Nulli Dei. Nulli Domini. [IC]

[ylvathrall]

The broad stone halls of the castle in Desril's kingdom are surprisingly well built, considering the youth of the edifice, and the haste with which it was erected. Rich carpets cover the stone beneath your feet, and high, narrow windows let in light from the rising sun to the east.
From the main entrance, where townsfolk hastily recruited to act as servants met you and ushered you in, you're shown to a narrow, winding spiral staircase. The staircase has sconces for torches, but at present is lit by more windows, leaving the steps with an odd, wavering pattern of light and shadow. Halls open off the staircase at regular intervals, but you continue up to the very top, where a heavy black wood door bound in adamantine blocks the path. The two servants with you each open their lock with a delicate silver key, and then push the doors open.

Inside, at the top of the castle's central tower, is the strategy room. It's a large, circular room, black basalt arching up to a high, vaulted ceiling. The ceiling is held up by pillars around the edge of the room, each carved with images of coiling dragons. The edges of the room are lined with windows, each showing a slightly different view of the village and farmlands in the shadow of the keep: a field of wheat; a part of the deep, verdant forest which divides his new nation from the neighboring River Kingdom on that side; a wide, slow moving river that flows through the town; children playing in a cobbled street; a church, empty and abandoned. Above, clear skies are just beginning to lighten with the sunrise.

In the center of the room, an enormous wooden table takes up most of the free space within the room. Most of the table, in turn, is covered in a large map, showing the various regions of Golarion. Smaller maps of particularly important areas, along with folders of notes and reports, take up the rest of the space.

You've barely gotten the chance to look around before Osovar hurries into the room behind you. The small, slightly built half-elf has been working with you for ages now, but he's still terrible with a blade, and only slightly better with a bow. He is, however, remarkably good with paperwork, and there's no one better for managing teams of servants and workers. He came with you when you split with your opposite numbers, continuing to serve as your collective majordomo.

"Glad to see you're here bright and early," he says, in his usual chipper voice. "We're going to have to work fast if we're to keep up with everything. Now, we've already gotten a number of reports and, ah, requests for your attention. To begin with, I'll update you on what the others are doing. Egill is back in the Lands of the Linnorm Kings, where he's apparently gathered a significant number of followers; word has it that he's planning an expedition to go and kill a linnorm, so that he can claim the title formally. Valdr isn't being as overt, but one of our, ah, agents heard a rumor that he's in Geb currently, in talks with their nobility. Carreau is apparently wandering around Ustalav killing various monsters; she's something of a local legend by now. Of Cass and Suiko, we've heard nothing at all."

He then smiles, the brisk, artificial smile of a man who knows quite well that what he's about to say does not merit a smile. "Now, moving right along, I'm sure you want to be up and active, after all. We have a...request from Mendev. Apparently the demons of the Worldwound have been attacking with increased vigor recently, and without divine assistance they're having difficulty holding back the assault. They sent a formal request for your assistance in pushing the fiends back. There's also a rather severe water shortage in Katapesh, to the point that they're having to ration supplies. Merab, down in Thuvia, has a serial killer who's been getting increasingly prolific, and it seems that local authorities are completely at a loss for how to hunt the murderer down; they also sent a message requesting assistance in settling the matter. And while we didn't precisely get a request from Numeria, our envoy to Starfall hasn't reported in at all, and it doesn't sound like it's just her; no one has gotten any word from Numeria at all in over a week."

He places markers on each of the regions he named, then pauses. "Oh," he says, "and before I forget, we've also received messages directed to several of you individually." He takes a handful of sealed missives from his book and passes them out to you, then goes back to marking the areas on the map which have requested your help.

The missive, written on your familial stationery, is a simple one:

Son,
I have gathered our forces, and those of our allies. Two major Houses and seven minor have rallied to our banner; three others have sent partial or tentative support. It is not as large an army as I would prefer, but I fear to wait longer. Thrune grows more paranoid and erratic every day, and it seems that without the checks of her masters her cruelty knows no bounds. She has imposed martial law, and begun executing the common folk on any suspicion of treachery. Even the nobility is not exempt, as I have heard that Eliasia Leroung was drawn and quartered for having overseen research which was regarded as unpatriotic. House Leroung is now disbanded, its assets seized by the crown.

We are assembled in Isger, and awaiting your order to march.

The envelope of rich violet paper contains two pieces of paper. The first is a small but ornate card, which is covered in elaborate embossing. After a moment, you manage to read it enough to see that it is a ticket for a show at the Kintargo Opera House, scheduled for four nights hence. The other is a folded piece of vellum on which is written:

See you there!
S.

Osovar hands you three envelopes. The first contains a simple, ragged piece of paper. It reads: I truly appreciate your kind offer. I do not think that I will be able to live with you, but I may visit if my presence would not be an imposition. Thank you kindly for extending me this gesture. Find enclosed also a token of my regard for you. Cass A second piece of paper, this one much finer, has a simple poem, written in extraordinarily beautiful calligraphy -- a piece such as a master might pen once in a lifetime, and weep for knowing that she would never make its equal.


Consider me
As one who loved poetry
And persimmons

The second envelope has a folded sheet of paper. I would if I could, my friend (I hope that I can still call you this; I know that we have parted ways, but I would like to think that we are still friends). But now more than ever people are in need, and I cannot abandon them to suffer. I have seen such things, in this land, as I do not think I would have credited had I heard them from another, even after all that we have seen. It is a dark land, and I do not think that is something which began recently; the evil here may have been more carefully hidden when the servants of the gods stood watch, but it was no less rampant than it is now. And I do not doubt that there are trials to be faced in your fledgling kingdom as well, or that I would have my hands full as your Marshal. But the people of your land have you to watch over them. If I leave, the people here have no one.

Carreau

The third letter is far more ornate, but, perhaps, contains less of substance. After struggling through pages of flowery text and praise to the Living God Razmir, you finally reach the actual point: Razmiran is officially declaring war upon you, effective immediately.

[Bhaakon]

Aster falls back into a chair gladly, the long march to the secluded strategy room was always an exhausting one, and heaves her legs up onto the table with a solid boom of boots on half a ton of hardwood taken from the heart of Mwangi at a great cost in blood and bullion. Or at least it would be exhausting if she hadn't just hovered a hand-span over the stairs and floated up. The table was shamefully expensive, though. She taps one heel on its immaculate surface and pulls a small knife from somewhere to pick at her nails as Osovar rattles off the problems of the day like some wax mustachioed maître d' describing the set menu at some stuffy Egorian ristorante.

"A serial killer, really?" She mutters, flicking a gob of detritus from the point of the blade in the vague direction of Thuvia on the map. "Well, personal attachments aside, Numeria is a near neighbor, and the Worldwound is kind of an important mess." Not really her mess, mind, but somehow she'd gotten roped into this whole thwarting world-threatening events business. Having a planet to live on was nice, even if she only spent some of her time there.

Also, Numeria had a lot of interesting toys to play with...

[The Glyphstone]

Garidan lounged back against a chair, unnaturally rested and cheerful -and clean - for someone who'd just ridden for close to a full day without stop from his tribal lands in Varisia. He'd managed to keep close ties with the rest of the Sun Clan, even if many of the elders regarded him with distrust for his time spent amongst the tshamek, and had gone to witness the annual Burn Run - for two reasons, to celebrate the success of those youths who outran the wildfires, and to grant those who didn't the swift and clean deaths they deserved. He'd gotten to do both, and so he was in typically high spirits, his vest open to display the intricate tribal tattoos on his chest and forehead.

"I suppose a serial killer is something I should be taking an interest in, maybe? After all, it wouldn't be proper for just any mortal man to get it into his head that he decides who lives and who dies."

He took a long swig off the tankard clutched in one hand, the broad grin on his face indicating both the blunted jab at his own self-appointed duty and the fact that he, obviously, was not just any mortal and so exempt from the statement regardless.

[Desril]

Desril turned away from the window overlooking the cobblestone streets, quickly masking the pleased smile he'd had. He was glad that his fledgling nation was doing well, but it was still young, he couldn't let himself get carried away yet. And there were important matters to attend to. Besides, he couldn't let anyone else see him smile like that and he resumed his neutral, not-quite frowning look.

"The Worldwound is of interest to me, and aside from generally wanting to give them the aid they need, it is also our fault that they're suddenly without most of their power. It's a new world, I'd rather not lose it to the Abyss within a year," he comments while reading through his letters. Cass is safe, at least, the tiefling silently thinks while puzzling over the poem. It was certainly well-made, at least, "Hey, Com, you might understand this better than me," he says offering the poem to her, "Cass sent it."

While waiting for a response on that, he quickly reads through the remaining missives. It's not hard to notice his more disappointed than usual frown as he reads through Carreau's, clearly hoping for a different answer, Well, at least I know where to find her when things have settled down...

That, however, gives way to a scowl as he reads through the formal declaration of war from Razmiran. "Or...I could leave the Worldwound to the rest of you. It seems the little godling that got left behind took offense at being ignored." Crossing his arms he lowers his head in thought, I could probably win a straight fight against Razmir himself, but in a battle of armies I'm not so confident. There hasn't been time to properly expand and grow, I'm certain we're outnumbered. I'll have to do something about it myself then.

Nodding to himself, "I think I'll go confront Razmir directly. Safer for everyone else that way."

[The Glyphstone]

Garidan raises an eyebrow. "Razimir? What burr-beetle has gotten up his saddle this time?"

[Cardea]

Silim eyed his boat through the windows of the room and the church, where he had taken temporary residence. His time spent with the group chasing down what they needed to be chasin' down had left him uncomfortable in such fine places, even moreso now with where everyone stood. He was here as courtesy. But it didn't mean he had to sleep in their hall. And besides, no one but desperate priests stayed in these temples anymore. Even if they were still friends, even being in the room made him uneasy. And hearing what was going on around the world worsened it, but hearing who sent Desril mail just confirmed it. "Numeria was next on my stops. I can head on over. Don't seem like nothin' that needs no more than one of us to handle, and heck, I figure maybe they're just hung up on bureaucracy and papers' and whatnot. Best ya'll handle the bigger picture."

He turns to Desril, still looking out the window, but putting him in the corner of his eye. "You mind lettin' me take a look at that? You know I've been lookin'."

If he does, Sense Motive: [roll0]

[QuidEst]

Com swept up the tower stairs with more than her usual dramatic aplomb. There was a certain pride in ascending to the tower, since she'd contributed most of the labor that went into the actual construction by way of a magical lyre. That was important to distinguish from herself, a magical liar. She was dressed in her usual attire of a gray cloak over a dark outfit and a simple comedic theater mask to cover her face. Like a great deal about her, it was mostly illusions covering the actual substance of the matter.

Once situated in the planning room in a comfortable chair, she waited until she'd read her own letter before she chimed in. "Splendid work as always, Osovar. Not to worry about the missing details; my own investigations have managed to uncover the upcoming whereabouts of Suiko, at least. As for the other projects, I shall likely be involved in one of my own for the next week or so before I can contribute to much else. If anybody has business near Cheliax, though, I'll be working in Kintargo."

She took the letter Desril handed to her, and pored over it. "Hmm. Original composition. Four-seven-four isn't the most common, but you get that with what's largely a translated form, so I wouldn't read into that part. Good choice for a simple idea with more nuanced feelings behind it. There's a focus on the past- consideration and 'loved'- that is pretty telling. It could suggest that what she wants is in the past, that she no longer views herself as the person of the past, or that she has some concern over how she's remembered. That could have some morbid element to it, but that's not my specialty. Persimmons, and indeed the choice of format, are simple. So if a desire is expressed for persimmons, then it could be for simplicity. There's an element to powerlessness, or alternately a desire for powerlessness; despite her power there's no real allusion to it." Com considered the poem for a bit, flipped it over to check the back, and held it up to the light, before nodding. "That's all a bit haphazard, and certainly reading too much into it at some point, but the overall effect is probably sound. Nostalgia and a desire for simpler times, with an focus on others. Obviously, check for any hidden arcane marks or what have you. Just in case. Incidentally, if you ever get a message like this from me, copy it down, turn the original over, and spill ink on the back to check for a hidden message. I wouldn't recommend it in this case, though. It might hurt Cass's feelings."

[Desril]

Not being sure why Silim wanted the letter, the tiefling simply shrugged and handed it over for him to see before turning his attentions to Camilla's explanations. "I fear I'll never understand poetry. But as long as there isn't some hidden warning then it will do. I'll have to keep it safe somewhere for Cass' sake." And check for any magically hidden messages later.

Turning to Garidan he shrugs again, holding out the declaration of war for him to take and read. "If I had to bet on it, I'd probably go all in on Razmir being afraid and wanting to try and put me down before it's too late. We chase off the major deities of the world, and then I found a new kingdom while having comparable power to his own? I can see why he might be more than a little paranoid. I wonder if I should talk him down or if he's too dangerous to be left to his own devices..."

[QuidEst]

Com gave a mock bow at Desril's response. "Be your cares dismissed-
You do magic, and on this
I'm the specialist."

[Cardea]

Silim holds the poem in his fingers, sighs, and hands it back to the arcane one, shooting a hard glance at the fox. "She's got regret, and it ain't her or the wrong her that's talkin'. If we don't got no other business, and if no one else wants a ride to Starfall, I'll be on my way."

[Bhaakon]

"I'll join you on your way to Starfall, Silim." Aster's boots drops down onto the floor of the meeting space with a boom of finality and stands, pushing her chair back noisily with her straightening legs. She was always quick to make a decision. Sticking to them was another matter entirely, but then those who can fly about as they will and flit across the continent with a single step could afford to be a bit flaky. But she had to have been there first, and Aster didn't have a summer home in the shadow of Silver Mount that she could teleport to.

"There's much of interest to be found,
upon the earth or underground.
But now my interest has been piqued
by silvered mound, strange fluids leaked,
so let us northward please be bound."

She bows and turns to leave, letting the other stew in that fetid expulsion.

[TheOneHawk]

Sylvar is late, he knows the time they were supposed to meet has past but despite this his pace is not even slightly quickened as he walks up the tower, the boots of his plate armour clanging noisily on the stone. He had been painting when the time came, and the finer details of the dying man's eyes had taken longer than expected to get quite right. He'd been a paladin, likely irritated at the forced removal of the gods affected by Sylvar and his allies. Even managed to land not one but two solid blows on the lich, the holy power of his sword cutting through his armour and bones like so much wet tissue. In the end, though, he died like so many before him and all his skill and bravery and honour were for naught. Just another corpse among many. Another painting in the gallery.

His thoughts are interrupted when he reaches the door to the meeting room and finds his allies have not waited, indeed it seems most of the group is ready to leave before he's even arrived. Typical, these weren't people known for their politeness at the best of times. He inclines his head very slightly at the group as a whole, then turns to Osovar. The half-elf was weak, but even the weak had their uses and this kind of situation was his. "Osovar, if you'd be so kind as to fill me in as to what our situation is, as well as what the rest of the group intends to do about it? I expect we've a list of problems longer than your arm, so it's best if we get to the solving of them quickly."

[The Glyphstone]

Garidan studied the declaration from Razimir briefly before tossing it back. "Well, good luck with that, and let me know if it goes ugly and he turns out to be a tougher nut to crack than you're expecting."

He was already rising to leave, draining the last of his mug, when the distinctive clanking of a particular set of steel boots echoed through the open door. The brief twitch of hesitation he gave would have been imperceptible to anyone not closely familiar with Garidan, but it was there for a moment before fading.

"Well, there's no point in me waiting around either, when I have to go the long way to get there." I'll run down this pretender and give him a pointy lesson in respecting death before the situation gets any worse."

Heading for the door as Sylvar entered, Garidan gave no indication that he could even see or hear the lich. The rest of the room got a jaunty wave of farewell, but his eyes roamed past the doorway as if it were empty, and he walked towards the exit also as if it were empty. Just short of the inevitable head-on collision, he turned misty and translucent for a few steps and reappeared behind Sylvar without breaking stride.

Once outside the castle, he took a moment to clear his head, seizing the fringes of fury he felt every time the defiled thing wearing his friend's bones got within his line of sight. He drew on the power that hunger for violence gave him, and a sudden rush of movement came from every solid object nearby as bits of their shadows flew close and coalesced beneath him. He rose from the ground, now perched on the back of a horse-shaped cloud of mist and darkness with flickering ember eyes, and headed south across the skies towards Merab.

[ylvathrall]

The trip to Numeria is a rather short one, since it's quite nearby. You don't run into anything particularly noteworthy or concerning on the way, and soon reach the border of Numeria.

There you find a rather different story. You can see the border of that country clearly, because there's something wrong with it. A sort of curtain ripples in the air above it, barely visible except as a distortion in the air. It doesn't seem to be doing much beyond obscuring vision beyond it, but it also doesn't appear to be fading.

The ride to Thuvia is a long one, your unearthly steed racing through the air over land and sea down towards the desert nation. Nothing interrupts you, though some people come out to gawk at you as you pass, pointing and whispering excitedly to each other.

When you finally reach Merab, you find that the city is strangely tense. Normally a bustling trade city, full of life and activity and people from all corners of the world. Today, though, it feels still and dead. It's a hot day even at evening, but that doesn't fully account for how minimal the activity is. It seems everyone is tense, looking around constantly and hurrying about their way rather than dallying. Even the town guards look distinctly nervous.

"Of course," the half-elf says as the others file out and go about their business. He quickly goes over the discussion from the meeting and the issues at hand, and then pauses. "I do also have a message for you personally, let me see...yes, right here." He pulls out a simple envelope and hands it to you.

Inside, you find a simple note scrawled in Valdr's hand. It looks to be a sort of half-finished schematic for some arcane contraption, something related to lichdom but not quite a phylactery. On the back is a short note: From Geb's library. Quite a resource -- I am glad he agreed to allow me access to it.

[QuidEst]

"Listen, if you're going to be heading out to Thronestep anyway, is there any chance you could drop me off there as well?" Com asked Desril. "I haven't been there personally, and it'd be awfully convenient to get dropped off there- I can teleport from there over to Kaer Maga, and then on to Kintargo, leaving plenty of time to sort things out on the other side. I'll be back 'round in a week or so, and I can help with any of the cleanup after you deal with ol' Razzy. Speeches to give, statues to deface, that sort of thing. Ooh, see if you can get a good look at his face- then we can just update the statues to take the mask off!"

[Desril]

Nodding to Com, "But of course. I'll need a few minutes to prepare, however. I am about to go pick a fight with everyone loyal to a false god, I'm not stupid enough to go there without taking precautions, so whenever you're ready tell me when and then give me 15." As soon as she gives the signal or says that she has something to do but will be back within fifteen minutes, the tiefling retreats to his hidden, private laboratory, deep underneath the castle where his cloned body lay dormant, and dug his spellbooks out of their hidden compartment. It would only take a minute to memorize even his most potent spells, but he figured that Com might have had things to take care of first, and a second to plan never hurt.

I'd rather avoid a fight if I can. Defeating Razmir shouldn't be too difficult, but from what I understand of that nation the priests will likely come to his side, if not because they're fanatics than because his defeat means the end of their life of luxury...the citizens on the other hand might be turned against him...But that'd just put them in danger needlessly. A public challenge then? I suppose that could work. At the very least I'll have to prove he's mortal anyway. I suppose I could always just wish for the truth to be known but I'd rather save that diamond for an emergency...Bah, there are too many unknowns. I'll just have to wing it.

With his 'plan' decided, he begins putting his newly memorized spells to work. Even without a good idea on where to go or what to do once he reached Thronestep, Desril still knew he'd need to be prepared for a fight, and that meant all manner of abjurations and defensive magics. And once he was glowing with a magical aura that was sufficiently charged that it could blind anyone who looked at it unexpectedly, he made his way back to the war room, after a momentary stop to examine a text on Razmiran to ensure he had an accurate description of the city, to leave with Com. "So, what're the chances this is just a ploy to get me into enemy territory," he asks while offering his hand so that she's taken along with the spell, and casting it as soon as she takes it, barring a warning from his divination.



Go buy a scroll: Clarion Call

Memorizing: Clarion Call, Lucky Number, Feeblemind, Contingency, Mass Hold Person, and you know what? Screw it. I want to cast one. 9th level spell: Foresight!

Casting: Clarion Call, Lucky Number ([roll0]), See Invisibility, Greater Magic Weapon, Greater False Life ([roll1]), Overland Flight, Contingency: Teleport (to Lab if reduced below 15 HP, Petrified, or manacled. Essentially if captured or beaten), Foresight.

So all in all this will basically take 12 minutes to prepare and cast. Buffs last anywhere from 170 minutes to 24 hours so once it starts getting down to like 20 minutes left if I haven't figured out a plan I'll just go loud.

...I apologize for using Foresight right off the bat but this seems like the exact sort of situation where it keeps you alive if you walk in blindly. Very good for recognizing if walking up the stairs and shouting at the throne will get me attacked by dozens of level 15s or if Razmir is mythic and going to wreck me.

Casting Greater Teleport to travel to The Stones district in Thronestep.

[The Glyphstone]

Garidan lands at the gates of the city - the spectral steed dissolves into mist as he touches the ground, and he takes a few moments to adjust his gear before approaching. The effects of this killer, whoever or whatever it was, were obvious, and chilling. Even the living did not behave like they were alive; there was no laughter, no smiles or loose muscles. No children played in the street, no merchants competed to shout each other down to hawk their wares. There were many kinds of living dead, and here fear was creating one just as insidious and unpleasant as the sort that feasted on blood or brains.

Undaunted, he strode to the nearest group of guards. "I am Garidan, The Death Who Comes For All. A killer is said to stalk your streets, defying laws both of man and the gods. I am here to restore the balance he has disrupted. Take me to the one in charge of the hunt for this killer, for all that they have yet to succeed."

[TheOneHawk]

Sylvar's reaction to the letter is impossible to read through his all-encompassing armour and the stillness of the grave, but his mind is whirling. How in the world did that snake get access to Geb's library? He's going to use the knowledge there to surpass me again, I know it. Augment his lichdom in some way. I cannot allow that. He nods quickly at Osovar and tells him, "I'll be in Geb if anyone needs me," then with few mumbled words he teleports himself to Mechitar.

[Bhaakon]

"Oh...curious." Aster exclaims as the strange rippling curtain of...something comes into view as they approach the border. "Do you think it's magic, or do you suppose it some of that strange, waht do they call it, er, technology, right? Yeah, you suppose it's tech-no-logy?" She asks off-highhandedly, then picks up a rock and chucks it at the field, watching carefully how it reacts and trying to speculate on what those reaction might mean.

Assuming nothing completely dangerous happens to interrupt her, she then casts a simple divination and examines the bizarre effect for any magical energies.

Casting Detect Magic.

Since I don't know which might apply, I'll roll a d20 and list the modifier separately: [roll0]

K(Arcana): +34
K(Engineering): +22
Spellcraft: +34

[ylvathrall]

A few quick teleports see you in Kintargo, one of the glittering gems of Cheliax. At present, though, it doesn't seem quite so benign of a metropolis as it often might. There aren't as many people on the streets as you're used to, and those whom you do see are almost universally armed. It has the look almost of a city under siege, right down to the worn, harried faces of the citizens.

You can see the upper stories of the Opera House from where you land. Lights are burning in the windows, though you can only tell by the light that leaks out between tightly closed shutters.

After a short time spent preparing your magical defenses, you teleport into the heart of Razimir's territory. Here, in the bad part of his capital, you can see all too clearly the start contrast within the nation. You're standing on a road, little more than a dirt track, running through one of the slums of the Stones. Ramshackle huts are haphazardly arranged around you, many of them with obvious architectural shortcomings -- a sagging roof here, a broken door there, a gaping hole in the wall across the street. The air smells of water, and more sharply of rot and sewage, all indicators of the close presence of the coast. There are people around, most of whom look to be in poor conditions. Most seem to be sick to one extent or another, everything from wet, hacking coughs to open sores.

Looming over you to the east, you can see the Steps, and the difference could not be more stark. The buildings there are tall, elegant affairs, all stone and gleaming metal. The expense, the sheer, wanton indulgence there is as great as the poverty here, so much so that you can see it even from the other half of the city. It looms over you, a constant reminder to the citizens here of what they can't have.

Despite that reminder, though, there's a sense of excitement in the air. Most of the people you see, even the sick and the crippled, are carrying weapons, and there's a sort of feverish excitement about them. Conversations are quick and hushed; expressions are eager.

The two guards on duty at the gate snap suddenly to attention as you announce yourself, looking like they're nearly ready to faint. A quick exchange of looks between them is clearly a swift and silent reckoning of who owes what to whom, the sort of instantaneous decision as to who is lower on the totem pole which is common to any military organization. After a moment, the younger of them steps forward, hardly daring to look at you. "F-follow me, s-sir," he stammers, hurrying into the city. He stumbles and nearly falls, then recovers himself and hurries onward.

The building he leads you to is nondescript, a simple baked-brick building on the edge of the market. It's an unassuming cube with few frills and fewer windows, and inside it somehow feels even more punishingly hot than it was on the streets. You can see a set of stairs leading down, suggesting that there is more of the building below the ground, but your guide leads you past them without pausing. You see a few more guards sitting around; they are doing much the same as guards anywhere, eating and drinking, gambling and caring for their equipment. Even here, though, there is a sense of tension, of anxiety barely hidden behind the mask of mundanity.

The second floor is apparently your destination, as the young guard stops in front of a battered wooden door. The only indicator as to its inhabitant is a similarly battered brass plate which reads Lt. Qureshi. Inside, a heavily scarred middle-aged woman is sitting at an old desk, one leg of which is propped up on a thick book to keep it level. The top of the desk is covered in a map of the city, which in turn is almost entirely covered in scrawled notes and pins.

The stone passes through the curtain without any apparent effect. The air doesn't ripple any more or less, and the stone's trajectory is unaffected.

You're guessing this is magic of some kind, though the scale is clearly remarkable, perhaps suggesting that it's powered by technology or otherwise unusual. The ward itself is not a sort that you have any familiarity with, or even one that you recall hearing or reading a description of -- which, in turn, strongly suggests that it's something very unusual indeed. You're fairly sure that it isn't based on the techniques of any tradition of mortal magic you've heard of, nor does it seem to be drawing on the schools of magic practiced by dragons, or even common outsiders.

The teleportation goes as planned, leaving you in Mechitar. It's an odd sight, as the undead shuffle all around you, and there's almost no actual life to be seen. The monumental architecture of the city looms all around you, built on a scale few nations can even aspire to, and looming over it all is Geb's tower at the center of the city.

As far as you can tell, the city is more or less unfazed by the current tumult. The streets are no more or less equally filled with mindless undead serving the whims of their masters, and their superiors continue to stalk about inscrutably, following their own agendas.Here and there you spot a mortal, or one who wants to seem mortal; most of them are branded, collared, or otherwise marked as chattel, although here and there you do see a figure in the robes or armor of the living who have managed to evade that fate thus far.

[Desril]

It was worse than Des expected. Poverty was one thing but these people were much worse off than simply poor, and the Steps looming in the distance with their oppulance on display only added insult to injury. But worse than that, the people seemed worked up...but not angry. And that wasn't likely to be a good sign. Still, he was here to try and minimize the loss of life from the war that was declared, and mitigate the damage that'd be caused by his takeover. I thought I'd start by seeing how bad things were so I could work on improving everyone's living standards but I guess there's not a lot of research on how to do that that needs done...so why are they so...excited?

Realizing the easiest solution is to just ask, the tiefling sighs and makes his way over to the nearest group, suddenly feeling on edge more because of the feeling in the air than at the prospect of challenging a self-proclaimed god to a fight. "Excuse me, sorry, I'm new here but I couldn't help but notice everyone seems eager for something, could you tell me what's going on?" The innocuous question and tone is offset by his imposingly armed and armored figure, but it rarely hurt to be polite, particularly to one's future subjects.


Diplomacy [roll0]

Sense Motive [roll1]

[The Glyphstone]

Garidan steps through the doorway to the office, rapping once against the door to get the woman's attention. "Lieutenant Qureshi. You sent a letter to Castle Toril requesting aid in stopping a serial killer. I am Garidan, and I have come to provide it. Tell me of this killer, all they have done and all that has been done trying to catch them."

[QuidEst]

From the street in Kaer Maga, Com sprang forward, pushing off of both the cobblestones and the astral underpinnings of the city. When she touched down again, it was in Kintargo. She gave a low sweeping bow to no audience in particular. "Thank you, thank you! And for my next trick, I will…" wonder why Kintargo seems more like Kintargone. "… get helpful directions from strangers, I guess," she concluded with a little less dramatic flair. "Well, c'mon, Chap. Gotta mystery on our hands, and everybody's more impressed if you've got an exotic familiar. Shows wizardliness!" There was an odd distortion as the glamer that made her armor look like an ordinary cloak tried to accommodate Chaplain's emergence from its extradimensional home. The end result was a skunk crawling out through the dark cloth over Camilla's stomach. She picked him up and set him on her shoulder. He was wearing a tiny paper mask in imitation of the mask she was wearing. "There we go. Suitably impressive?" she asked, fishing for some dead lizard bits to give him.

Chaplain whuffed in assent and chewed ruminatively on the lizard bits behind his mask.

With preparations complete, Com got to work. She approached one of the glum locals at random, her mask beaming a broad grin at them. "Listen, I'm not from around these parts so I'm a bit behind on the times. It's been a while since I've been here (been busy with a couple recalcitrant gods, but that's neither here nor there), and Kintargo seems a little less… Kintargo-y than I last recall. Anything I should know? Just stopped by because I heard something about a big production in…" She paused to make an odd motion, twisting her wrist at herself. "… four nights. If you can tell me anything about that, I'd really appreciate it!"

High on the list of Com's oddly specific abilities is being able to use the gather information action really quickly. It only takes 1d4 minutes to gather information using diplomacy.
Minutes: [roll0]
Diplomacy: Better of [roll1] and [roll2]

[TheOneHawk]

Sylvar barely even notices the chattel going about their insignificant business for their scheming masters, his mind focused on the issue at hand; namely that he'd just teleported thousands of miles away from his allies and into what was, if Valdr's letter was to be believed, probably enemy territory. He'd killed Valdr before, with the aid of surprise, but if Geb had allied himself with the lich then this could go quite poorly. The comforting thought of his phylactery hidden away in his private vault comforts him as he strides towards the tower in the centre of the city.

[Bhaakon]

"Hrm." Aster pontificates aloud, scratching and imaginary itch on the back of her head while she tries to think of what to do about the obstacle. "Well, it isn't proof against rocks. She finally observes. Not much I can say past that. Definitely not any magic recognize. I mean, look how big it is!"

"Well...if it isn't for keeping out rocks, maybe it's for keeping out living things. I don't suppose you want to try walking through it yourself?" She glances at Silim out of the corner of her eye. "I'll stand here and observe, of course. No? Well, I can try something else..."

She closes her eyes and concentrates, pulling out a shard of broken mirror mounted in an irregular gold frame molder to fit its jagged edges (and allow it to be gripped without cutting into flesh). "I ever tell you what this is?" He mutters as she uses the charm to summon up a big, fat white rat the size of a house cat. "It's Arazni's mirror. The one she first saw herself in after getting...liched. She'd used it for conjuring up little celestial messengers before that, I think. Pretty sure she punched it, but it's funnier to think it broke on account of her ugly."

She looks down at the fat little rat. "Well, get going." He nudges it towards the rippling curtain of...something with the business end of her boot.

Well, I know I had a conjuration focus before, and servitor is a base power, so I had that. I'll summon a dire rat and order it into the...whatever it is.

[ylvathrall]

The man gives you an odd, almost baffled look. It isn't hostile; it looks more like someone who has just been asked what color the sky is, and isn't sure how to respond to someone not knowing the answer to their own question. "It's the war," he explains after a moment. "We're going to invade those heathens who tried to claim the glory for chasing the false gods away. Now if you don't mind, I have to get back to the forge. Don't want the army running out of swords, do we?" He grins as if this is a terribly amusing joke, and turns to leave.

As far as you can tell, he's being honest.

"It's good someone finally came," Qureshi says, her voice both tired and frustrated. "I'll tell you what I can, though it's damned little. This monster started killing near two months ago. At first it was just disappearances, a few folk going missing. Tragic, but it's a fact of life in a city this size. And there was nothing to go on, no way to find him. No signs of a fight, no tracks, nothing. We told the families we'd look, but most of us figured that they had run away, and not been abducted at all."

The lieutenant pauses, and her voice is even more tired as she continues. "Then, near a week later, they...showed up again. Or pieces of them did. Some of them were still alive, but they were quite mad from the things they had gone through. Most of them died within a few days after we found them. After that, more people disappeared. Always the same way, with no witnesses, no signs of struggle, nothing. They just...vanish. Sometimes we find them, afterwards. Sometimes we don't. Once we found a girl, one who seemed normal enough still, but had her lips stitched shut. It was obvious she was worried, she tried to warn us, but we took her with us anyway. Five minutes later something in her exploded, killed two men in the blast."

Qureshi looks at you steadily. "I know that you're used to dealing with larger situations than this, Garidan," she says. "But please believe me when I say that this man is dangerous. We're fairly confident he was responsible for a plague in the northern sector of the city that killed several hundred people before it was contained. When we thought we had found him, I sent a squad in to remove him. Twenty five men and women, all of them trained veterans. One live long enough to make it out and tell us that it was all a trap, a setup, before dying from the poison inside her. That's when we knew that this was...out of our league, shall we say."

The man frowns. "Have you not heard?" he asks. "The city is under martial law. It might as well be under siege, really. Thrune is one step short of saying we're all traitors and ordering a purge, and her governor might just do it. There's a whole bloody brigade of the imperial army camped at the gate, just waiting for us to make a false move." He pauses and shakes his head as though to clear it. "Four days from now, though...no, can't say I've heard of anything. I think it might be when the governor is set to roll out the next set of restrictions, but past that it doesn't ring a bell."

As you march north, the truth becomes apparent. What you thought was a tower at the center of the city was, in fact, just a sliver of the building, which is actually a pyramid of truly enormous proportions. Faced with what looks like polished obsidian, the edifice towers far over the rest of the city, a constant grim reminder of the power Geb wields. As you move closer, you see that it is separated from the rest of the city by a broad river or causeway. The water is a sickly green color, large enough to form a substantial moat, and completely devoid of movement.

Just northeast of you is a bridge across the river. Standing in front of it, though, is another pyramid, only slightly less grand than the one which lurks at the center of the necropolis. This one is surfaced with white marble, on which a mosaic larger than most buildings depicts a rampant dragon in ruby. The end effect is not unlike fresh blood spilled on snow. The entrance of this pyramid is a broad archway guarded by a group of heavily armored figures that might be either the quick or the dead. Despite the obvious military presence, a steady stream of people move through the doorway. None of these appear to be chattel; this close in to the center of the city, almost everyone you see is either undead or the sort of living which is clearly more than just a slave or food source.

The rat ambles along across the barrier easily enough, not showing any sign of meeting resistance as it steps past the curtain of energy. Once there, it sits and washes its hindquarters, seemingly unfazed.

[The Glyphstone]

Garidan looked back at her. "Perhaps you are right, that this situation is out of your league. But it is no smaller than any I deal with, in my eyes. When I walk a battlefield to sift the dying from the survivors, I do not guide a hundred men from this life into the next. I shepherd one man along in his journey, a hundred times repeated. When I hunt a vampire to end his unnatural existence, I do it not merely because he has defied his fate. I do it for him and each and every one of the victims he binds to his will, who have not chosen to forsake their path but had it forced upon them. This killer, this monster, he spits on the principles that I champion. Every life has meaning, and every death has purpose. To treat people as toys to be played with and cast aside by the handful is intolerable."

He sighed, suddenly quite human through his solemn demeanor. "But I am not a god. I must know my prey before I can hunt them. Our killer favors poisons, plagues, and bombs as his tools. Has anyone been able to identify the toxins he employs, perhaps to trace the source of his supplies? Could a search be made for anyone who retains their spellcasting ability and the power to interrogate the spirit of your fallen veteran? Death will come for this man in time, but that is little consolation if we must wait and watch him cut short the threads of others at will until then."

[QuidEst]

Camilla shook her head in emphatic denial to make up for her mask covering her face with a fixed grin. "No, I hadn't heard! Like I said, I'm not from around these parts, so that's very helpful." She didn't sound particularly perturbed by the state of affairs, and again the smiling mask didn't really help. Her voice dropped to a somewhat more conspiratorial tone. "Well, fair's fair- I do know that something's up in four days. I have tickets and everything, which I know may not sound very impressive, but I'm fairly confident that I'm the last local mortal to talk to at least Abadar and Cayden Cailean, so things I'm involved in tend to be a big deal. Could just be a big show, could be you should lay low. With plenty of water and some non-perishable food. Anyway, gonna talk to the theater's manager and try'n narrow things down a little. Many thanks, and best of luck!" she finished with a jaunty wave.

"Your thoughts, Chap?"

Chaplain whuffed in a thoughtful manner.

"Yeah, we might need to talk to the governor, but I kind of want to find out what's up with the tickets first. It'll inform the conversation if necessary, right?"

Another whuff, this time of assent.

"It's a good point, though. I was hoping to avoid it, but it's a nice opera house and it'd be a shame if something were to happen to it."

She strolled up to the looming building, looking it over and trying the door first. It was only polite, after all.

[Desril]

Frowning, the tiefling nods his head and lets the old man go away. Muttering to himself he scowls and his face looks grim, That's his game then? He wants to strengthen his claim of godhood by claiming he did this? Fool...still, maybe this isn't a bad thing. If he claims credit and we let him, that means that all the anger will be focused on him, whatever happens will be his fault...

He'd been pacing but stops, seeing his own reflection in a puddle of water, and frowns. No. We did this, we have to take responsibility for it...but I'm sure this won't be the last time someone tries to claim credit...or is falsely accused. No, I'm not going to let people suffer because they don't understand what happened. I'll just have to show everyone the truth...

Resolved, he nods to himself and reaches into his pockets, pulling out a diamond the size of his fist as he begins the incantation of the ultimate spell. "I Wish that every sentient being on Golarion knew the truth about why the gods are gone and those who were responsible." Smirking, he tries to suppress a chuckle, If only I could see Razmir's face when he realizes what's happened.



So I'm lazy and haven't gotten around to resetting spells prepared but I know for a fact I had at least 1 Wish ready, so I'm going to cast it while I can.

I work on the assumption that trying to go full lawyer on a wish to close any possible loophole just makes it more likely to fail, so keeping the wish simple and straightforward.

[Bhaakon]

Aster looks at the rat a few moment, making sure there isn't some sort of delayed disintegration before the summoning runs its course. Assuming nothing untowards happens, she reaches into a pouch and retrieves a shiny new coin. One with a rather generous impression of Desril's profile on one side and some preposterous coat of arms on the other. As if he had claim to a proper coat of arms.

She glances sideways on Silim. "Heads say you go first." Without waiting for an answer, she tosses the coin.

1= heads
[roll0]

She looks down are the one eye of the newly-minted monarch and scoops up the coin, waiting long enough to be sure that Silim saw how it landed. "Well, Desril might be full of himself and kind of a twit full of hair-brained schmemes, but he's the King, and the King as spoken."

[Cardea]

"Got a flaw in your process." Silim says as he moves his boat into the bubble. "I'm at the back of the ride."

[TheOneHawk]

Sylvar briefly considers simply teleporting past the guards, but no, this is Geb's fortress. There's cocky, then there's actively suicidal. Phylactery or not, Sylvar was certainly not the latter. Instead he simply walks along with the crowds until he can get a closer look at what exactly the guards are checking for before allowing people access to the pyramid.

[ylvathrall]

"We tried that," Qureshi says, sounding tired. "We took samples of what we could contain to various alchemists. But none of them could tell us much. Apparently he's using a mix of common reagents and products of his own creation. Trying to trace his suppliers was a dead end. And as for the other, there aren't many left who can find a way to speak to the dead. We managed to hire someone to try it with our woman, but her spirit didn't have much to say to help. They found no trace of him down there, just a string of traps. As far as we can tell it was a false lead, something he deliberately planted to draw us out."

The man seems baffled; he opens and closes his mouth a few times, and then simply shakes his head and walks away.

At the opera house, the front door is solidly closed. At your knock, though, a small window opens in the door, the edges having been hidden in the ornate decorations on it. On the other side you see a person, though it's hard to say more than that with any certainty. The figure is shrouded in black robes from head to toe, with black leather gloves on their hands. Their face is hidden by a mask not unlike your own, though it's a little less expressive, being a flat black mask with no eyeholes and no features save for an enigmatic smile drawn in silver.

"Password?" the figure asks. Its voice is strangely distorted, warbling and skittering across tones so much that you can't place an accent, race, or even gender to it.

As you complete the incantation, the diamond crumbles away, leaving behind nothing but a trace of dull, worthless powder.

The boat glides smoothly forward, passing through the curtain with no ill effects. You feel a slight tingle wash over your skin as you cross it, but otherwise it seems to have little effect.

It looks as though the guards are quickly and efficiently processing the entrants into multiple groups. Perhaps half of them are presenting what looks to be a badge of some kind, at which they are let through without further comment. Another quarter present various papers; these people are taken aside by one of the guards and given directions before continuing into the pyramid. The last quarter don't have any kind of paperwork. After being taken aside by other guards, this group splits. Most are sent away, while the rest are escorted into the building by one of the armored figures.

All:

You abruptly feel a sort of mental pressure, like some force is pressing against your mind. Then, abruptly, it tears through. The world around you vanishes, overwhelmed by a flood of thoughts and images. You can't even begin to keep up with it, as the rush of mental images tears through your mind. You get a sense of vastly complicated connections, a convoluted web of links and bonds which ties everything together at a level beyond your comprehension. Each image brings with it an emotional surge, pain and lust and ambition and hate and glee sweeping through you in a rapid, brutally intense rush.

Then, abruptly, the cascading thoughts fade, replaced with a single, clear mental image. You see yourselves, not as you are now, but as you were. Sylvar, still alive, magical darkness wreathing his blade; blood is flowing freely from wounds on his face and seeping from under his armor. Camilla, fallen to one knee, her mask slightly askew on her face and her rapier almost slipping from her hand. Desril's demonic features are burned and exhausted, and the magic that flickers at his hands is weak. Silim stands cold and calm at the side, his ornate crossbow burned and scarred; his expression is steady despite the savage claw wound on it. Aster is standing with all her weight on one leg, the other being ripped open from hip to knee; she holds her trinkets up defensively, and several others lie shattered on the ground. Even Garidan's confident demeanor is lapsed, and his scimitar is held low by his side rather than in a defensive stance.

And there, too, are your opposite numbers. Valdr stands at the center of the image, with hollow cheeks and sunken eyes, cold magic gathered in his hand, the fires of obsession blazing through him like light through a glass. Suiko is revealed as the kitsune she is, her red fur stained brighter with the blood covering her torso and head, though her expression is still cocky and smug. Carreau just looks empty, staring blankly forward without even seeming to notice the claw and burn marks on her, broken Sorrow hanging by her side.

And then there's Cass. The girl looks like nothing mortal, her eyes just black hollows that seem to pierce you with their absent stare. Her head hangs to the side, and her form is obscured by the loose, tattered robes she wears. Behind her, her shadow stretches up, looking nothing like the girl casting it, but rather the form of some awful, demonic thing so monstrous and alien it hurts even to look at.

Accompanying this portrait is a single, very clear thought, slamming into your mind with all the subtlety and grace of a warhammer: THESE PEOPLE ARE WHY THE GODS HAVE ABANDONED YOU

Then the images all fade, leaving behind nothing but a gestalt impression of satisfaction and a brutal, splitting headache.

All characters have to make a DC 30 Will save or act as if confused for three rounds. The standard confusion table is replaced by the following.

1-25: You act normally, but are debilitated by the pain and synaptic overload, taking a -2 penalty on all attacks, saves, skill checks, and ability checks. Additionally, you are unable to communicate coherently or take full-round actions, as you cannot focus long enough to do so.
26-50: You do nothing but babble incoherently, attempting to describe what you have just seen. You take a -4 penalty to AC and saves, and you cannot take actions.
51-75: You damage yourself with your weapon or your bare hands, dealing 2d8+Str damage to yourself. This damage is not reduced by damage reduction or similar effects. You also take 1d2 points of Charisma damage as your self-destructive behavior undermines your confidence. A successful DC 30 Will save negates this Charisma damage.
76-100: You attack the nearest creature you regard as an ally or friend. If no such creature is in range you attack the nearest creature; if no other creature is in range you damage yourself as the previous result. Familiars are treated as an ally for this purpose. If this attack threatens a critical hit, that critical hit is automatically confirmed.

[The Glyphstone]

Garidan staggers as the vision tears through his head, briefly overwhelmed by the psychic shock. He remembered that day, that confrontation between the two factions of their splintered brotherhood, but the recollection had been razor-sharp in a way no mortal memory could possibly be. It hadn't come from inside him, whatever that was, but been imposed upon him from outside. A kaleidoscope of sound and color flooded his senses as he struggled to interpret something impossible to translate, and it takes several seconds to re-focus on his surroundings. He looks over to Qureshi, suddenly concerned.


As discussed, if she starts attacking him or herself, he'll try and grapple her, otherwise he will wait out the three rounds without taking action.

[QuidEst]

Com was about to reply to the mutually masked man devil-portering the door, having decided on "grandiose" for her approach, when the very Maelstrom bubbled forth in her mind. For somebody who made a point of knowing a great deal, she was nonetheless unprepared for suddenly knowing a great deal too much. It was agonizing, and the emotional feedback with Chaplain only compounded the problem. They both beat their heads against the wall and ground respectively. When the feedback from one another flared, they blindly turned on one another, Com swiping down with her rapier and Chap biting ineffectually at her cloak. The reeled back from one another, mixed lines of characters in plays falling from their mouths as they tried to recall who they were.

At last, the searing knowledge mercifully faded. Camilla swore under her breath, stooping down to make sure that Chap was okay. Even as she did, the empathic link conveyed that he was also recovering, although was more shaken by the experience than her. "I'm so sorry…" she said softly. "Just rest." She picked him up, placing him into the folds of her cloak where her enchanted armor received him into welcoming darkness and safety.

By all the muses, what had that been?

Using Lore Master's 1/day nat twenty of K(Arcana) for 39

After checking to make sure she hadn't damaged her mask terribly, she faced the door. "I think we are a little past passwords at the moment."

[ylvathrall]

Qureshi slumps over the desk as the wave of images and impressions passes through you. She manages to straighten, though her expression is strained, and even stands. She looks as though she's carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders as she slowly walks to the window of the office and opens the shutters.

Outside, the view is horrifying. It suddenly seems a mercy that few people were in the streets, because the ones that were there are in a horrifying state. Some lie in the street, dead or dying, while others are staggering about with blood staining their hands and flowing freely from wounds. As Qureshi opens the window you hear the screaming start, loud agonized screams echoing from all around. It doesn't sound as though they're coming only from the street you can see through the window.

Qureshi says nothing as she sees this. She only bows her head, her expression one of such intense sorrow that it's almost painful to watch.

The masked figure holds up under the chaos for a moment, then cracks under the weight of the pressure. One hand, holding a dagger that had been expertly hidden a moment before, swipes across the robes under the mask, slashing a deep gash across the figure's chest. Blood rapidly saturates the dark fabric as they utter a stream of words. Though still altered by whatever is affecting their voice, they are made even harder to understand for being in a foreign language, one which rapid, fluid, and completely incomprehensible to Com.

Meanwhile, all around you, the world seems to be going to pieces. People are attacking each other and themselves, the blows savage and precisely aimed. Dozens fall to the street, dead or dying, while dozens more stagger about, screaming or babbling.

It's only a few moments before the hammerblow of madness fades, but the damage is already done. Blood is everywhere, and the chaos only grows as people scream in horror and pain, or stare guilt-ridden at the consequences of their actions.

The masked figure stares at you for a moment, then straightens and takes a step backwards. You can't see their face, but you're willing to bet that if you could you would see the sudden wave of realization pass over their features.

Moments later you hear a rapid click-click-click of locks being undone, followed by the thud of a metal bar hitting the floor. The masked figure hauls the door open a moment later, revealing a dark foyer of sorts. "Get inside," the voice says in an urgent whisper. "Before someone notices you."

As the echoes of your wish fade, you see the slum around you begin to dissolve into chaos. People turn on each other, or themselves, in a sudden orgy of violence. Many of them were carrying weapons, and now this proves to be a poor idea, as it only left them better equipped to turn on each other. Dozens cut each other down, or kill themselves before your eyes, while others scream or babble nonsense.

The madness lasts only moments, but in that time you watch several dozen people die. As it fades, the screaming begins, coming from all around you. It doesn't sound like it's only coming from your immediate vicinity. For the moment, though, the people around you don't seem to have made the connection between their visions and your appearance.

As the wave of images passes through you, the world around you turns to chaos. The people going about their business, or waiting outside the pyramid, abruptly turn on each other or themselves. Weapons are produced and used, magic blazes with dark fire in the air, and grievous wounds are inflicted all around.

It has less effect than it could have, though. Most of the undead prove to be tough enough to withstand the blows, and even the living in this section of the city are strong enough to bear up under the assault. The chaos is widespread but the damage is relatively minimal, and the people seem to be treating it less as a disaster than a frightening, confusing, but ultimately relatively mild inconvenience.

[Desril]

The splitting headache was easy to deal with. Tapping into raw arcane forces as powerful as Desril does as often as he does means they come with the territory...but even he realizes that perhaps he should've put a little more thought into how the information he intended to get across was going to be conveyed. Next time...someone remind me to run it by a djinn first.

There wasn't time for mulling it over though, the streets erupted into chaos as soon as he was able to form a coherent thought, and the tiefling utterly failed to realize the damage he'd wrought. There was, after all, no reason for that information to have resulted in mob violence against anyone save, perhaps, himself and his companions, but that wasn't what was happening. The fact that the common man's mind simply wasn't equipped to handle being overloaded like that, and that in making his wish he'd temporarily driven the whole world insane, simply didn't occur to him yet. There were more pressing matters to tend to, in this case, stopping the immediate violence in the streets, and not knowing why anyone was fighting just meant he needed to stop as many people as he could.


Casting Web between buildings in an area to entangle and thus stop as many crazed Razmirans as possible

[QuidEst]

Camilla needed no second prompting, and slipped inside the opera house as soon as the door was opened. "Many thanks for the hospitality," she said, inclining her head. She pulled a scroll out of her pouch, keeping it on hand. "Just a precaution. Don't know what that was, but I'll do what little I can if it happens again." she explained, grimacing behind the mask. Abruptly shifting tone, the actress extended her hand. "Anyway, pleased to make your acquaintance. Camilla of the Infinite Jest, The Divine Comedy, Miss Nomer, Com To Her Friends, et cetera. Normally I'd be quite pleased at my reputation preceding me, but… well, 'too much a good thing' fails to scratch the surface."

Com's really curious what's going through our new friend's head, so she's going to take a shot at reading his surface thoughts. If taking ten is possible under the circumstances, that's a 28 vs. bluff. No save or anything; it's the sense motive skill unlock capstone.

[The Glyphstone]

Garidan stands next to her and looks out the window over Qureshi's head, at the carnage in the streets. Coldly, analytically, he knew how much worse it would have been if the city had not already been half-deserted and isolated out of fear. Emotionally, that was no comfort as he saw the dead and the dying - too many dead and dying, when they had no reason to be so.

His expression was not one of sorrow like hers, but a frozen mask of cold fury. Fingers dug into his palms, hard enough to break the skin and send a few drops of blood falling to the floor of the office. Quietly, he half-whispers to himself. "So. It is not enough that you abandon your duties like cowards. As a spoiled nobleman's child would, if you cannot play with your toys, you will break them so that no one else can either. May the darkest shadows of the void strip the marrow from your souls for this..."

[TheOneHawk]

As the wave of images, information, and emotion washes over Sylvar, he feels in a way he has not since he bid his mortal form farewell in exchange for power and eternal life, and for the briefest of moments, loses himself. When he regains his mind, he finds his blade in his hands and his armour ripped with self inflicted claw marks, as well as a pair of deep puncture wounds that could only have come from his own sword. The shock of losing control of himself so badly and in such a self-destructive way shatters his confidence and he quickly retreats away from the chaos in the streets to the nearest secluded area he can find to heal himself and mull over what just happened. What ungodly horror was that? A rogue former god deciding to spit on us one last time before running away with their tail between their legs? Couldn't have been any of us, or any of the fools that followed Valdr, else they wouldn't have been shown in the same light... but where was Egill? He tilts his head and thinks hard, trying to remember the image of the group in days gone by as clearly as he could. Everyone was there, except Egill. Traitorous bastard's probably trying something to set himself up as a solitary power. He always wanted to be the hero of the story. Fool.

Assuming Sylvar can find somewhere relatively secluded and safe, he's going to use his touch attack on himself until he's back up to his (substantially diminished) maximum hit points.

[Bhaakon]

Aster grabs her head, doing her very best to hold down her gorge as the vision rockets to its familiar conclusion. Crossing the strange barrier had seemed harmless at first, but clearly it had merely taken a moment for the psychoactive effects to come clear. Why the thing would target her memories is beyond her, at least for the moment. The sharp pain in her skull, the remembered ache in her leg, the raw emotion, the budding rage, made it hard to think.

She blinks, glancing around. Her eyes lock on Silim, in the rear of the boat, who had forced her through first in spite of losing the coin toss.

"You...you ASS!" She spits, quite literally. A glob of saliva and mucus chased soon after by hand bearing a dagger.

Attack roll for spit. I'm just going to assume I'm proficient: [roll0]

Not really sure how you want to handle this wrt initiative, but here is my first round of attacking.

And MW Dagger...

[roll1]
[roll2]

[roll3]
[roll4]

[roll5]
[roll6]

[Cardea]

Silim tries to shrug himself of the images, trying to push through the image of his scarring. Even if he didn't keep them in his good graces anymore, it still hurt to see his old kin in these states. He tightens his grip on Lone Kingdom as he sees Valdr, cheating his way through life, and his finger graces the lever when he sees Suiko. He tightens when he sees Carreau, but he puts himself straight when he sees her. His Little Royal. He screams, slamming a fist into his chest as a warhammer crashes through his thoughts, pushing the edge of whatever this was out of his mind. Little Royal. Even in times like this, she was givin' him strength. He turns to Aster as she draws her dagger. Slow. Clumsy. He dodges the dagger strikes, glarin' at his old kin. He lowers Lone Kingdom, not wanting to have a twitchy finger make even more trouble. "Hey! HEY! You cut that out right now, you push that out!"

[ylvathrall]

The webs catch a substantial number of the people, trapping them tightly within its sticky strands. They continue to thrash and flail, some of them managing to do considerable harm to themselves in the process, but few of them are able to reach and attack one another.

After only a few moments, the wave of bizarre and destructive behavior ends. The sound of babbled nonsense and agonized screams fades, only to be replaced with sobbing, groans of pain, and confused voices. Some people begin cutting others out of the webbing, while others do their best to care for the wounds of those around them.

No one appears to have made the connection between you and what happened yet.

"I should say so," the masked figure says, swinging the door shut the moment you are inside. From the inside, you can see that the locks are every bit as substantial as they sounded. The doorperson snaps four locks into place and slides several bolts home at the top and bottom of the door before placing the large iron bar in place. The foyer is left in complete darkness except for the glowing outlines of the front door and another door leading into the theater.

"They call me Violet around these parts," the voice continues in the dark. The strange distortion fades halfway through the sentence, as she instead speaks in a feminine voice with a lilting Vudrani accent. "You'll forgive me if I don't tel you my real name, I hope. We've learned to be cautious here. Please, come inside and sit down. I think we could both use a drink after that."

Saying this, she opens the next door, revealing the opera house's interior. It's enormous, easily capable of seating a thousand, and ornately decorated in a classic Chelish style. Notably, there is none of the infernal imagery which has characterized the art of Cheliax in more recent times. At present the theater is empty, however, and only dimly lit; perhaps a third of the lanterns around the room are lit.

Violet, as you now see, is a human woman with Vudrani features to match her accent. Her right hand, when she tugs her glove off and offers it to you to shake, is covered by an elaborate violet tattoo depicting a dragon's head.

"In all my life," Qureshi says in a voice as strained as she looks, "I have never hated someone so very much. To do such a thing...."

She closes her eyes, and continues, her voice full of despair now. "I waited too long to call for help," she says. "I was so sure that I would find a way to save my people. And in my hubris I have doomed them."

Sylvar has no difficulty finding a quite alleyway in which to heal himself. The action of the city seems to be continuing relatively unabated around him, with most of the undead expressing only a moderate annoyance at what has happened.

[Bhaakon]

"Don't think yer about to jabber your way outta this, welch." Aster continues trying her very damnedest to ventilate the traitorous boatsman. "Desna might have piked off, but that just means it's my responsibility to make sure luck keeps getting its due respect."

Well, that was only one round of attacks and I failed two checks, so...

[roll0]
[roll1]

[roll2]
[roll3]

[roll4]
[roll5]

[roll6]
[roll7]

[Cardea]

"Oh, you want to talk about gods?" Silim says, swinging Lone Kingdom into the Tiefling. "I'll be damned before you hold that name on your tongue again,
and guess what?" He continues, pointing the bolt at Aster. "We done drove out all those who could the damnin'."

My bad, one attack from last round would cut me.

Standard: Pistol-Whip.
Attack: [roll0]
Damage: [roll1]
Free: CMB: [roll2]

Grit: 3/4

[Desril]

Hoping that whatever that was was just localized, the naive king opts to continue with his mission for now. Confronting Razmir publicly was still his best plan to keep his citizens safe, and now at least everyone would know that he was telling the truth, even if the result wasn't...quite what he'd planned.

Best not to be seen around here right now though, and so the tiefling quickly makes himself scarce, heading through the city toward Razmir's seat of power. True, teleporting in might be safer, but arching openly up the steps would make a more potent point.


Short, because I have no idea what to do >.> TO RAZMIR!

[QuidEst]

"Quite understandable," Com said, nodding and shaking the woman's hand enthusiastically. "And a drink sounds lovely. Well, setting deific pronouncements aside since there's not much I can do about that just now, I did come here with some particular business in mind." She withdrew the opera house ticket and the message, and presented them to Violet. "Wondering if you could tell me anything about this? Does it line up with any planned productions?" she asked.

[TheOneHawk]

Once he's healed up, Sylvar runs through his options. So, whatever that was, that was probably a big deal. Definitely going to need to regroup with the others and figure that out. No point teleporting straight back,
though, may as well do what I came here for first. Like hell does Valdr just get to learn the secrets of Geb and leave me behind. With that, he marches towards the guards at the entrance to the pyramid.

[The Glyphstone]

"In all my life," Qureshi says in a voice as strained as she looks, "I have never hated someone so very much. To do such a thing...."

She closes her eyes, and continues, her voice full of despair now. "I waited too long to call for help," she says. "I was so sure that I would find a way to save my people. And in my hubris I have doomed them."


Garidan scowls. "You give yourself too much credit, woman. This was an act of the gods, I am certain, an act of childish, vicious spite. It was not when you sent for help, or to whom, but that you stood strong and sought help from fellow mortals at all rather than beg them to return like a whipped cur. Had you done nothing, someone else would have provided the excuse they needed to do this. It was inevitable that their injured pride would see them lash out in vengeance eventually."

His voice turns stern "Now pull yourself together, for your city, your people, need you more than ever. What is one pathetic killer when the exiled gods themselves have turned a baleful eye upon this world? No help will come from the other Thuvian states. Such an attack would not have been wasted on one defiant city, I know in my heart that others will have suffered as you have here. Many will come to Merab hoping its walls will give them shelter, and many more will come seeking to plunder it and replace what they have lost. Your people are wounded, Lieutenant, and they are scared. Rally those who are loyal to you and defend the rest from whatever would do them harm - even from themselves, if you must. Be the anchor of safety, stability, strength. Do not break beneath this blow, grievous as it might be."

[ylvathrall]

The rest of the city seems to be in much the same disorder as the section Desril started in. The dead and dying lie in the street, while the maimed and the accidental murderers try to deal with things, still wide-eyed with shock. It doesn't appear that anyone is really taking charge at this time.

Perhaps this chaos is why no one thinks to challenge the wizard on his way through the city. He makes it all the way through Stones and into Steps without being stopped or, apparently, recognized. Once into the better part of the city, the chaos is slightly diminished, though things still seem to be in a state of disarray.

It is at Razimir's palace that the new king is first questioned. A pair of guards are standing at the foot of the long staircase leading up to the door of the palace-temple. They cross their halberds over the stairway as he approaches, giving him unfriendly stares though it does not appear that they have recognized him. "Halt," one says from behind their identical steel helmets.

Violet looks at the invitation, and then hands it back. "Hang on," she says. "I need that drink before we get into that." So saying, she leads Com to a large bar in one corner of the room, where she fetches a bottle of expensive wine and pours a pair of glasses. She downs hers before continuing, "Of sorts, yes, a production. A play, one with a rather unsubtle allegory." She pours another glass and sips at it before continuing. "The queen is insane," she says bluntly. "Absolutely stark staring mad. Her governor is a lackey and a sadist; he won't stand up to her. And a sizable portion of the imperial army is sitting on our doorstep. Quite simply, Kintargo has to act now to survive, and we are in an uncommonly good position to get that message out."

She then pauses for another drink. "If that's genuine, though....I can't imagine any of us being able to get a message to you, even if we wanted to. Which means that our secret showing isn't quite so secret as we thought."

The guards, heavily armored figures whose faces are hidden behind steel helms, turn towards Sylvar as he approaches. "What's your business?" one asks tersely, voice muffled by the helm too heavily to say more about it than that it sounds male.

"You think the gods are personally offended by us, and I am the prideful one?" Qureshi asks tartly. After a moment, though, she nods. "Perhaps there is truth to what you say. Perhaps. But I do not know what I can do about it, even if it is. We were struggling already. After this, I am unsure how to go about even beginning to recover. And while you may dismiss this murderer as merely a 'pathetic killer,' I assure you that he is a serious threat to the city, and he will be quick to capitalize on this vulnerability."

[TheOneHawk]

Sylvar looks the guard in the eye and replies in the most self-important voice he can muster, "My name is Sylvar Firinaecet, slayer of Rovagug's spawn and terror of the fled gods. I am here to request an audience with Geb."

[The Glyphstone]

"As to that, I am afraid I will be of little help. Were we among my own people, I could - and will - attempt to rally them, but I have no ties of blood or respect amongst Thuvia, nor any great knowledge of organizing disaster relief. I only know what must be done, not how it is to be accomplished in detail."

As for the killer, you are both right and wrong. Left to his own devices, he will kill again, but what is the death of the residents of a city weighed against the death of the city itself, of a nation, of a people? There will be superiors who can take the burden of leading this relief from your shoulders, but until they do so, act as though you were the sole surviving authority in Merab. Give the confused and injured and terrified something orderly to cling to, and recovery will take on a life of its own - and in the process, you may lure the killer out of hiding again. From what you have told me of his crimes, I believe he targets the weak and helpless not simply for their own ends. He plays your better nature against itself, targeting the vulnerable to strike at the hearts of those too strong to hunt directly. His murders will go unnoticed, lost in the tumult of a city-state disemboweled, and that will not satisfy him. But if there is stability, an island of calm in the sea of chaos, such a target will draw him like moths to a flame. He may leave himself vulnerable in his hunger to strike, and even if he does not, his next attack may leave a trail I can follow."

[Desril]

The more chaos and death he saw as he walked through the city, the more Desril grew concerned. He'd had time to think, to realize that whatever insanity just occurred was likely a result of his spontaneous Wish. Idiot! Of course, it wasn't that much information but these people are too weak willed to handle it! But I have to settle things now before I can do anything about it...I hope no one was killed...

But he had no choice but to steel himself as he approached the Steps leading to Razmir's seat of power, pausing briefly to consider the guard that had the nerve to bar his path. "Your dedication to your job is admirable, but as your false god declared war on my people my patience for insults is practically non-existent," he says with a very cold, matter-of-fact tone, putting forth an air of power and superiority as he does, "Your 'god' and I are going to have a little chat, and I suspect you'd rather tell your family about it than be scraped off the side of the road for delaying me. In fact, given all the chaos in the city right now, you should probably go make sure they're safe." With that, he doesn't wait for a response and continues his march up the stairs, expecting the guards to lower their weapons and stand aside.


Intimidate [roll0] (+20 if I can convince you that that counts for diplomacy instead!)

If they don't lower their weapons;
Sundering their pikes [roll1] [roll2]
Other guy [roll3] [roll4]

Luckily pikes are easily broken.

[Bhaakon]

"Desna? Pfft." Aster spits. "It's just a name, eh? Yer the one giving it more power than it deserves." Her dagger hand drops and she looks down at the blood staining the very tip of the blade. Well, that wasn't right. Clearly an unexpected reaction to the vision. She might have felt bad if Silim was sporting a real injury, but that scratch was well deserved for thwarting the verdict of the coin flip.

She wipes the blooded tip of her blade on a handkerchief and tosses aside the ruined scrap of lacy fluff--monogrammed with someone else's initials, Aster couldn't recall whose coat she'd borrowed it from. She keeps her eye on Silim as she slides the dagger back in. "Whatever. Let's find someone alive who we can ask what's happening around here. Let's just, I dunno, head for Starfall and stop in the first town we hit to ask about what this nonsense is." She waves dismissively at the strangely porous energy barrier. "Maybe you can find a game of dice to rob, just to stick it to Desna."

[ylvathrall]

The guard looks at his companion, and then back to you."Take this one to see the Blood Lord," he barks to one of the runners. The youth quickly hurries over, beckoning you to follow. He hurries up the stairs, taking a winding path that leads into the pyramid and through it. He turns often, and seems to double back at couple points, though you aren't sure whether that's because the path is that convoluted or he's deliberately getting you lost.

Regardless, you eventually end up at a heavy ebony door. The boy opens the door without knocking, revealing a large and largely empty room. There are expensive chairs and couches, tables, and a bookshelf with a handful of books. It seems to be some sort of waiting room. The runner glances at you and says, in a whisper, "The Lord will see you when she's ready. Just take a seat until then, should only be a few minutes."

Qureshi nods, Garidan's words seeming to have put some steel into her spine. "I will do it," she says, her voice quavering. Then, more strongly, "I will do it. Because no one else can, and it bloody well needs done." She laughs. "They taught us that in the army. You can do it because you will do it, and you will do it because it needs doing."

Her face returns to its earlier serious expression at that. "I can draw this killer out," she says. "I know what he'll be looking for. I can move him into position, but I have no way to take him down once he's there. I...know this must be low on your list of priorities, especially after this. But I must ask, for the sake of my people. Can you stay another day, just one, to take this monster down before you leave."

The guards continue to block your path right up until your blade smashes through their weapons, leaving them little more than quarterstaves.

One immediately turns and yanks on the clapper of a heavy bronze bell tucked away out of sight from the road. The heavy, steady tolling of the bell rings out, loud enough that you think it must be magically amplified. The other turns and begins sprinting up the stairs, setting a rather impressive pace for someone in heavy armor.

[Cardea]

Silim halts the boat with a jarring stop. "You wanna stop being petty for two shakes? We can settle our disagreements some other day, and talk the finer points of you makin' games that no one else is playin'. What just happened to you? I figured you'd know better than to try and go toe-to-toe with me facewise like that, so I'm guessin' somethin' just fiddled with your head just a touch." He takes out a waterskin from his locker, holding it out to Aster. "When did you lose your leg?"

[TheOneHawk]

Sylvar silently fumes at being forced to see a Blood Lord, powerful as they are, when he requested Geb. A man of his accomplishments should be welcomed here. Honoured. Still, he remains silent and follows the runner up to the waiting room. Again with the indignities, even one of Geb's underlings can't be bothered to see him right away. It's only the knowledge that Geb himself would likely take offense at Sylvar losing his temper that keeps it in check. As it is, he simple stands in the room, completely motionless until the Blood Lord arrives.

[QuidEst]

Com nodded, accepting her drink. "No. I'm guessing that the production has attracted the attention of Suiko. There are worse individuals to have the attention of, and it could easily benefit your cause, but it's not something I'd make a habit of. With everything thrown into chaos, she's almost certain to show up. If you care for my recommendation, proceed with the play, and make certain it's entertaining. You must convince the Maelstrom's daughter to take up your cause." She stopped for a moment to enjoy her wine- doing so involved a blurred motion of her hand, replacing her full-face mask with one that exposed her mouth. "Mmm. Thank you again. In any case, you've shown your hospitality. If I can return the favor by assisting in the production, staging, performance, et cetera, do let me know. At least so long as the affair isn't too serious. Never was big on tragedies, and the way things are, it hardly seems appropriate."

[The Glyphstone]

Garidan only nods. "I will have many priorities after this, all over the world. But this one is right in front of me, giving it weight that others do not. Set your trap, bait this creature out into the open, and I will kill it for you. As a rule, I do not take joy or pride in performing my duty; what is necessary is not always what is good."

His sudden bared-teeth grin is almost feral. "This time, I believe I will be making an exception."

[Bhaakon]

"You well know I didn't lose my leg!" Aster mumbles. There wasn't even a scar left, thanks to the magic. She hadn't even thought about the wound since it was healed, until that damnable vision has brought back the agony afresh. She turns down the waterskin, taking a hit of something quite a bit stronger from one of the many flasks and vials secured about her person. "Let's just get going. One mystery at a time. Maybe that...whatever it was, was a symptom of passing through that barrier."

[Desril]

As the guards take off, one up the stairs and the other to set off the alarm, the tiefling king sheathes his blade and continues walking up the steps without breaking stride, slowly following after the one going up and ignoring the tolling alarms. It doesn't matter, Razmir is the only one of them that could oppose me. And if this can't be handled peacefully, they should see their false god fall.


Casting True Seeing, Protection from Energy (Fire), and Shield while walking

[ylvathrall]

A minute or so after you sit down, you hear a sudden crackling noise from within the chamber. A few seconds later, the door opens, seemingly of its own accord. Inside, a gaunt man with black hair swept back from his face and expensive-looking clothing is sitting behind a black wood desk. "Please come in," he says, his voice startlingly deep for his build. "My apologies for the delay. A petitioner was being...difficult, else you wouldn't have needed to wait. My name is Anton Sangveau, Blood Lord of Geb. A pleasure."

You can't help but notice the small pile of ashes beside the door. This, presumably, is all that's left of the petitioner Anton mentioned.

Anton Sangveau is a vampire if you've ever seen one, and not even trying to pretend otherwise.

"It's a tragedy with a happy ending, I'm told," Violet says. "Such stories are popular here. The sort of story where it seems a tragedy until the third act, and then the hero prevails. And I can hardly say no to that offer. We've...lost a number of people recently, and while we're scrambling to find replacements for the roles, I highly doubt we'll find anyone with a fraction of your experience."

"Thank you," Qureshi says. "I know how to pull this monster out, but it won't be possible until tomorrow. I will help to set up a hospital for the wounded, and get them to it. I am confident he will attack it - the prospect of so many helpless victims, and the healers as well, will draw him out like nothing else. By morning it will be set up and working to help the injured, and that is when he will strike."

You're just over halfway up the long stretch of stairs up from the street when the hammered bronze door at the top slams open with enough force to smash the doors into the walls with a resounding [i]clang[i/]. Inside, a tall figure in a gleaming silver mask that covers his whole face stands within. Flanking him on each side are five men and women in garb typical of Razmiran priests.

"I will give you one chance," the center figure says, his voice booming so loud that it must be audible all down the street. "You have come to my land, murdered my faithful, and falsely claimed the power only I possess. In my mercy, if you turn around now and do not stop until you have left my lands, I will allow you to leave in safety. But I warn you this, murderer - take one more step, and I will end your life."

[The Glyphstone]

"That will do. Simply tell me where you intend to establish this hospital. I will stake out the site overnight, and be well concealed to watch for him when he approaches."

Once he knows where to set up, Garidan leaves to do so.

(Take 20 on Stealth for a net of 44.)

[Cardea]

"But you know damn well I lost part of my face and crossbow when Little Royal went astray again. I figured it was the same for others." Silim says, shrugging and taking a drink from the waterskin. He directs the boat further into the country, and farther from the bubble. "I don't think it was. That kinda thing seems bigger than just something for Numeria."

[TheOneHawk]

Sylvar nods his head slightly, replying, "Sylvar Firinaecet, I'd like to request an audience with Geb.
I hear my old colleague Valdr has been making some progress in Geb's library and I'd quite like to do the same."

[Desril]

Looking at the would-be god in the flesh gives the fledgling king pause for just a brief moment. He'd come here to challenge Razmir and put an end to things in a quick and decisive manner, but the chaos he's inadvertently created was already affecting him and making him uncertain. Not that he could let that show. No, regardless of his own feelings on the matter he needed to put forth a strong front. At least for now, and...perhaps a little courtesy. "I've killed no one, King Razmir. That your faithful were driven to madness by the truth is no fault of mine. However," he says with a softer, if still commanding tone, "You are right that your people are now hurting. The same pain, I should mention, that you intended to inflict upon mine when you declared this pointless war. Unfortunate as the present circumstances may be, I believe both our peoples would be better served if we were to cooperate, rather than repeat the mistakes of Nex and Geb, would they not? I would request a cessation of hostilities before they begin so that you may tend to those who believe in you while I look into the...incident that occurred."

It was Razmir, however, that initiated this conflict, and simply leaving the offer of peace on the table wouldn't be enough, and so the tiefling king continued. "The alternative, King Razmir, will of course be to put the vision we all saw to the test." There was no need to point out that if Desril truly was among those responsible for removing the gods from the world then a man merely falsely claiming godhood would not escape the fight unscathed and his faux-divinity would be revealed. He was certain Razmir would understand the implication, though he prayed silently that the deluded king would accept his offer of peace. I need to see how things are at home.

Not, of course, that he lets his guard down. The chance of diplomacy prevailing were slim, but he had to try nonetheless even as he steeled himself for a fight.


Diplomacy [roll0]

Readied Action: Time Stop if attacked (including an offensive or otherwise obviously combat spell)

....Is Foresight giving me anything here?

[ylvathrall]

The night passes uneventfully, and when morning rolls around you find that the medical camp is set up just as Qureshi promised. The stream of wounded is steady and disturbingly large, and the healers are pushed to their limit trying to keep up.

Around midmorning, a group of five men and women approaches - but there's something different about this one. The way they walk says that they're in great pain, but they have no obvious wounds. Furthermore, their expressions suggest panic or despair more than they do pain alone. Whatever they're afraid of, it must be horrifying to leave them so strikingly terrified.

Then you note the last detail, difficult when they're on the other side of the camp from you. All of them have the ends of fresh scars poking above their collars or visible through gaps in their shirts. It looks more like the signs of recent surgery than ragged wounds, though, and not a gentle surgery, either.

Around midmorning, you note a small disturbance on the other side of the square. It looks like a small clump of people are arguing about something. Then, abruptly, one of them wails, a loud sound of agony and despair.

Moments later she explodes, suddenly bursting. Smoking fluid rushes from her body in a torrent, spraying the nearby area. Several of the other people around are burned badly or thrown back by the blast. One by one another four people explode in rapid succession, turning the whole area into a gruesome field of corrosive fluids, flame and bodies. The last of those to explode leaves a large cloud of smoke, which has an unpleasant greenish tinge. Many of those caught within the smoke abruptly fall to the ground, bodies twitching briefly before going still.

Around noon, you come across a small village. It's easy to see the occupants, but it doesn't seem that they'll be providing an awful lot of information, because one and all are sound asleep. It looks like they fell asleep wherever they happened to be standing, all at once and without warning. They lie asleep in the roads, or slump beside chairs on porches. A glance inside one of the windows shows sleeping people within as well.

None of them so much as twitch at your approach. Even roughly shaking them doesn't get any reaction at all.

"Ah, yes," Sangveau says. "Geb very rarely grants audiences to outsiders, you understand. In fact, I somewhat doubt that your...colleague has had one himself. You see, I happen to know that he was brought in to the libraries as the personal guest of another Blood Lord. We are among the few that have access to the master's libraries, you see, though of course not his most prized books. I haven't heard of Geb granting him an audience, however, and there is little that escapes my ears." The vampire smiles thinly, showing fangs that would look almost dainty, if not for a cold, predatory light in his dark eyes. "I believe, Lord Firinaecet, that we may be able to do each other a favor here. You see, the Blood Lord who brought your colleague in as her guest is something of a rival of mine. If something were to...happen to her, why, your colleague would have no one to bring him into the library. And I, well, in my exuberance I'm sure I could be persuaded to visit the libraries myself."

"You think this is the first time I've been challenged?" Razmir says, the hint of a laugh in his voice. He snaps his fingers, and suddenly a rod is in his hand, long black iron worked with arcane symbols in bloody ruby. "Hardly." Without waiting for anything more to be said, he flicks a finger in Desril's direction. Sudden, brutally powerful magic wrenches at the king's mind, tearing at it viciously. Without waiting to see whether his magic is successful, he thrusts his hand out, shouting an arcane word so potent and awful that even hearing it is painful. A ray so black it seems less like magic and more like a lacuna in the world lances out at the younger wizard.

Razmir won on initiative, no readied action for you. He casts two spells. A DC 20 Spellcraft check identifies the first as feeblemind; a DC 24 check identifies the latter as energy drain. Desril must attempt a DC 29 Will save or suffer the effects of feeblemind; as an arcane caster he takes a -4 penalty on this save. Razmir then casts a maximized energy drain, inflicting eight negative levels on hit.

Ranged touch attack: [roll0]

[The Glyphstone]

The disturbance draws Garidan's eye, but even as he peers across the square to try and figure out what is going on, the hidden bombs detonate and spread their toxic contents around the corpses. More dead to be laid at the hands of this murderer - but if he has made a simple error this time, it could be the break Garidan needs. A slug of antitoxin down his throat and he leaps into motion; even as he flings himself off the side of the roof, his phantasmal steed materializes beneath him and they shoot across the square to land amidst the dead. While holding his breath the best he can, Garidan examines what remains of the bomb-implanted victims, then turns to where they first entered the holding camp and begins to retrace their steps. Where he can find footprints appropriate to their stride and apparel, he notes it. Where he spots scraps or threads of cloth from their stumbling advance, he follows. Where he questions other passer-by on the street from atop his ghostly mount if they saw the people in question pass by, he interrogates. The Doom of All is on the hunt once more, praying silently to the spirits that his adversary has made a fatal mistake.


If necessary, +24 Fort save vs. the poison gas. [roll0]
Making a Survival check to backtrack the trojan horses to their point of origin. [roll1]

[Desril]

Easily shrugging off the mental assault, Desril glares at Razmir before being struck by the black beam of energy, its effects sapping his strength briefly before simply shrugging off its effects. "Fine then, if it's a fight you want," he starts, as he begins preparing a spell only to have the magic snuffed out by the faux-priests, eliciting a glare in his direction, briefly.

Snarling, "Even in the seat of your power you'll make others fight for you?! Some god, you're just a sniveling coward!" Saying that he rises up, not moving any closer or further from Razmir, merely going up until the two are level with each other.


Temporal Body Adjustment as a swift action to negate the energy drain

Cast Time Stop (counterspelled)

Move up vertically until even with Razmir without adjusting horizontal distance to him.

That's about it for my turn, unless I can convince you to let him shrugging off their attacks qualify for rolling Intimidate

[ylvathrall]

The tracks leading away from the camp are easy to follow, and Garidan barely even has to slow down as he follows them away, the toxic cloud barely even inconveniencing him with its noxious vapors. Tracks, scraps of fabric, and sightings all lead him to the northwest, and the trail is a long one.

But eventually, near to the edge of the city, it ends abruptly. There are no more footprints, and no hint of where they came from. The doors are all closed, the buildings ordinary houses with the exception of an even more ordinary tavern.

There is, however, a sewer grate in the area, and it appears to have been opened recently, though it's closed again now. You think you could squeeze through the opening it covers.

"I'll have to find a way to live with your disapproval," Razmir says dryly hands already weaving another spell. Only a few seconds pass before he intones a line of sibilant words, resonating with the fierce power of the magic within. A broad wave of energy floods out from his hands as he finishes, shards of ice and air flash-frozen to such a degree that it seems to take the breath right out of Desril's lungs.

The other mages standing by him, meanwhile, are busily casting their own spells, four of them chanting and gesturing. The last simply stares at Desril, face hidden by his mask, as rays of energy shoot forth and defensive wards are intoned.

Razmir casts a dazing cone of cold, doing [roll0] points of cold damage with a DC 27 Reflex save for half. On a failed save, Desril is dazed for five rounds.

Additional effects from the minions:
Dimensional anchor, attack roll is [roll1] against touch AC.
Music of the spheres.
Wind wall (circle around the enemy group).
Misfortune hex, DC 23 Will save to resist.

[The Glyphstone]

Dismissing his steed, Garidan stoops to pull the sewer grate aside and drops down through the opening, sword in hand. Confined spaces would limit him, being unable to mount, but they would also limit his foe's ability to retreat. Now he was in his element, stalking his prey to the heart of their lair.

[Desril]

Much less calmly, Des retorts with "You really won't," as he brings up an arm to shield his eyes from the shards of ice, shrugging off almost everything the minions throw at him save for the anti-teleportation spell and taking only the barest scratch from the assault. Free to retaliate, but this time aware that his opponent is too afraid to fight on his own, the tiefling king channels some form of energy, not arcane or divine, but something that seems almost older, into his sword before casually stepping through the air close and swinging the blade at the assembled group and sending a wave of dark, rippling energy flowing through all of them before he snaps his fingers with his free hand to drown the platform at the top of the stairs in a sickly black-green cloud, and then taking a moment to center himself, consuming some of his own magical aura to do so.


Move Action: 5ft step closer to them (so the entire group is within 30ft, Razmir 25)

Standard Action: Temporal Wave maneuver (riven hourglass) (should hit the entire group, adjusting the above re-positioning so that it does if necessary) Will DC 28 vs Nauseated and Slowed for 12 rounds, success reduces this to just Slowed for 1 round.
Arcane Ruin means they take a -2 to AC and saving throws against me until the end of the encounter

Swift Action: Quickened Shadow Conjuration: Stinking Cloud (Will DC 26 to disbelieve, otherwise (or with a 20% chance even if they do) Stinking Cloud Fort DC 26 vs nauseated)
Arcane Steel means I gain 16 Temporary HP

Free Action: Arcane Recovery: Expending the unprepared 4th level spell slot to regain Temporal Body Adjustment (and I have a +2 to CL for the next arcane spell I cast within 1 minute)

[ylvathrall]

The sewers are every bit as dark, cramped, and foul as might be expected. A thin stone lip on either side is relatively clean, relatively being the operative word; though covered by a thick slime of waste matter, fungal growths, and water, it's possible to walk on without sullying more than his boots. In between, though, is a five foot wide channel carrying a thick sludge. The refuse and detritus of the city bob along with it, ruined clothes and wasted food, broken tools and the occasional dead animal, all slowly flowing out to sea. The scent is indescribable, almost a physical impact with the sheer foulness of it all, urine and feces and death and rot all blending together into a single stench.

The tracks lead deeper into the sewer, back towards the city center. You lose them after only a few steps - the flowing waste makes it hard to read any prints they might have left. The tunnel goes on straight, though, and you can't see how else they would have gotten here.

The smirk is clearly audible in Razmir's voice as he speaks, ignoring the fact that three of his allies are doubled over coughing and gagging. "You're quite confident for such a young man," he says. "You remind me of myself, many years ago." He then chants a string of arcane words, the air fairly shivering with the raw power they contain, as he turns magic in on itself and shreds the spells Desril so carefully wove over himself.

The two spellcasters with him who are still capable of acting chant and recite themselves, invoking the powers they call their own to destroy the would-be king.

Razmir is casting mage's disjunction, can hit Desril without hitting himself or his allies based on the description.

One of the remaining casters casts call lightning storm. The other casts waves of fatigue, taking a five foot step forward first to avoid hitting her allies.