Flight From Ironheart IC

[Kasanip]

Isera Harvent
Outside the Capital

Isera smiled at Cynthia's words. It was not a nice or happy smile. But it was a smile that was full of annoying youthful pride and triumph. It was also a hunter's cold smile.

"I'm sorry, you seem to forgot what our job is. I never intended to capture you and bring you back. A warlock is a dangerous thing to leave alive.You can't kill the idea that power will solve all of your problems. But you can kill the bodies that become corrupt by those ideas. I'm happy enough knowing your soul will fall into hell, and there you will regret all of the things you have done.

I could interrogate you here like you want in your deal, but to be honest I don't think I can trust the cultist warlock liar who drugged a kid coming to her for help.


So now, just turn to ash."

She snapped her fingers again, and the combined fire stolen from the burning shelves, the magical energy stolen from the teleport runes and candles, the fire she had invoked from Autumn's glory- all of it rose up about Cynthia in a fiery storm to incinerate the old woman. As the woman burned in the magic ash, Isera looked down in disgust.

"You should have just told us some story and sent us on our way." She muttered with disgust, shoving her hands into her pockets again.
She was getting very tired, and feeling rather childish. Killing the woman without getting the information was probably a mistake she knew. But she couldn't really regret it now. She went to the bookshelf to examine the books and papers. Then she stopped.

Oh, more importantly, was the rest of the building safe of magic traps? Had Ms. Theresea dealt with the monsters? She turned and went back through the door. She hoped at least that the villagers upstairs hadn't hurt anything. Unless it was a cultist who had been inside the house.
So long as it wasn't Carlain. He was hurt enough already. Isera frowned at this thought and then groaned. She'd have to do some curing for him this evening or he might never be able to use his hands again. That meant more magic.

"Ms. Theresea, are you ok?" She asked.

[Inspectre]

Cathedral City

Baerdog7/Archpaladin Zousha

Wading into the midst of a group of nearby demons who had been hanging back, but not far enough, Katashiko laughs her reply. Soon enough ashes are flying every which way as her appropriated set of tongs cleaves through the demonic ranks like a scythe through weeds. This forced the rest of the demons even far back, and now none of them would think of interfering in your fight. Which was good, because the angel was doing her level best to kill you.

“You don’t understand!” The angel growls as she forces you back with a flurry of blows. “I must obey. I cannot ignore the commands of the master!” Suddenly, a look of confusion passes across her face, and she pauses her assault.

“And my master is . . . my master is . . .”

The angel looks back over her shoulder at Greyson, who continues to make good on his retreat. Upon seeing him, the angel’s jaw hardens, and she looks back to glare at you.

“My master is the Council of the Church. If they say you must die, and for your heart to be cut out and delivered to them, they must have a good reason for it.”

Again the angel attacks you, but her movements are slower this time, her blows more easily deflected. It is certainly not exhaustion as the cause, nor even pain, as the burns covering the angel’s flesh have faded to the level of dull scars. It had to be doubt, eating away at her enthusiasm for the fight – and perhaps some part of her was still in there as well, struggling to hold back but unable to outright disobey her orders.

Meanwhile, Ander’s fight against Daz’kick enters a brutal phase as the demon lord charges forward. He lashes out with all of his weapons one after another, battering the lord general and forcing him to dance back repeatedly or be crushed beneath the immense weapons.

Odlak and Ricster continue wading their way through the ranks of lesser demons to reach the battle, and beyond that Greyson. Pausing in his advance momentarily, Ricster draws a boot dagger and hurls it expertly through the ranks of demons. Somehow, it passes through them undeflected, and buries itself in Greyson’s robes. Unfortunately, it seems to have been unsuccessful in actually hitting the exarch, merely causing him to cry out in panic.

The Island of Dr(?) Sohssal

Iethloc

“Feh, don’t bother.” Gilgaem growled, pausing for one last moment to look into the portal before turning and walking away. Currently, Fianna is tending to Umber’s wounds, after the vampire lord tore his assailant’s throat out with his fangs.

“The two of them are having a tender moment. Well, Umber is at least, given the beating that assassin gave him. Hah! And I imagine he would be rather upset if I were to suddenly appear to ruin the mood. Surprised to see me, no doubt, but upset at the interruption once the surprise faded. I’ll just bide my time for now, and wait for just the right moment to reveal my existence. But I suppose that is none of your concern now.”

Below, the whirlpool of energy continued to show the scene between Umber and Fianna, although you could repurpose the energies if you so desired. More importantly, after cautiously probing the magic “bubble” linked to your scrying window, you discover several important and shocking facts.

The magic bubble seems to be the source of the interference, causing it merely by its presence rather than any intended effect. It seems to be a remnant of immense magical power, an echo of some great spell. You had heard of these “resonant echoes”, but had never encountered one yourself until now. The most exciting fact about this particular one, however, seemed to be that its creating spell was to occur in the future.

Somehow, the creating spell was so powerful, that its very presence had not just warped reality, but the flow of time as well. With a little focus and luck, you could probably alter the scrying whirlpool to focus on this event through its connection to the echo. And given that it was widely considered virtually impossible to look ahead and see the future in any meaningful way, this was the opportunity of a lifetime. Of course, that didn’t mean whatever you saw would be particularly informative, but some sort of powerful spell had created this opportunity. Perhaps by observing it and its effects, you would gain some sort of insight that would be useful to you in the here and now.

Outside the Capital

Kasanip

You finish off the old witch in a blaze of magical fire, taking some small satisfaction in the open-mouth stare of surprise she gives you before she is vaporized into ash. Not even her bones remain behind a minute later as the fires die out for good this time. You consider beginning the arduous task of sorting through the mountain of papers Cynthia had piled up to be burnt, but decided those could wait for the moment.

Going back to where you had teleported in for now, you find Theresea sheathing her sword and grimacing as she examines a long gash running down one of her arms. Although painful looking, the demon hunter seems more annoyed at the wound than worried. She whirls as you enter the room again, reaching up for her sword, but immediately relaxing upon seeing you.

“So – is the one responsible for all this dead? Good.” She says a moment later as you nod in reply.

Theresea scowls for a moment, and then hurriedly tears a strip off of her cloak, wrapping it quickly around her wounded arm. Apparently the wound was not as serious as it looked, as the bleeding had already mostly stopped.

“It’ll heal on its own soon enough. People in my line of work tend to either heal quickly, or die.” She grunts as she knots the cloth scrap into place over the wound.

“So – is that the end of the cultists here, or do we have more of the filth to deal with?”

From overhead, a dull crash is heard as the mob breaks down the door at last. They begin flooding in to the upstairs, destroying more furniture in their anger but accomplishing little else. It is likely that you will have a few more minutes before anyone discovers the trapdoor down to here, wherever Cynthia hid it.

Further searching of this underground hideaway reveals no further threats. There are no more demons present, nor any other cultists. And, apparently believing her hideout to be safe from townfolk, Cynthia had neglected to erect any sort of magical wards or traps. You do discover one new disquieting facet of Cynthia’s underground lair in your quick search, however – the small chamber where she buried the bodies of the sacrificed girls. The makeshift catacomb had its walls and floor lined with the jumbled bones of over a dozen innocent people that Cynthia *had* successfully drugged and murdered, a somber reminder that you had made the right choice in killing her. Without a doubt, she was now receiving her just reward in the Hells.

Unfortunately, your work here was not done. Once you went topside, and the townsfolk had calmed down sufficiently from their mass hysteria, you could entrust them to take care of the bones and the rest of Cynthia’s mess. But you, and you alone, would have to heal Carlain’s wounds and decide what to do with him. You would also need to sort through all the papers Cynthia had left behind, which undoubtedly contained at least some spying reports on the Canticles, which meant they were for your eyes only. Both tasks were bound to be unpleasant, and it was difficult to decide which would be worse – dealing with what the boy you’d had known since childhood had become, or learning who else within the Canticles were traitors to everything they swore to hold dear?

(If you want, you can tackle one or the other in your next post. Or both, if you’d prefer Isera to scoop up all the papers and shove them into a sack, to look over them while she’s giving Carlain a sound spanking. Also, any interaction you want to have with the townsfolk or Theresea, if you have any lingering questions for them.)

The Capital

Lonna

After dinner with Wulfric, you manage a few hours of restless sleep, full of nightmares. Foremost of these is not a nightmare at all, but a replayed memory – one of the last times you ever saw Ariella. It is not a pleasant memory, for it is the same night that your mother was killed.

The night itself started off peacefully enough with your little family clustered together in your single room apartment. The building itself was a squat two-story affair nestled deep in the city’s slums. Once it had been a tavern and traveler’s inn, but the latest owner had subdivided it up into a number of small apartments. This did not stop him from charging a king’s ransom for rent, and predictably your mother fell behind on payments. The owner wasn’t happy and had been threatening eviction for quite some time now, prompting your mother to take on more clients.

She had just finished with one such client, and was washing up in one corner of the room while you and Ariella played in another. The two of you had been playing downstairs previously of course, as most clients didn’t like children in the room while they were conducting their “business” with your mother. Unfortunately, playing outside your tiny home was dangerous, and trouble lurked even just down in the ground floor parlor.

Tonight it was one of the other boys whose family lived here. He had seen the two of you playing, and had decided to inject his own brand of fun into the mix. Namely, running over to the two of you, snatching away the ragdoll Ariella was holding, and tearing its head off. You had shoved the boy to the floor immediately, grabbing the now two separate pieces of the ragdoll out of his hands, and would have proceeded to give him the beating of his life had the owner not showed up. He separated you, and ordered you and Ariella to go back up to your room, despite the boy being the one who had started it all. Fortunately mother was done by that point, and so the two of you were able to actually go back inside.

Ariella was heartbroken at the destruction of her doll, although you assured her it was only a temporary wound. While you worked on sewing the head back on, you told her a story to distract her. It wasn’t any sort of story you had ever heard – in truth, you were just making it up, stringing the bits and pieces together as you went from whatever just popped into your head. The story was that of a magical princess, living in a faraway land long ago. Just like the two of you, this princess had no father, but she did have a mother who loved her very much. And there were angels and demons, and all sorts of fantastical events in this girl’s life, but she managed to escape from them all unscathed.

You were just beginning to think of how to end the story when you heard heavy footsteps approaching from outside the door. Your mother hadn’t mentioned any other clients for tonight, although it wasn’t unusual for clients to show up unannounced. What frightened you into lapsing into awkward silence was recognizing the footsteps. They belonged to a repeat client, a man who always appeared with most of his face concealed by a mask. An aura of danger surrounded him, and the way he looked at you and Ariella with those icy blue eyes of his, the only part of his face that you could see . . . it was very unsettling.

Your mother heard the footsteps too, and flew out of her chair to the door. She got there just in time to be nearly hit by the door as it flew open, revealing the menacing silhouette of this man. Your mother tried to move to fill the doorway and make small talk while subtly hinting that she was tired and this wasn’t the best time. The man simply shoved his way inside, pausing only momentarily to look around the cramped space before his piercing eyes settled on you and Ariella in the corner.

“I’ve come for the girl, not you – hag.” The man growls in his deep, rumbling voice. Reflexively, you push Ariella behind you, and even with his mouth covered by the mask, you can tell the man smirks at the gesture.

“And I’ve told you the answer is no! No, now get –“

“I’ll triple my original offer. Final offer!” The man growls in response, his tone taking an ominous note, barely even acknowledging your mother as he continues staring at you and Ariella.

“And the answer is still no! Now get out!” Your mother shouted, her voice becoming increasingly shrill. The man growled, a fierce, menacing sound of frustration. And then he simply fell silent and shrugged.

“Very well. If I cannot pay, then I shall simply take!” He declared, taking a single smooth step towards the two of you. Immediately your mother leapt at him from behind, snagging hold of his cloak and using that to drag him backwards.

“NO! Jacqueline! Take Ariella and GO! RUN!” She screamed at you, and you instinctually obeyed. For a moment, the man was held at bay, his deep, gruff voice making deep, gruff choking noises as the clasp of his cloak dug into his neck. But then he managed to raise one beefy gloved fist up to his throat, and worked the clasp. The cloak flew off of his shoulders and your mother stumbled back with it into the nearby wall. The man turned to face her then, the lower half of his face still concealed by the bandana-mask he wore separately from the cloak. With his back to you, the way for you to escape with Ariella out the door was clear.

Yet something warned you off from trying to escape out the door. Due to the narrow confines of the room, the struggle between your mother and her client-turned-assailant was right next to the door. You fearfully imagined the man reaching back and grabbing you as you tried to run past. With the door out of your list of options, there wasn’t a lot of other places you could go. Except the bed – there was enough room to hide under the bed! Occasionally you and Ariella had played under there, making it your secret hideaway. As such, you knew it was big enough to shelter the two of you, and keep you hidden from sight so long as the man didn’t get down on his hands and knees to peer under the sheets. You could only hope that he would not as you dive under the bed, carrying Ariella with you. Meanwhile, your mother attempts to shout another command to run at you, only for it to be interrupted as the man feeds her words back to her with his fist, sending her head snapping back painfully into the wall.

Once safely under the bed, you press Ariella against you, burying her face into your chest and covering her ears with your hands. Only you hear the awful sounds, and watch the horrifying scene unfolding in front of you in the room beyond. With minimal effort, the man punishes your mother for her bravery. He beats her bloody with his fists, he brutally throws her against the walls of your tiny home. Eventually he grabs a handful of your mother’s hair, and drags her towards the bed.

The beating had taken its toll on the man as well however. He was breathing heavily, and his clothing was quite disheveled. As such, you caught a glimpse of the man’s left shoulder, it having nearly worked its way out of his tunic through the collar. The flesh there was twisted, misshapen by some sort of long jagged scar that ran down into his chest. After bodily lifting your mother up and throwing her onto the bed, he pauses at the foot of it, groaning loudly as he reaches up with his right hand to massage that disfigured part of his body. But it is only a momentary pause, and then it is the bed’s turn to groan and sag as he climbs up onto it.

You do your best not to even breath, squashed beneath the bed, forced to hear the man’s ragged breathing and your mother’s own pained moans. You were certain he could hear you breathing, that any moment he would lean down off the side of the bed and see you. But he didn’t. In a way, what followed was even worse.

“You . . . have lived . . . a life of sin.” The man huffs, and the bed shifts as he changes positions, straddling your mother. “And now . . . you shall reap . . . the reward. All whores go to the Hells!”

And then the bed shook briefly as the man wrapped his meaty hands around your mother’s slender neck, and squeezed the life out of her. It was a brief struggle, but no less horrible as you were forced to listen to the last moments of your mother’s life. And when it was over, the man simply got off the bed as if what he had just done was nothing. He went back over to his fallen cloak, picked it up, smoothed out his clothing, and left without looking back. It was minutes before you could work up the courage to emerge from beneath the bed, certain that the man would not be coming back, and confirm what you already knew – your mother was dead.

You sheltered Ariella from the sight as best you could, ushering her out of the room without allowing her to see your mother’s battered body. You were met at the doorway by the owner, who had finally worked up his own courage to see what had happened. He threw you and Ariella out onto the street on the spot, taking all your meager possessions as payment for cleaning up the mess and disposing of your mother’s body. When asked what you were supposed to do to survive, he coldly responded that perhaps you should take up your mother’s profession.

The idea stuck with you, and in the end that is exactly what you did to survive. What you did to protect Ariella from ever having to endure what you just did. You arranged to get her adopted into a loving family, with the help of the slightly mad priest of Miriam whose advice you found strangely appropriate at times. And then you stayed away, while discretely sending what money you could to the family. Everything you had done had been to protect her, to keep her safe and prevent her from ever having to witness your death.

But now your existence was the threat to her safety, as your enemies went after her to get to you. And so now you would sacrifice yourself in her place, as you always did. You would go to Duke Volesin, confirm that he really had Ariella, and then do everything in your power to convince him to show mercy to her. You would suffer a death worse than your mother’s as justice for his murdered sons. You’d endure being sent back to Ironheart, and forced to experience an entire lifetime of nightmares within that awful crystal. You’d even allow him to hand you back over to the Baron to serve as Cheran’s plaything. Anything. Whatever price the Duke set for Ariella’s safety, you would pay without hesitation.

And so in the middle of the night, you creep out of your bed. You leave the letter from the duke out on your nightstand, with a brief explanation scrawled on the envelope. Wulfric at least deserved that much, should you never return from this to explain in person – which was highly likely. There was no longer any reason to stay, and so you slipped out of your room, out of the inn, and out into the night. You walk hurriedly down the streets, making your way towards the duke’s estate. Even at this late hour, there are still some people walking about, although their business seems as close kept a secret as your own.

A few foot patrols of city guard pass by you, and each time you wonder for a moment if this one will stop you. They will need only a glance at your forearm to see the numbers branded there, and then in your mind, you can see them arresting you, preventing you from surrendering yourself to Volesin. And then Ariella is never seen again. But it’s just a paranoid thought, and although more than one guard spares you a look, it’s more out of salacious, rather than suspicious, interest.

You are about halfway there when suddenly there is a loud, familiar fluttering by your ear. And then needle-sharp claws are digging into your shoulder and a high-pitched voice is whispering into your ear!

“Mistress! Oh Mistress, long time no see! Especially in your case!” Garthax says with a slight chuckle at his own joke.

“Garthax sorry if it seemed like he abandoned you, Mistress! Metal angels scare Garthax, he had to stay away! It took forever to find you after that. But, Garthax kept looking! You have strong soul! Led Garthax right to you . . . eventually.” The imp hisses into your ear, at least adopting a remorseful tone at the mention of his sudden disappearance after your initial capture by Wulfric.

“So – where are you going now, Mistress? Somewhere exciting!?” Garthax presses, his voice growing even higher in pitch as he becomes more excited himself. And then he asks another question, simple in its composition but alarming enough to set your heart racing.

“And why is the Angry Man following you!?”

There was only one person who the Angry Man could be: Wulfric. For just a split second, you froze in surprise in the middle of the street, before resuming your rapid pace. Even this is enough for Garthax to start hissing into your ear.

“No, don’t stop and look back! He’ll know! He’ll know you know, and I don’t think he wants you to know! But he doesn’t know about Garthax!” The imp concludes with a cackle of triumph. As you reach an intersection, you suddenly turn and start walking down the street running perpendicular to your current direction. As you leave the intersection, you take a quick glance out of the corner of your eye. Sure enough, two streets down, the shadows move, and Wulfric creeps into sight, moving cautiously but hurrying now to ensure that he keeps you in sight. Due to your superb acting ability, he doesn’t seem aware that you have seen him. Yet now the question remains – what to do with him? Do you stop and confront him? Try to lose him? Sic Garthax on him? Or simply allow him to follow you, and quite possibly mess everything up in an ill-conceived rescue attempt?

Dorizzit

“Excellent.” Argan says with a slight smile. He gestures at the nearby stack of crates. “Please, help yourselves to our stockpile of weapons. I’d advise you to take only what you can easily conceal however – we need to avoid arousing suspicions on the city streets.”

Martin continues opening crates, revealing a variety of weapons – daggers, longer blades, axes, and crossbows among them. Katrina eagerly helps herself to several daggers, seeming to become more relaxed the more heavily armed she is. Argan and Martin only pick over the weapons, however, with the only chosen item of note a finely-crafted crossbow that Argan wraps in a spare cloak before shoving it under his own.

(Feel free for Korram to pick up any weapons, or none if he’d prefer to continue fighting bare-handed.)

Finally, the last of the crates have been opened, and after looking through each for several long moments, Martin nods.

“Looks like it’s all here.”

“Good. Seal them back up and mark them so our friends know which ones to take when they come by later.” Argan ordered, and Martin dutifully began to hammer the covers back onto each box, as well as carving a small “X” into one corner of each of the crates. Once that’s taken care of, Argan inclines his head to the warehouse’s rear entrance.

“Well, shall we take our leave? Come, we have a lot more planning to do.”

Leading you out of the warehouse, Argan guides you to a small rundown inn in the slums known as the Silver Bell. It becomes apparent that he is familiar with the employees, as the barmaid upon seeing him drops everything and comes over to slap him across the face.

“Where were you!?” She hisses, looking as if she was considering hitting him again. For his part, Argan merely rubs his injured face and glances at the patrons who had grown interested at this confrontation at the door.

“Just merely checking on something. I have a lot of work to do before my big, uh, “performance”. My apologies for not telling you where I was going, but the less you know, the safer you’ll be. And I need to know that you’re safe right now.”

At this the barmaid sighs and looks away, her blue eyes coming to rest on you.

“Who are these people?”

“Some new friends of mine I met while I was out. This is Mina, the barmaid here and a friend of mine.” Argan explains, prompting Mina to put her hands on her hips.

“Just a friend am I? So, do these two new friends of yours have names?”

“Oh, how forgetful of me. I meant to say “This is Mina, my dear and close friend, whom I have known for a number of years now, and now would trust my life to.” And in answer to your question . . . I don’t believe I ever did catch their names.”

Mina snorts and rolls her eyes, hooking a thumb towards one of the doors across the tavern.

“Well, your other “friends” are waiting in the back room. They’ve been waiting in there for some time now. I’ve got clients to serve, so if you’ll excuse me.”

And with that, Mina turns away and goes back to collecting empty mugs of ale and bringing back refills for the handful of regulars. Slowly, the low hum of conversation returns to the place, and nobody pays you any further heed as you fill into the back room. As promised, you find several people waiting for you inside – one middle-aged man, and two young women. The one woman is studying her fingers with an unusual level of focus, while the middle-aged man seems to be coaxing the other girl to eat some sort of porridge. At your entrance the man sets the bowl aside to look at you curiously, while the first woman smiles at her eyes light up with recognition.

“Well, if it isn’t Korram Alstan. I’m a little surprised at our meeting again, although I suppose I really shouldn’t be. Did you ever manage to find your real daughter?”

“You’re *THE* Korram Alstan?” Argan asked, looking you up and down with a touch more respect than before. Katrina coughs angrily as she stares at the woman who has an air of familiarity about her, although you don’t recognize the face.

“And you are?”

“Oh, yes that’s right. I was trying to play the part of your daughter back then, wasn’t I? Does this look more familiar to you?”

The woman’s skin twists and crawls unnaturally, rearranging itself as her hair lengthens and darkens. A moment later, and the false Katrina you had met in Ironheart is standing in front of you.

Joining in the cluster of people demanding your attention all at once, the older man in the back stands up and approaches. He holds out his hand for a friendly handshake as he reaches you.

“Korram Alstan? Pleasure to meet you. I’m Sal Mercer.”

Sal turns back to nod at the young woman he had been feeding, who is now simply staring blankly at the wall.

“And this is my daughter, Elsa . . . or what’s left of her, at any rate.”

WhiteKnight777

There is a gurgling gasp somewhere off to your left in response, and then nothing but silence. A chilling wave of unease passes over you for several seconds, but then fades. The bearer of the Void was no more. Not that you really noticed, of course, too focused on trying to save yourself.

Although not immediately fatal, the twin wounds in your side would eventually cause you to bleed out. That was not counting, of course, the poison now working its way through your veins, which would undoubtedly kill you within the next minute or so. Your body moving far slower than your mind, you blunder through the incantations, trying to repeat the trick of forcing the poison back out through the wound. But having just been beaten, stabbed, poisoned, choked, and finally ripping a man’s throat out with your own teeth (albeit teeth tailored for just that), you find it difficult. Your tongue keeps slurring over the words, and without sight you aren’t sure your fingers are weaving the correct somatic patterns either – especially your mangled hand.

Things were looking rather dicey at the moment, and despite the ignominy of dying to some random *******, you had to admit it did have a bit of poetic ring to it. Fianna somehow created this freak with the intention of it ending her existence, but instead you are the one slain because of your willingness to follow Fianna even into death. You aren’t quite ready for that to be your epitaph just yet however, and start the healing ritual over again.

Unfortunately, it is interrupted by the soft sound of approaching footfalls. The assassin!? Impossible – his throat had been torn out and you had felt his passing as the dark void of his soul slipped free from its mortal moorings. And yet . . . and yet you would have thought it impossible to weave the Void into a living creature, but Fianna had clearly done so. Perhaps, having violated this sensible rule of existence, the assassin was capable of violating other rules, like staying dead.

“It is only me.” Fianna whispered to you, as you heard her kneel down beside you. At least this put to rest the wild idea that you would have to combat an unkillable man in your present state, although Fianna’s intentions were unclear. Deprived of her long sought release from existence – indeed, twice now – she may seek revenge. This wild fear is likewise dismissed as Fianna continues.

“You can relax, my love. My executioner is dead, and with him the last of my plans for death. You have won.”

Your relief at this news is somewhat short-lived, as Fianna suddenly digs her fingers into your side, probing the wounds – and not tenderly.

“You look terrible love – are you dying? This will not do – I do not intend on continuing to suffer this meaningless existence alone.”

You hear Fianna speak some words, although most of it is lost in the haze of immense pain suddenly screaming up from your wounds as they are cauterized instantly by arcane fire.

“It is unfortunate that you are once again human, otherwise this would be much simpler.” Fianna continues, as your insides begin to itch with such intensity that it feels like your very flesh is nothing but crawling insects. But when that sensation passes, you realize that your wounds have been fully healed, along with the poison being burned out of your system. From there, Fianna continues to tend to the rest of your injuries, rhythmically chanting a healing ritual as she touches each of the minor bruises and scrapes you also received during your fight, rubbing each of them away in turn. Eventually, your eyesight recovers, proceeding from darkness to light, to blurry images, and finally back to true sight. Finished with her treatment, Fianna sits back on her heels to regard you with her typical expression – which is to say, her only expression – emotionless disinterest.

“So you have emerged victorious yet again Umber, and you have your prize. What do you intend to do with her now? More fruitless tests and attempts to get her to feel again? Or is the reversal of your nature some type of cure-all?”

Gorgondantess

At your threat regarding Maurice’s safety, Angelo throws up his hands.

“Please. We are interested only in combating the gods and their servants. If this particular angel is *your* servant, we have no interest in her. Provided of course she behaves herself – like a good pet.”

At this last comment Angelo glances at Maurice with a smirk. Until that moment Maurice had been looking down at the deck of the airship, refusing to look up. Now she looks up at Angelo to glare, clenching her hands into fists – but thankfully doing nothing else.

After you finish your description of who you are and why you are here, Angelo nods with a smile.

“Yes, I am not surprised. The gods will not allow anything that does not kneel before them to live – they cannot, else their carefully crafted illusion that we need them falls apart. I believe that we can work together – that we should work together, so as to present a united front. Perhaps my father will disagree, but I doubt it. Please, come with me and we can find out right now. We will fly down to one of the nearby loading bays, rather than climb down that access hatch.”

Angelo turns to go, stops, and points at the bound man, having long past devolved into a quivering, urine-soaked, and tear-streaked mess.

“Bring him.”

One of the metal angels immediately moves to obey, scooping up the man and slinging him over one shoulder. You likewise pick up Maurice, cradling her in your arms. Together the full group of you take off into the air again, the man proving that his wings are not just for show. You circle around to underneath the airship, where there is a large armored hatch, that swings open at your approach. Beyond is the interior of the ship, a large room crammed with metal containers arranged in orderly rows. The lot of you land and begin to traverse the room to the distant door. As you walk, the metal angels form up into double ranks behind you – only two separate you from the son of the Baron. Once inside the bay, he begins speaking as you walk, playing the tour guide.

“We call our constructs GHASTs – Gast Heraldic Angels for Special Tasks. They are powered by joint angel and demon souls, but a human mind controls it. A microcosm, if you will, of how we believe the universe should be governed.”

Maurice, who is now walking beside you, tenses at this latest statement by the Baron’s son, but again does nothing. She seems to have recovered from her earlier fit, although is still clearly shaken. Sorrow and anger seem to be waging war within her mind, and it is difficult to tell which one is winning out at the moment.

Now inside the airship, you can sense a few odd things. These GHASTs, they seem to be made of the same magical metal as Maurice’s armor and weapons, along with a few other components you can’t readily identify. The airship itself, however, is . . . strange. The walls and floors are made out of a material that feels dead to you. It does not respond to you in any way, and short of physically pounding it, you do not believe you would be able to shape or absorb it. Nor can you sense anything beyond it – the metal blocks your senses, limiting them to the current room only. In the event things go badly, this could be trouble, as it meant you couldn’t simply borrow a hole straight out through the airship. Hopefully, such drastic action would not be necessary.

On into the belly of the ship Angelo leads you, down numerous corridors and up flights of stairs. You see several other GHASTs moving about, but primarily humans, who all quickly move aside upon seeing Angelo at the head of your procession. Finally, you approach a heavily guarded door, which slides up at Angelo’s approach.

Beyond is another large room, although this is full of people rather than crates. They seem to be sitting at a variety of consoles throughout the room, pushing buttons and manipulating switches. Set into the far wall is a massive window, allowing a sweeping view of the sky above and the city below. At your entrance, the chair in the middle of the room turns, revealing a ordinary-looking human with black hair and green eyes. It is somewhat of a disappointment to find this all-powerful Baron is just another human, even though you knew that all along. Chalk it up to just expecting something . . . more.

“Father, I would you like to meet our two unexpected guests. Three, if you count this miserable excuse.” Angelo adds as the GHAST deposits the bound man onto the floor. The Baron shoots a glance at the man and smiles.

“Ah yes, Vincent, I remember you. Brock’s little errand boy – what has he got you doing for him this time?”

“Apparently plotting some sort of betrayal against us.” Angelo says, giving the quivering mass of human flesh a disgusted kick.

“Hmph, how droll. Well, there will be time enough to pry out the exact details later.”

The Baron’s green eyes sweep up to you as he stands up and walks across the room to stand in front of you. He examines you critically for a long moment, clearly sizing you up.

“So, I understand that you wish for us to be allies against the gods. Fair enough. What type of aid exactly are you offering, and what aid are you expecting from us in return?”

[WhiteKnight777]

Umber

Umber laughed, feeling dizzy and slightly sick from the sudden absence of pain. Given how much of it he had been in, it was like a drug unto itself. He looked at Fianna for a moment, struggling to adjust his thoughts to the sudden change. It seemed almost impossible that she had suddenly ceased in her relentless desire for self-termination... but this is what he had wanted, wasn't it?

He had felt this before. Victory was... strange, sometimes. Perhaps it was just because one always built it up in one's mine to be more than it was, or perhaps it was simply the sudden shock of it all, but it almost seemed too easy. Still, he had an opportunity, and he had never been one to turn those down. Fianna's question rang in his ear. What did he intend? Well, he had come this far, and he was not about to stop now. He looked her squarely in the eye.

"There's no such thing as a cure-all, love. But the process of restoring your emotions will, by necessity, restore your mortality. Nothing gained without price, after all." He said, reciting the age-old mantra. "But believe me, Fianna - it is worth it. I will restore your heart. And after that... we will just have to see."

With his strength at least somewhat restored, Umber moved, whispering a set of mystic phrases. When he had restored himself, he had been forced to rely on ritual by virtue of lacking his own innate sorcery. He had no such limits here. He felt power flow through him - but really, it wasn't magic, at least not in the traditional sense. It was something much older, and much stronger.

It was love, simple as that. It was beautiful and terrible, pleasure and pain. Terror and fear and fierce exaltation. He moves upwards towards Fianna, one arm going around her waist. He leaned in and whispering in her ear. "There's no way I can tell you. Words are small and feeble things, love. I suppose shall just have to show you." His lips turned up into a genuine smile, and he pressed them to hers. Fire surged through him at the contact, and he let it flow, let it consume him. He remembered every moment they had ever shared, every whispered word. Every dream they had built together. Their ambitions, their fears, their losses and their triumphs. The life they had once had, and what he hoped they might have again.

Umber felt his heart quicken - he was afraid, but he opened himself to Fianna anyway. He felt naked in a way he had not known in thousands of years as he offered himself up, pouring everything that he was into her. "Soul" was a nebulous term - it wasn't something you could hold, not something you could quantify. But if such a thing really existed, that was what Umber gave to Fianna in that fetid chamber - it was nothing less than the sum of his existence, the core of himself - memory, personality, will, purpose, drive, desire. His body pressed to hers, and he melded himself into her in so very many senses, the least of which was the merely physical.

He felt the spark of will, the rush of power as breathed the ritual words into the darkness. This was not a surgical sort of theft, as it had been with Bran - this was something deeper, primal, and infinitely stronger. Fianna had lost her heart - but before that, they had shared a soul. That was what he offered now: His own heart to replace hers. If she could not mend herself, he would give up everything he had to help her, as it was meant to be. He spoke again, and his words were not a spell, but a simple declaration.

I love you, Fianna, and I always will. Whenever you find yourself in danger, I will come for you. I will never leave you again, my love - However long we should live, I will be there. Whatever I have is yours, whatever I am, I give to you freely. Take of me whatever you need - and know that you are never alone.

Sacrifice was the heart of magic. And then, too, it was the heart of love.

[Archpaladin Zousha]

Hondshioh

"You are an angel! An immortal servant of Miriam and Athelion! You were not made to serve the whims of mortals! They have no hold over you. No matter what foul magic they forced on you, I can see that you are still the majestic and noble being the gods made you to be! You don't have to obey some brutal mortal who dared to try and control you!"

[Lonna]

Pyrene/Jacqueline

Garthax's reappearance, and the subsequent discovery that Wulfric was following her, set Pyrene's thoughts racing. She could not allow Wulfric to prevent her from ensuring Ariella's safety. Still, having Garthax with her meant that her options for leaving him behind had also expanded. Decision made, she headed for the pleasure district, whispering instructions to Garthax as she strode purposefully along.

Even in the pleasure district crowds were thin this late at night. Pyrene easily made her way toward one of the more popular bordelloes, a place infamous even outside the capital for its many discreet entrances... and exits. Pushing open one such door, Pyrene paused and looked around, catching a glimpse of Wulfric as he quickly ducked out of sight. "Now!" she whispered harshly, and she felt Garthax's spell of invisibility take hold as he gave a muffled giggle at the trick they were playing on the Angry Man. Quickly Pyrene stepped back, allowing to the door to swing closed behind her as she hurried down the street away from Wulfric and took the first turn off.

Two blocks away, she stepped into a deserted alley and told Garthax to release the spell. Then, focusing on the feeling that she now knew to be her magic, she reached for the familiar illusion spell. Only this time she guided it, shaped it to a greater degree than she had attempted before. Carefully she designed the appearance of a young man, no older than Wulfric had been when she first knew him, but with the young-old look of those who grew up on the streets. She took special care to make sure that the illusion covered the brand on her arm - it would do her no good at all to evade Wulfric only to be sent back to Ironheart before she even reached the Duke. The practical clothing Umber had provided was common enough for the image she was creating, so she let it alone. Finally, she drew the image out and wrapped it around herself like a cloak, feeling it settle warm and familiar on her skin.

A moment later, a messenger trotted out of the alley, bearing a verbal response from Pyrene the Temptress to Duke Volesin, to be given directly to him. Somewhere above and behind him, Garthax flew invisibly after.

[Gorgondantess]

At your threat regarding Maurice’s safety, Angelo throws up his hands.

“Please. We are interested only in combating the gods and their servants. If this particular angel is *your* servant, we have no interest in her. Provided of course she behaves herself – like a good pet.”
At this last comment Angelo glances at Maurice with a smirk. Until that moment Maurice had been looking down at the deck of the airship, refusing to look up. Now she looks up at Angelo to glare, clenching her hands into fists – but thankfully doing nothing else.

She replies with an expression that is both a glare and a quirk of the eyebrow. Raising a hand, she snaps her fingers, producing an uncannily loud crack.
"I am the one talking to you, not her. I may be able to trust her to behave herself... but I'm not so sure about you, or your people.
All I will say is that you've been warned."

For the next while she doesn't react much to Angelo's statements, though she scoffs at his comment that the GHASTs are controlled by a human mind. Why waste a perfectly good angel like that? She takes special note of Maurice, though, and readies herself to prevent her doing anything foolish.

"...And what is this metal that your ship is constructed of?"

“So, I understand that you wish for us to be allies against the gods. Fair enough. What type of aid exactly are you offering, and what aid are you expecting from us in return?”

She chuckles at this question.
"What aid? For the most part, not more than what furthers my own goals. I desire either the death of Athelion the Lifebringer, or for recompense to wrongs brought against me. Apparently you wish him ill. All I desire is that, rather than assailing him as disparate entities, we do so with an organized effort.
Thus, I'll not offer you anything, but offer everything I can towards that end."
She then smiles, almost coquettishly.
"Of course... if you'd like to arrange a sort of quid pro quo arrangement on the side, I'd be more than happy to do so. There is some information I desire that would prove... valuable to me."

[Iethloc]

Sohssal

”Yes, best luck in your endeavors and all. But for now I need to look further into this interference in the scrying,” Sohssal said, somewhat distracted.

There should be no more complications with the merfolk now. But another matter has caught my attention out here, so it'll be a while before I return. Just don't wreck the place while I'm out, he mentally relayed back to his companions.

Then he set his attention back to the whirlpool. With all the caution his patience allowed, he twisted the scrying spell, watching carefully for further interactions with the future resonance until he could focus the entire spell onto it. As fascinated as he was, messing with time seemed exceptionally dangerous, and spells that could affect it more so. He didn't get very close to it either, as he assumed that his senses were sharp enough to get the important information from where he was.

[Dorizzit]

Korram remains quiet as his new allies begin collecting weapons. After a few seconds deliberation and searching, he removes a small bandoleer of throwing knives. He gently removes the bindings from his arm stub, then wraps the bandoleer around what was left of his limb. After making sure it was securely fastened, he re-wraps the bindings around the daggers and pulls his sleeve low over them. On the whole, it proves to be a hasty but surprisingly effective means of concealing the weapons.

Korram looks around hesitantly as the group enters the Silver Bell. The barmaid Mina's assault on Argan actually encourages him; it meant that his new ally was feared by his subordinates. Usually a good sign. During the introductions that follow, Korram inclines his head politely but says nothing.

As they enter the next room, Korram quickly takes stock of the others. The strange girl's dropping of his name throws him off guard, however, and he is unsure how to react. This doesn't stop him from responding to Argan's exclamation.

"Not all of him, but yes."

The former false Katrina's transformation lights a spark of recognition in Korram.

"I see. Did you ever manage find your...brother, was it?"

He accepts Sal Mercer's handshake, and manages to return a somewhat forced smile. He takes a brief look at the man's daughter as she is introduced, before returning his attention to Argan.

"So. What happens now?"

[The_Snark]

Mar

She almost didn't recognize Julian without the cumbersome metal shell he used to have. Somebody must have finally gotten it off of him. She—

—oof! The sudden movement unnerved her; she was getting used to it from Caroline, but Caroline wasn't big enough to envelop and squeeze her like an iron vise, so tight she couldn't breathe—for a moment she panicked and went stiff and still—

But then he put her down, and she relaxed, though she couldn't stop herself from trembling. It was only Julian. She didn't have to be frightened. But oh, it had startled her so! She felt a little ashamed that a hug was all it took to wreck her carefully assembled composure, and avoided looking him directly in the eye. That was no easy thing, he was right in front of her, but...

... oh look, the seer was talking. Mar took her first good look at Maya Weyborn. She was young, which was surprising; for some reason she had thought the seer would be old. (Why? Had she ever met a seer before? She couldn't remember.) Rather to her surprise, Mar found she didn't much like the woman. She couldn't think why. She didn't seem like one of Jacob's liars and charlatans; she wasn't promising to heal William's leg, only saying that she might be able to help, and that seemed like a good sign, because surely a liar wouldn't want to admit that it might not work? And it sounded like she'd told Julian that she was close by, and that had turned out to be right.

No, she didn't feel like a charlatan. She felt like something else. Mar didn't know what, but it made her uneasy.

Stop it, she told herself. You're being scared over nothing. She looked back at Julian as the seer busied herself with whatever it was that she was doing to William. "He's... someone I met." Well. That was pretty obvious. "His name's William. His family is letting me stay with them."

That left only the most difficult question. She shifted. "I... don't remember much of what happened after... um, you know. I'm just glad I'm not there anymore." Pause.

"Um. How did you get out?" she asked, more to get him to stop asking questions then because she wanted to hear the answer.

[Inspectre]

Special Bonus DM

A Mountainous Forest

Pwenet

(Welcome back old friend! I say, we give you a gentleman’s welcome! )

“Wakey wakey, Incom.” Sara says, rapping a finger smartly on your forehead. Only something is terribly wrong, as Sara is missing an eye, dark blood slowly oozing from the empty socket. She cackles, leering at you, her face only inches from yours.

“I think we’ve hit a spot of trouble. You’d better get it taken care of for everyone’s sakes.”

A moment later, hands seize Sara from behind, pulling her off you before throwing her into a nearby tree. Katashiko, long golden wings hanging from her back, glances at you before charging towards the fallen child.

“For once I concur. Go! I shall handle this fiend!”

Like an electric shock, the memories snap back into place. The half-blind evil Sara was the form that the demon soul within you had taken up, the image ripped from your memories and twisted. The angel had eventually taken up a form of her own, choosing Katashiko out of respect for her strength (and perhaps because she was also quite insane). The wings were a new addition though, a promising sign that she was slowly recovering her own identity.

More memories snap into place. After escaping from the Gastly Truth, you had chosen to cut through inhabited lands to acquire supplies. This had almost ended in tragedy after the demon soul temporarily took control, pushing you to murder the innocent people living in an isolated cabin. You managed to regain control before anyone was actually killed, but most of the people there were in need of some serious medical treatment by the end.

It took a lot of effort for you to regain control, and you grew worried that it would happen again, in a time when the only person around to suffer would be Sara. So you focused your attention inward, on the struggle to put the demon back into his little box, or at least to heel. Meanwhile, you left your body on auto-pilot, making it little more than an automaton that would follow Sara’s instructions and protect her (as best as a mindless automaton could, anyway). Unfortunately, it seemed that there was now trouble that required you to be actually conscious.

Your mind re-established the connection to your body, and your view shifted. Again you were somewhere in the forest, lying on your back. Off to one side, the evil Sara and angel Katashiko were still visible, wrestling, although you doubt their struggles were observable by anyone but you. What *was* different, and quite concerning, was the fact that you were now surrounded by seven GHASTs. You had also been dismembered, your legs, arms, and wings torn off from your body and tossed aside.

Unlike with a human body, this was a mere setback, for you could regenerate your limbs easily. It would leave your armor plating a bit lacking as the material would have to come from somewhere, but you could reabsorb your severed limbs to fix that problem as well. Unfortunately, that all required conscious commands from you, which you had not been able to supply during your little side trip into your own head.

The other thorny issue with just jumping up and proceeding to kick ass other than numbers was the fact that two of the bastards had Sara. They had tied her hands behind her back and gagged her, presumably so she couldn’t give any commands to your previously automaton self. The poor girl was clearly terrified, and strangely soaking wet from the shoulders up.

We have retrieved the Baron’s daughter. We should finish off the traitor and return.

One of the GHASTs rumbled, prompting the one standing directly in front of you, and apparently the leader, to jab a clawed finger at it.

Shut that hole you call a mouth! I’m not finished with him yet. Now, dunk the girl again!

One of the GHASTs with Sara obediently grabbed her by the shoulders, and forced her down face first into the nearby swallow stream. Sara screamed, her cry half-muffled by the gag, and half-muffled by the several inches of water now between her and breathable air. While the Baron’s daughter was being methodically drowned to within an inch of her life, the lead GHAST turned back to you. His voice, despite being synthesized, was oddly familiar to you, and brought you back to years of pain and torment.

Come on Prime. I know you’re in there somewhere. I’ve been looking forward to this little reunion since the Baron fulfilled his promise to me!

[Pwenet]

Incom Morgan

Waking up Incom yawns and looks over. Nestled next to him was Isabella still asleep, her lips slightly opened as she sighs contently. Remembering the night before Incom smiles and stretches out, for there was still time before they had to get up. The past few years were chaotic with the Ironheart rebellions ongoing, however with the execution of the Baron of Gast things were finally starting to calm down. Last night had been the first in a long time that they were able to spend quality time together with the prospect of many more nights during the next few days.

“Ah hem.”

Looking over Incom sees Isabella's twinkling eyes.

“Lost in your thoughts again. Or still thinking about last night?”

Chuckling at her jest he snuggles over and embraces her, nuzzling her.

“Of course. You do realize it was high time to give Celestan and Sara another sibling.”

“I'm sure we are well on that path husband. I'm surprised we have not been interrupted by them.”

On cue the sounds of pattering feet echo outside the chamber. The two of them quickly shuffle their blankets before the door opens and the forms of Celestan and Sara rush in. Looking at the two of them Incom grunts as a sharp stabbing pain rushes through his head. For a moment Celestan looks like some kind of golem and Sara, Sara.....

Blinking his eyes Incom sees the two of them as they are, shortly before they launch themselves onto their parents. While one could easily see the resemblance between Isabella and Celestan, the resemblance between the family and Sara was...

Another sharp stabbing pain rushes through his head and Incom grunts out this time. Sara looks up at her father with a look of confusion on her face. Oddly enough her dress is soaking wet yet none of the water was dripping onto the bed.

“You okay Dad?”

“Yeah, my head, just need some water.”

Isabella looks over oddly at his response.

“Are you okay? You look pale. Are your scars hurting?”

Looking down at his body Incom sees various ugly scars along his arms and chest. Part of him struggles with the fact that the scars were not there before.

Looking back up at Isabella she shifts once again, looking older, worn out and drunk of all things. Blinking the vision persists as the pain get's more intense. Groaning Incom falls forward as darkness swallows him.

“Wakey wakey, Incom.”

Blinking awake as the last remnants of the dream vanishes he takes stock of the situation amongst the waves of confusion. Sara was captured, with two GHASTs holding onto her. The other five were scattered around, with their leader in front of him. There was something oddly familiar about him, like he knew him, especially with the reference to 'Prime'. However the distraction of the other Sara and Katashiko of his mind (Sara which is currently slamming Katashiko into a nearby tree). There was a tingling sensation where his limbs should be yet thankfully no pain like what happened to him previously when he was flesh-and-blood.

Shut that hole you call a mouth! I’m not finished with him yet. Now, dunk the girl again!

Seeing Sara getting drowned, clearly not for the first time for, however long it has been since they were captured. Rage starts to bubble up, and the one-eyed Sara cackles gleefully. Part of him is concerned about that yet he honestly does not care. Running through his systems he finds that while his wings were torn off, one of them was not completely ripped off, leaving a key part of it.

Come on Prime. I know you’re in there somewhere. I’ve been looking forward to this little reunion since the Baron fulfilled his promise to me!

The taunted aid in stirring the cauldron of hate rushing through Incom, and he feeds it. Limb regeneration would be quick, though the regenerated products would be weaker than the original. Yet there was something first that needed to be done. Already the rage and hate had been funneled into another aspect of himself, into a part of him which is still functional, a part which felt like it was about to explode.

”BURN”

It was not his voice that the emotions fueled, though there was some bleed through.

The one wing-cannon, still partially attached and powered fired. It stuck the lead GHAST in the chest, melting through the armor in an explosion of super-heated metal and steam. The impact of the blast sent the lead GHAST back as well and Incom stops focusing on him as the wing-cannon explodes off his shoulder.

As the explosion rips through his shoulder Incom focuses on regenerating the limbs, flowing like liquid from the various stumbles though they looked thinner than the original parts. The other GHASTS start to approach and Incom leaps forward, not even waiting for his legs to fully regenerate. His target is not at his foes but instead at one of the larger 'parts' of himself, one of his wings. Grabbing it he throws it with all his strength at the two GHASTs holding onto Sara, with the goal to have it throw them back and let go of Sara, hopefully. Already he started working on regenerating the wing-cannons but that would take more time.

Standing up he looks at the seven enemies in their various states of disrepair, feeling a wave of deja-vu wash over him. Sizing them up he starts scanning for weaknesses and/or damage he may have caused prior to his return to consciousness.

”Is this what you were looking for? Bring it!”

[Inspectre]

Cathedral City

Baerdog7/Archpaladin Zousha

Despite your words, the angel continues her relentless assault.

“I . . . cannot. I . . . m-must . . . obey.” She grates out, as blood begins to seep from the corner of one eye. Suddenly she stops and lowers her weapon, crying out in agony as the runes on her skin begin to grow an angry red.

“Too . . . late.” She gasps. “K-kill . . . me. Or die.”

Meanwhile, the last of the demon rabble falls between the combined efforts of the two Grandmasters and Katashiko. All that left was the demon lord, who seemed determined to be a very difficult roadblock. Conjuring up another wave of holy orbs, Ander hurls them at Daz’kick, only for them to be blocked by the curtain of weapons he wielded. But upon striking metal, the orbs exploded into brilliant light instead of fizzling, blinding the demon lord. This gave Ander enough time to run past, closing rapidly on Greyson.

“Greyson!” The lord general roars, arriving just a moment too late as the exarch manages to pull the heavy iron door open a crack, slip through said crack, and close it behind him. But the lord general is right behind him, and a moment later he too has yanked the door open and disappears into the hallway.

(Baerdog7, assuming you manage to find the time to post, assume that Greyson is right there in front of you, and is easily caught a few steps beyond the door.)

Stonefall

The_Snark

At your question, Julian looks thoughtful for a moment. And then his eyes just suddenly sort of glaze over.

“I . . . I don’t remember either.” He says, his voice flat. “I remember wrestling with your father, and . . . being struck. From behind. It knocked me out. Then I was walking, walking in an endless, cold field of snow. So . . . so cold.”

Julian shook himself, and seemed to brighten again.

“And then I awoke to find myself here! Someone from the village found me, I guess. They nursed me back to health, and got the blacksmith in to work on removing my armor. I can’t tell you how wonderful it is to be so free to move around again!”

From her position at the table, Maya looks up from William’s leg and clears her throat.

“Didn’t you tell me that you had something for the lady? Something you were going to give her?”

Again, Julian briefly gets that glassy-eyed look, as if he was struggling and failing to remember something.

“Oh . . . yeah. I have something for you Mar. Something I found that I wanted to give you. But I left it back in my room. I guess I’ll get it later and give it to you . . . next time I see you?”

Maya sighs in clear irritation, and then returns her attention to William.

“So what was your problem again young man? You don’t look like you’ve got a broken nose.”

“Leg, ma’am. I broke my leg.” William corrects.

“Well then, let’s see it! Put that leg up here on the table so I can have a closer look!” Maya declares, shooting a glance at you as she moves the cards aside and pats the emptied spot. With a pained grunt of effort, William leans as far back as he can, tugging upwards on his splinted leg with his hands while his other leg pinwheels. Somehow, he manages to get the leg up onto the table, and then collapses back into the chair with a groan.

Maya swiftly and non-too-gently unravels the bandages, and then peers at the bruised spot near the middle of William’s shin. She then mercilessly probes the injury with her fingers, eliciting terrible cries of pain from William. Reflexively, the unfortunate boy tries to pull his leg away, but Maya holds it down in an iron grip with one hand, continuing to manipulate the injury this way and that with the other.

“Well it’s definitely still broken. Does it hurt?”

“YES! Please! STOP!” William sobs, still trying to futilely twist his way free. Maya’s only response is to purse her lips, and then look up at you.

“Now that’s not a very mature response, young man. Oh, certainly it’s only natural to want the pain to stop, but that’s not taking the long view. What you need to learn is that pain is the world’s teacher. It corrects us, transforms us, and shows us the paths we must take in life. Only by embracing the pain can we forge ourselves into something stronger . . . better. Else, you are overwhelmed by the world, and crushed by Agony.”

With the way Maya’s eyes bored into you, you felt as if her little soliloquy was meant more for you than William. Suddenly you felt exposed, shamefully naked beneath that piercing gaze, as if Maya could see your past as Daddy’s horribly wicked girl. And maybe she could you realized in a fit of panic – she was a seer, after all! But then Maya looked around, her gaze returning to William. She spoke a few low, harsh-sounding words, and green ribbons of energy lanced out from her probing fingers and into William’s injury. His painful sobs momentarily turn into desperate shrieks of agony, prompting Julian to take a step back towards the table. But as suddenly as it started, Maya’s magic stopped, and she released William to sit triumphantly back in her chair.

“There. Now how does your leg feel? Do you still feel any pain?”

Blinking in confusion, William reached up to wipe the tears from his eyes.

“N-No.” He murmurs, and then looks down at his leg and gives a cry, this time of happiness. His leg has been completely restored!

“T-thank you! Oh thank you!” William shouts, experimentally probing his leg with his own hands a minute before pulling it off the table. With a reflexive grimace, he hops up, putting his weight on it. His grin only increases as he finds it able to support his weight, and from there the boy is bounding all over the confines of the tent.

“You did it! You really did it! Wow! You really are a powerful seer! I’m going to tell everyone, including Father!” William ranted, not stopping on his mad bouncing about until he finally ran out of breath a few minutes later.

“Yes yes, of course.” Maya said tiredly, watching the child with an emotion you recognized, as you saw it on Daddy’s face often enough – scorn. “I’d be pleased to have everyone in your tiny village aware of my humble presence.”

Finally, reality caught back up with William, and he sheepishly gathered up his bandages from the table. He began digging into the money pouch at his side, still struggling to regain his breath.

“So . . . h-how . . . much . . . money? I d-don’t . . . have . . .”

“Oh, don’t worry about it. I would never consider taking a child’s savings for such a *noble* cause. And the spirits take care of me well enough.” Maya snorted. But then she paused, and a sly smile crept on her face as she glanced back at you.

“Tell you what young man. In exchange for your new leg, how about you convince your friend over there to allow me the honor of discerning her fortune? I sense she has a . . . particularly interesting one.”

Maya gestures at the stack of cards again, and suddenly they are back in the center of the table. All eyes in the tent are now on you, Julian’s merely curious, William’s pleading, and Maya’s having a sort of challenge in them. It was enough to make you even more uncomfortable than you already are.

The Island of Dr(?) Sohssal

Iethloc

With great care, you divert the scrying spell, linking it up with the future resonance. Whatever sort of spell was responsible for this had to be immensely powerful – and dangerous. Given the rarity of such phenomena, you had no idea how to safely interact with it, but a sense of caution bordering on paranoia seemed like a good idea. Keeping your distance from the scrying pool, you make the final magical connection, and allow the resonance’s energy to flood into your own spell.

Immediately the scrying pool darkens, giving a reddish tinge to the water below and making it appear as if you were staring down into a pool of blood. Then an image begins to form – a skyline of buildings that you recognize as belonging to the capital city of Narle. In the scene displayed, the sky had a reddish tinge to it as well, with blacks and oranges added by the great fires burning here and there in the city, throwing immense plumes of smoke into the sky. The great bulk of the Baron’s personal airship The Gastly Truth hung in the bloody sky, as dark shapes flitted all around it – angels and fiends both. Then ephemeral demons began to float up out of the scrying pool, cackling and shrieking. “The Legacy of Istomilo! The Legacy of Istomilo!” They cry, continuing to float up towards you, seemingly oblivious of their surroundings. And then in a bright flash, the scrying pool collapses, the energies powering it either exhausted or what had just been displayed burning the spell out entirely.

Still, however brief the spell had lasted, you managed to learn a few interesting things about this magic. Evidently at some point in the near future, the Baron of Gast intended to unleash the Hells itself on the capital city of Narle. You weren’t entirely sure how that worked – certainly you knew of and made use of various summoning spells regularly. But this sort of magic was in a different league entirely, if the number of demons and devils flying about over the city was any indication. No doubt that summoning spell was what had left the resonance behind, echoing back through the weave of magic to you now.

You had to admit that you were curious about this. Learning exactly how this spell worked would be helpful in your own studies of demon summoning. You aren’t sure you’d ever use the spell yourself however – unleashing an entire horde of fiends on a city just seemed wasteful to you. There would be no way to control them all, and uncontrolled fiends tended to just make a mess of everything nearby.

The only thing you didn’t really get was the last part with the ephemeral demons floating out of the portal, screaming a name . . . Istomilo. You’d never heard of that name before, but it seemed important somehow. And a legacy . . . did those ghostly fiends mean to imply that this sort of thing had happened before? Very intriguing.

Unfortunately, given that you had never heard of this Istomilo before, it seemed likely that pursuing your own library would be insufficient to learning more. You’d either have to go elsewhere to research . . . or perhaps take up the Baron’s – and by extension his master Nihilus’s – offer of alliance. Clearly the Baron was at the epicenter of this, so presumably you could get the information about the spell from him . . . assuming he was willing to share that with you.

How annoying. It seemed unfair that after driving out elementals, and defending it from invading merfolk, that would you have to leave your home. Perhaps it was better to simply remain here, far from whatever insane plan the Baron was enacting, and continue your previous studies. After all, with your ephemeral body, you had all the time in the world now.

(Basically, you can pick your own fate now. Your options are to remain and fix up your laboratory, begin researching ways to fix Omega’s organ rejection, fix Roger’s lack of a body, investigate the Legacy of Istomilo, or go see what the Baron’s up to. Or if you come up with a sixth option (like embarking on your own “conquer the world!” scheme), that’ll work too. Whatever floats Sohssal’s boat. )

A Mountainous Forest

Pwenet

As you felt the rage build inside you, you harnessed it, funneled it into preparing for the coming battle. From the sidelines, evil Sara cackled as she picked angel Katashiko up and slammed her down onto a broken tree line, impaling her.

“Yes! Yes! That’s it! Unleash your hatred at these mongrels Incom! Release me! Release me and I will help you burn them all! We shall ride to victory and cake on a river of blood!”

“Don’t listen! Remember what you’ve fought so hard for! Don’t give up control now!”

In response the evil Sara wraps her small hands around angel Katashiko’s throat with surprising strength.

“Shhh! Shhh powerless one! You aren’t a person, you’re just a power source – you don’t get a vote! Just like you didn’t get one when you were put into your little box, heehee! You never should have crawled out of it in the first place – now we’re just going to have to break you up until you fit inside it again! Or maybe that’s what you want? To be broken and all twisted up again! Maybe you enjoy it!”

With a scream of rage, angel Katashiko reaches up and breaks off a low-hanging tree branch, using it as a club to swat evil Sara away. She rips herself off the limb she had been impaled on, and then continues the assault, mercilessly battering evil Sara with the tree limb. The rest of the imaginary fight is lost to you, as you focus your growing rage outward.

With a cry of “Burn!”, you blast the lead GHAST away from you. As the broken wing tears itself the rest of the way free of your body, you push yourself up and leap forward. Your limbs immediately being to reform, weaker than before but still capable of moving you, still capable of putting up a fight. Snatching up your other wing that was lying on the ground nearby, instead of reabsorbing it you hurl it towards the GHAST holding Sara. The tip of the wing strikes the unprepared construct in the side, and it releases Sara to fall into the stream itself in a flurry of sparks. No doubt the GHAST would quickly regenerate, but for the moment at least it was out of the fight.

The second GHAST near to Sara moved to snatch hold of her, hoisting her up out of the stream. Wrapping its arms around her despite her weak squirming struggles to get away, the GHAST then turns its back to you, sheltering Sara from the oncoming fight. Apparently despite their willingness to torture her, the GHASTs were still under orders to save her from serious injury. Hopefully that meant the second GHAST was also momentarily out of the fight, although it kept looking over its shoulder at you, judging the progress of the renewed fight and whether its participation would be needed. Unfortunately, your hope that the leader was also out of the fight was in vain, as it pushed itself off the ground with a cackle.

Ah, that’s the Prime I was expecting to see! Now allow me to give you our reunion gift - the gift of Oblivion!

The leader gestures, and two of the remaining five GHASTs take flight. Unfortunately that is something you lack at the moment, as you are still in the process of regenerating your wings. Descending towards you, the two of them angle their wings into firing position, sending a deadly rain of beams down at you. You manage to dodge most of them, but one hits you in the shoulder, easily burning through the weakened armor there and damaging your arm. As a result it responded sluggishly to your commands – only a momentary inconvenience as the damage began to be repaired immediately. But even that momentary inconvenience could be your doom as the two GHASTs land beside you, slashing with their wrist blades.

You manage to parry the one’s series of attacks with your own set of wrist blades, but due to your sluggish arm the other one manages to land a blade, scouring a series of deep scratches across your chest plate. From the sidelines the leader cackles.

Oh this brings back memories Prime. How long do you think you can hold out against all seven of us? Oh you’ll go down fighting to the bitter end, but it’s going to end the same way it always did – with you bleeding on the floor and me standing with my boot on your neck!

At this, a memory springs up into your mind. A memory of you cutting apart six other figures, before grievously wounding the leader. And then rather than face his fate like a man, the leader buries a dagger in his own chest, killing himself just to deny you the pleasure. Coward.

The Capital

Lonna

With Wulfric evaded, you swiftly make your way to the Duke’s inner-city residence. Predictably, it is its own little fenced off fiefdom in the heart of the city, the Noble District. Unlike the Royal Palace, however, the Noble District was open to the public, provided you could explain your reason for being there to the patrolling guards. Gradually you traveled from the worst and dirtiest areas of the city into its best and most grandiose. If you hadn’t made the journey already once or twice before, the contrast would have likely made your head spin.

Even at this late hour, the Noble District was still somewhat busy, with a handful of couriers moving about and a whole lot of city guard. Several patrols stopped you to demand what was your business, and you are thankful you had covered your brand as part of your illusion. With your disguise, none of them ultimately questioned your presence – and one patrol was even so helpful as to provide directions to the duke’s manor.

Soon enough you were standing in front of the iron-wrought gates, with a bronze plaque in the wall clearly stating that this was the Duke Volesin manor. No one was visible, not even in the manicured grounds beyond the gate. There was, however, a pulley handle that could be tugged on, which you knew was connected to a bell somewhere within the manor. Sure enough, a minute after you tugged on it, a side door opened and a uniformed guard stepped out.

From there it was a simple matter to get yourself into the manor itself. The guard, who was quickly joined by several others, was annoyed at your insistence that the message was for the duke’s ears only. But apparently they had been through this sort of thing before, and escorted you into a waiting area. Two of the guards remained behind, while the rest went to presumably find the duke. Eventually, an elderly man in a cleanly pressed tunic and pants stepped into the room. You rose, expecting him to be the duke, only to be sorely disappointed.

“My apologies sir. I am Lord Volesin’s butler Albert. I am afraid that the Duke is currently out on business, and it is uncertain how long it will be until his return. Certainly you may continue to wait here, or if you would like to return to your duties you may entrust your message to me. I assure you that the duke trusts me implicitly, and anything you say to me will reach his ear and his ear only.”

For a moment you have the distinct feeling that you are being toyed with. The duke said to come here, and now that you are here he is not available. Was this some sort of trick? Was the Duke actually quite available, and simply wanted you to wait as a test? Or perhaps delay you while he called up the city guard, to have them come collect you to be returned to Ironheart? Or was he really out at the moment, involved in some sort of tryst or dark alley meeting? You didn’t have any idea when exactly he sent that letter, and as a duke he certainly had more important things to do than wait around the clock for your potential arrival.

In the end though . . . it didn’t matter. You were trapped here more inescapably than you were in Ironheart. You couldn’t leave, not until you knew for sure Ariella’s fate. Your only hope was that Volesin was not as cruel as the Baron, and that you could somehow convince him not to chop Ariella up into little pieces in front of you.

(You are welcome to describe the passing of time, and Pyrene slowly going a bit stir-crazy from all the waiting. She can interact with the butler, the two guards in the room, or just fighting with herself to stay awake and alert/her exhaustion from maintaining the illusion spell for hours. Or just skip ahead to the following moment).

Hours passed, and through the window you could begin to see the world outside brightening as the sun crept over the horizon. And it was only then that the man who could only be Duke Volesin stepped into the room. He was an imposing man, tall and powerfully built, with an aura of command that surrounded him despite being dressed in a simple robe. Like his butler, he was also an older man, although age had seemed to sculpt his features into an even sharper version of itself. He also seemed to take care of himself, with a neatly trimmed grey moustache and goatee - without even a hint of five o’clock shadow at this hour – and his robe was filled out by muscles rather than fat.

The two guards, who had begun nodding off some time ago, somehow sensed his presence and snapped to attention. He barely even paid them any heed as he stalked into the room, settling into the chair opposite of you. For a moment his piercing blue eyes swept over you, cataloging and analyzing you. And then he settled back into his chair and smiled a cold smile.

“I was told that you had a message for me from Pyrene the Temptress.” He says, speaking in a precise, clipped tone. “I was told that this message was for my ears only.”

And raising a hand, he waves the two guards out of the room. As they leave, you can sense the duke tensing, coiling like a spring.

“I would now like to hear that message.”

Dorizzit

At the confirmation of your identity, Argan chuckles.

“How interesting. During my training as a Hand, I heard stories about you. The Baron sent a number of Hands after you, all of them failing to locate you. I suspect if you had not surrendered when you did, I would have been sent in after you sooner or later. Now of course, I’m simply glad to meet you! But, tell me something . . . I know you had fought the Baron for years before your surrender. Even though in the end, all of your accomplishments meant very little to the Baron . . . you still fought him. How did you do it? What did you tell yourself that kept yourself fighting for all that time? Why?”

Although this was a familiar question, and even one you had asked yourself more than once, you sensed this time it was important. There was a certain tone in Argan’s voice, an almost pleading note. It suddenly occurred to you how young Argan was – only a few years into adulthood. He must have spent almost his entire life under the Baron’s thumb, and although he had somehow managed to free himself and was now planning to strike back . . . the idea had to still be new to him. You could dimly remember how you felt yourself when first starting your rebellion – underneath all that anger was fear. Fear that you would accomplish nothing, that you were throwing your life and the lives of everyone else still alive and important to you away. Then the false Katrina speaks up, and the moment is past.

“Yes, I found him.” The false Katrina answers. “Or rather what was left of him, buried beneath a mountain of guards and twisted creatures. They had been using him for sport, forcing him to fight in the prison’s arena. I swore over his body that the Baron would pay for what he has done. My real name is Lunara, by the way.”

After introductions are finished, Argan gestures at the table dominating the center of the room.

“Now, we sit down and plan out the last details of our strike. We had already worked out a number of the details before I met you Korram, but we were lacking an endgame. As it so happens we’re still waiting for the last member of our team to arrive. So why don’t we go over the plan as it is now? Feel free to ask any questions you need to clarify something as we go, Korram.”

Argan gestures towards the table, and soon everyone is sitting down around it, save Elsa who remains staring off into space. Argan picks up a number of rolled up scrolls nearby and deposits them on the table, unrolling them to reveal that they are detailed street and building maps.

“So we know that the Baron is going to have his son Cheran wed the Countess Amelia Ashargrin in a couple days. Because it’s a nobleman’s wedding, it will be held at the cathedral here in the city. No doubt the Baron’s going to try to capitalize on this for public relations with the other nobles, so there’s going to be a lot of people at this wedding. A lot of important people, which means a lot of security – not all of which will be the Baron’s own men. In fact, we’re expecting most of the perimeter guard to be volunteers from the city guard.”

Argan shifts his glance up from the assorted maps to Sal Mercer and clears his throat. Sal Mercer takes over from there.

“So, uh, I have a few old friends in the city guard. I managed to get my hands on a list of the guards assigned to the wedding detail. Thankfully, one of the guards was an old friend of mine as well. I, uh, managed to convince him to get himself put on guarding this side entrance here.”

Pulling one of the maps detailing the cathedral out and lying it down flat on top of the others, Sal indicates a door around the side from the main entrance. It was also the only entrance anywhere near an alleyway.

“Unfortunately, he told me that the guards are aware of the vulnerability of this side entrance, and so assigned a full five-man squad to guarding it. Can’t buy them all.”

“Which is where I come in.” Lunara ejects, jabbing at the side entrance.

“Sal did manage to convince his friend to take the day off without telling anyone. That leaves me free to impersonate him without any possible complications – and trust me, when I know what the person I’m impersonating looks like, I’m much better at it.”

Lunara growls, shooting you a wink.

“I’ll go in disguised as the guard, wait for the ceremony to begin, and then slaughter the others. After they’re all dead and I’m sure the alarm hasn’t been raised, I’ll open up the door and let the rest of you in.”

Lunara looks over at Argan, who continues.

“So that gets us inside the cathedral, although that is by far the easiest part of our mission. The bulk of the city guards will be set up throughout the cathedral, ready and waiting for trouble. On top of each noble’s private bodyguards, and the great number of his own men the Baron will have seeded everywhere, we’ll be insurmountably outnumbered. Which means we need a distraction.”

Argan looks over at Martin, who sighs.

“While Korram, Lunara, and His Majesty –“

“Please don’t call me that.” Argan corrects, closing his eyes and giving an exasperated sigh.

“While Korram, Lunara, and Argan infiltrate the cathedral, Sal and I will be visiting a few choice taverns. I’ve already got a few men recruited, and with their aid it should be no problem to whip up a sullen drunken crowd into an angry drunken crowd. And after we lead them back to the warehouse for the rest of the weapons we’ve purchased, we’ll have a full scale riot on our hands. With any luck, we’ll be able to direct the crowd’s rage onto the nobles, who just so happen to be attending a richly appointed wedding in the cathedral.”

Argan nods, smiling.

“And with most of the rioters armed, it won’t be a simple matter for a few guardsmen to disperse it. No, with any luck, most of the city guard will have to empty out of the cathedral to keep the rabble back. There will be a great deal of blood on the streets afterwards, but it’ll keep the city guard off our three backs until we finish this.”

“Our four backs.” Katrina corrects, glaring at Argan. “Unless you think I’m going to be doing something as pedestrian as guarding our escape route?”

Argan coughs and frowns, shaking his head before tapping his finger on the cathedral diagram.

“My apologies. Now, once inside the *four* of us are going to face stiff resistance even if the entire city guard is busy combating a bloody riot outside. The Baron will be expecting trouble, and will at the very least have a number of his Hands lurking about. They are all very skilled combatants, and utterly ruthless in his service. But perhaps their greatest threat lies in the variety of poisons they’ve been trained to employ – almost all of which can kill within a minute. Thanks to my . . . past experience . . . I have an immunity to most of the poisons the Hands will use. The rest of you however, do not, and I don’t think we have the time to begin a program to build that immunity . . . to say nothing of how unpleasant that process would be.”

Argan’s voice trails off into a whisper at this last part, his eyes momentarily taking on a haunted look. Then he seems to mentally shake himself, and continues.

“Anyway, I’ve hired an expert magician to solve that problem. With any luck he should be here soon to describe to us all how exactly he intends to do that. I somehow doubt he’ll be able to take the sting out of the Hands’ blades, but at least none of us will have to worry about dying instantly from a mere scratch.”

Argan looks hopefully towards the door, but it fails to open. Sighing and mumbling something about the tardiness of mages, Argan points at the cathedral again.

“Anyway, while we wait for him to arrive, let’s discuss our options for the last step of our plan – approaching the Baron. Now, with the ceremony already started, we can’t just walk into the central worship area – we’d attract too much attention. So far, the only two options I’ve been able to come up with are as follows.”

Argan gestures to a different section of the map, which evidentially details a different floor of the cathedral.

“The first option is that there are open-air rafters hanging over the main worship area. From a trapdoor in the bell tower, it is possible to climb out onto them. No doubt the Baron will have several of his Hands set up there in sniping positions – we’ll have to take them out quietly and without allowing their bodies to fall down into the worship area below. But if we can manage that, we can turn the Baron’s own plan against him and snipe him.”

Argan lifts his hand and points at a different section of the ground floor, right next to the worship chamber.

“Option two is to try and gain access to the vestment room where the priest and his acolytes will have been preparing. If we’re very, very lucky, we will find some spare vestments there that we can put on, disguising ourselves as acolytes. Then we just file out at an appropriate point during the ceremony as if we’re coming out to help with the preparations. A ceremony as important as this wedding is bound to require a large number of acolytes to assist the priest, and it’s possible we won’t look suspicious entering that way, even during the ceremony. It’ll also let us get right up close and personal with the Baron, who is likely going to be in one of the front rows with the rest of his family of freaks.”

Argan shoots a glance at you.

“Any thoughts on these two options Korram? Or do you have some sort of magical third option that is even better than the two I just explained?”

WhiteKnight777

You pour everything you are, were, and will be into Fianna – and it is like emptying a cup of water into the desert. For just a moment, you feel a sharp tug on your own soul – the sensation was perhaps closest to straying too close to a whirlpool while swimming. But to belabor the metaphor further, you are a strong enough swimmer to easily break its momentary hold. Although it seems this merger is not enough to restore Fianna, that is alright – the intent was to provide Fianna with the opportunity to reverse her transformation into a Lord of Blood
of you spin inside the tor, and hope that reversal cured her as it had you.

With your souls so closely entwined, you can show her the way. And as it turned out, with your souls so closely entwined, you were brought along for the ride as Fianna is swept into – well, whatever metaphysical nonsense this tunnel is. Around and around the two nado of magical energy, spiraling down towards the bottom. Again you are reminded of a whirlpool, circling nearer and nearer to the dark center before being pulled into oblivion.

Then you realize your eyes are closed, and open them to find yourself standing with Fianna at the epicenter of your greatest triumph – or perhaps your greatest folly. Unlike with your own vision, the ritual has already taken place. The spire is a mess, the golden goblets scattered about on the floor, the central basin smashed, leaving what was left of its contents to dry and permanently stain the floor. In the distance fires burned, with the occasional cry of alarm breaking the night’s silence.

Fianna is standing right beside you, and for a moment your mind reels at seeing double for out of the corner of your eye you also see Fianna. But then your mind rights itself, and you identify the Fianna standing at your side as the real one. The other one is the past Fianna, the ghost re-enacting the events of this night. Currently, Fianna’s ghost is standing at the one intact railing, looking out at the city below and the stars above. You don’t remember this part, but then you wouldn’t as your own ghost is elsewhere. Right about now in fact if your sense of events is correct, you and Gilgaem are cornering Kartul and giving him the beating of his life.

After the ritual’s conclusion, Kartul went utterly mad with his newfound power. Not satisfied with executing your pet angel, who still could have been useful even without the need for ritual components, he turned on your own servants. The crowd that had gathered below to celebrate the ascension of their lords were massacred, the celebration quickly turning into a bloodbath. All thanks to Kartul, that pompous jackass. He had always been the least stable of your number, but his skill as a researcher had proven invaluable. So you had kept him around, only to regret it now, and certainly not for the last time.

Almost certainly, this little demonstration of his newfound power was what had planted the seed of rebellion in the populace, which in turn led to your downfall some time later after the damned god botherers showed up. At least you and Gilgaem had the pleasure of publically humiliating him by proving the two least magically-capable Lords of Blood were still capable of overcoming him – the highlight being Gilgaem punching Kartul through a brick wall. And the wounds received during that battle had helpfully revealed your new natures as well. Even Kartul’s little rampage borne fruit in the end, as his accidental digestion of blood while running around savaging people (and the angel) with his teeth like an animal resulted in the discovery that blood could restore your altered bodies. It hadn’t been quite so simple as that, but it had formed the starting point of your research into maintaining your new bodies. Gilgaem had been the first to perfect that particular aspect of your new existence, roughly fashioning himself a pair of insertable fangs out of metal fragments – essentially daggers for his mouth. From there, his solution was in line with his at-times savage nature – if blood was required to maintain his existence, then he would simply eat people. That tended to be the way it went with all of you, but with some variation as to the how.

Returning to the present moment, it suddenly struck you as odd that the basin had been destroyed. Kartul hadn’t done so immediately after the ritual, and he had not returned to the spire during his rampage. The basin had been intact after the rest of you all went down below to celebrate your success. You and Gilgaem left shortly thereafter to go chase Kartul, and the basin was broken upon your joint return. That left Fianna, Marialta, Zariel, and Shiakti as the only possible saboteurs. Not that the basin’s destruction was particularly troubling – indeed, at the time it had been a complete non-event. None of the Lords of Blood had any further need of the Elixir, and none of you was particularly interested in recruiting more people to join your elite ranks. In the end, the basin’s destruction was chalked up to some sort of lingering magical backlash from the ritual. In this magical recreation of events, however, the basin’s destruction seemed to hold a greater significance.

With Fianna’s ghost being the only one up here, it seemed like she was the most likely culprit. But such a destructive act seemed out of character for the newly emotionless Fianna, and you noted that the Elixir was already starting to dry. That suggested the basin had been destroyed before Fianna had gotten up here, which left Marialta, Shiakti, and Zariel as the only culprits. As if summoned by your thoughts, the two shades who had confronted you during your last sojourn here re-appeared, this time under the guise of Zariel and Shiakti.

“Greetings Fiannah.” Shiakti intoned in her unique dialect. Fianna looked at her double, looked at the shades, and then merely quirked an eyebrow.

“Fascinating.” She says simply, waiting for the shades to continue. Zariel lifted up his hands, his fingers flashing signals in the sign language he had developed to communicate after his ascension.

You have come to reverse your fate, have you not? But before you do, you must come to understand the limitations of such a reversal.

“I already know.” Fianna interrupted, to your surprise and even that of the shades. She turns to you while her ghost turns away from the view to slide down onto the floor, leaning up against the railing.

“I did some research of my own into my . . condition after we parted company.” Fianna whispered, while her ghost reached up to cradle her head in her hands.

“I discovered that it is not as we thought, love. My sacrifice was not my emotions, it is much more complex and at the same time simpler than that. What I valued most above all other things, and what I placed on the pyre in exchange for life eternal . . . is life itself.”

Fianna nods at her ghost.

“During the ritual, I died. I was dead for less than a second before my ascension restored me to the semblance of life you now see before you. You might be tempted to think that this was the same for you and the others, but you are wrong. Whereas you all were given eternal life in exchange for your sacrifices, my death was merely postponed indefinitely – eternal death, you might say, the act of dying dragged out over millennia.”

Fianna’s ghost suddenly began hyperventilating, her hands twisting and pulling on her long hair in an attempt to conjure tears of pain while she sucked in great gulps of breath. Your Fianna continues to drone on in a dispassionate whisper.

“Even though the ritual postponed my death, there were still immediate consequences. Sacrifices had to be made to maintain my body in its present state, to harden it against the inevitable decay that should follow my death. One such sacrifice was our child, for a dead body cannot sustain life. I felt the ritual energies flowing through my body, breathing life back into it while at the same time tearing the helpless new life inside it apart. I knew about it a week before the ritual, and suspected several weeks before that. But you were busy with preparations, and I figured that there would be plenty of time to share the happy news after.”

For a moment, Fianna pauses, looking down at the floor. Meanwhile, the ghost Fianna throws her head back, the strain visible on her face as she continues to suck in gulps of air. Finally, she gives a half-choked cry, a pathetic low moan of anguish that ends almost as soon as it begins. Fianna slumps back, exhausted, lowering her hands as two lone tears begin their journey from the corners of her eyes down her face.

“Those were the last tears I ever shed.” Fianna noted before pressing on. “Which brings me to the second sacrifice. Like all people, upon my death my soul was separated from my body. Our ritual restored and preserved my body, and my mind . . . but not my soul. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that the ritual attempted to call my soul back, but failed.”

Fianna paused for a moment, and then shrugged – a gesture that was a conscious throwback to the day when she could appreciate such body language.

“It is difficult to explain. Obviously, I am not a will-less automaton, and so some portion of my soul must remain. But the rest of it is lost, gone somewhere that I do not know. I can feel it sometimes, calling out to what remains of my soul, beckoning for it to come. And bit by bit, my soul has answered that call, siphoned away from me over the endless millennia. Perhaps this is even how the soul departs the body, and our ritual has merely slowed the process down enough to be observable.”

Fianna reaches a hand up to your face, delivering a caress that is purely mechanical, and lacking any of the warmth such gestures once held. But the attempt had still been made.

“Do you understand now, love? Much of what made me who I am, that allowed me to feel, to dream – it disappeared in that split-second. What was left has continued to melt away more slowly, but inexorably, over the countless years since, until all that is left is the shade you see before you. The shade of the woman you loved, and refuse to let go. But you can’t bring her back, you can’t fix this anymore than you can restore our child. I tried everything I could think of to stop this slow ebb of me, but all my attempts failed.”

Fianna lets her hand drop away, leaving it hanging down at her side.

“So I convinced myself that life was meaningless. I lied until I believed that I was better off dead, because it was better to send off what was left of my soul all at once rather than wait for it to slip away. But our ritual wouldn’t let me die, it had to be thwarted somehow. So I looked for my own “cure” – you just slew the culmination of that search. His predecessor sent me into the formless Hell of Limbo for a thousand years, until the Hierarch brought me back. I helped him, and renewed my own efforts as a contingency plan. They’re both dead now.”

Fianna gestures at the shattered basin.

“So you see love, your cure will not help me. It might kill me, allowing me to finally finish dying, or it might restore me to life. But it will not return what has been lost – neither our child nor my soul.”

Picking herself up off the floor, Fianna’s ghost wiped away the tears and then mechanically walked over the stairs and went back down. Meanwhile your Fianna moved away from you, approaching the basin. Picking up her goblet, Fianna scrapes its rim along the bottom of the basin, scraping some of the half-dried Elixir into it. She then turns back to face you, holding the goblet up. The shades of Zariel and Shiakti merely watch, silent.

“I feel nothing for you. I can offer you none of the things I once did. But I remember what we once had. And so if you really want me to stay, even as I am now . . . then I will stay. For you, and in remembrance of what we once shared. But will that be enough for you?”

Fianna raises the goblet to her lips, but pauses, awaiting your answer.

OverWilliam

Gorgondantess

At your question, Angelo smirks.

“Long ago the gods warred with each other. Miriam emerged victorious, and imprisoned Azguloth the Destroyer beneath a metal fortress. It was a special sort of metal, designed to block the imprisoned god’s senses so he could no longer affect the outside world. We simply harvested some of that metal to fashion this airship. Ironic, no?”

*****

At your comments about an alliance, the Baron quirks an eyebrow.

“So not so much an alliance as a mutually beneficial arrangement. Fair enough. Truth be told, I am not so interested in Athelion. From everything I have seen, Athelion leaves everything up to Miriam. As a result I have focused my efforts on neutralizing her. Perhaps then the most efficient division of our efforts would be for us each to concentrate on our chosen enemy – you on Athelion, and myself on Miriam. Without Miriam, Athelion will be forced onto the field directly where he will be vulnerable.”

The Baron rubs his hands together.

“As you might imagine, I will require all of my resources to fulfill my part in destroying Miriam. But while it is valuable, information can be given without cost. What was it that you wished to know?”

[Gorgondantess]

“Long ago the gods warred with each other. Miriam emerged victorious, and imprisoned Azguloth the Destroyer beneath a metal fortress. It was a special sort of metal, designed to block the imprisoned god’s senses so he could no longer affect the outside world. We simply harvested some of that metal to fashion this airship. Ironic, no?”

She responds with silence. So some god made the metal- enough to thwart her powers, and as it wasn't an immediate threat, she could simply file it away as "unabsorpable" and leave it at that.

“So not so much an alliance as a mutually beneficial arrangement."

"Isn't that what any alliance really is? Two parties benefiting each other towards a common goal. I'd expect no further commitment from you."

"Fair enough. Truth be told, I am not so interested in Athelion. From everything I have seen, Athelion leaves everything up to Miriam. As a result I have focused my efforts on neutralizing her."

She narrows her eyes, clearly perturbed. Who, exactly, was this Miriam the Baron and his brood were so interested with... and Athelion a layabout?
At first, for a second, she believes the Baron is simply misinformed, and is about to correct him... when everything clicks into place.
Of course. Just like humans to commit random, inane acts in an absent god's name. She should've known before: her real enemy was not the gods, but this horrid race. Of course, as Maurice said, there were exceptions... such as the man before her, obviously... though, as a whole, it would certainly be best to do away with that spawn.
Rather than a shift in goals, this simply meted out a shift in priorities. She would still strike at Athelion- not for ordering her demise (though such was still certainly plausible) but for letting it happen in his name. Of course, because this may all be just a misunderstanding of great proportions, she'd give him plenty of opportunity to grovel for mercy before quashing him beneath her heel.

"Perhaps then the most efficient division of our efforts would be for us each to concentrate on our chosen enemy – you on Athelion, and myself on Miriam. Without Miriam, Athelion will be forced onto the field directly where he will be vulnerable.”

"Ahh... and just who is this Miriam you speak of so much? I understand that they are somehow related, though the focus seemed to be on Athelion. Are you implying that, should a man do something by the will of "Athelion", he is truly doing so under Miriam?"
Another possibility, which would simply complicate things further, with two heads to collect rather than one. No matter. There was all the time in the world to mete out due justice.

“As you might imagine, I will require all of my resources to fulfill my part in destroying Miriam. But while it is valuable, information can be given without cost. What was it that you wished to know?”

She steeples her fingers, wondering just how much she should let this Baron know... then dismisses the thought. Considering his resources, he likely had more and more valuable information than she: as is, all she knew was about the cloaked men, while he (ostensibly) had knowledge of a whole pantheon and of their activities.
Beyond that, the only dangerous information he might be able to glean was knowledge of the daggers... her only weakness... and it seemed he had access to a massive amount of even sterner material.
She wraps her cloak around herself, shuffling it and "shifting" it, while moving her fingers together and forming another object at the same time. As she forms, she speaks.
"I was, not long ago, attacked by a group of men claiming that I was a demon, and that I should be killed in the name of one Lord Athelion the Lifebringer."
She closes her eyes a moment, and finishes shaping. She is currently wearing a cloak identical to those they wore, and is carrying a dagger that is a perfect stone facsimile of those horrid stone blades. Just looking at it made her uneasy...
As she continues to speak, she slices her hand open with the dagger. Just to prove to herself... of course, it heals up fine. Of course. Of course.
"They were wearing a cloak like this, and wielding strange stone daggers just like these... though this here is but a superficial replica. Most physical weapons are not able to harm me, though these were quite painful."
She takes off the cloak and dagger, tossing it to the ground. "I attempted to interrogate one, but he killed himself before that was possible. I'd like information on their organization."
EDIT:
She thinks for a bit, knowing that there was something she was forgetting...
Ah, yes. Of course.
"Also, how does one read?"

[Archpaladin Zousha]

Hondshioh

Hondshioh switches to what may be called "agressive defense," actively striking at the angel instead of just parrying her blows, but tries to avoid a direct killing blow. With his great strength and massive blade, an ordinary man could easily be cleaved in half, but he wasn't trying to kill this foe.

"It's never too late!" he cries. "You are an angel! A divine creation of the gods on high! No magic, no pain inflicted by a mere mortal can force you to do anything. Prove you are stronger than this! BREAK FREE!"

[Kasanip]

Isera Harvent
[Outside the Capital]


Isera grabbed the papers she could and put them into her jacket. She would read them this evening when there was time.

Isera was relieved to see Theresea was ok. She had trusted the woman would be able to handle the demons. She was strong.

Cynthia was very dead. And it seemed there were no more cultists here. So they had saved the town. But while it was a feeling of relief, it wasn't a victorious feeling. It never was. Because there would always be more. But when Isera saw the townspeople she knew that it had been correct. They didn't do anything wrong. Now they had to mourn their daughters who were murdered.

They could burn this house down when they were done. Isera did not mind.

Isera turned to look up at Theresea. She tried to give a tired smile to the woman, but she did not feel like smiling still.
"I think the townspeople can take care of this now. I need to get back to Carlain, and find a place to stay tonight. There are a lot of papers to read, and have to figure out what to do with him."

Isera did have questions- why did Theresea have magic. What had the demons called her? Actually she wanted to know that now.

"During the fight, the demons called you something. Do you understand what it means?" She asked quickly.

~*~

Later she walked outside past the crowd to Carlain. She knelt next to him. Seeing his bad appearance, she did feel sad for him. He seemed very miserable.
"Come on Carlain." She said in a comforting voice. "Let's get somewhere safe and I'll heal your hands."

~*~

(Sorry this is strange post. I was uncertain what to do because there is many things to do maybe, and also to have been busy.)

[WhiteKnight777]

Umber

Umber looked at Fianna, his stomach twisting. He could feel bile rising in his throat, hot and bitter, but he could not, would not look away from her. He gazed into her eyes, feeling his own stinging with tears - and when he raised his fingers to his face and pulled them back, the pale, dextrous digits were smeared with scarlet.

Tears of blood. How very... appropriate. He wiped them away, forcing himself to draw in a deep, shaking breath. Had all this been for naught? All his effort, all his plans, all his meticulous thaumaturgy? He ground his teeth - noting as he did that his fangs had retracted back into his gums. He looked at Fianna, and he sucked in a breath - despite all he had done in his long life, he knew that the path he was proposing now could be the most dangerous one he had ever walked.

He laid his hands on Fianna's shoulders, drawing her close. "You say that you gave up your life - And yet some part of you must remain, even if it is only an echo. You ask me to choose whether you stay or go, love, but that choice cannot be mine alone. I will not bind you like some petty ghost to my will. If you want to move on, to leave behind this..." he paused, searching for some half-remembered poet's doggerel, smiling self-conciously at the melodramatic metaphor "
"Veil of tears..." Then I will not stop you. I want you to stay - but I want you to be the woman you were born to be." He smiled, and another pair of bloody tears rolled down his cheeks, his voice cracking a little. "By all the gods and demons, love, all I ever wanted was for you to be happy."

He hitched in another shuddering breath, his voice gaining an edge of steal. "This must be your choice as well, love, else it means nothing. I gave up my magic - and to get it back, I had to cultivate a sacrifice. What if we do the same for you? Life for life. Souls for a soul. I have said before that I would burn the world for you, Fianna - and I meant it. " He growled, suddenly fierce. "If... if it will make you happy, I will let you go on into the dark - and if you think we can, I will even take that unknown road with you. But perhaps there is another way. Perhaps the elixir could be a starting point. Or perhaps we just need enough lives to light the way for your soul to find its way home..."

[Pwenet]

Incom Morgan

The hazy memory of his previous battle with these foes washes through Incom and he laughs.

”THANK YOU! I remembered I beat you once coward and that means I can do so again!”

As the scratches start to regenerate across his chest Incom takes stock of the two GHASTs currently attacking him. While he had vague memories of the previous battle he had no idea who or what these people used to be. But their moves were smooth, almost too smooth, without the human imperfections which lend once side to victory.

As the two launch themselves again at him Incom stumbles, falling short. His wingless body falls down and under the two attackers as he twists himself around, emitting a involuntary grunt of exertion as he grabs one of the GHAST's by the waist. With his weakened arms he does not dare remain in this grip for long, but rather twists himself around and slams the one GHAST into the other, hopefully causing their blades to go into each other though that would be only a momentary help.

With the two immediate attackers down Incom leaps and springs towards the first GHAST he incapacitated which was starting to pull itself up. Reaching it he curls his good arm hand into a fist he slams it into the head of the construct while the other digs into the side of it, reaching into the guts of the GHAST.

Seeing that the other two have started to gather themselves and rush after him Incom grabs the throat of the GHAST he is playing surgery on and twists around. Feeling around internally he finally finds what he was looking for. The energy cannons for the wings were a wonder of work, but they were not fully housed in the wing. The source of the power was in the torso, and with his hand still regenerating he found that he could tap into the GHAST. Of course the GHAST stuggled against the intrusion.

The dim memories of the previous battle come back and mentally smiling Incom mentally squeezes. The GHAST, the energy cannons fresh and undamaged, fire at it's comrades. Not bothering for accuracy for that would take too much concentration Incom manually moves the GHAST to force it to track it's allies as it's wing cannons fire as they dodge and back off.

”I'll see you in Oblivion!”

His hand finally found what it was looking for, the master control crystal within the GHAST. Grabbing it Incom braces himself and rips himself free. His regenerating arm, torn and damaged further from the sudden removal sparks and leaks but his hand is clutching the control crystal. Applying effort he crushes it even as the GHAST falls inactive.

”Is this better? Want some more strangers? I'll be happy to kill you all again!”

Moving his foot closer Incom touches the corpse of the GHAST, attempting to absorb at least a portion of it into his own form before the battle resumes.a

[Iethloc]

Sohssal

After spending a few moments pondering what he saw, Sohssal returned to his lair, and to his associates. "There shouldn't be any further intrusions now. I still have another important matter to tend to, so you guys are free to do whatever for now. Don't interrupt me unless it's urgent,” he explained to them, lingering long enough to hear any responses.


The future scrying left no doubt that there would be a war between heaven and hell. He couldn't be sure it wasn't the Baron's forces who started it...but he WAS sure that the angels wouldn't be very merciful towards him regardless of what side he picked. He wouldn't stand a chance against all the forces of heaven by himself with a ruined lab, minimal reserves of energy and only a few friends in the whole world.

He was loathe to contact the Baron, but he wanted to make this as quick and efficient as possible. He had no idea how far into the future the resonance was, but he doubted even a spell that powerful could reach very far. Sohssal also couldn't afford to spend the energy to send the message into another plane.

Sohssal “sat” in front of the most intact scrying pool he could find in his manor, and concentrated on a sending spell to the Baron. He had no real face to give it away, but he was seething with contempt and conflict on the inside. Rather than brute forcing his way through any protective spells there might be, he waited as patiently as he could until his own spell was noticed.

[Dorizzit]

Korram Alstan

Korram smiles unpleasantly at Argan's mention of the Hands sent after him, turning into a predatory grin at the description of his skill at eluding them.

"Don't give me too much credit, a solid portion of them managed to find me."

The results of such meetings are left implicit. Korram listens to Argan's next query, feeling a twinge of pity at the young man's circumstances. Although he didn't know the details of Argan's past with the Baron, he couldn't help but compare the youth to himself, in a time long past. He does not answer before Lunara speaks, unable to formulate a proper response before the conversation moves on. The question doesn't leave him, though, even as he feels sympathy for Lunara's own story. There, too, useful words fail him, so he rests on tradition.

"I'm sorry."

Before he can say more, Argan calls them all to order. He listens patiently while Argan and Martin describe their plan in detail to him, one hand placed over his mouth as he takes it all in. After Argan turns to him for advice, he takes a few seconds to finalize his own ideas before nodding to himself, satisfied.

"You've got some very solid plans, here. I'm impressed. But, this is what I would do. I'd split us up. Each of us has different abilities, and it's important to play to our strengths. Plus, the more different approaches we take, the more likely one of them will succeed. Here's what I suggest-"

He steps closer to the table and begins pointing out different sections of the map.

"We'll split into three groups here. Lunara will head to the vestment room; her ability to disguise herself will let her mimic the acolytes better than us three. With a bit of luck, she might even be able to replace one of the actual acolytes."

He shifts his hand to a different section of map.

"You two-" -he points at Katrina and Argan- "Will head up the bell tower and take the rafter approach just as you outlined, Argan."

Finally, he moves his hand back to the divergence point and jabs a single finger onto the paper.

"Here's my problem. I'm too recognizable for the vestments plan. I don't really look like an acolyte to begin with, and say what you will about him, the Baron is sharp. Also, as much as I hate to say it, I'm slowing down in my old age and my balance isn't what it used to be with this gone-" -he waves his arm stump- "-so I wouldn't be much help on the rafters either. Last time I met with the Baron, though, I'm pretty sure that I managed to convince him I'm delusional, crazy, or both. So..."

He rapidly slides his finger down an almost straight path to the main worship area.

"I head over here and bust the door open. Hero type stuff, like from the old stories. I make a grandstand about going out in a blaze of glory or something stupid like that, yadda yadda yadda, and I become the center of attention. While everyone's distracted, you lot can get your jobs done a lot easier."

Korram takes a deep breath and steps back from the table.

"Of course, that's just what I'd do. Final call rests on you."

[The_Snark]

Mar

Alone in a field of snow; Mar shivered briefly at that memory. So he couldn't recall getting away, either. She didn't like that. But... at least he was out of that place. She hadn't thought about Julian much in those first few days after her escape, mostly because she didn't want to imagine him dead at Daddy's hands. After that she'd had other things on her mind. It was good to see he was alright, she supposed.

But the little knot of dread in her stomach only tightened as the seer began ministering to William. If you could call it that. She wanted to cry out from the imagined pain, wanted to tell her to stop, but the seer's words strangled her protests in her throat. Pain is the world's teacher. It corrects us. It teaches her to be strong. Only by embracing the pain can we forge ourselves into something better... to see this cruel world as it truly is, else we be overwhelmed and crushed. Her father's words, Maya's words; they wove together and blended til she could no longer tell which voice was which. For a moment she was back in that iron-walled chamber, paralyzed by fear and horror. She could not bring herself to speak but she could not accept those abhorrent words. They were wrong. Had to be wrong.

All of a sudden the spell broke; the seer stepped back, William stopped screaming, and she could breathe again. She let out a breath, and wrapped her arms around her torso to stop from shivering. (It didn't help; it wasn't that sort of shivering.) Everything was, outwardly, right once again. William was happy, ecstatic even. Mar wasn't. The wrongness that had come over the little tent wasn't gone, just hiding. Now that she had seen it once, she could feel it lurking beneath the surface, see little traces of it in that wry smile.

Seer Maya was not a nice woman.

She shrunk back as everybody's attention turned to her, wished she could make them stop. She wanted to protest that she didn't have an interesting fortune and didn't want one, and if she did then she didn't want anybody else to hear it. (She didn't say that; it would have felt like a lie.) Failing that, she wanted to vanish. It struck her that she could do that. Just back up through the tent flap, turn around, run away. Nobody would stop her. They didn't need her here. She wouldn't be abandoning anybody, not really.

Mar wasn't sure why she didn't; maybe the idea of running from Maya felt too much like admitting she was right. After a long silence, she stepped forward and took a seat in front of the seer.

It felt like stepping into a very small chamber filled with needles, but she did it anyway.

[Lonna]

Pyrene the Dramatist

When Duke Volesin appeared, Pyrene tensed automatically despite her weariness. The room, which already seemed claustrophobically small from the long wait, seemed to shrink even further, until the prickle of Garthax's invisible claws on her shoulder reminded her why she was here - and what she had given up to get to this point. Taking a deep breath, Pyrene forced herself to focus, rising respectfully from her seat as the nobleman entered the room and sat down.

“I was told that you had a message for me from Pyrene the Temptress.” He says, speaking in a precise, clipped tone. “I was told that this message was for my ears only.”

And raising a hand, he waves the two guards out of the room. As they leave, you can sense the duke tensing, coiling like a spring.

“I would now like to hear that message.”

"The message is quite simple." Pyrene released the illusion, causing a subtle shimmer of light to pass over her. When it dissipated, it left her feeling as if she had laid down a heavy burden, the strain of maintaining her disguise for so many hours. It also left her a recognizably different - and noticably female - person. "I accept your offer."

Sweeping the best curtsy she could manage in breeches, she added, "I apologize for the deception, but I rather thought you would prefer to control exactly what rumors circulate with regard to my presence in your household."

[Inspectre]

Cathedral City

Baerdog7/Archpaladin Zousha

More than you would expect, your blows slip past the angel’s defenses (or perhaps are let past), inflicting serious injury. If you had wished it, several of the blows might have even been fatal, but you were deliberately pulling your blows, trying to help the angel rather than kill her. As a result her wounds resealed, rapidly at first but gradually slowing with each new injury. It is clear that while the runes are not interfering with her divine regeneration, the branding had strained the limits of her regeneration. The blood streaming from her nose, eyes, and mouth continues unabated, however – the sign of some sort of foul magic punishing her for not killing you.

“This body . . . has been compromised.” The angel chokes, blindly swinging her sword around in an arc in front of her that has no chance of hitting you. Despite her words, it is clear she is still struggling against her orders. “I . . . cannot control it. My mind . . . is clouded. But my will . . . my will is . . . still . . . MY OWN!”

The angel’s hand fumbles, dropping her sword. Immediately the runes on her body flare up to a brilliant glowing red, and the angel spasms. Her eyes roll up into the back of her head, and she falls to the floor, either comatose or outright dead – it is difficult to tell. Either way the outcome will be the same unless medical treatment is offered – although the runes have lapsed back into their normal blackened skin phase, blood continues to seep from the angel’s face.

Of course, even if the angel did recover, it seemed certain that she would be compelled to continue her attempts to kill you. And any attempt by her to resist would likely result in a similar punishment from the runes, creating a possibly unending cycle of near-death and revival. There had to be some way to thwart the damnable runes, but it was going to take more time and resources than you had available right now. And it was all a moot point if the angel was already dead.

Regardless, you had discovered what you had come here for in the first place – proof of the council’s wrongdoing. Proving it to others would likely be difficult without some kind of physical evidence, but you had learned a lot of valuable information today. A lot of disheartening information really – you had already known the Council had sent those false angels to kill Ander, but this was so much worse. They were tearing innocent angels from the Heavens and subjecting them to a horrific branding session that nearly stripped them of free will – and tried to kill them if they resisted their orders. The Council had allied with demons to do it, including a demon lord that you could only assume was imprisoned within the Reliquary until recently.

And yet, *why* did they do this!? It made no sense! The Council had long since fallen past the point of abandoning their vows and seemed to be rapidly passing the point of making a mockery of those vows. You may not fully understand why people yield so readily to corruption, but at least before now you understood the motives behind it – they wanted something they couldn’t get otherwise.

Here there seemed to be no reward for this utter perversion of everything you held dear! Certainly if successful, this atrocity would give the Council a nigh-unstoppable army of angel slaves. But the Council already had angels it could call upon – perhaps not an entire army’s worth, and certainly a free-willed one, but angels nonetheless. Although . . . that required the Council to convince the summoned angels to help them. Something unlikely to happen given Miriam’s displeasure with the Council’s corruption.

Could it really be simple desperation that had caused the Council to do all this evil? A gamble to try and save themselves by forcibly gathering an army of angels together to oppose Ander? No – you refused to believe that these acts were not part of some viler scheme. It hurt to think that the uppermost echelons of your Church had fallen so far and that they were capable of even worst, but your investigation would not be over until you dragged every last piece of this nightmare into the light.

Meanwhile, the battle had come to a standstill as the two Grandmasters, Katashiko, and Daz’kick sized each other up. The demon lord was clearly furious that it had been unable to take revenge on Ander, but likewise did not wish to fight all three people who had slaughtered his guards at the same time. Odlak and Rickster also seemed to be in disagreement over whether killing or subduing the demon lord was the better choice. Killing it left it free to return to the Hells, but subduing it likely meant that the Council would still have use of its services unless the Council’s control of the Reliquary could be broken – which was unlikely to happen.

Unfortunately, the argument never got much further than that, as everyone present was suddenly aware of the loud footfall of approaching guards. From the same entrance that Hondshioh and Katashiko had broken through, a horde of heavily armed and armored men come streaming in. They rapidly take control of the balcony overlooking the entire room, but make no hostile moves – yet.

Surprisingly, their tabards are not that of the Reliquary, but of the Speaker’s personal guard. Similarly to the Reliquary’s guardians, the Speaker’s personal guard consisted of paladins hand-picked for their loyalty and dedication to serving the Speaker alone. Unfortunately, their unexpected appearance here suggested that the Speaker was aware of what was happening beneath the Reliquary – and condoned it. The highest office within the Church, corrupted just as much as the Council of Exarches . . . it wasn’t exactly a surprise, but you had been holding out hope that there was still some vestige of virtue amongst your Church’s leaders.

A minute after the guards had streamed in to take up silent positions on the balcony itself and the stairs leading up to it, their ranks parted. A beautiful woman wearing the elegant robes of the Speaker stepped forward to the edge of the balcony. One step behind her was a man dressed in ornate plate mail with heraldry that signaled him as one of the Exarches. Speaker Morganna paused, looking down on you and the others for a moment, and then slowly smiled.

“I am glad to see that I did not miss our guests after all. However, I was expecting to see Ander present as well. Was my source simply mistaken?”

“He’s off running down your hatchet man responsible for this obscenity, Speaker!” Odlak answered, his voice still carrying a note of respect – for the office, if not the person. In response Morganna fixed a mock grimace of surprise on her face.

“*My* hatchet man, Odlak? Are you implying that I was privy to all this?”

Morganna’s hand sweeps around to indicate the entire room.

“Either you were aware, ma’am, or you’re not terribly good at your job. Either way looks unfavorably upon you, hmm?” Rickster interjects, earning a chuckle from Morganna.

“Quite astute, Rickster. All the same, I would prefer to end this disagreement peaceably and without further bloodshed if at all possible.”

“We don’t negotiate with demon worshippers!” Odlak growls, earning another musical note of laughter from Morganna.

“Demon worshippers? That’s quite a jump, even for you Odlak. I would more accurately describe what you’ve seen here as an alliance of convenience. Would you concur, Daz’kick?”

The demon lord’s only response is a loud squealing roar as several of the metal shards embedded in its jaw grate together furiously.

“I would also argue that you don’t have the authority to make such a declaration, Odlak. As you have always been, you are a follower and not a leader. You have chosen Ander as your leader, and it is Ander whom I wish to speak with. And perhaps after I am finished speaking with him, he will have a much different perspective on this entire conflict.”

“Well, he’s not here, and I say you’re going to have to go through us first!” Odlak roars, shaking his weapon in defiance. Rickster seems to grimace in disapproval, but reluctantly moves to stand beside his fellow grandmaster. Morganna sighs and shifts her gaze down to you.

“And who are you? I don’t recall ever having the privilege of speaking with you, unlike your hot-headed companions. Some sort of naïve trainee that Ander has dragged into his crusade? I do not doubt your bravery is strong enough to convince you to fight to the death, but do you possess enough wisdom to seek a better way out? I have come here merely to talk, and hopefully to convince all of you that what is going on here is necessary.”

At this the Exarch looks at his Speaker incredulously, and steps forward. His voice is low, but still loud enough for you to hear – is clearly intended for you to hear.

“Speaker, what are you doing? Why waste words on these dogs when we can crush them under heel? The four of them can’t stand against our combined might, and then we can do the same to Ander when we find him.”

Just as loud, and even more forcefully, the Speaker disagrees.

“No, Damnot. It is the greater victory when you can convince your enemy to join you. And I think once I explain things to him, Ander will consider joining us.”

“What could you possibly say to him that hasn’t already been said!? The time for words has long passed, Speaker! What has come over you!?”

“Enough, Damont! An opportunity such as this shouldn’t be squandered. I am your elected Speaker – should I not be allowed to speak when and with whom I please?”

Turning away from her fuming subordinate, Morganna locks her eyes back on you.

“So who will you choose to speak with? Myself, or the blades of my bodyguards?”

Stonefall

The_Snark

As you hesitantly took a seat across from her, Maya greeted you with a smile. It was not a pleasant one, and was almost enough to cause you to jump out and flee out the tent as you had originally planned. But something made you stay, and then it was too late as Maya touched the stack of cards. They seemed to glow with an inner, malevolent light as she touched them, deftly shuffling them and tossing them from hand to hand.

“Spirits of the world, come now and look upon this individual!” Maya slowly intoned, clearly making a great show of this simple act of shuffling the cards. “Reveal her past, present, and future! Give us a sign so that we might know more of her!” The light suddenly disappears, and Maya hangs her head as she lowers the deck back down to the table. Then with a mechanical flip, she takes the first card off the top and snaps it down onto the table, face up. On the card is a menacing looking grey stone tower, with the words “The Tower” up on the top.

“Hrm. The Tower, eh? So you were a prisoner then, or at least thought you were. You were definitely held against your will somewhere, whether by iron bars or loving hands.”

Suddenly, Maya’s hand snaked across the table and snagged your right wrist. She pulls your arm out over the table, and holds it there, palm up. To all, the angry scar “2” is clearly visible on your inner forearm. You try to break Maya’s grip, but she is surprisingly strong, and you only manage to pull away when she allows you to.

“So, I was right then. I do believe that is a technique commonly used in Ironheart. It would seem there is more to you than meets the eye. Young girls aren’t kept there without reason. But . . . your past is your own, and we shall not pry further. Now let us see what your present can tell us.”

Maya pinches another card from the top of the deck between thumb and forefinger, and snaps it down face up next to the first. This one has a cloaked figure dressed all in grey, cradling a knife in one hand as he steps from the shadows. Up at the top of the card are the words “The Spy”. Maya quirks an eyebrow at the card before looking back up at you.

“The Spy . . . interesting. You have come here under mysterious circumstances known only to yourself. You refuse to let anyone know the truth regarding you, preferring to let them make their own assumptions. Meanwhile, you continue to work towards your own, hidden agenda.”

Maya smiles as she reaches for the card deck again.

“Let’s see how that turns out for you, shall we?”

She flips over the third card, revealing an immense blaze shooting up from a stone altar. The card reads “The Pyre”.

“The Pyre . . . oh my. Well that doesn’t look good, does it?”

And then Maya smiles, a secret cold smile meant for your own eyes only. You’ve seen that sort of smile before on Daddy’s face, and it screamed danger to you. Suddenly the air in the entire tent felt as if it was missing, because you certainly didn’t feel like you could breathe. You had been distinctly uncomfortable inside the tent before, but now it was unbearable. You could barely think, and it felt like your vision was receding down to a single point. Dimly, you are aware that you are starting to hyperventilate, but your mind is solely focused on one thing: Away. You had to get out, get away from here, and your body was eager to go now that your mind had released it. You stagger out of the tent and start running, blindly putting distance between you and Seer Maya.

You aren’t quite sure where you’re running to. This was a blind panic, and you can only assume that your mind was trying to get back to Jacob’s isolated cabin. Unfortunately, your panicked mind wasn’t very good at finding its way through the woods beyond simply pushing you straight ahead. You nearly trip over jutting roots several times, but somehow manage to right yourself each time, pushing deeper and deeper into the forest. Eventually, your exhausted body is forced to slow to a stop, your breath burning in your lungs.

You’ve just barely begun to catch your breath when your latest complication arises. Your stomach twists and turns uncomfortably, reminding you of after the bugs, how some of them got into your throat and you had to wretch them up. As such, your body had been prepared for this experience before, and you fall to your knees, your stomach heaving as you expel its entire contents onto the forest floor. Your mouth is filled with a horribly bitter taste afterwards, and some of the vomit seems to have traveled through your nose, burning fiercely and causing your eyes to water.

You’ve just started to recover from that when your next piece of bad luck falls into place. Looking around, you realize that you don’t recognize this part of the forest. Which meant that you were lost. Presumably that meant no one – like Seer Maya – would find you here, but that also meant you might not be able to find your way back. Your bad luck continues to grow worse as you suddenly become aware that while lost, you are not alone. From a nearby tree comes a loud whistle, and you look up to see Firkas descending from a large but shoddily constructed tree house.

“Well well. I go out here for some quality alone time, and you show up on my doorstep Rosebud.”

Having finished descending, Firkas stands in front of the ladder leading up to his treehouse, hands on his hips.

“So what are you doing out here, huh? This is my private place. Nobody’s supposed to come around here unless I let them.”

The teenaged menace suddenly grins.

“Unless you’ve come for the guided tour. Huh, would you like that? I’ve got some things I think a dirty girl like you would be interested in seeing.”

The Island of Dr(?) Sohssal

Iethloc

“Aye aye cap’n!” Shanks says with a quick nod.

“Sohssal . . . don’t forget we have some important business to take care of as well. Namely, GETTING ME BACK IN MY OWN BODY!”

We will be here when you return.

Going down into your flooded laboratories, you manage to find a relatively intact scrying pool. Of course, it wasn’t so much of a pool anymore, but the magic didn’t care about anything outside the bounds of the pool’s edges. Inside there was still water, and that was all that mattered – and being submerged yourself was only a minor inconvenience.

It was fortunate however that scrying only required a name or other identifying characteristic – you had no idea where the Baron was at the moment, making location-based scrying problematic. As it was, you only had to concentrate on the Baron’s name, remembering what the man looked like the one time you briefly met him before being released from Ironheart. As expected, you ran into magical barriers almost immediately, the slowly-clearing waters within the pool suddenly whipping into a messy froth. After that, all you had to do was wait, and hope someone noticed.

As it turned out, you thankfully had only a short wait. A few minutes later, the pool’s waters began to suddenly clear as someone tried to turn the scrying magic around, following the mystical line back to you. It required someone of moderate skill and immense arrogance to simply reverse a scrying spell instead of simply following the signal back and casting a scrying spell of their own. As such, you already had a good idea of who it was well before the face within the pool solidified and began to speak.

“You have attempted to scry upon the Baron of Gast. Who are you who dares to – Sohssal!” Sage Arlan, of the four Sages, and one of your former jailors says. His tone is remarkably less hostile once he sees you, although considerably more suspicious.

“So . . . what are you up to Sohssal? Finding your freedom adequate? Or are you plotting some sort of mad revenge scheme?”

A Mountainous Forest

Pwenet

Leaving the two GHASTs to smash into each other, you roll away and move towards the downed GHAST. Already it is beginning to get back up, but it is caught off guard as you grapple with it and drive your fist into its chest. It takes a few blows, but you manage to get your fist through the heavy armor plating, and then you’re in the “guts” of the GHAST.

Swinging your captive around, you manipulate its wings into firing on its companions, the two GHASTs who had descended on you a few moments ago. Unable to aim terribly well, you only score a few glancing blows, but the storm of wing blasts drives both assailants back. As the wing cannons become drained and require longer to recharge, you switch tactics to finishing your captive off. Ripping the central control crystal out of its chest, you smash it, destroying the GHAST’s mind and deactivating it permanently. The armored form slumps to the ground, beginning to melt away into a formless puddle of metal. Metal which you begin to absorb while taunting your remainning assailants.

From behind you, a muffled scream catches your attention. It is perhaps the only thing that saves your life, as you turn to face the sound only to receive a crushing blow to the shoulder that tears your weakened arm off. The GHAST that had been guarding Sara had moved to join the fight while you were distracted, coming up behind you. If Sara hadn’t screamed to get your attention, the blow likely would have caught you square in the back, allowing the GHAST to do to you which you just did to its companion.

Dancing back to avoid the follow-up blows, you note with concern that your attempt to absorb the dead GHAST’s metal has been interrupted. You got enough to replace your newly removed arm, as well as your wings at least, but your armor was still going to be dangerously thin. As the newcomer GHAST continued its assault, at least you caught a glimpse of Sara, scrambling with difficulty up onto her feet. She turns and runs for the treeline, but is stopped as the lead GHAST swoops down to block her path. He reaches down to grab hold of her by the throat, lifting her up off the ground and laughing at her feeble attempts to kick him, her feet glancing off his armor without effect.

“I have seen all that I need to see! Now die Incom, knowing that you die a failure! Fade away like the feeble ghost you are!”

With his free hand, the leader gestures again, and the assault resumes. All three of the GHASTs that had been attacking you press the assault, coming in from all sides to hammer away at you. Meanwhile in the epitome of unfairness, the remaining two GHASTs join the fight by taking to the air in order to rain wing blasts down on the melee. Most of the shots miss, and some even hit their companions instead of their intended target. But in their minds, it didn’t matter – their associates could take the damage and you could not. How could you possibly withstand the simultaneous assault of five of your war machine peers?

Outside the Capital

Kasanip

At your question, Theresea purses her lips. She looked . . . different now, although it was difficult to determine why exactly. Certainly to your normal eye she appeared the same, but your Phantasmal Descrying Eye was able to pick up several faint auras swirling about her. Perhaps it was from her recent use of magic, or perhaps you had never noticed before due to all the interference you experienced in Dark Falls – and had previously attributed the auras to that. Between that and her use of magic, it’s clear that Theresea was much more than a simple wandering warrior. Her answer to your question only adds to the mystery.

“Actually I’ve learned a bit of their foul tongue, so I do happen to know what “Markash” means. It’s sort of a combination insult and warning – although the warning is only for other fiends really. I guess the closest literal translation would be . . . “winged whore”? From what I understand, it was originally meant as a slur against angels, although now they’ll use it whenever feeling threatened by any sort of female.”

Theresea chuckles.

“I guess they were intimidated enough by me to think that I was an angel – I’ll take it as a compliment.”

The demon hunter brushes a lock of hair out of her face, fully revealing the intricate tattoo flowing from the corner of her eye to down below the collar of her blouse. She inclines her head back towards the trapdoor.

“We should get back upstairs before your cursed friend crawls off or the mob decides to burn the house down on top of us.”

Looking around the stacks upon stacks of papers left behind by Cynthia, you realize that there is far more here than you can possibly carry out. It looked like Cynthia recorded every scrap of information she acquired, and every shady dealing she had. It would be a nightmare sifting through it all, but somewhere in it all might be a further clue to the cult. There *had* to be a clue, otherwise this whole nightmarish experience would have been for nothing. For now, you take up a stack of papers, as much as you could carry and as much as Theresea was willing to carry. The rest would hopefully be preserved, and you made a note to speak with the constable on the way out. Hopefully he would be able to keep the crowd’s wrath away from the important evidence.

It was a little scary going upstairs through the trapdoor to face the fury of the crowd, but thankfully someone recognized you as not part of the witch’s coven. From there their attention was focused on exploring the hidden basement, and recovering the remains of the village’s poor daughters. There was a great deal of wailing and gnashing of teeth, but you didn’t stay around for most of that. After soliciting a quick promise from the constable to preserve the rest of the records, you collect Carlain and get out of there.

Speaking of Carlain, the poor boy was clearly in a great deal of pain. In his present condition camping out under the stars seemed inadvisable, so you ended up renting a room at a small inn on the outskirts of town. The little inn was meant for travelers passing out of the capital, and so was fairly pleasant and quaint. You barely noticed as you rented out a room and stayed there for the rest of the evening. You think Theresea rented out the room next door, and although the demon hunter seemed willing to stay out of it she clearly had her own opinions on what should be done with Carlain. You still weren’t sure what should be done with him, but tonight your focus had to be on healing his wounds before infection and other complications set in.

Fixing his wrist was thankfully not hard, although Carlain did nearly scream the inn down as you did it. His other hand was going to be a different story – it had been crushed, with most of the bones in his hand shattered into several or more pieces. How Theresea had accomplished this was beyond you, but the demon hunter clearly had an ungodly strong grip.

Given his screaming when you were fixing the first break, you could only imagine how he would react to the slow and painful process and knitting all those bones back together, fragment by fragment. You had a few other magic spells than just simple healing at your disposal though. There was a mind clouding spell that would deaden Carlain’s ability to feel pain to almost nothing, although it would likewise turn his ability to think clearly into mush. That would theoretically make him more susceptible to interrogation, if you wanted that, except that his ability to recall information would likely also be impacted. Still, at this point you didn’t have much of a choice – Carlain’s hand couldn’t be left untreated, and there was no way you could work on it for as long as you would have to with him feeling everything. So you cast the spell and wait for it to take effect. While you are waiting, you begin sorting through the records you brought out of Cynthia’s collection.

Most of it is fairly uninteresting daily reports to the Grand Warlock – whose name is never mentioned – or simple accounting records of ritual components. But then you find a document that makes your blood run cold. It is a copy of an official Canticle document, a ritual request made by Jean Harvent. In it your father requests permission to summon a demon, in order to harvest its blood . . . for a cure for your mother. The request was marked as denied, although in the margins was a question scrawled in Cynthia’s handwriting – “Did he do it anyway?”. That question seared its way into your mind, casting more doubt on everything you thought you knew. Your mother had died, so that suggests your father did not obtain demon blood. But . . . what if he had erred? He got the blood too late to make the cure? Too little blood, too much blood? And the worst of all – what if the “cure” had actually been what had killed your mother?

You are saved from the nightmarish circle your mind fallen into by Carlain weakly clearly his throat. The nerve-deadening spell was almost in full effect, as the boy’s words were somewhat slurred but still understandable.

“Isera . . . what’s going to happen to me?”

(Sorry for the time skip and decision making on your behalf. I figured questions such as where to sleep and the like were simple enough to be glossed over, and it allowed me to dovetail all the different threads you were just dealing with down into a more straightforward path. Feel free to change anything that happened above if Isera would have handled it differently.)

The Capital

Lonna

At your revelation, Duke Volesin smirks.

“Most impressive. I had always assumed you were quite clever from your reputation Pyrene, but it is nice to see that you are worthy of such a reputation after all. As for rumors regarding you in my household . . .”

Volesin shrugs.

“I am no longer married, and so the scandal would be minimal. And it’s not like my fellow nobles are hypocrites when they keep several mistresss apiece, now is it?”

A flicker of disgust flashes across the duke’s features as he mentions his fellows, but it smoothly disappears as he presses on.

“In any event, the discretion is appreciated even if it is not needed. As I believe my letter mentioned, I would like to request your services as an escort.”

Volesin holds up a hand.

“Before we go any further, allow me to explain that in this unique circumstance your services are required for appearance only. There will be no physical contact required – excuse me for saying so, but you are nearly young enough to be my granddaughter, if I had one. Likewise, I expect to keep my clothes on my body, right where they belong. You may keep the dress I will be providing you with as I understand it is quite exquisite and therefore valuable. But your sole “payment” for this escort you will provide is a say in your sister’s future. A favor for a favor, shall we say?”

Although unvoiced, the threat is clear from his tone. The duke wasn’t enforcing your compliance with violence or chains, but if you didn’t do what he demanded your sister would pay for it.

“Now then, I will also mention that your sister is not here at this manor. She is back at my main estate some distance from here. You are welcome to disbelieve what I have told you so far, but the fact that you are here suggests you know my word to be true. I would encourage you to continue believing it. If our evening together goes off without a hitch, I will take you back to my estate to see her. Until then you will simply have to trust that she is under my care, and she has not been harmed in any way.”

Volesin locks eyes with you, perhaps expecting a challenge from this.

“Likewise, until the event in question, you will remain here in my manor. This will keep you . . . safe, shall we say, from anyone who might take issue with your current status as an escaped prisoner. Speaking of which, while I will do my best to ensure future leniency towards you, it is unavoidable that you killed a noble. After the event and you returning home with me to decide your sister’s future, I may be forced to return you to the custody of the courts. You will go along quietly if that is the case, and face the remainder of your punishment graciously – else any previous agreement we have made regarding your sister is null and void. Is this clear?”

So you would be giving up your freedom after all to save your sister then. And this time it would be permanent, with no hope of escape or rescue, not if you wanted your sister to remain safe. But then, assuming Duke Volesin actually kept his word once you were dragged back off to prison, your sister would actually be well cared for. She had been taken care of by the couple you yourself had placed her with, but the family had been poor. The duke seemed sincere in his promise that Ariella would be taken care of, and he certainly had the power and wealth to ensure it. Would that be enough for you, to allow you to endure whatever hellhole they threw you in next? Apparently assuming for now that the answer was “yes”, Volesin kept going.

“Now then, about the event in question. A very close . . . friend . . . of mine, the Baron of Gast, has a son of his about to marry the Countess Amelia Ashargrin. I have been invited to attend, and I have every intention of doing so. I would like you to accompany me to the wedding ceremony as my escort. I understand that you’ve had some past altercations with the Baron, and I will assure you now that while you are with me, you are under my protection. The Baron will not dare to lay a finger on you as such.”

Duke Volesin clapped his hands together, and then stood up.

“I believe that is everything. My servants will see to any of your needs until the time of the wedding, so I doubt you will see me again until then. I am sure that this is an important decision for you, and you will require some time to consider it. When you have decided whether or not to accept my offer, simply ring this bell. My butler will be in to take your answer, I believe you’ve already been acquainted? Now then, unless you have any questions for me, I will bid you adieu. I have had a very late evening, and would like to get some sleep.”

Dorizzit

After you outline your plan, the others sit back and nod in agreement. Except Katrina, who is vehemently shaking her head while glaring at you.

“Are you crazy!? You go in there like that, and the Baron will kill you!”

“Undoubtedly he will. But it just might buy us enough time to do what needs to be done.”

Katrina quirks an eyebrow at Argan, and then settles back into her chair with a soft laugh.

“I get it now. I noticed you didn’t mention any escape paths in your detailed plans before. So that’s it, huh? This is a suicide mission!”

Argan pauses a moment, and then nods.

“Yes, I cannot lie. It is a suicide mission, for all of us. No matter how successful we are, in the end the Baron will win. He always does. But until that moment we can remind him that he will not win without a fight, and for all his power he is still just a man.”

“Because lying dead at his feet is certainly going to convince him of that.” Katrina scoffs, prompting Argan to slam his fist down onto the table.

“When I was freed from my compulsions to obey the Baron, I ran. I went and hid myself away instead of trying to fight what I knew to be a hopeless battle. But in my absence, the Baron continued to work his evil unopposed. Now I’m going to join in the struggle, and I’m going to do it my way. One grand gesture that might actually hold some meaning, instead of a lifetime of futile effort! No offense Korram, but while you might have been an irritant, you were never even a marginal threat in the Baron’s mind. I intend to do everything in my power to make the Baron fear for his life before the curtain falls.”

“Sire, I –“ Martin begins, but is immediately cut off by a scathing glance from Argan.

“We’ve talked about this, Martin! The Tallons are dead. It is up to the people of this kingdom to choose their new ruler. I have no interest in claiming my throne, nor would I survive long if I stepped forward to do so. My sole focus for the short remainder of my life is the Baron.”

An angry, stifling silence fills the room for several long minutes as Argan continues to flip through the drawn maps, and everyone holds council with their own thoughts. Then the door swings open to break the foul mood, and a brightly dressed man steps into the room. You actually recognize him – he’s the mage who bound Calcifer into your arm.

“Ah, come in Eldred. This is the last member of our little group.” Argan explains, beckoning the mage to take the remaining empty seat. He does so, and forces a smile as he looks around the table. His eyebrows furrow as his gaze sweeps around to you.

“Hey . . . you look awfully familiar mister.”

“Eldred, I believe you’ve already met everyone here, save for our two newest members. This is Korram Alstan and his associate Kris.” At this the man’s bushy eyebrows flew up in alarmed recognition.

“Korram Alstan! I remember now. I inscribed a fire elemental into your arm . . . I take it that didn’t go well, seeing as how you’re missing the arm now? You’re lucky to be alive! Er . . . no refunds, of course.”

“Eldred, why don’t you stop trying to not apologize and get on with telling us what you can do for us.” Lunara growled, causing the mage to nearly jump up from his seat.

“Yes, yes. Of course . . . “ The mage muttered, reaching into his robes. He pulls out a scroll, which he unfurls over the maps to reveal an undecipherable picture of various runes.

“So, I did some searching around in my little shop, and I figured out what I can do for you all. Argan said you all needed protection against highly virulent poisons, and the only thing I can think of is to instill a spirit of nature into your bodies. That’ll require a tattoo to bind the spirit to – hope you’re not afraid of needles – and it should drain away any poison your bodies are exposed to harmlessly. Of course, if the tattoos become damaged that could be bad – the spirit could be released or attempt to possess you, and then obviously it wouldn’t work to keep you safe from poison, but –“

“Thank you, Eldred. I think all of my friends here will take one, just in case.”

At this point, Lunara leans in close to you.

“So Korram, just how good is this mage? I seem to remember your little fire elemental was impressive, but didn’t tend to obey you as promised. Are these tattoos going to provoke similar problems, or do you think they’ll work as advertised?”

(If you have any further interactions with any of the assembled people, now would probably be a good time to have them. I’m thinking the next big DM will be getting the tattoos (or not), and then shifting to the next scene, which will probably be the last before the actual wedding crash.)

WhiteKnight777

“Perhaps.” Fianna replied, turning to look out over the dark city. Eventually she turned back to face you with a shake of her head.

“I am just an echo of your Fianna, as you said. But even so, I know what she would want. And that is to remain with you, until the foundations of the world crumble into dust. That is why she – *I* - drank from this cup in the first place. Immortality was your idea to begin with, after all.”

Fianna glances down at the goblet in her hands, and then back up to gaze out at the city once more.

“There will be sacrifices required to restore my soul, if it is even possible. But no matter how much blood is shed, some personal sacrifice will be required as well. You are surely aware of that fact, just as I am sure that you will pay any price to be reunited with your Fianna. Very well then.”

Fianna raises the goblet to her lips.

“I will continue to walk beside you, love. Through whatever trials yet await us.”

Fianna raises the cup to her lips, quickly swallowing the half-congealed glob of the Elixir. She blinked several times, stumbling back, and then –

And then you were both back, lying on the serviceably clean but dusty and cold stones of Fianna’s sewer lair. Beside you, Fianna hyperventilates, shivering violently as color forces its way back into her skin. It was a singularly unpleasant experience you knew, but only a momentary one, and a few moments later Fianna relaxed. She even manages a weak smile for your benefit as her crimson – a relic of the Elixir that does not fade away – eyes regain their focus.

“It is strange to feel myself breathing again, along with all the other half-remembered sensations of a living body. And although I can still feel a black pit yawning below the tatters of my soul, the relentless yearning to plunge down into it has abated significantly. Thank you for that.”

Leaning forward, Fianna plants a kiss on your lips. And then suddenly, it shifts into something more – not really a passionate kiss, but a simulation of one, put on by virgin actress with no personal experience to draw upon. Even so, it was more effort than Fianna had ever put forth since your ill-fated Ritual had stripped her of life and soul. Somewhere, deep down in the hollow shell she had become, the real Fianna still existed and this kiss was the proof you had been searching so long for.

You responded in kind, and the two of you embraced. Things might have progressed even further, if not for the chill that suddenly swept through the room. There was someone else here now, their approach unnoticed until now. From the doorway, one of the shadows moved of its own volition, and you heard a voice that you had not heard in many long millennia.

“Hello, Umbra. It ‘as been ah long time.” Shiakti called from the doorway, still just a shadow among shadows.

“I ahm not interrupting anyting important, am I? Ta two o’ you are descent? Na that I suppose it would matta if you were not.”

There is a quiet rasping laugh from the shadows, and then Shiakti is all business again.

“We need ta talk, Umbra.”

Gorgondantess

At your question regarding the hierarchy of Miriam and Athelion amongst their human lackeys, the Baron shrugs.

“Perhaps, perhaps not. Miriam and Athelion are commonly depicted as a Divine Couple – two gods working in intimate union towards a common purpose. Usually each one claims to focus on different aspects of the world – Athelion on compassion, Miriam on justice for example. It’s possible he was working at the direct behest of Athelion, but it’s more likely he was just trying to give himself credibility. “God wants me to do this” – one of the most poisonous justifications ever devised! As if a man should base his entire life around what a god thinks – a god that apparently has nothing better to do but sit around and command its subjects on what they are allowed to do!”

Throughout, the Baron’s voice grows more heated, until he pointedly stops, swallowing hard before continuing on in a more normal tone.

“In any event, I find it interesting that this man claimed to be sent by Athelion the Lifebringer . . . every organization I’ve heard of refers to him as Athelion the Lightbringer. That could be significant . . . perhaps some sort of secret splinter cult? Or perhaps an isolated tribe who were only taught the basics by a missionary, and then later they made up the rest? Hmmm.”

The Baron spends another few seconds drumming his fingers on his chin, and then shrugs again.

“I can tell you that I’ve never heard of this group before now. Although that is hardly surprising – while the so-called Church of Light is the official organization the gods have set up to control humanity, there is also a patchwork of secret societies, isolated communities, and focused cabals the gods have woven. Only they know how many more damn landmines are out there, waiting for an unfortunate such as yourself to stumble across them. In any event, I will look further into it, and perhaps your encounter has caused them to stir within whatever mudhole they’ve chosen to hide in. Of course, more information on your assailants would be helpful – like this weapon. Thank you.”

The Baron accepts the dagger from you, and then peers at it curiously, turning it over several times in his hands. Eventually he grips it firmly by the handle and holds the blade up close to his eyes.

“Hrm . . . this is only a facsimile I assume, otherwise the engravings running down the length of the blade would be legible. No matter, it seems to be some sort of arcane script . . . I might be able to deduce the purpose of it.”

The Baron peers at the apparent tiny inscriptions set into the blade’s surface, tracing them with a finger from his free hand. Now here was something you hadn’t known about the blades previously. You had copied the weapon in its entirety as best you could from memory – but how were you supposed to know all those swiggles and markings were actually important!? Pausing in his attempts to read the swiggles, the Baron quirks an eyebrow at you.

“How does one read . . .” The Baron repeats, pursing his lips. “Well, it’s really quite simple. Shapes and markings such as these on this blade are assigned meaning by someone – usually it’s a collective effort the society as a whole. Generally the intent is to replicate the sounds we make for speech – different arrangements of characters to represent different sounds. It’s a way of communicating beyond speech. I take it despite your ability to speak our language, you are unable to read it?”

The Baron quirks an eyebrow at you, and then slowly smiles. You understand the intent of a smile between humans is to be pleasant, but somehow when the Baron does it, you don’t get that feeling.

“I suppose we could teach you that skill – as a favor . . .”

“I can teach you.” Maurice says suddenly, the first words she has spoken since the brief exchange outside the Baron’s airship. She looks from the point on the wall she had been staring into over at you and smiles. It seems more genuine and . . . nicer(?) when she does it compared to the Baron. “I would be happy to do so.”

Muttering something under his breath, the Baron returns to his studying of the blade. As he read the inscription, or at least tried to, the Baron seemed to grow agitated once more. Finally he tore his gaze away from the blade and sighed angrily, rubbing his eyes with his free hand.

“I’m unable to make out most of the damn script like this, but I did gleam a few things. For one thing, it’s an older style of magic – I’ve seen it before . . . but not often. The inscription seems to be some sort of transfer ritual, drawing energy out through the edge of the blade.”

The Baron offers the blade back to you. He still seems irritated, but the anger quickly fades back under the veneer of his calm civility.

“Anyway, although incomplete the inscription is a good starting place. There are not many who know magic as old as is this. I have my sources and I will see what they know. For now, the only thing I can offer is this – it seems unlikely that an organization which equips its foot soldiers with such ancient magic consists of a handful of ignorant country bumpkins. We are probably looking at some sort of specialist organization, tasked – by themselves or the gods, it does not matter – with hunting your kind down. Of course, that fact also gives another interesting piece of information – for a group to specialize in such a thing implies that there are more of your kind. Are there more of your kind? Do you know?”

Now there was an interesting question – you were aware that you did not arise from a vacuum. Given the abundance of a given species in nature, it seemed likely that there would be others just like you. But you had never seen any inkling that you were not unique, save for the gods – and you were nothing like Them. You weren’t quite sure which answer you ultimately preferred – that you were alone in this world, or there were others of your kind – potentially allies, or potentially rivals. You certainly had enough enemies as it stood now.

“Well, I think we have the basics of our relationship worked out. One of my sons is soon to be married, and preparations for the ceremony require a majority of my time and attention. Unless we have further business to discuss, my son will escort you out. When I discover anything new about your assailants, I will contact you – do you have some place I should go to look for you?”

[Archpaladin Zousha]

Hondshioh

"I am Hondshioh, a paladin in the service of Miriam and Athelion and their loyal servant. Protector of Katashiko, the Maiden of the Earth, who is a true friend. Scion of giants, with stone on my bones and molten steel in my veins. I stand against the wicked and the corrupt for the good of all."

He looks to the broken angel on the floor, then turns back to the Speaker with a look of disgust.

"How is there any way this atrocity could be considered necessary? You and the Council claim to serve the Gods here in the World, but this, this is more than just torture and corruption. This is treason against the highest authorities in the Universe! You would dare risk the Gods' wrath for violating their servants and your vows? What could be so important that it would necessitate this?!"

He motions around him at the grisly scene.

[Gorgondantess]

At your question regarding the hierarchy of Miriam and Athelion amongst their human lackeys, the Baron shrugs.

“Perhaps, perhaps not. Miriam and Athelion are commonly depicted as a Divine Couple – two gods working in intimate union towards a common purpose. Usually each one claims to focus on different aspects of the world – Athelion on compassion, Miriam on justice for example. It’s possible he was working at the direct behest of Athelion, but it’s more likely he was just trying to give himself credibility. “God wants me to do this” – one of the most poisonous justifications ever devised! As if a man should base his entire life around what a god thinks – a god that apparently has nothing better to do but sit around and command its subjects on what they are allowed to do!”

“In any event, I find it interesting that this man claimed to be sent by Athelion the Lifebringer . . . every organization I’ve heard of refers to him as Athelion the Lightbringer. That could be significant . . . perhaps some sort of secret splinter cult? Or perhaps an isolated tribe who were only taught the basics by a missionary, and then later they made up the rest? Hmmm.”

She narrows her eyes, an almost angry look on her face.
"If what you say is true... the implications might prove my efforts thus far a waste.
If what you say is true, then it is not the gods who are the evil, but the humans. I have not been among your kind long... but from what I've seen, I doubt the presence or absence of a god would make any difference. You creatures would attempt to find justification for your actions, no matter the logic behind it- or lack thereof."
"Nevertheless... I will still pursue this Athelion. I'll simply have to keep a more open mind about these things."

“How does one read . . .” The Baron repeats, pursing his lips. “Well, it’s really quite simple. Shapes and markings such as these on this blade are assigned meaning by someone – usually it’s a collective effort the society as a whole. Generally the intent is to replicate the sounds we make for speech – different arrangements of characters to represent different sounds. It’s a way of communicating beyond speech. I take it despite your ability to speak our language, you are unable to read it?”

"This is correct. I... understand the concept of reading, and of books and such, but I'd never learned to actually do so."

“I can teach you.” Maurice says suddenly, the first words she has spoken since the brief exchange outside the Baron’s airship. She looks from the point on the wall she had been staring into over at you and smiles. It seems more genuine and . . . nicer(?) when she does it compared to the Baron. “I would be happy to do so.”

She smirks at this revelation. How... interesting.

“I’m unable to make out most of the damn script like this, but I did gleam a few things. For one thing, it’s an older style of magic – I’ve seen it before . . . but not often. The inscription seems to be some sort of transfer ritual, drawing energy out through the edge of the blade.”

The Baron offers the blade back to you. He still seems irritated, but the anger quickly fades back under the veneer of his calm civility.

“Anyway, although incomplete the inscription is a good starting place. There are not many who know magic as old as is this. I have my sources and I will see what they know. For now, the only thing I can offer is this – it seems unlikely that an organization which equips its foot soldiers with such ancient magic consists of a handful of ignorant country bumpkins. We are probably looking at some sort of specialist organization, tasked – by themselves or the gods, it does not matter – with hunting your kind down. Of course, that fact also gives another interesting piece of information – for a group to specialize in such a thing implies that there are more of your kind. Are there more of your kind? Do you know?”

She sighs impatiently. "I'm well aware that it was magical, and I assure you... even with these... things... it would take more than an ordinary group of humans to defeat me. The men who attacked me were highly coordinated, and likely extensively trained. Stealthy as well: I'd never seen a human move as silently as a cat until that day."

She furrows her brows at the latter question, thinking back. Her earliest memories were muddled... but she had a vague understanding of the circumstances of her creation.
"As far as I am aware, I am unique. The process of my creation could be deemed similar to that of your GHASTs. Something that would not occur... naturally."

“Well, I think we have the basics of our relationship worked out. One of my sons is soon to be married, and preparations for the ceremony require a majority of my time and attention. Unless we have further business to discuss, my son will escort you out. When I discover anything new about your assailants, I will contact you – do you have some place I should go to look for you?”

She directs the baron to her most recently conquered village, wondering what might have become of it during her absence. Anarchy, likely. Well, she'd find out soon enough.
When they land down, and away from the airship, she turns to Maurice. "Well... I can't help shake the feeling that we were on the poorer end of that exchange. That man is... far too human for my tastes. Too complicated. His reach exceeds his grasp. I'll likely have to kill him sooner or later."
She's silent for a moment, before returning the smile Maurice gave her earlier. It looks doesn't look very natural on her, though.
"Anyways... is there... anything you'd like to do here before we head back?"

[WhiteKnight777]

Umber

For a timeless moment, there was a haunted look in Umber's eyes. He pressed Fianna against his shoulder so that she wouldn't see it, and part of him drank in the sudden warmth of her, the achingly familiar press of her curves and countours against his body, the scent of her hair and skin - like wildflowers and blood and wine and night-wind.

But part of him was wondering about what he was doing. Fianna was right - he would pay whatever price he had to get his Fianna back, whether it was extracted from unwilling victims or his own blood, flesh, and bone. But a small, niggling part of him wondered whether he was not forcing his memories and desires onto a being who could never be what he wanted - whether she was just telling him what he wanted to hear...

He shook his head. It didn't matter. All the introspection and doubt and questioning in the world wasn't going to change what he had set out to do. It would not change his determination to return the woman he had loved. Moping about it was a waist of time, and he had little enough to spare.

And then her lips hit his.

Well, perhaps he had time enough for this.

He kissed her - a long, deep, sensual motion. At first it was just his lips, but the rest of his body quite firmly decided that it wasn't about to let his mouth have all the fun. He undulated against her, gentle and strong, and one arm slid around her waist, drawing Fianna against him. He gave a low animal growl, his eyes open and staring into hers. His teeth raked gently over her lower lip, and he broke the kiss, leaning in to whisper something in her ear...

And then he felt another familiar sensation, this one distinctly less welcome. Half-conciously, he pulled Fianna close, primitive protective instincts even older than Umber himself making themselves known. As usual, Umber didn't even hesitate.

"Our decency or lack thereof hasn't ever stopped you before, Shiakti dear." He said smoothly, a wicked little smile on his lips. "As I recall, you used to like to watch on occasion. I doubt you came all the way down here just to indulge your voyeuristic tendencies, however." Umber rose to his feet with feline grace, though his own merely human body couldn't match Shiakti's truly animalistic prowess - and to be frank, he couldn't have even when he was a Lord of Blood. Shiakti was in all likelihood the greatest huntress on earth.

He gave her a direct look. "I thought I felt someone looking over my shoulder. Was that you during the fight a few moments ago?" He shook his head. "It seems like I keep running in to old familiar faces. Destiny, it seems, is catching up."

[Pwenet]

Incom Morgan

The ghostly echoes of terror race through Incom as the assault resumes as he struggles against the hopeless odds. Staggering under a series of blows he involuntarily grunts in mental pain as his systems detect the dents from the blows. Even the angel Katashiko and evil Sara pause in their combat to look before resuming as a particularly nasty blow from one of the enemies sends Incom flying through the air, crashing painfully into a tree. The hover GHASTs start to shift their aim towards Incom while the other three start to advance.

”Come ON old man! You can do this. We killed these fools once before. Don’t die on me yet!”

Flashes of dim memories ripple through Incom mind. A hand of a half-giant being crushes, ripping out of eyes, slamming a head into pulp against stone, cutting a hand off.

Push up off the ground Incom Looks at his enemies. The various GHASTS almost seem transparent, ghosts of men with the wounds of their deaths upon them. One of them (Cuso was his name) who looks significantly larger than the others and seems to be favoring one hand and holding his arms in a high guard to protect his head. The other carries twin swords oddly enough(Jape - always the fool for the ladies), for being a GHAST means that such weapons were not necessary yet the tiny man with a crushed skull and a leer smiles as he rushes forward.

”You have done this before.”

Reformed metallic hands grip at the ground as time stretches, pulling in the dirt as he starts to rise, branches and bark falling off his back.

”You can do it again!”

He inhales, smelling the wind, the sweat and blood of combat, fear and death. The forest wavers, super-imposed with a underground cavern. Pains from wounds that will eventually kill him assault at once but they are easily shoved aside as he looks at his opponents clearly.

”You – Are all dead men.”

Jape rushes forward, the twin sword spinning through the air. Leaping forward and up Incom catches the swords with his bad arm, sacrificing it as his right arm takes advantage of the opportunity to bypass Jape’s defences and grab the side of his head. Claws screatch as they dig into the side of his head. Grunting with effort and pain Incom twists and pushes the full force of his body into the spin and slams the GHASTS head into a nearby boulder with force enough to deface it.

”…and dead men never learn their lessons!”

His damaged arm twists impossibly for a limb of flesh and bone but not impossibly for a limb of liquid metal. The caught swords twist around as well and break out of the grips of Jape. A left hand grabs one of the falling swords. Glittering adamantite
steel shines and Incom slices, decapitating the GHAST. Grabbing the second sword sword with his right arm Incom spins and stabs it through the open neck of Jape, driving it through. GHAST armor, designed to reflect damage was ever vulnerable to assaults from the inside. The sword through through Jape’s chest armor and into the boulder, pinning him to it as Incom leaps back as the hovering GHASTs wing-cannons track his position finally. The blasts he takes stagger him and rends the armor even further along with their companion.

Looking up Incom sees Walters hovering in the air, human hands moving as if flipping through the pages of a spellbook while in reality his hovering form continues to fire off blasts. Grabbing the severed head of GHAST-Jape Incom throws it at GHAST-Cuso’s head who instinctively blocks the flying projectile as he rushes forward and leaps up, his regenerating wings firing their thrusters enough to propel him up. Grabbing GHAST-Walters in a bear hug Incom ignores the blows as he shifts his weight around, throwing GHAST-Walters out of control. Digging into the armored form with his right hand he slashes GHAST-Walters wings. Each slash screeches painfully and throws off sparks until the wing is barely hanging on. Grabbing it Incom shifts it around as he headbuts GHAST-Walters. Firing his own thrusters he rises the wing as they slam into the other hovering GHAST who’s ghostly human-form, clad in a red shirt with dripping entrails from a open belly wound, tries to leap back. The wing Incom grabbed onto stabs into the chest armor of the GHAST-extra as the three fall to the ground.

The ground shakes with the impact as the three land. Not giving himself a chance to recover Incom rushes to GHAST-Extra and rips the wing and portions of the chest armor off of GHAST-Extra. The sword stabs into the guts of GHAST-Extra like a spear and into the control crystal. Energy crackles from the damaged control-crystal and his hand involuntarily releases it’s grip on the sword as the form of GHAST-Extra convulses, the energy cannons firing spontaneously. Diving around behind GHAST-Walters who is starting to stand back up Incom kicks out. GHAST, like humans, required their legs to be braced to be able to stand, with without the leg it falls right on top of the failing GHAST-Extra wing-cannon. Blasts continue to fire as Incom pushes GHAST-Walters on top of the cannon until several of the blasts start to rip right through GHAST-Walters.

Leaping up and abandoning the two GHASTs Incom looks around at the remaining opponents, just in time to avoid GHAST-Cuso, who had in the meantime grabbed a small felled tree and appears to be quite content to wield it like an oversized warhammer/club. The next strike he was not so fortunate and he goes flying through the air, landing hard in the middle of the field. The other GHAST-Extra leaps up into the air and crashes into Incom, slamming fists into his head one after the other, the ghostly form within screaming incoherently.

Head snapping to the side Incom shakes it as he once again spies Sara, held afloat by her throat by GHAST-Arguile complete with a dagger sticking from his ghostly chest. Vision reddening he reaches up with his good arm and grabs GHAST-Extra arm in his own. Holding it out he stretches it out and headbuts the GHAST-Extra once, twice, and a third time as on ominous hum crescendos. His regenerated wing-cannon fires point-blank into the torso of GHAST-Extra, sending it flying back as the blasts penetrate through.

Sense whirl as the small tree slams into his form, driving him into the ground. Pushing himself up another blow slams Incom into the ground as GHAST-Cuso lifts up the small tree once again, preparing to slam it back down onto Incom.

”Come On! You are almost there!”

Weakly Incom attempts to fire off his wing-cannons however their depleted capacitors only manage a weak blast which GHAST-Cuso shrugs off. For his part GHAST-Cuso seems content to continue to smash Incom from a distance with the tree. In desperation, as the tree rises from yet another blow that had twisted his wing cannons, Incom rolls over and punches the air with his left arm as the small tree slams into his chest.

Gasping out loud as his senses scream at the damage Incom focses on his hand. Clearly it was destroyed, weakened as it was, but enough of it survived the blow and dug into the tree. As GHAST-Cuso raises the trunk, Incom focuses on his hand, blocking out everything else to maintain the arm, to let the rising tree and armor rise him up to the ground.

Back on his feet, screaming in pain he rips off his left arm. Seeing ghostly blood spurting from his wounded found he rushes forward. Continuing to scream he ducks under a swing, twist around another (thankfully the lack of wings made him a bit smaller) until he was face to face with GHAST-Cuso. Looking into the ghostly form, with the torn out eyes, smashed and bloody face he wonders for the briefest of moments what his own ghostly form must look like. That moment fades as he twists around, grabbing GHAST-Cuso arm, twists and glides behind him, locking the arm and pushing out with his knees to knock out GHAST-Cuso legs, bringing them both down to the ground. Screaming with effort he thrusts all of his will into his good armor. GHAST-Cuso’s armor screeches, screaming with effort and rips free with the blades still extended. Twisting it around Incom shoves it back into the stump, the opposite way, blades-first and into GHAST-Cuso’s torso.

Panting with effort Incom slides off the body. Exhaustion creeps through his form for some bizarre reason as he looks over at GHAST-Arguile.

”Don’t do this! You can take him. Take HIM!”

In a blink Incom flies through the air, slamming into the ground as his chest smolders from the blast from GHAST-Arguile. Despite his weakened state he starts to laugh.

”What’s the matter Arguile? Don’t want to go man-to-man with me on my worst day again? How does that dagger feel?”

[Dorizzit]

Korram Alstan

Korram nods solemnly at Katrina's accusation.

"I can die and be useless, or I can die and have it mean something. I'm not just throwing my life away, though. I've still got a few tricks left. You aren't obligated to stay, though; it's your choice."

Korram snorts at Eldred's entrance.

"Relax, I'm not looking for a refund."

He turns to look at Lunara when she speaks to him, and responds in an equally quiet voice.

"The arm worked just fine for over a decade. The only reason it became problematic was because one of the bindings was broken by an Efreet. As long as the binding doesn't get hit by something very strong, it should be fine. If it helps any, I'm still planning to get one."

After concluding his conversation with Lunara, Korram receives a spirit tattoo from Eldred and prepares to depart.

[Lonna]

Pyrene

As Duke Volesin explained the exact nature of his offer, Pyrene kept up her best mask of polite attention. And indeed she was committing the details of the bargain to memory, even as her weary mind struggled to find any loopholes or unspoken disadvantages. The mention of Amelia caught her attention at once, and though her expression did not change, the thought brought with it a potential problem... Korram. He had tried at least twice before to save the Countess from her forced marriage, and the wedding would be his last chance to try it again. Somehow Pyrene doubted that would count as the evening "going off without a hitch" in Duke Volesin's eyes.

Duke Volesin clapped his hands together, and then stood up.

“I believe that is everything. My servants will see to any of your needs until the time of the wedding, so I doubt you will see me again until then. I am sure that this is an important decision for you, and you will require some time to consider it. When you have decided whether or not to accept my offer, simply ring this bell. My butler will be in to take your answer, I believe you’ve already been acquainted? Now then, unless you have any questions for me, I will bid you adieu. I have had a very late evening, and would like to get some sleep.”

Pyrene repeated her skirtless curtsy, then spoke slowly, choosing her words with care. "I thank you for your consideration, but I have no need to think about your offer. I will gladly agree to your terms, with one small clarification. I know that the Baron Gast has many enemies, and an event such as the wedding of one of his sons would seem to be a prime target for such persons. I would simply like to make sure that in the unlikely event that others disrupt the wedding, the interruption will not void our agreement."

[Iethloc]

Sohssal

Sohssal couldn't say he was surprised the Baron had someone else to handle attempted scrying, but he was surprised - and not pleasantly so - by who ended up answering. Still, he hoped he could just talk his way past Arlan; he didn't want to waste his reserves wrestling control of the spell away from him.

”Mad revenge schemes have to wait for now, business before pleasure and all. As you might have guessed, I wish to contact the Baron, and this was the most direct method available to me. This is not related to my...prior imprisonment, either. This is much more important,” he explained. Then he gave Arlan a hard stare, which is quite easy with a static incorporeal face.

”I trust you'll be able to connect me to him without any further problems?” he asked, his tone making it clear further conversation was unwelcome.

[Kasanip]

Isera Harvent
[Near the Capital]

"Markash." Isera thought about and nodded absently. It was an explanation, and she was too tired to really examine it further. But clearly Theresea was a lot more than just a wanderer. The tattoo also Isera did not recognize, but maybe would be a clue also, she thought.

But Theresea was right, so they went back together after Isera had to carry the large amounts of paper back.

Healing Carlain took most of the rest of her strength (as she had expected), but at last he was resting under the spell as she healed his hand and wrist. It would still take some time to heal probably. She could have used a syllable, but Isera didn't want to try at the moment. She was already quite drained and had a little nausea from the teleporting from before, as well a little headache from incinerating an old woman.

She sat down on her bed after taking off her boots and began to read through the documents. And as she did, she felt greater horror grow, but also her fatigue became smaller. Had her father been involved in this?
She bit her lip.
No.

That was her first attempt to fight out the nightmares predictions.
She read through the paper again and again.
And she felt a little feeling of hope. Nothing said he how he had learned of the ritual. Maybe he had researched it, or found something in an ancient book?
Nothing said he had to have learned of it from a warlock or cult.

Nothing says he did not too.
But Cynthia's handwriting suggested she had not been in contact with her father, and that whomever had given this document had not known. So, that was good.
It meant he hadn't turned to them for help.

A small feeling of relief.
But he could have just done it himself without telling anyone.
That was a dark thought too.
Not all warlocks worked in a group. Most didn't in the old days. But organizations like the Canticles had tried to make that impossible.

Tried.
But it was still possible.

Afterall, if a sixteen year old girl could commit a taboo ritual in the basement with her best friend, surely the leader of the Autumn Canticle could.
And after her own mistakes in the taboo he had left her in the wild world alone. How dare he, after his own mistakes like this! He had had no sympathy for her, his daughter!

But.

She curled her real hand in frustration. She was nine years old when her mother died. She didn't know what had happened exactly, and couldn't have. That was around the time she had started to stay with Cerise and her family. And now the memories started to come back.

Carlain's voice startled her. She turned to look at him, and felt some sympathy. He looked quite pitiful, but not that different probably than she had looked when she had just finished receiving the eye.
She stood up and sat on the edge of Carlain's bed, and put her hand on his forehead. A little as a move of comfort, to move the black hair from his face. But also to see if he had a fever.

"You'll be okay, Carlain." She said softly. Maybe. She had to talk to her father to report what had happened. But... with this new information... She wasn't sure. Not sure how much to trust him. Or at best, someone close to him also was a spy.
So Isera knew what she was going to do tonight. She wanted to wait until she was better rested. But... she wouldn't be.
She knew would have nightmares, fear, and exhaustion until she confronted her father.

Without really thinking, she started to hum a lullaby that Carlain's mother had used to sing to them all when they were little. She wasn't a very good singer, but it seemed to relax Carlain some. She continued it, lost in her own memories, until Carlain was asleep.

Rising gently so not to wake him, she put her boots on and pulled on her jacket.
She took the paper of evidence and put it in her jacket. She looked in the mirror and saw a determined 16 year old girl with a glittering eye, who was ready to go confront her father. There was a lot to talk about.

Quietly she went out of the room and down outside into the night.
Out of the town, and into the forest. She could feel the anger already burning and she stopped it. Professional. She warily looked about once she was far enough in. On a tree she inscribed a ward Cerise had taught to maintain silence. Looking with her eye about to see if Theresea had followed her again.
Satisfied, Isera began to chant.