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We're Off To Be The Wizard! - Beyond Egilsfield It was a charismatic sort of weather now upon them. The sort you couldn’t say hadn’t given you fair warning it was coming and at least one clear chance to get the hell out of its way. Not the sort to ask twice. The wind knows which way it wants to blow, and claws relentlessly at anything that dares disrupt its path. It drags a sea of snow behind it. Wave upon wave of driven powder slam into anything upright, pile up as thick as they can hold, then overflow and roll on down the endless plains. The masses stranded in the air smother all hope of seeing anything beyond. There is only the storm. Drunk on Bitter Fortunes looks at the oncoming weather, and spits. He keeps an eye out for flying bears. Bastards had scuttled his ship last time he’d had a chance to go sailing, and that was not going to go unanswered. <I’m fairly certain it was the fact that there was a bloody great hole in the hull, Chukh. No need to go shooting down unrelated huraka.> <Says you.> The Westman, however, refrains from unslinging his Boom Stick. He snorts, clears his throat, and horks a wad of phlegm into the oncoming teeth of the storm. “Right. So. We can’t kill the weather-spirits (yet), so. Whiz-kid. You’re the man with the plan. What’s the move?” Tarn squints into the oncoming blizzard through the thin slit in his balaclava. His brows are encrusted with frost, and after days of travel, he’s more than a little snow-blind. That’s okay. Where he’s going, he doesn’t need eyes to see. Even with 4m Periph on 1st SWL Excellency, only 4 sux on 17 dice to apply stanky wizard eyes to curse; thank you, Anima Power, for making up the shortfall. “We’re getting closer. I can feel it. All we have to do is walk, and we’ll end up where we mean to be.” Tarn grins morbidly, underneath his facewrap. “Getting out, however, will be a different matter.” He pauses, considering the whole of Chukh’s question. “No shooting the weather yet, please. It’s quite possible this is entirely off their books, and we can use all the help we can get.” Another pause. “Except, perhaps, for thunderbirds - they might consider it an insult if you don’t trouble yourself to shoot at them.” The ringlets on Mila’s staff jingle dissonantly in the bitter wind. Her smile in the face of it is serene. The tale of Stump is of quite a lot of interest to her. Where others might think the people there are lambs, whose only purpose was to be led to slaughter, she sees limitless potential. Generations of hardship and hopelessness has been bred into their very bones. Just look at Tarn! She’s already offered asylum among her own people, if evacuation becomes necessary. And even if it does not, well, wooing a few to her side will be of no real difficulty. The bite of winter’s frost is the kiss of her Goddess, and Mila is thinking only of the future. In the sort of weather which puts the fear of heaven in the hearts of mortal men, each exalt had their own good reason to ignore it. As for the man who was just a splinter on the breeze, his utter lack of reason was good enough. Few people ever stop to think how much good sense they owe to fear of death. Gert saunters on ahead of the group without hesitation, stopping only when some force of nature halts him in his tracks and only until one of the others digs him out. A greater part of him, far away from here, would love to come and grapple with the storm. Another day. Here and now, the best that he could do was trudge on across the snow. Or through it. Down. His mind’s not quick enough to sense the lack of substance under one foot before his damned persistence drives the other to join it. Gert sharply drops from view as the shelf of ice gives way, becoming one with a newborn avalanche. Though Gert’s image is devoured by chaos, Tarn’s higher senses still clearly detect the spark of life under the falling snow. Shiny, fragile, stupid life, burning strong against all odds. How fortunate that one should suffer such a fall and live. Mila doesn’t particularly care if the Expendable lives or not, though she is quite fond of the Original. But the avalanche itself is far more interesting. When the queen of desolation moves, you move with her or you are destroyed. Milla runs ahead of Tarn, and leaps from the edge of the crackling cliff. Her heavy boots land on flat chunk of stone unseated by the crushing snow, and she leans into the ride as the air around her turns to powder and death. The Malefactor yells her praises into the wind as she disappears from view. The Slayer watches his companions hurl themselves into the teeth of the avalanche, and grins. This sort of reckless insanity was <Going to get us killed, Chukh!!> ...exactly the sort of thing he’d been hoping for when the Infernal Exaltation had been presented to him. With a wordless scream that sounded something like “HOO-AH!!” the big man launches himself into the void. In midair, he unslings King’s Thundering Sceptre from his back and plants his feet firmly on it, winding the back strap around each ankle to try and keep him attached. It wasn’t a Skullstone board, but it would do. Tarn looks down. <they all jumped> <Yes. Yes, they did.> <are we gonna jump too?> <...I suppose we had better.> Tarn takes one step over the ledge, and then another. And then a third. The unseen globe of force about him bites deep into the ice face and steadily lowers him to the bottom of the dike, like a pulley-and-carabiner rig. Rutherford *wuffs!* twice before dropping down after Tarn, landing softly on the sphere’s ‘ceiling’ before curling up to rest on the ride down. With varying degrees of grace, control, and dignity, the three descend in pursuit of their wayward Gert. The quickest of their chosen paths keep pace with the plunging wall of snow and its reckless passenger. At the base of the cliff, a slight outward curve proves enough to send the cascade flaring out over the gentler slopes below. The change in direction throws Gert clear of the mess, leaving him embedded in a drift gathered where the land began to rise again. Tarn’s slow descent makes him the last to reach the bottom. His expanded senses make him the first to realize they are not alone. A spark of movement, heat, and mortal life, (and perhaps a hint of something more?) glides swiftly down the far side of the valley. It closes fast on Gert’s position, but stops short. Below, the quicker pair come into sight of the mound containing Gert. The hole he’d left was quickly refilled by the wind. Chukh and Mila come to rest at one side of the pile, the new arrival on the other. They stand on skis, crouching low, ready to take off in any way at once. They are wrapped tightly in a heavy coat, with strips of leather on its hood flying free in the breeze. Despite the weather, they are still close enough to see the features of a face protected by a painted mask. They freeze in place, a cornered animal waiting for its predator to make the first move. “Healer of the living, tender to the dead.” From above, Tarn completes his descent, gently backlit by flames of crystal-white. “Whose hand guides us on our journey from dawn to dusk.” He lands softly, steeples his palms, and gives a short but respectful bow. “Well met, Mother Hare.” With a sudden flourish of her sleeves, the woman’s ski-poles vanish. A quick twist of the legs drives her up onto the drift. Her hands return to sight. One glove clutches a spade, from the other hands a weave of thread and bones. “Back in your burrow, spirit, the boy you were’s already buried. Be on your way, and leave this man to me.” Tarn tilts his head, bemused by the priestess’ words, until their full meaning sinks in. In answer, he unwraps his left glove, slides a coatpin out of place, and lightly pricks his fingertip. Blood, red and vivid, drips in a slow trickle, staining and melting the snow beneath. Blood, that which the dead have lost and strive in vain to reclaim. Mila gave a gentle laugh. “We are not spirits, shaman. We are saviors. Too long have the people of this town suffered under the yoke of unseen malady! It took one of your own escaping the nightmare to draw the attention of those who could give aid. His return heralds a new dawn for Stump.” Eyes shift quickly, splitting attention one way and the other. Hands keep the talisman pointed squarely at the man who should be dead. A hare does not get far without being cautious. A little time not getting jumped is enough to let Hare shift her footing. Firm passes of her skis shave layers off the drift, burrowing towards the man she’d rather keep alive. “What then, ‘Kavik’, did the old stone teach you to grow wings?” “No, no, I learned that one for myself while I was…” He blinks, unseen, as his words trail off. “‘Buried’? That can’t...if I’m here, in one piece, then...who’s in my grave?” “I made due.” A swipe cuts close enough to catch a bump, “You left scraps.” The spade hand goes down, fishes about until it finds its way around something, then with a heave Gert is pulled halfway out of the snow. What sense and spirit he still has keeps up a cheery mood. “I think I was just unlucky! Roughly as lethal as advertised, discounting the help of friends and strangers. Speaking of, thank you for rescuing me! You can call me Gert. We’re of course here to fix that big luck issue, but in the meantime is there anything I can do for you?” He beams and shakes his head quickly, spraying snow everywhere like a dog drying off--not as impolite when snow is whipping around everywhere anyways. Hare keeps close to Gert, prodding him with the back of her hand in search of injury. Strange days are no excuse to miss one’s job. Once satisfied that he’s not in immediate and dire peril, Hare provides the last helpful shove needed to dislodge Gert from the snow. “Follow me.” Fortunes starts to follow, then frowns at the shaman, and asks the all-important question: “Will there be booze?”
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Mar 7, 2014 05:31
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Uncivilized Discourse - Horde of Bears Words of passion flow freely from The Tyrant, driven by the faint surviving ember of a long-dead star within his soul. Even the faintest spark of that light which once ruled all the heavens, set loose upon the assembled mass, stirs fires in their hearts. Weather they would embrace his light or their backs on him, The Tyrant’s will would not be ignored. The haunting dread of captives starts to burn away. First faintly around the edges, giving way to doubt and confusion that his words could truly be sincere. A tinge of fear that he was quite honest, but equal parts insane. In such airs hope catches quickly, the scent of freedom overpowering all hesitation as chains are broken and families embrace. As it rages through their ranks, the pyre rises to its peak and begins to shine with traces of the precious jewel The Tyrant prayed he would refine. Respect. Awe. Faith. And a distinct impurity of anger. Deep in the centre of the mass, one beastman stands two heads taller than the rest. The problem of The Tyrant’s men fearing to approach and free the beast is resolved as the giant rears back and tears the irons from his limbs. People scatter as the wyldman roars with such rage that he must be in defiance of the very ground beneath his feet. Though the humans fall back in terror, the other beastfolk carry on unperturbed by this display of dire ferocity. Until it’s cut short by sudden snap of wood striking bone. The largest bearman collapses into a heap. A far smaller man, his fur grayed and tangled and what of his skin can be seen withered by time, climbs to the top of the pile. One hand slams the point of a gnarled walking stick between the giant’s shoulders. The other throws a shard of what was once their shared restraints dangerously close to his eyes. Now, all are quiet. Comfortably settled on his perch, the elder takes his time in sizing up The Tyrant. As old men often do. He finds some satisfaction when the young king dares to look right back. The bear underfoot finds satisfaction when the elder’s cane is reassigned to point, “You are not of Haslan,” his words are sharp yet tranquil, tempered by the passage of generations, “So I can forgive your ignorance of certain local wisdom.” “You’re not the first to tempt young fools into giving up their freedom,” He hops forward, giving the other bearman a parting strike before landing lightly on the snow, “and Kings don’t belong in the arctic.” The Tyrant stood steady and unshaken by the large bear’s roar, and in equal measure he withstood the verbal sparring of the older bear. Clearly, this was one who bore the weight of not only age, but of respect as well. The Tyrant’s voice is clear and strong as it ever was when he responds, “I am as no king you have ever known, yet already you claim I am unfit. What leads you to such judgement, when you know me not at all?” The old bear smirks, and growls out in the tongue of ancients, “To the eyes of The Untamed, The Emperor has no clothes.” The Tyrant’s lack of recognition brings on a little chuckle, “I know your make. You each come wrapped in promises of glories yet to come, and not one of you expects you could unravel until someone’s already pulled your threads.” His eyes fish about for any other persons of note, “Usually the next one on your right.” The Tyrant crosses his arms, “I say again, no matter what you might think, you have never seen the likes of me, for I bear a light as old as Creation itself, gone missing for nearly as long. Whatever others you might have known, they were but pale shadows before my light.” His tone is unyielding, filled with the certainty reserved for the scion of the Universe Emperor. Then he changes tack, going on the offensive rather than simply letting the elder dictate the terms of the conversation, “I note you have not spoken on what I attempt to build, so much as on your assumptions about me, though in some ways they are inseparable.” Throughout The Tyrant’s retort, the old Bear scratches little tally-marks into the snow. After striking a certain count, he exclaims some barbarous word which elicits scattered laughter from the young. They are quickly shushed. “Old as creation?” He lets the thought roll around a bit, which of a few dozen great and ancient things the words could be meant to invoke. He lets it slide, and shrugs, “So’s dirt.” The elder takes another step ahead, “As to what you’d build,” he spins about to face the crowd, suddenly standing tall with arms spread wide, “A Great, Shining New Realm of Wonders, where all shall be free to revel in the majesty of your guiding radiance for Ten Thousand Years!” He drops back to his normal slouch and looks back over his shoulder, “I hear tell it’s quite the grand adventure, right up until your head’s gnawed off by rats.” “And what would you have me do instead?” The Tyrant asks, “Sit by passively and watch the world die, because make no mistake Creation itself is spiralling towards dissolution, each age worse off than the last. You seem to think yourself full of wisdom, then share it.” He takes his time to size up his response. When he speaks again, his words are sincere and brief. “Do what you will, while you’re young enough to think you can.” The elder turns away, “Find me when you know better.” “We shall see.” The Tyrant responds quietly, then turns to the rest his voice once more filled with noble purpose as it booms over the crowd, “Now what say the rest of the you? If you wish to remain on the sidelines as the world falls to pieces around you then follow him.” He attempts once more to build back up that flame that the elder-bear so unceremoniously put out, keeping an eye on the biggest among them should he recover enough to need to be dealt with, “If you wish to bring forth onto Creation a kingdom unlike any that has come before, if you wish to rescue the world from its decline!” He looks specifically at the still beaten giant among their ranks, “To shed the taint of being captives and retake your honor and pride!” The Tyrant’s voice is building to a crescendo, “Then follow me, swear oaths of fealty, and take your place as part of the vanguard of the kingdom that will restore the world!” The crowd parts wide to let the old one pass. He takes his time leaving them behind. A greyed and weathered crow descends from the midday sky and settles in his hair. ”Took you long enough.” At the edges of the crowd, some follow in his wake. Many stay.
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Mar 19, 2014 02:31
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Commerce - Waterfront To call the place a waterfront while the sea is mostly solid feels a touch odd. Still, depending on who ask, it's technically accurate and traditionally upheld as how it's called. Ice ships of all sizes, from humble skiffs to grand barges, crowd the frozen harbors of Fort Bear. Free to travel as they please by one of Haslan's most fundamental rights, they come from every corner of The League to partake in season's business and festivity. Taken together they are another city unto themselves, every ship a village. Fort Bear meets them with open arms, taking in these people as their own. And turning blind eyes to their business. All around him Snow can feel the love of long-time partnership in business, seasoned with the wisdom and experience to know which things to keep within the family and slip under the table. The markets here are quite close, quite personal, quite understanding when a scale doesn't tip quite right. It's a place where trade is done as much favors and goodwill as in coinage, where everybody knows there's no harm in going a little over quotas, and when there's no point asking what happened to that eighth-ton that doesn't seem to add up in the book. No Worries, you're good for the rest next month. If you’re not, maybe folks will stop seeing you around. In particular around the quiet markets, Snow finds a great of recent deals-left-unspoken on the ships from Diamond Hearth. A lot of tools, and clothes, and food, and oil. Quite a lot of oil, in fact. And the oddest sense of certainty he'd found a shovel which he'd seen somewhere before... All that's a world away from where the foreign ships are docked, neat and clear in ordered rows. Each one is watched and weighed and written to the register with the utmost professional diligence. No effort is spared to assure the absolute satisfaction of the law on all relevant points. Much to Snow's disappointment this is much more than words. The city has put much earnest and effective effort into playing them by the book. It's not perfect, of course, but among the best you'll find outside of divine intervention. In searching for the cracks in their defences, he finds a forceful and persistent voice of dissent. When Snow is nearly set on by an officer with questions about his reasons for being where he is, a lightly frosted matron leaps to protect him from this blatant abuse of authority. Demands for his identity and threats of audits on his records drive the inspector into a swift retreat. No time is spared to gather thanks, and she is off as suddenly as she came. Snow is left with a card bearing the name, sigil, and address, of a house of legal defence. You've found some blind spots in the local guard, and matching hotspots in local crime. Also, you encountered Ylva Lager - Leading candidate for the Profitable Men. Old Hands - Garrison Outpost The sentries outside the gate keep cold and quiet as this daft old codger makes himself heard, ramblin’ on about all the tricks and measures the fleet drills into every airman so hard their great-grandsons could sound off every last one on their death bed. When the growling starts subsiding, with the growler looking winded, they relax. “These days,” The one on the left props himself against the archway, “You get two needles and a whole thumb-square of sheepskin.” The one on the right prefers the door itself, “Maybe a lick of pine tar if you squeeze it out of your rations.” Another voice drifts down from an arrow slit overhead, “And the bits of any rats you catch at night.” In all of Creation, every soldier speaks complaints. Make a guardfriend?
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Apr 13, 2014 20:55
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Far-Sight Marmot The Landless Men were warmongers, plain and simple. They wanted to conquer and take for the good of the unlanded, but Snow questioned whether they had planned very far ahead. The Profitable Men, on the other hand, might wage war with an eye for the future as well as the present. Plus, they would oppose the Guild and do so with style. He decided he'd throw in with them, at least for now. Well, at least for tomorrow, as night was soon to fall. He pulled his cloak around him and returned to the little camp. "Remember the original cargo of our little ship?" he said once he returned, "I found more of the same. Shovels, mining equipment, lots and lots of oil. From the amount of organization required, the amount of logistics involved, I'm suspicious. Suspicious of what, exactly, I don't quite know yet. Maybe it is just illegal feathersteel mining, or maybe there's sappers about, or maybe something stranger, but I'll keep an eye on it." "Tomorrow, though, I think I'll make myself indispensable to the Profitable Men. They seem of a type I quite like. Anyone else find anything of interest? Hear anything of the air fleet, or Aerie?"
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Apr 16, 2014 00:48
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Postscript - Horde of Bears The mass was quickly separating. Those taken by The Tyrant’s words were falling to into line to, while those unconvinced began to break away. Between them, a sleuth of cubs surround the massive warrior whose grand act of defiance had been rudely cut short. He’d kept in place until the rancorous old bastard was out of his hair. It wasn’t so bad, really. Laying on the open ground, the sun on his back and wind in his fur. Even the taste of dirt was sort of alright. Sort of raw. Wild. Free. He was free to lay around a while if he liked, maybe get up for a quick stretch, maybe take a little run around, maybe chase down one of the Fyrdsman who’d put him in that cell and bite their loving throat out. If he liked. Yeah, that was worth a little pain. The sound of cautious shuffling teases his ears, little steps advancing from the circle. It stops just within reach. A voice leans low and whispers, “Viggo?” The cub had barely finished speaking before he was airborne. He’d barely started squealing before he landed. The circle rushes in around his feet as the warrior stands tall, the bravest of the lot perched on his shoulders. That other thing he was free to do - get them home. “Morning,” A hot wind breaks the mood. Hakon lurks near the edge of the circle, just out of arm’s reach. “Nice day to be out, isn’t it? Sort that could make a man up and rush off before he’s put all his affairs in order.” Irritant growls are taken as an invitation, ”Of course you and I know better,” he takes a step closer, “We have responsibilities.” A lazy sweep of his hand plucks a lump of jagged metal from his shoulder. He lobs it at the circle and the thing unfolds into a pair of wings and does its best to glide. Landing near the children’s feet, it flaps and squirms excitedly until it finds feet to find footing on the snow. A head, beak, and curious little eye extend to survey the scene. “Play nice, we won’t be long.” Previously... - Adamsen and Sons, A While Ago Elsewhere in the complex, Hakon browses the aisles. While the company's most noted goods are the sort kept firmly under lock and key, they still moved some normal fare to pad their margins. Ever the woodsman, Hakon examines sets of hunting tools formed from lightweight feathersteel. Aghi huddles tight against his collar. The flood of new things flashing before his tiny eye is kept at bay by a falconer's hood. At quiet times like these, he dares to peek at what's outside. Even those brief glimpses are enough to know that they are being followed. He rattles with discontent and brushes against Hakon's face. To no surprise he is hushed and pushed aside. Aghi voices his discontent in a series of soft, ringing squeaks, but remains steadfastly ignored. A full run up and down the scale does him no good. Maybe... The little would-be-bird digs in his feet, leans back until back is front, and throws his wings as far as they can reach. He flares and does his best impression of a fearsome roar. One looking very close could note the faintest glint of light flash briefly in his eye. Just enough to chase away a shadow. The interloper backs away from a patch of very slightly blackened shelf and vanishes amidst the wares. For just a moment, Aghi stands triumphant before collapsing back into a nondescript blob of metal scales. When the way is clear, Hakon drops the act. He moves to follow his former tail. For his vigilance, Aghi earns a pinch of filings. Their paths weave around the extensive inventory of the warehouse, a fair imitation of two ordinary customers going about their day. Each takes his time, and eventually drifts towards the slave pens. The stranger pays at the door and meanders through the menagerie. For those without the will or means to buy a man, such markets still found use as zoos. So he wanders, keeping at safe distance from the captives as he takes in the view. Very simple, very ordinary, very easy to overlook when he stops to discard things here and there. Things that land in reach of prisoners. This routine carries him down the rows and back again, taking a few laps to cover all points on display. After another trip around, he takes his leave and returns to the streets. Addendum - Horde of Bears “So what’s the good news?” As Hakon recounted events, the two hadn’t gone far from their charges. The children had no trouble keeping distracted with rounds of chasing and being chased by the odd beast dropped into their midst. As he finished, the bravest of them took up a dare to touch it to the next degree - presenting an open hand to pick it up. Aghi sat in place, swaying back and forth as he considered the offer. “Under the old one’s foot. Surprised he didn’t he didn’t up and eat it, let the guy who dropped it walk away even.” The delicate balance of thing Viggo hated about this moment came up just about even every way, just right to not ruin his day. Yet. “Still, says all I need to know.” “Someone wants a riot,” Hakon slowly nods, speaking as though of slightly inconvenient weather, “plan to participate?” “Do you?” Viggo looks back at the playing cubs, and carefully intones an impression of Hakon’s voice, “Responsibilities.” Back in the circle, Aghi has found himself seated atop the brave cub’s head. The others look on in amazement as the steelbird becomes fascinated by the fuzz around the young one’s ears. Hakon shrugs, “Not my problem, either one. You take your stamp and ship out, it’ll stay that way.” “Deal.” What else could he say? A sharp whistle reaches Aghi before he can learn how ear-fluff tastes, and he does his best to glide and hobble back to Hakon. A low growl snuffs out disappointments as Viggo herds the cubs back into line. Two elder brothers go their separate ways. ~Mysteries~
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May 3, 2014 19:28
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The Glorious Tyrant The Tyrant turns to address Snow, or whatever cover he might have adopted for himself. "It has been a useful day." There is something in his tone, as though a burden has been lifted, "Most relevant from your perspective is that someone is planning a riot in the slave pens. I'd imagine its an attempt to try and influence the election." The disdain in his voice on that last word makes his feelings about the wisdom of popular representation abundantly clear, "Though, it could also be to serve as a distraction of some sort, or as an attack on Adamsen. Beyond those three options I don't seen any particularly obvious reasons to start a riot. Unless there's significantly more planning to this, I don't see this being for the slaves' benefit, their lack of equipment means that the city guard will be able to crush any nascent revolt." "You seem to have a better feel for the internal factions of the city, where do you see this provocation fitting into the pattern?"
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May 4, 2014 07:59
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"It's less the politics of the city and more the politics of the whole region," Snow explained, thinking on the question. "While every part of the Haslanti has its own flavor and traditions, there are a few factions that cover a broad swathe of the public." "Unrest can be used two ways. At least two that come to mind. Perhaps someone will point to unrest and say ‘See? We should not expand, we should not war on the Tear Drinkers and focus at home,’ or they could say ‘See? We should go to war, conquer new lands, and put our slaves to work, expand our power, and give a whole generation a chance of homesteading!’" “Or there’s something we’re not yet noticing, like a group of anti-slavery firebrands that are strictly local, but none of us have bumped into them.” He wracks his brain for any other clues, ideas fizzing away. 3 successes He did not call upon his patron for aid, he wanted his head clear.
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May 5, 2014 17:58
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Homecoming - Stump The storm wall at the outskirts of the village was a great source of pride. A sign of strength and unity, possessing a certain brutal elegance in its simplicity. The last stones of it were laid long before Tarn’s time, when the founders set themselves to face their first truly bitter winter. It was said that no one ever met their end from working on that wall. Stump’s lone good omen. Returning as he was, Tarn could see why. From its foundation to its crest, the wall is suffused with essence. The tides of fortune bend around its every contour. Chance twists of air turn back the strongest of the wind and hail, while gentler forces tend to drift more often in than out. The village made its own misfortunes, no need to let more in. Despite much protest, Hare continued to guard and shepherd Gert along their path. The strangeness of their meeting has fair trouble competing with the bar set by her life. The man’s boundless enthusiasm and matching lack of self-preservation are filed away as the madness typical of youth, half-freezing, and the herbs she’d put to use fighting the latter. She’d kept him moving, and kept herself between him and his odd companions. The returning dead boy and his friends. Not one to dwell on the unpleasant, Hare had kept Gert awake and attentive by speaking of the nicer things awaiting them. Little things, worth more here than any others. There would be water, warmth, and bread. Respite from the storm. All this, Tarn knew. Had known for all his life - How to cherish every token gift of fate as though it were the greatest fortune. What it took to endure hell. When they cross over the storm wall, he is home. He also knows what else is coming. As the wind fades out behind them, it gives way to metal scraping stone. In the face of their condition, the village had grown ritually devout, in all things, to taking the utmost care. To brazen in ones actions openly invited death. Still, there were times when other forces could take hold over a man and drive him beyond reason. Make him a danger to himself and others. Such times invited Badger. In a place where at any moment, anything could strike you dead, he had no fear of wielding knives and wearing claws. Any twig or stone or speck of dirt could strike you down at any time without reason. If anyone disturbed the peace and turned against the flock, Badger would guarantee it. He sat out in the street this night, sharpening his edges as the group came into view. He raises a few claws and grumbles, “What have you dragged home now?” The one Tarn remembered was missing fingers on the other hand.
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May 7, 2014 22:09
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The Glorious Tyrant - Fort Bear The day after his meeting with Snow... Returning to the city on the following morn, the Bears who had joined his cause seemed content to wait for a time, and he wanted to keep the Dawn nearby at least until he was sure he wouldn't need to make a quick escape. He'd had enough funds left to rent a good sized space, with thick enough walls to be sure that all of Fort Bear wouldn't hear his every speeches if he got a bit... energetic. The Tyrant himself drew attention like a moth is drawn to a flame, which was a right and natural state of affairs, usually. Now however, it might be something of a liability, he had been made more than well aware enough that the greater populace might not take well to his nature, at least not yet. That meant he'd need a herald, a public face to draw in potential converts and escort them to meet their King-to-be. Actually winning them over would fall to the Tyrant, but he was more than confident in his ability to move all but the hardest of hearts, it was merely a function of getting them in front of him. That duty would fall to Stien, it was a chance for the man he had named as his priest to prove himself. The Tyrant had already shown the northerner his own mettle when he fought the Maw, now it was time for the mortal to show his worth to his god. Sending Stien out to gather some potential converts to bring before the Tyrant. Gathering up potential converts(Wits + Socialize): 7d10x7 7 
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May 8, 2014 03:39
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Tarn Kavik - Stump Underlying each and every one of Stump’s myriad, convoluted, and bewildering bylaws is a damned good reason for its existence. Milk is either drunk piping-hot or left to turn to cheese, lest one risk dyspepsis. Blades are to be sheathed when not in use, and never too sharp nor too rusted, lest they cut things that ought not to be cut. Strangers must be introduced by someone of sound reputation before they are permitted to speak, lest they be wicked things with witchcraft in their words, come in from the cold to feed. Tarn is no stranger, and has no intention of being classified as such. “Good morrow, Bre’r Badger. Keeping idle, I should hope?” A ritual greeting. Charisma+Presence to make a good impression, with 4m on the First She Who Lives In Her Name Excellency as a fellow champion of stability and order: 7 sux, not bad. Clawed fingers work their way over a whetstone. Each edge taking its turn, the steel tips of Badger’s gloves glide and scrape along until properly groomed. A simple ritual, played out at the speed of leisure and routine. The Mask tips back just enough to show that Tarn is noticed. “Unless you’re bringing work my way.” The three points on the right hand finish first, they’re brought close for inspection. “Long as you get nothing started, then there’s naught for me to finish.” “Then I’ll take care that you’ve only your own business to mind.” Formality complete. Lack of elf-ness: verified. “And that Chukh and Mila here do the same.” These two are safe, as much as anything ever gets around here. “WOOF!” “Rutherford too.” He’s housebroken. Shortlist of goals in Stump is 1) get an assessment of current state of affairs, 2) tend to the town’s woes as best as current supplies and reasonable discretion permit, and 3) quietly poke about Mnemon Korekku’s old workshop to see if there’s anything of use there. Longer-term, I intend to inspect the town’s geomancy to re-draw manse plans, and keep an eye out for any spirits nosing about - Tarn suspects that Ever-Smiling Piànzi may have agents on the ground, blending in with the locals.
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May 24, 2014 22:43
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Gentle Snow Snow tried to seek out Silk and Silver Cloud. "How'd that beard work out? Find anything of note? I'm feeling a twinge in the back of my head that makes me think I need to get some work done, and I've been dancing around the fringes long enough that I need a bit more direct." "What's the air fleet like, here?"
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May 27, 2014 15:57
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Three-Party System Near as Far-Sight reckons, anyone with enough space in their for politics to hold a dream of sitting in the Great Longhouse could spin up a tale of how a bunch of surly beastfolk means that he deserves your vote. “Serves ‘em right,” a Defty may say, “some fat old burghers sassed the moonspawn and wound up with their heads bit off! A pious man would know drat well that a peaceful life gets a peaceful end.” “Piss off!” a Landless could retort, “The Ol’ Bear weren’t no coddler to ‘er people and we ain’t no coddlers to ‘er spawn. We beat ‘em fair, and took ‘em fair, and we’d have kept ‘em fair if it weren’t for wimps ‘o your walk keepin’ us from doin’ what it takes to keep ‘em in line. Ya need a strong hand to hold the lines tight, that stops ‘em acting up!” “Or of course,” a Proffer snips off in the corner, “There’d be no crowd to riot in the first place if you’d just sell them up the river. Nah, just piles of silver fleeced off middlefolk who’ve never seen a man with fur and scales and gills before, (nearly give their firstborn just for a chance to gawk at one every now and then!) If there’s ever been tell of a man getting his guts ripped out a well-earned pile of silver, it’s never reached these ears. Silver’s more the sort to build homes, launch ships, make work for most honest not-ripped-up folks to earn their share of the pile...” Someone with a head for more than dreams of getting elected would further know that whoever got caught stirring up that sort of trouble would put himself square on course to being, at very best, passed over at the polls. (On the way to being thrown face-first off a fjord) drat risky business, starting trouble in your own back yard, with your own near-kinsmen, when you expect them to send you off to speak for them before the twisted stones. Which ain’t to say folks don’t try it, they just try it careful and they try it sharp. There’s no sense in any of them opening up a whole new jar of worms when they must already be up to their elbows in song and dance around the open grave reserved for Ragna Jerndamm. The dear departed star of the show, possessing the distinct advantage of being in no state to spit out the words others put in her mouth, is the talk of so many high speeches and low arguments you might think the whole season turned around her. No need to start a new heap of trouble when they’ve already built a fine one around that. Unless you were someone out to kick it clean over. Someone passing by. This feels like an outside job. Glorious Opportunities On The Wayfarer’s Road, Vacancies never last long. This one, tucked gently in an alleyway on the fringes of the main arcade, had held out nearly two weeks since its last inhabitant packed up and shuffled off. There was nothing strong that one could say against the place - well built, fair space, no unreasonable fuss raised by the neighbours. It was off the route, sure, but not so far no not be seen. Far enough to put it nearer to open flats, near enough it’s not too hard a trek to haul a load in or out from your caravans or iceboats or what have you. (A good stream cuts through that way when spring comes ‘round. Fine fit for rafts or little barges.) Yes, there’s space above to dwell, space below to store, space between for business are you’re so inclined. It was a place that gave a man a fair shake to earn success. That was enough to leave it vacant only two weeks. Early the next morning, in a humble corner of Fort Bear, the mark of the White Sun Colony Company rises. Stein Egilson had spent his life far and away from any sort neighbor, let alone a city’s worth of them, but he’d drat well learned how he was meant to treat them. That, and how to get a job done. Same as any other day, he’s up and at it bright and early. Not so normal is, instead of breaking earth or tending flocks, he’s out knocking on doors. Just in time for other bright-and-early working folk to be getting ‘round to business, a friendly man from a fair ways out to share a spot of news, “Name’s Stein, Settler, just moved in down the way. Stop by any time under the sun.” Moving steady, in-and-out each time just long enough not to understay, he’d put his name on every mind around the blocks before they had their curtains up. Just in time to double back and set things up himself. He’d be plenty busy once the word had made its rounds. Front business launched, word of mouth deployed. Stay A While, and Listen - Stump Still seated, Badger offers an arm. With a slip of his fingers he calls Rutherford over, and presents his hand for a quick sniff. One side, then the other, and back again till man and beast are acquainted. It ends with a quiet nod and a soft scratch of the ears. “Well be in from the cold then, and no noise out of you tonight. Wouldn’t want to spook-” “Hey!” Hare’s on him in a flash, the back of her glove sharply glancing off Badger’s head, “They’ve got their own to tend to, and you’ve no place to bother them with-” Badger restores the space between them with another hop, one hand tucked into pocket and the other bunched decidedly into a fist, “Hey y’self, Hare, you’ve no place to hoard your grief.” Before she can get wound up to sass back, he turns to Tarn, “Vera and Olek.” Names from a life away for Tarn. Names that a boy looked up to. “They’re with their second,” Grand news in any other town, a blessing, “Their first is nearly old enough.” Tarn takes the meaning at once. “How much longer?” Defeated, Hare relaxes and relents, “Soon.” “When I said I was here to help,” Tarn assures them, “I meant it. I - we - have some better qualifications this time.” Careful not to let his caste mark or his anima shine, he shows them. With a ripple in the air like thick glass, the sleigh reappears; before the questions can get too probing, he opens it up and shows them what’s inside. Medicines. Herbs. Poultices, bandages, foodstuffs. Jars of salve and remedies that would cost dearly even in places less-afflicted. Yards of clean cloth on spools, and pots of pitch and wax for sealing and curing things that leak when they oughtn’t. “I can get more,” he promises. “Make more, and show anyone quick and able enough how. I swore on Korekku’s grave that I’d break Stump’s curse. I meant it.” Hare’s ears are sent flying by a more-than-usual tip of the head. They settle as she slowly returns upright. “You plan to keep those out in the snow?” “I would rather not,” Tarn replies. “And I will require a workshop.” His head lowers slightly. “I would ask that I be given use of my late tutor’s.” In a town that keeps its own held close against its heart, a lonesome hut stands between the the lodges and the outer wall. Set apart distinctly by its make, it is a place made for an outsider let in. Its door is set so that all who enter face directly towards the centre of the world. Hare regards it with a more usual tip of the head, “Do as you would, it’s not been used. Just keep in mind - it’s rude to muss a dead man’s things. Even if you’ve been buried, yourself.” Welcome home? A_Raving_Loon fucked around with this message at 23:35 on Jun 14, 2014 |
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Jun 13, 2014 23:10
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The Glorious Tyrant - Outside Fort Bear Stien proved himself in the Tyrants eyes. The front company was set up without a hitch, and one after another he escorted carefully selected groups of those he deemed ripe for conversion out to meet his God. The Tyrant, no longer needing to hide his nature appeared before them resplendent in his Moonsilver armor and flanked by Bjorn on his right and a bear-men who had been chosen by his peers to act as additional bodyguard on his left. Grave had arranged the rest of the security for the meetings, and positioned himself in the Glory’s riggings where he could keep an eye on proceedings from behind his bow. When the first group approached there was a small commotion as the remaining bear-men, with few responsibilities requiring their attention until they departed for Egilsfield once more stood watching from afar, interested to see their king in action. The Tyrant did not intend to disappoint, for just as the cultists-to-be this would be their first time seeing him in his full glory, and he could feel their eyes upon him. It was an odd sensation for the Tyrant, to care so strongly for the opinions of mortal men. He supposed it was because they had accepted him as their king as a mortal man, but now they would see his true nature and whether it would enhance their devotion of sour it weighed on him. As the potential converts approached their shock was obvious, among them only Stien was truly calm. Whatever he had told them to expect, it had not been this. However, when the Tyrant rose and wreathed in the shining glory of his anima spoke to them. He spoke of ancient betrayals, a great king thrown down, of the world’s spiral into decline, and it’s one chance for salvation. He spoke of a holy kingdom that could be the seed of that salvation, and he asked if they were willing to dedicate their lives to the formation and livelihood of that kingdom. He had little doubt as to their answer, but in a way they were secondary, the reaction of his true audience, who had already accepted them as their king, remained to be seen. Over the weeks, this scene would be repeated time and again, as the Tyrant spoke to the coverts again and again in truth he was speaking to those far off watchers, showing himself as he truly was and asking that they once more accept him as their leader, but now their god as well as their king. Organizing the masses was never the Tyrant’s true forte. He would speak to their souls, light the flame of passion and devotion in their chests, but the small details of organizing he usually left to others. However, in this occurrence he kept his own counsel rather than relying on some of his more capable subordinates. This was to be the seed of His Kingdom and a chance to show that he was worthy to rule. The strictures and framework by which his loose gaggle of followers would be forged into a cohesive whole a single being dedicated to his will and his ascension he formed solely from himself. Whether this was the spark of the Universe King which knew with ancient certainty that there were some things a true king must do by their hand alone, or a need to further impress the former slaves from a man attempting to throw off his greatest shame, or a strange synthesis of both is impossible to say. Some might expect him to fail, for even those closest to him and most deeply in his thrall had never seen him as a true ruler. A light to guide the way, a cause to give their lives meaning, but Vestin, Stien, and even Graves had stepped in to handle the day to day business of building and running a kingdom. Only Bjorn, the closest to him, who had seen his light more clearly could have truly foreseen what happened next. For when one who bears the spark of the Universe King raises his arm and bids his kingdom to be born, he speaks with the same authority that brought the Tribe of Dreamers across the Wyld and brought Creation forth from the chaos. So it was, the Tyrant, echoing the being whose exaltation burns within him brought forth a kingdom from the assembled people. Bringing Forth a Kingdom(Charisma + Socialize + 1st Theion[7])d + (Special Asset: Glorious Tyrant[3] + Conviction Channel): 14d10x7+8 13 Forgot to include Capital: 12d10x7 4 Total Success = 17
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Jun 18, 2014 05:38
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Gentle Snow Yes, that was it. It had to be. But who? The deathlords? The fey? Anything was possible. He needed more information, but in the meantime he could prop up Fort Bear in other ways. He descended within the ship and pulled forth a ledger. He felt for the ocean in his veins and drank deeply. His eyes shone opalescent. His quill plunged into his hand, and he wrote with his blood. There was something of a blur. When he was done he felt faint, and the room was wallpapered with ledger sheets. They were tacked to the walls with lacquer, with arrows, with dried blood. One of his seamonsters lay bleeding, punctured hundreds of times with his quill. A mad scrawl of items and trade routes and names and ideals zig zagged crazily across ceiling, walls, and floor. Through the madness, he saw patterns. He saw weaknesses. "Go rest. Give a message to those servants can pass for human. Collect the wealth of the sea. Trade it. Bring me the goods I demand. Go!" Soon this city would be overloaded with luxuries, the sort of thing to make one say 'maybe it's not worth overthrowing the corrupt empire'. Snow decided that he liked Fort Bear, and it was so. I don't know exactly who to attack, so I will fortify the city. Attack Project: The Fall of Fort Bear. Manip+Bureacracy+8 committed peripheral motes +3(asset) + 1 (New Personal Intimacy) + 1sux (WP)= 9. Cumulative Difficulty:3 Capital Expenditure = Competency of the organization I'm attacking. Not sure what that is. Right. That bought time, hopefully, but was only a generalized defense. He needed to know who was on the attack. He summoned more monsters to his side. He carefully altered them. The poisons sheared away their fins, legs grew, and developed a pale hide. Elongate the body, just so, shape the face... yes. Huge, wide eyes now sat in a strange, whiskered face, but the body would look human from a distance. "One scout per mount. We ride and hunt for those who would defy us. Let us ride, and madness guide our paths!" My assistants don't do much, but I'm hard capped at +3 dice from Cooperation anyhow Attempts to scour the lands around Fort Bear for foreign influence: 7 successes
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Jun 19, 2014 21:47
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Dragon’s Lair - Wizard Hut The line between the village and the lonesome foreign hut is clearly drawn. A ring of large stones, seven in all, rise from the earth like vicious fangs. They dare any rodent within sight to come and test their grip. Clever. A line of auspice, to mark the bounds of where misfortune ends. A clear demarcation from the rest of Stump, setting it well apart from the village proper, so that the curse might overlook it. Tarn and Rutherford wade through the windswept drifts, plowing a path to the cottage’s door. A boy had crossed that line once years before, and come this far. He’d prodded at the walls, which surely felt like stone but plainly looked as if they’d somehow been blended into dough and baked back into place. He’d not quite brought himself to try to windows, let alone the door. Each opening appeared so tightly sealed, the wood frames were set so perfectly within their place there was no chance they’d swing. A skin, like none he’d ever known, stretched so firm to fill that space it scarcely rippled in the strongest winds. These, and a thousand other questions, set a boy’s imagination running wild enough to sweep him back into the comforts of the world he knew. Stump had a way of weeding out curiosity - or, failing that, weeding out the curious - but the sorcerer’s hut had posed an irresistible riddle to the young boy. He’d scaled the roof - it looked for all the world like brittle pottery, but held fast like metal - and marveled at the fluted chimes hanging from the eave. He’d bruised his hands working the garden with a trowel in the planting season, and found strange coins buried under the southwest corner. He’d once put a toe through the membrane of the door, only to find it mended once he’d taken his stripes for that. And now… Flagstone shingles with copper flashing; Korekku must have cut them from the bedrock when he carved out a cellar. Reed talismans, to lure and snare meddlesome spirits. White jade obols, facing the mountain from whence they were quarried, to bless the foundations with stability. Bamboo frames around treated rice paper - not sturdy, but easily-replaced, and readily-damaged to warn when intruders had been about. Where wonder had faded, wisdom became clear. Tarn bowed his head and intoned a brief utterance of respect for his departed master before reaching for the door. It slides smoothly into the place for it in the wall. Most of the way, at least. A little snag hit near the end merits a firm strike and a gentle curse to set the thing to rest. Just as it always had. Stale air mingles around the doorframe, carrying faded scents of years gone by. The interior is… as it should be. As it always was. All things set in their proper place. The room is set to serve a single purpose. A grand table at the centre serves as a place of work, and each wall is equipped to serve it. (The old man’s first lesson, freely given, was that ‘bed’ could be wherever a man chose to rest his head.) On his left, grand shelves are cleanly packed with tomes, all cleanly sorted into sets. He’d never known the script the things were labelled in, but his innate sense of order reassured him they were all in some sort of order. To his right, a desk hosts many cases precisely filled with tools of language, firmly shut and tucked away. The far wall is the one place the prevailing order yields to discord. The workbench, while undoubtedly left as clean as one could hope before its years of disuse, is home to many strange bedfellows. While some materials had rested calmly in their jars, others grew restless from neglect and showed signs of rebellious stirrings in their forms. Okay. Yuck. Hell may have broadened Tarn’s horizons, but growing up here had still taught him a healthy fear of anything that looked to be going rancid or moldy. First item on the agenda: hazmat protocol. He moves one foot toward the bench, halts as it meets resistance...then opens his brow chakra. Amendment - SECOND item: hazmat. First, check for active wardings. Before, he’d been warned to steer clear in case they’d trapped any darkling spirits. Now, it occurs to Tarn that that might well include him. The well-ordered nature of the place extends beneath the surface. Tarn’s eyes call into focus the crisp lines of vital force which define the power of the earth, and from it the solid construction of the roof over his head. Staying cautiously still a moment, letting his presence send faint ripples through room, he’s able to spy a finer weave buried within. Through the door he sees it extend onto the grounds and fill the air between the standing stones. A net sewn deep into every part of the structure. A net for catching gods. He’d known. Too careful, too clever to be caught saying so aloud, but Mnemon Korekku had known. The spell is too specific to be a general precaution. And with no captives in evidence… Tarn’s eye slides to the cellar door. If it can keep gods out, it might well serve to keep them in. One thing at a time, however. Now for the goo. Sorting such things was much easier when remembering which tool you needed was, itself, the tool. These had once been solutions, various things suspended in strong acids and other solvents to separate their components. Some were for storage, things made more stable once appropriately diluted from their proper form. Others were precursors to reactions, prepared such that alchemic process became as simple as mixing fluids at the proper rates and ratios. Such things were of varying stability. Age, multiplied by happenstance and trace impurity had jarred some back to their more volatile forms. All said, they’d kept as well as should be expected. <i tell you, needs more vitriol> While any usual mind may have fixated, well within reason, on the items showing signs of defect and dire threat to one’s personal safety, Tarn had been chosen by a thing of diligence and method. For each thing that was broken there was another in its proper place, and knowing what survived was as important as counting those lost. Prominent among these, put separate from the rest, is a vessel of the purest crystal glass which Tarn had ever seen. A purity most needed to endure its burden - nearly a pint of Vitriol. <it...its so beautiful…> <Yes...but we mustn’t remove it from the room. That cask is fragile.> Methodically, Tarn sets about his cleaning. What is dirty is cleaned, what is salvageable is renewed and refreshed, and what is decayed beyond use is thoroughly disposed-of before it can become a hazard. Everything is neatly sorted and placed in its proper order. Thinking of the future, Tarn files a few of his own preparations inside the racks - things for cuts, burns, blisters, electrocution, explosion, and other such occupational hazards of mad science. Now. About that cellar...Korekku had always warned the young Tarn away from the door, and likely not just for his privacy. If there’s warning to be found, it’s like as not in the old Terrestrial’s personal notes. Which...Tarn can’t read. Okay then. First, technical notes. Per long-standing tradition, those are always kept in Old Realm. If Korekku had kept a second set as a backup, perhaps in his native tongue...Tarn turns his attentions to the meticulously-ordered books and documents resting on the shelf. Int 5 + Bureau 2 + SWLex 3 to NEEEEEEERD: 4 sux All knowledge, whatever form it takes, craves understanding. Though he hasn’t an inkling what the writing on each spine could mean, the crisp lines and points of scarlet calligraphy promise that each character is well defined. (If, perhaps, a bit obtuse) Seeing them arrayed in even rows gives Tarn some reassurance that there is some method to the infamously maddening written form of High Realm - recurring progressions of stripes and points he takes are likely numbers, combinations of nested and linked figures suggesting common concepts shared by adjacent titles. They’re in an order he could begin to understand. All the more reason to put them in one he already does. He iterates along the shelves with gently measured speed and purpose, smoothly sifting through each volume for any charts or annotations which could reveal its purpose. Where such signs are found, he grants the work a tentative label and sorts it into the pile-to-be. Maps of the great isle, varying slightly over a series, mark a work of Imperial history. Graphs under coats of arms give him a genealogy. Chains of numbered ingredients are rearranged through works of alchemy. Familiar images through foreign eyes show him a documentary of his own homeland. One by one, the volumes fall into their new places. A soothing inner satisfaction rises each time he looks aside and sees the pattern growing more complete. On one of those turns, something catches his eye. One couldn’t ask him to describe it, as it struck him far too quick and too intensely for much sense to be made. A spark of inspiration drove his hands to, most urgently, see something made complete. His hands soon outrun his materials, and are left scrambling for something to fill a gap in his imagination. There is something in the new arrangement. Something that cries out to be known. But something is missing. The puzzle is almost complete. Almost enough to begin decryption in earnest. Almost. Infuriating, really. BUT...the message was clearly intended for Tarn’s eyes. It must, therefore, be hidden somewhere Korekku would only have expected Tarn to find it. First step: elimination. Tarn sweeps his chakra eye over the building’s interior, while Rutherford puts his chakra...nose...to much the same use. Anything glowing, chiming, pulsating, or otherwise active under a wizard’s sight is quickly ruled out. It would be too obvious, for one, and easily attract the wrong kind of attention, for another. Too many meddlesome gribblies that might see the hiding spot, if it were so marked. This filter eliminates a sizable portion of the home’s interior. Only surfaces sufficiently-congruous with ambient geomancy are considered. Now for the hard part. Tarn concentrates, and his brow chakra closes. Korekku’s message was left for a human boy, not a full-grown devil. He closes his eyes, and recalls his personal instruction: bits and bobs of esoterica, anecdotes, and trivia. Things that do not fit the larger pattern of academia. Things personal, random, unpredictable. The seeds around which ciphers are crystallized. Sight. Sound. Smell. Touch. Taste hopefully not taste. The means by which information might be encoded in a way that a mortal could receive it. Textures, scents, geometric arrangements, and other things that might trigger recollection. Tarn’s senses themselves are more than up to the task, but with Vera and Olek on the short clock, his senses might not be up to the deadline. Here, his metaphysical laboratory is put to good use, gathering samples, specimens, and data points far more quickly than a lone investigator could ever manage. Buying Investigation 1 for 3 XP, then rolling. Per 3 + Inv 1 + Coad 2 + TTC 2/1 sux + Stunt 2 = 6 sux all told. On the dead man’s desk resides a plain wooden case. Unpainted, unvarnished, barely sanded, used more often as a deadweight or a means to slightly elevate something of more import. A younger Tarn had, just once, asked if there was anything inside it. “Obligations,” He’d been told, and that was that. One of it faces is about the proper size. It opens without any sense of grace or ceremony, two halves which roughly fit together simply slid apart. they reveal a stack of envelopes. Each is sealed in the old man’s name and addressed to a set of lines which Tarn recalls from the branches of a family history. All but the last. It is for him. A scalpel-thin line of force parts the wax from the parchment, and Tarn begins to read.
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Jul 26, 2014 18:12
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Drunk on Bitter Fortunes - Stump Fortunes is unimpressed. The animal-masks, the spooked glances, the general air of "please don’t look at me Mister Grinning-Face-Man," and the continual lack of food or drink of any sort combine to put him off. While Tarn wanders off to (presumably) wherever it was he grew up. <It might be important, Chukh. It wasn’t easy getting in here, you know, even if you didn’t notice. Actually, I’d be more surprised if you had noticed.> His coadjutor, as ever, was a font of cheer and helpfulness. "So, Badger. What is there to do for fun around this 'burg? Don’t tell me you just sit around and count your rosaries; I refuse to believe that anywhere is that dead, even in a monastery." Without giving him a chance to answer, he turns to Hare. "And you never answered my question. If this place is that slow, someone’s gotta have a stash of something distilled. Every Northman I’ve ever met always sang the praises of whatever local hooch his great-great grandfather used to make, so don’t hold out on me." Slowly, something filters through his bluster. "Wait, what did you mean 'their first is nearly old enough'?"
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Sep 17, 2014 20:26
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Horribly Right - Fort Bear Things move in predictable patterns. Lazy like that, things. Most try to hide their ways. Worse yet, others will lie about their ways, or pretend they haven’t got a way at all. Right bastards, those things. No matter. When you get enough lies in one place, they start to work against each other. As each one turns to betray the rest, a pleasant spiral forms around the stolen ledgers and the overheard whispers and the last things screamed by runners before they wound up in the jaws of a beast. Bad Ray! We want them live to answer questions! The roads between the lines converge around three signs - a pick, a harpoon, and a name. Lev. Lev wants this, Lev ordered that, Lev trusts him or her with whatever must be done. Lev is important, Lev is alarming, Lev is ready to make this worth your while, Lev won’t be happy if you fail. With Snow’s efforts adding up, straining the runners and threatening to throw the whole thing off the path, a new note takes its place - He will deal with this himself. Your mystery opponent will meet your disruptive efforts head on, pushing to resolve this with a scene. Their Competence is 3, by the by. Legacy - A Letter quote:Boy, Attached firmly to the parchment is a strip of something, wrapped in cloth. A shape just right to fill what’s missing in the old man’s code.
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Sep 22, 2014 00:56
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Gentle Snow This was going better than could be expected! Clearly he had managed to gain someone's ire. Perfect. At first he was worried he wasn't going to find anything. No armies, no undead soldiers buried in the snow, nothing. Then he started seeing strange tracks. Not on the usual routes. It was simple enough to steal into a camp, read a few letters, and steal out again before anyone knew anything. Plus, now he knew the starting points for some smuggler routes. That would come in handy, later. Didn't help him figure out who 'Lev' was, unfortunately. He'd need to check inside the city. Oh, the city. He hoped it appreciated the gifts he showered upon it. Were they not precious? Were they not divine? They should be grateful! Why were they not singing their thanks!? Why-- He caught himself and grimaced. Residual effects of the magic he had woven to help his minions. Made everything taste like copper and rotten fruit. Price of doing business, he supposed, as he altered his scouts to make them more self-sufficient. "Watch the smuggler paths. Record. Come to me if you spy artifacts, magic, or airships." Then he arrived back at the camp. "I've news. I have found a name, at least, who might be working against Fort Bear. Before I go into the city to hunt, what news of the air fleet? And who wishes to come with?" Mile'ionaha fucked around with this message at 04:32 on Sep 22, 2014 |
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Sep 22, 2014 04:16
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