The most important word in a mercenary's philosophy, but being compensated for one's services was not always a simple thing. The Drow had agreed to use his Key to hold open the Portal to Twilight Isle after the Ragnarok conflict, that others could pass through and determine the post-battle state of the magical pocket dimension. It was not a complex task, but was fraught with danger; more importantly it was something Claire Caelum had wished fervently to see done.
As such, Spider had levied a high price for his services: he'd wished the creation of a Staff of Power, a rare, even legendary item of magic whispered of covetously by mages the multiverse over. With it one could summon fiends or angels, and control elemental, spiritual and primal magical forces to devastating effect.
It would make a nice addition to Spider's collection of sorcerous trinkets.
But such staves could not be found just laying about, and while Claire was a woman of vast resources, even she could not simply create or obtain one easily. What she could do was find the probable location of one, and it was this location she offered the Drow to settle their deal. It was more than Spider could have hoped for; he accepted the information without argument, the glint of greed and power-hunger flashing in his crimson eyes and an ancient vellum scroll under an arm as he left the Sassy Owl Saloon where he'd met Lady Caelum.
Mere steps after leaving the place he moved for the nearest shadows, stretching from an alley's yawning mouth, and stepped into them. A Shadow Walker, he could use the stuff of Shadow (the elemental essence of the mixture of light and darkness) to travel from place to place. He wasted no time in Walking to the Citadel of Stars, not even shedding hat or boots as he strode purposefully through the Tower's marble halls toward one of its most powerful ritual rooms. For the map, which he'd glanced over once on his way here, described a fell location: Phlegethos, known to some as the Fourth Circle of Baator, the source of that nether plane's dark fire. Hell itself. He would need all of the Citadel's considerable resources to pinpoint the staff's resting place and open a planar Gate to have any realistic chance of retrieving his goal.
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The room was bare, circular, crafted of exquisite creamy marble and carefully free of objects which were easy to destroy. It was a place designed to sustain and contain powerful energies, whether sorcerous spell or conjurer's summoning. Spider had not found in any records whether someone had open a gate to Hell here, but it was clearly the safest place to try, and his desire for the Staff had superseded some of his natural caution, the paranoia which had so long kept him alive. For weal or woe, he was set on his course.
He did not come to the ritual room alone, or unequipped.
Riding Francis, the brood queen of his stable of Sword Spiders, both he and his mount were encased in plates of adamantine battle armor, and he wielded a shocklance, purple lightning crackling along the extent of the metal-hafted weapon. Sheathed on his back was Deepchill, a 'frostbrand' sword able to protect Drow and steed from Phlegethos' burning plains and canyons, and he hefted his best battle shield on his left arm, the shield which had seen him through a joust or two - though Hell might prove more challenging than a joust.
Following along was Cinder, the young dragon now wolf-sized with Tower-accelerated growth, wings flapping and the occasional gout of flame issuing from her maw. Spider used a trail of charred flesh to lure the wyrm along, rather than asking Anna to lead her; he had not told his farjali* of this venture, and wanted her nowhere near this dangerous room, from which even Spider might not return. So it was left to him to coax his familiar into place. He would need the dragon's essence as a material anchor by which to escape from the dread clutches of Phlegethos once the Staff was obtained.
The room's wide double doors, bound in magic-repellent cold iron, yawned open before the battle-ready Drow and his warspider, her subtle hiss overcome by the crackle of the shocklance. The scroll, the map, was spread out on the inside of Spider's shield for easy reading. Not just images, the map had 'coordinates', words of magic that when spoken by an able sorcerer would allow a connection to be formed with the place pictured. Spider's breath hissed in time with his steed's respiration as he spoke the magical words there, and waited.
For several heartbeats nothing happened. Then the dark, cool air of the ritual room flashed brightly, and Spider covered his face with his shield in instinctual defense. The sounds of rushing air, and of rock falling, were devastatingly loud as the Drow lowered his shield and spurred Francis forward, into the jaws of Hell itself. The heat which blasted elf and mount would have been devastating had Spider not carried his chilly sword; as it was, smoke wafted from the hurtling pair, and sweat sheened the dark elf's black face. Even Deepchill's protection would not last long here. In the doorway where Cinder lingered, whining and staring after her Master curiously, a shimmering field of energy had formed, shielding the Citadel (for now) of the most devastating effects of a bridge to Hell.
It was a place out of nightmare, a black, basalt plain filled with fiery chasms and choking foul smoke under a blood red, sunless sky, the very image of the Hell of myth and legend. For Spider and his subterranean mount, the light was perfect for battle. And battle was not far.
In the distance, perhaps a few hundred meters past the Gate, was a small black rock island surrounded on all sides by a maelstrom of bubbling lava. The bobbing heads of the rat-sized devils infesting it could occasionally be seen, emitting some screech of pain or maniacal laughter. More importantly, a trail of basalt made a path of huge stepping stones from the bleak shore to the isle itself. Fifty meters on a side, the isle bore some shrine-like structure, an archway of dark stone inside which hovered the glowing Staff itself, borne aloft and spinning slightly with its own incredible Power.
The island was not empty. A hulking, humanoid form covered by rusted chains slouched against the archway, and when the Drow's Gate opened in the distance, awareness came to the creature, and its eyes opened. Slumbering, dark-furred forms scattered over the isle began to stir, and the Kyton (known in legend as a Chain Devil) issued a harsh command in the language of Infernals. A dozen hell hounds rose from their rest, hackles raised, growling and spitting flame as the pack became aware of an intruder. The Kyton shot an arm out toward the mounted Drow. "Come and die, mortal," issued its challenge, and some of its chains began to animate, sharp blades at their ends whipping through the air in a deadly frenzy of metal.
Spider smiled slightly, his eyes blazing with the fiery glow that indicated passion - whether in lust or battle - and his command to Francis was soft, calm in counterpoint. "Xun naut elgg l'gandl's ventash'ma,"** he instructed the Sword Spider, having spotted a powerful hound among the pack he did not wish to see dead, after this. At the touch of a golden spur, the arachnid sprang into action, far too swift for its horrific size, and barely touched the stepping stones as it leaped onto the island.
Battle was joined swiftly, and furiously, as four of the hell hounds awaited this attack with slavering jaws snapping, smoky flame issuing from their mouths at every bite. Deepchill glowed with a chilly blue light as gout after gout of hellfire was sent against the Drow and his mount, none reaching past the sword's innate resistance to Fire, and Spider laid about him with precise stabs and leg-breaking sweeps of the shocklance while Francis' forelimbs, the 'swords' that gave her breed its name, were a slicing whirlwind of death. Furred limbs, heads, and sharp yelps of pain filled the air as the four hounds were dispatched, scratches and furrows along the Drow's armor indicating he had not come through the first charge unscathed.
The Kyton chose then to charge into the fray, swinging three of its chains around its head in a whirlwind advance, the spin of metal too fast for the eye to track, and deadly in its swath. The chains' first target was Spider's shocklance, and they caught the long weapon in an entangling grip, the powerful fiend able to yank the lance out of the Drow's fingers. In its flight it speared another of the hounds, but the Kyton did not bat a lash at the collateral damage, instead bellowing out its chain-rattling laughter. Spider, however, was not easy to disarm.
Finally Deepchill flashed into his hand at a swift draw, already issuing some obscure dwarven battle chant during the Drow's first brutal swing, which crunched into the neck of another hound to devastating effect at the culmination of its arc. The sword was heavier than Spider usually preferred, but its edge was like a hot knife through warm butter against these flame-breathing dogs.
Soon only the pack's alpha and the Kyton were left, positioned near the floating Staff; the chain devil (a crude sort of fiend, but not tactically ignorant) stayed with its last hound to await Drow, Sword Spider, and that freezing black weapon, back to the archway's stone. "I can find more dogs anywhere. Your soul will be delicious, elf," grated the devil, curling its lips into a rusted smile, the breeze of spinning chains issuing from it to whirl the smoky air of the island.
Spider narrowed his gaze thoughtfully, and glanced down at the happily humming Deepchill (ever a fan of being fed the blood of Hellish beasts), then shook his head. "Udos orn naut veir xuil nindol uss,"*** he whispered, setting the sword across his saddle and producing another weapon from a case affixed to the spider's barding. His repeating crossbow, small enough to wield in one hand, its several darts coated with the venom of the Underdark Gargantuan, the largest arachnid in existence. Such poison could drop a charging elephant in heartbeats. As the Kyton laughed, and the hell hound growled and paced, Spider took his time, settling the crossbow against the rim of his shield. Crimson hues narrowed in concentration; then a double tap, the crossbow's autofire capacity sending two black darts toward the archway. The devil and its hellish dog both had time to look confused, before they collapsed in twitching, nerveless paralysis to the hot stone ground.
"Kuk D'Yorn****, you are mine," breathed the Drow as he gazed upon the prize he had won, at last. The Staff of Power.
* = precious
** = Do not kill the pack leader
*** = We will not close with this one
**** = Staff of Power
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The Drow's path back to his Gate was more sedate, even though mere minutes remained in its duration; he had timed it perfectly, or had at least been lucky enough to complete his task without being trapped forever. The Staff was cradled in his arms like a child, and Francis herself bore an additional burden: strapped to her bloated body was a large, black-furred hell hound, peacefully slumbering off the effects of spider venom.
Cinder bobbed her head in some excitement as Master returned, and Spider allowed a small smile as he dismounted, and patted the dragon's scaly head. With Francis and Cinder's aid, he moved the sleeping hell hound to the door of the rooms he shared with Anna, dismissed the Sword Spider back to her lair, and gently opened the door.
"I thought you might like another pet, farjali."
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In Phlegethos, the Drow's little adventure had not gone unnoticed. Fiendish intelligences ruled that Circle, as all Circles of Hell were ruled, and these fiends did not appreciate mortal incursions to their profanely sacred domains. Unbeknownst to Spider, one such fiend had sent a small portion of its power through the conveniently opened gate, a small piece of black Hellrock. A seed, germinating darkness and sinister power which would thrive within the Citadel's magic-rich environment.
The days after Spider's journey saw strange things afoot in the Tower of the Archmage: a darkening of the pale marble, veins of black creeping hour by hour through the creamy white stone, until the hallways themselves were all dark, sinister, filled with shadows that the ambient torchlight could barely pierce.
Outside the floating home of the Archmage, a shroud was forming, a bank of smoky darkness which cast a sphere of gloom over the normally scintillating place. Observers could see what appeared to be enormous bats flitting through the skies near the Tower, and a great net of webbing covered the Citadel's soaring central keep, reaching like a horrific pavilion to encase the walls and outer courtyards.
It was Halloween season at the Citadel of Stars.
