Where'd They Go? Part 7
"Please, let's set the knife down here, on this ... not at all enchanted rug. It won't turn an inanimate object into an animate and evil one, will it?"
He asks, all hopeful, as he studies it. "I have the magic prepared, it's well within my wheelhouse, but I can't say for sure how this will go."
He lets out a breath.
"Nay, it is in my mind that it desires a living soul to corrupt," Seldan replies, and with a gesture from his gauntleted hand, floats the offending knife over to the indicated rug. "I have the means to place you, and it, within a warded circle that should prevent it from seizing your mind, and am pleased to do so, should you desire it." The knife settles down on the rug with a wiggle as it settles, and he makes an arcane gesture of dismissal. "It will not interfere with any other spell."
Aryia takes a seat off to the side, her rustling around in a pocket and pulling out a well used journal. A pen clicks before the nib rests on a blank page. She probably wasn't going to be very useful in any academic sense, but at least she can put to arcane babble down in paper.
"I can't say if it can animate objects, or not." Schara sighs as she glances around the room. "I do not know if it was incapable of animating the bag it was in, or if it decided doing such would be ineffectual, and decided it would be best to not show itself capable of doing such."
"But, I can't say for certain either way, so keeping it as safe as possible would be ideal." The artificer nods. "Keeping it protected through the process sounds like a good idea."
"Yes, by all means. You have more magical might than I, on the whole. Mine is merely more specialzied."
He gives Seldan a nod, approvingly, letting him do what he must. He awaits, then, for this to be done while making his own preparations. He closes his eyes and begins to meditate, offering a quiet, musically inclined hymn about Eluna's silvery grace.
Not quite what he was cursing earlier.
GAME: Seldan attempts to cast Magic Circle Against Evil but fails due to ASF. GAME: Seldan casts Magic Circle Against Evil. Caster Level: 16 DC: 23
Relieved, Seldan at once sets aside his knapsack and walks to the edge of the rug on which the knife sits, the edge where he expects the Seer to sit, and drags a chair to the edge of it to seat himself, armor and all. He begins to draw several complex-looking sigils in the air before him, then speaks a word of power to them. They all flash a bright blue-white, then fizzle away out of existence and wink out.
"Blast," he murmurs in annoyance, removes both gauntlets and sets them in his lap, then repeats the process, working much more carefully this time. This time, when he speaks the same word, they all hang together in the air with that blue-white-silver fire, tied together by Eluna's crescent and sphere. A final word, and they split into many copies of themselves, all beneath the Dreamer's holy aegis, and it is this that he gestures down to the floor at his feet, to form a circle around him, resting across the rug, across the knife, and across where he expects the Seer to seat himself.
A very small, rueful smile ensues, when it is done. "It is finished. Remain within Her symbols."
Aryia raises a brow at Schara's thought process. Fair point. Regardless of that, the dagger is present and being examined, were it to do anything now, it would be incredible stupid to do so.
The mute isn't particularly inclined towards religious hymns nor their manners of bestowing magic. At least, not anymore. So she patiently watches as others more experienced in this matter set forth. Still, she can't help but be mildly impressed from the complexity of what unfolds before her from Seldan. Even if there's a minor bungle mixed in. "Shit, am I glad you're here for this," she comments with a hand as she crosses one leg over another. <Handspeech/Tongue>
"I find it much easier to infuse magic into mechanisms, at least for myself. It is not as if complex hand movements are particularly feasible for myself, regardless." The artificer idly notes as they go about their rituals. "Not that there is anything against what you are doing, as it is clear you are powerful and well respected by the majority of those living in the city anyways."
The artificer, with nothing to add for the moment, steps off to one side to observe what they were intending to do. "Just be ready to disarm him just in case please, Aryia, I count myself lucky they did not have a chance to stab me last time."
The spell completes and he immediately slumps forward, entranced. His eyes half-closed as he begins to recount a tale. His voice is monotone, emotion simply fleeing him as he speaks.
"First, there was the hands that forged me. Wrapped in black chain, they had cleaved me of the flesh and bone and made me anew. Purpose, born to create joy in suffering. I had shed oceans of blood, searching for the line between perfect agony and perfect clarity, to know the frontier between life and death, and the secret of what lays between. I had never finished my work, it was impossible, but the hand offered me the secret to bringing joy ever-lasting, and at last, I knew purpose. True purpose was what I lacked before, and so he made me anew, purpose-born, to inflict joy."
This rambling screed is definitely a story, all right.
"I am wielded against the demon, for whom pain is constant companion, to bring them to new heights of agony. I am lost when the hand that holds me is severed. I am found, again, and agin and again. There is always a need for more of the joy I bring. Hand after hand, emptied of all purpose but mine, for my purpose is never-ending. They bring hate, I give them purpsoe. They bring love, I give them purpose. There is no other purpose. Only the pursuit of perfection."
That cleric is starting to look like he's going to get violently ill. He's sharing the screed, sure, as it's spoken to him, but he's *seeing* something else.
One might be glad he's not sharing it.
"I was lost. Darkness. I was found. Purpose! Locked away no longer. I was told to write a story in the flesh of the lying goddess' followers, and I shall: no more lies. No more deceptions. No more shadows. I shall write my tale in their flesh, so that when their souls come to the hells, they might know who authored them and he might find me again at last. We will be united once more, in purpose."
GAME: Seldan rolls knowledge/the planes: (12)+19: 31 GAME: Aryia rolls knowledge/the planes: (2)+3: 5 GAME: Schara rolls knowledge/the planes: Trained Use Only: 0
Seldan listens to the tale in silence, his gauntlets still in his lap, half of his attention on maintaining the spell that protects the Seer while he is lost in the thing's grasp, but the other half ruminates freely. "This was made by a kyton," he murmurs, without thinking. "Many name them pain demons, and yet are they not true demons, but another sort of evil being. This one was most ancient, and most vile."
"It would seem that it was severed from the hand of its maker, to be locked in a vault, until it was found and turned upon the Taarans. Perhaps by one connected to the Griever. What grudge does the Griever hold? I can think of many a reason to despise the minions of the Tempter, but this - this is a bridge too far."
Aryia can't help but snort at Schara's reason for not being able to cast magic. "Funny, isn't it?" she gestures to the artificer. "I suppose we have something in common there. Can't really use magic due to some physical restraints." She taps the old, ragged scar on her throat. She waves the concern off. "If it becomes a problem, me and Seldan got it." The pugilist isn't worried.
But now her attention shifts back as the priest slumps forward. And begins to speak. She wracks her mind briefly before giving up on that thread as her pen scribbles down quickly what they're relaying. She frowns as the tale continues. Page flip. More writing. Page flip. Awh, they look sick- oh shit he's still talking. Scribble scribble. Seldan provides insight, and a heavy sigh escapes her. "Everyone always is so weak to turn to fiendish fucks. I get why, but, ugh," she idly complains with a free hand as she puts a pause on her notes as she rubs her face. "Perhaps the individual in question was betrayed by Her, and is trying to wane Her influence. Violently." <Handspeech>
Schara listens closely, and stops to grab a worn notebook out of a pocket on their armor, and start taking notes as well. "I guess, in different, but similar ways, yes?" The artificer nods. "I hope you prove correct in that judgement.
She listens more, and the elf frowns deeply. "I have never heard of a Kyton, before. To do something like this dagger did though, it seems that they were particularly violent, and dangerous."
"That still doesn't make sense, though, what are they trying to do? It can't be violence for the sake of violence, right? Otherwise they would have just, dropped the dagger in a crowded city, or something, as horrible as that sounds."
Dismissing the spell, your clerical companion vomits messily all over the rug.
... he's gonna be cleaning that up for a while.
Seldan, who had not responded to either of them to this point, looks up at the other two when Aryia begins to gesture, and inclines his head. "Countless times has the spell I laid been my shield, against evil that would seize minds. My shield, and the shield of others. It has yet to fail me." His lips curve upwards in a very small smile. "I can see where such might preclude the use of magic, but many ways are there to invoke it." He stops his comments there, instead turning his attention to the query at hand. "Kytons are creatures of the Iron Hells, that revel in suffering and pain, in both themselves and others. They are at times named pain demons, and at times chain demons, and yet are they neither. As to the intent of the wielder - and I must believe it to be a minion of the Griever, or perhaps the Griever himself. It is in my mind that they hold a grudge."
He rises from his chair, then, and sets the gauntlets down on it, as the Seer is noisily and messily sick. "Forgive me, Seer," he murmurs. "I should have guessed that it would hold evil untold. It must be destroyed utterly, for if it is a tool of the Griever, then does it exist, he will have the means to see what became of it, does he look." The words come quickly, but it is the Seer to whom he strides first, and lays a hand on the back of his shoulder, murmuring what sounds like a rote prayer until silver light forms under his hand. "You have my gratitude, Seer."
"...if you want to destroy it," rasps the cleric, "then it must be taken to the Iron Hells and melted in the cauldron with which it was forged." A beat.
"... just kidding, though that's not a bad guess. No, I think it's likely you need to find the devil's hand it belongs to. I have a feeling that the two are linked in some way. The hand and the knife that wielded it. Put both together, and destroy them together. I *believe*."
"...and thank you, Seldan," he says.
Aryia nods once to Schara before sighing and shaking their head. She didn't know the motive. But she looks to Seldan, his faint smile mirrored with a mild smile of her own. "And this is why I said I'm glad as fuck you're here for this mind shit." Lips quirk to a smirk. "And... yes. There are certainly ways around it." A little white light appears at the tip of her finger, but is banished with a waggle.
Sudden violence occurs. But not the stabbing kind. The lunch-on-the-floor kind. She blinks, leaning back some to avoid any mess. There is a rare look of sympathy that crosses her face. They /did/ just come from... it's efforts, after all. A glance is given to the knife. "... Going to the Iron Hells sounds fucking terrible, I'll take finding a one handed devil over that," she signs as a chuff escapes her from the joke. "You good? Want some water or something?" <Handspeech/Tongues>
"But given this story, I don't know if it is the demon, who is directly behind all of this." The artificer considers, tilting her head to one side. "I agree with having it be destroyed, but I'm assuming that the person holding it may have had a lot to do with what happened, if they were making the dagger specifically attack the taaran priesthood."
A pause, and Schara's head tilts the other way. "There is something else that I do not quite get either. Why did it say they would be sent to the hells? I don't know a lot about Taara, but I'm assuming Taara doesn't like sending their priests to hell when they die, nor would Vardama send them there unless they deserved it. Is it just speaking in a figure of speech, or is it doing something particular with their souls?"
It's hard to tell for certain, but Schara seems to regard the dagger even more warily than before.
Seldan closes and lowers his eyes to the floor, one hand still on the back of the priest's shoulder, making sure he's all right. "Mistress Aryia is right. You should drink. Worry not for the mess." He then draws in a deep breath, holds it, and releases it. "Nay," he answers Schara. "You have the right of it. It is but a tool of the Griever, now. Still must we understand its nature, that we might understand how to destroy it once and for all. This must we do. We are in danger of discovery until we do so."
He does not move from the Seer's side, and offers an arm and shoulder to help the man to his feet when he is ready. "Until then, what shall be done with it? It is safe for none to hold, to touch."
Wracking coughs follow. Losing your lunch is never easy.
"... can't say I know why it said any of that, really. It could be just what it believes. No one ever said it has to be 'right'."
He adds, "I think we can hold it here. I can put it in the vaults until go-time. It looks like it's not the firset time it has been vaulted, if you're right. Charn has notriously large vaults from its conquests. All kinds of forbidden treasures and lores."
Aryia rifles around in her satchel before pulling out a waterskin, thumbing the cork open and offering it to the Seer. "I don't really understand how to go about locating what is needed to destroy it, but whatever that means is, I'll be there," she signs, finishing with thudding her chest twice. "Like the Seer says, we can lock it away for now until we find the other part- a hand, right? Then can find some warded chamber, put the two together, then beat the shit out of it." Crude and simple, but straightforward. Such is Aryia's way.
She looks over to Schara and belatedly answers, "I don't remember if she does, but it's probably a figure of speech. Like the Seer said, probably just being poetic or some shit." <Handspeech/Tongues>
GAME: Seldan rolls knowledge/religion: (15)+22: 37 GAME: Seldan attempts to cast Prestidigitation but fails due to ASF. GAME: Seldan casts Prestidigitation. Caster Level: 16 DC: 20
"I guess it could just be a figure of speech, or incorrect." Schara sighs as the others tend to the cleric. "Sorry, I'm not being too helpful, I really don't know anything about the gods or the outer planes, but that isn't that surprising."
"I don't know, I just don't want that to be true, and I'm trying to understand what would make someone do something like this. I guess the demon just enjoys it, and someone following this griever probably isn't going to care to begin with."
Again, it takes Seldan a couple of tries to invoke even a simple spell, a single sigil, but on the second attempt, he seems satisfied, and gestures at the mess on the rug before him. It's a painstaking process, but one that he appears to be disinclined to rush. Slowly, the vomit disappears, as if it had never been - from the rug, from the priest, from the dagger. It takes a number of minutes to do, and the process is ongoing while the other two talk. While he does this, he speaks, slowly. "The will of a demon is a powerful thing," he explains. "Seek not to understand their minds, for such are twisted beyond all mortal ken, beyond our understanding of good and evil. It is their natures, and cannot be drawn from them. The most that can be done is to remove it, where it is found."
"As with any deity, those faithful to the Tempter are called to Her realm when they die. There is little different about that. It is in my mind that the Griever's hatred merely shaped the words of the instructions to the dagger. Still is it clear that something is amiss with the Tempter."
Slowly, the cleric wipes his mouth and seems grateful for the assistance in cleaning.
"...amiss with the tempter, huh? That sounds ... bad."
He rubs the back of his head.
Aryia just simply shrugs at Schara. "I don't either, but its not our job to know," she signs before resting her forearms on her knees. She watches the bile and contents get cleaned, her idly nodding her head towards Seldan. "Exactly. No point in understanding them. Ignore what they say, and break their necks." That's one way to remove them.
The silverguard's words tickle something in the back of her mind, and old, foggy memory. Vestments resting on her shoulders, a symbol in her hands. And a spark of faith. But now just a verdant jacket rests, hands empty, and a firm desire to keep standing just to spite. "Yes," she simply agrees with a closed fist bobbing. "On all fronts. Taara doesn't act like this. Probably need to go ask our... new 'friends'." <Handspeech/Tongues>
-To be continued-