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Ezechias speaks up for the group. "We should head back to the Fort to report and plan our next move carefully. Recklessness is out of question."
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The armigers make haste from the Blackwing, intent to return to their commander with their prize and information. They do not run, nor retreat. No, they heed the call of duty and their training. Orders have been given, and must be obeyed. If they are to win this battle, and seal the Worldwound, discipline must rule their every action, not the chaotic blood-lust of battle! Not matter how righteous their cause or deeds!
On black steeds, the armigers ride through the tortured ruins of Kenabres, their prisoner trussed up on Hellstrider's flanks. Smoke chokes the streets: a roiling, seething thing that seems almost alive. It moves with fell purpose, a thing of bulges and tendrils that look like eyes and teeth and fangs; wherever it touches flesh, it leaves only corpses. Some are flensed of all flesh, others piles of rotting meat void of bone or skin.. others are conglomerations of congealed blood, hair, and skin.
The smoke and rubble make for slow passage for the armigers, all the more so with the scholars scurrying along behind them laden with their (no doubt blasphemous) tomes. Yet, they do make headway.
Twice, they must double-back and turn through a side-alley as the fighting erupts in the alleys. Other times, they need to avoid a collapsing building brought down by tremors that shake the foundations of the city. Yet, still, they succeed, drawing to the cold-iron bound gates of Fort Nebarius as the sun sets on Kenabres once more.
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A short man with burnished sienna skin, white-silver hair, and celestial markings upon his face stands at the gate as you arrive. Next to him is a big black catlike beast whose head nearly meets his waist. It's furred skin does little to belie the hardened skin beneath. It carries a dark harness with a set of well made saddlebags attached. Several quivers poke out from beneath it's flaps.
For the discerning eye, the new comer's armor is of elven design with blackened mythril chain, and dark blue and black bindings. Worked into the chest piece of the armor is the unmistakeable Order of the Nail emblem. On his right shoulder is a stylized metallic fang. His under armor, a blend of chelaxian and tien design. His light topaz eyes seem to inspire without words.
Taking in the look of the symbols brandished by the party as they ride up, understanding shows upon his features. In a heavily accented and musical voice, he speaks in a quiet chelaxian tenor voice just loud enough to be heard, yet strong in melody. "Hello, I am Ren Satele, gif.." he clears his throat. No longer did he need to introduce himself as a slave. He has earned the right to be called armiger and the shadows of his chaotic past can stay buried there. He puts a bit more strength in his words. "..armiger of the 23rd Company of the Iron Fangs of the Order of the Nail. I was just about to report in from the field. Do you by chance report to Commander Tirablad? I deliver a message from Commander Radomir Shax, head of my company."
D'hara marched along after the others, never more than a few feet away from Hellstrider and their prisoner. She carried her whip with the other end still tied around the unconscious man's neck. She made it a point to keep close to her recently acquired manacles. They were too useful to lose and it would not be a good use of her time to have to requisition replacements. She had a busy night planned out. Already she daydreamed of the techniques she would use on this captive, plotted out the questions she would ask and in what order. It was entirely possible that he new nothing, had no information about those responsible for the fall of the city, but that mattered little. It was her job to find out, and she took her work very seriously.
Her train of thought was interrupted as they approached the gate. In response to the man, she gave a quick nod and a curt bow, never relinquishing her grip on the whip. "Speak with Esechias. He is more...diplomatic, than I" she said, pointing to the large half-orc in the scaled armor.
Kevroth just grins at the man, his tarnished, metallic teeth glinting dully in the light.
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Ren repeats the name back committing the pronunciation to memory. " Ezechias, right." He makes a couple of soft clicks at the back of his throat, looks down at his companion and says in Tien. "Let's go, Dathna" The cat obediently follows as close to Ren as she can, eyeing the group with mild curiosity. Or rather, gadging which target to take out first should Ren decide these walking things are not friends.
The gate opens at Ezechias' knock, the sound booming thougout courtyard in powerful thunderclaps. The discipline and order of the Hellknights fills the air with their presence! The door opens and a stern-faced armiger opens. He grips his glaive and steps aside, the forcing the armigers to walk past him down a corridor lined with armored knights bristling with weapons, each at the ready to strike. Torches flicker on the walls, but offer no heat. Fire would be a weapon in the hands of invaders. The hall is low and all are forced to dismount to squeeze through the tight corridor. Hellstrider, especially, has a rough time, and nearly has to double over lest she scrape her head on the ceiling. Even still her fur stirs from soft drafts from holes above.
The armigers move deeper into the comforting confines of the black stoned fortress, their echoing footsteps a din about them and battling with the clamor of Hellknights at practice. The passage opens to ancourtyard, and a burly mountain of a man barks orders. A hundred fresh-faded recruits leap to obey. Each bears the marks of war: some are terribly scarred, others jump and and start at the slighest noise (these are further disciplined, beating their cowardice and fear from their minds as thoroughly as the drill instructor beats the weakness from their bodies); all are gaunt and pale with bags beneath their eyes and hollow-cheeked. They speak Hlalit with the accents of Mendev.
Such is the call of discipline that the Hellknights offer: strength in numbers, surety of purpose, and training to revenge themselves upon the forces of annihilation pounding at the gates of the world. For some, that is the true reason they are here this day. Others, seek only the three meals, warmth, and shelter Fort Nebarius provides. No matter the motive, their willfulness and selfish individuality shall be hammered from them, and they shall either be cast aside as dross or forged into Hellknights.
The drill instructor turns, and it is not a human who leads these armigers, but a savage orc. Savage no longer, though. For the Hellknight known only as the Anvil has long been broken of the primitive brutish savagery of his race by the skill and training of Sifnifier Eligor the Sage. They say Eligor and the Anvil ride into the Hold of Belkzen and other orc territories and return with a few warriors each time to his private quarters at Citadel Vraid, perfecting the techniques he used to convert the Anvil. Few orcs return, but those who do are unshakably loyal to the Hellknights, and terrified of Eligor. If the Anvil is here, Signifierr Eligor will be as well. There should be little fear of betrayal from these recruits.
Once more, the armigers are led to Commander Tirablade's office. Her stern gaze falls over the armigers like a hammerReport
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Ren passes by the Anvil and tries not to think of his own indoctrination into the Order. Those brutal lessons in learning that "The Law is All" still engraved on his mind.
His hand subconsciously lands on the back of Dathna's neck as he pets her there. She squints pleasantly at the gentle massage she's receiving, understanding her friend's need for covert comfort.
Once everyone is inside Commander Tirablade's office, Ren stands at attention and salutes smoothly. At her command for details he says smoothly. "Commander Tirablade, Commander Shax and the rest of the 23rd are tracking the movements of some demons that broke away from the main group that attacked the city. He ordered Dathna" He looks down at the cat to indicate her presence. "and I to turn back and report the situation immediately." His voice, though still holding the quiet yet firm melody, contains hints of frustration at being ordered away from battle.
He reaches into the folds beneath the outer jacket of his armor and pulls forth a carefully folded, yet obviously makeshift envelope with Commander Tirablade's name on it. "My orders, Commander." and he hands her the envelope.
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Ezechias snaps to attention, his wits fully about him as he unfolds the story that befell his companions and him. "Commander, Ma'am! I'm afraid we were too late. We were delayed on the way by wayward and lawless crusaders engaging in acts of rape and wanton destruction. They were chastised accordingly, of course. We eventually reached the archive, but it turns out we were too late, as a fiendish presence - a man made entirely of worms - had had most of the texts burnt. We slew the tieflings that lingered there, but I'm afraid there wasn't much we could save. However, an item of note was this letter, that reveals some of our enemy's plans. We would like to request to act upon this piece of intelligence and bring in this Faxon for interrogation."
"We did manage to capture the man who was orchestrating the destruction of the library. If I may be allowed to question him, we may learn more information" D'hara added once Ezechias had finished his report. Once done she bowed formally.
Hellstrider fidgeted a bit. Switching her weight from one pair of legs to the other. Being in buildings like this was always an awkward situation for her kind. But she took it in stride. It was part of her new way of life. And she would bear it with honor.
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Commander Tirablade's eyes tighten at D'hara's mention of questioning. Make it so, but gently. He may be a traitor and sworn to the Hordes of the Abyss, but I cannot.. I MUST not believe that all are so far gone into madness, they cannot return to the light of Civilization and Discipline. The Anvil is proof of this. She nods as she turns to the others. After all, he may yet be a useful tool in our war, and a tool, no matter how shattered, can be repaired and made useful again, so long as there is something left to repair.
You all do honor to the Hellknights as you meet out justice on your quest. Discipline. Duty. Law is reason free from passion. It is the most important thing. That which sets us apart from our savage brethren, and our naive allies. They will see us, and our dedication, and they shall rally beneath our banner. Keep true to your oaths, armigers. Bind yourselves to them in adamantine chains forged in fire and tempered in blood. Keep your reckonings, knowing that your pain is but the weakness of passion and vice from your souls and mind.
She looks at the paper Ren hands her. Armiger Satele. Commander Shax is an accomplished Hellknight, a true inspiration to his men and his Order. I am honored to have one of his trainees under my command. You are to join this company. She gestures to Ezehcias and the other armigers. And see their mission through.
A quake rocks the fort, and Tirablade wheels to look at the burning city through an arrowslit. What do you know of Faxon? His name is.. known to me. He was an odious man. A wormtongue always at the ear of those with means. Those who heard his whispers always seemed to rise above their stations and found even greater positions of power and prestige. To hear that he is connected to this... somehow I do not find that shocking. You have leave to act as you wish, in accordance with the dictates of your Orders if you have so sworn, to deliver Justice to this mountebank. You will leave at first light.
D'hara nodded and bowed before turning her attention to the unconscious prisoner. With the whip still tied around the man's throat and the barbed manacles still in place, D'hara summoned the dark magic to knit his current wounds.
She escorted the man back to her quarters to begin their first session. He resisted at first, but finding himself surrounded by Hellknights left him little choice. She secured him in place and slowly, deliberately, pulled out a new set of sharp, untested picks and probes.
It was several minutes before she even spoke to the man. "You will tell me everything you know about the demons. Where you first encountered them. Why they left you alive. What you know about them, and this, Faxon. You will confess your sins. All of them, and in so doing so, you may yet regain salvation. I should tell you, I have been instructed not to kill you. However there was no guidance as to how close we come to that line."
And in the corner, her apprentice sat and watched.
Kevroth salutes the commander, and speaks in seven different voices all in perfect harmony, "By your will, Commander, and by the Chain which binds us all, this agent of Chaos will be brought low."
With that, he bows and departs, headed for the quartermasters to prepare for the upcoming mission.
It takes several tries, but D'hara is patient. An artist must ever be cautious with her tools, lest she spoil her craft and bring about ugliness and chaos. No, she must use every ounce of skill and care she has to draw forth the inner truths locked deep within the traitor's soul, just as a sculptor must take hammer and chisel to stone and bring form to the inner beauty trapped within.
She will find his inner beauty, she knows this.
After a time, he knows this, too. Soon, he knows, he will be shaped by her skill, his cries are her symphony; his flesh, her clay. And he will divulge the beauty of his truths.
At midnight, the time most sacred to the Beautiful One, Chaleb's true beauty is shines to the world. Amidst tears and much joyous noises, the traitor tells his truths. At times he is defiant, almost strong, struggling against his shackles and spitting in the monk's face his words almost as though they were venom. At others, he whines and begs, seeking her favor with his words. Those are the least truthful, old vestiges of the slag needing to be hammered free of his true beauty. But, D'hara is a master at her craft, and she is patient.
Eventually, she is certain of these things:
A woman with horns for eyes spoke to him in dreams, telling him of the coming of the Locust and the time of the Beast. At first, he didn't know what that meant. He was a loyal soldier of the Eagle Knights. But, he sought out books, and spoke to people of means and talent, and he learned of the Ivory Labyrinth, and carved its mark upon his chest with a bronze knife quenched in innocent blood. He met Faxon once, at a ritual: they sacrificed a paladin of Iomedae, and drank of his blood. Several officials of Kenabres were there. he names no names, but refers to them as Master Gold, Master Brown, and Mistress Green.
Kenabres is rotten to its core, it's all a facade. Many of its most powerful citizens walk the Ivory halls of the Labyrinth and hear the whispers of the Beast. Others grow fat on the fields the Locust gives. Even now, allies are enemies, and enemies allies.
Faxon is a terrible man. Joyous and far down the Winding Path of the Labyrinth, he leads the cult in Kenabres, and all answer to him. The demons, at his command, teach humans the beauty of the Abyss. Faxon spoke with another.. a woman who scared even him. He called her Mistress Jeslyn. She demanded his servants for her so that she could defend the cause for the Master.
Chaleb was at the Librarium covering tracks. He was there to destroy evidence, burn the books, and slay witnesses so none would know the glorious plans of the Master.
D'hara sat down at the small table in her room. She read over the notes that her apprentice had taken. Sloppy work, but accurate nonetheless. She pulled out her own journal and began to write out a detailed account of what she had learned and what applications had yielded which results. She was painstakingly descriptive and tried to capture every moment of their session together.
Once her journal had been updated, she pulled out a sheet of unbound paper and started writing her report. This was more a matter of formality and it only contained details on what she had learned, not how she had learned it. She wrote everything down twice on two separate pieces of paper. The first she rolled up and sealed with hot wax, pushing her own finger into the max to make her seal. The second she sealed with the emblem of the rack. She handed the second one to her apprentice and instructed him to relay it back to the commanding officer of the Order of the Rack that was located within the fortress walls.
"You will inform him that this missive must be delivered to the Master of Blades Kassir Voidai immediately. He will be expecting it." The man nodded and bowed before turning to leave. D'hara took a moment to wash her hands and repack all of her instruments before removing Chaleb's bindings. Looking down at the man, she said "you may go now. Our time here is at an end." She bowed and left the room, returning to find Ezechias so that she may make a verbal report before submitting her report to Commander Tirablade. Once their official business had been concluded, she went to see the quartermaster and then sought out Giosue. She still needed to learn this accursed language of her kin.
The apprentice shakily takes the scroll in hand. Yes, Mistress D'hara. He gulps and keeps his distance from the inquisitor before bowing and scurrying away.
As the apprentice leaves, two grim-faced armigers grab Chaleb and drag him away. The traitor screams as he is dragged deeper into the dungeons.
A Hellknight bearing armor made of chains and manacles, seeming as much prison as defense steps over to D'hara. He will be put on display for all to see the fates of traitors.
Commander Tirablade pulls the two armigers to the side, holding them back as the others leave to provision themselves for their assault on the Tower of Estrod. You say the scholars spoke of a man made of worms? The commander purses her lips. What manner of creature is.. You will have an additional task. Find everything you can on this creature. What is it? What can it do? What is its ultimate plan? And, how do we stop it.
Hellstrider will be outside. Stretching her legs. Enjoying the open sky above her. Tainted yes. That she could do something about. In time. A roof? She could do something about that too. But that would be against who she was. She chuckled at the thought. A permanent sky hatch? Some people would not like that too much
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Ezechias appears to be a little lost in his thoughts. Perhaps is he establishing theories of conspiracy within Kenabres? Is he simply daydreaming? Is he lost in Commander Tirablade's blue eyes? He nods absent-mindedly at her order, knowing that finding out more about that creature won't be an easy task. "It will be done, Commander."
On his way to Fort Naberius's library, the half-orc armiger is joined by D'hara. "Most interesting. So this conspiracy reaches far beyond what we could imagine. What do you know of this Ivory Labyrinth. Is it a physical place? A hidden temple? Or the name of their organization?"
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Ren bows formally in acknowledgement of Commander Tirablade officially re-assigning him to the group. When she dismisses the group to their own devices he waits for everyone to leave before him. When she holds back Ezechias and Iavdi, he too stays behind and hears the Commander's question about the man made of worms.
Before he speaks he ponders on what a manner of creature a man of worms can be.
"I do not know this Ivory Labyrinth. What I do know is this is not just some mass exodus of demons from the Worldwound. Something is spurring them on to a concentrated and directed attack on the city itself. Demons are want on destruction, but already we have seen evidence of conspiracy and corruption. This is not just chaos. This is chaos unleashed with purpose. Given the nature of our adversary, I can only speculate as to its ultimate goal, but one thing seems certain. We must intervene or neither Kenebras nor the world itself will survive."
It was somewhat unnerving when D'hara spoke. Not just of what she was speaking, or the matter-of-fact demeanor, but more so that she rarely spoke. This was possibly more words than she had spoken since coming to Kenebras. It would seem that only something as sinister as an apocalypse would unleash her words.
The Ivory Labyrinth is the lair, temple and cult, of Baphomet, Demon Prince of Beasts, Minotaurs, and Conspiracies. His wormtongues promise power and strength beyond imagining on this world in exchange for blood sacrifice and secrets. His cult is never in the open, but, rather like a labyrinth, it is obscured by layers and twists of society. He teaches that man is cunning and wise, but it is the cunning of a savage beast, and man's true nature is to destroy all the works and trappings of civilization, until all is but a labyrinth of madness and ruin.
Commander Tirable's eyes widen at the mention of the Ivory Labyrinth. I have heard rumors of Baphomet's cult insinuating themselves into sacred orders. They are worse than spiders. They fester like rats in cities, hiding between the walls, and dark alleys. Their servants gain power and leave ruin and chaos in their wake. To know they are here.... they had to be connected to this. There's no other way.
D'hara turned to look at Ezechias. "I will requisition what I need to catch rats. Summon me when you are ready." She bowed and turned to leave.
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Ezechias looks grim all of a sudden. "Of course, the Ivory Labyrinth. Why haven't I thought of that earlier? It's Baphomet's lair, temple and cult. The domain of lies, conspiracies, and all manner of beasts. His dark theology promises untold power in exchange for blood sacrifice and secrets. The labyrinth itself a metaphor, of course. We have to put an end to this." explains the paladin to his companions.
"I am glad one of us has knowledge of the Ivory Labyrinth. One thing I know is that Faxon will rue the day he first gave heed to the whisperings of Baphomet. I am prepared. Let us take the fight to this poisoner of men's souls." At his waist, Kevroth fondly pats a pair of matched and exquisitely crafted dark iron kukri. Gone are his dueling sword and his shield. A pair of thin black wands peek out from his belt pouch, each inscribed with the holy pentagram of Asmodeus.
As you gain familiarity with Kevroth and his odd, polyphonic voice, you begin to notice that unless he is taking pains to control his emotions, the harmonics in his voice make his moods plain to read. Just now he is grim, but confident of their coming victory.
"They shall be trampled, beast and men alike. We will bring the full wrath of the Law on their heads, and watch them buckle under its presence." she slams her lance down like a cane, her head held high. She emphasises this by stamping her oposite leg on the ground too. Her claws rakimg the ground underneath
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When Ezechias speaks, Ren nods his head silently, also remembering the same information. That misbegotten cult reigned down chaos from the shadows and disturbed the beauty in nature's chaos, twisted it beyond what the Great Mother had.. The Law is all. I bring order to chaos. It has no hold over me. The Law is all. The Law is guidance. The Law is life. The Law is all. The Law is all. The Law is all. Ren's eyes grow faint for a moment as thoughts of the Great Mother are overwritten with the lessons of the Nail.
His eyes return to their normal inspiring gaze. "Followers of chaos will be mete by our hands. Law will rule these lands again, and Faxon will burn in the fiery pits of hell beneath Azmodeus's expert enforcers."
Dawn rises once more over the shattered city of Kenabres. The faint light of the sun tinges the clouds of choking smoke an angry blood red, a perfect symbol for the turmoil that plagues the beleaguered fortress town. A soft snow falls from the sky, blood-red as the clouds, and smelling of charred flesh and decay. It blankets the city in a covering of corrupted ice and water, a reminder of the chaos that awaits should the Hellknights fail in their duty as yet even more of nature's laws are subverted by the demons.
Such is, no doubt, a tactic of their Foes, a strategy spawned of the Abyss to sap at mortal will and resolve. The Hellknights shall not waver. They shall not fall prey to this most pathetic of tricks. War is ever a chaotic and twisting thing. In the heat of battle, only the discipline and resolve of soldiers trained and forged on the anvils the Hellknights' strongholds chains their will to their purpose! They have orders, their discipline demands they carry them through. The weather matters not.
They ride through the blood-red carpet, their hooves leaving behind wet puddles of red liquid in their wake. The clamor and din of battle have been deadened by the snow, and a hush has claimed the city. Even the tremors that plagued the town since the fall of the Silver Rampart are silent.
Bodies choke the streets and alleyways. Some are simply piles of ruined flesh, others have the look of being melted or stitched together. All bar the armigers' passing. Yet, they are undaunted in their resolve. They press forward with single mind and purpose and hack through the worst of the blockages, hell-bent on bringing the fiendish Faxon to justice for his crimes. It is slow-going but, soon, they make their way through the city to the Tower of Estrod, their arms and armor coated the blooded snow and the putrid fluids of the dead.
Dark and gray, the tower has stood in the heart of Kenabres for decades. In that time, it has ever served as a library and research laboratory. A university, of sorts, sister to the Blackwing. Yet, while the Blackwing remained true, the Tower has become a wound, a needle driven deep into the very heart of the Crusades, festering with a corruption that spreads as a cancer. Now, the armigers stand before its locked gates, ready to expunge that cancer and bring the corruption low!
From her vantage point she inspects the gates and the surrounding area. Not wanting to be ambushed while one her more skilled companions try to unlock the gates
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Like all of the towers and forts of Kenabres, this building also bears arrow slits and murder-holes to bar against forced entry. Although, they appear empty to her eyes.
She keeps looking about. About the gates she can do little. But come a living or even un living enemy, she will defend her comrades. The gate must be passed. She would stand her ground till they do
"I will try to keep a look out. We need to get through post haste" she nods as she turns her back to the gates, her lance leveled out infront of her
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Kevroth, remembering the words of the letter from the day before, gestures to the others, "Conceal the sigils of Hell for a short time, let us try to gain entrance before they suspect who we are." So saying, he will reach into his belt pouch to find one of the Scales of Terendelev. Tapping into the power of the mighty wyrm contained within, a seeming falls across Kevroth obscuring the symbols of Asmodeus, the Gate, and the Hellknights.
Once the others have made what arrangements they will, Kevroth approaches the closed gates and pounds upon them as though they should have already opened for him.
"You should not go alone."
D'hara began to follow Kevroth, but stopped after a few steps. She turned around to look back at the others. "When we whistle, unleash hell. We will open the gates. You charge through."
She then turned back and hurried after Kevroth, her fingers tracing the intricate patterns along the handle of her whip. She looked hard at Kevroth. As much as she fit in among the ash and rubble of the burning city, Kevroth stood out. Perhaps they could use that to their advantage.
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Ren silently motions for Dathna to follow Kevroth and ready for battle. He knocks an arrow, readying himself for battle.
Anyone taking note, will see that his bow has extra strings almost like a harp and his right glove has miniature-blunt claws.
Dathna's ears flatten as she takes note of the situation. Ren has asked her to move ahead. Battle is near, she can feel it in her bones. She will make Ren proud of her and he will give her lots of tasty things later. And a tummy rub, and an ear rub.
A slot in the door opens. What?
The face that appears in the slot is wizened and scholarly. He blink with rheumy eyes as he takes in Kevrorth and D'hara. Oh! My apologies! The war you see. Very disturbing. Don't know who's pounding at the door, does one?
Kevroth stares at the man for a brief moment before saying, "I've new material for the archives."
The man squints at Kevroth, then startles. N-new material.. for the archives? Oh.. um.. that.. um.. OK.. you should... yes. Come.. come in... new material for the... the archives.. yes. come..
The plate shuts with a bang, and the door opens wide, revealing a dimly-lit room beyond. The man appears from behind, dressed in dusty and heavily-stained brown robes. Blotches of ink and soot cover his his face and hands and clothes.
Please.. yes.. come.. come in. New material for the archives. Yes. come!
Kevroth steps through the doorway, and immediately steps to one side clearing the opening.
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The old man moves to the side, allowing Kevroth in . The open doors reveal a room dominated by twin pools of water and stacks of book lining the far side of the walls. A large staircase spirals up to the next floor above and down to a floor below.
The old man gesture for everyone to enter. The Labyrinth is ever winding! He chuckles and nods to one of the scholars. IF you want, you cn sleep her for the night before moving on in the morning?
Kevroth glances back out the door as D'hara comes through, slightly irritated at himself for not being more explicit in his expectation.
As D'hara passes him, Kevroth moves back into the doorway and beckons sharply to those still outside to come forward, then continues across the doorway and pushes the door as wide open as it can go. He remains standing in front of the door to prevent it from being closed. He hisses in Infernal to D'hara, "Hold the door, do not let it close."