3. Jenseits von Gut und Böse: The Fiendish Godmother

Jenseits von Gut und Böse: The Fiendish Godmother


  • Previously posted in the History Archives

    Between the time of the Days of Thunder and the Rise of Men, there was an age unlike any other. An unto this were born the Ar-Tel-Quessir, the Sun Elves. Beautiful, pride, and cunning to the point of severity, their golden houses banded together and at the height of Elvendom established Aryvandaar, sometimes called Vyshaantar after the greatest of its ruling families. It is one of the lesser branches in the tree of Vyshaan, the family of Sol’denbrae, the Golden Bough, which we will now concern ourselves, along with actions that shaped he world as it is known, both past and present.

    Sol’denbrae, known for its collective power, intellect, and cunning among those already well known for the same, was under the control of two brothers. Ambrion and Darion, each a wizard of no small power, ensured the houses prosperity. United, there was little they could not accomplish, and it seemed an acension of Sol’denbrae to the leadership of Vyshaan, and thus the kingdom itself, was inevitable. It was not to last however. The Third Crown War saw the death of Darion and the decline of Sol’denbrae, rightly or wrongly blamed for a number of military loses under Darion. On the surface, he was held in high esteem. The Grand Martyr of Vyshaantar, afforded lip service honors in public and spit upon in the darkness. The surviving brother, struggling to hold together his house’s position in the middle of a war will little end, grew not only desperate but vengeful. He longed to see not only his brother avenged, but his memory as well, and came to believe the only way to do so would be to rule far more than even the seat of Aryvandaar.

    Yet Ambrion remained cunning. It may be said that Darion was the more idealistic of the two, but it cannot be said that Ambrion was not the most dangerous. He knew that one need not sit upon a throne to wield its power. Thus it came to pass that a bitter seed was planted in the heart of Sol’denbrae.

    As Ambrion’s ambitions grew, so did Sol’denbrae’s influence under his careful direction. Yet Ambrion was cautious, making sure that for every action taken at his command, another bore responsibility. Many great and terrible things were done at his word, yet history will always speak of other names. Still, it was not enough. For all of Ambrion’s power and reach, his careful defense was also holding him back, and soon the growth of the Golden Bough slowed. And that was when she came to him.

    Ambrion’s political games and the savagery they evoked had not gone entirely unnoticed. A Eryines of the Nine Hells, Nivahlashiel, The Cold that Burns.

    Here was a creature who mirrored Ambrion’s heart. All that he was, she was more. Powerful to the point of terror, ambitious to the point of shamelessness, cautious to the point indolence, beautiful, cruel, and eternally hungry, but not for food. Nivahlashiel fed on the desires of others, on the fullfillment of her chosen few’s darkest wishes. It was a slow need, and she took pride in her dedication; influencing mortals for centuries at a time.

    It cannot be said that they loved each other. It cannot be said that Nivilashiel is even capable of love for anyone but herself. But there was an affection there all the same, and unlike some, she did not have to kill to feed. Thus they entered both a pact and an embrace. In return for the power to fulfill their wishes, the Scions of the Golden Bough would lend her the fruit of their ambitions, and she would lend them the power of her race. Thus the sons and daughters of Nivahlashiel and Ambrion Sol’denbrae were born, the blood of the fiend entered the House of the Golden Bough, and the last Crown War were pushed to a bloody conclusion within a generation.

    Sirion’s conciousness rose from reverie and the topaz gem on forehead pulsed with a warm soft glow, reminiscent of a firefly in the warmth of a Spring twilight. With a wordless command, it vanished again. The Kiira, an heirloom serving as record for his family and repository of power through the ages, was his most valuable possession. Yet what it had shown him brought a terrible feeling of dread that he had difficulty forgiving himself for.

    He rose from the divan he had rested upon and walked over to a counter, where he poured himself a glass of wine. “It does not alter anything you already knew,” his reason told him. And it was correct. Since the last encounter he had with the things that had been his brothers, before leaving Evermeet and traveling East decades ago, he had known where he came from. It was a story long forgotten…this stone held possibly the last record of it on all of Toril. Yet in confirming the truth of his ancestry for himself Sirion was filled with apprehension.

    “How much of what I have done is really me...or really that thing in my blood, I wonder?”

    A soft voice from deep down answered, and it surprised him so much that he froze mistride, nearly dropping the wine glass. “Only as much as you want it to be.” He froze for two reasons. That such an answer came…or that he swore he really heard it. Slowly the golden haired wizard turned his gaze to the divan, and there stretched across it was a vision that brought his heart into throat.

    “...Niv...Niv...Nivahlashiel!” he stammered, too frightened to communicate much else. He was not the type to frighten easily. It was not that he wanted to run. It was that he wanted to stay that frightened him. That he found her so familiar and so inviting, despite knowing her goals and her nature. He knew he should fight, or run, yet he did not.

    “Please, my child.” Every word she spoke he heard twice, from within and without his mind. “Call me Grandmother.”


  • Sirion's Plot Bible:

    Ambrion Sol’denbrae:
    Progenitor of Sirion's line. Sol'denbrae means the Golden Bough in old elvish. Sirion took a common corruption of name, Goldthane, as his surname when he traveled West.

    Nivahlashiel:
    Eryines, ancient and immortal, has existed and maintained her power since at least as far back as the Crown Wars, when elves ruled the world and faught among themselves. By a bloodpact and consummation, she is the progenitor of Sirion's bloodline. She appears to be attempting to corrupt Sirion as well, but has made no pacts with him. If anything, she seems to be waiting on something. That hasn't stopped her from monitoring him and even taking advantage of mistakes. Like all Eryines she is almost tragically beautiful, but she insists Sirion call her Grandmother. Though cruel and unafraid of violence as a tool, she has not shown a particular rashness of nature.

    The Coldheart:
    The source of Nivahlashiel's power. Perhaps its was the fiendish power that first corrupted her, or perhaps something she herself conquered. Sirion has some evidence that a portion of it is accessible to himself. He has been wary of it.

    Aramuil:
    Moon elven Wizard and Arcane Advisor to Norwick. Self appointed Sirion's guardian/parole officer after his temper boiled over once too often during his youth. Sirion speaks of him fondly.

    Zatharzut:
    Imp familiar once bound to Sirion. Aramuil broke their pact and Nivahlashiel bought the debt. Zatharzut now serves her. He is not fond of his old master either, viewing the broken pact as a mark of disrespect more than anything else.

    Maria:
    Headmistress of Spellweaver Keep and Sirion's former master. They argue no less since she appointed him Professor, neither afraid to criticize the other. Sirion admits she is more powerful.

    Ardent:
    Half-elven ex-lover of Sirion. He was as caring of her as he has been of any creature, yet after the occupation of Norwick the two parted ways. After he was arrested at her request and tried for treason and necromancy against the city, she left the region with the rest of the Shesae, marrying one of them.

    Fendon:
    Former Herald of Norwick, Fendon fell to, or embraced, the power of the Lichblade. He had a long history of antagonism towards his former home, and rose from the dead repeatedly as well as having the power to raise more undead to his cause. It has been alleged Sirion incited him attack the bugbear controlled town of Norwick. The subsequent attack and the loss of most his forces (along with the lives of two hundred true and innocent citizens of Norwick) precipitated Ostromog's retreat and peace treaty. Sirion was tried for his involvement by a Peltarchian Magistrate Borodin who pronounced his guilt as Not Proven.

    Fendon did not un-live long after. A number of adventurers, Sirion among them, lead a two pronged attack against him. Sirion led his ally, the sentient flesh golem Alchemist, himself a product of Fendon's dealings with other forces but whom had turned against them, and a number of bone golems, alongside paladins of the Order of the Divine Shield against Fendon's body. The Alchemist survived the final battle but has not been seen since. The Lady Daisy of Tyr sacrificed her life to sunder the the Lichblade before Fendon could reconstitute himself, and he also has not been seen since.

    Reportedly, Fendon taunted his old "friend" before the last battle.

    The fight was not without its consequences beyond the deaths of the involved. The reaction from sundering the Lichblade echoed against the already weakened planar fabric.


  • Sirion trembled.

    Maria’s tower was serving as the increasingly less temporary home of his order, Spellweaver Keep, since it had lost its eponymous keep some years prior. Its wards were among the strongest in the region, Sirion knew for he had made some of them himself. Yet despite that, a ranking devil sat in the study.

    Recovering fast…Sirion reached out at touched the wards with his mind. Runic arrays resonated across the walls, lighting up across the tower. Each one was unbroken.

    “No, I did not break any of the enchantments. So tell me Grandchild, how did I come to be here?”

    “None of the others would summon you...you’re a projection then. Not truly here at all.” With that, Nivahlashiel, the Cold That Burns, crossed one giant bat-like wing between them

    “Try again, grandchild. But a little more wisdom this time.”

    Sirion stood up and rubbed his lip. A small cut had formed, and he looked at the blood and back at the ‘thing’ before him. She was alien, powerful, terrifying, and yet all too familiar. “...You were invited in.”

    “Ah, splendid! I knew you could do it.” The words seemed to be more self-congratulatory than complimentary. “But can you figure out who?”

    “Will you strike me again when I err?”

    “Of course. Punishment is a prime motivator. Now try again before we break something.” In this she seemed almost proud in her pedantry, even haughtier than she had seemed earlier.

    He breathed deep, closed his eyes, and opened the palace of his mind before him. Normally he’d never do such a thing, trapped in a room with a erinyes of the Nine Hells...but Niv did not seem interested in killing him yet, and he needed to stall long enough to reach his scroll case. Possibilities streamed before him, likely and not, but quickly he moved through to the only possible answer.

    “Maria. Though I know not why. But she as the owner is the only one who could.”

    “Clever boy. See what a little pain can do. But do not worry, you are not supposed to understand that much. That is the purpose of this meeting, among other things. You remember your old familiar, Zarthurzat?” She reached into a fold in her gown and produced a small cage, the size of a bottle, with a red imp glaring from inside. Much smaller than he had last seen it, Sirion none the less recognized him. “When you old master Aramuil broke your pact, you entered into this creatures debt. You owe him a portion of your eternal soul. And as you entered his debt, he has since entered mine. Thus what he is owed has passed to me.” She placed him back in the midnight folds of her gown, stood, and strolled gingerly towards him.

    “And have you come to collect it?” Though he kept his words steady, his hand trembled as he reached behind his back, his hand searching for the right sealed scroll.

    “Oh child, if that was the case, we would not be having this conversation. Your shell would already be broken, and I back in my demnse. No, the point is that tower allows me in because it allows you in. Where you go, I go.” With that she reached out and gingerly stroked his cheek with a taloned hand.

    He thumbed the right one, a broken pentacle pressed into the wax. Now all he needed was the time to read it. “What is it you want then?”

    “What I desire would burn even you alive, my young grandson. But I think what you meant to ask was what do I desire from you...” She turned her back on him and walked over to the table where she picked up a bottle of wine. This was his chance.

    “...I only desire to council you and fulfill the pact I made with your ancestor when I bore the first of your line.” As she spoke, he broke the seal on the scroll, held it out, and intoned the words on it.

    “Spire, Spear, and Crystal Vermillion...by my power I abjure thee!” The words rang and white hot power flowed from the scroll...his power, placed there some months earlier, for just such an occasion...towards the devil. It beat down upon her back like the sea upon a cliff, only to fall flat before the cliff’s strength. Without turning, she kept on doing what she intended.

    “Such a rash action, child. Showing your hand so early. That’s very much not like you. Where is that control your previous master Aramuil taught you? You should have more respect for his lessons for without them you’d already have been dead.” She swirled the dark sanguine liquid in the glass as she turned and leaned against the table, apparently unaffected and unfazed by the banishing spell that he just been cast upon her.

    “I’m afraid you’ve sent our little friend the imp back to the Nine. He’ll be very cross with you, I’m certain. As for myself,as I said, where you go, I may follow. You cannot banish me any more than you can banish yourself.” Holding the glass in wind hand, she swept the other gently across, and though several meters apart they were, Sirion was knocked from his feet and thrown into the wall by unseen force. Stunned and sprawled against the wall, he looked up at her before he passed out.

    “You attracted too much attention, my noisy grandchild. We shall have to continue this, and your punishment, later.”