| Stip |
| 1 person marked this as a favorite. |
I am about to start GMing a Wrath of the Righteous Campaign (first time GMing in about a decade). I've been playing with the same core group of people for almost twenty years, so we have a nice comfortable dynamic. I really love the WotR story, but one thing that has always bothered me a little about about adventure paths is that there is so much excellent backstory that PCs never fully experience, and so characters and encounters typically mean much more to the GM than the player. To rectify that, I plan to write either a prologue or a cut scene before each session that narratives the notes and foundations we have in the adventure path. Sometimes these will be directly related to the upcoming session and sometimes it will be something that may not pay off for months. But if I do this right it should greatly enhance the meaning and significance of encounters and events. On the off chance people find these interesting or helpful I'll post them here. Feedback and other ideas are welcome.
The first story (in all probability the longest) was the first thing I gave them to read, even before the players guide). I set it two years after the campaign will begin, and it is the alternate reality where the PCs fail and the demons win. I loved the what if scenario at the end of book VI, and I wanted to make the epic stakes of the campaign really clear from jump. I am using a watered down (at best) version of the mythic rules, but am really planning to have the PCs be outgunned and undermanned throughout the campaign. We kind of steamrolled our last campaign a bit (though it was a great time) and I am looking to give people a challenge. The tone will be more Terminator than triumphant. There are a few references to our prior Pathfinder campaigns (Kingmaker, Shattered Star, Hells Rebels, and Mummy's mask) and the deaths of their PCs, so some specific names/events are there for their benefit.
I also saw this as a chance to address a few of the issues I have in the (otherwise truly excellent) campaign narrative. In this particular case, book V never really sat right with me. I'm not sure why the PCs, in the process of trying to save Golarion, would take a detour to rescue Iomadae's herald. This story (and the cosmology I am inventing to go along with it) makes the herald the campaign catalyst and hopefully makes Iomadae a sympathetic character beyond being a God. So when the time comes the players will be invested in his fate above and beyond the PCs.
Anyway, if anyone happens to read I hope you enjoy it. I'll keep posting them in this thread. And thank you to everyone over the years who has filled this forum with great ideas I plan to steal from liberally and shamelessly
| Stip |
| 2 people marked this as a favorite. |
The End and the Beginning
Year: 4725
Silence lay heavy throughout Iomedae’s realm, unsettling those who could hear it. Normally the air was thick with sound - the clang and clatter of her archon armies readying for battle, or returning from campaign, accompanied as always by choirs of angelic voices. The armies were present, but there was no joyful noise. Just hushed, furtive whispers, as if to raise a voice would diminish the gravity of the moment or worse, draw attention to the speaker as if they, somehow, had the answers. And it was an angry silence, colored by strange, discordant feelings. Powerless, impotence, uncertainty, a sense of profound unfairness. Feelings not regularly present within the celestial seat of justice itself.
Golarion was dying, soon to be overrun by the abyssal hordes of Deskari and Baphomet, or laid to waste by the forces of the Archdevil Asmodeus, gathering in Cheliax to oppose the ascension of these demon lords to Godhood. It was clear that something must be done, but no one knew what, least of all Iomedae. To unleash her own host upon Golarion, to oppose the demons and devils, would accomplish little more than making her complicit in its destruction. No prime world could survive the storm and stress of full-fledged planer war. For all her power, all her righteousness, Iomedae could do nothing but bear witness. It was not enough.
Within the great cathedral at the heart of her realm, Iomedae the Inheritor stood vigil. The ceilings rose to impossible heights, covered in moving stained glass windows depicting the Acts of Iomedae. Before her lay her oracular well, illuminated in soft, golden light that held the colors of the glass the light shone through. In those waters Iomedae could see everything, except that which was shielded by the oppositional forces of Hell or the Abyss. The surface of the water was calm, and in its placid stillness Iomedae looked upon the continent of Avistan. Had she wanted, Iomedae could have narrowed her focus to a country, a village, a person, or even the stitching on their cloak, but her gaze encompassed the entirety of the continent. At least the parts she could still see. As always, the Worldwound was blocked from her sight, and as the stain of the Abyss spread across the continent, more and more she found her vision occluded.
Her gaze did not waver as her most powerful servitors entered the viewing chamber mid argument, unaware or unconcerned with how their voices carried in the silent stillness. Jingh, the wheel of holy fire, lagged several paces behind the others, spinning faster and faster, its flames running through the full spectrum of colors. Although it did not speak, its agitation was clear. Peace Through Vigilance, the celestial golden dragon, and Saint Lymirina, the eagle headed high priestess of the faith, were in a heated argument with the Hand of the Inheritor, who served as Iomedae’s Herald just as she once performed the same function for Aroden. Before her ascension. Before his fall.
“Of course none of us want this, but there are laws, and they must be obeyed, no matter the cost” Lymirin said, clearly not for the first time.
“The sacrifice is too great, the outcome too uncertain. Would you add this to the Inheritor’s grief?” asked Peace Through Vigilance, looking towards Iomedae, awaiting her intervention.
The Herald took his place at Iomedae’s side, the rest of her inner court falling sliding into place around the divine scrying pool. Iomedae did not look up, did not even seem to notice them. Her gaze remained locked onto Golarion, and the stain spreading inexorably across the face of world. It was as if she was determined to commit every foot of land, every living soul, to memory. Before they were gone.
They stood together, in strained silence, each wanting to offer words of comfort but knowing none. Eventually the Herald spoke.
“My lady, I would say I have no wish to open old wounds, but these gape open still. They may never close. I come asking for a boon, but before I ask, I would review once more the events of the last two years. It is…relevant.”
Iomedae did not respond, did not even move. The Herald waited a respectful moment and then waved a hand over the well. The image in the waters changed, zooming in on northern Golarion, and as the focus narrowed the sickly gray stain retreated, pulling back to its point of origin in the Worldwound. The image froze on the Worldwound and the crusader nation of Mendev. Along their shared border was a glowing line that seemed to fence in the Abyssal corruption of the Worldwound. The line was anchored by recurring hubs of power, giving off a brilliant white light. The wardstones, created by the Herald himself, on the order of Iomadae, almost 100 years ago.
“Must we revisit this, Hand” Peace Through Vigilance snapped, lashing her tail in frustration. Must you subject her to this?” Normally there was laughter in the dragon’s eyes, but the heat of her gaze was as intense as her fire.
The Herald met her gaze without flinching. “Revisiting implies that at some point the matter was closed.” The two of them looked back into the well, their posture stiff and tense as if steeling themselves for what they knew was coming. Suddenly, without the fanfare or warning that the moment surely deserved, the wardstone in the city of Kenabres blinked out. A moment later the light returned, surging with a brightness that would have blinded any mortal gazing upon it. There was a second blinding flash, this time encompassing the entire line of wardstones, and then the border went dark. The stain of the Worldwound, no longer penned in by the wardstones, began to expand. The armies of the Abyss were on the move. Punctuating the gray miasma were points of purple light. Just a few at first, but more came pouring out of the heart of the Worldwound. The Herald began his grave narration.
“Perhaps it would have been possible to withstand the combined demonic forces of Deskari and Baphomet, if not for the work of Areelu, Hepzamirah, and the Nahyndrian elixirs. But there were none who could stand against these seemingly indestructible demons. Within two weeks, all the cities of Mendev were overrun. Within a month the armies of Aponavicius had taken Numeria, turning the Technic League’s weapons against them.”
“They might have held out longer had the League’s superweapon worked,” commented Peace Through Vigilance.
“But it didn’t” replied the Herald, and their failure destroyed the city of Starfall.
“Even were the demons sent back to the Abyss, the winds have already carried that sickly air across Golarion. I fear nothing will grow in the north for centuries,” murmured Saint Lymirin.
The Herald focused on the well, and the image shifted to the west, tracking the movements of the gray abyssal cloud spreading across Golarion. “Khorramzadeh, the Storm King swiftly conquered Ustalav, laying waste to its fields and people.”
“Under different circumstances watching the vampires fight alongside humans might have been touching, even if it was just to protect their food supply,” observed Peace Through Vigilance.
At this the Herald offered a wan smile. Indeed. “And while some of the court fled south, the people of Ustalav and Numeria were dragged in chains back to Iz and Rascilard, fuel for the soul forges. Within three months the Storm King had overrun the Hold of Belkzen. Resistance was fierce, the orcs proud and unwilling to relinquish what they worked so hard to build. But a few small victories cannot stem the inexorable tide, and some of the more savage tribes were quick to turn on their kin, pledging their allegiance to the Abyss.”
The Herald paused, as a low thrumming that was barely noticeable before became louder and louder. It reached a crescendo, there was a flash of darkness that briefly covered the north, and as the light returned the jagged rift at the center of the Worldwound doubled in size – a gaping, expansive scar - while the gray abyssal haze took on increasingly miasmatic qualities. The Herald continued to recite the toll.
“Mendevian refugees flooded into Brevoy, further dividing an already fractured kingdom that never really had a chance to begin with. It did not stand long. Nor did the River Kingdoms. The nation of Verdant, protected by King Heavenly and his mighty court, held out for as long as they could. They exacted a heavy tool, but Parabol fell within 6 months of the wardstone’s failure. Aponavicius personally slaying the King. With his death what was left of the eastern resistance ended.
The Herald moved his hand, and the image shifted to the Northwest. “The Mammoth Lords held off longer than expected all things considered,” Lymirin observed.
“An army of super demons crossing the mountains is a great incentive to put aside your tribal differences.” Peace Through Vigilance noted.
“Just so” replied the Herald, and we know the population centers to the south, east, and west are richer targets. But still, they could not stem the tide, and in a matter of weeks half their realm was lost. The White Witches of Irrisen and the Linnorm Kings have entered into an alliance and no doubt believe themselves capable of turning back the Abyss, perhaps claiming the lands of the Mammoth Lords in the process.”
At that Lymirin shook her head. But they will not join with the others, and so they will not succeed.”
“No, said the Hand. “They will not.”
The image zoomed out, the wider field of vision revealing that the grey stain of the Worldwound now covering the entirety of Northeast Golarion. The image panned south, to the great forests of the elven land of Kyonin.
“Skilled in guerrilla war and knowing their land intimately, the elves managed to hold back Aponavicius armies, until an alliance was made with the great demon Treerazor. Hopelessly overmatched, the elves have once again fled Golarion – this time closing the aiudara gates behind them forever.” The well zoomed in, the court watching in silence as a group of elves stayed behind to destroy the Sovyrian Stone as the rampaging abyssal horde entered the courtyard, the poisoned rain of Starfall robbing them of their final glimpse of the sun.
Jingh’s flames flashed through a complex series of color and heat.
“Agreed” replied Lymirin. “Even if they wished to return, there is nothing for them to return to.”
The Herald continued “The West Encarthan Confederacy and the Inner Sea Alliance held back Deskari’s forces, at least for a while. Lastwall, Moulthune, and Nirmathas contained the Storm King’s armies at the Ustlav borders, but so he turned his attention to Varisia. Armed with the Shattered Star, Pathfinders Grote and Sark rallied the kingdom, but Areelu Vorlesh took to the field, and the Pathfinders were annihilated. Within 8 months of the wardstones’ destruction, Varisia had fallen, and Nidal soon after. And against the combined might of the Storm King’s armies and Vorlesh’s magics, the West Encarthan Confederacy was destroyed within the year.”
The Herald nodded, and the image in the well shifted back to the east. “The Dwarves of the Five King Mountains sealed themselves underground, conceding the surface settlements and cities to Aponavicius, and so now the combined Abyssal armies, led by their mightiest generals and an ever-increasing number of Nahyndrian infused demons, were opposed only by the Inner Sea Alliance of Cheliax, Andoran, Taldor, and Absalom. The combined Armies of Andoran and Taldor moved through Galt, dividing the country between them and doing their best to pen the demons in. All of Golarion had awakened to this new existential threat, and powers across the Inner Sea rose to meet it. But every battle sees more heroes ended then created.
“Under Lady Rian’s leadership the Iron Scarab and the armies of Osirion extracted a heavy toll”, Peace through Vigilance insisted, as if trying to convince herself that one could win a war of attrition against the Abyss.
“This is true,” the Herald replied, but in the end they too, were consumed.”
Jingh spun in patterns too complex for mortal eyes to follow. “Agreed,” said Peace Through Vigilence, “slaying Diurgez Broodlord was a fitting last act for Jasper Ra. Among Deskari’s Balors he was second perhaps only to the Storm King.”
“I wish he was coming over to us,” noted Siant Lymirin. “Pharasma won’t know what to do with him.”
The Herald smiled briefly at that, though the funeral air quickly returned. “The Andoran and Taldor resistance is about to collapse. And Khorramzadeh’s forces are preparing to swarm into Cheliax. Mountains cannot stop teleportation, and they have already taken Ravounel. The Song of Silver has gone silent.”
The field narrowed its focus, replaying the final moments of the Battle of Kintargo, the last major engagement in the rolling conquest of Golarion. Ren Kinney lay bleeding to death on the roof of the Opera House, refusing to let go of the banner of the Silver Ravens, his final song an elegy for Golarion. Standing over him, fighting off the swarming demons trying to claim the banner, was a young Tiefling girl wielding a crackling rapier, and a rampaging dwarven barbarian laying waste to demon after demon, only standing because he was too enraged to notice the severity of his wounds. The sky blackened, and the Storm King plummeted to the roof of the Opera House, the impact of his landing obliterating half the building. The remaining half held for a moment, and then the earth underneath it opened up, swallowing the last surviving Silver Ravens. Peace Through Vigilance nodded appreciatively as the tiefling managed to give the Storm King the finger before vanishing into the dust. The Storm King gestured, and the demon hordes descended into the rubble to ensure there were no survivors. As Khorramzadeh surveyed the devastation, a craftsman admiring his work, a succubus approached, cradling a small male child, its eyes feverishly bright as it took in the devastation around him. “My lord”, she said, bowing before him, “I think you will enjoy what we found in the wreckage of the Silver Raven’s underground headquarters. This prize was guarded only by an unremarkable old woman. The Storm King gazed upon the child in the succubus’s arms, and smiled…
The Herald waved his arm, and the image panned out, again encompassing the full sweep of Avistan. He continued. “The Thrunes know, effective though they are, the Hellknights are not enough. Even now, agents of Asmodeus finalize negotiations with the Thrunes. They will not stand by and let the forces of the Abyss consume an entire prime world. Cheliax marches into Isger, and they will conquer its people, and sacrifice them in numbers vast enough to power unholy rituals that will allow devils to enter Golarion in force. No one will survive that conflagration. Committing our own armies, would only hasten the demise.”
At that Iomedae turned slowly to her Herald, her knuckles white as her grip cracked the enchanted stone lip of the well. She spoke for the first time in days, her voice raw from anguish and disuse.
“What would you have me do?” Were I still mortal I could fight. Were I an angel I could challenge Aponavicius or the Storm King, or set my power against Areelu Vorlesh. I could contest Baphomet or Deskari themselves, foolish though that might be. But I am a GOD!” she snarled, the light in the great hall growing dark. “I overflow with power and yet I am impotent. I am forbidden from manifesting directly on the prime by strictures more ancient than the Gods themselves. Perhaps if one of the Demon Lords attempts to seize the Star Stone I could intervene, but Deskari is too smart for that. He and Baphomet do not need it, and will not risk the wrath of the Pantheon. They have other paths to true divinity – one paved in the ritualistic sacrifice of an entire world.”
She turned to face her court, and the desperate plea in her eyes was more terrifying than all the horrors just witnessed. She stared up into the endless vaulted ceiling, looking for answers. But Aroden was dead, and no one hears the prayers of a God. She was shouting now, her voice cracking the stone of the cathedral. Somewhere above there was the sound of shattering glass. “You look to me to make this right, but I do not know what to do, and so all I can do is nothing! Nothing but watch my world get consumed by Abyssal darkness.”
At that the Herald put his hand on Iomedae’s, and the gesture seemed to calm her. The sky lightened, and the stillness returned. The Herald began to speak, softly at first, but with a rising urgency. “My Lady, you cannot act. We know this, and we know why. But I can. We know the exact moment the world ended. And Jingh has made me aware of…ancient magics. I can travel back to that moment. I can change it. I can fix this!”
Iomedae eyes widened in horror. “No! I cannot ask you to do that. The cost...surely Jingh has told you.”
“Jingh has told all of us,” Peace Through Vigilance replied. “There cannot be two identical souls existing at the same moment in time. Immediately after you manifest, you will be obliterated from existence.”
“If I can resist for just a moment, I can do what must be done. And I can. I must. I will!” the Herald insisted.
Lymirin followed. “Hand, there are laws that run deeper than magic, the bedrock substance of the planes itself. Do this, and the version of you that remains will suffer, and suffer horribly. You will lose everything. You will become that which you most despise. The multiverse will make of you such a lesson so that it will be millennia until someone is foolish enough to try this again!”
Iomedae took the Herald’s hand in her own, and looked him in the eye. Her voice softened. “My dear friend, I will not ask this of you. These are the foundational laws of the multiverse. They cannot be violated, no matter the cost.”
The Herald returned her gaze. “My Lady, you are not the Goddess of Law. You are the Goddess of Justice. Your entire existence has been spent in the service of that end, as a mortal, and as my Goddess. The end of Golarion, the ascension of Deskari and Baphomet, the lives of countless millions sacrificed. That is not justice. We cannot allow this to happen. And I have found a way!”
Iomedae’s grip on her Herald tightened, and her voice allowed for no dissent. “I forbid it. I will not consign you to damnation.” Iomedae was dangerously close to unveiling her power. The rest of her court found themselves instinctively bowing. But the Herald remained resolute.
“My Lady, you misunderstand why I am here. Jingh and I have already begun preparing the ritual, and my soul has been committed. There is no going back I am not seeking your permission, for I knew you would not give it. I am instead here to beg for your forgiveness, and, perhaps, your blessing, though I do not deserve it.”
Iomedae stared at her Herald for a long time, her grip slackening, eyes slowly welling with tears. Eventually a sad smile graced her face. “My faithful Hand, it is I who do not deserve you. You have my blessing. Of course you have it. Thank you. Thank you for doing what I cannot.”
And with that, Iomedae turned and embraced the Hand. As she held him close she whispered in his ear “Thank you for this gift you have given me. Thank you for a debt I cannot possibly repay. I will forever strive to be worthy of it.”
Time moves differently in the presence of a God, and the embrace lasted both a moment and an eternity. But eventually the Herald stepped back and looked upon the face of his Goddess one last time. “You will always be worthy of it. There is no debt. This is a gift, freely given.” He turned to his companions. “My time is short. It has been and honor. Continue to serve her well.” And before they could respond the Hand of the Inheritor turned and left the chamber, Jingh flying closely behind him.
The stillness returned. Saint Lymirin and Peace Through Vigilance turned back to stare at the creeping darkness scarring the face of Golarion. A single tear from Iomedae fell into the water, but the surface did not ripple. At the site of the impact the grey haze dissipated, the tear of a goddess holding back the darkness. But just for a moment. The stain returned. Iomedae sighed deeply, straightened her posture, and resumed her vigil. Peace Through Vigilance sidled up next to her, and lashed her tail around Iomedae’s leg in a gesture of comfort.
After a moment Saint Lymirin looked up. “My Lady, forgiven me, but all this just to alter one moment? Even if The Hand is successful the odds are…staggering. This is impossible. It is not enough.
Iomedae stared at the map of Golarion, and watched the darkness envelop Andorran and Taldor. It began making its inexorable way towards Absalom. No matter how she focused, her sight could not penetrate the gray darkness. After a long while she replied.
“It is a chance. That is enough.”
| Stip |
In terms of where this is going - the herald is sacrificing his soul to travel back in time to the moment at the end of Book I where the wardstone is destroyed. In the narrative timeline depicted above the PCs fail and Golarion is lost. The Herald's intervention, using ancient and forbidden magics, will intervene and ensure that when the stone is destroyed its energies are transferred to the PCs rather than corrupting the crusaders on the border. This will destroy the herald from the original timeline and curse the one in the new timeline (which will pay off later when he is captured). I plan to have the herald be the person who gives the PCs the devotion point boons at the end of book I - and if the PCs mention that they just saw him moments ago he will have no idea what they are talking about.
| Stip |
This second prologue is about Arueshalae, who has an incredible backstory that I want the PCs to fully appreciate. Our campaign starts next week, but we are likely only getting on session in between now and August (kids, travel, etc) so there is plenty of time to work on the third
Prologue II: Try Not to Breathe
6 Erastus, 4705
Arueshalae rolled over, arched her back, and stretched, her movements languid and unhurried. She smiled at the dying crusader next to her, a craftsman surveying her work, and felt immense satisfaction in a job well done, as she always did. Not that it was difficult. The seduction and corruption of these mortals was all too easy, but that hardly mattered. The challenge was not the point after all, even after 70 years of predation in the Worldwound. It was the assertion of dominance, the spread of corruption, the act itself that mattered. And with that reminder, she quickly said a prayer and performed the rites of obeisance to Nocticula, demon lord of Succubi, and her patron.
Arueshalae absentmindedly looked around the hollow they sheltered in. The ash storm still raged outside, winds howling, the air thick and choked. It would have been a problem, had she needed to breathe. The roots around them crawled with yellow, wriggling larva, and the ever-present stench of blight. She idly wondered how any of these humans could think of anything carnal in an environment so intentionally repulsive to their sensibilities, but then, she supposed, that was her power – the power of her kind. “Oh help me mister, I’m lost and scared” she murmured to herself, her voice pitched up from its normal throaty purr. “You sure are strong. You’ll protect me, won’t you. Won’t the demons get us in here? It’s so cold in here, will you keep me warm…” She smiled wickedly, flexing her wings as the end of her tail traced up and down her leg – a pleasant sensation, as it always was. She glanced into the pool of stagnant water beside her and admired her impossibly beautiful reflection. She inhaled deeply, savoring her heady scent, taking pleasure in her power.
Bored, now that the work was done, she sat up and began rooting through the crusader’s pack. There were the usual supplies, which were of no interest (though they never brought enough. In their hubris these crusaders always assumed a foray into the Worldwound was a straight, calculable, line). Nestled in the pack was a piece of paper. She unfolded it – a passable drawing of her crusader friend and what she assumed was his family. The woman next to him was not unattractive. His wife, presumably. There were two small children. No, three – she initially missed the baby in the woman’s arms. She felt a brief pang of regret that they would never know of his betrayal, only that he was lost to the Worldwound. She crumpled up the paper and threw it out into the storm, where the wind carried it to an unknown fate. She returned to her rummaging. A few potions, an oddly shaped four-pointed blade of unfamiliar design, and a black and purple metallic symbol of a butterfly on a silver chain. The craftsmanship was beautiful, and the succubus made a note to take it with her. A souvenir of the evening’s activities.
The crusader (he never even gave her his name. Or maybe he did, and she couldn’t be bothered to remember) had been murmuring to himself since she revealed her true form, lost in some fever dream. She waited, as she always did, until after the effect of her kiss had taken hold. It was sweeter that way – to be able to look into his eyes and watch him recognize the magnitude of his error, the impending arrival of his own damnation, the corruption of his soul, and be powerless to resist. To be so caught up in the moment that you embraced despite the consequences – to know that it was wrong and still press forward, driven by an inexorable hunger. Lust is a beautiful thing, the perfect complement to human weakness, a celebration of her power. She smiled to herself, as she often did, as she half-listened to his dying words, a prayer to some God she wasn’t familiar with – not one of the ones common to the Mendevian locals.
His voice trailed off, though his lips still moved. A particularly wicked thought occurred to her then. What if she were to steal inside his mind, and violate even these final, private moments. It was not something she had ever done before, and she found herself aroused at the thought of such intimate corruption. But what was Arueshalae if not a pioneer? It is why she crossed through to Golarion, after all. She focused on her victim, pushing past his surface thoughts, willing herself to go deeper.
And just like that she was someplace new, far removed from the corrupt hollow and rotting air of the Worldwound. She was floating in blackness, images swirling around her – a lifetime of memories all rushing past in a frenzied attempt to be relived, remembered, before it was too late. She floated into the one closest to her.
She found herself in a barracks, looking at other crusaders, listening to a briefing – something about a family kidnapped by demons and a rescue attempt on the other side of the Wardstone line. She smiled. For all she knew she may have been the cause. But it was so hard to keep track of these brief, insignificant lives. She busied herself for a moment altering the memories – poisoning these final thoughts and turning lifelong friends and allies into bitter, jealous rivals – stealing those last moments of comfort so that the man spent his dying moments truly alone. She worked quickly with the practiced hand of a professional, savoring each betrayal, each violation, with a level of intimacy she had never experienced before. Delicious fun!
She moved onto another memory – her host crawling into bed alongside a familiar looking woman. Ahh, that’s right – the woman from that drawing. The wife. Arueshalae concentrated and the image changed. The crusader now stood in the doorway of the room, looking at his wife in bed with another man – his best friend, debasing and degrading herself beneath his rough ministrations. With a millennium of experience to draw upon, Arueshalae knew how to paint a particularly vivid scene, and she was nothing if not the consummate artist.
Although she did not breathe, the air nevertheless began to feel stale, and Arueshalae took this as a sign that the crusader’s death was eminent. She turned to exit the memory, but found herself blocked by some unseen force. She pushed harder, fear rising within her, and the force began to take form – a cloud of butterflies swarming around her. Arueshalae snarled, and focused her power, but the cloud simply flowed alongside it, denying her the purchase. She could not move through. The room began to contract, and a disembodied filled the room.
“Hello and well met, my curious friend.” The speaker was female, and the tone was friendly, though the voice had a subtle edge to it, like a predator’s smile. “A succubus who dares to dream? How intriguing. A poor host I would be if I did not offer you a tour. Let us explore together but please, no touching. This is a private, sacred space, and it does not require your particular artistry, Arueshalae.”
“Who are you? What is this?” Arueshalae demanded, doing her best to maintain her composure. The voice did not answer, but the butterflies parted and Arueshalae rushed into the gap, fleeing the dream a moment before it collapsed into nothingness. She had no idea what would happen if she found herself trapped in a dead memory, and no wish to find out.
She found herself in the same room, but a new memory. Again, she stood over the bed looking down at the crusader’s wife, this time flanked by his two children who clung to him in wonder. She was drenched in sweat, exhausted but at peace. A woman he had not noticed standing beside the bed thrust something into his arms. He looked down at the screaming child. Her son. No, his son. This child was nothing to her. Arueshalae was having trouble breathing. She turned, but this time there were no butterflies – just the gap. She ran through…
And found herself in yet another memory, the couple exchanging their vows. The air felt closer, and there was a weight and pressure to it that that made Arueshalae feel alien to herself. She did not stay to watch. She just wanted out. She spun around and once more stepped through the space between dreams.
This time she found herself in the woods with one of the children, watching him sight down a bow, aiming at a deer 100 paces away. The child released, and Arueshalae was filled with an overwhelming sense of pride. But no, not pride. Pride was a familiar emotion. This was different, somehow. And Arueshalae couldn’t breathe. In a rising panic, she turned and fled.
Arueshalae crashed from memory to memory, from dream to dream, her body starved for air it did not need, her mind reeling under wave after crushing wave of emotions she could not name and did not understand. She felt assaulted, violated, powerless, and above all terrified.
She found herself in a vast temple, decorated with the same butterfly motif that had been haunting her throughout this nightmare. But no, the temple wasn’t vast. Looking around, struggling to focus, she realized that the space itself was rather modest. So why did it feel so overwhelming? Horrified, she realized there were no doors. Before her was an alter, and she found herself (no, not her, the host she was trapped her. She forced herself to remember) kneeling before a priest. He was performing rites she did not understand, could not follow, his voice impossibly loud in her ears. She found herself suffocating under the weight of something powerful, ancient, and yet distantly familiar. The pain was unbearable. Something snapped, and Arueshalae screamed.
“I do not want this. Let me OUT!”
The walls of the temple exploded into a shower of butterflies, and Aruesahlae’s eyes slammed open. Gasping for breath, she scrambled to her feet and spun around. She was back in the hollow. The crusader’s body lay still next to her. He was no longer breathing. The disembodied voice spoke again, fangs bared, the harsh intimacy shared between predator and prey in the moment before the bite.
“Reflect on what you have seen. Thus ends your lesson.”
And then it was gone, the presence withdrawn. She was alone. She could breathe. And for the first time in millennia, Arueshalae began to weep. Long silent sobs that stretched out for an eternity.
| Stip |
| 1 person marked this as a favorite. |
I've written two more of these, probably the last ones I'll write for book I (my group plays once a month for a long day, but we missed some summer sessions. I suspect we'll wrap book I in November. This third prologue imagines the opening of the portal at Threshold. I condensed the history to make it more of a dramatic moment than a gradual unfolding. I also wanted to introduce Suture, Opon, and Wiiver to the players before book VI. This won't pay off for two years, but it'll make those encounters more meaningful, hopefully. I also wanted to introduce Areelu prior to the PCs encountering her at the end of book I.
Prologue III: Threshold
Year: 4606
The tower of Threshold was visible across Northmounds, a five-pronged stone spike rising from the High Carins, towering over the surrounding outbuildings that housed the wardens. The sky was dark, angry, taking on an unnatural deep red hue, flecked with orange and purple. There was a faint buzzing on the wind, increasingly common throughout the Northmounds over the past several years. Small portals would open throughout Sarkoris, disgorge a handful of insectoid demons, and then close. It was hard not to blame the arcane practitioners sealed in the tower, but the leaders of Sarkoris assured a nervous populace that the magic practiced in the tower could not escape it. That was how it kept Sarkoris safe. That was its purpose.
The wardens stationed on top of the 4 spires ringing Threshold glanced nervously at each other, blowing their hands, stomping their feet, and taking what measures they could against the perpetual wind and cold. A certain degree of magical feedback was not uncommon, given the tower’s permanent ‘guests.’ The most powerful arcane practitioners of Sarkoris, too dangerous to kill, too much a threat against the religious order of the nation to be allowed to roam free, were housed inside. Comfortable quarters, access to research materials, but magically sealed off from the rest of the nation. Forever.
Within the tower’s lower levels, Opon was in the final throes of a magical ritual that had taken almost a full 24 hours to complete. He looked at his two companions, locked in their own casting, spread out around an open chamber covered floor to ceiling in magical glyphs they had spent six years researching – not long after Areelu Vorlesh arrived at Threshold and persuaded Opon and his companion to join in her search for an escape. Wivver Noclan’s purple robes looked resplendent, as always, though his Tian features betrayed his exhaustion. Still, he was determined to finish the ritual, the day’s casting clearly taking its toll on the elderly wizard.
Areelu, on the other hand, seemed as energized as she was the moment they began, her eyes feverishly bright as she threw herself into the work with the same passion and intensity she approached everything. Opon was struck, as he often was, by how much he loved her, and how she made his imprisonment in Threshold almost worth it. She was stunningly beautiful, and fiercely brilliant. For all the arcane might of Wivver, and Opon’s own abilities, it was Areelu who had discovered the planer thinness surrounding Threshold, Areelu who spent years guiding their research, their efforts to further weaken that barrier, Areelu who hatched the plan for their eventual escape from Threshold into the Astral Plane, where they would follow the River of Souls to their freedom, and the rest of their lives together. They were so close. A gilded cage is still a cage, and Opon knew Areelu did not thrive in captivity.
With a final outpouring of arcane might they finished this stage of the ritual. The dormant glyphs filling the chamber surged to life, casting the room in n dull orange glow, and Wivver and Opon collapsed, exhausted. Areelu, though engaged in even more complex casting than Wiiver and Opon, seemed invigorated by the work – breathless with anticipation rather than fatigue. A silence descended into the chamber, no sound other than the pounding of their hearts, heavy breath, and there, almost at the edge of Opon’s hearing, a background susurrus, the volume increasing as the ritual progressed, like the sound of buzzing wings.
Areelu turned to her companions. “We have almost done it.” She was gleeful. Triumphant. Radiant to Opon’s eyes. “Can you feel it, the thinness between the planes? Soon, the portal opens. Soon, we’ll have our vengeance.” At the thought of vengeance her tone changed, practically purring as she savored every syllable.
Wivver had pointed out to Opon in quiet moments, that he sensed a darkness lurking within her. And in those moments, Wivver confessed, it terrified him. Areelu was not a woman of half measures and approached everything she did with a single-minded obsession that would have bordered on mania if it were not so calculated and precise. In all his long years, Wivver had never met anyone who so perfectly walked the line between explosive chaos and total control. And while he was loathe to admit it, Opon saw it too. Something that could be overcome, he was certain, but still there. Still a threat. He sighed. “My love, escape will be enough. We have labored for years to conjure this gate, to defeat the dimensional locks that trap us here. We will have beaten them. We will have accomplished the impossible. We will be free. Why risk imprisonment, or death?” He was not pleading, not quite, but Opon was clearly unsettled, resigned to an argument he had knowingly put off for way too long, one he had hoped, without reason, would resolve itself.
Wivver nodded in agreement, and added in his familiar pedantic tones. “Sarkoris is a theocratic backwater ruled by superstitious barbarians. Let us just leave it behind, as we planned. We beat them by escaping. If we return for them next time it won’t be imprisonment in Threshold. It will be death. No one, no matter how powerful, how ambitious, can destroy an entire nation. Not even you, Vorlesh.”
Areelu’s smile never left her face, but it did not reach her eye. She stared at her companions – her features hard, her voice icy cold. Opon had to fight the urge to look away. “The Sarkorians have hunted the god callers to near extinction. They have burned witches. Terrorized those with fear. Imprisoned those without.” She turned to Wivver. “Sarkoris is the greatest nation of the north. People with our power could have unlocked its true potential. We should have ruled it. We deserved to rule it! Instead, these superstitious peasants have locked in this accursed tower. Like we were ill trained dogs banished to the yard!” She was practically snarling now. “Too afraid to let us be free, too terrified of us to kill us. That weakness, that hesitation, will be their undoing.”
It may have been Opon’s imagination, but it seemed that the runes were glowing just a little brighter. Areelu stood straight then, abandoning her habitual languid slouch that highlighted the best elements of her figure. It was easy to forget that she was taller than either of them. “I will claim what is mine,” the words delivered with such conviction that they seemed impossible to dispute – one could no sooner argue that water wasn’t wet. She approached Opon, cupped his face in her hand, and kissed him deeply. “Thank you, my love.” She looked at Wivver. “Thank you, my friend. I could not have done this without you both. There is but one final step.” And this time, Opon was certain, the runes were brighter.
Wivver sniffed the air. It felt different, somehow, as if a veil had been torn away, something kept deliberately hidden slowly coming into focus as the ritual neared completion. “Something is wrong,” he offered, looking around the chamber nervously, as if seeing it for the first time. “This portal, this is not the magical signature of the Astral Planes.” He concentrated a moment. “This feels like…the Abyss.”
Areelu’s mouth curled up in a sly, almost beatific smile that was a parody of childlike innocence. “Does, it dear Wivver?” I cannot imagine why.”
Wivver quested further with his magical senses. “And this magic – the permanency of it. Why would this gate need to be permanent for us to escape?” He stared at Areelu, and then Opon, as if seeing them for the first time. His features hardened, and he took a step backwards, flexing his fingers to remove the stiffness left by the day’s casting.
Opon stepped away from Areelu, looking at her carefully. He opened his mouth to speak, each word coming out slowly, carefully, as if he were placing stones to shore a foundation moments from collapsing.
“Areelu…what have you done?”
With that question Areelu’s affect shifted, like an actor changing a costume. No, that wasn’t quite it. Like paint removed from a canvas that revealed a much darker tableau hidden underneath. Not a transformation – a restoration. What had seemed spontaneous now seemed calculated and manipulative, what was warm and inviting now became cold and dangerous. Soft curves appearing as sharp edges, her beauty cruel and mocking, her inspirational mind a wellspring of terror. Her expression radiated contempt. “What I promised my master I would do for him many years ago. What your help has made possible.” Her voice held a saccharine, mocking sweetness. “There is just one final thing I require of you my friend,” she said, addressing Wivver. “My love,” she said, smiling at Opon, though there was no warmth in it. “A final sacrifice in the name of our great labor, so that I may keep my promise.”
The three of them stared at each other for a long moment, the chamber now thoroughly suffused with an orange glow giving all of them a faintly demonic hue. The background hum increased in its volume and intensity, almost tangible. Opon ran his tongue over his teeth to confirm that they weren’t actually buzzing, and a rich smell of decay permeated the air.
As if by unspoken agreement, all three began their casting at once. Wivver was fast, hurling simultaneous bolts of acid and force at Areelu. But Areelu was faster – impossibly fast, and his magic dissipated harmlessly against the wards she conjured. She snapped her fingers, and Wivver froze. The exchange only took a handful of seconds, but those brief moments gave Opon the time he needed to summon his eidolon – the tauric creature stepping out of a magical gate and crashing into Areelu. Areelu’s eyes widened in shock, unprepared for the speed of his summoning as Lyxanar powered his way through her magical defenses, wrapping his pincers around Areelu’s throat, squeezing as his taloned feet clawed against her torso, ripping great gashes into her stomach.
“I am sorry” Opon said, his words hitching in his throat. “I love you. You have been a light in this dark place. But I cannot allow you to do this. Lyxanar, hold her steady, and I’ll end this ritual. Then we can talk about what comes next.” Areelu glare was venomous, but Lyxanar held her tight. She could not cast. She could not move.
Opon began another casting, preparing to recall the energy he fed into the ritual, when a quasit appeared from the shadows immediately behind Opon, and ran a blade across his throat. He fell to his knees, pawing at the ragged mess of his neck, his eyes wild. Lyxanar roared, and turned to his master, releasing his hold on Areelu just slightly. Just for a moment. But that moment was all it took for Areelu to complete a brief incantation. The eidolon’s roar became a strangled scream as he began to vanish. He disappeared, and a strange spiral marking appeared on Oppon’s forehead. The spiral began to bleed.
Areelu spoke another magical phrase, and her wounds closed. She stood, straightened her dress, and the regal aura of power and command, which had been momentarily replaced by fear as she struggled in Lyxanar’s grasp, returned. She approached the quasit and gave him an affectionate pat as he cleaned his blade. “Oh Grimcrack, what would I do without you?” He nodded in return. Areelu approached Opon, still bleeding on the floor, casual now that the threat had ended. With surprising strength, she picked him up and carried him into the circle at the center of the chamber.
“No one opposes me,” she coldly reminded him. “And no one lays their hands on me without my consent. I am grateful for the gift of your blood, darling, but I cannot suffer betrayal. You, however, will suffer. Your suffering will power this the gate - a perpetual sacrifice for my dread lord.”
At that, she turned to Wivver, still frozen in place, his eyes locked on Areelu, disbelief at war with fear. “And you as well, Wivver. Your company has been insufferable, you pedantic s%~#, but your contributions have been most welcome.” She stared into his eyes and smiled. “You seem upset, Wivver. Are you worried your usefulness has come to an end? Don’t worry, there is still one more contribution you can make. Any objections?” She paused as Wivver strained against his magical paralysis. “No? Then I thank you for your service.” And with a few arcane utterances Wivver’s body floated to the center of the circle. Leaning over his prostate form, Areelu drew her dagger, and opened his throat. His blood poured out, mingling with Opon’s, who lay convulsing on the floor.
And then, standing in a pool of the blood of her enemies her collaborators, her friends, Areelu completed the ritual. Arcane power poured from her, activating the impossibly complex runes occupying almost every available surface of the chamber, opening a rent in reality.
The portal was small at first, only a few feet wide. The rift pulsated, unstable, collapsing and reforming. An orange miasmic light filled the room as a howling wind coursed through the chamber, the sound of a billion buzzing wings. Areelu raised her hands in victory, her laughter triumphant as she gazed into the portal.
The other side revealed a blasted landscape of canyons and mountains, and millions of insectoid demons, seemingly turning as one to stare at the portal. A coloxus demon, larger than its typical insectoid kin, approached the throbbing gate, eager to cross first. As it stepped through the energy of the gate locked onto the demon, churning through him. It screamed in agony. Areelu watched, impassively, as the mighty demon twisted and transformed, crumpling in on itself until it imploded. A blinding, noxious flash of energy filled the room, challenging Areelu’s wards and incinerating hundreds of demons on the other side of the gate. When Areelu’s vision returned, the gate was stable, and lying prostate in the chamber, between the bodies of Wivver and Opon, was the ruined shell of a dretch – its malformed torso ending in a pair of crippled twitching legs and a short, stubby tail. It howled in pain and looked up with pleading eyes at Areelu, begging to be put out of its misery. Areelu spared it the briefest of glances and then returned her attention to the portal.
On the other side the insectoid host parted, and a gargantuan nightmare approached. Its six legs supported a chitinous elephant sized bipedal torso that resembled a giant locust. Its wings were swarms of flies, and its inhuman eyes glittered with a cruel intelligence. Though it should have been impossibly to read anything into its alien features, it nevertheless looked triumphant, satisfied, eager. Its arms gripped a massive scythe that resembled the scissoring claw of a mantis, which it hooked into the portal. With a great screeching sound, the scythe tore through the portal, widening it to a diameter of 10 feet. The creature scuttled back, admiring its handiwork, as millions of worms began to wriggle out of the glyphs covering the chamber.
In the sky above Threshold, red storm clouds began to circle the tower in a rotating vortex. There was a great cracking sound, and one of the upper spires collapsed. The earth gave a tremendous shudder and the ground below the tower burst apart. Through the rent earth an impossible outpouring of abyssal energy surged into Golarion, warping the land around the tower with its malignant alien presence. A giant circular rift, nearly a mile wide, swallowed the ground around Threshold. Great cliffs, pockmarked with thousands of caves, rose towards the sky. Boiling lava poured flowed from them, flooding the surrounding territory. Billions of worms writhed in those flames.
At the center of that lake of fire stood the tower of Threshold. And deep within the tower Areelu Vorlesh fell to her knees before the gate she had conjured. Abyssal energy flowed through the tower, and through her. Her skin split, horns emerging from her forehead while a pair of black wings ripped through her shoulders. Despite the tremendous pain, she did not flinch. And though she kneeled, she lifted her head in triumph, making eye contact with the hulking form on the other side. Areelu Vorlesh smiled.
“My lord Deskari. Aroden is dead, and Golarion awaits.”
| Stip |
The final prologue introduces Irabeth and Staunton Vhane - it's the start of the encounter where she exposes him. There's a few things that won't necessarily become clear to the PCs until later in the campaign. For instance, it appears like she discovers him via detect evil, but Soulshear protects him from that. He was exposed through other means, and the detect evil failing simply confirms how he managed to stay hidden. She confirms the truth by baiting him. The players have already set up Vhane as one of the big bads based on early campaign material, and are about to meet Irabeth, so this is a chance for them to have a sense of the characters before they meet. The timeline of this campaign doesn't fully match up with the official Golarion guide. We set all our campaigns after the prior ones, so the 4th crusade had petered out a few decades before this picks up. I also had Avenia's transformation happen more recently before the start of the campaign, since I wanted Irabeth to have her sword in the prologue.
Prologue IV: A Question of Faith
28 Lamashan, 4722
Staunton Vhane walked confidently through the hallways of the Kite, nodding at the guards stationed throughout. A hero of the 4th Crusade, second perhaps only to Yaniel, he was used to being recognized by sight. This time, however, an unusual number of the troops stationed throughout the Kite were members of Vhane’s band of mercenaries, the Hammers of Heaven, and their nods were familiar, knowing. Guarding the wardstone was a great honor, and not one normally granted to a mercenary company. But Vhane’s Hammers had recently returned from a successful incursion into the Worldwound. They were unable to rescue the band of captured crusaders they were sent after, but they did avenge themselves on a large, roving band of demonic marauders. Their heads were even now mounted on pikes throughout Clydewell Plaza, while their Glabrazu leader’s hung above the entrance to the citadel itself.
As Vhane approached the antechamber of the Kenebras Wardstone, he unbuckled his belt pouch and carefully withdrew a small metal stoppered tube. A dull purple glow emanated from within it.
“Good evening, Sir Vhane. What brings you to the Kite this evening?”
Vhane looked up. Standing at the opposite side of the hall, positioned in front of the closed double doors that offered entrance to the wardstone chamber, was a large half orc woman. She was more striking than beautiful, her slitted yellow eyes and fangs granting her an air of menace. And while she stood straight and started at intently at Vhane, her eyes were kind and patient. Her breastplate, while dented from use, was well maintained, and emblazoned with the symbol of the Eagle’s Watch. She held a large shield and emerging from her scabbard was a beautifully crafted pommel stylized with Iomedae’s symbol.
“Irabeth, isn’t it? You’re relatively new to the city, aren’t you?” Vhane smiled, and carefully slid the vial back into his belt pouch.
“Just under a year, sir. My husband grew tired of our itinerant life and wished to settle down,” Her voice was a deep, husky rumble.
“Well, it’s an honor to meet you. From one paladin to another, it’s always inspiring to see one of our own join up with the crusades. There is no greater cause in all of Golarion.”
“Indeed, sir. And the honor is mine. You’ve won many great victories against the forces of the abyss. The Hammers of Heaven have been a source of inspiration in a dark time.”
Vhane gently shook his head. “No one man can stand against the Abyss. I owe all that I am to the people I trusted, and those who stand beside me now. Perhaps you will allow me to buy you a drink one day. I can share some of my stories, and you can tell me yours. But unfortunately, I’m in a bit of a hurry, so begging your pardon…” Vhane strode towards the doorway to the Wardstone chamber.
Irabeth concentrated for a moment, her forehead wrinkling with the effort. Her expression showed the bemused puzzlement of someone surprised by something she nevertheless expected to find.
“Whose business is that, sir?”
Vhane stopped and eyed the half-orc up and down. He recognized her gesture. His voice lost its previous warmth. “Not yours, junior paladin. Step aside. I have urgent business with the guardians of the Wardstone.”
“Whose business is that, sir? This time it was not a question. She began to draw her sword from its scabbard.
Vhane eyed her movements. Though she towered over the dwarf his gaze remained haughty, condescending, and not at all intimidated. “What do you think you’re doing, half- orc?”
Irabeth finished drawing her blade and stood tall, resolute. “I am afraid I cannot let you pass, sir.”
At that Vhane chuckled, a mirthless, mean-spirited laugh. He reached behind him and unslung Soulshear, a storied axe of the 4th Crusade.
“And how exactly, half-orc, do you plan to stop me”
“I do not need to stop you, sir. Just delay you.” Irabeth’ s voice was calm, measured.
Vhane smiled. “The Kite is crawling with my Hammers. I need but to raise my voice and you’ll be overwhelmed.”
Irabeth offered a smile of her own. “I am not without allies of my own, sir.”
And with narrative timing that would have caused any onlooker to immediately convert to Shelyn, a loud pounding echoed through the keep. Vhane looked at Irabeth, puzzled.
“The Eagle Watch, sir. The Wardstone guardians left to fetch them shortly before your arrival.”
“The stone is unguarded?” Vhane asked, incredulously.
“Of course not, sir. I am here.” There was no boast in Irabeth’ s voice, just a statement of fact. And yet, it’s lack of adornment made it more purposeful, even inexorable.
Vhane resumed his approach, and as he closed the distance his axe began to transform, turning into a vicious glaive, intricately patterned along its shaft – entwining bull’s heads. He spat. “You will die here. I have come too far, lost too much, to let you stop me, little paladin.”
Irabeth moved into a defensive posture, her body positioned behind her shield, sword extended above it. “You can stop this, sir. It is never too late for a soul to redeem itself, no matter its crimes.”
Vhane laughed at that, practically a snort. “Please. There is no coming back from the roads I’ve traveled. Redemption is not yours to give.”
“No sir. It is yours.”
“And who do you think you are?” Vhane was furious, now. “You do not know me. You cannot know the choices I have made, nor comprehend the reasons behind them. What gives you the right to judge me?”
“Not right, sir. Faith.”
Vhane’s anger turned briefly incredulous before reigniting. “Faith? Faith in what?” I have faith. Faith that you will die here. Faith that your life will be spent in the meaningless and pointless defense of a people who will never accept a half breed like you in a war that you cannot win. A war that is about to come to an end. We are done playing! Let me offer you mercy, you pious, naïve fool. The mercy of not having to see it all come crashing down at the end of all things.” That is my faith. What is yours, half-orc?”
Irabeth did not move, did not even blink. Her voice was glacially patient. “I believe that no matter how far someone falls they can still rise again. I believe that we are capable of being better than we are.
”
That gave Vhane pause. His mouth opened, closed, and opened again. “How can you possibly believe that, after everything you’ve seen.”
Irabeth allowed herself the indulgence of a small smile. “That’s what makes it faith sir.” That’s what I fight for. The grace that separates justice from vengeance.
There was a loud crash, and the sounds of shouting and combat filled the air.
Vhane’s eyes narrowed. “I am going to destroy you, paladin. You cannot defeat me. You cannot even stop me.”
And at that, a light arose in Irabeth’s eyes, traveling down her arm and engulfing her blade. She took a step towards Vhane.
“Perhaps not. But there is glory in resisting.”
| Stip |
These are all pretty damn great, well done!
Thanks :) Anyone running a campaign should feel free to use or adapt these as they see fit. Below is the extended box set I used to introduce the campaign. The PCs are in here, and I tried to get Avenia, Irabeth, Horgus, and Aravashinal involved as well, though they weren't necessarily introduced by name if the PCs didn't know them. There are a few bits in it I pulled from other threads on these forums, so I'm happy to pay it forward.
The Worldwound Incursion: Introduction
You awake in darkness. Your head is pounding. Your ears are ringing – a high pitched drone that blocks out all other sounds. It is difficult to breathe. After a few moments, some of your senses begin to return. You start to differentiate between sounds: rocks clattering, coughing, moans of pain. You realize that not all of them are yours. There are others with you, here in the darkness. You test your limbs and to your relief nothing is broken. Your body is covered in a gritty film. You still cannot see.
You are in a large underground cavern, one wall an enormous mound of rubble. The air is choked with dust, and small rockslides continue to tumble down. Your head slowly begins to clear, and with it your memories return.
Armasse officially began at noon, with Lord Hulrun himself, ruler of Kenebras, rising from his seat on the dais in Clydwell Plaza to bless the festival. On the dais to his left sat the venerable Nestrin Alodae, ranking cleric of Iomedae, and Eterrius Sunnestier, his second. On his right sat a female half orc, her breast plate battered and dented but polished to a gleaming shine, and to her right a stocky, well dressed middle aged merchant. The conversations around you named the ½ Orc Irabeth Tirabade a paladin of Iomadae being honored for exposing the dwarven mercenary Staunton Vhane as a traitorous servant of the abyss. The merchant’s name was Horgus Gwent, though what he was doing on the dais people could only speculate. That he bought the privilege was the most popular theory.
The day was unseasonably warm, and the sun shone bright as Hulrun approached the podium at the front of the dais, to loud applause. The aged inquisitor was resplendent in his armor, and he radiated an aura of command. Your heart quickened. This, you believed, was a man you could follow. Still, something felt off, as if the acclaim of the crowd was an attempt to will the spirit of the crusade into being, rather than a reflection of some authentic feeling. You had sensed it earlier in the day. The city felt tired, exhausted by the seemingly pointless grind of the 4th crusade and its bitter legacy. You buzzed with the energy of a new convert, but the veterans, and the natives of the city did not seem to share your faith. For a brief instant you felt a sense of oppressive dread pass through the square, and Clydwell Plaza was cast into shadow – but the moment passed, and the sunlight returned.
Hulrun raised his arms to quiet the crowd, and opened his mouth to speak. He paused then, a confused look on his face. He began to cough, the coughs quickly turning into violent, choking gasps. The ½ orc rushed to the stage and began pounding Hulrun on his back, and with the third smack he hacked up something white and wriggling onto the podium. You looked away, disgusted, and noticed an unusual number of insects wriggling up from the ground beneath your feet. A faint smell of rot tinged the air
It was at this moment a bright light shone from the west, as if the sun was rising from the wrong direction. Hulurn’s shadow fell huge and distorted across the Cathedral facade. Suddenly, the cloudless sky darkened, and a massive bolt of lightning filled the horizon before striking the Kite. A moment later there was a sharp crack, a peal of thunder, and the Kite began to glow. The light from the Kite surged across the square before collapsing back in on itself. A stillness enveloped the square, as if the world was holding its breath. One, two, three seconds and then the Kite exploded. Fragments flew in every direction as the deafening shockwave almost knocks you off your feet. You stare in horror as a gargantuan pillar of fire and lighting rose from the ruins of the keep, stretching up into the heavens. Emerging from within the pillar is a massive winged form, bathed in smoke and lightning of its own and wielding a flaming whip and sword, a nightmare made flesh. Cries of fear and despair rose from the crowd. Khorramzadeh, the Storm King of the World Wound, had come
With a massive leap that cleared the length of the plaza, the Storm King landed on the dais, shattering it in two and knocking the merchant into the crowd. Khorramzadeh raised his whip, the backswing creating a crackling explosion that nearly took off the head of an elven mage in the throes of spellcasting a full 15 feet away. The whip snapped into Etterius Sunnestier, ripping his chest open as he burst into flames. As the Balor Lord loomed over Lord Hulrun and offered him a triumphant, malicious smile that promised unending pain and degradation you realize that, until this moment, you had no conception of what evil truly was, and how it fed upon despair.
A roar of challenge emerged from the crowd, filling the square, and Zograthy found himself momentarily deafened as the kindly old man he had been speaking with moments earlier leapt skyward, wings scaled in silver emerging from her back as she sheds her disguise mid-flight and revealed herself in all her draconic glory. Terendelev, the oldest and greatest protector of Kenabres, surged into the sky. Her presence invigorated the people of the square, shattering the paralysis imposed by the demon’s aura. Khorramazedh snarled moved to intercept her as portals began to open around the square
Lord Hulrun rose to his feet and cried out, his resonant, magically amplified voice carrying across the city. The abyss has come to Kenebras and Kenebras will not yield. Those who can fight, FIGHT! Those who can't, LEARN! There are no civilians. Only crusaders! Push for The Kite! Protect the Wardstone! Flanked by Irabeth, the ½ orc Paladin, he charged towards the towering four armed demon (Glabrazu CR 23) that stood between them and the flaming ruins of the Kite on the other side of the square.
With Lord Hulrun’s words ringing in their ears Rischa and Kiryn unsheathed their swords and began running towards the Kite, though a pair of ( Babu -16-) demons emerged from a portal and blocked their path. Their skin was slick with acidic slime as they raised their spears and prepared to engage the new crusaders.
Zograthy looked up to find Bastion Valenwick extending him a hand. He took it, rising to his feet as the man’s other hand drew a dagger. The two of them started at the large scaly demon casually approaching, its enormous toothy mouth devouring a poor victim as he leers at them a pair of hungry reptilian eyes (21 Herzou). They begin to gag at the stench wafting off the demon.
Muttering to himself, Queso began making his way towards the ruins of the Kite. He did not notice the small bloated demon approaching from behind until an arrow whizzed past his shoulder, landing with a wet squelch in the center of its chest. The demon (12 dretch) looked down at the arrow and the up at the brown haired archer standing twenty feet in front of Queso. It gave a wet, gurgling laugh and began to advance.
The ground continued to shake as portals appeared throughout the city, disgorging demons into the streets. The dragon and the Balor lord crashed into each other in the skies above Kenebras. Despite the danger, you look up in awe and then horror. The fight was over in a few harrowing moments, as the Balor’s sword cut deep into Terendelev’s body, arresting her charge. Another blow bit deep into her neck, and the dragon spiraled down towards the square, the Storm King in ruthless pursuit.
You will never forget the sight of the dragon smashing into the façade of the Cathedral of St. Clydwell before crashing into the square. As the cathedral began to crumble, a titanic four armed demon erupted at the far end of the plaza, reducing the surrounding buildings to ruins as it smashed its way into Golarion. The rift it created shot across the plaza, opening beneath your feet, casting you into the darkness below.
Even as you fell, even as she lay dying, Terendelev noticed your plight. Gasping. she uttered a few arcane words and stretched out a bleeding talon. Her magic took hold of you, slowing your descent into the darkness. And as you drifted downward into the depths, the last thing you saw was the Storm King standing over the ancient silver dragon, his sword lashing out and cleaving full through her neck. As her severed head fell, the rift above you slammed shut. The light was gone, the world ended.
| Mightypion |
May I propose one? Ideally as entry to act 4?
Year: 4725
A shadow watched with interest.
The goat and the bug were devouring Golarion, a somewhat important plane, given it contained both the star stone and Rovagugs prison, and an even more curious circumstance, given the unreasonably long alliance between them.
Yet, all alliances end, abyssal ones even more so, as the shadow knew better then anyone else.
It considered to join, yet ascension by sheer mass slaughter was brute, crude, and frankly beyond its exalted fields of interests, ascension by the seduction and assasination of a newborn deity however, now that was something else entirely, and at the thought of it the shadow assumed its true and majestic form.
And even if that plan failed, the goat and the bug would clash on sacrificed Golarion, sending the loser into his abyssal realm, where she would be waiting. A low effort demon isle, for either low value demon lord, all things considered.
But what, a meteor of light unmade this reality, one she immidiatly shrouded in her shadow, as this was a great and terrible secret in the making.
Did that meteor had any idea what it was doing? Whose visitation this massive violation of causality would cause? Causality is what protects reality from whatever lurks outside of it and by breaking it one opens itself to things which made even her shudder.
Her shadows enveloped the imperious meteor shielding it from everythings sight, just seconds before the cunning goat beheld it, the sharp claws of her right at its angelic throat, while her left stealthily entered its mind, searching for its secrets.
Ah, Jingh you magnificent bastard, set this low intelligence angel up to violate causality on a massive scale, thus giving this doomed plane to the dark tapestry so that the horror from beyond devour it, Deskari, Baphomet perhaps Asmodeus alongside it?
But did you consider what would happen with the wild beast prison or the star stone? And you certainly didnt consider what would happen to my own plane, linked as it is to Golarion through the midnight fane? Or perhaps you did? And expected me to just be where I am right now fixing this accursed mess?
Grasping further into his unknowing mind, the shadow searched and assessed, it found possibilities some of them quite intriguing, yet, empty night. They already knew. They were coming, and homing at those who knew of this violation of causality, especially if those who know have power of a cosmic scale...
Which she had, but this stupid Angel did not.
Oh well it is a good night to be the queen of secrets, alongside with of shadows, murder and lust. To be queen of something gives one the power to unmake that, she shadow thought as she erased the memory of the causal violation from the Angel, and then from her own mind.
Somewhat adrift mentally from the effects of her self manipulation, it never the less looks straight at you, a frown crossing her face and her perceptive eyes apparently cant quite see you, but seem to know you are there.
"And who, or what, would you be to gaze so fearlessly into my shadows? Nethys? Callistria? No, actually mortals but not really? How?" You hear her voice, as her shadows whirl around you and through you, yet apparently cannot touch you, as your vision fades to black.
On a second thought, this does run the risk of the party getting overly scared of Missus N. because they do know that secret, while Missus N. does not, and Missus N. is a fairly strong telepath.
| Stip |
Nicely done. I like the idea of setting up Nocticula at the start of book IV (or possibly towards the end of Book III). I may adapt this - the dark tapestry stuff I may cut (I don't want to introduce that element since I'm not going to pay it off and I don't recall it surfacing anywhere in the main story" but I like the goat/bug/shadow imagery.
| Mightypion |
I/We use the dark tapestry as a meta plot device to make unusal alliances at a very high level more palatable/compelling, or to give a additional reason for "divine non intervention", or to introduce players into the major leagues (and show them they are indeed in the major league, typically by having someone whom they do not worship explain the "rules") , with the addendum that they should not tell anyone about it, as knowledge of the dark tapestry is bidirectional and the more you know about it, the more it knows about you.
This was from another AP (Tyrants grasp, the player characters got the cunning idea of convincing Nocticula to do a hit on Tar Baphon).
Nocticula:"No, there will be no buggery of either the starstone or Rovagugs prison, nor will there any large scale messing around with the space time continium. T-B is a jerk, what you would invite in by doing either of these things is far worse then a Lich with delusions of grandeur.
Essentially, reality, even the reality of the Abyss is fickle and fragile. It is also not the norm, cosmically speaking. There are things beyond reality that find the very nation of causality to be incredibly offensive, and who would love to fundamentally break down each and every rule.
Before you get any power tripping anarchist fantasies, this includes rules about how protons and electrons are supposed to interact with each other, which are rather elemental for your very existence. Was your homeplane one of those who would understand what I am talking about? Not that it matters, and if you wonder what Rovagug is, well, if these things break down reality, they will break down its prison, and it will be free. Rovagug could possibly destroy them, or perhaps enough of them to matter, before they destroy it, but whoever wins this contest, everything else loses.
Still, his prison has a certain deterrence value, especially since it works as a dead mans switch.
Oh, do not talk about this to anyone. Knowledge of these things is bidirectional, if you know about them, they know about you, the more they know, the easier for them to invite themselfs in.
I will now shield you from this, at least to an extent, but since none of you is a demigod with controlling the domain of secrecy yet, you would not be able to replicate this feat."
Nocticula casts a very intrictate but somehow wrong non detection spell on the party.
| Stip |
I/We use the dark tapestry as a meta plot device to make unusal alliances at a very high level more palatable/compelling, or to give a additional reason for "divine non intervention", or to introduce players into the major leagues (and show them they are indeed in the major league, typically by having someone whom they do not worship explain the "rules") , with the addendum that they should not tell anyone about it, as knowledge of the dark tapestry is bidirectional and the more you know about it, the more it knows about you.
This was from another AP (Tyrants grasp, the player characters got the cunning idea of convincing Nocticula to do a hit on Tar Baphon).
Nocticula:"No, there will be no buggery of either the starstone or Rovagugs prison, nor will there any large scale messing around with the space time continium. T-B is a jerk, what you would invite in by doing either of these things is far worse then a Lich with delusions of grandeur.
Essentially, reality, even the reality of the Abyss is fickle and fragile. It is also not the norm, cosmically speaking. There are things beyond reality that find the very nation of causality to be incredibly offensive, and who would love to fundamentally break down each and every rule.
Before you get any power tripping anarchist fantasies, this includes rules about how protons and electrons are supposed to interact with each other, which are rather elemental for your very existence. Was your homeplane one of those who would understand what I am talking about? Not that it matters, and if you wonder what Rovagug is, well, if these things break down reality, they will break down its prison, and it will be free. Rovagug could possibly destroy them, or perhaps enough of them to matter, before they destroy it, but whoever wins this contest, everything else loses.
Still, his prison has a certain deterrence value, especially since it works as a dead mans switch.
Oh, do not talk about this to anyone. Knowledge of these things is bidirectional, if you know about them,...
I like the characterization you have of Nocticula. I haven't started thinking about her much yet, but I may use this direction. A character with a slightly lighter touch would be nice with so many of the main supporting cast playing pretty straight roles.
| Stip |
This is the last prologue for book 1. After this I'll be moving on to new characters for a little bit (I need to start building out Vhane and his backstory for book 2, and start to weave in elements of the PC backstories with the traits). I wanted to accomplish a few things here:
1. Introduce Galfrey so they had a sense of who she is when they meet her at the start of book 2.
2. Introduce Nerosayan and the idea that the war with the demons is happening everywhere (and this will hopefully help the wardstone visions at the end of book 1 have a greater impact. At the very least, the 4 days until troops move out will place some internal urgency on the Gray Garrison assault, which we start in today's session)
3. The PCs do not have a cleric in their party (wizard, arcanist, ranger, inqusiitor, rogue, and druid) and so I want to start to build up Sosiel early (they will meet him today in Defender's Heart as well) so they consider taking him as a support cohort.
4. I want to introduce Nurah early (and in a scene with other characters they will trust) to improve her cover and emphasize her knowledge and importance. Should make book 2 more fun
5. It's a small thing, but I wanted the players to know who Waxberry is (they'll meet her again in small doses) so rescuing her in book V feels like a bigger deal.
Prologue V: From a Great Height
23 Arodus, 4723
Atop the commanding heights of Woundward Tower the banner of Mendev danced and snapped in the wind. Its movements were playful, dismissive, or they would have been if the wind did not carry with it the queer taste and taint of the Worldwound’ s corruption. Queen Galfrey stood upon the ramparts at the top of the tower. Gazing across the River Selen, she stared at the great horde of demons amassing on the other side, possibly the largest she had ever seen. And in a life defined by its unceasing opposition to the forces of the Abyss, Queen Galfrey had seen her share of hordes. Though she looked to be in her late twenties, she was closer to 150, and those who knew her well could see the toll decade after decade fighting a war of attrition against an endless foe had taken. Her image of resolute determination, courage, confidence, and humor never wavered, but those advisors and friends who looked carefully in unguarded moments could see the seams, the façade starting to buckle under the strain of the performance. The image, the performance, was why she was here atop the tower. She could have received intelligence in the keep, and magical scrying would reveal as much, if not more, than her eyes, but it was important to be seen. The forces under her command needed her present, visible, stalwart. The wardstones were failing, and her troops looked to her to hold fast their own courage, their own faith.
It was clear that the wardfield had been seriously compromised. Normally invisible, it occasionally flickered in and out view, a haze stretching across the western bank of the river, north into Mendev and south into Numeria. And this close to the Nerosyan wardstone, she could feel its power greatly diminished, its flame guttering.
There were footsteps behind her. Galfrey turned and looked down, smiling, as one of her aides ascended the stairs to join her on the ramparts. The queen briefly indulged in the memory of a scrawny halfling pickpocket trying, unsuccessfully, to rob one of Galfrey’s Knights of the Body. Galfrey visited the halfling in prison. She sat with her, learned her story, and offered her a choice. This close to the Abyss there are more serious crimes than hunger, and second chances are a powerful weapon. Waxberry had been fiercely loyal to the Queen ever since. Trailing behind Waxberry was a beautiful gnome, dressed in road leathers, her blonde hair pulled behind her in a thick braid.
“Ahh Waxberry, you’re back. Thank you finding Mistress Dendiwhar.”
The gnome bowed, perfectly poised. “Please your Grace, call me Nurah.” Her voice was musical, with a harder, brassier edge than one might expect from one of her size.
“Very well, Nurah. I am told you are one of our leading scholars on old Sarkoris, and the early crusades. And that you’ve spent considerable time in the Wounded Lands after Lord Trezbot’s failed attempt to retake Drezen.”
“Your grace is too kind. I am a minor scholar who had a streak of luck.”
Galfrey smiled. “You can cut the crap, Nurah. Modesty and sycophancy are for rulers of southern kingdoms. I don’t have the time for it.”
Nurah returned her smile. “Very well, then, your Grace. There are few people who know more of that history, or as familiar with hard choices and long odds. I am both a scholar and a survivor.”
Galfrey nodded. “Excellent. I will have need of both in the days ahead. I am assigning you to my war council. Now, advise me. Why haven’t the whips of the balors driven the demons across the Selen. Where are the ulkreths to tear down our walls? Surely they can sense the weakness in the wardfield.
Nurah was silent for a moment. When lost in thought she had a habit of breaking eye contact, starring off into space as if her thoughts were coming from a long way away. It offered a curious juxtaposition against her otherwise sly, worldly expression.
“I suspect, your grace, that even a weakened field will still keep them at bay. And the larger the horde the more disorganized it is. The inherent chaos of the demons has ever been their greatest weakness. If they could stop feuding with each other, and hold to their purpose, not even the wardstones would stop them.”
“We may soon be more dependent on their chaos than the wardstones. The field’s power diminishes by the day.” Galfrey’s tone was matter-of-fact, like she was discussing a minor delay in a shipment of boots instead of the impending destruction of her nation and the slaughter of its people. Waxberry’s eyes widened, and she murmured a prayer while clutching the medallion of Iomedae that hung around her neck. Nurah took this revelation in stride, Galfrey noted approvingly. “It will weaken them, discomfit them, but it will not hold them. How long, in your estimation, until they are ready to push across the river?”
“What do we know of their leadership?” asked Nurah.
With that Galfrey looked to Waxberry. “Have the Bothan brothers reported back?”
“They have, your grace. Aponavicius has come down from Drezen to take command of the forces here, along with most of her chief lieutenants. But these are not just her troops. They belong to Minagho, the Broodlord, and several other generals. It will take her time to bring the other hordes under her command. Their nature resists the order and hierarchy an army requires, as you well know.
“Word from the rest of Mendev?”
“Other captains have taken control of the demons massing outside Star’s Keep and Valar’s Gift. But the Bothans report multiple armies massing along every border of the Worldwound, not just Mendev. It must have taken years of planning. This appears to be a massive push, the likes of which haven’t been seen since the Second Crusade.”
Galfrey frowned at that. “And it took the investiture of the wardstones to drive them back that time.” Has Khorramzadeh been seen since the attack on Kenebras?”
“According to the Bothans, he was returning to Iz with, with…” She paused, eyes welling with tears, unable to finish her sentence.
Galfrey put a hand on Waxberry’s shoulder. “We will honor her life and avenge her death. I swear.” The two of them stood there for a moment, Waxberry drawing strength from Galfrey’s presence. “And how are the Bothans? Did they all make it back?”
“Oh they’re fine, your grace,” Waxberry responded brightly. “No Bothans died to bring you this information.”
“Thank Iomedae for small miracles. Have we any news from Kenebras?”
Waxberry frowned. “It is frustrating, your Grace. It has been nearly impossible to make any contact with the city. Some magic blocks us. One series of messages did get through, from a priest of Shelyn named Soliel. The fate of the wardstone is unknown, though it is presumed destroyed. The city has been overrun, though many of the more powerful demons have left the city and have sieged Clydewell Keep or are otherwise razing the countryside. The few defenders that are left have rallied under Irabeth Tribade, the paladin who exposed Staunton Vhane.”
“Yes, I remember Irabeth. A credit to the Goddess.”
“Soliel begs for aid.” Waxberry continued. “The survivors will not be able to hold out long. He says they will break under any determined pressure. Our last contact was yesterday morning. Nothing since.”
Galfrey looked to Nurah. “And what counsel would you offer, scholar and survivor?”
Nurah took a moment to gather her thoughts. “These circumstances are unprecedented. We do not know how the wardstones will react to the destruction of a link. They could be failing. They might heal over time. But we…”
Galfrey cut her off. “What we do know is that they are currently at a fraction of their strength, and that strength diminishes daily.” Her voice remained level, but her action spoke to her frustration.
Nurah nodded at that, looked her Queen in the eyes and continued, her voice conveying a strength that belied her small stature. “Your Grace, there was a time before the wardstones, when the crusaders of Iomedae met the abyssal hordes in open combat, and triumphed.”
Galfrey smiled in satisfaction, as if Nurah’s words had rediscovered a truth long thought lost. “I have been considering that,” she said. “The largest fighting force in all of Mendev is behind these walls. We can hold out for a long time, even without the wardstones. But the rest of the nation will be overrun. We need this army active in the field, while the demons are disorganized and the wardstones still afford us an advantage.” Galfrey reached a decision. “Waxberry, convene my war council. I want our troops ready to take the field within four days. Holding Nerosyan does nothing if the rest of the country is lost.”
Galfrey paused for a moment and turned back towards the Worldwound. She stared down at the swarming mass on the other side of the river, and up at the flight of vrocks and coloxi circling overhead. “The Goddess is with us. We will turn back the darkness here, and bring her light north along the border, one army at a time.” Her voice rang with conviction, and there was magic, of a type, in her words. “In the meantime, I want every priest, wizard, bard, and scholar who is not in the field working on a way to repair the damage done to the wardfield.”
Waxberry saluted and descended the stairs, her stride purposeful and reinvigorated. Nurah bowed and followed. And Galfrey, Crusader Queen of Mendev, Paladin of Iomedae, gazed across her capital, across the river, and into the dark purple skies of the Abyss. From here the demon hordes looked like a giant swarm of insects, ready to devour everything in its path.
Galfrey remembered those early battles against Deskari’s abyssal legions. She was young then. New to the throne, and new to command. The church of Iomedae was strong. The demons were divided, leaderless. The great demonic generals had yet to take the field. Baphomet and his infernal templars had not yet seeded their rot. Every subsequent crusade Galfrey lost a little more. All these years it had been the wardfields that kept Golarion safe. And the fields were dying. The demons were endless. She refused to surrender to the absurdity of it all, but every year that refusal cost more.
Atop Woundward tower the wind blew, cold and tainted. Mendev’s banner fluttered aimlessly in the fell breeze. Queen Galfrey stood upon the ramparts. Alone, insignificant, and so very, very tired. From these commanding heights she could not see hope. Only inevitability. She felt a sudden, desperate desire to hear a human voice. She took a deep, steadying breath, and whispered to herself.
“One last time.”
| Stip |
| 1 person marked this as a favorite. |
I am prepping for the end of book 1 and the start of book 2, and I really want to try and make the wardstone moment dramatic. As I mentioned earlier, I was also changing the story to have the Herald of Iomadae travel from a future where the PCs lost back to the this current moment to intervene by transferring some of the wardstone's power to the PCs. I didn't like the 'random background gives them mythic potential' story, and I hate destiny as a storytelling device (this is all covered in the first post in this thread). Plus I want to make the quest to free the Herald in book V more meaningful (I am also making the Herald the ancestor of the person with the divine lineage trait). I also added in a vision of the PCs (who made it this far and successfully disrupted the stone) dying at Drezen to the Chimera - what would have happened had the wardstone been destroyed and they weren't given some if its power. Finally, I am imbuing Irabeth with mythic power as well, possibly as a backup PC if needed, because it makes narrative sense with my changes, and because I want there to be someone with mythic power at Drezen so the PCS feel like they can leave. So here is the text (I'll be having "A Day in the Life" from the Terminator 3 soundtrack playing on loop for the reading). It also includes a brief epilogue to close out the scene after the battle with the Baabus. The 'X" notations I will fill in during the session as appropriate.
Ascension
X strikes the wardstone fragment with the rod of cancellation. There is a deep, hollow, pulsing silence as all sound and light are sucked into the stone fragment. Time stops. From within the silent darkness appears a jagged crack of light etched with colors you have never seen and cannot name, accompanied by a screeching, tearing sound, as if someone was carving a hole into the fabric of reality. This is not a gate. It is something else, and it feels wrong. A faint ethereal outline steps out of the crack, resolving into view in front of the stone. The figure is dressed in glowing golden plate emblazoned with the longsword and sunburst symbol of Iomedae. Feathered wings stretch out from its back. It kneels before the stone, and murmurers some words in an unfamiliar tongue. Each syllable creates a curious resonance inside of you, and your bones vibrate in rhythmic unison with the chanting. You cannot feel the passage of time, cannot tell if this incantation lasts a moment, or an age. A circle of arcane symbols appears around the figure’s left hand, and it reaches with that hand to touch the fragment. As it makes contact, you feel the discordant sensation of time speeding past you, reality racing to catch up to this frozen moment. The fragment glows with a golden light, starting from within its core but growing steadily, painfully, brighter. The sound of a heavenly choir fills the air for a moment, and then another pulsing silence.
The stone explodes, and the room floods with golden light, now impossibly bright. You should be blinded, but your vision has never been clearer, as if for the first time you see the world illuminated from within itself - unfiltered, immediate, and eternal. The choir returns, thundering in its loudness, soft of a whisper. Hundreds of stone shards move through the room in impossible arcs, with edges so sharp they slice through light and time, creating kaleidoscopic refractions of color, some faster than your eye can follow, others crawling through the air. The fragments bend and curve around you as they shred XXXX to ribbons.
There is a crackling golden vortex where the stone fragment once lay, and from a far distance within you see innumerable streams of energy composed of the same unnamable eldritch colors. These streams are pulled towards the mouth of the vortex, intertwining with each other to form a mighty river. The river surges through the portal and accelerates upwards towards the heavens, disintegrating the roof of the Gray Garrison and burning through the dreary abyssal haze that had settled over Kenebras. For the first time in days you see a bright blue sky, and a brilliant sun.
The armored figure plunges its glowing hand into the torrent of light, and seizes painfully as some of the maelstrom of energy diverts into him. The armor glows to the point of translucence. It screams in agony. Slowly, painstakingly, it raises its right arm, now encircled by a similar set of glyphs. It turns and lifts it head, and through his helmet you see his face. His features are youthful, but his eyes are old, ancient. He smiles at you through his pain, resigned, but satisfied. Streams of golden light burst from his hand and slam into each of you, seven arcs of light that coil around you, enveloping you in its brilliance.
The impact takes your breath away, and your body begins to burn with the same golden light. You are about to scream when you realize you feel no pain. Instead, you feel remade, reborn into something other than what you were. Something more. Your consciousness is pulled from your body and traverses along the golden tether, passing through the armored figure and into the vortex. You are swept into the raging river, now a maelstrom. You realize you are traveling within the magical field of the wardstones, simultaneously everywhere and nowhere. From a great height you look down upon Mendev and see its armies, outnumbered and overmatched, moving into position along the border. The heavens open up in song as every wardstone explodes, the light scything out for miles, passing harmlessly through the crusaders of pure heart, incinerating the corrupted, and annihilating the demonic hordes massed upon the border. Tens of thousands of lesser demons melt away. The more powerful cry out in shock, pain, and despair, teleporting to safety before they are destroyed. They do not witness the silence that follows as the glow fades. The torrent of light ceases, and you are expelled from the river. The vortex slams shut. The angelic figure dissolves before you. The rent it traveled through seals itself with a crystalline shriek, and then it was never there.
You struggle to master the energy coursing through you, and your mind buckles under the strain. You feel yourself falling, as time and reality rush past you, dragging your consciousness in their wake. You find yourself in Kenebras, in the Wardstone Chamber of the Kite. It is 4639. A circle of clerics surround an angel, the same angel who stood before you moments or a lifetime ago. He kneels before a familiar stone, his voice linked in prayer with the circle of priests. You gaze upon The Hand of the Inheritor, the Herald of Iomedae, and witness the investiture of the first wardstone shortly after the start of the second crusade. You can feel the wardstone awaken. The first sound it hears is a phoenix screaming.
Your vision shifts as your spirit struggles for purchase, as it orients itself in space but not time. It is the year 4665. You recognize an 18-year-old Hulrun standing in the courtyard before the Kite. He addresses a large crowd of onlookers and while you cannot make out his words, you can feel their feverish intent. Behind him a group of inquisitors prepare to immolate row after row of men and women tied to stakes, the first of the great witch burnings of Kenebras. Hulrun’s soul burns with bright, pious conviction, though the souls of many of the inquisitors are stained black with the taint of Baphomet. The first fell harvest of the Templars of the Ivory Labyrinth. As the pyres light you can feel the wardstone grieving.
Another shift, and you are back in the Wardstone Chamber. The roof is a flaming wreckage and Khorramzadeh, the Storm King, raises his greatsword above the wardstone. You can feel the heat of his immortal flame and smell his sickly sweet tang of charred flesh. You can sense the wardstone’s fear. The sword comes down and strikes a massive, thunderous blow. The plinth shatters, and the tiniest of cracks appears in the stone. He raises the sword to strike again when an angry, deafening roar fills the chamber. Terendelev crashes through the shattered ceiling, barreling into the Storm King. Her momentum carries the two of them through the reinforced walls of the chamber and into the square beyond. It is 4692, and you can feel the wardstone’s relief.
Your stumble through time as your consciousness struggles to return to the present. It is 4722 and you are once again in the Wardstone Chamber. You see a dwarf wielding a vicious glaive starring at a half-orc paladin. You recognize her as Irabeth, which makes the dwarf the fallen paladin Staunton Vhane. Both are bleeding heavily. Vhane slowly retreats towards the plinth holding the wardstone, eying Irabeth warily. He backs into the stone, and smoke rises from where the flesh made contact, Vhane screams in pain. Irabeth takes a mighty swing, her sword crackling with holy energy, but Vhane ducks her blow and cleaves into her knee. Irabeth goes down hard, dropping her sword as she instinctively cradles her shattered and mangled leg, but she does not cry out. Vhane stands over her, preparing his final strike, when a pair of paladins burst through the entry doors into the chamber. As they race towards him, Vhane curses and turns to flee. You can feel the wardstone’s gratitude.
You find yourself back in the Grey Garison, and it is the 16th of Arodus, 4723. The festival of Armasse. The day Kenebras was destroyed. You see a beautiful demonic woman with a long thin tail, clawed hands, curling horns, and blank flesh where her eyes should be. She directs a magical disc carrying the wardstone fragment into the center of the familiar circular room. The Deskari oracle you fought earlier wishes for a cage to contain the wardstone. The demon nods her head, and the cage housing the stone forms from nothingness to surround it. “Guard it with your life, Jeslyn” she admonishes the oracle. “I plan to partake of the fun to the south.” A moment later the demon teleports away, while the oracle stares at the fragment with a mixture of hunger, longing, and terror.
Your vision rushes past the current moment, and your consciousness splinters, hurtling forward into different futures. You are in the circular chamber at the top of the Grey Garrison. Jeslyn, her minotaur, and several Deskari cultists kneel in supplication before a beautiful demonic woman with batlike wings, curved horns, and glowing red eyes. Areelu Vorlesh, architect of the Worldwound stands before the wardstone fragment, holding a dark purple crystal the size of a human head. She is deep in the throes of some ritual magic. The part of you that is the wardstone recoils from her presence. She completes her incantation and smashes the crystal against the fragment. Every stone along the border flashes with a nauseating purple fire that pulses for miles. Entire armies are incinerated, population centers annihilated. You watch Nerosayan’s mighty Woundward Tower fall. From the wreckage the dead arise as fiendish slaves of the Worldwound. On the front lines you see a marilith, wearing the breastplate and crown of Queen Galfray. She gazes towards the corrupted horizon, and smiles.
Reality collapses around you and is remade. You look down from a great height upon a citadel carved out of a granite plateau. A small army of paladins engages in a desperate battle against hordes of Tieflings, cultists of Deskari, and demonic Schirs. A chimera wheels in the sky above, its breath wreaking havoc on the massed ranks of paladins. You see Irabeth fall. Archers pelt the beast with arrows, and while their aim is true, the missiles bounce off, ineffective. Zograthy and Cyrus hurl their most powerful spells, but the chimera shrugs them off. It accelerates towards your position, and Rischa moves to meet its charge. The chimera, glowing faintly purple, barrels into Rischa, and though the chimera savages her with all three heads, she manages to stay on her feet. Kiryn, Queso, and Wick use the distraction to flank the chimera. Kiryn swings with all her strength, Radiance coursing with holy might. Wick finds a vulnerable spot in the monster’s thick hide and strikes with surgical precision. Queso pounces, his tiger claws raking across its back. Each mighty blow leaves the beast with only a tiny scratch. The chimera rends Rischa to pieces, turns its three slavering heads to Kiryn, and roars.
And then you are back in the present, stunned, your mind reeling. You struggle to focus your vision as an amber portal appears in the air in front of you. Gazing through it, you see a vast cavern decorated with symbols of Baphomet. The whole room is illuminated by a sickly yellow-brown glow. Areelu Vorlesh stands before the portal, gazing into it. You watch as a perfect copy of herself steps out of her body and travels through. There a brief smell of sulfur and brimstone, and Vorlesh enters the chamber. The sulfuric smell dissipates, replaced instead with a mixture of ginger, cinnamon, and vanilla that makes you feel lightheaded. You cannot tell if she is real.
She looks around the room, her expression smoldering. She is about to scream in frustration, but instead takes a deep breath, mastering her anger.
She turns her gaze towards you. Unfathomable power courses through you and yet you feel an overpowering desire to kneel, to please her. Only your inability to master your own body prevents it. She smiles at you, pleasantly. Her voice is husky, warm, and surprisingly conversational.
“This is unexpected, but it is a temporary inconvenience. It changes nothing. Not your fate, nor Golarion’s, and certainly not my own.” She gazes upon each of you. “Normally I would love the opportunity to study what has happened here, but…no. No distractions. Not now. Not with the mess Minagho has left for me to clean.” She sighs. “A pity.”
The image raises her hand and completes a spell. You can feel a magical pull trying to rip the air from your lungs, but something within you resists. Her eyes narrow. She tries a different casting, and you feel your body disintegrate, each cell within you pulled in a different direction. But the force within you stitches your body back together as fast as she can tear it apart. She snarls at you, her anger no longer contained.
“Your wardstone’s death throes protects you from my magic. But it is no matter. There are so many slaves to do my bidding, and so many ways to die.”
With this, Vorlesh spreads her arms wide, opening a second planar gate. Through it you see the poisoned sky and endless chasms of the Rasping Rifts, Deskari’s abyssal realm. 8 Baabu demons, demonic assassins, step through the gate and you can see greater demons preparing to follow. Derakni, Glabrazu, even a Marilith.
You recoil at the abyssal presence infusing the air, and the energy within you begins to rise. You surrender to it, giving up all pretense of control. As you do, the energy infusing you pulsates outwards, slamming shut the abyssal gate and blowing apart the chamber walls as divine feedback surges across the city. The image of Vorlesh vanishes, and the magic surges through the amber portal and across the planes. She screams in agony as the energy tears through her body – breaking bones and shredding wings. The portal closes. You find that you can move again, the power within you drained to a level your mortal frame can manage. You see each of your companions glowing as brightly as the noon day sun. You look down upon your hands and see the same divine light emanating from you.
You notice that the 8 Baabu demons somehow survived the final surge of magic, sheltered perhaps in the eye of the storm. They glance at each other, and then at you. One licks his lips with his long raspy tongue, and brandishing their long spears, they move to engage.
***
The battle is ended, and you feel the last overt vestiges of the wardstone’s power dissipate, though some embers remain that can perhaps, in time, be rekindled. You feel exhausted, but at peace. Irabeth stumbles to the edge of the room and looks out over the shattered and still city of Kenebras. You join her at the edge and share in her silent vigil. You stare out over the ruins and gaze into the abyssal skies looming over the blasted chasmic lands of old Sarkoris, now the infernal Worldwound.
An unspoken thought passes between you. Deskari’s armies have suffered a terrible defeat, but their numbers are infinite. The wardstones are destroyed. The path to Golarion lay open.
Someone will need to bar the way.
And on the 26th of Arodus in the year 4723, the 5th Crusade begins.
| craigmacc |
These are so great! I will post a few of mine that I have used so far:
Yaniel and her Radiance (shown to players when they set out from Neathholme, Book 1 Part 2, to foreshadow the discovery of Radiance)
An excerpt from ‘Yaniel: The Radiant Dawn’ by Hatrille Evenseam
Not long after the start of the Fourth Crusade, Yaniel, now a prominent paladin of Iomedae, took an official stance in opposition to the Mendavian Crusades. It ruffled a few feathers, to say the least. In her mind, the fault for Khorramzadeh's success in invading Kenabres and cracking the wardstone lay at the door of the crusade effort. Her accusations of negligence and sloth cut too close to the truth, some say. Regardless, in their anger, her superiors threatened to excommunicate her.
Instead, in a moment equaling the madness of those she had accused, Yaniel declared that she would take her sword Radiance and enter the Worldwound, and she would fight the Fourth Crusade on her own. With a golden glow about her, she walked alone into that awful place. Her superiors, in their vanity, were pleased to see her leave, and after two years with no word from her, she was thought to have been slain.
But Yaniel returned. Not only had she survived for two years in the Worldwound, but she had also rescued a small group of crusaders from demonic claws. And Yaniel had changed. She had shed her pride and insubordination, and had gained a new appreciation for the difficult decisions that were expected of leaders. And the leaders in the church had calmed somewhat too, realising that the truth is the truth no matter the implications.
As it turned out, Yaniel’s days were numbered. During her very next venture into the Worldwound, mere months after returning against all the odds, she was assassinated by the lilitu demon Minagho. Yaniel’s followers, those she had saved just months before, were unable to even retrieve her body. But Radiance was returned to Kenabres, carried like some holy relic by her companions who told of her demise. The blade had become inert, its golden glow faded. And with its diminishment, the hopes of the crusade effort reached a new low. The Fourth Crusade faltered, and though some refuse to accept its end, it is generally accepted that it ended with Yaniel’s death.
Radiance can be seen to this day, on display in the Gray Garrison in Old Kenabres.
| craigmacc |
The Inception of the Fourth Crusade (shown to players when they first reach the surface in Book 1 Part 3, to introduce Defender's Heart and the idea that the Wardstone has been destroyed, with a bit of backstory on their previous attempt to destroy it)
Defender's Heart Inn, Old Kenabres
Year: 4713 (Two days after the death of Terendelev during the Armasse demon attack)
Early Evening
“So anyways, it's as I was saying. The Storm King didn't come ‘again’, cos this was the first time that anyone had ‘eard of ‘im. Before that-”
“How did anyone know he was called the Storm King if nobody had heard of him?” The innkeeper’s face was serious, but there was mirth in his eyes.
“If your goin’ to keep interruptin', we ain't never gonna know are we? Obviously they had ‘eard of him, but just not by that name. If you would listen, oi’ll tell the story. Unless you want to take over, hmm?” He glared at the innkeep with an eyebrow raised.
The innkeep held up his hands, palms out, before going back to polishing a bottle. He smiled as the old man turned away towards what he hoped would be a more appreciative audience - a pair of tired looking young crusaders further down the bar. They seemed thoroughly disinterested.
“The city was sleepin', not a peep to be 'eard. The demons, they came through the sewers, you see, that’s why nobody knew they was coming. They got spies down there, see? Creatures that look like you and me ‘cept with gills and webbed toes and the like. Now, the Storm King-”
“Sorry… sorry to interrupt again…” Kimroth cut in. “...but if everyone was sleeping, how did Irabeth get her vision? Are you sure this is right?”
“You never ‘eard of dreams? Hob snapped. “As I was sayin’, the Storm King flew right in on his lonesome. ‘E’s bold like that, y’know. ‘E comes to the Kite, and there’s guards there but ‘e pays them no heed. Drops ‘em like a scythe through a field.” He made a cutting motion with his hand and blew out air between his missing teeth to emphasise the point.
Kimroth did not interrupt again, the amusement of the game wearing thin. He had been there, of course. It was how he had lost his arm. There had been issues with the guards that evening. The main one being that they hadn't been there when they should have been.
“Whack!” Old Hob’s theatrics brought Kimroth out of his memory. “With a swing of his axe that would chop your house in two…” He pointed at the nearest crusader, who looked too young to even own a house. “... he went to smash the Wardstone to pieces.” Hob sat back on his stool then, a knowing smirk on his face. He tapped his nose. “But ‘e couldn’t. Even as powerful as ‘e was, ‘e couldn't do it. Smashed his forpal blade to filings ‘e did. But!” And he leaned in once more, waiting to draw in the attention of anyone that might be listening. “The Wardstone was cracked. For the first time in its history, the demons had damaged it. Terendelev… oh sweet Terendelev… she weren't too pleased about that, I tell you! She fought him off that day, But, well… I 'eard 'em say that it was that first attack, and that tiny crack, that let the demons creep in real close during Armasse. It was weak ye see? Like the Victory Pond in winter - would you go walking on the ice if a stones gone and been dropped on it?”
He went quiet for a bit, as if by some miracle he had run out of things to say. Without his voice, the inn seemed subdued.
Old Hob took a long drink, and when he spoke his voice was hoarse. “She couldn't stop him this time… He walked right in there and smashed it to pieces.”
| craigmacc |
The Betrayal of Staunton Vhane (shown to the players at the beginning of Book 2 - an intro to Staunton Vhane and the story of Drezen and the Sword of Valour)
Drezen, The Worldwound
Year: 4638 (Seventy-five years before the fall of Kenabres)
Midnight
Staunton had survived.
Bleeding from a dozen wounds, his mind barely clinging to sanity. He survived. His breaths came in ragged gulps, each exhale punctuated by yet more blood leaving his body. The air tasted metallic. Around him, beyond the broken bodies, demons moved in the mists, slaughtering the wounded. It was only a matter of time before they found him.
Drezen had been under siege for weeks, hunkering down under countless skirmishes as demons threw themselves at the defences. Waves of them, as unending as the sea. And the defenders of the city cowered.
Staunton despaired at his leader’s choices, bemoaned their conservative actions that had seen them hide behind the walls while the demons regrouped time and time again. The Sword of Valour, Iomedae’s own banner, a legendary beacon of power, lay wasted in a Citadel vault. Staunton had often advocated for it to be used to take the fight to the demons, to break the siege. But every time he had been denied, with even his own brother Joran siding against him. And now their cowardice had led to this.
He looked down at his hands, crimson and sticky from his own blood. His glaive lay broken in two by his knees. There was no hope… not any more.
But then… a call in the mist. Not a demon drawl or a monstrous shriek. A clear voice. Staunton looked up, cocked his head to better hear it. The sound of it alone was like a tonic to him. It was elven. Soon followed the thunder of hooves, and then the shriek of demon thralls as they fell before whatever force approached. Soon, parting the mists, a host of white horses bearing armoured knights rode across the bluff, bending away past him to hunt down more demons. Staunton couldn’t help but grin. He would survive another day, it seemed. In the wake of the knights, a lone rider approached. This one’s horse was dark as midnight, and the knight wore no helmet but let her forest green hair fall freely about her. Dismounting, she reached down to help Staunton to his feet, and when their hands touched, a glorious light filled him and all at once his wounds were healed.
Tears filled his eyes as he looked upon her, distorting the features of her face. The words she spoke, though he could not recall their exactness, were a mirror to his own thoughts, a voice that he had been aching to hear for so long. One of hope. One of power. One of action. “The Sword of Valour is wasted behind the walls of Drezen. The banner should be out here. If only there were a way to retrieve it, to get it out into the face of these demons. I would fly it above my company, and ride them down like weeds before the scythe.”
Without a moment’s consideration, Staunton responded. “I will do it, m’lady. I have access to the citadel. I can bring it to you. The banner must be used, long have I said it! If we do not try, we will surely perish before long, and Drezen will be overrun.” He stared back towards the city walls, the mist clearing in the wake of the elven host. “I will do it.”
The knight smiled. “Good…it will all be over soon, then.”
Staunton did indeed have access to the citadel, and had no trouble talking his way into the secure vault in which it was held. Getting out unseen was more of a problem, and he may have been caught were it not for a stroke of fortune. For it was his brother Joran that blocked his way. Staunton had always had his brother’s ear, despite their differences. After a tense standoff, Joran relented, and enabled Staunton to flee Drezen with the Sword of Valour.
Returning to the bluff that overlooked the city, Staunton found the elf and her knights waiting for him, and handed over the banner, the crusade effort’s most valued artefact. It was a still night, unusual for the environs around Drezen. A mist clung to the graveyard and shrouded the Ahari River, but otherwise it was a cloudless sky that watched proceedings. The torches along the city walls were everburning, but Staunton knew that they existed to support the illusion of a fully defended wall. He watched the lights silently as the knights pored over the Sword of Valour behind him. He heard the elf speak.
“Call to rally. We attack, now.”
The elf’s footprints sounded behind him as she approached. Staunton raised an eyebrow. “So soon? I thought-”
Staunton felt her hand on his shoulder as she stood over him. But it was not the fair hand of an elf that rested there. It was grey and elongated, clawed and scarred. He gasped, tried to jerk away but could not. He turned to see the final remnants of the illusion flaking away. The elf, now revealed as a towering glabrezu, stared intently at the city.
“No…” Staunton turned back to look towards the city. Dark shapes were moving across the space below him, closing on the walls. “No…” The lights on the battlements started to wink out.
He went to struggle again, but the demon held him in place, forcing him to face the scene below. Staunton hesitated. There was a long moment where he watched the city grow dark, began to hear the alarm bells, the panicked call to arms, and the screams. So pitiful they sounded, so desperate. “This is what they deserve…” And he realised that in his heart, he believed it. They would not heed his advice, would not listen to reason. “So why should they survive?”
Later, when only smoke and silence rose from Drezen, Staunton was brought forward through the ruined streets, and pushed to kneel before the marilith, Aponavicius, the new ruler of the city. There, even as his fellow crusaders were being hung by their ankles from the citadel walls, Staunton Vhane did not hesitate to pledge his allegiance to the victors.
| Stip |
We started book 2 last weekend (made it to Drezen when we stopped). I had Galfrey hold an investiture ceremony to officially make the PCs crusaders (and give them their medals). Somewhere in one of the threads here (I wish I saved a link) someone had posted a speech they had Hulurn give at the start of the campaign. I really liked it and didn't want to 'waste' it on Hulrun, so I adapted it (fairly extensively in some places) for Galfrey as a way to hopefully get them invested in the idea of the crusades. It went well.
Investiture
4726, 3rd Rova
*A somber silence falls over Clydwell Plaza as Queen Galfrey approaches the podium. She pauses for a moment, gazing out over the soldiers massed before her, and the civilians off to the side. Raising her hand for silence, the crowd settles. She nods to herself, and begins to speak, her voice magically amplified to carry across the ruins of Kenebras.*
Valiant folk from every race and nation, be welcome to our noble cause!
We stand here at the edge of the Worldwound. Only a few short leagues from here lies the road to the Abyss itself.
You have all heard the tales of how foul and rapacious, how cruel and how horrible, the demons of the pits are. Now you have seen it for yourself.
You have faced horrors most people mercifully lack the vocabulary or experience to even comprehend, let alone describe. You fight against an enemy that knows no honor, no mercy, not the slightest trace of forbearance. An enemy that cannot be bargained or reasoned with. There is no supplication that will satisfy them, no deal they will accept. This foe does not seek wealth, power, or revenge. They are coming for you. Only for you.
They hunger, and their hunger is without limit. It cannot be sated. You face an enemy that will spare no living thing, stoop to any cruelty or ruse, to destroy you. To ravage your body, break your heart and devour your soul. By force of arms, by guile, by betrayal, by enticement and bribery and vice of every kind, they are eternally devoted to one thing and one thing only - to crush you, enervate you, ruin all that you are.
This you have experienced, and so no doubt right now you are asking yourself-- "why am I still here"?
*there are nervous chuckles throughout the square*
Why indeed? All of us ask that question every day, from the humblest spearman new to the ranks, to the most seasoned of warriors, even your Queen. We may voice it out loud. We may whisper it in our secret hearts. But we ask it. And in the asking we affirm our mortality.
I hear those who counsel despair saying "But our enemy knows no doubt or hesitation! They do not share the frailties of mortal flesh or mortal spirit! How then, can we survive?"
And I answer, as the gods themselves have answered. We survive because we are mortal. And to be mortal is to know fear, and temptation, and doubt. To know them, and to rise above.
For the heart that knows fear can also know courage, for courage is not merely the absence of fear, but the determination to do right in spite of fear.
And the flesh that is tempted by vice can also know virtue, for something is only a temptation when it can be denied.
And the mind that knows doubt can also know certainty, for only when our beliefs are tested can we hold them not as empty dogma, but as living, breathing truths.
We are here because we have faith! Not just in our gods, but in each other! No how many setbacks we weather, how many tragedies we suffer, we are still here! And so long as we continue to say "Here we stand! Here we do not submit!" “Here we rise!” we cannot be defeated! One hundred years this Crusade has endured, and one hundred more it will endure if it must!”
*beat*
Although I entirely understand the desire for it to be over with a little sooner.
*there is laughter in the square, this time less nervous*
But it is not one hundred years we ask from you today, but one. Just one. Only a demon would demand an eternal ordeal from man. The gods, and those of us who serve them, ask much of you now and will ask much of you later. But I promise we will never ask more from you than mortal men have proven they can give. You will carry heavy loads but loads mortal men have proven they can bear. As we have faith in gods and each other, have faith in this; no matter how hard the road ahead, you can endure. And no matter how steep the ascent, I promise you, you will RISE!
And so now comes the moment of choice, for that right to choose is one of the things we fight for. If any man or woman has doubts that yet remain, has obligations elsewhere that they will not gainsay, or has simply decided they have other things they would rather do, let them leave now. Let them leave this square and let no one here scorn them or question their courage. It is a hard and often lonely thing to be a crusader. There is no shame that attaches to those who choose not to walk this road.
*Galfrey stares out across the assembled crusaders, making eye contact with everyone. Some nod in return. Others straighten. No one leaves. Galfrey smiles and continues*
Your commitment is why I continue to fight. With every investiture I make the offer to let those who would, depart, and no one does. Once again, you have justified my faith.
And now, I ask all of you, those joining our ranks for the first time and those of you reaffirming your vows, please raise your right arms, and swear along with me...
“I do so swear, under the Light, by the Sword and Scales of Truth, and all the fires of heaven, to carry that light into the darkness and undertake this holy Crusade."
With your bravery and your strength, we fight in honor the memory of the world that was, and the dream of one that could be. Welcome, valiant ones, to the Mendevian Crusade!
*cheering erupts across the plaza– she raises her hands for silence, and continues*
We will rebuild Kenebras, but this plaza is already full of monuments, for each man and woman who stands tall among the rubble carries within them a story worthy of remembrance. But there are several people I must recognize today. If not for their boldness, their courage, their tenacity, their wits, and their will, none of us would be standing here as we are, minds clear and souls pure. Thanks to them, the vile witch Areelu Vorlesh and her demonic minions could not corrupt our wardstones. Thanks to them, we have inflicted grievous losses on the forces of the Abyss, their greatest defeat since the First Crusade. Thanks to them, we stand here not as pawns of darkness but as proud defenders of the free peoples of Golarion.
Step forward:
Irabeth Tiribade:
Alayne Zeodorus
Queso Blanco
Kiryin
Rischa Cadash
Bastion Vanlenwick
And Cyrus, who carries with him the legacy of the First Children and does honor to their memory.
*you approach the dais and line up before the Queen*.
In recognition of the vital service you have performed for the Crusade, both in uncovering the treachery of the Ivory Labyrinth and preventing the corruption of the wardstones, I name you Knights of the 5th Crusade, and I award you each the Righteous Medal of Clarity.
*you stand at attention as she approaches each of you, pinning a medal to your chest. As she finishes she turns and faces the crusaders massed in Clydwell Plaza*
And now, a moment of remembrance for the brave crusaders who paid the ultimate price so that we could have heroes. Let us never forget that every giant reaches their great height because they stand on the shoulders of those who would carry their weight. The actions of the great inspire us, but it is the small, quiet acts of heroism that bind us together. You make it an honor to call myself a crusader, and it is my great privilege to serve you.
Go forward in light to combat the darkness.
Dismissed.
*You snap to attention along with the rest of the crusaders, and as Queen Galfrey leaves the dais, a great cheer rises up, not only in Clydwell Plaza, but echoing throughout the ruins of Kenebras. For a moment, you believe the sound will carry across the face of Golarion.*
| Stip |
Below is the prologue I sent out for the fall of Drezen and Staunton Vhane. I was hoping to capture how a paladin might fall - what would do them in, how they would respond to losing their powers, and to make the initial fall reluctant - by the time the PCs (or Irabeth) have been interacting with him he had been loyal to Deskari for decades. I took a few elements from Craigmac's post above, so thank you :)
Prologue V: The Fall of Drezen
4638, 22nd Pharast
Staunton Vhane bled from over a dozen wounds, his power to restore them long since exhausted by the endless melee. Looking behind him, he witnessed the mob of schir demons overwhelming the last of his company. He could do nothing for them now. Calling out to Torag, an invocation halfway between a prayer and a scream, he charged the remaining brimoraks. If he could just kill these last two, the demonic artillery pummeling the walls of Drezen would end. He would not live to see the victory, but he understood this was a suicide mission when he disobeyed Walcrest’s order and led a small band of paladins across the Ahari bridge, beyond the safety of the citadel. After two years of fighting he understood, even if his superiors did not, that only boldness would lead to victory. Boldness and faith.
He was closer now, the demons almost in range of his axe, when another fireball detonated, incinerating what was left of his beard. “At least this cauterizes the wounds…” noted the part of his consciousness that idly collected trivia and provided commentary. It hurt, but not enough to stop him. Calling upon his god his axe burst into holy light, and with a final scream Vhane smote the last of the brimoraks. For a moment he felt whole, pure, exulting in his closeness to Torag, and the divine certainty born of that connection – the righteousness more intoxicating than any drug. But with the death of that last demon the power faded, and Vhane fell to his knees, spent. He was alone in the smoke and mist, barely conscious, as the final pack of Schir demons galloped towards him, frothing and gnawing on their blades. “Sorry, friends,” thought that part of his mind he could not silence. “I don’t catch diseases anymore.”
He wanted to grieve for the brave souls who gave their lives following him, trusting him. They deserved to be glorified for doing what was right. But there was no time. Vhane forced himself to his feet. If this was his time to die, he would die standing up. His only regret was that he never made it to Jormurdun, barely made it beyond the walls of Drezen. But those regrets were distant, far beyond the veil of exhaustion. He took a deep, ragged breath, and stumbled towards the demons. There would be little strength behind what blows he could manage, but that didn’t matter. All that mattered was that he took the swing. One final act of defiance.
The three schirs charged, faster than the spent paladin could track. The lead schir leapt, raising his halberd overhead, when there was a loud pop and the demon disintegrated in mid-air. Then, from out of the smoke and mist, a glowing blade took the head off the second and stabbed the third in its vile heart. Over in the span of a heartbeat. An elven woman emerged from the ghostly haze, the most beautiful sight Vhane had ever seen. She wore gleaming plate emblazoned with the symbol of Sarenrae, her forest green hair falling freely around her, framing her features like a painting. Her scent cut through the smoke and death, clean and pure. She stood before him.
“Well fought, brave and bold paladin. Your actions have saved this city.” She removed her gauntlet and lay an elegant hand on his chest. A glorious light filled him with her touch, and all at once Vhane’s wounds were healed. The sudden shock of it caused him to drop his axe. There were sounds of combat in the smoke and shadows that surrounded him, and the pained shriek of demons. Vhane bent for his axe when the vision spoke to him.
“Peace, daring paladin.” Her voice was intoxicating, clear like bell song, thick like the most delicious honeyed mead. Vhane felt lost in it. “You have earned your glory today. My knights will do the rest. Come, walk with me. I would learn more of the mighty warrior who dared leave the walls of the citadel behind him. That courage is all too rare these days. What is your name, noble paladin?”
“Staunton Vhane, milady. Might I ask the name of my savior?”
"Hardly your savior” she replied, smiling. “Simply the beneficiary of luck and timing. I am Jerribeth, an emissary of a higher power” and with her name she bowed low. Vhane recognized it as a gesture of deep respect, as he could sense the power emanating off her clearly eclipsed his own. All around him, in the mist and smoke, Vhane could hear the pounding of hoofs and the symphonic scream of demons dying in their scores. Some, Vhane distantly noted, sounded almost surprised.
“Well, I am in your debt and grateful for your aid regardless. I was not aware of any cavalry coming to relieve us. Which general do you serve under?” Vhane inquired.
Jerribeth laughed then, and he knew in that moment he would give anything to hear her laugh again. “We are not with the Crusade. I, and those I represent, have grown tired of their tactics. They hide in their citadels, cowardly turtles instead of noble lions. With each passing day they cede more and more territory to the forces of Deskari. Protected, but unable to protect. And so we travel across Sarkoris, taking the fight to those we find, making what difference we can. With enough victories we hope to snap the crusade out of its complacency.
Vhane looked at her in admiration. “My lady, I have never heard of such a force. What do you call yourself?”
Jerribeth offered a wry, worldly smile, offering the promise of hidden truths and secret knowledge. “Galfrey and her council do not like to speak of us. The Hammers of Heaven are their private shame. Through our actions we hold up a mirror to their caution and expose it for the cowardice it is.”
“Yes!” Vhane cried. “This is what I have been saying for years, though the damned fools do not listen.” He turned towards Citadel Drezen, rising above the mists. “They hide within the walls, protected by the Sword of Valor, while Deskari’s armies raze what is left of Sarkoris, and threaten the rest of Golarion.”
Jerribeth sighed wistfully. “What we could do with such a powerful artifact. With that banner flying before our company we could slice through Desarki’s hordes like a scythe through wheat. We could drive them back – retake Raliscard and Iz. Trap them back in that infernal tower and finally lock the gate.” Her voice was like water in the desert and brought tears to Vhane’s eyes. He fell to his knees and grabbed her hands. His voice was fever bright, a product of his emotional exhaustion and sudden salvation.
“My lady. Your words are a balm to my tired heart. Hearing you speak them, it has restored my faith. That this war can be won! That the demons can be driven back! That Jormurdun can be found! Let me aid your noble company, I beg of you!”
Jerribeth stared down at the paladin, a wide smile on her perfect face. “Rise, Staunton Vhane, paladin of Torag. There is a place for you amongst the Hammers. You have proven it with your boldness, your willingness to fight, to risk all in the name of righteousness. We would be honored to have your axe among our elite company.”
Vhane looked up at her, tears carving grooves into his soot covered face. “My lady Jerribeth, I can offer you so much more.” Vhane stood, banging his axe against his dented plate, a dwarven gesture of oathmaking. “I can bring you the Sword of Valor.”
Jerribeth tilted her head, causing a lock of green hair to fall across her face. By the gods, Vhane thought, she is beautiful. “Can you now?” She paused for a moment, thoughtful. “This is an unexpected offer, but one that could change the course of the Crusades.” She extended a hand, and Vhane carefully took it in her own.
“Walk with me, then, my friend. Let us rejoice in our victory and glorify the fallen.” And captivated by her voice they spoke of history and faith and dreams, for how long Vhane could not say, as hand in hand they strode into the smoke and mist.
***
4638, 5th Gorzan
It was almost too easy, Staunton Vhane thought. His actions, his and the paladins he convinced to ride out with him, had broken the latest siege of Drezen. Following Jerribeth’ s guidance, Vhane did not mention his encounter with the elven warrior priestess, or the Hammers of Heaven. When the smoke cleared and the Citadel’s defenders saw the demonic host had retreated, Vhane was credited with driving them off. He was the lone survivor, sole inheritor of the glory they had collectively earned, that others had died for. Vhane was a hero, celebrated throughout Drezen, and the crusader leadership had no choice to treat him as such, despite his direct defiance of their clear orders. And so Commander Walcrest, half as punishment, half in honor, assigned Vhane to guard the Sword of Valor. Forced to be still. Exactly what he hated. Right where he needed to be.
With access taken care of, there was still the question of how to get the banner out in time for his rendezvous with Jerribeth. He might have been caught if not for a stroke of fortune, for it was his brother Joran that blocked his way the night he made his move. Vhane had always had his brother’s ear, despite their differences. After a tense standoff, Joran relented, and Vhane fled Drezen with the Sword of Valor wrapped up tightly.
Returning to the bluff that overlooked the city, Vhane once more crossed the Ahari bridge and found Jerribeth and her knights waiting for him. It was a still night, unusual for the environs around Drezen. A mist clung to the graveyard and shrouded the Ahari River, but otherwise it was a cloudless sky that watched over the proceedings. The torches along the city walls were everburning, adding to the illusion of a fully defended wall. Smiling proudly, he bowed to Jerribeth and, with great care, made to hand over the banner. Jerribeth stepped back.
“Place it at my feet, paladin,” she said in her musical voice. “It is most fitting that a follower of Iomedae have the honor of retrieving it. Vhane knelt before Jerribeth and with care and reverence, lay the banner upon the ground.
“Chorussina,” Jerribeth called. A hooded elf strode from the line, bending over to lift the banner. In a trick of the light, Vhane could have sworn he saw a small set of horns underneath the hood, but then Chorussina quickly picked up the banner and rushed away, the lines of the Hammer of Heaven turning aside to make space for her.
Jerribeth placed a gentle hand on Vhane and smiled down upon him. Vhane looked up at her, beaming. “You have done well, Staunton Vhane. It took incredible self-assurance and faith to defy your commanders, but you did the right thing. Historians will remember this day. The day it all turned.” She then lifted her head and spoke to the empty air.
“My General, the Sword of Valor is in our possession. The path is open. It begins at your pleasure.”
Vhane looked at her, raising an eyebrow. “So soon? I would have thought…”
He felt Jerribeth’s hand squeeze his shoulder. But it was not the soft, slender hand of the elven warrior. It was grey and elongated, clawed and scarred. He gasped, and tried to scramble away, but her strength held him firmly in place. He started in horror as the final remnants of the illusion flaked away. The towering Glabrazu stared off intently, her eyes fixed on Drezen. Unable to breathe, Vhane followed her gaze.
“No…” Vhane pleaded. Dark shapes were moving across the bridge, Northbank, and Paradise Hill, closing on the walls. “No…” he growled. The torches on the battlements began to disappear, pinpricks of light snuffed out by the encroaching darkness.
He struggled, but the demon held him in place, forcing him to bear witness. In an endless moment he watched the city fade to black, and then the alarm bells, the panicked call to arms, and the screams. So pitiful they sounded, so desperate. And as the flames began to rise, Staunton Vhane began to weep.
All night the citadel burned, the heat drying Vhane’s tears faster than he could shed them. As he watched the carnage, he shook with silent rage. At Jerribeth, the demon who betrayed him. At himself, for allowing himself to be fooled. But after a while, he began to curse Walcrest, who forced him to skulk in darkness to serve the light, to defy orders to save lives. And the crusaders, who cowered behind their stone walls and stared at the Abyss from their tall towers. Unwilling to take the risk. Refusing to be bold. Refusing to pay the price. And look at where it got them. If they had listened to him in the first place none of this would have happened. All night the citadel burned, and nurtured by its dark heat, illuminated by its shadowed light, the sullen defiance that long ago took root within Staunton Vhane began to transform into something else. Something vicious. Something angry.
Later, when only smoke and silence rose from Drezen, Vhane was brought forward through its ruined streets, and shoved to the ground before the marilith, Aponavicius, greatest among Deskari’s generals, conqueror of the unconquerable crusader city of Drezen. Jerribeth stood at her side.
Vhane could not make eye contact with her, and so he turned his head to the right and bore witness as one by one the torn and violated bodies of his fellow crusaders were hung from the Citadel walls. It was impossible to tell from this distance, but one of them looked like Walcrest.
The marilith followed Vhane’s gaze, and there were fangs in her satisfied smile. She turned her flat, reptilian eyes to Vhane. Reaching down with two of her arms, she cupped his face on either side and forced him to meet her gaze. Her voice was raspy, sibilant, and felt like cold nails scraping down his spine
“Jerribeth tells me we have you to thank for handing over the righteous b!$@*’s keepsake” she hissed. “I am not without gratitude, and so I will grant you a choice, little paladin. I can execute you now, and you can explain to your god how, in your self-righteous arrogance, you were responsible for the deaths of thousands upon thousands of your fellow crusaders, their families, their children.” And with that she gripped his head tightly and turned it to the left. Vhane starred in numb horror as demons stood upon the walls of Drezen and hurled child after child, most dead, but not all, off the battlements towards the Ahari river. None made it that far, but the abyssal laughter carrying across the wind made it clear that the demons enjoyed their sport.
Aponavicius relaxed her grip, and Vhane jerked his head away. “I am sure they will take it well. Or, Staunton Vhane, paladin and hero, you can swear allegiance to my Lord Deskari and allow him to absolve you of your sins. Enter his service, and be honored, rather than made answerable, for your actions.”
Vhane stared at Aponavicius in horror. He opened his mouth to refuse when he realized, suddenly, that he was terrified. He could not remember the last time he felt fear, armored as he had been in his faith and shielded by the protective light of his god. He closed his eyes, searching, and realized that his connection to Torag was severed. His god had abandoned him. After a lifetime of trying to serve him. Now, when he needed him most.
Aponavicius snapped a finger, and a pair of vrocks approached. One held a squalling human child, no more than three or four years of age. The other a golden chalice and ornamental dagger, its pommel housing a dark purple stone. Vhane could barely hear the child over the pounding in his chest. He stared without seeing at the objects placed before him, though the part of him that was always watching, cataloging, commenting, noted that the chalice and dagger were engraved with scenes of depravity. The seven deadly sins. The child defecated in fear. As Vhane stared he could feel the world falling away from him. And from far away he heard the soothing sound of Jerribeth’ s voice. He looked up, and she stood before him once again, the beautiful elven avenger, her face framed by her long green hair. She cupped his face with her long, slender hands, and her breath smelled of honeycomb.
“Make your choice, Staunton. In time you will make your peace with it. You will forgive yourself, and in the end, you will believe there was no choice at all – simply the path you were destined to travel. Far easier to walk it, than to find a way to live with the guilt.”
Staunton stared into Jerribeth’s eyes and then, with shaking hands, reached for the dagger, chalice, and child.
| Stip |
The next story is below. The party has just cleared the Citadel Drezen courtyard. I had wanted the next story to be about Nurah, but they haven't gotten far enough yet. My backup was to introduce Nocticula, but I haven't fully cracked how I want to do that yet (though I like what Mightypion included and may draw from that).
This is an early lead in to the background trait expansion in Book III. A few things to note:
1. Three of these stories tie into to Arushalae. I wanted to show more of her journey prior to the point that the PCS first come into contact with her, and I'll be able to capture more of that in writing than through her describing her experience in RP. They'll have plenty more to talk about. But between the prologue I posted above, these three stories, and one more I plan to write, she should hopefully enter the campaign as a fully realized, complex character.
2. The PC who has the 'child of the crusades' backstory is a Mongrelman, and so I wanted to capture more of their lost surface history, especially because the mongrelman community didn't retain many remnants of their lives before the first crusade.
3. I wanted to make the PC connection to Xanthir Vang more personal for at least the PC with the riftwarden background.
4. The Riftwarden and Child of the Crusades stories also introduce legacy items that the players will later find. I am using a significantly scaled down version of the mythic rules for the PCs, but keeping them for the monsters, so I'm looking to find ways I can boost their power without the rocket tag power creep of the mythic rules.
5. I have a PC with the child of the gods trait (I forget the actual names of these things offhand) who will have been related to Iomadae's herald. This will be hugely important later (and a lot of it has been seeded in prior stories) but since so much of it will play out in game I didn't give that PC a dream here. Plus I just didn't really have an idea.
6. There is an odder, present tense cadence and style to the last entry. that is the only story that was witnessed from the eyes of one of the PCs themselves, and so I tried to capture his personality and thought process (a ratfolk wizard)
If you happen to read this please enjoy, and feel free to use whatever you like in your own games.
| Stip |
Prologue VI: In Dreams
17 Rova, 4723
The Silver Scale and the surviving Knights of Kenebras made their camp in the courtyard of Citadel Drezen, nestled between the outer curtain wall and inner keep. The mood was festive, morale high, thanks to the investment of the siege and the sheer audacity of the victory. Still, there was a sobering undercurrent to the celebration. Time is against them. Sooner or later Staunton Vhane will call for aid, and the retaliation will be fierce and overwhelming unless the Sword of Valor can be reclaimed. Tomorrow plans will be drawn to enter the keep, kill or capture its occupants and seize the Sword. But tonight, those not on watch sleep deeply, exhausted by days of hard marching and harder fighting.
The night is relatively silent, the rain of locusts having ceased several hours ago. Yet dark clouds continue to gather in the skies above Drezen, glowing in unnatural iridescent shades of orange, green, and purple. The air is getting warmer. All signifiers of a coming storm. There is an eldritch frisson in the air, both unnatural and intimate, an electric, kinetic quality that embraces the sleeping crusaders, bringing dreams.
***
4708, North of Kenebras, the other side of the wardstones
She stared out from underneath her hood, the sacrificial dagger gripped so tightly her knuckles turned white. She tried to take a calming breath. The smell of musty abandonment that permeated the ruined barn intermingled with the coppery smell of blood and pheromonal scent of fear. It excited her as it always did, an involuntarily stimulus response she once embraced with anticipation and abandon. But something was off. She felt nauseous, revulsion rising within her from someplace deep and unknown. She was frightened, and desperate to understand what was happening to her.
Her features remained composed, her face an artful mixture of leering excitement and casual indifference. She took in her surroundings with a surreptitious glance, anxious someone had sensed the wrongness growing inside her.
Minagho led the Azverindus rites, an obscure and previously forgotten piece of abyssal lore rediscovered by Xanthir Vang. Most demonic transformations required willing subjects, complete surrender to their most base and vile instincts by conscious choice. But the rite, when performed successfully, forced a transformation upon an unwilling host. Thinking about the totality of the violation, the inversion of the soul, sent an illicit thrill down her spine, only to be smothered by the pervasive nausea. She looked around again, to reassure herself that her shudder was seen as a shiver of pleasure, not the uncontrolled reaction of a body at war with itself.
The incubus at her side offered a feral, seductive smile. “I feel it too” he whispered to her. The heat emanating from him was magnetic. Her body longed to celebrate with his, yet something within her was repulsed by the thought. She could not comprehend why. They held their blades over the next sacrifice, a little girl who lay bound upon the altar. Blood dripped off their blades, remnants of prior victims gently pattering onto the girl’s face and chest. When Minagho reached the ritual’s climax, their blades would plunge into the girl’s head and heart, and the transformation would begin. It was all she could do to hold the dagger steady, but her hands did not shake. All outward signs of inner turmoil remained wholly suppressed.
Minagho read without eyes from the text given to her by Vang. Several demons stood outside the ruin, maintaining a watch on the horizon. It would take a massive force to truly threaten a lilitu that powerful, one of Baphomet’s chief lieutenants. But they could not risk letting the text fall into the hands of the crusade. And someone would be coming. No one would miss the little girl, but they would send a force to recover the wealthy merchant, and the cleric of Sarenrae. Not that it mattered now. She glanced at the babau and vrock getting acquainted with their new bodies and the overpowering urge for murder and violence that now governed them. Minagho was eager to see the effects of the rite on the child. The ritual inverted the raw material of the soul – the brighter the flame, the more terrifying the darkness. But it wasn’t clear what would happen when the soul substance was young, innocent, pure.
A nabasu slid the barn door open. “Mistress, a force of mounted humans approach.” Minagho remained focused on her casting. The rite was lengthy, and any interruption would necessitate beginning again. After Minagho, she was the ranking demon, but did not trust herself to speak. Uncomfortable with the silence, the incubus responded.
“How long?”
“Maybe two minutes,” the nabasu responded.
“That is all we need.”
“Go and support the others,” she finally ordered. Her voice was steady, though she could barely hear it over the roar of her heart and the waves of blood crashing in her head. The new demons grunted and, still ungainly in their new bodies but eager to see what they could do, loped out to join the others.
They left the door open, and moonlight poured in, accompanied by the galloping of hoofs, and distant battle cries drawing nearer. She began to sweat, and desperately hoped the musk smelled of excitement, rather than dread. She stared as a moth flew in through the open door, dark purple with spiral accents the midnight yellow of the stars. Then another, and another. Soon a dozen moths flitted playfully in and out of the fractured moonbeams streaming through cracked and dusty windows.
The ritual was nearing completion. She felt sick. The battle was just outside the door, but its sounds were muted and far away. It was as though a veil had been pulled over the world and only the vaguest outlines of what once felt immediate and familiar were now visible.
One of the moths landed on the blade of her raised dagger. She focused on it, looking for a stable touchstone that might her return her to her senses. With a start, she realized it wasn’t a moth at all. It was a butterfly.
Minagho’s voice crescendoed as she reached the end of the ritual. The butterfly lifted off the blade and fluttered over to the young girl. The child was screaming. She hadn’t even noticed. She couldn’t breathe.
It was time. She stared down at the child, blade held high. The old, familiar hunger rose within her, insatiable, inexorable, uncontrollable. She only had to give in, as she always had. Nothing comes easier than surrender. The butterfly landed on the girl’s forearm, and merged into her skin, creating a beautiful, lifelike tattoo. Underneath the hood her eyes began to water, and tears began a secret journey down her perfectly sculpted features. “I can’t…” she whispered, too softly for anyone to hear.
For the ritual to work they had to strike together. The incubus howled in ecstasy, and the hand that held his dagger was steady as it descended towards the child’s heart. She tightened her grip, and the hand that held her dagger was steady as she turned and stabbed him through the neck.
Minagho stared in stunned disbelief as his dagger clattered to the ground, just as the first crusader burst into the room. She twisted her blade and savaged it up into the incubus’s jaw. Her other hand lay upon his shoulder, almost tenderly, as she teleported them both away…
Kiryn rolled over in her sleep, soothed by the reassuring susurrus of butterflies’ wings.
***
4637, Seeker’s Gully, Sarkoris
Alrys Harnaste lay waste to the demons surrounding him, his scimitar cleaving through a third vrock. He spun around, searching for his next target. The last villagers of Seeker’s Gully were almost out of sight. If they could make it into the woods they had a shot at escaping. A group of kalavaki had peeled off from the main assault and were making their way towards the fleeing villagers. Arlys looked around frantically, but the few crusaders who stayed behind were dead. Only he remained.
He wished he could spare a moment to grieve for his lost home. It was foolish to hang on as long as they did, but the heart, not the head, authored this decision. It was clear Sarkoris was lost after the First Crusade. But they waited, pretending otherwise, and the call to evacuate came too late. There were too few crusaders left to defend the village, to protect his friends and kin.
Arlys fought in the First Crusade. He lost far too many friends. Too many family. His sister was pregnant when he last saw her, on her way to a posting in Kenebras. She swore she would bring her child home to be raised in Seeker’s Gully, no matter how many demons she had to kill to get back there. She disappeared shortly after the child was born. No one knew what happened. Lost along the journey, he assumed.
He would not lose the few who remained. Invoking Erastil, he called upon the wind, and the wind answered, lifting him higher and higher until he was gifted a final magnificent view of Seeker’s Gully in its entirety. From this height it was easy to target the demons chasing down the surviving villagers. A storm was coming. He would use that to his advantage. Horned demons were impervious to electricity, but the other elements could hurt them. He aimed his scimitar at the small horde and focused his will. The sky cracked open, and the lightning twisted into bright green bolts of acid that rained down upon the demons. The ground turned to slick molten glass while shards of hail and ice pummeled them from above. Arlys kept up the magical assault until every pursuer lay dead.
A sudden shock, and he was falling, his wind walk dispelled. He crashed into the ground. Dazed, he picked himself up. The remaining demons turned and, as one, made their way towards him, slavering, laughing, rejoicing in their slaughter. They would make him suffer.
Arlys Harnaste was prepared to suffer. If all eyes were on him they weren’t on his people. He looked around — he had landed in the graveyard. The family mausoleum, which had sheltered generations of the Harnaste line on their final journey, was the closest structure. He just wanted to lay his hand on the familiar stone one last time. So he could die with his kin. This life he was prepared to lose.
He called upon Erastil one last time, slowing his foes with walls of thorn and fire, turning the ground to jagged stones. He kept up the ferocious storm, bolts of acid, cold, and fire pelting the abyssal raiders. But there were so many of them, and he was running out of magic. The crypt was just a hundred feet away. He could make it. Arlys Harnaste he would die connected to the stone, to his people, to their legacy. That would be enough…
Cyrus murmured in his sleep, savoring the somehow familiar shape and feel of the name Harnaste on his tongue.
***
4710, North of Kenebras, the other side of the wardstones
The slaver caravan began its slow march to Raliscard at dusk, a group of 30 Kenebras civilians stolen off the streets by the Templars of the Ivory Labyrinth. Mostly adults, though one small and terrified boy walked among them. She watched them from the shadows. There were too many of them for her to take alone. One kalavakus she could probably handle. Maybe two if she was lucky and quick. But there were five, and about a dozen cultists. More than enough to ensure their prizes reached Raliscard alive, where they would be processed and sent to the soul forges of Iz or some other horrible fate.
She had paid an urchin to deliver a message to the nearest crusader camp. It was safest to use children. They didn’t ask to see her face and were grateful for even the smallest amount of coin. She was afraid to enchant them, in case the crusaders examined the child and suspected a trap. But adult strangers tend to look the same to the young, and it wasn’t hard for her gentle words to soothe his suspicious mind.
She growled under her breath, impatient. She wanted to scream, to destroy everything that had taken root within her. What was taking them so long? She could probably track the caravan and leave trail signs for the crusaders to follow, but she was sure she was being hunted herself. Not for the first time she asked herself why she was interfering. She did not kidnap these people. This wasn’t her responsibility. The Crusade did not want her help. They wanted her dead. It’s not like this one small act could make amends. She wasn’t even sure she wanted forgiveness. And who would forgive her if she did? She needed to run, to keep running and never stop.
F$@& it. She owed these people nothing. Her weakness had already cost her too much. She would master it, and could start by walking away. She turned to leave, creeping off into the blighted underbrush, when she heard the unmistakable sound of horses. She sighed, unclear if it was out of resignation or relief. She returned to her hiding place to watch.
The demons heard the horses too. Their senses weren’t quite as sharp as hers, but impressive, nonetheless. Very few slaves managed to make it out from under the watchful eye of the horned demons. They ordered the cultists into a defensive perimeter, enhancing their speed while the humans formed a semi-circle around the demons and the prisoners. They braced their glaives and prepared to blunt the charge.
The crusaders numbered about thirty. It would be a close fight. A great mass of horse and rider slammed into the Templar line. The Templars were obliterated, the charge stalled at the cost of their lives, though a few riders went down with them. Then the demons gave answer.
The melee was fierce and bloody. Some of the weaker willed crusaders were quickly dominated, or magically enslaved, but they had come in force. Eventually they brought the first demon down. The fighting spilled over into the cowering prisoners. A few were trampled. One of the crusaders yelled for them to flee. A second demon fell, but the toll it extracted was terrible.
The slaves ran, all but the terrified little boy. He stood, frozen in place by the carnage rampaging around him. A crusader was hurled in his direction, her broken body knocking him off his feet and pining him to the ground. He would be trampled if he stayed there.
She watched, aroused by the blood and violence. The suffering triggered a physiological response that was almost overpowering given how long she had been alone. She drank in the scene, but as her eyes wandered over to the boy, desperately trying to pull himself out from underneath the dead crusader, she was struck by the familiar wave of nausea. Of wrongness. Her fingers curled into fists, her nails digging so sharply into her hands they drew blood. She just wanted this to stop. To release what was inside her. To understand what was happening. To be herself again. Something, anything, other than this.
Barely aware of her movements, she approached the battlefield in silence, the dead offering plenty of cover. There were eight crusaders left, engaging one of the two remaining horned demons. The other had seen the boy’s struggles and trundled towards him, unable to help himself as he ignored the greater threat.
Standing over the boy, it lifted the crusader corpse with one hand and tossed it to the side. “Time to die, mortal.” The boy whimpered and froze.
She struck from the shadows, grabbing the demon’s face and kissing it passionately on the mouth. The embrace drained its strength. She released it and as the demon staggered away she plunged her dagger into its heart. It fell to the ground, dead. She looked down upon the child, who stared back up at her.
“Get up boy. It isn’t safe for you here.” Enchanted by her voice, the boy rose to his feet.
“Get away from him, demon!” a voice shrieked behind her. The final kalavakus was on the ground, dead. Three crusaders had survived. Two had gone after the remaining survivors. This one had remained to secure the battlefield. His armor bore signs of rank. Some kind of officer. His face was a twisted mask of anguish and rage. “I will kill you for what you’ve done!”
“I am trying to help you!” she screamed back. “I sent the warning!”
“I will not fall for your lies, you whore! This was a trap. The slaves were your bait. And you will pay for their lives. This cursed ground thirsts for your vile blood, and I will see it drinks its fill.”
He charged her, his sword sparking to life with golden energy as he invoked Iomedae’s name. A paladin. But wounded. She might be able to take him. She focused her mind and tried to force her way into his. The paladin resisted; his defenses too strong. She ducked his first swing, but the second cleaved into her hip, leaving a vicious, bloody wound. She would not survive another hit. Gasping through the pain, she uttered a brief incantation as she ducked under his next swing, and gracefully lay her hand on his chest. His life flowed into her, partially healing the wound. The paladin dropped to his knees, and before he could heal himself, she slid her dagger across his throat. He fell on his back, and stared up at her, raw hatred in his still, open eyes, his features forever frozen in a look of pure loathing. Directed at her. The blood she spilled flowed from his throat and over his embossed silver plate, covering the symbol of Iomedae.
She looked down at him, fighting through the punishing mixture of desire and revulsion. She stared at her dagger, covered in his blood, and dropped it on the ground. She was so tired.
Something tugged on her pant leg, and she spun around, claws bared. It was the boy. She had forgotten about him. He reached for her hand. Surprising herself, she took it. His hand was tiny in hers. Soft and warm. She felt an overpowering desire to possesses it, to corrupt it. She let go, and the urge faded.
“Can you take me back home”?
She was silent for a moment, and then shook her head, a slight gesture that carried with it an ineffable sadness. “Where you must go, I am not permitted to follow, little one. Your people are that way. Find them. They will keep you safe.”
The boy stared up at her, holding her gaze for longer than she was comfortable. His eyes were full of hope. She spent countless lifetimes destroying it in others, but had never known how it felt. She had not needed it before and could not find it now. Leaving the child behind, she turned her back on him and limped off into the blasted wasteland, exhausted, scared, and alone…
Wick stretched out in his sleep, grasping for a hand that wasn’t there.
***
4665,Worldwound, somewhere in the Riftshadow
The ground was already blackened and pockmarked, so it was hard to say which scars were left by this ferocious exchange, and what was there before. Flashes of magic were swallowed by the gloomy dusk. Xanthir Vang, and the few surviving Blackfire Adepts who had fled Mendev with him, were bloodied, battered, and low on spells. Sensing their weakness, and hungry to avenge their fallen brothers, the paladins surged forward, calling upon their various gods to smite the members of the demonic cabal, and the false crusader who led them. But the adepts had a few tricks left. Multiple blue and purple vortexes opened in the sky, and the blackfire that poured out reduced the paladins to ash. A howling abyssal wind blew their remains away. Nothing to bury. No evidence of their prior lives. Just the absence of life where there was life before.
Zang and his four adepts faced the remnants of their pursuers, a pair of Riftwardens. They were in their early 30s. The woman had soft brown eyes and curly burgundy hair that hung heavy on her shoulders. The man was bald with slightly lopsided features and a thick, muscular build that seemed out of place for a scholar. Both wore the matching robes and identical Seeker’s Spiral rings. The woman held a long staff adorned with intricate patterning, its wood of some extra planar variety. Vang had never seen its like before, though he could sense the incredible power radiating from it. He smiled at the pair, as his adepts began their summoning.
“You look to be a matching set. Melana and Holver, isn’t it? I think we met before. How romantic that you meet your end together. Wouldn’t it have been more comfortable to die at home, wardens?”
The Riftwardens stood tall and still. Melana squared her shoulders, defiant and calm. “There is no place you can run, Vang, where we will not follow. There is no chasm deep enough, no blackness dark enough, to keep you hidden from us. Your betrayal has cost countless lives, and you will answer for them. Here, and now!” The wardens cast dimensional anchors to block the adepts’ summons . But the power of their call was strong enough to smash through the anchors, and four rifts appeared, a single hezrou demons stepping out of each.
As the demons charged, Zang prepared to teleport away with his surviving adepts. Holver ignored the wet, squelching pounding of herzous’ feet on the uneven ground, the noxious vapors emanating from their bodies, and focused his mind. He blocked the teleportation and shunted Zang and the adepts forward. They fell stunned at the feet of the Riftwardens. Melana gripped her staff and concentrated. Just as the herzous leapt, a sphere of golden and silver energy pulsed from the staff, enveloping demon, adept, and warden alike. There was a loud pop as the demons were banished back to their home plane, while searing energy scoured the flesh from the Blackfire Adepts, leaving the Riftwardens unharmed. Vang screamed, but his shredded throat made no sound. His baleful eyes spoke volumes as their light faded.
Melana and Holver embraced, lingering in that moment for a long while, an island of light in a sea of darkness. “It’s over,” Holver eventually whispered. “We got that bastard.” Melana tilted her head up, kissing Holver on his crooked lips. “It is over. And there was a price to pay, as always. But we made it through.”
“Always,” Holver grinned with relief. “Together, my love, there is nothing we cannot do.”
Melena looked around the scorched and blighted ground. The land was open and desiccated for miles.
“Except get out of here. I don’t suppose you have any teleports left? I’m out.”
“I am too. But I know of a romantic place to spend the evening.”
She laughed, releasing some of the tension inside of her. “You take me to all the best places, darling. It’ll be a long night. Let’s find some shelter and hold the memory of the fallen. We will honor them properly back in Kenebras.”
The Riftwardens took a minute to recover supplies from their defeated foes and strode off, hand in hand into the wastes of the Worldwound.
The battlefield was silent, save for the background howl of the fell, ceaseless wind. After a time, there was a small disturbance in the abyssal tainted earth. A tiny divot formed in the ground, and a worm peaked out. It paused, its head slowly twisting in a circle, as if debating whether the surface was worth its time. Eventually it pulled itself completely through and wriggled its way to the rapidly cooling body of Xanthir Vang. It hesitated for a moment, pondering a decision of grave import, and then, resolved, burrowed its way into Vang’s flesh. Soon another worm emerged. Then another. Before long thousands had covered the fallen mage, devouring his flesh and bones, a writhing, pulsating mass in the perverse shape of a man.
Several miles away, Holver and Melana huddled together for warmth in the hollow of a petrified tree. A fire was too risky, despite the darkness. There is no telling whose attention it might attract. You were never safe this side of the wardstones. Thanks to traitors like Xanthir Vang, you were only marginally safer on the other side.
If they wanted to get out of here one of them needed to recover spells. Holver’s senses were sharper, so he kept watch while Melana slept. He absentmindedly stroked her hair with one hand, his concentration fixed on the gaping darkness outside the secure hollow. His other hand clutched the staff. There was a piercing howl off in the distant, but it was miles away, and screaming madness was a constant background companion this deep in the Worldwound. Still, he gripped the staff tighter. Melana opened one bleary eye.
“What’s going on?” she asked, in the drowsy, unhurried fashion of someone neither asleep nor awake.
“Nothing my love. I’ve got you. Go back to sleep.” Melana murmured something incomprehensible and snuggled into Holver. He smiled, kissed the top of her head, and returned to his vigil. His eyes were fixed on the darkness outside. Nothing would get through. They would return home, safe.
Some time later, a worm burrowed into the back of the small hollow. Then another. Then another. In the silent dark Holver remained vigilant, his eyes fixed on the inky expanse that lay before him…
Zograthy stirred in his sleep, as his thoughts drifted to vague and distant memories. He had a hazy recollection of a couple that would visit his foster parents several times a year. They were usually tenuous around him, even removed, as if not sure what to say to him, or even of their right to be there. But they always brought the best presents. He must have been about 6 years old when he last saw them, a few weeks before his spiral birthmark appeared. It started to throb with a low, dull pressure. The sensation was familiar, comforting, like an invisible hand offering an affection squeeze.
***
Rova 4722, Somewhere in Numeria
The young man and his companion lay splayed out spread eagle on a wide boulder serving as a makeshift altar. His brother remains unconscious, but he is wide awake now. He takes in his surroundings as best he can. Standing over them is a beautiful elven woman with long green hair. She is flanked on either side by two enormous minotaurs, their giant glaives held at the ready. Well, the glaives were giant to him. Not to the minotaurs. They were regular size to them, though a regular sized glaive is still giant compared to a dagger, or really any weapon that wasn’t a polearm. Was a glaive one of the bigger polearms? It didn’t matter. Their eyes are glowing red, giving them an even more bestial, almost demonic appearance. They peer off into the twilight gloom. Clearly nervous. Clearly waiting for something.
“Mistress, are you sure she will come?” one of them lows at the woman. He can’t place what kind of elf she is. Come to think of it, she seems more like the idea of an elf than an actual elf – a composite of elfness without any of the organic imperfections that differentiate the living.
“She will. She has been tracking me since I last left the Ivory Sanctum, and this scene is too tantalizing for her to resist. We will have her soon, and then we can bring her home. Hepzamirah wishes to know the depths of her depravity, and what happened to the elixir she stole.” She shrugs. “And if I’m wrong, we can head to Starfall and make a few new friends. Our eye cannot always be fixed on Mendev, after all.”
She looms over the two captives chained to the rock and begins invoking a prayer in the abyssal tongue. Frightened and disoriented as he is the young man cannot follow all the words, but he recognizes that it is addressed to the demon lord Baphomet, and that it probably speaks of ill intent towards him and his brother. Outright malice, even. He had wondered why they were captured. To serve as bait, apparently. He has never been bait before, he didn’t think. Would he have known? At any rate, he doesn’t care for it. He glances to his side. His brother is unconscious, still, with a terrible weeping gash in his chest. He resolves that it would be best if he makes his escape. He will begin by freeing himself of his constraints. Invigorated by a clear plan of action, he begins to grunt and strain against the ropes that bind him. The elven woman glances down at his struggles, and offers a warm, encouraging smile as she continues her chanting.
Though he does not know the prayer, the young man senses that it is coming to its end. He pauses and begins to take deep, full breaths. Oxygenating his blood will increase his strength, and with it the likelihood of escape.
The elven woman raises her dagger over the young man’s unconscious form. A silver arrow passes directly over the young man, inches from his face, and plunges into the chest of the elven woman. She gasps, and blood explodes from the wound, sloshing over the young man. Most falls across his face and chest, but some runs down his throat. He coughs and sputters, but cannot prevent himself from instinctively swallowing. Another arrow punches into the leg of the minotaur to his right, who roars in pain. The young man’s gaze tracks the flight of the arrow, and about 200 feet away, to the right of his position, he makes out a slim, hooded silhouette, readying another arrow. She may have wings. He can’t really tell from this angle, as the light was poor. It might be a cloak. There is a stiff breeze, favoring the archer.
The minotaur to his left bellows a challenge and charges their attacker. The other minotaur reaches down and breaks off the shaft of the arrow. He turns to the elven woman.
“You were right, mistress Jerribeth. The heretic has come.”
The young man arches his back so he can look behind him. The elven woman is gone. In her place is a towering fiend, at least 18 feet tall. The four-armed fiend must weigh at least 3 tons. A glabrezu. The biggest (well, only) one he has ever seen. It holds a serpent headed rod in one of its pincers. Another claw touches the wound on his chest, magic healing it. The heal spell. An apt choice. The demon locks eyes with the archer and nods its head as if in greetings. The boulder throbs in sympathetic resonance with the low rumble of its voice.
“Hello Arueshalae.”
The young man blacks out. When he awakens, he and his brother are still tied to the rock, but this time they are alone. Seemingly forgotten. A benefit of his small, unassuming stature. A few more minutes of concentration and he slips a paw free. From there it is short work to free his brother, who is in a state of dizzy half-consciousness. Luck is on his side, for the demon has left their packs untouched. Well, some luck. If luck were truly on their side, they would not have been captured in the first place. But surely anyone would agree that some luck was better than none at all. He rummages through the packs and pulls out a roll of clean gauze. Mostly clean. Clean enough. Under the circumstances. Wrapping his brother’s wound as best he can, he neatly rolls up his supplies and returns them to their proper place in his pack, checking to ensure that the sliver metal cube is still there. It is. With everything in its proper place, he pulls his brother to his feet and drapes his arm over his shoulder. Supporting his weight as best he can they begin the long march home…
Queso’s dream shifted. In a decrepit hall a hulking brute of a man, eyes closed, lounged indolently on a stone throne, covered in tattered and filthy furs. A large two-legged dragon, its dull blue scales tinged with bright blue ice, lay at his feet. Mist seeped from its nostrils as it slept. With a start the man’s eyes opened, and his gaze turned to Queso. “I see you, my blood brother. Come to me. We can serve our emerald mistress together.” Then darkness. Queso slept, but it was a long while until his hackles had lowered.
***
You awake the next morning, surprised to find yourself back in the present. It was a dream, but it felt real. Like a memory. Like history. You feel uneasy and incomplete, but full of curious purpose. Today Citadel Drezen awaits. But somewhere out there, somewhere in the Worldwound, you feel a strange pull. A calling. Something from the past, promising the future.
| Stip |
Prologue VI: In Dreams
17 Rova, 4723
The Silver Scale and the surviving Knights of Kenebras made their camp in the courtyard of Citadel Drezen, nestled between the outer curtain wall and inner keep. The mood was festive, morale high, thanks to the investment of the siege and the sheer audacity of the victory. Still, there was a sobering undercurrent to the celebration. Time is against them. Sooner or later Staunton Vhane will call for aid, and the retaliation will be fierce and overwhelming unless the Sword of Valor can be reclaimed. Tomorrow plans will be drawn to enter the keep, kill or capture its occupants and seize the Sword. But tonight, those not on watch sleep deeply, exhausted by days of hard marching and harder fighting.
The night is relatively silent, the rain of locusts having ceased several hours ago. Yet dark clouds continue to gather in the skies above Drezen, glowing in unnatural iridescent shades of orange, green, and purple. The air is getting warmer. All signifiers of a coming storm. There is an eldritch frisson in the air, both unnatural and intimate, an electric, kinetic quality that embraces the sleeping crusaders, bringing dreams.
***
4708, North of Kenebras, the other side of the wardstones
She stared out from underneath her hood, the sacrificial dagger gripped so tightly her knuckles turned white. She tried to take a calming breath. The smell of musty abandonment that permeated the ruined barn intermingled with the coppery smell of blood and pheromonal scent of fear. It excited her as it always did, an involuntarily stimulus response she once embraced with anticipation and abandon. But something was off. She felt nauseous, revulsion rising within her from someplace deep and unknown. She was frightened, and desperate to understand what was happening to her.
Her features remained composed, her face an artful mixture of leering excitement and casual indifference. She took in her surroundings with a surreptitious glance, anxious someone had sensed the wrongness growing inside her.
Minagho led the Azverindus rites, an obscure and previously forgotten piece of abyssal lore rediscovered by Xanthir Vang. Most demonic transformations required willing subjects, complete surrender to their most base and vile instincts by conscious choice. But the rite, when performed successfully, forced a transformation upon an unwilling host. Thinking about the totality of the violation, the inversion of the soul, sent an illicit thrill down her spine, only to be smothered by the pervasive nausea. She looked around again, to reassure herself that her shudder was seen as a shiver of pleasure, not the uncontrolled reaction of a body at war with itself.
The incubus at her side offered a feral, seductive smile. “I feel it too” he whispered to her. The heat emanating from him was magnetic. Her body longed to celebrate with his, yet something within her was repulsed by the thought. She could not comprehend why. They held their blades over the next sacrifice, a little girl who lay bound upon the altar. Blood dripped off their blades, remnants of prior victims gently pattering onto the girl’s face and chest. When Minagho reached the ritual’s climax, their blades would plunge into the girl’s head and heart, and the transformation would begin. It was all she could do to hold the dagger steady, but her hands did not shake. All outward signs of inner turmoil remained wholly suppressed.
Minagho read without eyes from the text given to her by Vang. Several demons stood outside the ruin, maintaining a watch on the horizon. It would take a massive force to truly threaten a lilitu that powerful, one of Baphomet’s chief lieutenants. But they could not risk letting the text fall into the hands of the crusade. And someone would be coming. No one would miss the little girl, but they would send a force to recover the wealthy merchant, and the cleric of Sarenrae. Not that it mattered now. She glanced at the babau and vrock getting acquainted with their new bodies and the overpowering urge for murder and violence that now governed them. Minagho was eager to see the effects of the rite on the child. The ritual inverted the raw material of the soul – the brighter the flame, the more terrifying the darkness. But it wasn’t clear what would happen when the soul substance was young, innocent, pure.
A nabasu slid the barn door open. “Mistress, a force of mounted humans approach.” Minagho remained focused on her casting. The rite was lengthy, and any interruption would necessitate beginning again. After Minagho, she was the ranking demon, but did not trust herself to speak. Uncomfortable with the silence, the incubus responded.
“How long?”
“Maybe two minutes,” the nabasu responded.
“That is all we need.”
“Go and support the others,” she finally ordered. Her voice was steady, though she could barely hear it over the roar of her heart and the waves of blood crashing in her head. The new demons grunted and, still ungainly in their new bodies but eager to see what they could do, loped out to join the others.
They left the door open, and moonlight poured in, accompanied by the galloping of hoofs, and distant battle cries drawing nearer. She began to sweat, and desperately hoped the musk smelled of excitement, rather than dread. She stared as a moth flew in through the open door, dark purple with spiral accents the midnight yellow of the stars. Then another, and another. Soon a dozen moths flitted playfully in and out of the fractured moonbeams streaming through cracked and dusty windows.
The ritual was nearing completion. She felt sick. The battle was just outside the door, but its sounds were muted and far away. It was as though a veil had been pulled over the world and only the vaguest outlines of what once felt immediate and familiar were now visible.
One of the moths landed on the blade of her raised dagger. She focused on it, looking for a stable touchstone that might her return her to her senses. With a start, she realized it wasn’t a moth at all. It was a butterfly.
Minagho’s voice crescendoed as she reached the end of the ritual. The butterfly lifted off the blade and fluttered over to the young girl. The child was screaming. She hadn’t even noticed. She couldn’t breathe.
It was time. She stared down at the child, blade held high. The old, familiar hunger rose within her, insatiable, inexorable, uncontrollable. She only had to give in, as she always had. Nothing comes easier than surrender. The butterfly landed on the girl’s forearm, and merged into her skin, creating a beautiful, lifelike tattoo. Underneath the hood her eyes began to water, and tears began a secret journey down her perfectly sculpted features. “I can’t…” she whispered, too softly for anyone to hear.
For the ritual to work they had to strike together. The incubus howled in ecstasy, and the hand that held his dagger was steady as it descended towards the child’s heart. She tightened her grip, and the hand that held her dagger was steady as she turned and stabbed him through the neck.
Minagho stared in stunned disbelief as his dagger clattered to the ground, just as the first crusader burst into the room. She twisted her blade and savaged it up into the incubus’s jaw. Her other hand lay upon his shoulder, almost tenderly, as she teleported them both away…
Kiryn rolled over in her sleep, soothed by the reassuring susurrus of butterflies’ wings.
***
4637, Seeker’s Gully, Sarkoris
Alrys Harnaste lay waste to the demons surrounding him, his scimitar cleaving through a third vrock. He spun around, searching for his next target. The last villagers of Seeker’s Gully were almost out of sight. If they could make it into the woods they had a shot at escaping. A group of kalavaki had peeled off from the main assault and were making their way towards the fleeing villagers. Arlys looked around frantically, but the few crusaders who stayed behind were dead. Only he remained.
He wished he could spare a moment to grieve for his lost home. It was foolish to hang on as long as they did, but the heart, not the head, authored this decision. It was clear Sarkoris was lost after the First Crusade. But they waited, pretending otherwise, and the call to evacuate came too late. There were too few crusaders left to defend the village, to protect his friends and kin.
Arlys fought in the First Crusade. He lost far too many friends. Too many family. His sister was pregnant when he last saw her, on her way to a posting in Kenebras. She swore she would bring her child home to be raised in Seeker’s Gully, no matter how many demons she had to kill to get back there. She disappeared shortly after the child was born. No one knew what happened. Lost along the journey, he assumed.
He would not lose the few who remained. Invoking Erastil, he called upon the wind, and the wind answered, lifting him higher and higher until he was gifted a final magnificent view of Seeker’s Gully in its entirety. From this height it was easy to target the demons chasing down the surviving villagers. A storm was coming. He would use that to his advantage. Horned demons were impervious to electricity, but the other elements could hurt them. He aimed his scimitar at the small horde and focused his will. The sky cracked open, and the lightning twisted into bright green bolts of acid that rained down upon the demons. The ground turned to slick molten glass while shards of hail and ice pummeled them from above. Arlys kept up the magical assault until every pursuer lay dead.
A sudden shock, and he was falling, his wind walk dispelled. He crashed into the ground. Dazed, he picked himself up. The remaining demons turned and, as one, made their way towards him, slavering, laughing, rejoicing in their slaughter. They would make him suffer.
Arlys Harnaste was prepared to suffer. If all eyes were on him they weren’t on his people. He looked around — he had landed in the graveyard. The family mausoleum, which had sheltered generations of the Harnaste line on their final journey, was the closest structure. He just wanted to lay his hand on the familiar stone one last time. So he could die with his kin. This life he was prepared to lose.
He called upon Erastil one last time, slowing his foes with walls of thorn and fire, turning the ground to jagged stones. He kept up the ferocious storm, bolts of acid, cold, and fire pelting the abyssal raiders. But there were so many of them, and he was running out of magic. The crypt was just a hundred feet away. He could make it. Arlys Harnaste he would die connected to the stone, to his people, to their legacy. That would be enough…
Cyrus murmured in his sleep, savoring the somehow familiar shape and feel of the name Harnaste on his tongue.
***
4710, North of Kenebras, the other side of the wardstones
The slaver caravan began its slow march to Raliscard at dusk, a group of 30 Kenebras civilians stolen off the streets by the Templars of the Ivory Labyrinth. Mostly adults, though one small and terrified boy walked among them. She watched them from the shadows. There were too many of them for her to take alone. One kalavakus she could probably handle. Maybe two if she was lucky and quick. But there were five, and about a dozen cultists. More than enough to ensure their prizes reached Raliscard alive, where they would be processed and sent to the soul forges of Iz or some other horrible fate.
She had paid an urchin to deliver a message to the nearest crusader camp. It was safest to use children. They didn’t ask to see her face and were grateful for even the smallest amount of coin. She was afraid to enchant them, in case the crusaders examined the child and suspected a trap. But adult strangers tend to look the same to the young, and it wasn’t hard for her gentle words to soothe his suspicious mind.
She growled under her breath, impatient. She wanted to scream, to destroy everything that had taken root within her. What was taking them so long? She could probably track the caravan and leave trail signs for the crusaders to follow, but she was sure she was being hunted herself. Not for the first time she asked herself why she was interfering. She did not kidnap these people. This wasn’t her responsibility. The Crusade did not want her help. They wanted her dead. It’s not like this one small act could make amends. She wasn’t even sure she wanted forgiveness. And who would forgive her if she did? She needed to run, to keep running and never stop.
F!*$ it. She owed these people nothing. Her weakness had already cost her too much. She would master it, and could start by walking away. She turned to leave, creeping off into the blighted underbrush, when she heard the unmistakable sound of horses. She sighed, unclear if it was out of resignation or relief. She returned to her hiding place to watch.
The demons heard the horses too. Their senses weren’t quite as sharp as hers, but impressive, nonetheless. Very few slaves managed to make it out from under the watchful eye of the horned demons. They ordered the cultists into a defensive perimeter, enhancing their speed while the humans formed a semi-circle around the demons and the prisoners. They braced their glaives and prepared to blunt the charge.
The crusaders numbered about thirty. It would be a close fight. A great mass of horse and rider slammed into the Templar line. The Templars were obliterated, the charge stalled at the cost of their lives, though a few riders went down with them. Then the demons gave answer.
The melee was fierce and bloody. Some of the weaker willed crusaders were quickly dominated, or magically enslaved, but they had come in force. Eventually they brought the first demon down. The fighting spilled over into the cowering prisoners. A few were trampled. One of the crusaders yelled for them to flee. A second demon fell, but the toll it extracted was terrible.
The slaves ran, all but the terrified little boy. He stood, frozen in place by the carnage rampaging around him. A crusader was hurled in his direction, her broken body knocking him off his feet and pining him to the ground. He would be trampled if he stayed there.
She watched, aroused by the blood and violence. The suffering triggered a physiological response that was almost overpowering given how long she had been alone. She drank in the scene, but as her eyes wandered over to the boy, desperately trying to pull himself out from underneath the dead crusader, she was struck by the familiar wave of nausea. Of wrongness. Her fingers curled into fists, her nails digging so sharply into her hands they drew blood. She just wanted this to stop. To release what was inside her. To understand what was happening. To be herself again. Something, anything, other than this.
Barely aware of her movements, she approached the battlefield in silence, the dead offering plenty of cover. There were eight crusaders left, engaging one of the two remaining horned demons. The other had seen the boy’s struggles and trundled towards him, unable to help himself as he ignored the greater threat.
Standing over the boy, it lifted the crusader corpse with one hand and tossed it to the side. “Time to die, mortal.” The boy whimpered and froze.
She struck from the shadows, grabbing the demon’s face and kissing it passionately on the mouth. The embrace drained its strength. She released it and as the demon staggered away she plunged her dagger into its heart. It fell to the ground, dead. She looked down upon the child, who stared back up at her.
“Get up boy. It isn’t safe for you here.” Enchanted by her voice, the boy rose to his feet.
“Get away from him, demon!” a voice shrieked behind her. The final kalavakus was on the ground, dead. Three crusaders had survived. Two had gone after the remaining survivors. This one had remained to secure the battlefield. His armor bore signs of rank. Some kind of officer. His face was a twisted mask of anguish and rage. “I will kill you for what you’ve done!”
“I am trying to help you!” she screamed back. “I sent the warning!”
“I will not fall for your lies, you whore! This was a trap. The slaves were your bait. And you will pay for their lives. This cursed ground thirsts for your vile blood, and I will see it drinks its fill.”
He charged her, his sword sparking to life with golden energy as he invoked Iomedae’s name. A paladin. But wounded. She might be able to take him. She focused her mind and tried to force her way into his. The paladin resisted; his defenses too strong. She ducked his first swing, but the second cleaved into her hip, leaving a vicious, bloody wound. She would not survive another hit. Gasping through the pain, she uttered a brief incantation as she ducked under his next swing, and gracefully lay her hand on his chest. His life flowed into her, partially healing the wound. The paladin dropped to his knees, and before he could heal himself, she slid her dagger across his throat. He fell on his back, and stared up at her, raw hatred in his still, open eyes, his features forever frozen in a look of pure loathing. Directed at her. The blood she spilled flowed from his throat and over his embossed silver plate, covering the symbol of Iomedae.
She looked down at him, fighting through the punishing mixture of desire and revulsion. She stared at her dagger, covered in his blood, and dropped it on the ground. She was so tired.
Something tugged on her pant leg, and she spun around, claws bared. It was the boy. She had forgotten about him. He reached for her hand. Surprising herself, she took it. His hand was tiny in hers. Soft and warm. She felt an overpowering desire to possesses it, to corrupt it. She let go, and the urge faded.
“Can you take me back home”?
She was silent for a moment, and then shook her head, a slight gesture that carried with it an ineffable sadness. “Where you must go, I am not permitted to follow, little one. Your people are that way. Find them. They will keep you safe.”
The boy stared up at her, holding her gaze for longer than she was comfortable. His eyes were full of hope. She spent countless lifetimes destroying it in others, but had never known how it felt. She had not needed it before and could not find it now. Leaving the child behind, she turned her back on him and limped off into the blasted wasteland, exhausted, scared, and alone…
Wick stretched out in his sleep, grasping for a hand that wasn’t there.
***
4665,Worldwound, somewhere in the Riftshadow
The ground was already blackened and pockmarked, so it was hard to say which scars were left by this ferocious exchange, and what was there before. Flashes of magic were swallowed by the gloomy dusk. Xanthir Vang, and the few surviving Blackfire Adepts who had fled Mendev with him, were bloodied, battered, and low on spells. Sensing their weakness, and hungry to avenge their fallen brothers, the paladins surged forward, calling upon their various gods to smite the members of the demonic cabal, and the false crusader who led them. But the adepts had a few tricks left. Multiple blue and purple vortexes opened in the sky, and the blackfire that poured out reduced the paladins to ash. A howling abyssal wind blew their remains away. Nothing to bury. No evidence of their prior lives. Just the absence of life where there was life before.
Zang and his four adepts faced the remnants of their pursuers, a pair of Riftwardens. They were in their early 30s. The woman had soft brown eyes and curly burgundy hair that hung heavy on her shoulders. The man was bald with slightly lopsided features and a thick, muscular build that seemed out of place for a scholar. Both wore the matching robes and identical Seeker’s Spiral rings. The woman held a long staff adorned with intricate patterning, its wood of some extra planar variety. Vang had never seen its like before, though he could sense the incredible power radiating from it. He smiled at the pair, as his adepts began their summoning.
“You look to be a matching set. Melana and Holver, isn’t it? I think we met before. How romantic that you meet your end together. Wouldn’t it have been more comfortable to die at home, wardens?”
The Riftwardens stood tall and still. Melana squared her shoulders, defiant and calm. “There is no place you can run, Vang, where we will not follow. There is no chasm deep enough, no blackness dark enough, to keep you hidden from us. Your betrayal has cost countless lives, and you will answer for them. Here, and now!” The wardens cast dimensional anchors to block the adepts’ summons . But the power of their call was strong enough to smash through the anchors, and four rifts appeared, a single hezrou demons stepping out of each.
As the demons charged, Zang prepared to teleport away with his surviving adepts. Holver ignored the wet, squelching pounding of herzous’ feet on the uneven ground, the noxious vapors emanating from their bodies, and focused his mind. He blocked the teleportation and shunted Zang and the adepts forward. They fell stunned at the feet of the Riftwardens. Melana gripped her staff and concentrated. Just as the herzous leapt, a sphere of golden and silver energy pulsed from the staff, enveloping demon, adept, and warden alike. There was a loud pop as the demons were banished back to their home plane, while searing energy scoured the flesh from the Blackfire Adepts, leaving the Riftwardens unharmed. Vang screamed, but his shredded throat made no sound. His baleful eyes spoke volumes as their light faded.
Melana and Holver embraced, lingering in that moment for a long while, an island of light in a sea of darkness. “It’s over,” Holver eventually whispered. “We got that bastard.” Melana tilted her head up, kissing Holver on his crooked lips. “It is over. And there was a price to pay, as always. But we made it through.”
“Always,” Holver grinned with relief. “Together, my love, there is nothing we cannot do.”
Melena looked around the scorched and blighted ground. The land was open and desiccated for miles.
“Except get out of here. I don’t suppose you have any teleports left? I’m out.”
“I am too. But I know of a romantic place to spend the evening.”
She laughed, releasing some of the tension inside of her. “You take me to all the best places, darling. It’ll be a long night. Let’s find some shelter and hold the memory of the fallen. We will honor them properly back in Kenebras.”
The Riftwardens took a minute to recover supplies from their defeated foes and strode off, hand in hand into the wastes of the Worldwound.
The battlefield was silent, save for the background howl of the fell, ceaseless wind. After a time, there was a small disturbance in the abyssal tainted earth. A tiny divot formed in the ground, and a worm peaked out. It paused, its head slowly twisting in a circle, as if debating whether the surface was worth its time. Eventually it pulled itself completely through and wriggled its way to the rapidly cooling body of Xanthir Vang. It hesitated for a moment, pondering a decision of grave import, and then, resolved, burrowed its way into Vang’s flesh. Soon another worm emerged. Then another. Before long thousands had covered the fallen mage, devouring his flesh and bones, a writhing, pulsating mass in the perverse shape of a man.
Several miles away, Holver and Melana huddled together for warmth in the hollow of a petrified tree. A fire was too risky, despite the darkness. There is no telling whose attention it might attract. You were never safe this side of the wardstones. Thanks to traitors like Xanthir Vang, you were only marginally safer on the other side.
If they wanted to get out of here one of them needed to recover spells. Holver’s senses were sharper, so he kept watch while Melana slept. He absentmindedly stroked her hair with one hand, his concentration fixed on the gaping darkness outside the secure hollow. His other hand clutched the staff. There was a piercing howl off in the distant, but it was miles away, and screaming madness was a constant background companion this deep in the Worldwound. Still, he gripped the staff tighter. Melana opened one bleary eye.
“What’s going on?” she asked, in the drowsy, unhurried fashion of someone neither asleep nor awake.
“Nothing my love. I’ve got you. Go back to sleep.” Melana murmured something incomprehensible and snuggled into Holver. He smiled, kissed the top of her head, and returned to his vigil. His eyes were fixed on the darkness outside. Nothing would get through. They would return home, safe.
Some time later, a worm burrowed into the back of the small hollow. Then another. Then another. In the silent dark Holver remained vigilant, his eyes fixed on the inky expanse that lay before him…
Zograthy stirred in his sleep, as his thoughts drifted to vague and distant memories. He had a hazy recollection of a couple that would visit his foster parents several times a year. They were usually tenuous around him, even removed, as if not sure what to say to him, or even of their right to be there. But they always brought the best presents. He must have been about 6 years old when he last saw them, a few weeks before his spiral birthmark appeared. It started to throb with a low, dull pressure. The sensation was familiar, comforting, like an invisible hand offering an affection squeeze.
***
Rova 4722, Somewhere in Numeria
The young man and his companion lay splayed out spread eagle on a wide boulder serving as a makeshift altar. His brother remains unconscious, but he is wide awake now. He takes in his surroundings as best he can. Standing over them is a beautiful elven woman with long green hair. She is flanked on either side by two enormous minotaurs, their giant glaives held at the ready. Well, the glaives were giant to him. Not to the minotaurs. They were regular size to them, though a regular sized glaive is still giant compared to a dagger, or really any weapon that wasn’t a polearm. Was a glaive one of the bigger polearms? It didn’t matter. Their eyes are glowing red, giving them an even more bestial, almost demonic appearance. They peer off into the twilight gloom. Clearly nervous. Clearly waiting for something.
“Mistress, are you sure she will come?” one of them lows at the woman. He can’t place what kind of elf she is. Come to think of it, she seems more like the idea of an elf than an actual elf – a composite of elfness without any of the organic imperfections that differentiate the living.
“She will. She has been tracking me since I last left the Ivory Sanctum, and this scene is too tantalizing for her to resist. We will have her soon, and then we can bring her home. Hepzamirah wishes to know the depths of her depravity, and what happened to the elixir she stole.” She shrugs. “And if I’m wrong, we can head to Starfall and make a few new friends. Our eye cannot always be fixed on Mendev, after all.”
She looms over the two captives chained to the rock and begins invoking a prayer in the abyssal tongue. Frightened and disoriented as he is the young man cannot follow all the words, but he recognizes that it is addressed to the demon lord Baphomet, and that it probably speaks of ill intent towards him and his brother. Outright malice, even. He had wondered why they were captured. To serve as bait, apparently. He has never been bait before, he didn’t think. Would he have known? At any rate, he doesn’t care for it. He glances to his side. His brother is unconscious, still, with a terrible weeping gash in his chest. He resolves that it would be best if he makes his escape. He will begin by freeing himself of his constraints. Invigorated by a clear plan of action, he begins to grunt and strain against the ropes that bind him. The elven woman glances down at his struggles, and offers a warm, encouraging smile as she continues her chanting.
Though he does not know the prayer, the young man senses that it is coming to its end. He pauses and begins to take deep, full breaths. Oxygenating his blood will increase his strength, and with it the likelihood of escape.
The elven woman raises her dagger over the young man’s unconscious form. A silver arrow passes directly over the young man, inches from his face, and plunges into the chest of the elven woman. She gasps, and blood explodes from the wound, sloshing over the young man. Most falls across his face and chest, but some runs down his throat. He coughs and sputters, but cannot prevent himself from instinctively swallowing. Another arrow punches into the leg of the minotaur to his right, who roars in pain. The young man’s gaze tracks the flight of the arrow, and about 200 feet away, to the right of his position, he makes out a slim, hooded silhouette, readying another arrow. She may have wings. He can’t really tell from this angle, as the light was poor. It might be a cloak. There is a stiff breeze, favoring the archer.
The minotaur to his left bellows a challenge and charges their attacker. The other minotaur reaches down and breaks off the shaft of the arrow. He turns to the elven woman.
“You were right, mistress Jerribeth. The heretic has come.”
The young man arches his back so he can look behind him. The elven woman is gone. In her place is a towering fiend, at least 18 feet tall. The four-armed fiend must weigh at least 3 tons. A glabrezu. The biggest (well, only) one he has ever seen. It holds a serpent headed rod in one of its pincers. Another claw touches the wound on his chest, magic healing it. The heal spell. An apt choice. The demon locks eyes with the archer and nods its head as if in greetings. The boulder throbs in sympathetic resonance with the low rumble of its voice.
“Hello Arueshalae.”
The young man blacks out. When he awakens, he and his brother are still tied to the rock, but this time they are alone. Seemingly forgotten. A benefit of his small, unassuming stature. A few more minutes of concentration and he slips a paw free. From there it is short work to free his brother, who is in a state of dizzy half-consciousness. Luck is on his side, for the demon has left their packs untouched. Well, some luck. If luck were truly on their side, they would not have been captured in the first place. But surely anyone would agree that some luck was better than none at all. He rummages through the packs and pulls out a roll of clean gauze. Mostly clean. Clean enough. Under the circumstances. Wrapping his brother’s wound as best he can, he neatly rolls up his supplies and returns them to their proper place in his pack, checking to ensure that the sliver metal cube is still there. It is. With everything in its proper place, he pulls his brother to his feet and drapes his arm over his shoulder. Supporting his weight as best he can they begin the long march home…
Queso’s dream shifted. In a decrepit hall a hulking brute of a man, eyes closed, lounged indolently on a stone throne, covered in tattered and filthy furs. A large two-legged dragon, its dull blue scales tinged with bright blue ice, lay at his feet. Mist seeped from its nostrils as it slept. With a start the man’s eyes opened, and his gaze turned to Queso. “I see you, my blood brother. Come to me. We can serve our emerald mistress together.” Then darkness. Queso slept, but it was a long while until his hackles had lowered.
***
You awake the next morning, surprised to find yourself back in the present. It was a dream, but it felt real. Like a memory. Like history. You feel uneasy and incomplete, but full of curious purpose. Today Citadel Drezen awaits. But somewhere out there, somewhere in the Worldwound, you feel a strange pull. A calling. Something from the past, promising the future.
| Mightypion |
This is from our current run and kind of cool. We have a genuinely powerful Kellid faction, somewhat at odds with mainstream crusaders.
Greetings, Liliyashanina, envoy of Midnight. Spoke the chieftess, clad in a rune encrusted Breastplate and wielding her not-that-ceremonial two handed chain-axe. Imagine Balalaika from Black Lagoon as a Kellid Chieftess
My Lady in Shadows sends her warmest regards, High-Chieftess Bala the Laika of Sarkoris. Answered the envoy, a totally-not-a-Succubus wearing pragmatic winter clothing and some type of spear? Mosin Nagant with an attached Bayonett
I believe you bring your Ladys proposal concerning the Crusaders offer Spoke the chieftess.
It would be far from her, let alone me, to intrude on Sarkorian sovereignity, let alone to comment on her foreign relations. My Lady in Shadows does not consider the crusaders to be neither her enemies nor her friends, as such, your interactions with your crusade would not violate our agreement concerning non aggression, and not assisting our foes, alas, I am compelled to inform you that both the goat for the first time the envoys well practised face of serenity curlded. and the bug the envoys face looks like curdled milk for a split second,
Have sent considerable embassies laden with gifts to make my Lady in Shadows change her views concerning the Crusade.
You know full well that Sarkoris, or for that matter Mendev, cannot possibly outbid 2 demon lords in the matter of securing her allegiance. Spoke the Chieftess.
Neccessarily? Answered the envoy. The price of anything is demanded by its supply and its demand, loyalty and Valor, which your Kellid heroes possess in great abundance, is greatly admired by my lady, but in scant supply in her realm. Spoke the envoy, extending a gracious bow towards the assembled warriors.
Do you have a timeframe, for us to procure our counteroffers, so to speak? Asked the chieftess.
I doubt that my Lady will make a decision within this year, which would leave you, or other parties with an interest in her decision, 9 months to procure and deliver incentives and offers to her consideration. I should add here that Alyushinnara is a free city, and none will be attacked there simply for not being a Demon.
May I however ask thee of a small favor, High Chieftess
Though may Ask, but only our Lord in Iron knows the answer
It would be most welcome if I could avail myself of the good offices of your nation to inform various other powers of these proceedings, in particular, powers that would wish to avert my Lady from joining the war on Deskaris and Baphomets sides. Unfortunately, several of these factions would immidiatly throw holy hand grenades on me the moment I present my credentials.
Hahaha, Nocticula seeks to turn this into an auction? Honestly, it is probably what I would do in her place. I will fullfill your favor.
| Mightypion |
The Succubus in question is based on a PC (for a very crazy game), who is beyond morality (mythic path ability) and is arguably NE rather then CE. Completely polite, fairly fun to hang around with, and actually keeps her bargains most of the time. She is completely uninterested in redemption, but quite pragmatic and willing to tacitly cooperate.
She is one of Nocticulas headhunters, both in terms of "Mortal resources" and in terms of "I will shoot your head off".
| Stip |
| 1 person marked this as a favorite. |
It's been a little while since my last post - a few sessions moved slower than expected, though everyone is really invested in the story. We just finished book two (Euystoriax escaped, and I plan to follow the recommendation from elsewhere on this forum and have him be the spirit that haunts Jeskar in book 3)
I prepared some text for the unveiling of the Sword of Valor as a book 2 capstone. The character Rischa is one of the PCs, a dwarven inquisitor of Iomedae and the only Iomedae worshiper in the party. I am envisioning the Sword of Valor also blocking the abyssal taint within its radius.
The Sword of Valor
22 Rova, 4723 Drezen
The surviving Knights of Kenebras gather at dusk in Citadel Drezen’s courtyard, standing in solemn attention as they face the gatehouse. The fading sky is infused with the sickly orange, deep purple and iridescent green glow of an abyssal sunset. The temperature has dropped precipitously and a cold, gritty wind gnaws through the courtyard. The air tastes faintly of rot and corruption. Other than the background howl of the wind there is a heavy silence.
Irabeth and Rischa stand on the roof of the gatehouse, facing the crowd. Mounted upon a newly erected flagpole is a furled red banner.
Irabeth looks upon the assembled crusaders. She takes her time, making eye contact with every gathered soul. Even from this distance, you can tell her gaze is thick with meaning – a complex mixture of gratitude, thanks, respect, and awe. Her eyes glisten, but it may be a trick of the dying light, or a consequence of the wind. Her voice is steady and clear as it echoes across the courtyard, breaking the silence.
“My fellow crusaders, allies, friends - 85 years ago the city of Drezen was taken from us, and when it fell we lost more than a military staging ground. We lost more than the Sword of Valor, a sign of Iomedae’s faith that we could stand as her collective avatar in this struggle. Drezen meant even more than that. It was a symbol that we could reclaim what the Abyss had taken from us. That light could shine in dark places. That hope would never be extinguished so long as we fought to preserve it. That this great crusade could be won. When Drezen fell we began to doubt, and corruption seeped in through the cracks in our faith. We no longer fought for victory. We fought for time – to delay the inevitable for one more day. And 18 days ago we set out on an impossible mission. Not only to avenge the fallen of Kenebras, but to retake Drezen. To find the Sword of Valor. To reclaim the spirit of the crusade.
Retaking Drezen was not supposed to be possible, but you have done it. We have done it. And now, armored in our faith, we will move on to the next impossible thing, and the next. And we will keep moving forward in the name of Iomedae and the gods of light and hope, until we have finally cleansed our world of the Abyss. I cannot tell you how long it will take, but I know, with absolute certainty, that the end begins here. It begins now. It begins with us. But it does not end with us. Drezen was a beacon of hope, and today we reignite that beacon. May its light illuminate and strengthen all who stand against the darkness.”
Irabeth nods at Rischa, who begins to raise the Sword of Valor. As it climbs it is infused with a golden glow, and snaps to its full length, unfurled against the direction of the wind, in defiance of the Worldwound. A cleansing light radiates from the banner, washing over the courtyard, through the city and out into the corrupted lands beyond, illuminating the horizon. You can sense the abyssal taint driven back – the air grows warmer, but it is a soothing warmth, and you take your first breath of sweet, fresh air since the crossing at Vilreth Ford. The sickly iridescent colors fade from the dusk and the sky grows lighter until it shines with the brightness of a noon day sun, before fading back into a natural sunset. The wind quiets down until all that remains is a soothing whisper and gentle caress. You are overcome by a sense of peace and belonging, as though you’ve finally returned to a home you never knew you had. Within you, the energy of the wardstone thrums in sympathetic resonance.
Irabeth turns back to the assembled soldiers, and this time you can clearly make out the tears in her eyes. She slowly raises her right arm, and you raise yours in response, returning her salute.
Her voice echoes out across the courtyard in solemnity, hope, and something you’ve never heard from her before. Joy. With a hitch in her voice, she speaks one final time.
“Go forward in light to combat the darkness.”
You answer as one, and then a great cheer rises from the Knights of Kenebras. Under Iomedae’s watchful light you embrace one another, laughing and crying in equal measure, in celebration of impossible things.
| Stip |
Its been a little while. Two pieces to update. One is some of the text from the book 3 'Touched by Divinity' event. In my campaign, rather than the PC with that trait (a dwarven inquistor of iomedae) I had them be descended from the Hearald, who plays a much larger role in my story (all building around trying to up the emotional investment in book five). In the last assault on Drezen before book 3 wraps up I am going to have Irabeth use the Sword of Valor to call a planetar, and it will be the Herald so they can fight with him. Anyway, here is the conversation the PCs had with the Herald. It's a huge info dump, but I wanted to lay out some of the cosmological rules of the campaign around Gods that will be relevant later. Since Iomedae is going to figure much more prominently in the campaign's conclusion (they will close the Worldwound by summoning the essence of the goddess herself, not her avatar - and the wardstone energy is actually a direct conduit to Iomedae's power) and because of the interactions in book V, I want her to be more of a presence earlier in the campaign, even if she is only indirectly working with the PCs
The Hand of the Inheritor
24 Neth, 4723 - The Worldwound
Rischa felt the insistent, clawing need to re-consecrate this fallen temple to Iomedae since first laying eyes upon it. She could not quite comprehend the drive. She has been in desecrated spaces, and it never felt like this. More would be required to make this a true place of worship – an altar, at the very least, but the abyssal taint had to be cast out before the work could begin. She stands before the smashed statue of Baphomet and removes the scroll of hallow. She glares at the rubble, as if daring it to get back up. But Rischa has a very effective glare, and it stays down.
The rest of the Silver Scale spread throughout the room, maintaining a silent, respectful distance. Rischa drives her sword point into the stone floor and knells before it. It would serve as an alter for now. She hangs her holy symbol from the pommel, and lights the sacred incense given to her by Waxberry, clutching prayer beads in the other. She begins to recite the 11 Acts of Iomedae, as if reminding the space of the goddess it once served. She takes her time, savoring the stories, drawing faith and comfort from their reminder of what mortals can achieve in perilous times. She concludes with the oath of the crusade, “Go forward in light to combat the darkness” and casts the spell.
There is a great pulse of daylight, a light cool breeze, and a clean, crisp smell infuses the rank and corrupted space, like the sunrise hours of early spring. Rischa can sense the unhallow effect has lifted. She smiles in satisfaction, rising to her feet. Now a proper consecration can take place, and she resolves to speak with Irabeth and Waxberry to secure the resources needed to fully restore this temple to Iomedae.
As she rises, there is a quiet rumble and the whole complex begins to vibrate and shake. It is like an earthquake, yet you feel safe and secure, embraced by some unseen force. A soft golden light infuses the temple, coating the walls and desecrated statues. While the rest of you see only light, Rischa looks beyond it to see the room is filled with Iophanite angels, servitors of Iomedae, wagon wheeled shields burning with a yellow-white flame. They bustle around the room, their magic reconsecrating the temple, restoring it to its former state, the frescos and statues transforming back into symbols and depictions of Iomedae and her faith. You marvel as the statue of Baphomet transforms into a giant marble slab engraved with the Acts of Iomedae, capped by a stone longsword emitting a continual light – an actual sanctified Iomedaen alter, the likes of which you haven’t seen since the temple in Kenebras. You hear a sound at the faintest edge of your hearing – it almost sounds like waves lapping against a shore.
There is a loud crack, like summer thunder, and appearing in the center of the room, visible to all, is a nine-foot-tall figure clad in radiant golden plate, holding a longsword and large shield emblazoned with the symbol of Iomedae. Large golden wings emerge from his back, and a halo of glowing blades spins around his head. You recognize the figure before you from some of the restored artwork, and from the moment of your mythic ascension. It is the creator of the wardstones, the Hand of the Inheritor, the Herald of Iomedae. He radiates power, an aura of courage and righteousness that fills you with resolve. He stands with confidence, and though his golden helmet obscures his face, you feel him staring directly at you. And yet, Rischa, for reasons she cannot fully explain or understand, senses a faint of aura of sadness clinging to him. To your great surprise, the Herald bows.
He speaks in a deep, sonorous voice. “It is a pleasure to finally meet you, Order of the Silver Scale. I have followed your actions with great interest, since the wardstones seem to have chosen you as their successor. I am particularly gratified to see that one of my mortal descendants is counted among them.” And with that the nine feet, nine hundred pound angel turns his hidden gaze to the 4 foot dwarf before him. “You have done well, Rischa.”
(PCs react)
“I was not always as you see me before you. In my first life, thousands of years ago, I was a dwarven inquisitor of the Empyreal Lord Ragathiel, patron of Righteous Vengeance. I was his fierce and devoted servant, and upon my death I was reborn as an angel and eventually granted the honor of acting as his herald. This was long before I served our goddess.
Ragathiel was an ally to Aroden, and in my role as Herald I knew Iomedae when she was his mortal paladin, almost 1000 years ago, leading the Shining Crusade and carrying out the acts that would become the foundation of her faith. She was an impressive figure – righteous and valiant, sworn to the glory of the cause. Do you know the history of her ascension?”
(PCs answer)
“The Shining Crusade saw champions of justice from across Avistan, including the Knights of Ozem, led by a mortal Iomedae, unite to oppose the evil of the Whispering Tyrant, Tar Baphon, the most vile necromancer Golarion has ever known. Thousands of years prior he was imprisoned by an avatar of Aroden, but he escaped, and his rising empire threatened to plunge all Avistan into an age of tyranny and darkness.
The conflict began in 3754 and lasted almost eighty years. In 3818, less than a decade before its end, Aroden’ s herald Arazni was summoned by the Knights of Ozem to aid them in bringing the great conflict to a close. And yet such was the Whispering Tyrant’s might that he killed Arazni, robbing Aroden of his Herald. The Crusade ended in 3827 when the tyrant was finally imprisoned in his fortress of Gallowspire.
In 3832, Iomedae undertook the test of the Starstone, and ascended to divinity, one of only three mortals to accomplish this feat, and the last. And yet, when she became a goddess in her own right, she pledged herself to Aroden as his Herald, rather than establish her own portfolio.
I was awed by that act of supreme humility, that even as a goddess she was willing to serve, to devote herself to a cause rather than be the cause. That even with her ascension she understood the essence of valor is found in the doing of the right thing, for the right reasons, not the glory that follows. If Aroden embodied the complexity of humanity, Iomedae embodies its capacity for greatness when it turns its gaze beyond itself
Iomedae is the noblest being I have ever encountered, mortal or otherwise. And it was not long after her ascension that I petitioned Lord Ragathiel to be released from his service, and pledged myself to her. I have been privileged to act as Iomedae’s Hand ever since, whether she was serving as Aroden’s Herald or, after his death, as his Inheritor. And I am honored to serve as her intermediary in this conflict. As desperately as she wants to, she cannot intervene herself. Do you understand why?”
(Pcs respond)
“When Aroden died, his death weakened reality in countless ways. Some were obvious – the Eye of Abendego, for instance, and the nations it drowned. His absence fed the political upheaval that has devastated the Inner Sea and lead to the rise of the House of Thrune. And of course, it helped create the Worldwound, even if his death was not the direct cause.
Planer boundaries have always been thin near the northern edge of the world. And for centuries Deskari has tried to exploit it -to cast open a permanent gate wide enough to enable the planer signature of the Rasping Riffs, his abyssal domain, to infect and absorb Golarion -to add this world to his realm, and its souls to his power. His influence was long and deep. Many of the god caller cults that existed in old Sarkoris were actually cults of Deskari, worshipping him without knowing it.
Aroden had opposed him at every turn. Usually, but not always, through his servants. In 4433, 300 years ago, Deskari manifested his own avatar upon Golarion, ready to seize Sarkoris. Like Empyreal Lords, Demon Lords are not true gods, and while their manifestations are not without risk, they are not forbidden. Deskari’s presence posed enough of a threat to Golarion that Aroden manifested an avatar directly, rather than send his servants. They fought, and Deskari’s avatar, along with some of his mightiest servitors, were imprisoned in the Lake of Mists and Veils, the great northern lake on the eastern border of Mendev. This was not the first time Aroden had walked upon Golarion since his ascension to Godhood, and his manifestation stopped Deskari but further weakened the planer boundary.
When Areelu Vorlesh, imprisoned in Threshold, discovered the planar thinness and pledged herself to Deskari, he shared with her the knowledge needed to create a passage for the Abyss to enter Golarion. And upon the death of Aroden in 4606, the reality between the planes was finally fragile enough for Vorlesh to enact her ritual and throw open the gate. Creating a permanent portal capable of linking planar signatures requires vast, nigh-incomprehensible power. It would take the ritualized sacrifice of tens of thousands of souls, or, perhaps, the death throes of a god.”
The Herald was silent for a moment, as if weighing whether he should continue. He began to speak again.
“There are only two cosmic strictures that are never to be violated. Gods must not alter the flow of time to change what has passed or prevent what is to come. And they must not walk the prime material plane in the fullness of their power. The manifestation of a god upon the prime, even as an avatar, fundamentally alters the reality of the plane. It is not designed to contain their power – their very presence reshapes the world, as they carry within themselves the conceptual building blocks of existence. They are the raw material of the universe, our lives a reflection of their essence. For even one God to manifest is potentially apocalyptic – if multiple deities were to manifest at the same time, to contest or oppose one another, no world could survive. This is why they are forbidden to act directly upon the prime material plane of their own volition.
Aroden was arrogant, as befitting the god of humanity, and would flaunt the laws of reality. No one except possibly Pharasma knows what happened to him, but I believe Aroden’s death at the moment of his prophesized return was an act of cosmic judgement, the universe’s retribution for his repeated violations of its law – at least that’s what Jingh believes, and I have learned to trust his insights.
Prior to Aroden, no god had manifested in thousands of years – the last recorded example was the Azlanti moon goddess Acavana at the time of Earthfall, ten thousand years ago. She appeared upon the prime, in her unveiled totality, so she could rip the moon from its orbit and hurl it into the path of the dead, diseased celestial body the Aboleth summoned to wipe out the Azlanti and Thassalonian civilizations. It should have worked, but the universe punished her for this violation, ending her life and ensuring her work would come to nothing. The collision shattered the moon and destroyed the goddess. The poisoned fragments that remained would have obliterated Golarion. It was only through the voluntary sacrifice of the Azlanti God of Magic, Amanzen, that the impact of the Earthfall diminished to the point of only destroying surface civilization. Much was lost forever, but life itself survived.
This is why, despite the horrific consequences of the Worldwound, its pain, violence, and senseless suffering, Iomedae cannot intervene. It’s not simply the violation of the law, or a fear of the punishment, but the certain knowledge that direct action she initiates will be undone, her intent twisted, her dreams corrupted. She has seen what happened to Aroden, and to Golarion. It is why she moves through servants like me – or you.”
He pauses for a breath, and chuckles to himself, a deep, rich sound that causes your chest to vibrate in a not unpleasant fashion. “But I do like to go on. I apologize for the history lesson. Tell me Rischa, where did you find this armor?”
(Pcs respond)
“It once belonged to me, when I was a mortal. I had gifted it to countless causes and crusades. It was last worn by a different inquisitor of Iomedae, lost in the Worldwound some eighty-five years ago when this very temple fell at the onset of Aponavicius’ siege of Drezen. It please me to see it in the hands of my mortal lineage. The universe has a sense of narrative, if not humor.
He bends down and places a hand on Rischa’s shoulder. Golden energy infuses the armor. “None but I have ever unlocked its full power. It is possible that the wardstone energy within you, which was given shape and purpose by me, might help you to do so.”
(Farewell)
“Crusaders, it is my sincere hope that we will meet again. I sense that the 5th Crusade will be the end of this struggle, one way or another. I know you understand the planetary stakes. Even, perhaps, the cosmic ones. But know as well that this conflict is eating away at the soul of my Goddess. She will not let others see. She understands that we draw strength from her resolve. But grief has carved cracks into her façade. Those who know her best can sense them. She has not been a God for long, by their cosmic standards, and she retains much of her humanity, and has held onto a mortal’s empathy. She is watching the slow and tortured death of her home, and her heart is breaking.
Iomedae represents what is best and most noble in all of us. There is no fight, no sacrifice she would refuse on our behalf, if only the universe would allow it. I beg you – prove that the axis of time spins towards justice. Prove that we are worthy of the love she bears for us, and the trust she places within us. Honor that faith.”
With that, there is another crack of thunder, and the Herald and the ioaphanite servitors vanish. You stand in an empty temple of Iomedae, your heart full of purpose and an echoing, lingering, sadness.
| Stip |
And we have finally arrived at the moment where the PCs meet Arueshalae (our last session finished with the big fight to save her. We start with the RP next session). I've been setting her up for a while and while the players themselves are excited, this will be an interesting encounter for the characters (the PCs were burned real hard by Nurah, by Kiranda (who killed Sosiel), and by Eustoriayx possessing Jesker (a great idea that came from these forums - don't recall who. Scorpion, maybe?). I have a ranger who worships Desna who is all in, and the rogue she saved as a child. Everyone else is tired of being fooled and lied to by demons, and its' been made clear that theoretically a risen demon should be impossible, as demons are literal incarnations of sin and devoid of free will in a moral sense- acting on instinct/compelled to fulfill the designs of their nature. Following forum advice Arueshalae figures in three backgrounds. She saved a PC from the Azverindus rites, rescued another, and I wrote her into the demon blooded trait as well. That was all chronicled in another post. This cut scene was a dream two of the players had that basically replays the scene from the earlier dreams from their perspective, rather than arueshalae's. If I had it to do over again I would have swapped the stories since it makes more sense that this one would have been the one from Arueshale's POV. Alas...
Our campaign timeline is altered because we run our campaigns sequentially and this one started in world after our last one (so old PCs can become NPCS). It is currently 4723, a few months after the Wardstones were destroyed (the whole campaign will likely take place in less than a year). The two relevant PCs were each younger than 10 when these events took place.
Cutscene VII: The Demon’s Heresy
4708 - North of Kenebras, the other side of the wardstones
Kiryn’s muscles were sore from shaking so hard, her breath ragged. She had long given up struggling against the bonds that secured her to the wooden table. She felt like she was going to pass out, that she could barely take a breath. She wanted to cry out for someone to save her, but she knew the truth. No one was coming. She was alone. She had always been alone, and now she would die that way. She prayed that it wouldn’t hurt, but she heard the screaming of the other prisoners. She knew that it would.
Looming over her was that terrifying eyeless woman, chanting in some horrid language that hurt her ears. She knew when it reached its end the still, silent, hooded figures at her side would bring their daggers down, and her story would be over. She saw their faces before. They were both incredibly beautiful, like characters in a fairy tale – a handsome prince and his beautiful princess. The kind of people she imagined doing great deeds, protecting the weak and vulnerable, having grand adventures exploring strange and wonderful new places.
She was just a little girl. None of this was fair. She wanted to weep for the injustice of it all, but her tears had long dried up. She felt a formless rage well up within her, a profound hatred of her captors, but she swallowed it down, afraid to draw any more attention to herself – a child’s fantasy that if she just closed her eyes and lay still, the monsters couldn’t find her.
She lay there, bound and terrified, praying to no one in particular for release, for a quick and painless death, for her lost childhood, for second chances. Droplets of blood dripped slowly off the daggers, occasionally spattering onto her face and chest. She stared at the blood, wondering when the next drop would fall, trying in vain to distract herself from her impending death.
It was then that a butterfly landed on the blade of the woman’s dagger. It was breathtaking – colored the bruised purple of the deep night sky and the radiant yellow of the stars – bold, fragile, somehow eternal. Kiryn found herself comforted by its presence – a reminder that uncorrupted beauty still existed, and would exist after she was gone. The butterfly fluttered away from the dagger, and landed on her forearm. She strained her head to look at it, and the butterfly stared back. It seemed to look beyond her eyes, deep within her soul, awakening something within her. To her astonishment, the butterfly seemed to melt into her arm, and as it did a comforting warmth spread throughout her. For the first time in days, she was not afraid. More than that, she felt free, confident in the knowledge that though her body was chained, her spirit was free to roam, and could never be caged.
The chanting reached its crescendo, and she stared at the daggers, ready to meet her fate. At the faintest edge of her hearing a soft, feminine voice whispered “I can’t.” And then, to her astonishment, as the male brought his dagger down, the female thrust hers into his neck. He dropped his dagger, the blade falling, scoring a cut across the ribs, but missing her heart. The woman grabbed the man by the shoulder and in a puff of brimstone, the two disappeared. The eyeless woman howled in rage as the door to the barn burst open and a group of crusaders rushed in, swords blazing in a golden, avenging light. Kiryn closed her eyes, overwhelmed, and in her mind a cloud of purple and yellow butterflies carried her off towards the stars.
4710 - North of Kenebras, the other side of the wardstones
Bastion was curiously unafraid. No, that wasn’t it, exactly. As he and the other prisoners from Kenebras were roughly prodded along by the hooded cultists carrying those long spears, under the watchful eye of those blue, horned demons, he definitely felt fear. But it did not master him. He knew, down to his soul, that his brother would find him. That he would come and free him. Free all of them. And that faith sustained him. As he marched towards an unknown destination, feet desperately sore, out of breath, and fearful of the lash should he slow down, he sustained himself with a soft, droning chant. One step. “Phineas is coming.” Another step. “Phineas is coming.” Left foot. “Phineas is coming.” Right foot. “Phineas is coming.”
Lost in his own private mantra, it took Bastion a moment to notice the commotion. The prisoners had stopped moving. The cultists were forming a circle in front of them – long spears braced for impact. What he thought was the pounding of his exhausted heart he now recognized as hooves. He spun around, and a cloud of dust thundered towards them. They were saved. Phineas had come!
There was a violent crash as the horses barreled into the cultists, and tortured screaming that made his teeth vibrate - the pleading whinnying of dying horses and the bellowed, gasping cries of defiance of the men who rode them. The fight rolled over them, a violent wave the prisoners could not stand against. A few fell, dead. The rest of them ran, but Bastion stood there, transfixed. If he ran, how would Phineas find him? “If we get separated, stay where you are, Bastion.” Phineas would always say. “I will always come back for you.” Best remain right here, as he was taught.
One of the big blue demons stove in the chest of one of the knights, her dented armor shattering the ribs beneath. As the crusader fell, the demon grabbed her with two clawed hands and, with a massive heave, hurled the body overhead. It crashed into Bastion, and he fell to the ground hard, head cracked, air forced from his lungs. He lay there, pinned, struggling to see straight, struggling to breath, unable to move the heavy weight that trapped him. Suddenly the blue demon towered over him. With one hand he lifted the body and tossed it to the side. He licked his lips, spraying a foul-smelling spittle over Bastion’s fate. “Time to die, mortal, he growled.”
Too terrified to move, Bastion lay there transfixed, as he chanted without hearing. “Phineas is coming. Phineas is coming.”
Suddenly a delicate hand grabbed the demons face and yanked it to the side. A woman appeared from the shadows and kissed the demon passionately. She pushed it away, and as it staggered back she plunged a dagger into its chest. The demon fell to the ground at Bastion’s side. It did not move. The woman stared down at him. She was so beautiful. The most amazing creature he had ever seen. It took him a few moments to notice the leathery wings folded behind her. Finally, she spoke.
“Get up boy. It isn’t safe for you here.” Entranced, Bastion rose to his feet.
“Get away from him, demon!” a harsh male voice shrieked from in front of him. The final blue demon was dead on the ground. He looked like a crusader, but on his face was a mask of rage and anguish as violent and hateful as any he had ever seen on a demon. “I will kill you for what you’ve done!” he bellowed.
The beautiful woman screamed back. “I am trying to help you! I sent the warning!”
The man yelled something back, but Bastion’s head began spinning, and he bent over and threw up. When the retching stopped, he wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve, and rose unsteadily to his feet. The woman with the wings stood over the fallen crusader. She had dropped her dagger, and just started at him, not moving. She seemed lost, lonely, and Bastion wanted to help her, to somehow repay the favor. He shuffled towards her, reaching out.
As he tugged on her leg she spun around, claws bared, her face twisted in a feral snarl. Wick jumped back, startled. But she did not attack. She just stood there, her features at war with themselves. She needed something, and all Bastion had was himself. Carefully, he reached out for her hand, squeezing it. Her skin was soft, warm, smooth. She smelled like the honey cakes Bastion’s father would make for celebrations. She stared down at him. Something Bastion did not understand flashed across her eyes, and she let go.
Phineas wasn’t coming. And yet somehow Bastion felt safe. She could help, he just knew it. “Can you take me back home?” he asked.
She stared down at him for a long moment, and then shook her head. It was somehow the saddest gesture Bastion had ever seen. She spoke, her voice like music, like the songs the living sing for the beloved dead. “Where you must go, I am not permitted to follow, little one. Your people are that way. Find them. They will keep you safe.”
He stared back at her. Surely she wasn’t going to leave him. She would take him to Phineas. And then they could help her find whatever it was she had lost. But then she turned around and walked off into the wastes, alone. Bastion watched her for a long while, before turning to run after the other prisoners.
20 Kuthona, 4723 – Somewhere in the Worldwound
The dreams shifted, and Wick and Kiryn are standing next to each other, in the grounds of some ruined structure. A temple, perhaps? Kiryn senses a lingering Desnan presence, a memory clinging to the stones, refusing to let go. The only structure still standing is an old bell tower, and Kiryn feels a pull towards it, almost magnetic. As Kiryn stares, Wick looks around the courtyard. He sees the wreckage of a retriever, several arrows sticking out of it still ruin, and as goes to take a closer look he shivers as some hulking monstrosity walks through him. He recognizes it as one of those frog-like demons that attacked him and Zograthy the day that Kenebras fell. But it does not seem to notice him. It stops next to a giant abyssal looking spider. They both stare at the tower. Wick notices that he is faintly translucent. So is Kiryn. A dream? But this feels so real.
He sees several derakni and drake riders circling the belltower, though they seem unable or unwilling to get too close. He hears voice behind him, a harsh grating sound, and a large woman, in a dress that would be flattering if she was not so hideous, stylish if not covered in mud, was talking to a second Hezrou. For some reason, there was no sound. The woman absent mindedly fingers an amulet around her neck, a symbol he did not recognize – two feminine hands, palms out, with slashes running across them.
Kiryn continues to stare at the tower, transfixed. Out of the window of the bell tower flies a tiny object, gently weaving towards them. As it gets closer, Kiryn recognizes it as a purple and yellow butterfly, matching the brand she received the night she was almost sacrificed to the Azverindus Rite. Entranced, she holds out her hand, and the butterfly lands, softly. It looks at her, expectantly, and Kiryn brings the butterfly towards her, holding it up against her ear. A soft, feminine voice whispers “Find me.”
Wick and Kiryn snap awake, and bolt out of their rooms. They meet in the hallway, each on the way to the other.
| Stip |
| 1 person marked this as a favorite. |
It's been a little while since I posted in here. There have been a few more of these scenes since the summer. This first one is quick. During the final battle for Drezen shortly before the players set out for the Ivory Sanctum I had a little moment where Irabeth activated the summon planetar ability) calling the herald. I also went through a round of mass combat where the PC armies weren't equipped to overcome DR - a power I was going to give to the Sword of Valor that was activated here for the first time.
Cutscene VIII: Summoning the Herald
3 Abadius, 4724 – Drezen, The Worldwound
Although the defenders in your immediate vicinity hold their ground, it is clear you are losing the battle. This is the mightiest horde you have yet to face, their flight negating so many of your defensive works, and far too many of your soldiers simply cannot pierce their fell hides. Your weapons aren’t strong enough.
You look around, trying to assess how the other soldiers are faring, and you see that Irabeth has mounted Citadel Drezen’s main gate tower. In one hand she holds her longsword, in the other the Sword of Valor. She is shouting something, though you cannot hear it over the clang and pounding of the battle - the terrible war cries and wrenching screams. The Sword of Valor begins to pulse with a golden light, and a low thrum makes its way across the battlefield, a noise you do not hear as much as feel. There is a kinetic frission in the air, and your eyes widen as the blade of the solider next to you suddenly slices into the demon’s skin, the hide parting before the weapon like it was normal flesh. He withdraws it, and you notice his sword glows with a faint silver energy. Spinning around, you see shock on the faces the demons as they find themselves suddenly and unexpectedly vulnerable to the weapons of Drezen’s defenders.
Irabeth continues yelling, words you cannot make out, and she stabs her sword up into the air, the weapon flaring to life, shooting a bolt of golden lighting into the sky. There is a loud crack, a roll of thunder, and the air is split open – a streak of gold shoots out of the rent directly into the mass of drake riders harrying your cavalry. A triumphant cry rises throughout Drezen, as the Herald of Iomedae has come.
| Stip |
| 1 person marked this as a favorite. |
I wanted to introduce Nocticula prior to the start of Book IV, so here is here intro. Allusions at the end to her eventual transformation to CN, which I may include in the campaign post script
Prologue VI: Our Lady in Shadow
2 Arodus 4723, - Alushinyrra, the Midnight Isles
The immense moon began to crawl its way above the horizon line, hanging low in the sky over the black ocean of Ishiar. As what passes for day in the immense archipelago known as Midnight Isles banishes the deeper darkness of the evening, shadows come out to play.
Moonlight shone down upon Alinythia, largest of the isles, the remains of an ancient rival and would be claimant to the Lady’s title. The great city of Alushinyrra barely registered the change. Within the sprawling metropolis of almost seven million souls, the regal purple and deep crimson stone that formed its towers, domes, spires, twisting alleys, and maze-like streets glowed with an eerie beauty in the transitory light. Its canals are thick with traffic, as visitors from throughout the planes crowd its streets, markets, and alleyways. In the Porphyry City almost anything can be found, and possessed, for a price – its uneasy peace maintained by Shamira, The Ardent Dream, and her mistress, the Lady in Shadow.
Shamira stood before her mistress’s throne, deep within the House of Silken Shadows. The bright red of her wild mane was matched by her wings of fire. A slender bow of flame was slung over her shoulder. A daughter of Sarenrae, some speculated, though never in her presence. She was supernaturally beautiful, striking enough to seduce the gods themselves, and legend has it, even her mistress. Her light stood in sharp contrast to the cool, otherworldly shadows enveloping the woman on the throne.
The room was shrouded in midnight clouds, concealing its treasures, parting just long enough to tempt those who gazed upon them with the fleeting promise of incalculable, otherworldly value. Or, depending on the mood of the mistress, the lure of indescribable sensuality or terrifying threat – though those who earned the Lady’s displeasure rarely learned of it until it was too late. Above the throne, a massive seven-pointed crown, wrapped in thorny vines, was mounted upon the purple stone wall. The crown was carved entirely from a colossal shadow ruby, the vines from a single dark emerald. The craftsmanship was beyond exquisite, a gift from an ancient, now discarded suitor, its value dwarfing that of mighty kingdoms.
She sat upon her throne, the shadows emanating from her rune covered wings obscuring her nude form. She wore her hair up in an elaborate headpiece that mirrored the crown on the wall. She sat with a languid, graceful ease. Her legs were splayed over the arm of the chair with an air of casual indifference that only a fool would take for inattentiveness. Her stony hooves, weeping molten iron, clicked idly against the side of the throne. Despite her own incredible power and will, Shamira could barely contain her lust, and she wondered if her mistress had dampened her aura, half disappointed if she had. Her gaze turned to Shamira.
“What news of interest?” she inquired, her voice a silken purr that sent shivers down Shamira’s spine.
“Hepzamirah seems to be speeding up production in the mines, my Lady.”
“Is she, now? And she never even sought my permission.”
“Would you have granted it if she had, my Lady?”
“Well, no, of course not. But a girl likes to be asked.”
“Shall I prepare a force to remove them.”
The Lady waved her hand, dismissively. “It’s not worth an open confrontation –What she is doing is relatively harmless. There are other deposits, and there is no need to make an enemy when I might someday prefer a friend. Still, should the time come, perhaps sanctuary for a select few. The alchemist may be ready to turn. Should he flee, have an agent ready to scoop him up. What news of Golarion?”
“Our agents have reported that a massive mobilization is underway, under the direction of Aponavicius. There are rumors of a great work nearing completion, thanks to your crystals. Some action related to the Wardstones that fence them in. We do not think they’ve obtained the power to throw open the gate. Not yet…” she added pointedly.
The Lady frowned, and began clicking her teeth with a long, perfectly manicured fingernail. It was a seemingly unconscious habit when her mistress was lost in thought, though Shamira knew that nothing the Lady did was without purpose and intent.
“I do not care for how serious this is getting. Deskari is dangerously close to achieving his goal, and that planet houses both Rovagug’s prison and the Starstone. There is value in a certain degree of stability, and it may be in our interests to ensure that things do not get too out of hand.” She sighed. “And if that upstart has reason to think any more highly of herself she’ll become positively unbearable. It may be necessary to drive a wedge between the Bug and the Bull.”
“Frankly I can’t believe their alliance has held this long.”
“Your words to the gods’ ears, my friend.”
“If they are close to achieving their goals, perhaps a reconsideration of their offer to join?”
“Slaughter on that scale is brute, crude, lazy, and beneath me. There are other paths…” The Lady went quiet, her mind running through possibilities, and as Shamira waited patiently, she noted that the shadows surrounding the throne grew in size until they swallowed the great hall, reducing her flames to a dull, distant glow. Then, without warning, the shadows returned to their mistress, the ambient light returning to its normal seductive haze.
“Is there anything else,” the Lady asked?
“The heretic seems to have made her escape. Shall we retrieve her?”
A fond smile crossed the Lady’s lips. “Ahh, darling, ambitious Arueshalae, one of my most talented daughters. No need to bring her back just yet. She is most resourceful, and attempting something new. Let her show us what might be possible.”
Shamira nodded. “There is much movement on the board. If you play this right, there may be two more islands in this for you, my Lady.”
At that, the Lady sat up straight, leaning forward as dark shadows seemed to consume her, leaving only her face visible. There was a hunger in her eyes, as wild and terrifying as the Abyss. She smiled, and behind that smile lay something deep and ancient.
“If I play this right, there may be so much more.”
| Stip |
This one served a few functions. I wanted to introduce Minhago and Yaneil prior to the Midnight Fane. But as the PCs had grown attached to Arueshalae, and knowing her 'trial' was coming up, I also wanted a reminder that she was once terrible. I have had Radiance have an aversion to her, which the PCs had assumed was because she was a demon. But here we establish Arueshalae as directly complicit in Yaniel's capture.
Prologue VII: Small Miracles in Dark Places
18 Sarenith, 4695, - Raliscard, The Worldwound
The last surviving nalfeshnee rose to its full, towering height – twenty feet tall and over 8,000 pounds. It lunged forward and pummeled Yaniel’s chest with great crushing blows. The flat, ringing sound of their impact on her embossed plate echoed across the plaza and she fell back, winded but still standing. Resisting the unholy aura emanating from the demon, she charged back in, Radiance glowing with the light of a noon-day sun, illuminating the shadowed courtyard. Calling upon Iomedae, she infused Radiance with divine power, and swung with all her might. Somehow, she missed, and stumbled past the demon, who landed a vicious bite against the overbalanced paladin. Her wounds closed with a thought, but now she was spent. There would be no more healing.
“Displacement”, she sighed to herself. The demon snorted, a foul reek emanating from its boar like features, and pointed a massive finger at Yaniel. She felt an intense suffocating pressure in her head, as if her brain was undergoing a massive compression. She gritted her teeth and shrugged it off. Her face lit up in a grim smile, her piercing brown eyes shining.
“My turn.” She pointed Radiance at the demon and called upon its power. The demon shimmered for a moment, and now stood several feet to the left, his true position revealed. “There you are.” Yaniel charged. The demon thundered towards her, but Yaniel was quicker, and with a devastating thrust ran her sword through the demon’s bulging stomach and up into its vile heart. There was a great puffing exhalation, a quiet squeal, and the mighty nalfeshnee feel to the ground, dead.
Yaniel quickly assessed the situation. The great temple Ivyfane towered behind her – once the seat of Pharasma’s worship in all Sarkoris, Minagho had claimed it for her own decades ago. Its majestic artwork had long been desecrated and replaced with murals and carvings of her many fell deeds, the Red Morning Massacre adorning the entirety of the wall behind the throne room Yaniel had fought her way out of minutes ago. The final resting place of so many of her companions. Little got past Yaniel’s keen senses, and she noticed the old ivy engravings that tracked the cycle of growth and decay were still visible on the temple’s façade - Minagho’s additions obscuring, but not eliminating, the remnants of that older worship, the curious hybrid of Pharasma and the Green Fatih once practiced in this part of Sarkoris.
Raliscard is the primary prison transfer center in the Worldwound. Here captured crusader and civilian were subjected to Minagho’s dark sermons and given a choice – pledge fealty to the Abyss or become fuel for the soul forges. No one stayed here for long. The converts were sent to Undarin for their re-education, or to Iz, fuel for the Storm King’s infernal machines. According to Staunton Vhane’s intelligence, there should have been imprisoned crusaders. She had liberated people from Raliscard before. She knew where to look. She wasn’t too late. But the prison camps were empty. And in the great temple, a terrible ambush.
Most of Yaniel’s followers were dead. A few turned and ran at the start of the ambush, and though she was distracted by the chaotic melee, she saw some had made it to the edge of the plaza fronting the temple and leapt into the Sarkora river. She did not judge them for fleeing. Despair makes cowards of even the strongest wills, and the mortal instinct is to save the life you have. She prayed the current carried them to, if not safety, any fate other than this.
Looking around, only Sumerin, her squire remained, holding off a pair of vrocks near the temple entrance. Yaniel raced to her side and, Radiance blazing, made short work of the demons. She embraced her squire for a fierce moment, before releasing her grip and stepping back to assess her wounds. Sumerin seemed winded, but strong. Thank the gods for small miracles in dark places.
“Did you see anyone else fight their way free?” Yaniel’s voice was strong, resolute, a rock amidst the crumbling foundations of their world.
“No, Yaniel. These were the last of them.” Sumerin was clearly alarmed but drew confidence from Yaniel’s strength.
“No sign of Minagho?”
“No. The lives of your followers extracted a heavy toll. Perhaps they are regrouping?”, Sumerin asked, a not quite desperate hope coloring her voice.
Yaniel looked around; her brow furrowed in concentration. Every dark corner, and there were many, loomed with malice and dark intent.
“She isn’t here now. We’ll take what blessings we can. Minagho will not be far. We must go.”
Sumerin was insistent. “But what of the prisoners we came for? Sir Vhane’s intelligence?” Yaniel recognized in Sumerin’s voice the reckless and destructive need for the world to be something other than it was – as if it could be refashioned through mad conviction alone. The kind of thinking that would see them killed.
“Vhane’s intelligence was no good. They were waiting for us. Our priority is to get out of here alive. We can discover the source of the corruption in his networks when we are safely back in Kenebras, but only if we make it back to him.” She rested a gauntleted hand on Sumerin’s shoulder, as if through that gesture she could transfer her resolve. “Follow me.”
Yaniel turned and began making her way towards the poisoned river that rushed past the courtyard of Ivyfane, its current swift and its waters deep. The demons never patrolled the Sarkora. The paladins’ divine protections would safeguard them from its toxicity. Their water breathing magics would keep them below the surface and out of sight. It was how they got in and would be how they got out. The crusaders had suffered a grievous defeat but would endure and fight another day.
Yaniel’s sharp eyes were fixed on the shadows before them. Nothing snuck past her gaze. There would be no ambush from the front. But the horrific burning heat in her side came from behind. She wrenched forward and spun around, shield and Radiance at the ready.
Sumerin stood before her, her dagger dripping red with Yaniel’s blood. Already Yaniel could sense a powerful poison coursing through her veins, her body struggling to fight it off. Sumerin’s stance had changed – she no longer stood with her customary ridged posture and taut features. Instead, she seemed relaxed, fluid, even languid. She smiled, and in she found mirth and joy, but no warmth.
“Sumerin…how could you’?” Yaniel gasped.
Sumerin laughed. “Oh don’t worry. Sumerin couldn’t. But she died days ago.”
And with that, Sumerin changed, two horns emerging from her forehead, batlike wings unfolding from her back, the glamour over her plate falling away to reveal a lithe, sinuous body covered in a diaphanous wrap. Her piercing red eyes starred at Yaniel, as one perfect eyebrow arched itself inquisitively. “I’ve been at your side since. Perhaps you didn’t know her as well as you thought?”
Yaniel backed away from the succubus, Radiance held defensively before her, howling in anger, a voice only Yaniel could hear. She called upon her healing, before remembering it was spent. Still, her strength did not leave her, and her faith was strong. She had suffered deeper wounds and fought past worse odds.
“I have killed many of your sisters, demon. You cannot hope to defeat me.”
The demon smiled again, her teeth a perfect, inviting white. “My dear Yaniel. I’m not here to defeat you.”
A series of popping sounds echoed across the square as demon after demon teleported into the plaza, their ranks forming a broad circle around Yaniel: babaus, vrocks, kalavakus, and a few glabrezu.
“I’m just here to delay you.” And behind the succubus, a final pop, as the air rushed in to fill the hole in space left from the final demon’s arrival. She was not much taller than the succubus, and almost as beautiful, with shimmering golden hair, goat horns, hooves, and a serpentine tail. But her most disturbing feature was the blank, empty space where her eyes should be.
“Minhago”, Yaniel snarled.
“Ahh, Yaniel, Great hero of the Fourth Crusade” she purred. “We have been expecting you.” She nodded to the succubus. “Well done, Arueshalae. You have lived up to your reputation.”
“Well, I would hope so” she replied lightly. “At the end of the day a girl’s reputation is all she really has.”
Yaniel assessed the situation. There were too many. She was too spent. Best to be realistic. She had lost. But they would not get everything. With a great yell she spun and hurled Radiance over the heads of the demons. It landed in the river with a satisfying splash and sank below the black water. As the current carried it away, Yaniel smiled in grim satisfaction. The last smile that would ever grace her face.
Minagho shrugged. “Your spitting defiance is of no consequence, little paladin. I enjoy playing with my dolls, even when they are missing some of their accessories. She barked an order in Abyssal, and the demons moved in.
Her heart overflowing with gratitude for the blessing of her life, Yaniel, last hero of the Fourth Crusade, took a deep breath and closed her eyes…
| Stip |
This one is a little less consequential, but since I wanted to share some campaign metaphysics about the Worldwound (which I have messed around with a bit) I scripted out the encounter where Galfrey sets up the Midnight Fane mission
Cutscene IX: Should You Choose to Accept It
17 Calistril, 4724 – Drezen, The Worldwound
Galfrey arrives in a secure face with Maddigan, her chief wizard. Awaiting her are Irabeth, Anevia, Waxberry, Commander Brad Bradson, Aravashinal, and the Silver Scale. Waxberry runs over and gives Galfrey a hug before stepping back and bowing. The rest of the gathering offers their own bows, and Queen Galfrey gestures for everyone to seat. Once settled, she begins.
“Thank you for coming. I have much to share. On the 20th of Abaidus the Bothan brothers returned from a scouting mission deep in the heart of the Worldwound – all the way to Iz, chasing rumors and legends. And there, within the citadel of the Storm King himself, they found it – the Lexicon of Paradox.
The Lexicon is an ancient text, dating back to the time shortly after Earthfall – an attempt to capture some of the lost magic of the mighty civilizations destroyed in the cataclysm. The book was written over centuries by many different hands. Thassilonian, Hallit, Aklo, Abyssal, even the druidic tongue of the Green Faith. It is more a scrapbook than a single text. The book is bound in bark and stamped with Sarkorian pictograms. Its pages are a mix of parchment, strips of bark and leaves of hammered copper. It is believed that Areelu Vorlesh possessed the Lexicon, and that it was her work with this text that saw her imprisoned in Threshold. Her own rituals likely have their origins in this text.
The Lexicon was thought destroyed when Vorlesh threw open the gate, and created the Worldwound. But by some miracle it has made its way to us.”
Galfrey pauses, somber. “Several Bothans died to bring us this information.
The book is currently in a secure location in Lastwall, with some of the top minds among our allies. The team is lead by King Christian Heavenly of Verdant and Ren Kinney of Ravounel.
The Lexicon is as much a discourse on metaphysics as it is a spellbook, but as near as we can tell, the book describes parasitic rituals that draw upon the energy of one plane to bind another, as if calling upon one to replace the other. This is not the conjuration magic we normally associate with gates, which may explain the Worldwound’s size, permanence, the planar leakage, the secondary gates that seem networked to it. Vorlesh did not create a passageway between planes. Instead, she found a way to bind the core ontological energy of the Deskari’s realm to Golarion, and is somehow pulling it through, transposing one plane on top of another.
We have been thinking about this all wrong. The Worldwound is not a gate. Instead, it is the largest summoning ritual in the known history of the planes. One she was unable to finish, possibly because she was denied access to the Lexicon during her imprisonment within Threshold.
We have two pieces of good news. One is that the completion of such a ritual requires tapping into vast, nearly unimaginable power. Her first casting likely fed off the death of Aroden. So, it’s not clear that she can do it again, hence her other attempts at conquering this plane and taking her revenge.
The other is that within the pages of the Lexicon we may have discovered a way to reverse the ritual and permanently close the gate.
We need time for our scholars to continue their study of the text. Our intelligence tells us that the demons are rebuilding their armies, and this time there will be no wardstones to stop them, no divine miracle to wipe them out. We will prepare our forces to resist that tide for as long as we can, but we will not be able to stand long against their massed forces, especially if they are supported by Nahyndrian demons.
You have disrupted the flow of the elixirs into the eastern reaches of the Worldwound. But unless we can shut down their entire operation it is only a matter of time before we are overwhelmed. We have found the location of the Midnight Fane. Within it is one of the smaller gates that have branched off the Worldwound. Adapting the rituals within the Lexicon, our scholars have devised a counter ritual they believe may be able to permanently close this lesser gate. If it works, they believe they can refine it to the point that it is capable of closing the Worldwound itself.
Aravashinal interrupted. “Wouldn’t that require an obscene amount of power. Where will we find it?”
A momentary flash of annoyance crossed Galfrey’s face – the long-suffering exacerbation of someone surprised to learn they survived another day and for whom worrying about the future is a luxury she hopes to one day enjoy. “Lets first address the challenge that lies immediately before us.” She turned her gaze to the Silver Scale.
You are the inheritors of the Wardstone’s power, and the greatest weapon to fall into my hands since this war began over 100 years ago. Thanks to you, for the first time in a long time, I have hope. Not just hope that I might die well and bring glory to my goddess, but that we might actually win. That my nation might survive. That there may be a life for its people beyond this war.
I have asked much of you, Crusaders, and I have more to ask of you still.
You are to enter the Midnight Fane, destroy the refinery, and execute the ritual that will close the gate. The ritual requires participants on both sides of the gate. When it closes someone will be stranded in the Abyss. But I trust you are resourceful enough to find your way home. That’s the easy part. Once there, I task with you finding the source of the Nahyndrian crystals and destroying Baphomet and Deskari’s operation. But that is not all. These reports of overtures to Nocticula are deeply disturbing. Her power dwarfs that of Baphomet and Deskari, and she must not enter this conflict on their side. Find a way to drive a wedge between them. Only then can you return home.
Irabeth stands up. “My queen, when do we set out.”
Galfrey smiles. ‘We leave in a week. But not you Irabeth. With the Silver Scale gone I need some remnant of the Wardstones power here.
Irabeth frowns. “My pardon, My Queen, but I urge you to reconsider. By your own words you said that there needs to be participants in the ritual on both planes. And even though we have weeded out much of the Templars’ rot, who else can you trust with such an important mission?”
Galfrey nods. “You raise an important point, Commander. I need to send someone I trust implicitly - who I know will never betray me.” She turns and looks each of you in the eye. “And that is why I shall accompany you myself.”
| Stip |
| 1 person marked this as a favorite. |
I had invested a fair bit of time in Arueshalae, a character concept I really loved when I first read the campaign. I like what they did with her in the WOTR video game, but I set her up in my game more like a former addict going through decades of withdrawal symptoms and losing faith that she will ever be clean. There was enough betrayal in the campaign (using Eustoryiax multiple times, really fleshing out Staunton Vhane's story, the PCs took Nurah's betrayal really hard) that there was a lot of initial suspicion towards Arueshalae, even with the Desna connection to a PC and the backstory text. They eventually embraced her and one PC was planning to have her as a cohort (a Desnan paladin who has really taken her redemption to heart). I wanted to make her final redemption a campaign moment, and not have it dropped into the middle of Book IV, so I was planning for this at the end of book 3. The players have had her in Drezen in disguise so as not to upset anyone (Irabeth knew but wasn't thrilled about it). When Galfrey gives them the mission to go the abyss they told her they wanted to bring Arueshalae. Galfrey initially forbade it but she eventually relented to having a trial to determine her fate. that is what is scripted out below (less the moments where the PCs spoke on her behalf). It ended up being a fairly powerful moment in game. One player cried a little bit.
For full effect, I started playing the song 'Leaving Jordan' from the His Dark Materials soundtrack on spotify as the Sarenrae priest starts talking, and the music synchs up beautifully with a patient out loud reading.
Other advantage - this helped endear Waxberry to the PCs even further. I had sosiel killed by Kiranda in book 2 (too many NPCs so Sosiel and Aaron didn't make it) and Waxberry has been the primary Drezen cleric. When she gets captured with the Herald in book V her rescue should be a little more impactful.
Cutscene X: That You May One Day Dream
22 Calistril, 4724 – The Restored Temple of Desna, The Worldwound
You gather at the Bell of Mercy. Arrayed before it, standing at attention, are Queen Galfrey and a group of priests in full ceremonial vestments. You recognize Waxberry, but the rest are strangers. Each stands behind an alter consecrated to their Gods. Torag, Abadar, Shelyn, Sarenrae, Erastil, Desna, and Iomedae. The mood is somber. The priests are resolute, though taut with a barely suppressed, simmering anger. The casters among you sense that this space has been very carefully prepared, spell layered upon spell. Zone of Truth, Consecrate, and Hallow, seven of each, colored by the divine signatures of the gods gathered in attendance. You take your place opposite the assembled clerics and wait.
Before long Arueshalae enters, stripped of her weapons and magic, clothed in a yellow and purple tunic – the colors of a Desnan initiate. Irabeth follows behind, her sword drawn and burning with holy fire. Arueshalae looks at the assembly before her with a resigned uncertainty.
“Step forward, and kneel”, Galfrey commands. Arueshalae does so, without flinching. Eager for an ending, even if it is to be the cold endless clarity of death. You notice that she does not seem affected by the holiness infusing the space – the comingled power of the Gods of the Crusade.
Galfrey continues. “Arueshalae – you are called before us to answer for crimes too innumerable to list. You have lied, cheated, stolen, desecrated, raped, and murdered. You have sinned against the flesh, and you have sinned against the soul. You have waged war against the present, and the future. You are a corruptor of life, and a destroyer of hope. Your very being is anathema to all this holy crusade fights for. What have you to say in your defense?”
Arueshalae looks up and meets the Queen’s gaze. “Queen Galfrey, I cannot deny any of the charges you have laid against me. If anything, you have vastly understated the crimes I have committed. I am born of sin, the incarnation of the lustful excess and unrestrained passions of mortals. I am the embodiment of the darkness within all of you. And for more years than I can count I have reveled in this existence. I came to this plane with a smile upon my face and malice in my heart. No matter how deeply I drank, my thirst could not be quenched. It defined me, as it defines all my kind.
And yet, the Tender of Dreams sought to make an example of me. Whether it was punishment, mercy, or both I cannot say. But she quickened something within me, something that is revolted by who I am. Since then, I have known only war within myself. I stand before you a broken thing, crushed under the weight of the dreams I have ended, forever haunted by the possibilities I have destroyed.
Every night I dream. I dream of the hopes and fantasies I took from others, granting them what meager life I can within my own mind. But I do not dream for myself. I am not worthy of it. I do not think I ever will be, so great is the harm I have caused, so black the darkness of my soul.
Every good deed I will ever do is a grain of sand lost against the endless shore of my sin. I carry a debt I can never repay, no matter how much I desire to. So, great Queen, I will not offer a defense, and I submit to your judgement.”
Galfrey turns and addresses you. “If Arueshalae will not speak for herself, will anyone here speak for her?”
(The pcs speak in Arueshale’s defense).
You finish speaking, and the silence lay heavy and oppressive in this sanctified space. It is difficult to breath. Eventually Galfrey continues.
“Your crimes transcend mortal comprehension, Arueshalae, and so it is not for mortals to decide your fate. It is the Gods who must answer.”
With that, the priest of Abadar steps forward.
“Arueshalae – through your actions you have tarnished the light that civilization brings. You would have had mortals crawling in the darkened muck, surrendered to their base impulses, little more than animals. And so as penance you will spend the rest of your immortal life in defense of civilization. Will you accept this punishment?”
Arueshalae looks up, confusion on her features, uncertain about what is happening. Her eyes lock on Kiryn, and she seems to draw strength from her. “I will”, she replies.
“Do this, the priest continues, and you may be forgiven.” And with that, he casts two spells upon Arueshalae – a geas, and an atonement. He steps back, and the priest of Erastil steps forward.
“Arueshalae – at the heart of nature is balance, an equilibrium between all things. Through your actions you have destroyed that equilibrium, your ravenous appetites devouring everything that tried to take root. And so, as penance you will spend the rest of your immortal life nurturing the seeds that might one day flower. Will you accept this punishment?”
This time Arueshalae answers more confidently. “I will.”
“Do this, and you may be forgiven”. And with that, he also casts two spells, a geas, and an atonement. He steps back, and the priestess of Shelyn steps forward.
“Arueshalae - through your actions you have made of laughter, joy and beauty something toxic and poisonous. But worse, you have waged war against love, the binding power that makes all things possible. And so as penance you will spend the rest of your immortal life in defense of joy and laughter, beauty and love. Will you accept this punishment?”
“I will.”
“Do this, and you may be forgiven.” The priestess casts her spells and steps back. The priestess of Torag steps forward.
“Arueshalae - you have spent your existence working to undo the islands of creation that exist within a sea of chaos. And so, as penance you will spend the rest of your immortal life protecting the fire that burns in the forge’s heart from those that would snuff it out. Will you accept this punishment?”
“I will.”
“Do this, and you may be forgiven.” The priestess casts her spell, and the ceremony continues. The priest of Sarenrae steps forward
“Arueshalae, you are born of sin but Sarenrae teaches us that no one who reaches for redemption is truly beyond it. Will you bring compassion and healing to those who seek it, and protect them from those who revel in being lost?”
“I will.”
“Do this and you may be redeemed.” And with those words, a crack emerges in Arueshalae’s composure. The priest casts her spells, and the air in the room begins to lighten. She steps back, and Waxberry steps forward.
“Arueshalae, the Inheritor and her followers are the sworn enemy of your kind, those whose predations cause people to grasp for privilege because they cannot hope for justice.” And Waxberry turns to Galfrey and smiles. She looks back to Arueshalae, and her words lose the ritualistic cadence of the other speakers. “I know this well, because that was once me. Sometimes we are lost and cannot find our way without a guide. Sometimes someone needs to give us the chance to find our way home, and prove that we are worthy of it. Arueshalae, will you be worthy of that chance? Will you use it to return justice to the places it has been banished. Will you devote your existence to protecting the light against the devouring darkness?”
“I will.” And there were tears in Arueshale’s eyes.
“Do this, and there will be justice.” Waxberry steps, back and the priest of Desna steps forward.
“Arueshalae, you have spent countless lifetimes destroying the dreams of others. In you their journey ended. With you their freedom died. And yet our Queen of the North Star has seen fit to lay another path before you. Will you walk it?”
Arueshalae takes a deep, shuddering breath, and barely whispers ‘I will’
“Do this, and you may one day dream.”
But the priest cast no spells, for the Goddess of freedom will not bind another. She will sing her song and welcome others into her chorus. And the priest raised his voice in wordless song. His voice was melancholy, and the sound spoke of loss, and gratitude, and new beginnings. Arueshalae rose to her feet and lifted her voice to follow his. Kiryn joined in; their twining harmonies held aloft by the strong foundations laid by the priest. And then the song ended. The priest turned and lifted the mallet lying next to the Bell of Mercy. He struck the bell once, twice, three times. Its tones echoed through the space, and then there was silence.
You expected something. A beam of light. A shower of butterflies. The heavens opening up in song. But there was just the lingering silence. And then Arueshalae gasped and fell to her feet, a look of shock and near terror on her face. She stared at Kiryn, dumbstruck, until she finally managed to speak.
“The weight. It’s gone.”
And with that, Arueshalae began to weep, a deep, cleansing sadness, coming from some ancient and distant place but made pure by the journey.
Kiryn approached Arueshalae and gently took her in her arms and the two of them stood there, crying tears too complex for words. The rest of the gathering quietly filed out, lost in their own thoughts, not wanting to disturb the miracle
| treblignotrub |
having played for years and GM'd a few adventures, this is some of the best supplementary content I have seen. I have started running WotR and having watched too many Live Play podcast I wanted to up my game and bring in more than the written AP. I was initially going to try to combine some elements for PFS season5 Year of the demon, and then I found this. STIP I applaud you. my group has just finished our 4th session and the added content (tweaked for my group) has been well recieved. this content fills the gap that Publishers cant due to word count in an AP. Having read the the Full AP and everything you have posted here, The game will be significantly improved.
To quote an earlier post..
" And thank you to everyone over the years who has filled this forum with great ideas I plan to steal from liberally and shamelessly"
| Stip |
Thank you very much! We just started book V so there are a few more scenes to add
1. Nocticula behind the scenes
2. PCs meeting Nocticula
3. End of chapter confrontation between Noc and Baphomet
4. Book IV-5 transition ‘battle of rails are/herald capture told through Waxberry’s POV
5. Iomedae scene (also extended)
I can post these tomorrow. I really like the Iomedae and Raliscard scenes
| Stip |
Okay, back to the narratives. I forgot I already included the Nocticula introduction. This next scene was from chapter 4. I wanted to give the PCs an additional meeting with the Herald, and give him a chance to share some plot details. I also wanted to make the Raliscard battle where he is captured a big deal. In my campaign post the fall of the wardstones demons have been rampaging in all the bordering lands kidnapping people that Vorlesh will sacrifice at the start of book VI to throw open the WW and start the countdown to the end of the world. This includes the entire village of Chitterhome, where my ratfolk PC was from. So in this scene the Herald promises to free his family while the PCs complete their mission.
A Role to Play
1 Pharast, 4724 –Alushinyrra, The Midnight Isles
You gather in the common room of your suite, resting, checking gear, making plans, when a familiar, peaceful warmth envelopes you. Your head clears, as the ever-present maddening whispers of the Midnight Isles go silent, and the room is quiet, except for a faint, distant sound of water. There is a flash of golden light, and the Herald of Iomedae stands in the center of the room, his nine-foot frame towering over you, wings furled, sword sheathed. His faceless helm takes in each of you, and while you cannot tell for certain, you would swear he is smiling as he gazes upon Rischa.
“Well met, champions of Iomedae. You have done well in the Abyss. Has it come at a cost? Tell me of your trials, and if there is weight you carry allow me to shoulder some of that burden.”
PCs Share story
“I come with tidings. I confess there was great debate as to whether to share these truths with you, but in the end, I insisted. The war marches on, and you have a right to know what is at stake.
Since the destruction of the wardstones, the demons have not been idle. The eastern forces of the Worldwound have thrown themselves at Drezen, and the stories of how the crusaders of Drezen repelled those armies, time and again, are already becoming legend – points of light in the gathering darkness. For all our success on that front, the demons are no longer penned in. While they have not attacked Mendev beyond small forays into the lands once protected by Kenebras, they have sent hundreds of war parties into Numeria, Ustalav, the Realm of the Mammoth Lords – even the Hold of Belkzen. They are not trying to conquer lands, find allies, or gain converts. They do not even seem interested in despoiling beyond the impact of their incidental presence. They are taking prisoners. Slaves. Every living being they can find. Even the direct slaughter seems minimal. They appear to be depopulating these lands.
The prisoners are being sent to Raliscard - a great massing of people on a size and scale we have never before seen. There are tens of thousands of these benighted souls. We do not know Deskari’s intent, what stratagem is in play. But we know we must not abandon them to their torment.
A great army has already set out from Nerosyan, and will reach Raliscard in a matter of hours. Support from across Golarion has been converging upon Mendev for months, inspired by your victories, and this is the largest show of crusader might since the second crusade. We are finally back on the offensive. We will take the fight into the heart of the Demon Lords’ power, and we will bring these people home!”
(Is this a trap?)
“We cannot rule out that possibility, though our intelligence informs us that many of the great generals of Deskari are gathered at Threshold, engaged in some dark and fell purpose that consumes their focus. And Baphomet’s power on Golarion has been scattered and reduced thanks to your efforts.”
(Can the PCs come?)
“We are all part of a greater design and must play our part. If we cannot stop the manufacture of these elixirs permanently, or should Nocticula ally with Deskari and Baphomet, the Worldwound will have built an army beyond our capability to match. You are not omnipotent, nor omniscient. You cannot be everywhere and do everything. And you are needed here, now, most of all.”
(Should the troops march under the Sword of Valor?)
“We debated whether this is a ploy to lure the sword away from Drezen. Vorlesh is no fool. She knows the power of Drezen as a symbol, and the worth of the Sword. It will stay in Drezen, protecting the city and its people. Irabeth Tiribade will remain to defend it. Waxberry the cleric and Aravashinal the wizard will accompany the army, alongside the Knights of Kenebras, as representatives of Drezen. Their presence will inspire the other soldiers, living embodiments of the great victories of the Fifth Crusade, and the indomitable power of faith and hope.”
(Who will command the army/how will they counter mythic demons?)
The Herald’s response is eager, almost impatient. “That is why I am here. With Iomedae’s blessing, I am to lead. Should any of the enemy’s generals take the field, I will match them.”
The Herald pauses, and you can sense his hesitation, some internal conflict raging. Finally, there is resolution, and he kneels before Queso, laying an arm on his shoulder. Despite the gesture of respect between equals, the Herald still towers over him, and Queso feels the enormous weight of the Herald, the pressure, as if the Herald is a bottleneck beyond which lies an endless stream of power. For a moment all Queso can hear is that sound of rushing water, but the sound fades.
“Queso, you should know that among the prisoners are a great many ratfolk. When this was learned, scouts were sent to Chitterhome. The town is completely empty. Not despoiled, though the tell-tale signs of struggle we have seen in other communities are present. The entire community appears to have been captured. I am sorry.”
I know full well the rage you must feel. It is what Vorlesh wants. It is what Deskari wants. It is how the Abyss takes hold of us, by feeding upon that desire for vengeance. We have survived this long by resisting those passions. By mastering them. By not allowing ourselves to be governed by our impulses. We all have a role to play. You must continue to play yours. But I swear, in the name of the Inheritor and all that is good and righteous in this and all other worlds, I will not rest until your people are free.
I must go. A great task lies before all of us. We must not fail. Prepare well. Fight well. Hold fast to your faith and your heart. They will guide us through the black days ahead, and back into the emergent light. I am proud to fight alongside you, and to name you ally.
Go forward in light to combat the darkness.”
With that there is another flash of golden light, the sound of rushing water, and then the unscratchable itch within your mind returns, the mad, corrupting whispers of the Abyss.
| Stip |
This next scene is the PCs meeting with Nocticula. To give book IV more focus I really expanded the Battlebliss to a two part 30 contestant royal rumble style death match (it took two sessions and lasted 70 rounds) with the top 3 winners facing off against Gelderfang. The winner received a boon from Nocticula, and the PCs asked for an audience (I scripted the hell out of that - entrances for all the demons, introduced some folks from chapter 5, and had a great time reliving my Attitude Era WWE fandom)
I did have her ask for a night with a redeemed Arueshalae - she tempted her and she resisted and then they talked - Nocticula was interested in her journey, and in the postscript Nocticula will ascend to her CN divine status, and it will be heavily implied Arueshalae helped inspire it
Dangerous Liaisons
2 Pharast, 4724 –Vault of Graves, The Midnight Isles
Izmaria gestures, and the ornate wooden doors open silently before you. You say a quiet prayer to your gods, and cross the threshold, entering the Library of Souls. The doors slam shut behind you with a hollow, thudding finality. There is an electric tension in the air, feelings of overpowering desire and illicit surrender. Arueshalae shudders, and Kiryn reaches for her hand. Arueshalae takes it and squeezes hard. Bookshelves run the length of this long chamber, extending upwards into a misty purple haze that occludes your sight. They are full of thick, gilded tomes, endless thousands, each with a name inscribed in abyssal along the spine. Legend tells that each contains the life story of a person slain by Nocticula, from the moment of their birth through their death at her hand. Gliding through the purple mists is a map of the Midnight Isles, drifting upon the endless seas of the Ishiar. Your eyes travel down the chamber and linger on an onyx dais, upon which sits an empty throne.
A lush black and pink carpet runs down the center of the room, carving a pathway to the throne. To the left of the throne a large pool sits inlaid in the marble floor, its surface a shimmering reflective pool of unholy mercury, still and unbroken. You feel a compulsion to approach the throne, and as you do your eyes are drawn to a solitary lectern standing to its right. Upon it lies an open book, its pages filling with words faster than your eyes can track, the language some arcane cypher you have never seen.
You stand before the throne as shadows rise and fill the room, strobing the light and creating an eerie sensation of half movement, as if time is slowing down. The air gets heavier, as reality struggles to make space for a presence it cannot fully contain. The hair on the back of your neck stands up, and you feel the sensation of someone placing gentle kisses along your neck, whispering in your ears – words you cannot fully comprehend that terrify and arouse. The book slams shut as a finger traces its way up your spine, and Nocticula, Demonic Lord of Darkness and Lust, materializes on her stone throne, a vision of perfect ease, irresistible temptation, and menacing power.
Her hair is wrapped around an ornate headdress, the seven-pointed star of Nocticula – she is nearly naked, the barest hints of strategically placed cloth all that separates you from your most breathless fantasy. She leans back on her throne and crosses her legs, her stony hooves barely containing the abyssal fire that lies within. Her body seems to disappear into the shadowy alcove formed by her wings, which glow red from the thousands of arcane runes covering them. She radiates a captivating aura, a perfect admixture of lust, fear, and submission. Without even realizing it, you kneel.
She licks her lips and takes you in, a crooked smile making its way across her features. If Areelu Vorlesh smiled like she was enjoying a joke only she understood, Nocticula’s makes clear the joke is at your expense, and yet you want to laugh anyway. She holds no weapon, and as she tents her fingers, her long fingernails make a hypnotic clicking sound.
“Welcome, Silver Scale, champions of purity. You have been hoping to speak to me, and now that hope lies before you. Pray tell, what have you to say.”
Conversation with the PCs
(Will you ally with Deskari and Baphomet?)
“With the bull and the bug?” She laughs. The sound is darkly musical. “No of course not. There is a delicate balance of power preventing the forces of the goodly planes from invading the Abyss. Should that day happen, I have no doubt we will prevail – there is an endless capacity for sin within mortals, ensuring an infinite supply of fodder for the war. But such a war would be costly and disruptive to my own ambitions.
Watching them try to absorb a prime world has been an amusing distraction, but I would prefer they not succeed, especially a world that happens to house the prison of one God, and the quickening heart of another. That would be messy, and I prefer chaos of my own design.”
(Will you oppose them?)
“Not openly. I despite Deskari, a blunt, brute instrument whose smug sense of misguided superiority grates. ‘I am a creature purely of the Abyss, with no antecedent from the mortal world’ and so on. And under other circumstances, I can imagine Baphomet being a useful ally. So no, I will not oppose them. But that doesn’t mean I want them to succeed.”
(Will you ally with us?)
“Like I said, I have no wish to be drawn directly into this conflict. If the Lady Vorlesh could not persuade me, why do you think you might?”
(Where are they mining?)
“They first discovered the crystalized blood on Vazglar, where you first entered my realm, and where, until recently, they continued to refine his blood to disperse among their elite. But now they are on Colyphyr. He was once the Lord of jungles, dragons and poisoned waters. Now he is part of my realm.”
(Will you grant us access?)
“Travel across Colyphyr is exceedingly difficult. The skies are infested with vrocks and other predators, the jungle is dense to the point of being impassable, a powerful antipathy covers the island, and the only way to travel is a carefully guarded river. Of course, I could transport you there, for a price. Vorlesh will know that I helped you, but I also suspect she may not mind.”
(Thoughts about Areelu Vorlesh)
She smiles, and laughs, but there is no joy in it. “I have a certain admiration for the keenness of her mind, and the scope of her ambition. She has paid dearly for her power, and respects its value. If I could trust her to serve me, I would have welcomed her into my fold long ago. But she serves no master but herself. Someday she will be called upon to answer for her desecration of my islands, but as a demon she will live forever, and I have eons for my revenge.”
(What do you want in return?)
“Nothing now, though it pleases me to know that the Gods of Purity may owe me a favor knowing I aided their own in a holy cause. She pauses, thoughtfully, and looks at Arueshalae. Well, there is one thing. Arueshalae, my wayward child, it has been quite a journey that has led you back to my islands. You stand before me transformed in a most unusual way. I would have you spend a night with me, so that I may hear your story and test your newfound faith.”
(pcs respond)
Arueshalae is frightened, but resolved. “My faith has been tested since the moment I entered the dream of the Desnan priest. You were there at my transformation. I have not yet earned my forgiveness or redemption – merely been given the opportunity to do so. What is the value of my faith, what purpose is there in the chance I have been given, if not to help us succeed in this cause.
Kiryn, sister – I will carry your resolute passion in my heart. I can endure this.”
(Gifts for PCs)
“Well my champions of purity, defenders of the prime, an ill host I would be if I did not offer you some token of remembrance. What do you desire? Wealth? Knowledge? Patronage?”
To Zograthy: “Would that you came before me in your prime, master Zograthy. Would you care to rekindle what age has so cruelly taken from you?”
To Wick: “As for you, my dear Optimus Wick, I have a token that might be of interest.” A dagger appears in her hand, the steel sharp and well-tended, the symbol of Pharasma etched into the handle. A faint purple glow rises from within the blade. “I acquired it, long ago, from a sacred assassin of the faith, charged with hunting down those who escaped their fate, and preventing others from meeting theirs prematurely. It is a lovely blade, and perhaps both of our interests would be best served if you were to wield it. And who knows how Lady Pharasma might reward you for recovering it from my demonic hands and restoring it to the faith.”
(PCs Wavering)
“I would decide, and decide quickly. Though she had taken up residence in the mines of late, Vorlesh has left my realm. I do not know when she shall return, but you will not find a better opportunity to drive your enemies from Colyphyr and the Midnight Isles. Hepzamirah stands alone. She is a terrible foe and possesses a brilliant mind, but is not a brilliant strategist. She is far too passionate for that. The favored daughter of Baphomet is a bull, and every problem is made of china.
(Farewell)
“I wish you luck upon your journey. You are pitting yourself against a foe whose intelligence and will is nearly unmatched throughout the planes. But I sense the power of chaos within you. The smallest pebble, properly placed, can disrupt the mightiest river, and you are no longer a tiny stone.”
She waves her hand, and the placid mercury waters of her reflecting pool begin to churn. Gazing into its surface, you see a mighty rushing waterfall and great cliffs, the sky teeming with vrocks and other demons, and everywhere the fetid humidity of dense, ancient jungle.
“You must simply step into the pool, and you will find yourself exactly where you need to be. And fret not, dear Kiryn – I will return your precious Arueshalae to you. Her condition depends entirely upon her faith and will.”
You prepare yourselves and step into the pool -as you fall through the surface you hear a familiar sound of distant rushing water, like a river raging just beyond your sight. The sound gets closer and closer, until the sensation envelopes you like armor.
| Stip |
I played the end of book IV pretty straight - based on the description in the text and partially inspired by some text earlier in this thread.
One of my PCs ended up accepting her patronage, which I'll do something with later
Cutscene XI: Mistress of the Midnight Isles
3 Pharast, 4724 – The Mines of Colphyr, The Midnight Isles
The ground begins convulsing, and Hepzamirah's face is split by a silent scream, followed by a wet, horrifying crack as her body is torn asunder. A dark, fetid smoke pours out of the cavity in her chest as she collapses in a heap of corruption. As you stare in shock, the ghostly image of a towering demon emerges from her rapidly decaying flesh. To your horror, the image solidifies into a massive, bare chested, emaciated minotaur. Instead of a bull, it possesses the head of a goat, one with unnaturally large blazing horns and glowing red eyes – its forehead marked with an inverted pentagram. Baphomet, Demon Lord of Beasts, Labyrinths, and Minotaurs, stands before you, wielding his dark glaive Aizerghaul. You are paralyzed with terror, unable to move, as the walls of the chamber buckle under the strain of his manifestation.
"THAT WAS A MISTAKE, WORMS. THE TIME FOR YOUR ACTS OF REBELLION IS AT AN END. NOW YOU FACE NOT THE DAUGHTER OF BAPHOMET, BUT THE LORD OF MINOTAURS HIMSELF. NOW YOU SHALL KNOW WHAT IT IS TO BE JUDGED AND FOUND LACKING."
Baphomet steps out of the puddled remains of Hepzamirah and advances towards you. His wrath pours from him in waves, so bright and sharp it is almost tactile. You will yourself to move, and unbidden, you feel the distant sensation of rushing waters. The Wardstone energy within you surges to the surface in response to Baphomet’s presence, and your fear borne paralysis breaks. You take a step back as Baphomet closes in, dragging his glaive along the floor, the blade cutting a groove in the stone.
"YOU ARE NOT THE ONLY VICTIMS OF MY WRATH TODAY. YOU SHALL JOIN THE HERALD OF THAT JUMPED-UP MORTAL B+#$% IN ETERNAL AGONY AND SERVITUDE TO THE LORD OF THE IVORY LABYRINTH.”
It is clear now that though Baphomet speaks to you, he is addressing someone else.
“DO YOU HEAR ME, GODDESS? YOUR SERVANT IS NOW MY LATEST PLAYTHING, AND HE WILL BE THE ARCHITECT OF YOUR SUFFERING. LET THIS BE A REMINDER TO YOUR SO-CALLED CRUSADERS THAT MY REACH IS BEYOND MEASURE. I CAN STRIKE ANYWHERE, I CAN TAKE ANYTHING YOU HOLD DEAR AND I CAN CRUSH THOSE YOU CONSIDER GREAT HEROES WITH A MERE THOUGHT!”
Baphomet turns his focus back to you, and offers you a wicked, possessive smile.
“YOU ARE MINE, AND YOUR BONES SHALL JOIN THE BONES OF MILLIONS MORE WITHIN THE WALLS OF MY IVORY LABYRINTH"
"Ahh but it is my realm you invade, 'Lord of Slain Daughters’. And these are my guests you threaten."
As her words echo across the chamber with a silken edge, Nocticula emerges from the shadows behind Baphomet, beautiful and seductive despite her cold anger. She holds no weapon, and maintains her perfect, terrifying ease. Baphomet turns to face her, raising his glaive before him in a defensive posture. He opens his mouth to speak, but Nocticula raises a single finger, silencing him.
"Let THIS be a reminder that your reach is not without measure, and that you have not been invited into my home."
Nocticula snaps her fingers in a casual gesture and the ground beneath Baphomet vomits forth abyssal fire. Its flames engulf the demon lord, searing his flesh. He lets loose a twisted, guttural cry of agony and disbelief, as his corporeal form shatters with a thunderous roar, the stone he stood upon now a splintered, scorched ruin.
Nocticula's intoxicating, musical laughter fills the silence that follows. You watch, transfixed, as she strides towards the smoking crater where Baphomet once stood. She kneels and lifts a severed horn. She turns it over in her hand, smiling at her trophy, and then with a flick of her wrist it vanishes. She rises and faces you, satisfied.
"Rest assured that your enemies shall siphon the blood of my realm no longer, though you can count Baphomet personally among those enemies now. It shall take him some time to recover from this humiliation, but when he returns his mind will be fixed on vengeance.” She offers you a predatory grin. “Though I am afraid it is you, not I, who will be his target.”
Your business on my isles is now complete and you will depart immediately… unless any of you wish to stay a while longer and keep me company? No? Such a pity.”
Nocticula sighs theatrically, and traces a long fingernail over the cavern wall, leaving behind glowing purple lines that sketch out a complex arcane sigil. She finishes and steps backwards, as the symbol forms a gate wreathed in violet flames. On the other side of the gate, you gaze upon a room dominated by the wreckage of an immense machine, and you recognize the Midnight Fane and the space that held the gate you closed with the Lexicon of Paradox. As Nocticula fades from sight, her voice echoes throughout the chamber.
"Perhaps we will meet again. Until then, your way home lies through the fire. I would hurry back. Much has transpired in your absence, and I do believe you have been missed.” Her triumphant laughter lingers in the cavern, far beyond her absence.
| Stip |
I am fairly proud of this one. I had been setting up Waxberry as a character (I killed off Sosiel in book two through a shape shifted kiranda that convinced the party she was a prisoner) and their primary NPC healer (no party cleric), and set up Raliscard as the largest Crusader mobilization since the First Crusade, led by the Herald. I had the four scenes interspersed throughout the back half of book IV, with the capture of the Herald being revealed shortly before their final fight with Hepzimiriah. He has been dropping in and out of the campaign as an Iomedae surrogate and all around noble and inspiring figure, so his loss was rough and should raise the stakes for book V, especially given some of the choices I am going to ask them to make based on the campaign cosmology I created.
This went well - PCs were devastated.
Cutscene XII: The Liberation of Raliscard
1 Pharast, 4724 – The Outskirts of Raliscard, The Worldwound
Waxberry stood outside her tent, watching the Exalted Army of the 5th Crusade prepare for battle. The assault would begin upon the Herald’s return. There would be no rest. The ruined city of Raliscard, seat of Baphomet’s power in the Worldwound, stood a few short miles away – smoke rising from its many prison camps, its screams and laughter carried on the wind. Scouts reported the city was heavily guarded by Baphomite forces, but intelligence indicated that Minagho had been banished, Hepzamirah was elsewhere, and Desarki’s generals were in Iz, far to the north, gathered for some dark, unknown purpose. There was a great gathering of demons, but it could not be called an army.
There were an estimated 20,00 abyssal servants in the city, guarding even more captives slated for transport to Undarian and whatever dark fate awaited them there. And these were not just dretches, schirs, brimoraks, and babau. There were thousands of hezrous, vrocks, kalavakus, glabrezu – the elite strength of Baphomet’s abyssal forces in the Worldwound, supplemented by formations of minotaurs and everywhere cultists of Baphomet and the mercenaries in their service. Succubi roamed the camp, pacifying prisoners who might cause trouble. But Jerribeth and Xanthir Vang were dead. The Templars of the Ivory Labyrinth were destroyed. Focused as the demons were on preparing for the mass migration of prisoners, and hardly organized in the best of times, the barely controlled chaos of Baphomet’s forces would fall apart under a sustained assault. That was the plan. That was the hope.
There was a soft popping sound to Waxberry’s left as Aravashinal appeared beside her. The Rift Warden practically trembled with excitement, drawing a sharp contrast with Waxberry, who was very much afraid. The usual pedantry in his voice was softened by his almost childlike glee.
“Just think, Waxberry, before us lies the grandest army assembled since the Second Crusade, nearly 100 years ago. 40,000 strong, with soldiers from across Golarion, drawn to the Crusades by our victories in Drezen. And a second army, even larger, forming in Nerosyan.” Aravashinal took a deep breath, savoring the moment, before he began coughing on the foul abyssal air. It broke the tension, and Waxberry smiled.
“I share your enthusiasm, ‘Vash, if not your confidence. It’s just that something feels wrong.”
Aravashinal looked down at Waxberry, and took her hand, squeezing it, an extraordinarily affectionate gesture coming from the normally reserved elf. “It is the air, the ground, the water.” He turned and stared at the turgid, fetid Sarkora river. He gestured expansively, taking in the horizon. “It is this scar upon Golarion. And today, we will strike a great victory against it. The scholars have nearly finished interpreting the Lexicon of Paradox. Soon our friends will return from the Abyss. Deskari and Baphomet will be isolated, and no more empowered demons will join their ranks. Our armies will be the shield that delivers the Crusade’s silver sword straight into the heart of Worldwound. Mark this day well, Waxberry. It is, finally, the beginning of the end!”
Waxberry nodded, drawing strength from his certainty. They watched the troops assemble. The mercenaries the Crusades had relied on for decades were gone, replaced once again with true believers rallying to the cause. Paladins of Iomedae, Sarenrae, and Torag, druids of Erastil, scouts from Desna, bards from Shelyn, reinforced by the martial faithful, innumerable clerics, and arcane casters of all types – the various goodly churches sending every available resource north to support the war. But it wasn’t just the followers of the Crusader gods. The nation of Brevoy had sent a legion of Aldori swordlords. Elven archers from Kyonin, rangers from Nirmathas, imperial phalanxes from Molthune, Knights of Ozem from Lastwall, Taldoran cavalry, barbarian tribes from Numeria, dwarven infantry from the Five Kings Mountains, border guard from Verdant, Griffon riders from Andoran, a detachment of riders from the Realm of the Mammoth Lords, even Hellknights from Cheliax and orcish shock troops from the Hold of Belkzan, seemingly all of Avistan was represented. The sense of momentum was palpable.
At the vanguard, in a place of honor, were the Knights of Kenebras, berated into position by the familiar bark of Frederich von Frederich. He alternated between screaming at his soldiers and inventing new invective to hurl at demons, his breathless ranting oddly comforting – a taste of home.
Waxberry waved at him. Frederich scowled back and returned to reprimanding one of the Knights for some minor infraction or another.
“I’ve never seen him so happy,” Waxberry observed.
“Happy? He looks as miserable as ever”.
“Yes, but it’s his joyful misery, not his angry misery. There’s a big difference”.
Throughout the camp the air practically crackled with magical energy. A great host of wizards from as far south of Absalom worked to shield the army from scrying eyes. As far as the Crusaders knew, their march went undetected. The enemy’s eastern forces were depleted from the war on Drezen. The Baphomite command was disrupted, reeling from the destruction of their templars. Soon the druids marching with the host would call up a great fog to hide their final march. They simply awaited the Herald’s return.
***
Aravashinal left Waxberry to her thoughts, joining the other wizards to begin preparations for the assault. Aravashinal was to lead the team charged with teleporting away prisoners too weak to march out of the ruined city. She would join the Knights of Kenebras at the vanguard. Paladin formations did not require much clerical support, but since her arrival at Drezen these warriors had become her friends. Waxberry knew every name, and every history. She would see them return to their families, to their home. But she was not ready to join them just yet, unable to shake the quiet melancholy that had taken hold of her. She stood there, alone, thinking about her life, the choices that led to this moment. She pondered the second chance Queen Galfrey gave her, the faith they now shared, the good Waxberry had done its name. She felt blessed to be a part of such a monumental moment in the history of Golarion. Should they succeed here, should the Worldwound be closed, she might flatter herself worthy of a footnote in the histories, a background note in the songs. But the odds were long, and she was afraid to hope.
The air around her changed, its foulness dissipating, its sounds receding, and as a golden light infused the space she felt a great surge of confidence – the fear drifting away. She looked up, and the Hand of the Inheritor, Herald of Iomedae, stood at her side, his armor gleaming despite the muted sun struggling against the gritty sky.
“My lord” Waxberry exclaimed, quickly bowing. The Herald gazed down at her. “Rise, young Waxberry. Your courage makes us equals.”
“Thank you, my Lord, but if it is all the same to you, I will feel a lot better if our leader has more to offer than another Waxberry.”
The Herald chuckled, a deep, rich sound that reached into Waxberry’s chest and soothed her heart. “You are stronger than you know, Waxberry of Iomedae’. Know that I in turn draw strength from you. So let us allow that we might support each other, in this holy endeavor in our Lady’s name”.
Waxberry drew up a little straighter. She stared out at the soldiers, a question on her lips she dared not ask. The Herald gave her space, waiting, until it was clear she was resigned to her silence.
“Speak, Waxberry, for you have earned that right, as has every brave soul joining us here”.
“Lord, are you afraid?”, Waxberry blurted out, before looking away, reluctant to meet his gaze. “I’m sorry, Lord. You do not need to answer that.”
The Herald crouched down and placed a hand on Waxberry’s shoulder. “It is a fair question; one you have earned the right to ask. Truthfully, I am not. I have stood in the glory of our Lady’s light, and once you have beheld it, you are blessed knowing that while she reigns the universe inexorably marches towards justice.
But even before I entered the service of the Lady it was not fear that threatened to master me in the moments that mattered most. It was rage.”
“Rage, Lord?”
“Yes – a deep, violent rage at the injustice of the world, of the ways its systems and structures protect the wicked and harm the good. It drove me as a mortal, and when my soul joined the armies of Heaven I sought to channel that anger. For millennia I served as the Herald of Ragathiel, the Empyreal General of Vengeance. I was the manifestation of his righteous fury. And that fury was a fire I could not quench. A hunger I could not sate, no matter how I quested, no matter how I killed.”
“Apologies Lord, but you hardly seem wrathful. Stalwart, implacable, and fearsome, but patient and kind. What changed?”
“I met the Just Queen of Heaven, and in her presence the fires of wrath cooled. She calmed the storm within me, and for the first time I knew peace. Ragathiel understood I could no longer serve him as I did, and he released me to act as her Herald, the role the Inheritor once played for Aroden after the loss of his herald, Arazni, in the crusade against the Whispering Tyrant a thousand years ago.
Waxberry of Iomedae and Mendev, know that as long as our Lady reigns in heaven, her faithful will find the strength necessary to do the great and valorous things she requires of us. When the time comes, you will not let her down”.
And with that, the Herald disappeared. The clammy air, noxious smells, and howling winds returned, but this time Waxberry did not notice. Standing tall and proud, she left to take her place among the Knights of Kenebras, to do what Iomedae required.
***
The vast assemblage of the Exalted Army of the Fifth Crusade was massed into its battle columns and ready to march. The Hand of the Inheritor, Herald of Iomedae, floated fifteen feet above the ground, a massive golden angel surrounded by a halo of spinning blades. Sunlight emanated from the Herald, rays of hope illuminating the formations of troops standing at attention before him. He lifted his sword, and a golden light enveloped the army, sweetening the air and silencing the moans of the Worldwound. He began to speak, and while he did not raise his voice it carried to every crusader in the vast assembly.
“My valiant brother and sisters in arms. I look upon you and I am truly humbled by your bravery, your valor, your righteousness. Humbled, but not surprised. For a thousand years ago, a different mortal walked among you. Armored in her faith, shielded by her valor, armed with her commitment to justice, she never turned away from the task before her, no matter its impossibility.
It should have been impossible to slay the King of the Barrowood, but from the back of a griffon she hewed the wings from his body and drove him from the sky, striking him down before he could rise from the impact crater.
It should have been impossible to destroy the great beast Nakorshor’mond, but this was done, and the circle of paladins that were cut out of its belly survived to fight another day.
It should have been impossible to inspire the mortally wounded knights at the Second Battle of Encarthan to stand their ground against an endless horde of wraiths, but under her leadership they survived the dark night long enough to be relieved by the dawn.
It should have been impossible for a mortal to defeat Erum-Hel, but at the Battle of Three Sorrows she crippled the Lord of Morhgs even as the forces of the Whispering Tyrant closed in.
As a mortal, our Lady of Valor achieved many impossible things – not because she was the God of justice, but because it was what justice required. She did not fight for power or glory. She fought without the assurance of victory. She fought because the warriors at her side, and the innocent they protected, needed her. Because she made a promise to do what is right and necessary, and because she understood the sacred value of a promise.
Each of you has made a promise. To use your strength justly. To stand as a shield against the onslaught of the Abyss. To bar the way as long as the Worldwound remains open. To stand and fight so that others may live.
Knights of the 5th Crusade, somewhere in this city are 30,000 souls in need of your protection. Somewhere in this city are wrongs only you can right. Somewhere in this city is the promise you have made. Warriors, defenders, champions, crusaders – will you keep that promise?”
No sound could escape the bubble of golden light, but the answering roar reverberated within, each crusader’s affirmation buttressing the others, the sound an indomitable cacophony of righteous certainty. Soldiers stamped their feet, clanged swords against shields, and cried for justice and revenge. Prayers were invoked to all the gods, but above all to Iomedae the Inheritor. The Herald waited until the noise reached its climax, and then raised a hand for silence. He continued.
“Let me make one final promise to you. While any crusader stands, while there is anyone left with the will to fight, I will be there alongside you. To victory! To the end!
Go forward in light to combat the darkness”.
As a fog rose to hide their intent, the Exalted Army of the Fifth Crusade began its assault on the slave pens of Raliscard.
***
2 Pharast, 4724 –Raliscard, The Worldwound
“Stand your ground, men!” Frederich Von Frederich screamed as another wave of unholy blight coursed over the Knights of Kenebras. Waxberry called upon Iomedae’s healing light one final time, restoring the paladins in her care.
“S*~!!” she cursed. She was out of spells, out of channels, out of potions. She was of no use in the center of the paladin’s formation. As the Knights wheeled to meet the incoming charge of a horde of minotaurs, Waxberry extricated herself from the line and disappeared into the rubble strewn plaza. A lifetime ago she was a halfway decent thief. She would find a place to hide, and figure out a way to be useful from the shadows.
It was going so well. Baphomet’s forces were taken unaware, the righteous tide of the Crusade washing over them, cleansing Raliscard with demonic blood. Thousands of demons fell before the army, individuals overwhelmed by the disciplined columns and unified tactics of the Crusade. The Exalted Army fought its way deeper into the city, closing in on the great slave camps at its center. Waxberry could just make out the confused cries of the captives housed within, a sound halfway between hope and fear.
But it was a trap – the demons sacrificing their own to lure the crusaders further and further from any egress, until they were fully committed to the attack. Just as it appeared the crusaders would win the day, the rest of Baphomet’s armies teleported in behind them – thousands upon thousands of fresh demons, supported by massive ulkreths, each capable of smashing through a formation of knights. At the head of the horde were Baphomet’s marilith and gallu commanders, keeping the demons focused and disciplined.
The Herald’s voice entered the minds of the crusaders, his practical calm soothing their rising panic. “We cannot get to the prisoners. We must save as many of our comrades as we can. I will draw their focus while you retreat. Fight on, crusaders – this battle is lost. We act now to preserve the war”.
The Herald took to the sky, leaving behind the vast circle of demonic bodies that had fallen to his wrath. He landed on the ruined ceiling of an ancient temple, desecrated beyond recognition long ago. The Herald raised his sword to the sky and a beam of golden light cut through the gloom, a beacon to crusader and demon alike. His voice boomed across the city.
“I am here, wormspawn! Who among you dare to claim me for your master?’
Almost as one, the massed hordes of the Worldwound turned their attention towards the Herald, their commanders unable to hold them in formation. The crusaders used the chaos to retreat down Raliscard’s ruined boulevards, fighting their way free.
Acting on instinct, too weary for any rational thought, Waxberry began to pick her way through the rubble, making her way towards the Herald. She mumbled the Acts of Iomedae under her breath. He was not far. She could make it. She could help him. She would keep her promise.
She could not recall how long it took, or even how she got there, but Waxberry found herself hidden in the shadows atop the ruined temple, the Herald not twenty feet away. The roof was littered with the bodies of demons, but the three who faced the Herald were the stuff of legends and nightmares. Waxberry marked the drow as Svendack, high priestess of Baphomet’s faith. The red minotaur in charcoal gray half plate held a mighty axe and tower shield – Inger-Maggor, Baphomet’s Ivory Hunter. Standing between them was the two headed, twelve armed Ylleshka – among the most powerful mariliths to walk the planes.
The Herald’s golden armor was caked in blood and gore, but he stood tall and strong and tireless as Baphomet’s champions closed in.
Waxberry looked away, out over Raliscard. From this height she could see the surviving crusaders in their thousands picking their way through the city, almost to the outskirts – where they could flee in organized squads and regroup at their rendezvous. Miraculously, the demons remained concentrated in the city center.
But Waxberry’s heart broke when she saw why. Holding a key bottleneck, beset on all sides, were the Knights of Kenebras – refusing to give ground, keeping the demons occupied – buying the precious time the survivors needed to escape. Over the sound of battle and screams, she could make out the stentorian voice of Frederich von Frederich calling to his troops.
“Crusaders, light the way to your eternal reward. We serve The Inheritor, in life, and in death!”
The Knights called back “In death!” and held their weapons aloft as holy light sheathed their blades, illuminating the darkness one final time. And then the light died, as the Knights of Kenebras were swallowed by an irresistible demonic wave.
Waxberry shut her eyes, her stinging tears a reminder that, here and now, she was alive. Svendack called columns of unholy fire down upon the Herald, but he resisted. He held his shield before him, searching for an opening as he protected himself from Ylleshka’s endless hammering. He did not see the Ivory Hunter approaching from behind, but Waxberry did.
She looked out over the city. The crusaders had fought their way free. Some, at least, would make it home. She wondered if Aravashinal was among them. She felt a brief surge of hope, quickly snuffed out by a deafening crack of thunder. An enormous bolt of lightning struck the center of the massed crusaders. Rising from the smoke was Khorramzadeh, the Storm King. A swarm of derakni and apocalypse locusts descended from the sky and began devouring the left flank of the crusaders. Within the cloud she could just make out the shape of Diurgezv Broodlord. A dozen balors appeared along the right and began to carve away at the panicked troops. And then, appearing before the fleeing crusaders, at the head of a fresh army, was Aponavicius. With a grating, sibilant cry Desarki’s great general, former master of Drezen, rushed the front line of the Crusade, her demonic soldiers close behind.
Hope died then, for Waxberry. This was the end. There would be no song. No story. But she could keep one promise before it was over. As the Ivory Hunter closed in on the unsuspecting Herald, Waxberry picked her way over the rubble, her approach unseen. As the Hunter raised his axe she swung her mace hard against his ankle. The Ivory Hunter grunted – more in surprise than pain. He looked down and kicked Waxberry hard. She flew back fiteen feet and cracked her head against the stone. Her vision dimmed, but she saw the Herald duck Inger-Maggor’s blow and twist away, putting all three foes in front of him.
He took several cautious steps back and began to teleport away. But before he could finish the spell, a sickly green ray washed over him, anchoring him to this space. Grimacing against the pain, Waxberry lifted her head, as a final demon emerged from a rent in the sky. Though they had never met, Waxberry recognized the voice – placid, conversational even, with an iron confidence that gave each pronouncement the force of cosmic law.
“Leaving so soon, Herald? But we are barely acquainted, and I have a use for you.” Areelu Vorlesh cast another spell. The magical protections enveloping the Hand of the Inheritor winked out of existence, and Baphomet’s champions closed in.
As Waxberry’s vision darkened, the Exalted Army of the Fifth Crusade was consumed in dust and blood beneath the shadow of Raliscard.
| Stip |
Last one - I haven't used this yet (next session at the end of July). This is Iomedae's introduction, and it hopefully establishes some characterization including her frustration at not being able to intervene directly - all will be necessary to justify the finale I have in mind.
I also came up with the idea of the 12th Act of Iomedae as a way to really establish why Iomedae would risk the crusades to rescue the Herald. I also have Vorlesh using him as a battery - drawing power from his connection to her, to give this a bit of a timeline. I think this is some of my better work.
I also decided to make a PC the new Herald before they went in, so that transformation is in here
Cutscene XIII: The Twelfth Act of Iomedae
4 Pharast, 4724 – Proelara, Heaven
Without warning, the council room in Drezen fades out of existence. The world turns white, and you are enveloped by a cocooning pressure as you are transported somewhere by an overpowering magical force. You have been summoned like this before, with Areelu Vorlesh, and while you are equally powerless to resist, there is not the same experience of violation. It feels instead like you are gently gliding along currents you sense but cannot see. The air is rich with the sound of distant murmuring – words just beyond your comprehension.
You find yourself in the center of a vast cathedral whose dimensions extend beyond your sight, its walls covered in stained glass. You look around and see your fellow members of the Silver Scale are here with you, along with Galfrey and Irabeth. Soft golden light streams in through countless windows, illuminating the images within their frames. As you watch, the glass scenes animate and transform into moving records of history. You recognize them as moments from the great crusades against the Worldwound, stories you have only read about that come alive before you in the glass.
You watch as an avatar of the god Aroden defeats the Sarkorian cult dedicated to Deskari, banishing its remnants, including the demon lord’s ruined avatar, deep into the Lake of Mists and Veils.
The light darkens as a still human Areelu Vorlesh throws open the Worldwound within the bowels of the tower of Threshold. A young Queen Galfrey, paladin of the now dead Aroden, kneels before an altar. She rises as a paladin of Iomedae and takes her place as leader of the Crusades.
You watch as Iomedaen knights and Sarkorian survivors drive back the first wave of demons to emerge from the Worldwound, before the great phoenix Pyralisia falls to a demonic horde, her sacrifice granting the Herald of Iomedae time to call the wardstones into being.
The windows do not shy away from the darker moments of the crusades, as Minagho unleashes her Red Morning Massacre and a young Lord Hulrun orchestrates the witch trials of the Third Crusade. As innocents within Kenebras burn, Templars of the Ivory Labyrinth watch from the shadows and smile.
Elsewhere, Staunton Vhane places the Sword of Valor into the waiting hands of Jerribeth, as Aponavicius’ forces flow over the walls of Drezen. You see Yaniel’s last stand in Raliscard, an indomitable beacon of light illuminated against the tide of darkness crashing over her.
You watch Irabeth defend the Wardstone of Kenebras against Staunton Vhane, while on a different window Terendelev beats back the assault of the mighty Khorramzadeh before the glass shifts and you witness the great dragon’s beheading at the hands of the Storm King on the day that Kenebras fell.
You feel a compulsion to approach the cathedral’s central nave. As you do, the history of the 5th Crusade unfolds before you, its story told in the glass.
You watch Queso touch the rod of cancellation to the wardstone fragment and witness its power flow into you. Curiously, the Herald is nowhere to be found within the image. You see Irabeth raise the Sword of Valor over a reclaimed Drezen and behold the redemption of Arueshalae before the Gods of the Crusade. You watch as Cyrus holds back Jerribeth’s elite agents in the Ivory Sanctum while Zograthy casts down Xanthir Vang and claims his birthright.
You see the forces of Drezen repel demonic invaders, while elsewhere Rischa kneels before the Herald of Iomedae, and Kiryn awakens Radiance from its slumber. You are with Galfrey, who barely aged a day since her ascension to the throne, as you close the gate in the Midnight Fane, and Wick is declared the champion of the Battlebliss.
As you enter the nave of the Cathedral, a space simultaneously vast and intimate, the images on the window change once more, as the Hand of the Inheritor bows before Iomedae, who declares him her Herald. And while you watch him turn the tide at the last desperate defense of Drezen, the stories widen their focus, and you bear witness to nearly a thousand years of the Herald’s loyal service to Iomedae across the planes.
The pressure intensifies, becoming painful – the light that pours in from the windows blindingly bright, the distant murmuring now a thunderous cacophony. You begin to bleed from your eyes, nose, ears. The very fabric of reality vibrates around you as you feel yourself melting away – your soul stripped of all armor, all pretense, just the exposed core of who you are remains, feeling impossibly small and insignificant in the face of the scouring light.
And just as you are about to be consumed the pressure abates – the light dims – bright, but no longer burning – the sound present but no longer deafening. Your wounds healed.
Standing before you is a is a tall woman with piercing eyes, angular features, and short black hair. She wears clean but well used silver plate, and a blood red cloak flows behind her, a long sword sheathed at her side, its handle ornate but functional. The Wardstone energy within you rushes to the surface in greeting as you behold the avatar of Iomedae the Inheritor – Light of the Sword, Lady of Valor, goddess of Justice and Honor– patron of the Crusade against the Worldwound.
You find it hard to look directly at her, as if some incomprehensible power is barely contained within this corporeal form. She radiates an overpowering sense of righteousness, resolve, and the peace that comes from absolute certainty of purpose. As you stand before her, you feel a clarity you have never experienced before, a feeling you will never forget all the rest of your days.
*** PCs react***
“Welcome, crusaders, to my cathedral. Please, I bid you rise:
Young Queso, who would hold the world’s knowledge in his hands so that he might finally put things to right.
Cyrus, your actions honor the blood that flows within your veins, a lineage that understands the cost and nobility of sacrifice.
Wick, who knows well the value of a second chance, and the need to do right by it.
Kiryn, paladin of Desna, so strong and resolute in your faith. There must be the dream of justice before it is made real. It must be sought before it is found, and so followers of the goddess of seekers and dreamers are always welcome in my halls.
Arueshalae, yours is a grand experiment in redemption. A dangerous road lies before you, and you must hold to your path.
Zograthy, you have walked long and far to find your purpose, but you have proven yourself worthy of your legacy.
Irabeth, my loyal paladin. Time and again you have held the line, stalwart shield of my faith.
Rischa, my indomitable champion, kin to my Herald – I see his dignity and resolve in you, and through your actions you honor us both.
And Queen Galfrey, your leadership has held the Crusades together and kept Golarion safe for all these long, grueling years. For over a century, you have been the tip of my sword.
As Iomedae speaks, you realize that her voice lacks the dark music and seductive notes of Nocticula and Vorlesh, or the commanding tenor of the Herald. And while Iomedae’s face is handsome, you would not call it beautiful. And yet you realize that you would follow anywhere she led, undertake any task she gave, knowing that if she believes in you then anything is possible.
It is uncomfortable to gaze upon her, a light burning too brightly, and so you find yourself looking around the immense chamber. A great stone well sits behind Iomedae, its marble wall five feet high, a soft multicolored light glowing within it. The cathedral stretches to heights beyond your sight, though about two hundred feet up you see a vast projection of stars – the celestial immensity of the prime material plane. You wonder which world is Golarion.
The stained glass windows now depict the eleven miraculous acts of a mortal Iomedae, when she was a paladin of Aroden – the slaying of Nakorsho’mond, and the freeing of her circle of paladins from the stomach of the beast. The First Act of Iomedae. On another window you observe her Second Act as she frees the city of Senghor from the tyranny of a witches coven. You watch the Whispering Tyrant shatter her sword, which Iomedae instantly reforges with a prayer and oath to end his evil, creating the artifact Heart’s Edge in the Sixth Act of Iomedae. Elsewhere she calls forth the Undenying Light from the Starstone, banishing the darkness of a terrible storm so that the city’s defenders could find and slay the ghouls rampaging throughout Absalom, Iomedae’s Seventh Act.
You thrill as you watch the sacred texts of Iomedae’s faith come to life before you – the Third Act where she slew Segruchen the Iron Gargoyle, King of the Barrowwood, or the Fourth Act, where she called upon Aroden’s herald Arazni, and the two of them stood with a mortally wounded regiment of knights against a horde of wraiths, holding the line until the dawn. The Fifth Act saw Iomedae smite Erum-Hel, the Lord of Mohrgs, at the Battle of Three Sorrows - inspiring the Shining Crusade to fight on despite the Whispering Tyrant revealing the now broken and ruined body of the slain Arazni to the crusaders.
Not every scene told a martial story. The Eight Act, where she allowed the graveknight known as the Black Prince to be redeemed and judged in the Halls of Aroden, spoke of her mercy. The Ninth Act, where she gave her own blood to free nine righteous knights from the vampire-mage Basilov, demonstrated her willingness to sacrifice. Or the Tenth, where she ruled the Chelaxian city of Kantaria for a year and a day, bringing prosperity to the war-torn region as she showed her capacity for wisdom and judgement. And her Eleventh act, a final miracle before her ascension to Godhood, as she cast her cloak into the Pit of the Starstone, which transformed into the walkway that granted access to the cathedral, and the test that would elevate her into a divinity, the last of the new gods.
Your ears adjust to the sounds permeating the cathedral, as the incomprehensible noise slowly crystalizes into a celestial choir chanting the Acts of Iomedae. The hymns are intercut with prayers from innumerable faithful across countless worlds. You cannot make out every prayer, but those you can, you realize, are not asking Iomedae to intercede or solve their problems. Instead, they call upon her to grant them strength, wisdom, and courage so they might solve those problems themselves. Iomedae continues.
“I have brought you here for a purpose and have done so only under the most dire of need. But before I lay this task before you, I must know that you are champions worthy of undertaking this great work.
You have been bold in your war against Deskari and Baphomet, and I favor boldness. Justice requires it, But the line separating boldness from arrogance is thin, and the greatest heroes suffer the longest falls. This has been true of the crusades in which I fought, and those fought in my name. So, tell me, what makes you worthy of carrying the legacy and values of my faith into the darkness of the Abyss, and how can I know you will return them untainted?”
(PCs answer)
“You have a hero’s bravery and have proven you can survive the horrors of the Abyss. None would doubt your courage. But you have also learned that not all those in the Abyss are your enemies. Some are creatures whose wicked nature can be used as a tool to defeat greater evils. And still others may yet strive to transcend who they are – to prove that just as one might fall, another may rise. One such story you know intimately well. And so, I ask you, are the wages of sin always death and oblivion? When is terrible evil due mercy? Who deserves death, and who deserves a chance at redemption? Which option is the path of justice, and how will you recognize it when more seductive roads lie before you?”
(PCs answer)
“Ours is work that never truly ends. The righteous are forever beset on all sides by the malevolent and wicked. And sometimes we are little more than a tiny candle burning in the midst of impenetrable night. And so I must know, how does justice triumph against overwhelming evil? How do you maintain light at the heart of darkness? How does one outwit and defeat a demon lord in his own domain? For I ask no less of you than this.
(PCs answer)
I am grateful for the honesty, wisdom, courage, and humility of your responses. You each possess a valorous soul. Are you worthy of the task I will place before you? That cannot be known. There is no such thing as destiny, and no conclusion is prewritten. None can read the chapters to come until the page is turned, and each of us must craft the ending to our own story. What we have is a chance to act. That is all we are ever given, but that is enough. Who we are, and what we are worth, is defined by what we do with that chance. When we fall, can we find the courage to rise again? When hope is lost, can we find the resolve to stand our ground until it is found? Every moment of our lives is an opportunity to live up to our ideals. And every failure affords us the chance to do better next time. If justice required perfection we could never achieve it, for we are all flawed and imperfect beings – even the Gods.”
As Iomedae speaks, you notice a new image among the ever-shifting Acts of Iomedae. You see the knights of Ozem once again call upon Aroden’s Herald Arazni to do battle against the forces of the Whispering Tyrant, her summoner obscured by the smoke and carnage. But this time was a trap, and the Tyrant captured Arazni, who he would torture, mutilate, and destroy. The tragedy is known to church scholars, though the summoner’s name is lost to history.
“Let us come to the heart of the matter. As you have learned, the Exalted Army of the Fifth Crusade was routed in Raliscard – a cunning trap set by Areelu Vorlesh, one that took advantage of the chaos and confidence caused by your victories. Nearly the entirety of that army was destroyed, but the most bitter loss was the capture of my Herald.
His fate is only partially known to me. I know that he lives, as I still feel him through our connection. I know that he suffers greatly, and he struggles to resist some consuming and terrible corruption. And I know that he is losing his battle. It is only a matter of time until he falls.
What’s more, I can feel something feeding off his connection to me, drawing upon my divinity to fuel some dark purpose.
I could end this by severing the connection. But to do so would consign his soul to the Abyss, forever. He would be lost to me. AND HE DOES NOT DESERVE THIS!”
Iomedae is angry now, and the force of her words shatter the stained glass windows – their shards rain down, but before they strike you they disappear, and the windows reform.
“I will not lose another Herald,” she whispers.
This time each window shows the capturing of the Herald Arazni. As you watch the scene unfold, the smoke dissipates, and the lost summoner is revealed – you gaze upon a young female paladin with short, black hair, wearing a long red cloak. Iomedae stares at the glass for a long moment before continuing.
“Behold, the 12th Act of Iomedae. My greatest failure. I was the favored champion of Aroden, sword-sister and friend to his mighty Herald, granted the blessing to call upon her in an hour of need. And whether it was arrogance, complacency, or fear, I abused that gift. The Whispering Tyrant set a trap for Arazni, and I delivered her to it.
The truth was covered up shortly after my ascension by the church of Aroden and my own fledgling faith. The Acts of Iomedae are stories – eleven myths that valorize and over simplify the very messy and imperfect efforts of a mortal doing the best she could under difficult circumstances. To build my faith, it was decided, I had to be divine even as a mortal. And so the truth was suppressed – known today not even by the most devout and loyal of my church. This is a secret possessed by only a handful of immortal beings.
My herald has been taken because he saw me grieve the impending doom of my mortal home and resolved to intercede on my behalf, as he understood I could not act on my own. I am a god – it is my role to give shape and focus to the power of belief that is at the root of life and creation, and to keep it contained – to allow others access to what they need, but always an infinitesimal part of the whole. No world, not even the planes, can hold our true selves for long.
Nor can I send an avatar to rescue him. Were I to invade the realm of an abyssal lord, it would surely trigger a planar war that would consume countless prime worlds. Like all gods, I am cursed to act through others.
And so, Order of the Silver Scale, my inadvertent champions, I confess that I did not choose you to receive the wardstones power, but you have proven yourself worthy nevertheless – and now I AM choosing you to undertake a sacred task in my name. Somewhere in the Abyss, within Baphomet’s Ivory Labyrinth, is my Herald. This I know. Beyond that he is hidden from my sight. I charge you with affecting his rescue. Find him and return him safely to me. Will you accept this charge?”
(PCS respond)
“I would not send you into Baphomet’s realm unprepared. He has many prisons, and you may need this.” Appearing in her hands is a goblet, made of mithril and studded with dozens of rubies. “This is the Chalice of Ozem, an artifact sacred to my faith – it has many abilities, and can safely hold any liquid, including the caustic blood of the Father of Worms, a beast that may be found somewhere within the Ivory Labyrinth. It is said that his blood can melt any lock, and it may be the key to entering whatever prison holds my Herald.” Iomedae offers the chalice to Queso.
“Baphomet’s layer is dark and dangerous, and many temptations await you within its twisted labyrinths. I grant each of you the power to cast atonement one time in my name. Use this for yourselves should you fall but resist if you can so that the gift of a second chance can be given to those who may need it.”
Iomedae raises her hand, and your heart swells to near bursting with a sense of righteous mercy, before receding into something small and secret you carry within you, ready to be called forth if needed.
Iomedae then plucks a single red thread from her cloak, and as she pulls it free it turns into a long red shawl. She hands it to Zograthy. “With the Stole of the Inheritor you will always be but a step away from home, yet know that you can only open this pathway once – save such a flight for a last resort.
We fight a war on many fronts, and not everyone is meant to wander the dark passages of the Ivory Labyrinth. Irabeth Tiribade, you must return to Drezen and defend the Sword of Valor. Areelu Vorlesh schemes within schemes within schemes, and we cannot know if she might seize the chance to reclaim the Sword, and to what fell purpose she might subject its power.”
Irabeth draws her sword and drives its tip into the stone floor of the cathedral. She grasps its pommel and kneels before Iomedae. “My Lady, there can be no greater glory than to carry out your will. I shall do as you ask, and my heart will be glad for it.” Iomedae nods, and turns her attention to Galfrey, who stares back, meeting the gaze of her goddess, tears running down her face – clearly in great pain, but unwilling to look away. A long moment passes, a space filled by a lifetime of questions no longer requiring an answer, and unspoken words no longer in need of a voice. Iomedae continues, her tone conveying respect for the mortal who stands before her – a kindred soul despite the vast gulf between them.
“And you, Queen Galfrey, my loyal, patient champion. For a hundred years and more you have kept the fire of resistance burning in the face of impossible odds. I know your heart yearns for the field, and the clarity of battle, and an ending. The final war is coming, but it is not a war that you can win. Let us be under no illusions. The Abyss will not be defeated through strength of arms. But I do not ask you for victory. I simply ask that you fight to save your people, as many as you can, for each life saved is my answer to the horrors of the Abyss. I know that you are tired, and that your soul longs to set aside the burdens you have had to carry for far too long, but you must endure. I have asked much, but not more than you can handle, for you, Queen Galfrey of Mendev, Paladin and Champion of Iomedae, have a soul made of cold iron, and that iron does not break.”
Like Irabeth, Galfrey drives the tip of her sword into the cathedral floor and kneels before it, her face radiating a renewed spirit. “My Lady, though my sword may grow heavy, within you I shall always find the strength to lift it, until the day comes that there is no longer a need.”
(Pcs ask questions)
“Rischa, my faithful servant – I have one final question to ask of you alone. My Herald has been taken from me, and the fate of the Mendevian Crusade, and all Golarion, is soon to be decided. A Herald serves as my voice, and walks the paths forbidden to me. Until such time as my Hand is restored, I offer you the opportunity to assume his responsibilities.
Before you accept, Rischa, know that to be a Herald is surrender your own interests and ambitions and to serve as an extension of my will. It will make you a target for the forces of Desakri and Baphomet, as your light will be a beacon that draws the darkness to it. Nor will you immediately possess his great power, as it takes many years to learn how to properly wield it. This is not a responsibility to be taken lightly, and no honor is lost in refusal. Will you shoulder this burden?”
(Rischa speaks)
“Then kneel, Rischa, and affirm what oath you deem appropriate.”
(rischa completes her oath)
As Rischa finishes, the blinding pressure you felt upon first encountering Iomedae builds again, along with the roar and sensation of rushing water. You can feel it flooding into the Cathedral, squeezing you, crowding out your mortal frame, until the pressure eases, its force drawn into Rischa. Rischa begins to glow from within, a radiant light that confers a transparency of the soul – her very being laid bare before you. Her faith, and her doubt that she is not strong enough to do what Iomedae requires. Her implacable certainty, and her shame at the times she was deceived. Her desire to find the great sky citadel Jormurdun, and her secret guilt for harboring ambitions not connected to Iomedae. But above all you see her desire to live up to her god’s example, to embody within herself the lessons of the Acts of Iomedae.
(play Newton’s Law)
A bright golden tether emerges from Iomedae – not from within her avatar, but from the space between reality that is the true home of the Gods. The tether enters Rischa’s chest and wraps itself around her heart – and through it Rischa can sense Iomedae’s goodness and patience, her nobility and forgiveness, her courage and will.
But the connection reveals Iomedae’s hidden truths as well. Her anger at what has been done to her Herald, to her home world – her grinding frustration at the loss of her agency. The need to put others at risk while she remains safe. Knowing that with a thought she could right the wrongs of the world, but that doing so would invite destruction on a cosmic scale. There is a wild, caged eagerness within her – a woman of action forced to be a bystander. Her divinity a blessing and a prison.
There is more – Rischa experiences the memory of the fierce joy Iomedae felt as a mortal, the way she found glory and purpose in the pursuit of justice, and her wonder at the way an otherwise shy and modest woman could so effortlessly inspire others. Rischa is awed by the deep well of her faith and devotion to Aroden, and the desolate space left by his absence. She feels the intimacy of the kindship Iomedae felt with Arazni, and her totalizing guilt over her loss and mutilation.
It is that guilt, Rischa realizes, that caused Iomedae to undertake the test of the Starstone – the need to right a wrong, to offer up herself in Arazni’s place. Burning brightly is her fear that she would not be worthy of that legacy. That even as she ascended to true Godhood, far eclipsing Arazni’s powers, her place was still at Aroden’s side so she could honor the empty space left by his lost herald. An absence she caused – a death she could never repay.
Rischa experiences the endless prayers, the noise, the need, pulling at her in infinite directions across the endless expanse of the prime material plane – even if they know her by a different name, there is no world that fails to cry out for justice to balance the horrors creation inflicts upon its subjects.
And yet, underneath that cosmic awareness, Iomedae has held on to part of her human, mortal soul – refusing to let go of what it means to be vulnerable, impermanent, to have hopes and dreams without the power to achieve them, to know that time is always your enemy. She understands the day she loses that feeling is the day she loses her empathy, and that without it her justice will be cold, sharp, and clinical. Rischa’s soul swells at the intimacy of the connection, marvels at the sacrifice Iomedae has made, and is overcome by a sense of gratitude and purpose.
And then the connection closes, the raging river of power reduced to a tiny, steady stream. And Rischa felt like herself again, though something new grows within her. And though Iomedae keeps a respectful distance, granting Rischa the autonomy of her mind and the freedom of her actions, her presence remains.
Iomedae stands back and gazes upon Queen Galfrey and Lady Irabeth, before turning her attention to her new Herald, and the Order of the Silver Scale. She nods to herself, satisfied. “Know that you are worthy to champion me against Baphomet, for mandate prohibits the willful intercession of the divine even in such matters as personal as the loss of a herald. Though I lay no geas or compulsion upon you, I charge you to go into the darkness of the Abyss, into the heart of the Ivory Labyrinth of my enemy and seek out my herald. If he is imprisoned, rescue him. If he is dead, bring him home. Should he have fallen, redeem him. Find a way to save him, so that I do not need to surrender his soul to the Abyss forever. But you must act, and act quickly. Something feeds upon me, and the longer I hold onto my connection to the Herald, the stronger it becomes.”
The church begins to fade out, and you experience the same gliding sensation that brought you to Iomedae’s cathedral. You find yourself back in Drezen, mere moments having passed, Aravashinal, James Bothan, and Yaniel staring at you, looking perplexed and wary. Within each of your hands is a small holy symbol of Iomedae, and you understand that it contains the power to transport you, just once, into the Ivory Labyrinth.
| Stip |
I have a few more narrative scenes to share that are hopefully useful. This first one takes place in Threshold (I moved the initial removing of the Herald's heart to Threshold so Vorlesh was involved, with the body then moved to the Ineluctable Prison
Cutscene XIII: Choices
3 Pharast, 4724 – Threshold, The Worldwound
The bleeding walls of the Chapel of Wounds pulse like a heartbeat, the raw flesh twisting and throbbing, each contraction and expansion dislodging the millions of ravenous vermin feeding upon its cancerous flesh. In the domed ceiling, thirty feet above, a vortex of miasmic orange energy swirls in a counter clockwise rotation. A fifteen-foot-wide cage made of sinew and bone hangs in the air below it.
A six-armed creature, an amalgam of stone and metal, lay upon the floor of the cage, barely conscious and incongruously moaning. The lhaksharut inevitable is pierced by dozens of long thin barbs of raw chaos that emerge from the bones of the cage. The barbs feed upon the essence of the inevitable, and the cage is illuminated by a soft silver glow as the parasitic harvest travels along the network of chaos tendrils that wreath the inevitable’s prison. The energy is drawn to a glowing purple Nahyndrian crystal affixed to the top of the cage. A second stream of corrupted power flows from the crystal into a larger prismatic black gem floating above it, refracting the inevitable’s essence into dozens of thin, nearly invisible purple strands that flow up into the orange void.
No one in the room below spares a glance for the inevitable, their focus instead on the prisoner strapped to the stone table before them, bound by Nahyndrian shackles. A sickly burning smell wafts up from the wounds where his great golden wings are pinned by two Nahyndrian spikes. The table is covered with an array of runes and wards glowing in iridescent purple, orange, green – the colors of the abyss. Given their complexity, they must have taken days to prepare. Though his features are obscured by his great golden helm, the Hand of the Inheritor’s body is tense and taut, wracked by the intense pain and enervating corruption he struggles to resist.
Standing on opposite sides of the room, their gaze alternating between hungry, almost lustful glances at the Herald and angry, suspicious glaring at each other, are two hulking figures. Although it is hard to make out the balor’s features through the cloud of locusts surrounding him, Diurgez Broodlord eyes the room possessively, not sure if he should be honored to host such esteemed guests or resent their presence in what should be his tower.
Plorig-Stagul turns her focus from the Broodlord back to the Herald. A noxious drool drips from the shaggy demodand’s mouth and onto her putrid, perpetually damp gray-brown fur. Her fists unconsciously open and close, and she found herself leaning in towards the Herald, as if to snatch her prize before someone else could steal it. But she keeps her distance, not wanting to anger either figure looming over the Herald.
Areelu Vorlesh finished the final castings of her ritual, a modification of the Azverindus Rites of her own design. The Herald grimaced, and a soft, involuntary moan escaped. She gently stroked his helm, and spoke in a soft, soothing voice.
“There is no need for either of us to waste time with unnecessary posturing. This only ends one way. We both know it. It will go so much easier for you, and for her, if you simply let go. You will surrender. Your only choice is when. The last choice you will ever make.”
She lingered for a few moments, not expecting a response but committed to the form and shape of the exchange. She took three steps back and nodded to her companion.
“Lord Baphomet, at your pleasure.”
Baphomet grinned, and the depths of satisfaction within it highlighted the deep intelligence otherwise obscured by his bestial features. “YOU HAVE FAILED THE CHILD GODDESS, HERALD, AND NOW SHE WILL PAY THE PRICE OF HER MISPLACED FAITH IN YOU”.
And with that, Baphomet drove his hands into the Herald’s chest. There was the sound of screeching metal, and then a wet tear as he punctured flesh and armor, and ripped out the Herald’s heart. Baphomet held it above his head, and roared in triumph. And though the Herald gasped and moaned, he did not scream. The heart pulsed in Baphomet’s hand, the beat strong and steady. The thinnest of golden lines, invisible to the naked eye, trailed from the heart into his chest cavity, which glowed in bright golden defiance of the horror surrounding it.
Vorlesh reached into her robes, and drew out a purple Nahyndrian crystal the size of her fist and an even larger black gem of similar design to the one floating above the inevitable’s prison. She spoke a long arcane phrase, the sound of beautiful music shattering into irretrievable pieces, and thrust the crystal into the hollow of the Herald’s chest.
The Herald did scream, then – a harrowing, hopeless cry that seemed to stretch forever. Divine worshipers of Iomedae across the planes were stricken with a flash of blinding pain, and though it quickly abated a distant sense of wrongness remained. Vorlesh watched as the radiance within the Herald flared and enveloped the crystal, and for a brief moment the purple glow was swallowed by a golden light. Vorlesh waited, patient and still, until small purple flecks began to appear within the golden haze, and the black gem in her hand was illuminated from within by a tarnished golden mist. She nodded to herself, and only then did she allow a small smile to grace her perfect features.
Baphomet turned to Vorlesh. “HOW LONG WILL IT TAKE?”, he rumbled?
“His will is strong. Days, at least. Perhaps longer.” Vorlesh offered Baphomet a patient smile. “But we want him to resist. She will wait, as long as she believes there is a chance he can be saved.”
Baphomet laughed, “AS ALWAYS, THE WEAKNESS THEY PERCIEVE AS STRENGTH WILL BE THEIR UNDOING.”
Vorlesh pocketed the black gem. “Enjoy your hard-earned prize, my lord.” With your leave, I shall begin preparations for the expansion.”
Baphomet gave a distracted nod, and Vorlesh exited the chamber, though the Broodlord remained, keeping a wary eye on his unwanted guests. Baphomet took the Herald’s head in his right hand, and forced him to look at the still beating heart the demon lord held in his left. Baphomet gave it a vicious squeeze, and golden blood ran down his fingers.
“YOUR RIGHTEOUS HEART IS MINE. YOUR SOUL IS MINE TO RESHAPE AS I DESIRE. BUT I AM NOT A CRUEL MASTER, HERALD. YOUR LONG JOURNEY IS JUST BEGINNING, AND I HAVE ARRANGED A GUIDE. NO ONE SHOULD HAVE TO WANDER ALONE.” Baphomet turned towards Plorig-Stagul, who offered his master a wet, noxious smile.
“IT IS TIME THE HERALD CAME HOME.”
| Stip |
I wrote this piece to show the forces of the Worldwound on the move, and to continue to develop Iomedae as a character since she will play such a key role in the finale. I am planning to have the forces of the WW basically steamroll the north of Golarion - a set of unstoppable armies that no one can realistically oppose (the fallout of which will be addressed in book VI). I am also having Vorlesh expand the worldwound through the sacrifice of a hundred thousand prisoners, and this explains where they come from. PCs got this at the start of an Ivory Labyrinth session to help give them a sense of urgency.
Cutscene XV: Past Belief
30 Pharast, 4724 – Proelera, Heaven
Iomedae stared into the oracular well at the heart of her cathedral, surrounded by her inner court. Jingh - eldest of the iophanites who have served the rulers of Heaven since the dawn of creation. Saint Lymirin - the eagle headed high priestess of her faith. And Peace Through Vigilance, the normally irrepressible celestial gold dragon – far from the most powerful of Iomedae’s servants but a trusted confidant and advisor who offered important counterpoints to the stern judgements of the priestess or Jingh’s cosmic logic. The Herald was conspicuous by his absence, a missing presence that defined the space. The stained-glass windows reflected Iomedae’s inner thoughts, cycling through images too rapidly for mortal eyes to follow, though the Herald and Arazni recurred with enough frequency to be visible.
Although time passes differently in the seat of Iomedae’s power, their vigil had lasted weeks by Golarion reckoning, silent observers of long-anticipated fears finally arisen. The armies of the Abyss were on the march, rampaging through northern Golarion with a devastating ferocity honed to a razor’s edge by Deskari’s vaunted generals, unleashed in all their terrible power. Their legendary cruelty and focus imposed a horrifying discipline on the chaotic and fractious demons – forging them into a world devouring force.
Iomedae had manifested as an avatar to stay grounded in this moment, the physical form helping her screen out the noise and interference of a celestial consciousness. She needed to be present. To act if she could find a way. To bear witness if she could not. She winced, occasionally, at the stabbing migraine pains and clenching tightness in her chest. But if this was the cost of preserving her Herald she would gladly pay it.
The vast nave was silent except for Peace Through Vigilance’s breathing – the sound of a deep, rumbling furnace. Normally Iomedae found it soothing, but now its cadence seemed to urge on the demonic armies. The demons were loyal to Deskari, Baphomet’s troops recalled to his abyssal labyrinths to protect their vulnerable master. But this was not a cause for celebration. There was still no force powerful enough to stand against Deskari’s might, and the distant hope that the demons would turn on each other was no more. The demons’ nature was, along with the wardstones, Golarion’s principal protection against their rapacious destruction – and both defenses were gone. With uncharacteristic patience, Deskari had waited to unleash his true war, and that patience was richly rewarded.
Diurgez Broodlord swarmed into Numeria without warning, vast numbers of demons falling upon Starfall and the hidden treasures of the Silver Mount. The demons stayed focused on the horizon line – teleporting en masse as far as they could see, remaining in formation, and teleporting again. They covered vast distances at inconceivable speed, resisting the distraction of isolated tribes and small villages, fixated on their larger prize. The Technic League fled with what secrets and treasure they could gather in their brief window of warning, abandoning the capital and its people. Starfall was crushed in a matter of hours, but what truly frightened Iomedae was the aftermath. The demons did not scatter, did not get lost in the joy of destroying a city and tormenting its citizens, as they had during the sacking of Kenebras. Civilian deaths were shockingly light. Deskari wanted prisoners, and while demonic warbands scoured the countryside for smaller settlements, the Broodlord returned to Undarin with tens of thousands of survivors. The inhuman pace proved far more murderous than the assault, and over half the prisoners dropped dead on the death march to Areelu Vorlesh’s city.
Khorramzadeh The Storm King moved through the counties of Ustalav with astonishing haste, deploying the same tactics as the Broodlord, focused on the major population centers and avoiding the distraction of its countless villages and hamlets. Karcau and Lepidstadt offered only the most token resistance, their citizens marched north as the Storm King moved south. The natural defensive barrier of the Hungry Mountains offered no protection, barely slowing the Storm King’s relentless onslaught, and within days a demonic tide engulfed the capital of Caliphas. For the first time since the opening of the Worldwound, demons stood on the shore of Lake Encarthan. But the rampage halted there, and while warbands began to depopulate the smaller settlements, the Storm King returned to the north with his mortal prizes.
The greatest armed resistance was in Mendev, the heart of the crusade against the Worldwound, and Aponavicius descended upon it with the largest of the demonic armies. Galfrey had spent a hundred years preparing for this moment, and when the Bothan network warned of the imminent attack she was ready to evacuate Nerosyan and save her people. The bulk of its citizens journeyed along the Egelsee River, skirting the Estrovian Forest, towards the costal city of Egede. There a mass exodus began, and the people of Mendev made their way across the Lake of Mists and Veils, towards Brevoy and the promise of sanctuary in the nation of Verdant, their passage and settlement negotiated in the days after the destruction of the Wardstones.
Galfrey sent the majority of her strength northeast towards Drezen, under the command of Yaniel, who absorbed the soldiers stationed at Kenebras and Valas’ Gift and escorted the remaining civilians towards what safety the Sword of Valor offered.
To protect the diaspora, Nerosyan had to be a target, and so Galfrey stayed behind, too tempting a prize for Aponavicius to ignore. Ten thousand crusaders volunteered to remain with her, prepared to lay down their lives in defense of a city they could not possibly hold. But they did not have to hold. They simply had to resist the inevitable, to draw the marilith’s attention long enough for the civilians to make it to Egede, and the army to reach Drezen.
They fought bravely, for the glory of the Crusade and for the honor of their gods. For the memory of Mendev and the safety of their families. For the love of their warrior queen, and the people of Golarion they would never know. They forced Aponavicius to pay in blood for every street, every building, every life. But if this was the price of revenge the demon would gladly pay it. Blood, after all, was in endless supply. Galfrey fought to the bitter end, and saw the mighty Woundward Tower fall, Mendev’s banner disappearing within its smoking wreckage. It was her last image of Nerosyan before Aravashnial teleported her to safety, the final survivors of a doomed last stand.
Iomedae’s court witnessed the collapse of the nations surrounding the Worldwound. The resistance, where it existed, was heroic, but futile. Tens of thousands of innocent souls were dead, and tens of thousands more were marching to Undarin and the ghastly fate awaiting them. It was clear no armed force could stand against the disciplined, unstoppable leaders driving these demonic armies. More than a century of conflict and bloodshed, generations who have known nothing but war, and all it did was delay the inevitable. The north was lost, and the rest of Golarion would follow. As Iomedae watched the people of Mendev flee towards Brevoy, and the temporary sanctuary it offered, she sensed a great darkness stirring within the depths of the Lake of Mists and Veils.
Iomedae no longer thought victory was possible. But what is left, when you have journeyed past belief? Faith belongs to mortals. No one hears the prayers of the gods.
She turned her attention north, towards Drezen – a small and solitary light within a black and oppressive night. She grimaced at the stabbing pain in her heart, desperate to act, powerless to do anything but watch. So much lay beyond her sight. But the Herald still lived and though she could only distantly sense them, her champions were coming. They would save him, and redeem her great failure. The Sword of Valor maintained a silent protective vigil over the remnants of the Crusade. She had not lost yet. If there was resistance, there was a chance. It would have to be enough.
Iomedae had not spoken for two weeks. Finally, she broke her silence, whispering words of comfort - for her court, and for herself.
“They will be my answer.”
| Jayman91 |
Got to say these have been absolutely amazing. I've been using these as references and my players have been loving them. I also have been trying to make Anevia a bigger part in my game as I personally love her character and thought she could use some more development. My group in at the end of Book 3 heading to the Ivory Sanctum and Anevia was one of the two NPC's that were taken from Drezen. So I wrote up a scene of her being captured, imprisoned and then making a pact with Mephistopheles. My players loved it and can't wait to see where she goes after they rescue her.
| Stip |
Thanks :) I have a few more coming - The final expansion of the Worldwound (end of book V/start of 6), before and after the battle for drezen (maybe my two favorite pieces other than Arueshalae's redemption), closing the Worldwound, and two Epilogues (based on whether or not they redeem or damn the Herald - right now they are leaning towards saving which will, in the cosmology of my campaign, end up sacrificing Iomedae - though they don't know that yet)
I had 6 players for most of the campaign (down to 5), and one is a Rogue so Anevia receeded to the background (as did Aravashinal and Yaniel - Arueshale, Horgus, Galfray and Irabeth were the PCs that popped). Given the ending I have in mind I wish I had done more with Anevia - I lean into her relationship with IRabeth and missed some chances to develop it further. So it's smart that you are working her in more.
Ohh, reading what's here i'm behind on a post. Incoming
| Stip |
Below are three conversations from the Inelectuable Prison setting up the decision to save or kill the Herald. A lot of the cosmology of my campaign gets shared by Alderpash to set things up. I also made Waxberry a character much earlier (I killed off Sosiel and Aaron Kir in book 2 so Wax become the priest). They rescue her, and she was aware of an angel that attacked the prison. When they rescued the prisoner he was dead and learn through speak with dead that he came her on a suicide mission from one of Iomeade's advisors saying they had to kill the Herald even though it would damn his soul (this was all set up with Arueshalae's experiences earlier. But Iomedae wasn't thinking clearly given her own history with Arazani - the human part of her personaltiy was controlling. They are to seek out Alderpash to learn more - the oldest prisoner in the prison (technically not true because of Ingramalesh). A lot of information dumps with Alderpash, but it began to tie together all the things I had been seeding throughout.
Conversations From the Ineluctable Prison
30 Pharast, 4724 - Ineluctable Prison, The Ivory Labyrinth
Having dispatched the cellblock guardians, you turn your attention to the closest cell, and its unexpected occupant. A halfling who very much appears to be Waxberry stares at you through the wall of force that traps her within the bone white cell. Thought lost at the Battle of Raliscrad, she is dressed in a tattered blue and gray shift and clutches a small holy symbol of Iomedae. Her short hair is a tangled mess, and she looks a little thinner, but otherwise intact – at least physically. There are none of the tell-tale signs of the torture you would expect to find. She stares at you, incredulously. “How…how is this possible?” she asks, before bursting into tears of desperation, hope, and relief.
What are you doing here?
“I was captured at Raliscrad. I was trying…” Waxberry’s voice breaks, and she begins to weep again. After a minute she masters herself and continues with a cracking hitch in her voice. “I was out of magic and just getting in the way. I saw the Herald calling the demons to him and wanted to help. There was death everywhere, and I just needed mine to mean something. To be worthy of Iomedae. To do what Queen Galfrey would have done. But I was useless. And then Vorlesh came. She was the last thing I saw before I woke up here.”
Where did you get that holy symbol?
“They would bring me into this torture chamber, where they would…they would…” Waxberry trails off, and you watch as behind her eyes her mind compartmentalizes and seals off experiences she is not ready to think about. Not now. Possibly never. She swallows and continues.
“The head torturer was this obesely swollen creature – he looked like a human toad with bat wings and obsidian skin. They called him Plorig-Stagul. I was…with him, when a barely conscious angel was dragged into the room. An astral deva. They rushed me out to make room for him. As we passed each other he slid me this holy symbol, and I was able to hide it as they brought me here.”
I never saw him again. They’ve been torturing him ever since. I don’t know for how long. Nothing changes here to mark the days. But it has been days at least. Maybe weeks? The jailers would occasionally describe his torture to me. They called him Malaika, and say he single handedly assaulted the prison in a mad fury trying to free the Herald. But I’ve had nothing but time with little I was willing to think about. It doesn’t make sense! Why would Iomedae send just one angel? There’s no way he could have been successful. It’s suicide. It’s beyond suicide. I don’t understand…”
Do you know where the Herald is?
“I have only seen him once since Raliscrad. They took me into a circular chamber, a lake of boiling tar. We had to teleport in. I didn’t see any doors. There was a disc of metal floating above the tar, and the Herald was chained to pillars on the disc. There was a great hole in his chest, and a noxious purple smoke pouring out of it. They…they took his heart and replaced it with something obscene. I don’t know if he saw me, or even knew I was there. I could sense the endless corruption pouring out of the hole in his chest. But he was fighting back, somehow.
I never saw him again, but my captors have been taunting me, saying he fell.” Waxberry shudders and her voice cracks as she continues. “That he is no longer serves Iomedae. That he’s become the Herald of the Ivory Labyrinth.”
Can he be saved?
“At least part of his soul must remain in Iomedae’s keeping. She would not have sent you here if his corruption could not be undone. And he would never stop fighting. Deep inside some part of him will be resisting. He needs his heart. That’s the key. I know it! If you can find his heart and remove whatever corruption festers inside of him, you can save him! You can do it! You must do it! He would not give up on us. We cannot give up on him!”
Are you able to help us?
A few things are clear. Waxberry never expected to leave this prison alive. She desperately wants to go home, to put as much physical distance between herself and this place as possible, even if she will never escape the memory of it. She has no equipment save a tattered dress and a holy symbol she may never let go. She is exhausted and traumatized. But when she looks at you her eyes shine with the resolute certainty of someone convinced they see the invisible hand of their God at work and are determined to play their part. “Just tell me what you need.”
| Stip |
XXXX XXXXX, 4724 – Ineluctable Prison, The Ivory Labyrinth
The body of an astral deva lies chained to one of the torture beds. The light has left its eyes, and you recognize this as a mercy. Each of its limbs has been twisted in unnatural directions and many of its bones are flattened into powder. The skin has been flayed from most of its body. Rot grubs writhe within the gaping wounds that cover him, devouring him from the inside. There are residual signs of powerful healing magic used to keep the angel alive so the torture could continue. You feel bile and gorge travel up your throat, and with effort you swallow it down. Whoever this poor angel was, they suffered a horrid, excruciating fate, one you would not wish upon your worst enemies. You are the
beneficiaries of some perverse luck, at least. Its mouth is intact. With the proper magics you could speak with it.
Who are you?
“I was the astral deva Malakia, servant of Iomedae the Inheritor, Light of the Sword, and Lady of Valor. I was privileged to act as one of her divine messengers.”
Why are you here?
“I told my captors my purpose was to rescue Iomedae’s Herald, and they saw an angel overwhelmed by grief and blinded by anger, eager to avenge their god. But that was merely a cover. I am a messenger, and I came, knowingly and willingly, to face torture and death, so that I might deliver my message.”
Who is your message for?
“It is for you.”
Who sent you?
“I was not sent by Iomedae. I was sent by her servant Jingh, the ancient wheel of fire, progenitor of the iophanite angels and servant of Heaven. He is one of the eldest beings in the planes.”
Why did you have to come here to deliver the message?
“This is a sacred space for Baphomet, one of the twin hearts of his realm. Iomedae and the other gods are deaf and blind to what happens here. And this was not a message Iomedae could hear, as she would countermand it. I can sense that Iomedae has anointed a new herald. Once you hear my message you must not leave this place until your work is done. Iomedae will sense what you know, and she will stop you.”
Why would Iomedae try to stop us?
“Iomedae has held onto much of her mortal heart, and at times still thinks as a mortal, not a God. The Herald is her weakness. She will never allow him to suffer endless torment.”
What is your message?
“The Herald of Iomedae must die corrupted and face the eternal horror of being forever reborn as a servant of the Abyss. You must not rescue him. You must not redeem him. The Herald needs to die as he is, fallen and transformed. Any attempt to alter his fate will lead to greater tragedy. You must defy Iomedae’s express command and kill him to ensure this does not happen.”
What greater tragedy?
“I do not know. Jingh did not tell me. I only know the threat is grave enough to warrant my sacrifice.”
What will happen if he dies without being redeemed?
“The quintessence of his soul will join the Abyss, where he will be reborn into something new. He will be lost forever, everything he was corrupted beyond recognition, never to return. If the universe grants him a small mercy, he will not remember his former life, though the nature of evil is such that some small core of his being will remain and persist through any future incarnations. He will be haunted forever by an unformed memory of who he was, and tortured by what he has become. It will be agonizing, and it will never end. The risen demon among you has the faintest inkling of what I speak. I tell you this so you make this decision of your own free will, in full knowledge of the consequences, so that your own souls might be prepared for the weight they will forever carry.”
Can we raise you?
“If you tried, I would refuse. I have lingered in the Boneyard, waiting, resisting my return to the planes. My quintessence will return to Heaven, and I will be reborn. Malakia’s story has ended. It must end. Iomedae would need to release my soul for me to be restored to life as Malakia and in doing so would learn what I know, and what Jingh has charged you to do. And then she would stop you.”
Do you have proof?
“I have Jingh’s word, and I trust its judgement and wisdom enough to sacrifice my life. That is all I required, and Jingh feared to tell me more. But there is an ancient being who resides here. He was not the first resident of the Ineluctable Prison, but only one has been here longer. It has been ten thousand years and more since he was imprisoned. Before your Earthfall. Seek out Alderpash if you wish to learn more.”
Malakia’s lifeless head turns towards Rischa, and the deva stares at her with his unseeing eyes. “I pray you trust Jingh as I trust him. Enough to defy the express command of our God.
A choice lies before you, champions of light. I pray you make the right one. I bid this life farewell and return to the planes to be born again.” The astral deva’s eyes close a final time, his soul departed, to rejoin the cosmic cycle of renewal.
| Stip |
XXXX XXXXX, 4724 - Ineluctable Prison, The Ivory Labyrinth
An ancient human emerges from the doorway to the north, old enough to have a distinctly pickled appearance. He leans upon a staff, and several small gems orbit his head. His robes are resplendent under the heavy layer of dust that clings to them. He appraises you with a calculating eye, and Rischa and Arueshalae can sense he is impressed, jealous, and bitter, though he hides it well. He offers you the sour smile of one put upon by demanding guests who are tolerated because they may yet prove useful.
“So this is the Silver Scale, is it? The adventurers who drove Baphomet into hiding. The mortals daring or foolish enough to take on the Ineluctable Prison. Welcome to my home. I am Alderpash, first and greatest of the Runelords of Wrath, peer to King Xin, and “guest” of our esteemed Lord Baphomet. To what do I owe the pleasure of such esteemed company?”
How did you end up imprisoned here?
“I made a deal with Lord Baphomet long ago. I was to deliver to him Sorshen, Runelord of Lust and a woman he greatly desired. In exchange he would grant me access to the cosmic power that forms the building blocks of reality - the same power you siphon from your God. But I was betrayed, repeatedly, by the weak and ineffectual minions I was saddled with, and Lord Baphomet grew tired of my failure. I offered him other prizes, like Igramalash, but this was not enough to appease him, and I was imprisoned here, a thousand years before Earthfall.
I was delighted to see Earthfall punish Thassilon, but I have been here a long, long, long, long time, and part of me thinks outliving my accursed colleagues was perhaps not such a blessing after all. But recent events have opened new possibilities, and I suspect there is much we can offer each other.
Although I am a prisoner here, I know much that may be of value to you, and I am happy to offer it. All I want in exchange is your help in fleeing this accursed prison. Do we have a deal?”
We can just force you to talk
Alderpash laughs - a dry, wheezing, distinctly unpleasant sound. “I hold the cards here. If you leave me to my luxurious prison you learn nothing and return to stumbling through the Ineluctable Prison– time you can ill afford to lose. If we fight, you will expend resources and take risks you can ill afford to take. If you destroy me, I am released from my interminable existence in this place, and you learn nothing. If I defeat you, or even weaken you, I will have earned Lord Baphomet’s favor, perhaps enough to be granted my freedom, and you would still have learned nothing. You have my terms. Do with them what you will. But decide quickly. I am a busy man with a rich and full social calendar that you interfere with.
How can we help you escape?
“I have been unable to break the wards that hold me here. Normally anti-magic shells and disjunctions can disrupt even the most powerful of planer bindings. Unfortunately for me, I cannot cast either of these spells, an irony Baphomet has doubtlessly enjoyed. I once used a wish to reproduce an anti-magic field and it did nothing. It is possible a sufficiently powerful disjunction could temporarily suppress the effect, should you wish to try.
However, when Nocticula destroyed Baphomet’s avatar, the wards were disrupted – just for the briefest of instants, too fleeting for me to take advantage of the opportunity. But should Baphomet be killed, I believe the binding will fail – at least long enough for me to escape. We just need to draw him to the Ineluctable Prison. And though he hides in his tower, recovering, I suspect the humiliation of losing the Herald, however you achieve this, will draw him out. That will be your moment. Should he die again, he will be gone forever, and you will have eliminated a terrible threat to Golarion, with some vengeance thrown in for good measure.”
What information can you offer us?
He turns to Queso. “Let us speak on your sphere. You would perhaps know the alghollthu by the name aboleth, which translated into the Thassilonian tongue is roughly equivalent to owner, master, or God. There was an aboleth orb like yours in Thassilon. It may well be the same orb. Where did you acquire it?
The orb I knew of was in possession of Xin, and then Kaladurnae, the first Runelord of Greed and a master of transmutation magic. Does your control over the orb strengthen that school?
We do not know how many of those orbs were created, just that they were created by the alghollthu Veiled Masters, and traveled with them from world to world, repositories of their knowledge. They saw themselves as guardians of reality. They first arrived on Golarion during the Age of Creation, and the humans they raised from barbarism would become the Azlanti. When Xin fled Azlant to Avistan and founded Thassilon, he brought the orb he had stolen from the aboleth.
The aboleth failed to recover the orb, and while most histories of this period posit the aboleth called down the Earthfall to punish Thassilon and Azlant for their theft and appropriation of aboleth magics, that story is a lie intended to obscure a very different truth.
The aboleth are among the oldest creatures in existence. They claim to be the first to achieve sentience in this iteration of reality. But there have been other realities that predate ours. Tell me, Silver Scale, what do you know of the Dark Tapestry?
The Dark Tapestry is nothingness, the void that resists creation. It is a force of cosmic entropy that has warred against reality since before there was time. It is older than Pharasma and the gods. And it has succeeded in destroying reality, more times than any can know. It is resisted by the cosmic force of creation that called forth the Gods and empowered them to serve as stewards of existence.
When the aboleth awoke and began to explore the universe, they learned of the Dark Tapestry, and the eternal, cosmic struggle between creation and entropy. And they saw themselves, the first creatures to achieve consciousness, as defenders of this iteration of reality.
You are familiar with the two commandments that constrain the gods, correct? The gods must not manifest their full power within reality, and they are not to manipulate or alter the flow of time. As a result, all but the weakest of time magics are forbidden, and the Gods act through their servants, or demi agents like Heralds, Empyreal and Demon Lords, Arch Devils, and other nascent divinities. These prohibitions exist because any divine manifestation weakens the border between creation and the Dark Tapestry, as does the manipulation of time.
There are exceptions, of course. The Gods manifested to imprison Rovagug, a corrupted divine agent of the Dark Tapestry, within Golarion’s heart. They will use avatars, sparingly. And in exceedingly rare instances they have been summoned into reality, a loophole that requires access to power on such a cosmic scale as to be functionally impossible.
The temptation for the Gods to use their power must be nearly irresistible, and so there are rules embedded into reality, hidden so deeply that only the most ancient and powerful of beings are aware of them. Should anyone willingly violate these cosmic strictures and inch open the doorway to the Dark Tapestry, the entity responsible is annihilated and unmade. There is always a cost, and actions have consequences. Should they find a way to avoid them their debt is transferred to another. A horrific example must be made, to serve as a cosmic deterrence.
And so, it was not the use of rune magic or the theft of an orb that caused the aboleth to call for a conclave of Veiled Masters from across the cosmos. The Azlanti were close to unlocking the secrets of time magic, and had to be stopped. Earthfall was the mechanism the Conclave chose, though they underestimated its destructive potential. Two of the Gods worshiped by the Azlanti manifested in their totality to try and preserve Rovagug’s prison, though our myths say this was to prevent the complete destruction of humanity. Their deaths were the price they had to pay for their willful violation of cosmic law. Even then, Azlant and Thassilon were destroyed, as was much of the aboleth’s civilization, and no God has manifested since.
Unsurprisingly, this was not a lesson Aroden, the last Azlanti and God of humanity, bothered to learn, and his death at the moment of his prophesied return was likely the elimination of another cosmic threat to reality.”
What do you know about the Herald?
“I scryed his torture and transformation. The arch-witch Vorlesh has replaced his heart with one of her Nahyndrian blood crystals, and it has corrupted his soul. He is a creature of Lord Baphomet now.” He looks at Queso. “You have met the Herald, correct? Since you came into possession of the orb? Tell me, have you used its power to examine his magical aura? Had you possessed the intelligence to do so, you would have sensed colors you would not recognize, that do not align to any school of magic you know. It is the stain of true time magic, the universe marking him for judgment and punishment.”
What do you know of Areelu Vorlesh?
“I have had the chance to speak with her on several occasions. She desired the knowledge I possess of the achievements of Azlant and Thassilon, and I have offered them to her in exchange for her promised help in escaping my prison. Once she has come into her full power, she will destroy Lord Baphomet, and free me. But I am not powerful enough to compel her, and would prefer other, more immediate exchanges.”
There is a change in Alderpash’s tone and affect. The otherwise haughty and endlessly confident Runelord seems genuinely impressed, and more than a little intimidated, by Vorlesh.
“She is a truly remarkable creature. She possesses what may well be the greatest mind in the history of Golarion. She eclipses Xin, the Runelords, Geb, Nex, Tar-Baphon – perhaps even the greatest of the Azlanti. But it is not just her intelligence. What makes her unique is her breathtaking ambition and the singular focus and will she commits to that ambition. We all have something we are afraid to lose, something we refuse to relinquish. A risk we will not take, a line we will not cross. A fear that masters us. But there is no barrier she will not shatter, no sacrifice that can deter her, nothing she cannot endure, in the service of her ends. She will pay any and every price to succeed.
This is why she is greater than me. Why she will always be greater than you, no matter how much of Iomedae’s power you leach. I do not know her end game, but I know she does not serve Deskari. She aims to succeed him, though nothing short of true divinity will satisfy her. I’m not even sure that will be enough.”
How can you help us free the Herald?
The Herald’s prison can only be reached by one who has been there. I have seen it, and can describe it in sufficient detail so that you can teleport in. But I would not make that journey until you have destroyed the prison’s guardians. Svendack, Baphomet’s high priestess, Ploric-Stagul, his torturer, Inger-Maggor, his Hunter, and especially Ylleshka, his Warden and most dangerous servant. Should any of them still live they will converge on that location, and you will be overwhelmed.
If you can destroy Svendack and sanctify her temple, you can disrupt the dark blessing that Baphomet has bestowed upon this prison. But Ylleshka is the most dangerous of his servants. If you can free Igramalash Ylleshka will be forced to reimprison him, and in his blind rage he may well attack her.
Who is Igramalash?
He is the greatest of my creations – the first of the rune giants. I fused his essence with a qlippoth to help me capture Sorshen, making him the first and greatest of the inverted giants. When he failed, I gifted him to Lord Baphomet, who has trapped him in a gaseous stasis for over ten thousand years. He is the oldest of the prisoners here, and has no doubt been driven mad by his isolation.
Will you help us fight Baphomet?
Should you succeed in drawing him to his prison, and if you flee to this chamber, I will aid you. He has had no right to keep me here and will finally feel my wrath!
| Stip |
We finished Book V last weekend (pending the Baphomet encounter). The cut scene below was given about a day before their fight with the Herald. One of my characters experienced this as a vision - the one who was rescued from the Azverendus rites. I've had that character linked to the ritual.
In my campaign, Vorlesh powers the ritual to expand the Worldwound by sacrificing 100,000 souls to the Rite, except instead of turning their souls into demons they are binding them to the Abyss. The interlude with two prisoners is related to PC family/backstory. I also made the opening much more powerful, with abysal energy immediately infecting all of Golarion. I also have Vorlesh betraying Deskari (though he doesn't know yet) by fusing GOlarion and the rasping rifts into a new plane, one that she then becomes the demon lord over.
Cutscene XVI: The Worldwound Expansion
5 Gozran, 4724 – Undarin, The Worldwound
Over one hundred thousand mortal souls huddled in Undarin’s central plaza, prisoners from all the nations bordering the Worldwound. Since the collapse of the Wardstones the demons had waited for the harvest, and the time had come to reap. The surrounding buildings were leveled weeks ago to make space for the sheer size of the gathering.
Interspersed throughout the starving and terrified masses were demons charged with keeping the slaves docile. Over ten thousand mortal cultists of Deskari and the mercenaries in their employ ringed the teeming throngs, their scythes cutting down those who tried to run. But not many did. By now the will of the prisoners was thoroughly broken. And where would they go? Only the newly imprisoned cultists of Baphomet showed any signs of resistance – but their demonic allies had been purged, either murdered by Deskari’s forces or recalled to the Ivory Labyrinth. Former masters of the Worldwound, now chattel imprisoned by broken promises.
The sky was full of countless vrocks and derakni, while swarms of vermin blotted out what anemic sun managed to pierce the abyssal clouds. The rooftops of the remaining buildings overlooking the plaza held thousands of demons, here to bask in the glory of Deskari’s final triumph.
A stone platform rose one hundred feet above the crowd below, and at its summit Areelu Vorlesh was in the final stages of her ritual - an alteration of the Azverindus Rites on an unimaginable scale. Her features were ecstatic, exulting in the power she channeled. Bearing witness were Deskari’s mightiest servants – Khorramzadeh the Storm King, the warlord Aponavicius, the Broodlord, and the drider Anemora – high priestess of Deskari’s cult. The poisoned skies above Undarin crackled with electricity, and the ground surrounding the city began to shake. Several buildings collapsed as the tremors intensified.
Orbiting Vorlesh was a massive cloud of large black prismatic gems, over one hundred thousand in total. Her hand held an even larger black gem, glowing with corrupted golden light drawn from the Herald of Iomedae. Anemora gazed upon Vorlesh with her magical sight, and was nearly blinded by what she beheld.
In the masses below, a swarm of ratfolk, maybe a thousand strong, huddled together. A young ratfolk girl began to cry. “Papa, I’m scared.” Raul Blanco took her hand and squeezed it hard, offering her the bravest smile he could. “So am I, Poppy, but if we just stay together everything will be okay.”
“Do you promise?”
“I promise.”
“I miss mama, and Justino, and Queso.”
Raul kept his voice steady, a final act of heroism in defense of his daughter. “Me too, my little doodle. But we will see them again soon.”
Atop the stone platform, Vorlesh cried the ritual’s final words, her voice rising above the apocalyptic thunder in the toxic sky. She crushed the black gem in her hand, and a great scream erupted from the hundred thousand souls gathered below her, before it was strangled into silence. A hundred thousand silver strands flowed from the plaza, up into the sky, filling the massed soul gems surrounding Vorlesh.
A brief cry of shock, outrage, and then further silence as the mortal followers of Deskari collapsed, the silver strands of their souls joining those of the slaves they helped capture, the weakest part of the swarm culled to strengthen the whole.
The hundred thousand gems began to rotate around Vorlesh, faster and faster, a shadowy radiance rising within them as they fed upon the mass sacrifice. And then, as one, the gems shattered, their dark light coalescing into a massive beam that surged through the sky, called home to Threshold, where it plunged into the miasmic swirling heart of the Worldwound.
Abyssal energy flooded into Golarion. The sky was torn open, and massive bolts of lighting, freezing hurricanes, sheets of fire, and acid rain pummeled the lands that were once Sarkoris. Hundreds of new portals spontaneously opened throughout the Worldwound, at every place the planer boundary had thinned, ley lines connecting these gateways to the heart of the Worldwound beneath Threshold.
Uncountable billions of insects swarmed through the gates, and the demons followed. There was a thunderous rumble, as the ground opened beneath Undarin, swallowing the wreckage of Areelu Vorlesh’s city, before the devastation slowly began to spread, fully transforming the blighted Golarion landscape into the chasms of the Rasping Rifts. Vorlesh’s eyes were bright with triumph, and Anemora could swear a portion of the Abyssal power pouring into Golarion flowed into Vorlesh.
The rumblings were felt throughout the world, the dark swirling sky visible as far south as the southern shores of the Inner Sea. The navigators sailing Golarion’s waters stared at their instruments in dumbfounded frustration as compass needles shifted their true north, towards Threshold. Across the planet people felt a strange, distant wrongness, and they stared off in the direction of the Worldwound, seeking the disturbance that lay just beyond the horizon.
Within Drezen the air grew heavy, as if some implacable force was pressing down against the zone of purity created by the Sword of Valor.
In Kintargo, a mother cried in relief as she welcomed her new child into the world, until the midwife recoiled in horror at the tainted monstrosity that emerged from the womb, part human, part insect. The scene played out across the world, as every birth was corrupted by the Abyssal energy surging across Golarion.
The demons roared in victory, the sound drowned out by the cataclysmic transformation of the ground beneath them. Deskari’s generals stared at Vorlesh with something close to awe, as she basked in the aftermath of her triumph, a feat that eclipsed the mightiest works of Azlant and Thassalon. Anemora prostrated herself before her master’s greatest servant, Architect of the Worldwound, who ushered in the apocalypse that would consume Golarian. Under his breath the Storm King rumbled “She actually did it.”
Vorlesh turned to face them, her features once again composed into an expression of serene competence, a craftsman surveying the outcome of a particularly satisfying and challenging project. Anemora looked past the mask, into Vorlesh’s eyes, which burned with an ambition that would rip the secret of fire from the Gods who dared withhold it. But what truly frightened Deskari’s priestess was the utter disgust and contempt that Vorlesh had for the demons surrounding her, the most powerful of her master’s servants. Anemora could sense her taking their measure and finding them wanting.
Vorlesh offered them a predatory smile. They grinned in return, sharing in this moment of dark joy and anticipating the great feast that lay before them – alpha predators unaware of their danger. She gestured expansively at the carnage surrounding them.
“Welcome, my friends, to the end of the world.”