This was one of my favorite stories from Tal's life -- Yeolar's player was exceptionally accommodating to this encounter, which was significant because he could have likely one-rounded Tal. The details elude me, but apparently Yeolar was a bit loose-lipped for Tal's liking. To that end, he sent this missive:
In the name of the Eternal Wyrm, I bear greetings.
I bid you, fortunate few, recall a time beyond recollection: when the embers of
the War of Night still smoldered, and the Thirteen Towers lay broken, and the
great guilds of the Void were forced into reluctant retreat. In this forgotten
age, in an era that escapes memory -- indeed, defies it -- the chroniclers of
the Void, the great scholars like the the immutable Ysalar Raphet and the
shuddeni sage Ksajikul succeeded in preserving fragments of what would have
otherwise been scattered like dust to history, relics of a distant time, a
knowledge long abandoned by mortal-kind.
In their wisdom, they gathered what grimoires, tomes, and texts survived the
relentless conflict, in measure equal to their ability, before themselves
vanishing from plain sight with the knowledge they guarded. How, precisely,
they eluded pursuit is immaterial - what is noteworthy is that they understood
the value of secrecy when delicate matters are concerned, when revealing too
much can bring repercussions. When sharing more than is necessary can invite
unwelcome scrutiny, and attention undesired.
So it was, likewise, with the renowned assassin, Reolu Aphiste, who by the
sharpness of his tongue, and not his blade, infiltrated the confidences of the
noble houses of Ilodaiya, his delicate hand in every scheme and plot, but never
leaving a trace of his presence. He, too, appreciated subterfuge for an art,
and knew the value of speaking only so many words as gave furtherance to his
objective, revealing nothing more.
Yeolar, Taker of Dalvenack: You have failed me, and worse, you have failed
this Conclave. Your loose tongue, may it be torn from your throat, has spoken
too glibly of what ought not have been spoken, at all. By your own hand, you
have revealed, willingly, what was not to be revealed. I asked that you master
subtlety, and instead, you master only treason to Our designs, sharing the
intentions of this Collective with those that are, by your own stilted
You threaten, as though you are the voice of this Conclave. As though you
are something more than a mote of dust in the eye of the Eternal Dragon, a
dim flicker to the roaring inferno of this august Collective, may its days be
without number. Your accursed words, unthought and unsound, advance no
objective of this Conclave, but purposefully claw and tear at the delicate
tapestry We have endeavoured to weave.
You have succeeded where a troupe of Harrudi spies could not have, and in
succeeding, you have failed. Though, without question, the burden of such
knowledge alone threatens the very fabric of your existence, I may yet deign
to intervene on your behalf, and spare you the unmaking which you have by word
and by deed earned and invited. You will appear before me, and learn the fate
to which you are bound.
(the scroll is unsigned)
Side note: the dagger Tal pretended to carry was a "gift" from a visit to Logor.
[SHUNNED] Tal: Yeolar Dalvenack.
You feel the cold immunity of the void surround you.
[SHUNNED] Tal: Your presence is required. Bid you come to the Conclave with alacrity.
[SHUNNED] Yeolar: I come my Lord.
You rest in a chair emblazoned with the dragon rune.
Yeolar has arrived.
Yeolar kneels before Tal, offering in a quiet tone, in arcane, 'I am here for
your judgment, my Lord.'
Tal shifts his eyes slightly, regarding you as he threads his fingers about the
haft of his ebony staff.
Tal remarks, forcing the words through his thin lips, in arcane, 'You have
caused quite the clamour in Logor, Yeolar Dalvenack.'
Tal murmurs, in arcane, 'The Taskmasters crave recourse for your loose tongue.'
Yeolar responds with the same soft tone, in arcane, 'I did not know my simple
and foolish acts could be watched so closely.'
Tal focuses a gaze on you, emotionless and placid. He rasps, in arcane, 'They
seek your unmaking, Yeolar Dalvenack. Not your blood.'
Yeolar places his head down to the stone floor, kneeling in complete submission
Yeolar whispers from the stone floor, in arcane, 'I will accept what must be
done, to cleanse myself of the failings. Even...even if it is my unmaking.'
Tal taps out an almost-melody with his fingertips on the armrest of the Dragon
throne, in arcane, 'The Scorpion watches you, even now.'
Tal casts a long gaze into the shadows, nodding vaguely at an inscrutable form,
immersed in darkness.
You get a ripe, red pomegranate from a deeply cowled robe.
Tal slices the ripe pomegranate into four equal parts, his head shaking lightly,
Yeolar responds without lifting his head from the stone floor, in arcane, 'Then
may the Scorpion gain faint amusement at my...my...being.'
Tal takes a piece of fruit between his slender fingers, inspecting it, musing,
in arcane, 'A fragile thing, to live within these hollow vessels, Yeolar
Dalvenack. A fleeting trifle...'
You eat a ripe, red pomegranate.
Tal dabs the edge of his lips, saying, in arcane, 'Hear then, the measure of my
Yeolar answers with his voice showing a fleeting moment of firmness, in arcane,
'I listen to your wisdom, and have always welcomed your guiding hand, even when
I have strayed, I return to know it's embrace. Give me your judgment, my Lord.'
Tal gives the slightest nod, rasping, in arcane, 'Your deeds are known to you,
and there is little gain in their recollection.'
Tal continues, in arcane, 'I do not share the view of Logor that treasonous
thoughts stirred your tongue, and moved your hand. A more baser crime is yours,
that of indiscretion.'
Tal wraps the edges of his cloak, a sickening amalgam of living flesh, about
his shoulders. He continues in a staccato, in arcane, 'For this, I have made
intervention. The Sixty and Six Legions shall make no claim to you, and the
Scorpion's hand is stayed.'
Tal continues, narrowing his eyes. He says, the weight of experience tinging
his words, in arcane, 'But there is nothing in the Void without a price, and
so too, this. Logor demands payment for its temperance.'
Yeolar questions with a neutral tone, in arcane, 'What shall I do to be of
purpose to these halls, my Lord? I would give my very soul to serve, any and all
things that are of my being, I give freely.'
Tal rises fluidly to his feet, straightening out the folds of his billowing
robe. A chorus of indistinct, dissonant screams swells and is muted as he
strides to stand alongside you.
Tal intones, in arcane, 'Nothing less would suffice, Yeolar Dalvenack. One
time, I have kept the Hordes of Logor tranquil. Even I shall hold no sway, a
Yeolar stiffens at the words, but continues with his body against the stone
floor, and offers, in arcane, 'I know, my Lord.'
Candlelight catches flash of metal as a wickedly curved dagger appears in Tal's
hand, its edge inscribed with fell runes.
Yeolar raises up from the floor, remaining in a kneeling position, gazing off at
nothing, as if waiting.
Tal threads his fingers through your mane, lifting your head up, and tilting it
back. He regards you, his ageless features a mask of calm.
Tal intones, a light-absorbing blade of Logor-forged steel dancing in his hand,
in arcane, 'Thus is the price paid. Thus is redemption earned.'
Yeolar lets his milky-white eyes lock upon your ageless face, gazing deeply into
You feel your tongue pulled from your mouth as Tal lifts his arm, hand and blade
moving as one. A choir of infernal voices emanates from the folds of his robe,
hideous and dissonant.
With the passing of midnight, it is now Lyrensday, 10th day of Kyanamir.
Tal intones, chanting softly, in arcane, 'Khaddash Maphet Adesti... thus is the
Yeolar closes his eyes slowly, a look of utter calm coming over his features,
his breathing steady.
Letting his hand fall, the barbed blade finds flesh, carving it away as Tal's
arm drops to his side, the runes upon the knife edge seeming to pulse with
Yeolar stiffens at the biting agony, but remains still and silent as the act
is carried out.
Tal regards the swollen mass of flesh on the chamber floor, inexplicably devoid
of blood. Your wound closes in an instant, the agony subsiding.
Tal murmurs, taking the lump of flesh into his hand, sliding it into the folds
of his robe. He reassumes his position on the Dragon throne, asking, in arcane,
'Is the Dragon not kind?'
Yeolar lets out a long held breath, his shoulders slumping down, offering no
Yeolar returns to kneel before you, touching his head back to the stone floor.
Tal intones, in arcane, 'Rise, Yeolar Dalvenack. The price has been paid.
The debt has been settled.'
Yeolar slowly disengages from the position of shame, standing up to gaze at
you with impassive milky-white eyes.
Yeolar eats a cake of Nendorin waybread.
Yeolar works the cake around a moment, struggling at first, finally managing to
swallow without his tongue to aid.
Tal adds, a cautionary tone colouring his words, in arcane, 'You will not cause
the Senechals of Logor to appear before me again, Master Taker. There is no
gain in bargaining from a position of weakness.'
Yeolar gives a solemn nod, his mouth instinctively opening, only a faint garbled
Yeolar snaps his mouth shut at the sound of the mangled attempts at speech.
Yeolar a fleeting look of despair crosses Yeolar's face, but is quickly replaced
with a mask of impassiveness.
Tal murmurs, letting his eyes survey the tapestries about the chamber, in
arcane, 'A fleeting thing. Our Work is more important now, than ever.'
Yeolar regards you with milky-white eyes, offering a single bobbing of his head
Yeolar kneels before you, as if awaiting something.
Tal leans into the Dragon throne, saying, in arcane, 'There is nothing further,
Master Taker. See to what must be done, and see it done.'
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