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This is a share thread for fiction written for players.
My players expressed a real desire to know more about what's going on. The reached midway through Book 3 and still had no clue what the larger plot was (some key character deaths did not help). We had a talk about it, and realized that gaming is unique in that you are the audience and the main character(s), and so there's a fine line but definite line between what they can know as audience and what they can know as protagonists. They were suffering as audience members, so I offered to do some writing on the side for them to give some backstory they might not otherwise get. i.e. The Scribbler... I remember playing in Jade Regent and seeing on the boards that a particular npc had a three-page backstory in the book, but in play ended up coming across as a door guard. I definitely see a chance to enrich player experiences both at and away from table, here.
And rather than sit on them as I have been, I thought I would post them for others to use or not use. I don't have time for things like rewrites, though, so everything is kind of as is. I'll make notes about things that seem like errors or singular to my campaign.
Feel free to add stories if you have them.
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First installment.
First two parts describe the same scene from different viewpoints. I wanted them to know that leaving Rannick unattended didn't mean it would stay empty, Yap was a poor guard (and also I was sneaking extra loot in to their party loot via him), and the third part addressed their concerns, hopefully in a humorous way, that they wouldn't be able to sell all the ogre hooks and armor they were piling up. It didn't quite come across that the store is/was in Magnimar.
It was the damndest thing. After months on the road, the endless f!&~ing rain, the queerly empty jails, returning to Fort Rannick with just two recruits this time to find it in ruins- all those were things one could wrap their head around. Here he stood, though, with two young rowdies, in the rain, surrounded by Rannick's smoking walls, staring at a mound of treasure- ogre hooks, a spear, a trident, scroll tubes, medallions, quivers of arrows- and the treasure was crying.
Glancing at Geoffer and Trent, he say the gleam of greed in their eye. They turned to him, hopefully. He held up his hand and shook the rain off his hood.
"No. We don't want no f@&%ing part of that. Heard of things that pretend to be what a man wants. He wades in to the gold only to find he's hip deep in some f*%#ing thing's jaws."
"What happened here, Benrir?" said Trent
"Dunno. Shoulda guessed as much when Ferry was f!~&ing empty. It were bad, though. Foul. We'll be leaving."
"Where?"
"Pendaka. Gotta find out the f*&~'s going on around here. Bitter Hollow's prolly gone as well, if the Fort's taken."
* * * * *
With a few sniffs, Yap watched the humans turn and leave. He hadn't meant to scare them away. Well, he had; just not this way. This way wasn't any fun. He couldn't remember the last time he'd played a trick on anyone. The ideas just didn't come since hit mistress had turned sad. Now he was sad, too. He could have turned visible and given them a fright, at least. No. Then they'd want what he was guarding, and if the good people off finding his mistresses lover came back and found all their stuff gone, they might not return Lamatar.
Yap sighed, heavily. That would be bad. Maybe he could make them happy and play a trick at the same time. A good trick. He remembered seeing some things in the fort when he was looking for survivors, and had an idea.
"I've got it!" he exclaimed
It didn't come out as ecstatic as he'd hoped it would, but it was a start. And Yap zipped off into the tunnel behind the waterfall.
* * * * *
A new day started when the bell over the door jangled. Khord stepped out of his shop, holding a stepladder and a new shingle to hang. He tried to be cheery, but the rain stifled it. And the worry.
Khord shrugged his shoulders in greeting to the few people out this early, and trudged through the mud to the spot under the sign reading "Khord's Ogre Emporium and Curio". How long had it been since any Vulture had come by, he thought idly. He was running out of stock. Two weeks since ordering the shingle, and here it had come.
He set up the step ladder carefully, and took his first step up, causing it to sink into the mud to the first rung. A month? Two? He couldn't recall when he'd last had visitors from the Hook. He took another step up, and another, until he could reach the old shingle. He reached up past where it said "For Lads both Big and Tall" and unhooked the old plank. He dropped it in the mud, quickly, and attached the new before stepping down again. He took a moment, despite the rain, to admire the new look. "Articles For the Discerning Brute AND the Lowbrow Noble", it said. New direction for the shop, he thought. Just hope some lousy Vulture shows up soon.
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They were grumbling about whether or not they'd ever get to fight a dragon, so I took the opportunity to let them know they would, and also give them a hint that Longtooth's loot was going to underwhelm them. They didn't pick up on it.
"Mokmurian."
Closing the ancient book in front of him, Mokmurian looks up.
"You are young."
"I am impatient."
A flume of fire rises in the darkness, jetting up from between dagger-like teeth. The room is briefly revealed. Stone pillars, ancient and cracked, turn golden and then return to gray, stone walls appear momentarily before retreating back into the void. Red scales flash orange and glimmer beneath the flame. The dragon thrashes it's tail down, raising it's torso higher and bringing it's reptilian head level with two others: an ogre's head within a golden cage sitting atop a stone desk, and a gray face, equally large, situated slightly above and behind the cage. Breath receding, the room is again only privy to the light a single candle on the corner of the desk.
"Agreed."
Nose to snout, the two appear equals. One possessing a demurely annoyed countenance; the other, a rictus of anger.
"There is wealth to be acquired, and I am overdue my share."
"I have none to give, and you would do well not to make demands of me."
The dragon ponders with a sharp exhalation that ruffles the pages of Mokmurian's book. It looks slyly back upon the stony visage.
"Then at least allow me to do some pillaging. I have not yet tasted the chaos of human terror."
Mokmurian opens his mouth to reply, but it goes slack. His eyes roll back, and snap straight again. His body droops and goes rigid at odd angles. The dragon warily inches back.
"YOU. WHAT IS YOUR NAME WYRMLING?" a different, more insidious voice demands from Mokmurian's lips.
Caught, seemingly by the power of the voice, the dragon stutters, "Longtooth, great lord."
"YOU KNOW WHO I AM."
It is not a question but still commands an answer.
"You are The Claimer, great lord."
"AND YOU ARE A PITIFUL EXCUSE FOR YOUR KIND. A NEWT, NOT YET GROWN. YOU WILL HAVE CENTURIES TO AMASS A BED OF GOLD, IF YOU SERVE ME."
Longtooth, tries to hide the curl of a lip the belies his anger at being so addressed.
"MY RETURN IS UPON THE HORIZON. IN THE MEANTIME, DO NOT THREATEN MOKMURIAN. TO ME, YOU ARE BOTH INSIGNIFICANT. BUT TO YOU, HE IS AS A GOD. FAIL HIM, AND I WILL HAVE YOUR BRETHREN HUNT YOU DOWN."
The odd angles of Mokmurian's stance smooth themselves while the last echoes of the voice reverberate about the room. Longtooth adopts a relaxed pose, recognizing the familiar light behind the giant's eyes returning.
"Yes, of course" Mokmurian continues, seemingly unaware "Find Teraktinous. He thinks he has found what I've set him to seek. There are humans there, and once you're done with them, you can bring the item back to me faster than he. I'm sure you can share in the spoils, as well, yes?"
Longtooth turns and slinks from the room with a throaty chuckle. Mokmurian returns to his reading, but stops as the ogre's head begins speaking.
Anyway, I italicized some but not all. Some just seemed like they should be and others less so..."Yma" was originally the runeslave's name, but then I thought who would bother to name a brainless giant?, so Yma became their term for giant. I just really like Yma for some damnable reason... feel free to fix that bit. I know I would in rewrites.
Also, Yma are Taiga giants in my mind. That modern Taiga consider themselves the ancestors to Rune giants is one of those things that has gotten messed up over time.
noem = gnome
ruyne = rune
ruyneslaf = runeslave
Ruyneforckt = Runeforge
Commantjier = Commander
zin = sin
pyren = a bird of the age- this is a nod to The Chopper
Lamash = Lamashtu
These aren't big leaps, but my very intelligent players re currently scratching their heads over all the italicized words, so I no longer assume that these leaps are too easy. You just never know.
Footsteps echoing. Xaliasa tried to count them, despite knowing how many were in his entourage this morning. He could not. Only the Yma ruyneslaf, and his thudding steps could be picked out of the general cacophony travelling the corridor. Losing himself in the sounds of their walking was a calming exercise Xaliasa had employed before, but lately it only served to compound his frenzied thoughts. Too many masters often produced phantoms redoubling again and again in one’s mind just as the cool cobbles of this passage made many of the few who walked it. Thankfully, his time here was nearly over.
“Will that complete the report, Comantjier?” The question added a new layer of sound to the din, and Xaliasa fought to keep from pressing his fingers to his temples. He should not ignore Ozqoalo. It would invite more danger to allow the scribe even a hint of his true thoughts. Everyone watched everyone for nothing more than the pleasure of a minor political thrill. Jackals, all.
“Read the main points back to me.”
Xaliasa kept his eyes focused forward as they walked. Papers shuffled. Twin lights from his guard cast magical illumination past him and filled the space between the ever-burning pyren bird sculptures lining the underground hall. Not giant-built, the passages beneath the Flume; worn, fist-sized stone made up floor, wall and ceiling. No doubt strong magic was woven between the stones, but architecture was not Xaliasa’s strong point. He did not know why things were this way, only that the majesty of the burning sculptures did not fit the squalor of the rock all around. Moving underground was to protect them should the Hellfire need to rain down in the fortress itself, but it made Xaliasa feel like a beetle. Like a beetle awaiting a boot.
The scribe began reciting the letter, “Lord Alaznist, greetings under the light of Bakrakhan and the sky-”
“Just the points of matter, please, Ozqoalo.”
Ozqoalo cleared his throat, and Xaliasa did not check to see if it was out of embarrassment or anger. He detected a faint “Yes, Comantjier” though.
“Hellfire Flume continues to stand by, at full burn…” Ozqoalo began again,” Let me see: scouts continue to watch the armies of Shalast… concentrating north as expected…”
Xaliasa bristled at the falseness of the words being read. He hoped his gait did not betray him. Perhaps his weariness would hide it. Seldom did the web of half-truths, meant only to conceal his many allegiances from each other these days, not press down upon him; each new strand added too much to bear for long.
“Captives provided another clue to entry to Ruyneforckt… transition to subterranean fortifications complete… and hedge witches holding discernment magic confirmed but not found.”
“Good.” said Xaliasa, “One final piece to add, though.”
They had reached a branch in the tunnel. There were few instances when he could allow his followers to peer into each other’s work. To shield himself from their scrutiny and inevitable betrayal he kept them all as suspicious of each other as he could by denying them information.. The day would come when Ozqoalo or some other would at last get information that confirmed suspicion and report it. They would get nothing more than a tiny promotion or added responsibility, but these were petty people, used to decadence. Xaliasa knew he must use what his knowledge of Ruyneforckt to escape soon. But this moment was a rare opportunity where the desires of all factions aligned, and he relished the chance to squelch any of his servants’ hopes of advancement at his own expense by showing the truth where and when he could. Xaliasa turned and looked back at the figures bathing in the magical light. Closest to him were two women, his honor guard, each wearing a filigreed adamantine chainmail and bearing the traditional weapon of the honor guard; an adamantine ranseur. It was from these weapons that the light shown. The left glowed with a muted orange, and the right, a green. Both women stared impassively forward. He did not know their names.
Following these to was the Priestess of Lamash sent to find him above. Her reticence was wise, so far. Lamash was not a well-loved goddess. Being neither virtue or sin, revenge had no school of magic. None of the great lords had use of Lamash, therefore, and the nightmares her cult created. Until now, thought Xaliasa, now we openly embrace madness. Oh Lamash, have Mercy. Either save me from it, or swallow me up.
The priestess was called Ekul. She had the bared belly showing scars many of the higher clergy displayed. To send someone as important as she; there must be good news ahead. She was otherwise dressed as demurely as possible; her plump frame could not be completely hidden. The way she bore herself belied the modesty shown, as well. The stance was straight and strong without posturing. Despite being short for a human, she gave the impression of height. This was a woman who knew her attributes, but never called on them, comfortable in the power she held elsewhere. Xaliasa doubted Ozqoalo was distracted by her, but it didn’t hurt to put temptation in front of him. Xaliasa’s thoughts quickly conjured an image of his Jhanil.
Lastly, dominating the corridor was an Yma, bent double. All along the bluish-black of his exposed skin, the Yma had ruynes of intricate pattern that glowed a dull red, and grew from a central ruyne upon his chest. The ruynes enslaved him while slowly feeding upon his life. A giant humanoid, he would look human if it were not for size, skin, and vacant gaze. His frame further bulged with muscles, thanks to the ruynes, which flexed impressively whenever the Yma shifted to accommodate his heavy load. He would have stood close to twenty feet tall, once. Ozqoalo claimed this was the leader of the tribe that lived near here, which is why he was so large and lived so long. Great straps hung down from the Yma’s back, which was nearly parallel to the floor, and from them hung an edifice- part platform, part contraption- that served as Ozqoalo’s desk. The Yma was both mount and furniture. There was a time when Ozqoalo had the giant hold his desk in his mighty hands, but that proved difficult for the Yma while navigating and resulted in more jostling of the desk rather than less. Ozqoalo then had the desk strapped to the Yma’s back. This served both well enough, until the order to move operations for the Hellfire Flume underground. Then there was not enough room above the giant within the corridors for Ozqoalo’s scrivening desk. Of course, the scribe complained and cajoled for higher ceilings, but was ignored. Xaliasa admitted that perhaps he was not about being petty himself.
The lower end of the great straps held several crossed planks of stout wood. On these planks, sat an ornate desk of ironwood and a plush chair made more of cushion than anything else. The outer walls of the desk were one large bas relief of a scene in which several empires were built upon the pages written by smaller men, with wars raging, monuments erected, famines survived, and many other trials and feats that Xaliasa hadn’t bothered to discover. Most notably, each of the seven Virtues of Rule- Compassion, Justice, Charity, Purity, Courage, Reverance, and Mercy- all owed their life blood, just as the empires being built, to the hard work of a vast bureaucracy. That affront would be punishable by death if the Great Lords hadn’t perverted the Virtues centuries ago, Xaliasa thought. Hidden from outward view, were any number of drawers and openings containing everything the scrivener needed to conduct business, making the Yma a walking office. The top was loaded with many gaudy contraptions intended mostly to keep papers upon the desk from moving about. There were the usual inkwells, sandpots, and quivers of quills, but also a number of clips and fasteners- everything was contrived for mobility. Each pot, quill, or box holding paper was bolted to the desk. He had never been on one, but Xaliasa heard that the ships sailing the great seas a hundred leagues distant did much the same in the absence of magic.
Behind this mountain of materials, nestled between the giant’s pectorals, was Ozqoalo. The Noems were one of the smaller races, and Ozqoalo was nearly engulfed by both the desk below and giant above him. His head was easily found only because of the halo provided by the original ruyne on the Yma’s chest. How appropriate it is of the zin of Greed, Xaliasa thought for the thousandth time. The time honored tradition of marking slaves with the symbol of their enemies, to confuse them had long ago become so commonplace that it was now done more to mock them. The opposite of Charity, Greed reminded enemy wizards of their magic’s shortcomings, or it shamed them. It should shame them but Xaliasa long ago realized that shame was a poor weapon against the powerful. Ozqoalo’s face was pinched, and his body withered. He would never be mistaken for one of his kind again, his skin taking the hue of coral green, his fingers stained black from ink. Ozqoalo was as twisted and monstrous as his heart, which pleased Xaliasa. It seemed the one piece of honesty in the world.
“Your ruyneslaf, Ozqoalo. I notice it is not long for this world”, stated Xaliasa.
“That is what is to go in the report, Comantjier?” from anyone else, this would have been a joke, but falling from between Ozqoalo’s cracked teeth, it was a hidden threat. He would have been willing to include the status of his Yma in the report, but only as evidence of Xaliasa’s incompetence.
“No. I only wonder if you’ve made provision. The only Yma about are of the cave giant variety, and they lack the stature of your current beast.”
“This one will perish soon enough, yes, Comantjier, and another will receive the Bath. The cave giants are perfectly suited to our new surroundings, though. If they cannot carry my burden long, then there are enough to last until the contingent befitting your station arrives. It is curious that you do not already have a rune giant, Comantjier.”
Is that foul smile growing? Is this another slight from such a worm beneath me? Xaliasa wiped his brow to hide his anger. I am surely paranoid. This must end soon lest I lose my mind. Oh, Lamash. Lamash.
“The better races of Yma are north where the fighting is heavy. You know this. We do not require so many ruyneslafs for we do not build. At least, we do not build from stone and wood.” Xaliasa regained his composure. “Which is why we are here: for the final part of the report. Ekul,” he motioned for the priestess to precede him down the branching tunnel “please show us to where we might see your progress with the zin magic.”
Ekul gave an acknowledging nod, and stalked through the archway into the demesne of her cult.
ruyneval = runewell
zinspawn = sinspawn
ᑟᒓᒨᒺᒦᒦᒒᒨᕬ ᕬᖞᖵᖄᕾᖹᙩᢵᣁ = I used Canadian Aboriginal symbols for the Thasillonian arcane words
There was no noticeable change in the stoneworks of the corridors Ekul lead them down, but something was different. A presence, like a parent’s foreboding glare seemed to hang in the air they passed. Xaliasa gave out an annoyed huff. He could not put his finger to the cause, but he was suddenly unhappy with everyone and everything in equal measures. The clack of Ekul’s shoes on the cobbles, the giant’s breath on his back, the closeness of the walls and floor and ceiling- he wanted to punch them all. The thought seemed silly, which helped him regain his composure. Who wants to punch sounds and breath? The nearness of the ruyneval is the cause, surely.
Ekul pressed open a door, and passed into a wide corridor with a small shrine off to the side, seemingly forgotten. It was a new construct, and Xaliasa did not want subordinates to know how important it truly was to him. Ekul’s minions insisted on it. They claimed it was necessary to the work that they have the Mother’s blessing. It helped. Political maneuvering from others was useful for deflection when motives matched his own. So the tiny altar watched by the thrice-headed jackal was built, which pleased him. His prayer to Lamash, as they passed, was silent, though. Ekul again opened a door, this time a great metal one, and behind it was a medium-sized cathedral. A mirrored ceiling allowed those below to see upon the raised balcony, and in that way the sole light source, which came from a triangular pool of translucent orangish liquid that bubbled but did not froth, found every corner of the room. They troop climbed the stairs to either side of the room to gain access to the balcony, with the exception of Ozqoalo and his mount. The room was sized for humans; another calculated choice of Xaliasa’s. This whole part of his command was so built. He explained it as necessary to keep close quarters on those imprisoned here, but the truth was that he did not want giant-folk nosing about, and that included the noem trapped below. Let him see via the mirrors, Xaliasa thought when glancing back at the noem. Their eyes met, but the Ozqoalo said nothing. Xaliasa was displeased that the noem did not seem angered.
“My lord” Ekul began, “Lamash is great. Alaznist and Bakrakhan are mighty, thanks to their industry and the Mother’s blessings.” She gestured to the ruyneval, “I think you will be pleased with the forces we are creating here to serve you.”
“What changes have you made?” Xaliasa queried.
“The ruyneval still feeds off of those who bear the ruyne of Alaznist’s Most Favored School of Virtue, but we have made it so those most affected are the mightier source of food.”
He could see the hint of a smile at Ekul’s mouth. A twitch, only. Was it the hypocrisy of the words used, or true pleasure in accomplishment?
“Meaning what, exactly?”, he demanded “The angrier, the better?”
“Yes. Those who hold hate close to their heart, those who seeth, those who lash out in anger; these will bring many times the power to this ruyneval when they die than those who are meek and kind and still marked. Most of the wrathful need not even be marked, we’ve found.”
“You see, Ozqoalo, that I was wise to assume the worst when constructing the prison we use? It seems will will have many violent and malevolent staying here, however briefly.”
“You are wise in all things, Commantjier, as always.” said Ozqoalo from below.
“Good, Sister Ekul. What else?”
“We have a solution to the problem you faced in replicating perfect humanoids,” Ekul continued, “and this is where Mother blesses us most.”
She swayed over to the pool of liquid and extended both hands over it, one holding a small dirk. It was an oddly ceremonial gesture, with the pool being in the floor; likely due to her priesthood. She was prone to the occasional flare of the dramatic.
“One must give of themselves now, lord, in order to trigger the process, but the divine magics require much less effort than the arcane. Behold.” As she spoke, she pressed the dirk into her palm until it drew blood, and allowed the blood to trickle down the tips of her fingers. Once at the tips, she gingerly gestured so that one, two drops fell into the pool in the floor. When the droplets hit the liquid, it’s bubbling became a boil.
“Two drops, Commantjier, mean two spawn will arise. They will be under my control, so I would instruct you to choose wisely who you allow to create zinspawn.”
No sooner did she say this, than several wet hands slapped the stone of the floor and proceed to haul gaunt muscular figures out of the pool with alarming speed. They were covered in alabaster skin, hairless, and their faces seemed to split in four directions at the mouth. Inside the mouth were jagged teeth following the quadrupled lips, giving the impression that the mouth could open wide enough to engulf a human head. The hands and feet were malformed as well, though the shape only seemed to give them more strength in each.
“Ghastly.” came the shocked exclamation from Ozqoalo.
Ekul looked down at the noem and then at Xaliasa.
“Of course, these are beautiful specimens” she emphasized the word beautiful and there was definitely a small smile there now “but in talking to my Sisters working elsewhere, we’ve found that each ruyneval produces slightly different spawn. Ours are intelligent and fully able to wield weapons.”
A low rumble heralded a shaking in the ground which promptly ended.
“What was that?” prompted Xaliasa. “Was that from the spawning?” His command of the Flume prompted him to take any threat seriously, even unintended ones.
“No, Commantjier” came the response.
After a tense moment, Xaliasa went on
“Can they speak?”
All eyes spent equal time measuring the walls for faults or cracks and taking in the fear of the others.
“Yes, though it is the tongue of the Fir-”
Another rumble overtook them. More shaking. This time Xaliasa could hear boots running outside. He held up a finger forestalling more conversation and quickly moved to the door. He poked his head out to see, forgetting that the connecting corridor prevented it. The footsteps were louder, though. He turned back into the cathedral.
“You’re sure this quaking has nothing to do with your experiments?” he demanded.
“I’m sure, lord. We’ve made many zinspawn for several weeks, and nothing. It cannot-”
“Perhaps it is the Hellfire Flume being used?” opined Ozqoalo
“I gave no such command-” Xaliasa stated, and his eyes grew wide.
Before him, he saw the guards, Ekul, the zinspawn, Ozquoalo and his Yma; hover in mid air. It was as if the whole room had moved vertically and then suddenly fell. Each person in the room hung in the air for a moment, the contents of the desk beginning to scatter, and Xaliasa realized that he, too, was flailing his arms, fitfully looking to find purchase with something solid. All of them looked shocked. Just as suddenly the room undulated up again, as gravity once again flung everyone down, and all crashed against the rocky floor. There was a splash from above, followed by groaning, and Xaliasa mirrored it with a pained exhale. He looked up to assess the damage and saw that it was one of his guards that had fallen into the waters. They others were slow recovering from being tossed against the floor, but she, wet and wild eyed, sprang up. With an angry howl, she raised her ranseur and brought it down on someone. Xaliasa attempted to gain his feet, but the rumbling had begun again, greater in intensity than before, and made standing difficult. By Lamash’s nurturing bosom, what is going on?
Xaliasa staggered up, and gripped the door in order to make it through. He ran, or approximated a run by falling over and over in the general direction he intended to go, with as much alacrity as the increasing oscillations of the floor would allow. By the time he reached the main hallway and saw men strewn about the corridor like sticks in the forest, he had found the best gait he could manage, and ran. Great cracks were showing up in the walls, and dust seemed to flow into corridor like water. He wrapped his scarf across his face so he would inhale too much. He had to get to the scrying chamber. Gone were thoughts of the cathedral and Ozqoalo’s insubordination. If this were an attack, he would need to reach Jhanil and escape to Ruyneforckt. If this were a sign from Lamash, then he was truly free of both Alaznist and Karzoug forever. It must be. Even if it were an attack, this would be his chance, and Blessed Mother Lamash had provided it.
A man stopped him and broke him from his thoughts. It was Asichou, his second in command. Xaliasa looked at him, the whites of his eyes showing.
“Commantjier! The land above; it is cracking!” Asichou was panicked but in control. He saw and did not see the danger. “It is a magic I have never seen, it fills the land and sky! What is your order, lord!” He looked so intently at Xaliasa, with such focus, he did not see the kukri Xaliasa slid across his throat. He did not know his body was falling apart, even as he fell, cut from throat to abdomen. It was as if it were someone else doing the cutting for Xaliasa, he was in a fog. He watched Asichou descend, even as the hallway convulsed around him- even as he stepped over him. Asichou’s face was a mask of confusion, not surprise. Surprise would come to him too late. Running, again, Xaliasa passed more people attempting to find their legs. Vixaqiro, his steward; Pimoxu, the emissary; Chand, the wetnurse; each wanted him to talk, to stop. Each lay amid their own spattered blood as he left. Down he went, deeper into the labyrinth. This was no time for them. Lamash was calling. He must heed her.
He crashed through the door to his scrying chamber, and barely recognized it. Bottles, tables, tapestries, meals, documents, all jumbled on the floor. The door he had come through itself was barely on it’s hinges, and so askance from the movement of the earth, that it could not completely shut. Xaliasa stumbled to the center of the room, where an orb was mounted on a pedestal within a ring of stone railings. He grabbed the railing. Though there was refuse inside the railed circle, he felt confident the device would still function.
“ᑟᒓᒨᒺᒦᒦᒒᒨᕬ ᕬᖞᖵᖄᕾᖹᙩᢵᣁ!” he barked. The command words brought out a large blue sphere of magical energy that allowed Xaliasa to mold it into that which he wanted to see. At this moment, he want to see Jhanil. The sphere of blue energy spun and within the spin he saw a room, as disheveled as his own, and in the center of the image was he shape he knew and loved. It was prone, but attempting to rise, like everyone else. He laughed too loudly, and the figure looked up. It was Jhanil.
“Xaliasa! My love, what is happening?!”
“The time has come for us, Jhanil! Time for Ruyneforckt! Time for Lamash’s sweet touch upon the world!”
“Time?” she asked.
“Yes, we have to get to Ruyneforckt, I know how to get in now!”, he yelled “ You don’t have any time for questions! You must go, and I will meet you there!”
“But I thought you hadn’t-”
“I told them we had another clue. I didn’t tell them we had the final piece of the puzzle! Ha ha! Lamash has sent us this sign, and we must go!” Xaliasa found himself grinning like a fool. A mad fool. No! Just a fool! Blind so long, now I see fully!
“What sign? This…” Jhanil was at a loss for words to describe it, and there was a trickle of blood running down her forehead “What is this, Xali?!”
“This is Lamash’s blessed kiss upon the world! Ha ha ha! It is just for you and I, my love! How lucky we are! Now go! You know where to meet!”
“I don’t understand, Xali!” she was screaming now, which was odd “What are you talking about? You sound-”
“Never mind how I sound! GO!”
The earth rocked mightily now, and Xaliasa could barely see his own scrying. The image blurred from the shaking, and so, yelling “GO!” a final time, he dismissed the image of his love. He thought to call up an image of the Hellfire Flume, and as he did, a calm came amidst the shaking. It did not truly disappear, but it subsided, and he could feel a tingling in the pit of his stomach as if he were falling. His curiosity got the better of him, as he imagined what it would be like to witness the work of his goddess upon the lands above. Blessings upon blessings he was given this day, and he called up the image.
He saw the spire of the Hellfire Flume, wagging above the earth like a lone finger. The land itself was in upheaval and barely recognizable. A ball of magical energy larger than any other hung in the air, crackling. It was as if a storm of pure magic had replaced all the clouds, and it sent tendrils down into the land, like tornado funnels. He saw a dozen or more, and where they touched the earth tore up in great chunks. Whole cliffs of rock and soil rose in terrible gouts and were consumed by the storm. Xaliasa saw half a town clinging to one before it evaporated in the magical energies. Each of the Hellfire Flumes crackled with lightning that touched the storm as well. He was transfixed with joy and terror and awe all at once. All around him, the world swayed and bucked, and he was less and less aware of his need to flee to meet Jhanil. He was witnessing a work of unimaginable art, and he felt helpless to look away. Lamash was disfiguring the world, for what else could it be? The great lords brought amazing power to bear in their constant war with each other, but could they wield enough to sunder the earth? Xaliasa did not think so, and so it must be a god that did this.
Water, in great torrents, was flooding into the void left by the pulverized land. From where, he knew not. The sea was hundreds of leagues away, to the west. To his surprise, though, the water continued to rush in, tiny white caps giving size to the immense churn and swell, as waves broke upon larger waves, which broke upon swells too large to be called waves at all. This was the ocean itself taking possession of all, amidst thunderous booms from torn and ascending chunks of rock. The destruction had reached the edge of his own Flume, creating a new shore of sorts where land met water. The eerie light from the storm made entirely of magic, grew and dimmed, then suddenly flashed. The flash grew unlike any explosion he’d ever witnessed. This wave of energy rolled over land and sea, flattening wave and hill. He saw it when it overwhelmed his Hellfire Flume, disintegrating the top of the massive spire. A moment later he heard and felt the mighty cacophony of the earth where he stood being pummeled by enough force to level mountains. Smiling, with tears streaming down his cheeks, Xaliasa was tossed about the room like a toy in between the paws of a cat. The ceiling fell over him in three separate pieces as the cave in completed his burial. Xaliasa had no time to suffocate, as the massive pressure of the soil broke and shredded his body.
Thank you, Mother!
That's it for now. I'll post Scribbler's Parts 3 and 4 once they're written, and any new ones as well. I'm roughly thinking of a few for Karzoug, but I'll need to do more research to know what to write about without adding spoilers. If there are any big bads worthy of a behind-the-scenes reveals (Conna the Wise?) or any from the first three books that I should add, let me know.
To see the trackless, maddening levels of the Abyss all together, they would resemble the writhing of smoky tentacles, undulating and convulsing in a never ending erratic pattern. Closer, the tangle of layers, would look more like knot, made of a single misty tendril, trying to untie itself. Approaching closer still, wisps of soot would reach out, from disjointed layers as astral travelers journey between levels, as they merge and separate, folding and folding again; the barriers between layers less substantial than a storm front.
Within the domain of one of these diaphanous layers, only a few years ago, the dark fog half hid the form of a drowsing goddess. Rocks speckled the fog about her, and she lay draped over a large formation of boulders. Her eyes were heavy-lidded and her head cocked as if listening to a tune carried through the air. Like all gods, she was both there and in millions of other places at once. Her consciousness followed any mention of her name, and she felt each worshipper like hair on her skin. She rarely paid those hairs any mind unless something pulled at one, or a group all together met distress. On that day, though, she woke because of a trill of power that washed over her, like a ghostly hand running from scalp to the base of her spine, and each hair stood on end in response. Some tremendous power had touched many of her minions all at once, as once happened daily in the past. It was familiar and exhilarating. She detected a dead spot, however. As if it were her elbow, there, where this line of energy should be, there was a gap.
Intrigued, she followed the absence of feeling, through the writhing Abyss and her consciousness arrived in a place of dry darkness. She made light. Her perception discovered caverns of a dead empire, collapsed. There was empty space nearby, but here was only stone, and bone. She willed the rock to reform as it once had, and the stones, never forgetting, returned their old places. The crack and thrum of moving rock echoed around the chamber. She paused a moment in the sparkling dust, and dying reverberations. Lying on the floor, a pile of powdery bones remained where rock had been, and attached to it; a soul. The goddess knew most everything, but this mystery was new to her. It had not transformed into undeath, so here lie a worshipper who should have made it’s way to her for endless perversion, but didn’t. She inspected the soul, giving all of her attention to this puzzle for a moment. It had come into contact with her priesthood for arcane knowledge, and had been a new convert, but devout. Not zealous, though it had reached out with it’s final thoughts.
She touched a breast and brought forth a single drop of milk. It clung to her finger as she dipped down to the bones on the floor. She allowed the droplet to touch the shattered remains of the skull, where it sank. Immediately, the dust in the air was drawn down to the skeleton as if trapping the soul and bones together. In the span of a heartbeat, the bones reformed, muscle grew, sinew and flesh stretched and skin covered all. With a gasp, the body of a man arched until only heels and shoulders touched the ground. It was a-wrack in pain and ecstasy, overwhelming so small a thing as a mortal to have been unmade and recast again so suddenly. His eyes were wide, but unseeing. His fingers stretched, but felt nothing. He quickly collapsed back to the floor, breathing heavily and blinking.
*****
“Mother…” he croaked, and the call returned to his ears again and again from the depths.
Depths. He was aware of space around him again. Feeling, seeing, and hearing for the first time in ages, he cried out just for the sheer joy of the experience. He was a babe again in ways he had not anticipated. To remember life as he did, and look inward at being born with a fully developed mind, was a gift he was unprepared for. His cry changed to a sob as he was overwhelmed again by the love he held and was given to be so blessed.
came a voice from everywhere and nowhere at once. It seemed to begin as an echo, folding in on itself until it was a single sound.
He quickly sat up and looked about in the stark single light. There, he saw a female with the head of a three-eyed jackal. Her robes flowed out from her shoulders, but left her alabaster belly bare. There he saw the scars he expected. Her delicate arms burned and twisted from elbow to hand, darkening and reddish until there were claws instead of fingers. He was in the presence of Lamash. As suddenly as he sat up, he prostrated himself before his goddess.
“I am not worthy, Mother” he blurted out, “to be in your house in the Abyss.”
His mind reeled to think that the world was still whole, that everyone he knew was dust, that he was in divine presence, he could not handle so much information.
“Please! What must I do, Lamash? What do you desire of me? How can I serve so to be with you always?” he sobbed, to which the goddess reached out in with her mind and calmed him.
He noticed his belongings arranged beside him, just as he remembered. On top of them was a quill.
To show you my favor, I also bequeath you this token, once owned by your rival. The magic in it remains good, and it draws ink still. It would please me to see you twist its use to my will.
“I will use it, Mother, to glorify your name.”
Xaliasa looked up, but Lamash was gone. The light was gone. Remembering his own abilities, he cast light into the air. He reached for his clothes, but found himself grasping Ozqualo’s quill. He could not bring himself to let go of it, and hurriedly and awkwardly clothed himself while refusing to let it leave his hand. He took a step, fell, and became impatient with how long it was likely to take to find something to write on. He spoke a prayer to his goddess, and as he the words left his lips, his hand began to scribble upon the floor.
The bell over the door jangled gaily.
“Chask, my good man, I have it!” Brodert beamed over his spectacles as he pushed the door to the bookshop a little too hard. It stopped with a thud that seemed to momentary startle the old man out of his shuffling run through the doorway.
“Chask!” he yelled, “Shall I find you on the pot in the back, I dare say? Hm? Well, come out and see my proofs. Take your time, of course.”
Brodert stopped his frenetic pace upon coming to the counter. Piled high with obscure tomes throughout, with the exception of a leather square intended for the business of selling books, the counter barely had room as Brodert began to gingerly lay a satchel over the hard leather. The satchel covered stains from passing coins and signed documents.
“Never dreamed to find such treasure in my life, firsthand. The Sandpoint Heroes are twice over heroes for me. Oh, yes. I shall have to tell that young Marmalade what I’ve found when he returns. Yes, yes. Chask! It’s only the greatest news, I tell you, the greatest! You’re missing it- shouldn’t be overly surprised if it were to crumble in my hands as I draw it from my bag!”
Down the short hall leading to the back of the shop, dust motes danced in the daylight. They swirled around the edge of an opening door. A taller figure issued from the opening into the hall.
“What have you got, then, Mr. Quink?”, came a goodly voice, tinged with amusement. “You are often excited over details that mean little even to your peers.”
“Posh.” Brodert dismissed the claim with a puff of air, which he quickly halted. “Be a lad, Chask, and lend your aging hands to this task. Grasp the satchel, there, so I might devote both hands to... ah… ah! Easy!”
The two collaborated over the leather satchel, as Brodert gingerly began to withdraw a slim piece of parchment.
“Hold the back, yes. Now lift the mouth ever so slightly. Excellent.”
“What is it?”
Brodert paused a moment, nose inches from the satchel and paper. He looked at Chask over his spectacles, and smiled.
“A letter.”
“From…?”
“Thassilon.”
The two bent to their task again, with greater concentration, talking in hushed tones while they worked.
“…but the oldest documents you’ve found…”
“Three thousand years old.”
“And those were histories of Thassilon.”
“After a fashion, pieced together as they were from accounts and poor research and speculation. Relatively speaking they aren’t that much closer to the period than we. The oldest was The Detailed Holdings of Shalast, which was as much atlas as-“
“How did this survive?”
“No idea, my good lad.”
With that, they had extracted the parchment from the bag, removed the bag from the counter, and laid the parchment down for examination.
“Have you read it?”
Brodert seemed to vibrate with excitement. “Do you remember the catalyst of war between Thassilon and Bakrakhan?”
“Discovery of a spy of some kind; Thassilonian.”
“Mmm, yes. Do you remember this spy’s name, by any chance or wager?”
“Of course not, you fossil”, Chask harrumphed.
“Look at the signature.”
“Xaliasa! I remember, now. By Abadar’s furled brow. Do you know the worth of this letter?”
“Posh. That’s not the best part.”
“You have read it, then.”
“Tell me, if you were a spy for Thassilon, writing a report detailing troop movements, information of magical research, and other damning secrets, who would you address it to?”
“Karzoug, of course.” Chask mumbled, looking at the beginning of the letter. “So why-“
“Why is this letter addressed to Alaznist? That is the question.”
A quiet settle about the room as Brodert allowed Chask to chew on the question.
“What does the letter say?” asked Chask finally.
“Oh much of it is meaningless without context. He speaks of building fortifications, makes a sly reference to a Runefort, talks of divination magic, though he didn’t call it that, he mentions an Ozquoalo... Oh, there’s so much to go over!”
Chask remained bent over the letter.
“You’ll have to tell me more, Old Goat. I can’t read any of this.”
“Of course”, said Brodert “If it’s all the same, I’d like to leave it here while I retrieve my other histories.”
“You’re going to do your research here?!”
Brodert made quickly dismissive waves through the air with his fingers.
“Only the most rudimentary, lad. I’d like to bounce ideas off of you while I work! And you can devise a way to safely transport it to Magnimar… or maybe Korvosa. Do you think I should take it to Absalom?”
“A first-hand account…”
“To corroborate what was previously speculation. This could change everything! Everything!”
Brodert capered about the room, seemingly torn between looking at the letter again, and rushing out the door.
“But what if there’s more down there?” posited Chask
With a tilt of the head, Brodert slowed his circling to a pause.
“Well now you’ve left me in a bigger quandary than before: to stay or to go. It’s true most of the fooliest fools studying Thassilon would no doubt misinterpret everything on the page, and fail to even realize the question of Xaliasa’s loyalty…”
“How’s that?” asked Chask, not following.
“This Xaliasa, though some is known about the Sundering that surrounded him, little is known about him. We call him a spy, but he might have been a diplomat. So much argument has been spent over whether he was employed by Karzoug or by Alaznist. I wager all of those nincompoops would leap at the chance to put him squarely in Bakrakhan’s spy network. But, below our feet is Thassilon, but was Xaliasa here? Would one trust such a letter to be delivered? What are the chances that everything was destroyed just as he penned this letter? We don’t really know the circumstances yet, if we ever truly figure it out. “
Brodert looked pointedly at Chask.
“What if he was an agent of both sides, eh?”
Chask looked back.
“You’re a kook. Fully a kook to shame the worst of the addled who study that empire. Bah.”
“Heh!” said Brodert “I may be. I may be. Time will tell. Or it won’t.”
“I tell you what, set up in the back there-“
“By the pot?!” Brodert interjected
“By the pot. Nethys knows you stink worse than it ever will. Set up there. Bring your books. Send word to Magnimar or whomever you think might need to know of your discovery. If there’s trouble, I’ll hide you here. You can study, and we’ll talk. You can go back down below the glassworks, if you need, and retrieve more if it’s there. If you need any materials, I’ll use my contacts to have them delivered. How’s that sound?”
I also wrote this before reading up on Time Stop, so I didn't know that Karzoug couldn't use Disintegrate on the person asking the question. I'm leaving it up to the reader to decide what Karzoug did, or let them wonder whether the rules of magic are different for Karzoug in his own pocket dimension. aka I didn't know what to do here, so yeah. I didn't have time to find something.
“What of Runeforge, Great Lord?”
A stillness bloomed between those gathered; the stiffening of spine and cessation of breath as those who knew of the Claimer’s fury readied themselves. Perhaps this would be the last time the question would be asked. Each member only hoped they would not be consumed in the maelstrom that ended the line of questioning. The tense moment lasted long enough for the tell-tale purple smoke of a soul to flit from the Soul Lens down into the Runewell.
“You were instructed to forget that place.”
The meeting was called when news that a minor lieutenant had fallen, and his army disbanded. They were reporting on their own machinations in Karzoug’s coming return, to determine if there was a threat, and if anyone was in a position to finish what the underling had started. It was not the first time the question had been asked, and many thought only because the toad who asked also happened to be lucky enough to have woken Karzoug, that he had been spared.
“I think Mokmurian’s idea has merit. We still have time before your release, why not explore what magical treasures might remain to us? True, it may have nothing after all this time, but it also once knew the weaknesses of the other Great Lo-“
To those standing there, it seemed as if there was a hiccup in the world. Karzoug spoke a single incantation, seemingly cut off on the last syllable. There was a pop, and Zenezel, one of the mighty Lamia Harridans and owner of the voice that raised the question, was simply gone. It was testament to the enormous power the Claimer had over them; giant, lamia, humanoid- that he could make it so one doubted another even existed. What he did in the breach of time like this, no one truly knew, though many side glances found their way to his apprentice, Khalib, before those gathered remembered themselves and averted their eyes. Many silently promised themselves that next time they would find an excuse not to venture into the pocket dimension where Karzoug was trapped, when summoned.
“Runeforge served its purpose when it unlocked the means to my preservation. It is worthless now. Anyone else wishing to plumb it for forgotten lore betray me. I am the only store of arcane secrets you need ever have. Is the world today so desiccated of power? I would have hoped after thousands of years to have found advancement in the arcane. No matter. If my return overwhelms the insects of the modern era, so much the better for me to take what is mine.”
Karzoug the Claimer looked over his chattel.
“You have your tasks. You are dismissed.”
Karzoug deserves more of a presence, but I've been too busy.
Here's hoping a few more of these will be the bandaid. Much of this teases some group-specific storyline,s like G's dream, but maybe there's something here someone can swipe and twist to their own use.
As tall as five men, and just as wide, the image of Xin-Shalast hangs between two massive plinths as if it were the world’s largest tapestry. The city looks deceptively small, because the perspective is as if from the summit of Mhar Massif. One could walk through the image, despite thinking they might instantly fall thousands of feet upon touching it. Snowflakes float down like dust in the sky, but that is the only movement; the view is so far removed. Before this gossamer living picture floats a throne large enough to serve as a bed. It did, once, for the man seated there once rested upon it for ten thousand years before being reawakened. He now faces the colossal image, imperious, haughty, and possessive. He wipes the cruelty from his eyes and makes a practiced wave of his hand. The mighty image of the city morphs to a dark interior. Shadowed cobalt highlighted by a blade of dim light, the only clue that anything is there at all.
"Glorofaex. I have need of you."
"You honor me by coming to me personally, Great Lord."
A scaled head snakes into the slim light. The enormous skull is made even more massive by the image, accentuating the every faded scale, shriveled bit of webbing ,and desiccated skin marking the ancient wyrm.
"Is it time? Do you return to Golarion and restore the glory of our youths? I have not known feelings of anticipation and impatience in millennia, Great Lord."
Karzoug shifts on his immense throne.
"The time is at hand. It will happen at any moment, and I wish for you to be at my side when it does."
"Another honor."
Karzoug's brow wrinkles low over his eyes, and he nods in reply.
The great iridescent yellow eye narrows a fraction within the minuscule light.
"Might I be so bold, Great Lord," begins Glorofaex, "to ask if there is another reason for my presence?"
"Only you would dare." Karzoug says in a voice just above a growl. "I am not in the habit of justifying my commands. This has not changed since I ruled last. What is it you think you know?"
"Only that I have dreamt."
"The same dream?"
"Just the once; that it changed from the boy. In the new dream, humans of power intruded upon the boy’s tune. I fought them. I was invincible, and still they nearly defeated me."
Karzoug straightens upon his throne.
"You still won," he drawls.
"I'm not sure. The dream ended with the last two in my claws, not yet dead."
Karzoug digests the new revelation slowly. Glorofaex, remaining still, watches the Runelord's face subtly change from outrage over information previously withheld, to uncertainty in a new interpretation of the dream, to concern.
"Great Lord, I only wish to know what I should bring when in your presence. Do I exalt, or do I defend? I serve you poorly... with my death." Glorofaex's eye glints. "Unless my death... is intended? My greed is great."
"There was an incursion at the Pinnacle of Avarice," the Runelord admitted. "It did not breach the entrance, but it removed Chellan from my plans, temporarily. They and their methods matched your description of the dream, save one."
"It was a strange dream. Do we hunt?"
"The time is at hand. Either they will come to me, and I will deal with them here in the Eye, with your help; or they will be too late, and I will no longer be touchable by such… nuisances."
"I will come, Great Lord. I do not doubt that among the thousand plans you keep to yourself, reside contingencies upon contingencies. Very few would have the forethought to plan their return so that each defeated minion would hasten their quickening. I have often wondered how the human skull, so tiny, could house so many ideas, even with maps and writing. And you put even them to shame, needing no such aids."
“Very few have seen through my plans, to know that defeat brings victory.”
“Very few have known you as long. I will come, Great Lord.”
The eye leaves the light and a sea of faded blue scales shift within it.
"One more thing, Glorofaex."
The movement in the dark stops.
Reluctantly, Krazoug says "Do not think, Old Friend, that you, who will return the ranks of dragons to Thassilon, and command them… do not think these honors would not be yours under other circumstances. I require your presence as a temporary measure, but you would be here, regardless."
The eye returns to the dim light.
"My time in this world is short. Within the next few hundred years, not even your song can keep me here. Until that day, though, I serve."
Karzoug quickly dismisses the image, returning it to the view of Xin-Shalast. With a thought, the throne drifts through the air and settles to its accustomed spot on the marbled floor.
A rough semi-circle of lamia-kin bowed before Karzoug, their foreheads pressed to the jet marble. Such a position was near impossible for some of them in their true form, so all lamia-kin decided long ago that it was easier to shift to a pure human form when in audience with the runelord. Consequently there were neither scale nor fur in sight. Karzoug was pleased with the change in attitude. He had not needed to command them to make the change, but all lamia had. Even in their appetite for chaos, he thought¸ dwells the innate desire to please. He felt they were preferable to working with demons for this single trait. It was a comfort that at least one thing had not changed in all the years of his absence.
“Does that complete your report on Korvosa?” he asked.
“I wish only to add that Korvosa, unlike Magnimar, is in such turmoil that they will be unable to react to an external threat.” Said a prostrate lamia with blonde hair. “Nor willing. They have heard of your giant armies forming, Great Lord, and deem it less than the fifth most important threat. It is beneath other squabbles with Cheliax and other Inner Sea neighbors as well my culling of the greedy there.”
“And when my armies are east of Magnimar? What then?” The runelord gazed past his minions, up at the runewell. He thought of how soon he would be less dependent on so many minor pieces. He was shouldering much too much of the management of affairs himself, for lack of adequate intermediary handlers. He regretted the loss of Mokmurian only because the stone giant lacked peers. It was an uneasy balance to have subordinates capable enough to lead others and act independently in his interests without become overly ambitious. He relished the waiting challenge. “I do not desire their apathy towards my armies, Jhanecia. Apathy quickly becomes action when there is a present external foe. If you do not have rivals competing for command and undermining each other as our armies march on Korvosa, then you will have failed. Remember that.”
“Yes, Great Lord.”
Karzoug stood for a time, looking at the lamias where they knelt and looking at nothing. For their part, the lamia-kin held admirably still. They had had been stationed, thus, for twenty minutes. Fatigue had to be setting in. The pause in his questioning would serve to make them uneasy: was he angry? Did he approve of their work? It would be heightened by their inability to see him. He found these reports tedious, but often stretched them out for his own amusement. Boredom was not something the troubled him; there were thousands of scenarios to play out to keep him occupied. He pondered why, then, he felt the need to prolong the contact he had with those who visited. I am not one for self-reflection. In the moment, seize what you must. Move on. The next moment holds more treasures, and a mistake in the past is magnified by bringing it with you. So why? I do not crave physical pleasure from them. There is no leverage to be gleaned from them. They are not entertainment, bearers of wisdom, or to be traded. The value they bring is in the information their services have produced. The souls they add, I receive without them here, and their reports are more for their egos than my needs. I surveil them regularly. Is it the fealty they demonstrate? Enough. I have spent too long on this question, already.
“Solisha, I have not yet heard from you. Tell me of the Velashu Uplands you so foolishly gambled on.” There was the faintest breeze of hidden laughter from five of the lamia-kin. The lamia at the far right shifted slightly, and went still.
“Great lord, north of Riddleport is where the band led by the priest’s father made their camp. And it was there that my foolish gamble paid off. I hope my success can atone for any delay caused by not delivering more souls to you.” Her voice was steady. Karzoug could not see her eyes, but there must be hope and resignation in them for her to sound so measured. He was intrigued.
“You claim success? What piece of intelligence did the father possess that I do not already know?” Karzoug had sent agents to find information on the pests that killed Mokmurian as soon as he became aware of them. Not all of the lamia were adept at harvesting souls. There were several groups that were peripherally aware of his agents’ activities. Only one had managed to thwart any of his forthcoming plans, and they had bested a minor, if favored, minion. He had glimpsed them previously, but in taking out Mokmurian they had also come into possession of a library. He watched them study there for weeks, and their focus on his affairs was peculiar. In his mind, the web of traceable information formed again to reflect what his agents had documented since he learned of them. Points and pathways- from question to all possible answers- branched and intertwined. Karzoug learned that this adventurous group was comprised of a loose band of humanoids with strange partnerships and associates. There was a thread for that. It fragmented quickly as he tracked down members. There was a series of short threads leading to one named Lena, and another grouping bunched around one named Hopeful that broke free from the rest and tailed off into his disinterest. Other threads broke into the web from outside and departed swiftly, or were cut off for members with names like Jo and Shalelu. A number of thick threads of information looped around several deceased members. The usual bonds he could exploit did not seem to exist, or perished with the dead. And there was the familiar, singular line connecting old members and new. It was almost as if he looked at two webs superimposed over each other. His mind climbed among the pathways, upwards, sideways, and down. Karzoug’s followers turned their attention to the family of the current mix, at his direction. More threads; more dead ends, save two: a brother, and a father. Karzoug's attention flowed along the thread where the agent sent to find the brother of the dwarf had turned up dead, and Solisha was diverted to find out why. My resources are vast, but not unlimited. Yet. The thread was flimsy there; her report upon the previous agent’s failure was perfunctory. She, quite obviously, was attempting to hide a reluctance to pursue the matter, and if she had not also disclosed the discovery of the father, she would have been dealt with.
“Great lord, the father of the priest did not want to give up his secrets. Under other circumstances I would have attempted to recruit him. He was quite possessive of the priest. But I drew great pleasure in getting him to talk before he perished.”
“Hm. Did you mark him?"
Karzoug dismissed the multitudinous pathways of information from his mind. He long ago came to terms with the deficiencies of others, who could only hold two, or perhaps three, of these concepts in their own minds while discussing them. Even then, they stumbled along the paths, often needing to be led through their own cluttered thoughts. He'd found that the modern peoples could hold such cluster of concepts at a time; dangling from it with whitened knuckles. He shook his head in disappointment.
“Alas, Great Lord, in his heart he was a pawn of Envy. I did mark him, but that was not his great contribution.”
“Go on, then.”
“He was not the priest’s true father, only calling himself such. In his mind, he owned the boy. But they had a rich history together: Humiliation. Mayhem. Murder. Death. The latter is what the father was most proud of. He felt his son had strayed and the final punishment would be to bring the son back to him, even when the son thought he would be done with life.”
“He cannot die? I have no reason to believe the priest is secretly a lich.”
“My apologies, Great Lord,” the lamia reached beneath her and gathered something at her belt. She outstretched her arms horizontally along the marble floor, finally turning her hands to reveal an object. “The priest is still young. He is a vessel.”
Karzoug leaned forward, bringing his head closer to inspect a shriveled peach-colored lump with umber blotches on it. One eyebrow raised as far as the stone embedded in his forehead would allow.
“Is that an ear?”