Visions of Mitra & Ulim

Downtime 10 ❖ July 16, 2020

Late one evening Aeris takes up the rank brooch and calls to the shade of Kasparan the Navigator. He is sitting in a chair at the bar, as though he had already been there. He takes a drink of the harsh exile brandy and listens. He says that he understands the demands of power, that the Chatelaine is an obstacle that must be carefully negotiated, but begs for Aeris not to allow her to deter them from their mission to find the fate of his love. “You're a knight of honour, I can tell that. And I see a pallor upon your skin one only acquires by the light of the Necromantic Moon. You've died, or come close, and you know the yearning I feel. You've glimpsed the violet moon and you know the keen melancholy its light brings.”

Gallows sits by a fire with the Duelling Sabre of Jurra Surashi propped up across from him. They talk, man and sword. It tells tales of Jurra Surashi, her daring and charm, her poetry and wit, the wrenching loss of her death. In its words he hears the echo of his own feelings for a leader he admired, and begins to see why the blade has failed to find another wielder who could measure up.

Over the days following the return of the Parapraxis more crates of books are delivered to the Yellow Tower. In studying the magic of Shirishanu's Fabulous Verse, Caenn comes upon a tale of the Lady Shirishanu from the days when Zyan last had contact with Rastingdrung:

A century before Ultan's door opened in the space beneath the stairs of a printshop off Eidolon Alley, an equally incongruous door was seen floating on the oily waters of Lake Wooling by a fisherman heading at dawn to catch two-headed trout. Trying to haul the valuable door out, the fisherman accidentally opened it. This induced the strangest vertigo, for the door seemed to open not into the watery depths of the lake, but rather into airy jungle heights with no land in sight. Soon word of this impossible portal made its way to the Chatelaine. Her rule was then young, and she had not hardened and been so corrupted by the power she wielded, which was in those days less absolute, more in need of compromise and friendship. But her magic was potent even then, and there was a man who served her, a sworn knight, who drew power from her blessing. His name was Sir Garanax, and he loved her not a little. She knew, or at least suspected, where the door led, and sent Garanax beyond its bourn as ambassador and champion.In those days, the Zyanese aristocracy still travelled the White Jungle. Thus, in his jungle travels, Garanax came to know the nobles of that city, and eventually found his way to the court of Lathanon, last of the Incandescent Kings. He was often a guest at the King's legendary Hanging Palace in the lower levels of the jungle. It was there that he met Lathanon's concubine, the unparalleled Lady Shirishanu--Guide, warrior, poet, beloved of the Sibilant Maiden. Garanax was won over by Shirishanu's courage, grace, and potent fancy.Soon she began to eclipse the Chatelaine in his heart. More and more he clung to the oaths he had sworn the witch queen of Rastingdrung as shield to protect himself against these divided loyalties. The Chatelaine was delighted by this connection to the royalty of Zyan, a far more illustrious--and wealthy--lineage than any available to her in the waking world, and encouraged his connection to Lathanon's court and Shirishanu at every turn. But it was not easy for Garanax, who longed more and more to be by his lady of the dreamlands, and who felt even his oaths to the Chatelaine threaten to become hollow words. And he feared that were his vows to become empty promises he would no longer be a knight.

Caenn & Aeris seek an audience with the Chatelaine. She greets them with indulgent feline delight and has her slaves serve the finest fragrant wine from her cellars. She resists discussing the fate of the Parapraxis, but explains that in two days the Festival of the Sybarites will occur, and invites the party to a grand banquet as guests of honour, where there will be ample time to discuss business between the festivities.

She corners Aeris at one point and asks about Bar Saturn; making it clear that she expects anyone operating such an enterprise in Zyan to report back to her, in particular she wants to learn the state of Zyan Above; does Lathanon still sit upon the Orchid Throne? Have the Zyanese been able to arrest their long decline?

But things are already afoot at the bar to which the Chatelaine is not privy. In the hidden armoury of the Inquisitor's Theatre, far from the prying eyes of her Scarlet Censors, Garviel, Enceladus and Espi spend the day in prayer and meditation, seeking the grace to walk in Mitra's light.

As the evening draws near their faith is rewarded with a vision; the walls and ceiling of the room seem to fade, replaced with a night sky where floats a brilliant full moon - a silver, wholesome moon, not the lurid violet of the Necromantic Moon - and the flagstones of the floor become part of a road stretching off into the silvered night.

Together they rise, stiff from kneeling, Enceladus' metal joints creaking audibly, and they set off together in wonder down the road. In time they begin to make out the silhouette of a tower occluding the distant stars, as the road becomes broken and uneven, swept by the cold sands of the midnight desert.

As they draw close they see that it's not a tower but a vast stone sword, looming impossibly several miles into the sky, its blade buried in a plinth amid the desert sands. The sky is particularly clear here, and strange constellations and nebulae paint the heavens in brilliant colours, humbling in their immensity and beauty.

As they draw close a deep, resonant voice speaks.

“You stand before the Sword of Truth, Aspect of Mitra. You are still unworthy to gaze upon the face of the Goddess; but through the grace accrued by Garviel you may stand before me. Other aspects await you upon the path, that you may come to know Mitra in all her facets and forms.”

Sir Enceladus clanks forward and introduces himself with a ramshackle bow, “unworthy as I may be, I would if you will permit it remain for a time and reflect upon the nature of truth.”

“Very well, small Paladin,” says the great sword, “stay, and look with me upon the unchanging stars.”

Garviel & Espi walk on together through the silent desert night. She smiles and says, "I think those two are going to get along, don't you?"

Eventually the landscape becomes rocky, and they come to a rugged shoreline; rain begins to fall, and by the time the road becomes a winding, perilous path along a rocky promontory they are lashed by the driving wind and rain of a storm, and purple lightning flashes over the surging grey ocean.

At the end of the promontory lies a stone plaza of broken pillars, and on a dais rests a great stone bowl, and in the bowl a raging flame lashes fitfully and furiously in the teeth of the storm, sending wild shadows wheeling out from the pillars.

A voice filled with righteousness and fury booms out, "an excommunicate, faithless outcast, and a corrupted thing of stone. You dare to stand before the Flame of Purification? You should burn where you stand!"

Espi shrinks back, "I don't like this, why is it saying such things? Isn't this an aspect of Mitra too?"

"Mitra's glory burns too fierce and bright for such faithless ones as you to gaze upon or comprehend. Do not think you will be forgiven."

"I... I think we should go."

After their encounter with the Flame they retrace their steps, and find the road branches, the other path worn down by ages, broken and almost buried by sand. Several times they lose the path, and have to backtrack until a cracked stone tells them they've found the faded route once again.

They pass through a broken temple, the ruin lost to time, creepers growing over the shattered walls, the only remnant of the icon that once stood here a pair of feet standing upon a plinth with writing too worn by the elements to read.

Espi still looks pale and shaken by the Flame's words. She tugs at Garviel's sleeve. "Wait - I... It's peaceful here. I want to just sit here alone and think for a bit."

Alone Garviel follows the road, the paving stones giving way to a dirt track, and soon he finds himself walking under the boughs of gnarled silver-barked trees in an ancient wood. Something silver flits around amid the branches on the edge of his vision, elusive, until he stops to seek for it, and it settles on a bough in front of him, a large owl with blue and silver feathers.

"Greetings, Garviel of House Ibis. I am the Owl of Wisdom, Aspect of Mitra and symbol of your house. Our meeting has been long in coming."

“You may be an Owl of Wisdom, but you are not wise enough to know I am not welcome in my Father’s realm. My brother rules there as his ‘regent’ and I am exiled. My father no longer knows friend from foe..."

"I worship Mitra with my whole being, yet still I am unable to cure wounds of magic and curse that even my closest friends suffer. I am lost and rudderless as I traverse this world of sin, where the innocent are left to suffer and evil men prosper. So forgive me, if I am less than enamoured with your tardy arrival.”

The owl gives an inscrutable look that might be amusement. "This I know, and I know also that you are more loyal to your father and your house than any other of your household."

"Mitra rewards patience, and I make myself known to you now you have grown in her affections through your diligent efforts. You have been a protector to your friends, to your wife and child, and to the two lost souls you have brought into Mitra's light. For this I grant you the power to remove curses from the afflicted."

"You see truly; wickedness pervades the worlds in which you walk. But with perseverance and Mitra's grace you may yet triumph over them. Keep your new acolytes close to you; they look to you for guidance, and you will look to them for the truth."

Meanwhile in the former temple of Mitra, now home to the lotus-dens and temple prostitutes of the Cult of Ulim, Gallows seeks the aid of the Voluptuaries, decadent and richly dressed priests and priestesses of Ulim. They examine the wound; while the injury has healed the pallor remains. "This is no poison; you have been touched by death, your life diminished, a part of you lost to the Hinterlands before your time. Go forth, smoke the Red Lotus and pray to Ulim; the god will give you a sign of what you must do, and if it is Ulim's will we shall restore you."

As Gallows reclines in a lotus-haze, one of the sacred prostitutes slips into the room, unseen until she reclines on the cushions across from him, her eyes dark beneath her veil. Through the haze he tries to formulate the words to rebuff her offer of her services, but the offer never comes; instead she says, "I've seen you here before. You are a sinner. You indulge in only the most trivial of vices, the most superficial pleasures. You dare not plumb the depths of desire as the truly faithful do. You defy Ulim's divine will with your timidity, your repression, your confused romantic notions."

Her glower darkens beneath the veil and she speaks coldly, "you are a craven sinner, unworthy of Ulim's grace," but her tone softens, "yet there are greater sins than yours. Crimes against desire so terrible they would sicken even such a chaste creature as you. You have witnessed them. Seen the terrible mockeries of the human form that flop and vomit and devour. Yet you do not, cannot understand the true depth of the evil you witnessed. Know that while you stand against such depravity you stand with Ulim, and Ulim stands with you."

She moves closer, the otherwordly sweetness of her perfume cutting through the scent of lotus smoke and places her hand upon Gallows' wound. He takes a ragged breath, and feels the life the shade stole from him returning, and with it an intense drowsiness, calling him to a deep, healing sleep. "Rest," she says, "while I write." The last thing he's aware of is her placing something in his hand.

When he awakes the haze has cleared and his mind is sharp. He's alone in the room, but his fingers are stained with ink, a quill lies staining the cushions by his hand, and scattered around him are half a dozen scrolls dense with text in a flowing, decadent cursive.

As their customers attend to matters of the spirit, the craftsmen Crestefal and Krodofel attend to more material things, preparing the commissions Garviel and Gallows requested of them in their own particular ways.

Crestefal runs his hands with reverence over the white hornet plates and through the thick fur of the ape, already building the armour in his mind's eye. Vision only sees the surface of things, but the blind craftsman's touch seems to perceive deep into the structure of the chitin, finding the strong and weak spots, listening to the tale the material tells. He lights candles for the spirits of the beasts and lets the material guide him in its careful assembly.

Krodofel meanwhile cackles and capers, leaps around his hut, gnaws upon the preserved entrails from the canopic jars, turns into a toad and swallows the glittering alexandrite, coughs it back up and places it on the brow of the mask, then cradles the grotesque visage in his scrawny scaly arms and dances a waltz with it around the fetid swamp under a crescent moon.

Marus departs, following the call of the sea, and as with Lan before him passes out of this tale.

Dungeon Master's Notes

Traditionally D&D likes to make divine intervention a possibility but one with an 01% chance so it coincides with the excitement of a really unlikely roll. I get that, but I never found it dramatically satisfying.

Here I adopted a policy of making the gods accessible, but moody. They behave a lot like other patrons such as the Chatelaine in that they have things they want the PCs to do and will make deals to get those things done, but there's a level of intimacy and emotional investment that isn't present when serving a king or powerful wizard. Gods want to get inside your head.

The vision quests of Garviel & co and Gallows here were inspired by Ben Laurence's work on Spiritual Exercises for downtimes. The amount of inspiration his writings provided for the campaign was limitless, at one point I compared our relationship to this piece of wonderful Kirby dialogue: