Yes, I was once known as Cimag, Granter of Magic! It was that blasted Relopsews, Destroyer of Magic, who did this to me, all because he believed that mortals do not deserve and cannot handle the power of magic.
But now I am back! And this time I will do it right! I will spread magic throughout the world, if I could gain enough joy, happiness, wonder, and other positive emotions, and once more have my flock increase mortals' (and immortals') prowess with magic.
(17)
You glare at the Lurker, who keeps an amused eye on you, seeming content to wait you out, you only have a limited window of time to work with after all.
Your impromptu staring contest comes to an end when you throw your last material possession at him, a powerful magical sleeping draught, concocted by one of your Arch Wizard Priests, back when magic was in vogue.
While it doesn't quite work on a creature of the Lurker's calibre, the fumes give him a severe coughing fit, purple mucus spewing everywhere. Interestingly, the draught also seems to have interacted strangely with his alien biology, and he howls incoherently about "pixies" as you slip past.
You'd have loved to investigate further, but time waits not even for the gods. Not yet anyway.
You spin around on your heel and find yourself in a cave. Flames flicker as three tribal shamans perform what appear to be a ritual dance, their shadows looming large on the walls. You see crude cave paintings depicting various scenes from history. A cadre of your elite wizardpriests slaying an entire dragonflight. The great flying city that the dwarven enchanters made, before it crashed down in the centre of the elven forests, brought low by the working of Relopsews. The great libraries that you and Vashna slowly accumulated over countless years burnt to cinders by the Mezujin's followers, duped by the sly Relopsews.
Your followers exiled from their homes, cast out to sail the oceans until finally they found a new home, a frozen hellhole of some sort.
You seem to have appeared in the center of what seems to be some sort of religious ritual, presumably dedicated to you. The people crowding into the cave appear to have partaken of narcotics, their eyes glazed, they mumble incoherently and stare at their hands, mystified. Interestingly however, a unusually large percentage of the crowd visibly reacts to your presence, eyes widening at the sight of you. You hear murmers along the lines of "wow, this is really good stuff, it's like Cimag was really here!".
The three shamans, while also appearing to be drugged, react somewhat more coherently to your presence strangely enough, prostrating themselves before you.
"Great Cimag! You have returned! We, your people have long awaited your return, keeping alive the old ways, the true ways,
your ways! Gives us your blessing on our venture to strike back at the flock of that foul Relopsews who brought you low! Even now our expedition fleet is being readied!"
Your divine intuition is telling you that the spokesperson is full of it. If they kept the old ways alive, why do you only have three worshipers? Worse, this group doesn't boast even a single mage. Most importantly, the shaman who spoke, who appears to be a leader of some sort, is
not one of your worshipers, though the other two are. You sense a certain youthful ambition from him, he might have simply taken the position of shaman to further his own agenda.
You are a Hungry Poltergeist (25% satiation, Rank 1, 3 Worshipers).
Your sphere of magic encompasses a large amount of subject matter, and thus the specific abilities it grants your are extremely limited. However, you can easily teach magic to mortals and have a easier time manipulating existing magical constructs or interfering with spells as they are cast.
I was once known as Lysandra, Goddess of Corruption! It was that filthy Mezujin, all because I corrupted some politicians of his.
But now I am back! And this time I would do it right. I will bring forth an age of corruption! If only enough lies can be told in my name and my underlings once more corrupt the masses!
(6)
You sidle past the wheezing Lurker, but slip on some of the mucus he spewed earlier, losing your balance. Your fall into the pile of slime, falling through it, and continue falling. You're just beginning to be worried that you might have tripped into some sort of bottomless mucus hole, when you hit the ground with a wet squelch.
You're just getting back to your feet, when you notice you're trapped in some sort of glass dome. You hear a faint tolling of bells, like the shattering of glass, the celestial alignment is at an end. You shiver slightly as the fading energy rushes through you like a river of ice.
Beyond the dome you see a heavily cluttered room, scrolls and tomes lie everywhere, each seemingly more esoteric than the last. Dwarven tablets, draconic slabs, elvish scrolls, and various other things you cannot recognize at a glance.
Amidst this mess is a suprisingly prim looking man, dressed in elaborate robes of office,
a bureaucrat your instinct tells you. Rolls of fat are slimmed down by expert tailoring but you can still see the decadence oozing from his frame. His face is a flawless mask of calm as he examines characters scrawled on a piece of bark. Is that squiddish?! This man appears to be quite learned. He is sweating profusely, the hand not holding the bark almost absently wiping at his brow with a fine handkerchief.
A quick adjustment of his spectacles and he turns his attention to you. "Ahem, yes. You should be Lysandra yes? Oh great"- you cannot help but note a distinct lack of respect in that great-"... slimy one, my name is Pasarl, I have summoned you to beseech you for assistance. You see, I have been skimming some money off the top of the funding meant for maintaining the coastal forts. I was somewhat over-enthusiastic and took too much, my superiors have noticed, and worse, they actually care. I think I might have offended someone important accidentally somehow. Help me out of this pinch and I'll gladly become your *ahem* worshiper. Do we have a deal?
Oh yes, and you'll notice that that the, *hem*, dome and carpet block your passage. A mere precaution. Gods, fallen or not, can be quite tricky things apparently. If you agree to my terms, just sign the magically binding contract I've left inside with you. If not, I'll leave you here to rot."
After confirming that escape is impossible you consider your situation. The dome, you wish you knew what it was made of, it's quite fascinating, but not really your bailiwick sadly. The carpet seems to be the skin of a furred dragon, and was probably ridiculously expensive, the strange creatures had gone extinct before you were sealed. Probably a heirloom. Yet this 'Pasarl' seems to have underestimated you. You are not quite a fallen god. You feel a thin thread of faith reaching into your prison, empowering you. He is under pressure, you could try outwaiting him, forcing him to give better terms.
Like swearing obedience in exchange for saving him. Risky of course, since he might solve his crisis on his own somehow, and no longer have any need of you. Or get executed for his crimes or something.
The third option, is a long shot, but you think with sufficient time you might be able to break free from your prison, slowly corrupting it until you can smash it like fine porcelain vase.
You are a Starving Poltergeist (5% satiation, Rank 1, 1 Worshiper)
Corruption allows you to bring about the decay of material matter at an accelerated rate, or force it where there is none, metals rust, food rots, stone crumbles to dust. You can also degrade the moral character of mortals. The accountant who resisted his impulses, might with a nudge from you begin embezzling. That military commanders becomes just that much more ruthless, ordering the slaughter of civilians.
"Granted."
Daljinn snaps his fingers, and [GM willing] Shrunkle's clothes fall to the ground in a heap around a large, obsidian-looking egg. He steps out of the circle, picks up the book of dread demonology and hides it somewhere in the room (no pockets on this genie), then steps back into the circle.
The egg hatches, revealing a glassy-scaled reddish hatchling dragon.
"Is your will not done, master? You have a long and terrifying life ahead of you. Why, in a few years you may even learn to breathe fire. Unless, perhaps, you are less than satisfied. I could grant you another wish - but your binding only guarantees you the first. For another wish, I require a sacrifice. What will it be? Your wish, after all, is my command."
(13)
A mere snap of your fingers, and the warlock's form begins
twisting. His screams of pain form a pleasant accompaniment to the main show as his body writhes into the confines of a far too small egg. In the end you had to brutally force his entire body to squeeze inside, but finally it was done. You took a brief moment admire your handiwork, a perfect replica of a dragon egg. Even a brooding mother wouldn't be able to tell the difference if you switched this with the genuine article.
In the end it takes over an hour for the egg to hatch. You take this opportunity to peruse the book. As you read further, everything you find agrees with your own divine knowledge of the workings of reality, and you even learn a few new tidbits, and it becomes more and more certain that this was penned by a master of his craft. As such, it's rather disturbing when you get to the end, and find precise and detailed instructions for unsealing the "Devourer of the Gods". You have no idea what that is, and the book is suspiciously lacking about it, but the name alone is rather ominous. You begin connecting dots between this "devourer" and the sudden disappearance of the presences of the gods who maintained the Aether Cage from the other side.
The warlock, or perhaps more accurately hatchling, eventually manages to extricate himself from the egg, and is very clearly not pleased. He squawks at you angrily, having become incapable of speech. You say your part, but begin to be worried that further negotiations might become troublesome with one party being incapable of communicating. He seems to have become much more on his guard once he noticed his book missing, but still seems game for another attempt at this. Fortunately the hatchling seems to be smarter than you first took him for, eventually manages to write out words on some parchment.
"Make me an adult dragon you dolt. If you pull any more tricks I'll flay your skin and freeze your soul."
Hmm. You are still quite incapable of turning him into an adult dragon, but you might be able to fake it well enough. You could pump up his size for example, and he'll be as big as an adult dragon certainly, but lack any of their other abilities. Such as breathing fire, tyrannical draconic strength, tough scales and so on.
Also, you think his threats are probably a bluff. Probably.
You are a peckish physical poltergeist (30% Satiation, Rank 1, 1 Worshiper).
End of Round Three((I might work something out for the new applicants, so keep an eye on the thread, I'm mulling over ideas))
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Topic: Roll to form a Cult: Round 4 (Read 15008 times)