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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."

Even the air smelled of death and smoke. Ash, instead of dust, was kicked up behind the caravan, creating what looked to be murky, storm clouds. Nothing looked to be alive other than the vast amount of foreign peoples, migrating from across the land to answer to Queen Harcona's summons. Myr knew the reasons why Asmodius would ever cooperate with such a shrew. His forces on the mortal plane were becoming scarce, obliterated by the holy crusades of the Church of Pelor and by the campaigns of The Dozen. All of the unrighteous forces were retreating, reaching for a chance at recuperation and revenge.

As her convoy reached the sizeable west gates of The Black Citadel, it became apparent how many people were to be present at this meeting. Harcona had invited virtually everyone; royal purple flags and banners were flying everywhere. Setrin Trapspringer himself would be able to infiltrate the citadel under these conditions, everyone bustling about with some unapparent purpose. Oh yes, she had indeed heard of Chief Olaff and his failure to catch the halfling. Failure could not be accepted; not under the current circumstances. Myrenae glared grimly at the servant who called out her name, obviously placed there to invite guests in. How dare he forget her name? Anyways, she would be sure to put her guard on alert, and inform the rest of the company of any possible betrayal. They would have to be even more vigilant inside the fortress. This could be a ruse, a trap. But Harcona would be smarter than that... She almost certainly would rather let everyone die, fighting for a cause that would benefit no one else.

Paranoia always served a purpose.

As they were all seated around extremely ornate tables, servants rushed in quickly to bring them food and drink. She would be eating nothing - she didn't need to gorge herself on food, like the others. She knew her face appeared sunken. It didn't matter. It wouldn't affect her effectiveness in battle - Asmodius saw to that. Besides the fact that she wasn't hungry, the food could have been poisoned. It was dark enough, inside the stronghold, that they wouldn't be able to recognize it if it was...

A plump, male gnome had begun speaking without her immediate knowledge, her mind too focused on the possibilities. However, after she realized someone was talking, she was instantaneously drawn into the speech. So, Asmodius was correct... Harcona was planning something. Myr knew of the Scales of Creation, though she had always dismissed the stories as myth and pure fantasy. At least the gnome was making a successful attempt at hooking the diverse audience, though she could sense there was probably more to the narrative than the cunning little pretender let on.

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He wore a purple armband around his left bicep, over the leather trench. Clearly visible. Along with all the others, he trudged along, in step with the mighty column of has-beens, would-bes, almosts, and never-wases. Here an orc in full plate, dark inscriptions on his black armor, there a giant slug, swords and spears still sticking from its body, and over there what looked to be a full fledged demon.

My boss is an asshole thought Jack, as he walked along the desolate path towards the great structure in the distance. I've been working for this guy for two months, and where does he send me? Bumpiss nowhere.

...

Jack had entered the building with the rest of the crowd, and was now seated in the mostly human and halfling section representing the thieves of the world. He could tell by looking around that not one of the guilds had sent their heads; many had to be enforcers and bodyguards like him, and the halfling from Marcidon looked like a pickpocket.

Great Jack thought, listening to the long-winded speech. This guy wants help, and I'm not sure what I'm supposed to do. Screw my boss.

Wands could do wonders. Hah, that was kind of catchy! Namfoodle daydreamed as he stared at his newly depleted wand of reanimation he had received as a gift when he left the tutoring of the old lich. He tossed it over his shoulder, onto the busy dirt path. He was sitting on a cushioned silk chair and was actually being carried towards his old home by a team of four skeletons who held the chair aloft. Magic was truly the most powerful art in the world, he though. To Namfoodle's surprise the skeleton-propelled silken chair was a smooth ride. He had dozed off once or twice as the undead marched for now approaching citadel. His staff was over was resting on his shoulder, clutched to by his right hand. Oneshoe looked down at the skeletons with an arrogant smile, and then surveyed the crowd of evil beings marching along the paved road. Lesser filth. It dismayed him to see how desperate the queen realy was. Oh well, he'd make everyone jealous when he got back. Friends, foes, relatives. No one would expect the slow Namfoodle to infact be a potent sorcerer of the dark powers. He took his wikeskin from his belt and took a long drink. He looked up at the tip of his ash staff, at the purple purple tied securely to its tip. Namfoodle rolled his eyes at what was in his opinion an unnattractive color. He looked up again, they approached the gate. The skeletons began to disintegrate into dust as they got closer.

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Namfoodle entered the audience hall with a pyrotechnics show of sorts. He invoked a demon-pact, and was enveloped in hellfire. Oneshoe winced slightly at the draining effect it had on him, but first impressions were very important. He cleared his throat and announced himself over the flames surrounding him and the voices.

"I, Namfoodle, Wielder of Hellish Powers, have returned home! Behold, Oneshoe clan, my mentors, I have become greater than any of you could have imagined! Tremble, my old rivals, for I may not be as easy to duel as I once was!"

He laughed as walked for a seat on the edge of an arrangement of seats for distinguished magicias of the citadel. Namfoodle dismissed the hellfire shield as he went. The seat he took had a "reserved" card placed on it, but he didn't care. He sweeped it off the seat, onto the floor. Then Namfoodle pulled the purple ribbon from his staff and tossed it casually to the floor, and stared ahead with a distant smirk, listening to the manbegin what Namfoodle assumed would be a long speech.

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RPs:
Warhammer 40,000: The Inquisition Sci-Fi Rp. Go for it.

Queen Harkona spared the loudly returning gnome a look that would have fillet'd steak at a hundred paces. Solomon, ignoring the warlock, spoke through the commotion and the arguing voices, his own voice cutting through it even though he did not match the volume. "Gentlemen, if you continue to bicker and interrupt, I will begin incinerating those of you who are loudest."

Silence, or at least as close as you can get in a room filled with a hundred people.

"Thank you. Now then. Armies fail. Chief Olaff, I believe you witnessed what the Dozen does to armies that prove a threat. They slit throats. They knock out the supports and let it fall apart under its own weight. It was a tragedy when your father was killed. He would have done so much damage to those bastards." He turned his attention back to the room at large. "No, my brothers in sin, an army is not the answer, despite the fact that, if we could ever unite, we would be a force of unspeakable power. But we would never remain united. No, we need our own adventurers. People who can walk where an army could not go. People who can weild a knife in the dark, a subtle spell unseen, a sword in the bedchambers of our enemies. We need antiheroes."

Solomon allowed this idea to roll through the minds of his audience. The high priest of Juiblex stood and called out loudly enough for the room to hear. "So who would we send? You all know we cannot trust each other to honor any agreement concerning an artifact of such power." He thumped his staff, a beastly thing of melted glass that looked like it was moving, against the granite floors to emphasize his words.

Solomon inclined his head slightly. "Least of all, devotees of a creature of the Abyss. Oh, don't be insulted. Demons are by their nature liars and cheats. Take it a a compliment, that you should emulate the nature of your slime-lord so well." He shifted again to address the room. "Yes, he raises an excellent point. I am recommending several teams be formed, each consisting of members of different organizations. This will help ensure that information is sent back to everyone, and will make treachery so much harder. Thoughts, anyone? I suggest we do this the old fashioned way and draw straws. Say, six teams of six? I should think that, between all of us, we can spare thirty-six able bodies. Many more, and we risk drawing unwanted attention that could forewarn the Dozen."

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"There are three kinds of plan. The fast plan, the good plan, and the sneaky plan. The fast plan works because by the time anyone knows you're there, you're already stabbing them in the face. The good plan works because they know you're going to stab them in the face, but they can't do anything about it. The sneaky plan works because while you were listening to me explain all this, I stole your sandwich."

Jack looked around at the other assorted members of the theive's guilds. None of the guilds had send a decent warrior or infiltrator... likely, if he hadn't been so new to his guild, he would have been forced to stay behind. Well then, he could take a position of authority here; none of them could stand up to him.

Jack stood, and spoke clearly and loudly: "this plan has the full support of the Associated Guilds of Thieves." There. By opening with his support of the plan, he could play this as he wanted. If it failed, he could blame it on his asshole of a superior; and if the plan worked, they would remember that it was he who stood to speak first in support. He would make them remember.

Myr frowned as she heard an oddly dressed rogue abruptly address the congregation of representatives, hastily throwing his full support behind such a farfetched plan. Asmodius had also warned her of the consequences of hasty decision making. Certain parts of the plan made her feel uneasy, such as this 'teams' business. She had to act now...

"Drawing straws...," Myr slowly stood up and fixed her raptor gaze upon Solomon, "that is how we shall be picked?" Her voice boomed with a healthy dose of authority. "I would advise you not to oversimplify things, gnome. Doing so often leads to dire consequences. Honestly, how will we be assigned? It is a surefire guarantee that everyone here has some sort of qualm about going with anyone present here."

After pausing for a moment, her glare shifted over to the rogue who spoke earlier. "And you... A mere trinket thief that would expect tribute because he was the first person to throw his support behind such a 'noble cause.' Have you even though out how this wonderful mission will be accomplished? Humans are so predictable. Reaching for glory and riches, eh? You'll find none here, boy." She detested thieves. Bringing a thief along was a sure way to get killed, one way or another. Then again, she couldn't trust anyone in the whole room, not even her own associates - this was why evil was often vanquished. This whole situation seemed hopeless.

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Sarith, was curious, he contemplated this antihero idea...it could be a setup, noone in the evil society did anything if it didn't directly benefiet them, though, that was probably why he was sent, he was expendable. Bickering had aroused in the room, half, were for the idea, the others..well, not, Sarith, wasn't sure, this could be a chance to prove himself, a chance to gain power, but, of course, Madrigal, that decrepit, bastard, would surely try to steal the glory, he'd always been taking credit for, Sariths work. Sarith drew a grim expression on his face, he grew enraged with his thoughts, he despised Madrigal, but, he always was forced to bite his tongue, kill his words, he awaited the day that man died, he'd surely enslave his skeletal being. He tried to focus, the bickering had continued, he wasn't sure if his opinion would matter, he was a mere lackey to Madrigal, it was surely he, they wanted to hear from.

"She has a point, I wouldn't want to be allied with the likes of her, or that pocket fondler!" He concured, as well as insulting the two of them. He paused for a moment, his eyes narrowed, and his voice became stern, as if he had authority, though...he knew very well, that he did not, but, this was another moment he'd wished he had. "Shouldn't we be paired based off our skills? Your straw idea could lead to a poorly divised party, parties should have balance...should they not?" he suggested, this idea had surely appealed to him, maybe he could earn some respect here after all. Madrigal had shot him a glare that could chill the soul of a lycan, Sarith, however, wasn't intimadated, and he wasn't going to pretend that was Madrigals idea...it was his own, and they'd know that.

Sarith thought about the scales, he'd heard many tales of them, but, he never took it seriously, but, it would explain how the world got this way, how evil was forced to back into a hole, in remote places of the world, sit in silence, sit in rage, those times would soon be over, he could only hope, but, then again, hope was for the weak, and foolish, those light loving nancies. He could surely improve his skill as a necromancer, and, surely, bewilder his beloved god with praise, and gifts, gifts of death, murder, surely he'd appreciate it. Sarith was ambitious, he needed to conceal that ambition better, for, if the wrong person were to take notice, he'd be spending an eternity as a slave, he didn't exactly welcome that idea, but, he'd rather die trying, then die as a nobody, a nothing, a never was.

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I feel it everyday it's all the same.
It brings me down, but I'm the one to blame.
I've tried everything to get away.
So, here I go again chasing you down again.
Why do I do this?
It feels like everyday stays the same.
It's dragging me down, and I can't pull away.
Over and over, over and over you make me fall for you.
Over and over, over and over You don't even try to.
I try to live without you, every time I do I feel dead.
I know what's best for me, but I want you instead.

Herbert was sitting by himself at the corner of a table. He was the only one his cult had sent, but he didn't let that get him down - he'd been whistling to himself as the others squabbled, playing with a piece of string. Over his rough travelling attire, he was wearing a robe, entirely purple just because he could. There were a few others there from other Old One cults, but Herbert's knowledge of their favoured deities was generally little more than superficial, and their customs were definitely beyond him. Few of them spoke to him, or made any signs of greeting - mostly, they simply looked at him strange when they thought he wouldn't notice. The mage didn't mind, though - he was used to being seen as a strange person. All of a sudden, one of his gnomish hosts started speaking. Herbert listened attentively, though he couldn't help but keep fiddling with his string. Towards the end of the speech, Herbert for once found that he had something in common with the other cultists - they all traded smirks and knowing looks; those fools, thinking the fate of the world rested with feeble trinkets. Once even a single of their Elder masters was summoned, the world would be plunged into madness and despair, the likes of which the nine hells themselves had never known.

Still, until then they might as well settle for the next best thing. Twiddling his thumbs, Herbert waited for the gnome to finish. As the idea of adventuring bands was brought up, the madness mage was staring blankly at the table top before him, his face mostly concealed by his hood. His pupils started shrinking as he began to sink into visions of blood - of himself tossing lightning and madness into masses of densely packed humans. His palms started sweating and his breathing slowed - he might have been romanticizing, but an adventuring band didn't seem like such a bad idea. Not being the sort who questioned his superiors, Herbert simply assumed that everyone would go along with the idea, and was deeply disconcerted when a self-assured, female voice cut through the air. Of course, he thought as he was brought back to reality, there was bound to be some whining - he felt some aggravation, and decided to rise, himself. Why not get a word in before everyone started yelling in each other's mouths. His purple robes swirled as he left his chair. "Always, complaints. Something has to be done, and this is as good as anything. Where it comes to choosing who goes, picking straws is the best solution, or each group will consist only of worthless cannon fodder like myself. Not that everyone won't try to cheat, anyway, but I can a least hope that will see our hosts incinerate some of our more disagreeable higher-ups".

Leaning forward, he spread his hands on the table and looked out across the room. "This is obviously a dangerous undertaking, and one of the most distinguishing attributes I've discovered in most of you is cowardice. If I didn't know better, I'd wonder how you ever achieved the power you have!". More than one angry glare was levelled at him right there and then, and one particularly large orc rose and growled at the mage, who raised an eyebrow. "I can see your scars, fool - I'm obviously not talking about you! Returning to the issue - the woman here said that everyone has qualms about going with everyone. All the better! It won't matter who we're paired with!". Several snickers, a few amused sighs and some stifled laughs cut through the silence of Herbert's pause. Smiling, he spread his arms and nodded. "You also asked how this sneak-thief had planned to accomplish it all - as they always do: sneak, steal, rinse, repeat. This isn't a military strategy, or even a strike against the nations of self-righteousness, but a collection of adventuring bands. There is no plan - we simply go out there, draw steel, kill monsters, gather artefacts, power and experience. You know how these bands operate. What we are hoping for is that we will be met with enough success that at least some of our bands become powerful enough to counter these... "heroes" that are giving us so much trouble. In short, our superiors have devised a plan that will give them fighters with much power and no authority. It's pretty clever, but will probably collapse from the same infighting that has always plagued us".

Yes, he'd gotten caught up and gone a lot farther than he originally intended. Luckily, no one here would have more than the faintest idea who he was, so there was a chance he'd survive once he ditched the purple robes... unless he got killed right then and there.

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If your signature is larger than your post, you're wasting space. If your signature is larger than your average post, you need brain surgery. Or a brain.

Solomon listened. "Madam Deslawn, Lord Sarith. Would you rather allow five groups of close-knit allies to compete against the group that represents your own interests? Hm? No, if our respective organizations are sure to send members that can be trusted to keep their eyes on the big prize and offer rivals a temporary truce, then mixed groups would be the best way to ensure that a single organization does not try to take the Scales for themselves."

He cleared his throat a bit. A young gnome quickly stepped forward with a glass of water. "Thank you. Now, ladies and gentlemen, we would naturally agree to keep certain groups seperate. I don't think any of us would except the churches of the Demon Princes and the Lords of the Nine respectively to work together for any length of time. The Blood War is a bit much to be set aside. Nor would we expect the bards of Darkhallow," gesturing to six very outlandish-looking men, "to cooperate with the orcs after that bit of unpleasentness last year." Several grumbles accepted this.

"As for skills, I'm sure we can work out something, but let's face it, if we draw, for example, the Long Fangs, the orcs, the Kolmier bandits, the church of Bel, the Thieves' Guilds, and the Ravagers, we would have drawn six organizations that deal with enemies by stabbing them until they stop moving. But any of them could find a mage or a priest among their ranks, thus giving the team some magical support. My point is that each of your organization has a number of skills you can contribute, and when we draw up groups, we are not necessarily drawing up the individuals. Who you send will be up to you."

"And I would appriciate if you did not insult the Thieves' Guild. Need I remind you that it took Setrin Trapspringer's personal involvment to remove the leadership of a single guild? And if memory serves, Jack the Red here is an enforcer, not a cutpurse. He slits throats for a living, and has quite the reputation as a quick thinker and a quick swordsman. Exactly the sort you would want on your team. The Thieves' Guilds have their own sense of honor, one that makes them good men to do business with."

Solomon listened intently as Herbert Derzahla spoke. "I find it a bit ironic that the representative of the Elder God cults shows more clarity of thought than many assembled here. Yes, he is entirely right. Divided groups pursue their goal in any manner that suits their own strong points, and the diversity of the group forces everyone to send competent individuals. No one wants to send a useless lackey to keep an eye on the best of their rival organizations. The groups will likely not last as long as the heroic bands do, but they only need to last long enough to get the job done."