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So we're one session away from finishing RotRL, and I figure to myself, go big or go home.
At the end of the penultimate campaign session, my character the protean-blooded arcanist Il'setsya lost her profane gift and the succubus paramour that went along with it. The following is what I wrote to the GM to describe her actions between that session and the finale one:
After witnessing the planetar Ayruzi either banish or kill Valesh, Il’setsya proceeds to rant incoherently in protean for a solid twenty minutes, stomping her hooves and whipping her tail about and threatening to knock anyone over within its multicolored arc. Anyone trying to calm her down gets a murderous look and a series of symbols over her head that briefly take on the appearance of cartoon versions of herself giving a middle finger.
The ranting and raving then descends into drinking and a furious search for any intoxicants on her person (of which she has none since two of the other PCs had previously and wisely taken away from her). A bottle of rumboozle in her system later and she finally loses it.
“If anyone wants to rest and recover anywhere other than here in Xin-Shalast, tell me now.” Actually bothering to ask anyone else’s opinion at the moment seems to be taking a serious amount of effort on her part. “Because otherwise I’m going to be bailing and getting myself royally messed up, or messing someone else up, or yeah, stuff. Son of a &*(&#* goodytwoshoes planetar emerald skinned well meaning busybody ^&*&@$$… GAH!”
The charisma drain has left her a bitter, angry, spiteful mess of a thing, and after acquiescing to party demands for transportation, she proceeds to bamf out with a planeshift to the Maelstrom, and from there to Galisemni for the evening.
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Nine hours later Il’setsya returns without any fanfare, looking remarkably relaxed, with a look of eerily calm intent on her face. This is probably the first sign that something is up. The second being that she promptly clears herself a space to draw a circle in chalk, sand, and drops of her own blood when she pricks her palm with her dagger from Runeforge. Completing her triumvirate of crazy is when she proceeds to strip naked and sit in the middle of the circle, with a voidworm protean curled about her shoulders and a lit candle of invocation held in her hands, slowly dribbling molten wax on her exposed flesh without so much as a chirp before she starts chanting in protean in singsong fashion.
Moments later a spherical space confined within the periphery of the drawn circle goes oddly translucent, the air seemingly turning to a glistening blue liquid as if she were calling the underlying substance of the Maelstrom into tangible being by her very presence. The air and earth alike shimmer, glisten, ripple, and seethe as if living things as she begins to call out in supplication and request.
“Ssila’mesh’nik the Colorless Lord!”
The candle flame turns wane and transparent, burning ever brighter with a fierce light.
“Il’surrish the Wanderer!”
Cerulean light begins to leak from every orifice of her body and those of the tiny protean curled about her shoulders.
“Mother of Tongues!”
A whispering chorus of voices rises on the wind, indistinct and incoherent, but somehow address each and every creature within a quarter mile.
“Narriseminek the Crownless, Maker of Kings!”
Burn marks and scars flicker in and out of existence across Il’setsya’s flesh.
“Lord of the Insane!”
Il’setsya cackles wildly but otherwise she seems to have that one handled all on her own.
“Lord of Entropy!”
The candle of invocation burns at a fiercely accelerated rate, boiling wax coating her hands and thighs, shimmering like a sheen of newer scales on her skin where it falls.
“Watcher in the Wheel!”
Purple, opalescent eyes emerge from the circle, glancing about and focusing them attention inwards on Il’setsya.
“Zolo of Hungry Teeth!”
Il’setsya smiles, baring a row of jagged, shark-like teeth, flickering in and out of existence moment by moment, replaced by and then replacing her own tiefling-like teeth and tiny fangs.
“All of you I beseech! All of you I invoke! All of you I beg for your favor and aid in the coming battle! All of you I would give of myself, but I am bound to others, and this you know.”
Il’setsya begins to smile as glistening letters erupt within the air. A cloud of names drifts through the substance of the void, each linked to others by tenuous, sinuous threads, and all of them linked to Il’setsya by the same gossamer chains of chaotic protoplasm.
The next words from Il’setsya’s mouth grate upon the ears, and standing within a dozen feet of her circle causes blood to leak from your eyes and ears. It is protean yes, but yet not. Older. The first tongue of Chaos that echoed through the Deep when there was only the Deep and nothing else.
“Watchers of Galisemni, Seven in all I call to you!”
“Frozen Lords of Chaos wrapped in bonds of Regret and Sorrow I call upon you!”
“Lords of Paradox and owners of my soul I call upon you!”
“Wyrms of Jandalay!”
“You who molded me like clay!”
“You who made me as I should be!”
“You who took my offered life upon the Wall!”
“You who erased the me that was from the pages of history and named me Il’setsya!”
“You who cracked the gates of the Abyss and in your glorious, brilliant hubris made this reality what it has become, and You Seven who have suffered ever since, I call upon you!”
“Chorus of Malignant Symmetry I call upon you!”
The ground below Il’setsya erupts in a column of blue light, obscuring her form, and only after the light has faded, is what emerges visible.
...
What emerges shall be interesting. :D