New Conspiracy Theory: That's No Moon, It's a Black Hole.
Ah, an optimistic title, I'm sure that everything is going to be fine. Spoilers, everything is not going to be fine.
As always, a blue horizon. The deep blue horizon of a mist-shrouded morning, the sky a callous gradient from black to bruise-blue, birdsong and a distant rumbling the only interruptions to the thick silence of this hour, a quiet thicker than the all-pervasive fog. A quiet like iron smog settling in the lungs. Even the detritus of the Inners is oppressive.
RIhaku's description of the skies always prick my paranoia. I can't tell how much of it is supposed to reflect the characters' viewpoints, and how much the sun is actually unwarm and causing the sky to appear bruised. It makes sense that torturing the moon is bad environmental policy, but I can't think of a way for iron smog to help us in the upcoming fight.
He shook his head, blinking away his father's resentments. The contamination was worsening. For six hundred and seventy-six days, Vanreir had awoken at exactly this time to attend to his daily duties. He grabbed pail and cloth and began to scrub.
Ah, mental contamination, our old friend. I'm glad that we didn't take another hit of it if memory leakage, rather than 'just' personality change, is likely. Which is kind of an odd thing to say, the former is worse, but the latter is more ominous. He makes a distinction between his thoughts and his fathers', potentially a line of diplomacy if we can figure that out.
What can we learn from his name? Absolutely nothing, "Vanreir" brings this page up as the second result on Google, Rihaku made it up. Cool, but unhelpful for murder.
Another interesting tech level bit. The farmers using mules is one thing, but a former noble with a high military position is washing with a bucket? As other people have said, what kind of shitty Omelas is this, at least make the torture worth something, you don't even have good plumbing.
I tried to find significance in the number 676, but apparently "angel numbers" are a thing and all numbers have meaning. The meanings apply, but in a horoscope way that they always would. More important is that he is a man of habit, which is unfortunate because he habitually kills people like us.
There were those for whom duty was a prison and habit its cage, but he considered both more as scaffolding, the bedrock structure on which a life could be built. Meticulously he cleaned his room, the light of his soul kept coiled and inert, and moved steadily onto his sister's.
Convincing him to be "free of his duty" is absolutely the wrong line to take, then. We'll have to find other duties for him to build his life on, such as the one to his family, if we want to convince him to not follow through on his duty to kill us.
Waking up and cleaning the house is an odd habit, no offense to anyone who does. I'd expect cleaning yourself to take precedence, but maybe he's the kind of person who bathes at night. An expression of selflessness?
Scaffolding is definitely not bedrock, do not put heavy things on it. Scaffolding/duty is a tool with which to build a life on bedrock/family? I think this is just a mixed metaphor rather than a psychological weakness. Here's hoping he does have a weak foundation, though. If we convince him that he's mixed his ends with the means, he might not kill us.
"Mm..." Erii was sleeping still, wrapped protectively around her plush pillow, and he maneuvered around her with quick, efficient movements, wiping down the weathered wood of the floors and carefully organizing her toys and knick-knacks.
"Brother?" She murmured groggily, slowly sitting up. She was growing more alert, even as his own body continued its slow decay. One day they would meet in the middle, and then irreversibly diverge. But not today.
Oh no, he has a cute sister, how can we fight him? It looks like he's sacrificing his life energy to her, and will give the rest to her at equilibrium and die. I wonder what affliction she suffers from. That makes the hostage idea that I unsupported... very likely to work. Damage her, he heals her at cost of his own health. It's still too mean.
Speaking of cruelty, that his body is slowly decaying is the kind of thing I like to hear! I'd like to push that along if possible. Bloodmight might work, but blood debuffing should be a default tactic and I'm not sure how clever we can get. Debuffing the bloodline, the now-unneeded suggestion against Fairbright, might work. Especially at the end of the day, but that vote's done for.
"Hush, small one. Go back to sleep." He smiled and placed a hand on her head. Today, he could still keep her safe.
"M'kay. Love you." She nuzzled his hand affectionately before settling down to sleep.
My heart. Quoted for cuteness, no further comment.
It is all on your shoulders now, my son. Everything I am, I leave to you. Let my soul be your guide. Let your soul be my tomb. And let this be enough, to awaken that which was promised. Please... let it be enough.
Finished with his task, he walked past the now-empty master bedroom and towards the water closet. Their home was presentable, time to work on himself. A simple, linear routine was best. Fluctuation was the predecessor to instability.
There's that contamination. So, metaphorical picture of these souls... a guide, inside a tomb. I'll save overthinking metaphors until I have more of them, might be a weak spot. And who made this promise? It seems they kept it.
And we can make a weak spot by... fluctuating the hell out of him. I don't know what that means practically. Combat is chaos, at least for people who aren't the thrustinator, so I doubt anything violent we can do will shake him.
He puts his home before himself, I didn't realize that was there explicitly when I made that comment. That's obvious, but my confusion remains at how... linearly that applies. He puts his home first, therefore he cleans his home before himself. There's no shades of grey to this guy. We can use this, if he demonstrates a priority in combat, he might apply that even when a more bendy thinker would find it inappropriate. I guess that would mean that he thrusts before defending, though, which isn't really a weakness if we're not good enough to exploit it.
In the distance, the Star-forges of the Inner Ring began their spinup, ceaseless clanging like a bell endlessly rung. They would not stop until well after the sun went down. Were the Inner Residents inured to the clamor, or did some miraculous artifice render them immune?
One day, they would know the answer. One day, they would live Inside as well. Soon, if he proved himself. If he made just one more step forward. They were such wondrous rumors of the Land Inside, and yet the veil of secrecy was profound, so much so that even an Outrider of his exalted rank didn't warrant concrete details. Of all the scattered peoples who'd come together around the Ring, his House had had the most precipitous fall. Once a legend, now a cautionary tale. His father had lived Inside, but Vanreir had never seen past the cerulean shell that marked the Inner Perimeter, and by the time of his birth his father had been unable to speak of matters beyond the sword and his legacy. Nonetheless, he didn't resent those who'd engineered their fall. Why wallow in bitterness, when one could move forward instead? He would dispatch them, like any other opponent, when the time came. One policy for all enemies was simplest.
Is that ceaseless clanging what Hunger perceives as constant screaming? I'm more curious, though, about why the Star-forges only start their work during the day. I'd expect the opposite, if anything, but I suppose the moon is weaker when the sun is out. Still, they keep working past sunset, so maybe it's not a celestial thing and just cooldown time. It's not at all strange for a forge to be named after a star, full of heat and pressure, but moon/sun dichotomy is all over the place everywhere but the magical significance is always hinted rather than significant. Plus, Rihaku always sets the mood by describing the sky, even in this update, so half the time I'm overthinking it.
The Inner Residents clearly relish the sound, because they're dickbags. Source: Me. I can't say more, because I know absolutely nothing, and Vanreir is equally ignorant. I wonder how much of the
can't in his father's reticence is literal, I suspect he was magically bound to silence, profound secrecy indeed. Particularly since all that was his is no Vanreir's, surely some memory more revelatory than "detritus" would have slipped through otherwise.
Noble politics led to the house's downfall, I am surprisingly uninterested. I'd care more if I met a nice Inner Resident, I bet. Well, that's not true, I care because he has a grudge against his house's rivals, we can use that. Wouldn't it be convenient if those guys were the ones in charge of being mean to the ring? We don't have evidence to the contrary, so why not team up?
There's a gathered ring (of people) around the false moon, who have no information from the inside. There is an... accretion... disk... around a... celestial object... from which no information escapes. The false moon is a black hole? It would be appropriate that we not escape, let's hope that doesn't come to pass. Also the "cerulean shell" makes me think dyson sphere, as was suggested.
There's that indiscriminate application of... policy, again.
His sigil hummed, and Vanreir suppressed a frown. The coordinators were well aware of how the light of his soul operated. They knew he was not to be bothered in the morning, regardless of the urgency of the task. An even, regular routine was necessary to stabilize the power within; for all the sharpness of his light, it could only ever move in one direction. He did not consider such a fault. That which was linear, was also stable. That which was simple, was also strong.
Oh, the sigils can be used as communication devices. Rather, we knew that, but not that they were basically phones. We could call them up for a chat if we survive, no need to get close and stabbed again.
Straight man is grumpy at an interrupted routine. I sympathize, you don't have to have powers to like predictability. A policy of no interruption even for the most urgent tasks seems odd, though, and it looks like his superiors don't share his feelings. I think this is an application of his inflexibility again, but it's not like he can't respond reasonably, it just hurts him to.
In the sense that fluctuations cause instability, as he said earlier. Fights are all about disrupting stability. How does he square that circle... by force again, dammit, we're not strong enough to shake up the stab routine. Maybe diplomacy might weaken him, though, if he's willing to consider it. Or leaning on the odd connection we have, even in a fight, to make this something other than routine.
I agree that simplicity is strength. I do not agree that linear is stable, but it wouldn't have struck me as odd if not for the earlier equation of scaffolding with bedrock. His conception of stability is itself unstable, and that which will not bend will break. Hell yeah, I wrote a cool line, now to turn it into violence. We can... cut the thrust, because long lines can be broken at any point. That might actually be it, and for bonus points we'd literally be coming at him from a different direction. Problem is that his thrust is said to be uninterruptible, and "cut through even if it cannot be cut" is garbage advice imo, but maybe we can break his blade even if the damage only takes place after the completion of the thrust.
"First Blade," the sigil spoke, and he recognized the cadence of Chief Coordinator Thran, whose normally-jovial disposition was utterly absent now.
"How can I help?" He said. As he spoke he continued to move, shaving cream applied to the throat with circular whisks of his horsehair brush.
"There's been a major incursion. Your services are requested."
"Is it the Brutes again? I thought Gondar had dealt with them."
"No. The Fairbright."
The Brutes are dead? How can that be, they were so Amiable. Luckily Fairbright is still alive, maybe we can be fr- no, I already read the rest of the update, everything is terrible.
I have nothing to connect to this Thran, so let's file that away for later.
I'm trying to make some kinda gotcha moment with him moving in circles while shaving, but it's not like this guy is that much of a caricature.
This guy moves even while talking and shaving, so diplomacy might have to be of the facepunch style despite our desires.
Shocked as he was, his movements did not stop. Fluidly, effortlessly he drew the razor over skin, allowing himself to enjoy the satisfying schlick of the blade as it scooped cream and hair from skin. There, all done. Faultless and bloodless as always. His hands had never been so steady before his father's death.
He flicked away the last daub of shaving debris and slapped a hand across his cheeks, examining his reflection coolly. Eyes of storm blue. Hair of storm grey. His body's discorporation had not yet become apparent, his secret unrevealed. Time enough for two souls to do what one could not. Give us just one year more. One year, and Erii would be safe.
Absolute commitment, even to shaving. What an exhausting way to live. I want to make those hands shake again, but killing the father's soul was already on the to-do list if possible.
What's Hunger's coloration, I want to do a conspiracy theory about them being alternate dimensional versions of the same person. Bah, I can't find it, and Microwave's pictures are amazing to look at but I don't think she knows either. Yellow really works for Hunger, though.
If there's a deal to restore your status after one year of service, I'm sorry, dude, I don't trust these guys to hold up their end. Maybe they think you're gonna die first.
I already made a post on the "body's discorporation" bit, but I do think we, or at least someone, can break these guys apart somehow.
"The Fairbright," he finally said, voice level. "Her stay of execution's been lifted?"
"The Inners decided they want no part of her. Make it clean, First Blade. The stain on your House has almost been lifted."
His eyes widened slightly. "Faster than I'd expected. It hasn't even been two years. Will this be the last, then?"
"No. But we've detected two other R-types in the region. Bag them both and the Tribunal has agreed to review your case."
"Don't give me false hope, Coordinator."
"Experience has shown your abilities to be anything but false, Sir Amarlt. Keep this up and you'll be Lord Amarlt by day's end. Your grandfather would be pleased."
"And my father," he said.
The Coordinator coughed uncomfortably. "Er, yes. And... him. Good hunting, First Blade."
Interesting that Fairbright was deliberately kept alive, I guess she had some friends on the inside at some point before she exhausted their patience. How dare she try to be good, doesn't she know that we're all about the torture here?
Wait, I take it back, I'm now interested in what the reason for the exile was. And there's no fucking way they expect he'll survive, we can hammer this point in for diplomacy if Hunger somehow learns it IC. At the end of the day, Vanreir would be worn down for Hunger; how much more so after fighting Fairbright, him, and #1? Enough for otherwise hesitant Inners to stomp him, I'd bet.
Your abilities aren't false, but I think your hope is.
On another note, how the snail do you pronounce "Amarlt." The "rlt" sounds like I'm swallowing exaggeratedly.
Unfortunate. He was far from peak condition, with his morning routine interrupted so. Still, this calibre of enemy did not demand his utmost. A junior Fairbright, her power barely tested. Mighty as their bloodline was, it could not compare to the light of his soul, much less his father's.
Oh, it's anything but unfortunate for the people who are setting you up. Open your eyes to the sabotage, bruh, they want you dead. You know who doesn't want you dead? Lord Hunger! Sign up now and increase the population of the Independent Autocracy of Hungertopia to 4!
I can't believe she just died, what a letdown. More confirmation that his father is the stronger and less stable soul, we gotta exorcise him if we fight.
Seven decades had Justinan Amarlt trained to erase the disgrace of his youth. He'd never succeeded, but Vanreir was his legacy in form and in truth, the sword of their composite soul unfurling in perfect unity. Justinan the Blade. Vanreir the Unerring. They were hilt and tang, bullet and blasting-cap: helpless apart, but together unstoppable. Artificial as it was, they were the Unerring Blade returned, the Amarlt inheritance resurgent at last. As had been promised, if the successors were true and the hour was dire. Look through the cycle, and where I am needed, there you will find me.
At this point the secrecy is just teasing me, apparently that's how you get me to care. That's a long time to erase a disgrace, though it's interesting that Vanreir calls it such, since he mentioned rival scheming was part of the exile. Maybe it was both.
Here are my metaphors. Justinian, guide and tang? and bullet, Vanreir, tomb and hilt? and blasting-cap. I think. Blasting-cap is particularly interesting, being a small explosive that ignites a larger one. If we can... get in the middle, metaphorically, yeah. Our cursed wounds should preferably target that area of the soul, not that I have any reason to believe we can actually do that. The hilt and tang might be reversed, I would have expected the hilt with the guide, but the Blade is the tang if we just go by order. Tomb. The Thrust is death. Justinian Thrusts to his death, in the tomb. Hunger gets thrust into, and cuts through. All the metaphors point to this scenario, but that doesn't mean we
win that situation.
Why, exactly, is the hour dire for these guys? They're not in a great situation, but I'd hardly call it dire. What cycle? Bah.
Sometimes he wished that their forebear's standards had not been quite so high. Sometimes he thought that his father's life had been too high a price to pay, simply prove the sincerity of their cause. But he cast such thoughts quickly out of mind. Sincerity was simple, that did not mean it was easy. For a disgraced line, even this minute Return was grace undeserved. His father had bent everything to their restoration. Some would say he had gone too far. They would never understand the nature of a Blade. This, son, is the essence of our Thrust...
Ah, 4bear again. Possibly the same one. I hadn't been putting enough attention on the implications of this not being Hunger's first isekai aside from character effects, but it is a method of interdimensional travel that the Forebear might have had access too. He might be influential in many unexpected places.
The nature of a Blade, huh. But you're not a blade, Mr. Blade, you're a dude. Or at least you were, before whatever you did. Lots of this philosophy rubs me wrong, but I do like the understanding that simplicity is not ease, and sincerity is cool.
Lightly he took his sword from its rack and stepped out the door. Dawn's first rays graced the horizon, the gold commingling with the blue. He spun his blade gently, crystal-steel trapping and refracting the light, sunbeams shattered into a dizzying spray. They painted the cobblestones and the world-worn walls of the Middle District and slipped futilely off the Inner Perimeter just beyond, its matte-blue opacity obdurate and unchanging.
Fffffuck the sun and the moon and the stars, you never give me any answers, just paranoia. It's worse here, if Gabrielle Fairbright is supposed to be equated with the sunbeams shattered on Vanreir's sword. Sunlight and sunblood paints the cobblestones?
More black hole shit, light does not affect it.
Erii would be behind that sturdiest of walls soon enough. She was able, empathic and wise, already skilled in political maneuver. One day, she would ensure that House Amarlt could stand on its own legs once more, without the First Sword of the Outriders looming over its foes. On that day he would relinquish his father and join her for whatever years he had remaining. Until that day, there was only one thing that he could do.
Huh, I wouldn't have expected Erii to be good at politics. Maybe she's less sick than I thought, or maybe she's just a prodigy, 'cause wise is an unexpected word for... ah, I also assumed her age, but that was based on her having toys, a messy room, and her sleepy response. Hardly conclusive, most people are cute when they just wake up.
Anyway, she's also pretty awesome, so says her brother. And I definitely see why this guy is ill-suited for politics, he'd be terrible. Also he'd be dead, I was gonna say, but apparently he has more time than his dad does.
They should spend it behind our walls, instead! Not that we have walls. Or any authority to offer, even if we can ask forgiveness from Zee, later. Eh.
Gabrielle Fairbright fell without incident. The blood of ten thousand heroes sang in her veins, choirs of the Astral had descended to shield her, her blade of legend had blazed like a second sun, plain become glass before its incandescence; and yet none of that had saved her from the ordinary thrust of his blade, which with unerring force struck true. That was his pride and culmination, the sole point and purpose of his existence, for which his father had given his life and his mother had died in despair. Strike a thousand times, or make one strike that tells.
Damn. That is a lot of heroes. I'm surprised Astral beings can reach into the temple, but it's probably easier if they're summoned. Wonder what happened to the blade, he probably took it.
Obnoxious Ontological Occurences offend. We can't make one strike that tells, so we have to strike him a thousand times. Bladespam ftw.
That single strike his father had practiced day-in and day-out, practiced until his tendons wore down and his joints melted away, until his blood became dust and his bones became kindling, until the killing blow was nothing less than a way of life, and the conclusion of its stroke indistinguishable from life's ending.
I fear the man who has practices one strike ten thousand times, I suppose. I have no idea how this makes sense, but Soul Evocation and other magic nonsense can explain anything. The sheer meme power of this guy is terrifying, I can't come up with any tactic that can't be countered by "pierce though lol".
I do want to make the conclusion of a thrust the same as Justinian's death, though, in an exact-words prophecy kinda way.
Pierce through. Even if it cannot be pierced.
That doesn't actually make sen- *is pierced*
Panting, he leaned atop the blade like an old man with a cane, eyes roaming his body to assess the damage. His right arm was burned, his left arm a seared ruin, one eye gone, the lung on his left side unresponsive. A small price to pay to see a Fairbright downed. Though his body was a ruin, the light of his soul hummed merrily, eager and undiminished, its appetite whetted but far from sated. It was the nature of a thrust to go too far, to over-penetrate. That was how you made certain of the kill.
On to the next.
He has an eye gone, yet he has two eyes with which to check himself out? Probably just a typo, I saw the same thing with Hunger vs. the pirates. But I don't think it was ever explicitly said that this guy was human, so maybe not. Given the ontological similarity, which is scary and weird, at this point we should just kill ourself so he dies, probably he is?
I can't tell if he's saying that his injuries are a small price because Fairbrights are dangerous, which they are, or because they're one of the houses he's salty about.
The similarity to "A Hunger, Sated" is unnerving, even if his comes from soulstuff rather than a curse.
We can almost certainly take advantage of the overpenetration even if he's aware of it, and my mind again comes back to getting pierced and then cutting.
Jesus Christ, this guy is scary. So much that I wrote
2635 words of Reaction/Tactics
