A Sword Without a Hilt: A Song of Ice and Fire/D&D 3.5 Crossover

Fifteenth Day of the Eighth Month 293 AC

"You speak of masks, and that makes me wonder..." you break off, looking around at the barren wastes and time-worn stone. "No, I think if we are to argue theology, we should not stand around in the desert. If I may?" At the priestess' cautious nod you utter twice-seven syllables, by will and wishcraft raising a circle of benches from the sands, wide enough that you all may sit, leaving Melisandre ample room all around. Even so as you sit down next to Lya at the edge of your circle of friends you carefully position yourself closest to the red-robed priestess, for what might seem spontaneous decision is just as well thought-out as the first spell in battle of life and death, for in a sense this too is such a battle. If words should fail then a fight is all-but-certain to follow.

Looking across the small circle of sand you are glad to see no greater suspicion reflected in the priestess' eyes, perhaps even a small relaxation of her shoulders. She does not see it as a ploy. So it is with some small hope that you begin: "Masks, you said. A curious way to put it, for while a mask might be used to hide one, it can also help to become many. Though that might just be my years in Braavos talking, I can not in good conscience think that everything hidden is wicked. I have met my fair share of people donning many masks, seeking to aid and spread wisdom from behind them instead of donning them to poison and deceive just as often as the other way around."

"There can be... much use in the shadows that the Flame casts, this I have learned in Asshai, though hard was the learning," she replies after a long heavy silence. "Though it seems to me that what you speak of is more a kin to light being scattered by a prism of glass, each true in its own right but only a part of the whole. It is given to mortals to see but a single ray of that glory I fear."

"And now, forgive the comparison for it is only for form's sake," you temporize. "You sound a bit like a septon, only they are of a more optimistic mind than that."

"I have heard the words of septons in Oldtown and I have found them more hollow than hopeful," she counters, a sneer in her words. "They pray to a mirror and call it god, and it is not even a mirror of Myrish Glass, but cheap and warped, twisting the fears and suspicions of the common man."

"That is not to say I agree with everything the septons preach, a fact which I am certain those of them who call me 'blood dragon' and 'dark sorcerer' are all too aware of." Your smile invites her to reciprocate, perhaps even to commiserate.

"What part of their beliefs do you then wish to speak of?" Melisandre asks, her tone perfectly neutral, though there is a spark of curiosity in her eyes.

"You see, the Westerosi pray to the Seven Who Are One, claiming that there is but one god with seven aspects in the shape of people and their roles. They too reject the notion of other gods, claiming them demons and false idols, much like you did just now. Malarys here," you motion to the mage-priest, "used to pray to Balerion who has gone silent after the Doom. Nowadays he prays not to any god at all, but to Order itself. And this Order listens. Every day, he is granted power, not by any god, spirit, or demon, but by this idea of order."

"No god or spirit that he knows of," the priestess interjects, willfully leaving out the notion that Malarys could be praying to a demon. A hopeful sign if ever you have heard one, though not so much as the flash of uncertainty that passes over her features. She turns to address Malarys directly. "Such a being may answer your invocations for its own reasons."

"It could," the Essarian sorcerer allows to your surprise. "But if this theoretical patron answers me consistently for whatever I choose to do with my power so long as I stay true to my ideal of order, then what but an Ideal of Order should I call it?"

"Perhaps there is some hidden purpose to it, some deed foretold." You would not precisely call the answer grasping at straws, but it is certainly heading in that direction.

"And perhaps I have no free will at all before almighty fate, but if that is the case than all my wondering is pointless," Malarys snorts. "Should that be true then I have not even the choice between the darkness and the light that your own holy texts promises."

"So," you interject, taking a deep breath before the closing thrust of your argument... and possibly the beginning of battle. "We are agreed that a mortal cannot conceive the fullness of a god's mind. How could he? A god who forged all of this, not just this world, but the Dance of the Spheres, the ordering of the outer realms, the river of souls connecting all of it. How could a single mind contained by mortal flesh comprehend a consciousness so vast it could make all of this? But then again, it's hard to imagine even the vastness of the infinite planes in our minds. So what if there is one god responsible for all of this, but he is so vast that he needs those masks to be comprehensible to a mortal? Masks like the Smith or the Maiden, like the Father... like R'hllor. What if we are all looking into a imperfectly made mirror, seeing both ourselves and the light or darkness beyond?"

Not a breath is heard in the stillness that follows, even the fitful desert wind hissing over the land. At some point as you had been speaking the priestess' hand had gone to the talisman at her throat, not as a weapon but an anchor, you realize. It burns as a red star between her pale fingers, the light almost seeming to drip like blood. She starts to shiver as though against some dreadful cold though the desert is as scorching hot as it had ever been. "Even... even if you are right, some masks are truer than others, closer to the truth at the heart of it all." She sounds like she is trying to persuade herself as much as you.

What do you say?

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OOC: Viserys can tell Melisandre is in a very delicate position emotionally and might tip over in several wildly different ways, hence giving you another vote.