Flight From Ironheart IC

[Iethloc]

Sohssal

”I was fighting an Elemental Lord a little bit ago. I don't think this is going to be much harder. I'll go out and 'parley' with this self-styled Lord, since it should give you guys more time to prepare. Even if he is as powerful as you are assuming, I should be able to find a way out,” Sohssal says. Then he departed from his little group again to approach the Merfolk. He didn't bother opening any doors, and just floated directly through the walls to them.

”I'm skeptical about that last part. It's not very often that someone brings an army for a tea party. Nonetheless, I'll speak with this Lord of the Sea. Will he deign to come in person, or is he hiding away from the front lines?” he said.

[OverWilliam]

~Tare

Tare frowned a moment as though honestly considering whether or not to bother helping the other man up, then reached around to grip Brock somewhat less-than-comfortably by the back of his wrist instead of betraying even the barest hint of camaraderie.

"Ironheart is a different world, Brock. I learned some new things. Made some new friends. Made some new enemies." Tare kicked his own chair back up dispassionately but didn't sit yet. "One of the Friends is dying. I need her to live, and for that to happen I need money for a rather expensive antidote. Since the situation is obviously time-sensitive, I need that first part up front." Tare sat, dusting some splintered sawdust off his shirt with one hand. "Past that I'm going to need information. There's some people I need to find and some things I need to learn. Some of it ranges from 'obscure' to 'things which man was not meant to know,' but that means you don't hold out on me. If you have a contact, I have a contact, and what they know I know. Capiche? And finally, I get a cut on every job I run. No less than 30%, but we can negotiate that later."

"In exchange you get... Me. It's not going to take long for the word to get out that somebody came back from Ironheart alive, and when it does you'll be in a position of strength. You'll control the story, be set to exploit the rumors however you see fit. I'll go along with whatever version of the truth you find most convenient-- and if reputation alone isn't enough ...Well. Put it this way. If I had then the skills that I have now, I could've pulled my last official guild business Solo. Even with the inexplicably alerted estate guards that we found waiting for us." Tare bristled, but kept it contained.

[Kasanip]

Isera Harvent

Theresea's suggestions made Isera shiver slightly as she looked at Carlain.

She couldn't bring him along- they were going deeper into danger probably. And if she left him to the Constable he was dead. If he went to the Canticles.... Isera wanted to hope he could redeem himself. But the Canticles wouldn't.

But she had to tell them about the danger of the traitors in the order.
And the knowledge would get out eventually. If another traitor said Carlain's name he would be ruined then. Even if she tried to prevent it. But Isera realized another little thing.

The Cult. If they were so close to completing their summoning, then this whole town was in great danger. Danger of Dark Falls level again. Theresea and Isera might have a chance to stop it still, but they had to act decisively.

She stood up and turned to look up at Theresea.

"Ms. Theresea. I propose a change of plans. I just realized that the cult is almost finished with their ritual, and it might well repeat the disaster of Dark Falls. We have to stop it. But I don't know if we can do it only together, especially now without Carlain."

She narrowed her eyes.

"I suggest that immediately we rally the people to attack. It won't be without danger. But I can see any magic traps and foil their spells, and you are our best weapon against them. I don't like a lot of what this might mean. But you know what the result is if they aren't stopped."

(ooc) I don't know what your plan is for Theresea, so maybe it would be good to stop here. But then nothing is accomplished really? So I wrote more, but I don't know what Theresea would do or say, so please ignore it. )

Spoiler

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Then she would have to convince Carlain the cult had been using him- which was true she thought. That was the only way to redeem him. To end the fake hope in a lie of a cure for his mother. Then he could accept and grieve. But she was going to destroy this cult here first.

"Constable Jonas." She said. She said it loudly so that the people in the crowd could hear too.
"There is a whole group of evil magi in the house of Cynthia Whitefield.
They have been kidnapping and killing young women like me to make a demonic ritual. We have to stop them now, I was supposed to be one of their last ones!"

She moved over and, with what strength she could, helped pick Carlain up off the ground.
"He knows them! So he's coming with us to go stop them, whether he likes it or not. That can be the start of his punishment."

No, it would not be the end of his punishment. But at least maybe it would convince the people not to burn him now.

[Inspectre]

Dawn’s Hope - Monastery

Baerdog7

Odlak’s moustache twitches furiously, both from his confrontation with Ricster and your challenge.

“No, of course not.” Odlak growls, although his eyes tell a very different story.

As the three of you make your way down into the tunnels, you taking the lead, you question Ricster’s knowledge. He laughs at the question.

“Not at all, I’m afraid. I just knew about this entrance, and that’s it. I had no desire to become lost and trapped down here.”

Ricster looks about the narrow confines of the tunnel nervously.

“No desire at all.”

“Well, let’s get to it then!” Odlak suddenly says, shivering a little but seemingly determined to press on in his unique bullheaded way. Drawing a dagger from his boot, the Grandmaster approaches the left most tunnel and, with a grunt of effort, scratches a small sword into the wall.

“There. Now we’ll know which way we’ve been, so we won’t get turned around and lost Ricster. Or were you just using that as a gutless excuse?”

“Fine. Let’s see if you’re still laughing when you’re dying of thirst down here in the dark!” Ricster growls.

(I’m going to assume you don’t have an immediately brilliant idea here, other than carefully follow the tunnels at random and map them out/leave signs behind you as you go).

Although it would likely be possible to determine the cardinal direction to travel in towards the Reliquary from your current location, that held little meaning down here. As you quickly discovered, the tunnels twisted and turned, looping back on themselves frequently. It was as much of a rat’s nest of featureless tunnels as the stories claimed, and more. But it was quiet down here, and there didn’t seem to be any danger at all. Perhaps there were dangerous traps or vicious ancient monsters down here as some of the other stories claimed, but for now you had encountered none of them. Things do take a disturbing turn, however, when you come to the next three-way intersection.

“Hold it.” Odlak declares, pausing at the entryway to your tunnel to stare at the wall.

“Huh, that’s weird. There’s a sword mark here. We must have looped back around somehow . . .”

Odlak looks back the way you had come suspiciously, and then shrugs as he proceeds out into the intersection.

“No matter, that was bound to happen sooner or later. Now we’ll just check these other two tunnels and see where they –“

Odlak’s little speech is interrupted with a curse of alarm as he approaches the mouth of the second tunnel.

“There’s a sword mark here too!”

“Here three, you mean.” Ricster says unhappily after dashing over to the mouth of the third tunnel.

“Now how the devil did that happen!? Unless . . .”

Suddenly, the shadows left by your glowing orbs dance madly, and you feel a heavy presence sweep into the room. There is the sharp shrieking of metal on stone, and then the presence departs. But the sound attracts your attention to the nearby wall, and as proof that you hadn’t just been imagining things, a single word is visible, etched cleanly into the stone: YOU.

“I told you the tunnels were a bad idea . . .” Ricster groused, staring at the word wide-eyed.

“Well, now what? It would appear that we aren’t alone down here after all.” Odlak whispers, shivering again despite the look of disdain that crosses his face upon glaring at Ricster.

Archpaladin Zousha

The Black General laughs.

“Well said, boy, well said! Perhaps not everyone is an idiot these days.”

Katashiko looks at you, shrugs, and then dives headlong into the portal with a loud cry.

“Woohoo!”

Mario accompanies you to the edge of the portal, but then stops and shakes his head.

“You’re still going to need a way out after you get down there. I don’t know what I can do to arrange that, but I do know I’d be better suited up here trying to slow down the response than down there with you. Best of luck, old friend.”

And, with no business left to conduct on this side of the portal, you step through, into either success or oblivion. As you suspected, the portal lead to your destination. What the Black General had failed to mention was, of course, that the portal was several feet above the ground. Unprepared for the sudden drop, you stumble and fall, reflexively breaking into a roll to distribute the impact’s force. Strong hands are immediately pulling you up – not a lurking enemy’s, but Katashiko’s.

“Jackass forgot to mention the drop, didn’t he? I’m surprised he didn’t say “Watch your step” or something equally asinine.” Katashiko snorts. She nods towards a large, foreboding iron door only a few feet ahead.

“Assuming that’s not leading to this place’s version of a broom closet, it looks like he at least was telling the truth about our stop. Shall we see what’s behind door number one?”

Striding forward, Katshiko pushes against the door, almost comically so when the door fails to give way. She steps back angrily, and seems to get ready to kick it, when she pauses and turns back to you.

“Seems the door’s locked. Surprise there, huh? Good news is I’ve broken down my share of doors – this one won’t stop us for long. But it is going to loud, and it will give whoever’s on the other side time to roll out the welcome mat. Unless you happen to have the key, or some other way of opening it more quietly?”

The Island of Dr(?) Sohssal

Iethloc

“He is here.” A voice calls out loudly from the back of the mermen’s formation. All of the sea people immediately flop down awkwardly to one knee, allowing you a clear look at the voice’s source. It is a tall man, evidently human given the presence of skin instead of scales.

The self-styled lord of the sea is dressed in a set of elegant plate mail, with strands of seaweed still clinging here and there. Upon his head is a crowd made of coral, and he carries a formidable looking trident in his one hand. One hand . . . hmm. It would appear that he only has one, his other arm completely missing beneath his cloak. In some ways, he looks much like Umber actually, now that you think of it – dark hair, blood-red eyes, pale skin. Of course, he is missing the one arm, and is a good deal bulkier than your other vampire acquaintance.

“So, you must be the protector of this tiny little speck of land within my domain.” The man says confidently as he advances through the ranks of his still-kneeling servants.

“I am Gilgaem, Lord of the Seas, and Lord of Blood. I’ve heard you’ve been giving my servants quite the hard time. They said you were a mage of some sort and this intrigues me.”

Gilgaem raises an eyebrow.

“So, what exactly are you? Some sort of guardian spirit placed here by the owner, or perhaps merely a ghost?”

Gilgaem shrugs.

“I am merely curious. It has been awhile since I’ve encountered anything with magical potential – my subjects try, but their great mages passed long ago.”

Outside the Capital

Dorizzit

“No you won’t.” Fernard says with a chuckle. “But that’s alright – I wouldn’t trust me in your circumstances either. We’ll be delivering the crates to a warehouse just inside the capital. Your d . . . associate, should wake up at about at time. You should have no trouble getting out of there before my client shows up to collect.”

And with that luck, Fernard shows you over to an empty crate. It is just barely long and wide enough for you. It was going to be an uncomfortable and claustrophobic ride, but you had done this before. If worse comes to worst, you could always smash your way out earlier than intended. After helping you down into the crate, Fernard leans over you while his men pick up the top for the crate.

“You’ve always been a good customer, Korram. I’ll admit, I even admire you a little bit for the sheer stubbornness you’ve shown in opposing the Baron. But to be honest I don’t think you’re coming back from this one. So . . . goodbye, old friend.”

Fernard reaches in to shake your hand, and then steps back. Two of his men step forward, and then swiftly close the top down over you and nail it in place. Only a handful of nails are used, of course, just enough to hold the top down. A narrow slit between two of the slats is your only window to the world now.

You can hear voices talking in the world outside your dark coffin, but they are distorted and distant. After what seems like an eternity, you hear the footsteps of approaching men, and your world is jostled about as you are lifted up and carried off. There is an even more violent shaking when they drop your crate down on top of other crates, causing you to rap your head against the roof and nearly bite your tongue. From there the shaking of your dark world recedes to a dull shaking, as the cart carrying you and Katrina sends out on its rocky journey.

You do your best to mediate and simply ignore your surroundings on the trip. The sun warms the boards of your crate, making it nauseatingly warm and stuffy inside. Even so, it’s better inside this miserable crate than it had been inside of Ironheart. You try to while away the time by plotting against the Baron, although it is hard to focus and little comes of it. You had no idea of the forces arrayed against you, nor a map of where the next conflict with the Baron would take place. Certainly, however, storming back aboard the Gastly Truth was suicide. You would have to wait for the Baron to come to you, outside of the protective shell of that flying abomination.

Eventually, days later (or so it seems), your trip comes to a halt. You hear voices, and are able to deduce it is the city guard talking to the merchants. Various questions are asked – can I see your papers, what’s your business in the capital, are you really carrying watermelons in those crates. There is the faint tinkling of money changing hands, and then the guards call out, hurrying the cart through, and your journey resumes.

Inside the city, the ride is even rockier due to the cobblestones lining the streets, but it is mercifully shorter. The cart comes to a halt for the last time, and the men being unloading the crates. You are taken inside, judging by the sudden lack of light filtering in through the crack in your ceiling. Again you have a rocky landing that causes you to bump your head – didn’t these guys know some of their cargo was fragile!?

And then there is a disquieting silence that settles over the world outside. The men have apparently left, having delivered you and the rest of the cargo. You were alone, and now you could break out of here and go look for Katrina. She was bound to wake up soon, and given her previous nervousness it seems doubtful she would remain calm inside her crate.

You are just about to start working on shoving your crate top off when a dim light begins to shine outside. And you hear voices again.

“Let’s be quick about this. Even though these weapons are meant for us, I think you would agree discretion in collecting them would be wise.”

There is the shriek of wood being pried apart, followed by a slight gasp of surprise.

“Well, would you look at that . . . what’s this guy doing in one of the crates? Is he dead?”

Lonna

For a moment Wulfric simply stares at you, mouth slowly dropping agape. Then his face flushes with his old fallback – anger.

“I have no godsdammned idea.” He says roughly, pushing himself up to his feet and starting to dust himself off.

“*I* just thought you were some poor innocent whore. Then I learned you were a murderer and some kind of . . . of ENCHANTRESS! Now I know you’ve got a kid sister and have attracted the attention of gods – or beings that might as well be gods! And you’re babbling about seeing visions or whatever!”

Wulfric runs his hands through his hair, stopping to hold his head.

“So I have no damned idea what you are at this point. My life would be so much simpler without you.”
He groans, shaking his head and dropping his hands back down to his sides.

“But I –“ Again that same look flickers across Wulfric’s face, the same one that had been there the last time you argued. Just as quickly, it’s gone again.

“Forget it.”

As his flash of anger began to cool, if one could look closely, they could see that Wulfric was just as spooked – and probably even more – by what had just happened.

Dark Falls

Kasanip

At your suggestion, Theresea nods.

“I wasn’t there, but I will accept your assessment of the situation. At the very least, the witch and her associates will likely be preparing to flee now that you have escaped. Getting the people of this town on our side will likely help, as then they won’t interfere, even if they lack the capabilities to deal with an actual witch.”

The crowd gives gasps of shock at the news, and then begins muttering angrily again, although this time the anger is directed elsewhere – towards’ Cynthia’s house.

“I never trusted that old hag!” One voice called out.

“Burn her!” Another called a moment later, as the crowd’s anger began to become more focused.

“Burn the witch! Burn her!” Yet another called all, and pretty soon the crowd was all crying ‘Burn her!”

The constable shot you a dirty look, but shook his head and started walking towards Cynthia’s house, the crowd pressing around your small group to march towards Cynthia’s house.

“We had better hurry if we want to get there and interrogate one of this cult before the crowd tears them apart.” Theresea mentions, yet still waiting for you.

With a slight bit of effort, you manage to get Carlain up onto his feet. He sobs at the sudden movement, clutching his broken limbs tight to his chest and leaning up against you, allowing you to guide him.

“I’m . . . sorry you . . . got involved.” Carlain wheezed softly. “But . . . I’m not . . . helping you! I’d . . . rather die!”

Fortunately no one heard him, so for now anyone interested still thought Carlain was going to atone for his sins. But it would appear that Carlain has no intention of renouncing his association with the warlocks. Perhaps he thought he could still save his mother, perhaps he actually believed the lies the warlocks had fed him, or perhaps he simply was being stubborn as only teenagers could be. That one, at least, you understood very well.

When you get back to Cynthia’s house, you find the crowd already attempting to break in. The door has been barred from the other side, and so several of the largest men from the crowd are at the front, throwing their shoulders against the door to little effect. But eventually the wood would give way, and until then the rest of the crowd busied itself lighting torches and starting up a wood pile while the constable tried futilely to establish order.

Most likely, since she’s not up here slinging fireballs or at least insults at the crowd, Cynthia was probably below in her basement. You could try teleporting down there to get ahead of the crowd. It would be easier now, with you not tied to a chair and able to clearly visualize where you want to go, now that you’d been down there. But it would also be dangerous, as you had no idea what you would be getting into, and that meant either taking Carlain with you, or leaving him up here. You weren’t sure you would be able to teleport yourself, Theresea, and Carlain down there either – it would be difficult to take two others, and you were still somewhat drained from your previous teleport. But your only other real option was to follow the crowd into the house, and then find the secret entrance down into Cynthia’s basement.

The Capital

WhiteKnight777

Fianna looks at you critically for a moment, and then steps forward.

“So you have changed after all – it took thousands of years, but it is not impossible. I would likely be pleasantly surprised if I was still capable of it. You have convinced me, love.”

Fianna steps forward again, reaching out to take your hands into hers. Her expression as always, is blank, and completely devoid of any tells. As such, it is understandable that you fall for the deception, reading the intent in her eyes only a second too late. She speaks a word, and you feel the magic leap between you for a moment before those familiar damn silver shackles pop into existence around you. Fianna releases you, allowing you to topple helpless back onto the floor, and then steps back, moving out of your reach completely.

Theme Song

“I misspoke a moment earlier. I should have said – You *would* have convinced me, had you come a year sooner. But now it is too late – my own finale has been set into motion, and it cannot be stopped. I will waste no more time with you on this mortal coil, which I have judged to hold no meaning for me. My own cure approaches, and moments from now I will join our child in oblivion.”

Of course, you had magical ability which you did not have during your long incarceration in Ironheart. It would only be a matter of time before you were able to break the enchanted chains, but Fianna was doubtless counting on it taking you too long to accomplish. And she may be right, as suddenly there is another presence in the room. Your heightened senses feel him coming before he actually appears, as a chilling void of . . . well, nothing seems to surround him. A few moments after that, and Fianna’s executioner appears . . . an elderly man in a plain grey cloak!?

The man’s flinty eyes glance over at you, and then back up to Fianna before darting around the room, clearly searching for traps or other unpleasant surprises.

“I believe you said to come alone, so we could have a private one-on-one conversation?”

Fianna glances down at you, and then gives an awkward shrug.

“He is merely an interloper with no relation to our business. I would appreciate it if you left him in peace after our business is concluded.”

“I’ll consider it.” The man grunts, his attention focused on Fianna. Cautiously, he enters into the room and approaches your ancient love.

“I assume you have many questions. I am prepared to answer any and all that you might have.”

“No questions. You have already given me sufficient proof that you are the one responsible for my lifetime of pain. And now I shall repay you in kind.”

In a blur of motion, the man steps forward again and lashes out, chopping Fianna in the throat with one hand an instant before his other hand sweeps up to deliver a punch to her jaw. Fianna collapses, and her assailant smoothly delivers a kick to her side that breaks at least one rib. Despite his entire body seeming to quiver with rage, every movement is precise and controlled – the hallmark of one who has spent a lifetime delivering such exact strikes.

Having the benefits of both her impassive and vampiric natures, Fianna does not make a sound during this. And indeed, she immediately stands back up, her gaze focused not on her attacker, but you.

“I would suggest you hurry.” She manages to wheeze, before the man delivers a solid punch to her solar plexus, causing her to collapse again. In response the man reaches into his cloak, drawing a pair of thin knives.

“I have waited many long years for this moment. I need a bit more time to savor it before sending you on your way, as so many others have gone before you.”

OverWilliam

“Yeah. Well you know how those guards are. Sometimes they’re real louts, and sometimes they’re surprisingly competent.” Brock says, fighting to keep the tremor out of his voice. He sets his chair back up and sits down across from you, clearly uncomfortable – despite the obvious lack of protection it provided, he wanted a table between you instead of empty space. For a few moments Brock is silent, but then he slowly nods.

“Alright Tare, sure. Whatever you want – it’s good to have you back! I’ll have some of the boys track down whatever you need for your friend. I assume this friend is back at Ulrich’s little chapel – that’s why you’ve been hanging out there so much?”

At this point, another man enters the tavern, making an immediate beeline for Brock. He starts whispering into his ear – which, with your new abilities, made it as easy to listen in as if he was shouting.

“Sir, that merchandise you wanted is now in town. It’s already being taken care of. But I know you wanted to be alerted immediately.”

Brock nods eagerly, and then stands up.

“Well, it seems I have more business to attend to, Tare! The life of a guild leader is never a quiet one, that is for sure. In any event, we’ll talk more later on future business – I have a couple deals coming up that you might be interested in. I’ll be in touch – that is, unless you have anything more you need to discuss right now?”

Brock freezes as he delivers that last sentence – he clearly had been spooked by your display, and was clearly concerned you had more demands to lay out. If none are forthcoming, Brock hurriedly makes for the door, collecting his cadre of bodyguards as he goes. At the door, he pauses and turns back.

“Oh and by the way Tare, you may want to go see Karami. She misses you.”

And with that, he is gone. (Assuming, again, that Tare does not have any more questions/demands to make).

“So what now? Do you think he will honor his word to dispatch aid?” Melcara asks, sitting down beside you once again.

Gorgondantess

It takes Maurice a moment to react, but then she nods ever so slightly and steps forward.

“Satisfied?” She says in an annoyed tone, crossing her arms across her chest.

“For now.” The voice calls, and you can just barely make out soft footsteps as the buyer changes positions in the room. A moment later, and his voice calls out again from a different corner.

“So, she doesn’t seem to be an entirely unwilling participant, given her lack of chains. Mind satisfying my curiosity now on how you’ve gotten her to behave?”

“Simple. She gave me her word. You would be surprised what angels are willing to be put through in order not to break their word.” Maurice answers swiftly, a slight smirk crossing her face as she glances at you.

“I see. Well, I’m no expert but it looks like you’ve brought the goods. There’s a fat sack of coins over there in the corner. It’s all yours – take it and go.”

“What, I don’t get to satisfy my own curiosity about why someone wants an angel?” Maurice counters, now smoothly in the role of nosey seller.

“Nope. The deal was one angel for a whole lot of gold. Not for a whole lot of gold and an explanation. My reasons are my own.”

“Alright, I’ll go. But I’m not taking your “whole lot of gold” with me. Consider it a favor from your newest friend.” Maurice concedes, switching tactics. The voice didn’t seem particularly amused.

“What.”

“Oh yes. See, I’m moving into the area and figured I could use a few friends myself. So when I heard about your request, I thought I would help you out. And maybe in the future you would return the favor, seeing as how that’s what friends do, Mr.?”

“Smith. And you’re clearly mistaken. This is a one-time deal. You give me the angel, I give you money. And then we never see each other again. Clear enough for you?”

“Ah, Mr. Smith! Your first name wouldn’t be John by chance, would it? Well, it’s been a pleasure meeting you. I’m Maurice, and I’ll be staying in town for a few days in case you change your mind about our relationship. I’ll leave the details with your little friend outside.”

Maurice shoots you a quick frown and shrug, her attempt to fish more information out clearly at an end. She then moves over to the corner of the room where a large sack indeed sits. She moves to pick it up but then stops, faking a pout.

“Hey – you aren’t really expecting me to lug this thing through town, are you?”

“There’s a cart outside you can use.”

“And how, pray tell, am I going to lug this heavy sack all the way outside and up onto the cart? Maybe you could help me?” Maurice asks, her tone turning hopeful at the possibility of luring the buyer out into sight. Unfortunately he still refuses to cooperate.

“Why don’t you get our friend to help you out? I’m sure a heavy sack of coins would be no problem for her.”

Maurice pauses a moment, looking at you, and then shrugs.

“Sure. Come over here and be a dear, won’t you? Pick up this sack of coins and take it out with me. Then get back in here – you’re his now. And you had better behave for your new master, just like you were a good girl for me!”

The sack of coins is not a problem for you to heft up onto one shoulder. As you are on your way to the doors, the buyer calls out.

“Hey! I’ve seen my proof – cover yourself up! Someone might see you outside, and people will talk if they see an angel walking about!”

“Do as he says.” Maurice adds.

(I’m assuming you’ll just revert back into your normal form rather than flipping out at this point).

As promised, just outside is the cart, and you set the sack full of coins into the back of the cart. Maurice begins to climb aboard the cart while the buyer’s associate looks on. Halfway up, she pauses and looks back to quickly whisper to you.

“I’ll be nearby, watching. Hopefully you’ll have better luck than I did in getting information out of him.”

Heading back inside the barn, you find a man sitting perch on a crate across the room from you. He appears to be a human male, nothing particularly special.

“Alright, so you might not believe this, but all I want is five minutes of your time. I just want to talk to you, and after we’re done here, for you to go back to wherever it is you go and tell your boss what I’ve told you. Capiche?”

The man beckons you over, and then leans forward to whisper (always with the damn leaning forward!).

“Alright, so the Baron of Gast, he’s got something nasty planned. I don’t know exactly what, but he’s been having us set up runic sigils all over the city, painted with angel blood. So whatever it is, it’s going to be big, and it’s going to be bad, and it’s going to happen here in my town. So I need you to go back up there and tell your Goddess She had better send some more of your kind down here and clean this up quick before something terrible happens!”

[Archpaladin Zousha]

Hondshioh

"Unfortunately, that's not likely. We'll just have to hope we can beat whatever stands in our way."

Hondshioh draws his sword, and his skin takes on the dark gray pallor of slate.

"Do it."

[WhiteKnight777]

Umber

Umber growled as Fianna bound him - a low, feral sound. His lips quirked up long enough to quip "Most times I would be delighted to have you chain me, love but at the moment-" And then they were interrupted by the one Fianna had called her executioner. Umber listened attentively to the words, all the time gathering power to break the chains and then...

and then the flint-eyed man struck Fianna.

He struck the woman that Umber had come to save. The woman he loved. The only woman he had ever loved with that incandescent, all-encompassing passion against which time and death themselves contended in vain. The man struck Fianna, and the caged anger-beast in Umber's chest exploded into bright, baying fury. He lunged against his chains, and they groaned despite his lack of vampiric strength - or perhaps because of it. After all, though he was without the benefits of his immortal state, he was without the weaknesses, too.

Fianna had been right about one thing, though - it would take him too long to unmake the chains.

The man struck her in the ribs. And then he spoke of savoring her pain. Umber roared - a vast, terrible, wordless sound, and an aura of fire exploded to life around him - white-hot and blindingly bright, raw magic given life by the anger of a Lord of Blood. It melted through the silver - vaporizing it in some placed. All along it, the enchantments woven into the chains burned away, consumed by the magical flame - though the defensive magics burned into umber, cutting through his clothing and scarring glowing runes into his flesh. He cried out in agony, unbearable for a moment - but he turned the pain into more rage, and the rage into fuel. The manacles seared into his flesh, the metal actually fusing with his body, and he thought that he screamed again, perhaps even losing conciousness for an instant. But he had not lived thousands of years in idle luxury - he and pain were old companions, and he knew her as intimately as any lover.

When he had finished, there was a pool of molten silver at his feet - though the manacles remained around his wrists. He didn't want to think what his flesh looked like under them - but it would heal. Magic still poured through him, and he made and imperious gesture and spoke a word of power - the molten silver flowed up, forming an orb, which exploded in a hail of enchanted silver spikes, flying towards the elderly man with unnatural speed. Umber launched himself after them, dropping into a flowing, liquid strike - going down into a crouch and then launching a blow upward. He spared Fianna a glance, and for an instant he smiled - an expression containing joy and sorrow in equal measures.

"Did I not tell you, love? I am going to help you, or I am going to die by your side. I will not permit anything else - I love you too much, and have come too far for that."

He faced the old man, a snarl on his face. "As for you... I don't care what she's done to you, or what she's convinced you she's done. She is the woman I love, and she is sick. If you fight me, I will kill you, even if I have to burn away my own soul to fuel the flames that blast you. Leave us alone, or I will burn you to ash, and with you everything you have ever cared about. I will make yours a name only whispered in curses. I will destroy anything you have ever worked to build. Flee. Now."

[Gorgondantess]

She listens to the man, eyebrow cocked, then finally breaks out into peals of laughter.
"What serendipity! How delightfully... circular."
She smirks as she begins to transform into her other winged form, claws and all.
"While I've no doubt these claims of yours are true, and quite pertinent, I care not for this city of yours. You will, however, make an excellent peace offering for the Baron."
She savors the surprise on his face a moment as she swiftly moves in to detain the man, brutally hogtying him (though not so he'll asphyxiate) with whatever resources available, her own cloak if need be. She lifts him by the tie, slings him over her shoulder, and waltzes out of the barn brandishing her sword. And guards who are stupid enough to threaten her will lose parts.

Back outside she tosses the man in the cart, then absorbs the coins. "How nice of him to provide some nice, dense material. This'll make the flight so much easier."
Bolstering her wings and sheathing the blade, she turns to Maurice. "I have a airship to catch. Despite what this Baron may allegedly do to angels, you are under my protection, and as long as I stand no harm will come to you. You are coming with me. This is not up to discussion. However, I will allow some leeway in mode of transportation. It would be more efficient to simply carry you- and draw less attention, not that we'll not be drawing any anyways- and beyond that, I'll be flying hard and fast. But if you'd prefer... so long as you give me your word you won't be flying off... I could let you fly on your own power."
Whatever the answer, she takes the man over her shoulder and flies off to the dagger in the sky.

[Kasanip]

Isera Harvent

Carlain's refusal to help snapped a last nerve. Isera turned, full of frustration, and slapped him on the face with her real hand.

"I'm not asking you to help me. I'm really not asking you anything right now. I'm making you recognize your mistakes and realize there are dangerous consequences. We're stopping this cult here because I'm not going to let them turn this place into a burning, lifeless horror.

I'm trying to help you, you idiot. But I can't save you from yourself. You'll have to do that. And by the way? Maybe your mother would rather die to save you than find out her son was turning into a monster! But you never asked her if she would have wanted this, did you?"

A little harsh maybe, but Isera stopped herself. She realized that the words she was saying were in frustration. She was sticking herself between Carlain and trouble- trouble that would come from his family- her adopted family. And a little part of her she realized, was jealous.

Not jealous that Carlain was a stubborn kid (so was she), but jealous because she had a sick feeling that, if they did go back, Carlain's mother and father might try to save him. Save him from the Canticles that her father had refused to save her from, back during her own transgression. It was nice to have people who cared about you, wasn't it?

Maybe it was her disguise taking the better of her, but she wore an angry pout and shoved her hands into her pockets like an annoyed teenager.

She shoved those thoughts away for now, and closed her normal eye. She would deal with this cult here. Immersing her sight into the magic world, she began looking at the house to identify shapes. Where were the concentrations of magic?

The basement seemed to be the important place. The most dangerous if the ritual finished now, they were all going to die very horribly. And if they dealt with Cynthia first before the crowd got there, they might be able to limit the damage.
And Cynthia wouldn't be expecting a rear attack like this while the front door was coming down. Cut off the snake's head, perhaps there was no better definition of the style of the Canticles, and it suited Isera too.

She took a deep breath.

"Carlain, behave. Ms. Theresea, let's go." She muttered to Theresea. Carlain wasn't going anywhere with his injuries. Besides, if he did go somewhere, she would be able to track him later by his magic aura, or they could use a scry to find him. The crowd wouldn't kill him.

She put a hand on Theresea's shoulder and then focused her teleport spell again.

[Iethloc]

Sohssal

Sohssal briefly considered lying. He could pass off the more powerful spells as traps or something, and that he was, indeed, a guardian spirit. He'd be able to catch this Lord of the Sea off-guard later if it worked...but he decided this entity probably had more experience with deception than a mage who had spent most of the preceding decades as a hermit.

”I am Sohssal, and I am the owner of this place, though recent circumstances have prevented me from returning for some time. Whether I am alive or not is merely academic, but I am no ghost. I reached my current incorporeal state though my own magic a long time ago,” he said.

He tilted his expressionless head, curious. ”In fact, it looks like you've done something not dissimilar. You remind me of an acquaintance of mine - Umber. Do you know him?”

[Baerdog7]

Grandmaster Ander Windrivver

Ander steels himself against a possible attack, summoning two more holy orbs and increasing their brightness to illuminate as much of the tunnel as possible.

If that is you, Reaper, I am Ander Windrivver. You helped me once, down in the Hells. I would humbly ask that you help me again, or at least not hinder me.

Ander takes a moment and reaches out with his senses, trying to find anything: a scent, a draft, a feeling of magic presence down one of the tunnels that might give a clue as to which direction they should go. He makes a decision and marches on.

[Inspectre]

Meanwhile . . .

Speaker Morganna sighed as she relaxed back into the pool of heated water, allowing the warmth to seep into her skin. Nearby the large bay windows overlooking her city stood open, allowing the bright moonlight entrance into the otherwise dark room. These moonlight baths were the one pleasure Morganna allowed herself, although between Ander and this “new god” the outer provinces were talking about it was likely she wouldn’t have time for them much longer. To be honest, she enjoyed them more for the quiet than anything else – it was her one chance to be alone.

Tiberius would doubtlessly have cautioned her against being alone at any time, paranoid fool that he was. There were, of course, guards stationed right outside the door, and like the other Exarches with the possible exception of the late Quincy, Morganna could take care of herself. And, truth be told, if she had to deal with people at all hours of the day she likely would go insane. She had never wanted the mantle of Speaker, and all the endless talking, talking, talking that came with it, but it was necessary right now to take a direct hand in affairs. And even if she didn’t particularly enjoy it, she had gotten very, very good at talking over the years.

In one dark corner of the room, the shadows stirred, carrying a whisper across the room. A slight smile crossed Morganna’s face as she listened, mildly disappointed that the messenger was not here in person as he sometimes was during the Speaker’s “alone” time – but the contents of the message more than made up for it.

“Do as you wish.” The Speaker whispered to the darkness, brushing aside a strand of sodden dark hair. Her lips pulled up into a genuine smile as she thought back into the past, and then ahead into the future. “But leave the Lord General unharmed. I would very much like to meet him – one last time.”

The shadows’ messenger was not happy with this order, but he would obey as always. It would not take long for the order to be carried out either, and so Morganna’s bath would have to be cut short. Still, it would be a shame for the heated water to go to waste, and Morganna still had a few minutes before she should get ready to welcome Ander personally. She settled back, allowing the heat to wash over her once more, enjoying the dead silence present in the room save for the soft sound of her own breathing. A dead silence that was almost immediately shattered by a commotion just outside the door.

A moment later and the door was thrust open, filling that half of the room with scattered light from the brightly hit hallway. Exarch Damont stormed in, trailed by the two guards previously stationed outside who continued to angrily inform him that he couldn’t do that. He approached right up to the edge of the pool before he lost his nerve, fixing his eyes on a distant corner of the room so he wouldn’t have to look at her. Morganna was amused by the thought that the sight of a naked woman disturbed him.

“Didn’t anyone ever teach you it is polite to knock?” Morganna asked, raising one arm out of the water to wave the guards off. A frown passed across Damont’s face, although the exarch remained standing at attention, eyes affixed on the corner, as if this was some sort of sudden inspection. Which, as Morganna learned a moment later, it sort of was.

“My apologies Speaker, but I thought you would want the news immediately – the Reliquary has been attacked.”

“Attacked? By who?” Morganna asked, although given who was traipsing around beneath her city, it wasn’t hard to guess who was responsible.

“We don’t know Ma’am. The Reliquary has gone into lockdown, and the auxiliary guards are already being summoned. All that is known at this moment is that the intruders have somehow managed to sneak into the Reliquary proper. The Commandant suspects that this is a targeted attack.”

At this, Morganna rolls her eyes.

“Of course it’s a targeted attack. It’s Project Angelus, you dolt! That’s what they’re after!”

For just a moment Damont stiffens at the mention of the Council’s secret project outside of the secure council chambers. But, the two guards assigned to Morganna were completely loyal, and more importantly trained not to ask questions when hearing mention of secret projects. Morganna still smiles at his reflexive discomfort, and then delivers the coup de grace.

“In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if Ander was here for that very reason. He’s probably trying to meet up with his accomplice in the Reliquary.”

“What!? Ander’s here!” Damont exclaims, looking around and dropping his hand to the hilt of his sword, as if he expected Ander to leap from the shadows suddenly. His gaze momentarily shifted down to Morganna, and then immediately shifted back away from her as he remembered why he wasn’t looking at her in the first place. It took a minor act of willpower for Morganna not to laugh in his face – the Exarch looked like he was about to pop.

“How do you know Ander’s here!?” Damont growled, struggling to regain his composure.

“A little black bird told me.” Morganna said with a smirk. Then in a sudden rush of movement, she stood up and began to wade to the edge of the pool.

“Now then. I need you to gather up the Council Guard – those that can be trusted with secrets like Project Angelus anyway. We’re going to pay the Reliquary a visit of our own. Get in touch with the Commandant and inform him of the intruders’ likely target, as well as Greystone so he’s aware he’s about to have company. I will join you in a few minutes – unless you’d like to help me dry off?”

“N-no.” Damont grunted, by now thoroughly flustered as he turned away while Morganna padded across the marble floor to grab a towel.

“Then you have your orders, Exarch. Carry them out.” Morganna called over her shoulder.

“Yes Ma’am.” Damont said, hurrying out the door with the two guards. The doors slammed shut a moment after they were back out in the hall, and Morganna was alone again. Unfortunately, there was no time to enjoy the solitude, and Morganna busied herself with drying off and getting dressed. She was just starting to slip into her ornate robes of station when a thought occurred to her. In the moonlit darkness the Speaker smiled as she silently addressed the darkness, reaching out with her mind.

Change of plans. Here’s what I want you to do . . .

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

With a loud crash, the last of the stone doors crumbled back into the tomb beyond.

“Well, that was certainly easier than I expected it to be for you. A bit noisy though.” Kartul rasped, stepping into the hole that was all that was left of the door. Behind him, his newest disciple slung his bone scythe back across his back and smiled.

“I aim to please. And I didn’t think subtlety was needed in a tomb.”

“One doesn’t need subtlety in the grave. It does tend to be helpful elsewhere.” Helion corrected, shooting a look of scorn at Kartul’s new favorite.

“Silence.” Kartul commanded, not wanting this moment spoiled by yet more of the endless bickering his children indulged in. It seemed even if he could unite all of undeath into a common purpose, he could not end their dislike for one another. So be it – there would be time enough to correct such flaws in Paradise, and Paradise was very near at hand.

Directly across the room from them was a large stone slab. The surface of it was etched in intricate runes and designs, but what was on the altar was certainly worth more attention – an armored man in a sleeping pose, hands clasped on his chest. What little of the man’s skin could be seen was deathly pale, although Kartul did not need that to know he was a vampire. Even from here Kartul could sense the man’s potential, slumbering though it was.

So this then was Artur, the vampire Kartul had been searching for to complete his alliance. It had taken a great deal of searching to find his tomb, and sifting through all the various legends surrounding him and his resting place was a pain in the ass. Fortunately the ancient codex he had acquired from that odious city had provided the final piece he needed; otherwise he would have gotten humiliated by Umber needlessly. Now he just had to make sure that this was really Artur.

“Wake him.” Kartul commanded, pulling an ornate sword from his robes and handing it off to his subordinate.

“With pleasure!” His minion replied, always eager to please. He took the sword and then advanced towards the tomb. He was perhaps only a third of the way across the room when a stone in the floor sunk beneath his weight with an ominous click.

Kartul’s newest minion only had enough time to look up in shock before a column of holy light engulfed him. In an instant he was nothing more than a charred skeleton; the instant after that he was a pile of ash.

Kartul spat a curse at this latest trap, while Helion cackled at his associate’s misfortune.

“He’ll be back.” Helion said, advancing to the same point with considerably more caution. Still chortling, Helion picks up the sword from the pile of ash and then presses deeper into the room. Whether through caution or luck, Helion manages to sidestep any similar trigger plates and reaches the altar. Taking the sword, he slides it into the grip of the slumbering vampire, and then glances back at Kartul.

“Is that all? Or do I need to say some sort of magic word?”

On the altar, the vampire’s eyes snap open, and he immediately springs into action. Shifting his grip on his sword to a useable one-handed one, he lashes out with it. Helion is quick to spring away, although his retreat is hindered by the possibility of stepping on another trap. Swinging off the altar and advancing towards his opponent, the now very-awake vampire gestures with his free hand. A blast of light bursts into being in front of Helion’s face, blinding him. Lunging forward, the vampire paladin thrusts with his sword as it begins to glow with holy power. The blow catches Helion in the stomach, and he collapses to his knees.

“Ow.” He manages to say, cradling the see-through hole in his abdomen as he looks up at his opponent with a mixture of fear and hatred. The vampire paladin raises his blade to point at Helion’s throat.

“Filthy beast! Thou hast made a grave mistake coming here! Thou standst before Artur, Lord of the Round Table! Thou shallst repent of thy sins and explain why thou hast come, or surely perish!”

From the sidelines across the room, Kartul began a slow clap.

“Impressive! You’ve been a hard man to find Artur. I’m glad to see you’re still in good shape. But now, I’d like to offer you the opportunity to join my alliance of vampires. With your unique command of the divine, we would at last be truly invincible!”

“Not interested.” Artur said, and then pulled back his blade to deliver a blow that would surely separate Helion’s head from his shoulders. With a simple gesture, Kartul froze Artur in that position, despite the obvious strain on Artur’s face as he attempted to resist the new commands for his body.

“I never said you had a choice.” Kartul said, and then cackled as he gestured for Artur to follow. Forced to obey, the body of Artur slogged along behind, with Helion bringing up the rear, nursing his slowly healing wound. Once Artur was added to the collective, divine magic would be meaningless against them. And then he and his children would be truly invincible, as he had just told Artur. It would at last be time to begin the reign of the undead, and end the reign of the living. Kartul knew exactly where to start the revolution, too – at the cesspool those pathetic humans called a capital!

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

“Gentlemen. I am glad you were able to make time out of your busy schedules. I imagine preparations for His Majesty’s funeral are consuming much of your time.” Baron Demetrius Gast said, putting on his best smile for the men on the other side of the communication crystal. Known as the Triumvirate, they were a trio of minor nobles appointed by the king to preside over important matters of state – usually marriages and funerals.

“Actually, His Majesty’s funeral has been postponed, due to a lack of heir. Apparently, someone must always sit on the throne, even if he’s dead.” The lead member of the Triumvirate said. “We are asking all nobles to assemble here within a week’s time. Hopefully a new king can be selected from those attending without having to resort to civil war. And preparations for *that* meeting are consuming much of our time.”

“I see. Well, I have contacted you to deliver some pleasant news – my son Cheran is to be married. His chosen bride, the Countess Amelia Ashargrin, agreed to his proposal at long last.”

“Well, that is some pleasant news! We look forward to meeting with them both to record confirmation of their vows.”

“Actually gentlemen.” The Baron said, fighting to keep the smirk off his face. “We will be invoking the Rite of Conquest in this matter.”

“That is a barbaric law!” One of the other members of the Triumvirate exclaimed. “A throwback to the primitive days of the kingdom when nobles waged war against each other!”

And now the Baron could not hide the smirk. “A law that is still in effect today, even if no one ever uses it anymore. All that matters is that she gave her consent without magical compulsion. I trust one of your court mages can conduct some sort of augury to confirm that is true. Just as I trust you will file the necessary paperwork in a timely matter, to ensure my son is properly known as the new lord of the County of Ashargrin after the marriage. All of you are of course invited to the actual ceremony. Now if you will excuse me, I have important matters of my own that I must attend to.”

Rendering the crystal back to its usual opaque emptiness, the Baron settled back into his chair and smiled. Another piece was falling into place – and only a few more were needed to secure his victory. His triumph over the gods, those idiots like Korram who opposed him, and all those other fools who had underestimated him, time and time again.

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

“Please raise your arms, Countess.” One of the tailors commanded, and she obeyed without question. Indeed, despite the occasional discomfitures of being fitted for a wedding dress, these fitting sessions with the tailors were almost pleasant. She wasn’t bound like some sort of lowly criminal, she wasn’t tortured, and she wasn’t in the presence of her psychotic betrothed. Of course, the fact that she was about to be married to said betrothed, who would then have no limits on the sort of things he could do to her, tended to be a damper on any pleasant feelings. And of course, there were several guards present in the room, both to ensure she didn’t try anything and for her “protection”. As if anyone was foolish enough to board the Gastly Truth in a rescue attempt. Well, maybe Korram . . .

The Countess fought back a sob as she thought of the plucky revolutionary. Cheran had said he had been executed, and although he was hardly a trustworthy source of information it was hard to believe Korram had survived. The Baron took precautions against his prisoners escaping, and he had no mercy for his enemies.

Even if Korram had escaped, Cheran was right when he said Korram had abandoned her. Really, he owed her nothing, and if he was smart he would stay away. The same was true of Pyrene, and together the two of them were Amelia’s last friends in the world. Unfortunately memories of the past offered no relief from her unpleasant present – they only helped illustrate what she had lost. With her future all but certain to be equally unpleasant, there seemed to be nowhere left to escape to but fantasy. For a little while, she managed to distract herself with thoughts of what a wedding to Korram would be like.

Preferably, in the same chapel that Cheran was buried under. Pyrene as the maid of honor, certainly – whore she may be, but she seemed capable of maintaining good social graces. A simple ceremony, but forthright – as a commoner Korram was unlikely to play any of the obnoxious games nobles did in marriage. Perhaps Katrina in the guise of Kris as Korram’s best man?

She was just beginning to work out the seating arrangements in her head when the door shrieked open. Usually the doors on the Baron’s airship opened with little more than a whisper, but here they had been forced apart faster than the machinery was designed for. Obviously in an attempt to make an entrance, and only one person was impatient and arrogant enough for that. Her little daydream shattered, the Countess felt her breath catch in her throat, and all eyes turned towards the door as Cheran strode through. The Baron’s son was dressed in a well-tailored black and silver suit, with a matching black silk eyepatch over his blind eye. Held loosely in one hand was a large bottle of whiskey, almost completely empty.

For a moment, Cheran simply stood there, turning his head to regard the entire room with his one good eye. Then he belched loudly and took another hard swig from the bottle, draining the last of its contents.

“Do you haff any . . . any idea . . . how h-hard . . . it is for me . . . for me to get drunk? Huh? Th-that’s my shecond bottle! Or . . . Or maybe my third. WHOO!”

Cheran hurled the bottle against the nearby bulkhead, causing it to explode into slivers with an audible crack that caused all others present to flinch.

“Alright . . . alright! Let’s do th-thish! I’m ready for . . . for . . . for my lasht fitting! Yeah!”

Cracking his neck, Cheran began to jump up and down in place, shadowboxing for a moment. The tailors attending to Amelia simply looked at each other in silent fear, until eventually one of them was browbeaten by the others into stepping forward.

“Ahem . . . Sir Cheran. Uh, sir . . . this is not your fitting room. Your tailors are down the hall, waiting for you.”

Cheran simply stared at the tailor, causing him to wilt under the bloodshot single-eyed gaze. Then the Baron’s son simply shrugged and he laughed.

“I knew th-that! Geniush! I jusht . . . jusht . . .”

For a moment, Cheran simply trailed off, looking around blankly. Then his eye fell on Amelia, and his gaze focused again.

“I jusht wanted a look at my bride! Yeah!”

Cheran’s eye hungrily looked her up and down, with the promise that their honeymoon would be hellish. Considering how unpleasant the past couple days had been outside of these fitting sessions, that was saying something.

“Alth-though, I have to shay . . . it’sh kinda a washte. I . . . I mean . . . you boysh work sho h-hard, making her pretty. I’m jusht gonna tear it all off after the ceremony! Or maybe during! Wouldn’t th-that be . . . a sight!”

Amelia could feel what was left of her sanity crumbling into despair. This was simply the final proof that there would be no escape, no refugee however temporary. Cheran would simply keep hammering her until he broke her completely. And then when he was done crumpling her up into whatever perverse shapes he desired like she was some kind of damn doll, he’d grow bored enough to kill her.

Like the sun breaking the night at dawn, a thought suddenly burst through her despair. Cheran was always quick to lash out in anger, and this made him easy to manipulate. The alcohol undoubtedly only made this more so. A desperate plan began to form in the back of her mind, overriding everything else including her fear. Amelia cleared her throat, finding her voice again.

“Don’t you know it’s unlucky to see the bribe in her dress before the wedding?” She hissed, and watched in morbid satisfaction as Cheran’s nostrils flared. The tailors surrounded her scattered as Cheran stomped forward, stopping just inches in front of her. He proved a moment later that despite the drink, he was still in full control of his body as his right fist snapped up, slamming into her chest with enough force to drive the air from her lungs, but not quite enough to do permanent damage. Her legs immediately gave out, and she would have collapsed in a limp heap had Cheran not grabbed her by the throat with his left hand, holding her aloft. He laughed as he effortlessly lifted her up, leaving her toes dangling several inches above the floor.

“Yesh, unlucky. For you . . . my beautiful bride.”

The momentary flash of courage Amelia had when embarking on this plan evaporated at this latest sign of Cheran’s strength. But she forced herself to continue, forced herself to ignore her greying vision and growing headache, forced her rebelling lungs to pull in fresh air through the narrow gap Cheran’s grip had left. She tried to speak again, but her voice dissolved immediately into weak coughs. In truth, this worked better than any words she could have said. Cheran laughed again and cocked his head, turning his blind side towards her as he pulled her in close, her lips nearly brushing his ear.

“I couldn’t . . . quite . . . h-hear th-that, wifey. Try again?”

Focusing and struggling to take in another breath, the Countess forced her lips to work this time, whispering directly into Cheran’s ear.

“I said you’d look better if your ear resembled your eye!”

And then she used what little strength she had left to twist in Cheran’s grasp, leaning forward to trap his ear lobe in between her teeth. And then she bit down, hard. The next few seconds were a confusing rush of unpleasant sensations. Warm sticky copper squirting into her mouth. Cheran, for once, screaming loudly – his mouth only a few inches from her own ear. Flying through the air for several long moments, before hitting the floor with a sickening crunch. Choking on the mouthful of liquid she suddenly had, some sliding down her throat before she was able to spit out the rest, further staining her previously immaculate white dress with red droplets. Her arm, trapped underneath her when her short flight came to its abrupt end, bursting into searing agony – was she going to end up like Korram? Cheran howling in mad drunken rage, one bloody hand clasped to the mangled ruin of his ear, which was indeed a match for the now-visible remains of his blinded eye.

Amelia closed her eyes as Cheran advanced towards her, doing her best to withdraw her mind from the pain, and the undoubtedly worse but hopefully shorter pain that was about to follow. Almost subconsciously, she began to hoarsely whisper to herself, “Do it do it do it do it.”

In the darkness, Amelia waited for Death to come. Sweet, merciful Death – the only way she would ever escape from Cheran. But the shouts of alarm and screams that followed only confirmed that although Death was always around her, its gift was for everyone but her. Eventually as the racket quieted, Amelia forced herself to return from her empty inner plane, and opened one eye to regard the carnage. And carnage was the right word, for fearing the Baron more than they feared his insane son, everyone present in the room had rushed to bar Cheran’s path. For their insolence, they had all died, save for the last guard, who now stood protectively over the Countess, doing his unsuccessful best to push Cheran back. Unfortunately, it seemed that his words were finally starting to penetrate through the haze Cheran’s brain was working under, as so many others’ dying screams had failed.

“Don’t give her what she wants, sir!” The guard repeated, continuing to push against Cheran, muscles straining but completely failing to move him back an inch.

“Huh?” The Baron’s son grunted, blinking dumbly as his last remaining barrier.

“She wants you to kill her! She can’t marry you if she’s dead!”

Understanding dawned in Cheran’s eye.

“Ohh . . . good point! Thanksh!”

The guard relaxed as Cheran did, which was just as well as even ready he would have been unable to do anything to save himself. A moment later Cheran’s fist flashed up into the man’s chest – and then in a demonstration of just how much strength he had exactly – through the man’s chest. A hail of gore and blood rained down on Amelia as Cheran’s fist emerged from the man’s back.

“That’sh for . . . for touching me!” Cheran growled, and then tore the man off of his arm with his free hand, throwing him aside before kneeling down in front of Amelia.

“My . . . beautiful wife. You th-think the . . . the Reaper will shet you free?” He said, reaching down with his blood covered hand to stroke both sides of her face, smearing her cheeks with the last guard’s blood.

“No no. You will live! A long . . . long, full life! Full of agony and deshpair!”

With his other hand that was only slightly less blood-soaked, Cheran reached down and grabbed her broken arm, twisting expertly. The pain flared into a white hot spike, and Amelia nearly lost consciousness as she opened her mouth in a silent scream. Cheran continued to drone on, while forcing his blood covered fingers into her mouth, grinding them against her tongue, forcing her to taste another’s blood for the second time today.

“You will beg me. Give me anyth-thing and everything I wishh. But in the end I . . . I will deny you! In fact, I’m going to . . . to talk withh Fathher. Shee if when your current body gives out, we can shtick your shoul into a new one! Maybe one of Marishiel’sh shpares . . . shome of thoshe are pretty hot!”

His point made, Cheran extracted his fingers, running them down her chin, along the hollow of her throat, and down further, stopping at her bosom.

“But thish one will do for now.”

Apparently satisfied for the moment, Cheran pushed himself back up onto his feet, towering over her as he delivered his final proclamation.

“Shmile, wifey. With Death out . . . out of the pichture, we’ll be together forever! And ever . . . and ever.”

Absentmindedly, Cheran reached up to touch the ear Amelia had bitten, smiling as his fingers confirmed that the damage there had already been fully repaired.

“Now I’m going to go find shomeone to clean you up. Find some new tailorsh too. Even if I do think you look fetchhing in crimshon.”

And with that, Cheran turned and staggered out of the room, leaving Amelia alive, but nursing a broken arm and surrounded by the bodies of the dead. Alone at last, Amelia found she did not have the strength to move, to drag herself over to one of the guards and procure one of their weapons to do what Cheran promised not to. She did, however, have just enough strength left to break out into wracking sobs, her determination not to give them the satisfaction finally broken. It wasn’t like anyone would see her tears or care. No one cared – she was totally alone in her own personal hell. And Cheran was about to be publically acknowledged as the devil who owned her – mind, body, and even soul.

[The_Snark]

Mar

She knew some of that story already; not the part that concerned seers, but the rest of it. How Caroline had been taken away, and how Jacob gone on lonely without her, and even how Caroline's part of the story had ended, though she didn't want to think about that. It had not been pleasant. And all of a sudden, Mar realized that this was far more than Jacob himself knew, that for him Caroline's story ended at "and I never saw her again," and she was seized with the urge to tell him—not just what had happened to Caroline in the end, but everything: how she'd dreamed of Caroline on that first night when she slept in the barn, and what she was running away from, and why she looked like an angel...

But she could not quite bring herself to do it. Caroline's ending was not a happy one, and the more she thought the more tongue-tied she became. She didn't really know how she'd gotten wings, or why she could remember being different people in her dreams, or any of a dozen other questions that he would ask; the answers were all a muddle in her head, so that she wasn't even sure if she knew them or not. And what would Jacob say if she confessed to having some of Caroline's memories? Would he believe her? Would he be angry? Would he think she was Caroline?

Was she?

Long moments passed. Jacob had gone silent, lost somewhere in his memories, and did not notice her looking at him. The light from the dying fire cast strange shadows over them both.

Finally she cleared her throat. "You should go to bed," she said, delicately, not sure he would listen if she told him what do to. "I can finish up out here. I won't be ready to go back to sleep for a while anyway."

He assented without arguing, which surprised her—he really must be tired if he was letting her do the work for him—and rose with a grunt of effort, vanishing into his room after saying a quiet good-night.

Leaving her alone with her thoughts and the fire.

Who was she, anyway?

Mar, Marisiel, Caroline, Marion.

That last one was easy to deal with, at least. Marion wasn't real. She'd taken the name from Julian, who had liked the sound and though it might suit her. Marion lived with Jacob and his family, not with Daddy in Ironheart, but deep down she was still Mar. She didn't think of herself as Marion.

Just a name.

But the rest? Caroline wasn't just a name; there could be no denying that now. She'd been a real person, with a family and people who loved her (even if those two had not overlapped much). Caroline had gone to Ironheart to become Daddy's daughter; so had the girl who'd been carried off by a black-winged angel. Mar couldn't remember very much of that girl, didn't even know her name, but that felt real as well. Both of them had broken under Daddy's lash and finally died. Was that all she was? Just the last in a long line of Daddy's daughters? Even now it was a little painful to think that she hadn't been special to him at all, but she could think it. It wouldn't break her if it turned out that Daddy had never really cared about her at all.

Except... there was the angel, too. Mar had dreamed of her more than once, and she too had ended her life in Daddy's hands. He'd never called Marisiel his daughter, but some of what... what he'd done, that was the same. And then there were the wings to think about.

It turned out that mud was much easier to clean up when it was dry, to Mar's surprise. She scraped the last remnants of Caroline's muddy footprints off the wooden floor and carried them outside, and then lay down in the snow to look up at the star.

Wings. Marisiel had always had them, of course. Mar hadn't until a few days ago. Caroline and the other girl didn't have wings in her dream-memories, but their bodies had, when she saw them in that awful chamber. She could remember when they first discovered wings, dimly. It was never more than a few days after that that Daddy carved their hearts out.

She shivered, because no-one ought to remember their own heart being carved out.

Nonetheless, Mar did. And not once, but a half-dozen times, maybe more; she didn't want to think about exactly how many. It seemed clear that something of Marisiel had passed through all of the women and girls on that awful wall, lurking inside where it couldn't be remembered until it eventually blossomed into wings. Then Daddy killed them—maybe he knew it meant they'd started dreaming—and found a new daughter to place that little seed of Marisiel in. Whatever it was.

It all felt much clearer in the cold night air than it had when she'd tried to tell Jacob. But she still hadn't answered her first, most important question. Who was she?

Her back was cold; the snow had melted beneath her weight and soaked through her cloak and feathers. She got up and went back inside. The fire had died down to ash, so she added another piece of wood and poked at it until the flames were dancing merrily in the hearth again, then sat down facing away from it to dry her wings.

She wasn't Marisiel, though she did have some of her memories. She wasn't Caroline, though she had some of Caroline's memories too. She was Mar, but Mar didn't seem to have any memories, except for Ironheart. And she was pretty sure that this body had once lived somewhere else, in a little country farmhouse with a father and a mother and a little brother. That didn't leave Mar with much at all to call her own. Just Daddy, a few dreams, and a name.

It was a very long night.

[Dorizzit]

Korram Alstan
Capital

Korram scratches the back of his neck and smiles, somewhat embarrassed, as Fernard accurately predicts his planned course of action. After a few seconds, he simply shrugs and nods.

"You're right. Sorry, but...these times...and I've got my associate to look out for. Thank you, Fernard. If I live through this...I'll make sure that I repay you."

He chuckles grimly at Fernard's assessment of his chances.

"Yeah, I've been through plenty of 'suicide missions' but this one...everything is different. Goodbye, Fernard. You are one of the last people still living that I can call my friend. Take care of yourself."

Korram allows himself to be nailed into the coffin crate, and meditates on his predicament during the endless, cramped trip into the city. He holds his breath during the guard inspection, breathing a sigh of relief when they pass through, although this quickly turns into a torrent of near-silent curses as the cart rolls across the cobblestones. Finally, the crate comes to a rest as the destination is reached. Counting to ten six times, Korram begins to pry the lid off his crate...

“Let’s be quick about this. Even though these weapons are meant for us, I think you would agree discretion in collecting them would be wise.”

Son of a...

Out of time, Korram quickly distorts his body, forcing his stiff body to curl up tighter in the crate like a spring. Planting both feet against the lid, he forces upwards as hard as he can. After a few painful seconds, the wood gives way, several of the planks cracking open. After a few seconds of awkward but fast slithering, Korram has emerged from the crate and planted his feet on solid ground. Standing, he looks around and assesses the situation.

[Inspectre]

Cathedral City

Baerdog7

There is no answer, and no evidence of the Reaper’s presence when you stretch out your senses. It is hard to tell whether any of the available paths is better than any of the others, although something – call it intuition, instinct, whatever – told you to take the right path. Hoping that this faint sense of rightness in this choice was not leading you into a dead end or worse, a trap, you make your way deeper into the earth, Ricster and Odlak following. They are both considerably quieter now that the Reaper had revealed itself, perhaps one of the few benefits from your inevitable encounter with the creature.

At the next intersection, you found more of Odlak’s impossible sword marks, as well as a new word carved into the stone: WILL. Again your intuition tells you to take the right branching path. The quiet silence in the tunnels begins to grow ominously, past unnerving to the level of calm before the storm. At the next intersection, your situation only grows curiouser.

As before, a message has been carved into the wall for you, only the first part was crossed out by another thick line carved into the stone. DI FOLLOW. And now only one path was marked with Odlak’s tiny sword hieroglyphs. On and on this new path led, sometimes the right tunnel, sometimes the central tunnel, once even the left. The word at each intersection was the same: FOLLOW.

Finally the tunnel came not to an intersection, but a small iron door, left ajar. The idea that this whole thing was a trap was now laughably obvious, but you had braved the dark underground already – it would be a pity to go back empty handed, assuming you even could find your way back now. You needed strong proof of the Council’s misdeeds, and assuming this door led to the Reliquary, that was where you would find Hondshioh, hopefully with said proof.

Beyond the iron door was a short hallway leading to a flat stone wall. Or what would be a flat wall, if the secret door built there was not also left tauntingly ajar. Passing cautiously through that door brought you into an empty stone room. Perhaps it was once used as a store room, or simply a resting place for the Reaper. Either way, that was clearly not the function of the room now as rumble was strewn liberally about. On the far side of the room an open doorway stood, allowing a hellish flickering light to stream into the room, along with a rhythmic pounding.

“Ander . . . look up.” Odlak whispered quietly, pointing up at the ceiling to allow your eyes to follow. Above, you could see a gaping hole leading up into another room, this one clearly intended to be a cell. But the cell was empty; the intricate runes carved on all the walls broken; the heavy iron chains shattered.

“Merciful Athelion . . .” Ricster whistles, staring up at the empty cell in horror.

“I had heard they were planning renovations in the Reliquary. Something about making new cells or some other nonsense. They must have tunneled straight up into one of the demon lord’s cell. Surely it was just an accident . . .”

The musings of your companions and your own is interrupted by a bloodcurdling scream of agony from nearby. The scream turns your attention to the doorway, which was the direction that the scream clearly came from. You note that the rhythmic pounding you had heard earlier has now stopped.

(If Ander investigates immediately, check Archpaladin Zousha’s post for a description of the room and scene beyond the doorway).

Archpaladin Zousha

Katashiko nods silently at your order, settling back into a loose fighting stance. Her foot flashes up, striking the door with a loud clang – and as promised it is the metal that gives. It is just a small dent in the surface of the thick door, but Katashiko focuses on it, delivering several more kicks in rapid succession. As the metal weakens, Katashiko rushes forward with a harsh cry, driving her fists into the weakened spot. With a pained shriek the metal gives completely, and Katashiko’s arms plunge through to the other side. She grabs the edges of the hole, twisting and tearing, muttering curses under her breath as the metal is continually forced to give way. Finally its structure is compromised completely, and with a final brutal shove Katashiko tears apart the heavy latch holding the door shut.

To your great shock, however, this very loud and destructive entrance is not met by readied guards. The answer to this becomes quite obvious a moment after Katashiko’s assault on the door ends – the room beyond is filled with a calamitous hammering. Carefully stepping through the ruined door, you see that the room beyond is cavernous and brightly lit from dozens of fires. The door you had just crossed through came out onto a balcony of sorts, with a winding staircase leading down onto the main floor. As such, you had a good viewpoint to look out onto the entire room, and what you saw was a scene that would have fit in all the accounts you had read of the Hells.

Demons, real, actual demons labored throughout the room. Some tended to forges, heating pieces of twisted black metal to an almost white hot glow. Others took the heated pieces of metal, carefully depositing them on anvils before hammering them furiously, shaping them into intricate symbols before dropping them into pools of what appeared to be blood. On the assembly went, with still more demons pulling those symbols that had sufficiently cooled out of the blood pools and sliding them onto metal plates with other symbols, forming a line of them. These lines of runes were then plunged into hot coals, heating them yet again. And the assembly line seemed to end with the lines of heated symbols being fished out of the coals and affixed to tall metal boxes. The boxes strongly resembled coffins, only stood on one end.

In the center of this carnage stood two figures. The first was a truly massive demon, equipped with eight equally muscle bulging arms. Its yellow eyes burned with an intensity similar to the forges, and its mouth was a mass of jagged metal shards, embedded almost at random in the lower half of its face. The second figure, however, was an elderly human, wearing robes of station that identified him as an Exarch of the Church.

The two of them were walking together towards one of the metal coffins that the demons were swarming over, settling heated plates of glowing symbols into open slots at a feverish pace. Finishing with their work just as the two arrived at the metal coffin, the demons fell back with a low scraping bow, leaving the two alone at the coffin. The human said something to the massive demon, who nodded and gestured imperiously. Instantly, all work stopped, the room falling to a dead silence.

A quartet of demons worked furiously to pull open a set of double doors in the back wall of the room. A few moments after the doors screeched open, another six demons emerged, carrying a squirming bundle in their claws. It would normally be difficult to make out exactly what they were carrying from the far side of the room, but a glimpse of white wings, bound in heavy chain, are enough – it is an angel. She struggles furiously, but given the degree to which she is bound in heavy chain, she manages to be little more than an inconvenience to her carriers. Reaching the coffin, the demons work her up into a standing position and then shove her inside. The lid of the coffin is slammed shut and locked, and then a lever on the side is pulled. The glowing lines of symbols slide inside the coffin, and there is an audible hiss, followed immediately by a bloodcurdling scream.

A few moments pass, and then the demons work the lever back the other way and pop the door back open. The angel falls out, landing in an undignified heap in front of the coffin, her body now covered in black burns eerily similar to the runes covering the angels you led to Ander. The man kneels down beside her, cupping a hand under her chin and forcing her head up, while the demon lord unslings a large axe from its back. You can just barely hear the following exchange from your perch.

“Now then my dear . . . who is your master?” The man asks.

“Why . . . you are!” The angel rasps after a moment. This seems to please the man, who pushes himself back up to standing.

“Excellent – minimal response time to hierarchy challenge. We will still need to test erosion of moral precepts, as always. But so far this latest rune ordering appears quite promising, Daz’ckick.”

The demon lord merely growls.

“Hold on a moment.” The man pulls a communication crystal out of his robes.

“Greyson here. What is it? . . . Intruders!? HERE!!? We’re not prepared to deal with intruders - that’s what the Reliquary is for! Fine, I’ll do what I can but you get your ass down here NOW! Well, it’s not like I can turn to the paladins above for help in repelling an assault! Oh whatever, just get here as quick as you can! Greyson out!”

Angrily shoving the communication crystal back into his robes, Greyson turns to the demon lord.

“We’ve got trouble coming. Some nosey individual who needs to learn the consequences of sticking their head down dark holes. Get your men ready – I’ll finish this one’s testing myself.”

Producing another crystal from his robes, Greyson waves it over the chains binding the angel’s legs. They immediately unlock, allowing the angel to stagger up onto her feet. Greyson crooks a finger at her.

“Follow.” He says simply, turning and starting to walk off. Like some sort of madman’s version of a puppy, the angel happily follows, staggering and tripping over her chains repeatedly. Meanwhile the demon lord gestures with another of its arms, and the assortment of demons about the cavernous room begin to assemble themselves into a small army, arming themselves with tools and serviceable pieces of scrap metal.

Stonefall

The_Snark

Pondering your nature, both inside and outside the cabin that had become your home, you make little progress in figuring out who you are. It is clear that Daddy had a long line of daughters, starting with Marisiel and ending with you. There was something, some sort of strand or chain, that connected you with the archangel and everyone in between. Something that gave you their memories and these wings – would more such “gifts” surface? You did not know – none of Daddy’s daughters survived very long past growing wings.

It was a very long night worrying about what might come next, what you should do, and who exactly you are now. At some point in your thoughts, you fall asleep. Your sleep is thankfully a dreamless one this time, although it is still fretful, full of half-seen events and half-heard cries. When you awaken, it is still dark, and the fire has once again burned down to hot embers. You are still only half-awake, although a surge of adrenaline helps fix that as your brain identifies the sound that awakened you – the soft squeak of a board.

Turning in embarrassment at being caught out here asleep, you prepare an apology, but it dies on your lips as you see that it is not Jacob coming out to check on you. Rather it is William, hobbling along on his one good leg and his crutch. The two of you see each other at roughly the same time, although he tries (quite unsuccessfully) to retreat back into the shadows.

“Um, hi Marion.” The boy whispers a moment later when his retreat clearly fails. For a moment, he seems to contemplate something, but then he simply shakes his head.

“I’m not going to lie to you. I’m going to see the seer! I figure if I leave now, I should get there by dawn. Father will be up by then, but it’ll probably take him until after breakfast to realize I’m missing. Hopefully by then she will have opened shop for the day, and I can ask if she can fix my leg. If . . . if you want, you can come with me, although I don’t want to get you into trouble too. But I’m going either way!”

William limps his way over to you, stopping by the fire to stir the embers and add another log to ensure the fire remained lit. Then he starts heading for the cabin’s front door, pausing at it to look back and see if you would follow him or not.

“Please Marion. This is important to me. If you aren’t going to come, at least don’t tell Father about it until after I’m back.”

The Island of Dr(?) Sohssal

Iethloc

At first, your “guest”, if he could be called that however unwelcome he might be, was merely amused. At your mention of Umber, however, he stiffens, his eyes widening in surprise. It lasts only a moment however, before he settles back into his confident demeanor.

“Oh yes . . . I know him quite well.” The Lord of the Sea growls. “Perhaps he’s told you of me – Gilgaem? Fellow Lord of Blood, occasional rival? No?” Gilgaem gives a one-armed shrug.

“I had thought that perhaps I was the last one left, brought back by a mere fluke into a world that had forgotten us. But now it sounds as if Umber has simply been lying low. Hmph.”

Gilgaem stares off into the distance, his grim face adopting a thoughtful expression.

“You know, we considered an incorporeal form at first. We abandoned the idea when we realized doing so would deny us the pleasures of having a body. And what is existence without the myriad of sensations that come with having a body? I’m sure you would disagree, of course.”

The Lord of Blood and Sea’s eyes track back onto you.

“Well, if Umber counts you among his acquaintances, I imagine you are quite powerful indeed. As such I’d like to offer you a position as my court magician. My new subjects aren’t very magically inclined, having excised the talent from their ranks long ago. Truth be told, I don’t have much use for “magic” myself, outside of a bit of alchemy. So we could use a being of your talents – and let me assure you, the rewards will be well worth it.”

Gilgaem gives another one-armed shrug, watching you carefully.

“Of course, if you’d rather not, I suppose we can split the spoils now. You can keep your island, and I’ll take everything else – how does that sound?”

Gilgaem favors you with a toothy smile.

“I’ll even go so far as to ensure you’ll never be bothered again. I just want one thing in return before I go – Umber’s location. Not where you saw him last, mind you, but his actual current location, determined by whatever hocus pocus mumbo jumbo you find necessary.”

Gilgaem holds out his hand, ticking off your options one by one.

“So which will it be? One, you join me. Two, you tell me where Umber is and I leave you alone. Three, well three, I determine you’re too dumb to live, and we find out just how it is that even ghosts can die.”

Outside the Capital

Kasanip

Carlain opens his mouth, shuts it, opens it again, only to close it and keep it shut this time. His eyes water with tears, likely both from the stinging slap you gave him as well as his broken limbs. He simply slumps to the ground where you leave him, staring down at his chest while you approach Theresea. The demon hunter readies herself as you address her, drawing her massive sword and dropping down into a sprinter’s stance. It seemed as if she was expecting on running into the house by either breaking down the door or leaping through a window. As such, she was taken by surprise when you lightly rest one hand on her shoulder, and then speak your teleportation psalm.

Again you blink out of reality, only to reappear in the dark room you had been minutes before. This time you snap out of the post teleportation fugue immediately, and get ready to defend yourself. From the dark shadows around the room, a small swarm of imps come screeching forward, flying up and getting ready to claw at your face. Before any of them make it to you, however, they notice Theresea. Despite being dazed, the demon hunter seems to terrify the fiends, who immediately break off and begin scattering for the shadows again. As they flee, they shout one single word in their foul language, over and over again – “Markash”.

Finally snapping out of her own disorientation, Theresea steps forward with a smile. She speaks some arcane litany of her own, and a wave of frost expands outward in all directions, engulfing the imps. Frozen solid, the imps crash helplessly to the ground, a few puffing up into clouds of ash as they shatter on impact. The rest Theresea methodically finishes off by stomping them into ash or smashing them with her sword. Afterwards, she turns to address you.

“So I guess you teleported us down to where you were held. That’s a clever way to get inside.”

The demon hunter shrugs with a mysterious smile.

“And as you can see, I have made some study of the arcane myself. Perhaps that makes me a hypocrite, but at least I put my power towards a good use. Hmm . . . you do as well, of course, from everything I’ve seen.”

Stopping, Theresea points at a nearby door, the same Cynthia had disappeared through during your brief meeting down here. Beyond it, you can hear the faint sounds of chanting, and the crackling of a large fire. Motioning for you to be silent, Theresea cautiously approaches the door, sword held at the ready. Switching her grip on her weapon to an “at-rest” one, she reaches one hand out to the door, starting to pull it open. She’s only opened it an inch before it suddenly bursts open, throwing her back as two demonic masses of fangs and teeth crash through.

“Markash!” They shriek in unison, crashing into Theresea and sending her tumbling to the ground with them, sword twisting out of her loose grasp.

“Go! I’ve got this! Stop them!” Theresea shouts to you, grabbing one of the masses of flashing claws and bodily throwing it off of her. She shouts another arcane phrase, and the second is blasted off of her by a flash of lightning. Your last glimpse of her as you rush through the open door is reaching out her hand, magically calling her sword off the floor and up to her waiting hand.

As it turns out, you don’t have very far to run. The very next room beyond the door is a cramped ritual room, complete with a shallow sand pit in the middle. Standing in the middle of that pit, tracing complex teleportation runes in the sand, is Cynthia. Off in one corner of the room, a merry fire blazes, consuming stacks of papers and threatening to spread to a nearby shelf of alchemical reagents. Depending on what reagents they are, the entire building might be consumed in a massive explosion should the fire reach them. Cynthia looks up in alarm as you enter, but otherwise continues chanting, her crackling voice starting to crescendo – the teleportation ritual was nearly complete.

The Capital

Dorizzit

Exiting the crate, you quickly get your bearings. Naturally you are inside a warehouse, dimly lit from sunlight streaming in between the boards that make up the walls. Most of the crates are neatly stacked in long rows that block off your line of sight to the rest of the warehouse. Your group of crates is conspicuously arranged in the middle of one such row, as if to make it clear which ones have been recently delivered. A short distance away to your right a man stands over the opened crate containing your daughter, crowbar in hand. Half of his face is a scarred ruin, and thus unreadable as he turns to look at you. His remaining eye quirks wide in surprise, however.

“We have another one, sire.”

You hear just the softest rasp of a footstep from the shadows off to your left.

“I know, I can see him. And stop calling me that!” A hardened voice calls, and you can see the shadow of a tall lithe man duck back behind a stack of crates, hand reaching into his cloak. For a moment, silence reigns in the warehouse, and then the scarred man shrugs, seeming to take the lead.

“So, I can only assume you are a stowaway of some sort, although I’ve never heard of anybody crazy enough to box themselves up in a crate. I’m afraid it looks like your friend here has expired, although not by my hand, I assure you.”

At the word “Hand”, the figure in the shadows gives a slight snort of derision.

“In any event, since neither of our presences here are technically legal, I suppose it would be best for each of us to be on our way.”

So saying, the scarred man stepped back from Katrina’s “coffin”, and moved to the next crate, ramming his tool into the top. At this point, the shadowy figure stepped forward, not quite enough to reveal himself, but at least enough to clearly define himself as a silhouette rather than a blob.

“Wait.” He interjected. “Coming into the capital like you did was a risky proposition. Who are you? As it so happens, we are looking for a few people who like taking chances.”

WhiteKnight777

The old man whirled as you burned your way free, but did not seem particularly concerned.

“Our deal is off. I will kill him first, and then I will kill you.” He said casually, his attention focused entirely on you as he dropped into a defensive stance. Then you form the ball of molten silver, and hurl it at him in the form of a thousand razor-sharp needles. The man raises an arm to shield himself, but that is hardly necessary . . . as your attack has absolutely no effect. The magically summoned metal vanishes back into the ether from whence it came immediately upon coming in contact with the man’s skin. He does not fare quite as well with your sudden rising strike, dancing back to avoid the worst of it but still taking a glancing blow to the head. When your fist comes into contact with his skin, however, the feeling of dread surrounding the man intensifies.

As the man staggers back and recovers, you study that feeling, and deduce the horror. This man was a living void, similar in a way to your Form of Blades magic, but as a person instead of a weapon. Anything that came in contact with him was absorbed and destroyed – nothing physically, obviously – he was still a man, not some hole in reality. But magic, and yes . . . perhaps even more ephemeral things, like souls, would be destroyed. Clearly, this was Fianna’s intent, and how this man could kill her permanently, by destroying her soul upon death.

If you were still the immortal Lord of Blood Umber, this fight would likely have been trivial – you could outlast and overpower any old man with your bare hands. But you had reverted yourself back to being an ordinary man in return for your gift with magic – a gift that would now be almost useless for this fight. Of course, you still had the advantage of experience – as skilled as this assassin was, he still had only one lifetime of experience.

For a moment, however, you are concerned that Fianna may join the fight against you. As insane as such an effort would be, it is clear that Fianna’s one and only goal is to die, and you stand in clear opposition. To your surprise, however, Fianna simply steps back, holding her injured side, and eases herself down onto the floor.

“I shall allow you two to decide my fate. One ending is just as good as the other.”

At your threat, delivered in an attempt to remove the remaining opponent to your plan to save Fianna, the man simply laughs, a dry rasping sound.

“My name has been a curse since the day I was born. I have been used as a tool, and forged into a weapon. My entire life has focused down into this single point – I will repay in kind the one responsible for this lifetime of suffering and death. There is nothing else for me besides this!”

The man turns away, looking as if he is about to strike Fianna. In spite of yourself, you leap in, like the Fool, preparing to stop him or interpose yourself to take the blow instead. But the attack never comes, a mere ruse to draw you in – of course, as by Fianna’s own admission, she will make no effort to hinder either of you, and he can finish her torturous death at his leisure after your own death.

Pivoting in place, the man lashes out backwards with a foot, catching you square in the midsection and sending you staggering back, breathless. Twirling around to face you, the man gives you no opportunity to recover, lashing out with another kick, followed by a flurry of dagger-equipped punches. You manage to throw your hands up to block the kick, and then do your best to dodge or block the dagger thrusts. Recovering your breath somewhat, you manage to twist aside at the last moment, dodging a thrust. You immediately clamp you hand down onto that wrist, twisting until he is forced to drop the knife.

Your victory is short-lived, however, as he suddenly clenches his fist, turning it in a peculiar way. There is a soft click, and suddenly a long blade sprouts from his wrist, tearing through the cuff of his clothes and nearly taking your hand off. You are forced to let go of his hand to avoid this, and try to back away. Too late, as the man pulls his outstretched arm back towards him, delivering a reverse slice that catches you in the shoulder. Immediately the flesh surrounding the wound begins to burn – the man’s blades are poisoned. The man holds the now blood-stained blade up in front of him like a shield, allowing you to see it.

“If you retreat now, you might survive. At worst, your soul will pass on to the afterlife. If you persist in this fight, then you will endure total annihilation.”

Gorgondantess

The man recoils in horror as you transform and attempts to flee, but is much too slow. Fortuitously, you locate a coil of rope hanging from a nearby post, and with that swiftly bind him. Then hoisting the screaming man over your shoulder, you carry him out into the daylight. The man’s associate, upon seeing this, immediately turns and runs away, screaming in a similar fashion. Although a few passerby look, it does not seem that anyone trying to stop you will be forthcoming. Maurice looks at you in confusion as you deposit the man into the cart, and begin absorbing the metal coins.

“What is going on? I assume you didn’t like whatever he had to say?”

Rather than answer her questions, you tell her that you are now going to visit the Baron – that shuts her right up. For a moment she simply sits there in the front of the cart – perhaps considering trying to refuse you? But then she slowly nods, the color continuing to drain out of her face.

“I can’t fly – you made doubly sure of that, remember? So I guess . . . you’ll be carrying me.”

With the man slung over one shoulder and Maurice cradled under your other arm, you take off into the air. The man, having seemed to have run out of breath, has finally stopped screaming. This is good, as it allowed you to concentrate on more important matters. Like the half dozen dots that separated from the massive dagger hanging in the sky, and moved to intercept you.

As the dots grew closer, they became angelic shapes, although they were nothing like Maurice. Rather, they were suits of metal armor – the same sort of metal that Maurice’s sword and armor had been forged from. Although there did not seem to be anyone in them – rather the suits of armor themselves were alive. You detected the faint presence of an animus dwelling within the creature – the same sort of aura you felt as coming from Maurice. Interestingly enough, there was another aura present within each suit . . . the antithesis, in effect – perhaps these demons you keep hearing about?

Halt! You are approaching the Gastly Truth, personal airship of the Baron of Gast! One of the suits of armor hisses at you once close enough. State your business here!

[Baerdog7]

Grandmaster Ander Windrivver

Ander stalks through the tunnels in silence, following the Reaper's arrows and steeling himself for an ambush. He lets out a low whistle when he comes to the room with the broken ceiling.

That doesn't look like an accident to me. The handiwork looks familiar...

Drawn by the commotion from the next room, Ander readies his sword and strides boldly forth to investigate the commotion in the next room.

I told you so, he mutters as he takes in the scene. It's good to see you again Hondshioh, Katashiko. Pleasantries will have to come later, it looks like I've got business with...

GREYSON!!!

You slimy ****, Miriam has signed your death warrant and I'm here to see it served!

Ander surges through the crowds of demonic minions like a battering ram, slaughtering them left and right with slashes from Sin-Eater and volleys of holy orbs, fueled by holy wrath. There is only one objective in his mind: GREYSON.

[Dorizzit]

Korram Alstan

Korram quietly pockets the potion he had taken from Fernard; you could never know when such a thing would come in handy. He then stretches, a series of loud pops and cracks echoing from his aging body as it protests his recent containment. While he does this, despite looking distracted, he keeps a careful eye on the other two, noting their interaction and making mental notes on its nuances. Once he can move properly once more, Korram takes a few steps towards the room's other inhabitants.

“So, I can only assume you are a stowaway of some sort, although I’ve never heard of anybody crazy enough to box themselves up in a crate. I’m afraid it looks like your friend here has expired, although not by my hand, I assure you.”

"More or less. Me and my...associated needed to get into the capital. Fernard was an old friend. He offered us a lift. Now, let me see him."

Korram strides over to Katrina and checks her vitals. (I'm going to assume the other man is mistaken for the sake of efficiency.) He shakes his head.

"He's fine. Fernard gave us some sleeping juice. I went without. He'll be up in a minute."

“In any event, since neither of our presences here are technically legal, I suppose it would be best for each of us to be on our way.”

"Works for me. As soon as he's up, we'll be on our way."

Korram pauses, however, as the cloaked figure speaks. He is guarded, but intrigued by the proposal of joining forces.

"Me? I'm just an old ghost with a few things to get out of the way before passing on. Who wants to know? Or if you don't want to tell me, what do you need these risk-takers for?"

[Gorgondantess]

She shakes her head.
"No, no. Actually, I found it quite serendipitous. You see, apparently he wanted to warn me of the Baron's plans- something about blood- so I believe he'll make a good peace offering, don't you think?"
She looks confused at Maurice for a few moments. "Yes, but I... couldn't you?..."
She shakes her head.
"Nevermind. It seems I've overestimated others once again. Very well then, I shall carry you... and don't you fret! So long as I live, no harm shall come to you. On that you have my promise. And as I cannot die, then under no circumstance shall harm come to you. These proceedings will go seamlessly. On our part, at least."
She smiles wickedly, and backhands the screaming man in the face, adding in bored, absentmindedly, "Quiet or I'll rip your tongue out."

With that, she takes to the air. An additional something of a loop comes out of her back to sling the man onto, so she can use both hands to carry Maurice.

Approached by the angelic forms, she transfers Maurice to one arm, so as to be ready to draw her own sword. "Friends of yours?"
She remains calm to the anti-angels, but ready for action if need be. "I come to speak with the Baron. The man over my shoulder is an insurgent who has been working against him. He's yours, so long as I get an audience."

[Archpaladin Zousha]

Hondshioh

Hondshioh can barely contain his shock and horror at the gruesome scene unfolding before him.

He turns to Katashiko.

"Miriam, why? Why would they desecrate everything they claimed to represent. We cannot let this stand, Katashiko. Are you with me?"

Ander's entrance only hardens his resolve, and he follows after him, blade in hand.

"You will not stand alone, Ander! Let's show these blasphemers and idolators what a REAL paladin is made of!"

[Iethloc]

Sohssal

It seems this Lord is an acquaintance of an acquaintance. This should be settled peacefully. Sohssal mentally relayed to his associates.

”I did see him fighting another vampire, a skeletal one. I believe his name was...Kartul. As for my form, I was rather old at the time, so I had to go with the best option at hand. Besides, if I ever feel the need to have a body, I can borrow one,” he said to Gilgaem. Then Sohssal walked over to the water's edge.

”Anyway, I must turn down your offer of employment. I shall scry Umber for you, but I recall that he has regained some sorcerous talent recently. If he has set up countermeasures, I will need time to get around them,” he explained. He waved his hands over the water, casting the spell, and focused on Umber. If all went well, anyone who looked at it would see Umber and his surroundings rather than their own reflection.

[WhiteKnight777]

Umber

Umber smiled a vicious little smile - the melted silver around his wrists burned even worse than the shoulder-wound, even as he focused on an image of his own blood, using magic to burn away the poison - a rough, brutal sort of cure that had misty pink steam emanating from the wound.

He panted slightly, circling the man and talking stock of his situation. This was not good - the man was skilled, and the... thing grafted into him, that nothingness, that "Form of Void," as it were, made him a creature of terrifying potential. Briefly, Umber considered its origins - perhaps some sort of deliberate breeding program, like his own that had produced Bran, the boy whose magical talents he had used to refuel his own? Or something more sinister, the interference of some dark power, or some incredibly complex piece of magic? Fianna seemed to know more...

He dismissed the thought. The origins were unimportant at the moment. The man was a formidable opponent, and Umber was wounded. Worse was the pain - Umber was used to enduring hardship, but that level of pain drained the body and sapped strength, both physical and mental. He didn't know how long he would be able to fight under these conditions until he had nothing left. He could use magic to supplement that, but despite his vast powers, even his reserves had limits. And he was still coming into his own, his talent still remolding itself to fit the contours of his soul.

It occurred to him, briefly, that this might be the end - No white heavens or red hells, just the long, cold road into the icy black of the void. He smiled again, even fiercer, and spat to one side, his eyes never leaving the man's face. "If I am to face oblivion, I won't be going alone, old man." He cracked his neck from side to side, briefly considering the idea of magical escape - but the man might have wards up, and besides, he doubted Fianna would go willingly. He couldn't use magic against his opponent... at least, not directly...

Then again, it wasn't the first time Umber had fought an opponent with such immunity, and damn the man, it wouldn't be the last. Umber grunted in pain as he made a sweeping gesture with both arms, and the ground beneath the old man exploded upwards as a geyser of water from even deeper in the ancient sewer-crypt gouted upwards, catching the man in the spray. The air down here was already chill enough, and Umber danced around the man, making another gesture, an inward, beckoning motion as he gathered a ball of fire in his hand and lazily tossed it at the man's feet - the point wasn't the fire, though - it was the heat he had drawn in from all around the man, flash-freezing the air around him and the water sticking to his close. Umber smirked as he watched ice form on the man - nothing magical about it. Just mundane ice, a natural consequence of the sudden chill in the air all around him. But cold sapped the strength from a man's bones as much as pain, or more - and sodden, freezing clothing was *hard* to move in. Well trained or not, the man was still a man, and Umber was far from done.

He just hoped his reserves would last long enough to do the job.

[Lonna]

Sorry for the long absense folks, but here's Pyrene at last!

Pyrene

Wulfric's outburst re-ignited Pyrene's anger, giving her strength she didn't know she still had. Surging to her feet, she faced him, outrage in every line of her face and posture. "Do you think I wanted this?" she demanded, waving an arm at the nearby pile of greasy ashes in illustration of the nightmare her life had become.

"Do you honestly believe I asked to attract the interest of these power full people? Even the name you know me by, Pyrene the Temptress, do you think I would have chosen that life if I had been given any other option?" Pyrene turned on her heel and took a few angry strides, then stopped. A moment later she turned back, the passion in her eyes banked and smoldering as she continued in an icy tone.

"Let me tell you something, Wulfric Terman. We have lived worlds apart. You probably never went cold or hungry a single day growing up. For me both were near constant companions. Even if mother managed to put food on the table it was never enough. I would spend all day begging or stealing food for my family, only to be beaten by older, stronger children who would take it all and eat it in front of me. When we had a place to call home, and hadn't been evicted for lack of rent money, it was a tiny shack with no place for a fire and thin, raggedy blankets on a single small bed. Living like that, the only things you can keep with any surety are your secrets. So don't you dare judge me for them."

Pyrene glared at Wulfric for another instant, then turned her back to him, taking several deep breaths to calm herself. "I thank you, again, for all that you have done for me," she said without turning around. Her words were slightly stilted, as if she was forcing them out, but she no longer sounded angry. "I will no longer impose myself on you." Slowly, head erect and tread measured, she began to walk away. She did not look back, not wanting him to see the tears she could neither understand nor control as they flowed freely down her face.

[Kasanip]

Isera Harvent
[Outside the Capital]

Markash was a word that Isera didn't know right now. But if it scared the imps and the demons, then good. She'd investigate that later.
And find out why Theresea was using so much magic.

But for now she had one purpose- and it was a purpose that the Canticles did very well. Stopping warlocks.

Isera burst into the room and saw the fires. But she saw the magic array that Cynthia was using. Isera's eyes narrowed as she raised her right hand. Autumn and Fire were the same.

One step forward.

"Fire and Leaves falling falling gently down"

Her voice was strong, but ominous. One step forward.

"Down and around to the yellow ground."

The flames on the wall flickered and pulled towards Isera's hand, away from the books.

Another step forward.

"Gently the wind carries them up and away."

Now the flames snaked out, like leaves carried on the wind, around Cynthia. The flames spun and turned into letters - a magical script.

The pull of wind tugged at Isera's jacket and ponytail, but she kept her eyes firm on Cynthia's face.

"But never again see a new spring, will they."

She completed her incantation, and snapped her finger.
And the symbols of fire burned about, and falling to the magic circle on the ground erupted into brilliant flames of gold, red, and orange, that consumed everything.

No, Isera was absolutely not going to let Cynthia escape from this room.

Though as she did it, she felt lightheaded and struggled to stay on her feet. Her whole body ached now. So much magic today...

But the others? Where were the other cult members?

[The_Snark]

Mar

The creaking floorboard jolted her awake with a shock of unthinking, unreasoned panic. Even in Ironheart she'd never figured out what she was so afraid of when she woke up like that. Maybe it was just something that happened to sleeping people every once in a while.

After a moment she remembered who and where she was. Her surroundings resolved themselves into a familiar place—one that wasn't Ironheart, at that. Everything was fine. There was nothing to be afraid of. No strange dreams, no malevolent things watching over her while she slept.

Mar looked up and there was someone watching her, but it was only William, looking as startled as she. They both froze for a moment, then relaxed. He told her why he was up, and though she hadn't guessed it would happen, she wasn't surprised to hear it either. He had never agreed not to go to the seer, even when his father shouted. That was... she didn't know if she liked it, because Jacob might be angry again. But she didn't know how she could stop him, unless she took his crutch or shouted for Jacob, and both of those seemed too cruel. He so desperately wanted to go, and it couldn't really hurt, could it? The worst that would happen was that they'd lose a little money. If she warned him not to expect too much, he wouldn't get his hopes up, and so he wouldn't be as disappointed as his father had been.

As quickly as that, she realized she'd decided to go with him. Yes, that would be best; she could just imagine sitting at the table with Jacob trying not to mention William, and having to admit eventually that she knew what he was doing. Much better to be gone. He wouldn't be mad at her, and she could explain for William. "Wait a moment," she said, taking her cloak from beside the fireplace. It was still damp; she'd been planning on hanging it out to dry once her feathers were finished, but she'd never gotten around to it. She hadn't meant to go to sleep.

Damp or not, though, she couldn't go out without it. She shivered under the cloak, wrapping her wings tightly for warmth. "All right. Let's go."

[Inspectre]

Cathedral City

Baerdog7/Archpaladin Zousha

(And now for something completely different from your insane DM, who continues to belabor the delusion that Ander = Megaman, we have:
Combat Theme Music! )

At Hondshioh’s question, Katashiko merely shrugs.

“For power? For pleasure? Simply because they want to – does it really matter? They aren’t going to let either of us live after seeing this.”

As Hondshioh runs down the stairs, the demon craftsmen finish arming themselves and surge towards him. They are demons, and thus bred to fight, but it is clear that in exchange for their impressive crafting skill (for demons), they have given up some of their viciousness in combat. The fact that they are not armored and armed with only blacksmithing tools also helps. Hondshioh cuts the leading wave of the demons apart with ease, one ponderous swipe of his blade per demon.

Katashiko finishes off the last of them by vaulting down on top of them from the balcony. Two demons crumble to ash beneath her feet after breaking her fall, and she wraps her arms around a third, twisting its head around until the entire beast crumbles to ash. She brushes the ash off herself, and then gestures at a patch of stone just in front of the next oncoming wave. Nothing happens.

“Damn warded stone!” She grumbles, snatching up a dropped set of tongs and throwing it into the face of a charging demon with bone-shattering force. With Katashiko watching his back, Hondshioh begins to wade towards the others through the sea of demons. It is fortunate that the demons turned to ash upon death, or otherwise the two of them would have been bogged down further by the piles of corpses.

Meanwhile Ander enters the room from the side door, roaring his challenge and charging towards Greyson. The Exarch turns at the shout, and curses loudly, most of the remaining color draining from his withered face. Having expected an attack from the main entrance, the demons are scattered and divided in the back half of the room. Those few that are in Ander’s way are quickly chopped down, not stopping him in the slightest as he rushes forward. Odlak and Ricster likewise draw their blades and rush into the room, doing their best to follow along behind and prevent the demons from closing in on Ander from behind.

Then the demon lord gestures, and the black metal scraps rise into the air of their own accord, most still glowing brightly with heat.

“ANDER!” The thing howls, the metal bits sticking off of the lower half of its face grinding and shrieking together. With another gesture, the demon lord sends the assembled shrapnel hurling at the oncoming Lord General. Reversing course at the last instant, Ander manages to dodge the hail of metal that tears into the floor where he would have been had he continued.

Ander recognizes this demon lord as Daz’ckick, Forgemaster of the Hells. He was one of the lords of the Seventh Layer, and the arms and armor that he forged from his own metallic blood were some of the finest that the Hells’ armies had. A daring raid behind the fiend’s lines by Ander and his men led to his capture, and the elimination of a major source of equipment for the fiendish armies. Evidently he was still a little sore about his resultant incarceration.

Throwing all of his hands out from his sides, Daz’ckick concentrates for a moment, and summons a veritable armory from distant corners of the room. In addition to his battle-axe, he is now equipped with a spear, two hammers, three varieties of swords, and a length of massive chain. Cracking the length of chain through the air like a whip, Daz’ckick forces Ander to dodge aside again.

“DIE!” The demon lord shrikes as he stomps forward, readying the rest of his weapons as he moves to bar Ander’s way. Greyson meanwhile pauses in his flight, looking back towards Ander in consternation. Then he looks towards Hondshioh and Katashiko, still wading through the ranks of demons, and smiles. Pulling his crystal back out, he waves it over the angel’s chains again, unlocking the rest of them and freeing her totally.

“I believe this belongs to you.” He says, pulling the angel’s sword out from beneath his robes and handing it to her. “Now go use it to cut out the hearts of that idiot paladin and his sidekick, and bring them back to me.”

The angel pauses for a moment, but only a moment, before nodding her head in submission.

“As you wish, master!” She cries, turning and awkwardly taking flight. It is clear by her stiff movements that she is still in a lot of pain from the runes now covering her body. But the burns are quickly starting to fade into the scars similarly seen on the angels that attacked Dawn’s hope, and her wings beat with increasing force as she nears Hondshioh.

“For the master!” She cries as she dives into Hondshioh, their blades crashing together with sufficient force to knock even the implacable half-giant back several paces. The nearby demons immediately scatter, pulling back in instinctual fear with several muttering something that sounds like “Markash!” as they do so. Satisfied that Hondshioh and Katashiko are sufficiently slowed by the angel and the remaining ranks upon ranks of demons, and Ander is busy with Daz’ckick, Greyson starts running again. He heads for the back door where the angel and her captors emerged from, it being the only door not guarded by angry paladins.

Stonefall

The_Snark

For a moment, William simply stares at you in surprise, and then a warm smile forms on his face.

“Thank you Marion. I was hoping you’d come, but I didn’t really think you would.”

William’s smile fades.

“To be honest, the woods are kinda scary at night, even though I’ve walked through them countless times. And there’s always the chance I could have fallen and not been able to get up with my leg the way it is. Having a friend along really helps!”

Although he was able to walk along unassisted thanks to his crutch, William moved to be close to you, so you were available for support if needed. And then together, the two of you slipped out the door and into the night. As William promised, the nighttime walk through the forest was a little scary . . . and quite cold. But although your cloak was damp, your wings as always kept your back warm, and the forest wasn’t that scary. It was quiet, peaceful even, the patches of moonlight snow glittering beneath the trees while the stars twinkled up in the dark sky. There was nothing to fear here, not after the horrors you had witnessed and been forced to endure in Ironheart. Over and over again.

You fight back the shiver that comes with those unpleasant memories, and are rewarded by the sight of the village stretched out before you as you break through the last line of trees. Slowly, the sun begins to crest over the edge of the mountains that the village is nestled between, and you begin to hear the sounds of life stirring down in the village. But your destination is not the village proper today, but rather the colorful tent set up a short distance away, just outside the edge of town.

As you approach the tent you begin to feel some trepidation for coming here. You aren’t sure why, but pass it off as concern that you stomping around just outside the tent at the crack of dawn is going to wake up the sleeping seer, who is then going to be quite cranky with you. Unfortunately, that concern is immediately laid to rest by the sign hanging by the entrance awning, which reads “Welcome to Seer Maya Weyborn’s Tent of Mystery. Please come right in!” It seems like the sort of sign that could be easily removed when the seer does not wish to be disturbed, such as in the middle of the night. It does seem a bit odd though that the sign is already hanging up at dawn.

Regardless, William is not to be dissuaded, and after shooting an excited grin at you, limps the rest of the way inside the tent. As you had done so far, you follow him the rest of the way into the tent. To your surprise, it is warm inside the tent, and off to one side of the tent’s interior a fire burns, providing both heat and light. Set up in the middle of the tent is a functional table with two chairs. Seated in the chair across the table from you is a woman dressed in gaudy robes, an ornate circlet of silver and rubies holding her golden hair back. She is peered down intently at the table, looking at what seem to be several brightly painted cards laid face up in the middle of the table. As you and William enter, she looks up, a flicker of irritation crossing her face before being replaced with a smile. A bright flashy genuine grin, in fact, which seems strange given her momentary displeasure a moment ago.

“So, in summary, yes. I believe that you will find who you’re looking for. In fact, she may be even closer than you think.” The young woman concludes in a lilting voice, prompting the person who had been facing you (and thus had their back to you when you entered) to turn around. It is Julian.

“MAR!” He exclaims a moment after the realization that it is you registers. No longer encumbered by a bulky suit of armor, the youth leaps out of his chair and charges at you, nearly running poor William over. The two of them narrowly manage to avoid a collision, and then Julian is at you, sweeping you up in a crushing hug. Suddenly you are no longer standing on the ground, but are being spun around and around in Julian’s arms. In a way, the sensation is pleasant, even though it makes you a little dizzy and Julian’s hug begins to threaten to squeeze the breath out of your lungs. Thankfully, he seems to realize this and stops, releasing you and setting you back down a few moments later.

“I can’t believe this is happening! I was so worried I’d never see you again!” Julian cried, almost tripping over the words in his haste to get them out as he reached up to brush a lock of hair out of your face. He touches your face then, peering at you curiously as if he still can’t quite believe that it is you. Behind you, Maya quietly clears her throat.

“Well, the cards told you that this would happen, did they not? And the cards never lie.”

A mysterious smile crosses over Maya’s face then, although it quickly fades.

“Now then young man, I believe our business is concluded. And I imagine that although the threads of fate have led this young lady here, she has not come merely at their beck and call. No, I imagine she has questions of her own. Questions which only the Deck of Fate can answer!”

The seer concludes, her fingers rapping rhythmically on the stack of cards now piled up once again in the middle of the table, face down. Her voice has an odd mesmerizing quality, and you can feel yourself wanting to nod in agreement. Then William speaks up, and the spell is broken.

“Actually, we were here hoping you can fix my leg. See, I almost fell off a – well, I fell. And broke my leg!” William concluded hurriedly, nearly in his excitement giving the entire wild story that was actually quite true. “So uh . . . we were hoping you could fix my leg. Make it heal faster, maybe, or . . . or something . . .” William says, trailing off as Maya gives him a withering stare. Like she has been all along, the young woman’s face momentarily flashes in anger, but just as quickly melts back into a carefree smile.

“Well I suppose we can have a look. But whether or not your leg shall be healed is not up to me, but the spirits.” Maya replies, looking up enraptured at the roof of her tent, and then although you couldn’t be sure, she seems to roll her eyes. While William limped forward into the vacated chair and Maya shifted hers around to get a better look at William’s bandaged leg, Julian turns back to you.

“So . . . how did you escape from that awful place, Mar? And who’s your new friend!?” Julian asks, seemingly unwilling to leave your side now that he had found you again. For just a moment, a pang of guilt stabs into your heart – you had known about Julian’s presence in the village long before now, and had made no move to go see him. Apparently he had been worried about you this entire time, and had been attempting to find you, even going to this seer, which Jacob told you was the desperate move of a fool. Why had you not gone to see him with the same intensity? You couldn’t put it into so many words, even now . . . and even this reunion, within the tent of Maya Weyborn, seer and visionary, somehow felt . . . wrong.

The Island of Dr(?) Sohssal

Iethloc

At your mention of Kartul, Gilgaem spits on the ground.

“Never did like that corpse humper. I hope Umber pounded his withered ass into dust.”

Gilgaem’s lips twist up into a bemused smile.

“Now there is a hilarious mental image. I always wondered if their rivalry was just a bit *too* intense.”

At your refusal of Gilgaem’s offer of employment, he first nonchalantly shrugs and then blinks in surprise at your mention of Umber’s reclaimed magical power.

“He got his power back!!? Hmph, trust Umber to be the one to figure out how to cheat the system out of its winnings. Damn slippery snake. In any event, just do your best. I may be able to help your scrying efforts if you can’t find him by yourself.”

Floating over to the edge of the nearby cliff, you begin casting your divination spells into the sea. In a way, it was the largest scrying pool ever devised, and although difficult to use it tended to have a primal power within it that was useful. From your brief meetings with Umber, it seemed likely he would be a difficult individual to track, and you could use all the power you could get.

Slowly, one of the eddies set between a handful of jutting rocks began to swirl faster, becoming a whirlpool as your magics took hold. Colors began to swirl therein, a confusing blend of blurry hues, indistinct and unreadable. You began trying to focus those colors, searching through the fabric that weaved the world together for one single man. The colors began to coalescence into a picture, but remained indistinct – you had found your target, but as expected there was a barrier blocking you. Or perhaps merely interference from some outside source . . . it was difficult to tell. You could sense that he was somewhere in the human capital of Narle, and . . . that there was something else there. Some sort of deep, primal magic that you could only sense the edge of, that lay within the capital coiled and waiting.

“Bah, figured as much. My turn, let’s see how it goes now!” Gilgaem growled, pulling a pair of vials out from beneath his cloak and dropping them one at a time into the swirling waters far below. There was a slight explosion that pulsed through the water, disrupting the image entirely. And then brilliant streams of color, released magic energy given form, joined with your own work, brightening and intensifying the image. This gave you the power necessary to break through the barrier, and suddenly the scrying image snapped into sharp focus.

Umber was engaged in hand-to-hand combat with an elderly man, while a pale red-haired woman looked on. You believe it to be the same woman as the one you briefly encountered in the great battle beneath Ironheart, although it was difficult to be sure – she had remained at a distance to use her magic, and fled before anyone could get close enough to challenge her.

“Ah, that’s Fianna! Damn shame what happened to her – although I find it curious she’s just sitting there watching. Emotionless or not, I find it hard to believe she’s not up there, fighting side by side Umber.”

For a moment, a flicker of anger flashes across Gilgaem’s face. Although it quickly changes to mirth as the two combatants clash together.

“Heh, hit him! Hit him again!” Gilgaem cries, completely caught up in the struggle now portrayed in the waters below. It is impossible to tell which one exactly he is routing for. You watch as Umber deftly deflects one throwing dagger and catches another. The old man continues to charge forward, drawing another large dagger.

“No, don’t block that you idiot! Ach!” Gilgaem growls in consternation as the ephemeral Umber blocks the lazy overhead dagger swing, only to have a cloud of powder released into his face from the dagger itself. The fight swiftly goes downhill for your acquaintance from there, as he is slammed back into the wall, nearly disemboweled twice, and then thrown to the floor and pinned. Gilgaem throws up his hand and turns away, shaking his head and sighing.

“Well, this fight’s over. Disappointing too, I thought the old man really had a chance for a while there. But rats are always more dangerous when backed into a corner, and if Umber’s anything, he’s king of the rats. Poor bastard is never even going to see it coming now.”

Through the boosted divination, you can again feel the strange magic pulse through the ritual. Perhaps it is a result of Gilgaem’s contribution, perhaps a result of who you were scrying, or perhaps even a simple result of the location. Whatever the reason, you can feel the strange signal resonate once more, stronger and closer this time. With a bit of effort, you could try to redirect the boosted scrying pool’s energies towards examining this strange magical echo. You had certainly never seen anything like it before.

Outside the Capital

Kasanip

As you simultaneously put out the fire and disrupt Cynthia’s teleportation ritual, she looks up in shock. Then the old woman smacks her lips in irritation and sighs, raising her hands up over her head. Or at least, as much as she is supposedly able, which is only about halfway, leaving her hands at roughly eye level.

“Y’know, I figured you would be trouble the moment I laid eyes on you. The grand warlock’s been keeping an eye on you for quite some time now. For a while there, there was even talk of recruiting you after you came back from your little exile. And now here you are, just another Canticle watchdog.”

Cynthia makes a spitting noise, although only a few flecks of saliva come out of her mouth.

“Well, I guess this is it, you’ve caught me. But before you give your “I’m taking you in to face justice” speech, allow me to give you a few salient facts. One, I’m not telling you anything, and our little cabal has implanted some fun surprises for anyone who tries magically rooting around in my head. Sorry honey, but there’s a difference between being a failure and a traitor, and that difference is a whole new realm of agony that I’d rather not experience. Two, after you bring me in, you should realize I’m never going to live long enough to be tried. One day my guard will come to find me dead, and that’ll be the end of it. Three, our organization is larger and more wide-spread than you could possibly imagine. I’m not the only warlock member of the Canticles, and one day soon we’re going to finish worming our way through its black heart, and the whole thing is going to come crashing down. Fourth and finally, before I die there is one and only one name that I’m going to provide – our dear friend Carlain.”

Cynthia’s wrinkled mouth curls up into a sadistic smile at this last point.

“Now then, that’s exactly what’s going to happen after the two of us leave this room. You can choose that option . . . *or*, we can choose our own fate. I will tell you whatever it is you want to know, to the best of my limited ability, and in return you let me go. I will disappear, to live out the rest of my admittedly small number of years in obscurity. It may not seem like much, but I’ve come to enjoy life, and would rather have that than a handful of days locked in a cage like an animal, waiting for the cold hand of death to find me. So . . . which is it going to be, grasshopper? Death and ignorance, or life and truth, albeit at the cost of your supposedly high and mighty morals?”

The Capital

Lonna

Wulfric is silent during your angry tirade, although his cooling anger and refusal to meet your eyes tell you that his answer to each of your rhetorical questions is a solid “No”. This does not mollify your anger, however, only cools it into an icy rage. Turning back to face him, you give him a scathing lecture on your childhood and why you keep secrets. This is turn re-ignites his own anger.

“You can keep your damn secrets then! But don’t expect me to help out anymore when they come to bite you in the ass!” He growls, jabbing a finger at you. In response you turn away, thanking him for his help but that you wouldn’t need his help any longer. You begin walking away, fighting back tears that suddenly appear for reasons you don’t understand. You almost fail to hear to Wulfric softly call out to you.

“Jacqueline . . . wait.” You begin to hear his footsteps behind you, fast and loud as he runs to catch up to you. You suddenly have the irrational desire to start running away, keeping the distance between you open.

“I may not like the mess you’ve dragged me into, but damnit I’ve never walked away from something I started. I could have left you back on the Ghastly Truth, but I didn’t and so now we’re stuck with each other.”

He’s directly behind you now, and one of his hands flails out to catch you by the wrist of one hand, stopping your slow-paced attempt to escape.

“Unless . . . unless you turn around, look me in the eye, and tell me to leave. You’ll never see me again if you do. If . . . if that’s what you honestly want.”

There was an odd note of apprehension in that offer – although certainly no one ever really wanted to be rejected. And surely you weren’t in the best mental state yourself, so perhaps you were just projecting your own feelings onto Wulfric’s words.

Regardless, before you could answer or compose yourself to turn back and look at him (you couldn’t let him see you like this!), a young boy approached from the mouth of a nearby alleyway. A street urchin to be sure, given the ragged nature of his clothes and general filthiness. But his eyes shone with that feral cunning you had seen all too much during your childhood, and he stopped a respectful distance away.

“Excuse me ma’am, but are you Pyrene the Temptress?” The boy asked in a singsong voice, faking a pleasant expression.

“Get lost pipsqueak, we’re in the middle of an important conversation here.” Wulfric growls, but releasing his loose grip on your wrist and stepping back away from you, giving you room. The street urchin cowers a little at Wulfric’s harsh tone, but it’s a calculated gesture. Just like him falling to his knees a moment later.

“Please sir, I didn’t mean to interrupt! It’s just that I was paid to deliver a letter to a woman matching your lady’s description! He gave me a whole gold piece, sir, so I can only assume that it’s very important!”

So saying, the street urchin pulled a large envelop out from beneath his rags, its cream-color a little dirt smeared but otherwise unharmed. He flips it around to show you the red wax seal, still intact.

“I didn’t even look inside, honest!”

Without further prompting, the boy got back up and advanced, holding the sealed letter out in front of him like some sort of ritual offering. He places it into your hands reverently, and then steps back, looking sheepishly around as if expecting something. It becomes clear what that something is when Wulfric flips a gold coin into the dirt at the kid’s feet.

“Today’s your lucky day. Now get out of here!” Wulfric growls, although his words are said to the urchin’s fleeing back as he has already snatched up the coin and is running back into the alley from whence he came. Already drained to the point of numbness by today’s events, you mechanically go through the motions of tearing open the envelope and extracting the letter. The fragrant scent of roses wafts out of the open envelope, and the letter itself seems to have been written on high-quality vellum with expensive ink. The effect is largely lost on you as you continue to go through the motions, opening up the letter and starting to scan down through the words.

To Pyrene the Temptress

Greetings and congratulations on your most recent Escape from Ironheart. I am deeply saddened by the circumstances of your escape, but nonetheless pleased that an exquisite flower such as yourself was not crushed therein.

The timing of your Flight from captivity is especially fortuitous, as I have recently been invited to a prominent social event by an old friend of mine. With my wife having passed a number of years ago, I therefore find myself in dire need of an escort.

I was hoping that your services would be available for the evening two nights hence. I can be reached at my small estate just within the city walls should you decide to accept my offer. If you are not interested, you have my sincere apologies for disturbing you and you may simply disregard the contents of this letter.

However, allow me to add that following the ceremony I would like to discuss what I feel is an important topic with you over a bottle of Donovale. You see, a young girl has recently come into my custody following a fire that stole the lives of her family. I have reason to believe that she is your younger sister Ariella. I would like to confirm that fact with you, as well as solicit your advice on what her future should be. You are her older sister, after all, and I believe her last remaining family in this world.

I hope that this letter finds you swiftly and that you remain in good health. Likewise, I trust that you will make the right decision in this matter. I will add that I am hopeful you will decide to accept my offer of hospitality – I have been looking forward to meeting you for quite some time. Finally, allow me to assure you that I have no intention of harming you, and you have my word as a noble man that no one will lay a hand upon you during the ceremony or associated events.

With Sincere Wishes of Friendship,
Duke Hohenheim Volesin

As you near the end of the letter, you find yourself no longer numb. Indeed, your pulse is racing, and every fiber of your being quivers in alarm. One of your worst fears has just been realized, and you’ve already had one “noble man” claim he had no intention of harming you. That false promise ended with him dead and you in Ironheart.

“Jacqueline . . . what’s wrong? What . . . what was in that letter!? Are you . . . crying!?”

Apparently Wulfric had gotten a good look at your face now, but had assumed incorrectly that it was the letter that had caused your unfathomable lapse in composure. This was just as well, but his continued presence here did constitute a problem. He’d be the first undoubtedly to agree that this letter was probably leading to another trap. And just like aboard the Ghastly Truth, he wouldn’t allow you to sacrifice yourself for your sister. If you didn’t get rid of him, now, it was unlikely that you would get the chance to go and confirm whether or not anything in the Duke’s letter was true.

Dorizzit

At your question, the shadowy figure gives a self-depreciating laugh.

“There was a time when I would have dodged that question by saying I was nobody, just an unimportant bard. There was also a time when I would have said nothing and merely slit your throat for seeing me. But now I am tired of hiding, and don’t have time for such distractions.”

The figure steps forward out of the shadows and pulls down the hood of his cloak. His face is an ordinary one, the sort of face you would expect to see on a wandering young dandy. But there is a darkness there behind his shining green eyes, the kind that only comes from having witnessed and done terrible things. The man self-consciously runs his fingers through his neatly-trimmed blond beard, while running his other hand through his shoulder-length hair, smoothing it where it had been disturbed by the cloak’s hood.

“My name is Argan. I was once one of the Baron’s Hands - his personal assassins. I recently learned that my father was King Tallon the IV, although the throne holds no interest for me. Instead, I shall be known as the man who killed the Baron of Gast. Or died trying.”

Argan concludes with a shrug, as his associate scowled.

“Sire, are you sure it’s wise to be telling this stranger all of this?”

Argan gave a slight laugh and nodded at the man with the ruined face.

“And this is Martin, formerly the Captain of my father’s guard, and now my personal bodyguard and nursemaid. Ordinarily I would agree with him that telling you anything is a bad idea. I never spoke a word of my past to anyone all these long years, until only a few days ago.”

Argan gives a light shrug.

“But now, I’m finding myself forced to act, and I honestly need all the help I can get. Besides, if you prove untrustworthy, we can always kill you later.”

Despite the flippant tone it is delivered in, the look in Argan’s eyes tells you that his threat is not a joke. It’s at this exact moment that Katrina wakes up, sputtering and flailing at the edges of her crate. She finally manages to take in a deep steadying breath, and looks around with suspicious eyes.

“Korram . . . who are these people?” She eventually manages to grate out.

“Argan and Martain, at your service.” Argan replies, earning him another concerned glance from his associate.

“So, about this business proposition. I have some gold saved up which I’m willing to pay up front, and I recommend you spend it immediately rather than waiting. It’s unlikely that all of us will be coming back. In fact, it’s entirely possible that none of us will be coming back and we’ll have thrown all our lives away for nothing.”

Katrina glares at you, and looks as if she would try to hit you if you were within reach.

“You signed us up for a suicide mission while I was out!!?”

“Not exactly. We were just discussing the details of the offer. You’re still both welcome to walk out the door, provided you promise not to speak a word of this. And I will certainly hold you to that promise.”

Argan gives another shrug.

“In any event, take a minute to think it over while Martin and I collect what we came here for.”

At that, Martin distracts himself with breaking into more crates and beginning to extract weapons, while Argan keeps a close eye on the rest of the warehouse, his eyes frequently shifting over to you and Katrina.

WhiteKnight777

“No you won’t. I’ll be sending this monster you claim to love into Oblivion’s embrace right after you.” The old man responded with a grim smile to your taunt.

Your summation of the man’s exact nature was correct – although no magic could harm him – indeed, any magical effect faded instantly upon contact with him – the consequences of that magic were still felt. With a grunt of effort, the man shrugs out of his cloak and outer clothes. Beneath them is a suit of well-crafted and well-worn leather armor, festooned with weapons and devices of a more utility nature. The man shivers slightly as he sidesteps around the still-erupting geyser of water. Now out of his concealing outer garments, you can see that your opponent is indeed old, undoubtedly a human approaching the end of his lifespan. His scarred and weathered body is in impressively good condition, but has begun the inevitable gradual withering that comes with age. In another few years, he might not have even been a threat. But such idle thoughts were foolish, because he was in front of you now, and although still feeling the effects of the cold he clearly was not done either.

“Imp-pressive p-p-parlor tricks.” The man chatters at you. “B-but it won’t save you!”

Reaching to a belt of slender throwing daggers sewn into his armor, the man draws two with his right hand, throwing them both at you with a single snap of his wrist. Simultaneously with his left hand, he carefully works free a large ornate dagger from its scabbard at his side. Weapon ready, he charges in after his thrown daggers.

The two throwing daggers are not a problem for you at all, as you have dealt with such weapons on innumerable occasions. You deflect the one and catch the other, and although you do not have time to throw it back at him, it still gives you a convenient weapon in hand. You meet the old man’s charge, and block his lazy overhead swing with ease. Too much ease really, as you sense the trap without understanding its nature. A moment later you have that knowledge as well as your opponent thumbs a small catch on the heavy dagger’s hilt. The weapon comes apart literally in his hands, revealing that it is actually hallow and filled with some sort of white powder. Powder which the man sends billowing down into your face as he simultaneously leans back out of the rapidly expanding cloud.

Immediately your world is once again pain, concentrated around your eyes as an itchy burning threatens to melt them into an unseemly goo that would then flow out of the hollows of your eye sockets and down your face. Your vision blurs into a grey mess of lights and darks, which quickly fades to an alarming wall of pitch blackness. You summon a portion of the water from the nearby geyser to flow down your face, washing away the grainy dust now clinging to your face and lurking inside your eye lids. Unfortunately the powder’s damage has already been done, and your sight does not return. You would either have to hope the damage was temporary, or heal it magically. Given that you were currently involved in a viscous fight with a merciless opponent, your ability to see was a vital component to your survival. You begin focusing your magical energies on repairing your eyes, or at least replacing them with some sort of supernatural sense.

Predictably however, your opponent was not giving you the time necessary for a response – a few moments after losing sight, your finely tuned hearing picks up on his newest approach. Making your best guess as to his exact location, you lash out with a fist, striking flesh and earning yourself a pained grunt. Unfortunately for you, this time the old man’s approach was not a cautious advance. Rather, it was a full-blown bodily charge intended to send both combatants flying. An instant after your fist collides with his body, his shoulder collides with yours, sending you sprawling backward. Rather than let you tumble to the ground, however, the old man grapples with you, holding you up with desperate strength while continuing to propel your backward.

This backward progress comes to a sudden stop a moment later, as your back crashes into the back wall of the small chamber Fianna intended to end her life in. The impact pushes most of the air out of your lungs and raps the back of your head painfully against the stone. Worse yet, you can still feel the body of your assailant pressed up against you, and through him, the Form of the Void, severing virtually all ties to your ability to use magic.

“Mages. You’re all the same.” The old man wheezes in triumph, his hot breath caressing your face. An instant later, a sharp stabbing pain blossoms in your left side as the man uses his right hand to thrust a dagger into it. He starts working the blade up, threatening to disembowel you. You manage to get a hand up and clamped around the wrist to stop that, and for a moment the two of you stand like that, locked in a struggle. Then he twists his hand in a particular way, you hear a dry click, and pain blossoms in your hand and in your side a few inches away from the first stab wound. Evidently the man had a concealed wrist blade on each arm – both of which had been poisoned given the familiar burning in your side now.

This last wound is a bit too much for you, especially when taken with the poison that you can no longer magically cleanse. You can feel your knees start to buckle, and then your legs give out entirely after your assailant helps them along with an unsportsmanlike knee to your groin. Ripping his wrist blade out of your side and abandoning his knife in your gut, the old man twirls you around and throws you to the floor. Immediately he is on your again, one knee driving down into your chest, partially to pin you and partially to drive the remaining air from your lungs. His right forearm firmly laid across your throat helps him accomplish both as well. Although you can’t see it, you can imagine his left arm raised high as he prepares to deliver your death blow.

“Die.” He says simply, again his hot breath washing across your face. At this point, your rapidly fading brain notices that your left hand is still loosely on the hilt of the dagger embedded in your side. Although mangled by the emergence of the man’s wrist blade, the hand still responded to commands. Whether it was a good idea to tear out a blade buried up to the hilt in you was a different story. As an alternate option, the fingers of your right hand brushed against the blade of the throwing dagger they had held a moment ago. Magic seemed out of the option, although with him pressed again you, at least you had no need of sight to identify where it exactly he was. Of course, any attempt to resist, either with the blade at your disposal or with one of your ancient hand-to-hand techniques, would have to be fast and effective. The old man was winded, but he was not hovering on death’s door like you were, nor was he in a disadvantaged position, about to have yet another blade jammed into a vital spot.

OverWilliam

Gorgondantess

“No . . .” Maurice whispers, starring at the metal angels in confusion.

The Baron is a busy man. Nonetheless, your request is being passed along the appropriate channels. Anyone who would bring two of his enemies here as a gift is certainly welcome.

That is interesting. Despite being in human form these metal angels are apparently able to sense Maurice’s true form. You are just beginning to wonder if the reverse is true when Maurice suddenly begins writhing furiously in your arms. You are not sure if she is trying to get free to throw herself at the metal angels, to flee, or is simply having a seizure.

“My gods Baron, what have you done!?”

As suddenly as it starts, Maurice’s wild flailings stop, and she hangs limply in your arms. She turns her face away from the metal angels, instead choosing to bury her face in your shoulder.

“My sisters . . . my poor, poor sisters . . .” She murmurs. The metal angels do not react to this scene, and a moment later their leader beckons you forward.

You will follow us. A reply to your request will be forthcoming.

The metal angels fan out to surround you, providing a threatening but not hostile escort towards the massive airship hanging over the human city. Along the way you see several other groups of the flying constructs patrolling around the ship. Two such groups approach and join up with your escort, bolstering their numbers to just over twenty.

You are led to the top deck of the airship, where a number of humans are scurrying about along the length of the ship, performing some sort of construction work. They seem to be adding some sort of platform closer to the front of the airship in relation to you, and installing an iron slab further back. The metal angels motion for you to land and then follow, forming a distant but closely-packed ring around you. Maurice climbs down out of your arms to stand beside you, her face unreadable as she refuses to look at the constructs, eyes focused on her feet. A few moments later, the lead metal angel speaks again.

Your request has been granted with one addition. Angelo, son of the Baron, wishes to speak with you first. Please wait until he arrives.

A few minutes later, a portal set into the hull irises open, and a man climbs out, dusty brown wings hanging off his back. Other than the wings he appears human, although you sense traces of angelic resonance in his body . . . some sort of half-breed? The Baron was supposed to be human according to Maurice, and an enemy of the gods. Yet his son appeared to be some sort of human/angel hybrid. Interesting.

The ring of metal angels parts as the man approaches, allowing him to stand a few paces away from you. He greets you with an elegant bow, but never takes his eyes off of you.

“Greetings. I am Angelo Gast, son of the Baron and commander of his forces. I understand you have come here with the intention of meeting my father. In return, you offer an insurgent you caught who is planning some sort of betrayal against us – do I have that right?”

The halfbreed draws himself up to his full height, standing attention with his hands behind his back as he continues.

“Before you can meet with my father, we need to have a little chat so I can determine your intentions. My father has many enemies, not the least of which are the gods Themselves. You brought one of Their servants here with you – why is that?”

Angelo peers at you curiously, a slight frown of consternation on his face.

“For that matter, what exactly are you? I do not believe I have ever seen one of your kind before.”

The Baron’s son shakes his head slightly, and resumes his previous professional expression.

“In any event, I would appreciate it if you told me a little about yourself. Who you are, why you are here, what you hope to accomplish in your meeting with my father. Those sorts of things would be very helpful in understanding your intentions, and in turn, whether or not you should meet my father.”

[Gorgondantess]

She sighs exasperatedly as the anti-angel says that her "request is being passed along the appropriate channels." She'd hoped The Baron would've been above such antics... if this were to go on long enough, she'd have to start killing people.
As Maurice spasms, initially her only reaction is to just clutch her to her chest tightly. She continues holding her as such until the leader speaks to her, and replies with silence. She holds Maurice as a mother might hold a crying child, pondering. This... was not good. Whatever these things were. Should she just destroy them all to appease her? Cut off ties? Or...
No.
A vengeful supernatural being's gotta do what a vengeful supernatural being's gotta do.
Don't plan the plan if you can't follow through...
She nods to the anti-angel, resolved. "Lead the way."

Once on the deck, and left well enough alone, she sets Maurice down by her side, and whispers in her ear, "We'll talk about these... things... in due time. For now, though, diplomacy."

“Greetings. I am Angelo Gast, son of the Baron and commander of his forces. I understand you have come here with the intention of meeting my father. In return, you offer an insurgent you caught who is planning some sort of betrayal against us – do I have that right?”

She reaches over her back for the man, tossing him to the ground in front of them. "Oh, yes- that's right."
She'd almost forgotten about him.

“Before you can meet with my father, we need to have a little chat so I can determine your intentions. My father has many enemies, not the least of which are the gods Themselves. You brought one of Their servants here with you – why is that?”

She smirks.
"So says the man with wings on his back and a whole cadre of..."
She glances at Maurice, and thinks better of referring to those things as anything.
"Well, I'm sure you understand the point I am trying to make. You take captive angels. As have I, though our methods may differ. And if you, your Baron, or any of your lackeys touches her or attempts to use her in one of your rituals I'll kill the lot of you."
Her words have no venom behind them. They are simple fact. If any of them harms Maurice, she won't stop killing until there's nothing left breathing.

“For that matter, what exactly are you? I do not believe I have ever seen one of your kind before.”

She laughs with a girlish peal. "Neither have I. Suffice it to say, I'm whatever I want to be."
Mental note filed that the Baron is moreso clueless as to her nature than she is.

“In any event, I would appreciate it if you told me a little about yourself. Who you are, why you are here, what you hope to accomplish in your meeting with my father. Those sorts of things would be very helpful in understanding your intentions, and in turn, whether or not you should meet my father.”

"Mmm. Well, as I don't feel disposed towards undue elaboration at the moment: I have received an unprovoked assault by one known as Lord Athelion the Lifebringer. I understand your father is no friend of this Athelion. Neither, as you should have surmised, am I. I understand your father is quite powerful. As am I. I seek to destroy Athelion, and I believe some sort of cooperation would be mutually beneficial."
She kicks the man on the floor.
"This one is just a peace offering."
She smiles blithely. "I trust that will be enough for the present?"

[WhiteKnight777]

Umber

Umber, Lord of Blood, slayer of countless kings, archmage and arch-conqueror, was dying.

Poison coursed through his veins, the sight was gone from his eyes. He bled from wounds that would have killed lesser men. The merciless old man, avatar of the empty Void itself, was standing over him, blade ready for the deathblow. Umber snarled, vicious to the end, and ground his teeth...

And then he almost smiled.

The transformation from mortal to Lord of Blood had been a difficult but fascinating process. Unlike the more mundane forms of vampirism, the initial transformation had been a wholly spiritual one - the severing of the souls of the Seven from the strings of fate itself. However, while that had left them with corporeal forms that did not fear the dusty hand of time, it also left them with bodies unable to repair themselves - the vampiric nature had come later, a combination of Umber and Kartul's research - the modifications had been simple enough - the increased strength and speed were part of the transformation, but a few physical alterations had been done by magic - or in Gilgeam's case, a bit of creative alchemy. The process had been a deeply personal one, and each had chosen their own "Brand" of vampirism suitable to their natures - or perhaps it was better to say that the transformations had chosen them.

Yes, a number of modifications had been necessary - alterations to the jaw structure, a blood reservoir in the stomach, increased grip strength in the hand and arm tendons.

Oh, and the teeth.

He still had his teeth.

those had been a particularly telling design. Fianna, for example, had sweet, slender little poniards hidden in her gums, like stilettos tucked away in a bodice. Umber remembered the way they tickled on bare Flesh. Kartul had teeth like a serpent's fangs. Shakati had favored big, ripping, predatory canines, and so on.

Umber... well, typical to his nature, he had gone for something practical, yet with the potential for drama. He felt that disturbing little *click* in his jaw, and the grate of bone on bone, tasting blood in his mouth as dagger-like fangs emerged from both upper and lower jaws, forcing other teeth aside painfully. His battered, much-abused body tensed beneath him, coiling like a spring as he readied his desperate strength. He hurled himself upwards, his hands seizing the old man's arms in an iron grip. This close, he could practically hear the pulse of the veins in his throat - and the old man had given his head's location away with his speech. Umber opened his jaw wide, actually feeling it dislocate - another little physical alteration left over from his life as a Lord of Blood. He bit down, hard, feeling leathery yet yielding flesh, tasting the sweat of the man's skin and feeling the painful chill of the void - so cold it burned, almost bad enough to make him loose his grip. But before the elder man could react to Umber's sudden, desperate, unexpected assault, Umber bit down. Hard.

Flesh tore, and Umber didn't stop until he felt his teeth meet each other. He jerked his head back, feeling a warm spray bathing his face in another familiar sensation, tasting hot iron as he spat out a gobbet of bloody flesh the size of his fist. He panted, tearing the dagger from his side as backed away, desperately gathering magic to try to slow the poison and the bleeding, and panted, staring blindly in the old man's direction.

"You. First."

Umber felt his back hit the wall as lifeblood trickled from his wounds. He worked desperately to seal them, to burn away the poison in his veins - if he had been a man of faith, he would have prayed. As it was, he merely hoped.

[Dorizzit]

Korram Alstan

Korram considers the proposition for several long minutes, weighing his options carefully. These men seemed competent, but it could be a trap. The story was too fantastic to be a lie, but it could be one none the less. These two seemed all too ready to march to their deaths...but Korram can hardly point fingers.

Regardless, these men could provide insight into the Baron's tactics and possibly even plans. Korram was already planning on going into a nearly impossible suicide mission; joining them could increase the odds of success for both parties significantly.

And if they double crossed him, he could kill them. Probably.

Having come to a conclusion, Korram finally speaks.

"Alright, I'm in."

[Archpaladin Zousha]

Hondshioh

Hondshioh's eyes widen as he manages to parry the twisted angel's blow.

"KATASHIKO! Fend off the demons, and kill as many as you can. Leave this one to me."

Then he looks back at the angel, who looked almost identical to the one that had decieved him. He was wary of tricks now. But at the same time, he had to wonder if she was truly irredeemable.

"You poor, broken creature. Could a few moments of pain truly destroy what you once were?"

He keeps on the defensive, trying to keep the angel's attention focused on him, and to keep it talking, trying to coax out any shred of its past dignity and honor.

[Lonna]

Pyrene (or is it Jacqueline?)

Wulfric's evident concern brought Pyrene swiftly back to reality. Casually she refolded the expensive letter and stuffed it back in its envelope as she tried to reassure him. "It's nothing - well, it's not nothing, but I don't know what..." Pyrene broke off and took a deep breath, the tears finally stopping as she turned to her companion and forced a smile. "It has been a hard day, for both of us. Let's find someplace to rest and eat, someplace I can think this through. I promise I will let you see the letter in the morning, just... please let me have just this little time. Let me have my secret for just a few hours."

Wulfric hesitated, then nodded reluctantly. "All right then," he said gruffly. "I know a place we can go. But you had better tell me exactly what's going on first thing tomorrow." Pyrene nodded her head in acknowledgement and Wulfric lead the way to a small inn. They dined in silence, the comfortable conversation of the previous evening seeming a distant memory after the taxing events of the day.

As soon as she finished eating, Pyrene retired to the room Wulfric had rented, saying she was tired and needed rest. And she did in fact doze fitfully for some hours. But when the night watch called the second hour past midnight, Pyrene silently slipped out of the blankets. By light of the moon she arranged the letter she had received so that Wulfric would see it when he came to check on her in the morning. On the outside she scrawled quickly:

I knew you would stop me. I couldn't let you. I am sorry.

Slipping outside, Pyrene took a deep breath, focusing on the only thing that really mattered: making sure Ariella was safe. Quietly, giving one last glance back at the darkened windows of the inn, she disappeared into the dark.

[Iethloc]

Sohssal

Sohssal chuckled as he watched the fight. He stopped as Umber was backed up to the wall – he was genuinely impressed by his counterattack. ”I'm getting some odd magical signals from the scrying...whirlpool. I need to look closer at this. I could be able to make it into a portal, if you wish. I might need another of those vials for that,” he explained.

Then Sohssal spread his arms wide, and narrowed his senses into the portal. He chose to take caution over expediency. Odd magical signals tended to involve explosions or curses in his experience. After a thorough examination, he would try to turn the scrying's energies towards a portal (if possible). He was doubly careful with that – making a portal from a scrying with unknown interference was even riskier.