Welcome New Reader to these Reflected Paths, a Story taking place within The Plane of Zhotarelm during its Seventh Mortal Age. The Tale is one of expanding Fantasy, Adventure, and a Literal Manifesting Dread. We will be following Characters from many Species, Backgrounds, and Personas, each with their own Histories and Philosophies. While the time will be taken to explain certain elements the Narrator and Characters will generally assume familiarity with many Concepts and Elements therein, even using In-Universe Societal Measurements and the like; however at the end of each Chapter will be a small set of Notes detailing these or relating them to more familiar facets.
The Story is also a Transcription of a Setting used in Old School TTRPGs wherein the World and its inhabitants kept on even if the Player Characters did not, and in staying true to that history holds elements of this in play behind the scenes. Characters you meet, know, and love could perish from the “roll of the dice” and the Tale itself will continue on no matter how central they were. This is not to say they have no merit, indeed Characters still value their life, ambitions, and interests, so they will do their best to survive and thrive. Some may simply even retire! It would be intriguing indeed if by luck, wit, and will each character we encounter survives to a Central Plot Completion without retiring and this warning be entirely unneeded.
Our Story will unfold following what will begin as two intrinsically opposed yet interconnected perspectives, each starting led by a Central Figure whose Actions hold the Capacity to Change the Course of Zhotarelm’s History.
Vissana Rootshard: A Zawla Merchant and Dignitary, Vissana leads a party aligned with principles of justice, compassion, and harmony. Her journey embodies the ideals of the Centrally Good-Aligned, striving to restore and hold balance in a world descending into chaos.
Wulari Nexoth: A Human Warlock-by-choice, Wulari commands a faction driven by ambition, cunning, and power. As the leader of the Primary Evil-Aligned party, her path seeks vengeance upon an already threatened world demanding a final decisive end to the Ages of Mortality.
Though not every Chapter will end with an Interactive Element, many will, and these will yield dramatic alterations to the developing story. When such a time comes, know that the results of the Characters making that Decision are not written nor “rolled” until after said Interactive Element is decided, and as such No Single Choice is ultimately a “Good or Bad” Decision. Terrible or Great results could have occurred either way, that being said however: Making decisions based off what you believe plays best into the Abilities of the Parties a decision is being asked of is a good idea, just know that others taking part may have different views as to what that is and their opinions are equally valid.
…
Beyond our reach in the vast depths of that most incomprehensibly large Vunhari, wherein cosmoses and realities flow together as megalithic rivers of impossibility one can find vision of another plane, one known therein as Zhotarelm. It is a Plane between Realms forged upon the Embers of Divine Sanctimony and the Dying Light of Mortal Ambition. Herein the Lands themselves are the Living Scars of the Celestial Upheaval, each continent derived from the Cataclysms of The Second-Born Divines own perilous quests manifest once as the Great Journey Towers. Now crumbled into the Continents of the Plane few still remember their origin as the grand bridges traversing the Hells to the Heavens and see them now only as broken masses of earth.
Still barely recognizable lay and writhes the Bygone Tower of Haergon, the last relic of the Ages when Mortals dared the path to Divinity themselves. Once the symbol of Mortal Enlightenment and Unity the remnants of the Tower have become the Hauntings of The Darkest Madmen to grace these Ages and from every end of the Forgotten Towers emerge Horrors Beyond Memory.
Far Above looms the Tumultuous Long City, a Colossal Structure encircling the Plane as a Cosmic Belt. Once the Housing of Great Empires and those that bared the Price of Remembrance, the luminous spires and endless corridors have begun to dim and wane. The Dread Triad has awoken, three great and terrible eyes whom have stolen the light of the once great City Above and encircle the Moon with the same dark intent. Further out still are the Ever-Battling Suns of Nemesis and Allegiance whom clash now in unprecedented cascading cosmological events, rippling through the very essence of existence.
Struggling amidst it all are the Denizens of this the Seventh, the Last perhaps, Grand Age of Mortals whom stand firm in their Convictions and Divinations or hold to their Relations and Possessions in Hopes of a New Age Come The Seventh’s Passing.
…
Vissana Rootshard
“You will have a pleasant trip, no trouble will find you.” The Zawla woman told the Baby Tapir as she pet along its white stripes. Her voice was soothing, yet tinged with a quiet held-at-bay cynicism. Her grey fingers may have been coated in rings of gold but they were still as warm and soothing as her repetitive motion. The Baby Animal was still dazed from the Venom the Poachers had used on it, the Mother was not more than three Root-Knots away, but she knew the young Tapir should be able to wobble on over to its grey-bellied Mom. A breeze managed its way through the canopy, it ruffled the red half of her hair but left the blonde side in the shade alone. With a flick of her head to get the red bangs back in place Vissana carefully directed the Baby’s head with a gold-robed arm, the creature was the same size as her and yet it was so young and easily distracted by such a breeze. Vissana made especially sure that the Tapir Child could clearly see the Mother before fully loosing her soft-grip and letting the Baby trundle on out. The Tapir Baby made it about halfway before another breeze swam through the canopy tripping them with a huff. The flailing Tapir failed to right itself but the Mother made no sound yet approached, softly bopping the Babe with her trunk, and finally helping them to their feet. The Zawla Woman began the mechanical process of bunning each side of her hair, leaving only a thin set of bangs as her Glittering Green Eyes made sure to watch the Tapir Pair standing side-by-side as they wobbled off, over a small brook, and disappeared into the underbrush peaceably…
The remnants of the Poacher Camp were neatly bundled into firepits surrounded by stone, salvageable wares loaded up on a palanquin, and now properly recorded illicit goods in a lowered pit stacked between rows of firewood. The same Zawla Woman stood now upon a mossy boulder overlooking the nine surviving Poachers. They were each and every one wicked beings bound in a makeshift stock, but one among them was escaping justice, at least for now. Nine in total had survived the maneuvers her crew had employed, and now that all the required information was gathered there was not left to do but pronounce judgment. She stood as tall as a Zawla can, the setting suns at her back creating beams of multicolored light that spread over her form, hitting her red and blonde hair with beams of purpling light as blue and yellow light struck her gold-layered robes it all made her look more an interdimensional celestial than a little grey gnome. Her long ears, with the cuts of her position flicked up to the jingle of her earrings as she gave the pronouncement.
“In accordance with Lawthern Justice, I, Representative Vissana Rootshard, hereby sanction the execution of these eight criminals and their mal-goods by practice of Dread Sorcery.”
A terrible and wicked smile crossed the face of today's executioner, an elbow-horned Elona Woman that wore a long coat formed of black leather straps. Her practically-clawed hand flipped upwards with a click, eight blocks of black and pink flame bursting their way through the bound human criminals. The fires erupted down into their frames before exploding outwards and enveloping each of them in turn. The long pair of cuts down each prisoner's spine was set as the ignition point, in honor of traditions Vissana didn't fully understand.
The Humans of Lawthern and the Elona Peoples of the region had agreements, many of them in fact, but they made little sense to her. The fact that the Varuct, a position that acted much like a Sheriff as far as she was concerned, was not allowed to carve a prisoner's spine and had to instead delegate it to another Elona was strange. The reason had to be political, she simply hadn't learned quite how, yet.
As the bodies of the Men stopped writhing the rest of the encampment caught dread flame in turn. Vissana stood over it all, and admitted to herself the smell would be delicious if it weren't so dreadfully sad and terrifying, but kept a stern look fixed upon the only Poacher that hadn't been burned to ash. She knew not what punishment that pink haired human would face in her own lands, only that they would remember how stalwart she had been this day…
It wasn't long until night had fallen proper, the last Poacher had been boxed up for travel, and the entire crew sat around small campfires eating quietly. Vissana's group was the highest and most northern of the three, consisting of herself, the two Elona Women, and a singular Human Man in half plate wielding a tall spear. To the East sat the rest of the Albino Spearmen in the armor of Lawthern, and the West held a small retinue of assembled Militia and Guardsmen headed by a Ranger she assumed was Human, even though he bore no symbol of Lawthern itself.
The West camp seemed to be downtrodden but a few of them were taking turns telling stories, she could hear snippets from time to time, “-then he tugged his cloak and the ridge fell out from under them.” That was from a story about Nanara's husband, a Sentinel that was said to once have roamed the Valley they all rested in now. Vissana had never seen any of the Sentinels said to live here, nor any half-giant, much less the rumored giantess Nanara herself. Before Vissana could take her thoughts on the matter further, or incline herself to speak on them, the younger of the Elona Women spoke up.
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“I had no expectation of your survival once combat broke out.” The voice rang out with an uncharacteristic level of mirth, perhaps some sarcasm but Vissana could not be certain, as the young woman directed a half-raised arm across the fire towards Vissana, “-Let alone that you were capable of taking the life of an actual combatant.” Vissana, who was at most half the size of the human Spearman, and definitely smaller still in comparison to either of the Elona, took a deep breath before responding. “We Zawla are defined by one thing, unlike other Bands of Vidvami, we do not believe in Slavery of any form.” Her words were colder than the night air, cutting any possibility of humor down to the point, “Including Punitive.”
The young Elona seemed to lose a light in her eyes before she nodded her head, hopefully understanding the deeper meaning. To anyone whom knew the state of the Deep Depths themselves, a lack of slavery in such a form could only be achieved through the slaying of one’s enemies, and the declaration of certain societal failings defining civilians as such.
“Harsh, but fair.” The Albino Spearman’s harsh voice cut in like a frozen wind, “The People of Lawthern would be better to strive for such.”
“Interesting, you believe so, Votheim?” Replied Vissana, a tinge of surprise in her normally calculated voice, she had seen the man grow up doing tours of the underground, he’d always seemed happier on the surface during night’s than he ever did down there. “I have yet to hear an Alabaster speak on the subject, let alone one of your dedication… Not the opinion I expected.”
The Spearman loosed a small smile, revealing the start of wrinkles upon his aging face, “Three decades of compliance and respect will open many doors among the race of men… Sadly that includes ones to the occasional off-kilter opinion.” Votheim The Alabaster stood up, resting against the ivory spear as he did so, and made way into the dark of the night.
A voice like flame wrapped in drawl came from the older of the Elona Women, “Their kind ain’t take kindly to acknowledgment of their humanity.” The Elona Sorceress Laughed, “Fourth mistake on this tour lil Rootshard. Ya should be quite happy I don’t take a list to your Sponsor.”
Vissana took a deep breath, “I’ll never understand humans.”
The Elona Sorceress laughed again, the campfire shifting to shades of pink in time with her voice, “And yet you’ll represent them all.”
…
Wulari Nexoth
The Box was annoying but that Zawla Woman was insufferable. Wulari Nexoth did her best to throw her fist through the accursed box, but alas the magnetite shackles were linked to other contraptions preventing even the smallest of movements. She’d be better off hogtied to a pole, this box had her pressed up into an immobile ball with just her head sticking out, and that only to a limited factor. Still it wasn’t the binding contraption that vexed her, it was instead the Under Gnome Woman that provided reason to the scowl upon her face. It was that grey-skinned little creature’s fault, without that one around the Varuct and her human cronies would have never found her Son’s hideout. She tried to hiss, to scream, to make any noise emerge but the damnable silencing enchantment of the box kept her from even that simple a goal.
The Sun was still ascending, not quite midday yet, and no one save the Alabaster had given her any of their time, and that pale man only did so to ensure she couldn’t nudge her lips or pink hair, a fact which gave away his unfamiliarity with the lockbox containing her. She was not particularly social, but her senses were muffled and she wanted to know how everyone felt, she wanted to assess the likelihood the lot of them run across any of the assorted horrors her brash Son, Kaluri, had been looking for.
The Stupid boy, he should have sent those blades straight through that Zawla’s neck instead of holding them there and trying to hold the abominable creature captive. No grown Zawla ever accepted Hostages, any to attain the title would rather die than be taken prisoner, and any of renown would rather wage war and lay waste nations than accept such a fate. The Stupid Boy. He was supposed to be her future, a proof to further the concept of her own inception, but a Sorcerer Born did not a Proper Warlock make, apparently. Kaluri had unique ideas, ways of covering his sorceries through mundanity that had made Wulari believe too heavily in him, she would not make that mistake again. If separation lead to such a failure than it shall be damned, from now on consolidation and reformation were the only Creeds she’d abide.
One of the Elona Women approached as the traveling band of Lawthern loyalists came to a halt. The woman was pitch-black in color, with no obvious horns, odd. As far as Wulari remembered there had only been two Elona among her captors, the Varuct in the long coat and a pure white one of lesser build. Wulari could not hear what the woman was saying to her, but she did feel when they pat her on the head, like some sort of pet. That settled things, whoever this Elona was, whether some newcomer or a shifted version of the younger one from last night, they would pay dearly for this insult. If she could determine anything else about them of course, the longer she remained in the box the more she lost measure of her senses.
Something pressed against Wulari’s lips, and almost instinctively she drank from it. Luckily she retained enough awareness to glean that it must have been water, but it could have been laced with anything and she wouldn’t notice. A fact which caused her anger to swell, if anything she could manage would move that box it’d have been the all out assault on the thing Wulari tried in that moment, but alas nothing. Her expression remained unchanged the same as her movements, the Elona woman kept talking to her for awhile, and then with a final pat to her head, Wulari was alone again. Very little changed until nightfall, but by then Wulari couldn’t even keep track of the Alabaster’s check ins, and the next day all she could tell was that it was bright out, and all she could think about was how she would make the Elona and that Zawla suffer…
Wulari lay spread out in a daze, confused, somehow soaked, and beaten by things she held no account of, but she did know it was darker now. Rays of dabbling light bubbled up in her vision, reddening combination yellow-and-blue reminding her of that accursed Zawla woman. Raising her head led to a swirl of bright light and dark spots, clearly she was concussed. Uncountable moments of barely groanless waiting graced the Self-made Sorceress with some semblance of feeling, she could tell now the back of her head was numb, her legs were free, but her hands remained locked in some connected contraption and bruises clearly lined her frame. It was difficult work to move, but she managed to lift her arms together over her head, wiggling her elbows into what must have been upraised dirt or sand, and blocked the light from her eyes with the contraption holding her hands prisoner. As her breathing came back into focus she began to experiment with her limbs, the left leg lifted easily enough but the right was heavy, the hips moved fine but the rest of her spine was heavy, no part more so than her head.
Eventually pain started to return, but with it came the senses. Scent and Taste came first, her own rich blood, freshly upturned earth of especial quality, disturbed moss, and something else. Hearing came as the bruises started to hurt, there were only a few sounds, trees shaking-talking softly, the soft burbling of a river clearly too wide to be a creek, and an occasional almost rhythmic disturbance of said burbling, well all that and a low resonating hum she assumed damage-born. Finally sight began to return, proper feeling of the nerves was following close behind, but with the formation of blurred shapes she began to make sense of her situation.
Directly Above was what must have been the sky, partially blocked serendipitously by the slow-dancing canopy. There was a huge chunk of shade filling the sky south her face, perhaps she was lying under an upturned tree? It was too early for proper understanding of that, but with colors manifesting Wulari could learn one thing. She dragged her right shoulder to the side of her head, moving the other due to whatever contraption contained her hands. Pain ran across her head and spine, dizziness taking over, and her intent to lower the arm wound up becoming a slam of the metal shackle-construct straight into her gut. She loosed air, and some especially rooty dirt from her throat. Looking to the side, recovering her breath, she saw that the shoulder used was now covered in blood. Wulari took the time to fully recover her breath, and thinking about what led to this mess spoke out. “To any God that may be listening, I have one thing to say… Fuck that little grey midget.”
Beyond the river something large made a particularly chuffed sounding grunt. Turning her head on its side was particularly painful, dizzying, and clearly caused some scabbing to break as she felt the flow of hot blood from several points, but she had to try and see. The constant hum stopped, as did the regular breaking of the river’s burbling, instead a low rumble manifested from some dark shape in her vision. The rumbling sounded somewhere between a crocodile’s bellow and the clacking of a particularly large bird or boar. She doubted that whatever it was happened to be some deity willing to screw over that Zawla, seeing how this week was going it was more likely a titanic winged gator with laser eyes from some hell-plane know one knew anything about.
As the vision of Wulari came into focus she found herself not entirely incorrect in her assessment, indeed it was a huge carnivore across the river, and its face was surprisingly crocodilian. The creature had a mostly grey body, though its back was quite darker than the belly, and its face was completely deformed by parasitical infection. “Fuck that grey thing too.”
…
*Notes:
Species in Order of Appearance: Vidvami (and within the Zawla Band) are a humanoid race averaging three feet tall, that normally feature monochrome black-grey-white skin tones but hair and eye colors of any sort. They are described often as “Depth Gnomes” and other similar monickers, and while it is true they come from such an origin they are now wholly something else. The Vidvami are known for their embracing of restricted opulence and dedication to perfection of the physical form as part of societal strength.
Humans: Similar to the Humans of your World, however they possess three distinct origins that carry their own histories, including one which has placed them in an air of distrust among other Species. In Size, Coloration, and more they possess a wider natural variation.
Elona: Beings of Demonic and Draconic Origin, they slew their demon-god Masters creating the Hell-Haze that permeates the Deep Depths. They are incredibly insular and cultish in behavior, finding failure to attain self-enlightenment while bettering society a fate worse than death. In Appearance they stand typically between five and twelve feet tall, averaging near ten underground and seven above. They feature hooved legs, but often possess claws on their feet as well. They have a prehensile structure underneath the hair of their head that behaves much like a tail, however it serves as a tool for detecting madness and evil. Their ears are like those of a horse, though often tipped in scales. In other news their skin, hair, and occasional fur or scales come in every texture and solid color combination. They come in four distinct forms, one whom appears basically as described. The second which features horns typically upon their shoulders, elbows, and/or knees. The Third which possess wings, most often a pair upon their back but occasionally smaller ones upon their hips or head. The Fourth possess horns, wings, and visibly glowing features definitive of the Demon God They’ve Slain or Conquered.
The Sizes that came up in this chapter are from the Vidvami Peoples, and come from different measurement systems. A Root-Knot equates to roughly 5 feet, and is the basis of many building practices. A Mush is roughly 2 feet, and is used in gardening as well textile craft. A Turn-lit is roughly half a foot and is both a common gardening measurement as well one used by Miners.
