Looping the Hen Games

Methodically, the Deceiver's forces neatly cut the throats of every male elf in both the Great Hall and the Courtyard Majesta. Over 4000 perished and fed their life, blood and power into Daicraisus. Its stones are said to still carry the voices of the silenced fey, and the ivory towers in certain light glows with a hint of crimson. The elven females were not so easily spared, and to them was done the most vile sin in the known histories.

Each surviving female of the Caeleim, Alfheim and Beorheim was borne into a chamber carved specifically for their race. All but one of them were spared the humiliation which was to come, for Sophix still feared their power and using means both mystical and alchemical, destroyed their consciences. The only elf to retain her will and thought throughout her years of humiliation and torture was Arilyn, Qen Dei Fleur (Queen of Flowers), considered by most to be the fairest member of the fairest race known to all the planes. Sophix presented her as the prize to the ambitious Ogre Mage, Fajdeiman, the only volunteer for the duty of carrying the black flag to the elves, and a Magi of significant power.

Each elf was maintained mystically until and after impregnation by a member of Sophix's army. They were rewards for the demons and humanoids who performed the greatest services and visited the most heinous evils upon the world. For 10 years the bodies of the elves served as incubators, most only surviving the birth of a single child, after which even sorcery could not keep their broken forms alive. Thus were born the Atrocity Feicra, elven abominations imbued with both immeasurable strength of body as well as the power of their elven heritage.

In his masterstroke, Sophix had broken the elves, enslaved their blood, and become supreme among the Demonlords. Twenty-five hundred strong, the Atrocity Feicra dwarfed any power ever brought to bear against the races of man and dwarf, and was fielded twenty-five years after the birth of Aljamein, son of the Queen of Flowers. Although groomed from birth in power, scholarship, art, strength and above all, evil, Aljamein did not ride at the head of the host that conquered the last remnants of mankind. The creature who was to be Mage-General of Sophix's most powerful army chose a different path, one destined the day his mother died bearing him.

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When the elven mages began to file into the great hall of thrones wearing the accoutrements of banishment, Sophix knew their merciful nature had prevailed. For several brief moments, Cinqataq's continued quest for execution had concerned him.

"Sophix," began the eldest of the Caeleim Summoners "For your crimes, it would be within the due of the FIve Races to extinguish your presence from existence."

Sophix slowly nodded. "However, the wisdom of our Races has decided to bind and banish you with your own Demonic Law. Do you agree to never return to our plane, or any other plane, planet, or sphere not your home, from the 7th Plane of Hell; and do you agree that from your hell you will never contrive to harm, through action or inaction, thought or deed, this world or any other, nor any entity upon it, from now until the end of your days. Do you consent?"

Continue reading "NPC II - Aljamein, The Betrayer - Part III: Sophix Ascendent" »

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It is to the Races credit they could not imagine the scale of Sophix deception. He had watched the elves from his hell for a thousand thousand years. He knew each of them by name, infernally scrawled into daemon-skin parchment. Seraphi, Eldest. Noforost, Wisest. Ravelin, Hesitent Slayer. Miea, Serene, Gravid, Caelein. Tens of thousands of names, hundreds of thousands of pages; he knew the eldest races in more detail than their own histories. Thousands of spies among the elves over the millenia passed their knowledge to him through rituals and sacrifice. Birds, beasts, men, and on 3 occasions, elves themselves sold him their wisdom. For he did not sleep, he did not rest. His Existence depended upon knowing the fairer races, and what fate they would choose for him. Unlike the Five Races, who only knew of Sophix after his first armies marched from his fortress, the demon understood his foe.

Sophix didn't tremble as he stood before the Seven Thousand, the greatest army of fey ever assembled, and the last. He knew combined they could snuff his being out, even though his power could best any 100 of them. In the end, he counted on their strength, and his own weakness. Were he arrogant, as his brother and sister might have been, the grand Deliberation of Fa-Sophi might have turned out differently. If he lied, they would have seen his deception.

For 100 days the elves deliberated over the demon's fate. In the beginning, the calls for executing him weighed more, the fury of a half-century of war ringing through the great citadel. But as their anger waned and their thoughts grew clear, voices of dissent grew louder. Imprison him. Banish him. Bind him. Sensing the cause of slaying the demon was losing, Cinqataq, High Master of the Alfheim, sought to have Sophix condemn himself through lies and deceit. In his pride, he thought he understood the depths in the demon that no one else did.

And so when Cinqataq asked the Archfiend if would speak for himself and attempt to explain away his actions at the Sentence, Sophix agreed. And the Deceiver did what no elf present believed he could: he told the truth.

Speaking in hushed tones, Sophix laid out his story, without embellishment. He did not apologize, nor did he attempt to justify his actions, for he knew his audience would not care. Instead, he described the Ritual of Baalzenoa in minute detail, which he would be forced to undergo should he fail to defeat the elves. He spoke of the Million Years of Torment he would face in his father's personal torture-prison, falling under the knives and claws and teeth of countless other demons trapped there also.

For seven days the demon spoke, telling at length of his surveillance of the elves over much of their history. He spoke of their kings and queens, their victories and failures, their tiny loves and great betrayals. Calling many in the crowd by name, he spoke of deeds that made them proud, reciting each victory in detail, and only rarely of their shortcomings.

Bringing tears of remembrance to ashen faces, Sophix spoke to them the tale of Maya, the Unforgiven. Of how she was cast out of elven society in a fit of pique, for a petty crime it was found later she did not commit. For many months Maya journeyed in despair, her body growing big with a rare, precious elven child. No one in the room ever knew her fate, and they strained to hear the demon's words. Expending the last of her power, the elf ascended the great peak at Kharibaldi, lifting herself into the 2nd clutch of eggs mothered by Harizard, greatest of the ivory dragons. Speaking telepathically, she begged the wyrm-queen to raise her child away from the fickleness of her kin, and offered the only thing left of value she possessed: her power. The queen, awash in the despondency of the Caeleim and fearing for her own brood, reluctantly agreed.

Inducing herself to labor, the elf bore her child and held her briefly to her heart. And then laying her in swaddling among the soft white eggs, Maya gave herself to the queen. Many moments later, bereft of her blood-power and spirit, the Unforgiven stepped off the Ledge of Kharibaldi and broke herself on the rocks many miles below.

The crowd was stunned into silence. But the demon did not quit his tales, and told a hundred others, perhaps a thousand. He did not offer them as recompense for the slaughter of the elves, though many took them as such. He spoke them as if he were a great seer reciting from a history book. For seven days he taught them of their nobility, their strength, their beauty, and only on occasion, their sin. When Sophix finished, without once looking up he kneeled before them and spoke no more.

The elves filed from the hall and began to deliberate once more, though with less abandon than before. In less than a day, they reached their verdict. Dozens of mages began to prepare the rituals that would be necessary to carry it out. Cinqataq, in disgust and humiliation, relinquished his title and exiled himself from his brethren. A lucky few fled with him. Although their story does not end here, he is known to history as Abdu Loqua Alfhei, Last Master of the Flame.

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*The half-charred book containing the tale and legacy of Aljamein (Alfamane) is owned by Arion and has been shared with the party; the Caeleim requests it's presence not be disclosed, nor it's content discussed, with the subject of the book*

...Sophix, third of the Demonic Triumverate, was charged with the destruction of the power of the Five Races. Physically the weakest of the three Demonlords, he understood in any case that the nature of the elves could not be broken by sword and stone. Humanoid armies had tried for millenia to defeat them by force of numbers and skill at arms, only to be repulsed again and again by the Greater Magics each elf possessed.

The Deceiver instead played upon the Races weaknesses: their need for beauty, their ability to hope, thier capacity to forgive, and their ultimate surity in their ability to survive. For nearly half a century, the demon plotted his own defeat, and through it, his ascension and reward.

In the 23rd year of the war, after initial victories against the greater fortresses of the Five Races, Sophix implanted a small flaw in each of the Kleimulkrer, his slayer-constructs. Each was created of demon-steel mined in the lower hells and carved in the shape of elvish totems: Eagles for the Caeleim, panthers for the Beorheim, dragons for the Alfheim and rays for the Aqueim. Each could track elves by their blood alone, the magic flowing in their veins stood as a beacon to the abominations, and they fed on it.

After two more decades of war, the elves finally discovered the flaws in the creatures hunting them, and they turned from hunted to hunter. Hundreds of the slayers were destroyed, and the humanoid armies that followed them. A few years later it looked as if the elves victory over Sophix was assured. His armies were annihilated, his monstrous golems lying like so much scrap at the foot of his great fortress Daicraisius at the head of the Crevenda Split. For years the fortress had been the ultimate goal of the elves; it was a vision of splendor that silently oversaw the mounting defeats of the humanoids. Its spires of pearl and gold, lapis and silver entranced the elves as they wondered at the sick creature that could cause such destruction and still create such magnificence.

Still the elves fought on, until finally sensing victory, they began to debate amongst themselves over the terms of Sophix's surrender. After the defeat of his last Mage-General at the Battle of the Gorge, Sophix sent forth a single ambitious Ogre Mage to carry the black flag of defeat. Many of the elves wished to cut the creature down and extinguish their rage at the years of war with his blood; their own natures, as Sophix had long relied on, prevented them from doing so.

In the 54th year of war, the great silver gates of Daicraisius were thrown open, and the triumphant elves poured through to marvel at its wonders. Ten thousand humanoids lay prostrate in surrender in the Courtyard Majesta, exposing their necks should the elves choose to end their lives. Many had been starving, their bodies thin and weak atop the white-flecked cobblestone. It bespoke humiliation, and the Races felt compassion. A few tested the air, looking for traps and trickery, but the only source of corrupt magic was the demon himself and the young Ogre Mage; the humanoids presented no threat to such a host of Magi.

As the elves entered the great hall of thrones, again they stared in awe at craftsmanship to rival the greatest Dwarven artisans. The floor was awash in a thousand hues as gems embedded reflected late afternoon sunlight. A hundred silver columns were filigreed with scenes of battles Sophix had both won and lost, and they bespoke a humility they could not previously imagine in a fiend. He appeared before them as a wizened man, his hands already bound in front of him. Of course that was a joke, and the elves knew he still possessed his full powers and would not let themselves be deceived by so simple a trick.

It was the not so simple trick that brought the Five Races to an end.

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Born after the Final War to Migga Ventinhert, member of the enigmatic Enclave of Morridin, Second Matron of family Dvivindul, clan Vrokenmont. After the dwarves final defeat at the battle of Red Crest, the thousand survivors of clan Vrokenmont (renamed after the tragic battle, Vrokenmont means Broken Hill in the common speech shared by Dwarf and Human) retreated for weeks into the tunnels under Red Crest, pursued by the War Golems of the Half-Demon Urtifixian, mage-general of the Southern Legions. Eventually the tunnels narrowed and the golems were caught in a stone trap at the Cavern of Gorgetwist.

Migga reached the Miction Straits with less than a hundred kinsman, the others choosing to remain, and most likely die, in the bowels of Range Roryn Dvin. Boarding the longships of Marci Longsled, pirate (bound by oath to the Aqueim princess Meriwynn), they made the 12 day journey to the haven at Dverven Fell. Traversing the Sacred Route, hidden to the eyes of any not Dwarven, they made their way to the undercity of MIctrianium.

Dar Win grew to manhood 50 years after Humanfall in the inky black while his folk were possessed by the Dark Mind, a dwarven tribal depression where subsistence was the only concern. During those years, not a single stone or carving was added to Mictrianium, not a single blade was forged, and not a single story sung.

After another half-century, something wakened in Dar Win, and he was unable to abide the cowardice and hopelessness of his kin. Dar Win moved himself to the great rock library of Perdicum and relit the Undersun, artifact of Clan Bictinfin. Possessed of its power, for 20 years he taught himself the meaning of the glyphs and runes on every surface. His limitations and lack of mentor did not disuade him from enveloping himself in Artifice, the craft of Making. He rekindled the great black forges at Herculum, and began his first Masterwork.

The cityfolk pleaded with Dar Win, most under the influence of the depression, who feared the light and sound would draw the attention of the humanoids many miles above. He ignored them and after 30 days without food or rest, unconscious in the throes of an Artificer's Trance, he finished his hammer, Levinthrong. When he awoke, his mother told him of his clan-brother Dey Van, who had thrown himself in the Herculum furnace. No one knows if the suicide was the effect of the depression or whether it was a rebuke to Dar Win.

Shamed by both his people and himself, by guilt and despair, he took Levinthrong and crossed beyond the three great temples of Roryx, Aryx and Kone, blasting their seals and unknowingly allowing entrance by the creatures who dwelled in the underlands.

He made his way from the dwarvenlands to the Ancestral tombs of house Clegath, humans who the dwarves had called Stonefriend. They were exterminated by the forces of the Twin Rivers Lich at the very start of the Centuries War. Dar Win, almost by hand except for the help of a handful of humans and a full-blooded Caeleim (Wind Elf), extended the undertombs already present, to the surface.

He founded an organization similar to the Enclave to which his mother belonged, except comprised of humans and half-elves. Children felt to be extraordinary, whether by portent or breeding, are brought to the tombs and trained as best as the few teachers are able, in the hope that by some miracle they will lead a rebellion and regain their place in the world above.

Dar Win uses his skills as an artificer to create arms and armor, his wits to provide counsel, and his wealth to aid the cause of Rebirth.

His most notable companion is Munchier, a clay golem protector, who watches over him during his trances.

(Dwarven Artificer 13, Fighter 3)

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