"Shadow city? Capital of Nidal? You traveled there about two weeks ago, and Drisquar wanted to return?"
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"So, then. It seems a majority of this council has resolved to take actions against Nemret Nektoria, Urserf's horde, a few private residents of Pangolais, and possibly a Duergar city. Is there an order of business you'd like to pursue these tasks in?"
"I'm not sure if that's how the ghouls would see it. But if you are planning to pay any Duergar cities a visit, I'd remind you to keep an eye out for Lord Zeshar the Golden... according to Sir John, he last departed Escarra to attempt a truce with Hagegraf several millennia ago, and has been missing since."
"So..." Jiator muses, just a bit later. "Do we seek to antagonize Nektoria, then? Or attempt to keep this meeting secret? I do not think even the Council of Colors could survive the wrath of Kortash Khain, if Nektoria's High Priest turned the whole city towards our destruction." "Then again, we could always double cross the city of Shraen. The Duergar... may not be willing allies of Escarra; back in the days of the first city, they were ever our enemies."
"How much would it cost to add in Sir John and Myself?" Jiator asks.
::Anyone want first ride in the catapult?:: Jiator asks telepathically, ::Or do I start flinging druids?::
Jiator shrugs. "First meteor should turn to glass every loose stone in the fortress. Whatever survives, will probably be due to protection against fire and crushing. We could make a second meteor, but I'd recommend dropping it right after the first, before anyone has a chance to heal or throw up protective barriers."
"The metal man is correct," the tiny lich replies. "Well... sort of. I've been toying around with the idea of using Bloody Skeletons as siege ammunition, without too much success. I thought I'd test my catapult out on a few hardier undead, and it seems a perfect workaround for our Siabrae allies, who should be able to survive impact with at least most of their limbs intact. Additionally, the transformation abilities of a flying druid—being able to metamorphose into an elephant or dinosaur just prior to impact—should present a fascinating study in ballistics."
Anaxian: "There is more than one ritual," Jiator replies. "I walked with the servants of the Runelords in the days when the Whispering Way was young, optimistic, unrestrained. There were differences of opinion—some sought knowledge, and lichdom. Others sought power; the strigoi, first vampires on Golarion, were brought forth by wizards who wished to drink their blood. And the simplest, the hungry fools, became ghouls and wights." "But even among liches, there was diversity. My ritual, though I remember little, was carried out through song and geometry. Adrexa spurned the whispers in the shadows, forged her own rituals—but they were violent: as she claimed to the Council once, eight hundred Osiriani slaves died screaming in a pit of blood to achieve it, the insult that first drew Pharasma's ire in the centuries before our city's founding." "And there was the dragon. Small, green, at first. One of the many familiars who came to Escarra in the days after the city's founding. No one but Hiesnar knows the necessary runes and incantations; but he solved your problem, once. I can lead you to the ruins of the stone circle he used; they'll be buried under a dozen feet of dirt, but your digging body should be able to clear that easily. I can easily find you a wand of Object Reading; but it'll take remarkable skill and focus to pull the memories from those stones."
During the first week of the third month building Escarra, Jiator approaches Illia- and Drisquar. "Adrexa's judgments can be too... didactic, sometimes," he explains. "So I did some research of my own. Consider it repayment for what I saw you do to the Masters of Voshgurvaghol." To Illia-:
"It is not so hard to learn of one who wears their true name so boldly," he explains, "But even knowing part of it should be sufficient to magically learn something of the history of such name, when it was mortal." And he comes about as close to laughing as a two-foot skeleton with no vocal chords or limbic system can. "I should not spoil the surprise, in your case. But I can tell you three things. One, I am glad we did not meet a thousand years ago. Two, it was Iomedae herself who brought you out of the boneyard and into the angel you once were. You may were as reckless and violent in life as after-life, but this was something the naïve called "courage" and "virtue." And three, your bones lie at the bottom of Lake Encarthan, five hundred feet from the Northern face of the Isle of Terror." To Drisquar: "Many Bralani are born spontaneously from the wilds of Elysium. But it seems our intuition was right, and you were not. Your story is less... dramatic, than some, though it was both your valor and creativity that found you a place in the afterlife. The man you once were died peacefully, and only a few centuries ago; should you wish to learn more seek out the undertaker of Maheto, a city in Eastern Taldor."
"Mortality is the first measure of a man," Jiator intones, peering through a doorway. "Accepting it means placing a limit on one's own achievements, and erasing one's marks on the world." And then, responding to Inubrix's question, "We have already alloted space for the workshop you requested. The city's building plans are a little chaotic at the moment, but our first priority is building appropriate residences and workshops for the city's senior advisors and residents. At the moment, we are building basic housing; but following that, the dragon is building his own lair, the High Priestess requests lodgings of her own. The bards desire a performance space, the Red Lady wishes to see her libraries restored; I can only assume the General will want to construct a barracks, as she has expressed displeasure at letting Hell's embassy train the entirety of this city's army. Your 'generator' will be placed at equal priority with those projects. And it is good to meet you, I assume."
Jiator and his party return to the city two days after the arrival of the Drow. Hungry Doom and the Mouthers peel off first; Jiator explains that the shoggoth has claimed ownership of the nearby river, and plans to sustain itself by eating anything it finds not wearing a sigil of Escarra. Supposedly, the Gibbering Mouthers plan to assist it as some sort of border patrol, but the actual words and shouts involved in this conversation are very hard to separate from gibberish. Next, the party passes the three lyre-zombies overseeing construction of a small mine overlooking the city. Jiator acknowledges the work, and sends the skeletons and zombies off to tunnel—or, at least, to sit in the tunnels until appropriate mining gear is supplied. "There are no mindless dead in Escarra," he explains, "Unless Black John has already explained that to you, which I suppose he must have." And then, seeing the ruined state of the city, he laughs and shakes his head.
"That is... not a bad plan," Jiator responds, and ponders for a few minutes. Eventually, he presses two small diamonds into the eye sockets of an itinerant zombie, scrawls a message on its back in some sort of magically-conjured ink. After another day of marching through hills and stalagmite forests, Jiator spots the distant lights of Nektoria, and commands the zombie to walk mindlessly towards them. "An invitation, like you suggested," he explains. "And an old bone—one with a bit of life in it, and not so easily digested. Whoever consumes that zombie's flesh should become a future scrying focus."
Skirting the ghoul-controlled segment of river also means avoiding the majority of Gug lands between Lake Nirthran and Escarra; and the passage proves surprisingly uneventful, as the few aberrations the party spots keep their distance, unwilling to attack a Shoggoth and skeleton horde without greater numbers.
"I defer the decision," Jiator responds to Sir John. "I only meant that if we do wish to pass through, then you, the dragon or the drow could aid our passage by traveling ahead first and making sure the route would be peaceful."
Jiator shakes his head. "Ghouls can be... unpredictable. And arrogant. In my travels to Nex, millennia ago, I met a fair share who resented the intellectualism of liches and the high society of vampires. Our horde of skeletons and zombies might be seen as a tribute, or a food source. I do not know much about their culture or politics, and would prefer to not simply march into their city. You can scry it as well, if you like, but Nemret Noktoria appears to have grown into something of a fortified metropolis."
After a week of marching along the shores of Lake Nithran, Jiator asks to consult with John and the others on the party's course. "The quickest route to Escarra would take us upriver," he explains, "But that would take us through heavy ghoul lands, past the city of Nemret Noktoria. When last I passed through, Noktoria was nothing but a small camp for ghoul raiders to congregate; scrying ahead, it seems to now be a city of impressive size, and oddly civilized. I do not know what sort of reception we would receive there; we could try to pass through, or take the longer land route and avoid them entirely." "The ghouls of Nemret Noktoria may be a powerful future ally, standing in the path of all trade from both Nithran and Osirion, but we may deliver a bad first impression if we approach with our current band. I suppose one of you may have some suggestions on what we should do next?"
While Anaxian busies himself with gathering bodies, another concern is raised. Under the Mayor's guidance, the reconstruction of Voshgurvaghol was carried out primarily through undead labor; but with every Necromancer in the city slain, the skeletal workforce has become more of a liability than help. The new Overseer is not especially concerned; he is happy to see the ancient othagu capital returned to the rightful order of things, with proper slave labor guided by aboleths, under the tutelage of whatever veiled masters might wander by, but ultimately controlled by a single omnipath. Nevertheless, when he suggests shredding the city's skeletons where they stand, Master Jiator instead offers in tones of generosity to take the skeletons with him as the party leaves. "No simple, weak skeleton could survive for long the magical auras of Escarra," he explains, "But we had quarries once, in the surrounding caves—Sir John's idea—where we left them to mine stone and ore, transported by song and canal. This may be enough of a workforce to reopen one of those old quarries, if the ruins still stand." Hungry Doom presents another problem. The Shoggoth, Jiator explains, was captured in the depths of the Sightless Sea by the Master of Souls, and dragged up to Voshgurvaghol from the Darklands through a wandering sunken waterspout called the Braid. But Hungry Doom has devoured several aboleths today, and their smell will cling to him for months—and while it does, both the Shoggoths of his home and the Deep Aboleths who hunt in the seas above it will mark him as an enemy, fit to be destroyed. Instead, Jiator has offered to feed the Shoggoth and its Mouther companions as many of today's corpses as they wish, in order to enlist the ancient ooze's aid as a guide; following Hungry Doom, Jiator and his horde should be able to safely swim up into the Braid, riding upwards to Lake Nithran, whose shores lie a mere five hundred mile trek from Escarra. In fact, Jiator explains, one of the tributary rivers of Nithran flows less than two hundred miles of Escarra; and if Hungry Doom is amenable, the Shoggoth's aid could be helpful in re-dredging the great canal that once fed the city's trade and gardens. But that will be a discussion for later.
After a few minutes, Jiator appears to have calmed the shoggoth, which undulates peacefully around the battlefield, idly consuming bodies alongside its tail of gibbering mouthers.
Jiator clutches his warped Crown of Telepathy, and rides off towards the Shoggoth.
"Don't worry about the skeletons," Jiator calls out, as he continues his song, "I'll handle them, you take out the othagu behind me."
Jiator lifts his tiny ice violin over his head and begins strumming a few chords, the beginning of a Frightening Tune performance, though the skeletons are still too far away to be affected. "That's the Master of Love," he tells the party members near him, gesturing at the eel-like Aboleth. "His father was the rightful ruler of this city, before the Mayor used my magic to overthrow him—and Love's still a bit too young to have his full strength, but he's still the most gifted mindshaper in this city."
"So," Jiator calls out to Big Anaxian, with a bit more urgency, "We fight, or flee? And how badly do we care about killing every last one of them if we stay?"
"There's over a hundred skeletons gathering," Jiator calls out to Meredian, Sir John, and Big Anaxian, from the back of his skeleton crab. "Join me on this crab or get behind me, and I'll clear them out."
Sir John, Meredian, Anaxian: "I can handle the skeletons," Jiator calls out, though only Meredian, Big Anaxian, and Sir John are close enough to hear him. "Once I start fiddling. They won't get near me. The masters are a bigger threat—Souls over there is a skilled necromancer, and I think I hear Public Works above us, with my bards."
"With teleportation?" Jiator asks. "It's not easy to out-swim an aboleth otherwise... "
"That... that is a shoggoth," Jiator calls out, nearly stammering in surprise. As the Giant Reef Crab skeleton passes, he climbs on top of it. "This thing won't outrun a hungry Shoggoth, though, so 'eat us last' isn't too comforting," he adds.
Shoggoth? Jiator calls out telepathically, as the party pulls ahead of him. You mean you got to the Gibbering Mouther pits, right? I know the Master of Souls was experimenting on them, but I didn't realize any of them had grown large enough to be mistaken for something truly powerful. Still, he muses, Any sonic distractions might be welcome here. Idly, he strums his violin, and one of the Karkinoi in the more distant groups stumbles, blinded.
"Right," mutters the Architect, "Here come the first real soldiers. Probably a distraction, or a test; once the Masters realize you won't die easily and they can't just grab me again, they'll panic, and priorities will shift from 'recapture the prisoner' to 'protect our city.' Which means pretty soon they'll move from offense to defense, and try to literally build us in." "So—we've got a few seconds to plan. Did you set any traps, or set loose any of the prisoners?" he asks, as he idly strums his violin, casting a spell.
Jiator, struggling, claps his skeletal hands together, and the shockwave shatters the golem holding him while knocking shards off of the other three; crystals pulse in the water around him, made of slime quickly solidified into something resembling ice. "A little help?" he calls out. "Unless they think the city itself is in danger, priority one will be catching me again."
"These are the first line of defense," Jiator comments to Anaxian. Playing a single chord on his icy violin, he sends out a shockwave that drills a foot-wide hole through the ice, which he slithers out through. "Can you get through it, or do I need to play a few more chords?" he calls back.
Jiator swims free of the metal cage, reaches the top of Anaxian's burrow tunnel, and stretches out a hand to grasp at the water, freezing it into an icy violin. "...My voice!" he cries out, in surprise and excitement.
This city's lyres were once mine replies Jiator telepathically, still within the silence field. As were its bards. And my wish-stones—but the Mayor took those personally, when he took my phylactery.
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