Flight From Ironheart IC

[Inspectre]

Dawn’s Hope - Monastery

Archpaladin Zousha

Katashiko sighs and rolls her eyes as you lay down the ground rules for your little association. When you are finally finished, she shakes her head and smirks.

“Always a catch, isn’t there? I want you to keep my sisters at bay, I have to play by your rules, eh? Deal! Put ‘er there, partner!”

Hocking up a sizable wad of spittle, Katashiko spits into her own hand and then slaps it into yours.

“Nice to meet you Hondshioh.” Katashiko says in a pleasant tone, giving your hand a firm squeeze – not enough to cause injury, but a little pain. Then she releases your grip and steps back, turning to indicate the scenery with a wave of her hand.

“Alright then, lead on. The sooner we get your little mission done the sooner we can actually go somewhere fun!”

***********************

Several days later, you find yourself standing before the gates of the Cathedral of Light. Of course, a sizable city had grown up around the cathedral itself, so the name was a little bit misleading. Likely, it would be difficult to get into the Cathedral itself anymore, as you had heard that even areas open to the public had recently been sealed off. Which meant going in through the front door and convincing them of your “honest” intentions might be the best and perhaps only way in.

Fortunately, the gates leading into the city itself were not heavily guarded, and the two young paladins standing guard there today simply waved you through upon seeing your armor. When they started to approach Katashiko to ask for her papers, she simply smiled and ran her fingers down your back.

“I’m . . . with him. For now, anyway.”

The two paladins scowl, correctly deriving her meaning, which while still the truth carried a much different reason than the truth. Still, they wave the two of you through, clearly glad to be rid of you both. As you pass through the gates into the city, Katashiko laughs.

“This might be more fun than I thought! So, where to first? I rather doubt a town made by sticks in the mud, for sticks in the mud, is likely to have much of a nightlife.”

As you move a little further beyond the gate, you see an old woman sitting off to one side of the street. As people pass by, she extends a wooden cup to them. A dirty beggar, made all the more of a pathetic wretch by the fact that a cloth is wound over her eyes.

“Ooo . . . a beggar. Can I put the little cockroach out of her misery, can I? I’d be doing us *all* a favor.”

The Island of Dr(?) Sohssal

Iethloc

“One day, you will pay for your crimes against my people!!” Nepton roars, as the wave of force slams into its body. The impact is enough this time to tear off one of the elemental lord’s tentacles, which rapidly dissolves into the water. The beam of force is enough to press Nepton back against the Nexus. As you renew your assault, the crystal shatters, and the elemental lord returns to being a storm of whipping tentacles. Before it can take advantage of its newfound freedom, however, your second blast of force sends it careening back through the Nexus.

Nepton does not come back through, however, and with his departure the Nexus slowly begins to close. Before it does, you manage to siphon off a fair bit of elemental energy, which is good since your reserves after this fight were running dangerously low. On the plus side, you seem to have complete command over your home once more. Fixing the foundation and pushing out the seawater would likely take some time, as you would have to work carefully to prevent any further damage. You would also likely have to find a new source of magical energy, since most of the elementals and demons you had down here to feed off of were gone.

Still, things were looking up. You were free, you had your home back, and you had a few new ideas for research once the lab was operational again.

Outside the Capital

Pwenet/Dorizzit

“It means everything, Korram! Did it matter to the thrice-damned Baron that I was an innocent child!? Did it matter that Kurt and Joanna’s only “crime” was to agree to raise me!!? How about all the other innocent people in Callaway and everywhere else that the Baron has slaughtered for no other reason than that it pleased him!!? BLOOD CALLS OUT FOR BLOOD! And if shedding this little tart’s blood will inconvenience the Baron for even a moment, I’ll drain the little bitch dry!”

At that moment, Incom decided that there had been enough talk. Snapping up one wing and firing a low-powered beam from the tip in one smooth motion, the prisoner-turned-GHAST aims for Katrina’s knife arm. The narrow beam misses Sara and the knife itself completely, but sears into Katrina’s forearm and shoulder. With a high-pitched scream, Katrina recoils, dropping the knife and toppling back to the ground. Even so, the daughter of Korram Alstan manages to keep her wits about her, and maintains her grip on Sara so that the two of them fall down together.

After landing heavily, Katrina manages to maintain her grip for another few moments, before Sara’s squirming results in Katrina’s burned arm being touched. With another loud scream, Katrina convulses, allowing Sara to slip out of her grip and roll away. As Incom adjusts his wing to take aim and fire a second, and likely more fatal, shot, Sara surprisingly leaps in between the two.

“No.” She says firmly, shooting a glance back at the prone Katrina before focusing her full attention on Incom. “There’s been enough death because of me.”

Sara gestures at Katrina, her gaze still locked with Incom’s.

“If we kill everyone who doesn’t like me, then we’re no better than my father.”

After a moment’s pause, Incom relaxes, returning his wing to back around behind his back. Whether he had been convinced or simply realized Sara was resolute about this, no one was sure. Upon seeing Incom’s agreement to stand down, Sara turned back to Katrina.

“As Korram said, I am not my father. I have seen many, many terrible things recently. I don’t know what to think of my father, let alone the rest of my family, anymore. But . . . I . . . I think my father may have to be stopped, before he hurts anyone else. I . . . don’t know if I can stand against him, but I do know that I won’t be able to do it alone if I do try.”

Then, Sara leans down and extends her hand to the woman, really a girl barely more than a few years older, who had just confessed to wanting to kill her. Katrina stares at the hand a moment in disbelief, and then pointedly looks away. Cradling her wounded arm against her chest, Katrina braces her remaining hand across the ground and pushes off, slowly getting up to her feet unaided.

She pauses to look at Sara, to Korram, and then to Incom. She then leans down and scoops up the discarded knife with her remaining good hand. For a moment, a host of emotions plays openly across her face: shame, disgust, and hope among them. But then her jaw sets, and Katrina chooses the same emotion that has always served her well in the past: rage.

“I’m outta here.” She growls, and then turns away from the three of you and starts limping off into the forest.

Lonna

For a long moment Wulfric considers your offer, and finally relents with a nod. He offers a thin smile as he accepts his weapon back. “I wasn’t even aware I had forgotten this. Thanks.” Apparently accepting your offer, he then leads you to another, slightly more upscale bar. Here they apparently have private rooms for drinking and gambling for those who wish to remain out of sight, which Wulfric assures you are actually respected by the providers and other clientele. You would have all the privacy you wished in one of the back rooms, yet it was only a few steps to be back out in sight of everyone out drinking in the main part of the tavern.

Wulfric grunts a little as you remove his bandages and heal his injury, although he again offers a slight smile and a nod at your aid. He rolls his shoulder and flexes the arm, his smile growing as he discovers the limb is fully healed and functional again.

At your pre-story explanation, Wulfric quirks an eyebrow but nods in agreement.

“I only have one question for you right now. What is your real name? I assume you have one, even if you barely recognize it as yours.”

As you delve into your unpleasant past, Wulfric’s flippant tone completely dissolves. He listens with rapt attention, not interrupting once, although you note he tenses in anger at several points in your story. Finally, your harrowing story is over and the both of you can relax.

After leaning back and closing your eyes, you are surprised when Wulfric lays one of his callused hands over yours.

“I am sorry.” He says, his chair squeaked across the floor as he slides a bit closer to you, allowing him to claps both hands around your one.

“For the part I have played in your difficult life, and my disgraceful behavior a little while ago.”

Wulfric shakes his head, his voice low and hoarse.

“I wasn’t sure what to think of you. When I found out about your magical powers, I thought perhaps . . . perhaps you had chosen your path in life. It was . . . well, the only thing that made sense – that you had chosen to be Pyrene the Temptress because you enjoyed it – the manipulation, the stealing, the thrill of avoiding the law. Why else would a woman with such gifts do it?”

Wulfric chuckles and shakes his head.

“But I suppose none of us get to really choose our path in life, do we? Events conspire to push us in one way or another, and we have to cling to something or be swept away. We will find your sister, and make sure she is safe.”

Wulfric looks you straight in the eyes as he says this, no doubt in an attempt to convince you of his own honesty. But it also gives you a glimpse into what he’s thinking. And there, you can see both a newfound level of respect for you – and pity.

Dark Falls

Kasanip

For a few long moments, your father is silent as he processes your information. He was always like this, so careful with his words and thoughts. It left him more than a little distant and cold, especially as a father figure, although he had abdicated from that position long ago.

“Very interesting. I believe there was a small cult of warlocks broken up a number of years ago. I will check with the Canticle of Winter for the relevant records and get back to you. It is unfortunate that you were unable to find our contact in the town – although it now seems likely he perished with the rest of the inhabitants of Dark Falls.”

Typical for your father – always business and never a word of praise. And now he switched to his one other mode – disapproval.

“I’m not sure traveling to Gast is wise. It would be a journey of several weeks unless you arranged for a teleport.” Your father began, growing even more quiet. “Furthermore, a number of our agents in Gast have suffered from . . . “accidents” . . . in years past. It would be suspicious, but none of the other agents we sent in after them ever found anything.”

Your father pauses to think for a few more moments, and then continues.

“Hmmm. Perhaps whoever was responsible for our agents’ deaths is also the person who arranged for the release of these warlocks. I would speculate that this person is none other than the Baron of Gast himself, but not even we can accuse a noble lightly. You will need to gather more evidence first.”

Your father again goes silent, but you faintly hear the rustling of papers, suggesting he was looking for something. A minute later, his voice began to whisper into your ear again.

“We did have one successful agent, a former member of the Canticle of Fall in fact, now retired. She still keeps a hand in Canticle affairs, of course, but her age and poor health prevent her from serving in anything other than an occasional advisory capacity. Her name is Cynthia Whitehall, and she currently resides in a Canticle-provided house on the outskirts of the capital. I believe the capital should only be a few days away from your position – perhaps you should consult with her before traveling into Gast?”

It wasn’t a suggestion, based on your father’s tone. Then again, you always took his orders as suggestions anyway. At your request for input, Carlain shakes his head – he had nothing to add.

“I suppose . . . unless you have anything further to add, this conversation is over.” Your father sighs. “Very well, proceed with your investigation Isera. And be careful!”

You are just about to break the communication link when you hear another, unexpected voice calling out from somewhere nearby – Theresea’s voice.

“So . . . not local children after all. Are the two of you even human are all, or merely glammered as such by whoever you’re reporting to? Doesn’t particularly matter I suppose, but I’m curious all the same.”

A Meaningless Speck of a Town Soon to be Even Less

Gorgondantess

The blow connects with the back of Maurice’s head perfectly, and the angel slumps to the ground – not dead, but unconscious. You approach the body, cautious that this might be some sort of trick, but it quickly becomes clear for the moment at least, Maurice is not faking it. No longer threatened, you manage to pick up Maurice’s sword by the hilt, feeling a slight jolt run through your palm as the weapon’s material resonances even more strongly.

Examining the weapon closely, you can see that it is not surprisingly made from an unnatural metal. An extremely well-designed metal - lightweight but durable. You realize with a certain amount of envy that, for the moment at least, you lacked the expertise required to form such metal yourself. However . . . yes, most interesting. The material that the sword, and indeed Maurice’s armor, are made of respond to your touch, behaving more like clay in your hands than the exquisite metal.

In all, your fight has taken perhaps a minute. As such, it is predictable that your studies are interrupted a few moments later by curious gawkers. The entire population of the town floods out of the chapel, your followers and their converts in the lead. All of them react with shock upon seeing the fallen angel and you standing over her, holding her sword. Whispers start to ripple up and down the crowd, but your high priest is quick to take advantage of the situation.

“BEHOLD THE POWER OF THE TRUE GOD!” He shouts, gesturing at you and Maurice. “BEHOLD THE DECEPTION OF THE GODS YOU FOLLOW! WE COME BEFORE YOU OPENLY, WHILE THEY SEND SPIES TO WATCH YOU IN SECRET!!”

The murmurs quiet down somewhat as your servant continues to pontificate.

“FEAR NOT!! AS YOU CAN SEE, THE SERVENTS OF THESE TRICKSTER GODS ARE POWERLESS AGAINST US!! FOR THOSE OF YOU WHO DO NOT BELIEVE, PERHAPS YOU WISH TO RETHINK YOUR ALLEGIANCES!?”

Predictably, more than half of the people who had apparently chosen exile over joining their brethren in serving you moments ago now surged forward, begging for a chance to serve. While the rest of your growing band of followers handed out robes and the remaining diehards slowly shuffled away to pack up their belongings, your high priest comes over to join you.

“Is she . . . dead?” He asks, openly curious as he toes Maurice’s remaining wing with his boot. “Huh. I have never seen an angel before. What would you like done, Highest One?”