The Prophet.

The Wasting Tower, Oinos

The floor squirmed slightly underneath his paw as he sank to one knee and stayed there. Made of a grey-black substance halfway between stone and metal, and just slightly… alive, the very architecture of this room seemed to be trying futilely to get away from him. In a small corner of his brain, the twitching flooring played on his predatory instincts – the feral part of his nature that urged tearing out throats and clawing out the guts of other beings -- which were exactly what he did not want right now.

He wondered why Bel Aloth had summoned him to this chamber, out of the dozens of vertical miles of rooms in the Wasting Tower. He was very familiar with the centerpiece of the room, though: a large flat table formed out of a hardened, largely undifferentiated mass of flesh, entrails and bones. The Wasting Tower never suffered from any shortage of such spare parts for building materials.

Stretched out on its surface was a map. It might have been drawn on a patchwork of tanned mortal skins rather than parchment, but it was still definitely a map. Markers, made of metal and pieces of bone, had been placed here and there upon the surface. He’d glanced at it as he had entered, but not had not recognized which world it depicted – which was a bit unusual in and of itself.

Very well, most likely she wishes me to draw a metaphysical map of some new world to corrupt. Not unusual.

He sensed the ultroloth regarding him for a while. After a period of time, the ambiguous, countertenor voice spoke aloud. “You may rise, Render.”

He did so. Bel Aloth demanded fewer overt shows of submission from him than from most arcanaloths, but that did not change the fact that the ultroloth’s foot might as well have been placed on his neck at all times.

Her appearance was not particularly different from that of other ultroloths. Austere grey and white-grey robes sewn here and there with runes of great depravity and power. Apparently completely sexless, as was the case with all ultroloths, his mistress was referred to as “she” – in languages that did not easily support the concept of malleable gender – much more often than the opposite. It was all affectation with yugoloths, in any case.

A pair of apparently simple, geometric amulets were worn over the robes. At the narrow, angular waist a pouch and a sheathed, slender dagger were visible. He knew the latter was designed more for dissection and similarly fine work than for combat. As for real bloodshed –

Vashanhusur had never, over all this time, been able to learn the full history and provenance of the sword sheathed across the ultroloth’s back, something he was eager to do. As one of the premier weaponsmiths of the Lower Planes, he would have very much liked to know.

It was usually a lifeless steel grey in color, though he had seen it change through shades of grey and black before. It was an enormous two-handed sword, balanced for the ultroloth who wielded it, but seemed to mass less than it should. Even accounting for Bel Aloth’s incredible physical strength, it could change direction and momentum more easily than such a weapon should.

Any wounds it inflicted were virtually impossible to heal. There was possibly something somewhere on the Planes that could heal such wounds, but Vashanhusur had yet to hear of it. Additionally, if it struck any mortal creature, but did not kill it outright, the wounds it caused invariably became infected.

It greedily drank blood (or any fluid that belonged or once belonged to a living creature) – whenever exposed to it. In many ways the sword appeared alive, but did not, to the best of his knowledge, contain anything that could be called a soul. At least not the essence of any mortal creature.

For the most part, his mistress seldom had any reason to draw it. Occasionally she had such cause, in one or another of the yugoloth civil wars when all facades were dropped and his kind slaughtered each other with vast enthusiasm. During the ‘bloodless’ transition of power -- when Anthraxus had stepped down from the Siege Malicious -- it had been drawn multiple times.

Seldom did the Render feel hate for this being. Perhaps across the centuries the day would come when he would assert his nature and Bel Aloth would die – struck down quietly and treacherously when least expected, perhaps. Or violently and bloodily, the corpse torn apart, gloated over, devoured.

Honestly, Vashanhusur desired neither outcome at the moment… quite the opposite. For now, and likely for many long ages to come, he owed Bel Aloth the loyalty of a predator that recognized and acknowledged, down to the very marrow in his bones, a predator more powerful, advanced, and dominant than he was.

They spoke of the attack on Yazakouris.

“I have been content in recent centuries to let the Prophet run about on a long leash. It seems it is time to return to the choke chain.”

Carefully, using a verbal tense that indicated his submissiveness, he spoke. “Surely you do not mean –“

“I do not plan to make him a permanent ‘guest’ of the Wasting Tower.” That had turned out to be one of his mistress’ very rare errors of judgment. For whatever reason, if Yazakouris stayed in any one place for more than a few decades or so, he lost his prophetic powers. During his ‘stay’ in the Tower, his mental state had additionally deteriorated to one of total insanity of the useless sort.

The ultroloth glanced down at one of the bone markers at the table and moved it to a different spot. “He would have not been in a position to be attacked in the first place, had he not slipped his minders. Another arcanaloth I would have punished with severity, but such punishment would kill him in his current state. He must be disciplined eventually, but for now, I shall simply constrain his movements and increase his guard.

“Have you any conjectures or opinions concerning this incident that you believe would interest me?”

“I have, of course, already made inquiries and performed divinations. I believe any involvement on the part of the crippled god is peripheral at best – he seeks in general to destroy evil, but the Prophet seems to have been nothing more than a target of opportunity. I am not so sure in the case of the Maiden of Pain. I feel that there is something here that I cannot… justify rationally, but I think the involvement of the Loviatan priestess to be something other than chance.”

The ultroloth was silent for a few moments, most likely turning over the possibilities in her mind. “I will bear this in my thoughts.”

She beckoned him over to examine the map in more detail. “A short time ago, a Prime mortal actually attempted to summon me.” The ultroloth’s tone was one of scornful amusement; it was generally believed that the true name of Bel Aloth had never been discovered by anyone. An incorrect name, apparently, had made its way into certain works that claimed to hold the true names of their kind. That meant – unfortunately for would-be summoner – that one could indeed get Bel Aloth’s attention, but could not bind her.

As a matter of caste, ultroloths had few direct dealings with mortals, leaving such to lesser ranks – like his own. Bel Aloth paid particular attention to this point of decorum and would generally smite those who attempted to invoke her name.

The ultroloth never actually slew them in person. Perhaps the mortal would die, suddenly, of unknown causes, or would stab himself or throw himself off some high place, or succumb to a hideous disease. But he would always perish in some painful and horrible manner.

“He yet lives.” That surprised him. “His thoughts and questions were of unusual interest. The mortal is arrogant, but appears to be close to making a genuine discovery. I do not object if the insects do the majority of our work for us.”

The ultroloth examined the markings on the map once more. “I intend to send you into this mortal realm to assist him in the final steps. The words you claim the Prophet uttered make this matter a particularly urgent one.”

“Dread One, I would not dare to withhold or falsify…”

She waved his complaint away. “You will go there in time, but for now, you will provide me with a metaphysical map of this world. It is very isolated, as such things go, and has had comparatively little outer-planar involvement. There is a noticeable paucity of information concerning this world in our records.”

Hence this room. Vashanhusur had constructed the instrument (if not the room containing it) himself, wondering at the time if he were building the bars of his own cage.

I cannot ascertain the minute details of individual souls from a distance; I must be physically present. If some device were to allow me to see everything, in fine detail, via scrying, what would prevent Bel Aloth from imprisoning me in this tower until the multiverse is so much ash – or until we yugoloths are overcome by some younger, more vital race?

Via this device – only one of which existed, and which was, indeed, currently only metaphysically possible within the bowels of Khin-Oin – he could discern general metaphysical tendencies of Prime worlds. Numbers of souls, general quality of souls, general cultural tendencies toward specific sins or virtues. It was an invaluable tool when one wanted to examine a world’s overall potential for corruption.

A small bowl of blood, preserved by a commonly used anticoagulant, stood at one corner of the map. He dipped one finger in it and began tracing a rune, slowly and repetitively, on the surface of the map as he closed his eyes.

As he began, the ultroloth projected to him details from the mortal’s mind to use as a reference point. Zal Koth and a people called the Shorzanni were prominent…

“The focal points of this mortal’s compass are his own people, the orcs of Zal Koth, and his enemies, a human people called the Shorzanni. Both civilizations are shot through with wickedness, but if I were to choose between them, the Zal Kothi are the more devoted to evil.” Vashanhusur made notations in blood as he spoke. “The Shorzanni contain a minority who are morally indifferent or even actively good – very few of these among the orcs. On the whole, the Shorzanni are more prone to materialism, covetuousness, and enslavement; the Zal Kothi, to bloodlust, torture, and cannibalism.” The word he used for ‘cannibalism’ simply meant the eating of intelligent mortal races, not others of one’s own race.

“In general, the Zal Kothi are more pious; many souls are already claimed by their patron god, Ilneval, and will not be easily wrested from him. The Shorzanni follow something of a multitude of gods, but are more secular for the most part. Among both peoples, there are many souls that have been hardened by war, but the Zal Kothi have more of these, and on the whole they are more steadfast by nature. Better than average Blood War fodder on this world.”

His eyes still closed, he reached over and tapped a specific spot on the map with one clawtip. “Here. There is an large, tight cluster of very bright, dynamic souls who possess what I have sometimes called the ‘Promethean spark.’ From what I have seen in the past, such clusters very often produce innovations or discoveries capable of causing meaningful change across many worlds, even the multiverse. If this arrogant mortal is anywhere, he will be here.”