He spoke a word of power and held his open palm before one of the blank walls of his sanctuary. The magic warped space. The stone wavered, vanished, and was replaced by a door-shaped aperture. Vhostym levitated a few handsbreadths off the smooth floor-to ease the strain on his body-and floated through the portal. It sealed shut behind him the moment he cleared it.
In contrast to the austerity of the meditation chamber, the lounge beyond was stuffed with luxuries. Piles of silks, soft cushions, furs, divans, and chairs from many worlds lay strewn haphazardly around the room. As a young man, when he had sought sensation in mistleaf, potent liquors, and the pleasures of the flesh, such things had seemed important to him. No longer. Only one thing was important to him.
Of the hundreds of chambers and rooms that existed in the honeycombed rock of his Underdark pocket plane, that room alone he allowed to remain in such disarray. The chaos of the decor and the decadence of the furnishings appealed to his slaadi. It was their favorite chamber.
Azriim and Dolgan awaited him there.
Azriim sat on a divan on the far side of the lounge in the form of a half-drow, stylishly dressed. Vhostym thought his son enjoyed that body better than his own-a human form was perhaps a more suitable tool for enjoying sensation, he supposed. And what Azriim enjoyed, Azriim did. Vhostym admired that about his son. Of the four slaadi of the brood, Vhostym thought Azriim had taken after him the most.
Seeing Vhostym, Azriim stood and bowed, a reluctant gesture for the prideful slaad.
"Sojourner," he said.
Vhostym smiled. Azriim had never called Vhostym "father" or "master," only "Sojourner." It was enough. Vhostym respected his independence.
On the floor near Azriim, Dolgan crouched on his haunches in his natural form-a hulking, bipedal, toadlike creature with leathery green skin and a face full of fangs. The flesh of his muscular forearm oozed black blood from self-inflicted claw scratches. His dullest son was obsessed with pain-both giving it and receiving it. The fact that the slaadi quickly regenerated their wounds only fed Dolgan's fetish. Even as Vhostym watched, Dolgan's wounds closed to light scars.
"Master," the big slaad croaked, and abased himself on the floor.
Vhostym looked upon his largest son with impatience and replied, "Stand, Dolgan. You are my son, not my slave."
At those words, Vhostym thought he detected a sneer on Azriim's lips.
Dolgan clambered to his feet, his hind claws scratching against the stone floor, and said, "Yes, Father."
Lightly and quickly, so as not to humiliate his sons, Vhostym extended his mental perception into the brains of his slaadi and brushed their surface thoughts. He found impatience and eagerness. Azriim gave it voice.
"You have studied the Weave Tap for days, Sojourner, and now have been in sanctuary still another."
Had it been so long? Vhostym thought he had been amidst the stars but a few hours. Strange. Still, he did not approve of Azriim's tone. His sons took liberties with him that few in the multiverse would dare.
"You state the obvious, Azriim. And your tone borders on impertinence."
To give his point an edge, he entered Azriim's mind and caressed the pain-receptors of the slaad's brain. Azriim went rigid and bared his perfect teeth.
Dolgan grinned at his brother's pain.
Vhostym released his favorite son.
Azriim shot Dolgan a glare, returned his mismatched gaze to Vhostym, and adopted a more respectful tone.
"I meant only to suggest that we stand ready to begin the next phase."
Dolgan dug his claws into his palms and said, "But first Father must tell us what the next phase is."
Vhostym said, "That is your brother's very point, Dolgan." He looked at Azriim. "You wish to begin the next phase because you desire the transformation? The drive is strong upon you?"
"Now you state the obvious," Azriim replied, and his eyes-one blue and one brown-narrowed with perturbation.
At that, Vhostym considered causing more severe pain to Azriim, but decided against it. Instead, he opted for magnanimity and smiled benevolently on his son.
"I do, but my intent in doing so is to teach a lesson."
Azriim took a half step backward, no doubt thinking more pain to be forthcoming, and asked, "A lesson?"
Dolgan too looked puzzled, enough so that he stopped tearing gashes into his own hand.
Vhostym waved his hand in the air, spoke a word of power, and a chalice of two-hundred year old Halruaan wine materialized in his grasp.
"Sit," he said, in a tone of voice that the slaadi dared not disobey.
Both dropped to the floor. Vhostym floated between them and sat on the cushions of a divan. Their eyes followed him to where he sat. He sipped from the wine and sighed-full bodied, and as magically smooth as the velvet he sat upon.
"I am pleased with your success in recovering the Weave Tap. But oftentimes, we learn more from failure than from success."
The slaadi looked questions at him.
"The priest of Mask did not thwart your recovery of the Weave Tap. He failed. Not so?"
They nodded, though Azriim scowled, and his hand went to his abdomen, where the Shadowlord's priest had wounded him.
"His failure has something to teach us," Vhostym said. "Characterize him."
Dolgan looked perplexed. The big slaad looked from Azriim to Vhostym to Azriim again. His confusion caused him to scrape still more flesh from his palm.
"What do you mean, 'characterize him'?" Azriim asked.
Vhostym smiled. He enjoyed these interactions with his sons; they made him feel paternal.
"You, Azriim, are precise. You, Dolgan, are brutal. Serrin is merciless. That is each of your respective characters. Do you understand?"
Azriim nodded.
"Excellent. Now characterize this priest who killed your sister, nearly killed Dolgan, and managed to wound even you."
That tweaked Azriim's pride, exactly as Vhostym had intended.
"This is ridiculous," Azriim said, his tone bitter. "The priest is dead."
"Drowned," Dolgan added.
"Perhaps," Vhostym said. "Characterize him nevertheless."
With typical stubbornness, Azriim refused to answer. He crossed his arms across his chest and looked away. Vhostym could scarcely contain a smile. His slaadi, each of them a powerful, skillful killer when out of his sight, reverted to childishness when in his presence. He supposed the phenomenon was the same across all sentient species.
"Come, Azriim," Vhostym chided, "characterize him."