DreamLyrics™ Play-by-Post Forums Hall of Fame - Latest Top 10 completed games HHE: The Haunted Helm HHE11: Interlude 2

The City of Wonders, Horizon. The sun rose, shedding golden light across waters of Pocket Bay and illuminating the marvellous city. Each of its many districts were formed floating platters, slowly revolving, climbing and descending according to a system of interlinked calendars. The ornate buildings were of the finest and most improbable architecture, built with only beauty and ingenuity in mind. Horizon was defended by much more than walls. It was built on the largest magical power node in the Empire, a confluence of ley lines once exploited by the Wizard King himself, and for centuries had been the home of the greatest archmage the world had ever known, Ar.

Streams of water flowed between the districts, sometimes carried on aquaducts, sometimes falling from outlets, from one to the other lower down. Morning mist lingered over the city, creating rainbows of light as they were touched by the sun.

Upwards through the City of Wonders shot a richly woven carpet. Sat upon it was a gnome, his long nose quivering in the wind and his moustaches, that grew from each nostril, billowing behind him. He was wrapped, literally head to toe, in a long woollen scarf, which was also tied around his point hat and kept it from blowing off.

The gnome on the flying carpet zig-zagged and spiralled around this and that, on his way to Horizon's highest tier. The carpet was joined by an escort of squawking, four-winged arrowhawks, some longer than twenty feet.

The buildings of the highest tier looked almost like giant crystal vases, etched and filigreed. Around the perimeter, at intervals, sat lammasus, watching all who passed but they seemed to recognise the gnome.

Swooping down, a curtain of water drew aside for the gnome and he entered through an archway into a large solarium where he finally alighted.

The Archmage's solarium was crowded with globes, orreries, banks of crystal balls, and several floor to ceiling maps drawn from magical, animated inks.

There were other bizarre, bird-like creatures, similar to the arrowhawks, perched around the room. They celebrated the morning glory with cheerful song.

Updrafts of cool, fresh air blew into the room from pepperpot holes in the floor but there were plenty of grimy surfaces, some splattered with droppings, some tinted green with lichen. The Archmage did not have time for housework.

In fact, he stood with his back to the gnome, stooped over a scrying glass as large as the gnome's flying carpet. His robe was irridescent purple and turqoise. Alongside him was a short, six-legged construct made from many different coppery alloys.

It carried a bucket, from which sprouted long, tall straws that the Archmage occasionally leaned over to and sucked noisily on. The Archmage had a taste for iced coffee.

"Something from the Overworld has definitely touched down," He mumbled, perhaps to himself, "but I see that the village of Greenhill has been saved...."

The gnome cleared his throat but it was muffled by the scarf. He yanked it down under his chin and tried again with the throat clearing.

"What is it, Snood?" Asked the Archmage without turning, "I thought you were on vacation in that pocket dimension of yours."

"It's not really mine, Your Grace, I just loan it from a genie... but as always, you're absolutely right, I am off any moment now." Replied the gnome with a glug of pendantry and a dash of sycophancy.

"And yet here you stand," Said the Archmage, "with urgent news on the tip of your tongue. So speak Snood and then for goodness sake, be about your fishing."

Snood straightened up. This was official unofficial business, and the Archmage was a busy man!

"I've come directly from the Crucible, Your Grace, where they've been testing river samples sent from Rosencliff, a town on the Sword Point, not far from here.

"The water is poisoned. Pyrite, lead and um... dragon's blood."

If the Archmage was concerned, he didn't show it. Snood reasoned he was probably working on far greater problems. Preventing the Iron Sea from disgorging giant, city-stomping monsters into the Empire, or ensuring the summer harvest wasn't blighted and the Empire didn't starve to death. That sort of thing.

The gnome sniffed and wiped his nose, deciding to continue onto the 'best bit'.

"Obviously there is more to the story, Your Grace. The potency of the dragon's blood was beyond any in our records. We think it's from a Primeval, a dragon older than the Dragon Empire, perhaps as old as the Primals themselves.

"If its body parts could be collected before they immolate... well, they'd be priceless. Of course, by rights we should have reported these findings to Axis, but I'm not convinced that would be best for Rosencliff or the arcane arts.

"Nope, I thought we should recruit someone who knows what they're doing, does things for the right reasons, but doesn't mind making some money on the side."

"And who might that be?" Asked the Archmage.

"Well, apparently Rosencliff have already despatched a party upriver. Amongst them Jexric the Jester of Drakkenhall. Jex Dragon-spoor. Jex---"

"I am aware of the bard and his unique qualities. But no."

"No, Your Grace? Not Jexric?"

"Not anyone. The sample was probably exposed to raw magic while we had it on the workbench. That would elevate the reading, and it wouldn't be the first time we'd made such a mistake." Sighed the Archmage, sliding a finger over the scrying glass.

The scarved gnome frowned, then nodded. That seemed a likely explanation, now that he thought about it.

Drawing in a long-suffering breath, the Archmage looked over his shoulder at Snood.

"A good thing you didn't contact Axis, eh. Could have been embarrassing! But don't worry about it, Snood. Leave it with me. Go, take your vacation. Catch a whopper for me!"

The gnome looked rueful, shuffling from one foot to the other, reluctant to lumber the Archmage with such a trivial thing. Faced with the Archmage's unyielding back and much needed time away from Horizon, Snood decided not to argue. With a glad smile, he shrugged and tugged up his scarf. Who was he to second guess the Archmage? And frankly, departing on vacation without a moment's delay sounded like very sage counsel to Snood. He leapt excitedly back onto his flying carpet and off he went.

The Archmage's shoulders dropped. His tired eyes looked distant. Rolling up his sleeve, he glanced down at the luminous orium tattoo on his forearm. It was the symbol of the Eternal Alchemists, from which he'd derived his own crest. That was a long time ago when he was younger and more foolish.

"Some footsteps are not meant to be followed." The Archmage muttered to himself, rubbing his hand over the symbol.

Yzarra's oily black robes pooled around his feet as he walked, and it quietly sighed and wailed with each step.

The demon prince was flanked by an entourage of demonic bodyguards and counsellors, imps fluttered around him, reading from ledgers in gabbling, shrill voices.

They burst into the throne room. The Brass Throne was mounted on a dias that was cushioned and carpeted with skins, draped with writhing thralls, human, elven, dwarven, all mortal races, both sexes, all undressed.

Their attentions were focused on petting a black alley cat. An armoured bulezau stood guard, glaring at the feloid visitor in disdain.

The guard saluted and gruffly reported to the demon prince, "Highness, we discovered it here and reported immediately. Somehow it gated in...."

"Undetected?" Finished Yzarra, raising an eyebrow, and the guard looked worried. "You're fired." Said the demon prince, and the bulezau flashed with seering hot energy, toppling to the floor as chunks of brittle charcoal.

With a swish of its tail, the black cat smiled up at Yzarra, its mouth was ape-like, with big yellow teeth and bigger gums.

"Easy tiger!" Said the demon cat in greeting, "How do?"

Yzarra looked down his nose and sneered.

"The Diabolist's little griefer. You have some balls coming here." He said, his voice dry and gravelly.

"Ah cheers, you noticed 'em too hey?"

"What do you want?"

"And straight to business as usual." Bemoaned the cat, "But alright, I can see business is booming. Hell, last time I clapped eyes on this place, it was just you, sat on your Brass Throne, on your tod. Lord of Sod-All. Now look at it! Hardly even gate into the place without landing facefirst in a nalfeshnee's arse."

"Times change, Griefer. I like to be the one that changes them. But my new enterprise is old news, and the Diabolist wouldn't send you to trade. So why are you here?" Yzarra demanded, his tone causing the naked thralls to flinch.

The black cat stretched, front to back.

"Who said I'm here on the Diabolist's say-so? Maybe I got business of my own."

Yzarra's hand shot out and grabbed one of the female thralls by the head, dragging her to her feet.

"Demons don't feel pain, but mortals do." The demon prince said and sunk his brass fingernails into the woman's eyes. Instantly she was screaming and thrashing, grasping and slapping at his hand.

"So a demon bound into mortal form just isn't equipped to handle pain. It can paralyse a demon's mind, drive them mad. The suffering might never end... unlike with mortals." He said, tightening his grip and pushing his fingers through her skull until they pierced the other side. The thrall jerked and twitched in his grasp.

The demon cat watched with green eyes as the dying woman slid from Yzarra's hand. Then he grinned most excellently.

"Down to the business then!"

Griefer sauntered across the laps around him, then dropped down from the dias.

"Your 'new enterprise' has a big problem. The Diabolist has found an heir to the Brass Throne." He explained as he walked.

Yzarra huffed as he walked alongside the cat.

"Then the Diabolist has been duped! There are no heirs to my throne. All my spawn are burned, after being torn from their mothers by my own hand."

The black cat stopped at an obsidian pedestal, above which floated a disembodied head in green flame. That of a wood elf, female and careworn but beautiful with it. She appeared asleep, dark hair drifting around her. The cat's tail flicked.

"What about her?" Asked the Griefer.

"Lixiss..." The demon prince whispered, eyes narrowing.

"She had a bastard son."

"Not mine, some human she met before she came here. The boy is some kind of holy man now. The Diabolist thinks I am his father!?" Yzarra shook his head. He would've laughed but was too insulted that the cat dared speak of the wood elf, Lixiss.

"Huh. So the Demon Prince of Infernal Device does not know of the other son." The cat pondered aloud, "The one born in secret, here in the Abyss. Raised by cambion hellblades in cahoots with the Crusader. Smuggled out from under his nose. Your son, Zoltan."

The wood elf's eyes jerked open at the name, and Yzarra staggered back, shocked.

"No! Trecherous--- Still you defy me, Lixiss!?"

"Yep yep yep. Told you so." Said the Griefer, "Luckily for you, I can lead you straight to him. All you've got to do...."

***

"'...is free me from the Diabolist' said I." Reccounted the demon cat, as he sat on the balustrade, paws furled in under his chest.

The golden-haired aasimar sat alongside him at a garden table, laid for breakfast, summer greenery growing all around. She wore a gown of white and emerald, and there were children, perhaps three years old, playing nearby

The maiden rested her jaw in the cup of her hand.

"So you didn't really try to double-cross me?" She asked, wrinkling her nose.

"How can I!?" Whined the cat, "You own me!"

"I know. But if everything goes according to plan, where's the excitement?" The girl whined back, "Honestly, I need it so badly right now. Nursemaiding these noble brats is destroying my soul."

"And I can't eat them?"

"Not with your dicky-ticker. They're too fatty."

"So what next?"

"Once Yzarra knows where Zoltan is, he'll try to bring him home to be properly disposed of. The gap in his 'impenetrable' defences can then be exploited by our assassin..."

"Who's still three of a kind short of a winning hand."

"Shadows huh! Seems like he needs another nudge!" Smiled the planetouched nanny. One of the children had wandered over and she patted him on the head.

Grumbling that neither Zoltan or D had returned from the wild yet (and he wasn't going searching for them), the cat stood, turned and showed the garden his bum-hole. Laughing melodically, the girl focused her attention on the child.

"So, where were we, sweetpea? Ah yes, repeat after me, 'I summon thee Baalzebub....'"

[This one dedicated to Gypsy. Don't leave your small children alone with her.]

[Go to HHE12: The Fork]