Etna curtsies in the presence of the Cardinal, suppressing a grin when Tiadora is called to bring food and drinks. However, she refrains from drinking the wine until Felrin has given Thorn the pendant they were tasked to retrieve.
When the holy symbol has been handed, Etna speaks up. "Good Afternoon, Sir. I must say that I didn't expect to find Sir Balin here. While I had no particular ties to the man, I'm sure that some of us were overjoyed to have a word with him." the ifrit comments, knowing knowing that the Doctor was not one to express his thanks to people. "Still, there is quite an impressive structure under there. If I can ask, was it built previously and now remodeled to serve it's current purpose, or..?" the fire-haired woman, trying to be as tactful as possible.
I have to say, it doesn't seem very resource-efficient to maintain a structure such as that to try candidates, unless they have a number of them. The paintings, in particular, are something I still don't understand...
Erevan takes a sip of the chilled wine and then another, feeling his wounds close and his fortitude and health return. There is a thin crooked smile at the sensation, but it is less than enthusiastic; the hooded man still feels drained, weary in both mind and body, certainly enough to still use his spear for some support as he walks.
"Yes," he says simply with a nod showing agreement, his golden eyes moving from Tiadora to the Cardinal, "they were certainly... educational." It would appear that he feels as if his performance and contribution were less than satisfactory, at least as far as he is concerned, and his disappointment is something that he finds he is unable to hide as easily and as completely as he usually does.
'Tests have a purpose, usually to separate the capable from the incapable, the strong from the weak,' he ponders as his comrades join the conversation, looking from one to the other. 'I wonder, which one am I?'
As they’re greeted by Thorn, Felrin bows low in acknowledgement of the Cardinal’s higher place. Rising, he moves across the room to present the pendant to his Master. Before he arrives, however, Tiadora appears in the room, stirring up a powerful blend of fear and anger in Felrin’s heart. He clenches Balin’s holy symbol in his mangled hand, the pain feeding his anger and pushing the fear aside.
Further stilling his emotions, decades of hiding himself and his feelings helping him in this, Felrin collects a glass of wine, ignoring Tiadora as if she’s a slave serving him. He turns to Thorn and extends his injured hand, laying their prize on the man’s desk and saying, ”A pleasure to serve, Master.”
He sips the wine and, feeling the healing power in it, drinks it down quickly, feeling his usual vigor returning.
The high priest smiles beneficently at Felrin as he takes the pendant from him. He holds the trinket up - and pauses as if in deep contemplation. He watches the holy symbol as it glitters in the sun's light. “A pretty enough thing, eh?” he muses, looking at you all. “This is a holy symbol of Mitra of the sort favored by the Knights of the Alerion. Perhaps you already knew that."
His gaze turns to Felrin, his eyes dark, unfathomable. "Remember this symbol, my First. This is the mark of those who destroyed our faith and sought to banish all trace of the worship of our Father from these shores."
Evidently appreciating that the rest of you are not necessarily smitten by the prospect of Asmodeus-worship, he opens his arms as if to include you within his little sermon. "These, my friends, are the servants of the King, who turned you over to be branded as cattle rather than reward your cleverness, or appreciate your guile. In short, they are your enemies.” He tosses the holy symbol back to Felrin. “Keep it. It may aid you in disguising yourself.”
Speaking if which, what is your intention for the young man. It is clear that he has much training in the ways of the Mitrans. We did not kill him, and I believe that he could be of value, as a convert, or a source of information regarding the plans of the inquisitors.
"Yes, I think he could have potential. Of course, he will need to be ... moulded a little more before he is of use. I will have Sir Lester take the boy into his care until Tiadora is able to give him her attention. If you would like to speak to him beforehand, today would be the time."
"Still, there is quite an impressive structure under there. If I can ask, was it built previously and now remodeled to serve it's current purpose, or..?" the fire-haired woman, trying to be as tactful as possible.
The High Priest nods. "You are quite correct, Miss Agnes. There are many reasons I - or rather, Sir Lester - acquired Thorn House. The cellar was but one of them. I had it remodeled to suit my purposes, of course."
Finally, when all questions are done , the Cardinal smiles. “You have done well. Escaping from Branderscar, slaughtering Sir Balin ... yes, you are worthy. Now, let us complete your training...”
He pauses. "But first, relax. Enjoy the rest of today. There will be food aplenty, and drink. Tiadora will see to that - and provide slaves according to your liking. Simply ask her, and it will be done. I will see you again at first light tomorrow. Be here before the sun rises."
With that, you are ushered out of his study.
The Doctor remains silent, his eyes dark behind his spectacles. He gives the wine a good sniff before drinking it, relieved to feel his ribs, cracked by the late paladin's mighty blow, mending. Once the Cardinal has had his say, he gives the others a curt nod, then retires to his room in search of a washbasin and a change of clothing.
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Etna sips the wine, feeling a faint magical effect course trough her: as she wasn't harmed in the slightest, though, the effects are extremely negligible.
Etna curtsies as the cardinal departs, and then turns to her companions. "I am going to talk to Timeon. If anyone wishes to join me, you are free to do so. Come, Winston." the ifrit calls her dog, and goes back to the stairs from which they had just emerged from. Doing the way backwards (and taking all the necessary precautions not to alarm the shrieker), she reaches to chamber where the squire is.
"Timeon? Are you okay?" the ifrit asks to the squire, before moving closer to him. "If you'll excuse me...". With a snap of her fingers, Etna summons four small wisps of light, and sits next to the squire "...I need to lay down a little. It has been a long day.".
The fire-haired woman stays silent for a moment, before she continues to speak, her face illuminated by one of the flying fires.
"If I may ask, Timeon, why did you become a squire? I don't think this was in the job's description." she smiles grimly for a moment looking at the dungeon once again. "Still, it must be nice to believe so strongly in something, in a greater purpose, that you fight for it. I never felt something like that in the past, to be honest: I've been focused on my own goals for such a long time, I've lost track of what I wanted to do in the first place...". For a moment, it looks like the ifrit is talking as much to herself as she is doing to Timeon, bet then she turns to the squire and stares at him in the eyes.
"You're probably finding me a little too cryptic. I'm Etna. Etna Agnes." she waits, in case the squire remembers that she was one of the twelve criminals involved in the "Trial of the century", as the papers she read that morning called it.
Surely more interesting than the Princess birthday, I have to say. Now, I'd really don't want to do something so uncouth, but...
Wherever the boy recognizes her or not, Etna rolls up her left sleeve and shows him the runic F "I had been sent to Brandescar. Tonight, I think I should have been sent to the Salt Mines. I would have lasted there probably a couple of days, at most. Fraud is a rather minor crime, so you get a pleasantly slow death for it.". Etna stops again to catch her breath, and to see if Timeon wasn't on the point of running away in terror.
"Eh. Fraud. I'm rather offended by a term like that." the ifrit chuckles as she continues "I never broke a single law, calling what I did like it was the trick of a market seller is insulting. I'll do that again, though. Again and again. It started as a quest for justice, you know? My mother, who had poisoned my father, tricked my relatives, all for coin, had to pay. You look like a lot like them. My family, I mean.". The ifrit once again locks her gaze with the squire's. "Devoted. Honest. Kind. And gullible, weak, utterly to the whims of the more ruthless. I couldn't stand looking at them, getting manipulated only because the teachings of Mitra had made them so weak. I wanted to tell them, that my mother was a liar, that they shouldn't trust someone that deeply, that the only way to survive in this world is the be even more merciless than everyone else...".
Etna pauses, and stares into the darkness. For a moment, the cantrip goes out, and everything is blackness. A second after that, the ifrit snaps her fingers, and the fires reappear.
"...but I never did. I got lost in my vengeance, and lost track of what was important, the real objective. Were you there at the Royal Court, Timeon? Have you ever been to Brandescar? Those places, these place, this nation is falling to pieces, killed from the inside from a disease that's slowly hollowing its bones. If nothing changes, one day we'll wake up, and be nothing but dust. But that is going to change. I'm going to change it. I've made my choice.".
Slowly, she gets up, dusting off her gown. "I'm going to set things straight. I'm going to make it so the people of this nation are the most ruthless, strong people in the world. If they're tricked by someone, it'll be only because they weren't merciless enough themselves, not because they jumped into the mouth of the wolf by their own will. It's for the best." Etna offers her hand to Timeon.
"Want to join us?"
"Don't anger the man with the goatee, nor the blonde woman: but I think you already knew that. No one of us likes her, but she's far more powerful than us."
When they are to enter the shrieker room, Etna stops. "Before we enter here, be careful by the way, there's one last thin I have to tell you...we had to kill Sir Balin.". The ifrit pauses for a moment, leaving the words sink in the boy's head before continuing. "I had no sympathy for the man's attitude, or the way he treated a-" the fire-haired woman pauses for a moment, feeling as she was trying to pull glass shards from her throat by trying to continue the phrase."- friend of mine. A very dear friend of mine. But" Etna retakes her composure as she opens the door and starts to guide trough the shrieker room, hugging the wall "his devotion was admirable. It is a rare thing to find that in these days. I won't stop you from mourning him. And, personally, I don't feel that was a humane way to kill a man".
Timeon has in fact since been 'rescued' from the cellar, and Etna finds him relaxing (if somewhat cautiously) in the company of Sir Lester, who - as a fellow aristocrat - is putting him at his ease. The boy has been given a clean set of clothes, and has a goblet of (watered) wine in one hand and a platter of food in the other, which he is busily wolfing down while still trying to politely attend to Sir Lester's (intentionally) boring-old-buffer routine.
As Etna enters the room, Sir Lester takes the hint, bows smoothly and limps off, supported by his cane.
Etna is aware that - from the boy's looks - she has Timeon's complete, undivided, attention. "Th-thank you, Lady Etna. I am quite well. Sir Lester has been very kind, and my wounds have been tended." He rolls up his sleeve to show Etna the bandages that have been applied to his cuts. Not magical healing then, the Ifrit notices.
Timeon gawps as Etna lies down; he has no idea where to look, and a slow blush suffuses his cheeks. He does his best to look her in the eyes, but...
"I-I'm sorry, Lady Etna? Oh - a squire? I'm noble-born and my family's holdings are in Balentyne, on the Watch Wall: we all do military service. Have you been there? No, I don't suppose you have, no one like you would - would go somewhere so provincial. I have trained in arms and armour since I was six years old - I was sent to an Alerion chapter house when I was ten. I was the best." The boy's voice does his best to be matter-of-fact, but his face shines with pride. "I was beating squires two years my senior, with sword, with lance and in wrestling. They didn't like that very much. And then Sir Balin chose me!"
Timeon's entire face lights up in hero-worship. "I was eleven years old, and he came to visit us. Said he had need of a squire, one who he could train up to be the next light against the darkness. And he chose me! I couldn't believe it! I've spent almost five years with him, and they've been the best years you could imagine - well, until now..."
He pauses, and returns his gaze to where it should have been in the first place; to look Etna in the eyes. "Why did I become a squire? Why would I do anything else? I serve the cause of good - of Mitra himself!"
...
"Etna? Etna Agnes?" Timeon frowns, trying to remember. "Oh my God! The trial! Before the King! You're - you're And your companions - your - your..." He doesn't want to believe it. But when Etna rolls up her sleeve and shows him the runic "F" he can only stare, utterly transfixed with horror.
Still, though, he listens. He knows he should run. Or fight. Or something. Anything other than listen to this - this criminal. But she was kind to him, when he was at her mercy. And she's pretty. And it's not as if she's a violent danger, is she? Maybe he should listen. Maybe there's a way he can bring her back to the light, redeem her. Wouldn't Sir Balin be proud of him then!
And so, he listens. He nods at some of what she says. Devoted. Kind. Gullible, at the whim of the more ruthless. Hasn't Sir Balin said something like that at times? "We are the eagles: we kill the wolves that would prey on the flock." If the boy has heard that once, he has heard it a thousand times. More, probably.
"Want to join us?"
Timeon looks at Etna, miserably. "I - I don't know. So much of what you said made sense! I want to believe you're not a traitor... But - but what you - you said. About Mitra, I mean. His teachings don't make us weak, do they? Sir Balin isn't weak! I'm not - or I thought I wasn't. Now I don't know any more. I don't know anything."
The boy slumps forward in his chair, looking at the floor. Tears slowly begin to leak from his eyes.
Etna stays silent for a moment, watching the young squire.
He remembers me the day...the day father died.
The ifrit puts her hand on the boy's shoulder, and starts talking. "No, I'm sure you're not weak. Nor is Sir Balin, or most of the knights of Alerion. But you,the other knights, and men like Sir Balin are already strong in the first place. The teachings of Mitra are, at best, stifling you potential. But not everyone is as lucky as you." the fire-haired woman continues.
"I remember Balin told us something, the other day in the court: about the Knights of Alerion being the eagles protecting the flock. But, I think that the eagles can't be there always, everywhere, no matter how hard they try: sooner or later, wolves are going to slip in, or walk among the flock unnoticed, and at that point the sheep can't do anything but perish. The only way for them to survive is to grow claws themselves, and become something stronger than wolves.".
Etna pauses, waiting for the boy to recompose himself and look her into the eyes. "Think about it, Timeon. I'm not asking you for a response right now: truth to be told, I would have been more worried if you put aside all you believed in your life away on a whim! Think about it first, Timeon. I, on my part, firmly believe that what I said is only the truth."
A shadow falls across Etna, as she puts her arm around the young squire: behind him, obscured from his sight, looms the figure of Tiadora. Her voice sounds mockingly – painfully – in the ifrit's head: Nicely done, dearest: they say that you catch more flies with honey than vinegar – but I prefer vinegar: honey doesn't sting when you pour it on a cut. Which gives me some ideas for tomorrow... And anyway, I'm not interested in catching .
She makes a 'shooing' gesture with her hand. Run away now, little ifrit. Don't make me cross. You wouldn't like that. With that, she vanishes from sight.
Oblivious to Tiadora's presence, Timeon nods at Etna's words. "I will think on what you have said, my Lady - but I wish Sir Balin were here! I'm sure he'd know what to say to you." He shakes his head. "Or maybe he'd just ask what I'm doing, conversing with a Forsaken of Mitra! But I hope not; I like you. You and your friends could have - could have done anything to me in that dungeon, but you helped me. I would never have escaped without your aid. I shan't forget that."
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Erevan spends the rest of the day quietly, as is his usual wont; recuperating meals and drink are provided regularly, and he retires to bed at a sensible time. Sleep however does not come easily, as his mind replays – over and over again – the trials that he has faced that day. To date, his physical and mental skills; his training; his strangely heightened eyesight – all of these have been enough. Is that still the case? Is he now overshadowed by his companions? He has witnessed what someone backed by otherworldly power can do even without a weapon... he has spent his whole life spotting weaknesses in both friends and foes; has he taken care that – while closely observing – he has not himself been closely observed?
No, sleep does not come easily, and is intermittent.
…
Erevan wakes with a start, certain that someone is in his room. A quick glance to the door confirms that it remains shut, the key turned in the lock; certain of his other – unspecified – precautions are still clearly in place; but a figure nevertheless is there, seated in an armchair that Erevan cannot remember being there earlier. Erevan's eyesight is keen, even in darkness, and can pick out the details of the figure's clothing, which is nondescript, if slightly shabby; the robe however falls forward, concealing the face, which is in shadow - impenetrable even to superhuman darkvision. The figure speaks, and the tone is a pleasant baritone voice, human-sounding (although something tells the slayer that the power radiating towards him is not that of a mere mortal): ”Good evening, Erevan. I have known you long – I have watched you grow in power, in ability. I was there when you undertook your first contract; I was there when you left that knife in Arkady's back; I was there when you accepted that ill-advised comission from Isabella Oress. And I was there when you struck down the warden of Branderscar prison. Would it be fair to say that was your last act of significance? No matter. I have something to discuss with you that might be of interest. But first, I would like to show you something...”
The tower is shattered; not in ruins, but it barely holds together. At the top, it has cracked open, the light of day competing with the flickering green flames that illuminate the interior. At the dais, before the altar, two figures are locked in combat. One of them is Erevan: he can recognise himself, barely looking even a day older than he does now. The other is a knight of the Alerion, in the same sort of armour as that worn by Sir Balin; but this man makes Sir Balin look weary and fallen by comparison. The Light surrounding him is blinding, supernatural; the righteous wrath that emanates from him is a holy force all by itself.
Actually, to call it a combat would be misleading: that suggests two opponents of roughly equal ability. The knight's focus is – for the most part – on the altar behind Erevan; his entire purpose is to reach it and stop the ritual. Erevan is simply an obstacle in the way. Erevan stabs desperately with his spear, but every time it is deflected by the knight's aura and his unshakeable faith. Somewhat absently, the knight's first stroke shatters Erevan's spear; the second swipes at his shinbones, toppling Erevan to the floor; and the third strikes off his head. It rolls a little way from his prone form, its expression a mixture of-
The hooded figure looks curiously at Erevan as the vision fades. ”Tell me, as a matter of interest, what was that expression? What do you think went through his mind – your mind - at that moment; apart from the sword-blade, obviously?”
Etna spends the rest of the day pleasantly, in the company of Winston and those of her companions who are around.
When she finally retires for the night, there is someone waiting for her in her room, standing patiently: Dessiter, the figure they encountered yesterday when they signed the contract with the Cardinal. Winston gives him one startled look - and dives, whimpering, under the bed, his mental signals to his mistress being that of 'distress' and 'extreme danger'. Dessiter bows low; he is dressed in a similarly expensive and deeply tasteful outfit to the one he wore yesterday, and he has behind him the same rather gorgeous briefcase, stowed under the table. ”A thousand pardons for intruding, dear lady, and to your pet, as well; I do have an unfortunate effect on animals. I hope you will overlook your humble servant's transgressions, but I hoped to see you in private.” The devil brushes some imagined piece of lint off his waistcoat with a highly polished fingernail. ”I wanted above all to congratulate you on your ingenious scheme to overthrow your mother: I managed to catch up on the paperwork when it was passed to me for consideration. A most ingenious scheme! I understand that even at the trial, they had not quite worked out exactly what to charge you with. Talent such as yours is rare indeed – too rare to be thrown away in a salt mine.”
He pauses, delicately. ”Which is what brings your humble servant here, dear lady. As I'm sure you will already be aware, my Father Below gladly accepts the services of those with singular talent, such as yours, and offers handsome rewards to those willing to pledge their souls to him; but such a keen mind as you possess will doubtless have realised what mortals refer to as the 'catch' in such a deal: namely, damnation.” He looks solemn. ”I will not lie to you: it is true that the souls of those who fail and die arrive in Father's plane of existence as something base and vile, barely deserving the name of soul: a lemure. Truly, they are the lowest of the low. It grieves me – it truly does, dear lady – that a mind such as yours should be faced with even the threat of such a fate. Of course, I have every confidence in your ultimate successes and indeed it may be that you please Father so much that even if the worst should befall, you escape that fate altogether and transcend into a higher form; but I should like to safeguard against that. As I said, minds such as yours are rare indeed.”
He pauses, and looks around, confidentially. ”I hope you will not pass this on, dear lady, but my attention was drawn to you before ever the great Cardinal became aware of you. As I said, your paperwork was passed to me by those who keep a watch for such things. Such potential! I remember thinking to myself at the time. I should like to offer you a deal: a way to escape the lemure's fate. I can offer you the opportunity to ascend directly into devilhood! Please be assured, that this is confirmation that I hold you in the highest regard: I have made only one such offer before in all my long existence. Would it interest you to hear more of this? If not, only say the word, dear lady, and I shall depart. But I would caution you to say nothing of this to anyone. Indeed, it will be a condition, if we do continue our discussion, that you say nothing of this to the Cardinal.”
Having finished this long oration, without apparently having had to draw breath once, he looks at you expectantly.
The rest of the day passes pleasantly in a haze of good food, good drink and good company. Which is to say, that neither Tiadora nor the Cardinal feature in it at all. After supper, Sir Lester invites Felrin to join him in the drawing room for brandy and cigars; he is curious about your encounters in the cellar and listens keenly to what he is told. Felrin learns that the armoured woman they saw is a longstanding member of the Cardinal's entourage; her name, according to Sir Lester is Marcella Wolfram, but he knows very little of her history. What he does say is that there are three people whom Tiadora fears: the Cardinal, the elf-wizard – and Marcella. Clearly a formidable woman.
Felrin returns late to his room, ready to retire for the night – only to stop short on entering: waiting for him there, politely, is the devil they saw yesterday when they signed the contracts. What was his name? Oh, yes, Dessiter. The devil bows low and speaks in a greasy voice ”A thousand pardons for intruding at so late an hour, dread lord, but I was curious to meet the First among the Cardinal's most recent chosen. Anyone with the determination and will to merit that title is worthy of attention from a humble servant such as myself."
He pauses, before continuing. "Few there are now who honour Father in these lands; great must be their ambition who would restore Father to his rightful place. Such an inspiration to us all! I am decided: I will not – I cannot – watch from the sidelines any longer. I would like to offer my aid, if you will take it? However, if we are to continue this conversation, I must stipulate that no word of it ever reaches back to the Cardinal; I am sure you will understand.”
He looks expectantly at you to see whether you are interested in continuing.
The Abyss is not a place of madness: it is madness itself, in raw form, alive. It has existed from before the beginning; unlike the dimension of Hell, which was constructed by and for devils, the Abyss was not constructed by demons – it was merely colonised by them. Even they find its rawness hostile to their existence and remain whole only by sheer force of will, exerted continuously so as not be subsumed into its fabric. The greatest of the demons can however shape it and hold it to their purposes: every demon lord requires a base of operations that they can work from. Within these enclaves, lesser demons gather under their lord's protection. However, even within these enclaves the mind of an ordinary mortal would shatter within moments.
Ottakar is no ordinary mortal. He has contended all his adult life with the Beast within; his mind is disciplined, honed to perfection. But still, the sight of the demon lord's hall is -
- No. This is not the hall of a demon lord; let it be something familiar. Ottakar's mind and will work furiously to close out the overwhelming madness, to construct reference frames that he can survive within. If he is to meet with someone, he normally does so in a coffee shop; he has met many times with his priest friend Stengur Baradsun in such places, to play chess, to converse on intellectual matters.
So. A coffee shop it will be. Ottakar concentrates on the layout, the tables, the walls, the cloth, the smells, the sound (correction: coffee shops do not reverberate to the sound of a million anguished souls). Outside, the ground may be groaning in pain from a thousand mouths, underneath a blood-filled sky; the mountains in the distance may be copulating incestuously one with another; but that is not the doctor's concern. Here, there is and will be order.
Opposite him, his host slowly forms (correction: four limbs only, one head, humanoid) into the shape of an elderly man, with an affable expression. He smiles and claps his (correction: they are at the end of his arms, they must be) hands together. ”Very well done, Doctor! Quite an exercise of will. May I offer you coffee?” A (correction: coffee shops do not contain the fiendish consorts of a demon lord) waitress in traditional cap and pinafore brings forward a tray, on which are two coffees and cake. With effort, it almost tastes like coffee; unfortunately, no amount of effort can mask the rotting-flesh smell of the “cake.” The elderly man senses this and sends the waitress away; she swishes her (correction: waitresses do not have tails) hair in annoyance but withdraws.
The elderly man sips his coffee, and smiles at Ottakar. ”I look forward to our conversation; your intellect and will are clearly out of the ordinary. I do trust, therefore, that you will not ask something imbecilic, such as 'where am I?' or 'why have you brought me here?' I would be most seriously displeased if that were to happen.”
(correction: coffee shops do not contain a slavering horde of demon followers, leaning forward in eager anticipation of demonstrating their lord's displeasure)
Tkaara spends most of the day in a drug-induced haze in her room; it is not clear whether what follows is merely a dream, or a vision.
It is night; midnight has long since passed. Tkaara stands before the full-length mirror in her room, looking at herself curiously. Is she any better? Are the circles under her eyes still there? Is she – despite her efforts – getting even thinner?
Her thoughts are interrupted by the sight of someone behind her. She turns around, swiftly – but there is no one there. She looks back into the mirror, and there they are: a tall woman, easily as tall as Tkaara herself, with long dark hair. Her voluptuous robe is open, revealing that the flesh on the end of her arms and below her waist is shredded, rotting; it drips pus and blood into the carpet, which starts to trickle its way towards Tkaara, puddling around her feet. She looks down. Her feet are clear, the carpet is clean. Only in the mirror is this happening, for some reason.
The mirror-woman approaches mirror-Tkaara, running a bony hand down her spine before resting it on her shoulder. She speaks, and Tkaara can hear her clearly ”Hello there, sweetie. I've so wanted to meet you – there's so much we have in common and I thought it was about time we had a little chat. Maybe I even have some answers to some of your questions. So, how's about a little of your time, hmmmm?”
The fact that he cannot see his face is troubling, yes, but not new. Since he discovered that he could see in shadow and darkness, he has found that his eyesight has its limitations; there are magics, he eventually learnt, that can create areas of such blackness that not even his eyes can penetrate. And such may very well be the case here, he deduces, especially if the fact that the man appears to have entered his room through no door or window that he can see is also taken into account. But this is no mere mortal mage. The golden-eyed man had been in such company more than once, even before meeting Etna and Tkaara and poor Hecate, and this was nothing like that. This... man -though the word is far from accurate, he can tell that much- does not simply have power. He is power.
And it is this assumption that helps him keep his composure oddly enough, for if his "guest" wanted to do him harm -quite possibly any kind of harm- he could have done so already and with great ease. Yet he has not. And that is exactly what Erevan is about to say in his usual calm and polite manner before asking him questions he is certainly expected to have when the vision, for lack of a better word, comes. And once again in more or less the same day the slayer is shaken, the confidence in his skills and abilities tested and found wanting.
And then comes the question, a question that he is supposed to answer, unlike the one before the images. Despite the circumstances, he cannot help to note that there is wit and amusement coloring the words, even if they are more than a little mocking.
"Obviously," he finds himself muttering softly -and more than a little drily- as he thinks on the answer, a little surprised at himself uttering what is a single word but could very well be perceived as gall. "Not fear, or not fear of death at least," he begins, giving voice to his thoughts almost as soon as they come to him. "Death will find us all sooner or later," he goes on before looking at the hooded figure's shadow of a face and adding, "or almost all. Thus, although I am in no hurry to meet my end, I do not so much fear it. I do thoroughly dislike the pain that sometimes accompanies it though."
As he talks, he finds that his tone is conversational. He finds it intriguing; here he is sharing his room with... something he cannot define and he is having a chat with it.
"That expression? The thoughts right before he... I met my end? Anger and disappointment. Anger towards the knight, yes, but mostly towards myself, for being inadequate, for thinking my skill and power as greater than they truly prove to be, for not honing the former more and seeking more of the latter. And as for the disappointment, that is aimed at me alone, for not recognizing that not only the game but the playing field entire have changed, and that being good -simply good, I now seem to recognize as I think on that confrontation you showed me- at those things that I thought defined me is no longer enough."
He pauses as a thin mirthless smile appears on his lips and then continues, his tone still calm and conversational, matter-of-fact. "Oh, and that very last look on my face? I do believe that is actually a sort of relief that that farce of a fight was finally over, that that damned knight toying with me finally grew tired of it and decided to end it, sparing me of any further delusions."
"I must thank you for your compliments, sir. I am not worthy." the ifrit replies, after hearing Dessiter's speech. "I am familiar with the process involving lemures, yes: it takes hundred of years to form even the most basic devil, and the documented cases of lemures that inherited their mortal memories are few and far between. Considering the path I'm bound to follow, my soul would have ended there either way." the fire-haired woman comments.
I doubt that Damnation is the only clause, to be fair. Between not having to mention this to the cardinal and Tiadora, I'm assuming that this "association" we're about to serve under is much more fragmented than it seemed at a first glance: I'm guessing that his offer is aimed to have one more ally if (or when) conflict erupts...
"Yes, I am interested to hear more. You have my word that nothing will transpire to the Cardinal."
The figure shakes its head ”Relief? – I have no use for that. Anger and disappointment, yes, I can work with. Inadequacy, even. But let us be honest, you and I. The relief that you feel is born of pride: you may have died, but you owed nothing to anyone.”
The figure gives a soft sigh ”It won't do, my boy; it simply won't do. At some stage, you have to be not only honest enough to admit that you are lacking; you have to be angry or disappointed enough to want to do something about it. Let us discard this talk of 'relieved' and look at whether – in light of what you have seen – you are prepared to ask for help. That is all I seek from you: an admission that you are prepared to ask.”
There is another pause. ”I like you Erevan, truly, I do. Some of those who serve me are... difficult. Unlovable, frankly. But you have always struck me as reasonable. So come, let us reason together. I have power – of a sort – to offer. In exchange, I would look for – what, exactly?” He makes a pretence (and Erevan is sure that it is a pretence) at musing on the problem. ”I'm not looking for worship, in the sense that you probably imagine it. Just an acknowledgement that if I give you something, you owe me something in return. And if what I give you is power enough to save your life, you owe me proportionately. Does that sound reasonable to you?”
The voice is mild, dry; Erevan might almost be talking with himself.
Dessiter smiles at Etna ”Dear lady, let us leave judgements of worthiness to the One who is truly worthy to make that call; I assure you that I would not be discussing matters with you if I did not feel sure that He would back my confidence in you.”
He elegantly sits down in the chair Etna offers, and steeples his fingers, his tail swishing thoughtfully. ”First, let us discuss the specifics of what I am offering. All I can provide is the to ascend; you yourself will have to that opportunity. But I have every confidence in you, dear lady. You should be more than equal to the task. What will happen, should you accept the deal, is that I will share some of my blood with you; you will then be kin to me. It will, however, take time to work itself through your system. Again, let me be perfectly honest with you: should you die before the process is concluded, you will be no better off. For this reason, I only offer the deal to those – or rather, to that one thus far – whom I consider to be worthy of it.” He smiles, and inclines his head towards you. ”I must confess that I am not willing to shed my blood for just anyone! I am sure that you will understand that. But it is best for us all to be clear where you stand.”
He again nods his head, in a gesture of respect. ”Of course, dear lady, being as well versed as you are in the intricacies of Infernal law, you will be aware that this offer is contractual; that is, there must be a consideration from yourself of value, to render the contract operable. And I have good news on that score: there a service that you can perform for me.”
He pauses, and looks directly at Etna. ”Far to the West of here, on the uttermost shore of Talingarde, lies the Caer Bryr: a dark, tangled forest where few humans dare tread. It is home to all sorts of delights, that harm, and sting, and burn, and kill – a true paradise on earth, if you will. But.” He sighs deeply. ”There are those who seek to tame this place, to render it – safe.” He practically spits the word. ”In particular, there is a Celestial being, who offers mortals stories – and – and music;” OK, there was DEFINITE spitting there ”she distracts them from thoughts of worldly advancement and material prosperity, and all those things that Father provides; for purely intangible things like 'joy' and 'peace' and other... baubles.”
Dessiter sighs, heavily. ”Oh, we have tried to banish her from this plane; we have tried all sorts of magic. But somehow it fails. She claims to be tied to the forest through bonds of love,” his face twists into something between a scowl and a sneer ”but this is obviously just a cover for some sort of magic that is not readily accessible to us. No, it is clear that mortal means are required. Which brings us, dear lady, back to you. Would it not be elegant that the means of your ascension mortal status should be supplied by rendering to me one who clearly desires no than mortal status?”
He looks at you again, and draws out a quill pen from his briefcase. "In summary, this is my offer: I will share my blood with you and confer on you the opportunity to ascend to the status of a devil. I am prepared to carry this out right now. In return, you will provide your written assurance that you will deliver to me the lillend Calliaste Shanda. This will be accomplished by (i) capturing her alive (ii) securing her in manacles of cold iron (iii) placing her in a Magic Circle against Chaos. When all three conditions are met, I will know; and I shall come for her. When I am in receipt of her live and bound – and not before – I shall deem her to be delivered, and the terms of this contract met. Let us set a reasonable time-frame for this task, shall we? A year and a day is traditional. It is currently Starday, 25 Erastus; you would have a year and a day from now to complete the commission.”
He stands, and looks at you with a smile. ”Shall I draw up a contract to that effect?”
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Tkaara looks at the reflection expecting this to be some type of new test or trick by Tiadora, or perhaps a trick caused by whatever medicine was provided by the Cardinal's white haired menace. However, knowing that she must play on with the game, Tkaara decides to ask some questions, if hesitantly.
Who . . . who are you? She pauses for a moment before continuing. Or perhaps a better question would be, what is happening to me? I was in perfect health, I had a perfect life. Tkaara holds up her hand, which does in fact appear even more emaciated than before, as though there is nothing but skin, bones and sinew. I was in perfect health. Had good clients that paid me well. And now, now I am a wanted criminal. I have helped to slay every guard in Branderscar. I slept with a respected judge to make money to purchase more drugs. And, while something told me that it was all wrong, I somehow felt as though I was enjoying it the entire time.
Let's see...as I've said, I'm going straight to Hell if I want to fulfill my objectives: that is to say, I'm surely going to become a Lemure as soon as I leave this mortal coil and Pharasma passes her judgement. Not that it's going to stop me: mother has to be punished and this country has to be corrected. It's the right thing to do. Unfortunately, I know that in my current position I have practically no chances to do that...
"Yes, I would like if you could draw the contract."
If he did still live, he was likely not in much danger, if any. His soul had been legally pledged to Asmodeus, and while he had no illusions that he was important enough to warrant protection, he doubted the dark god would brook the insult of another fiend trying to take one of his tools, new and relatively untested as it may be. Whoever his host was, the creature no doubt knew this as well or better than he.
Unless this was Asmodeus... but no. Somehow he knew instinctively that the wrongness of this place, the uncontrolled chaos surging about him that he had to contain with the strength of his mind, was not befitting of what he knew of his new patron.
All this flitted through his mind in a blink of an eye. Finally, he spoke. "I care nothing for what might please or displease you. You have obviously brought me here for a reason. Out with it."
On returning to his room, Felrin studies the contract devil carefully, considering the question put before him. Hmm, there is much to be gained in building my own alliances. But by this creature’s own admission, he is but a lowly servant, when I have signed a contract with a cardinal of Asmodeus. I could agree to his terms and discard him when he is no longer useful, though, by informing Thorn of his treachery. But perhaps this is a test? If I agree, Dessiter could as easily inform on me, and Thorn would cast me out of my place as First!
Felrin’s look of thoughtful consideration smoothes away, as much as is possible amidst the distorting ridge of bone that has chosen to surface on his brow. In the contract, I swore that my First Loyalty was to Asmodeus, not to his lesser servants. My Second Loyalty is to Thorn, and I will honor that pledge. I will serve well, and be rewarded.
”If you would aid me,” he responds in a cold voice, though a bright, fervid light burns once again in his eyes, ”then do so by serving the cardinal at my side, not in the darkness. My greatest loyalty is to him you name Father – as should yours be. And second only to that, my loyalty is to Cardinal Thorn – as should yours be. I signed a contract in my own blood pledging to that, witnessed by yourself, and I will honor it.”
”I have no intention of serving from the sidelines, I have done so for far too long. As I say, if you would aid me, then step from the shadows and serve at my side. But if you wish me to keep word of this conversation from the Cardinal, then you should not have begun it.”
"As for what you are proposing, it does appear to me to be a contract of sorts," Erevan concludes, the expression and smile on his face certainly showing that he is at least intrigued, if not interested; it is a welcome change from the self-pity he was feeling. "Now with those I am familiar. And yours at least has the luxury of choice, or at the very least the illusion of one. After all, I could conceivably refuse, yes? And then see what the future may bring; perhaps the mere knowledge of what may come -provided I am left with it once you leave- will prove enough to ensure a different outcome." He pauses as if considering the possibility. "And perhaps not. And if I am to be more than a little honest, I am not sure I would like to find out given the result if I am wrong."
The slayer sighs then. "You seem reasonable as well and this... understanding you speak of, it does indeed tempt me. More than a little. If I am to stand as an equal among my... comrades, if not their better, and not fall beneath their very own blades and claws if seen as weak, I would need power. And what you ask in return is... well, fair enough for lack of a better word. Thus, I would be willing to accept. However, as you probably know, I have already signed a pact with the Lord of this place and through him the one that commands him as well, and although its Fourth Loyalty does expect one to gain power, it does forbid him to do so if it clashes with the first three Loyalties. I may not be a particularly pious man and I may have had little choice in the matter, but I am sure that is not a deal I can break that easily, not without forfeiting my life and more. What of that then?"
He narrows his golden eyes as he adds, his tone still casual, "And for that matter, how do I even know you are not here to test my adherence to that pact? I may be reasonable and I may have ambition and yes, I may even be prepared to ask in light of what has happened to me and what may still happen, but I am also cautious." He smiles again. "Another trait to your liking, I am sure, if you truly are as you say you are."
The hooded figure nods. ”I understand the contract you have signed. I am not here to test you on that. What can I tell you...?” Again, there is a pretence at thinking about it. ”Talingarde has suddenly attracted a lot of attention. For many centuries, it was an offshore island, poor – and cold. And now the Darians have taken power and built it up into a beacon of law and good; but beacons draw many things into their light, including those who would rather they didn't shine at all. As it happens, I know something of Asmodeus' schemes, but I'm curious to know more.” He holds up a hand. ”Not, I assure you, so that I can confront him and take over; that's really not my style.” He chuckles. ”It's just that you might say that knowing secrets is a part of my nature. It would please me greatly to have someone within your group who passed me information on what you were doing. I can arrange a way to communicate safely, if you agree to it. In exchange, I can increase your might, help you to draw on my power to be better at killing; which is, after all, what you do.”
He pauses, delicately, to let that offer sink in. ”Later on, in the event that my aid is enough for you to survive the confrontation you have seen, you will likely grow in power and influence. If so, I may want you to use some of that influence, in a small way. But let us not get ahead of ourselves! We can discuss that when the time comes. But let me assure you again that I have no intention of crossing the one you are contracted to serve.”
Dessiter smiles widely at Etna, and bows low. ”I shall be honoured to be kin to you, great lady! To save time, your humble servant has already drawn up a contract to that effect.” Opening his briefcase again, he draws from it a long (as in several yards long) scroll of parchment, marked in densely-written (but fully legible) Infernal. ”If you would be so good as to read this, dear lady, and then sign in your own blood where it is marked...” He hands you a small knife and a quill pen.
The greasy-voiced devil frowns slightly; straightening up, he looks directly at Felrin and his voice loses much of its greasiness. ”Hmm, it appears we have both miscalculated. I apologise for trying to flatter you; I should have known better. You are quite right, I am not your servant – nor am I particularly lowly. I could, in fact, kill you in a heartbeat; or summon something to do that for me. But that is not my aim. The reason I approached you directly is that I did not want to give the Cardinal reason to suspect you. I assure you that if he were to know of this meeting, he would worry that you or I were plotting against him. Which is quite untrue, of course: you are in no position to overthrow him, and I have no reason to do so. But that is what he would think. It would honestly be in your best interests not to mention this to him.”
Dessiter sighs, heavily. ”Such loyalty to your Cardinal! Such a shame that I was not aware of your presence within these isles until after you had come to the Cardinal's attention! What might have been...”
He shakes his head. ”Oh well. There is no point in dwelling on such matters. I feel sure that you will accomplish great things, even without my assistance at this time. However, I shall render you this one service: in future you may have cause to ask for my aid. At that time, I shall forget that we ever had this conversation. I strongly advise you to do the same.”
Bowing low, Dessiter collects his briefcase – and vanishes.
The entity sitting opposite Ottakar throws back his head and laughs; although somewhere in the distance, his followers hiss their displeasure. ”The direct approach! I like it. Yes. To business then.”
Somewhat ostentatiously, he clears his throat. ”I am the Demon Lord Haagenti, also known as (and I think you'll like this) The Whispers Within. I know what whispers within you, dear Doctor; and I would like to help. I know of alchemy, of transformation. I appreciate your work. Your Cardinal does not; oh, he knows that he has to say such things to get your favour - but really as long as it helps you to victory then that's all that he cares about. I, on the other hand, care about the process itself: I know about the joy of experimenting, of finding things out and using that knowledge to discover more. Your Cardinal will never understand that.”
”Here is what I propose: I will grant you some more knowledge of what lies within you; what you call the Beast. I will grant you a measure of power over it, which is what you're really looking for, isn't it?”
He pauses, to see that Ottakar is still paying attention. Assuming that he sees even the vaguest hint of interest, he will continue.
”In return, I want alchemy to be celebrated. I am always looking for more places in which my followers can practice: the Worldwound is really too random to permit controlled experimentation; and the so-called civilised world is growing more intolerant. Even in Lepistadt they now frown on the creation of uncontrolled flesh golems! I think Talingarde will do very well: it is isolated, and frankly no one on the mainland really cares about it. I don't want to rule it, you understand – you've sworn to take it over in the name of your new master and I could not care less. What I want is your assurance that when the new rule takes hold, you will ensure that the practice of alchemy in all its forms will still be permitted – protected even: with no punishment for those who might get a little... out of hand.”
Again he pauses. Assuming that he obtains again even a hint of assent, he will continue further. ”In addition, there is one minor matter. In the North of Talingarde, near the Watch Wall, there is an alchemist of some ability. Should you find yourself there, I will send word to you of his whereabouts and identity. I would like the records of his work, and for him to be punished – he wishes to use his powers for good, the fool! Obtain his manuscripts and burn his still-beating heart in a crucible: I will then have the papers collected from you.”
He smiles, and spreads his arms. ”Do we have a deal?”
The mirror-woman smiles as Tkaara speaks about the perfect life she once had. ”Yes, sweetie, you did – and wasn't it Haven't you had more excitement, felt more truly , in the last few days?”
She pauses, and her skeletal hands give mirror-Tkaara a friendly caress. ”I mean, let's face it, darling: law wasn't really for you. What you did was even better: flashing a bit of leg here at a juror, smiling at another there, seducing judges – admit it, that was what you enjoyed, not the dry poring over law books. All I did was give you the push to see it.”
She sighs and rolls her eyes exaggeratedly. ”If you really want to know, I saved you from a life of extreme dullness and piety. Interesting times are finally coming to this dull little backwater island! Honestly, for hundreds of years no one has bothered to pay attention to Talingarde; but now it's like this perfect ripe peach that everyone's just suddenly noticed, just waiting to be plucked and devoured – along with the rest of the orchard; I can never have just the one peach.” She smacks her lips, appreciatively. ”And you're going to have the opportunity to get a taste of it! Really, you should be thanking me.”
Looking out of the mirror, she faces Tkaara directly. ”I can help you, sweetie: I know what cravings you've been having; I know what they mean. I know what you're becoming and I can help you to understand it. All I'm asking in return is that you have a friendly chat with me from time to time, and run the occasional errand. Is that really too much to ask?”
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Tkaara raises her eyebrows in confusion.
I actually enjoyed practicing the law, every day was a new puzzle, a new problem.
She pauses as the last statement hits her.
What do you mean push? What changes? You mean this crazy Cardinal who somehow managed to enable us to escape from Branderscar?
And conversations? But, who are you? Tkaara's mind runs through the hundreds, no thousands of witnesses, clients, jurors and others she has met over her time. And, what type of errands? Tkaara pulls back the sleeve on her gown. It is not exactly going to be easy to move about this island with this mark. And, from the sounds of things, you do not expect me to leave this place.
The mirror-woman smiles enigmatically. "And is not every day now a new puzzle and a new problem, sweetie? As for who I am... they call me the Pallid Princess. Well, I have other names, and other titles, but I rather like that one, don't you?"
She pauses, to let that sink in. "And no, I'm nothing to do with your Cardinal; I had you first, and now he's stealing you from me!" She pouts. "I don't think that's very nice, really. Stealing is wrong."
The mirror-woman sulks for a bit, in silence. Then: "Alright. I suppose it's not your fault you had to go and sign that contract. I didn't really want your soul anyway. He can have it. I just want you to like me. I don't see anything in the contract against that!"
She pauses again, drumming her skeletal fingertips thoughtfully against her lips. "So... what can I do to make you like me? Would you like me to give you some power? I can, you know. I have lots of power. You can have some, really. All I want is to have some friends who can do things for me in return, although I'm not sure what I want right now. That's not too much to ask, is it?" She looks out of the mirror again directly at Tkaara, her expression anxious.
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Knowledge(religion):
--> Apparently Tkaara did not consider undead deities as being worth reading about
The Pallid Princess? Tkaara's mind races back through all the lords and ladies of Talingarde she has previously met. Although this woman in the mirror refers to herself as a princess, she does not appear like any princess, or other noble, that Tkaara has met before. If you are a Princess, it is not from this land as I have met most of the nobles of this nation at one time or another, other than those of the highest house, and do not recall you, with legs, as being one I have heard of.
She pauses, again contemplating what was said:
Stole from you? Do you own me? That seems a little presumptuous don't you think?
And, as far as giving my soul to the Dark Lord, I do not believe that ever occurred. I agreed to serve and obey his High Priest here in Talingarde. I agreed to bring the Prince of Contracts honor and glory. But, I do not see where I in fact gave him my soul. Am I bound by a perpetual contract, unfortunately yes. But, the restrictions placed on me by that contract are in fact rather ambiguous and of a limited nature. If I chose to serve another in any manner, I do not believe that would be a violation of the contract, rather I would simply need to assure that any actions I took did not in some manner harm the First of Hell.
Once more she pauses, and proceeds to cough several times, apparently her perpetual cold is returning, with a vengeance this time from the sounds of the cough.
Why would I wish to be your friend? What can you do for me other than appearing in my mirror while I am using my medicine? You claim to be able to grant power. What power would you give me? What would you have that I might find of use?
The mirror-woman rolls her eyes in exaggerated fashion at Tkaara's misunderstanding. "OK, sweetie, let's do this one more time in simple talk, shall we? I'm a Goddess. My name is Urgathoa, if that means anything to you. I have a number of interests, one of which is abolishing the cults of goody-two-shoes like Mitra, with their love of sunlight and their sacred cycle of life anti-undead nonsense." She practically hisses the words.
And, as far as giving my soul to the Dark Lord, I do not believe that ever occurred. I agreed to serve and obey his High Priest here in Talingarde. I agreed to bring the Prince of Contracts honor and glory. But, I do not see where I in fact gave him my soul. Am I bound by a perpetual contract, unfortunately yes. But, the restrictions placed on me by that contract are in fact rather ambiguous and of a limited nature. If I chose to serve another in any manner, I do not believe that would be a violation of the contract, rather I would simply need to assure that any actions I took did not in some manner harm the First of Hell.
The mirror-woman presses a skeletal hand to her face and yawns, impossibly widely. Tell you what, sweetie, why don't you take it up with him when you get the chance?" Being sneered at by a Goddess is probably not on Tkaara's list of 100 things to do before she dies; if by some chance it was, she can now cross it off.
"So. Where were we? Oh yes. I need agents in your world in order to act. I chose you as one of them. I had one of my existing agents - your 'Dark Client' - ummm, let's say he made contact with you. He was supposed to stay in contact with you, but unfortunately some bloody paladin put paid to that - he's nothing but a pile of ashes. I tell you, furious doesn't begin to cover it. Oh well. Best laid plans of Gods and men and all that."
She pauses to let this sink in. "Anyway, before I could get anyone else to you - we have to move carefully in this land - you were caught not just by Mitrans but Asmodeans. I can tell you, I was not happy and I spread it around! But then, what was I supposed to do? I mean really, if the Universe isn't going to give me what I want, what does it expect in return?" She gives a wide-eyed look of mock innocence. "Like I said, I really don't care where your soul is going - you can have that out with him, the big smelly red lump!"
Yes, she is talking about Asmodeus here. Goddess' prerogative.
"The important thing - and I can see I probably should have started with this - is that I got to you first and so you're not going to die. Well, someone could still kill you, I guess. Try not to let that happen, OK? I'd be really cross about that. But assuming no one kills you, you can live forever. That's what I plan to do for you. Wouldn't you say that's worth a little something in return, hmmm?"
The mirror-woman runs her bony, skeletal fingers playfully through mirror-Tkaara's hair. "You see? I like you. I wouldn't do that - the live forever thing, I mean, not the hair thing - for just anyone. And there's more that I can do for you, if you like. If you decide to like me, I mean."
She takes a deep breath. "So, are we a bit clearer on where we stand and what's happening to us, sweetie?"
A smile crosses Etna's face as she sees the contract.
And I thought that the 'infernal contract written on a single sheet several yards long' was only a poetic license, or a figurative way of speaking...
"Yes, I will examine it immediately." Etna nods, starting to mentally cross off any way she can think of to go around the clauses of the contract.
While this doesn't bode well for me, I'm in awe: this is a far shot from the two lines of the Cardinal's one! This Dessiter was probably doing his best not to laugh when Thorn handled him his contract.
Time passes as the ifrit silently goes trough the document: when, more than an hour later, she reaches the end, the fire-haired woman nods and asks. "There is only one thing I'd like to ask, even if I'm quite sure of the answer: in case I ask anyone for help, and that person refers it to the Cardinal, it would be as if I had said that to lord Thorn, yes?".
After Dessiter clears her last doubt, Etna picks up the dagger: pressing it softly on her own skin, the ifrit then signs the contract with her blood.
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Tkaara simply stands there for a moment with her mouth agape.
Urgathoa? The Pallid Princess? But how? Why?
She may not have paid much attention to the undead section of the textbook, but she certainly recalls that name and title now that the two are connected. Tkaara still does not understand exactly why she was chosen, or who the Dark Client may have been, but it is clear now that since the Dark Client was hunted down and turned into a pile of ashes, there are only a few options, and only one makes sense to the former barrister.
Knowledge(religion): <-- I assume she knows the basics about vampires and them turning into ashes.
My former client, the dark one who I can remember little about. You are telling me that he was destroyed by a paladin, and turned into a pile of ashes? And, you said destroyed, not killed. Does this . . . does this mean he was a vampire? And then . . . A look of horror suddenly overtakes Tkaara. He fed on me? The reason I have been so ill? This is because of him? Did he suck my blood? Is this why I can heal people? She pauses. Wait. Why would a vampire curse make me able to heal people? That makes no sense at all.
Suddenly another of the multitude of more than minor statements made by the undead goddess strikes Tkaara: I'm not going to die? Then? Then am I a vampire? But, I can stay in the sun. And, I don't drink blood, although I have preferred rare meat recently.
Tkaara looks back up at the reflection of the Pallid Princess:
You don't care about my soul because you intend for me to be a soulless servant, is that it? You want me to become a vampire just like my former client?
Tkaara suddenly begins to laugh as though someone just cracked a bad joke:
I think I should be horrified because vampires are hunted by all that is good. Of course, in this land so are escaped Forsaken, so, I suppose being hunted by the same paladins for two reasons really does not change much, does it.
Taking a few moments to think on it, he finally rises from the bed he has been sitting on during the conversation and clasps his hands behind his back. "Your terms appear to be... fair." The last word brings another crooked little smile to his lips, one of mild amusement at the thought of fairness, especially in relation to his circumstances these last few days, if not weeks for that matter.
"Very well then," he concludes with a little bow of his head, although his eyes stay on the man and where his face should be. He has his suspicions about who and what it is he has been speaking to, suspicions that border on certainty, and he knows that perhaps it would be wise to ask more. But the patience of even beings such as his visitor can reach its end and offers and opportunities presented can just as easily be withdrawn. Even so, Erevan from a few days ago would have pressed the issue a little more, he would have asked more questions, he would have been even more cautious. But Erevan now? The possibility of squandering this chance at greater power does not appeal to him, especially given the possibility of his demise in the near future.
"We have an accord."
"I begin to feel like a character in a child's tale, drawing the attention of gods and demons. It would seem, however, that our interests align. I therefore accept your proposal, with one caveat: I have no desire to suffer the consequences of breaking my contract with the Cardinal and his god. Therefore, should the terms of said contract ever come directly into opposition with our less formal agreement, that document will take precedence. As long as there is no direct conflict, however, I see no reason I cannot render service to you both. Eventually we will have to have a conversation about how to apply alchemy to the process of resurrection..."
The hooded figure nods. “I'm pleased to hear it. This is how it will work: my agent will identify himself to you by offering his 'fraternal greetings' – he will be the only person who uses that phrase. Speak with him privately, and he will tell you how to communicate what you are up to. Now, let us conclude our bargain-”
-He stands up swiftly, faster than Erevan can follow. There is a dull flash, as of a hidden knife, and a sudden, searing cut opens all the way along Erevan's forehead. The blood flows copiously into his eyes, stinging, blinding...
The tower is shattered; not in ruins, but it barely holds together. At the top, it has cracked open, the light of day competing with the flickering green flames that illuminate the interior. At the dais, before the altar, two figures are locked in combat. One of them is Erevan: he can recognise himself, barely looking even a day older than he does now. In fact, this Erevan makes his current self look weary and fallen by comparison. The shadowy darkness that flickers from him is concealing, confounding; the air of violence that emanates from him is an unholy force all by itself. The other is a knight of the Alerion, in the same sort of armour as that worn by Sir Balin.
Actually, to call it a combat would be misleading: that suggests two opponents of roughly equal ability. The knight is desperately focussed on survival; Erevan's purpose is simply to prevent the knight from reaching the altar. It's all rather too easy, really. The knight slashes frantically with his blade, to no avail: wherever it flows, Erevan's spear is there, blocking, parrying – tripping. In his clumsy, heavy armour, the knight falls heavily. He blinks once in disbelief before Erevan's spear runs him through; shuddering violently, he dies, knowing that he has failed his God. Erevan's laugh is powerful, mighty – and triumphant.
Dashing the blood out of his eyes, Erevan can see that he is now alone in the room. He somehow feels – different. It's not clear how, but perhaps there is a new clarity of purpose. He has been a killer, but now he is – what? He feels strange, as though a power resides within him that is not quite his, but is his to use; biding its time, waiting to be unleashed...
This Dessiter was probably doing his best not to laugh when Thorn handed him his contract.
“...it would be as if I had said that to Lord Thorn, yes?”
Dessiter simply nods at Etna's question, but his look is pleased; as when a good student has come to the right answer all by herself.
Once the ifrit has signed the contract, he takes her arm, holding it, examining the cut she has made. “Not quite enough, I'm afraid.” Sighing deeply, he takes the silver knife back and gouges Etna's arm almost to the bone, before doing the same to his own arm. Taking his other hand, he presses the two cuts together, so that the blood surging from her is replaced by the black ichor leaking from him. The pain of the cut is indescribable, but it is nothing by comparison with the way his blood burns – like fire, like acid, like frostbite. Her internal organs are not so much dying as dissolving, her lungs don't work any more; she opens her mouth to draw breath and-
“-No, no, dear lady. We cannot have screaming. You must be silent. It will be over soon.” Dessiter's voice is hissing, without a note of comfort; is there even a hint of enjoyment? No, surely not; it is merely the fact that this is painful for him too. Surely. Etna cannot even pass out; Dessiter shakes her every time she slumps. “No, sister-to-be, you must endure. Sleep, here, means death. Stay awake...”
Finally, at long last, it is over. The devil releases her, and Etna slumps to the floor. He draws from his briefcase a vial of potion, and pours it over her cut; with a hissing sound, the wound closes. Doing up his shirt sleeve, Dessiter bows once more ”Dear Sister” – and vanishes without a further word.
”I begin to feel like a character in a child's tale, drawing the attention of gods and demons”
The figure opposite the doctor offers a shrug. “What can I say? You are in Talingarde at an interesting time...” He offers no further comment than that.
When the doctor assents, he nods. “An intelligent choice. Whether it is entirely wise, we shall leave to history to judge. Now, this will sting, a little – and hurt, a great deal.”
His finger extends, and extends, and extends, towards Ottakar; who can do nothing, held in place by some force. The finger pierces his forehead, entering his brain, probing around; it is like the worst combination of root canal and open heart surgery, without anaesthetic. It goes on for entirely too long, but with the pain comes something else, something the doctor has long coveted: knowledge. And knowledge, after all, is power. Of a sort...
Finally, it ends as Ottakar mercifully passes out. He awakes, covered in a sheen of panicked sweat, in his own bed. The pain is splitting; but the knowledge, ah, that brings comfort.
Felrin considers Dessiter’s reply, realizing he may have pushed back a bit too far. Caution has carried you this far, fool, there’s no cause to abandon it entirely!
As the contract devil collects his case, Felrin says, ”I hope we can aid each other in the future, as you say. I will keep this discussion between the two of us, for both of our protection, and would ask that you bear in mind I have done so. I have no wish to make an enemy of you, I merely wish to respect the loyalties I have sworn to. Perhaps we can still realize what might have been.”
He bows in return, then sets to thinking about what has happened, and enjoying the rest he has earned.
The mirror-woman rolls her eyes. “See, this is why I have agents for this sort of thing, to break the news in stages. I hate, I hate, paladins!”
Realising that this is not in any event (for the time being) something she can reasonably blame Tkaara for, the mirror-woman drapes a comforting (if partially skeletal) arm around mirror-Tkaara. “OK, sweetie, let's take your issues one at a time, shall we? Firstly, 'soulless' doesn't mean 'mindless' – which is what I think you're really worried about... Trust me, I have enough of those: you tell them to dig a ditch, forget about them for the merest few decades and suddenly they've reached the sea and your palace is flooded with salt water. No. All my agents can think for themselves – although that last one clearly should have had extra thinking on basic paladin avoidance!” She purses her lips in annoyance, still wondering if there's some way she can blame Tkaara for this, before deciding not. This does not make her any less annoyed.
“Secondly – and trust me on this one – as long as you're not dead, your soul and where it goes is just not an issue. If you die, then sure, I guess that big red lump gets some sort of claim on it; that's really between you and him and I'm just not interested.”
The mirror-woman laughs a little, but not unkindly, as Tkaara recites the basic truths about vampires and notes that she isn't afraid of sunlight. “Well of course, sweetie, I wasn't going to drop it on you all at once, was I? I'm a Goddess, not a monster! And anyway, that whole sun thing's not an issue. Much. But honestly, sweetie, aren't you focusing just a little teensy bit much on the negatives here? If you want, you never have to age, you never have to worry about wrinkles, you never have to worry about disease, you can stay young and beautiful and free-willed for ever! I mean, sweetie, what's not to like here?”
As Tkaara mentions being hunted by all that is good, the mirror-woman frowns slightly. “Well, yes, that is a drawback, but if you're successful then Talingarde will be under new management. Assuming you're a part of that, and really, sweetie, you should be, then there won't be a place for paladins any more. They can be the ones being hunted. See how they like it, for a change!”
She pauses and looks at Tkaara. “Sweetie, I know this hasn't been the ideal initiation and there's a lot to take on; but really, I'm on your side here. But the ship is sailing – do you want to get on board or not?”
She rolls her eyes again. “Well OF COURSE you have a choice – didn't I just mention the 'free-willed' bit? Pay attention, sweetie. You can opt to stay as you are, coughing, ill, addicted to I-don't-know-what sort of drugs; or you can stay the course and become something truly beautiful. Entirely up to you. But I really don't have all night, you know? Things to see, people to do; you know how it is...”
Something is different about him, he can tell that much. He sits and tries to center himself. He can feel the power, that much is true, but he can feel something else as well. There are things and skills he knows he must have had, he should have had considering his life so far, such as knowing how to pick a lock or track a target, and he knows that he had them. Yet now they prove elusive, hazy, out of reach as he tries to bring them to mind. He smiles then, but not with bitterness. After all, a mortal man has only so much room for power and knowledge before becoming overwhelmed. It was to be expected that power given so suddenly would take the place of other experiences and abilities.
'No matter,' he thinks to himself. 'This price too seems agreeable.'
As he lies back down on the bed, he feels once again in control. And he also feels that power now residing within him, his own and not his own. And even though he has yet to use it, he knows with certainty that as it grows, so too will his ambition and his desire to gain more. 'Power and influence.' He brings to mind the hooded man's words.
He shrugs then. And goes to sleep. It is a good sleep.
Etna is barely able to gasp when her arm is already pressed against Dessiter's. Biting her lip, the ifrit does her best not to scream: when she feels all of the air being pulled out of her lungs (or they just weren't there anymore?), she can do nothing but nods weakly and do her best not to faint.
After the painful process is over, Etna stays immobile on the floor for a moment that feels as long as an hour: weakly, painfully, she crawls on her bed, where she falls on still dressed, holding the hand of the once-injured arm on her forehead.
"Winston..." is the only thing she manages to say, before drifting to sleep...
Hearing her mistress finally call him, the Basset Hound crawls out of his hideout: with a whimper, he climbs on the bed, only to find Etna already sleeping. Looking around the room one last time, Winston sits next to the sleeping ifrit, staying awake to guard her from any further dangers until sleep takes him, too.
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Tkaara continues to stare into the mirror and licks her lips, the tension almost palpable and her mouth so dry that the tongue does almost nothing to help.
She then looks up questioningly at the goddess:
No more medicine? No more ill health? Young and beautiful forever? This last question asked with a glimmer of hope. But, what do I need to do for you? I have seen powerful people. Despite worshipping the sun god, there is not a noble in this land that would not use a person and throw the person out when finished. What types of tasks would you ask of me? Other than a pretty smile and my legal skills, I have little training. Sure, I have learned to fight with the most basic of weapons, and I now apparently have the ability to heal my companions.
Speaking of which, what is that? When I heal people, I have no memory of having done it, yet my fellow Forsaken tell me it happened, and the resulting closure of wounds is readily apparent. Is this a blessing from you? And, why can I not remember what is happening when the others able to use magic, Felrin, the Doctor and Etna, seem to be able to use their powers when they want with full control of their faculties when they do? She pauses to consider for a moment the beast that the Doctor turned into. Ok, perhaps the Doctor is not entirely in control, but that is clearly a different loss of control.
If anything, Tkaara now appears more confused than before, although she has clearly begun to accept her fate.
No more medicine? No more ill health? Young and beautiful forever?
The mirror-woman smiles approvingly "Now you're getting it, sweetie! That's exactly what's on offer here."
I have seen powerful people. Despite worshipping the sun god, there is not a noble in this land that would not use a person and throw the person out when finished.
The Goddess furrows her brow. "Hey, now. I haven't gone to all this trouble - and believe me, sweetie, I've gone to a lot of trouble - just to discard you! What do you think everlasting life means here, anyway?"
"What types of tasks would you ask of me? Other than a pretty smile and my legal skills, I have little training."
A quick sigh is the response, and a shake of the head. "Sweetie, look what you've accomplished with your supposedly limited skills! That's what I like about you: you make the most of what you can do with what you have. Whatever I ask of you, you'll manage. And I told you, I haven't decided yet. You know those little stores of supplies that explorers hide in the desert? You know, in case they need them one day? That's what you are - in a good way, sweetie!"
When I heal people, I have no memory of having done it, yet my fellow Forsaken tell me it happened, and the resulting closure of wounds is readily apparent. Is this a blessing from you?
The Goddess makes a wry face. "Not exactly, sweetie; that's a gift from Mitra. I think he had plans for you, but I've poached you. I mean, honestly darling - and I'm being honest here - a life of piety, sobriety and chastity is SO not you, you know? That's what I rescued you from. You'll have far more fun with me than you'd have had with him, and I can show you such interesting things to do with your powers!"
It's clear that the mirror-woman is now getting impatient to be going; any more questions had better be good, and brief.
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Tkaara nods in understanding.
So, what do I do now? What you are offering seems to be much more beneficial that that which the red lump offered. Admittedly, he got me out of jail, but, other than that, has not done much except toss me and the other Forsaken into a dungeon filled with mithral cobras, strange blood sucking mist and paladins. . . . She pauses for a moment grinning. Bet you liked the blood sucking mist.
Although I do not know all the obligations and benefits of the agreement we are entering into, I believe I can do this freely, unlike the last contract I signed which was pretty much "Sign this or die".
You are offering me . . . unlife. In return, I shall serve you to the best of my abilities. Just understand, I have a written contract with the devil, so we will need to be careful to assure that whatever you ask of me does not come into conflict with my other . . . obligations.
Therefore, I freely agree to aid you when called upon, and in return you shall provide me with boons to aid me in my endeavors for the red lump. Since my powers given by the sun god. She pauses and chuckles. Seems a lot of deities seem to have taken an interest in me, I hope that I can live up to whatever expectations they may have.
She continues: Since my powers given by the sun god seem important, if the shining lord of this island nation should decide to rescind my powers, would you be able to provide me with something similar? Or are they powers that cannot be taken away?
Seems a lot of deities seem to have taken an interest in me, I hope that I can live up to whatever expectations they may have.
The half-naked Goddess shrugs elaborately, provocatively. "What can I say, sweetie? You're in Talingarde at an interesting time... for all of us. Good people are hard to find, you know?"
Since my powers given by the sun god seem important, if the shining lord of this island nation should decide to rescind my powers, would you be able to provide me with something similar? Or are they powers that cannot be taken away?
A derisive chuckle greets the question. "Oh, sweetie, you don't know much about the powers of good, do you? No, he won't take them away - he trusted you with them; you're not a priest! No, he'll just look on with more and more disappointment, hoping you'll see the error of your ways. Sort of like this..." She demonstrates a 'disappointed deity of Good' look; it's pretty accurate. She even wobbles her lower lip and everything.
Therefore, I freely agree to aid you when called upon, and in return you shall provide me with boons to aid me in my endeavours for the red lump.
She claps her hands to get her and jumps in delight "Wonderful! I think we're going to be such good friends... So. Boons. Yes - here!"
The mirror-woman gestures and a sticky, cake-like confection appears in Tkaara's outstretched hand. In the black and white of her darkvision, she can see that it oozes a darkish liquid, like treacle. But the smell is not treacle. It's something else. She's smelled it before, but it's elusive. Mouthwatering, though...
"Well, go on!"
It tastes . Sticky, chewy, rich; it tastes like... blood. Human blood (she has no idea how she knows that, but she does). When did human blood become so delicious? And the high... the rush of ecstacy is - indescribable, better than anything - anything - she has ever experienced. And people are just wandering around with this stuff in them! Like they have some right to it! What's that about?
The world spins around her and Tkaara hastily sits down on the floor (she missed the chair, but it doesn't matter. NOTHING matters right now). Interestingly, her reflection is still standing. Huh. Weird. The mirror-woman smiles, approaches mirror-Tkaara - and clamps their mouths together, pinching mirror-Tkaara's nose shut with her skeletal fingers. She breathes in heavily, drawing the air - the life - the vitality - out of mirror-Tkaara.
Tkaara experiences this mostly as pain. No; make that Her lungs are collapsing, and the desperate effort to breathe in - come on, just one breath, please! - causes her to tear her own diaphragm. Her ribs are cracking, and her heart is about to burst. Mirror-Tkaara fares even worse: her flesh is evaporating, the skin pulling tight over her bones as her life itself is extracted.
The last thing she hears, as her drug-addled, pain-crazed mind finally gives up on consciousness, is her new friend murmuring "Don't you look beautiful..."
...
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..
...
Tkaara wakes with a start. She is in her bed. Stumbling over to the mirror (which takes far more effort than it should; her lungs are hurting and her pulse is ... practically non-existent, actually), she sees that she looks much the same as she did previously; perhaps a little thinner? Not skeletal, certainly. Indeed, the room itself is unchanged, with one exception: there is a small package on the table, with a note. The note is unsigned and simply reads "Friends. Forever." The package contains ten carefully wrapped cakes. It's not treacle. Treacle isn't that bright shade of red.
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Tkaara looks at the carefully wrapped packages longingly. However, if they are a gift from a deity, then there is no doubt that they will be valuable, and potentially powerful. Tkaara thinks back to the dream. Was it a dream? Recalling how the treacle made her feel. The power. The clarity. Tkaara reaches out for one, and then stops.
There are ten. Everyone knows that the First, or the red lump as the Pallid Princess referred to him, does everything in nines. Perhaps these truly are of divine origin.
Contemplating divine interference, she suddenly recalls her own powers. A gift from Mitra? Why would she have been chosen by Mitra? None of this made any sense to her clearly non-drug addled mind. She had been a chosen of Mitra. She had been chosen by the Pallid Princess. And, she had now been chosen by the First. But, who must she serve? Clearly her present path had taken her away from Mitra and while the deity may grant a pardon, there was no doubt that those of Talingarde who blindly followed the Sun God's faith would not hesitate to take her life in an instant. This left two. The Prince of Hell, who had followers such as Tiadora who seemed more interested in causing pain to others than to any true goal. And Urgathoa, who seemed to care and actually had a plan.
Could the undead deity truly care about one such as Tkaara? Well, she doubted that. But, she was trained as an attorney to doubt most everything. Nonetheless, she had agreed to aid the Pallid Princess in her endeavors on this island, and in return Tkaara would received boons such as eternal life, eternal beauty. Not a bad deal since she was condemned to death already.
With that, Tkaara took the packages and carefully placed them in the bottom of her backpack, making sure that they were not crushed or harmed. When the time came to eat them, she would know it. Until then, she had her Honeydust and other medicine which would suffice.
After looking in the mirror some more, Tkaara looked at the table next to the mirror and was pleased to see that it was fully stocked with makeup and other beauty enhancing paraphernalia. Taking some cover up and rouge, she began to work on her face. When she next saw the Cardinal and the rest of her companions, they would know how she had risen in the ranks of the judiciary of Gastenhall, and hopefully not notice how sunken and thin her face had become.
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Sunday 27 Erastus dawns sullenly, broodingly even: the clouds hang low, red in the early sun. Casting aside thoughts of 'red sky in the morning' and what it might portend, you gather as instructed outside the Cardinal's study. The door opens at the appointed time, and the Cardinal steps out. He has dispensed with the crimson and gold robes in which he first met you and is now clad in rich robes of deeply dyed black. He nods at you, but does not speak; taking your cue from him, you follow noiselessly as he steps outside the manor into the garden.
The grounds of the manor house are extensive, and well-kept. At the far end, a small pier and a set of wooden docks are visible, merging with the river that flows down towards the Eastern sea. Closer by, there is an ornamented, if slightly run-down, gazebo; it is to this that your procession is headed. A hidden door leads downward, into a cellar. This is separate from the maze you were put through yesterday; this is a single large chamber, lit by flickering candles burning feebly in nooks on the wall. Tiadora is there already, and has evidently been there for some time: she is pacing around a large circle of powdered silver that has pride of place in the centre of the room. In one corner lies a terrified slave; too afraid even to make a sound, he is weeping silently, curled up on the floor.
As you descend, Tiadora places you - none too gently - at intervals around the circle, motioning furiously for you to keep silence. You stand. You wait. The candles burn down some more. The Cardinal stares, fixedly, into the circle, saying nothing. The air within the circle shimmers before erupting in flames of crimson and scarlet -
- and through the fire steps something huge, something scaled and spiked and winged, crowned with horns of metal and chitin, of barbs, spikes and thorns. It looks very, very angry.
Swiftly, Tiadora seizes the slave and literally hurls him at the summoned creature. With an appreciative howl, the monster holds the slave by his ankles and slowly tears him in two. Blood - and worse - spatters everywhere. The luckless slave screams, shockingly loudly, for longer than you would have thought possible. Tiadora smiles in delight. Conjuring a bowl from his robes, the Cardinal collects some of the gore, before cutting the monster with his silver athame, filling the bowl to overflowing with the mixed blood.
Bidding you all kneel, Cardinal Thorn carries the bowl to you in his gloved hands, tracing the symbol of Asmodeus on each of your foreheads in the mixed blood of human and devil. As he does so, he whispers "Asmodeus is with you", before ceremonially handing each of you a pendant: a 5-pointed star inside a circle. On one side of the circle is inscribed your name; on the other is a message in the Infernal tongue.
Thorn carefully, reverently, loops the pendant around your neck. Even Tiadora watches, her expression neutral if not respectful.
Finally, Thorn speaks. "I hereby forge the Ninth Knot, the Nessian. You will serve me well, I have no doubt. Bring glory to Asmodeus and be rewarded!" Dismissing the devil with a wave of his hand, he bids you all stand. He smiles, triumphantly. "And now, let us return upstairs. Breakfast is waiting."
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Sunday 27 Erastus
With the sacrifice over, the rest of the day passes in revelry; food, celebration, good drink. Cardinal Thorn even smiles once or twice; and Tiadora is almost approachable.
Week beginning Moonday 28 Erastus
Your training re-starts, following the holiday yesterday. The Cardinal clears space in his study, setting the chairs around the wall and creating in effect an auditorium. Day after day is spent with him saying almost nothing, simply listening. He commands you to recount your experiences of the cellar, going through each of the rooms.
Using the knowledge of what you remember both individually and collectively, the Cardinal is able to recreate a surprisingly accurate picture. Literally, a picture: with almost casual disregard, he uses wand after wand to create a series of images. "So you were there, Tkaara - and where were you at this point, Erevan? Does this accurately reflect the order of what happened?" Finally, he is able to depict with more or less complete accuracy, what actually happened at each stage. The process is long, and arduous, and takes pretty much the entire week.
Week beginning Moonday 4 Arodus
The first thing that becomes apparent from your recounting of your experiences is that not all of you understand Infernal. Cardinal Thorn clicks his tongue disapprovingly when he discovers this. He sets you all to work this week in pairs and in smaller groups, learning the nuances of the language of Hell.
Whatever else he may be, the Cardinal is an excellent teacher. Even those of you who speak Infernal fluently gain a better understanding of some of its nuances.
By the end of the week, each of you can converse entirely in Infernal on pretty much any subject you care to name. This pleases the Cardinal greatly.
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Week beginning Moonday 11 Arodus
The First Lesson is exhaustively re-created. Your failure to spot the pit trap or to discover the secret doors is noted with disapproval. The Cardinal sets you to work learning more about how to spot such things and gives you homework on reading from tomes of engineering, journals of past adventurers, and other such documents. There are practical lessons on spotting hidden locking/unlocking mechanisms.
At the end of the week, the Cardinal is satisfied that at least some of you would be able to pass the First Lesson if it were presented to you afresh. As a final test, he sets you the task of finding something he has hidden within the study. After some time searching, Tkaara triumphantly holds aloft the prize: a magical ring. Pleased with your progress, the Cardinal awards it to the group.
Ottakar has the most trouble with this test; convinced he is simply being difficult, Tiadora takes it upon herself to punish him.
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Week beginning Moonday 18 Arodus
The Second Lesson is reviewed in detail. Your failure to have prepared by purchasing alchemical reagents is severely reprimanded, but no punishment is issued. Instead, the Cardinal makes you spend the entire week reading and researching, learning the experiences of others to understand what you might face in future. You learn of molds and spores that are immune to some attacks but vulnerable to others; you learn of swarms that cannot be damaged by weapons; you learn of monsters that can devour the very metal with which you attack them.
At the end of the week, you are able to prepare a suitable list of potential hazards that require non-conventional measures, and possible measures you might be able to use against them. The Cardinal is satisfied with your progress.
Week beginning Moonday 25 Arodus
Training is interrupted this week; the Cardinal does not tell you why. He barricades himself in his study and Marcella is summoned from wherever it is she normally dwells, to guard the door. Tiadora is nowhere to be seen.
Sir Lester is happy to impart the news "Fourth Knot - the Phlegethian: disappeared, they have! Not a word, not a trace. Not even magic can find them. Lord's in a right state. No one just leaves his service. Bad business." He chuckles; after all, it doesn't affect him. "Still, never had time for them myself. Led by a ****ing snooty elf from the Mainland, smelt of mud and bear s$$! most of the time... And his pet wolf smelt even worse. First time they arrived here, I did the usual honours, prepared the beds for them, fine linen, silk sheets, same as you have - you'd have thought I'd told him to **** his mother, the look he gave me!" He takes another appreciative mouthful of brandy. "No, if someone's taken him, they've got my gratitude." He raises his crystal tumbler. "May all our enemies disappear likewise!"
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Week beginning Moonday 1 Rova
Tiadora reappears, to no one's particular delight. With the Cardinal still distracted, she takes over your training. It quickly becomes obvious that book-learning is no longer a feature: with the help of some slaves, and her own prodigious strength, a series of wooden frames are set up in the grounds of the manor and an obstacle course is put together.
Day, after day, after day you are woken at random times in the night/early morning and hustled down to the garden. Tiadora makes you do circuits of the course, timing you and berating you the whole while. It quickly becomes apparent that Tkaara is the weakest among you in terms of stamina, and Tiadora delights in this revelation; often making the barrister do additional circuits until she throws up, or handicapping her with extra weights in her backpack - and then punishing her for being too slow.
The end of the week cannot come soon enough.
Week beginning Moonday 8 Rova
Unfortunately, this week resembles the previous week in almost every conceivable respect; except that Tiadora has had the time to 'improve' the course to her liking. It now features barbed wire, shards of glass, hidden spikes underfoot, and buckets of scalding water.
Eventually, the Cardinal concludes his own affairs and, with the distractions out of the way, realises what is going on. He orders Tiadora to dismantle the course - by herself, with no assistance permitted. She mutters furiously to herself; but does as she is told. Her feelings towards you all do not warm as a result of this public telling-off.
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Week beginning Moonday 15 Rova
Tiadora has been reassigned from her training duties, an event that elicits the same expression of universal regret as the sudden death of a mad dog. Indeed, she has vanished from the manor house altogether. According to Sir Lester, who continues to be unusually well informed, she has been sent on assignment to the frozen North, beyond the Watch Wall; but for what purpose, even he can only speculate.
Perhaps noticing Sir Lester's dearth of substantive activity, the Cardinal assigns him an additional duty: he is to prepare a new identity for each of you (in Lawful Talingarde, it would be untrue to say that paperwork is everything; but you won't get far without it). Sir Lester grumbles a bit, but with a twinkle in his eye; forgery is his favoured pastime.
He spends the week with each of you, preparing an outline background and name. Anyone who requests a noble title is met with the rejoinder "Of course I can forge patents of nobility, Barcan or Darian; I'm old, not ****ing senile! But there's more to it than giving a s#it what ****ing fork you use; you have to know things. Trivia." He refuses to cooperate unless you successfully answer the following question: "If the king dies tonight, who would rule in his place?"
Sir Lester clips you round the ear and orders you out of his sight.
The Darians practice strict (agnatic) primogeniture, meaning only the firstborn son can inherit. The Barcans, being a little more flexible, operate a pragmatic/cognatic succession, and there are a number of female Baronesses, for example; but the Darians don't really do "flexible" - particularly when it comes to constitutional law.
Sir Lester smiles approvingly, agrees that it is an interesting question - and sends you away to the library with a list of old tomes to read. You end the week covered in book-dust and paper cuts - but none the wiser.
Sir Lester nods, approvingly. "Let's go for one of the minor demesnes in the Heartland, shall we? No one has enough ****ing time on their hands to keep track of them, anyway..."
Muttering darkly that "Nobody likes a smartarse..." Sir Lester dismisses the matter altogether.
Your fake identity will withstand serious scrutiny, requiring a DC 25 Perception check or better to be revealed as a forgery.
"A noble title, though nothing too fancy, could prove useful," Erevan says during a conversation with Sir Lester regarding his fake identity and background. "After all, members of the nobility know quite a bit of information, information they only tend to share with one of their own. Besides that, if we are to make the powers that be, shall we say, uncomfortable, infiltrating or at the very least acquiring connections within the nobility might go a long way towards reaching our goal." He smiles. "And from nobles and officials you may very well find a willing ear into the palace itself, one never knows."
As the older man says his piece and asks his question, Erevan cannot help but chuckle, as memories of years past come back to him. "Oh, worry not. I already know where each piece of cutlery goes and when is to be used."
Then, giving the question a little thought and perhaps even drawing a little on certain aspects of a previous life, the golden-eyed man reaches a conclusion, one that may very well be correct but certainly annoys Sir Lester.
"Are you asking who would be constitutionally entitled to do so? Because from what I know of Talingarde," the Taldan ex-noble answers, the tone conversational, "it does not really matter. Princess Bellinda seems to be popular enough to rule in her own right. The nobles are not about to express any objections, seeing how much they have to lose from such a thing. And that is without taking into account the mistrust existing between them that effectively stops any alliance against her from even forming to begin with." He shrugs then. "None of them wants a civil war after all."