The End of All Things - IC

[Jarian]

The two spells finish almost simultaneously, as if there had been a prearranged schedule for finding and recovering two of the most powerful mortal forces alive. Twin flashes of brilliant silver briefly illuminate the dimly lit marble entry hall, then fade to reveal four new occupants. Two, those seemingly ageless elves who sought you out and carried with them the dire warning of events to come, look haggard and worn now, as if the teleportation rituals took much of their strength. Dressed in black robes with the seven-pointed starburst of Inadinryl streaking lines of red and gold at angles across the fabric, the two could be twins for all the difference between them. Indeed, should the two leave the room and return, you suspect you would not be able to tell them apart.

The two elves share a look, then murmur a polite admonishment to remain where you are, that the others will be with you shortly. With that, they vanish as abruptly as they appeared before you so little time ago, leaving you alone in the hall with only your thoughts, the flickering light that seems to come from everywhere and nowhere at once, and a strange new companion.

The hall itself is not overly large, serving only the apparent role of a waiting chamber, though to where or what you do not yet know. Tapestries with the sigil of Inadinryl hang at regular intervals from the smooth walls on either side of large, rectangular windows. One long hardwood bench some four paces in length sits beneath one of the nearby windows, the wood polished to a gleam but otherwise unornamented. A stand near the bench bears a plain silver tray with a pitcher of water and two glass tumblers, along with a thin book bound in simple black leather, no title on the face or spine.

Through the windows you can catch glances of the fabled city below, though much is obscured by the fading light of oncoming evening. A quick look reveals only that you are in perhaps the tallest of the legendary spires of Inadinryl, as all around you see only open sky, and far below only the smoothed round tops of other, lesser towers.

Your hosts, yet unnamed as they are, will be with you shortly. For now, there is little else to do except wait, and perhaps learn what you can about your new companion.

[RaggedAngel]

Damien stands for a moment, taking in the room and the view outside the window with carefully observant eyes. He wears a magnificent suit of mithral mail, though the lustrous gleam of the metal has been dimmed through some means. A greatsword rests upon his back, the adamantine hilt and guard peeking up over his shoulder, and the rest of it concealed by his long cloak. He is dark, as if standing in deep shadows, but after a moment or so the darkness seems to fade away, leaving him as bright as the rest of the room.

He looks to the man beside him, silently taking his measure, before nodding and introducing himself. "I am Damien, who they call many things; Walker of the Nine, Swiftarm, Stonebreaker, Dragonslayer, and of Iron. I walk the path of the Sublime Way, and it has given me some measure of strength and wisdom." He gestures out the window, to the world beyond. "Not strength enough to close these rifts, however, nor wisdom enough to know what to do. If they have called me here, it is not because of my expertise or magical ability."

He looks to his hands, and the many scars on them. "If they called me here, it is because there will be a great conflict, of blade and flame and blood. Things do not bode well."

[Jojomo]

Zerak inclines his head slightly at their host's admonition in understanding, shutting his eyes a moment before the two elves disappear to spare himself from the glare. As the slight rush of air from the disappearance of the pair passes, he takes a quick glance around the room, his gaze lingering for just a moment longer on the other figure, this young warrior with an air of darkness about him.

He nods almost imperceptibly as Damien introduces himself. After the young man finishes speaking he responds, "I am known as Zerak, and nothing more. I have spent my life seeking enlightenment," he pauses and gazes into the distance for a moment, his face hardening into a frown, "I doubt that all the strength and wisdom in the world would avail us against the coming doom, what we desperately need is knowledge. These rifts are utterly unlike anything I or anyone I have known have heard of."

He lowers himself gracefully to the floor, sitting cross-legged with his hands hanging loosely over his knees. Closing his eyes, he muses, "I imagine our hosts might have more to say on the matter once they return. I had just started taking breakfast when my escort arrived, I have enough for two if you would care to join me." With that he reaches into his backpack, withdrawing a piece of trail bread with a single bite taken out of it and proceeds to eat.

[RaggedAngel]

Damien kneels down, very graceful for one so laden in armor and muscle, and he accepts the second helping graciously. He eats for a moment, in silence, and the sound of faint birdsong wafts in through the window. After a few peaceful seconds have passed, he nods again in thanks, looking at the fingers of his left hand.

"I used to have a ring that took care of nourishment for me, but I eventually found that eating and drinking were small concerns compared to staying alive. I supposed I could have found someone with the talent required to make a ring with both effects, but after a few years sustained by naught but magic I found that there are few things as comforting as a simple meal.

And I thank you for this one, Zerak. They came a bit earlier than I was expecting them as well, though I did not have the forethought to have packed a meal for the road. It makes me remember the old days, when I had to carry rations for the wizard so that he wouldn't slow us down."

With those words he become solemn again, looking to door through which their hosts had left. "There will never be days like that again, unless we can stop this dissolution. Unless we can stem the tide of this unraveling. It worries me, Zerak; because no matter how strong I am, or how deadly, I feel that I am but a structure of sand attempting to hold back the tide. It is a grim thought, and hopefully an incorrect one. But it is how I feel all the same."

[Jojomo]

Finishing his last bite of food, Zerak assumes a more formal meditative stance, hands clasped in his lap. His face loses all expression save for a small, serene smile. He pauses for a moment after Damien speaks before responding, "Over time, I came to think that using magic to provide something as mundane as food is merely extravagant, now I always carry some simple fare with me."

At Damien's reminiscing, the shadow of a smile flashes across his face, "I suppose that is an advantage I hadn't considered of favouring the forms that emphasize speed over strength; I have never been asked to act the part of the pack mule."

Zerak's smile disappears at Damien's last comment. He breathes slowly as he thinks for a moment, "It is my experience that we never experience the times we knew as children again, though that is perhaps more due to changes in ourselves rather than changes in the times." He opens his eyes, "On the subject of stemming tides though, I'd remind you that even single grains of sand, deposited over time, can change the course of rivers. Try to keep your mind in the present, we cannot afford to be distracted. Not by anything." The last is said with a glance towards Damien to gauge the young man's reaction.

[RaggedAngel]

Damien turns up his palm in a gesture of respectful concession. "Right you are; small things can have great effect on the world around them. I remember being taught many such things when I first learned the quiet ways of the Setting Sun. How did the poem go?

From the silent wings
Of a gentle butterfly
A great storm is born."

Damien settles back, letting silence fill the room for another long moment, and he looks at the older man more closely than before, with a warrior's appraising eye. "You have hands like iron, Zerak, forged over a long life of combat. I suspect it would take all of my skill to lay a hand on you, should you try to avoid me. I have no doubt that you can walk on the wind, and split stone, and pass through shadows. But there is something more about you, I believe, more than simply martial skill. Normally I would think it quite out of place to ask you such a direct and personal question, but this is not a normal time nor place. Along what vein does your power lie?"

Spoiler

Show

For what it's worth, Damien realizes that this is a rather rude question, and he's clearly a bit abashed about asking so bluntly. He is not, however, too polite to not seek such important information.

I'm basing his assumptions about Zerak off of this Sense Motive check:

(1d20+28)[33]

[Jojomo]

Zerak gives a little smile as the young man recites the poem, either he has heard it somewhere before or it echoes some other aphorism he remembers.

He settles back to his meditation. His eyes remain closed as Damien speaks, though he raises a hand to wave away the implied apology, "Do not feel the need to tread lightly around me Damien, my people are usually more direct than that in conversation. You are correct, the forms of fighting I practise are not the sum total of my abilities; I am also accomplished in the manipulation of divine energies."

He pauses for a moment, lost in thought, "Thankfully I never drew that power from any gods, for I know of many like me who became shadows of their former selves after their masters vanished."

Another moment passes, another long exhale and inhale before he speaks again, "You mentioned the Setting Sun style, do I take you to be a practitioner of that form? I have met others who were but never one who favoured the greatsword as a weapon."

[RaggedAngel]

Damien took a moment to think about how old the gith much be, for him to recall the times before the gods left. Not immeasurably old, or astoundingly so; but many human lifetimes, at least. If nothing else, it meant Zerak was truly his elder, by quite a wide margin.

Damien flashes a bright smile when his choice of weapon is questioned, and he glances back at his greatsword with fond eyes. "I am indeed a student of the Setting Sun, and you are correct that the school does not favor such large and heavy weapons. When I use maneuvers of that school I do tend to rely on nothing but my hands and feet, to be fair; but that isn't the point of your question, I wager.

I have walked the path of each of the nine known schools of the Sublime Way, and taken a measure of strength from each of them. I could wax poetic about them, believe me, but I will spare you such a thing for now. I am glad to know that you are not afraid to get your hands dirty, by the way; many of my strongest techniques are incomplete without an ally by my side. And I must say, Zerak, I doubt I could choose a better ally."

[Jarian]

The door at the end of the hall opens on well-oiled hinges, admitting an ageless woman whose race you cannot quite place. She wears the garb of Inadinryl, though it is more a gown and less a robe, with exposed shoulders and no hood, the yellow and red sunburst situated between her breasts. The woman's features are those of a moderately attractive fair-skinned human, all slender limbs and gentle curves, with hints of elven blood in the almond-shaped eyes and slightly pointed ears, though she looks like no half-elf you have ever seen. Her shoulder-length curls of hair are golden - not a blonde, but as though each strand were truly individual threads of spun gold, and her irises have the same metallic coloring.

The woman inclines her head toward you as she closes the door behind her. Her beauty is somewhat diminished by the absolute lack of emotion on her face, though her eyes are sufficiently piercing that such thoughts might be the last on your mind. She crosses the hall to you in a few swift strides, then folds her hands over her chest and bows, much more formally.

"I am Nysris, of the Council of Twelve. I speak for the Council presently, and thus for all Inadinryl." Despite the solemn words, Nysris's voice is oddly light, flitting from syllable to syllable like a lilting song. "As you are no doubt already aware, time is of the utmost essence. However, we are not so pressed that I cannot extend the courtesies befitting guests of your stature. May I offer you refreshments? The pitcher's enchantment allows it pour whatever you desire, no matter how exotic."

Nysris flicks her fingers in the weavings of a simple spell, and a third tumbler joins those already on the tray. She pours herself a small amount of water and takes a sip, as if to demonstrate its safety. "Have no fear; nothing in Inadinryl will harm you, on that I give my oath. If you have any questions before we proceed, I will answer them to the best of my ability. If you wish for anything else, simply ask and it will be done if it is within my power."

[RaggedAngel]

Damien takes Nysris's measure respectfully, not allowing his gaze to linger on her holy symbol. He spends a moment or two trying to decide what kind of being she might be, before deciding that it mattered little. An ageless race with few members, a normal mortal transformed by magic, or something even more arcane; she was intelligent, powerful, and his host. It was all he needed to know.

When she made a display of the pitcher he took her lead, pouring a small dash of something that smelled suspiciously like both coffee and whiskey. He takes a sip, grunting in approval, though he listens politely as long as she speaks. When she finishes, he takes a moment to collect himself before speaking, taking another sip of his drink.

"Forgive the soldier's coffee; it's a vile swill that I acquired a taste for while I learned from General De'Tev, and it takes enough effort to make it that I have it quite seldom. Few things will wake a man up faster and give him more vigor, though." His tone is polite and conversational, a way for him to take more of Nysris's measure before moving on to more difficult and serious topics.

"I do thank you for the conveniences, Councilwoman. Your hospitality is greatly appreciated, and it speaks well of you that you care for our needs and desires. And I have few questions, other than the more important ones that will no doubt be answered wherever you're taking us. I would, however, like to know this: in your opinion, do the two of us have much of a chance? Know that I will give my absolute all no matter your answer, Nysris. I just wish to know what you believe."

[Jarian]

Nysris tilts her head to one side, considering Damien's question. "Truly? Do you believe we would have expended such effort finding you if we believed it in vain? Very well, you shall have your answer: as you are, I believe you will fail as all others have failed; as you will be, I believe you are the only hope for this world, and whatever chance you hold is the one upon which all wagers must lie."

[Jojomo]

As the doors swing open, Zerak's eyes open and he rises to his feet, almost as if he was waiting for it to happen. He returns their hostess' bow, though his years spent in a monastery are given away. This is no courtier's bow, but that of a monk in the practice hall.

The demonstration of the pitcher's power draws his attention. The previously serene expression on his face replaced by one of intense thought as he considers the magics that could be used to produce the effect so elegantly. The change only lasts a moment though, as he realises that to ponder too long could seem rude to their hostess.

With another small bow he says, "I thank you for the offer Nysris, but I have water enough in my pack and have never developed much taste for," his eyes flick to Damien's glass, "luxuries."

He listens closely to Damien's question, wondering if perhaps his young companion is adequately focussed for the monumental task ahead of them. With so much at stake, to even entertain the possibility of failure is a distraction they can ill afford.

Nysris' response is what he expected to hear, though one phrase piques his interest. "Nysris, you referred to us "as we will be", do I take it from that that you and the council have a plan and if so, will you share it with us? You will have to forgive my directness, but as you said yourself, time is of the essence." While his words carry some contrition, his gaze never leaves Nysris' eyes while he speaks.

[Jarian]

Nysris raises a hand in a placating gesture as she responds. "We do indeed have a plan, though to call such a monumental undertaking merely a plan is to do a grave injustice its potential to quite literally alter the future of our world.

"As for what the plan is, I am afraid I am not the one best suited to explain in detail. The magical theories involved are incredibly varied, and many are beyond even my understanding. Know simply that we intend to make you more even than you are now, greater than any man or woman of flesh and blood has ever been."

[RaggedAngel]

Damien looks down for a moment, considering the woman's words. He swirls the last bit of his drink in the glass, his eyes obscured. "I am a warrior, ma'am. A soldier, and occasionally a soldier of fortune. I am not a sage or a scholar, not a master of arcane secrets or psychic power. So needless to say, I have no intellectual ability to judge this situation."

The shadows around him deepen, as if the sun was swiftly setting on Damien alone. He raises his head, and his eyes shine fiercely despite the faint gloom. "But my instincts are another matter entirely. And they tell me that we can and will succeed. Not only because we must." He looks to Zerak, and he flashes the monk a fierce smile. "But because we have the power. And even more, because we have the potential to be so much more than we already are. This I know."

He bows, every bit as formally as the gith before him. "Take us where you will, milady. I have wasted enough of our time with speech, and the call to action is upon us."

[Jojomo]

Listening intently to Nysris' answer, Zerak experiences a slight pang of regret. After Damien speaks, he adds, "I am a scholar, among other things, but I doubt circumstances will permit me time to study whatever arcana you intend to manipulate," he returns Damien's smile with a wry one of his own, "After all, I very much doubt we were brought here to offer scholarly advice on the matter. Much as I would like time to appreciate the finer points of your "grand undertaking", we must all play our parts."

[Jarian]

Nysris bows her head in assent, and with a swish of robes and a gesture to follow, heads for the door she entered by. As she begins to open the door, you feel a slight tingle wash over you, as if you had just walked through an impossibly thin wall of water, or perhaps been been checked for ailments with magical healing.

Opening the door reveals a chamber perhaps most aptly described as curious. Like the waiting hall before the room is entirely marble, all black and white and grey. The expansive room is roughly circular, though made all of flat walls meeting at odd angles to create a myriad sharp corners. Decorations of all sorts adorn the outer ring of the room, banners and vases and suits of armor mingling with weapons and religious texts, and you suspect at least as many as you can see are hidden by the strangely designed walls.

The center five paces of the floor have been cut out to hang suspended half a dozen feet or so in midair. Below this floating section of floor is a large pool of brightly glowing yellow liquid, which lazily swirls in constant motion. Seven gradually sloping ramps run from near the edges of the room to meet with the raised section, each ramp decked with carpets in alternating red and gold. A round table at least three paces wide sits in the center of the raised section, surrounded by simply-wrought high backed chairs with red cushions and liberal gilding on the wood. The table itself is made apparently of a single piece of formed glass, no seams or joints visible. Curiously, not a single object rests upon the table, not goblet nor documents nor map nor any other thing one might expect to find there.

Eleven others are already seated at the table, all in the garb of Inadinryl in one fashion or another. Six are white-haired fair-skinned elves, all tall, slender males with eyes both hard and wise. The others number two human women with hair more silver than grey, a pair of tieflings - one man and one woman- you would swear are twins by their nearly identical short horns and dark purple-red skin, and, unless your guess is quite off, a rather diminutive lich. The delicate bone structure suggests that the lich was likely a halfling in life, though with most of its flesh and skin lost to age, it is difficult to say for certain.

Nysris leads you up one of the ramps to the single empty seat at the table, which she stands beside but does not sit in just yet. Her gaze sweeps across the table, taking in the nearly expressionless faces of those gathered. After a long moment she nods to herself, then addresses you once more: "I have the honor to introduce you to the Council. Names matter little here, for we function as one with a single purpose, albeit with twelve voices. We have waited long and prepared longer for this day, for this meeting. If you have questions, speak them now, else we will begin at once."

[Jojomo]

Not missing a beat, Zerak crosses the room with a few long strides and falls into step behind Nysris' shoulder. The sensation from the door piques his curiosity, were circumstances less dire he could likely spend years studying the subtle magics that seem to be commonplace in Inadinryl.

He finds the architecture of the council chamber strangely comforting, as it reminds him of some of the more esoteric geometry in the monastery that he left behind so many years ago. As they cross the chamber and ascend to the council table, he recalls long days spent training in rooms where gravity and even position were merely a matter of perspective. Reaching the top of the ramp, he brings his thoughts back to the present.

Taking in the seated figures with a quick glance, he again bows once more, "Greetings, Councillors. I would introduce myself formally, but I have no doubt you already know more than I could relate in a timely fashion." He is unmoved by the presence of the tieflings, he knew others of their kind during his time on the Prime Material, but the presence of the lich does give him pause for thought. Considering the circumstances however, he suspects a lich, halfling or otherwise, will be one of the more mundane things he encounters in the struggle to come.

[RaggedAngel]

Damien marches in step with Zerak, taking the opportunity to watch how the man holds himself. Balanced, poised, and relaxed, and yet his weight is at the perfect place to react to any danger. Magically enhanced, obviously, but who isn't among us and our peers. Impressive environmental awareness; he's almost certainly aware that I'm watching him right now. Good.

The massive room around them takes less of Damien's attention, despite its grandeur and complexity. It just isn't as important to him as his new ally, upon whom he will very likely be trusting with his life. Such things were far more important to the warrior than art and wonder, though he appreciated the chamber's wealth and design.

Rising up the ramps, Damien allows his senses to expand, and he begins to silently take in every motion and sound around him. The sound of the liquid below, softly churning, the breathing of the living and the odd, faint hum given off by the undead. The air presses against him like an old friend, and he feels the heartbeats and the breath of the council. He takes their measure as he rises to their level on the platform, watching their composure, their eyes, the lines of their mouths.

It is more information than any mind, or at least any human mind, could take in at once. There was no way that Damien could calculate and reason, drawing together the sights and sounds of those few seconds into a rational analysis. But the mind of a warrior is one of impulse and reaction, of sense and instinct, and his hindbrain had more than enough power to call together the general state of the council: a mixture of apprehension, rational fear, and stubborn optimism. Among other things, of course.

"Greetings," Damien says after Zerak has spoken his piece, giving a polite bow to the council. "As my new partner has said, you no doubt know more about me than I could tell you in an hour's time. Instead, I will take you up on your offer to answer a few questions before we begin. I know that time is of the essence, and so I will ask but two questions. And know that I will work with you no matter the answers.

All I ask is thus: what can a warrior such as myself do to mend these rifts that a powerful mage, cleric, or druid could not? And more importantly, you say that we will begin. I just wish to know: begin what, exactly?"

Spoiler

Show

He is in Stance of Alacrity and Hearing the Air. He has blindsense out to 30 feet, not that I expect it'll find anything invisible.

Sense Motive: (1d20+28)[35]

If my guess as to their overall feelings and attitude is way off, let me know and I'll edit this post.

[Jarian]

Nysris gives a small shrug, as if to say 'as you wish'. "As I said before, the theories involved are quite complex, and they do not so much weave together as overlap. I fear the explanation may be... disjointed. Still, were we in your place we would no doubt wish to know as much ourselves..." She trails off as she looks around the table, apparently searching for a good place to start, finally settling on the tieflings. "Daedric, Tilaar, if you would lay the framework?"

The tieflings nod, small smiles touching their lips, though whether in amusement or pleasure is not clear. The woman - Tilaar - places a hand with long, black-lacquered nails on the table, tapping the glass slowly as if in thought. After a moment she presses her palm down firmly and begins to speak. As she does, the center of the table ripples like the surface of a placid lake disturbed by a small stone. A tiny sphere of glass bubbles free of the table, floating several inches in the air.

"Your soul. Mortal. Ordinary. Exceptional in standing, but still ordinary." Her voice is dispassionate, clinical, yet somehow soft and sultry all the same. A dozen more spheres bubble up from the table, beginning a slow orbit around the first. "Alternate realities. The same soul, but different. Different hosts, different lives. Identical, yet distinct."

Daedric places his hand on the table then, nails likewise painted. The table begins to spew smaller glass spheres at in incredible rate, each a slightly different color, most too small for all but the keenest eyes to notice. Dozens begin to orbit each of the spheres circling the first, whirling about in complex patterns.

"The forces pulling on each soul. Gods, obligations, training, family... destiny, you might say. Or fate." Daedric's voice is all amused indifference. He taps his fingers on the table, and several of the smaller spheres shift places, streaking through the air to take up new orbits around new 'souls'. "It is a simple enough matter to change a fate in small ways. Remove a meeting here, rekindle a lost love there... when you know what you want to happen, changing an individual destiny is remarkably simple."

"And yet, large changes, truly shifting the course of a life, is difficult to the point of impossibility," Tilaar adds, swirling her fingers on the glass. Half of the spheres orbiting one of the 'souls' fall away, striking the tabletop not with the cracks of glass on glass, but wet splashes as they rejoin the burbling surface. "Change enough, and it is no longer the same soul. Change too much..." Several more spheres fall away, then the entire 'soul' follows, as if too many supporting strings had been cut and the remainder too weak to hold it up any longer. "And death becomes inevitable. It is the greatest of inconveniences, though hardly permanently scarring in the grand scheme." The remaining souls shift their orbits slightly, seamlessly accommodating the change.

"The problem thus becomes a matter of how to change one soul so greatly that it may withstand the most trying of challenges, yet not destroy all the others. Change enough and you begin to destroy. Destroy enough of the others, and you destroy that which you wished to change in the first place. It has always been a most vexing conundrum." Despite his words, Daedric sounds anything but vexed. More likely amused at being made to offer such a simple explanation, if your guess is correct.

"The answer comes in the form of one of magic's most simple truths," the lich adds, voice a dry whisper that comes from unmoving jaws. Red pinpricks of light in empty eye sockets watch you intently as it speaks, uncaring of the display before it. "There is neither creation nor destruction in their raw forms, only redistribution. All is linked, tied by bonds unseen and unknown to most. Proper study of the bonds reveals a second, more interesting truth: individuality is an illusion, a mask created through ignorance. All is one, and all can be made one."

The lich touches exposed phalanges to the table, and the entire orbiting array stops dead. Each of the tiny outer bits suddenly release black needles in all directions, piercing their companions and the souls they orbit, and bridging the gap between each portion of the array. Only the original clear glass sphere remains untouched, hanging suspended in the center of a mass of gleaming black needles.

"It is therefore possible to take from all what is necessary to make the one sufficiently powerful, but in minute amounts so that none is destroyed, only diminished. Wounded but not dead, and like all wounds, capable of being healed in time." Wispy lines of color flow from each of the pierced points as the lich speaks, streaming into the untouched center sphere until the entire thing glows with an inner radiance, softly at first but growing brighter with each passing moment.

"There is more," one of the human women puts in, a net of emeralds in her hair swaying as she shakes her head. "Linked healing to ensure the others survive. Illusions to mask their weakness while they recover. Enchantments to guarantee that their fates remain unchanged by our actions. Other things. Details so expansive that one mind cannot hold them all."

"But these things are hardly important to you. They are for us to worry about, to control the necessary damage we must inflict so save our world," the other woman puts in, her aging face spiderwebbed with wrinkles hardly diminishing the telltale signs of a great beauty in her prime. "What we need from you is simple. The ritual is archaic in some ways, a necessary bit of barbarism to ensure that all of the links function properly." She touches two fingers to the table, and the bubbling center stills, though the pierced array remains floating in midair. A second tap and two vials flow up out of the table near Nysris's chair, along with two glass needles.

Nysris scoops up both needles and vials in one motion, then turns to offer them to you on an upturned palm. "The ritual requires several drops of your blood. I believe the exact wording was 'enough that you know you've bled', is that not right, Risia?" The lich nods, and Nysris turns her attention back to you. "Remember my promise: nothing in Inadinryl will harm you. We ask this only because it is required."

[Jojomo]

Zerak listens as the council explains their plan. Doing so however, he comes to understand precisely what Nysris meant when she said that referring to it as such does not do it justice. While his understanding of spellcraft would not be enough to conceive of such an undertaking, it certainly allows him to appreciate the immense scale involved in the process. While the only outward sign is a minute widening of the eyes, for the first time in many years, the old gith is utterly amazed.

Leaning forward to peer at the elaborate construction floating above the table, he haltingly speaks, "So, put simply, you intend to drain energy from the lives of all beings, everywhere and channel that energy to the two of us while simultaneously putting in place what might be the most elaborate combination of magic ever conceived to conceal the fact that you have done so?"

His eyes are drawn to the vials in Nysris' hand. Glancing at the older woman, he nods, "It seems no matter how far we come, there are some things about the oldest magics that never change. So be it." With that, he takes one of the needles in his right hand and a vial in his left.

He presses the needle into his wrist, the muscles in his arm straining as he tries to penetrate the skin, to no avail. He sighs, "I had wondered if my... nature would pose difficulties. A moment." Holding the needle in his palm, he closes his eyes and traces a finger down the veins in his arm, coming to rest on a patch of skin seemingly no different to any other. Keeping his eyes shut, he grips the needle like a knife, draws his arm back and strikes with speed that defies the eye to follow. He doesn't move an inch as the needle digs into the vein and a thin trickle of blood appears. He drops the arm to his side, allowing blood to flow down his hand, dripping into the vial.

Once the slender glass container is filled, he wills the wound to close and the bleeding stops. He seals the vial and returns it and the needle to Nysris. Glancing at the still wet blood on his hand, he takes one of the pieces of cloth trailing from his sleeves and dabs carefully at the crimson trail. It gives him pause for thought; he hasn't seen his own blood in years, he doesn't remember it being quite so bright.

[RaggedAngel]

Damien shakes his head once Zerak has finished speaking, looking at the orbs with a reverent mixture of fascination and contemplation. "No, my friend, I believe that this is something slightly more profound than drawing on the lives of the souls of everyone else, though I do not know if it is more or less grand than that."

He looks to the council, gesturing in respect. "Correct me if I am wrong, but you are going to be drawing on the power, emotions, training, and experiences of alternate copies of ourselves. Damiens and Zeraks that live in other worlds, different worlds. Worlds that are not falling apart at the seams. You will take bits of their strength, only a bit from each of them, and give it to us; and at the same time, you will heal and mask their temporary sacrifice so that their lives are not altered by the loss. We, on the other hand, will receive a permanent infusion of power, with which we can help end this apocalypse."

He smiles in wry amusesment, looking down at himself. "In my case, by stabbing the end of reality to death. I still do not know why you have chosen me, but I will consent that your wisdom and intelligence, especially as a collective, surpasses my own by a quite respectable amount. I trust you."

He takes up a vial of his own, rejecting the needle, and he draws his greatsword a few inches, though its scabbard is still concealed by his cloak. He runs the flat of his left thumb across the blade, his face placid, and then he lets the dribble of blood fill the vial before pressing his thumb against his closed fist to staunch the flow. He hands the vial to Nysris ceremonially, and then nods to the others. "Shall we begin, then?"

[Jarian]

Nysris accepts the vials with a small nod, then turns and presses them into the table with seemingly effortless ease. As the glass slides back into glass, the blood begins to spread in two small, inky clouds, as if dropped into unnaturally clear water. In the span of only a few breaths, the entire table turns a deep, translucent crimson. Below, the swirling pool takes on a similar hue, spreading lurid flashes of color spinning around the room as it begins to whirl faster and faster, as if its ancient bindings were abruptly awakened.

"It begins," Nysris breathes, placing her palms on the table and staring intently into the now murky glass. "For better or worse, it begins. We do what we must, all of us..." Shaking her head as she trails off, she looks once around the table, then takes up a chant in a high, resonant tongue unlike any you have heard spoken before. As her words echo through the room, each syllable thudding into you like a physical weight, the eleven others around the table take up their own versions of the chant, each in different tongues, yet all with enough similarity that you know they speak of much the same thing.

While the others begin to weave the intricate magicks they spoke of, the ritual that will drain so many others, the six elves focus their inscrutable gazes on you, never so much as blinking as they work their own spells. The bloodied table, the focus for each of the spells, begins to thrum with a low double beat as the spells progress, even as a slight tightness grips your chests. The discomforting feel grows in intensity, becoming a tight embrace, then bands of iron squeezing your lungs closed, then a fist clenching at your heart. With each passing moment the thrum grows louder and louder, until it booms through the room in tandem with the strange, echoing chant.

Just when it seems as though the spellcasters mean to rip your hearts from your chest with their spell, the pain abruptly abates. Around you, the Council has stopped its chanting, though faint echoes of their voices still resonate from all around, ephemeral copies of the same spell cast over and over and over again. The pool of light spins like a maddened gyre, surface roiling with the force of its movements, streaks of multicolored light coming from its depths to spin madly around the room like a dazzling display of illusioncraft.

Trembling, Nysris takes several steadying breaths before continuing. With slow, deliberate movements, she withdraws both palms from the table, and twin goblets follow, each wrought of the finest red glass filigree, so tightly spun that you suspect they would hold liquid as well as any container of more conventional make. Yet what sits inside is no simple drink, but a wispy substance neither liquid nor gas. The misty drinks seem to seek you out as Nysris turns to offer them to you, flowing against the edges of the goblets and spilling over the lip in weakly grasping tendrils.

"It is done," Nysris says tiredly, as if the short ritual took much strength out of her. "Drink, and it is done. When you are finished, we will know whether our efforts succeeded, or if all this was for naught."

Spoiler

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As soon as you drink, you'll receive your bonus epic feat, along with all the power of an epic character. If you want that to manifest in any particular way, feel free. As soon as you're done with that, we'll be moving on to bigger things!

[Jojomo]

Zerak watches as the ritual begins with keen interest. He has never seen magic of such magnitude performed before, and he expects that he may never have the chance again. It isn't a complete surprise when he feels the slight grip of the spell around him.

As the pressure continues to build, his habitually calm demeanour begins to slowly crack. Starting as a slight grimace as he senses the constriction around his lungs, as the agony reaches its peak a couple of grunts of pain escape his lips.

Once he is released from the spell, it takes a couple of ragged breaths before he manages to steady himself. Shaking his head to clear it, he focuses on the offered glass. Taking it from Nysris with a wordless nod, he swallows the contents in a few gulps.

For a couple of moments, nothing seems to happen. He takes a confused look at the glass, wondering if perhaps something has gone awry. An instant later though, his whole body jerks and freezes in place. The glass falls from his hand. He watches it fall as if time has slowed, watches it hit the ground, watches the cracks spread from the base through every filament of the structure. In the instant it shatters he experiences a perfect moment of revelation. What he had perceived as the limits of magical power, what he had always been told were the absolute extent of his abilities he now sees are but the most basic aspects of something far more fundamental.

As the enormity of the realisation seeps in, his muscles relax but he cannot seem to take his eyes from the shattered remains on the floor. Almost absent-mindedly he makes a quick pass with his hand. The fragments turn fluid, flowing together before reshaping themselves into the glass once more. Zerak stoops to retrieve it and returns it to Nysris with a small smile.

"I misspoke before. Now I am ready."

Spoiler

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Getting an invitation to the punchup at the end of the world: 190,000 xp and 760,000 gold pieces.
One bonus epic feat: A few millilitres of blood.
Spontaneously casting make whole to repair a glass that probably couldn't be produced by any mortal glassblower: Priceless

[RaggedAngel]

Damien weathers the ritual much as Zerak does; merely the training he had put himself through had often been more painful, not to mention all that his foes had put him through. He wasn't comfortable, but neither did he make any expression of pain or discomfort. Damien remains silent as Nysris offers him the goblet, and he drinks at the same moment as the monk beside him.

His reaction, however, is slightly different. Instead of going limp, Damien stiffens, his hands clenching with such speed and force that the fine crystal chalice shatters in a small cloud of fine crystals and dust. His eyes snap open, wide open, and yet he seems to see nothing. Externally, at least.

On the inside, Damien's mind is a storm, and after a moment that storm resolves into a shape. A man, much like himself, but wearing gleaming mithral mail, and holding up a great standard. He wears a rich red cape, and his hair is long and flowing. He gestures with a bastard sword, and vague figures charge around him, flowing toward some invisible fray. He turns, and looks to Damien, and speaks his name. "I am Damien, the Ironheart."

The figure fades, and is replaced by a man with shaven head, sitting in a sandy cave, cold and barren. He is thin, incredibly thin, but his eyes are bright and his completion calm. He wears nothing but light robes, but he seems comfortable, and peaceful. He looks up, nodding once. "I am Damien, the Ascetic."

The lonely image fades once more, and another man appears, powerful and barbaric. "The Beast." Faster the images flicker, each as real and powerful as the last, each utterly different. "The Trickster." "The Bloody." "The Arcane." "The Tyrant." "The Champion of Light." "The Spellsword." "The Cutthroat." "The Spinning Leaf." "The Hand of Stone." Titles, meanings, people, flashing past him and through him faster and faster. "The Dancing Flame." "The Shadow." "The Shield." "The Reaper." Each so different, so distinct. Different.

But the same. Each person him, each person a reflection of himself. And he, Damien of the Nine, the center of them all. One man, many forms. One thing with many representations, each of them different and each of them profoundly the same.

Damien closes his eyes, slowly, and he reopens them to the room, the visions gone. A half-minute of real time has passed, though he listened and watched his selves for half an hour. He bows to Nysris, and he smiles, his eyes brighter and his gaze sharper. "Damien of the Nine is with us no more, and I bid him farewell. I am Damien of the One, and I am ready."

A slight shift of light ripples over him as he stands tall, and a few subtle changes spread over his attire and gear. His armor, gleaming with faint flickers of light and soulfire fades, until it appears nothing more but a well-kept soldier's breastplate. His wide platinum belt dulls and then changes, leaving a sturdy leather belt in it's place. The rings on his hand become simple silver bands, and so on, each alteration but a small difference. The difference in his appearance, however, is quite large.

Spoiler

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His bonus feat will be Master of the Lotus. I'll let you know which maneuvers he'll learn through the feat once I pick them out later today.

That felt awesome. Let's do this thing.

[Jarian]

Nysris and the rest of the Council watch with intense scrutiny, twelve pairs of eyes taking in every change as they occur. When it becomes clear that all that is to happen has happened, Nysris allows a faint smile to touch her lips as an audible sigh of relief passes around the table.

"Perhaps there is hope after all. You were our only chance, but it would be a lie to tell you that we did not doubt whether our efforts would be enough." Nysris laughs, faintly self-deprecating. "All the study, the time spent testing and perfecting the individual facets of the ritual, and still it was little better than a flip of the coin. At least we won this gamble, though there is yet so much to do. Come, there are still things you must be told, and we must leave the others to finish their tasks."

With a gesture, Nysris leads you back down the ramp, walking close and speaking softly as you go. "Firstly, you must know what we do about the rifts that assault our world. Not the simple stories you may have heard in your travels, but the details we have been able to discern thus far. We have sent some of our own to study the rifts and - unsuccessfully - to close them. We have managed to maintain contact with several for short periods, though none have returned.

"The most important thing we have learned is that the rifts do not simply destroy that which they touch, but seem to absorb and reshape everything that enters them. Some of the rifts contain vast areas of twisted landscapes, even houses and other structures. Always it has been warped beyond recognition, but it suggests an intelligence of some kind. We have found no signs of life or any means of communicating with whatever may be controlling the rifts, but each seems to have a central area around which all else is built, a focal point that we have taken to calling the heart. None of those we sent have reached the center of the twisted interior of a rift before..." Nysris stumbles a bit in her speech, grimacing slightly, but quickly resumes talking. "...before we lost contact with them. The warping effect of the rifts seems to grow stronger the deeper in one travels. While we cannot speak with any certainty, it seems likely that what there is to be found will be found within the hearts."

Nysris closes a hand, then reopens it to reveal two opal teardrops attached to short gold chains, each teardrop no larger than the nail of a small finger. "These will allow you to contact us from anywhere you may go. The enchantment is simple in effect, but it is powerful enough to pierce even the destabilizing effect the rifts have on most magic. You need only clearly envision the person with whom you wish to communicate, and the message will be sent, so long as the one you wish to send the message to possesses another of these charms. You can, of course, also use them to communicate with one another, should you become separated." Nysris offers one of the charms to each of you, then turns to look at the pool of liquid light, which has settled somewhat in its wild whirling, though it remains a deep, glowing red.

"And now we must speak of the Eye. It is the focus for our most powerful divinations, as well as the source we draw upon to travel instantly whenever we must go a great distance. The ritual has attuned you to the Eye, in addition to its other effects, and so you may draw on its power. I must warn you that doing so is draining however, and none of our divinations have been able to pierce the barriers between our world and the rifts. Still, you may find the Eye's abilities helpful, so know that they are yours to draw on as needed."

Nysris draws in a bracing breath, then slowly exhales. "Now then, I must ask one more time whether there is anything I can do for you while we remain in Inadinryl, any questions I may answer or comfort we can provide. If not, I will take you to the first of the rifts now. Each moment truly is important, if not yet of dire import, but there is yet time to ensure your journey is as smooth as possible."

Spoiler

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The trinkets allow you to use sending at-will, so long as the recipient possesses a copy. Being attuned to the Eye allows you to use greater teleport once per hour on the prime material, and discern location and greater scrying at-will as spell-like abilities.

[RaggedAngel]

Damien accepts the charm gratefully, tucking it into an interior pocket in his wide belt. He looks to Zerak with a calm smile, raising his brow to the other man. "I have many thoughts, but no real questions. It is time for action, I should think.

The only request I would have is that of any potions or spell-tiles of healing and restoration you may be able to spare. My own powers of healing are on par with a clerics, but only in combat. Should something incapacitating befall Zerak, or myself if he is otherwise occupied, my options are slightly limited. If you have nothing on hand, it shouldn't be a problem, but I have never regretted being overprepared, and we're facing an unknown threat in hostile territory."

[Jojomo]

Zerak nods in thanks, looping the chain around his neck and tucking the opal pendant inside his tunic.

He nods as Damien speaks, "Such supplies would indeed be most useful, should things go wrong. There is one question that springs to mind Nysris: the rift you are taking us to, is it one of those which swallowed one of your expeditions? If we could find one of them it might prove instructive, not to mention that we might attempt to bring them out."

He looks towards Damien, "Regardless, I am inclined to agree with my colleague: it is time we began this venture in earnest."

[RaggedAngel]

Damien's eyes flash for a moment, and he looks to Zerak, holding up his hand to still anything that was about to be said. "Wait just a moment; I just had an insight that I hope will prove incorrect. Nevertheless, it would be silly to stifle the thought simply because it is a worrisome one.

You said that the rifts have altered the area they cover, not just consuming it but transforming it into a twisted version of itself, yes?" He looks down for a moment, pausing slightly.

"Is there a chance your forward parties could have been likewise altered?"

Spoiler

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Sorry to add more to respond to, Jarian, but this thought has been bugging me, and Damien is both more intelligent and wiser than I could ever be. There's no way he wouldn't have thought of the same thing.

[Jarian]

Nysris nods in acknowledgement of the request, turning a palm upward and adopting a look of concentration as she does so. The air above her palm shimmers briefly, then solidifies into an amulet made out of hair-fine platinum and gold filigree. She proffers the item to Damien, even as she considers the latest questions.

"I do indeed intend to take you to one of the rifts we have made efforts to explore. It is surpassingly likely that you will encounter members of the expedition therein, though I can say nothing with certainty. If you do happen upon them, be wary. The power of the rifts has warped everything we have been able to find thus far, minds and form alike. Our forces were by no means weak in their abilities, and I fear that they could prove a hindrance to your progress if your paths should cross." Nysris pauses briefly, a look of sadness flickering across her face before hardening into stoic resolve. "If you do find any of our members, and if they truly have been twisted, give them the peace of an honorable death in service to Inadinryl. None of us would wish to live such a life."

She reaches a hand toward each of you, fingers upraised as if to touch something incredibly delicate... or holy. "Now take my hand, and we will depart."

Spoiler

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Item get!

Pendant of Unimpeachable Fortitude
Body Slot: Throat
Caster Level: 7th
Aura: Moderate; (DC 20) conjuration
Activation: - and swift (mental)
Weight: 1 lb.

The platinum filigree of this amulet is twisted into the shape of a hooded figure bowing its head in prayer. A pair of gilded wings fan out to either side of the figure, each of the many feathers clearly distinct. A single tiny diamond is embedded in the tip of each wing and the cowl of the hooded figure, each glowing with a soft inner light.

While worn, the bearer of a pendant of unimpeachable fortitude is healed of one point of ability damage or drain each round. This is a constant effect that requires no activation.

Further, three times per day, the wearer of the pendant can replicate either the effects of a cure critical wounds or panacea spell (caster level 7th) as a swift action.

Finally, the pendant's magic seems to guide it to your throat of its own power, leaping into place with scarcely more than a thought. Equipping a pendant of unimpeachable fortitude is a free action, rather than a move action as normal.

[RaggedAngel]

Damien accepts the beautiful pendent gratefully, taking a moment to carefully wrap up the chain before storing the healing amulet safely in an inner pocket of his simple cloak. This, despite the fact that his cloak does not seem to have any pockets. He does it without thought, though the transformation of his garb had occurred scare minutes before.

He gives Nysris a solemn, shallow bow as she finishes, speaking softly. "We will either give them our final respects, or if the worst is true, grant them peace. Now let us journey into madness, and hope that madness does not journey into us." He takes her hand, his own fingers surprisingly light and smooth for all their calluses.