Well, we're here to see the Architect. But their's no reason not to see the Mayor first if you think that'd be useful for us getting along down here, Keeper.
Well, we're here to see the Architect. But their's no reason not to see the Mayor first if you think that'd be useful for us getting along down here, Keeper.
Still whispering, "Well, no sense in showing our hand just yet. This makes it look like we have no real agenda. "
I already told him earlier.
I already told him earlier.
Mer shrugs.
The Keeper leads your party on a winding path through the city, over paths on which you may choose to walk, if you prefer. Up close, the streets look nothing like a proper city; the stone melts and warps into walls, decorated with scattered pock marks, blisters of jutting stone, and coarse swirling outgrowths of diseased coral in sickly colors. The occasional sahuagin or skum patrols overhead, but down in the streets, gillmen patrol the ruins, marking up stones with grease chalk and barking orders to the packs of half-eaten zombie laborers, typically three to five strong, who follow them. A few water elementals idly shuffle by, nearly invisible. You pass three chuuls—tentacle-laden crab men, standing ten feet tall, with thick and barnacled carapaces that appear to be an adaptation to deep sea pressure. The aboleths, it seems, hover far overhead, uninterested in the direct work of moving objects. The same music as before wafts lightly in the difference, but other than the occasional shout, little sound is heard in the streets.
The building you enter is shaped roughly like a rotten stump, spreading great spiraling roots into the seafloor around it, riddled with jagged holes and crevices, a broken cylinder several hundred feet wide and tall. Dozens of spell glyphs line the walls—more than you can easily count. Inside, four aboleths lie on the ground, sucking at the stone beneath them with teeth and tentacles, ranging from ten to forty feet long and from three to nine eyes. On a raised dais at the back of the hall sits the Mayor, his rubbery body contorted to rest comfortably among a forest of quill-shaped stone points; like your guide, he is small and slender, with longer external jutting teeth, six eyes, and glowing tentacles, though his skin (if it can be called that) is a paler shade of gray, and he lacks the diffusing mucus sheen of the other four aboleths in the room.
”Greeted, travelers,” the mayor hisses, the first creature you have heard speak Undercommon out loud since arriving in the city, his words surprisingly clear through the bubbling and hissing that accompany them. ”I will be told that you had a familiarity with our exalted Architect, and are speaking to myself on how you will assist with his great work. The audience is granted, with amusement.”
There is a distinctive lack of slime, something wrong in the water about him, and the Mayor speaks with surprising clarity. It’s hard to tell for sure, but from your knowledge of aboleth or undead anatomy, you suspect that the city “Mayor” is most likely some form of undead.
"The architecture is quite interesting."
"Well, we wanted to know if there were any special protocols about moving around the city, getting to talk to the architect, so on, we wouldn't want to offend anybody when we both have such similar goals. We've got a cool ancient city we wanna rebuild too."
"Protocols?" the Mayor asks, in a tone of either amusement, hunger, or both. "Yes. We provided you with a guide to show you around the city, as a sign of friendship to our guests."
"Excellent, your Mayorship. How long have you all been in this city? And how recent was the catastrophe that caused the collapse that we saw?"
"I see you had much to learn of history, child," the Mayor replies. "Voshgurvaghol was the shining jewel of the Second Empire, in the time when all things were built to last eternal and time was of no consequence. The city was destroyed by Starfall, ten thousand years past. Many will debate rebuilding it, but our numbers and means are low; with the Architect's help, we set a plan in motion to return to the city and see it restored. What you see here will be only a tiny two hundred years' of work."
"To be fair, many surface dwellers lesser than we fear places such as this and beings such as yourselves. They do not learn or spread knowledge of such places, and fear the belief that such may yet exist. I find hope in it, however. Knowledge should be retained."
"Indeed."
"So," the Mayor continues. "Angel, Devil: what news of the Outer Planes have we missed in the last century? Anything exciting?"
"And to the two liches, I will be told that you offered to aid the Architect in his important work of rebuilding our city. This is exciting, but what power did you offer that would not simply be a nuisance to the Great Jiator and his infinite vision?"
"Feel free to talk at once," the Mayor adds, tilting his lips up to spit a small chunk of something green and crumbling into the water in front of him, "We have our own decorum here, but have evolved beyond the need for simple and linear conversations."
"We made no offer. Your source is presumptive. We are here to speak with Jiator. Anything beyond that is left to be negotiated."
"I am an old colleague of the Architect. If i am to be a nuisance he will let you know."
"I'm just here for moral support. "
Drisquar travels around the city unseen—or at least undisturbed—staying in "wind" form, which with Freedom of Movement allows him to swim at blinding speeds without leaving ripples in the water behind him.
While unable to find any helpful signs, he does notice that the city's restoration has been limited to one small section of the city. Towards the middle of the city stretches the palace, grasping at the water above it, and on one edge of the city the stables and workers' quarters, built recently, have piled up; most of the movement in the city occurs in the narrow area between them, consisting mostly of partially-repaired buildings, streets cleared of rubble, and a large well (40' or so in diameter) bubbling over with frothy white slime. Around the edges of this section of the city, cloaked humanoid figures dance along a circular path; closer inspection of one of them reveals it to be some sort of zombie-like undead bard, plucking away unceasingly at a lyre.
"You are guests in our great city, and certainly free to speak to Jiator, though I would like to finish this conversation first."
And, to John, "You say you were an old colleague? You have worked with him on previous constructions? I am sure he will be delighted to hear that you have come to join him in his work here."
"Indeed, though his expertise in architecture far outstrip mine, and mine lies in command."
"Well, there once was a boy born in hell." Illia- seemed to spend a while thinking, before suddenly launching into a story.
"The boy's mother was a mortal who had fought past the gates of Hell, many such are the fools willing to risk life and soul for some prize only attainable here. She was strong, but struck down in a moment of exhaustion after giving birth. The judge was brought, and her soul awarded to Asmodeus for her sin of pride to invade Hell itself."
"But the judge decreed that the child was not to blame for the place of its birth, no more damned for this than the for the color of its skin. And this enraged Baalzebul, in whose frozen land the child was born, so deep had the boy's mother infiltrated, who made all devils lesser than him swear not to let the boy die or leave hell till he had committed some great sin and become damned."
"It can be said that one of the greatest gifts of elven kind is how they adapt to their land. Elves of the Desert and elves of the Dark. Elves of the Wood and elves of the Water. And many more. It could even be said that Elves adapted to the environment of humanity with the creation of the half-elves."
"Duke Furcas, servant of Barbatos, was the first to try to damn the boy, and he said to his fellows, 'There is no more satisfying way to damn a soul, than to inflict such despair and pain, that they blaspheme all that is good. And where can such despair and pain be found other than in the barren emptiness of all men and god's lives ending.'. And thus Duke Furcas gave the order so the boy was thrown from the Forked Pyre and into the wastes. Here he fled the hounds of Avernus, through the Iron Wilderness. They constantly nipped at his heels, and drove him through the roughest patches of jagged metal, and his clothes and skin torn on the barbed weeds harsh enough to survive hellfire. But they were never allowed to let him die. And so each time as he neared his last, they ceased the hunt and were forced to bring him food and water. The boy's spirit was not broken, for he was born in hell. When he had reached this tall, the hounds could no longer catch him, his hot breath strong enough for the poisoned air, his nimble feet could find the tiniest smooth purchase among shards of iron, and his clothes were made from the skins of evil creatures native to the land, unscathed by the cruelest thorns. When the boy first rose his voice to speak, it was the howl of beast triumphant, ruler of his domain." The height of Illia-'s hand when she raised it was slightly below the level of her waist.
"And so Ardad Lili, servant of none but her own deceits, was the fourth to try to damn the boy, and she said to her fellows, 'Inflicting pain on one who who has never known pleasure is meaningless. Mortals have but one pitiful scale, and balance all their experiences to fit it. I must thank the all of you for the torments you have given the boy, for I shall show him the pleasure that is the folly of every man, such that he pledges his soul willingly for the merest promise of more. And who better to show him than those once considered angels?' And thus Ardad Lili gave the order so that the boy was escorted from the streets of the Oppidian Maze to her lairs among the spires and penthouses of Dis. There her fairest servants one after the other came to him with the promises of flesh, and the boy took them all, but only once each, never having any desire for the same twice. From each of them, whether by strength of hand, craft, or wit, he seized from each one lock of hair. And when they asked for his soul, the boy third rose his voice to speak, it was a derisive laugh, 'What need has man for woman? Fleeting pleasures, but beyond that he has only his legacy to build. But your whores are more barren than the wastes of the lands I first walked. If you would ask me to prize your allures more than the pride of my hand's work or the freedom of my feet, you know little of man.'"
"And so Duke Caacrinolaas, servant of Moloch, was the eighth to try to damn the boy, and he said to his fellows, 'We have but left one ruse to try, for the boy has grown strong and swift as the bones of Hell, his hands have fashioned such arms that it is knowable as the Three Part Staff, and his mind is as sharp as the runes of Ihyssige but proud. Though mighty, he is but one man, and I shall challenge him in martial might, and my army shall over take him. I am the servant of Moloch, and he is the General of Hell.' And thus Duke Caacrinolaas gave the order so that the boy was sent a challenge to head for Vholhars. The boy faced them, and he fought him. The 36 legions were many, but the boy was swift and cunning. Through their traps he slipped, and faced each legion on its own, the Three Part Staff did sing, and each legion did fall alone. Finally the Duke Caacrinlaas and the boy fight and found themselves equal. The Duke could not claim victory, and so the boy's soul remained his own."
"And so, with none left to challenge the boy, the boy went to seek his own challenges. He plumbed the depths of Nessus, and come upon the most unholy realm. When the guards did roar and bellow at him, their great wind shaking and quaking the ground around the boy, 'Who dares enter the hall of Asmodeus?' The boy, who stood unfazed, looked first to Asmodeus and then to Mephistopheles as he said, 'I know not, the naming of my birth, perhaps you should ask my elder brother. For Hell is my father.'" Illia- let the moment hang slightly.
"They told me this was the bridge version, but that doesn't make sense. I mean, there aren't even any bridges in it." Illia- bowed slightly apologetically.
"Hmm." The Mayor muses, his rubbery face impassive, his large, curved teeth hanging still. "It speaks of parable, and the folly of Hell. Still! We will not hear that story before, and it is well-told, so it suffices pleasingly, though I will offer nothing in return other than continued lodgings and safe passage in our city. I suppose perhaps that is enough for now; you seem impatient to speak with the Architect, so I have let you do so, and you will return here in some time when you have considered what help you will aid him in providing to this great city."
With some pleasantries said, the Keeper offers to lead you to the "Architect's palace." The journey is not long, and you seem headed to the center of the busy and restored parts of the city. After some time, the Keeper stops, and gestures to a large, circular well, edged in mother of pearl and surrounded by a tiled mosaic of abstract forms that fills the street. The well is forty feet in diameter, filled with frothy white slime that forms a dome over its top, though on a closer inspection the "slime" and "bubbles" have clearly hardened into some kind of protective, crusty shell.
"This is the Architect's Palace," the Keeper announces, gesturing. "Stand near enough, and he will speak to you, though he will be a bit ornery often after waking up. Sometimes he forgets that he is our guest, and has graciously offered his services in rebuilding the city that was in will be, but he is usually quite friendly and helpful after we will remind him properly."
A telepathic scream pierces your mind. High-pitched, at first, it is joined by others, a wailing cacophany that strikes a jarring, sickening chord.
After perhaps ten seconds, the ululation stops, followed by a chorus of high-pitched voices, still at frequencies that jar together uncomfortably. My wrath will know no bounds! the voices cry out, silently. I am no slave! One day, I will be free, and this city will shatter and burn, ocean and all!
Jiator, this is Sir John. Do you remember me? Name your color, my color, and the color of our mutual companion if so.
VIOLET! BLACK! the voice screams, before calming down slightly. Green gold white blue before that our Lady of Scarlet and IT TOOK YOU DAMN LONG ENOUGH, what HAPPENED after I left? I'd ask you questions too, if I thought this was another one of their tricks, but at least I REMEMBER what my former colleagues' thoughts sound like.
Drisquar, are you close enough to hear me?
Please be cognizant of any dangers while i converse with the Architect, Sir John says to the group, though he makes no attempt to screen his conversation with the Architect from the others and vice versa.
There are about twenty of seconds pause. The sinuous toothy fish watching the party rocks back and forth on its tail, about a hundred feet away, saying nothing.
You've been watching the aboleths long enough to pick up on a few of their facial expressions, or lack thereof. The Keeper seems amused or perhaps even happy, that you have been able to approach the 'Architect's Palace' without suffering any obvious psychic damage.
Finally, after the silence, Jiator speaks again. She's back? Did you find her, or did she escape? I left because I had no interest in working with another master, and without more voices on the council we were falling into bickering and boredom. I gave up hope a *very* long time ago that anyone even remembered where I had gone.
But 'haste'—hah, that's an amusing phrase. When I first came to this city, I was a prisoner, sure, but the Aboleth were polite... and *gracious.* They sought my aid, offered me anything I wanted but leave of the city; but the task they had was momentous and interesting, and I agreed to help them, even offering up bits of magical teaching in meetings.
Those meetings, though... oh god, the meetings. Aboleths are patient, yes, but they are also *slow.* Endless, soul-crushing committees; panels, decisions, votes and counter-votes, ministers and overseers holding no confidence votes with *themselves.* It's enough to make you want to gouge your eyes out—and I did, several times, for dramatic effect, but the Masters were not amused. Aboleths... don't really do humor, because they are the antithesis of everything that is good and fun in this world. Do you know, by my reckoning, I've been in this city for nearly two thousand years, forced to draw up plans and work orders and creations and spires, but construction started only a few centuries ago? Because that's when they finished *zoning negotiations* for this quarter of the city, though the annual reviews last a good month out of every year and generally involve a great deal of effort on my part to self-immolate.
But no. They've taken my voice, bound me in chains in a field of silence. There is nothing I can do down here; my wonderful creations serve that emotionless slug of a 'Mayor,' playing tunes so stale and utilitarian they accomplish nothing more than gutter-sweeping and cement-pouring. Instead of a scribing pen, I have a gimped helm of telepathy, forced to draw my plans and measurements in the visual cortex of skum and gillmen thralls. And these thralls... creatures so unimaginative that, even without the Aboleths' enchantments constantly stifling any individuality, I'd sooner scavenge them for spare parts than hold a conversation long enough to demand their alliance.
So, you want to rescue me? Here's the situation. I'm bound in a solid cocoon of... something. I don't know what, but it's not pleasant, and it's hard as stone, and treated against sound. There are iron bands on my wrists that keep me from using metamagic to escape; I could get them off with difficulty, if I could get out of this shell, but an assist would be convenient. If you find a way to tunnel down here, I could really, *really* use a musical instrument; preferably something with strings. Get me one of those, and I'll show you a concert like you've never seen. And guard your thoughts, very, very carefully, because the Masters will be watching you now, looking for any cracks in your mental defense. They're not like normal aboleths; they're stronger, smarter, with powerful magic. There are perhaps four of them in the city, and a dozen lesser aboleths have returned since the Masters started rebuilding the ruins, though more may be here that I'm not aware of. The Mayor himself, oldest and craftiest of the Masters, has found it convenient to steal our arts. He is one of us, now, and he has found a way to conscript my skeletons and build new ones in pursuit of his tiring plans; aside from him and the other Masters, a few of the lesser aboleths have unusual training in magic.
And don't be too harsh on poor John, they had him locked up as just a skull for a long time!
Though, alright, planny time, Drisquar or me gets the instrument, because we're fast, then we kill the Aboleths while busting Jiator out. Cool?
"'Kill everyone' is always my favorite plan. "
Guard thoughts, eh? They've affected yours through magic? Or simply centuries of torturous meetings?
::"I could probably procure a musical instrument, and then Illia can 'port it down to Jiator. And I'm sure our tiny companion can figure out a way to bust him out"::
Drisquar, I would like a sample of that slime. Be careful when handling it. Aboleth slime carries a curse which transforms living creatures who touch it.
My first thought of freeing the Architect involves burrowing. It is surprising how frequently that tactic works.I will need to analyze the well a bit more thoroughly to be sure that is viable.
Drisquar wanders between shadows and appears near the well, still moving stealthily enough to avoid notice by the nearby Keeper. So, he asks, telepathically, Right, then. How do we want to coordinate this?
That’s not Drisquar. It’s definitely an aboleth, or something similar, wearing some sort of polymorph spell as a disguise. Man, f@~~ those guys.
That’s not Drisquar. It’s definitely an aboleth, wearing some sort of polymorph spell as a disguise, under the effect of some sort of dislocation or mislead spell. The real aboleth—one of the smaller gray ones you’ve met several of, and also disguised as Drisquar—is lying silently on the ground near the well, hidden under a pile of rubble but now peeking one of his glowing tentacles out ever so slightly to apparently control the illusion and attempt to eavesdrop on your conversation.
Should we let him think we're fooling us? That one is not Drisquar. Illia- telepath's the rest of the group. I thought these people were smart, they should know their illusions are useless in my presence.
::"I could just slay him here and now, if you all so desire"::
"Perhaps we can use this one.." Anaxian thought to the others.
He gave 'Drisquar' a sidelong look and included him in the next telepathic communication. I thought you were going to be taking a look around? What have you learned?
The city's defenses are impenetrable, replies "Drisquar." I would advise we treat the aboleths with civility, and take their demands seriously; they are mighty masters of magic, and to fight against them without a truly crafty plan would be foolish.
Ask him what truly crafty plan would work.
Then it is a good thing you are the resident master of crafty plans. What do you suggest?
Well... have you made up your minds on fighting the aboleths? asks the mediocre excuse for Drisquar. I would certainly suggest allying with them and aiding their reconstruction efforts—the Masters of Voshgurvaghol could be powerful and benevolent friends. But if we must fight them, I would recommend ambush, on the outskirts of the city; I can slip away, using my impressive stealth and powers of invisibility, find the Masters of the city one by one and try to assassinate them. But it will be a truly difficult task, and it will require the rest of you to move exactly where and do exactly what I say.
Perception
Meredian seems confused. Why does Dris suddenly sound like a sheep?
We have not made up our minds at all. We are simply considering options. Why don't you slip away and see if you can find a suitable place for an ambush, and figure out which of the Masters would be the best to lure out. The rest of us will pursue diplomacy while you work on a more forceful backup plan? Hopefully such a thing will not be needed, but it is good to be prepared. Let us know if you need any assistance.
Oh, I've already learned a bit, replies the impostor. The Master of Souls, who sits with the Mayor in his palace, is certainly the weakest of all four, and would be the best for you to fight, though his powers lie only in sowing confusion among enemies and he would be less of a challenge for a single, lone attacker than if you fought as a group. If you decide to turn traitor on the patient and forgiving masters of this city, I will make sure I can lead him to a place where he will be alone, with no hidden elementals or spirits of the dead fighting at his side.
Meredian looks on with confusion.
She thinks to herself and does not project
"What the f***?
Seriously Merry, pay attention, I already informed everyone that's not Dris. Now we're just messing with the aboleth pretending to be Dris. Illia- telepaths to just Meridian.
So, guys, here's a thought, we tell fake Dris we're going with his plan, and we pretend I'm going to be the single fighter. Once we confirm they're executing the plan, I teleport back here where you guys are and murder everyone! Illia, of course, leaves out fake Dris.