The Fortune's Wheel (Lady's Ward)

The diagram remains in the air for now, as the polar has no reason not to show off, bardic as he is. He bows his draconic head, of slender muzzle, somehow bringing to mind that celestial Jackal form of the past minute.

"Your wisdom shows again, dear sir. It is unwise to burn too hotly, lest all fuel be consumed before the task is done. I remind my offer. Aid greater than any I can provide directly shall be rewarded to you for a sample of that plane, and, if required, a possibly useful material can be provided for just that purpose, if your need occurs, with no charge upon accident, of course."

The polar glances to the livelier flesh with a proud grin.

"The temporal plane, if one can call it that, is but an interraction of Being and Change. If anything, it is a paraplane, but truly, it isn't that either."

"Of course, there is the usual flaw in the thoughts of fleshy things. They have this strange notion that there is such a thing as an opposite. Fire and water, though hard to blend, are not opposed to each other, anymore than the air and earth explode in another's presence, or that positive and negative have no common habits. But it is a good thing, too, that mortals and immortals alike, all things of the flesh and ether, are so small minded as to think that position creates opposition. If they ever truly understood the inner planes, nay, ANYTHING, doom and paradise would be a quick fate to all."

The polar shakes his head a bit, in a water-like flow of flame extinguishing his draconic form, leaving one of his more common ones. Left as a dark-haired, young male humanoid of ash-white skin, and the general shape of a half-elf, the polar lifts his hand towards the alhoon.

"There is no shame, dear sir, in flaws, so long as you recognize them. I hardly lack them myself. But know, if knowledge and truth is what you seek, the old theories will only lead you down the wrong path. It is a path near the true one at the beginning, and it certainly seems the proper. But like any two rays unparallel, they eventually veer off out of sight of each other, and your destination be lost for some other, lesser place. Consider, dear sir. Would you consider an acid and a base to be truly opposites? Indeed, they can even be found in the same substance. They have an opposing effect, and they do negate each other, but they can at once be the same. Opposites... rather few truly exist in this Cycle. Most are but illusions with vast popularity, like the notions of the petty deities being greater than the mortals that imagined them in to being.

It is your path to choose, dear sir. But I do offer thee to ponder the other, before it has gone from your sight."

The polar bows his head in acknowledgment of the alhoon's wisdom, his hair not flowing as it should, due to being composed of more or less solid flame coated in ash.

"Precisely, dear sir. It is a sad habit of minds lesser than yourself to focus on the working theories, rather than the facts, and they so oft forget that there are truer ways beyond the seeming shortcuts. I wished only to be sure that their taint was not affecting your research. The Inner Planes do not give their secrets lightly, but nobody appreciates perpetuated falsehoods about themselves. Besides that, it is a rather nasty habit, even amoung those who claim to be pure in their research, to twist information to keep their competition a few steps behind. Else there'd be much more trouble in the multiverse."

The polar flashes a fanged smile, and rests his hands upon his knees.

"Admirable, dear sir. As for motives, well, I'm certain you have heard the adage so popular with drow... 'Come in to my parlor...' It's quite interesting how fleshy beings can react when exposed to great power... Especially when they're foolish enough to think it harmless. While I can feel..."

The polar makes a brushing motion, causing a wave of harmless radiance to pass through the room, having no effect in the region where the alhoon's wards lie. As a side thought, the polar releases his hold on the light in the room, letting the diagram fade in to nothingness.

...that you are not one of those sorts. But it's amazing how many women have been -assuming- that they had a tryst with a genie in disguise when a genasi finds birth from them... Oh to be that carelessly naive and innocent..."

The Marauder looks up with a flashed smile full of -almost- minimized fangs, the timing almost perfect for when Writer addressed her. An outsider might have thought that she was waiting for them to come up with the will to finally approach her.

"Well spoken and well met. Indeed I am." She reaches out with one hand extended towards the human, her wrist limp and eyes sparkling with flickers of lavender light. She pauses and waits for him to take her hand, but to shake or to kiss as some mortals would do to royalty... it isn't clear.

"I would address you by name but... I felt it more polite not to pry into your thoughts. I find it easy to do and useful more often than not. Some mortals take offense however, and given the clutter of thought thieves and psions in the room at the moment... the place is a shambles and I didn't wish to add to the static."

Shemeska draws back her hand and motions with a dramatic flair to an empty seat next to Writer. "Please, sit and speak. You have my attention."

As she waits for Writer to explain himself she glances at her reflection in the mirror, adjusts her razorvine tiara ever so slightly and smirks at the reflection of the Polar in the mirror. The elemental's change into a form not patterned after herself seems to please her.

Jaspar's dark eyes turn for a moment, taking in the scene, and coils his tentacles again as he connects to Shemeska.

"No, many races can connect mind-to-mind, but only a miniscule few can eavesdrop along said channels. By the by, friend, I'll be headed back to the Enlightener soon. Oh yes...the last time we crossed paths I hadn't acquired my new "planesjammer". It's a modified dreadnought, that I have installed some runes of plane-shifting and a new more modifications. It's in the 19th berth on the Rock of Bral. If I am gone by the time you are done, you can find me there. Do stop by, we should catch up. I do miss discussing things with a comparable intellect."

Shemeska smiled with absolute courtesy, taking her hand back as if Writer had done nothing wrong in the slightest.

The 'loth put a hand to her breast and another to her mouth in shocked sympathy. A small teardrop welled up in the corner of her left eye.

"Oh you poor thing. Such a horrible thing to happen to someone, especially in a place as typically unforgiving as Sigil. There has to be some way that I can help you."

Her voice was tinged in empathy and any celestial in range would have been showered in anger from her affected attitude, given her nature, or been moved to laughter at her attempt. She brushed a painted claw up to take the teardrop from her eye, the claws suddenly seeming a lot less sharp and a much more soothing color then they had only minutes before. She moved the hand into her lap where the burning, acid teardrop sizzled away into nothing unseen by her guest.

Shemeska reached out her other hand from her chest to place it atop Writer's own on the tabletop. "Absolutely nothing at the moment. I normally charge for the information I sell, it's what I do. I collect all manner of knowledge and sell it to those seeking it. My race values knowledge, from the mundane to the magical in all its forms, so it comes naturally that I trade in it. We're all scholars, sages and sorcerers, myself included."

Up came her other hand to brush at her lips briefly, "I couldn't in all good conscience charge you for such simple information given your circumstances. I wouldn't be able to live with myself for taking advantage of someone like that. I can certainly tell you where you could find a mimir, or even just the information itself from my own lips. All I could even dare to ask in return is a like favor in the future or maybe just when you're able to come and pay me a visit again when you're able."

She paused and leaned forwards, her gown chinking slightly with the noise of glass beads on glass beads, rattling and sliding as she moved. "But don't you worry about that right now. You have other things on your mind and I wouldn't make you dwell on other things of lesser importance."

(Will save, check. Bluff check, solid. Okay.)

Jaspar listens to this exchange, and calls upon every single iota of mental restraint not to actually roll on the floor laughing. He mentally notes her performance skills, and how well she does. Someone with no knowledge of her heritage or personality might even have believed it, but he had known Shemeska since he himself first arrived here over a decade ago, and this act was just for show. All he does visibly, however, is telekinetically grab her a hankerchief, cast a quick resist acid on the cloth, and walk over to her side, placing a seemingly caring four-fingered hand on her shoulder, as if to steady a beloved woman of fragile mein.

Telepathically, however, he was not so restrained. "Oh -gods-, woman. I nearly burst a lung. It is very fortunate I long since stopped breathing subconsciously or my guffaw would have blown your charade. Warn someone when you're about to do something like that. Here, use this for that nasty ductile issue you're having. It will mask the acidic nature of it from the clueless. By the way, his mind is like rummaging through the Libraries of Thoth without knowing how to read Mulhorandi. A strange construction, unlike any I have seen before. I will open negotiations with you for sharing what we discover about him once you are done."

*Writer's eyes narrowed the slightest bit at Shemeska's subtle shapechange((?)) was noted. Alarm bells, the first of many, began to toll inside his mind*

Well damn me thrice. Is she a shapechanger?

*Writer listened thoughtfully to her words, but he shook his head after she had finished and held up a hand to stay her*

...A favour? Very vague. And the way in which she dismisses the favour itself... One thing is certain. It's too overdone to be true. It has to be. Even if it was true, which is possible...I shouldn't take the chance. I'll need to find a way to dismiss her offer in a civil way...And stop thinking straightforward. She DID say she could eavesdrop on my mind.

*Mentally beginning to sing monotonous tavern songs the youth stammered a reply to the arcanaloth*

"I...I couldn't possibly accept such vast generosity, kind lady, even if you DID have the patience to answer my endless long-winded questions about this alien place and its inhabitants. My personal pride--and my own conscience--wouldn't allow it, I'm afraid. But I'm pleased to say that I now may have a solution for us both.

You...Your race...It put value in knowledge, did you not say so? I have...That is, I know quite a lot for one my age. Perhaps I, coming from another reality, know something that could be of use to you? And, in an emergency, I still have a few of these left..."

*He dug his left hand into the left pocket on his jacket and removed a small handful of silver pens which he spilled clattering onto Shemeska's table. One began to roll, but Writer stopped it with a light finger*

"I know it isn't much, but you do not seem keen on receiving much repayment. Indeed, I must thank you from the bottom of my heart for being so sympathetic to my cause."

*Writer's eyes began to go Shemeska over again. He had made his move. Now for hers*

Shemeska the Marauder, eh? I know the name... heh, but who of the clued in doesn't? Seems to always have the spotlight on her in this place. Anyway, who would know about prime material real estate? Not Dog-Breath there probably... she'd just want my soul for whatever yugoloths use souls for. Hm... unless I outline the terms well enough. Well, we'll see...

Ohtar knocks back his drink, finishing it off, then rises and quietly prowls the establishment slowly, evesdropping on conversation snippets as he goes, trying to figure out who might know about an appropriate prime world.

His cloak has stablized at green again and his ioun stones have slowed until they're hardly moving.

*Writer smiled weakly and dragged a hand through his dark blonde hair, ruffling it before smoothing it again*

"I'll bet my curiosity is greater than yours, kind lady, but I will gladly answer any question you might have, if you're willing to answer mine."

*He observed Shemeska's reaction to the pens with interest. He took one of the pens, held it up in front of Shemeska so that she could better see and twirled it around between two fingers to show it all*

"They're made to look like pens, which are implements of writing if you didn't know that. They're mechanical ones...Or...Not exactly, but how they work is based on a ordinary 'Principlia Science'. I'll gladly tell you of how the principle and the pens work if we are going to exchange information. But back on topic...These pens were a gift to me, and have been modified to be miniature throwing or stabbing weapons. When pressing the upper part of the pen the lower part will extrude a sharpened needle. If your interest is not along -those- lines I'm sure it will be possible to re-modify them to make them ordinary again...And just the metal itself is worth something, I'll bet."

OOC: Purest silver...And neither Writer or I have any idea how 'loths react to it, having no idea really what a 'loth is.

(Guess my Bluff assist other for Shemmy is ignored. Oh well.*shrug* If you just missed it, it's last page.)

(Nah, I was trying to help Shemmy steamroll the human.)

(Yeah, the subtle hand on the shoulder, and handkerchief. Little something to add to the illusion. *shrugs* No big issue, she's a ton more manipulative than Jaspar'll ever be. He's too caught up in exploration for much else, but anything to help a friend.)

In the mood for experiment, the polar focuses his elemental divination to percieve the reflections coming off of Shemeska's mirror, to see if she's truly looking at herself, or has it angled so as to spy on some person or part of the room. Utilizing minor effort, he continues to stare at the attendant he had singled out, with a gaze not unlike a cat's when decided whether to pounce something. Upon the use of a ring of similar function to his own Ring of Style, the polar's brow twitches.

The polar glances towards writer with a bored smirk, as symbols from a dozen or so different languages start to burn their way in to the air around him, as if he was creating a wall of words.

"Wary, good sir. Words hold their own mysticism, and their own mysteries. They can be as dangerous as any spell, but like all power, can turn on their source easily. Wary that you do not seek too many words in the outer planes, and those that come from them."

He flashes a strange glance towards Shemeska, whether or not she's able to notice, then looks back to the fleshy mortal.

"Even the mightiest creature, out here, can be bound by but their name, and other words of power. Though, admittedly, it's also a rather rich trade to pursue if you know how to survive it, or don't care if you do."

Enzo steps up to Shemeska's table. "Begging your pardon for my boldness, Your Ladyship, but I'd like to deliver these...", he nods down at the scrollcase and parcel in his hands, "... and be on my way."

Jaspar looks up from Shemeska, and fixes his ebon eyes on the polar.

"My knowledge concerning the Mazes of the Cage is strictly limited, as I have never been mazed. I have gathered some research, but it is all tainted from being second-hand.

As for massive explosions of energy and matter? There have been untold examples of such power being released. I can nearly quote no less than seventy-five examples, and direct you to books and sensory stones concerning no less than a thousand. Can you be more specific?"

The mind flayer lich coils his tentacles again and tugs one absently. "As for numerology and sages, you might as well argue the general value of the Rule of Three, good polar. Which brings to mind a gap...your name. What was it?"

The polar lifts a brow, flashes a white-fanged smirk, and bows his head respectfully.

"Do pardon me, dear sir. I've no name as fleshy things so enjoy, but no end of minor titles. Most usually, I am called The Incenjucar, or Flame Dancer, or Dancer in the Flames, as one prefers. A terrible corruption and insult of the language derived, I know, but in that corruption lies distinction from my brethren, a difficult task in itself. That stated, I might inquire upon thine own, whether in your 'tongue' or that of those who use tongues to speak. As you well know, I can manage either equally well."

For a brief moment, four tentacles of flame, barely longer or thicker than fingers, erupt from the polar's lips, to remind of his ability to shift, and, therefor, ease in gesturing in Illithid.

"I suppose I can be frank in this matter, for there's no power great enough for any here to gain, that cannot be regained with ease, or forgotten. And, too, I thank you for lending your ear, whether you can help me or no."

The pollar taps his throat, as if trying to clear it, and explains.

"A bit less than fourteen thousand years ago, as Sigil turns, one of our number sought to take advantage of the Lady's Mazes. It was his goal to, respectfully, but not worshipfully, request of the Lady that he be granted a Maze designed as a proper fortress and research area. In exchange, he would willingly fulfill whatever burden the Lady chose to bring on to him to keep him from finding his way out, and would not lament the centuries it took to make his prison free of bars. Beyond that, he was also willing and ready for the Lady's Shadow. He was quite aware that the Lady might find his request arrogant or otherwise against her wishes, and so was ready to accept her decision, whatever it might be, even a maze of great difficulty to escape, but of no practical use, or even escape. However, we do not know of his fate. It may be that he was destroyed by her, or another being... which would likely have left quite a mark.. we do not know of he was ignored, and perhaps captured or imprisoned by another... or whatever else may have occurred. As such, I was asked to seek word of his potential fate, as one of our sages feels that the outer planes have an over-love of certain numbers, and that Sigil isn't so far from their nature. I do rather hope not to be checking her again in on-hundred and eleven years, three hundred and thirty-three years, and so on hence, if it can be helped. So, dear sir, does any of this strike thy memory? Or mention of a being not unlike an art piece of cubic iron wire in appearance, about that time?"

The polar listens intently, then, as his somewhat feeble mental defenses are pushed through. Rather than have a muscular twitch as a fleshy thing might, his face distorts slightly, with bits of flame flicking from his entire visage for a spare moment, before her recovers himself and lets the four-score name surround him. His eyes, staring directly towards the Illithids, seem to project the scene, in as many depths, or at least it's imagery, back to the alhoon, straight in to his eyes, but not scattering like normal light for others to view. While the polar cannot mimic so easily the other sensations of the name, his skin literally crawls slowly, creating an ashen murmer to the tune of the flutes. Once begun, the 'Playback' is seemingly instantanious, as, after all, light travels faster than thought barring magic's aid. The polar bows his head again once the name is finished, and speaks plainly.

"It is a pleasure to know thee, "

Once more, the image plays, directly solely to the alhoon, memorized just as any song would be by any bard worth salt in a desert.

"And I but thank you for considering my query. The lack of information is, itself, quite informative. Again, thank you, dear sir. You are far more amiable than most in this burg, and, certainly, more pleasant to deal with than most owning such knowledge."

The polar nods and sits up a bit, though still in a rather casual stance, as he lifts a hand in gesture.

"A true seeker is rare indeed. Even the most skilled Planewalkers so rarely seek -every- state of place. Most Sigilians, for instance, as well-lanned as they may deem themselves, know only word and tourist of other places. Indeed, it is why Prime is so quick an insult, though it is the Prime where most dragons and true serpents are found, beasts which even I, brash as I may be, am wary of, even those which I have some advantage over. Further, most who call themselves Planewalkers hold only to the Outer planes, and, perhaps, the Astral and Prime. Far fewer are those who dare seek, as you do, the secrets of my home. And those who do so dare, in turn, are often loathe to bother with that which cannot be reached through the mists. Perhaps they sense, deep within, the Polarity that the Lady and her Cage show... or perhaps their minds simply lack the expanse to handle it all. Whatever the reason, dear sir, you have some of my respect for it. Something I only give to true dreamers, true lovers, and true seekers, of which there are terribly few in the cosmos, and terribly many that think they are all three."

The polar nods again, maintaining his odd smirk.

"Indeed, dear sir, and such is your wisdom. There is power in secrets, certainly, but as your own deity forbids it from him, that power amoung your fellows is entirely ullusiary. You, on the other hand, have allowed yourself to take hold of the power of ubiquity. The more that is out there, the more minds can work upon it, and all the more return is gained. After all, would not the planes be rather dull if there were not magic items and spells being produced in nigh all regions of the planes? If no peoples produced their own studies of things? If nothing else, it certainly saves a great deal of time.

And aye, there is power in friendship beyond anything your kin have learned to enjoy. Indeed, as much as some races may sneer at the notion, that mortal concept 'love', when indeed true, provides for quite a bit, not the least because so many spirits and deities will aid those who know the feeling. Peasants have slain dragons, small ones, albeit, for that emotion, and friends who have it for theirs have gone in to the depths of the lower planes to rescue those they care for, and returned with life and feeling still in them.

As such, dear sir, it is quite true. You will live beyond any common illithid who has not learned your lessons. In their bitterness and hatred and their enslavement to their own ignorance, they are brittle, while ye have tempered thyself. And all they will gain from it is dissolution unto Ilsesnine.

(OOC: *steps on the bonespear pretending to be a cricket in the corner of the room, just to replace silence with the sounds of squishing*)

Jaspar sat for a time, the only words from him telepathically transferred between himself and his psicrystal, the large wedge of jasper on his necklace. He contemplated, in stereo, his reasons for what he was doing.

1) He had come into Sigil to give his speech to the Symposium. That was done. 2) He had come to Sigil to give young Phadus some time among those from other planes. Even now Phadus was somewhere wandering the town. 3) He had come into Sigil to speak with Shemeska. She was busy, and Incenjucar had been a suitable sounding board in her place. No loss there, though he missed his discussions with the arcanoloth, especially concerning their favorite argument, what the attack by Vecna meant for Sigil. 4) He had come to spark interest in individuals he could send to corroborate his findings. Ah, there was the hitch. He had no one to send yet. 5) Having encountered the humans from "Earth", he now desired to learn of this new place, and how to reach it. He had learned nothing.

This would not do. 60% efficiency was something for lesser beings.