(11-22-2017, 10:00 AM)Nacesh Wrote: Can't get any worse, he thinks.
[OoC: Oh Nacesh... you're a DM. You should know to never say something like that!
]The Magistrate nods and replies, "As you wish." He then glances over his shoulder and says to someone, "Cancel all appointments and meetings for today... no, for the next two days. Apologies wherever necessary. No disturbances unless Perdido Street Station explodes, or something of that magnitude. Understood?"
The Magistrate strolls down one of the ornate metal stairs to the ground level. He waves a single hand for your group to follow and then exits the room. If you follow him, the guards will ready their weapons and follow you.
When you step out of the room you enter an area that was almost a self-contained keep. Its corridors described a huge concrete rectangle around a central space, at the bottom of which was an unkempt garden, over grown with darkwood trees and exotic woodland flowers. Children scamper along the paths and play in this sheltered park while their parents shop or travel or work. The wall rises enormously around them, making the copse seem like moss at the bottom of a well.
Even to leave the lifts or stairs on this floor (called the Zone), a gamut of security checks has to be run. The passages are cold and quiet, broken by a few doors and insufficiently lit by desultory gas jets. The Magistrate guides you through the deserted corridors of the twelfth floor where you notice you're suddenly accompanied by a short, wiry man with thick glasses who scurries along behind you, never keeping up while lugging a large suitcase. The Magistrate nods to the man and greets him by acknowledging him by name. "Brother Sanchem Vansetty..." The man returns the nod and then continues scurrying after your group. The Magistrate then says to the group, "Vansetty is one of our most able Karcists."
Not every room in the "Diplomatic Zone" is occupied. But some of the doors have brass plates proclaiming them the Sovereign Territory of one country or other -- Tesh, or Khadoh, or Gharcheltist -- behind which are huge suites extending onto several floors: self-contained houses in the tower.
The Passageway is confusing. It seems to go on too long when looked at from one angle, and to be all but stubby from another, but eventually it terminates at a small unmarked door. Vansetty suddenly opens his briefcase and pulls out a scroll and a set of bulky ceramic diodes. He stands at the center of your group and hands one to each of you -- "Left hand and don't drop it..." -- then he winds copper wire around them tightly and attached it to a handheld clockwork motor he pulled from the suitcase. He takes the readings from the peculiar gauges, adjusted dials and nodules on the motor.
"Righto, everyone, brace yourselves," he says, and flipped the switch that released the clockwork engine. Little arcs of energy sputtered into multicolored existence along the wires and between the grubby diodes. Your group is suddenly enclosed in a little triangle of current. All your hair stands visibly on end.
"Got about a half an hour before that runs out," said Vansetty quickly. "Best be quick, eh?"
The Magistrate reaches out with his right hand and opens the door. You all shuffle forward, maintaining your positions relative to each other, keeping the triangle in place around you. One of the guards, who all stayed behind, pushes the door closed behind you.
You found yourselves in an absolutely dark room. You could see only by the faint ambient flow of the lines of power, until Vansetty hung the clockwork motor around his neck on a strap and lit a candle. In its inadeqate light you see that the room was perhaps 12' by 10', dusty and absolutely empty apart from an old desk and chair by the far wall, and a gently humming boiler by the door. There are no windows, no shelves, nothing else at all. The air seemed very thick.
From his bag Vansetty removes an unusual hand-held machine. He leans briefly out of the circle and plugs it into the broiler beside the door. He pulls a lever on the top of the little machine, which begins to hum and blink with lights.
" 'Course, in the old days, before I came into this profession, they had to use a live offering," he explains as he unwound a tight coil of wire from the underside of the machine. "But we're not savages, are we? Science is a wonderful thing. This little darling," he pats the machine proudly "Is an amplifer. Increases the output from that engine by a factor of two hundred and ten, and transforms it into an aetherial energy form. Bleed that through the wires so..." Vansetty flings the uncoiled wire into the far corner of the tiny room, behind the desk. "And there you go! The victimless sacrifice!"
He grins with triumph, then while turning the knobs of the little engine and says, "No more learning stupid languages, neither! Invocation's automatic now and all. We're not actually going anywhere, you understand?" He speaks louder, suddenly. "We ain't abyssonauts, and we ain't playing with nearly enough power to do an actual transplantropic leap. All we're doing is peering through a little window, letting the Hellkin come to us. But the dimensionality of this room is going to be just a damn touch unstable for a while, so stick within the protection and don't muck about! Got it?"
Vansetty's fingers skitter over the box. For two or three minutes, nothing happens. There was nothing but the heat and pounding from the boiler and the whining of the little machine. And then the little room begins to grow perceptibly warmer. There is a deep, subsonic tremor. An insinuation of russet light and oily smoke. Sound became muted and then suddenly sharp. There's a disorientating moment of tugging, and a red marbling of light flickered onto every surface, moving constantly as if through bloody water.
Something flutters. You look up, your eyes smarting in the air that seems suddenly clotted and very dry. A heavy man in an immaculate dark suit appears behind the desk. He leans forward slowly, his elbows rests on the papers that suddenly litter the desk. He then waits...
Vansetty peers around the Magistrate to your group and jerks and thumb in the apparition's direction.
"His Infernal Excellency," he declares, "the ambassador of Hell."
[OoC2: Nacesh, you thought it couldn't get worse.
][OoC3: I'm taking a moment from this long winded post to let any of you post. ]
