"I count five possibilities, each more dire than the last. First, we could have unwittingly broken some taboo, and angered Thereus. Second, the centaurs that are foe to Thereus may have made thier move. Third, Levi may have come to this realm, Fourth, Levis succubus may have come through the wards that held her away, and last, and most grim, Rafi and his killers may be upon us. I do not see how that could be possible without magic of their own, but the hellhound they had shows that they are not without arcane resources of their own."
Some weirdness is swallowing this post if I try to post as Stratos. I tried about four times.
"Well enumerated sorcerer. In other words we're f%%!ed."
Shivering and edgy, Isat sinks back into gloom, his mood matching the change in the weather and he maunders self-pityingly under his breath.
"I've failed you all. If we can find the master of this realm, I will ask if he'll take me as a slave to compensate the havoc I have wrought..."
"OOOOOhhh. Give me a break Isat! Move forward, brother. Move forward."
"The redemptive power of slavery is very over-rated. A simple apology is usually better. You did nothing wrong, teacher. We have all been twisted this way and that by the witchcraft of this place. We have all been bent from our nature at least once. I think we should talk of happy things for a while. Of beer and women, and of work done well.
I knew a courtyard where women went to brush their hair and sing. Three of us were working on the roof, and the women knew it, but they pretended not to see us. They put on a little show for us every day. I have never put down tile so reluctantly. we made the job last for three days by cracking tiles, and by taking rot from one tile, and pasting it on another. I can still see them if I close my eyes. Fourteen dark tresses being oiled and combed.
There is much in our own world that is magical. I don't know if it would be improved if these creatures and enchantments came back. Maybe it is good time for the old ways to pass. I just know that Alaric is my enemy, and I will do what I can, in my own small way, to thwart whatever he desires."
"I think we are making good time. Why did Crassus not take us on the path in the first place?" Stratos looks blue with cold. Like most thin men, he has little in the way of insulation.
Now that you are on the path, the woods are less daunting. Your heads are clear. On each side of the marble path, are two lines of iron nails, studded about a foot and a half apart from each other.
You see a few other strange sights as you hustle through the chill air and the silence. A pair of creatures with dragonfly wings kiss each other on a branch, and do not notice you. cobwebs and moss anchor them to their branch. They seem to have been kissing for years. The snow did not touch them.
As you pass a honeysuckle bush, a small group of atomies, dressed in the flowers of the bush, take wing and bustle away.
An old tree seems to turn and watch you all. As you pass, it drags its mess of roots clumsily behind it like a skirt, and crashes back into the woods.
A tree is scored by some sort of horn.
Gorgeous and wistful singing drifts through the trees as you exit the woods. The tower stands ahead, a marble block of crisp white hanging motionless in the air. The view behind is incredible. You can see all the way back to the first forest. You see plumes of dark smoke in the centaur woods. The clouds in the sky glow red with the fires. The path ahead passes through an archway made of brass and old rusted iron. The arch is singularly menacing.
A fear spell washes off you. You have all eaten a visitor's feast. The path of dread will not scare or daunt you. Through the archway, the path ahead looks strangely sinister. It is not dark. It is not crooked. It just looks frighteningly real. The path leads to directly below the collossal block of white marble that seems to be the still fulcrum of this impossible world. Heat shimmers from the top of the tower.
You will be under the tower in a few minutes.
Looks worried and nervous. he keeps glancing back at the burning, then forward to the tower.
"Forward sounds right. Thanks brothers." He tries to shake off his gloom. "Through the arch then."
Consciously pulling himself very upright, Isat marches forward.
Paper squares his shoulders
"Aye. It is time we found our answers."
Walks with Isat
Directly beneath the tower is a square, seventy feet on each side. The square is made entirely of one perfect sheet of onyx. It is inky and dark, but shiny and reflective. The underside of the tower seems solid. It is awkward to look straight upwards, but you find yourselves doing so, instinctively awed by the thousands of tons of smooth polished stone above.
Crassus takes a small knife from his breastplate. He carefully cuts the twine holding his lips together. He trots to the edge of the onyx square, and spits onto the mountainside. He takes a long pull on a waterskin, and bows toward you all.
In a croak, he tries to speak, but fails, as his voice cracks. He frowns, and manages to speak on his second try.
"Lysoskevos the mighty, just and fair ruler of the land of the false sun, protector of the first world, conqueror of death and creator of life, adept of time and space, master of the spirit, author of the compact, and son of Hermes. Here are heroes worthy of your counsel. Here are the ones foretold."
The onyx square drifts silently upward. You can see every part of the realm. the part you have seen before, with its woods, hills, fey threats, streams, cliffs and beaches. There are tiny figures in conflict. The fire sweeps unchecked, with fifteen foot flames biting, cracking and snapping at the trees. Gigantic plumes of white smoke twist and mottle above the smoldering smaller fires that gnaw at the fallen trees behind the main lines of the conflagrations. On the other side of the mountain are other terrains. A desert is host to a village of tents. A jungle holds a strange lighthouse and bubbling mudpools. The points of interest are arranged in a pattern that you can only see now that you are far above the ground. Each monument, temple, mausoleum and shrine stretches along a line, and the lines all connect in a matrix of power. The realm is also a glyph of ley lines.
As the platform rises toward the flawless white tower, the plumes of smoke start to slow their spread, and suddenly they almost stop, moving almost imperceptibly. A drop of sweat falls from Modius' arm, and hangs in the air as it slowly falls. Your pulses slow too, and you find that you are not breathing as you should. Your breaths seem to take minutes, but you can talk as normal. Time has forgotten this place. You will not age while you stand here. The platform continues to rise, and the flat featureless end of the tower above seems to melt away. The platform slows, and stops at the apex of its path. A flight of steps winds around the inside of the tower. There is no handrail or bannister. Balconies ring the room every twenty feet. The walls are thick with shelves of scrolls, books, curiosities and arcane implements. Light issues from thin slits in the walls, as warm and hospitable as sunlight. The place is thus suffused with a golden glow.
At the midpoint of the tower, the stairs cut through a vaulted ceiling.
Trembling slightly, and staring hungrily at the profusion of documents and tomes."We are the most fortunate of men to be here."
"Do you think there will be any food here?"
Trembling slightly, and staring hungrily at the profusion of documents and tomes."We are the most fortunate of men to be here."
Paper looks about
"We shall soon see just how fortunate we turn out to be scholar."
"The son of Hermes? We are in exalted company." Isat falls into the type of obeisance only performed in the presence of the Wise Lord.
"If I had a penny for every son of god...." trails off.
<Modius stands.>
Tal
Tal:
Around the circumference of the vaulted chamber are twelve columns. A fluid rippling starts on the surface of one of the columns closest to the stair. The surface briefly takes on oily rainbow hues, and then takes form as a silk garment draped on a marble arm. The column shifts and sculpts itself into a statuesque woman some nine feet tall. She has plain marble eyes and hair and skin, and a pretty silk toga of intricate floral design. A marble wreath of flowers sits on the white of her sculpted hair. The toga covers her modestly. A marble shortsword breaks the line of the garment from the curve of her hip.
The creature of stone speaks, in a melodic and husky voice. The voice is similar to the huge undead cyclopean horror you faced in the tomb, but it is hard to place why.
"Welcome to the living tomb of Lysoskevevos the wise. He expects you. You will find the maker at the top of this winding stair. Take your ease for a while, before you ascend, for time has little meaning here. I am aware of nothing outside this august tower, but I can answer you plain about the tower itself. When you are ready, go to meet mighty Lysoskevos."
The caryatid column gives a cold but correct bow.
The wise among you can see that it is a personification of Virgo as Flora.
"Lots of books here. Must be worth a few librae."
"Let us not tarry. It would be rude, much as I would love to spend a while with these books. My curiosity about their owner presses more."
Hoarsely
"This is the home of my maker. Don't shame me."
The young centaur looks extremely anxious and tense, like a skittish horse. He picks at the threads of the stitches that used to hold his mouth closed. His lips are ragged and oozing dots of blood from where his blade slipped.
"Horse-Man. Next time you need stitches taken out, Every last one of us has the skills to help you. No need to cut yourself. What did you do that is so bad, anyway?"
Crassus simply stares sullenly at Rufinus.
Isat bows with equal correctness to the caryatid.
"We thank you and your master for your welcome."
Then he turns to Crassus. "If you will allow me, I may ease your wounds. My calling demands that I offer help. If this will shame you in some way I do not understand, I beg that you will tell me."
Crassus moves closer and bows his head so Isat can clean the small cut.
Paper gives the caryatid a stiff Roman bow.
"Thank you for your information."
Isat cleans the deep puncture marks and checks for signs of infection.
Heal on Crassus face (1d20+16=33)
"There will be no damage. Maybe even no scarring."
Never at home in the great outdoors, Isat feels a lot happier in the tower.
"What can you tell us about your creator, Crassus?"
The large marble figure intones
"You are welcome. Lysoskevos the mighty awaits you."
quietly
I know that he is both protector and jailer. I do not dare speak of him in his house.
"The two often go together. You know that in our world there is no place for your kind, but the restriction of this safe haven must still chafe you."
Isat gathers himself together and bows again to the caryatid.
"We've journeyed through life and death to see your master. I think it's time we met."
"The two often go together. You know that in our world there is no place for your kind, but the restriction of this safe haven must still chafe you."
Isat gathers himself together and bows again to the caryatid.
"We've journeyed through life and death to see your master. I think it's time we met."
Paper nods
"Aye Isat, I think it is time we saw who pulls the strings on this journey."
As you ascend the plain white squared spiral stair that winds around the inside of the rectangle, you pass balconies with shelves and shelves of scrolls. The windows that pierce the side walls seem free of glass, but they let in no breeze, and the air is thick and unresponsive. There is very little dust, and all of the troves of documents seem in excellent condition. Every now and then, the literate among you catch sight of small plaques on the shelves that contain strange words in greek, that only Paper truly understands. Like the world around you, this is a mausoleum of magic and myth.
A strange sensation starts in your bellies and your heads. As you ascend, you become lighter. Each movement is somehow easier, but you feel less grounded. It settles, and it is as if you weigh half as much as you normally do. Your steps would carry you in bounds, if you are not careful, but you find your way to the archway at the apex of the twisting stairs.
There is an inscription in the archway from Plato:
As you pass through the arch, the light grows brighter. The room at the centre has no walls. A strange transparent force wraps around it in all directions. There are no ornaments, but there are six low couches cushioned with leather.
On the couch facing you is an old man on the brink of death. Spots on his skin show a canker of some sort. An hourglass of exquisite workmanship, a staff of ivory and gold, a tome, open on an illustrated map of this realm, a goblet of steaming herbs, and a silver dish set in the floor are the only furnishings.
The old man looks at you from his wasted face, but the eyes are bright and happy. He regards you as if you were long-lost family. A scrawny arm, with ringed fingers is above the dark brown blanket he wears, and he beckons to the other couches.
Welcome to my aerie. Please sit. I am Lysoskevos, and you have passed all of my tests. I am truly sorry to have caused the death of your comrade.
You are safe here. Please tell me whence you came. and which of the worlds you come from.
"We came from Constantinople. Do you know that world?"
Isat looks curiously at their host.
"Forgive me, my profession is a constant intrusion on my friends, but I must ask if I can help you."
I am, perhaps in the last hour of my life, but by my art, I have stretched that hour into four centuries. I am beyond the art of mortal physick to cure.
What are your names, and your lines?
"Isat Vastra. My birth is Persian and my profession doctoring. The goddess called me at Eleusis and I have followed her blindly ever since."
Paper bows to the magi formally
"I am Gnaeus Cornelius Papyrus, a son of the Roman Empire. My family has been a branch of the Cornelian gens since the days of the Republic."
I am an adept of the hidden way, I have the stone, and I have the flame. My master is Arhithex, and his master was Uriman of the order of Hermes.
My name is Stratos Kopteros. I am from Athens.
Isat there is blessed with healing powers beyond the mere mortal.
I am also a notary and lawyer, but that is just to pay the bills.
Stratos shows remarkable restraint, and lets the rest speak. He is biting his lip. He looks like a schoolboy eying an unguarded plum tree.
Your worship, I am Rufinus. I am a common labourer. Master Papyrus is our leader, I reckon, and he should speak for us.
Then, Gnaeus Cornelius Papyrus, tell my why you have come here.
"Rufinus is doing himself a great injustice. His birthright and his actions raise him far above his claims. He honours me in learning my craft. We are all as brothers here."