Prologue: Driftwood - The Feast
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- Location
- Alexander Horned Earth
- Pronouns
- They/Them
You secure your kill on your back carefully, but without much concern for its still dripping blood; even if your uniform wasn't mostly black, its fibres were made to resist far more than simple stains. With the beast secured as best you can manage -
Interfacing [Trivial: Success]: - which isn't all that much -
- your return to the surface-dwellers and their wretched slag box is swift. You race back along your own tracks, making no deliberate effort to conceal your tracks of the blood trail behind you. Any predator foolish enough to mistake you for wounded prey will amount to nothing but a new texture for this evening's dish.
As you crest the final dunes, you are relieved to see a plume of hazy, grey smoke blocking out the worst of the surface vehicle from your sight. One of the surface-dwellers spots you immediately, rubs their eyes - a possible smoke sensitivity? - and beckons you with a wave.
The group has assembled around a squat, hexagonal stack of thick, black rods. The smoke rises from the center of the structure, which you now see is filled with a haphazard pile of driftwood and twigs.
You are about to bemoan the waste - flame-cooking, for forage? When they didn't even know what your quarry is? What if it didn't suit the meat?
Encyclopedia [Trivial: Success]: Just in time, you remember several vital differences between the depths and the surface: the presence of air, the absence of water, and the impacts of both on fire. No need for expensive culinary oxidisers here - or even the cheaper toxic-to-some ones.
Growth: What was once poison to us now nourishes us, as is the way of things.
Sensation: Oh, it is such a shame to be them; to never know the different tastes of different flames.
A phantom taste rises. Yellowfin, seared on an iron grate above two thin, winding pipes. A steady hand on two valves, amyl and naphtha both food and fetter for the flame.
You close your mouth, and silently carry the carcass towards the flame. The fire's tender - a round, dark-faced man whose bristly beard is braided into a complex pattern - whistles in appreciation, and bellows a word you don't recognise. He waves towards a sheet of blue plastic, where a set of knives has already been set out.
Subsistence [Medium: Success]: Your first instinct is to prepare the meat yourself, but one look at the beast's maroon flesh tells you it has little in common with the paler meats you half recall. Instead, you seat yourself upwind of the flames and watch the surface-dwellers cook with a critical eye.
Empathy: Of course, it wouldn't be fair to compare their efforts to anything you could remember. A watcher is not necessarily a judge - but if you are, you must judge them on their merits, not yours.
To their credit, the surface-dwellers have clearly butchered this kind of beast before - the large man's cuts are carefully placed, and he is moving through the beast on instinct, setting each organ in a specific place on the mat before he begins work on the meat proper. Another steps in towards the mat and begins to clean the hide, while a third separates tallow, sinew, bone, and other inedibles into a multi-part container.
Some cuts of meat are draped over the rods by the side of the fire in small strips, to smoke and dry. The larger pieces are impaled on a series of steel spikes and placed atop the flame; the man begins singing some song in his unfamiliar language, and a few other voices join in.
He sprinkles a small amount of salt atop the rotating meat, and splashes it with something from a flask at his hip. The crowd cheers.
After a while, you join the song, though only the chorus - your own voice is crisp and clear, as it must, which makes something of a contrast to the raucous crowd around you. A few look at you and start laughing, then bring up the chorus again, this time clearly aping your own performance.
One of them - from their build, the one who greeted you earlier - walks up and slaps you on the back. They shout something at the others, who pause and then laugh harder, and then address you in their accented Iberian.
"Don't mind them, it's how they act friendly. Your Sargonian needs work - when you say 'we drink', you stress the middle too much, it sounds like 'we bathe' instead. I told them to take your advice." Their hood is down and their mask hangs around their neck, revealing a narrow face, beady eyes, and a garish head of cyan and gold feathers. "I'm Farah, by the way." She hands you a tarnished steel fork and knife, and a surprisingly clean plate.
Bonds of Blood: You sing, but every child of Aegir sings. Is that enough to make a singer?
Your introspection is interrupted by a bellow from the man at the spit. "Come on up! If any bastards want it cooked any longer, do it your damn fool selves, and don't blame me if the helmbeast haunts your dreams!" He pulls off one of the spits, now slick with molten fat, and points it to you and Farah. He shouts in even more heavily-accented Iberian, "Ladies first! Little bird needs to get big and strong like me; little fighter just needs to get big!" His laughter is a deep, thunderous sound, jolly enough that you almost overlook the crack about your height. He tosses the spit in your direction and it lands spike-down in the sand, the meat suspended well above the ground.
Farah slides the upper steak from the pole with a pair of forks, then sets it on her plate. She drops down and then starts tearing into it with surprising ferocity; after a moment, you do the same.
The meat is tender and juicy, with a faint taste of alcohol and salt. It's nothing particularly special, really, nothing you would let out of a kitchen - but where you are, in this moment, it's still delicious. You pull a second steak from the spit, and take your time to savor this one, before falling backwards onto the dune, staring up at the sky.
The upper edge of their thrice damned vehicle slips into view, so you scooch a little bit away. That's better.
Objective Complete: Find something to eat
Vitality Revealed. Current Vitality 3/4.
The crew is enjoying their steaks, and you're part of the party. What now?
[ ] Socialise and carouse with the crew.
-[ ] You made a mistake with the wipes, but you've seen them drinking now. Get some ethanol, and drink them under the table. It's a bonding exercise - and if you're blind drunk you won't have to see that pile of rust. [Challenging Sensation Check - 58.33%]
-[ ] It's not your fault these surface-dwellers are so tall, but it's their fault for pointing it out. Challenge the chef to an appropriate contest to see who's so little. [Challenging Restraint Check - 8.33%]
-[ ] Try and start a conversation with the chef's assistant, who is still quietly working with the offal. Maybe they'll have insight into the beast you fought, or at least some insights into life and survival on the surface. [Heroic Suggestion Check - 16.67%]
[ ] Farah seems friendly, and knows some of the local language. Try and get some information about where you are...
-[ ] ...directly, keeping your secrets close. Figure out the right questions to ask. [Medium Logic Check - 41.67%]
-[ ] ...directly, sharing what you can. Admit to your amnesia, and the few things you can remember that you can share with outsiders, see if she knows anything of use. [Medium Empathy Check - 83.33%]
-[ ] ...indirectly. Fish for indirect references, play the part of the lost and confused foreigner. [Medium Savoir Faire Check - 27.78%]
Interfacing [Trivial: Success]: - which isn't all that much -
- your return to the surface-dwellers and their wretched slag box is swift. You race back along your own tracks, making no deliberate effort to conceal your tracks of the blood trail behind you. Any predator foolish enough to mistake you for wounded prey will amount to nothing but a new texture for this evening's dish.
As you crest the final dunes, you are relieved to see a plume of hazy, grey smoke blocking out the worst of the surface vehicle from your sight. One of the surface-dwellers spots you immediately, rubs their eyes - a possible smoke sensitivity? - and beckons you with a wave.
The group has assembled around a squat, hexagonal stack of thick, black rods. The smoke rises from the center of the structure, which you now see is filled with a haphazard pile of driftwood and twigs.
You are about to bemoan the waste - flame-cooking, for forage? When they didn't even know what your quarry is? What if it didn't suit the meat?
Encyclopedia [Trivial: Success]: Just in time, you remember several vital differences between the depths and the surface: the presence of air, the absence of water, and the impacts of both on fire. No need for expensive culinary oxidisers here - or even the cheaper toxic-to-some ones.
Growth: What was once poison to us now nourishes us, as is the way of things.
Sensation: Oh, it is such a shame to be them; to never know the different tastes of different flames.
A phantom taste rises. Yellowfin, seared on an iron grate above two thin, winding pipes. A steady hand on two valves, amyl and naphtha both food and fetter for the flame.
You close your mouth, and silently carry the carcass towards the flame. The fire's tender - a round, dark-faced man whose bristly beard is braided into a complex pattern - whistles in appreciation, and bellows a word you don't recognise. He waves towards a sheet of blue plastic, where a set of knives has already been set out.
Subsistence [Medium: Success]: Your first instinct is to prepare the meat yourself, but one look at the beast's maroon flesh tells you it has little in common with the paler meats you half recall. Instead, you seat yourself upwind of the flames and watch the surface-dwellers cook with a critical eye.
Empathy: Of course, it wouldn't be fair to compare their efforts to anything you could remember. A watcher is not necessarily a judge - but if you are, you must judge them on their merits, not yours.
To their credit, the surface-dwellers have clearly butchered this kind of beast before - the large man's cuts are carefully placed, and he is moving through the beast on instinct, setting each organ in a specific place on the mat before he begins work on the meat proper. Another steps in towards the mat and begins to clean the hide, while a third separates tallow, sinew, bone, and other inedibles into a multi-part container.
Some cuts of meat are draped over the rods by the side of the fire in small strips, to smoke and dry. The larger pieces are impaled on a series of steel spikes and placed atop the flame; the man begins singing some song in his unfamiliar language, and a few other voices join in.
He sprinkles a small amount of salt atop the rotating meat, and splashes it with something from a flask at his hip. The crowd cheers.
After a while, you join the song, though only the chorus - your own voice is crisp and clear, as it must, which makes something of a contrast to the raucous crowd around you. A few look at you and start laughing, then bring up the chorus again, this time clearly aping your own performance.
One of them - from their build, the one who greeted you earlier - walks up and slaps you on the back. They shout something at the others, who pause and then laugh harder, and then address you in their accented Iberian.
"Don't mind them, it's how they act friendly. Your Sargonian needs work - when you say 'we drink', you stress the middle too much, it sounds like 'we bathe' instead. I told them to take your advice." Their hood is down and their mask hangs around their neck, revealing a narrow face, beady eyes, and a garish head of cyan and gold feathers. "I'm Farah, by the way." She hands you a tarnished steel fork and knife, and a surprisingly clean plate.
Bonds of Blood: You sing, but every child of Aegir sings. Is that enough to make a singer?
Your introspection is interrupted by a bellow from the man at the spit. "Come on up! If any bastards want it cooked any longer, do it your damn fool selves, and don't blame me if the helmbeast haunts your dreams!" He pulls off one of the spits, now slick with molten fat, and points it to you and Farah. He shouts in even more heavily-accented Iberian, "Ladies first! Little bird needs to get big and strong like me; little fighter just needs to get big!" His laughter is a deep, thunderous sound, jolly enough that you almost overlook the crack about your height. He tosses the spit in your direction and it lands spike-down in the sand, the meat suspended well above the ground.
Farah slides the upper steak from the pole with a pair of forks, then sets it on her plate. She drops down and then starts tearing into it with surprising ferocity; after a moment, you do the same.
The meat is tender and juicy, with a faint taste of alcohol and salt. It's nothing particularly special, really, nothing you would let out of a kitchen - but where you are, in this moment, it's still delicious. You pull a second steak from the spit, and take your time to savor this one, before falling backwards onto the dune, staring up at the sky.
The upper edge of their thrice damned vehicle slips into view, so you scooch a little bit away. That's better.
Objective Complete: Find something to eat
Vitality Revealed. Current Vitality 3/4.
The crew is enjoying their steaks, and you're part of the party. What now?
[ ] Socialise and carouse with the crew.
-[ ] You made a mistake with the wipes, but you've seen them drinking now. Get some ethanol, and drink them under the table. It's a bonding exercise - and if you're blind drunk you won't have to see that pile of rust. [Challenging Sensation Check - 58.33%]
-[ ] It's not your fault these surface-dwellers are so tall, but it's their fault for pointing it out. Challenge the chef to an appropriate contest to see who's so little. [Challenging Restraint Check - 8.33%]
-[ ] Try and start a conversation with the chef's assistant, who is still quietly working with the offal. Maybe they'll have insight into the beast you fought, or at least some insights into life and survival on the surface. [Heroic Suggestion Check - 16.67%]
[ ] Farah seems friendly, and knows some of the local language. Try and get some information about where you are...
-[ ] ...directly, keeping your secrets close. Figure out the right questions to ask. [Medium Logic Check - 41.67%]
-[ ] ...directly, sharing what you can. Admit to your amnesia, and the few things you can remember that you can share with outsiders, see if she knows anything of use. [Medium Empathy Check - 83.33%]
-[ ] ...indirectly. Fish for indirect references, play the part of the lost and confused foreigner. [Medium Savoir Faire Check - 27.78%]
So as we close out of the first day - the tutorial section, so to speak, we get to your depletable stats.
In this case, Vitality is the equivalent of Health. It can be expended by performing truly superhuman feats - or to recover from doing so less than optimally. With zero Vitality, you won't necessarily die, but will at least suffer serious injury or fall unconscious.
Vitality has a soft cap equal to your Subsistence. Passing above the soft cap will transform it to Surging Vitality, with both positive and negative effects the higher it gets. There is a hard cap equal to Subsistence + Discipline - going beyond it will result in an unfortunate fate.
Surging Vitality returns to normal if it falls below your Subsistence score. Yes, this means losing health can be as important as regaining it. This is true for other things as well; to borrow a phrase, even dread has its uses.
While the one Aegir city we've seen a glimpse of seems to be an enclosed dome of some kind, it's unclear exactly how much air is in them - but since the Hunters at least can breathe underwater, I'm working on the assumption that some level of amphibious culture exists, with a corresponding impact on food preparation (though honestly, lighting a fire is probably tightly regulated just in the context of an enclosed dome). Thankfully, Betta's memory scrambling means I don't need actual answers to these sorts of questions, but she's definitely operated a grill underwater in the past. (Do not use nitrogen tetroxide in food preparation.)
In this case, Vitality is the equivalent of Health. It can be expended by performing truly superhuman feats - or to recover from doing so less than optimally. With zero Vitality, you won't necessarily die, but will at least suffer serious injury or fall unconscious.
Vitality has a soft cap equal to your Subsistence. Passing above the soft cap will transform it to Surging Vitality, with both positive and negative effects the higher it gets. There is a hard cap equal to Subsistence + Discipline - going beyond it will result in an unfortunate fate.
Surging Vitality returns to normal if it falls below your Subsistence score. Yes, this means losing health can be as important as regaining it. This is true for other things as well; to borrow a phrase, even dread has its uses.
While the one Aegir city we've seen a glimpse of seems to be an enclosed dome of some kind, it's unclear exactly how much air is in them - but since the Hunters at least can breathe underwater, I'm working on the assumption that some level of amphibious culture exists, with a corresponding impact on food preparation (though honestly, lighting a fire is probably tightly regulated just in the context of an enclosed dome). Thankfully, Betta's memory scrambling means I don't need actual answers to these sorts of questions, but she's definitely operated a grill underwater in the past. (Do not use nitrogen tetroxide in food preparation.)
