Osrand's Bottled Memories
The following are a series of memories, stored in alchemical flasks, which were created by Osrand Maelgribh-Ysern. The majority of the memories are Osrand's own, though at least one was taken from another person - the orcish assassin Enkhazi Bekh.
One. A conversation with Sanctity
A knock on your door rouses you from sleep; bleary-eyed, you open it to find Sanctity standing there, a look of irritation on his face. “We’ve got a problem”, he whispers, barging past you into the bedroom. “I thought you said you’d solved…”you begin, but he cuts you off. “I had. Claudin is out of the picture, no thanks to you, and the girl is contained. The problem is what she managed to do with the hound before I reasserted control.” You pause, a thousand possibilities running through your head, none of them good. “Guillaume is dead,” he continues, “and Tybald too. All of them, from what I hear. The princess' bodyguards were more capable than we had expected. She’s now here, in the tower .” You feel a rising tide of panic start to wash over you. This is bad, very bad indeed. “And the hound?” “Turned on Guillaume, from what I hear. I don’t know how she did it.” “Four Hells. Are we exposed?” “Not yet. But we need to act fast.” You nod. “Are we in position to move on Diandra ?” Sanctity shrugs. “I suppose we will have to be.” “That’s not a yes. Have our backers…?” You don’t get the chance to complete the sentence, as Sanctity cuts you off again. “The timetable will have to be brought forward.” “The hell it will. We only get one chance at this, and I for one don’t think…” “What gave you the impression that I care what you think, Osrand? I’m starting to wonder just how committed you are to this venture…” There is a pause, and in that moment you realise just how far gone your old friend is. The two of you lock eyes, and for a moment you wonder if this is how it ends. Your hand reflexively forms the gesture of opposition, ready to counter whatever magic he throws at you. For a moment you are both silent. Then, he laughs, the tension breaking ever so slightly. “Apologies. I spoke over harshly. Please forgive my presumption.” You don’t buy it, but for now you’ll take his backing down as a good sign. “Fine. In any case, we’ll need to cover our tracks, or we’ll not have the choice. Have we cleared Guillaume’s office out yet? Or the others’?” “Mariss is being done as we speak. Guillaume we will need to do tonight.” “Agreed. Twenty minutes, artificer’s stairwell. If you can round up whoever’s still awake...” “I’ll be there.”
Two. Clearing out Guillaume's Office
You meet at the agreed time and place. Sanctity has found three of the others - Zenith, and the twins. You figure that will be enough. A quick discussion ensures, and a plan is formed; Sanctity cloaks himself in illusions, taking on the guise of one of the Queensknife officers, whilst the others hastily don masks to conceal their features. You forgo such things - someone needs to be the face of this operation. The five of you move into the tunnels, making your way into the cells under the Queensknife building. A simple charm takes care of the guard, and then it is up and into the armoury. You set Zenith and the twins to bundle up anything of use from the armoury, whilst Sanctity joins you in the office. You know what you're looking for, and it doesn't take long to sweep the room for anything that might implicate you in the events of the night, or explain a little too much about the conspiracy. The majority of it is swept into a strongbox, the kind that is rigged to incinerate its contents if tampered with. The whole process takes less than quarter of an hour - plus another minute to erase the guard's memory, and ten more of moving and stacking crates to conceal the weapons under the ice of the cold-room. The strongbox is deposited in one of the storage cages, and you head for the exit. Before you return to the surface, you turn to Zenith and the twins, and explain the process of memory removal. You know that you can be safe in this regard - and Sanctity has his own methods - but they may not be. Zenith declines; the twins agree - and this you are somewhat glad of. They are good and loyal soldiers, if rather idealistic; whereas you often had doubts as to whether you were doing the right thing or not, they had embraced the ideology of the cause wholeheartedly. You suspect that they hadn't the cynicism to see though Sanctity's lies, and had bought wholesale the claim of liberation and national rebirth, not realising that they would only be replacing one set of overlords with another. You reach into their minds, and remove their memories of tonight’s activities, bottling them up for storage. After a moment’s consideration, you reach deeper - and pull out all their memories relating to the Everstorm Covenant. You hand the glowing vial to Zenith as you leave, asking him to get rid of it for you.
Three. Briefing Bekh
The cell door opens, and the human and the half-elf enter once more. You wrack your brain, trying to recall where you know the half-elf from. You shake your head, "I have nothing to say to either of you." The human - who seems to be in charge - is the first to speak. "I would not be so quick to say that, Bekh. Unless, of course, you'd rather go back to the gallows?" You snort derisively. "I'm not intimidated by your pathetic threats. Better than rotting in this hole. And besides - if you were going to kill me, you would have already done so." He shrugs. "Suit yourself. But consider, maybe - a third option…" The half-elf slides a pitcher of water across the floor towards you. You sniff it suspiciously, then drink, figuring that they had ample opportunity to poison you in any case. "I'm listening…" you reply. "We have a proposition for you. There are a few individuals in the nation, highly placed people, who we feel do not have the best interests of Aldernord at heart. We cannot move against them openly... But a man of your unique talents might be able to resolve the situation to our mutual advantage." "Go on." "Five targets. Four should be straightforward enough for someone of your capabilities. The fifth, somewhat more difficult, though we may be able to provide some covert support." "Who?" A pause. They look at each other, as if trying to work out how much to tell you. “Members of the High Nobility. That’s all that we’re willing to say at this juncture. You do that for us, and we’ll… well. If you leave the country when you’re done, we won’t come looking for you.” You laugh. "And what assurances do I have that you will not have me killed the moment that the job is done? You'd be fools to leave me alive. No, I think not." The human scowls. “Damnit. We need a better angle. Scrub this conversation, and then meet me in my office.” The half-elf nods, and turns to you, and as his eyes meet yours you feel something slip inside your mind - and not for the first time.
Four. The Origin of the Basilisk Queens
You are sitting in what is, in a technical sense, the cell of the drow assassin - though to call a cell this room that is so considerably better appointed than your own meagre lodgings does somewhat underline the ambiguities of the situation. Szordilan slouches on an armchair, sipping the brandy that you brought. “This is good. Teriani? From… don’t tell me… Tir Draenos?” he asks. You nod in affirmation, and he grins. “Thought as much. Well. It is very good of you. Now, where were we?” “The Basilisk Queens”, you prompt him. “Yes, so you call them. A translation that one might query, but as history has so labelled them, we may as well continue. They were human, once, mystics of the starry path. The ‘Circle of the Dragon Beyond’, they called themselves - Anhydra, one presumes. Three in number, originally - some say sisters, some say three generations of mother and daughter, some say all sorts of other things - but three. Their names I do not know; their titles were the Archer, the Cupbearer, and the Dragonslayer.” He takes another sip of brandy and continues. “They dwelled near Kepe’Aletu - the city of Baletto - though long before it held that name. They were contemporaries of the one you know as Alavar Scriptorum, if my memory serves… in any case, they were present when the Great Dragons arrived from the North. They sought a means by which they could oppose them, and not finding any within the world around them, turned to worlds beyond. And sooner or later, they came to the Eladrin for help…” You frown. “I thought the Eladrin had been extinguished by then?” He shrugs. “Not all of them. Those that walk the mortal world - yes, they were long gone. But there were some who remained, in the Wyldfire and in other, stranger, corners of creation, and it was there that they sought them out. And it was either from the Eladrin or from something else in that stranger place that they learned the nature of the Thrones...
Five. Memories of Zaphrith
The soft light of dawn is beginning to pierce the night. Szordilan yawns theatrically. “Excuse these old bones. It has been a good many years since I last had such good conversation as this. You really do remind me of your father, Osrand.” “You said as much. Did you know Zaphrith well?” “In our youth. We were raised together, in Pryddcael. Centuries ago now, of course, but I would say that we were friends.” “When did you see him last?” “A little shy of two centuries ago. We had met in Blizetic, quite by chance, really - though it turned out that we had a goal in common.” “Queen Beatrix?” “Yes. His lodge and mine both were of the opinion that she was a threat to our interests.” A slight moment of concern. “Was he involved…” “Oh, no. Not for the lack of intent - he and his wanted her dead just as much as me and mine - but I so happened to get to her first. And then, well. I wasn’t really in a position to make many social calls after all that occurred thereafter…” “Did you have any way of contacting him?” “No.” He pauses for a moment, as if weighing up some particularly tricky decision. “Well, maybe. There was a name he did mention. Khadrith, in the city of Lokjevo.”
Six. Target Guidance
You turn to Guillaume, quizzical. "Why her?" "She has a technical claim. Not a strong one, admittedly, but enough to pose a risk." "Understood. I take it you have the situation in hand?" "Of course. The Baron has sent one of his finest. When the time comes, he'll be in the right place to kill Guidance and slip away during the chaos." "What about the rest of that line?" "Her sister barred herself from the succession, and the mother… well, there are contingencies in place.
Seven. The Toad
You kneel before the statue of the toad, as you have done a number of times before. The ritual is simple, and the words are ones you know by heart. “O Great Toad, Who Swallows Truth, I approach you so that we might play the Game of Secrets.” The statue emits a rumbling, croaking noise, and the trickling of water from the statue’s mouth forms words in the tongue of the waters. “Gu. Gewa-watu pferu guferrim.” “I offer this: that Sanctity has perfected the method of traversing the Labyrinth Within.” “Ga’aneru-at’caru. Owelen?” “A secret regarding the operation of the Great Toad, Who Swallows Truth.” There is a pause, and for a moment you wonder if you have accidentally broken the magic. Then the toad replies: “Egruto gow ar-gagur u’draga’oa Gilsu’ Sarrel gan Gala’gor. Igu’dho an-alo yam’hega.” You pause, mentally translating. The name takes a moment to properly register in your mind, but when it does, you flinch. Everything known to the Toad is accessible to Ilse Sarren van Malaborg. Including that you now know this.
Eight. Contingencies
You’re finally settling down to dinner when, to your annoyance if not your surprise, Sanctity's whispered voice fills your ear once more. “Osrand. Stop avoiding me. This is serious” “Fine. What?” you whisper back, now resigned to the fact that you were going to have to have this conversation one way or another. “Ashbrook-Sarren. The shadow-child. Claudin is planning something.” “He told you that?” “No, of course not. He came to me to ask about the construction of dream realms, and I read his mind whilst he was talking to me. Obviously.” “Well, what’s he planning?” “I’m not certain. Affecting her dreams somehow. But I’m concerned that it’ll interfere with our contingency.” You find yourself struggling to recall whatever it might be that he’s referring to, and quickly conclude that you’ve likely as not removed it from your mind. “Well… can you handle it?” There is a pause, and when Sanctity speaks again there is an edge of anger to his voice. “Yes. I will handle it. As usual.”
Nine. Blood
You look at the notes again, trying to perhaps find some way in which you may have misinterpreted your findings. But whichever way you look at them, the conclusion remains the same. The conclusion is clear. The Bloodline Myth is a lie.
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