Dead Sky: An Exalted Quest

[Gargulec]

[X] Stick your fingers into your ears and run outside. Now.

Click to shrink...

The following sequence of events unfolds not so much on the level of conscious decisions and exertions of will. It is, instead, a matter of pure, reflexive reaction. Ciara's tirade builds up to a breaking point, but before the dam can burst, you slam your feeble hands to the sides of your skull, and with the reverb muffling the noise of the Lunar's voice, you dash outside as if your live depended on it. With your shoulder, you open the door and let the cold air welcome you again, because even freezing to death would be preferable than...

Than...

You have no idea what it is that you're so afraid of. Insults? You could use being insulted right now. You think you-

THE CROW: Let me help you.

You brace for the blow.

THE CROW: The thing you're so afraid of, my fellow bird, is the truth.

Ah. Yeah. The truth. That would make sense.

Gravel and ice crunch under your feet. Ciara closes the door behind you, to keep the heat inside. You find yourself alone again, the terrible sense of shame over your latest display of yourself burning with its usual low-flame intensity. This is your life now. Lost. Nowhere to go. Wallowing in self pity. Hoping that the Lunar will rush out after you and-

THE CAPTAIN: Ma'am.

Your thoughts arrest; there is a pinching sensation.

THE CAPTAIN: Look up.

Ah. Yes. The one thing you've been forgetting. The stars.

Above you, the navy-blue sky is dotted with silver. You watch the distant gleam of the turning of the Loom, rendered on the great stage of the firmament, and however briefly, forget the moment. Forget the crippling sense of weakness, or solitude. For a moment, you remember something else.

Or maybe "remember" is not the best word - you have lost your memories not to a simple act of forgetting, but rather, and you are sure of that, to a deliberate action, the one that offers little hope for the return of images, sounds, and names. But the body keeps the score, and you had a life impressed into your flesh and your bone, written in your blood and signed with your tears. Not all of them were shed in sadness. The stars shine ever so gently, ever so far away.

And you had watched them once, from somewhere else, and someone joined you, and asked you what do you love about them, and you said that it is because of their indifference. So they asked: and what if they could match the love you have for them? And you shrugged and said: better than the more loving one be me.

Whatever the meaning was of those words, of that moment in time, it's lost to you. But it carries still a measure of comfort, a measure of your lost self that can't ever fully go away. The stars, the stars - they promise you damnation, but they are your guiding lights. You trace a many-colored trail among them, from the Captain's wheel to the Lover's hand, from the hand to the Gauntlet, and it's grasp to the Sorcerer's wand. And the last star, that you pointedly ignore.

Some in the Bureau of Destiny read fate as if it was a book. A series of phrases inscribed in blue and silver, that one can assemble into sentences and read for the truth of them. But you could never master that trick, and besides, it felt impersonal, even wrong, to treat the work of the Loom that way. No, you have trawled the sky and seen its other side; how could you pretend it is just a script? Fate is a conversation.

"Help me," you implore your stars. "Tell me where to go."

THE CAPTAIN: You are ship-wrecked, ma'am. You've lost...

THE LOVERS: Pretty much everything you cared for.

THE CAPTAIN: Yourself, mostly. You dredged up what floatsam you could get, but there is not that much to go with.

THE SORCERER: But you are not powerless. You are not past your peak.

THE GAUNTLET: And the Work awaits.

You nod to them. But can they tell you something you don't know? You need help. You need directions.

THE LOVERS: But you know what to do next already. The same thing you always do.

THE SORCERER: Reach for power.

THE GAUNTLET: Grit your teeth.

THE LOVERS: And chase after the woman who tried to kill you.

Your colleague. The one who stole the Work's keystone from you. You need to find her. You ned to recover what was stolen.

THE LOVERS: That's not the only thing you need from her, but the only one you can realistically hope to get.

Right. Right. But how do you find her? She's long gone. And-

THE SORCERER: And are you foolish enough to believe that there is not a spell right at your finger-tips which would reveal the secret path to you? That that there are no spirits you can call upon to hunt her down like the thieving, traitorous vermin she is? Your birthright is infinite, cosmic power: use it!

That makes sense.

THE LOVERS: Or you could just ask your moon-touched companion to track her down herself. Surely, she is a good hunting wolf. Maybe you could make making her feel useful a kind of an apology?

That also makes sense.

THE CROW: Both of those choices are traps.

Oh. Are there any that are not?

THE CROW: No. You are about a year past that point.

So no matter what you choose, it's going to go badly for you?

THE CROW: Yes.

You choose.

[ ] Use sorcery to track down your errant colleague.
[ ] Convince Ciara to track down your errant colleague.

This is an impactful vote.

 

[Gargulec]

[X] Convince Ciara to track down your errant colleague

Click to shrink...

You return to the cabin shivering from the cold, and profoundly unhappy. But this is the safer choice.

THE SORCERER: Safety. A word for the small-willed, petty-spirited, and otherwise malcontent to hide behind. You hold stars in your heart, and you reach for the services of beasts?

You also hold a soulsteel mirror; you found it somewhere in the snow, and refused to look at it again. Fine, fine, fine. The last few days may have been a good demonstration in how you should probably slow down a bit. Just a tiny bit. Maybe screw up less. And Ciara - Ciara clearly has it all figured out. You don't have to worry about her messing up. There'll be no fuckups from her. She's just too good for that.

She's waiting by the fire, just where you've left her. She shrugs at your entrance and does not turn as you stand above her, a gaunt, spindly critter skittering around a tired wolf.

CIARA: "So, remind me, how old are you again?"

"I don't remember."

CIARA: "I'd peg you at twelve. Or a particularly slow fifteen."

You swallow. Her voice has hardened; there is something exhausted in it, and nasty. You imagine it as a rusted edge, her tone that of a pitied blade grinding against a rock.

THE SORCERER: If this is your choice, don't let her rule you. Remember! She is your minion. Your servant. Yours to use! Command her, decisively and with confidence! This is how you win her over. This is how you take hold of her!

"I'm sorry," you mumble, completely insincerely.

CIARA: "Are you? And for what exactly."

The question gives you pause. You try introspection and find a deep well of 'sorry' inside of your soul, but the exact origin of it remains unclear. What are you even sorry for.

THE LOVERS: For yourself.

"For myself."

CIARA: "Ain't that news."

She sounds unimpressed, or unamused.

"Also, I need you to track the woman who tried to kill me. For the sake of the Work," you blurt out.

CIARA: "I need to?"

You can't see her face, but something in the way those words roll off her tongue gives you an impression of fangs bared. Do you know you're tired? And you've been tired for so long that it has set into your bones and become a part of you? That even if you still had your memories, you wouldn't be able to recall the last time the body you wear felt comfortable, and the things you feel did not like crushed glass, being dragged across the inside of your heart? This is what those fangs you can't even see remind you of. This is what you hear in her voice. Your own words cave in. Sullenly, you circle the fire until you can sit across Ciara, but you can't bring yourself to look directly at her.

CIARA: "What I need is for you to listen."

She spits into the bonfire; it hisses sharply. You expect your spirit to warn you that this will hurt, but your stars are suddenly quiet. Your eyes drill holes in the cracked, ruined skin of your soles; there are some rags wrapped around your feet which had once been some sort of footwear, but like most of you, all that is left of it is shreds.

CIARA: "I'm tired of your shit."

You've heard those words before, you are sure. They are inscribed into you; and yet, they sting no less. You pull up your knees and bury your head in them, to appear smaller and less threatening. Ciara doesn't get played.

CIARA: "You, your fucking schemes, that idiotic Work, whatever that is. The trail of grief and destruction you leave. And your constant-"

Tears start welling up in your eyes.

CIARA: "-self-pity."

INTEGRITY (EASY):

CHECK SUCCESS

You hold them back, for now. But you really do feel sorry for yourself.

CIARA: "It's always the same fucking thing. You have an idea, you bang your head against it until something gives, and then I'm left cleaning the mess because I used to think I can't let you die. And then, you do the same bitch thing. You make big eyes eyes, cry a bit, and make yourself look as the most pitiful creature in Creation that just needs someone to take care of it. Sun and Moon, it even got me fooled the first few times. But I'm done with this crap."

The implication of the cool, though hardly dispassionate lashing she is giving you is slow to sink, but sink it does.

INTEGRITY (NORMAL):

CHECK FAILED

You start sobbing. Ciara ignores this pointedly.

CIARA: "Just like this. What do you expect now? A hug and a pat on the back? Fuck you, Bird Bones. I don't know if your plans are worse than your temper tantrums, but I'm done with both. I'm done with reminding you that you should eat, avoid your ass off, I'm done with dragging you to a bath. I'm done with playing your mommy, you callous, self-obsessed hysteric."

EMBASSY (DIFFICULT):

CHECK SUCCESS

You are weeping now, or more like: barking out sobs like a kicked dog. You are extremely proficient at appearing completely pitiful and playing the wounded animal, and you realize it even through the curtain of your tears. It is a slight, if poisonous comfort to also realize that your current breakdown is actually genuine. You were trying to manipulate Ciara at some point, but right now, you can't even bring yourself to form a full sentence without it being interrupted by tears streaming down your filthy face.

THE LOVERS: She is only saying this to hurt you.

You know this. Why would you even-

THE LOVERS: You dumb, lovesick bitch, I'm telling you this so that you know she doesn't mean all of it.

What? But-

CIARA: "And of course I will have to follow your commands, and of course this will keep repeating week after week, because you are not getting better. You're getting worse. And some day, some day soon, all your fucking around will catch up to you, and you know what's the worst part is? You are not going to be only person it gets killed."

And you take such wild comfort in this statement. In knowing that Ciara is not leaving you. That no matter how much you've messed up, you made sure she can't. Because otherwise, you don't know what you would do. And you know that this is pathetic, and that this is wrong. But she is there for you. Almost. Just a little bit more.

You continue to cry. You are small, and make yourself feel even smaller - and it does not help. This cycle feels so very familiar.

THE LOVERS: She's said everything she's had to say. She's going to ignore you for the rest of the night, and then act as if this conversation didn't happen in the morning. But you can extend it. Learn a thing or two about yourself. She's not going to hide anything from you, now that she can hurt you with the truth.

THE GAUNTLET: Or you can keep quiet. Weep some more. Sleep. And move on. The Work does not depend on her loving you back.

THE SORCERER: You can also do as you should have always done, and-

THE CROW: No. You can't.

[ ] Continue the conversation and learn something about yourself.
[ ] Cut it, and spare yourself the pain.

 

[Gargulec]

[X] Continue the conversation and learn something about yourself.

Click to shrink...

"Why don't you leave me, then?" you mutter from the crumpled heap of yourself. You don't know where the question is coming from. You know the answer already, don't you?

You hear - you are afraid to look - Ciara grunt.

CIARA: "Are you dumb? I can't. You made sure of that."

You feel like a moron for you even daring to say that out loud. What were you-

THE LOVERS: Stop your dumb whining and don't let her get away with a lie.

What?

THE LOVERS: Press her. You used to be good at this.

EMBASSY (DIFFICULT):

CHECK SUCCESS

How could she be lying, though? You have her collared. If she tries leaving you, you can just-

What you realize next makes you stop mid-sob. A cold shiver runs through you, and with it, a prickly breed of clarity. If she tries leaving you, you will launch yourself at her feet, and you will threaten to kill her with the collar, but you won't. You can't. You don't have what it takes.

THE GAUNTLET: I warned you she is your weakness.

And... and she is long of years. Seasoned. Powerful. Wise. She...

THE LOVERS: She knows this, too.

"You know," you begin.

THE SORCERER: Stop. Think about what you are doing. You are about to admit weakness to a minion. You are about to betray everything you were supposed to be. Seize the reins of your destiny instead and-

But you can't. At your fingertips, there is the power to move the skies from their foundations. You can open your mouth and sing the Cantata of Empty Voices that lays ruin to cities. You steal secrets from stars and trap dead demiurges in cages of starmetal. And you know, as sure as you know you are all-powerful, that none of this extends to this Lunar.

"You know," you say again, "I could never hurt you. No matter what you did."

THE SORCERER: Pathetic.

THE LOVERS: And also true.

CIARA: "Sure," she barks. "Unless one of your many mistakes finally possesses you. And what then?"

A false note in her voice. You catch it, in spite of everything.

THE LOVERS: Sharp nose you have there. And what is the lie? Come on, my little star-born slut. You know this.

OCCULT (DIFFICULT):

CHECK SUCCESS

You know this. You swallow, hard, but the words come surprisingly easily. This is the area of your expertise.

"Nothing," you say with confidence, however wavering. "The collar is bound to my soul, not my Essence. Only I can rule it. I wouldn't have it otherwise."

The small sense of pride you feel at the mention - at knowing that you are better than any of the myriad horrors trying to claim your body as their own - is life-saving. So, you breathe in, and add the other truth you have realized.

"And you know that too."

Ciara sighs.

CIARA: "I keep forgetting how sharp you can get," she spits out, an annoyed note ringing through her.

This, too, makes you swell with pride.

CIARA: "So, what's next? You expecting me to say that it is your irresistible charm? That you are, after all, likeable? Maybe a confession of hidden love? Wouldn't you enjoy that?"

THE LOVERS: You would. And it would be hilarious. But it is not coming.

"I just want to know why," you plead instead. "Why do you stick with me, if I am-"

CIARA: "Go the fuck to sleep. We have a long day ahead of us tomorrow."

"I need to know!"

CIARA: "You are in no position to demand anything, Bird Bones. Not after all the stuns you've pulled out today. Sleep. Before you faint."

THE LOVERS: She will never admit a weakness to you. And she will resent it if you find one.

[ ] Go to sleep.
[ ] Press on.

 

[Gargulec]

[X] Go to sleep.

Click to shrink...

You don't want her to resent you, do you? You shut your mouth and crawl under the pile of furs. Your body aches in dozen little unique ways: the small draining pangs of hunger, the dull throbbing of an ongoing heartbreak, not to mention the wound right through your hand, inexplicably survivable. When you close your eyes, an image of your spindly frame appears in the aperture of your mind - it is yet another little image that has etched itself into the material of your perception. It's not heartening. The picture of your self that you have is a doll, a bundle of sticks bound by twine and dressed in rags. A discarded toy? A mocking effigy? The hair you imagine yourself to have is bundles of broken hay, sticking out like a series of spikes. Of course, this does not fit in with what you have seen of yourself in the mirror: your mind is playing tricks on you. You are wrong about yourself.

THE CAPTAIN: Slow down, ma'am.

And of course, you don't like this image. It's you, the raw and bare essence of you. The awful truth of you and-

THE CAPTAIN: Ma'am! This is not a memory!

This comment strikes you as very weird, so you take heed. It is not your memory. But you remember it, don't you? You remember how you imagined yourself to be, which means that you remember yourself and-

THE CAPTAIN: It's all lost to the depths, ma'am. It's all gone. The memories. It's something else. It's-

What is he talking about?

THE CAPTAIN: A ship is broken on jagged rocks, and a stranded sailor battered by the waves. Washed ashore, she does not remember herself, but she finds a sword at her hand, and an enemy before her, and she slays them as easily as she breaths. But that does not mean she remembers. It's only what has been impressed into her muscle, and her bone, and her. Permission to speak freely?

Tell me more, you think to yourself.

THE CAPTAIN: Very well. We have reached the safe harbor of the night, but the rescue operation has not been fully successful. Most of you is gone. Sank to the bottom. Beyond recovery. What you are experiencing is only the grooves left by who you were.

That still-

THE CAPTAIN: The principle of a drill is that an officer makes his subordinates go through a task over and over and over again, so that it becomes a part of them. So even if they loose their senses, even if they panic, their bodies will snap back at attention when commanded to. This is not who you are right now, ma'am. This is what you did, every night, without fail.

Wallowed in self-pity?

THE LOVERS: Are you really asking this question?

THE CAPTAIN: It's the flotsam. Pieces of the cargo. You should scavenge it, for what it is worth.

Right so- you are a profoundly sad woman who is fatally in lust with someone you have harmed, and who has made every wrong move available to her, and yet persevered in spite of it all, because the Work cannot be abandoned. And you have been like that for so long that- Oh, you don't like this thought. You really don't those tracks your consciousness slides into.

THE CAPTAIN: It doesn't matter. It won't stop you. You will carry on, no matter what.

His words should ring empty, the kind of bald-faced lie sold to children to convince them that they are stronger than the world, which is a way to get them killed quickly. But no, you accept them with neither hope, nor despair, but quiet acknowledgment that they are, in fact, absolutely true. You will carry on, no matter what. Because - and this is where he was leading you into - it's also track for your soul to follow, ground as deep into the surface of you as self-pity, lust, or love for power.

You open your eyes and stare at the ceiling. You turn your head and see the great shape of Ciara hunched by the flame. The register of the days' failures and humiliations unfolds before you, and you relive every little shape and failure you have endured. And yet, none of it chips away at the despairing, heartbroken certainty that when you wake up tomorrow, you will continue on your voyage. In fact, you are absolutely certain that if the heavens were to collapse and the sky to die, it would not stop you. Under the covers, you touch the ragged edges of your wound - could death put an end to this quest, or would you persevere in spite of it? You suspect you know the answer.

OCCULT (DIFFICULT):

CHECK SUCCESS

It's almost inappropriate, you realize, for what you ostensibly are. Your kind - the star-eyed viziers, stewards of fate, and subtle agents of necessity - is not given to such foolhardiness. No, the Bureau of Destiny prizes itself on prudence, on counting risks against benefits, and cutting the losses when they have gotten too high. Have you not put an end to a golden age, just because you counted the fall of the world against the evil of it, and chose the safer option? It's unbecoming of a Sidereal. It's lunacy. It belongs to the children of a different divinity.

EMBASSSY (DIFFICULT):

CHECK SUCCESS

So this is what Ciara sees in you.

THE SORCERER: You are not like her!

THE LOVERS: She is not like you.

But- but you have something of Luna in yourself, don't you? Not literally, but- you are mad, and broken, and foolish. And yet, you push on.

THE CROW: Even though you know it's impossible.

So is surviving a sword driven straight through your heart. Or, for that matter, getting out of the bed in the morning.

THE CROW: You just keep telling yourself that, because you have no alternative.

Because there is no alternative. And this is what Ciara sees in you. What Ciara appreciates in you. What Ciara defends from the world. The moon smiles upon the mad, and those who refuse to take the hint. You got it!

[ ] Enthusiastically announce to Ciara that you have figured out what her deal is.
[ ] Actually go to sleep.

 

[Gargulec]

The brilliant raptor hit the spectral ship head-on, the mouth of the spell opening up as if to swallow the hostile vessel in one gulp. As far as metaphors went, this one was too far off the mark: scarlet flames swept across the deck and the rigging, for a moment turning the gloom of the Underworld's night into a festival of fire. Ships of the living tended to die slowly, yielding to the sea with rugged defiance; ships of the dead could sail for days with their hulls split open and black, stygian waters filling the hold, before finally giving to the depths. But there was no enduring this fire. Words like "burn" or "incinerate" couldn't do justice to what did to its target, and the word "ashes" gave too much credence to what remained of it. Below the dark surface, tiny red embers refused to gutter out as the flames kept on eating the unfortunate spectre sailors, all the way to the bottom.

The sorceress exhaled, and shook her slender sword above her head, dissipating the green haze wisping around her. Emerlad flecks glinted across the surface of her large eyes, merry in destruction.

"See?" she demanded. "They are no longer gaining on us."

Ceites Wind-Torn, once a high priest of a renegade sea god, and now - long centuries after his brutal parting from the seas of Creation - among the most famous free captains to sail the dead seas of the Underworld, shook his head. Bone fetishes ringing his wide hat clacked one into another, rattling in disappointment.

"And how many more can you burn like that?" he asked, his eight tentacles pulling him across the forecastle's rotten floor, and closer to his passenger, and the source of his misery. "Ten? Twenty?"

"At least," she repeated, stabbing towards the open sky with her sword. "If not more."

"A hundred?" he didn't let his voice raise, or the hook in it show. Still, she stopping bragging suddenly, her eyes driving into him. He shook his head again. "I was wrong to take you on, my dear. You lied to me."

His good hand swept the line of the horizon. How good the living woman's eyes were, he could not tell, but his could see where the bleak waters were already starting to roil, at the edge of sight, as the old sunken armadas were pulled from their abyssal graveyard and brought wailing to the surface, bleak, determined hunger glowing in the emptied pits of their captains' long-lost eyes.

"You said you invoked the wrath of the princes of this realm, and I am always happy to defy them," he said as the ships took form, green and light fires lining the rigging, dead hate playing the role of sails well enough. "But you have gone farther than that. Beyond the pale, beyond the surface."

She opened her mouth to protest, but Celtes, being well-accustomed to her tirades, didn't let her start.

"Had I known I would be evading the navies of the Labyrinth, I would have never let you onboard."

His ship - his ship which was him, because under the Calendar, the rules of physical matter were loose at best, and easily gave to will strong enough - was fast. He built it out of each of his exploits; each plank of the hull a foe outran, each nail holding it together a daring dead, each sail cut from the cloth of Underworld's barren fame. His ship, which was him, was as fast as any in the realm of the dead. But it could not outrun hunger; it could never match the speed of oblivion.

"I will tear the sky open," the woman said, face darkening. "Do you have any idea just how much can I do? I will invoke upon them the kind of fury those waters have never seen, and I will bring down the sky before they reach us, and..."

"Hush," Celtes waved her off. With his good hand, he caressed the edge of his hat, feeling the little bit of history trapped in each fetish rimming it. This one for when he made the fool out of the old prince of Stygia. That for when the rueful new kings of Underworld declared him a scoundrel and promised a treasury of grave goods for his capture. So many deeds; such grand weight. "Boil the seas, if you want, and it won't be enough. You can't outfight the Labyrinth's hate. But I have promised to ferry you safely to Stygia, have I not?"

"You have," she muttered, frowning.

"And I will make good on that."

Once the decision was made, it was almost easy to follow up on it. Maybe in ages past he would have thought it another death, and resisted as fiercely as he would his own destruction. But aeons of stasis wear down even on the most resolute, so maybe it was not dying, but rather something harder, and greater. Change.

With a jerk of a hand, he plucked the first great deed from the fabric of his soul, and threw the fetish down into the sea. Whatever it was, he could no longer remember; only regret remained, shockingly sweet. His fingers closed around the next little piece of bone.

"What are you doing?" the woman demanded to know.

"Emptying the holds," he said, throwing his greatness away one memory at a time, so it may no longer weigh down on him, and they may outrun the void. His ship was - he was - among the fastest in the Underworld. But all the history it carried slowed it down, and in the chase the hunger of neverborn gods gave, he could not afford to keep it. Now, he offered it, piece by piece, the very foes hungering for his charge. So why not let them have it, piecemeal?

To the pursuers, the waves carried shreds and dregs of Celtes and his ship, and being of nothing, but hunger, they slowed down to fish them out of the sea, and gorged on them, and lost their drive to hunt. For each hostile ship, he had a deed to give up. For each enemy driven to hunt him down, he gave up a part of himself, until so little remained of him as to slip through any closing hand, so light on the water that even oblivion could not catch up to it.

By the time the dead armadas vanished behind the horizon, all that remained of Celtes, and his his ship, was the knowledge he had promised to outrun the hunger no one else ever dared to challenge, and made good on his word. They made it to the harbor of some dreary city called Stygia not long ago, and ghosts of all ages hailed him as if he was some kind of a hero, or a rogue. Faces that were familiar greeted him, and all he could offer to them was a sad admission of loss.

"I liked that trick, actually," his passenger said, before they parted. "I can work with it."

Spoiler: The Thought Cabinet

Peaks and Valleys (Complete)
You have taken so many shortcuts on your path to power that it is frankly surprising you have not gotten yourself killed on it just yet, though not for the lack of trying. On the other hand, the fact that your absurdly unwise strategies in the pursuit of cosmic power and sorcerous supremacy have actually borne out results attests either to an Incarna-offending luck, or once-in-a-generation type of talent. Take your pick, and your power trip.
Occult +2 (An actual prodigy)
Navigate +1 (Chased through the sky)
Integrity -1 (Learned all the wrong lessons)
Special: Your sorcery is more powerful and less predictable than it would otherwise be.

Emptying the Holds (Complete)
During your travels across the Underworld (which you do not remember), you have learned that the soul is really just an ablative armor for the will inside. You have applied this lesson in order to blunt a mortal blow, so that it only killed most of you, and not all of you. In fact, you managed to redirected the strike away from the parts that you thought were the most important, even as you sacrificed everything else. The downside is that your memories are probably mostly, irrevocably gone. The upside is that this neat trick may come in handy again.
Medicine: -1 (Not how bodies are supposed to work)
Fortitude +2 (Not how bodies work)
Special: You may sacrifice parts of your soul to survive physical trauma.

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.

Employee Termination Notice
The Heaven wants you dead, which is in no ways a metaphor or an exaggeration. An agent of the Violet Bier of Sorrows has been dispatched to eliminate you, despite you being another member of the Bureau of Destiny. This degree of official sanction is seldom heard of, and usually reserved only for major threats to the fabric of destiny, the interests of Heaven, and goodness of Creation as a whole. It's probably a good thing to try to figure out why.
Presence -1 (Self-conscious)
Awareness +1 (Justifiably paranoid)
8 hours.

Material Conditions for Continuous Operation
The Chosen are known for their resilience to hardships and ability to go on in conditions that would leave a mortal dead. You choose to exploit this to avoid eating, bathing, sleeping properly, or doing any other thing which is usually required for a body to keep on going and for a person to be considered human and not a mobile disaster zone. This glaring and repeated neglect of the basics of self-care may not be only down to your present circumstances, but it may actually indicate some deeper problem.
Integrity -1 (Self-careless)
Embassy -1 (Wallowing)
Presence -1 (Have you seen yourself in the mirror?)
8 hours.

Death Be Not Proud
You have dealings with the Neverborn, the monstrous entities who are dead, and yet impossibly alive. Furthermore, you can hear their whispers, and actually feel a degree of empathy for them. This is all extremely concerning.
Integrity +1 (Sublime emptiness)

You are currently thinking of Peaks and Valleys (Complete) and Emptying the Holds (Complete). You can swap out your thoughts when you sleep.

[ ] Do not swap your thoughts.
[ ] Swap thoughts.
-[ ] Which?

THIS IS AN IMPACTFUL VOTE

 

[Gargulec]

You dream of mountains when you sleep, which is how you know that you sleep well. Those lofty peaks - some day, you will return to them, and you will walk along a snaking ridge stretched like a curtain between sharp peaks, watching in quiet awe the slow roil of morning mists flowing down towards the valley. Some day, you will return to them and...

CIARA: "Wake the fuck up."

GAUNTLET: Dreams are useless when reality is at stake. Wake the fuck up.

The Lunar crouches over you, the long strings of her hair almost brushing against the surface of your face. The fire is dead; the air bitterly cold. Even under your layer of blankets and furs, you shiver. It is not a welcome start to a day.

CIARA: "I tracked down your colleague."

You react in a weird way - it is one of those bone-deep reflexes that have remained in you even as you flensed memories from your soul. Your head jolts up, trying to get a glimpse of Ciara's hands, to see if there is - the name is gone from your mind, leaving behind an empty wound, as if a teeth torn out of its socket - blood on them. But they are clean. You feel relief.

CIARA: "She walked straight into a rock face, way down in the valley. It's where her trail ends."

OCCULT (NORMAL):

CHECK SUCCESS

"An elemental court," you say before the rest of you has the time to consider the information. Some things, you just know. "Kobolds. Maybe rockwyrms. Probably not oreads, it would be closer to the peak..."

THE SORCERER: It is a shame. Oreads, being weak of will and bountiful of allure, would yield easily to the powers at your disposal.

You imagine oreads yielding easily to the powers at your disposal. You swallow. Ciara taps her foot impatiently.

"...unless, of course, it is a sanctuary of the local valley god."

CIARA: "Yeah, I figured as much. Tell me something I don't know."

Again, you hear yourself speaking before your sleep-deprived mind gets a third through looking for a sufficiently interesting fact to share with Ciara.

"Whatever spirits dwell inside, it is likely they are guarding a gate to Heaven."

Ciara frowns. She lifts herself up and ambles towards the door, kicking it open. Freezing wind blows inside as she stuffs tobacco into her pipe and lights it; you try to keep your teeth from clattering, mostly in vain.

CIARA: "I was about to ask why can't I smell her anywhere in Creation."

THE SORCERER: Because, being a simple animal, she possesses only the basest senses, which, even when honed through the muscular apparatus of her Essence cannot properly encompass the whole of-

The Lunar turns your back to you; you imagine the play of muscles on her mighty back; you glimpse the predatory outline of her profile, and the confident way she holds her pipe like she would hold a-

THE CAPTAIN: Eyes on the road, ma'am.

CIARA: "Before we take this conversation any further, I need to have some clarity here. You are about to tell me that we need to follow her into Yu-Shan?"

[ ] Yes.
[ ] No.
[ ] You have just suggested it first, it's your idea.

​

 

[Gargulec]

[X] You have just suggested it first, it's your idea.

Click to shrink...

Ciara sends in a smoke ring towards the overcast sky. Once. Twice. Thrice. Through her extending silence, you ruminate on what you have just said. It is not very pleasant.

CIARA: "You've managed to get your star-specked colleagues to try to off you."

She sounds defeated, or at least deflated.

CIARA: "Which is no mean feat, considering how infamously cliquish your lot is."

A few specks of ash fly off the tip of her hand; she throws them to the snow-strewn gravel outside.

CIARA: "And I am pretty sure that some of your bosses still remember me from that night when they decided to tear the sun from the sky. Speaking poetically."

LORE (NORMAL):

CHECK SUCCESS

THE GAUNTLET: She means the Solar Purge. The necessary decrease of Creation's greatness, so that it was allowed to endure.

THE SORCERER: She means the Usurpation. The terrible crime of robbing us all of a brighter future.

EMBASSY (DIFFICULT):

CHECK SUCCESS

THE LOVERS: Can you hear it in her voice? More than a millenium has passed, and she still has not forgiven you.

Me?

THE LOVERS: Any of you, you idiot.

CIARA: "As much as I'd like to tear some of their hearts out and offer them to gods long dead and forgotten, I don't really fancy the idea of a rematch with the likes of Kejak. That shrivelled prick's still alive, isn't he?"

She knocks the pipe against the doorframe to dislodge the last of the ash, then returns inside. Her spear bends towards her outstretched arm, twisting itself into a series of ornate bracelets clinking along the length of her arm.

CIARA: "But the more I think about it, the less I can imagine anything else left for us to try. So good job, Bird Bones. You are right."

THE LOVERS: Don't take it the wrong way.

THE SORCERER: Shut up. Of course we're right.

You smile. Of course you're right. Ciara's idea was excellent. The Lunar tugs at her collar, trying to slip a finger under the starmetal weave. The device responds in kind, contorting ever so slightly, sinewy, snakelike.

CIARA: "We are going on a trip to Heaven. And probably to die."

[ ] Heaven is not that bad.
[ ] The Fivefold Fellowship is not that bad.
[ ] I'm sorry I've dragged you into this.
[ ] I don't want to die.

 

[Gargulec]

[X] I'm sorry I've dragged you into this.

Click to shrink...

CIARA: "Sorry enough to release me from my bondage?"

"No."

CIARA: "Then shut the fuck up, get dressed, and let's go."

She storms out, her last night's outburst echoing in her heavy footsteps.

THE LOVERS: Did you really think it was going to work?

THE CAPTAIN: Eyes on the road, ma'am.

Some time later, you find yourself very cold, rather miserable, and facing a moss-mottled rock face at the bottom of an overhanging crag. Nothing about it suggests anything supernatural, but you can - very faintly - feel the knotted threads of ancient essence of earth pulsating within it. Somewhere deep below where you are, the geomantic nexus of the valley resides, the dragon-lines spreading upwards like sprouts from a jade-white seed.

OCCULT (DIFFICULT):

CHECK SUCCESS

Careful not to wake anything up, eyes half-closed, you run your fingers against the soft moss. A single mote of your essence flows into the mountain's veins, tracing a path of faint brilliance. Your breathing slows, and unnecessary thoughts fade from your mind, replaced by the sense of the old rock's vastness.

Do you hear the wind? It's how the mountain breathes. It's heartbeat may be measured in centuries, but it is a living thing, no less than you, Ciara, the seas, the skies, or the endless rolls of destiny the future of Creation is woven from. It lives, and its somewhere behind this curtain of stone.

"It's a mountainheart," you announce, and in an instant all the unpleasantries of the day, all the little heartbreaks and great fears abandon you. In a moment, you will see a real mountainheart, in its intimate seat of glory.

CIARA: "Shit. Is it awake?"

Few are. They are souls of first pebbles from which mountains grew, as old as they are enormous, their memories reaching like roots into the very foundation of creation. Unlike mountain gods who place their thrones upon summits and make peaks their sanctuaries, they reside at the bottom of things, and attract little worship, though much respect. They are what men mean when they say that impassive are those great mountains, indifferent to our lives. Most mountainhearts were ancient when the Exalted were young, and already tired of waking. To stir one up from its slumber is a great crime, and a greater danger. Hardly surprising, then, that it's been entrusted with keeping a gate to Heaven safe.

You let the flicker of your essence burn out; the mountain does not award you with its attention.

"No."

CIARA: "Good."

You withdraw your hand, smilingly unsteadily. That the mountainheart is asleep means safety for you, but also no easy way into its sanctuary, where the gate presumably awaits. You consider your options.

THE LOVERS: You could always debase yourself a bit. Make a sacrifice.

Even in its sleep, the ancient elemental should respond to a fitting rite. It shouldn't be too difficult. But-

THE GAUNTLET: The price will be steep.

Mountains are not greedy, but they demand much. You can't sway one with a petty offering. You glance at your bags, currently on Ciara's back. Maybe one of your artifacts? You recall a small glacial lake not far from where you are. You could bury it there, part with a treasure.

THE SORCER: Don't be ridiculous. You are not some mortal worshipper slitting a firstborn's throat to ask Our Lady of the Valleys to spare you from avalanches. You are a Chosen! Ancient or not, it is a spirit. Have we not punished and humiliated them at the beginning of time? Do we not wield the power over their form and future?

You could negotiate, too. Wake it gently, and make your case. In your soul, the whole firmament fits. It's only a mountain, after all. You don't have to be intimidated by its size.

THE CAPTAIN: Careful. Don't smash yourself against the rocks again.

Of course it is a risk. Mountainhearts are not quick to anger, but they are far too proud to bend for nothing, and once they set their mind on a course, there is no averting it. And besides, just starting negotiation means ripping this one up to wakefulness. That alone is a risk.

CIARA: "So, what's your plan for getting in? I hope it's not the Magma Kraken."

There is a mild note of sarcasm in her voice. But the idea is not as preposterous as it may appear. The sanctum is sealed by wards and will, and what do you have if not the key to all such mysteries? You could just try to slip in unnoticed. Your would-be assassin probably did the same. Your fingers curl around the hilt of your ritual blade. A small working, for a small opening.

CIARA: "Luna's mercy, you are really considering this?"

"Yes? You just suggested it."

CIARA: "I was being facetious, you absolute moron! Do you know what they are capable of?"

THE SORCERER: You are. Which is why you absolutely should not back down, and show this mountain just what Celestial Circle sorcery is capable of. And you will finally prove to this swarthy brute that you are not to be trifled with.

[ ] Make a sacrifice to the mountainheart.
[ ] Attempt to negotiate with the mountainheart.
[ ] Force your way in with sorcery, consequences be damned.

THIS IS A MEANINGFUL VOTE

 

[Gargulec]

[X] Attempt to negotiate with the mountainheart.

Click to shrink...

"Wake, sleeper!"

CIARA: "What are you..."

"Shh," you put a finger to your lips. A strange sort of calm comes over you; the crisp mountain earth, the flow of essence under your fingertips, the great spirit you invoke - all of this feels so very familiar. Why?

THE SORCERER: Creation-Ruling Mandate. It is your due.

In your hand, there is your ritual blade, pointed at the lofty sky above.

"Wake, sleeper," you repeat, your voice reverberating with authority. How does it sound?

THE CAPTAIN: Gentle. Calm. Collected. There is no need to shout, no need to posture. Hold your sceptre high, and let all Creation see it.

To your side, Ciara takes a step back, frowning at the mountain face, but mostly at you.

The mountainheart is not quick to stir, but stir it does. The mountain's shadow falls on you, and in it a presence makes itself known. It comes upon you as a weight of stone, and of time.

INTEGRITY (DIFFICULT):

CHECK FAILED

THE LOVERS: Do you know why you love mountains so much?

Your knees buckle. You drop down, knelt by the great presence. Still, your blade stabs at the sky, emerald motes flaking off it like sparks from a guttering torch.

THE LOVERS: Your heart pines for everything that you can never match.

You strain to look up; when you do, the enormous peak fills your entire vision, a granite tower whose summit scrapes stars from the sky. It wept, once, at the passing of the age; its tears carved gullies in impressionable stone, and pooled in frigid lakes. Sunlight, blotted for you, scatters on their surface, exploding in showers of brilliance that like a pair of eyes. The mountain looks down upon you and speaks in the voice of a landslide.

THE MOUNTAINHEART: INTERLOPER. SLEEP-BREAKER. WHAT ARE YOU?

[ ] Name yourself first.
[ ] Bird Bones, of the House of Secrets.
[ ] A humble pilgrim, begging for attention.
[ ] A scion of Brigid and an adept of the Art, demanding an audience.

 

[Gargulec]

[X] Name yourself first.

Click to shrink...

THE MOUNTAINHEART: I AM THE IBEXHORN, WHO CROWNS THE SPEAR MOUNTAINS. I WAS PLANTED BY THE ANCIENTS BEFORE THE MOST HIGH TOOK TO THE SKY, AND HOLD YOUR FALLEN AGE IN CONTEMPT.

Behind you, Ciara whistles. You are not sure if to interpret it as her being impressed, her being catty, or her considering if she could wrestle the thing.

THE IBEXHORN: I DREAMED OF THE SKY AS IT USED TO BE, AND OF GREATNESS YOUR KIND HAS STOLEN FROM US.

OCCULT (DIFFICULT):

CHECK SUCCESS

THE SORCERER: Mountainhearts, being ultimately little more than overgrown boulders with delusions of grandeur, tend to align itself with the similarly short-sighted and unrefined erstewhile kings of the world, now thankfully imprisoned in the ingenious trap of the Jade Prison...

THE CAPTAIN: Wait. You are not Gold?

THE SORCER: We were meant to rule this world!

You nod at the mountain, and acknowledge its longing for a greater time. It strikes a chord with you.

THE IBEXHORN: HOW DO YOU PLEAD?

Instantly, the course of your action becomes clear to you. This mountain represents the authority of Heaven, which is why it has been entrusted with guarding a gate to it. This means that that this mountain itself is a way in, and you know just the key to open it.

"Guilty."

CIARA: "What the fuck?"

The peak itself seems to bend in surprise. A few loose boulders shake off it as your sudden confession stirs it entirely out of its disinterest with the affairs of your age.

THE IBEXHORN: CONTINUE?

You consider your guilt.

INTEGRITY (LEGENDARY):

CHECK FAILED

You confess what's inscribed in your bones.

"I have violated the laws of Heaven, of Creation, of the Underworld, and of basic human decency. I lust after my coworkers, have repeatedly summoned demons just to entertain my longing, binding innocent, living Essence to my pathetic desires, which is also the reason why I shy away from summoning. I avoid social obligations, especially birthdays, and sneer upon martial artists in my Division, because I think that being able to break things with your hands is just inferior to..."

THE CAPTAIN: ...

THE SORCERER: ...

THE GAUNTLET: ...is there a point?

THE LOVERS: Wait for it.

"...sorcery, of which I am a master, but which I have learned illicitly, which is against the rules of the Bureau of Destiny. I have demanded training under the sign of the Lovers for reasons which are wholly unrelated to my duties, and therefore wasted official Bureau of Serenity Resources. I..."

THE IBEXHORN: PLEASE STOP. I GET IT.

You close your eyes and await the judgement you deserve. Fate shifts.

CHARM REMEMBERED: Expedited Approval of Justice

When you open them again, you and Ciara are sitting in fresh, drab tunics, locked in a small cell. Through the small, barred window, you see the unmistakable quicksilver wonder of Yu-Shan's towering skyline.

CIARA: "I don't know what to say."

[ ] Neat trick, isn't it?
[ ] [Lie] By the way, nothing I said was true.
[ ] We get into Heaven, and without anyone noticing. You should, probably, praise me for that.