition being the specific baernaloths and adding in to the personality of a lot of figures who might have existed in canon sources as just a name or a title. (I managed to put Shylara the Manged into print in the past year in the Dungeon magazine Demonomicon writeup for the Marauder. It's ostensibly written for 4e, but I wasn't going to be picky. One of the Baern would have made a guest appearance in the backstory for the Marauder, but it totally didn't make it to print, sigh.)




That leads me to another question. What are the baernaloths? Are they the equivilant of demon lords for the yugoloths? Or is the Oinoloth the yugoloth version of a demon lord?

And I saw your article on the Marauder. It was pretty good, though hampered by the 4E version of the planes, which I do not like. And the Marauder made it into another edition.


----------



## Shemeska

Band2 said:


> That leads me to another question. What are the baernaloths? Are they the equivilant of demon lords for the yugoloths? Or is the Oinoloth the yugoloth version of a demon lord?




They don't really have an analog among the other fiends. They're the first fiends, they created the 'loths as servitors, and they also created the obyriths and ancient baatorians. They then largely abandoned the multiverse/left/went mad, and the few remaining are either vastly diminished in power or members of a group called The Demented that still manipulate the 'loths from behind the scenes. They're not like demon lords or diabolic nobility, because they don't hold any position of proper authority within the yugoloth hierarchy. They exist outside of the 'loth power structure. They're essentially the equivalent of spiritual authorities compared to secular powers like the Oinoloth, General of Gehenna, etc. Most 'loths aren't even aware that they exist. 

They operate by providing advice and direction to the most powerful 'loths (whether they want it or not), and I take it a bit further in the storyhour by suggesting that they exist in a somewhat parasitical/symbiotic relationship with the most powerful yugoloths, one baernaloth inhabiting each of those unique 'loths, acting like a very real inner voice to guide and push them towards their own goals.

Originally I planned to do something similar in the 4e Marauder article, with her having been so inhabited by one of the baern. She demanded authority and power after having served as a behind the scenes puppetmaster for her infecting baernaloth (The Blind Clockmaker) for thousands of years, and it had the Oinoloth place her within Sigil. Of course that was largely a sick joke on the baern's part, because while finally giving her an opportunity to act in her own selfish interests, Sigil was the one place where she could never truly rule, because of the Lady of Pain providing a very deadly, bladed, glass ceiling if you will. But at the same time, Sigil was the -only- place in the multiverse where the Marauder could ever truly be alone and private, with the baernaloth being unable to intrude, speak, or possess/control.

Aaaaand that never made it to print. It got killed in a very late rewrite, five months or so after the draft was originally accepted. I tried, but little that you can do except what an editor requests.


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## Tsuga C

What a crock!  It's quite a pity that so much of your material has been denied a proper venue for Planescape fans to enjoy.  What we need is a compendium of your works as written before they were cast aside or molested by some rotten editor.


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## Malachite_Mack

Tsuga C said:


> What a crock!  It's quite a pity that so much of your material has been denied a proper venue for Planescape fans to enjoy.  What we need is a compendium of your works as written before they were cast aside or molested by some rotten editor.



Yes.  I second that motion!


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## Band2

Or we need Shemeska to be hired to write the 5e Manual of Planes.


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## Shemeska

Band2 said:


> Or we need Shemeska to be hired to write the 5e Manual of Planes.




The chances of that happening are probably infinitesimal. WotC's design team probably has little clue who I am and what I've done, unless I'm grossly underestimating myself.

I like to write. I like planar stuff. I started out as something of a Planescape super-fan, and I've managed to do a fair bit of freelancing, but outside of having won a fraction of an Ennie by being a minor contributor in books that have won one, I can't say that I've made a giant profile in RPG'land. Again, unless I'm grossly underestimating myself.

Oh don't get me wrong, I'd love LOVE to work on a 5e MotP, but I doubt I'd ever be considered to do so versus in-house writers and others out there.


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## 81Dagon

Band2 said:


> Or we need Shemeska to be hired to write the 5e Manual of Planes.



Or we need him to start a planer version of the daily bestiary! 

*Disclaimer*: I know there is no way in the world you have time for this Todd. I just think it would be a cool idea. Actually, it's a really cool idea... heck I wish I had time to do this!


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## Shemeska

81Dagon said:


> Or we need him to start a planer version of the daily bestiary!
> 
> *Disclaimer*: I know there is no way in the world you have time for this Todd. I just think it would be a cool idea. Actually, it's a really cool idea... heck I wish I had time to do this!




I wish I had the time to do that and a dozen other things I'd like to finish. Alas I don't.

I was out of work for the last few months, and I did start on a few creative things, paid and unpaid alike, but I started with a new job just in the past week as a process development scientist, so there goes any and all extra time I had. 

Working on several stories at the moment, including an update for here.

And my last major project was just released: http://paizo.com/products/btpy8wbu?Pathfinder-Campaign-Setting-The-Worldwound


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## 81Dagon

That is awesome, congratulations!

And as if I wasn't already going to be hoarding everything to do with Wrath of the Righteous... is that the last thing you're doing for Paizo ever given the science job or is it just the last thing for now? 

I may have ended up making the time to start that bestiary blog. We'll see how long it lasts. If anyone's interested, you can find it here.


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## Shemeska

81Dagon said:


> That is awesome, congratulations!
> 
> And as if I wasn't already going to be hoarding everything to do with Wrath of the Righteous... is that the last thing you're doing for Paizo ever given the science job or is it just the last thing for now?




The last for now. Hopefully I freelance a lot more for them in the future! I adore the world they've built, and there are so very many parts of it I'd love to be able to contribute towards in the years to come. Especially more on their planes, double especially for anything to do with proteans/the Maelstrom, axiomites/Axis, the mentioned several times but yet to be fully detailed planar city of Galisemni, etc.

I've got two fey-related releases from Legendary Games coming out as well, with Faerie Passions that I co-wrote with Russ Taylor having just released today. Otherwise my slate is clear for the moment, except for an adventure I wrote to run at GenCon next month.

In fact, go politely demand that they sign me on for lots more stuff! 




> I may have ended up making the time to start that bestiary blog. We'll see how long it lasts. If anyone's interested, you can find it here
> 
> Bookmarked


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## ianesta

Hello, I've read like 100 pages over the last couple of days, haha. I'm loving this story it's great, nice one dude. I got to the point where they're at the Rakshasa's place on Carceri and noticed blood leaking under a door, after that it seems to be mostly blank posts? Is this just me or is it a fault with the forum or something else? Please help I need my fix


----------



## Voran Mith'aj

Ianesta, if you like, there is a PDF version I put together here:

dl.dropbox.com/s/43dk2m7vn7cfvsn/shemeskas_psh.pdf

It's not fancy, and currently only covers updates through 7 Dec. 2012, but should get you around your issues.



ianesta said:


> Hello, I've read like 100 pages over the last couple of days, haha. I'm loving this story it's great, nice one dude. I got to the point where they're at the Rakshasa's place on Carceri and noticed blood leaking under a door, after that it seems to be mostly blank posts? Is this just me or is it a fault with the forum or something else? Please help I need my fix


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## Shemeska

Not an update, but if anyone was interested, I recently wrote a short story involving Nisha (or at least the Pathfinder cosmology's iteration of her):  Well, it seemed like a good idea at the time...

Two other finished pieces of fiction on the way as well, both planar, both set in the Pathfinder cosmology, but suitably Planescapey. Once they appear online I'll provide some links and details. And a third story in-progress.


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## Tsuga C

Trick-or-Treat, Shemeska!  Might you have an update ready for your eager readers?


----------



## Shemeska

Tsuga C said:


> Trick-or-Treat, Shemeska!  Might you have an update ready for your eager readers?




In progress, along with a bunch of other things (both products and stories).

Also, I got married last week. 

I've been a busy busy 'loth


----------



## Shemeska

****​

The ascent up the Crag’s ragged slope was a difficult one, compounded by the darkness and the harsh shadows cast by any artificial light sources. Additionally the winds were unpredictable, and that was the only real difficulty of note as Larill Moonshadow neared the end of her ascent. Wings aided in her climb, and her ability to see in the dark regardless of light removed the risk of any dangers hiding in patches of shadow. But still, making the trek alone was hardly the most pleasant experience.

“I swear,” The lillend softly cursed under her breath. “You academic sods could at least have waited for me. I appreciate the company, especially when you drag me out of a round of story-telling for a last trip up the Crag. Besides, you need me more than I need you in roughing it back up here. Could have been eaten by a nightwing for all I know by the time I even got halfway up.”

She frowned and rustled her wings. By preference she would have flown the entire way up the slope, turning an ascent of nearly an hour into one only a few minutes in duration. But no. That was out of the question. The ferocious and sudden winds that whipped about the Crag's flanks were like the paws of a mad, cornered howler swatting its claws at anything that came close.

Thus, the lillend slithered her way up towards the summit, moving amid the shadows of boulders and the black, yawning mouths of the caves that riddled the artificial mountain like worm tunnels in a rotten apple.

Nearly an hour earlier, Leobtav had messaged her through the telepathic link they’d shared earlier that day. The professor had cast that rather useful spell to avoid having to speak up and over the random, hellish outbursts of wind that struck without warning higher up the Crag. The duration was long enough to last into the evening, and even though they’d spent several hours in the cave working on the last sections of their translation, apparently they’d needed one last thing and it couldn’t wait till morning.

_Professor? I’m at the cave mouth. Do you need anything from the rucksacks you left out here?_ The cave seemed particularly ominous as she stood there alone. She pulled her wings tight against her body, shivering in the wind and looking up with pronounced discomfort. The last times she'd always been there with a group, and in the absence of the comfort of camaraderie her eyes played tricks on her. The cave yawned wide like the maw of a buried, fossilized howler, jagged edges of rock like teeth, and the discarded rucksacks like the scraps left over from the beast's final meal.

Neither the Professor nor the two others with him replied. Mental static filled the air. Several minutes passed and no response came.

_I know you’re busy and all, but do you need anything before I leave your things behind and slither a few hundred yards down to meet you?_

Once again only silence answered the lillend’s mind in reply.

She frowned and looked at the bags scattered at the entrance. They’d left their log books and their lanterns. Something wasn’t right.

_Leobtav. Answer me. Is everything all right? Allison? And...Reorik? Ronald? Rodrick? Whatever your name was? Are any of you three alright down there? Please answer me._

Larill’s eyes focused into the shifting gloom within the cave mouth. Something was there. Something was moving a dozen yards in, just behind a cluster of rocks.

_Hell with this, I’m coming in._

Softly whispering a tune, the lillend’s scales glistened with a layer of protective force. A second tune waited at her lips, there to charm anything that might be lurking in the dark: something that she feared might have already taken the lives of the three she’d been called to meet.

"There shouldn't be anything else up here. We scoured the caves, we burned the bebeliths out of their lair." Her mind retreated from the idea that whatever killer had been at work was both one of their own as they'd feared, and had been here waiting for a less equipped, poorly defended group to arrive to murder at their own morose whimsy. "Selune look favorably upon me, even in the darkest hour of the darkest night."

Whispering her prayers under her breath, she made her way forward. She glanced at the walls, ceiling, and floor in turn. Nothing waited in ambush there, and the wind from outside still prevented her from discerning any noises from deeper in the cave itself. It would have been wiser to call for immediate help from back at the camp from the others, but time was of the essence if they needed immediate rescue, if indeed they weren’t already dead.

"Lady Moonlight, Warden of the Stair, protect this humble servitor as she... F*CK!!" Her voice trailed into a muffled, hissed curse as she came across the first corpse. One of the sages, a middle aged arcadian human named Allison Dallimore lay slumped against the wall. A trail of blood slowly trickled down her forehead from an almost invisible puncture wound.

“Oh gods help me.” The lillend whispered again as she looked at the corpse and saw her own reflection in the glazed over surface of the dead woman’s eyes. Then her ears perked at the faintest sound of movement and her eyes followed a moment after.

A second corpse lay spread-eagled in the middle of the passage. From her distance she couldn’t identify it, but she could clearly see that its head was missing. Smoke still coiled up from the ragged stump between its shoulders, and partially obscured by the smoke, something perched on the limp form. “Ficklebarb?”

The tiny familiar looked up, ashen and pale. The pseudodragon's scales had lost their ruddy luster. He was gaunt and he seemed to have lost considerable weight. His wings dragged behind him on the corpse, and he was barely able to crane his neck up in Larill’s direction. Tears welled up in his sunken, rheumy eyes as he saw the lillend approach.

“No…” He whimpered.

“Hush poor thing. I’m here.” Larill glanced down the passage, looking for another corpse to complete the trio or whatever had killed them. “Ficklebarb, it’s going to be all right.”

“No!” The pseudodragon croaked, coughing up blood. “It won’t be alright. Run! Run!”

Soft, practiced footsteps approached and the lillend looked up. Her eyes widened and a question formed in her mind, framing her killer's face like a painting hung in the museum of her last thoughts. Those thoughts died, just like her a moment later when the darkness that swathed the cave’s depths solidified and drove into her body like a hundred, bitterly cold, dagger-like teeth.


****​

Fyrehowl’s eyes continued to dance over the crowd, looking and hoping that her count had been off. In fact it had. Not only were they missing the Priest of Thoth, the shadowdancer, the expedition’s leader, and the lillend, they were short two other expedition members as well. She recalled the two for no other reason than that they’d spent most of the day up at the Crag along with Leobtav and Larill.

Clued in by the crowd’s speculation, Clueless glanced out over the crowd as well, doing his own count. “Has anyone seen Frollis?”

“I just saw him.” Toras shouted back from across the crowd.

The bladesinger scowled, “Well he isn’t here now.”

“I saw him just now. He was walking off, back towards the Crag.” One of the expedition members called back.


****​

Meanwhile, off to the side, Doran, Tristol and Nisha discussed their current predicament among themselves, trying to avoid letting the crowd become aware of its severity.

"Magic seems to be working normally otherwise." Tristol gestured with his hands and briefly conjured a sphere of blue-white light. It shimmered and drifted for several seconds without interruption before flickering out and vanishing with a subtle twitch of the aasimar's tail. "That worked fine and so have all of my other spells that weren't already altered by proximity to the Crag. It's just that now we can't case anything involving transportation."

"What about natural portals?" Doran asked, casting a brief string of lower sphere spells just to test if his own magic would otherwise function as smoothly as it should, sans the obvious and inexplicable restrictions.

"There haven't been any portals in the immediate vicinity except for the one leading down to Agathion, and well, that's a worse situation to be sure." Tristol shuddered, remembering how Clueless had described the creature. With any luck they'd never come across it or any of its wind-maddened ilk again. "But as for any others, those might be sealed off as well to be perfectly honest."

"Gods above I should hope not." Doran grimaced at the implication.

Nisha glanced at both wizards, "So what exactly is doing this?"

The elf shrugged, "I wish I could say. Looking at magic auras in the area there's nothing obvious that I can point to. But it..."

Tristol finished Doran's sentence with a disbelieving shake and a shrug, "It looks wrong."

Doran nodded, "Tristol knows what I'm talking about. He's seen it too."

"Care to explain it to me the not-exactly-an-archmage-yet?" Nisha brushed her hair back and tapped her right index finger on the tip of a horn.

"There's something there but it's saturated into everything." Tristol explained, gesturing to the shadows blanketing everything outside of the immediate circle of lights. "It's there casting a shadow over the landscape without presenting anything discrete that you can point to, pick out, and unravel. It's absolutely brilliant whatever it is."

Nisha stuck out her tongue, "We can publish something on their brilliant technique once we get out. It creeps me out. Seriously."

"We can't apparently do anything about it directly, but in the absence of our knowing how it's being done, that still leaves open a number of possibilities." Doran reasoned, "It's possible that it's just on the immediate area, or on the other hand it's on whoever cast it, radiating from them. Given that they've been preying on our people, I'm inclined to suggest that it's the latter. It would follow them wherever they go if they're hunting."

"Then we find them and kill them." Nisha stamped a hoof into the ground, sending a scatter of pebbles flying. "We sneak up, we put a blade between their ribs, and we're free to leave. I'd say that's a pretty direct way of doing something about it."

Doran and Tristol both glanced at her, each of them mildly frowning.

"Yeah yeah, except for the fact that we don't have a clue who they are..." Nisha sighed and glanced towards Clueless and several of the others who appeared to be in the midst of their own animated discussion. Fingers were being pointed and names were being spouted of people who come to think of it weren't anywhere to be seen. "Ok, different approach. So assuming that the person doing this doesn't appear in a burst of fire and brimstone or break out into a melodramatic cackle when we express our despair, what about ways of leaving that don't involve planeshifting?"

Doran shook his head and smiled half-heartedly, "Oh if I was gifted enough to cast Gate we wouldn't have had half of the problem's we're having. Back to your not-quite-an-archmage statement, that applies to all of us."

"Aspirations notwithstanding yeah." Tristol paused and eyed the tiefling as she fiddled with something at her waist. "You've got something weird don't you?"

Nisha grinned and rattled the silver bell at the tip of her tail, "I've always got something weird."

Doran glanced at them both, "I'm missing something here."

"A tail." Nisha blurted out. "You're the only one of us three without a tail. But that's ok, you're still a good person."

Doran squinted at the complete non sequiter and Tristol chuckled. "What's the weird thing you might or might not have dealing with planeshifting?"

"Bebelith eyes!"

"Bebelith eyes?"

"Yep! Bebelith eyes!"

"What about bebelith eyes?"

"You don't know that trick?"

"What trick?"

"The trick with bebelith eyes."

Doran squeezed his eyes shut for a moment once more, breathed in deeply and refocused. "How will bebelith eyes help us?"

"They're really handy!" Nisha excitedly explained. "You swallow one whole and if you don't vomit and manage to keep it down, you'll slide up or down a layer of a plane. Depends on which you focus on."

"I don't think that's true..." Doran gave her a sidelong glance as she made various pantomimes of plucking out, popping into her mouth, swishing it around, and finally swallowing a phantom bebelith eye.

"No no, I've done it before." Nisha insisted. "It was really useful this one time in Pluton."

Tristol watched as she pantomimed some more before he spoke, trying to preempt any further physical illustrations of the process, "You know the pushing your tongue against your cheek to make it look like you had one in there really wasn't necessary."

"Nothing's ever necessary." Nisha ruffled Tristol's hair. "But it was fun and that's what matters most of the time."

Tristol shot her an absolutely disgusted look as he smoothed his hair back into place, "Please tell me that your swishing around a bebelith eye like a piece of rock candy wasn't anytime close to when I've kissed you."

She grinned and didn't answer the question, drawing out a pronounced pause before winking, shaking her head in the negative with a soft giggle, and drawing a bottle of apparently fresh bebelith eyes out of a bag of holding at her waist where'd she'd previously been fiddling with its cinching. "And this is why having the Crag colonized by bebeliths was so incredibly fortuitous."

"How many of those do you have?" Doran tried to do a mental tally of the crudely extracted iridescent spheres.

Completely ignoring Highsilver, Nisha was making faces again, causing Tristol to squirm at the thought of swallowing an eyeball anywhere from the size of a marble to a nectarine. Through it, she remained completely oblivious to two more repetitions of Doran's question.

"I said," Doran raised his voice and neared being ready to grab hold of her ever-flicking tail, "Assuming they work, how many of those do you have?"

"Huh?" Nisha looked up after staring at and making faces at the jar of eyes in her hands. "Oh! All of them!"

"All of them?" Doran shook his head in disbelief. "Did you go through and pluck out every single eye from the bebeliths before we burned the corpses?"

"That I did!" Nisha pointed at the bag of holding and grinned. "I got some weird looks though when I did it. I think I told one of the cartographers that I was planning on eating them in a stew because I was part tanar'ri," She paused and pinched two fingers together. "-A teeny tiny bit tanar'ri at least and who knows what else-, and that it was revenge for their preying on my ancestors. Or something like that. I was being whimsical. Come to think of it though, nobody in that cave wanted to go near me ever since. Whoops."

Doran stared at the bottle of eyes before turning his head, "Let's use that as a last resort."

"That's probably for the best." Tristol mused. "But, having said that, I'm in favor of trying to find a natural portal to somewhere else, really more or less anywhere else that isn't going to kill us by its very nature. It might take a few days of wandering, but we've got enough planars with us that I think we could do well in spotting any possible way out."

Doran raised an eyebrow, "And if the portals are all sealed?"

"Well? Well then we go with Nisha's idea."

Both Tristol and Doran turned to look at the Xaositect who at present was looking neither at them or anyone else, but talking to herself and looking every which way, shuffling about on her hooves, kicking some pebbles, and looking more like an introspective child who got caught with a hand in a jar of sweets than anything else.

"Maybe I went a bit too far on that joke." The tiefling fussed at herself. "They probably think I'm evil now, or something like that. Ewww." At that point she began chiding herself in Xaosspeak, and except for a hug from Tristol, was almost entirely ignored by everyone in earshot. This was probably for the best.


****​

While Doran, Tristol, and Nisha discussed their own problems -and their peculiarities- out of earshot, Fyrehowl, Toras, and Clueless canvassed the crowd trying to figure out what the hell was going on and where certain persons had gone. It didn’t take long to figure out that Frollis had bolted around the time that the attempts to planeshift out had failed. They also mentioned that he’d been carrying something, some sort of package, in his hand.

Feeling that his earlier suspicions had been correct, Clueless drew Razor and stalked off into the howling gloom. “Gotcha you son of a b*tch.”


***​

The darkness hung heavy over the eastern flank of Howler's Crag, the same as it always had been and likely always would. But where light did not shine, Wisdom did. Settys crouched in the deepest of shadows and stared at a solitary figure hunched over, perched in the split between two boulders. He'd come here to hide, slinking away as he had before multiple times in the past few days when death had come for members of the expedition. There was no question of his guilt.

Settys watched him, holding his breath until he saw the man move, letting the guilty one's subtle noise hide the signs of his hunter's presence. There he was: the man who had preyed upon his fellows like a mad dog snapping at his pack mates and master alike, its mind ravaged by poison or disease. Frollis Terpense was guilty, and even now he shuddered and his hands shook, fumbling with something as justice crept ever closer.

"Why do I keep doing this?" The shadowdancer mumbled, once again fidgeting with the object in his hands, something just out of Settys's view. "I shouldn't. I shouldn't. I shouldn't... but I can't stop."

Settys drew closer, carefully moving now to within a dozen feet. His khopesh was drawn and at the ready, raised and keen to act with judgment against a pitiable monster of a man. For the first time in months, he whispered a soft prayer to the Ibis-headed god of knowledge, though whether out of long-lapsed habit or out of honest desire, he could not say, his faith had long ago withered and died, though for the sake of others he had feigned that nothing had changed.

Perched atop the rocks, Frollis rocked back and forth, softly whispering to himself and trembling. "But it makes me feel safe. You make everything ok again. I don't have to worry. I don't have to feel guilty. I can feel guilty later. I love you. I love you so very much."

Settys scowled. Thoth might no longer answer his prayers, but even in the absence of his former divine patron's guidance, he was still a good judge of darkness and trouble in mens’ hearts. The shadowdancer had always had loss and pain lurking behind his eyes, and even though he'd known him for less than a month, he knew that whatever haunted him had finally caused him to snap.

Five steps away now. The khopesh would have gleamed if the fallen-cleric had not suppressed its magical radiance. Four steps now and Settys tensed, ready to leap forward, ready to strike a killing blow, ready to end this madness.

Three steps.

Two steps.

One step.


****​


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## 81Dagon

Shemeska said:


> In progress, along with a bunch of other things (both products and stories).
> 
> Also, I got married last week. View attachment 59483
> 
> I've been a busy busy 'loth



That's awesome Todd, congratulations! Baby loths next?  

Awesome update as usual. You've really got me on the edge of the seat right now, it will be interesting to see how things play out. I also wanted to pop in to let you know that I just made a post in the Planescape Bestiary that was directly inspired by the Storyhour, if you or the players are interested in seeing it. Here's wishing the best  and hoping that you'll be just much of a beacon to your new family as you have been to the fantasy community.


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## Shemeska

81Dagon said:


> That's awesome Todd, congratulations! Baby loths next?




Not going to happen. The world doesn't need more of my influence darkening the hearts of humanity. Or something like that. 



> Awesome update as usual. You've really got me on the edge of the seat right now, it will be interesting to see how things play out. I also wanted to pop in to let you know that I just made a post in the Planescape Bestiary that was directly inspired by the Storyhour, if you or the players are interested in seeing it. Here's wishing the best  and hoping that you'll be just much of a beacon to your new family as you have been to the fantasy community.




I'm absolutely flattered! Also let me state that I follow your Planescape Bestiary (originally linked there by the Daily Bestiary blog).

Thing is, I'm not sure that I can claim any credit for that idea that inspired you. It has been a number of years, but I think Skalliska's player actually came up with most of her backstory. I might have in turn inspired them by the appearance of some illithids in my game or talking the concept over with them, but I truly can't remember the specifics and so I can't really take any credit for it since I'm not sure I had any role in its genesis. 

Then as it happened, my second Planescape campaign was all full of illithids, psurlons, Far Realms critters, and Gith's petitioner. Went overboard on the psionics in that one.

And totally random here now, but I'm running a planar Pathfinder game now, and it's so totally a love letter to Planescape.


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## 81Dagon

Shemeska said:


> I'm absolutely flattered! Also let me state that I follow your Planescape Bestiary (originally linked there by the Daily Bestiary blog).
> 
> Thing is, I'm not sure that I can claim any credit for that idea that inspired you. It has been a number of years, but I think Skalliska's player actually came up with most of her backstory. I might have in turn inspired them by the appearance of some illithids in my game or talking the concept over with them, but I truly can't remember the specifics and so I can't really take any credit for it since I'm not sure I had any role in its genesis.
> 
> Then as it happened, my second Planescape campaign was all full of illithids, psurlons, Far Realms critters, and Gith's petitioner. Went overboard on the psionics in that one.
> 
> And totally random here now, but I'm running a planar Pathfinder game now, and it's so totally a love letter to Planescape.



Awesome! Well, the Storyhour is what inspired me, so even if the idea's genesis didn't come from you, the way you told it gave me my own ideas.  If I ever get a chance to actually run a Planescape game again, its a fair bet that Far Realm-y things, Aberrations, Outer Gods and Great Old Ones are going to show up a lot. 

I'm more than happy to edit Skal's player into that post too, I just don't remember if he/she ever posted here.


----------



## 81Dagon

Happy New Year's Shemmy! 

I was just reading through Horsemen of the Apocolypse again and was wondering: Do you have an idea of the appearances and histories of the daemon harbingers on the back covers of the book? And did Llamolaek and Pavnuri come from your games as well, or were they new creations?


----------



## Shemeska

81Dagon said:


> Happy New Year's Shemmy!
> 
> I was just reading through Horsemen of the Apocolypse again and was wondering: Do you have an idea of the appearances and histories of the daemon harbingers on the back covers of the book? And did Llamolaek and Pavnuri come from your games as well, or were they new creations?




Some of them yes. I originally wrote up several more harbingers that ended up getting cut except for their data in the table at the back.

That table wasn't originally in the outline, but it was a really awesome addition in lieu of a larger section of more detailed (but fewer) harbinger writeups. Of the ones on that list, of the ones that don't otherwise have mention in the book's text, many of those were created by folks on Paizo's staff.

Llamolaek and Pavnuri were new creations for BotD3. Trelmarixian and Vorasha are inspired by characters of the same name from my 2nd campaign, but there are some significant differences (Trelmarixian in Pathfinder combines the Trelmarixian the Black from my home game along with its sibling Escheris the Rotting).

Happy New Years!


----------



## Shemeska

Frollis Terpense shivered in the darkness. A single tiny figure swallowed up within the gloom that itself swallowed up Howler's Crag. The darkness did not judge. The darkness did not condemn. The darkness did not point out one's failures and mock you. The darkness was something between a lover's kiss and a pillow there to smother and end the pain.

"I couldn't help them." His fingers fumbled as he reached into one of the small satchels at his belt. "I try to seek justice, but it's just to forgive myself for my own failures. And now here I am again, hiding in the shadows, too afraid to pray, and probably hastening my end more than calming my nerves."

Yet the darkness now didn't seem right. Even to a being touched by the hand of the god of thieves himself, one whose touch could part and slip along the subtle essence of Shadow like a raptor riding a thermal high in the air, he didn't feel safe. Something was out there. It was something that mocked his abilities, and that something, it terrified him.

"F*ck this..." His fingers fidgeted with the object in his hands, shaking both from worry and for other reasons entirely. "This'll be the death of me, or something else, but at least I'll die happy in this black, shrieking hell. I..."

Immediately behind him came the sound of a boot on loose gravel. Normally he would have acted without thought, either diving into the border Shadow for a few yards, or simply rolling out of the way, spinning up to his feet and drawing one or both of his blades on his attacker. But not this time. Lost in his thoughts and with his hands already occupied, the shadowdancer did nothing but look up into the looming form, glaring eyes, and gleaming khopesh of Settys al Khilian.

"Die!"


****​

Flattening his wings and gliding silently through the darkness, Clueless slowed his descent, deftly avoiding the most errant bursts of howling wind as he touched down between a series of boulders. Razor was already drawn and ready in his right hand, eager to taste the blood of the mortal abomination who had prayed upon the innocent and mocked them each and every time.

“There you are you son of a bitch…” He watched in the black and white hues of darkvision as the shadowdancer crouched over something, mumbling to himself. 

Whatever Frollis was doing, the game was up, and he would not escape. Razor would cleave his head from his corpse and Pandemonium’s wailing would serve as his only funeral dirge. There would be no tears for one such as him.

That of course was the half-fey’s intent before not one but two figures burst out of the darkness.

“Oh what the hell!?”


****​

Toras neither crept silently across the rubble-strewn landscape, nor flew, nor slipped through the border Shadow – he moved like a force of nature, resolute, unstoppable, and utterly undeterred by wind, darkness, fear, and uncertainty. Too many lives had been lost. Too many innocents had been sacrificed to whatever insanity or dark powers the false priest allowed to dictate his actions.

Ten yards ahead, he watched as Settys stood with his khopesh at the ready. But he wasn’t running or hiding, he was moving carefully and purposefully, but for what reason he couldn’t discern.

“What the hell are you doing?” Toras brandished his own blade as he watched the fallen cleric burst into motion. Whatever it was, he had to be stopped.

“HALT!”


****​

"AAAAHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!" Frollis shrieked like a wounded child, making no effort to defend himself, crouched as he was, hands clutching not a ritual knife, not a mutilated corpse, not an evil artifact, but a cup of hot water mixed with the unmistakable silvery blue crystals of powdered dreammist.

Settys' eyes went wide, his expression wilted from a furious scowl to a confused, conflicted wince, and moments before it would have separated Frollis' head from his shoulders, its swing adjusted and purposefully missed.

Just a few yards past Frollis, Clueless stood with his sword drawn and a puzzled look on his face. To his right, Toras likewise drew his blade, looking as equally confused as his bladesinger companion.

"You are not him." Settys glanced away from the addict at his feet to Toras and Clueless. Both of them exchanged glances between each other, Settys, and Frollis, all of them equally puzzled.

“Why the hell are you here?” Clueless called out to Frollis, not yet lowering his sword.

“Why the hell are –you– here?” Toras glanced at Clueless and then to Settys.

“I came to kill Frollis.” Clueless explained.

“Why the heck would you do that?” Toras asked, “Settys is the killer.”

“Settys?” Clueless frowned. “Why the hell would you think that?”

The three of them paused, sighed, and glanced at Frollis and then at one another. Their stances relaxed and soft curses were muttered. They’d all been wrong. None of them was the killer.

“If Nisha was here she’d find this funny.” Clueless frowned. “I swore that it was Frollis.”

“I was convinced that Frollis was the murderer as well. Toras apparently thought that it was me.” Settys hung his khopesh from his belt, nodding his head towards Frollis. “The only blood on my hands would have been his if either of you had been a moment later. I’m thankful to not have killed an innocent man.”

Frollis whimpered, eyes full of shame. “I just needed to get high…”

Clueless put his palm across his face. “That’s why you’ve been sneaking away from camp on your own? That’s why you’ve been wandering away from your guard duty at random? Son of a…”

“I’ve had this problem before.” Frollis clutched the mug of steaming drugs tightly. “I got better. I truly did. But it’s hard to completely divorce yourself from it, and the past week here has been too much. People keep dying that I’m being paid to protect, and I don’t have a damn clue who it is that’s butchering them! I failed them! I failed everyone!”

“It isn’t any of us here. You haven’t failed them yet. We can still avenge them.” Settys lamented, putting a hand on Frollis’s shoulder. “We should get…”

The fallen cleric’s voice trailed off and his head turned up and to the side. In the distance, high atop Howler’s Crag there was a flicker of light. Someone was there.

“I saw it too.” Clueless glanced at the others, seeing that they too had noticed it as well.

They all looked up into the gloom, knowing that whoever was there was likely the murderer that they’d each come looking to find.

Frollis sighed and hurled the mug in his hands into the darkness. Settys smiled and helped him to his feet.

“Let’s get back to camp, gather the others, and head up the Crag. Let’s end this as soon as we can and then get our people out of here.” 


***​


The man smiled and looked up at his handiwork. She was so beautiful now. Blade and magic had freed her from the constraints of life and flesh. A spirit of freedom and inspiration, the lillend should have thanked him for his gift. But no, she’d screaming and writhed through it all, even if only with a frenzied twitching of her eyes once he’d severed her spine to ease his work.

“So beautiful…” The blade in his hand was wet with blood, though so was he, having painted with the colors she’d supplied. Even now, so close to finishing his task he could not help displaying his handiwork in such an artistic fashion.

He smiled as his conscience whimpered and wept. His work, now hung from the walls of the cave near the sample of Gautish was wonderful, and he too felt wonderful, accomplished, free of morality and free of regret. It reminded him of the last time he’d felt such. But that was many years before and on a different plane altogether. Those years in Hopeless, the Gatetown to the Waste had been special.

“They’d called it The Charnel House when they pried open the doors and looked inside.” He snickered and looked behind him. “We made them feel, didn’t we? To sink the hearts of the apathetic, to make them fear, to make them worry… oh that was something.”

His finger reached out to write another line upon the wall and he looked up into the lillend’s glassy eyes. “I could have been free Laril, but no, I had to regress. I had to return to normality. I had to pass among the sacral lambs.”

He had gone too far then. He was needed in the future, this current moment, and for this to come to pass he’d had to pacify himself, return to society, reintegrate himself into its fold, and the voice of his Master had been distant and remote. The further away it was, the easier it was to be his original self, but the process had spawned his conscience as a thing of its own. It had tried to reassert itself, perched upon his shoulder, seeking to block out…

His thoughts paused immediately from self-indulgent memory as he felt a new set of claws upon him. Cold. Darkness.

*YOU TARRY*

His hands released the knife and his senses focused on his master. Nothing existed except for the voice, even within the thoughts of his own mind now, it was difficult to say which voice was his own, drifting as it was amongst a multitude of whispers and screams that rippled across his brain always, quiet only when his master did not whisper, did not tempt, did not promise, but commanded.

_They do not matter. Leave them. Only this matters. One key for one tumbler. The beat of a single butterfly wing heralding the storm. Something that must be done for this to come to pass._

The image of a circle formed within his mind, brief and momentary, a thing of symbolism made of darkness, eyes, and teeth. Darkness. Hunger. Ineffable rage.

*YOU KNOW THE LOCATION. GO THERE. NOW.*

It spoke and he listened. There in the shadow of the Spire the tieres’ god-trap waited, and within was the source of their self-damnation and what his master required. Nothing else mattered. Yes he’d enjoyed butchering the lillend, listening to her scream in utter mute silence. He’d heard her; he’d listened to her mind. But his self-indulgence was at an end, and the others no longer mattered. Let them die in the darkness. Let Pandemonium claim their lives for all it mattered. He was done with them.

Caring not that he was spattered with the lillend’s blood across his clothing, hands, and face, he gathered his notes on which he’d finished the translation and discerned the precise location of the tiere’s imprisoned deity. There were other notes and books back at the camp, but no, he didn’t need them. Returning there would only cost him time, and in his present state of appearance… no, it was not important. Soon he would be in the Outlands, and soon he would have his prize.

“Goodbye.” He muttered, not deigning to look away as he drew a diagram in the lillend’s blood, conjuring a portal deep into the Outlands, deeper than should have been possible. His conscience moaned and pleaded. It was not too late. He could go back to how he had been. He could ignore the abomination that had touched and marked him within the Vale of Frozen Ashes. He scowled at it, turning to address it one final time. “You will not follow me to the Outlands, and we will not meet again. Finally I will be free of you.”

The man motioned with his fingers and whispered an incantation, summoning forth a shimmering portal. The figure of frozen, solid darkness that perched upon his shoulder stroked his head like a master to a favored hound, and he smiled as he glanced down one final time at the floor where his conscience wept. What little of it remained could stay here and die in the darkness as well.

“It’s not too late…” The tiny pseudodragon cried out as the portal closed.

***​


----------



## 81Dagon

*Called it!*

Freaking awesome! Now my big question is why, why, why, why, why? Is there actually a deity under the Spire? If so, who is it? What is the game that Sarkithel Fek Parthis is playing here? 

One question answered and a million more spring up. I want a time machine so I can jump ahead to the next update!


----------



## Shemeska

81Dagon said:


> *Called it!*
> 
> Freaking awesome! Now my big question is why, why, why, why, why? Is there actually a deity under the Spire? If so, who is it? What is the game that Sarkithel Fek Parthis is playing here?
> 
> One question answered and a million more spring up. I want a time machine so I can jump ahead to the next update!




*grin*

Already working on one.

I've got a (hopefully short) break from freelance work, and my job hasn't been killing me, so hopefully I can crank out a few more updates in the next month or two. Already got another in progress (would have been part of this one, but it would have been a monster update if I'd kept going till another natural break point, so split into two).

As for Sarkithel's game, I'd point out both his original appearance in the first storyhour post, and a later conversation between the Dire Shepherd and the Architect wherein they discussed the need to monitor events and something that could become a problem. It's not so much that it's Sarkithel's plan as it is the Architect's from what we've seen so far, though he's a part of it. There will be more revealed soon (some plot threads will be forming connections at the end of / following this current story arc).

Also at some point I appear to have said that the Vale of Frozen Ashes was on both Mungoth and Krangath in different places. I don't have my notes handy, and being on the 3rd or 4th Furnace doesn't particularly matter, so just to match up with the first storyhour post, let's say it's on the 4th Furnace in any future references as well.


----------



## Shemeska

Also if anyone is interested, I've got some fiction that will be appearing in Wayfinder #10 probably near the end of January (it's in layout now). Also another non-fiction piece related to it, and another author has a side trek adventure therein based on my pieces.

Might have some fiction in Wayfinder #11, but I've both not finished it yet (and not yet revised to under the word limit I was given) and nothing is a given till it's actually formally accepted which I can't assume.

Also should have some fiction in a as yet to be announced freelance project.


----------



## Tsuga C

*Post-Yule Yugolothly Fun!*



Shemeska said:


> *grin*
> 
> Already working on one.




And 2014 is looking better and better.  Shemeska is once more marauding the Storyhour and Obsidian's *Pillars of Eternity* holds much promise for those of us no longer in a position actively enjoy a Pen & Paper gaming session.  Great stuff, vicious vixen arcanoloth.


----------



## Shemeska

Tsuga C said:


> Great stuff, vicious vixen arcanoloth.






*takes a bow*

I've just been more inspired lately I think. To a large extent I think that it might be because I'm running a campaign again for the first time in a few years and I'm really enjoying the hell out of being social on the weekends once more (working night shift for several years will tend to put the kibosh on your social life).

And I'm happy. That really does help (oddly enough when you have a tendency to write horrible wretched totally dark material). *chuckle*


----------



## Shemeska

The nine of them stood before the looming mouth of the cave, paused at the threshold as if it waited like the mouth of a slavering dragon. The ground was littered with discarded packs and equipment of the group that had made the late ascent with the Professor, and also a satchel belonging to the lillend who had followed them at some point thereafter. It looked nothing so much as the ground was littered with the spat out bones of the cave’s devoured victims.

They knew that something horrific waiting inside, but that also that was where they would be free of the nightmare that had stalked and taunted them in the darkness.

“We shouldn’t have left them alone down there.” Toras glanced back to the distant lights burning and conjured where they’d left the other expedition members to wait for their return.

“They’ll be safe for a short while.” Doran frowned, equally worried despite his words. “We have to finish this, and only two people are left, and they both went up here. This is where we end this.”

“So it’s either Larill or Leobtav?” Nisha tilted her head. “I can’t say I saw that coming. I thought it was Frollis. Sorry about that…”

Everyone exchanged glances, and from the guilty expressions, it seemed that most all of them had suspected the same, though Settys earned his own glance or two.

Frollis sighed. “Was it the whole darkness thing?”

“No, it was you abandoning your post and wandering off after people showed up dead and artistically dismembered.” Fyrehowl’s tail twitched as she glanced at the shadowdancer. “But the darkness thing didn’t make your case any better.”

“So much for Cipher intuition…” Frollis rolled his eyes.

Florian frowned at them both, “We can apologize about our rashness later – though for my part I thought it was Settys. No offense.”

“None taken.”

Several more rounds of bickering and after-the-fact rationalization commenced before they drew blades or readied themselves to cast and cautiously moved down the sloping entryway into the cave.

“Laerill came this way.” Doran pointed to the patterns in the gravel left behind by the lillend’s serpentine lower-half.

“And then she paused.” Toras paused likewise, kneeling down at the feet of one of the first corpses that she’d come across.

The group muttered and sighed as they looked at the trio of bodies littering the descent. But no sign of either Laerill or Leobtav.

Fyrehowl’s ears twitched and swiveled forward, pointing down the passage and into the darkness. “I heard something. Everyone be quiet, move slowly.”

It was faint, but the lupinal’s ears were preternaturally sensitive even before her training as a Cipher came into play. Someone was breathing, though it was shallow, labored, and irregular. Whoever it was, they sounded injured, though she couldn’t yet tell who it was, either the professor or the lillend.

It didn’t take long for them to find out who it wasn’t.

“Mystra preserve…” Tristol gasped as his conjured light illuminated the rear of the cave, unveiling a grisly arrangement sitting atop one of the small devotional altars carved into the walls.

Laerill's body -what remained of it- sat atop the altar above which they'd first discovered the gautish text. She'd been severed at the waist, and the serpentine lower half of her body was missing, letting her corpse appear trapped in the stone or emerging from the pool of clotted, drying blood drooling out upon the altar. Like previous corpses, her body had been positioned after death. Her arms were raised up as if in adoration or worship, and an ecstatic grin was fixed upon her face, even while the bloody hollows of her gouged out eyes trickled blood down her face.

“Laerill I’m so sorry…” Florian’s eyes were wide. She’d seen many things as a cleric of Tempus, but this was something altogether different.

Toras’ face was grim, and anger seethed in his eyes. “Gods…”

Upon the altar, written in her own blood were the following words penned in draconic, “Do you hear it? Can you hear it? Hark to the resonance of lament and the crash and pitch of misery. Join in the chorus of the damned as we keen to its whispered will.”

Other than Laerill's mutilated body and her killer's mocking words, the cave was empty. Leobtav was gone.

“Monster…” Doran whispered in a monotone. He felt hollow. He’d known Leobtav for years.

For several long minutes all was silent and still. None of them could take their eyes from what had been done to her, nor could they make sense of the words left behind in front of her body, nor the much longer grisly tableau sprawling across the wall behind her. All was silent until there came a small, sorrowful voice, high pitched and unsteady. "I tried to make him stop..."

"Ficklebarb?" Several voices, confused and unsteady all of them, rang out.

All eyes were drawn to the tiny pseudodragon curled up on the ground a few feet from Laerill's corpse. His colors were washed out, his eyes dull, and it seemed as if he'd been touched by a pack of wraiths.

"I tried to tell you." Ficklebarb looked up at them, tears leaking from his eyes. "I tried to tell someone. The professor...me... us... we needed help."

"Wait, I'm completely confused." Nisha blurted out.

Tristol rubbed her shoulder. "You're not the only one."

"What exactly is going on Ficklebarb?" Toras asked, his voice suddenly softer and gentler as if he were speaking to a child as he knelt down next to the sickly pseudodragon. The anger was completely gone from his expression.

"I'm not a familiar." Ficklebarb explained, resting his head upon a rock, seemingly incapable of the strength to hold it aloft. "I'm the professor's conscience."

"How...?" Clueless looked at the tiny dragon, wondering how that could even happen, and why.

"I've known Leobtav for decades." Doran glanced at the others. "I never suspected anything like this from him. I certainly never suspected that his familiar was anything more than that. I don't remember anything that would have suggested anything like this." He stared quietly at the dragon for a moment and then asked, "What happened to Cilret? What made him do this?"

Ficklebarb sighed and started to cry. He'd known what was going to happen, he'd known the darkness lurking in his master's soul, and he'd been unable to do anything to stop it. Now though, maybe he could explain it and maybe they could put an end to it.

"Something touched him years ago. Something terrible in Gehenna. He tried not to give in. He tried to resist it. Part of him at least. Eventually it knew it couldn't survive and it split apart, forming me. I tried to keep him stable and sane, avoiding falling back into the darkness. I couldn't stop him though, and now I'm dying."

"We can help you!" Toras protested.

"I don't think you can." Ficklebarb twitched and shuddered in pain. "I don't think anyone ever really could have. But you have to stop him now! You can't let him do what he's left to do!"

"Where is he now?" Florian demanded, eyes flickering back towards the cave mouth, praying inwardly to Tempus that the madman didn't intend to wait till they were here and then slaughter the rest of the expedition. Thankfully though, that wasn't the case.

"The Outlands." Ficklebarb moaned. "Looking for the imprisoned god of the gautiere."

"What's he going to do?" Clueless asked.

The tiny pseudodragon flicked his tail towards Laeril's grotesquely displayed corpse, and to the wall behind her. There, drawn in perverse bloody mimicry of the texts that littered the honeycombed interior of Howler's Crag, Leobtav had left behind a text of his own. Written in the lillend's blood, it was both a mocking farewell, and the cliché speech of a sociopath so deeply desiring an acknowledgement of his own superiority when his success had till that moment required anonymity rather than notoriety. 

_“Oh, I found my calling long ago. I was indeed once a Guvner, once the professor I have played at still being. That was before I traveled to the Ash Cities of Gehenna. There upon the frozen slopes of the 4th mount, I heard it. It spoke to me, called my name and whispered to me. So much it knew, so powerful it was; a power among powers it seemed. It was distant though, remote, and from so far off it sounded, like a voice through glass or water, struggling to speak to me. But speak it did, and rivet my attention it did. Of dire portents it spoke, of what would be, and what MUST be in order for it to occur. It took me, showed me the coming times of it, and what part I would play in the tumult.
            I found my calling, and it I worshipped in secret, the darkness filling my heart till it overflowed. At the time I was living in Hopeless, an outcast, hiding from all others while I strove to understand the insights and parables it gave to teach me what I must do. Three score dead I left in my wake upon the floors and rafters of that house. It is still shunned to this day, a chapel of the Ashsinger, a cathedral of death to the Everdark, a palace for the Lord of Misery.
            In secret I returned to the world I had known, the same on the outside, given torment in my own way by the lingering fragments of my former self, my conscience, my weakness, my cares, the souls of those I killed. Ficklebarb was all of that, and stronger he grew the longer I passed away the time since my calling. Action was needed to silence him, refill the void, and satiate the Darkness that Calls. Your fear, your death rattles, and your consumed soulstuff feed the Master and confirm my place as its servant, loyal and humble. It silences my regret with a blood laden reaffirmation of faith in the Faithless One.
            And now the Darkness Beyond calls once more. It speaks, I listen and in the shadow of the Spire, I find what it seeks.”_

"What the bloody f*ck..." Frollis stared slackjawed at the text written in blood across the wall.

Nisha tilted her head sideways and punctuated her next statement with a rattle of the bell on her tail, "That's a whole hell of a lot of crazy."

"Someone care to let me know what the Ashsinger is?" Clueless asked the obvious question. "Or the other names there? I've never heard of any of them."

Eyes glanced between Doran, Tristol, and Florian. Collectively they shrugged. None of them had ever heard of any of those names.

"I've never heard of any of them." Tristol’s ears flattened back against his head and his head tilted ever so slightly to the side as he struggled to make sense of the text and the many names and titles scattered throughout it.

"We did send an expedition to Gehenna though, years ago." Doran sighed. "The Ash Cities are real, though the expedition didn't recover much, and they nearly didn't make it back. There's not much to say about them really except that they exist. While it's been suggested that the 'loths built them, they don't go anywhere near there, though that might just be the presence of the phiuls. It's hard to say. There wasn't any indication of a deity by any of those names at any point that we excavated."

"That seems to be when he lost it though." Florian frowned. "Did he drop out of sight after that?"

Doran nodded. "He took a sabbatical from his research with the institute for several years, embarking on some private research. Everything was handled officially with the Guvners, and when he returned to service he threw himself into the next projects that popped up and everything seemed perfectly normal. The only thing that had obviously changed was that he had a familiar."

Ficklebarb's eyes were wide with regret, "I couldn't tell you Doran. I wanted to, but I couldn't."

"That's ok little one."

“You have to help him!” Ficklebarb’s eyes welled with desperation. “You have to stop him!”

“How? We don’t even know where he’s gone to.” Clueless glanced back at the bloody text Leobtav had left behind. “And even then, he somehow sealed off our access to planeshifting magic.”

“That hasn’t changed since he left.” Tristol’s ears were flattened back against his head. “We might end up using Nisha’s method after all.”

Despite the circumstances, Nisha managed a smile.

Ficklebarb pointed his snout at a discarded satchel and several sheets of paper littered around it, each of them scrawled with notations in Leobtav’s hand. “He found the location of the tiere’s imprisoned god coded into the text we found here. His notes don’t show that, but it shows the steps he took to find it. He left those earlier notes behind. He didn’t need them anymore.”

All eyes turned to Doran, and the elf was already opening the bag and leafing through the papers it held. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“What is he going to do if he reaches there before we can?”

Ficklebarb shook with an involuntary tremor. “I don’t know what he intends to do. Something horrible. Something evil. I also know that if he succeeds, I’ll vanish. I’ll die. I don’t want to die.”

“How can we stop him without… you know, killing him?” Fyrehowl asked, hesitation in her voice. “What happens to you then?”

Ficklebarb managed a smile, but otherwise didn’t answer. “You can’t let him succeed. Please. Please try.”

“I owe it to my friend, no matter what twisted him, no matter what he did.” Doran looked up from the notes to Leobtav’s dying conscience made manifest. “We have to get the others to safety first. Then we go after him.”

Toras reached down and picked up the tiny pseudodragon, gently rubbing its head, carrying it like a beloved pet or a sickly child in need of care. “We’ll take care of both things. Let’s go back down to the others. They need to know that they’re safe for the moment. Then we figure out where Leobtav went, and how we’ll get there after bringing the others back somewhere safer.”

“One more thing first.” Florian looked at Fyrehowl and the others with a more physical skill set. “Someone help me take down Laerill’s body. I don’t know if we can bring her back, what with the problems we had with the others, and her being an outsider, but we can’t leave her hear despoiled like this. We owe her that.”

None objected.


****​

Several hours of feverish study later they had something. Cobbled together from Leobtav's remaining notes and others carelessly left behind in the materials abandoned in the cave high up on the Crag, it wasn't complete, but it was something nonetheless.

“It’s a translation, but the original text isn’t only plain text. There’s an acrostic that provides a starting point, several landmarks, and a distance between each of them. It’s not a conventional location within the Outlands either, because the directions don't point towards the spire at all.”

Several sets of questioning eyes focused on Doran, while a smaller number found intrigued purchase on the document in his hands, just as eager to hear the details.

"It points to somewhere out in the Hinterlands." Doran spread out a map of the plane, with circles drawn around Plague-Mort and Hopeless, the respective gatetowns to the Abyss and the Waste. "Starting at a point Spireward and moving Ringward in a specific route between those two gatetowns. Curiously it doesn't mention Curst at all, which I suspect says something about the utter antiquity of the text, since it suggests that it predates Carceri's gatetown, or at least was written during an interregnum period when the town was swallowed by the plane proper."

“The Hinterlands?” Tristol’s ears perked in attention. “That would explain why it hasn’t ever been found.”

“Indeed.” Doran continued. “Some of the place names are antiquated to the extreme, and it’s going to take a few days for me to sketch the entire route for this out in detail, but it gives a precise location for the prison-tomb of the tiere deity.”

“What are the Hinterlands?” Florian asked. “I’m not familiar with the term.”

“The Outlands are infinite in size, just like every other plane.” Tristol explained. “The ring of Gatetowns doesn’t mark a border for the plane where it drops off into the others around the Wheel. It keeps going. Forever. But away from the Spire, past that point, it gets… odd.”

Doran continued from where Tristol had stopped. “No matter how far out you travel, you’re never more than a few days away from the Gatetowns. But if you try to retrace your original path out into the Hinterlands, you may never encounter the same locations or landscape. It’s fluid in a way. Which is why no one has probably ever found the tiere godtrap before now, though I’d suspect the rilmani know of it. They’re probably the only ones.”

“The Hinterlands…” Ficklebarb wrinkled his snout and nodded. “It seems right.”

“And that’s where Leobtav is going.” Doran sighed. “Apparently. Though I’ll be damned if I know why.”


****​ 
- trudge out and up to find a portal. Takes several days to find something usable, giving Leobtav a head start.

-trip to Hopeless to the Charnel House. Toras, Tristol, Nisha while the others work with Doran to figure out where Leobtav is actually going. Fast forward through this since nothing plot important happens, but the house is trapped, triggered when anyone seeking Leobtav appears, having made the connection between his identity and the fake name he used during those years.-


****​

High above the Outlands, the sunless sky was clear and cloudless. Today the landscape of the plane of true neutrality was clear, and one could see for miles if not for the forests a few miles distant. Far beyond them, nine rings inward, the Spire rose and even at that distance it still towered above, looming, crowned like an aloof king with its crown of Sigil. But the sky was an afterthought to the young khaasta child who sat in the dirt and played with a carved stick, imagining it to be a blade, and a series of stones that he’d decorated with bits of pigment to resemble a gaggle of humanoid slaves that he, a great slave trader, would be bringing to market far on the other side of the spire in the great ribbed city of iron and gold that his father told tales of.

A shadow stretched over the ground before him and the child glanced up.

“Gssik!” His mother called out. “Hazha’mek nim!”

He glanced up at her call and then out towards the horizon, the treeline, and the figure approaching their village. A lone human, thin, unarmed, and dressed in clothing sullied by travel and a careless attitude towards their appearance. An escaped slave? Or a lost traveler perhaps, soon to be beaten, collared, and eventually sold at market by his mighty father no doubt! This would be something to watch! One day he would do the same!

As he approached the khaasta village, the man gave only a casual glance at the reptilian natives. He found it amusing to find them settled in such a fashion on the chaotic side of the Spire. They had hunted well in recent years though it seemed, as the size of their slave pens suggested, as did the presence of the finely crafted goods purchased or seized in their raids which decorated their warriors and the dozens of buildings they'd constructed. Still, they were barely civilized vermin, akin to hobgoblins of the Outlands.

“Wretches.” The man muttered with contempt as he watched several gravid females shut themselves inside their homes, gathering their young as the warrior males and females shouted out alarms and gathered their weapons. “You are not worth my time."

He would have passed directly through the village, not lifting a finger to harm them had they not intervened. His eyes were set on something else: the tiere god-trap far beyond the village, deep within the Hinterlands. Anything else in-between was meaningless by comparison unless his master told him otherwise.

“Stand still fool! Drop your weapons and hand over your gold.” The khaasta chieftain towered over him by well over two head heights. Powerfully muscled and dressed in little more than a chainmail loincloth, the ruddy-scaled khaasta sneered at the human as his eyes darted about his body, assaying not his threat as an opponent, but his worth as either a slave or a meal.

The man stopped, silent and arrogantly calm. He smiled and adjusted his glasses as the khaasta continued to bellow orders.

“If you have been sent by some master, speak it now and we will see what becomes of you. Otherwise, you have chosen a poor place to seek refuge human. If no devil or god claims you as property, then we are claiming so now.”

The man chuckled and glanced up to his shoulder, whispering something incoherently as the muscular, armed khaasta approached.

“Bow slave! Bow before your new master!” The khaasta sneered, leveling the tip of his wickedly barbed spear at the human who stood well over two head heights below him. “You now belong to Kistrex of clan Isstrekal."

"Serakal!" Kistrex called out to his secondary wife. "Fetch me some manacles!”

The man snickered and glanced up to his shoulder where something now flickered in and out of existence - a tiny figure perched there, wrought of shadow, or more distinctly, an absence of light, a hole in space, leering with a ragged tear of a mouth and hollows for eyes. It leaned in and whispered something to him. He nodded, stretched and mentally caressed a set of phrases and words that leaped from his dark companion and into his thoughts.

“You are naught but flotsam and sh*t riding on the currents ahead of the tidal wave of rilmani." He glanced at the khaasta with disdain. "They have yet to make their presence known."

The khaasta barked out more orders, snarling and preparing to beat the human into submission with a swift strike to his head. He never had the chance.

"They wait for me. They wait for us.” The man smiled, drawing the mental symbols and phrases like a sword in his mind. “And like you, they too will die.”

His mouth yawned wide, opening into a bottomless darkness, the figure on his shoulder smiled, and from his throat issued forth a wail… 


****​ 

Thick black smoke hung heavy in the air, still rising hours after the fact from the gutted frames of a dozen buildings, carrying with itself the sickly sweet smell of burning flesh. Nearly forty khaasta corpses littered the ground, their features twisted into expressions of horror and their limbs snarled and contorted like dead insects. The ravaged village was not empty however. Hiding in the ruins were several stragglers that had survived the attack, as well as a lingering enchantment upon the corpses that would in the space of hours cause them to rise up spontaneously if not first triggered by any of their killer's pursuers. They would not trigger however on the presence of either group that currently moved through the ruins, each of a distinctly different nature.

Marching with a haste normally not seen among their kind, ranks of ferrumach rilmani followed in the footsteps of the man who had shattered the khaasta village. Both on foot and riding kulduraths, accompanied by groups of cuprilach and scattered argenach marshals, they numbered in the hundreds. Further out, equivalent groups moved in the same direction. The rilmani were determined to stop any and all intrusions into the prison-temple of the tiere deity.

"Busy little ants..." Tellura Ibn Shartalan sat upon the ground amid the death and carnage, waiting. Had she been noticed by the rilmani or surviving khaast, they would have seen only what appeared to be a young aasimar girl sitting alone and utterly unconcerned by the corpses scattered around her. Bemused, she toyed with a leather doll abandoned by one of the khaasta children who had scattered at the approach of Cilret Leobtav.

Unaware of her presence, the ranks of rilmani marched around her, and occasionally she scowled at those who approached too closely, her shadow reaching out, tempted to bat at them like a cat clawing at insects. Despite her presence, and despite what she was, none of them took notice of her sitting on the ground. Far enough from the Spire as they were, Balance's champions' innate connection to the plane failed to outweigh the baernaloth’s primeval and godlike power, even diluted as it was, substantially so by her presence outside of the Lower Planes and in the Spire’s shadow. Unless she travelled closer in by several rings, or perhaps if the ferrumachs and their argenach sergeants saw fit to include an aurumach, then perhaps they might notice her presence. That would be a pity if they did.

The Second of the Demented smiled and briefly turned her head at the sound of an opening door. Within the smoldering remains of one of the larger dwellings, a ruined staircase once rose from the ground floor. The second floor no long existed and the roof have collapsed, but the stone frame of the stairwell and the door itself still, improbably, remained behind. Briefly they flickered with sickly yellow light and opened, allowing the entry of her kindred from his hunting upon the Infinite Staircase.

“Ideally they’ll finish this business.” Tellura remarked, gazing past the rilmani army in the direction that Leobtav had travelled. "It saves us the trouble of doing so ourselves, and prevents our intrusion from being noticed.

“You've been playing with dolls and puppets too long I think." The Wanderer snarled as his emerald eyes followed the rilmani. "You don't control their movement, and where they're going, you couldn't follow if you wanted. You can't see it.”

“It’s too close to the Spire even now. The Hinterlands swallowed it long ago, but where it was originally has left an imprint upon it even now. It no longer sits in the ring the tiere built it in, but to my eyes it might as well." Tellura shrugged and her face was just as nonchalantly calm as before. But the Wanderer had made his point, and below her, on the ground, her shadow swirled with frustration. "Otherwise it wouldn’t be a problem and I’d handle it myself.”

“Do you really think the rilmani can handle what you failed to notice?”

“I failed to notice nothing.” She frowned and looked up at her kindred baern. “Nor did my sibling.”

The legions of rilmani marched onwards, swarming around the baernaloth without ever noticing them, nor in fact approaching within an arm's length, as if the proto-fiends warped the landscape around themselves, repulsing the neutral exemplars like identical poles of a magnet.

"So you both have reminded the rest of us, repeatedly now." The Wanderer motioned towards the rilmani, clambering back towards the door to carry him back to the Staircase before glancing back at the Shepherdess. “If they fail we have a problem.”

“It isn’t a problem.” Tellura snarled like a petulant child and awkwardly stood, casting aside the khaasta doll and supporting herself on her staff. “Everything has been foreseen! Everything still goes according to the Architect’s designs.”

“Does it?” The Wanderer didn't look at her as he asked the question, bathed in the glow of the open portal as he prepared to leave. "We shall see."

Tellura opened her mouth, glaring at the other baernaloth's back as he slipped into the portal and vanished. Digging its claws into the earth, her shadow snarled before she turned and walked forward. On the third step the ground turned to a ragged blotch of ashes and she was gone, vanished back into the Waste, leaving all as it was and had been.


****​


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## Akhelos

This Story is great, I am still reading it and have not yet finished, but it is very Interesting and very well written. 

But thats naturally Obvious as it incorporates Yugoloths and we are naturally the best and most Interesting of all species, even if the other fools have not realised it yet *nods* and you can be assured that I will read the whole story I have time for it. 

signed
Malshana archana Thauwiz, Arcanaloth Sorcererss and Royal thorn in the side of ther group (especially our blackguard who even after 8 years still believes I am his girl, stupid fool...albeit he is a nice tool.)

((sorry for my definetly not flawless english *g*))


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## Shemeska

Akhelos said:


> This Story is great, I am still reading it and have not yet finished, but it is very Interesting and very well written.
> 
> But thats naturally Obvious as it incorporates Yugoloths and we are naturally the best and most Interesting of all species, even if the other fools have not realised it yet *nods* and you can be assured that I will read the whole story I have time for it.
> 
> signed
> Malshana archana Thauwiz, Arcanaloth Sorcererss and Royal thorn in the side of ther group (especially our blackguard who even after 8 years still believes I am his girl, stupid fool...albeit he is a nice tool.)
> 
> ((sorry for my definetly not flawless english *g*))




I'm happy that you've enjoyed it!


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## Shemeska

So everyone reading here is aware, because of the age and size of this thread, I've started up a new Storyhour thread to handle future updates rather than here in the original thread. This one is gargantuan.

New thread (starting off with a new update!)

http://www.enworld.org/forum/showthread.php?352957-Shemeska-s-Planescape-Storyhour-2014-updates-and-more-recent-%28Updated-20Feb2014%29


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