It was noon by the time Agamemnon stabled his horse at the siding inside the gate to Tarren's Junction. Shades and the others were still in Tsar with the newly-resurrected Snooks. He'd assisted at the ceremony, and though he'd wanted to stay and talk to his returned friend he knew the dwarf would need a little time to reorient himself - they could talk later. The important thing was he was back, and as near as Agamemnon could tell there were no issues with the return. So for now his focus was on making up for the time he'd lost in meditation with the elves. The long ride back had affording him time to decide how best to approach this situation. It was going to be a very delicate conversation, and he needed to be focused.
That brought him here, to the temple at Tarren's Junction. In his white feathered cloak and polished mithril breastplate he looked radiant when he swung open the brass-bound door to the complex, drawing many looks from the worshippers and the priests who were in the main prayer room. It was a calculated move. He needed to look impressive, and touched by the divine, so as to inspire confidence. Agamemnon made his way straight to the vestry. He walked purposefully and deliberately. An elderly priest, Martoth, made to block his way before recognising the half-orc.
"Father, can you direct me to Marle? I need to speak with her."
The priest looked surprised, but gave him the directions he needed, and passed him into the vestry. Agamemnon made his way directly through the courtyard where he knew she would be. He needed to get this right.
"Marle."
She was seated under a small tree, reading a text, and she started when he called her. She looked up and squinted to make him out against the luminance of the sun. He hoped he looked bright and commanding and holy.
"Agamemnon? I heard you went to the Dales!"
He sat down on a rock near her, smiling in a way he had seen kindly older priests do in other temples. "I did, but I've come back."
Agamemnon had thought long and hard about this conversation. Marle was young, not much more than twenty, but her spiritual power was strong, and her heart was pure - he'd learned in the time he spent in this temple convincing the priests to become more active in their combating of the evils of a resurgent Rappan Athuk. When the Great Downwards had cleared the Hospice - at great personal cost - Marle had felt hope, and had done everything she could to support him in her capacity as a cleric of Sarenrae. Agamemnon needed her clarity and her vigour, but more than anything he needed the strength of purpose that a follower of the god of compassion and patience and love would bring to his fledgeling order of devout warriors. Her divine strength would be as valuable as her own pure heart.
But he knew he needed to be careful. She was young, and she had a place here in Tarren's Junction. The prospect of joining such a dangerous venture as another Righteous March or even a permanent outpost in the deep darkness of the dungeons underneath Mosswood would be intimidating. Not everyone was cut out for a life of such risk, such danger. Agamemnon knew she would be a valuable member of the team he was building, but he needed to make sure she knew that as well. So he had to be very gentle and delicate in how be broached the subject, to be sure that she would hear him out and truly consider the proposition he was about to put to her.
He smiled at her again. "Marle, I -"
"I want to come with you!" she blurted out, taking Agamemnon off guard.
"I ... uh, what?"
"You're going back to your castle, aren't you? I want to go with you. I can help! I'm doing nothing here - nothing at all. They won't let me do anything. My god isn't important any more, they said, I'm too young, I'm too inexperienced they said, the people here just want peace and tranquility. I tried to talk to people, to the people of Tarren's, I tried to get them active, but they don't know what I'm talking about, they don't get it. I know, I know what's down there, I know what happened in the Hospice, your friend, the sorcerer, she died, and it was to save these people, and I don't want to sit here doing nothing while there is so much work to be done to vanquish that darkness in Rappan Athuk. You've got to take me with you, please, let me help!"
She finally stopped talking and sat staring at Agamemnon, her pale skin flushed red as she sucked in air trying to get her breath back.
"Uh ..." Agamemnon just looked at her, and started laughing.
Marle's face creased in anger. "You're not taking me seriously! I'm serious! I can help! Look, I can cast spells, I'm trained in field medicine, and in supporting soldiers, I was even going to join the town guard once but I want to come with you! You're making a difference, and I want -"
Agamemnon tried to stop laughing. "Marle, wait, listen," he said, putting a hand on her shoulder and looking her in the eyes. "Marle, you wonderful, beautiful person. I came here today to ask you to come to Calaelan, to be my chaplain."
She stared at him. "You ... you did?"
He nodded. "I need you, Marle." He clapped her on the shoulder. "You are exactly the person we need. Any doubts I may have had about your joining us in our endeavour have been well and truly vanquished by your passion."
"So ... you'll take me?" Agamemnon had never seen anyone look so delighted.
"I would be honoured if you would agree to come with me. How soon can you leave?"
"Now! I mean ... um ... see, I'm already, sort of, packed. Like ... well, I was going to go to Calaelan to offer my services anyway ..."
Agamemnon stared at Marle and burst out laughing again.
Survival
Drusilla looked at her reflection in the still pond. She looked old - older than she was. She didn't normally notice, but she did today. It was her eyes - they looked tired. She sighed. She'd adapted. She didn't doubt she'd done the right thing, but she was the last of her order, the last remaining druid in this forest - what did that say about her? That she was better than the others? Wolves adapted and became dogs. Was that survival? Becoming something other than you are? The priest made a good point: better to die as what you are than to live as a hateful, corrupted creature. Drusilla had seen the mutated rats from down in the caverns, she'd seen dire wolves with poison dripping from their oversized fangs. Was that survival? Was it really? How could you claim to have survived if you had changed so much that you no longer retained your inner nature? All things would eventually pass, that was the way of the world. Was it human arrogance to think it better to die as you are than to survive as something less?
Ripples across the surface of the pond broke her reverie as one of the wolves came down to the edge to drink. The moonlight flickered in the disturbed water, bathing her face in the white reflected glare. She would keep on. She had survived, and she would continue to survive.
The wolves were on point, their ears pricked, when she heard a cry in the distance. Making their way stealthily up the brook they reached the clearing. This was where Drusilla had found the priest several days earlier. The cry came again, and she looked. There, on the boulder overlooking the water, stood a roc. It was a juvenile, barely as large as the wolves, and albino white, its feathers as pale as the moonlight, its beak and talons tinged pink. Rocs were not native to the Mosswood, but Drusilla remembered there was a fiendish crow resident in these parts for many years until the people at Calaelan drove him off. He'd been a threat to the wolves and the larger animals of the forest, but had found more sport further north where there were cattle, horses and other domesticated beasts. The druid moved closer, cautiously. This bird appeared to be a natural creature, there was nothing fiendish or magical about him. She watched it shuffle around, at which point she noticed the arrow jutting from its breast. It looked like it had been there for some time; the bird must have flown here and taken shelter in the forest as the last of its strength gave out and it could no longer fly, hoping the forest would provide sanctuary.
Drusilla brought her hands out and spoke gentle words, calming the creature as she approached it. The wolves sat in guard around the clearing, their eyes keenly hunting for any intruders. The roc was still agitated, so she channeled the tenderness of a wolf for her pups and let the radiance of nature wash over the bird until it settled, content that she was not a threat to it.
As she worked to extract the arrow and tend the wound she remembered Agamemnon. He had sat in this same spot, draped in a cloak of white feathers, hoping the forest would help him, just as the roc had hoped. He'd carried the mark of Darach-Albith - a birthmark in the shape of a bow - on his breast, just as this bird carried an arrow in its.
Drusilla thought.
When the roc was healed and settled down to rest she called silently to one of the wolves, who padded up to her.
"We will need an escort," she said to him. "The forest has a gift for the people in the castle. Can you arrange it?"
The wolf whined a yes and went to talk to the pack. Drusilla stared at her face in the pond and thought.
Ripples across the surface of the pond broke her reverie as one of the wolves came down to the edge to drink. The moonlight flickered in the disturbed water, bathing her face in the white reflected glare. She would keep on. She had survived, and she would continue to survive.
The wolves were on point, their ears pricked, when she heard a cry in the distance. Making their way stealthily up the brook they reached the clearing. This was where Drusilla had found the priest several days earlier. The cry came again, and she looked. There, on the boulder overlooking the water, stood a roc. It was a juvenile, barely as large as the wolves, and albino white, its feathers as pale as the moonlight, its beak and talons tinged pink. Rocs were not native to the Mosswood, but Drusilla remembered there was a fiendish crow resident in these parts for many years until the people at Calaelan drove him off. He'd been a threat to the wolves and the larger animals of the forest, but had found more sport further north where there were cattle, horses and other domesticated beasts. The druid moved closer, cautiously. This bird appeared to be a natural creature, there was nothing fiendish or magical about him. She watched it shuffle around, at which point she noticed the arrow jutting from its breast. It looked like it had been there for some time; the bird must have flown here and taken shelter in the forest as the last of its strength gave out and it could no longer fly, hoping the forest would provide sanctuary.
Drusilla brought her hands out and spoke gentle words, calming the creature as she approached it. The wolves sat in guard around the clearing, their eyes keenly hunting for any intruders. The roc was still agitated, so she channeled the tenderness of a wolf for her pups and let the radiance of nature wash over the bird until it settled, content that she was not a threat to it.
As she worked to extract the arrow and tend the wound she remembered Agamemnon. He had sat in this same spot, draped in a cloak of white feathers, hoping the forest would help him, just as the roc had hoped. He'd carried the mark of Darach-Albith - a birthmark in the shape of a bow - on his breast, just as this bird carried an arrow in its.
Drusilla thought.
When the roc was healed and settled down to rest she called silently to one of the wolves, who padded up to her.
"We will need an escort," she said to him. "The forest has a gift for the people in the castle. Can you arrange it?"
The wolf whined a yes and went to talk to the pack. Drusilla stared at her face in the pond and thought.
Tianfialu-miraoih
Agamemnon and Drusilla walked through the trees of the Mosswood. It was early morning; Agamemnon had arrived shortly before dawn. He hadn't expected to find her so soon - he'd just wanted to watch the sun rise and feel the warmth of the sun's rays begin to awaken the forest around him. He'd never realised how much he'd grown to love simply being back in the Green Wold. He'd always respected nature, but he'd never really enjoyed it before. A wolf padded silently between the trees across from him, stopped to look at him. He had the distinct impression he'd only seen the wolf because the wolf wanted to be seen.
Drusilla had found him sitting on a boulder overlooking a brook. He'd been laughing at how thoroughly elven he'd become. He'd had no idea she was there until she'd spoke to him, and greeted him in the elven way. He'd smiled at her, told her this spot was beautiful. She was clearly uncertain what he was doing there.
"I'm Agamemnon," he'd said. "Tal eishama dreihuig mi cafiaou."
Drusilla had nodded. "Yes, it is. Very beautiful. You're from the Dales?"
"I am from Calaelan."
"Then you are welcome here. This place has much to offer."
"I am glad to hear it," he'd said, "because there is something I very much hope it will offer."
She'd looked at him quizzically. "And what is that?"
"You."
~~~~~
"The crow druid fought," she said thoughtfully and quietly, "and he is dead and the crows are dead. The bear druid fought and he is dead and the bears are dead. The wolf druid adapted and became part of the new balance, and she survived, and the wolves survived."
Several of those wolves were keeping pace with them as the pair wended their way along the banks of the small brook and talked.
"I fought," he told her. The conversation was like this: statements, then long silences as they watched birds hopping through the canopy and heard insects start as they passed.
"You look like you've fought," she said eventually. "Did you survive?"
He had to think about that one. "Tianfialu-miraoih." It was an elven word which meant to greatly benefit from an undeserved gift. In elven culture those with great fortune, great wisdom, great age would sometimes gift something to those who had wronged them, and the gratitude and introspection this gift engendered would lead a person to a greater understanding of themselves, letting them grow to be a better person. It was the best, most accurate word Agamemnon had to describe what had happened to him. "The Father was very ... patient. And very forgiving."
They walked for a while more before he spoke. Agamemnon's voice was calm as he told her: "I went into Rappan Athuk, the great dark place, and I fought. I fought with anger. I was angry - angry at Orcus, angry with those who allowed him to rise again. I was angry, and I fought them with anger, I wanted to kill them, I wanted to destroy them. I wanted to defend my friends by killing their enemies. I hated them, the enemies we fought, I hated them for being in our way, I hated them for hurting us, I hated them for being them. And that nearly took me, it nearly turned me to darkness, I nearly fell into the darkness of Rappan Athuk."
Drusilla nodded. "I know of that darkness. Grief leads many to that darkness." Her eyes were shadowed as she thought.
"I was fortunate. Darach-Albith saw what I was doing, he saw the danger I was in, and he called me back, and he showed me that you don't fight to destroy that which you hate, you fight to save that which you love."
"Crow tried to do that. Bear tried to do that."
"I don't know the crow druid. I don't know the bear druid. But I know that if Orcus rises again, there will be no crows, no bears, no wolves, no druids, no trees, no gods, just Orcus and his corruption and his emptiness and his hate and his anger. All the things that make this life worth living will be gone. I love my friends, I love these trees, I love my little raven friend here, and I love you because you dedicate your life to something so beautiful."
Neither of them spoke again for some time. Agamemnon enjoyed being in this place. When next Drusilla spoke it was descending into dusk. The first glimmers of the brightest stars were just appearing in the mauve sky as they entered a clearing.
"What do you want from the forest?"
"I want the forest to be the forest. I want the people I love to learn what the forest is. I want them to fight with hope and with happiness and with love to defend the things they love, to honour the gifts of nature and to protect those who cannot protect themselves. I want them to have pure hearts."
"I don't know if the forest can offer you what you want."
Agamemnon nodded. He put his hand on Drusilla's shoulder and looked her in the eyes. "I trust the forest's judgement. It is wise. It is better to die with love in your heart than to prevail with hate. But it is better still to ensure that love survives.
"Think about it. If you will help us fight, come and see me. We stand a better chance of success with your insight and your guidance and your sacrifice and your love."
Drusilla examined the trees, and then examined the cleric. "The tianfialu-miraoih of the forest."
"Yes," he said. "We are going into a very, very dark place. The forest would make us better."
Drusilla considered. Agamemnon knew what he was asking of the druid, knew a little of what her experiences had taught her, but he sincerely needed her guidance. He had fallen once already; if he was to take on the responsibility of preparing others to face the darkness that had nearly claimed him he needed stars to guide him, pure hearts shimmering in the darkness to light the way. The fletcher and the blacksmith were as important to an army's victory as the soldiers; his Tian Tu Lan needed to be tempered in pure water if it was to be unbreakable and there was no purer water than that he found in the brook that meandered through the Mosswood.
The moon was just showing a sliver of light in the dark sky when Drusilla returned. Agamemnon hadn't even noticed her going - he'd been resting in the bough of a tree, watching hazel-doves settle down to nest.
"You should come with me," she said. "Spend the night with me. There are things this forest offers which you should see. Beautiful things. Ti eisham meioh ti."
Agamemnon nodded and went with her. "To eishamy moihe."
Drusilla had found him sitting on a boulder overlooking a brook. He'd been laughing at how thoroughly elven he'd become. He'd had no idea she was there until she'd spoke to him, and greeted him in the elven way. He'd smiled at her, told her this spot was beautiful. She was clearly uncertain what he was doing there.
"I'm Agamemnon," he'd said. "Tal eishama dreihuig mi cafiaou."
Drusilla had nodded. "Yes, it is. Very beautiful. You're from the Dales?"
"I am from Calaelan."
"Then you are welcome here. This place has much to offer."
"I am glad to hear it," he'd said, "because there is something I very much hope it will offer."
She'd looked at him quizzically. "And what is that?"
"You."
~~~~~
"The crow druid fought," she said thoughtfully and quietly, "and he is dead and the crows are dead. The bear druid fought and he is dead and the bears are dead. The wolf druid adapted and became part of the new balance, and she survived, and the wolves survived."
Several of those wolves were keeping pace with them as the pair wended their way along the banks of the small brook and talked.
"I fought," he told her. The conversation was like this: statements, then long silences as they watched birds hopping through the canopy and heard insects start as they passed.
"You look like you've fought," she said eventually. "Did you survive?"
He had to think about that one. "Tianfialu-miraoih." It was an elven word which meant to greatly benefit from an undeserved gift. In elven culture those with great fortune, great wisdom, great age would sometimes gift something to those who had wronged them, and the gratitude and introspection this gift engendered would lead a person to a greater understanding of themselves, letting them grow to be a better person. It was the best, most accurate word Agamemnon had to describe what had happened to him. "The Father was very ... patient. And very forgiving."
They walked for a while more before he spoke. Agamemnon's voice was calm as he told her: "I went into Rappan Athuk, the great dark place, and I fought. I fought with anger. I was angry - angry at Orcus, angry with those who allowed him to rise again. I was angry, and I fought them with anger, I wanted to kill them, I wanted to destroy them. I wanted to defend my friends by killing their enemies. I hated them, the enemies we fought, I hated them for being in our way, I hated them for hurting us, I hated them for being them. And that nearly took me, it nearly turned me to darkness, I nearly fell into the darkness of Rappan Athuk."
Drusilla nodded. "I know of that darkness. Grief leads many to that darkness." Her eyes were shadowed as she thought.
"I was fortunate. Darach-Albith saw what I was doing, he saw the danger I was in, and he called me back, and he showed me that you don't fight to destroy that which you hate, you fight to save that which you love."
"Crow tried to do that. Bear tried to do that."
"I don't know the crow druid. I don't know the bear druid. But I know that if Orcus rises again, there will be no crows, no bears, no wolves, no druids, no trees, no gods, just Orcus and his corruption and his emptiness and his hate and his anger. All the things that make this life worth living will be gone. I love my friends, I love these trees, I love my little raven friend here, and I love you because you dedicate your life to something so beautiful."
Neither of them spoke again for some time. Agamemnon enjoyed being in this place. When next Drusilla spoke it was descending into dusk. The first glimmers of the brightest stars were just appearing in the mauve sky as they entered a clearing.
"What do you want from the forest?"
"I want the forest to be the forest. I want the people I love to learn what the forest is. I want them to fight with hope and with happiness and with love to defend the things they love, to honour the gifts of nature and to protect those who cannot protect themselves. I want them to have pure hearts."
"I don't know if the forest can offer you what you want."
Agamemnon nodded. He put his hand on Drusilla's shoulder and looked her in the eyes. "I trust the forest's judgement. It is wise. It is better to die with love in your heart than to prevail with hate. But it is better still to ensure that love survives.
"Think about it. If you will help us fight, come and see me. We stand a better chance of success with your insight and your guidance and your sacrifice and your love."
Drusilla examined the trees, and then examined the cleric. "The tianfialu-miraoih of the forest."
"Yes," he said. "We are going into a very, very dark place. The forest would make us better."
Drusilla considered. Agamemnon knew what he was asking of the druid, knew a little of what her experiences had taught her, but he sincerely needed her guidance. He had fallen once already; if he was to take on the responsibility of preparing others to face the darkness that had nearly claimed him he needed stars to guide him, pure hearts shimmering in the darkness to light the way. The fletcher and the blacksmith were as important to an army's victory as the soldiers; his Tian Tu Lan needed to be tempered in pure water if it was to be unbreakable and there was no purer water than that he found in the brook that meandered through the Mosswood.
The moon was just showing a sliver of light in the dark sky when Drusilla returned. Agamemnon hadn't even noticed her going - he'd been resting in the bough of a tree, watching hazel-doves settle down to nest.
"You should come with me," she said. "Spend the night with me. There are things this forest offers which you should see. Beautiful things. Ti eisham meioh ti."
Agamemnon nodded and went with her. "To eishamy moihe."
The Pure Hearts of Calaelan
Agamemnon sat atop one of Calaelan's towers, looking out towards the forest. It was strange; all his life he'd been in and out of wilderness areas and he'd never really felt an attachment to them, but now, sitting in a castle at the heart of a burgeoning town he felt the call of the green. He looked up at the sky. No moon tonight, so it was dark and he could see the constellations clearly picked out as pinpricks of shimmering light. He saw Fayar Nocht, the great Bow of the Elf Father, cresting the forest, the arrow literally pointing towards the trees. Agamemnon knew it wasn't a sign, but it was still a good idea. Tomorrow he would visit Drusilla.
It was becoming increasingly apparent that Shades was going to call a third Righteous March. Rappan Athuk wasn't a dungeon, it was a country, a nation of evil, with its own cities and towns, its own road network, its own farms and civilians, and you did not conquer a nation with an army of eight people and a castle which, although it was in much better repair than when he had last seen it, was still but one castle. They needed an army.
Mort was doing a good job on that front, ensuring the antique, fledgeling nation of Mosswood had a standing army, at least enough to slow any invaders who mistook the place for a soft target. And with the political situation as Shades had described it, Mosswood would be protected long enough for it to find its feet and develop its strength. Which was great, but that did not address the real issue, which was Orcus.
Agamemnon was a student of history. He knew about the previous Marches. He knew their strengths, and their weaknesses. He knew that at the core of any successful crusade had to be a righteous will, a drive to act out the will of the divine. Arcanists sought power and were easily corrupted, mercenaries sought coin and were not committed, and soldiers, valorous and skilled though they may be, would retreat before overwhelming odds unless they were presented a very compelling reason not to. The devout, however ... the devout would march into the very gates of hell if the divine were on their side, and assaulting Orcus at the heart of his kingdom would involve a very long march into a very terrible hell.
Not that the religious were beyond corruption. Agamemnon knew that well - if your motivations were not pure, if your heart was not clear, the devout could fall just as far as anyone. Just like he nearly had, before Darach-Albith had called him back from Rappan Athuk and sat him down and given him a chance to realise the simple fact that if you fight with anger you become anger, and if you fight with love you become love.
Agamemnon had spoken to Shades, and Shades had agreed. Tomorrow he would forge his own Tian Tu Lan, his own unbreakable sword, the devout backbone of the inevitable Third Righteous March - the Pure Hearts of Calaelan. He would invite clerics and priests, holy warriors, paladins, divine protectors of the forests and the wild places, and the devout to come to Calaelan, to be trained in what to expect in the darkness of Rappan Athuk, to be skilled in facing this overwhelmingly evil foe, but most importantly to have their hearts fortified with love so as to stave off the corrupting influence of the god of power and death and destruction.
And it would start with the forests of Mosswood, with the pure heart of Drusilla.
It was becoming increasingly apparent that Shades was going to call a third Righteous March. Rappan Athuk wasn't a dungeon, it was a country, a nation of evil, with its own cities and towns, its own road network, its own farms and civilians, and you did not conquer a nation with an army of eight people and a castle which, although it was in much better repair than when he had last seen it, was still but one castle. They needed an army.
Mort was doing a good job on that front, ensuring the antique, fledgeling nation of Mosswood had a standing army, at least enough to slow any invaders who mistook the place for a soft target. And with the political situation as Shades had described it, Mosswood would be protected long enough for it to find its feet and develop its strength. Which was great, but that did not address the real issue, which was Orcus.
Agamemnon was a student of history. He knew about the previous Marches. He knew their strengths, and their weaknesses. He knew that at the core of any successful crusade had to be a righteous will, a drive to act out the will of the divine. Arcanists sought power and were easily corrupted, mercenaries sought coin and were not committed, and soldiers, valorous and skilled though they may be, would retreat before overwhelming odds unless they were presented a very compelling reason not to. The devout, however ... the devout would march into the very gates of hell if the divine were on their side, and assaulting Orcus at the heart of his kingdom would involve a very long march into a very terrible hell.
Not that the religious were beyond corruption. Agamemnon knew that well - if your motivations were not pure, if your heart was not clear, the devout could fall just as far as anyone. Just like he nearly had, before Darach-Albith had called him back from Rappan Athuk and sat him down and given him a chance to realise the simple fact that if you fight with anger you become anger, and if you fight with love you become love.
Agamemnon had spoken to Shades, and Shades had agreed. Tomorrow he would forge his own Tian Tu Lan, his own unbreakable sword, the devout backbone of the inevitable Third Righteous March - the Pure Hearts of Calaelan. He would invite clerics and priests, holy warriors, paladins, divine protectors of the forests and the wild places, and the devout to come to Calaelan, to be trained in what to expect in the darkness of Rappan Athuk, to be skilled in facing this overwhelmingly evil foe, but most importantly to have their hearts fortified with love so as to stave off the corrupting influence of the god of power and death and destruction.
And it would start with the forests of Mosswood, with the pure heart of Drusilla.
Elfwood Interlude
Agamemnon looked up from his book when he sensed a presence at the doorway to his room. The rooms in Rinto'eirehn, the elven hermitage buried deep in the secluded Green Wold, had no doors, and noone knocked; you just learned to be aware of your fellow students.
"Tamaril."
"I'm sorry to disturb you, ai'danna."
Agamemnon shook his head. "It was a boring book anyway. Some fantasy about the Thorisians engaging in a generation-long war with dragons. Its historicity is at best highly suspect."
"Human generations, or dragon generations sir?"
Agamemnon laughed. "A good question and one I wish the author had thought of himself. And please don't call me sir. I am your colleague."
"You are ai'danna."
"Whatever that means." Agamemnon subconsciously rubbed the patch on his chest where lay the holy symbol of Darach-Albith, the Elf Father, a birthmark which had thrown his life into chaos and ultimately led him here, to the contemplative life of an elven student. He sighed. "Anyway, what can I do for you Tamaril?"
"Sir, we ... we received news."
Agamemnon sat up, dropping his book on the table. "What news?" He knew what news. He knew he would eventually hear this news. He had asked the chaplain to bring him any news pertaining to the Great Downwards, as soon as they had it.
"The champion of Dwerfater sir ..."
Agamemnon said nothing for a moment. He stood and walked to the window behind his elaborately carved and shaped desk. He watched outside as the occasional leaf detached from a tree and glided through the sunlight to the soft green ground. He cleared his throat. "How?"
"An anti-paladin. A great force of evil."
Agamemnon nodded. "And was it destroyed?"
"Reports suggest it was, sir, yes."
"It's probably best if you leave me at this point, Tamaril."
The young elf nodded nervously and quickly departed the room, leaving Agamemnon staring out the window. Some time passed and Agamemnon found his mace in his hand, its heavy weight dragging him down, dragging him on. The mace was above him now, and he'd turned to face the desk, holding the weapon aloft ready to bring it crashing down, destroying the beautiful craftsmanship, sending delicate objet d'art and research notes and books across the room. It was dark now. When had that happened? He looked back to the window and saw his face reflected in the black pane. His face was contorted in ... nothing. Odd. He was angry, wasn't he? Snooks was dead, taken by the evil of Rappan Athuk. Being angry was what Agamemnon did, it was the thing that had defined him since his childhood being raised by a human woman in a town that hated him, being angry was what made him an orc when he was Grazh Ulkesh of the Red Hands, being angry was what kept him and his friends alive in Rappan Athuk, being angry was what defined his relationship with Darach-Albith. So where was his anger now?
He put the mace down on the desk and sat facing the window. He thought of Snooks. What did he feel? He felt ... sad. Sad that he wouldn't see his friend again. He felt ... happy because he'd had the chance to know him at all. He laughed remembering the dwarf tripping over an unseen bit of masonry and then claiming he was examining it for signs of a secret door, his dwarven pride injured. He felt proud that Snooks had died facing off against the overwhelming forces of evil, exactly as he would have wanted.
When the sun came up Agamemnon looked at the tiny pot sitting on his windowsill. When he had arrived here he had been given a seed to tend, an Elfwood seed. Elfwood wasn't what the elves called it of course, but Agamemnon wasn't an elf, so he called it Elfwood. Elfwood seeds were miniscule, but they grew over hundreds of years to be some of the biggest, most robust, most significant trees in the forest. But when you planted an Elfwood seed it sat there, in the ground, and would not germinate, not until it felt like it. It might take hours, it might take years; noone knew what caused an Elfwood seed to sprout. Elfwood was the most stubborn plant. Agamemnon smiled at the tiny green shoot that had finally pushed its way up into the sunlight.
He started packing his books. Within an hour he had left Rinto'eirehn and by the end of the day he had passed the borders of the Green Wold. He didn't leave a note. The elves of the hermitage knew exactly where the ai'danna, the champion of Darach-Albith, had gone.
What they didn't know was that for the first time in his life Agamemnon was genuinely, sincerely happy.
"Tamaril."
"I'm sorry to disturb you, ai'danna."
Agamemnon shook his head. "It was a boring book anyway. Some fantasy about the Thorisians engaging in a generation-long war with dragons. Its historicity is at best highly suspect."
"Human generations, or dragon generations sir?"
Agamemnon laughed. "A good question and one I wish the author had thought of himself. And please don't call me sir. I am your colleague."
"You are ai'danna."
"Whatever that means." Agamemnon subconsciously rubbed the patch on his chest where lay the holy symbol of Darach-Albith, the Elf Father, a birthmark which had thrown his life into chaos and ultimately led him here, to the contemplative life of an elven student. He sighed. "Anyway, what can I do for you Tamaril?"
"Sir, we ... we received news."
Agamemnon sat up, dropping his book on the table. "What news?" He knew what news. He knew he would eventually hear this news. He had asked the chaplain to bring him any news pertaining to the Great Downwards, as soon as they had it.
"The champion of Dwerfater sir ..."
Agamemnon said nothing for a moment. He stood and walked to the window behind his elaborately carved and shaped desk. He watched outside as the occasional leaf detached from a tree and glided through the sunlight to the soft green ground. He cleared his throat. "How?"
"An anti-paladin. A great force of evil."
Agamemnon nodded. "And was it destroyed?"
"Reports suggest it was, sir, yes."
"It's probably best if you leave me at this point, Tamaril."
The young elf nodded nervously and quickly departed the room, leaving Agamemnon staring out the window. Some time passed and Agamemnon found his mace in his hand, its heavy weight dragging him down, dragging him on. The mace was above him now, and he'd turned to face the desk, holding the weapon aloft ready to bring it crashing down, destroying the beautiful craftsmanship, sending delicate objet d'art and research notes and books across the room. It was dark now. When had that happened? He looked back to the window and saw his face reflected in the black pane. His face was contorted in ... nothing. Odd. He was angry, wasn't he? Snooks was dead, taken by the evil of Rappan Athuk. Being angry was what Agamemnon did, it was the thing that had defined him since his childhood being raised by a human woman in a town that hated him, being angry was what made him an orc when he was Grazh Ulkesh of the Red Hands, being angry was what kept him and his friends alive in Rappan Athuk, being angry was what defined his relationship with Darach-Albith. So where was his anger now?
He put the mace down on the desk and sat facing the window. He thought of Snooks. What did he feel? He felt ... sad. Sad that he wouldn't see his friend again. He felt ... happy because he'd had the chance to know him at all. He laughed remembering the dwarf tripping over an unseen bit of masonry and then claiming he was examining it for signs of a secret door, his dwarven pride injured. He felt proud that Snooks had died facing off against the overwhelming forces of evil, exactly as he would have wanted.
When the sun came up Agamemnon looked at the tiny pot sitting on his windowsill. When he had arrived here he had been given a seed to tend, an Elfwood seed. Elfwood wasn't what the elves called it of course, but Agamemnon wasn't an elf, so he called it Elfwood. Elfwood seeds were miniscule, but they grew over hundreds of years to be some of the biggest, most robust, most significant trees in the forest. But when you planted an Elfwood seed it sat there, in the ground, and would not germinate, not until it felt like it. It might take hours, it might take years; noone knew what caused an Elfwood seed to sprout. Elfwood was the most stubborn plant. Agamemnon smiled at the tiny green shoot that had finally pushed its way up into the sunlight.
He started packing his books. Within an hour he had left Rinto'eirehn and by the end of the day he had passed the borders of the Green Wold. He didn't leave a note. The elves of the hermitage knew exactly where the ai'danna, the champion of Darach-Albith, had gone.
What they didn't know was that for the first time in his life Agamemnon was genuinely, sincerely happy.
A Familiar Queue
Laniss looked out over the line, winding it's way across the flat barren plain toward the tower.It was remarkable how much could change in a day, and yet remain the same for millennia . The endless dead were waiting impatiently, slowly marching toward their meeting with the lady of death and fate while various shadowy entities walked up and down the crowd, striking dark deals with those desperate or fearful enough to risk an eternity of damnation.
"You appear to be making something of a habit of this. I'm not sure that is wise" the stranger spoke with a voice like the motion of the continents.
"It is true that a number of miscalculations were made."
"More than you know Headmaster. You have begun to see the true path, but you will need more help. You must set aside the distractions and prepare."
Laniss frowned as he attempted to decipher the stranger's words. "Headmaster? I think you may have me confused with someone else."
"My apologies, I sometimes forget when we are." The young theori started off into the distance, clearly distracted "Think on my words. Finish what you started, because It has what you seek. Stop dying." With that, he turned and quickly vanished into crowd.
* * *
"...So with that, I feel it is time for me to tender my resignation from The Great Downward Engineering Company, and to officially petition for the land around the western rise be deeded to me for the purposes of construction of an arcane college in exchange for access to increased magical and scholarly resources as well as guaranteed tax revenue not less than....."
The trick that became not a trick
I knew tricking people was a good idea, I seen how everyone does it so well since I started thinkin bout it. Mortimer has a really good trick where he pretens to have one a those 'honourable' fights with someone but then uses a spell to come back when dey think they killed him and is all like "Bam! You thought you killed me but really I win!". Lots of other people have good tricks too.
Other day I did a good trick on some Orcus people. I made maself look like one o them and then kept telling them what they were doing made Orcus angry while we were fighting. They got all confused, I think they worried Orcus would get angry at them. And instead o attacking me they attacked other people, so all worked out really good. I decided then that I gonna try to trick Orcus people like that more.
I had all these good ideas about how to do it. I could stop hiding my demon arm, and use my demon powers more (though that went stupid before cause Laniss is an idiot and gave me some cured ring - but should work better next time) and lots of stuff. Pretending to be a priest a Orcus would be really cool, I would tell all the other Orcus people wrong stuff about Orcus and they'd stop being such idiots all the time and maybe Orcus would stop giving them powers.
Then I realised something. Mortimer seems to be mayor now that Shades is dead (though I think he's still flying around haunting us, but I don't think ghosts are allowed to be mayors) or at least is half mayor along with Frey or summing. It took me a while to realise why he got to be mayor but I figure its cause he killed Zehn, who had killed Shades and you get the position of people you kill. Gwetting to be mayor is a kind of promise that you can get through killing someone. Not sure who Shades killed to become mayor in the first place, but they probably deserved it.
But that made me realise. I don't need to trick people to think I'm a priest o Orcus - I destroyed the high priest Nadger, so I REALLY AM A PRIEST - THE HIGH PRIEST IN FACT! His power went inta me and everything.
So now I'll tell all the Orcus people wrong stuff about Orcus, and they'll have ta listen, cause i'm the motherfucking high priest!
Other day I did a good trick on some Orcus people. I made maself look like one o them and then kept telling them what they were doing made Orcus angry while we were fighting. They got all confused, I think they worried Orcus would get angry at them. And instead o attacking me they attacked other people, so all worked out really good. I decided then that I gonna try to trick Orcus people like that more.
I had all these good ideas about how to do it. I could stop hiding my demon arm, and use my demon powers more (though that went stupid before cause Laniss is an idiot and gave me some cured ring - but should work better next time) and lots of stuff. Pretending to be a priest a Orcus would be really cool, I would tell all the other Orcus people wrong stuff about Orcus and they'd stop being such idiots all the time and maybe Orcus would stop giving them powers.
Then I realised something. Mortimer seems to be mayor now that Shades is dead (though I think he's still flying around haunting us, but I don't think ghosts are allowed to be mayors) or at least is half mayor along with Frey or summing. It took me a while to realise why he got to be mayor but I figure its cause he killed Zehn, who had killed Shades and you get the position of people you kill. Gwetting to be mayor is a kind of promise that you can get through killing someone. Not sure who Shades killed to become mayor in the first place, but they probably deserved it.
But that made me realise. I don't need to trick people to think I'm a priest o Orcus - I destroyed the high priest Nadger, so I REALLY AM A PRIEST - THE HIGH PRIEST IN FACT! His power went inta me and everything.
So now I'll tell all the Orcus people wrong stuff about Orcus, and they'll have ta listen, cause i'm the motherfucking high priest!
Birds of a Feathyr
For a moment that was both brief and excruciatingly drawn out, Shades’ entire existence was nothing but terror, fire and blinding pain.
The Tengu promptly found himself in the extensive line of the dead leading into Pharasma’s Tower. The great Tower itself loomed impossibly high above. Some travellers in the afterlife see a certain magnificence and even awe about the Tower, but not Shades. To him it waited with a passive menace, like a smug dragon waiting to receive its helpless princess tribute.
Slowly the line shuffled forward, ever closer to the Tower. Shades was both relieved to see none of his fellow Engineers join the line, but also a touch disappointed. The company would have been appreciated, especially when he swore he could see the offending Orcusites some distance behind.
The realization that his mortal body would be irrecoverable from a pool of blazing lava didn’t come for some time later. Shades had never been the type for existential dread, having lived mostly in the moment for much of his life. With all the words of all the languages he had picked up in his life, he could not find one that described the depth of the following panic. The Wall of the Faithless was suddenly a very real possibility on the horizon. Literally- it was far off but it was still right fucking there.
For innumerable hours Shades woefully ruminated on his Prime Material life. His friends, his family that had once been, the people he had taken under his wing. And that itchy feather that had taken longer than a week to properly grow out of the small of his back. He had fought so hard to keep what very little random chance had given him, and to share what he could with those less fortunate than him. And here he was, standing in a queue hiding from the eyes of slain foes, soon destined to be another gibbering voice in a choir of gibbering voices for as long as existence existed.
“You!” A raspy sounding human voice broke Shades’ tumbling existential spell. Shades tried to cram a lid on his frothing existential terrors, and stared at the voice’s source. He was an old human, and very chipper for someone strolling about the Plane of the Dead. Curiously, he was not in the line at all.
“You there,” the old gent waved, “I don’t want to sound, well, rude at all, but I think I just spoke with some colleagues of yours. One of them was a bird you see. A bird man. Woman, actually I think. It’s hard to really tell. ...Oh dear, I am so sorry.”
“Just fuckin’ great,” Shades rolled his eyes. Apparently in Pharasma’s domain, where all souls from all the planes came together in a great queue into a gargantuan tower made of bone, being a humanoid shaped bird was still weird for people.
“Are you the head of the Great Downward Engineering Company?” the old man bleated, clearly a little upset with himself and his faux pas.
“Fuckin’ frog’s ass on a stick keep your yappin’ down!” Shades squawked and dragged the man into line with him, keeping both their heads low, “Who the nine Hells is askin’?”
“Bofred,” the geriatric stuck out a gnarled hand, “Bofred Aerim.”
“Well I never, it’s another Aerim. Who’s it this time, Illden’s long lost human grandpappy?”
“Uh, yes, actually. You have met my dear Illy Illden? She doesn’t have the frog spots still, does she?”
Shades vomited a giggle or two. That wasn’t entirely information he needed to know about Illden, but the humour was hugely welcome. For some time Bofred and Shades engage in small talk. Bofred shares some of the more hilarious pranks he pulled on his Orcusite captors. Shades avidly recounts his adventures with the Great Downward, the trials, the terrors, and the pride he felt in taking a shitty crumbling old castle he had inherited seemingly by accident, and shaping it into tiny dysfunctional town of misfits, refugees and expats. The process is cathartic at first, but by the end the young Tengu is woefully upset. A Tengu doesn’t have the proper glands to cry, but when he blurts out his soon-to-be fate amongst the Wall of the Faithless he has made a fine attempt to do so.
“Oh, oh I see. Well. That can’t do. No, that can’t do at all,” Bofred frowned.
“The opinion is appreciated but that ain’t goin’ to change a fuckin’ thing,” Shades croaked.
“Well, that’s just the thing, Pezzack. I’m quite certain I can. The circumstances are admittedly dreadful, but...” Bofred brought his voice down to the faintest whisper, “I’m kind of a god now, you see.”
Shades lept to his feet and skittered in surprise, certainly not expecting that piece of information at all. Bofred’s eyes glazed a little, as if peering far into a misty horizon. His brow ticked, and one of his withered hands were clenched. His form drooped with a heavy weight that should not have existed on this immaterial plane.
“As the priests and their vows of poverty were the backbone of old Mitra’s worship, and the paladins were Muir’s...the goodly kings and queens of old where the strength and pride of Thyr. Thyr the God of Kings! For the greatest good for the greatest number He shall rule!”
“When Severin Aerim... when Severin... when Tsar fell to Orcus’ forces, well the whole spine fell out of the skeleton, didn’t it?! No one wanted anything to do with Thyr. Not if one could fall so hard and hurt so many. Lies, of course, lies, they have to be! Even so, they didn’t stop Thyr from fading so. I spent my life trying to clear Severin Aerim’s name. I spent my life trying to clear Thyr’s name. I could have saved a lot of people. I could have saved Thyr!”
By this point Shades was feeling no small measure of fear. Bofred was clearly desperately mad or madly desperate. And still quite possibly a god.
“I...I’m sorry to hear that,” the normally talkative Tengu gulped.
“Oh. Oh dear. Yes,” Bofred sighed, his trembling subsiding a little, “Sorry, Sir Highroost, I seem to have frighten-”
“It’s Shades, okay. Sir Highroost is so damn gaudy I could hurl.”
“I’m sorry Sir Shades. I’m not used to being a god, you see. Not that I’m going to last very long as a god, not having a church and all. Or a royal line to oversee the people of the Valley. Or any sort of myths or stories to wow the people. I’ll just be sitting on Thyr’s cold dusty throne. In the quiet, all alone, until Thyr fades or I do. Did I mention how lonely it is going to be?!”
“I’d happily trade you my place on that crazed wall for a spot o’ loneliness and quiet, it seems awful lively there.”
“Ah, yes. Yes. That’s right, that pesky Wall. How about this Pezza-"
“Shades.”
“How about this Shades? I’ll give you back to the Prime Material. I haven’t divinely intervened before, so it might take a little practice, but there’s no point being a god if you can’t do that is there now?! Haha!”
“Alrigh’, you have my ears, grandpappy Aerim. But I’m guessin’ this ain’t really a free deal now, is it?”
“Yes. I can’t just go spending divine energy willy-nilly on every poor mortal with a sob story now can I? I want you to clear Severin Aerim’s name, or to do your best. I also want you to take my divine favour. This line of the dead here is fresh out of goodly kings and queens, but as the non-evil Mayor of that lovely new Dejune town you told me about -a Mayor with the right to a Lordship even!- who says he’s a good friend of my dear granddaughter... well you are the best and only candidate for a chosen I have. And I can’t have you spilling blood with swords or that frightening tinderbox cannon you said you had, Thyr would absolutely die. And then so would I. But it’s okay, I can make you a new body that’s better at different things. A Tengu body of course, I wouldn’t want this to be weird for you. Just.. don’t kill people when you don’t have to, and take care of your people, you hear? Oh and give Orcus a right kick up the arse, I would really enjoy that. I haven’t quite got a doctrine yet, but I can certainly keep you posted on the details.”
Shades glimpsed a look over at the distant yet definitely closer Wall of the Faithless, and looked back at Bofred. It’s not like he had any other choice.
“If a god’s gonna drop from the sky to pick a dead bird back up, well damn I ain’t gonna look his gift horse in the mouth. …You have yourself a deal, Bofred.”
“Marvelous! Say hello to my Illy Illden will you? But don’t tell her I told you about the frog spots, that would be ghastly.”
Shades didn’t have the time to word his agreement to do so. He was somewhere in a forest, possibly near Dejune from the looks of it, and had found himself in the peculiar position of not quite having a body yet.
The Tengu promptly found himself in the extensive line of the dead leading into Pharasma’s Tower. The great Tower itself loomed impossibly high above. Some travellers in the afterlife see a certain magnificence and even awe about the Tower, but not Shades. To him it waited with a passive menace, like a smug dragon waiting to receive its helpless princess tribute.
Slowly the line shuffled forward, ever closer to the Tower. Shades was both relieved to see none of his fellow Engineers join the line, but also a touch disappointed. The company would have been appreciated, especially when he swore he could see the offending Orcusites some distance behind.
The realization that his mortal body would be irrecoverable from a pool of blazing lava didn’t come for some time later. Shades had never been the type for existential dread, having lived mostly in the moment for much of his life. With all the words of all the languages he had picked up in his life, he could not find one that described the depth of the following panic. The Wall of the Faithless was suddenly a very real possibility on the horizon. Literally- it was far off but it was still right fucking there.
For innumerable hours Shades woefully ruminated on his Prime Material life. His friends, his family that had once been, the people he had taken under his wing. And that itchy feather that had taken longer than a week to properly grow out of the small of his back. He had fought so hard to keep what very little random chance had given him, and to share what he could with those less fortunate than him. And here he was, standing in a queue hiding from the eyes of slain foes, soon destined to be another gibbering voice in a choir of gibbering voices for as long as existence existed.
“You!” A raspy sounding human voice broke Shades’ tumbling existential spell. Shades tried to cram a lid on his frothing existential terrors, and stared at the voice’s source. He was an old human, and very chipper for someone strolling about the Plane of the Dead. Curiously, he was not in the line at all.
“You there,” the old gent waved, “I don’t want to sound, well, rude at all, but I think I just spoke with some colleagues of yours. One of them was a bird you see. A bird man. Woman, actually I think. It’s hard to really tell. ...Oh dear, I am so sorry.”
“Just fuckin’ great,” Shades rolled his eyes. Apparently in Pharasma’s domain, where all souls from all the planes came together in a great queue into a gargantuan tower made of bone, being a humanoid shaped bird was still weird for people.
“Are you the head of the Great Downward Engineering Company?” the old man bleated, clearly a little upset with himself and his faux pas.
“Fuckin’ frog’s ass on a stick keep your yappin’ down!” Shades squawked and dragged the man into line with him, keeping both their heads low, “Who the nine Hells is askin’?”
“Bofred,” the geriatric stuck out a gnarled hand, “Bofred Aerim.”
“Well I never, it’s another Aerim. Who’s it this time, Illden’s long lost human grandpappy?”
“Uh, yes, actually. You have met my dear Illy Illden? She doesn’t have the frog spots still, does she?”
Shades vomited a giggle or two. That wasn’t entirely information he needed to know about Illden, but the humour was hugely welcome. For some time Bofred and Shades engage in small talk. Bofred shares some of the more hilarious pranks he pulled on his Orcusite captors. Shades avidly recounts his adventures with the Great Downward, the trials, the terrors, and the pride he felt in taking a shitty crumbling old castle he had inherited seemingly by accident, and shaping it into tiny dysfunctional town of misfits, refugees and expats. The process is cathartic at first, but by the end the young Tengu is woefully upset. A Tengu doesn’t have the proper glands to cry, but when he blurts out his soon-to-be fate amongst the Wall of the Faithless he has made a fine attempt to do so.
“Oh, oh I see. Well. That can’t do. No, that can’t do at all,” Bofred frowned.
“The opinion is appreciated but that ain’t goin’ to change a fuckin’ thing,” Shades croaked.
“Well, that’s just the thing, Pezzack. I’m quite certain I can. The circumstances are admittedly dreadful, but...” Bofred brought his voice down to the faintest whisper, “I’m kind of a god now, you see.”
Shades lept to his feet and skittered in surprise, certainly not expecting that piece of information at all. Bofred’s eyes glazed a little, as if peering far into a misty horizon. His brow ticked, and one of his withered hands were clenched. His form drooped with a heavy weight that should not have existed on this immaterial plane.
“As the priests and their vows of poverty were the backbone of old Mitra’s worship, and the paladins were Muir’s...the goodly kings and queens of old where the strength and pride of Thyr. Thyr the God of Kings! For the greatest good for the greatest number He shall rule!”
“When Severin Aerim... when Severin... when Tsar fell to Orcus’ forces, well the whole spine fell out of the skeleton, didn’t it?! No one wanted anything to do with Thyr. Not if one could fall so hard and hurt so many. Lies, of course, lies, they have to be! Even so, they didn’t stop Thyr from fading so. I spent my life trying to clear Severin Aerim’s name. I spent my life trying to clear Thyr’s name. I could have saved a lot of people. I could have saved Thyr!”
By this point Shades was feeling no small measure of fear. Bofred was clearly desperately mad or madly desperate. And still quite possibly a god.
“I...I’m sorry to hear that,” the normally talkative Tengu gulped.
“Oh. Oh dear. Yes,” Bofred sighed, his trembling subsiding a little, “Sorry, Sir Highroost, I seem to have frighten-”
“It’s Shades, okay. Sir Highroost is so damn gaudy I could hurl.”
“I’m sorry Sir Shades. I’m not used to being a god, you see. Not that I’m going to last very long as a god, not having a church and all. Or a royal line to oversee the people of the Valley. Or any sort of myths or stories to wow the people. I’ll just be sitting on Thyr’s cold dusty throne. In the quiet, all alone, until Thyr fades or I do. Did I mention how lonely it is going to be?!”
“I’d happily trade you my place on that crazed wall for a spot o’ loneliness and quiet, it seems awful lively there.”
“Ah, yes. Yes. That’s right, that pesky Wall. How about this Pezza-"
“Shades.”
“How about this Shades? I’ll give you back to the Prime Material. I haven’t divinely intervened before, so it might take a little practice, but there’s no point being a god if you can’t do that is there now?! Haha!”
“Alrigh’, you have my ears, grandpappy Aerim. But I’m guessin’ this ain’t really a free deal now, is it?”
“Yes. I can’t just go spending divine energy willy-nilly on every poor mortal with a sob story now can I? I want you to clear Severin Aerim’s name, or to do your best. I also want you to take my divine favour. This line of the dead here is fresh out of goodly kings and queens, but as the non-evil Mayor of that lovely new Dejune town you told me about -a Mayor with the right to a Lordship even!- who says he’s a good friend of my dear granddaughter... well you are the best and only candidate for a chosen I have. And I can’t have you spilling blood with swords or that frightening tinderbox cannon you said you had, Thyr would absolutely die. And then so would I. But it’s okay, I can make you a new body that’s better at different things. A Tengu body of course, I wouldn’t want this to be weird for you. Just.. don’t kill people when you don’t have to, and take care of your people, you hear? Oh and give Orcus a right kick up the arse, I would really enjoy that. I haven’t quite got a doctrine yet, but I can certainly keep you posted on the details.”
Shades glimpsed a look over at the distant yet definitely closer Wall of the Faithless, and looked back at Bofred. It’s not like he had any other choice.
“If a god’s gonna drop from the sky to pick a dead bird back up, well damn I ain’t gonna look his gift horse in the mouth. …You have yourself a deal, Bofred.”
“Marvelous! Say hello to my Illy Illden will you? But don’t tell her I told you about the frog spots, that would be ghastly.”
Shades didn’t have the time to word his agreement to do so. He was somewhere in a forest, possibly near Dejune from the looks of it, and had found himself in the peculiar position of not quite having a body yet.
Mortimer - On Arms and Armour
Mortimer leaves the forge after a week of hard labour, Tabitha trailing behind him. He is covered in soot and smoke and smells like an Orc but he clearly looks pleased. He is cradling his scythe in his arms, almost like a proud father.
It looks almost the same as usual, but is missing the Telephos paraphernalia. Instead, the blade has a simple design on it and some words etched into the metal. You figure it's in Orcish
He trots to Talisas workspace, not bothering to bathe or change.
"Talisaaaa"
Mortimer puts on his best puppy dog face, which in this case looks like a puppy dog trying to decide if it wants to vomit or fart. Lets humour him and call it cute.
"Talisssssaaaaaaa!"
Talisas frown could strip paint off wood
"What? What do you wa-"
Mortimer interrupts her by abruptly whipping his scythe around, presenting Talisa with the handle
"Make this maaaagic, Talisssaaaaaa~"
Talisa is clearly busy, and views this olfactory assault with displeasure.
"I have work to do, I don't have time to-"
Mort cuts her off
"Maaaaagic! I have money, I know that helpssssss"
Talisa probably decides that just nodding and agreeing is the fastest way to get rid of the smell
"Fine, put it over there. I'll do it whe-"
"You need to whisper its name to it allll the time when you make it, Talisssaaaaa"
He clearly enjoys saying her name
Talisa waves a hand dismissively
"What? Yes, sure, whatev-"
"It is called 'Mothers Kissssss'. It needs to be born knowing its name, Talisssaaaaaa"
Talisa gives Mortimer her full attention for the first time
"What sort of idiotic na-"
Mort cuts her off again. His jovial tone has disappeared.
"It will be called 'Mothers Kiss' because it makes the bad things go away. Do this for me"
If Talisa responds, Mortimers back doesn't hear it
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On the morning of the start of their journey to Tsar, Mortimer comes down stairs dressed for the first time in his newly modified plate.
Gone are the gentle curves and smooth edges. Instead, it has lots of flat surfaces and squared off edges, the whole suit having a sort of blocky, harsh look. It is a strange mix of crude and brutish, but still somehow savagely noble
On his front is the engraving of Shades' emblem, that of a profile of a crow, but stylised in a way that seems more Orcish. Its eye, over-large and right in the middle of Mortimers chest, looks to be inlayed with a holy symbol. Its a blue circle in which is a golden pentagon with 5 golden triangles spaced off each of the flat sides. It seems to represent the Sun.
On his shoulders and elbows, you can see sockets. The suit seems to be unfinished, and you figure he'll fit armour spikes at some later point.
As he walks away, you see runes and symbols carved into his backplate. They don't seem to invoke any actual power, more just an eclectic mix of symbols of a religious and planar nature representing strength and protection. You think Tabitha probably provided the symbols, but didn't have much say when it came to their arrangement.
Across the small of his back you see, in Orcish, the words "Mothers Embrace"
The overall effect, while not conventional, is pretty obvious to anyone who knows anything about religion, armour smithing or history
Here stands a Hellknight
It looks almost the same as usual, but is missing the Telephos paraphernalia. Instead, the blade has a simple design on it and some words etched into the metal. You figure it's in Orcish
He trots to Talisas workspace, not bothering to bathe or change.
"Talisaaaa"
Mortimer puts on his best puppy dog face, which in this case looks like a puppy dog trying to decide if it wants to vomit or fart. Lets humour him and call it cute.
"Talisssssaaaaaaa!"
Talisas frown could strip paint off wood
"What? What do you wa-"
Mortimer interrupts her by abruptly whipping his scythe around, presenting Talisa with the handle
"Make this maaaagic, Talisssaaaaaa~"
Talisa is clearly busy, and views this olfactory assault with displeasure.
"I have work to do, I don't have time to-"
Mort cuts her off
"Maaaaagic! I have money, I know that helpssssss"
Talisa probably decides that just nodding and agreeing is the fastest way to get rid of the smell
"Fine, put it over there. I'll do it whe-"
"You need to whisper its name to it allll the time when you make it, Talisssaaaaa"
He clearly enjoys saying her name
Talisa waves a hand dismissively
"What? Yes, sure, whatev-"
"It is called 'Mothers Kissssss'. It needs to be born knowing its name, Talisssaaaaaa"
Talisa gives Mortimer her full attention for the first time
"What sort of idiotic na-"
Mort cuts her off again. His jovial tone has disappeared.
"It will be called 'Mothers Kiss' because it makes the bad things go away. Do this for me"
If Talisa responds, Mortimers back doesn't hear it
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On the morning of the start of their journey to Tsar, Mortimer comes down stairs dressed for the first time in his newly modified plate.
Gone are the gentle curves and smooth edges. Instead, it has lots of flat surfaces and squared off edges, the whole suit having a sort of blocky, harsh look. It is a strange mix of crude and brutish, but still somehow savagely noble
On his front is the engraving of Shades' emblem, that of a profile of a crow, but stylised in a way that seems more Orcish. Its eye, over-large and right in the middle of Mortimers chest, looks to be inlayed with a holy symbol. Its a blue circle in which is a golden pentagon with 5 golden triangles spaced off each of the flat sides. It seems to represent the Sun.
On his shoulders and elbows, you can see sockets. The suit seems to be unfinished, and you figure he'll fit armour spikes at some later point.
As he walks away, you see runes and symbols carved into his backplate. They don't seem to invoke any actual power, more just an eclectic mix of symbols of a religious and planar nature representing strength and protection. You think Tabitha probably provided the symbols, but didn't have much say when it came to their arrangement.
Across the small of his back you see, in Orcish, the words "Mothers Embrace"
The overall effect, while not conventional, is pretty obvious to anyone who knows anything about religion, armour smithing or history
Here stands a Hellknight
Mortimers serious face.
Late in the afternoon, a slightly harried looking Tabitha roams
the castle, collecting Frey and the remaining members of the Great
Downwards Engineering Company. As a group, she leads you to the
dining hall.
You find Mortimer waiting inside, standing at the head of the table. He is leaning forward, his fists pressed against the timber, head bowed. Pieces of adamantite plate lie scattered across the floor and his scythe is embedded in the wall at a strange angle. His powerful frame is covered in little nicks and scratches and he smells strongly of smoke. It almost looks like he's been caught in an explosion of some sort. Considering he said he was only going to town a few hours back, you have no idea where trouble found him.
As you enter, he straightens and looks at you. Gone is his usual easy laugh and playful nature. Instead, his lips are pressed tight and his eyes betray both grief and a focused rage.
"Sit. Now is the time for listening. Questions come after."
Tabitha makes her way around the table and leans in the corner of the room opposite the door. She glares at you until you settle down.
Mortimer’s eyes unfocus for a moment or two. You can see him trying to gather his composure.
"I have played my cards close to my chest recently. I have been secretive and closed mouthed. This wasn't because of distrust. Nor was I attempting to deceive you. A soldiers first rule of war is 'Surprise is King'. A fist in the kidneys is better than a fist in the face after all. To that end, I have been gathering my strength and gaining allies as quietly as I could. I had intended to let Orcus underestimate us, and make him bleed for his mistake. I fear I have instead possibly underestimated him"
Mortimer stops to gather his thoughts, rubbing absent-mindedly at a gash on his forearm.
"Today, two things of import happened.
Firstly, I travelled to the Heavens and reaffirmed vows I took secretly a long while ago. In short, I have taken an Archon known as Balthazar as my Patron. In his name, I will start an Order. This Order will have two objectives. Firstly, it is going to be dedicated to the reclaiming of this land from the bandits, the goblins, the undead, and any other dirty little creature that wishes us harm. It will also be dedicated to the destruction of Rappan Athuk. I am going to bathe this land in blood, and from that fertilised soil civilisation will grow."
"Secondly, I have troubling news. I traded the Mantle of Faith to my Patron for the return of Shades. I don't understand the process they used to try to bring him back, but it involved some sort of construction artefact. I watched as they tried to revive him. They spun him a new body. I could see him hanging there in the air. All that was left to happen was for his spirit to rejoin it."
He rubs the heel of his hand into his eye tiredly
"Instead, the artefact exploded. Shards of it flew everywhere, injuring many. The fabricated body was utterly destroyed. Noone could tell me why that happened, but from the questions they were asking I think it was the rejoining process that caused the destruction. Whether Shades' spirit is lost to us because of where he died, or whether it is because Orcus intervened as revenge for the destruction of the temple, I don't know. All that is clear is that Shades might be beyond our reach"
Mortimer slowly levers himself down into the chair. Tabitha comes up behind him and softly, almost tenderly, starts working her magics on his wounds.
"If you have questions, now is the time to ask. Except you Laniss. I might be able to deal with your questions tomorrow"
-------------------------
tldr; Mort has an Archon as a patron. Mort traded the mantle to his patron for a true rez for Shades. The rez didn't work, probably because Orcus is a dick.
You find Mortimer waiting inside, standing at the head of the table. He is leaning forward, his fists pressed against the timber, head bowed. Pieces of adamantite plate lie scattered across the floor and his scythe is embedded in the wall at a strange angle. His powerful frame is covered in little nicks and scratches and he smells strongly of smoke. It almost looks like he's been caught in an explosion of some sort. Considering he said he was only going to town a few hours back, you have no idea where trouble found him.
As you enter, he straightens and looks at you. Gone is his usual easy laugh and playful nature. Instead, his lips are pressed tight and his eyes betray both grief and a focused rage.
"Sit. Now is the time for listening. Questions come after."
Tabitha makes her way around the table and leans in the corner of the room opposite the door. She glares at you until you settle down.
Mortimer’s eyes unfocus for a moment or two. You can see him trying to gather his composure.
"I have played my cards close to my chest recently. I have been secretive and closed mouthed. This wasn't because of distrust. Nor was I attempting to deceive you. A soldiers first rule of war is 'Surprise is King'. A fist in the kidneys is better than a fist in the face after all. To that end, I have been gathering my strength and gaining allies as quietly as I could. I had intended to let Orcus underestimate us, and make him bleed for his mistake. I fear I have instead possibly underestimated him"
Mortimer stops to gather his thoughts, rubbing absent-mindedly at a gash on his forearm.
"Today, two things of import happened.
Firstly, I travelled to the Heavens and reaffirmed vows I took secretly a long while ago. In short, I have taken an Archon known as Balthazar as my Patron. In his name, I will start an Order. This Order will have two objectives. Firstly, it is going to be dedicated to the reclaiming of this land from the bandits, the goblins, the undead, and any other dirty little creature that wishes us harm. It will also be dedicated to the destruction of Rappan Athuk. I am going to bathe this land in blood, and from that fertilised soil civilisation will grow."
"Secondly, I have troubling news. I traded the Mantle of Faith to my Patron for the return of Shades. I don't understand the process they used to try to bring him back, but it involved some sort of construction artefact. I watched as they tried to revive him. They spun him a new body. I could see him hanging there in the air. All that was left to happen was for his spirit to rejoin it."
He rubs the heel of his hand into his eye tiredly
"Instead, the artefact exploded. Shards of it flew everywhere, injuring many. The fabricated body was utterly destroyed. Noone could tell me why that happened, but from the questions they were asking I think it was the rejoining process that caused the destruction. Whether Shades' spirit is lost to us because of where he died, or whether it is because Orcus intervened as revenge for the destruction of the temple, I don't know. All that is clear is that Shades might be beyond our reach"
Mortimer slowly levers himself down into the chair. Tabitha comes up behind him and softly, almost tenderly, starts working her magics on his wounds.
"If you have questions, now is the time to ask. Except you Laniss. I might be able to deal with your questions tomorrow"
-------------------------
tldr; Mort has an Archon as a patron. Mort traded the mantle to his patron for a true rez for Shades. The rez didn't work, probably because Orcus is a dick.
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