An embittered Sidereal follows her mentor's request - to head to the North and find a weapon of unfathomable power, and ensure it never be used against Creation.
[Exalted] Until The Last Star Falls - A Sidereal Quest
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I - The Beginning
An old man sits down at the bench of your shop, and you think of the knife, sharp, inviting, only an arm's length away. You ignore it, and him and his green trimmed robes. The prayer-smith screwed you, and the pink silk you asked for is more magenta. You guess you get what you pay for, but still; on your long-term sabbatical you need to make your pay last.
As you tut to yourself and measure out the silk, wondering what to turn it into, you think. When was the last time a senior Sidereal came to your shop? Usually it's the younger ones, looking for someone willing to work with the rougher, coarser materials that a godly tailor would turn their nose up at, the kind of clothes that will fit the destiny of a peasant or a labourer without fraying it. They make for good conversation, and gossip. It's almost refreshing to remember being that young.
He's waiting. Not for you to ask why he's here, you both know that. The letter appeared on your bedside this morning, and you made the mistake of reading it; too professional, that's you. Not professional enough that he can entrust the details to you in writing, though. You can probably salvage the silk situation. You have a red dress upstairs. You used to wear it to functions at the Crimson Panoply, but you don't get invited to those anymore. You can just cut it up and use it. Unpick the stitching too, carve it up and…
"I wouldn't have called on you if there was any other option," Chejop Kejak says. "But I know you can do this."
Forget the secrets he knows. Forget his connections. Forget his skills. Chejop Kejak's most dangerous weapon is the way he speaks. Slow and deliberate and full of confidence. Not in himself, but in you. You've wondered, over the years, if it's some trick of fate that the Maidens whispered to him at the time he drew his Second Breath, so he could fulfil their grisly work. But it's not. It's just his way. Chejop Kejak can measure a person at a glance, and tell them exactly what he believes they can do to make Creation a better place.
And you believe him. Did believe him. Not anymore, you tell yourself.
"I can't do it," you say, and want to bite your tongue off. Won't. You won't do it. "Can't" made it sound like you wanted to do it. You're content with how things are. Happy, even.
Chejop doesn't say anything. He just glances around, ink stained fingers resting on his knees. Your shop is a quaint place, tucked into a little corner of the Eternal Frost District. In Creation, it would be unremarkable - in Yu-Shan, you're the only tailor that has actual bolts of cloth in stock for miles. Does it remind him of anywhere, you wonder? Did he ever go into a tailor's shop when he was young? Surely not, not Chejop Kejak, who knew the First Age and buried it-
"There really is no one else," he says, like it'll change anything. He smiles, a little ruefully, and you remember your grandfather, shaking his head and spreading his arms wide as he loudly announced how he was just completely lost with this book, and if a clever young girl who knew her letters could help an old man...
Transparent, you think, and your arm stretches back behind you, towards the knife.
At your best, you could only touch Kejak on a good day, when you were lucky. And it's been twenty years since you had good days. So you can't even pretend surprise when he parries the knife out of the air with the side of his hand, the steel sinking into one of the wood-grained supporting pillars of your shop.
Chejop doesn't even look surprised, the bastard. "You haven't even asked what it is," he observes, lowering his hand back down to his knees. "You may want to sit down." He adds, like you're some greenhorn, fresh off your family forgetting who you were.
"I don't want to know." You say, and wince at how petulant your voice sounds. You sit down. "However strained we are for Sidereals, I'm certain there's some young buck who would much prefer the glory of your personal attention. Not to mention all the politics that would come from me getting involved in whatever Convention you throw me at." You had been prestigious back then, but a catastrophic burnout and twenty years of quiet retirement? You're the butt of jokes in after-work drinking parties, no doubt. Coming back at your mentor's call? You wouldn't even be a dedicated dropout.
"You wouldn't be assigned to a Convention. This is… a favour to me. Not, as far as the Bureau is concerned, official." You don't reply to that. You're staring at the magenta silk laid out on your table, wondering how it would look as a skirt; not probing at what secrets Chejop Kejak would keep under wraps. A favour? You? What is it that he would need you to do? Your thoughts go towards the obvious - a Solar, freshly Exalted, filled with the burning power of the Sun and with the blessing of supernal skill, without any Immaculates nearby to snuff them out. But you dismiss that out of hand. Chejop Kejak may wish every Solar dead and buried, but he wouldn't call you in for just that.
He lets you sit like that, trying to see his angle, and crooks his fingers, pulling the thread of fate tight. You know this trick - not a sound in this room is audible to anyone outside of it now. Even the sharpest-eared gossip hound in Heaven would need to walk through your door to hear what Chejop Kejak wants kept secret.
Then, he tells you what he wants you to do.
And you are very, very glad you sat down.
"...You could go." It's the first thought that comes to your mind and the first words out of your mouth. Why you? You aren't reliable. You're not even in your fifth century yet, and you've already flamed out in spectacular fashion, during what has become one of the most strained time for Sidereals there's ever been.
Chejop Kejak looks very, very old now. He leans forward, not sharing a secret, but bowed and tired, labouring under the weight of the world and his many, many sins. "I've considered it. But my movements are watched like a hawk, and this is a task that may well take years. And I have... other commitments." In that half-second pause is the life and death of the Scarlet Realm, the management of the Bronze Faction, the countless duties of the head of the Convention of the Centre, and dozens of other roles that this old colossus has accumulated over five-thousand years.
And then, you. Trained by his own hand, trustworthy, near forgotten by the Bureau at large. Some part of you curls around that thought, and the thought slithers in unbidden - did Chejop let you go without protest twenty years ago so he would have an asset he could use for a task like this?
"And at my age, the cold just doesn't agree with my bones." He adds, and you stifle a half-manic giggle at the sight of his dry smile. It's like nothing has changed at all. You're twenty-five again, and he's discussing some intricacy of heavenly or earthly politics, making a wry comment that you'll roll over in your head later to peel apart for meaning, before he leads in to some particular task he has for you - something that'll expand your horizons, give you experience and serve his ends.
"Where?" You hate that you say it. He looks relieved, and you hate that too. Hate how he assumes you asking a question means you agreeing. Hate how it fills you with pride anyway.
"North. Far North, somewhere in the Wasting Tundra. It resists scrying, and it moved after it was activated. Quite the impressive feat of geomantic engineering, as I understand the field." Gone was the kindly grandfather, here the Sidereal, issuing the kind of clipped, precise information you'd expect from a dossier. "It needs a key to be used. You'll want to find that too."
Past the Inner Sea, beyond even the Realm's reach. Hidden in a vast expanse of empty lands, roamed by nomads and wanderers, the ruins and wreckage of Bagrash Kol's empire coated in rime and snow. It would likely take months to find. Maybe even years.
If you say no, he'll leave. You might be his first option, but you aren't the last. Chejop Kejak has connections and favours that date back over five long millennia of serving Creation. Your experience and anonymity make you ideal for the task, but not indispensable.
Now you just need to convince yourself to say the words. To justify it to yourself.
You'd be leaving your shop behind. It doesn't see that many customers, but it's still yours, purchased and operated honestly.
It'll still be yours when you come back. Leases in Yu-Shan measure in decades, not weeks or months.
You don't want to involve yourself in this work anymore.
But this isn't putting into motion some destiny planned by a dozen squabbling gods and Sidereals. This is a potential world-shaping threat, loose and unattended.
Do you really want to give him the satisfaction of knowing he can still make you come running at a single request?
…The moment Chejop Kejak walked in here, there was only one option. But your thoughts, how you come to agree - that's your own. Sidereals live with fate, work with destiny, and that means you know the meaning of free will better than anyone.
The road's been laid out, but you need to take the steps yourself.
"Yes." You tell him. "I'll do it."
He has the audacity to look proud, too. The bastard.
You leave the next day, travelling light, heading towards one of Heaven's gates.
You took your first breath under the constellation of the Sword, the sign of despair and defeat, of the end of hopes and dreams. But you took your Second Breath under a different sign; one sacred to the Maiden of…
[ ] Journeys.
In your duties as a Harbinger, you delivered missives of lost battles that marked the end of nations to kings that would be killed in palace coups, and led expeditions full of hope and pride into terrible disasters, walking away untouched from piles of corpses.
[ ] Serenity
As a Joybringer, you left bitter feelings and ashes in your wake. Your skilled hands wove poisons into wedding dresses, and spoke the words that would bring beautiful loves into bitter acrimonies.
[ ] Secrets
Truth and secrets are sacred to the Oracles, and you revealed the horrific truths that drove great heroes to madness, and swallowed secrets that would have changed the world had they been known, delving deep into the hearts of men and the depths of the world.
As you tut to yourself and measure out the silk, wondering what to turn it into, you think. When was the last time a senior Sidereal came to your shop? Usually it's the younger ones, looking for someone willing to work with the rougher, coarser materials that a godly tailor would turn their nose up at, the kind of clothes that will fit the destiny of a peasant or a labourer without fraying it. They make for good conversation, and gossip. It's almost refreshing to remember being that young.
He's waiting. Not for you to ask why he's here, you both know that. The letter appeared on your bedside this morning, and you made the mistake of reading it; too professional, that's you. Not professional enough that he can entrust the details to you in writing, though. You can probably salvage the silk situation. You have a red dress upstairs. You used to wear it to functions at the Crimson Panoply, but you don't get invited to those anymore. You can just cut it up and use it. Unpick the stitching too, carve it up and…
"I wouldn't have called on you if there was any other option," Chejop Kejak says. "But I know you can do this."
Forget the secrets he knows. Forget his connections. Forget his skills. Chejop Kejak's most dangerous weapon is the way he speaks. Slow and deliberate and full of confidence. Not in himself, but in you. You've wondered, over the years, if it's some trick of fate that the Maidens whispered to him at the time he drew his Second Breath, so he could fulfil their grisly work. But it's not. It's just his way. Chejop Kejak can measure a person at a glance, and tell them exactly what he believes they can do to make Creation a better place.
And you believe him. Did believe him. Not anymore, you tell yourself.
"I can't do it," you say, and want to bite your tongue off. Won't. You won't do it. "Can't" made it sound like you wanted to do it. You're content with how things are. Happy, even.
Chejop doesn't say anything. He just glances around, ink stained fingers resting on his knees. Your shop is a quaint place, tucked into a little corner of the Eternal Frost District. In Creation, it would be unremarkable - in Yu-Shan, you're the only tailor that has actual bolts of cloth in stock for miles. Does it remind him of anywhere, you wonder? Did he ever go into a tailor's shop when he was young? Surely not, not Chejop Kejak, who knew the First Age and buried it-
"There really is no one else," he says, like it'll change anything. He smiles, a little ruefully, and you remember your grandfather, shaking his head and spreading his arms wide as he loudly announced how he was just completely lost with this book, and if a clever young girl who knew her letters could help an old man...
Transparent, you think, and your arm stretches back behind you, towards the knife.
At your best, you could only touch Kejak on a good day, when you were lucky. And it's been twenty years since you had good days. So you can't even pretend surprise when he parries the knife out of the air with the side of his hand, the steel sinking into one of the wood-grained supporting pillars of your shop.
Chejop doesn't even look surprised, the bastard. "You haven't even asked what it is," he observes, lowering his hand back down to his knees. "You may want to sit down." He adds, like you're some greenhorn, fresh off your family forgetting who you were.
"I don't want to know." You say, and wince at how petulant your voice sounds. You sit down. "However strained we are for Sidereals, I'm certain there's some young buck who would much prefer the glory of your personal attention. Not to mention all the politics that would come from me getting involved in whatever Convention you throw me at." You had been prestigious back then, but a catastrophic burnout and twenty years of quiet retirement? You're the butt of jokes in after-work drinking parties, no doubt. Coming back at your mentor's call? You wouldn't even be a dedicated dropout.
"You wouldn't be assigned to a Convention. This is… a favour to me. Not, as far as the Bureau is concerned, official." You don't reply to that. You're staring at the magenta silk laid out on your table, wondering how it would look as a skirt; not probing at what secrets Chejop Kejak would keep under wraps. A favour? You? What is it that he would need you to do? Your thoughts go towards the obvious - a Solar, freshly Exalted, filled with the burning power of the Sun and with the blessing of supernal skill, without any Immaculates nearby to snuff them out. But you dismiss that out of hand. Chejop Kejak may wish every Solar dead and buried, but he wouldn't call you in for just that.
He lets you sit like that, trying to see his angle, and crooks his fingers, pulling the thread of fate tight. You know this trick - not a sound in this room is audible to anyone outside of it now. Even the sharpest-eared gossip hound in Heaven would need to walk through your door to hear what Chejop Kejak wants kept secret.
Then, he tells you what he wants you to do.
And you are very, very glad you sat down.
"...You could go." It's the first thought that comes to your mind and the first words out of your mouth. Why you? You aren't reliable. You're not even in your fifth century yet, and you've already flamed out in spectacular fashion, during what has become one of the most strained time for Sidereals there's ever been.
Chejop Kejak looks very, very old now. He leans forward, not sharing a secret, but bowed and tired, labouring under the weight of the world and his many, many sins. "I've considered it. But my movements are watched like a hawk, and this is a task that may well take years. And I have... other commitments." In that half-second pause is the life and death of the Scarlet Realm, the management of the Bronze Faction, the countless duties of the head of the Convention of the Centre, and dozens of other roles that this old colossus has accumulated over five-thousand years.
And then, you. Trained by his own hand, trustworthy, near forgotten by the Bureau at large. Some part of you curls around that thought, and the thought slithers in unbidden - did Chejop let you go without protest twenty years ago so he would have an asset he could use for a task like this?
"And at my age, the cold just doesn't agree with my bones." He adds, and you stifle a half-manic giggle at the sight of his dry smile. It's like nothing has changed at all. You're twenty-five again, and he's discussing some intricacy of heavenly or earthly politics, making a wry comment that you'll roll over in your head later to peel apart for meaning, before he leads in to some particular task he has for you - something that'll expand your horizons, give you experience and serve his ends.
"Where?" You hate that you say it. He looks relieved, and you hate that too. Hate how he assumes you asking a question means you agreeing. Hate how it fills you with pride anyway.
"North. Far North, somewhere in the Wasting Tundra. It resists scrying, and it moved after it was activated. Quite the impressive feat of geomantic engineering, as I understand the field." Gone was the kindly grandfather, here the Sidereal, issuing the kind of clipped, precise information you'd expect from a dossier. "It needs a key to be used. You'll want to find that too."
Past the Inner Sea, beyond even the Realm's reach. Hidden in a vast expanse of empty lands, roamed by nomads and wanderers, the ruins and wreckage of Bagrash Kol's empire coated in rime and snow. It would likely take months to find. Maybe even years.
If you say no, he'll leave. You might be his first option, but you aren't the last. Chejop Kejak has connections and favours that date back over five long millennia of serving Creation. Your experience and anonymity make you ideal for the task, but not indispensable.
Now you just need to convince yourself to say the words. To justify it to yourself.
You'd be leaving your shop behind. It doesn't see that many customers, but it's still yours, purchased and operated honestly.
It'll still be yours when you come back. Leases in Yu-Shan measure in decades, not weeks or months.
You don't want to involve yourself in this work anymore.
But this isn't putting into motion some destiny planned by a dozen squabbling gods and Sidereals. This is a potential world-shaping threat, loose and unattended.
Do you really want to give him the satisfaction of knowing he can still make you come running at a single request?
…The moment Chejop Kejak walked in here, there was only one option. But your thoughts, how you come to agree - that's your own. Sidereals live with fate, work with destiny, and that means you know the meaning of free will better than anyone.
The road's been laid out, but you need to take the steps yourself.
"Yes." You tell him. "I'll do it."
He has the audacity to look proud, too. The bastard.
You leave the next day, travelling light, heading towards one of Heaven's gates.
You took your first breath under the constellation of the Sword, the sign of despair and defeat, of the end of hopes and dreams. But you took your Second Breath under a different sign; one sacred to the Maiden of…
[ ] Journeys.
In your duties as a Harbinger, you delivered missives of lost battles that marked the end of nations to kings that would be killed in palace coups, and led expeditions full of hope and pride into terrible disasters, walking away untouched from piles of corpses.
The Ship's Wheel, those who bind themselves to the wheel of suffering, believing that glorious rewards lie at the end. You suffer and endure without qualm, picking your way through barren wastes and terrible danger, eating grass and drinking dew.
The Gull, journeys made for their own sake, as aimless as the gull that drifts on the wind, seeking their own truth. You understand the motivations that drive others and feel no qualm at walking with them, for as long as your paths are on the same road.
[ ] Serenity
As a Joybringer, you left bitter feelings and ashes in your wake. Your skilled hands wove poisons into wedding dresses, and spoke the words that would bring beautiful loves into bitter acrimonies.
The Lovers, the sign of those place themselves at the mercy of others. Many Sidereals consider this to be the most terrible sign of all, for it shows you the secret chains by which all people depend upon each other, and how they may be broken.
The Peacock, proud and beautiful, which governs those relationships born of pragmatism - the noble husband, married off to the rich merchant. You understand what's in the best interest of others, and how to compel them with it to do what's in your best interest.
[ ] Secrets
Truth and secrets are sacred to the Oracles, and you revealed the horrific truths that drove great heroes to madness, and swallowed secrets that would have changed the world had they been known, delving deep into the hearts of men and the depths of the world.
The Mask, which hides and binds that which ought to not be known. A sign of great secrets and the powers to find them and keep them, binding others with the promise of secrets best left unuttered and knowledge that may change their lives.
The Sorcerer, who masters otherworldly powers for good or for ill. Though every Sidereals learns of their foes and how to fight them, you learnt how to bargain with them, bind them, and use their fell powers for ends you deem to be just.
Character Sheet
Welcome to Until The Last Star Falls, a narrative quest following our Sidereal protagonist as she ventures far into the North. #
In that cold and distant land, beyond the White Sea, she will encounter many travails and obstacles, and maybe a few friends and allies along the way. She will have to establish a base of operations for herself, and work towards finding a weapon Chejop Kejak himself considers a major priority.
Until The Last Star Falls works via a loose narrative system, with our protagonist's abilities and skillset being defined principally by her Constellations - Creation's zodiac, who serve as the thematic foundation for Sidereal Charms. That said, the Bureau is exhaustive in its training, and even if our protagonist is rusty she's still able to take care of herself.
Constellations
Connections
???
Assets
???
In that cold and distant land, beyond the White Sea, she will encounter many travails and obstacles, and maybe a few friends and allies along the way. She will have to establish a base of operations for herself, and work towards finding a weapon Chejop Kejak himself considers a major priority.
Until The Last Star Falls works via a loose narrative system, with our protagonist's abilities and skillset being defined principally by her Constellations - Creation's zodiac, who serve as the thematic foundation for Sidereal Charms. That said, the Bureau is exhaustive in its training, and even if our protagonist is rusty she's still able to take care of herself.
Constellations
The Sword, which hangs over your head. Doomed, desperate, broken, much like Creation, you allow nothing to break your heart - save for your own hands. You cannot be swayed from the path you have chosen, unless you let yourself be swayed.
Connections
???
Assets
???
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Olive
Silent Princess
[X] Journeys.
In your duties as a Harbinger, you delivered missives of lost battles that marked the end of nations to kings that would be killed in palace coups, and led expeditions full of hope and pride into terrible disasters, walking away untouched from piles of corpses.
Sailing! Shipwrecking! Leading expeditions into the sunless North without expectations of survivors!.
In your duties as a Harbinger, you delivered missives of lost battles that marked the end of nations to kings that would be killed in palace coups, and led expeditions full of hope and pride into terrible disasters, walking away untouched from piles of corpses.
Sailing! Shipwrecking! Leading expeditions into the sunless North without expectations of survivors!.
- Location
- Singapore
[X] Secrets
In this age and many others like it, knowledge is the difference between keeping power and losing it. More is being forgotten everyday, so choosing who remembers and who forgets is vital for Creation. And whatever Kejak wants remembered is probably worth making others forget about. There's no one better for that then the most secretive people in Heaven.
In this age and many others like it, knowledge is the difference between keeping power and losing it. More is being forgotten everyday, so choosing who remembers and who forgets is vital for Creation. And whatever Kejak wants remembered is probably worth making others forget about. There's no one better for that then the most secretive people in Heaven.
Serace Lindorm
Vtuber
- Location
- The bottom of the river
- Pronouns
- She/Her
[x] Journeys
- Location
- A nondescript grave
[X] Secrets
- Location
- Nova Scotia
- Pronouns
- She/Her
[X] Journeys.
mothematics
How wide is the concept of "you"?
- Location
- the bottom of a coffee cup
- Pronouns
- She/Her
[X] Journeys
[X] Journeys.
- Location
- Nova Scotia
- Pronouns
- She/Her
Harbingers have always been my favourite, they have a lot of fun themes, a lot of fun powers, and I like out of Division mentor relationships, sometimes. Full charms in particular are kind of hilarious.
- Location
- Chicago
[X] Journeys.
Looks very promising.
Looks very promising.
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] Secrets
You need to fix that bracket for your vote to be counted.
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- Location
- Portugal
I like this persuasive depiction of Kejak, and how the narration itself tangles in double-speak with the descriptions of the fabrics.
[X] Journeys.
In archetype, probably my favorite Sidereal caste, and the Constellations of Journeys picked to inform the protagonist's skills sound pretty interesting to go with the worn, semi-retired veteran vibe.
[X] Journeys.
In archetype, probably my favorite Sidereal caste, and the Constellations of Journeys picked to inform the protagonist's skills sound pretty interesting to go with the worn, semi-retired veteran vibe.
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Kaboomatic
Where the Wild Things Are
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] Secrets
I know what I like.
I know what I like.
Leingod
Immaculate Blooming Lotus
Especially since, at least in 3e, the Sidereal Resistance Charms have one of their running themes as basically "throw out everything that makes you an actual person to make you better at doing your job." The capstone is basically you burning away your entire identity, to the point that even other Sidereals forget everything you, just to get a job done. Feels like the two outcomes to investing heavily in that tree is either burning out, or becoming a workaholic automaton with no life outside of duty.
- Location
- Nova Scotia
- Pronouns
- She/Her
I don't think that's really accurate -- the kind of Journeys charms you're taking about aren't about changing yourself into a workaholic husk, they're about the part of Mercury's worldview where like, sometimes you need to get serious and get the job done. Even One-Direction Invocation, that prayer strip charm you're talking about, ends and lets you go back to normal if you complete the quest you empower with it. Most of them aren't nearly that harsh, either. Consider the Journeys maiden charms, and how they interact with this kind of thing, philosophically.
