Back to Abriymoch – D&D Notes, 11/15/21

With Baazel and Dwaazel defeated, the injured, weary group pressed forward. Once again, Karl shapeshifted to a flying luckdragon to carry the group, this time back to the city of Abriymoch. 

As they approached the quay, a flurry of activity erupted, with a Horned Devil on guard pointing at them and shouting as uncountable hordes of Bearded Devils and Spined Devils boiled forth from every portion of the city. Their barge was beginning to move, even before Karl touched down, as the onrushing devil pursuit closed in.

The Spined Devils gave chase on the wing, but the Bearded Devils simply kept running, off the quay, straight into the magma, chasing the barge. Koichi doled out some more cure spells to the group, Karl enchanted them all to fly, and battle was joined.

The Spined Devils hovered over the barge, choosing targets, as they plucked their spines from their bodies and hurled them at the group. Each one that scored a hit penetrated the flesh and lodged there, simultaneously bursting into flames.

Bearded Devils began bursting forth from the magma beneath, climbing the sides of the barge, coming for the group and the Orb. Some were armed with their infamous infernal glaives, some simply with tooth and claw.

Karl transformed himself again, this time into a ferocious warrior, with Tenser’s Transformation. This done, he drew the lightning sword he’d carried since the death of Aramis Three Cocks and advanced on the enemy.

Silverfox likewise gripped Varatha, the infernal spear, and advanced.

Koichi and James hung back, using more healing magic and magical song.

As the Spined Devils continuously rained explosive barbs on the group from above, the Bearded Devils tore into them from the deck. While Karl and Silverfox kept the Bearded Devils engaged, James flew into range to attack with a burst of deafening arcane sound. Koichi came in behind him, healing spells ready to go.

Just as the Bearded Devils started to die, more emerging from the fiery depths all the time to replace them, out on the quay another Devil, a Barbed Devil, came running to the fray. Stopping to gauge the distance, it then teleported directly to Silverfox, laying into him with its vicious claws. More Bearded Devils crowded in, until Silverfox unleashed a devastating whirlwind attack with his spear, dispatching two, severely wounding another, and cutting deep into the Barbed Devil as well.

Karl then set out to deal with the flyers. Some well aimed lightning strokes from his lightning sword took them out in handfuls.

All the while this was going on, pursuit came from Abriymoch. The Pit Fiend Grazzt himself took to the air, and was gaining on the group’s vessel as the tried to make good their escape.

Dispatching devils on every side, sticking with the barge, the passage back to Stygia was visible. Would they get there before Grazzt arrived to take back the Orb?

Back on the barge, James began laying into Bearded Devils with his whip while calling on the power of dragons for his allies. As some space began to clear among the combatants, Koichi called an ice storm to blanket the barge, pounding more devils into submission.

Silverfox focused all his fury on the Barbed Devil, repeatedly thrusting his spear home. Karl continued to take out the Spined Devils in the air.

Grazzt came on, gaining, closer, closer, his hideous grin plainly visible, reaching out his claws –

and the barge entered the tunnel. They were out of Phlegethos, back in Stygian waters, and under the protection of Levistus.

The Alabaster Guardsman

“Master Ra’ish tells me you have improved tremendously, Ferril.” Sybryl studied Ferril with her typical intensity as she spoke. “You have advanced from hopeless to merely remedial.”

Ferril, as was now disciplined habit when speaking with any of higher rank, held his tongue.

As at their last meeting, before her trip to Direitodade, Sybryl didn’t make him wait long before continuing.

“Your progress shows a willingness to work, but the slow pace of it shows that we may be better served by the move we discussed previously. Therefore, starting tomorrow, you are no longer an Initiate to the Order. You will instead transfer to the Alabaster Guard and afforded all the rights and responsibilities attendant to such a post.

“The Guard is in the process of the seasonal change right now, so everyone will be adjusting to new posts. You will report in the morning to Primus Corrl at the barracks by the docks for your assignment. Corrl has a reputation for getting the best out of his people. I suggest you pay close attention to anything he has to say.

“You will draw a standard Guard stipend, disbursed bi-weekly. You will have a barracks room. You will no longer join the students for meals in the culina here. In fact, the facilities here will be closed to you as a member of the Guard.

For the first time in Ferril’s hearing, Sybryl’s voice softened the barest fraction, and she said in a near whisper “This is truly the best path. In time, you will see.”

Her features snapping back to their familiar sharpness, her tone to its usual brusqueness, she asked “Do you have any questions, Initiate Ferril?”

He hesitated, a thousand and one words fighting to burst from him. Finally, he said “Why now? I’m just starting to catch up.”

“The Order is best served this way, Ferril. Your struggles in theory are holding you back in practical applications. The Guard will not be so rigorous in its applications of theory to practice.”

“Does this mean I can use my power how it works best for me and not how the lesson says I should?”

“I can assure you, Primus Corrl is interested in results. However you achieve them, he will be satisfied.”

“Then I guess I can handle anything that comes up. By your leave?”

Sybryl nodded assent, and Ferril left to find Charu. 

Ferril found Charu in the library and blurted “It was all for nothing, she’s done it.”

Charu looked up sharply, rose to his feet. “No, Ferril, you can’t think of it that way. She was probably always going to do it. You can’t give up on this now.”

“What? I’m out, Charu. No more access. I’ll have duties with The Guard, training, even if I was allowed to come here I won’t have time!”

Charu heaved an overly dramatic sigh. “Ferril, you’re an idiot. I’m not a prisoner here, and guards have coin. Next end-day, you can buy me dinner at Flavia’s. You’ll know your schedule and we can work out times to meet and go over theory.”

“I will have coin… You know, Charu, I’ve never had much of that. Is Flavia’s good?”

“It’s wonderful. Especially the serving girls.”

* * * * *

Ferril ate his last meal in the Culina with Charu. The breakfast on offer was typical, nuts, pears, dark brown sweetbread, and honey. Ferril’s nervous agitation kept him from eating the heavier bread or really much at all. Charu had no such problems, and talked almost continuously during the meal. Ferril silently pushed his pear slices and bread around the plate without really eating anything.

Then, the meal was over, and it was time to say goodbye to this chapter of his life.

Charu’s parting wisdom – “Don’t get dead” – seemed like sound advice. Since Ferril had no idea what his duties would entail, he didn’t really have any idea how to follow it. He made his way through the still unfamiliar streets toward the port barracks wondering if he would be forced through some new sadistic screening ritual.

Well, I won’t let anyone use my own skills against me this time at least.

Average street traffic still felt like an overwhelming throng to Ferril’s rural sensibilities, and he picked his way cautiously through the crowds. His months here had accustomed him to the pervasive smell of fish, but the smell of the unwashed masses was still daunting. Students of The Alabaster Order were expected to bathe regularly, and in fact the dormitories had communal baths for that purpose. Feril had grown accustomed to feeling clean, and wasn’t sure how he would continue the habit without access to the Order’s facilities.

Eventually his feet carried him to his destination, a four-story square structure that took up an entire block. Made of the same white stone that gave the Alabaster City its name, the main entrance sported a large sign bearing crossed swords. Ferril’s new education let him make out the words carved in a sort of broken circle around the emblem – ‘GUARD BARRACKS.’

Stepping inside, he saw right away that Sybryl spoke truly. A tangled mess of grizzled veterans and fresh faced youngsters milled about the large open space on this side of the massive double doors. Some sat among the lines of benches, some stood leaning against the wall, some had formed groups. Inevitably the veterans swapped stories about past duties, and bellyached about new assignments. Ferril took in what he could and waited for something to happen.

“…Glad to be back in the city, and the women are glad I’m back too…”

“…Road post duty’s the worst, dangerous stuff out there…”

“…Glad to get off port customs, talk about boring…”

“…as if you knew the pointy end from the handle, Horvald!”

This last grew a chorus of laughter, stifled hurriedly with the appearance of a man behind the podium. Like most of the people here, he was wearing the red-and-white leathers of the Guard. Unlike the rest, he wore several braids of rank around his right shoulder. He also wore a white cap with a red feather sticking up from it. Formal dress, Ferril recognized, not combat gear.

As the room quieted, all eyes turned to the newcomer. Satisfied he had everyone’s attention, he said “To those returning from extended detachment, welcome back to Alburb. You have your assignments, and your Centurions will see you individually now. You may depart to your stations.”

Nearly a four in five share of those present departed at this, leaving only those not already dressed in Guard leathers.

Yes, the fresh meat needs extra instruction.

“I am Primus Corrl,” said the man. His rich baritone easily filled the room. Average height and build, the command in his voice and posture marked him out in a way his mere appearance could not. “Today is your first day in The Alabaster Guard. We will determine today what training you need to discharge your basic duties, where you can be of immediate use, and if you will be staying here or at another barracks in Alburb.

“The Guard performs many duties for the city. Some are assigned to port duty. This means assisting the Order’s representative who checks incoming cargo, ensuring we collect the appropriate tarrifs, confiscating illegal goods, taking troublemakers into custody, and otherwise doing whatever the Order represantative tells you.

“Road outpost duty is similar, but detached from Alburb proper. We collect tarrifs because we built the best roads, and because we keep them safe. The outposts are at all the major crossroads. Sometimes, a bandit group tests our response and we have to deal with them.

“Marine duty gets the most hazard pay. Marauders on the seas and river don’t care what flag a ship flies, except as an indicator they might have even more wealth. Marines see extended duty with shippers and generally the most combat.

“The Home Legion comprises the largest group of the guard. Combat training, tactical exercises, and practical fieldcraft make up the bulk of days with the Legion.

“There are other things the Guard does, but all of you will start in one of these groups. The seasonal rotations will take you to new duties or not when your number is up. This will be every harvestide for this group. Your commanders can put in to keep you for another turn. Some folk even spend their entire Guard career with one group. Most, however, see varied duty over time.”

Corrl paused at this and looked over the group. “What a sorry looking bunch. I don’t suppose any of you have any combat training? Besides bar fights, Kypros, put your hand down.”

Ferril looked around, realizing that he was the only one with his hand raised. Standing out again, that can’t be good.

Corrl’s hard eyes fixed on him. “This should be good. What is your experience then, boy?”

Ferril lowered his hand and met that implacable gaze with his own hard eyes. “I served with the Alabaster Archers in Syphra.” And I’m sure you already know what happened there.

“I see.” Corrl gave no other reply, instead shifting gears. “Those of you who think you know how to swing a sword, take the benches on the right side of the room, those who can’t tell which end is pointy on the left. Proctor Flaminius will show you that you are worse than you thought, no matter which side you choose. When he is finished with you, Proctor Gaius will talk to you about any other skills you might already have and give you an assignment.

“Ferril, you come with me.” Corrl gestured toward one of the doors against the back wall and strode to it himself.

Following the Primus into what turned out to be a munuspatium with desk, chairs, and bookshelves – I’ve never seen so many books in one place outside the Lyceum – Ferril chose to stand ramrod straight, arms at his sides, instead of taking one of the seats facing the desk. His eyes tracked Corrl as the Primus snatched a thinner volume from the top shelf before the older man turned from the far side of the desk.

“Guardsman Ferril.” Corrl’s tone was less formal than in the hall, but somehow more commanding. “Proper attention includes eyes front. Eye contact with a superior can be discouraged with caning.” 

Ferril snapped his head forward, barked a quick “Sorry sir. Understood sir.”

Corrl smirked. “So,” he said, “you do remember your training from the Archers. And that detachment didn’t slacken even when they started bringing on locals. Good.” The Primus tapped a finger against his smooth shaved cheek. “When Sybryl told me she was sending me someone interesting…”

He opened the thin volume on his desk, leaning forward slightly to find his page. “This volume, Guardsman Ferril, is Sorceror Advisor Derrak’s reports from Syphra for the entire year of the uprising.” Corll marked his spot with a finger and shifted his full attention back to Ferril. “When I got this, I was given strict instructions not to circulate it widely. The Syphral, so it was said, were to be brought in to Alburb’s rule.

“Us, the Alabaster City, actually taking on another land and its problems. Derrak’s candid observations of the Syphral people, and the separatists, these things could be troublesome. Disharmonious I think I heard one of the Magisters call it.” Corrl shrugged at this. “So not many people have read what he had to say about you.

“Do you have anything you’d like to share with me, Guardsman Ferril?”

Ferril shifted slightly, unclenched his hands. “No sir.”

“Well Guardsman, it seems to me that you are talented, ambitious, and driven. What you lack is discipline. Your ill temper and impatience are hallmarks of a terrible soldier.”

This guy isn’t like Derrak. At all. He can’t be as bad as Randella. “Yes sir.” Please don’t be as bad as Randella!

“I expect results, Guardsman, and I expect adherence to orders,” said Corrl in iron tones. “The sort of disrespect you displayed to the Sorceror Advisor will not be tolerated.” A smirk turned up one corner of his mouth as he added “Sybryl certainly would not tolerate it either. As you learned, I’m sure.”

“Yes Sir,” said Ferril to the expectant Primus.

Corrl allowed another pause before continuing. “Sword training is a waste for you. You need to learn how to do nothing more than you need to learn how to fight with different tools. You’re obviously good enough with daggers to replace a swordsman on port detail.

“You will not, Guardsman, use a bow or your power unless directly ordered to do so, either by your Centurion or the Portovene. You will follow orders as given. Orders are not subject to interpretation, Guardsman.

“Are my expectations clear, Guardsman Ferril?”

Again, Ferril replied “Yes, sir.”

Corrl let out a breath. “Very well then, you are to report to the pierside guardhouse for assignment. Your Centurion will issue your uniform, equipment, and show you how to claim your wages. Dismissed.”

* * * * *

Centurion Fappiano offered a laconic observation on the general slovenliness of his assembled incoming guardsmen, then directed the fresh recruits to the quartermaster for uniforms. The rotated veterans went directly to the supervising Portovene for their specific assignments.

After getting through the tedium of the quartermaster, the new guardsmen had their turn with the Portovene. Barking laughter greeted Ferril when he entered the munus, and he was surprised to recognize the man laughing.

“So, you made it through old Grislow did you? That was a memorable display when you came in youngster, most days at the gate don’t see such excitement. And when they do, the exciting person dies.” 

The round, older Portovene steepled his hands on his desk and leaned forward. 

“I don’t guess we’ll have problems like that now, will we?” A knowing grin accompanied this question, more stated than asked.

“No sir,” said Ferril.

“Hmm. Don’t mistake me, Ferril, I want you to move just like that when we need it. Just, aim the pointy end at the other guys.

“I’m Hestruhl, as you probably don’t remember. I’ve advanced since you came through, and now I run the whole Port Tribute section. And I know exactly where to put you.” Hestruhl leaned back in his chair with a satisfied expression.

“Portovene Feich,” he continued, “Knows everything about her job. She’s a sensitive, very good that way, but not the most powerful. Observe her interactions, how she uses subtle patterns to ensure we collect full value from trade goods.

“This might seem like boring duty, Guardsman Ferril, but it is vital to Alburb. Feich knows all the dirty tricks of tribute evasion, and trade on the roads and into our ports is our main source of income. Learn from her.” Hestruhl cocked his head. “I’m sure you have some questions. You can ask them.”

“Yes sir,” said Ferril automatically. Then, “If I am to function as a Guardsman, what will I be armed with?”

“Of course you’ll want a bow and arrow,” replied Hestruhl. “But for now, just daggers and a short sword like the other Guardsmen. Of course, the way you armed yourself when you came in, maybe I should just send you out with nothing.” Hestruhl finished this statement with a hearty laugh. “What else?”

“Sir, Primus Corrl told me not to use my power unless directed specifically. It sounds like you want me to use it a lot.”

“So do you have a question Guardsman? That sounded like an observation.”

Frowning, Ferril, replied “Yes sir. Umm… How do I know when to use my power?”

“Aha! You can do it, I thought so. Guardsman Ferril, if Portovene Feich tells you to act, assume maximum possible urgency. To include using your power. If you see something she doesn’t, inform her immediately. If you earn more trust, we will talk again. What else?”

“Well, I guess that be… I mean, that’s all, sir.”

“Good, good. You can see Volcarus next then, he’s the armorer. Give him this and he will issue your weapons.” Hestruhl extended a chit marked for a short sword and dagger.

Ferril hesitated and instead of taking it said “There is one more thing then, sir. Could I get some extra daggers for throwing?”

Hestruhl broke back into a grin at that. “Yes Guardsman Ferril, I think we can do that.”

The “Hounds of Belial” Revealed – D&D Session Notes

Orb in hand, our intrepid explorers headed back out of the storage place, beneath the turgid magma of Phlegethos, and back up to the caldera of Abriymoch. Waiting for them, like like a bad penny, was one of the imps that had dogged their trail.

“You can let us take the orb back,” the thing purred. “You are already on this layer. We can save you time. You can just try to leave from here.”

Silverfox quickly declined this offer, but the creature glided inexorably toward the bearer of the orb, James. Insistent, it asked for the orb again, began to reach – and Silverfox interposed his spear.

Laughing, the imp swiped a spell-bearing claw at Silverfox, but Silverfox’s spear knocked the arm aside, and the imp laughed, and changed.

An Arcanoloth, powerful wielder of the arcane arts, the muscle in the Blood War. This fiend would be a handful. And where was the other one?

Beating our heroes to the punch, Dwaazel, for so this fiend was, blasted the group with Chain Lightning. Koichi and James employed their arts to enhance their comrades’ effectiveness. As Karl began his arcane assault, Baazel burst from magical concealment to counterspell him.

Unfazed, Karl got off a quickened Magic Missile at Baazel, drawing the group’s first blood against the canine fiends.

Stuck on the ground against the flying creatures, surrounded by magma, Silverfox Clooney was relegated to the role of spectator, and the spellcasters knew they must shoulder the load.

Unfortunately, James, son of Morris, was ensorceled by Baazel’s Rainbow Pattern spell. In his trance, James started walking towards the illusion… and the magma.

Dwaazel again unleashed his devastating Chain Lightning, and Koichi was forced to start healing. Karl and Silverfox then separated from the rest of the group, the ensure less propagation of Dwaazel’s favorite evocation.

Karl for a second time was able to penetrate Baazel’s magical defenses, this time scoring a knockout blow with a Disintegrate spell, banishing the fiend back to its home plane. Another quickened Magic Missile flew at Dwaazel, who immediately retaliated with his third casting of Chain Lightning.

The two spellslingers kept it up, with fireballs, ice storms, and more magic missiles filling the air, while Koichi frantically tried to keep the group alive during this deadly arcane barrage. James, meanwhile, returned to himself just before walking off into the magma.

Eventually, a final Magic Missile from Karl sent Dwaazel to join Baazel, wherever that was. And it was over. Now, the decision. Try to take time to rest here, or hurry back to Levistus with the Orb?

Higher Education – Ferril pt. 4

“You know why they’re being so hard on you, right?” Charu asked.

Ferril looked sideways at the smaller student as they walked toward the Lyceum.

“It’s because everyone can sense how powerful you are. You make yourself a target with your, uhm, profligacy. They know they can’t match your raw strength, so they have to show you their superiority. Some hick from the outlands – no offense, that’s what they say – has to be shown his place. Especially if his place is more like ‘strongest one here.’”

The perpetually smiling Charu had continued to seek Ferril out in the culina, and now that they had classes together followed him around the rest of the time too. Ferril never encouraged him, never engaged him back, yet the loquacious student scribe kept appearing to sit with Ferril at meals. He never had much important to say most days, so Ferril was barely paying attention this time.

I can’t figure this one. How clear do I have to make it that I don’t want company?

They covered a few more paces before Ferril replied. “Why are you telling me this?”

Charu snorted, rolling his eyes. “Come on, Ferril, we all see that we can’t keep up with you, yet the Preceptors and the Magisters come down on you the hardest. It isn’t because you’re not getting it, it’s because they need everyone else to see they are still better than you.”

Digesting this, Ferril said “They are better than me. Randella proved that, many times.”

The pair slowed, then stopped as they spoke.

“Pffff, everyone knows Randella’s a bitch Ferril,” said Charu. “You got assigned to her because Sybryl knew she would put you through it. Any Journeyman less capable, less vicious, and you might have been able to see your own potential to overwhelm them. 

“Randella, Sybryl, they grew up in the system here. It has not been so long since Cyril implemented the policy of recruiting those from all the lands that people have forgotten. Those who hold to the teachings of Jessel the Mighty don’t want people like you coming to the order. If you weren’t raised in [the system] they don’t think you belong. They see drumming you out of the Order before you get started as almost a sacred duty.”

The silence stretched out between the young men before Charu spoke again.

“Ferril, you’re obviously the strongest. That means if you survive long enough, you’ll be Sorceror Imperator. That’s just how it is, always. Every great man needs a great second, Ferril. I’m ambitious too.”

“Be that… Is that why you approached me from the beginning?” Ferril asked.

“Of course not,” said Charu with a snort. “Nobody knew who you were then, you were just new and interesting. We can help each other, though. You need friends.”

With an accepting nod, Ferril turned and continued into the Lyceum.

* * * * *

Theory classes bored Ferril to tears. Ra’ish seemed like a decent human being, but dryer than a sun-baked dirt road. Always in his lectures it was a struggle to stay focused. He’d never considered having… friends… before. Maybe Charu could help him with this part. He was training to work in records after all.

Meanwhile, all the talk about the inter-relations of the elements with the energy of chaos and the structure of order, how the power ought to be used, how The Order ought to behave, how the Power was the force binding all Duravita, the moral obligations of those who could touch it, all of this Ferril could do without. Too many words. Action, doing, those were the lessons he was good at.

Sybryl, though, put great stock in Ra’ish’s classes.

“Theory,” she’d told him, “is father to action. If you don’t understand the how or why of what you’re doing, you will never harness your abilities fully.”

Then she’d assigned him enough supplemental work to take up all his free time every day. His reading was coming along, but his writing was abominable. Most couldn’t even read it, which was a problem seeing as he’d been assigned to write demon-damned philosophy papers for this woman. Something else the student scribe might be able to help with.

The barest hint of a smile fixed on his features, Ferril contemplated the possibilities while Ra’ish droned on.

* * * * *

After the midday meal the Initiates gathered at the training grounds, a field of scorched, churned earth surrounded on all sides by white stone walls. The area also had several strong patterns of power woven into the very air about the place to contain any unfortunate incidents with students still learning control.

Ferril had put a few more blast spots and scorch marks on the field himself. Playing with the elements added a layer of complexity to dealing with the power that threatened painful death for the unwary. His first attempt to manipulate the elements had resulted in a rain of fire on the group, with Initiates scattering in every direction for safety. 

Most of the other Initiates seemed to have a hard time drawing on pure chaos energy like Ferril did. They needed to channel it into or through an element. His talent for drawing it into himself to enhance his own strength and speed was something that, so far anyway, he hadn’t seen being taught at all.

Some of the basics of theory made a lot more sense once he started doing things out on the field. Pure chaos energy could start fires easily enough, but the discipline and structure of order were required to contain the resulting blaze. The revelations of training explained, in hindsight, exactly what he’d done in the battle against the Syphral. At the end, when he was almost out of arrows, he had bound pure, unfocused energy to his arrows, which found release as a fiery explosion. With a little effort at structuring his power better he could keep a tighter rein on how the chaos force expressed itself on release. Raw kinetic force and fire were easy for him.

Today, they were not learning about something that was easy for him.

“Ice is simply water that has been rigidly structured and ordered,” said Khalida, today’s instructor. “By imposing order on the water in your bucket, you will force it to shed energy. As the energy leaves the water, the temperature drops, and soon enough you have a bucket of ice.”

She kicked her bucket over by way of demonstration. The solid block of ice inside testified to her facility.

“Some of you will never be able to achieve this simple task, and that’s natural,” Khalida continued. “You all know that The Order has different needs. This test will help us sort you into the right groups as you advance in your studies.”

Why is the light-blasted order force so hard to manipulate?

For several minutes nothing happened in Ferril’s bucket. The sounds of triumph around him told him that many of his fellow students were getting it with no problem. Khalida was moving among the students, showing them again what she’d done. By the time she got to Ferril, his jaw was clenched hard enough to hurt and sweat was pouring down his face.

“Initiate Ferril,” she said gently, “Maybe you should stop for a moment. Take a breath.” The water in Ferril’s bucket, far from being cold and hard, was beginning to steam. 

Patiently, Khalida guided him through the process several times. Ferril grew more frustrated with each attempt. Finally, on the fifth try, he temper caught up with him. “Demons take this water, this bucket, and you!” He snarled as he kicked his bucket.

“This is not a test one can fail, Initiate,” Kahlida returned in quiet tones. “It is simply for aptitude. I’d heard you were highly chaos attuned. Few are able to truly master an area of the power. Perhaps you have that capacity.” She smiled, then added “You may consider your lesson for today finished.”

* * * * *

“Ra’ish reports that you are still deficient in theory, Ferril.” Sybryl’s icy eyes bored right through him as she spoke. “The Alabaster Order is not here to serve you. You are here to serve it. A thorough grounding in theory is required for… most positions. Maybe it’s time we start to think about those other possibilities for you.”

Immediately deciding this must be a trap, Ferril opted for silence.

After a brief penetrating stare, Sybryl continued. “Refuse duty is our first choice in most such circumstances. However…”

Another silence. Sybryl’s gaze shifted to the window, towards the Lyceum.

You’ll not get me to put the shafts on the bow for you, not again.

An abrupt motion brought Sybryl back to eye contact. “That would be an obvious waste of your combat experience. The Alabaster Guard is comprised primarily of the non-gifted, and shorthanded at that. An addition to the ranks of your talents could prove a boon.

“I must travel on behalf of the Order. It seems the Sorceror Advisor in Direitodade requires assistance. When I return, before Harvestide, we will revisit this discussion. Should you wish to change my views, you have until then to do it. Dismissed.”

Relief washed over Ferril as he exited the Preceptor’s munuspatium. No extra homework, no meetings for a whole season.

When the door closed behind him, Grislow emerged from concealment. “I hope we aren’t making the biggest mistake of our lives.” His gaze shifted from the door to Sybryl. “That’s what this could be. The stakes are that high.”

“I know.” Sybryl lowered eyes suddenly weary. “I know.”

* * * * *

“How can you write down so much of what he says? Are you using magic to go faster? Or to remember it?”

Ferril’s shocked face made the smaller Charu chuckle.

“I don’t know how to do that yet, Ferril. I’ve been writing for a long time, I keep pace.”

No wonder he does so much better with old Ra’ish.

Charu pulled a few pages off the bottom. “We can start at the beginning. All this theory stuff builds on itself, if you don’t really grab the start none of the rest of it makes sense.”

Ferril spread a few of the pages out, still gawking. “I can’t believe you wrote it all down while he was talking. That’s incredible! I can’t get more than a few thoughts set down in the length of schola.”

“Well, I learned to read and write at a young age. My family are clarks for the shipwrights, so it was important I learn young. Of course, I’d have learned soon enough when they found I had the talent.”

“How did they find out you had talent?”

“The Order has youth tested in their tenth years. Anyway we shouldn’t be talking about that, Ferril.” Charu sat up a little straighter, spoke in more forceful tones. “We have to work on this for you to stay here.”

Ferril nodded, took the first page from Charu.

“The foundational truths of magic are simple enough. Everything has energy, everything has structure. Chaos force provides that energy, order provides structure. The mage uses the order to make patterns of the chaos energy.”

“Wait a minute,” Ferril interrupted. “I know about patterns and imposing them, but that isn’t how I did most of what I did in Syphra.”

Charu snorted, rolled his eyes. “Yes, Ferril, I keep telling you that you aren’t like most of us with The Power. Drawing chaos force directly into your body is something very few people have been able to do. Most of them have big sections in the histories.

“Now don’t interrupt. How it works for you, the special case, doesn’t matter for the basic theory of how we use our magic.

“As I was saying, we can bind these patterns to physical objects, through the four elements, or on to the Vita, the life force. How we shape the patterns tells the chaos energy how to act, and we get practical magic.”

Ferril interrupted again. “I’ve learned a few patterns by doing. Are there patterns in a place I can look at them without using them? Like you have Ra’ish’s words here?”

“You’ve sensed the patterns enough to know they are impossible to put directly on paper. Most of the students here learn some rote practical applications in their early years. We get a lot of pattern practice that way. Theory is only for students who show enough talent to need it. Will you stop interrupting? There will be a time for questions after we get through the intro lecture!

“Now, where was I… Oh yes. Most who have the gift will show an affinity for one particular area of it. Those good with fire are frequently battle mages, for example, while healers are usually those with the connection to Vita.”

I will show that old bastard. I’ll know this better than he does.

The Initiates continued their private study long into the night.

D&D Homebrew – Hellish Negotiation Minigame

While in The Nine Hells, Devils can automatically ensnare players in a binding negotiation. At any time, if any offer of any good, service, consideration, etc is made and counteroffered, either party being a devil and in Baator, this applies.

In the negotiation, parties take turns attempting a haggle. A haggle can take the form of a logical argument, an appeal to emotion, etc., stated by the haggler. The haggler then rolls the appropriate skill check (Persuasion, Bluff, etc). The other party then gets to “resist” this attempt, with a Will save against the DC set by the skill check. On a critical failure on this save, the current haggler gets a second turn. All other outcomes result in changing roles for the next attempt.

If the person making the haggle attempt wins, the terms of negotiation move one unit in the haggler’s favor. If they have a critical success and win, they move two units. Devils use base 8 counting, so base units will always be as close to ⅛ of the total as possible.

Three consecutive wins by either party results in a “close,” the deal is sealed at the current terms. Either party may decide to accept terms before at any time instead of proceeding with another round of negotiation.

Doing The Devil’s Dirty Work – D&D session notes

The Marraenoloth guided the massive iceberg back across the endless icy seas of Stygia, back up the hidden tributary of the Styx, and then upstream against the current of the mighty waters. After re-emerging back into the Styx proper, the pranksters Baazel and Dwaazel again began to hector our heroes with insults and crass jokes.

Shortly past the incoming checkpoint the group endured on their way into Stygia, their boatman guided them into a pitch dark cave. After several hours in darkness (and more abuse from the obnoxious imps) the temperature began to rise steadily. By the time they emerged from the darkness of the long tunnel a fiery orange glow suffused the air, illuminating the city of Abriymoch, capital of Phlegethos.

The glow came from the magma surrounding… well, everything. Abriymoch was built on rocks jutting from the lava of an active volcano’s caldera, with many smaller empty or single occupancy islands dotting the pool of liquid orange fire like a dusting of sugar on a cookie. Some larger satellite islands were home to important devils and some manufacturing facilities but the majority of the city was situated on two enormous islands of stone.

Looking down, the party realized that their barge was no longer an iceberg, but instead a vessel crafted of the Baatorian Green Steel. This infernal metal, a major advantage for the devils in their Blood War with the Tanar’ri, was likely invented at the steelworks (marked on their crude map) by Paerza of the Dark Eight.

The magma itself, the legendary Fires of Phlegethos, bubbled and spat as the group cruised steadily onward. The hungry flames proved to live up to their reputation, as droplets and spatters from the lake of fire splattered onto the barge constantly. In fact the questing tendrils of lava would have burned the party again and again were they not protected by the terms of their hellish compact with Levistus. That compact would bring them back here when they completed it, without the protection of an Archduke’s power…

The barge soon docked at a quay on the largest island. Like any city with port traffic, there were people and not-people at the docking area. Silverfox Clooney quickly flagged down a passing efreeti to ask for some information. Jarlaxl the Djinnbane he styled himself, and Clooney was able to talk him into showing the group where on the map they had to go. 

Jarlaxl seemed to think the idea of the party going for the orb hilarious, remarking that “everyone knows where the blasted thing is, good luck getting it,” and laughing uproariously as he strolled away.

Their transport barge and the Marraenoloth pilot were bound to bring them to this layer and back, not ferry them around once they got here, so Karl was obliged to use magic for transport. Since the spot marked on their map was empty lava teleporting was out, so the group opted to fly out.

Arriving, they found a small rocky outcropping and stairs leading downward, beneath the scorching lava. The steps led down an unlit tunnel of unknown stone, expertly crafted together.

None of the group being dwarves, they weren’t sure exactly how deep they went, but not to extreme depths. Maybe 30 to 50 feet down, the steps ended and a long dark hallway lay before our heroes.

Midway up the hall, maybe a couple hundred feet ahead, a portion of the corridor was bathed in a soft white light. Oddly this light did not propagate up the hallway toward them. While visible to the party it seemed to just stop at an unseen border.

As they moved into the light, Karl and Koichi met resistance, each step more difficult than the last until, after 8 steps they could not continue. James and Silverfox had no such trouble. Searching the area, nothing was in evidence, but James soon found a false panel in the stone wall. Sliding it back revealed a stone ball perched at the top of a series of eight chutes zigzagging downward.

At the urging of Koichi, James pushed the marble onto the chute, and the light abruptly cut off. Koichi and Karl were able to move forward in the darkness, but when the stone ball hit the bottom, it teleported back to the top and the light again trapped the two.

They got through this section of the corridor by simply rolling the marble down again and having the two spellcasters charge through the lighted area at a run.

The hallway continued for the same distance past the strange lighted area before opening up into a much wider chamber, with a huge black floor and stream of lava flowing along opposite walls parallel to the hallway.

As the group entered the chamber, doors closed at either end of the hallway and spotlights fell on four statues on either side rising out of the lava. Huge statues of pit fiends, in fact these were images of the Dark Eight themselves. Fiery script appeared in the air before the party.

“It’s War!” The script proclaims. “The hordes of The Abyss attack! The legions require direction. The Dark Eight must be deployed in command positions to maximize their tactical mastery of the battlefield.”

At the same time, the floor slid away beneath the feet of the group, and below a gibbering, endless horde of demons driven mad assaulted the very gates of Baator itself, with the arrayed legions of devils seeming a pitifully overmatched defense.

A grid of glowing red, with each rank marked by a number and each file by a letter, overlaid the illusory battlefield below. A small obelisk with corresponding letters and numbers marked on it appeared in front of the group.

The script went on to explain that the Dark Eight, beings of exceptional power, could attack continuously in eight directions. If one appeared in the path of another’s attack, though, its full firepower would not come to bear in the battle and the hordes would be triumphant. If each of the Dark Eight could be placed with a continuous line of attack, the legions’ tactical superiority would sweep the field.

Silverfox was the first of the group to manipulate the obelisk, pressing A and then 1. A booming voice roared “Baalzephon, Grand Logistician takes the field!” While a statue, nearest to the group on the left side of the room, burst skyward with a huge sweep of wings, quickly streaking out of sight. Half a breath later, fully armed and armored, Baalzephon rocketed back down to the indicated square, landing in an explosion of claws, tail slaps, and wing buffets all around, while calling lines of fireballs down in eight lines radiating outward, scorching demons from the field.

The legions of hell far below rallied with this assault, pushing the horde back, claiming the first file of coordinates.

When Silverfox touched B8 next, the voice announced “Corin, Master of Shadows, charges to battle!” And the next statue in line burst forth like the last, only when it landed, the demonic assault found a flaw in the devilish defences and swept the legions clear back to the gates. The deployed members of the Dark Eight returned to their positions as statues.

The group pondered and explored solutions, using trial and error, logic, and problem solving skills. Each time they chose a tactically sound position, the legions advanced further, and each new member of the Dark Eight in turn was announced as they took the field.

Dagos, Marshall of the Pits; Furcas, Minister of Mortals; Paerza, Chief of Engineering; Zaebos, Marshall of Advancement; Zapan, Ambassador to Gods; and finally Zimimar, Minister of Morale. When this last joined the fray, the legions pushed the horde from the field entirely, keeping inviolate the gates of Avernus – and opening the door to the next chamber.

The next chamber was a short, narrow corridor. As soon as all four of the group entered, the door closed behind them. A soft, feminine voice began reciting “15. 14. 13. 12. 11.” 

As the countdown continued, Silverfox asked aloud “How do we open the door?”

It started over. “15. 14. 13.”

They tried to open the door, and again the countdown started over at 15.

Karl instructed Silverfox to ask the door questions every time the countdown got to 10 while they all tested ideas to open it. Koichi eventually came up with the idea of just standing still while the countdown expired, no questions, no actions.

They tried that and when the voice said zero, the door opened to the next chamber.

Ahead was a short hallway, then stairs up. At the top another short hallway opened up into a large, lava-lit cavern.

Stairs led up to the lip of a wide rock bowl which proved to have a bit of magma in it. A gear with a handle on it was on to the left of the stairs at the top. Silverfox immediately decided to turn it clockwise. A thin stream of lava poured from the empty air above the bowl, filling it a little more before stopping. Silverfox put forth the suggestion they should fill the bowl, everyone agreed. Eight cranks at the gear accomplished this, and the party saw magma trickling out the side of the bowl.

Clinging to the curved surface, the magma poured down the outside of the bowl to supports underneath, and a portion of the bottom fell out. Perched atop a bit of rock still sticking up from the lava below was a perfectly round black orb shot with red.

Karl cast Bigby’s hand to retrieve the Orb of UulSharaVas from its perch and James, son of Morris stowed it in his pack.

Levistus’ desire retrieved, they set forth to bring it back.

Deal(s) With The Devil(s) – D&D session notes

Stuck in their disgusting cells deep in the 7th layer of the Nine Hells, the party were victimized repeatedly by their imp watchers, Baazel and Dwaazel, whose idea of humor generally involved spreading pain or filth to the group.

Eventually, though, trial day arrived. Before going out to face the Herald of Lies in front of a tribunal, the party entertained final offers from devils looking to ensnare them in deals. They eventually signed a contract with Bobek, the bloated Paeliryon representing Glasya.

As terms of the deal, the group were released from their cells and got their equipment back. Bobek also summoned Aalagabol, the Infernal Armorer, to provide them with powerful weapons of hellish manufacture. These Infernal Arms would assist the adventurers in fulfilling their terms of the deal: They must deliver 64 souls to Glasya’s service.

The final obligation Bobek took on as part of the contract was to bring the group to her “lady’s realm,” which she did, taking them through a portal to the next layer of Baator, Malbolge, then promptly abandoning them to their own devices at the processing plant at the Lakes of Bile.

Standing about in confusion, the party watched the Nupperibos at their tasks, gathering the disgusting fluids of the exploded hag Malagarde for processing.

After a bit of a wait, though, another Hellish emissary appeared – an armored Narzugon mounted on a Nightmare. This creature announced the group now owed fealty to Lord Levistus, and was to follow it through another portal – which they did.

Emerging into the frigid wastes of Stygia, the group was greeted by a pompous Amnizu functionary. This fiend checked their papers, and ushered them into a long line to a processing station for incoming beings. Ice Devils, White Abishai, Spinagons, some liches, and even a white dragon were in line with them.

Eventually, after nine long hours of waiting, they got to the front of the line. Here they got to enjoy smoke being blown in their face by more amnizu functionaries. After filling out the reams of forms and ensuring their papers were in order, finally they were led through the checkpoint.

Back outside, the Narzugon escorted them to an iceberg barge with a Marraenaloth pilot before leaving to pursue its other duties. The iceberg set off down the Styx, but soon departed for the rushing waters through a hidden tributary to a calm, endless iceberg sea.

Time stretched and lost all meaning during the voyage over this endless icy waste, with no landmarks and no cycle of sun or moon to mark progress. After hours? Days? Weeks? The monotony was broken by the sight of flyers in the distance. More White Abishai.

This signalled the approach of their goal, a mountainous iceberg surrounded by a fleet of smaller bergs. Veritable legions of Gelugons attacked this ice with all the fury of battle, wielding long spears, pickaxes, and their own steel-hard claws. Chips of ice flew away from the iceberg so thick as to seem like falling sleet, yet the ice grew even faster, forcing the ice devils backward even as the party watched.

Walking to the massive berg, the party barely noticed the Gelugons making a path for them. The ice of this titanic block was unusually clear, allowing them to see deep below the surface of the water. They saw a man there.

A man of giant proportions, perhaps, but a man was what he looked like. Swept back black hair, patrician features, an immaculate formal suit, and glowing red eyes staring right at them meant this could only be Levistus – the Archduke of Stygia himself!

Levistus told the group he purchased their soul debt from Glasya to bring them here that they might do something for him. In exchange he will allow them safe passage. They are to secure the Orb of UulSharaVas from Abriymoch, on Phlegethos, and return it to him. Then, he will have the same Marraenaloth that brought them here drop them back off in Abriymoch with no additional obligation for the transportation services already provided.

With no great options in front of them, the party agreed, and climbed back on to their berg barge to head to Phlegethos.

Training Days

Sybryl had spoken truly – the days got worse.

Not that Sybryl herself condescended to afflict him. No, she made it clear a lowly Probate like him didn’t rate direct instruction from a Preceptor. Her supervisory status allowed her the freedom to delegate his torture to the qualified Journeymen directly beneath her. Only when he attained the lowest rank of Initiate would his instructions include sessions with Sybryl.

When, he repeated to himself, not if.

It was hard to maintain this surety in the face of Journeyman Randella. A tiny slip of a girl, Randella was all soft spoken grace and demure courtesy. These attributes served as maddening camouflage to the vicious malevolence lurking within. Her sadist’s glee in administering his lessons was outwardly reflected in the subtlest signs. 

Today, for example, she let only a tiny moan of release and a fractional slackening of posture betray her delight at the screams echoing through the chamber.

Oh, that noise is me. I’m the one screaming.

* * * * *

On discovering his pride in his combat skills that morning, Randella had asked him to demonstrate. Ferril, clever as a cheese wheel, thought he might have a way to make friends. When she asked him to show her his speed with the bow he got the idea she was impressed. The trick with the exploding arrows led to her seemingly innocent query, and he realized he didn’t know the answer.

“Well,” he said, “I guess I never did try it that way. When I shot people with exploding arrows I always waited for new groups of targets to cluster between shots.”

So Ferril twisted raw power into five arrows, set them in his quiver, and focused on speed.

He got the first one downrage as planned. His fingers grasped around the fletching of the next shaft as his hand brought the arrow out at blinding speed –

CRUUUUUMP

He didn’t see the strobing kaleidoscope of brilliant light stabbing out around him. He didn’t really hear the thunderclap of sound either. What he saw was the world tumbling crazily about him, and what he heard was the thundering of blood in his ears from his ruptured eardrums.

Feeling, though. He felt it all. The concussive force that sent him cartwheeling through the air. The searing heat from all four arrows in his quiver erupting at once. The vibration in his bones from the roar of sound. The impact with the stone wall of the firing line, then the impact with the ground. The crunch of ribs. His teeth clamping into his tongue. The iron taste of blood.

There was one blessed moment when he was still on the ground and the physical agony was all that occupied his mind. In that moment, as he noticed those fleeting signs of Randella’s pleasure, right before the backlash from the power drove everything else from his battered mind, his screams were of rage. 

Tricked. 

Again.

* * * * *

Lying in the healers’ dormitory, Ferril reflected on his lack of foresight. His physical injuries would be fine in the morning. It was the damage to his chaos senses that concerned him. Three days, maybe four, before he could even sense the power, let alone wield it? What would his tormentor have in store for him during all that defenseless time?

This time it was particularly bad, sure, but most of his sessions with Randella ended in pain. Frequently, she got him to do it to himself. “Learning by doing,” she called it. The worst part was her damned pixie charms had him chasing after every stupid idea she suggested he try. It just wasn’t fair, how harmless she looked.

The gross injustice of it all circled his thoughts as he drifted back into fitful slumber. His dreams were filled with remembered humiliation.

* * * * *

“You finally made it in time for breakfast I see.” Sybryl’s disdainful voice drew his attention away from the simple fare of oats and berries.

“This is Randella,” she continued, gesturing to the tiny woman. “You will be working with her directly, until such time as you die in training.” Randella inclined her head ever so slightly in acknowledgement as Ferril fought to keep an angry retort from his lips. Sybryl exchanged a knowing glance with Randella before departing.

Randella sat down across from Ferril, and neither said a word as he completed his morning meal.

After he brought his dishes to the scullery, Randella led him silently to the Lyceum. Again they went to a room new to Ferril. More like a cell, really, the cramped space barely had enough room for the two of them to sit facing each other on the hard stools inside. Determined not to speak first, Ferril kept his jaw clenched tight and maintained a rigid posture on his uncomfortable perch. He’d played this game twice already, he was ready for anything.

To Ferril’s surprise, Randella cut the tension only a few seconds after she settled on her own stool. “The Order,” she began in a near whisper “doesn’t care about what you think you’ve done. Only what you can achieve in the future. The Order doesn’t care how much strength you think you have, only that you learn how to apply it.

“You’ve demonstrated some facility with the most basic uses of chaos, more than most of the bumpkins who reach us from the outlands. Preceptor Sybryl mentioned you’d gotten some basic instruction from one of the Sorceror Advisors in… wherever you’re from.”

Ferril started to speak, to tell her where he was from and about Derrak, but Randella’s raised palm stopped him short.

“Best you forget whatever he taught you. Bad habits from sloppy instruction will hold you back.”

“Derrak didn’t give me sloppy instruction,” Ferril snapped. “He showed me real ways to use the Power.”

“Derrak?” said Randella. “I don’t recall the name. He must have been sent out before my time.” Randella’s countenance gave nothing away as she gazed steadily at Ferril.

With a sigh, she said “Sorceror is a title few earn. That path is long and difficult. Those called Sorceror are absolute masters of at least one area of Power, more often several. Mighty in magic, disciplined of mind, diligent in study, they are the backbone of our power. Advisors to other lands are granted this title as a courtesy. Sorcerors are known to be our best, and sending less than a full Sorceror would be a clear insult. On the other hand, the city cannot afford to send its actual Sorcerors to other lands, a target for every assasin’s crossbow in every dark alley in every backwater in Duravita. This Derrak is probably barely competent to work a mage’s post here, but had to be granted the title of Sorceror to effectively represent the Order.

“Nothing personal against your Derrak, he surely meant well, but you must trust that the best way for you to advance is to forget everything he told you.”

Silence again settled around them as Randella gave Ferril time to digest this.

Ferril spoke first this time. “I can’t just decide to not remember Derrak’s lessons. I will do what you say, and I will not use what Derrak showed me unless you show it too.”

A ghost of a frown flitted across Randella’s features before she nodded. “That will have to do.”

The rest of the time until lunch, Randella had Ferril practicing meditation. The goal, she told him, was to open his mind to greater sensitivity. Randella assured him precise sensing was the key to exact control over the forces of magic. He was not, she insisted, to reach out to that white chaos mist; merely to observe it during his meditation, to see the swirl and motion as the vital energy of creation itself danced through the world about them.

Over a lunch of noodles in gravy, she explained that total relaxation physically helped reach a deeper meditative state. This in turn would lead him deeper into an understanding of power. After the meal, Randella told him, she would help him work on that. “Control the mind, control the body, only then can you hope to exert mastery of the Power.”

When they returned to the room with the stools, Randella instructed him to close his eyes and focus solely on his breathing and relaxation, to ignore the chaos so tantalizingly close to his thoughts and pay attention solely to his physical self.

Following her guidance as best as he could, Ferril did the deep breathing and focused on his muscles. He thought about how he fueled his speed with raw chaos firing the fibers of his being faster than normal men could match, and then visualized the opposite. Slowly, slowly he could feel tension depart from around his neck. A wave of relaxation crept languidly down his frame, through his shoulders and arms, into his chest and back. His thighs and calves released stiffness he wasn’t even conscious of.

Exulting in this luxurious, almost hedonistic relaxation, Ferril didn’t notice the twining patterns of power creeping around his limbs, seeping invisibly into his flesh.

When he started to tighten up it was natural to attribute it to his lack of practice in staying loose, so he simply tried to refocus, to recapture that euphoric sense of total balance he’d been lost in only moments ago. Unconsciously, he touched the chaos force that hovered everywhere about him.

Instantly he felt his mistake, as the patterns Randella weaved into his muscles trapped his thoughts, pushed the acceleration onto him without the purpose, the control that turned him into a god of war against the Syphral.

His arms flew out, locked into full extension as his body fought against itself. His back arched painfully, his neck jerking his head back in a violent spasm, and a snarling rictus of agony turned his face into a death mask. His fingers clutched at nothing, his feet pointing straight out from the ends of his legs.

His mind barely registered that Randella moved out of the way of his legs, which struck her stool and knocked it to the ground. The violence of the motion shifted his center of gravity and, in his helpless state, he too fell painfully to the stones beneath. His breaths came steadily shallower. Trying to move his arms and legs yielded tiny motions, as his now straining sinews were all already pulling against each other at full strength.

“Oh, Probate,” Randella purred, “you were doing so well.” She watched his agonized thrashing without further comment for what seemed an eternity. He couldn’t even scream in relief. The series of short, gasping moans that passed his lips didn’t sound human.

“I’m not actively holding the pattern, you know,” Randella said in casual tones.

“muuuh… muuuuh…” Ferril managed in return.

“That means you can break it, Probate.”

“muuuuuh… muuuuh…”

“If you don’t get yourself out, I’m just going to leave you here when the supper bells ring.” 

Her studied disinterest had a chilling effect on his mind, slowing his runaway thoughts from manic speed to merely too fast. The knowledge that he’d fallen for almost this exact same trick with Sybryl stung his ego. A fleeting idea pricked at his consciousness and he desperately clung to it, flinging his senses into the chaos with reckless abandon. And he saw it. Truly saw the flaw in the patterns funneling the chaos force to his wracked frame, a vulnerable spot he could possibly exploit.

Reaching out, he poured pure chaos energy into that weak point. The torture of his wracked frame disrupted his concentration continually, and he was forced to retrieve his scattered thoughts and start over again and again. Doggedly he kept at it.

I… will… not… let… this little girl break ME!

The resolve deep within him to not just survive, but to thrive, to show this arrogant Order his real strength, to win, fueled a manic burst of will-powered chaos into that chink in Randella’s pattern.

And then he was in control of himself again, gulping in deep shuddering breaths as he curled into a ball on the floor. The pop he’d felt was hopefully just Randella’s pattern giving way, and not part of his body. The relief he felt was overwhelming, but he knew he’d be sore everywhere tomorrow.

“So, you aren’t as helpless as you appear,” said Randella. “Remember this, Probate. Chaos is a particularly dangerous aspect of the Power. We’ve noticed that you grasp mass quantities of the stuff to solve every problem. Any Initiate could have done this to you, and you would be at their mercy. You must learn not just how to use your power, but how not to.”

* * * * *

More memories flashed through his dreaming mind. 

Randella showing him how to touch the elements – burning him with fire, crushing him beneath earth, nearly drowning him in water, tossing him head over heels with air. 

She showed him the opposite of his favored chaos force, the order necessary to give form to his power. Perfect order, she explained, the rigidity and stillness of it, was death, as chaos is the force of vitality. Then she imposed more order on his body than it could handle, shutting down all his vital systems momentarily before he could force enough chaos into himself to counteract it.

She showed him how to use chaos to give energy to simple machines to make them move. When he finally managed to make a children’s wagon to move and turn under his direction, two suits of armor animated and attacked him from behind.

Always she would patiently speak to him about the lesson, always she would tell him what he was to learn and why. She answered all of his questions and somehow managed to get him to let his guard down and do something stupid. Sometimes it would be days in between Randella’s painful object lessons, but they always came. And always she kept digging, asking him more questions, learning more about how he thought, how to ensnare him with her devious instruction.

When he finally woke, head full of these demoralizing images, he was totally unprepared for what awaited him.

Syphryl, for the first time since she’d passed him off to Randella those months ago, was watching him from the only chair in the room. The intensity of her blue eyes was still as unsettling as he remembered, despite the soft overfed appearance of the rest of her.

“You are no longer a Probate,” she announced curtly. “You are now recognized as an Initiate. Tomorrow morning you are to report to the main auditorium in the Lyceum for introductory theory. There will be specific aptitude testing after you complete this course, and you will be sorted into the appropriate grouping. You will meet with me twice monthly to discuss your progress and determine any required supplementary instruction or discipline.”

Ferril didn’t like how she’d emphasized that last word. He knew too well what that meant. It was one lesson Randella hadn’t needed to spell out for him.

Randella… well, getting away from her is a win.

Alabaster Guard Duty

Ed. Note – this appeared out of order and is the last story in the timeline right now

Bowstring taught, aim ahead and slightly down into the cave, the young man in the Alabaster Guard’s white and crimson leathers advances slowly into the darkness. His measured tread avoids the scree of the cave entrance with automatic precision, and his alert eyes dart back and forth with restless alertness.

As he leaves the natural light of the sun behind, the young man’s bow slowly begins to emit a steadily brightening white light, illuminating the broken stalactites and stalagmites strewn about the entry point. Further in he sees more, all pointing outward. The stumps both above and below give the impression of rotted teeth in a neglected mouth.

“Why,” he mutters under his breath, “do the blasted traders not hire enough help to do this job them-blasted-selves…”

The reports, he reflects, were not very cohesive. They did seem to agree on some important details, though. Something big, something mean, and something that came out of this cave was wreaking havoc on the ironmongers turnpike. 

A dragon, some claimed. 

No wings, can’t be, said others, and besides that there are no dragons.

A giant lizard, avowed still others.

Whatever it was, one of the chief arteries of the Alabaster City’s trade was suffering losses of nearly one shipment in three, and now it was time for the Guard to put a stop to it. Somehow he knew that would mean him, before the assignment was even properly conceived, nevermind handed down.

If only I’d gotten on better with Ra’ish in chaos theory, I could be in magister’s purple by next year…

No, Ferril, focus!

A calming breath, brief pause, and he resumes his effortless stride.

The temperature descends in tandem with the cavern. The clean scents of summer yield to the sharp mineral tang of lime in the air. The brightness of the chaos light from his bow grows painfully bright and Ferril cuts it back down to a useful level. Moments later, a new scent hits his nostrils – water. At any fork in the path that scent would be the one to follow.

Soon enough Ferril finds a fork, and then another, and then a third, before a different odor strikes him, this time forcefully. Bile climbs up his throat as he fights to suppress his gag reflex. Something not far away is defecating, and it is vile.

Stopping to collect himself, Ferril channels a touch of chaos through his system to mute his olfactory response. Head clearing, he lets the light go from his bow and channels more chaos, this time to his eyes, and the outline of shapes begin to appear to his vision despite the dark. Rounding the next bend there is a shape waiting in the darkness. Its massive silhouette explains the conflicting reports.

Nearing 4 cubits from the ground at the top of its sharp-angled head, the beast’s four huge, taloned flippers are already dragging its massive armored form toward him. The irregular plates on its armored back each sport a crowning spike, and its massive sharp beak of a maw already gaped hungrily out from the shell, seeking the new source of fresh meat.

Already holding the chaos he needs, Ferril releases his first arrow and springs away on power-quickened muscles, averting his gaze from the blinding explosion of incandescent thunder woven into the missile.

The massive… thing, Ferril has no idea what to call this overgrown turtle creature, doesn’t seem notice the arrow sticking out of its flipper, but reacts violently to the blast of light and sound, lashing out wildly in all directions.

“Demons, that thing’s got no right to move that quick at that size.” Ferril focuses the chaos power once more into his limbs, feeling the familiar thundering of blood as he pushes full bore on his physical enhancement, muscles jumping to mental commands moving at blistering speeds of thought. He also pushes ahead of him with the chaos, smoothing what little motion of the still air that was in his arrow’s flight path and fires.

And fires.

And fires.

In the span of three eyeblinks, he looses twelve shafts at the… well, turtle dragon fits well enough, he decides.

Despite his nearly irrational self confidence, Ferril never shorts himself on preparation. Before this spelunking expedition, he’d spent hours tying loose bits of chaos to those arrows in precisely the patterns he anticipated most useful. The years of practice to safely fire off the charged shafts at such chaos-fueled speeds showed in the results.

The first 4 shafts explode on impact with tons of concussive force, and more light and sound filled the huge chamber the beast called home. As fragments of its shell explode off in chunks and dust, the next four arrows catch the beast around the head and promptly burst into blazing scarlet flame. The last four shoot into it with such incredible speed and force that they tear all the way through the beast’s nearly eight cubit length, clattering to the ground behind it in a puddle of its blood.

While dashing towards his next chosen firing spot, Ferril’s eyes catch a flash of metal glinting in the brilliant chaos explosions, and his attention is arrested by the sight of chain mail links for the briefest of moments…

The thrashing flipper of the thing catches him flush in the sternum, talons ripping effortlessly through his leathers and scoring deep lines in his flesh. Instantly the long holes in his body run hot and bright claret. Crashing nearly headfirst backwards, Ferril tumbles nearly 10 cubits through the cave, bouncing off of stalagmite stumps and debris.

Ferril and the dragon turtle both recover their senses quickly as darkness and silence return, before the bloodied combatants renew the harsh discord of mutual destruction. The turtle charges with it’s way-too-fast-for-turtles-or-giant-things flippers pulling its massive bulk forward in surging lunges.

Ferril leaps to one side even as he starts drawing more arrows – halfway gone, demons damn my eyes for underpacking – and looses the first even before he is set, his hands a blur in his vision as three more concussive arrows follow.

More shell fragments fly as Ferril’s power blasts away the thing’s shell. The last two arrows make it past the armor and blow huge gouts of gore up and out, splattering Ferril as he dodges past. Blood covers his eyes, and in the moment he blinks it away the turtle’s tail catches him, sends him sprawling. A mouthful of wet clay and dragon turtle shit greets him on the floor.

Scrambling on all fours while gagging out the foul mixture, Ferril dives behind an outcropping just ahead of the lashing beak, grasping for one of his prepared arrows as he moves. Chaos burns familiar fiery trails through his muscles as he delivers a return stroke in the beast’s neck. The arrow he’d bound to burst forth from his bow at velocity fit to pierce an iron portcullis didn’t need the bow to work, and Ferril’s touch of power shot it forward through the turtle’s head and out its cantaloupe sized eye.

Truly crippled now and no longer seeking to chase Ferril, the dragon turtle thrashes in a mad effort to keep him away. Too late, beast, too late, thinks Ferril as he nocks another arrow, taking his time now. Is that the tympanic membrane all that blood is pouring from? Looks like a good target…

*****

When they found him, the traders couldn’t believe he was breathing. The bloody, torn, ragged mess of raw meat barely visible from the road looked like something to avoid until one of the guards realized Alabaster Guard leathers were underneath all the blood, cave clay, and turtle shit. Ferril has no memory of the ironmongers loading him on the cart and hauling him back into the city.

Awake now and in the healing dormitory, Ferril feels like one giant throbbing vessel of pain. Besides his rescue, he also has no recollection of what must have been a tortuous climb out of the cave, and for that he is grateful. In addition to his physical injuries, he is chaos blind. The energy that powers all things must still be there but not to his senses.

Well, it isn’t the first time he’d pushed too hard and it wouldn’t be the last. Probably he’ll bounce back faster arcanically than physically. The healers won’t push this one. Wounds like his were near universally fatal, and pushing the body too far past it’s limits in mending them could do more harm than good. Near on a score of days they said before they would be ready to get him walking again. Plenty of time to work on pushing through his chaos deficiency. He needs to be ready magically speaking as soon as possible, for the Alabaster City is not kind to the defenseless.

Go To Hell! D&D notes

After rescuing the Sirines, our heroes began the long journey home. They had some battles on the way, but of little consequence. They did have some encounters of note, beginning when a Bronze dragon attempted to sell its services to the group for magic items, and they refused in spectacularly offensive fashion, causing the dragon to leave in a huff.

Later they found an isolated elven islander culture and recruited a cleric of Poseidon to the team – were they eating people or pigs? It’s a mystery – and had a spear wielding dragon disciple finally find them after searching for some time.

Returning home to Salvador, the adventurers took the requisite victory lap, soaking in the adulation of the rescued Sirines and the adoring throngs of Salvador. The good vibes  couldn’t last forever though, and soon the advancing problem of organized crime in the city came to their attention. Gathering some intel around the city, they learned that the Temple of the Cleansing Flame had connections to the mobsters – possibly funding or even staffing the criminal organization that was infesting Salvador.

The group hatched a multi-tiered plan of attack against the criminal scum. First, an overt plan – they would fund, endorse, and influence city alderman in their run for office and subsequent duties. After some interviews, Flic Rair was chosen as the best candidate, and the group got to work on spreading the word of their endorsement.

The covert portion of the plan was to set up a juicy target with an enchanted coin purse for the low level cutpurses of the mob to target, then lead our heroes back to the gang’s HQ. This plan was never attempted, though, because some unexpected help arrived from Direitodade.

Cyrus, the paladin, who left James and Karl after the battle for Kantor’s Keep to seek out the source of the undead plague, returned with new intel on the Temple’s workings and the disposition of the criminal element in the city. It turned out that the gang used magic to carve out and then hide tunnels under the city, branching off from the sewer tunnels. Cyrus had been unable to track the criminals past a certain point due to magical interference, and sought Karl’s help to proceed.

Leading the way for everyone, Cyrus brought the party to a cross tunnel in the sewers that was laden with confusing misdirection magic, and several more cloaking illusions were stripped away by the combined magical efforts of the party before they found the apparent criminal lair, abandoned.

Pushing forward, the group soon found a large chamber cloaked in magical darkness. They entered the chamber, and Cyrus touched something on the wall…

…And the party was sundered from the world of Trantor. Cyrus tricked them! Secretly a plant for Mephistopheles and the Temple of the Cleansing Flame, Cyrus no longer wielded the holy might of the Paladin, but rather the tainted fires of the Blackguard. With the favor of his devilish master, he was also able to summon several devils to his side, and attacked the group.

A vicious battle ensued, with Cyrus bringing forth contract devils and gear devils to beset the party, and powerful magics and attacks were flung in all directions, until a massive devil form appeared in the battle arena and declared an end to the battle. As it stepped toward the party, seemingly to end them, the devil crushed a blue orb in the middle of the room and arcane chaos erupted.

The pocket dimension of the hells set aside for the trap exploded with the destruction of the crystal that held its shaping power, and the combatants were flung to different points of the multiverse.

When the party regained consciousness, Frank was missing. Not only that, they were in jail. And in hell.

Fortunately, the catastrophic end to the battle had a silver lining – the group escaped the clutches of Mephistopheles. Like every silver lining, this one limned a dark cloud. Instead of languishing in Mephistopheles’ dungeon in Canea, they are languishing in Baalzebuul’s dungeon in Maladomini, one short layer up.

Not only that, they are being held pending trial for “giving aid and comfort to the enemy,” Mephistopheles. Baalzebuul it seems does not play nicely with Mephistopheles. In the coming trial, the adventurers will be opposed by The Herald of Lies, Neabaz, chief mouthpiece of the Lord of Putrescence, and judged by one of the Lord’s own consorts.

There could be a way out, though. Devils are intrinsically deal making beings, and have offered a few different deals to the party. No price has been disclosed yet for the terms offered, and of course nobody knows the motivations of the devils offering these deals, and yet, a deal must be preferable to a show trial.

Time is short, and counting down. All the options look bad. Which way will our heroes choose? And will it lead out of Baator?