The Pain With No Name (+ Research DTA)
Sept 19, 2022 17:51:56 GMT
Velania Kalugina, Andy D, and 2 more like this
Post by Jaezred Vandree on Sept 19, 2022 17:51:56 GMT
Co-written with DM_Youki, Glade, and Toothy.
Images of the manuscript by DM_Youki .
The translation of the first two pages of the Loviatar cult’s book by Professor Joris Hemstock has been delivered to Jaezred’s hands via Heret Velnnarul. Some dialect of Primordial on the left-hand page and archaic Thorass on the right-hand page, both now rendered in the Common tongue and yet, somehow, the text is still almost entirely nonsense. To make any heads or tails of it, he must turn to the brightest cretins in the Dawnlands: the scholars of Daring Academy.
“Pain With No Name” written at the top of the left-hand page, or Ke’ev Lelo Shem in the original Primordial, seems a good place to start. One of his drinking buddies, a rare antiques appraiser from Zakhara, points him to a particular group of young scholars in the Academy who specialise in elemental cultural studies.
In the library, Jaezred approaches the study group of barely-adult bookworms — not the people he would ever consider talking to had they not been directly recommended by his contact — and calmly states that he is looking for information on Pain With No Name. He had expected the scholars to jump at the opportunity to make some extra money, or to complain how busy they are to bump up the price of their service, but what he hadn’t expected is the group bursting into childish snickering. The laughter quickly dies down after an icy glare under an immaculate, raised eyebrow from him.
“Apologies, your lordship,” the most sensible of the group, a young water genasi girl says sheepishly. “We thought you were joking. Pain With No Name is not a subject of academic research—”
“Well, it is in mythology studies,” a human boy with a perpetually stuffed nose adds, adjusting his spectacles. “There was a dissertation in Za’Suul last year with a comparative study between the different genasi traditions—”
“Quite,” the girl interrupts before the boy can get turned into a turd stain on the table for his troubles. “What I meant is that it’s basically a genasi bogeyman. There are many creatures that cannot be defined properly due to the lack of shape, like Unnamable Horror. But Pain with No Name is not a creature, or at least it’s not a creature that has ever been described, it’s a children’s horror story. The story itself is very old, from before our elemental ancestors crossed paths with humanity. There are different mythological plots that feature it, but it’s never properly defined. It’s either a natural catastrophe, a metaphor for death, or just a general idea of suffering…”
After a second quirk of the eyebrow, the bookworms scatter between the bookshelves and, eventually, compile a selection of genasi myths. The primary sources are duly translated into Common for the good drow lord’s benefit. Most of them are cautionary tales about tragic events that cause suffering so indescribable that people cannot even express it: a pain with no name. So Loviatar expresses it for them. There is nobody left to grieve by the end of these stories.
“Now, does any of that sound familiar to you?”
Glade looks down at the stack of tomes and scrolls on genasi myths on the low table before her. From across it, Jaezred, Toothy, and Lady Jeziah, seated on a plush sofa, are staring at her with cups of tea in their hands. She picks up one of the books, curiously studying something that for her should be familiar, something that feels familiar, yet eluding her. She takes another book, observing its title, then glancing at the written text on the parchment scrolls. “Unfortunately, not really,” she replies to Jaezred. “Although, if this would be a concept, then… maybe there would be parallels to other cultures or texts. But sadly, I don’t think I have anything for certain that may help us.” Without skipping a beat, she flips one of the books in her hand open and begins reading it.
“Really? You’ve never heard these stories growing up?” says Jaezred.
“No…” she says while reading, stopping for a moment to give Jaezred an apologetic look. “Sorry, I wasn’t raised among other genasi. The stories I was told were different, more fey-inspired. But no.”
“Right… And what dialect did you say the Primordial text was in again?”
“The language was… Primordial… Or, an older version of it. It was hard to read.”
“Ah, I see. So it was neither Aquan, Ignan, Terran, nor Auran? Something else entirely?”
Glade looks once more at the notes, specifically the one mentioning the age of this folk tale. “Maybe… maybe it’s Primordial when it was first made? I-if the notes say that this myth is from before the birth of the genasi… Maybe it’s the initial version of Primordial?” Glade tilts her head, running the words through her mind, comparing them with the known genasi dialects. “It… It seems there’s not just one dialect used, but… also… some of the words are… off? It’s almost as if someone was trying to learn Primordial, but couldn’t decide which dialect to go for.”
“Hmm,” Jaezred intones, rubbing his chin as he stands up to pace slowly around the sofas in the parlour room. “It being proto-Primordial or something like that aligns with the older form of Thorass used, doesn’t it? What are we dealing with here — a genie of some kind? Or maybe something even older? The Pain With No Name may be a nebulous bogeyman today, but perhaps, in an age long gone by, it was something more… real and solid.”
“Like, if there’s smoke there’s also fire? Except the smoke is a story myth?” Toothy suggests. He has been spending most of his effort and concentration on understanding the conversation, his tea cup mid-sip for some time now.
“Maybe… it still is. Maybe that place was…” Glade’s voice trails off, her eyes wide in concern, her face as if struck by a grim realisation, slowly burying it in the book she was reading. Her eyes meet with Jaezred’s, concern and slight horror written in them. “Th-that… prayer…” Her gaze then meets Toothy’s. “Th-that thing… we fought. It came from the cellar, from that place of ‘prayers’… What if they are trying to bring whatever this ‘Pain With No Name’ back?”
“What thing? The living plants?”
The earth genasi shakes her head. “N-no. We went back there on a request from Iqpi, to hopefully deal with what was going on there. We encountered some ‘followers’, a creature seemingly made out of… maggots, that was also a priest of some sorts. It… The thing that this summoned... came from the cellar and it was made of… body parts… many of them. It… It was wrong… So wrong.”
“Oh, kinky. Well, did you kill it?”
Glade’s expression turns into one of confusion at Jaezred’s reaction. “Uhm... yes… yes, we did. Or at least, Toothy killed the thing that summoned it… and then it collapsed.”
Lady Jeziah, who up to this point has been quietly sipping tea with an air of benevolent interest and throwing an occasional concerned look at Toothy, checking that her son is not too affected by an encounter with Loviatans, smiles proudly into her cup. “Of course Loffy grew up to be a formidable fighter, but it makes one wonder if something that can be stricken down by a young adventurer would necessitate that amount of folklore,” she nods towards the book pile that Jaezred brought.
“Yes, indeed. This experimental monstrosity is not definitive proof of anything they were doing, much less of bringing a bogeyman to life. It seems to me the Loviatans had created a bodyguard that would have suffered every moment of its existence — quite in line with their philosophy.”
The Widow Miller gives a pained sigh and nods, falling quiet again.
Jaezred glances over at Toothy. “What about you, boy? Any surprising insights you would like to share?” he asks, though he is not expecting much.
Toothy has been listening attentively and throwing reassuring looks back at the worried ones given to him. “Surprising, I’m not sure. But the main cultist, the one with the mask, said, ‘It’s too late. My suffering has a voice. Can’t you hear it?’ I don’t really believe them, though. But maybe if they’re trying to summon a mythical being, it’s like a multistep process? Or trial and error. Hence the greedy limb creature.”
“Did you bring the body back, by any chance? Or maybe just the head?”
“No body to bring back, it was all magic maggots.”
“Shame. It would be convenient to have someone to interrogate. Well, I suppose I could always try asking the owner of the book…” he mutters mostly to himself, and leaves the thought dormant for now. “But perhaps before that, we might want to confirm whether they actually are trying to bring some ancient monstrosity to life.” His gaze bounces between Glade and Toothy. “Have you got any other yes or no questions in mind?”
“The summoning is the main one. Perhaps if they’ve already succeeded in summoning it?” says Toothy.
“Does this cult have more places of worship like the one we found?” suggests Glade.
Jaezred nods and strides over to a display shelf on one wall of the parlour, where a deck of tarot cards decorated with gold filigrees and bold, distinctive geometric designs sits. With Lady Jeziah’s permission, he takes it off the shelf and returns to the table, on which he places several ritual objects — two candles, some animal bones, a small crystal geode, a block of incense in a bowl of wood — before shuffling the tarot deck in his hands as he casts the commune spell.
At the end of 10 minutes, he lays three cards face-down on the table, and gestures for the others to take one each.
“My first question, O spirits: was the Pain With No Name an actual creature once upon a time?”
Lady Jeziah reaches a delicate hand out and turns the first card — Justice, inverted, with the balance upturned and the sword pointing down at her. The reversed Justice, meaning denial or unfairness, revives in Jaezred’s memory of the laughing scholars, dismissing Ke’ev Lelo Shem as a mere fairy tale. Clearly there is something much more material behind this old myth. Lady Miller, being herself familiar with the meanings of the cards, frowns.
Jaezred takes a deep breath before asking his second question. “Secondly: are the Loviatans in the Feythorn trying to summon or revive the Pain With No Name?”
Toothy pulls the middle card towards him and turns it over. Raising his eyebrows at the design of the card, he cheerfully shows it to his mother, and Jaezred catches a glimpse of the Queen of Pentacles, depicted here as a beautiful, silver-haired drow woman. Security. It appears the spirits are telling him that it is unlikely the Loviatans are attempting to do what they feared.
“And finally: do the Loviatans in the Feythorn have places of worship other than the basement chapel that Glade and Toothy found?”
Glade carefully, almost reverently turns her card around as she gives Jaezred a questioning gaze. It is another Major Arcana card, and it seems ominous at best. Normally, in upright position, Wheel of Fortune stands for positive change. But in this case, a positive change from what? No, a lesser diviner would make that misleading interpretation, but Jaezred is aware of the card’s implication of inevitability of change, both good and bad. The spirits are saying, not yet. The Loviatans have yet to get themselves a new hideout.
Jaezred reiterates the results of the commune to everyone in the room: yes, no, not yet.
“What are they doing if they’re not trying to summon or resurrect this creature…” he muses out loud. “Create a new one like it?”
Glade has been listening intently to Jaezred’s description of each of the cards and their meaning as she takes long, slow sips from her tea cup. At his last question, her face dawns a quizzical look as she recalls the verse from the book, the one written in ancient Primordial, reciting the last two out loud.
“‘From thy Throne of Silence, grant voice to my suffering.’ Maybe they’re trying to draw upon its power?”
“Hmm. Perhaps. Perhaps it isn’t dead, but lying dormant somewhere...”
Realising that there are more questions that can be asked of the spirits of the Witching Court, the drow lord picks up the tarot deck again, shuffling the three that had been drawn back into it. However, when he holds the deck to be drawn from again, half the cards suddenly slip and spill onto the table below, despite his firm and steady grip. He frowns. “Ah, the spirits are spent, I’m afraid. I suppose I’ll have to try another day.”
“Well, some things take time. Thank you so much, your help has been invaluable,” says Glade.
“Yeah, I think I understand a little more of what’s happening now, or at least a bit more of what we’re up against. But your help has been great! And with Sardaq redeemed, we have even more powerful help behind us,” Toothy adds.
“Good. Do keep me updated as we agreed upon, and Mr. Velnnarul too. I think he’d like to know what exactly is going on here.”
Toothy flashes him a big thumbs-up and Glade nods in agreement.
Images of the manuscript by DM_Youki .
The translation of the first two pages of the Loviatar cult’s book by Professor Joris Hemstock has been delivered to Jaezred’s hands via Heret Velnnarul. Some dialect of Primordial on the left-hand page and archaic Thorass on the right-hand page, both now rendered in the Common tongue and yet, somehow, the text is still almost entirely nonsense. To make any heads or tails of it, he must turn to the brightest cretins in the Dawnlands: the scholars of Daring Academy.
“Pain With No Name” written at the top of the left-hand page, or Ke’ev Lelo Shem in the original Primordial, seems a good place to start. One of his drinking buddies, a rare antiques appraiser from Zakhara, points him to a particular group of young scholars in the Academy who specialise in elemental cultural studies.
In the library, Jaezred approaches the study group of barely-adult bookworms — not the people he would ever consider talking to had they not been directly recommended by his contact — and calmly states that he is looking for information on Pain With No Name. He had expected the scholars to jump at the opportunity to make some extra money, or to complain how busy they are to bump up the price of their service, but what he hadn’t expected is the group bursting into childish snickering. The laughter quickly dies down after an icy glare under an immaculate, raised eyebrow from him.
“Apologies, your lordship,” the most sensible of the group, a young water genasi girl says sheepishly. “We thought you were joking. Pain With No Name is not a subject of academic research—”
“Well, it is in mythology studies,” a human boy with a perpetually stuffed nose adds, adjusting his spectacles. “There was a dissertation in Za’Suul last year with a comparative study between the different genasi traditions—”
“Quite,” the girl interrupts before the boy can get turned into a turd stain on the table for his troubles. “What I meant is that it’s basically a genasi bogeyman. There are many creatures that cannot be defined properly due to the lack of shape, like Unnamable Horror. But Pain with No Name is not a creature, or at least it’s not a creature that has ever been described, it’s a children’s horror story. The story itself is very old, from before our elemental ancestors crossed paths with humanity. There are different mythological plots that feature it, but it’s never properly defined. It’s either a natural catastrophe, a metaphor for death, or just a general idea of suffering…”
After a second quirk of the eyebrow, the bookworms scatter between the bookshelves and, eventually, compile a selection of genasi myths. The primary sources are duly translated into Common for the good drow lord’s benefit. Most of them are cautionary tales about tragic events that cause suffering so indescribable that people cannot even express it: a pain with no name. So Loviatar expresses it for them. There is nobody left to grieve by the end of these stories.
“Now, does any of that sound familiar to you?”
Glade looks down at the stack of tomes and scrolls on genasi myths on the low table before her. From across it, Jaezred, Toothy, and Lady Jeziah, seated on a plush sofa, are staring at her with cups of tea in their hands. She picks up one of the books, curiously studying something that for her should be familiar, something that feels familiar, yet eluding her. She takes another book, observing its title, then glancing at the written text on the parchment scrolls. “Unfortunately, not really,” she replies to Jaezred. “Although, if this would be a concept, then… maybe there would be parallels to other cultures or texts. But sadly, I don’t think I have anything for certain that may help us.” Without skipping a beat, she flips one of the books in her hand open and begins reading it.
“Really? You’ve never heard these stories growing up?” says Jaezred.
“No…” she says while reading, stopping for a moment to give Jaezred an apologetic look. “Sorry, I wasn’t raised among other genasi. The stories I was told were different, more fey-inspired. But no.”
“Right… And what dialect did you say the Primordial text was in again?”
“The language was… Primordial… Or, an older version of it. It was hard to read.”
“Ah, I see. So it was neither Aquan, Ignan, Terran, nor Auran? Something else entirely?”
Glade looks once more at the notes, specifically the one mentioning the age of this folk tale. “Maybe… maybe it’s Primordial when it was first made? I-if the notes say that this myth is from before the birth of the genasi… Maybe it’s the initial version of Primordial?” Glade tilts her head, running the words through her mind, comparing them with the known genasi dialects. “It… It seems there’s not just one dialect used, but… also… some of the words are… off? It’s almost as if someone was trying to learn Primordial, but couldn’t decide which dialect to go for.”
“Hmm,” Jaezred intones, rubbing his chin as he stands up to pace slowly around the sofas in the parlour room. “It being proto-Primordial or something like that aligns with the older form of Thorass used, doesn’t it? What are we dealing with here — a genie of some kind? Or maybe something even older? The Pain With No Name may be a nebulous bogeyman today, but perhaps, in an age long gone by, it was something more… real and solid.”
“Like, if there’s smoke there’s also fire? Except the smoke is a story myth?” Toothy suggests. He has been spending most of his effort and concentration on understanding the conversation, his tea cup mid-sip for some time now.
“Maybe… it still is. Maybe that place was…” Glade’s voice trails off, her eyes wide in concern, her face as if struck by a grim realisation, slowly burying it in the book she was reading. Her eyes meet with Jaezred’s, concern and slight horror written in them. “Th-that… prayer…” Her gaze then meets Toothy’s. “Th-that thing… we fought. It came from the cellar, from that place of ‘prayers’… What if they are trying to bring whatever this ‘Pain With No Name’ back?”
“What thing? The living plants?”
The earth genasi shakes her head. “N-no. We went back there on a request from Iqpi, to hopefully deal with what was going on there. We encountered some ‘followers’, a creature seemingly made out of… maggots, that was also a priest of some sorts. It… The thing that this summoned... came from the cellar and it was made of… body parts… many of them. It… It was wrong… So wrong.”
“Oh, kinky. Well, did you kill it?”
Glade’s expression turns into one of confusion at Jaezred’s reaction. “Uhm... yes… yes, we did. Or at least, Toothy killed the thing that summoned it… and then it collapsed.”
Lady Jeziah, who up to this point has been quietly sipping tea with an air of benevolent interest and throwing an occasional concerned look at Toothy, checking that her son is not too affected by an encounter with Loviatans, smiles proudly into her cup. “Of course Loffy grew up to be a formidable fighter, but it makes one wonder if something that can be stricken down by a young adventurer would necessitate that amount of folklore,” she nods towards the book pile that Jaezred brought.
“Yes, indeed. This experimental monstrosity is not definitive proof of anything they were doing, much less of bringing a bogeyman to life. It seems to me the Loviatans had created a bodyguard that would have suffered every moment of its existence — quite in line with their philosophy.”
The Widow Miller gives a pained sigh and nods, falling quiet again.
Jaezred glances over at Toothy. “What about you, boy? Any surprising insights you would like to share?” he asks, though he is not expecting much.
Toothy has been listening attentively and throwing reassuring looks back at the worried ones given to him. “Surprising, I’m not sure. But the main cultist, the one with the mask, said, ‘It’s too late. My suffering has a voice. Can’t you hear it?’ I don’t really believe them, though. But maybe if they’re trying to summon a mythical being, it’s like a multistep process? Or trial and error. Hence the greedy limb creature.”
“Did you bring the body back, by any chance? Or maybe just the head?”
“No body to bring back, it was all magic maggots.”
“Shame. It would be convenient to have someone to interrogate. Well, I suppose I could always try asking the owner of the book…” he mutters mostly to himself, and leaves the thought dormant for now. “But perhaps before that, we might want to confirm whether they actually are trying to bring some ancient monstrosity to life.” His gaze bounces between Glade and Toothy. “Have you got any other yes or no questions in mind?”
“The summoning is the main one. Perhaps if they’ve already succeeded in summoning it?” says Toothy.
“Does this cult have more places of worship like the one we found?” suggests Glade.
Jaezred nods and strides over to a display shelf on one wall of the parlour, where a deck of tarot cards decorated with gold filigrees and bold, distinctive geometric designs sits. With Lady Jeziah’s permission, he takes it off the shelf and returns to the table, on which he places several ritual objects — two candles, some animal bones, a small crystal geode, a block of incense in a bowl of wood — before shuffling the tarot deck in his hands as he casts the commune spell.
At the end of 10 minutes, he lays three cards face-down on the table, and gestures for the others to take one each.
“My first question, O spirits: was the Pain With No Name an actual creature once upon a time?”
Lady Jeziah reaches a delicate hand out and turns the first card — Justice, inverted, with the balance upturned and the sword pointing down at her. The reversed Justice, meaning denial or unfairness, revives in Jaezred’s memory of the laughing scholars, dismissing Ke’ev Lelo Shem as a mere fairy tale. Clearly there is something much more material behind this old myth. Lady Miller, being herself familiar with the meanings of the cards, frowns.
Jaezred takes a deep breath before asking his second question. “Secondly: are the Loviatans in the Feythorn trying to summon or revive the Pain With No Name?”
Toothy pulls the middle card towards him and turns it over. Raising his eyebrows at the design of the card, he cheerfully shows it to his mother, and Jaezred catches a glimpse of the Queen of Pentacles, depicted here as a beautiful, silver-haired drow woman. Security. It appears the spirits are telling him that it is unlikely the Loviatans are attempting to do what they feared.
“And finally: do the Loviatans in the Feythorn have places of worship other than the basement chapel that Glade and Toothy found?”
Glade carefully, almost reverently turns her card around as she gives Jaezred a questioning gaze. It is another Major Arcana card, and it seems ominous at best. Normally, in upright position, Wheel of Fortune stands for positive change. But in this case, a positive change from what? No, a lesser diviner would make that misleading interpretation, but Jaezred is aware of the card’s implication of inevitability of change, both good and bad. The spirits are saying, not yet. The Loviatans have yet to get themselves a new hideout.
Jaezred reiterates the results of the commune to everyone in the room: yes, no, not yet.
“What are they doing if they’re not trying to summon or resurrect this creature…” he muses out loud. “Create a new one like it?”
Glade has been listening intently to Jaezred’s description of each of the cards and their meaning as she takes long, slow sips from her tea cup. At his last question, her face dawns a quizzical look as she recalls the verse from the book, the one written in ancient Primordial, reciting the last two out loud.
“‘From thy Throne of Silence, grant voice to my suffering.’ Maybe they’re trying to draw upon its power?”
“Hmm. Perhaps. Perhaps it isn’t dead, but lying dormant somewhere...”
Realising that there are more questions that can be asked of the spirits of the Witching Court, the drow lord picks up the tarot deck again, shuffling the three that had been drawn back into it. However, when he holds the deck to be drawn from again, half the cards suddenly slip and spill onto the table below, despite his firm and steady grip. He frowns. “Ah, the spirits are spent, I’m afraid. I suppose I’ll have to try another day.”
“Well, some things take time. Thank you so much, your help has been invaluable,” says Glade.
“Yeah, I think I understand a little more of what’s happening now, or at least a bit more of what we’re up against. But your help has been great! And with Sardaq redeemed, we have even more powerful help behind us,” Toothy adds.
“Good. Do keep me updated as we agreed upon, and Mr. Velnnarul too. I think he’d like to know what exactly is going on here.”
Toothy flashes him a big thumbs-up and Glade nods in agreement.