The Gamble - 27/08 - Asmodeus, Lord of the Hells
Aug 28, 2024 18:30:18 GMT
Delilah Daybreaker, Andy D, and 6 more like this
Post by andycd on Aug 28, 2024 18:30:18 GMT
Carpenters, sculptors, smiths of metal both mundane and precious, weavers and artists of all schools, all have bent their minds in various ways towards the design of the most perfect throne. A throne is far more than the most important seat in any given room, of course. It is the very embodiment of the station - even without its occupant, you should look at the throne and see them there. The most perfect throne should convey the gravity of the power wielded from it, and not simply hold the bearer but propel them forward in every moment like a constant tidal wave of authority mounting over their back.
Deep in the Hells, halls of artists and artisans line blighted valleys, damned to strive towards a single goal - that most perfect throne for the Lord of Evil. They toil still.
All this is to say it was not a surprise to find Lord Asmodeus standing in his Great (and Terrible) Hall, reading through the papers brought to him by Empress Fionn IX, resplendent in a pearl-studded ball gown.
A final note on the scene - the Empress, of course, was there because every servant in the Lord's House was a king or other ruler who pledged to serve him. Sometimes it's ok to be literal, and having your entire house cleaned and kept by the rulers of the worlds above is a decadence which cannot be matched. They even still wore their finery and jewels, at Asmodeus’ insistence. It drove the point home, and those gold chains were very heavy, as they served out the duration of their sentence.
The papers made for fascinating reading - a stack of collated reports regarding a place called “The Dawnlands.”
For example, armies from the Dawnlands were instrumental in thwarting Zariel’s most promising ploy in centuries. Some even went toe to toe with the fallen angel, until Corellon himself intervened in Avernus. Asmodeus had heard of this happening of course, but the origin of the armies hadn't been a matter of note.
More reports, more ruined plans. The Sanguine Rose, Mogtron the Unjust, Khingo the Rakshasa, the Heralds of Blades and Ash - all tangled with the Dawnlands and lost.
This already merited a modicum of his unholy attention - it doesn't do to have too many heroes. And then they had the audacity to rob him? Perhaps heroes was too strong a term.
Jewels, books, cursed paintings and cigars - mostly simple items, almost worthless. Almost. He had incinerated the remainder of those cigars. Smoking them when he knew someone else out there was doing the same just felt cheap.
Asmodeus snapped his fingers and a small flaming portal appeared in the air beside him. “Show me Harriet the Sly,” he commanded, naming one of the prisoners broken out of the painted prison he had bound her in. The fires shimmered and stilled into an image of a young woman in black leather armour conducting some sort of martial drill with some other soldiers.
The Lord of the Hells turned the angle of the spell so that it was looking past her - up to the snapping banners of black and gold, and up to the oddly designed black castle on the hill. It was called, he checked his notes, Castle Daybreak. And it was unequivocally in the Dawnlands, owned by one Lady Oziah Daybreaker, Commander of the Daybreaker Legions. Looking at this scene with eyes that can condemn a soul at a thousand paces, he could just make out his own portrait hanging over a fireplace within those walls.
Fascinating.
Lord Asmodeus doesn’t make rash decisions. He doesn’t make snap judgements or hasty plans. Asmodeus is patient. He has had to be, and he always shall be.
So, what were their levers going to be? A host of powerful individuals? There's pride in there for sure. Mercenaries who only seem to work when hired? That’s greed and sloth. And the Heralds certainly showed they have plenty of lust. That's more than enough to work with. Not to mention the classic heroic weaknesses - pity, duty, empathy, mercy and the like.
First things first, some exploration, some understanding, some introductions. He looked over at the man sitting comfortably on the floor in the corner of the room, idly and calmly reading a book while a coin flipped endlessly in the air near his head. Asmodeus’ lips twisted, unclear if a smile or a sneer. Perhaps they could solve a problem for him while they were at it…
===
The portal closed leaving Lord Asmodeus shaking his head in amazement in his Great Hall, the room now only containing himself, the dejected Gambler and a Rakshasa the adventurers had known as Sue Denim, who had wisely been keeping very quiet in the wild exchange that had just happened.
They’d certainly delivered on the chaotic promise of the Dawnlands. There was no denying that. The group had achieved their objective in a matter of hours, and then when surprised and confronted with the Lord of the Hells himself, that Helmite had stood there and tried to play Oaths and Contracts with him. The paladin had looked him right in the eye and stood his ground, upholding his oath, his contract, with his very life.
Such stubborn strength. Such glaring weakness.
Still, no matter. Adelard made his point and now Asmodeus only had three hours to play with Tymora’s trinkets before sending them over to her realm. There was still plenty of damage he could do by then. Not to mention the fool hadn’t even thought to specify the contents of that box. Let the man be impressed with himself - fuel that pride. Lord Asmodeus was big enough to stumble a little to tarnish a man’s heart. Now then…
There was a long, dead silence. Everyone in the room looked at the same spot, where a box had sat on the carpet not sixty seconds ago. That spot was empty.
===
The ashes of the Rakshasa known as Sue were being swept away by King Rufus Gilgenny, and a few other assorted royalty were scrubbing away the scorch marks on the wall. The Gambler had fled - a wise choice. But Asmodeus was calm again. He understood now why Zariel had struggled before. The scrying mirror was brought forth for a third time that day, and he waved a hand at it slowly, not rushing, never rushing.
A simple, beautifully kept shrine in a small house. Robin Damned Montajay. And the Lost Rolling Bones of Tymora, sitting on the shrine as light enveloped it and the box vanished.
Lord Asmodeus let out the longest sigh of relief he had uttered in years. The halfling had sent it to Tymora after all. He was in the clear. He’d promised a messenger would deliver it, and it had been. He motioned to King Gilgenny.
“Tell the legions to stand down, Rufus. We won’t need to invade the Material today,” he said, just a shade more wearily than he meant to. The dead royal bowed deeply and scurried out of the room.
Asmodeus leaned against a black stone pillar for a moment, shaking his head once again in even deeper amazement. He must have been practically blind to have missed that box being stolen from right under his feet. The audacity. Well, it would seem the Dawnlanders got One Underestimation from him. It would not happen a second time.
“You there,” he said, pointing at one of the royals scrubbing his walls. “Fetch me my Shit List. I’ve got some names to add.”
Deep in the Hells, halls of artists and artisans line blighted valleys, damned to strive towards a single goal - that most perfect throne for the Lord of Evil. They toil still.
All this is to say it was not a surprise to find Lord Asmodeus standing in his Great (and Terrible) Hall, reading through the papers brought to him by Empress Fionn IX, resplendent in a pearl-studded ball gown.
A final note on the scene - the Empress, of course, was there because every servant in the Lord's House was a king or other ruler who pledged to serve him. Sometimes it's ok to be literal, and having your entire house cleaned and kept by the rulers of the worlds above is a decadence which cannot be matched. They even still wore their finery and jewels, at Asmodeus’ insistence. It drove the point home, and those gold chains were very heavy, as they served out the duration of their sentence.
The papers made for fascinating reading - a stack of collated reports regarding a place called “The Dawnlands.”
For example, armies from the Dawnlands were instrumental in thwarting Zariel’s most promising ploy in centuries. Some even went toe to toe with the fallen angel, until Corellon himself intervened in Avernus. Asmodeus had heard of this happening of course, but the origin of the armies hadn't been a matter of note.
More reports, more ruined plans. The Sanguine Rose, Mogtron the Unjust, Khingo the Rakshasa, the Heralds of Blades and Ash - all tangled with the Dawnlands and lost.
This already merited a modicum of his unholy attention - it doesn't do to have too many heroes. And then they had the audacity to rob him? Perhaps heroes was too strong a term.
Jewels, books, cursed paintings and cigars - mostly simple items, almost worthless. Almost. He had incinerated the remainder of those cigars. Smoking them when he knew someone else out there was doing the same just felt cheap.
Asmodeus snapped his fingers and a small flaming portal appeared in the air beside him. “Show me Harriet the Sly,” he commanded, naming one of the prisoners broken out of the painted prison he had bound her in. The fires shimmered and stilled into an image of a young woman in black leather armour conducting some sort of martial drill with some other soldiers.
The Lord of the Hells turned the angle of the spell so that it was looking past her - up to the snapping banners of black and gold, and up to the oddly designed black castle on the hill. It was called, he checked his notes, Castle Daybreak. And it was unequivocally in the Dawnlands, owned by one Lady Oziah Daybreaker, Commander of the Daybreaker Legions. Looking at this scene with eyes that can condemn a soul at a thousand paces, he could just make out his own portrait hanging over a fireplace within those walls.
Fascinating.
Lord Asmodeus doesn’t make rash decisions. He doesn’t make snap judgements or hasty plans. Asmodeus is patient. He has had to be, and he always shall be.
So, what were their levers going to be? A host of powerful individuals? There's pride in there for sure. Mercenaries who only seem to work when hired? That’s greed and sloth. And the Heralds certainly showed they have plenty of lust. That's more than enough to work with. Not to mention the classic heroic weaknesses - pity, duty, empathy, mercy and the like.
First things first, some exploration, some understanding, some introductions. He looked over at the man sitting comfortably on the floor in the corner of the room, idly and calmly reading a book while a coin flipped endlessly in the air near his head. Asmodeus’ lips twisted, unclear if a smile or a sneer. Perhaps they could solve a problem for him while they were at it…
===
The portal closed leaving Lord Asmodeus shaking his head in amazement in his Great Hall, the room now only containing himself, the dejected Gambler and a Rakshasa the adventurers had known as Sue Denim, who had wisely been keeping very quiet in the wild exchange that had just happened.
They’d certainly delivered on the chaotic promise of the Dawnlands. There was no denying that. The group had achieved their objective in a matter of hours, and then when surprised and confronted with the Lord of the Hells himself, that Helmite had stood there and tried to play Oaths and Contracts with him. The paladin had looked him right in the eye and stood his ground, upholding his oath, his contract, with his very life.
Such stubborn strength. Such glaring weakness.
Still, no matter. Adelard made his point and now Asmodeus only had three hours to play with Tymora’s trinkets before sending them over to her realm. There was still plenty of damage he could do by then. Not to mention the fool hadn’t even thought to specify the contents of that box. Let the man be impressed with himself - fuel that pride. Lord Asmodeus was big enough to stumble a little to tarnish a man’s heart. Now then…
There was a long, dead silence. Everyone in the room looked at the same spot, where a box had sat on the carpet not sixty seconds ago. That spot was empty.
===
The ashes of the Rakshasa known as Sue were being swept away by King Rufus Gilgenny, and a few other assorted royalty were scrubbing away the scorch marks on the wall. The Gambler had fled - a wise choice. But Asmodeus was calm again. He understood now why Zariel had struggled before. The scrying mirror was brought forth for a third time that day, and he waved a hand at it slowly, not rushing, never rushing.
A simple, beautifully kept shrine in a small house. Robin Damned Montajay. And the Lost Rolling Bones of Tymora, sitting on the shrine as light enveloped it and the box vanished.
Lord Asmodeus let out the longest sigh of relief he had uttered in years. The halfling had sent it to Tymora after all. He was in the clear. He’d promised a messenger would deliver it, and it had been. He motioned to King Gilgenny.
“Tell the legions to stand down, Rufus. We won’t need to invade the Material today,” he said, just a shade more wearily than he meant to. The dead royal bowed deeply and scurried out of the room.
Asmodeus leaned against a black stone pillar for a moment, shaking his head once again in even deeper amazement. He must have been practically blind to have missed that box being stolen from right under his feet. The audacity. Well, it would seem the Dawnlanders got One Underestimation from him. It would not happen a second time.
“You there,” he said, pointing at one of the royals scrubbing his walls. “Fetch me my Shit List. I’ve got some names to add.”