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Post by xkcdapostle on Oct 30, 2011 9:15:12 GMT -5
Initiation.
In the Kesten Valley, hidden yet known to hold a secret. A young dwarf, tied and blindfolded is dragged to the citadel of the Occultus Nulla, to await his trial.
"Illuminate him," cries a voice from the dark. The dwarven child blinks as the flame light blinds him, seeing himself in a small chamber, with dark alcoves. The flames tickle the robes of the hooded figures, standing in each alcove around him. The black octagon in the centre is the cold smooth surface he is on, hands tied, the boy is fearful. The figures are all of equal height, their robes hide their build, only the colour of their robes helps the boy know they are not all the same. "Why are you here?" asks the one in Green, the condescension of his voice makes the boy wimper in fear. "I don't know!" cries the boy, his eyes tired from lack of sleep, sobbing. "Illuminate him" growls Red. Yellow speaks, "Boy, you are here to answer for your actions, the casting of Magicke!" A light appears, blinding the boy, the rustle of paper is heard as Yellow reads of the actions. "I didn't do it" sobs the boy, Black sneers, "he didn't do it? Why, he should be fed to the undead for his lies." Green speaks "He does lie. He knows what he did." White intervenes, "No, he may redeem himself yet." Purple asks, "Tell us, how did you cast?" All the other figures stamp their left foot, synchronised the boom in the small chamber deafens the boy. "I read, I learned of magic, all to protect myself!" cries the boy, fearful of the council. "You learned?" sneers Black, "How can a mere boy learn these things fit for the Nobility?" Green says, "Quite, only the Nobility can pursue such matters, mere peasants hold little for the craft..." Black continues, "Then surely he lies! Why, my Ghouls will find his flesh most palatable when they find he's a liar" "I do not lie!" cries the Boy in anger. "Well, you did lie about your magic", Brown mildly points out. "My Ghouls are most hungry, they need to feed..." Black says, grinning wickedly. "Now wait, this one learned?" asked Blue in rhetoric, "surely he is fit to be illuminated?" "No," says Yellow, "he is not of Noble blood" "What do you say to this Boy?" growls Red. "I will learn!" cries the boy. Eight feet stamp, lights suddenly appear, blinding the boy.
"By the Great Scholar. Illuminate him!" shout eight voices from the light.
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Post by firestar45 on Nov 5, 2011 10:00:39 GMT -5
uhh i don't get this was this Vesurs past or something??
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Post by xkcdapostle on Nov 11, 2011 7:29:18 GMT -5
A Beginning
Two dozen years past in the valley, the gates of the Hidden Laboratory hold standards of red. Autumn has nearly past, and the Mages within prepare for a Winter of mourning.
The Boy, on the cusp of adulthood, wears robes of silver. As he walks down one of many corridors in this labrynth, novices bow to him and sign the "Open Book" to him. Some of the Citadel's Scholars, of high rank and from the Academy, grudgingly show him respect. For now, this Boy is to be given an honour as he is told to attend on one of the Citadel's Lords.
The Boy comes to a door, worked into the gold edges are symbols and figures of Wizards finding lost knowledge. Releasing bolts of lightning and holding flames with the mastery only one willing to study can find with magic. He knocks. "Enter" a voice calls from the room.
Within the chamber, bookcases and lights remove the shadows from the room. On a bed, this Lord is weak and weary. Another is beside him, in robes of Black. Black sneers, "You chose him? I would advise you take the option I have given you..." The Lord weakly states, "It is my choice, I do not wish to utilise such foul arts." Black looks to the Lord, "We are both Lords here, but as a friend, take the Chalice, you will find the transforma-" "No, Lichdom is not the way of my office, nor of my School. Now leave, you know what must happen, even if you refuse to pass your mantle to another." Black looks to the Lord and says, "I will hope that you reach Soot Hall" The Lord smiles, "I will of course try to seek audience with our Lord" Black leaves, muttering to the Boy, "You must listen well Boy, not many of your rank receive this." As the door closes, the Lord beckons to the Boy, to sit beside him, on a chair of gold. "Do you know how the Occultus Nulla was formed?", the Lord asks. "The pursuit of knowledge lead to eight Wizards to form an academy, modelled on the Wizard's of Thay, but devoted to the works of Lord Brightmantle", answers the boy "Yes, but would you not say it was coincidence that each specialised in one school of eight, where none shared the same school?" "No, that is highly unlikely" "Why child?" "There are no such things as coincidence's" "Well said, you however are not specialised in any school, you chose a strange path" "All knowledge must be sought, that is the teachings of our Lord" The Lord nods, "Yes, I fear we failed to teach you that it is an impossible ambition, but a noble one" "No, it is not" The Lord smiles, "I see that the Lord of the Mantle of Truth has touched you in his lectures" The Boy nods. The Lord continues, "You must now hear of my knowledge, and the truth of this academy, and then you must set out." The Boy looks at the Lord with confusion, "My Lord?" "Kneel" commands the Lord.
The Boy obeys, then the Lord speaks. With each truth, the Boys eyes widen, privy to secrets, he knows the true reason for the Academy. Finished the Lord stops, rising from his pillow, he breathes in, flames alight his eyes.
"I sense that your prowess now is only the beginning of a small flame. You will seek truth, the Verus of all. You will take the Lordship of Brightmantle over this academy after completing your mission, you are now Lord Verus. This name is your true name, guard it in plain sight for it will define you and others whom use it will do so for their own ends. Henceforth, you shall be known as-" The Boy speaks "Vesur". "Rise Lord Vesur, of Clan Kesten" the Lord finshes. The Lord slowly droops to his pillow, his body is weak and pale. As the flame leaves his eyes, the smile on the Lord's face fades.
The Lord is dead. Vesur rises, as he does so, the corridor outside cries, "Illuminate him!"
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Post by xkcdapostle on May 19, 2012 7:16:24 GMT -5
Discovery
In the Calim desert, the merciless heat bears down on the sweating workers in the sand bowl. Tents edge the bowl, the homes of these men travelling in the dust to toil for their living. Under the watchful gaze of their Taskmaster, they sweat and dig, and sweat and dig. The Taskmaster, robed in black cotton and shawled from the desert sands as they blow in the rare breezes to pleasure men with its cool touch that does little but momentary respite from the sun. He is a hard man, not through feat of strength, but the persistence and uncompromising stance he takes on his workforce. Yet even he would not have had the men working for so long from their children and wives. Months had gone on.
Why did I not suggest Malic to this one? thought the Taskmaster, this worthless goalless task is suited for him.
Approaching from the tent with golden weave, five Dwarves approach, four in full plate, gleaming in polished metal. The Taskmaster squints his eyes with the brightness reflected.
They would do better to cover the plate, though what do these races know of the desert and her mercies?
The four in plate attest to the race's constitution, no man would be able to march in full plate as they did in this heat. They surround a figure in white robes, he covers his face with a white shawl as the Taskmaster does in black. As they march the rim of the bowl, the one in robes observes the dig, the gleam of his eyes betray his pleasure at the progress.
Were it not for his gold, I would have given up months ago...
Once they approach the one in robes gestures a greeting, to which the Taskmaster responds.
He knows our customs, yet does not belong. The sooner I am out of here, the better.
“We have much to discuss, concerning your summons. Have the Workers completed the task or do you require another look into the weave to determine the location?” “My Lord, with respect,” speaks the Taskmaster in his rather Arabic accent, “we need more pay.” The robed Dwarf looks at the Taskmaster, then the Taskmaster states, “Come inside, it is better to discuss in the cool of the shade than the heat of the desert that no oasis of thought may lie.” “Quite.” The front two defenders take position either side of the tent entrance, the three other dwarves follow the Taskmaster.
They enter the tent, a desk made of wood, light in weight and complexion, holds the Taskmaster's books and quills. cushions lie on the tent floor. The interior is rich in colour, reds, golds and white adorn the interior with patterns of dragons and blues hint at the beauty of water. Beside the desk, which is only knee high, is a decorated urn, holding water. The Taskmaster takes a sip of the water, and proffers the drink to the dwarf in robes, who declines. His defenders that entered with him, take position to mirror their fellows outside, much more imposing than the robed one, they remain vigilant.
“I believe we agreed a price in Dashadjen, a set one if my memory serves. What reason have you to require more pay?”, the robed Dwarf taking great care to reduce, perhaps even remove, the Dwarven accent from his speech. “The men, we have been here for months. The Calim desert is no benevolent place. We grow tired of no treasure. Your promise of riches sounds hollow. My men ask me when they shall see their wives and children before they collapse in this heat.” “Your men are your responsibility, I shall not hold you for your estimates of completion of this site being compromised, should you need to change your workers.” The defenders outside can be heard to challenging someone, one of the inside sentries goes out to investigate. “We need more gold. Not workers. If we cannot get the pay, then we shall leave you and your kin to dig the holes.” The Dwarf considers this. “Perhaps, yet it would be difficult to authorise, considering that the key we seek is here.” “Lord, I am a merchant in these here parts. I do not deal on assumption, profit and good business are certainties. You offer only the tricks of the mysteries that hold less promise than this desert.” “Your lack of faith is disturbing, no matter. It will still be difficult to authorise.” “I do not care, Lord, nothing more than gold will keep us here. We need double, I do not care if you are one of the Pasha of Dashadjen's whorehouse buddies or the Lord of a Dwarven Princedom. We need the gold. Or you will have no workforce.” “I believe Taskmaster that it is-” A man is dragged in by the defender who exited earlier he speaks to the Dwarf in robes, “My Lord, this one bears news.” Pushing the man forward the Taskmaster looks to the worker, Joseph a good man, better were he to still his tongue. The robed Dwarf turns to regard the man. Joseph looks to the Taskmaster. “Sir, we found it.” Both the Dwarf and the Taskmaster get up, a Defender grabs Joseph and all exit the tent.
“Lead us” commands the Defender releasing Joseph. Joseph edges down the bowl, the others follow, the Taskmaster in tow with the robed Dwarf and surrounded by the defenders who forge through the gathering crowd. The throng parting in the wake of the defenders, due to respect for the Lord in robes or the one instilled by the defender's hilts of their scimitars. Joseph halts by a bare glint in the shade of the bowl. The worker who found the ring is beaming in his sweaty clothes, the dust on them falling off as his fellows pat him on the back for his triumph. Knowing he will be rewarded. The robed Dwarf bends to brush off the sand, revealing a gold ring with an emerald device shaped into the form of a book.
“Your workers may have a brief reprieve, we have what we were looking for. Dismiss them.” The Taskmaster dismisses the crowd; who all walk to their tents, all of them eager to rest. Whilst the Dwarf picks up the ring and walks up to his tent, with defenders in tow. The Taskmaster follows, as the robed one enters his tent, the four Defenders remain at the front, the Taskmaster hides and goes around the tents to reach the back, using his knife, he discreetly cuts a hole into the fabric, seeing the robed one get a book and place it by the ring on his desk. The ring is held by a clawed device, the emerald faces the ceiling and flame patterns edge the rings circle. Then the dwarf removes his shawl, revealing his face, as with all Dwarves it is not pleasant with the strange proportions of his face unnatural to a man. Yet he has no beard, most strange. Turning the pages of this book, the Dwarf looks at the ring. “Most fascinating, yes...” The Taskmaster watches in silence.
Uttering syllables of a bygone age, the Dwarf speaks in a language of old, neither understand the word until a spirit emerges from the ring forming into the shape of a man, with a trail linking him like a chain to the ring. A Djinn?! The Legends were true... May the gods have mercy upon us. thinks the Taskmaster. “Who dares to disturb the Ring?” asks the Djinn. “It is I, Lord Verus of Kesten, Heir Apparent to the Title of Brightmantle. Seeker of Knowledge and Bearer of Truth.” “You speak true, ask your question and be done. I am limited in what I may answer, ask knowing this.” “Indeed, mere illusion.” Illusion!? You speak out of turn to one of the Djinn!? You are mad, Dwarf! “Ask, only one question may be answered.” “Very well, where will I find all the lore of the Ancient Secrets of Netheril from?” “Far north lies an island, ruled by a King and his Nobles. The isle of Siranda is where the lore lies in the Tower. You will find all the lore of Netheril from there.” The Dwarf nods. Then the Djinn disappears as suddenly as it appeared. As the Dwarf gets up, he seems annoyed at the answer, yet eager to investigate it, as he turns to look at the blank canvas of the tents back, he notices the hole... “Ernst, Holdur.” Two defenders enter, the Dwarf points at the hole, then they charge shouting in Dwarven. Tearing the fabric, the tent is a mess, yet the Taskmaster was still given chase.
For he had been wise enough to run into the desert. I will die out here in the heat, though a passing merchant may take me in. Then above him is cast a net, into which he falls to the ground. A voice is heard, it is high in pitch and gay in tone. “Master will be pleased with Ethit, Ethit save Master.” The faerie dragon hovers over the man, who attempts to cut free, “No you don't! Nasty man!” Ethit bites the hand with the knife, unable to slash at the dragon in the confines of the net, the man releases his hold on the knife. The defenders catch up, and one of the three looks to another, “Inform Lord Vesur that the prisoner is in our custody” “Master knows, Ethit let Master see. Master tells Ethit to say that you should guard him.” The Defenders look to the dragon and then stand guard. The robed Dwarf walks forth covering his face with his shawl. The workers gather at the top of the rim to watch. A defender walks with him, an escort. “Holdur, Galdon disperse the workers and get them to remain in their tents.” “Yes my lord”, the Defenders respond and see to their task. “Ernst, bring this man to his feet.” Ernst complies, the Taskmaster makes no sound at this. Ernst looks to the robed Dwarf, who nods. Then Ernst having the Taskmaster in his grip asks, “What did you see, what did you hear?” The Taskmaster looks to the robed Dwarf, then looks out to the vista of the desert. “You will show respect, spy.” The Taskmaster mutters a fragment of a childhood song. “The desert heat, the desert chill. Only the Desert Rose, lies upon the sand hill.” Ernst looks to the other defender and then to Vesur. Vesur hesitates, seeming to be unsure what to do. The Taskmaster looks to Vesur, “I see the conflict, let me go. I-” “There is *no* conflict.” Vesur states firmly, the lie however does little to persuade the others. Vesur then looks to the dust bowl, the defenders there having done their work well. “I leave him to your judgement Ernst.” Vesur states, “Ethit, come here, we have a game to play.” Ethit turns and perches on Vesur's shoulder as they speak riddles and guess the answer. Ernst then turns to the Taskmaster, and nods to the other defender who with his scimitar draw raises it to gleam in the red sunset. A thump to the ground is the only sound Vesur hears. Ernst turns to the other defender, “We are compromised, Lord Vesur's safety is in danger. The workers must be attended to.” Ernst then faces Vesur, “My Lord, we will return shortly.” “Very well Defender. You must do you can for my safety, I trust your judgement.” Ernst and the other leave Vesur in the desert, as night falls the chill is warmer than the workers lamentations before the Defenders complete their task. Vesur collapses to his knees, kneeling in the blood blackened sand. Ethit lies beside him, comforting dear Master, Vesur looks up the crest of a dune, and sees that the Desert Rose lies upon the sand hill.
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Post by xkcdapostle on Aug 16, 2012 8:55:37 GMT -5
A Parting of Ways
Vesur in his years of travels, his years of questing for the mastery of the Arcane, only had one love outside his studies. This was a platonic love, a comrade in arms who supported his aims and truly believed in his goals. The only one in a million leagues whom Vesur could trust and who trusted Vesur entirely.
Vesur has now reached Siranda, the island where he fell from his original goals and has the charred corrupted remains of his noble vision that he intends to implement. Twisted by his new found ways to advance his goals, he has no restriction save those his intellect give toward his goal. Murder, treachery and other evil acts are within his range. Though he has lost any Good intent to help others for their sake, though will perform acts that are considered lawful; where he owes another through a duty. Though he has no qualms in ignoring this duty for the purposes of the Great Work, he will not break his word if it suits him or his aims and bears it without complaint.
Nonetheless, this is not a tale about Vesur, this is a story about his first friend. A character who until recently disappeared from Siranda. They were his beloved companion who travelled with him from his days in the Libraries beneath the Kesten Valley from where he came, a key player in small ways.
This is how Vesur lost Ethit.
Master does good, Ethit knows this.
Before the Faerie Dragon, Vesur has a strapped victim, a nameless survivor, subjected to the effects of the Zombie Contagion; one of many in the halls of Balthasar beyond this realm.
Why Master do evil? No, Master does this for Good! Master not mean ruler, he lets others be free!
The victim’s death scream, kicking at the restraints, a parody of birth as they die. For ten minutes the Victims corpse was in peace, before the first impulses of Negative Energy brought to the fore a new rebirth. Stronger, less affected by pain, the creature of undeath attempts to bite Vesur, whom simply gags them with a wooden splint and then walks to the nearby desk to write into the open book there, his observations.
Master do this to make germ known, to cure germ. These people do this to help Master, like Good Ethit would.
Days pass, Ethit watches Master leave the tower.
Where does Master put the dead? Master must have buried them.
“Ethit, push my chest if you would, Balthasar would be disturbed if I left it there.”
“YES MASTER!”
They both set off, before long, Vesur brings up a small chest, very similar to the one Ethit has pushed.
Master has always been good at creating, Ethit knows Master will learn everything, Ethit is lucky Master teaches Ethit, though Ethit not as clever to learn things like Master.
Vesur then utters a word, using this small chest as a focus, sending the chest away, in the space of a blink upon a gesture; it disappears.
“Come Ethit, we must go to the Sanctuary Island, there you will stay, until called for.”
“Yes Master, Ethit allowed to play?”
“We will play later, you may explore the island, but let us be quiet, else the undead shall follow our voices through these spells”
Ethit and Master travel through Ludor, at that time no one held claim to it. Later it would be the Domain of the Banites, for now, it held only the little known Diviner and the undead that festered the streets and square. Upon the island, Ethit was left, Vesur would come every so often, at times Ethit was called, witnessing Vesur’s vile experiments and cruel designs. All the while Ethit’s innocence blinded them to the reality. Trust in Vesur was absolute for the creature. Until Vesur did not call for Ethit, Ethit was happy in the Gardens of Lathander; happiest in the company of Master. Ethit left to find Master, looking through the Libraries and towns, using a familiar’s link to their master, to seek Vesur out.
In the dark houses of Baraban, on the growth of the Druid’s wood, Vesur cast a spell calling forth from Brimstone and Fire, from Hell itself an Imp, binding it in a Circle of Magic, Ethit saw what no Good Creature can accept as for the Great Work.
“Release me, I do not mean harm” The Imp asked of Vesur.
“No, you mean to cause others to perform it, something I require of you” Vesur replied, “I will release you upon the completion of a task, first what is your name?”
“I hold no name other than those given, Imp, Messenger, Apostle, I am all things such for my Masters of the Nine.”
“Apostle will do, you are to manage the Imps I will bring forth to perform their tasks as I set them, when they are complete, yours is complete as well. Do you accept?”
“Yes, I accept” the rather bitter Imp says.
“Then Apostle, your work has merely begun”, Vesur says, then noting the spray of glitter in the corner of his eye, Vesur sense through his connection his Familiar’s emotions. Turning from the Imp, who begins to demand its release from the circle, Vesur ignores it in pursuit of the Familiar.
Master is evil, Master gets nasty things and enslaves them. Master not kind, Master is nasty.
Ethit flies through the woods, hidden from the sight of all the Druids pets, fleeing from the scene to their home on the Sanctuary Isle. Hiding in a hole dug by the Dragon, Ethit curls into a ball, their butterfly wings tucked around them to hug and comfort the creature. Birds nearby suddenly take to wing, Ethit knows why.
“Come forth, Ethit, my beloved”
“No, nasty Master, Bad Dwarf is true, you trick Ethit!”
“I hear you Ethit and sense your thoughts, your feelings betray you. Come out, so I may explain.”
“Ethit not come out, Ethit help Master for a long time. Master do evil things, Ethit trust Master, Ethit trust Master no more.”
“Come out Ethit. I know where you are hiding.”
“How Master know?”
“I have the same feelings you do about... Home.”
“Ethit not want to do with Master, Ethit leave nasty Mage, Ethit want no more Evil, Ethit want Good.”
“Are you sure you want this Ethit? To leave your Master, to not stay and help, to be with me and to complete the Great Work for all to benefit?”
“Ethit help Great Work, Master not help Great Work with Nasty Imp. Master must be Good to be helped, Master not Good.”
“Very well, Ethit”
Before Vesur dismisses Ethit for eternity, Ethit feels something master has never shared over their bond.
Reduced to the normal Intelligence of such creatures Ethit loses their ability to speak, Vesur then casts another spell. Leaving what was Ethit to live in the glade, Vesur silently teleports to Baraban.
Apostle in the circle, is shouting out names in infernal, and bashing against the Circle's barrier, unable to break it or disturb the materials that form it. Then Vesur appears. The Imp glares at the Mage, Vesur turns to Apostle.
“I am altering the deal...”
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Post by xkcdapostle on Dec 8, 2012 18:45:56 GMT -5
Dark Dwimmer Dreams
It flowed into and out of form. Murky and blurred images dance in and out; seemingly real. A tender caress tantalisingly real yet not there; it can't be there. Everything turns so sharp, becomes so clear. Things discordant, no, let them go away. Not again, once is enough. Waking with a start, the dark surroundings are cool, warmed not by the sun, but the depths of the earth. Vesur surveys his bedroom, seeing the bookcases he stole from the surface with his favourites lined. Clutching his covers over his bosom, Vesur recounts his dream. Impish sniggers outside his door let him know that he was indeed speaking within his sleep. 'As with all dreams', Vesur thought, 'they should be black and empty but now they are vivid and clouded.'
Getting up, Vesur leaves the candle he has on his desk, his Dwarven eyes able to see clearly without its light in his solitary gloom. As Vesur stands, he winces from his wound from his grand gesture of the opening of his tower. Vesur takes pleasure from the guile he employed to use the Formians before summarily dealing with them. The wound being nothing, due to the clothing he gained from the Drow to enhance his prowess. Another treachery well executed; all for the Great Work. Only now the Great Work was not him to serve, but for him to master.
Nonetheless, these garments befitted him as they characterise another wizard in these caverns. Much more Knowledgible in the Arcane Echelons than Vesur, yet the Merciless does craft Artifacts so well. Though as with all things in the Duergar craft, they were functional garments and lacking in the creativity Vesur deems he himself has.
Vesur recounts the sensations during his sleep, only feeling what he does not here. Fear, anger, hatred, these are what the Dwarf knows, has mastered. Used and encouraged for manipulating the weak minded to do his bidding.
Avarice, desire, Vesur knows these as the motives others have to also come to the service of his Great Work. Loyalty and honour once held much of him, defined him; now they are tools to suit his purpose and hide his aims. Kindness and goodwill; a feeling to be used for gain; to deceive. Vesur should remember this feeling, for it is powerful; but the years since have dulled him to it. It was grief.
At this time where Vesur is nearing his zenith, he dreams of days dark long ago; days that should not matter. Yet they do. Taking his chair, Vesur sits at his desk and goes back to his writings. He cannot concentrate on the material at hand. Before him are works he has stolen from the libraries over Siranda, all to attempt to learn the spell for True Sight. To truly see through illusions and the shadows so that none can hide easily through magic. Yet his sight is clouded by the thoughts; concern for dreams. 'The Island has a Diviner... It must have...'
Tired by these contemplations, Vesur attempts again to sleep in peace. Closing his eyes, Vesur enters a pine wood. It is familiar, it lies on the slopes of a Mountain. Ravens caw in the branches and a Dwarf, in her prime, walks the slopes. 'Gathering mushrooms.'
A twig snaps, causing the Dwarf turns to check her surroundings. The flap of wings warns her of a startled bird, nothing more. Vesur reaches out, as though to warn her, to compel her to run. Yet he is speechless. She is about to call a name, before they come.
Raiders strike with swords drawn they ambush her, overwhelmed by their numbers, she shrieks for help. No one comes. Orcs, a warband raiding her home, one punches her jaw to silence her. She still screams. "Blok 'is yap, ya ditz", the commanded orc grabs the Dwarf's mouth firmly, to have their hand bitten for their troubles. Yelping in surprise, the orc, then extends another arm to punch the throat of the biter. The other Orcs jeer at their comrade.
"Righ boyz, we'ze got a toothy!" shouts the leader. Vesur watches, powerless to intervene, knowing and dreading what happens. The leader strips the dwarf, removing her clothing. "Dwarfy's a girlie. 'fought they was. No beard. Naw, gitz outta the way, gotta take"
The orcs form a perfect queue behind the leader, some stand around, in case she wasn't alone. Each orc had their 'take', then becoming tired of this game, they brought out the knives and cut her; each lash on her bled, until she had more cuts than blood. She was still bleeding from the ‘taking’.
Vesur feels disgust, the Dwarf seems to be extending an arm to him. Weakly pulling herself towards him. Leering at her, an orc grabs her to drag her back to their sport. Vesur then hears snuffled whimpers, a child's voice. He turns to see in a hollowed log lies a Dwarven boy. The boy has his arm extended, uttering under his breath. 'Mother'
The orc's jeer, one asks, "'Ow long 'til she's cut dry?" The others laugh again, "Dwarfies are tough litl' bugg'rs, they sport well lads"
"Too stinkin' weak, finish 'er off", says another. As one orc grabs their knife, Vesur holds fast to his staff, the boy in the log grits his teeth. As the knive is about to plunge into her heart, Vesur awakes.
An imp cackles in glee, and Vesur wakes from his dream...
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Post by BALLS OF STEEL on Dec 9, 2012 9:07:22 GMT -5
but who was phone
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Post by melongrenade on Dec 11, 2012 17:00:45 GMT -5
oh my
GOD
you are a literary master and I salute you.
Just kidding, I couldn't be bothered to read it. SNORE.
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Post by Bumlader on Mar 10, 2013 18:13:19 GMT -5
Melongrenade you snob.
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Post by xkcdapostle on Apr 27, 2014 14:52:24 GMT -5
Fall of the Tower
Deep in the Underrealm, there is no light unless brought with you. Elves whose keen senses can pierce the night cannot fathom the landscape in these depths. There is a certain beauty in the Underrealm if you look deep enough. A beauty Vesur was captivated by, elegance that appealed to his Dwarven tastes and intellectual mind, solitude. Here Vesur sought the darkest secrets of the Arcane, hidden from those who would stand in his dream of the Great Work. However, the denizens of the dark were not idle, finding the Mad Dwarven Wizard take residence they took to test his defences. Most were the undead, mindless creatures without will or purpose. Excellent subjects for the testing grounds or perhaps the surgery theatre for dissection. With Gelzburg so far yet so near, the Drow were taking an interest. Hearing reports of a surface dweller seeking refuge in their kingdom's outer reaches; they delighted in looking for a prisoner to play their own ruthless games. The tower Vesur had built was not just of stone, having cunningly disguised the grounds with illusions to trick the senses of the Drow. Usually enough to dissuade most, but the determined few would find the Tower fenced and the gates barred. The empty towers behind the fence giving an ominous feel to the area, all is quiet but watchful, the air is filled with dust and the smell of discharged energies. Death surrounds the cavern with the tower standing within, yet no undead cry out. In the courtyard from the gate to the main door, statues of hideous and loathsome creatures litter the place. They are silhouettes in the depths of the night, malevolent carvings in their seemingly aggressive poses. The tower is damaged and weakened. The outer gate has been torn from its hinges and the main entrance laid bare for all to enter the Bad Dwarf's last sanctum. Exhausted, Vesur sits upon a chair, with dreams of actions past and present haunting him. Vesur's last encounter with the denizens of the Underrealm interrupted him during a glimpse of the future. Vesur no longer has the Imp Apostle with him; the Imp lies dead due to Vesur's displeasure. Uncaring of the imp's demise and leftover corpse in the usually well kempt study, scorch marks and collapsed bookshelves decorate the studious room. Sitting up, the Dwarf motions to get up, taking his staff in hand, the Dwarf rests upon it and uses it to stand. His 4'3" height giving him a tall bearing for his race, lifting the visor from his helm, Vesur unveils blue eyes to gaze on the destroyed room. The eyes speak of a depth of knowledge few even before the Time of the Plague would have had. A forlorn look over all Vesur has endeavoured to build. Leaving the room with his staff as a prop, the Dwarf climbs the staircase; a howl echoes through the tower. Vesur's eyes narrow at the sound, reaching the top of the stairs the helm's visor is dropped to hide the Dwarf's face. Before the Dwarf is the last chamber near the roof of the Tower. The room was designed as a receiving hall for any initiates, or favoured allies may present themselves to the Architect of the Great Work. A throne of dark iron lies before him, Vesur walks with a crystal orb retrieved from his pocket, toward the throne by tired steps. Seating himself, he looks to the stairway he recently ascended to await this new visitor. The darkness is oppressing, but guided by the orb of light above a man's head height in this death filled cavern, the Visitor enters the grounds. A shrill shriek sounds as he steps past the wrecked gates. The twisted iron bent and forming cruel shadows that would make the bravest of men quiver in fear at the dark. Built of sterner will, the Visitor walks calmly, the clink of armour and shield sound in the night. Moans echo beyond the gate, the undead hear the armour but do not see it, in their hunger for flesh the undead claw at the terrain; terrain that was never there. Before the Visitor, the pathway to the main entrance bears statues, some of Formians, others grotesque effigies of the Undead, most appear to be humans and survivors of other races who met the Dwarf in their greatest misfortune. The least chipped and damaged were beautiful elves adorned in cruel armour, snarling as they bear crueller arms. Elven statues of a shorter stature than normal elves, but poised as though to strike with longswords upon an invisible being between them. The Visitor moves on, unperturbed by the sight, yet he grips his stave, wary for the traps conceived of the Dwarven Mage's mind. Knowing the Dwarf was the leader of the Order as well as an Arch Mage, the Dwarf would have many spells to conjure unpleasant surprises. The stench of death in the main hall of the tower was overwhelming, detecting the evil and undeath in the area the Visitor recoiled at its strength. Sensing the strength above and below, the Visitor, took to the stairwell leading down.
Vesur gazed into the crystal orb, seeing the Visitor in his armour, bearing his stave and shield. The impassive helm hiding any expression the Dwarf could make, Vesur grips his staff and looks more intently into the crystal's depths.
The stench in the dungeon is made worse by the recently killed undead that resided in the cages, their former humanity left and their lifeless husks ended in an act of mercy. Justice will soon be met, justice that should have been done sooner.
Vesur laughs, seeing the purpose of this Visitor being so amusing, so ironic, so... refreshing.
The Visitor returns to the Main Hall, being more accustomed to the overwhelming presence of Undeath and Evil, he scans the hallway, noting the architecture and wide space. Uncaring for the hall's aesthetic, only how the area could be used for combat, the Visitor sees little by way of cover; a clear choice to allow a Wizard unprecedented space to use ranged spells.
Vesur watched as his visitor cautiously moved through the chamber, amused; he decided to allow the game to continue. Tapping the crystal, the orb chimed. The sonic pulse was weak but it did its work as it travelled through the stone to its destination; weakening a crack on the wall of the main hallway.
The Visitor hears a crack in the stone work and a thud, snarls and growls and finally a roar as a wall was slammed down. A Mini Behemoth steps out, sniffing the air, sensing the Visitor, it charges toward him without hesitation. The Visitor dodges a blow and uses his shield to block another, before striking a spell on the Minimoth. The weakened Minimoth continues to attempt to strike, only to find the stave penetrates its skull.
Vesur watches with mild curiosity. Unperturbed by his trap's failure, Vesur gazes more closely into the Crystal.
Looking up, the Visitor sees a glimmer of light, reaching out he grabs at it. The light escapes into the upper reaches of the hall. The Visitor looks up warily, before moving on to the stairs laid out before him. Each step was a cautious glance at every wall, every shadow; moving or still. Reaching the first floor, the Visitor looks around; the room is square and with a stairway leading up directly ahead. To the left are two doors, one remains open, the other is closed. Edging to the open one, the Visitor notes the scorched study and moves on once certain of safety.
The next door, closed and forbidding, the Visitor grips the door's handle with grim resolve, gripping his staff in the other hand, the Visitor rushes in. To find the empty bed and bedside cabinet, the only evidence the tower was inhabited being a bottle of wine and a glass left dusty on the cabinet. Seeing a glimmer of light in the corner of his eye, the Visitor grabs it, to find a crystal shard, straining to leave his grip. Placing the shard under his armored boot, the Visitor crushes the modified Arcane Eye.
Vesur looks disappointed into the Crystal, placing the orb back into his pocket, the Dwarf waits.
Hearing the steps of a man clad in heavy armour, the Dwarf looks expectantly to the stairs. The visitor steps up.
"I bid you good day," states the Dwarf, "I have been expecting you" Startled the Visitor grips his stave. Gesturing, Vesur responds, "Your weapons are not needed, if I were to have you killed; I would have done so sooner. Come Zenstone, we have much to debate." Confused Zenstone claims, "I do not trust you Vesur, you have lied too many times." "Lies Zenstone?" "You've tricked too many people Vesur, your lies started from the Order and now they end" "All I had done was for the Great Work Zenstone, I lied very little. I simply allowed you to fool yourselves. The truth was always there; hidden in plain sight." "Liar, Grizwauld was a disguise, how can that not be a lie?" "My middle names include Grizwauld, ah I said it, a secret one would not expect freely given." Zenstone proclaims, "I don't care for your words, you are a necromancer and I'm here to stop your evil." "My, as William was?" Zenstone pauses, though he remains in a guarded stance. "Yes, I am aware that William is no longer here. I made an, educated guess that it was you who may have played a part. A pity really, he was a good boy." Vesur then looks to the left of Zenstone, "Are you here to kill me?" Zenstone replies, "I'm here to stop you." "My, what would it take to stop me...? Imprisoning me would only allow me time to think of an escape, the Great Work would never end." Vesur continues, "Nonetheless, I believe it is best to look upon the face of my murderer with my own eyes." Reaching the visor of his Helm, Vesur pulls it up revealing the enigmatic features of his face. Though slightly shadowed, Zenstone sees the Dwarf's face for the first time. Deformed and drained, Vesur's face is hideous to behold. Blue eyes are the only part of the Dwarf that could be looked at, the intelligence within those eyes is great yet holds a touch of despair, and this touch disappears quickly to be filled with a quiet zeal. "The Great Work will not find me abandoning it Zenstone." "Your Great Work is wrong." Vesur's eyes narrow, the Dwarf maliciously points out "Then perhaps you too are wrong, for you served it for a time." "Served?" "The Order Zenstone, the means I acquired every spell its members had. William contributed well, but you also provided a scroll to my collection." "You tricked everyone Vesur, and I am here to amend that." Stepping toward the Dwarf, Zenstone advances steadily in grim purpose. "Be that as it may, I offer you your life and the Knowledge you need to defeat Claire and Atiya." Zenstone pauses, looking at the Dwarf. "You would sacrifice the Elf who saved you? Who defied the Arch Druid and brought you from hell? Who murdered you and then brought you back when all would have judged you dead?" "My, you make me feel... Rather ruthless. The Great Work demands much and rewards... greater..." "You are mad to think I would consider this." Zenstone says in disgust. "The Great Work is the only logical conclusion, we all seek Knowledge. I simply am prepared to do so regardless of cost, even with you." "Your Great Work is wrong, and damned are your words and lies. My faith is proof against your empty temptations!" Lifting his staff Zenstone points it at Vesur and prepares to cast a spell. Vesur simply gestures to the cunningly hidden alcove. Vesur then lowers his helm, as he does so the Mage comments "Such a pity..." From the hidden alcove a being in the Battleragers armour charges out; breaking the concentration of Zenstone with a punch. Snarling in a rage, the hidden assailant attempts to punch Zenstone, who dodges and blocks the blows with his shield. Looking at the man Zenstone recognises him. "Ashard!?" Smacking his fist into the stunned Cleric, Ashard roars his delight at hitting flesh.
Vesur's helm in place, the Dwarf looks through the eye slits to admire the spar between the Cleric and the Barbarous Fighter. Watching Zenstone rallying, Vesur calls out to the Cleric, "It is no trivial feat that I was able to make him into a statue, a pity I had to release him." "Always prepared as I was warned" shouts Zenstone in cold fury as he weathers Ashard's blows. Zenstone reverses his stave and with blow to Ashard's abdominal region counterattacks the frenzied Barbarian. Ashard redoubles his efforts and returns to a more guarded stance. Vesur utters a word that summons a blade; the Dwarf floats it with his mind to Ashard. Zenstone continues to attack with his stave, only to find a surprising punch from Ashard. Zenstone stops his attack to prevent the blow; however Ashard steps back from his feint and grabs the blade. With the blade relinquished from the Telekinesis and in Ashard's grasp, the barbarian shouts "No Quarter!" in a charge toward Zenstone. Zenstone blasts searing light at the barbarian, with a holy word from his deity, the light burns on Ashard’s armour. When Ashard's blade meets Zenstone, the Cleric deflects the blow with his shield and thrusts his stave at Ashard. Seeing the blow, Ashard's heated armour takes it. The armour being proof against the stave's enchantments, glances the blow leaving an opening. Ashard's lunge at Zenstone has now placed the barbarian in the path of the stairway to the bottom of the tower. Vesur seeing the predicament gets up from his throne and stands with his staff in hand, and now his athame in the other. Believing Vesur to be joining in, Zenstone looks to tactically retreat, seeing the archway leading to the stairs up the roof, Zenstone attacks Ashard. With Ashard now on the defensive, Zenstone uses the distraction to run up the stairs. Recognising the strategy, Ashard pursues but is too slow to take the initiative. Vesur's laughter follows him as he goes in the wake of the combat, eager to see the end of the fight. As he leaves the room, the beat of wings and dust is heard and the flicker of a shadow follows.
At the roof of the tower, the darkness hides everything. The cavern's air bears dark whispers of deeds and beings that came and left. The tower's height is not even halfway to the top. The roof is a flat surfaces with eight blades arranged at the points of a regular octagon. One for each school of magic, each one having runes carved into the flat of the blades, runes Vesur had discovered on his travels before and during Siranda. Zenstone hid behind one of the blades as soon as he saw the roof. Ashard's charge halted, at the centre of the tower's roof. The barbarian looks around and stops. Vesur reaches the top, seeing that Ashard is idle, he looks around the Roof. "Where is Zenstone, Ashard?" Ashard growls, "Don't... know." "My... Zenstone, are you... hiding?" Vesur looks at each blade, "Search each blade Ashard. I want him found."
Hiding behind one of the blades, Zenstone readies his strike. Gripping his stave, Zenstone waits in the shadow. Armour clinking, Zenstone fears Ashard may have detected him too quickly, but the barbarian is too distracted. Seeing a flitter behind the Dwarf, Zenstone takes his chance, striking Ashard in the back. Knocking the heavy man down with all his strength, Zenstone turns to get Vesur. Vesur utters a word and turns invisible. Angered by the delay, Zenstone hastens to cast True Seeing, now able to see the Dwarf Zenstone goes for the attack. However, the Arcane trickeries and mysteries prove to serve the Dwarf well, Zenstone misses by a fraction due to the improved concealments painfully researched by Vesur. As Zenstone is about to strike again, the Dwarf blocks the Clerics stave by luck more than skill. Vesur seems to be uncertain and fires a bolt of lightning at Zenstone. Zenstone dodges the bolt and leaps to attack the Dwarf, knocking down Vesur. Vesur falls backward with his staff still in hand, crawling backwards to the nearest blade on that roof.
Zenstone advances slowly and purposefully. "This ends now Vesur." Out of breath, the Dwarf looks up. "My, you.." breathing in deeply, Vesur pauses between words, "you believe, I am not.. prepared for this?" Zenstone looks down and holds his stave, readying for his last strike. "RAWGR!" smashing his blade on Zenstone, Ashard resumes his attack, Zenstone flails in an attempt to block, but Ashard's blows knock the Cleric down. Piercing the adamantine plating, Ashard deals a serious wound. "Wait, Ashard. Hold him firmly." Getting up, Vesur leans on his staff as he pulls himself up. Holding his Athame in hand, Vesur points it at Zenstone. "With your blood, I may create... more of you, my research into the concept of the spell Clone will benefit me greatly; particularly if your clones are as stubborn and potent. Allowing the Great Work to have my most loyal soldiers for knowledge." Zenstone looks at Vesur with defiance, Ashard holds the Cleric in his grasp. "Personally, I would rather take the samples whilst you are alive. However, pragmatic reasons would allow me to let you die first.” Vesur then commands, ”Ashard, dispose of him." Vesur waits for the Barbarian, "Ashard, throw him off the tower." Vesur again waits, "Ashard...", Vesur slowly draws out his syllables, "Throw - Zenstone- off - the - tower." "Ashard! Oh...?" Zenstone looks to see dust floating down, then he's thrown to the floor, as Ashard randomly walks across the roof. Vesur's voice becomes firmer, "You should not have come. I exiled you to save you. Now you throw my gift and mercy away. Now you come here to aid my enemies." "Ethit believes in Silvanus." The Faerie Dragon floats down and hovers protectively around Zenstone. Vesur's voice leaves a quaver of sadness, "So now you have completed your utter betrayal. You betray the Great Work." "Ethit not serve your Great Work, Ethit help Zenstone, Zenstone freed Ethit. Ethit serves no one, no master." Anger flares in an unexpected outburst, "I spared you out of love, Ethit; you are the dearest thing I had, and I gave you away; to spare you from the necessities of the Great Work." "No, Vesur not love Ethit, Vesur not love anything. Vesur only helps self, Vesur betray Great Work. Vesur made Ethit serve meanies and nasties, Ethit not serve anyone, Ethit is free and she is no one’s slave." Vesur then becomes cold, his voice no longer dripping with the emotion from his previous outburst. "Then you are a traitor, and must be eliminated." Firing lightning at the Familiar, Ethit falls to the ground and writhes in pain, the momentum pushing the faerie dragon off the edge of the roof and into the abyss. Zenstone gets up. Vesur turns to the Cleric. "You turned Ethit against me... This is going to hurt." Zenstone attempts to dodge the lightning, but it strikes, crisping the armour and burning the skin of the Cleric. Ashard moves towards Vesur and stands behind him watching the spectacle. Vesur glances toward Ashard then he turns back to Zenstone, "Now you will pay the price for your lack of vision." Firing another bout of lightning at the Cleric, Vesur's posture betrays his pleasure at his deed. Ashard looks toward the vulnerable Cleric whom lies at the brink of death. Compelled by Vesur's enchantments, Ashard stands by the Dwarf's side. "Ashard was as rash, however he was not as clever. Nonetheless, Ashard belongs to me now. His life is mine to command, and he will serve the Great Work with his life intact." Vesur continues, "However, young fool, only now you realise the folly of going against me." Ashard looks at Zenstone, then to Vesur and lowers his head in hopelessness. Vesur looks down at Zenstone with great arrogance and declares, "Now you die!" Vesur prepares to fire another bolt of lightning, but Ashard picks him up and walks to the edge of the tower. Vesur shouts in confusion, barely managing to complete the spell and fires the lightning at Ashard. "Stop you, no! NOOOOO!", the Dwarf struggles as he fires lightning. Ashard carries Vesur, ignoring the Dwarf's commands despite the pain inflicted by the Dwarf's spell, reaching the ledge with Vesur grasped in his grip. Ashard walks off the precipice, Zenstone crawls to the edge and looks down, seeing the light from the Dwarf's lightning descend into the darkness with Ashard. With a flash, the light ends, Zenstone collapses and rolls on to his back, staring into the cavern's ceiling. Dust and glitter falls down on the Cleric as Zenstone's sight begin to black out, Zenstone weakly calls out, "Ethit?"
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