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The Technicians' Rebellion - A Scene During The Calling - MaxieSatan, with AJ_Impy as Adis Venen, Master of Poison; LupusAter as Syra Tabolisk, Technomancer, the Self-Selected of Kamilisan; and The Unlife Aquatic as Lady Three-Five-Seven, Mercenary and Gun-Witch. Question: What was the last straw for Syra Tabolisk? ---- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eZ7ygC9Avcc ---- More than a laboratory, more than an office building, the inside of Korkas Tower resembled a nightclub. Neon tubing along the walls and ceiling transported dangerous chemicals this way and that, with the lighting they provided almost an afterthought, and once you were used to the electrical hum and endless din of pistons, it started to sound like a pleasant (if repetitive) beat in the background. In fact, all things considered, the Tower was one of the more pleasant places you could be, nowadays. It was kept warm, but not stifling, and food and drink were plentiful. For all his flaws, and there were many, Adis Venen was not stupid, and he was rarely cruel for cruelty's sake. He understood that if he was to keep the Technomancers in line, he had to see that they were richly rewarded. And yet, if the frantic babbling of the research lead in front of him is anything to go on - "...and then the robotics division - only one of them turned, sir, but she was handling Soul Mechanics, and she let them loose, and now all the automatons -" - this had not been enough. Adis Venen gently raises a perfectly-manicured hand to still the logorrhoea from the research lead, seemingly thoroughly unruffled despite the dire nature of the unfurling crisis. His mellifluous, rich baritone, quiet, calm and commanding, blossoms into the silence once it came into being, “Thank you, I get the idea. Did they provide any specific demands, or is this more of an overly aggressive attempted management buyout?” Silence, as the man before him attempts to find the right words. More than once, he opens his mouth, only to close it again, unsatisfied. Finally: "They... Want us to manufacture contraband, sir. Crimes against Adis Kalas. And to distribute it freely to the city." Lady Three-Five-Seven had been standing behind Venen, waiting in his shadow. She is a tall woman, wide-built, with small, steel-gray eyes that always seemed to squint. She wears her revolvers and lever-action with casual ease. The twin symbols of Father Stag and Mother Cordite paired on her collar. Her face is impassive, under her wide-brimmed hat. "Seems like you have a problem, boss." She says, gravel-voiced. Her cigarillo twirls between her lips. The words of the man before him finally get Adis Venen‘s full attention, pencil-thin brows furrowing as his visage darkens. The mercenary Gun-Witch gave succinct summation, before the Master of Poison declaims, “Well then. An overplayed hand, it seems. We can’t be having that, can we?” He opens a desk drawer, palms something small, pockets it. As an afterthought, “How long would you say until they aim for the head, so to speak?” A puff of smoke rises from the Gun-Witch's mouth, curling against the brim of her hat. She taps it against a nearby ashtray - no use getting ashes on her good suit. "They already are." Far below, she can already hear the Song of Steel beginning. The clash of antlers in the mist that called to all of Father Stag's faithful. Syra's feathered mantle flaps in the wind as he ascends the tower with a combination of hooks, adhesives and good old fashioned willpower. He knows this is the right way to do this - the past is nothing more than the blueprint for the future, and if he is to be the instrument of Kamilisan's will he'll have to play the part. Meter by meter, his target grows closer. The eye - the window. He gives his cloak a flap, activating the phosporics strewn among the feathers, then a chemoidraulically-assisted blow shatters the glass and he enters the office in a blaze of glass and cold flames. "Venen! Tonight it ends!" He has to be quick. He knows the Gun-Witch has him in her sights. The scientist at Venen's side jumps away with a yelp. Eyes wide and hands shaking, he draws a dagger from his jacket, and brandishes it unconvincingly. "Tabolisk! Stand down this instant!" The Lady's features do not move. Her eyes show nothing. She only watches, her hand floating near one of her six-guns. "Kid, step back before you fall on that thing." Adis Venen merely raises a calming hand. “Arcanist Tabolisk. As you know, my office is always open - I gave my word on that and I will uphold it. As soon as my present business is concluded -" he gestures to the researcher - "you will have my complete and undivided attention.” He indicates for the research lead to return to where they had been standing, to interpose themselves between the intruder and his seat. “Now, if you would continue, what is the current status of Project Summerjar?” The researcher nods, and hesitantly steps forward - lowering the knife, but still gripping it tight. "Summerjar is nearing operational capacity, sir. Ready to deploy within the hour. Additionally, those of us... not involved in this, ah, dispute, have barricaded the eighth floor workshop to ensure that it cannot be sabotaged or disengaged." Syra scowls at him. "And remind me, what will happen once it starts? Do any of you have an idea of what this will cause? How are you cowards okay with this?!" (The Lady stares long and hard at the interloper. Her face had begun to wrinkle with age, one crease even resembling the Mto.) The immaculately-suited Master of Poison nods, his receding hairline of dark, straight hair devoid of gray betraying not a hint of sweat on his brow. “Arcanist Tabolisk, I’m afraid I must insist that you wait your turn. Now, I presume Dr. Geriyan is presently situated there?” The researcher nods again. "Yes, sir. She's monitoring the lower floor cameras right now, but stands ready to configure and activate Summerjar as soon as all systems are online." “Good, good. Let us hope that does not become...” he pauses for a moment, jovially offering a smile to Syra, “Necessary.” Syra smiles bitterly - more of a grimace. "Necessary? Pray tell, why would you ever deem it necessary?" He then draws a frail-looking glass tube from his cloak, with an iridescent vapor swirling and coalescing inside. He glances at the Lady. "I'd stay put if I were you. This is enough Caged Sun to leave this tower an empty husk." The Gun-Witch flicks the butt of her cigarillo on the floor and grinds it out, her eyes fixed on the vial. Adis Venen’s eyes flicker to it for just a moment; then he shrugs. "Ah well. I commend you on your dedication to Adis Kalas. The ruination of so many families and so much effort rendered futile is an offering that will truly be as sweetness and balm to her, a gesture of despair that will cause the hearts of many to plummet. To say nothing of the chemical fallout from ruining every containment chamber at once and vaporising the contents to taint the entire region. I didn’t think you had it in you." "You know better than me that your precious containment systems could handle worse than this. You seemed fond of reminding us that they were the only thing standing between us and our incompetence. No, this is a fine price to pay to stop your madness." Venen quirks his brow, and smiles, spreading his arms out in a magnanimous gesture. “You’re presuming, of course, that the containment systems are currently active." Syra inhales sharply. "You madman! I've seen the specifics for Summerjar! To move that amount of Frost without containment is... it's suicide!" “You’re right. Would you care to stand down for the sake of the good people of this city?” "The same people you plan to starve? We both know that you only care for the profits you could make off their desperation." “So their fate doesn’t matter to you either, then. Good to know.” Venen counters. Lady Three-Five-Seven turns to the researcher. She nods at him, then at the door. He glances over at Venen - but the Song of Steel is getting louder with every passing moment, and now he can hear it too. He hastily makes his way toward the door, muttering something about seeing if Doctor Ophyx needed assistance; Venen makes no move to stop him, gaze fixed on Syra, still a potential threat. The door slams shut behind him, and then, for an instant, the room is silent - But only for one instant. The Gun-Witch's eyes leave the vial. She sizes up her target. Her hand moves. Cold wood, emblazoned with the antlers of Father Stag, blessed by Mother Cordite's living avatar, Brother Hellionite. It fits perfectly into her hand. Her thumb slides along the hammer, as it might slide over a lover's hip. The gun rises to eye-level. She thumbs the hammer. (No Gun-Witch sullies their weapon with anything beyond a drop safety. The safety is your will.) Father Stag, bless my hand, so I might win the day and protect what is mine. Mother Cordite, guide my bullet, as I guide my gun with my eye. The click is the only warning the Master of Poison gets. Her gun roars like revelation. It's almost as bright as one too. Syra's ears ring. Blood stains bloom on Venen's suit. Adis Venen leaps to his feet as if stung by the biggest pair of hornets in creation, swivelling to fix his erstwhile bodyguard with an expression rife with rage and betrayal. He clenches his fist hard around something in his pocket, then raises it towards her, more and more shakily. He gasps out “Why?” through increasingly blood-flecked lips as the flow of his life clogs and bloats his lungs, leaving him drowning in his own exsanguination. He stumbles, tries to support himself on the back of his chair, only managing to bring it down with him as he falls for the last time, besmirching the carpet with the crimson stain of a taken life. Lady Three-Five-Seven twirls her revolver once, before putting it back in the holster. She walks over to the dying man, dry smirk on her face. One of her heavy boots sits on his chest. "Because, my friend, you paid me to win for you. Not to die." She presses her boot in. There is the sound of something wet rattling in a cage. Like a bird. Blood pours from his mouth. "I'm afraid that's outside the bounds of our contract." Syra is, for once in his life, speechless. No further answer is forthcoming from the cooling remains, either, but the lighting in the room seems... subtly different, somehow. The Gun-Witch pays it no heed, and looks up at Syra as if seeing him for the first time. Salt-and-slate hair frames her face, cut apart by red lights slowly fading ochre. A moment later she moves off to grab her coat, and a duffel bag. It goes over her shoulder. Then a cigarillo from her suit pocket. She locks eyes with Syra, and walks towards him, slow and casual. "Two things, kid. First, I'm going to tell you a story. The story of a young, crazy chemist. He killed a man, a man with a gun-witch for a bodyguard. Threw some terrible chemical concoction in his face." She lights a match, and then her cigarillo. The former flies over her shoulder, and lands on Venen's corpse. A moment later he is burning, white and hot and pure. All that will be left is cordite. "And then, as he lay dying, screaming and cursing the chemist, the chemist asked the gun-witch why she didn't stop him. Her only answer was 'he didn't pay this month'." She chuckles. "Think it might be a good story for you to tell other people, what do you think?" Syra eases up, lets his shoulders fall. "I'm thinking that as ways to find out your guns are actually real go, this is my preferred one. Also, I'm thinking that he was the kind of fucker to install and make use of a blackened soul switch and it'd be smart for us to stop whatever may be happening. Or, at the very least, vacate the premises." "That brings me to my second point, kid." The cigarillo slides across her lips. "The next five minutes are gonna be the most important five minutes of your life. Because you need to decide what winning means for you. I can't do that for you, friend." She puffs, a wry smile on her face. It is perhaps the third time he has ever seen her smile. "Whatever your answer, I think it better be pretty good. As for me, I think this is where our paths part." She walks past him, patting his shoulder. "Good luck, kid." As the flames consume the dead man’s arm, the fingers open and a single item falls from them: a small, single-button remote control switch. There is a faint ‘krrk’ from one of the side walls. Syra does not leave; each and every feather on his mantle feels like it weighs a ton, keeping him there. He scoops up the remote, studies it intently. More ‘krrk’s, louder, more insistent. The lighting dims from neon to a bilious hue. It doesn’t take much of a search to see that two of the adjacent tubes in that wall are commingling their noxious, bright contents, and the pressure of the resultant greenish gas is already starting to seep through the hairline cracks in the toughened glass. That shade of green can only mean one thing. This is going to suck. Hypersaturated alogens, with some sort of oxidizer-based dispersal mechanism. Deadly, fast-acting, and leaving behind all sort of nasty stuff. Syra takes off his cloak, the phosphors blazing coldly with the sudden intake of air, and soaks it in the safety sink in the corner, to help with diffusion and maybe mitigate the heat. (It won't be enough, but he knows that.) He presses the cloak to where the cracks are forming, the phosphors greedily reacting with the highly energetic compound, flashing otherworldly colors. Some feathers get stuck into his arms, the heat and the noxious fumes searing them in, but still he holds fast. The chemical blaze singes his fingers, never quite enough to dull the pain, but still he holds fast. Smoke and steam choke his lungs, making each breath an ordeal, but still he holds fast. He. Will. Hold. ------ On the floors below, the Song of Steel and the thrum of machinery are joined by the sound of explosions and drills, carefully deployed to avoid doing any more damage to the network of pipes. The Summerjar Team pages Venen repeatedly, begging for the activation codes and calibration instructions. Doctor Geriyan, the only other person who knew them by heart, lies dead on the floor. The window behind her is cracked - a spiderweb emanating from a twelve-millimeter hole. This event is Light - Adis Venen is no more, Project Summerjar was never unleashed, and Syra Tabolisk will survive, albeit worse for wear. MaxieSatan fucked around with this message at 17:26 on Jan 13, 2020 |
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Jan 7, 2020 04:35
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The Last Meal before the battle of the Mountain and the Sun - Banana Man (chef), Unlife Aquatic (cat), Maxiesatan (caravan of merchants), Rentabot (rowdy soldiers) Question to be answered: What was the worse mishap of the Last Meal? ---- The swollen, sweaty, and exceedingly tired chef thumbed through his family cookbook hurriedly, the pages thick and wet in the hot air. He wiped his hand through his hair, while glancing repeatedly at the supplies over at the merchants, grimacing at the disparity between the official reports and what he could see on the carts. "Not enough!" he chuffed. From across the plateau, the booming roar of the hungry soldiers met his ears, a siege on his sanity. "But I cannot take shortcuts! No simple potatoes! No simple muckroot! What my grandmother would say!" He kissed the book and did the Chefs Ritual of 3 taps to the left shoulder, right if he had oversalted. He often oversalted. Their de facto leader - a tall, old woman in an impeccably-tailored jacket - scoffed. "Potatoes and muckroot is what we've got, at least at the prices you're paying us. We're not sticking our necks out to bring a bunch of hirelings spices and venison." "I'm not paying you!" The Chef humbly grumbles at the merchants. "In fact, I'm not sure who's paying anyone!" He points at the mountain on the horizon, then to the Sun. "How do we even get compensated for this?" A chorus of groans comes from the soldiers sitting close enough to the chef, "Ya gotta be kiddin' me man! Just take the fuckin taters, you're gonna cover 'em in salt anyway, not like we can taste it." The groans turn to murmurs of agreement. "I'm about two minutes from eating dirt, get to cooking ya mook!" 'Yeah, what Vinzo said!' The chef chuffs. He chuffs once more. 3 taps to the left shoulder. A small cat, made night sky. Jumps up on the chef's shoulder. "MEOW!" "mrw?" He stumbles backwards into the pots and pans. Knocking everything askew and around in a clatter. The cat's claws dig into his shoulder, and she lets out a little hiss. The chef sneezes then rubs his face before grabbing some of the potatoes. "Oh lords this cat again." "mrw?" The cat says sweetly, as if it makes up for anything at all. The merchants burst out laughing. "You in the market for a snare? I hear catgut makes a fine casserole." "Can't be worse than what we're selling, apparently." He kisses the book again. And his eyes light up. He puts the cat on his shoulder and walks to the merchants, sneezing. Faint Object Camerahoy a las 21:06 "MEOW!" the shoulder-cat says to the merchants. "Ok so what do we have? The couriers all abandoned the camp several days ago." "This is a battle for the gods! The GODS!" He waves his arms around wildly. "There's got to be something worth making." The cat sneezes, and shifts across the chef's shoulder. It stares at the merchants with little beady green eyes "I'll tell you what I have. Alcohol, lots of it!" He points to the large supply of tightly tethered barrels all poised near the camp. The key to the alcohol sits around the cat's neck. "But getting drunk is off the table, it's not fitting for a hearth's home meal, courtesy of my grandmothers toil and trouble." "Hmm?" he looks at the key. "Good Kitty." "mrw" Achooooo. It starts washing it's face. The green eyes never leave the merchants. One soldier whispers to another, "Aw man, he ain't gonna sell our whole booze stash is he?" 'Gods help him if he does, Maura,' the other replies gravely. The chef shuffles uneasily hearing the crowd increasingly turn against him. The kitty bolts from his shoulder. Claws dig in and spray blood. It bolts straight through a merchant's legs. The lead merchant rolls her eyes. "We're not in the market for rotgut. We can drink our troubles away when we get -" The merchant flails, frantically overcorrecting. He collides with another to his left, who shoves back against him. "Watch it, oaf!" "Get him cat!" The chef runs over to the carts in full sprint. The cat is apparently chasing a small large earred fox one of the merchants owns. "THE BOOZE!" A whip of tension cracks through the crowd and the soldiers bluster forth to secure the feline. The chef tackles the merchant, caught in the the rush. The rest of the merchants scramble, some going after the animals while others move to secure the cart. "For the Hearth Heart!" He mightily kicks a merchant in the chest. Another merchant guards club connecting with his grandmothers cook book, long ago blessed by the Hearth, the merchants club shatters. The vulpine yips, chased by the cat through wagon wheels, barrels and ropes! It slams into a brake with a yip, and suddenly a whole cart is tumbling down a nearby hill. The cat has not noticed. "What in the name of -" "Is that a cookbook or a spellbook?" "THE CART!" "The cart!" The chef yells. "Hands off the chef ya mook!" A burly soldier retaliates by drop-kicking the merchant guard that wielded the club. In the frenzy it turns into an all-out brawl. He looks at the ropes piling off the cart, connected up to the cheft tent, which is also tethered to the booze pile. The burliest merchant lets out a furious yell and barrels towards the chef, tackling him head on. The rest, too occupied with fighting off soldiers or chasing the cat, don't even notice as the wagon bounces off a hill and into the Mto. The chef kisses the soldier in the struggle, the soldier begins choking and clutching at his neck. The dreaded Chef's Kiss. This was no ordinary chef...he was a zealot of the hearth heart. "Huh? Yo Ubo, you alright? Geez, look like a ghost tickled your ribs... Hey chef where's the cart?" The merchants fall silent and their attacks slow, then stop, as they realize what's happened. The Chef sits up and chuffs confusedly, looking at the empty spot where he last saw the celebration cart. The kitty catches the wily vulpine, they engage in a ruthless storm of batting and hissing and little dog-screeches. Not far away the lost cart drifts towards the Span, barrels cracking. The kitty barely notices. Until the world explodes. A thousand bright lights sear it's little eyes. And it rolls back yowling and sobbing as fireworks consume the Great Span, leading to it's third explosion this age. This scene is light both in levity and brightness level within the Titanomancy period, Enmity of Sun and Star, before Titanomancy Battlescene
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Jan 7, 2020 04:35
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The Rites of Rispa - or - Rispatti & Gris - A Common Delicacy - An Event during the Stagnation ♪ The fat, unimpressive little boat sputtered through the clear green waters of the sound, pushed along by compact little aquaductor motor that hummed with arcane energy. As he did every morning, Tenka took his uncle’s boat out to where the sound met the sea, greeting the fisherman who’d been out since before dawn. ‘Tenka! Tenka! Hey, Tenka!’ they called out to him, his fat skiff coasting in neatly beside their narrow vessels. Their catches were tossed aboard by the net full, and Tenka would kick the aquaductor and move along to the next. When the skiff could carry no more, burdened by the fish, he’d putter around and run aground on the beach, where a song and percussive beat continued, uninterrupted, echoing across the sound - the same song, every dawn, all throughout the Rispa atoll. Two novitiates were there to meet him a boy and girl not much younger than him - both of them alike in many ways: the short, neat hairstyles, the orange and yellow kitenges, bright smiles and impeccable manners. The girl wears a small brass amulet of a smiling cat - her counterpart’s ears dotted with earrings of the same smiling cat. They thank Tenka and begin to offload the fishermen’s bounty onto their sled. The novitiates drag the sled across the sand chattering among themselves until they reach the source of the song. A close circle of men and women, in those same robes, singing an old song - older than the old Empire - all gathered around the massive stump of some ancient tree, polished into fine flat surface. At the end of each beat, they take a fish from the haul, chop it swiftly, the *clack* of their cleavers a part of the tune, as is the shuffling, cleaning sweeps that follow. The clerics clean and prepare the meat - in impeccable rhythm, dashing the fish with citrus juices, pasting it over with a brush of marinade and peppering it with spices. As a verse finishes, in perfect synchronization, they turn the cuts of fish over to wrap it in kelp. The finished product is scooped up and taken away from them by another pair of acolytes, older than the haulers from the beach, but not yet grown. They add fixings and small brushes of herbs and prepare the fish for transport. At the docks, the ferry-diners wait for the acolytes’ delivery, bobbing with the surf. ~~~ “A North Quarter High Witness was killed today serving a high risk warrant in the Riverside Heights neighborhood. A spokesperson with the Witnesses said the investigator is survived by his spouse and infant child. A ceremony at the Temple of the First Witness will be open to the public this weeke-” *bing-bong* [F E R R Y D O C K I N G - P L E A S E S T E P A W A Y F R O M T H E L A N D I N G - F E R R Y D O C K I N G - P L E A S E S T E P A W A Y F krgz L A N D kgnz There was a puff and a spark from the speaker, loose wiring and the rain putting a stop to the newscast. He warmed his bandaged hands on the emberpost, clasping the hot metal handhold, offering a prayer to the Ferry Queen, waiting in the damp, drizzling afternoon rain. The rickety, rotting ferry boat sidled up to the dock, flashing neon tubes of red and orange shaping a garish feline grin affixed to the side, with folksy, warbling acoustic strumming emitted from a tinny speaker. Not so much the vessel from his prayers but it was punctual. The shutters on the outside were closed to the rain, so the man made his way inside the ‘cabin’ of the diner. The interior is warm, and unexpectedly dry, and all at once he feels guilty for bringing his dripping coat and boots in with him. Two other customers huddle at a table in the back, and an older woman with tanned, worn features waves him over to the counter. She stops at the ferry controls and pulls a heavy lever, twists a knob and presses a few buttons before welcoming him in proper with a tired smile, “What’ll you have?” Sheepishly, he hunches over, “Don’t have any money.” She peers at him a little closer, “You heading for the Mercy Mission?” He nods and takes a seat. “At the ospetal, they said the ferries all stop there at the end of the route.” “That’s right. You’re not from around here.” It isn’t a question. “If you were, you'd know: the rispatti and gris is free, everything else costs money.” “What’s the catch?” She looks at him out of the corner of her eye and chuckles. Reaching behind the counter, she pulls out kelp-wrapped filet of fish, marinated already, and slides open a panel on the countertop. A sweep of her hand and the countertop heats with magic - she scoops the fish with the edge of a knife and flops it onto the stove. “Rispatti is the catch. Caught just this morning in fact. And it’s free.” She scoops a grey clay cup and into a basin behind the counter, filling it with spicy gris paste, and sets it out in front of him, along with another cup of scoop-shaped crisps. “When we get to the mission, you’ll do me a favor, though.” The man nods agreeably, “O-oh, of course, right!” He begins to look around for a drink, unprepared for the gris. “When we get to the mission, all the rispatti left for the day, you help unload it, take it in with you to the workers there. The rispatti’s free, anything else costs money, and at the end of the day, all the rispatti gets doled out at the mission - our order works with theirs. You get it?” His face flush, he nods, coughing. She slides him a cup before he chokes. Taking big gulps of water he finally clears his mouth, “This is… This is actually really good. Amazing, even. I’ve never tasted anything so good.” The suspicion creeps in, “How come I’ve never heard of this?” “You must have needed it.” The ferry captain smiles broadly, “The more you need it, the better it tastes. That’s the secret of properly prepared rispatti and gris, the High Priest starts the song at dawn, and so long as we follow the tune, there’s plenty enough for those who need it. A small blessing, for those with few enough. My Lady has a pact with the Ferry Queen and the Fortune of the Islands in Rispa, you see.” He looked at his fork, at the seared filet on the tip, and considered this, as if he might be able to see some magic at work. Seeing none, he shrugs and seems satisfied to enjoy his fish. Look, I messed up again, guys. I made a scene but I'm not deleting it  So it's an event now. A really long event entry. This is a LIGHT EVENT.
Ambivalent fucked around with this message at 14:30 on Jan 8, 2020 |
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Jan 8, 2020 11:20
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First Frigate's Flight- LupusAter Vauthen was one of the finest thaumasmiths of his Age, and his legacy shaped History as few individuals have. He claimed he was inspired by a dream of a stag flying on gemmed wings , and went to work in the name of the Stag and the Bird. After seven years of failures and removable prototypes, it was the time for drastic measures: he instructed his assistants to graft the delicate framework of metal and glass directly on his bones, anchoring it on his scapulae and with a focusing tendril gathering occult energies from his liver. As soon as the pain receded, he jumped from the window and managed to not die. Thus, the First Frigate flew, and a great flock would darken the skies of the ages to come. A Light event in the Resurgence, the start of a technology that would revolutionize the world.
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Jan 8, 2020 20:44
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Taste of Sunshine - A Scene during The Calling Question: How did a bowl of soup convince Valakia to return the warmth of the Sun to Creation The Sun stood high up in the noon sky, as royal and incandescent on its seat in the middle of everything as it had always been. But there was no warmth to be found in its sterile, cold white rays, even though it was Spring already. It had gotten worse every year now, for generations: every year, Valakia spared fewer looks toward Creation, in favor of turning inwards. Their charges were afforded nothing but cold indifference. Inspiration was hard to come by, leaders were lacking when they were most needed. Crops, culture and arts all stagnated and died under the Sun's indignation. This did not stop Annabelle Ross, a former chef now homeless after her debt-ridden diner's repossession, from sneaking to the top of the abandoned apartment she was squatting in with her partners in destitution. She had with her a crudely inscribed prayer stone, some bricks, a piece of tablecloth, and a pot. Hastily, she laid down the bricks as a makeshift altar, placed the tablecloth on top of them, and ran the circle of consecration around it, striking each corner with the prayer stone. She closed her eyes as she tried to remember the words. She hadn't offered prayers to Valakia ever since her mom used to take her to the temples of light, so her memory of them was somewhat rusty, but with some effort (and a few mistakes) she recited the three upon three prayers of Sunrise, Noon and Sunset. After the lengthy supplications, she made her request for warmth. Warmth to keep herself and those she cared about from freezing to death in the chill. Now, she was no fool, she knew this was likely a vain effort. Arcanists and Applied Theomancers would scoff at her methods as primitive. It had been decades since even the Pontifex Illuminate had been able to call a true miracle by them. But she was desperate, lacking in options, and Valakia was one of the few Gods she hadn't yet tried to invoke. After her request, she placed the pot on the altar, and removed the lid. There was soup in it. It was not fancy soup, an inherited family recipe improvised to function with what ingredients could be scavenged, stolen or bought with their meager funds. But it had proven very popular among her community. And most importantly, it was the only thing of any worth she had to give. It was her offering to the King of Gods. Soup. Unbeknownst to Annabelle, Valakia was watching. But they were watching with the sort of sneer you would watch a cockroach you suddenly found on your kitchen floor. For whilst Valakia usually ignored mortals except for the very rare, Exalted individuals , for the same reason you usually ignored a bunch of ants three blocks away from your house, there was something almost poignant about this situation. A mortal, a member of the Failed Design, that had managed to do nothing but disappoint for millennia, no matter how many chances they were given, was groveling next to a pile of rubble, trying to curry their favor with some sort of beggar swill. It was the epitome of their inadequacy. A vindication of Valakia's decision to turn away and plan to create something better, on their place. The God glanced at the soup. Immediately, Valakia could tell that there was something horribly wrong with the situation. The way that the nagroot floated, stewed just enough to soften the difficult to process vegetable, without losing its unique consistency, its ratio with tat and the green and black onion, the way that the herbs and spices made them all fuse with and elevate the stolen swanfish the dish was centered around. There was no flaw there. Valakia gazed deeper, divine sunlight piercing the soup to the molecular level. The electrolyte balance danced with the free flavonoids in a pattern of divine significance. There was no flaw there. Valakia's eyes pierced deeper still, to the very soul of the soup. There they saw a community coming together, all bringing what they could, to make something greater than the sum of its parts, to bring them all together and to be shared freely with those in need of warmth. And there, Valakia finally saw the issue. They had fought Titans, brought down Primes, and triumphed over Gods. All of them had a weakness. The grandest cathedrals had a brick misplaced, the greatest paintings a brush that did not belong, even the First Emperor had stumbled and paid the price. But this soup? It was the arcanic ideal of soup. There was nothing about it that could be critiqued at all. In all of history, among all the great works of the divines and mortals alike, this soup was the first Perfect Thing in Creation. Valakia looked at it again. The swanfish had secreted a teasing drop of oil that floated on top of the soup. And there, on the surface of a tiny puddle of fish grease, Valakia saw their own unflawed reflection for the first time. Annabelle opened their eyes, after another prayer. The soup was gone. The very next day, the snow started to melt. This is a Light scene, near the end of the Calling and the False End in general, where Valakia decides that Creation has hope after all.
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Jan 8, 2020 20:57
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Fritto de Paranza or Great-Gifts-In-Small-Packages - An Event during the Stagnation Two fisherwomen will argue on an alpine lake. Their nets tangled yet again. Close by sits the town of Vulpinus-Greater-Frost. It is a struggling town, the fractal obsidian has dried up, taking the arms industry that once thrived there with it. It is a time of desperation. And these two fisherwomen will look down, and see the way out in their tangled nets. Little fish stare up at them, confused at the knot of network catching their too-small bodies. One smiles to the other, who rolls her eyes. They take their catch back to port, and the fisherwoman fries them, feeding their whole block with it and fluffy zucchini rolls. Empty bellies fill, the dish becomes a craze, spreading from the little town across the nation of Orde-de-la-Cord. The two fisherwomen finally set aside their long rivalry, marry, and open a fishery, known for it's use of knotted nets that make catches to feed a community. Neither of them realize just whose cookbook the recipe will end up in. Remembered long after their bodies are returned to the sky. This is a Light event, famine is held back in a hard time, and a new recipe is added to Ospe's repertoire of favorites.
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Jan 8, 2020 22:50
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Legacy of the Ferry-Queen More than a spirit but less than a demigoddess, the then-mortal Ferry-Queen first came to prominence when she led a series of raids on cities along the Jadescrape Peninsula and the mouth of the River Mto. From there, she would finance a war to unify the region that would later be known as Auvell. Though feared and loved in equal measure during her life, her legacy as a warrior quickly faded into obscurity after she died without heirs. The captains and crew that once followed her, however, continued to speak of her in hushed tones - and as memories evolved into folktales and folktales into myths, the Ferry-Queen, builder of all ships and mother of all sailors, was reshaped and reborn. ------ Legacy Event: Dying Fire, Rising Tide An excerpt from Equatorial History III: Portraits of a Healing Continent, published by Prelmann Books Chapter 3.7 - The Gulf Renaissance While Technomancy, Arcanics, Chemistry, Soul Theory, and related fields failed to make significant progress during the Stagnation, this does not mean that nothing was accomplished. In fact, for the Sungaze Islands and several nations along the Ydruo Gulf, the Stagnation was a time of significant political, economic and artistic development. Much of this development was centered around shipbuilding and settlement. The loss of the Stagnant Sciences was a blessing to naval engineers seeking sturdiness and stability, as they no longer had to "catch up" to increasingly unstable power sources and dangerous weapons[...] Three types of boat, in particular, rose to prominence at this time. The first two, developed by the Reed-Dweller Ocean's Breadth, were the Mother-O-Mercy - a light, swift sailing vessel used primarily for scouting, rescue missions, and urgent cargo transport, but unsuited for combat - and the Shaleskin, a resonance-propelled craft covered in light stone plating which protected it from corrosion and rot, as well as making it excellent at ramming its enemies. The last, designed by Dria Urnam (a priest of Valakian) and Grell Arno (a devotee of Ospe), was the Basker, originally intended for pleasure cruises along major rivers such as the Mto. Salfø Marro au Veril, a minor landholder on the Jadescrape Peninsula, would soon see the potential in these new creations. Selling off or trading away a large chunk of her family's assets, Salfø commissioned over a hundred shipwrights to build her "a fleet that could terrify a Titan and pacify a Prime"[...] This is a Light event. Salfø Marro's wars are harsh, but they are swift, and the enduring legacy of the Gulf Renaissance and the blessings of the Ferry-Queen are loved by many. (n.b. - this Event takes place during the Stagnation, and will retroactively contain the Rites of Rispa, which will be relabeled a Scene. A bit unorthodox, but hey.) MaxieSatan fucked around with this message at 05:37 on Jan 9, 2020 |
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Jan 8, 2020 23:29
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Legacy - The Fickle Sun It has happened countless times, scholars have spent their life's work on it; the predictions, calculations, precarious use of priveledged and false information meant to control others: the irregular disappearance and reappearance of the Sun. Each cycle has been the cause for countless wars, omens, celebrations...but what has it meant for the continued existence of mortals? new event in the false end The Time of Darkness - Banana Man The longest stretch of the Sun's vanishing, where most of organic life was destroyed; only technological advances had allowed those worthy of it to cling to existence. In this time, those cursed to eternal life came to rule the remaining technoholds while the planet descended into permanent icy winter. This period is Dark (and cold!) Banana Man fucked around with this message at 18:42 on Jan 9, 2020 |
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Jan 9, 2020 18:37
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The Invocations of Desperation, a scene during Dying Fire, Rising Tide, in The Stagnation - AJ_Impy as Nerucic and background cabalists, Theantero as Arcanist Horatio Withers, Ambivalent as Councilor Acan Kagoia, MaxieSatan as The Fleet as Time. Question: Did the desperate invokers glean a secret from the Truthguardian? Salfø Marro's fleet has been sighted further down the coast, so a cabal of Arcanists and Technomancers, fearing they are next on the list, running out of options and with their research as stymied as ever, try to cut out the middleman, summoning Nerucic Themself in order to beseech them to release the secrets the cabal seeks. Horatio Withers paced about in the main ritual circle, inspecting the arcane linebreaks and recalculating the theomantic numerologies to make absolutely certain they contained no errors. Usually he left this sort of busywork to interns, but he could not really afford that sort of thing here. Attempting to summon a High Divinity was not something to involve dabblers in. Hell, it was not something to involve masters in either, really. He removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose after making sure no error remained. There were dark bags under his eyes. “I guess we’re doing this”, he stated, in a sort of resigned way. The person to his left merely nodded, their expression clouded, but his associate to the right was more verbose. "It's not as if we are replete with options. Unless we want to prostrate ourselves before Salfø Marro and trust to their tender mercies, this is our last chance. We are going further, daring more than any to have gone before us, but we're doing it with tried and tested means and logical extrapolations of them. That circle is perfect, the summoning mantra has been rehearsed by the choir of acolytes, all of whom are in fine voice, and the Osserman Generators are fully primed and ready. Yes, we're doing this, and we are going to succeed! We have to!" "It has already been decided. We can't stop now anyway." Councilor Acan Kagoia gripped the railing, watching Withers work with dreadful anticipation. The issue had been settled, as far as the council was concerned. 'It couldn't hurt to ask' was the verdict. She didn't find that to be true - even conjuring small Fortunes and beseeching lesser spirits had risks. To demand the attention of a true god, even a merciful one... She mumbles, "Talruyat, do not be so harsh when next you see me." She'd been a haruspex herself for the city of Tanvell, that is why she was chosen of all the politicians to oversee this. She dries her slick palms, and steps up to the dais. "The humidity feels high. What's our resonance loss percent at?" Fretting, needlessly fretting. Hurelot, the chief technician beside Osserman Generator Gimel, tapped the display panel, frowning. Nonetheless, he relayed, "Looks like three point five, scope to get to three point seven five if we're unlucky. It's a little high but still within nominal limits. All clear, Councilor." Acceptable. Withers and the rest of the team knew the principles at work. Kagoia breathed in the sea air, took one last survey of the assembled summoning array and the open ocean and coastline beyond the bounds the laboratory. "So it is. Winds protect and guide us." And she nods to the rest of the team members. The horizon, for now, was clear - thank the gods. There had been precious little good news that day: the spring rains had ceased earlier than usual, and the winds were blowing inland. On a better day, the laboratory staff could enjoy the way the morning light fell upon the plains, turning the whole region into a glorious display of gold and violet. But now, all it meant was that there was no fog or darkness that might slow down the Fleet. It was only a matter of time - and less time than Kagoia would like. Horatio did not actively participate in the chatter, merely allowing his eyes to race across the sigils and machinery, his chin resting on his fist. Only when the chatter died down, did he speak up. “Very well. On countdown from three, we begin, with the Ossermans feeding to the sigil matrix at the highest orbital resonance, reduction ongoing until synchronization with the choirsong is reached. I will then perform the Request.” “Three…” “Two…” “One…” The song starts, the sigils begin to glow with a high hum, that gradually gets lower, then lower, until Horatio speaks, in ancient Spirean. “<We seek Truth.>” “<For Truth will bring us safety.>” “<Thus we must seek it wherever we might.>” “<Please aid us, o Truthguardian. Please refrain from seeing in us hubris, o Protector.>” His pronunciation was perfect. His expressions was grim. The figure to Horatio’s left nodded once more. There was nothing strange or unusual about their presence or appearance, merely a sense that it was absolutely right and natural that they should be here right now, such that the mind skipped over who they might be or what they might be here to do. They were supposed to be here, they were here, on with the summoning. The figure gently lifted off the ground and glided across to the centre of the circle as if the wards and fundamental energies simply weren’t there. Ethereal clouds vaguely conforming to a humanoid shape, albeit with billowing wing-forms framing it. It spake, each word resounding with a sense of utter certainty that rendered everything else ever heard as doubtful by comparison. It wasn’t exactly a language so much as the unmistakable conveyance of meaning. “It is necessary for me to appear at this juncture. This method of contact is not recommended, in particular with other deities. This recommendation will eventually be ignored. I do not grant secrets before the appropriate time. This does not end our dialogue.” Horatio, to his credit, was not particularly flustered by the entry of the God, for a man who was quite familiar how flighty and prone to making ‘educational examples’ out of mortals they could be. He merely took a step to the side, blinked a few times, cleared his throat and bowed his head. For just a second he was silent, to organize his thoughts. He could not afford to stammer here. “We are honored by your presence, o Great Nerucic, thank you for your allowance of speech to us, and take your advice with gratefulness. The warnings presented are also heeded, and though we might wish to deny them, we are not quite so foolish. I offer apology for our weak nature.” A few seconds of silence, as Horatio waited for interjection. None were given, so he continued. “But a question hangs, to which we humbly request the Truth to: is the appropriate time for the secret we seek to be revealed now, during this communion?” He was sweating slightly, but otherwise kept his composure as he waited for an answer. Out of the corner of his eye, Horatio swore he could see a black speck in the distance, growing ever larger. It would be a scout - a Mother-o-Mercy, or an Ebbchaser - unless au Veril had grown so bold that she could afford to attack without any hesitation. That couldn't be the case, could it? Not so soon after the Meeting at the Reefs. Surely not. Surely not. “To give you either a positive or a negative response would be to give some of you too much information. Not everyone here seeks the same secrets, in any case. Not all Truth is immediately helpful.” There was a sense of some degree of sympathy radiating towards the majority, although a handful were instead acutely aware of the secrets they held even from the rest of those present here. A common occurrence in the legends, Horatio thought bitterly to himself between glances to the coast. Be answered not merely by useless crypticisms, but be then smitten for ‘badgering’ if you kept at it. This was exactly why Horatio had tried to convince the faculty that this whole plot was not only inherently dangerous, but also quite likely to turn up a waste of time. Yet here they were. “It is not the place of a mere mortal such as me to question Divine wisdom”, he spoke, as diplomatically as he could muster, “All I seek is the True and final value of the third arcanic ratio.” “You will find it eventually, but not at this moment in time. The steps you take along that path are necessary to how you will choose to apply it. Giving you the answer right now would harm reality.” As far as non-answer answers went, it was perhaps surprising how much new information was contained within, and the implications thereof. The Councilor has stared in wide-eyed fascination this whole time - disbelief abound. Her want, her desire, is something less esoteric. Withers has his answer after a fashion. She stands as tall as she can, nerves frayed, "Protector, I... Our humble apologies - our people, on this peninsula, we are under threat - a mortal threat of mortal making. If not this man's request for knowledge, I am charged with asking you some boon, some wisdom, that will safeguide us through the shadow coming over the horizon even now." Her voice is unsteady. She'd like to think she'd made a bold request, fulfilling her duty, but it came out as more of a plea. The shadow, the devouring demon, the Fleet. Growing bigger, closer. They could see the form of the ships in front, now, no scouting vessels. They were large, plated with shale and stormstone, and their crews were surely armed to the teeth. But the greater concern was what was behind them. Wide enough and tall enough that, from the moment it came into view, there was no mistaking it for anything else. Salfø Marro's own. The Jade Mountain. A tendril of cloud extended towards Acan Kagoia, unfurling a fractal representation of the manifestation. Softly, it spake, "This, I can tell you. Salfø Marro au Veril succeeds. Her conquest will be brutal, but it will not be protracted. Your people do not have the wherewithal to fend her off, or to delay, or to resist effectively. I serve the truth, thus what I say is not what you would wish to hear, but you know how to make use of this information and do so to the best of your ability." Her sight passes through the mist, watching the flagship beyond. The heat drains from her visage, the fire from her manner. She bows her head, "I understand." A hint of bitter anger stirs somewhere in her throat, "I must go... prepare people." They must be told, a god could not, would not help them now. Councilor Kagoia raises her head and does not wait for Nerucic to conclude the meeting before turning her back. Horatio had taken off his glasses, and was currently cleaning the lenses with a piece of silken fabric. They weren’t actually dirty, it was just something he liked to do. Took his mind off things, like invading fleets. “Well”, he spoke, with a sad little smile on his face, “That certainly feels very true. The sort of answer we should have expected from the beginning. A fairly merciful one too”, he glanced towards the quickly approaching fleet again, “Taken the circumstances.” He put the glasses back on his face, exhaled, and turned to look directly at the Divine Manifestation for the first time. “O Great Nerucic, I wish to offer our deepest appreciation for your manifestation on behalf of the cabal. I am aware that these rites are dangerous and ill-advised, and am thankful that you have chosen to impart your wisdom regardless, and not punish us for our desperation.” He lowered his gaze again. “Does this finish our Communion?” The clouds within the circle billowed up, seeming to grow in volume and density. "It must. To go on for longer than it will would take more time than is necessary to take people to relative safety. As it is, it will take a minor miracle to do so. You will fare better than you fear, personally and collectively." With that, the roiling mass of cloud left the circle, continuing to expand extensively as it headed towards the coast, heedless of physical constraints such as walls or buildings. Gentle rain began to fall as the clouds spilled up and around, like a literal storm in a metaphorical teacup. The plains once bathed in golden light were shrouded in shade - "Councilor Kagoia! Councilor Kagoia!" She needed only turn her head to see what caused the commotion. One by one, the ships were turning tail, their crews unwilling to sail further inland and risk a wreck. One by one, they turned to shadows and then disappeared, no longer visible behind the titanic wall of fog that now shrouded the coast. The Jade Mountain, caught in the force of its own charge, continued onward, its crew working double time to furl all the sails and hurl a half-dozen anchors overboard. Iron ground against the silt and stone below as the flagship plunged into the fog - slowing, but not stopping, stoneplate grinding against the shore - And finally it came to a halt, and sat motionless within the fog, its imposing silhouette locked in place. At the top of its tallest mast, if one squinted, they could just barely make out a woman in a billowing longcoat; what they could not see, but only imagine, was the grim look on her face, her knuckles gripping the balcony of the crow's nest so tightly that it splintered. A murmur went throughout the laboratory. “Well”, Horatio spoke, cutting through the chatter, “I know enough about the Gods to know that to claim to know the Gods is the very height of hubris”, He glanced towards the fleet, now struggling with conveniently inclement weather, “But if this is not the most textbook case of Providence I’ve ever seen, I’ll eat my doctorate.” He turned towards the crowd. “Realize how lucky we are. Not only have we managed to contact a High Divinity, but nobody got punished, and they’ve opened a way forward for us. It might not be the Sun’s path of glory through the sky, or the Stag’s victory road, but at least it is not Talruat’s path either, at least not yet. And that alone is more than I expected.” “We’ve been given time. Be grateful.” He took one, final sad look towards the grand ritual hall. There were many stories there, from his dissertation, to decades of lectures on the proper rites he’d kept. It would all almost certainly be sacked. He sighed. He turned away, and started to leave. “There remains nothing for us here. All that remains is to oversee the evacuation.” The Councilor turns and looks back over the horizon. "I'll be sure to send my warm regards." A tart reply - gratitude is hard to muster in the moment when there's yet so many bloody fates ahead, and so much work left to do. Maybe in the future, Acan Kagoia would pray to Nerucic in gratitude for the lives that were saved by that modest squall. If she herself survived. But with dark clouds and threatening ships just beyond, it was hard not to feel resentment for something with so much power, and so much mercy, yet could still not save her village, or the next one, and what had been built there. That they'd all be consumed by the idle ambition of that brat Marro. The councilor steps out of the laboratory, through the short passage, and out onto the bustling pier. She speaks a few words to attendants, go-betweens and those who needed to know. As Kagoia's news spreads, the clamor of the pier and the jetty and the main walk of Tanvell changes in pitch. As the reality sets in, the Councilor prepares to board a skiff to venture to the Jade Mountain, and if it be the brat's whim, to die. This is a Dark scene. Though lives were saved, the answers gleaned were harsh, the invasion was successful and the cabalists became refugees for a time. AJ_Impy fucked around with this message at 10:56 on Jan 13, 2020 |
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Jan 12, 2020 18:13
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Blood Debts Resolved -Rentabot as the Murat diplomat Secondhand, MaxieSatan as the Ijun diplomat Feast of Wine and Roses and The Unlife Aquatic as Mysterious Noodle Shop Owner. The scene takes place during Dealings Under the Bridge's Shadow Question: How did the feuding tribes resolve their differences? The 12 tribes may be united in their opposition to the Empire, but before they take to the field of battle, they must resolve their own differences. In a small noodle stand, hidden away from the hustle and bustle of the Summer Festival, two diplomats from the tribes of Ijun and Murat eat in unbearable silence. Reparations are to be made for the Murat’s theft of the Ijun’s greatest arcane work. This scene is light for the peaceful resolution of a long-standing blood feud. As night falls on the first day of the Summer Festival, a surprise rainstorm sends people scurrying off to awnings and their homes. Two customers go to sit at this noodle stand, seemingly seeking respite from the rain drenching their clothes. They place their orders and impossibly fast their bowls are placed in front of them. The sounds of wind sweeping outside are drowned out by the loud slurping of noodles. As they eat, the two customers occasionally eye each other, waiting for the other to make the first motions of diplomacy, but neither wanting to tear their lips away from these delicious noodles. Feast of Wine and Roses sits with their back straight as a board, raising a spoonful of barley-cord and seasoned nagroot to their mouth, careful not to spill a drop. They glance over only when they are certain that the representative of Murat is not looking, trying to avoid eye contact. They are used to the damp; their clothes, alas, are not. The bright colors have turned dark and muted, and the tunic, in particular, clings to their chest, weighs heavy on their wings. The broth, though, warm and spicy, and the noodles, dense and sweet, are a comfort. They take a moment to offer up a silent prayer to Ospe, thanking her for the meal and the warmth, and asking her to bless the cook. Secondhand, Disciple of The Forty-Fifth Penitent, is unsure whether to follow her counterpart's steadfast stoicism while eating, or to dig in like her stomach pleads for her to do. Hunger wins out with the logic that displaying a casual demeanor will either make the Ijun diplomat more relaxed, or annoy them with impropriety. Either way the conversation will be easier to start. The warmth and richness of the broth sates her tyrant belly, and she makes a series of gestures that maybe is gratitude for the meal but is mostly a way for her to stall and think of an opener for this talk. "Well-met, Feast of Wine and Roses. Hope you have been enjoying the festival. Shame about the downpour, I heard they had a new fireworks show planned for tonight," she sighs exaggeratedly and props up her head with her hands, pouting like a child. Wine and Roses sets down their spoon and reaches out for their glass of mint-whiskey - already drained. drat. They can't afford to risk another, lest it loosen their tongue too much, and they're not particularly thirsty; all the same, the heat has built up in their mouth, and they need something to take the edge off. They rap on the counter to get the cook's attention, then turn towards Secondhand, their expression neutral. "Really? That would have been something. Very unfortunate. It's gone well otherwise, though. Good food, lovely music." Now - to allude to the reason for the meeting, without saying it outright, and ideally without coming across as too bitter. "There are some fine enchanters in this town, as well. Have you stopped in at any of the workshops?" The woman, a young, slight thing who looks vaguely starved pours Wine and Roses another drink. She grins, the way you only can before - She leans in. "Want me to top off your bowls? Seems my stuff is..." A beat passes. Fireworks carts go by. "...for the birds." She chuckles at her own joke, revealing iridescent pearl cuff-links on her shirt sleeves. Wine and Roses turns to her and smiles. "That would be lovely, yes. Could I request some bread or root-and-redbark buns, as well? And, ah -" Their expression turns apologetic. "Cream-tea, if you have any. I'm not sure I should have any more liquor for the evening." She winks, her lips rise in a smile. It reveals her canines. Her teeth look like organ keys. "Oh! You're very lucky bird-brains." She leans in, and whispers. Her breath smells sickly-sweet. "You got the very last of my stock. One pot coming up." She pulls away again, and ducks under the counter for a moment. The fly-lamps of her stand flicker, the little creatures in terror at the wind. A basket of fresh baked buns appears, followed by a banged up tin teapot. "Shouldn't take too long." Wine and Roses nods - "Thank you, miss." - and turns back towards Secondhand, staring at her expectantly with their pearl-black eyes. A wave of relief spreads out through Secondhand's body. Wine and Roses isn't bringing any resentment to this conversation, at least not overtly. With luck this first mission can end amicably. "Why yes, many talented folk to see, enough to make your head spin!" Second spins her head 360 degrees, and then blushes in embarrassment a bit. She's leaning a bit too much into buffoonery. Rotating her head back, she says "One that especially caught my eye was this secondhand shop. They would take old pieces with broken or warped enchantments and reforge them. It's almost an art, seeing people reinterpret the works of their ancestors. Ah, there was this one piece I think you would love. Ijun-make, from quite a few years back." Nothing Secondhand could do about the old enchantment breaking, but hopefully returning a cultural artifact will earn enough goodwill they can overlook that. Wine and Roses narrows their eyes, and prepares to say something, the right words (or the wrong ones) rushing forth - A few moments later, a tea-pot slams down between them. It sloshes on their hands. "Awww...t'was thinking of buying that! But you know what they say about the worm." Two cups follow. They take a deep breath, and slowly reach for their napkin. They wipe the spilled tea away, slow and calm. They give the cook a patient smile as they pick up the pot. "And what, pray tell, do they say about the worm? And for that matter -" They scan the counter. They swear the cups were here a moment ago, yet - "you seem to have forgotten to bring any cups." She smirks. "They're right there, or is that skull'fulla'feathers too?" Before they can reply, she's below the counter again. Only her thin, short-cut black hair visible. It catches the fly lights around them, and shines in a rainbow of colors. Wine and Roses frowns, and mutters "those weren't there a moment ago." Nonetheless, they fill both cups, and slide one across the counter to Secondhand. "Ah - where were we? Yes, the repair shop. What was the piece in question? Instrument? Farmtool?" "Don't go coughing your pellets on my stand." The stand owner mutters, barely audible. Their hand shakes slightly. They manage to steady it long enough to take a sip of tea. Lukewarm. Secondhand takes a sip. Noodle lady's a weirdo but she seems to know her tea, "Thank you ma'am." Eyes back to Wine and Roses, "It's a gaida! Originally was a good luck charm, I believe translated the runes go something like, 'May the winds of fortune blow in your favor.' Part of the etching got damaged, but rather than taking the whole thing out, the craftsman rewrote the broken section. Turns out all it takes is two little lines to make that into 'May the winds blow by your will.' Neat stuff!" No it's not as potent as a song that can manipulate the tides of fate, but weather control is nothing to sneeze at, especially with a bad harvest looming due to the current drought. "Play a little ditty to water your tomato garden, might as well have been made for you, Feast." Back up. "Oh! I thought t'was a vaccum bag! Was real cheap for one!" Secondhand has to suppress a twitch in her eye. She was a gaida player since her schooling days, she should be used to those jokes but they still get under her skin somehow. "Haha yeah, wouldn't that be a gas. Someone filling an instrument with trash." Who would do something like that? Certainly not noted philistine and village idiot Sharptooth of the Ceaseless Yammerers. Secondhand sips again from the tea, still smiling albeit a bit strained. "Looks aren't everything though, you can play such beautiful songs on it. I'm partial to 50 Fingers' Symphony No 32." "How'zat any different from the music you fill it with?" "I'm sure her music is lovely, and it does sound useful, regardless," says Feast of Wine and Roses, fanning out their wings as best they can in spite of the wet tunic. "Control of the winds... Could be useful in battle, as well. Can Murat afford it?" Secondhand is extremely relieved to have Wine and Roses to distract her from the blasphemy coming out of this noodle wench's jabbering maw. "No charge Feast, it's a gift. From one friend to another." We stole the thing from you in the first place, can't exactly charge money when we're giving it back. Not if we want you guys to have our back in the battles to come. Wine and Roses nods, thinking. It would be something, certainly. But, hm... the House-on-High would be displeased if they didn't get enough. Frankly, they'd be displeased with themselves as well. "It would be appreciated, of course. Though I can't say whether it will be enough to heal the rift on its own." They sigh. "You know how difficult these things are." "But of course, old wounds may heal, but scars linger." Secondhand was given one absolute heading to this festival: No bad blood must be left with any tribe. While she doesn't want to use up every card at the first table, the Ijun are the last ones she can afford to leave unhappy. "I can sweeten the pot. Take a gander at this," Secondhand pulls out a case and opens it: inside is a small drum, seemingly both very old and yet still in immaculate condition. Carved along the side in ancient Murati: For the Heartland. One of the Murat Tribe's precious Ancestral Instruments. The first wardrum. "Something irreplaceable can only be repaid with something similarly priceless, wouldn't you agree?" "'Zat a bedpan?" Why, you looking for one to cook those piss-flavored noodles in you crone? Secondhand desperately holds back her tongue. Those noodles were actually quite good, even if the chef is an ignoramus of the highest degree. "Surely you've seen a drum before madame?" She leans over the stand, her mint-green shirt (somehow the exact wrong color) is heavy with sweat stains. "Real fancy pan." Enough of this. Wine and Roses turns to the cook one last time. "Shut up. Bring us the drat check and don't say another word." "'nother." She says, leaning in front of the two birds. They offer a handshake to Secondhand. "Your kindness is much appreciated. I promise you that we will treasure it as a symbol of the bond between our peoples." Secondhand takes the handshake, glad to be done with the udon hag most of all. "I'm glad we could reach an agreement, I hope we have many great years ahead of us." She slaps down some money on the counter and looks at the noodlemancer, "This should cover our expenses I believe?" "S'ppose it'll hafta'do." She says before she grabs it, and turns her back to the birds. Wine and Roses grabs another napkin and hastily bundles up their uneaten buns. They stand up, dust their hands off, and take a look at the puddles just outside the noodle stand, shimmering in the light of the fly-lamps - some ripples, still, but far fewer. "Looks like the rain has cleared up. Shall we see if they managed to keep the fireworks dry after all?" "Sounds delightful. Let us do just that." Secondhand leads the way , rambling about the perfect spot along the bridge to see the fireworks. A genuine smile on her face for the first time tonight. The woman smiles. She adjusts her cuff-links, listens to the two of them walking away. They're building a bridge. Good. Sometimes you could burn two bridges by building one.The whole ensemble is getting a little tight. She walks past the body of the noodle shop owner (only unconscious, less mess that way), and towards a little dock behind it. A cigarette comes from her pocket, and then a lighter. She takes a puff, feels the sweat of the workers that suffered to make this insipid little death-stick. The perfection of purpose was marvelous. She sets it down on a little post, ready to fall off. And then, as if it's nothing at all. She steps forward. When her body hits the water, there is only an oil slick churning on the currently calm Mto. A moment later the cigarette follows, sending iridescent fire across the water. From it rises smoke. No one can tell it from the fireworks. Rent-a-Bot fucked around with this message at 20:49 on Jan 12, 2020 |
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Jan 12, 2020 19:38
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quote:Salt and Stone - MaxieSatan The Octet Invoked - MaxieSatan Mage-Philosopher Ardentium was ambitious. For the peasants who, for a time, swam in spice and meat, this was good. For the soldiers and hunters who could now be healed, who would have been nothing but bones in the soil without him, this was good. For the artists and engineers looking to break new ground; for the bureaucrats whose labor was halved in an instant; for the kings and chieftains and governors throughout the entire known world, who could enjoy luxuries they had never even imagined as children, this was good. For Adis Kalas, who plotted the downfall of the Empire and the Gods, who sought new methods of inflicting destruction and decay upon the land, this was very good. And for the remaining Primes and the fallen Titans, this was best of all. For they were a source of Power and Knowledge that had been sealed away by the Gods, and Alophrane Ardentium wanted as much as he could get his hands on. (When the Imperium Interious discovered his work, they supported it. They, too, wanted what had been sealed away, as did the Empress. They would lie about it later - say they ordered the work burned - but few were so foolish as to believe them. If they wanted Notes on the Octal Array destroyed, it would have been trivial. Instead, they stood by and watched as Alophrane Ardentium called out to the Prime of Pigment. And when Ombisium sank into the sea and the River Adaz ran first purple, then orange, then green for two weeks, they had themselves to blame.) This is a Dark event taking place during Salt and Stone. The Octal Array brings only suffering to those foolish enough to invoke it - and the First Arcanist was never found again. MaxieSatan fucked around with this message at 21:24 on Jan 13, 2020 |
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Jan 12, 2020 21:26
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Round 3, Group 1 (Theantero, Rent-a-bot, The Unlife Aquatic) Focus: The Steps Towards Ascension The arc of history, if one could see it from without, describes a definite course. It rises and falls, burgeons and wanes, but the steps taken, the choices made, the decisions reached, all of them eventually lead to the ultimate end: The ascension of mortals to join the Gods. As inexorable as this was, it was by no means smooth, easy or entirely certain. Knowingly or unknowingly, the actions of certain deities shaped the progression. Kamilisan the Exarch of the Eventual, Talruyat the Recordkeeper of Sins, Ospe the Hearthtender, Nerucic the Truthguardian, all had a hand in guiding mortals positively, opposed by the likes of Adis Kalas, the lady of Despair. But at the heart of it, ascension had to come from within. Mortal ideas, mortal methods, mortal ingenuity, mortal execution. The groundwork was laid gradually, each era, each civilisation, each society. Individual leaps of inspiration, collective evolutions in thought and mores. There were retrograde steps, stumbles, other opportunities crushed underfoot, tragedy beneath a triumph. But ultimately, that which was necessary to reach the best outcome was done, and it all came together at the end.
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Jan 13, 2020 10:31
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The Final Return of the Primes - AJ_Impy An underlying thread throughout history, the Primes, though dormant for epochs at a time, caused disaster whenever they were invoked. Powerful enough to end Gods, inextricably linked with divinity, corrupting and tempting. It stood to reason that, as Ascension became an ever more concrete possibility, that it would spell their ultimate doom. Thus, this was their last attempt to alter the path of reality, a reflexive spasm of resistance with whatever they could bring to bear. Prime ichor bubbling and frothing, gathered illicitly throughout history, now forming an eldritch gateway for horrors long sealed away. They returned to unleash chaos and the perversion of the real. However, they returned at a point where mortals were approaching their final, unending zenith, allied with the Gods that had gotten them to this point. The world was not plunged back into darkness, but it was a close run thing. This is a Dark event within The Ascension, as the ancient evils sealed away are unleashed for a final, desperate and ultimately doomed battle against Gods and Mortals together.
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Jan 13, 2020 11:07
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Round 3. Group 2 (Banana Man, MaxieSatan, Ambivalent) Focus: The divine servants of the Gods. Gods are by their nature distant from mortalkind, but sometimes a more direct hand is needed. Be it to guide the chosen ones, supervise an important project or guard a sacred place, angels and similar beings have played a key role throughout History.
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Jan 13, 2020 11:46
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The Battle of Yafra's Tomb - MaxieSatan Question: How did the First Emperor turn the tide of battle? ------ The man who would be Emperor stood amongst his Ovliskites - half of them dead or dying, the rest with dented helms and shattered spears - with a grim expression on his face. The plan had been to ambush the Shuran warband as they passed the Tomb, but it had backfired; the Tetrakama were too disciplined, and quickly cornered them, forced them back. Now they had only two choices: Charge forth and be cut down, or stay put and starve. He sighed and laid down his arms. "Third rank, maintain phalanx and ensure Shura doesn't follow us any further. The rest of you... Take a moment to eat and rest. We'll need it." He turned and started walking away, deeper into the ancient halls. One of the soldiers called out. "What about you, Sun-Chosen?" "I... Need time to think." ------ For all his travels, for all his studies, the not-quite-Emperor had never truly learned how massive the Titans were. From a balcony five stories up, he looked down at Yafra's sarcophagus, as large as the town he was born in, bound by chains, submerged in water. The statues of Ethreil and Iathagorm that stood on top of it, pinning it down; the mosaic of Valakian, looking on from above... They looked so small. "You are curious," a voice said, "how my Masters killed it. They did not do so alone. They, friend, knew their limits. Do you?" The Sun-Chosen looked for the source of the voice, but found nothing. "Show yourself, spirit. I have no patience for games." "I have no body, 'Emperor.' I am inside your heart. I am the Valor that Ethreil sends to the Great." He began to sweat - "And discretion, as they say, is my better part" - and his knees began to shake. "So what, then? You've come to lecture me on my foolishness?" "Not at all. Even if it failed, it was a smart move. One that my Master admired." A wave of nausea. "That is why he is granting you mercy. Surrender, and he will see to it that Shura gives you generous terms." And now he felt... Hope? That gave him hope? Disgusting. Unacceptable. "I will not allow a petulant angel to mock me." "Excuse me?" The almost-Emperor stood tall, forced his knees steady, swallowed the bile rising in his throat. "You heard me. I will forge my kingdom. If Ethreil will not give me his blessing, I will seize it." He turned from the balcony and began descending towards the sarcophagus. "I will show that I am worthy, and that Shura is not. That I am capable of something greater than their strongest warrior, their bravest general, their wisest tyrant." The messenger understood. "If you fail, you will surely die. Better men than you have been killed just from laying their hand on its haft, let alone wielding it." "And if I succeed?" "...Then I will see to it that Ethreil gives you his blessing." The Sun-Chosen smiled. "Good. Where is it, then?" ------ The Emperor stormed towards the entrance to the Tomb. He did not need to say a word for all of his soldiers to understand and follow. Yafra's Penknife, as large as a grown man and shining as though they were in broad daylight, spoke for itself. As he approached the entrance, the Tetrakama guarding it raised their four-times-four blades. They were swept aside in a single motion, the axe-blade not just knocking them away and cleaving through their daggers, but seemingly disintegrating them into the mere idea of bronze. The sun shining on his face once more, the Emperor looked down at a hundred slings and eight hundred knives. He laughed. "Who, then, shall be next?" This is a Dark scene within the Sunrise of Empire. It is a triumph, to be sure, but when a man like the First Emperor takes up a Titan's arms, "triumph" isn't a good thing. MaxieSatan fucked around with this message at 21:18 on Jan 13, 2020 |
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Jan 13, 2020 18:23
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The Descent of the Archons of War- LupusAter The climate of unrest had been building for years, but it was extraordinary events that precipitated it. Beings of light, riding on steeds with magnificent, fractalized antlers, descended from the tops of the tallest trees and rode through the skies, tracing the paths that the armies would later tread, showing the clearings that would become battlefields, warning those who would become refugees. Those who heeded their call, managed to survive the worst of the devastation that was to come. A light event in the Preparation. War will come, but not without warning and with Ethreil's blessing on those who flee it.
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Jan 16, 2020 19:20
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For Lup’s focus~ The Society, a collection of Fortunes - A Light Event during the End of History Shaking off the malaise of the period known as the Stagnation, Ospe’s centuries of quiet ministrations and advocacy culminates in the establishment of the Society, a congress of Fortunes - small gods, local anima and other lesser divinities governing a host of domains largely focused around the mortals and their ways of life or structures. It formalized proceedings for a divine bureaucracy and gave these petitioners a way to coordinate effort, address mutual concerns and communicate with the greater divinities. The ascendancy of the Society was a significant contributing factor toward establishing this period.
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Jan 18, 2020 19:06
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Truth and Time, a scene during The Final Return of the Primes, in The Ascension - MaxieSatan as The Prime of Time, AJ_Impy as Nerucic, Unlife Aquatic as Kalimisan, Banana Man as the Timeliner(s) and Rentabot as the Mortal Armies Question: Who avenged Iathagorm? The Prime of Time has returned after epochs, dragging with it those mortals corrupted by Prime ichor. As They did in ages past, Nerucic stands against them, having had eternity to prepare the battlefield and gather allies both divine and mortal, from Kamilisan in her full glory to those on the verge of ascension. But will it be enough? The Fortress of Eternity was never there - not even during the Titanomancy and the Godwar - until, all at once, it always had been. Its spires jutted in every direction and rotated this way and that in steps like the hands of a clock, and where they pointed it was no longer Now but Then. The civilian populace had been evacuated. Those unfortunate few who did not escape had found themselves Elsewhen, a problem to be dealt with earlier. For now, the issue at hand was the human-shaped hole(s) in the world standing at the front gate, flanked by devoted acolytes from every era that ever was, one that had yet to be, and at least two that weren't at all. It looked like a chunk of crystal somehow inverted, so that every convex facet was concave and drilled into its own distinct and beautiful Nothingness. "Nerucic," it spoke in a voice that echoed in every direction. "You may show yourself." The sky was cloudy from horizon to horizon, the Fortress of Eternity overcast. For all of time, the space that it would occupy had been painstakingly kept as clear as divinely possible, rains withheld and the harshness of external elements unshielded. The Prime of Time and the Truthguardian had been bitter, bitter enemies for as long as each had existed, antithetical to each other on a fundamental, conceptual level. The voice of the Granter of Shade projected down from the featureless grey above. “This is the point in history to which you travelled to when you fled me. This is where it ends.” "You are correct. From here, there is only one outcome, and we both know what it is." It rolls what might be its wrists, flexes what once were its fingers. There is no sound, but they ripple through the world around them. For a moment, Nerucic can see a thousand other fortresses in a thousand other <valleys forests ruins seas>. "We both know what the other will do. Every move countered. Every marching order foreseen. I have not fully recovered from our last battle, but between us, I am stronger. In the end..." It stops for a moment which does not occur. <Contemplates something decides it in an instant.> "...Apologies. I have trouble focusing, sometimes. In the end, it is a challenge of endurance, and one of us dies and the other lies broken on the ground." Another pause that is not a pause. "I would say we don't have to do this, but it would be a lie, wouldn't it?" The reply roiled from above, "That is correct. Whenever you have gone, I am there. My duty compels me to protect reality and causality, you could never be content with such constraints. In truth, we want this, each of us the biggest obstacle to the other. I concede the truth that you are stronger than I am, and that you know what I am going to do..." Above, in the clouds, there is the rumble of lightning. The spark of fire. Kamilisan Reval, in her full glory, lands on a nearby barren mountaintop. "Everything is ready, my love." She says, skyward. She steps down off the mountain, gingerly, careful not to step on any soldiers. (Let the battle begin in it's proper time and place) The land is flat and smooth, gently cracked, excellent for her knuckle-gait - talons of fractal obsidian shining every color as she steps towards the Fortress once, twice, the planet rumbling as she does. She looks up at the fortress, and notices one of the spikes is thicker, stronger, bent in such a way as to make an excellent perch. Is there a flying Prime? Kamilisan will have to keep an eye out. "I take it you're my cloudfriend's nemesis?" She says to the Prime of Time. The Prime whips its head(?) around, faces(?) <left right to the perch to the mountain to its shoulder to its feet to the sky to ---------->. Within its form, memories flash by - all of Kamilisan's greatest triumphs, all of her most tragic failures. The Godwar. The cave. The fire, the lightning. Adis Kalas. Nerucic. Valakian. Ospe. The moment she - that she - "Kamilisan Reval," it says, and its tone contains the slightest hint of "This is not your fight, and if you stay here, you will only suffer for it. <I They> have no need of your assistance. "You should go." She cocks her head and squints. The voice rings in her ears in the worst way. It is the sound of too many voices. Then she laughs. "You're an odd one, most of your friends aren't the talky type in my experience. Is this the part where you're cryptic as poo poo without the benefit of being cute?" It looks at the sky. There is an accusation left unstated. "She is correct, Nerucic. Most of the Primes do not speak, do they?" In its form: Shattered glass. Splintered brush. Broken spine. Burning oil. Fallen feathers. Rusted wheels. "Kamilisan Reval, I will speak directly if you demand it. But it will not make you happy. I would think, having She rolls her eyes. "Good gods, are they always this self-important?" Kamilisan says, looking up at the clouds for a moment. "The danger is not overstated. But it should be remembered that power over time is not power over truth. The truth will not change. It is less self-importance and more being outside the timeline, intruding." commented the voice from above. The clouds began massing, thickening across the sky. "You are right, of course. I am not limited to this timeline, the way you are." It spreads its limb-things wide, fans out its once-fingers. "I have seen a thousand truths. Any of them could belong to this world." It lowers its gaze. "All are dreadful. None, Kamilisan Reval, bring you <peace happiness power comfort hope>. "Look, I've seen plenty of hard truths. I put the god I called father in the ground. I buried my best friend, who died trying to live up to some legacy she convinced he-" "She is dead?" Its voice is again tinged with <sadness relief horror outrage disbelief>. "Yes." Kamilisan says, sorrow flashing across her face. Another pause. A long one. One that Is. "Perhaps it is for the best. This way, we do not have to fight her." She ponders for a moment. Her talons click. "If you see across time, the way Nerucic sees down it like a telescope, may I ask you a question?" "I already know what you wish to ask, child. I beg of you, once more, to consider - with all the weight it deserves - whether the knowledge will be a boon or a burden." There is no sound but the ticking of the spires, the howl of the wind. "Ask, if you must." "I carry many burdens. I will carry more. It's what I do." Kamilisan says. She steps forward, once more. "Does she always suffer? Is there a timeline where she is, at least, once - truly happy?" "In truth? There is but one true timeline." came the voice from above. "Seeking answers that are untrue unless time itself was shattered irrevocably is probably not going to help either way." Kamilisan looks up at the clouds again. "Love, it is my question. You know I will always stand by you." She looks back to the Prime. "A truly noble partner you have, Kamilisan. Clearly, they only have your interests in mind." (If it still had a face it would be just as expressionless, but the sort of "expressionless" that itself speaks volumes. Even now, faceless, monotone, no one - not Nerucic, not Kamilisan, not the humans slowly gathering on the field - can mistake the disdain and hatred in those words.) "As for your question: "There are many. In a few worlds, she told you how she felt as you mourned your adoptive father. In a few, you were there for her early on, when she still doubted her cause, when she had not yet accepted that she was irredeemable. "But the most common was in your last fight. In those worlds, she hears your pleas. She sees the beauty of the planet beneath her, the stars that surround her. She reaches out her hand -" (None of this is new - how close was she? How close was she?) "And you are <lovers sisters friends comrades sworn-allies wives>. In one third of these worlds, she joins with the Gods. In the rest..." It looks at the <perch>. It looks at the <sky>. "You join us. As the Prime of Flames." She nods. As always, she's a pawn in someone's game. She'd suspected for a while. One day, she'd be more. But that was not today. "Thank you. I understand, and now you understand what comes next. I am rarely a being who enjoys violence. If you know me, you know that." The fires rise, there is lighting in the clouds. "Know that when I find the Prime of Laughter, I will tear their body to shreds and pin their corpse on the walls of your battlements. And then I will Glass, and Pigment, and then you. And honestly, it's going to be cathartic as poo poo." "This is true. It begins shortly." interjected the Truthguardian. "But know this." "They will have their reckoning after." "I hope you are right, child. I hope that it truly will make you happy to kill the only others that she ever loved." The Prime plunges a hand into its chest. "If not, it will be as I said. This battle will have brought you nothing but regret." There is the sound of something <breaking grinding scraping bursting>, and then they begin to emerge from within the Prime of Time - a three-fingered hand, a pane of glass, a dripping mass of paint, a tangled and knotted vine. "Acolytes. Prepare. Kamilisan... "See to it, then. See to your catharsis." Countless fractals of figures reflected in the crystal emerge from hidden steps, all sharing the same rickety movements; dust spills from their (his?) ragged clothes, their faces young and old and somewhere in between as each facet momentarily fills. The Timeliners step through the structure that had never been and always been, long having mastered the arts of gaining just enough attention of the primes to slip between the cracks. Each/he carry(ies) trinkets of profane knowledge. He (they) try to avoid the conversations of those above; too much placement of time would rip them into the Elsewhen, and they have a job to do. Emerging from a fog, at a first a dozen, then a hundred, then thousands of phantom figures massed together. Impossible for so many to remain unseen, and yet they were. Brandishing blades of crackling flames and rifles loaded with bottled lightning. The army marches. They know not what the truth of this battle is. For it was deemed knowledge to remain hidden. What they know is spells, and the arts of arcane engineering. Still lurking in the fog are machines that would make worlds tremble. This knowledge, they sought. An impossible fortress, to be seiged facing foes from all of possibility. The probability of success is nil but that is unimportant. The chance is there and the Gods stand with them. For zealots such as these, this is enough. Above, there are fires. Ghostly lights in the mist, a roaring, like flames scratched inside the skull that crackle in the neurons. And then, there are fire-ships. Great arks of flaming metal and feather and fractal obsidian. A dozen doors open along the side of each, each has it's own grating tickticktick, as if a thousand bombs were spread across the sky and as if each of them carried their own apocalypse. Beautiful and terrible as a pearl. The universe below becomes simple carnage. Kamilisan closes her eyes for a moment. The screams are not as loud as the sound of everything else. The everything that could, the maybe, and the if not. She cannot choke on the things that burn around them, and she wishes she could. It would be easier, it would be simpler. That has never been her path. Was she always groomed for this moment? To be another's weapon? The thought causes her headcrest of flame to flicker for a moment. And then, she is a streak of flame and lightning smeared across the universe. She slams into the nascent Prime of Laughter, laughing just as hard as it. It's body is impaled on the spikes of the fortress. It is not enough to stop it. That pleases her. The Timeliner(s) that pause to take in the chaos scream momentarily, a ripping sound that goes backwards as the Elsewhen claims them...their irrelevance to any time experienced by those here is not noted in any book. A hundred voices speak at once, the same voice, spoken at the same time on all paths through history, “Di sah” they(he) say in reverse, reverbing as they strike their instrument(s). The sound, together all the many different echoes of the same bell that rang when the first Prime rose, missing one glaring awful note. “Di sahhhhh” another chant, and the collective bell is struck again, the complex shape of the city serving to amplify its sound. The Gods stand with them. No idle phrase, a faint mist limning the battlefield, surrounding each and every one of reality's defenders. The Deity of Protection was beholden to Truth and could not act against it. But this? This was an incursion of the untrue, and their hands were freed. Active defence of those whose psyches were protected from the stakes at play. Clouds thickening around each potential casualty, to shield, to safeguard, and if need be to carry to safety. Absolute knowledge of where the enemy would strike and how. Not all thrusts could be parried, for even with foreknowledge there was not omnipotence, but there had been all of forever to make ready. In ancient times, a mountain stood. The rain weathered it away, an earthquake shattered it in early history. In the present, a blast of energy towards the mortal forces smashes into the ground, hurling debris: The remnants of that ancient mountain are thrown up, absorbing the brunt of the blast for just the moment needed to turn potential disaster into a grim but survivable setback. The Gods stand with them. The Primes stand with them, drawn from before they were first killed. At battle's end, each and every one of them will lie twice-if-not-thrice-dead in the sand, and the Fortress of Eternity will lie in rubble; this the Prime of Time can see clearly, the inevitable fate of any world where Nerucic enters with the advantage. They have already lost, and it has already accepted it. With a <creaking flapping humming rumbling> noise, it begins to ascend to the sky, leaving the Timeliners and remaining Primes below. It spares one last look at the Prime of Time would tell it to stop, to give in to death, to have its rest. But that would not achieve anything. So it says nothing more, and instead soars upward - towards the sky, towards the clouds - with one limb-thing outstretched. It plunges into Nerucic's form, and the spires of the Fortress - all at once, in a century that lasts a millisecond - tick tick tick in all their different ways until each faces the way spires should. "This is the End, Nerucic." The clouds swirl around the intrusion, an inverted cyclone forming as if it knew where the strike was going to land. Lightning and hail strike at the Prime ascendant, contesting their presence in the sky. Through it all, the voice rumbles, "A continuity for one, The End for another. I did not, do not and will not enjoy this, but that will prove scant consolation. This is where you do your worst." The Prime laughs. "I know you speak the Truth, and yet... I do not believe you." Facets crack and form more facets, more voids, more Things-That-Were-And-Were-Not. Below, the spires hum louder and louder, and Kamilisan and the Primes feel the Null Possibility vibrate through them; the mortals, undeterred, continue their battle, blood and ichor drenching the sand underfoot. There is <no> <sound> as the Elsewhen comes for Nerucic. Patches of its billowing form un-become as they are drawn into the void and scattered. A hundred years ago - a thousand - a million - two years into the future - one week before the defeat of Adis Kalas, a hint of gray admist a swirl of violet - before the Godwar after the Godwar every time that was every time that will be every place that is and that is no more - "Know this, Progenitor. There are worlds in which she does not kill you. There are worlds in which, when the die is cast, you escape unharmed. I cannot prove that this is not one of them." Its limbs fall apart, carrying chunks of Nerucic with it as they cease to <be have been>. The fog swirls up and away from the battlefield below, the troops and machinery of the God-Loyal exposed in full. "But I can drat well hope." The stars can be seen through the gaps in the clouds above. The Prime sees them, and but for the lack of an eye, it would weep. (So too do the Primes below, Laughter still writhing, Thorns still tangling and sprawling, Glass locked in place as it stares up in awe and longing.) The Prime of Time <dies is broken dies is broken dies is broken dies is broken> Nerucic <scatters dissipates scatters dissipates scatters> Kamilisan - Fights. Because she must. Covered in thorns and ichor, one eye hanging by a thread. She understands now. She never had a choice. But when the time comes, others will. Throughout history, throughout eternity, fragments of That which protects and refreshes were scattered, back even before Their own creation. At the moment They came into being, They were reunified, the blessing and curse of deific memory of the span of all that had occurred in between flash-freezing them into the course they had taken. Neuricic's free will was stillborn as predestination was imposed, a terrible price paid for what they were to be. Gradually, as history progressed, they accreted more and more of their scattered self, as time passed, as reality rolled on. Fragments of a patient and inert deity waiting it out to reconvene at the appropriate moment. They bulked up as history aligned, their ethereal, immaterial preferred manifestation concealing that there was more of them than there should be, a temporal snowball slowly rolling through the entirety of history. The clouds regrouped in the present, reduced to what they should have been in the first place, the loop complete. What remains of the Prime of Time falls - collapses to the ground - What remains of the Prime of Time falls - collapses to the ground - What remains - what remains - what remains - a head, a torso, and a pool of ichor shining in the starlight. Lying there as the battle rages around it, waiting to die. And Kamilisan stops. She looks at the mortals, at her fleets above. They will win without her. And so she lets go of the Prime of Thorns, whose thousand eyes she can no longer meet. Someone else will kill them. She's done enough killing as someone's weapon. Instead, she limps across the battle, thunder and fire arcing off her body, zapping anyone fool enough to get close to her - on either side. She looks down at the Prime of Time, dying in a pool of starlight. "May I ask another question, one who watches time as a plain?" She says quietly, as if there is not a battle around them. "You may." Its voices are desynchronizing, and getting quieter as well. For better or worse, fewer of them are there to answer. "I understand now, I think. There was no Choice. Choice and Truth cannot co-exist." She bends down low. "Tell me, can there be Choice? Or was my foolishness for naught?" And then she looks up at the clouds. "Was I their fool...for nothing?" Still gathering their diminished self, the voice from above sounded, "Kamilisan. Imagine a being that sees all possible futures. That sees you as an enemy. That can see what choice of words could cause the most harm even after their demise, and which can plant a bitter, bitter seed whose fruits are only woe. I cannot lie to you. That? Can." "Silence. If you wish me not to speak, then kill me." "I do not see her as an enemy! I never did, Nerucic!" It shudders. Nothing can be seen in its facets but its own death, viewed from a hundred angles. "You are free to say anything you wish. I'm saying as one who has known you and loved you throughout history that you're in grave danger right now." "Love? It speaks of love?" "Tell me, can there be Choice?" "I know, I know it is not telling me the details that matter." "It never has. It never could. Even when there was Choice, it never did." The Prime tries to crane its neck - more facets splinter. It groans. "There can be. There was. There is. There will be. Nerucic's vision is a lie. <It They> have decided that This which came to be is the only This that can ever have been. It is not so." "I am free, now. I can choose. For the first time in forever, I can choose. So yes, it is." came from the clouds. "You could always have chosen! This is what you chose!" "You chose to kill your child, Nerucic! Accept responsibility!" Kamilisan turns her head slowly. She stares at Nerucic, as if she has never seen them. "I'm sorry I didn't understand. You were right. I should have walked away." She says quietly. Time, for a moment, stops. The battlefield frozen in an instant. Bullets hang in midair. The Prime of Pigment is eternally colliding with the ground, splashing the nearby God-Loyal with its being, reducing them to etchings in the sand. The Fortress crumbles, the ticking of the Spires audible but faded and forever fading. The Prime speaks in a single, unechoing voice, quiet, gentle. "You still can, Kamilisan. You do not need to take up our crusade." "If not, then what was this for? I don't...I don't want everything to have been for nothing." "It always was, is, will be, Kamilisan Reval. Such is war." Time returns, slowly at first, like a train building steam. She can see the bullet traveling towards the Prime of Time. She can see the Prime of Laughter in the distance, still flailing at anything that comes too close, unable to dislodge itself from the spikes in its chest without dying. "Then you know my choice is already made. I wish I knew you better, I wish I had been smarter. But I was a fool. I always am." She closes her good eye, and covers the other with her wing. There is the sound of cracking glass. And then, nothing. When the moment passes Kamilisan looks up at Nerucic. "If you know the Truth, you know what happens now. Correct?" "Would that I did not. Only you can decide the path you now take. Only you can decide if the bitter seed fell on fertile soil or if all this was genuinely for something." The clouds remained nebulous and ethereal overhead. Her flames gutter. The lightning falls to a low roar. There is only death around them now. "Have your Ascension, this time." She says/screams/hisses. The flames crack/hiss/pop. Kamilisan coughs up blood/ichor. "I have drawn blood for the last time today/yesterday/tomorrow." She picks up shards up of the Prime of Time/her best friend/her father. Then squeezes them into her palm. The flames turn to coals, smoke billowing out across the landscape like a cape. A smoke to obscure all Truth. Her claws shine not with colors, but with whens. "Know that we will meet again, Elsewhen. And you know by what name you shall call me." The flames remain only under her throat. Her wings narrow, so she might better soar above time. "The Prime of Defiance." The Timeliner was taking heavy losses in the midst of the battle, but those that stayed true to the path and the bell remained and gained power as their/his primes and gods were struck. They began to change and glow from within, their hopes and dreams granting them powers out from the in between....but that was not their goal, merely a path that they followed for their ultimate truth. “Di sahhhh” the bell rang across the battlefield, and this was the first time the Primes and the Gods had FELT it in their core, a feeling of confusion and doubt that most divinities never could feel from a mortal level. The pool of starry ichor reverberated and turned with the chiming. The ichor of a thousand mortals and a half-dozen Primes flows towards the Timeliner. It overtakes them/him, joining as one mass, iridescent black. Glass. Blood. Coal and petrol. Adis Kalas screams in anguish as she is born again, seemingly just to die. The Prime of Defiance smiles/cries at the sight of her. She looks down/up... "Hey there love, I won't/cannot/will not let it be for nothing. I promise/oath." The Timeliner makes a popping sound and then is gone. Adis Kalas sees Defiance. Stares at her in awe. She says nothing. Only nods. "I love you. I always will/can. We'll be together again, before this is done." And the Prime of Defiance dives/leaps into the Starlight that was her best friend/father/nemesis. Moments before, on another battlefield/abattoir, she will appear to the deity who will become the Prime of Doors. Ze will see a savior/death in them. The army marches. A cacophony of puns and baudy insults are slung against these grim-faced soldiers of divinity. The deviousness of this tactic is not in brutality, but relief. The battle has been long and arduous, and mortals cannot fight forever. Many end up setting down their weapons. Laughing and joking at the absurdity of this farce they've been dragged into. Some hold onto their resolve and march forward stoically. The most frightening are those who still wield their blades even while laughing. Jagged howls ringed with contempt and mirth alike. Even after the Prime is slain, laughter still echoes across the army. The jubilations are what give the tired new life, and strengthen the resolve of those ready to give in. The army marches, ever forward into the reaches of possibility. This scene is Dark, the war was won, in this timeline. But survivors... two too many. This scene is Dark, The primes were beaten, but Nerucic's free will was erased at the moment of their creation, and the last, great victory of the Primes was to corrupt Kamilisan Reval into their pawn, forever forsaking free will as a slave to their unending crusade. This scene is Dark, The Primes failed. AJ_Impy fucked around with this message at 20:58 on Jan 18, 2020 |
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Jan 18, 2020 20:51
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Mekkan Fleet Emerges - Banana Man Those known as the Mekkan, descendants of an ancient lineage from what was once the learned disciples of Harat, City At Foot of the Mountain, who themselves were of ancient lineage who drank of the rinsed waters that ran down the mighty Iathagorm into the river Mto, had been working. Long had the teacher of their wisdom been perished, but longer now had they worked in silence and solitude. They had steadily pieced together bits and pieces left over from divine doings, as well as teachings of those learned of Kamilisan to create mighty landships that could traverse the world; studying the nature of the Elsewhen and the tangled mess that the Timeliner had left behind. -This event is Light because of the technological win for mortals in the Ascension.
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Jan 18, 2020 23:32
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The Refusal - The Unlife Aquatic They say every mortal Ascended in one glorious moment, stretching their hands out to the Gods. That was a lie. 99.991% of mortals accepted Ascension. Of those who did not, some were simple luddites. Some were too attached to this world. But a few, just a few, looked up at the divine hand outstretched and they saw the butcher's bill. They saw the blood dripping down their hands, and they whispered. "No thank you, and gently caress you too." What happened to those who refused godhood is not known, for they disappeared into the ash of eternity. Some say they are still out there, seeking their own paths in a quieter world. The Prime of Defiance was proud of them all. - This event is Light because those who could not abide the cost of Ascension would make their own path. The Unlife Aquatic fucked around with this message at 18:02 on Jan 19, 2020 |
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Jan 19, 2020 17:53
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Sunset - Theantero The mortals have ascended. The Gods have drawn the patterns of their orbits across time, and the Primes have left their mark, as is their way. And in the Center, as always, is Valakia, their harsh eyes casting a gaze of appraisal upon it all, in thought and retrospective. Sunbeam reflecting off ascended minds, newborn Primes, lines and knots of time, to offer holistic consideration. And despite doubts, even this Creation showed its own, unique shade of Perfection in reflection, in the end. Everything was as it should be, and the Sun could rest content. There was nothing more for them, here. Soon the Sun would set on this Creation, leaving naught but a ball of bright plasma in its place. But it is the nature of the Sun to always rise again, to face a new tomorrow. A Light event at the very end of the Ascension, where truths are discussed and the broader cosmology of Creation is reflected upon.
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Jan 19, 2020 19:23
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The Way Onward - Rent-a-bot There are tales of people coming back from the dead, as thanks for great labors that have helped the various gods. But for the first time since the universe's inception, a mortal has made the journey back to life without any divine assistance. This event and the knowledge brought back by the deceased has sparked new conversation about the possibilities for the future. Many have misgivings about what leaving the mortal coil behind means for the future, yet the fact that people are discussing what the future of mortalkind should be is in some ways something to celebrate in and of itself. Many scars still remain of the previous era, and will probably continue to linger. Even so, for the first time in a while, people are wondering what tomorrow holds without dreading it. Another Light event, this one set towards the very beginning of The Ascension. Mankind recovering from the past by beginning their path towards ascension.
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Jan 20, 2020 02:34
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The Dawn of Destiny - AJ_Impy As long as there was an Absolute Truth, it has had a Guardian, protecting others from it, and it from others. If there had not been, there would never have been a steady advance towards the point where mortals could be as Gods. But was there ever a point where this might not have been the case? Gods, Titans and Primes battled throughout the Titanomachy, with the ultimate contest between Iathagorm and Valakia failing to close the door on the Primes and their ichor. What set these events in motion? If history describes an arc towards that final ultimate good, at what point did that start? We can trace these questions all to a single moment, a single point in time at the very start of the Titanomachy: The Dawn of Destiny, the moment that set the course of eternity, when infinite maybes gave way to that Absolute Truth. This is a Light event within The Titanomachy, as the first step towards ascension is laid down.
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Jan 20, 2020 14:38
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Diffusion to Determination, a scene during The Dawn of Destiny, in The Titanomachy - MaxieSatan as the Prime of Time, AJ_Impy as Nerucic Question: What caused the enmity between the Prime of Time and the Truthguardian? Something looms in the sea of possibilities: Solidity in amidst the waves of probability. One path, coalescing out of all the potential futures. One name, yet to be spoken... In a patch of scrubland at the foot of a tall cliff - a place beneath the Titans' notice, where they do not think to tread - the Prime of Time sits and watches the stars. He is not faceted, showing a thousand possibilities; instead he is a single and singular Nothing where the observed universe simply ceases to be. He sits and he watches and he waits, muttering to himself as if in a trance. "Stag sun thorns... no... stag mountain... stag sun mountain wheels?.." From chaos, the absolute. From betwixt mayhap and possibly, a definite answer. From universal equivocation, Truth. Harsh and inflexible and unyielding, Certain and irrefutable. Along with it, someone comes into being, both created of whole cloth and as a fragment hurled from an unimaginably distant future, a future which as of this moment must come to pass. Time, <then now>, still has a face - enough that anyone can see how nervous he is. He scrambles to his feet that he may bow, as <is will be> proper. "Progenitor. I have awaited your <birth arrival return>. It is an honor." A cloud condenses, wispy and faint, before the prime. "You destroyed me. In doing so, you made me. You made the path down which time will flow. You will grow to resent me for this as you realise the implications. But at this moment, we speak freely to one another. At least after four moments of silence and stillness as a Titan nears." Time is silent. He does not know how to respond. He does his best to look calm, as if he is taking this in stride. His best, in this regard, is not very good. Literally the first time meeting your parent and you're already a disappointment, he thinks. "I... Do not know why I would do such a thing, Progenitor, but, ah... I... Apologize?" (Why would he? That future is too far off for the Prime of Time to see, clouded by too many Maybes and Yet-To-Comes.) "Regardless, now that you are here, we should discuss the campaign against the Titans. I believe I know where and how the gods should strike first." "No apology is necessary. Our paths are set. In destroying me, you brought about your own end in any case, and I eventually recovered as I traversed eternity for a second time. But the matter of the Titans is more pressing: The truth would be a tasty morsel for one of their ilk, consumed on a bed of possibility strands, dusted with flecks of fate. An aperitif as a precursor to us. Outline your plan." answered the wisp. Time forces a smile. "Ah, yes! So! The first target, I think, must be Yafra, She Who Shuns The Rain." Within him, a picture coalesces of an enormous figure, wielding a mace the size of a mountain, scattering axes and swords like birdseed. "She is not the strongest - not compared to Ern or Daleir - but she is cunning, and swift, and strong-willed. If she is not killed while we still have the element of surprise, she will rally the Titans, and the war will already be over." Battles, now, play out within him - some where the Titan falls, some where she survives. All of them devastate the land - a necessary price. "I believe the best option would be to send Mountain, Stag, Wheels and Glass. Along with a small contingent of demigods, they can win without any deaths, though Stag will need to rest afterwards." The plan is not a bad one. But if Wheels is there and the Sun-Father is not, it is not the Truth. “The plan is sound. The foray is successful. The Sun-Father takes the place of Wheels. The victory is by your hand and design.” Affirmed Nerucic. Time smiles - then realizes what has been said. He thinks it over. <He frowns his eyes go wide he shakes his head.> "But... The sun in her eyes would be a distraction, to be sure, but it will make her stronger, too, will it not? Why not send Wheels? Or why not go yourself, that the rain may fall and Yafra will suffer for it?" “I am denied free will by your hand throughout the vast majority of my existence. I am beholden to what will happen, and must take great care lest the closed loop to which I have been subjected condemn others to a similar fate.” Nerucic condenses enough for an impression of features on their visage. If anything, their expression is sorrowed, sympathetic rather than any kind of accusatory. "But - the <future past> you describe <can will has> not happened yet. Why should it force our hand when a better choice exists? Is the purpose of this war not to build a better world? To free both god and mortal from the Titans' grip?" "You did not understand, not this day, not in the days to come, not on our last day together. It is future to you. It is past to me. I cannot change my past. You hurled me in pieces through time. I will not experience the present as the present until after the moment of my partial destruction. This is the past. It has happened. It has been experienced. It can never deviate from the course described by the action of your future self. You have determined a single course for history that will be followed, through the act of trying to destroy me in the far future. A pause, a weary exhalation nearly dissipating the cloudform. "It does not technically force your hand, but my hand is forced regardless of any desire I might have for or against. It should be more consolation than it proves to be that we do build a better world and free both God and Mortal from the Titans' grip. We were so close to the best possible outcome for the mortals, too." "...And if I bid the Sun-Father turn his gaze elsewhere? If Wheels do not swerve, but continue along the path I have plotted, this new path? What does that mean for <our future your past>? What is stopping us from doing better, even if you are certain you cannot?" "You know the Sun-Father. He will get loud, temperamental and insistent. Happy for a chance to demonstrate their 'perfection', resistant to any dismissal or another favoured over them. Examine the possibilities: What will be happening? See for yourself." Time thinks. He looks ahead. Tell the Sun-Father to stay out of it - obviously not, it would only antagonize him. Plead with him, explain how essential it was that he maintain his distance? Possibly - more likely he would not understand. Redirect his attention somewhere else? To another - no, if he cast his gaze upon another Titan, they would realize the plot against them. "You are... Correct. The Sun-Father cannot be convinced. The only way to ensure his gaze does not fall upon the battle is to block it out - and Thorns would be burnt to ash, and Mountain cannot act as Storm at the same time without exhausting himself, and Pigment has yet to become a god at all -" But Nerucic was here. The Progenitor! God of Protection, Ruler of the Clouds! They were made for this! Time fell to its knees, bowed deeply. Cast away all pride, all self-consciousness. If Nerucic could be convinced - if they would simply - The words got caught in his throat. He looked upon <two hundred three thousand five million> futures, and at last he realized. He raised his head, staring up at Nerucic, <horrified furious desperate resigned>. "There really is no world in which I can convince you, is there? Only you could stop the Sun-Father from intruding, and you will not." "You can convince me, but it does not change what happens. You can fail to convince me and it does not change what happens. You can realise this and not try, and it does not change what happens, because, and this is the secret that I am so desperately giving you, laying out before you with all my energy and all my heart, the one fundamental whose comprehension would lead to the best of all futures for all of us and whose failure to grok leads to the loss of nine thousandth of a percent of all mortal life: It has already happened. You have brought me into existence by causing an absolute Truth. The fact that I Am means that This Is." The affirmation radiated from the cloud, heavy with more sorrow than one eternity could contain. The <moment> lasts <forever>. Or so it seems, at least, so silent and miserable it is. The Prime of Time forces back tears. He must not weep. He must not show weakness. He is to be a god. If Nerucic says it cannot be changed - it will not be changed. This is the <consequence antecedent> of their own son's betrayal. It must be so. It must be so. Slowly, legs shaking, he rises. "I understand, and will not waste any more time. I will see that the Prime of Wheels will keep his distance. I will see that the Sun-Father will make himself known." I will see that the Prime of Mountains overexerts himself and is injured. Four times out of five, he and the Sun-Father will blame the Prime of Glass. The Titans will be slain, but tragedy will follow. Time trudges away, and Nerucic finds themselves utterly alone in the scrubland, where no Titan would bother to tread. The cloud dissipates. This is a Dark scene, containing the rift between one definite course of events which culminates in the Ascension, and infinite possible courses of events, with their respective custodians.
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Jan 20, 2020 17:22
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An Offer He Couldn't Refuse- LupusAter (Boss), Rentabot (fisherwoman) Question to be answered: What was that convinced Boss to talk to the other Fortunes so that they'd help with the famine? --- The famine had taken its toll on the Fortunes, as most of their small comforts were swept away in the scrambling to survive. Boss was wandering the mountain villages, an angry ash cloud of a cat, yellow eyes darting towards hungry passerbys. Wait a moment. What was that delectable smell? Grease and fish? Marta looks over her haul pleased with herself. Very humble compared to what the fisherwoman is used to but in this famine it might as well be a miracle. Wasting no time, she's already got a fish grilling by a fire. Too long since her last proper meal. The big cat sits a small distance away, his gaze focused on the woman and the small fishes filling up her knotted net. Marta looks over her net, still a little bit miffed at the fish being so small. "Guess you guys are hungry too, look like a bunch of minnows." It takes her minute to notice her new guest. She smirks, and pulls a fish from the net and dangles it in her hand, "Come and get it." The cat approaches disdainfully, silent despite his ponderous size. Someone who knew the value in sharing. This pleased the Boss. "Real sourpuss ain'tcha?" She takes a spare platter and leaves the fish on it for the cat. "Eat up." She takes the grilled fish, and takes a bite. A grimace as she realizes she left it for too long and it got burnt. "Should always keep your eye on the prize, huh?" She almost chokes on her fish, and spends a solid minute coughing. She looks over the cat again suspiciously, and sighs. "Just my luck to stumble on a magic cat. What are you doing in our neck of the woods?" "Wanderin', mostly. 's an hard time for everyone, innit? So imagine my surprise when I smelled cookin' fish. Piqued my professional curiosity, it sure did." "I know my trade better than most, always somethin' you can find in the river, if you know where to look." Marta considers, "You want that fish cooked? I don't know what magic cats eat." "This minnow? How would ya cook it?" The tone is playfully curious, the eating a distant concern. "I'm not exactly a master chef, but I'll bust out my ma's secret rub for ya, weird foodie cat." She cuts the fish into (admittedly small) filets takes a pouch out, and rubs a burgundy colored spice mix into the meat. She smokes the fish over the fire for a couple minutes, the small size thankfully making it cook faster. When it's done she uses an extra skewer to pick up the pieces and place them on to the plate in front of the strange cat. He eats slowly, a deep purr echoing in the woods. "Delicious. Would pair well with a strong ale, bring out the smoke and spice. But sure that's a lotta work for so small a fish." "Well I normally save this stuff for the big hauls, but as you can see, I've got slim pickings to choose from here." "Now, I'm but an humble magic cat, but it sure doesn't look like ya can afford to throw away anythin' on these minnows." "Well I'm not, I just salt the ones I'm eatin' right now. You got the special spice because I'll be darned if I give a bad dish to a guest." "A guest? No, you're wrong. I'm here as a customer. And as such, I have a tip for you: the small ones, they're good fried. Just plunge them into hot oil and out they come, crispy and perfect." "I'll keep that in mind next time the traders are in town. Hopefully soon, the last stock of grains the village chief bought off them is starting to run out." "Oh, they will come. We'll make sure of it." And on this slightly ominous note, the Boss turned tail and vanished into the woods. This is a light scene during Fritto de Paranza, detailing how human perseverance was rewarded by the smaller divinities.
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Jan 28, 2020 15:38
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Legacy of the Fortunes - The Subtle Machinations of the Society A key factor in The End of History, the Society set in motion plans and threads that wove through the tapestry of time all the way through to the ascendant end. A force for stability and the continuation of reality regardless of the potential threat offered by those they served and constrained. The unity of the various small gods and fortunes served as a bulwark and crumple zone, absorbing impacts from both the greater divinities and from the ambitious thrusts of mortals that resumed as the secrets of progress were once more allowed into the world. ___ Legacy Event: The Petition of Arles Muto. There was a person named Arles Muto, who had dedicated their life to the study of nephelomancy, divination through the observation of clouds, with their speciality being the interplay between them and the sun. As they had gotten on in years, their eyesight had deteriorated to the point of near-blindness, as might be expected for those who let their gaze linger too long and too often in proximity to Valakia's perfection. With the aid of their younger brother, Arles Kyren, and his daughter Arles Kiptanui, they travelled to the shrines and waystations of each and every known participant in the congress of the Society, a feat that drew attention when they made oblation at one particular site that had been submerged by the waters of the Mto for centuries, via submersible vehicle and diving suits. Arles Muto's divinations proved impressively effective: As their journey wore on, they left offerings at ever more obscure and hidden shrines, even those to some Fortunes that had explicitly concealed their participation in the Celestial Bureaucracy. This, it seemed, was the weight that broke the bridge: It is said that the most secretive participants of that organisation joined forces and successfully campaigned for the restoration of Arles Muto's sight, in order that they might remain unseen in case the blind seer's gaze settled upon their shrines next. This is a light event near the start of The End of History, as a wise mortal successfully navigates the Celestial Bureaucracy through prescient prognostications. AJ_Impy fucked around with this message at 11:19 on Jan 29, 2020 |
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Jan 29, 2020 11:16
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Legacy of the Ascension - Those who walk away It wasn't whim that led those who refused Ascension to make their almost unthinkable choice. Their reasons are deep-rooted, and can be traced back to old traditions and philosophical schools, who reflected on the price everything asks for and the worthiness of paying such price. Legacy Event: The Wild Boar Wanders Suiceas was a polarizing figure. To most of polite society, he was a terrible (and unwashed) nuisance who ranted away about prices and consequences and the freedom not to have to pay. To his (admittedly few) disciples, he was someone who spoke harsh truth but who had the courage and the integrity to walk the path they showed. And so they followed behind the Wild Boar in his roaming, and compiled his thoughts into what would became the founding manifesto of the school of the Choirists. A light event during the Resurgence, sowing the seeds for what ages later would become the most important choice ever made by mortals.
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Jan 29, 2020 11:54
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Round 4, Group 1 (Banana Man, MaxieSatan, AJ_Impy) Focus: On Wings of Hubris Ambition is in the nature of mortals, but it is not in the nature of ambition to always be fulfilled. History is littered with legends of those whose reach exceeded their grasp, whose pride challenged the Heavens, and whose path, ultimately, lead to downfall at the hands of spurned Divinity. Some of these legends are stern warnings, some of them gentler lessons, hopeful even, but there is something to learn in all of them about the nature of mortals and Gods alike.
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Feb 3, 2020 13:41
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Round 4, Group 2 (The Unlife Aquatic, LupusAter, Ambivalent) Focus: Higher than the Gods Mortals surpassed the divine in few ways, but when they did, it was with great bombast. The clarity of omniscience does not allow for inebriation, but some mortal concoctions got close. Some even argue that 5th dimensional psychedelics were mortalkind's first brush with becoming divine. These are tales of the greatest benders and binges in the universe.
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Feb 4, 2020 03:40
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To Touch the Sun, a scene during The Octet Invoked, in Salt and Stone - AJ_Impy as Solarologist Heiron Fast, Theantero as Valakia Question: What was the ultimate fate of the Soltactus? Solarologist Heiron Fast, long a student of Mage-Philosopher Alrophrane Ardentium, has long been fascinated with the tales of ancient history, of the potential for hidden knowledge. In studying the legends of the Titanomachy, he reasoned that Perfect Valakia knew of the Primes, and perhaps that knowledge might be wrested from them. To that end, he devised a vessel, the Soltactus, designed to withstand contact with the sun itself. Launching from the Worldspine, it was a truly beautiful sight, arcane protective shields shimmering as it accelerated sunward... The Sun glared upon the Soltactus, as it glared upon all Creation. All-seeing, judgmental, aloof. No words greeted the solarologist even as he pierced the highest of clouds on his approach. At the controls, Heiron Fast peered through the magical filters at the deity-star directly ahead, and smiled. His craft was performing exactly as he had intended, making good time on its ascent. He gloated, “Soon. Soon you will reveal what is concealed , O Immortal Sun. Nothing can be hid long from the eyes of our people, the eyes that seek what you would hide away!” The Soltactus made its way through the empty voids, and for the longest time, the Sun made no notice of it. Eventually, however, after the halfway point, a voice like a blinding brightness in the center of the soul, spoke. "WHAT DO YOU SEEK, MORTAL." It was not a question. It was a commandment. Heiron smiled as if being directly addressed by a Greater Divine was something to be expected for someone of his talents and ingenuity, and that this was an affirmation of the path of the Adentiumine disciples. A Master of Arcanics could raise themselves up to equal the Gods themselves, and from them, obtain even greater powers. "Knowledge first, then power, Valakia. Both from ancient times, kept from lesser mortals. It is said you had truck with the Primes, and it is of them that I seek both." "YOU SEEK KNOWLEDGE OF THE PRIME OF VINES, AND THEIR BURNING. YOU SEEK KNOWLEDGE OF THE PRIME OF VOID AND THEIR BANISHMENT. YOU SEEK THIS AND A HUNDRED OTHER LESSONS ON THE SLAIN, FOR YOU COMPREHEND THEM NOT." Again, Valakia spoke more in the tones of factual statements, rather than questions. "Basically, yes." concurred the Solarologist. "Of the nature and purpose of the Primes. Of their power. Of the reasons why they are no longer here, and of why that is the case." "THEY LAY SHATTERED AT YOUR FEET. WHAT POWER KEEPS YOU FROM YOUR LEARNING, MORTAL?" "Excellent question, O Valakia! What power, which of the Powers? Things have been sealed away from us, deliberately withheld, intentionally hidden by your peers, your equals. This will not stop us from learning, step by step, day by day, our quest for knowledge enduring as adamant and cleaving through all the obfuscations, painstakingly. But to you, of course, your gaze rests on all. You can burn away the clouds of obfuscation, and free us to learn of the wondrous powers of your vanquished foes, your erstwhile allies!" monologued Heiron. "THERE IS NO EQUAL TO THE SUN. NO PEER." "BUT DESPITE YOUR ARROGANCE, PERHAPS I WILL ANSWER YOUR QUESTIONS, OR SOME PART THEREOF, IF YOU FIRST ANSWER MINE." Valakia cast an eye at the Soltactus. The arcane shielding around the vessel vaporized instantly, the engines melted to slag. "IF YOU CANNOT EVEN PIERCE THE SECRETS OF THE CORPSES OF MY LESSERS, THEN HOW DO YOU DARE PRESUME TO PIERCE THE SECRETS OF THE IMMORTAL SUN?" Lights were flicking red across the command console. Without shielding, without engines, it could all be for naught in very short order indeed. Unless... Heiron Fast held his gaze steady, even as the Soltactus began to shake itself apart. "Sheer audacity, O Valakia. After all, why be satisfied with a lesser source of knowledge?" "AUDACITY? VERY WELL." "MAY YOUR AUDACITY GUIDE YOU PAST MORTAL LIMITS. MAY YOUR AUDACITY LEAD YOU WHERE NONE WERE MEANT TO GO. MAY YOUR AUDACITY EARN YOU A GLIMPSE AT TRUE KNOWLEDGE." "I WILL GRANT YOU SIGHT OF THE DEMISE OF THE PRIME OF VOID, AT THE EDGE OF EVERYTHING." There is a sudden lurch, as the Soltactus was gripped by divine power and flung away at impossible speed, which the solarologist found himself somehow surviving, despite the physics at play. "A QUARTER MILLENNIUM TO REACH THEM, A QUARTER TO RETURN. TELL ME THEN OF YOUR KNOWLEDGE, BEFORE I SEND YOU BACK AGAIN. REFLECT AND REJOICE ON THIS ETERNITY OF KNOWLEDGE YOUR AUDACITY HAS EARNED YOU." And with these words, the Sun grew silent once more. This is a dark scene, as the Immortal Sun flexes their power and tortures a mortal with an eternity of maddening void.
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Feb 4, 2020 21:25
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The Year of Three Dozen Emperors - MaxieSatan When Ethreil's envoys came forth, one thing was obvious, as blinding as the pillars of light they left in their wake: The Empire would need a miracle to reverse its decline, or else be consigned to the rubble. The ruling aristocracy descended into a self-destructive frenzy almost overnight. There were more coups than coronations, and the few rulers that survived for over a week begged the Gods for favor, for mercy, for the right to wield the Imperial Regalia, for anything at all. By midwinter, twenty Emperors, sixteen Empresses, three Archmages, a General, an Admiral, and a theater troupe had taken the throne in turn. The lucky ones were merely exiled, rather than killed or left to rot in prison. The Seventeenth Empress would take the throne on the first day of the following year. She would wear the Sun-Crown and wield the Penknife. She would survive, she would endure. The throne, however, would not. This is a Dark event taking place during the Decline of the World Spine, at some point after the Descent of the Archons of War. The chaos within the Empire leads inevitably towards civil war.
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Feb 4, 2020 21:37
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The Fire at the Royal Gardens - Rent-a-bot Despite the grim sounding name, the fire in court mage Mepiposo's personal garden is one of the most popular anecdotes among historians. You see, while Mepiposo's primary study was arcane horticulture, their personal passion was in breeding new strains of plants with hallucinogenic properties. Their current project at the time was rumored to be a substance that could alter fate in your immediate radius, such that no harm could befall you. Some say this was a precaution after a particularly embarrassing episode during the third prince's royal wedding, but that is a tale for another time. No-one knows what started the fire exactly, but what is almost certain is that with that many mind-altering arcanobotanicals burning in one area, everyone who was in the royal palace at the time was high for an entire month. The potency of these fate-altering drugs could not be understated, as somehow all the bizarre royal decrees that came out of the palace during this time resulted in prosperity for the kingdom, and avoided famine from a drought. To this day even, the ham tree continues to feed thousands across the Amaranth Vales. This is a light event during Salt and Stone where a funny incident at the Royal Palace ended up saving a nation from starvation.
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Feb 5, 2020 05:05
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Anxiety and Misanthropy or an Ash-Bender-Epic - The Unlife Aquatic "We were outside Bargara when the Ash began to take hold. I said "I feel a bit light-headed maybe you should drive..." And all at once there was a terrible clap of thunder and the sky was full of what looked like frigatebirds with hermit crabs in their clutches. All screaming and laughing and flitting around the autochariot, which was going about five hundred Kalamita-per-Second with the screens down to La Venijita and a voice was screaming "HOLY FIRE! WHAT ARE THESE GODSDAMNED ANIMALS?!" ~ Anxiety and Misanthropy, by Archer X. Graydaughter A&M was a seminal work of the early Ascension period. A synthesis of Suiceasian and Kamilian rhetoric with a blistering, confusing diagetic narrative of random theft, law official impersonation, gunfights, ostrich racing, copious drinking, and deep hatred of all forms of authority. Most of it was even truthful...ish. Ash makes it difficult to recount the exactitudes of this terrible, epic journey - a psychic scar carved across a recovering world. This is a Light Event during the Ascension, great philosophical breakthroughs that will fuel the Refusal are made and spirits are raised - sometimes literally, most versions involve some light necromancy.
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Feb 5, 2020 05:57
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| # ? Jun 2, 2024 17:06 |
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The Year Of The Frog - ambivalent She wears the guise of a young professional executive - clean cut and sharp, smiling and besuited, suitable to the 42nd floor board room of this building. The sign outside the door reads 'Ospetality Services' - not untrue. Inside, however, something much more unexpected. Ospe reclines in her plush leather seat, "But we've done all that before - this one's a centennial, and people are *bored.*" There's murmurs of both protest and agreement from the menagerie of small divinities awkwardly assembled around the conference table. Dimming the lights, she brings up the projector. "We're at risk of another stagnation, by my measure." There is no measure, no metric for a stagnation, but it doesn't hurt to remind the fortunes of what's at stake. It's all about the pitch. She mumbles to herself as she scrolls through the projects tabled from past Society sessions. Alt-weeklies, apertures, Ascension, avocado numbers, Bliss-lacing... No... Recycling, revolutions, Rice 2.0, round squares... Back... Feathered hats, forestry (urban)... Ah! Fire Garden Festival. Takes-The-Bait, toying with the hook piercing through his lip, raises a flippered hand, "I think... it is the year of the fish, and we make fish buffets a centerpiece." Ospe grimaces. "Except," January flips her hair, "it isn't the year of the fish - has brain gone soggy?" Gourm the Gastronomer adds their protest, "Besides, Fire Garden is for revelry, you can't have fish at the center of your revelry, everyone gets all bloated and the venues start to stink before the week's even half over." The piscine fortune sputters, starting to defend his proposal but Ospe slams her hands into the table, "We're not doing fish. And it's not just about revelry. If they just want to get sloshed and rut, people can do that any old weekend. The Fire Garden festival is supposed to be about... inspiring people, broadening horizons. You know, traveling without moving." She throws her hands out, "We're lifting up, not throwing down. People should have a good time, and then go home and invent the next strandwork or build a theoscope or something. Focus on that, alright?" She looks out over the table, "Alright, Weaver, hit me, whatchya got?" Dreamweaver, their helmet an inscrutable reflective dome, confidently stands up, voice muffled as though coming through clouds - and a helmet, "I got frogs." There's some groans, "She said no fish." "Toads aren't fish." "It's close." "Frogs aren't toads." "They're the same." "They aren't." Ospe gestures for the others to quiet down, then peers over at Dreamweaver, nodding, "Alright, I'm listening - but this better be going somewhere. I still remember that thing with the bats that were supposed to emit ASMR." The psychonaut waves their hands, "No, listen, okay, the frogs - it's these frogs some of my disciples found in the ruins at Harat. They got like, ten genomes in them, it's wild." Tinyor, Fortune of Academia, clears his throat, "Genomes don't work that way." January scoffs, "That sounds dumb." Dreamweaver jabs a suited finger at the calendar goddess, "You sound dumb." Realizing they're losing their audience, they hurry back on topic, "So they're weird, right, these weird frogs. But you poke their genes a bit and you can basically get them to secrete anything. So we did." They clutch their hands to their chest, "And it's so cool. I've got some that ooze out an effervescing nootropic hallucinogenic with mild stimulant - you mix in some Bliss and it keeps everything sunny. We call them party frogs." Everyone's leaning a little closer. Takes-The-Bait mumbles, "There's no way that even works." "It totally does - Oh, and we made ones adapted as omnivores, and you can just feed them herbs and incense and then they even smell good or change pretty colors. You just put out a few in a lagoon, and they gently caress like mad, crazy gestation, and the whole place marinates in good times." "I... You know, this sounds terrible." Ospe is taps her chin and rocks back in her plush executive's chair. "But..." Dowager, the Society's accountant and recordkeeper leans over to speak into the Hearthtender's ear, "They can't deliver half that." Ospe tsks, "I don't know. The Fire Garden Festival Party Frog seems like it would be a good sell - something that can get people out of their domiciles and away from their trideo feeds. I think we can work with this." This is a Light event during the End of History, just before the False End. The Fire Garden Festival that should have lasted a week in one city became a months long endeavor that spread the world over, serving to expand consciousness and spur research that planted many of the seeds that would, years later, pull mortality through the False End and toward Ascension. Ambivalent fucked around with this message at 06:54 on Feb 16, 2020 |
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Feb 16, 2020 06:40
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