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Audience Though Graves lets the tension off his bowstring, only a fool would take it to mean he's standing down. It's just good for the bow. Noting from the corner of his eye that the burly northman is back on his feet, he speaks. "So this thing's a music box as well?" Bjorn's readiness is more apparent as he retrieves a hatchet from a nearby tree, in case it must be thrown. "Eh, Monsters. Gods, Devils, Wyld-things, whatever. They don't have to make sense." There's no sign on Graves that's relieved the other man seems unharmed. "The magician sounds convinced this thing is some sort of deliberate creation." "Wizards don't make sense either." They watch the Exalts' attempts at peaceful contact start to play out. "What did The Tyrant mean by, 'Tzatli?'" Bjorn ponders. "It's an old name for the people. Way old. 'Nathema old." "Well," Graves keeps braced to fire, "If anyone would create a man-eating, flying orchestra it would be them." Songbird As it waits for Tarn to climb, the Maw consumes its captured length of tree. Tarn offers his song of peace. The maw slowly sounds back the notes and cocks its head. It rapidly rolls through what sounds like the first first verse sort of played sideways. It halts abruptly mid-line. The white eye slowly moves up the creature's neck, settling above the mouth. The eye narrows and dims as it turns to Tarn. The scales around it twist about reflect its softened light to a focal point. The light expands to a projection of a figure, nearly human. It has two little arms, four little wings, a hanging gown ending in a little ball, a face devoid of shape or feature save a little headband which trails ribbon of red and gold. The icon draws its hands together and bows. The bird sounds out chords, and spectral letters of the old tongue appear above the icon's head. <Past - Chaos. Blades and Arrows, of Creation and Hell. Present - Order. Life. Speech of Compassion. Future - Unknown.> The violet eye moves to face Snow, words flutter before him. <All true words, of hearts, are song.> The green eye turns to The Tyrant, the red still smoulders under Chukh. <Future order, lives from balance. Shared Sacrifice.> The figure offers open arms, <Of one mind?>
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Apr 3, 2013 15:01
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Tarn Kavik - Getting poo poo Done? With the perspective afforded by the view from above, Tarn is amply able to lay out the situation in a concise and logical manner; as he speaks, phantasmal Skytongue characters provide captions for those not versed in the Oldest Tongue. "Fight, and you can only lose. Perhaps here and now, perhaps later, but there will come more and more hunters, and eventually you and your kind will be driven to extinction. You know this to be true; you are yourself one of the last. We can promise better - we have proven our strength, our cunning, our determination." Our overwhelming amount of firepower and willingness to terminate with extreme prejudice, he does not need to say. "You value peace and order; we bring these very things to the land. Tell your kin: Work with us, and you may thrive once more. Become the protectors of these people instead of their bane, and they will love you, and suffer no hunters to harm you. Share your secrets with us, and you will again know the wonders you once took for granted." "Look," he implores, sweeping a hand out to indicate countless other leveled treetops. "This is not the first time you have been in this place. But it can be the last." The spectral lettering continues to scroll, translating the monologue. "There is no reason we should be enemies." It goes unnoticed by the others, but the captions in front of the Tyrant are slightly different: the words 'NO REASON' are capitalized, boldfaced, and flashing bright green. "These people," Tarn gestures below, "these humans, hunt you because they fear you. They fear you because they do not understand." And then, the biggest gamble yet. The storm of energy-leeching inertial suppressors and scalpel-sharp mindblades orbiting Tarn, seen only by himself and the Maw, flickers. A wave ripples through the field, and the projections crackle, falter...and then fade. He leaves himself enough for basic manipulation, but Tarn is now almost completely unprotected. "Please - help us understand." Buying Presence 3 for 3 XP, then going all in with an Excellency and a Compassion Channel: 8 sux pre:Essence: Personal 0/19, Peripheral 25/40 Anima: 3m MDV 7 (WP 10 + Ess 3 +Integrity 2) DDV 4 (Dex 3 + Ess 3 + Dodge 2), PDV - (Guard lowered) Soak: 11B, 8L, 7A Health: -0 [ ] -1 [ ] -1 [ ] -2 [ ] -2 [ ] -4 [ ] I [ ] Attacks: Telekinetic Blow: Speed 5, Acc 17, Damage 3B/2, Defense 17, Rate 3, Range 13 Telekinetic Clinch: Speed 6, Acc 17, Damage 3B/2, Defense - , Rate 1, Range 13 Telekinetic Blade: Speed 5, Acc 17, Damage 3L/2 (P), Defense 17, Rate 3, Range 13 Note that all telekinetic attacks subtract 2 from the target's DVs due to Unseen Force Application Effects: Force-Suppression Barrier (+3 DVs, ignore DV penalties for telekinetic attacks) Essence-Dissecting Stare (WIZARD VISION) Conditional: If the Maw attacks Tarn and goes all-in with Charms, use Counter-Conceptual Interposition to perfectly defend. Thesaurasaurus fucked around with this message at 18:30 on Apr 4, 2013 |
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Apr 4, 2013 01:01
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The Glorious Tyrant The Sovereign remains silent as to the negotiations, though if the final terms are not to his liking he will make his feelings known. For the moment he limits himself to an angry glare at Tarn, if the Defiler thinks the Tyrant can be safely condescended to, then he is gravely mistaken. The Tyrant is more annoyed at the way the message to him was put then the message itself.
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Apr 4, 2013 21:51
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Guests Singing, grumbling, and calls for reason vanish into wind as Cloud zips off over the woods. Swooping about, he looks high and low and in-between for the soldiers he'd invited out to watch. He spots a lot of places they are not, and almost starts to worry they're not anywhere before the wind speaks back. "You keep odd company, Silver Cloud." Hakon's voice arrives from somewhere, "At least they can carry a tune." Understanding The Maw watches as Tarn's unseen shell flickers and fades. With a gentle shake, it relaxes the armour on one wing. <Understand - This land, these trees, this sky,> The figure gestures down, out, and up. Its hands move to its heart. <My home.> <These men - Invaders. Thieves.> For being faceless, the little puppet's quite expressive, <You - Provoke. Deceive. Poison.> The red eye pulses a little louder under Chukh. <Ride.> <Understand - We will defend. We will repel.> The image flares its wings and crosses arms. <We will reclaim.>
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Apr 5, 2013 02:08
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Silk and Silver Cloud The Scourge responds with a gentle laugh as he continues to swoop around. "My thoughts exactly--though given the other company you know I keep, are you really surprised? Especially on the tune-carrying front. By the way, I hope that you're not put off by the impromptu negotiations; you know how it is up here, though: re-use before you recycle."
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Apr 6, 2013 21:09
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A Song For The Motherland Fortunes looks downward at the burning red eye beneath him. The brass man grins, and speaks to the Maw in Old Realm. “Reclaim? Sounds good to me.” The Slayer jumps down, landing with a heavy thud. “But if you really want our help, some compromises need to happen. Not all of us have Cloud’s fancy-schmancy little gizmo, and some of us could use a lift from time to time.” He pauses for a moment, looking down at the bluish, crackling ichor dripping from the Maw’s face. “Er. Sorry about your eye, by the way.” The maw shakes out the irregularities left on its back by Chukh’s presence. When it settles, the armour on another wing has unlocked. The red continues to track the slayer’s movement, but hums far more softly. The little projection faces him with hands on hips. <Not a horse.> Chukh grins. “Of course you’re not a horse. Way better-lookin’, for one. More of a delivery service: you take me where I need to go, I kill everything threatening your home.” “Ahem.” Tarn clears his throat. “Funny you should use that word - reclaim. You’re not the first. Long ago, even further back than you would remember, there were others who were banished from their own home, others held at swordpoint and told: ‘Surrender or die’.” He points to the mark on his brow. “And since they made the world, they have a pretty compelling claim.” His voice has dropped low enough that only himself, Chukh, and the Maw can hear, and the scrolling letters in Skytongue cease to translate. “It wasn’t nice, what was done to them. It wasn’t pretty, and it certainly wasn’t just or fair - and yet, so it went. They didn’t take it quietly, of course: they raged, they fought, they screamed their wrath for all to hear, and they swore that they would have their return, and their revenge.” He looks the maw in its white eye. “It availed them nothing.” The icon drifts back to face Tarn. Its wings hang low, its arms crossed behind its back. The Maw is silent. “You’re smarter than this. Even if you built up your numbers, made the most brilliant plans ever, and went to war...” He gestures below. “Look. Every time it has come to blows, it hasn’t ended well for you. Or for the humans, really, for that matter. Do you know what the definition of madness is?” The word forms a high chord, <Void of mind.> a low one, <Soul without sight.> and a brief, mournful trill, <As War without Cause.> The Tyrant stands silently, left in the dark by Tarn’s sudden cessation of translation, that he was the one one of their number that did not speak the dead language despite having memories dating back to those times was not lost on him. “So it was that humans came, knowing not that they trespassed, only that some terror visited upon them in the dark.” The air crackles and shimmers, and the lettering reappears...in much smaller font, in front of Snow and the Tyrant. “And so they fought, and the land and seas and skies bled. As it was in the beginning, so it is now. It was not for five thousand years that things changed. That they tried something new.” Tarn nods to his fellows. “Us. If you would seek a way forward, it is within our power to make one.” <You - Ally? Defender of Homeland?> The Icon points to the horizon. <The Iron Men lurk, waiting to invade. Repel them. Then, you are our ally.> “No.” Suddenly, the Tyrant speaks in a tongue he does not know, he has immersed himself in the memories of his past, and even now his meaning flows through even if the words themselves are but nonsense flowing from his mouth to his ears. “Such would lead to the same cycle of pointless death as before. I recognize your colors creature, you belonged to Tzatli once, but Tzatli is dead, a victim of a broken world trapped in a cycle of endless degradation. That you wish to revenge yourself on the distant descendents of the pawns of those who tore down your old world is understandable, if misguided. However, it will not bring Tzatli back, rather it will precipitate its final fall. Do you know how many in this world still bear memories of the Orichalcium spires that once slashed across the horizon? It is few and getting fewer. Rather than letting your need for revenge doom those few that remain and forever doom Tzatli to ill-remembered myth consider another option.” “I too am the last light of a once proud flame, but rather than burning the world, it is better to rebuild what has been lost, not merely as it was, but more perfect and more glorious than even the long faded memories would make it out to be. So listen closely, for you seek ‘Reclamation’ and I tell you it is folly. However, that does not mean that all is lost. No, I would give to you another option. Some distant part of you no doubt recognizes the light I bear, so know that I speak the truth when I say this. If you align yourself under my Banner, aid me in my cause, then you have the word of the King who will be that a great and majestic city will once more take the the northern skies, abandon the folly of reclamation of a past that is dead, and with me build a future that will eclipse it. It is the only way you and your kin will once more see such wonders, for to war with the Irons is a fool’s war, and a doomed war.” “So what say you? Repeat the old cycle and watch the world crumble, or abandon old grudges that you might once more live to see the golden towers of a city shine in the northern skies?” The Maw falls still and silent through The Tyrant’s speech. It remains such for a moment when he’s done. Slowly, its head bows. With three sharp slashes its wings collect, align, and unfold in a grand show of its colours. A salute from beyond the grave of a dead nation. It intones a simple verse, <King who will be, when thy kingdom comes, I will be your soldier.> Rising from its bow, it looks back sharply at the mountain, <The others - not lords, not slaves. Brothers. Their words - not mine. My words will share yours.> The Sovereign continues, “I can only offer my protection for those who would cease their attacks. However, know that I will not allow any outside force to harm my subjects. Should the others agree as you have, then they will be under my aegis just as those who follow me now are.” The creature’s wings stretch out. The scales along their edges unfurl and with a quick snap of metal four become two. The blazing eyes blow out, and return to their ring around its mouth. The projected figurine bows, and dissipates. The maw rests atop the tree and whistles softly of a land which lives in peace, for it shall always be defended.
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Apr 7, 2013 00:36
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The Glorious Tyrant With a motion of His hand, the Tyrant's troops know the battle is done, the stance of the troops relaxes, and Bjorn quickly closes the distance between himself and his King. The Tyrant speaks, once more in a tongue comprehensible to his own ear, "The creature has agreed to align itself under My banner. I go to speak with the Irons, come with me." Bjorn nods and falls in behind the Tyrant as the sovereign marches across the field towards the Iron camp, the glorious manifestation of His anima still reflecting his every move. Going to talk with the Irons, also letting the troops know that the fight with the Bird is concluded.
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Apr 7, 2013 00:43
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Gentle Snow Insanely frustrating. The Tyrant is now apparently going extra crazy, and for what? Another addition to his private entourage. He was going to be trouble, and there was nothing Snow could do about it. No feathersteel, no components for Tarn's mad schemes, it was too much, it was spite-inducing, and he could feel the caustic rage growing inside him. And, as he looked up at Silk and Silver Cloud racing away like nothing had happened, he understood. He stood up, walked away, and let it flow from him. As he passed, the snow behind him was made slick with oily ichor, and his Coadjutor choked inside him. "I have a world to deal with," he said aloud, though no-one save his inner demon could hear him, "I cannot be ruled by my passions, like Cloud is. I must overcome them, be greater than them. Only then will we have a chance." He felt, momentarily, at peace. Buying Freedom Lets Go
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Apr 9, 2013 00:36
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Tarn Kavik - Talkin’ Shop And just like that, the tension and anxiety are gone, replaced by a burgeoning sense of infinite possibilities unfolding before him. So many questions, so little time...tough as it is, Tarn restricts himself to the topic at hand. <Can we pet it?> <...I’m going to make an educated guess and say, not yet.> “So,” he addresses the Maw, “Tzatli. I don’t suppose you’d know about the specifics of its construction and operation? The more information I have, the better I can work to restore it.” A little rustling of the Maw’s side reveals a gentle light, soon reflected to reform the little figurine. Its head proper lazily scans the horizons, occasionally dipping down to glance at the soldiers keeping watch below. The Icon gently shakes its head and shrugs. <Not a hammer, not a scroll.> Tarn frowns. He’d expected as much, but the answer is still disappointing. “Unfortunate. That brings us to a second and, ah, stickier question. I couldn’t help but notice that you fly like no mortal creature, which gives me cause to wonder...” <Can we pet you?> “Can we p- I mean, could I study you? I promise, nothing invasive or damaging - but I strongly suspect that the methods used to make Tzatli fly may have been duplicated in you.” Tarn’s initial slip doesn’t go unnoticed. The figure looks aside, hands on its hips as the Maw whistles though a section of its odd rendition of the The Day of Iron Bells. The words which accompany it reveal the songs origins related a more... well... personal turn of enmity to camaraderie than its present form. It ends with a sharp chord. <Not a lover.> That said, the bird extends one wing towards him. It slowly levels, the scales of the underside shudder about as it moves. At a certain angle, it stops. The scales snap into sharp alignment and wing itself relaxes without falling. It gently bobs in place, floating on the air. <What is vital, is not seen.> A phrase Tarn knows in many forms, from many works on the principles and applications of magic. The basic principle of the thing dawns on him quite quickly now that he’s not under fire. Aligned as the are, and charged with the creature’s vital essence, the feathersteel within the scales is arranged to best express its Aerial nature. Movingly swiftly, able to change direction at a whim, and repelling the opposing aspect of the earth below. “Yes,” Tarn squints at the gentle currents of Essence flowing through and around the scales, “this is both good news and bad. The good news is that, if this is indeed how Tzatli was raised and propelled, the bulk of the material needs to restore it should consist of feathersteel. The bad news is...we’d need a lot of it.” He gently floats the chipped scale in front of him, his preternatural senses dissecting its shape, its structure. It’s curious, almost organic - as if it were not smelted, but grown from a seed like a cryst- Suddenly, a revelation. Feathersteel. Jade. Land. Crystal. Seed. Tarn sifts through the scale with his will, feeling it out, learning every spur and seam, and he knows - he can do this. All he needs, he reflects as he looks to the northeast, and past it, are the proper raw materials. “Well, thank you, in any case, for sharing what you know.” He starts to reach to shake the creature’s hand, before recalling that it doesn’t have one; he settles for a manly nod of acknowledgment. “This has given me a lot to think about, and I may have a solution...” Tarn glances downward at the soldiers. “...to more problems than one.”
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Apr 9, 2013 17:39
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Reprieve - The Woods Basking in his newfound acceptance, Snow goes off to be among his minions. Like good soldiers they do not leave their posts to greet him, but with them he knows that he is always welcomed, always appreciated. They show their devotion by doing as they were told, until told otherwise. Good little- There's a soft flump as one slips off a rock and flops onto the ground. - idiots. He ponders which particular defect in the stingray he'd have to flush out of it this time. As he nears, it rolls onto its back. Its wings unfold to reveal a curious sight. There's a little white spider on its belly. It holds still a moment, then strikes out a patch of skin with its forelimbs. A quick flurry of swipes and it halts again, then leaps to another point on the ray and repeats the little dance. Under its touch the mutant twists and writhes and actually looks to be enjoying itself. There is a spider tickling one of his monsters. After another pass, the spider turns in such a way Snow knows its eyes are on him. A woman's voice, tiny but no less firm or clear, well aged and worn but no less kind, reaches his ears, "Love what you've done with these, they're just adorable. Breed 'em down to half a yard wide, they'd make great pets." She settles into a soft spot, the faintest gleam of metal shines around her face, "mind if I try one on?" Snow, meet Brass. Perimiter - Treetops Having no particular direction to speak in leaves Cloud free to turn whichever way he pleases. Hakon's response has the same luxury, "Eh, can't you've used every part of the bird if you've left it enough to walk on. Talk all you want, we'll see how long it is before it winds up wearing one of your shiny little friends there." The stand-down is seen and heard from there. The beast stands guard atop its perch with the little magician at its side. An undeniably bright light breaking from the rest, making slow and steady progress north. "Now where's that little spot-light heading off to? Maybe he's gotten lost. Really doesn't look like he's from out this way, sort of inland look to him, sort who'd not be accustomed to the climate up here." His voice gets low, "Sort who needs a good quick heating-up. Ya think, Silver Cloud?"
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Apr 11, 2013 23:30
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Silk and Silver Cloud The Scourge just chuckles and shakes his head, continuing to gyrate wildly in the sky as he responds. "I can say any number of things about The Tyrant, as he calls himself. As you might have already seen, I'm fairly come-one-come-all about these things, but he..." Cloud just sighs, remembering his compatriot's repeated attempts to mandrake anything that breathed, practically. "Heating won't likely get you what you want, though--anyone you send is likely just to bolster his ranks. Why do you think my policy is to let him carve out a --small-- place for himself, and let him play King or Tyrant or Divine Mugwump to his heart's content with the people he has already touched? And though I might despise his methods and anyone he has power over, his intentions are almost noble, and those who serve him seem to have good lives. Who am I to depose a Glorious Tyrant, just to plunge his followers into despair and deficit? I at least have higher priorities for now; besides, isn't it inevitable that he will draw the notice of someone I don't like? I would rather my foes wear themselves out facing the obvious one." He looks with obvious concern for his bird, hoping beyond hope that it was not swayed by the man's madness.
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Apr 13, 2013 01:25
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Gentle Snow "You want one?" Snow asked airily. He felt very spacey. Hmm. "So this is what Cloud has become addicted to, this feeling." He visibly shook himself and re-centered himself, then looked down at the spider. "You... wish one of my pets?" he asked, curious, and he knelt down to get a very close look. Fascinating. "You may, but I wish to look at you more closely. Chukh has told me of you. You are our ally? To what end? What drove you to this service of Hell?"
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Apr 13, 2013 16:30
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Tarn Kavik - How do they work? There is much to occupy Tarn's attentions. First comes the Maw itself. Tarn marvels at the ingenuity of the design, the modular arrangement of the articulated scales, the elegance in form and function. To not only endure, but to grow and evolve...even ages after its maker's death, the painstaking care put into the organic metalwork is clear, the whole of its purpose visible in the smallest of parts. All greatness has its roots beneath it; all wholes must honor their parts. Although Ligier stands uncontested as a smith, he recognizes the worth of lesser artisans; through his wisdom, Tarn gains a new appreciation for the exquisite details wrought into the very being of the Maw. Each scale is a work of geomantic perfection, blending seamlessly into contoured flows of Essence. Through their alignment with the element of Air, the Maw repels the earth, and performs its seemingly-impossible feats of levitation. The eyes are likewise worthy of notice. Spherical sculptures of crystal with the most subtle of internal flaws to define them, each resonates with a different element. The shattered remnants of the blue orb provide clues into their workings and interior structures; even as Tarn watches, new growth accumulates on the facets, reconstructing the eye a layer at a time. To blend life itself with the act of artifice is a delicate act of brilliance, the synthesis of innumerable disciplines to a singular end. From these facts, Tarn begins to construct a mental picture of the creature and its life cycle, of the ecological niche it has adopted in lieu of its native home. There is so much he could learn...It is with these images dancing in his head that he descends from the treetop and goes about his other business, of salvage and triage. As it transpires, these are not at all tasks that benefit from distraction, a fact made immediately apparent when Tarn stops just short of attempting to dismantle a bowman while applying a poultice to the wreckage of the cage. Rolling Per + a bunch of different Abilities to glean info from the Maw, spending 8m on 1st Malf Excellency for Craft, conveniently activating my Anima power at no extra cost. Factoring in the extra dice for Savant, totals are: Craft 15 sux, Occult 11 sux, Lore 4 sux, Medicine 5 sux, Survival 7 sux. Also rolling Craft and Medicine to salvage the trap and patch up wounded characters - 3 sux and a double botch. Orokos, what happened, you used to be cool! (WP'ing the botch to keep it from killing anyone)
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Apr 14, 2013 02:30
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Reprieve - The Woods The little spider sort of curtsies, "Oh please don't be bothered, no sense kneeling over me, you just hold a moment and I'll be right up, lad." Brass plunges her fangs into the ray's belly, it hardly seems to notice the tiny bite. In a flap of motion like shaking out an old mat the spider unfurls into the spitting image of the creature at its feet, shrunk down to about half a yard wide. She stands, letting her new wings hang idle at her sides, and looks up at Snow. "See? Now you show me the person who wouldn't want one of these curled up in their lap and I'll show you a damned liar." She gives her wings a quick test-flap, then springs up onto Snow's knee. It brings them eye to eye. "Now as for service, they don't exactly call this time the 'Age of Comfort', hm? All things told, Creation's a rather dreadful even at its best. It's just what you get when spiteful, nasty little children steal their parent's things - three grand historic eras of finding new ways to make a mess of it." Her voice is rich in malice for far off things, fishing for sympathetic ears to share it with, "I spent a lifetime watching little bits of silver do a whole not of nothing about it. So I went back to the ones we were made to harm, so all this could come to be, and did something five thousand years overdue. I apologized, and asked how I could help." She glides up onto his shoulder, and turns to introduce him to the land. "Now, the place is still a little rough around the edges. There's a lot left to finish and ten times that left to start, but you've got twice what they have any right to expect, sending you out unannounced like that." The irritation gives way to the pride in hardship often found in such rugged lands, "And they'll get back twice what they deserve." "I'm here to pave your way. To find the things you need and spirit them away, safe and secure, until they're called for. To leave you a place to run and hide and rest your head. To keep watch for when they come to drive you out." She slips a wing around his neck and gives a friendly squeeze. Snow can plainly see far more eyes than he'd given the rays, "I'm here to help you do something to help the world." With that, Brass sounds and acts as though she'd known Snow for longer than he'd been alive. "Speaking of which, it seems your king has wandered off. I do hope he finds some wits to keep about him. Must be very careful playing with hot iron. Those boys can be fine neighbours, fine allies if you've an enemy in common, but subjects," she shrugs, "Not so much." She suddenly twists around, looking behind Snow. "And speaking of playing with dangerous subjects..." She leans out, squinting into forest, "Yes, that'll need attention all it's own. I'll just be a moment." The little ray that was a spider leaps off Snow's back and glides away through the snow. Examination - Clearing Tarn gets the odd strange look from the Maw as he marvels at the exquisite nature of its construction. As he works to wrap his mind around how such a thing could be made, what stands most wondrous about it is - he can't. One could no more forge or carve this creature's scales than he could grind flour into wheat or hammer oak logs into an acorn. He could certainly harness the principles by which it lives and moves, and with them make great things, but he could no more approach the true nature of its structure than the greatest minds of the Shogunate could recreate pieces of the human body - alike in form and function, but never quite the same. No, this creature's metal flesh comes only from itself. The ultimate origin of this thing, and indeed its entire race, could be no less than the most fundamental material worked by the purest tool - its ancestors were born of the Wyld. Yes, ancestors. An expert's eyes can tell the peculiarities of ancient things, and Tarn sees no part of the bird remotely old enough to trace back to the lost city itself. There remains the chance it had simply lived long enough to see all its old flesh moulted and regrown, but an innate sense of simplicity tells Tarn it can't be much older than it looks. As for how it looks, it seems quite well. If it can be said that there are universal signs of health, Tarn sees them in this creature. The way its body gently works to re-align its injured parts speaks volumes of a robust underlying anatomy. The reported eccentricities in the other creature's diets make some degree of sense now. Such vast variation in form and ability between the mature creatures would demand a variety of raw nutrients to sustain. Or, perhaps, they grow to make use of what they're given. Of note, the bulk of the creature is varying shapes and sizes of scales, rooted in a remarkably slim skeletal system. Though the majority of the others were not known to fly, Tarn infers that they apply the same principles the bird uses to take the air as a substitute for muscle. Leveraging the lines of force against each other to drive their limbs would play out in line with their distinctive patterns of movement. They'd also go part way to explaining what it did to his trap. When he gathers the surviving bits together, the don't add up. The points where the cage met the Maw were completely vaporized, the parts between warped and snapped by the shock of the attack. They're of little use, save as scrap to recycle into something new. That it felt such drastic force was needed to escape his snare stands as faint praise of his work. After Tarn manages to abort recycling one of The Tyrant's injured soldiers, and takes the needed time aside to calm his overactive nerves, he returns for a second pass to find his work... preempted? Cut clothing is stitched, bruises are salved, sprains wrapped and <Hey, someone made Lunch. That thing you skipped to treat all those burns. You should do that. A Lunch.> There is hot soup and cider making its way around from a smoking tent that very wasn't there an hour ago. Graves regards it and his offered meal with equal suspicion, and turns to Tarn. "Does this just happen up here?" Tarn, Meet Brass! Perimeter - Treetops "You mistake me, Silver Cloud." The excitement in the man's voice tickles Cloud's spine, "I don't send. I lead." The Tyrant and his night continue marching through the woods below. They break the edge of a clearing, a small mound dots the centre. From it a good view of the landmarks would keep them on course for the river and the hills beyond where the Irons are encamped. It explodes. Without thought, The Tyrant shields Bjorn from the sudden wall of steam. When the wave passes, both are unharmed. A red light shines through the lingering haze. The fog clears to reveal a heavily armed northman, painted in winter hues. The snow on the mound has vanished, the ground at his feet is cooked to clay and shattered. The light flickers and ripples from every seam of his armour. Red hair violently whips about in his own personal updraft. He smiles like the sun and speaks like thunder, "Well, Good Afternoon, your Majesty. Aren't we a fair where-and-when out of place?" Heat lashes out in advance of him as his arms spread wide "Unless all this is your most resplendent realm - of trees and frozen mud." A_Raving_Loon fucked around with this message at 00:11 on May 18, 2013 |
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Apr 19, 2013 03:10
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Silk and Silver Cloud "Fair enough. I would love to watch this, but, you know..." The Scourge instead sighs and puts an arm up to shield his eyes from the inevitable glare.
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Apr 19, 2013 03:42
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Tarn Kavik - Food for Thought Rutherford raises his muzzle and sniffs at the aromas wafting from the tent. Satisfied, the hound plods resolutely forward; he has detected the presence of treat, and he will not be denied. Tarn likewise follows, although his own interest is less in the food itself than the sudden and inexplicable appearance of the canteen. He pulls aside the flap to find... The air is thick with fragrant vapours. Its skins are tied just right to cling to every bit of heat the little cooking fire gives, letting just enough air circulate to breathe. The furs around her are tied just as snug. A lady of some poise and presence sits at the fire, tending a bubbling pot. Her features, decorated with signs of coming age, have more than a passing resemblance to someone who suddenly dropped into Tarn’s life just the other day. She sits and stirs, adding bits of this and dashes of that which don’t seem to come from anywhere at all. When enters she looks up to see his without taking her eyes off her work. She smiles. Lightning-fast connections fire in Tarn’s head - a kind of a familiar face, too many eyes, Leif’s office, the cave, Cloud’s incoherent rambling about a new friend who didn’t sound balanced enough to be Sammi, and a penchant for dropping by unannounced... “Brass Orb Weaver.” Tarn nods to the Lunar. “Tarn Kavik. I’m afraid I only know of you by reputation.” “Oh, nonsense,” her voice may be the only thing sweeter than the captive air, “You know my work, and if you can’t know a person by their work they’re not worth knowing.” A fresh arm pats the ground at her side, Rutherford slips in and sits. Eyes examine the hound while watching Kavik and the pot. “Oh yes, put you away years ago, didn’t we? Still every bit as clever, aren’t you boy?” She slips him a piece of jerky and gives him a scratch behind the ears, “Used to have a demon tend that cave, little Hierarchical thing did a fine job keeping the place in line. Used to, until we put this batch away. drat thing raised such a fuss over this one standing out from the pack, breaking the pattern, kept insisting I let it make a few cuts to even him out.” All eyes shut a moment as she shakes her head, “Trix wouldn’t hear a word of it. Poor girl was ready to tear it limb from just for suggesting it.” A little smile creeps in, “So she did.” Brass shugs, carrying on with her tasks, “It was help, she’s family. No choice at all.” Tarn seats himself and takes a mug of the cider with a raised eyebrow and an almost-smile. “And what does that make us, I wonder?” He swirls the fragrant beverage and tilts back a long swig. “Besides the devils you know.” “Early, for one.” She chuckles, “You only get to make one first impression, dear, but you can make it whatever you want.” Spectral images appear in the air between them: a glass dome, a metal snare, a tiny man staring down a monster of myth and legend. “Whatever happened to ‘if you can’t know a person by their work they’re not worth knowing’?” The constructs revolve in a miniature orrery, then crackle out of existence. “Not enough of a portfolio yet?” Slowly, a sense of direction to the conversation begins to take shape. “Yes, whatever happened to the strong hands and sharp minds that went out and built themselves a world,” She takes the image into yet another hand, “and how do we bring them home?” There is a distant thud. Her mood dissolves, her eyes close, “Figures,” she sighs. The whole setup, fire, pot and all are swept under her coat. All eyes are on Tarn. “That would be Hakon. He’s one of Alwin’s bastards. If they light up, he lets them come and earn a place under his command. Hakon’s set himself on finishing what his father started a hundred years ago.” Brass keeps her pace just slow enough to be sure she won’t have to repeat herself. “If you can get his captain to command it, he’ll back down. But he won’t make easy for you to get there.” She gets very close, “And he will hold it against you, for a very long time.” A quick snap of her hand leaves a book balanced on Tarn’s shoulder. “Oh, and this was meant for you. A trick wind blew it astray.” The book levitates into place in front of Tarn and flips open. Beyond the printed instructions for the grenades lie a number of esoteric formulas and occult devices, illustrating in some detail the basic precepts of alchemy. Tarn skims what is clearly a primer for apprentices, nods, and floats it into a place in his pack set apart from his schematics with their runny ink. “Trick wind, you say?” He glances in the direction of the floating light. “Yes, it does that. Thank you; I should find this quite useful reading.” He finishes off his soup and conjures some water to rinse the dishes. “So, in your expert opinion, is this a problem to be confronted, gone around, or gone over?” “Now now, lad, my expertise is going everywhere.” She slips in for a quick hug, “Just do this any way you’d like, and make the best of what you get.” Tarn returns her embrace. “Oh, for a suit of Gunzosha armor. Fashion statement notwithstanding, it’s much easier to speak freely when one knows the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune will have to do some hard work to make their own points.” At that, he double-checks the straps and plates on his armor, and takes his leave to see what the damage is. He steps out into familiar chill of his homeland. Tarn sees the Maw has shifted on its perch. It looks due north. Its wings stretch and flex, its leading edge bristles. Its talons grind away the tree beneath it. It stands on guard.
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Apr 19, 2013 23:59
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Nice Day for a Walk - North Clearing The Tyrant is unfazed by the burning man’s jibe. Despite the explosion his reply is as calm as though they were discussing matters across a negotiating table, and not in the blasted ruins of a hill, “I’ve come to find the North has it’s own austere beauty, one reflected in the hearts of many of its people. I would have thought you, as one who so vigorously defends these lands, would appreciate it more.” The Hot Iron Lieutenant cocks his head, “What, this old heap? Surely a man of your mismatched magnificence should be off scavenging for crowns on the steppes or scaling the Red Isle, instead of trudging around up here with us barbarians. Or are you looking to be even more bullish even farther north?” The Tyrant gives him an appraising look, “When rebuilding the world from scratch, would you not build the foundation upon the finest materials? I think we both know that the true strength of a kingdom comes from the hearts of its people. It appears that even the Bull can see the superior quality when it falls before his eyes, or are you suggesting that the men of the north are mewling and weak, not fit to be exemplars of what is to come?” “Oh, well,” He rocks back on his heels, “There’s the problem, the view from the middle’s got you all misdirected. Understandable you’d get confused given what’s in the way. See - they call them ‘Ice Walkers’, because the whole of their accomplishments as a people are putting their feet to the ground and noticing that north is cold.” Cloud swoops by on his windblade, as if to prove the point. Though the verbal fencing on the whole is quite boring, the Hot Iron Lieutenant at least knows how to insult well--the Scourge is quickly growing to like him. “See, they’re the sort who need a big gold idol to stride in, smack ‘em upside the head and get ‘em standing straight. Haslan’s a good deal more, as you folks may put it - upright? Born of the sky, lords of the air, we are.” His aura flares with pride, “If you’re looking for foundations for a nation, there’s none better but uh, you may have noticed - we’ve already got one.” The Tyrant is unmoved by Hakon’s tirade against the Ice-Walkers, his voice remains as calm as it was before, “I said the Bull can notice superior quality, but I am not satisfied with merely superior, I seek the best, which is why I’m here and not there. As for your nation, you may have noticed that it is taken over by the Guild bit by bit and day by day. Never mind when the Realm finally decides to turn their eye northward. No, if your land was perfect why would you be out here, fighting monsters, instead of striding among the clouds like the lords of the air you are descended from? Haslan is no doubt quite impressive in it’s own right, but can you truly say it is, in its current state, the finest nation Creation has ever seen or will ever see?” Gert’s face twists in concentration and vague disapproval. It’s like he’s trying to use a hammer to make wire. Every time he tries to say something, it comes out as an insult--we all wish the Haslan were stronger and more than we are, but it only matters if we achieve it. Again, the figure flitting around drops close in, commenting quietly to the Tyrant: “To be fair, we’re out here because I was bored, and it’s fun, and I like helping people!” Hakon glances up at the passing Cloud, “That, and a shared interest in hunting large birds. Hell of a trick, getting it to sing. Maybe that one’ll make a nice Xylophone.” Cloud chuckles warmly. “If not, even chances one of the other two would...” The Tyrant addresses part of the reason he had come towards the Irons in the first place, “I think you’ll find that unnecessary. The beast has agreed to stop its attacks.” A horn sounds in the distance as the very same beast spreads its wings. Hakon’s arms cross, “Oh has he?” The Tyrant’s conviction rings in his voice, “It has, I convinced it that it’s path was folly, that to war with the Irons meant only destruction for it. Were it otherwise, I would have finished it Myself. However, that is not necessary, it will carry my message to it’s kin, and it has agreed to abandon its fight with the men of the north.” “And buy the time it needs to hatch its young.” The burning man on the hill is no longer playing games, “Time to scatter them to the winds and sow another generation of terrors to plague this land for ages to come. You’re being had, O King of Vacant Lots.” The Tyrant lets the insult fly by, such pointless vulgarity too below him to merit notice, Bjorn on the other hand visibly tenses, his anger at the insult of his king was not easy to miss. Aware of his knight’s anger, but knowing that Bjorn would not draw his blade without his King’s permission, the Tyrant presses on. “Do you think it so easy to lie to such as Me and My companions? The bird’s message was truth, and of that I have no doubt. If, by some power greater than it possibly could possess the beast deceived us, then it would meet the same fate it avoided today. It was felled in mere minutes, and if it breaks its vow to Me then it forfeits My protection. The threat the beast poses is finished, one way or another.” Cloud giggles a bit as he hovers by them. “Hakon already knew you thought all that. What he wants to hear is that the bird desires peace and order as much as we do--they are just as content being allies as enemies, though there may need to be some research done into food that is tastier than humans, just to be on the safe side. So even when the brood hatches, there will be the chance to rear them in an environment where they are valued members of...an air force? At least for the birds, I’m not sure where the others would fit in, exactly. You most likely already have some ideas. I’m sure the more science-inclined types can tell you more.” Hakon stands and hears all that the King and Cloud have to say in defence of the Beast. He is far from pleased. He blazes on until the two have made their case. The ground cracks in protest underfoot as he shifts his stance, “Return to your new friend. I will report this to my Captain. You will soon hear his reply.” “Informing you of the beast’s decision was but one of my reasons for approaching you. I had also wished to meet the Irons who are spoken of so highly by the people of Haslan. To share with you My vision of the future for the north, one with Haslan as the centre of a new kingdom to span the whole world. Your passion and ambition burn bright, Hakon of the Irons, a worthy example.” Something in that last appeal just brightens Hakon’s day. His aura surges out again, “Well, your lordship, I hope your vision of the future has room to wait a day. You will hear from my Captain.” Another explosive crack echos through the woods. Hakon launches into the air, bound for the north. As his wake sweeps through the trees, it pulls hidden rangers from their marks and sweeps them down his path.
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Apr 20, 2013 01:05
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The Glorious Tyrant Satisfied that he had at least made a start in winning over the fiery dragon-blood to his cause, the Sovereign returns to the others. As he returns, once out of sight of the Irons he stumbles for a moment, and a rises to his head as though he were disoriented. However, he rights himself before Bjorn can offer aid to his King. The Tyrant turns, and looks appraisingly at Bjorn, and says, "Your anger at the rudeness of the Terrestrial on my behalf is appreciated but unnecessary. Some of them are simply too hot for their own good at times. Now, let us return, I'm sure the bird is awaiting us." Once the pair had made their way back to the camp, the Tyrant addressed the bird, and passed along what had occurred, including that they would hear from the captain of the Irons the next day. Once that was complete, there was little to do but wait, so the Tyrant began to make his way through the gathered forces, looking at them like a general inspecting his troops.
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Apr 20, 2013 01:47
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Gentle Snow, before Hakon Snow was amused at the killing machine perched upon his shoulder. "You have quite a gift. My own skills at shapechanging are far more limited. Still, it is, in fact, a charming mien, eight-eyes and all." He inspected the rest of his troops. "So, you believe the mad Titans will remake the world in its perfect, once it had been reduced to ash? Your optimism seems boundless, but I can appreciate wanting to make the world better. Indeed, it is part of my own service, and one I look forward. For all the spite in my heart, my goals are for the betterment of the world, in the long run." "To that end, there are a few things I will need. I need the seed of a cult. Someone skilled in converting people, in teaching them how wrong the world is. Perhaps this is where your own skills lie, perhaps not. They should be of the north, and preferably an airman of considerable skill. If you can find such a specific individual, I would be most impressed and certainly grateful." "But do keep in touch. I have many such pets, and many plans for them, the dear things."
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Apr 20, 2013 21:57
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The Glorious Tyrant Partway through his inspection, the Tyrant breaks off and searches out Snow. As he stands before the Fiend, his voice is quieter than usual though still carries a steel core of certainty. "I have a task, I think may be well suited to your talents. The Irons go to consult on how to respond to the revelation of the Bird's acquiescence. Were you to employ your skills to infiltrate their number, and listen in to their plans as they are being formed, it would provide us with invaluable information in order to secure the success we have achieved today. Would you be interested in carrying out this important mission?"
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Apr 22, 2013 01:01
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Gentle Snow Snow was standing there looking thoughtful when the Tyrant showed up. His pets had long since gone back to ground, more immobile snowbanks. If the Tyrant could see through their stealth, there was no way of telling. "Infiltrate the most paranoid band of monster hunters in the North? Finally, a challenge." he said. He tilted his head back and thick, black liquor began to rise out of his throat. It covered his head, flowed down his body and armor, altered it, shaped it, and then it ceased, solidified, and shattered. Out of the wreckage, an entirely different person walked. An Iron. "I am pretty sure I can think of a cover story."
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Apr 23, 2013 03:00
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The Glorious Tyrant "Very good. Now, let's see this in action, unless you happen to have a way to catch up to them in a reasonable time, I'd get Cloud to ferry you there and back. I have no doubt you'll return well before the Irons arrive so we can make use of your information."
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Apr 23, 2013 04:00
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Gentle Snow “They are but men, and I am Chosen. If I cannot catch up to them, I am not worthy of the title,” he scoffed. “Besides, these are keen-eyed hunters, do you imagine they would not notice Cloud’s antics? I will claim to be a messenger from near Aerie, it is a simple enough lie, and the difficult journey will only earn their sympathy.” “I will pack supplies and then leave quickly, and we will meet sooner or later. Worst case scenario, Chukh can find me, I have seen his expression of Kimbery’s gifts, I believe he has that power.” After getting a response, and the Tyrant left, he spoke to his followers. They would stay with the rest of the group, watching and observing, only revealing themselves if a pitched battle occurred in which the rest of the Circle seemed hard-pressed. Then he picked one of their number and further changed it. Its back broadened, chitinous limbs burst from its chest. It scuttled backwards and forwards, getting used to its new additions, and then lowered to let Snow ride it. A horrific but sturdy mount, silent as a whisper and stealthier than Snow himself. “We ride!” Going to catch up with some Irons. I will pursue in stealth, and ditch the mount the moment there’s even a thought that scouts might be around, or even when I’m dead certain I can catch them on foot in a couple days. Basic cover story: A lone pair of Irons encountered the story near Aerie, watched the Tyrant enthrall some villagers. Snow, in the identity of Light-Step Fox, and his partner both decided to go separately, on foot, to report to the strongest group of the Cold Iron Brand they each knew about, not wanting to risk getting in touch with closer groups for fear that they may have already been persuaded into service. Deception Roll: 5 Successes
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Apr 25, 2013 20:07
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Tarn Kavik - Peace Process After salvaging what scraps he can from the trap, Tarn calls a council (such as it is) to order (as much as there can be when these guys have to put up with each other). "As much of an accomplishment as that was," he explains, "we have a great deal of work to do if this peace is to last. We will need to call a diplomatic summit." Characters form in the air, detailing the finer points of the hostilities through the years. Tarn summarizes. "The underlying cause of this conflict is, and always has been, a failure to communicate. This cannot continue - doubtless, they will need some space from each other, but until we have some..." he spares a meaningful look at Snow "...more binding arrangements, it will take only the actions of a single imbecile to undo everything." The lettering is replaced by a map of the frontier, overlaid with the shifting borders of northern nations. “Unfortunately, this particular disaster has some forty to fifty years of bad blood behind it, and even if it didn’t, monster-hunting is as close to a multinational pastime as we have in this direction. If there is any good news, it’s that hunters are seldom particular about the specific monsters they fight - if at all possible, we’d do well to find them a common enemy. Better yet, one that isn’t us. “Our principal issue is time: this will require some degree of ongoing attention to succeed, and we have much to do. If anyone objects to this project for any reason, let us hear of it now, not after we’ve sunk resources into it.” Tarn dismisses the image, inviting discussion. “Of course, time can also work in our favor. Yesterday’s ‘unthinkable’ becomes today’s ‘darn kids’, becomes tomorrow’s ‘might as well’, becomes next decade’s ‘we’ve always done things this way’. First impressions matter here, and the stronger our start, the stronger our position will be in the years to come. Let them see the advantages of working with each other - with us - and the rest may follow.”
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May 11, 2013 22:23
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The Glorious Tyrant The Tyrant stands listening to Tarn's presentation, when the other opens the floor to discussion he speaks up, voice calm but clear, "I see no reason to object. There is vision there, though I do not see any real plan to carry that vision to reality."
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May 11, 2013 22:32
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Drunk on Bitter Fortunes Fortunes lifts a bottle that he'd procured from... somewhere, and after saluting Tarn, takes an indelicate swig. "Here's to that. Let the chuckleheads do something useful, for a change." He stands, eyes the Tyrant. "For starters, we let 'em think it's their own idea, rather than just breaking their minds. After all, we've already removed the threat of one Maw; if we can take care of the other two, then it shouldn't be too hard to convince 'em that we're the greatest thing since traveling minstrels." Another swig of the pungent distillate. "And if we have them come to us on their own, they spread the word naturally; nothing to make anyone suspect that something's up." He grits his teeth, pours more down his throat. "Maybe if they're going to keep wandering the gently caress off, we can at least have them spreading good things about us." The essence of Kimbery turns the liquor to bile in his mouth; the blank, witless smiling face of the cultist who couldn't find his own rear end with two hands and a Cynis filling his mind with insuperable rage. He takes a deep breath, forces the hate to the side. "Snow, good luck. If you're not back in time, I'll assume I need to make the Irons pay." The Slayer leans against a tree, forcing himself to calm. "I vote we hole up here, see what we can learn from our new singing friend." Gonna go ahead and designate the Maw Beloved; one of the cultists gets tagged with Reviled as a result of Fathomless Poison Haven. He's now the official scapegoat, at least so far as Chukh's concerned.
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May 11, 2013 23:00
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The Glorious Tyrant The Tyrant looks pensive for a moment, then speaks, his tone almost like a teacher lecturing a favored student, "It's far too late for them to think this was an idea entirely of their making. Do not forget, we have already set the pieces in motion, they know of our presence and our involvement. It is a valid strategy to make them feel as though they had some say in this process even if they did not, but it is one that will have to be delicately executed." He looks around at the others, "It will, depending on the representative chosen by the Irons and how successful Ice's creation is at convincing its fellows, perhaps be best accomplished by playing myself as the big vision figure, while having those of you better suited to more subtly maneuvering the Irons carefully leading them into the details we'd prefer. That way we get the best of both worlds, we appear indispensable to any positive outcome while letting the Irons feel as though they had a serious say in it as well."
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May 12, 2013 00:28
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Departure - Clearing There is a great storm of rattling and scraping of metal as the bird stirs on its perch, and the men below rush to their lines. Paying them no heed, the steel beast lazily shakes from side to side. Its many scales shuffling into some semblance of ordered rows. Its neck twists up, bending smoothly until it folds over onto the creature's back. Its coat bristles a moment and, with a sudden snap, the bird's head whips forward. It looks over the land again with all five of its eyes. Its wings unfold and bite the air. Its claws relax, leaving an old pine swaying in the breeze. With a slight twist of its scales it rises, pivots in the air, then shoots off. Sweeping low and fast over the treetops, the maw rapidly converges on a little flying spec some call the Silver Cloud. With a great surge of light and sound it hurls itself aloft. With frightful speed, a thousand leaves of sharpened steel shred through the air before Cloud. For a time they dance upon the wind, until the bird's attention drifts back to the mountain. It drifts close to Cloud. A shift of scales calls the little Icon's image back into view. With one hand raised it quickly intones, <Wait, then follow.> It dives, quickly vanishing into the shadowed crags of the mountainside. For a time, all is quiet. A cliff explodes. Stone rubble cascades down the mountainside as a section of it shatters. When the dust clears, there stands a giant clad in feathered steel. It glitters in the afternoon sun. Its eyes turn to Cloud. Home Away - First Light of Glory Though light and lean, the ice ship offers a degree of comfort and security in the open field. After a long, odd day which started as a hunt, the Green Sun Princes find it waiting for them much as it was before. And in a few ways, better. The deck boards creek less underfoot, the walls keep the winter winds a bit farther away, the air within keeps a little warmer. They find the vessel welcomes their return. In the upper rooms which passed for meeting space and noble quarters, a fire is already lit. Thick scents of oil and spices battle for attention from their senses, the things still sizzling over the coals do their best to compete with those already cut and cleaned and served. New woven decorations hang from every wall and sprawl over every surface. Steel mirrors, set just so, make the most of fleeting sunlight. Lamps hang on chains, gently swaying as they wait their turn to take up light. The whole scene draws the lion's share of focus off the lady in the corner. Sitting. Watching. Weaving. A_Raving_Loon fucked around with this message at 17:50 on May 23, 2013 |
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May 22, 2013 01:38
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The Glorious Tyrant The Tyrant becomes wary the moment he steps aboard his ship. The changes that occur are not things which happen naturally. As he walks into the room, he quickly survey's the interior as if searching for something, ignoring the distraction for what it was, his eyes quickly land on lady. He speaks, his deep, commanding voice perfectly calm and even, "So you must be the 'mistress' the hunched one spoke of, sitting quietly in the corner, spinning your silver threads."
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May 23, 2013 20:40
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Silk and Silver Cloud <Wait.> The hardest command of all. The Scourge's love for the bird wrestles with his need to...to do something, as he makes tighter and tighter loops in place, until he is simply a gyrating blur. After several seconds of this, enough to make any mortal pass out, he finally misses a beat and is launched straight up fifteen feet; he lands lightly on the windblade with a giggle just as the mountainside explodes. Cloud gives a cheerful wave and an inviting loop-de-loop with the reckless abandon found only in the incredibly stupid or those confident in their utter inability to be surprised. Or both.
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May 25, 2013 00:09
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Home Away - First Light of Glory The old woman smiles. Her eyes rise to meet her guests. Her eyes do not stray from her work. "And you," Her words are every bit as clear and calm as The Tyrant's. "must be he, chosen of The King, shining defiant and triumphant through the cracks left in his cage." "Come too soon, gone too long, and not one to waste a moment's time." She draws firmly on a thread. A chair slides swiftly to her side. "So let's get a good look at you, Tyrant." A spare hand sweeps the seat clean and leaves a silken cover behind. "I'd have come to catch you sooner, but my threads were needed elsewhere - Lining holes, herding clouds, distracting foxes. Little here-and-theres that must be done to keep things in their place." Irons on the Fire - Cold Iron Outpost He'd payed the Iron's outlying outposts little heed the first time around, this run would be no different. Snow knew when one must get to the heart of a matter, and he'd found already all the telltale signs that point to where the other Irons lurked. Abandoning his mount in the right direction to have reasonably fled from, Light-Step lives up to his most certainly true name and darts along open snow. He crosses a clearing which, in warmer seasons would be the banks and body of a river, and deftly slips into the trees beyond. He runs long and hard over hill and vale until his hunter's eyes spy the first signs of tricks and traps and snares sure to surround his goal. A touch winded from his little jog, it takes no effort to exaggerate his fatigue to suit that of a man at of long days of forced march. He calls out name and rank and file, and dire need of rest and shelter. The need to deliver urgent news. Scouts emerge to meet him and, hearing his warnings of trouble brewing to the south, see Light-Step Fox through the lines. The trees give way, mowed down all around the foot of a great mound of earth. A trench lined with stakes and jagged rocks encircles it. A sturdy wall of timber forms its crown. Men stand watch over the gates. On seeing Light-Step and scouts, the sign and counter-sign until each is satisfied. The doors swing open, and the party is ushered into the fortress. Silence reigns within. Soldiers go about their duties, as is right, yet their attentions wander to the centre. In the open square before the camp's headquarters, Lt. Iormond faces down his local counterpart. The other Iron officer, a lean and weathered man, stands sternly between Hakon and the Captain's lodge. Their standoff breaks as the scouting party closes and salutes. Personal Space - Mountain In a terrible burst of speed, the creature throws back its arm. Scales unfurl, bite deep into the cliff above its head, and with a mighty heave the maw collapses the tunnel behind it. More bits of rubble cascade down the mountainside. It firmly drives each foot into the stone. An ungodly screeching echoes through the canyon as the creature's body takes on an eerie glow. It stands with arms spread wide. It Waits.
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Jun 1, 2013 04:59
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The Glorious Tyrant The Tyrant walks over and examines the chair, than says, "A diligent steward completes their tasks before looking to the rising sun, I suppose." Then he sits down. "While your changes are not unwelcome, in future do not alter those things that are mine without my approval."
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Jun 1, 2013 22:32
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Silk and Silver Cloud - Hug it Out, Bro The Scourge's movements become more measured and precise when the yeti begins posturing. Not the smiling type, then. Luckily, Cloud's motivations are pure, his intentions honest. He slowly flies down to match eyes with the yeti--close enough to show that he is not intimidated, but far enough to not encroach. He stands on his Windblade, tall and possessed of some ineffable extra feature, as if he pulled at the world a bit more strongly than a second ago. "I know you have spent your lives at war, harried at every turn by the Irons and other hunters; and while you have thrived, killing and eating all those who have tried to take you down...I propose an alternative." Woohoo Essence-3 up in here! OldMidgetWillow fucked around with this message at 03:36 on Jun 2, 2013 |
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Jun 2, 2013 03:01
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Fox was an eager sort. Over-eager, enthusiastic but clearly a better archer than a planner and plotter. He stood at attention, waiting to be addressed, waiting for the order to report, but he couldn’t hold back. He was too bursting-at-the-seams with news, too focused on his mission, cold and slightly out of his mind. He stood ready, trying to be professional. “Sirs!” he said, the moment they seemed to place their attention upon him, and the words spilled out of him in a torrent. “There is a new power, maybe a new threat, nearby to us. A band of strangers, led by one in shining gold, entered a trading post near the shore of the White Sea. I and a companion stayed back, to observe, but as the one leading the strangers spoke, the crowd seemed to change. The air around the man started to crackle, bright like lightning, never seen its like, sirs, and afterwards everyone seemed to fall right in line, following his orders.” “They were all changed, enchanted! Well, I think so anyways, not being close enough to listen, and then they all seemed to work together, like a unit, to help the strangers on their way, but it seemed suspicious! Err, then they left. The strangers, that is, the townspeople stayed, but the whole feel of the town changed, the way the people moved, the way they worked together, it was strange to see. I didn’t know how far the group had travelled, how many towns or, I fear to say it, Iron outposts he might have converted, so I came right here. Biggest encampment I knew of. Only stopped once to resupply, and I think I avoided the strangers by days: a homestead not far from here, said the group built, uh, well, they said it was a farm that would grow crops all winter long. Not sure what to make of that.” “Sorry, sirs, if I didn’t do rightly, but you didn’t see the way the people of that village changed. From just people, watching and judging, to all standing like soldiers, moving like a unit. Damnedest thing, spirits-bless-me.” It was so earnest, so heart-rendingly honest and eager, it was hard not to forgive Light-Step Fox his minor transgression, and the news of such import, such strange portents, as to forget them entirely. The fact that it was all an act, 50% lies, and entirely redundant information needn’t enter into it.
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Jun 3, 2013 18:33
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Webs Woven - First Light of Glory An odd thing happens as The Tyrant takes his seat. As Brass hears him speak such odd, if kind, if rather old words, her weaving hands slow. He sits, she stops. Her hands unite, her eyes fall closed, and with head bowed she replies, “A wise king knows who watches when his nation rests its head.” Quite suddenly, she’s working and beaming and looking every which-way again as though she always had. “Well there’s the tricky thing, lad - by all rights what isn’t yours? If I’m to ask permission for each speck of dust you shine on, it’ll take a damned long time to get the place cleaned up.” Fortunes snorts. “Ignore Glorious Stick-Up-His-rear end, here. Massive sense of entitlement which only his own ego justifies, and that’s coming from me.” Oh, joy. Yet another confrontation in progress, of which Tarn will undoubtedly be called upon to pick up the pieces in the aftermath. Fresh out of shiny things to dangle as distractions, the Defiler chooses his words carefully. “Well, there’s ‘yours’, and then there’s ’yours’. One might welcome all comers in the living room, but draw the line at one’s private quarters.” He waves a hand out to indicate the ship at large, before settling on a single door more tightly-sealed than the others. “I wouldn’t presume to speak for the Tyrant, but there’s just such a line around my laboratory.” He smiles. “Just so there are no unfortunate misunderstandings.” The furs around her shudder as she gives a muddled laugh. Her work is not disturbed. “Of course, dear, everyone needs their breathing room. Just leave a nice corner to hang in and a space to slip under the door.” The Tyrant, ignoring Fortune’s jibe, responds to Brass, “Ever a way with words, but I think my meaning was clear enough, and my request eminently reasonable. Now, If I’m not mistaken, there was a reason you chose this particular moment to come before us?” “Naturally,” She ties off a loose end, the cloth she’d worked at vanishes into the movement of her hands, “I have something you’ll need.” “Which is?” the Tyrant questions. “Knowledge.” She rises from her seat, allowing her coat to slip off of her shoulders. Arms unfurl, revealing roles and scrolls and tomes abound. “If you’d all make yourselves comfortable, I’ll see to making you informed.“ “I think that might perhaps be best for a slightly later time. We’ve only just met and time is so brief, the sun’s setting is just around the corner after all. Perhaps we can discuss these matters then.” Eyes narrow, poise relaxes. “Why yes, you’ve had your a busy day. Even a man worth being Chosen must be weary after facing down such a creature as you’ve fought.” Brass shifts her cargo to free a few hands. “After feeling its wrath.” She reaches down, an open palm hovers over The Tyrant’s shoulder. Over the lingering pain where one of the Maw’s eyes had pierced his defences. She hums inquisitively, “Not so deep you’d ever need to worry, but it can’t be pleasant to have around.“ “No, you are correct, it is a hindrance. Is it something you could heal?” She sets the books aside and turns her full attention to The Tyrant. “Well, not with all that in the way.” Fingertips trace out the edges of his armour, “If you would approve a brief, private consultation, I can set it right. Creation’s waited ages for your return, another good night’s rest will do no harm.” The Tyrant seems to consider for a moment, “Very well, I shall show you to my quarters, my guards will be posted outside, of course.” As Brass sees him out, she intercepts a look and a remark before Chukh can open his smug mouth. A sharp, almost inaudible hiss, “You’ll get yours.” For a time, they are gone. Once Brass is out of the room, Chukh leers and whispers to Tarn sotto voce. “A ‘private consultation,’ huh? Bet licking his wounds isn’t all that’s gonna happen. Must be nice to be a Tyrant.” <Fortunes. You really are a child, aren’t you.> And just like that, Tarn once again finds himself with idle hands, and substantially more than most. The battle’s unexpected resolution notwithstanding, it had been disappointing to see his snare destroyed so quickly. Perhaps treatment with some of the alchemical preparations in the primer might yield a sturdier device... <ooo...Tarn...I think you need to do that thing again.> <Hmm?> <you know, that thing humans do when they put stuff in their mouths so they don’t die. I’m starting to get dizzy...> <But we just ate!> <I think that might have been longer ago than you think. Wasn’t the sun on the other side of the sky?> <Well, that’s just-> Tarn peers out the window. <Huh. So it was.> Absently, he carves off a portion of roast...something...and draws it to his hand. A second cut dangles itself tantalizingly in front of Rutherford’s muzzle; the wolf-dog pulls it from the air and darts to the corner to eat, determined that no-one should wrest his prize from him. Bereft of further distractions, he reflects on the day’s events. His analysis: telekinesis is helpful for a number of tasks; for combat, it is less-than-ideal. Perhaps something stronger... Threads tease the edge of Tarn’s awareness, drawing him back into the here and now. Brass reappears aside the table, one of her hands massages its fingertips. “He insisted on my finest blend, in a dose fit for a king,” She smiles, “You’ll have him back by morning, though it may take awhile before he’s all there.” “Well, I’m sure I can find something productive to do until then. Idle hands are my playthings.” Tarn polishes off the remainder of the steak and floats the dirty dish over to a larger pile. A casual flick of his wrist, a wash of iridescent bubbles, and the scoured flatware begins to neatly file itself in the cabinets. “Useful trick, this. Made all the difference in preparation, but it’d be nice to have something to do besides offering moral support the next time things come to blows.” She falls silent, all eyes shut. Three hands facing Tarn trace quick circles, white light trailing behind them. They close their arcs and snap outwards. They frame her face, on which the mark of an empty moon burns bright. Tarn looks askance at the Lunar. “That’s...” The air around him crackles and wavers, the dinnerware faltering in their trajectories. “Wait, what are you-” Head up. Eyes open. Three hands sign. A flash of light. All at once, Tarn cannot feel the parts of him that are not there. Half the Glory’s mess hangs suspended an instant longer, then crashes to the floor with an almighty din of shattering porcelain. Tarn stands a moment longer in contemplation of the wreckage before raising his two eyes to meet Brass’ eight. “I’m not cleaning that up.” She smiles, “Just as well,” He only sees the tome leave her hand a heartbeat before it strikes his gut, “There are far better uses for those hands.” Tarn is taking Brass as a 3-point mentor. Yer a Wizard, Kavik. A_Raving_Loon fucked around with this message at 19:19 on Jun 13, 2013 |
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Jun 13, 2013 19:15
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The Unforgetting Sun It had been an easy decision to pretend to be his alter-ego at least until he had gotten a better feel for where the loyalties of the other Green Sun Princes lay and whether they might serve as pawns in his revenge against the architects of the great betrayal. However the fact that the Lunar Akuma had chosen this moment to first introduce herself to the Tyrant was unfortunate. It meant that when once the Tyrant awoke, with no memories of anything after his meeting with the fiery dragonblood, he would not recall meeting the Lunar. This would force awkward questions, and likely reveal the general's little jaunt in his body, something we wished to avoid. So, secretly revealing himself to Brass with one of the many formalized first-age greetings between the chosen of the sun and moon that the newborn Tyrant had no way of knowing was a calculated risk. One that seemed for the moment to have payed off. Now they were alone, away from prying ears, and the second phase of this dangerous game had begun. He speaks first, his voice like the Tyrant's, coming from the same throat, but now that he no longer needed to hide his identity, the incredible ancientness of the speaker shone through. "I do not believe we've been properly introduced. As you have no doubt surmised, I am not, in fact, the Glorious Tyrant, though I am borrowing his body for a time. My name is the Unforgetting Sun, chosen of the Unconquered Sun, General to the Deliberative, and a Victim of Great Betrayal." He waits for a moment to allow that to sink in. He has no idea of how well the knowledge of the Age of Dreams has survived into the current time, but considering the company he decided to leave Slayer of Ruvelia off his title. "Now, I have no quarrel with you and your charges, in fact I've taken somewhat of a shine to the one who has taken up my Exaltation, who had great potential if he receives the proper guidance. What I want is the utter humiliation and destruction of the traitorous Viziers who cast down my brethren, and at the moment I'm not terribly discriminating when it comes to who aids me in this. So, I have an offer for you. If you keep my presence a secret, and aid me in my purpose, I will not only refrain from interfering with your masters' plans, but I will give you everything you need to know to help manage the Tyrant. He has a spark of something long lost inside of him, that I suspect interests you and your masters' greatly. At the moment, I suspect you'll find him rather impossible to control, but I can see his thoughts, his dreams, his memories. With my knowledge you'll find him far easier to guide down a path that will shine a long-lost light on creation, rather than merely consume it and ruin your masters' plans in the process. Not to mention that you'll find those plans to go far easier if I limit my war to the great betrayers, who I imagine your masters' hold no great love for." "What say you, daughter of the moon? Is such an exchange to your liking?"
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Jun 14, 2013 03:42
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News From Away - Cold Iron Outpost Near the start of Fox’s unordered outburst, a sergeant had sprung to action and stood ready to flog the mouthy scout back into line. The earnest emotion behind the young man’s words made him withhold the act until the lad had made his case. The look of each of his superiors as Fox finished drove him to swiftly drop the issue. Hakon moves first, imposing himself between Fox and the other officer. With one swift step he leaves behind all hostility for the other lieutenant. Heat washes over Snow as the Iron Officer sweeps ‘Light Step Fox’ into his presence. By instinct, Snow knows the reaction which best serves his chosen lie - to be awed, honoured, and just a bit alarmed. “Well, scout, Seeing things and getting home alive’s more than half your duty done!” Hakon dives in, getting an arm around Fox and firmly seizing him by the shoulder. “Now’s just a matter of getting that tale off your lips and off your back - up the chain for someone else to worry over.” By his lead, the set off side-by-side for the officer’s lodge. The cool winter air dares not follow as they pass through the reinforced oaken doors. Within, a steamy haze dominates. Fox is directed to wait at a nearby bench as Hakon slips between the ranks of tables meant for meetings, meals and briefings. He halts before a heavy curtain at the far end of the lodge, salutes, then vanishes behind it. Moments pass before a sudden rap of steel on stone breaks the silence. A Voice, low, rasping, growling, resonates through the hall, “Soldier, Report.” Quick to his feet, Light-Step heeds the call to act. He moves with purpose to the curtain, pays his due respects, and when it is bid he enters. The room beyond is thick with steam. Cut stones, firmly set in place, form the foundation of a grand basin. A gaunt man reclines in its waters. His face is sharply angled, his eyes a flat black. Above the waterline his skin glows brightly, casting the sauna’s only light. One bony hand beckons Fox forward. Half-shadowed, Hakon sits aside. Watching. Needing no further command, Fox quickly repeats his tale as best he can. With those eyes fixed upon he does not dare misspeak, embellish, or forget. When he runs out of tale to tell he does not break that contact. Hakon speaks from the sidelines. His words are Calm. Precise. He poses simple questions, having Fox repeat each vital fact along his path. At each point he demands some spare detail. Particulars of how their leader spoke, how his converts behaved; the poise and garb and methods of any notable subordinates; which way the other scout went when they parted ways. The inquiry comes to a sudden stop. Those black eyes shut. That dreadful voice resounds, “Dismissed.” Meet Captain Sylvan Flint. This Land - Mountain The maw stands aside the mountain. Lines of scales form chevrons on the creature’s chest. Faint sparks leap between the open plates, fleeting highlights in to its rippling aura. Reflections alight to carve one burning rune into the sky before it. <Speak.> The Scourge stands still, his mind instead whirling a mile a minute. His voice is confident, assured that every word he speaks he can turn into reality. “I represent a group dedicated to bringing back the glory of the olden times, when cities flew in the sky and all of Creation stood under a single banner. We can make this come to pass--more quickly with your help. Currently you fight a war that benefits no one--enemies come to hunt you down like animals, instead of the beautiful, intelligent beings you are. And you will kill them, but there is no purpose to it all. I give you that--to live as your ancestors’ ancestors lived, not as cogs in a machine but as an integral part of a greater plan.” <Prove your words.> One of its arms falls limp. It hangs a moment as though unhinged, but swings so fluidly Cloud can’t imagine it possessing any bones. It soon snaps in defiance of the breeze and realigns itself. The new limb bends suddenly at three sharp joints, and ends in a dreadful scythe. <If you would share this land,> The air screams as the symbols carve themselves into it, the creature’s aura flares with renewed fury. <Then share my brother’s sacrifice.> Cloud swoops closer, in clear range of the yeti’s scythe. “Only a fool agrees to a sacrifice before learning what is being sacrificed; nevertheless, if it is in my power to sacrifice...” In three whip-cracks, the scythe extends. There is a word with each. <Eye for Eye.> The Scourge, without a shred of hesitation, gives an accelerated chuckle. If it’s good enough for Gyrfalcon... “Very well.” He tears off a piece of cloth from his tunic and brushes the hair from his left eye, leaning forwards towards the beast. The Maw looks upon him. It make no move, it makes no sound, its visage is utterly inhuman. Yet for some fleeting moment, somewhere between those crystal eyes, Cloud sees some hint of something more. In the blink of an eye, it is gone. Cloud bows slightly, the blood dripping onto the frozen ground. An image of the Maw with its inhuman beauty is frozen forever onto the left side of his vision. Time passes--a second, perhaps, no more, but it seems an eternity in the face of Cloud’s endless movement. He raises his head. “What now?” Its purpose served, the weapon shatters and reforms into an open hand. The lights dancing on its surface dim, and focus. An image of an icon - a thing in the shape of a man, featureless save two great chevrons which mark its face and chest. The figure returns Cloud’s bow. Its words are deftly brushed into aether. <Now - Go to serve this land. Return with word of peace.> Old Wounds - Tyrant’s Quarters “Well look at you,” Hands busy themselves weaving gauze and fetching needles, in service of the eyes fixed on The Tyrant’s wound. One set stays locked on his, “Dead, buried, and reborn, but not forgotten.” Without breaking from her work, Brass takes his hand, “They understand.” A quick shrug, “Well, some of them do. As well as they can. And your soul would not be here if you’d not grown to return some of that sympathy.” The site is swiftly stripped and cleaned. A few clear drops fall from her fingertips, chilling flesh and soothing pain where they land. They’re left to linger for a time, slowly vanishing into his skin. They’re nearly gone before the wound is bound in cloth. When all’s secured, Brass gives a final sweep to press the bandage into place, “You are in good hands, dear fallen star, you will find safety on my shores.” Most of her limbs retract, drawing all focus to a single claw-tipped hand, “And perhaps, as well, a little reason why your brash young heir misplaced the better part of a day?” She licks the claw, “Used gently, this would aid in rest and recovery. If taken in excess...” She smiles, “just ask, and you’ll receive.” The ancient general smiles, “Then I think I shall have far too much this evening, all the better for the morning to come.”
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Jul 25, 2013 00:07
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The Glorious Tyrant The Tyrant awoke, his head pounding. He was confused as to where he was for a moment before he recognized the room as his quarters aboard the First Light of Glory, but they seemed slightly different then he recalled last seeing them. More confusing, than the change was why he was here at all. The last thing he recalled he had been speaking with the fiery Dragonblood, Hakon. Now he was here. Was there an attack, had he been injured. As he pulled on his robes, Bjorn entered the room. The rugged Haslan had started to anticipate his king's needs with a nearly supernatural accuracy since he had been Knighted. With Bjorn's assistance the Tyrant dizzily made his way to the copper bath that Bjorn had filled. Once he was immersed in the steaming hot water, he started to feel the dizziness and pain in his head lift. By the time he had emerged, and Bjorn had prepared the outfit he was to wear that day he felt himself once more. "What happened last night? I do not recall anything after the meeting with the Cold Iron Brand." He asks his knight and bodyservant. Bjorn responds, his voice gruff, "After the meeting You did not seem quite yourself, it's true. You returned to the ship, and met with Brass Orb Weaver..." "Whom?" The Tyrant interrupts. "The witch, mother of the proprietress off the tavern in Aursholm. You met with her, supposedly she tended to the wound you had suffered, and that's all that happened." Whatever rumors might be floating around the ship, it was clear that the gruff Haslan gave them no credence. For why should one so royal as his king deign to lay with a witch. "She claims that you had been put to sleep by one of her strong elixirs to promote healing." He finishes with the last of the straps, of the Tyrant's shining armor. Bjorn had not taken to his role in this morning ritual naturally at first having little respect for the softness of a man who did not dress himself. However, after he realized the complexity involved in putting on the Moonsilver Plate, his respect was renewed, for it was not a one man job, and only a fool would take a chance with the only thing between an arrow and their heart. Standing tall and ready to begin the day's business the Tyrant picks up the thread of conversation where Bjorn had left off, "Then I shall have to meet this Brass Orb Weaver once more. Stien, as well, I would hear his thoughts as to what he witnessed yesterday." Bjorn nods, and as the Tyrant strides out of his quarters, walking past Graves, who had taken morning shift guarding the door, he falls into step behind him. He had been uncertain when he had first been drafted as the king's personal servant. This was the work of a servant, not a knight, and though he never even considered disobedience he had doubted. However, after several weeks he had a revelation. What role required more trust, to fight and die on the battlefield, to carry out orders, or to be the one to tend to a King's requests when his guard was lowered. The role he had been given was unassuming in stature, but only a fool would recognize that he was the most trusted of the King's subjects. The Tyrant heads above deck, finding Stien at the stern of the ship looking out over where the battle had taken place the day before. Greeting the man with the self-assurance only a scion of Thieon could possess, the Tyrant asks, "I had brought you along to witness My glory first-hand, so that you might be ready to take up the role of my priest. So, what have you to say about what you have witnessed?" Valhawk fucked around with this message at 23:46 on Sep 9, 2013 |
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Jul 25, 2013 05:14
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Worrying. That's what it was. Most of the story had been near-truths, half-fictions, but inventing another scout had been an outright lie, and after that query, the question and answer section had ended. Worrying. Still, that was not without its own workarounds. Perhaps Light-Step Fox had also been infected with some magic, his memories hazy. Creation was a strange place, so it was not outside the realm of possibility. Still, it was important to learn what he could and then fade into the ranks. Provided Hakon and Flint allowed it. He needed to improve his cover. He needed to live his cover. But, after all, that shouldn't be hard: he respected the Irons. He loved them, even. It was so easy to think of them that way, to slide into that comfortable feeling, as easy as sliding into sleep while in the grip of hypothermia. Gaining an positive intimacy for the Cold Iron Brand, via Trust is Naive. After that, it was easy to fit in, to get to know people. He'd always been there, right? Everyone remembered Light-Step Fox! Pretty sure he'd been at that fort, at that place, last year, right? Good lad. A bit scatter-brained, but an eye as keen as anything. Manipulation + Socialize Roll to improve the quality of my lies and cover: 11 successes. If there are some successes leftover, I'm going to learn about the supply train and where else the Cold Irons are having their attention pulled.
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Jul 31, 2013 17:20
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Silk and Silver Cloud A figure rushes past the others, a quickly fading blur in the still morning light. Of course it must be Cloud--no one else flies like that--but it is odd for the Scourge to not give his usual frenetic wave. He looks straggly--determined? Focused?--as he blows past. And is that a... He pauses before Hakon, giving a respectful nod before speaking. "It is done: the Five-Eyed Maws will eat man-flesh no more." Seeing the faint look of confusion on the commander's face, he continues, lifting the crude eyepatch to reveal a bloody mess where his eye had been. "To show my determination, my willingness to make sacrifices. You should take note of it--and that I am on the side of the Haslan people. No matter what." And with that, he is off again. Cloud circles back to the rest of his group, his face still serious. "I have finished negotiations, have payed the necessary price." He gestures again to the eyepatch, staring with his remaining eye at his companions, almost daring them to speak their minds about the stunt he had pulled earlier. OldMidgetWillow fucked around with this message at 00:26 on Aug 9, 2013 |
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Aug 9, 2013 00:16
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