Everything is quiet as you follow the bloody trail. Opening the doors, however, leads to something of a sensory overload, as if the iron was supernaturally proofed to withhold both olfactory and aural stimuli: the overpowering stench of potent alchemical and arcane reagents fills the room beyond, its cluttered surfaces piled with half-full beakers, alembics, and retorts, each holding what appears to be a different bodily fluid. In a stark contrast to this otherwise nauseous milieu, there is music in the air: a sonorous waltz, played with haunting delicacy by an unseen orchestra.
In the middle of the laboratory are two figures, intertwined in a dance which is simultaneously decorous and sensual: one you recognise as Maganrad the enchanter, seemingly alive and unharmed; the other is a delicate Chelaxian beauty dressed in a crimson dress, the elegance of which would make Queen Ileosa green with envy.
With the opening of the doors, she pauses mid-step and turns her gaze in your direction. Her eyes, much like her flowing hair, are a warm shade of auburn. With a flick of her wrist the music ceases—her other arm remains interlocked with Maganrad's, who looks at you with a quizzical expression on his face.
"How rude!" the woman says indignantly, speaking in a distinctly archaic Wiscrani accent. "This ball is a private affair. Truly, such a bold affront to propriety is deserving of an equally arduous punishment—I would be well within my rights to slay you where you stand. Unless there is some adequately palatable excuse for this intrusion...?"
Maganrad seems to be under an enchantment of some description, though it is not immediately clear how powerful it might be.
The woman is not surprised to see you, and appears more amused than upset by your entry—much of this scene feels like a well-practised bit of theatricality.
Viridel remains hovering over the floor, natural elegance of the elven race in his bearing, and studies the woman.
"Begone, wicked enchantress," Viridel said, sweeping his arm in a dismissing motion, at the end holding Maganrad's scroll of enchantment-breaking. "And trouble this man no more. We have no inclination to deal well with the inhabitants of this tumor of Hell!"
Laree readies herself as the party strives forward. When the doors open, she reels back in awe of the true nasal assault she faces.
"Eugh it's even worse because of my bloodhound spell," she spits.
Before she even realizes there is someone in the room, she has said the offensive words. At which, this woman readily responds. When it is clear that her offensive comment isn't so much what offended the person as them having merely just opened the door, Laree becomes emboldened. When Viridel speaks up, she also trusts his instincts over her own.
"Yes...why would he come this way bleeding and then start dancing? He must be under a seduction of some sort. Although he's probably loving it."
"I just don't see what Viridel sees. That is no surprise to me though!"
Elann shrinks back out of sight while Elann drinks her mutagen. Under her loose clothing, she is hardly any different, but internally, she can feel her body coming to life and readying for battle.
Bayard looks back and forth between Maganrad and this lady. Curious. What is going on here?
Grym is not sure about the goings-on here, but it all seems weird. Dancing in a Hell dimension can't be an innocent activity. But he'll leave figuring everything out to the spellcasters.
And trusting in Viridels assessment of the situation Grym steps forward to shield the casters behind him. Not yet attacking. He waits for further commands from Viridel or an obvious threat from the dancing Woman?
At the first sign of hostility from the party, multiple things happen in quick succession. Firstly, the shape of the elegant dancer shifts and melts away like wax, swiftly turning into the very epitome of fiendish beauty: her skin glistens with a mucusy sheen, fleshy tendrils trail from her head, and beneath her writhes a skirt of tentacles, pulsing and seeming to caress the stone floor. The figure is one of superhuman gracefulness and poise, alluring yet awful to behold.
"Blind fool," she husks at Viridel, her voice a mix of contempt and sadistic amusement. "You lead these others to their doom. There are but two choices: 'deal,' or die!"
Three shapes appear around the room and in the hallway, bursting forth in gouts of embers and smoke: black-winged and darkly beautiful like angels of death, they nock back flaming arrows on bows of gristle and sinew. Their forms are lithe and tall, with pale skin and cherubic features marred by deliberate bruises and scars. Each wears a breastplate of spiked iron and carries on their belt a wicked longsword as well as a lasso woven from fibres as dark as their own raven-black hair.
Meanwhile, impassive as a stone, Maganrad intones a spell and makes a series of precise arcane motions in your direction. In response, a purplish mist spreads across the front of the room and the hallway around you. It smells pleasantly of juniper and lavender, though strangely, you feel like the sensation has little to do with actual olfaction. As it touches your skin, you reel with a sudden, intoxicating fugue, as if the haze has wafted directly into your brains without any resistance from the intervening flesh and bone—as if your very thoughts and sense of reality were melting away and leaking into the fog.
The winged trio are erinyes, also known as fury devils or simply 'the Furies'. They are lesser devils created in mockery of celestial forms, born either directly from fallen angels or damned souls with a spark of lost piousness in their mortal history (such as apostate priests of goodly deities). They embody Hell's vengeance and bloody justice, and despite their beauty, they rarely have the subtlety or patience to tempt or seduce mortals. A significant plurality serves Eiseth, the Erinyes Queen, as avengers, executioners, and torturers in her realm in Dis, but they also form corps of elite archers in the vast infernal host. They often strike from a position of advantage, raining down burning arrows or carrying up infantry with living ropes they weave from their own hair, dropping them to their deaths.
Whilst erinyes excel at swift and excruciating violence, they do possess some minor magicks with which to break the ranks of opposing forces, as well as the capability to summon lesser devils to aid them. Their sight pierces through illusions, and they are resistant to most spells and non-consecrated weapons.
The tentacled fiend is a gylou, also known as a handmaiden devil. They most often attend to the whims and schemes of Hell's few female overlords—namely the 'Whore Queens' Ardad Lili, Doloras, Eiseth, and Mahathallah. Much like manipulative matrons amidst decadent mortal courts, these deceivers hide their fathomless evil beneath illusions of beauty, graciousness, and tradition. As embodiments of stifling feminine cruelty, handmaiden devils harbour an exclusive favouritism for erinyes and a seething hatred for Hell's unvarnished misogyny. They particularly loathe children, as reflected in their monikers 'Mothers of Pain' and 'Maids of Miscarriage.' It is said that the persistent cry of a babe can sometimes cause these otherwise patient fiends to abandon their subtle machinations and lash out viciously.
Whilst they are counted amongst the least of the greater devils, gylous still wield considerable physical and magical might: their tentacles possess the strength of giants, easily ensnaring the stoutest of warriors, and their spells twist the minds of mortals towards obedient servitude. Lesser devils eagerly answer their summons when needed. Their sight pierces through most illusions, and they are extremely resistant to spells and non-consecrated weapons.
Laree manages to resist the effects of the fog while Elann seems to suffer from it. Her coughing and confused look on her face, almost vacant shows her susceptibility. Unfazed by this, and knowing her creation, Laree quickly will pull out a series of bombs and will begin to let loose on the wench for making Maganrad harm them.
"These Devils are resistant to magic, seeing through illusions and are resistant to spells and normal weaponry. Consecrated weapons work well on them. This is a gylou, she hates the cry of babies, so do your best impression. She'll go mad. Be careful of her grappling tentacles!" she states quietly to her party. Then, turning to her Simulacrum, she demands quickly, "Elann, Targeting mixture!"
The simple command gives the simulacrum the knowledge to know what to do. She will pull the infusion from Laree's belt and feed it to the alchemist in mere moments while the deadly beauty readies her bombs. Once ready, she begins to hurl them at the villain. This woman is going to feel her angst.
"Elann, don't listen to what Maganrad or this woman says for the duration of this fog."
Bayard shakes off the effects of the fog and looses his shield, preparing for the inevitable. Then he casts a spell
The familiar feel of Viridels Haste magic washes over Grym and seeing Laree An begin her barrage against boss lady devil, Grym adds his considerable might to the barrage.
The alternating bombs and shield tosses making quite a racket and possibly knocking(bull rush) villain backwards out of melee range.
haste +1
Ranged Flurry-2
Bull Rush +4 vs CMD
Bull Rush +4 vs CMD
Bull Rush +4 vs CMD
Bull Rush +4 vs CMD
Bull Rush +4 vs CMD
The awful sight of the devils does little to rattle Viridel. Rather, he gives a wry grin. He may be more familiar fighting demons, but he was a light against the darkness in either way.
"Let fall the masks, then," says the archseer. "Your power is broken."
With that premonition, Viridel foretells the downfall of his foes even in their home Hell, as he unfurls the scroll of break enchantment.
Viridel drifts out of the mind fog, unfurling the scroll, and eyeing Maginrad. The scroll burned with multi-colored fire from end to end, as Maginrad's magic attempted to unravel the enchantment upon its master.
Feeling the scroll's power fade, Viridel closed his eyes briefly while wrestling with the magical energies. He gathered himself.
You are not fated to be their slave. Viridel thought, as his Third Eye confirmed it.
Augmented by the brief prophecy, Viridel broke the power of the Handmaiden Devil, freeing Maginrad from the curse.
In the meantime, Viridel's familiar Asniroth makes another cry--enhancing his companions with the haste spell.
Anethra takes in the scene and cannot help but feel a heady combination of being impressed and jealousy; to wield such casual power, to be such a creature of might and sorcery as this gylou, to rule in hell - never, she knows, will Anethra reach such heights, and that knowledge fouls her appreciation of the being before them.
But then Viridel begins the fight, and events take their predictable turn. The eryinyes appear, and the weight of their numbers is of concern; so, reluctantly, she musters her will and focuses on the three minor devils. From the back of the group she barks out words of harsh, scalding power, and attempts to banish them back to their home plane, and out of this toy pocket-realm.
Viridel, realizing that aligning his will to the stored magic of the scroll would take too long, instead reached to touch a dark gray metal rod etched with golden runes along its length.
He drew it out, holding it up. At both ends, a golden light burned from the top of the rod, as if it were a candle. Moving it in a perfectly mathematically precise spiral pattern (that some Taldan called Fibonacci discovered), before releasing the stored magic.
"Eya Ketaphysae-ern, noro lim a van adash!"
Released from his will were five bright golden shapes that flew like eagles--unerringly soaring with seemingly divine speed, as if the very spirit of falcons could took flight. The eagles of light struck each of the three Erinys once, and two homed into the Handmaiden devil, striking in tandem with golden claws and a faint cry that seemed to emanate from another world.
The lead devil is pelted with Laree's bombs, only managing to dodge the last one. She looks surprised at the pure magical force of the impacts, which is enough to cause visible damage to the fiend. Grymwold also scores a couple of hits—however, two of his four throws bounce harmlessly off the gylou's mucusy skin. The few hits that land on more vulnerable spots are notable, but not as devastating as they would have been on a mortal target—or even on a lesser devil. The very first one, especially, catches her off guard, and she is pushed back slightly, though she quickly regains her composure and refuses to budge further.
Anethra calls on the power of Asmodeus to repatriate His errant servants, but the prayer appears to do nothing—it is not merely that the spell fails to pierce their supernatural defences or mental fortitude, but it seems to wash harmlessly over them as it would over mortals in the Material Plane. In response, the erinyes let out a mocking laugh. The closest one calls out tauntingly, "შეხედეთ, დებო, როგორ ცდება! ბაალზებუბი ჩვენი თვალისმომჭრელია, პატარა მოძალადე!"
Most of Viridel's radiant eagles never make it to their targets, getting torn apart by the devils' natural resistance to spells. One does land, making the unfortunate Fury reel with the impact of the Hunter's arrows. The other two scream with infernal rage, seeming to take this affront personally.
The handmaiden is far less emotional than her bewinged entourage. Hissing indignantly, she floats up, raises her claws and incants a diabolic phrase, her diction as cruel and precise as a lash. In response, a veritable forest of fleshy tendrils snake their way through the stone beneath your feet, striking out with their slimy coils. These soon catch hold of Anethra, Elann, Laree and Viridel, while Bayard and Grymwold manage to batter them away. As the appendages clutch their prey, they immediately begin to squeeze. There are ghastly impressions on their pinkish, rubbery surfaces, as if hands and faces were attempting to push their way through.
"Let me know," the devil calls out in a deceptively sweet tone, "when you are ready to parlay. You only need to say the word..."
As if they had been waiting for an unvoiced command, the unafflicted erinyes launch arrows at Laree and Viridel. Tangled up in the conjured tendrils, they are easy targets for Hell's markswomen—both soon sprout multiple flaming arrows. Likewise without apparent orders, Maganrad makes a series of stiff gestures and casts another spell: a wave of pure desperation surges over the party like a bank of storm-clouds rising to block out the sun.
Anethra lets out a hiss that is part pain, mostly annoyance, as somehow the fiends prove themselves a part of this pocket realm - are they, then, also creations of the trial? Or -
But there's no time for conjecture as a wave of despair washes over her.
Shrugging it away, she focuses her attention on the lead devil. If they are natives, and cannot be banished, then perhaps they can be destroyed.
Letting out a cry of rage, Anethra unleashes a spell of grave potence upon the gylou.
Casting Destruction on the Gylou, dealing either 130 points of damage, or, if she passes her Fortitude save, -
Upon being hit with the arrows, Laree's ablative barrier and fire resistance kick in, taking part of the damage meant for her and negating it.
Laree tries to discern the motives of this woman as she intends to harm them all and make a deal with them.
"Maganrad! You can fight her. Do not give in!" she encourages him. "Here...let me weaken her hold on you!"
As flailing tentacles rise and attempt to wrap her up, she prepares some more force bombs as she looks to Elann.
"Elann, give me my mutagen."
The simulacrum reaches for her master's belt and feeds it to her. In a moment, Laree's combat prowess increases.
With deft flicks of her bombchucker, she flings bombs up into the air to ignite upon the body of this demoness in hopes to free Maganrad from her clutches. While she does this, she fake cries like a baby.
"PARLEY WITH THIS, FIEND!" Bayard roars as he drops his greataxe. Before it even finishes clattering to the ground, he draws a massive orcish bow, and unleashes a flurry of arrows at the Gylou.
Viridel, floating in the air, narrows his eyes at the deviless rising and casting a spell. Seeing his allies clustered together and recognizing the spell, as well as Maginrad's own spell, Viridel speaks three words in Elven.
"Na-ma ru," he says quietly.
When greater dispel magic is used in this way, the spell affects everything within a 20-foot-radius burst. Roll one dispel check and apply that check to each creature in the area, as if targeted by dispel magic. For each object within the area that is the target of one or more spells, apply the dispel check as with creatures. Magic items are not affected by an area dispel.
Managing to identify Maginrad's Crushing Despair, Viridel's hard features softened. The enslaved wizard must have chosen this spell as a message, just as Mind Fog was a message. His mighty abjuration, busy tearing apart the patterns of magic, continued relentlessly--but Viridel spoke again.
"The Fates did not write this down for you!" he shouts.
[dice=Will]1d20+17-2
"PARLEY WITH THIS, FIEND!" Bayard roars as he drops his greataxe. Before it even finishes clattering to the ground, he draws a massive orcish bow, and unleashes a flurry of arrows at the Gylou.
Sadness..... Not a feeling he's used to. As a veteran warrior, he's dealt with danger death and loss, overcome that and found solace in his faith.....but then out of the blue, he thinks of Glenndar the Toragian priestess he killed while under a compulsion spell all those years ago and feels overwhelmed with sadness at the loss of what might have been.
When you hold a hammer everything looks like a nail. Gryms hammers aways at the boss devil but without his normal focus, tears interfering with his throws.
haste+1, -2sad
Ranged Flurry-2
Bull Rush +4 vs CMD
Bull Rush +4 vs CMD
Bull Rush +4 vs CMD
Bull Rush +4 vs CMD
Bull Rush +4 vs CMD
haste+1 -2sad
Bull Rush +4 vs CMD
Viridel's prudence more than proves its worth, as both the fleshy tendrils and sweet-smelling mists are swept away like leaves on an autumn wind. Laree feels the sudden moroseness that filled her heart carried away on that very same gust, though Elann still looks rather miserable. The gylou's reaction to this sudden unravelling is a mix of subdued astonishment, pique... and fascination?
After speaking his word of undoing, Viridel focuses his will. He is bloodied, but the fervor in his eyes drives him forward--beyond the protection of his allies!
"I foresaw your failure," he says, drifting ahead, and casting out his hand to cast another abjuration. "Now I foresee our victory!"
"Maginrad, break free!" he shouts, before a pure blue glow radiates from the flying wizard, engulfing his allies--including the mind-controlled wizard!
Viridel casts Magic Circle vs. Evil, and includes Manginrad as an ally.
Viridel's familiar swoops on his master, letting out a cry that bestowed the wizard with a Displacement.
Anethra launches a potent spell at the handmaiden, praying for her adversary to be consumed in a gout of hellfire. She channels Asmodeus' power with all her might, but the tightly woven unholy energies buckle and snap, harmlessly unravelled by the devil's formidable magical defences.
The foe has little time to gloat, however. Laree's bombs, now unhindered by despair and bondage, find their mark; Bayard's arrow sinks deep into the gylou's mucusy flesh, evoking a full-blown shriek of agony as holy light wracks her body; and Grymwold—as forlorn as he feels—soon finishes the job, sending the enemy flying into the far wall. She falls down and crashes into the work-tables below, scattering wooden splinters and noxious alchemicals across the room, and ceases movement.
All of this plainly shocks the trio of erinyes, who quickly and co-ordinately turn to retreat. Just as they appeared, they now disappear in bursts of sulphurous smoke. Grymwold gives one of them a couple more throws of his shield in parting, though he fails to bring the fiend down before she flees.
With the handmaiden's death, Maganrad gasps and drops to his knees, as if the magical compulsion was all that was keeping the crush of exhaustion at bay.
Viridel drifted to the floor, studying the fallen fiend and the disappeared erinyes.
But truly, this was humbling--his magic (as well as that of Anethra) could barely scratch the devils, but Laree, Grymwold, and Bayard cut her to shreds. In other cases, the roles might be reversed. This 'balance' was profound in a way.
"You are all quite formidable," Viridel says to his colleagues as he approaches Maginrad. "It is no wonder these monsters posed such a challenge to pure wizards."
He attempts to rouse the wizard. He carries the Ulfen's own scroll nearby.
"Are you well, friend?"
eyes still filled with tears Grym yells at Maginrad Make this foul magic stop or I'll box your ears til it does
Upon hearing Viridel assisting Maganrad, she moves also further in after checking on the well-being of Elann. At his side, she will help him to stand. Being close now, Laree evaluates to see the condition of her newfound, potential crush. "Is he hurt?"
"Anyone who is hurt, come to me, I will use my wand."
Elann sees that Laree took some damage from the twisting of the coils of the tentacles. Where the damage is, it is clear that her skin is enchanted with bark, as it is crushed into spinters, whereas all of her skin surrounding the wounds seem normal. Elann opens her bottle of sunlight. A soft light emits from a sphere of light suddenly basking the slightly bark-skinned alchemist on her injuries. Within mere moments, her flesh mends and all wounds dissipate, returning her to normal.
To whoever was injured, she will restore them with her wand of cure light wounds, not concerned by the cost at all. They were all going to make it. For Maganrad, she will try to recover him by offering him a shot of alcohol, whiskey, and a tincture of something to revive his senses.
"I'm glad you made it. How horrible of a challenge," she states to all of them as she looks around them. Perhaps there is something within the room, or on the body of the handmaiden that can aid them?
Anethra moves to stand over the fallen body of the gylou, her expression one of wistful sadness undercut by frustration. "What a pity. What could you have told us about this place? The nature of your servitude to the trial? Nothing, now."
He attempts to rouse the wizard. He carries the Ulfen's own scroll nearby.
"Are you well, friend?"
Maganrad raises his head and smiles weakly, his eyes flashing with recognition at the scroll. "I am... exhausted, but alive. Thank you... all of you."
Upon hearing Viridel assisting Maganrad, she moves also further in after checking on the well-being of Elann. At his side, she will help him to stand. Being close now, Laree evaluates to see the condition of her newfound, potential crush. "Is he hurt?"
[...]
For Maganrad, she will try to recover him by offering him a shot of alcohol, whiskey, and a tincture of something to revive his senses.
"I'm glad you made it. How horrible of a challenge," she states to all of them as she looks around them. Perhaps there is something within the room, or on the body of the handmaiden that can aid them?
Laree finds no injuries on Maganrad, though the splotches of blood on his lapel recall a nosebleed or a split lip. The young wizard attempts a reply to her queries, but only manages a hoarse cough at first. He gladly takes a swig of whiskey, which returns some colour to his pale cheeks and gives him enough energy to get back on his feet, albeit shakily. He looks at the whole group with newfound respect, but seems especially impressed with—and mesmerised by—Laree.
"'Horrible' does not even begin to describe it," he says with a deep bow. "I had quite resigned myself to the valkyries and ravens—if either are to be found hereabouts—but I deem your ministrations a much kinder fate, indeed. You have my gratitude."
Glancing around the room, Laree judges it to be a spectacularly well-stocked laboratory, though the carnal nature of the experiments on display bring to mind unpleasant memories of the fleshwarping vats in Oenopion. The alchemical apparatuses contain various humours, organic acids, lymph, excrement, and other noxious substances, all mixed with more mundane reagents for no immediately apparent purpose. There does not appear to be much in the way of notation.
eyes still filled with tears Grym yells at Maginrad Make this foul magic stop or I'll box your ears til it does
The enchanter cringes. "Yes, of course. My deepest apologies. I do not have many spells remaining, and that devil—Marijkal—left me little choice. I tried for something... less than permanent."
He waves a hand and dismisses the overbearing sense of malaise affecting both Grymwold and Elann.
Anethra moves to stand over the fallen body of the gylou, her expression one of wistful sadness undercut by frustration. "What a pity. What could you have told us about this place? The nature of your servitude to the trial? Nothing, now."
Maganrad staggers over, regarding the fallen devil with a hint of disbelief on his face. The handmaiden's tentacled form is slower to decompose than one would expect in the hostile environment of the Material Plane, where it might burn up or evaporate into sulphurous gas, though its flesh does seem to be very slowly melting off its bones. There is nothing of note on the body, other than the tattered remains of a red ballgown and some tawdry jewellery.
"Mayhaps I can answer some of your questions," the enchanter says grimly. "I had the dubious honour of conversing with her for... I do not know how long—it must have been hours. She jumped me almost as soon as I got here, disguised as... Illia, was it? The Varisian. How did it take you so long, anyway?"
He shakes off the thought and continues. "This is not a trial—not a part of the Breaching. For the sake of fairness, I never attempted to pry into this year's preparations, but I did acquaint myself with some of the previous arrangements. A demiplane is... far, far beyond any of that. I am not sure where this place came from, exactly, but it is not the work of the abjurers. Gods, how could something like this happen right under the faculty's noses...?"
"Mayhaps I can answer some of your questions. I had the dubious honour of conversing with her for... I do not know how long—it must have been hours. She jumped me almost as soon as I got here, disguised as... Illia, was it? The Varisian. How did it take you so long, anyway?
"We acquired more Key-lights than strictly needed," Viridel answers. "Perhaps that has put us in a better position."
"This is not a trial—not a part of the Breaching. For the sake of fairness, I never attempted to pry into this year's preparations, but I did acquaint myself with some of the previous arrangements. A demiplane is... far, far beyond any of that. I am not sure where this place came from, exactly, but it is not the work of the abjurers. Gods, how could something like this happen right under the faculty's noses...?"
"This is not a normal test," he whispers. "I have seen the shrieking pits of Oblivion, and it is the center of this accursed place."
Viridel remembers his vision as he studies the mage's words.
First, there is a procession of faces: the desperate, the greedy, the young and hopeful, the ambitious, the old and jaded—mortal lives stretched out like an impossibly long tapestry fluttering in the wind, tangling and twisting around itself until it tears; until the outflown shreds become like moths around a lantern, slowly circling around the deadly luminance of their imminent annihilation. Finally, the light blinks out, and there is nothing left but a constellation of blurry shadows, darker than darkness itself: they are like blind spots in the Sight of Fate, which surround the metaphysical locus of the Hall of Wards (as reflected off the mirror-like Spirit of the Hall of Seeing) and riddle it through like an infestation of ravenous termites, except there is no sign of the cause or consequence of their burrowing—only an utter absence of being starting from the moment of entry. You begin to hear it: the horrid shrieking of that unnatural non-existence, maddened by its own wrongess, bleeding quintessence where something has been cut off and replaced with foulness. Slowly but surely, with the heavy weight of inevitability, you feel yourself being drawn towards that very same trajectory. All of it becomes too much to bear, and you are forced to close your Third Eye...
"Allow me to lay my hypothesis," Viridel slowly, lowering his hood. The mark on his forehead of the intricate circle, the 'Mark of the Blind'. The mark, now without blood, shines in a fleshy red against the skin of the elven wizard, showing the payment he made for the knowledge as he studies the room. "This did not happen under the faculty's nose--you know the rumor that circles the most capable and wise headmaster, do you not?
Certain anonymous observers within the college have questioned the authenticity of Toff Ornelos' test for headmastery. Only in silent whispers under the most scrupulous magical protections they dare to opine on whether his famous calling and binding of a pit fiend were somehow rigged...
Viridel smiles sadly. "Perhaps the presumed theater-play of the 'Headmaster and the Bound Pit Fiend' had such cost--to feed the terrible master of this realm the spirits of the academae's own. A terrible price...for a terrible bargain. Equivalent exchange. This must be his realm--and these his servants. Have you heard anything that might shed light on this infernal matter?"
the unnatural sadness leaves Grym
Me thanks Lad
and upon hearing Viridels assessment of an actual deal with a devil what'd he expect the damn fool. Makin a deal with a devil. Like that's ever gonna turn out well Damn Mages. So smart and yet so stupid
Bayard considers putting another arrow in the fiend just to be sure, but decides against it since she is clearly dissolving. ”Think I’ll keep a hold of this, in case of more flyers.” he says, waving his bow. He hooks his great axe into some straps on his back.
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Laree carefully cups the whiskey so Maganrad doesn't need to bother his tired arms at all in holding the bottle. One would perhaps draw that she's trying to be nurturing from the action. As it is well received, there is a light blush at his amazed look toward them all. It would be stronger were she not feeling so horrible in such a place herself.
"I think Viridel is right. And don't resign yourself just yet. You are still in this fight, and still worth helping end this evil, even if your spells are drained of you. We here have wands, potions, and I have infusions to help empower you if you will to continue. I think it at least best if you stick nearby," she opines, not biased at all.
"I have an idea of her plans for you...it is best kept to myself. I've seen laboratories like thi--" she pauses in the middle of expressing her familiarity with the lab. Her hands hover over a book all too familiar to her but do not touch it. "This is my brother's. Please...see if it is trapped, magically or otherwise. I wish to hold it." "What happened to you...and what are you now? Can I ever reverse it?" she thinks to herself as she looks at the fleshwarping implements.
[ooc](If it can be done very fast, then okay, if not, then nevermind. We have active spells going)
"Yes," says Anethra, striding up to the central knot of people. "I believe Viridel is right in his guess. Ah, chancellor. We'll have words when we return."
She glances irritably at Grymwold. "Deals with the devil are akin to blades, master dwarf. A good deal is significantly different from a bad one; it's foolish to cast aspersions on all contracts, just as it would be foolish to condemn all swords."
Finally, she turns to Maganrad, clearly not concerned with his well being. "What did she share with you? Do you have any more insight into our situation?"
"Allow me to lay my hypothesis," Viridel slowly, lowering his hood. The mark on his forehead of the intricate circle, the 'Mark of the Blind'. The mark, now without blood, shines in a fleshy red against the skin of the elven wizard, showing the payment he made for the knowledge as he studies the room. "This did not happen under the faculty's nose--you know the rumor that circles the most capable and wise headmaster, do you not?"
Viridel smiles sadly. "Perhaps the presumed theater-play of the 'Headmaster and the Bound Pit Fiend' had such cost--to feed the terrible master of this realm the spirits of the academae's own. A terrible price...for a terrible bargain. Equivalent exchange. This must be his realm--and these his servants. Have you heard anything that might shed light on this infernal matter?"
"Yes," says Anethra, striding up to the central knot of people. "I believe Viridel is right in his guess. Ah, chancellor. We'll have words when we return."
Finally, she turns to Maganrad, clearly not concerned with his well being. "What did she share with you? Do you have any more insight into our situation?"
Maganrad looks shocked at Viridel's hypothesis, but listens intently nonetheless. "Hm. I have, in the strictest confidence, heard some of these rumours from members of the faculty. Certainly, I do not believe the headmaster would be ethically opposed to such an arrangement, and I would not gainsay foul play on his part, but all this seems rather... brash... for a man of his temperament. By my estimation, Toff Ornelos is much too cautious to make such a lopsided deal for what basically amounts to bragging rights. He might well have attained his position with less showmanship, and exposure could ruin him..."
The enchanter shrugs. "I am not saying you are entirely wrong, Master Viridel, but something does not feel right. Perhaps the headmaster was simply outplayed like a novice and entered into an unfair contract, though unless the stakes were clear, I would expect him to fold rather than go all in."
He pauses for a moment, collecting his thoughts. The process of collating information seems to centre him, allowing him to stand a bit more surely.
"This demiplane is called Belzeragna," he explains in the easy tone of a practised lecturer. "Its function is to entrap souls, though for what purpose, I could not ascertain. Not that devils need a special reason to desire mortal quintessence, but all of this seems quite... unorthodox. You see, the gylou, Marijkal, insinuated that given enough time—decades, perhaps—this place will somehow 'change' and eventually 'ingest' a mortal against their will, and that the process is not a pleasant one. It would be oh-so much easier to enter into a contract on your own terms, while you are still able. Rather devious, yes?"
"Apparently, this section of Belzeragna is relatively small and sparsely populated, but there is an internal hierarchy of sorts: Marijkal has a superior named Chyvvom, whom she called the 'Exchequer of Contracts'. Indeed, she introduced herself as the 'Consort' to this Chyvvom, though I could tell she did not enjoy the arrangement. Had I been more in control of my faculties, I might have attempted to leverage this matrimonial discord to regain my liberty, but alas... In any case, Chyvvom is ostensibly the sole being with the authority to release those entrapped here—no egress, magical or otherwise, is possible without his sanction. Marijkal also hinted at a greater power beyond the Exchequer, but claimed to be contractually obligated to withhold their name."
"What else..." the Ulfen thinks aloud, fiddling with one of his braids. "Ah, yes! When I made inquiries as to the fate of Illia, Marijkal told me she had been given to someone named Naxgiv—another devil, judging by his name, seemingly inferior to my host. She did not want to entertain this line of discussion for long, so I could not determine what sort of fiend he is, exactly, or what he might have done with our fellow competitor."
Laree carefully cups the whiskey so Maganrad doesn't need to bother his tired arms at all in holding the bottle. One would perhaps draw that she's trying to be nurturing from the action. As it is well received, there is a light blush at his amazed look toward them all. It would be stronger were she not feeling so horrible in such a place herself.
"I think Viridel is right. And don't resign yourself just yet. You are still in this fight, and still worth helping end this evil, even if your spells are drained of you. We here have wands, potions, and I have infusions to help empower you if you will to continue. I think it at least best if you stick nearby," she opines, not biased at all.
The enchanter nods along, mostly serious save for a slight curve at one corner of his mouth. "Of course. I am entirely at your service, Miss Everglow."
"I have an idea of her plans for you...it is best kept to myself. I've seen laboratories like thi--" she pauses in the middle of expressing her familiarity with the lab. Her hands hover over a book all too familiar to her but do not touch it. "This is my brother's. Please...see if it is trapped, magically or otherwise. I wish to hold it."
Maganrad looks at the book, a regretful look marring his handsome features.
"My deepest apologies," he murmurs. "In my plight, it did not occur to me to inquire after your brother..."
A concerted investigation of the book reveals no magic other than the innate dweomers of the spells inscribed within, and there do not seem to be any mechanical locks or traps. The owner's handwriting is practical to the point of being a bit sloppy, and his repertoire of spells is fairly diverse, though with a definite emphasis on abjurations. Near the beginning there are scribbles in the margins, like one would expect a bored schoolboy to make, though he seems to have outgrown this habit.
"What else... Ah, yes! When I made inquiries as to the fate of Illia, Marijkal told me she had been given to someone named Naxgiv—another devil, judging by his name, seemingly inferior to my host. She did not want to entertain this line of discussion for long, so I could not determine what sort of fiend he is, exactly, or what he might have done with our fellow competitor."
"Three actors enter the rolls, then," Viridel says, observing Laree's investigation of Wolfe's spellbook thoughtfully. "If this is indeed Marijkal's home domain, then her death here is as conclusive to her legacy of misery as any. Chyvvom and Naxgiv, and their shadowy overlord are next, then."
Viridel smiles softly. "To end a devil is no small feat. Especially in their home domain..."
He then considers Laree's investigation of Wolfe's spellbook, giving her a sympathetic nod.
"But the quest lies before us; we shall march into the infernal heart of this little Hell, this...Belzeragna," he says, the pronunciation familiar but the infernal tinged with an elven accent. "This black realm will surely be undone with its master, and the salvation and rescue of all who have been trapped within will be within reach."
For once in a very long time, a kindling of hope struck in Viridel's chest. All the failures, and all the terrible things that happened...
My students...I'm here to help you, he thought, eyes misting.
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"Belzeragna...devils certainly have the most amazingly complex names," she considers before shuddering at the purposes of this realm. The quicker they leave, the better.
As Maganrad reveals the fate of Illia, she considers what the fate of this person would be. She likely already gave in to avoid torture. Would they be facing her?
"No doubt something manipulative...," her voice answers as her hands grasp the pages of her brother's book. Although the room smells of foul implements and death, she presses the base of the book to her nose and takes a sniff. The reminder of pages long used hopefully finds its way into her senses. Love fills her heart and she begins to prepare her mind to find her brother some abomination of horrible proportions, completely consumed by this realm. Tears sneak out of the corner of her eyes at Maganrad's words and she is forced to shake her head "no" in response to his apologies as if she did not blame him.
A few moments later of flipping through the pages of the book, she turns to the man and hands the book to Maganrad.
"No doubt, my brother has many spells in here you can learn to use. His writings are simple for a mage of your caliber, but it is better than nothing. I only ask that you return it when we are done and please try to keep it safe."
Viridel studies the handmaiden devil.
Viridel studies the handmaiden devil.
The devil seems to have had little need for things: the ruined clothing and mundane jewellery are relatively unimpressive—for a otherworldly shapechanger and master of illusions, such material trapping might be little more than caprice born of immortal ennui or affectations of a half-remembered mortal existence.
A few moments later of flipping through the pages of the book, she turns to the man and hands the book to Maganrad.
"No doubt, my brother has many spells in here you can learn to use. His writings are simple for a mage of your caliber, but it is better than nothing. I only ask that you return it when we are done and please try to keep it safe."
Maganrad opens his mouth, as if to protest, but after hearing Laree's entreaty, he instead accepts the book, handling it with the utmost care and reverence. "I... You humble me with your trust. Using another's mnemonics can be a bit tricky, but I will try. Once there is a lengthier moment of respite, I shall go through the grimoire and see if your brother and I have studied any of the same magicks. I suppose we must have attended some of the same lectures..."
From understanding her father's abilities, she is certain Maganrad has the ability to prepare a read magic spell to aid him in his quest. Her eyes linger on the book in his hand a moment before she nods in finality.
"Let's move on then, shall we?"
The alchemist will wait for the more robust of their party to lead the way out of the room to check the doors on the other side of the hall. Her and Elann will stay a good 20ft back from the doors, giving space to those checking them. In an almost protective way, she stands before Maganrad should anything be hurled into the room.
Let's go back to where the blood trails started and follow the older one through the southern wall. It may be the other contestant Illia. She's no charmer but that don't mean I want to leave her to the tender mercies of this Hell if I can help it.
Grym leads the group back to the old blood trail and begins following it.
”We must have the Chyvvom’s “sanction”? Simply ending him won’t work? I’ve no desire to make agreements with fiends when not absolutely necessary.” Bayard says, looking cross.
jewellery [worth 100 gp]
Viridel nods at Grymwold, and says, following him, "In all likelihood, all the fiends in this black realm would express most strenuous (and violent) objections to our efforts to emancipate the souls trapped in this Hell. Let us make our case with the utmost force against these wardens...regardless."
"There is room for conversation, I'll have you all note," says the Asmodean wearily from the back of the group. "We're not dealing with brutish elementals, devoid of the capacity for thought. Perhaps before we begin emphasizing force and violence, we can at least attempt a learned discourse with these fiends so as to divine the optimum way to achieve our goals?"
"I have an inkling suspicion that dealing with fiends is how this place came to be, but I'm not opposed to the idea of a parlay if it stops this all from happening anymore," answers the alchemist to the Asmodean. "Regardless of the path we take, us being here together, with our expertise will probably be the best bet this competition has to end this threat."
Her eyes then travel once more to the book of her brothers before continuing after the men.
”We must have the Chyvvom’s “sanction”? Simply ending him won’t work? I’ve no desire to make agreements with fiends when not absolutely necessary.” Bayard says, looking cross.
Maganrad shrugs apologetically. "That is what the devil told me—I do not believe she was outright lying, as that is not in their nature. However, I cannot say for certain if she was purposefully omitting details, or mayhaps basing her attestations on an incomplete understanding of the situation."
"There is room for conversation, I'll have you all note," says the Asmodean wearily from the back of the group. "We're not dealing with brutish elementals, devoid of the capacity for thought. Perhaps before we begin emphasizing force and violence, we can at least attempt a learned discourse with these fiends so as to divine the optimum way to achieve our goals?"
"Pardon my impertinence," says Maganrad, bowing his head slightly. "But there might be some biases at work here, on both sides. However, I do concur with Mistress Anethra. Even if you are not going to come to terms with the Exchequer, there is nothing to be lost by squeezing him for information before resorting to violence. Better safe than sorry, ja? Especially so when 'sorry' potentially means eternal imprisonment and oblivion..."
Grym leads the group back to the old blood trail and begins following it.
Following the older blood-trail leads you to what can only be described as a cruel parody of a lecture hall: the room is dark, moist, and rank with the smell of sweat, mildew, and iron. Desks sit in even, tiered rows facing the southern end of the room, where thick metal chains hang from the slate-covered wall above a rusted torture rack. Suspended from these chains swings the limp body of Illia Ean, her tunic is soaked in blood and her skin as white as chalk. Gore has gathered below her on the floor, the tips of her boots not quite coming down to meet the crimson pool. Her face is covered by her own hair, which falls lankly over her downcast features.
There is a scroll of parchment in her left hand, bloodied and crumpled in a rigour-like grip.