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Post by Jaezred Vandree on May 30, 2022 7:28:17 GMT
Fear
"Have you ever been up close to dragon fire, dear Countess? Felt the Hellish heat on your skin, so hot that it burns off your arm hair even when you're thirty feet away? Or seen a man be melted by it, bones and all?"
"Melted? Oh dear gods, no!"
"Well, I have, and it is a sight I shan't ever forget. Haunts me in my reverie. The gith use the fire breath of their dragons like we do artillery. Except their artillery can fly over walls. Go straight for the civillians and the food supplies for good measure. Like your warehouses, for example, Mr. Forsythe. Leave the survivors to starve."
"By Helm..."
"That's war, I'm afraid, my friends. We can only hope that the Daring Army has enough funds to buy enough ballistae." He pauses to let that sink into the very opulent crowd. "And, oh— Did I mention the raiding? The gith sure love their silver."
All eyes turn to a silver dragonborn sitting by the bar, who is now clutching the silver jewellery hanging off their body closely with their claws.
"Well, my friends," he continues, "if these news frighten you — and I do apologise for that — there is no shortage of mercenaries in Baldur's Gate or Neverwinter who would be most happy to cross the ocean and slay dragons for you. We can all benefit from a little extra protection, now don't we?"
As panicked murmurs bubble out across the tavern, Jaezred takes a long sip of wine and smirks behind the glass. People — lowborn or highborn, rich or poor — are easy to control once you strike at the one common factor that drives their decisions: fear and loathing.
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Post by Jaezred Vandree on Jun 6, 2022 13:10:02 GMT
FriendsIt is late evening in the Gilded Mirror. The woman they call the Duchess slips into Jaezred's booth, sitting opposite him. She seems to wear slightly different outfits each time he sees her, but she is typically in some variation of pink gown. This one is a little more compact than her usual large ballgown, yet is still loud and billowy as she joins you at the table. "Well, darling, why would the renowned Lord Jaezred want to speak with little old me? I do hope it's not"—she looks around conspiratorially—"anything underhanded?" Jaezred raises an eyebrow. There is a strange blur in his vision when he looks at her, like she is just below the surface of water. It takes him half a moment to realise that his witch sight is sensing some powerful transmutation magic, but isn't able to see through it. Perhaps because this form she has taken is, in many ways, her true form indeed. "When am I not doing anything underhanded, Your Grace?" he says in a teasing tone. "It's been far too long. How has Your Grace been?" "Busy, that's for certain, my lord. Counter-espionage versus githyanki in a stolen Netherese flying city was certainly not on my bingo card for Daring Heights. Though 'surprising faction attacks the city' should practically be the centre square. How about yourself?" "Fine, very fine. I admit I should've been more prepared for this myself, given that something ludicrous always seems to happen here every six months. Like clockwork. Now... What's this about counter-espionage I hear?" "Hardly surprising, given the circumstances. I'm sure one of the gith will get through my nets somewhere, but one does one's best. And of course, one has to be careful of spies from all sorts of corners." She smiles a friendly but ever-so-slightly tight smile. "So darling, am I addressing an upstanding member of the Dawnlands adventuring community, a conspirator of the Witching Court, or somewhere in between?" A grin slowly spreads across Jaezred's face. "Your Grace is talking to someone who's offering help. I'm sure you're in need of more hands on deck since the High Diviner has still got his soul in a glass bauble." He flippantly waves a hand at that. "I think I've found a temporary replacement for you, but she's not ready yet. So, for now...how about you and I do a little collaboration? I have some thoughts on how we can combine divination magic with some good, old-fashioned field work..." The Duchess' smile broadens as she slowly side-eyes him. "Dodging the question, reminding me of my weakened position, and making an irresistible offer with no obvious strings attached? At least I have my answer." She leans forward across the table and searches his face openly. The haze over her image in Jaezred's eyes resolves itself with just a little focus, though the presence of powerful magic about the Duchess' person is clear. "You have me interested, Jaezred. Tell me more. I'll order us some drinks." He leans in closer as well and props his chin up on a palm. "You had me at drinks."
Co-written with andycd.
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Post by Jaezred Vandree on Jun 6, 2022 16:21:21 GMT
Blinds
Casting scrying on Dawnlander volunteer scouts and utilising telepathic communication chains was a clever way of avoiding the problems that can spring from failed direct scrying attempts on the enemy, so Jaezred thought. (One needs to pat oneself on the back once in a while.) And it worked exceedingly well on the first tenday. Together with the Duchess, they have managed to gather a prodigious amount of intelligence on the movements of the githyanki and their fearsome red dragons.
But the idea is far from being problem-free itself. Scouts get found out. They are captured. They die. Or they make mistakes and waste precious hours and resources pursuing dead ends.
Moreover, they're starting to notice a trend with the gith. At times, they appear entirely invisible and soundless to the scrying sensor. Other times, both the sensor and telepathic connection are abruptly severed when their scouts get closer to a hostile encampment.
Anti-divination wards. The enemy is starting to catch on, and catch on fast.
If they can scale up this small, experimental operation he and the Duchess are helming within the week, he wagers they would be able to outspeed most of the gith army and squeeze as much out of it as possible before Gadenthor arrives. But there are simply not enough skilled mages at the Academy or elsewhere in the Dawnlands for this. Besides, would the Council even trust him with that much power?
Jaezred leans back in his chair with a heavy sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. His eyes ache from staring into his black crystal ball for too long. Celia, sitting by his side, casts a concerned glance at him.
He needs to gather more help. From beyond the Material Plane.
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Post by Jaezred Vandree on Jun 12, 2022 13:45:53 GMT
Bargain
Jaezred had been waiting for weeks for this audience. Now both he and Celia are standing before Queen Nicnevin, the Lady of Copper and Crystal, the Moonweaver, waiting to hear the terms of the deal they have just struck. His gaze trails upwards to the large Ginat quartz above their heads, jutting out of the high vaulted ceiling and reflecting the eternal moonlight from outside to bathe the ritual chamber in soft, silver light. It is the closest thing he knows of to Celia's moonlit crystal ball, which was destroyed during the gith assault on the Night Circus.
Nicnevin's moss-green eyes glow and a flash of orange ripples through her fiery copper hair as she reveals her terms. She will grant Celia a focus similar to the Ginat crystal — smaller and suitable for a mortal to attune to — for the fortune teller to use in her divinations. In exchange, Celia must give the Witch-Queen a single heartbeat — the duration of which she will use her abilities to serve the Court. However, this heartbeat will be extended to last an entire year.
Jaezred curiously holds Celia's wrist up to his ear once they are out of the ritual chamber. It's true — she no longer has a pulse. And yet the silver-haired half-elf looks as healthy and alive as ever. He suspects whatever magic Nicnevin has wrought upon her body to keep her from dying in this state might even slow her aging as well.
But more importantly, Celia now has a pocket-sized moonlit crystal in her hands and Jaezred has secured her willing service to the Witching Court — something he intended from the very beginning. All in all, a very favourable outcome for them both.
Still, the fey are such strange creatures.
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Post by Jaezred Vandree on Jun 29, 2022 6:46:30 GMT
Prophecy
"STOP! You there!" Jaezred marches into the middle of the squadron and roughly grabs a young human soldier by the collar of his gambeson. "Why are you holding your bow like you want to die?"
The man squirms under the drow's harsh crimson glare. "Uh, I-I-I— I'm sorry, milord..."
The young white dragon — a large wooden effigy of a winged drake that Jaezred had transformed into the real thing — lands to perch on the thirty-foot-high battlements, watching the archer being admonished with cold blue eyes. It has a number of arrows sticking out of its flank, a few having hit their mark on the spot under its wings.
"Don't apologise to me, boy," Jaezred growls. "Apologise to Hill over there if you intend him never to see his children again. Apologise to all your comrades if you want everyone here to go home in pine boxes! Is that what you want, boy? Burned to a crisp so your next of kin won't recognise you?"
A subtle fey magic radiating out from Jaezred seeps into the young man's senses, steeling the fear in his eyes into determination. He stands straighter and taller as he takes a breath to exclaim, "No sir!"
"Good!" Jaezred releases the soldier from his grip and turns to walk back to his position. The dragon flaps its wings and takes flight once more, circling around in the sky against the tiny, barely-visible outline of Gadenthor on the horizon. "Now look alive, gentlemen! NOCK—!"
He is interrupted by the sound of approaching footsteps, and he turns around to see an old tiefling dressed in a white tuxedo, bandages covering most of the severe burn marks that now blot his skin, ambling up towards him. Danse, the surviving ringmaster of the Night Circus.
"Lord Jaezred. I thought you might be here," he says. "I wish to thank you myself for the care you have given me and Celia since my circus fell to flames. I have a note from her here, she said you will find this useful."
Danse passes a folded piece of card stock to Jaezred. He unfolds it and reads Celia's delicate handwriting in silver ink:
With flashing swords and keen minds, the gith hunt their prey. But the greatest danger lies unseen; a giant with wings, wreathed in flame. This is no ordinary drake, sly and cunning, only blood his thirst will slake. Should he bypass the defences all will be lost. Slay the beast and hold until the dawn, hold until the thundering of hooves brings hope to the Dawnlands.
A smile spreads across his face. He has always known his investment in her would pay off.
"Thank you, Danse," he says solemnly as he folds the card and slips it into his coat pocket. "Now— Ah, excuse me. PULL! PULL AND HOLD! Now, you should return to the Mountain Palace post-haste. Please deliver my utmost gratitude to Miss Celia."
Danse shakes his head. "No, my lord. I intend to be here for the fight."
Jaezred raises a brow. He glances down at the white violin the tiefling is holding in his left hand, and looks back up to see the vengeance seething behind his eyes.
"Well, I won’t stop you, but where will you be stationed?" he asks.
"I do not know yet. Wherever I may be needed, I suppose."
Jaezred nods and, with a wave of the hand, summons the tome of witchcraft. "In that case, write your name in the book. It will grant you a small measure of protection should the need arises. Let's hope it doesn't."
As Danse takes up the raven feather quill to sign his name on the page, Jaezred turns back to the squadron of archers and artillerymen. Despite Nicnevin's magical protection, he knows the old man is unlikely to survive the night. The same goes for the soldiers here — many of them will not live to see a new red dawn. There is even a chance that he won't, too. But that is the cost of war. That is the cost of victory and freedom.
The dragon completes its loop in the sky and swoops right in front of the waiting archers. Jaezred swings down his arm. "FIRE!"
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