Part 1 - After A long Night
It's been a long night, and not one I want to repeat ever again. Amateurs, every single one of them.
I'm covered in necromantic ichor, and now my pigtails smell of burnt bear fur. I catch what looks like a bit of Lich skull in my matted hair. Hastily yank it and clump of soiled pink hair out, then spitefully throw it to the kerbside. It bounces across the stone cobbles where its crushed under the drove of hobnailed boots. I know a dozen or so apothecaries that would have paid in gold for that tiny bit of condensed evil, but I'm too furious to care. Just want to get my Gnome sized arse off the crowded walkways of this cavernous outpost, and back in the luxurious lodgings of Duh'ran's diplomatic quarter.
Its my own fault, it was obvious the whole expedition was doomed from the outset. Ancient treasure sealed in the ancient tomb of some ancient big bad, and protected by "some death to all who enter" ancient arcane seal. Should have just slipped away when I saw the adventurers enter that tavern. A TAVERN, by the all Gods, that should have been warning enough.
Tomorrow I'll summon a planar conduit back to my tower, but for tonight I'll settle for a roaring fire, warm room, hot bath and a heavy fur blanket. Even deep in the mountain's side, even over the clumping footsteps of a thousand dwarf, human, elf and even more exotic feet, I can hear the roar of the ferocious storm outside. My back shudders, I can still feel the sleet down my spine... or maybe it's a bit of Lich brain. Need - That - BATH!
The ancient "Big Bad" in question was this infamous Lich Lord, sealed up some thousand years ago. Lich Lord! what a load of Patriarchal horse shit. It was a Lich Lady, but if you say "Lich Lady" people get images of some pornographic lithograph being flogged in back alleys or the cantrip projection of a drunk, dirty old wizard. There was nothing sexy about this animated bag of bones, well except for her sceptre. According to my research "A necrotic energy infused shaft of Voidwood, topped with a pure Stygian Steel ornate rod", it was reported to open a conduit to one of the many dead realms. Of course, the relic would be long drained of any negative energy, otherwise the Lich Bitch (oh I like that) would have tunnelled to another plane and popped back to continue her reign of terror. But even an empty shell of pure Stygian Steel, was worth partying up with a bunch of 3
rd
rate adventurers.
The crowd quickly parts as I stride my way through the mass of humanoids packing the market place mesa. My reputation, quite rightly, precedes me, and most hastily move aside. Except one, he puts his hands on his hips and leans over me, believing he and his stature are something of importance.
"What's the hurry little lady?"
All is silent, even the roaring storm has held its breath, as a shaft of poorly carved, low grade Stygian Alloy rapidly meets the groin of the ignorant travelling merchant. As the man keels over, regretting his words, the silence evaporates and the din washes over me.
Noise of the traders shouting their wares in a dozen different tongues assault my ears, the combined smell of food, spices and leather good clog my nostrils, and the burly waist lines of dwarves and thighs of humans block my view of the bridge to my lodgings. It all shredding what little patience I have left. Walking over the groaning man, a small foot putting my full weight on his cupped hands, I imagine lying under heavy furs in my warm bed, the fire crackling as I watch heavy snow hammering on the outside of the thick glass of the slit window. As sensing my intent, the crowd parts and a stamp towards the Inn.
The useless lump of metal swinging in my hand was my 'cut' from the mission. My prearranged price for opening the seal and helping slay the "Lich Lord" (i.e. saving their pitiful hides from becoming the Lich Bitch's bitches) was the Sceptre. Salarian scholars are not known for their flights of fancy, and the provenance of the parchment was pristine, this Sceptre should have been worth more than everything else in that crypt a hundred times over. Sure, the alloy has its uses, but it wasn't worth the ignominy of the last 48 hours and the constant need to remind them that the name is Daiz, not 'Daisy'. It so draining "playing nice". Even imagining the warriors head exploding as he misnamed me did little to elevate my foul mood.
Finally, to the Inn. Dominating even by Dwarven standards it was designed for wealthy travellers, diplomats and merchants. Built into the outer most stone of the mountain with windows overlooking the outside world and the valleys beyond. Dwarves can go decades without seeing sunlight and not give it a second thought, most other races can't even last a few days of torch light and magic flame before melancholy and depression take root. Thus, the "Blue Sky Inn" with sunlit windows, was built as a respite for Dun'rah's most elite and temporary of non Dwarven residents. Though, later, as the outpost grew the "Above Quarter" was built. Its numerous permanent lodgings with external windows, and a system of mirrors flood the carved corridors with natural light. Dwarves rarely visit that quarter without very good reason.
The storm rages outside, no blue skies and very little light save the ember glow of a roaring fire. I snap my fingers and 'will' the candles to ignite, a little too much will as the top inch of wax of the twenty or so candles instantly evaporate splatting molten wax on wall and carpet. No doubt I'll be charged an exuberant cleaning fee.
A huge sigh leaks from my lips and I look toward the carved stone bath. As architects and engineers, Dwarves have little competition, and their plumbing is no exception. Waste heat from the giant forges are captured in water pipes, pumped into vast reservoirs of near boiling water which then feed every home and business with hot water to the tap. I suppose its far more efficient than trapping the essence of a fire elemental in your water tank, but some how doesn't feel as fun.
I turn the heavy brass taps, steam fills the air and torrents of scalding water start to fill the smooth granite basin. The moist warm air already clearing my head of the noise of the day. As the water cascades, I open my travelling chest looking for essential oils and tinctures to add to the bath water. Marvellous as the water system is, it does run via the forge and I have no intention of coming out of my bath smelling like Dwarf.
I grab a few nicely scented bottles and proceed to add their contents to the swirling water. Floral scents are added to the steaming water and islands of white bubbles start to form. Exerting the same elemental force of will used on the candles, I churn the waters with my mind, the small frothy islands expand and grow, creating mountainous ranges of thick luxurious bubbles. Hot tap off and add little extra cold, I want to simmer not boil.
The bottles clink as I return them to the chest, and just as I close the chest's travel worn doors something catches my attention. I find myself staring into the Abyss, well more accurately a small squidgy tendril of the Abyss.
Sliding off the brass hooks which held its mahogany base in place for transit, I gently remove the gently swaying tendril of living negative energy. I feel the hum of the planar barrier as it is repulsed by this object's existence in a primal material plane. I carefully place the abhorrence on top of the chest and finish closing the doors.
Again, I find myself staring at its shimmering black surface. I ask myself "How many people can claim actual ownership of a bit of a God?", not many, especially a Higher God from a dead plane. For mounted to this 6 inch wide wooden circle, standing 9 inches tall and currently "dancing" for my amusement, is a tentacle from the Dark God Ku'Tharn. As trophies go, this one's pretty hard to beat.
Part 2 - Pathological, delusional and obsessive infatuation
A large part of my "reputation" comes from the events that gave me this little trophy. Ku'Tharn's incursion into this realm and the battle that ensued was "a bit of a big deal". Great armies clash, great battles fought, and in the end, as it often is, 5 people stand between the "end of everything" and a bard's next set of ballads. Yes, there are song about me. Many songs. Many songs, with many verses. Most focusing on my hair and not my ability to rip your skeleton from inside you and use it beat the remaining soggy bits to an even soggier pulp. Though songs about the latter do exist, and while not as many as I would have liked, I have them all recorded to wax cylinders.
Reminiscing over the events I find my face twisting into an unnatural shape, smiling like some lovelorn fawn. I shake it off, physically and mentally, and return my face to its normal state of scorn and distaste. Turning back towards the bath a grab a nearby chair ready to disrobe.
The way the Bards sing it, the battle was lost and we were on the cusp of defeat. In a noble gesture of sacrifice, to atone for my many, many sins I bravely walked into the shambling mass of tentacles ready to explode in a fury of darkest wrath. This is, of course, a load of sweaty Orc bollocks.
The reality. I messed up, got too desperate and got too close. The only way to send Ku'Tharn packing was collapse the trans-planar conduit projecting him into our world, and the only way to do that was to key on to the frequency of his negative energy... and the only way to do that was to get physical contact. Before I knew it, Ku'Tharn wrapped a tentacle around my ankle and was dragging me towards his gapping maw. No weapon forged, no spell, no power, not even mine could cut me free.
It also meant I could no longer 'simply collapse' the conduit. My psychic energy, even in death, is bound to this plane, and Ku'Tharn would use that to reopen the conduit. Before the bards could pick up the quill to composed a song of my noble sacrifice, Ku'Tharn would have reopened the conduit and be lunching on their innards.
So new plan, not like any of the other plans were working anyway. Prolonged physical contact opened a new and more terminal option, folding the conduit in on itself, trapping me and Ku'Tharn in the barrier of reality itself. Unhooked from either plane, it would collapse, and crushed between realities Ku'Tharn would 'pop' like the boil on a troll arse. I quickly project the plan into the minds of the rest of the party and ask them to keep Ku'Tharn busy while I weave the last spell of my life.
No weapon forged, no spell, no power, not even mine could cut me free... Except one. Pathological, delusional and obsessive infatuation, or as the Bards call it... Love.
