Seventh Level and Beyond
The Seventh Level
Optional Encounter:
The PCs happen upon an assembly taking place in the Entry Hall. Row upon row of Paladins in full regalia stand at attention as a high-level Paladin gives a speech on the virtues of being a Paragon in the service of the Citadel, Celes and Caspian, saying "Honor is the shrine at which the paladin worships; it implies renown, good conduct, and the world's approval. One's word of honor is the most solemn oath the Paladin knows, and this alone should be the reason for his most courageous exploits.
"Loyalty, meaning the pledged word, is chivalry's fulcrum. A paladin who breaks his oath is charged with treason for betraying the order of his knighthood.
"It is this chivalric code of honor that forms the moral and social bedrock of the Paladin's life; giving order and substance to an age otherwise lost in chaos and confusion."
The other Paladins stand spear-straight in two lines of ten. Halberds held at attention, just as they would be in the God-King’s presence.
Products of a refined process, where the Servitors had been mass-produced it is easy to imagine these gilded knights being hailed as humanity’s finest, beneath only the gods themselves in grandeur.
It is the natural instinct of the untrained and inexperienced to presume such a thing. For those who perceived their flaws, matters are less cut and dried.
The Eighth Level
Entry Hall
The pupil-less eyes of the white statue gaze sightlessly down on you, its stone lips bearing the slightest traces of a benevolent smile. The sculptured hands stretch downward, palms outwards, symbol of the God-King’s acceptance of all who stand before him. The blank eyes are disturbing because they are blind; the look of compassion is meaningless because it is hand-made, not heart-felt. And the statue is flawed. There is just the faintest hairline crack barely visible in the light, running from beneath the chin down one side of the neck.
Optional Encounter:
The female cleric sits cross-legged on the ground playing a golden flute. Her hair is a rich auburn and plaited into seven large loops that are interlaced with gold. She wears a gossamer, green undertunic bound with a golden girdle, and a cloak with long sleeves, which was also green.
Within the sleeves of the outer garment are oversized pockets containing all manner of instruments used in the arts—all of gold. There are various musical instruments, paint brushes, musical scores, ballet shoes, a quill pen—all within the sleeves. Her neck and hands have a slight tint of gold and so does the small portion of her bare feet that one cannot see.
Secured around her head is a golden cord; in the center of the cord is a small golden box. The box is in the middle of her forehead and similar to a frontlet for the housing of scripture.
The Tenth Level
Optional Encounter:
The PCs become targeted for assassination, depending on the reasons for PCs being in the Citadel, the assassin's motivation will differ.
He wears a scarf of crimson feathers wrapped around the lower half of his face, his lips protruding against the scarf's metal emblem of an eagle perched on a swastika.
When they first encounter him, he has been motionless atop a precipice for hours, blending in with its night-black stones with dark clothing. He holds a massive bow of bronze-colored adamantine that has black symbols embedded in its flat frame in the form of celestial equations for trajectory and spin stabilization. Three dragonhead motifs protrude from both tips of its S-shaped end pieces. The assassin reaches toward the upside down heads at the bottom and grabs three brass rings fixed on the tips of their spiny horns, pulling them upward to reveal three barbed strings. He takes the rings and stretches them toward the horns of the other heads at the top, his forearm bulging through the rolled up sleeve of his shirt as he needles the first ring around the head to the left and then does the same with the one on the right. Once it is done, he then lifts the weapon with a steady aim, his right eye filling the cross-shaped hole that is encrusted with rubies at the center of the bow’s grip. He cinches the barbed strings together at the center until they taper into a thick cord. His right forearm swells even more with its powerful stroke backward. A central barb starts to extend forward with the reverse motion of the strings, weaving together in a planishing quickness to form a razor-sharp arrow with a gelatin gleam of oil.
He uses the periphery of his focus to check the trajectory symbols on the frame that realign in their mechanical grooves, feeding numerical flashes into the shiny edges of the targeting cross. The bow’s weight shifts from top to bottom with the movement of the equations, balancing the frame like a natural extension of his hands so he can control the spin-release with absolute precision. He releases the bolt with lightning speed. Upon its release he slings the bow over the leather bandolier strapped across his shoulder. He then turns and starts down the vertical slope of the walls, easily negotiating the narrow ledges with the skill of someone who has walked them a thousand times before.
Written on the bow is an inscription: "Here is a bow to break the heart and spirit of many strong men."
Levels Eleven Through Forty-Fourth:
Role-Playing Opportunity:
It is entirely possible for the PCs to occupy these quarters. If so, they will enjoy the finest luxury they have ever experienced -- the best foods, the best drink, the best clothes, the best of everything.
You quickly grow to enjoy the luxuries the Citadel now offers you. The opulence is stunning, a different world from the one you have known. You have been given fine quarters, soft clean beds and hot bathes. Silken girls bring you sherbet. Dancing girls dance barefoot. The Citadel is greater than any palace, a place of beauty and great contentment. You come to enjoy getting anything day or night simply by asking the servants for it. In a short time, you get used to having all your needs and appetites met, all your wishes granted. You feel safe and comfortable and content. Your former life begins to pale, and the good life takes a toll on your mind, if not your body. Here, at last, you feel that you are being treated as you truly deserve.
Forty-Sixth Level
Vast quantities of information and literature are stored here, a library easily ten times the size of the largest you have seen. How long must it have taken to amass such a treasure trove of wisdom?
You had not believed there was such an amount of knowledge in existence, let alone that it all might be contained within the walls of this single room.
A maze it is, miles of shelf. A city unto itself, with corridors between the rows of volumes forming streets and intersections, a metropolis of humankind's thoughts since he first was able to put down those thoughts in writing.
Forty-Seventh Level
The Fifty-Third Level
You are surprised to find yourself in an interior so vast and daunting, a massive overwhelming empty space. A space in which one could fit several normal-sized cathedrals. You wonder if there is any limit to how large the masons could build an edifice to proclaim their faith? How big does faith have to be to fill a space the size of this? How much devotion does Caspian need?
Hundreds of ecstatic faces turn to stare at you, confused. Each belongs to a white-robed fanatic whose head had been shaved and whose brow has been marked with the crescent moon. The air smells of incense and sweet perfumed oils. The cultists have the blank, delirious look of the drugged, or of zealots awaiting a manifestation of their god.
Thousands of the cultists occupy the vast empty space within this sanctum.
If the PCs act suspiciously in any way, the worshipers eye them suspciaiously. If the heroes' strange behavior continues, 10 worshipers draw forth long curved knives and throw the PCs into a back room. These supplicants are surprisingly proficient in combat.
“He doesn’t change us. He takes away the troublesome part, the part that thinks. What’s left is what you are, what we all are. What we most want to do. That is His gift to us. He gives us freedom.”
The Fifty-Third Level
If the players have been severely injured or killed, read the following:
You feel weak, but you are emerging from the haze. Looking around you find yourself in a room with a strong antiseptic smell. Your bed is surrounded by unfamiliar pieces of equipment reflecting a healing science unknown to you. Brightly colored crystals embedded in small chromed devices speak of an almost magical ability to heal. Sculpted glass shapes with no apparent internal mechanism glows with colored displays that you hope are normal for a person in good health. There is a lot of red within the readouts, much more than you are comfortable seeing.
On the wall directly facing you, life-sized, is a rather disquieting real-time image
The Fifty-Second Level
Stables:
The first thing you see is a storeroom of sorts, filled with carved pedestal upon which rest saddles enhanced with ornate hand-tooled designs and smooth inlays of worked silver, turquoise, carnelian, malachite, bloodstone and onyx.
The sweet smelling stables are where groups of sated royal pets, splendid synthetic animals very little like their plodding cousins, wait for their next outing, slumbering in the shade of mighty trees. There are the usual beautiful splendid horses and great tusked elephants, with golden saddles and red silk ropes, watering from marble troughs. There are unicorns and Pegasus feeding peacefully nearby, the kind of which that are spoken of in fairy tales. And many other strange and mystical creatures, the likes of which are beyond description.
The stables stand at the rear, close by a clover field, with their polished floors, intricately carved and inlaid woodwork, and walls of finest plaster. Fresh hay fills the stalls, which Automations clean on an hourly basis. On the twelve-inch wooden posts between stalls are cast-bronze sconces that throw amber light toward both the ceiling and the floor, they are needed because the high-set windows are too small--each about eight inches high by eighteen long -- to admit much sunlight even at high noon. Vent grilles are set in the suspended tongue-and-groove ceiling that keep this place heated in winter, cooled in the summer. It seldom smells like a stable, either, because it is vented continuously, and fresh air is pumped in. And all the ductwork is heavily insulated, so the sound of the fans is too low to bother horses.
Levels Sixty to Seventy-Sixth
The bedroom is so large that it is almost impossible to visually measure its dimensions in such feeble illumination. Thanks to the flickering of light coming from the scones you can vaguely make out the abundant amounts of ornaments, paintings, statues of nude women. exotic plants, swords, shields, lances, bows, ancient runes, and even the dream-snatcher hanging high above his head.
The Eighty Sixth Level:
Breeze stirs your hair. Smoke hangs in the dense air stings your eyes and fills his lungs.
It is night, with blackness ruling above. A warm, dancing light from up ahead spills upon the woods around you, firelight as if from a raging pyre. From nearby comes an ocean of chaotic voices. Everywhere horrifying screams echo and die, cries answered by bloodcurdling peals of demoniacal laughter.
Everywhere.
You press yourself hard against the jagged bark, clinging to the solidity of the standing timber. The air is dense, you realize, forcing that much logic to the forefront.
The screams you have heard sounds again, louder, closer. Your concentration breaks as if fighting to keep its distance.
You reluctantly push away from the tree you have been inadvertently embracing and seek the shadow of another, one closer to the source of the firelight. Only a few dozen feet away, the forest ends and yields to a clearing, and as you peer into that clearing you see barbaric beings, their eyes reflecting the golden wash of the flames around them, even at a distance. Terrifying beings, yet familiar.
You stare in horrified fascination as the enormous warriors fight each other in the glow of the inferno, muscular giant men whose slightest blows would fell the best the world had to offer.
They battle, wielding bizarre weapons in the streets of a dying town, one that must once have been impressive but now is gutted and ruined as if by war. Huge yellow-bathed gargoyles overlook the chaos from high perches. Buildings everywhere burn, their timbers collapsing mere feet from the combatants, their windows shattering in the heat, their exposed steel framework glinting in the searing light. Despite the devastation and the thick haze, you can see the structures once had been extremely elaborate in style – a hideous style that is both garish in its approach and grotesque in its execution.
You press yourself deeper into the cool shadow of the tree, out of the streaming heat and light of the fires.
Slowly, you peer around the tree, toward the noise and light. As you watch the chaos unfolding before you, men pursue and catch screaming women amid the rubble, savaging them like animals. Some of the victims manage to elude their attacker momentarily but inevitably fall prey.
You have no desire to move into the fray. You kneel within a dark thicket of dense brush, wishing yourself invisible, knowing that your best bet is to gain some sense of direction and, within losing it, move deeper into the forest. The last thing you need is to be further lost.
Billows of black smoke, boiling in the rising heat of the fires, spread wide as far as they can see, catching the orange light and moving as if alive. You allow yourself simply to breathe deeply, your eyes closed against the stinging air.
The screams continue in the distance, as does the sharp clamor of breaking glass and the heavy rumble of collapsing walls.
If the PCs attempt to hide in one of the houses or other structures, read the following:
Rising to your feet, you lean hard into the structure beside you. Its stonework is cool against your sweat-dampened flesh, and you feel the edifice change from stone to metal to glass as you move along, seeking an opening. Finally finding a heavy door of polished timber, you warily push it open, peer around its edge and into a darkened room. Just enough firelight spills in from the windows of the opposite side to allow you to see that the room is unoccupied, so you take a deep breath and work up your courage.
The Sixty-Sixth Level
The Eighty-Fourth Level
Mirror Maze
Throne Room:
You stand find yourself standing upon a pavement of gold dust and saffron. Looking up you see a white ceiling spiral upwards for miles until it finally puckers into a funnel-like opening stoppered by a glowing ruby plug the size of a large hill.
A permanent illusion spell makes the ceiling appear to go on for miles beyond its actual size; in reality it goes on for a mere six hundred feet. The ruby is real, though and even produces a small amount of light as though someone had to use the enormous gemstone to block off the outside. It pulses like a heartbeat when visitors enter the room; the luminous white light of the chamber transforms into a dazzling amethyst brilliance, then almost at once becomes the soft dappled azure of a million burning sapphires, which in turn becomes a glimmering emerald and then back to dazzling white.
From immense censers of pierced bronze and wrought silver filigree emanates a subtle and delicious scent.
There is a fragrance in the air, an exquisite perfume, full of subtlety, dominating the atmosphere, intoxicating. Music floats like smoke blown on the air, dancing on a breeze. The sound is capricious, feral, and completely spirituous, with a quality both beguiling and intimidating. You feel oddly exhilarated by the scent and the sounds, yet your senses alert you to something dangerous within. The effect is one of inebriation, and he begin to hallucinate psychedelic visions, shapes and scenes you have never seen before nor witnessed in your dreams.
Here and there precious stones the size of castles punctuate this unbelievable skyline like the faces of saints peering down from stained glass windows in some sort of monstrous cathedral. Massive fire-spitting dragons glide upon invisible updrafts far above, occasionally stopping to alight upon the surface of one of the gargantuan gems like a fly landing upon the back of a camel. The enormity of space is so great that any visitor looking at it for more than a few moments must roll to save vs Awe/Horror Factor of 17. A failed roll means the character collapses to the floor holding his hands over his eyes and can do nothing for 1D4 melee rounds or until one of their friends shakes them out of their amazement).
The Arena: A ten-foot high shelf-like structure made of white marble circumscribes this chamber. This section is a luxuriously appointed, silk-canopied, cushioned and jewel-bedecked marble arena, measuring about a 100 feet wide by 150 feet long, whose floor is made of seamless white marble. There are many doorless portals, dividing the floor into eight distinctive areas by the placement of malachite, lapis lazuli, and onyx, and end in fanciful minarets of ivory hewn one might guess from the tusks of Leviathan. Each area seems to contain a room of some sort that is cut off from view by a different colored curtain. A unique, fancifully-cured script is carved into the marble above each of these rooms.
The Statues: Nine gigantic statues of naked, demonic women clutching bowls of dark roaring flame over their heads are positioned perfectly equidistantly around its edge. Each of them seems to have been carved from a different gemstone the size of a redwood tree. The bowls contain glowing coals upon which lumps of ambergris and the shavings of the wood of aloes burn.
The Spheres: Scattered around this room, literally floating with no apparent means of suspension, are countless spheres of faintly luminescent glass, some large, some minute, all tinted colors ranging from cool pastels to livid yellows and reds. Within their confines, art treasures, gems, gold, and other artifacts are kept sealed away from would-be thieves. There are rubies framed in gold brackets, and opals carved into earrings; yellow emeralds glow forth from silver cameo rings; sapphires embedded into ivory necklaces yearn to be draped between the breasts of royal matriarchs, while jade coronets inlayed with bronze detailing wait to be worn across the angry brows of conquering warlords once again. Although they float and bob with tiny changes in the air currents, each sphere remains more or less in one place. These pieces are meant to be appreciated through touch. Anyone who places his or her exposed skin against one of the orbs experiences a tingling sensation. If she or she does not pull away at once, the full force of the sphere floods his or her mind. For Caspian, this means a pleasant tour of the feelings and emotions associated with the acquiring of the treasures within. All others will have a somewhat more dramatic experience. After the momentary tingle, they are bombarded with an overwhelming intensity of emotion unlike anything they have ever felt before. The observer will be unable to concentrate on anything but the inner emotion. These intense emotions last for several hours after the orb is touched and only fade slowly, so it may be some time before the observer is fully free of the orb’s influence.
The Dais: All circle the center of the great throne room which contains a great glistening stage made of the blackest onyx. A massive row of steps cut directly into the dais’s shiny surface faces the direction of the entrances, almost inviting visitors to walk upwards into the smoky gloom.
Cloud of Glory: Should they circumnavigate the dais (a process that may take some time due to the throne room’s size) or fly over it, their vision remains obscured by the smoke. Only magickal means will allow others to see through the murk.
At Caspian's whim, he can change the nature of the cloud to steam, sleep mist, a cloud of anointing.
Cloud of Slumber
Range: 90 feet (27.4 m)
Duration: Four melees per level of the warlock
Saving throw: Standard
P.P.E.: Four
This spell creates a 20 x 20 x 20 foot (6 m) cloud which magically
induces sleep instantly on all who pass through it. All affected will
sleep until the cloud dissipates and until then, they cannot be roused,
unless dragged from the cloud, in which case they will wake in 1D4
melees.
Cloud of Steam
Range: 90 feet (27.4 m)
Duration: Four melees per level of the warlock
Saving throw: A successful save means it inflicts half damage.
P.P.E.: Four
The warlock creates a cloud of steam that covers a 30 foot area (9
m), up to 90 feet (27.4 m) away. Anyone caught in the cloud or passing
through it will take 2D6 S.D.C. damage for each melee round (15
seconds) spent in the cloud, as well as being temporarily blinded for
1D6 melees. While in the cloud, victims can not see and are in pain;
-9 to strike, parry, and dodge. Not effective against body armor or
mega-damage beings, but the visibility while in the cloud is nil; effectively
blind.
The Throne: Visitors ascending the stairs pass through a noticeable (but not especially unpleasant) scented veil of smoke before entering the circular inner sanctum where sits a mighty throne made of solid platinum and engraved with abstract spiraling patterns in gold, silver, and copper.
Three feet in front of it an iron pedestal holds a large, crude bowl cut from a single piece of agate and filled with what appears to be liquid fire.
The Gargoyles: Squatting on their haunches to the left and right of the throne are two enormous magnificent dragons whose bodies appear to be constructed of black marble with silvery specs resembling stars. These dragons were facing each other with their wings uplifted and touching. As one draws near, one can see that the black marble dragons were breathing. At the center of the right hand dragon’s breast there pulsates what appears to be an immense sun, while at the center of the breast of the dragon on the left, there appears a swirling black hole in which entire galaxies are being drawn. These creatures are respectively known as the creator of worlds and the devourer of worlds.
The Women: Two incredibly beautiful dancing girls with exquisite ornaments in their hair gyrate and undulate slowly around the throne. One is slim and vibrant, the other voluptuous and full-bodied, with magnificent deep breasts and rounded thighs and haunches. But a dancer's silken and tireless strength is apparent in both of them, in every sinew, and they each move as gracefully as a tigress. The woman are anointed and oiled and perfumed so that the hair on their bodies glistens with droplets like delicate flowers or spider webs coated with hot morning dew. Gems are woven through the night-black falls of their silken hair. Their tawny, gleaming bodies are naked beneath a thin layer of purple gauze except for various bracelets of gold around their wrists and ankles, and necklaces inlaid with dark gleaming stones. Some of the jewelry is fashioned with stable loops, as if the jewelry was designed to double as instruments of forcible restraint.
The Musicians: Evil, inhuman-looking musicians play an unfathomable rhythm using instruments that few have ever seen save in temple frescoes. The music is all composed of wailing minor notes, rather like Arabian music, to which the alluring women sway their daunting hips; writhing with boneless grace through a gliding sequence of alluring postures that is the very essence of all that is voluptuous. The ringing of little silver chimes makes a weird, tuneless counterpoint.
The Archways: The pinkish curtain leads directly to the Harem and its adjacent rooms – the Concubine Quarters, Courtyard, Bath House, and Dance Hall. The wool curtain leads to the Reading Room.
This is a favorite chamber of Caspian’s. It reminds him of his absolute control over all things. It does not seem arrogance to Caspian to make his throne room to match the throne of God described in the Book of Revelation, for he deems himself, with his omnipotent power, mightier than any god, spirit or messiah.
Here servants and courtesans entertain new guests, until successive visits draw them into one or more portals for more private reveries. One unseen portal is hidden beneath a marble floor tile, which when moved reveals stairs winding down into darkness, this leads to the level’s dungeon and its final, terrible revelation.
Harem
It is strange, you smell the women before you see or hear them.
There are women nearby, you can smell them, a mixture of perfume and sweat that dosen't come out of any bottle, the musky woman odor of a thousand beds – just femininity announcing itself as sweet honey, jasmine, and musk.
You are surrounded by walls composed of rich silk rugs that gently cascade with gentles breeze. Looking down you see that each ends in a large colorful tassel. From little of the floor you can see are gently curved walls that appear to have been carved from bits of different gemstones and precious metals: gold, emerald, ruby and topaz. Here and there you see red, gold and purple patterns, appearing vaguely sinister in your eyes. They glow hypnotically in the candlelight.
You can smell the unscented natural perfume of a woman in heat from across the chamber like a kick to the back of your skull. Through arched doorways you can see the women. You breathe deeply the perfumed air. It is glorious. Hypnotized, like a moth fluttering around a Winding light. Your longing increases for the pleasures the smell promises. You find yourself awash in a tidal wave of passion.
Like islands in an ocean of luxury, pillowed ottomans and soft couches of varying sizes made of gold-striped ivory silk, satin, soft leather, and plush sapphire velvet are scattered throughout the room.
Sprawling and reclining languidly on these couches are a great hundred of desirable women, the daughters of every race under the sun and of every age from nubilitiy to sumptuous matronhood. Most are scantily-clad, others mostly naked except for subtle and exciting perfumes. Even those with clothes there is a basic pattern from which the clothing deviates rarely: long, gauze robes hung from of ornate headdresses, providing a semblance of modesty for the halters and scanty briefs exposing shameless amounts of cleavage and midriff, respectively.
To every side sprawls women of incredible variety, their appearance ranging from achingly sweet-faced to breathtakingly lovely to maddeningly voluptuous. There are black women like languid panthers their sinuous limbs, oiled with nard and amber, agleam in the rosy light like waxed ebony; Caucasian women with tumbling ringlets of purest gold and white limbs like living alabaster; luxurious Jewesses with opulent bosoms and curling red manes; slim, exquisite maidens from exotic isles with piquant almond eyes that peer curiously and invitingly at them from under huge masses of ink-black hair elaborated into fantastic structures and pinned with thin blades of bamboo and jade and carnelian.
Surely the harem of no emperor or potentate in all of history has housed such a various horde of femininity!
When the PCs enter the chamber, the closest concubine tosses back her hair in the flurry of darkness, her red lips part, and she looks towards them with hunger, and her dark eyes dilate hypnotically.
She rises to her feet and comes swaying towards you, more graceful than a sinuous snake. She takes a single slow step forward, right leg swinging out a little, coming back to the left and down, toes touching the floor, flattening, the ball of the foot taking weight, then the heel. She extends her hands, nails down, palms up, reaching out to you.
“You can have me,” she promises. “I will give you kisses.” The pink tip of her tongue shows, curls, touches her upper lip, recedes. The corners of her mouth stretch wide in a smile. "He will give me to you.”"
The woman sways a bit on her feet. The smile widens, and the voice purrs low, insinuatingly: “I can be yours. It’s what you want. Would you like to love me? To hurt me? I will be yours. It doesn’t have to be me. Would you like someone older? Younger? All the things you dreamed of doing, He will give to you."
All of the concubines are agitated, their eyes glancing left and right, and some lift their hands nervously to toy with their hair, clothes, and jewelry, or sway from left to right, reclining now on one rounded, marvelous hip, now tucking long legs the other way to recline on the other. Some are giggling, peering over their shoulders, and making sly rhymes to one another in a soft whisper.
And from lips plum-purple, scarlet, palest pink fall in liquid syllables alluring and beckoning phrases, woman after woman invites the intruders to pause in their progress, to rest and refresh themselves, and to partake of the pleasures of her couch.
It would test the austerity of a thrice-devout hermit to resist such honeyed blandishments, and, indeed, the blood of most male PCs (and perhaps even some female PCs) heats by gazing upon such curvaceous expanses of bared flesh, unconsciously stretching forth hungry hands to caress the nearest succulent thigh.
Everything else seems to fade in the face of the universe of desire opening before you. You smile indiscriminately, the assortment of them makes you wish you could throw yourself upon any of the couches and spend a week, a month, a year or even eternity in this paradise of female flesh, sampling them all. But, alas, you can't afford another minute here. Besides you recognize it for the dangerous temptation that it is. These are His women, His property, His possessions, and He would not want them touched by any other. You know that to so much as stroke a lock of the head of these ladies or to prod a ripe breast might instantly consign you to a doom everlasting and terrible.
Smart PCs will avert their eyes from so much bared beauty, hastening through the midst of the warmly scented concubine's flesh, avoiding the various curves and elbows and clouds of lustrous hair offered by the enormous boudoir.
Should any of the PCs attempt to partake of the pleasures of this chamber, read the following:
The couch is firm like a futon. A silk cushion on a shallow-angled headrest supports your neck while the lady lounges on a backless chair with its legs of crisscrossed ivory tusks. A blue glass bowl of oranges, grapes and pomegranates rests on a delicate checkerboard of a table. A terracotta lamp impersonates a gilding crow and hangs at the end of a chain bolted into massive ceiling beams. Between couch and chair, a beehive-like censer balances on a three-footed pole.
From her exquisite hand to your lips, she feeds you orange segments one by one, as if they're precious exotic commodities.
You take the pipe, its surface texture is golden and scaled. Snake-skin? You take a breath from the hookah, and a grin spreads across your face as the world around you appears to sharpen, as though each edge and line is etched with greater force on the fabric of reality. You see echoes in movement, sound as ripples in the air and darting shapes that dance on the edges of your vision. Everything suddenly seem to be more real, as though what you had thought was reality is now revealed to be little more than a veneer over the true face of the world.
More of the women appear, each more alluring than the last. They come bearing silver ewers, and one holds out a goblet that throws dazzling refractions of light in all directions from the complex lattice of its cut crystal. You try to follow the myriad beams of light, reaching up to touch them, but give up as another concubine pours a clear, viscous fluid into the goblet you weren't even aware you'd taken.
A heady aroma of salt swims in your senses and you raise the goblet cautiously to your face.
"Ah, this you will like," promises the nearest concubine. "We call it Lacrimosa. An exquisite wine." She raises her cup in a wordless toast. You take a tentative sip. Your eyes widen. The taste is indeed exquisite. The flavor is pleasure itself, a heady symphony of aromas from the erotic to the spiritual. It is heights and depths of emotion in liquid form. You tilt your face back to drain the goblet
Eventually they draw asunder a hanging of lion-skins stitched together with silver wire, pass into the chamber that lays beyond, where even greater temptations might await them.
Hall of Justice
You thought you had experienced the strangest sights the Citadel had to offer, and again you have been proven wrong.
You are now in a surreal hall faced with a multitude of wavering archways, each made of some emerald green crystal, There is a total of fifty archway pillars made of green crystal with sharp edges and pointed tops. They are some fifteen feet tall and five feet thick. Each pillar holds a mysterious dark shape, and you are reminded of insects held trapped in amber.
Each shows a different scene --- images of unspeakable horror and disturbing intensity.
In the center of all of this is a bizarre sight: a blackened tree sprouting from the floor itself as a single thickly twisted trunk.
Its black, twisted exterior of shimmering bark suggests pain and agony. Its branches are spread wide in a circular fashion, with flat tops resembling that of an acacia tree. Thistled acanthus leaves bloom sharply from its limbs that resemble human arms, hands, legs or feet. Growing through these appendages are enormous, monstrous spines that pierce the tree's own surface, weeping a crimson sap that resembles human blood. Thorny barbs protrude and wrap around the branches, and tumorous growths blister the trunk. Large, blackened fruits dangle from the thistle of each leaf; the fruits are over-ripe and their juices are heavily acidic and burn the tree’s trunk visibly along with anyone who touches them (let alone anyone foolish enough to eat them).
The bark of its exterior appeared to be etched and glowing faintly. You see that there are flaming golden letters spelling out words and phrases on it. The etching appear crude and dark, like it was done by some sort of acid, and the glow appears red, and you feel you would be burned if you touched those letters.
You move closer to its central trunk, finally seeing it.
The tree has a face. The face and torso (breasts, partial sholders, stomach, pelvis) of a woman. Like some mockery of a wood nymph of legend.
She stands as a mockery of a tree nymph. Her head is arched back, staring upward with an agonized expression. The head is arched back and staring upward with expression of utter agony her face contorted with pain and fear. The mouth is a dark hole. The cords of her neck are strained to bursting with a soundless scream. Her eyes are gone and bristle with more of the barbs and spines. Two large branches resembling hands are raised towards the ceiling, making the woman of the tree seem to be beseeching to the heavens above, pleading for release.
If one should break off a branch, then red blood will flow from the break like sap.
If one observes the tree long enough, one sees that the woman’s features subtly shift and change, as though slowly writhing in silent agony as her own barbs pierce her, her own fruit burns her flesh, her mouth forms silent words begging for release, pleading for forgiveness.
Those that know the legend know that this tree is no mere sadistic sculpture or depraved monument, but a special prison for one particular, singularly unfortunate woman, who, in times long past, dared to successfully best Caspian in a writing contest where she dared to win first place, while Caspian won second. For this alone, she was condemned to an eternity of being bonded to this specially prepared tree, her nervous system intrinsically bound to the tree’s and the words of her upstart piece of fiction forever etched on her surface. Even after eight millennia, she is still ‘alive’ through the normal means of photosynthesis, and still in constant agony within the tree’s trunk (unlike normal plants, the tree of agony has a functioning nervous system), unable even to scream. All in a subtle mockery of the plot of the story she wrote that dared to win over Caspian’s; she now has all eternity to regret her “error.”
Portal to the Inferno: This particular portal shows a man, completely naked and hanging suspended by metal wires as thin as piano wire. The wires run through the man’s flesh at specific points. The man hangs suspended in a white marble room reminiscent to a marble mausoleum. At the far end of the room is a fireplace of white marble or granite. On top of the fireplace is a clock. If the man makes the slightest move, he will experience the agony caused by the metal wires grating against his exposed nerves, but this is the minor part of his punishment. Twice a day, when the hands of the clock reach 11:24 a pillar of fire erupts from the floor, burning the man’s flesh straight to his bones. He screams as he is engulfed by fire, futilely struggling against the metal wires and causing himself further agony. Just as soon as the fire appears, it dissipates and viewers will observe that his burns slowly over the course of an hour heal and regenerate to look the same as before. It is clear that the clock’s only purpose is for the man to anticipate the fire which arrives punctually every day at the exact same time.
Portal to the Depths: This portal looks upon a scene of dimness, as though deep underwater; indeed it is underwater. Here, another man is held in the depths by thick, rusted chains around his hands and feet. His stomach is extended and bloated from the water, and yet he is alive. His cold flesh is the sickliest shade of pale green, like that of a water-drowned corpse, but he is still alive, suffering the agonies of deep pressure, the constant numbing cold of the deep sea depths, even the chains around his wrists and ankles are rusted and clamped too tight and appear to bite into his exposed flesh to chafe it raw.
Portal to Illumination: This portal looks into a chamber of brilliant light; all of shining crystalline gold behind which vague shapes swim. Barely visible in the center is another man, he is hung from one of the walls by leather straps. Behind him is a metal grated surface. Constant streams of water droplets fall on him from above, completely soaking the man. Every few minutes, a visible arc of electricity flows from the walls into the man who writhes and screams from the conductive current, his body visibly steams from the electricity.
You can almost smell his burning flesh as he convulses horribly in his restraints, the air crackling with a charge so powerful that you feel the hairs stirring on your arms.
They see the man's eyes burst, and blood oozes thickly to further stain his already caked shirt. Like perennials, they will grow back.
Portal to the Pressure: This portal looks upon a bare stone room. In the center is another man, this one is restrained by thick barbed vines that bite into his wrists and ankles, holding him back upon a plinth of rock, almost like a sacrificial altar. Positioned on the center of the man’s chest is a large, thick slab of the same stone as the rest of the chamber. The man looks like he is being crushed by the weight, and yet he still lives. What exposed flesh is seen appears blistered, and with odd, tumorous growths caused by the slab’s veins of greenish radioactive ore. Like the first man’s, he seems to be regenerating and keeps the malignant growth at bay. His mouth hangs open, and a constant dribble of water comes down from the ceiling into his own mouth to keep him hydrated.
These are His enemies; all preserved like insects in amber, gems in their settings, or animals in their pens.
There are some from the Dungeon, the Oubliettes, the Stronghold of the Ten Thousand Condemned, the Mirror Maze, the Labyrinth beneath: wherever Caspian keeps another being imprisoned there is viewing window for Caspian’s amusement, to clearly show his absolute mastery over them. Each of the corners holds a pyramid of glass cases, each case contains a preserved head of a vanquished enemy. Fallen enemies, covered in cocoons of molten gold and adamantium, are arranged like monumental statues in some areas.
The Eighty-Fifth Level
Balcony
White silk curtains located in the right side of the bedroom open to a hallway which further leads to twin partition doors, that are huge, paneled things delicately painted in blue, yellow and carmine. Pass these doors, in the "back" of the level, is this area that overlooks the palace-city and surrounding waters, beneath an oval arch of gleaming white ivory.
The balcony is more of an elevated ziggurat, a pyramidal pavilion or lofty successive stage, 30 feet high spreading out beneath a gothic canopy.
Above the arch’s pinnacle, clearly visible to all, is a slightly larger-than-life statue of Caspian made of white alabaster standing beneath the gothic canopy. Beneath this is a veranda of alabaster where a fluted throne is set up. A few beach chairs and decadently overstuffed, chaise lounges made of white-stained wood and inlaid with ivory and tiny white pearls are also placed at the top of the veranda; the cushions and back of ermine. An unusual staircase leads down to the pyramidally tiered pavilion constructed from large platinum bricks and alabaster stone. The pavilion’s white surfaces, exterior and interior, are inlaid with alternating blue, red and gold crystal tiles of delicacy that is seemingly infinite. In the center of each tile is a bright crystal globe of the same color as the tile. The walled-in tiers are checkered-floored trenches of gold and scarlet filled with a crowd of sculptures, some set with fragments of glittering ore, some roughly hewn from blocks of stone, some barely human in shape, others gaudy baroque statuary.
Two large avian heads extend above to either side of the canopy. The top edges of the veranda are lined with white marble arches similar to those of the Coliseum in Roma ring the uppermost level topped with monumental bartizan-like braziers of ivory, while the bottom edges are lined with several cruciform apparatuses made of crystal with leather restraints. Caspian’s visage is carved into two massive stone faces situated at the two ends, looking outward. They are supported by oval, faceted diamonds, each some eight feet in diameter, and suffused with a warm glow.
Things to See:
The Throne:
The throne has a sunburst design in the front and back, a fluted scallop shell at the top, all made from every variety of gold strung together. On the throne’s front is a black oval, polished like a mirror, that is surrounded by mottled conglomerations of spheres and bubbles. The back rail and legs of the seat form a continuous semicircle, gently descending toward the front with the terminals of the arms bent slightly back in a rhythmic yet reserved curve. Thick bars of gold are formed into a pair of small, smiling drama masks and tapered, S-shaped side posts at the bottom front.
The Seraphim Servitors:
Four roosting Seraphims are constantly on watch, blazing within the fiery confines of a brazier. When Caspian sits upon his throne, all four Seraphim start to rise above the throne, their taloned feet stop just above its backrest rest, wings spread over Caspian's head, the tip of their wingspans touch as they melt together in a perfect canopy.
Stairway of Fallen Fools:
This staircase of the damned leads down to the veranda. The steps are uneven as each "step" is a cracked and burnt life-size stone carving of a tortured human on the verge of death, writhing in agony and contorted unnaturally, screaming face locked in a different kind of precious stone - everything from alabaster to obsidian, garnet to agate, limestone, soapstone and black burnished clay, hematite to malachite to moonstone, surreally beautiful despite their horror. Some of the figures appear to be melting, some run though with arrows, spears or daggers, some being crushed by giant stone serpents, some are impaling themselves with their own blades, others grasping at chains or torture implements, and still others are being devoured by insects. Unlike the others, these images are not statues, but enemies from Caspian's mortal life, petrified to stone at the moment of imminent death. They were tortured for years before Caspian turned them to stone right before death could claim them. Even today, he occasionally speaks to them and as he ascends to his throne on the balcony he crushes them underfoot. All are covered in minute cracks.
Corridor to the Throne:
A gleaming corridor that burns brightly with all the colors of the rainbow in a prismatic display. Unimaginable energies crackle through the air, raising the hair on arms and down the backs of necks. The bitter smell of electricity tickles your nostrils and burns your eyes.
The corridor feels like glass, although it is impervious to harm. Any character exploring this region experiences a tingle of energy across his/her entire body until he/she leaves. The double doors to the throne room are ninety feet in height, made of smooth black rosewood, and covered with indiscernible symbols and finally emblazoned with the crescent-moon. The wood of the door is so polished that it shines like metal.
Throne Room of the Self:
Beyond is a vast room lit by thousands of gas jets. It soars sixty feet, ending in a great white dome. The room itself is circular with a diameter of perhaps two hundred yards. Its circumference is set with over three hundred, tall and narrow archways with a mosaic walk about ten feet wide inside it that runs completely around the chamber. The walk is set about an inch above the level of the great pool that constitutes most of the surface level of the place. The walls the doors are set in are brilliant, pristine white, but mostly unadorned. The floor is mostly a wide, shallow pool of clear water, with smooth, flat surfaces “floating” on it, fed by oddly shaped dispensers hung on the shining white walls.
Things to See:
The Throne:
And in its center is a circular islet of smooth red ruby with a diameter of forty feet, a triple-tiered blood red dais that has been carved with golden symbols from which raises a high backed throne carved from a solid gigantic sapphire, that is surprisingly comfortable. The fantastic sapphire stands upon a flat diamond, cut in such a manner as to form the floor of the throne room.
The Chessboard:
On a floating stand next to the throne is a finely-crafted chessboard made of green malachite and onyx. The pieces for one side are made of gold, the other silver. On the white side there are hooded monks in white robes, angel-winged knights, thin ivory towers, the bishops resemble Madcap, one queen resembles Esmeralda. On the other side the pawns resemble sword-wielding barbarians, knights whom resemble Kanis, spiked fortresses, the bishops resemble Arka and the other queen resembles Anastasia. The kings on both sides resemble Caspian. All of the pawns look like humans, and some of them are recognizable as historical world leaders.
The All-Seeing Cube:
To the other side of the throne is a floating golden cube with six circular screens.
For all of his might and far-reaching senses, Caspian still appreciates the value of spying on his subjects. This cube is keyed into Caspian's surveillance network of Servitors and other devices. With this cube, someone sitting on the throne may gaze upon anyone or anyplace within eyesight of anyone of Caspian's servitors, and command anyone of those to use any ability of theirs on the person or place! When Caspian uses it, he may use of his abilities on that person or place at the standard cost. In addition, the cube is keyed into his normal surveillance network of crystal balls, Gazer servitors, Watch Towers, security cameras, etc, and acts as a terminal for it, allowing it to display what any of those other devices see. It may even access anything in Spite's information-gathering network if necessary. Unless otherwise noted, assume that the cube can see anyone that is plot-relevant, and cannot see anything that isn't. Think of it like a TV screen hooked up to a computer-controlled security system. but one that spans the entirety of Caspian's empire.
Rising above the pool are two golden pedestals on crimson daises, each supporting huge glass cells from their centers. These cells are used to hold prisoners which Caspian wants to flaunt his power in front of. Each has 500 S.D.C. On the ceiling hang four glowing, rune-inscribed obelisks, between them crackle streams of energy. And above them on the ceiling is a realistic image of the night sky, complete with blazing stars, swirling galaxies, and whirling comets, hurting the mind with the sheer number and intensity of it. Behind the throne is a series of massive, cascading waterfalls, flowing into the pool of the floor.
The Sixty-Ninth Level
Treasure Room
You kneel and gather up a handful of coins. They are old and tarnished—coins of copper, silver, gold, electrum, platinum, and metals blue, green, black, for which you have no name. Some are round, others square or oval; some bear portraits either profile or full-face; the inscriptions are in languages you cannot not read. The floor of the chamber is completely covered with coins and gems, as far as the eye can reach. And it is an awfully large room.
Gem Vault:
Great urns and casques lay thick-set to every side, and within each blaze and glitter a profusion of gems beyond the most perfervid dreams of Croesus. There are alexandrines like split droplets of purple wine, topazes like the eyes of panthers, tourmalines like the flesh of ripe melons, emeralds green as lagoons, amethysts like shards of deepest sunset, opals whose ever-mutable hues ravish the entire spectrum, rubies pulse like live coals, and pearls are strewn like miniature moons, and zircons glitter like sharp ice-crystals, and lumps of amber hold frozen in their smoky depths fantastic insects and bizarre reptiles, and sapphires sparkle like bits of twilight skies, and carbuncles gleam, garnets like clots of blood, great diamonds like stars fallen from the night skies, beads of jet like bits of polished darkness, sunstones of honey-hearted fire, chunks of turquoise like pieces of morning, fragments of rose-crystal beyond price, and stranger and even rarer gems of every color and description to which there is no name, for each is unique and one of a kind, having been taken alien worlds and stars beyond the moons of Caspia.