Dead Sky: An Exalted Quest

[Gargulec]

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
-W. H. Auden, Funeral Blues

Spoiler: A/N

I've been terribly writer-blocked lately, and I've been greatly admiring @Crumplepunch 's Mare Internum. So I decided to pay it a tribute by shamelessly ripping off its entire concept.

Same rules apply.

You were so close. The end of the Work was at hand. Even now, a memory of it lingers in your hands. Then, it washes away too, leaving you in darkness.

You are so far, and getting farther still. You are sinking towards the bottom of the night. Worse yet, your death is here, and she carries a sword.

No. No, no, no. Not when you were almost done. Not yet. Not tonight. No. No!

YOUR DEATH: Please don't worry about me. I'm just a metaphor.

Your death happens to be a girl seventeen years old, eerily lithe, and with hair like spun gold. When she smiles, you feel at ease; you've known her for a very long time, and she could never hurt you. You let the sinking continue. It's almost relaxing, and you are very tired.

YOUR DEATH: What I represent, however, is very real.

Oh. So that's what's happening.

YOUR DEATH: Please don't worry about it, either. It's only a small change.

Every part of you that remains (there are not that many) screams at once. You claw at the dark closing above you, rip through it, try to swim up, to find a way...

YOUR DEATH: There really is no helping you.

She seems disappointed. But you - you spot something! A dim, glittering light, far above. A star - a chance!

Spoiler: Voting Rules

Dead Sky uses some unusual rules, please familiarize yourself with them before voting, especially the first one.

1) Voting in this quest is first-come-first-serve. The first person to make a response with one of the options guides the next action in the quest.
2) To prevent any one person from from monopolizing the action, nobody can make such a vote on two updates in a row. Alternating is fine.
3) Writein options are not permitted except as general suggestions to modify the approach of an existing option, which I will apply at my discretion.
4) These rules do not apply if the post is marked "This is a consquential decision, please vote." Those votes require a majority vote as normal, and writeins are allowed.

[ ] THE CAPTAIN
[ ] THE MESSENGER
[ ] THE SHIP'S WHEEL

 

[Gargulec]

THE CAPTAIN: Ma'am.

You have sailed these waters before, and he helmed your ship. You grasp at his light, follow the star-bound trail.

THE CAPTAIN: Do you want me to commence the rescue operation?

Yes, you want to scream, drag me out, you old boor! But only midnight gushes from your mouth.

YOUR DEATH: But only the living can command their fate. Are you sure you qualify?

It's a gentle joke. You hate it. You are not yet bound to lead and ash! There are yet more stars to grasp for, more light to drink!

[ ] THE LOVERS
[ ] THE MUSICIAN
[ ] THE PEACOCK

 

[Gargulec]

You remember the sky. You remember your eyes follow from the tip of the Captain's hat, drawing a long line to...

YOUR DEATH: Her.

Of course she doesn't like her. She's the reason why you keep on living.

LOVERS: I don't like you, either.

Of course, that's the entire point. You couldn't love her if she ever loved you back.

LOVERS: That's pathetic.

You wouldn't use that term, not exactly. But it's not far off. Which, thankfully, doesn't change anything.

Your descent slows down. The sky is closer. You reach for it. You struggle. You fight. You find your fight.

[ ] THE BANNER
[ ] THE GAUNTLET
[ ] THE SHIELD

 

[Gargulec]

Of course. How could you forget?

THE GAUNTLET: Because you had to.

This makes sense. All that is happening is because of your decisions. Difficult choices you had to make.

THE GAUNTLET: For the sake of the Work.

If you are drowning, it's only because you've cast yourself into the sea. If you are - you hate that thought - dying, it's because it was the only way not to be dead. If you are vanishing, you are not yet vanished.

THE GAUNTLET: The fight must continue.

You like her. More than that. You understand her. And she understands you.

THE GAUNTLET: No matter the cost.

You are so very glad to have yourself explained back to you.

YOUR DEATH: You know, this will only make it all hurt worse in the long run.

THE GAUNTLET: Unquestionably.

Your Death, who is generally dismissive of the stars, makes an exasperated motion.

YOUR DEATH: You will only have yourself to blame.

THE GAUNTLET: And yourself to praise.

YOUR DEATH: I wish you would stop tempting her.

The star-lit path is clear now. It leads you from house to house, from one destiny to another. It's your lifeline, thrown from the firmament to whatever mess you've wandered into (due to decisions that, you are sure now, were perfectly justified under the circumstance). But it is not yet complete. You are still sinking, if infinitely slow. But the sky spins, and is no longer empty. You chart a further path.

[ ] THE KEY
[ ] THE MASK
[ ] THE SORCERER

 

[Gargulec]

A constellation of five familiar stars - you find them easily. It's strange, really, how just moments ago you couldn't even see them in the sky.

THE SORCERER: We are your birthright.

We - the royal we of true kingship, of the sovereign masters of Creation. The word strikes a chord in your soul, and reminds you of something. What it is exactly, you can't tell, but you can name the shape and weight of it, the sheer burning intensity of the celestial furnace still buried within the very foundations of you. Your Death frowns; with idle frustration she throws off a stray lock of hair from getting in the way of her endlessly empty violet eyes.

YOUR DEATH: You don't have to submit to them again. You really don't. You can just let go.

But you are no longer sinking. You are no longer drowning. The sky above is full of stars: your stars, and you follow a trail long since routed for you among their eternal brilliance. The Captain, who is commanded to ferry you across the celestial expanse. The Lovers, who give you the reason to live. The Gauntlet, who holds you together. And the greatest of them, the Sorcerer, who names the power by which you are exalted.

Many-colored light pierces the dark of the night. Whatever it was that kept dragging you into the abyss, and failure, recoils, and you are ascending, fast, towards the silver-streaked sky, and...

YOUR DEATH: As always, you are letting yourself off the hook a bit too easily, sister.

What?

YOUR DEATH: Lest you forget.

Before you can leave her behind one more time, before you can breach the surface, she catches you by the temples and yanks your head away, past your familiar stars, to that dreary region of the sky where the final sign of your fate cold burns in wait.

[ ] THE CROW
[ ] THE HAYWAIN
[ ] THE SWORD

 

[Gargulec]

The fifth House is the House of Endings, also named the Violet Bier of Sorrows. All your star-lit paths avoid it, and its brooding stars, all your sky-charts limn out it's finality. The act is, of course, futile, but in a moment, it lets you forget. But, alas, no matter how much you try, she is always there to make you remember.

YOUR DEATH: She is going to try again.

Yes. You will. You have found your stars one more time, and are fleeing the depths of night. The Work - the Work is still within reach, and this time...

Your Death is not speaking to you, you realize.

THE CROW: It won't work.

YOUR DEATH: I've been trying to get her to understand for a very long time.

THE CROW: It won't work, either.

Your Death - who you are leaving behind, for the time being, again - scoffs.

YOUR DEATH: You, of all them, should be on my side. You should talk to her. Explain that-

THE CROW: No.

You like how he interrupted her. How she went quiet. What you like less is that you know what he will say next.

THE CROW: Her struggles amuse me.

YOUR DEATH: Even though you know how they will end?

THE CROW: Because I know how they will end.

The surface of the night breaks, and you emerge back into the living world. Above you, the sky is heavy with stars, visible through a crack through a domed roof. Beneath you, there is a pool of cold water, filled with your body and thousands of little shards of glass. And visible somewhere between those two extremes, there is a hilt of a sword, and to the hilt there is attached a blade, and the blade is currently driven through your chest, and into the stone base of the pool.

So that is why Your Death paid you a visit.

[ ] Panic and try to tear the blade free from your body.
[ ] Panic and try to scream for help.
[ ] Panic and call upon your power.

 

[Gargulec]

You don't panic. Although it would be perfectly understandable for a lesser being or a mortal to lose their wits at the sight of a sword the size of their body pinioning them to the stone floor, you are quite certain you are neither of those. Rash and self-destructive courses of action like that will, surely, lead you to disaster and you have quite enough chit-chat with your death for one night. No, you do not panic.

Instead, you let your base instincts override any kind of lucid thought you might be having, allowing them to guide you lieu of the far slower and less decisive faculty of reason, which definitely would not help with your pinioned-by-a-sword predicament. Your stars dictate action.

THE CAPTIAN: In all matters it behoves us to be decisive.

Your wrap your fingers around the hilt of the sword; they are long, delicate, and distinctly unused to work. The same can be said about your arms, which come into view also.

LOVERS: You will do anything to impress me.

You allow yourself a single breath of preparation.

THE GAUNTLET: Even if it hurts. Especially if it hurts.

ATHLETICS

CHECK SUCCESS

It's almost impressive how much strength there is in your body when it is acting out in a star-guided, thoughtless flow of desperately grabbing onto the sword piercing it and then, with a high-pitched how of pain, yanking it out.

Steel grinds against stone; your scream rings off the slanted walls. But the blade splashes into the pool near you, followed only by a few stray drops of blood. Bleeding, too, is for lesser beings.

THE SORCERER: That a brutish tool like this failed to kill the likes of you is to be expected.

Your chest swells with pride at the notion, which immediately opens the wound again. You scream. It would probably prudent to try not to breathe too intensely for a little while.

[ ] Try to figure out where you are.
[ ] Try to get a look at the sword.
[ ] Try to inspect yourself for any additional damage.

 

[Gargulec]

You are in a place that is not, strictly speaking, familiar, and also moments ago were dying. It's quite likely you are wounded further, which probably requires prompt addressing. Anyway, you throw your arm to the side and try to find where the sword you pulled out of your chest landed.

THE SORCERER: Why would you? It's just a sword!

What's wrong with swords?

THE SORCERER: They are beneath you. They are tools of brutes, barbarians, and soldiers.

Ah, so you are neither of those?

THE LOVERS: With arms like yours? Their victim, at best.

That, in turn, strikes you as really rude, but in an endearingly blunt way. Your fingers sifts through cold, stale water, and eventually finds a touch of metal. Careful not to cut your fingers on the blade, you locate the pommel, and bring the sword up before your eyes.

OCCULT

CHECK SUCCESS

It's a slender weapon, and surprisingly light in your hands; even weakened as you are, it's little trouble to hoist it above your face. In fact, you find its hilt familiar to your hands. Little emeralds studding it bite into your skin - it strikes you as very impractical in a weapon.

THE SORCERER: Because it is not a weapon.

You can just about make long strings of ornate script etched into the black blade. Normally, their silvering would shimmer the faint lights of the night; now, viscous blood - yours, probably - sticks to their grooves. But you don't really need to see them to read the words: to know the world is to own it.

THE SORCERER: It's a ritual tool. Your ritual tool.

THE CAPTIAN: It's the mark of your command.

It occurs to you that whoever it was that tried to kill you with it probably thought it pretty ironic. But you think it really aggravating. It's a delicate implement, not meant for striking stone - or flesh, for that matter. You will have to inspect it for damage later.

ITEM ACQUIRED: Your ritual sword.

THE SORCERER: Your ritual tool.

[ ] Try to figure where you are.
[ ] Check yourself for further damage.
[ ] Attempt to stand up.

 

[Gargulec]

[X] Check yourself for further damage.

Click to shrink...

As the rush of what absolutely was not panic recedes, more sensations flood right back. Most them or one variety or another of pain. Someone handled you very roughly: purple bruises on your neck, one hell of a blow delivered to the stomach, not to mention - well, not to mention the obvious. But no more open wounds, at least. Ah, and also the fingers in your left hand hurt really badly: someone had recently come awfully close to breaking them.

It's not that difficult to piece the story together. Someone came at you while you were here, knocked you out with a body blow, then choked you under the surface of the reflecting pool - because that's what you are currently resting in, you're sure - and when that wasn't enough, they wrung out your ritual sword from your hand, and skewered you to the floor, like a particularly rare beetle specimen. You are pretty sure that this is what happened, and when you close your eyes, you can almost see the face and hear the voice of your assailant.

Almost. But not really. And also, you are missing something important from that sequence of events.

OCCULT

CHECK SUCCESS

Those little shards of glass floating around you. You capture one of them between your fingers and hold them to starlight; it's no piece of random debris. It's a shape meant to fly, to cut, to dazzle. It's wings are black, and they tried to taste blood not long ago.

THE SORCERER: Obviously, you defend yourself.

THE LOVERS: Predictably, it did nothing.

THE GAUNTLET: It was all you had time to do.

THE SORCERER: Your true power.

This little piece of glass is yours - perhaps even more so than the ritual blade. You toss it aside and let it splash back into the pool. It will come back when needed.

SPELL REMEMBERED: Death of Obsidian Butterflies.

[ ] Try to figure out where you are.
[ ] Attempt to stand up.

 

[Gargulec]

[x] Try to figure out where you are.

Click to shrink...

Things start to make sense. You were almost killed. You are a sorceress.

THE SORCERER: A powerful sorceress.

Obviously. You are a powerful sorceress. You remember the power curled at the tips of your fingers, and you remember the immediacy and vital importance of the Work you devoted yourself to, fully. But - and this is very worrying - you remember very little beyond that. For example, what were you doing here before someone tried to kill you. Or what the nature of the Work was. Or why the stars seem so familiar with you. Or why you are dead certain people you used to know are now hunting you. Or who they are. Or who you are. Or what your name is.

The cascade of non-memories breaks its dam and overwhelms you with a profound, paralysing sense of being truly, utterly, and fullylost.

THE CAPTAIN: Ma'am, may I suggest something?

You have my leave.

THE CAPTAIN: We've been shipwrecked.

Wait, what? That doesn't-

THE CAPTAIN: It's a metaphor, ma'am.

Oh. Right. You don't like those. But carry on.

THE CAPTAIN: We've been travelling to a destination known as the Work. We've come across great difficulties. Our ship was shattered against them. But we lived. And now, we are shipwrecked, among flotsam and detritus.

So this is a metaphor for your life? Long voyage ended up in a catastrophe?

THE CAPTAIN: Specifically, our ship is your head.

With a burst of fear, you touch the side of your temples, expecting to find a fault-line propagating through your skull.

THE CAPTAIN: This is also a metaphor.

Right. You feel a bit silly for not getting that.

THE CAPTAIN: Specifically, your mind, and possibly your soul, were broken on the shoals, and now bits and pieces float around us as we are washed away onto an unfamiliar shore.

Okay, that is starting to make sense, that entire metaphor business. At least this time, your death is not being personally involved.

THE CROW: Yet.

Oh, him. You try to forget he exists. You fail.

THE CAPTAIN: Therefore, what we must now do, is to attempt to gather and sift through as much of that detritus as possible. Most of what we had was lost to the sea, but not all. And what remains will be vital to our survival, and for the further journey to our destination, known only as the Work.

So that is not over.

THE GAUNTLET: It never is.

THE CAPTAIN: Not until we make it there.

THE LOVERS: Unless you want to disappoint me further.

THE SORCERER: Unless you want to refuse your birthright.

You want neither of those things. So how do you get around to that scavenging thing?

THE CAPTAIN: According to the best practices: methodically. Get your bearings. Try to figure where you are. Draw a map.

AWARENESS

CHECK FAILURE

You are under a shattered glass dome, and a sky full of stars. You are in what used to be a pretty nice reflecting pool, before your blood, and your sorcery, filled it with all matter of garbage. You know for a fact that stars are friendly to you, and on further thought you decide you like reflecting pools and hate them being ruined like the one you are in at the present moment. Furthermore, the blue, silver, and green mosaics covering the walls around you are rather beautiful - you wish it was brighter, so that you could see them in greater detail - and precisely the kind of a decor you would have in your seat of power. So clearly, it is where you are.

This is your manse. You were assaulted while watching stars reflected in the surface of your favourite pool, and since you feel no more mystical connection with this place's geomancy, it means that someone severed you from it. This explains a lot. Your first priority should be to determine the extent of the damage suffered by your secret fortress in order to repair it, or to flee immediately if further assaults from your many enemies are to be expected.

You are very pleased with yourself for figuring this out.

[ ] Check the extent of the damage of your manse.
[ ] Flee your manse before your enemies attack again.