The Fortune's Wheel (Lady's Ward)

(*ping*edit)

*Writer didn't answer Shemeska at first. His focused eyes lost their edge and clouded over at her request. They closed, and the youth unconsciously clenched his writing hand, his right hand. There was turmoil in his mind and also deep emotional pain, that much was obvious to the partly-probing mind-readers present. But there was also the guiding purpose, the will to explore, to learn, to record, which kept such distractions separate and in check. Writer opened his eyes, shook his head slowly and gave Shemeska an apologetic smile while losing a frown that had marred his features*

"I'm sorry. Got a little lost in thought there. Very well. I will relate to you what I believe is my most pleasant memory from my own reality. As I mentioned when I introduced myself, I am a scribe. My memory concerns my apprenticeship, or rather, something which happened during it...And I beg you to please bear with me as I rather tend to go on tangents when telling tales. I'll never make a good bard or tale-spinner, I'm afraid."

*He smiled a little less apologetically, took a deep breath and the turmoil and pain sunk back into the inner recesses of his mind, getting replaced by something exponentially more...Serene*

"I'd just completed my very first comission, to copy a small partially damaged hide-bound journal to something more durable. I really put a lot of myself into that work...I snuck up at night and pored over the thing long after my usual bed-time, usually awakening groggy and grumpy late next morning when my master shook me out of bed with the help of a bucket of water. He figured out what I had done eventually, of course, and I ended up getting a lecture I'm pretty certain is going to haunt me way past my dying day.

In any case, I completed the work two weeks ahead of schedule and presented my master with the fruits of my labour. Now, it's well to note that I had at this point barely been in apprenticeship for three months and two days and already I knew enough to read a bit, write a bit and be allowed to work on copying, which was very impressive...Or at least my master told me so, usually half an hour after urging me to improve my abyssmal cross-, bow- or plainwriting. If there ever was a more hypocritical man...Heh.

My master checked the work for mistakes, finding no big ones I'm proud to say, collected the pay for it and then went and sent a letter to my mother and father, knowing that they both could read. Mother was especially proud. She was the one who originally pressed my father into letting me apprentice, instead of working on the farm. When I visited them two weeks later(I was living in my master's house because of the distance between the hamlet and the farm) they had a surprise in store for--"

*At this point part of Writer's mind unfolded like the pages of a book. It was as if someone had turned a key in a lock and opened a door. He no longer focused upon everything at once, his mind had grown introspective and was studying a single passage of its large library. Anyone who wished to do so and was able to, 'eaveswatched' on his memories of that particular event as the youth continued to describe it out loud, in detail, to Shemeska. It was a decent memory when told, but the mindscape memory was...Special. Every detail was there, from the nuances of every colour observed, to the emotions and thoughts Writer was feeling and thinking at every moment and to the movements every single thing made. It was a perfectly preserved memory, not a hazy fragment with missing details, as people are bound to be left with over time.

Writer proceeded to tell of how his mother and father had managed to gather and invite most of his friends(Now either apprentices as him or farmhands) from the surrounding area with the blessings and contributions of their parents and masters for a little belated celebration of the youths' entry into working life. It had been very good day, full of small-talk, boasts, brags, promises, cameradiere and play. Writer's father had also traded for a mug of a liquid called 'Redberry'(after the berry it was made from), which was shared with great enthusiasm between the youths. Writer himself had immediately developed a taste for its sweet scent and even sweeter taste*

"--After they left, I stayed to see the sun go down in a veritable ocean of red and orange and then, finally, I walked back home. Mom was sitting in a chair by the fireplace sewing on a pair of dads 'longs and I think dad was outside seeing to the animals. Mom got up, put her sewing aside and walked over to me. Then she hugged me and sent me to bed. Before I fell asleep I idly thought about a great many things...About life, about death, about everything...And how beautiful it was. I felt happy like I never had felt before and for that I offered my thanks to every God I knew of. Then I fell asleep."

*He sighed and his mind closed up*

"There. Is that satisfactorily for Shemeska the Marauder?"

Jaspar turns his head slightly, feeling the psychic communion of the two beings, and being mildly frustrated as his mind actually requires effort to move into the mental stream. Once inside, he watches the interaction between the two, and gives an exasperated sigh. The boy's mental library was still locked tight, apart from the single entry, and Shemeska's mind was like a miniature prismatic sphere; easy to see, easy to look at, near-impossible to effect. He contented himself by keeping his presence passive, merely observing, and noted details of the memory himself: star patterns, similarities to certain maps and memories he had held before, and the nature of their civilization. He wondered, idly, if this was the "Earth" the others had spoken of. If so, the information could be useful later.

Slowly, he stands, and with a mental order to his thrall, Ibid abandons his pleasant conversation with the bartender over the remains of his fine meal and approaches. "It is time for me to head back to the Rock of Bral. I should pick up my dreadnaught, and make for Union. The Planar Cartographer's Guild should be waiting for my report, and the arc--", he stops a moment, then corrects himself, "'mercane' do not enjoy being made to wait too long. Incenjucar, it has been a pleasure. Shemeska, I will see you later, as I still have something for you, and we never did finish our argument. Farewell all." As he locks eyes with Shemeska once, he reaches out to her telepathically once more.

"Shemeska, I have the information you've been searching for. Vecna's history, and how he came to to break the Lady's Ban. It took alot of backtracking, but I'm rather sure I have it all in hand. Contact me when you wish to discuss it. Also, oddly, in my research I came upon what appears to be the final moments of Eli Cromlich's life. When you want to talk, find me in Union, or on the Rock of Bral, or just send me forth a magical summons. We will talk. Good day."

Enzo can't help but notice that the alhoon appears to treat Shemeska as a peer, and is seemingly treated thus in return.

Not wanting to let a good opportunity slip away while he waits for his audience with the arcanoloth, Enzo approaches Jaspar.

Enzo stops next to Jaspar, not exactly cutting him off. The tiefling definitely has the look of a hardened planewalking cutter. His traveling leathers are of quality make but have seen wear in exotic locations, judging by the acid burns, scorch marks, and other scuffs and stains. His face is lined and hard-edged, but young just the same. His hair, actually a mass of writhing black slender serpents, sways and coils atop his head, multiple eyes watching every corner of the room.

"I must beg your pardon from earlier, but I was a slave once and it has colored my opinions. Your .... thrall appears to be happy with his situation, and that is more than many can say.

Please allow me to introduce myself formally. I am Enzo Sarlas, of Sigil, and a courier of some repute."

I would be pleased to offer you my services, here in the Cage and beyond. If you have need of the services of a reliable and discreet courier, please ask around and you will find I'm well recommended. My price is a little higher than some, but if jink is an issue, it is likely you don't require service at the level that I provide."

Jaspar stops, and looks down at the figure, contemplating what to say before moving along. He decides not to loose all his intellect devourers to the hunt...yet.(Like putting all your cards on the table. But with brain-dogs. )

"I am...Jaspar Arelius, of Penumbra. I am a ranking officer of the Planar Cartographer's Guild, and a respected expert on the subjects of metacartography and psychothaumaturgy, or, as the phrase has come into fashion again, "cerebromancy", which is hardly accurate. I might have a use for you yet. Walk with me, the portal to the Rock of Bral is some distance from here, and we can talk as we go. If I am to avail myself of your services, you should have an easy route to find me. We can all speak on the matter of the difference between thralldom and slavery, as well, as there is a considerable difference, though, like magical and natural darkness, they also end up looking much the same from the outside."

"Indeed, once I have assuaged your safety, I will retrieve you posthaste. Expect a magical sending to direct you out of the city, followed by a dimensional gate that will bring you to me unerringly."

With that, he and Ibid pass the door, on their way to the articificer's up the road, fishing out a vial of phlostigon, the key to this strange portal to a mostly forgotten place...the Rock of Bral, hub of the spaceways, heart of the phlostigon path, where the arcane and the neogi, the beholder and the illithid, the dohwar and the giff all move to great plans, all among the races of the common folk.

Jaspar slows his stride, to allow the young girl room, and reaches out with his detect thoughts, giving her a casual scan, his abilities with the power a bit more swift, and more intimate.

His smothering consciousness strikes out like an engulfing constrictor, swallowing her up in a moment. A quick brush gives him her deepest core point, as well as the thoughts of her surface mind. He barely reads over them, noting that she does not even seem to register him as a threat, and that her mind has yet to grasp powers in his own range of use. She was no threat, and she was not seeking him for some reason and so, she could wait.

He gives her a pleasant nod, and looks back to the two he was speaking with.

Vex looks at Jasper and says telepathically "I'm afraid I have certain things that I must do before I have the time to help you with your research. I will send you a message when I am finished with my current business."

The Incenjucar boredly examines his fingernails, causing them to change hue subtly, while spying on the nearest gambling tables, to study who's going to be walking out of the building with a load of jink, and who's going to not have enough garnish for a cooked cranium rat.

Jaspar began to walk, Ibid to his right, and slightly behind him, and Enzo to his left. As he walks, he uses the continued vocalization spell to speak on the subject of thralldom.

"Thralldom is many things, when compared to the humanoid condition. The word translates into Common from the original thought as friend, companion, servant, student, henchman, cohort, slave, pet, or even meal. For, in most cases, a thrall can be, and often is, many of these things to his illithid. Illithids have individual needs, and their thralls serve those needs, based on the relationship they have.

For the best example of the relationship, consider the human relationship with the dog, man's closest companions. A man can love his dog, care for his dog, be sad when his dog is gone or hurt, he can order the dog to do commands, or tricks, or even fight for him or guard his life. Despite the creature's miniscule intellect, the man considers the dog's personality, gives it a name, and considers it an individual, though it is far from sentient, much less his intellectual equal. The animal's presence can shield him from loneliness, a suprise assault, and even, in the direst of situations, starvation. He considers the creature to be less than him, but still a vital part of his life. One need not use magic or psionics to make a dog follow you about, only good treatment and a measure of respect.

Such is the thrall, to the illithid. Your kind is not as smart as we are, as insulting as it may sound, it is true. You are a lesser species to us, and as such, when our two species meet, only two outcomes can occur: either the illithid take their thralls from the local populace, or the humanoids strike out, out of fear, paranoia, self-preservation or justified rage at mistreatment.

Yes, I say mistreatment. Again, to the man and dog example. An illlithid and his thrall can be a pair of friends, the illithid tending the thrall's needs in exchange for service and companionship, like myself and Ibid. I feed him, care for him, and teach him. In exchange, he attends to my affairs (as a well-trained seneschal and ship's mate both, in fact), and carries my messages and gear for me. I do not mistreat him, and as I am alhoon, I will never hunger for his brain-meat. However, there are those who treat their thralls foully, filling kennels (of sorts) with whole packs of them, who they starve, malign, experiment upon, and eventually devour or slay. Some even use their psionics to pit their thralls against each other in brutal telepathic gladiatorial battle."

He looks over to Ibid, who shudders once, but remains silent. Jaspar places a sympathetic hand on the bronze-tanned man, and continues.

"I rescued Ibid from one of those battle pits, paying a great deal of money and favors for him. I recognized his intellect, despite his damaged memory, as well as his fine speech and combat skills, and decided he would make a fine thrall for me. I have taught him reading, mathematics, arcane magic and psionics, seneschal and ships's officer's skills, and many other skills. We have learned, through a great deal of work and psionic treatments, that he is from a desert world called Athas. He was apparently an assassin there, who moved among their ruling class as a negotiator. He is also a psionic wild talent, and has some minor arcane talent. We intend to see whether he can master psychothaumaturgy, and if that succeeds, then the secrets of illithid mind magic, on which I am a undisputed expert. As my thrall, he has gone from a starved, mad killer to a refined individual of fine taste, genteel manner and keen mind. He is well-fed and healthy, and I treat him with a great deal of respect, as I would any apprentice of my own kind, if not better. He is my one travelling companion, and my singular crew member aboard the 'Enlightener.'"

Jaspar looks over at Enzo. "Have you any questions?"

Shemeska smiles, and though it's uncertain if she actually expected the package or not, she makes a good enough show of it.

"Thank you dear, I'll see to it that you're compensated for the trouble. Runners can be the the lifeblood of Sigil and I appreciate your services."

That said, she gestures for Colcook to see to her current patron, Writer.

Shemeska put down her wine glass and looked up at Merlianik, a smile played across her lips as always and she held out her hand, palm down, wrist bent. And waited.

At the same time, she spoke into the Bariaur's mind the words she didn't feel like saying in front of any other prospective clients. "You know, normally they leave the trash out behind the building for the urchins to scrabble over rather than waving it in front of my face. Kiss my hand."

And she waited.

(Spectacular, may I suggest a general "Streets of Sigil" thread? In this manner, I can move Enzo and I out into the streets proper, rather than flood the "main" room with more banter on metacartopraphy and illithid social structures. Also, Shemmy, I'd appreciate if you read back over my posts, as several of them have involved speaking to you, and I have yet to get even a telepathic "Pike off, you scaly old brain-eating fart.". )

(A fine idea. Enzo, with me.)

ooc: *thread tap* Anyone still alive?

OOC: Who's still at the Fortune's Wheel? Shemeska? Factol Rhys? Clueless? Shemmy, you wanna pick up the plot hook with the packages delivered by Enzo earlier?

Growing tired of the silent Bauriar, Abraham begins to wander around the Fortune's wheel, scribbling madly on a dog-eared sheet of parchment. After making several round of the place, and thouroughly cataloguing the available drinks, his eyes lazily alight on the table occupied by Shemeska and her retinue. He makes his way there, pulls himself up a chair, and carefully places himself in it. He then turns his attention to the armored Tiefling sitting next to him and says, quite relaxedly,

'Scuse me, you work fer her, right?

He motions towards Shemeska with his left hand. In his right hand, he holds a half-filled mug of ale. He seems to be fully focused on the bodyguard, and continues speaking in the same conversational manner he began with.

See, I'm writing a book, great work of nonfiction ye might call it. I've
'eard tell a' you, and was wonderin' if ye could spare me a bit o' yer time...

He mutters something that sounds like gibberish, and then pulls a loose page out of his leather volume, quickly heading it "Shemeska the Marauder" and then looking at the bodyguard with a rather neutral expression. He leans back in his chair and sticks his pen in his mouth, waiting for a response.

Realizing that he had walked away from the bauriar in mid-speech, and becoming increasingly dissapointed with the bodyguard's silent intimidation, Abraham pushes back his seat and stands rather abruptly, leaving his blank sheet of notepaper on the table. Looking annoyed and vexed, he sighs "If ye find yourself gettin' a bit bored with that silent treatment you've been givin me, I'll be with the fellow in the hat." With that, he ambles off towards the Bauriur, stopping in front of him and murmuring apologetically and with exaggerated courtesy. "I must apologize for my lapse in concentration. Creeps up on me at the most inopportune moments."He motions for him to follow as he makes his way back towards the bar. "A drink, eh? Good information is hard to come by at that price. Normally one's got to buy four or five, and the reliability goes down at that point, you understand. Siddown, I've got a few coins to spare, and I can recite the drinks here by heart. "As he seats himself at the bar, he produces a sheet of dog-eared paper with a list scrawled on it, and looks between it and the creature beside him. "Name your poison, eh? Money's no object when it bags me a page or two."