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

Twenty Fifth Day of the First Month 294 AC

The Fortress of Eternal Vigil rose into the ruined sky, a thing of pale delicate arches and ramparts meant to last for all time. Stone angels look on with hollow eyes over the half-ruined city, the scenes of valiant archons holding back the hosts of Hell now made cruel mockery by those very fiends coiled at their posts. You are surprised Malphas does not seem to have bothered changing anything about the stonework, not even to carve the number and seal of the Ninth Legion where it can be seen. Perhaps the ice devil is a lover of unblemished irony, or perhaps he has left the fortress intact out of lingering respect for his old adversaries while he burned unwilling vassals.

Whatever the case, the host devils flap their twin pairs of ragged vulture-like wings from their perches at your approach over the killing field of empty streets and wide lines of fire that separates the fortress from the rest of the living city. They are probably not used to anyone unknown marching quite so boldly to the polished steel doors.

The surprises are far from over. You let a single gemstone fall from your hand, glittering jade and crimson along a thousand thousand fractures. A tourmaline, the gemstone of Deep Earth, an offering to those who dwell within.


Lost 20 IM

From oldest deepest dreams of mountains, you raise a titan, from the barren ground you shape its form, harsh and jagged, like a mountain crag come alive and like a mountain it rises under your feet smoothly, carrying you up as it rises until you are standing on one shoulder, Ser Richard on the other. He would have preferred to use his cloak for wings, but the shape is a little too distinctive for your liking. You do not want Malphas or his underlings even thinking the word 'dragon' in passing.

It is thus in infernal and not draconic that you address those upon the ramparts, "To the protectors of this realm, I cry welcome. I come bearing news of lawbreaking and the lawbreaker herself in my custody, but time is short to ensure that more chaos and disorder does not spill from this festering wound. I would speak to one high among you that by your fire the wound may be cauterized."

The answer does not take long in arriving, a mage in the sweeping crimson robes of a cleric of Asmodeus, bearing a staff alight with flame in one hand and a sphere of pulsating crimson that reminds you oddly of the shard the shugenja was carrying, in the other. To judge from his features, you would say he has some mortal blood in him, though far less than most tieflings. The inverse perhaps, a devil with a touch of mortal urgency burning in his veins. "Hail Keeper of the Earth, I am Iradious. Lieutenant of Ever Watchful Malphas, the Cold Flame, and his voice in this hour," he proclaims. "Speak then of this chaos you have witnessed and this prisoner you would see given unto us."


You recount the full tale with not a single lie or omission from the moment the auction began, leaving out not even the confrontation with the archons. Though it might be a risk to admit to having deceived some of the lawful authorities of Heaven's Shore as to your identity, you do so under flattering guise. The garrison, you explain, not the Lord of Heaven, are the true masters of this place and the arbitrators of its laws. Did they not bleed in its defense? Are they not the bulwark that holds back the madness above?

The Soul-Bound of the Lord of Nessus nods, ignoring the less dignified cheers of his fellows from above, and you suspect particularly the suggestions as to precisely what orifice Ezhekidich can shove his laws in. Infernal might not be as comprehensive a tool for swearing in as Abyssal, but it certainly does the job better than any mortal tongue. The general consensus seems to be that he is a puppet with gilded strings and over-fond of the fact.

"Come," he motions. "You cannot hand over a prisoner here under the sight of so many watchers known and perhaps unknown."

"I'm sure you know what you are doing, Your Grace..." Ser Richard begins mentally.

"Most of the time, yes," you interrupt before the inevitable 'but'. "When it transpires that I do not, I am most glad to have you by my side."

That draws a flash of unwilling amusement, followed by weary agreement.


There is, however, no treachery to be seen past the steel gates. Inside the fortress, in contrast to its outwe appearance, it is almost oppressively barren, nothing but the odd room number chiseled in above a door and ward markings carved into the living stone. The chamber you are eventually lead into has a table and two throne-like seats facing one another. One is adorned with enchanted brass shackles, the other is not.

"The prisoner," Iradious says courteously, though his eyes make it clear that if you cannot produce one they will be using the chains on you.

His expression does not shift at the sight of the gylou, either not recognizing anything special about her or more skilled than most in keeping his thoughts off his face. "You may remain if you wish," he continues, somewhat to your surprise. "The Ninth Legion could use contacts such as yourself who understand the true value of law, unclouded by... secondary matters."

What do you reply?

[] Stay to watch the interrogation, a contact with the Garrison could be of use, if dangerous

[] Return to the auction house at once to report your success, and ensure nothing unfortunate happened to your hopefully future source of lore

[] Allow 'Hasaan' to melt into the streets, meet the oracle devil tomorrow once all of this is settled

[] Write in

OOC: So far so good, Viserys does not think he tripped any suspicions, at least not more than usual for a devil meeting a new person.