Hello all,
I began writing some years ago a novel based on the Planescape setting, my favorite of all D&D campaigns. It was my desire to submit it in part to a community who would offer a valuable critique of this work and it was recommended that I start here in this forum. I look forward to your thoughts, and strongly encourage you to offer constructive comments that I might be motivated to further hone my writing skills. It is my hope that through this process, I would once again, after a respite of a number of years, pursue the dream of writing I have had since I was a young boy. I thank you in advance for taking your valuable time reading this excerpt. Moderators- please edit format as you deem necessary to coincide with your site preferences.
Sincerely, Solar
Oinos, first layer of the Gray Waste. And such a putrid waste it is. It is a wasteland of unending death and decay. It is a wasteland of utter destruction. For it is here that the war rages stronger, fiercer, and angrier than anywhere else in all the multiverse. Every day thousands of battles are fought across hundreds of battlefields with each clash being more bloody and deadly than the last. And after eons of strife one might think that a conclusion to the war would someday be reached. Simple logic has always maintained that all things come to an end… don’t they? Of course, the one who thinks this is nothing more than a sodding fool. He does not comprehend the nature of the war, nor the nature of the plane that it is fought on. And he most assuredly does not comprehend the nature of the combatants, whose hearts are so twisted with hatred that they fight only to continue a war they hope will last until time itself collapses. But even that is not wholly true, for how can they hope for anything at all when the only emotion that can exist on this netherworld is absolute hopelessness. A gray sky hovers above a gray mass of bodies and briars that yield no hint or hue of life’s existence among them. Viewing the Waste is like looking at a graveyard turned inside out and knowing that unless you escape it you will become part of it. In such a world, war is the constant- whether it be with another or with oneself.
But Oinos is only one layer of the Gray Waste, which has three. And the Gray Waste is only one of many worlds that this war is waged on. That is because this war is not fought for land or territory, certainly the Waste is no such prize. It is not a war borne from political indifference or social schism. It is not a religious war, for the participants worship no gods. And this war is not fought for monetary gain, though there is usually always someone whose pockets are heavier after each battle.
The truth, if there really is one, is that this war is the physical manifestation of the conflict between law and chaos. It has always existed and has no apparent end. The two sides, the Baatezu and the Tanar’ri, both fiendish races whose hearts are blackened by evil hatred, have one goal in their dark minds. They each crave the destruction of the other, and there is not one of them that wishes otherwise. All in all there is only one thing that is consistently brought forth in this timeless engagement… blood. Thus is it named the Blood War.
No better place is the Blood War raged than on the Field of Nettles, the largest battlefield on the entire layer of Oinos. The Field itself is immense, stretching some three hundred miles from side to side. It is littered from end to end with the remains of millions of fiends who have fallen each day to the hand of the enemy. What appears to be a small bluff off in the distance many times turns out to be a mountainous pile of slain demons and devils alike. It is said that if one took a shovel to the field, he would meet his life’s end before he found ten feet of actual soil. Of course, the person barmy enough to try wouldn’t get too far before he found himself punctured by a Baatezu claw or Tanar’ri fang. Worse yet, he might stumble upon a patch of the nettles, for which the terrain is named. This thicket, indigenous only to this area, grows wildly to heights that would cause a titan to take caution. Many victims can be seen impaled upon these hollow spikes, their husks dried and wrinkled after feeding the briars their life’s fluids.
The Field of Nettles is bordered on opposite sides by the sinister waterway known as the Styx. Thought by some to be the oldest of the Great Paths, its misty currents have the power to pierce dimensional barriers as it winds its way through the lower planes of reality. On the one side, the river flows from the Abyss where the infernal Tanar’ri dwell. The other side connects the Gray Waste to the diabolic plane of Baator, the place the Baatezu call home.
So it is the presence of the Styx alone that makes this war plain a trampling ground where devastation runs rampant. Such a convenience the stream offers to those who dare to journey about these nightmarish realms, but extreme care must be given whenever doing so for the Styx is as evil as the worlds it touches. One drop of the water upon skin will cause a poor soul’s mind to be wiped clean leaving him as blank as the day he were born. There are very few creatures in the multiverse immune to this effect- those that are so fortunate are thought to be devoid of having any memories to cherish at all.
And then as the mists separate on the Styx to reveal a long slender skiff slowly easing down the river, a creature such as this is standing at the helm with steering oar clenched tight between skeletal fingers. It is a marreanoloth, also known as a boatman of the Styx. Belonging to the mysterious, yet undeniably malicious race called the Yugoloths, his role is simply to carry passengers to their lower planar destinations. A thick, vrock-feathered cloak covers the steersman from head to toe making it impossible to see any part of his body save for the bony hands that clutch the oar. His face is blackened by the shadow that his deep cowl casts upon him, though it does not block out the glowing red orbs that are his eyes.
Behind the marreanoloth sit a half dozen passengers still and silent all staring at the field. However, if the bloodlust in their hearts could utter a sound, screams of rage and hate would be heard for miles. These are tanar’ri, demonspawns arriving straight from the Abyss, and though they appear patient they are anxious with the anticipation of combat… and they are not alone.
Emerging from the mists behind the skiff is yet another boat… and another… and another until several thousand are visible floating along the sentient river. Each one is loaded to capacity with battle hungry fiends that begin to salivate at the sight of the legendary plains before them. So engrained in their minds is the history and grandeur of the Blood War that they care less for the battle’s outcome than they do about being part of it.
Three hundred miles away on the other side of the field where the River Styx continues its trek through the gloom of Oinos is a similar scene. Skiffs by the thousands float alongside the riverbanks, but it is not tanar’ri hordes the yugoloth boatmen bring to the battlesite. Legions upon legions of baatezu have also purchased passage to the Field of Nettles on this day. They, like the tanar’ri, burn with the passion of awaited combat as well.
The ferry ride ends and both armies flood onto the battlefield as if their enemy were directly in front of them. Although it will be days before these two forces of evil finally collide, they are both eager to get a headstart on the other, each wanting more space between the Styx and their backs than their opponent. It will be a long march to the front lines and even those with the ability to fly must fall in step, for the nature of the field prohibits flight and teleportation. But it is a hike these denizens are more than willing to take.
It is no wonder these two races furiously collide with one another when you consider the way they approach a battle. The Tanar’ri, whose numbers usually outweigh that of the opponent, have no formation to their march across the field. They rush forward in all directions, each motivated by their own tactical strategies. There are always a few who have similar ideas that gather in small battalions, and there are also others that end up killing each other because of differing views. But the Tanar’ri are a ruthless force to deal with and often win their battles through pure savagery rather than organized assaults. The many ways they address combat makes them difficult to combat and always causes their opponent to make adjustments accordingly.
The baatezu, on the other hand, are much more organized and regimented in battle. A typical baatezu army will contain a number of legions that are sorted into regiments, and the regiments are split onto divisions. Each division, regiment, and legion has a commander and every baatezu army has a general. Their tactics come in many forms and have been perfected by eons of fine-tuning. Every baatezu general carries a war journal full of these tactics detailing how effective or ineffective they have been in past battles. A book such as this will claim a high price across the multiverse, especially when offered to a greater yugoloth who can turn that purchase into a profit ten times what he paid.
As different as these two fiendish races are, there is one thing that they share in common- an undeniable contempt for the other. There is no worse place for a berk to be in all the planes than between the clenched claws of a baatezu and tanar’ri. These two armies know it will be a few days before they reach each other, and that is a fact that drives them furious with impatience. For they have a battle to fight, an enemy to kill, and blood to shed. Woe to anyone or anything that stands in their way.
Of all the battlesites that the Blood War has skirmished upon, the Gray Waste was by far the least desirable to visit. At least, Scythe always thought so, just as he did now stepping through the portal not far from the banks of the Styx. He threw aside the burning hand of a nalfeshnee that served as the portal’s key and turned around to watch the dimensional gate vanish under a canopy of nettles and razorvine.
Scythe regretted coming to the Waste and couldn’t help being overwrought with despair at the thought of spending one more minute on this dreadful plane. He kept telling himself it was the nature of the plane that was mainly responsible for the way he felt, which is true for the most part. It helped alleviate the gloom a little- just enough to give him the confidence he needed to perform the important task that lay ahead.
Scythe turned back towards the Styx. Across the river was the Field of Nettles and he could see the Tanar’ri hordes abandoning their skiff transports, pouring onto the death littered plains a few hundred yards upstream. Bloodthirsty fiends such as these were often dangerous to deal with, and as safe as he felt on the opposite side of the river, Scythe took caution by casting an invisible armor spell upon himself. He also tied his long, black hair back into a ponytail, thus allowing him to easily reach the twin scythes he wore on scabbards attached to his shoulders. Scorch and Scar were their names, and those who knew Scythe also knew that it is these weapons that have earned him his respect and reputation as a man of renown across the multiverse. Aside from those, he also had a long, thin tail that followed behind him which he also used as a weapon for he had affixed a wicked spike on the end that he often dipped in poison. His pointed ears were now clearly visible making no mistake that he was a tiefling, a planespawn race with their heritage more than likely descending from Tanar’ric or Baatezen roots.
Empty skiffs, save for the yugoloth steersmen, were now passing Scythe by as he made his way ever closer to the banks directly across the drop-off point. He looked behind him and watched the skiffs disappear into mists that he swore were not there just seconds before. Scythe reached his destination realizing he needed fear nothing from the Tanar’ri who either didn’t care to notice or simply ignored his presence among them. Given that the Styx was at its narrowest width at this point, it would be a simple task for a curious Tanar’ri to garnish his boatman into dropping him off at Scythe’s location. But none did so, indicating to Scythe that even chaos stricken denizens like these knew their priorities, especially where the Blood War was concerned.
However, as interesting as Tanar’ri battle “formations” were, the tiefling did not come here for a lesson on abyssal war tactics. In fact, a skiff much larger than those carrying the Tanar’ri began to make itself visible through the mists. It was both twice as long and wide than a normal skiff and there was a Marreanolth at the bow and at the stern. Seated atop a cushioned astral dreadnought skull inside a circle of three towering Yagnoloths was the person Scythe came to see… the Arcanaloth Darius.
Scythe was a seasoned journeyman in Blood War affairs, having dealt with many mercenaries, traders, smugglers, extortionists, and the like on many other occasions- that was what he did. He had even had dealings with Darius a few times before. But this was entirely another matter of great import, not just for himself, but he now had something the Arcanaloth desperately wanted. And as much experience as Scythe had, he knew he was like a newly formed manes next to the genius that was Darius.
The jackal-headed yugoloth rose wearing a beautiful robe of lavender satin that resisted the graying effect this plane had on everything, including Scythe’s own clothes. The skiff came to a stop at the skull laden dock and the hulking Yagnoloths stepped out first forming a haphazard line. Darius walked slowly across the dock in front of them, not yet having lifted his head to acknowledge that his quarry was among him as well. Scythe was nervous like he had never been before and he was afraid Darius knew it. There must be no mistakes in this transaction, Scythe told himself, or all would be lost. Despite the mounting pressure, the tiefling calmed himself.
And then Darius looked up. “Ah Scythe, how good it is to see you on this colorful day.”
“The Gray Waste is anything but colorful,” Scythe responded, “but I like your attitude.”
Darius smiled and gazed at the blank sky above him. “Yes, there are some that tell me my attitude maintains my reputation,” he replied, now setting his gaze upon Scythe. “I, however, envision it in the reverse manner. And as the Sensate proverb goes, ‘Welcoming pessimism into your house leads to a ruined home.’
Scythe snickered with amusement at Darius’ boasting. It seemed to lighten his mood and he gained confidence as the conversation continued. “Funny, Darius,” the tiefling laughed. “Quoting a Sensate proverb.”
“And why is that humorous,” Darius asked with interest.
“I guess that means when in Sigil, you can be found frolicking in the Civic Festhall,” Scythe chortled.
Even Darius found the thought of that ridiculously funny. “No no, my tiefling friend,” he chuckled. “I spend very little time at the City of Doors. Only when I must do I spirit myself there.” Darius looked now at the Field across the Styx, the Tanar’ri still exiting their transports. “Wise bloods like you and I know that the War is found here. We know that war is the means to jink, and jink is the means to power. And power, my tiefling friend, always seems to bring out the zealot in me.”
“And the greed in you as well, I would imagine,” Scythe retorted.
Darius reacted sharply to that comment. “You will learn one day that greed is the beginning of power.”
“Strange,” Scythe responded. “I envision it in the reverse manner.”
Darius looked straight into Scythe’s eyes and there was a short silence, as if he were deciding whether or not to end this cocky tiefling’s life for his inferences. Scythe did not defer, but instead held his ground. He was not going to place himself into a position of inferiority. Doing so would make him a mere pawn to Darius, not someone whom the Arcanaloth must respect. And as the silence was becoming almost too much to bear, a slow and sinister smile crept its way under Darius’ snout.
‘Ha ha ha,” he sarcastically snickered. “Entertaining to the last, my tiefling friend. Never is it a simple, boring business transaction with you. I like that, Scythe. It shows you have grit and determination- a very valuable combination in these nightmarish realms.”
Scythe smiled approvingly at Darius’ affirmation of his character. “I’m sure you haven’t forgotten that I have something else of value to discuss with you,” the tiefling reminded him.
“But, of course,” Darius replied. “I do have pressing matters to attend to on Gehenna, as I’m sure you also have further business this day. So, with all pleasentries aside, let us conclude this meeting.”
Darius turned his head behind him and waved forth one of his servant Yagnoloths. The gargantuan was a sickly green in color with long, yellow fangs and huge fan-like ears. His right arm was the size of a tree trunk with bulging, defined muscles. His left arm, though, was the size of a normal man’s arm giving him a very awkward appearance. Scythe could feel a slight tremor under his feet with each step the creature took, and as he came closer, he became aware of the sound of heavy breathing expulsing from the creature’s lungs. The Yagnoloth stopped just behind Darius and stood still.
“Let us begin with my services,” the Aracnaloth asserted, motioning his right hand in the direction of the passing Marreanoloths. “Have my boatmen performed their task to your satisfaction?”
Scythe watched as the robed oarsmen silently and slowly continued to drop off the abyssal demons. “They’ve been efficient and punctual in their duties. I’ve no complaints, Darius.”
“Excellent,” the Arcanaloth proudly responded. “Then you have my compensation?”
Scythe paused for just a moment. It surprised him that he did not expect Darius to reverse the transaction, especially since he had made deals like this many times in the past. Something was not right. Scythe’s head became clouded and confused and it took all his concentration to focus on the matter at hand. Damn the Gray Waste and its mind-numbing effect he thought. Finally, he regained his composure enough to continue. “You know as well as anyone how deals are made out here, Darius. I came to you with the proposition. There’s more on the table here than just a ferryride. You show me what I want to see, and then I’ll do likewise- no sooner.”
“I suppose you are correct,” Darius conceded. He put his hand out to the side, palm open, in front of the Yagnoloth behind him, never taking his eyes off of Scythe. The giant Yag pulled a glass scroll tube from his satchel and placed it in Darius’ hand. He extended it to Scythe, but then pulled away as the tiefling reached for it. “No tricks,” he warned. “Remember, I am a fellow mercenary out here just like you. And I guarantee I have tenfold the number of resources and contacts that you do.”
Scythe knew he was right, but there was no foul play on his mind at this moment. “Tell me, Darius,” he reasoned, “have I ever cheated you in the past?”
“Maybe you have and I just don’t know it yet,” Darius answered. He once again extended the scroll tube to Scythe and this time he let the tiefling take it. “If not, there’s always a first time, and the first time with me is most definitely your last.”
Scythe impatiently unscrewed the golden etched stopper of the scroll tube and pulled out the parchment inside, unrolled it and read it. It was made of yugoloth contract paper, which was a layer of flesh, usually demihuman about six inches wide, that is razed in a Gehennan furnace and polished with the owner’s blood.
“Fret not, my tiefling friend,” Darius encouraged. “I assure you that you do indeed have the truename of Belgos. My sources have never failed me in the past. However, you do understand that I did not personally verify its credibility. Had I seen the name or touched the scroll, it would then be possible to trace me to the source if the scroll ever got into the wrong hands, namely Belgos’. And, unlike yourself, I do not wish the ire of a pit fiend upon me. That is why I let my Yag servant behind me stuff the scroll tube.” The Yagnoloth issued forth a frightened grunt at the revelation. “Sorry, my unfortunate friend,” Darius consoled without looking at the Yag, who now looked very uncomfortable.
Scythe replaced the parchment into the tube and screwed the stopper back on. “I have my own ways of discovering the validity of this name, Darius. If it is false, I will expect to be repayed.”
“I understand fully,” Darius responded. “Now… I believe it is my turn.”
“That it is,” Scythe agreed. He removed from his belt a small pouch of deep, brown leather tied at the top. Taking some fine dust out of a vest pocket, Scythe sprinkled it over the pouch and uttered a short, magical word. The pouch erupted with an explosion of air from the inside that even surprised Darius. Scythe placed the pouch on the ground and began to open the top. Right before their eyes, the pouch began to grow larger and wider until it was as big as a Bytopian deerskin sack. Scythe reached his hands inside and slowly pulled out the object of Darius’ desire. A beautiful bronze forge hammer.
The Arcanaloth’s eyes were as wide as Oceanus and when Scythe held the hammer out to him, he quickly snatched it like an overzealous child. “You have done well, my tiefling friend,” Darius noted after a few seconds of inspection. “The Hammer of the Yugoloths is an incredible find, and this is no forgery. How came you by it?”
“Let me just say that it was easy to find, but hard to take. The previous owner was very fond of the hammer, but knew not the extent of its power,” Scythe cryptically explained. He was careful not to offer too much information, for he knew what Darius’ next question would be.
“And the anvil- it must have been there too, correct?” Darius asked, still perusing the worksmanship of the hammer- his hammer.
“Oh, I almost forgot,” Scythe mocked. “You must forgive me, Darius. The Anvil of the Yugoloths was not with the Hammer as one might’ve thought. But it matters not. After all, our deal was for the Hammer only. Isn’t that right, Darius?”
This was the second time in this meeting that Darius became unnerved at the comments made by Scythe. The tiefling had the Anvil, or at least he knew where it was; Darius was certain of that. He hated being toyed with by a mere mortal, but he hated more the thought of having the Hammer while never being able to attain the Anvil. If he had any chance of ever having both, he would have to play the fool for a time. Darius convinced himself that it was a necessary sacrifice.
“Indeed,” Darius consented. “Our bargain was for the Hammer only. Please don’t get me wrong, Scythe. I am well pleased with my return.” Darius placed the Hammer inside one of the folds of his cloak and it seemed to disappear behind it, as if he placed the object inside his own body. He then started to back away, never turning around.
“But remember this… my tiefling friend. Whoever has…” Darius paused as if searching for the proper words, “what I mean to say is- whoever is going to get the counterpart to the Hammer will want it as much as I want the Anvil. And until only one party has retained ownership of both artifacts, you will be the reason for a plane spanning conflict of mass proportion. I caution you.”
Scythe could not respond to Darius’ inconspicuous threat that meant the two of them were now enemies. He had expected as much, but he realized he had passed the proverbial point of no return. Darius sat back into his seat inside the oversized skiff; gestured to his Yag servants, and then Scythe watched as the two Yags that remained by the skiff grabbed the third and threw him off the dock and into the Styx. He struggled for a moment, flailing about with a loud scream. And suddenly, the Yag became very calm, swam to the other side of the river and climbed onto the Field of Nettles. He gazed around, wondering where he was, and began to walk further onto the field. Of course, it was Darius’ insurance policy against the scroll, Scythe knew. The Yagnoloth’s memory had been erased and he would not be able to name Darius.
Scythe looked back just in time to see the giant skiff disappear into the mists. Yes, he had passed the point of no return and knew he could but accept it. The next time Scythe would see Darius… and there would be a next time… words would not be the only thing exchanged between them.
I enjoyed reading this and look forward to more.