[X] Embassy: the ways of politeness, empathy, and falsehood.
[X] Integrity: the core of the self, and the ability to reflect on that self.
[X] Occult: hidden knowledge, forbidden knowledge, sorcerous knowledge, exalted knowledge.
[X] Emptying the Holds
[X] Peaks and Valleys
We are C O N S T R U C T E D I N A N U N O R T H O D O X F A S H I O N.
[X] Awareness: arts of seeing, noticing, and paying attention.
[X] Integrity: the core of the self, and the ability to reflect on that self.
[X] Occult: hidden knowledge, forbidden knowledge, sorcerous knowledge, exalted knowledge.
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", "recognition of one's limits".
[X] Embassy: the ways of politeness, empathy, and falsehood.
[X] Integrity: the core of the self, and the ability to reflect on that self.
[X] Occult: hidden knowledge, forbidden knowledge, sorcerous knowledge, exalted knowledge.
[X] Peaks and Valleys
[X] Most Deceitful Star
Being convinced that the constellation of "bare truth and unquestionable honesty" is the most deceitful star is sure a thing, alright. Seems to bear ruminating on.
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!
With fervor and fever, you recall the old story of Brigid lost in the the ruins of the discarded world of Zen-Mu, with nothing but her mantle and her indomitable will.
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: "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?"
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?
