Murder.
After nearly a score of years travelling to literally hundreds of different planes, I've become jaded to many things that would have shocked or appalled me in my younger days. Moving between realities with portals. Speaking with angels and tanar'ri, baatezu and illithids. Treading ground that hasn't known the touch of mortal feet in centuries. All done so many times as to remove the awe and sometimes terror that once came from such things. And of course, we won't even mention this monstrous form, these odd shifting eyes... although if Miss Larkspur's offer of her and her friends' help and the Tome found by Seethe hold truth, at least that much will not be for considerably longer.
But the almost unworried attitude towards murder that seems to pervade larger cities, I will never understand... and in Sigil, it's even worse. People walk by without looking as pleading screams sound down a dark alleyway. The dustmen's wagons travel by several times a day, and I have yet to see one without a "passenger" lying limp within. Even today, the mangled and charred remains found in Undersigil... I've walked those dark ways often, and have yet to even hear of something capable of killing in such a way, especially if rumors as to the armor's quality are true and indicate the deceased being a seasoned adventurer.
Such things would have had the entire city's constabulatory in an uproar in my youth. At least before...
The youthful human labored over the anvil, strikes of the heavy hammer sending sparks jumping from the red-glowing steel bar upon it, fizzling out on the heavy leather arpron he wore. A sheen of sweat covered his face, eyes intent on the work over a light beard, while powerful muscles bunched in his arm with each precise strike. To an outside eye, this man of nineteen summers would seem both skilled at his craft and proud of his work. Within his head, however, the repetitive nature of smithcraft allowed him the time to dream... and his dreams were of the forge and workshop. In his mind, he visisted the dwarven smiths and learned the secrets of working rare metals. Took lessons in gemsetting from gnomish jewelers. Even visited the elven tree-cities to the far east, seeking the methods of laquering their spellcrafted wood. In his mind, Bryn Groff was the definitive master smith... but in reality, just another small businesman in the city of Whitemountain. Daydreaming is a fine activity, yes. But on the other hand, it causes a narrowing of focus that, combined with the constant crackle of the forgefire and ringing hammerstrokes, kept him from hearing the gentle tinkle of the bell above the door, only a sharp cough from close behind breaking him from his constant reverie and causing him to turn with a start.
At seeing what seemed customers, a welcoming smile came to Bryn's face and he paused only long enough to quench the barstock before focusing his full attention on the visitors: a tall man with a long, patrician face wearing an odd brimless cap, and a slim girl, appearing serveral years his junior but with features unlike any he'd seen before, her tilted eyes, narrow chin, and high cheekbones lending her a distinctly foreign appearance. "Milord, milady... welcome to Groff forgeworks, finest crafting in Whitemountain!" He gave a slight bow encompassing them both.
The girl gave a curtsey in response, her cheeks dimpling with a smile, while the man's head tilted slightly to the side. Both of them were dressed in fine clothes, but the dust of travel was evident. "We'll decide whether it is truly fine, Goodman Groff," said the tall man. "What we do know is that you have few commissions at the moment, making you capable of filling a sizable order in a relatively short time. I am Waltram Baem, procurer, and this is my apprentice, Abilar." A quick jerk of the thumb indicated the silent girl at his side. "The mercantile consortium we represent has authorized me to make whatever arrangements necessary."
Bryn gestured to the side, incidating a small desk with several chairs placed around it. He led the pair towards it. "You'll be pleased to know that I offer discounts on bulk orders, then, and I do have four apprentaces who help me evenings. So tell me, what is it you're needing?"
A humorless smile creased the man's face as he dropped a rather heavy-sounding bag of coins on the desk's surface. "Longswords. Four hundred of them."
Chaos-forged Thoughts
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Ixia Larkspur.
I'm not quite certain what she thinks she sees when she looks at me. She claims that she sees the man inside... but considering how many men seem to be vying for her attention, I'd still not be willing to wager that an eight-hundred pound reptile would be at the top of her list. However... all thought of romantic attachments aside, she is still a good friend, and a powerful arcanist to boot, and she seems to surround herself with other powerful folk. It's that which gives me hope... that returning to the place of both my greatest triumph and most harrowing difficulty might make me... well, not this.
On the other hand... I do find it rather difficult to resist the charms of someone so lovely, so kind, and who shows an interest in my craft.
"Why would you be putting it there?" The apprentice merchant's voice sounded from behind Bryn's shoulder, her clipped accent and odd syntax as distinct as her appearance, as he quenched a fully-shaped blade in the water barrel.
"It's called quenching. If the metal cools normally, it will wind up brittle and be more likely to break during use. By causing it to cool quickly, something in the makeup of the steel changes, imparting additional strength to it." His head turned, his grin slightly teasing as he regarded her. "I don't hink your company wants swords that snap, Miss Abilar."
"No, Goodman Groff. They would not like that at all, I'm thinking." Her return grin showed that she got the humor in his statement, and reminded him once again just how attractive he found her foreign features. And her constant interest in his craft had gotten to the point that he no longer was bothered by having a "minder" watching him work, although he still didn't quite understand Baem's insistance on it. Still, he'd be a little sad today when the last twenty swords were complete and in the hands of the consortium, and her time in the forge ended.
He was wiping his hands on a towel as the roar came from outside, and the sound of iron clashing on iron. Jerking around, he dashed towards the door and threw it open on a scene of utter chaos. A group of twenty constables were battling a considerably larger group of armed men in tunics of red and black, and definitely taking the worst of it. Eyes wide, the blacksmith staggered back into his shop, grasping a large crossbar and preparing to bar the door with it even as the girl's slim form pushed past him. "I have to go... if this is happenning, my master needs me." And without giving him the chance for a word in edgewise, she dashed out the doorway and down the street. And it was then as the bar dropped from his suddenly nerveless hands... at the sight of the weapons held by the invaders. Swords. His swords.
I'm not quite certain what she thinks she sees when she looks at me. She claims that she sees the man inside... but considering how many men seem to be vying for her attention, I'd still not be willing to wager that an eight-hundred pound reptile would be at the top of her list. However... all thought of romantic attachments aside, she is still a good friend, and a powerful arcanist to boot, and she seems to surround herself with other powerful folk. It's that which gives me hope... that returning to the place of both my greatest triumph and most harrowing difficulty might make me... well, not this.
On the other hand... I do find it rather difficult to resist the charms of someone so lovely, so kind, and who shows an interest in my craft.
"Why would you be putting it there?" The apprentice merchant's voice sounded from behind Bryn's shoulder, her clipped accent and odd syntax as distinct as her appearance, as he quenched a fully-shaped blade in the water barrel.
"It's called quenching. If the metal cools normally, it will wind up brittle and be more likely to break during use. By causing it to cool quickly, something in the makeup of the steel changes, imparting additional strength to it." His head turned, his grin slightly teasing as he regarded her. "I don't hink your company wants swords that snap, Miss Abilar."
"No, Goodman Groff. They would not like that at all, I'm thinking." Her return grin showed that she got the humor in his statement, and reminded him once again just how attractive he found her foreign features. And her constant interest in his craft had gotten to the point that he no longer was bothered by having a "minder" watching him work, although he still didn't quite understand Baem's insistance on it. Still, he'd be a little sad today when the last twenty swords were complete and in the hands of the consortium, and her time in the forge ended.
He was wiping his hands on a towel as the roar came from outside, and the sound of iron clashing on iron. Jerking around, he dashed towards the door and threw it open on a scene of utter chaos. A group of twenty constables were battling a considerably larger group of armed men in tunics of red and black, and definitely taking the worst of it. Eyes wide, the blacksmith staggered back into his shop, grasping a large crossbar and preparing to bar the door with it even as the girl's slim form pushed past him. "I have to go... if this is happenning, my master needs me." And without giving him the chance for a word in edgewise, she dashed out the doorway and down the street. And it was then as the bar dropped from his suddenly nerveless hands... at the sight of the weapons held by the invaders. Swords. His swords.
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The Book.
If only I had the training of a mage, to be able to understand the things in it. Old, it seems... the sorters of the Syndicate all agree that it is at least eight or nine centuries, and perhaps even older, as it was evidently found in a tomb on a desert world devoid of life. Preservation and a lack of time scale... it could be millenia.
But its age is not the matter. The fact of the so-called "circle" spells within are what make it interesting, spells beyond even the so-called "epic" enchantments that I've seen. Incantations capable of wasting cities, slaying armies, lifting mountains into the air.... controlling the Stone. Odd things have led me to this place, although I do not think I'd willingly change any of them. My time in this body is part of what made me who I am today... but I sincerely believe that it is time for that to come to an end. One mage's help promised, another assumed...
Bryn had sat alone in his shop for days; the apprentices had not shown up since the day of the riots, the day that red and black armored figures had taken up posts on every major intersection. The day that Duke Valastos had died, his entire family with him, and the "new" Duke, Blackriver, had taken the Seat of Whitemountain. Sleep had been slow to come, and hunger seemed a distant thing. The only thought was that somehow, some way, his labors had gone to help the usurper.
"Of course, one ruler is much like another." He had spoken these arguments to himself before. "It doesn't matter what head wears the crown to a simple armorer. Life will go on, and that gold will simply allow for the taking on of more apprentices, perhaps even a willing journeyman to help in their training. Yes, life will go on as before."
"No, it won't," came the feminine voice from the doorway, startling him out of his reverie as the door banged shut behind the form of Abilar, clad from head to toe in an almost skintight tunic and leggings of unrelieved black, the hood lying against her back and showing her face the only spot of color. Shaking her head, she stalked past him across the room, lifting the masterwork warmace, his own master's project in blued steel, from the place of pride it hung in. His jaw dropped, and all he could do was stare blankly as she moved to his side, dropping the weapon on the table before him. "You're taking this; otherwise you have about ten minutes to be ready. Baem is dead, I'm leaving this pisshole, and you're coming with me."
The air of command that she seemed to assume broke him from his stupor. "What do you mean coming? This is my home, my forge, my city. Yes, I'd like to travel someday, but I'm not going anywhere!"
"Nine minutes, Forger." This was not the inquisitive girl of but a few days ago. "And if you want to stay, stay. You might live a few days before Blackriver has you killed. But he doesn't want anyone associated with the weapons shipments left alive. Fortunately," she went on, shaking a cloth bag that gave off a glassy tinkle, "I have what Baem came for, and will be returning to my home, and the operation will be seen as a success despite our losses. But as for you... you're nice, you're useful, and you're damn good behind an anvil. But if you want to ever make another suit of armor, you need to leave with me. Five minutes."
Something in her words, in her eyes, got through to him, conveying a belief that everything she said was true. And five minutes was just enough to pack up those tools that replacing would be difficult, a change of clothing and good boots, and to move to the business' back entrance. "Abilar..." His hand fell on the girl's shoulder, holiding her in place for a moment. "You've never said... where is your home? What's it like?"
A wry smile crossed the girl's face as she gave a little dip away from his grasp, sticking her head out the door to look both ways down the alleyway, then returning to take Bryn by the wrist and pull him across the way to a rope ladder conveniently left there, which she scampered up like a squirrel, perching on the eave above to wait for his own ascent. "Oh, I'm sure you'll find it interesting, if not quite what you're used to. Place called Broken Reach. And... at least until we've found the... way... there, you'd better not use that name."
Climbing a rope ladder while carrying a full pack and a warmace is never a simple proposition. "What in the blazes am I supposed to call you then?"
A grin and a wink were his answer as the girl helped him up and pulled the hood over her head, a thin veil within falling to hide her face and making her seem little more than a shadow, a single word, a name, hanging in the air as she led him across the rooftops. "Seethe."
If only I had the training of a mage, to be able to understand the things in it. Old, it seems... the sorters of the Syndicate all agree that it is at least eight or nine centuries, and perhaps even older, as it was evidently found in a tomb on a desert world devoid of life. Preservation and a lack of time scale... it could be millenia.
But its age is not the matter. The fact of the so-called "circle" spells within are what make it interesting, spells beyond even the so-called "epic" enchantments that I've seen. Incantations capable of wasting cities, slaying armies, lifting mountains into the air.... controlling the Stone. Odd things have led me to this place, although I do not think I'd willingly change any of them. My time in this body is part of what made me who I am today... but I sincerely believe that it is time for that to come to an end. One mage's help promised, another assumed...
Bryn had sat alone in his shop for days; the apprentices had not shown up since the day of the riots, the day that red and black armored figures had taken up posts on every major intersection. The day that Duke Valastos had died, his entire family with him, and the "new" Duke, Blackriver, had taken the Seat of Whitemountain. Sleep had been slow to come, and hunger seemed a distant thing. The only thought was that somehow, some way, his labors had gone to help the usurper.
"Of course, one ruler is much like another." He had spoken these arguments to himself before. "It doesn't matter what head wears the crown to a simple armorer. Life will go on, and that gold will simply allow for the taking on of more apprentices, perhaps even a willing journeyman to help in their training. Yes, life will go on as before."
"No, it won't," came the feminine voice from the doorway, startling him out of his reverie as the door banged shut behind the form of Abilar, clad from head to toe in an almost skintight tunic and leggings of unrelieved black, the hood lying against her back and showing her face the only spot of color. Shaking her head, she stalked past him across the room, lifting the masterwork warmace, his own master's project in blued steel, from the place of pride it hung in. His jaw dropped, and all he could do was stare blankly as she moved to his side, dropping the weapon on the table before him. "You're taking this; otherwise you have about ten minutes to be ready. Baem is dead, I'm leaving this pisshole, and you're coming with me."
The air of command that she seemed to assume broke him from his stupor. "What do you mean coming? This is my home, my forge, my city. Yes, I'd like to travel someday, but I'm not going anywhere!"
"Nine minutes, Forger." This was not the inquisitive girl of but a few days ago. "And if you want to stay, stay. You might live a few days before Blackriver has you killed. But he doesn't want anyone associated with the weapons shipments left alive. Fortunately," she went on, shaking a cloth bag that gave off a glassy tinkle, "I have what Baem came for, and will be returning to my home, and the operation will be seen as a success despite our losses. But as for you... you're nice, you're useful, and you're damn good behind an anvil. But if you want to ever make another suit of armor, you need to leave with me. Five minutes."
Something in her words, in her eyes, got through to him, conveying a belief that everything she said was true. And five minutes was just enough to pack up those tools that replacing would be difficult, a change of clothing and good boots, and to move to the business' back entrance. "Abilar..." His hand fell on the girl's shoulder, holiding her in place for a moment. "You've never said... where is your home? What's it like?"
A wry smile crossed the girl's face as she gave a little dip away from his grasp, sticking her head out the door to look both ways down the alleyway, then returning to take Bryn by the wrist and pull him across the way to a rope ladder conveniently left there, which she scampered up like a squirrel, perching on the eave above to wait for his own ascent. "Oh, I'm sure you'll find it interesting, if not quite what you're used to. Place called Broken Reach. And... at least until we've found the... way... there, you'd better not use that name."
Climbing a rope ladder while carrying a full pack and a warmace is never a simple proposition. "What in the blazes am I supposed to call you then?"
A grin and a wink were his answer as the girl helped him up and pulled the hood over her head, a thin veil within falling to hide her face and making her seem little more than a shadow, a single word, a name, hanging in the air as she led him across the rooftops. "Seethe."
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I had not really known how to continue my plans in this sudden isolation.
Of course Seethe is here, and at the very least a constant source of support, if not capable in the ways that I need at the moment. But with Ixia seeminly vanished until yestereve, I did not truly have a true plan. I had heard of occasional sightings of the archmage Domiscus, but did not feel confident approaching him without Miss Larkspur's support. Word came to me of a learned elf in the Lady's Ward, but evidently he fell prey to a pack of undead. Finally, an odd bald human with a tattooed head seemed to have the requisite knowledge of circle magic, but the process is lengthy, and I know not when he'll have the answers I seek. And even with the newfound optimism I feel at writing this while a lovely girl who finds me something other than horrid slumbers in my chambers for the first time in decades, it cannot fully quench the impatience towards this process.
My life has not been a terrible thing. But it's times such as this that make me long for what once was...
It seemed that the one motion that was to become the sum of Bryn's reactions was to be the flinch. A month of covert travel away from Whitemountain, first hiding in peasant fields before moving into the perceived safety of the wide forests, eventually into a realm of barren badlands, had led to the first flinches as every sound of a creature moving through brush, or a horse's hooves upon the trail, had led him to think that Duke Blackriver's men had found the pair. On the other hand, the girl Abilar, now calling herself Seethe, displayed none of this debilitating fear. She displayed a confidence far beyond her years, hinting that this was far from the first time she'd been hunted. This in turn engendered two things: a respect for her level head and firm decision-making, and a newfound wariness. Seethe was no longer the inquisitive girl asking questions at his forge, but a worldly woman with resources he'd never guessed at in a mere merchant's apprentice. The few times they'd needed to actually hide, she had vanished from sight so completely and in such a short time that he'd been close to fearing abandonment more than once, while it was without a doubt her skill with thrown daggers that had kept them fed on the trail.
Yet that had been only the first. Two days within the wasteland, and she'd led them to an ancient ruin, and a tunnel delving deep within the earth. And at its end, his first experience with a magical portal, and the reason for his companion's exotic looks. He'd been hesitant to step through the shimmering doorway, but Seethe's insistance had been beyond his powers of resistance, and a different sort of flinch as he found himself high upon the slopes of a snow-capped mountain, upon a world with strange skies tinged a bruise-like purple. And that was only the first, as overland treks from portal to portal led them to a succession of different planes of existence, while the girl spoke to him of the nature of planar travel and the multiverse.
Yet none of that prepared him for the city he found himself within now, this so-called Broken Reach. Creatures of nightmare walked among humans, beings whose evil was a palpable aura purchased trinkets from stalls run by elves and dwarves, and things that seemed human until one noted the horns, tails, and glowing red eyes drank ale and sung songs in sprawling outdoor taverns beneath the crumbling spires of the city's skyline. Indeed, in some ways a city much like any other, but in others simply an excuse to elicit fright and startlement. And this was the place that Seethe called home.
"How could you manage to grow up in such a place as this?" The question was casual, but also expressed the odd dichotomy of his companion as they strode down a long avenue towards a fortress of dark red stone.
Seethe's laugh was genuine, reminding him that despite the things she'd shown him, she was still barely even an adult. "Bryn, when you're born in a city you wind up fitting it, just as you fit perfectly within Whitemountain. Yes, it can be a terrible place, that I will admit. We are in the Abyss, after all. Would you believe that I was once one of them?" Her arm stretched out, pointing to a group of scruffy orphans of several races, who were obviously seeking to distract a merchant so another of their number could take some items from his stall.
Bryn suddenly stopped in place. "Then how did you become..." An aimless wave of her hand, encompassing her current appearance, and in his mind assuming her clear speech and confident attitude.
"You're right. Many of them will die before they reach adulthood, while others will wind up signing up to fight in a... let us say local war that I'll tell you about later. I'll admit, I was lucky. Someone took me in, made certain I'd have the education and training to become what I am. Even if she was far more of a sister and perhaps even friend than a mother figure, I was at least spared a much more difficult life. But trust me... you'll figure it all out eventually." Leading him onwards, the pair eventually came to the front gate of the keep, where a pair of what could only be demons seemed to recognize Seethe, waving her within.
At the end of a long hall, another set of guards stepped aside to allow passage into an ornate and rather oddly appointed throne room. "In fact, Bryn... you're going to meet her now. Her name is Red Shroud, and she rules this city." And at that point his mind simply ceased working, for upon a massive stone chair padded with silk cushions sat the most amazing being he'd ever set eyes upon. Batlike wings folded behind her shoulders and tiny horns poking from her brow could not distract from features so perfect as to be impossible, flowing locks of crimson and black, and a figure concealed yet displayed by diaphanous robes of sheer red silk. He could only stand and stare in wonder as Seethe stepped towards her, and the object of his infatuation rose to wrap arms around the girl in a warm embrace and kiss her upon the forehead, and listen quietly as the pair conversed.
"I had feared you lost, daughter-servant, when Baem's gem went silent. I am glad to have you back. Was the mission a success?" The voice of the woman he would not learn until later was a succubus combined concern, a businesslike precision, and fell upon his ears like a song of unsurpassed beauty.
"Indeed it was, mistress-mother." Reaching into a pouch, she produced a set of five rings and a coronet, all studded with bright yellow gems that sparkled in the room's flickering light. "The crown jewelry of the Valastos line was indeed the Articles of Anarch. If only we'd judged the intent of our proxy with the same keen eye, Baem would be here as well. However, I feel that I'm prepared to take his place now."
"You feel you're ready at last, my girl? Very well, you can begin recruiting for your own consortium. Most of Baem's crew is imprisoned below, awaiting word of their master's fate." A note of pride sparkled in the demoness' eyes at these words.
Seethe shook her head slowly, turning to point at Bryn and snapping him out of his stare, and producing the day's final flinch. "I think I'd prefer to start from scratch, mistress-mother. I already have a blacksmith, as you see... and I'd rather have my own research team, as I plan on showing a bit more ambition than poor Baem ever did."
Of course Seethe is here, and at the very least a constant source of support, if not capable in the ways that I need at the moment. But with Ixia seeminly vanished until yestereve, I did not truly have a true plan. I had heard of occasional sightings of the archmage Domiscus, but did not feel confident approaching him without Miss Larkspur's support. Word came to me of a learned elf in the Lady's Ward, but evidently he fell prey to a pack of undead. Finally, an odd bald human with a tattooed head seemed to have the requisite knowledge of circle magic, but the process is lengthy, and I know not when he'll have the answers I seek. And even with the newfound optimism I feel at writing this while a lovely girl who finds me something other than horrid slumbers in my chambers for the first time in decades, it cannot fully quench the impatience towards this process.
My life has not been a terrible thing. But it's times such as this that make me long for what once was...
It seemed that the one motion that was to become the sum of Bryn's reactions was to be the flinch. A month of covert travel away from Whitemountain, first hiding in peasant fields before moving into the perceived safety of the wide forests, eventually into a realm of barren badlands, had led to the first flinches as every sound of a creature moving through brush, or a horse's hooves upon the trail, had led him to think that Duke Blackriver's men had found the pair. On the other hand, the girl Abilar, now calling herself Seethe, displayed none of this debilitating fear. She displayed a confidence far beyond her years, hinting that this was far from the first time she'd been hunted. This in turn engendered two things: a respect for her level head and firm decision-making, and a newfound wariness. Seethe was no longer the inquisitive girl asking questions at his forge, but a worldly woman with resources he'd never guessed at in a mere merchant's apprentice. The few times they'd needed to actually hide, she had vanished from sight so completely and in such a short time that he'd been close to fearing abandonment more than once, while it was without a doubt her skill with thrown daggers that had kept them fed on the trail.
Yet that had been only the first. Two days within the wasteland, and she'd led them to an ancient ruin, and a tunnel delving deep within the earth. And at its end, his first experience with a magical portal, and the reason for his companion's exotic looks. He'd been hesitant to step through the shimmering doorway, but Seethe's insistance had been beyond his powers of resistance, and a different sort of flinch as he found himself high upon the slopes of a snow-capped mountain, upon a world with strange skies tinged a bruise-like purple. And that was only the first, as overland treks from portal to portal led them to a succession of different planes of existence, while the girl spoke to him of the nature of planar travel and the multiverse.
Yet none of that prepared him for the city he found himself within now, this so-called Broken Reach. Creatures of nightmare walked among humans, beings whose evil was a palpable aura purchased trinkets from stalls run by elves and dwarves, and things that seemed human until one noted the horns, tails, and glowing red eyes drank ale and sung songs in sprawling outdoor taverns beneath the crumbling spires of the city's skyline. Indeed, in some ways a city much like any other, but in others simply an excuse to elicit fright and startlement. And this was the place that Seethe called home.
"How could you manage to grow up in such a place as this?" The question was casual, but also expressed the odd dichotomy of his companion as they strode down a long avenue towards a fortress of dark red stone.
Seethe's laugh was genuine, reminding him that despite the things she'd shown him, she was still barely even an adult. "Bryn, when you're born in a city you wind up fitting it, just as you fit perfectly within Whitemountain. Yes, it can be a terrible place, that I will admit. We are in the Abyss, after all. Would you believe that I was once one of them?" Her arm stretched out, pointing to a group of scruffy orphans of several races, who were obviously seeking to distract a merchant so another of their number could take some items from his stall.
Bryn suddenly stopped in place. "Then how did you become..." An aimless wave of her hand, encompassing her current appearance, and in his mind assuming her clear speech and confident attitude.
"You're right. Many of them will die before they reach adulthood, while others will wind up signing up to fight in a... let us say local war that I'll tell you about later. I'll admit, I was lucky. Someone took me in, made certain I'd have the education and training to become what I am. Even if she was far more of a sister and perhaps even friend than a mother figure, I was at least spared a much more difficult life. But trust me... you'll figure it all out eventually." Leading him onwards, the pair eventually came to the front gate of the keep, where a pair of what could only be demons seemed to recognize Seethe, waving her within.
At the end of a long hall, another set of guards stepped aside to allow passage into an ornate and rather oddly appointed throne room. "In fact, Bryn... you're going to meet her now. Her name is Red Shroud, and she rules this city." And at that point his mind simply ceased working, for upon a massive stone chair padded with silk cushions sat the most amazing being he'd ever set eyes upon. Batlike wings folded behind her shoulders and tiny horns poking from her brow could not distract from features so perfect as to be impossible, flowing locks of crimson and black, and a figure concealed yet displayed by diaphanous robes of sheer red silk. He could only stand and stare in wonder as Seethe stepped towards her, and the object of his infatuation rose to wrap arms around the girl in a warm embrace and kiss her upon the forehead, and listen quietly as the pair conversed.
"I had feared you lost, daughter-servant, when Baem's gem went silent. I am glad to have you back. Was the mission a success?" The voice of the woman he would not learn until later was a succubus combined concern, a businesslike precision, and fell upon his ears like a song of unsurpassed beauty.
"Indeed it was, mistress-mother." Reaching into a pouch, she produced a set of five rings and a coronet, all studded with bright yellow gems that sparkled in the room's flickering light. "The crown jewelry of the Valastos line was indeed the Articles of Anarch. If only we'd judged the intent of our proxy with the same keen eye, Baem would be here as well. However, I feel that I'm prepared to take his place now."
"You feel you're ready at last, my girl? Very well, you can begin recruiting for your own consortium. Most of Baem's crew is imprisoned below, awaiting word of their master's fate." A note of pride sparkled in the demoness' eyes at these words.
Seethe shook her head slowly, turning to point at Bryn and snapping him out of his stare, and producing the day's final flinch. "I think I'd prefer to start from scratch, mistress-mother. I already have a blacksmith, as you see... and I'd rather have my own research team, as I plan on showing a bit more ambition than poor Baem ever did."
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- Posts: 112
- Joined: Thu Jan 01, 1970 12:00 am
Nearly two years, and all this time the tome has sat within its chest, untouched. It simply seemed... purposeless without her here. I know Miss Seethe would arrange to help if I asked, but again, to what end? I've long since come to grips with the changes I've undergone, and to be truthful what I have, what I am right now is preferable to the alternative in many ways. So for nearly two years, it has been but a dream, an idle imagining of what might, what could be.
And then today, there she was, standing at Khazeet's. The two years have treated her well, a bit less the girl and more the woman than before, although I can't point to any exact change. And still the same, although I wouldn't wish for her to change.
And again my mind conjures up that dream of two years past, and a new hope, a new reason to dream.
The ground moved.
Perhaps a quarter acre of dirt and rock, disturbing purple grass and grey-hued flowers giving it a bizarre pastoral field. Yet looking from the edge, the motion was obvious as it traveled in a slow orbit around a larger area, this with its own clashing hues and odd flora. Three years working for the woman now known as Seethe, but despite the many sojourns they'd made together, Limbo was the strangest place he'd been yet, an almost constant assault on propriety.
As he lay at the edge of the floating hunk of landscape, next to him the black-clad form of Seethe, and beyond her a collection of tiefling mercenaries and dwarven excavators, all of them staring at the center of the maelstrom, the many sets of eyes never moving to the other landings like their own, but instead at the chatoic movement below as a horde of froglike monsters heaved and churned about what seemed a tall black monolith wtih whirling colors seemingly trapped within. The Spawning Stone, the most sacred site of the Slaadi. Not the Broken Reach Syndicate's actual reason for being here, but the rich vein of Limbic Iron lay beneath where dangerous outsiders now did whatever it was they were doing. Knots of red and blue and green intermixed then broke apart in unexpected patterns, while the odd black or white individual moved through the rest like majestic ships through turbulent seas.
It was hours before whatever frantic activity ceased, the Slaadi alternatingly bounding across landings or teleporting away with soft pops, until the area around the Spawning Stone was finally empty. Businesslike, the mercs and diggers began to work their way from platform to platform to reach the larger plain, Bryn and Seethe in their midst. It was a task of little time to make their way to the vein of ore, and soon the sounds of hammer and pick rang out as the dwarves went to work, the blacksmith moving to stand with the warriors, great mace in hand, while Seethe oversaw the excavation.
It all seemed to go so smoothly. But of course, a trip to mine ore would hardly be memorable. Dozens of packs already filled with shuddering hunks of the morphic ore, the dwarves continued to work, until a sudden fearful shout sent Bryn spinning about, just as a massive black form hurtled into the midst of the excavators, and everything went insane.
And so would come the part so dimly remembered. Dwarven bodies flying through the air, torn by horrible claws and hammered by bolts of pure chaotic energy. A headless tiefling's body staggering past before collapsing, soon joined by the missing head as the warty master of Limbo spat it out. Knives shining with enchantment flying through the air and pricking the beast's hide, and a fatalistic leap in front of the behemoth beast as it charged towards Seethe, herself obviously unable to find a handy shadow to hide within. A sickening crunch, the pain of broken ribs combining with the awful sensation of soaring through the air, and a bone-shattering impact against an unforgiving surface, then darkness. And then, even worse, the sensation of change, agony beyond imagining as bones begain to shift and grind beneath his skin, which in turn crawled with a horrid sensation. Even teeth and scalp, fingers and toes seeming to distort excruciatingly, and a final terrible snap as his legs began to bend in a new direction.
It might have been hours before he came to, but he knew it was only mere moments as his eyes opened, his vision odd, as if he could discern depth more deeply, easily seeing Seethe darting around the Death Slaad like a wasp harrying a lion, the stings of her knives obviously painful, but no match for her opponent. As he pulled himself to his feet, other things seemed wrong as well, but he paid them no mind. Without Seethe, he'd never find his way from this nightmare plane, never forge the Limbic Iron he'd dreamed of working... never see those exotic features light up in a smile again.
With a roar he didn't realize he had the capacity for, he sprung towards the battle, the warmace feeling like a willow switch in his hand, legs driving him in powerful bounds at a speed he'd never run before. And a look of shocked surprise on the Slaad's alien features as the head of the mace came hurtling at its face, slamming home with unimaginable force and literally crushing the creature's skull. It staggered about for a few moments mindlessly before collapsing, and within seconds seemingly melting into a foul puddle of effluent.
Turning, he took in the form of Seethe. Her raiment was rent, hood askew and hair in disarray, but it was the look on her face that worried him more than anything. Not gratitude, or fear, or even relief... but pity.
"Oh Bryn..." Her eyes welled up with moisture, a single tear tracing its way down one cheek. But not before his newfound enhanced sight caught a glimpse of his own reflection in those eyes. Not seeing the bearded young blacksmith, no, never again. Only an eight-foot reptilian abomination with black eyes that swirled with chaotic colors, clad in the tattered remnants of his own chainmail, and holding his masterwork mace. An abomination that was himself.
Months later, he'd learn the term used among the planes for those who have touched the Spawning Stone and survived. Chaos-Forged.
And then today, there she was, standing at Khazeet's. The two years have treated her well, a bit less the girl and more the woman than before, although I can't point to any exact change. And still the same, although I wouldn't wish for her to change.
And again my mind conjures up that dream of two years past, and a new hope, a new reason to dream.
The ground moved.
Perhaps a quarter acre of dirt and rock, disturbing purple grass and grey-hued flowers giving it a bizarre pastoral field. Yet looking from the edge, the motion was obvious as it traveled in a slow orbit around a larger area, this with its own clashing hues and odd flora. Three years working for the woman now known as Seethe, but despite the many sojourns they'd made together, Limbo was the strangest place he'd been yet, an almost constant assault on propriety.
As he lay at the edge of the floating hunk of landscape, next to him the black-clad form of Seethe, and beyond her a collection of tiefling mercenaries and dwarven excavators, all of them staring at the center of the maelstrom, the many sets of eyes never moving to the other landings like their own, but instead at the chatoic movement below as a horde of froglike monsters heaved and churned about what seemed a tall black monolith wtih whirling colors seemingly trapped within. The Spawning Stone, the most sacred site of the Slaadi. Not the Broken Reach Syndicate's actual reason for being here, but the rich vein of Limbic Iron lay beneath where dangerous outsiders now did whatever it was they were doing. Knots of red and blue and green intermixed then broke apart in unexpected patterns, while the odd black or white individual moved through the rest like majestic ships through turbulent seas.
It was hours before whatever frantic activity ceased, the Slaadi alternatingly bounding across landings or teleporting away with soft pops, until the area around the Spawning Stone was finally empty. Businesslike, the mercs and diggers began to work their way from platform to platform to reach the larger plain, Bryn and Seethe in their midst. It was a task of little time to make their way to the vein of ore, and soon the sounds of hammer and pick rang out as the dwarves went to work, the blacksmith moving to stand with the warriors, great mace in hand, while Seethe oversaw the excavation.
It all seemed to go so smoothly. But of course, a trip to mine ore would hardly be memorable. Dozens of packs already filled with shuddering hunks of the morphic ore, the dwarves continued to work, until a sudden fearful shout sent Bryn spinning about, just as a massive black form hurtled into the midst of the excavators, and everything went insane.
And so would come the part so dimly remembered. Dwarven bodies flying through the air, torn by horrible claws and hammered by bolts of pure chaotic energy. A headless tiefling's body staggering past before collapsing, soon joined by the missing head as the warty master of Limbo spat it out. Knives shining with enchantment flying through the air and pricking the beast's hide, and a fatalistic leap in front of the behemoth beast as it charged towards Seethe, herself obviously unable to find a handy shadow to hide within. A sickening crunch, the pain of broken ribs combining with the awful sensation of soaring through the air, and a bone-shattering impact against an unforgiving surface, then darkness. And then, even worse, the sensation of change, agony beyond imagining as bones begain to shift and grind beneath his skin, which in turn crawled with a horrid sensation. Even teeth and scalp, fingers and toes seeming to distort excruciatingly, and a final terrible snap as his legs began to bend in a new direction.
It might have been hours before he came to, but he knew it was only mere moments as his eyes opened, his vision odd, as if he could discern depth more deeply, easily seeing Seethe darting around the Death Slaad like a wasp harrying a lion, the stings of her knives obviously painful, but no match for her opponent. As he pulled himself to his feet, other things seemed wrong as well, but he paid them no mind. Without Seethe, he'd never find his way from this nightmare plane, never forge the Limbic Iron he'd dreamed of working... never see those exotic features light up in a smile again.
With a roar he didn't realize he had the capacity for, he sprung towards the battle, the warmace feeling like a willow switch in his hand, legs driving him in powerful bounds at a speed he'd never run before. And a look of shocked surprise on the Slaad's alien features as the head of the mace came hurtling at its face, slamming home with unimaginable force and literally crushing the creature's skull. It staggered about for a few moments mindlessly before collapsing, and within seconds seemingly melting into a foul puddle of effluent.
Turning, he took in the form of Seethe. Her raiment was rent, hood askew and hair in disarray, but it was the look on her face that worried him more than anything. Not gratitude, or fear, or even relief... but pity.
"Oh Bryn..." Her eyes welled up with moisture, a single tear tracing its way down one cheek. But not before his newfound enhanced sight caught a glimpse of his own reflection in those eyes. Not seeing the bearded young blacksmith, no, never again. Only an eight-foot reptilian abomination with black eyes that swirled with chaotic colors, clad in the tattered remnants of his own chainmail, and holding his masterwork mace. An abomination that was himself.
Months later, he'd learn the term used among the planes for those who have touched the Spawning Stone and survived. Chaos-Forged.