Arden Vul

Sarcophaguses? Sarcophagi?
Grimly would love this guy

“Gui-hee-hee-hee-vrel!” Sob. Shudder.

Sigh. And that was after Raven Maggie used that salamander god’s Staff of Healing to restore his sanity. Somehow Jasper remembered him as being a lot less whiny and a lot more tragically noble, or nobly tragic, or something. Plus he was only about three hundred years old! I was hoping for thousands. What a disappointment.

I figured Lankios had the keys to all of the mysteries of Arden Vul, or I would never have dragged them back here to find him. Well, he did have a literal key to the Obsidian Gates, hidden behind a brick in his penitent’s cell. That’s something. Jasper remembered that herbal stew he makes more or less correctly. Man, that stuff is vile.

Jasper didn’t know the old guy was a paladin, though, or any of his backstory — about the love triangle, or the double murder, or the triple divine curse that we somehow got stuck adjudicating. That’s a horrible thought, that even death can’t get you out from under. Khitor and Guivrel’s ghosts were stuck in those stone coffins for centuries, waiting for some random losers to come along and drop those brass tokens into their hands and free them for whatever their various gods have planned for them next.

Stone Coffins. That’s a good name for a band.

???? Whatever. I wonder if either of them ever used the Jade Cup? Maybe I’ll ask Lankios. Assuming Lankios is still alive when we get back to the Broken Head. And sane. And Grimly hasn’t convinced him to take a holy vow of silence or something.

Talk about your lost causes …

Oh. That was sooooo Jasper. Am I channeling? Can I do that? Or do I need a dose of the staff, too?

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Or Maybe a Peacock . . .
flight of the harpyries

There were stinking feathers and blood everywhere, most of it Balthazar’s. Two of the harpies were savaging the mage, near enough to lifting him into the air where they could leisurely rip his guts out. She flung herself onto the slight young man and held him down, covering them both with the Mantle of Fenth, which the harpies could tear at all night if they wanted without doing much harm. She might have just given Balthazar the Mantle, but she wasn’t at all sure it would work for him, since she had claimed it with her own blood. Besides, he likely would have tried to keep it.

The wizard kept trying to struggle out from under her, reminding her of a bantam rooster, clucking and squalling to get back into the fight. With the harpy down blood-glued to his beard and eyebrows, the image was even more compelling. She actually laughed, in the middle of a battle.

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The others were in the fray by then. The Elves were taking a heavy toll on the harpies with their bows, and Wick-Trimmer was … riding one of them, stabbing at it like a lunatic with Doffy’s sword, as it tried to turn its claws on him. They flapped and fluttered and crashed to the ground in a flurry of dust and feathers, like dirty snow. Ulv had been visibly dangerous, threatening — a great barking bitch of a woman — but that quiet little goblin, the former slave, had murder in his heart, and he guarded that hatred like a treasure. He was scary.

He would have made a good Black Lotus.

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Back in the White Metal Room
You're not the only one who can do something stupid, wizard!

Smantha padded down the tunnel barefoot. It was the only way she could match Callista’s quiet steps, though the older woman was wearing sandals. She kept her short bow in her hands with an arrow nocked. She was to stay back in the tunnel, hidden, while Callista entered the white metal chamber on some mission. If a tall, pale-haired woman wearing orange entered the chamber, Smantha was to shoot her in the leg on sight.

“Watch her. She’s fast,” Callista had said. “Faster than me, and I can dodge an arrow if I know it’s coming.” Smantha hadn’t believed that, until the woman had done it, twice, back in what her group called the Hall of Judgement. The second time she snatched the arrow out of the air like a snake striking.

Smantha waited in the darkness back beyond the chamber’s light. Callista was well-lit inside the chamber, examining a large glass tube with a person in it. Sort of a person, anyway. It was thin, and withered, the color and texture of a fresh parsnip. Callista tapped on the glass with the mad Druid’s club. In the stone corridor her voice carried clearly.

“Speak, Spoke. Which one should I release?” Tap, tap. “Which one would make a trustworthy source of information?” Tap, tap. “Perhaps even an ally?” Tap, tap. “I know you can do this. You chose me, after all.”

The tapping became a little more insistent as she moved from tube to tube. “I already released the Rudish-va woman. She was evil – I’m sure of that. To restore the balance, I should release a good one, shouldn’t I?”

Behind Callista, the parsnip opened its empty black eyes.

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Memory Craps
who says games are not educational?

I’m sitting in meditation, trying to understand how I can remember things that haven’t happened yet, or that happened before I was born, or that happened to someone else. How memory works at all, really. Are Pyrite’s spells just memories? If that was true, how does he make anything that he’s never seen before? Can he pull images from the memories of other people?

Purposeful recall is difficult, even during meditation. Being reminded of something works better. Fighting those white baboons reminded me of the first time Jasper saw one, in NewMarket, on a leash, when he threw one of Tikkun Thane’s Disciplined into the river. How the man thrashed and sparked and went still. I don’t remember that event from Axe’s point of view, or the Disciplined’s, presumably because they were never raised by Jade Cup. I remember Jasper’s death, but not Axe’s. Of course, if Axe were here, and alive, I could just ask him.

I could probably talk to the leftover baboons, too. Maybe that’s what’s wrong with the Druid. Maybe he has been speaking Baboon too long. Or maybe one of his trinkets drove him mad. Or maybe he was already crazy. Maybe his god likes him that way. I took some of that yellow “neuroderm” stuff that was in those big glass jars, the stuff that Rudish-va, Triv-Lok, was floating in. The stuff that kept her alive in there for hundreds of years. I wonder if it would heal the Druid’s mind?

I realize much of this is nonsensical. This is just a game I’ve started playing, tossing ideas together like dice. Sometimes new memories land on top, and I can read them off. I learn things that way. Just a few hours ago Grimley used one of those magic pearls to seal off his mind from that devil. Later, I remembered how to do the same thing myself, only I don’t need the pearl.

I was the one who opened Triv-Lok’s tube/bed/thing. I’m still not sure how I did that. Did I remember it? I should go back down there. With noone else around to distract me, I might remember something else. Or I might bump into Triv-Lok again . . .

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A Spoke in the Wheel
what wheel?

We will do great things together, you and I.

That’s what it said when I picked it up. And it hasn’t spoken since. No announcements of its powers. No warnings that Balthazar had made a deal with a devil. All we know is what Balthazar’s pearl-spell told us, that it is a powerful weapon against both Good and Evil creatures. And I’m not much confident in Balthazar’s judgements about anything, because HE MADE A DEAL WITH A DEVIL.

They went off exploring and left me here with Ulv to guard the prisoners. We got really lucky, surprising them before the Druid could bring his magic to bear. Having Aylinn play “Fox & Hounds” with a chunk of his baboon army was a good idea, but it wasn’t decisive. Dropping the Druid was, and not just because of his spells. He was wearing magic armor, plus the blood-drinking Mantle of Fenth that is keeping me not at all warm right now, sitting here on the floor. He could have held out against our blades for a long time. And he was carrying this.

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I like this thing. It’s extremely well balanced. I can flip it in the air from pretty much any direction, and its handle always lands right into my palm. I haven’t hit anything with it yet. It’s supposed to do a lot of damage, but that must come from its magic, because it’s got no sharp edges, and it feels too light to break bones.

I wish it would talk again. With the others gone, it’s too risky to un-gag the Druid to ask about it, assuming I could even get his attention. He’s just staring at the wall and drooling right now (though to be fair, that could be the gag). His fighter friend, or bodyguard, or whatever he was, claims not to know anything about it beyond the word Beytnorn, which is one name for an Archontean goddess. I gave him some parched grain to suck on for that bit of information. It was pretty salty, so soon he’ll want some water. Maybe that will jog his memory. There are other ways to do it, but I don’t do that kind of thing any more.

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Fools

Slow your breathing… rhythmic. Listen to the simpleton snore. Everyone must believe. You can’t tell them, they can’t understand. The pain… it’s constant now. The soul being pulled to an impossible task. Melchior must die. You have to. There is no other way now.

Hide it. The pain. You are Balthazar the Blue. They can never see it. Ashamed. Lessened. They need you.

Quietly. Quickly. The words. Known. Prepared. Invisible. The others would never see, but the elf… vigilant. Did anyone notice? Quiet. Listen. Nothing.

I should tell them. Even fools understand pain. The priest, the goblin, the dead woman. Fools. Good fools. My fools? Protective? That is new. I will have to think more on that later.

No. I can’t tell them. Too risky. What if they tried to stop me? What if they didn’t? Can’t risk it. The self-righteous paladin would never allow it. Would never forgive it.

Roll over. Quietly. Start moving. Escape.

You remember the way. Turn. Straight. Hidden Door. Still locked. Of course it is. Anyone powerful enough to unlock has the sense not to.

Release. Dispel. Open. Illusion won’t work now. I see.

Last chance. Turn back? No…. I can’t live with this pain. The only way.

Step in to the room. It can’t hurt you, yet. Caged. No need to be afraid. Stop being afraid.

Now. We Bargain.

Fools. Forgive me.

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Have You Ever Danced with a Devil in the Pale Moon Light? Or under other, less romantic circumstances?
Callista's color commentary

“EVIL!”

Charge.

Whatever, Grimley. All I know is that skinny bitch Triv-Lok played us. I should have punched her in the throat the second she took that green card from Wick-trimmer. Instead I let her get away with it. She was so fast … need to learn that.

Obey me.

Obey this, old man. Be glad I got to you first, and that my hands were empty. Ulv would have gutted you for fun.

WHAK!

That was a strangely calm command for an old man outnumbered six to one. And a strangely solid jaw, for all he spun around like a drunken sailor. Why is Ulv scrubbing at the floor? Doesn’t matter. Elbow to the kidney will drop him.

Whiff!

Crap, he fell the wrong way. Right into Grimley’s swing

Tink!

Nope, somehow his blade bounced off the floor. Sweep the legs.

Swish!

Oh, nooo. We’re being played again.

“Uh, ladies? I hate to tell you this, but the Amulet of Djed says that you’ve got a tiger by the tail in there. And by tiger, I mean big red devil. Horns, hoofs, giant iron phallus, the whole deal. I think he’s happy to see us, if you know what I mean.”

Thanks a lot, Wick-trimmer. And me without a magic weapon.

“Luna, stop fiddling with the walls and tackle the barbarian! Don’t let her break the circle, or we lose our bargaining power with the devil!”

Or he escapes, and kills us all, if we’re lucky.

“My name is Aaaaaariel!” WHUMP!

“I vas kleanink! I must klean der flor!”

“Shut up and (grunt) out … the … door!”

Time to go, Grimley. Time to go, Grimley. “Time to go, Grimley!”

“EVIL!”

“It’s been here a thousand years! It’s not going anywhere … !”

Tumble. Stumble. Run.

“I’m Wizard Locking this door. It won’t stop the devil if that circle was degraded in any way, but it will prevent any other party from getting in there to release it. Assuming they even have the wit to find it, which is unlikely. It was so cunningly made that only one of such godlike intellect as Balthazar the Blue, the kind of genius born once in a thousand years – ”

“Hey, I found that door. Me, Ariel.”

“Shut up, Luna. Don’t interrupt me when I’m talking about myself. Or any other time.”

I have GOT to find some more professional associates. And a magic weapon.

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A Brief Summary of Events Dark and Deep

We have new titles based on the last session:

Wicktrimmer: Champion of Thoth and Traveler of the Astral Plane
Callista: Calmer of the Star-Fallen
Grimley: Conqueror of the Zodiac
Luna: Slayer of the Montari

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Sssmoke Signals
floating through the ether

Almosst sssertainly noticed, if not actually intersssepted, by Klimt the Watcher, Klimt the Observant, Klimt the Eyefully Endowed . . .

Boys. Left town quickly. New standing orders. Don’t kill anyone. Beatings fine. Watch CoP. C.

Cats. Blue fool blew up patrol. Three survivors. Do not kill. Discredit. C.

Dudes. Outlawed. Need smoke-tight alibi. Blame doppelgangers? C.

Eggs. New plan, Op: REASONABLE DOUBT. Buy sightings from CoP goblin. Total crime wave. Noone dies. C.

Fellows. Hiding out. Smoke silence. Do not attempt extraction. Continue REASONABLE DOUBT. Don’t overdo. Infamous, not monstrous. C.

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Who Knew Dwarves Could Sing?
From the laboratory journals of Pyrite the Magician, member in good standing, College of Perception:

This is maddening! There is simply not enough of the hallucinogenic poison left on the dart to analyze alchemically. The Shen have disappeared from Narsileon, and no one here knows where they have gone. Otherwise I would just get a larger sample, or – better – Hypnotize one of them into telling me all they know of it. My new spells might allow me to find them, eventually, but if the servants don’t know where to go, then searching systematically will take longer than I expect to live, especially if the Shen have gone back to their far Western homeland. Unless I had literally thousands of Shadow Servants searching in parallel … (note to self: research hijacking of Shadow Servants cast by other mages).

I could ask my elders here at the College, but that would cost more gold than the warrior wench is paying me. I could visit Klimt, but that would be even more expensive, in “contracts.” Flipping Achonteans. What’s wrong with a good Goblin spit-shake?

The library here at CoP has been little help, so far. There are 61 volumes on opium, and a dozen on mushrooms of various species – though none on the fungal forest that we found underneath Arden Vul. There is also an epic poem in Khazak by a bard of unsavory reputation who styles himself the Lizard King, whose handwriting certainly looks as if he were on something. If I still had my helmet, the translation would be instantaneous. Hm . . . I could easily visit the Dwarf embassy here in Narsileon.

Who should I wear? Someone formal, I think.

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