|
The River Of Foulest
Corruption
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Index
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Mount Olympus
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Oceanus |
The Staircase
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The Styx
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Yggdrasil
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FAQs
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Crossroads
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Ar-en-Gereh
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Via Romana
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New Paths
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Planar Waterways
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Miscellaneous
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Who do
you Trust?
Chant from the
Boatsman
by Jon
Winter
Lady's
Grace, cutter, or whatever they say in Sigil these days.
They call me "The Boatsman", on account of my skiff. What
do I call me? The same, cutter. I don't remember me real
name.
See,
when you ply the Styx like I do, a blood expects to get a
mouthful of the fetid water every now and again. Even us
kytons are affected by the memory-wiping properties of
the fetid water, and let me tell you I've forgotten my
past life more times than I care to remember. Or than I
can remember!
How
do I even know this? Well, I do what many canny explorers
of these parts do; I keep detailed diaries of who I am
carved into slate, in this pack here. Sure, it's heavy
and weighs down the raft, but paper's no good...the Styx
eats it like acid. So should I get a dunking, I reel in
the pack (which I keep tethered to my leg with one of my
loose chains) and have a good old read while I
recover.
Anyway,
you can imagine the hazards involved with travelling the
Styx. If you must hire a boatsman (and I hasten to add
you really should!) you've got two choices: 'loth, or
non-'loth. I'd recommend avoiding the marraenoloths like
the plague itself, because one false move and they'll
sell you and your families into slavery as soon as spit.
Having said that, the alternative ain't much
better...most mortal boatsmen have woefully inferior
knowledge of the Styx's infinite waterways, and far less
sailing skill. So who do you trust? Why, what about me,
cutter!
Enough
of the trumpet blowing. You want to know how much it'll
cost, how long it'll take, and how safe it'll be. The
answer to all three is It Depends. First, on the
skill of your boatsman; the better they are at their job,
the quicker it'll be to travel the Styx. The better
pilots know the shortcuts from the Abyss to Baator
missing out the planes in between. That saves days,
believe me. And the less river you travel, the less
likely you are to be ambushed.
Having
said that, though, some unscrupulous pilots've been known
to lead a basher into an ambush -- usually the ones they
think have more jink than they're letting on, or ones
who're rude to the pilot. It's usually the last that ever
seen of 'em too...
Average
travel times are two to seven days, though it can take
very much longer to wind your way up one of the
tributaries. Marraenoloths usually take one to three
days, but their personalities make it seem much
longer!
The
more dangerous a location, the more it'll cost,
naturally. And the more secret a location, the higher the
garnish'll be too. The worst boatsmen will ferry bashers
short distances on the Styx from 20 jinx a head. You get
for what you pay for. I charge from 100 gold a person,
cutter, anywhere up into the thousands. Some charge more
still. And I prefer payment in gemsstones, thank you. You
have no idea how hard it is to navigate the gorges to
Nessus or the rapids of Gehenna, my friend.
If
you're needing a guide on the Styx, be sure to ask for
me. I've never betrayed anyone who didn't deserve it, and
that's the truth....
|
|
The Three
Yugoloths
Being a Lower Planar
fable
by
Tom
Bubul
Once
upon a time, on a now lost backwater of the Styx, there
were two maeraenoloths. One of them had his station due
to power, the second due to his father being an
ultroloth, the third due to cunning.
One
day, a party of baatezu came across the river and decided
they needed it would be best to use it to get to the War,
so the first baatezu (a barbazu) asked the powerful
loth, "Take me up your river
now, and be glad I don't rip you apart."
Now,
the 'loth being a proud one, and used to being strong as
a mezzoloth, decided he wouldn't take the insult. He spat
at the barbazu and hit him with an energy bolt. No sooner
was this done than the barbazu and his war party ripped
through the 'loth and smashed in his boat.
The
barbazu, now furious, went to the second 'loth and
said, "Take me up your river
now, and be glad I don't rip you apart, like your
friend."
Now,
the 'loth being the son of an ultraloth, was also proud
and decided he wouldn't take the insult. He said to the
barbazu, "Ask me nicely or I won't take you anywhere. My
father is an ultraloth and will crush you."
No
sooner was this said than the barbazu and his war party
ripped through the 'loth and smashed in his
boat.
The
barbazu then went fuming up to the third 'loth, fuming
with anger and seeing red, and said, "Take
me up your river now, and be glad I don't rip you apart,
like your friends."
This
'loth was a cunning one, and said: "As
you wish."
Without
another word, he herded the war party into his boat, took
their small fee, and from the shore pushed the boat right
into a rock. The boat sank, and the baatezu drowned. The
'loth was happy... he now controlled the river, and had a
bit of coin, for nearly nothing.
The
moral: It matters not who you are, or what you've got,
but what you know.
Flood
Gates
Chant by Ja'arak, male
githzerai psionicist and Indep sellsword
by Matt
Maybray
My
mates and I were finishing up a job on Gehenna, and we
had to meet a prospective client on Pandemonium, so we
decided to try our luck on the Styx. Now, we didn't have
a lot of jink for a marraenoloth, but Tyrus, our warrior,
had brought along a folding boat (I swear, that's what he
says it's called!), and between my psionics and our mage
Alana's spells, we thought we could handle it. So, we
hopped in and sailed off.
Now,
after about a couple of hours, the Styx got real shallow,
and we had to push our way forward with whatever we had
(spears, staff, what have you,) so as not to touch the
water, but the boat was to heavy with us all in there,
and we got stuck in the muck. I quickly scanned the
surroundings, and it looked like we were on the Gray
Wastes, where the Styx is supposed to flow in full force.
Alana was preparing a water spell that would hopefully
get us unstuck, when all of a sudden we hear this great
rumbling from behind.
I
turned to look, and, I don't mind telling you, I nearly
messed my sodding trousers at what I saw. This huge
torrent of Styx-water was coming towards us. I quickly
positioned the boat telekinetically so as we wouldn't get
submerged, and before I knew what was happening, we were
moving again fast. I managed to anchor myself to boat and
keep Alana from falling in, but Tyrus took a plunge
before I could grab him. I tried mind-lifting him out,
but I couldn't see him through the fetid water. Just
then, this skiff sails by with what looks like a small
platoon of baatezu, and I swear, the marraenoloth boatman
grinned evilly at me and seemed to say, "It's new, cutter
what do you think?" The skiff then quickly disappeared
over the horizon. We then eventually got to Pandemonium
without further incident.
Now,
my theory on the whole thing is this: I think the
yugoloths have installed flood gates at various points on
the Styx so the can control who sails on it. Maybe they
heard about the rumour about the other fiends not be able
to teleport anymore and decided to capitalise on it. If
my theory is correct, the 'loths will have an even
tighter grip on the baatezu and tanar'ri.
Peace of
Mind
Being a business in the
Cage with links to the Styx
by
Joshua
Jarvis
Izitri
Adimov (Planar / male bariaur / class unknown / Bleak
Cabal / N) has founded a new service to soothe the
troubled mind. Working with the Bleakers he dealt with
lots of troubled minds, many of them gone barmy from
their experiences on the planes. To help them Izitri
founded a small store he calls "Peace of Mind" whose
motto is ignorance is bliss. You see, Izitri sell
bottled Styx water. Anyone who drinks it forgets their
whole life. You may ask "What kind of addle-coved berk
would want to do that?" but many who have been tortured
by tanar'ri for years at a time or lost in Pandemonium
and unable to have a grasp on sanity as long as their
mind is affected by their experiences actually welcome
the release. That is until after they pay him and they
seek to rediscover who they once were.
A New
Abyssal Lord
Chant from Rathinayr
Crovaxius, Tiefling Shadowmancer-Priest of
Mask
by
Chet
Reeder
Off
in the shadows, within a booth of isolation there sits a
man everyone seems to stray away from. Upon further
inspection all that is left are eyes of deep abyssaline
pitch, glimmering darker than the shadows surrounding
him. You approach closer, knowing this be the man you
were sent to find, sitting down he begins to speak, tones
of soft etherealness escape his lips before just some of
his hawkish features come into view, knowing immediately
he is a tiefling.
"You
got the jink?", his voice rasps out, a gloved hand
offered as you place a bag of gold within his hand.
"That's good berk... you know how things work in the
Cage. So you came to here what ol' Rath knows about the
River Styx huh? Fine enough but I hope you are not the
one going down there sod, or else you will just end up in
the dead book like man of the other berks."
He
pauses for but a moment then continues, "Well it was a
few weeks back, and I was there looking for this plant,
growing on the banks of the river Styx deep within the
Abyss... about the 457th, or was that the 58th... then
again it could have been the 777th for all I know. So I
was looking upon the foliage for the Shadowroot, a nice
plant for a component on this spell I was working on, but
you needn't know about that. Well the narrow valley I was
in opened up into a large chasm, almost like if the top
of Mount Celestia was dug out from the black scorched
land. A large citadel surrounded by a few waterfalls of
the brackish water of the Styx was shown there surrounded
by a modest berg.
"Well
without warning I was assaulted by fiends I could not
even see and brought down into the burg. Escaping my
captors I found a place to hide for some jink, well after
conversing with an addle-coved fighter, trapped in the
same predicament as I. Well he told me that this plane
was ruled by a supposed solar fallen from the Seven
Heavens... what screed that must be...going by the name
of Xanado Deathbringer, or something like that, and the
place he reigned was known as Bonethorne Keep with the
surrounding berg of Bludswraith. Well I didn't believe
the barmy for a second until I saw this figure flying
high in the sky. His form was like a solar, but surely a
solar would not be this far in the Abyss would he? I must
be going as barmy as the fighter but....", he trails off,
his hand motioning for more money, as you produce another
bag of gold, nodding in his satisfaction. He tucks away
the bag before pulling out a feather carved from
bone.
"This
fell from the flying being... so the stories must be
true... so a new Abyssal Lord is on the block near the
River Styx... and some even say this boy can control the
planar way like you or I can open a door. This be flam or
not but I know the high ups within the Lower Planes and
Higher Planes are watching their backs. For if someone
can control them then who is to say he can not put a stop
to the river all together?"
The
Double Tower of Ben-Imal
Extracted from the journal
of O'ja of the Field of
Nettles
by
Belarius
On
the fifth day of the march, we arrived at our ferry
point. Three expendable black abishai had confirmed clear
sailing, with no visible ambushes laid within two miles
in either direction. Of course, the 'loths could have
planted their little frogs in the fetid water, but we are
prepared for this also. Gristilamm, our vigilant leader,
had prepared a few spells fresh from the academies to
temporarily negate the hydroloth immunity to the Styx. I
simply hoped they would be as effective as his previous
spellslinger tactics. No match for physical force,
surely, but useful, in its own pettily academic
way.
Our
osyluth ferryman was a pathetic example his kind. Fauning
and obsequious to our vigilant leader, he obviously
wanted to be a part of the Ring this cycle. But don't
they all? He told us of his experience on the Styx, and
of his near mastery of its currents. Why am I not
convinced. Perhaps it is the simple urge to force the
bone devil into line, even if it means breaking his
emaciated frame! But we couldn't touch him, the little
prick, so we kept our mouths shut and daydreamed of a
covert assassination.
Our
first few hours on the waters were without interest,
apart from when our little bone baatezu nearly navigated
us off of the side of Gehenna. We proceeded through the
Gray Waste slowly, even lazily, and the hours dragged on
like lazy larvae. We were startled to attention when the
boat suddenly rocked violently with a hard impact from
below. Made of reinforced pumice and thus quite durable,
the attacker was unable to break a hole in the hull, and
out navigator quickly slid us up against the shore, where
we got to dry ground and quickly organised into our
variable stance. IF tanar'ri, we could push them into the
Styx with our polearms. If yugoloth, we would surround
and separate them from one another, impaling them from
all sides at once, and pinning them in place.
I
have no doubt that is was this clever tactic that cost
many valuable baatezu lives. From the waters, gray as the
rest of Oinos, came not tanar'ri or yugoloth, but
something strange and unknown to us. A creature much like
a finned minotaur slowly rose our of the waters, dripping
gray water. Its bone-like horns were exaggerated, curving
high over the head and doing at least two full rotations
before reaching metal-tipped points. Its skin was taut
over what seemed like muscular fat, causing it to
literally wobble as it waddled onto dry land. Its face
was quite bullish, but it has razor sharp fangs in the
place of an herbivore's blunt molars. We quickly
surrounded it, as it was clearly immune to the water's
effects, and proceeded to impale it from all sides. As
its skin pierced, the water of the Styx flowed out, not
like water, but like an intelligent ooze, creeping up out
weapons and trying to touch our hands. Through sheer
luck, I avoided contact with the deadly fluid, which
cleared the minds of a half-dozen other barbazu. It was
Gristilamm, with his powerful cold, who froze the entity
into a solid crystalline statue, which we promptly broke
apart and scattered.
The
exact nature of this strange creature I have not been
able to ascertain from any known records. We simply
filled reports when we returned to Baator, informing the
Dark Eight of this discovery, and recommending more
gelugons be places on styx-faring vessels.
Once
the threat was ended, we returned on our course, but
three of the mentally drained barbazu were permanently
frozen, unreviveable by any heat we could apply. I
believe the freezing of the creature caused this reaction
in the unfortunate among its victims, extending the
damage to the creature to those it itself had
damaged.
But
I digress. We returned to our course, and soon made our
way to our objective: The Double Tower of Ben-Imal. Built
at even intervals on a huge bridge crossing the Styx on
Othryx but reaching neither side, this building was
deemed a threat to the baatezu cause (considering the
problems we have had with the Bridge at Khalas), and were
ordered to destroy it, clearing it of inhabitants and
taking the stone back with us. Elegantly tall, with its
towers plunging into the Styx itself, the stained marble
towers were an impressive sight.
We
docked under the bridge to avoid detection, and proceeded
up the walls into small doorways placed near the water's
level. Inside, all was darkened, as if by some magic, but
our vigilant leader was able to temporarily negate the
gloom with his own magic. We proceeded into the towers,
searching for signs of life.
Of
life, we found not a rat. Both Towers were still and
silent as mausoleums, devoid of any sign of recent
inhabitation. Stone furniture lay, fused with the stone
of the building, with dust deep enough to refresh a
'death' mephit. Gristilamm and the second in command, a
quiet cornugon, debated what should be done about this
surprising discovery. They finally agreed that the
osyluth and a skeleton guard would take the stone skiff
back to Baator to get new orders, while the rest of the
war party would camp in the towers, which we found could
be accessed from one to the other by going outside and
crossing the bridge. Our hope was to get an idea what, if
anything, the 'leths, 'loths, or tanar'ri were using
these empty towers for, while the ferryman fetched
orders. If Gristilamm could secure the Towers as a
baatezu base and supply station, it would be very helpful
for incursions into the Abyss. such a success would look
very good on the resume of every member of the war party,
even the black abishai.
For
the first six hours, we finished surveying the exact
details of the towers. Structurally sound, despite the
apparent decades of disuse. Over 100' tall at the water
line, and descending at least 50' below the waters, the
interior capacity of the 50' wide towers was extensive.
If vertical stables could be built, it would be no great
challenge to keep a standing army of abishai inside each
tower, ready to defend them with the backup of cornugons.
Their location was ideal, inaccessible from either shore.
We determined the stone it was built with was tempered to
prevent any teleportation through its walls, and stout
doors could easily be mounted on the openings by the
water. Out only real concern was a styx-immune fiend
breaking away the stone at either tower's base, but there
was sign of this being easy, as long as we our two amnizu
guards to help defend.
After
six hours, though, things got strange. After our run in
with the horned Styx-beast earlier, we were already on
edge, expecting something odd to happen. This, of course,
disturbs a body all the more when it DOES happen. We
spied a huge ferry, of undetermined construction,
approach us at a lazy pace, idly but purposefully
drifting to the tower. The nearer it got, the more
clearly we saw that is was ephemeral, not fully solid. It
passed under the high bridge, barely clearing the
overhang, and docked at the opening, its gangplank
perfectly aligned with the doorways on both towers, a
testament to the sheer width of the craft. We watched
from the bridge and at the door, and saw ghostly forms of
ourselves leave our bodies and walk to the boat,
disturbing not a mote of dust. They were perfect examples
of ourselves. I saw myself, groomed to court an erinyes
with polished arms and armour and a look of satisfied
conviction I knew all true baatezu held. On the boat we
saw all manner of passengers, equally ghostly. there were
ultroloths and guardinals, dreches, and glabrezu. Orcs,
elves, githzerai, githyanki, tanar'ri, baatezu, all
standing still, making no move to kill one another, or
even notice their existence. Each was a perfect member of
their race. Out ghostly selves boarded the ship and
sailed off, continuing lazily down the Styx.
From
that point on, I felt a hollowness inside me, as if, with
the spectres, we had lost what it meant to be a baatezu.
Though none would speak of it, for fear of being accused
of treasonous thoughts, it was clear all others were
similarly affected. Even the great Gristilamm, gelugon
mage and master tactician, seemed disinterested. When the
osyluth returned, he charged Gristilamm of negligence,
seeing the lackadaisical behaviour as a sign of weakness,
a way to depose the gelugon and thus gain power.
Casually, chaotically, selfishly, Gristilamm killed the
bone fiend, and we were all surprised that we didn't
care. We waited for another, less ambitious ferryman, who
took us wordlessly back to Baator, where, despite our
technically flawless performance, we suffered greatly. We
neglected our duties, having lost faith in the baatezu
cause. That's how I ended up at the Field of Nettles.
Once the Dark Eight had rounded up the troublemakers from
that expedition, we were all sent to a skirmish at the
Field, an obvious suicide battle. I check, and every
member of the expedition was present, even fallen
Gristilamm, the amnizu guards, the cornugon commander,
all of us. We even learned of a second expedition, which
had the same effect as the first, involving a large team
of erinyes who were to pretend to be a cabal of human
tiefling wizards, to avoid revealing our new base. Every
one was assigned to the Field that day.
Of
course, there were many battles at the field. I was
posted there for the better part of thirty years,
surviving by secretly breaking tactical edicts to protect
my own life. Many of my fellow faithless did the same.
Some were caught, and executed. Others, including
Gristilamm, were not, by sheer virtue of
skill.
But
slowly, our seemingly infinite forces were depleted, even
as they were replaced. More and more of the faithless
expedition members disappeared, apparently turning stag
instead of fighting. I and the other barbazu had no
choice but to remain, as we were in the constant company
of other, normal barbazu. So we fought.
One
day, I was sent among the bodies with a small group to
scout the area. the entire group was composed of
faithless, I noticed. We were ambushed fairly quickly by
a tanar'ri force, but managed to defeat them. Then, we
saw him. Unmistakable an Ultroloth, from his stare, his
faceless eyes, and his black, body concealing robe. He
stood atop a pile of corpses and spoke in our minds. He
told us of an upcoming battle to try to wipe out the
tanar'ri totally. He told us of its inevitable failure.
Then, turning, he walked away down the other side of the
hill.
We
conferred, trying to decide what we should do. Once we
had made clear to one another our disinterest in the
baatezu cause, we decided to make for the City of Soot
and hide in the buildings of dirty air. In less than a
day, the fighting started, and we could hear the din of
battle below us through the clouds. Few tanar'ri came
into the City during the battle, busy with the baatezu.
We thought we were safe. We were not.
After
thirty hours of fighting, the battle came to a halt, with
no one left to fight. Soon, cambion scavengers came to
the City, and caught us off guard. Forced to scatter, I
lost tract of my fellow rebels, and was badly wounded. I
thought I would die in that dark, cold City, but a group
of benevolent mortals came to my aid, saving me from the
cambions and taking me to safety.
Their
benevolence taught me the value of help for the sake of
help, good for the sake of good, and it brought me here
to Mount Celestia. After some years of training, I have
become an honorary Hound among the archons, who treat me
with respect. But I cannot help but wonder about the Twin
Towers of Ben-Imal. Were the ghostly images our own
guiding philosophies. If so, did the Towers somehow steal
them from us? And then, who received them? The yugoloths
knew of my group's loss of faith, though that much was
evident from our recent records. Did they use the Towers
to steal our souls, as it were, and to react our
movements. I known not. I have lived well in Mount
Celestia, and have repented and become an Archon. How
this could aid the yugoloths I have no idea. I known not
what became of Gristilamm, or the abishai, or the
cornugons, or the amnizu. I have no knowledge of my
fellow rogues, though I highly doubt they would approve
of what I have become. The strange circumstances of my
desertion haunt me to this day, and I wonder at how the
Unity of Rings will bring my past back to my present, and
what it will make of my future.
Ilsensine
and the Styx
Ilsensine, mind devouring
god of illithids, and River Styx connection
revealed!
by
Aaron
Infante-Levy and
Jon
Winter
The
strange thing about the planes is that the more
exceptions there are, the more the rules seem to
reinforced, and the stronger the rules get, the more
numerous their exceptions. So, where's this ring
going to take an intrepid planewalker? To the realm of
Ilsensine, of course.
That'll
give most berks the pause. Ilsensine? Why
Ilsensine? First of all, Ilsensine is the main deity
worshipped by the mind flayers -- who're also called the
illithid. This being is the embodiment of
mind-flaying, of sucking out all the thoughts in a
basher's head and leaving him a mindless husk to wander
around his realm like a zombie. Where beliefs and
thoughts are the things that matter most on the planes,
the greatest threat in existence would have to be their
utter obliteration. Well, actually, Ilsensine
doesn't obliterate them, per say, rather, it absorbs
them. Either way, it doesn't do the sod getting
mind-flayed much good to understand the semantics, after
all, he's on the wrong end of the pike
regardless.
Now,
connections on the planes are made by...belief (you
guessed it!). It goes without saying that this is
true. Groups of like-thinkers band into factions,
Powers form alliances based on common ground (or so it's
said), towns cluster to planes of similar alignment, and
the flow of the River Styx follows certain beliefs like a
moth to a flame.
Think
about it, why doesn't the Styx flow through the Upper
Planes? Cause it's whole purpose is to drain a sod's
memories, not inherently a good thing, least by most
cutters' interpretation. Thus, the Styx flows into
places of evil. Hey, now, isn't Ilsensine a Power of
evil? What's it doing in the Outlands? Well,
that's just another one of those planar conundrums
that'll get a body so twisted she won't remember who she
is anymore. Hey, it could be Ilsensine meant to do
this...
But
doesn't it make perfect planar sense that the Styx would
flow into Ilsensine's realm, Caverns of Thought?
Ilsensine is an evil Power of mind-flaying, and the Styx
is a foul river of memory stealing. Both are sides
of the same coin, if not the same side
entirely. Chances are, the Styx enters the realm
through an interplanar portal from one of the nearby
Lower Planes (eg. Pandemonium), and exists through a
different one.
Course,
none of this can be proven. Not many adventuring
companies are too keen on sending their best bloods to go
investigate Ilsensine in its home realm. Besides,
Ilsensine probably keeps it a well guarded secret, so a
body'd have to be tough enough to resist his
mind-draining influence until he could find the River;
there are few bloods with that strength of will. It
may never be proven, but remember one thing: If you
believe, it may be true.
Think
on this, though. There's dark chant drifting round that
the Styx never used to drain a berk's memory, and it was
about the same time that Ilsensine appeared that it did.
Some cutters have put two and two together and reckon
that the illithid-god dips its temtacles in the River,
and its him that sucks all the memories from your head
should you take a gulp. Anyway, that's just one
theory...do with it what you will...
Bittersweet
Memories
Ash Bloodvult (Planar /
male tiefling / Bleak Cabal) lanns this chant
by Kathryn
Wallace
You
want to know something about the Styx? Okay, I'll tell
you something about the Styx. But I gotta warn you I
heard this bit of chant from one of the barmies when I
was putting in time at the Gatehouse. See, this poor sod
couldn't seem to remember his name, his kip, or anything
else for that matter. Just this theory of his, and that
he kept babbling over and over again. Like if he hangs
onto it, it'll make everything okay. I've seen them do
that when they're just tumbling to the pointlessness of
the multiverse. Damn painful to watch. Anyway, just a
warning: this may be a big jink-drawing dark, or it may
just be some addle-cove's screed.
Okay,
you've heard of "thought objects"? Right, neither had I.
I had to ask this spell slinger friend of mine about
them. Basically, he says they're the memories of folk
what got put in the dead book, that break off while their
spirits float through the astral on the way to
petitioner-hood.
That's
why petitioners don't remember anything about their life,
I guess. Supposedly, these thought objects just float
around in the Astral and no one can find them unless they
know how to look and have some pretty specialised
equipment for nabbing them.
What's
all this got to do with the Styx? Stop flapping your bone
box, I'm getting to that. You want chant or babble?
That's what I thought, now stop rattling that bone-box of
yours and let me finish. Most folks know that if you get
dunked in the Styx, you lose all your memories, right?
Well, this poor sod I heard it from apparently knew the
"thought object" chant and put two and two together, so
to speak. So he came up with this theory. Seems it's his
take that the River Styx captures "thought objects" from
folk by contact, just like the Astral saps them away from
folks what got lost. More to the point, he thinks that if
a basher can somehow get to the bottom (if there is one)
of the river without loosing herself, she could make one
mountain of jink off capturing these things.
From
what I could tell, the sodding berk tried it himself. Did
it work? Well, a group of kind-hearted 'walkers found him
lying on the riverbank covered in slime, rattling on just
like when they dropped him off with us. Maybe he did get
hold of a "thought object." Maybe it was his own theory.
Maybe that's just all that's left of his mind after a dip
in the Styx. Me, I wouldn't go Styx-diving if there was a
pile of jink as tall as the Spire down there. But if you
really want to mess with this, go find some solid chant
on these "thought objects."
Now,
since that's all I know about that, I'll be taking that
jink you forked over and go rediscover the "meaning of
life" in the bottom of a tankard or seven of bad ale:
cheap, empty, blurry, and cracked. Kind of like that poor
sod's head.
Copyright 1998 by Jon Winter
and respective authors,
artwork by Jeremiah Golden and Jon Winter
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