"The second evacuation plan," he said to Laerasis. "Put it into motion. Now."
"Your will," she said and bounded up the stairs. He shouts echoed through the halls. "Gather up your most vital possessions and basket up every one of the damned cats you can catch!"
Gods yes, don't forget the cats. You really want the Cat Lord on your side for this.
And now, Nalifan will get down to business, and much death and destruction is about to occur. A pity about Elvarra, though. Nalifan's had bad luck with his bed-partners twice now.
Nitram, slightly high on cough syrup: Do you know you're beautiful?
Me: Nope, that's why I have you around to tell me.
Nitram: You -are- beautiful. Anyone tries to tell you otherwise kill them.
"A life is like a garden. Perfect moments can be had, but not preserved, except in memory. LLAP" -- Leonard Nimoy, last Tweet
The knife flashed in the dim light. Nalifan's hands move swiftly, slicing the beef into small cubes and throwing it onto the huge skillet. "There's wine in the cabinet, along with mead and what I am told is an excellent ale. I think you can manage to find the fresh water on your own."
"Right," said Mikos. He looked around the dim room. To drow eyes it was very well lit and Mikos had magic that allowed him to see almost as well as they did. He walked to the man high cabinet and opened the doors. A gust of cool air came out. "Decoration's a little spartan for your taste."
"Just had time to put in the necessities for civilized living," said Nalifan.
"Syl? Triz? Want anything?" Husband and wife were sitting beside each other at the table, holding hands. Sylvetria's armour was hanging on a stand in a nearby room, but her ring of weapons was with her as always.
"Nothing," she said.
"Triz?"
"I'll get some water in a moment," the warrior-psionicist replied. Nalifan sliced up a pair of onions and then turned his attention to an array of coloured peppers. "So, she sank a knife into your back."
"Yes," said Nalifan. His voice was clipped and harsh. "Even if the assassin's hadn't been wearing Desanna house badges, there is only one person who could make her do that."
"The Dread Queen," answered Trizkel. "Her Infamousness wants you dead. I take it you never told her about this place?"
"That particular story has remained untold," said Nalifan. "She doesn't even know that this place exists, let alone that I managed to find it again and salvage it."
"And your soulcatcher?"
"In a distant part of Astral Space. If they want to raise those that I slew, they're going to have to look very, very hard to even find it. There's no connection that they can trace back to my location."
"Good," said Trizkel. "So for now we're safe in and unknown location they can't find by scrying and couldn't enter even if they could."
"Actually Elvarra or the Shaharith could force the portal through brute force. I would know instantly though. Actually, everyone here would know instantly. Of course, they have no way of actually finding us."
"Fadina?" Trizkel asked.
"Doesn't know the current location of the demiplane. It moved when it began its collapse." Kuuni slunk through the room, creeping up close to Nalifan. She raised her hand and grabbed a slice of green pepper before slinking back to the table.
"What was the point of that?" Trizkel asked.
"It's not the object, its the practice," said Kuuni. The little gnome smiled broadly. "A girl has to keep up her skills."
Trizkel rolled his eye. "So, what kind of plan do we have?"
"As you might recall, I know some drow in the information business. They'll do the leg work for us. We sit tight for a bit and then we visit Sshameth and they get paid. We work out an attack plan from there, probably biting off a chunk at a time until they're weak enough we can finish them or their neighbors pull them down. We take the battle to them on our schedule and our terms. They all die."
Trizkel smiled with pleasure. Sylvetria nodded her head in agreement. Kuuni popped up beside Nalifan and asked "what kind of spices are you going to use with that?"
The doors swung open and admitted Wither to the strategy room. Several of the drow here were new, having been promoted to fill the gaps that Nalifan had ripped open in Shaharith's retainers. "You called, Dread Queen?"
Shaharith looked across the table at the disgusting creature. At least it had the decency to hide its revolting body behind shrouds of clothing. "You made claims on how you could be use to us. I require you to prove them."
"Of course, Dread Queen. Shall we discuss the situation."
"Let us," she replied, her voice dripping with venom.
"Nalifan has killed your chief wizard, one of your more capable priestesses, and several very good assassins. Their souls were snatched by his soulcatcher-"
"Stop," Shaharith commanded. "Explain."
"A magical construct he has begun to employ," hissed Wither. "A sort of living spell that dwells in Astral Space. It can be summoned by him to catch the departing souls of his slain enemies and hold them. That is why you have been unable to raise any of your dead."
"A rather overly complicated method of soul trapping," sniffed Exandra. The worm that walks did not reply.
"Continue," commanded Shaharith. "And try telling us something we don't already know."
"He abandoned his manse, but its defences remain. It serves as an excellent trap. Attack it and you will bleed. He can also show up personally to harry or destroy the attacking force. He has relocated his retainers elsewhere. They don't matter. He has set up a new base of operations for his war against you. I can help you with this."
"How?"
"I know where it is."
The Excellent Prismatic Spray. For when you absolutely, positively must kill a motherfucker. Accept no substitutions. Contact a magician of the later Aeons for details. Some conditions may apply.
Nalifan wrote:"Actually Elvarra or the Shaharith could force the portal through brute force. I would know instantly though. Actually, everyone here would know instantly. Of course, they have no way of actually finding us."
The horde drifted through the grey-white mists of the Ethereal Sea. Wither lead them unerring through the misty shadows that overlay the boundaries between the planes. "Here," it said.
Elvarra squinted. The sorceress wore form fitting enspelled black leather augmented with talismans of platinum and ruby, an outfight both practical and beguiling. She could just make out a silver disc, floating in a cloud. "The entrance portal," said the worm that walks. "The boundary is permeable if you know the password. I do not."
"There has to be another way," said Tasseen.
"Of course there is," said Shaharith. The Dread Queen wore armour of adamantine plate and her crown of ruby and platinum. "Any planar boundary can be breached, with enough force." Mustering that amount of force would be a severe drain on the one who did it. Shaharith had not lived so long by tempting fate. "Elvarra, tear it open."
The sorceress grimaced in distaste. She was the natural choice for this job, but she didn't have to like it. "As you command, Majesty. Stand back."
Power flared, blue-white light that formed a corona about her body. The portal grew brighter, glowing hotter and hotter. Blue-white flames erupted around the edges, encasing it in a ball of blazing mage fire. The drow closed their eyes or looked away as the incandescent orb grew brighter and brighter. A boom like the fist of an angry god striking the land reverberated throughout the Ethereal Sea. "It is done," she said softly.
The fire died. The portal was now a swirling white mass. Shaharith spared a glance for her daughter, who was shuddering and taking deep, gasping breaths. She was finished, for a while. "Advance," commanded the Dread Queen.
A score of bipedal lizard-toad demons bounded forward. The herzou averaged eight feet tall and well over six hundred pounds of iron scaled, befanged and betaloned malice. They were no strangers to fear and they feared few things more than the Dread Queen. There was no hesitation in their advance.
They passed through the portal to emerge under a moonless night sky. False stars glimmered brightly from above and a summer breeze stirred the night air. Dark trees raised their branches to the sky, their branches heavy with alien fruit. The demons paused and sniffed the air as plate armoured drow exited behind them.
Ylafen smiled cruelly as he surveyed the demiplane. Rezafyn's death had been quite fortunate, elevating him in rank and status. The magister had possessed little regard for his abilities, regarding him as a half schooled thug with a limited set of skills and magics. Now he would demonstrate the worth of his powers. Like Elvarra, he intended to make his way through raw power. His mastery of destruction would take him to the magister's staff and into the Dread Queen's bed.
"Advance," he ordered, mimicking his mistress's manner. "Down the trail. That rock promontory must be where he is lairing."
The demons bounded forward, eager to kill. The path was wide and followed a meandering stream that wound its way through the forest. Soon enough they reached the end of the forest and got a look at the outcropping.
The promontory was a massive rock outcropping. A dwelling had been carved into the rock, presenting three facades that allowed the inhabitants to look out onto the glade beneath them and the forest beyond. The stream poured down from a gap near the top of the rock, fell down into a pool built into the highest facade, which was built into the rock mid-way down from the top. From their the stream drained off from the pool and continued falling into another pool, drained into yet another pool, and then went off into the forest. Wide landings lined the sides of the pools and stairs lead up from them to two lower facades cut into the rock before both sets of stairs ascended and converged to meet at the highest facade.
All the facades were faced with pillars and broad double doors. Statues of dragons lined the stairs and the landings. Several more of statues, these depicting stalking cats, stood near the woods.
Ylafen was elf enough to appreciate the beauty of this place. He was also more than drow enough to revel in its destruction. His dark robes swirled around him as he stepped forward. "Attack!" he commanded.
The demons bounded up the stairs. The drow remained with him, his bodyguard. Above him a dozen vrocks wheeled and began to descend. The vulture demons were cruel and terrible, but they would prefer that their ground bound brethren take the brunt of any casualties. Drow warriors with swords and crossbows advanced in the demons' wake, supported by a few priestesses and a pair of mages. Two stone golems lumbered in their wake.
Ylafen watched them go. They were entirely expendable. They would locate Nalifan and then the hammer would come down and they would destroy them utterly. What he didn't comprehend was that he was entirely expendable as well. Rezafyn had good reason to give for holding the warmage in low regard.
Sylvetria jumped up in bed. "What in the name of Baator was that?" The walls were still ringing.
Trizkel slid out on the other side. Other than the bed, the room only contained a large rug and a stand for their armour and weapons. "An attack."
"Hells. So much for Nal's assurances."
Trizkel dressed swiftly and put on his weapon's belt. "Armour up. The rest of us will stall them."
"Stall?" she called. "What the Hells is that going to do? There is only one way out of this place!"
Six Herzou bounded up the stairs towards the lower left facade and were consumed in a blast of violet flame. The stones under their feet cracked and exploded from the heat, bombarding everyone nearby with stony shrapnel. Blackened bones and cinders fell through the gap in the collapsing staircase to the ground below.
Ylafen couldn't see where the strike had come from, but that didn't stop him from retaliating. He raised his staff and smote the facade with a forked bolt of hell red lighting. Chunks of stone exploded away from two pillars and the double doors were blown off their hinges. Six vrocks swooped down to rend with claws and beaks, but they found nothing there. Nalifan had already retreated.
Their long, spindly legs allowed the demons to run swiftly down the corridor. The first got ten feet before he took a shaft in the chest, throat, and right eye. Caustic blood spurted from the wounds and the demon fell. The one behind him took two shafts in the chest and fell as well. The third charged.
He took a shaft in the belly and kept coming. Mikos placed a shaft in his right thigh and that barely slowed him down. Two more in the chest and he fell, almost at the Dalesman's feet. The other three were right behind him. The Dalesman drew steel.
The vrocks were inhumanely fast. Mikos was faster. He sliced the legs and arms of the first one with longsword and shortsword before piercing the hip and then the heart. The demon fell back, momentarily tangling the one behind it. Mikos ran it through hip, lung, and heart before it could free itself. The sixth was ready for him.
It losts its hands before it knew what was happening and then its thighs were sliced open and its wings crippled. Mikos retreated, leaving it to thrash and scream and spread confusion.
Herzou demons bounded up the right staircase. Talons that could shear through plate armour opened gouges on the double doors. Inhuman strength strength propelled their massive bodies against them in short, brutal charges. The hinges groaned and bent. With a massive push they were through. Trizkel stood before them, faint light glinting off the platinum and ruby headpiece that covered an empty eye socket and a quarter of his skull. He opened his mouth.
Acid gushed forth, searing through demonic hide and dissolving otherworldly flesh. The herzou fell screaming and writhing as they died. Two stone golems shaped like huge ogres ponderously advanced towards Trizkel. The drow smiled. In his left hand he held Mind Eater, but the right, the right held Ruinbringer. He charged.
He sliced the first golem's legs and they came apart under Ruinbringer's assault. The blade was deadly to all foes, but it had been worked with additional sorceries that were particularly destructive to constructs. The first golem's torso and upper body fell back down the stairs, crushing three drow in the process. The other golem tried to punch him but he wasn't there, dodging aside and then slashing the golem's left leg. Cracks spiderwebbed swiftly through the rock and the leg came apart. The golem fell off the stairs to the ground thirty feet below.
A torrent of spells struck the facade. Lighting and fire, acid and thunder. Trizkel dove back inside, protected by his own resistance to sorcery, psionic force, and pillars of rock. It wasn't enough.
The columns cracked, blackened, melted away, and collapsed. Rock and worked stone tumbled to the ground. Trizkel's skin was scourged and his flesh torn by hostile sorcery. He rolled back down the corridor, seething in agony and calling upon his own psionic talents to heal the fearsome injuries he had sustained.
Dread Queen Shaharith observed the destruction. "Send in the males," she ordered. Two hundred trained drow, the least of whom possessed enchanted weapons and armour, was a force to strike terror in almost any heart. "And send forth a dozen adamantine spiders and two score Reavers to stiffen their spines." The crack female troops were widely feared throughout her domains and in the realms that had the misfortune to be near her holdings. She thought for a moment, decided which one of her daughters was most expendable at this moment, and spoke again. "Tasseen, take command of the Reaver detachment."
There was a one in two chance that Tasseen would get the job done, but she would certainly serve to weaken them and locate them precisely. Shaharith and the rest of her army could handle it from there.
The Excellent Prismatic Spray. For when you absolutely, positively must kill a motherfucker. Accept no substitutions. Contact a magician of the later Aeons for details. Some conditions may apply.
Ylafen's a fucking idjit if he thinks raw power > skill and cunning. He's also an idjit thinking he'll bed the Dread Queen.
I think we've a new suspect for Wither.
Nitram, slightly high on cough syrup: Do you know you're beautiful?
Me: Nope, that's why I have you around to tell me.
Nitram: You -are- beautiful. Anyone tries to tell you otherwise kill them.
"A life is like a garden. Perfect moments can be had, but not preserved, except in memory. LLAP" -- Leonard Nimoy, last Tweet
LadyTevar wrote:Ylafen's a fucking idjit if he thinks raw power > skill and cunning. He's also an idjit thinking he'll bed the Dread Queen.
I think we've a new suspect for Wither.
I suspect Wither to be Nal's essence or at least part of it? It doesn't remember who it is but blames Nal? Confusing but maybe a small chance I am right?
ASVS('97)/SDN('03)
"Whilst human alchemists refer to the combustion triangle, some of their orcish counterparts see it as more of a hexagon: heat, fuel, air, laughter, screaming, fun." Dawn of the Dragons
As I said on LibArc, I doubt it's Ylafen. Time paradoxes are tricky, but I'm pretty sure Wither's more likely to be someone who was killed in something unrelated to House Desanna, because if it weren't for Wither's interference in the first place, Ylafen wouldn't have been there to be killed.
It's also unlikely to be Nalifan. If it were Nalifan it would know the password; if it were Nalifan's essence without his memories it wouldn't know the password, but wouldn't know the demiplane's location either. He would be unlikely to forget one but not the other in his transformation, if indeed he knew them both in the first place.
If it were Nalifan, it'd want Elvarra to exhaust herself opening the barrier into the demiplane, rather than saying 'Here, I brought a spare key with me.'
Chronological Incontinence: Time warps around the poster. The thread topic winks out of existence and reappears in 1d10 posts.
Out of Context Theatre, this week starring Darth Nostril.
-'If you really want to fuck with these idiots tell them that there is a vaccine for chemtrails.'
The drow soldiers moved down the corridor in a column three abreast. The front two ranks wore enchanted adamantine plate and carried large adamantine shields marked with glyphs of power. They linked their shields and marched in formation. In their free hands were slim wands of bone and black iron. Behind them were crossbowmen, bladesmen, and magicians.
Mikos fired down the corridor, his hands a blur of motion. The first shot glanced off a shield, the second slipped through a gap in the first rank and struck a shield in the second, the third punched through a greave and drew blood. The wounded elf's shield wavered. The fourth went through his right shoulder and the fifth struck him in the right lung. The drow fell.
Bolts of jade fire and globes of dark acid flew from the wands. A handful of enchanted bolts snapped from the drow ranks towards the Dalesman. Mikos twisted, dodge, and slapped on missile acid. Sorcery scoured and scared stone. A flame bolt struck him in the side, but his armour took the worst of it. A bolt bounced off his chest. Another sunk into his thigh. A crimson streak flew from the drow ranks and fire filled the air around him.
Mikos rolled back and away from the fiery explosion. The drow had redressed their ranks and were continuing to attack. A bolt bounced off to the floor next to him and another grazed his hand. An acid globe struck in the shoulder and burst for a brief moment a branching tree of blood red lightning filled the corridor. Mikos jumped to his feet, shot the mage in the face, and ran through a side corridor.
The Dalesman could feel a throbbing pain moving up from the bolt wounds. Poison, typical of the drown. He gotten out of the way of the worst their magicks had to offer and his armour had helped protect him from the rest, but he was far from unscathed. He pulled a small metal flask from his belt and drank it. "Nal!" he yelled at the top of his voice. "Trouble!"
A quartet of adamantine spiders rushed down another corridor, their nearly indestructible carapaces spell hardened against magic. Trizkel was upon them in a blur of violence. A blade forged by the best mage-smith in Union met the armour of drow master artisans. Ruinbringer won. Metal limbs flew and carapaces were smashed open, control jewels shattered. Trizkel left junk in his wake as he flew toward the drow behind them.
Their shield wall made using his breath weapon a poor choice. Bolts and magics flew toward him. He dodged some, batted others out of the way, and his wardings handled the rest. He was upon the drow in an whirlwind of violence.
Short swords were ideal weapons for close quarters fighting. Trizkel used them for that reason, trusting in speed, skill, and strength to help carry the day and his psionic arts to protect him and grant him an unbeatable edge. Unfortunately, the Desanna soldiers carried short swords for the same reason and what they lacked in strength, speed, and skill they made up for in numbers and sorcery.
Blood flew as he slashed opened a throat with Ruinbringer and punctured a lung with Mind Eater. He kicked another drow down, taking two more down behind him. A forest of blades slashed at him from all sides.
Three of his attackers fell with mortal wounds. One opened a minor gash in his left arm. The air crackled with sorcery as unravelling enchantments tore at his wards and psionic augmentation effects and necromantic magics attempted to sap his strength and vitality. He shrugged most of them off and continued striking.
Badly wounded drow regained their feet, their wounds closed through spells, talismans, or potions. Enchanted adamantine was again in their hands and they rejoined the fight. A slice struck home here and a stab there as Trizkel's wards began to unravel.
Blood puddled on the floor around Trizkel, making footing difficult. Drow fell, some wounded and others dead. The wounded were hauled back by their comrades and treated while others stepped into their place. In a few moments the wounded were ready to step once again into the battle line. The air shimmered as power met power. Glowing sparks of a thousand different colours fell away. Trizkel's movement slowed and his wards weakened. More blades flashed. More blood flowed.
Then there was a flash of light and the clap of thunder and he was gone. The drow redressed their ranks and spent a moment to treat minor wounds and strip the dead. Then they resumed their advance.
Flames filled the corridor like the blast of a volcano or the exhilation of a great dragon. Drow fell, charred and blackened as the very air itself was transformed to flames. A titanic thunderclap shattered stone and the control jewels of a pack of adamantine spiders.
A few drow clung to life, either spared by their native resistance to magic or powerful wards. Ylafen clutched his war staff with a hand that with its skin burnt off. Charred muscle produced constant agony. He pulled himself to his feet and saw the dead laying in front of him, masses of ash and charred bone and a tiny handful of survivors. Then he saw the killer. He began to speak the initiators of his most potent spell through blistered lips.
Violet lightning scourged the corridor. The drow danced on the arcs of sorcerous lightning and all but one fell. Sword in hand he reached Nalifan. His hand flew one way, trailing blood, and then Nalifan's sword was through his heart. The arch-necromancer kicked the body off his blade.
Trizkel appeared beside him, covered in blood. "Nal, I couldn't hold them."
Nalifan nodded. "Make sure everyone's together and fall back behind Sylvetria."
"You better not get my wife killed."
"She's rear guard and reserve. We aren't dead yet."
Shaharith saw flashes of light and heard thunderous booms from within the underground manse. "Someone is giving a good accounting for themselves. Send in two score more demons as the vanguard for a hundred Reavers." If they didn't do the job, she would finish the job with her personal guard.
Last edited by Imperial Overlord on 2008-04-16 11:38am, edited 1 time in total.
The Excellent Prismatic Spray. For when you absolutely, positively must kill a motherfucker. Accept no substitutions. Contact a magician of the later Aeons for details. Some conditions may apply.
Silver lightning smashed through the shield wall and tossed drow bodies into the air. Crossbow and spell bolts flashed through the air as Sylvetria ducked back behind the corner, her shield held ready. The drow advanced over the bodies of the as he swung the silver lance around again. Emerald green flames filled the air around her and thunder cracked the stones around her. Quarrels bounced off her shield and armour. She unleashed the lightning again and then retreated again.
Her armour and shield had saved her from the worst of the attacks, but they would fail soon enough against that onslaught. A voice touched her mind. Retreat, Trizkel sent. Back to the kitchen. You'll be covered.
She ran. Enchanted mithril plate was barely a burden for a woman who had trained in heavy armour since adolescence and whose strength had been magically enhanced. Her long legs ate up the distance.
She almost knocked Nalifan over as she took a corner. He traced a symbol onto the floor. "Keep going," he said. "I'll catch up in a moment."
She brushed passed him and kept running. A moment latter the arch-necromancer turned and followed her at a leisurely pace. He withdrew a scroll from its case and invoked the spell. A wall of violet fire blocked the corridor ten paces behind the glyph. Satisfied, Nalifan continued after her. "This way," said Nal as he directed her to a nearby room.
The others were waiting in the unfinished chamber. "What now?" she asked.
"I've left a few surprises to slow down the Desanna," said Nalifan as he pulled a slim bone wand out of a pocket. "That gives us time to leave."
Trizkel looked grim. He was still covered in blood and his single eye glared bloody murder. "We should make them pay for every inch of space."
"We could, but that just means we bleed and expend our resources on the disposable troops until the Dread Queen and her chosen hit us. No, we don't follow the enemy's plan. We follow ours. We leave them with nothing to show for this but bodies. We bleed them, not the other way around. We leave." He pulled up a floor tile, revealing a dark hole.
Nalifan tapped Sylvetria on the head with the wand. "Breath normally, stay at the bottom, and just follow it down and away. Ladies first." He pushed her and she fell back into the hole. There was a splash. He grabbed Kuuni by the collar, tapped her in the back with the wand, and tossed the gnome into the water.
Nalifan taped Trizkel on the shoulder with the wand. "Age before beauty," he said and Trizkel dropped gracefully into the water.
He tapped Mikos on the thigh and pushed. "The battle fodder is always sent in first." He tapped himself on the neck and jumped in.
The water was shockingly cold. He gasp and then breathed in a large gulp of water, exhaled it, orientated himself and then rose up to replace the tile. He then followed the current down.
The underwater grate had already been muscled aside. Nalifan headed toward the murky bottom of the pool and drifted towards his friends. He pointed and began swimming. They followed.
Shaharith strode through the corridors of the blasted manse. Her anger was mounting. A dozen constructs, a score of demons, and more than a hundred drow sent to their deaths and Nalifan still eluded her. Her party met up with Tasseen and her guards. "Any sign?"
"No, majesty," said her daughter with carefully downcast eyes. "I suspect he has a bolt hole of some kind."
"Or an escape tunnel," Shaharith snarled. "He is a male, but not a complete imbecile. Still, your brothers and sisters surround this place. Perhaps they will do a better job than you at securing the prey."
"One hopes so, majesty," said Tasseen through clenched teeth.
Mikos broke the surface of the stream and let fly. A wet bowstring was murder to handle under ordinary circumstances, but it had been a long time since the Dalesman had carried a mundane bow into battle. The drow around the portal dropped as he fired shafts into their vitals. The survivors faced Trizkel's charge and Sylvetria's follow up. They fell like wheat before the reaper.
Nalifan broke the surface and strode onto the bank. Kuuni had appeared somehow and was poking through the bodies of the fallen. "We don't have time for-" Nalifan began and then stopped. Killing sorcery left his lips and a beam of emerald energy left his finger.
His target was human sized and clad in a black robe. It wore black gloves and a silver mask cast in the shape of the exaggerated features of a human face. Wither was casting a spell as well. A demi-sphere of swirling multicoloured energies sprung up around it. Nalifan's ray boiled off a fraction of the defensive magics.
Sylvetria began to charge. "No!" Nalifan shouted. Trizkel put his hand on his wife's shoulder and dragged her back. "It's a prismatic shell. You'll fry trying to go through it. Go through the portal." The drow help up his hands, ready to counter by word or gesture any sorcery that came their way. He didn't have the time or the resources to waste trying to rip through the shell and kill their unknown opponent.
He retreated to the gate. Wither did nothing. Nal took in everything and then stepped backwards through the portal. Drow bodies were drifting away through the Ethereal mists.
"Who was that?" Trizkel asked. "And what was that around him?"
"I don't know," said Nalifan. "And that 'thing' was a prismatic shell."
"No, I've seen one of those before. I mean that warping aura around him."
"Everyone follow me," said Nalifan as he began loping through the mists. "I'm not sure, exactly. It was chronomancy, some kind of time flow altering magic but not one I've seen before."
"I can tell you what I have seen before," said Trizkel. "That mask."
Wither watched D'Azurentien and his friends leave. Shaharith had failed to overcome them. As expected. Drow females found it too easy to underestimate males of any kind. Wither had anticipated the possibility of escape. It had been planned for. The next phase of the war would begin.
He dissolved the prismatic shell. The time flow stuttered. Two inevitables appeared, still cocooned in fast time, one on each side of him. His own defences matched his time stream to theirs.
He unleashed a stream of jade fire against the one on the right. It flew apart the inevitable's head and slagged its way through the top of its breastplate to burn its internal mechanisms. It toppled.
The other lashed out with brass bladed fingers. It severed the left arm of his robes in a spray of puss and maggots. It raised its arm for another strike, but Wither was faster. A thousand maggots uttered a spell and nearly a score of dark green orbs shot from Wither's hand to slam into the inevitable's chest. Highly corrosive acid ate its way through the construct's chassis and dissolved the inevitable's internal workings. White light shot from its joints and it fell.
Wither uttered a spell and the tattered sleeve rose up and reattached itself. The loss of so many maggots was not so easily dealt with. The worm that walk's height shrunk by several inches to make up the difference until Wither could incorporate more worms into its body mass. The passing of time, Wither reflected, was a double bladed sword. Who would fall to it first?
The Excellent Prismatic Spray. For when you absolutely, positively must kill a motherfucker. Accept no substitutions. Contact a magician of the later Aeons for details. Some conditions may apply.
Imperial Overlord wrote:He pulled himself to his feet and saw the dead laying in front of him, masses of ass and charred bone and a tiny handful of survivors.
The adventurers appeared in a vast cavern, lit by flickering multicoloured lights that danced over the ceiling. Around them bugbear handlers prodded heavily laden lizards the size of oxen forward. Heavily armoured deep orc mercenaries looked around, boredom in their eyes. Drow overseers issued orders or argued about right of way with human and duergar merchants.
Heavily armed and expensively robed drow dealt with the crowd, looks of bored resignation on their faces. Goblin runners directed traffic with white batons that glowed a sickly off yellow in the unnatural light. The issue at hand seemed to be priority of passage down a slopping passage that lead beneath the cavern.
"Sshameth," said Trizkel.
"Yes," said Nalifan. "Now hood yourself." The psionicist through a the hood of his cloak over his face and followed as Nalifan lead the way through crowd. "Somebody's business must be good," he muttered as the adventurers descended.
The walkway lead into a huge vault beneath the entrance cavern, wrapping around a central pillar more than a hundred feet thick. Around them was an enormous city of a thousand pillar-building, connecting roof to ceiling. Slender bridges connected many of the pillars to each other. Beneath them a vast city-scape sprawled over the cavern floor. Glowing runes illuminated the distant walls of the vault.
"So what now?" asked Sylvetria.
"Sshameth is ruled by wizards and makes a fortune off trade. Its one of the safest places for a surface dweller in the Underdark and its not going to love agents of the Dread Queen. We can blend in easily here, as long as we are smart about it. I also have a few agents and a safe house here."
"Nice," she said. "Same plan?"
"Pretty much," said Nalifan.
"What about that mask?" asked Trizkel.
"Troublesome," admitted Nalifan. "Future Fadina trying to kill us for some wrong I'll do her in fifty years? Someone else with a mask constructed using similar techniques? An unusual chromomantic augmentation or travel spell? Too little information to tell."
"So what do we do about it?" asked Trizkel.
"Start by getting information. Our enemies know too much about us and we know too little about them. Time to change that."
Shaharith seethed as she leaned back in her throne. "Failure," she hissed. The small army of senior retainers and blood kin present in the room flinched.
"Yours," said Wither, "not mine. I delivered as promised. My window of opportunity is closing because you insist on losing to him. Again."
Shaharith nearly bolted out of her chair. "Watch your tongue."
"I don't have one," responded a thousand whispers. "I do know how to find Nalifan again. And I can arm you with what you will need to defeat him."
She looked coldly at him. "Why now?"
"Because its necessary now. And you are running out of options. You have failed twice, even with the information I have provided. Now we do it my way."
"You are in no position to dictate to me," hissed Shaharith.
"I can find others, admittedly less powerful, to oppose Nalifan. I can arm them with suitable tools. You, on the other hand, need to win. Quickly."
"I grow tired of your arrogance."
"I grow tired of drow failures. But if the knowledge of his bolt holes and Nalifan's truename don't interest you, please feel free to proceed without me."
Last edited by Imperial Overlord on 2008-04-22 08:18pm, edited 2 times in total.
The Excellent Prismatic Spray. For when you absolutely, positively must kill a motherfucker. Accept no substitutions. Contact a magician of the later Aeons for details. Some conditions may apply.
Nitram, slightly high on cough syrup: Do you know you're beautiful?
Me: Nope, that's why I have you around to tell me.
Nitram: You -are- beautiful. Anyone tries to tell you otherwise kill them.
"A life is like a garden. Perfect moments can be had, but not preserved, except in memory. LLAP" -- Leonard Nimoy, last Tweet
Imperial Overlord wrote:The adventurers appeared in a vast cavern, lit by flickering multicoloured lights that danced over the ceiling. Around them bugbear handlers prodded heavily laden lizards the size of oxen forward. Heavily armoured deep orc mercenaries looked around, boredom in their eyes.
Any job worth doing with a laser is worth doing with many, many lasers. -Khrima
There's just no arguing with some people once they've made their minds up about something, and I accept that. That's why I kill them. -Othar Avatar credit
"Nal," said Sylvetria as the party crossed through Sshameth's busy streets, "if this girl or guy is from the future, could he already know about the safe house?"
"Possibly," said Nalifan. "I have more than a few bolt holes though. We'll take what we need and set up somewhere else. Mikos will make the arrangements."
"Why me?"
"You can speak Elvish and Undercommon and a human renting quarters wouldn't be notable here. I, on the other hand, am known and Trizkel is easy to remember."
"Okay. Then what?"
"I talk with Fadina."
"Great," said Trizkel. "What if that drags her in to this and gets her favorite dog maimed so her future self travels back in time to kill us?"
"I see you've been thinking about this," replied Nalifan.
"Time travel sucks," Trizkel replied succinctly. "But about my answer?"
"We're inevitably boned it that's the case," said Nalifan. "If it isn't, she could very well be the source of a crucial piece of information."
"You know his truename?" Shaharith almost shouted. "And you kept this to yourself for what reason?"
"Because you were unwilling to use the information I possess until now and I could not risk him becoming prematurely aware of his vulnerability. There are steps he can take to reduce his vulnerability. Possessing his truename makes him vulnerable to certain specific magics, but it doesn't make him impotent. Especially since I don't have his entire truename."
"What do you have?" Elvarra asked quietly.
"A large fragment of his truename. I was able to discern it after studying certain key spoils of war with the proper magics. Weavebinder, his grimoires, his skull, a few other items. I won't bore you with the details."
"What good is a truename fragment?" snapped Shaharith.
"Not much, unless one has the proper magics," replied Wither. "As I do. Spells both arcane and divine, devised specifically to utilize the fragment. They will rip through his defences, unless he has the opportunity to devise countermeasures. A botched attack, like the last two, will give him the opportunity to do so."
"I take it you have these magics with you?"
"Of course. I had plenty of time to devise them and I'm more than willing to arm you with them, as long as I think they won't be wasted."
"I will listen to your conditions."
"I want his companions taken alive, if possible."
"What?" Shaharith shouted. She rose from her throne.
"If Nalifan can't be trapped, I want his companions alive. Alive they are useful as bait and can be disposed of once he is slain. They aren't any use to us dead."
"You presume much."
"I do. But I also have mercenaries waiting in ambush for him. I know his next move."
"You didn't tell us."
"I didn't, but you lost. Twice in this time, every time in the original time line. The more events deviate from the original time line, the more likely both of us are to get our desired results. So I added new players to the mix. They should be making themselves known just about now."
The Excellent Prismatic Spray. For when you absolutely, positively must kill a motherfucker. Accept no substitutions. Contact a magician of the later Aeons for details. Some conditions may apply.
His answers are too damned pat... and why would he care about the Companions?!
Dammit, its NAL, trying not to get himself killed this time!
Nitram, slightly high on cough syrup: Do you know you're beautiful?
Me: Nope, that's why I have you around to tell me.
Nitram: You -are- beautiful. Anyone tries to tell you otherwise kill them.
"A life is like a garden. Perfect moments can be had, but not preserved, except in memory. LLAP" -- Leonard Nimoy, last Tweet
Mikos lead the companions to a dome shaped house in the midst of a tightly packed district. Duergar and humans rubbed shoulders as they passed in the streets. Orog mercenaries carrying great swords and armoured in heavy plate marched near their employers. Men and women bearing the mark of infernal ancestry watched from shadows or went about their business.
"Nice place," Sylvetria murmured.
Mikos worked the keys and the door opened. "Everyone is here to do business," Trizkel said softly. "Sshameth is safer and more open than most drow cities, but it is still a drow city."
"Your race is so charming," she said as she ventured inside. The interior was sparcely decorated, with furniture of leather and bone and piles of throw cushions.
"Two stories," said Mikos. "Solid walls. Clean. It should do."
"I hope we're doing something other than just waiting for Nal," Sylvetria said.
"We are," said Trizkel, scooping up Kuuni. "We're keeping her out of trouble."
"Hey!" shouted Kuuni. She wiggled and squirmed in Trizkel's grasp. "Put me down!"
"Not yet," said Trizkel. "We can't afford your antics here."
"I'll be good. I promise!"
"That's worthless. We both know that." With his other arm he pulled out some rope.
Nalifan pulled his hood down and walked across the street. He didn't have a problem with Calimshan's heat, but the bright sun was another matter. There was a bell adjacent to the gate of worked bronze bars. He pulled the rope. A few moments later a middle-aged man in a red and white striped robe appeared on the other side of the gate. "Yes?" he asked.
Nalifan raised his hood slightly. "The arch-mage Nalifan to see the Lady Fadina."
The servant opened the gate immediately. "Of course, my lord." Nalifan stepped through the servant closed the gate behind him.
"If you would be good enough to follow me?" the servant asked and then lead Nalifan through the garden path. Citrus trees provided shade and fountains bubbled to either side. The servant stopped just under a shaded porch. "If you will excuse me for a moment, I will inform the lady of your presence." He walked inside.
Nalifan surveyed the garden. A cool breeze drifted between the breeze. Humming birds drifted from flower to flower. Several bees lazily buzzed buy. He could see the subtle workings that bent weather and air patterns to create specific results. It was subtler than he expected.
The servant reappeared. "My lady will see you now. Please come with me."
The servant lead him through lushly carpeted hallways, slightly disapproving that Nalifan didn't remove his boots. It was pleasantly cool and shady inside. He stopped at a comfortably furnished sitting room. Nalifan entered.
Fadina was sitting in a well stuffed chair opposite the door. A pitcher of cloudy yellow fluid and several glasses stood on a platter on top of a glass table in the center of the room. "Nalifan," she said. She wore a robe of white and sky-blue stripes. And no mask. "Welcome."
"Thank you," he said, taking a seat. "Unfortunately, I haven't come here to share pleasantries."
Her face grew grim. "What is so urgent?"
"An enemy. He employs exotic sorcery and has a mask much like yours."
"You don't think I'm involved."
"No, at least not likely. I believe, as best as I can determine, that he's from another time period, or a part of the multiverse where the time-flow is different."
"The Far Realms," she said.
"Yes," replied Nalifan. "That thought had occurred to me. Unfortunately, my knowledge of the Far Realms and chronomancy is somewhat limited. The face mask, on the other hand, that I knew where I had seen something like it before."
"It's an old art," she said, "mostly abandoned. It's not used much in Calimshan anymore and, as far as I can tell, did not originate here. Someone picked up the lore from somewhere else and brought it here."
Nalifan nodded. Calimshan was old, very old. It had watched Netheril die and continued about its business. It was an nation based on wealth and trade, not magic but its age and wealth had given rise to formidable heritage of sorcery nonetheless. "What can you tell me about the art?"
"It is best developed, in the modern era, by the Witches of Rasheman, who don't share their secrets."
"It is the male wizards who make Rasheman's spells and talismans," said Nalifan. "They are held in gilded prisons, unable to leave lest their secrets fall into enemy hands. Or so the Wychlaren say." Contempt dripped from his voice.
Fadina shrugged. "The Witches aren't as bad as the Red Wizards, that's as much as can be said for them. They rule and they wish to keep their monopoly on power. How does that make them different from anyone else?"
"You're right," said Nalifan. "It just reminds me too much of House D'Azurentien." He had left, self exiled, when his mother had refused to let him explore the world. She had wanted her weapon close at hand. He had wanted to add the lore of a half-dozen races to the magics he already possessed. He waved his hand. "Continue."
"The trick is applying multiple layers of spells to an single object. Each layer becomes more difficult to anchor than the last. The trick is deliberate pattern gaps in the power flow architecture that allows for anchor points to be place their for the next layer of spells."
"Yes, yes," said Nalifan. "I don't want to know how to-hmm. Let me rephrase that. That is useful knowledge." His mind raced. Solutions presented themselves. "Very useful. What I want to know is who would I go to, besides you, if I wanted an expert."
"I don't know," she answered.
"What do you mean? How did you do it?"
"I pulled the books out of tomb," she said. "And improved upon the patterns described within those books in a series of trials and tests. I don't know anyone else in Calimshan that has anywhere near my understanding of the craft. I'm sorry."
The Excellent Prismatic Spray. For when you absolutely, positively must kill a motherfucker. Accept no substitutions. Contact a magician of the later Aeons for details. Some conditions may apply.
Sylvetria sat down on the bed as her husband helped her remove her armour. "Gods its good to get that off," she muttered as Trizkel helped her with her pauldrons. "It weighs on me."
"I understand," Trizkel said. "More on the spirit than the body. All of this."
"What are we going to do about Kuuni? We can't keep her tied up forever."
Trizkel bent down in front of his wife to help her with her greaves. "I'll cut her loose soon. If she hasn't escaped already."
"Mikos is watching her."
"Yeah. Not enough." He slipped the armour plates off.
"How does Nal stand it?" she asked. "There was something between them, more than a shared bed and interests. The way he acts . . ."
"He is drow," said Trizkel.
"That's not an answer."
Trizkel sat back on his knees. "The way we are raised is never show weakness. There is always someone who either wants your position of suspects you of plotting against them. Tensions are very high. How do we handle the stress? We release it in ways that don't make us look weak to the rest of the world. Cruel sports. Orgies. Decadent feasts and consumption of pleasurable drugs. We maintain the illusion of invincible power and untroubled decadence always."
"So you're such bastards because the rest of you are such bastards?"
"That's part of it," said Trizkel with a smile.
Meanwhile, in the living room below, Mikos untied the squirming gnome. "Don't do anything stupid," said the Dalesman. "The stakes are too damn high."
"I won't," said Kuuni in a sulky voice. "You can rely on me."
"Sure I can," said Mikos skeptically. "You're lucky I'm a nice guy."
"You are," Kuuni agreed. "Besides, no one will be able to scry passed the city-wards and no one here loves the Dread Queen."
"No one anywhere loves the Dread Queen," said Mikos, "yet many do her will."
"Okay," said Kuuni. "I'll be-". Her eyes bugged out as Wither walked through the wall behind Mikos. A corona of darkness engulfed the worm that walks's right hand.
The Dalesman spun to confront the danger. A score of shadowy tendrils erupted from the mass of darkness and struck the Dalesman. The shadows bored through his body, leaving no wounds, and came out the other side. Mikos gasped and shuddered, before falling frozen to the floor. The dark tendrils twisted and wound to encase him in a cocoon of shadow.
Kuuni screamed and rushed forward, lightning quick. Her dagger sliced through wards and nearly indestructible shadow weave silk to slice open Wither from thigh to sternum. Of course, Wither had neither thighs nor sternum. Yellow ichor and severed pieces of white worms tumbled and oozed from the cut as the rest of the worms that made up his body mass shifted to fill in the wound.
Kuuni struck again and again, sending slime and bits of worms flying. Wither gestured. The svirfneblin was thrown up against the far wall and pinned there by an invisible force. Trizkel sped down the swords, blades in hand. He shot towards the worm that walks like a loosed bolt.
Wither hissed a word. Thunder shook the building and cracked the walls. Trizkel staggered back, his swords slipping from his hands. Sylvetria appeared in the stairway with a her silver lance in her hands.
Silver lightning flashed and splintered off an invisible shield a few inches in front of Wither. The worm that walks intoned the initiators of a spell and Sylvetria fell like a puppet with her strings cut. He spoke another and Kuuni's body turned to white marble.
Trizkel regained his footing and roared, rushing towards Wither. Mind Eater and Ruinbringer stabbed deep. Ichor and pieces of dead worms spilled away from holes in Wither's robe.
Black lightning shot up the blades onto Trizkel's flesh, crawling up his hands and then his arms to wrap his body in dark energies. His swords fell from limp hands. Wither spoke the initiators of another spells and bolts of shadow flew from his hands, knocking the drow warrior off his feet and sending him skidding across the floor.
Wither reached up and pulled Trizkel's swords of his body. The drow tried to rise. "Well struck," Wither said in a voice of a thousand whispers, "but not enough. Not this time and not the first time either. Of course, from your perspective this is the first time."
Trizkel propped himself up on one hand and vomited a gout of acid at Wither. It struck the invisible shield and splattered over the floor. The black fluid bubbled and hissed as it ate through the carpet and the floor.
The fingers on Wither's right hand formed and pattern and the worm that walks twisted its wrist. Violet light flashed and Trizkel fell back to the floor, unconscious. "I have the trap and now I have the cheese," said Wither. "It is only a matter of time before I catch the rat."
The Excellent Prismatic Spray. For when you absolutely, positively must kill a motherfucker. Accept no substitutions. Contact a magician of the later Aeons for details. Some conditions may apply.
Nal is going to be pissed. As in 'the surface world drops a few hundred feet in places, because the Underdark just caved in' pissed.
Chronological Incontinence: Time warps around the poster. The thread topic winks out of existence and reappears in 1d10 posts.
Out of Context Theatre, this week starring Darth Nostril.
-'If you really want to fuck with these idiots tell them that there is a vaccine for chemtrails.'
"The Dread Queen", said one of the Reavers standing guard outside her quarters, "is not to be disturbed for anything less than an all out attack." She sneered at Wither. "Certainly not by a mobile bag of maggots." The other Reaver smiled cruelly.
Wither cocked a finger and a thousand tiny voices spoke a single word. The Reaver that had spoken exploded, or more precisely, her flesh exploded. Gore and strips of bloody meat coated the corridor along with scraps of armour and skin. The bloody skeleton toppled to the floor, perfectly intact.
Wither turned to the other Reaver. The blood and gore had not touched it, instead sliding off an invisible shield projected by the worm that walks's wards. "Get her," said its collective whisper. "Now."
The drow blinked, her face frozen in horror. Wither slapped her hard enough to take her off her feet and yanked her halberd from her. He was fast, very, very fast. He smashed her in the abdomen with the haft. Her armour took most of the blow, but she still folded. "When I say now, I mean now. Go."
The blood splattered drow backed away from the nightmare in front of her. Shivering, she reached up and pulled the bell rope next to her. "Better," hissed Wither. They waited.
Several minutes later two males wearing adamanitine mail emerged ahead of Dread Queen Shaharith. Her consorts had their hands on the hilts of their weapons. Wither ignored them, turning his attention to the drow matriarch, who wore her crown of ruby and platinum and a gown of sheer white silk. She looked down at the gore splattering the hall in front of her quarters with distaste. "There had better be an excellent reason for this."
"I have Nalifan's companions."
"What?!"
"I have Nalifan's companions," Wither replied. "My agents took them."
"Just like that? I'm somewhat . . . skeptical."
"My agents don't include anyone from this house," said Wither. "And they are supervised by me."
"I don't like your tone, maggot."
"And I don't like depending upon a drow matriarch with a powerful and unreliable daughter. We'll both have to live with it." He abruptly changed the subject. "Nalifan wasn't there. It's why everything was . . . easier, but the most dangerous of them is still loose."
"He's just one male now."
"Now. Give him time and he'll gather others to him. So we force him to attack early and at a point of our choosing. This place. Soon."
"You think he will come for the others. He is drow you fool, not some sentimental faerie."
"Why don't you ask your daughter about that," said Wither.
Shaharith turned toward the Reaver. "Bring Elvarra before me."
"Yes, Dread Queen."
"Useless cow," said Shaharith as she watched her minion run away. "You really think he's gone surface world soft?"
"His history suggests it, but what I'm really counting on is his hubris. He will attempt the impossible because he is the one doing the attempting. We just have to give him the right . . . . encouragement."
Elvarra appeared, wearing a skin hugging suit of black leather and a fortune in magical talismans. She bowed. "I obey your summons, Dread Queen."
"My faithful daughter," Shaharith said icily, "our ally suggests that Nalifan has poisoned himself with the weakness of sentimentality. Is this so?"
Elvarra froze for a moment. "More so than one of us, but less so than most of the surface weaklings, majesty."
Shaharith turned towards Wither. "Tell me your plan."
"You publicly display your captives and announce that you will begin torturing and killing them in . . . oh a week or so. The whole city will know, including those who are selling information to Nalifan. The information gets back to him quickly, leaving him say five days to plan and gather forces to act. Not nearly enough. But he is Nalifan and he possesses great wealth, intelligence, and confidence. He will try, because he thinks he will succeed where others would fail. He comes to us and you close your fist around him. Then you dispose of the bait, but the bait must live until he falls. He must know they are alive until the very last moment, to prevent him from fleeing."
"You mean we must leave them open to scrying."
"Enough so that he knows that they live in your dungeons in a state worth rescuing them in. It will also cause him considerable pain."
"Interesting."
"You have the lion's share of your strength and defences here. You have the magics that I have given you that possess fragments of his true name and that will cleave through his wards. He will come here and whatever soldiers he has with him will die and then he himself will perish. Simple. Effective. We both win and can be quit of one another."
Shaharith inclined her head. "Agreed. Bring in your captives. They shall receive our gentlest and most secure hospitality until Nalifan dies. Now leave me."
Wither bowed and retreated. "Permission to withdraw, mother?" asked Elvarra.
"Begone daughter." The sorceress hurried after the worm that walked. One they were out of earshot she spoke.
"You have arranged all of this. Manipulated it into place."
"Not all of it," replied Wither. "It has fallen into the same previous pattern as the original events, although more compressed in time. And without the raids on your fortress and with fewer losses. This is convenient, as it minimizes potential interference from the inevitables."
"So you've changed nothing?" she said.
"We," he replied, "have changed the details and the timescale. Both in our favor. The minor hit and run raids which cost face and blood never occurred. The loses involved in your attacks were smaller than they were. He has had less time in which to gather strength. You have weapons which can hurt him, even through his wards. And now you have Trizkel and he is forced to attack when it suits you, not him. Stop worrying about me, princess, and start worrying about yourself."
"And what do you mean by that?"
"Among all of those present, he'll want to kill you the most. You were the one that betrayed him. And even if you survive, your sisters will never let the priestesses of Lolth forget this incident. Ever. Not that they would be so keen on supporting you even without this stain on your reputation. I would worry less about me and more about your future in this house. You don't seem to have one, besides as a weapon the Dread Queen can wield against her enemies. If you live that long."
"And what would be your advice, oh wise one?" she replied acidly.
"Go back in time and change my choices," Wither replied with a hissing laugh. "That's what I did."
Elvarra stared at the worm that walks back as he continued through the halls. I'll burn you all for these humiliations, she thought. I will build a pyre so hot it burns straight through to Gehenna and you will all be on it. She turned angrily and walked back the way she came.
The Excellent Prismatic Spray. For when you absolutely, positively must kill a motherfucker. Accept no substitutions. Contact a magician of the later Aeons for details. Some conditions may apply.
I'm just waiting for Wither to turn on the Dread Queen, you know.
Nitram, slightly high on cough syrup: Do you know you're beautiful?
Me: Nope, that's why I have you around to tell me.
Nitram: You -are- beautiful. Anyone tries to tell you otherwise kill them.
"A life is like a garden. Perfect moments can be had, but not preserved, except in memory. LLAP" -- Leonard Nimoy, last Tweet
The city numbered over a hundred thousand drow and twice as many slaves. Ancient temples and fortresses stood next to new palaces and established institutions, a mute testament to enduring power. As long as the drow had dwelt beneath the surface of Faerun, Isanifalen had been a place of power. For a thousand years Shaharith had ruled the city and dominated its neighbors with an irresistible power and merciless might. Even the Silence of Lolth did nothing to weaken her grip.
Fungi fields and grazing herds dominated the outskirts of the great, vaulted cavern. Among them were the estates and fortresses outside the city districts proper which were crowded within the tall and crumbling walls. Within were the various ghettos and districts and fortified manor houses of the city along with ancient and strange monuments such as the White Virgin and the Bleeding Obelisk. Some districts were richer and stronger than others, but the city's might was concentrated at its center, where the spider sat in her web.
Two temples of Lolth, one ancient and weathered and shaped like a crouching spider and the other in the form of huge oval egg sack, flanked the Desanna Palace. Four fountains of magical fire ringed the palace, sent multicoloured flames a hundred into the air. Thin streams of magical smoke rose up and rolled around the vault's ceiling. There the faerzress radiation turned the mineral deposits in the ceiling into a corpse-light moon and a night sky full of poisonous red, yellow, and green stars. The smoke drifted across the ceiling in yellow-green clouds, completing the image of a blighted faerie realm.
The fortress of the Desanna was shaped from a pillar that ran from the floor to the ceiling. Minarets, battlements, and towers had been sculpted from the rock or grafted onto the fortress. Balconies, barred windows, and demon faced gargoyles looked down upon the rest of the city. Arcane and infernal instruments of destruction were emplaced along the walls and a pair of twenty feet tall adamantine double doors threatened the rest of the city with the prospect of the Desanna's army marching off to war. The Dread Queen's home was both her impregnable seat of power and a threat aimed at would be rivals and thus everything that the home of a mighty drow should be.
A tall drow woman wearing scarlet robes marked with gold runes marched at the head of a small procession that wound its way along the outer workings. The nearby towers and battlements nearby were thick with soldiers and spellcasters, ready to unleash dreadful violence at a moment's notice. The procession stopped at an open platform a hundred feet above the vault's floor, used for public address. Beside the speaker's place stood black iron gibbets.
Trizkel and Sylvetria were dragged onto the platform by a quartet of minotaurs. The adventurers were nude and heavily bound with chains and shackles marked with softly glowing cyan runes. Their limp bodies were clearly unconscious.
The minotaurs attached Trizkel and Sylvetria to the chains hanging from the iron framed scaffolding so that they would be clearly visible to the crowd below. "Behold," shouted the woman, sorcery enhancing her voice so it would carry, "the fate of all those who defy the Dread Queen. These wretches, Trizkel and Sylvetria, will feel the agonies of the Dread Queen's most terrible wrath in seven days. When she is finished with their dried husks, so shall their companions suffer. Heed the words of the Dread Queen! Head Lolth! Bow your heads and obey or the wrath of the Abyss shall fall upon you! All hail the glory of the Dread Queen Shaharith!"
The orator turned and withdrew, the minotaurs behind her fumbled with the chains and dragged the prisoners in her wake. Below the harangued crowd dispersed, most of them indifferent to the display above them. A few, however, recognized those names or realized that others might. They went off in search of profit.
Thenifain was sitting down on a bench on the west side of the bazaar. The corpulent male wore a billowing robe of black silk in a futile attempt to disguise some of his bulk. The pair of heavily armed and armoured young males that were his bodyguards remained mute as Nalifan approached. The information broker lurched to his feet as Nalifan approached. "My friend, I contacted you as quickly as I heard."
Thenifain was no one's friend and Nalifan was not fool enough to think otherwise. He did, however, have a mutually beneficial relationship. The arch-necromancer restrained himself. His mood could be described as savage, if one chose to indulge in understatement. "What is it?" Nalifan asked in a deceptively calm voice.
"I have . . ah information on the fates of your companions."
"Tell me."
"There is the matter of price, arch-mage." The information broker raised his hands in a placating gesture. "Normally, I would not be so insistent, but normally you are not feuding with Shaharith. Your good will does not pay my expenses if your soul is howling through the Abyss."
"Name your price."
"A mere five thousand," said the information broker. The arch-necromancer was a dead elf, but there was no sense in not squeezing every possible coin out of the relationship while it lasted. The fee was far too high, but it wasn't like Nalifan's good will had any long term value.
"Done. Speak."
"The money."
The look Nalifan shot Thenifain was pure poison. The information broker flinched. He had, perhaps, pushed too hard. His guards gripped their weapons. Nalifan's lips curled. He reached into his belt and a pouch that was far larger on the inside than the outside. He removed five platinum bars and tossed them at the broker's feet. "Speak."
"They were publicly displayed yesterday, at least Trizkel and Sylvetria were. In six more days, the Dread Queen will begin to rend them body and soul."
"In six days?"
"Yes. Why she is not starting now instead of delay-"
"-I understand the reason for the delay," said Nalifan. Could he do it? Too little time. Even if he spent every coin he had? No. Who could he buy that would be willing to commit suicide. No one.
He considered alternate methods. Yes, yes. That avenue might work. He didn't have the time, but coin would buy the skill and materials needed to shorten that road. Yes, it could be made to work. "My lord?"
"Anything else for sale?" he asked coldly.
"Not at the moment, my lord."
"Then we are done."
The Excellent Prismatic Spray. For when you absolutely, positively must kill a motherfucker. Accept no substitutions. Contact a magician of the later Aeons for details. Some conditions may apply.
Kaeryn would help for friendship alone... if Nalifan trusts her enough.
Somehow I think he's still pissed.
Nitram, slightly high on cough syrup: Do you know you're beautiful?
Me: Nope, that's why I have you around to tell me.
Nitram: You -are- beautiful. Anyone tries to tell you otherwise kill them.
"A life is like a garden. Perfect moments can be had, but not preserved, except in memory. LLAP" -- Leonard Nimoy, last Tweet
The adamantine door opened, allowing Elvarra to step inside. The golden runes on the door glinted in the faint light provided the runes on the captive's chains. Trizkel raised his head. "Is this the part where you gloat?" Trizkel rasped, "and I beg for mercy that I'm not going to get? My throat's too parched for shouting defiance."
"I see your morale is still high," she said. "I'll skip the threats and gloating."
"Good," said Trizkel. "Gets tedious. You know Nal is going to kill you, right?"
"I see you haven't decided to skip the threats." She went to each prisoner in turn, examining them closely.
"We've been in worse places," said Mikos. "Our enemies still died."
"No," said Elvarra, "you haven't. At most one of you has been in similar situation, not all but one of you."
"Too bad you missed Nal," said Trizkel. "He could be anywhere in the multiverse now, gathering who knows what kind of allies. You're name is going on the top of the list. And so is your mystery maggot man. We've put down a worm that walks before. Nal will fertilize his garden with whatever is left of this one. You're a walking corpse."
"And you're a hanging one," Elvarra replied. She turned to leave.
"And for what?" he almost shouted, his voice rising. "A throne you'll never inherit. The multiverse at your feet and you trade it for a groveling spot."
The door closed with loud thud. "Don't think you got through," said Sylvetria.
"You only saw her face," said Trizkel. "I saw her fear."
Elvarra strode down the dark hallways and through the glyph traps, sweeping passed the dungeon guards on her way out. The last door opened to reveal Shaharith, both of her consorts, and two of House Desanna's senior surviving assassins. "Mother," said Elvarra.
"Beloved daughter," Shaharith replied, with more than a touch of irony. "Checking on the prisoners?"
"Yes," said Elvarra. "Their value to us is dependent upon their good health."
"And you though someone might defy my orders?" Incredoulity dripped from her voice.
"I considered the possibility," said Elvarra. "I also wanted to see if they would let anything useful slip. About our maggoty ally."
"And did something slip?"
"No. It appears Wither is as much a mystery to them as it is to us."
"Unfortunate."
"Dread Queen, it plans to betray us."
"Of course it does. As we plan to betray it. Daughter mine, you have spent far too much time away from home if you think that is news worth mentioning."
"There is a hole in the puzzle mother. There is something it leaves unsaid. It will happen before Nalifan's death. I am sure."
"Perhaps," said Shaharith. "Perhaps not. You are wrong about so many things. I have had the true name spells tested."
"On what?"
One of the assassins held up a single white hair. "There are advantages to seizing a place where one's target lives. The spells work. The true name fragments are Nalifan's. We have him. Wither can plot all it wants. Here, in this place and under these circumstances, our victory is assured."
"I'm sure that has often been thought by the defeated," said Elvarra. "Too much is happening too fast. We've been reacting in ways that have been forced-"
"No one," said Shaharith frostily, "commands me. Are you finished daughter?"
"Apologies, Dread Queen." Elvarra bowed low. "This one bows to your superior wisdom."
"We will have time to examine everything at our leisure, after our victory is won." Red stars flared into existence, mere inches from each woman's face. The stars dimmed and vanished. "We will discuss this latter!" shouted Shaharith. Alarms had been triggered. For the first time in nearly two thousand years a foe had dared to directly attack the stronghold of House Desanna. There was no question of who it would be. The dragons had come home to roost.
Literally.
The Excellent Prismatic Spray. For when you absolutely, positively must kill a motherfucker. Accept no substitutions. Contact a magician of the later Aeons for details. Some conditions may apply.
Other than the Gold... what Dragons owe Nalifan favors?
Nitram, slightly high on cough syrup: Do you know you're beautiful?
Me: Nope, that's why I have you around to tell me.
Nitram: You -are- beautiful. Anyone tries to tell you otherwise kill them.
"A life is like a garden. Perfect moments can be had, but not preserved, except in memory. LLAP" -- Leonard Nimoy, last Tweet
