This one's a weird story/gameplay hybrid. It menaces with tentacles of oneiroplasmic goo.
R'lyeh ~~ Turn 15
Soundtrack: Brad Sucks - I Don't Know What I'm Doing:
I Think I Started a Trend.
Messages pass back and forth along the aether: The mystics of
Arcoscephale turn and toss in their sleep, haunted by horrible dreams
of vast fish-creatures wallowing in slime and darkness and unnumbered
coiling pale and puckered tentacles. Yet they sense significance, a
meaning, even intent, trained as they are in the interpretation of
oneiric visions.
Something that lives in the deep wishes to ascend to the world of air
and light.
Perhaps they should have ignored these dreams, deadened their senses
with subtle drugs, but they sensed power, ancient and occult, behind
their visions. And so they decide to send a message back. And in their
lust for power, they make an offer. For in Arcoscephale the crafting of
magical gadgets and instruments is an art far advanced beyond the
skills of other realms. And in the conquered undersea territories where
the tears of mermaids are collected, the overseer-slaves jab their
coral prods with vigour, for there is a shipment to be made.
Meanwhile, in the desert of Ard, a white-winged being of unearthly
splendour stands alone in the barren waste. Does it know of its
servants' dealings? Is it deceived? Does it accept dark deeds in the
pursuit of the greater good? Even though it is named with a song, it
remains silent, while the desert sands blow out over the sea.
In the utmost north, where far below the floating mountains of ice a
fortress of dark stone crouches. There a slave-priest toils with a
ceremonial bucket to prepare the inner chambers for the polypal
mothers. So vile and unspeakable are the necessary rituals and
abasements that only slaves will perform them. Slaves, and the one
known as Nyarlathotep. But then the one known as Nyarlathotep is also
known to be a creep.
A chieftain of the Maverni, Catamantaledes by name, has heard of the
prophecy the druids gave concerning Ermor in Numecria: "If Ermor
conquers Nume, the conquest of the world shall begin at Ermor." To be
more exact: he had heard the second half. Some would recall that the
bard who told him came from the mist-shrouded west, and some would
remember that his gray eyes were empty of smiles and full of stratagems.
With barbarian cunning, this Catamantaledes planned to take advantage
of the prophecy. By planting his throne on the ruins of once proud
Ermor, he hoped to become invincible in battle. Or at the least, he
hoped to gain fame and attract many warriors to his cause.
Thundering warcries and waving their axes, Catamantaledes and his
warriors burst over the tumbled walls of Ermor.
However, the druids have sent warning ahead of him, for they would not
risk war with the masters of the ocean deep for one chieftain's foolish
ambition. Yet luck or fate smiled on Catamantaledes: the inscrutable
creatures of the deep also eshewed confrontation. They had left only a
herald behind; a hulking atlantean in clad in spiked gray metal. What
he was to say, the Maverni never learned, for they were so disgusted by
the herald's toad-like appearance that they immediately hurled a volley
of javelins at him and cut down his attendants as they fled. Thus was
Ermor conquered the second time.
And not far to the north in a dingy Bolfagonian tavern two men sit
across a low table. One is a fisherman, but with a curious and
unwholesome slackness of expression uncommon for men of his stripe. The
other is a sharp-eyed old man, magnificently bearded. His clothes look
drab and nondescript, but in a manner difficult to remember and
impossible to describe.
The fisherman places a pouch on the table, the rough hemp at home
between the ale stains.
"This is it?" asks the bearded one.
"Open it," answers the fisherman.
The bearded man reaches out and pulls the bag across the table. It is
larger than it seemed at first. He undoes the frayed string and the
pouch gapes open. With a gasp, he speaks a word of power, shrouding it
from the sight of the uninitiated. Nobody hears it: it is one of the
word's powers that it is forgotten save by those trained in the magic
of air and seeming.
For a while, the bearded man merely gazes at the perfection before him.
Flawless pearls, the size of eyeballs, the colour of the full moon at
midwinter. Perhaps a hundred. "Yes," he hears himself say, "you will
have my services." A moment later, he adds: "For the next three moons."
And in the distant south-east, in the war-torn land of Ultima Delca, a
message scroll bursts into flames.
The misbred commander shakes the flakes of burning paper off his hand.
"So R'lyeh will not attack them, despite our generous offer?"
The human standing before him pales even further. "They... they said
they had already left the sea, on another shore."
"Can't be helped, then. It was worth a try. Now: how far have the
Arcoscephalans advanced?"
~~~
How far have the Arcoscephalans advanced, indeed? My scouting is pretty
spotty to nonexistant (the latter really), since there's no independant
underwater scouts. And isn't that an Abysian talking? Well, consider
that scene a teaser. Updates by Excist and Immaculate will maybe make
things clearer...
Re: Multi-Player After Action Report (Now Discussing Turns up to 8-9)
Hybrid Mode
