Turn 15: Arc 1-1 Phantoms and Puppets
"It spiraled up from unfathomable deeps, up and up, a great vortex without bottom or top, all the dreams of Xiangmen caught in the currents of its wind," Ling Qi said. Her words echoed in the dark gaol strangely. As she gestured in time with her words, black bubbles rose in the tarry liquid that surrounded Huisheng's prison isle, rising into the air to lazily spin around her, shaped by her words and thoughts.
Her audience was silent, showing neither approval nor disapproval.
"The voice of the vortex echoes endlessly as you grow close as its current lashes and drags," Ling Qi continued, betraying none of her lacking confidence. "It speaks its dream, a dream of connection, oneness and unity under the vision of one."
A hiss of air past skeletal jaws, drifting black petals raining. Lotus flower eyes stare back at her and the spirit's interest is a pressure, like strong hands pushing down on her shoulders but no more.
"The revelry of the dreaming moon lies within the vortex, in layers rising from the unsightly deeps. Pandemonium, Reverie, Fantasia. These are the words that whispered in my mind as I braved the tearing vortex, and each one pulled and dragged at me, whispering promises of chaos and secrets. I had promised not to delve the deepest places, and I have long walked the high ones now, so I chose the Reverie. Where the celebrations and dreams of the commons of mortal and cultivator live. Though it might be base to one such as you, O Spirit. There was much to be seen there."
Never that, Never Base. Trunk and stem are the support on which the world turns.
The hoarse spiritual whisper scraped her ears like claws, and Ling Qi faltered a moment, the forming shadows of people around her nearly dissipating before she ordered her thoughts and nodded her head, jumping into the next part of her prepared words despite the interruption. "There in the center of the vortex, the core of the palace was a great festival, spirits and the shades of dreamers beyond counting, playing out an eternal celebration."
With her will focused on the dream around her, wispy shadows sprawled out from one end of the goal to another, smoky buildings rising high, the murky faces and frames of the revelers rushing by both her and the the spirit both, as if they were soaring down the street just above the festival goers heads. A creaking, horned skull tipped this way and that, slow and lazy.
"Xiangmen stands and prospers despite its scars, it dreams the dreams of city provided with everything, the dream of a city still growing used to shattered chains," Ling Qi said grandly, raising her hands to either side, forcing a bit more color and life into her phantasm. "And the Dreaming Moon sits at the core of it all, watching and laughing still, though her temples in the waking world are gone."
A grinning figure crouched atop a temple gate, looking down at her with eyes of gleaming silver.
Good showmanship. Workmanlike Prose. Lacking in soul. You fear still to give of yourself to your audience.
Ling Qi winced as she lowered her arms, letting the phantom imagery fade and puddle back into the black ichor of the gaol's lake. "Honored Elder, considering my audience, can I be blamed?"
Gehahaha. Not wrong, but not the meaning, junior.
Deep hoarse laughter like bone rasping on bone, filled her ears making her skin crawl.
You describe scene and vista, but not your experience. There is no piece of yourself invested in your story.
"I would only dilute the accuracy of my account with such things. My own small lessons can hardly matter in comparison," Ling Qi ventured.
Without soul there is no story, only… a report. All stories, all good stories, are built around a kernel of the teller's soul. Even the most fantastic fiction requires such a fragment, else it be only empty words swiftly flushed as flotsam from the listeners mind.
Ling Qi hesitated, the personal experience of her journey was not something she cared to share with a dangerous spirit, most definitely not in its whole. "Honored Elder…"
But well enough for a beginner. Xiangmen has changed, though not so much if the Palace stands.
She blinked in surprise then confusion. "You… you already knew of the Hui. You made it sound like you were whole dynasties out of date!"
You are not the first disciple these bones have taught Junior. Though it seems as ever, I only teach undutiful rapscallions who do not visit their teacher once the lessons end.
Ling Qi sucked in an irritated breath, knowing it would do no good to ask after the skeleton's previous students when she had nothing to trade.
Wisdom. Or at least patience. Very good junior.
Ling Qi held her tongue, knowing she was being mocked. "Teacher, was my lacking presentation sufficient to earn your story?"
"Ling Qi, the 'exercise' is starting up again," Sixiang hissed.
She stiffened but only a little, part of the thieving game was not being blatant about it. She focused her senses, focused on the feel of the potent but oily qi lapping at her bare feet, the cool flow of the air entering her lungs, and the qi that flowed in with it. There, subtle, motes of qi that felt metaphyically barbed, like tiny fishhooks to catch and grab at motes of her own energy, dragging it free with her exhalation. Ling Qi cycled her own energy, cool and dark greedy, and the wind's sanding edge wore away the barbs.
Enough to begin. My tale today of the Dreaming Way, let it be…
The spirit remained still, bound the pillar isle at the center of the lake, giving no indication of the the conflict Ling Qi now fought with him, to keep the very air of this place from stealing her cultivation.
A tale of beginning.
Long ago, afore the grasping Sage reached out his hands to take an Empire, but well after the Great Diviner had made himself the intermediary of the earth, the Horned People were prosperous, but even in prosperity, human ambition does not vanish, and even then disparity was born among the tribes. Kings vied for the High Crown with deeds and gifts and feats, but that… is another tale.
Ling Qi watched the air begin to dance with phantoms and shadows, of men and women, tall and elegant, with branching horns that sprouted from brows and temples. They had long faces and hard features, just different enough to seem alien. Their hair was black and brown and sometimes pale as straw, and they wore clothing animal hide worked with carved beads of bone and stone. And there behind them, shimmering overlaying the skeleton was the great looming shadow of a tree.
There was one king, in the west, who ruled the swamp and fen. He was a brave king, a courageous king. He fought the raiding serpents in the north, when they slithered down the rivers, he fought the men of the red jungle, when they overstepped the hunting lines. He even slew a wild scion of the wolf god in his youth and wore that skull as his crown. He was a strong man, a stubborn man, an inflexible man. No matter that he was strong, that he was mighty, he was never respected, only feared.
Ling Qi sucked in a breath as the phantasms merged, a looming shadow of a man as broad as Elder Zhou had been and taller than the duchess. His face lay in shadow, half covered by the skull of a great wolf, gleaming pure and white with potent qi. His antler's a twelve pointed crown wrapped in crimson velvet. His aura was a boot upon her throat, and the scent of spoiling blood. A few motes of qi escaped, hooked on the storyteller's barbs.
One day, the warrior king found the tribute from a vassal tribe failed to arrive. There was no campaign to be had, and so the bored king elected to ride out himself and bear witness to their excuse.
Ling Qi regained herself as the phantom stepped through her, and she turned to see his march toward the rising streamers of campfire smoke in the distance. She steadied the cycling of her qi, Sixiang's mind layering over hers to bring to bear two minds against the machinations of one, and no more of her qi escaped.
At the village, the king and his guards met none of the expected resistance, nor had the village packed and fled. Instead, in the field outside they met a single man. Pale, like the northern tribes, but dressed in foreign robes. He showed no fear in the face of their spears, though his power was feeble. The brave and wily King feared a trap.
Ling Qi saw the king arrive at a sun dappled clearing, surrounded by a thorn hedge of men in treated leather and cloth armor, their spears as sharp as any thorn. Before them stood a short, pale skinned man in red robes, not too dissimilar from what she had seen some priests where. His hands where clasped in front of his chest, his expression serene, his power was barely more than a mortals. She bit the inside of her cheek to keep her expression half as serene as she fought back the incursion into her meridians.
So said the king, marshaling his Law to himself. Who are you foreigner, is it you who have made my people fail to deliver what I am owed?
No, spoke the man, in utter calm. The plague in these lands did that, made them too weak to harvest your tribute. I merely came upon them. They only asked that I might exercise the pestilence.
Then why do you block my path, said the king.
Because you are the source of the plague O King, said the priest.
Ling Qi could not hide the wince at the darkening of the scene, the immense waves of pressure from the shadowed figure of the king, swaying the trees and withering the grass. But she knew, as the grasping at her qi abated, now was the time to strike back.
[ ] Grasp deep, grasp with hunger. (50% chance of success, Gain +20 Physical Cultivation experience, +1 XP to want. On Failure, lose Gaol spiritual cultivation xp and ???)
[ ] Grasp carefully, and with great finesse (70% chance of Success. Normal Gaol benefits. +1 XP to motion, On Failure, lose Gaol Spiritual Cultivation, and ???)
[ ] Be defensive, seek only to stop the theft of your self (100% success, normal Gaol benefits.)
Her audience was silent, showing neither approval nor disapproval.
"The voice of the vortex echoes endlessly as you grow close as its current lashes and drags," Ling Qi continued, betraying none of her lacking confidence. "It speaks its dream, a dream of connection, oneness and unity under the vision of one."
A hiss of air past skeletal jaws, drifting black petals raining. Lotus flower eyes stare back at her and the spirit's interest is a pressure, like strong hands pushing down on her shoulders but no more.
"The revelry of the dreaming moon lies within the vortex, in layers rising from the unsightly deeps. Pandemonium, Reverie, Fantasia. These are the words that whispered in my mind as I braved the tearing vortex, and each one pulled and dragged at me, whispering promises of chaos and secrets. I had promised not to delve the deepest places, and I have long walked the high ones now, so I chose the Reverie. Where the celebrations and dreams of the commons of mortal and cultivator live. Though it might be base to one such as you, O Spirit. There was much to be seen there."
Never that, Never Base. Trunk and stem are the support on which the world turns.
The hoarse spiritual whisper scraped her ears like claws, and Ling Qi faltered a moment, the forming shadows of people around her nearly dissipating before she ordered her thoughts and nodded her head, jumping into the next part of her prepared words despite the interruption. "There in the center of the vortex, the core of the palace was a great festival, spirits and the shades of dreamers beyond counting, playing out an eternal celebration."
With her will focused on the dream around her, wispy shadows sprawled out from one end of the goal to another, smoky buildings rising high, the murky faces and frames of the revelers rushing by both her and the the spirit both, as if they were soaring down the street just above the festival goers heads. A creaking, horned skull tipped this way and that, slow and lazy.
"Xiangmen stands and prospers despite its scars, it dreams the dreams of city provided with everything, the dream of a city still growing used to shattered chains," Ling Qi said grandly, raising her hands to either side, forcing a bit more color and life into her phantasm. "And the Dreaming Moon sits at the core of it all, watching and laughing still, though her temples in the waking world are gone."
A grinning figure crouched atop a temple gate, looking down at her with eyes of gleaming silver.
Good showmanship. Workmanlike Prose. Lacking in soul. You fear still to give of yourself to your audience.
Ling Qi winced as she lowered her arms, letting the phantom imagery fade and puddle back into the black ichor of the gaol's lake. "Honored Elder, considering my audience, can I be blamed?"
Gehahaha. Not wrong, but not the meaning, junior.
Deep hoarse laughter like bone rasping on bone, filled her ears making her skin crawl.
You describe scene and vista, but not your experience. There is no piece of yourself invested in your story.
"I would only dilute the accuracy of my account with such things. My own small lessons can hardly matter in comparison," Ling Qi ventured.
Without soul there is no story, only… a report. All stories, all good stories, are built around a kernel of the teller's soul. Even the most fantastic fiction requires such a fragment, else it be only empty words swiftly flushed as flotsam from the listeners mind.
Ling Qi hesitated, the personal experience of her journey was not something she cared to share with a dangerous spirit, most definitely not in its whole. "Honored Elder…"
But well enough for a beginner. Xiangmen has changed, though not so much if the Palace stands.
She blinked in surprise then confusion. "You… you already knew of the Hui. You made it sound like you were whole dynasties out of date!"
You are not the first disciple these bones have taught Junior. Though it seems as ever, I only teach undutiful rapscallions who do not visit their teacher once the lessons end.
Ling Qi sucked in an irritated breath, knowing it would do no good to ask after the skeleton's previous students when she had nothing to trade.
Wisdom. Or at least patience. Very good junior.
Ling Qi held her tongue, knowing she was being mocked. "Teacher, was my lacking presentation sufficient to earn your story?"
"Ling Qi, the 'exercise' is starting up again," Sixiang hissed.
She stiffened but only a little, part of the thieving game was not being blatant about it. She focused her senses, focused on the feel of the potent but oily qi lapping at her bare feet, the cool flow of the air entering her lungs, and the qi that flowed in with it. There, subtle, motes of qi that felt metaphyically barbed, like tiny fishhooks to catch and grab at motes of her own energy, dragging it free with her exhalation. Ling Qi cycled her own energy, cool and dark greedy, and the wind's sanding edge wore away the barbs.
Enough to begin. My tale today of the Dreaming Way, let it be…
The spirit remained still, bound the pillar isle at the center of the lake, giving no indication of the the conflict Ling Qi now fought with him, to keep the very air of this place from stealing her cultivation.
A tale of beginning.
Long ago, afore the grasping Sage reached out his hands to take an Empire, but well after the Great Diviner had made himself the intermediary of the earth, the Horned People were prosperous, but even in prosperity, human ambition does not vanish, and even then disparity was born among the tribes. Kings vied for the High Crown with deeds and gifts and feats, but that… is another tale.
Ling Qi watched the air begin to dance with phantoms and shadows, of men and women, tall and elegant, with branching horns that sprouted from brows and temples. They had long faces and hard features, just different enough to seem alien. Their hair was black and brown and sometimes pale as straw, and they wore clothing animal hide worked with carved beads of bone and stone. And there behind them, shimmering overlaying the skeleton was the great looming shadow of a tree.
There was one king, in the west, who ruled the swamp and fen. He was a brave king, a courageous king. He fought the raiding serpents in the north, when they slithered down the rivers, he fought the men of the red jungle, when they overstepped the hunting lines. He even slew a wild scion of the wolf god in his youth and wore that skull as his crown. He was a strong man, a stubborn man, an inflexible man. No matter that he was strong, that he was mighty, he was never respected, only feared.
Ling Qi sucked in a breath as the phantasms merged, a looming shadow of a man as broad as Elder Zhou had been and taller than the duchess. His face lay in shadow, half covered by the skull of a great wolf, gleaming pure and white with potent qi. His antler's a twelve pointed crown wrapped in crimson velvet. His aura was a boot upon her throat, and the scent of spoiling blood. A few motes of qi escaped, hooked on the storyteller's barbs.
One day, the warrior king found the tribute from a vassal tribe failed to arrive. There was no campaign to be had, and so the bored king elected to ride out himself and bear witness to their excuse.
Ling Qi regained herself as the phantom stepped through her, and she turned to see his march toward the rising streamers of campfire smoke in the distance. She steadied the cycling of her qi, Sixiang's mind layering over hers to bring to bear two minds against the machinations of one, and no more of her qi escaped.
At the village, the king and his guards met none of the expected resistance, nor had the village packed and fled. Instead, in the field outside they met a single man. Pale, like the northern tribes, but dressed in foreign robes. He showed no fear in the face of their spears, though his power was feeble. The brave and wily King feared a trap.
Ling Qi saw the king arrive at a sun dappled clearing, surrounded by a thorn hedge of men in treated leather and cloth armor, their spears as sharp as any thorn. Before them stood a short, pale skinned man in red robes, not too dissimilar from what she had seen some priests where. His hands where clasped in front of his chest, his expression serene, his power was barely more than a mortals. She bit the inside of her cheek to keep her expression half as serene as she fought back the incursion into her meridians.
So said the king, marshaling his Law to himself. Who are you foreigner, is it you who have made my people fail to deliver what I am owed?
No, spoke the man, in utter calm. The plague in these lands did that, made them too weak to harvest your tribute. I merely came upon them. They only asked that I might exercise the pestilence.
Then why do you block my path, said the king.
Because you are the source of the plague O King, said the priest.
Ling Qi could not hide the wince at the darkening of the scene, the immense waves of pressure from the shadowed figure of the king, swaying the trees and withering the grass. But she knew, as the grasping at her qi abated, now was the time to strike back.
[ ] Grasp deep, grasp with hunger. (50% chance of success, Gain +20 Physical Cultivation experience, +1 XP to want. On Failure, lose Gaol spiritual cultivation xp and ???)
[ ] Grasp carefully, and with great finesse (70% chance of Success. Normal Gaol benefits. +1 XP to motion, On Failure, lose Gaol Spiritual Cultivation, and ???)
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