Daiz of Destruction Pt. 01-04

Part 1 - After A long Night

It's been a long night, and not one I want to repeat ever again. Amateurs, every single one of them.

I'm covered in necromantic ichor, and now my pigtails smell of burnt bear fur. I catch what looks like a bit of Lich skull in my matted hair. Hastily yank it and clump of soiled pink hair out, then spitefully throw it to the kerbside. It bounces across the stone cobbles where its crushed under the drove of hobnailed boots. I know a dozen or so apothecaries that would have paid in gold for that tiny bit of condensed evil, but I'm too furious to care. Just want to get my Gnome sized arse off the crowded walkways of this cavernous outpost, and back in the luxurious lodgings of Duh'ran's diplomatic quarter.

Its my own fault, it was obvious the whole expedition was doomed from the outset. Ancient treasure sealed in the ancient tomb of some ancient big bad, and protected by "some death to all who enter" ancient arcane seal. Should have just slipped away when I saw the adventurers enter that tavern. A TAVERN, by the all Gods, that should have been warning enough.

Tomorrow I'll summon a planar conduit back to my tower, but for tonight I'll settle for a roaring fire, warm room, hot bath and a heavy fur blanket. Even deep in the mountain's side, even over the clumping footsteps of a thousand dwarf, human, elf and even more exotic feet, I can hear the roar of the ferocious storm outside. My back shudders, I can still feel the sleet down my spine... or maybe it's a bit of Lich brain. Need - That - BATH!

The ancient "Big Bad" in question was this infamous Lich Lord, sealed up some thousand years ago. Lich Lord! what a load of Patriarchal horse shit. It was a Lich Lady, but if you say "Lich Lady" people get images of some pornographic lithograph being flogged in back alleys or the cantrip projection of a drunk, dirty old wizard. There was nothing sexy about this animated bag of bones, well except for her sceptre. According to my research "A necrotic energy infused shaft of Voidwood, topped with a pure Stygian Steel ornate rod", it was reported to open a conduit to one of the many dead realms. Of course, the relic would be long drained of any negative energy, otherwise the Lich Bitch (oh I like that) would have tunnelled to another plane and popped back to continue her reign of terror. But even an empty shell of pure Stygian Steel, was worth partying up with a bunch of 3^rd rate adventurers.

The crowd quickly parts as I stride my way through the mass of humanoids packing the market place mesa. My reputation, quite rightly, precedes me, and most hastily move aside. Except one, he puts his hands on his hips and leans over me, believing he and his stature are something of importance.

"What's the hurry little lady?"

All is silent, even the roaring storm has held its breath, as a shaft of poorly carved, low grade Stygian Alloy rapidly meets the groin of the ignorant travelling merchant. As the man keels over, regretting his words, the silence evaporates and the din washes over me.

Noise of the traders shouting their wares in a dozen different tongues assault my ears, the combined smell of food, spices and leather good clog my nostrils, and the burly waist lines of dwarves and thighs of humans block my view of the bridge to my lodgings. It all shredding what little patience I have left. Walking over the groaning man, a small foot putting my full weight on his cupped hands, I imagine lying under heavy furs in my warm bed, the fire crackling as I watch heavy snow hammering on the outside of the thick glass of the slit window. As sensing my intent, the crowd parts and a stamp towards the Inn.

The useless lump of metal swinging in my hand was my 'cut' from the mission. My prearranged price for opening the seal and helping slay the "Lich Lord" (i.e. saving their pitiful hides from becoming the Lich Bitch's bitches) was the Sceptre. Salarian scholars are not known for their flights of fancy, and the provenance of the parchment was pristine, this Sceptre should have been worth more than everything else in that crypt a hundred times over. Sure, the alloy has its uses, but it wasn't worth the ignominy of the last 48 hours and the constant need to remind them that the name is Daiz, not 'Daisy'. It so draining "playing nice". Even imagining the warriors head exploding as he misnamed me did little to elevate my foul mood.

Finally, to the Inn. Dominating even by Dwarven standards it was designed for wealthy travellers, diplomats and merchants. Built into the outer most stone of the mountain with windows overlooking the outside world and the valleys beyond. Dwarves can go decades without seeing sunlight and not give it a second thought, most other races can't even last a few days of torch light and magic flame before melancholy and depression take root. Thus, the "Blue Sky Inn" with sunlit windows, was built as a respite for Dun'rah's most elite and temporary of non Dwarven residents. Though, later, as the outpost grew the "Above Quarter" was built. Its numerous permanent lodgings with external windows, and a system of mirrors flood the carved corridors with natural light. Dwarves rarely visit that quarter without very good reason.

The storm rages outside, no blue skies and very little light save the ember glow of a roaring fire. I snap my fingers and 'will' the candles to ignite, a little too much will as the top inch of wax of the twenty or so candles instantly evaporate splatting molten wax on wall and carpet. No doubt I'll be charged an exuberant cleaning fee.

A huge sigh leaks from my lips and I look toward the carved stone bath. As architects and engineers, Dwarves have little competition, and their plumbing is no exception. Waste heat from the giant forges are captured in water pipes, pumped into vast reservoirs of near boiling water which then feed every home and business with hot water to the tap. I suppose its far more efficient than trapping the essence of a fire elemental in your water tank, but some how doesn't feel as fun.

I turn the heavy brass taps, steam fills the air and torrents of scalding water start to fill the smooth granite basin. The moist warm air already clearing my head of the noise of the day. As the water cascades, I open my travelling chest looking for essential oils and tinctures to add to the bath water. Marvellous as the water system is, it does run via the forge and I have no intention of coming out of my bath smelling like Dwarf.

I grab a few nicely scented bottles and proceed to add their contents to the swirling water. Floral scents are added to the steaming water and islands of white bubbles start to form. Exerting the same elemental force of will used on the candles, I churn the waters with my mind, the small frothy islands expand and grow, creating mountainous ranges of thick luxurious bubbles. Hot tap off and add little extra cold, I want to simmer not boil.

The bottles clink as I return them to the chest, and just as I close the chest's travel worn doors something catches my attention. I find myself staring into the Abyss, well more accurately a small squidgy tendril of the Abyss.

Sliding off the brass hooks which held its mahogany base in place for transit, I gently remove the gently swaying tendril of living negative energy. I feel the hum of the planar barrier as it is repulsed by this object's existence in a primal material plane. I carefully place the abhorrence on top of the chest and finish closing the doors.

Again, I find myself staring at its shimmering black surface. I ask myself "How many people can claim actual ownership of a bit of a God?", not many, especially a Higher God from a dead plane. For mounted to this 6 inch wide wooden circle, standing 9 inches tall and currently "dancing" for my amusement, is a tentacle from the Dark God Ku'Tharn. As trophies go, this one's pretty hard to beat.

Part 2 - Pathological, delusional and obsessive infatuation

A large part of my "reputation" comes from the events that gave me this little trophy. Ku'Tharn's incursion into this realm and the battle that ensued was "a bit of a big deal". Great armies clash, great battles fought, and in the end, as it often is, 5 people stand between the "end of everything" and a bard's next set of ballads. Yes, there are song about me. Many songs. Many songs, with many verses. Most focusing on my hair and not my ability to rip your skeleton from inside you and use it beat the remaining soggy bits to an even soggier pulp. Though songs about the latter do exist, and while not as many as I would have liked, I have them all recorded to wax cylinders.

Reminiscing over the events I find my face twisting into an unnatural shape, smiling like some lovelorn fawn. I shake it off, physically and mentally, and return my face to its normal state of scorn and distaste. Turning back towards the bath a grab a nearby chair ready to disrobe.

The way the Bards sing it, the battle was lost and we were on the cusp of defeat. In a noble gesture of sacrifice, to atone for my many, many sins I bravely walked into the shambling mass of tentacles ready to explode in a fury of darkest wrath. This is, of course, a load of sweaty Orc bollocks.

The reality. I messed up, got too desperate and got too close. The only way to send Ku'Tharn packing was collapse the trans-planar conduit projecting him into our world, and the only way to do that was to key on to the frequency of his negative energy... and the only way to do that was to get physical contact. Before I knew it, Ku'Tharn wrapped a tentacle around my ankle and was dragging me towards his gapping maw. No weapon forged, no spell, no power, not even mine could cut me free.

It also meant I could no longer 'simply collapse' the conduit. My psychic energy, even in death, is bound to this plane, and Ku'Tharn would use that to reopen the conduit. Before the bards could pick up the quill to composed a song of my noble sacrifice, Ku'Tharn would have reopened the conduit and be lunching on their innards.

So new plan, not like any of the other plans were working anyway. Prolonged physical contact opened a new and more terminal option, folding the conduit in on itself, trapping me and Ku'Tharn in the barrier of reality itself. Unhooked from either plane, it would collapse, and crushed between realities Ku'Tharn would 'pop' like the boil on a troll arse. I quickly project the plan into the minds of the rest of the party and ask them to keep Ku'Tharn busy while I weave the last spell of my life.

No weapon forged, no spell, no power, not even mine could cut me free... Except one. Pathological, delusional and obsessive infatuation, or as the Bards call it... Love.

Kobol, our painfully pious Priest, rushed forward, his glacially slow brilliance thawing at the time it was needed the most. Stripping away the usual genuflections and verbose grandeur of his religious trappings, he cast two spells in quick succession. The first "Moment of Grace", or as us heathenish scholars call it a "Temporal Sphincter", closing the flow of time around me and the tentacle wrapped around my leg, and locking us in space/time. With me momentarily safe from all of reality he cast the second, "Holy light" or just "Light" to everyone else. Every last ounce of psychic energy, all his faith, all his woefully misplaced feelings for me was funnelled into that spell. Bards sing of how his love illuminated 20 miles.

As bile inducing of an image that is, its radius is accurate. A light of pure positive energy scorched the shadow of Ku'Tharn into his temple walls and seared his skin. The light bleached the wizards favourite robe pure white, blinded the rest of the party and the thousands of soldiers still fighting outside. It took two months for the Order of Solace to cure everyone.

But it worked, and Ku'Tharn felt something it had never felt in all the existence of time, Agony. Total and complete agony, as every nerve recoiled from the searing light. Animalistic instincts, beneath a god, took over and Ku'Tharn tried to pull away from the light's source. Except one part of him, the tentacle wrapped around my leg, was anchored outside of time and completely immovable.

With a howl that shattered the stones of his temple, he ripped his tentacle apart to free himself and cowered from the light. The immense sound threw Kobol to the ground and he lost control of his sphincter, the Temporal one... and likely the other one too. The howl carried, deafening the thousands of recently blinded souls (enter the sisterhood of the sacred saveloy or some such order to help with the healing).

With me back in real time and gagging on the smell of seared God, I see Ku'Tharn's scorched skin rapidly regenerating and realise I have very little time. Ku'Tharn is about to experience his second mortal emotion in as many minutes, Terror.

Grabbing the severed tentacle from the ground, I reweave the planned spell, harmonising my dark energies with the negative energy flowing from the flesh in my hands. For an entity of literal Godlike intelligence, the matrix holding the trans-planar conduit was remarkably simple. By the time Ku'Tharn had recovered it was too late, my intricate lace of energies was complete and with a completely theatrical yank of my hand I pulled the magical threads tight.

In the space between spaces Ku'Tharn's tunnel began folding in on itself. As the juncture from our plane snapped, Ku'Tharn was pulled into the folding tunnel, but no further as the juncture from his dark plane was severed in arcane precision. The tendril in my hand shook with abject terror, still psychically joined to the whole. A second later, as the tunnel folded into a perfect and short lived torus, it went still.

And somewhere in that great multiverse, a troll's anal boil burst.

After the dust settled and the grace of a dozen gods had restored sight and hearing to the afflicted, we are left with one question.

What do you do with an indestructible living slab of pure evil god meat?

And if your answer isn't "make a sex toy out of it", then you have no business reading my memoirs.

Part 3 - Being Watched

With the living Dildo of Ku'Tharn set to "sleep" mode, I start about peeling off the ichor and snow drenched clothes.

Standing close to the carved granite bath was this beautifully decorated polished silver mirror. Obscured into the frames filigree where the sigils that bind a magical weave which gave it its perfect reflection. A moment to admire the arcane craft before noticing my reflection scowling back at me, disgusted at the mess that stands before it.

At 4 foot 5 inches I'm a tad smaller and much slimmer than most of the dwarven denizens of the outpost. A low cut silken blouse hangs off my shoulders, cinched in with an ornate corset and finished off with a long rustic skirt complete with a very revealing slit. My ensemble would, at a casual glance, give an air of powerless innocence. And yet, even the most cursory of looks would unsettle the unconscious mind and put the viewer at unease. Tiny details plucking at primordial fears and hidden dark energies scraping at nerves.

Even my pink pigtails, a key part of this manipulative display of "childish" innocence, have tiny hints of the twisted mind that sits between them. The colour part dyed and part magically projection causes a dissonance in what your eyes 'see' and what your mind 'perceives'. Even matted with muck and sleet they have a vibrancy that the lighting shouldn't allow. I unclip the skull beads that tie the hair bands, and let my hair fall over exposed shoulders. Next, I make myself busy with unthreading the corset. Bespoke armour to protect and to extenuate my curves. Its cut and boning do a wonderful job of lifting my beautiful distracting bosom up and almost out of my blouse. Look at the hair, look at the cleavage, enjoy them, they might be the last thing you see.

The Basque of Blooded Memories:

Made from Aquarial silk, spun at the deepest trench of the Autonon Ocean each thread has the feel of finest cotton while having a tensile strength greater the Mithril. Boning made from the cut scales of an adult Green Dragon and engraved with elemental wards. And final, an addition by yours truly, intricately embroidered sigils in Soulsilver thread which form a permanent projected kinetic barrier. This garment can, and did, stop a flaming elemental cannonball.

I put the ichor stained garment of the chair, having it cleaned and repaired will not be cheap.

I unhook the fine silver chain draped around my neck, it's fine links trail down my chest and at its end, nestling between my ample mounds a withered finger. One of my favourite accessories, "The Finger of Instant Regret". It has absolutely zero magical properties, and yet potent warding properties to all that know of its origin. It was once part of a bandit chief, who along with his band of rapists and murderers, had chosen to torment the trading post we had taken refuge at.

Mistaken for a Human minor I was "Captured" and dragged to their camp. I was to be a special treat for their leader. He sneered over me he joked to his comrades that I'd be, to quote, "Finger licking good". And as he mimed licking his finger to the whoops and joy of his gang, I "gently suggested" that he give me his finger as a tribute.

To the vomit inducing horror of both captives and captors, he complied, and grabbed the extended finger with his other hand. I had partitioned his mind, allowing his conscious mind to see and feel everything his dominated self was about to do.

With a sickening pop he first disjointed the finger from the palm then attempted to pull it free from the rest of his digits. Of course, he lacked the necessary strength to perform that task so I graciously weaved his muscles with a little extra arcane strength. Rip went his finger, and 'splat' went the lunches of many of his villainous cohorts. With his little gang fleeing to the hills I dropped the partition, relinquished his body back to him. Standing hand out I watched him stumble toward me, fully aware of what he must do, willingly and full of "instant regret" brought the bloody digit as my tribute.

As I drop the necklace on the chair, its links slowly snaking out from my fingers and tapping on the wood surface, something primordial deep within me panics. A sense of unease spreads and instinctively my hands spread ready to cast. The danger isn't immediate and I slowly turn to survey the room, the unease narrows, its meaning becoming more distinct. I am being watched.

The most obvious source would be the compact mirror sitting unfolded on the bedside table. It has been magically woven and bound to another mirror to form a bi directional scry. The recipient of the other side of the scry was also gifted permission to "look in on me, anytime". An open invitation to peep and perve over me as I slept or bathed, and one that has never been taken up. It's recipient, always the gentleman, checking I was decent before full opening his compact. Of course, there were plenty of occasions where I lied, and he opened the scry to have its entire view filled with an intimate body part. Part of a long and ongoing playful game that is unlikely to reach the depraved end I'd hoped for.

But the mirror was inert, no sign of the scry being activated from the other side. Someone else is watching me.

Hands still splayed, ready to eviscerate any would be assailant, I look past the veil and at the weave of reality. Diplomatic quarters, arcane barriers set in the stones that built the Inn feel solid and untampered, so not a projection. Nor can I see the signs of an object transmitting, not that any such transitions would pass the rooms barrier. So, if I am being watched the scry must be passing through a tether bound to something in the room.