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Convocation Fragments
Posted: 16 Dec 2006 12:29 PM |
Salt was preparing to depart from the Icy Vale Inn. He stopped upstairs to examine his old room, currently vacant. He had borrowed the key from Miggins on good faith; Miggins had been particularly jolly these last few days. Perhaps the opening up of the ice blockage in the Divider Chain had brought him a great deal of business, if the blood of his customers did frequently come to stain the boards of his front room.
Salt smiled noting that the broken quarrel of glass had not been repaired. The tinker Warnick had died in the cold winter when the Vale was held in Helkris' grasp, so that gap in the casement was stuffed with the same rags that Salt had put there to block out the cold. The Seer explored the room with his hands, opening up his senses to the impressions left behind by a sequence of occupants.
He pressed down on the bed with both hands. He lifted the mattress and saw the floor underneath the rope bed was clean. He felt the handle of the water pitcher and traced the bowl of the wash basin with sensitive fingers. He looked up at exposed beams emerging from the plaster ceiling, marred by graffiti, gripped and touched by a hundred hands. Then he pulled up a chair and sat at the narrow writing desk that adorned the room. He squared his body to the desk and put both palms on its wooden surface. Eyes closed, his hands meandered slowly, mouth muttering the rooms secrets inaudibly.
After a time he withdrew a sheet of paper absently and found a lead pencil in his shoulderbag. He needed to map out several conflicting initiatives, and especially take careful notes on what the mage Bereil Yadashem had suggested to him.
.....
[untitled fragment]
B.Y. - The convocation can resume - no further concern for betrayal
The S-cursed introduced as some suggested ~~ Brought into our midst by someone
B starts by saying that person is "no longer a concern"
~~concludes to say that it was L. Edmonds who betrayed the meeting~~
? ? ?
B say L. E. could not have survived certain unnamed experiences in Maldovia
unless he had formed partnerships with the S-cursed, or been INDEBTED to them
??The attack is thus explained??
??With passing of L. E. we reconvene in safety??
Separate:
---> L. McIath asks at an earlier time whether anyone at the meeting was indebted as such?
---> L. E. was the first to protest that our meeting had been betrayed - said it was vanity to assume the attack was attempted assassination
--->
.....
The note is confounding, and unfinished. Bereil offered nothing conclusive beyond his opinion, but the suggestion was strangely compelling. Perhaps Bereil knew something of Lucius' movements, during a period of time in which Salt acknowledgedly shunned his friend for the company he kept. Namely, the witch Dana. The evil orclun-raised sorceress who had led Lucius and Ophelia into disaster.
And here, Salt was peparing to gather Lucius' friends and wellwishers to offer one last goodbye. What would he say of his friend and companion? Could he really forgive, before he said goodbye himself? |
"What are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about dying."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means lying in the ground with dirt on your face and holding your breath forever."
-Burt Reynolds, "The End" |
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A Desperate Fragment
Posted: 29 Dec 2006 09:40 AM |
[A penciled note on a torn piece of rag paper - left with Merrary at the Brandibuck Bakery - folded over twice with the name "Alis" written in large letters across the front]
ALIS~
YOU MUST NOT ASK TO HEAR THE TERMS
YOU MUST NOT MAKE ANY DEALS ON BEHALF
OF MYSELF OR ANY OTHER
BE BOLD
HAVE NO THOUGHT FOR ME, YOUR SERVANT
~S |
"What are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about dying."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means lying in the ground with dirt on your face and holding your breath forever."
-Burt Reynolds, "The End" |
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Re: A Desperate Fragment
Posted: 29 Dec 2006 10:31 AM |
~Written underneath it in child's writing is the following...
"GiVe hIM whAt hE WanTs.........aND HELL gO AwaY." |
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Fragment of Conversation
Posted: 30 Dec 2006 11:06 AM |
An expedition into the Divider Chain, following the trail blazed by Pickston and Jessup's inaugural Royal Tour a week or more earlier. [Who was this Pickston anyway? What ever happened to Jessup's erstwhile friend and business partner?]
A well-executed ambush had left only Shard Aerinmane and Rosen Vimes alive. Together they beat back the ambushers and recovered the remains of their companions. A healer had been brought from the hot springs to revive their chilled corpses. Quickened once more, Ophelia departed from Miggins' inn at Icy Vale, as did Sylune Tindomerel and some of the others. Salt remained behind, sipping spirits, unable to get warm. Soon the wizard Bereil Yadeshem appeared, and with Salt's huntsman Tristian a conversation began.
Then, Jessup appeared at the door to the Inn. He entered from the side door, purchased an ale from the bartender, and approached the three.
...
"Zalt," Jessup said in his accent-touched common. Seated, the seer's bushy eyebrows momentarily left his face heading towards the ceiling.
Bereil raised a goblet to the half-orc and said, "Sir Jessup. Always a pleasure."
Tristian addressed the newly knighted Jessup familiarly. "Hey there."
"Mister Jessup," Salt said, sliding a square bottle of spirits towards him. He had been nursing the bottle since he, Bereil and Tristian had gathered there. "Drink?"
Jessup took the bottle in his paw and drank directly from it. Within a few moments he set the empty case bottle on the table with a gentle clinking sound. Tristian looked on admiringly. "I like him already."
Salt took a small warming sip from his short stemmed glass. He had drunk too much to be much afraid, though it was clear to most the Jessup terrified him. He loathed the man.
"Zalt... Mizta Jezzup haz a queztion fer ya."
Bereil slurped a mouthful mahogany-colored wine from his goblet.
"Wah 'appened in Johez shzop?"
"It's gone dark in there, hasn't it," replied the seer.
"Nah tha'."
"You mean the total darkness?" offered Tristian, who was there.
Salt nodded looking into the spirits in his glass. "It got darker, much darker, yes..."
"Yez."
"That evil grin?" Tristian continued.
"SUGAR MAN!" screamed the woman Josaphine madly. She had been lying listlessly about the place since the party had returned from the Divider Chain, sans Shard's poleaxe.
Jessup scowled. He turned his head towards the madwoman who was now crawling on her hands and knees on the floor. "Who?" he asked.
"Too many drinks for that one," Bereil quipped.
"Zo he iz 'ere," Jessup said to this madwoman's confirmation.
"Jessup," Salt said addressing the half-orc, "you almost certainly know everything that I do, and more. So there's no reason not to say everything that I know in regards to this matter. I know that the Sugar Man is here because Ophelia conjured him up with her promises. I know that Balthor has made promises to him, and now he is damned to go to his hell-prison unless he can convince another to go in his stead."
"Ther be zom tingz even I nah be knowin. Mizta Jezzup 'eard hiz zervant waz 'ere...nah im. Mizta Jezzup waz nah told he waz in tha Port."
"Sugar Man?" Bereil asked skeptically.
Jessup nodded curtly.
"A demon if you will, Bereil," offered Tristian.
"Truly?" responded the bearded mage. "I was under the impression from the name that it was a man who was either a pimp, or an assassin."
"Wait," Tristian said, "...In Johe's shop. That was him?"
The madwoman spoke again, but flatly. "I saw him there too. In the Port."
"In the port... in the forest... he visited me personally, in Brandibuck Vale." Salt breathed the words. "Impenetrable darkness... and that smile."
Jessup tapped his finger repeatedly on the table, asking Salt, "Wah doz he wan of ya?"
Cool and level, Salt said "His lackey told me that someone has sold me out."
Jessup raised a brow.
"Now I wouldn't tell that to my friends," Salt said, "because they would try to help me. But I am willing to tell you."
Jessup snorted and gave a slight smile. "Zo it beginz.....deal afta...deal...afta deal..." He growled, a low sound that you felt through the seat of your chair rather than heard.
"Several have led me to believe that I must agree. Make a deal. But I've made no such deal."
"Ya be wize nah ta," Jessup said to the seer.
Salt nodded. "You know exactly how this goes then, Jessup. What you describe is exactly where Balthor finds himself."
Jessup shook his great white-haired head. "Indeedz."
The madwoman Josaphine had crawled over to Tristian on her hands and knees and was searching the soles of his boots for something. While stomping at her, he said, "I think Balthor will come out of this."
"But the costs..." Salt replied.
"One doez nah come out of a deal wit tha Zugar Man unzcarred."
"I must say the worst scarring has already happened to our eunich friend," Bereil chipped, snickering softly.
"He's really an eunich?" Tristian asked.
"Regardlezz..." Jessup pronounced, "He will nah leave until all hiz dealz are complete."
"This one..." Salt gestured towards Miggens, "... Says his little servant has led two men away from Icy Vale."
Jessup grunted.
"He will take as many as he can?" Salt asked.
"Yezz. Thoze foolizh enoughz ta make dealz or try an git out a dealz."
"Why now..." Salt struggled to formulate questions. "Why does he surface - so to speak - now?"
"Zomeone haz given im permizzion ta come. He doz nah leave hiz 'ome unlezz it iz given. He zendz hiz zervantz inztead." The half-orc frowned. "Zomeone granted im permizzion."
"You know who holds sway over him, in such matters? Could Ophelia have done it?"
"It iz pozzible. Now oweva...he iz 'ere....he will try an make az many dealz az pozzible.....take hiz time....take az many az he can."
Salt had once sworn to Ophelia that he would never repeat it. Now he spoke Ophelia's secret to Jessup, just as he would soon tell Alton and Shard and anyone else who shared in whispers their theories of the Sugar Man. "She told me... at one point, that she would send the Naruthian named Nadia away to him."
"Nah wize at all."
"Does Seil belong to him?" Josaphine asked, having ended her tussle with Tristian.
Bereil calculated. "Every deal he makes will keep him here longer, so I would believe. One cannot leave a task unfinished, or a debt left unpaid."
Jessup nodded to each of them. "Correct on both countz."
"Seal?" asked Bereil, who was still catching up.
"Ziel....a childz....hiz child."
"She's taken some abuse, on this visit," Salt said. "Have you seen her lately?"
"The demon child," Tristian said. "Tends to take a lot of punishment... not that I've... tried..."
Salt looked at Tristian grimly.
Jessup scowled ugly and said, "There be nothin tha thing haz nah been throughz."
Bereil scowled as well and threw back a slug of wine.
Jessup continued. "Nor iz ther anythin we can do ta her ta cauze her pain er zufferin."
"Sure you can," Josaphine said brightening.
Jessup shook his head. "One tha haz been through hell..."
"Oh yes," said Bereil anticipating Josaphine's next words sarcastically. "The power of love."
"All you have to do is hold her," Josaphine said, "and love her. heal her..."
Jessup chuckled. "Yez....lovez. Az zhe lovez uz all. Ther iz nah lovez. Nah ta herz. Nah anymorez. Tha part of her haz been removed.
"This place..." Salt asked, "Aboddan can never be filled. So this all ends when there are no more deals to make. Which could take generations. Couldn't it?"
"Perhapz."
Salt looked past Jessup and his eyes grew wide. "As I live and-"
Jessup turned and grinned.
"Alton!" Salt cried happily, clapping his hands together.
"Gods have mercy," Bereil muttered. "Alton! What a pleasant surprise."
"Salt!" the hin responded, "Jessup!" Then he yanked on Bereil's longest whiskers. "'ey."
"Bloody hin, I forbid ye to tug my beard."
"Tfft," came Alton's reply. "Wat'cha all doin' 'ere?"
"Juz chattin'."
"Discussing important discussions of importance," Bereil responded.
"Yes," Salt said looking at Bereil, "the usual!"
"Oh, no one told me wot's goin' on fer a while," the hin said insistently.
Tristian offered Alton his seat, but the hin threw a pile of cushions on the ground, declining. Jessup watched amused as he hopped on top of them, bringing his chin up to table-height.
After some banter, Salt cocked his head and said, "Sir Jessup... when did you first learn of the Sugar Man. I'm asking for posterity, now."
Some hesitation.
"Mizta Jezzup haz dealt wit im in tha pazt. Zo haz a gooda frind a mine."
Salt's face clouded over in real sympathy. It was involuntary. He searched Jessup's face and sighed grievously. "Yes... Balthor told me..."
"Yez," Jessup said, frowning.
"...and there's nothing to be done?" Salt asked him.
"Oh yez... Ther are optionz," Jessup said ponderously. "One... make zure all tha dealz are completez... Ya zee....while tha Zugar Man may be powerful...he muz falla tha rulez... Zo onze tha dealz be don...he muz return."
"Anotha option.......kill off all thoze tha haz made dealz."
To Salt's mind, Tristian and Bereil both agreed to this plan too quickly.
Jessup nodded. "Mhmm. It iz tha moz effizient."
Salt frowned, the cloud persisting. "I meant to ask if there was nothing to be done about your friend."
Jessup looked at him grimly, catching on. "Nah."
After a time, he continued. "Tha waz nah my deal. It waz hiz. He will nah let im out. He enjoyz zeein me angry."
Salt shifted his chair a few jumps away from the knighted, and nighted half-orc.
"It iz hiz.....way at gettin back at me," he said with a snarl.
There was another pause around the table.
Bereil broke into the silence, "I must dare to ask what is it ye had previously done to him."
"Ther are timez Bereilz...when one makez a deal wit im....an tha one comez out on topz. They be few....but ther be timez.
"Ah," Bereil said, "that does sound sufficiently enraging."
"He muz abide by tha rulez az we muz."
"Do we know how many deals he's made?" Tristian asked, shoving the cat called Blackadder off his lap.
"I know of two," Salt said, "Perhaps three, if Seil does not lie to me."
Tristian listed them: "Balthor, Ophelia, and... who else?"
"If she does not lie to me," Salt finished, "then someone has sold me out. Made a deal against my future."
"Wait..." Tristian said, "you're not going there, because you made no deal. Isn't it only by free will?"
"Yez," pronounced Jessup.
"Why, though?" Bereil asked of Salt. "What threat are ye to this person."
"No threat at all," Salt responded, "But who can comprehend his appetites?"
"Who be knowin why he wantz Zalt... Mizta Jezzup heard he wantz Aliz az wellz. Perhapz it iz wah pain it will cauze ta othaz ifn he goez."
"Alis!!" Salt and Alton said her name in unison.
Jessup nodded. "I will zay thiz... Mizta Jezzup would nah wizh even hiz worzt enemy a fate involvin tha Zugar man an Aboddan. Hell iz eternalz... Zo iz tha zufferin there. Tingz we will neva comprehendz. Ziel be tha examplez."
Salt was now badly rattled. "I can discuss this no further," he said. "My cup is dry... my mouth is dry, my throat is dry...." Salt stood but was stopped with more words from Jessup.
Jessup signals when a conversation is over. The conversation is not finished until Jessup says so. He is always the first to leave the table. His doing so releases the others gathered.
"Mizta Zalt..." said Jessup in his formal, unassuming way. "I zuggezt we git thoze tha be involved togetha. It iz then tha we may be able ta figga out a zolutionz."
"Thiz affectz uz all," Jessup finished. "Perhapz fer different reazonz... nonthalezz... it affectz uz all. I be knowin zomeonez who knowz more on tha zubject then myzelf. Zomeone who haz been in Aboddan. Zomeonez who haz zuffered ther. Fat Zam."
Jessup stood removing his weight from the suffering furniture.
"S-Sam has been there... ?!" Salt stammered.
Jessup nodded. "Tha iz wher I found 'im. I zhall zpeak wit him... He will come lookin fer ya."
Salt nodded. "I will keep an eye out."
"Farewell to all a ya," Jessup said with a bow. He patted Alton on the head on his way out.
((continues...)) |
"What are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about dying."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means lying in the ground with dirt on your face and holding your breath forever."
-Burt Reynolds, "The End" |
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Love Notes from Aboddan
Posted: 30 Dec 2006 03:55 PM |
Two weeks after this conversation. Seil, the Sugar Man's childer has disappeared entirely. A number of persons have seen the Sugar Man himself, manifesting on the surface of Vives unpredictably, creating horrifying visions about them, or taking them bodily into his hellish prison called Aboddan for a session of bargaining.
The Sugar Man threatens to take the innocent. Many have seen his victims carried off, only realizing at the last moment how little they have gained and what it has cost them. So long as there are deals in the works he will never return to his prison; when last he was freed, he walked the country for a hundred years and Aboddan swelled with bloated tortured bodies.
Hell is repetition.
Jessup pursues his own solution to this crisis. A messenger visits to inform Salt that in two weeks time... just thirteen days at the time these notes are written... Jessup's solution will be implemented. The Black Hand will eliminate anyone who yet gives the Sugar Man a reason to remain on the surface. When all the deals are concluded, it is said, the Sugar Man must return to the prison where he reigns.
Jessup suggested two weeks ago that all those who are involved be gathered, to try and find an alternative to his solution. Salt did not take this suggestion seriously. Now he arranges the facts before himself, and realizes that in thirteen days, he may wish that he had.
[Fragment positioned to the north on a round table]
The Rules
There are rules even in HELL ~ so says J. and others ~ SM says too
1/ He must abide by these rules as we must
2/ He will take to AB all those who make deals
gIVEhiM whAt HE WAnTS
3/ He will also take all those who try to break their deals
4/ He cannot himself manifest outside of AB unless he is given permission to come - ordinarily he sends a servant, who we know as Seil - J. says his Childer
5/ Servant can make deals as his proxy and ordinarily this is the way AB is kept filled
6/ Given permission he himself can walk the country
7/ He will not leave until all the deals are complete - J. says he will take his time and make as many deals as he can
x x x x x x
Thus, J.'s solution
1/ make sure that all the deals are complete
2/ kill every potential deal outstanding including everyone who is scarred, leaving nothing more to keep the SM on the surface
x x x x x x
[fragment positioned to the west on a round table]
Scars
yoU WilL BE scaRReDdxxXxxSaLT
J. ~ "One does not come out of a deal with the Sugar Man unscarred"
J. also says that he marks/takes all those who 1) deal or 2) try to get out of their deals
witnesses: B. and Tris.
SO: the scar marks everyone who has a deal - the scar is a marker and likely positive proof of damnation to AB
??Does J. have a scar??
??Does Sam have a scar??
SM ~ The Gloom ~ "either way - you will be scarred"
Ophelia - scar on her upper arm looking as though a hand had grabbed her.
~~Cold to the touchlovETOtouCH
~~Sweet taste in the mouth
The suicided in Port Royale - the marks on his chest
Valethrion has the actual skin (or was it Tris?)
Eibellenith made a copy of the markings - a second copy is now in hand
**SEE NOTE ~ Suicide Glyphs**
[fragment positioned to the south on a round table]
Beating AB and the SM
J. says ~ is possible to make a deal and come out on top
ALSO: Sam has been to AB and back again
Because SM must also follow the rules the rules may be used to trap him
J. may be the only one to beat the SM at his own game
Knowing this I was able to needle SM when confronted ---> in return he showed me that PR is there in AB ~ SM showed me his torment
J. says that SM enjoys seeing him angry LovE
Important ~ The SM can be taunted and proLOvevoked ~ the SM knows anger and has grudges
---> JESSUP'S SUGGESTION <---
Get everyone involved together to figure out a solution
--->THE ALTERNATIVE<---
GiVe hIM whAt hE WanTsaND HEll gO AwaY!!
The Black Hand takes out everyone who has had words with SM or his daughter ~ see *The Rules*
[Fragment positioned to the east side on a round table]
The Suicide Glyphs of Port Royale
Eibellenith's copy of the glyphs made from the original after flayed from the suicide
E. has searched the library at K. and found nothing
**She must be allowed into TOWER at L for further research**
Also - says Alton - Malakai Fenghuul is also knowledgeable of demons and might have a library equal to the holdings at Ladrielwe LOVehim YeS weDO aND
wELOvE yoU!
weDO!
Salt takes these four pages of notes and stacks them in the middle of the table. He then opens a flat folder made from two thin slabs of alder wood joined by a worn leather hinge, which contains his research notes, fragments of paper in all sizes, colors and materials accumulated since the beginnings of his research into Midor and its Aristi origins. The substantive materials are organized into portfolios and flat boxes in his growing library of work.
The infernal child's scrawl proliferates marring every page and every fragment in the folder no matter how small or how full. The love notes proliferate down across his shelves, filling books in his collection, some borrowed, some copied, some filched. The notes occur between lines suggestively; they fill the margins and are scrawled onto spines; like the black mildew that the seer constantly battles in his little pocket in the rock, they spread threatening to destroy his collected works and his most valuable references. Salt begins to see the love notes on every paper that passes in front of his eyes. They appear like a watermark on all of his blank stock.
He stops writing.
He also finds more and more that he prefers to stay in near proximity to his home and its shelter. He ventures briefly out to Brandibuck Vale, but more often he can be found seated by the bonfire in Swiftfoot Glade, or behind the locked grate that bars entry to his slickrock stronghold.
The seer, in a word, has gone to ground. |
"What are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about dying."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means lying in the ground with dirt on your face and holding your breath forever."
-Burt Reynolds, "The End" |
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Re: A Desperate Fragment
Posted: 03 Jan 2007 10:45 AM |
Alis visits Brandibuck for the first time since baking an enormous pile of pies for the wake. She buys some ingredients from Merrarry, who gives her Salt's note. She thanks her and walks away reading it.
After reading the note, she looks bewildered.
What's this all about, Salt? I would never make a deal, not for myself and definitely not on behalf of anyone else! This is madness.
Chewing on her lower lip, she writes a reply note and delivers it to Salt's abode.
-----------------------------------------------
Salt,
thank you for your warning, but you
do not need to worry about me making
deals or discussing the terms.
Knowing what I know (and even before
I knew), I would never make a deal.
Not for myself, not even for my worst enemy.
Yours,
Alis
------------------------------------------------
She is no longer in the mood for baking, and she aimlessly wanders around the forests instead, trying to figure out why Salt thought it was necessary to write the note.
Is there some new turn in this that I'm not aware of?
Naturally, plenty of worrying follows. |
IG character: Alis Rapidshill |
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Plenty of Worrying Follows
Posted: 15 Jan 2007 09:07 PM |
"Awwwww!" Bogie called to Salt quietly as the seer read and re-read his correspondence. This stuff was new, introduced to his mailbox recently and not exposed to the childish characters that spread like a blight through his personal archive.
The raven swept low to rest on the surface of the table. Nearly as large as a vulture, Bogie hopped clumsily and worked at tucking its wings into a neat configuration that would not disturb the seer as he studied.
[A letter from Cedrych von Maistlin, received four days ago in Swiftfoot Glade]
Dear Salt:
I have been remiss a bit in the situation regarding the figure we now refer to as Sweet Fellow. A startling conversation between Alton, Shard, myself and a vampire named Mortifer filled me in on many of the details.
I understand now that this Sweet Fellow has offered you a deal, a deal to end all deals. I know that many are asking you what this deal might be, and you have yet to disclose it. Given your wisdom and insight, and the great affinity and sensitivity you have to our world, I imagine that offer must be weighing on you heavily.
I learned of the price paid Jessup paid once to have the world rid of this Sweet Fellow once before, and have to admit, the brute's stock rose slightly in my eyes. You know, of course, that any deal with this figure not be a happy one.
All of which is to say, if you would like my counsel on any of this, I would be happy to provide it. There are few in this world I respect more than you, despite not knowing you as well as I might wish. Of course, my counsel would be free, so understand that you may get what you pay for. But I now understand the enormity and complexity of this situation much better now, and would be pleased to provide any assistance to you.
As you no doubt have, I have also considered what sort of deal it might take to end this whole thing. I have tried to think of this from the Sweet Fellow's perspective. Given his role, and that he answers to no one, what might he want? An end to this process perhaps, where by he might give up the mantle? Freedom for his "first-born," Seil?
I know I clutch at straws, but again, if I can be of assistance, do not hesitate to call upon me.
Your colleague and admirer,
Cedrych von Maistlin
[From Abelard's Alchemical Abstracts and Glossary Reference, Chapter 11: Of Poisons and Their Antidotes, subheading Belladonna]
...
"Sleeping Nightshade, Deadly Nightshade, and mandrake root are all relatives, the first and the last having uses as an anaesthetic among dentists, barbers and surgeons.
"The root is thick, fleshy and whitish, about 6 inches long, or more, and branching. It is perennial. The purplish-coloured stem is annual and herbaceous. It is stout, 2 to 4 feet high, undivided at the base, but dividing a little above the ground into three - more rarely two or four branches, each of which again branches freely.
"The fresh plant, when crushed, exhales a disagreeable odour, almost disappearing on drying, and the leaves have a bitter taste, when both fresh and dry. The berries are full of a dark, inky juice, and are intensely sweet, and their attraction to children on that account, has from their poisonous properties, been attended with fatal results.
"As every part of the plant is extremely poisonous, neither leaves, berries, nor root should be handled if there are any cuts or abrasions on the hands. The root is the most poisonous, the leaves and flowers less so, and the berries, except to children, least of all. It is said that an adult may eat two or three berries without injury, but dangerous symptoms appear if more are taken, and it is wiser not to attempt the experiment. Though so powerful in its action on the human body, the plant seems to affect some of the lower animals but little.
"Medicinal Action and Uses: Narcotic, diuretic, sedative, antispasmodic. May be used mimetically in preparation to counteract a broad spectrum of poisons, its likeness drawing the poisons to itself and counteracting them if mixed with essences of aloe and almond bitters. Combination with ginger also has beneficial and detoxifying effects. The pure extract ingested, inhaled or absorbed causes sleep-like torpor followed by death if sufficient quantity is taken into the body. Few surer poisons of vegetal origins exist."
[A letter from Shard Aerinmane, received four days ago in Swiftfoot Glade]
Salt,
Today I encountered a man who called himself "Mortifer". He works for Jessup, and he informed me of a great deal that I would rather not write here. In the interest of keeping this short, I will get straight to the point:
Deal with "Him". Our time is almost up, deadline ends this weekend, and enough innocents have suffered because of our idleness. While we debate, more are lured into his web.
Though I loathe to advise such, If you should fail to negotiate a deal to end all deals.. we die. If you fail to meet with him, and nothing changes.. we die. But if you come to some form of agreement with "him".. perhaps this matter can come to a close. You have something he wants, this much is clear. It may just be the key to solving this matter.
Contact me at the Broken Mask Inn, if you wish to hear the rest of what I learned.
-Shard
Salt sorted a number of plants on the great round table where he took his meals. He had obtained such a quantity of the plant that he cut off and discarded the stalks and leaves rather than bothering with them, leaving only the thick fleshy branching root. These he handled with the careless nonchalance of an experienced alchemist. He lined up six of the roots and cut them hastily into sections, dropping those into a large deep mortar and pounding them energetically until pulped.
This was transfered with a swift spatula into a glass funnel lined with a cheesecloth. A clear sap collected into a vessel below.
For a brief time, Salt considered hanging himself from a tree in Swiftfoot Glade. This was especially so as the two week period that Jessup had given him expired. He could not hide from Jessup's killers. Though Ferein had given him refuge when Camthalion Tasratir joined Tarik, the assassins appearing in his midst as messengers were cagey. His odds against them were extremely poor. Worse, having isolated himself he had not heard of the devastation of Port Royale, or of Jessup's one week extension.
However hanging was not easily accomplished alone. With some experimentation he discovered the way to tie a proper locking knot, but he did not want to strangle slowly. He considered that he could kick away the ladder from the entrance to his home and use that height for his purpose. These considerations aside however, he might also be interrupted. There was no place within the privacy of his laboratory to hang himself, except perhaps by twisting a rope through the bars that gated his cave from intruders.
No, this alternative was far preferable of those available to him. He pressed the pulp in the funnel to release a few more drops and then put the vessel into a pot of boiling water to reduce. The sap quickly changed from clear to tarry black, but it did not boil. Salt reduced it until it was thick and then turned the resulting substance onto a cool slab of marble. He scraped it up with the spatula and rolled it with his fingers until it formed a fat soft lozenge. This he rolled until it was long and thin, and then he cut it into pellets. Each pellet was rolled under a finger to make it a round pea-sized pill. This method was slightly more expedient than the use of a press-mold, and Salt was working quickly at his task.
This alternative was far preferable among those he saw in front of him. Salt understood that his friends and companions had only begun to beg him to make a deal with the demon keeper of Aboddan. But the deal to end all deals was a lie, as was every other utterance of that devil. To give himself over to that creature would invite disaster. The advice of the best demonologists alive was not to enter into compacts with a demon under any circumstances. Nor would he let a syn-cursed monster such as Mortifer take hold of his thoughts. And yet the loudest cry for him to accede to the Sugar Man's desires came from Jessup. Weeks ago Jessup told him that he would deal, or he would die.
Well, Salt would not deal. Nor would he allow Jessup's assassins to deprive him of his life. In a final act of will, he turned his energies towards thwarting both of these alternatives. The notion that this was cowardice as well did not even occur to him, so accustomed was he to his own cowardice.
Furthermore, Salt has seen things that he refused to accept. This path was chosen in defiance of his visions as well as his situation vis-á-vis Jessup and the others. He did not believe in fate. He defied his fate with enthusiasm.
He called his familiar to himself with a chirring sound and a smile. Bogie hopped over and Salt took the bird under his arm holding his wings flat-folded. Bogie accepted the first pill but quickly spit it out. Salt expected this. The raven was insightful and even if it desired to obey Salt's will in this matter, it could not act in such a way that would bring about either of their deaths. Salt used the strength of his hands to open Bogie's glossy black beak and drop in several of the Belladonna pills, and then he held it shut until receiving indications that they had been swallowed.
He released the bird and watched it. Bogie perched somewhat indignantly atop a bookshelf and preened himself. Then after a time his wings just flopped from his sides and hung insensibly. The bird wavered slightly with each breath. He leapt to the floor awkwardly on limp wings that barely slowed its fall. In a few more moments he rolled onto its side. Bogie watched Salt, who sat nearby at the great round table, until the last breath left his feathered body.
Seeing this success Salt consumed the rest of the pills, washing each one down with water as they were quite bitter. As they began to take affect Salt considered how he might have sweetened them with a little powder made from crystalline sugar and beeswax. |
"What are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about dying."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means lying in the ground with dirt on your face and holding your breath forever."
-Burt Reynolds, "The End" |
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The Scene in Swiftfoot Glade
Posted: 16 Jan 2007 09:33 AM |
| The scene in Swiftfoot Glade.. |
"What are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about dying."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means lying in the ground with dirt on your face and holding your breath forever."
-Burt Reynolds, "The End" |
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An Alchemical Mystery
Posted: 18 Jan 2007 09:29 AM |
Salt laid out another bunch of nightshade plants, not a hoard by any means, but enough to reproduce his formula of several days ago. The plants were taken from the Brandibuck Coast, the same patch of nightshade that yielded his others. Salt followed each step precisely as he had, cutting off the stalks and slicing up the roots, grinding them with similar gusto to produce a sticky mash.
Alton, who along with Elvalia and the gnome Eibellenith had found him lying on the flowstone floor of his grotto, had smashed his alchemical equipment with just a few work-a-day swings of his mace. Now he improvised, using a cone of rag paper in a clean drinking cup to drain the pulp of its fluid. An oil lamp replaced his alcohol burner. In a few hours he had another mass of sticky black tar, the concentrated toxin of the nightshade plant.
He applied a film of oil to his palms and then rolled this between his palms to form a stick, which he cut into segments laying them out on a small wooden dish.
Then he performed a series of tests. He put one of the pills onto his tongue. The taste was the same. He spit it out and swirled spirits in his mouth, spewing them onto the floor. The texture and consistency were right. What, he wondered, could have possibly gone wrong?
He reviewed his alchemical references, defaced as they were with child-like writing. The toxin was not denatured by application of a moderate heat, though exposure to air over a long period would weaken it. The freshness of the plants was not an issue if stored in darkness. The dosage was ample... there simply was no explanation for his survival. And yet, Elvalia had found him alive. Why?
Salt climbed the ladder and exited from his flowstone grotto into Swiftfoot Glade, carrying several bundles and a short-handled shovel. He took some time to excavate two deep holes in the soil. In one, a trash pit, he discarded the remaining belladonna plants, and the syrupy mash that he scraped out of his mortar. The broken glassware swept from his laboratory also went in, as did finally the second batch of nightshade poison. He refilled the trash pit and patted down the soil.
In the other hole he arranged his familiar, folding its great black wings and turning its limp head tidily under one of them. Salt covered Bogie with a piece of sack cloth before shoveling dirt on top of him and patting down the grave.
Then he disrobed and climbed into the swift-moving stream that flowed through Swiftfoot's Glade. Toes and head bobbing above the swirling surface, Salt floated well clear of the smooth stone stream bed, communing with the waters that started high up in the Mirghul Forest, warmed in the ponds and vales around Brandibuck, and found their way to the Lake of Ladriel.
Salt himself floated nearly all the way to Ladriel, emerging shaky and naked and a little sunburned where the water slowed and backed up at the lake's margin. Avoiding the road, he cut back towards home via the wood that bordered on the lake and the farms and grazing lands of Brandibuck Vale.
A patrol of Ferein's elves spotted him as he crossed the wood, broken branch for a walking stick, stepping tender-footed but quickly in the cooling air without a stitch or a bit of dignity to cover him. |
"What are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about dying."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means lying in the ground with dirt on your face and holding your breath forever."
-Burt Reynolds, "The End" |
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Ophelia's letter
Posted: 30 Jan 2007 09:50 AM |
*A Letter stuffed into Salt’s Mailbox. The writing is messy, horrible grammer and very childlike*
Dear Mr. Salt.
I know I told you no more demons but I couldn’t just wait around for word about if I am
going to hell or not. I went to talk to Menaril. Well I think it was Menaril. I didn’t really ask
its name but it had a tail, horns and looked like one would think a demon would. Anyway, I
swear to you this was the last time Ok. No more demons Salt I promise you. But I got some
answers I think. It cost me three, well two actually the third finger was a mistake but you
really can’t ask for it back after its been eaten. Anyway, it took three fingers but I got some
answers. We need to talk about this. The demon told me that the Sugar Man is happy for
now. Whatever that means. It told me that the Sugar Man as always been around and will
always be around. That you can’t hope to possibly defeat him in Aboddan. Mr. Salt I don’t
know if you are planning to go down there to kill him but you can’t. If you go you will end up
spending forever in Aboddan. Do you understand? I even think he might want you to
come. *underlined* YOU CANNOT KILL THE SUGAR MAN IN ABODDAN!! I know this is
coming from a demon and you can’t trust demons. But, he was laughing a lot and real happy
about it and from all the demons I have talked to that usually means its true. If you still
think you can destroy the Sugar Man also know this. He told me that Aboddan will still be
there and he will only be replaced, maybe by something even worse. I don’t even want to
think about something worse then the Sugar Man. The Demon also said that Aboddan will
always be around because we fleshlings are easily corrupted. That if I hadn’t brought him up
then the Dwarf, or the Hin, or someone else would have. Because they always do it seems
like. Look, I know I messed up real bad ok. I am sorry. I truly am Mr. Salt. I hope you got
a chance to speak to Sir Byron. I am lost and don’t know what to do. I will try and find him
and hope some how he will still help me. If you wish to speak more about what happen you
know were to find me.
Ophelia |
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A Nénharma Crowned Queen
Posted: 01 Mar 2007 11:52 AM |
"Magister, have you the magic of true sight?"
Salt could only see one thing. It was the same thing everyone was seeing. Only he had seen it before.
High Priestess Liana tore open Princess Nénharma's coronation gown to expose the injury, the sheer fabric giving away like paper over her thin ribs. Where the crossbow bolt had penetrated her body a blackening of the skin that crept outwards from the wound and the Princess convulsed upon the ground. A fast-acting and wickedly effective poison - unlike any seen before in Ferein or perhaps anywhere in the entire country - was ripping through her body, and the combined efforts of the druids and clerics assembled could not slow it. Alton was in a fever channeling the healing powers of his mistress Vilyave. Náriël Arnatulië and High Priestess Liana closed her wounds. The assassin's bolt was spit from her body, but the poison resisted their healing powers.
Elvalia Mellebin, now cradling the Princess, was covered in the discharge from her mouth and the boils that erupted onto the surface of her fine skin turned black from the venom. Inky blood and vomit saturated both of their garments. Black stuff rained down onto the living floor of the Temple Garden. It was as though all fluid was fleeing from Princess Nénharma's body.
In the greater scope of things, it did not take long for the Princess to die. For those who watched her body ravaged by the poison the few moments that it did require were stretched out like insomnia. She was left virtually skinless, her insides hemorrhaged in like fashion. It was the most agonizing death that Salt had ever witnessed.
All were silent, virtually motionless. Some gathered around the poisoned bolt that Alton Highhill took up into his hands with remarkable carelessness.
This ruin had visited Salt's dreams. At the time he felt that he had in fact visited the dreams of a powerful being and gleaned impressions from them. He saw ancient Elven people that he did not know. He saw the Forest of Fengduin when it was green. Glimpses of Minyaren came to him, a towering, bright city.
He saw Aros, as his sister Silmarwen saw him. And so, he presumed that it was Silmarwen's thoughts that he visited in sleep.
This travel in the dreamlands had followed an important change in Salt's method as a diviner and a scholar. When his writings began to be defaced by the child of demons named Seil - or Lies as someone had observed was more apt - he gave up writing rather than giving his enemy the means to taunt him further. But, that defiant act showed him a grand interior space that was potentially unassailable. He vowed to give up the pen, quit writing altogether and laid plans for a new library.
Writing was no longer a part of his method. His hand played no further role in his work. All was contained within his intellect, which he was gradually learning had no boundaries. His dreams, his thoughts had always been porous. Visions came to him easily. Now he learned how to exit those same confines and travel in the fashion of... In the fashion of...
Whose dreams had he visited? Who showed him the scourge and suffering that afflicted the Princess? Salt wondered this as he watched her fall to pieces in Elvalia's arms. And the other catastrophe... The elf who would be exiled and alone. Who showed him that this would occur?
Hours later Salt sailed away from the shores of Ferein with the poisoned crossbow bolt in his possession, wrapped carefully in his bedroll and tied fast with a piece of cordage.
All agreed that the projectile was of Midoran manufacture. The implication was clear. The coronation interrupted at its climax by an assassin, sent by Vidus Khain, perhaps one of the elite Righteous Swords or an inquisitor.
"Lae... ean irilla nyesa ane anirela." So it has come to this. So Aros withdrew his protection of Ferein. That was how the assassin achieved a position from which to fire upon the Princess. The Chosen of Aros should have apprehended even the most canny killer. But, as Aros revealed to all assembled, there was human blood in Ferein's royal line. Because of this taint upon House Nénharma, a blind eye was turned upon the assassin. Intent upon this victim, the assassin bypassed Ferein's guard with horrifying results.
Reaching his home, Salt changed into a comfortable robe with short sleeves. He applied a coating of oil to his hands and arms covering them up to the elbows. Then Salt carefully unwrapped the crossbow bolt. It was an ugly thing. The fletching was made from stiff leather, and the shaft was bone thick around as a man's thumb. Sticky blood covered the business end of it. He placed the projectile upon a flat slab of marble and covered it with a thick glass bell jar.
He observed the malignant thing contained under glass while preparing to conduct a number of tests, hoping to determine whether the venom was applied to the bolt or imbued by necromancy.
He isolated the binder and the base, but this poison had qualities unlike any that Salt had encountered before, or even heard or read about. He could not ascertain the nature of the compound or the source of its ingredients, particularly one ingredient that did not appear to be produced from any vegetal or mineral substance recognized among poisoners and toxicologists.
Poison in itself was not evil. Most toxins had therapeutic applications, and could be turned to counteract themselves in the proper formulation. This element was palpably evil and offended Salt's senses the way a bad wine offends the nose of an practiced sommelier. It was a poison that hid itself as it poisoned perception by its very existence. How could such substances exist? It was a poison that defied rational contemplation.
Salt now moved to a different mode of analysis. Even gloved, the assassin would have handled the bolt with great caution. Salt put his fingertips to the socket at the base of the bolt. He opened up his senses and relaxed the barriers to impressions residing within the object.
Outside in Swiftfoot's glade, Salt bathed in waters that drained into Lake Ladriel. He was withered. The strongest impressions conveyed by the bolt had been those of Princess Sairalindë Nénharma. These were difficult to penetrate, agonizing in fact, but they masked something else.
The assassin had been a woman. She had a disciplined mind...and she was clad in the garb of a Midoran Inquisitor. |
"What are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about dying."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means lying in the ground with dirt on your face and holding your breath forever."
-Burt Reynolds, "The End" |
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Take a Letter.
Posted: 18 Apr 2007 11:06 AM |
Salt's secretary arrived from Brandibuck Vale, bringing his portable writing desk, quills, inks, parchments, sizing powders and all of the implements of writing that the old man had come to neglect.
Since the seer had been freed from writing he found nonetheless that his life could not be entirely free from text. His modest library mildewed and grew musty in the water-cut warren in the rock where he lived. His notes and outlines, defaced by demon writing that spread like mold spore were now a fading disorganized jumble, a disobedient pile of dead leaves. His spell book was contained within the palace of his memory, as - he gradually realized - was everything of importance he had acquired in the realms of lore and history. But nothing interior to his mind helped in communicating with others. And so, he had retained a sharp-minded halfling from the Vale to help him handle his correspondence.
The halfling - who was named Porter - took letters and sent them, either with Natana and Captain Valien to destinations across the Inner Sea, or with the dwarven drover to recipients more local. He was also charged with organizing Salt's papers for posterity. Even though the most central works he had discovered or taken down were copied to Tel'Elena and the library of Lake Ladriel's tower, it was irresponsible to simply let his papers go to pot. That odious task was trying for Porter, who recognized the poison that coated them.
On this morning however Salt requested that Porter prepare to take down a number of letters and make arrangements for their delivery.
The seer had long-since covered the pile of rotting demonflesh with a tarpaulin, after unsuccessful attempts at burning it with magical fire and melting it with an acid fog. Now a thin trickle of ichor ran towards the waters of his little grotto, and he conjured frequent wind-gusts to change out the air in his abode. One such gust of wind preceded Porter's punctual arrival.
Porter skirted around the draped form of a fallen demon on Salt's doorstep, entered and prepared for the day's work.
"First one," Salt said. "This one's to be addressed to a Lady Ophelia, who is lodged at the Four Winds Inn on the Northern Highway."
"...Friend Ophelia."
"I write to thank you for attempting to raise my guard and help me to practice better defensive techniques against would-be assassins."
"Many in the past have told me that I am insufficiently cautious in my daily routine. I am too trusting and do not give thought to my surroundings..."
"According to Lucifer I should go about warded every moment of my day, and perhaps that is so. I follow his advice where practicable. And yet..." Salt thought on how to put down the next thought. "...And yet as you showed, I am not prepared to protect myself from physical attack under even the friendliest of circumstances."
Porter looked up from the writing desk.
Salt continued, "When I felt threatened after Camthalion left the Ferein High Council, I attempted to put myself beyond his reach. I remained in hiding - first in Midor, then in Tel'Ilmela itself - until satisfied that the arch-mage did not have designs on my life."
"I understand from our conversations that there may be such a place for us to shelter. You know my feelings on that place. I would sooner return to Midor and allow myself to be imprisoned - especially since our hunter is likely to be elven. However it seems better perhaps if you and I stay together. I presume that a professional will look for us to present single targets, and that in company of one another a professional will wait for more perfect an opportunity."
"Our first task should be to determine which of us will be considered the first target, and which of us will be saved for a second attempt."
"See you soon."
"Read that back please, Porter"
...When Salt was satisifed he sealed the letter with a magico-alchemical seal that would cause the correspondence to combust immediately if any other than Ophelia cracked it open. The magic in the seal would fade within a month, but it would hopefully prevent the sensitive letter from falling into the wrong hands. |
"What are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about dying."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means lying in the ground with dirt on your face and holding your breath forever."
-Burt Reynolds, "The End" |
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Thin Man
Posted: 10 May 2007 03:16 PM |
Salt returned to Brandibuck Vale to find a letter left by his once-huntsman.
How Tristian had tolerated the stench of dead demonflesh long enough to deposit this message in his mailbox was a mystery. Salt's nostrils picked up the smell as soon as he entered the calm of Swiftfoot Glade. Hesitantly he approached the entrance to his water-cut cave and summoned up a gust of wind to change out the air. Still, the smell clung to his belongings.
He would have to leave to eat. And he did need to eat. Ever since his encounter with whatever dwelled in Talion's trunk, he had been like a bag of bones.
At the Seven Sisters, after his encounter, he had taken a bed and was awakened every hour to consume some broth. From this watery sustenance he moved up to stale bread made soggy with cream - he added a few drops of whiskey when nobody was looking - and then a day later he put his teeth back in to consume some tough slices of mutton. When he complained about the mutton, the Sisters - who knew him - suggested that he might gain weight faster if he relocated to Brandibuck Vale, where the pies and cakes required less chewing and where nobody, absolutely nobody was as skinny as he was.
Problem was, he could barely move on his own. The encounter with Talion's tenant had been horrifying, stealing his health, his strength, and leaving him a husk within his orange-dyed robes. Now he resembled a starved scarecrow, a skeleton with yellow eyes and overlarge false teeth. The skin sagged on his face creating prominent, empty jowls. Flaps of skin hung under his arms and his bones thrust pointedly from under his garments. One could count the bones in his hands, his arms, the segments of his sternum, the basket of his ribs. Always tall, always thin, he now swung along rather than walking as though on stilts.
With magic, he could get by. With magic... He weaved magic about himself and propelled himself forward like a puppet. He could even project himself to run, as he ran with Johe trying to catch up with Xaranthir and party in the Halls of Nethar'u. His feet weren't touching the ground; his traveling bags did not hang from his shoulders. He slid along in an envelope of magic that simulated strength, and speed, and vitality.
This would not do.
He had to put some meat back onto his bones... He had to gain some weight. And so, after the group had fled from Nethar'u - Luther and Johe battling back the demons allowing the rest of them to escape - Salt used the magic that Lucifer had taught him to reach Swiftfoot Glade without traversing the space in between.
He immediately made for Brandibuck Vale, where he consumed on his own enough food to feed a halfling family for breakfast. Which is to say, enough food to feed a large human family at supper, or one of the Elven legions that patrolled unseen around Brandibuck Vale's perimeter and the Mirghul Forest beyond for a week. |
"What are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about dying."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means lying in the ground with dirt on your face and holding your breath forever."
-Burt Reynolds, "The End" |
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Tagreth's Poison
Posted: 17 May 2007 11:31 AM |
Ophelia stepped over the ropy tendril of an oozing creature that appointed the floor of Salt's dwelling. The thing was stuck in place but not quite stationary, exploring its surroundings with pseudopodia that tasted stone and wood, but also the minutest traces of matter deposited by each activity and every visitor that Salt had recently entertained.
Oswin had brought his hareem.
Here was a stationary grey jelly. And here, an arcane ooze glowing bright green. And near the doorway, a gelatinous cube that had flirted with Salt before when he and Johe visited Oswin in his home beyond the Glitterdell River.
Ophelia was poking around Salt's alchemical things with gauntleted fingers, searching for the articles that were suspected of poisoning Johe's friend and ally, who was called Tagreth. Lord Tagreth was one of the Fire Knives, a guild that Salt had encountered in Midor but now presumed to be disbanded. According to Johe, this was not the case. The Guyver did not elaborate on his connection to the Fire Knives, except to say that he was in their debt.
"I saw him put it here..." Ophelia muttered. "Where did it go?"
Curiously Salt did not interfere with Ophelia's rummaging, except to offer some directions. "Under the bell jar, Ophelia. That's the big thing that looks like a cake belongs under it."
"Apricots," The seer said aloud, announcing what she would find. "Dried apricots, and wine."
Ophelia handed Oswin a plate covered with a high, thin-walled glass cylinder topped with a glass blob for a handle. "Here you go."
"Tell me magister," Oswin said, "Have you found any type of poison in these things?"
"I think you had in mind something more systematic... an examination of Tagreth's person, and his belongings. As a matter of fact, I became so convinced that the poison was introduced via a different route, that I have not tested these articles at all. They've been sitting under glass this entire time."
"Perhaps we should test them out," Oswin said.
"I do have some rabbits that I purchased a few days back," Salt announced. "Planned for the first test to be a tasting."
"Ah, good!" said the aficionado of oozes.
He noticed that Ophelia was standing square in the middle of one. She may have stepped on it, or it may have decided to give her riveted foot protection a good cleaning. Oswin shot the orclun a look but decided to ignore her offense.
Salt had noticed that some unruly mushrooms had sprouted from where Oswin was standing. In fact, there was a trail of life where Oswin had passed after entering his little abode. It was a soft damp odorous substance, perhaps vegetal, perhaps lichen, perhaps other.
"This mushroom growth is new," the seer said.
"Yes, how lovely!" Oswin replied. "What do you feed them?"
"...I do walk around barefoot quite a bit in here," came Salt's reply. He was presently shod in wooden sandals that were fixed to his toes with a loop of cord. They had a thick platform of Alder wood and raised him two inches off the ground, and they flopped on his feet as he walked. Salt stepped around the grey slime that had shown interest in Ophelia's feet. "Pardon me, beautiful," he said to it. Oswin mouthed the words behind him and bristled as though a sailor on leave had complimented his lady in very crude terms.
Nearby his alchemy works Salt found a hamper the size of a picnic basket, with a loop of rawhide to hold it closed. "Now..." he said lifting it with more difficulty than one might expect, "When did I last feed these rabbits..."
"Hello?" He shook the basket.
Ophelia rolled her eyes.
"Wakey-wakey," Salt said to the rabbits.
They were alive. Two of them.
"First things first. One gets wine."
Sandals clapping as he went, Salt brought the basket over to a large round table and cleared some room with a sweep of his thin arm. Ophelia caught a cup before it hit the ground. Following Salt's instructions she removed one rabbit from the basket and held it firmly by its ears and its back feet.
"Careful they don't bite you... half starved, you know..." The old man muttered as he stepped back over to his alchemical table. He poured an oil over each of his hands in turn, which formed a protective layer against substances that might absorb through his skin, and he grabbed up a thin pipette of clear glass. Back at the table he lifted the bell jar off the poisoned articles, dipped the pipette into the wine, held his finger over the top and then dropped the wine down the rabbit's throat.
"I hope its a good year," Oswin quipped.
They watched the rabbit struggling in Ophelia's grasp for some time, until all three of them grew bored. The wine didn't appear to be poisoned.
"No reason to waste a rabbit then," Salt said to Ophelia. "Wring that fellows neck, won't you? I'll make a stew out of him." Salt was still trying to gain weight, and appetite had gotten the better of his judgment. For a moment Ophelia looked like she would flail him with the rabbit. Instead she placed the thing back inside of the basket with its companion.
"The fruits," Oswin said.
There was a curious thing about the apricots. They were dry and leathery, and even in the damp of Salt's home they ought to have lasted for months before spoiling. But some of these apricots appeared to be rotten. Salt poked around the apricots with his oiled hands.
"Careful magister!" returned Oswin.
Salt returned to his alchemical table and poured more of the oil over his hands to rinse them, catching the run-off in a shallow stone basin and then wiping them down with a cloth. Then he returned - sandals clapping on the flowstone floor - with a pair of gloves made from oiled kidskin. They covered his arms up past his elbow, and hung loosely on his skeletal frame.
Together he and Ophelia sorted the fruits into two piles, one that was spoiled and one that was not.
Oswin now stepped in and put a pair of prismatic lenses in front of his eyes to examine the fruits. After looking briefly at each of the piles, he described a substance that appeared to fleck the spoiled ones like a fine grit or sand.
At this point, Oswin produced a suit of armor that he said was Lord Tagreth's. With the lenses in front of his eyes he laid out the armor on the floor and bent to examine it minutely. "Amazing," he said pondering what exactly he was seeing. "Innovative!" he concluded. The armor was powdered with the same curious grit, which Owsin described as a poison encapsulated by a tough shell like a cherry stone. It was not visible to the eye, and owing to this seemingly inert capsule that enclosed it, it was likely to be undetectable outside of the means through which it had just been discovered.
"How do you suppose it works on the body?" Salt asked.
"Well..." Oswin replied, "I would suggest that it is inhaled and becomes tangled up in the nose-hairs." The Ooze-ister was now looking very queerly at Salt and Ophelia, his prismatic lenses still resting on the bridge of his nose. Oswin adjusted the lenses to see them and inspected each of them minutely.
He handed the lenses to Salt, who snatched them and slipped them over the bridge of his nose.
He could see the strange, angular grit. With the prismatic lenses he could see it on the outside of his kid gloves, and on Ophelia's gauntlets and armor. It had become embedded in the seer's robes, lodged in the fine weave of the orange cloth. Everywhere he looked nearby and on every surface the grit appeared. Moreover the stuff was suspended all around them dancing in the vortices created by their breaths and their smallest motions.
The stuff was caught up like crumbs in Oswin's beard, along with a variety of other substances that included insects, snails (big as boulders when viewed with the lenses), hideous microscopic crabs that had evicted some snails from their shells, bits of moss and living lichen, and at least four different varieties of mushrooms sending miniscule gilled cups up from a network of mycelia growing somewhere underneath. This is only what was visible on the outside of Owsin's beard. The whole moved constantly and ominously when viewed in detail.
"It probably got onto the apricots accidentally," Oswin said. "He wasn't meant to eat the stuff... it filled the air around him. As... it has... filled the air down here."
The last was said with some urgency. "Think quickly, magister."
Ophelia had seen Salt change the air out of his home by conjuring a gust of wind, and she urged him to do so now. The objection to this was the poison would be sent out in quantity into the grove beyond, and from there it would likely spread to Brandibuck Vale and perhaps the waters of Lake Ladriel.
Salt gestured spasmodically as he rattled through the problem. "B-b-b-burn away the outside and d-d-dispel the p-poison inside... B-b-burn away the outside, and d-dispel the poison inside..."
"Yes," Owsin replied, thinking now of his own preservation. "Like an egg. Dissolve the shell and then neutralize the magical poison within it!"
With this Salt said simply, "Prepare yourselves."
He conjured an acid fog that quickly enveloped the three of them and filled the chamber where he laired. His first instinct was to squeeze shut his eyes and hold his breath, but he realized this was wrong. He took the acid into his lungs through his nose and breathed it out his mouth in great green rattling clouds. So did Ophelia and Owsin. When the three were just about writhing, he called up his most powerful abjurative spell and brought an arcane disjunction upon them all, working on the principle that this would neutralize the magical toxin - which was really more like a curse - once the protective shell had been dissolved.
The spell also dissolved the fog of acid. The three of them gasped and looked at one another. Then Oswin said, "Again! Once more, to be sure we are rid of it!"
Salt complied. When it was over the seer examined each of them with the prismatic lenses. He looked over all nearby surfaces as well, before handing the lenses back to their owner. The airborne poison had been neutralized.
* * * * *
Long after Oswin left, one of his jellies appeared flirtatiously upon Salt's doorstep. It slipped around and through the gateway that secured his home without difficulty, passing right through the bars. It was a great cube the likes of which were found in Frobozz' laboratory, only this one seemed more intelligent, a great mind diffused through its substance.
What it did was closely and systematically clean the places where Oswin had been. It ate the mushrooms that sprung up in Oswin's path, and the green carpet of lichen that developed where he had paced. It polished the flowstone until it was free from any taint, and then it departed the way it had come.
I hope Oswin doesn't find out about that, Salt thought. |
"What are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about dying."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means lying in the ground with dirt on your face and holding your breath forever."
-Burt Reynolds, "The End" |
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Re: Tagreth's Poison
Posted: 18 May 2007 05:20 AM |
| ((That's quite a picture you paint)) |
Purpose in life: finding better ways of allowing players to kill themselves. Repeatedly.
--
"...Cause he mixes it with love
And makes the world taste good."
--
<@James42> Lawful good isn't in your vocabulary, it's on your menu.
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Correspondence
Posted: 22 May 2007 11:06 AM |
[A letter delivered to Salt's mailbox by the author]
Friend,
Rejoice, for we have earned our first victory against those who
openly make us our enemies. The Halls of Bregodim have been
reclaimed, and the dwarves should be taking it back for good, this time.
However, the battle has made us weary, and with a great deal of strain.
I fear that Talion's plague is spreading, infecting him with bloodlust
and rage. When I walked with him, his energy was merely draining
the life out of his enemies, making them easier to kill.
Now, I cannot stress how beneficial it was for us during the attack,
but this is something that needs proper watch and care.
In addition, I cannot stress how important it is for us to keep our
minds and bodies strong while we wait for the next target to
present itself to us. If my supposition is correct, I would assume
that M'Gok Tukar, home of the enslaved orcs, and the fields of
Gladden would be next. Until then, I know of an area that I have
not seen, nor properly traveled through, one that is on the way
to the Asashi temple. A large wall bounds me from the area.
In addition, I am wondering if you would be able to scribe some
scrolls that allow you to bypass such things. When speaking with
Shamn ~who I had to barter with for an hour just to get him to talk
about what I was asking~ he mentioned the name Dimension Door.
If you can, I would pay for you to make such scrolls, and even
supply the materials necessary to make them.
In any event, I will be staying in one of two areas: my regular room
in Icy Vale, or at the Broken Mask Tavern, apartment complex, under
the roof provided by Kalid D'mar. Please get back to me when you
recieve this, and we will find a place to talk.
And do me a favor. Eat a steak, and find yourself a good woman
to take care of you. You're starting to look like an elf, with your
gaunt appearance.
~Tristian Eddard Vike
[Salt visits Brandibuck Vale to dictate a response. It is later transcribed and posted to Port Royale via Buckshire]
"Friend Tristian. I also celebrate. I bathed for an hour in the spring outside my home and spent the following day cleaning my Ka'azim-made robes." More than a source of embarrassment, Salt is amused by his own incontinence. While many of the rest were covered in the blood of their enemies, he covered himself in urine.
"Your news of Talion's..." Talion's what?! "...Talion's Contribution to our eventual victory disturbs me greatly. At one point he seemed to be stalking our fallen in the foundry area of the Dwarven Halls, and I feared he would use the power of his..." His what?! "...his Rider to restore the life in them, an act he seemed drawn to in the past. Instead he was searching for more Durzagon lives to extinguish. His hunger for killing was apparent."
"For now, he descriminates between friend and foe." Does he struggle to control this implulse? Is he capable of murdering solely to satisfy this need?
"We will continue to watch Talion closely. Please inform me if you learn that he has recovered his sword Pandemonium, as this will be an important factor in reckoning his potential threat. Also please alert me if you learn that he continues in the pattern of draining and killing that you witnessed in the Halls of Bregodim."
"Let us hope this condition was temporary and owing to the nearness of his own death."
"Regarding your request for this spell, The Dimension Door is in fact its proper designation. However I warn you that parchment for inscribing such spells becomes increasingly rare. It is no longer available from Ka'azim. I do not know if it can be procured from Tel'Elena Tower in Ferein."
"I expended nearly all of my pre-war stock - and the last of my healing worts as well - in preparing for the siege against the Halls of Bregodim." Salt thinks, and asks rhetorically, "Does the word siege describe our action at the Halls? I do not think I am using that term correctly. You know fighting, but to you know soldiering?" Salt shook his head. The only persons trained in soldiering that he knew were among the Novus Aristi. Was there time to receive an education in tactics before the next engagement? Did he have sufficient discipline? Would the lessons take?
"Regardless, if you could find a source of parchment, I would certainly inscribe the spells you desire upon them. Moreover, unless a source of parchment can be discovered, our provisioning for the next engagement will suffer greatly."
Salt did not reply to the comments about his need for food and comfort. Instead he took the letter from his secretary when it was transcribed and ready for his signature, and he made a thumbprint in blueberry pie filling in the lower corner. It bled through the paper when it was folded and sealed for delivery. |
"What are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about dying."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means lying in the ground with dirt on your face and holding your breath forever."
-Burt Reynolds, "The End" |
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Re: Correspondence
Posted: 29 Jun 2007 09:57 AM |
Curious halfling fingers found an ornate tubular scroll case wedged between the wrought iron bars that forming the grate over Salt Sower's grotto, underneath Swiftfoot Glade.
The case was custom made, and extravagant. Two dragons engraved into it were entwined around the lavishly decorated thing. Halfling fingers, still curious but now moving with economy and paying little attention to the vessel's beautiful textures, attempted to remove a wax seal that was pressed with the symbol of a dragon-headed staff.
The cool shiny wax held like iron.
The halfling looked into the box made of sawn wooden planks where Salt usually received his mail, and found only the clutter that the old human had left behind. It spoke of haste. The box was crammed full actually, as though Salt had darted down into the grotto, and stuffed his bags and traveling things into the mail box rather than stowing them properly inside of his habitation.
Tucking the scroll case marked by dragons under his arm, the halfling now extracted a key that was held around his waist by a length of fine chain. He unlocked the grate over Salt's Grotto and slid it open. Then he unlocked the mailbox with another key and extracted everything inside of it. With satchels and bags looped around his neck he crossed to the mage's wardrobe, and unlocked it with yet another key.
It was filled to the gills. Salt had stacked crates of empty vials, as well as the mineral distillates accumulated from the labor of his associates. There were all manner of bags, most of them containing half-finished tailoring projects, alchemical ingredients, and rarer materials. Certain telling items were also missing. Salt's dressing gown. His traveling bags, two of them, which were filled with potions and items that he might need in confronting the unexpected. His light rapiers were there, two of them sheathed and hanging in their frogs. His heavy longsword was missing.
The halfling - spectacled, bald-headed and businesslike - dropped everything he was carrying save for the scroll case that was still pressed in his underarm. It piled in front of Salt's overstuffed wardrobe, and remained there after he left.
* * * * *
The scroll case. How long had it been there, wedged between the bars of Salt's home? The seer had been away for a month or more, hiding in Port Royale, in the guyver Johe Jaxon's custody for his own protection.
This was the first important piece of correspondence to come in during Salt's absence. Porter, his man in Brandibuck Vale, his right-sized secretary and chamberlain, had checked for mail every third day that Salt was away, at precisely the same hour. Now that something had come in, Porter would discharge his duty and see personally that this message reached Salt's hands. |
"What are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about dying."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means lying in the ground with dirt on your face and holding your breath forever."
-Burt Reynolds, "The End" |
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Re: Correspondence
Posted: 29 Jun 2007 01:23 PM |
[The container mentioned above reaches Salt Sower in Port Royale, where it is opened and revealed to contain a letter on rolled papyrus. It reads, in extravagant cursive script:]
To the Esteemed Master Sower,
Allow me first to offer my condolences on hearing of your condition.
I hope this letter finds you in better health, or that, at very least, you
are close to something of a cure.
As sincerely concerned as I am within this letter, I cannot honestly say
it is all I had written to you about. As you may have heard, M'Gok Tukar
has been liberated, and I am proud to say I have played something of
a role in this. However, during the attack, we had come across the body
of the Orc Chieftain, a brutish thug that was held in place by some sort
of petrifying enchantment.
The enchantment was not the work of any of our people, but was instead
the work of someone who apparently possesses very powerful knowledge
of the Weave.
After hours of study and searching, I found several references to a similar
spell, designed to bind masses of people in a curse comparable to the
'Flesh to Stone' spell (as you Wizards tend to call it), but without the effect
of changing the appearance of the skin.
This letter to you is two-fold: first, I would like any assistance you can
offer in finding out more about this spell, since this would give us a very
major advantage in our war with the Duergar and the Atalan.
Second, you are one of the few magisters I find I can trust in this day and
age, and, as most would agree, two spellcasters are oft better than one.
This spell, while immediately effective against those that would threaten
peace, could become even more potentially useful to our cause.
I leave you to dwell on this, but I will hope for a favorable response.
My sincerest wishes to your health, Master Sower.
Signed,
Valethrion Veziel |
"What are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about dying."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means lying in the ground with dirt on your face and holding your breath forever."
-Burt Reynolds, "The End" |
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The Hex
Posted: 08 Jul 2007 02:02 PM |
The news of Johe's journey to see the servants of Naruth had been grim. First indications of trouble came in a briefly worded note from Ophelia. Then Salt had occasion to discuss the details with Tristian Vike, his erstwhile huntsman who seemed ready again to provide Salt with rare skins for his tailoring work. His hobby, his habit. They shared a pie at Mrs. Miggins - Salt getting down the lion's share pounding through the thick crust with a big wooden spoon - and talked things over. Since being sequestered in Port Royale the seer had been desperately unhappy, and moreover he saw less of his friends rather than more of them. When he was home in Swiftfoot Glade there was a steady stream of visitors. Johe's accommodations were decent, but most of what came in and out was guyvered merchandise, serious buyers and lookie-loos.
In addition and quite remarkably, Salt was still losing weight. It was difficult to imagine, and difficult to perceive given his usual attire. Some thing... the thing was still eating him. For brief periods he could overcome his weakness and get his boney carriage moving with magic, and he tacked back and forth between those two modes: pole-walking around like a skeleton or a scarecrow, tiring quickly and demanding rest, and making himself into a marionette dancing down the road on conjured strings.
It was absurd, to exist this way. Salt had been unable to travel to Fiirhallen with Johe and Ophelia and the rest of their company. He wasn't helping anyone sitting in Port Royale, where he was supposed to be safe from Johe's enemies, Hezekiah's Hired Killers.
It was under these circumstances that the elven sorcerer Valethrion Veziel approached him with an interesting errand. A research problem, described first in a letter and then discussed face-to-face, and one that promised to put a powerful weapon into the hands of the convocation of wizards who gathered less and less frequently these days.
* * * * *
With a few specifics about the spell that Valethrion was trying to research, and having agreed between them to divide up the search for relevant material, Salt slipped out of Port Royale having as his destination a series of repositories and libraries.
The journey was simplified to a degree, owing to the teleportation magics that Lucifer McIath - potent telemancer that he is - set in place within Salt's mind and between his various destinations. Salt mistrusted teleportation magics and had in attempting to manipulate them inadvertently fed his friends to a flock of chaos rocs on the ceiling of the Fiirkrag Mountains, or literally taken them to hell. And back. Such was the danger of anyone traveling by teleportation, even with an accomplished telemancer at the reins. Ask Lucifer. Ask the mad wizard Frobozz if you can find him and keep him on topic. Ask anyone who had traveled along with them!
Salt was a reputable seer, if somewhat unreliable, and he was practiced at visualization and clairvoyance. This talent, coupled with the fixed portals that Lucifer has conjured and cemented in place, allowed him to travel through a circuit that included stops at the libraries of Ladriel Tower and Asashi Monastery, as well as other less well-known repositories. Valethrion would cover his home institution of Tel'Elena Tower in Ferein, and also the wizard's tower of Ka'azim.
So far as Salt could say, Naillamne remained an untapped scholarly resource. Perhaps they could garner a favor from Malakhai Fenghuul and his apprentice, who had encyclopedic knowledge of demonology. Certain among Salt Sower's findings led him to imagine that the magic he and Valethrion were exploring drew upon the same forces that created the hordes of Nethar'u, one demon at a time.
The Asashi Monastery was a bust. There were few practical texts on magic to be found there at all, though the lore that the monastic library retained was impressive.
The collection formerly housed at the Sapienza in Midor had ample material on witchery. There was a solid record of Midor's war with the Witches Three over seventy years ago. These materials were a costly distraction. As always, Salt had the sense that something was missing. As with all of Midoran history, this history had been cleansed and was in perfect conformity to church doctrine. Salt enjoyed reading through this material and imagining what histories had been absenced. The mysteries of Midoran... the Just Hand's secrets. But the answers he sought were not here.
It was at Ladriel Tower that Salt made real progress. Sifting through clues and vague indications in a dozen or more promising tomes, he found a series of works that seemed relevant.
Wander into the wrong section of Ladriel's library, and you find nightmares. Salt had first encountered these a year ago, while searching for some principle of divination that would allow him to learn about the glyph that Desthedes had been working to acquire. The glyph that was said to give him power over death, the glyph that the lich of Lynaeum was said to have manufactured when that place was a great city of Vives.
Approaching these texts, he broke out into a sweat. His robes stuck to his enfeebled body and clung to him. Salt was assigned an assistant as soon as he arrived to Ladriel Tower, and this lady helped him to navigate the ghastly collection of demoniac knowledge.
There were vague notes on hexes and their association with the number six, and in particular, hexagons. They occurred through a series of texts, cropping up in different ways. From these, Salt was able to piece together the thaumaturgy necessary for Valethrion's ritual.
* * * * *
The arrangement of the ritual elements did not come literally from these texts. Salt inferred certain aspects of the pattern and the weave. Once it was set in his mind however, he was certain that the ritual could work, if the proper material components could be discovered.
He drew out a hex pattern on paper.
He traced two overlapping hexagons, which created a ring with twelve points around its perimeter. These shapes would be marked out on the ground at their angles, creating a large perimeter for the spell. Everything within this perimeter would be affected by the ritual.
At each point of each hexagon would be placed a number of candles. These would number six, and would be arranged into small hexagons. These clusters of candles would demarcate the spell's area of effect, the curse perimeter.
Some material component was required in addition to these candles. At the center of each set of six candles, some object or focus would be placed. The precise material would have to be discovered before the ritual could be made to work.
Speculatively the spell could be made to enclose as large or as small an area as the casters wished. The only limit would be the degree to which these large hexagons could be traced out accurately in space. An expert surveyor would be necessary if the ritual were to be enacted on a very large scale.
At the center of the curse perimeter, a safe area would be delimited for the casters. Six casters would be required, with a lead caster to "call" the ritual and set the rhythm. Salt was uncertain how to designate this area, but he was certain that the casters - six of them - would find themselves at the center of the ritual. He anticipated that some sort of barrier would be created, a line of material, a powder, or a mark traced out on the ground. Again, the precise means and materials would have to be discovered.
At the center of the six casters - spaced evenly apart to parallel the arrangements of the candles clustered about the points of the hexagons, which described the curse perimeter - another material component was necessary. Perhaps it would be the same component that was placed around the curse perimeter, within a hexagonal arrangement of candles.
In summary, the ritual would require:
6 casters, one serving as the lead.
72 candles to form the curse perimeter, arranged into 12 small hexagons placed at the 12 angles of two large hexagons describing the perimeter.
A way to map the curse perimeter onto the ground to ensure its shape and symmetry.
A material component to be placed within the candles at 12 points around the curse perimeter.
A material component to be placed at the center of the ritual and its casters, perhaps the same material used around the perimeter, perhaps not.
Means and materials to create a safe zone at the center of the ritual where the casters would be protected from the curse they were enacting.
Finally, the ritual would require a place to be cast. A casting ground, into which the victims of the hex would be found or could be lured.
The seer chuckled for a moment, considering how the Great Plains were ideal terrain for arranging these things together. The armies of Midor were already camped there. The enemy of nearly all of Vives, the enemy of Midor in fact, though few Midorans realized it.
This was what most interested Salt in the research that Valethrion had designed. To stop armies was to stop war. The spell of mass petrification was nicely suited to Salt's aspiration for the country to know peace.
However, logic dictated that to carry out this ritual where magic was nullified or turned wild would have predictable consequences. The armies of Midor were safe so long as they were camped on the Great Plains, where Xaranthir's rebirth long ago created a tear in the fabric of reality, throwing everything out of balance.
Was this coincidence? The seer skirted around that precipice and returned to his work.
Salt wrote out this formula as clearly as he could, and inscribed it underneath the drawing of the hex pattern that diagrammed how all of the above would be laid out in space. He then set to copying this over several times, depositing one copy of his notes into Ladriel's collection, reserving one for Valethrion to deliver to Tel'Elena Tower and one for Ka'azim as well.
He allowed the guardians of the library to shelve those works that had inspired him, packed up his notes and his belongings, and ascended to the roof of Ladriel Tower.
From that elevation he initiated his journey to Port Royale, to share what he had learned. |
"What are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about dying."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means lying in the ground with dirt on your face and holding your breath forever."
-Burt Reynolds, "The End" |
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The Note from Hezekiah's Breath
Posted: 11 Jul 2007 10:57 AM |
[A small note, chalked letters on a scrap of brown paper]
Salt,
This is a note left on my body from the Breath. We got
the seed from the volcano but they stole it from us we
were leaving. Can you take a look at these markings at
the bottom of the note?
Ophelia.
[A note delivered to Salt underneath this first one. It is the size and shape of a calling card or an invitation, hostile in tone but formal in composition, with a simple clear calligraphic style and a row of strange markings at the bottom, ending in a symbol that attributes the note to Hezekiah's Breath.]
YOU WANT THE SEEDS??
COME AND GET THEM!!
[[||\v||/,[[ >//'/[[
]]^,\\"v`]] |||x|]] ~~~~HB
* * * * *
On its face, the note presented some puzzlement. The purpose of recovering the seeds was to revive the one person who might be able to lead Johe, Ophelia and the rest of the guyvers to find Hezekiah's Breath. Somewhere out there was a person, or a creature that used to kill for the Breath, a specialist. Tagreth knew how to find them. Their plan had been to restore Tagreth, and step closer to understanding why Johe was marked by the most feared and secretive organization of assassins in all the country, and now Salt and Ophelia as well.
Tagreth was their way to get at the Breath. The seed was the antidote to Tagreth's poison. The Breath's invitation thus seemed somewhat hollow.
But then, there were the markings.
Perhaps the invitation was not so hollow. Anyone would reach the same conclusion; Ophelia probably had. You want the seeds? Come and get them.
Decipher these markings and you will know where to find them.
The problem was, nobody could really know what the markings had to say. The markings could contain a spell or a curse. Texts are dangerous. Words are dangerous. Simply looking at them was dangerous. The runes, the inks, the paper stock itself could communicate nothing more than death to those who handled it. Salt had heard that the Breath had sent a trunkload of Nyths to Johe. Were it not for the curiosity of his friends and the sacrifice of Fennigan in particular, those creatures would have filled the Guyver Shop. Was this inscription any less threatening than a trunk with no return address?
Decipher these markings and you will see the air around you filled with Nyths.
Decipher these markings and you will open up a Gate.
Decipher these markings and you will conjure forth an orb of annihilation to destroy you.
Oh, the Breath had specialists for dealing with wizards, too. Mage killers. Wizards need to be handled very carefully.
For all these reasons, Salt approached these markings with great caution. He carried the note from Hezekiah's Breath to Ka'azim for the work of translating them, to afford himself such protections as were set in place in the tower.
If he failed to decipher them, perhaps Oswin would help.
As he worked, his eyes were drawn up to the words inscribed on the note in common. You want the seeds? Come and get them!
Fiirhallen had given them more than one seed from the Volcanis Oak? Perhaps, among these seeds there was enough to help Tagreth, and help to free Salt of his wasting sickness as well? |
"What are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about dying."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means lying in the ground with dirt on your face and holding your breath forever."
-Burt Reynolds, "The End" |
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Fragment delivered to Johe Jaxon
Posted: 24 Jul 2007 09:22 PM |
[It has been some time since Johe has seen Salt's handwriting. Perhaps he has never seen it, and does not recognize it. In any event, the following note is written with a hand shaking from weakness and haste.]
J~
Two items of importance must be brought to your attention~
First, Oswin and I have had some success. Through trial and error Oswin has determined that the markings at the bottom of the note from H.B. contain coordinates. With Oswin's help I can create a portal that will take us some where. It is not known where. But, at that site we will have our conclusive confrontation with our assassins. We must prepare and depart A.S.A.P.!!!
Second, Today it came to the attention of several meeting in the Guyver Shop, that the pedestaled scrying crystal in the corner of your shop has been activated, and used to listen and/or watch the goings-on of the guyvers!!
Where did you acquire that crystal orb? How long has it been there? It is my feeling that the Guyvers have been spied upon for as long as it has been there in the shop.
MOREOVER~
My strong impression from contact with the orb during this most recent scrying event, is that it has been activated by those mages of the Dark Tower~
NAILLAMNE
Why they watch you ~ who can say? It seems clear that they could do so on behalf of H.B. and in this way the Brth. has remained one step ahead of us.
I do not know what to do with this last piece of information. But I tell you this~
DO NOT DISCUSS GUYVER PLANS IN THE GUYVER SHOP ANY LONGER
Not while this scrying crystal is present!
Prhps we will find a way to use this to our adv. Until that time and when we do, you have my assistance.
Your Srvt~
S
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"What are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about dying."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means lying in the ground with dirt on your face and holding your breath forever."
-Burt Reynolds, "The End" |
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Two Letters
Posted: 26 Jul 2007 11:58 PM |
Without his hin secretary Salt is once again grinding his own inks and composing his own letters. He has not himself put pen to paper with any regularity since the demon Seil contaminated his library with her scrawl.
That was half a year ago. Consequent to those events, he has realized how vague and imprecise a medium text is. His notes and his library moulder in his subterranean home. He has started a new library, and it is as palatial as his memory. His spell books are no more than metaphors. He consults them methodically in the fashion of other wizards, but Salt navigates an interior space behind those hooded eyelids.
On to the letters. Salt lays out the materials to write two of them. He sits, hooded lids closed and composes them completely. Then he applies sizing to the paper, inscribes each character, allows them to dry, and seals the letters shut with some sticky sweet-smelling wax found lying around the Guyver Shop.
* * * * *
[Letter posted by hand]
Aquinas Regina
Aquinas Palace
Port Royale
Highness~
I write with some urgency ~ to alert you of a threat that rises out of the
Kobai Desert. If you wish it, I will appear before you in the Palace
To explain these facts more fully. For now I beg that you take this
Warning seriously.
Now, as the War with the Atalan seems to turn towards our favor, a
Greater Enemy appears just over our horizon. This threat is equal
To that which drove your subjects to flee the City of Midor so many
Human generations ago, and arrive here on Northern Shores.
I speak of that shambling, slouching horde of undead that now
Masses deep within the Kobai. The ancient undead thing
Known as Desthedes has found a general to lead his
Army against the living. To THIS CAUSE they are
Committed: the imposition of death over all life.
The life-giving powers of Port Royale's healers have already begun
To be overshadowed by the power of death. Soon this dark cloud
Will cover the entire country, all of Vives. Our enemy grows pro-
Portionally strong as we weaken. Their numbers grow as the living
Are thinned. Their army is drawn from those generations who have
Lived and died ~ their NUMBERS thus exceed the living manifold.
I pray that you will marshal the resources of Port Royale for what
Is sure to come eventually to its walls. The slouching, moaning
Hoard of undead will arrive at the city's gates, and Port Royale
Must be better prepared than it was for the Atalan attacks.
Indeed, the Atalan did not truly lay siege to your city.
The dead surely shall.
There are no stronger fortifications here in the north. Before a year
Has passed, if the dead are not thwarted, Port Royale may find itself
A stronghold for the living. I speak not only of adjacent settlements
Of Buckshire and the Tanglewood, both of which will surely arrive to
Your gates as refugees. I speak of the entire country. I have a fearful
Vision, of islands of life within a sea of undead. Port Royale could
Be the greatest island in that archipelago.
It is crucial that three things begin immediately.
I. Rebuild the city's reserves of food, provisions and other necessary
Supplies to last out the siege
II. Sound a warning that is backed by Royal Authority ~ No
Warning from the streets will be taken seriously
III. Prepare a plan for the defense of the city and marshal the materiel
That this plan will require
The threat that I herein describe cannot be denied. Nor can it be ignored.
The HEROES of Port Royale cannot defend YOUR CITY from this threat.
Please do not dismiss my words as mad ravings. I do not auger these
Events or offer this as prophesy ~ I write of things that have already
Come to pass.
Please act, and act quickly.
Signed~
Your Servant~
The Salt Sower
* * * * *
[The second letter is posted south with Shira's horses, and taken by courier to the guard station amidst the farmlands of Midor]
Bishop Vidus Khain
Temple Vestry
City of Midor
Lord Bishop~
I write with some urgency... |
"What are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about dying."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means lying in the ground with dirt on your face and holding your breath forever."
-Burt Reynolds, "The End" |
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The Map and the Tomb
Posted: 09 Aug 2007 10:38 AM |
The last ferry was leaving the Ladriel Shoreline as Salt's hasted steps brought him within sight of it.
"Wait!!" he cried. He sped past Jusin...or was it Kusin?... and a slipper was flung from his foot as he pedaled up the path. He hopped then, running a few steps and then jumping for a few on his one shod foot, out onto the jetty and catching the Aegea's launch. It obligingly returned to shore to pick him up.
He threw his staff, his bags and his straw hat into the launch and said again in a commanding tone to the ferry's pilot, and its crew of rowers: "Wait!"
With that he limped over to the public bulletin and tore down a notice about something-or-other that somebody needed or had for sale. He turned the paper over and spread it across the top of a barrel, and began to write quickly if not desperately.
Natana barked to the ferry's pilot, "Get underway. Row for the Aegea now!"
The pilot started to throw Salt's bags back onto the jetty. He finished his note and leapt back to Natana's side, slinging his travelling bags back into the skiff as the pilot threw them out. "Just wait a moment longer!"
The Aegea had weighed anchor and now Captain Valien was peering back towards the jetty, shading his eyes against the glare of the setting sun.
Tris~
I have recieved a MAP from the woman
Who met us last night in Icy Vale, who
Reprsents certain mercantile and other
Intersts in PR. The map is duplicated
Here. Can you see that this area is well
Scouted ASAP??
Deepwinter contains only riddles. This
Map reveals our true objective. Our
Enemy has led us to it. They have found
It but they do not enter and sieze their
Prize. We must find out why!!
Be careful! Use the best people you know!
~S
Salt hop-skipped with one bare foot over to the dwarven drover and shoved the crumpled note into his hands. "Please," he implored of the stumpy fellow, "This message must reach Tristian Vike, in Icy Vale. Arrange for its deliver, sparing no expense..." He fished for his purse and took a handful of gold coins into hand - to pay for his passage to Port Royale - and offered the rest in payment. "This is all I have," he said, "use it to post this message and keep the rest for your trouble!"
"Awaaaaaaaaaay-ho!" shouted the captain of the Aegea, signaling that the ferry boat, its crew and its late-arriving passenger would be left to overnight tied up at the Ladriel Shoreline. But Salt was at last running for the launch. The old man actually waded into the waters shoving the small craft away from the jetty, and was pulled aboard roughly by the laughing crew. The rowers bent to their work and soon the launch was alongside the Aegea, which had set its sails. They dropped a rope ladder down to the launch and pulled Salt up as he clung - soaked in seawater - to the bottom rungs.
What he offered Valien in exchange for his patience were steady winds, conjured through favorable appeals to the elemental servants of Vilyave, all the way across the Inner Sea. |
"What are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about dying."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means lying in the ground with dirt on your face and holding your breath forever."
-Burt Reynolds, "The End" |
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Re: The Map and the Tomb
Posted: 09 Aug 2007 03:52 PM |
Knock, knock.
Two eyes, one dark blue, the other light blue, opened at the same time. Beneath the masses of hair that masked the visage of the scoundrel, a deep breath was taken in through the nose, air circulating through the lungs, and escaping through his mouth. The chest rose, as well as did the senses.
"Mr. Vike!" A muffled sound, the wooden door the sound buffer. "Mail fer you, delivered wit' urrgency!" Miggins' voice. The innkeeper.
A stumbling out of bed, and two bare feet impacting the floor, treading silently where others would make creaks that could wake hibernating bears. They shuffled over to the door, supporting the hand that moved to the handle, turning and opening the entrance to his small place.
All Miggins saw was a mass of black hair, who wore a set of pants that had the fabric severed from the knees down. A gruff, raspy voice, one that was not awake, spoke in a low, irritated tone.
"Hand me the envelope." A large arm came out of the gap between the frame and door, to which the proprietor placed a crumpled, shriveled note in. He let go as fingers clamped down on the parchment, and pulled back. As soon as the hand was fully within the confines of the dark room, the gap drew to a close as the door slammed shut.
Miggins stepped back, and looked at the large flat piece of wood. "I'm inspectin' yer room next week! Nonna them bears betta b' sleepin' innit!"
Tristian barely heard him. Already engrossed in the note, eyes scanning it, along with the map on the other side, for details. Clues. The last sentence drew his face to a smirk, a grin that separated his lips partly as he nearly choked a laugh.
Be careful! Use the best people you know!
It seemed a walk was in order. A short walk north, to see his brother at the small camp. After that...
Tristian Vike began his day, halfway awake, and already moving through the Divider Chain. |
Tristian and Elghinn.
NWN logon =UltimatiumOmega
Lost item: Fire Bomb
Tristian Vike damages Erin: 19 (19 Fire)
Tristian Vike damages Tristian Vike: 7 (7 Fire)
Tristian Vike damages Kard Snyder: 10 (10 Fire) |
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Fragments of the Salt Sower
Posted: 14 Aug 2007 11:40 AM |
The last person to see him alive was the desert woman, Saana.
Salt had ventured out of Port Royale on an errand he could easily have charged to someone else. Witch-hazel plants grew in the Buckshire Marshes, and witch-hazel was the only component he was missing from his healing wort. And so he went out of Port Royale's front gates, down the Northern Highway and eventually crossed into the muck and mire of the swamp.
Saana came upon him as he harvested the plant's freshest shoots. She swatting massive stirges as she came, wielding a curious, straight blade with a single sharpened edge. They exchanged pleasantries, being somewhat familiar and trusting of one another, and prepared to return to Port together, where Salt was to meet the half-orc guyver, Ophelia, and his huntsman.
Salt, Ophelia and Tristian had planned to lay a trap for the monstrous iron construct called Pitter-Patter, using themselves as bait. Ophelia had proposed this, as a means for thinning the ranks of their enemies. Operating on the assumption that this construct was of gnomish manufacture, they would work to gain the model and serial number by slowing time to a stand-still, and then darting in to read the numbers off of the titanic metal thing. Then they would finally have a controller for the construct duplicated so that they could wrest this advantage away from the Breath, their enemy.
This notion had been batted back and forth since Pitter-Patter's first appearance. The wizard Bereil Yadashem was the first to suggest that Pitter-Patter had broken free of its controller, and he sought to take control of the thing for his own uses. All efforts to slow or stop the thing had failed. Salt himself was unsure whether Pitter-Patter would be drawn to the trio simply because they had stepped foot out of their safe haven, Port Royale, neutral ground.
How wrong he was. Pitter-Patter confounded their plans to trap it, by showing its mechanical bulk too early. The titanic construct appeared on top of a soggy hillock perhaps thirty yards away, as Saana and Salt began wading east through the fragrant mire.
Salt screamed.
Pitter-Patter was smaller than the golem that had been purchased to defend the Buckshire Trading Post from the Atalan, just a little bigger than an iron golem in fact, but the colossus was infinitely more complex as constructs go. It cast magic like an archmage, albeit in just a few simple patterns and combinations. It was resistant to most magics as well, though its magics could be countered by a skilled caster. Perhaps worst of all, it was capable of repairing itself through some ingenious mechanism. Salt had once seen it battle the combined wizardry of Lucifer McIath and Xaranthir at Elbereth's Tears. Three times felled, each time the construct underwent repair and reassembled the apparatus whole and anew, as though inside the thing lay materials and supplies to build a dozen Pitter-Patters. The routines for repairing the demolished apparatus took scant few moments, merely postponing it in its pursuit.
There had been no ripple, no quaking as often announced this monster's arrival. The wetland sog had dampened it, or perhaps they had forgotten about their surroundings for one critical moment allowing the thing to draw in close.
"Flee!" Salt hollered, and the two ran ahead of a cloud of cinders and flame that spread along the swamp water's surface, a favorite tactic of the thing called Pitter-Patter which Salt endured in earlier engagements with it.
The two ran desperately and the swamp's denizens impeded their progress. A Vine Horror sent tough wriggling tendrils up to bind Salt's legs as he crossed a spongy high-spot that supported a pair of great trees. He managed to slip out of the coils thanks to the muck that covered him from the waist down. The giant stirges harried them and Salt and Saana each gathered a small swarm of the things as they dashed madly across the marsh trying to reach the Buckshire Trading Post.
Then came the Swamp Trolls. Salt's summons were left behind to slow the Colossus, and so he and Saana met these trolls in hand-to-hand combat, Saana wielding her straight-bladed sword and Salt the weapon called Shadowslayer. Flames licked the trolls with each stroke of their swords, but it was a desperate fight. Saana decided it in their favor, conjuring a great dire bear that mauled one troll after the other, as Salt broke away from them and hurled lightening balls at their opponents.
When the attackers stopped coming, Salt looked behind them.
Several had suggested that a swamp such as this would be ideal ground for confronting Pitter-Patter, as the monster's weight would cause him to sink, sticking him in the mud if not altogether sinking him forever beneath the dismal swamp's surface.
Perhaps the Buckshire Marsh had taken Pitter-Patter. Perhaps it had not.
"Alright?" Saana asked.
Salt peered into the swamp, saying "We must reach Port post-haste... That thing is here for me!".
"Alright," the desert woman replied.
They moved forward, wading through chest-deep waters covered over with scum. The bear produced from Saana's conjuration swam gracefully with long smooth strokes, boney-plated back bobbing above the surface of the mire.
Soon they encountered huge toads, black things with glistening eyes like speckled hen's eggs. The bear swatted them as they came, stamping them into the mud. They were close to the trading post now, and could see the gap in the stone walls ruined in this portion of the marsh that would lead them out onto solid ground, and into a solid chance of escape. Perhaps if Pitter-Patter followed them into the post, the golem that patrolled against the Atalan would target Pitter-Patter, perhaps even destroy the metal monster...
They climbed up out of the wet, and onto a carpet of bog-moss, but a light flashed towards them from the direction they had come. Before either of them knew what was happening their bear companion was gripped in a glowing, squeezing fist materialized from magic. Then a thunder rang out, dazing both Salt and Saana at once.
Pitter-Patter was upon them once more. Perhaps it had been slowed by the swamp... or perhaps it realized their destination and took a different route across the swamp to intercept them here, mere steps away from the Buckshire Trading Post. Salt came to his senses and ran across the bog-moss, but turning he saw that Pitter-Patter had fallen face-down in the swamp. For a moment he hesitated, confused. Had Saana somehow put the thing down? Had it been sucked down into the oozing sucking mud, buying them the few seconds that they required to escape?
Salt pressed this advantage, raising the most powerful of transmutations to slow the passage of time so that both Pitter-Patter and Saana stood still.
He summoned his own bear, a sword-swinging hump-backed celestial bear that stood upright and was encased in glimmering steel plate, to delay the colossus from following them.
He protected himself from flame and called forth powerful abjurations to protect him from the spell combinations he now anticipated.
Time moved forward. Salt conjured a hand to grapple Pitter-Patter, while the colossus performed the same operation upon his summoned celestial. Then the thing unleashed another cloud of flame and cinders that rolled over the celestial and Saana, obscuring them from view.
Salt heard the colossus move forward within the incindiary cloud, and there was a sickening, shocking crash, a collision that reported loudly and palpably. A flaming sword - not Saana's, but the celestial's - flew into the air and turned end over end until it splashed hissing into the scummy water and boiled there. Pitter-Patter rained blows down upon the celestial, each one announced by a shocking crunch.
Salt looked for the way to the Buckshire Trading Post. In his panic, he had run clear past it. It was now between himself and the colossus.
He started a sequence of spells as Pitter-Patter moved for him.
But suddenly - and damnably - a sticky stream of web shot out and caught hold of his arm. Ettercaps - spidery humanoids that claimed this region of the Buckshire Marshes - had been drawn to the sounds of combat, and now they set about claiming the old seer as their prey. A number of them had emerged from the swamp and surrounded him, flinging their sticky silken threads and snaring his both of his arms. Bind him up! they said with their eyes, Carry him off! Feed us, human, YOU WILL!! Salt clawed at the web-stuff and realized that he had walked into it as well. The ground was covered thickly in webs, and both of his feet were tangled in it.
Pitter-Patter at his back, Salt broke free of the webs and staggered towards the deeper water, running away from the ruined stone wall and away from the Buckshire Trading Post, but escape was impossible now.
The Colossus threw a blow at the old man, and it landed in his back just below his papery shoulder blades. Salt's body seemed to fold backwards over its fist, and then whipped forwards into the shallow green water with a splash. Pitter-Patter took one more swing, striking straight down into the seer's floating body and planting him a yard down into the mud. |
"What are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about dying."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means lying in the ground with dirt on your face and holding your breath forever."
-Burt Reynolds, "The End" |
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