16) Menial Tasks
The tall, armored figure crushed another demon with a mighty swing of his warhammer, as the attack of its companion was parried by his large tower shield, a broad, protective black wall. He sneered under his mask at the last infernal creature remaining, and as the large monster was relentlessly pressing the attack, he concentrated and whispered "Thank you, Hater of All Life, for you granted me the strength to destroy those who stand in my way, and you burned the last one of them in your holy, purifying flame...".
"Fear drove you to madness, mortal...I am still here..." cackled the huge Devil, its claws now scraping against his steel-clad forearms... its fangs, red eyes and sulfurous breath dangerously close to his face. Yet, he replied calmly, embracing the Void, his focus unwavering: "Not for long" he uttered in a blank tone, before a flash of holy power erupted from his hands, incinerating the outsider. "Not so funny anymore, is it?" he whispered, as he calmly walked past the pile of ashes that were his enemies.
He had spent the last cycles (not really days...there were no days in Sigil...) back and forth through portals of every kind, gathering resources for his thrice-damned employer. The Lich was proving to be an annoyance...yes, of course the Cult was interested in keeping a close eye on him...and obviously, the Reaper himself was satisfied with the monster, otherwise he would have lost his dark blessings already...but this was getting out of hand. He was not some...valet, or carrier. If things werent changing, and swiftly, he might have to confront the bag of bones and settle the matter once and for all. Nobody could toss him around like a dirty old rag...nobody
"Ah, Arvaal...welcome back..." a hollow voice seemingly speaking directly inside his head greeted him as he reached the dark alley where their new base was located. He was used to it, but despite his best efforts, this being managed to always freeze the blood in his veins. "I see your mission was successful...excellent. I am very satisfied". He did not reply, just nodded slowly, his cold blue eyes still shifting under his mask. Suddenly, the shadows coalesced into a humanoid figure not more than four steps from him. It took all his battle training and his lifelong experience with horrors not to take a step back, nor flinch. He just gripped his warhammer tighter, if imperceptibly...and that was his only reaction. He was pretty proud of it...
"You see...these menial tasks are an indispensable part of my plan. To build a structure, you need a project. But to execute it, you need the materials, after all...Worry not, for your next assignment will surely spark your interest..." the Lich turned around, and began walking (...well,somehow moving...) ahead, his black robes floating in a cloud of darkness around him. "Follow me", he said, and it was not a question. Not at all. He followed, his anger now only a distant recall...
Vashtek The Eternal
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*Melmoth
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17) An interesting meeting
He had been waiting for this for a long time, even before actually reaching the City of Doors. Arvaal, his first associate, the one who was sent here before him to prepare his advent, had already noticed Chardon, and gathered some intelligence on him. Obviously, he was very eager to meet him...he had never encountered another one ... like himself, before. And now, here they were...
He had picked a ruined building down in the City Below, out of sight, tranquil enough to have a quiet, relaxed dialogue. Chardon had sent his envoy, a Death Knight called Dakkon, to announce he was coming...stylish. And he liked style. They moved to their present location, and had a very interesting chat...the subjects touched were quite sensitive, and Zagran was not entirely comfortable with them (he could tell from his long silences and his rare, sharp remarks...), but all in all it went well, until an unwelcomed guest made his theatrical entrance.
"Your wards need a serious improvement..." the old Undead told cackled towards Chardon, as he and his death knights were entering the abandoned house. "And your manners do as well, apparently" Vashtek replied sardonically, concealing the annoyance at being so brutally interrupted with only the shattering wards as a warning. The ancient creature dismissed him with a wave of his skeletal hand "hmpf...I will deal with the one with some intellect here, not you...Just one of my death knights would be enough to annihilate you...".
Vashtek inclined his head, suddenly curious: obviously, the old walking corpse was completely mad, but such confidence always sparked his interest...He kept silent, waiting for him to continue his dialogue with Chardon. They spoke for a while, and then the Old Lich finally decided to reveal the reason of his visit:
"I need your assistance, and your rewards will be wealth and influence beyond measure...you just need to recover something for me...an entire army of my minions was annihilated trying to do it, but perhaps you could succeed where they failed..."
Here, Vashtek definitely decided he had enough. "You claim one of your Death Knights could damage me...but an entire army of them was destroyed in this mission of yours...and you come to my place, asking for my and my guest's help for a suicide mission which you failed to perform yourself, despite arrogantly claiming you're so much more powerful than us? I wish you luck with your endeavors...you will surely need it." He glided towards the door as the ancient Lich unflappably explained to Chardon how he needed to go to Nilfheim and then Mercuria, and he had a week's time to complete the task. Mercuria??Yes, he had to be mad... "Are you coming, Zagran?"
As they made their way out, he put the intruder's memory aside (interesting as the creature might be) and concentrated on what he and Chardon had discussed previously...
He had been waiting for this for a long time, even before actually reaching the City of Doors. Arvaal, his first associate, the one who was sent here before him to prepare his advent, had already noticed Chardon, and gathered some intelligence on him. Obviously, he was very eager to meet him...he had never encountered another one ... like himself, before. And now, here they were...
He had picked a ruined building down in the City Below, out of sight, tranquil enough to have a quiet, relaxed dialogue. Chardon had sent his envoy, a Death Knight called Dakkon, to announce he was coming...stylish. And he liked style. They moved to their present location, and had a very interesting chat...the subjects touched were quite sensitive, and Zagran was not entirely comfortable with them (he could tell from his long silences and his rare, sharp remarks...), but all in all it went well, until an unwelcomed guest made his theatrical entrance.
"Your wards need a serious improvement..." the old Undead told cackled towards Chardon, as he and his death knights were entering the abandoned house. "And your manners do as well, apparently" Vashtek replied sardonically, concealing the annoyance at being so brutally interrupted with only the shattering wards as a warning. The ancient creature dismissed him with a wave of his skeletal hand "hmpf...I will deal with the one with some intellect here, not you...Just one of my death knights would be enough to annihilate you...".
Vashtek inclined his head, suddenly curious: obviously, the old walking corpse was completely mad, but such confidence always sparked his interest...He kept silent, waiting for him to continue his dialogue with Chardon. They spoke for a while, and then the Old Lich finally decided to reveal the reason of his visit:
"I need your assistance, and your rewards will be wealth and influence beyond measure...you just need to recover something for me...an entire army of my minions was annihilated trying to do it, but perhaps you could succeed where they failed..."
Here, Vashtek definitely decided he had enough. "You claim one of your Death Knights could damage me...but an entire army of them was destroyed in this mission of yours...and you come to my place, asking for my and my guest's help for a suicide mission which you failed to perform yourself, despite arrogantly claiming you're so much more powerful than us? I wish you luck with your endeavors...you will surely need it." He glided towards the door as the ancient Lich unflappably explained to Chardon how he needed to go to Nilfheim and then Mercuria, and he had a week's time to complete the task. Mercuria??Yes, he had to be mad... "Are you coming, Zagran?"
As they made their way out, he put the intruder's memory aside (interesting as the creature might be) and concentrated on what he and Chardon had discussed previously...
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*Melmoth
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18) By Trial and Error
The rag dressed woman awoke with a low groan, muffled by the gag. After a moment of disorientation due to the Sleep weave fading, her instinct, developed in a lifetime spent between the Hive Ward and the Slums, kicked in and she began struggling frantically against the chains pinning her wrists and ankles to the four corners of the table. She ceased her efforts abruptly, freezing as the black robed figured glided in, only darkness inside his deep cowl. She tried to speak, but the gag transformed all she wished to say into an incomprehensible moan. Tears were streaming down from her blue eyes, wide open in fear...but the nightmarish creature was barely aware of his prisoner... he was focused on the task. The task was everything .
Just like the weave itself and the wands he created, the potion was not strong enough, he thought as he watched her die... he most likely needed a better essence. When one was as skilled as him, the task of finding what did not work through elimination process was indeed an easy one: he seldom made mistakes, and it was never about the technical aspect of it. Soon, he would find the right formula, and create the protective charms he needed. It was somewhat of a waste to experiment on living subjects, really...but then again, a necessary evil. Talking about wastes, he thought...
He traced dark runes into thin air, whispering unspeakable curses in the arcane language of magic as he bound the ghost of the dead girl to her dying place as securely as the shackles that bound her body in her last hours, tying off the weave to persist it. "Here" he uttered in his hollow voice "I just granted you eternal life. You may thank me later...we will have plenty of time...". He laughed a terrible, monstrous laugh as he moved out of the laboratory, twitching shadows floating like a cape around him.
The rag dressed woman awoke with a low groan, muffled by the gag. After a moment of disorientation due to the Sleep weave fading, her instinct, developed in a lifetime spent between the Hive Ward and the Slums, kicked in and she began struggling frantically against the chains pinning her wrists and ankles to the four corners of the table. She ceased her efforts abruptly, freezing as the black robed figured glided in, only darkness inside his deep cowl. She tried to speak, but the gag transformed all she wished to say into an incomprehensible moan. Tears were streaming down from her blue eyes, wide open in fear...but the nightmarish creature was barely aware of his prisoner... he was focused on the task. The task was everything .
Just like the weave itself and the wands he created, the potion was not strong enough, he thought as he watched her die... he most likely needed a better essence. When one was as skilled as him, the task of finding what did not work through elimination process was indeed an easy one: he seldom made mistakes, and it was never about the technical aspect of it. Soon, he would find the right formula, and create the protective charms he needed. It was somewhat of a waste to experiment on living subjects, really...but then again, a necessary evil. Talking about wastes, he thought...
He traced dark runes into thin air, whispering unspeakable curses in the arcane language of magic as he bound the ghost of the dead girl to her dying place as securely as the shackles that bound her body in her last hours, tying off the weave to persist it. "Here" he uttered in his hollow voice "I just granted you eternal life. You may thank me later...we will have plenty of time...". He laughed a terrible, monstrous laugh as he moved out of the laboratory, twitching shadows floating like a cape around him.
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*Melmoth
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19) Improvements
The large cellar which had become a laboratory was silent, if not for the sounds of boiling potions, the burning flames under the pots and cauldrons and the words whispered in the arcane language of magic by a hollow, artificial voice. A voice that could not belong to any living being. A voice the ghosts, spectres and wraiths in the cellar (now more a crypt, really...) knew very well, for it was the last they had heard in life...the voice that shackled their spirits to this very place, unwilling wardens imprisoned by the power of Weave and will.
And there he was, in the center of the room, right before one of the magical workbenches, a shadow among shadows in the faint light of the small flames scattered across the chamber. A dwarven waraxe was floating right in front of him, just a few inches over the table's polished surface.
This weapon was one of several the dark mage had imbued with arcane power for his associates, lately. The reason was threefold: on one hand, he wished for them to be as effective as possible in performing their tasks, and to be able to defend themselves if attacked: they were extraordinary individuals, and he needed them. He could not afford looking for replacements, not at this stage anyway...On the other, he was glad to both show them glimpses of his true power, and tie them to himself even tighter than they were...it could become important, in time. The third and last reason...well...they would see that, eventually. All in due time...
After one cycle of uninterrupted work, the black robed arcanist emerged from the underground laboratory. Few mortal mages could cope with such an intensive enchanting without resting, but strain and other weaknesses of the flesh held no more sway over him. Without pausing, he glided towards the magic circles and arcane wardings (visible and hidden) he placed all around the three floors of the building, and began reinforcing and improving them, one at a time, persisting the weaves with a skill sharpened by centuries of use, the tirelessness of death itself and the patience that only an eternal being can muster.
The large cellar which had become a laboratory was silent, if not for the sounds of boiling potions, the burning flames under the pots and cauldrons and the words whispered in the arcane language of magic by a hollow, artificial voice. A voice that could not belong to any living being. A voice the ghosts, spectres and wraiths in the cellar (now more a crypt, really...) knew very well, for it was the last they had heard in life...the voice that shackled their spirits to this very place, unwilling wardens imprisoned by the power of Weave and will.
And there he was, in the center of the room, right before one of the magical workbenches, a shadow among shadows in the faint light of the small flames scattered across the chamber. A dwarven waraxe was floating right in front of him, just a few inches over the table's polished surface.
This weapon was one of several the dark mage had imbued with arcane power for his associates, lately. The reason was threefold: on one hand, he wished for them to be as effective as possible in performing their tasks, and to be able to defend themselves if attacked: they were extraordinary individuals, and he needed them. He could not afford looking for replacements, not at this stage anyway...On the other, he was glad to both show them glimpses of his true power, and tie them to himself even tighter than they were...it could become important, in time. The third and last reason...well...they would see that, eventually. All in due time...
After one cycle of uninterrupted work, the black robed arcanist emerged from the underground laboratory. Few mortal mages could cope with such an intensive enchanting without resting, but strain and other weaknesses of the flesh held no more sway over him. Without pausing, he glided towards the magic circles and arcane wardings (visible and hidden) he placed all around the three floors of the building, and began reinforcing and improving them, one at a time, persisting the weaves with a skill sharpened by centuries of use, the tirelessness of death itself and the patience that only an eternal being can muster.
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*Melmoth
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20) Housekeeping
"Rise" commanded the hollow voice, a voice used to demand, not ask. This creature would be the perfect keeper for the upper floors: tireless, efficient, yet without the inconvenient of being abhorred by his mortal associates. It was not very dangerous in combat, but that was not required from it...not at all...
The local denizens were smart enough never to approach the three-floor building located in the small side alley, a dark and forgotten corner of Undersigil. Most of all, when the Syndicate allowed the occupants to stay (and it would continue, as long as gold and resources kept flowing into Charles Goodman's pockets...). Most of all, when the few careless or curious enough to wander there disappeared without a trace. Most of all, when the locale was haunted by an army of angry spirits, enchanted with powerful arcane wardings, and occupied by very strange individuals, even for such a place. No, there was no need for another warden. Not yet, at least.
Obeying to his maker's command, the eight-feet tall obsidian creature rose slowly, the faint light of the flames scattered across the large room dancing on its polished surface. The wizard inclined his head, examining his work critically with unseeing, hollow eye-sockets. The materials, gentle courtsy of his associates' raids in the Abyss, were excellent. The stonework could have been more refined, but he was not a golemancer, so this would have to do. In a few centuries his skills would perhaps allow him to perfect this art...yes, it was a possibility... "You are Vain" the voice continued, after an interminable moment of silence "You belong to me. Your task is to serve me, and it will be until you are shattered into worthless rubble. Do you understand?" The golem nodded slowly. "Very well. Now, let's discuss your specific instructions..."
The voice kept speaking, and the obsidian creature called Vain listened patiently, motionless as a massive, sentient black mirror.
"Rise" commanded the hollow voice, a voice used to demand, not ask. This creature would be the perfect keeper for the upper floors: tireless, efficient, yet without the inconvenient of being abhorred by his mortal associates. It was not very dangerous in combat, but that was not required from it...not at all...
The local denizens were smart enough never to approach the three-floor building located in the small side alley, a dark and forgotten corner of Undersigil. Most of all, when the Syndicate allowed the occupants to stay (and it would continue, as long as gold and resources kept flowing into Charles Goodman's pockets...). Most of all, when the few careless or curious enough to wander there disappeared without a trace. Most of all, when the locale was haunted by an army of angry spirits, enchanted with powerful arcane wardings, and occupied by very strange individuals, even for such a place. No, there was no need for another warden. Not yet, at least.
Obeying to his maker's command, the eight-feet tall obsidian creature rose slowly, the faint light of the flames scattered across the large room dancing on its polished surface. The wizard inclined his head, examining his work critically with unseeing, hollow eye-sockets. The materials, gentle courtsy of his associates' raids in the Abyss, were excellent. The stonework could have been more refined, but he was not a golemancer, so this would have to do. In a few centuries his skills would perhaps allow him to perfect this art...yes, it was a possibility... "You are Vain" the voice continued, after an interminable moment of silence "You belong to me. Your task is to serve me, and it will be until you are shattered into worthless rubble. Do you understand?" The golem nodded slowly. "Very well. Now, let's discuss your specific instructions..."
The voice kept speaking, and the obsidian creature called Vain listened patiently, motionless as a massive, sentient black mirror.
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*Melmoth
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21) The Alhoon
"...so, whether you deem it worthy of pursuit or not, this is my reason. My path is clear." the supernaturally beautiful creature, not a demon nor devil yet both and more, regarded the two figures with her magnetic, golden gaze. One of the two, a stocky dwarf, powerfully built like a typical warrior of his race, yet finely dressed with his rune-engraved clothes displaying great arcane mastery shook his head slightly, muttering, deep in thought:
"This is not going to be easy...I would like to hear Chardon's opinion, before going ahead with it, I mean...what do we know of this creature, apart from the fact he is incredibly ancient, and extremely hard to destroy?"
She grimaced, her exquisite features showing rare signs of disappointment: "I...do not know. He is very secretive, even his name is lost in the dust of the past...I hope you can find this out for me..."
Zagran muttered a quite potent dwarven curse, as the headshakes began once more. The other figure, hooded and cloaked in a dark mantle, still and silent till now, finally spoke in a hollow, artificial tone: "Your spies never made it back...but in this respect, you do not have the resources I possess. I have associates who have very special skillsets...it will not be easy, but it is possible. However, I will need a detailed map of his location and how to get there, and all you can find about him. Every detail matters. If we are to negotiate with such a creature, we need leverage. Serious leverage. Believe me, I know..." he chuckled mirthlessly.
"I will send an envoy to get the map and the information you can collect. Until then...Lady's Grace" and he opened a dimension door with a quick gesture, stepping inside while Zagran reflexively followed, still lost in thought.
"Until we meet again..." Mir glanced once more towards the fading portal, her expression unreadable.
"...so, whether you deem it worthy of pursuit or not, this is my reason. My path is clear." the supernaturally beautiful creature, not a demon nor devil yet both and more, regarded the two figures with her magnetic, golden gaze. One of the two, a stocky dwarf, powerfully built like a typical warrior of his race, yet finely dressed with his rune-engraved clothes displaying great arcane mastery shook his head slightly, muttering, deep in thought:
"This is not going to be easy...I would like to hear Chardon's opinion, before going ahead with it, I mean...what do we know of this creature, apart from the fact he is incredibly ancient, and extremely hard to destroy?"
She grimaced, her exquisite features showing rare signs of disappointment: "I...do not know. He is very secretive, even his name is lost in the dust of the past...I hope you can find this out for me..."
Zagran muttered a quite potent dwarven curse, as the headshakes began once more. The other figure, hooded and cloaked in a dark mantle, still and silent till now, finally spoke in a hollow, artificial tone: "Your spies never made it back...but in this respect, you do not have the resources I possess. I have associates who have very special skillsets...it will not be easy, but it is possible. However, I will need a detailed map of his location and how to get there, and all you can find about him. Every detail matters. If we are to negotiate with such a creature, we need leverage. Serious leverage. Believe me, I know..." he chuckled mirthlessly.
"I will send an envoy to get the map and the information you can collect. Until then...Lady's Grace" and he opened a dimension door with a quick gesture, stepping inside while Zagran reflexively followed, still lost in thought.
"Until we meet again..." Mir glanced once more towards the fading portal, her expression unreadable.
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*Melmoth
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22) Awakening
It had been some time.
Some would say a long time, but when you're immortal and already lived several of your race's originally expected lifespans, "long" definitely becomes a relative concept.
Four years ago, he and his associates had embarked in a mission involving a being of immense power, a rare Alhoon, master of arcane magic and the secrets of the mind.
He had created a network of acquaintances and associates, arranged a stable accommodation with master Goodmane, fortified it with persistent wards and appropriate guardians...It all went according to his careful planning, the development flawless, the speed of execution far superior to the expectations...
It was all gone, now. What was far worse, he had no idea how. He had just awakened to his unlife thanks to the power of his phylactery, his earthly remains regenerated and as strong as ever...but how had he been bested? What caused his temporary demise? His powers were immense, but the Alhoon certainly would have been a mighty opponent...
Which brought the next question: if he had been destroyed, what of his mortal companions? As capable as they were, they had nowhere near his resilience...and only one life to lose. What a waste...
Well, no point dwelling on a past shrouded in an impenetrable mist: he had work to do.
A lot of it.
It had been some time.
Some would say a long time, but when you're immortal and already lived several of your race's originally expected lifespans, "long" definitely becomes a relative concept.
Four years ago, he and his associates had embarked in a mission involving a being of immense power, a rare Alhoon, master of arcane magic and the secrets of the mind.
He had created a network of acquaintances and associates, arranged a stable accommodation with master Goodmane, fortified it with persistent wards and appropriate guardians...It all went according to his careful planning, the development flawless, the speed of execution far superior to the expectations...
It was all gone, now. What was far worse, he had no idea how. He had just awakened to his unlife thanks to the power of his phylactery, his earthly remains regenerated and as strong as ever...but how had he been bested? What caused his temporary demise? His powers were immense, but the Alhoon certainly would have been a mighty opponent...
Which brought the next question: if he had been destroyed, what of his mortal companions? As capable as they were, they had nowhere near his resilience...and only one life to lose. What a waste...
Well, no point dwelling on a past shrouded in an impenetrable mist: he had work to do.
A lot of it.
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*Melmoth
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- Joined: Thu Jan 01, 1970 12:00 am
23) New Acquaintances
She had been absolutely right: her library was astounding, and worthy of someone like him. The organization was also on par with the selection, enabling full appreciation of the sheer vastity of the knowledge treasured in those halls.
Equally interesting, the tour of the manor came with a new alliance, the solidity of which he would soon enough have the occasion to test, no doubt. There were hardly any quiet, safe places to "nest" for creatures like him, with the City of Doors being quite far from it, at that.
But the unique opportunities it presented...planeswalking and its lure, the endless power just mere steps through portals away...And power, he most certainly needed. Lots of it, if he wanted to stabilize his position. Being immortal did not mean the cessation of his existence could not be attempted by an overzealous group or another, with their typical small armies of crazed fanatics and whatnot.
After a few centuries, one begins to know the pattern, to look for the signs before they are even there, to cast far-reaching tendrils, forming a complex web of long-term plans interwoven with short-term tasks and medium-term objectives, all in service of the one, overarching goal...the target nobody else can see.
Success needs different components, and it would be overly presumptuous to think one single individual, no matter how exceptional, would be able to provide them all. Hells, even gods had limited portfolios...He needded his network back.
He had moved through the proper channels for Denna. If she was still alive, she would soon materialize out of the shadows. He had reached Arvaal's cult, and knew he would be sent back to him as per request. No news of Zagran yet...but if his fragile, mortal self had been hit by whatever had destroyed him, he was probably not going to resurface ever again.
Waiting to reform his old team and put his new friendship to the test while forming new ones, he only needed to meet Charles Goodman and dust off their old business relationship...
He could almost see the web spreading.
She had been absolutely right: her library was astounding, and worthy of someone like him. The organization was also on par with the selection, enabling full appreciation of the sheer vastity of the knowledge treasured in those halls.
Equally interesting, the tour of the manor came with a new alliance, the solidity of which he would soon enough have the occasion to test, no doubt. There were hardly any quiet, safe places to "nest" for creatures like him, with the City of Doors being quite far from it, at that.
But the unique opportunities it presented...planeswalking and its lure, the endless power just mere steps through portals away...And power, he most certainly needed. Lots of it, if he wanted to stabilize his position. Being immortal did not mean the cessation of his existence could not be attempted by an overzealous group or another, with their typical small armies of crazed fanatics and whatnot.
After a few centuries, one begins to know the pattern, to look for the signs before they are even there, to cast far-reaching tendrils, forming a complex web of long-term plans interwoven with short-term tasks and medium-term objectives, all in service of the one, overarching goal...the target nobody else can see.
Success needs different components, and it would be overly presumptuous to think one single individual, no matter how exceptional, would be able to provide them all. Hells, even gods had limited portfolios...He needded his network back.
He had moved through the proper channels for Denna. If she was still alive, she would soon materialize out of the shadows. He had reached Arvaal's cult, and knew he would be sent back to him as per request. No news of Zagran yet...but if his fragile, mortal self had been hit by whatever had destroyed him, he was probably not going to resurface ever again.
Waiting to reform his old team and put his new friendship to the test while forming new ones, he only needed to meet Charles Goodman and dust off their old business relationship...
He could almost see the web spreading.
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*Melmoth
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- Joined: Thu Jan 01, 1970 12:00 am
24) The Dead
The Kobold proved to be a far more interesting interlocutor than the majority of people would give it credit for, but that was and had always been the problem with first impressions: they were shallow, and as wiser beings than him knew full well, judging a book by its cover was not only a futile exercise, but one that might easily cause grievous blunders.
As he idly, almost torpidly exchanged views on Sigil's importance in the multiverse, the quality of life it offered, its factions and various other philosophical subjects, he could not help but marvel at the extraordinary occurrence to have such a dialogue on Black Market grounds, the dark heart of the Hive Ward, surrounded by thugs armed with blunt weapons, and seemingly impatient to put them to good use.
Obviously, the reflection was not triggered by any kind of concern: there was absolutely nothing these creatures could do to harm him, and in turn, he could delete them from existence instantly and effortlessly. A single word in the arcane language of magic, the smallest gesture of his gloved hand...nothing more would be needed to move them along onto the next stage of death. For of course, they were already dead. Everyone was.
He could feel the presence of his servant not too far away, idle. Probably still in the Mortuary, delivering the message as ordered. Soon, The Dead would reply and arrange a meeting. Shortly after, they would see the enormous advantages of having him as an associate, and accept his membership.
Another piece of the puzzle falling into place. Another cog in his machine. The web was expanding.
Soon, all would be revealed to those with eyes to see.
Well, perhaps not all...but most of it, anyway...
The Kobold proved to be a far more interesting interlocutor than the majority of people would give it credit for, but that was and had always been the problem with first impressions: they were shallow, and as wiser beings than him knew full well, judging a book by its cover was not only a futile exercise, but one that might easily cause grievous blunders.
As he idly, almost torpidly exchanged views on Sigil's importance in the multiverse, the quality of life it offered, its factions and various other philosophical subjects, he could not help but marvel at the extraordinary occurrence to have such a dialogue on Black Market grounds, the dark heart of the Hive Ward, surrounded by thugs armed with blunt weapons, and seemingly impatient to put them to good use.
Obviously, the reflection was not triggered by any kind of concern: there was absolutely nothing these creatures could do to harm him, and in turn, he could delete them from existence instantly and effortlessly. A single word in the arcane language of magic, the smallest gesture of his gloved hand...nothing more would be needed to move them along onto the next stage of death. For of course, they were already dead. Everyone was.
He could feel the presence of his servant not too far away, idle. Probably still in the Mortuary, delivering the message as ordered. Soon, The Dead would reply and arrange a meeting. Shortly after, they would see the enormous advantages of having him as an associate, and accept his membership.
Another piece of the puzzle falling into place. Another cog in his machine. The web was expanding.
Soon, all would be revealed to those with eyes to see.
Well, perhaps not all...but most of it, anyway...
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*Melmoth
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25) The Sleeper Awakes
"My source in the Harmonium gave me to understand the Anarchists are the main suspects...and if that were the case, the matter of their intentions would be pretty self-explanatory, yes...? Besides...that would take a LOT of alchemist's fire..." a hint of doubt accompanying her last sentence.
Skepticism aside, he could also detect a shade of annoyance in the hin's tone. A mage of power gifted with a keen intellect, definitely an exceptional necromancer as well as intrinsically resourceful in so many ways...but in this particular matter, somehow all too eager to take a loose theory based on a superficial analysis and an alarming lack of concrete information for granted. He wondered why.
"A very interesting view", he replied calmly. On the other side of the dark room, his newly named Sister in Death (as he liked to define their status after their recently acquired memberships) looked fully concentrated, silently shifting her feral gaze from his spectral figure to the dual-wielding halfling female, weighing them. "Let me give you another, from a totally different perspective..."
"If I were to plot seizing power in Sigil, what I would do is create a situation of perceived danger, a phantom menace casting a shadow on as many relevant individuals as possible. Then, I would proceed to swoop in and save the city, thereby gaining power and influence. In that case, how much alchemist's fire they actually have would be ultimately irrelevant". He paused, gauging their reactions.
"Hm...now that IS an interesting take..." he could see the full realization of the implications in her eyes, now almost burning as bright as the malevolent light in his own empty orbits.
"I do not say this because I believe it's true. I am merely making a point: we do not know enough to intervene and steer the events to ensure a desirable outcome. We need information. I am sure the coming meeting I have scheduled with my contact in Undersigil might have the added benefit to shed some light on this matter as well..."
Candlemarks later, when they parted to put the first phase of the plan they discussed into motion, he idly thought that The Dead of the Cage had slept far too long, thereby sliding inexorably towards irrelevance.
It was time for the Sleeper to awake once more.
The importance of this for his overarching plan could not be overstated.
"My source in the Harmonium gave me to understand the Anarchists are the main suspects...and if that were the case, the matter of their intentions would be pretty self-explanatory, yes...? Besides...that would take a LOT of alchemist's fire..." a hint of doubt accompanying her last sentence.
Skepticism aside, he could also detect a shade of annoyance in the hin's tone. A mage of power gifted with a keen intellect, definitely an exceptional necromancer as well as intrinsically resourceful in so many ways...but in this particular matter, somehow all too eager to take a loose theory based on a superficial analysis and an alarming lack of concrete information for granted. He wondered why.
"A very interesting view", he replied calmly. On the other side of the dark room, his newly named Sister in Death (as he liked to define their status after their recently acquired memberships) looked fully concentrated, silently shifting her feral gaze from his spectral figure to the dual-wielding halfling female, weighing them. "Let me give you another, from a totally different perspective..."
"If I were to plot seizing power in Sigil, what I would do is create a situation of perceived danger, a phantom menace casting a shadow on as many relevant individuals as possible. Then, I would proceed to swoop in and save the city, thereby gaining power and influence. In that case, how much alchemist's fire they actually have would be ultimately irrelevant". He paused, gauging their reactions.
"Hm...now that IS an interesting take..." he could see the full realization of the implications in her eyes, now almost burning as bright as the malevolent light in his own empty orbits.
"I do not say this because I believe it's true. I am merely making a point: we do not know enough to intervene and steer the events to ensure a desirable outcome. We need information. I am sure the coming meeting I have scheduled with my contact in Undersigil might have the added benefit to shed some light on this matter as well..."
Candlemarks later, when they parted to put the first phase of the plan they discussed into motion, he idly thought that The Dead of the Cage had slept far too long, thereby sliding inexorably towards irrelevance.
It was time for the Sleeper to awake once more.
The importance of this for his overarching plan could not be overstated.