The Lady of Pain
Stephenls
--
Stephenls
Geek
We wouldn't be in this mess if it weren't for your stupid evil.
--Jhonen Vasquez
A'koss
news:3C368CBF...@shaw.ca...
> Is there any actual information about her and what she is?
They've never directly revealed her origins but probably the most telling
"canon" information about her can be found in the module "Die Vecna, Die!".
The Lady of Pain is (supposedly) one of D&D dues ex machinas "The Ancient
Brethren" which include such luminaries as "The Serpent" (the living sum of
all magic in the multiverse and Vecna's ally). The Lady of Pain has much
more power than any god and is apparantly the "caretaker" of the entire
multiverse but is limited in how much power she can use while in Sigil.
Sigil's underlying structure is the keystone for the entire multiverse but
cannot abide divine energy in it's presence or the entire multiverse begins
to slowly unravel. Ditto if the Lady of Pain were to summon all her might
within the city... from DV,D! "In like manner, should the Lady reveal
herself in her true form in all it's aching majesty to do battle with the
waxing god (Vecna), the multiverse would come undone like a mobile whose
strings are simultaneously severed." This is where the heroes come in to
save the day in the adventure...
So right away we know that the Lady of Pain's power is not divine in nature
but has full grasp of the "Language Primeval" - a magic beyond the gods that
can reorder all of creation (called "superspace"). She uses this power to
shore up the damage done by Vecna to the multiverse at the end of the
adventure (and the first words she's uttered in millenia apparantly). The
College of Magic first introduced the concept of this magic but on a much
smaller scale.
In other words, she's tall, spikey and likes cheese...
A'koss!
One-Winged Angel
the lady is concerned. the "she's a power, the daughter of a power (poseidon & queen of elemental
air), and was the bethrothed of a power (set)" part is seen in the novel as a part of her supposed
lost "memories" returned by poseidon, her supposed father. she lost her memories bcos she was
touched by the river styx. but the lady herself, in the novel, rejected it saying how can she
remember the true name of the river if she is supposed to have forgotten it? she further suggest
that poseidon may be claiming her as a "lost daughter" in order to get an upper edge in sigil. so
the visions in pgs of pain may or may not be true, which gives us various possibilities...
1. pgs of pain is true, thus the lady is a daughter of poseidon who learnt the language primeval (as
noted in die vecna die).
2. pgs of pain is false, being an attempt of poseidon to con the lady into kinship. the lady is thus
1 of the ancient brethens who speaks the language primeval (i.e. dvd is true).
3. both pgs of pain & dvd are false, others claim her to be a banished tanar'ri (planescape campaign
setting), or even 1 of the elder eternals (like kezef, dendar serpent, etc).
"Wildwood" <wildw...@pipeline.com> wrote in message
news:gqpd3usu10eq8p14n...@4ax.com...
>
> >Is there any actual information about her and what she is?
>
> Her background is talked about in the novel "Pages of Pain," IIRC, but
> there have never been game stats for her (nor should there be, since
> she's a power, the daughter of a power, and was the bethrothed of a
> power).
>
> Bill
>
A'koss
> Good little faeries are supposed to turn into forest lights somewhere
> in the Seelie woods, which is why "A'koss" <infi...@shaw.ca> is a bad
> little faerie.
> I had forgotten about this, but it is all completely opposite the
> information in the novel "Pages of Pain," where she is revealed to be
> a Power, the daughter of a power, and the betrothed of another power.
As this was pointed out already this origin is essentially a trick by
Posiedon to try and gain access to Sigil.
> Perhaps the wording "should the Lady reveal herself in her true form
> in all it's aching majesty to do battle with the waxing god (Vecna),
> the multiverse would come undone like a mobile whose strings are
> simultaneously severed" is because she limits her power while in
> Sigil, voluntarily lowering her full power status to a lower level,
> which is still well above mere mortals and even solars, pit fiends,
> balors, etc.
If you read through the module you find that the Lady of Pain just cannot
use her full power on anything *within* Sigil. She can, however, direct her
full power outside Sigil (even if she is still in Sigil herself) as she did
when she repaired the multiverse at the end of module and made it so that
other gods couldn't attempt the trick that Vecna tried. A trick taught to
him "the Serpent" no less...
> After all, if she showed her full power in Sigil, she herself would
> break the ban on powers in Sigil, opening the floodgates for every
> power to enter (as well as demon/tanar'ri lords and devil/baatezu
> princes).
If you read the module, that isn't the problem. The module describes what
would happen if she removed the barrier allowing more gods to enter _or_
decided to attain full power herself. Notice how they say the even with
multiple gods in Sigil the damage would occur more quickly than with Vecna
alone, but if she herself rose in power the multiverse crumbles instantly.
This suggests how much more power she has over the other gods.
> The other powers don't enter because she is a greater power
> not only her home plane, but in her own realm, and thus reigns supreme
> within the borders of Sigil if she needs to call upon her full powers.
She's no god, gods require worshippers in order for them to have power.
Remember that the Lady of Pain *kills* anyone who worships her and as
Planescape keeps telling us "belief is power". If enough people worshipped
her she would herself become one and would no longer be able to stay in
Sigil. She's obviously operates on a different level like the Serpent and
whatever these "Ancient Brethren / Elders" are supposed to be.
A'koss!
"She likes cheese. She told me so herself."
Ben Buckner
>
> Is there any actual information about her and what she is?
She's a Greyhawk dominatrix who has embarrassing polaroids
of all the gods from back when they were just ordinary
adventurers.
Ben B.
Hekate Trismegista
Wildwood wrote:
>
> Just my 2 cents, but it ties the 2 sources together better, since her
> background (but not full powers) ARE spelled out in another source.
Novels take a backseat to sourcebooks when it comes to canon,
thankfully.
--
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Listowner: Aberrants_Worldwide, Fading_Suns_Games, TrinityRPG
AeonAdventure | "No turning on the lights in the evil room,
dammit!" | -- http://www.sluggy.com
R Buckland
"A'koss" <infi...@shaw.ca> wrote in message
news:BSJZ7.5117$Gb1.9...@news2.calgary.shaw.ca...
<snip>
> She's no god, gods require worshippers in order for them to have power.
> Remember that the Lady of Pain *kills* anyone who worships her and as
> Planescape keeps telling us "belief is power". If enough people worshipped
> her she would herself become one and would no longer be able to stay in
> Sigil. She's obviously operates on a different level like the Serpent and
> whatever these "Ancient Brethren / Elders" are supposed to be.
True. But look at AO from the FR setting. He has no real worshipers. There
are people that follow him but he grants them no power or real attention.
She could be a power or something higher then a power on AO's level.
Ryan
Sir Bob
I think it's noted somewhere that the gods themselves "worship"
overpowers like Ao, though what form this worship takes is never
really cleared up.
- Sir Bob.
P.S. Nih!
Frost
home. And here Stephenls <step...@shaw.ca> wrote on Fri, 04 Jan 2002
21:18:55 -0800:
>Is there any actual information about her and what she is?
Try the poem called 'Dolores (Notre-Dame des sept Douleurs)', by
Algernon Charles Swinburne. Therein the Lady of Pain is the
personification of pain, the daughter of Libitina (burial goddess) and
Priapus (god of fertility), in essence a child of 'death' and 'lust'.
For those interested here is the poem:
Dolores (Notre-Dame des sept Douleurs)
Cold eyelids that hide like a jewel
Hard eyes that grow soft for an hour;
The heavy white limbs, and the cruel
Red mouth like a venomous flower;
When these are gone by with their glories,
What shall rest of thee then, what remain,
O mystic and sombre Dolores,
Our Lady of Pain?
Seven sorrows the priests give their Virgin;
But thy sins, which are seventy times seven,
Seven ages would fail thee to purge in,
And then they would haunt thee in heaven:
Fierce midnights and famishing morrows,
And the loves that complete and control
All the joys of the flesh, all the sorrows
That wear out the soul.
O garment not golden but gilded,
O garden where all men may dwell,
O tower not of ivory, but builded
By hands that reach heaven from hell;
O mystical rose of the mire,
O house not of gold but of gain,
O house of unquenchable fire,
Our Lady of Pain!
O lips full of lust and of laughter,
Curled snakes that are fed from my breast,
Bite hard, lest remembrance come after
And press with new lips where you pressed.
For my heart too springs up at the pressure,
Mine eyelids too moisten and burn;
Ah, feed me and fill me with pleasure,
Ere pain come in turn.
In yesterday's reach and to-morrow's,
Out of sight though they lie of to-day,
There have been and there yet shall be sorrows
That smite not and bite not in play.
The life and the love thou despisest,
These hurt us indeed, and in vain,
O wise among women, and wisest,
Our Lady of Pain.
Who gave thee thy wisdom? what stories
That stung thee, what visions that smote?
Wert thou pure and a maiden, Dolores,
When desire took thee first by the throat?
What bud was the shell of the blossom
That all men may smell to and pluck?
What milk fed thee first at what bosom?
What sins gave thee suck?
We shift and bedeck and bedrape us,
Thou art noble and nude and antique;
Libitina thy mother, Priapus
Thy father, a Tuscan and Greek.
We play with light loves in the portal,
And wince and relent and refrain;
Loves die, and we know thee immortal,
Our Lady of Pain.
Fruits fail and love dies and time ranges;
Thou art fed with perpetual breath,
And alive after infinite changes,
And fresh from the kisses of death;
Of languours rekindled and rallied,
Of barren delights and unclean,
Things monstrous and fruitless, a pallid
And poisonous queen.
Could you hurt me, sweet lips, though I hurt you?
Men touch them, and change in a trice
The lilies and languours of virtue
For the raptures and roses of vice;
Those lie where thy foot on the floor is,
These crown and caress thee and chain,
O splendid and sterile Dolores,
Our Lady of Pain.
There are sins it may be to discover,
There are deeds it may be to delight.
What new work wilt thou find for thy lover,
What new passions for daytime or night?
What spells that they know not a word of
Whose lives are as leaves overblown?
What tortures undreamt of, unheard of,
Unwritten, unknown?
Ah beautiful passionate body
That never has ached with a heart!
On thy mouth though the kisses are bloody,
Though they sting till it shudder and smart,
More kind than the love we adore is,
They hurt not the heart or the brain,
O bitter and tender Dolores,
Our Lady of Pain.
As our kisses relax and redouble,
From the lips and the foam and the fangs
Shall no new sin be born for men's trouble,
No dream of impossible pangs?
With the sweet of the sins of old ages
Wilt thou satiate thy soul as of yore?
Too sweet is the rind, say the sages,
Too bitter the core.
Hast thou told all thy secrets the last time,
And bared all thy beauties to one?
Ah, where shall we go then for pastime,
If the worst that can be has been done?
But sweet as the rind was the core is;
We are fain of thee still, we are fain,
O sanguine and subtle Dolores,
Our Lady of Pain.
By the hunger of change and emotion
By the thirst of unbearable things,
By despair, the twin-born of devotion
By the pleasure that winces and stings,
The delight that consumes the desire,
The desire that outruns the delight,
By the cruelty deaf as a fire
And blind as the night,
By the ravenous teeth that have smitten
Through the kisses that blossom and bud,
By the lips intertwisted and bitten
Till the foam has a savour of blood,
By the pulse as it rises and falters,
By the hands as they slacken and strain,
I adjure thee, respond from thine altars,
Our Lady of Pain.
Wilt thou smile as a woman disdaining
The light fire in the veins of a boy?
But he comes to thee sad, without feigning,
Who has wearied of sorrow and joy;
Less careful of labour and glory
Than the elders whose hair has uncurled;
And young, but with fancies as hoary
And grey as the world.
I have passed from the outermost portal
To the shrine where a sin is a prayer;
What care though the service be mortal?
O our Lady of Torture, what care?
All thine the last wine that I pour is,
The last in the chalice we drain,
O fierce and luxurious Dolores,
Our Lady of Pain.
All thine the new wine of desire,
The fruit of four lips as they clung
Till the hair and the eyelids took fire,
The foam of a serpentine tongue,
The froth of the serpents of pleasure,
More salt than the foam of the sea,
Now felt as a flame, now at leisure
As wine shed for me.
Ah thy people, thy children, thy chosen,
Marked cross from the womb and perverse!
They have found out the secret to cozen
The gods that constrain us and curse;
They alone, they are wise, and no other;
Give me place, even me, in their train,
O my sister, my spouse, and my mother,
Our Lady of Pain.
For the crown of our life as it closes
Is darkness, the fruit thereof dust;
No thorns go as deep as a rose's,
And love is more cruel than lust.
Time turns the old days to derision,
Our loves into corpses or wives;
And marriage and death and division
Make barren our lives.
And pale from the past we draw nigh thee,
And satiate with comfortless hours;
And we know thee, how all men belie thee,
And we gather the fruit of thy flowers;
The passion that slays and recovers,
The pangs and the kisses that rain
On the lips and the limbs of thy lovers,
Our Lady of Pain.
The desire of thy furious embraces
Is more than the wisdom of years,
On the blossom though blood lie in traces,
Though the foliage be sodden with tears.
For the lords in whose keeping the door is
That opens to all who draw breath
Gave the cypress to love, my Dolores,
The myrtle to death.
And they laughed, changing hands in the measure,
And they mixed and made peace after strife;
Pain melted in tears, and was pleasure;
Death mingled with blood, and was life.
Like lovers they melted and tingled,
In the dusk of thine innermost fane;
In the darkness they murmured and mingled,
Our Lady of Pain.
In a twilight where virtues are vices,
In thy chapels, unknown of the sun,
To a tune that enthralls and entices,
They were wed, and the twain were as one.
For the tune from thine altar hath sounded
Since God bade the world's work begin,
And the fume of thine incense abounded,
To sweeten the sin.
Love listens, and paler than ashes,
Through his curls as the crown on them slips,
Lifts languid wet eyelids and lashes,
And laughs with insatiable lips.
Thou shalt hush him with heavy caresses,
With music that scares the profane;
Thou shalt darken his eyes with thy tresses,
Our Lady of Pain.
Thou shalt bind his bright eyes though he wrestle,
Thou shalt chain his light limbs though he strive;
In his lips all thy serpents shall nestle,
In his hands all thy cruelties thrive.
In the daytime thy voice shall go through him,
In his dreams he shall feel thee and ache;
Thou shalt kindle by night and subdue him
Asleep and awake.
Thou shalt touch and make redder his roses
With juice not of fruit nor of bud;
When the sense in the spirit reposes,
Thou shalt quicken the soul through the blood.
Thine, thine the one grace we implore is,
Who would live and not languish or feign,
O sleepless and deadly Dolores,
Our Lady of Pain.
Dost thou dream, in a respite of slumber,
In a lull of the fires of thy life,
Of the days without name, without number,
When thy will stung the world into strife;
When, a goddess, the pulse of thy passion
Smote kings as they revelled in Rome;
And they hailed thee re-risen, O Thalassian,
Foam-white, from the foam?
When thy lips had such lovers to flatter;
When the city lay red from thy rods,
And thine hands were as arrows to scatter
The children of change and their gods;
When the blood of thy foemen made fervent
A sand never moist from the main,
As one smote thm, their lord and thy servant,
Our Lady of Pain.
On sands by the storm never shaken,
Nor wet from the washing of tides;
Nor by foam of the waves overtaken,
Nor winds that the thunder bestrides;
But red from the print of thy paces,
Made smooth for the world and its lords,
Ringed round with a flame of fair faces,
And splendid with swords.
There the gladiator, pale for thy pleasure,
Drew bitter and perilous breath;
There torments laid hold on the treasure
Of limbs too delicious for death;
When the gardens were lit with live torches;
When the world was a steed for thy rein;
When the nations lay prone in thy porches,
Our Lady of Pain.
When, with flame all around him aspirant,
Stood flushed, as a harp-player stands,
The implacable beautiful tyrant,
Rose-crowned, having death in his hands;
And a sound as the sound of loud water
Smote far through the flight of the fires,
And mixed with the lightning of slaughter
A thunder of lyres.
Dost thou dream of what was and no more is,
The old kingdoms of earth and the kings?
Dost thou hunger for these things, Dolores,
For these, in a new world of things?
But thy bosom no fasts could emaciate,
No hunger compel to complain
Those lips that no bloodshed could satiate,
Our Lady of Pain.
As of old when the world's heart was lighter,
Through thy garments the grace of thee glows,
The white wealth of thy body made whiter
By the blushes of amorous blows,
And seamed with sharp lips and fierce fingers,
And branded by kisses that bruise;
When all shall be gone that now lingers,
Ah, what shall we lose?
Thou wert fair in the fearless old fashion,
And thy limbs are as melodies yet,
And move to the music of passion,
With lithe and lascivious regret.
What ailed us, O gods, to desert you
For creeds that refuse and restrain?
Come down and redeem us from virtue,
Our Lady of Pain.
All shrines that were Vestal are flameless,
But the flame has not fallen from this;
Though obscure be the god, and though nameless
The eyes and the hair that wqe kiss;
Low fires that love sits by and forges
Fresh heads for his arrows and thine;
Hair loosened and soiled in mid orgies
With kisses and wine.
Thy skin changes country and colour,
And shrivels or swells to a snake's.
Let it brighten and bloat and grow duller,
We know it, the flames and the flakes,
Red brands on it smitten and bitten,
Round skies where a star is a stain,
And the leaves with thy litanies written,
Our Lady of Pain.
On thy bosom though many a kiss be,
There are none such as knew it of old.
Was it Alciphron once or Arisbe,
Male ringlets or feminine gold,
That thy lips met with under the statue,
Whence a look shot out sharp after thieves
From the eyes of the garden-god at you
Across the fig-leaves?
Then still, through dry seasons and moister,
One god had a wreath to his shrine;
Then love was the pearl of his oyster,
And Venus rose red out of wine,
We have all done amiss, choosing rather
Such loves as the wise gods disdain;
Intercede for us thou with thy father,
Our Lady of Pain.
In spring he had crowns of his garden,
Red corn in the heat of the year,
Then hoary green olives that harden
When the grape-blossom freezes with fear;
And milk-budded myrtles with Venus
And vine-leaves with Bacchus he trod;
And ye said, "We have seen, he hath seen us,
A visible God."
What broke off the garlands that girt you?
What sundered you spirit and clay?
Weak sins yet alive are as virtue
To the strength of the sins of that day.
For dried is the blood of thy lover,
Ipsithilla, contracted the vein;
Cry aloud, "Will he rise and recover,
Our Lady of Pain?"
Cry aloud; for the old world is broken;
Cry out; for the Phrygian is priest,
And rears not the bountiful token
And spreads not the fatherly feast.
From the midmost of Ida, from shady
Recesses that murmur at morn,
They have brought and baptized her, Our Lady,
A goddess new-born.
And the chaplets of old are above us,
And the oyster-bed teems out of reach;
Old poets outsing and outlove us,
And Catullus makes mouths at our speech.
Who shall kiss, in thy father's own city,
With such lips as he sang with, again?
Intercede for us all of thy pity,
Our Lady of Pain.
Out of Dindymus heavily laden
Her lions draw bound and unfed
A mother, a mortal, a maiden,
A queen over death and the dead.
She is cold, and her habit is lowly,
Her temple of branches and sods;
Most fruitful and virginal, holy,
A mother of gods.
She hath wasted with fire thine high places,
She hath hidden and marred and made sad
The fair limbs of the Loves, the fair faces
Of gods that were goodly and glad.
She slays, and her hands are not bloody;
She moves as a moon in the wane,
White-robed, and thy raiment is ruddy,
Our Lady of Pain.
They shall pass and their places be taken,
The gods and the priests that are pure,
They shall pass, and shalt thou not be shaken?
They shall perish, and shalt thou endure?
Death laughs, breathing close and relentless
In the nostrils and eyelids of lust,
With a pinch in his fingers of scentless
And delicate dust.
But the worm shall revive thee with kisses;
Thou shalt change and transmute as a god,
As the rod to a serpent that hisses,
As the serpent again to a rod.
Thy life shall not cease though thou doff it;
Thou shalt live until evil be slain,
And the good shall die first, said thy prophet,
Our Lady of Pain.
Did he lie? did he laugh? does he know it,
Now he lies out of reach, out of breath,
Thy prophet, thy preacher, thy poet,
Sin's child by incestuous Death?
Did he find out in fire at his waking,
Or discern as his eyelids lost light,
When the bands of his body were breaking
And all came in sight?
Who has known all the evil before us,
Or the tyrannous secrets of time?
Though we match not the dead men that bore us
At a song, at a kiss, at a crime -
Though the heathen outface and outlive us,
And our lives and our longings are twain -
Ah, forgive us our virtues, forgive us,
Our Lady of Pain.
Who are we that embalm and embrace thee
With spices and savours of song?
What is time, that his children should face thee?
What am I, that my lips do thee wrong?
I could hurt thee - but pain would delight thee;
Or caress thee - but love would repel;
And the lovers whose lips would excite thee
Are serpents in hell.
Who now shall content thee as they did,
Thy lovers, when temples were built
And the hair of the sacrifice braided
And the blood of the sacrifice spilt,
In Lampsacus fervent with faces,
In Aphaca red from thy reign,
Who embraced thee with awful embraces,
Our Lady of Pain?
Where are they, Cotytto or Venus,
Astarte or Ashtaroth, where?
Do their hands as we touch come between us?
Is the breath of them hot in thy hair?
From their lips have thy lips taken fever,
With the blood of their bodies grown red?
Hast thou left upon earth a believer
If these men are dead?
They were purple of raiment and golden,
Filled full of thee, fiery with wine,
Thy lovers, in haunts unbeholden,
In marvellous chambers of thine.
They are fled, and their footprints escape us,
Who appraise thee, adore, and abstain,
O daughter of Death and Priapus,
Our Lady of Pain.
What ails us to fear overmeasure,
To praise thee with timorous breath,
O mistress and mother of pleasure,
The one thing as certain as death?
We shall change as the things that we cherish,
Shall fade as they faded before,
As foam upon water shall perish,
As sand upon shore.
We shall know what the darkness discovers,
If the grave-pit be shallow or deep;
And our fathers of old, and our lovers,
We shall know if they sleep not or sleep.
We shall see whether hell be not heaven,
Find out whether tares be not grain,
And the joys of the seventy times seven,
Our Lady of Pain.
--
R (remove @stuff to reply)
We pushed on, and there was blood on every
step as far back as I could see. There's a
moral there, somewhere."
-- Corwin, 'Nine Princes In Amber'
Funseeker the laughing hunter
they're called?!!!?)...I wonder if I am to understand that there were 2 that
tried to open sigil to "others"?
That hag, and this "vecna"-fellow?
What's his story, anyway?
Funseeker, just curious...
One-Winged Angel
was imprisoned in the maze... later killed by the transcendant one, the soul of the nameless one.
her name is ravel puzzlewell, i think.
vecna is a lich from greyhawk world, then became a demigod... then was trapped in ravenloft. well,
he was a confident of the serpent, one of the ancient brethens (sounds like asmodeus, if u compare
with info from 2E guide to hell). he escaped ravenloft by becoming a greater god (he absorbed iuz,
another demigod) & entered sigil to break down the multiverse...& then reconfigure it in his image
and likeness... he failed of cos, the heroes did him in & kicked him out of sigil.
"Funseeker the laughing hunter" <jo...@online.no> wrote in message
news:dfg08.977$8e6....@news4.ulv.nextra.no...
articWOLF
news:dfg08.977$8e6....@news4.ulv.nextra.no...
There may be a few holes in both these stories, but anyway...
The Night Hag was Ravel Puzzlewell, you couldn't figure out the answer to
the question "What can change the nature of a man?". She convinced people to
come and try answer it, and if they failed, she ate them. The Lady of Pain
got annoyed and mazed her.
Vecna was some evil mage who got chopped into peices and chucked around the
multiverse by one of his companions/servants/something.
Morte, from Torment, claims to be his skull. Also in Torment you have to
find Ravel Puzzlewell and get into her maze because she _may_ have stolen
Nameless One's mortality.
Agamemnon
>The Night Hag was Ravel Puzzlewell, you couldn't figure out the answer
>to the question "What can change the nature of a man?".
It's a good question. I had to think long and hard for an appropriate
answer, and here it goes:
"False! The correct answer, is false! No, wait... D, all of the above.
Yeah, I think I stick with that..."
*Takes purple pills*
*Takes red pills*
*Takes green pills*
Ok, I'm better now. Too much Maggott Show finally got to me.
I think the "correct" answer to the question, at least from the perspective
of the Nameless One, was "Regret".
-Agamemnon-