Tipping the Scales OOC

The blasted, desolate Anaurok Wastes was a blight upon the otherwise verdent landscape. From the sharply-defined edge of the Wastes, one could just barely make out the tip of the Black Citadel peeking over the horizon. The structure was responsible for the Wastes, its creation having sucked the land dry. Normally, anyone setting foot upon the dead soil would die a fiery death within a few steps. Queen Harona was very picky about who was allowed into her domain. Today was not a normal day. Many came, in dozens of groups. Each group bore a piece of purple cloth, whether tied to a spear or worn about the arm, but they all made sure that it was visible. It was their invitation.

High on the tower's peak, Queen Harona sat with her some of her daughters and granddaughters. She was a withered old crone, though her voice was as clear and proud as one would expect from a queen. "Does anyone see Chief Olaff? I would have expected the brute to be among the first ones here. He is as impatient as he is bull-headed."

A few quiet voices murmered variations on "No, mother." One of the youngest spoke up. "Grandmother, he is an orc. They are notorious for their distrust of magic, and Olaff himself supposedly thinks of gnomes as something to kick and laugh at." her voice wavered a bit, as though reluctant to speak.

Harona smirked a bit. "Well said, Anca, and given the information you have, entirely accurate. But you must remember, Olaff is Nomtur's son, and I happen to know that he was personally blamed for allowing that halfling to slip in. The message I sent to him promised a chance for revenge against the Dozen, and Setrin Trapspringer specifically."

One of Harcona's daughters pointed north, peering through a telescope. "Orcs on horseback, mother. I do not see Olaff's banner, but the leading rider matches his description. They are all wearing purple markers."

Queen Harcona smiled.

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"Greetings, gentlemen, greetings. Young Simo will escort you to the reception area. We will see to your horses. Donnovir! See to the horses."

Anton Timotej, one of the many servants that bustled through the city-keep, hated his life right now. He was at the west gate, directing visitors and making sure that nobody killed, disintegrated, or ate anyone else. He was glad that most of the guests were in slight awe of the Citadel inhabitants. It made things a bit easier if they thought they might be blasted to cinders at any moment. He hated to think what might happen if they knew that he was only skilled with divinations.

Anton recognized the skeletal rider, partly by his robes, but mostly by his lack of a lower jaw. "Ah, Madrigal Spellbone, welcome. We are very pleased to have a practitioner as skilled as yourself answer our summons. Donnovir will see to your horses," ignoring the fact that the horses were clearly ghosts or specters of some kind. He continued. "Bozidar here will escort you and your companions to the reception area."

The skeleton, covered in expensive robes, gold filligree etched directly into his skull, motioned at the much less extravagent skeleton beside him, which shook a bit, then spoke. "The Master thanks you, but grooms will not be required for the horses." As they dismounted, the horses faded from view.

As the necromancers and their undead pets followed Bozidar, Anton turned his attention to the next group. "Ahh, Adrien Lothaire, welcome. I hope the church of Asmodeus is prospering? And.. Myrenae Deslawn, is it?" He smiled a bit. "I apologize. Diviner, you see. Oh, here are the representatives of the major Thieves' Guilds. I do hope you get along. Augustin, please show them to the reception area."

He had a moment's respite, which he used to calm his nerves via the hip flask hidden in his robes. He stashed it again as a lone rider approached.

"Welcome, Master Derzahla. Thanks you for answering our summons."

It dragged on for a while. Anton was going to need a stiff drink or five after this.

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The reception area boasted a high, arched ceiling, which is the only reason that visitors taller than gnomes were confortable there. The groups were seated around a massive ring of tables in luxuriant cushioned chairs as servants brought wine and food. There was some commotion between the priests of the demon lord Graz'zt and those of Price Levistus, Lord of the Fifth, but the gnomes managed to seperate them.

After the representatives had been seated and served, the doors were thrown open. Queen Harcona entered trailed by several of her daughters and a male gnome whose confident air seemed entirely out of place in a room filled with the most dangerous men and women walking the realm. Queen harcona seated herself, as did her daughters. The gnomish man stepped through the only break in the ring of tables, and strode to the center.

He cleared his throat and murmered, a few eldritch lights flashing at his throat. In a magically amplified voice, he began speaking. "Welcome to the Black Citadel. Priests, warriors, scoundrels, seekers of forbidden lore, tyrants, pirates, and bandits. We all have something in common. We lost."

That provoked an unhappy response from the audience.

"Yes, ladies, gentlemen, and questionables. We lost. The heroes are winning, the virtuous are trampling down the unrighteous. To be blunt, we're getting slaughtered. And we all know who is responsible."

Someone shouted out, "The Dozen!" More voices called out in agreement and curses.

The gnome continued. "And do we know why they have been able to do this? No? I will tell you. My name is Solomon Issachar. I study magical items, particularly artifacts. I recently acquired a tome that detailed a device known as the Scales of Creation. It was used at the creation of the world to ensure a balance between the forces of light and darkness. It was placed in a temple that was lost, abandoned, and forgotten long ago. This temple is located beneath the castle Falnemal. Those of you familiar with history may recall that Falnemal was destroyed centuries ago. Recently, the ruins were cleared of monsters."

He paused for effect. "By the Dozen." Some of the brighter members of the audience saw where this was going. "The Dozen found the Scales, and used them to tip the world in favor of the forces of light. When they disbanded, they took apart the Scales, which they now guard so that we cannot tip the world back. Given a few hundred years, things will swing back in our direction briefly before achiving equilibrium. But unless I miss my guess, none of us want to wait that long." He gestured to the group from the Plague Lands. "Though some of us may still be, if not alive, then at least still active when that happens."