((Should be okay! ... I think))

// Monday 5 PM eastern I can be there.

//can make monday

_________________
Andrew Fryar: Cordor's Folk Hero
Bobrin: Eccentric Avenging Executioner
Lyle Torrowfire: Retired badass
Marigold Cobcruncher: Perceptive Priestess

//Monday it is then!

Also..no later than 5PM EST, otherwise I will fall asleep

_________________
Lord Hector Sylgerand
Glendil Fettian, the black bard

// Did you change the date? Noone showed up..

_________________

// your a day early hun. It is Monday morning right now.

_________________

// Bah. Not a day, but 12 hours early *smashes the timezone converter*. Not likely that I will make it then, since I changed my sleeping "schedule" to fit this event.

_________________

I should be around. If I'm not in game and someone sees me on MSN, drop me a reminder

_________________

~Sharess on AmiaWiki~
Priestess, politician, prostitute
"[They] were moving in on me like Sharessans on a new broad in the bath house" - Tracer Bolt
AmiaWiki mod (mostly inactive)

//About an hour and 15 minutes from the time of this post till the meeting is set to start.

_________________

Named Most Influential Character, Amia Awards 2011

//The meeting is starting now.

_________________

Named Most Influential Character, Amia Awards 2011

_________________

~Sharess on AmiaWiki~
Priestess, politician, prostitute
"[They] were moving in on me like Sharessans on a new broad in the bath house" - Tracer Bolt
AmiaWiki mod (mostly inactive)

Those who return to the Triumvir in the aftermath find a place devoid of the life it once had, in almost every way. The filmy residue from the Virtuoso is left behind, dulling all the color, all the vibrance of the fabrics and dyes and wood finishes used. The reservoir has developed an oily sheen, harmless, but hideous. The only survivors of the Triumvir turn out to be those who were not present when the disaster occurred during the production of §, and those who escaped with Halifast and his company - some perhaps dozen and a half performers.

Worse, the Virtuoso and his occupied minions set fire to the Loremaster's Library, destroying countless centuries worth of gathered lore from around the planes in a travesty that is certain to draw the attention of several interested parties. There were areas of the library that were unaffected by the library - protected areas, such as one the courageous adventurers who entered there found - but otherwise, the toll in lore alone almost, but not quite, matches the cost in human lives.

And no one has any good explanation as to why, either. Why did the Virtuoso do what he did? What was his motive? Why did he, unlike any other ooze known to mankind, develop a fully-sized and functional humanoid brain the size of a small dragon? If it was to reason with, how could he possibly have come to the conclusion that burning books was a reasonable thing to do?

These questions and more may never be answered, as those who remain have no one to turn to, no idea of what to do, where to progress...

Congratulations! You have unlocked 1 Easter Egg: The Virtuoso's Song

Vodak the Virtuoso possessed the ability to, with his malleable body, perform an entire ballad in no particular meaningful language, simply exploratory consonants, syllables, pitches, sounds, tones, and rhythms, until they were perfected into the song that nearly had Elorathall give himself over to the Virtuoso in poetic effigy.

You'll know the 50% damage note when you hear it.

Jackie is seen working tirelessly and endlessly in the Triumvir library, separating destroyed works from salvagable pieces, and doing her best to simply put things as they were.

_________________

Kurchin left to the Salandrans after a visit to the Triumvir, the events of the night playing fast in his mind...

The meeting... then a scrying... then a rush to action... everything happened so fast...

They gathered at the moon circle. The lodge was the only safe point of entry. Kurchin cast the gate from a scroll... things came through, attacked... he didn't even seem to care... he just focused on the gate. Those gathered there quelled the invaders... he kept the gate open, but not all of them went through...

No!

It collapsed... he tried to keep it up as long as he could... he'd... he'd...
Many were left behind. It was all on him, he didn't keep the gate up for long enough, others made it through but many were left behind to do nothing... including himself...

I'm the one responsible for all of this... Why can't I do more to help set things right?.

The kobold was frantic. The thought of urgency in helping his friends pounded in his mind. He felt a lot of things then, guilt for starting this whole mess, inadequacy for his failings, above all concern and worry for those who had went to the other side. What happened next seemed like hours to him... he needed to enter the Triumvir... or know what happened... to no avail... Lamps, wands, sendings,... no scryings, not available... a few rushed trips, nothing. A gate cast by another... nothing.

He'd almost given up, when a portal wand took him to the scene.
He could scarcely believe what he'd seen. He knew things were bad from what he'd been told before. But this... the lodge collapsed... the corpses everywhere... the residue of ooze, the stink...
He wouldn't get any sleep this night. Pushing the limits of his endurance, he went over to the Salandrans. There was much going on in the jumbled chaos of the kobold's mind.

After reaching the Salandran Temple, he'd request to visit Tuomas, a look full of concern for the wounded gnome.

_________________
I play:

Tazlin took the heavy magical bag containing the Ooze brain, a part of him couldn't help but long to study it, to dissect it and learn it secrets. Yet this horrid thing had done the inexcusable it had destroyed knowledge the very thing that he loved most. With a resigned scowl his hands shook and he struggled with his desire to know, to understand, to have power over this thing.

"The high road is the hardest we walk but it is the one we must" He told himself as he carried the magic bag home. "Knowledge without morals is a blind man swinging a sword in a room full of people" He added as he shut the door to the Shrines lab/Library behind him. Hands shook as he peered at specimen jars and strange tools. "Tarkull is intellectuality guided by Amorality, I am stronger, smarter, better then that kind of intellectualism" with those words he hefted the magic bag unto the work table and started the process of exposing the dead Neo-Vodak's brain in a mix of his Vodak cure, drying agents and desiccating magic as he did he couldn't help but muse "Perhaps if some mummified lump remains I will keep it.. for the sake of posterity, in case Vodak returns..."

Eventually, a wounded and.. probably somewhat slimy ((unless cleaned)) Gnome would awaken from his bed in the Salandrans.

"Gyah!" he'd react, blinking.

"I'm.. either in the afterlife.. or.. the Salandran temple.. "

Samantha is seen carrying body after body from the library to the bridge, where a pile of (mostly) respectfully arranged cadavers is seen by anyone who arrives shortly after the renewal of the ley magic in the Triumvir. She gets construct helpers, research assistants, old librarians, small gnomish organizers... she even looks like one of the dead walking by the end of her processions. Finally, she is seen leaving with Andrew Fryar and Zelly to Wharftown, leaning on Andrew for support and occasionally shuddering and grasping at him somewhat awkwardly.

She may have been spotted diving into the sea by the dock to clean off, getting out and speaking with the two some more (and a few others) and then retreating to her house by the inn with only Andrew.

She settles into bed and flashes haunt her, accompanied by soft and beautiful melodies that come to a crashing, high-pitched crescendo that wake her from her dreams screaming.

...there'll be time for that later.

You know it wasn't my fault, right?

You've been glaring at me for the past ten-days... you don't know me at all.

Just a little longer.

Samantha.. I'm sorry.. for everything..

..you're my sister.

Sure you'll be alright by yourself tonight?

..someone I wasn't really.. sure about being here..

What'd you find, Samantha?

DIE!

The chultan druidess had an especially grim expression during that meeting. Mostly she remained silent, aside from a few questions or suggestions every now and then. She mainly snapped out of her thoughts only when suddenly the conversation changed and people suddenly decided to disregard further plans and instead open a gate right away and jump into battle.

As the crowd moved outside, she followed but hardly looked any happier than before. Her expression seemed troubled with a hint of disbelief as she began to prepare for what there is to come.

When the gate opened time seemed to slip away quite fast. They all killed the creatures which tried to escape, while some others pushed through the portal the same time. The portal did not remain open for long, which she considered good and bad at the same time. Not as many of the knights had managed to go through as had been planned. On the other hand, the closed gate also meant this plane was safe for now, which admittedly was the woman's greatest concern here. She understood the thrive of the bards and mages to save the knowledge stored on the demiplane. However, her own priorities were different.

She remained in the area for a while longer, making sure nothing unexpected would happen. For a long while she stood on the cliff where the gate had been opened with Elana. She didn't speak all too much, mainly lost in her own thoughts.

As Ulrik and the remainign knights departed to Kohlingen, she asked them to deliver her a message once the others return, before she too left the Shrine and walked back to the forest.

_________________

_________________
Aernoud Van Brabant: Heir of the House. Proprietor of the Beer Wagon.
"Go to the Mayfields, have a pint, and wait for this to blow over."
Aurelius: Sunmaster of Amaunator. Contemplative. Aspirant to Transcendance.
"Sol Invictus"

Andrew sat in the throne of the Twilight Stage. The ground was sticky in blood and puss, and bodies of fallen actors and actresses littered the ground. Some of them still had their costumes on, but many of them had their skulls cracked open and brains gnawed. The play echoed in the back of his mind, set to the haunting melody of the Ooze Musician. "What can you give him?" the queen asked of the handmaiden. "I can give him love." Followed by the sickening crack of the prince's club as it dashed the actress's skull open and the look of hunger in its eyes as it ravenously went at the woman's brain matter. What of the prostitute who had touched his leg and dramatically asked what he wanted? "Nothing," had been his answer. Yet, the voices of the dead did not overpower the alluring sound of the Vodak.

***

Quite counter to Elorthall, Andrew seemed to have disappeared into his own thoughts since the fall of the Vodak.

The relative quiet of Nevaeh's apartment was replaced by the enticing harmony that the Vodak had played before them, at least in his mind. When he closed his eyes to try and sleep, he saw the horrific beauty of Triumvir's courtyard. The ooze and the home it had created for itself had a serenity to it. Despite all the terror he'd experienced since the fateful play that first set this series events in motion, he felt a sense of longing. Not that the Triumvir was lost (though, there was that longing too), but that the sweet melody would never reach his ears again.

Vodak the Virtuoso, in all its horrors, had been the most brilliant thing he had ever heard. Armed with infinite knowledge of music and composion, it took the scattered bits and pieces of the countless artists it had destroyed and fit them together into a majestic tapestry that transcended anything he'd heard before. The artists and all they knew were absorbed by the creature and all their knowledge died with it.

The girl. Jud'vardas's daughter, Jackie. She'd felt it from the vantage of an Umberhulk. Speak to her.

On the other side of the coin, he hated the creature and its music for what it did. The Triumvir was essentially gone. A few dozen survivors, possibly. Hundreds more dead, Andrew hazarded to guess that half to seventy five percent of them had tasted Dawnblade before they fell. Perhaps even all of them, if the bodies they crushed were the same as the ones they'd fought on their first outing. (He was less certain about that, though, given Dawnblade's propensity for inadvertently mutilating its victims in the head of battle.) And even it not, he'd seen them all at least. In the end, Samantha 'Vodakbane' had driven into its heart; the victory felt hollow.

Andrew didn't have infinite knowledge. He didn't really have all that much knowledge, either. What he did have was a talent on the keyboard and a decent voice. Certainly nothing to compare to the Vodak, but nothing to sneeze at either. And more importantly, he also had the Vodak's song stuck in his head, refusing to abate - He didn't want it to either, at least not yet. He slipped out of his friend's apartment as soon as she'd let him, and quickly made his way to the Cordor Theater. He sat down behind the harpsichord as he had so many times before and positioned his trembling fingers over the keys.

The Dawnsinger closed his eyes, and let his fingers connect the notes on the keys to the notes that replayed in his mind ad infinitum. A violent shiver ran down his spine.

_________________
Andrew Fryar: Cordor's Folk Hero
Bobrin: Eccentric Avenging Executioner
Lyle Torrowfire: Retired badass
Marigold Cobcruncher: Perceptive Priestess

Tazlin dutifully worked in the tiny work table that passed for a laboratory in the Shrine, his focus and obsession the brain core of Vodak he had been tasked to destroy. A task the knowledge hungry wizard had secretly perverted in to preservation. The door was shut tight and he was warded from Scrying, no one needed to know he reasoned to himself. Not the Shrine or his familiar they would only worry needlessly, not the Triumvar or their allies they wouldn't want to be reminded of this beings otherworldly evil again. No he reasoned to himself it would be his little secret a bit of knowledge, a bit of power all to himself. The brain might even hold secrets he mused secrets that could be used to preserve reality from greater evils, ones he had convinced himself were his duty to learn all the dark secrets of so that such horrors would remain sealed away.

"A containment device will be needed once the brain has shrunken and dried sufficiently...or for what ever sample can be extracted if dessication seems progressive to is utter destruction" he muttered as he reached for his bag of holding with the various tinkering tools and arcanists research notes he used in his professions pouring them on the table.

"Magicaly hardend glass tube mayhaps... with copper wire connected to clear Quartz tipped spikes inserted into any remaining specimen... to conduct any remaining power, perhaps even thoughts, or memories... the lid also hardened glass.. xas.. sealed and fused seamlessly... with wards carved on the inside..with a sliver lead paint.. focused inward.. suspended in a neutral chemical agent..." He said to himself as he poured over parts, spells and eccludian formulas scribing out an what some might have called an unholy blueprint to fuse magic and science into a very special casing for his sample.

Sam eventually returns to the Triumvir to help with things, off and on, as much as she can take... but first she delivers some sweetberries and picked flowers to the Salandran Temple for Tuomas. Though she has a cleric take him to Tuomas, not wanting to see him herself...

Kurchin would visit Tuomas if he could, the kobold clearly worried for his friend's well-being. He'd stay with him for a long time if allowed, offering what company, comfort, sweetberries, and support he could.

_________________
I play:

Sally also makes a visit, but finds Tuomas sleeping, which is likely just as well, as unlike others, she has brought nothing, though he seems to have many flowers and ample sweetberries.

"I shall come again soon and bring apples for all, Priestess"

_________________
"Never ascribe to malice, that which can be explained by incompetence"
~ Napoleon Bonaparte.
- Clearly, Napoleon never envisioned the Internet......where I'd judge it about 50/50.

Tuomas would welcome any visitors warmly and speak with them briefly, but respect if the Priestesses insist on keeping visits brief. He would seem to be obviously quite thoughtful with a fair amount on his little Gnomish mind.

After all had been said and done, and she'd cleaned the residue slime and ash from her armor, Nicha would head over to the Salandran ward to check up on Tuomas. She keeps the visit brief, merely checking that his injuries were none too severe, before heading back to the holy city.

_________________
Nicha Hetfield, Triadic Knight
Cassandra Silverhart, Sorceress of Sune
Tahl'ezara Tir'end, Warrior of Sehanine

Heading to the Nexus Falls lantern again, given as he had not heard one way r the other regarding the function of the Triumvir's lanterns he came and realized at least immediately, the Lantern itself did not function.

~.. Need to head to the Triumvir to assess if a full realignment is nescessary. ~ he'd think to himself.

((Not sure if the Lanterns are supposed to be working again, or if the Triumvir's still locked off))

Kurchin went to the Triumvir to begin working on cleaning the place up. For now, he remained focused on cleaning up the ooze residue. He didn't feel he could do anything to clean the pool himself or the remove the blockage around the lodge... not yet anyways. He was busy getting help for the matter, and he didn't think the remaining Triumvirrim would object to his attempts to restore the place to what it was before.

I figure there's more I can do than just tell others what to do... there's not much I can do here but this is a start. Besides, it partly is my fault the Triumvir is this way. Better get started.

His thoughts drifted off as he continued his work in cleaning the place. He certainly wasn't the best at cleaning, but every little bit would count, or so he thought. He wasn't in a particular rush either, taking time as he did so. Using some soapweed and some spare cloths that he had with him, as well as some minor magic he could use, prestidigitations in particular, he went off to cleaning for several hours. Several times he drifted off into thought as he worked...

It's funny how others want me to be a leader, but that I don't particularly want to be one. I don't think I'd be a very good one either. I've seen the stresses that come with leadership time and time again... I don't know if I could handle what comes with it. I don't have the power, nor do I particularly want that. I suppose my heart is in the right place, and that could be all the difference between an excellent leader and one who falls... but I don't know if I have the skill or courage to bear those burdens. I really only want things to be happy again... I don't have the construction of any wizard's towers or bardic colleges in mind... just... I only want to feel the joy of this place as I once did, and for others to as well.

The kobold panted a little, looked around, taking a moment's break from his labors. With a frown at his surroundings, he'd get back to work.

I'm not the one who suffers for failing this though... so I'll have to do what I have to do, and hope that I do what's best.

Hours went by before he left to take a bath at the Temple of Love in Cordor. After that... he had some notes to write, people to contact.

_________________
I play:

_________________
Aernoud Van Brabant: Heir of the House. Proprietor of the Beer Wagon.
"Go to the Mayfields, have a pint, and wait for this to blow over."
Aurelius: Sunmaster of Amaunator. Contemplative. Aspirant to Transcendance.
"Sol Invictus"

Nicha can now be seen walking around in the courtyard of the Triumvir. Occassionally, she would lend a hand with the cleaning and restoration of the place, but mostly, she just watches.. A steady hand kept on the hilt of her sword, a frown covering her face as she looks around at the once happy, cheerfull place.

"I could not save these people from Vodak.. I could not save the countless innocents whos lives were taken, only to have thier bodies used as puppets.. But with my life.. I will protect those who seek to restore this place.."

She mutters darkly, to herself, more then anyone else. Letting out a heavy sigh, she continues patrolling the ruined streets.

_________________
Nicha Hetfield, Triadic Knight
Cassandra Silverhart, Sorceress of Sune
Tahl'ezara Tir'end, Warrior of Sehanine

After escorting Tuomas the previous day, on his inspection of the Nexus Falls Lantern, then visiting the Shrine and speaking with Kurchin, Sally, with permission, gathers some Soapweed Roots in preparation for todays efforts.

Buying a new pair of boots, because of throwing away her old ones that she carried for the rare times she covered her feet, after the fight with 'Vodak', she wheedled an old bucket from Fendel at the Hinn Inn, bought a good mop and plenty of clean cloths for wiping and cleaning and portalled to the Triumvir. Bendir was quiet, so she left it in the care of the Regulars and promised to be back before day's end.

She 'sang up' her Stone Grunt, 'Rocky' to work at loosening and weakening the blockage between the Courtyard and the Lodge, while she mopped and scrubbed, hoping that the well-soaped water would break down the remaining goop as it slowly drained from the tiles and cobbles down into the central canal.

Throughout, her clear, strong voice sang a cheery Hin song about house-cleaning and 'moving on', echoing through the empty halls....though the acoustics of the place sounding rather less perfect to her practiced ear than ever before.

_________________
"Never ascribe to malice, that which can be explained by incompetence"
~ Napoleon Bonaparte.
- Clearly, Napoleon never envisioned the Internet......where I'd judge it about 50/50.

Between work in lab on the brain sample and it's casing apparatus a busy drow wizard was finding even the four hours of revarie leaving him with precious little work time between rest periods. In addition there was his scheme, a grand marvelous scheme. A part of him felt bad for using Kurchin for encouraging the good hearted kobold along the path Tazlin wanted to see unfold but it had to be done in his mind. The acrid debate he has shared with Elor at the shrine had only fueled Tazlin made him feel more justified, pushed the spiteful and driven wizard to focus on his dreams. Wonderful dreams, of a true intellectual paradise. Elor had been right about one thing, a counter to Tarkull was his wish, and a possible and necessary one, evil could not be permitted to win the intellectual arms race at any cost.

He couldn't help but laugh to himself, what he desired was certainly selfish but at the same time selfless. Paradox was amusing. Of course the crux was making others realize his dream was the best choice for the Triumvar. He muttered quietly as he pulled a book from his handy haversack and paged through pictures of the great academies of learning known to Faerun. The bards, the so called art makers didn't deserve some elitist demi-plane all to themselves, it should be shared, should be more open and it should be protected by magi after all how could they call it the demi-plane of knowledge without a devoted arcane organization to ward it ?

Wizards were the true bastions of knowledge, the seekers of secrets not just some hapless story collectors who picked up bits of lore in their travels. Art his art used reality as its canvas and the weave as paint. That fool bard had dared to insult the beauty of his art, he had no idea of what he had given up, physical strength, health, social normalcy and perhaps even a piece of his sanity.

That spiteful dark demon that came so easily to even the most noble drow crawled across the wizards mind whispering.

"The bard prince of his self made necropolis of slime and sorrow dares to decry your genius, dares to say that welcoming even encouraging magi and academics in what he felt was his elite little realm of pampered actors will kill the spirit of the Triumvar, then let him choke to death on his own lamentations with the spirit dies and is reborn as a blazing fire-bird"

With a rare and some might say unnerving lop-sided grin Tazlin snapped his book shut muttering to himself "You killed your Triumvar self named prince, it is time that the true masters of knowledge be called to protect what you could not"
Snapping up his spell book he moved to the desk he had a letter to write to offer his aid to the clean up, after all if he ingratiated himself to the effort how could they see his desires as anything but kind.

They thought he was crazy. Sure, they lied and said they didn't but they weren't very convincing actors in that regard. Everything from the look in their eyes to the gentle pleading in their voice betrayed it. They were worried, of that he had no doubt and when the job was done, he'd have to make it up to them for the silent scorn and rejection he held for their honeyed words. Not everyone was rejecting his plan though. Samantha was cowering as was Jackie, but the Dawnsinger had found an unexpected ally in Idan and that solidified in his mind that trying to find the missing element of his song was the right thing to do.

Andrew also made plans to seek out Elorthall. Sure, he heard that Elorthall was more focused on the future, but Jackie might not even be needed if the former helped him. Elorthall knew the Triumvir better than any of them who had went, and had clearly experienced something when he went off on his own. Jackie had no intention to give him what he wanted, but sometimes minds could be swayed. Once her father realized that his intention was not dangerous, but even righteous, then maybe the song would be completed. And being stuck in the Shrine gave him the best opportunity to run into the people who he had stood with against the Vodak.

The song wanted to be complete. It told him so. Not directly of course, but his own attempt to emulate it fell short and different from the tone and melody that was permanently etched in his brain. All day and every day since he first heard the song, it played just as clearly. Every second was loud. It kept him awake and when he closed his eyes, he could see the Vodak and its giant brain playing the suspended piano like a harp, forcing air through the corpse in its body to produce the most divine song ever. It was gruesome and beautiful at the same time. When he would drift to close to sleep, he'd see his own face on the face of the dead, producing the aural ecstasy that refused to quiet in his mind.

Three sleepless nights now. He was exhausted and sweaty, but slumber still eluded him. The events of the past few days played over in his head. Every one mourned the library but no one mourned the dead. Idan understood why, though. Why it would be a grevious loss to Amia and Toril at large for the Song of the Triumvir not to be preserved. The Shrine wouldn't be poisoning him and neither would he let any one get him drunk in some moronic attempt to dissuade him from his honorable goal.

He stared at the ceiling through half-lidded eyes as he surrendered himself to the allure of the Vodak's music.

***

I just think it's hypocritical to say to forget the song while in the same breath lament the fucking library.

_________________
Andrew Fryar: Cordor's Folk Hero
Bobrin: Eccentric Avenging Executioner
Lyle Torrowfire: Retired badass
Marigold Cobcruncher: Perceptive Priestess

Kurchin would look at Elorathall incredulously for a few moments. He shook his head.
"Lets... lets focus on getting this place cleaned up please... we can wowwy about things like that latow."

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Kurchin routinely continues to come by the Triumvir, he spends a few hours each day cleaning. He's able to do so more efficiently, with soapweed and Sally's leather items. He'd work enthusiastically for sure, though the little kobold could only clean up so much on his own, with his tools and his minor magics...

It seems like I'm the only one who doesn't have some sort of plan for what to do here after the initial restoration. I don't understand why people are already thinking of setting up large schools and bardic colleges and all already. I think I would be satisfied seeing this place restored to how it was before, no more...
But part of me wonders if this will ever be the same...
I hope Jon gets back to me soon.

He gazed around after drifting into his thoughts, back to work on cleaning, the rest of his mind computing logistics.

_________________
I play:

_________________
Amia Minecraft Server Ip: vps1602.directvps.nl
NWN Damage Calculator: http://www.afterlifeguild.org/Thott/dnd/
NWN Build Calculator: http://nwvault.ign.com/View.php?view=Other.Detail&id=856

_________________
Aernoud Van Brabant: Heir of the House. Proprietor of the Beer Wagon.
"Go to the Mayfields, have a pint, and wait for this to blow over."
Aurelius: Sunmaster of Amaunator. Contemplative. Aspirant to Transcendance.
"Sol Invictus"

Samantha ignores all the debate about how to organize life there again and simply makes sure it is safe and as back to normal as it can be for anyone who has the desire to return. She disposes of the bodies in clean graves through portals to the Frozenfar if they are not claimed by loved ones and cleans the soot out of the library. She doesn't touch any of the books or attempt to organize them in any way. When she's at the Triumvir, she doesn't seem in any mood to converse with anyone.

After a chat with Kurchin the previous day, and hearing from him that he also found her improvised cleaning device quite effective, Sally travelled today to Cordor's West Gate, after a brief stop to trade with the Dwarven tool merchant nearby the Arena. From the Merchant outside West Gate, she took a cart to Wharftown, and called in for a while at the Leatherworkers there, using his bench. She then went back to Bendir for a while, and was busy for a time, the sound of light hammering being heard for an hour or more.

Later, Sally went to the Triumvir yet again, busily cleaning, scraping, and clearing goop from floors and walls, with one of her improvised cleaning devices, while 'Rocky' again worked on clearing the barricade of debris between the Courtyard and Halifast's Lodge.

Anyone noticing her there would see that what she was using, or the half-dozen of them left leaning in a corner after she had eventually left, was simply a 'T' shaped broom with a broad strip of stiff leather nailed to it, that one edge of the leather made good contact with the floor for quite effective 'scraping' of the goop from the surface being worked on. Two of them are a little smaller, with shorter handles, for Hin or Kobold use, the others being more human-sized. It would be apparent that after a day or two of use, the goop would soften the leather though, rendering them less effective.


//Ok, it maybe seems more 'period' to consider brooms to be a bundle of sticks around a long wooden handle.....the typical 'witches broom', but I have seen similar to the above in old illustrations, and it makes sense to have something like it for smooth stone floors and such.

....and edited for idiocy....

_________________
"Never ascribe to malice, that which can be explained by incompetence"
~ Napoleon Bonaparte.
- Clearly, Napoleon never envisioned the Internet......where I'd judge it about 50/50.

_________________
Aernoud Van Brabant: Heir of the House. Proprietor of the Beer Wagon.
"Go to the Mayfields, have a pint, and wait for this to blow over."
Aurelius: Sunmaster of Amaunator. Contemplative. Aspirant to Transcendance.
"Sol Invictus"

Kurchin returned to the Triumvir again to continue his efforts at cleaning the place. The kobold on his last shift seemed exceptionally more dour on his last trip. He briefly read Elor's note, then stuffed it away, certainly not in any better of a mood after reading it. He worked diligently on his duties, but he was obviously troubled and looked weary, despite not physically being tired. He worked diligently, seemingly entirely focused on his task. Though his physical labors may have been simple, what was going on in the kobold's mind was not.

What I thought would be a relatively simple task of altruism has attracted all the wrong kinds of attention. I didn't want to have to deal with all of the damnable politics and ambitions and power-plays around this place and yet it seems that my attention is called to be drawn to them all the time. I constantly hear about how they want to construct this realm into something better, how they want to take leadership because the natives can't do it themselves. I'm liking this task of mine less and less with each passing day. It seems this place is viewed as a place to claim rather than how it was, a place of song and joy, how I long to feel that once more, and to share it.

I worry though, that once this place is cleared that a power struggle will begin... something I have no wish to be part of. I truly don't know why people chase after such things. There isn't even much of a Triumvir left to rule as it is. More often than not such blind, greedy ambitions lead only to misery, of oneself and in others caught along with them. I can understand how people would want to protect this place from the aggression of Cordor, Banites, others... But it's worrying that most thought of this place is not on helping these poor people native to this place, but what can be done with it after...

I don't think I can wrap my head around it all. I'll just have to do what I can to help to restore this place to what it once was... and probably have to bow out once it's all done...

_________________
I play:

Sanna visits the Triumvir regularly in the last days. Each time, she first checks the situation and progress of the restorations, then summons (or creates, strictly speaking) an Unseen Servant and directs it to work on what is most necessary and/or required at the moment. Naturally, such magical cleaning is far from a brisk pace, but the thoroughness of it compensates the slowness - at least partially. Would she meet Sally or Kurchin, Sanna always asks them if there is anything in particular they need to help with, and in case of affirmative answer does her best to assist. Also, she would adress Samantha in the same way, but only if it would be obvious that the warrior does not mind a company.

Since the majority of the Virtuoso's filmy remnants evaporated within an hour after its demise, there is very little in the way of slime, or muck, or mold, or gunk to clean up. There is a congealed film on the surface of the courtyard reservoir, a film not unlike the film that develops on pudding or yoghurt left exposed to cool air, but nothing a couple of hour's simple labor can't clean up. Or a couple of minutes, with a judicious application of prestidigitation.

In far worse shape and in far more need of cleaning and repair than the Courtyard is the Library. Its impossibly large interior is so choked and clogged with smoke - and so lacking in ventilation - that Gust of Wind spells merely blow the ash and noxious air around, stirring up choking clouds of soot that sting the eyes and stain walls. Those few Librarians left, and a remaining Loremistress, take to the tireless task of examining every single tome that remains in the library to see what may be salvaged, taking their own inventory of the location and refusing any and all offers of outside aid, citing that it was "outside aid" that caused this disaster in the first place.

One of the adventurers responsible for slaying the Virtuoso makes an effort to persuade those Triumvirin who remain that they must sacrifice their freedom for security and restrict access to the Triumvir, lest Banites and Cyricists and Red Magicians and gods know who else marches in with an army to take over. But the Triumvirin rebuff these blatant attempts at micromanagement of their careers, their futures, and their liberties, crying out through tears (some questionably urged on by a splash of lemon extract), "Restrict access? To whom, and how, and for what reasons?"

Like intelligent people, they begin to discuss it amongst themselves, but within minutes they have devolved into a heated cacophony of competing diatribes about the true nature of art and the artist, and how poseurs and pretenders shall be the ones restricted access. When at last it dawns upon them that not a single one of them can decide what is and is not true art, and who is or is not a poseur of an artist, it becomes crystal clear that any attempt to restrict access to the Triumvir will inevitably result in restricting access to Art itself, which cannot live in a vacuum and must thrive on, as one of the surviving members of the Twilight Stage's final play, §, states, "utter and complete overexposure".

Jon Halifast returns to the bar, but only to take inventory. His clientele is abolished and he simply spends his days wondering how he is going to come up with the cash necessary to restock his Lodge when he isn't bringing in any profit. He seems mostly unwilling to talk to anyone, since his father, Old Man Halifast, numbers among those who were never found...

Trying to get the Triumvirin who remain to even show up all at the same time in the same place proves nigh impossible as each individual is seized either by a paralyzing survivor's guilt ("it should have been me who died, not Mercutio, no, never Mercutio!"), a morbid inspiration that urges them to shut themselves away to work on their art, or something resembling sheer hysteria or a mental breakdown, sometimes resulting in the destruction or obliteration of their own masterpieces en masse ("what significance does Creation hold, when it, like life, can be so easily destroyed?!").

Most of all, any attempt Elorathall takes to gather them together is met with significant hostility, as the rumor mill has already spun him out as the initial Carrier. He would be treated like a pariah if enough of the Triumvirin remained alive to keep him outcast. Only Jon Halifast and the Lore Mistress still tolerate his presence, the former apologizing that he can't offer him a drink, the latter apologizing that she can't offer him her time and that he needs to get out of her way and let her do her work. His attempts at trying to clean the Library are not rebuffed, however.

Meanwhile, in Tazlin's laboratory, a charred, humanoid brain weighing some four or five hundred pounds dominates his workspace. Within a couple of days he has managed to scrape away the charred tissue from the surface of the organ (some 20% of it altogether) to reveal what remains of relatively untouched tissue. His quasi-scientific analysis reveals that the brain formed without the capacity to transfer blood. What it lacks in circulatory channels it makes up for in a fibrous network of muscle and nervous tissue that rivals the brain of any humanoid creature he has ever dissected (or potentially vivisected). The combination of intensive nervous and muscular tissue reveals an organ capable of concentrating on multiple tasks at a single time and an organ capable of voluntary movement. Since the mass of gelatinous gunk that comprised the Virtuoso lacked any method of conducting blood or electrical current, Tazlin rationalizes that the brain may have dominated the entire form by controlled pulse, or vibration.

Beyond that, the organ is a slowly dessicating monstrosity. It does not rot, but it does simply dry out into a husk if it is not properly preserved. The brain is for all intents and purposes inactive, dead, inert.



Unlike the memory in Andrew's mind, a song that plays over and over and over in his head, as he wakes and as he sleeps, dominating his senses with its grandeur and tragedy, encompassing a Virtuoso's realization of Life, of Beauty, and ultimately, of Death...

Between aiding the Shrines war efforts and working in his lab Tazlin had found little time to properly offer up his services to cleaning the Triumvar. He had offered his magical prowess to Kurchin of course but time and circumstance were not on his side. Now there were rumors Cordor or maybe the Arcanium wanted Triumvar, a terrible notion, better the entire library burn before they get their hands on what was left of it knowledge. Grimly he filled his casing unit with a nasty alchemical combination of brine and other preservatives so that the rotting brain might be kept for the sake of scientific study as he did that dark voice crawled across his mind.

"There is no time to loose, each second that passes gives your... our... my enemies time to prepare time to weave their magics and tighten their grip. People must be convinced that my.... our... your future for the Triumvar is the only one worth grasping"

Tazlin muttered "xas" in response to the monologue he spoke to himself. Things had to be done propaganda had to be spread. He couldn't allow them who ever they were to spoil his dreams.

"Nau, nau, Nau! I can't let them take it, can't let them have the power that knowledge will provide. Wretched pack of glorified hedge wizards, the secrets of the great beyond are mine to unravel"

He quickly scribed a notice a bit of propaganda for his cause to help things along and posted a copy by the lantern in Nexus falls and with in the Triumvar on his way to use some of his own conjurer's talents to help clean the Triumvar.


The battle to reclaim the Triumvar was long and arduous and many were the souls sadly claimed before their time by the Ooze beast. We now stand in the aftermath and like the Triumvar we are damaged but not broken.

The honoured dead, friends, family, loved ones now rest with the gods in ever lasting peace. Yet we should not, can not allow the Triumvar to become forgotten or lost to such forces as Cordor, the Cult of Bane, the wretched Arcanium or Draco Bloodcloaks Cult. For the sake of the dead and the efforts made to stop Neo-Vodak the Triumvar must be saved, must rise form the ashes of her defeat like a blazing Fire-bird resplendent in its celestial flames!

Rebuild your stages, call to the bards, artists, and performers! Give them not just a place to preform but a place to learn and study!

Build anew, call to the lost mage towers and the magi who have no home, give they who ward knowledge the libary and their arcane mastery shall ward and keep this place from the woes of future enemies! Call the clergy of gods of art, knowledge, learning, invention and magic to heal body and spirit of your home!

Rise from the flames with new found glory! Call the Academics, the teachers and the learners, the bards and magi and seekers of secrets let the Triumvar become a true bastion for all arts and sciences, a grand undertaking to rival the most wondrous colleges and academies in Faerun, nay the multiverse itself!

Stand for the future, stand for what the Triumvar should be, stand so that the dead and the efforts spent to save this plane and its great library do not become a faded memory! The Future of the Triumvar is in your hands do not languish in inaction and indecisiveness! Take your stand and do what you know is right!

Tuomas would primarily in regards to any Triumvirum dealings take the time to be studying over the Portal Lanterns to ensure that any damage to it is repaired, or at the least assessed before compiling a notation to prepare what he might have to do if anything.

He would quietly leave word with any known remaining leaders of the Triumvirim that , if they have any specific wishes regarding the Portal Lantern that he would be more then glad to assist with them. Not citing any bias on direction with them, he simply says that if they have any wishes or desires regarding them, that he be willing to do what he can. Additionally, if there's anything else in specific aside from general clean up (which he would volunteer to assist with for at least a bit of time) , he would gladly do so.

He does explain however that additionally, a fair amount of his time will be spent in study for the next while but that he will do his best to avail his knowledge and services to the Triumvirim if asked.

_________________
Aernoud Van Brabant: Heir of the House. Proprietor of the Beer Wagon.
"Go to the Mayfields, have a pint, and wait for this to blow over."
Aurelius: Sunmaster of Amaunator. Contemplative. Aspirant to Transcendance.
"Sol Invictus"

When rebuffed from any efforts to help besides disposing of unclaimed bodies, the first few times Sam tries to just sneak into areas where noone is and help... but after hearing them claim its "Outsiders help" that got them in this place, Sam shrugs and moves on her way. "Good luck... I'm sorry we Outsiders didn't come save this place sooner." She would smile faintly to Sanna at any point, but always come up with some excuse to go on her way.

With the courtyard in better condition, Kurchin moves on to the stage. Before doing any cleaning, he'd assess the damage there, noting any ooze-related-film, broken objects, or the like. He'd briefly greet any actors there, clearly intent on helping them with cleaning the place however possible. He had soapweed, rags, and two castings per day of either mending or prestidigitation. He stays away from conversations relating to restricting access to the Triumvir to the best of his ability, and wouldn't easily comment if dragged into such.

If there was plenty to clean or repair, and things went reasonably well (as well as could be expected with the volatile actors anyways), Kurchin would get to work for several hours, drifting off into thought as he does so...

Their feelings are completely understandable. Since the paintings incident visitors have done little to help this place and those within, I had a feeling that attempts to restrict access of this place to some or to come in and try and set up new things would only end badly...
Though I do feel for Elorathall, though he did do some dumb things surrounding this, I feel as though this matter is in part my fault as well. I went looking for the thing in the first place. Yet, it seems all the blame shuffles to him. I know that many had grievances against him before and that this has only antagonized things, but still... it doesn't seem entirely fair. Funny how I'm more merciful towards him than most though he made two attempts to have me killed... it seems like it was so long ago when that happened...

_________________
I play:

Morshkul decided to try and portal into the Triumviir from the hall of the giants after deciding his bags were full enough and to his surprise, it finally worked after so long. He appaered to see folks cleaning up the mess he had only heard about, so he decided to head to Cordor to gather his things, his lady, leave some messages for certain folks that he is no longer in Cordor, and head back to the Triumviir, checking in at Halfast Inn and then offers his help cleaning up what was left to clean.

_________________

Nothin matters berk. Don't you see? Even so a poor sod shoudn't go hungry

_________________
Aernoud Van Brabant: Heir of the House. Proprietor of the Beer Wagon.
"Go to the Mayfields, have a pint, and wait for this to blow over."
Aurelius: Sunmaster of Amaunator. Contemplative. Aspirant to Transcendance.
"Sol Invictus"