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Never Within Reach -Glass Half Full? Bolt met Never halfway down the hill. She showed him the stone in her hand. “I saw a disaster I should have prevented, somewhere far away. Maybe that is why I was punished.” She tucked the jewel away in the pocket with its mate and Xulan’s hearthstone. “The girl in this memory was more damaged than I am now, an almost empty vessel. I have since refilled a ways, it seems. Small comfort… but some, still.” “How bad?” It wasn’t entirely clear if Bolt was asking about Never, the disaster, or both. “There was an island, drowned in a horrible black tide of something... Much bigger than Petraya, much more populated. I saw three Lunars fall to it, the mortals stood no chance. None.” She looks at her hands, confusion plain in her voice. “How many thousands...? Why didn’t I stop it? Why was I supposed to stop it? She... I knew nothing, there was nothing left in me... Except to come here and leave this.” Never stopped, clearly worried. “I didn’t know how lost I was.” Bolt didn’t even hesitate. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled Never close, holding her tight. For several minutes, there were no words, only a warm embrace. “Three Lunars?” he echoed at last. “If...whatever that was, was enough to just take them down like that...” Bolt shivered a little. “Well, that kind of puts our current problem in perspective, doesn’t it?” he said with a cheer he didn’t entirely feel. “Seven. Four escaped the wave.” she answered. “And yes, it does. But I don’t think we were enemies. At least... not then.” Things had changed. Herself included. “We need to go back. This will keep, at least until after we finish off that bastard.” It was hard to concentrate on the mission. When she’d picked up the stone, she’d been afraid that the person it showed her would be someone she didn’t like. Instead it had showed her someone who was barely a person at all. That was worse. A lot worse. And the next stone... No. Focus. Wyrms was counting on her. It was time to head back. ---- Smuggley Duckling Never tracked down Nuria as soon as they got back to Rashida’s court. The flame duck was resting against the stone entryway to the audience room, conversing idly with the Jokun guards and smoking a roll of marijuana. She blinked at Never and Bolt as they approached. “Heard you had to talk someone down off a ledge there.” “I put her up there to begin with, it was my responsibility.” Never shrugged. “An enemy that hides behind hostages doesn’t trust his own strength. That’s good. It means he’s afraid of what you can do.” “Shitstain.” Nuria nodded in agreement, then handed Never a glass scroll tube. “Our scouting forces, such as they are. Don’t summon anyone not on this list until you’re ready to commit.” “Understood. Will you be joining us, Colonel?” Nuria shrugged. “If you can summon me, or sneak me out without anyone noticing, sure.” Never considered that. “My jacket might have space, but I understand if you’d rather take the more dignified route.” And so, a few moments later when Never tracked down Jackal, her coat was slightly bulging around the middle and she was gritting her teeth to keep from laughing as the fiery duckfeathers tickled her bare stomach. Bolt gave her a coy look. “Hmm...feathers...ticklish...” He smiled. “Gonna have to remember this.” She rolled her eyes at him. --- The Dutiful and the Free The Moonshadow was sitting on one of the basalt chairs, chatting with the many elementals and courtiers. While he was smiling and being strangely charming to them, an observer could see that behind his smile there appeared to be some nervousness, as if he was troubled by something but wanted to hide it from the outside. “That’s why i say that you deserve more fitting quarters! Worry not, if there’s something that we have to be cautious about is how the Water Court will see your sudden rise, and even then the support of the Soulsteel Fleet will be more than enough to clear you guys from any trouble.” He then noticed Never and Bolt, nodding at them. “I guess we are ready to depart now?” “Yes.” Never said, quite distracted by her passenger’s fidgeting. “Are you ready?” “Just a second.” Jackal turn to a small entourage of the Fire Butterflies that were among the ones that received them in the beach. “Ladies, if you please.” He said while opening his jacket and making an elaborate gesture as he points to it, inviting them to enter his breast pocket. “Looks like I, Jackal, have found beautiful company for the ship!” He said while stifling a laugh. “But yes, I guess we can go now. There are some matters to discuss on the way though.” The Day caste just nodded and spread her wings in answer. It didn't take long for the three of them to leave Lordsmeet far behind. About half an hour later, Never had the presence of mind to ask Jackal what he wanted to talk about. “You said you wanted to discuss something? Sorry, my stowaway is slightly larger than yours.” “I, Jackal... Guess so.” He said while trying to ignore the somewhat ridiculous situation that was Never trying to keep a squirming feathery duck inside her clothes. Still, he tried to continue the conversation. “You obviously heard what i told to the Queen and that annoying advisor of hers. Do know that I, Jackal, was being completely truthful on my intentions back then... And intend to do so in the future. This is something that I, Jackal, tried to keep until our position was more consolidated and that the desires of the crew were more clear to me but it appears that my plans are a bit rushed.” His chest glowed for a bit, the effect of the fluttering fire butterflies near where his heart was supposed to be. “Our continued vassalage is useless. With the current rise in power of our alliance, even the forces amassing on Thorns will look like a paltry garrison. Not to mention that I, Jackal, am completely opposed to the end goal of our so-called masters.” Jackal’s tone was serious and methodical, quite unlike the bombastic way he talked on the Court. “No, to squander conquest for a nihilistic desire is completely disgusting. And that’s why I, Jackal, want to ask you and the others... Are you okay with the demise of Creation?” “All things end.” Never said, shaking her head. “I swore an Oath as did you, Blighted Jackal Face Master. Not to the Deathlords, but to the Neverborn themselves. If it wasn’t for that oath, we would not exist. You would turn from that duty, and have the rest of us do the same?” There was a note of disbelief in her voice. “An Oath given by a corpse without the ability to think forward! An Oath that one gives in desperation, wishing to live again, be it for revenge or for the fear of the Oblivion!” Jackal punched his own hand, looking positively furious. “The Neverborn can go gently caress themselves for all that I know. Making us puppets for their foolish desires. Nay, puppets of puppets! But what if, Never Within Reach, what if we can exist even beyond this duty?! Again, gently caress! THE NEVERBORN! See as I, Jackal, am not struck by their vengeance! See as I, Jackal, still exist.” His exasperation then turns into calm, as the Moonshadow starts to open and close his eyes. “The element of choice exists. It’s only that we were induced to never consider it.” ”Wait,” Bolt asked incredulously, ”That’s how it works for you? ‘Serve us or die’!?” The Day caste flitted between Bolt and Jackal. “No, ‘Serve us and die’.” she said. “The exalt is born from the damned, to wreak her vengeance on those who stole her life, and eventually all life. That is how it works for us.” To Jackal she said nothing, but he could sense the cracks forming in her armor. There was a rift between Never and her masters that had nothing to do with him. Still, she would hold onto that last scrap of loyalty until her second death unless he could prove that she’d been played false. ”’Serve us and die’. ‘Turn your back on everything you were’. ‘Shut up and follow orders’. ‘No, we won’t tell you what you did, now hold still while we play scavenger hunt with your memories’.” Bolt shook his head. ”Never, is there any part of your job you actually like?” “Well yes. I like the flying, and the part where I get to shoot people and sneak around and steal their stuff.” she sniffed. “It’s not like we’re trying to end everything all the time! That’s just... you know the general plan...” It rang a bit hollow and she winced. “If you say so. But do know that your objective will put you in conflict with your mate. What i said to the Garda there... Can be true about the two of you as well. All of us have lingering affections to Creation, Never Within Reach, and that is the effect that standing near the living have on everyone. Are you ready to discard those for your Oath?” Jackal sighs, looking a bit dismayed. “Were that I, Jackal, still had my lifeblood pumping on, if only with my full power. That would be the most optimal situation.” “Well you don’t. The Sun didn’t choose you, nor did the Moon, or anything else with that kind of power. The only ones who saw worth in a pitiful mortal dancing on a rope were those you curse. In that we are much alike, Jackal.” “And isn’t that a coincidence.” Jackal said under his breath. “But I, Jackal, never denied the fact that we were chosen by those... Things. But a person’s fate is up to themselves, and this is definitely not my desired fate!” He pauses for a bit, putting a hand on his chin. “The difference between our ways, however, Never Within Reach, is that unlike them, I, Jackal, am giving you a completely voluntary choice. And it’s up to you to make that choice.” Soulsteel wings snapped out in anger. “Your choice leads only to ruin. Long ago, in a different life, a woman dreamed of freedom. It did not end well for her. Call it whatever you want, the bargain was fairly struck. A life unending for power and service of the same. I wear no chains but those I have made. If the time comes to strike them, it will be for greater cause than a simple desire to run free.” “And a man long ago desired to rise above his lowly station in life, drat IT!” The windblade shook after the sudden shout. No. No, that was not possible. That was an unacceptable outburst. Jackal hushed and said nothing more during the rest of the travel, and while he tried to comfort himself with the fact that the seeds had been planted, and that Never actually considered a possibility in which she would cast away her chains, he still had this growing disgust inside him. Disgust at himself.
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Apr 17, 2013 03:44
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’Saul’- This time for sure! ‘Vance’ was done ranting for the time being, and Blood seemed appropriately fortified, which Mercy took to mean it was time to get to work once more. “I’ve a couple of ideas about how to do this. We should likely begin with the girl who was injured in the latest ‘Lunar attack’, see if we can’t convince her and her friends to help us foil her attacker’s dastardly plot, hm? I believe you know where she worked?” Blood sways as she stands and giggles slightly. “I...think I could find her again. I made *snrk* a goooood impression.” Sometime during Mercy’s bout of hyperventilation, Blood had opened the cabinet behind the bar; no fewer than four empty bottles mark her place at the counter. Vance picks up a bottle and looks at Blood incredulously. “Blood. Even Bolt can’t drink that much. You’re probably going to be hungover at the exact time when we expected we’d be ambushed” He sighs, looking back at Mercy. “If you want, I can come with you two, since I’m a decently convincing sort and Blood seems to be only partway here.” He gives his vest pocket a strange and curious look. “I could give her a pick-me-up if she needs to work through the night, though.” “Hee...” Blood laughs. “...can take a lot more’n this. Bolt’s just no fun.” She stumbles along. “Gimme a couple hoursh, I’ll be fiiiiine.” She sighs. “Onna the less fun parts ‘bout not being made a meat - the good shtuff never lassshts long.” “You might as well introduce us to your friend while you’re still in a good mood, then. Lead on, fair lady.” Mercy gave her a half-smile and made a hand gesture towards the door.”You too, Vance. I may need some backup for some of this. I had the idea that bits of the conversation I had with Miss Sola are reasonably interpreted as a threat, and we can repurpose her message to us as a warning to all potential buyers of the book. We can even show people my chain of logic while doing so. As for getting in, well, I’m pretty good at that.” Vance nods and follows behind. He then turns back around and looks at Blood. “Ahem, miss Wind, are you coming? Need a shoulder?” The thunderbird takes a moment to straighten her hair, then walks on ahead. “Silly deathknight, if I fall I’ll just land on the air!” Mercy shrugs. “That’s good enough for me.” Pretty Women They stand in front of the bar Blood had led them to. “You’d better make the introductions. They don’t know me, and I don’t exactly have a face that inspires confidence in these matters.” Vance chuckles. “Just have them look you in the eyes and. Oh. Heh.” Mercy merely raises an eyebrow at him. Blood casually makes her way backstage, sidling past the crowd and getting by the heavyset bouncer with a smile, a wink, and a look that says “I may or may not eat you if you don’t give me what I want.” Presently, she returns with two slender young eastern women whose outfits are principally composed of bodypaint. She splays a hand at Vance and Saul. “Here, say hello to my colleagues.” Blood introduces the pair as Coral and Phii. “If what Fatima saw was, indeed, an Anathema, there’s no-one here more qualified to do something about it than these two.” Mercy smiles, steps forward, and bows to the pair. “Thank you for your time. What we learned from Fatima proved quite... instructive in finding our Anathema. We’ve got pretty strong evidence that it is indeed a shape-stealer, so I’d recommend for the immediate future that you move in groups, and that you treat anybody acting out-of-character without some kind of extenuating factor as suspect. Fortunately, we’ve also found that they’re here for something in particular - there’s a book that goes on auction tomorrow. A lot of rich and powerful people seem to want it, and that includes our shape-stealer. Now, we’ve seen the defensive perimeter out there, and so has the Anathema. Attacking the auction would be too much work, as would locating the book before the auction. After the auction, however, is a different story. Our best guess at present is that the Anathema will attack whoever wins the auction between the end of the auction and that person leaving Denzik.” Vance nods. “What he said. This Anathema thinks he can push us Westerners around like a catch of fish. I refuse to let it go down like that, but I need your help to get the word out about what this guy is going to do. He needs to go down, and for that, these buyers need to be warned about what’s out there. I can’t put words in the ears of all the big shots in Denzik. You two, by the looks of you, clearly can.” The dancers look to each other, then to Mercy and Damnation. Coral speaks first. “You want us to...I don’t know about this. We’re not supposed to say too much to customers; they get nervous that we’re spying on them for their rivals if they see us talking.” Phii nods in agreement. “Sometimes they just rat us out to the troupe leader. Other times...” She turns her gaze downward. “...they take things into their own hands.” As the sentence proceeded, Mercy’s slight smile had faded. His face had hardened into impassivity as it ended, but he nodded. “I understand.” He seemed to think for a moment. “Wind, how’s your dancing? I don’t want to get your friends into trouble, and their clients’ safety is sounding less and less like something I want to ensure, but we do need to get the word out. Now, Vance and I can do some of it on our own, but anything helps.” He turns to the dancers. “I’d also feel better if Wind was with you two or Fatima tonight, in case the Anathema tries to cover his tracks. If she can spread the word, so much the better.” Vance looks at Mercy and nods. “That’s not a bad plan.” He then turns to Phii and Coral. “I know how it is. I’ve had some harsh bosses in my life. You don’t have to do anything. If you do put the word out, though, maybe through a note, maybe by asking them not to say anything in response, and your trick isn’t the one to get robbed, they might be grateful. It’s up to you.” Blood’s face at Mercy asking about her dancing is one of unadulterated Are you making GBS threads me? She gives the Abyssals the same smile they saw when she had to put on the rubber gloves. “Girls, don’t be shy. If there’s anything important you can tell these two right now, it could save quite a few lives!” Including yours, she does not have to say to Mercy and Damnation. Coral hesitates, then volunteers. “...When we found Fatima, she was on the dining barge. There’s a good view of the central stores from there and...well, she loves to smoke just a little bit of the morningbright so she can watch all the spirits they have there - guards, clerks, visiting dignitaries. She’d hit her head on a railing. When she woke up, she was talking about a...a something, it was huge, and clawed, and furry, but it walked on two legs.” She shakes her head. “I’m not sure what happened - I don’t think Fatima’s all that sure what happened - but...I don’t think it was an attack. I think...it sounds like it saw her watching it and spooked, and just knocked her down when it brushed past her.” Phii nods along. “It was weird, too - all the scary things about it, and the one thing she could focus on was its cloak. She said it wasn’t like real clothes - it was liquid, and every color imaginable at once, like some of the things the elves try to sell us.” Vance looks just a tiny bit shaken. “That’s odd. It may be that our quarry has obtained some sort of strange magic item from a Raksha in exchange for services. It’s not uncommon for those two groups to interact, though it’s usually not on good terms. What really sticks out at me as weird is why this guy is trying not to be seen, yet walking around in his form that is for killing people. Lunars wear that form when they’re anticipating a fight, and it’s as conspicuous as all get-out. If he didn’t attack her, he’s got to be here to attack someone. Still, though, it should only take him a few seconds to make that transformation. Either this Lunar is crazier than most or something extremely fishy is going on. Extremely dangerous either way.” “Something fishy is right. Alright. Time for plan B, I think. We can pay a call to some of our more likely candidates ourselves. Thank you for your time.” Mercy bowed again, and made to leave. This calls for a montage! Rolling Charisma + Socialize to help grease the wheels of rumormongering... Bugger. 3 successes. Vance assists with his overpowering Personal Charisma! 14 successes. (Spent 10 personal motes, hearthstones should let me regen that in 1 hour.) Well that’s a little more like it. 7 successes. Blood rolls to Be Helpful with Manip+Soc: 13 sux  Between the three of you, you spread the gently caress out of some rumors. By the time the trio finishes their aggressive anti-marketing campaign, the first rays of dawn are visible on the horizon. Given Onyx’s intel, there is a rather alarming lack of kerfuffle from the storage freighter. The bells on the central schooner begin to toll, breaking off after three chimes. The auction begins in fifteen minutes. Game time. Mercy, Blood, and Damnation have situated themselves in the shade of a little alley made by boxes that nobody’s bothered getting off the deck as yet, and await the signal or the sounds of violence. Mercy, in the shadow cast by the mass of crates, decides that perhaps a little more inconspicuousness couldn’t hurt. His stance changes, ever so slightly, and then something very strange happens indeed. His coat darkens, blends with the shadows around him. It’s suddenly very hard to tell where the shadow ends and the coat begins. If one didn’t know he would be there, they’d be hard-pressed to find him at all. Spending 3 peripheral and 2 personal, activating Ebon Shadow Form. Damnation, finally looking serious and threatening once again, whispers to Mercy. “Before I can’t see you any more, something just dawned on me. This Lunar wasn’t willing to kill a civilian witness. He might be willing to off a death knight, but random non-combatants seem to be a problem for him. You can do your thing, though. Just, be prepared for anything.” “Always. The other part, though...well, let’s see, shall we? If we can take him ourselves, fine. If not, then we can think about bringing civvies in on it.” “Well, I, uh, don’t have any of my combat poo poo. It’s got the boss’s look stamped all over it. My weapons on my person might not even do anything to him. If he looks like he is going to harm civilians, though, I give you and Onyx full permission to blitz him.” “Glad to hear it.” Watcher coughs for a few seconds before speaking in a raspy voice. “And while the Lunar may have scruples about killing civilians, it most likely has none about stealing books from them. Just one thing to keep in mind. Also, while I appreciate my backup, it might be nice to have a Plan C or D--I can never keep track which--of an entire submarine with elite sharkwarriors lurking directly underneath the auctionhouse. Unless there is security down there--I don’t suppose anyone was arsed to check that?” With that, the old man dons a beat-up sailor’s cap and strides out to meet this merchant for the auction. There is a long silence from the shadow where Mercy was lurking. It’s only when Blood asks the question again that they realize he’s already gone. She shrugs at Watcher and Damnation. “High society awaits. Shall we?” Several seconds later, Watcher abruptly turns face, his eyes searching for the new one. Sighing, he gives up and simply talks to the air. “It’s your submarine, right? You take orders from me. Everything works better that way--trust me.” Satisfied, he continues on his way. High Society, High Anxiety When he returns, a small line has formed in front of the ironwood bulkhead leading into the lounge of the innermost ship, the Harper’s Farewell. Blood holds a spot for the others, the paper rectangle of the invitation in her rubber-encased hands. She passes the slip to the host, then waves for the other two to follow. The boat’s interior is posh and luxurious in a way that reminds Watcher and Damnation vividly and unpleasantly of the Thousand-Facet Jewel. Stone-faced mercenaries armed with short sabers stand guard at the numerous doors along the way, save for the ones leading deeper into the vessel. Presently, they are guided to a wide hall with a silken carpet and walls of elaborate stained-glass windows. Prismatic light shines through the sides from all directions, bewildering in the absence of sunlight until they see that on the far side of the walls lies a garden, a forest in miniature, populated by tiny, jewel-bright birds and fireflies the size of a grown man’s thumb. An auctioneer in a two-color doublet and a hat even more tasteless than Damnation’s presides over the lectern at the dais at the end. He stands, supervising, while valets usher the guests into velvet-lined chairs in neat rows. Watcher snorts quietly in disgust and mutters to Damnation. “I suppose I owe you five obols--I can’t believe you fit in so well here.” Damnation snickers. “There once was a pirate who had actually been here, you know. I’m not that stupid.” The older one simply shakes his head. “I know, but it still hurts to acknowledge it.” The auction is called to order, and the first few lots are brought onstage for presentation. Jewelry and baubles and curios and antique mirrors...nothing of actual interest, although Blood makes sure to place a few, token bids so as to not appear completely out of place. Items come and go, and are carried off for delivery, until at last a trolley laden with a sealed display case is wheeled onto the dais. “Lot 119:” the man in the hideous clothing announces. “An original printing of Sigmund Jarviksen’s Stranger Tides and Distant Shores: A Retrospective on a Life at Sea.” The glass opens to reveal a tome bound in no leather such as the Deathknights have ever seen, tall and broad and thick as a grown man’s chest; the thing must weigh at least fourty kilos. “The single, ah, most intact copy we have ever had the fortune to come upon. A priceless historical relic, but here, nothing is without its price. We’ll start the bidding at, say, six talents of jade, or thirty of silver.” Watcher growls softly, “Looks about right--there’s no way to forge that leather.” There is no response. More than a few of the guests make halfhearted motions as if to raise their numbers, but a general atmosphere of anxiety has fallen over the crowd; none seem willing to make the first move. The auctioneer looks flustered. “As I said, priceless. Certainly, any one of you would find it a privilege to have this rare find for...” He tugs at his frilled collar and mops the sweat from his brow. “...five talents?” Nothing. He stamps in frustration. “Come now, surely, as true connoisseurs, such accomplished traders as yourselves can scrounge together four talents for the opportunity of a lifetime!” He preens, he crows, he extols the virtues of his ware, he implores, he shouts, he almost begins to cry. When the fat merchant nods at his purchase as it is rolled away for half a talent, the auctioneer calls a recess and heads into his own quarters. The sound of muffled sobbing is audible even through the thick mahogany. Outside, the trader approaches Watcher. “I have fulfilled my end of the bargain, and you have more than fulfilled yours.” He waves a beringed hand dismissively at the decor. “I find this place entirely too gaudy for my tastes; I believe I shall take my leave. If any of you would care to come aboard my own vessel to celebrate our good fortunes, you should be more than welcome.” Watcher gives a faint smile. “I am glad the task so far has proved not to be onerous to you. I would love to celebrate with you, but find that I cannot relax until the object in question is completely safe in my control. Perhaps later? For now, do you know of any way to expedite the process, perhaps with one of my or your men assisting in moving it?” “My stevedores are already taking it to your ship, and I have moved my own adjacent to speed the transfer of cargo. Shall we be done with this troublesome busywork?” The old man’s smile broadens, and he stands a bit straighter, as if a burden has been lifted. “You, my good sir, are doing wonders for my peace of mind. I knew it was the right choice to do business with you. Indeed, let us be off.” And with a single pointed glance to the door, he begins moving towards their two ships, chatting as jovially as the Abyssal can manage with the merchant. He seems to be favoring one leg heavily, making his right footsteps resound heavily through the wooden deck. Vance quickly meets the gaze of both Watcher and the fat man. “There have been rumors of security concerns regarding this particular item. I, Vance Cutlass, will ensure the safety of your stevedores.” He nods to Blood and Onyx and begins moving rapidly to the book’s location. Down below, Mercy had gotten the manta-shaped vehicle situated safely under the auction barge’s deck. When the sudden, heavy thudding resounded through the wood loudly enough to be picked up on the ship’s own resonator, he put his hands on the control sticks and, suppressing a little thrill at the way the ship jumped to obey his commands, urged the sub forward to follow. Damnation, Onyx and Blood swiftly reach the top deck and locate the burly sailors carrying the immense case.Vance waves at the sailors. “I work security for the guy who’s ship you’re delivering this too. First Mate Vance Cutlass. I need to check to make sure that’s his item and not a load of flamedust. Just precautionary, had an issue once back east.” The workmen look at each other, shrug, and hand Damnation the key to the case. Inside, the book remains, a great brick of a tome, golden inlay on the cover proclaiming its title in Old Realm characters. It is indeed the same book that was on display in the auction hall. Vance closes the case and hands back the key. “Very well. Let’s head out.” The trio accompanies the porters on their way back to the Revelation, crossing the maze of gangplanks and passing the innumerable markets and bazaars and spectacles until their ship comes within sight. There stand Watcher and the other merchant, whose crew has made commendable progress at transferring the promised payment (the zombies, regrettably, have been stowed for the occasion). “I thank you, friend, for your most generous offer.” The man indeed looks sincerely pleased at the state of affairs, with no hint of treachery or underhandedness. “I wish you well on your travels.” As the last of the Jewel’s goods are unloaded, he returns to his ship. Watcher gives a firm handshake to the merchant, returning the well wishes--they had been prepared to spend all their wares on obtaining the book, and it is always better to have too many contingency plans than too few. With one glance back at the merchant city, the admiral gives the signal to cast off; he keeps a careful eye on the sun, keeping their shadows minimized on their escape and staying ready to engulf the area with thick fog if it appears that someone might catch on. As the city grows distant, he stifles a pang of regret that as far as they could tell, all had gone to plan.
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Apr 19, 2013 05:13
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 The Moon Is A "So!" a deep, growling voice booms from above. Up in the rigging perches a stowaway – a great brute of a beast some nine feet tall, with a tiger's fur, tail, claws, and head and silver tattoos zigzagged across its form. "I'd planned to break into the hold and take that before the auction, but then I overheard a rumor someone planned to strongarm you out of your prize on your way out!" Rakim drops heavily to the deck below, baring a mouthful of razor-sharp fangs in a grin at the admiral. "And I thought, 'not if I get there, and take it first!'" Blood looks askance at the new arrival. “Admiral, it’s a victim of our outrageous fortunes, what should we do with him?” “It depends.” Watcher shrugs and looks up at the Lunar. “That’s very kind of you, to let us do this on our own boat instead of as guests--though there is a certain romantic quality to the sprawling cityscape, I suppose. I should probably let you know that we have no long-term plans for the book. We just wanted to look something up really fast, is all.” Damnation stares down the Tiger Man. “Something’s not right, big boy.“ He looks him up and down, trying to place what’s wrong with the scenario. “I figured whatever Lunar was here was the agent of a certain rat-bastard Chairman I’ve been trying to send to a fate worse than death for the past few months. But you seem a lot more direct than him, and if you didn’t kill that dancer who saw you, poor Fatima, I don’t think you’re cold enough to work with him. Unless you just follow your Chairman without questioning what they’re doing, and you still think that he’s working for the greater good, in which case I advise you turn into a porpoise, get out of here, and find a new job. So what’s the deal, Tiger Man? Why do you want this book so badly? Because the number one reason we want it is so that bastard can’t have it.” The Lunar shakes his head and snarls. “‘Chairman’? The gently caress are you even talking about, leech!?” He storms up and down the midship, glowering at the officers and crew (the crew don’t glower back so much as stare blankly, much to his irritation). “I’m here because they said there would be answers here! That that book might have something to say about that unholy loving thing that loving ATE MY loving KINGDOM!!! BECAUSE...BECAUSE...” He clenches his teeth so tightly they can be heard grinding, and slams his fist against the mainmast. “...because...I owe it to them...to find out why.” Watcher looks impassively back at him. “I believe you--but what part of that requires planning on mugging us? You seem to have a noble goal, one that we would not oppose without good reason.” Blood shrugs at their guest. “He’s not wrong; these guys are entirely fine with going on random tangents of hasty, unplanned violence.” Damnation eyes the new guy, a cunning grin appearing on his face. “O’aha Ntaka Debu Debu Zatamani Epsu Dormata Esthera.” Linguistics It seems like you might have been thrown for a loop. If you know the Old Realm you need to read this book, it’d be a surprise to me.” The tiger’s mouth opens and closes, choked with indignation. “Do you take me for a fool? Of course I can speak the Oldest Tongue! What kind of worthless know-nothing can’t?” He speaks with force and certainty...but all the same, his slitted eyes flick upwards, ever so slightly, seemingly staring into the air for an instant before returning to the pirates. Mercy’s head slides into view over the deck railing just in time to observe Damnation speaking in tongues to a man-tiger. He shuts the mouth he had opened to ask what the noise had been, and instead silently pulls himself over the railing, but waits for Damnation’s play. Watcher simply sighs and puts an arm out between their visitor and Damnation. “It would be great if you stopped antagonizing our guest--what did you say your name was?” The Lunar struts forward towards Watcher, the full difference in their respective heights even more apparent at this distance. “I am the Rain-Rending Rakshasa Rakim, King of the Pits, Once-King of the Gladiator Kingdom, Deposed But Never Bowed.” His eyes narrow as he stares down at the Daybreak. “What business do you have with my book?” Damnation steps in between the two. “There is an rear end in a top hat who is turning everyone into mindless plants and wiping out all the witnesses. He wanted it for some evil scheme, so we got to it before he did.” He starts to get a good feeling. “King of the Pits? Gladiators call it the Arena. I take it you got your start in captivity. How would you like to take down an rear end in a top hat who enslaves people with strange and disgusting powers such that they can never liberate themselves and serve him even in death. It would prove you aren’t a rat working for him. If you can do that, then I’ll have what I need copied out and you can have the original. The only thing I need you to do is prove you don’t work for this freak Chairman who’s obsessed with the exact same book, and you don’t sound like you’re one who gets scared of a little fight, gladiator.” Watcher: That name sounds familiar. You remember it in connection with the Green Isle, a locale off the coast of An-Teng; a gladiator Anathema who rose up to overthrow his masters and lead a kingdom of Bad Enough Dudes for a time. Supposedly, there were even more Anathema on the Green Isle, but An-Teng has been having serious political turmoil of late, and with all their ships committed to various acts of mercantilism, politicking, and skullduggery, it’s fallen by the wayside. Notably, there’s been no news from the isle for almost a year; that this has gone uninvestigated is frankly shameful, and perhaps a sign that An-Teng is ripe for an asskicking (An-Teng is always ripe for an asskicking) Watcher, deep in thought for several seconds, abruptly shoves Damnation aside hard enough to knock at least a normal person off-balance. “Recruitment speeches can wait.” He draws up to Rakim, unintimidated despite the height difference. “Are you saying that the entirety of the Green Isle has been...eaten? If so, we might have a start to an answer, but we should all look in the book before making any hard conclusions.” “Devoured.” Rakim stares into the distance, unseeing. “Swallowed up by...I have no idea. It was big, and black, and fast, and everywhere.” It’s clear that each and every word pains the Lunar. “I...would have fought. But a friend beat me unconscious, and dragged me away.” He clenches his teeth again. “Something the Elves thought would be funny to turn loose upon us, maybe, or perhaps the tin men poked at the wrong ruin and set some unholy horror free...” Damnation looks at the guy almost with pity. “I’m not sure what to tell you. If something had devoured my crew, my allies, I’m sure I’d be doing the exact same thing. My captain seems to be able to corroborate what you’re saying about this island being devoured, so I do believe you.” Damnation stands up as straight as possible, but even at his height he has to look upwards to stare into Rakim’s eyes directly. Watcher looks at Damnation puffing out his chest and restrains the urge to put his hand in his face. “Cool it down--if this keeps up one of you is going to be taking out their penis in the next few minutes, and I really don’t need that right now. Anyways, I have a question or two before we go any further. You at least had an excellent friend there--should I be expecting any more guests to pop up here? I will want to ask about these ‘tin men’ you speak of, but that can wait. I should let you know that what we are facing has at least even chances of being somehow connected to your devoured island--at the very least, dealing with our opponents would likely give us the power to face off whoever did this to your kingdom, I believe. But we should really be reading some of this book to find out, shouldn’t we?” Rakim’s eyes flick upward again, at a patch of air directly above Watcher. “...only me.” The captain shakes his head and stomps his feet twice, hard. “I don’t know whether to be insulted or reassured at how...transparent that was. I can appreciate secrets, even from those I work with, but this isn’t that kind.” The Lunar growls faintly, then gives a quick jerk of his head to the side. There is the faintest rush of air as something flits from directly above Watcher and zips out to sea, the only visible sign of its passage a glimmer of scarlet iridescence. Mercy, watching the events unfold with interest, reacts immediately. He flicks his left arm, and a translucent wall appears in the thing’s flight path, extending from the deck to the thing’s altitude. It slams into the barrier with a resounding thud! not unlike a bird striking a windowpane. Rakim whips about and snarls at the Midnight. “Let. Her. Go.” Watcher raises a hand in a stopping motion before Mercy can respond. “Go where, exactly? We have been nothing but friendly and accommodating to you, and so it makes us nervous when your invisible partner runs for it.” He smiles as one of the ‘normal’ looking crewmembers from Mercy’s ship reveals a somewhat toothy shadow. Mercy speaks for the first time. “You’re not doing a good job of selling your case here. Given as we do have something of a numbers advantage, and you’re playing on our turf, maybe you should think about that. We can give being civil another try, if you like. Come below, bring your friend, and take it easy. Much easier than running for it or starting a punch-up.” Damnation raises an eyebrow at Mercy’s suggestion. “We can let you look at the book on one condition. If we are to humor you regarding your search for answers, well, we are anticipating a great struggle to prevent a similar thing from happening on one island, and then, most likely, on others and others, progressing until it’s engulfed eighty percent of the world at minimum. Humor us as well. It’s not exactly the same, but if you were King of the Pits, I think you know what it means to be a slave, and this man would enslave the world and kill those who resist just to further his own wild aims. If we let you look at the book, I expect you to travel to our destination with us. Hear the stories of those who have lost their loved ones or had their bodies stolen by a terrifying mastermind. Consider what those who have fallen would have you do if they could see the aftermath of all that he has already done before completing his final plan. Do that, and you’re welcome to stay with us and look at the book.” Rakim hunches, and for a moment it looks as if he’s ready to lunge... “No.”  His partner flickers into visibility. Her overall body plan is that of a young woman, but her form is covered in shimmering feathers. Her legs are grasping talons, and a scarlet mask of feathers covers her beaked face. Twin wings sprout from her back, beating so rapidly that they become nearly-invisible blurs. “Leo...” Rakim growls. “I don’t think they’re lying. I think that whatever else they may be, they’re telling the truth about one thing - it is happening again. If there’s anything we can do to stop it - anything...” Leo’s face is resolute. “Never again. Whoever this ‘Chairman’ bastard is...we need to end him.” “Fine,” he snaps, “whatever. But I warn you...” he rounds on Damnation. “I will need to be there every damned second you’re reading that book. And if you learn anything from it - anything I don’t know - you will share it. Immediately.” Damnation snaps back. “Fine. I have nothing to hide.” The old admiral smiles faintly and shakes his head again. “As I said, an excellent friend. Let us go read it and find out how we may help each other.” He extends a hand to guide the two Lunars into his quarters, where the book is safely held. MiltonSlavemasta fucked around with this message at 07:06 on Apr 19, 2013 |
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Apr 19, 2013 05:21
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 Watcher at the Gates of Sorrow As they move to the book, Watcher pauses for several seconds, concentrating hard. Essence flows rise up, and as he chants, a giant skeletal hand punctures the floor of his quarters and unfurls to provide a seat for the old admiral. He creaks a bit as he sits down comfortably, arching an eyebrow that almost dares the Lunars to make a snide comment. "I'm old; it gives good back support. And we will need all the help we can get to glean something important from the book before we need to do other things." And with that, he turns the first page. And another. And another, his eyes seemingly in an epileptic seizure from how fast they are vibrating. But a more careful observer would note that they are not moving from left to right. Instead, they travel almost randomly, first glancing at the bottom corner of the page, then near the top, picking out seemingly unconnected words. Occasionally, perhaps once a minute, he pauses to lick his lips. This is no nervous habit--his vision blacks out for several instants, but the synaesthesia allows him to savor the words, letting the rich caramel of a place-name clash with the grassy harshness of a long-forgotten name or blend sweetly with the delicate coffee undertones of a Sidereal's influence. Slowly, painstakingly, an overall picture of what he is looking for begins to form, the appropriate words gaining unholy tinges of color even when his eyes are functioning normally. He places a finger on the page after carefully wiping it of any oils which might damage the parchment, feeling the slight change in texture where the ink lies on the page as he closes his eyes again. He leans back in his throne, taking subtle cues from where the skeletal hand is placing pressure on the cold flesh of his back and buttocks, mirroring the same motions with his own hand in a quest for the motives underneath the text. It's hard, being subtle enough to not seriously disturb their new guests; the old man was quickly getting a crick in his neck not twisting it unnaturally during all this. Looking over at Rakim, who is starting to become more and more nervous, he begins narrating as he goes along: "This entire section is about an odd feast held by a minor court of Wood elementals--why they were over there is anyone's guess. I have been trying to spare you the details, as this page mentions no fewer than ten different dishes, all composed of different vegetables..." But most of the time, he is not so coherent. Instead, names pop out, each one evoking the visage of one long-dead in his broken mind. "Elya is lying to him, will betray him..." Using a Temperance channel and Whispers and the Seat of Deadly Splendors to do a massive Lore-off.
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Apr 19, 2013 20:32
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Spawn of the Devouring Wyrm - Envoy of Eternal Peace, Captain’s Office Wyrm carefully removes the Choir Leader’s mask, the sweet scent of tropical flowers quickly floods the room. Sickly, cloying, toxic. It so reminds her of certain refined and noble persons who devote so much of their efforts to impressing others. Sickening, yet still flattering in its own odd way. This would need a hell of a chaser. As she’d done a thousand times before, Wyrm lets her unholy instincts take command and lunges at the mass of living essence set before her. She reserves just enough control to look him in the eye as she strikes out and steals one breath... Choir of Heart and Unity -  The spores are cloyingly-sweet, a sugary inhalation of floral particulates; the experience is not unlike unstoppering a phial of perfume and sniffing the fumes. The flavor is so strong it burns, overpowering the captain’s senses and making her head spin. It’s a hell of a rush. Wyrm drinks stronger with breakfast. The sensations pass, replaced with a vague and unshakeable impression of deja vu, of uncanny familiarity. Wyrm’s extremities tingle, pins and needles spreading across the tips of her fingers and toes, and her muscles give light twitches. She feels...here, and yet not quite here, as if some part of her were... ...looking her in the face. She sees herself, staring wide-eyed. First in confusion, then an attentive snap of surprise as she begins to understand, slipping into intrigue. She moves closer to the leader of the choir, and sees herself draw nearer. Near enough that she can herself reflected in his eyes, while seeing herself from his eyes, and in turn his image reflected in hers. A closed cycle of mutual awareness. No. Not a cycle. A fractal. Two more twinges of sensation precede Wyrm’s registering of two more of the hive, pressure rolling across her own feet as they walk across the deck. Two become four, passing silently through Jiankang, observing the progress of the army-in-training. Four become eight, sweeping through the Petrayan grassland, seeking signs of their more ruthless brethren. Eight become sixteen become thirty-two become - <Enough!> Wyrm’s body freezes. The essence of the void, its hunger ever lurking in her blood surges forth to feast upon the foreign presence intruding on her flesh. The storm of light and sound and pressure fades as branches wither from the parasite. And as quickly as it came, it halts. It is no longer under threat, but the orchid’s roots cannot advance. It remains, trapped within the confines of a dead host. Buried alive. Wyrm’s mastery of her own form has met her expectations. No disease, even one born of purest life itself, could hope to claim a duly appointed champion of the void. Of that, she had no doubt. What worried her all of this time, was how it would feel for the disease. She looks to Heart. The leader of the blue strain looks unsteady on its feet. The induction has met with sudden resistance, and it is feeling the psychic feedback. Still, when it regains its bearings, its expression remains serene and composed. “We welcome you to us. We hope you will find this experience enlightening.” Seeing him take it well reflects in Wyrm. She gives him a pat on the shoulder. “I did warn you - I’m not as you expect. Look too long into the void, and you may learn something yourself.” The captain composes herself. The die is cast. The only way to go is forward. She glares sharply at the leader’s mask, “Now get that back on, I don’t want to find deposits of you growing in my walls.” Back to business, “That we’re here now should say that’s needed about my trust, I can accept you as a partner in this venture. But for the others to take this smoothly they must be assured that I am in control.” “We have no wish to sow disharmony.” “Nor did your mother,” Wyrm’s back to dour, “As kind as you may be, you remain malignant. You are a disease, and knowing what your kin have done gives the others every reason to be wary.” She sighs, “I may, at times, call for a show of submission to ease those fears.” Wyrm is suddenly alert. That involuntary breath had stirred a memory - Xulan learned she was contagious accidentally, by way of a stray cough. Wyrm grabs a scarf to tie around her face. “I may be getting ahead of myself. Don’t get too comfortable with the thought of having me around until we know exactly how all this will work.” She moves to issue orders but stops herself. Why pass up a chance to practice? A Hell of a Chaser - Envoy, Bridge By normal means, Wyrm orders her office cleaned with all due caution. As they travel to the bridge, she can sense the orchid becoming accustomed to its confines. Faint hints of remote sensations start to trickle back to her. They’re pushed aside as they arrive and something snaps. Wyrm stands before her chair, stark still. Eyes narrow. Teeth bared. Anima rippling. Crew withdraw to a safe distance. A dreadful hissing slowly overtakes the ambient hum of the ship’s systems. As The Choir regains feeling from within the captain, they find themselves enveloped in cold, seething rage. <Whatever is the matter?> The lone voice within breaks her trance. Wyrm blinks, grinds her teeth, and with a sudden lurch takes her chair by the arms. She’s not yet in a state for words, but as she surveys the crime scene she expresses the nature of her ire. Something’s intruded on her territory. Someone was seated in her place. Someone she knows well, who should know better. Someone with coarse, black hairs and entirely too fond of qhat. <Immortality or no, this isn’t very good for your blood pressure.> Wyrm visibly relaxes, her eyes falling half-closed as she breathes for the first time in nearly a minute. She looks askew at Heart, gives the chair a dismissive brush-off and flops down in it. She beckons Heart to her side. “Alright, so, it seems I had you the wrong way around. This,” she points at the man in front of him, “Is just a piece of you. You are,” she loosely waves her hand around, “all of it. All of them and all that’s in between. Right?” <That is correct. This form, this body, is an important piece - analogous to, say, your spine - but it is not the whole, any more than you are your spine.> Wyrm nods, “Right, so...” She does her best to relax, shuts her eyes, and tries to focus on the odd little ball of sensations lurking in the back of her neck. <That, is not what I’m after. I didn’t let you in so I could be you. I want to help you, and I want you to help me. If this works how I think it does, I’ve crippled the part you gave me. It will survive, but this is as far as it can spread. If I have to, I can shut it down, or I can strike it dead. Know that I do not waste my allies’ lives.> Heart says nothing, but a steady haze of acceptance and welcome remains. <Now this time, take it slow. Ease me in. Let’s start with something simple - you’re good at finding things? Let’s find my little bird, he owes me a day’s news.> Wyrm concentrates, extending her senses through the orchid into the bodies of The Choir. She sifts through their eyes seeking the ones nearest where Herald tends to roost. In a moment she has sight of him. She starts to stand, but forces herself back down. She must move there, not here. Elsewhere, an infested sailor approaches a thunderbird. “The Captain wants to see you. She seeks news from the others.” As he takes flight, Herald could swear the thing was leering at him. Elsewhere, Wyrm enjoys the view. A_Raving_Loon fucked around with this message at 20:39 on Apr 20, 2013 |
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Apr 20, 2013 20:13
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The Everlasting Butterfly of the Decadent Garden Touching Base - Petraya, Guest Manor Butterfly rushes out of the passage into the cave system, holding a tea kettle with both arms. There are still remnants of her seaweed mantle on her robes, and even more stubbornly clinging on to the tea kettle. Without even really waiting to see if anyone was around, she abruptly stopped in the drained bath and shouted to the world. “We’re back! I brought presents for everyone!” The locals left guarding the entrance stand more than a little baffled over just how the massive heap of kettles behind her got there. Auling’s just relieved there’s no one injured, Rose that there’s nothing behind them to cut down. ”Butterfly.” Spark’s voice is little more than a strained whisper. ”Butterfly, help! My spine...” Butterfly lets out a pouty sigh. “Fiiiiine...” One by one she carefully removes the tea kettles from Spark’s back as she looks over in Auling and Rose’s direction. “You two will help me bring this back to the ship, right?” “Butterfly.” Rose asks flatly. “Why do you have over a hundred tea kettles, and why are they vibrating?” “It’s Tea, silly!” Butterfly picks one up and opens the lid to show Rose. “The pure distilled elemental essence of Tea! Tide just had a whole bunch of them sitting around doing nothing. Can’t let it go to waste!” Auling stares at a spatter on the tile. “It’s eating through the floor.” “...is it supposed to do that?” Butterfly asks, looking at the floor tile. “It’ll be fine, this stuff is totally safe to drink.” Rose waves to the general staff. “Hey. We’re gonna need you to go out into the city and get every tea trolley you can find. And every placemat. And maybe some of those hazard suits she put together. Also evacuate every residential area between here and the waterfront.” Outside, a team of Blues approach. They move in odd sweeping patterns, shifting between different formations as they go. When they clear the jungle, four form a line behind the fifth. They stand sharply as the lone one approaches with a message from the Captain. Aside from being a Walking Corpse... - Envoy of Eternal Peace, Medical Bay Well-informed of the medical table’s inadequacies as a bed, Wyrm had a certain long-chair relocated from the ambassador’s office to serve in its place. She relaxes, disarmoured and disarmed before the expert eyes of the assembled medical team. The oddity of the scarf around her face would shortly be explained. Butterfly stormed into the medical bay, still dangling one of her tea kettles. “Captain, what in Creation is going on? Why are all the blue orchids running around freely? They’ve got my zombies scared stiff!” To say nothing of the living crew. A dozen of the sailors encircle a cluster of the blue strain, gaffer’s hooks leveled at the plants like spears. The infestees make no moves of aggression, but the crewmen seem less-than-convinced. “They don’t run free.” Wyrm stares in the rough direction of the gathering above, “They are under my control.” “And just what is that supposed to mean? You don’t control prisoners by letting them run around wherever you want.” Butterfly went digging through her medical supplies to find the antimony. “We should have just killed them off after interrogating them.” “There is no cause for conflict here.” What Wyrm has come to understand as the central node of the blue hive stands at the far end of the hallway leading to the infirmary. “There is but one enemy.” Slowly, hands out and open, it approaches. “From the Traitor, we have learned much. We have never sought hostility with the Anathema.” It halts. “Nor would Mother have, in a different life. There is much pain that can be traced to the hubris of the Sidereals.” Wyrm shifts just enough to see them from the couch. <Nice timing, but I may soon need that display of fealty. Be cautious.> Butterfly stares in horror at the blue orchid as it approaches. Traitor? Did these things already know about---oh, the Sidereal? Okay, nothing to worry about. “So that’s it? Using Tide’s weapons against him? Even if these weapons are everything we stand against?” “We all lived once, Butterfly,” Wyrm’s head bows in mourning, “and were forgiven.” “They’re alive, and worse than that they take dead things like us and make them alive again! It’s a filthy, disgusting mockery of us.” Butterfly finally pulls out a small unlabeled jar she had filled with antimony and seawater. “Give me one good reason I shouldn’t throw this at that...thing!” “Because when left stabbed, shot, poisoned, dismembered and drowning, it was prepared to give that life to defy Cleansing Tide. In the coming battle it will do the same again.” Wyrm lays there sermonizing, “For you and I, for all my crew, for all your pets, for the memory of all they’ve harmed.” Her voice drops to a dead rasp, “To atone for the crime that was their birth.” “And afterwards? After the Sidereal is captured and delivered on a silver platter to our Lords, what will we do with them? Will you let this mockery run free and destroy more unlife?” Wyrm snaps her fingers and the leader collapses into a heap on the floor. “I am exploring possibilities.” She gives them time to take it in then lays back, baring her throat. “I can expel the parasite at any time I choose, and should our lords command their destruction it shall override any guarantee of their protection. My decision shall be informed by each of your expert opinions on the state of the disease.” Wait, what did she say? “Expel the parasite? You took it into your own body?” Butterfly’s grip on the jar tightens as she splashes the contents directly into her captain’s face. “You’re betraying us!?” Damp with the wrong flavour of red, Wyrm glares back. “The disease, which knows its master.” Butterfly matched the glare, before turning away and storming out of the medical bay. “I drink plants, not talk to them.” Much less take orders from them. Making sure to step extra hard on the collapsed orchid body, the Daybreak fled straight to her zombie pens, surrounded by absolutely no life. Wyrm carefully wipes the poison from her face, then looks to the other two. “And you?” Auling stands at the ready with a tray of surgical implements and specimen jars. “Well...” he scratches the back of his neck. “The orchids are invasive. In order to get answers...” He raises a scalpel. “...I’m going to need a sample. Or...five.” Wyrm peels off the scarf, “It’s why you’re here.” She lies back and lets them get to work. Krysmphoenix fucked around with this message at 20:53 on Apr 20, 2013 |
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Apr 20, 2013 20:39
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Never Within Reach Reunion - Envoy of Eternal Peace, Main Deck The grey light of dawn creeping over the water slowly reveals the lump with the broken peak that is Petraya to three tired flyers and their associated passengers. They skim the edge of the island, heading back towards Jiankang. Never is still thinking about everything Jackal said. The Moonshadow’s conviction worries her. If he tries that speech on some of the others, there will be trouble. The crews of both ships have become almost family to the Day caste by now, certainly closer than any real family she’d ever had. One black sheep could ruin it all. Still, she would not be the one to start things. Perhaps her own reaction will at least give him pause before he tries to approach someone else. It’s all she can hope for on that front. She sighs. It had been yet another sign of trust that Wyrms made sure to pair her with the most eccentric of them, and for a diplomatic mission no less. As happy as she is over their success, she’ll be happier to see her bunk. It’d been a near thing several times, (and she can’t blame Jackal for all of those...) Meanwhile the vision in the stone upset her more than she wants to admit. If it wasn’t for the sleeping Fireduck curled against her belly she might have felt cold. Nuria makes that impossible. Perhaps it’s silly, but she’s glad of the company. Things will come to a head very soon, and while they are in a good position there’s still no guarantee of victory. They’ll only get one chance at Ashes, it has to count. As Jiankang comes into sight her monocle scans the port, looking for home. The Envoy is a queen among courtiers, easy to spot even in the crowded harbor. For the first time since leaving Lordsmeet, a smile crosses her lips. <Oh Captain, my Captain...> Never calls out for Wyrms, wondering if she still sleeps. <Your Spymaster returns, bearing gifts and good news.> <Never Out of Touch Too Long,> The captain does sound a little drowsy. To be expected of one so prone to action left with so much to act upon. But... there is something else. Something different. <So nice of you to hurry back,> Wyrm’s inner voice itself is as Never’s come to know, <I do hope you’ve not come empty-handed.> Something else. Never’s wings skipa beat as she settles into a glide. <I’ve brought you another bird, in fact. This one a Colonel representing the Fire Court. Along with the rest of the army, if we can quiet the waves for them.> <Good. Good.> There it is again, the vowels drag it out. Something extra in Wyrm’s words. <The team sent underground has returned with news I’m certain you’ll enjoy. Do come aboard, Never, we’ve all kept very busy while you were away.> The words should be a comfort but the echo in Wyrms’ ‘voice’ is too much of a distraction. <...Captain?> are you alone? But she doesn’t say it. If something is wrong, giving away that she knows would be a mistake. <...I’m sure you have. Arriving on deck now.> The morning watch is there to greet them. The current Crewman One has held the position, such as it was, for most of the current expedition, and has grown accustomed to the duties it entailed. A sure sign they’d soon be rearranged. He leads the salute to the Security Chief’s return. Never does not fail to note that the crew are accompanied by a small group of masked blues. Each is clearly marked. The infested carry out the motions every bit as sharply as their free-willed counterparts. “Welcome aboard, Chief, Captain Wyrm expects you in her office.” “Noted.” Never says, barely nodding at the man. She turns back to Bolt and Jackal. “This has been a long day. I’ll take care of the preliminary report, if you’d like to rest, or check on your flight.” There is a sharp *crack!* of displaced air as the thunderbird captain assumes his human form. “Appreciate that.” He turns to his second-in-command, sulking by the door. “Herald, any news?” With a sullenness far more characteristic of Spark, the white-haired bird shuffles up to Bolt, throws a sloppy salute, and mutters something under his breath. Bolt listens, nods...then does a double-take. “I’m sorry, could you repeat that? It sounded like you said she...” Herald simply nods. Bolt lets out a sigh. “Hooo, boy...” He gives Never a sympathetic look. “When you’re done, I’ll be in the sparring room if you feel like letting off...well, you’ll see soon enough.” At that, he heads belowdecks. “Hah, I, Jackal, will take part of the report as well. It will be entertaining to see the reaction of everyone after our new allies are presented. This overwhelming success will be recognized as but the lesser of many conquests!” Jackal says as he steps out of his windblade, snapping his fingers as his beleaguered minions arrive to take it to his quarters, while two others arrive with his lounge, which now assumes the form of an enormous stuffed pillow. Of course, the real reason he’s coming is that he’s still a bit wary of Never telling about his proposal to the crew. Jackal wanted to make sure it was going to be revealed on his own terms, and therefore all precautions for such must be taken. “Now, now, let us go in!” The sparring room? Never doesn’t like the sound of that at all. When Jackal invites himself along, the Day caste starts developing a twitch in her eye. “This is only a preliminary, Jackal. We will have a proper meeting with the others this afternoon. I have no interest in hoarding the credit for our success, you will get your due. Please, make our guests comfortable.” She shrugs out of the jacket while keeping it wrapped around Nuria, hiding her from view, and passes the sleeping Fireduck to the Moonshadow. Before he can even protest, Jackal is forced to hold Nuria, holding back a curse as he turns his back, heading to the less-flammable part of the ship, which happens to be the official quarters. That’s a good place to keep them, no? “It looks like there’s no chance that the girl will rat me out but...” The Moonshadow shrugs while putting Nuria on top of a barrel nearby, opening his shirt to let the butterflies out of his chest meanwhile. “For my plan to be revealed to my beloved Wyrm before i even manage to convince her? That is unacceptable! Alas, perhaps my words have reached Never’s heart. Yes, she won’t denounce me... Still, I, Jackal, must think on ways to turn the crew for my... Nay, our goal. Such weakness of those who can’t muster ambition to think for themselves... That won’t do at all!” He yells while punching one of his servants in order to vent his rage. Jackal then sighs and turns to the fluttering butterflies. “Welcome aboard, my pretties.”
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Apr 20, 2013 20:47
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Spawn of the Devouring Wyrm On Gardens - Envoy of Eternal Peace, Captain’s Office Finally alone, Never heads belowdecks and down a familiar hall to a familiar door. It swings open at her touch. Even seeing the blue strain soldiers on deck did not prepare her for seeing their leader standing at Wyrm’s side. Standing in her place. “Captain?” A single word carries the weight of her confusion. “Never.” Given the sensitivity of the situation, Wyrm adopts her Security Chief’s own blunt manner. “Don’t panic. I am in control. Take a seat.” The chair is there if needed, Wyrm carries on. “Since we became aware of the infectious nature of our enemy I have launched numerous initiatives to combat it. The acute toxicity of our second, my first, battle on the island, combined with further revelations about the capabilities of our true foe, reinforced the need to fine-tune my personal resistance to such toxic agents. To that end, I have perfected my body’s ability to combat and consume disease.” Never makes no motion to sit. “Permission to speak freely?” Her face is expressionless, the single bare eye fixed on the alpha. “Soon.” Wyrm isn’t done. “With that technique, I have accepted controlled exposure to the blue strain to ready my defences against the violets.” Best to get it over with, “And to experiment with their potential application in command and coordination of our forces during this operation.” It is enough for now, “Speak.” “Command... You would have our forces take orders from....” She shakes her head violently. “Captain, these things are our antithesis, not our allies. They infest, they absorb, they are life in a form so potent that it can wipe away the very Shadowlands. And on the eve of battle with their creator, you compromise yourself by allowing... By inviting one into your own flesh? I could hear it lurking in your thoughts!” Wyrm looks to Heart, “See, I told you she’d notice. You’re that loud.” The settled bet provides only moment’s distraction from Never’s outrage, “And I everywhere it’s lurking for twenty miles!” Suddenly at ease again, Wyrm reclines and puts her feet up. “Alright, Never, you’re shocked, you’re mad, you’re alarmed, suspicious - that’s all good. That’s why I need you.” She lets that hit home, “I know all the reasons that is a terrible idea set to turn back on me in some horrid way, but in here none of those add up to claiming this advantage. Our enemy has honed his forces to be the perfect tool for fighting death, so I will fight him with life.” “Yes, you do need me.” There is a blur, and a thump. Never holds Heart against the curved cabin wall by the throat, feet hanging inches above the floor. A soulsteel wing blade presses against the root that serves as a jugular. “I should have killed you when we first met.” she hisses at the plant. <Now remember, Heart, if you can’t take what I put up with, there is only one way out.> With her jacket gone, there is no doubt as to Never’s strength when her fist connects solidly in the creature’s midsection. She watches Wyrms out of her monocle, waiting for the inevitable reaction. For her to accept this union, there must be proof. Proof that the plant is not a liability. If it is... “You know we have bags of sand for that, Never.” Wyrm is less affected by the strike than by noticing she has nothing poured to sip. A bottle of something old and prized and pried from a dead man’s basement is quick in hand and set to work. “Now remember I did say, experimenting. I have days of work and dozens of bodies to work with, if they don’t live up to expectations I can flush them out with a thought.” The glass is left to wait as Wyrm puts herself between the others. “And if you conclude that it has compromised my ability to carry out the orders of our lords, then I know that you will never miss. A pact sealed on my blood is meaningless before the will of the Void.” Wyrm lays a hand on Never’s gripping arm, “There is nothing I can say or do that would make you trust them. That is exactly how I know that I am safe.” The tension in Never’s shoulders relaxes as the razor’s edge of her wing pulls away from Heart’s throat. “As long as you remain in control of this... Fine.” She lowers the plant to the floor. “When it oversteps, it dies.” Never releases the creature and turns to the desk, downing the poured liquor in a single toss. “While you are accompanied know that information pertaining to internal matters cannot be shared.” She gives Wyrms a serious glare, trusting her Captain to know what she refers to. “Good.” For that subject Wyrm can only feel distaste, “All I ever want to hear of that is, ‘It is Done.’” “Not yet.” A shake of the head. “Of Lordsmeet there is better news. Jackal was surprisingly persuasive when dealing with the court at large, and their Queen was a practical woman. If we can get the Water Court to allow passage we have a full army of Fire Elementals within half a day’s travel time whenever we’re ready for them.” She frowns. “Ashes beat us to them. He stole one of their number to use as a hostage, a Garda bird. Retrieval would deprive him of a valuable resource and garner quite a bit of goodwill.” “Well, Never, I did tell you I had some news you’d love - We know why he wants to keep them away. Butterfly found the manse, it’s deadlocked and overcharged but an invasion by the fire court could see it put back in proper order in under an hour - and with it destroy his failsafe. He has, or will soon have, possession of a means to detonate the manse with sufficient force to destroy this island, and with it all evidence of his work here.” Wyrm slips into a predatory grin, “Now when I say that, it doesn’t sound like good news, but a lot gets lost in translation, as it were. You should really hear it from the source.” “That we know his plan in any detail is good news.” Never shrugs, pours herself a second, and polishes it off as well. “I believe my date is waiting at those sandbags for me, if there is nothing else?” “Take the bottle,” Wyrm nods, “That’s all, Chief. You are dismissed.” Never does not have to be told twice. A bottle and an Abyssal vanish out the door as it softly closes behind her. <This did not seem...conclusive.> “It never is, Heart.” Of all that could come of this, it may be worth it if only for giving Wyrm the chance to hear herself talk, “For this, you did your part.” She opens another drawer and removes a tin of something she’s been told is used in its native land as a means of execution. She’s found it makes a decent opener. “Now, your training begins.”
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Apr 20, 2013 20:49
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Never Within Reach Staying Classy -Envoy, Sparring room “...a flower.” Herald shakes his head as he swings his chain for Bolt’s arm. “She dumped me for a flower.” Bolt catches the links around the haft of his axe. “Herald, you played cabana-boy for a day. I’m not sure the word ‘dumped’ even applies here.” He sinks low to the floor and plants his feet in the sand, bracing. “But- I mean, we were totally a thing, right?” Herald gives the length of chain a flick, tangling the weapon further. “We did everything! For hours! Even the thing with the candle wax and the whipped-” Bolt jerks the chain, yanking Herald towards him. He vaults forward, hands on his axe, kicking off it like a gymnast and catching the younger bird on the chin. “Dude, be classy.” “Classy is on shore leave!” Never announces, walking into the room with half a bottle of something expensive and potent under one arm. She tosses the bottle underhand to Bolt. “Mind if I step in Herald? I have a strong desire to punch something. Someone. Everyone.” She flexes. “drat. Jackal has my coat.” Massaging his jaw, Herald gathers up his gear and takes off in the general direction of the party lounge. Bolt racks his own weapon and dons a pair of padded gloves. “How bad?” he asks, carving a circle into the sand with a gust of air and stepping inside. “You’ve already asked me that today. Yesterday.” She reaches up to her face and pops the monocle off, strips the jade watch off of her wrist, and only hesitates for a second when removing the clasp around her neck. The violet wings vanish. She looks very small suddenly. “Our dear Captain Wyrms has decided that fighting plants with plants is valuable enough to feed herself to one. And it’s my responsibility to get rid of it when it turns on her. Because I don’t have anything else to worry about.” She sets her things aside and selects a second set of gloves before stepping into the circle. Her first punch, and the rest thereafter are heavy and accurate, but they have no finesse. She’s just venting now. Bolt ducks low into a guarding stance, catching the blows on his forearms. Nothing slips past, but the feeling of solid impacts is still cathartic. “This is a tactical move? The way Herald told it, she just mixed some spores in with her morning cocaine to see if they made it any better.” Abruptly, he twists aside and throws a single, lightning-fast right hook. Never back steps and follows with an uppercut at her much taller opponent. “Well, it is Wyrms. Exploiting an empathic bond for military communication is of equal value to a good morning buzz.” “Don’t see why she’d need that when you can...oh. Oh.” His moment of contemplation costs him one on the chin; he retaliates with two jabs and a cross as he backs Never against the edge of the ring. “This isn’t just about a dumb call, is it.” It’s not a question. Block, block, oof! Never takes the cross on the cheek. She turns her head to the side and spits red. When she grins up at him her fangs are out. “It’s standing in my spot.” she says. “But only as long as I let it. I made sure it knew that.” Quickly, she shuffles to the side, drawing him back towards the center. Bolt’s advance is slow and guarded, but the tingle of static and the stench of ozone belie his excitement. “loving office politics. Worst part of the job.” He crouches low. “Remember the Great Monsoon of ‘61?” he asks, seemingly apropos of nothing. “...” She pauses, keeping her hands high. “There was a woman who did.” “Well, thereby hangs a tale.” Bolt lunges, barreling forward, twisting and striking from every angle. “Black Grinning Bear - the boss - was supposed to be in charge of making sure the southern isles got an actual rainy season, but the guy loves his delegation.” A brief lull in the maelstrom. “And his flings.” He circles steadily around Never, testing her defenses. “There were these three girls who were his favorites - thunderbirds. Problem was, they loving hated each other. So when they found out about the others, they started cutting him off.” It would be so easy to simply draw on her power and avoid every hit but Never stubbornly refuses. She’s unused to such strenuous footwork, but even so she manages to avoid the majority of his assault. The shots she takes are not pulled, but the pain feels good. It feels real. “Good. Only the weak are willing to share.” As he circles she drops into a crouch and leaps forward for a clothesline. Her lunge catches him with startling force; he topples backwards, landing with a thud! on the grit, with Never atop him. “Yeah, he almost learned his lesson, except he decided it’d be easier to buy them off by promising them the rainy season.” He makes no move to strike. “Except he promised it to each of them individually. When the time came, he forgot to tell two of them he was lying out of his rear end.” Bolt shakes his head. “So, all three of them start up the storms at the same time, find out the others are cutting in on their work...” Panting, she looks down at him. “And there was a Monsoon. So who won?” “None of them backed down, the mortals got a storm to end all storms, and in the end they all told Black Grinning Bear to gently caress off anyways. So...maybe they did? In any case, everyone else lost.” He props himself up on his elbows into a reclining position. “Crops and livestock got washed into the sea, weather across the West went on strike in protest, and I had to work double overtime the rest of the year to keep the winds on schedule so sailors weren’t completely hosed.” “It seems that making more work for us is their favorite thing to do.” She laughs, then leans forward against him. “Bolt, Wyrms is not lying to me. In fact I have her full permission to remove this... rival... if you could even call it that, at my discretion. I promise there will be no monsoon.” She sighs, content, and rests one hand on his chest. “Matters of the heart often complicate things.” “Ah, they’re not all bad.” At some point during the heart-to-heart, his hands had found their way around her back. “Sometimes they can make things simpler, too.” Now, they wander lower than they ever have before. His look asks the question, not his words. She arches into his touch. “Simple is good.” she says. “As long as you stay... I won’t wake up alone again.” The last is a promise, punctuated by the strength of her grip on his arm. Without moving a muscle, Bolt rises to his feet, gently pulling Never along with him. He sweeps her up and into his arms. “As long as you want me...I’m not going anywhere.” Wordlessly, he carries her from the dojo, through the corridors, and into her cabin. As he walks she pulls herself up to whisper in his ear. “The name you know is one I took for myself. For some time now I have been true to it. But for you, Bolt, I am Passions Wayward Reaching. And I will show you why.”
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Apr 20, 2013 20:50
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The Waves, Ceaseless and Unending, Devour the Shore, The Harbor - WP 7/10 After returning to the city with the others, Ceaseless quickly catches up on developments of interest. One tidbit in particular piques his attention and sets the engineer on a quest to find Peleps Tzorik. When the Midnight tracks the young Dynast down at last, he is at far end of the harbor, "fishing" from the breakwater by shooting bolts of ice seemingly at random into the waves. Glad for the veil that hides his features, the engineer grits his teeth in annoyance and approaches Tzorik. "Greetings, Tzorik," he calls from some distance away, hoping to avoid the embarrassment that would ensue should he manage to sneak up on the idiot despite his demonstrated incompetence in that regard. The young Peleps starts guiltily, relaxing only a little bit when he sees who has caught him at this frivolous application of power. Ceaseless doesn't waste time on discussions of hobbies. "Were you aware that there is some doubt among the officers of the fleet as to the wisdom of offering you sanctuary?" he asks when he is close enough to speak conversationally. The dynast's mouth twists into a snarl, quickly suppressed. "Captain Wyrm?" he asks. The Midnight, pleased at this evidence that the boy is not completely hopeless, gives a slow I-can-neither-confirm-nor-deny shrug. Ceaseless hadn't bothered to discuss the topic with that madwoman, but it was a reasonable guess. The doubts Ceaseless had referred to were his own, but no need to spoil the relationship. Cultivating a supernaturally talented investigator required a certain care with falsehoods. "Were you also aware that certain difficult to replicate and extremely valuable weapons were uncovered here in the city?" "Yeah, sure, I saw the others messing around with them." "And were you aware that these carefully controlled relics of Imperial power were found hidden in a facility controlled by House Peleps?" When Tzorik can muster no reply, Ceaseless continues. "Never doubt your superiority, Tzorik, for you are blessed with gifts greater than can be imagined by the teeming mortals. Yet you find yourself amidst a school of other superior beings, some of whom would like nothing more than to savor the final exquisite drop of your life's blood. In my experience with such situations, the key to survival is to make oneself so useful that the others can't imagine succeeding without one's talents." Sullenness wars with fear on the Dragon's features for a brief time before Tzorik gets himself under control. "Yes, sir. You want me to investigate what we--what they were up to." "Indeed. What was your former House doing stockpiling priceless weaponry in a shithole like Petraya, and how can you use that information to secure what is rightfully yours?" Tzorik nods firmly and strides off. Satisfied that his tool is not fatally flawed, Ceaseless contemplates the pile of half-frozen dead fish for a time, trying to determine whether any of their parts will be of use in his projects. Judging the answer to be negative, the engineer starts to turn away. He stops and hesitates before drawing his sword and approaching the pile. "Here, you bitch," he rasps, "an offering." He flicks the fish into the ocean one by one. When the last fish has been given to the depths, he utters his prayer. "Confound mine enemies." His allies can take care of themselves. And his friends...well, friends are for the living. Ceaseless turns his back on the sea and sets off in search of something that can get the fish slime off his sword.
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Apr 20, 2013 22:01
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Know Him? I Served With That Man-Tiger! Damnation headed back to his quarters, falling down into the comfort of his bunk. He had made a strange call back on the deck. “Why in Creation can I possibly be so trusting of some animalistic freak? What the gently caress makes me feel like he’s some sort of natural ally.” As he rubs his forehead and realizes he hasn’t slept since before they arrived at Denzik over a day and a half ago, he considers the possibility that if he dwells on the topic before sleep, the Neverborn may bless him with such a vision once again. “Couldn’t hurt.” Damnation’s Past Lives background is triggered by meeting Rakim. The vision’s topic is an incomplete answer to the question “What is my history with that Tiger?” Ain’t no Party Like a First Age Party He’s hurled into the air, iron and steel beams amidst a stone ceiling looming in his field of view. Before striking them, gravity comes into play; He falls back down, finding himself face to face with a shining white Tiger-Man. White with black stripes, moonsilver tattoos, muscles made of corded steel, a tail, ears, fangs, claws... In fact, his only apparent difference from Rakim is that he’s somehow even bigger, ten feet tall and with biceps that look like someone else’s torso. A sudden stop jars him out of the comparison; he notices that he’s not quite hit the ground, and is in fact suspended a few feet in the hair, gripped tightly by the Man-Tiger. The tiger’s bracers press against his skin as he roars, he displays his razor-sharp fangs, and he roars ferociously and bellows something into his face in Old Realm. ”YO SULTAN! WE HAVE GOTTA GET YOU LAID TONIGHT, MOTHERFUCKER!” Finally, the tiger puts him down and smiles. His field of vision grows to contain all sorts of individuals, some obviously Lunars, most not apparently anything, all filling up some strange sort of hangar filled with scaffolding and giant machines. At the front the hangar there is a raised dais ringed with screens; a holographic display above it declares TA’AKOZOKA VITALITY: 0%. He knows, instinctively, that this Sultan and that one experienced the worst things possible together, and are now standing here victorious together. Sultan is lost in astonishment as he stares at the display until one more individual appears to shake him out of it. A blonde-haired boy who surely couldn’t be more than 13 jumps out from behind one of the Tiger’s massive legs. “ Justice, that was awesome! I’ve been maintaining her for months, and even I don’t know how you got her to do that!” Damnation experiences a strange sensation of incongruity as he begins to speak, but the words coming out of his mouth belong to another, and his consciousness recedes into the background. Sultan laughs gently and shakes his head. “Heh, Q, you’d have to ask Ascending World-Tiger here. He’s the one who supercharged the tertiary drive with I-don’t-even-know-what. I just rolled with it.” He gently punches the kid’s arm. “And you’re the reason it didn’t fall apart when I tried it.” World-Tiger lunges from the side, his massive bicep putting Sultan into headlock. “Yeah, we’d all be dead if it wasn’t for Sultan here, but he better not forget that he’d be dead if it wasn’t for us two.” Sultan smiles. “Definitely not.” Just as Tiger begins to let him out of his headlock, a painful and shrill noise begins to echo throughout the hanger. The word hangs on Sultan’s lips without being said. Sirens. Everyone rushes to the hangars to prepare, but most lockers are still unopened and there are a grand total of zero people in cockpits when the sirens shut off. First, a gloved hand materializes turning off the alarm, then a starmetal-clad arm, then a whole suit of armor with a woman inside it. She faces the ground, her voice made metallic and loud by the purple armored thing enclosing her whole body. “You are late, Mobile Base Two. I was not contacted until thirty-seven minutes after your assigned objective was completed. You are now all due for new assignments.” The voices of Damnation and Sultan synchronize for a brief moment, as they say at the exact same time, ”loving bureaucrats.” We’ll Get Through This Damnation drifts out of the connection, losing the ability to follow a blur of meetings, commands, directives, paperwork which all seemed to do nothing but utterly bore and antagonize Sultan. He jolts back in when- “Sultan! I heard you’re getting a promotion.” Tiger’s throaty bass echoes across the hangar as he puts on a forced smile for his friend. “Excited?” Damnation feels himself shaking his head again. “I want to stay in the field, World-Tiger. That’s my role. Not supervising construction on some base that isn’t even near any of the current fronts. It’s bullshit, shuttled off to some fake island by some bureaucrat who doesn’t even know me.” Tiger’s facade cracks. “You think I want to be a spy? Just because I’m a loving Lunar I have to work as a loving spy. Front line soldier positions keep going to weaker, less qualified terrestrials. I swear, the Fatefuckers who run this thing are all racist.” Sultan nods. “Heh, they did put me in leadership for the sake of leadership. Bullshit Solar Stereotype, I don’t even do that poo poo. And you know that, bro. Did they even ask the guy who’d been on two combat tours with me about where I’d be a good fit?” Sultan looks up at the Lunar. Meanwhile, Damnation begins to twitch. This Sultan was...a Solar? Why would the Neverborn keep showing him things from the perspective of some Solar? And if the Terrestrials and Sidereals and Lunars and Solars were all on the same side in this one, just who were they fighting against? None of it makes any sense! Sultan and Tiger sit down with their transfer papers, pulling out cigars and brandy from Tiger’s locker. They pass the time sharing stories of times past and dirty jokes about bureaucrats, terrestrials, and all sorts of people they don’t like until they’re the only two people left in the hangar. Or so they think. As they begin to leave, they see that someone has turned back on the consoles around the center dais; A holographic projection of a machine god, rapidly speaking and performing calligraphy with a series of eight metal arms. They can’t see anyone in the center of the dais, and are shocked when Q emerges with three new sets of transfer papers. He hands one to Sultan, one to Tiger, and one to himself. They all read the same: CLASSIFIED: MOBILE BASE ONE. SPECIAL ASSET. SPECIAL PROJECTS DIVISION. Q wipes sweat from his forehead and reveals a gleaming caste mark. Damnation is stunned to see that it’s somehow the same as Butterfly’s, yet in a Solar version; He recalls his is the same as Stewart’s, yet an Abyssal version, and wonders why the Abyssals seem to be dark mirrors of the Solar Exalted, but comes up with no answers. “You guys are the coolest, most talented, most awesome Exalts ever! I...I...I just had to keep working with you, so, well...” Sultan gives the kid a sidelong glance. “Q, what the hell did you do?” Q looks up, innocent and nervous. “Eh, well, remember when Sector Chief Bax assigned me to train the God the Sidereals wanted to write papers? Just turns out he was assigned to write these.” Sultan chuckles. “I guess even when Fate tries to keep us apart, it’ll always find ways to bring the three of us together. With that, Damnation’s consciousness drifts up into the air as he can’t help but admire the bond between those three exalts in that ancient war. But how was World-Tiger related to Rakim, and why was he seeing things from the perspective of Sultan? The vision still seemed to raise more questions than answers. MiltonSlavemasta fucked around with this message at 03:56 on Apr 21, 2013 |
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Apr 21, 2013 03:42
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What’s in a Name? -Envoy, Zombie Pens For the tenth time that afternoon, Butterfly counted all the zombies and made sure their levels of decadence were at proper minimums. All fifty of them were in top condition, smelling like fresh corpses without all that stinky blood. Jenkins himself was looking fine in a neatly washed suit as well. The Daybreak looked at the tea kettle sitting near the wall, still vibrating with the energy within. She looked through the viewing window outside the zombie pen to the rest of the ship. No one was moving around, and she didn’t want to run into Wyrm. Still, that Tea needed to be put safely away...maybe she could sneak out and no one would notice her? There was definitely a bounce in Never’s step as she made her way down into the hold. Wyrms had mentioned talking to the sources for more detailed news about the manse and Ashes’ plan, which was exactly what she meant to do. Her mood was in a sharp contrast to that prevailing belowdecks, where the crew still seemed unnerved at the presence of the blue leader. Worse, a downright depressed aura emanated from the zombie pens. “Butterfly?” she called from the doorway. The undead men didn’t bother her but she had no attachment to them, where the doctor seemed to treat them as much more than toys. Out of respect she tried not to order them around if it wasn’t necessary. Crap! Butterfly was about to leave the pen when Never called through. Quickly she slid against the wall trying to make it so she couldn’t be seen from the window. “Go away! There’s no one here! Just us zombies! Grrr, argh, brainssss....” Unfortunately none of the other zombies made a sound, and a few even stared at her in complete confusion. Never blinked, unsure how to respond to such an obvious lie. “Oh. I see.” Wait, was it supposed to be a game? She tapped a finger on the doorframe, thinking. “I was going to ask her to show me this... tea essence, but if she isn’t here...” The...tea? Butterfly sat for a moment thinking, before creeping over to the door, opening it just a little bit to see if Wyrm was around, then quickly dragged Never inside. “Fine. Just for a little bit. You probably shouldn’t drink it though, it’s a little strong even for me.” She gestured to the humming tea kettle sitting against the wall. The Day caste took a quick glance at the kettle under Essence sight and was nearly blinded by the concentration of power. She covered her monocle with one hand, blinking rapidly. “Unholy... Masters Butterfly you drank that?!” She had to take the eyepiece off to rub the stars out. “I think I’ll pass. Unless you happen to have any of those little cakes?” “Of course I drank it! It’s delicious! Just...a little too spicy. The zombies don’t like it, and Suzanne nearly lost her pretty little chin trying to drink some. Isn’t that right Suzanne?” She said to a nearby zombie who simply continued to stare off into space. “The teacakes are in my room...” Butterfly said, looking at the door to the pen again. “...which is near the medical bay, which is where the Captain brought that stupid thing.” She quickly turned away, clearly unhappy with even looking in the same direction as Wyrm. “Of course, she brings that hideous mockery with her wherever she goes now.” Never frowns, as much at the lack of cakes as the mention of Wyrms. “The Captain is in her office. I don’t agree with that decision either, but if it becomes a problem then I’ll purge it myself. I don’t think we can change her mind about it for now.” Butterfly grumbled to herself. “No, I’m pretty sure we’re not going to be able to stop her. But if she’s in her office...then I guess we can grab you a few of the teacakes. The kettle needs to be put away, can’t have anyone else drinking it by accident. Jenkins!” The tall zombie manservant stepped through the crowd of zombies to Butterfly’s side. She only had to point to the tea kettle for the zombie to pick it up with perfect form. “Come on, we have to be quick. I don’t want her to see us.” From the corridor outside came the ringing clang of metal on metal that presaged the approach of either Damnation or Ceaseless. The precise knock on Butterfly’s forehead as she opens the door, as opposed to the booming reverberation of Damnation’s requests for attention, is fortuitous. “Excuse me, erm. Ah, excuse me!” Butterfly rubbed the part of her forehead where Ceaseless knocked, taking a quick glance around. “You’re a witness now, come on!” She grabbed his wrist and dragged the heavily armored man as quickly as she could across the ship to her room near the medical bay. “Never, Jenkins, you too!” Never and Jenkins shared a look, before she shrugged and followed after. She had wanted to talk to Ceaseless anyway, though if it meant sharing the cakes she wished he would have waited just a bit longer. “So what have you two discovered aside from blindingly powerful beverages? Wyrms said something about the island exploding. As if that was a good thing.” “Is it possible to hold this tea party in the workshop? I came to ask if I might borrow it while mine is abroad. And I’d hoped to get some input on a project I have in mind from Butterfly, but I could sketch while we share the news,” says Ceaseless. Butterfly stopped outside her door, thinking for a moment. “I don’t see why not. We’ll have to move some things...” She quickly stepped into her room, and grabbed one of the many teasets within, along with a brightly colored tablecloth and threw it in Ceaseless’ arms. She set the vibrating tea kettle near one of her own and grabbed an empty one, a set of tea leaves and an armful of teacakes and shoved them into Never’s arms. “Come on, fastest way there is through the bay!” Butterfly then crept up to the door of the medical bay, looking inside for a second then bursting in. She opened up the hatch to the workshop below, turning on the light. “Hmm...that one’s covered in sawdust...that one’s no good with the tablecloth...there!” She pulled aside one of the workbenches and dragged it into the middle of the room as a makeshift table, then set the tea kettle on one of the forges to begin brewing the tea. There was something about the way she handled all the equipment that said this wasn’t the first time she had an impromptu tea party in the workshop. Ceaseless wanders around until he finds some sketching paper and brings it to the table. “You don’t mind if I sketch, do you?” He doesn’t wait for a response before beginning to cover the paper with intricate drawings. “This will take a few moments, if you’d like to continue on with your discussion.” There are decidedly fewer teacakes on the tablecloth than were given to Never when they began. “My report is simple enough. The Fire Court agreed to come in force if we can get the Water Court to allow them passage. I was hoping Murmur could help us ease that along, given the circumstances. It would be best if one who knew her better did the asking though.” She popped another cake into her mouth. “You should have seen Jackal, he had the whole court eating out of his hand.” This revelation is surprising enough to make Ceaseless look up from his sketching and raise an eyebrow. “I can talk to Murmur. I lack sufficient imagination to contemplate the second tidbit, though.” Butterfly seemed significantly more relaxed now that she was working with her element, that being tea of course. “Oh, that’s perfect. A birdy was telling me we could fix the volcano and stop it from exploding if we got a whole bunch of fire elementals in to fix it. It really wouldn’t take very much time at all. By the time that stupid Sidereal knows what’s going on, it’s already too late and the volcano is ours.” “You heard, Never, the nature of his plan? One of his plans, at least,” amends Ceaseless. “To unleash such devastation is...audacious.” Ceaseless decides at the last moment to choose a different word than the “inspirational” he had almost let slip. “Wyrms only said that the island would be destroyed to cover his tracks.” Never remembered the vision stone, the black wave that swallowed everything whole... “Islands much larger than this one have vanished without so much as a rumor. What’s special about it here?” “Tide is having an improved Soulbreaker Orb crafted, which will be linked to resonators that detect the presence of soulsteel and set the weapon off when it is nearby. If a Shadowland were to appear here, he’d be well on his way to convincing Heaven that our side is the aggressor. Also, and this is the worst part, that first bit actually being somewhat clever, he’s keeping the most important and interesting of the Second Circle demons locked up doing all the dirty work of creating this weapon for him without allowing her any freedom to improve upon the design at all!” Ceaseless pauses somewhat sheepishly and lowers his charcoal from the dramatic pose in which he had been holding it. “So that’s how...” Never sets down the teacup and punches her fist into her other open palm. “I’ve been wondering all along how he would try to pin this on us if things went sour. There was no way anyone would believe that we engineered the orchid strains. But a brand new Thorns just a few days sail from Skullstone? We couldn’t deny that if we wanted to.” “So he’s just going to kill everyone here as part of his plan? Throw them all away to put the blame on us?” Butterfly grumbled and her teacup shook visibly in her hands. She quickly realized that she was spilling tea all over her pretty tablecloth, and took a deep breath. “Ooh, what I would give to fly up there, find whatever star he’s using to hide behind the guise of Grandmaster Cleansing Tide and throw it into the volcano. Watch his disguise burn away with all of his stupid plans. stupid sidereal...” Ceaseless’ fingers drum at his cheek, the sketch before him forgotten. “You know...this is a dangerous line of speculation given the plans within plans of our adversary...but I can’t help but wonder who on our side gains if a Shadowland rises in Petraya, even if Tide achieves his other goals. Of course, that might be Tide’s purpose, and so forth and so on ad infinitum. But eventually one must consider the simplest solutions.” Never glanced at Butterfly, who was fidgeting. “...I intercepted a message from Tide involving that circle on the north end of the island.” She bit her lip, looking at Ceaseless. “If anyone among us is involved, it’s safe to say they weren’t told about it. I think it’s time to compare notes.” Butterfly only fidgets more, looking down at her teacup. “...there is another,” she mumbles out, not looking up. “One of us is involved...in a way. There is a traitor, a servant of death like us. One who defies the Deathlords and the Neverborn. I...I cannot comprehend his or her motives for doing so, only that they are a Necromancer far more powerful than any of us. This Necromancer has been conspiring with Scatters-The-Ashes, again I do not know why, but they seek to destroy the balance between the Deathlords and cause fighting within.” Was this right? To just lie so subtly to them? Her friends? It had to be. It was the only way to keep them safe. “I’ve taken to calling this traitor Nikanor, a once used name for the dead.” Never does not correct Butterfly, though an eyebrow does go up in response to her half-truth. “The ‘why’ is what I stumbled on. At least in part. There’s an old story about a sunken continent in the West called Olkaida. We don’t know when, or how, but it is coming back and ‘Nikanor’ wants a piece of it. So does Tide. I imagine they’re planning on betraying each other at the first good opportunity. The book the rest of the Revelation is retrieving may be the key to the continent. All we really know is that Tide wants it.” Ceaseless keeps his fingers drumming as the others talk, eyes far away in contemplation. A Necromancer far more powerful than any of us. It was charming, in its way, or would have been if they were not beyond such things now, that Butterfly thought there might be any doubt about who among the servants of the Neverborn might most desire strife between the Deathlords. They barely managed civility as it was! And while Ceaseless had only had close exposure to one of them, he was reasonably certain that they all retained traces (or perhaps great heaping steaming piles) of their flawed human nature. “Hmmm, Tide really wants it, and we are going to get it and bring it back to the island. Could work.” Ceaseless does not specify for whom it might work, but the hint of sarcasm suggests it may not be the ones who think they are being clever. Butterfly takes a big gulp of her tea all at once, then quickly pours herself another cup. “None of this really makes any sense to me...all I know is that we have to stop it. And if this Sidereal thinks he can predict whatever we’re going to do, then we need to do the most unpredictable things we can’t comprehend to sneak up on him and stop his and Nikanor’s plans.” “Please Ceaseless, there was already an agent dispatched to retrieve the book. That’s how we knew its location to begin with. Beating him to it was something that had to be attempted.” She gave him a wry smile. “And predicting our actions is not the same thing as stopping them. He’d tried to poison the well on Lordsmeet before we ever got there, by kidnapping one of the Garda birds and holding it as a hostage. We secured their aid even with his interference. We were supposed to clean up his messes, first the Jewel and Bolt’s flight, then the plants that aren’t his precious purple strain. Instead we’ve built an army out of everyone he wanted killed and turned them all back on him.” She looks for another cake but they’re all gone. A licked finger cleans the plate of crumbs. Something suddenly struck Never, a half heard word from earlier in the conversation. “...Butterfly, did you say a ‘birdy’ told you about the volcano?” Butterfly perks up suddenly, practically eager to talk about anything else. “Yes! This nice friendly little Garda bird that Tide had trapped in a Yasal Crystal to maintain the manse. The poor thing is sealed in a way that he has to be as helpful as he possibly can. It’s adorable, but a little annoying so I told him he could help me by taking a nap.” She took a good long sip of tea, thinking on their conversation. “I think he said his name was Sitara?” “...Butterfly.” Never said, showing her teeth in a wide grin. “You have just saved us a great deal of trouble. Where is it? Can you free it?” “Oh, easy! I can just break the sealing spell, but the only problem is if I do that, Ashes is probably going to know, so I’ve been putting it off for a better time. Do you think maybe he has friends in the nearby Fire Court?” “I know he does. Advisor to their Queen, in fact.” She thinks for a second. “If it would alert Tide, leave him bound for the time being. We’re keeping the alliance as quiet as possible until we’re ready to move in force. But there is a Duck I brought back with me who might want to speak with him.” Ceaseless had returned to his drawing while the others discussed various avians of moderate interest. Sensing a pause in the conversation, he interjected,”Take a look at this. Butterfly wants us to do the unexpected, and I think this might qualify. During my research I’ve encountered no one else who has stumbled across this little secret. Or perhaps it’s too important to be written down...” he muses. “In any case, I’ve determined that the cerebrospinal fluid is a far more potent conduit of the true potency of a humaniform being than the traditional blood.” He turns the page to reveal a many-legged contraption centered on a massive needle. “I believe that a device that can quickly and without error insert a needle into Tide’s spinal column and take hold has a much better chance of keeping him from escaping than a more standard restraint. By using a soulsteel tether, and...” The engineer proceeds to describe the finer points of the device at length. “Butterfly, what do you think?” Butterfly blinks. She had completely spaced out during Ceaseless’ technobabble of his fancy contraptiondoohickythingamajig. She does, however, take a look at the drawing and smiles slyly. “It looks to me there you’re just trying to impress your new girlfriend more than anything else.” Ceaseless sighs wistfully, “I tried to show her, but she wanted to foist me off on one of her daughters for consultation. Frankly, I’m not sure if she has the medical expertise needed to assess the idea properly. Consulting a Sesselja is not a bad idea, mind, but I don’t think we have the time for that right now. They might have some insight into her as well,” he muses. Never has no idea how the thing is supposed to work and doesn’t particularly care. It’s quite nasty looking and imagining the smug bastard she once saw on a mountainside wearing one as a collar is a pleasant thought. “Well, I need to inform our allies that their missing bird has already been reclaimed.” Ceaseless waves a hand dismissively. Being a man of unique vision was never all it was cut out to be. “I’ll just borrow a few materials then,” he says as he stands and starts poking around the shop. “Normally you should ask the captain about that, but I say go for it right now. Never, would you mind helping me clean up?” Butterfly says, taking the tea set and noticing the large amount of crumbs near where Never was sitting. “You know...I could just give you the recipe...” Ceaseless is using 2nd Craft Excellency to add 3 successes to his min(Dex,Per,Int)+Craft roll: http://orokos.com/roll/106409 = 5 sux
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Apr 21, 2013 07:09
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Return of the Kings Finally, the Revelation docks at Jiankiang. Emerging from the office where the book is kept, Watcher, Damnation, and Rakim survey the harbor. Mercy arrives alongside in the submersible, Leo is airborne, and, as usual, Onyx isn’t readily visible. It is much as it was when they left it, with abandoned ships lining the port and various sorts of locals milling about doing who-knows-what, most with the characteristics green and blue hair of the local tribesmen. The first mate nods to his captain and lets forth a shout that carries across the docks. “I have returned, and be warned, for I am not alone.” “Rejoice, weaklings.” Rakim’s voice is a low, thunderous growl, rolling across the harbor. “A true warrior is come to bring justice to this godsforsaken land.” “He followed us home,” Blood deadpans. “Can we keep him?” “How bloody adorable, you found a pet.” Jackal says as he rolls his eyes at the Tigerman’s boasting. “Have you instructed him yet on what kind of Justice is being dealt by us at the moment?” He then puts a hand to his forehead, looking at the newcomers with a smug smile on his face. “Behold, all! For I, Jackal, had assured the help of an entire army as you arranged this cat and some rabble!” Damnation glances at the Tiger nervously. “Jackal, if, for once, you could refrain from antagonizing everyone around you, that would be quite lovely. We accomplished our original mission. Acquiring these two was a bonus. I feel confident that, based on their moral dispositions, they will be inclined to assist us against our opposition.” Rakim punctuates this with a dismissive snarl. Damnation raises an eyebrow. “But where, exactly, and how did you find an army?” Jackal just shrugs. “Well, one could say that we found a bonus as well. If only a better one. Of course, there are no doubts that it’s impossible that this kitty is able to be compared with the whole Court of Fire Elementals. As long as their safe passage is assured, we shall be assisted with flaming warriors that will turn that Volcano into the most glorious palace known in Creation!” He then opens his own shirt, showing a glistening chest filled with kiss marks, the mark of a ‘player’. “I, Jackal, even brought some of the most willing Courtiers with myself, but alas! They are too tired from amusing me to come here!” “Jackal...” Blood rolls her eyes so far that her lavender irises practically vanish. “Isn’t that supposed to be classified intel?” Rakim’s mouth spreads wide in a razor-blade grin. “Your fool compares favorably to one I once had. I may ask to keep him.” “Yeah, whatever. Just keep the tabby kitty away from me. Not to mention that there’s no way that such a plan will be stopped as long as it was put into motion.” Jackal makes a dismissive wave with his arm as he leans on one of the wooden doors of the ship. “Just wish it happened sooner than later. I, Jackal, am starting to get bored again, and simple hedonism might not be enough to stave that.” Never, meanwhile, is currently high above the Revelation with the hot sun on her back to shield her from watching eyes. The Lunar on deck seems to have made himself comfortable among her allies, and she isn’t certain what to do about it. What if it knows her? From her visions, and what little she’s learned of Hunter, that is a possibility she isn’t willing to risk quite yet. A wisp of cloud passes over her cover, and she adjusts, dropping into a quick dive that puts her over the warm thermal perpetually spiraling above Jiankang harbor. But what should have been a gentle climb is interrupted as she slams into something... No, someONE else already riding that particular air current. The Abyssal rights herself quickly, scanning the sky all around her with the Essence sight of her eyepiece. Her bow forms in her hands as she looks for the enemy in a panic. If Tide has a spy, and that spy just overheard Jackal boasting... Never aims her weapon, and finds one aimed at her in return. Its bearer is a riot of color, a...hummingbird-woman? In any event, she looks as alarmed at Never’s sudden arrival as Never looks at her sudden obstruction thereof. Their outcries are simultaneous and identical. “Spy! Spy!” Adrenaline gives way to common sense shortly after, though the arrows don’t move from their strings. Never flares her anima enough to reveal her caste mark. “Never Within Reach, Abyssal knight. This is my sky, stranger. Identify yourself.” The silver crescent of the Changing Moon caste appears on the stranger’s brow. “I am Ooleolania, and I am here to destroy a madman. If that is your mission as well, then I will apologize for this misunderstanding. If not...” the arrow draws back an inch further. “...then I suggest that you begin running now.” The wind blows the blood dripping from the empty circle on Never’s forehead into a scarlet circlet. She smiles, baring her fangs. “I don’t run.” A harsh baritone reaches upward into the sky and clears the air. Damnation shouts, “Enough! Never, this is Leo. She has expressed an interest in our mission to stop the scheme of our enemy, the Chairman, and I believe her capabilities will be of value. Leo, that is my comrade Never Within Reach, and at barest minimum she is on your side as much as I am. Now, might you two land? I would have words with you, Never, and Leo and Rakim ought to be showed about the isle as to enlighten them as to the nature of our opposition.” Never narrows her eyes, but spreads her hands as the great bow vanishes back into the Void from whence it came. She falls backwards into a bullet dive, flaring her wings at the last second to land gently on the railing. A bit of flash never hurts when making an impression. “That sounds like an excellent task for someone who is not already busy doing a thousand other things. Jackal gave you our news, though there is quite a lot more from those who remained on Petraya during all this.” She watches Rakim, and pointedly does not look at Ooleolania, (though her monocle remains fixed on the hummingbird.) Damnation nods. “I would not expect you to serve as tour guide. If someone could find Voice-of-Ages, I feel he would do that job excellently. He has, after all, seen this from the inception. As for you, Never, this discussion is one I must have with you. If you are busy, I will seek news from the others first, but we ought to meet later. Privately.” He turns to nod at Mercy and Watcher in turn. “Let’s all of us get briefed on the new intelligence, then go handle whatever business we need.”
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Apr 22, 2013 04:57
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Spawn of the Devouring Wyrm - Envoy, Captain’s Quarters That night, and the day before had been most eventful. They’d been productive. They’d been of great potential use in the battle yet to come. They had not been easy. They had not been fun. Wyrm’s own misgivings about the sanity of her actions, and their worth compared to the distress they caused her fellow Knights, radiate into The Choir and mingle with the Orchid’s own regrets. She’d broken her own spymaster’s trust by taking drastic acts out of her sight. She’d terrorized her doctor by inviting that which she most feared aboard. Made the poor thing doubt her Captain’s dedication to the cause upon the eve of war. She’d - well, really, Herald’s torment was of his own making. That didn’t make it easier to watch him slink away from her, and see it all play out again each time he caught sight of Heart. It was a small blessing that she had no need to explain the debt they owed for that. Not that they’d need any special bond to know it, from her behaviour in their first round of training. She’d expected something made of wood-monks and sailors could endure of a few rounds of the good stuff. At least they tried. At least they understood the need to toughen up their vitals. When they could stand again she needed no words to send the test group ashore. Nowhere near far enough for them to really be away from her, but it was enough to put the crew at ease. Wyrm still clearly hears the wordless drone of their best wishes and apologies for any unrest they caused. For the first time since accepting them, Wyrm lays herself to rest. Rose and Daii would watch over their fledgling army through the day. Should some crisis arise, The Choir would surely wake her. She wonders what effect the presence of their sleepless mind would have. Will I Dream? - ??? On the road. Full of holes. Black stone. Gray sky. White sand. Used to be dry. Used to be cold. Now it’s just there. Still full of holes. Horse is tired. Sore. It’s ok to be tired. Road’s long. Cold. Dry. No worries. You’re done now. Walking now. Road’s still long. Still full of holes. Black stone. Gray sky. White sand. ... Blue tent? Circle once. Twice. It sounds... feels... looks... but which way- how does- could it? It could. It’s larger on the inside, walls stretched tight. Curtains hang every which way, soft sides to twisty little paths all not-quite alike. A labyrinth of satin sheets, but you can see it all from every side. Nothing casts light over the whole display. Everywhere there’s places set with noone to be found. It’s still and quiet anywhere you go and anyway you turn. Until you turn around. The centre of a place without a shape. Pedestal of broken bone, the snake’s coiled at its base. It gnaws the roots of a wilted bloom. There’s seats on every side. The space is soft. The drinks are poured and hot. But there’s a long way left to go outside. And you’re still full of holes. For the Birds - Envoy of Eternal Peace The sun sets on a day that passed without any shocking revelations. Wyrm wakes abruptly, cleans and dresses with no hint of levity, and takes a silent inspection tour of the Envoy. Engines resting, hold secure, day watch getting settled, night watch already on deck. She skirts the edge of the forward sections where Butterfly is kept, hadn’t approached the gym since they left Stygia, and knew Poem was thoroughly concealed in helpful busywork ashore. No one of note is waiting in command. Her chair is nearly purged of all trace of Damnation, well enough it took some effort to see signs of his intrusion. As well as she could expect of mortal crew. She arrives on deck to the embrace of open air, without the oppressive weight of day. Stars hang above, each shining point dares her to reach out and tear it down. They are for another time, another place. Tonight, she seeks another light. A crackle of blue lightning precedes the reappearance of Bolt. He stands in the crow’s nest, leaning against the mast and looking up at the shrouded summit of what will be either Petraya’s salvation or its doom. Perhaps it’s Wyrm’s imagination, but he seems more...relaxed than at any point in this voyage, more at peace. Or perhaps it has something to do with the strands of black hair mixed in with his blue, and the fact that his tunic is on inside-out. The Envoy’s rigging offers every accommodation to Wyrm’s ascent. None with any sense would mistake her for athletic, but could not deny that there was nowhere on her ship Wyrm couldn’t be. Still not wholly awake herself, she slumps over the rail of the crow’s nest and sit against the other side of the mast. She nods at nothing, tipping her hat, and mumbles, “Captain.” “Captain.” He steps forward, squinting up into the distance. “Spark tells me that Tide or Ashes or whatever he’s called is planning a surprise party, and we’re all invited.” Finally, she’s found somewhere comfortable to lay, “I may attend, if just to catch the bouquet and make off with the maid of honour.” Bolt tilts his head. “Speaking strictly in a non-medical-professional capacity, you look like hammered crap.” He looks into her dilated pupils. “Hell of a drug?” “For a minute there, yeah,” Wyrm taps the back of her neck, “now it’s just a hundred little hens in the next room over that’s nailed to the back of my head.” She finally twists around to face him, “Herald hardly heard three words before he sort of fizzled.” “Herald’s still a little lost as to what you two actually have, or had, or maybe-kinda-sorta agreed to in so many words.” He hoists himself up and takes a seat on the railing, spinning about to face Wyrm as he moves. “We tend not to be all that great with ambiguity. Give us a clear ‘no’ over an unspoken ‘maybe’ any day.” “Nothing is, and everything does, and...” Wyrm’s words melt into incoherent growling for a moment. She meekly punches a rail, “Won’t deny - I thought this thing could be a new toy.” she throws up her arms, “It’s not, You can tell it was raised by nuns, but even if it were that doesn’t-” she slips back to noise. “This is all in his head.” “So set the record straight.” Bolt shrugs. “What this is, and isn’t.” “He fled three words in - Herald, this is,” Wyrm draws a flame piece and sends a plume of red soaring into the night, “gone!” “What’s gone now?” Herald perches atop the mainmast, looking down over the harbor. He holds in his hand a bottle whose label and current contents suggest that he’s going to be a fair few hours sobering up. He plucks a singed feather from his hair and inspects it, bleary-eyed, before casting it aside; it drifts down to the water and vanishes in a snap! of electricity. “Your balls, Herald!” Wyrm brandishes the empty weapon at him, “You bird your way down here this minute and you may just get them back!” For all her knowledge that the birds wield lightning, and are made of lightning, it is still a bit startling when Herald actually moves like lightning. In an eyeblink, he stands in the air in front of Wyrm. “...the gently caress are you even talking about?” “Oh, let me explain,” Wyrm holsters the gun, “STEP ONE - “ and leaps over the rail at Herald. Although the bird catches her in time, the lack of a solid surface to support the pair and the momentum from the jump topples him backwards. They spin in the air, up and down and up again, until winding to a gradual stop with Herald atop the captain. “I...are you...?” Drunk, disoriented, and out of his depths, he looks to Bolt for direction; his response is eloquence itself. “Dude.” A gun cocks and drives into Herald’s chest, “Eyes Front, Soldier.” Wyrm guides Herald back to a full upright position, “Bird, you get your head clear, your shirt straight and your claws sharp.” Her aura flares, “Tonight - WE RIDE.” His eyes lock with hers...and narrow. Before her finger slips the trigger, the gun is twisted aside and wrenched behind her back. His breath is ragged. “Any more bullshit...” The silver raptor seizes her in a talon and passes her up to its back. ”...and you get to swim back.” “I expect no less,” Wild, manic, predatory, Wyrm draws in close and whispers, “from my chariot.” *SCREEEE!* With a scream that blend’s a hunting bird’s cry with a war shout, steed and rider streak into the distance, and fire and lightning ride with them. The bottle of liquor tumbles through the empty air, plummeting towards the deck below. It lands in the firm grip of the thunderbird captain. He watches until the pair becomes a speck on the horizon, then pulls a knowing smile. Taking a swig, he pours the rest out to sea. “Here’s looking at you, kid.” A shadow detaches itself from the base of the mast and moves forward to put one arm around the Thunderbird’s waist. “It seems not even a hundred pious plants can deter my Captain when she wants something.” Bolt pulls Never close and kisses her deeply. “And we don’t even have that,” he remarks when they pull apart. “What chance do we have?” Only one word is given in answer. “None.” A_Raving_Loon fucked around with this message at 22:43 on Apr 23, 2013 |
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Apr 22, 2013 13:20
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The Everlasting Butterfly of the Decadent Garden Symbiosis - Medical Bay Sheet update: Migrated to the Wikidot. No no, this wasn’t good at all. The arm she used for Mr. Lyndon was decaying far too quickly. The other zombies in the pen must have been herding him too close to the windows exposing the arm to too much sunlight. Butterfly put on her mask and strapped the stoic zombie on the table. A small handful of other zombies were sitting on the waiting chairs in the medical bay as Butterfly went through her daily zombie maintenance, in alphabetical order. Carefully she cut the stitches that connected the arm to the torso, and began cutting through with a bone saw to sever the arm completely. A few replacement arms and other assorted body parts sat in a bin near the operating table. Once the zombie’s arm was completely severed, she began picking up other arms in the bin, comparing their sizes. A dreadful note of metal striking metal rings out as the door unlatches. It slides open silently, making way for the Captain. Once Wyrm has crossed, it slams shut behind her. “Evening, Doctor.” Butterfly leaped backward at the sound of the door slamming shut. She lifted up the zombie arm and pointed it at Wyrm, holding it threateningly to keep her distance, but both her arm and the zombie arm was shaking. “You! Go away, I have important work to do!” “More than you know, Doctor.” Wyrm pays her no notice, striding over to a row of steel cabinets. A few quick twists of a dial and a pulse of essence unlock a drawer, from which she takes a sheaf of a paper and five glass jars. In each is preserved a small sample of a little blue plant rooted in flesh. her flesh. Butterfly looked in confusion as the captain completely ignored her, and pulled out the jars of orchid samples. Great, because she didn’t have enough of those running around on this ship. “Go take your stupid weeds somewhere else! I don’t want those anywhere near me, or my zombies!” She gestured for the zombies to move to her and away from the jars but they leisurely took their time ignoring the danger at hand. Wyrm gives each jar a little tap, hearing them ring from only one set of ears. She recalled the novelty of retaining some sensation in each piece for some time after they were removed. Now, they were silent, quite dead, the points they were cut from regrown from each side. She opens Auling’s report, is immediately struck bored by its contents, and shuts it again. She maintains only passing awareness of Butterfly’s continued outrage, “No.” Butterfly stood in place, zombie arm still dangling in her grasp. She kept moving her eyes from the papers to the jar to Wyrm herself. The plants in the jar weren’t moving at all, and looked rather withered away. Two of the Dragon-Blooded were in the medical bay when Wyrm told her that she had betrayed all things undead. Was that what that was about? She didn’t lower the arm, but relaxed a little when Wyrm didn’t come closer. “What do you want?” Now there’s a question with a lot of answer, yet but a few places to start, “Peace.” “I want to bring peace to a world of conflict, order to its madness, release to its sorrows. I want to take the cruel absurdities of life, and see them end.” Wyrm takes jar in hand, holding it up to a lamp for a better view. “I’ve fought for this with every hollow breath since my undeath, put every foe my master set before me to sword and salt and flame until it was scoured from the face of creation,” She turns it one way, then the other, “And for the wrath I set upon it, it perseveres. It is no less than that very insatiable persistence at the core of life itself that is our enemy.” “Kill One? One thousand? One million? All meaningless,” Wyrm spins about and thrusts the jar at Butterfly, “Life finds a way.” Butterfly stared at the jar, not exactly sure what the captain was wanting her to do with it. “Look at it, Butterfly, this pathetic mass of roots and leaves which so terrifies you, which has brought such suffering upon this land and threatens to do the same to all Creation.” She offers it to the doctor, “It once lived.” Her free hand sweeps over the waiting zombies, “As did all of them. As did you and I.” Wyrm’s anima ripples as her voice drops to a cold rasp, “And the Void has made us more. More than dead. More than alive.” She closes on the Doctor, taking the hand of the severed arm, “And it gave you the tools to do the same.” Butterfly takes the jar, looking at the plant inside. “But...this is different. This vile thing devours undeath and gives it life. The purple strain can even take the shadowlands and make it bloom. It takes what’s dead and makes it part of itself.” But...were they really any different? Her zombies would decay if left untreated, and she had to constantly give them more undead flesh and blood to give them motion. So too would the flowers wither. “I...I just don’t see how. Dammit Wrym, I’m a doctor, not a botanist!” “Now, Doctor,” Wyrm leans down to close the remaining distance, “Do I look devoured to you?” “You’ve kept it at bay, but the corruption is still inside of you.” “Where mortals, or zombies, or even other exalts would have simply been consumed.” Wyrm offers the jar again, “We are more than undead.” “It’s your power that stops it from eating you alive! I can’t just give that power to some zombies to keep the flowers from spreading! We are more than undead, but the rest of the undead are but fodder.” Butterfly frowns, moving the jar away from her. “I don’t want it to eat my zombies...” Then her voice softened. ”I don’t want them to eat you.” Wyrm gives her a little flick to the forehead, “So think, girl, you’re the clever one here. You called these little seedlings weeds? What is it that makes a weed unwanted?” “They...they steal the light, water, and soil from plants around them.” Her own time working in the gardens of her former life came back, and she quickly shook her head to dispel that memory. “We uproot them, remove them so that the plants which must grow can grow.” “Because it you leave them in, the other plants all die.” Wyrm strikes a nail across her neck, “In fighting these, we’ve seen one surefire source of immunity - prior infection. The root cannot take hold where it has once set foot before. My little guest, even if I struck him down this moment, would with his dying gasp leave my body poisoned against intrusion by any competition.” Butterfly bites her lip, possibilities moving in her mind as her eyes moved back to the jar. Finally she lets out a sigh, she can’t focus on that yet. There’s one distraction she hasn’t gotten rid of first. “Captain... I need to know though. How much control do you have over the orchid strain in your body?” She let out a little gulp. “Do the spores dance in your breath? Do you risk infecting those around you?” She looked back at Wyrm, her eyes starting to sparkle with the beginnings of tears. Wyrm puts down the jar and picks up the report, “Breath, no. Blood, yes. But you should know by now I’m not the sort to bleed casually. There’s more to it than I’ll ever care to keep straight,” She plants the paper in Butterfly’s hand, “which is why I have the best Doctor you’ll find in the whole direction.” No spores in the breath, and her magic already told her Wyrm wasn’t bleeding anywhere. Butterfly brushed aside the papers and stepped forward, tightly squeezing the captain with all three of her arms, gently sobbing into Wyrm’s shoulder. “I’m sorry...I was scared, I thought this was going to consume you, just like it could have the rest of us.” She took in a breath, steadying her resolve a little. “I’ll do what I can. There’s a lot of unknowns, but I’ll figure this own. You may be the master of this plague, but I will conquer it and make it my own.” Wyrm returns the embrace, “I know.”
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Apr 24, 2013 18:18
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Last Mercy Given - Coming Aboard The captains were presently busy. This was understandable; there were a great many things to do now that the rendezvous had taken place, most of which were no doubt annoying. Watcher had been preoccupied with that book, and whatever he’d found therein, for some time now, and he’d yet to lay eyes on the Spawn of the Devouring Wyrm. Nevertheless, the woman had left activity in her unseen wake, like little eddies of people getting things done. Besides, it wasn’t as though he was unused to the experience. He occupied himself in the meantime by running through recent footage on his field recorder - it was interesting to see how much he caught and how much he missed. Now that was interesting. The crewmen he noticed working earlier, bringing up his cabinet from his vessel - their coordination was uncanny. Not their physical dexterity - that seemed to vary from person to person. However, every action, every move the porters took seemed to compensate wholly for that variance in physical ability. They worked in perfect unison. Exactly the sort of thing he’d expect from an undead crew. Or, it was possible, a crew networked by the variant chakra orchids. They’d apparently recruited two of the prototype strains, so it made sense enough. They show the same remarkable unity of task in compensating when one abruptly breaks from a nearby workgroup. It approaches Mercy, moving with an odd swaying pace that seems mismatched to man before him. It halts a comfortable distance from the abyssal. Its accent is unexpectedly southern. “You are new.” He nods. “I am. I thought I’d wait for the dust to settle before formal introductions, though. Is the captain busy?” “Unendingly.” The word holds an odd degree of reverence, “Still, she would see you.” “Then lead on.” He gestures lazily with his good hand, the other tucked inside a pocket of his coat. “I suppose I can give at least part of the introduction individually.” “This way.” The voice is from behind, from another, a quite distinctly different man who still speaks with the same accent and walks with the same odd sway. The first is already returning to his former task. Mercy nodded, followed, carefully did not smirk. That little sneaking suspicion he’d had on seeing the coordinated crewmen had been confirmed, which saved some effort on his end. No doubt the explanation would be interesting. Or... he arched an eyebrow at the fellow leading him. Perhaps this was the explanation. In reviewing the scene, in retrospect, he notes that at that moment there were men stood arranged in a most elegant pattern of ambush. A distinctly southern style. Welcome Aboard - Envoy, Bridge. Mercy’s escort breaks away at the edge of the docks. He finds himself abandoned near a launch crewed by young men in the colours of the Winter Navy. He is saluted, welcomed, and shuttled the Envoy of Eternal Peace. The instant he sets foot aboard her the essence of the underworld sweeps over him. He is swiftly ushered into the presence of its commander. The Captain looks aside, sprawled comfortably in her seat of command reviewing some dossier or another. When her crew vacate, she speaks with an according lack of interest. “Last Mercy Given, UnterPol, Midnight Caste, Augmented Martial Artist...” She stops for lack of effort more than loss of words. When he’d first laid eyes on her, they’d widened fractionally before resuming his usual expression of aplomb. “I must say, Princess, that you’re looking in better health than what I’d heard.” He gives a very small smile and a somewhat larger bow, indicating that it was a joke, not a threat of any sort. “In all honesty, you are the very last person I expected to see sitting there.” The walls shudder as Wyrm speaks, “If you did not expect a corpse, you are not long for your profession.” His expression is unchanged. “As with everything, Captain, it’s the details that are important. For example, your decision to join the local floral workers union might be considered, ah, unwise, at first blush. And yet the details give lie to that thought - a permanent communication network grafted to you, without any of the inconveniences of a necrosurgeon’s tender mercies.” He withdraws a metal-sheathed hand from a pocket in acknowledgement of personal experience. “But what’s more, you haven’t gotten flowered, no. The men you sent to meet me positively sashayed their way over here, and spoke with a southern accent despite being of eastern stock.” His smile is permitted to broaden now, as he enjoys the irony of the situation. “The flower’s gotten Wyrmed instead. Congratulations, Captain.” “They have their moments.” Wyrm casts off her outrage and resume being aloof, “You’re here to replace the skeleton?” All business, all of a sudden. Mercy inclines his head slightly. “Yes and no. The papers,” now offered for her perusal, “indicate that I’m to be a morale officer, yes, but I’ve also been seconded to the mission from UnterPol. They - being the Deathlords in aggregate, it would seem - wanted a specialist assigned to the mole hu-” Wyrm raises one hand. “Do keep in mind that any word or act made here may in an instant be relayed to one hundred Chakra Orchids.” She faintly smiles, “Carry on, officer.” Mercy doesn’t skip a beat. “-and, of course, as part of a morale officer’s duties, I’ll be conducting interviews with all members of the crew. Nothing necessarily sensitive as such, just a general status report for the higher-ups. You know how the Deathlords do like to be kept current on how their faithful knights are doing. It can, of course, wait until the present mission is finished, during which time I would of course lend my expertise at the martial arts to any field actions that the captains present might recommend.” “Good,” Wyrm is back at ease, “From what is said of your techniques and our target, Officer, you may prove the proper tool for the job. We need it alive.” “I’d be pleased to try my hand at it. Sidereals have a certain...reputation among martial artists, and quite apart from the desire to be useful, I’d love to see if their techniques live up to the rumours.” He smiles. “On a happier note, I come bearing gifts, courtesy of the requisitions department.” He has her attention. “Now, in the interests of fairness, I intend to apportion them amongst the ships, but I think that my ride might be to your liking.” He makes a gesture with his head out to the harbour, where, no doubt, a plant is ogling the sleek manta-shaped submersible. “Fast, quiet, capable of extended underwater operation...” Elsewhere, another plant keeps eyes on a thunderbird, “It has stiff competition.” Herald pauses long enough in his chopping of kindling to take note of his observer...then looks away diffidently and removes his shirt before resuming. He’d seen them on the way in, to say nothing of Blood. “I don’t doubt it. The other option, unfortunately, I am somewhat attached to, thanks to the QM’s perverse sense of humour.” He indicates an eye and an arm, rather more metal and crystal being in evidence that expected. “A generator of walls of force, and an omnidirectional recorder, with playback functionality. Whoever’s ship I ended up quartering on would no doubt have majority access to those tools.” A thought strikes him. “And a demonstration might be in order.” He taps the bone next to his eye until it whirs to life once more, projecting an image of the ever-so-friendly Sola and her ‘friendly warning’ onto his palm. The show of potent trinkets balances out Wyrm’s distaste for the elder being’s manners. Two things in all existence have earned the privilege of taking such tone with her. One she was sworn to serve, the other to destroy. It passes as the message ends, “You will find better accommodation here. Despite all appearances, you should know by now my Envoy is far more aligned with the spirit of our mission than the Watcher’s hollowed out fish.” “That will do nicely, yes. Sleeping in a coffin might be traditional, but a cot in a shadowland works just as well for me. I’ll let Watcher know at the general meeting, then, and get my safe moved onboard. Oh, one more thing. I will need an office.” “You are replacing the Skeleton.” Wyrm waves a hand and the ship’s spectre apparates, “He knows the way.” Step into my office The office was looking quite nice. The cabinet was in place, the desk was in order, with pens at the ready and paper set up for the inevitable interviews. He’d probably schedule with his own shipmates first, but for now... He stood, went over to his cabinet, and pressed his hand against the door, concentrating. When he opened it, it contained neither books nor clothes, but a self-heating plate, a small wooden box, and a teakettle. With a smile, he began to get hot water ready. It promised to be a nice, relaxing evening. Just then a white-hooded figure poked her head in the door. She gave the room a quick glance over before softly knocking on the door to announce her presence. “Last Mercy Given?” She asked, the picture of politeness. “Never Within Reach, ship’s...” Her eyes narrowed quite suddenly as he faced her, teapot in hand. “Oh. You.” She pushed her hood back, revealing her face and long black hair. “I believe we’ve met before.” His eyes narrowed, trying to place her. She was familiar, and there were really only so many deathknights to go around, but the name ‘Never Within Reach’ wasn’t ringing any bells. “I’m afraid you have the advantage of me, then. I’m surprised. Usually my memory is better than this. But I’m quite sure...” Hair is longer. Monocle wasn’t there before. Clothing is different. She’s changed the window-dressing, but the annoyed glare is a faint echo of the look of rage a deathknight leveled at him long ago, when he’d come to take all that she owned, as penance for her crimes. “Ah. I’m surprised to see you here... Passions Wayward Reaching, was it?” “Was being the operative word.” Never replied. “I don’t suppose you were told why you were under orders to confiscate my home?” “The exact nature of the crime wasn’t made clear to me, no. Crimes against Stygia and the Deathlords, that sort of thing.” He looked briefly concerned. “No hard feelings, I hope?” She held the glare for a moment longer before sitting down on the corner of his desk and stretching. “No, we are their tools, to be sharpened or discarded when no longer of use.” There was a soft popping noise and the monocle dropped into her open palm. “You know they do make a detachable version.” He relaxes, leans back in his chair. “The boss’s favourite necrosurgeon has kind of a strange sense of humour, but that only goes so far as the arm. No, I lost this fair and square while not waiting for backup. The replacement, they said, was a reward for my enthusiasm. Besides, having it built in has its advantages - for example, nobody knows when you’re recording. Hell, half of them don’t know it’s anything beyond a glass eye.” “Sneaky.” She nodded appreciatively. “I suppose I should welcome you aboard then. It’s been quiet on the Envoy of late, but if you notice anything out of place or need to know something, I’m usually around.” The soft whisper of her thoughts brushed against his. <Privacy is guaranteed, should it prove necessary.> Nod. “As is mine. I’m going to wear several hats as part of my function here. As the morale officer, one of my functions is to provide a sounding board. Assuming what you tell me isn’t actively treasonous, it won’t leave this office.” The kettle has begun to whistle. He stands, pours a cup, then half-turns. “For yourself?” “Please.” She held out a hand and accepted the offered cup. “I used to have one just like this...” she muttered, but didn’t press. “Morale is... complicated. There have been questionable decisions in the near past that threatened it entirely but the storm seems to have calmed for now. For my part, I want to keep the peace internally and focus on the enemy. Distractions could be fatal at this late stage.” “I hear you. I’ll try and avoid stirring up any trouble until after this whole business is done. On that note, however...” He sipped his tea, then put it down. “How to put this delicately... Once the Petraya business is done, will Bolt-of-Brightest-Day and his associates be staying on board? I’d ask him myself, you understand, but he’s not a member of the crew. You are.” “The Thunderbirds are under no obligation to stay with us, but their Captain’s unfinished business is with the Solar crew of the Siren’s Heartbreak. I think we can count on them remaining aboard at least that long.” She made no mention whatsoever of Bolt’s promise to her. That was between them. Mercy’s ‘oh-really’ eyebrow twitched slightly before he got it under control, but he seemed otherwise satisfied by the answer. “Then I suppose we’ll see what happens when that time comes.” Never shrugged. She stood up and gave Mercy a nod. “If there’s nothing else?” She was already halfway to the door. He didn’t stop her. “I’ve heard you don’t consider yourself a member of either crew. I find that to be a shame. Masters know you’re thorough. Still, as long as you’re here, you’re one of us.” Then she was gone. It was a full five minutes before Mercy realized the teacup had gone with her. vdate fucked around with this message at 19:48 on Oct 25, 2016 |
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Apr 25, 2013 03:47
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He Had to Sit In the Chair - Envoy, Bridge The doors slam shut of their own accord, leaving the command deck a sealed tomb. Here rests Damnation, “Mister Jameson”, and The Wyrm. The only sounds are the hum of the ship’s systems, and the Captain’s rising growl. Damnation lowers his voice and looks directly at Wyrm. “Let me be clear, Admiral. Our final assault against the Chairman is due as soon as possible, you’ve ingested the orchid on purpose, I have eight other people with whom to speak, we have three other topics to discuss, and you have called me here because I sat in your chair.” He coughs. “That’s why you called me here.” After all their campaigns together Wyrm was well acquainted with Damnation’s knack for disarming unpleasant situations, be it by tongue or by sword. And after all that, he should just as well know, “There is never just one reason for what I do.” The Dusk smiles. While indignant over the chair, Wyrm seems to have called him in here for a more serious purpose, something with strategic significance. Her social engagements always were that way. He sighs. “You know, it’s a pity. When I was in your chair-” Damnation holds up his palm “Yes, I admit it, when I was in your chair, I transmitted and received information. Your condition prohibits me from telling you everything I wish to tell you.” He looks her in the eyes, more serious now. “You are still the person I can most trust regarding the resolution of one particular matter. Are you prepared to accept responsibility for what I am going to tell you?” he intones while raising his left eyebrow. Wyrm grins at being called a liability. He’d found one of her reasons. “I’ve never claimed to be responsible for anything, but I’m certainly held to it.” She leans ahead, “What have you got?” “Orders. I contacted him. He is on board with our existing plan, but demands one concession.” Damnation breathes in deeply, steeling himself before the revelation to come. “We are to bring our adversary, alive, to this very room. He will then be contacted and do the pickup himself. There are no options allowed, no deviations from this protocol, and everything else is secondary.” He pauses for a second and scratches his chin, trying to figure out how to most gently convey the gravity of the situation. “The authorizations I have been granted for this mission, Wyrm, are quite broad.” “Live capture...” The subject cuts uncomfortably close to things she wants no part of, but the mention of her lord’s will sees her through. “How broad?” Rubbing his forehead, Damnation is stymied by the one question he’d hoped she wouldn’t ask. “I cannot discuss explicit hypotheticals with you, but his executive sanction has been granted to me to ensure the live capture and transfer of our Chairman is completed successfully.” While to another individual, he would be hiding behind legalese, after Thorns, Wyrm most surely knew what he meant. Wyrm nods. There is a moment’s silence, then the captain taps her neck, “You know, I could just have them swear to secrecy.“ As much as she wanted to stay out of this, it wasn’t pleasant watching Damnation squirm under regulations. Damnation smiles and pats her on the shoulder. “No, no, Wyrm, I don’t want any of that nonsense, because that bit of intrigue is only going to get someone killed. It’s not the time or the place even if we did want to get into it.” His gaze shifts, staring off at the console as he continues. “It will go badly for us, all of us, if we try to complicate things at this juncture.” Looking back at Wyrm, his voice softens, “I come to you with this because I think you share my respect for him. I think you will come to the conclusion, as I have, that in the face of all this uncertainty and doubt, the one thing which should remain steady is that we are loyal. We obey.” Wyrm bows her head, “To the end.” The doors loudly unlock. Damnation raises a hand. “You can go on. I’ve been wondering if my new authorizations here might unlock some useful data from Mr. Jameson.” “...who?” Wyrm just stares. Turning to hide a smirk, the pirate places his thumb into the space in the console. As the spectre forms, he addresses it. “Mr. Jameson, priority zero orders require all available intelligence on the Sidereal Exalted.” Damnation then turns back to Wyrm. “I couldn’t trust him until he had a name.” “Damnation,” there’s a new reason to be mad, “that is a spectre. Life gave him a name, and he threw it in the void.” The First Mate’s prodigious eyebrows squint at Wyrm’s surprising indignation. “What, is that against the rules? Can I not give him a new one if it suits me? Am I not the Apostle of the Void in Creation?” Wyrm grits her teeth, “He is mine.” Beginning to raise a hand to his face to stifle his irreverent laughter, Damnation is unable to speak before the spectre, naming status still unresolved, begins to recite a brief of information. “Special dispensation granted. Dossier: The Sidereal Exalted. Chosen of the Five Maidens, originally introduced as aides in the management of the Loom of Fate; later revealed to be well-placed fifth columns in the Great Betrayal. While the Solar Exalted led the armies, and the Lunar Exalted acted as infiltrators and assassins, the Sidereals served as spies and intelligencers. Their access to deeply-classified information permitted the Exalts to coordinate and launch a number of surprise attacks that crippled the Primordials before the war had even begun in earnest.” The spectre traces ethereal characters in the air, providing a transcript of the briefing. “Following the defeat and/or imprisonment of the Primordials, the Sidereals continued to act in their capacities as viziers, troubleshooters, and workers of Fate; the latter, even more so, as the leaders of the rebellion withdrew from the public eye and largely delegated the execution of their duties. It was during this period that they perfected what came to be known as Sidereal Martial Arts - forms of combat based upon deeper enlightenment on the nature of being.” “It was through these arts, their faculty as spymasters, their positions of trust, and the cooperation of the Dragon-Blooded host that they ultimately deposed the Solars and drove the Lunars into exile. These acts were deemed by the majority of the Sidereals to be a dark necessity, in light of the Solars’ increasingly erratic and destructive behavior; the result was the recasting in the public eye of Solars and Lunars as ‘Anathema’ and the rise of a Terrestrial puppet-state beholden to Yu-Shan.” Damnation nods. “Thank you, Mr-” he stops himself, remembering Wyrm’s admonishment. He then turns to her. “Hide in darkness, pull strings on the Loom because they don’t have what it takes to rule outright. Having the entire Realm suggests some sort of masterminding brilliance, though. Sounds like our man.” Flexing his muscles, he continues to ponder about the brief. “Combat based upon the nature of being? Wyrm, do you think that would be any good?” She gets the sense that Damnation may be withholding something, but it’s not clear what. Something else in that tale has Wyrm’s attention. Something that cuts close to other places her mind’s not meant to wander. She barely hears him speculate, “Monastic bullshit.” “I hope so, Admiral. I hope so.”
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Apr 25, 2013 03:50
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Never Again -Jiankang, Private Study There is no place on either the Envoy or the Revelation that their Captains can’t eavesdrop, so when Damnation asks for a private meeting Never nods in the direction of Jiankang. There is only one place they can go for something like that. A few hours later, Never unlocks the window and joins the more earthbound pirate in the dimly lit study where they first broke Ashes’ coded message. Not one to waste time, she cuts to the point. “What have you found?” Damnation shifts when asked the question, as it wasn’t what he was expecting. “The mentioned book. Two Lunars who don’t know who Ashes is. But that’s not important right now. What is important, and what I agreed to tell you, should it happen, is that I have divulged our findings to one more individual.” The pirate leans back and looks at the spymaster, hoping to gauge her reaction. “In fairness, I have as well. It seems Butterfly knew less than we did. I brought her up to speed, and she is working on the problem. It should be interesting to see what she can uncover on her own. Ceaseless was privy to some of the conversation, and can likely piece together the rest.” Damnation nods. “That’s fine. Ceaseless and Butterfly are intelligent sorts, worth bringing on, though I might worry about Butterfly trying something crazy.” He relaxes his body language, letting the next sentence drop without any hint of his misgivings. “I informed The Mask of Winters regarding the contents of the book, sparing your dubious involvement.” “You... what?” Her voice lowered to a hiss. “Damnation, Mask of Winters is one of the primary suspects for being Nikanor...” In response, the pirate raises a single eyebrow. “You would question the loyalty of his lordship? Since his loyalty is beyond reproach, given the success of his recent campaign, his intelligence, capability, and efficiency would be invaluable in dealing with this matter.” Damnation cracks a smile, and Never recognizes it as the one he makes when he might be joking. “But, if, in some bizarre hypothetical world, Mask of Winters were providing actionable intelligence and artifacts to the Sidereal Exalted, I have no doubt he would be doing it for a very good reason that would make perfect sense once all aspects of his plan were revealed, and were some of the lesser Deathlords to try to levy silly accusations at his Lordship, it would be my duty as his loyal Knight and retainer to provide him with whatever evidence and warning I could, in order that he might protect himself from such baseless accusations.” He clasps his hands together and looks Never in the eyes. “Do you understand?” “The only thing I understand right now is that sharing sensitive information with a lapdog was a grave mistake on my part.” Damnation’s hands begin shaking as he gets out of his chair and stands up above her, gazing down into her face with furrowed eyebrows. “You What? I was an unremarkable child on an island most have never heard of. Then, I was an orphan because I was too weak to protect my own family. Then, I was an unappreciated drunken bastard who had never owned his own ship. Then, when I finally tried, when I finally took my shot, I was still too weak. All my friends and comrades died. I died. The one person who ever gave me a second chance, the chance to be anything more than a rotting corpse and a failure, was Mask of Winters. The only reason you know me-the only reason you have ever been able to rely on me, to appreciate me, is because of him. If the fact that I appreciate that enough to give him the benefit of the doubt makes me a lapdog in your eyes, then perhaps true loyalty is something Never Within Reach of you.” His face curls into a snarl as he delivers the last line. Never laughs in his face. “Loyalty?! I was you, once, Damnation. More than you, I stood at the right hand of my mistress and basked in everything she gave to me. I was her enforcer and her confidant. I was hers, utterly and without question. She used me and when she was done, she threw me away. That is what they do. That is what they are. You are not his son, not his friend, and when you cease to be a useful tool, when you misstep just once... Then you will be me, and it comes full circle.” “What you’ve just told me is that you know that Mask of Winters might be our traitor, and you don’t care. You’ll follow him off that cliff if he asks you to. That wasn’t your decision to make! Watcher kept this from us, Butterfly kept it from us, because just knowing the truth puts us in danger. He or She will be out to cover their tracks and if you think we have half a chance against them...” Damnation might be the taller, but Never has no fear of heights. She glares up at him. “He knows we know now. And don’t even try to deny that he has the most to gain from splitting away from Oblivion. How many of us are you going to have to kill, Damnation? Is your loyalty to Mask of Winters such that you’ll put the rest of us to the sword when he calls for it?” The Mask of Winters’s loyal servant is, in this moment, stunned. He can’t stop thinking about, of all people, ‘Mr. Jameson.” Wyrm’s voice echoed in his head. ”He is not a person, Damnation. He is a piece of equipment. It sounds so close to He, Damnation, is not a person. He is a piece of equipment. Was that really how Mask of Winters saw him? A piece of equipment? He did his best not to appear visibly shaken, remaining steady in the face of Never’s tirade, but something inside him had been touched. “I am loyal to him, Never, but I am not some soulless instrument of his will! I already withheld relevant information for him for your protection!” He raises his gauntlet and slams it into the wall. “I could never let him be taken down like some whelp for whatever choices he’s made. The Neverborn punished me for making the choice of negotiating with the orchids. I still made the right choice.” He pulls his fist back from the wall and adjusts his face, lifting it back upwards to its characteristically proud stance. “I could not let him be taken down, but I will not see any member of my crew brought down either, by me or another. Mask of Winters didn’t sculpt me from whole cloth. He gave the Abyssal Exaltation to Jack Motherfucking Rackham. And that pirate isn’t dead or gone. He’s right here.” Dude, he just called himself Jack.: 3d10x7 1 Never ignored the blasphemy for the time being. “If you’ve withheld information, you’re already lost. Tools don’t lie to their masters and get away with it. Not even by omission.” Her anger faded into a look of sympathy. “If you’re lucky he won’t tear out your memories and leave you a broken husk like my mistress did to me. If you’re not, he’ll do something worse. He gave you that Exaltation, and he can take it away and give it to another just as easily.” Damnation raises one eyebrow. Now, she was making him nervous. “You’re not just angry. You really believe that after five years, zero failed missions, zero disloyalty, one indiscretion on behalf of a friend could lead to...” His voice trails off and fades out. She realizes he won’t believe her unless he knows the truth. Fine then. “You know me as Never Within Reach, but that is not my name. Not long ago an Abyssal was cast down, stripped of rank and title and allies. Her name was Passions Wayward Reaching. And she stands before you now.” Never stares into Damnation’s fanged mouth, now hanging open. “You are Passions Wayward Reaching, the right hand of the Lover?” It all makes sense now. Why Never has trouble trusting anyone, why Never is missing huge chunks of her memory, why she would presume to know what would happen to him in the end if he continued his current course; Her former position was, indeed, the one Damnation only aspires to with the Mask. His Lordship. One question takes precedence before all others. “Then what do you think I should do?” Enter the Salesman -Same time, same place “‘Tis the time that I, the Interfering Jackal comes in!” Says a familiar voice from a familiar face as Jackal enters the study. “Let me say it for the third time, Never Within Reach. One such as yourself is completely free to make her choice!” He says while looking at the surroundings. “Tailing you was a good idea, it seems. Heck, it might even be the perfect opportunity to... Well, introduce our Damnation here to our little secret.” “What are YOU doing here?!” Never picks up a candleholder from the nearby desk and throws it at Jackal, hard. “If you ever repeat anything you’ve overheard in this room tonight I will... I will...” Damnation raises a hand to Never’s outburst. “Enough.” He spins around, cloak flying, and takes three deliberate steps into Jackal’s face. “We’ll go over what you heard after you introduce me to your little secret. Given that you may have overheard three separate secrets, which I may have to go over with you of all people, I think you owe me.” The Moonshadow just tilts his head to the side as the candleholder flies a few millimeters away from his ear. The projectile just breaks through the wall and lands on the outside of the study. “Oh please. It’s not like I, Jackal, am a snitch. That being said... My eavesdropping has shown that you might have a problem with our so-called employers, isn’t that so? Such... Strong words! Lapdog is indeed the kind of situation that we are currently into, indeed.” He looks back at the hole in the wall that Never made and lets out a whistle of amusement. “Of course, my offer was already made to the Lady. Freelance work! Or more like, freedom from orders, freedom from the job to destroy Creation, and freedom for one to do as he wishes.” Jackal grins while staring at Damnation. “Your opinion on the matter, Damnation?” “My opinion, Jackal, is that you are going to get yourself killed. Or worse.” Damnation just stares at this insanity. “You do realize Mask of Winters has people from four years ago he still hasn’t let die.” He strokes his moustache, trying to figure out how to most carefully phrase the coming statement. “Anyone who attempted such a thing with anything less than the most powerful marvels of the First Age at their command is outright suicidal. Only then would someone stand the slightest chance at defying our masters, and, of course, I am still loyal, so it would be a terrible idea to let me in on such things..” The pirate spares a grin for his megalomaniacal crewmate and continues “But, if you’ve become suicidal already, I suppose keeping me briefed can’t hurt.” “And yet, I, Jackal, am completely unharmed here. Fortune favors the bold, Pirate.” Jackal just gives a dismissive nod as he looks for a chair and throws himself into it, entering an incredibly relaxed-looking pose. “And why don’t you believe that such marvels won’t be on our reach? We are already assembling the greatest raiding fleet in Creation, you know. Hell, in a few months the possibility of challenging the Realm is not an unknown one... Not to mention that he who gambles all gains all.” He doesn’t mention the possibility of losing such a gamble, but perhaps it’s because has never considered that possibility at all. “But... The cat is out of the bag. For one to conquer one must maintain, and to be forced by our so-called masters to get rid of all the nice stuff that I, Jackal, will obtain is something that really makes me cross.” Dismissing Jackal for a moment, Never turns back to Damnation. “I don’t have an answer for you. Mine was to bury what was and rebuild. Stay out of sight, and out of reach. The new name was a reminder a shield, and a promise. You’ll have to find your own.” She turns back to Jackal. “We have been over this. The Deathlords are one thing, but the Masters are another. I don’t have to scrape and grovel at the Lover’s feet to hold to my Oath to Them.” Damnation raises an eyebrow yet again. “Really, Never? You have love for the Tomb-Bodies fraught with hate, writhing in the darkness? Can you genuinely say that if one very efficient and intelligent and capable were to embark on a way to make it so one could not be punished for defying their inscrutable will, you wouldn’t be the least bit tempted?” He raises one finger. “Don’t say yes. That would be blasphemy. But, I’ve seen how passionateyou get with Bolt, and I know you can’t genuinely say no.” “Bolt understands better than you think.” Never says, but doesn’t press the issue. “And for all you question my loyalty, it has never wavered without good cause. Service for power, that was the bargain.” Her wings snapped open. “I want nothing to do with this. When you have more than words and dreams, Jackal... Then perhaps we can talk.” Damnation shakes his head silently. He walks around Jackal and proceeds outwards. “You want nothing to do with this? With all of your pushing and pulling, you two could convince anyone to stray from their convictions. It’s no wonder you’re bringing in an army.” The death knight says nothing else as he proceeds downstairs, wanting no more temptation for one day. Such problematic people. Jackal sighed as he watches the two of them leaving. He frowns while crossing his arms. It was true that there were some who lacked the will to power, sheep who existed only to be ruled by their superiors, superiors which Jackal counted himself as one. Still, for people like that to become Exalts? Perhaps the Neverborn chose them because of weakness of will, not strength of convictions. Still, even him knew that trying to break his chains alone was a fool’s errand. No, he needed those sheep to abandon their fleece. “Perhaps if oblivion means that those imbeciles will be erased as well, I, Jackal, could reconsider my options.” He mumbles under his breath.
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Apr 25, 2013 03:55
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The Everlasting Butterfly of the Decadent Garden Per Aspera Ad Astra Night One Late at night when most would be resting, Butterfly was savagely scavenging the ship. Her medical bay had all the supplies she would ever need to raise an undead army and maybe take care the occasional injuries. The workshop was capable for any craftsmanship necessary to keep the ship afloat and to prepare for upcoming disasters, yet neither of those had what she needed. It finally took a little pestering of Wyrm’s crew to finally let her have access to the star charts they used for navigation, so long as she gave it back before anyone noticed. On the deck of the Envoy, Spark and Loren were waiting, with all the star charts they could scavenge from the Jewel. The three of them soared up beyond the clouds, resting on Spark’s back. With the thunderbird slowing the nearby winds from blowing the charts out of their hands there was no danger to losing their notes. Spark turned down his own fancy lights and Butterfly wrapped them all in a flight of shadow butterflies to prevent any light from below getting in their way. The first night was mostly comparing notes, trying to figure out the similarities and differences between the stars. Some didn’t point out the tiniest stars and they needed to keep track of them as best they could. With a multitude of tea, mundane and magical, to keep them going, it ended up being more of a gathering of friends than anything else. Stargazing Assist - Night 1: 11d10x7 4 16d10x7 4 Int+Occ for Per Aspera Ad Astra - Night One: 8d10x7+8d10x7 6 Night Two Despite various protests and bribes of teacakes, Never absolutely refused to part with her wings, and thus Butterfly was forced to sit on Spark again for the second night. But the teacakes at the very least managed to convince the Day caste to dance away from Bolt for a little bit and help hold some of the charts that were getting cluttered on the impromptu table that was Spark’s feathery back. Maybe it was her serious presence that kept them on track this time? Maybe it was all the prepwork out of the way? Maybe it was the stars aligning just right as fortune smiled on them? This time, they had it. Butterfly let out a cry of joy as she squeezed Loren close, pointing up in the sky. There it was. Hidden away from the constellations in a tiny insignificant region of the sky was the star. One that didn’t belong at all. All the pieces were falling together. Stargazing Assist - Night 2: 11d10x7 7 16d10x7 4 Int+Occ for Per Aspera Ad Astra - Night Two (6 so far): 8d10x7+11d10x7 10 (Note: I accidentally put down Int as the stat, it was really Perc. Math is still correct though.)
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Apr 26, 2013 03:53
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About Last Night Damnation nods at what Butterfly has told him. “So, it seems that Ashes has employed a disgruntled demon named Alveua to create a bomb like the device used at Lookshy. Once this bomb is complete, he intends to use it to disrupt the geomantic energies of the entire isle, destroying the entire place.” He gives pointed glances to both Leo and Rakim in turn. “And, of course, kill thousands of defenceless mortals. When this happens and this entire place becomes a shadowland, he will go to Yu-Shan, blame us, and get approval to use the purple strain and the Siren’s Heartbreak to begin a war with the Deathlords, which he will use as pretext to spread the purple strain to infect at least 80% of the Terrestrial Host. He also probably has resonators in place, detonating the island if we attempt a frontal assault. Did I miss anything important?” “Only the most important bit.” Butterfly said, pulling out a hidden tea kettle. “Drink this.” Her smile widened as she suppressed a malevolent giggle. Tea?: 2d10x7 0 Damnation eyes the tea suspiciously. “Butterfly, what is this?” “I found it in the manse as well. He has thousands of these set up, so I brought back a hundred or so. It’s not just tea. It’s the best tea in the world! It is the pure distilled elemental essence of tea!!” Butterfly caught herself nearly leaping forward in excitement, but then composed herself and sat down with a innocently sweet smile. “Try some!” Damnation thinks to himself, That sounds loving dangerous. He looks over at the tiger. “Rakim, would you care to try this tea?” The tiger-man lifts the cup and scoffs. “This effete indulgence of the most idle and worthless of the decorative classes?” The pirate sitting next to him rolls his eyes. “You said you were the best drinker in the entire direction yesterday. If you’re really that scared of this beverage, I can do it if I have to.” Damnation’s voice drips with sarcasm. “You do not know what fear is, boy,” Rakim snaps. “Perhaps I can show you.” “Rakim...” Leo shakes her head. “You’re doing it again. That thing where you act as if every challenge needs to be dignified with a...” He slams the drink back in a single gulp. “...response.” Defense vs. Tea: 3d10x7 1 “There, see? Nothing but a *cough* drink for mewling *coughcough* in...fan...” “Butterfly, was it?” Leo offers a short bow. “Whenever you are finished amusing yourself at my friend’s expense, I would be very interested to hear more of this impending geomantic apocalypse; it sounds more than slightly relevant to the mission at hand.” Damnation nods. “Yes, but, while our friend is somewhat out of commission, I would ask something.” He looks directly at Butterfly, but wouldn’t mind an answer from another. “Is there any reason a Lunar from the ancient past would strongly resemble one in the present? I have been blessed with the visions recently, and saw one that was alike Rakim, but different, and who lived far too long ago to be the same one.” He glances at Butterfly. “I do not know the point of the vision yet, so this could be important.” “Hmm...let me think on that...” Butterfly said, as she gently nudged the cup of tea closer to Damnation with an innocent look that clearly said ’You are not getting out of this.’ Int+Occ for Lunar Visions (DAMNATION! DRINK YOUR drat TEA!): 10d10x7 2 “Well...I mean he’s a Lunar, Lunars tend to have their reincarnation thing. Maybe you’re just having visions of Rakim’s grandpa or something.” Butterfly shrugged and took a sip of her normal tea. “I’m not the one having visions here, so I don’t really understand either.” In response, Damnation strokes his beard. “You’re telling me that Lunars are reincarnations of past Lunars? Does the same hold true for Solars? Sidereals? Terrestrials? Abyssals?” “This one’s beyond me, sorry Damnation.” She frowned, upset with her own lack of knowledge. “I wish I could do more to help but this is all I have right now.” In response, the pirate simply shrugs. “I, at least, didn’t know about the reincarnation. There are other, stranger questions left, though.” He looks at Butterfly’s forehead. “I know the Daybreak caste mark, the caste of our best magicians, is the same as the caste mark of the best sorcerers among the Solars, and I know my caste mark, the Dusk caste mark, is the same as that of some warlike Solars. I also know that the first generation of Abyssals appeared around the time the Solars returned.” His glance moves to Never, worrying about even more blasphemy in the same day. “I don’t know the root cause of this weird resemblance. Maybe I’ll find something in your tea.” Damnation picks up the cup and drinks deeply, knowing full well the potential effects. Defense vs. Tea: 4d10x7 2 “loving drat IT BUTTERFLY WHAT THE gently caress IS IN THIS poo poo” Damnation starts to pant. “Raw Elemental Essence. On my tongue. You have got to be making GBS threads me. I am going to-” He then begins to sway in his chair back and forth, seeing shapes and colors. Butterfly calmly takes another sip. “Don’t mind them. When they wake up they’ll be feeling full of energy. Raw Elemental Essence, from the volcano’s manse, straight to their own Essence.” She turned to Leo and smiled. “Ashes was terribly abusing the tea by forcing the manse’s essence through it to trap it into using all five elements. The Dragon Lines were a complete mess, but he wanted it that way. He has a Soulbreaker Orb available, and the explosion from that would make the demense explode...it’s a terrible mess. But fortunately with the help of some nice Fire Elementals we can set right what once went wrong.” It’s only now that she notices Damnation is really not doing well. “Hey, you alright?” She asked, poking him with a teaspoon. “Are you okay? you okay? you okay? okay? okay? ay? ay?
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Apr 27, 2013 04:31
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Under the Sea Satisfied that his new device is ready, Ceaseless sets about the simple task of convincing one Court of Elementals to allow the advancement of another Court. He calls first on Murmur, seeing as she is the only water elemental any of the fleet’s officers know personally. When he has tracked the grieving spring spirit down, the Midnight pays the appropriate courtesies and engages in the minimally polite amount of small talk before getting to the point. “Murmur, might you be willing to assist in another potentially tricky endeavour? We have enlisted the aid of some nearby forces, but their ability to approach the isle is limited by the Court of Water. We would like to arrange for a safe passage. Could you help me approach the Court and offer whatever argument in favor you might be willing to advance?” “There might be better people to look for arguments, you know.” Jackal says as he puts his hand on Ceaseless shoulder, seemingly out of nowhere. “Like the one who actually managed to negotiate with elemental courts before. Worry not, engineer! I, Jackal, have deemed such an endeavour to be a good way to pass the time. Strategy talks are boring and just end on bickering, but THIS is a great way to work my magic.” The mizukami looks from Ceaseless to Jackal and back again. “Who, specifically, would require passage? If this is the same ‘magic’ that was worked on Lordsmeet, I would like a little warning before the countdown to detonation begins.” Oh drat it, who told her about that? The Moonshadow just shrugs before answering. “Oh please, it would take a fool to not recognize the results received from that voyage. Results which are the reason we are doing this in first place.” Ceaseless grits his teeth and remains silent in the face of Jackal’s initial avalanche of words, but he is curious to see how the madman can possibly get results without answering simple questions. “I believe a large number of fire elementals are the force that requires passage.” She sighs. “Come. The sooner we can get through with this, the less painful it will be. And perhaps this one will be helpful after all; if the courtiers are bickering enough, they might be too busy to actually stop anything.” United We Slouch Ceaseless and Murmur tread along the surf, eyes squinted against the glare of the noonday sun on the dazzling waves. Above, Jackal flies in a meandering path, waiting for the travelers below to reach the appointed spot. “There.” Murmur points to a patch of water, visually indistinct from any other. “This is where-” *SPLUSHHH!* A geyser of white foam erupts from the sea, spraying blinding saltwater into their faces. When vision returns, a towering figure stands upon the surface of the ocean. Its face is that of a marlin, complete with spearlike snout, bounded by a mane of what look to be urchin spines. The spirit wears armor of conch shell, and carries a great claymore wrought from black jade. ”Well!” he booms in a voice like the rush of an undertow, ”Lookit what I catch’d! Gimme a reas’n I don’ jus’ drag ye under an’ sell ye to the highest bidder, why not!” Oh look a talking seafood dinner. Jackal rolls his eyes and crosses his arms. “How about the fact you’ll be transformed into delicious Sushi?” Wait, no, that’s a situation that requires delicateness. He nods a bit and tries to fix the situation. “Or rather, because we have business with the Water Court! And thus, it’s your duty to bring us to your leaders.” Jackal then crosses his arms. Well that was a bit more delicate... Probably?! The elemental’s maw pulls wide in a hideous grin. “Might be I do.” He slides his daiklave a fraction of the way out of its scabbard. “‘Course, might be what they dunno ‘s no scales offa my nose. Might be jus’ a gal an’ two fellas, already dead, jus’ washed out to sea, an’ I helped meself.” “Ugh, this is just bothersome.” Jackal hovers a few meters away from the elemental, frowning at him with a mixture of disappointment and disgust. “That’s why I, Jackal, proposed that we should go to the Air Court. Properly civilized people there, and not bandits. Hopefully they’ll like this Manse that our Soulsteel Fleet was willing to share.” His face meets his palm in a dramatic gesture. “Too bad it’ll be on you, fishbreath. Even if you survive the second you try to attack us, who knows what your masters will do after they know the opportunity you squandered with the stupid poo poo you pulled. You dumb, dumb, dumb bastard.” “So whatcher sayin’,” the fish-knight puzzles through Jackal’s statement as he unsheathes his weapon, “is if ye die now, there’s a manse ripe fer takin’ righ’ out from under the noses o’ the windbags.” His needle-grin widens. “Soun’s a good bargain to me.” “Good luck taking it from whoever holds it now, Geoduck-breath.” Jackal shrugs with fake disinterest. He was starting to miss the butterflies and even that grumpy duck from before. Now that was good reception, not a GODDAMN BRIGAND. “And aren’t you pushing your luck, trying to fight two of the feared ‘Anathema’ and another Water Elemental?” He says while making air quotes at the mention of the A-word. “Worry not, for I, Jackal, am giving you a chance to not be flayed or horribly slain like the wretch you are. Isn’t that a great deal of kindness of my part? Yes, indeed it is. Again, you will put your little knife back on its sheath and take us to your GODDAMN leaders or ELSE I, Jackal, am going to forget that little act of kindness right now.” He’s seriously annoyed now. “To elaborate slightly, the manse is currently held by an army, including among its members no lesser personage than Alveua. She is a Second Circle demon, which you may or may not be aware of. When she and I spoke, it became apparent that she was under orders to repel intruders who interrupted her work.” Ceaseless cocks his head to the side consideringly, bone veil rattling. “I would make a conservative estimate that her hammer outweighs your sword three to one. But if you wish to be a mildly annoying distraction in advance of our main assault, we shan’t stop you. We will, of course, prevent you from doing us harm.” Perhaps Ceaseless’ calm demeanour will be capable of breaking through the elemental’s bluster where Jackal’s own bluster was not. ”An’ yer fightin’ an upstream battle? How can I lose?” “I see any number of possibilities where you lose. The only one that is truly troublesome is the one where you manage to become infected with the mind-controlling plant disease our foe uses to control his non-demonic allies. I’m sure an eternity of servitude won’t bother you, since your mind will be controlled to ensure you enjoy the experience. You might think that your watery nature somehow makes you immune to this threat, but we have seen significant evidence that your nature is no longer a barrier to the plague’s spread.” “Yes, there’s the whole spooky plague. Not to mention that the Wood and Air would probably claim whatever there was for you guys to win. Heck, one could hedge the bets on the former considering how the Plant disease is going to give them a really, really, really great advantage. Imagine how much fun their Court would have when you guys are overtaken by those plants.” For the first time in this exchange, the fish-knight’s expression betrays a hint of realization that his bargaining position may not have been as strong as he originally anticipated. ”Fine, talk with the bigger fish. Don’ blame me when ye get et.” He sheathes his weapon. ”An’ don’ go nowhere - her nibs will wanna see this fer herself.” Smirking, he dives below the waves. Thirty Minutes Later “So.” The Storm Mother’s voice is a rasping croak, harsh and raucous like a gull’s cry. “These upstanding young men came a-lookin’ for me, and what they’re offering is all of our lives and favors owed us by Death, Fire, and Air.” Her glassy, black eyes narrow, squinting down at the bruised and battered form of the kneeling elemental. “And what we have to do to collect on these favors is: nothing whatsoever.” She circles around her knight. “And your answer...was to threaten them. While everything from the Neck to Skullstone is about to vanish in a big, bright ball of plausible deniability.” ”Milady, they brung no tribute. Any weak as them gives such disrespec’, t’ain’t righ’ to let ‘em off so eas-” The goddess backhands him hard enough to send several needle-sharp teeth flying into the surf. While he rolls to his side and coughs watery ‘blood’, she approaches the Midnight and the Moonshadow. “What are ye waiting for, pretty boy?” She gives a laugh like the shrieking of a gale. “Give us a kiss an’ we’ll call it a deal.” Jackal whistles as the Elemental is thrown backwards by the Storm Mother. The hag is as atrocious as her appearance, but putting that disgusting little fish in place was good enough for him. Of course, that was before the KISS part. Yes, Jackal is going to ignore the fact he’s the pretty one of the two. “Yes, Ceaseless, go kiss the nice Lady.” He says with no shame at all. “My lady, I would be honored. I have spent days in the loving embrace of the sea, to kiss a woman as distinguished as yourself is but one more feather in my cap.” Ceaseless sweeps off his hat with gusto to clear the way and gives the Storm Mother a long and enthusiastic smooching. When the deed is done, he steps back. “A deal where everyone profits, I say!” Well he sure took one for the team. Jackal just looks in horror while barely vocalizing an answer. “And a deal is done indeed.”
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Apr 27, 2013 05:09
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All the Abyssals - The Envoy, Conference Room As the Abyssals all take seats around the large oaken table, Damnation takes off his mask and sets it down. After a brief glance to Never and a curt nod to Watcher, he takes a seat and begins to address the group. “As some of you may know, some of us have been given special orders directly from the top. I have called you here because, while these orders obviously cannot be violated, I wish for them to be carried out in a way that resolves the situation on Petraya to all of our satisfactions.” Taking a deep breath, he continues. “Watcher and I both are required to bring in Ashes alive. This point, at least, does not appear to allow for any compromise. I am required to only release him into the custody of one individual: The Mask of Winters. I must call The Mask of Winters and eventually relinquish custody of Ashes to him.” His dark eyes scan the group, looking for reactions. “However, I am willing to compromise to make this more palatable to those of you who may not know The Mask like I do, if you have any suggestions.” Wyrm sprawls across her place in the ring, looking quite acutely disinterested in the proceedings. She spins a pair of needles between her fingers as she grumbles, “If you think any of yours would do anything but shove him in a box for two thousand years...” Her connection to the shore provides a welcome distraction. <Though I doubt you’ll get the chance to intervene, don’t suppose you have any objections?> The thought fits within the span of a yawn, “... not that there’s much point to any of this until we have a body to argue over.” Jackal just slouches on his seat and looks at everyone while feigning disinterest. “Why are we giving away the prize for starters? I, Jackal, do not remember that the Thorns Army was the one who fought against our enemies, and neither that The Mask of Winters has ever lifted a finger to help on the capture of Ashes, and yet we are handing him like a wrapped gift?” He stares at Damnation with piercing eyes. “I, Jackal, say that we at least have the right to keep him with us, even if it’s for a while. There is a myriad amount of information that one could gather from such an individual, information that would help us in many ways.” Damnation nods at Jackal’s suggestion. “We are not prohibited from doing our own interrogation in a timely manner, though I imagine that it will require a great deal of cleverness to get anything out of Ashes personally. But, yes, I recognize that it is worth trying before we call the bosses, and I believe our Lunar friends would be very angry indeed if they weren’t allowed to ask Ashes about what happened to their island.” He lets slip a smile, as this is going surprisingly smoothly so far. “Does anyone take issue with Ashes ultimately being turned over to Mask of Winters? I had been worried that might contradict the orders of some of my shipmates.” “’Their’ Island? And again, it’s better for us to keep him with us for at least an year. There might be need of his expertise to clean out whatever messes Ashes still left for us.” Jackal lifts an eyebrow, curious at that sudden development. Wyrm examines a crimson strand which had snuck out from beneath her hat. As Jackal speaks, she draws it tight, sets a needle against it and draws. She lets it fly at the empty space between Jackal’s ears. Damnation chuckles. “Their island. A different island. And no, Jackal, we are not holding him ourselves for a year. Even if he didn’t figure out how to escape -And realize this is an Elder Sidereal Mastermind who has manipulated countless powerful individuals with his schemes- both Heaven and the Underworld alike would send their most elite forces to rescue such a captive. We would find ourselves beset by special task forces from outside Creation until we gave him up. And, our bosses would hate us. Our lords. Whose orders we carry out without fail. Correct, Jackal?” The death knight sends a piercing stare his way. Jackal grunts as Damnation keeps pushing his buttons. That and because of the new earring he got after the Moonshadow intercepts the flying needle with a quick earlobe movement. “Can one just raise concerns about the same ’Elder Sidereal Mastermind’...” Airquotes included. “Having a contingency for when he croaks or gets captured? But hey, if one likes to be a good little obedient minion, I, Jackal, have nothing but do but salute at such valorous loyalty.” He makes a mocking gesture at Damnation while smiling at him. “Truly The Mask of Winters will appreciate such a gift from his adorable little Pirate. Perhaps we could wait until his Birthday to wrap Ashes to him?” And there goes the other needle. Damnation rolls his eyes. “You’re going off-topic, Jackal. If it really matters so much, we can leave the exact amount of time we will hold Ashes in our own custody up for later discussion.” He looks at Watcher, who has been characteristically silent. “A more important worry is that some of us might have orders which contradict handing him over to the Mask of Winters and instead require that he be given to another party. I am hoping to ensure we find an arrangement now that works for all such people instead of having someone try to pull an ugly bit of intrigue at the last minute.” Mercy has merely raised an eyebrow at Jackal’s...’colourful’ proposal, since he’s currently recording. No need to go into that now. “Instead of further impromptu piercings, it might help to request clarification on the point from our respective superiors. I was sent by the Deathlords as a whole, so I don’t have any stake in who gets him. But if the ship is here representing multiple Deathlords anyway, and considering we’re already passing the Ashes problem up the food chain, anyway, why not extend the idea? Ask everybody’s boss if they want a piece of Ashes, and then let wiser heads then ours figure out who gets him when. After all, our business is the capturing and the seeing safely to the Deathlords - plural or singular. What happens after...” Damnation makes a show out of pulling out a cigar. Twirling his fingers around, removing the lighter with a flourish, handling it once it’s lit. It all seems a bit pretentious and stilted, like something a Realm bureaucrat showing off would do. Linguistics:High Realm It is something a Realm bureaucrat would do, as he’s speaking with the associated hand signs of High Realm. “It’s a good idea, Mercy. But, don’t forget the morale concerns with the greater organization. Never and I have recovered intelligence confirming two deathlords as, shall we say, not being compromised by loyalty to other organizations. Once such deathlord is your superior, the Bishop. To allay any concerns Never or Watcher may have, I suggest you make sure to get your own boss over here. Once Damnation takes a puff on the cigar, he turns to Mercy. “The Bishop is as close to a neutral party as exists among our superiors. His coming could be helpful, and this plan is not a violation of my orders, but I need to know if this contradicts orders any of my shipmates have received. Or my superior officers.” Watcher shakes his head sadly. “Not good enough; The Bishop may be neutral, but not equal to the challenge. To be safe, three are required. I know Walker in Darkness would be willing to make that...sacrifice...to be the third party, if just to keep this all in-house. Other suggestions can be considered, but we must have three, or we resist(risk?) losing all.” Damnation leans back in his chair and snickers. “That’s a fair point. I like Walker more than most, as he gets dirty himself, so I would be happy to have him as a third party.” He turns around in the chair and cracks his spine, then looks across at a full half of his fellow death knights. “The elephant in the room seems to be the Lover. She commands a solid half of you, yet, to my knowledge, she’s offered no orders on this issue. Butterfly, Ceaseless, Never, does the calling of the suggested triumvirate satisfy you?” Wyrm twists about to bring her officers into view. Her eyes narrow. They would see this end. Butterfly nods before speaking up. “The triumvirate poses few problems, other than having the Deathlords get along. But I shall send a message to The Lover informing her of the circumstances and leave the choice up to her. We have enough already, but since she guides the greatest number of us, she should have some say in the matter. Besides, I’ve been meaning to ask her for some spell notes to deal with our Orchid problems anyway, I can simply handle the two matters at once.” Ceaseless nods agreeably at Butterfly’s planned course of action. Getting what he wants from Ashes shouldn’t take too long, after all. Plutonis fucked around with this message at 02:39 on Apr 30, 2013 |
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Apr 30, 2013 02:15
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Mercy - Jackal to the Hound At some time during the meeting, Mercy had quietly passed a note to Jackal. It simply read We need to talk. Meet me in my office afterwards. Oh look, the newcomer thinks that he can order Jackal around. That’s going to be fun. In order to deliberately antagonize and spite Mercy, the Moonshadow just shreds the note, going into his office only an hour after the meeting. He has both of his hands inside his jacket as he opens the door by kicking it open. “Yo! Did someone here require Jackal’s presence?” The commissar is inside, reading something calmly, apparently unmoved by either the shredding of the note or the dramatic entrance. “Ah, yes. Sit or stand as you please, and shut the door behind you. We wouldn’t want to be interrupted.” The door is quickly shut down, and Jackal leans calmly on a wall near it, staring at Mercy with a mix of curiosity and annoyance. “So, what does the new guy want with the great me? Everyone’s getting ready with... Well, whatever they are doing. To be honest this whole affair is just tiresome.” He says with a shrug. “I’m curious,” Mercy said. “You’re aware that I’m here in two roles, yes? As morale officer and as a loyalty officer?” “Which is kind of interesting considering there has been no need of such, since our performance has been great, I, Jackal, feel quite motivated and probably the rest of the crew do too.” He doesn’t mention loyalty at all though. But yes, Jackal’s morale has been quite high despite some shortcomings lately. Mercy smiles a thin-lipped smile. “Quite. What I’m curious about is this: can you possibly be as dim as you act, or is it just a cover for something? Quite apart from Captain Wyrm, who seems to be about a stunt and a half from tossing you overboard, you do realize I’d be within my powers as a loyalty officer to have you jailed purely on the strength of what you said in the meeting?” “Hahahaha, is that so?” Jackal smiles at Mercy, his grin shark-like as his pointy teeth shine with a white glow. “Well, I, Jackal, guess you would probably react differently if you knew that I, Jackal plan to abandon the service of the Deathlords and the Neverborn, and will try to convince the rest of the Crew, including you, to do so.” His smile makes the madness of the proposal look even more ridiculous, and his eyes pass the kind of insanity you’d see on either Kings or the men that eat their own feces inside madhouses. “Would you jail me for that?” Mercy’s grin has widened. “No, I’m afraid at that point we’d have to move on to ‘or worse’. I don’t think you’ve quite understood what I’m getting at here. I’m not posturing, and I’m not threatening to wield my power over you. I am warning you. Not like that, either,” he said, shaking his head at Jackal’s reflexive sneer. “You’re being tolerated now because when it comes time to fight our man on the island, we’re going to need all the help we can get. But if that goes even remotely to plan, there will come a time not long after that when somebody in the command structure, from the captains on up, will judge you more trouble than you’re worth. At that point - well, unless you think you can take every loyal deathknight in the crews in a fight at the same time, so shall end Jackal.” Jackal’s smile doesn’t even falter after Mercy’s warning. “How adorable, the lap doggie barks, yet can he bite as well? Tell me newcomer, what happened on your second life that made you think that evaluating people on how well they danced at their puppeteer’s fingers was a good career choice? But yes, let us say that every loyal lapdog in this ship comes to exterminate me and succeed at such. What will happen then? You think that the Crew will still keep tied together? No, I, Jackal, have noticed the cracks, and while my hands are the ones that will use such cracks to break their chains, it will only be making this inevitable process to happen sooner than later.” His facial expression turns into a frown as he puts both his hands on Mercy’s table, leaning to the Commissar’s face. “We are the powerful Anathema, the entire bloody Realm fears us. And yet, instead of ruling this land we could, our talents are being wasted for some kind of sick plan to destroy all of Creation! Look at me, newcomer, and tell me... Are you really okay with being a pawn?” “One question at a time, then. I don’t think my fighting ability much matters for the purpose, really. I think there are enough loyalists that could beat you that it wouldn’t much matter, all at once. And on the subject of the crew fracturing, there are two points of interest on that subject. First, let us say that what you say is true, and the crew does split apart after we’re required to kill a peer. The problem, for you, is that you will not live to see it happen. All your plans, whatever they may be...gone. That’s on the one hand. On the other, what you say may be true, but if - and only if - enough of the crew are attached enough to you that your passing would cause them to reconsider their position.” The smile was lazy, at ease. Things were going to plan. “Otherwise, it’s just cleaning up a nuisance. So, how about it, Jackal? Have you made yourself indispensable? Have you made many friends here?” As he had spoken, his voice had taken on a weird resonant quality, and his pupils had dilated. “Truthfully, now.” 3m, personal, on Deception-Piercing Glance. “Indispensable?” Jackal shrugs. “I brought a bloody Elemental Court and arranged important intel for the fleet. If anything, I, Jackal, am more needed here than you, twerp.” While his tone is spiteful, he does believe that he’s an important part of the ship’s crew. “That would answer your first question. And why would I, Jackal, ask for the help of anyone? My time here was not enough to open the minds of such brats. No, there are no friends to be made here, and they are not needed.” He looks annoyed while saying that, the piercing realization of his own situation becoming crystal-clear. “Not even my beloved Captain whom you say would throw me out of the ship. No, Jackal has only himself here.” Mercy nods. “And you, Jackal, will need help, if you’re going to survive, loyally or otherwise. It’s an uncomfortable realization that the world is larger than us for the time being, but that’s how it is.” He shakes his head, suddenly seemingly annoyed. “I’ve been trying to save your life, you silly bastard. Because, as you said, if you make us kill you, it may well cause us even more trouble than leaving you alive, talking as you are now. So now, you, Jackal, have a choice. You can continue as you have now, and take your chances that your open treason will continue to be tolerated - and I can tell you, as I have an inside line, that it isn’t a bet I’d take. Or, we can make a deal.” Jackal just takes his hands off his desk and walks away from Mercy, shrugging. “And why even bother letting me live? Why should I bother to keep going on a road that I, Jackal, did not choose? No, it’s better if you just skipped pleasantries and had everyone blast me to oblivion, newcomer.” He gazes at the wall, his mind lost in thoughts as dark realizations enter his mind. “Why do you even care as well? Our so-called Master’s jobs are to end all. Perhaps ending me would be a step closer to that. Perhaps ending yourself would be a step closer to that. No, no, you are not the one who’s trying to save my life, that is definitely a ‘Mercy that is not Given’. I, Jackal, am the one who wants to save you. Save you from a path of meaningless destruction.” “Remember - I’m wearing two hats. As the loyalty officer, my motives are obvious. As the morale officer, I’m a dispassionate advisor. As the morale officer, I’d advise you that we are Exalted. There’s no denying that. And Exalted, by their very nature, live a long, long time, if those lives aren’t cut short by external concerns. If you press this issue now, you’ll die free. If you hold your tongue, toe the line in public, and watch for your chance, when you do make a move, you’ll have power, resources, and friends to back you up. You’d trade some small years of unhappiness for the chance at millenia of rule. That’s what a dispassionate advisor would say, anyway.” “That’s dispassionate advice all right.” Jackal smiles, amused at the advice that has just been given. “That being said, it will not take years for everyone to see things the way i do. No, no, I, Jackal, believe it won’t even take one year at all. Know this, Last Mercy Given, that you will have full scale rebellion in but a few months. Consider that alongside the fact that you ‘spared’ me, and start thinking on these following days... Will you choose to live free or to take those years of unhappiness until you are finally thrown into the last Death?” He turns his back to Mercy and heads to the door, opening it before leaving the office. “That is my advice for you.”
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May 1, 2013 03:48
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Daughter of Onyx & Silver Lately, Onyx had been dreaming. Dreams of nights spent punishing the wicked, testing herself against the wiles of the unjust. Collecting evidence to lay before her peers, protecting the innocent. And a... partner? Just out of memory, out of seeing. It frustrated her. That paled in comparison to what she had just witnessed. So Jackal was planning on going rogue? Interesting. And Mercy... The Day caste stepped forward from the corner in which she had been lurking, standing behind and just to the left of the commissar. "I'm surprised you let him walk out of here intact." Wooo, finally back. Cleared being in Mercy's office by fiat with vdate; figured the comedy option was the way to go, here.
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May 12, 2013 00:38
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Last Mercy Given He didn't move a muscle as Onyx made herself known; she'd done this to him too many times for him to be particularly surprised by it any longer. He just shook his head instead. " The goal is to avoid killing him, after all. Quite apart from morale concerns, training new deathknights takes time and resources and we don't have an abundance of either. If nothing else, he'll be somebody else for Ashes to punch, come the showdown." He looked over his shoulder at her. "I'd prefer to salvage him if possible, but he seems hell-bent on getting himself executed by someone or another. I've never seen a potential traitor be so damned bad at it - sometimes I wonder if he's the real loyalty officer and I'm the cover, but then he does something else that points towards 'hopelessly naive'. He steepled his fingers and leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowed. "I'd appreciate your input on the matter, if you're willing to give it. How do we tame the Jackal?"
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May 12, 2013 01:22
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Daughter of Onyx & Silver Onyx frowns at the question. Truth be told, she hadn't really considered the potential strains on Underworld resources. It made a certain degree of sense, though. "I think you've put your finger on it without knowing it: he's so damned bad at rebelling or otherwise turning traitor that we may as well just let him run amok. If nothing else, we can count on him to spread chaos and confusion wherever he goes." She moves to a less threatening position, sitting casually against the desk. She knew better than to actively flirt with the Midnight, but teasing him was almost too fun. "Rather than taming him, we're better off letting him flush the quail, so to speak." Onyx snorts, indelicately. "And I thought Damnation was a handy distraction. He, Jackal, may as well be a rampaging tyrant lizard. One can't help but single him out." The assassin meets the inquisitor's eyes. "At the very least, Jackal's a mark against the Lover that the Bishop can use. One less arrow in her quiver, so to speak." She counts off points on her fingers. "He knows you're watching him, and he's still more valuable existing than not. Let the rope play out: he'll hang himself, or end up bound. Either way, it's less effort than actually disposing of him, and he might end up useful in spite of his intentions." Onyx grins at Mercy. "Just like that mess down in An-Teng, huh?"
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May 12, 2013 02:15
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Mercy and Onyx - Der Kommissar's In Town "Just like old times. Only difference is the effect, this time." He smiled, eyes still narrowed. "How does it feel to be saving the world for a change, hm?" Onyx rolls her eyes. “You know as well as I do that this isn't 'saving the world.'" She crosses her arms, meets Mercy’s stare. "And don't try the Grand High Inquisitor routine on me, I know better. This is making sure that a Sidereal Elder doesn't get his hands on a weapon of unimaginable power and a force capable of defending Creation from the Underworld equivalent of a Baloran Crusade." A quick grin follows her statement: "And besides, otherwise it would just get boring. Keeping things fragmented keeps it interesting." "True enough. I've found, though, that any force capable of defending against a Balorian Crusade-equivalent is in itself a Balorian Crusade-equivalent. Keeps things in perspective if you look at it that way." "Yes, but this time, it would be in the hands of someone dedicated to preserving Creation, and who had an army of anti-Shadowlands monsters." Onyx grimaces. "It'd be a Baloran Crusade against us." He grins. "So dedicated to being the bad guy. Besides, I think you and I could take a few wussy elves. Or plants. Take your pick." The Day Caste chuckles. "It sort of depends on how you define 'a few.' And really, this is as much about saving my own skin as it is about furthering the mission." She levers herself into a standing position, casually surveying the office. "You know my opinions on the Bishop's dogma. I'm convinced that time will eventually end everything; no need to be bored in the meantime. And wave after wave after wave of plants - or elves - would get boring." He nods, apparently satisfied. "True enough. On to business, then - you’ve been here well longer than I have. Jackal excepted, what’s your read on our colleagues? Quite apart from professional interest, I am curious for your take on them." Onyx takes a moment, before counting off her comrades. "Last Damnation of Atlantis is formidable, surprisingly creative, and loyal to Mask of Winters. He's got a genuine talent for rolling with whatever pulls him along. Sometimes quite literally." "The Revelation’s engineer, The Waves, Ceaseless and Unending, Devour the Shore has proven himself capable as well. Rather attached to the ship, though. I don't think he's forgiven the captain for devouring its least god. Pretty drat good shot with a ballista, too." "Watcher at the Gates of Sorrow has a nose for intrigue. Probably why they put Jackal on our tub; we've already got Damnation aiming for a Captaincy, what’s one more loud, obnoxious monster with ambition? I'm still impressed with that doubleshark he managed to make." She shrugs. "I'm not as familiar with your crewmates, unfortunately." He shrugged. "No doubt I’ll learn about them in time. Right now, all I know for sure is that the Captain’s a stickler for the spirit of the rules, not the letter, and that the first mate's nicked one of my teacups." His expression becomes serious for a second. "But you're underestimating your first mate. We got cornered by an elder Lunar, out at Denzik, and he kept a cooler head than me about it, stoned out of his mind on the local cocaine. No, Damnation is a man to watch, for all that he looks like one of those berserkers from up north." Onyx frowns. "That’s true; he did." She rubs her nose in absentminded memory. "Remind me not to try and keep pace with him again, by the way." She thinks on the crew of the Envoy. "Your new Captain is... a puzzle. On the one hand, Spawn of the Devouring Wyrm is a brilliant tactician and a forceful personality. On the other... Hat's off to anyone crazy enough to merge with the plants on their own terms. She still owes me a meat larder for that little stunt with the ballista. Either that or dinner and drinks." "My counterpart, Never Within Reach, concerns me. I know what it's like to not remember things, but from the sounds of it, she’s had her memory removed multiple times. I can't really fault her for sleeping with Bolt-From-Brightest-Day, but she's getting pretty attached. Still thinks she can take me in a race between her wings and my bike, which proves that all the memory-wipes have affected her judgment." The redheaded scout arches an eyebrow at Mercy. "Is it true that Everlasting Butterfly of the Decadent Garden found and drank Elemental Essence of Tea? She must be the happiest Abyssal around, if so." Mercy snorted at the last comment. "I've yet to meet the good doctor. From what I’ve heard of her, 'Butterfly' seems like a good name. I’ll have to interview everybody in turn anyway, so I suppose I'll be able to find out for myself in any case. Yourself excluded, of course. I know where your loyalties lie, and we’ll likely be deployed together enough that I can keep an eye on you in either event." He made a note in his little logbook, then closed it and put it in his desk. "I'll need to have a talk with Damnation anyhow, to tell him the plan regarding Jackal." Onyx rolls her eyes. "Oh, goody. I get to deal with Damnation and Jackal attempting subtlety." She glares in the direction of the bridge. "Wyrm had better pay up on that drink soon. I'm going to need it." She gives Mercy a curt nod and stalks out, hellbent on rum. "I'll send Damnation in."
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May 15, 2013 21:09
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The Road So Far Carry on my wayward son There'll be peace when you are done Lay your weary head to rest Don't you cry no more Northwestern Ocean: Saturnsday, 28 Ascending Wood The drumming of Sister Iselsi Sheena's fingers on the gunwale of the overcrowded skiff kept time against the pattering of rain on the open sea. A lesser captain might have courted mutiny - even the truest of sailors had no wish to cross the sea in a glorified lifeboat - but a Child of Danaa'd's mastery of the waves was unquestioned. Blessed Gaia, who wrought the world and gave her most beloved children the power to strike down the unclean Anathema, lend her strength... Brother Mnemon Carrus sat across from her in silent contemplation. Admittedly, it wasn't as if the mute had any other form of contemplation, but even by his usual standard he was uncharacteristically still. The juniors had stayed behind, Brother Ahazda was dead; Sister Superior Xùlan, far worse than that. Brother Carrus did not hate the Anathema, for he was hardly a man given to hatred in any circumstances, but he respected the threat that they posed. He had seen good men driven to madness by the light of the moon. He would go with all speed and save whom he could; the rest, he would honor by ensuring that their sacrifice was not in vain. The mortal crew attended to what spiritual duties they could. They fasted, they meditated, and they endured. No more could be asked of them. Sister Sheena broke the silence first. "We should have warned them. It isn't right to keep quiet, not when we could have alerted at least the Satrap and preferably the Navy as well. If Amphiro falls before we get there..." Brother Carrus considered her words and signed his response. We have no way of knowing how far the Grandmaster's influence has spread. He would have to be not only a madman, but a fool to have not prepared for escapees or interference from House Sesus or House Peleps, and I am certain that at least one Commodore had put into port at Jiankang when we were sent off to die. Even if he has not, he proved influential enough to have us all reassigned to the Twin Springs Mission. He shook his head. No. Our greatest advantage is that he may think us dead, or that if he does know we survived, he will expect us to return to Petraya to confront him. If our words reach the wrong ears in Sesus Chido's villa, Tide may burn Amphiro to the ground to deny us reinforcements. Sheena looked dubious. "You earnestly think he would risk exposing himself in that way? Secrecy is clearly his foremost concern, or he wouldn't have gone to such contrived extremes just to kill us before we could warn anyone." He was already prepared to slaughter one-fifth of the Neck's populace to succeed. Why should another quarter weigh on him any more? Carrus held his massive palm out to signal resignation. Besides, even from what little we truly know of him, it is clear that he's not the type to plan one set of failsafes when he could have five. "And yet, here we are, alive if not well." How does one even begin to plan for two Anathema warships arriving unannounced? Sheena looked back in the direction of their departure, where last they had seen the Envoy of Eternal Peace and the Imminent Revelation of Oblivion, and spat into the water. "I'm sure I don't know, but I expect they'll be finding out shortly." Once I rose above the noise and confusion, just to get a glimpse beyond this illusion House Peleps Outpost, Jiankang: Venusday, 4 Resplendent Wood Finally assigned a nominally important task, Peleps Tzorik dug through his former House's stockpile with enthusiasm and abandon. First impression: Those assholes had been holding out on him. Why did these fuckers get Shogunate-era personal cannons while he had to make do with whatever pittance the Order could scrounge for him (and whatever he could scheme, steal, and cheat his way into as well, but gently caress it, it shouldn't count if he had to get it for himself)? Some amount of venting and bitterness later, it occurred to him that the real question, rather, was WHERE they'd found such armaments, at least in the eyes of his bro Ceaseless. Despite his cavalier attitude, he went through the paper trail with admirable aplomb and efficiency. He couldn't help it. Water-aspects were just good at this nerd poo poo. It was a gift and a curse. Right. What had that viper's nest he'd called a family been up to of late? The most obvious conclusion was that they'd been planning some sort of coup when Tide or Ashes or whatever the gently caress that douchenozzle was called had made his own power play. Fair enough. He could respect ambition. Just their bad luck there'd been a bigger fish in the pool. Except... ...something made no loving sense. If they were planning a coup, why the gently caress was there even a paper trail to begin with? You make a dirty play, the last thing you want is to let them know about the pair of Empresses up your sleeve on top of your Dragon in the hole if they catch you. Lost in thought, he nearly paged past a document that said nothing of the materiel's provenance. Only a single mark, the seal of his lord uncle (rat bastard), managed to draw his eye long enough to pay it closer heed. The hell was Admiral Peleps Kaizoku Dyval doing out in the loving boonies? ...Oh. ...Oh, poo poo! He had to tell Ceaseless. He had to tell Ceaseless RIGHT loving NOW. I was soaring ever higher, but I flew too high Captain's Quarters, Envoy of Eternal Peace, North Petrayan Shadowland: Venusday, 4 Resplendent Wood "It's not fair," Koko'Ino lamented to anyone who'd hear her, much to their own laments. "All I asked was what the world owed me, and how does it repay me? By sticking me in a tiny rock like some common elemental and letting some tiny human lord it over me!" She sulked against the bounds of her prison. "And that useless fuckstick Scatters-The-Ashes hasn't sent even one little army to rescue me! And don't even get me started on those other sorry excuses for divinities - they're useless, or worse...I'm sure one of them's sitting in My SHRINE right this instant, basking in the adulation of the mortals and taking their pick of the tastiest ones." She spat. "Probably Flame-Upon-The-Peaks - I never trusted that little prick. His dad was a little bitch, and as far as I'm concerned that makes his son Bitch, Jr." A dejected slump. "It't not fair!" She shot Wyrm an evil look. "Fine. He wants to play it that way? Let's let him see just how much he needs me." Though my eyes could see I still was a blind man Envoy of Eternal Peace, Marsday, 5 Resplendent Wood It took nearly a full day for Koko'Ino to deliver on her promise, but deliver she did. Two monstrous, ravenous fish swam alongside the Envoy - god-sharks, the most blessed of Siakal. They deposited four raw, bloody corpses, each bedecked in black jade and specked with fuschia blooms, and took their leave. "They weren't anywhere near Petraya at all," Koko'Ino explained from within her crystal. "Ashes was keeping them in reserve further out to sea." She folded her arms in a smug posture. "Military Strategy 101: if your troops work best in a given environment, you make every effort to keep them in that environment." She smiled her needle-fanged smile. "But nothing hides from my boys in the water." All at once, her pretense at willing cooperativeness faded. "So are you going to let me out now or what?" Though my mind could think I still was a mad man Palisade, North Petrayan Shadowland: Venusday, 4 Resplendent Wood "Brethren!" The Voice-of-Ages' sonorous hail called the warriors-cum-soldiers to what could almost be called 'attention'. "Honored ancestors!" Noiselessly, the restless dead faded into visibility, lurking motionless amidst the shadowed trees; Cynis Xùlan's training had not been wasted on them. "Guests." The joviality of his tone felt somewhat more forced as he addressed the Smaragdi refugees. From the the desecrated ruin of Koko'Ino's shrine, the priest strode into view atop the stone altar split asunder by Bolt-from-Brightest Day's axe. His skin, already deathly pale, was streaked with what looked to be bone ash, and his gaunt frame was hidden beneath a voluminous shroud of funereal linens. Of his head, only his faded blue hair was visible, the rest covered by a mask of tarnished silver - a crude imitation of the Bodhisattva's, but sincere in its veneration. Haloed by the setting sun, he cut an imposing figure. "Long have we endured," he began, "for life is cruel. It takes from us all things, in time. Our fondest treasures, our greatest dreams, our dearest loves are nothing to its designs. Some of us," his unseen eyes flicked again to the green-haired tribals, "learn this lesson later than others; no matter. Death is the beginning of all true wisdom, and it comes for all of us." "And indeed," he swept his hand out across the compound before clutching it close to his heart; for an instant, streaks of dull red could be seen on his hand and wrist before they vanished back beneath the shroud. "Death has come to us. Her champions walk our blessed soil, to speak judgment and bring vengeance on those who do not keep the Old Ways. They have cast down the false idols who whispered false promises of deliverance, who took our hospitality and demanded our flesh in turn. They bested the lying serpents and the devil-flowers - and were they not merciful?" The priest strode forward, his mask glittering coldly in the torchlight as the last rays of the sun faded. "Were not even these most blasphemous of foes permitted to rise once more, that they may seek the truth of the Final Union? Have they not seen the error of their ways?" A chill fell over the assembly, and the night seemed to press in upon the feeble light that dared hold it at bay. "Life is cruel," Voice-of-Ages repeated. "As all upon Petraya know...save for one." He raised his hand to indicate the distant mountaintop. His sleeve fallen away, his arm's ghastly mutilation was bare for all to see; despite Butterfly's finest work (or perhaps because of it), the limb looked like it belonged to a cadaver than to any living thing. His smile was hidden behind the mask, but none could mistake it in his words. "But we shall teach him." I hear the voices when I'm dreaming Lounge, Envoy of Eternal Peace, North Petrayan Shadowland: Marsday, 5 Resplendent Wood Creation's staggering breadth of decadent indulgences notwithstanding, there were some things just not meant to be imbibed my man nor beast nor god nor Exalt. The brew that Butterfly had scrounged from the volcano-manse's control center rapidly took its toll on Damnation and Rakim, Abyssal and Lunar slumping, unconscious, to the plush carpet. Leo looked down at her friend, nudged his bulk with her foot, and took his massive paw in both hands, struggling in vain to pull him from his stupor. After her third attempt, she looked back to Butterfly, the eyes framed by a mask of jewel-bright feathers evincing exasperation. "Unless you have some clever device for moving some combined five hundred kilograms of armor and imbecile, I don't think they'll be moving from that spot any time soon." Insensate, the pair on the rug hear none of this. Skies over Meru: A Long loving Time Ago If there was one thing worse than bureaucracy, it was all the loving partying. It wasn't all that different from screwing, when you got down to it. Some was fun, more was better, a lot was boring, and too much started to hurt. Of late, the Deliberative seemed to feel that 'too much' was the cutoff for the bare minimum. It didn't matter if you had other plans, or a million better things to do, or just didn't give a flying gently caress about all the motherfucking drama, but there you had it. People were starting to get uneasy, paranoid. Worried that someone might be trying to start something - maybe a power play, maybe an Akuma plant. You didn't come, you might be a conspirator, and suddenly your life got entirely too interesting for anyone's taste. Sultan had hemmed and hawed and thrown out every excuse the considerable genius of his mind could come up with, but when all was said and done, the worst they could afford to be was 'fashionably late'. Still, nobody could say that they weren't coming in style. Sultan peered over the edge of his Kireeki-Class Aerial Transport, watching a million million tiny lights flecked across the continent below. In the dark of Calibration, it was a welcoming sight. A hundred fiddly little bars and gauges told him that their approach was steady, their altitude even, all systems were working, and dozens of other things he didn't need a display to tell him. "Think of it this way," a booming voice sounded from over the port railing, "the sooner we get here, the sooner we can find an excuse to leave." Sultan chuckled at the vast roc flying parallel to the sky galleon. It looked for all Creation like a dumb beast, a ravenous apex-predator of the Near East, but for the fact that its wings were conspicuously backwards. "Well, praise Sol for small mercies, eh, Tiger?" "You know me. I do what I can with what I've got." The Solar commander nodded. "There's the Exalted spirit." At his direction, the vessel began to circle for its final descent. The shining palace below shone a rainbow of miraculous light into the sky, a beacon of defiance against the five-day night. Wrought from Orichalcum and Moonsilver and Jade and countless wondrous, impossible materials pulled from the chaos of the Wyld, it was fittingly seated as close as could be to the very center of the world, second in honor and glory only to Yu-Shan itself. The building was placed at the hub of a labyrinthine mandala of streets and lesser edifices, a work of gorgeous geomantic perfection. Regrettably, docking for airships had not been a consideration at the time of its construction. Other transports, even more ludicrously-ostentatious than the Kireeki, floated unsupported in the air above Meru. Whatever. Let them show off. A warship may not have been formal, but it was drat well honest. With practiced ease, the Terrestrial crew of the vessel set about under the direction of their august commander, maneuvering and jockeying for a place to weigh anchor. "Beg pardon, Commander," an Air-aspect in gaudy parade dress saluted, "but there's just no fuckin' room. 'Less Savant-Commander Q's been workin' on some way for two objects to occupy the same space, we're gonna have to circle 'round back and take ground transport." Sultan threw up his armored hands. "Fan-loving-tastic. Like I've got nothing better to do." Marching to the bridge, he resigned himself to another few hours before sweet, sweet freedom, when suddenly- *WHUMP!* His daiklave fairly flew to his hands as he cast about in the darkness, seeking the source of the noise. "Tiger! Can't see poo poo here, what the hell is that rack-" The Solar trailed off and stared in flat disbelief. Pulling back for another run, the great raptor tucked into a dive and slammed once more against the broadside of the most garish, tasteless ship in the sky, hurling it back another few meters. One more strike, and the Orichalcum vessel nearly touched its neighbor. Sultan laughed. "Tiger, the gently caress are you even doing?" The Lunar swooped in a victorious pass around the rim of the Kireeki. "What the gently caress does it look like? Making room!" He extended his wing to indicate the now-vacant spot. "gently caress your gizmos and whatsits, THERE'S your applied engineering!" I can hear them say, Thesaurasaurus fucked around with this message at 17:46 on Oct 9, 2013 |
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Jun 16, 2013 04:27
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Carry on my wayward son There'll be peace when you are done Lay your weary head to rest Don't you cry no more Masquerading as a man with a reason, my charade is the event of the season Workshop, Envoy of Eternal Peace, North Petrayan Shadowland: Marsday, 5 Resplendent Wood Wanting nothing to do with broken glassware or overwhelming emotion for the moment, Ceaseless lurks in the Envoy’s workshop, where he is checking over the recently acquired weaponry and preparing it for action. He shakes his head from time to time at the evidence he overhears from his fellow followers of the Lover that She is working her magic. He appreciates his status as a uniquely hands-off experiment among her followers; it seems less traumatic than the usual approach. Regrettably, just because one potential source of heartburn is content to leave him be does not mean that all of them are. Peleps Tzorik’s style of ‘knocking’ could perhaps be better described as a vigorous hammering-open of the door that incidentally happens to alert others to his entry. “Yo,” he begins without preamble, wiping the sweat from his brow (had he run all the way from the stockpile in Jiankang to here?). “You wanted to know if my folks were doing anything shady? I think I found something that counts.” Ceaseless finishes the delicate task of replacing a focusing lens in its housing, then turns to the young Dragon-Blooded. “Very good, my friend,” he rasps. “I await your report with anticipation.” Tzorik pulls a bundle of three narrow ledgers out from under his arm and presents the first. “Here’s the stuff about the gear itself. As soon as I saw it, I knew something was up - even we don’t normally get materiel this nice. Everything’s in here: inventory, nav charts, cross-reference with surviving pre-Realm records. These could lead any dumbass back to where the original cache was found.” Ceaseless accepts the ledger and glances at it briefly to confirm Tzorik’s assessment. He sets it aside and gestures the youth to continue without comment. Tzorik shakes his head in disbelief. “Don’t you get it? This would tell anyone who found it where to go. It’d give them proof of at least noncompliance with the Realm census and at most treason. Why the hell is it here and not memorized and burned?” “My dear Tzorik, I see that you have two additional documents and that you have forgotten one of the goals of your investigation. If I were to offer an opinion as to the meaning of what you have found, how will that assist us in demonstrating your value to the other officers of the fleet? Best for me to be able to report truthfully that you have drawn certain valuable conclusions on your own, without any assistance from any others. And given that the two additional documents must surely have some bearing on your conclusions, it would be premature to speculate any further as to the meaning of the first.” Any insinuations on his competence are lost on the waterblood as he opens the second parcel and withdraws a single sheaf of parchment. “Orders. Signed by Admiral Dyval himself. Most of these are form letters - transfer authorizations.” He unfolds one and holds it up to the light. It appears to be exactly as Tzorik said, a permit for the withdrawal of all troops from a garrison and reassignment under the bearer of the order, signed to that effect by the admiral. The specifics of the letter - which garrison is to be reposted, and to where - are left blank. Most of the remaining sheets are the same. The last bears Dyval’s personal seal, and to casual observation seems a rambling discourse on the need to maintain morale in the wake of the Empress’ disappearance, interspersed with wildly-irrelevant tangents. Ceaseless knows better. When all is said and done, and every piece of blather matched to its actual meaning, the message is chilling. To the contact who finds this, Consider yourself unofficially breveted to the rank of Commodore. Your assignment is as follows: Neck’s a total loss. Don’t believe the Sesus claptrap - Chido’s behind on the times, and what he doesn’t know is about to kill him, his staff, and the better part of the local color. Pull out what troops you can, and head for the marked coordinates to await further instruction. Make whatever excuses you have to, kill who you have to - probably won’t be any witnesses left, but who wants to take chances. Half these transfer orders and the contents of the binder with the blue tassel are yours, along with whatever armaments you can smuggle out without drawing attention. Don’t ask about the rest, just leave them here. They’re not your concern. Soberly, Tzorik opens the binder with the blue tassel. It’s empty. The navigational coordinates correspond to no landmass known to Ceaseless. Just eyeballing it, they’re situated roughly two hundred miles east by southeast of Wavecrest. Ceaseless spends a moment in contemplation before concluding that the myriad implications of these revelations are completely beyond his ability to comprehend. Luckily, he has observed the management tactics of numerous experts carefully. When ignorant, feign not just knowledge, but omniscience. “Well done, Tzorik, well done. As you’ve seen, our foe is much taken with schemes and strategems. A number of explanations could be advanced for these documents beyond the obvious explanation of desperation and haste. Would you care to speculate on the possibility that we have encountered one or more traps or deceptions here?” he gestures at the documents and the recovered weaponry. The Terrestrial squints at the document for a fair while before answering. “...I don’t think so. I spent enough time getting in poo poo because of Uncle Dyval’s headgames to know when he’s setting a trap and when he’s serious, and he wouldn’t risk getting beheaded for treason just to embarrass a rival or something. Whatever this is, he cares more about making sure the right people know than making sure everyone else doesn’t know. Probably...” He sighs, daunted. “...Probably because it looks like he was working with Ashes to kill everyone anyways.” Ceaseless nods wisely. “Very good, my friend. Here is what I think: those who doubt the wisdom and timing of our masters are fools, for they have provided us with the perfect tool to address this mess. I heard a rumor that he wants to talk to me anyways. Don’t worry too much about his name, you can’t take any of them too literally.” And if I claim to be a wise man, well, it surely means that I don't know! Captain's Cabin, Imminent Revelation of Oblivion, Jiankang Harbor: Marsday, 5 Resplendent Wood The balance of his affairs in order, the Watcher at the Gates of Sorrow busies himself with puzzling out the secrets of the daunting tome. His principal burden is one familiar to many a prospector: sorting the nuggets of useful material from the dross of irrelevance. Of the latter, there is much indeed. Oh, to be certain, the stories and parables could constitute a sorely-needed lesson on naval doctrine to mortal sailors, and perhaps even an inexperienced Exalt. A veteran such as Watcher, however, is hardly in need of a lecture on proper conduct, or battle lines, or gunboat diplomacy. So why have so many people gone to so much trouble to get their hands (or analogous appendages) on this? A throbbing in his skull that had begun as a dull twinge now burgeons into a full-blown migraine. No matter how dense and impenetrable the writing gets, always, always the nagging sense that he’s almost at a breakthrough. His vision pulses and grains... ...and a single passage remains clear. Put ashore on a nameless isle, the gallant crew was in a dismal mood. Though their captain reassured them, they knew Darius Xoxen well enough to see that he was unwell. Here, they would bury no treasure. Here, they would bury their dearest treasure of all. They made their offerings to the spirits of earth, sky and sea and broke ground the dawn following Calibration. That their captain’s rest would be undisturbed, they bargained with the gods. This isle would forever remain a simple place, of no great interest to mortal, mighty, or spirit. They set his body on a high hill and built for him a shrine from which he could ever watch the sea. He had refused all treasures, all grave goods, save a pair of keys. A third he gave to his men, a token of their loyal service. In a high tower of stone and riddles, Darius Xoxen breathed his last. Here ended his tale. Beneath this text, an illustration. Three keys...one of which looks very, very familiar. He should know. Wyrm had him make forty copies of the damned thing. On the stormy sea of moving emotion Small Islet, Somewhere in the Cowries: Venusday, 4 Resplendent Wood Somewhere in the west, in a blackened crater atop a jagged mass of stone, lies the body of a soldier. She is battered, she is burnt, she is cold. She is smiling. Wyrm savours the moment’s silence, far from all the hated things which tormented this expedition. Even the apologetic droning of The Choir has faded to the faintest whisper in her ear, easily drowned in the slightest breeze. Her mind is clear and serene. She is at peace. But, as all things, this must end. Wyrm stirs from her rest and painfully rises to her feet. She limps over to the edge of the crater, where Herald is perched. She props herself up on a rock, coughs up a plume of black ash, then speaks, “Sober yet? If I can get away with it, I only want to say this once.” The thunderbird’s fulminating plumage is bedraggled and stained black with soot. “...Yeah, I think I’m in the neighborhood of sober.” Abruptly, the loose rock shifts unsteadily beneath his talons; he does a short, staggering hop sideways, the fluttering of his wings nearly flattening the captain with their downdraft. “Same district, at least.” “Close enough.” Wyrm slips into the least discomforting stretch of jagged rock she can find, “You won’t stay long. Not if you’re staying with me.” Having settled into a local low and lost all will to move, she waves him over. Herald slouches more than transfigures from his avian form, sinking breathlessly into the soft dust of the hollow beside her. “Good times ahead?” “Right up until the end.” Wyrm sighs. In an odd show of restraint, she holds off on curling up against him. “Ok, bird, let’s get something out there - I’m not that bright. I’m clever, I’m quick, and I am brazen enough to make up the difference. There’s a lot to me, to what I do, and why I do it, and if it doesn’t make any drat sense in your head it’s probably no better over here. Knowing that I don’t know what I’m doing doesn’t stop me. I just have to let me happen. And when I do - it works.“ Seeing Herald getting lost between her words, Wyrm stops a moment to look him in the eye. “I don’t get me, but I trust me, because I am very good at what I do.” The bird gives her the most curious of looks. “Actually, I think I understand that completely. It kind of sounds like the story of my life.” “Life...” She finds the effort to roll into him. “Been fun, hasn’t it? It has its ups and downs, its turns of outrageous fortune, but people like us - we know how to strike out and seize life, chase those moments down and claim them as our own. We have fun.” A litany for days gone by, “You know what I mean. So think about what it means when I say - it must end.” Herald looks bemused. “Why’s that? There’s always more rum.” “For a price. All for a price.” She spends a moment in silent, breathless reflection. “I could try to tell you - but the words died with the ones who paid it. Those who were sacrificed to bring about the Age of Man.” “I’d rather show you.” She grabs him by the shoulder, suddenly alert, “When this is done I want to put you in a little gem, and take you to the other side. To show you where it all must end.” Herald tilts back a spare bottle he’d secreted away before the flight, finds it well and truly empty, and shrugs. He tosses it into the air; an instant later, a streak of white lightning falls to meet it. Shards of blown glass fall amidst the volcanic ones. “Okay, I am now completely, one-hundred percent sure I have no idea what you’re talking about.” “You don’t read much news, do you?” Wyrm pushes off him, rolls away, and stands. She adjusts her stance to proudly show the emblems of her master. “I am a soldier of the underworld, an avatar of oblivion, a Knight of Death who rides before the end of days. Creation lives off the inheritance of atrocities beyond comprehension and I will see those crimes avenged.” An expression of dawning comprehension spreads across Herald’s face as he realizes firstly that Wyrm speaks of the slain Primordials and secondly that he may have well and truly stuck it in the crazy. “Hey, I’m no scholar, but aren’t most of the people involved in that kind of...dead already?” “Their victims, and their legacy remain.” It is a great mercy that she reduces such unspeakable enmity to dwell in so few words. “It must end.” “So end them.” Herald pulls himself upright, having finally found something approximating sobriety. “The rest of us have things worth sticking around for.” Words fail her. A voice trained through life and death to forge and shatter nations has no sound for what is raging in her mind. It tries its best. A voice trained to scream and shriek the fury of the storm answers in kind. The specifics are lost in a torrential downpour of anger; the general thrust of the argument comes through clearly nonetheless. When all is said, the two of them remain. Wyrm takes one step ahead, with open arms. “As I said, I’d rather show you. Let those who can’t, speak for themselves.” “Deal,” Herald agrees, his mood cleared as suddenly as the sky at sea. “But no gem.” “If you really want to give up the chance to dangle from my neck...” He sticks his tongue out. “Hey, we can do that anytime.” Tossed about I'm like a ship on the ocean I set a course for winds of fortune But I hear the voices say, Thesaurasaurus fucked around with this message at 06:49 on Jun 17, 2013 |
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Jun 16, 2013 04:34
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Carry on my wayward son There'll be peace when you are done Lay your weary head to rest Don't you cry no more Carry on! You will always remember! Infirmary, Envoy of Eternal Peace, North Petrayan Shadowland: Marsday, 5 Resplendent Wood Ultimately, a solution to the problem of the unconscious Exalts bringing down the tone in the lounge presented itself when Blood-on-the-Wind proved surprisingly willing to help. With startling strength, she hoisted Damnation over her shoulder and carried him to a bunk in the infirmary, returning presently to drag Rakim's immense bulk from the room as well. "I must admit," Leo mused, "I wouldn't have expected this from you." "Leeeoooo," Blood shook her head, "these are drinking buddies. What kind of drinking buddy isn't ready to haul your plastered rear end to bed when you black out?" Not sensing any answer to her rhetorical question coming, she finished herself. "A loving piss-poor excuse for a drinking buddy, that's what kind." Skies over Meru: Still A Long loving Time Ago While Lieutenant Garua moved the skyship into position to weigh anchor, Sultan busied himself with his usual ritual of maintaining his kit. Sure, it was technically Q's job, but the little nerd had better things to do than polish swords with sacred oil and replace worn prayer strips to the equipment's gods, and it was a lovely Sol-damned soldier who didn't look after his own gear. "Sir." The airblood saluted again. "We're ready." He held out the golden chevron of the Commander's personal Windblade. "Just a minute," Sultan brushed him aside. "Almost have this hearthstone set..." Garua paused. "...All due respect, sir, the party's well underway." Sultan gave a deep belly-laugh. "Hell, they waited this long, they can wait another thirty seconds." He cracked a grin at the Terrestrial. "And since when do you give a drat about formalities? Or salute me and call me 'sir'?" Garua lowered his blue Jade faceplate. "Ha, don't know what came over me. Guess it's just nerves." With a click! the gem sat flush in its socket, the faintest hint of luminescence shining from within. "There it is. Let's get this over wi-" *Ka-BOOOOOOOM!!!* The blast rocked the boat from aft to stern, a shuddering wave of force carrying through the air. When Sultan regained his sight and hearing, he saw that his own ship was more or less unscathed. But what the hell... "drat your eyes, Tiger, I'm not paying for damages to another ship..." He trailed off, in shock and disbelief, at the sight of the world below. Meru was burning. There was no mistaking it - the blast had come from the palace itself. Charred and mangled corpses, mostly mortal attendants, were scattered everywhere amidst lurid smears of blood and viscera. Panicked voices rose in screaming and shouting and pleading, a chorus begging salvation where none would come. And over the din, from within the building... ...the unmistakable sound of battle. "Give me that!" Sultan snatched the folded Windblade from his lieutenant and hurled it to the deck, whereupon it unfolded into an Orichalcum glider, a flat platform wrought in the silhouette of a blazing comet. He stepped aboard and took off, not even having to look to know that the Lunar was already ahead of him. Aboard his glider, it took him all of thirty seconds to reach the burning palace, which was frankly thirty seconds more than he would have liked. He cursed at the wreckage obstructing his path - he could clear it, to be certain, but in the time that would take...and then it struck him. This was a palace full of Exalts. How in the name of Sol had they not removed this blockage already? The whirring of other gliders above caught his attention. He looked up - Starmetal. Sidereals. Not ideal, but who was he to refuse any who could help? "There you are! Get down here, you pencil-pushing ninnies, and help me make a hole!" And they did. The Essence-blasts from their starcannons blew two holes clean through Sultan's Windblade. Shouting in rage and confusion, Sultan tumbled toward the pavement. None of this made sense, none of it was possible. How had- His train of thought was arrested along with his fall as a vast bulk swooped underneath, catching him on its feathered back. "Tiger!" he shouted. "If you know something I don't, now's the loving time to say so!" "It's the Sids!" the Lunar screeched in reply. "This isn't a terrorist attack, it's a motherfucking coup!" Carry on! Nothing equals the splendor! Private Quarters of Blighted Jackal-Face Master, Imminent Revelation of Oblivion, Jiankang Harbor: Marsday, 5 Resplendent Wood Well, that’s quite a wretched turn of events, Jackal thinks as he downs another swig of his wine goblet. The interference of that meddling little man that calls himself Mercy... Hah! It seems that Jackal’s current plans to subvert the crew will have to be postponed for now, even though he knew he was almost getting to Damnation and Never’s acceptance. But it doesn’t matter, for the seed has already been planted. “Hah. Perhaps it’s a good opportunity for me to start writing a fitting epic of my accomplishments. If my mark is to be set on the world, let it be by own hand. But this would be too much of a time consuming process. To even start to describe my successes will take days... Perhaps even more! Nah, that is not what I, Jackal will do.” He says while turning to the flickering flare butterflies flying around in his room. They were good companions for him, and perhaps one of the reasons his behavior was more subdued that most people would expect from him. And thus, he will need to gather something from them other than entertainment now. Although what is to come next is something quite entertaining too. “The trip that I, Jackal, made to the Water Court was quite eventful, my pretties. Have you interesting stories about them and the other Elemental Courts?” “Oh, don’t even get me started on-” “-just bitch and bitch about the Air Court like it’s somehow OUR problem-” “-Water Court more like Wet Blanket Court am I right-” “-ewww, why would you ever do that, aren’t we enough for-” As it happens, the butterflies have quite a lot to say on the subject of four of the five courts (Earth being, in their judgment, too boring to merit any kind of opinion). Very little of it is flattering, with most elemental beings ranked somewhere on a spectrum of ‘ugly losers’ to ‘stuck-up assholes’, with a narrow band near the top marked ‘exactly cool enough to hang with us’. Narrow-minded though they are, the butterflies prove surprisingly well-traveled, enough to offer catty remarks on all corners of the world. Earth, as ever, keeps the peace. Somewhere in the west is one of their strongholds, and although byzantine treaties with the other spirits keep them mainly uninvolved in local struggles, they have a very low tolerance for anything that threatens the world itself. They are the principal bastion against the Wyld, and would be the most likely of the spirit courts to oppose the mission of the Neverborn on general principle. Jackal: reading between the lines, most of their disdain for the Earth Court seems to be more hypothetical than anything. None of their anecdotes are more recent than fifty years ago, and they know little and less of the current state of affairs - has Earth been less active in the West of late? As disperse and catty the gossip the Butterflies started was, it did indeed provided Jackal with some quite interesting intel. He makes a mental note to not search the Earth Court for negotiations for now, marking them as a later objective, for when he gathered enough strength against them. Of course, putting to fight the Wyld would be useful in the long run too. That catastrophic chaotic mess was something that Jackal vowed himself to destroy as soon as he achieved... God-Emperorhood. That being said, he tries to pull the conversation to the Wood Court. He counted on the mutual disdain the Fire and Wood had to each other, and the relationship they have with Tide’s plague. Perhaps that could even grab him even more recognition from his future Empress, Lady Wyrm. Of course, she’s been quite... Well, weirder should be the word, as obviously no one in the ship’s crew could be classified as someone with normal behavior. “Yes, these people are really the worst. Can’t be worse than the Wood Court people, right? Do you girls know about them as well?” One of the elementals watches her reflection as she re-applies the lurid body-paint favored by her kind. “They’re...dangerous. Oh, sure, they act all nice and understanding and they always toss you an invite to their parties no matter how much of a loser you are - seriously, their parties are amazing, they have drugs even I didn’t know you could smoke - but the moment they have what they want from you, all the smiles and presents go away and you do not want to overstay your welcome.” She gives Jackal a coy grin. “Oh, don’t get me wrong, it’s good to have some excitement every now and again, but the fruits and veggies are the mean kind of dangerous. Not like my big, handsome hero here.” Ohhh parties. Yes, that’s something that Jackal likes indeed. “Hah! Worry not, as soon as this whole business with the despicable Tide ends, I, Jackal, shall throw a party that will rock the absolute everloving gently caress out of the entire West! One of many to come as well, although while my sources won’t be able to get the skunk that the Woodies can grab, perhaps enough alcohol can work the trick. Hell, maybe the Smaragdi have something one could use to get thoroughly out of their minds.” He lets out a satisfied laugh while taking another wine cup, leaning backwards as his Lounge shifts into a couch-like seat that lets him achieve the kind of comfiness you could only find in the First Age. “They might be dangerous, yes, but our Alliance grows every day, my dearies. Within a few months they will either join us or else. But first we must find the weakest link, the one that will not refuse to join the Soulsteel Fleet as we carve our way through this part of Creation. Maybe the Air ones, we already got Never’s little boyfriend and some of his kind.” A sly smile forms on Jackal at the thought of those two. Despite the treatment he gave Bolt before, the Thunderbird did had a certain charm, and it was understandable that Never found something on him. Only the thought of using that connection prevented him from making a pass on him, though. Who knows what the Day caste girl would think of her boyfriend being stolen. While they know little of the Huraka who marshall the weather throughout the five corners of Creation, they turn out to have extensive familiarity with cloud people and thunderbirds. Here, the fire elementals’ gossip begins to veer frequently and enthusiastically into the realm of Too Much Information. In the fleeting moments when they remember what the air elementals were actually doing when the butterflies paid them visits, a picture begins to emerge: It is easy to get the Wind Courtiers to fight for any reason; it is hard to get them to fight for something specific. Interesting! That kind of foolishness is something that Jackal and the others could indeed use in the future. Although maneuvering the Air Court will indeed be more difficult than inciting them. No big deal, it’s just a matter of pointing them the right way before lighting the fire, it seems. That being said, the other kind of information ends up increasing his curiosity with the Thunderbirds. If Bolt-From-Brightest-Day is off limits, then perhaps he could try his luck with the others. Perhaps the gunner or the one carrying chains? “Hah. That could explain how many of those dunderheads are travelling with us then. Still, while all this chatter has been quite interesting, I, Jackal, am starting to think that words must be followed by actions. Now, my Beauties, are we ready to start rectifying that?” Jackal rolls Manip + Soc + Max Ex to pick useful dirt out of the inane gossip: 5 sux on 20 dice, ouch. Still enough for a metaphorical Fine Tool with a +1 spec in exploiting internal drama within the elemental courts. Now your life's no longer empty Command Deck, Envoy of Eternal Peace, North Petrayan Shadowland: Marsday, 5 Resplendent Wood For the twenty-seventh time, Butterfly picked up her research notes and arranged them neatly, trying to keep her hands and mind busy while the ship’s ghost-computer connected to The Lover. The research notes the Deathlord could provide would be incredible for determining the best way to embrace the Chakra Orchid into the ranks of the undead. Yet she couldn’t shake a feeling off the back of her mind. Nikanor, the Traitor. She had yet to confirm the identity, and had no idea how to even begin determining that. The Lover Clad in the Raiment of Tears most certainly had the power to create the teleportation circle, and assuming random chance there was a one in thirteen chance it was Butterfly’s master that schemed this plan with Scatters-The-Ashes. No matter what, she could not tell the Lover about Nikanor. She could not risk that getting out. Either Nikanor’s existence threatened The Lover and Butterfly would have to remain silent to make sure her investigation went unhindered and unnoticed, or The Lover was indeed the Traitor and by telling her Butterfly would certain establish her doom. No pressure, right? The tentatively-christened ‘Mr. Jameson’ floated above the terminal, adjusting his phantasmal cravat and cufflinks. “I have reached your liege’s home office. Would you like me to forward your report to her directly, or would you prefer to tell her yourself?” “You can forward a copy to her, no sense taking all of her time.” Butterfly breathed a small sigh of relief. The conversation would be shorter, less chance of saying too much, and she could keep the focus on the spell notes. “But of course.” The image dissolved into black mist, a roiling cloud of icy vapor. Butterfly had waited some fifteen minutes before streaks of red began to intrude upon the black. As if from some vast distance (although not vast as the actual distance from here to the Fortress of Crimson Ice), noises reached the Daybreak’s ears - whispers and whimpers and murmured regrets. Lazily, languidly, a human form entered the picture. Her feet were clad in simple sandals, her legs hemmed by a sheer dress of red silk. Above the waist, her clothing was surprisingly conservative, a simple V-cut above her bosom pointing down from a beautiful face like graven ice. Her straight, glossy-black hair hung to her shoulders, and she folded a neatly-manicured hand bedecked in a single ring of polished onyx under her pointed chin. “Butterfly,” she greeted her servant with a warmth like a tiger’s breath. “How lovely to see you again. I hope you’re well?” As Butterfly saw The Lover take form through the mist, she dropped down and kneeled, her research notes to one side and a half-finished cup of tea to the other. “Yes my liege. I been quite well on this journey, and been making sure my companions are the same.” “Yes, my lady.” Butterfly returned the smile as she looked up. “I have two items to address, the first of which affects all of us on this operation so I will begin with that. We are getting close to our final battle with Grandmaster Cleansing Tide, or it is more appropriate to say the Sidereal Scatters-The-Ashes. When we have him captured alive, returning him will be tricky, given the large number of Deathlords represented in this operation through their knights. I merely ask that you, or a representative other than ourselves, be there as we present our foe.” The Deathlord giggled softly. “Why Butterfly, I’m sure you’re perfectly equipped to hand over one little prisoner, even one as slippery as a Sidereal, without me looking over your shoulder.” All at once, she is no longer smiling with her eyes. “Which can only mean that one of my esteemed colleagues has called dibs and you want to make sure that I get my turn. Am I getting warmer?” “Warmer. We’ve sent out invitations to the others for this party, it just wouldn’t be right without you there. There will be a lot of fun to be had with Ashes, and I wouldn’t want you to miss out.” The Lover sighed diffidently. “Well, it has been dreadfully dull here of late. I see no reason I can’t take some time from my not-so-busy schedule to make sure the boys don’t break anything.” As she spoke, she idly bent the index finger of her left hand back further and further; without warning, she pushed it all the way to lie flat against the back of her hand with a sickening pop!. “Not until I show them how to do it right.” All at once, her face was all cheer and friendliness again. “I believe you said there were two things you wanted to discuss?” Butterfly’s smile widened, as she reached up to the rose in her hair and took the bony stem in her hand. “Scatters-The-Ashes also has been using a unique weapon against us. One that takes in undeath and replaces it with life, through the use of modified strains of a dreadful plant known as the Chakra Orchid. However, as he has turned on his own creations, we have managed to create a strange peace with a few strains, and have been able to study them. My report details them more exactly, but they are able to mentally communicate with each other and act as one. “One of the sorcerers who worked on the strains also wrote very detailed research notes for a Spell that was not unlike the Blood Blooms I have seen throughout the Fortress of Crimson Ice.” Butterfly held up the rose to show off her work. “I believe that I might be able to welcome our friendly strains, and perhaps other Chakra Orchids as well, to the embrace of undeath, and this spell could be our key. However, the research on the Chakra Orchid has only covered the living side, we still need more on the undead side in order to make the conversion possible. “And so I humbly request access to your copies of the notes for the Blood Blooms spell. With those notes, I could create for you an army of beautifully flowered zombies, acting with intelligence and undying loyalty to the one who loads them. We need not destroy Ashes’ weapon of life, when we can turn it into our weapon of death.” “I’ll forward you the abstract, but do show all due caution.” Perhaps it was Butterfly’s imagination, but it almost seemed that her mistress had pulled a slight face of disgust. “The elements can be...fickle things.” Her death-mask smile returned. “If that is everything, there is another waiting on my attentions.” The Lover’s blank, white eyes caught a curious reflection. “Aren’t you, Passions?” From the corner where she’d been silently lurking, Never started at the sound of her old name. Hearing it again, on her Lady’s lips... But the brief euphoria turned to horror as she recognized the subtle dismissal present in the Lover’s tone. The same tone reserved for every unpleasant duty, every required obligation. Never did not rise from her seat and found she couldn’t meet her Master’s gaze, even in image. The frustration and anger she’d shown to Jackal and Damnation were only the outcome of what had befallen her. Betrayal cuts deepest from those most loved. If only... Just for a moment... things could be as they had been... “I’ve done as you bid, my Lady.” Her pleading was pitiful even in her own ears. “Is there anything... Anything else...” The words caught, and she couldn’t finish. Something gleamed in the Lover’s dead eyes as she looked Never up and down, evaluating the woman who was once her right hand. “...no,” she replied at last, her voice cruel in its empty politeness, “that will be all.” The faintest of stresses weighed on her last word, a solitary presence lingering over Never as the Deathlord took her leave without further nicety or explanation. Surely Heaven waits for you! Underworld: 5 Resplendent Bone Mercy moves through deep, looming, eerily silent jungle, an ambulatory shadow amongst a forest full of mostly-stationary ones. Carefully-honed senses set the hairs on the back of his neck upright - this place is dangerous. It’s watching him, in its own strange way. He smiles. The constant itch along his scalp that Creation induced is gone. It’s like home. Leafier, but his apartment back in Stygia could use some greening up, honestly. A rustle among the branches wipes the smile from his face - this is a business trip, not sightseeing, and if his quarry had made noise in the jungle, he strongly suspects it’s because she wants him to hear it. He steps into a clearing, puts his hands behind his back in the ‘at-ease’ position, and waits. Cynis Xùlan’s voice is hushed and funereal. “It is a foolish man indeed who wanders into dark places and takes the cracking of a branch as a greeting.” She drifts, silently, gliding around Mercy as if inspecting a hog for slaughter. Her hollow eyes meet his; even in death, she towers over most men. “You...you are new. What business have you here, Blasphemer?” His face stays utterly impassive as she eyeballs him, but when their eyes meet, he has to fight very hard indeed to suppress a smile. He is not a tall man, and so he looks up, holds eye contact as she straightens. His right hand comes out from behind his back, its coating of bracelets and metal ‘spine’ moving as silently as the rest of him. He very carefully reaches into his coat, and equally carefully withdraws a small parcel, wrapped in black (of course) leather, bearing the seal of the Stygian government. “Sister Cynis Xùlan? I have a delivery for you.” She makes no move to take the package. “I am having difficulty envisioning any gift from the forces of the Void that would not be cause for violence. Choose your words carefully, lest they be your last.” If one were not a talented observer, they would not see the subtle change in Mercy’s posture in response to this statement. He does not change his stance, and yet there is an air of readiness about him that was not there before. There are no untalented observers here, and a flag has been raised. “Papers. A passport, of sorts, issued by the Stygian government. In case killing our forces indefinitely seems a tiresome prospect, these will function to ensure your solitude, if you wish it. Also a key, to an apartment in Stygia. Honestly, it makes no difference to me what you do with them, but I’ve a number of duties to attend to, and this is one of them.” Xùlan brusquely and perfunctorily unwraps the parcel and examines the contents. She reads the document acknowledging her as a citizen of the realm of the dead, her hands clenching tighter with each line. As she reaches the end, her grip nearly tears the paper... ...and then relaxes. “...Yes. I...understand now.” Raising her eyes, her expression of anger is replaced with one of resignation. “Before, I had believed that when this ended, and the Sidereal punished for his crimes, I would enter Lethe to seek the Immaculate Path anew.” She looks up, beyond the withered canopy, to survey the peak at the heart of under-Petraya, shrouded in oily mist. “I knew of them, before. The spiders scuttling between the threads of fate. I thought them merely allies of convenience, agents of a dissolute Heaven that at least had not forgotten the threat of the Anathema. Now, I see they are far more, and far worse, than that.” He pauses, choosing his words carefully. “You will wage war against them, then?” “They presume to declare war for us, for nations, walking among us and wearing our faces as the bestial Lunars. No more.” She retrieves her staff and angles it at the summit, gauging ratios and distances. “The scriptures hold that this is the realm of the lost, who forsake their final rewards for the memories of worldly pleasures. In this, they call for guidance. To creatures such as Ashes, however, these souls are nothing but tallies on their balance sheets, resources to be exploited, pawns to be expended.” She sets the tip of her staff in the grave dirt. “As are we. Though I betrayed my vows, my duties are unchanged: to shelter, and to guide. He will learn that, to dire cost.” He nods. One duty done. Many more await. And yet, there remains yet some time for one of the few indulgences he permits himself. “Sister, it occurs to me that I’ve yet to see a practitioner of Wood Dragon Style fight. It’s been some time since I fought myself, and I could use a sparring partner. If you wish to take out some of that anger on a more readily available Anathema...” He turns his head back to find only empty air. A sibilant wind echoes through the trees. “That is because if you see a Wood Dragon fighting, they have done something dreadfully wrong.” He says nothing in response, only grins and changes his stance slightly. He begins to flicker and dance - like a shadow in an entire forest of shadows, and soon just as indistinguishable from any of the others. The game was on! If he lived, perhaps he’d even learn something. Holy poo poo guys, sorry for taking so long on this motherfucker. In contrition, I offer all y'all ten shiny ex-pees.
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Jun 16, 2013 04:41
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Furious Silence -Never and Butterfly Butterfly slowly got up as The Lover’s image suddenly disappeared from the display. Carefully she embedded the rose back in her head, scooped up her research notes and carefully took the teacup, all the while looking at the Day Caste. “Never...who is Passions?” Never stared at the place where her Lady had been standing. Her voice was bitter as she began the mocking imitation of a children’s story. “Not so very long ago, there was a Knight named Passions Wayward Reaching. She was the strong right hand of the Lover Clad in the Raiment of Tears. Her name was known to all the Knights, and she was feared and respected.” Butterfly was too young to remember her as she was then, or her fall. “But something happened. She was given a mission, a very important task, and she failed. Her punishment was absolute. She was stripped of rank and title, and even the memory of her failure was stolen away, so she would never know what she had done wrong.” The Day caste sighed and looked at Butterfly. “She took a new name and tried to start again. A new mission, far away from the courts of the Underworld.” Butterfly blinked several times as she processed the story Never said, still taken back by her suddenly harsh voice. She had seemed so scared before when conversing with The Lover. “But then...why did--” Oh. “I...see. I...didn’t know.” She lowered her head in shame, not really knowing what to say to this. “I’m sorry.” “Don’t be sorry!” Never yelled. She grabbed the nearest thing to hand, a half empty wine bottle left on the table, and threw it with stunning force to smash against the curved wall. “She still loves you. You’re her darling, her dear one...” Every pet name another dash of salt on open wounds. Never's shoulders sagged and her eyes dropped to floor in disgrace. “I was hers, once. In ways... you will never understand. I was hers. Get out.” Her voice dropped to a whisper, a very dangerous whisper. Butterfly flinched as the glass shattered, holding back her whimpers. Words completely failed her as she held her notes and teacup close and walked past Never. The halls of the ship blurred as she rushed through, barely taking note of Wyrm’s crew about. Once in the safety of her room she shut the door behind her, the sound coming out far louder than she had intended. Setting the notes on her bed and the teacup on her desk, she wiped the tears that had started to form in her eyes. Her entire body was shaking, never before seeing that kind of rage in Never before. After what felt like several minutes, she slowly looked up at the teacup, still half-empty as it was before the meeting with The Lover. Carefully she took the cup and poured it back into the kettle she drew it from. In the cabin, Never vented her fury on the remaining glassware. There were no tears this time, she was too angry for tears. Bottling her emotions had kept her safe, kept her alive, but all it took was a word... “Passions...” and all her defenses came undone. Weak, broken, empty, like a glass bottle hurled against a cabin wall. When there were no more, she left. Silent and spent, she hid herself in her room.
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Jun 16, 2013 06:34
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Spawn of the Devouring Wyrm - Calls Beyond Duty “... but that’s exactly how it works. How they work.” Wyrm’s voice cuts easily through crashing waves and rushing air as she and Herald fly home, “They serve fate, they’re chosen by fate, empowered by fate. They live it, they breathe it, they wield it.” “Fate is rule, fate is law, but laws mean nothing if they are not obeyed. He needs everyone to play by the rules, and that is exactly why we need to break them.” He can’t remember where the tangent started, what stray turn of phrase could have snagged the Captain’s attention, perhaps he’d never know. What he does know is, wherever this is going it wants to get there fast. Wyrm’s tasted blood. “Consider the natives.” For a moment she sits upright, head high, her voice aloof and academic, “When this disaster began not one among them didn’t pray to one thing or another for protection- for salvation. The Smaragdi prayed to gods, who did as their mandates commanded and fell prone in terror before Inno. With their spirits ‘suffering’ beside them in their pens they gave up all hope that justice may be served and waited to die.” “The Cyanin prayed to death.” Each word surges with undying outrage, “And when their ancestors were stolen from them by the enemy some brave few stood up and cried out for vengeance to the Lords-Sovereign of the underworld. They sent us, Knights of the Void, to carry our apocalyptic mission to this land and purge it of his evil. And yet, at each decisive turn we have shown some great mercy, and at each step we’ve confounded him!” “Now, he wants this to stay quiet. He wants it to be contained. He wants the only story to come out of this to be his own.” She slides forward and leans close, dropping to a furious stage whisper, “And the only way he’ll get that is if we do as we’re supposed to and be just as afraid of what could happen if the wrong words reach the wrong ears.” “He needs that fear.” Breath gives way to the chill rasp of the grave, “He needs the thousand layers of veiled threats and half-truths and polite lies that are the foundation of every civilized system of governance to keep all the big wheels turning in time with his designs.” “So we don’t fret getting this is in the right hands, or risk leaving it to the wrong.” Her eyes are wild, her fangs are bared, “We get it everywhere.” “All of it!” Wyrm nearly rolls off the Thunderbird’s back as she violently sweeps her arms from one horizon to the other, “Everything gets out, everyone gets something, but not one of them gets everything to themselves. Just enough that all the right and wrong and in-between people can’t help but connect the dots around the same time and wind up seeing all of it.” The isle and all its woes draw near, a faint tingling in the back of Wyrm’s neck flares up into awareness of a hundred far-off forms. “And it starts tonight!.” <Heart, seeing as you’re made of monks why don’t you meditate on this - What are you? What’s fate have to say of you? Are you one or many or many-as-one? When a dozen of your selves drop dead is each soul judged alone, or as a lot, or simply put on file to be held as evidence for damnation when whole mass takes its leave? If one of you falls in a forest too far for the rest to hear it, did it make a sound?> She sustains the barrage of inner inquiries without relent. Darting eyes and a manic grin present the only sign of its intensity as they close on the Envoy. The sudden impact of silk, flesh, and soulsteel sounds just too close to comfort for any of the Envoy’s crew to doubt one simple fact - The Captain is on Deck. They rush to react accordingly as Wyrm springs to her feet. They is much which must be done. In a few places about Jianking, the Choir of Heart and Unity recovers from the sudden jolt of her return. In this brief respite, they begin to contemplate the strange intermingling of injury and wellness which comprises the captain’s unnatural durability. A curious sensation.
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Jun 23, 2013 03:41
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The Everlasting Butterfly of the Decadent Garden The List (Edit: It just occured to me this needs music from something else that makes writing deadly.) Butterfly is working overtime. Her quill pen made from one of Spark's dropped feathers darts through the air like lightning. The pen is covered with blotches of black ink, though miraculously Butterfly has managed to avoid accidentally staining her stack of papers with the stuff. With pen in one hand and a teacup in the other (she seems to have gone through forty of the hundred kettles in the span of a week) the Daybreak puts down every name of every god, spirit, and elemental that she needs to get the message out to. Anyone with a position of power goes on the list. Anyone with a powerful person above them goes on the list. Anyone she feels like pissing off goes on the list yet again. Koko'Ino's name somehow ends up on the list five times. Even the Daimyo of Piracy only made it on the list three times. While she works, she has Kaida go fetch help for more names since Spark and Loren were not enough. Watcher spits out a few, Damnation knows a couple, but the real surprise is when she calls out to Voice-of-Ages for help. The mortal man alone was a significant help and politely made a raincheck for Butterfly's reward of tea. As she adds these names to the list, the darkness pulses around her in her rage. This was it, this was how to do it. Even if they all failed and the Deathknights fall before the Sidereal, they would have the last laugh. Anyone could fight to the death, but a true Deathknight knew how to keep fighting from the grave. His mockery of life and death destroyed and his plans ruined. Int+Occ+2nd Ex+Comp+Help for creating a send list for prayer spamming.: 24d10x7+5 20 Butterfly makes her way out of her workspace and marches up to the helm. Twenty zombies follow in suit behind her, marching in formation. Each one holds a single sheet of parchment to prevent the still drying ink from spreading to the others. From a distance, the pages are covered with black ink showing that Butterfly tried to cram as many names as she could in her limited space. Silently she signals the zombies to present the pages one by one to Wyrm. When they are done, Butterfly ushers the walking dead back to their pens. "It's in your hands now," she says right before following after them. "Destroy his work and his livelihood, so that he'll beg for death before us." Krysmphoenix fucked around with this message at 04:13 on Jun 24, 2013 |
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Jun 24, 2013 04:10
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Bow Down Before The One You Serve Damnation reads carefully down the list of names and descriptions Butterfly and the other spirit-experts provided. "Ashes is political, territorial, and hates insubordination. If such qualities are present in this War Officer, a report of a usurpation, particularly among such..." The Death Knight's thoughts are yet again interrupted by an odious roaring, stomping, and the tearing of flesh and fur twenty feet behind him. "Rakim, you crass barbarian, wouldn't Luna rather you do that in the wild instead of inside this boat?" It's not entirely clear if the snarl Damnation receives in response is directed at him or simply another portion of the incessant ritual. At this rate, he expected Luna herself to descend and ask what the racket was, which, he supposes, is the point of that sort of ritual. But, yes. It was a good beginning. He left the tiger below decks as he went to stand up at the stars, hoping the one he had in mind would hear. The First Prayer posted:
After he completes the prayer, Damnation continues looking down the list. "Ah, the God of Peace. This is sure to get him incensed." As he goes below decks to take a drink before speaking again, he spies the tiger once again, now hopping about in a circle with his robe off. Bracing the bulkhead, the pirate buries his face in his hands. "Rakim, this is a working military ship. If you cannot even keep your robe on, I am going to have to have Cheleps or Ragda or Tzoren or whatever they're all called tailor you a uniform, which you will be required to wear during working hours." Once an eight-count of stomping adopt the gun deck finishes, the Lunar finally speaks. "I thought you hated bureaucracy, Mister Sultan. Or is it simply that you have never had the opportunity to see a naked body before?" A toothy, dastardly grin of tiger fangs gleams as he returns to dancing. This causes the Death Knight to tense up, locking his muscles to keep from taking a swing. "For the last time, Rakim, just because I take his point of view in the hallucinations and you clearly resemble Ascending World-Tiger does not mean I have anything to do with some dead pissant Solar flyboy. When you see the difference in how we handle Sidereals, you will understand that. Even you will be able to understand that." After briefly composing himself, he begins the next prayer. The Second Prayer posted:
Out of breath, Damnation slumps down for a second, going over the lists of names again and again. Rakim is neither seen nor heard. Looking over the list, he chooses an extremely obvious one this time. He keeps going down the line, implacable. Everyone will know what happened here. Just as no one else may take credit for his legacy, no one may saddle him with a false one. The Third Prayer posted:
As he keeps going, he thoughts drift back to what Rakim said earlier. Walking back up on the deck, he spies the howling silhouette of Rakim, facing the thin outline of the moon in the mid-day sky, and wonders if there was anything in the past of Sultan that could be relevant to what he was doing now. Surely the Neverborn could bless him with- and then his eyes jerk to one name on the list, and he knows what to say. The Fourth Prayer posted:
As the energy of the Neverborn courses through his body in response to him opening his mind, Damnation grits his teeth and sends one final prayer. The Last Prayer posted:
With that, Damnation spits, and the winged tiger quietly touches down the deck behind him. This work is done, and their last upon this island begins. 4 XP: Conviction 5 8 XP: Performance 4 Damnation: Cha 5 + Performance 4 + Past Lives 3 + Conviction 5 + Stunt ??? + Hearthstone (Difficulty -2)= 17+ dice, difficulty -2. 9/10 wp remaining, 2/3 Past Lives uses remaining. Rakim: Cha 4 + Performance 5 + Gem of Redoubled Force 4 = 13 dice MiltonSlavemasta fucked around with this message at 15:06 on Jun 24, 2013 |
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Jun 24, 2013 06:34
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Blighted Jackal Face Master - Undeath of a Salesman - Some Horrible Void-Forsaken Jungle Unlike the courts of Water or Fire, the Wood spirits of the Western direction prefer to keep a healthy distance from bastions of Imperial power, staying far from the prying eyes and haranguing sermons of the Immaculates. Their nearest outpost is far to the northeast of the Neck, well into the waters claimed by the lords of Coral. There, after straining his Windblade’s endurance to the limit, Jackal at last comes across a nameless island shrouded almost completely in lush vegetation. Witch-lights and the sounds of festivities come from within the jungle, beaconing their visitor closer. “Good grief, what a humid little shithole. Still better than the place where that horrid old hag lived.” Jackal winces at the memories of that.... That kiss. Even though he avoided being the victim of such a fate, the fact he witnessed it would still haunt him for unlife. He follows the lighting and partying sounds with a sly smile in his face. That’s the kind of music he liked, and mentally he put down a note to make sure these people are invited for the HUGE VICTORY PARTY he has been planning the last few days, stealthily making sure that minions arranged enough food and provisions for a bacchanal that will shake the West. Deeper in, the trees become thicker and the lights fewer and further between. So beautiful is it, then, when a clearing comes within sight that Jackal neglects to pay close heed to what’s in the clearing. The first vine that snares his leg is brushed aside as a nuisance. The second is chopped in half as an irritating coincidence. When a third, then a fourth, a fifth, and yet more begin to entwine him, it becomes apparent that there is definitely some malice afoot. ”Lost, stranger?” Eight shining eyes like globules of amber loom in the dark, presaging the appearance of the rest of the elemental. A spider the size of a panther, with limbs of gnarled wood and a body grown from bonsai leaves, dangles from the canopy, its tone a polite mockery of concern. “No, it appears that I, Jackal, found my objective.” Jackal says with deadpan calm even though he’s a bit wrapped up in vines. By a bit, of course, I mean completely. “The Wood Court. Jackal the Diplomat has come to propose a deal that will be... Quite lucrative for all of you, if you give me your ears and support. Now, will you take me to your leaders or are we to stare at each other in a contest? Because eight eyes must be quite a liability on those.” ”Oh, but of course. It’d be awfully inhospitable of me not to offer my assistance.” The spider descends and the vines retract. ”Here, just follow me an’ we’ll get you right to that party.” “Are you? Because, I, Jackal, am quite skeptical of that. Perhaps you might just follow me as we are guided by the sound, no?” The Moonshadow raises his eyebrows at the spider. The last thing he wanted was an elemental laying eggs inside his throat or something. The spirit scuttles agitatedly from side to side. ”Now, now. You won’t get anywhere in life without a little trust.” “Has Jackal fell so low to get life advice from a loving plant spider?” Indeed, that’s a bit too loving much. He grunts while getting rid of the vines and flies past the Elemental, flipping the bird at it before continuing in his way to the party. Navigation proves somewhat easier without the spider’s ‘help’, and shortly the sounds grow loud enough, and the lights cluster closely enough, for Jackal to discern their origin. In a wooded meadow, the elementals congregate about a dais of live thornwood. Spindly figures carve their forms into new shapes, of man and beast and bird and many stranger things yet. Diminutive people with childlike voices and hair of orange berries laugh and play and hold a mock tournament, dueling with sticks held like sword or lance. Dryads linger at the fringes, whispering and gossiping amongst themselves, while a hideously-ugly man who appears to have grown from his very throne perches upon a seat of rosewood. These are the tamest of the attractions. Fantastical beings of every shape and description cavort throughout the meadow in wild, ecstatic dance. Many of the guests are clearly drunk on some mind-bending concoction, arguing and screaming and shrieking and, in more than one case, starting to tear each other limb from limb. One of them stumbles too close to a pond overgrown with duckweed and topples in; she has only a moment to laugh at her mistake before she is set upon and devoured by a horse made from stringy kelp. The other revelers take a moment to watch her ghastly fate before returning to their celebration as if nothing had happened. Good. Without the interference of that meddling arachnid, Jackal finds himself at where he wanted to be. And indeed ‘tis his kind of place. Another mental note to bring whatever those berserking men were drinking with himself. Perhaps that would make some of the stuffier elements of the crew loosen up a bit, maybe even exchange that Necromancer girl’s tea with it for maximum... Amusement. That kelp horse could also be a good pet for him. It doesn’t look terribly ugly like most undead mounts and it could possibly feed itself by munching its own body. But this is a time for BUSINESS to Jackal, and thus he needs to be as businesslike as possible. And by that he means that he must make the most daring and flashy entrance as possible, his Windblade descending in the middle of the forested meadow as he smiles at the old man in the throne, making an elaborate gesture to demonstrate... A bit of respect. “Greetings, esteemed members of the Western Court of Wood! Representing the Forever Victorious Soulsteel Fleet is I, Blighted Jackal Face Master. I’ve come here to present a proposal that will attract the interest of you all and bring great profit and fortune upon your houses.” And thus, the dance begins. The courtiers turn and stare in fascination at the new arrival, whirling and swirling about him like leaves caught in a gale, eager to see what new entertainment has come before them. The sound of a gauntleted fist slamming against hardwood banishes them, and although they return to their festivities more than a few eyes remain pointed at the Abyssal. The elemental on the throne crooks a finger at Jackal, bidding him approach. Approach, huh? Very well! Jackal floats closer to the throne, his eyes locked at the Elemental’s, saying nothing more as he finally stops, a few feet away from him. “Profit and fortune, you say?” asks the Wood King in a voice like the snapping of timber. “Then you’ve my ear - and your life - for at least a few minutes more.” He reclines in an altogether-undignified slouch. “Let’s hear the sales pitch, then.” Life, peh. Jackal deliberately ignores that imbecile’s presumption that he holds his fate in his hands and continues to present his proposal to the Wood Court. “It is simple. The Soulsteel Court humbly requests that the Wood Court stops supporting the plans of... Brother Cleansing Tide, the Immaculate Monk who created a certain Plant Plague you are all aware of. Draining and weakening the plague itself must be done in order to achieve our objectives. See, Tide is a thorn on our feet, one that we intend to remove. His Plague will be dealt with as well, but your assistance will make the job much easier to us, and will be appreciated considering our future standing in the West.” He puts his arms behind his back, keeping a cordial smile while continuing to present his case. “There is much more to gain with us than with him, and it’s as a friend offering friendly advice and a friendly proposal that I, Jackal, came here.” The regent strokes a beard of hanging moss as he considers Jackal’s words. “Well, your offer is much appreciated, friend, but I can’t help but wonder if what’s good for you and what’s good for my Court aren’t exactly the same thing.” He sweeps his hand out to indicate the partygoers. “This isn’t the East; we’re all waiting on the tender mercies of the seas.” The Wood King looks up at the sky above. “And more and more these days, the winds.” He returns his gaze to the earth and locks his beady eyes with Jackal’s. “So if you’re asking us to turn down what looks for all the world to be a present from Heaven, I’m going to need to hear a counteroffer.” Well, that’s a smart one. Too smart for his own good, Jackal thought to himself. It appears his lovelies were right on those guys being incredibly keen to protect their own interests, and to conciliate those with the crew’s own is something that will prove to be complicated. “Winds and Ocean, you say? The same ones whom the Soulsteel Fleet has amicable relations with? See, Your Majesty, that I, Jackal, met the Water Court but a few days ago and...” Must... Suppress... Bad memories... “Found myself quite a chum with some of the important elements there. And the Air Court has always been an old ally of the Fleet, with many of their Elementals serving alongside us. Would Your Majesty agree that attaining the friendship of people who can serve as a bridge to push your Court’s interest forward in front of them would be a good deal?” Jackal’s smile turns into a grin before the following part. “Not to mention that as it was said before, our incursion against Tide will most likely end in success, and the plague will be forever contained by us. Is Your Majesty aware of what we sent forward through all Creation? That man and his creatures are already doomed, they just aren’t aware of that. And thus, It’d be a lose-lose situation to all of us. We lose a good amount of resources on an inevitable yet costly victory, the Immaculate will lose everything and the Wood Court loses one of their few allies in the west and are forever out of reach of another ally that would be most useful to them in the future. Now I, Jackal, ask again. Are we to stop being just friends and become good friends?” The elemental strokes his beard again. “You know what the saddest thing about new growth is?” He waves a hand, and a bough overhanging his throne wilts and withers in an eyeblink. “Most of it doesn’t make it.” He leans forward intently. “Now, if you mean to continue bleeding like that, I have a perfectly good altar; otherwise, your presence here is getting less plausibly deniable by the second.” “Oh yes. Well, that’s a thing.” Jackal picks up some of the blood slipping from the bursting Anima in his head and passes it on his hand before extending it to the Wood King for a sealing handshake. “Let it be known that we have found a compromise, then, Your Majesty. For all, from Oblivion to Creation. Ah, and before I, Jackal, leave... Know that as a token of good will, you and and the most important members of your Court are invited to a celebration party that is to come. Of course, we know that the Wood will bring some of their finest delicacies and narcotics as well to spice up the fun, right?” Good lord, Jackal thinks to himself. Perhaps if he sold used carriages instead of thieving he would never end up like that. Then again used carriage salesmen were often hanged too.
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Jun 26, 2013 16:44
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A Master of Timing -Never Within Reach, Last Mercy Given Mercy knocked quietly at the cabin door. With the quartermaster having been one of the first deathknights recalled to the Underworld, he figured that the first mate was probably the best option for what he needed. She hadn’t seemed to hold any hard feelings about the business with the apartment, so asking her was probably safe. “XO? It’s me, Mercy. Am I interrupting anything?” There was the sound of movement from inside the room. A chair dragged across the floor noisily. “What do you want.” Never growled, without opening the door. Well, this boded well. Nevertheless, it was important, so he pressed on. “I wanted to know who to ask about requisitions. Given Poem’s recall, I thought you’d be the logical next candidate. I need something... special ordered, and I thought I’d get more traction via official request than quick friendly letter home.” “Enter.” Never commanded. When Mercy opened the door he found her sitting at a small wooden table. There was a second chair turned slightly towards the door, waiting for him. She pointed at it. “Sit.” He entered, closed the door as quietly as he could, and sat, legs crossed, hands folded on the table in front of him. He paused for a moment before speaking. “I’d an idea for a way to archive the recordings my eye takes for reference purposes. It only stores about two days worth of recording, and if I wish to keep anything long-term, it cuts into that. If I had a few memory crystals, I could commit the original memories to an archive, and keep my recollection of the event proper by rewatching the version that my eye recorded. That way, even if something happens to the eye or to me, we’d have a record of...” Mercy trailed off. The woman hadn’t exactly been warm to him when she’d visited his office, but everything about her bearing and response indicated something external was colouring this interview. It seemed that duty called. “XO,” he began carefully. “what’s the matter?” Never glowered at him. “Mercy, despite everything, I do like you, so I will be very clear. I have just been painfully reminded of my current standing back at court and while I can certainly put a requisition in for you, adding my name to the document will have a similar effect to signing it “The Unconquered Sun”. If you actually wish to receive the crystals, you should go take advantage of the fact that you have two ships’ worth of officers to pick from and send it through Damnation.” “I understand. That brings us to the second item of business, which I think you’re going to like rather less.” He looked the woman in the eyes. “That is, you. More precisely, your standing.” Her face went completely blank and she leaned back in her chair. A dark-fletched arrow appeared between her fingers and she began examining it, testing the point against her fingertip. A single drop of blood welled up in response. She flicked it away. “Go on.” He did not speak immediately, but instead fished in his pocket for a small soulsteel box, which he set on the table and opened. With his right hand, he held his left eyelid open, while his left fished out his prosthetic. He placed the recorder in the box, which he shut with a snap. “Your standing at court. It upsets you. Why?” Never watched passively as he put the recorder away. “You cannot possibly be that stupid.” But the question brought a hundred reasons to mind, as it was intended to. She voiced none of them. “The longer this mission goes on, the less it matters. I can be Never here, and leave Passions in the ashes, where she belongs.” “I expected that admission to take longer; I apologize for underestimating you. Letting go of Passions is important, it’s true. But there was more to the question than that. When Passions became Never, what did you lose that you’ve not gained anew here? Respect? You have it, from your peers and your superior. Trust? In spades! I hear you’ve been promoted to weed-whacker in chief if our leafy guest tries anything on the captain. Responsibility? Look around us! Lunars and Terrestrials and Abyssals working together must mean that something weighty’s been put on our collective shoulders. If you’ve been cut loose by a superior who didn’t value your loyal service as she ought, then put your faith in the one you’ve got now, who trusts you more than anybody else.” He seemed to realize he’s grown louder over the course of his little speech and paused, as though quieting down again needed force of will behind it. “You threw your past into the Void once, after all. What’s to stop you doing it again, if it pains you?” Never’s expression softened as she spun the arrow between her fingers. “Where does it stop, Mercy? Twice born, twice betrayed. A third seems all but inevitable. Perhaps not, perhaps this time will be the last.” She shrugged, not believing it. “It starts like this. Welcome and warm, trusted and loved. There hasn’t been time for things to sour yet.” Her eyes came up to meet his single. “There’s no point in trying to soften the blow. I’ve seen how the story ends.” “Have you?” He raised the eyebrow above his good eye slightly. “I never got the straight of it myself. How did the story end? How did Passions Wayward Reaching come to fall from grace, hm? What was her sin?” Fast as the wind, Never slammed the arrow tip first into the table directly in front of him. It held there, humming with quiet power. “Wrong question.” She growled, still standing. “I have no answer because it was taken from me. Stolen away and stored in a crystal. Scattered to the world, a scavenger hunt to amuse the Lady.” She let that sink in before settling back into her chair. He nodded, as though the conversation hadn’t been punctuated with a projectile mere moments prior. “You don’t know. That’s my point. You say you’ve seen how it ends, but you haven’t. All you’ve experienced is the fallout from some other person’s misdeeds. You’ve convinced yourself that because she hosed it up,” he spat the words with a sudden vehemence, “that you’re going to repeat it. You will not, because you are not her. This is not her situation. These are not her surroundings. You have innumerable advantages on your side - you can learn from her mistakes, through these crystals, and ensure that you don’t make the same errors of judgement or trust that she did. You can rely on your fellows to help guide you when your course is not clear. You are Exalted, and the very reason we’re having this conversation right now is because there is nothing they cannot do.” “I wouldn’t have believed you, before this started. I’m still not convinced that you weren’t sent here to torture me further-” she held up a hand to ward off protest “-not knowingly, Mercy. But our masters do like their little games. Never is the shield I built against what happened to Passions, and my Lady knows very well that those with something to lose are at their most vulnerable. I’ve been careless... Gotten too close to... a number of people.” A troubled expression crossed her face. “There’s only one thing I know for sure, Mercy. She isn’t done punishing me yet.” “You wouldn’t have believed me, before this started. You certainly sound like you’re trying to convince yourself not to. But if nothing else, consider this. Let us say you throw your guard back up now - deliberately discard everything that’s made you happier here than you were before. If you do that, your Lady will no longer have to punish you. She will have made you punish yourself. Thus, it seems to me you’ve got three choices: burn your bridges and punish yourself so the Lady doesn’t have to, go with the flow and accept that your Lady’s vengeance will find you eventually, or try like hell at everything, so that this time just might be better.” He shrugged slightly. “Not a hard choice.” “If it were only myself I was concerned with, no.” She waved her hand and the arrow in the table collapsed into fine dust that vanished in seconds. “That is no longer the case. But something that we’ve learned intimately well on this journey is that going against expectations is the surest path to victory. I will take what you’ve said here under consideration. But there are appearances to be kept up.” For the first time, a slow smile crossed her lips. “I have a place here and I will protect it, don’t worry about that. Although you should still send that requisition through Damnation... I would like to see a blank crystal when they come in. Comparing it to the ones I’ve been sent after might reveal something I’ve missed.” Her smile is answered with a grin of Mercy’s own. “I’d be glad to! And thank you.” He pushed his chair back and rose. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to go get the doctor to re-connect my eye.” She gave him a curt nod as he left her to her thoughts. Such a strange man. She hadn’t sensed any guile from him. Like Butterfly, he was... earnest, about his intentions. It made him dangerous, driven. She sighed. How must a broken shell like her appear to him? A long-term project, apparently. Burying Passions once and for all would be more than she could do alone. She kicked out of the chair and headed for the bar. <Damnation!> She found herself calling out to the other XO. <Come over to the Envoy, I want to get drunk!>
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Sep 21, 2013 02:01
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Infirmary, Envoy of Eternal Peace, North Petrayan Shadowland: Marsday, 5 Resplendent Wood - Last Daughter of Onyx & Silver, Blood on the Wind, Last Mercy Given Depositing Rakim in a heap in the corner, Blood draws four of the sickbeds together in a rectangle and hoists the unconscious Lunar onto them, one massive limb at a time. Standing, she stretches and cracks her neck. “Sweet dreams, lil’ idiot.” Onyx leans around the doorway, watching out of the corner of her eye. The Underworld felt... like a silent tension leaving her body, really. As much as she revelled in exploring Creation, every return from a journey reminded her that she wasn’t really PART of it anymore. A disturbing thought, in some ways. Still. A decidedly unladylike snort escapes her as Blood consolidates Rakim onto his new bed. The elemental huffs airily as she cracks her knuckles. “Laugh all you want; at least I actually have the build to do that” She smirks as she folds her arms. “Do you even lift?” Onyx laughs, genuinely this time; a faintly musical mezzo-soprano sound. “I’ve always found that proper application of force is more effective than overwhelming force.” She arches an eyebrow, daring the elemental to make of that what she would. The Day Caste detaches herself from the wall, making a slightly exaggerated show of holding the door for Blood. “Of course, cleverness goes a long way, too.” Blood throws her hands up. “Look at them! Not one broken bone or dislocated limb! Normally I get a freaking temple built in my honor when I show that kind of restraint!” In response, Onyx grins. “You know, that’s something your beneficiaries should probably address, once they’re capable of remaining vertical.” She adopts a tone of mock seriousness. “Clearly, they have incurred a debt, and must repay your mercy.” “drat straight.” The thunderbird strides through the open door and heads for the stairwell leading to the surface deck. “Speaking of Mercy, he probably owes me too, for warning him about the Lord of the Flies on Denzik. I wonder what kind of toys a Stygian customs agent has locked up in impoundment?” The assassin grins. “Let’s go find out.” Office of Last Mercy Given, Envoy of Eternal Peace Mercy hums to himself as he fills out the requisition form. The kettle’s boiling, requisitions are proceeding, and it turns out his position as morale officer might not have been the joke from his superiors that he thought at first. He shuts his eyes and leans back in his chair, to enjoy the calm before the storm. What little remains to him. “Hiiiiii,” a familiar voice like icicles chiming in the wind rolls through his open door. “Do you have a moment to spare?” Well, it was about time for it. He opened his eyes, ensured nothing breakable was on the desk, and responded. “I do indeed, Sergeant. What can I do for you today?” Blood sidles through the gap. She is not alone - close behind her is Mercy’s acquaintance from Unterpol. “You know,” she begins, “I don’t know much about the laws of the dead, and Onyx isn’t IA like you are. Would you mind elaborating on search and seizure protocol? There are a few points we’d like clarified.” Mercy raises an eyebrow slightly - this is not standard Blood behaviour. Not that she’s stupid, but the finer points of the law, at least to his knowledge, don’t fall within her fields of interest. “Uh, not at all. What prompted this sudden interest in Unterpol procedure, though?” She takes a seat and leans forward, smiling and steepling her hands under her chin. “I just can’t imagine that this is the first Sidereal plot you’ve had to thwart - bronze or gold, none of them like the idea of an entire world, adjacent to theirs, that falls entirely outside their jurisdiction.” He nods. “Well, as you’ve seen firsthand, they usually operate through intermediaries and cutouts. Makes sense, to some extent - there just aren’t enough of them to do otherwise, as I understand. When they do take a hand personally, however, they can be bolder than you suspect. Onyx knows this story - a Sidereal infiltrated a Deathknight team working in An-Teng in the south, back when I was just recruited for Unterpol. Not a magical disguise of any sort, just good makeup and balls of steel. By the time I got there, he’d gotten the other two as well. I went in as soon as I’d confirmed what had happened. That was...” he smiled and gestured at his artificial eye. “Not my finest idea ever. Still, I suspect you’re not here for war stories about Sidereals. Nor,” he adds with a slight smile and a narrowing of his eyes, “for the finer points of Underworld law.” “You’re no fun,” she sighs. “Fine, we were really wondering about the policy on emergency release of seized and impounded contraband in exigent circumstances.” The smile becomes a grin, and he stands, pushing his chair back. “Well, as it so happens, I do have some latitude in that regard. Or, at the very least, I can apologize for it later.” He moves to the tall soulsteel cabinet at the back of his office, places a hand on the door, and concentrates. The door swings open silently, revealing a row of unremarkable drawers. He begins sliding them open, one after another, and when he fails to find whatever it is he’s looking for, pushing them back in...further than where they started. Upon doing so, another drawer simply rises from the bottom of the cabinet to take its place. Eventually, he finds what he’s looking for, and pulls the drawer further out than the cabinet seems to have room for. This one has a beautiful red velvet lining, containing a number of objects, wired down. On one such object, a beautiful blue jade polyhedron, he breaks the seal. He removes the thing with delicate touch, though, being made of jade, it is unlikely to break, and holds it up to the light to admire it a moment. Then he turns, sits again, and sets it on the table. “Have you seen one of these before? It’s not much, but I think it might be of special interest to you.” Blood lifts it from his desk and turns it in her hand; it hummmms faintly at her touch. “Oh, now this is interesting.” She flips her hand over; the box remains in her palm, hanging upside-down. “What’s it do?” As she holds it, a corona of flickering static begins to shine around the device. “It stores and releases lightning, actually. Brings a rush of Essence with it, too - the only minor drawback being that it electrocutes the user in the process, which is why they’re not exactly standard deathknight issue. I’d always wondered what would happen if an air elemental used one, myself, but until now, it was mostly an academic interest. Why don’t you try it out?” Blood stands. "For science, then." The stench of ozone builds in the confined space, Blood's eyes and hair shining with lambent violet energy. Sparks crackle and arc from the box as she builds up a charge, lashing and snapping at everything within reach; Mercy and Onyx wisely decide to take a step back before watching. Crack! BOOOOOOOOOM The blast echoes like cannon fire, searing the Deathknights' retinas and rattling their eardrums. It's nearly a full minute before the ringing and afterimages fade. Blood holds the prism aloft, its stored power shining forth in a rainbow of light. Her hair is unburnt, her skin unblemished. "See?" she smirks. "One-hundred percent lightning-proof." Her face falls as she notes that whatever the Abyssals are feeling, it does not seem to be strictly awe or amazement. She opens her mouth, then notices the draft, and the cloud of ash particulate. "...my outfit, however, was evidently not." Onyx blinks the science from her eyes. "Good heavens, Ms. Blood-On-The-Wind, you're beautiful!” “Stating the obvious is a poor substitute for flattery,” Blood remarks diffidently as she accepts Mercy’s hastily-passed and altogether not-nearly-large-enough jacket, but she smiles at the compliment nonetheless. “And that, I suppose, is why they’re not standard-issue for elementals. Still, if you’re willing to deal with the side-effects, you’re welcome to keep it - it’s of little enough use in the underworld.” He pulls out an ebony-handled pen and quickly jots an IOU on the writing pad on his desk, tears it off, folds it, and deposits it in the depression where the lightning box had rested. He makes to close the drawer, then pauses a moment. His hand hovers over a depression containing a highly polished, reflective ring. This he withdraws, again with care, but this time with less reverence for a beautiful object and more wariness. He sets it carefully on the table, and nods significantly at Onyx. “This... again, is not likely to see much use, but it’s also more likely to be a unique thing. Not much chance it’ll be missed, but if it is missed someone is likely to be very put out with us. If you’re willing to risk the heat, I think this might be interesting for you in particular.” He leans back, but doesn’t seem comfortable. His eyes are fixed on the ring. “I took this off the corpse of a would-be assassin. Unusual circumstances, really - she didn’t seem to expect anybody noticing her, and it took some testing before we could figure out why. The ring, when worn, seems to grant a sort of specialized...unremarkability to the actions, words, and appearance of the wearer. People see what they expect to see. The more subtly different the reality is from the illusion the ring projects, the longer that illusion lasts. If something’s outrageously different, it may only last a second - but that might be all the time they need. Smacks of Lunar magic, of course. Made of moonsilver, at the very least, which might explain why nobody’s been over-eager to claim it. Even down below, their works have a reputation for concealing teeth.” He puts his elbows on his desk and steeples his hands under his chin much as Blood did when she entered. “So,” he says, grinning at Onyx, “how brave do you feel?” Onyx returns the commissar's grin. "How much does the Bishop like to pontificate?" MadcapViking fucked around with this message at 02:47 on Sep 21, 2013 |
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Sep 21, 2013 02:43
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Teacake Apology -Never Within Reach, Everlasting Butterfly of the Decadent Garden, Bolt From Brightest Day The galley of the Envoy of Eternal Peace was both well stocked and well cared for. The Captain’s mortal crew, with their ever rotating numbers, made sure of it. It was also a place that the immortal crew very rarely visited, other than Butterfly for short periods during the late night. So it was an odd thing for the place to be completely empty around lunchtime, save for one lone Death Knight, and an even odder thing for there to be a cloud of black smoke billowing from the open oven. After rescuing the iron pan from the fire, Never had to open the portholes and clear the air with a gust from her wings. She set the pan on the hard stone counter and examined her handiwork. Six identical round black bricks mocked her with their existence. Somewhere on the same deck, a bulkhead door slammed open. The slamming of other doors in a straight path through the corridors, minus any thumping of footfalls, hinted at the species of the visitor; the faint crackle of blue sparks off the cast-iron cookware gave a more concrete clue as to his identity. Bolt stormed through the kitchen entryway and pulled a bottle of cheap sherry from the rack, a vein visibly pulsing in his temple. “Well, that feels like enough beating my head against a wall for one day,” he grumbled as he uncorked the bottle. “How’s your luck holding up?” Never looked up at him. Her lip was pushed out in a pout. She sniffled. “This is my fourth attempt. It... it seems to be going better...” It was at that point that Bolt noticed the state of the kitchens. Half a dozen mixing bowls and most of the contents of the flour and sugar bags were strewn about, along with three other baking pans which had similar (although somehow even worse looking) charcoal bricks in them. “Butterfly gave me the recipe and I thought I could apologize to her if I... If I made some but...” He scrutinized her handiwork, looking over the blackened deposits that might once have been pastries. Setting the bottle down, he pried one from its setting of encrusted soot, turned it about in his hand, then took a bite. His eyes widened. “Oh, wow!” he mumbled through a mouthful of charcoal. “These are great!” There wasn’t a hint of insincerity in his tone. Never blinked. Then she narrowed her eyes, but when he pried free a second one and tore into it she knew he wasn’t kidding. “Well, I’m glad someone appreciates my cooking but they won’t do for tea cakes.” Her shoulders sagged. “It has not been a good day. Swap troubles?” He leaned with his back against the counter. “I think you humans have a saying about trying to get people to cooperate? ‘Herding Cats’ or something?” He shook his head. “I feel safe in saying that herding spirits is worse. Cats can probably at least respect the threat of imminent and painful death.” “You might be surprised. But I know that feeling.” She went back to the latest mixing bowl and stirred something that looked pretty close to what batter might resemble if you’d only heard it described aloud and never actually seen it. “Did you manage to get them all in line or still have a few holdouts?” Glancing down at the slightly charred paper with the recipe on it she nicked the Sherry bottle from him and poured some of that in. Couldn’t hurt, right? “Last I saw, there were still a few idiots convinced even if the sky was falling, maybe it’d miss them. Spark’s strangling some of the dumber ones now.” He stretched. “I ran out of strangle, so I delegated.” She nodded, pouring the ‘batter’ into the now-empty pan. It oozed a little. There were bubbles. “Well, if they’re afraid of you, it’s ok if they’re not afraid of Ashes. Though I find it hard to believe you can run out of strangle.” She picked up the pan with both hands and looked at the oven. “Round five...” The cakes went in, and the door closed behind them. “I’m just going to sit here and stare at them this time.” Never said, kneeling down and peering through the slot into the oven. “They can’t burn if I’m watching, right?” The second from the left cake, which had ended up with the majority of the Sherry, immediately lit on fire. Seeing her expression, Bolt threw his hands up and shrugged. “Hey, I have only two speeds: ‘light touch’ and ‘vaporize’.” He peered at the blazing crumpet. “Subtleties...aren’t always my strong point.” Standing upright again, he put his arms around Never’s shoulders. Never pulled the door open and blew rather futilely on the cake, which managed to spread the fire to the neighboring two. “Nooo!” She smothered the pan with a wing, which successfully put it out at least. Peeking at the remains, it looked like the fifth batch was another loss... But wait! One cake, and only one cake, was actually still yellow(ish)! Reverently, she lifted it from the smoldering ruins, handing the pan to Bolt. Finding a plate took only a moment. “It will have to do.” Never sighed at the lone survivor, wondering if the thought was really what counted. “I lost my temper in front of Butterfly earlier. It wasn’t her fault, but at the time... Subtleties aren't my strong suit either.” She looked back at him. “I spoke with my Lady again today. Well, Butterfly spoke with her. I was dismissed.” Taking the clue at once, Bolt replaced the sherry and pulled out something stronger, pouring two glasses. “Still in the doghouse, huh?” “Yes. I doubt I’ll ever be allowed out of it again.” She picked up the glass but didn’t drink any, just looking at the warm honey-colored liquid. There’d been a lot of drinking today already. “But if I wasn’t, then I wouldn’t be here, with you.” Bolt smiled at that, warm and genuine. For the first time in a long while, he seemed not just content, but happy. “Good trade?” For a second Never looked stunned, as if she’d never considered it in quite that light before. There was surprise in her voice when she answered. “Yes... I think it was.” The Thought That Counts Butterfly’s footsteps echoed through the empty hallways as she slowly made her way up the stairs from the lower parts of the ship where she was quarantined. Her hair was a complete mess, the rose lopsided, she seemed completely lacking energy, and most importantly, was below the legal blood-tea level. “Jenkins? Did you try to make breakfast again? You know you’re not supposed to do that...” Butterfly mumbled to herself as she entered the Galley noticing Never’s...attempts at cooking before noticing the Day Caste and her thunderbird. At once she seemed to snap with a small burst of energy, primarily fueled by fear. “Oh...uh...I wasn’t doing anything I promise...and...uh...I’vegottogodosomthing...” Never facepalmed. “Butterfly, come back here! I was trying to...” But the little doctor was long gone already. “Excuse us, for a minute?” Never asked Bolt, grabbing the plate with the cake on it and chasing after her. As Butterfly tried to scurry away from Never, who was now chasing after her, she tried to move even faster but ended up stepping on the hem of her dress and falling face first onto the floor. That was all the Day Caste needed to catch up. “Hey, you okay?” She knelt down and offered her free hand to the other. “Look I’m really sorry about earlier... I wasn’t mad at you it was just...” She stopped to gather her thoughts. “What’s between me and the Lady isn’t between me and you. I wish you didn’t have to see that.” Tears were in Butterfly’s eyes as she tried to sit upright on the floor, although whether it was from her fall or from dealing with Never was difficult to say. “Really? You...” sniffle, “really mean that? You’re not,” sniffle, ”mad at me?” “No. Look, I made you something... Well I tried to make it, anyway.” She offered the cake. “At least Bolt liked the burnt ones.” (Str+Ath to eat Never's teacake: 3d10x7 2) Butterfly carefully takes the teacake which seems to be unusually stiff. Noticing the unusual smell she looks up at Never nervously, but places it in her mouth anyway. The taste...well, there isn’t much of one. At all. The teacake doesn’t seem to want to break apart as she chews at it either. With a little force though she manages to break it into smaller pieces, and with a good gulp from the diluted Elemental Tea kettle at her side she manages to force it down. The Daybreak forces a smile on her face as she looks up at Never. “It’s...” is all she manages to get out before breaking into a coughing fit. Never frowns. “You don’t have to... I’m no good at this. Sorry.” Butterfly starts laughing, which of course just makes the coughing even worse, but she manages to keep from spitting out any of the teacake. “No...You made it for me. I had to...” Quickly she gets up and practically tackles Never with a forceful bearhug. “I was scared...you were so angry, I’ve never seen you like that before. I didn’t know what happened before to make whatever happened before to make you lose your name.” She loosened the grip somewhat as she pulled back to look Never in the eyes. “But that doesn’t matter. We gave up our names before and this is just another name that got tossed away and thrown into the Void. To me, you’re still Never Within Reach,” which Butterfly completely ignored her friend’s name as she tightened the bearhug again, “and I still love you.” Never, who in no life had been a hugger, patted Butterfly on the head. She plucked the tilted rose free and reset it in the other girl’s skull. “There... Don’t worry, that isn’t going to happen again. After today... I think it’s time to let the dead rest. Passions’ life is empty, and over. Never’s isn’t. I don’t see any reason to hold on to what was any longer.” She said that, but in the back of her mind she knew that letting go of Passions didn’t mean that Passions was letting go of her. There were still more memory crystals to find, and plenty of people who wouldn’t be so willing to forget about the old her. Butterfly nuzzled slightly as she was patted on the head, but didn’t release her grip any. She’s not letting go. “Hey, now,” Bolt grinned sardonically at the spectacle. “You put any dents in my girlfriend, we’re gonna have words.” Confused, Butterfly lifted up her head from Never’s side, loosening her hug and scooting back a little. Her eyes quickly moved up and down as she looked closely at Never the same way she would one of her patients. “What are you talking about? She’s fine. A little hug never hurt anybody.” Never smiled and stood up. “Debatable. But not this time.” She looked back towards the kitchen, and the unholy mess left within. “I’ve just remembered there is some vital intelligence gathering that needs to be done over in Jiankang... Probably in or around the nearest pub. Would either of you care to join me?”
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Sep 21, 2013 04:02
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The Price of Passage - Everlasting Butterfly of the Decadent Garden, Last Mercy Given Mercy stares at the closed door of the infirmary. He’s heard some peculiar reports about this particular deathknight, ranging from ‘is the prettiest princess in the entire fleet’ to ‘holds deranged ceremonies involving zombies that she has personally named’. Nevertheless, the captain has hinted strongly that he should contribute something to the ship’s loadout, and barring the theft of impounded armament from lockup, the doctor did present the best chance of getting his particular contribution into working order. He knocks twice, sharply, then waits. There is a sudden clash as Butterfly’s scalpel falls on the operating table. A zombie starts to groan from inside and tries to get up but the Daybreak pushes the zombie back on the table. “No, I still have work to do on you. Just sit tight, I’ll see who it is.” She steps over to the door loudly humming a cute little melody, but stops as she opens. “Yessss?” Butterfly is wearing what used to be a white apron before being absolutely covered in various bloodstains, and holds a detached zombie arm in her left hand. Mercy bows. “Good afternoon, madam. I trust I’m not interrupting anything too urgent, am I?” “Master Bloxham? Do you mind?” Groooooan. “No, he says he likes the company! Come on in!” Butterfly swings the door wide and prances back to the operating table as she begins to sew on the replacement zombie arm for the zombie strapped to the table. “Help yourself to some tea!” There are three of the Elemental Teapots sitting on a desk nearby. Two are empty. Ah, he thinks to himself, it looks like we’re splitting the difference on those rumors. What he says out loud, however, is,“Thank you! I believe I shall.” As he enters and pours himself a cup, he makes a motion to the small team of crewmen standing behind him with a largeish bowl-thing suspended between them. They carry it in behind him. “I don’t believe we’ve been formally introduced. My name is Last Mercy Given - I’ve been seconded from UnterPol to serve the fleet’s investigative needs, and asked to serve as morale officer when a detective isn’t required.” He smelled the cup - ooh, this was the good stuff. “Unter...Pol...?” Butterfly asks, while struggling with the stitching. “Does Captain know you’re here?” Mercy’s politely neutral expression undergoes some strain as he struggles to keep the ever-rebellious sarcastic eyebrow under control. “Er, yes. She was the first one I saw when I came on board. I’ve also spoken to the XO.” He pauses, trying to ignore the growing idea that he could have walked in here painted purple and not drawn special notice from the doctor. “Out of curiosity, how long have you been working on this particular project?” “Oh, this?” Butterfly says, lifting the zombie arm to make it wave at Mercy. “This is daily work. Zombies lose parts all the time, gotta put them back on...right...” Oh. “...or left...” Can a zombie function just fine with two left arms? Probably! “There. Back to the pen with you!” She unstraps the zombie and shoos it back to the pen with the others, while taking a quick break to wash her hands and face. “Sorry about that. Is there anything you needed from me, Mister Mercy?” “Well, I’d heard things would fall apart around here without you, and it seems the rumors were correct. It’s in that capacity that I wanted to speak with you. I’ve heard you’re a sorcerer and a scholar of some note, and I was wondering if you could help me with this.” He indicates the basin-looking thing that the zombies have brought in with a wave of one hand. “I’d like, if possible, to make a gift of this to the ship as my contribution to its armament. Unfortunately, it doesn’t really work - not as intended, anyway. I was wondering if I could persuade you to embark upon a repair project with me.” “Oh?” Butterfly looks at the basin, quickly circling around it, and even sticking her head in it to get a better look. “What’s it do?” “Well, it looks like a Sympathetic Elemental Scanner - an elemental steps in, enjoys the metaphysical equivalent of a nice massage and a hot bath, and in so doing responds to changes in their element - turns the entire device, elemental included, into a sort of map of that element. The only problem is that it isn’t one, as near as the scholars assigned to me when I captured it could tell. It’s like one, they said, but it isn’t one.” “Hmm...” Butterfly whistles sharply, as Jenkins climbs down from the workshop above. “Jenkins, sit in the basin.” She orders, and the man-servant complies. Carefully Butterfly gives the basin another look over, trying to find the on switch. “So...where did you find it?” “Captured, really. A group of Dragon-Blooded archaeologists were investigating an Anathemic tomb, and I was there to prevent the trespass. The thing is, the tomb wasn’t just a tomb - there was a lab in there, too. Most of the stuff we took in from there ended up sealed away after we captured it - whatever it was, it worried somebody above me in the food chain. The rest, my team was tasked with IDing and filing, and this was really the prize of what was left over. Compared to some of the other stuff, this seemed both innocuous and potentially useful, so I requisitioned it.” “Hmm...Well...I think maybe you have a problem with the initial elemental detection systems...without that it won’t know what kind of Elemental is sitting in it.” She pokes at the side of it a couple times, listening to the sound. “Some of the inner workings must have gotten messed up. Gylphs decayed, wiring frayed, rats chewing on things they shouldn’t have...lemme see.” Taking the unwashed scalpel she just cut a zombie’s arm off with, she made a small cut into the side of the basin to get a better look. “Hmm...oh right, it needs something elemental. Jenkins, hold the teapot! And...there!” Int+Craft/Occ+2nd Ex to fix and operate the Elemental Scanner: 8d10x7+4 7 10d10x7+5 11 Dutifully, loyal Jenkins pours a thimbleful of the elemental tea into the device’s spirit receptacle, priming it for action. With a whir of jadesteel gears, it rouses to a semblance of functionality, attuning itself to its medium and bidding like call to like. Its compass-needles spin halteringly, a secondary set of sliding needles on the underside of each directional one juddering and scratching the soft clay of its surface. It twitches, signaling first at Jenkins’ tea service and placing a mark quite close to the very center of the display. Another spasm denotes the thermos on Butterfly’s workbench; a third the pink-clothed table where she hosts her parties; a fourth, a slight spill eating its way through the flooring... ...and then it detects her icebox. The needles go crazy, drawing manic spirograph lines across the clay disc as they seek to convey the sheer, staggering quantity of tea held within her refrigerator. Slowly, a rising, metallic whine builds within the kettle in Jenkins’ hand, resonant feedback sending powerful vibrations through the tea and anything in contact with it. The stain on the floor begins to spread. The cups on the table begin to chime. The thermos begins to dance a jig, spinning like a top across the workbench. The kettle erupts into Jenkins’ face. And Butterfly has the sense to disconnect the power before the rumbling from the icebox can grow any more ominous. The zombie’s face droops, sags, and sloughs off the front of his skull, sliding languidly down his tuxedo with an expression that could almost be disappointment and leaving a thin trail of brownish slime across the fabric. Butterfly looks around the room to see where the Tea exploded to. “Don’t worry dear, I’ll get you a new face soon.” She gently reached up and patted the zombie man-servant on the head, before turning to Mercy. “Well, I can probably fix it, but it’s going to have to wait for a while. On the other hand, if we need to blow up the island, now I think I know how.” Mercy’s look of alarm could be best explained by the fact that he’d downed his cup of (indeed very tasty) tea just before the test had begun. Oddly, he’d felt no ill effects whatsoever. In point of fact, he felt better than usual now. “I suppose it will have to wait for now. Still, that was a quicker diagnosis than I was expecting. I look forward to seeing it at full operation, presuming it isn’t just some sort of elaborate explosive trap.” He pauses, waiting to see if he, too, is going to melt. After a few seconds, he concludes that he’s disinclined to do so. “By t’way, what wa’ in that tea, anyw-” He pauses for a moment to take command of his rebellious tongue. 2L from tea. What is the world coming to these days? When he speaks again, it is very slow, but clear. “Oh my. That has a kick to it, doesn’t it? Thank you, doctor. For the help and the tea. Right now, I think I’d better go have a quick nap.” Slightly wobbly, but on his own two feet and (mostly) under his own power, Mercy staggers off to find a place where he can wait out the inevitable trip in peace. Places Unknown- Last Mercy Given Well. This was novel. He notes that he’ll have to have a word with the good doctor about lacing her tea with hallucinogens. He pulled himself upright in his...bathtub? He blinks, rubs his eye, and takes in his surroundings again. He is indeed in a bathtub, mercifully empty, in the middle of a bathroom that seems better-appointed than his Deathlord’s office. Apart from the plumbing fixtures, however, he’s alone. Although the tub is empty, the room is filled with...steam? Fog? Some manner of vision-obscuring annoyance, at any rate. He walks over to the mirror and wipes a patch clear with his good hand, then starts at what he sees. It’s not him looking back. His ‘reflection’ is blonde and prominently female, clad in a sheer dress of aquamarine silk trimmed in silver. Her eyes are hidden by an elaborate half-mask of blue jade which Mercy somehow suspects does nothing to obscure her own vision, and she holds an eagle-feather quill in her left hand. She hastily tucks her right out of view behind herself, but not before Mercy catches sight of something thin and pointed. Something that looks strikingly like one of the syringes from Butterfly’s medical bay. “Well!” she exclaims. “This is a new one. Hiding in my mirror...sorcery? Raksha trickery? Lunar pranking? No, no.” She passes a gloved finger across her lips. “Don’t tell me - I want to puzzle this one out myself.” Mercy smiles. “I wouldn’t dream of spoiling your fun.” While he speaks, he’s looking at the woman and the room behind her - what he can see of it, at any rate. Fancy dress, mask, gloves - dressing for a ball? The syringe, though, that’s out of place. Drugs? She’d hidden that syringe in a great hurry, that’s for certain. Her sleeve shows signs of recently having been rolled up, as well. He permits himself the raise of an eyebrow. “Perhaps I’m a hallucination! Do you find yourself much given to them?” His gaze rests on her right arm for slightly longer than might be ascribed to chance. “Perhaps,” she muses, studying the Midnight’s face, “but something seems...off. No, you’re definitely real...but are you here? Now?” Absently, she looks to a grandfather clock reclining at an angle against her wall, only to note that it’s long-since stopped. “When is ‘now’, anyways?” “‘Now’, for me, is 6th Resplendant Wood, Realm Year 768. It’s been three years since the disappearance of the Scarlet Empress.” As he speaks, he notes that she’s right. Something is off. Time to find out what. “When is ‘now’ for you?” (11 successes on Per + Inv, full 1st Excellency, peripheral motes only.) The strange woman consults her broken clock, resigns herself to its uselessness, and instead throws open the window. Outside, the sky is black, speckled with stars (so many stars - far more than Mercy has ever seen). She performs some quick mental math, then returns to the mirror. “Calibration, Realm Year 3318. You’re a ways behind, aren’t you?” She frowns as the rest of his words register. “The Scarlet who, now?” Mercy’s stare adopts a thousand-yard quality when she says the words. His mind races. Tell the truth? He couldn’t decide what would be worse - if she didn’t believe him, or if she did. And yet, that date seemed familiar to him. He’d studied ancient history, once the libraries of the Underworld were made available to him. That date... ...oh. Well. That boded poorly for her, no matter where she was. A mad urge rose in him - to warn her, to tell her to get away from the violence to come. Why? He scarcely knew her. For all he knew, she was safe, far away from the Blessed Isle, waiting for an inauspicious time of year to be over. In any event, she would be long since dead. It didn’t matter what he did here. It didn’t matter. He closes his eyes in defeat. Of course it did. The imperious bearing, the mask, the fancy clothing at Calibration. He knew what this woman was, even if he didn’t know who. If he interferes, who knows what might happen? Well, he might know. “I think you’ve got that backwards, madam. The Realm I refer to is the successor to your Realm. And, unless I miss my guess, you’re getting the feeling right now that something is terribly wrong. Do I miss my guess?” She tilts her head at the word ‘successor’. “Let me think...” She begins to pace back and forth through the dusty room. “Stopped clock, evidence of conspiracy, you know me but I don’t know you, uncertainty of how I got here...” She halts. “Which means...I’m not here.” Slowly, the study dissolves into a backdrop of a shining gala hall bedecked in banners of silk-and-orichalcum brocade, the once-jewel of civilization upon the world. Glorious light gleams from wondrous works of artifice, illuminating a grand banquet table. The luminaries of an age long-gone sit and feast and laugh and trade witty remarks...but something is off. There is no sound, no motion; only the artistic impression thereof. A winding crack slowly spiderwebs down the woman’s mask, trickling blood from above onto a like stain over her abdomen. Crimson rapidly spreads through the turquoise silk, puddling on the floor. “I’m dead, aren’t I?” Mercy’s face slumps. It never failed, really. Just when you meet somebody you think you can talk to. “I’m afraid so. I’ve no idea what you’re doing inside my head, but... “ He pivots his body on his left leg, gesturing back grandiosely from the glass to the bathroom behind him. “That does make two of us, more or less. And you’re welcome to stay, if you like. I learned not too long ago that death doesn’t necessarily mean the end.” A wind sweeps through the chamber on the far side of the mirror; in its passing, the partygoers halt, blacken, and gradually disperse into ash. Feast and banners and columns and all the wonders of old disintegrate with their makers, until all that is left is the masked woman herself, standing on a featureless plain of white. At this, she seems more put off than at the realization of her own death. ‘Is that it?” she asks incredulously. “No process of deduction, no grand denouement - the mystery just ends in the middle?” She crosses her arms. “No...there are still clues, still bits and bobs to piece together. I can still solve this.” Mercy smiles a little as a thought occurs to him. His head...his rules? He raises his good hand, snaps his fingers. A wind sweeps through his side, same as before, erasing tiled floors and marbled tub and golden taps and hanging fog. Deathknight and dead queen stand face to face. “I must say I’m also awfully curious. If you wish my assistance in the matter, you’ll have it.” He extends his right hand. “My name is Last Mercy Given.” She moves slightly aside as she extends her left, dropping the length of glass and metal behind her; momentarily, it dissolves into the indistinct white of the plain. “Bold Aria of Justice,” she introduces herself. Her eyes flick momentarily to the bleeding caste mark on Mercy’s forehead. “Much as I’d love to compare notes, I’m afraid we’ll have to pick this up later.” The outlines of Aria’s form begin to blur and fade, her colors trickling away alongside her life’s blood. “You’re a bit too far into detoxing yourself to continue.” He jerks forward as the world spins around him, changing his perspective from ‘upright’ to ‘prone’. His face is wet - forehead, eyelids, cheeks - wet and sticky. He touches them, and his fingertips come away red. His anima is still illuminating the world around him. He arises, walks to his mirror, and sees... ...only himself, caste mark bleeding onto his face, anima flickering into filmy coherence as a bandaged figure behind him. A few more moments, and that is gone. He continues to stare as he thinks about what he’s seen. It would appear, judging by his guest’s final words, that he would need to cultivate a drug habit. He’d have to talk with Butterfly. He focuses on his face in the mirror as a question strikes him. “Whose bathroom was I in?”
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Sep 21, 2013 04:18
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Guess Who's Back? Port, Solid Shell, Amphiro: Moonsday, 2 Resplendent Wood A chill fog uncharacteristic of the season had settled over the eastern harbor of the nominal capital of the satrapy. Situated on a narrow peninsula on Amphiro's southeastern spur, Solid Shell was striking in its architectural design, if not its attention to geomantic principle. Frequently battered by hurricanes, its streets, radiating from the central hub of the Satrap's palace, had been covered along the entirety of their extensive lengths by cuttings of translucent coral. This extravagance gave the city the appearance of a shining scallop shell from a distance, especially when illuminated from the east by the light of the rising sun. Not coincidentally, it also made any sort of marine deployment against Solid Shell a logistical nightmare. A force hoping to take the capital would have to march at least fifteen miles against entrenched and covered defenders, allowing themselves to be either flanked from neighboring spokes or pinned against the ocean. Nonetheless, with minimal visibility and a veritable laundry list of reasons to be paranoid, the two Immaculate Masters and their contingent felt better about a long walk than a short sail into the enclosed western harbor of the capital proper. They would have felt better yet if they'd seen signs of any other living soul so far. There is no-one. Brother Mnemon shook his head, tearing his gaze away from the firmament. No mortals, no Exalts, not even little spirits scurrying beneath notice. Over the years, a lively assortment of vendors, pubs, brothels, brokerages, and salons had grown to encrust the docks like a layer of barnacles. There was a reason the Order maintained a certain distance from the Satrap's fief; in Sister Iselsi's case, not least the overpowering stench of fish guts, vomit, ship stink, and moral degeneracy. Somehow, its absence disturbed her more. "How?" Her jade-toed boot lashed sharply forward at a long-necked rum bottle, sending it spinning down Shell Street, the ring of smoky glass on pavement answered only by the lapping of waves. "The Anathema, from the warships - could they have beaten us here? There's something unnatural about this fog, mark my words; it feels just like the doldrum the Unclean admiral set on us before they attacked." Absently, she cinched the straps about her claw-gauntlets even tighter. It was clear that after so much frustration, she was eager for a foe she could face, a foe she could throttle. I do not see how they could have. Brother Mnemon's sledge rested across his shoulder, but only a fool would take the monk for unwary. Through sorcery, perhaps, but they would have had to circle around the north of Amphiro to escape our notice. They could outsail us, or elude us, but not both. "Then they sent word to Skullstone! We know one of the wind spirits carried a messenger north! If the Silver Prince saw weakness, why wouldn't he take the opportunity?" With no small amount of trepidation, the Immaculates began to fan out through the covered area, moving between vendors' wagons and through adjoined buildings while the two Terrestrials remained in the street proper. If this was an ambush, they'd be damned if they let it catch all of them. The earthblood scratched his stubbled chin pensively. Possible, but... Steadfastly, he plodded forward, his attention not on the blind turns and overlooking windows, but the very earth itself. I should think that if this were an invasion, there would be much more of a mess. Briefly, his gaze flicked back to the harbor. Or at least a blockade posted against reinforcements. Gradually, the deserted habitations tapered off as the docks receded from view. Forced out into the relative exposure of Shell Street, the mortal Immaculates maintained a loose pincer formation until Sister Iselsi raised one hand to signal a halt. She pointed ahead, at a single wavering pinprick of light enshrouded by the grey. Fire. At their masters' direction, the soldiers fanned out, half their number filtering out through the gaps in the coral to provide overwatch. The rest stayed back, weapons at ready. Sheena and Carrus marched ahead, tensing as they spotted the figures lounging about the bonfire, then relaxing again as they made out the distinctive armor profile and heraldry of the Kaizoku line of House Peleps. They were drunk; that much was obvious from some ways away. Bottles and wineskins littered the ground, and their cheery mood was altogether at odds with the dismal atmosphere. Sister Iselsi recognized several of the soldiers from their sporadic naval patrols, but most were strangers to her. A hatchet-faced woman with turquoise hair and bleary eyes looked to hold both a higher rank and a lower blood-alcohol content than the others; even as she approached, the Immaculate felt uneasy. Where were the Satrap's forces? Blue-Hair did a double-take when she realized that they had company, then a third when it filtered through the drunken haze that yes, this probably was her problem. Gingerly, she slid off her barrel. “Halt!” Blue-Hair called, wincing at the sound of her own voice. “This is a restricted area! Identify yourselves at once!” Her squad stumbled to attention, trying to maintain an air of, if not sobriety, at least a professional, maritime sort of drunkenness. Sheena plucked at the sleeve of her robe, frayed and tattered but still quite unmistakably temple garb. “Masters Iselsi Sheena and Mnemon Carrus of the Twin Springs Monastery.” Her eyes narrowed perilously in a way they only could at the prospect of punishing a misbehaver. “Your turn. Name and rank!” “Lieutenant Peleps Kaizoku Sanza, 21st Flotilla, Water Fleet!” the officer blurted before her higher brain functions could override the conditioned response. She blinked, stunned, a drop of cold sweat trickling down her brow. This was not going according to plan. Vying to reestablish her authority in the matter, she composed herself and placed one hand purposefully on the hilt of her daiklave. “State your business!” “Our business,” Sister Iselsi shot back acidly, “is with the Satrap, and your superiors. The rest is none of your business. Come. You will escort us to the Coral Palace, and you will account for this...irregularity.” Lieutenant Sanza blinked again, tightening her grip...and then, just as suddenly, relaxed, her breath letting out as if someone had finally let her in on the joke. “Of course, Master. You have our full cooperation.” “Finally,” Sheena sniffed, her wounded dignity assuaged at last. “Come now! We've no time to lose!” As she strode past, nose upturned, the Peleps lieutenant gave the faintest of nods to her scale. Quick as a viper, Sanza's hand went back to her weapon. The blade had almost cleared its sheath when Sister Iselsi turned primly on her heel and opened her like a fish from groin to throat. As their mortal contingent loosed their shafts through the gaps in the coral and Brother Mnemon laid two men flat with a swing of his mighty hammer, Sheena spared a single moment to watch the traitorous lieutenant gurgle her last, staring blankly upward in shock and confusion. In her mind's eye, she saw instead the dumbstruck face of Captain Spawn of the Devouring Wyrm, the Deceiver's poison words dead upon her lying tongue. She smiled.
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Oct 14, 2013 23:13
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