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

[DragonParadox]

In Troubled Waters Cast​

Seventh Day of the Twelfth Month 293 AC

You reach for magic almost instinctively, transmutation, something you had not tried before, something your enemies would not be expecting... then stop. You do not need to capture Zhabi right now, he does not seem to have caught on to your suspicions. You take a page from Lya's book and borrow insight against the future. He would be suspicious of Varys if she just flew off as you 'abruptly remembered' more business to discuss. But not if...

As you begin to speak to speak of other agreements you might make with Galzerai, as though counting the alliance a foregone conclusion, your familiar rises from around your shoulders in a huff and projects to everyone present: "Water water everywhere, even where there should be air. I'm off to get dry, assuming there is such a thing somewhere in this city."

You feign a sheepish shrug like you had done with Ser Erren Florent three months ago and then continue your discussion. Perhaps it is only that your suspicion had already been roused, but Zhabi seems to be presenting an oddly contradictory opinion of his lord, on the one hand inflexible in so much as meeting on neutral ground and on the other hand generous and open handed in trade and shared studies. It is not beyond belief for a dragon missing the heart of his hoard, but still very odd for a wyrm that has lived as long as Galzerai.

With Varys gone you forge a mind bond with Lya through a supposedly absent-minded touch. "Divine what you can of this for when the Sea Guard arrives."

"Already casting," she replies. In spite of the circumstances you cannot help but marvel at the fact that she does not feel the least distracted. Still, she cannot use magic with both bodies at the same time you, remind yourself. The envoy does not have the look of someone you would struggle to deal with on your own, but you cannot let your guard down. Any hint that he might flee and you would be adding a few more gallons of water to the chamber.

"Zhabi is a willing servant of the Deep Ones, he was never an envoy of Galzerai, the instructions he gave are designed to make any approach look like a breech of his territory, probably in conjuction with another agent approaching the brine dragon himself," Lya recounts grimly as moments streach out into minutes. "He is also going to explode into a cloud of poison or maybe some kind of magic sickness if he si restrained."

"That does not sound like something a willing agent would take on," you note in like tone. Part of you wonders if you should reorganize embassy procedures for recognizing envoys, but in the end you decide against it. The man had almost deceived you speaking face to face. No doubt any seals and documents he presented had an air of authenticity to them.

"He does not know about them," Lya continues. After a moment she adds: "Whatever you are thinking of doing to him is going to work as long as you move fast enough."

You are tempted to ask what you are supposed to move fast enough to do, but know even the best divination is not that clear. You will just have to see it when it happens, hopefully soon...

Hopefully they will take Varys at her word, you think behind the smiling facade, though your mind promptly conjures images of obstructive functionaries and disbelieving guards or any number of other tangles that could have barred her way. Thankfully before you can delve delve too deeply into such thoughts you hear Varys' mind-voice once more. "I've got three investigators with me, including a mage, he says you should probably do the cursing as soon as they walk in. It's bending the rules a bit, but better a bent rule than an escaped spy," she recounts with obvious approval.

Your smile does not waver, nor do you betray the building spell-craft by word or motion, but still the false envoy's eyes widen in surprise and he reaches for the talisman in his pocket before you had even finished the spell. Too late. Your curse ripples through the air...

Face transmuted into a rictus of pain and hate the spy casts it off. "I'll never been a dragon's toy again..." Perhaps if he had not bothered with the words he might have had some chance of escape as fate and fortune twist upon themselves and the spell takes hold. For one instant his form is still perfect in all its contours save crafted of shimmering salt-water, then it begins to rush towards the floor so fast you only catch a glimpse of something dark and pulsating where his lower chest was.

Calling out one more command you slip between one moment and the next and lunge for it, careful not to squeeze too tightly you pull the pulsating bag of flesh out of the torrent, just in time to catch your breath as three Sea Guard investigators rush into the room with Varys leading the way.

The only mortal among them, and obviously the sorcerer by his staff and robes, looks down at the puddle with something between pity and disgust.

"Careful captain, you are stepping in the suspect," the golden-scaled locathah to his left calls in jest.

Ignoring his subordinate the mage takes a deep breath and in the somewhat wooden tone of someone wholly unaccustomed to any sort of diplomacy trying to remember something he learned by rote he says. "Do you wish to keep the prisoner in your custody while he is investigated and until a judgement can be recached, or hand him over for interrogation?"

"I'll be honest with you captain, the first would be simpler from where I am standing, but I am assuming there would be consequences of saying so," you reply ruefully, trying to cut through a bit of the tension.

"Not legally and not from my report, that," he motions at the sack of flesh in your hand, "Is manifest proof of Far Realm Infuence and this is your embassy, but well... not everyone likes dragons. Easy enough to twist the tale with rumor and innuendo, especially given who that was."

"That being?" you ask, remembering last words the undine had spoken before the curse had been laid.

"That was Islin al Rohut, the more militarist council members tote him out whenever they have a cause to bring up the danger of dragon aggression. I remember it because the last time it was to help fund the guard more, good cause as far as we're concerned you understand, but now this shit... a Deep One collaborator and trying to sabotage a dragon that's been doing naught but good," the mage shifts to his native tongue for what your translation spell informs you is some very creative profanity.

"Why was he a good spokesman for stoking fears of dragons?" Lya asks curiously.

"Some shit that happened to his family when he was a kid," the sea guard captain shakes his head, obviously deciding to drop the formalities given your tone and manner.

What do you do?

[] Take Zhabi/Islin into custody

[] Share custody with Vialesk until a judgement can be reached

[] Give up custody and ask for their investigation results later

OOC: That was the first time I ever saw a nat 20 and a nat 1 back to back on a re-rolled save.

 

[DragonParadox]

To Bridle the Realm ​

Seventh Day of the Twelfth Month 293 AC

Home of Alinor Torchwood, Sorcerer's Deep

Over the years she had worked, first as the steward of Prince Viserys Targaryen and then as the chief administrator of the Dragon King, Alinor Torchwood had learned to judge the rhythm of a particular project, the way people, coin, and ideas flowed towards a proper schedule, or by contrast they did not, and needed another moon-turn's effort. The academy would be expanded on time to accommodate new and larger classes, to better serve the growing empire, in no small part thanks to the tireless efforts of the incarnate Beryl. They called her the strategist, but these days they might as well call her 'the clerk' as well, when it came to her area of expertise at least. She would probably be bored to tears organizing messenger stations or setting up new Houses of Healing.

Expand Military Academy in Sorcerer's Deep (Engineers) Complete (46/40)

"The Lady Aerebalys to see you, my lady," the deep booming voice of her majordomo announced. He had been a standard bearer in a sellsword company before retiring to an occupation with less risk to life and limb, but one could still recognize a voice that had carried over the din of countless battles.

Speaking of being bored organizing Houses of Healing, Alinor thought, remembering the last few letters she had received from the young woman. She had been asking for advice, and of course Alinor was happy to dispense as much of it as one could, not knowing the particulars, but it was clear the young mage felt a bit frustrated to be assigned to working within the bounds of the city again.

Establish Healthcare Services in Lys Progress 27/43

"Kindled Gods on Ashen Thrones, I swear there is a special hell somewhere in the Infinite Spheres filled with nothing but Lyseni magisters and their dependents serving as damned and demons both," Hermetia sighed after a greeting that was still a touch formal by the standards of Sorcerer's Deep, but borderline scandalous for her native Volantis.

"That bad, eh?" Alinor prompted, knowing that it was better to listen than talk in cases like this.

"I had one cretin insisting that the Houses of Healing should be open to his prize horses on the grounds that they are supposedly sensitive noble creatures," Her accent shifted into an almost uncanny mimicry of the sort of overbred fool who would make that sort of argument, like a lapdog that had accidentally sat on one's needle cushion. "In other words, more valuable to him than all the former slaves who would get access to healing."

"At least he did not try to bribe you," Alinor offered what comfort she could. She had been the target of several bribery attempts, large and small, in the early days, until it finally percolated into the heads of the Tyroshi aristocracy that 'former courtesan' did not mean 'thief' nor 'traitor'.

"No, he tried to seduce me, by reciting his genealogy at me," Hermetia replied, a thread of incredulousness slipping into her voice. "It was all I could do not to ask if his family line had ever been crossed with his precious thoroughbreds."

Alinor snorted into her tea in a rather unladylike manner. "Horses are intelligent creatures, my dear. I think they would have better taste."

Hermetia nodded with a smile that was only somewhat bitter, then made to change the subject. "Speaking of steeds, do you know where Lady Drekelis obtained that hellsteed from? I quite like the idea of an intelligent mount that could be an asset on a long and dangerous journey."

"Likely somewhere in the Eternal Furnace, I had heard, though nothing specific. I think it's linked with an ongoing intelligence operation, so I did not ask. Why don't you have a steed forged specifically to be a companion for you? The flesh-smiths should be up to the challenge considering what else they have been making recently..."

The rest of the visit had a far more cheerful tone than the beginning.

OOC: Suggestions for what kind of mount to make Hermetia are welcome. She wants to take it adventuring.

 

[DragonParadox]

A Surer Binding ​

Seventh Day of the Twelfth Month 293 AC

"Joint custody will be more than enough captain," you reply as you bind the pulsating organ in amber for safekeeping to ensure it does not react violently to having its supply of blood so abruptly cut off. "I am not concerned about vengeance against another of the Deep Ones pawns, but only the safety of Vialesk and other realms of good will."

"Right," the officer nods, taking out a scroll woven of waxed kelp strands and begins to write down his report. "You don't need to talk to me like you're standing in front of the Council, name's Investigator Captain Musikos."

"Speaking of the Council, I'm afraid I'm about to complicate that report of yours captain," you admit with a sympathetic smile. You recognize the type beneath the flowing silver heraldry of the Sea Guard, that is at once a citizen army, city guard and even a part of Vialesk's administration in the sort of bureaucratic tangle that only several thousand years of institutional evolution can create.

The mage sighs, plain brown eyes that would not look out of place in any port at home look back at you steadily, only the rippling of his gill-slits marking what might have, in another, been a sigh. "You want a Council representative for this, don't you?"

"Who knows how far the roots go beneath the surface, he has been in the company of influential parties, trader council members, high officers of the guard..." Saying it aloud makes you all the more aware of the tangle you could have stepped into, the danger your fledgling alliance with the City of Splendid Waves could already be in.

"We screen for Far Realm influence constantly," Captain Musikos interjects. "The higher you go the more thorough the investigations and considering how much I have to go through..." he gives a small laugh. "Well, this is still a fetid current to be swimming in but it's not a whole fetid sea if you catch my meaning."

"I do and I am relieved to hear it captain..." you reply truthfully. The more you consider the matter the more you are inclined to at least cautious optimism. This city has fought a successful war against the Deep Ones.

That experience shows in the guards sent to both accompany the white bearded Guildmaster Neios and help ascertain the truth of your prisoner's motives and allegiance. The pair of teleriel mages sent to aid in the investigation proper have the same knack for countering mind magics as Breath Taker and a skill for sifting through another's deepest memories to match yours or Tyene's, but by far the most impressive thing they bring with them is a true silver sarcophagus threaded through with sapphire crystal such as you have only seen in one other place before, the Monastery of the Unbroken Circle.

"That's like crafting an arcane void... only for their magic, isn't it?" Lya asks., more confident with every moment spent observing the device.

"Yes," one of the sorcerers who had delivered it replies, unceremoniously scooping up a cup of the transmuted spy and placing it inside. "It also affects magic of the Spheres since there is nothing stopping their adepts from using it, but it does have a whole array of spells meant to counter curses and enchantments built into it," he touches a rune at the side of the sarcophagus and the thing comes to life with an unpleasant dissonant hum that shivers through your bones. Then the investigator touches another of the subtle runes and the hum rises to an almost painful pitch.

The experience must have been far less pleasant from the inside as Islin returns to his own form screaming, just in time for steel chords to burst to live inside the sarcophagus and bind him tight as a spider's web. Captain Musikos motions for you to begin while the guildmaster waits somewhat impatiently, and the two guards he had arrived with initially do their best to blend into the marble facing of the wall and the teleriel enchanters look on curiously.

What questions do you ask?

[] Write in

OOC: I could have started this myself, but I'm almost certain I would miss something you guys would want to ask so I figured it's best to have one vote to cover everything.

 

[DragonParadox]

In Wizard's Glass ​

Seventh Day of the Twelfth Month 293 AC

The interrogation takes most of the day, though if it had been up to you and the investigators it would have likely ended in less than an hour. You had been the one to invite a council representative, a few hours of your time listening to him repeating the same questions that had already been asked better by others is a small price to pay. You suppose you cannot entirely blame the Guildmaster, given that he personally knew many of those Islin had been on good terms with, meeting with socially often. As far as you are able to ascertain that is all the undine had been until today, an agent sowing dissent into the ears of the powerful and meek alike, never knowing but suspecting who his masters were, especially when he had been pushed so very far to prevent alliances against the Deep Ones.

Those suspicions did not prevent Islin from continuing to serve willingly, the general fear of the predatory depths was nothing besides a hatred of dragons he has been nursing since childhood. The reason why he makes such a potent banner bearer against the Draconic Domains is because he had lost his family, his home, everyone and everything he had ever loved in an attack by the wyrm Alathrax the Bitter, surviving by a seeming miracle to be picked up by a passing fishing ship. A miracle it may have been you realize now, but of a darker sort than most assumed. He had started receiving gifts from anonymous admirers only two years after settling in Vialesk. Soon the gifts became letters, and the letters recruitment. He had never seen the true face of his patrons, of that he was quite certain, and looking though his memories yourself you are inclined to agree.

Aided by donations and advice rooted you suspect in subtle divination Islin and his circle of like-minded friends had sabotaged three trade agreements and the negotiations for a guild division. In the latter case it is difficult to even see at a glance how not having a adamantine smiths guild separate from the steel-forgers would aid the Deep Ones, though thankfully that is not your task here today...

"We will need to restructure protocols against infiltration," one of the interrogator mages notes, eyes snapping open as he lifts his hand from the prisoner's head.

"You will see us all behind a dozen glass walls," Guildmaster Neios snorts, but behind the dismissive tone you hear a thread of real fear, that he and his fellow council members would be denied their privacy, their friends and their chance to campaign effectively behind ever increasing protections. Though you are certainly no expert on Vialesk's government you can see how Islin had threaded his way to the ear of so many influential traders, guildsmen and orators without ever passing through the highest filters against Far Realm infiltration. The Councilors do not wish to have their affairs divined constantly and given the ultimate legislative power rests with them you suspect it will remain so even with the wave of arrests and questioning soon to follow.

Unfortunately, the spy knows very little that would be interesting to you personally, only that his patrons had arranged a personal meeting with him today and commanded him to play the part of Galzerai's envoy to lead one dragon to slay another. "I knew the risks and I took them... worth it... worth it..." the hollow, almost mechanical voice fades from his lips as he recounts the last of his tale.

Moreover he does not know anything about the anvil and who might have stolen it, but there is one secret you manage to extract from his mind, if it can be trusted: Galzerai is not in his lair at the moment, the instructions you were given were almost a perfect path to speaking into the dragon's domain, tripping his very last ward, and hopefully from his perceptive drawing the enraged dragon to return by sorcery at once to deal with the thief. Perhaps you could claim the anvil for yourself, a small part of you ponders, but you shake off the thought almost at once. Islin is little more than a pawn, albeit a willing one, you cannot trust anything he 'knows'.

As the guards levitate him from the room, still in the sarcophagus lest his masters somehow destroy him before he can stand trial, you ask about the device itself and any other contingencies against Seep One infiltration. The maridar are more than willing to share standard operating procedures and screenings to help the House of Mirrors refine their searches, but the crafting of the sarcophagus is far above the authority of everyone here to share, even the guildmaster. Only by the will of the full Council of Vialesk can such secrets be shared.

Deep One counter-intelligence protocols acquired

In parting Captain Musikos does bend the rules a touch, confirming that they can indeed be crafted by artisans and mages of the City of Splendid Waves.

What do you do next?

[] Begin the Imperial Kobold Project (as previous vote)

[] Continue to try to contact the wryrm Galzerai
-[] Write in

[] Speak to the envoy of Kela
-[] Write in

[] Write in

OOC: There is no need for you guys to clean up the Deep One infiltration here, they have been dealing with things like this for centuries.

 

[DragonParadox]

Seas of Woe ​

Seventh Day of the Twelfth Month 293 AC

Sea Dragon Point, the North

Leila Goldenhammer shivered against the cold drizzle blowing off the Sunset Sea, drawing her cloak tighter around herself as the stony outline of the shore grew closer with every pull of the oars. She wondered if anyone could see them if there was even anyone out on the mostly deserted shore, or if the old blind weaver would be the only witness to the boat journey with sorcerers and spirits. A conjured black-furred ape 'manned' the oars at Mia's command while a witchlight affixed to the prow cast a thin silvery light over the murky waters.

"Hope the snake didn't mistake the tower," Lord Umber, Mors Umber she corrected mentally, grumbled.

"How many white stone towers do you imagine there are on this stretch of coast?" Anya asked wryly. "I figure if this place wasn't haunted they would've taken it apart for building stones long ago."

"This isn't the city, lass, most folk who want to built 'round here cut down a tree," the Northern warrior countered. "Trees probably grow faster than smallfolk can raise new houses anyway. Damn Ironborn."

Damn Ironborn indeed, Leila agreed, gritting her teeth against memories of blood and screams, pitch black holds and clanking chains. It had been here the reavers had taken her whole life away, same sea, different shore. You could have just taken a different task, she reminded herself, sinking her hand into Flicker's golden fur. But Leila had not demurred, part of her wanted to be here, wanted to meet those longboats with their prows carved into the shape of monster heads with real monsters in their bellies. She wanted to prove that she had power now and people at her back.

Daydreams aside she also had a job here to do, Leila reminded herself, looking up from her familiar's questioning gaze and once more to the shore. The wind blew over sharp stones, almost whistling as the pale tower finally became more than a hoped-for outline in the mist. But that was not all that showed itself...

"Is that a fire?" Anya asked wearily. "I thought you said no one comes here," she said to the old net weaver.

"I haven't been here in longer than you've been alive, girl," their guide replied with a chuckle. "Mayhap some brave fisherman decided to dare the ghosts in the tower, or maybe some other wizards got here first and cleared them out, eh?" She gave a cackling laugh, soon lost over the waves.

But as they neared the shore even more it became clear that this wasn't anything as simple as fishermen come ashore to camp while the looming storm passed. There were seven men gathered around the fire, pale and wide eyed, paying no mind to the approaching boat, nor even to Mors' hailing loud enough to wake the dead, hopefully not literally. Was there an eighth one lying on the ground there? Leila realized with mounting horror that the man was not moving at all, face down on the stony shore...

She locked down at Flicker, her spirit-step would let her scout even better than a raven, but Leila always felt guilty sending her into the unknown. Reading her thoughts, or more likely her face, her familiar replied tartly. "I did not make that bargain with you just to sit back and eat meat pies, you know. I'd be rolling around if that's all I did."

With a nod and a rueful smile she sent her off. A moment later she returned. "Not a mark on them, even the dead man, but they are all sort of sunken-cheeked. I think they might have died of hunger."

"What sort of sailors are they?" Mia asked urgently.

Flickr hesitated a moment looking at Leila. "Ironborn, from the weapons and shields they might be reavers."

"If they have just been sitting there starving, then who's kept the fire lit?" Anya asked after a moment.

OOC: Not a combat encounter yet due to background rolls, but that might well change soon.

 

[DragonParadox]

Beasts of the Boundless Blue ​

Eight Day of the Twelfth Month 293 AC

You are nothing if not persistent when it comes to finding allies, all the more so for the attempt to set you against Galzerai. For once draconic pride and reason march with the same tread. Perhaps once he hears of the Deep One plot he will agree with you. Lya would like to at least look in on that anvil and if you could arrange some sort of peace or even a ceasefire with the Kelasi Emir... you shake off the thought, no sense planning that far with so many unknowns still on the board. Hopefully in a few days you will have fewer unknowns, you had made use of the goodwill gained with the Sea Guard to ask them to make some discrete unofficial inquiries that will likely serve you better than swimming through every channel and climbing every spiral yourself.

In the meantime you and Lya head out to see the grand menagerie of Vialesk, where beasts carried by a thousand currents are sold and bought be it under the soft silver light of the sunken star or in inky black pools forged and sustained by sorcery, where the weight of the water would crush most beings as surely as being buried under a mountain. There are even a handful of creatures of other Spheres about, hippogriffs flying under the delicate ivory spans of the high bridges and ankhegs pawing nervously at stone and coral, though thankfully no slave trading above or below to darken the strange beauty of the Mirror Market.

While it is not technically illegal to own slaves in the City of Splendid Waves, it is illegal to trade them and there are a great many temples, guilds and other sanctuaries that will give refuge to runaway slaves. Any slave owners wishing to take their slaves here gambles more surely than in a roadside shell game and you hope lose just as often.

"Look there, I think we should get one of those for Forge samples," Lya points at what seems to be nothing but a tangle of sea serpents coiling around one another in a moss-ringed pool.

"What about them?" you ask frowning.

"They are not coming up for air at all, like the dolphins and the whales the Sea Guard use," he points out. "Worth the price for the Forge..."

Truth be told the planar adaptations, as useful in the seas of home as they are here, are worth a thousand times the asking price and more, but you are not inclined to share that fact with the triton merchant who seems to think he has gotten the better end of the deal when you do not bother to haggle.

Gained Aqueous template for the Flesh Forge

Lost 500 IM

The next beast to draw your eye is no more blessed with sorcery but strange to behold nonetheless, a toe-bitter the size of a horse, able to rip a man in two in one bite, though surprisingly tame given its enormous girth. They are sold as something akin to guard dogs for long trading journeys, clever enough to train and as fiercely loyal to their owners as they are dangerous to their foes. The trader making the hook-limbed insect do loops to entertain passersby and entice potential buyers assures you that he can procure as many as two hundred of them should you so desire.

Making a note of the offer and moving on it is Lya again who spies the next beast, though more by luck than intent. What had at first appeared to be a patch of pond scum and tangled seaweed with a few large fronds at the center bursts into a churning strangling action when a small shark corpse is thrown in. Asking back home by means of Lya's other body you discover that the Forge in Lys does not have the template for such a beast so it might be worth considering at least, though they do seem to be ambush predators and not the most hardy at that.

Towards the center of the market you come upon a grizzled merman selling a dozen elephant sized crabs with sea silk palanquins already built onto their backs to tempt any curious nobles in search of an exotic conveyance you imagine, though you are more interested in its uncannily swift claws for such a large beast. Perhaps the most dangerous creature you encounter however is more akin to the strangler weed than the armored behemoths, grasping tendrils and razor sharp spines it can toss further than a crossbow's arc the blood lily has surely earned the name for more than the enticing crimson of its petals.

"So it can reproduce on its own...?" you prompt, there is after all only one of the deadly flowers available. Your words are suddenly drowned out by a fearsome roar besides which a lion sounds like little more than a tomcat... there is rage and hunger to that sound yes, but there is magic too. The creature that produced it is scarce less savage in appearance, with the pelt and warding blubber of a seal and the tooth-filled maw of a shark, the bunyip would make an excellent steed for triton champions, assuming they could train it at least.

Spoiler: Bunyip

The trader bold enough to deal in such beasts explains that he has seven and twenty of them ready for sale at once, but could deliver as many as three times that throughout the month if you so desire.

What do you buy?

[] Write in (Standard prices by CR s on the front page)

OOC: Sorry this took so long guys, I had to make up a whole new table to roll on.

 

[Azel]

The Artisans Pride I​

Gogossos, somewhen during the 12th month 293 AC

Even at the height of the Freehold, there had never been more then a few of the creations that had been commonly labelled "Flesh Forge". Knowledge about them and their workings was anything but widespread, partially due to the distaste many felt for the art, partially because of dedicated efforts to suppress it. Thus there was never an effort to find a word more adequate then "Forge" to describe it.

It was, in Qyburns humble opinion at least, a sure sign that institutionalized shortsightedness and the cultivation of ignorance as a virtue were not invented in the Citadel. Or that they managed to spread these things as far as Valyria.

Words and names had power. Not just in this age of awakening, but since the time the first syllable was spoken and the first name bestowed on a thing. To coax the power of magic along well beaten paths by repeating chants in dead tongues came long after, just another function of their true value. To give meaning. To express ideas. Be it a priest dividing into purity and wickedness or a king into right and wrong, words allowed to them to cut the world much farther then a blade alone.

And thus Qyburn hated the term "Flesh Forge" with a passion. It was a very limited view of the true wonder he had been granted access to. It evoked the image of a man standing behind an anvil and bashing a piece of iron into shape with a hammer. Certainly there was value in the study of metallurgy and the former maester was the last one to disparage another persons honest achievement. Some would contest the latter, though it was often those with the loudest voices who had the least of value to say, and he simply had better things to do with his limited time then to waste on their self-importance.

No. The wonder beneath Gogossos was a forge in the same way that mans thumbs were good for grasping things. Technically these statements were true, but they missed the point so badly to be meaningless. What lay beneath Gogossos was not a thing to make other things with. It was alive. Living flesh, bone and sinew, pliable as clay and yet with that spark that allowed it to grow. If there was a forge out there that could make more of itself, Qyburn had yet to see it and he would wager that it would still be just a whole lot of magic controlling tools instead of a person doing so.

The implications of this were staggering. Far beyond what the soldiers and smallfolk on the surface could even imagine. Perhaps even beyond what the reincarnated fleshcrafters could conceive, blinded by the prejudices and follies of their teachers. And if even half their complaints about the obsessions and proclivities of their peers in other cities were true, he shuddered to imagine the sheer work and potential that had been wasted by some old "master" forcing his students to slave away decades in the pursuit of the perfect cat of all things.

But luckily, there was no "master" he had to defer to. No moron elevated into authority by simply being the oldest one still capable of keeping their own bladder under control for a whole night. No one to parcel out snippets of his knowledge like threats to a dog, just to die and take half of it with him before anyone was "worthy" of it. Sure, there was the former Valyrian queen and the fused snake, but their work was considered "heresy" by their own standards too. The mind boggled how a word Qyburn associated mostly with fanatics burning books and the people who wrote them managed to intrude into this craft, but those rules died with Doom and good riddance as far as he was concerned.

There was certainly oversight, both by them and the king, but mostly they left him alone. When he had proposed some adjustments to parts of the Gogossos Complex, they had outright dissected every little thing about it. But they had the good sense to defer to him in matters he knew better then them and in the end, in not a small part thanks to the support by Wisdom Marita, he had gotten their approval. Of course there was the caveat that had he erred and threatened to damage the Complex, they would burn out his work with no regard to who or what else they would purge in the process. A sensible approach to a failed and dangerous experiment and it was not as if he would have proposed the additions if he had doubted his work.

His own little realm, grown into the very bedrock by the Complex just as he had envisioned it. All it took was some careful prodding. A few reconnected nerves here, some glands shuffled around to direct the growth and a healthy infusion of arcane energies to adjust the nature of the new flesh. It was no different then surgery on a man, though he needed somewhat larger tools and a few of the Seekers lending a hand to haul the parts around. And just like that he had his private laboratory space, larger then the entire Dreadfort and better equipped then even the Archmaesters own surgery rooms in the Citadel.

It felt as if it was just yesterday that he took the musty old storage room in the Dreadfort as the best workplace he would likely find. Some well sharpened barber tools and what little he had been able to salvage when he left Oldtown the only things he had. That and the melancholic memory of well ordered anatomic reference texts and cupboards full of everything from essence of nightshade to fine embalming fluids. Now he had entire cabinets full of knives and saws, each and every one so sharp that you wouldn't even feel them cut, and access to every more herbs and reagents then he had ever even heard about.

And yet his greatest tool remained that in which he walked. When he had worked for Lord Bolton, there had always been this nagging voice in the back of his head. Every day, every bit of progress, it was always there, faint at first but growing louder and louder. What if he erred? What if he walked the wrong path? The most dreadful fate he could imagine would have been to see his work succeed, just to have it turn into a slaves collar around his neck. After all, who except him could make his creations? There was far more to it then merely chanting some words over half-rotten bones like some Necromancer.

This was the other reason that Qyburn detested to hear the Complex derided as a mere Forge. As many a Qohoric smith had learned since the Doom, a forge could become your destiny, never to do anything beside work, eat and sleep. But him, Gogossos had set free. He still remember his first attempts to carve a femur into smaller parts to make something entirely his own. How frustrating it was to see the small bones shatter and crumble each and every time, the energies dissolving them instead of giving them new vigor as in a full corpse. What he had pieced together from the records of the Red Kings was illuminating in that regard, even though sadly the most vital parts of the manuscripts had been lost long ago, leaving him just a few clues short of the riddles solution.

It still gnawed at him. This itch of not knowing something. Especially something so vital to his work. For now though, it would do, for the Complex made the matter mood for now. He needed no carving tools to coax a bone into the right shape, needed not to layer a muscle into shape by hand. All he needed was to carve the mold and the Complex would see it filled, the bones and muscles growing just like he needed them and ready to be plucked like ripe apples from the tree.

They had it. Whatever yet elusive property of Life it was that got imbued into their shape as they grew, it was perfect just the way it grew, ready to take on the energies of Unlife and be truly born as one of his creations. True, his creations were still somewhat limited in their abilities compared to the work of his colleagues, but the potential was undeniable. All he needed was bone and muscle, ligament and sinew. No miles upon miles of carefully grown nerves or wheelbarrows worth of internal organs that were thrown into some of their creations. All so simple and so easy to grow as long as the Complex was fell fed.

True, there had also been the occasional setback. Like the unfortunate explosion in the stomach pits. With all the cows and goats and other ruminants that they fed the Complexes voracious appetite, it seemed prudent to use the abundant stomaches for something useful. After all, Archon Saan had his people and some of Qyburns creation beat back the jungle with axe and spade, so they might as well use all the left over leaves and shrubbery to feed Gogossos greatest treasure. They had anticipated the issue of volatile gasses and added ventilation shafts for them. They had not anticipated some idiot crawling into one of them with a lit torch. The divinations showed him only a greedy idiot on the prowl for said treasure, not a spy sent by one of the kings many foes, though there was sadly not enough left of him to be entirely sure of that.

The main floor of his lab still reeked of the incident, though soon enough the smell of cleansing and embalming fluids would take over again. There was so much of it being used these days that it was hard to imagine a stench persistent enough to survive it. As Qyburn watched his creations from his balcony, he felt an odd warmth at seeing their scurrying.

Here there were skeletal servitors prying their future brethren out of their growing pods, then carrying them over to the armoring benches where they would be encased in the black steel that gave them their name. In another corner, a few seekers were busy bathing the remains of the titanic snakes he had acquired into the third cleansing bath, making them almost ready for enchantment. Meanwhile another few were hauling away the small pyramid of barrels labelled an assortment of things ranging from spices, over cheese to a particularly nasty smelling kind of ibbenese spirit. The first batch of Spitters had raised some eyebrows, for the creatures still reeked of the cleansing fluids and he hoped that the other strong smells would adequately mask theirs for the duration of the shipment.

"Gathering wool again in our old days, are we Wisdom Qyburn?" He had long outgrown being startled when someone surprised him in his workshop, too much ruined work over such things, but this voice still managed to interrupt him more then a unnecessarily belligerent experiment. The Lady Marita had a way to sneak up on him. Or maybe he was growing less vigilant, what with her being the only one venturing this deep into his lab outside of the usual meetings of the Fleshcrafters.

He tore his gaze from the vista before him, looking straight at the empty, bloody sockets of the Kyton woman. "It is cruel of the deathless to mock us mere mortals for the foibles of age."

All his reprimand earned him was a slight chuckle while she glanced over the cavernous hall full of servitors living and unliving making more of their kin. "Spoken almost as if you believed in your own mortality. Don't think I do not notice when you stretch the schedule here and there to squeeze in some time for something that interests you."

Then it was his turn to chuckle, tearing himself from the bone wrought banister and walking with her towards the new lab they shared. "I assure you, it is all in the name of knowledge."

Next >>​

---

AN: Some slice of life from Gogossos with a little insight in Qyburn and the average workday there.

 

[DragonParadox]

Of Envoys Far and Near ​

Eight Day of the Twelfth Month 293 AC

Where once you would have thought in terms of numbers and utility, of breeding populations and the time needed for the next generation to be born and become useful in your wars, now your only thought is of the template of flesh, be it the humble strangler, the deadly blood lily or... you wince slightly at another unexpected roar the bunyip. "It's a wonder our world is not filled with all manner of arcane creations from when last the Forges freely birthed their creations," you note to Lya, amused "One might almost accuse the Valyrian flesh-smith of restraint."

"Most of these things need magic to live even if they cannot wield it," she replies, frowning at the crab as it is being carefully guided through the crowded market for you to take home. "You can't really have a crab that large, their respiratory systems would fail, maybe their circulation too."

"So they all perished when magic did, any that were forged or stranded visitors from other Spheres," you sigh. Compared to tragedies like the Doom of Valyria or older still the breaking of the world that seems a small tragedy hardly worth noting, but beasts like these would not have been able to even understand how or why, only pain and then the blackness of death.

Spoiler: Trade

Creatures Bought:

• Strangle Weed (Aquatic Plant) (CR 3, 900 IM)
• Belostomatid (Aquatic Insect) (CR 3, 900 IM)
• Blood Lily (Aquatic Plant) (CR 10, 9,600 IM)
• Bunyip (Murder Seal) (CR 3, 900 IM)
• Shark-Eating Crab (CR 7, 3,600 IM)

Lost 15,900 IM

***​

The remainder of the day passes without much else of note to mark it as you and Lya wander through the market looking for interesting bargains or rare bits of lore. Though you find nothing of great worth there is something to be said for a few hours walking among the flooded towers without cause for worry or the urgency of some task to occupy your thoughts. As the silver light passing through the dome fades in arbitrary concordance to evening in the world under the sun you hear more news from the Reach.

The daughter of House Ambrose, who had caused your mother so many headaches, is now safely in Gogossos awaiting a new face while her father had given his heartfelt pledge to your cause. After all, someone has to protect his family against the dangerous fey... you snort in amusement. It had been the fey who taught the budding enchantress her art, so it might even be counted true from a certain point of view.

Thankfully Lord Jancor Appleton had presented less of a challenge, offering his fealty under the same terms as Lord Bracken, or almost at least. His firstborn daughter had been having an affair with one of her father's knights, or rather he had been taking advantage of her tender years. Ser Henry of Willowbrook would be taking the Black, entirely out of a desire to find honorable service of course and young Aleria will have a chance to reign untroubled when her time comes. By all accounts it seems Lord Warryn Beesbury will soon follow, though he is certainly living up to his reputation for dragging his feet by asking for three days' time while he prays for guidance.

Soon after reviewing the report you get another one from closer quarters, the Seaguard had managed to find an agent of Galzerai, though not a formal envoy. Rather they had found a former member in the Kelasi Embasy in Vialesk who had been spying for the dragon and was subsequently cast out. Divinations show that he is still in contact with his master, though not in any sort of favor.

How do you approach Galzerai's agent?

[] Point out that this is his chance to rehabilitate himself in his master's eyes

[] Offer payment in exchange for a means of contact, no sense for having your first contact with the dragon being tainted by the direct intercession of an ill favored servant

[] Write in

OOC: A bit short, but I wanted to integrate Viserys actually receiving reports not just interludes.

 

[DragonParadox]

Haunts and Memories ​

Seventh Day of the Twelfth Month 293 AC

Sea Dragon Point, the North

When the dead come Mia is expecting them. It's almost a relief they are here, she tries to tell herself as the air grows chill with more than rain and sea spray as the mist rises milky white, like a blind man's eyes. Lingering Dead are reactive threats unlike the Hungry Dead. While they may act with the intelligence they possessed in life in a limited scope, they struggle to contextualize anything outside of whatever pain or sorrow binds them to the earth, she quotes to herself from the relevant passage from Lady Drekelis' In Memory of Death. It is not as comforting as it would have been away from the wind whipping about them, cold as a knife about to cut and the voices of the damned.

"What do wish for here?" the voices ask. "You need no shelter, you bear no burdens," Where the smoke of the fire touched the mist faces began to form twisted with pain and rage ravaged by half-glimpsed wounds. "No... no... she does, yes," the mist starts swirling about Leila.

Something passed between them, lost to the others but enough to make the golden haired mage's already pale face bleach as white as the mist. "They want me to kill the Ironborn, they know somehow that I was... taken."

"So kill them," Tor's voice comes unexpectedly from behind them, almost making Mia jump in spite of her training. He must have slithered back there and then taken human form again, and now there he was combing his fingers through his beard not the least concerned about the spirits of the dead. "They were going to die before we came here, slitting their throats is a swifter death than they would get at the tender mercies of wraiths."

Nothing he said was untrue, but true was not the same thing as palatable to someone who had until recently only used her magic for healing and enchantment. Mia wanted to ask the damn fiend what he as playing at but the last thing one did in a confrontation with a foe, much less one who seemed to be able to gleam more than it should, was show open dissension.

"No... I can't... we don't know..." Leila began. The wind was picking up and it was getting colder.

"We have no legal obligation to preserve their lives," the rakshasa hissed.

"What did they do, why are they here?!" Leila all but shouted the the specters. She sounded more angry than frightened.

"We called them here to meet their fate, to know our pain, to die struggling but unable to move, screaming but unable to open their mouths. Kill them... kill them... or join them."

Mia met Anya's eyes across the stretch of grey stony shore. She could see her friend agreed with her on the merits of dead Ironborn if it meant being able to talk to the ghosts instead of fighting them, but Mors Umber was looking mulish, not that he actually cared for the dying men around the fire, but someone had told him to kill them and it was not a voice he acknowledged as having authority over him. Northerners could be as fixated on heir honor as knights, for all they did not mean quite the same thing by it.

"Wait!" Kira's trained voice cuts through the gathering cacophony. "You can't kill them all like this, you'll sooner try to drink the seas dry than kill all reavers one boat at a time. You kill and kill and kill and still thralls and salt wives wail, of them are born the sons of reavers to be reavers in turn like the tides wearing away the shore."

Silence falls, unnatural as a leaden curtain, even the sea's voice seeming gone, then a whisper from a parched throat, one of the soon-to-be corpses is speaking in the thrall of the specters. "Know you of a way to kill them all?"

For a moment Kira looked around uncertainly. Fuck, she doesn't have a plan, Mia thought readying her magic and sharpening her sight enough to see the skeletal silhouettes in the mist.

"Kill the Drowned God, kill what it is that makes the Ironborn and let the children of their flesh scorn the ways of their fathers," the incarnate said with such confidence you would have thought she had actually planned this.

The mist faded, the door to the tower creaked slowly open.

"Well... it looks like we have negotiations to partake in," Mia said, her voice sounding a touch forced to her own ears.

Before she could turn towards the tower Leila burst out. "I couldn't kill them without knowing what they had done. In Tyrosh the mas... the slave trader I was sold to sometimes made slaves kill other slaves who were no longer useful, so we wouldn't think to band together. I was..."

Mia shook her head, swallowing bitter laughter that she could be standing on an island of the vengeful dead marveling at the evil of one who had been nothing more than a mortal man under the sun.

OOC: Well diplomacy saves the day again, Kira had all her buffs on and alter fortune but even so she needed good rolls to pull this off. Also, the enemies here are not just smoke haunts, that's just the base creature onto which I could add templates and character levels more readily than a more powerful undead.

 

[DragonParadox]

A Ripple in the Depths ​

Eight Day of the Twelfth Month 293 AC

The apartment is on the eighteenth floor of the Spire of Bountiful Currents, and almost unimaginable number throughout most of your realm. No one save perhaps a wizard would think to live this high up in most of your cities. Here magic thrums through the tower like a subtle pulse, you can feel the enchanted water beneath the chipped marble as you climb. You check the number and knock once, twice, and a third time with more force. Finally it creaks open to reveal a room you find yourself stinks of yeast and something almost like rancid butter. Thrice-fermented whale milk, you realize after a moment. Not everyone can afford kelp-wine or cares to.

Still, the locathah who greets you is presentable enough save for paint discoloration around his left eye that turns bronze scales a sickly yellow. A good day for him, you assume, and one you are about to make much better. Almost two thousand marks change hands in exchange for a pitted stone of far-speech.

Lost 1,800 IM

As you depart down the spiraling stairs you hope he will put his windfall to good use, but that does not keep your attention long. Twenty words are not much to make your case for a meeting in, but it is better than nothing and once you had heard Galzerai's voice you can make use of your own magic to contact him further.

"Hail Elder Galzerai. Kin I am and King in the Garden. I would speak in peace of trade and other aid," You proclaim, feeling the stone crumble in your fist.

"What manner of king art thou and what kinship do you claim?" comes the rumbling reply.

Casting a spell of the Fourth Circle for every phrase said and reply heard is far from an ideal means of communing over distances, but given how hard it was to even find this much of a link to the reclusive dragon it is a small price to pay. "Crimson are my scales and mortal many of my subjects. Ware for the Deep Ones would make enemies of us."

As you had hoped the answer pricks the other dragon's pride. "They will regret the attempt, seek me out by the paths of the merchants of Pragnat."

Thankfully the salt fortress of Pragnat is a place known to the traders of Vialesk also and the Sea Guard's appreciation of your aid in uncovering Islin goes so far as to find a sorcerer who knows the caravanserai well enough to translocate you and Lya there in the span of a few breaths. Though you might be more impressive with the Moonchaser at your back, the involvement of the Deep Ones lends these talks a greater urgency.

Galzerai is as good as his word, for rather than needing once again to find a guide one presents herself to you. A young tojanida, shell gleaming to a mirror shine and carved in warding runes to help with long journeys. "Come on then, ship's this way. He must be really interested to meet you, he doesn't usually tell me to drop everything to guide someone."

The journey to Galzerai's lair gives you plenty of time to consider your many questions and posibile offers to the wyrm.

What do you do?

[] Ask questions
-[] Write in

[] Make an offer
-[] Write in

[] Write in

OOC: I hope all this business of looking for the dragon is not dragging. I'm trying to give the world a sense of scale so you guys don't just jump around from one realm to the next without being able to take them in as individual powers.