She arrives late - she’s usually late. Punctuality is important in music, but apparently less so in person. Anyway, there were detours to take in, matters to digest, before she summoned up the will to arrive at the Orrery. Her entrance is unceremonious, and easily ignored amidst the exchange between Marvak’s brother and the one she doesn’t recognize. Dealing with divinities was not exactly her forte but what choice did she have?
She wanders about the clocks for a moment in her mortal guise - as she passes by, those that had fallen out of sync or gone still since whatever calamity are slowly restored to a consistent, measured tempo, Fa willing them back to harmony - the effect is temporary, and collapses if she passes too far away.
The passion lingers in the antechamber outside Marvak’s sanctum, listening to the raised voices - not so much to eavesdrop, but only until she can know - there is no solution forthcoming, there is no plan here. It is as much disorder as anywhere else. Things are still falling apart.
The silence pains her. The loss, it pains her. And, on some selfish level, the notion of putting in the hard work to try and salvage what they could feels a little unfair. That is not her nature - she is not a being of Physics, or Salvage, or some great builder - she wants music, and life, but… She sniffs a little. There is a trace there, of souls, and souls have passions, those funny little things, fragile and inchoate as they might be.
Maybe she could leave the heavy lifting to that Lord of the Pillar or the Star-fellow, if she could just fetch a contingency of souls, right?
With a resonant chord, a pulse, her form is gone, and the sound travels out into the space, trailing in the direction of the Cat, Fa chasing the pull of lingering concentrations of souls.
Action 1: Using Passions 2 to sniff out the, well, passion and essence of the souls themselves.
Action 2: In an effort towards the same goal, using Senses 1 to more conventionally comb and pursue the wreck of the Crash for this soul contingency!
|# ¿ Jul 3, 2018 02:50|
|# ¿ Nov 14, 2018 15:35|
Fa - Omixil
It sucks. It all sucks. She kicks a stone off a paved path, the remnant sent spiralling off into the void of space. She hates the quiet. It gives her too much time with her thoughts and she hates thinking. But that’s all she’d done lately. She tried playing music, but her heart just isn’t in it. Not even some mournful dirge or swelling depressive score.
So she’d been scouring this city. The Star Lord and the alien crow are trundling about the cityscape somewhere, and it isn’t like she hides from them, not exactly. It’s just… the former seems pretty content with nursing celestial bodies, and the latter… she doesn’t trust that one. Some oily veneer is carried on them and she doesn’t quite know what to make of that.
Barefooted, she scrambles up a wall to a crumbling boulevard, a stack of crumpled letters and unsent prayers held in her hand. As she makes her way downtown, she turns the missives over, reads them, and tosses them in her wake. Sorrow. Regret. That’s all these prayers can mostly amount to anymore.
Fa sighs and dumps off the over-burdened cloth sack she’d been carrying. Which isn’t really a sack, of course, the entire thing is a metaphorical manifestation of a notion of a bundle that she does carry in so much as she brings it with her. And the contents are similarly a symbolic representation of the real precious cargo she’d been gathering: souls, unreaped by whatever End had befallen the cosmos.
Fa turns to her left, nodding to Fa. That Fa looks across to a third Fa, giving a nod, and that one in turn, acknowledges three more standing before them. Right. Journey of a thousand leagues begins with a single yadyadawhatever. And if you don’t do it, who else will?
There’s a lot to work with here. She could use this. Regret is a passion of a kind - a function of passion, anyway. She doesn’t need much. Just enough to keep the lights on, so to speak. Each of the images of Fa’s mortal guise split up down the boulevard, grasping and tearing at stonework, manipulating matter, laying down lines and patterns. There is a resonant hum that begins as the Passion breaks and borrows from the ruins of the city Omixil, repurposing it in her pursuit.
A great well is carved out of a stone basin, stepped with benches like the ancient odeons her adherents had built in their bygone eras. The goddess-images shove their fingers into the stonework beneath the seats and stage, then tug metal pipes and tubing out of motes of space rubble. The whole thing is nonsense, devoid of most any sane engineering, but these things matter little. It is about the idea, the aesthetic, the passion.
What results is some strangely smooth and ornate marriage of a sprawling pipe organ and a kinetoscope, with the guts and reels and tubes riddling the underbelly of the odeon. Burnished brass mirrors and topaz lenses take the pale, winnowing starlight offered by the dimly-lit galaxy, and create a warm, orange and golden light that suffuses the outdoor cinema.
As the montage winds down, all the Fa-images reconvene and coalesce into a single being, who takes the shards of mortal essence, made manifest as tiny glittering shards of purple quartz, and gingerly tosses them into the funnel mouth of the grand device. There is a lurching hum as reels and wheels turn, a clicking and other assorted bells and whistles, slow at first, then faster until it settles into a dull hum.
The air of the odeon is filled with a hazy fog, billowing out from before-mentioned whistles. Light pours through the topaz lenses, projecting honey and sepia images out onto the floor of the stage, somewhere between a three dimensional hologram and a two dimensional film. A few frames or stills of a sunrise. Cut. A sink, a human’s hands being washed. Cut. A woman’s face, smiling. Cut. Spinning on and on. This is what it looks like when we tell each other the stories in our heads. A shifting stream of snippets from the dreams of souls, which splay out and stimulate or inform the other souls stored, who in turn dream out more images and scenes, feeding on eachother.
A cycle of stimulus to entertain and refresh and nourish these untethered souls while they languish in containment. This is what Fa has made. Until mortals can be mortal again, until a true cycle is put into place, this raw material will be watered and preserved, and spare them the horrific disfiguring trauma of being untethered spirits at this End of Time. A sanctum for soul survivors, a cinema of ghost-haunted dreams, an ark, built on Regret, animated by Passions, meant to dazzle and amaze the Senses.
And for now, a place that isn’t so quiet and dead as the rest of the crumbling universe. Fa takes more than a little time to settle back and enjoy her own theater.
Sorry for my absence, as talked about, had some IRL stuff in the way.
I don’t care terribly about making up lost actions, Fa is primarily just wanting to seek out bits and pieces to lay down the fundaments of the universe again. She is in damage control mode, or at least trying to be! Likely as not, she will attempt to repel or reap Mourners and feed anything salvageable back into her Dream Theater.
Past that, she would probably look to increase the mooring of places or repelling Mourners, but especially Omixil and the Microcosm. Is there a standard action for Mooring, or is it more like, you have to do something to the place to restore it?
So I guess, Fa’s turns look something like this:
Action 1: Passion 2 to Construct the Dream Theater
Action 2: Senses 1 or Ritual 1 to Construct the Dream Theater
Action 1: Spent trying to secure the mooring on the places she feel’s most important to restoring harmony
Action 2: Ditto.
|# ¿ Jul 15, 2018 12:43|
Fa - Omixil
She lies back, indulging in her creation, letting the salvaged wraiths drift through the odeon, over the seats, over her skin, and back into the machine. A little ambrosia would complete the experience, but she’s dry and has to suffer the moment divinely lucid - or lucid as she ever is, anyway. More of your scene, Te. But this whole thing is Em’s vibe.
The pieces inside her that had been Te, that had been Em, they hum and resonate. Maybe they concur. The sensation makes her nauseous, and she regrets thinking of her sisters immediately. She sits up, rubbing her eyes, Mercy. When I really need a distraction, someone went and destroyed the whole loving universe, and now there’s nothing to distract m-
On cue, an impact rocks Omixil, her head snapping toward the source, senses piercing through stone and rubble and distance. She hops up from her seat, “I’d call that luck, but I think it’s called ‘providence’, on account of the divinity.” The parts that were Un concur. She reaches down and pulls a bright yellow hard hat out of thin air, plopping it on her head unceremoniously. She shuffles out of the theater, steel-toed workboots manifesting on her bare feet. Fa whistles an ancient tune as she heads off at a leisurely pace, out to survey the damage.
Will drop the point on Passions. Will investimigate Omixil’s impending trouble, then followup with actions, yeah?
|# ¿ Jul 18, 2018 09:46|
Fa - Omixil to Heart's Ease
Sort of sums up why she didn’t care for hanging around gods so much. A mad bomber and a radical transformationalist, and more rubble than they started with. She runs her hand through her hair and huffs. Fa takes one last look over the soul engine she’s left in place. She said something about demons. Well, maybe.
Back to work. Her form drift up to the air, then ignites like a torch, bursting away from Omixil, a shooting star streaking through space toward Heart’s Ease. Upon arriving, Fa’s form shatters into nine motes of silver light. The motes bounce from rock to rock, sorting through the debris. Every impact, each mote emits a note, a different hum, until the pace of their search forms a peculiar kind of almost-song that reverberates through the former prison.
So I’m an understimulated self-absorbed pyromaniac, and the universe cracks open including my holding cell… and then what?
The motes pulse in a little bit of irritation, sifting through the rubble. If Chrys had made it here, something else may have survived, right? Hadn't this been some big... complex for divine bureaucracy or something, right? Fa didn't know much about that, most of her petty crimes tended to be handled at mortal level. So maybe... Just feel about. Strike the right resonance, and make these ruins sing. The motes oscillate and whirr, broadening their search, color-shifting to a pale ruby tone.
Action 1: Using Senses 1 + Forcing the Action to scrutinize Heart’s Ease and see if Fa can find anything untoward in the rubble of Heart’s Ease that might be out of place with the other places ravaged by the Crash.
Action 2: And will be using Passions to give Heart's Ease one last comb, make sure there's nothing still useful.
Ambivalent fucked around with this message at Jul 22, 2018 around 05:33
|# ¿ Jul 21, 2018 12:13|
Of the first dreamers, those beings who first created, one carefully tended a garden world and shaped it into a cradle - and when he was finished, he lay to rest and surrendered his life - and of his body arose a golden people, ageless and beautiful, born into splendor, who called themselves iolani, as it had the sound of the name of their maker.
Neither divine nor mortal - who can say if such distinctions even existed in this age - and never wanting, they dwelt in the garden of their birth for millenia, joyfully pursuing curiosities. Other peoples eventually dotted the cosmos, younger gods brought about their new kinds of Order, but none trespassed in the shadow cast by the Iolani’s maker.
Kailehua, one who peered over the garden wall, saw the benighted worlds beyond, and these young gods, many no mightier than she herself. She saw no trace of her maker’s siblings, of the first to create, and at last she believed her cradle had at last grown too small.
Kahukoa, of great foresight, who stood at the garden wall, knew Kailehua’s heart, for the Iolani were of one body. He saw Kailehua’s ambition, and in her heart, he saw the seed of riotous discord and a terrible hubris, and what dark shapes the Iolani may take.
Kailehua saw what was reflected in Kahukoa’s eyes and knew him to be right but could not deny her heart.
So Kahukoa lay himself to rest in their garden, and he cut open his belly, and as the Iolani were of one body, and but one life, they perished there - and of their people arose a new people, ageless and graceful, born into the golden city of the Iolani, heirs to their works and wonders. They called themselves ‘kahukoa’, as it had the sound of the name of their maker.
But there was a longing in them, and they were of one body with a fractured heart. And Manoaumakua who was of no people, and born of no one, and was neither divine nor mortal, it found these children, and swam into that fissure with its grinning mouth full of razor teeth.
In time, the Kahukoa were riven with riotous discord and came to the same conclusion as their namesake, and they lay themselves to rest in their Garden of Iolani, and surrendered their lives - and of their blood arose a new people, somewhat distant from the Iolani but still carrying the soul of the Creator. But as they arose, Manoaumakua stole away bits of the wondrous works of the Iolani, hid them from Knowing. The predator was ready for these people - who called themselves Ke’kaumaha, for the grief which birthed them.
As the Kahukoa, they did not see their tormentor, who dragged them to ruin - nor did the next generation, and the one after that. In ten generations, the light of the Iolani was gone, and the blood of the last people had born a new people, with still eyes and ghastly grins of jagged teeth, and they called themselves Mano, for they knew indeed their maker, who was of no people and born of no one, and their maker had left them no legacy, and their garden was of nothing, and they had no history.
No one knows what became of the Mano, and few knew the Iolani, but now and again, one may find a bauble or trinket, a trace of those golden people born in that Ancient Age, in a place where Manoaumaku stole it away and hid it so its children would not know of their lineage. And these things may carry with them some of that old power, but doleful air and a taste of sorrow for that golden garden which was lost.
Fa - Heart’s Ease
The wretched alien bird finds Fa shrouded in the dust of the collapsing planet, seated atop a seat-shaped stone, turning over a crystalline and gold jewelry box in her hand. It seems old - but then, most things must to the Trespasser, though this seems older than most - old to Fa even, for sure. She ponders it for a moment, and the story told in the crumbling script she'd read, while listening to the proposal.
She clicks her tongue, “To know me so briefly, and yet know me so well.” Fa whisks the small box away to whatever place she keeps her things, then nods, “Fine, whatever. Anything for a fan, right?” The parts that were Te, Passion of the theatrical arts, grumble at being used for such low cunning.
Temple of Prism
Fa whips about the bends and turns of the temple, appearing in her mortal guise for only an instant or two before dispersing as a sound, a musical note that echoes down one corridor and reforms at the end. She follows the light, now genuinely curious in her own right as to just what the bird had dug up.
Action 1 & 2: Will be indulging in the Trespasser’s plan. Fa is far too literate and far too familiar with storytelling conventions to trust that goofy act of course, but she's more interested maybe in keeping an eye on them, maybe. Both actions I guess will be put into working on those clocks - using Passion and Senses. Fa isn't some sort of NERD but music and math share all sorts of things.
Ambivalent fucked around with this message at Jul 26, 2018 around 12:37
|# ¿ Jul 26, 2018 11:49|
Fa - Temple of Prism
Fa continues to visit with the Outsider, sitting in on the other gods’ visitations, lingering quietly as they carry out their godly business. When the others depart, she finally says her farewell to Mhaith’s Ascent. The Outsiders concern her. Everything concerns her these days, and that’s the loving problem. Before all this, ‘concern’ was a relative thing that happened to other people.
The others are feeling about, planting roots in rocky soil. She’d like that, like that a lot. But every time she starts to think about pulling something more together, there it is again. That memory of falling into nothing, of everything around her being torn away, then awaking to find herself hurtling through the void at great velocity.
The Crash - the Outsider had chosen - in their new, fumbling vocabulary, to call it this, and that suits her. It happened once. It could happen again. Or maybe someone made it happen, and they’re still out there. Between the Orrery and the encounter in Omixil, she couldn’t shake the idea that there’s something with a will out there, something deliberate, pressing in on them.
Maybe it was more of these Outsiders, maybe not. But she wanted another look at something in particular.
A humming ray of silver starlight strikes the ground outside the Orrery, an echoing chord ringing through the facility that reverberates and reassembles into ‘Fa.’
There now. No obnoxious bird plying their infantile wiles, no overly-litigious little brother shouting. It’s just Fa and the clocks and the Orrery. Marvak, Marvak, Marvak. You knew. And yet... Fa pours over the clock collection a little closer, eyeing a tacky neon orange plastic timepiece she recognizes in spite of the corrosion. Plucking it from the wall, she holds it up. From Liscotheque. Another planet, civilization, people and song all gone. Fa bites her lip and moves on.
Marvak’s parting missive. Had she wanted the Crash? Or merely accepted it? And Gogoth, what had he been doing here, what exactly had befallen him? She clicks her tongue as she paces the Orrery, wrinkling her nose, running her fingers along the walls, “Talk to me, talk to me, tell me something.” ’When you see me again, it won’t be me.’ So she will become something else and return to her brother? Or something else will return in her guise? gently caress. She isn’t going to begrudge anyone a poetic turn of phrase but maybe a little more clarity?
Fa proceeds into the interior of the Orrery, where they’d found Marvak. The Trespasser had been there, and Voth had been here. And that wiggly, suspicious little vermin got away from the bird, and then… What had happened?
Fa frowns and rubs at her brow. Something. It was here, then it was gone, and Marvak too. She leans over and scrutinizes the ground. She sniffs a little, then peers around. The passion puts her hand on a wall, then knocks on the wall, letting the sound probe through the structure of the Orrery itself.
Marvak knew. The Orrery survived the Crash, and so did she. Until… Until something else happened? There has to be a trace, a tell, a whiff, some emotional resonance. Gogoth was here. Marvak was here. And something else. There may be no physical trace of what transpired, but maybe she could sniff out the passion in those moments around the Crash - Marvak’s, Gogoth’s, and this possible third party. And if that crawler they’d pulled out of her had vanished with her remains, then maybe there’d be some way to suss out something there.
I dunno if this is okay, but Fa’s circling back around to The Disappearance of Marvak and the Status of the Orrery mysteries and going to try and give them a fresh look.
Action 1: Was going to use Passions +3 and take 2 Hubris to Force to try and pick up an emotional trace of anything at the Orrery.
Action 2: Senses +1 and another 2 Hubris to Force to double down on the same effort.
|# ¿ Jul 31, 2018 14:26|
Fa - The Orrery
She stands amidst Marvak’s sanctum, toes tapping the floor to a song only she can hear. She’s being watched here. But not by the elder god who has just arrived. The Passion does not yet turn to face Siderous. “Of course it left a mark, Sun that Was.” She turns and looks up to the other god, lifting her fingers from her lips and exhaling a wisp of prismatic, glinting smoke, “There’s no such thing as ‘mere’ dreams, after all.”
Lazily, she wipes her gold-dust stained fingers on her pant leg then smirks, leaning in closer to Sid, “As much as I’d like to… treasure this intimacy, we’re not alone.” Her eyes drift toward the direction her senses are tugged, “But they’re a bit shy.”
As Siderous scries and scrutinizes the lights of the orrery, Fa has laid on her back, splayed sloppily in the floor, flipping through the journal, yawning a little, “Makes sense, I guess. As much as crimes of Passion ever do.” She chews on the inside of her lip, turning the notebook sideways to try and make sense of some doodle, “So… I’m figuring Marvak had something big scheduled, some project or…” Fa frowns a little, “Something, not sure. But… what, the girl winding her clock wanted exclusive rights or something and bashed her head in, and everything got hosed during a delicate moment. Sound about right?”
“So then what of that many-legged passenger the Trespasser dug out of her, the thing from your dream, and whoever’s watching us right this moment? All the same being, I’d guess. But after that?” She sits up, chin on her wrists, wrists on her knee, watching Siderous work, “And where do those Outsiders fit into all this. I dunno if I buy that whole ‘we went looking for a new universe and conveniently found a freshly-vacated one.’”
The Passion stands up, stretching her limbs and yawning, “That’s as far as my investigation’s gotten, I think.” She rubs the back of her neck, looking a little sheepish - embarrassed? - guilty? Her voice dips a little into uncertainty, “Um… How about you? Fixed up the night sky? I know I need to put some foundation down - pitch in with rebuilding or whatever. It’s just hard when it’s still falling apart.” She clicks her tongue, looking away during the uncomfortably serious talk, “My sisters and I were always more of like… Ideas people anyway.”
If this is a bit too much, lemme know, I know it’s weird interacting in pbp between updates like that.
Action 1: Was going to Meditate while pouring over stuff with Sid, since I accrued a bit of Hubris there.
Action 2: Will use Senses +1 to assist Sid’s Lights action!
|# ¿ Aug 4, 2018 08:31|
Fa - The Orrery
There’s no poetry in squashing bugs - and the only part of conflict that interests her is the drama. If the Star-Heart can handle the vermin, she’ll leave him to it - the Passion herself dissipates from the Orrery.
There was a heavy sigh. What are you doing, sister? Ce, passion of crafts, prodded.
Ev, the historian, chimed in, She’s listening, Ev. Give her space.
Space, she says. Sis, if you haven’t noticed, we’re drowning in it. Di was right of course.
I know, I know, I’m tryin-
She’s right - without them, there’s no content, Sa scoffs impatiently, and I’m bored.
I can’t just make people, they’ll just...
I know, dear. Wo commiserates, comforting Fa, What could we make that won’t just be broken again? Maybe it’s for the best.
No, we can still-
Di bursts out in laughter. Who’re you trying to convince, you, or you?
We were always close, Fa, Vi giggles.
Especially the three of us, Te adds, Hard to be much closer now, right?
But… you’re not here.
Un, ever on point, No, we aren’t, of course. But if it helps to talk to us…
It’s loving awful. And stupid.
I miss you guys so much. I miss… everyone. I’m trying to put it back but I’m just… Fa.
Un, Sa, Wo, Vi, Te, Di, Ce and Ev all seem to agree with that, at least. ‘Yes. We are.’
She feels cold.
Later, at the Palace of Structure...
“Why does it smell like wet dog?” Fa wrinkles her nose, bare feet alighting upon the crumbling superstructure of the pillar. The erosion and wear of the Crash is layered with scars of the more recent battle. The parts that were Ev won’t stop chattering about the historical importance of the palace here, of the meaning of the pillars and their guardians. The parts that were Ce appreciate Gogoth’s dedication to austerity and the brutal minimalism of his angles, while the parts that were Vi and Te chafe and beg for some color and curves.
She rubs at the back of her neck. Wo’s - no, her own - thoughts echoing, What could we make that won’t just be broken again? This is a start, isn’t it? It’s all falling apart - the structure of the palace, the structure of… everything. The underpinnings of creation. But it doesn’t have to. (Music)
Fa breathes deep, and fishes through her denim pockets, even as they waver and wobble, their tangibility uncertain. Her human guise trembles, and out of her pocket, she pulls… light, liquid light - heat, and power, and dreams, the stuff of creation. She holds it in one hand cautiously, then looks about to make sure no one is watching. In one swift motion, she swallows the ambrosia, her godhead swelling with it - until Fa follows up with a violent, swift motion of tearing out the flesh of her wrist with her nails.
There’s a small spray of pale rose red and soft champagne-silver, her passion’s blood, that becomes a gushing, dribbling faucet, the sparkling substance splattering on the smooth stone of Gogoth’s welcoming hall, until that too becomes streaked with golden light, the ambrosia and passion’s blood swirling and then running across the Palace’s architecture.
Feeling weaker, dizzier, Fa trudges forward, entering the palace proper, leaving a messy trail in her wake as her seemingly boundless spring wets the ground. The parts that were Ce swell most, eager to take to the task. The solution of fluids quiver and animate, spreading and rushing about the structure. They heat and glow with divinity, seeking out the rubble and ruin of Gogoth’s work, becoming mortar, cement, then marble veins that do not restore the Palace to its original form, but instead… twist.
The bloody renovation continues as she climbs the winding steps of the palace, in a slow, labored march, her mind diffuse and lost somewhere behind her, out of body, lost in ambrosia, chasing aesthetics, as Gogoth’s creation looks less and less like it did, and acquires… curves, color. Sweeping flourishes along the archways, richly embellished windows, grey stone now riddled with blossoming purple marble veins. The mathematically precise geometric patterns twist in arcs that retain the precision but gain needless complexity - needless but for an auteur’s preference.
The master of this place is dead and gone - it can’t be repaired without him. But something new can be built. As Fa’s ambrosia-laced blood continues it’s work, her form shudders again. As she leaves her mark, so too does the palace on her - the vagrant chic look of her mortal guise is cleaned up at the edges, restructured into something less disheveled (more heveled?).
The physics around the palace flush with new life, equations that had been frayed hold true again, and reality - Creation - seems a hair more solid as the Palace regains its vitality. But it is yet different than before - there is some give in those rules, some softness and flexibility, befitting an artist’s re-imagining. Physics, remembered through the eyes of Fa.
All her parts, all her sisters thrum in harmony, dancing to Fa’s song for once, moving with purpose to exorcise the Left-handed stain, the stench of the oily coyote, and all that Ruin that had been visited on the Palace of Structure. And yet, it all hurts. Every step pains her more than the last. This isn't her. This isn't true to her nature.
Fa shudders. ♪ I don’t want this. ♪ But it is needed. She climbs another step. I want to forget all of this. And another, up the dais. The gushing of blood and ambrosia trickles to a stop, the wound closing. Her guise solidifies. She reflexively straightens the cuff of her new coat, then raises a hand to try to restore some order to her hair - it resists. You can’t be just Fa any longer. Too much is at stake. Fa places her hand on the throne, Of course.
Exhausted and drained in all senses of the words, Fa sits in Gogoth’s seat - still far too big for her mortal guise, even in the reshaped Palace. She didn’t seek to claim it but… well, it’s the only seat here at the top, and he won’t be needing it, and she's just so drat tired.
I didn’t proofread poo poo here, so have fun with that mess.
Action 1: Passions 3 + Pushing. Eat the Ambrosia and rebuild the palace using Fa’s vitality in place of Gogoth’s… pillarness.
Action 2: Rituals 1 + PUSHING to help reinstate the maths and restore the palace even further.
I should be starting with 2 Hubris (unless it ticked down in the turns where I didn't accrue any?), and have 1 Ambrosia remaining.
Ambivalent fucked around with this message at Aug 11, 2018 around 12:59
|# ¿ Aug 11, 2018 12:25|
Fa - Palace of Structure
It maybe isn’t what she’d intended. It certainly isn’t what she wanted - she’d only wanted things to be fixed. The Pillar of Structure weighs like a heavy stone on her heart - it is unlike the flowing, intangible nature of Passion. Unlike her, and who she is. Who she was.
Fa returns to awareness already in mid-speech from Voth. In the past, she’d gather the summary and tune him out but she is unable to do that. Something awful inside her compels her to listen to his words. Probably ‘obligation’ or ‘duty’, or one of those other pseudo-feelings she’s less accustomed to. Chosen? Who else was going to do it? What else was I going to do?
She pinches her nose, even her newfound weirdly familial feelings for Voth unable to stave off the headache from his particular inflection and her hangover. Fa struggles to sit up with some sort of dignity in this awkward seat. “No, yeah, ye- Do I have to stand up for this part? - Alright, I swear. Of course, that’s the whole point of this. To hold everything together.” It isn’t what she wanted, but it is what she chose. “I swear. IF you stop saying ‘custodian.’ I get it, it’s just…”
“...there’s some different connotations in some worlds I was frequenting last.” She grimaces and gestures sort of haphazardly in a winding motion indicating a longer story, “Just, yeah, less of that…”
Her shoulders slump and she forces herself to be serious for a moment, “I swear. On my sisters.” She settles back into the seat, tired, but seeming larger - more sized to the throne - than before. “There must be a foundation, and it must be steady, if we ever wish to put down roots.” As she speaks, her words resonate through the walls, traveling further without ever seeming the louder for it. “I am… here to ser-” She catches herself - not to serve. That is something she could do before. “I will make our foundation strong.” The palace warps with her words just a little - the engravings twist deeper, the garden grows a little lusher.
Being welcomed… That helps. The Passion’s face warms a little, grateful for… was that some real sentiment out of VOTH? It feels good. “I won’t let you down.” Almost instantly, her jaw locks, and her eyes shift. Oh. That was weird. Did we just - oh, we did. Is that what this? Some ‘I’ve lost my siblings, you’ve lost your siblings’ thing where we seek validation and surrogate relationships to compensate for the loss and work through the trauma? It is, isn’t it? gently caress. He can’t hear my thoughts, can he? We don’t have like, some Pillar Mind Link thing now, right? La la la la la la.
Fa locks eyes with Voth for a moment, mildly alarmed, then laughs politely, “But enough. We’ve a lot of work to do. After…” She settles in again, placing a hand over her stomach, “... a nap, maybe.”
|# ¿ Aug 13, 2018 12:56|
Fa - Palace of Structure
In the stirring after her nap, she paces another hall of the palace - how many halls did this place have? More than half simply seemed to lead to other halls, some with a view, a window, to some other place she didn’t know how to reach yet. The confusing topography, she knows, is her own fault. She hadn’t seen them, but she has a feeling that all of Gogoth’s halls had made sense. The purpose of these corridors seemed to be something that the viewer would have to interpret for themselves, which… Yes, well, that suits her nature, but at the same time, makes trying to puzzle out the flaws and instabilities in the palace and it’s Pillar all that much more frustrating.
Fa rubs at her head, trying to work out her migraine, when her toe catches on a fault line and sends her tumbling into… the plush carpet lining this hallway - hadn’t it just been slate? Like the carpet better anyway. She huffs and turns to examine the fissure she’d found, then spits on her thumb and presses it into the imperfection. The hall rumbles and contorts, the Pillar pulses slightly, and… *there.* Underneath the soft, pastel pink carpet in this hall, the fissure mends itself with a small application of power.
She huffs then climbs to her feet, trudging down the hallway. This is stupid. Why are you fixing this like Gogoth would? Fa runs her hands through her hair. Right. Let’s try something a little more baroque.
Splintering into a form of sound, Fa bounces about the hallways until she returns to the throne room atop the spire, and then just a little higher, to one of the fountain features before reassembling in mortal guise. The custodian dips her toe into the water, wiggling her toe until the water stills, then takes on a shade of purple. Satisfied, she holds out her hand and a stylized silvered, slender sledgehammer manifests in her grip. She swings it with a heave, cracking open the fountain’s basin until the water pours out of the fountain, and down the steps of the throne room, spilling into the hallways and networks of the of the palace - and the pillar - below.
The silvered sledgehammer warps in her grip, writhing like a serpent until it firms back up in the shape of violin cast of glass, the haft becoming a suitable bow. And with a sigh, she takes a few experimental strokes across the strings. The sound rings through the palace, echoing into the bowels of the Pillar. The water flowing down into the steps wobbles and shakes. She takes a few more attempts to warm up, and the flowing purple fluid hisses and winds like a snake.
And then, something very rare happens. She plays. Not some secret song of the Gods of Creation or a hidden chord of the Makers, just a tune, of a mortal devising. She’d only heard it once - but she was Fa, and that was enough. It captured a moment in time, a feeling of the heart, a spirit of an hour. A people who had upended the order of their world, casting aside their monarch for a more democratic taste, who’d torn down their old structures and were busily rediscovering themselves and their identity, erecting new structures on fresh and sturdy foundations. There is bustle and passion and inventiveness, aspiration, a purely mortal drive to build, build things that will last longer than your life. She serves as her own accompaniment, in a way only a god can, fleshing out the sound fully. As her arm draws the bow back and forth, the steady torrent from the great basin dances to the tune, swiftly rushing into the pillar, carrying the vibration of the music down, down, down. Where the flaws are found, where the damage had been done, the purple water fills the gaps, and on the downbeats, calcifies and freezes into violet marble, the flowery sentimental sediment streaking through Gogoth’s Grey Slate.
It had been so long - even before the Crash, Passions rarely performed for their own sake. Fa’s concert carries on for a time, as she pours in her frustration, letting loose her fatigue, trying to shake the discomforting restraint placed on her by Gogoth’s throne. She is more successful at some things than others.
Action 1: Passion 3 to continue to work on repairs to the Pillar. I believe more long term this would work like a Construction action for Mooring, so hit me up with what I’ll need?
Action 2: As worked out on Discord, overhauling Rituals into Architecture
Ambivalent fucked around with this message at Aug 19, 2018 around 23:41
|# ¿ Aug 19, 2018 07:42|
Fa - Palace of Structure
Much better. There’s so much she still needs to do - so much she has planned, outside the confines of this palace. But that unfamiliar shackle of Duty binds her to this Pillar for the moment - she could not move beyond it until it was restored.
The worst part about feeling the pillar right now, is the presence of all these other gods, tooling around in it. Wait, that one didn’t feel so bad. Yeah, that bit there felt like a back rub - metaphorically, at a distance, through the pillar. Kind of. But there’s this fly in the ointment. Or bird.
As VOTH and the Trespasser bird engage, the purple veins of marble encroach further on this place in the Pillar that still resembles Gogoth’s work. There is a hum, and a thump. And another thump. A heartbeat. A bass line. The smooth metal facade warps, two depressions forming. Then eighteen. They blink, then shudder and fold back into two eyes once more. More features emerge, and the bass comes to a stop - a face, and then FA steps forth from the wall, the metal like so much liquid that allows her to simply surface out of it.. Her form is silvery and metal until it isn’t, and she shakes her hair back into a mortal-seeming.
She straightens her cuffs and then gives a small huff, blowing a strand of hair from her face. Glancing back over her shoulder, to the heart of the Guardian controls, she mumbles, “Neat toys.”
The architect squints her eyes a little, “Bird. VOTH.” Nod. Nod. Let them settle their… thing. She has work to do. And then she looks toward Majakazumi, relaxing her posture, “Oh, hey, you’re up.” A wry smirk, “You do spec work? Because, listen, we’re kind of short staffed around here, and I’m loving broke, I’m pretty sure.”
Fa beckons Majakazumi with a raised eyebrow, and leads the tinkerer into a wall that opens up and permits them deeper into the Pillar’s structure, "I'll show you what we're working on. It'll be fun."
The restoration continues. Music hums through the Palace of Structure, animate forces of sound bound out from the building, paving and soothing the wounds of the Pillar beneath. The heartbeat-bass of the Architect, Fa, thrums stronger, and deeper. A clockwork of rhythm, Gogoth’s design fuels the bass, and Fa the flourish, as light and noise pours out through this corner of space, the Pillar shining like a beacon of renewal in a universe where things only seem to die.
As the Pillar’s wounds are sewn, Fa’s song echoes out defiantly, flying in the face of the entropy and decay weighing down on Reality. There’s no end in sight for us. The softer rules of Structure may cushion the fabric of reality against the harsh ravages of hungry time - where physics could not hold a structure in place, sentiment might could.
That’s the theory the Passion sitting in the Seat of Structure has proposed, anyway.
Nothing could measure, the kind of strength inside our hearts, it’s all connected.
We’re all together in this life, don’t you forget it, we’re all connected in this
I’m yours forever, FA calls out, for that was the promise she made to VOTH on GOGOTH's seat, there’s no end in sight for us.
The universe may still be mostly dark, but the Song of Structure stabs at the silence all the same.
Action 1: Can I use Fleeting Dream to convince Majakazumi that, actually, what would be super awesome is to not just help get this sword free, but actually to stay on to fix Gogoth’s old pillar for the sake of this cool new lady who moved in, right,?
Action 2: Passions 3 and/or Architecture 1 to finally start laying the finishing touches on repair? Structure is the foundation of other, future plans, after all!
Ambivalent fucked around with this message at Aug 27, 2018 around 13:37
|# ¿ Aug 27, 2018 13:27|
Fa - Palace of Structure
Fa settles back into the throne at the top of the Palace, resting her weary self. With the aid of VOTH and Majakzumi and the others, the Pillar of Structure can begin to flex its influence again. It was dumb to try and pull in the scrap goddess like that. The old Fa wouldn’t have tried but…
She huffs and twists to lay sideways across the armrests of the seat, head lolled back. Watching the garden features of the Palace, dialing in to the Pillar’s imperceptible hum. Fa closes her eyes, contemplating the gift VOTH had given her. Magnanimous to be sure, but… even changed as she is, this new Fa still can’t find a place in her heart for an army.
Maybe… With a little golden touch, she could repurpose them.
Later, at the Eternium Reclamation Station…
The silver arc of light carrying the Architect plinks into rusting crane, and Fa manifests neatly sitting atop it, feet swinging in the wind as she looks down at the industrial scape below. She hums to herself, feeling out the old furrows of Gogoth’s work here, and the more recent trails of the other visitors.
Elsewhere, out in the rubble, a tinny speaker tower crackles to life, the pops and static carrying Fa’s humming in low fidelity. Somewhere below that, a battalion of hulking, steel Guardians creaks to life. They trundle and stomp, falling out of formation as they move to join up with other Guardians already in mid-migration. The metallic sentinels gather at one of the station’s open surfaces, huddled together in a massive crowd around an open stage. Antenna flit and wobble, more comm channels open and the tune emits from the Guardians themselves.
The Pillar’s new resonance reaches these creations of Gogoth, and the blinking lights and diodes dotting the darkness cycle through a rainbow of colors, unable to settle on any one uniform. The mechanical Guardians begin to sway with the rhythm of the tune - manipulators and grappling claws, gauss rifles and miniguns, gatling cannons and rail launchers all are raised upward in reverie.
The sea of sentinels continue to sway with the song, until one steps forward from the crowd, taking stage in the middle of the assembly, and stops it’s swaying.. Several other Guardians move in closer and raise their instruments to their comrade. There is a pounding clang, and whirr of a saw - showers of sparks fly from welding. The legion of Guardians watching continue to sway around their brother.
When the work is done, the first Reclaimer steps from the spotlight and returns to the crowd. The song continues, and another Guardian steps forward, submitting to the ministrations of its brethren. Guns and weapons are sheared away, repurposed into mining lasers or assemblers. One by one, swords are beaten into ploughshares, one by one, a Guardian becomes a Reclaimer, all while the Architect watches from her perch on the crane, humming to herself.
Action 1: Meditatin’!
Action 2: I’d like to spend an Ambrosia to fully appropriate the Guardians as… I dunno, either a Cohort or an Artifact? Not sure what would be more appropriate. They would be creatures of the Architecture domain. Will talk about this in Discord?
Domains: Architecture 2
Stats: Insight 1, Prowess 2, Resolve 1 (Gnosis 1)
Ambivalent fucked around with this message at Sep 3, 2018 around 15:36
|# ¿ Sep 2, 2018 14:24|
Fa - Eternium Reclamation Station
She barely has time to get to know ABX-212 when that survival instinct kicks in, that preserving hackle rising on her neck. She whispers a hushed command to the friendly, floating sphere, giving her first directive. The Reclaimers promptly skitter and bob about the station and then... depart, fleeing.
And without another word, Fa disperses into nine separate bursts of light and sound, scattering across the ruins. Watching, waiting. And what she sees is Ivadora - cunning in her own way. Going to fight? That is not how Fa does, not her style, not usually. But maybe she can help.
These mortals of Ivadora’s make - crude, rough, mechanical in their way - create a cacophony of noise and energy. In another moment, she would treasure them and puzzle over them, and explore with them, but now… For now, they could be an effective mask. They are loud. Fa’s silver motes ping about the ruins of the station, pushing beams and rubble into a stage, an arena, a maze, a venue, for these rampaging mortals. The radio towers and loudspeakers emit a thumping, pounding bass like the heartbeat felt in every single one of those mortals. And then a wicked, screaming riff cuts through the din, a peeling guitar splitting the air then descending to drive the mayhem to new heights.
The music, the arena, all designed to inflame the passions of the mortals, mask her and Ivadora’s presence. The violence and revelry hang heavy in the air - a tangible fog of mortal musk for those entities that can feel such a thing. Fa hides in the corners of the mortals’ minds, waiting.
Meanwhile, in the Shattering Cities of Omixil...
The silence of the ruins is peppered with tiny impacts from a rain of meteorites. A storm of debris collides with the dilapidated structures and desolate paths. From the crater of some forgotten boulevard, the crown of ABX-212's orb emerges. The other Reclaimers stir from their impact and set upon the city, repairing facades, reworking the streets, beginning construction.
Hubris: 0, Ambrosia: 0
Action 1: Architecture +1 to Set The Stage.
Action 2: Passion +3 to help the hiding action of Iva’s Madness & Melancholy, and crank it up to 11.
Reclaimers are not built for fighting, so they are gonna go and rehabilitate the Dust aspect of Omixil into an Architecture Temple, plz dont get hurt babies
Ambivalent fucked around with this message at Sep 10, 2018 around 22:23
|# ¿ Sep 10, 2018 16:01|
|# ¿ Nov 14, 2018 15:35|
Fa - Eternium Reclamation Station
Fa writhes in anguish from the owl’s assault, blood dripping from her ears - and then she bursts into a puff of silver powder that dissipates in the wind. Gone.
After Ivadora has struck true, Fa steps out from around a corner of some manufactory, unfazed, unharmed, adjusting her cuffs habitually, nodding to the other goddess, “That was slick.” Closing the distance, she crosses her arms and looks down at the Pillar, addressing it tartly, “You missed.”
“We’re doing you a favor anyway,” Dropping to rest on the balls of her feet, Fa looks up to Iva, then chews her lip thoughtfully, “My brain-meat’s a little overcooked.” She peers down the being’s beak, “Yours, on the other-hand…”
She’d passed through Heart’s Ease, admiring the Pillar of Justice’s work, and had half a mind to stop and pitch in. But the echoes of that place were ill-suited to her aims, and the Pillar of Justice was maybe a little too straightforward for what she’d had planned.
When Fa’s barefoot touches down at the top of the tallest spire still standing in the ruins of Omixil, the Reclaimers are already well underway.
The robots shuffle and scoot here or there, silver, heated arc emitters spot-welding beams or jets of pressurized wet masonry splattering sealed great fissures. That’s the little stuff. Fa walks along the rooftops, the will of the Architect herself settling the larger works - whole spires set back upright, massive arcologies or tenements meant to house thousands reassembled, boulevards or infrastructure pulled back into some working order. ABX-212 follows in her wake, taking cues and instructions.
The sprawling metropolis set adrift looks less like an archaeology project and more like an urban center by the moment. Block by block, street by street, the bright lights come back on, read for mortals to return, to take up their short lives and livelihoods, interests and pursuits. Everything is new, and also old. Fresh, but crumbling. Untouched, and yet lived in. The Dream Theater, that soul bank, that cache of mortal minds, sits packed in one corner of Omixil still - ready to disseminate mortal grist into this metropolis, a vault of souls, a well of would-be citizens once clothed in proper flesh.
Part of this, of course, is a self-serving interest of Fa - the Passion in her wants nothing more than to hear that sweet song of life once again.
But the Architect, the Custodian of the Pillar of Structure, she has her hand in this too. It’s a simple hypothesis. Structure being tangled and touched by emotion now as it is, mortal minds, mortal passions would help stabilize the structure of reality - stave off the rapid entropy trying to consume this universe, a sort of constant regeneration to stem the decay. Emotional consensus could strengthen and change a place like Omixil from crumbling ruins to a pillar - lower-case p - of this reality.
The city that starts to take shape is amorphous, bending - it will be less so once settled and colonized by mortals. For now though, it is a creature of chaos - a highly-advanced urban hive in one place, a more rustic, post-industrial slum the next. It sprawls seemingly perpetually, shrouded in an everlasting night - with a pale orange or purple dusk whenever one of Siderous’s creations’ drifts close enough. It is simply a city, a city in the form of a city - of all cities. When enough work is done, it will be less Omixil, and more Polis, built atop Omixil.
Fa resisted but picked up 3 Hubris for it. Picked apart the Pillar of Mind for +1 to Architecture.
Hubris: 3, Ambrosia: 2
This is sort of a major push by Fa - the idea is that more ‘normal’, expansive mortal populous can be used with the new spongy Reality Structure to reinforce Reality wholesale.
Action 1: Architecture +2 to help the Reclaimers with reclaiming Omixil’s ‘Dust’ domain into Architecture by making a Temple, started last turn. This would be the center of the Guardians-turned-Reclaimers.
Action 2: Starting work on Polis, an expansive urban area that will continue to sprawl til it consumes Omixil. Unless that is not okay! The Temple would be the administrative heart of Polis.
Maintenance Actions: Assisting in first the Temple’s construction, then City with both Maintenance actions. I’ll Push or offer up Ambrosia as necessary.
Reclaimers: If the Temple is completed, they will be moving on to construct Polis.
|# ¿ Sep 15, 2018 10:36|