The
office is rather small and dark, and Ormid struggles to remember when
he got here. A sense of incredible age hangs upon the slightly spicy
air, and he spends a moment looking closely at the hundreds of
trophies that cover every inch of the walls and the dressers that
line them; skulls, scales, implements of power, weapons, scrolls and
a thousand other treasures that speak of several lifetimes of
collecting and adventure.
The
carpet beneath his feet is thick and muffles sound, and before him
stands a large, heavy desk of dark-stained wood, upon which are piled
even more relics, including a human skull which bears a number of
sinister glyphs on its forehead, and has a large black candle melted
to its skullcap.
Behind
the desk sits a being that the artificer knows at once is a god of
some kind. His seat is an amazing, high backed thing of Ebonwood,
whose back has been carved to depict angels on its right hand side,
clashing with daemons on its left. The arms of the chair are coiling
dracani, who's heads face forwards, mouths open in a silent roar, and
even from the other side of the table, Ormid can sense the potent
magic thrumming through it.
Returning
his attention to his host, he notes that he is currently wearing the
form of a wolfishly handsome male human. His eyes are tawny and shine
with playful confidence, and he wears his immaculately coiffured hair
down to his shoulders. He is staring at the artificer, his face
split by a wide, sharp-toothed smile.
“Hello
Ormid. I'm assuming you know who I am?”
The
artificer honestly doesn't, although he feels he should. His host
immediately reads his discomfort and helps him out.
“Sheol.
God of bargains, contracts and cunning?”
Ormid
nods, feeling both hugely embarrassed for not recognising the deity,
and massively intimidated by standing in his presence.
“You're
in a pretty dire situation right now.” He continues, “Indeed, I
would go as far as to say that you are about to die a horrible death,
though to be honest, it's a better fate than that your warforged
friend is about to suffer.”
“Oh.”
Stutters the artificer.
“However,
I have something of a vested interest in seeing you survive this
encounter, as I need you to found the Unified Order. I mean, don't
get me wrong, you have set its creation into motion, but the version
of the Order I need for some – errm, future plans – won't come to
be if you are not involved in its early development, and I really
can't have that.”
“Alas,
I also can't force you to accept my help, and even if you do, I
cannot risk Xix's wrath by directly intervening. Xix is such a bore,
and you never know what the mad little fucker if going to do next, so
I try to keep him at arms length if I can.”
Ormid
says nothing, unable to quite compute what is going on.
“I-I'm
dying then?”
“Oh
by the immortal skies yes! You and that little fellow are being
devoured by your own nightmares, and are quite doomed. The Veteran is
about to become a vessel for that sentient shard of Xixior, and the
other two are as helpless as newborns against it without everyone
else to support them. Yes, you, and all your allies, are in the
process of dying, and unless you listen to and accept the offer I'm
about to make you, there is nothing in the multiverse that can help
you.”
Sheol
allows his words to sink into the bruised mind of the artificer.
“So,
what's you deal” He asks after a moment.
Sheol's
grin widens, and he pushes a scroll across the desk towards Ormid.
“I
send you and your allies help, fix you all up and reunite you. You
stop Nye'ddeth from completing his ritual, save the collegiate, fire
the weapon and found the Unified Order. Oh, and I will need a favour
from your and yours at a future date.”
“What
kind of favour?”
Sheol
laughs; a rich, slightly mocking sound.
“Ormid,
you know me better than that surely. Think of all the legends, all
those times I helped the Wondrous, or those no good adventurer's who
sent this handsome fellow to kill me” He taps the skull on his
desk. “No, the nature of the return favour is mine to know and
yours to find out. It sucks, but let's be honest, it can't be any
worse than the alternative now, can it?”
Ormid
shakes his head, and looks at the scroll – a contract, clearly
outlining the arrangement and the expectations.
“What
choice do I have?” He murmurs to himself, picking up a quill from a
nearby inkwell. “Llewellyn would kill me if I let us all die.”
He
signs.
Sheol
grins.
“Thank
you Ormid. You've made the right decision. So, if you are ready,
let's get you back to it...”
Behind
him a portal opens, a thing of smoky black energy that coils and
pulses in the gloom of the office. Looking over his shoulder towards
the darkly handsome god, Ormid steps through, his thoughts clear for
the first time in ages, his body restored completely.
“Good
luck old man. Don't let me down.”
