Earth Bet: House of the Sun (Cultist Simulator/Worm)

Winning Vote:
[X] Plan Summon Spamming While Edge Nabbing
-[X] You are injured (You currently have one wound. You'll make three rolls at +20 against a DC of 70. You must select one of the below)
--[X] Rest and recover (Cost zero actions, roll three recovery dice. +20/+20/+20)d
---[X] Your body will heal on its own terms (Costs nothing)
-[X] On work and the people you preach to.
--[X] There's been a problem, one that requires time off (Gain three extra actions, a few people may notice.)
-[X] On learning the Lores
--[X] Lady Mylissa is willing to teach, request a lesson
---[X] What lore? (Edge) X2
-[X] Cast a Ritual
--[X] What ritual are you casting? (AotL, Knock)
--[X] Summon a Sun Spark X2
-[X] On Charlotte, and her aid (These are actions exclusive to Charlotte)
--[X] Summon a Dappled Wing[Charlotte]
-[X] On Good Baldomerian and her brilliance (These are actions exclusive to Baldomerian)
--[X] Also Summon a Dappled Wing
-[X] On Sun Sparks and their leadership (These are actions exclusive to Sun Sparks)
--[X] Work over the checkbooks, squeeze a bit more money from them
-[X] On matters outside the cult.
--[X] Talk to Baldomerian about the letter your other self? gave you
-[X] On helping and teaching Ashley
--[X] Continue to help Ashley control her powers
-[X] Something else?
--[X] Lead an expedition (The Boston Library)

---

Tension coiled within you, subtle but insistent, a persistent weight that had settled at the back of your mind since you entered Lady Mylissa's manor. There was no tangible reason for it, no immediate threat or cause for alarm.

You were here for a simple purpose—to learn more about Edge, and Lady Mylissa was always ready to offer her guidance. Yet, despite the familiar surroundings, a strange unease tugged at your nerves.

You hadn't even seen her yet, but the tension remained, a knot tightening just beneath your skin.

You exhaled softly, forcing a smile onto your lips, and rolled your shoulders in an attempt to dispel the nervous energy. Your limbs felt taut, your muscles stiff. A moment of focus and control, you reminded yourself, was all you needed.

With measured steps, you strode into the conservatory, your gaze immediately falling upon Lady Mylissa. She stood in elegant repose, her attention drawn to a small, delicate bee that had just landed on her outstretched finger.

"Ah, Emir," she said in that familiar, lilting tone, a hand resting gracefully behind her back as she turned to face you. The bee, undisturbed by her movement, lingered a moment longer before buzzing away, its wings fluttering past your ear. You flinched, the sound sharp in your mind, and for a fleeting moment, that tension spiked again.

Still, you smiled. "Lady Mylissa," you began, your voice steady despite the undercurrent of unease. "Would you mind teaching me about Edge?"

Her eyes—sharp, perceptive—scanned you, a faint smile touching her lips. It was the same kindly smile she so often wore, yet today, there was something different about it. Something that only heightened your tension, as if she could sense the restlessness in your posture and enjoyed it.

"Of course," she replied, her voice smooth as silk. She turned, her back straight as she strode from the conservatory without another glance your way. "Please, follow me."

There was nothing for it but to follow, her invitation more a command than a request. The sound of her footsteps echoed lightly through the hallways as you trailed behind, winding deeper into the manor's labyrinthine corridors. The air seemed to thicken as you walked, the quiet of the manor settling over you like a shroud.

Eventually, you arrived in a large, open chamber. The room felt isolated, untouched by time. Weapons of all shapes and sizes adorned the walls, gleaming in the soft light that filtered in from high windows. The floor was scuffed, worn from years of use, yet the space bore no sign of neglect. Not a single speck of dust marred its pristine condition.

"It has been some time since I last wielded a weapon," Lady Mylissa mused, her gaze drifting over the armaments as she approached the wall. With a slow, deliberate movement, she lifted a blade—a longsword, to your eyes—though in her hands, it appeared more akin to a short sword. The steel shimmered faintly, catching the light as she turned it in her grasp.

"What weapon would you prefer?" she asked, her eyes locking on yours as she gestured to the array of blades before you.

You stepped forward, scanning the weapons with a thoughtful hum. Swords of every variety lined the walls, though there were a few heavier weapons—maces, mauls—tucked among them. Still, it was a blade you needed, especially if this lesson would proceed as you expected.

Your fingers settled around the hilt of a short sword, a squat, flat weapon that rested comfortably in your grip. You hadn't trained with this specific blade, but the feel of it in your hand spoke to you.

Lady Mylissa nodded approvingly, stepping to the center of the hall. "Now, take your position across from me."

You complied, your heart beating a little faster as you mirrored her stance, raising your blade to match hers. The faint ringing in your ears was the only sound that accompanied the sudden tightening of your grip, as anticipation coiled in your chest. Her posture was perfect, effortless, in contrast to your talented but still sloppy stance.

"This will go to first blood," she announced, and without another word, the duel began.

The clash of steel rang in your ears, louder than it had any right to be. Lady Mylissa's blade collided with yours, sending a jarring shock up your arm. She pressed forward, her strikes precise and unrelenting, forcing you to retreat.

Your heart raced, the weight of each blow threatening to overwhelm you. Her reach was superior, her strength monstrous, and each time your blades met, it felt as though the ground beneath your feet shifted.

"There was once a method," she began, her voice steady even as her blade sang against yours. The words slipped into your mind like a lesson mid-combat, leaving you scrambling to focus on both the fight and her explanation. "A way to challenge another to single combat, to claim recognition through blood."

You ducked, narrowly avoiding a swipe aimed for your head. The force of her strike cut through the air, a whisper of danger just above you.

"It was called Musvashir," she continued, unphased by your attempt to gain ground. "A rite watched over by all three Hours of combat, binding victor and vanquished alike."

You lunged, trying to catch her off guard, but her sword parried yours effortlessly, nearly disarming you in the process. The sheer weight of her counterattack forced you to backpedal again, your feet skidding across the worn floor as her blade crashed into the ground where you had just stood.

"But even Musvashir was built upon something older," she said, her movements fluid, unstoppable. You managed to parry her next strike, but the force behind it was overwhelming. Your arms trembled, your grip slipping as the blade in your hand began to warp under the pressure. "An ancient law. One older than cities, older than civilization."

Her blade slammed against yours once more, and this time, you couldn't hold it. The impact drove you to your knees, your weapon knocked from your grasp. You gasped, your chest heaving as you looked up at her, your heart thundering in your ears.

"Kill or be killed. Winner take all," she said, her voice low, the finality of her words settling over you like a cold wind.

Before you could react, you felt the cool touch of her blade against your throat. A single drop of blood trickled down your neck, and you let out a resigned sigh. You had lost.

"And I am the victor," she declared, her voice carrying the weight of centuries. The tension in your body peaked as you knelt before her.

Then, her tone shifted. She withdrew her blade, offering you her hand with a faint, knowing smile. "Come, spend the day with me."

Despite her polite words, you knew this was no mere invitation. It was the victor's demand, and you were the spoils. You took her hand, rising with a forced smile, the ringing in your ears still echoing. Clearing your mind, you mentally erased the rest of your day's plans.

You would be spending it with Lady Mylissa, paying the price for the lesson you had learned. To the victor, after all, went the spoils.

You know of old laws, not ones ordained by anything proper but simple laws that one would be hard pressed to observe anymore. Gain 2 scraps of Edge Lore.

Edge Lore is now Level 3.

You feel a scraping. An interlude is to follow.

The scent was faint at first. Barely perceptible—something on the edge of recognition. A trace of metal, of oil, of something just slightly off-kilter in the spring air. You paused mid-swing, letting the weight of the blade drag slightly as you lowered it. You weren't sure if the smell clung to the sword or if it was something rising from the churned soil beneath your feet.

Perhaps it had to do with the blade itself.

You had bought it recently. A little impulsive, a little irrational. But after the spar with Lady Mylissa, with her amused smile and effortless grace, with her blade that rang in your ears long after the duel had ended… the idea of training hadn't seemed so absurd. Not anymore. Your hand still trembled from the memory. Not out of fear, no—fear had faded. It was something closer to awe. Reverence, maybe. The sort of sensation that made you want to be better.

To earn your place on the opposite side of the blade.

So here you were, behind the church that served as your home, your hands wrapped tightly around a sword you barely knew how to use, swinging it back and forth in slow, precise motions.

Your arms were slick with sweat, your brow damp, your breathing rhythmic and steady. The blade wasn't remarkable—steel, forged in some factory, most likely—but it felt right in your hands. Not like a stranger. Like something you'd known once, long ago, and only just remembered.

You'd taken to tending it. Polishing, oiling, balancing. You followed what the internet suggested, sure, but more than that, you followed instinct. Some quiet whispering inside that told you when to stop and when to continue. You suspected you were doing several things wrong—but the blade didn't seem to mind. It responded. It danced with you, even if you stumbled often in the steps.

You exhaled and wiped your brow, letting the sword rest for a moment as you paced the narrow yard. You weren't sure why you were out here. Not really. You didn't fight. You didn't like to fight. Fighting brought headaches, stress, ringing ears, a tension behind the eyes that took hours to dissipate. It made you want to lie down somewhere quiet and forget the world existed.

But still—something had called to you.

You'd followed a vague, gnawing impulse into that antique shop, your steps light but your heart heavy with purpose you didn't yet understand. And days later, you were here. Swinging the blade. Following forms that had no name, ones pulled from half-remembered dreams or some knowledge buried far too deep. The knowledge of Edge, you told yourself. It explained a lot. It had to. You were no swordsman, no duelist, no killer.

And yet…

You stopped. Ran a hand through your hair. The sword rested against your shoulder. The breeze shifted, bringing with it a fresh note of spring—budding leaves, damp earth, blooming flowers. It should have been peaceful. But instead, the scent made your stomach twist.

Why did spring make you feel nauseous?

You didn't have an answer. Only more questions. But your fingers itched. Your hand reached for the blade before your mind could catch up. You lifted it again, slowly, reverently, and studied the way the light played across the metal.

It reflected your eyes back at you. Brown with a hint of gold. Nothing special. But there was something in them today, some lurking sharpness—like you'd looked in the mirror and found someone you weren't expecting. Someone coiled tight, ready to strike.

You raised the blade again. Let your body fall into motion. A slow swing. Another. Steps forward, backward, to the side. Movements dictated by something deeper than memory. Your stance was solid, your form near-flawless. You looked like a fighter. But it was hollow.

There was no resistance. No tension. No one pushing back.

There should be someone across from you. A partner. A rival. An opponent. The thought came unbidden, but once there, it refused to leave.

Every swing felt empty. The rhythm of the blade against the air was like tapping a song out alone, with no chorus to respond. The silence between each cut grated on you. Each move felt like acting out a play without another performer.

You lowered the blade. It trembled faintly in your grip.

Why should there be someone across from you?

And why did the spring air make your chest tighten and your stomach churn?

You didn't know.

And still—you couldn't stop. You picked the blade back up and pressed on. You moved through the forms, trying to outrun your own thoughts. But the movements brought no peace, and your thoughts circled like vultures overhead, waiting to land.

You made a mistake. Just a small one.

The edge of the blade nicked your finger—nothing deep, nothing serious. But the sting lit up your nerves. A single drop of blood welled and slipped from your fingertip, falling to the grass below.

And then—

Your ears rang. That old sound again, that unholy screech behind your skull. The copper scent of blood drowned out the spring breeze. And for the briefest moment—so fleeting you nearly missed it—someone stood across from you.

Someone real.

Your blade responded instantly, muscle and instinct taking over. You struck. A clean, elegant cut through empty air.

And yet, something moved in tandem. A presence. A phantom blade cutting the space between you. The scent of blood thickened. The spring air vanished. You could almost hear the footfalls, the breath, the clash of steel. You closed your eyes and felt her there—felt the dance of motion and resistance, of strike and parry.

And for the first time in days, your heart sang. The ache dulled. The world narrowed to a single moment of clarity.

Your foot caught. You stumbled. The illusion shattered.

Your blade hit the earth with a dull, echoing thud, sending a small shock up your arms. Dirt scattered, striking your face in clods. You gasped, blinking rapidly as you returned to yourself.

The phantom was gone.

But now, you understood.

That was what you were missing.

That was what this blade—your hands, your blood, your aching emptiness—had been searching for.

A worthy opponent.

And now, finally, you know the first step toward finding one.

You have reached the third intensity of Edge and had a realization.

There is an old challenge, an old calling that you now understand. You can force a single enemy to engage you in single combat. There are ways around it, but only the exceptional or greatly skilled in Edge can reliably refuse your challenge. Even then, honor may drive them to accept.

In addition you are more honed, with sharper edges and an intensity to your gaze that even mundane civilians can notice.