You tell a tale of the Tower. Melissa looks ill, Pelops scared, Ambrose thunderous. Floridus seems amused, Loreley excited, Kakram, as ever stock still.
"Are we sure these … entities represent specific people?" inquires Kaginius. "Could they not be perhaps events?"
It's a save, and clearly one. Most obviously, there's Gregorios – tall, red in heart and hair. But there's someone else, for Kaginius to distract so easily.
"Are we sure" you say, "that we can't identify anyone?"
Kaginius sighs. "The scorpion is the sign of Khaine. The eagle is Myrmidia, but her being there makes me consider the Schemer. The bull I doubt is Khaine again, so Geheb or the Violent or Margileo."
"Ditatis was a legionnaire before his late career" Floridus notes.
"I might know the warpstone man" calls Marcus. "Hieronimus Ovidius has invented plenty of weapons for that stuff. Don't know if he has anything to do with Shallya, but plenty of blood on his hands."
Kakram's voice echoes in your head.
The Skavorites are complicit.
"We've got leads on half then, I suppose." You say, rather pleased. "If that's all-"
"I am the Lightning" Cassius calls.
Everyone stops. He raises a hand – a crash of Thunder.
"I am the Wind and the Gale. I am the Rain and the Ruin. I am chosen of the Stormlord."
More thunder, closer.
He turns to Gregorios. "Do you mean to enslave me again?" Outwardly, the gladiator is perfectly calm, but you see the venom in his gaze – the eyes of the tempest.
A flash and a boom, just ahead.
Gregorios blanches, and stutters "Not – not a thought in my head – I've devoted my life -– you couldn't possibly – it must be a misunderstanding". He turns to you, wild-eyed. "You've seen something else, yeah? Tell us, damn you – enough with these half-truths!".
So, you tell a fairytale. It is received with worried faces and a panicked static of whispers.
All the relevant figures are identified – Chaos (Great Beast), Ranald (Cat), Myrmidia (Eagle), Ishernos (Elk), Verena (Owl), Morr (Crow), Shallya (Dove) – but no one seems to know what to make of the garden or the rats or the rose.
"Calm, everyone" says Ambrose, breaking through the noise. "We can confirm what we know for sure – Xenophon, interrupt me if I err. The Princeps is planning a great evil. This was known. This evil involves, in some way, the Gods. This was known. A number of individuals, including us, are involved. This was known – hells, that is the very point of the League. The only piece of absolutely new information provided is that the plot involves literal rats, which is a bit of intel I can't say will make any particular difference in my plans, and I bet the rest of you as well."
"Wisely put" says Floridus, and Melissa offers a smile.
"It changes nothing, but that the Divine itself might be in league with the Princeps" notes Kaginius gravely.
"We already knew the odds were bad. That just underlines our need for subtlety. Besides-" and Ambrose puts an arm around you
and you don't blush "We've got some diviners of our very own right here."
Buoyed by that endorsement, you give your third "vision".
When you mention the plug, Kakram leaps up from his seat. He makes some signals with his hands and rushes out.
"He said he had to report to his liege" Marcus says. "He's never mentioned them before."
Floridus opines on the warpstone. "The Tower is a magical font. It feeds six of the eight Winds into the city – fire and light to us, metal and sky to the Lodge, life and death to the Brotherhood. Shadow goes up into the Tower proper, into the telegraph system and gods know what, and the wild, as it was told to me, gets "discarded" as it does not befit our civilized character. I do believe, my good man, you've figure out where it goes – with the rest of the waste."
"So, the bones are –
Ghur?" you ask.
"More or less? Or at least a byproduct of whatever the magical creation process of the Tower is, flavored by the wind that's thrown directly in the trash, as opposed to being filtered through us."
"Doesn't that mean these mutant-folk have the same magical oomph as one of your wizard gangs?" Loreley asks.
"Well, half of our power, to be precise" replies Floridus.
You think of the great Thunderdome, full of caught storms, and the ever-blooming leagues of garden that make up Summerland, and the legions of masked inquisitors that stalk Temple's streets.
"A threat" you say.
"Quite" says Marcus. "And perhaps another reason for that ratcatching, if they've noticed their trash going missing."
A fair amount of discussion on your visions follows, which mostly involves the various members of the League tossing out names and institutions you haven't heard of, and the rest of them shooting them down for lack of plausibility for involvement in an affair to maybe end the world. That maybe is the final topic of discussion.
"How sure are you" says Loreley "that all this guff is true?"
The question shakes you a bit. You dreamt, and you've gone, as you always have. It has never been in your nature so far to doubt. But you see your reflection on the sheath of your sword. Your nose is scarred, you've sold your crown, you look like you've hardly slept in months – which is true. You've been running yourself ragged over a nightmare, and in your worry to try and stop whatever was coming, never stopped to think – was there anything at all? And in your exhausted, ruined state, in a role you haven't earned, in cities you abandoned, among people you don't know – what right do you have to judge the end of days?
But then Pelops intervenes.
"I believe in the Raven!" he squeaks. "The other Brothers – they knew something great and terrible was on the way. They went mad for it! And Morr still chose to speak, knowing to do so was to hurt his followers, his way of touching the world. No God would do that – cut off their own hands – unless they had something really, really important to say."
Melissa follows.
"I do not know why my husband died. I do not know what the Princeps wants. I do not know anything of the Gods. But I know they are all taking in interest in Xenophon. So, what he has to say must be something vital."
They both look at you with – no other word for it – faith. You shake the reflection of a sad, pathetic man, from your head. They are right. This is too much to be nothing. And that you might not be up for what task destiny demands gives you no right to shrink from the role. No man may choose the hour of his fate, but, as Morr always reminds, it is up to you how you want to die. And for them, at least, the people who are putting their trust in you – for the people who did – and for the people of these cities – which, against all, you are remembering that you love – you will meet come-what-may with all the effort and dignity you can. You speak, with a confidence that comes from the grey depths of your soul.
"Thank you, Melissa, Pelops. I know what I saw, and I speak that truth. And if I might be certain in one thing from all my visions that Morr has deigned to give, let it be this: an end is coming. What, where, when, who, how – as we've talked, you've seen – a thousand maybes. But that there will be a fall, I know, and the darkness that follows will be worse than I could ever foresee."
And that's the closer on the evening.
…
Ambrose follows you and Pelops out.
"You're a good man" he says to you.
"I appreciate the compliment" you reply (and you really rather do, your heart beating a bit quicker) "but I hardly did much. Only my duty."
"That a brave thing these days" he says "rarer and rarer for a man to be brave. You're here, even after what you just said, and you're still trying to save all of this" and he gestures to the trash and the drunk sleeping in it and the rats scurrying by and people laughing in a restaurant and the laundry hanging from a window and the glow of the streetlamps and the smell of the river and the noise of carriages and the feel of cobblestones under your feet. "All of it, and they hardly know who you are, and would laugh if you told them your aim. Aye, a good fellow indeed." And to your surprise, he drags you in for a hug. His arms are very strong, and his stubble scrapes your cheek.
He then seems to remember himself, and step back, though you regret he does.
"What's the plan for you then. Chase more visions? I'm at your service, of course still, but we at the League – or you know what, damn them – I would be happy – honored! – if you'd join us on some of our extracurricular activities. Your choice, of course, I don't want to overstep, and if you don't want to know for safety's sake, that's your prerogative. You know much, much more than I do. But-" and he grins wonderfully white. "I wouldn't mind spending some more time with you to save the world."
What do you do?
[-] Agree.
Onward to revolution. You will be offered up to three [LEAGUE] actions each turn. With the resources provided by Ambrose, these actions are discounted; if you take two, they will only take up one action slot (though only taking one will cost one slot as normal). The League may grow irritated if you agree and do not perform any tasks. This will also increase suspicion of you, and specifically aligns you with this faction. You get to know Ambrose more.
[-] Refuse.
You like Ambrose, but this is too dangerous. Nothing will change, though he will be slightly disappointed.
[Either way, you tell Ambrose about Junius and the Sword. You trust him that much.]
…
You return home to the Roost.
But as you turn the corner to the street at the end of which the garden sits, there is a sudden pop of magic. You turn and see one of the
Hysh lamps lining the street has gone out. Then, pop! another follows, and then another, and another, and another, until the whole street, suddenly is cast in darkness. You draw your sword, and Pelops follows, both of you back-to-back. You rotate, looking around the street, when:
Ding-dong.
All the lights, everywhere in the cities go out. There's a few screams of shock, and you tense – waiting, waiting.
You can see the great sphere of Thunderdome, but there's no crackle of lightning within. You look at the castles of the Casbah, but they've vanished into the night. You look to the Tower – and-
You See It.
A great, gibbering soul – far brighter than the Princeps. A thousand-million scream within it, stitched together by foul artifice, forever being ripped and torn and stitched anew. It roars in pain – and you feel within that this is an abomination, a crime against life – a crime against death. It twitches spasmodically, and you notice it is bound with thirteen chains of magic and warpstone, each linked to some infernal device, half altar, half-guillotine. They are empty. Below it, a bright spark – the Princeps – and he is giddy, laughing as the horror seizes and sobs.
Bzzzt.
The power returns. There are sighs of relief and noise on the streets. You can see the gardens of Summerland blooming, the shining spires of Elftown, the gold tips of the pyramids in Little Khemri. The Tower is but a tower once more.
But that first streetlamp.
It stays dark.
