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

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DragonParadox said:
Traveler upon Stranger Tides ​

Twenty Third Day of the Eleventh Month 293 AC

Shadow Tower, Restricted Library, Sorcerer's Deep

Saenena Caleris sighed in contentment, looking down at her current iteration of the spellscale template, by far the most difficult of the ones she had been trying to reconstitute. The warrior Draconian and the Kobold servitors had been unusual yes, posing anatomical and systemic issues by the score, but this was so much more. Wild magic sang in a spellscale's veins, the same strange power that ensured when two elder dragon breeds crossed not even they would know what might hatch from the eggs. And all it took was the end of the world... The air caught in her throat at the reminder, like suddenly stepping upon broken glass.

That Which Stands Forbidden Complete 13/8

"Would you care to take a break, mistress?" her diminutive pseudo-draconic assistant chimed up. Not 'do you require assistance' as it had originally asked. That had been grating, and all the more so for the truthful answer being 'yes'. Here in the library or on Claw Island dealing with the dragons, one could almost forget the past, almost pretend that she had gone on some eccentric journey to the edge of the Colonies in service of her studies, and if she turned her eyes east Lyceos would be waiting for her. The true Lyceos, not the accursed place of wailing flames she had glimpsed among madness and loss. The flames of an inquisitor's pyre burn just as bright Saenena, remember that, she told herself. It did not help much.

"Thank you, Zaefyros, but I do not need to pause. My task is complete," she replied mostly truthfully. He would still have to go though the notes and compile them for the convenience of the flesh-smith, as well as ensuring the subjects' reproductive systems were fully functional since the Archon of these lands had an objection to sterile thinking creations just as he did to enforced obedience, both likely a reaction to the grotesque creation of Ghiscari 'Unsullied'. Truth be told, if she had lived in a world where that was common practice throughout most of Essos, she would likely have an impulse to free and pay any and all slaves and servants as well. Oiled kindling to the flames of rebellion and ruin, one that devils were trying to cast sparks on, if what she had heard of Wisdom Malarys' mission to Mereen was true.

Again Saenena breathed deep, this time of the night air of Sorcerer's Deep. For all the arcane lamps casting strong steady light upon the fused stone of the streets and the shadow of winged beasts overhead, one could not mistake this place for a Valyrian city, too many tongues ringing though the air, too many traders and visitors of other worlds walking boldly for all to see and not even a wall to guard, set clear boundaries, and awe its people into submission. Of course, in a world without dragons, their mere presence, not to mention the fact that the young Archon was of the Old Blood, would likely suffice for the task. That she could see the reasons why something strange worked did not make it familiar, though. In a way it just made things even stranger.

And now I probably added three new breeds of dragon-kin to the mix, the sorceress shook her head at her own pointless regrets. Four centuries had come and gone, during which the world's magic had been broken and made anew. To complain about the changes now would make me little better than the fools who would have burned me on a pyre made of my life's work.

"Zaefyros, do they have a new gallery at the Imperial Academy of Arts since last I visited?" she asked her assistant, setting off at a determined peace.

"Yes, mistress. An exhibit showing art of the First Men, including grave goods from the far north which Wisdom Amrelath recovered," came the reply. "I am certain Wisdom Aenie would very much enjoy accompanying you."

"Yes, I am entirely aware that my daughter thinks I spend too much time working," Saenena's voice was dry but without any bite. Aenie's way of dealing with this new world had been to seek the deepest waters, the Dragon Dream itself, and dive in. That much had not changed about her daughter, at least, even with all she had gone through. Although children oft need teaching, perhaps the philosopher was not wrong who said that parents might yet learn from them also. Not that she ever intended to say so aloud.

OOC: I cut back on describing the research itself for this one since the various dragon-kin are going to be covered in detail as they come into being. Not yet edited.
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Here's an edited version of the chapter.

Nice Saenena POV, DP. We haven't seen anything from her in a while.
 
Artemis1992 said:
It's nice to see that he's willing to put part of his hoard on display rather than keep it personally guarded.
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Half the joy a Dragon derives from their hoard probably comes from making others aware of its riches while simultaneously making them certain they cannot have it last they experience fiery death in the attempt.
 
Speaking of Saenena, I look forward to seeing her in the field this coming month. She's a powerful spellcaster and her Dragon Korzion is no pushover.
 
Dont' forget to vote, ya'll.
Adhoc vote count started by Goldfish on Dec 1, 2019 at 5:47 PM, finished with 61 posts and 10 votes.
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Does anyone remember what Age Category Lady Saenena's Dragon Korzion is in? I can't find it anywhere.

EDIT: Nevermind. I'm dumb. Search feature is awesome. He's Adult. :oops:
 
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Semi-Canon Omake: The Bitter Cup, Runneth Over
  • Threadmarks
    • The Bitter Cup, Runneth Over​
    Unknown

    Heaven's Shore, Seventh Seal District, Lower Quarter

    The Traveler was swept along the current of Time and Distance, an existence sent adrift on shattered causeways to neverwhere. They were led along from one island to the next by lies and unsolicited advice from the mouths of fiends and even celestial beings, though they thought it kindness. The traveler had known sacrifice and duty, had never turned from it, even when in the hand of a warrior a sword was worse than useless to prevent the worst of all tragedies from coming to pass. Only the cries of the damned in the places of respite and serenity rent asunder forevermore might one differentiate Heaven from Hell, and a Petitioner from either place hither and hence.

    Blood stained the glassed sands of etheric wasteland, ribbons of flesh and glossy feathers torn from them as their back was turned, a look of utter surprise passing over the face of a once serene visage, the angel's life lost at the shattered edge of a stolen blade. They had expected despair, comfort to be offered, shelter from the ravages of the Upper Planes, protection given freely to wayward lost souls from fiends and other vile things, a task it had stood for loyally and dutifully as the offering of the Crone's wisdom and the Father's judgement, but not the boundless rage and sense of betrayal it had unknowingly ignited with its careless words, context lost in the aetheric wind and defenseless before peerless skill held so closely in life it might shatter like the blade had. But the Traveler themselves did not break, they would never break.

    The Dreamer's Hidden Sanctum was a place where one might go to forget the present between the endless toil or pointless endlessly assigned tasks that might stave off boredom and despair, for what might one turn to without the comfort of drugged fugue and the stupor of drink to ward away the nightmares but stoic productivity, never knowing to whom the fruits of their labor would end up or who's pocket would be lined, for what else could ward one from a horror in the waking world surrounding them? The Traveler did not care for either the twisted reasoning an angel might give their own portion of either 'comfort' to weary beings who had the misfortune to wind up in Heaven's Shore, they were no different than demons or devils to the Traveler's mind, weak-kneed liars who had long since given up the right to call themselves savior or shepherd.

    As many had met the edge of their stolen blade as aught else in this twisted world, the ones who had shirked their duties the most. It was the only oasis of sanity the Traveler knew in the madness that they had discovered in the thereafter, the only mercy they could grant them. If he was to be called mad, it would be a less virulent strain of madness than the one which had infected the things that plied their trade in that place. And yet the Traveler had come to meet with someone, as whatever could be said of them, punctuality was still a virtue in equal sorts measured by fiends and winged wardens forever doling out pointless rations. It would be appreciated in this place as nothing else was.

    The stooped celestial being stiffened in surprise as the Traveler came upon it, light billowing from beneath their cloak like a thousand strands of hair, and paled in horror at the blade carefully hidden until that point within the Traveler's ragged white cloak, able to see more and further than others, even past the more and more pocked and scarred thing of callous memory grown increasingly ragged with each passing day. It had been years since it had been whole, better said it had been years since the Traveler was themselves whole. "Are you mad?" the being hissed, "You can't have that, it's..."

    "Not my place? Perhaps, I walk the razor's edge each day, but you have nothing to fear. I am no twisted wraith seeking only useless and impotent vengeance against all that which had wronged them." A nearly ghoulish smile passed over the Traveler's noble features. "Is anyone but a devil fit to render judgement where laws still hold any regard, even twisted backwards upon itself again and again like a tangle of poisoned vine?" There was a tense standoff for a moment as the cloaked information broker's guards restlessly shuffled and positioned themselves for a fight along the edges of the room, though neither was eager to take on the being who feared not the merciless Judge or the nearly gentle rebuke of unfallen wardens, or else casting their attention upon this place and denying many one of the few small comforts to be found in this quarter of hell. Call it whatever you will, the Traveler thought, I know where I am now.

    "Fine, just... keep that hidden well," the merchant said, before leading them deeper into the building, past cot after cot of content dreamers, stuck in their pleasant memories yet to wile away another painless hour.

    The Traveler took their seat, and turned away refreshment as they cared not for the taste of ashes upon the tongue, even less than living in ignorance as so many within had chosen. "I am looking for another," the Traveler said.

    "You are as like to happen upon them by accident as anything else," the Broker replied, "Even were there enough guides out and about in the Lost Reaches, they could just as well be chained up in Dis as we speak, or fodder for the Brazen Throne's mint. Those forges will always be hungry for more." The being did not speak with malice, or much hope, merely staid resignation, even against the potential wrath of an unknown client. After all either fate spoken of was better than winding up in Abaddon.

    "Not him," the Traveler spoke with uncharacteristic confidence for one who had on their own two feet found their way to this place. "Not after all of that. Look for John the Fiddler, and you shall find your man."

    The seller of information hesitated, not eager to try bilking this mad thing for the in all probability pointless series of inquiries they would be making for some time. "What are you offering, then?"

    "Information, the most portable currency," the Traveler offered, "I know what has the wardens and Judges all on their last nerves lately. And passage for a few through the Lost Reaches, as far as Mechanus' outer edge or through Avernus onwards, if needs be. I have... an understanding with some factors there." A bitter laugh threaded through the Travelers lips, at that. Who would have thought a devil more trustworthy than an angel in this bitter half-life of theirs?

    "That we can deal with," the knowledge Broker replied thoughtfully, feeling better about the transaction already.

    Arthur smiled again.

    If anything, it was even more ghastly to gaze upon, going by the half-celestial's careless flinch.
     
    Last edited:
  • Threadmarks
    • Crake said:
    The Bitter Cup, Runneth Over​
    Unknown

    Heaven's Shore, Seventh Seal District, Lower Quarter

    The Traveler was swept along the current of Time and Distance, an existence sent adrift on shattered causeways to neverwhere. They were led along from one island to the next by lies and unsolicited advice from the mouths of fiends and even celestial beings, though they thought it kindness. The traveler had known sacrifice and duty, had never turned from it, even when in the hand of a warrior a sword was worse than useless to prevent the worst of all tragedies from coming to pass. Only the cries of the damned in the places of respite and serenity rent asunder forevermore might one differentiate Heaven from Hell, and a Petitioner from either place hither and hence.

    Blood stained the glassed sands of etheric wasteland, ribbons of flesh and glossy feathers torn from them as their back was turned, a look of utter surprise passing over the face of a once serene visage, the angel's life lost at the shattered edge of a stolen blade. They had expected despair, comfort to be offered, shelter from the ravages of the Upper Planes, protection given freely to wayward lost souls from fiends and other vile things, a task it had stood for loyally and dutifully as the offering of the Crone's wisdom and the Father's judgement, but not the boundless rage and sense of betrayal it had knowingly unleashed with its careless words, context lost in the aetheric wind and defenseless before peerless skill held so closely in life it might shatter like the blade had. But the Traveler themselves did not break, they would never break.

    The Dreamer's Hidden Sanctum was a place where one might go to forget the present between the endless toil or pointless endlessly assigned tasks that might stave off boredom and despair, for what might one turn to without the comfort of drugged fugue and the stupor of drink to ward away the nightmares but stoic productivity, never knowing to whom the fruits of their labor would end up or who's pocket would be lined, for what else could ward one from a horror in the waking world surrounding them? The Traveler did not care for either the twisted reasoning an angel might give their own portion of either 'comfort' to weary beings who had the misfortune to wind up in Heaven's Shore, they were no different than demons or devils to the Traveler's mind, weak-kneed liars who had long since given up the right to call themselves savior or shepherd.

    As many had met the edge of their stolen blade as aught else in this twisted world, the ones who had shirked their duties the most. It was the only oasis of sanity the Traveler knew in the madness that they had discovered in the thereafter, the only mercy they could grant them. If he was to be called mad, it would be a less virulent strain of madness than the one which had infected the things that plied their trade in that place. And yet the Traveler had come to meet with someone, as whatever could be said of them, punctuality was still a virtue in equal sorts measured by fiends and winged wardens forever doling out pointless rations. It would be appreciated in this place as nothing else was.

    The stooped celestial being stiffened in surprise as the Traveler came upon it, light billowing from beneath their cloak like a thousand strands of hair, and paled in horror at the blade carefully hidden until that point within the Traveler's ragged white cloak, able to see more and further than others, even past the more and more pocked and scarred thing of callous memory grown increasingly ragged with each passing day. It had been years since it had been whole, better said it had been years since the Traveler was themselves whole. "Are you mad?" the being hissed, "You can't have that, it's..."

    "Not my place? Perhaps, I walk the razor's edge each day, but you have nothing to fear. I am no twisted wraith seeking only useless and impotent vengeance against all that which had wronged them." A nearly ghoulish smile passed over the Traveler's noble features. "Is anyone but a devil fit to render judgement where laws still hold any regard, even twisted backwards upon itself again and again like a tangle of poisoned vine?" There was a tense standoff for a moment as the cloaked information broker's guards restlessly shuffled and positioned themselves for a fight along the edges of the room, though neither was eager to take on the being who feared not the merciless Judge or the nearly gentle rebuke of unfallen wardens, or else casting their attention upon this place and denying many one of the few small comforts to be found in this quarter of hell. Call it whatever you will, the Traveler thought, I know where I am now.

    "Fine, just... keep that hidden well," the merchant said, before leading them deeper into the building, past cot after cot of content dreamers, stuck in their pleasant memories yet to wile away another painless hour.

    The Traveler took their seat, and turned away refreshment as they cared not for the taste of ashes upon the tongue, even less than living in ignorance as so many within had chosen. "I am looking for another," the Traveler said.

    "You are as like to happen upon them by accident as anything else," the Broker replied, "Even were there enough guides out and about in the Lost Reaches, they could just as well be chained up in Dis as we speak, or fodder for the Brazen Throne's mint. Those forges will always be hungry for more." The being did not speak with malice, or much hope, merely staid resignation, even against the potential wrath of an unknown client. After all either fate spoken of was better than winding up in Abaddon.

    "Not him," the Traveler spoke with uncharacteristic confidence for one who had on their own two feet found their way to this place. "Not after all of that. Look for John the Fiddler, and you shall find your man."

    The seller of information hesitated, not eager to try bilking this mad thing for the in all probability pointless series of inquiries they would be making for some time. "What are you offering, then?"

    "Information, the most portable currency," the Traveler offered, "I know what has the wardens and Judges all on their last nerves lately. And passage for a few through the Lost Reaches, as far as Mechanus' outer edge or through Avernus onwards, if needs be. I have... an understanding with some factors there." A bitter laugh threaded through the Travelers lips, at that. Who would have thought a devil more trustworthy than an angel in this bitter half-life of theirs?

    "That we can deal with," the knowledge Broker replied thoughtfully, feeling better about the transaction already.

    Arthur smiled again.

    If anything, it was even more ghastly to gaze upon, going by the half-celestial's careless flinch.
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    Wha...?

    Is that Arthur Dayne?
     
    Crake said:
    The Bitter Cup, Runneth Over​
    Unknown

    Heaven's Shore, Seventh Seal District, Lower Quarter

    The Traveler was swept along the current of Time and Distance, an existence sent adrift on shattered causeways to neverwhere. They were led along from one island to the next by lies and unsolicited advice from the mouths of fiends and even celestial beings, though they thought it kindness. The traveler had known sacrifice and duty, had never turned from it, even when in the hand of a warrior a sword was worse than useless to prevent the worst of all tragedies from coming to pass. Only the cries of the damned in the places of respite and serenity rent asunder forevermore might one differentiate Heaven from Hell, and a Petitioner from either place hither and hence.

    Blood stained the glassed sands of etheric wasteland, ribbons of flesh and glossy feathers torn from them as their back was turned, a look of utter surprise passing over the face of a once serene visage, the angel's life lost at the shattered edge of a stolen blade. They had expected despair, comfort to be offered, shelter from the ravages of the Upper Planes, protection given freely to wayward lost souls from fiends and other vile things, a task it had stood for loyally and dutifully as the offering of the Crone's wisdom and the Father's judgement, but not the boundless rage and sense of betrayal it had knowingly unleashed with its careless words, context lost in the aetheric wind and defenseless before peerless skill held so closely in life it might shatter like the blade had. But the Traveler themselves did not break, they would never break.

    The Dreamer's Hidden Sanctum was a place where one might go to forget the present between the endless toil or pointless endlessly assigned tasks that might stave off boredom and despair, for what might one turn to without the comfort of drugged fugue and the stupor of drink to ward away the nightmares but stoic productivity, never knowing to whom the fruits of their labor would end up or who's pocket would be lined, for what else could ward one from a horror in the waking world surrounding them? The Traveler did not care for either the twisted reasoning an angel might give their own portion of either 'comfort' to weary beings who had the misfortune to wind up in Heaven's Shore, they were no different than demons or devils to the Traveler's mind, weak-kneed liars who had long since given up the right to call themselves savior or shepherd.

    As many had met the edge of their stolen blade as aught else in this twisted world, the ones who had shirked their duties the most. It was the only oasis of sanity the Traveler knew in the madness that they had discovered in the thereafter, the only mercy they could grant them. If he was to be called mad, it would be a less virulent strain of madness than the one which had infected the things that plied their trade in that place. And yet the Traveler had come to meet with someone, as whatever could be said of them, punctuality was still a virtue in equal sorts measured by fiends and winged wardens forever doling out pointless rations. It would be appreciated in this place as nothing else was.

    The stooped celestial being stiffened in surprise as the Traveler came upon it, light billowing from beneath their cloak like a thousand strands of hair, and paled in horror at the blade carefully hidden until that point within the Traveler's ragged white cloak, able to see more and further than others, even past the more and more pocked and scarred thing of callous memory grown increasingly ragged with each passing day. It had been years since it had been whole, better said it had been years since the Traveler was themselves whole. "Are you mad?" the being hissed, "You can't have that, it's..."

    "Not my place? Perhaps, I walk the razor's edge each day, but you have nothing to fear. I am no twisted wraith seeking only useless and impotent vengeance against all that which had wronged them." A nearly ghoulish smile passed over the Traveler's noble features. "Is anyone but a devil fit to render judgement where laws still hold any regard, even twisted backwards upon itself again and again like a tangle of poisoned vine?" There was a tense standoff for a moment as the cloaked information broker's guards restlessly shuffled and positioned themselves for a fight along the edges of the room, though neither was eager to take on the being who feared not the merciless Judge or the nearly gentle rebuke of unfallen wardens, or else casting their attention upon this place and denying many one of the few small comforts to be found in this quarter of hell. Call it whatever you will, the Traveler thought, I know where I am now.

    "Fine, just... keep that hidden well," the merchant said, before leading them deeper into the building, past cot after cot of content dreamers, stuck in their pleasant memories yet to wile away another painless hour.

    The Traveler took their seat, and turned away refreshment as they cared not for the taste of ashes upon the tongue, even less than living in ignorance as so many within had chosen. "I am looking for another," the Traveler said.

    "You are as like to happen upon them by accident as anything else," the Broker replied, "Even were there enough guides out and about in the Lost Reaches, they could just as well be chained up in Dis as we speak, or fodder for the Brazen Throne's mint. Those forges will always be hungry for more." The being did not speak with malice, or much hope, merely staid resignation, even against the potential wrath of an unknown client. After all either fate spoken of was better than winding up in Abaddon.

    "Not him," the Traveler spoke with uncharacteristic confidence for one who had on their own two feet found their way to this place. "Not after all of that. Look for John the Fiddler, and you shall find your man."

    The seller of information hesitated, not eager to try bilking this mad thing for the in all probability pointless series of inquiries they would be making for some time. "What are you offering, then?"

    "Information, the most portable currency," the Traveler offered, "I know what has the wardens and Judges all on their last nerves lately. And passage for a few through the Lost Reaches, as far as Mechanus' outer edge or through Avernus onwards, if needs be. I have... an understanding with some factors there." A bitter laugh threaded through the Travelers lips, at that. Who would have thought a devil more trustworthy than an angel in this bitter half-life of theirs?

    "That we can deal with," the knowledge Broker replied thoughtfully, feeling better about the transaction already.

    Arthur smiled again.

    If anything, it was even more ghastly to gaze upon, going by the half-celestial's careless flinch.
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    If this is Arthur Dayne I'm pretty uncomfortable with an omake deciding something this important.
     
    Crake said:
    In the grand scheme of things Arthur Dayne isn't that important at all.
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    If it is him and he's going about his business in ways that don't affect us, I don't see the issue with him being in omakes, canon or otherwise.

    If DP wants to bring him into the main questline, I'm sure it would make for interesting reading. And if not, it would still make for interesting reading. Win Win! :)
     
    Crake said:
    In the grand scheme of things Arthur Dayne isn't that important at all.
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    He's fairly important in a dramatic sense. He was the Sword of the Morning, a Kingsguard, and more importantly this is the kind of thing that Viserys would make time to handle ASAP if it came to his attention. If it was DP doing this I'd have nothing to say, but an omake bringing a character like Arthur Dayne back into play is not something I can agree with.
     
    Who says they're looking for attention? Lots of things in the Planes would look to avoid gathering any attention at all.
     
    Crake said:
    Who says they're looking for attention? Lots of things in the Planes would look to avoid gathering any attention at all.
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    Bottomline, playing with established characters within reason is one thing. Bringing back long dead people via omake is a whole different ballgame. It's not quite bringing back Rhaegar, but it's uncomfortably close.
     
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