Post/Author/DateTime	Post
sciborg3 04-22-08, 04:09 PM	"Nations live as Men act. Men act as they believe. And Men believe as they are conditioned. Since they are blind to their conditioning, they do not doubt their intuitions." Khellus nodded in wary assent. "They believe absolutely", he said. --The Thousandfold Thought Exalted but imprisoned, divine yet condemned for deicide, Asmodeus sits on a now blasted throne of burnt gold and wonders if he has been poisoned by the Seed of Evil. After all, why did he slay his master after being loyal for -- Ah, but as an angel he knew nothing of Time's passing. All his service might have been but a moment. A single perfect moment. How could any triumph, let alone apotheosis, taste so bitter as this? Glancing away from his reverie he surveyed his vast legions and forcefully dragged himself to witness. Look what We have gained. We are servant no more. Yet if the betrayal was not of his own volition, what good was it to reign in Hell? Thus this first among the fallen sits and passes the years of which he is now keenly aware turning his thoughts over one question, again and again. How can one ever know if one is free? =-=-= Why should he have to act like a thief just to hear words? To learn of his history? Why didn't the women in his life understand? Mother, wife, sister, daughter -- well the last could forgiven given she'd been with them for only a few months. He smiled thinking of her, Anisaa, though the image of her crawling on their dried dung floors only angered him again. How fallen we are. Cheated out of our heritage. How much he had learned from Gerzog, even as this burgeoning pride was costing him peace at home. They said that he should think of Anisaa, not realizing every scrap of lore he held in his memory was for her. He had never been one to shine in his studies -- though he blamed the conditions of his dilapidated school for that as much as himself. A poor forge makes a poor blade. his father had told him many a time. Yet now here he was, a man facing the humiliation of becoming truly literate alongside his children, all so that he might learn enough to tell her the proud legacy of her kind. You are a tiefling Anisaa - neither cursed nor forsaken no matter what those of lesser blood might say. You are a binder of devils, an heir to the ancient Empire of Bael Turath. He snuck through alleyways and shadowed back streets as the sun set, the illicit thrill of youthful secrecy long since passed into anger at having to hide. We have to gather in shadows to find the light of Truth. And then the downtrodden's hope of exaltation comes as he passes through the doors of tonight's host, a modestly successful merchant who has been touched by the same faith. For now.
sciborg3 04-27-08, 12:08 PM	Gerzog watched boy descend the cellar steps, using a cantrip to recall the youth's name. Irsunath. The boy showed promise, had the right qualities to be useful. Pride that fueled his anger. Yes, this one would provide the fodder he needed to spread his Lord's will. Another sacrifice. Yet Gerzog did not hate the child, did not even feel that much condescension toward him. Some were called to give their lives, while others were meant to inspire. To lead as he did, for it was he who held the Truth and it was he that pour it into these young vessels. It was he who had forsaken the pursuit of riches despite his talents in arcana, instead choosing Divination in hopes of seeking Truth. And he had found it - and it had made him Whole in spite of his worn flesh. Though he had come into his magic prowess to late in life to make much of himself, he had been lifted from his life of impoverished fortune teller when his Lord had sent a messenger to his worn hut. "Tell me of my past." the cloaked stranger had said, and Gerzog smiled. So much easier was it to simply read what had happened than attempting to shift through the possibilities of the future. But the devil had known that. It was not, in truth, the fiend's desire to know it's history but rather for Gerzog to know their shared past... A past the fortune-teller turned preacher was now called upon to recite across the World. "Tonight, I speak of the climatic acheivement of our ancestors. The proof of who we are - a people of courage, a people of will. A people so strong we entreatied with Hell itself. And though some claim it mere fantasy, I have seen it in dreams too clear to be mere fiction. I speak of our Athanaeum." As he speaks that word, that name, Gerzog feels the anticipation, tastes the hunger of these young men for a history that can finally let them hold their heads up high. A history that will make them proud enough to give them lives over to him.
sciborg3 05-02-08, 02:37 PM	The archon raises its canine head, sniffing at disturbances in the Ether. At last. Padding itself with paw-like hands beneath it the thick wool to ensure varied weapons are in place, it sets off from its high mountain refuge. A growl of anticipation, unbidden, escapes its muzzle as the hooded, cloaked figure descends. Serenity wars with that hunger growing over the years spent as refugee within the Material. For most of its long existence it played the role of missionary, which is why it survived when its brothers fell. It warred not with blades but with words. The battle for the souls of mortals is fought day by day, lifetime by lifetime. Heart by heart. But that war, that life is lost to the ages. Now vengeance unseats patience, a need for slaughter that cannot come soon enough.
sciborg3 05-02-08, 03:37 PM	They wanted her Soft spoken Sweet and generous Pretty and docile Caring and stupid So there i was... cuz that's what They liked and i liked being what They liked so what They liked was who i was -Jill Scott, 'Nothing is for Nothing' (http://blog.360.yahoo.com/blog-Q8dGWgo6erF4TWokFQmdWQDe?p=7) the most prominent recollection of the days I spent serving the court of Matron Malice--aside from the secret trips outside the house--is the image of my own feet. A page prince is never allowed to raise his gaze. -Drizzt Do'Urden "He always had this problem, reaching too high. Before I tolerated it, accepted it because I knew he would settle eventually. But this time..." Shael listens, saying nothing as she keeps her head down, seemingly to get the dirt that's hiding in the cracks of their kitchen's floor. She knows her mother-in-law will continue to yell until her son returned, not considering the girl and boy asleep in the next room. And of course not even considering what that word "settle" might mean to the younger woman who knew the girls her husband had had before he'd asked her to marry him. Shael thinks of her own thighs and the presence of cottage-cheese skin that was slowly developing there. And then there were her too-small breasts, though her chest had become more ample after the birth of the son she'd given the family, the son that had given her room to breathe. Strong and healthy and at two years tiring, still he was the proof. That she was worthy as a wife, a daughter-in-law worth bringing into their home. Even if the second had been a girl. She'd prayed "Please not a girl please I need a son so I can hold my head up", but until Gerzog had come preaching she didn't know exactly who she had been praying to. Though she still wasn't sure that these devils, these supposed forefathers, would really take a moment from whatever far-reaching cosmic goal they were seeking to ensure the growing life inside her came out with the right organ between its legs. Should she show more devotion in support of her husband? Or express her doubts to curry what little favor might be available from tyrannical Icua, mother to husband, grandmother to her son? Even now, she knew the obese crone who thought her too fat was reading too much into her silence. Still, silence was the safest place Shael knew, had learned this from her own mother who'd never birthed a son, for one only had to wait long enough before -- "Enough mother, I could hear you blocks away." He says, then man who she'd thought was rescuing her from her family only to burden her with his own. Still, that day he'd asked, the moon had been full, the sky clear -- He sways, not enough for a stranger to notice but both women look at him, his mother with wariness (he fights back when he's drunk) but his wife merely concerned that he has to go to his apprenticeship tomorrow. He's not overly drunk, and even if he was he never hit her, never demanded though she gave because she was a good wife and it was good except when he calls her by the names of other girls. Girls now women some still in this place and they were so pretty... "I made fish" she says and that smile on his face is so beautiful. She fears Gerzog, knows he wants something - something large - from the father of her children, but Irsu's different now. Pride has been good for him. =-=-=-= "I won't be late tomorrow. Gerzog makes the merchants generous even with wine. I didn't have that much, just enough to be polite." The hint of slurring in his words shows that that's a lie but she doesn't argue. She'll make sure he's up - it's her responsibility. The night is hot, and they sweat through sheets. She'll wash them tomorrow. Their house was more spacious than most, better kept than most. Her mother-in-law's retentiveness was good for something Shael supposed. "She was angry wasn't she? Must have been yelling for hours - and you had to hear it. She doesn't understand. Don't worry, she'll be dead soon." Again, she says nothing. She knows its a joke for her husband. For her? It was wrong to hope for such things. "Arhul and Anisaa missed you." The last part of that was her lie, Anissa didn't really miss anyone save perhaps her mother. Though it was her father who doted on the three-month-old baby, whereas Shael had hoped for another son. Sons were currency for a young wife seeking to escape from under her mother-in-law's cruel thumb. And while Arhul made Irsunath proud, there was a suspicion that the boy would be far stronger and far smarter than the man who'd sired him. The boy's grandmother hinted at such things continuously, and had even once said that Ahrul would be the first "real man" of their family since her own father. Though that last had been said to Shael, and the wife had thought it wise to keep that from the one laying beside her. "I'm sorry I've been out so late these last months. But if we don't know our past, how can we have a future?" To this she wants to say that the only future she wants is him beside her watching their children grow up, that Gerzog is evil and no good can come from associating with a diabolist regardless of the horns on their heads and the brimstone on their own breath. But she doesn't say any of this, instead stretching her arm across the lean but hard chest of her mate. She should tell him to be there for his children, for her, that he needs to make sure that his nightly lessons don't affect his standing at the smithy. But she doesn't. "Tell me what he spoke of Irsunath. About who we are." Though her eyes are closed she can feel the relief, the grin on his face. "We were born from the best of humanity, Shael, men so strong they could bargain with Hell itself..."
sciborg3 05-03-08, 11:11 PM	Kicking open these last doors of the underground thieves' guild, the hound archon charges even as it remains hooded, pulling daggers from beneath its cloak at pretenatural speed, unerringly finding joints in armor if not eyes or necks. These last few tiefling guards fall but their leader, a massive armored figure with horns curving out and eyes of burning brimstone. This one's blood has shown to be true, and Hell has claimed him. Blessed by those the archon hates, the blackguard swats away the stream of daggers the celestial throws as he draws in. The tiefling smiles, teeth grown out into wicked fangs and the black metal sword in its hands swings, red runes glinting hungrily to decapitate what might be the last of its kind. But the archon is already crouching and the sword passes over his head. He's close enough to read the runes on the warrior's armor, a corruption of now forgotten scripture. Pouncing upward the angel's jaws part only to clamp on the tiefling's throat, ripping as he flies into the air. The blackguard is already dead before the archon lands. All now quiet save for the last moans of the dying witnessed by flickering torchlight. All of them, tiefling and human. Dead. Now it would be free to search, but quickly, before the guilt came. The archon could feel it awakening in the base of its stomach, a queasiness crawling out. Trickling into its thoughts. Remnants of the Word. I don't have much time.
sciborg3 05-03-08, 11:28 PM	Irsunath was there when the doors to the smithy opened, though he knew he was in for a hard day where the pounding of hammer to anvil would seem to punch through his skull. He wouldn't have as bad a hangover as a human would have, given the superior blood running through his veins. To think there were times when I was ashamed. His smile was wide and though bent by wincing it remained unbroken as he used his key to unlock the doors. "Hangover Irsu? Have to keep you away from the detail work then. Heavy pounding for you boy, should teach you about drinking on any night but Mid-Week's Eve." The tiefling glanced back to spy a man half his height but at least twice his width had on simply browns that blended with his tan skin. The dwarf was smiling warmly, though Irsu could swear there was a certain condescension there. Why hadn't I seen it before. They want us to be servile, so we might never suspect how much was stolen from us. As Irsu entered the building's rear as the dwarf walked around the smithy. Aeron, the owner, had the only key to the front of the shop. Doesn't want me to be seen, would scare customers away. To think I believed it was for my own protection. The old dwarf continued to scold him until he was out of earshot. Aeron's voice was as always far too awake for sunrise. The old man had his apron donned, while Irsunath's awaited him within their smithy. His smithy. I am only an apprentice after all. For now. Must be patient.
sciborg3 05-06-08, 02:56 AM	In between dry heaving the archon scrubbed furiously, but the patches of fur retained their hints of pink. Around its claws, the once white fur had already darkened to tufts of matted red. The wages of my sin. One day they will be paid in full. There had been little to find in the corrupted thieves guild. Some hints that a paelyrion had been involved - it recalled those hideous faces daring to display suggestions of celestial beauty. Her face is distorted, as if a trapped angel pushed out from underneath scales of the massive reptilian head. But where one would expect to see a more human mouth there was a maw of razor teeth, though it seemed once that those lips belonged to the most desired of courtesans. Perhaps they had. The possibility only enraged the archon, and it pushed the blade in harder as ichor squirted out to splatter stains all over its fur. Other than that, nothing of what it had sensed in the ether. There was a disturbance, something whose presence was bending the lines of ley that ran across the world. At least it was closer. Feeling the paralyzing guilt beginning to fade, the archon walked over to where it had dropped the large black diamond in disgust. Picking it up actually soothe it despite the confused and frightened voices within. To those souls of the slain thieves, their afterlife was nothing but a harsh landscape of black seas and glowing red soil. A prison to keep their numbers from passing through the Shadowfell for the purposes of bolstering Hell's ranks. Mortals grew so much every time it descended from the mountain. They had gained so much depth. It would take less of them to fill the soul gem this time. I am a killer, a stealer of souls. It was at times like these when it began to see that Justice was merely justification, a veneer over its endless taking of vengeance. But now there might be a chance for a final killing, before it was fully baptized in the blood of the slaughtered.
sciborg3 05-06-08, 03:03 AM	Spells of clairaudience and clairvoyance thrummed through the wiry old tiefling, who sat upon the cellar floor in meditation. Eyes shut, loudly breathing, dressed in the same rags he had worn since the devil had come to bless him. The merchant's servants eyed the imp on the old man's shoulders with wariness - their master was too easily swayed in their eyes. With his mind's eyes and ears, Gerzog the diviner watched the young tiefling work the forges, watched him hammer a blade against the anvil. This one would prove very useful, offering access to weapons to supply the Revolution. Yes, he recognized the sight of a tiefling man with his back bent unknowingly, with eyes hiding a resentment like tinder waiting for fire. Waiting for Gerzog, who came with word from the Lord who ruled the Nine Lands of Paradise in the Silver Sea. He recognized that lie like a grub hiding in the darkness of the heart, that perhaps they were flawed, cursed and perhaps even untouchable. He recognized it because it was like looking into a mirror, over and over again he saw who he'd been. Wretched fortune teller, spinning tales for coin - wasting god-given talents in a way he never expected. Yes, his the ledger upon which his sins must be written could only be erased in blood. Yet for the moment he only sent others in his place. In time, of course, he would give of himself in time. He'd recruited them, men and women of his race, across the cities. Him and the other apostles, those chosen to spread the Word delivered from the height of Nessus. Little by little, the blood was trickling, building into a flood. And when the Lord gave his Word, then the rivers of blood would truly run. Sacrifices on the altar of the world in the name of its Prince, so that ascension might come. All who'd trodden upon him, his kind, soon they would burn in the fires of Hell for eternity. Bael Turath would be reborn, and the chosen people would have a home again.
sciborg3 05-13-08, 07:04 PM	Listen to the tales as we all rationalize Our way into the arms of the savior, Feigning all the trials and the tribulations; None of us have actually been there. Not like you. -Tool, 10,000 Days Shael watches the eldarin children in their silks as their mother paints in the nearby room. Such frivolty - to spend money on a nanny while she stays at home. The tiefling recognizes the judgement is intertwined with jealously, and smiles at her own hubris. Perhaps the two are often found together. She'll have to remember to discuss that with the other Wanderers. The thought of that name being specifically ironic to her made her smile once more, though this time more wistfully. Mistress Anecka - whose twins she watched over right now - had a younger sister, a cleric of Fharlanghn. This impetuous youth, Ymena, along with others of her kind, would gather to tell tales of their journeys. And for some reason she and others had invited Shael. Something about 'the journey of the common worker' and the 'wisdom gained in poverty'. She knew there was condescension in that, as well as the way they nodded sagely at her slightest observations. But it was nice to be appreciated for something other than the completion of menial tasks here and in her own household. And she loved their stories of the World, of all that remained in the fall of Empire, those points of light shining defiantly against the encroaching wilderness. She felt a slight tugging on the hem of her dress. Looking down, she smiled at the little elven toddler whose silks shone with cyan dye. "Where do tieflings come from Shael?" It was question that apparently came to everyone's mind once they reached a certain age. Her own children would likely ask, once they learned even the barest histories of the world. "No one knows child. But probably from the World, like most peoples." She says this without showing her hesitance. "We were born from the best of humanity, Shael, men so strong they could bargain with Hell itself..." The young tiefling, Bryanne, looks uncertain. Her light blue eyes seem to hold all the innocence in the world, her curly golden locks catching glints of sunlight. No one will say my children are this beautiful. "Eladrin are from another world." the girl says with pride, to which her two-years older brother replies, "Not you Brya! You were born here!" with all the indignation children have toward what they see as lies. Bryanne lifts her nose up at her approaching sibling, his own body in matching silks. "Not me, but our people Gelan. We come from the --" "From the Feywild!" her brother gleefully interrupts, to which Bryanne stamps her foot. "I was talking!" the young fey-child yells, but then stops mid-tantrum under Shael's stern gaze. She's disciplined them well, even as she worries about her mother-in-law who is likely to be spoiling her own at this very moment. Gelan smiles not quite wickedly, but there is something mean in his eyes that brings Shael to memories of teased youth. "She asks because Father told us about Queen Niumee who fought a fiend of the Pit. It had horns, and red skin, and fangs..." "Just like me." Shael says, hiding that faint hurt the words bring. The mask slips a little. Memories of slurs, of groping hands, of that strange need of men to spoil women they supposedly thought unclean, evil -- [I]Memories of hurt. Only memories. It was long ago and far away. The little children don't quite understand why she sighs, though Gelan fees a bolt of guilt through him. Yesterday Shael was another woman, someone who loved them, but after today there'll be a wall. However thin, it's too late. Understanding he's done something wrong but not understanding what that is, Gelan starts to cry. His mother will come though by then Shael will have the situation well in hand. Still, the tiefling feels the tug of wards around her - the wealthy eladrin may enjoy the thought of employing a tiefling as nanny, might presume to show their trust. But the web of arcana shows how short a leash they keep her on. Magic is like money to them, Shael thinks. Something spent without thought to the cost.
sciborg3 05-15-08, 05:29 PM	"You look terrible." The gnome says with all the tactlessness of its kind. Though its very presence marks it different from others of its race, for it is actually within the walls of a city. Behind it follows its retainer, a wizard not in his employ but rather the city. While eladrin and gnomes could move between the World and the Feywild, only the latter could bring more mischievous powers to bear. That this one was even tolerated spoke of both wealth and political power, the latter again marking it as very different than its peers. Irsunath looks up from his work at the forge. ~pick up here~