Your Death raises an eyebrow into a thin, golden arch. A light chuckle escapes her mouth, which she covers belatedly with alabaster fingers. Unused to this kind of reaction, you react with a nervous smile.
YOUR DEATH: You wish to play games with me?
Well, if all you're doing here is waiting to resuscitate by Ciara...
THE SORCERER: Unfamiliar with the sublime arts of sorcerous healing, she will likely be forced to rely instead on more primitive medicine, nursing you back to health with the primal heat of her bestial bodies, and repulsive pastes of mountain lichens, administered mouth to-
You really want to play games with your Death, yes, to pass time and get to-
THE SORCERER: -as yet untempered by civilisation, and unintroduced to genteel mores, savage people are guided by the most wanton and unrestrained lusts.
Your Death observes you with idle amusement as you stare at your stars and ask them why are they like this.
THE CAPTAIN: He is compromised, ma'am. It's the consequence of a failed internal discipline, and a loosening of external chains of command. This is how you end up lusting after a subordinate, which is a violation of-
No. Stop. That's- that's not even the part you are objecting to. That's not the problem!
THE LOVERS: Correct.
She would be the one to know. You sigh in relief, glad to have her on your side.
THE LOVERS: The problem is that the only kind of love you can imagine is a kick to the stomach, and being spat upon. Which no one ever would want to do with you, either.
Okay, that's just uncalled for. Whatever you are feeling towards Ciara is far more refined and respectable than some perverse, crude lust. At least you hope.
THE GAUNTLET: And you are right. What you are feeling is love, pure and unalloyed.
Love! This is wonderful news, and you hold onto it. Love is one of those sweet words that marks what is good in Creation.
THE GAUNTLET: Love is a chain running from your neck to her hand. Love is the moment of hesitation that invites total defeat. Love is a leaden weight from which you must free yourself, before it drags you all the way to the bottom.
You stare at your stars accusingly. They shine back at you, unperturbed. You realize you have some hang-ups about this entire matter.
THE CROW: Yes.
THOUGHT UNLOCKED: Trouble at the House of Serenity.
Why is he the one to tell you this?
THE CROW: I shine upon the self-aware.
The implications of this statement are awful, so you do your best to repress them immediately. Your mind is well-drilled in this operation. You turn back to your Death.
[ ] Am I always like this?
[ ] Are they always like this?
The look your Death gives you is long, and some could almost interpret it as sympathetic.
YOUR DEATH: I do, actually, have some games.
SOCIALIZE (EXTRAORDINARY): CHECK SUCCESS
From the averted gaze of those violet eyes, you infer that the answer to your question is no, and they are not the problem. You frown - this makes little sense to you. If the voices of your compromised stars are not the problem, then what is?
THE LOVERS: You are.
Then why didn't she tell me this directly?
THE LOVERS: Unlike me, she doesn't want you to hurt.
INTEGRITY (EXTRAORDINARY):
CHECK SUCCESS
THE LOVERS: Because as long as you're hurting, you're still alive. It's your best, and only weapon against her.
You face her. From the emptiness of her home, she produces a thick leather bag that you recognize for a travel set of Collapse, a distant and simplified relative of Gateway, popular among merchants and vagrants on the long trade routes that limn the outer edge of the Threshold. She unties the loop holding the sack closed and unrolls into a playing field, weighed down with small chunks of carved stone attached by string to each corner. Glass tokens, emerald and amethyst, clatter out. You catch one before it can vanish below you and help her sort them out.
Your Death: Best three of five?
You nod. She makes you guess which hand hides a token. You wind, and pick the side. The rules of the game are in your fingers; for a time, nothing disrupts the heavy quiet of the bottom of the night.
WAR (LEGENDARY):
CHECK FAILED
You lose the first game in sixteen moves, and the second in twenty one. Then, you pause and stare at the board for a time, taking your time in order to come up with an effective counter-strategy. You employ it, and lose the third one in five.
THE SORCERER: Impossible! Best four out of six?
Before you can make that offer, your Death wipes the tokens away from the board. Above you, the dark thins; you watch your stars dissolve in the illuminated grey of a day about to rise.
YOUR DEATH: Our time is at an end.
The sensation of ascending back towards the waking world is familiar by now. As are the first pangs of bodily pain welcoming you again among the living.
YOUR DEATH: But I would be a poor hostess if I did let you leave without a gift.
You find it in your hands when you emerge back from this midway realm: a token of green glass between your fingers. A recovered piece of yourself.
From now on, we will be using a modified Exalted Essence list of abilities, instead of the provisional traditional one I've been using earlier. The main modification is that I will break Sagacity into Lore and Occult again, to better reflect the nature of the quest.
From now on, you receive a +1 bonus to checks from skills to which you are astrologically attuned (Navigate, Embassy, Presence, Occult, Awareness). Furthermore, select three skills to specialise in, also resulting in a +1 bonus. Note that the below is not a comprehensive list of all skills that exist, only ones that are available to you.
[ ] Awareness: arts of seeing, noticing, and paying attention.
[ ] Craft: knowledge of how things are made, how they are unmade, and what significance rests in the act of creation.
[ ] Embassy: the ways of politeness, empathy, and falsehood.
[ ] Presence: the power of the voice, posture, and will imposed on others.
[ ] Integrity: the core of the self, and the ability to reflect on that self.
[ ] Navigate: the way of finding ways.
[ ] Occult: hidden knowledge, forbidden knowledge, sorcerous knowledge, exalted knowledge.
[ ] Lore: lesser knowledge.
[ ] Stealth: practices of rogues, cheats, and tricksters.
Thought Cabinet is where you store and process your Thoughts. They are dregs of your personality floating up to the surface of you, rare moments of self-reflection, or various insights you are currently processing.
According to the sage @Crumplepunch: each thought offers a set of penalties and/or bonuses while you are thinking about it. You cannot unequip thoughts during this time. After thinking about it for the allotted time, you will receive some kind of information about the results of your thought, along with a different set of bonuses and/or penalties, and possibly other benefits or modifiers. You can unequip and equip completed thoughts whenever you rest (such as right now).
You currently have two slots in your thought cabinet. You can acquire more later.
[ ] Emptying the Holds
You have suffered what should be a mortal blow, and somehow managed to shrug it off. This is troubling, because usually people don't live through being killed this thoroughly, and yet here we are. There is a number of questions this invites, starting with "am I dead sure I'm still alive?", then going through "how was that even possible?" and "maybe this is just a hallucination of a dying mind?", and ending with "what if I am, for all intents and purposes, absolutely unkillable by normal means?" You get a feel that the answers may come in handy.
Medicine -2 (Infuriating violation of the laws of physique)
Fortitude +2 (Built different)
24 hours.
[ ] Peaks and Valleys
You have, indisputably, achieved the Celestial Circle of Sorcery, also known as the Sapphire Circle. According to the latest estimates, there are between a hundred and two hundred entities wielding such power in all the realms of existence. Furthermore, there is also a voice in your head (or possibly in the sky) which is heavily suggesting that you are better than most of them. On the other hand, your first attempt at wielding the amazing cosmic power that is your due almost got you killed, and you weren't even particularly surprised by that outcome. Ponder this paradox.
Occult -1 (Creeping self-doubt)
Integrity +1 (An inkling of perspective)
8 hours.
[ ] Those Violet Sorrows
You are on a first-name basis with your Death, or at least it feels that way. She also calls you a "sister", and you find it difficult not to see her with the kind of sympathy usually restricted only to the closest kin. This is unfortunate because, unless she was particularly dishonest with you, she is nothing but a metaphor, which means that your kindness is wasted on her. Still, there may be some use in trying to find out how, exactly, you two became so very familiar, and familial.
Embassy +1 (I see Death as people)
12 hours.
[ ] Most Deceitful Star
The Crow represents the end of illusions and dreams. It is inevitability and the recognition thereof. Among all the stars that could shine on you, this constellation in particular casts a light of bare truth and unquestionable honesty. You are not on the best terms with the Crow, and are in fact convinced that he is full of shit and trying to lie to you. Setting aside the concerning tendency to anthropomorphize and hold conversations with celestial bodies, there is an interesting question to be asked about your frustrations with concepts such as "impossibility," and "recognition of one's limits".
Occult +1 ('Impossible' is just a word)
Presence -1 (Somewhat unreasonable)
12 hours.
[ ] Trouble at the House of Serenity
Your relationship with the House of Serenity, also known as the Cerulean Lute of Harmony, can best be described as somewhat vexed. You have received the blessings of Venus wrong. Your desire exists under the sign of Jupiter. When it comes to love, your stars take on an Abyssal aspect. You are rapidly running out of ideas for good metaphors for all of your many psycho-sexual hang-ups. Seek help.
Integrity -1 (Thoroughly compromised)
Occult +1 (Rampant sublimation)
24 hours.
Warmth. This is what your mind latches on as you flail your way back into consciousness. Not pain, nor the overwhelming, if vague, sense of loss. You are warm, on account of a thick layer of pelts and blankets that have been piled upon your body. Furthermore, a gentle crackle and a thin haze of smoke wisping through the air indicates a live fire; you turn to face it, and see Ciara crouched by it, her wide shoulders bared, knotted grey hair loosened and covering more than half of the muscle-bound back. The shirt she is wearing is filthy and loose; unfortunately, it doesn't give you a good look of the landscape of that woman's flesh, of the rugged terrain of her seasoned strength.
THE SORCERER: Do you smell that foul stench emanating from the filthy furs she stuck you under? It's her musk, undoubtedly. How revolting! Barbarians are not prone to hygiene, as their impoverished lives leave no room for even the smallest of humanizing luxuries. You should get a good sniff. It will be an educational experience.
You try to tune him out. Also, you can barely smell anything through the smoke, anyway. Instead, you look around. You are inside, in some kind of a small shack; the walls are wood, but the floor beaten soil. Aside from the firepit, you spot a pile of packed luggage. Your ritual blade stands propped against it, emerald-studded hilt twinkling to the tune of fire. Outside, you hear the wind, quieter now, but still strong enough that its gusts sneak through the gaps in the roof and the door as little puffs of cold air. The fire, however, keeps them all at bay.
LORE (NORMAL): CHECK SUCCESS
Shacks like this, you recall, are used as shelter by sheep-herds when they get their flocks to high pastures in the summer months. While not really a permanent dwelling, they tend to be used year after year, and are built to last. Someone even took the effort to carve a garland pattern into the door-frame; the style is vaguely Northern, maybe North-Eastern?
AWARENESS (NORMAL):
CHECK SUCCES
Whoever used to use this, however, has long since abandoned it. The wood of the walls is blackened, not just by soot, but also age; clumps of moss used for insulating gaps between the logs of cabin's walls have dried out and are falling out in clumps. This place hasn't been maintained in years, and given a few more, it's likely that the elements will finally batter it down. You must be pretty far from civilisation.
CIARA: "Took you long enough."
She doesn't turn back as she addresses you; her voice is dry and growling, though you are uncertain if it is annoyance, or if it is just how she is.
CIARA: "Patched you up the best I could."
"Thank you."
CIARA: "You really should. What the fuck were you even thinking? Magma-bloody-Kraken?"
"I was getting cold."
CIARA: "You could have asked for a coat!"
[ ] I lost most of my memory and had no idea what I was doing until it was too late.
[ ] Sorcery is just cooler than vestments and you're jealous.
[ ] Sorry, but your coats stink.
[ ] I will not be talked down to by some churlish brute!
You make sure to stress vestments. It's a big word you hope to confuse her with.
CIARA: "Coats don't tend to rebel against you and leave you with multiple cracked ribs."
So that is why it hurts to breathe. Good to know.
CIARA: "But what do I know about anything. You're the brains of the operation."
EMBASSY (EASY): CHECK FAILED
"Precisely. I'm glad that you recognize that."
THE SORCERER: It worked. Your extraordinary lexicon left her dazed and acutely aware of her inferior intellect.
She says nothing, clearly humbled. Instead, she picks through the fire with what you recognize to be the tip of her spear; for how huge it is, it's impressive how easily she holds it in only one hand.
OCCULT (NORMAL): CHECK SUCCESS
Even someone of her musculature should not be capable of wielding a solid chunk of metal that lightly. It is, clearly, an artifact - a dire lance, a weapon of the Chosen. Which makes sense. What makes less sense is that she is currently using it as a glorified poker. Most Exalted tend to give greater respect to their relic armaments.
CIARA: "Do you have any idea how long it'll take you to heal? I can never remember how people like you work."
[ ] Try to figure out how long it will take you to recover.
[ ] Ask what she meant by "people like you".
[ ] Make this into a conversation about sorcery.
You have no idea how long it takes a human to recover from a number of broken ribs, and reasons to believe that even if you knew that, this knowledge wouldn't necessarily apply to your corporeal frame (which, as it happens, still carries the wound pierced through it). But since you have already established your superior intellect, you can't just let Ciara think you don't know something. Thankfully, the solution to this conundrum is obvious.
THE SORCERER: Dazzle her further! Distract her with the sheer girth of your knowledge!
PRESENCE (INCREDIBLE):
CHECK SUCCESS
"This is a poorly phrased question."
Each word you say is bought with a sharp jolt of pain lancing through your battered chest. But you are no stranger to it, and are doing something important.
THE GAUNTLET: This is not necessary.
You note her advice and ignore it. This is the kind of hurt you will shoulder with ease, because a sorcereress is not bound by the confines of her flesh, nor is she imprisoned in the dungeon called "the body" into which so many others are locked.
"A sorcereress is not bound by the confines of her flesh, nor is she imprisoned in the dungeon called "the body" into which so many others are locked."
CIARA: "Really?"
"Really! Take, for example the mother of sorcerer and the great teacher of all hidden wisdom, the storied Brigid..."
CIARA: "Brigid? My teacher had some stories about her. Apparently she got to be one nasty crone in her later years. But carry on."
And you do. With fervor and fever, you recall the old story of Brigid lost in the ruins of the discarded world of Zen-Mu, with nothing but her mantle and her indomitable will. How you love it! How you love the image of that frail, little woman, one called a "cripple" and a "failure" by her peers, and yet marching proudly across the devastation that the Incarna themselves feared, to confront the Inverted Gods of the False Sky, and wrest from their grasp the Adamant Circle. They speared her body with lances of crystal. She flicked her hand and whispered the sacred verse of making, subsuming this crystal into the master-lattice of her soul. They tore her apart and fed her to the annulation engines. She reversed their mathematics and ushered forth calculations of creation from phrases of negation. They incinerated her heart in the furnace of the Hollow Sun. In its core, her soul ignited again, and when the fire burned away all the falsehood, it was adamant that remained, pure and refined, ready to be made into the crown of her art. You may be no peer to Brigid - not yet - but she is the example to follow. And that example is to let the weakness of the flesh pass through you, and in its wake find only the sublimated self.
Ciara turned around midway through your story, a lazy grin drawn across her sharp face. When you finish, and break into a very pained cough, she shakes her head before chuckling lightly.
CIARA: "Incredible."
THE LOVERS: I can't believe this worked. This shouldn't have worked. You-
The exertion of what you just did catches up to you. You ran really short on oxygen there.
FORTITUDE (DIFFICULT):
CHECK FAILED
You faint.
The bottom of the night welcomes you with its usual peace. Your Death welcomes you with heavy sigh and light annoyance burning in her violet eyes.
YOUR DEATH: Seriously, this is-
She doesn't get to finish, and you don't get your peaceful ascent back into the living realms. A new kind of stinging pain drags you back to wakefulness: it's an enormous hand slapping you lightly on the cheek. Ciara is leaning over you, still smiling.
CIARA: "Sorry, but we don't have that much time to waste."
THE SORCERER: This thug! How dares she touch you! Can you imagine what else those hands were about to do to you?
CIARA: "It was a banger of a story, really, and well told. But I need to know if you will be able to fight by the time your pursuers come."
[ ] My pursuers?
[ ] So you actually liked my story?
[ ] Slap me again, please!
You blurt those words out before your consciousness can catch up to your tongue, and by the time it does, it is already too late.
CIARA: "Sure."
Her lazy backhand slap is strong enough to make your head bounce and your teeth rattle. It hurts like hell, and also provides a number of very confusing feelings you don't exactly know how to process.
EMBASSY (NORMAL):
CHECK SUCCESS
You do, however, realize that people who slap each for reasons of love and intimacy tend to do it in a slightly different way. The source of this knowledge is not immediately obvious to you, but it is enough to protect you from getting too many ideas you would, otherwise, be at risk of entertaining.
THE LOVERS: You should be disgusted with yourself.
CIARA: "Can you answer my question now?"
"I don't know. I feel kind of weird."
Ciara waves her massive hand in an universal "can't be helped" gesture.
CIARA: "I'm going to take it for a no, then. Better that way, you'd only get in my way."
She attempts to give her dire-lance a twirl before remembering that doing so would probably bring the entire cabin down on your heads.
CIARA: "This leaves us with the question of what to do next. The pursuers will come, no doubt. I could face them here. Or we could try to escape before they arrive. What do you think, brain?"
[ ] Stay here and fight. They have dogged you long enough.
[ ] Escape. There is no need for further risk.
[ ] Ask her what she would do.
[ ] Ask her what those pursuers are.
CIARA: "Sure. The clearing should make for a fun bout, and you do enjoy the view."
You like how self-assured she is. It makes you feel safe.
"Good. Let's solve this problem once and for all."
CIARA: "What?"
You blink. Did you mis-speak?
THE SORCERER: It's well-proven that the savages have a limited view of time. The category of 'once and for all' may be outside of her ability to imagine.
You decide to explain.
"I mean, you kill them, and that's it. No more pursuers."
CIARA: "Have you forgotten they keep coming back?"
The fire crackles merrily in the ensuing pause.
"I may have."
CIARA: "What the fuck?"
You hesitate. The idea of letting her know that you have no idea what's going on, where you are, and why immortal pursuers that keep crawling back from their graves whenever killed are a topic of a casual conversation instead of existential panic, strikes you as wrong. You are supposed to be the brains of this operation, after all.
THE CAPTAIN: Ma'am. With all due respect.
Fine. Say no more. Point taken.
"I may have forgotten a few things in this... mess back at my manse."
CIARA: "What kind of things? And what the hell do you mean by 'your manse'?"
[ ] Like, my name.
[ ] Like, the nature of the Work.
[ ] Like, where in Creation we are.
[ ] Like, pretty much everything.
[ ] Are you suggesting it wasn't my manse?
A few things flash through Ciara's face in rapid succession. First, there is a contorted kind of confusion, wide-eyed and slack-jawed. This expression quickly hardens into a predatory anger, fangs bared and a growl building up in the mighty throat. But that too softens into what you can only describe as a flat frustration.
CIARA: "If it was anyone's manse, I was not informed."
THE SORCERER: Obviously. Servants, guards, and other pawns should not be clued in into more than absolutely necessary.
"That doesn't mean it wasn't."
Ciara lowers her head ever so slightly.
CIARA: "No."
There it is. Clearly-
THE LOVERS: Fates and stars, you really are one dumb bitch.
CIARA: "The thing is, brain, that this observatory wasn't a manse, period."
Oh.
THE SORCERER: How would she even know what a manse is?
[ ] Say that she probably doesn't even know what a manse is.
[ ] Don't say it.
Her face freezes on the "absolute bewilderment" expression. If you were the Unconquered Sun come to invite her to take a seat at the Games of Divinity, you imagine it is the kind of a face she would make.
"I am just not sure if you are geomantically qualified to determine if any given structure is a manse or not."
Her eyebrow twitches. A vein shows on her forehead.
CIARA: "Are you fucking with me? Or have you also forgotten who-"
Her voice cuts. She storms out of the cabin, the doors swinging so fast you barely get a glimpse of the grey and dreary day outside.
EMBASSY (NORMAL):
CHECK SUCCESS
THE LOVERS: She figured it out. She is really unhappy.
A braided litany of curses, delivered in well over dozen languages reaches you through the door, each of them more profane and blasphemous than the last.
LORE (NORMAL):
CHECK FAILED
She also weaves in some strange glossolalia into her avalanche of profanities. You find those unintelligible strings of orphaned phonemes refreshing, compared to what they bracket. After a time, even those break down and her voice transitions into a long, modulated howl unleashed straight towards the sky, the sound echoing off mountain slopes and returning to you three-fold.
Then, there is a silence. When she finally comes back, she is wet with rain, and ashen faced. She stomps closer to your resting place, throwing aside the hair from her neck. Clasped around her neck, you notice a torc of twisted, black metal, little silver wires shooting through it like veins. As you look at it, you see them move and squirm, disturbingly life-like.
CIARA: "Do you remember what that is?"
OCCULT (VERY DIFFICULT):
CHECK SUCCESS
THE SORCERER: It's an ingenious device from the darkest days of the First Age. It twists the wearer's Essence against themselves, forcing them to obey the torc's master's command, or suffer a terrible withering, made ever worse by their own power. Sorcerer-king Zan-Ji of the Cascading Stars Sovereignty used one to restrain and bind to his will the dread Umbral Bero the Skybreaker, being his sole master until the end of the Age claimed both of their lives. If you are this torc's master, you can command this brute to do anything, and she will have to obey, thus proving once and for all the superiority of intellect over dumb strength.
Your breath catches.
THE GAUNTLET: What a wonderful piece of leverage.
THE CAPTAIN: I don't like it, ma'am. Command should be earned, not enforced.
THE LOVERS: Ha. Ha. Hahahaha. Ha.
THE CROW: Every time you use this thing, you lose more of yourself than you can ever possibly hope to reclaim.
CIARA: "Do. You. Remember?"
[ ] Yes.
[ ] Yes, but I have no idea how it made its way onto your neck.
[ ] No [lie].
Ciara closes her eyes and rocks her head back and forth a few times; more of that strange glossolalia pours from her mouth in a gibbering stream. The sense of guilt that's been accompanying you since - well, since as far as you can remember - bubbles to the front of your attention.
THE LOVERS: Hahahahahahahaha.
You kind of wish she would stop laughing.
THE LOVERS: No. Hahahahaha.
Finally, Ciara stops. She exhales a long, bellowing breath, and seemingly calms down.
CIARA: "Let me refresh your memory."
EMBASSY (EASY):
CHECK SUCCESS
You begin to open your mouth to thank her for being so helpful.
THE LOVERS: Keep your dumb trap shut and let her speak!
Oh, of course. That's probably smarter. You seal your lips.
CIARA: "You tricked me into putting it on."
The words fall down absolutely flat and empty. You can only imagine the sheer weight of rampant fury Ciara must be suppressing to sound this artificially disaffected. Still, somewhere in your depths, you can also feel a degree of pride: tricking a creature such as Ciara into becoming so restrained was no easy task - you are certain of that.
THE SORCERER: Small-minded warlocks and feeble witches bind small demons to their service. But we? We are after true power.
CIARA: "Then, after I have explained what will happen when some of my acquaintances, such as Raksi..."
OCCULT (NORMAL):
CHECK SUCCESS
Raksi! You know that name. Queen of Fangs, they also call her. A powerful Lunar witch, and a rare survivor of the First Age. By many measures, the most puissant sorceress alive in Creation. Also a monster without compare, known to eat children as publicity stunts and rule her Total Control Zone with the kind of absolute power usually reserved only for the tales of the darkest excesses of the First Deliberative.
CIARA: "...Sublime Danger..."
OCCULT (DIFFICULT): CHECK SUCCESS
Another name you recognize and, interestingly, another Lunar hailing from the fallen First Age!
THE CAPTAIN: This is concerning, ma'am. This is, actually, really concerning.
THE SORCERER: Absolutely not! Sublime Danger is the finest master of the obscure Thousand Blades style of swordcraft, having wasted millennia of her life on those trivial martial pursuits, thus showing that even elder Essence is no proof against a soul's refusal to grow up past childhood.
CIARA: "...or Feather Drenched in the Blood of the Fallen..."
OCCULT (VERY DIFFICULT):
CHECK SUCCESS
Now, that's an obscure case. Feather Drenched in the Blood of the Fallen, a third Lunar Elder Ciara enumerated, and perhaps the most obscure of them all. A creature of shadows and occult knowledge, one who has dedicated the two dozen of centuries since Usurpation to becoming a weapon against the schemes and designs of the Sidereal Exalted. Few names can make the skin of the Bureau of Heaven's agents crawl like this one.
THE LOVERS: Hahahahahaha.
CIARA: "...when I explained what they will do to you once they catch wind of what you did to me, you promptly claimed that this is only a 'temporary solution' and as soon as your 'most vital Work' is concluded you will let me go and reward me justly for services rendered."
Slightly, you nod. That sounds equitable.
CIARA: "When I failed to express my faith in those promises, you went into a rant about how no one trusts anyone anymore these days and then, well, then you bound your fate to mine in the great loom of sky and stars, so that if you fail to live up to your promises Pattern Spiders themselves will devour the thread of your destiny to mend mine."
Your mouth is very dry all out of the sudden.
CIARA: "I am no expert in such things, but I think that actually stuck."
[ ] So you're saying that our fates are bound together, and I am your indisputable master?
[ ] So you're saying that our fates are bound together, and only by freeing you I can free myself?
[ ] Sorry. I think that was a dick move.
[ ] Wait. Raksi? Sublime Danger? Drenched Feather? Just how many Lunar Elders do you know?
