By Arm the Chance Part 2 - Varis (23/6/20)
Jun 29, 2020 13:25:50 GMT
Grimes, BB, and 7 more like this
Post by Varis/G'Lorth/Sundilar on Jun 29, 2020 13:25:50 GMT
As the handsome oak door closes behind their waiter, Varis lets out a long sigh. Sinking into the sea of cushions that surround their low table, he takes stock for a moment, rich silken walls stirring gently in the incense-laden air.
“Fuck.”
Against a burning sky, Zariel’s wings are like sails of woven smoke. The flaming crown that enfolds her temples spits orange sparks, mirroring the volcano in the distance.
“What is this? A desperate show of force?”
As his companions mouth defiance - Sunday with indignant eloquence, Baine with his usual bluntness - Varis thinks on the Archfiend’s question. Why are they here? Why is he here? He glances up, taking in the figure of Zariel, in all her dark magnificence. Flanking her are two huge, red skinned fiends, each clutching a black iron mace, their rippling forms held aloft on enormous leathery wings. It does not take any great tactical acumen to know that they are overmatched. The Archduchess alone would probably be enough to crush the five of them, but she has the power of an entire realm at her disposal.
Why are we here?
He glances over in time to see Taffeta whisper something into her hands. Zariel sees it too, though she is busy responding to Sunday.
“You have no idea what you’re talking about. The material plane, all the planes - nothing matters but victory.”
Behind his visor, Varis smiles. The sentiment is familiar - a dark echo of what he himself has held true for some time now. But the erstwhile angel has failed to see what he himself realised long since. The duty of the protector - for so she is, whether she realises it or not - is not some final victory. There will always be evil, there will always be chaos and darkness. Even if you had the power to do so, you cannot destroy evil without also destroying all that is good. No. The duty of the protector is not to win, it is to fight. It is to struggle and suffer and - ultimately - to die, that others may live in peace. The victory is the battle.
He feels his pulse slow, his breathing steady. The disquiet he had felt since arriving in this place dulls to a low murmur, like a distant crowd or a calm sea.
Still glaring defiance at Zariel, Sunday beats the injured Hellknight to death with a single lilac fist. Above her, the ruler of Avernus sighs, her face turning from cold rage to sadness.
“Haruman. Why kill one of the few who understood what was at stake? Why spend your energy trying to distract me, trying to defy me, when I’m the only one who can end the threat of the demons? I had hope for you. I know what you did, I know what you are here for. Yet I thought there was something that could be used. But you seem to have other plans.”
She spreads her wings, and in the distance the volcano spews forth a torrent of magma. Her lieutenants begin to descend, all three fiends throwing waves of eldritch energy at the Dawnlanders, Baine weathering a torrent of blows and Taffeta firing bolts of raw energy up at Zariel.
It isn’t enough, it will never be enough. But it doesn’t have to be. The battle is the victory.
Alone amidst the chaos, Sunday sits calmly on eLk’s back. As the Archduchess of Avernus attempts to wither Baine with necromantic energy, the diminutive tiefling takes a small oak leaf from her pouch and raises it to her lips, whistling with it as a child might with a blade of grass.
And hell freezes.
The pyroclasm sweeping down from the volcano hangs suspended, the gouts of flame licking up from the river of magma on which they stand caught between moments. Zariel and her minions are frozen in place, the Archduchess seemingly aware but unable to counteract divine will. For such it is. On the semi-molten ground before Sunday stands a figure both beautiful and terrible, the fury of an avalanche and the calm of a forest glade somehow distilled into one being.
Corellon smiles at Sunday, glancing at the oak leaf still clutched in her hand.
“I told you to call when all other hope had failed, my guardian. You did, and I am here. What do you need?”
From behind a blackened boulder floats Pieni’s piping voice.
“Kill this bitch.”
Corellon turns to regard the Aarakocra, nodding an acknowledgement, or perhaps a greeting, before turning back to Sunday.
“Is this the help you wish?”
Sunday nods.
“It is.”
Above them, Zariel’s eyes bulge in impotent fury, a single bead of sweat rolling down her porcelain face as she strives to be free, to counteract The Protector’s magic. Corellon looks up at her, then back to Sunday, face calm.
“Very well. But there is a cost, even for me.”
For the first time, Varis notices Corellon’s feet. In their past meetings, The First’s feet had always faded away, as though hidden by thick mist. Now they are aflame. The god doesn’t seem to be in pain, but it is clear that Avernus itself is trying to resist. Sunday hops lightly from eLk’s back, taking Corellon’s hands and closing her eyes.
From beneath the cracked magma of Coward’s Way, an impossible tree springs, burning even as it grows. It’s branches obliterate one of Zariel’s lieutenants, another swatting the Archduchess herself to the ground. Her face is a mask of pain and fury, though Corellon’s magic still prevents her from screaming. As quickly as it came, the tree vanishes, and as it does, the god collapses into Sunday’s arms. Without a word, she pulls them both onto eLk’s back and they vanish.
With a crash of sound, the natural flow of time resumes, and Zariel’s scream rends the air. Warding himself and Tuevel against the coming onslaught, Varis rides back to rejoin his companions.
With Sunday gone, they will need what protection I can offer.
As he rides, he speaks to the Archfiend, as much to buy time to think as because he believes it will have any real impact.
“We do not challenge your war, Archduchess. Fight the Abyss all you wish. We are here to protect our plane and our people. Close your rift and we have no conflict with you.”
She frowns, looking more closely at him now. With a few beats, her great feathered wings carry her up into the sky, black blood leaking from the wounds given her by a god.
“I can sense that you spent time here. I can sense that you have, willing or not, created a bond with Avernus. What do you care about the material plane? It is not my goal to destroy it, I simply have to sacrifice what is less important for what is all-important: the final victory in the Blood War. I will not close the rift, and now that I know of your plan, if once again we fight I shall give you no quarter. I do however respect your strength, so I shall give you one chance to walk away and leave this place.”
As she speaks, some of the wounds she received from Taffeta and from Corellon begin to close. Varis hears Shen’s cold, high voice in his head:
“When your enemy wishes peace, bring them war. Talk is cheap, and the perfect moment comes only once.”
It is as true for her as it is for us.
He casts a quick glance at his companions: Baine looks uncertain, but his grip on his maul is firm. Taffeta eyes the Archfiend, crossbow at the ready, and from behind a rock Pieni glares up at Zariel. He lets out a breath. He has met few so brave or so mighty as these with him now, yet against the Archduchess of the First, even they will not last long.
The battle is the victory.
He raises his head to meet her eyes.
“You say you can sense the bond I have made with this place. Perhaps then you can sense a little more about me. Perhaps you can sense that there are some sacrifices that can never be made. Perhaps you sense that this is a fight from which I cannot walk away. And you, Archduchess, though you are brilliant, have overreached. The Abyss howls at your doorstep, the warlords of Avernus nip at your heels, and the Archdukes of the other layers of hell scheme to overthrow you. A good general knows when to cut their losses. The material plane is beyond your reach.”
He has her full attention now, something like sorrow colouring her face.
“Very well. Let my enemies band together and come closer. I will deal with them all. I wish I had had more paladins like you when we rode from paradise. But alas, you are on the wrong side of this battle.”
With a scream of rage, her surviving lieutenant attacks, whipping up a storm of fire that engulfs Varis and Tuevel, and battle is rejoined in earnest. Eldritch energy fills the air, both sides inflicting horrific damage. Between them, Varis and Baine manage to obliterate Zariel’s lieutenant, as Pieni supports from cover and Taffeta snipes at the Archfiend herself. As he hangs in the air, ready to take the fight to her once more, Zariel levels a finger at the Grandmaster.
“Die.”
A bolt of twisting darkness slams into his chest, and with a wave of horror he feels his body begin to decay and wither. In desperation, he gasps a prayer to the Maimed God, one of the first he learned from Ser Lanith. It’s as though he has been plunged into icy water, and his teeth nearly crack as his jaw slams shut reflexively. Gasping for air, he looks to Zariel, ready for he next blow to fall, but her attention is not on him any longer. It is on something behind him, something beyond him.
“Bel, you fool!”
Turning his head, he sees the subject of her rage. From beyond the fiery peak, a creature soars toward them on wings of blackened leather. A mass of writhing muscle, it clutches a savage whip in one hand and a flaming sword in the other. Varis frowns - it appears to be a greater demon, a Balor, but it’s head is entirely enclosed in a mask of golden plates and chains. Ignoring the Dawnlanders, Zariel races to meet the creature as more of it’s kind appear and are met by some of Zariel’s own forces, newly arrived through great rents in the air.
As Varis turns back to look at his companions, there is a loud trumpeting sound, and a strange, golden furred creature appears beside Baine’s head.
“Hello” the creature says. “I think we should go. My master has a proposition for you.”
Many thanks to Malri 'Taffeta' Thistletop for making his extensive notes available.
“Fuck.”
***
Against a burning sky, Zariel’s wings are like sails of woven smoke. The flaming crown that enfolds her temples spits orange sparks, mirroring the volcano in the distance.
“What is this? A desperate show of force?”
As his companions mouth defiance - Sunday with indignant eloquence, Baine with his usual bluntness - Varis thinks on the Archfiend’s question. Why are they here? Why is he here? He glances up, taking in the figure of Zariel, in all her dark magnificence. Flanking her are two huge, red skinned fiends, each clutching a black iron mace, their rippling forms held aloft on enormous leathery wings. It does not take any great tactical acumen to know that they are overmatched. The Archduchess alone would probably be enough to crush the five of them, but she has the power of an entire realm at her disposal.
Why are we here?
He glances over in time to see Taffeta whisper something into her hands. Zariel sees it too, though she is busy responding to Sunday.
“You have no idea what you’re talking about. The material plane, all the planes - nothing matters but victory.”
Behind his visor, Varis smiles. The sentiment is familiar - a dark echo of what he himself has held true for some time now. But the erstwhile angel has failed to see what he himself realised long since. The duty of the protector - for so she is, whether she realises it or not - is not some final victory. There will always be evil, there will always be chaos and darkness. Even if you had the power to do so, you cannot destroy evil without also destroying all that is good. No. The duty of the protector is not to win, it is to fight. It is to struggle and suffer and - ultimately - to die, that others may live in peace. The victory is the battle.
He feels his pulse slow, his breathing steady. The disquiet he had felt since arriving in this place dulls to a low murmur, like a distant crowd or a calm sea.
Still glaring defiance at Zariel, Sunday beats the injured Hellknight to death with a single lilac fist. Above her, the ruler of Avernus sighs, her face turning from cold rage to sadness.
“Haruman. Why kill one of the few who understood what was at stake? Why spend your energy trying to distract me, trying to defy me, when I’m the only one who can end the threat of the demons? I had hope for you. I know what you did, I know what you are here for. Yet I thought there was something that could be used. But you seem to have other plans.”
She spreads her wings, and in the distance the volcano spews forth a torrent of magma. Her lieutenants begin to descend, all three fiends throwing waves of eldritch energy at the Dawnlanders, Baine weathering a torrent of blows and Taffeta firing bolts of raw energy up at Zariel.
It isn’t enough, it will never be enough. But it doesn’t have to be. The battle is the victory.
Alone amidst the chaos, Sunday sits calmly on eLk’s back. As the Archduchess of Avernus attempts to wither Baine with necromantic energy, the diminutive tiefling takes a small oak leaf from her pouch and raises it to her lips, whistling with it as a child might with a blade of grass.
And hell freezes.
The pyroclasm sweeping down from the volcano hangs suspended, the gouts of flame licking up from the river of magma on which they stand caught between moments. Zariel and her minions are frozen in place, the Archduchess seemingly aware but unable to counteract divine will. For such it is. On the semi-molten ground before Sunday stands a figure both beautiful and terrible, the fury of an avalanche and the calm of a forest glade somehow distilled into one being.
Corellon smiles at Sunday, glancing at the oak leaf still clutched in her hand.
“I told you to call when all other hope had failed, my guardian. You did, and I am here. What do you need?”
From behind a blackened boulder floats Pieni’s piping voice.
“Kill this bitch.”
Corellon turns to regard the Aarakocra, nodding an acknowledgement, or perhaps a greeting, before turning back to Sunday.
“Is this the help you wish?”
Sunday nods.
“It is.”
Above them, Zariel’s eyes bulge in impotent fury, a single bead of sweat rolling down her porcelain face as she strives to be free, to counteract The Protector’s magic. Corellon looks up at her, then back to Sunday, face calm.
“Very well. But there is a cost, even for me.”
For the first time, Varis notices Corellon’s feet. In their past meetings, The First’s feet had always faded away, as though hidden by thick mist. Now they are aflame. The god doesn’t seem to be in pain, but it is clear that Avernus itself is trying to resist. Sunday hops lightly from eLk’s back, taking Corellon’s hands and closing her eyes.
From beneath the cracked magma of Coward’s Way, an impossible tree springs, burning even as it grows. It’s branches obliterate one of Zariel’s lieutenants, another swatting the Archduchess herself to the ground. Her face is a mask of pain and fury, though Corellon’s magic still prevents her from screaming. As quickly as it came, the tree vanishes, and as it does, the god collapses into Sunday’s arms. Without a word, she pulls them both onto eLk’s back and they vanish.
With a crash of sound, the natural flow of time resumes, and Zariel’s scream rends the air. Warding himself and Tuevel against the coming onslaught, Varis rides back to rejoin his companions.
With Sunday gone, they will need what protection I can offer.
As he rides, he speaks to the Archfiend, as much to buy time to think as because he believes it will have any real impact.
“We do not challenge your war, Archduchess. Fight the Abyss all you wish. We are here to protect our plane and our people. Close your rift and we have no conflict with you.”
She frowns, looking more closely at him now. With a few beats, her great feathered wings carry her up into the sky, black blood leaking from the wounds given her by a god.
“I can sense that you spent time here. I can sense that you have, willing or not, created a bond with Avernus. What do you care about the material plane? It is not my goal to destroy it, I simply have to sacrifice what is less important for what is all-important: the final victory in the Blood War. I will not close the rift, and now that I know of your plan, if once again we fight I shall give you no quarter. I do however respect your strength, so I shall give you one chance to walk away and leave this place.”
As she speaks, some of the wounds she received from Taffeta and from Corellon begin to close. Varis hears Shen’s cold, high voice in his head:
“When your enemy wishes peace, bring them war. Talk is cheap, and the perfect moment comes only once.”
He grips the hilt of his sword, then stops.
He casts a quick glance at his companions: Baine looks uncertain, but his grip on his maul is firm. Taffeta eyes the Archfiend, crossbow at the ready, and from behind a rock Pieni glares up at Zariel. He lets out a breath. He has met few so brave or so mighty as these with him now, yet against the Archduchess of the First, even they will not last long.
The battle is the victory.
He raises his head to meet her eyes.
“You say you can sense the bond I have made with this place. Perhaps then you can sense a little more about me. Perhaps you can sense that there are some sacrifices that can never be made. Perhaps you sense that this is a fight from which I cannot walk away. And you, Archduchess, though you are brilliant, have overreached. The Abyss howls at your doorstep, the warlords of Avernus nip at your heels, and the Archdukes of the other layers of hell scheme to overthrow you. A good general knows when to cut their losses. The material plane is beyond your reach.”
He has her full attention now, something like sorrow colouring her face.
“Very well. Let my enemies band together and come closer. I will deal with them all. I wish I had had more paladins like you when we rode from paradise. But alas, you are on the wrong side of this battle.”
With a scream of rage, her surviving lieutenant attacks, whipping up a storm of fire that engulfs Varis and Tuevel, and battle is rejoined in earnest. Eldritch energy fills the air, both sides inflicting horrific damage. Between them, Varis and Baine manage to obliterate Zariel’s lieutenant, as Pieni supports from cover and Taffeta snipes at the Archfiend herself. As he hangs in the air, ready to take the fight to her once more, Zariel levels a finger at the Grandmaster.
“Die.”
A bolt of twisting darkness slams into his chest, and with a wave of horror he feels his body begin to decay and wither. In desperation, he gasps a prayer to the Maimed God, one of the first he learned from Ser Lanith. It’s as though he has been plunged into icy water, and his teeth nearly crack as his jaw slams shut reflexively. Gasping for air, he looks to Zariel, ready for he next blow to fall, but her attention is not on him any longer. It is on something behind him, something beyond him.
“Bel, you fool!”
Turning his head, he sees the subject of her rage. From beyond the fiery peak, a creature soars toward them on wings of blackened leather. A mass of writhing muscle, it clutches a savage whip in one hand and a flaming sword in the other. Varis frowns - it appears to be a greater demon, a Balor, but it’s head is entirely enclosed in a mask of golden plates and chains. Ignoring the Dawnlanders, Zariel races to meet the creature as more of it’s kind appear and are met by some of Zariel’s own forces, newly arrived through great rents in the air.
As Varis turns back to look at his companions, there is a loud trumpeting sound, and a strange, golden furred creature appears beside Baine’s head.
“Hello” the creature says. “I think we should go. My master has a proposition for you.”
Many thanks to Malri 'Taffeta' Thistletop for making his extensive notes available.
