Tales of the World and of the City
Fifteenth Day of the Tenth Month 293 AC
Over the years you have faced no small number of challenges—those that could be overcome with words no less than those where swords spoke, and as your companions could attest you certainly not shy about giving speeches—but a request to recount 'the history of everything' with no context as to what the one asking already knows is still daunting. Still, you are willing to try if it will answer your own questions and perhaps gain you a guide through the ruins.
At first you spin an illusory map, though less akin to one of cloth or parchment and more like the world itself seen from on high, the mountains soar and the rivers flow, plains and forests sway in unseen winds, yet the watcher seems more confused than impressed.
It takes Xor only a moment to realize why: "Show him something closer, as one might see the world from the top of a tree or a high cliff."
It seems you have had wings for so long that you had forgotten others might not have the perspective to see the world the same way, and you doubt many intact maps had survived among the ruins of the city, not unless the old flesh-smiths had been as forethoughtful as the inhabitants of Set'Var.
Thankfully your unexpected guest proves sharp of wit indeed. As soon as you shift the perspective, closer then slowly drawn back, he nods in understanding, though looking a touch daunted by the scale of the sea. "Poisoned Water," he hisses, startling you a moment with the phrase the Dothraki so often use for the oceans. You try to imagine any circumstance in which a Dothraki would end up here and live long enough to influence the local turn of speech.
Sometimes a coincidence is just a coincidence, you conclude, carrying on with your explanation.
Thus you speak of the return of magic of which he seems to know too well, for though more memories of magic have lingered in Gogossos than in other realms here too the tide has risen and elder powers come to light. Then you speak of the Targaryens from the Conquerer onward, how they had survived the Doom and thrived in a new land, yet you do not shy away from speaking of their failings, the weak, the blind... the mad. You suspect a being so swift to check truth from falsehood by magic would appreciate an unvarnished tale, and even if that were not so the notion of hiding your father's sins sits ill with you. He deserves no less than to live on in infamy for his crimes.
"I am Shadow Grasper," the watcher introduces himself abruptly, once your tale had at last reached its end. The name fits him as much as it fits the hour, for twilight reaches out across the sky with fingers of mist. "You have fulfilled your bargain, so now I will fulfill mine, but not here. The Unfinished will be abroad soon..."
"The Half-Born?" Xor asks curiously before you can.
And so you discover that there are three distinct sorts of beings abroad among the ruins. First are the Neverborn, beasts of the jungle untouched by the forge's magics, the True Born, those who breed true and possess at least some loyalty to their own kind, if not necessarily an inclination to be peaceful to others, and the Half-Born, mad gibbering horrors with terrible bestial strength, or worse yet those who are able to veil their madness for a time through sorcery to infiltrate and devour.
Though Xor is obviously troubled by such a peril being common on the ruined streets of Gogossos, his curiosity is undimmed: "They hunger for flesh?"
"For flesh and magic," Shadow Grasper explains. "They never feast upon the Neverborn but instead upon we who are True Born and upon each other, though the last only as a last resort. The madness passes on in the blood."
"Tell us more of the other... True Born," Malarys asks, less from curiosity and more from the preference to interact with societies, however crude and strange, rather than wander in the wilds.
Thus you discover that Shadow Grasper is a member of a tribe known either as 'Ledge Runners' or 'Branch Runners' since they do not make a distinction between perches of stone and wood, that the beings you had captured are thankfully not allies of his tribe and rarely trusted enough to trade. As far as he is able to tell you the meat nest was nothing more than an altar and a mark for the territory of some new tribe, though he is as bemused as you upon hearing of how it tore itself apart.
Beyond those inhabitants you hear of
foul-tempered vulture-men that dwell in the highest towers of what had once been the city's slave barracks, gathering the bones of the ancient dead for grotesque feasts of carrion. They even seem to prefer the bones of those previously cursed with unlife, though only their chieftains have the courage to indulge in such perilous meals outside of feasts, earning them the title 'Ghost Eaters' and it is said fearsome magics besides, though Shadow Grasper is quick to point out that he has never been mad enough to try to fight one of them to see if the tales are true or false.
Lastly the old Ghiscari quarter holds those Shadow Grasper knows only as 'the Pale Ones.' Weak of arm but strong in numbers, they are known for swarming over their foes in a tide of flesh and rage that can topple even the great painted-lizards of the jungle.
What do you do next?
[] Ask more questions
-[] Write in
[] Continue exploring
-[] Write in
[] Write in
OOC: This took way longer to get right than I anticipated it would. I'm not really used to Xor in an adventuring context these days, so I had to get that settled in my head before I could work on the larger story.