Warhammer Fantasy: Thirteen Tolls - An Apocalypse Quest

Below the earth, a pact is struck. You cut your hand with Fafnir's proffered dagger – one, huge, sharp diamond, polished to a razor's sheen. You offer your bleeding palm. He sighs, and shakes, and you watch, through force of will alone, as the stone-flesh of his hand bubbles and cracks. Oozing from the wound is nothing so mundane as blood but red magma sun-hot – the life essence of the subterranean; from which all other life is but a shadow. You and Fafnir shake and so does the earth around you – the crystals above tinkling, laughing as blood-steam rises from your joint clasp. The Rune of Skavor – the only one – gutters, flickers and then blazes, and you see, a mile underground, where above the underworld Skavor waits at his lost family's door. From his crystal form falls a single, oily, rainbow tear. It falls, falls, falls…

A plate shifts. Lava flows. The world is made anew.

---

RISK: A Classic Heist – Heads (Success)

It is altogether too easy. You steal back to the warehouses where Ambrose had taken you. It's only a little wistful – a memory of a bright smile; of beautiful, every-changing eyes; of a faith in a better City. Only natural for him to be like that, you supposed, knowing his nature – but you can't help feel the ache of a scar on your heart. You had been attracted to him. You had been attracted to hope. And now that too was lost. For lack of faith – yours included. And so, you were left with just nostalgia; as always, the love of better days that never were.

But you're here now, and he isn't, and you have work to do. The warehouse is half-empty; you remember that there was a shipment out to the Black Pharoh a few weeks past, and it seems they hadn't fully restocked. Still enough for your purposes, you suppose. Wearing a cloth mask and thick leather gloves, you slowly, carefully, gather enough to fill a standard amphora. The smell and feel and sound are awful. Fundamentally wrong. Rotting roadkill and infected wounds. A thrumming numbness that scrapes the inside of your skin. Nails against stone being torn out, one after the other. All this – for some glowing green sand. They use this for weapons? Perhaps it's your Sight, but exposure – half shielded as you are – is punishment enough. But beyond the disgust you feel you realize – there's something more. Power; thrumming beneath. Corrupted, sure. But magic, soiled and stained, twisted and turned upon itself. A bomb, waiting to go off. Portable ruin, on demand.

You avoid the sleeping guard easily. He seems caught in some nightmare; you Look, and you see the taint of neon green, trapping him in some realm between here and oblivion. Hard to protect something that poisons its guardian. So, no one watches as you join the other teamsters and messengers of the Cloisters, one clay jar among countless containers, jars, boxes, bowls, and crates. Any more protecters, you suppose, would have aroused its own suspicion. Your luck. You look at your ill-gotten profit and are nearly overcome by a wave of nausea. Well - Ranald does love fools.

Risky Actions Unlocked: Study Warpstone, Create a Warpstone Bomb, Sell Warpstone.

---

RISK: Upwards, Ever Upwards – Tails (Failure) (PELOPS interrupt – Tails (Failure))

"No."

"Milord, I have been asked by the Princeps-"

"To make a study of the Source below. There've been three senators dead this month, my Lord, so you must forgive us for the enhanced security." The receptionist smiles a sharp little grin, Tylos stabbing the Beast over and over in purple thread on his robes. "You were at the incident at the Casino, no? Bad luck. Wouldn't want any of that to spill over to this critical civic project."

So, you are expelled with harsh words from the lair of the Monster, and the guillotines, and the heart of the Apocalypse. You suppose it couldn't have been so easy to just smash up the place. But you have a few hours to kill now – and it wouldn't do too much harm to wander the lower halls as Pelops trails behind you. These were mostly reserved for Senate business; a horde of offices and bureaucrats, a maze of paper and ink. So, you pass through many halls with the same terrible paintings – Tyleus the Slayer, Tyleus the Liberator, Tyleus the King, Tyleus, Tyleus, Tyleus. They're all dead eyed and badly posed and look nothing like Ambrose besides. He was not half-so pale. You are about to give up, after following another corridor unto another room of tightly packed papyri, guarded by another shrewish secretary who, under no circumstances, would allow you to access official government business. But finally, you turn and see somebody you recognize.

A passing security guard– one of a hundred, there is, for once, not another gruff legionnaire in a pensionary sinecure. This is a relatively young nobleman, your age, black hair, green eyes. He wears a sky-weave tunic, his enchanted to ever be the sun setting on the sea. He's got a lantern in his right hand but on his left - a wrapped over stump. You know where he lost that hand. You saw it happen, less than a week ago, at what they're now calling the Heartbreak Massacre, when the Red protestors were smashed flat. This is one of Ditatis' men – a Rat-Catcher. Ditatis' campaign is suspended – half of them were arrested after the riot. He's been preaching hell on the Elves ever since – so what's this friend of a disgraced demagogue doing so close to the heart of the Cities?

You walk by, and match eyes. He tips his head – only to freeze when he sees you know him. He stands and says "Old pal! Fancy seeing you here!"

"Of course – has that infection cleared up?" you reply, making an abortive gesture towards his arm.

A grin like broken glass "Some action, but not quite. My exterminator's got a bigger plan."

"Might you give me his contact? I was having some difficulties with vermin of my own".

"Gladly" he replies, and scribbles an address in the deep, deep Shambles. Somewhere his sort would never ordinarily deign.

"Well, thanks – I'll leave you to work?"

"My thanks – and gladly. I've got such wonderful colleagues".

Now that you're looking for it, as you leave the building, you take a glace at all the security. Probably a tenth are Rat-Catchers, you'd think, or at least associated, concentrated particularly near the offices of the Senators for Elftown and the Pall. No dice on the high secrets of the Tower. But you've found a plot below.

---

RISK: The Gods' Delusion– Tails (Failure)

You go to bed disquieted.

But then, for the first time in a very long time, you DREAM.

There is a garden at the end of the world. In that garden, there are black roses. Those roses are shaded by a near-dead tree – all gnarled branches, choked by thorns. And past that tree, there is an arch, beyond which is eternity. And in the garden by the roses below the tree before the gate there is a man that waits.

You are in the garden, on the path. Aoife is holding your had, leading you, in a dress of bluebird feathers, with stars embroidered in her hair.

You step forward; you cannot step back. A strong wind pushes you ever forward. It tears petals off the roses, kicks up dirt from the ground. Before you, the tree shakes, and branches fall.

Around you are a thousand fireflies, pushed by the gale. None can resist the current; like raindrops down a windowpane, they inexorably fall – past the roses, past the tree, past the arch – and into what none can know.

Aoife has not spoken, has not turned to you. She is just pulling, pulling. The wind howls in your ears; you can hardly see for the leaves and dust and twigs. The man is waiting, you know. He has been waiting a very long time.

Shyish blows harder – and the Tree of Hope creaks like a dying God. Aoife yanks you so hard you fall to your knees; letting go. She passes the gate and is gone. And as you struggle to recover, the wind pinning you to the earth, you see people run by. Nivet is there, a great draconic form; and Selia, from the play, burning; and the Priest of Ahalt, petals falling; and Ambrose, running – and try and scream, lying prone – "WAIT!"

But you can't. The wind steals your words. Morr does not deign to help you, as all you know flies into oblivion, and you are too, as even as you cannot get up you still clutch to the earth but it does not help as your fingers are ground to bloody stumps as the End Comes, it Always Comes, it ends, It Ends, IT ENDS!

And then the world stops.

Dust in the air – leaves suspended, yourself an inch before the Beyond. Your God stands frozen, before the Door.

And then someone offers you a hand.

You know who it is before you see them.

There is an oily man, a thousand years old, dressed in rags. He is hopping from one foot to another, giggling all the while. He grabs you, and heaves you up with some hidden, wiry strength.

Necoho.

"Miss me, boyo? Time's up."

You look down, and a sword – your sword – is in your hand.

"Look at this place – the state of it." You follow the sweep of his arm, and see above you, the Tree of Hope, torn from its roots. It will – it is falling. The fireflies are gone; swept away by the tempest, and every rosebush is dead and bare.

"You think that's fair? That even when all this goes, he gets to stay?" Necoho points to Morr. His cloak of raven feathers is untouched; the porcelain skin of his long face unblemished. No expression visits his mouth; neither fear nor favour. At the Gates, accepting of all, but giving mercy to none.

"Let me tell you a secret" the Chaos God says. And then he pushes you, and you're through the Arch, and you're falling.

And falling.

And falling.

And falling.

And falling.

And falling.

And falling.

And falling.

And falling.

And falling.

And falling.

And falling.

And falling.

And then you hit cobblestone; every bone in your body breaks and you feel your brain spray on to the street only for the flash of pain be replaced by a whole-body spasm as you are knitted together once again.

You are at the top of the Tower. You see yourself, and the corpses of rats, and the green light of warpflame, and the Princeps, falling below, and the grey cloaked stranger behind.

This is the tableau of your nightmares; what haunted you so terribly you came to this City to-

"Die" says Necoho, putting a hand on your shoulder.

"You're doomed, plain and simple. Thirteen weeks after you came back – kaput."

As he says that, he rotates his head three hundred and sixty degrees. You hear his neck break, and heal, and break.

"You knew that didn't you? The avenging hero? Save your Cities – or some of it – and die in the attempt."

He smiles, with rotting teeth and a forked tongue, and makes a cutting motion with his hand. His neck opens up, spraying you with blood, as his head folds back like the cover of a book until, a moment later, it springs back up, with blood still leaking from the cut.

"But you don't have to do that, you know."

He spins his hand, and the Tower vanishes, and you are in the void – no sound or light or color. You and a Chaos God.

"Death – you think you know it well. Let me tell you, it isn't much. And neither is fate."

He holds out a fist, and in opening it, reveals a golden knot, foursquare turned on itself. It links from nothing to nowhere, but you Look and see You. It is somehow, the fabric of your soul.

"One cut."

And the Doubter says one word you have not dared yourself hope since you came to this dammed place.

"LIVE!"

…

What do you do?

[] Cut your strings.

Be free of Morr and your destined fate. Xenophon will not die as the Cities do.

Turn 6 will begin normally, next post.

[] Strike Necoho.

End this blasphemy, once and for all. Purge your soul for Morr.

Xenophon will LOSE Turn 6. There will be a prophetic interlude, and then the next proper post will be Turn 7.

AN: Enjoy – and my sympathy for the flips. As always, comments and feedback appreciated. This is a vote of particular consequence, so 24-hour moratorium.