A reprieve both in and out of character, an interstitial update so we can rest and marshal the thread's motivation. Moments like this are crucial for an Indentured Cursebearer. Even for Hunger, will's not an unlimited resource; if he bounces from battle to battle, never resting, then he might conquer this and subsequent worlds but suffer a death of a thousand ideological cuts far in the future.
Gisena's approach to life's useful if taken in moderation; the shining tomorrow, the golden forever, whatever name you choose for the final victory of ideals over reality is so unthinkably far away that it's hard to warm oneself by its fire. Maybe eventually we'll transcend mortal motivational concerns, becoming an existence capable of subsisting on air and interrupted dreams, sustained by spite when our body falters, but for now? The respite's nice.
He'd finally had a chance to examine the treasures they'd extracted from the King Fish. Gisena had concluded that the jade pearl and scale might sell for a considerable sum, but the map in the bottle offered more precipitous value. Drawn in quicksilver ink that shifted with the light was a map of their immediate environs in the Voyaging Realm, and a route to which they could reach an ancient ruin named the Temple of the False Moon.
There was no particular reason for them to pursue this lead, but his instincts told him there was something of great value resided within, and his Rank-assisted intuition had rarely been wrong in the Voyaging Realm. The map was slowly disintegrating in the oxygenated air outside its bottle, so it was now or never. Even re-stoppering its container had failed to halt the degradation.
What an insidious trap, harnessing fear of missing out to lure adventurers to their deaths! It occurs to me that the ability to
replicate the results of Rank intuition would be convenient for this purpose. Is this the talent of a true Master Baiter? Or just too much paranoia on my part?
Gisena was characteristically enthused about the prospect of magical treasures secreted away, and Letrizia, having dueled the blue swordsman directly, felt badly that they needed the strength: so, ill-advised as it sounded, they set out for the Temple directly. At any rate it was only a few days' travel.
This is a hidden benefit of Quickest, since it doesn't squander the days where the Decimator's quelled. The two weeks of defrayed Apocryphal procs too, come to think of it. We're learning
speed. And I wouldn't sweat your loss to Bearic, Letrizia, he practiced an awful lot for his fight with you. You're a talented pilot, he just ran through simulations a hundred times until he knew all your tricks. Which implies his 'system' has some ridiculous capabilities, honestly; will he have encylopedic knowledge of Gisena's rotation next time he shows up?
The hours passed slowly as they wandered, a warm and sullen-sweet haze like a daydream on a summer's afternoon. Verschlengorge lumbered through pastoral fields of green, rolling hills beneath clouds like dolloped cream, past dirt roads and cottages of grey stone where farmers' children emerged, gawking crudely at the cruelly angled giant. Packs of them scurried gleefully in its dust-cloud wake, waving to the pretty Sorceress on its shoulder.
At first glance, the idea of
farming in the Voyager's Realm was terrifying enough that I was afraid of the Doom triggering with the farmers, that they'd hulk out and the proverbial 'torches and pitchforks' would turn out to be flamethrowers and Noble Phantasms. But no, turns out the Voyager's Realm's just very big. I'm almost disappointed!
"Aren't they adorable?" Gisena gushed, hands clasped to chest. Letrizia answered with an affirmative chirp through the machine's speakers.
Not as adorable as Letrizia chirping through the Armament's vox caster!
Hunger, laid flat on the opposite shoulder, kept his eyes skyward. So much had changed these past five days. He'd nearly died, then become a Cursebearer, gifted with power and obligation beyond reason. Aside from the Apocryphal Curse, the yoke of his dooms had sat lightly on him so far. For that he could count himself lucky.
Yeah, the combination of Gisena and early selections of intellect and charisma have made the Doom a non-issue, for which I'm thankful. The Affliction's a pain in the ass, but we've got a short-term strategy to deal with it, even if we may have kneecapped ourselves working on it in the long run. At least it unlocked Verschlengorge? The quest would be totally different without it; another Armament, another pilot, different challenges. But yes, fuck the Apocryphal Curse.
He spoke sparingly to the populace, and Gisena was well-aware of how to navigate the Tyranny. The Decimator's Affliction he'd been proactive in mitigating, and was successfully free of it for a time. And the Geas of Indenture, though it promised a thousand trillion, trillion lifetimes of servitude, stretched long into the uncertain future, a problem for tomorrow's Hunger, not the languid beast of today.
Yeah, the Geas of Indenture's the 'best' Curse, there's a reason that I jumped on it for the fan build. It's free
real estate plot hooks! Eventual expiration date, no day to day demands, lower limit on how morally objectionable tasks can be. Hell, if you're being offered Lesser Curses, there's no reason not to pick the Doom of Rivalry to pay for Relinquishment and mitigate the UMI aspect of it, coasting through the Indenture offering your assistance to other Cursebearers and building connections. Culling, though? Fuck that noise, I'm surprised
anyone's that crazy. Do they not grasp the implications of the Accursed having it too?
He was, if not content, at least occasionally happy with his lot as it presently stood. Some might resent the cavalcade of trials that the Apocryphal presented, but that was a small enough price in his reckoning, when so recently ago he'd been reduced to nothing. His companions were able and only infrequently annoying, and his powers had expanded with explosive speed. In a year's time or less he might again be the man he once was. What might he be in ten year's time? A hundred? He could scarcely imagine it, even though his benefactor lay even further beyond; far, inestimably far beyond the span of finite years.
King's Scepter being a direct restoration of his legendary prowess helps, but this rate of (re)growth is absurd. I underestimated the heights Hunger fell from, but however impressive the peak of his strength was, simply surviving will carry him beyond it. And Hunger intends to do more than merely
endure.
Would his companions of this first month still be beside him, when he repaid the Accursed's favor? Assuming - and it was by no means certain - he survived, would he be some juggernaut with merely the countenance of a man, so far removed from mortal concerns as to scarcely resemble the creature he once was? Given the trajectory of his projection, it did not seem an unlikely outcome. Very nearly inescapable, in fact, with an early demise his only alternative.
Maybe it's inevitable that Hunger'll end up wearing the mask of a man, after declining the opportunity to forsake it. Without Retinue, long-term relevance when held up against a Progression-type Cursebearer's a crapshoot. It'd be interesting to interact with an Ulyssian-type personality from that standpoint, see the bone-deep ache and yearning for power in another's eyes. As for our companions? Without Vanguard, they may not even survive this first world. We've been lucky so far, but once the speed of our movements starts setting the air aflame, the merely mildly augmented will have no place sharing a battlefield with us.
And yet there had been humanity in the Accursed, after all. Perhaps that was the calculated facade of a being so far beyond human comprehension that mere reason and causality found no purchase against its abilities, but he liked to think otherwise. What need had such a being to offer so generous a bounty of power with his burdens? Why design the Cursebearer's systems with such care, as if to nurture and foster their growth? He was raising an army, but it was not a faceless one.
Hunger's gratitude continues to be compelling. Coming from a being with the Brand of the Champion, a boon like this is unimaginably generous, no matter the cost in Curses. To quote Foxglove, "A beneficial transaction initiated from on high: they call that charity, Mr. Drake."
A peal of thunder broke his reverie and he looked ahead to see clouds towering like stygian anvils, gathering angrily in a mass upon the horizon. Rain fell upon their bucolic expanse, pouncing like a nimble invader, its onslaught sudden and overwhelming and brisk. Gisena cried in joy and tilted her head skywards, catching the water on her tongue, while he grunted and shifted to an upright position, the Evening Sky sheltering him utterly from so trifling a concern.
How can the sky itself be rained on? I wonder if Kong's Dao had similar quality of life benefits. Poor guy would love to be in our position; unbounded challenges
and growth? Where does he need to sign? Doom of the Tyrant? Like that's distinguishable from his default personality! He was already eating worlds for power, the man's way ahead of the curve!
This calls to mind our man's old armor, though. Once we transcend the linear flow of time and return at the moment of our departure to seek vengeance, we should remember to pick that up. It was a shame to lose something Hunger cultivated personally and be left with only the tools of our old enemy, though the Forebear's Blade fits as comfortably in Hunger's hand as the ring does on it.
Lightning rumbled and rippled through the darkened heavens, splayed-finger aftershocks the only evidence of its passage, forked bolts of brilliant yellow like the gods playing at javelins. The hairs on his back began to rise. This was no ordinary storm.
Unsurprisingly, he was correct.
Monsters down upon them from the clouds, eyeless myrmidons with skin of thunderhead-grey, whose blades were plumed like water-drops, set upon chariots of twisting fire. They charged in their dozens and tens of dozens, and Verschlengorge roared in response, an echoing shock of sound as to drown out all thunder, blasting the children away, deafened but alive.
Good call by Letrizia, though common sense would have sent them fleeing soon enough. So much for chariots of fire being a conveyance reserved for the righteous. These things seem a little more organized than your average Astral monster. Foot soldiers of an otherworldly civilization, riders in some Wild Hunt?
"Shit." Letrizia cursed. "I've seen these guys before. I hope we didn't attract them to these people..."
Hunger grimaced. "It is what it is. Kill them quickly and you've nothing to be sorry for."
Hunger knows all about endangering people with his presence from Tyrannical reprisals. Are these elemental myrmidons what injured Versch in the first place? I doubt it, at least not without assistance, they're too weak for that.
They died, quickly. Almost surprisingly so. Their movements lethargic to his eyes, their strikes middling, bereft of passion, even of desperation as he scythed them down. Halfway through the moment of carnage he finally realized. He wasn't exhausted any more, nor injured, and now held Seralize's speed and all the power he had accumulated these past days in their fullness. His pressure poured forth upon them harder and heavier than the storm-rains, the well of his spirit like a spigot turned open to drown them in fury and light.
Strange, even Astral gribblies don't usually lie down and die. What kind of creature doesn't rage against its imminent demise? Seralize missed her calling, fighting these things!
For a time, he was king of the battlefield, and though he knew it would not last, that more and greater enemies awaited, still for a moment he exulted that his sword-arm was strong enough, his eye sharp enough, his fury swift enough, that he would lose no companions today. But all good things, as they say, come to an end, and ill things no less so. The battle concluded, the storm begrudgingly dissolved, and short hours later they came upon the Temple, having slaughtered their way through a trail of Astral monsters, none of whom was a match for his Blade.
Turns out the eponymous reprieve wasn't just peace, but an easy fight! Hunger getting to cut loose is nice, though I did crack a smile at the singular eye. He doesn't have an arm apart from his sword-arm! We've got to get him healed, but regrettably this isn't the right time for Zweihander, especially without Pitiless Maw to take alongside it.
All too quickly their journey was over, and the porcelain towers of the Temple loomed large against the silk-panel blue of the sky. A foreboding came over him, and over Gisena as they saw it; impossibly high and vast, spires like a claw made to clutch at the heavens, tear free the moon and leave only a wound weeping into the void.
Is this structure literally built to eat the moon? So soon after we stabbed ourselves for power? An ancient meme for an ancient ruin; I've avoided speculating about how celestial bodies work in the Voyager's Realm for fear of spraining my brain, but it might be worth considering if the Temple's appearance hints at its purpose. We were totally wrong about it being hidden underwater or in a reflection, though.
1109 words for the war chest. The index should also be up to date (again), though feel free to poke me if your work's missing.