It's the first days of Spring. The sun is high and bright in the clear blue sky, the wind...
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[Exalted] Ain’t No Devil
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Chapter One: Blood And Sand
ZerbanDaGreat
Daemon Noble of D E M O G R A P H I C S
- Pronouns
- They/them
It's the first days of Spring. The sun is high and bright in the clear blue sky, the wind smelling faintly of salt as it blows in from a sea that sparkles like sapphire. The air rides that razor-thin magin, neither too hot nor too cold, the kind of day the word 'balmy' was invented to describe. A man could drift off in the shade and awaken an hour later, comfortable and refreshed.
You're grateful for the air that rushes over you, cooling the sweat on your skin, as you hurl yourself to the ground and roll. You feel the tremor through the sand as the hammer falls, hear the dull boom of an impact that throws sand high into the air all around. You come up from your roll on one knee and twist toward the other man, bare arms bulging as you bring your weapon around. He's misjudged your range again - or maybe he just didn't think you were strong enough to lift the damn thing from this position. His options boil down to 'let you live' or 'risk losing a leg' and he chooses what anyone would. He jerks his leading leg back as your massive blade slices through the air it used to occupy and backs up a few more paces, teeth gritted in a frustrated snarl. You rise to your full height and swing your sword around, letting it rest at a waist-high guard position.
You tilt your head with a soft 'tsk'. He exhales like a set of furious bellows, bringing the hammer down into his free hand with a meaty smack. The roar of the crowd dulls, ring after tiered ring of onlookers shifting forward to the edges of their benches - if they weren't already there - and holding their breath as one.
It's the first days of Spring and the annual Festival of Cleansing Air is in full swing. Out there people are revelling in the streets or watching the parades or taking boats down the petal-strewn waterways with their sweethearts, but in here? In here people know where the real action is. The Festival pulls people from all over the satrap, but the Tournament of Ten Winds casts the net even wider. For some it's the prize money. For some it's the fame. For some it's just the rare chance to duel in the presence of living divinity - for every battle takes place beneath the watchful eye of four highly-decorated dignitaries from the House of the White Swallow and its venerable patriarch himself. The latter is never seen to use his draconic form in public, but the way his keen eye gleams from up in the VIP box, the heavenly insight is palpable. For you, it's a little of all three.
It's midmorning on the third day of the tournament and you're in the semi-finals up against this immense bastard that you had pegged to be a problem from day one. He fucking scythed through the melee like a farmer reaping the season's crop, but still there was too much chaff between him and you to settle things early before the gong rang. Fucking amateurs, crowding the bottom of the lists for a couple free meals and a chance to look tough for their girls.
The aformentioned immense bastard calls himself the Bull of the White Sea. Claims he's descended from the Bull of the North himself, and it's not impossible. He's got a full foot on you easily, his scarred hide dark and thick as leather, his head crowned by a pair of massive horns. Really it's just the very human face snarling at you and the fact he's got sandals on instead of hooves that give away the fact that he's only a beastblood, not the full thing. He's barely clothed, just a fur loincloth compared to your breastplate and helm, but that doesn't matter much either way. His warhammer's practically the size of you and he knows know to use it. But you decide to check again, just to be sure.
You come at him from an oblique angle, feinting low only to circle around and cut for the shoulder. Steel rings on steel as he catches it on the banded haft, just below the head. Repels you with a flex of arms as thick as your legs before you can do anything tricky like slice his fingers off. You go with the rebound, duck the retaliation sweep that would've decapitated you and aim another cut for his barrel-like stomach. Clang. He catches it below the head, but this time he's had enough. He uses the hammerhead like a hook and sweeps your blade off-course, around and around until you're off-balance. Thump, a single footfall feels like a tremor deep in the earth. His grinning face rushes forward to meet you beneath a brow just as lethal as his hammer.
Your core flexes. One hand slips free of the blade. You use its weight like a fulcrum as you lean out of range, swing around, and drive your fist into his kidney. Just a dull smack like you punched a cow carcass, a grunt more of annoyance than pain, but you didn't plan to stop there anyway. You keep turning and you drive your knee into the back of his. That gives him something to think about. You take a single step back, just enough to give yourself room, draw your sword back and swing. He's got good instincts. He whirls around, pivots on his kicked knee despite the pain and swings his hammer right back at you. Your weapons collide head-on with an almighty CLANGGGGG and it feels like your bones try to shake free of your arms. You stagger back, barely stop yourself toppling over, and by the time you've righted yourself so has he.
The crowd is going wild for this. It's hard to tell who they're even rooting for at this point - probably neither. You're sure that's why they threw you two at each other for the semis. Whoever wins gets to fight the real hero of the tournament tomorrow. Today they just want blood. There's a certain honesty in that. You can respect it. Doesn't matter much to you right now. What does is the fact that that collision knocked a noticeable chip out of your sword like a tooth out of a smile. Bull's hammer isn't looking so hot either, but he's got a whole lot more blunt fuck-you metal to work with. If you keep dancing around clashing with him, it's not gonna be you that comes out on top. If you want out, you need to end this now. Decisively.
Your favourite.
You hold your sword low and back, tip scraping a furrow in the sands as you charge forward. It's a rush so suicidal that it gives even the Bull pause, just for a moment. Wondering what you're playing at only to decide he doesn't care. He knows you're going low so he swings from on high, his hammer poised to descend like a meteor from the heavens- no, it's a feint! Once you're too close to break off or change course he switches angles, letting it drop only to swing around low from the left. Whatever he hits - ribs, arm, skull - he'll shatter. One love-tap and you die. Your feet pound across the warm white sands, all of Creation seeming to slow to a crawl as you watch that cracked steel hammer come for you. Once nice, clean hit and maybe you'd be dead before you realised. Just darkness and nothing. When the alternative is being crippled, you take what you can get.
But he's misjudged your range again. Assumed you were trying to strike him in the ankles as you ran past like some runt wolf with a knife in its jaws. Your blade rises and rises, your whole body tilting left as you haul against its weight. Your massive sword goes completely vertical and descends even as his hammer rushes up to meet you.
You go blind. You go deaf. You only have touch left as you go spinning, sprawling, fall broken only by the sand. You barely keep your grip on your sword, and even so its weight nearly yanks your arm from your socket. Your head is ringing, keening loud inside your ear like a trapped insect, pain throbbing behind your eyes like a second pulse. You force your eyes open and you see light. Blue sky. You aren't blind. You aren't dead.
You're still half-deaf, bu you hear Bull's hideous scream all the same as blood fountains from the stump that once was his arm, falling like red rain to stain the sands blossom-pink. You wonder, idly, where his arm landed.
THNK. His hammer lands beside you, arm still attached in a death-grip that will never slacken. Oh, there it is.
You let out a low groan from deep in your chest, slowly rolling over and forcing yourself to rise. The whining is fading, slowly but surely, only to be replaced by the cacophanous roar of the crowd. The way they're carrying on you'd think you just gave them the best show they've had in years. You grin mirthlessly up at the throng. And taste copper. Mnrgh. You spit bloody phlegm and dab at your cheek - ah, you're bleeding. And your helmet is gone, you realise much belatedly. It's lying in the sand several feet away, straps snapped, half caved-in. No blacksmith's going to be resurrecting that, so you leave it. Instead you shoulder your sword, puffing and panting to catch your breath even if your lungs are burning hotter than any fire. Bull's fallen to his knees by now, his screams finally died down to heavy huffs and gasps of agony, his remaining hand clasped white-knuckle tight over the sucking wound that used to be his shoulder. A guy his size, he might just paint the whole pit red.
The shape of the chanting changes. It's not just wild cheering and various shouts of utter disbelief any more. It's time for the fun part, the time they save for the semis and the finals. With Bull so thoroughly disarmed, the white-robed announcer standing by the VIP box calls for a vote. Will the people allow the medics to rush into the pit and attempt to save the beastblood pirate's miserable life, he asks, or shall they see the gravewalking mercenary perform the final coup de grace? If you thought the crowd were loud before, are you ever in for a shock. You grimace as the noise builds, rushing in one ear and mingling with the endless whine in the other.
You walk away. It's not five steps before the crowd that was losing its mind in awe of your audacity turns to boos and jeers. More than a few of them go right to calling you a coward. Some demand you come back and finish the job, others are content to just hurl general abuse. It's not surprising. It all mostly just rolls off your shoulders, flowing together into mixed-up white noise. The pit doors you first came through open as you approach, medics rushing past you with a stretcher and supplies. Huh. Guess they defaulted to trying to save him. Maybe it wouldn't be as fun watching him slowly bleed to death. Either way it's out of your hands now. You step out of the light and the noise, back into the cool and relatively calm shade of the lower levels. Your blood is buzzing in your veins, your head is pounding but your mind is clear. One more down. Tomorrow's the big one, all or nothing.
You see the medics once they're done with Bull, obviously. The steel-haired man with rock-steady hands who stitches up your temple doesn't say anything about how reckless you were, but his pursed lips and resigned stare say everything. You don't mention it. You're used to that too. He cleans up and moves on, always more work to be done, and you move to the washbasin to clean off the rest of the blood drying on your cheek and matted in your hair. There's a small silver-backed mirror set on the wall behind it, maybe for the fighters who prefer to treat their own wounds. You've never been one to deliberately seek out your reflection, but it's there whether you like it or not, and it draws your eye.
You've always been pale, no matter how long you sweated and bled farming and fighting in the fields. You run colder than most, enough that a simple touch of your hand is usually enough to get people complaining. Your close-cropped hair is black as night save for a bone-white lock that hangs almost down to your dark eyes, and when you look closer you can just make out the shadowed shapes of your veins. And, to top it all off, you're probably due a shave. You grumble under your breath and splash one last cupped handful of cold water on your face, drying your hands on your trousers.
You'll have to find a blacksmith willing to do a rush order on fixing up your sword. No use leaving it to shatter on you tomorrow and squander all your hard work. But it's still early, barely noon even, and there's plenty to see and do with the Festival is in town. Question is, the hell do you even want to do all day?
[ ] Go get drunk. Okay not drunk-drunk, not the day before the big day. You'll be responsible for once, keep it low-key. Find somewhere nice and affordable and just watch the hours fly by.
[ ] Go eat. Not what they feed the fighters here, it's too frou-frou fancy for your blood. You need something cheap in vast quantities that you can dig into and sleep off overnight.
[ ] Get a massage. Hey, why not? You've been beat all to shit today, might help keep you limber for tomorrow. Assuming anyone in town is willing to get that close even if you pay them.
[ ] Watch the parade. If you go early you can probably find a good spot to stand where you won't be surrounded by more screaming cheering people and their children. You've never bothered before but hey, maybe it's not that bad.
[ ] Go down to the harbour. Most shipping is prohibited during the Festival and everyone's either in town for the parade or in the arena for the semis and the side-bouts. It'll be quiet by the waterfront. Quiet's good. You can think with quiet.
You're grateful for the air that rushes over you, cooling the sweat on your skin, as you hurl yourself to the ground and roll. You feel the tremor through the sand as the hammer falls, hear the dull boom of an impact that throws sand high into the air all around. You come up from your roll on one knee and twist toward the other man, bare arms bulging as you bring your weapon around. He's misjudged your range again - or maybe he just didn't think you were strong enough to lift the damn thing from this position. His options boil down to 'let you live' or 'risk losing a leg' and he chooses what anyone would. He jerks his leading leg back as your massive blade slices through the air it used to occupy and backs up a few more paces, teeth gritted in a frustrated snarl. You rise to your full height and swing your sword around, letting it rest at a waist-high guard position.
You tilt your head with a soft 'tsk'. He exhales like a set of furious bellows, bringing the hammer down into his free hand with a meaty smack. The roar of the crowd dulls, ring after tiered ring of onlookers shifting forward to the edges of their benches - if they weren't already there - and holding their breath as one.
It's the first days of Spring and the annual Festival of Cleansing Air is in full swing. Out there people are revelling in the streets or watching the parades or taking boats down the petal-strewn waterways with their sweethearts, but in here? In here people know where the real action is. The Festival pulls people from all over the satrap, but the Tournament of Ten Winds casts the net even wider. For some it's the prize money. For some it's the fame. For some it's just the rare chance to duel in the presence of living divinity - for every battle takes place beneath the watchful eye of four highly-decorated dignitaries from the House of the White Swallow and its venerable patriarch himself. The latter is never seen to use his draconic form in public, but the way his keen eye gleams from up in the VIP box, the heavenly insight is palpable. For you, it's a little of all three.
It's midmorning on the third day of the tournament and you're in the semi-finals up against this immense bastard that you had pegged to be a problem from day one. He fucking scythed through the melee like a farmer reaping the season's crop, but still there was too much chaff between him and you to settle things early before the gong rang. Fucking amateurs, crowding the bottom of the lists for a couple free meals and a chance to look tough for their girls.
The aformentioned immense bastard calls himself the Bull of the White Sea. Claims he's descended from the Bull of the North himself, and it's not impossible. He's got a full foot on you easily, his scarred hide dark and thick as leather, his head crowned by a pair of massive horns. Really it's just the very human face snarling at you and the fact he's got sandals on instead of hooves that give away the fact that he's only a beastblood, not the full thing. He's barely clothed, just a fur loincloth compared to your breastplate and helm, but that doesn't matter much either way. His warhammer's practically the size of you and he knows know to use it. But you decide to check again, just to be sure.
You come at him from an oblique angle, feinting low only to circle around and cut for the shoulder. Steel rings on steel as he catches it on the banded haft, just below the head. Repels you with a flex of arms as thick as your legs before you can do anything tricky like slice his fingers off. You go with the rebound, duck the retaliation sweep that would've decapitated you and aim another cut for his barrel-like stomach. Clang. He catches it below the head, but this time he's had enough. He uses the hammerhead like a hook and sweeps your blade off-course, around and around until you're off-balance. Thump, a single footfall feels like a tremor deep in the earth. His grinning face rushes forward to meet you beneath a brow just as lethal as his hammer.
Your core flexes. One hand slips free of the blade. You use its weight like a fulcrum as you lean out of range, swing around, and drive your fist into his kidney. Just a dull smack like you punched a cow carcass, a grunt more of annoyance than pain, but you didn't plan to stop there anyway. You keep turning and you drive your knee into the back of his. That gives him something to think about. You take a single step back, just enough to give yourself room, draw your sword back and swing. He's got good instincts. He whirls around, pivots on his kicked knee despite the pain and swings his hammer right back at you. Your weapons collide head-on with an almighty CLANGGGGG and it feels like your bones try to shake free of your arms. You stagger back, barely stop yourself toppling over, and by the time you've righted yourself so has he.
The crowd is going wild for this. It's hard to tell who they're even rooting for at this point - probably neither. You're sure that's why they threw you two at each other for the semis. Whoever wins gets to fight the real hero of the tournament tomorrow. Today they just want blood. There's a certain honesty in that. You can respect it. Doesn't matter much to you right now. What does is the fact that that collision knocked a noticeable chip out of your sword like a tooth out of a smile. Bull's hammer isn't looking so hot either, but he's got a whole lot more blunt fuck-you metal to work with. If you keep dancing around clashing with him, it's not gonna be you that comes out on top. If you want out, you need to end this now. Decisively.
Your favourite.
You hold your sword low and back, tip scraping a furrow in the sands as you charge forward. It's a rush so suicidal that it gives even the Bull pause, just for a moment. Wondering what you're playing at only to decide he doesn't care. He knows you're going low so he swings from on high, his hammer poised to descend like a meteor from the heavens- no, it's a feint! Once you're too close to break off or change course he switches angles, letting it drop only to swing around low from the left. Whatever he hits - ribs, arm, skull - he'll shatter. One love-tap and you die. Your feet pound across the warm white sands, all of Creation seeming to slow to a crawl as you watch that cracked steel hammer come for you. Once nice, clean hit and maybe you'd be dead before you realised. Just darkness and nothing. When the alternative is being crippled, you take what you can get.
But he's misjudged your range again. Assumed you were trying to strike him in the ankles as you ran past like some runt wolf with a knife in its jaws. Your blade rises and rises, your whole body tilting left as you haul against its weight. Your massive sword goes completely vertical and descends even as his hammer rushes up to meet you.
You go blind. You go deaf. You only have touch left as you go spinning, sprawling, fall broken only by the sand. You barely keep your grip on your sword, and even so its weight nearly yanks your arm from your socket. Your head is ringing, keening loud inside your ear like a trapped insect, pain throbbing behind your eyes like a second pulse. You force your eyes open and you see light. Blue sky. You aren't blind. You aren't dead.
You're still half-deaf, bu you hear Bull's hideous scream all the same as blood fountains from the stump that once was his arm, falling like red rain to stain the sands blossom-pink. You wonder, idly, where his arm landed.
THNK. His hammer lands beside you, arm still attached in a death-grip that will never slacken. Oh, there it is.
You let out a low groan from deep in your chest, slowly rolling over and forcing yourself to rise. The whining is fading, slowly but surely, only to be replaced by the cacophanous roar of the crowd. The way they're carrying on you'd think you just gave them the best show they've had in years. You grin mirthlessly up at the throng. And taste copper. Mnrgh. You spit bloody phlegm and dab at your cheek - ah, you're bleeding. And your helmet is gone, you realise much belatedly. It's lying in the sand several feet away, straps snapped, half caved-in. No blacksmith's going to be resurrecting that, so you leave it. Instead you shoulder your sword, puffing and panting to catch your breath even if your lungs are burning hotter than any fire. Bull's fallen to his knees by now, his screams finally died down to heavy huffs and gasps of agony, his remaining hand clasped white-knuckle tight over the sucking wound that used to be his shoulder. A guy his size, he might just paint the whole pit red.
The shape of the chanting changes. It's not just wild cheering and various shouts of utter disbelief any more. It's time for the fun part, the time they save for the semis and the finals. With Bull so thoroughly disarmed, the white-robed announcer standing by the VIP box calls for a vote. Will the people allow the medics to rush into the pit and attempt to save the beastblood pirate's miserable life, he asks, or shall they see the gravewalking mercenary perform the final coup de grace? If you thought the crowd were loud before, are you ever in for a shock. You grimace as the noise builds, rushing in one ear and mingling with the endless whine in the other.
You walk away. It's not five steps before the crowd that was losing its mind in awe of your audacity turns to boos and jeers. More than a few of them go right to calling you a coward. Some demand you come back and finish the job, others are content to just hurl general abuse. It's not surprising. It all mostly just rolls off your shoulders, flowing together into mixed-up white noise. The pit doors you first came through open as you approach, medics rushing past you with a stretcher and supplies. Huh. Guess they defaulted to trying to save him. Maybe it wouldn't be as fun watching him slowly bleed to death. Either way it's out of your hands now. You step out of the light and the noise, back into the cool and relatively calm shade of the lower levels. Your blood is buzzing in your veins, your head is pounding but your mind is clear. One more down. Tomorrow's the big one, all or nothing.
You see the medics once they're done with Bull, obviously. The steel-haired man with rock-steady hands who stitches up your temple doesn't say anything about how reckless you were, but his pursed lips and resigned stare say everything. You don't mention it. You're used to that too. He cleans up and moves on, always more work to be done, and you move to the washbasin to clean off the rest of the blood drying on your cheek and matted in your hair. There's a small silver-backed mirror set on the wall behind it, maybe for the fighters who prefer to treat their own wounds. You've never been one to deliberately seek out your reflection, but it's there whether you like it or not, and it draws your eye.
You've always been pale, no matter how long you sweated and bled farming and fighting in the fields. You run colder than most, enough that a simple touch of your hand is usually enough to get people complaining. Your close-cropped hair is black as night save for a bone-white lock that hangs almost down to your dark eyes, and when you look closer you can just make out the shadowed shapes of your veins. And, to top it all off, you're probably due a shave. You grumble under your breath and splash one last cupped handful of cold water on your face, drying your hands on your trousers.
You'll have to find a blacksmith willing to do a rush order on fixing up your sword. No use leaving it to shatter on you tomorrow and squander all your hard work. But it's still early, barely noon even, and there's plenty to see and do with the Festival is in town. Question is, the hell do you even want to do all day?
[ ] Go get drunk. Okay not drunk-drunk, not the day before the big day. You'll be responsible for once, keep it low-key. Find somewhere nice and affordable and just watch the hours fly by.
[ ] Go eat. Not what they feed the fighters here, it's too frou-frou fancy for your blood. You need something cheap in vast quantities that you can dig into and sleep off overnight.
[ ] Get a massage. Hey, why not? You've been beat all to shit today, might help keep you limber for tomorrow. Assuming anyone in town is willing to get that close even if you pay them.
[ ] Watch the parade. If you go early you can probably find a good spot to stand where you won't be surrounded by more screaming cheering people and their children. You've never bothered before but hey, maybe it's not that bad.
[ ] Go down to the harbour. Most shipping is prohibited during the Festival and everyone's either in town for the parade or in the arena for the semis and the side-bouts. It'll be quiet by the waterfront. Quiet's good. You can think with quiet.
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Table Of Contents
ZerbanDaGreat
Daemon Noble of D E M O G R A P H I C S
- Pronouns
- They/them
Prologue: The Winds They're Blowing
Chapter One: Blood And Sand
Chapter Two: Soaking It In
Chapter Three: Final Round
Chapter Four: The Hand That Offends
Chapter Five: To Suffer Immaculately
Chapter Six: The Chrysalis Grotesque
Act One: Dusk Is At Our Door
Chapter Seven: Welcome To Hell
Chapter Eight: Prince Of The Green Sun
Chapter Nine: The Patrons
Chapter Ten: The Contrary One
Chapter Eleven: Testing The Limits
Chapter Twelve: Coronation Day
Chapter Thirteen: Hell And Back Again
Chapter Fourteen: Stretching The Legs
Chapter Fifteen: Reforged
Chapter Sixteen: Malleo Invicti
Chapter Seventeen: What Lies In The Blood
Chapter Eighteen: Adoration [Mature Content]
Chapter Nineteen: A Little Strong-Arm Tactics
Chapter Twenty: Negotiating Terms
Chapter Twenty-One: Conceding Defeat
Chapter Twenty-Two: Skipping Town 'Til The Heat Dies Down
Chapter Twenty-Three: The Gap That Can't Be Closed
Interlude One: The Empty Sky
Act Two: None But The Holy
Chapter Twenty-Four: A Fractured Mirror
Chapter Twenty-Five: Nature Walk
Chapter Twenty-Six: Tea By Moonlight
Chapter Twenty-Seven: What Lies Beneath
Chapter Twenty-Eight: Weather The Storm
Chapter Twenty-Nine: Basking In Glory
Interlude Two: The Immaculate One
Chapter Thirty: Piecing Together A Plan
Chapter Thirty-One: Into The Underworld
Chapter Thirty-Two: The Shape Of Justice
Chapter Thirty-Three: An Open Hand
Chapter Thirty-Four: Mirrorshard
Interlude Three: Reasoned Despair, Frail Hope
Chapter Thirty-Five: Iconoclast
Chapter Thirty-Six: Something Deep Inside
Chapter Thirty-Seven: The Other Side Of The Coin
Interlude Four: Gateway
Act Three: Save All Our Souls
Chapter Thirty-Eight: Back To Hell
Chapter Thirty-Nine: Back In Hot Water
Chapter Forty: A Single Father's Day Out
Chapter Forty-One: The Terror Of Being Known
Chapter One: Blood And Sand
Chapter Two: Soaking It In
Chapter Three: Final Round
Chapter Four: The Hand That Offends
Chapter Five: To Suffer Immaculately
Chapter Six: The Chrysalis Grotesque
Act One: Dusk Is At Our Door
Chapter Seven: Welcome To Hell
Chapter Eight: Prince Of The Green Sun
Chapter Nine: The Patrons
Chapter Ten: The Contrary One
Chapter Eleven: Testing The Limits
Chapter Twelve: Coronation Day
Chapter Thirteen: Hell And Back Again
Chapter Fourteen: Stretching The Legs
Chapter Fifteen: Reforged
Chapter Sixteen: Malleo Invicti
Chapter Seventeen: What Lies In The Blood
Chapter Eighteen: Adoration [Mature Content]
Chapter Nineteen: A Little Strong-Arm Tactics
Chapter Twenty: Negotiating Terms
Chapter Twenty-One: Conceding Defeat
Chapter Twenty-Two: Skipping Town 'Til The Heat Dies Down
Chapter Twenty-Three: The Gap That Can't Be Closed
Interlude One: The Empty Sky
Act Two: None But The Holy
Chapter Twenty-Four: A Fractured Mirror
Chapter Twenty-Five: Nature Walk
Chapter Twenty-Six: Tea By Moonlight
Chapter Twenty-Seven: What Lies Beneath
Chapter Twenty-Eight: Weather The Storm
Chapter Twenty-Nine: Basking In Glory
Interlude Two: The Immaculate One
Chapter Thirty: Piecing Together A Plan
Chapter Thirty-One: Into The Underworld
Chapter Thirty-Two: The Shape Of Justice
Chapter Thirty-Three: An Open Hand
Chapter Thirty-Four: Mirrorshard
Interlude Three: Reasoned Despair, Frail Hope
Chapter Thirty-Five: Iconoclast
Chapter Thirty-Six: Something Deep Inside
Chapter Thirty-Seven: The Other Side Of The Coin
Interlude Four: Gateway
Act Three: Save All Our Souls
Chapter Thirty-Eight: Back To Hell
Chapter Thirty-Nine: Back In Hot Water
Chapter Forty: A Single Father's Day Out
Chapter Forty-One: The Terror Of Being Known
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Mechanics
ZerbanDaGreat
Daemon Noble of D E M O G R A P H I C S
- Pronouns
- They/them
This Quest will be run on a diceless, purely narrative basis a-la the systems that have already been used in many other works, with the potential for tweaking or rebalancing down the line depending on any number of factors. The average Exalted character has a truly staggering amount of powers, abilities and mechanics they can all mix and match to their hearts' content, but Jiro is not your average Exalted character. Forms, Charms and Skills as mechanical concepts are all filtered through his own perception of them and how they gel with his mortal knowledge base - his character sheet is intended more to provide a detailed summary of what he can do at any given time, with options to expand down branches and pathways that suit both his character and the story. Rather than discouraging certain options with 'disfavoured' tags, Jiro simply doesn't have the option to learn those sight unseen in the first place.
XP
Experience Points are earned by completing narrative arcs, particularly impressive accomplishments in-story and the good ol' Training Arc. They are awarded and usable for upgrades only at appropriate moments, such as between acts or during stops over in Malfeas or other situations in which Jiro could feasibly improve upon his abilities. If anyone should wish to powerlevel Jiro through the use of fanworksand I encourage them to, please feed my son he is starving they are currently valued at 25xp for non-canon omakes (side stories, homebrew demons, that kind of thing) and sketches, 50xp for canon works or more detailed art, and 75 or above for anything more exceptional. These numbers may change in the unlikely event that there's a gargantuan influx, but for now them's the breaks. Skills and Charms can only be upgraded one tier at a time, and all XP must be spent towards something in every valid instance even if there isn't enough left to upgrade something.
Charms
The library of supernatural abilities and techniques an Exalt will accumulate over their long (or tragically short) lives, filtered through their own perspective and understanding. Infernals in particular draw their power from the Yozis, but as the Unquestionable is filtered through a human mind some refraction and distortion is to be expected. Jiro's Malfean and Isidoran Charms correspond to his first and second Primary Skills respectively, and thus their efficacy is intertwined, while his Elloge and Ebon Dragon Charms are considered tertiary tricks to be used as needed. Individually they are graded on three tiers.
Basic (75xp) - A relatively simple and straightforward Charm, easy to mix into an existing style and not too energy intensive.
Evolved (250xp) - The Charm's central concept elevated somehow, often mutated into some new yet thematically similar form.
Ultimate (500xp) - The Charm perfected, integrated into the Infernal's style and, much like the Yozis themselves, their very being.
Skills
Skills are graded on a nine-tier scale. Primary Skills are your core proficiencies, the most broadly-applicable tools in your arsenal, and thus take the longest to raise. Secondary skills are more specific or otherwise niche areas of expertise, and thus are half-price.
Novice (N/A) - The baseline in a Skill, absent any kind of training or experience. Don't expect much.
Proficient (250xp) - The fundamentals of a Skill, born from a decent amount of study and practice. Nothing to write home about, but better than nothing.
Adept (500xp) - Practical experience enters the picture here, and forged all together it's enough to really start making a career out of it. Most mortals hover around this level.
Veteran (750xp) - Time, trials, blood, sweat and tears are what it takes to push you to this rank. This is where the true professionals are, rubbing shoulders with the weirdos and edge-cases and naturally gifted. The skill's as easy as breathing.
Distinguished (1000xp) - The talented, the dedicated, the survivors, or the real freaks. The absolute limit of mortal hands and mortal minds, people with this level of skill sometimes fall in with the Exalted themselves, if not carving their own names into the skin of Creation.
Elite (1750xp) - You've transcended the limits of the mortal realm, turning what was once just a 'skill' into something more like an artform. Any self-respecting Exalt's central Skills should reach this level, if not higher.
Master (2500xp) - Near-complete understanding, comprehending its intricacies, complexities and boundaries. Where some still struggle for mere 'competence' you seek innovation and refinement, accomplishing things no mere mortal would think possible. The domain of the Exalted, and only the strongest of spirits.
Champion (3500xp) - The kind of unquestioned enlightenment that causes masters to turn to you for advice and enlightenment. You now embody this skill to its fullest, as intimately familiar with it as you are your own shadow. Only one Primary Skill may be raised to this tier.
Items
Creation is no stranger to artefacts, treasures and priceless remnants of the long-distant past. Considering the essential nature of your Coadjutor and your Past Life, neither are you. These are simply treated as Secondary Skills, allowing you to master or improve them by spending XP, but other advancements are possible via various IC actions and means.
XP
Experience Points are earned by completing narrative arcs, particularly impressive accomplishments in-story and the good ol' Training Arc. They are awarded and usable for upgrades only at appropriate moments, such as between acts or during stops over in Malfeas or other situations in which Jiro could feasibly improve upon his abilities. If anyone should wish to powerlevel Jiro through the use of fanworks
Charms
The library of supernatural abilities and techniques an Exalt will accumulate over their long (or tragically short) lives, filtered through their own perspective and understanding. Infernals in particular draw their power from the Yozis, but as the Unquestionable is filtered through a human mind some refraction and distortion is to be expected. Jiro's Malfean and Isidoran Charms correspond to his first and second Primary Skills respectively, and thus their efficacy is intertwined, while his Elloge and Ebon Dragon Charms are considered tertiary tricks to be used as needed. Individually they are graded on three tiers.
Basic (75xp) - A relatively simple and straightforward Charm, easy to mix into an existing style and not too energy intensive.
Evolved (250xp) - The Charm's central concept elevated somehow, often mutated into some new yet thematically similar form.
Ultimate (500xp) - The Charm perfected, integrated into the Infernal's style and, much like the Yozis themselves, their very being.
Skills
Skills are graded on a nine-tier scale. Primary Skills are your core proficiencies, the most broadly-applicable tools in your arsenal, and thus take the longest to raise. Secondary skills are more specific or otherwise niche areas of expertise, and thus are half-price.
Novice (N/A) - The baseline in a Skill, absent any kind of training or experience. Don't expect much.
Proficient (250xp) - The fundamentals of a Skill, born from a decent amount of study and practice. Nothing to write home about, but better than nothing.
Adept (500xp) - Practical experience enters the picture here, and forged all together it's enough to really start making a career out of it. Most mortals hover around this level.
Veteran (750xp) - Time, trials, blood, sweat and tears are what it takes to push you to this rank. This is where the true professionals are, rubbing shoulders with the weirdos and edge-cases and naturally gifted. The skill's as easy as breathing.
Distinguished (1000xp) - The talented, the dedicated, the survivors, or the real freaks. The absolute limit of mortal hands and mortal minds, people with this level of skill sometimes fall in with the Exalted themselves, if not carving their own names into the skin of Creation.
Elite (1750xp) - You've transcended the limits of the mortal realm, turning what was once just a 'skill' into something more like an artform. Any self-respecting Exalt's central Skills should reach this level, if not higher.
Master (2500xp) - Near-complete understanding, comprehending its intricacies, complexities and boundaries. Where some still struggle for mere 'competence' you seek innovation and refinement, accomplishing things no mere mortal would think possible. The domain of the Exalted, and only the strongest of spirits.
Champion (3500xp) - The kind of unquestioned enlightenment that causes masters to turn to you for advice and enlightenment. You now embody this skill to its fullest, as intimately familiar with it as you are your own shadow. Only one Primary Skill may be raised to this tier.
Items
Creation is no stranger to artefacts, treasures and priceless remnants of the long-distant past. Considering the essential nature of your Coadjutor and your Past Life, neither are you. These are simply treated as Secondary Skills, allowing you to master or improve them by spending XP, but other advancements are possible via various IC actions and means.
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Character Sheet: Jiro, Slayer Caste Infernal
ZerbanDaGreat
Daemon Noble of D E M O G R A P H I C S
- Pronouns
- They/them
Charms
Primary Skills
Dragon-Slaying Overrun Style: Distinguished (175/1750xp)
The style of a man who has fought with a sword too large for him all his life, reforged into a man who will slay dragons. Jiro's intimate experience with a two-handed sword is in many ways transferrable to what he is now, but in almost as many ways it will hold him back. He must relearn, and learn to truly tap into the vast well of power inside him to run roughshod over the Tamura Clan's holdings and enact his revenge.
Jiro is slowly coming to terms with the full implications of the power he now wields, his greatsword no longer a heavy burden to bear and battle but a tool of easy killing, reshaped and reforged just as drastically as his own body. While it can still hardly be called a 'style' in polite company, it sure gets the job done.
Reforged Hand of Malfeas Style: Adept (0/1,000xp)
Jiro has never been much of a martial artist - more of a tavern-brawler and alley-scrapper, the kind of man that keeps himself alive by any means necessary, blade in hand or no. His body is unused to the Celestial forms common among the Exalted, but even barehanded he is no longer weaponless. The Hand of Malfeas is a tool of destruction - perhaps in time, the rest of him shall be as well.
Hard work has been paying off, slowly yet surely, plus a few visits to the School of Hard Knocks. Jiro is still no great martial artist by Exalted standards, nor even particularly versed in any of their formal styles, but something with more brutal elegance to it than throwing a few punches and a kick or two is emerging. Perhaps further study is warranted thanks to his recent brushes with channelling the essence of his own component souls - twice the fists, double the power, right?
Secondary Skills
Anima Banner (Slayer): Veteran (0/500xp)
The Anima Banner is a trait shared among all Exalted, the ability to let slip the bonds of their burning keter soul for only a moment, letting the furnace of power billow free in visible sheets of light. They say all of Malfeas' chosen hold within them the potential to metamorphose into horrifying devil-tigers, wreathed in the toxic green flame of Ligier's light, but Jiro is far from that day. His Essence control is sloppy, his command of his Banner uneven. Against another Exalt, even a Terrestrial one, he will rapidly burn himself out without further training.
They say that experience and failure are the best teachers. Still, Jiro would prefer they didn't come with corresponding asskickings. Faced with the icy-minded and steel-nerved essence control of an elder Dragonblood, and his own paltry flare sealed by pressure-point strikes shortly after, he has been forced to confront his inadequacy and do something about it. His Essence control is steadily improving, its drain less noticeable, and with greater control comes greater power - when his banner burns brightly enough his demonic mien grows more pronounced, his coadjutor's influence on his new form more pronounced, whatever form that may take.
Experience continues to teach the young Slayer, not just how to master his own powers but those of the souls that call his home. Burning the candle at both ends to defeat Ayano only to narrowly escape the wrath of her undead brother shortly after has taught him the full measure of his limits, and with such understanding can only come improvement. Jiro's stamina and mastery of his Essence reserves have improved, and having experienced rampant fusion with Daji's powers once before he may reach inward again with greater finesse. When his anima banner flares to Bonfire levels he may channel fragments of any soul's power, not just Sidir's. When he flares Totemic he may attempt to merge once more, burning through his Essence like a shooting star streaking across the sky in exchange for temporarily wielding powers the likes of which he may never come to master on his own. The cost makes it a dangerous death-or-glory gambit, but no matter how desperate the circumstances Jiro will always have an ally.
Death's Embrace: Adept (0/375xp)
A curious and shameful thing, crafted in haste and under duress. Death's Embrace is a suit forged from shadow and necrotic Essence with just a dash of moonsilver, bonded to Jiro by the powers of the dead he constantly, uncontrollably emanates. Further resource investment (under severe protest) has at least smoothed out the kinks in the so-called 'armour' so it can start doing its job right. It offers light protection by most standards, akin to finely-crafted leather armour - while Jiro can hardly allow others to stab him, combined with his Malfeas-hardened flesh he is safe against glancing or otherwise lesser blows where it covers him. The addition of several semi-prehensile 'straps' allows it to grip and hold objects against Jiro's body, circumventing the lack-of-pockets issue. Additionally it can heal itself from all but the most grievous of damage.
If experience has proven one thing, it's that Jiro takes a lot of punishment in his day-to-day life. Not only that, he's far too willing to venture into environments hostile to his very wellbeing. Sidir may not be able to protect him from everything, but he can do this at least. Death's Embrace can now construct a half-mask for Jiro that covers his nose and mouth, physically and spiritually filtering the air he breathes. This extra layer of protection working in concert with his own hybrid nature eliminates the active drain on his Essence that the lands of the dead otherwise inflict, though restoring the energy he does lose will still prove noticeably more difficult than in Creation. As a fringe benefit this mask allows him to breathe easily in more mundane situations as well, such as underwater or enveloped in toxic gas.
The Devil-Tiger's Daiklave: Adept (0/375xp)
Jiro's old, beloved sword, warped and twisted and transformed into a demonic butcher of men by a power hidden within him that eclipses even Sidir's talents. Forged from Malfean brass and black basalt with an emerald core, it acts as a potent conduit for Jiro's Essence, eagerly channelling the powers of the Yozi to augment its natural ability to cleave even armoured opponents in two. Of course now that it has been created it is within Sidir's power to explore and improve, should he be given the time and materials.
With its latest improvement the Daiklave's Isidoran influence - and its almost Metagosian hunger - makes itself known. It greedily chews through whatever it cleaves, whether it be stone or flesh or anything in between, to fuel Jiro's corona-shroud. Flickering trails of collapsed matter and black stars trail in its wake, obscuring its path and its wielder with debris, and the claws at the pommel grasp greedily for a hearthstone to clutch and drink deeply from - whatever the fuck that is.
The Mantle of the Stars: Adept (0/375xp)
A living cloak forged from the living soul of Viermaan the Celestial Worm, offered in surrender and supplication. It retains many of the manyfold worm's protean capabilities, able to move independently to blind Jiro's enemies and foul up their attempts to attack, or reshape itself into four agile tentacles with which to attack and defend and grasp at objects. With more time and materials perhaps yet more of Viermaan's abilities could be unlocked for Jiro to wield. Either way, he refuses to let the worm's lingering will have any say in the matter.
The cloak has been improved, albeit with some reticence on the craftsman's part, to better serve the bond of Elloge that connects it to Daji. When transformed into worm-tentacles they may fire jets of highly pressurised blood like beams powerful enough to slice through flesh and bone, however range is limited and the 'ammunition' is the stuff of the cloak's own makeup. The Mantle consumes itself to attack in this manner and repairs itself slowly if fed only with Jiro's blood - however Jiro's foes have theirs in excessive supply, and it will slake the worms' thirst just as easily.
The Hammer of the Unconquered: Adept (Locked)
A priceless wonder, second to no tool of creation in this age or any other. The Hammer of the Unconquered was capable of miracles that could leave even the Exalted in awe, emanating a power greater than all the factories, artisants and craftsmen of Creation combined with every bell-like ring as it struck home. Even the ghostly afterimage of its radiance that summons itself to Jiro's hand could be capable of such great things, if only he knew how to unlock its power.
Some greater fraction of the hammer's power was unleashed in Jiro's second encounter with Hayate, shedding hundreds of orichalcum swords each worthy of name and legend all on their own in phalanxes and volleys at a time. Is the hammer truly a miracle on such a level it is able to generate one of the five magical materials from nothing? Or is it accessing some sort of hidden stockpile, created untold centuries ago?
Past Life (Halphas, the Sword of the Deliberative): Adept (Locked)
The previous incarnation of the corrupted Solar spark that burns within Jiro's soul. Halphas was a veteran of the Primordial War and carried this Exaltation for years beyond counting, forever honing his craft in search of one more great wonder. Much about the man and the extent of his connection to the Yozis remains uncertain, but one thing is clear - some part of him remains, in Jiro's thoughts and dreams. His castle still stands in the heart of the world within Jiro's dreams, no matter how faded its glory may be. His hammer held fast the seal that kept Sidir imprisoned where he found himself, and it is the image of that long-lost hammer that appears in Jiro's hand if he only calls for it.
Something about Hayate caused the Solar's shade to stir once more. What spark of recognition awakened his long-dead anger? Something in his demeanour, his abilities? Or was it simply fury at Jiro's inability to overcome his enemy? Whatever the cause, Halphas' power saved Jiro that day, and leaves the Infernal with even more questions about his borrowed power than before.
By Pain Reforged: Basic (75/75xp)
Some small spark of the Demon City's resilience lives on in all his Infernals, layer upon layer of calcified stone and brass curled in on itself until they are their own fortress and refuge. Jiro's own flesh and bone are as hard as armour now, the sensation of pain no more than a familiar acquaintance that can be turned away at the door as needed - at least for a time. This Charm cannot be upgraded further.
Invulnerable Wounding Futility: Evolved (0/500xp)
They may beat their fists bloody against the impregnable walls of the Demon City, but they will never make it yield. With this Charm Jiro may reflexively steel himself yet further, turning his skin to an armour so tough that lesser foes striking him will only harm themselves.
The basic form of this Charm focuses chiefly on retribution - is there any higher purpose? - but its evolved form offers true protection. By channelling Essence into his skin and bone, Jiro may summon up a flash-grown crust of brass and black basalt to sacrifice to the incoming blow.
The mastered form of this Charm makes it a technique truly worthy of Malfeas, for why should his creations crumble so easily to another's blows? By channelling his and Sidir's essence into his prosthetic arm its majestic perfection spreads to cover his entire body, coating him in armour of living brass. The Viridian Legend Exoskeleton is all-encompassing and almost impervious to harm without hindering the wearer's movements in the slightest, yet such power comes at the price of hefty upkeep in essence.
Skyfire-Seizing Repast: Basic (75/75xp)
The Green Sun's eternal flame scours the continent-districts and skyscraping manses of the Demon City, yet its toxic radiance is absorbed as harmless heat. Through the Hand of Malfeas Jiro is able to access this talent in some small way, allowing him to absorb small or still sources of energy and Essence, as well as small chunks of material both magical and otherwise. This Charm cannot be upgraded further.
Sun-Heart Furnace Soul: Basic (0/250xp)
The Green Sun burns bright, and seeks to snuff out all lesser flames that will not bow and join the greater whole. This Charm allows the Hand of Malfeas to absorb Essence from hostile sources, such as offensive sorceries or outpourings of Essence from enemy Exalted, and add it to Jiro's own stores. While its hunger is not infinite, it may still significantly blunt more dramatic challenges to Ligier's light.
The advanced form of this Charm allows energy to be discharged as well as absorbed, for what better use is there for a foe's power than to turn it on its former master? That is to say, while essence of any type maybe discharged in one almighty blast from the Hand of Malfeas if it has been recently absorbed, Jiro may still unleash some small measure of the Green Sun's fury at any time by fuelling it with his own.
Remote Satisfaction Demand: N/A (0/75xp)
It is not in an Exalt's nature to be denied by some trivial thing like distance, let alone one with a share of his soul dedicated to Isidoros. A little magical tinkering with the Hand of Malfeas from the inside allows it to project a short-lived grasping claw of harmless emerald flame, snatching up whatever Jiro desires and bringing it to him. The projection is not strong enough to drag a man bodily through the air, or rip an object from the grasp of someone prepared for an attack, but with proper purchase these ephemeral talons could tear down even a castle wall chunk by chunk.
Some small spark of the Demon City's resilience lives on in all his Infernals, layer upon layer of calcified stone and brass curled in on itself until they are their own fortress and refuge. Jiro's own flesh and bone are as hard as armour now, the sensation of pain no more than a familiar acquaintance that can be turned away at the door as needed - at least for a time. This Charm cannot be upgraded further.
Invulnerable Wounding Futility: Evolved (0/500xp)
They may beat their fists bloody against the impregnable walls of the Demon City, but they will never make it yield. With this Charm Jiro may reflexively steel himself yet further, turning his skin to an armour so tough that lesser foes striking him will only harm themselves.
The basic form of this Charm focuses chiefly on retribution - is there any higher purpose? - but its evolved form offers true protection. By channelling Essence into his skin and bone, Jiro may summon up a flash-grown crust of brass and black basalt to sacrifice to the incoming blow.
The mastered form of this Charm makes it a technique truly worthy of Malfeas, for why should his creations crumble so easily to another's blows? By channelling his and Sidir's essence into his prosthetic arm its majestic perfection spreads to cover his entire body, coating him in armour of living brass. The Viridian Legend Exoskeleton is all-encompassing and almost impervious to harm without hindering the wearer's movements in the slightest, yet such power comes at the price of hefty upkeep in essence.
Skyfire-Seizing Repast: Basic (75/75xp)
The Green Sun's eternal flame scours the continent-districts and skyscraping manses of the Demon City, yet its toxic radiance is absorbed as harmless heat. Through the Hand of Malfeas Jiro is able to access this talent in some small way, allowing him to absorb small or still sources of energy and Essence, as well as small chunks of material both magical and otherwise. This Charm cannot be upgraded further.
Sun-Heart Furnace Soul: Basic (0/250xp)
The Green Sun burns bright, and seeks to snuff out all lesser flames that will not bow and join the greater whole. This Charm allows the Hand of Malfeas to absorb Essence from hostile sources, such as offensive sorceries or outpourings of Essence from enemy Exalted, and add it to Jiro's own stores. While its hunger is not infinite, it may still significantly blunt more dramatic challenges to Ligier's light.
The advanced form of this Charm allows energy to be discharged as well as absorbed, for what better use is there for a foe's power than to turn it on its former master? That is to say, while essence of any type maybe discharged in one almighty blast from the Hand of Malfeas if it has been recently absorbed, Jiro may still unleash some small measure of the Green Sun's fury at any time by fuelling it with his own.
Remote Satisfaction Demand: N/A (0/75xp)
It is not in an Exalt's nature to be denied by some trivial thing like distance, let alone one with a share of his soul dedicated to Isidoros. A little magical tinkering with the Hand of Malfeas from the inside allows it to project a short-lived grasping claw of harmless emerald flame, snatching up whatever Jiro desires and bringing it to him. The projection is not strong enough to drag a man bodily through the air, or rip an object from the grasp of someone prepared for an attack, but with proper purchase these ephemeral talons could tear down even a castle wall chunk by chunk.
Weight-Exaggerating Ego Destiny: Basic (75/75xp)
The Black Boar is the centre of his own universe, and his every action carries that weight. By channelling that all-encompassing self-assurance Jiro is able to multiply his own effective weight, cracking the ground beneath his heels and dissuading any feeble attempts to push him back or knock him down. It would also make a very handy counterweight for someone who enjoys swinging grotesquely oversized swords around. This Charm cannot be upgraded further.
Behemoth's Stubborn Retort: Basic (0/250xp)
Isidoros responds to those who attempt to shift him with indifference at best. When a foolhardy foe attempts to knock Jiro back or down, he may simply stay rooted to the spot in flat defiance of the insult, and redirect the absorbed force in whichever direction he wishes.
The upgraded form of this Charm allows Jiro to channel the impossible barrier-defying might of Isidoros, striking with enough force to shake the ground or send his foes flying like ballista bolts. If flies continue to harry the Boar, he will simply eject them from his sight.
Impeded By Nothing: Evolved (0/500xp)
To attempt to slow the Boar is futility itself. While channelling the self-centred Essence of Isidoros Jiro is nigh unstoppable, forging through broken ground or sand, water or mud. Even magical bonds cannot keep him from going where he wills.
The upgraded form of this Charm causes even gravity to become a mere suggestion to his whims. An effort of will allows him to alter its subjective pull, effectively causing 'down' to be any direction he wishes. The walls of the highest tower may crumble beneath the Black Boar's hooves.
The mastered form of this Charm transforms the Black Boar's whim into an inviolable order, one to which all of Creation must bend or it will break. By channeling the Essence of Isidoros through another person via touch, Jiro may alter the subjective pull of gravity in another, causing them to 'fall' in any direction he wishes.
Sinew-And-Debris Corona: Evolved (0/500xp)
Isidoros takes no mementos where he wanders willingly, but a beast of his immensity has its own pull all the same. What Jiro's blade slices through, living or unliving, is drawn to him like moths to a flame. By focusing his power he may draw in the debris left by his collateral damage, condensing it down into a swirling corona-shroud that obscures him from his enemies' blows.
The upgraded form of this Charm strengthens Jiro's control over the gravity well that is his body, allowing its radiating force to act as a shield in its own right. Arrows and other projectiles may skate off-course or be caught and crushed down into fodder for the corona-shroud. You may douse Isidoros in a hail of arrows and find he does not even notice. Pray he does not.
The mastered form of this Charm strengthens Jiro's control over his shroud yet further, allowing him to use it for more than passive defence and absorption. In an almost Malfean act of brutal repurpose he may shape the raw and blackened shield-matter into a new weapon, and send it flying back to his foes.
Hell-In-A-Cell Insistence: Basic (0/250xp)
Nothing worth doing is worth doing without an audience. By focusing his will and drawing forth the memory of the ring where it all began, Jiro may cause a demonic arena to blossom around him and a foe of his choosing. This arena forcibly pushes back all but the chosen foe, sickening those who resist the initial push or force their way into the ring out of turn with a toxic miasma that leaves him and his opponent untouched.
The upgraded form of this Charm strengthens the demonic arena's connection to Malfeas, transcending even the impossible vastness of Cecelyne. When a feat of arms great enough to make even a demon's blood boil is performed, by Jiro or his opponent alike, one will instantly cross the desert and appear in the crowd to cheer the combatants on, or perhaps even leap into the ring for the fight of its life. However this battle-call across time and space cannot last forever - demons called to Creation this way return to Hell soon after the arena does.
The Black Boar is the centre of his own universe, and his every action carries that weight. By channelling that all-encompassing self-assurance Jiro is able to multiply his own effective weight, cracking the ground beneath his heels and dissuading any feeble attempts to push him back or knock him down. It would also make a very handy counterweight for someone who enjoys swinging grotesquely oversized swords around. This Charm cannot be upgraded further.
Behemoth's Stubborn Retort: Basic (0/250xp)
Isidoros responds to those who attempt to shift him with indifference at best. When a foolhardy foe attempts to knock Jiro back or down, he may simply stay rooted to the spot in flat defiance of the insult, and redirect the absorbed force in whichever direction he wishes.
The upgraded form of this Charm allows Jiro to channel the impossible barrier-defying might of Isidoros, striking with enough force to shake the ground or send his foes flying like ballista bolts. If flies continue to harry the Boar, he will simply eject them from his sight.
Impeded By Nothing: Evolved (0/500xp)
To attempt to slow the Boar is futility itself. While channelling the self-centred Essence of Isidoros Jiro is nigh unstoppable, forging through broken ground or sand, water or mud. Even magical bonds cannot keep him from going where he wills.
The upgraded form of this Charm causes even gravity to become a mere suggestion to his whims. An effort of will allows him to alter its subjective pull, effectively causing 'down' to be any direction he wishes. The walls of the highest tower may crumble beneath the Black Boar's hooves.
The mastered form of this Charm transforms the Black Boar's whim into an inviolable order, one to which all of Creation must bend or it will break. By channeling the Essence of Isidoros through another person via touch, Jiro may alter the subjective pull of gravity in another, causing them to 'fall' in any direction he wishes.
Sinew-And-Debris Corona: Evolved (0/500xp)
Isidoros takes no mementos where he wanders willingly, but a beast of his immensity has its own pull all the same. What Jiro's blade slices through, living or unliving, is drawn to him like moths to a flame. By focusing his power he may draw in the debris left by his collateral damage, condensing it down into a swirling corona-shroud that obscures him from his enemies' blows.
The upgraded form of this Charm strengthens Jiro's control over the gravity well that is his body, allowing its radiating force to act as a shield in its own right. Arrows and other projectiles may skate off-course or be caught and crushed down into fodder for the corona-shroud. You may douse Isidoros in a hail of arrows and find he does not even notice. Pray he does not.
The mastered form of this Charm strengthens Jiro's control over his shroud yet further, allowing him to use it for more than passive defence and absorption. In an almost Malfean act of brutal repurpose he may shape the raw and blackened shield-matter into a new weapon, and send it flying back to his foes.
Hell-In-A-Cell Insistence: Basic (0/250xp)
Nothing worth doing is worth doing without an audience. By focusing his will and drawing forth the memory of the ring where it all began, Jiro may cause a demonic arena to blossom around him and a foe of his choosing. This arena forcibly pushes back all but the chosen foe, sickening those who resist the initial push or force their way into the ring out of turn with a toxic miasma that leaves him and his opponent untouched.
The upgraded form of this Charm strengthens the demonic arena's connection to Malfeas, transcending even the impossible vastness of Cecelyne. When a feat of arms great enough to make even a demon's blood boil is performed, by Jiro or his opponent alike, one will instantly cross the desert and appear in the crowd to cheer the combatants on, or perhaps even leap into the ring for the fight of its life. However this battle-call across time and space cannot last forever - demons called to Creation this way return to Hell soon after the arena does.
Means To Meaning: Basic (75/75xp)
Elloge's influence creeps at the edges of Jiro's senses in half-glimpsed glyphs and incomprehensible whispers. By bringing them to the fore he may set them to translate any text he sees or words he hears, perfectly and instantly. Unfortunately he has no ability to speak said languages in turn, nor can the Charm translate anything more abstract like body language or birdsong. This Charm cannot be upgraded.
Unseen Author Assumption: Basic (75/75xp)
Elloge is a creature of subtlety and discretion, the crimson-dappled shadows behind the red curtain rather than on the stage before it. By letting that ephemeral red curtain descend before him Jiro may pass impossibly beneath notice, simply ignored by all but the most watchful of eyes unless he drastically calls attention to himself.
Read Into Things: Basic (0/250xp)
The world dissolves within the Sphere of Speech, shapes and colours running through the fingers in streams of ink and letters. This Charm allows Jiro to temporarily dissolve a single object or component part of a greater structure into the ephemeral language-broth of Elloge. With this access any material becomes more malleable than even the softest of clay, able to be altered merely by editing the adjective scrawl that swirls through space. If he uses this ability merely to destroy, however, the once-word leaves no evidence that it was ever there.
The upgraded form of this Charm allows even people to be affected by Elloge's 'unique' perspective, with all that implies. However people are not so easily summarised as things, the unique insight lasting only a moment at a time, and the unwilling may be able to reject such attempts to edit them. If only all life could be so easily rewritten, the Sphere of Speech sighs wistfully.
Poetry In Motion: Basic (0/250xp)
A body is a hieroglyph, the faintest twitch or tremor rich in meaning. By calling upon this ability Jiro momentarily skins the world raw and bloody, flaying the target down to a cloud of words and echoes. In this moment of terrifying insight he may simply 'read' the subtext underpinning the text of a person's words or writings plain as day. However this state makes emotions shine brighter, connections richer and full of colour. When he returns to his senses Jiro is disoriented, briefly overwhelmed by an unnatural empathic surge.
The evolved form of this charm allows Jiro to read more closely into a subject whose name is known to him - only named characters are worthy of such scrutiny, after all. The tiniest details, hints, and scraps of circumstantial evidience stand out to him, drawing his eye one by one, until a complete tapestry of the subject's traits from their skill with a sword to their financial status to their fidelity is laid bare.
Behind The Role: Basic (0/250xp)
The little people pass beneath the gaze of the great, even more easily if they carry the tools of the trade. A simple word, scrawled fresh and bleeding on anything in Jiro's possession, cloaks him in the role of whatever part he chooses to play. Observers may notice physical details, but ultimately dismiss him as part of the crowd. Only behaviour unusual for his chosen role can threaten the efficacy of the disguise.
The upgraded version of this Charm allows Jiro to call upon a gaggle of familiars cast from his own fresh blood, assigning props and roles as required. The particulars of their semi-solid forms escape mundane notice as per the basic rank of this Charm, and they act out their assigned roles without any need for instruction. However these sanguine shades are imperfect and temporary - they can last only a few days before dissolving, and cannot copy another person. Imperfect extras without will or flair, but the show must go on.
Elloge's influence creeps at the edges of Jiro's senses in half-glimpsed glyphs and incomprehensible whispers. By bringing them to the fore he may set them to translate any text he sees or words he hears, perfectly and instantly. Unfortunately he has no ability to speak said languages in turn, nor can the Charm translate anything more abstract like body language or birdsong. This Charm cannot be upgraded.
Unseen Author Assumption: Basic (75/75xp)
Elloge is a creature of subtlety and discretion, the crimson-dappled shadows behind the red curtain rather than on the stage before it. By letting that ephemeral red curtain descend before him Jiro may pass impossibly beneath notice, simply ignored by all but the most watchful of eyes unless he drastically calls attention to himself.
Read Into Things: Basic (0/250xp)
The world dissolves within the Sphere of Speech, shapes and colours running through the fingers in streams of ink and letters. This Charm allows Jiro to temporarily dissolve a single object or component part of a greater structure into the ephemeral language-broth of Elloge. With this access any material becomes more malleable than even the softest of clay, able to be altered merely by editing the adjective scrawl that swirls through space. If he uses this ability merely to destroy, however, the once-word leaves no evidence that it was ever there.
The upgraded form of this Charm allows even people to be affected by Elloge's 'unique' perspective, with all that implies. However people are not so easily summarised as things, the unique insight lasting only a moment at a time, and the unwilling may be able to reject such attempts to edit them. If only all life could be so easily rewritten, the Sphere of Speech sighs wistfully.
Poetry In Motion: Basic (0/250xp)
A body is a hieroglyph, the faintest twitch or tremor rich in meaning. By calling upon this ability Jiro momentarily skins the world raw and bloody, flaying the target down to a cloud of words and echoes. In this moment of terrifying insight he may simply 'read' the subtext underpinning the text of a person's words or writings plain as day. However this state makes emotions shine brighter, connections richer and full of colour. When he returns to his senses Jiro is disoriented, briefly overwhelmed by an unnatural empathic surge.
The evolved form of this charm allows Jiro to read more closely into a subject whose name is known to him - only named characters are worthy of such scrutiny, after all. The tiniest details, hints, and scraps of circumstantial evidience stand out to him, drawing his eye one by one, until a complete tapestry of the subject's traits from their skill with a sword to their financial status to their fidelity is laid bare.
Behind The Role: Basic (0/250xp)
The little people pass beneath the gaze of the great, even more easily if they carry the tools of the trade. A simple word, scrawled fresh and bleeding on anything in Jiro's possession, cloaks him in the role of whatever part he chooses to play. Observers may notice physical details, but ultimately dismiss him as part of the crowd. Only behaviour unusual for his chosen role can threaten the efficacy of the disguise.
The upgraded version of this Charm allows Jiro to call upon a gaggle of familiars cast from his own fresh blood, assigning props and roles as required. The particulars of their semi-solid forms escape mundane notice as per the basic rank of this Charm, and they act out their assigned roles without any need for instruction. However these sanguine shades are imperfect and temporary - they can last only a few days before dissolving, and cannot copy another person. Imperfect extras without will or flair, but the show must go on.
Witness To Darkness: Basic (75/75xp)
The Ebon Dragon sees through darkness lesser than himself. Jiro's eyes have been permanently altered, his sclera turned black as night, and thus he sees even in pitch-darkness like a clear day at noon. This attunement comes at a cost however, as Creation's yellow sun stings the tiger's eyes.
Life-Blighting Emptiness Attack: Basic (0/250xp)
The Ebon Dragon would transform all life into his own image, a universe of hollowed shadows. He has a special fondness for the dead and the dying - how fortunate then, that he should find an Infernal born so close to the grave. By channelling his unusual natural reserves of necrotic Essence Jiro may impregnate his strikes with toxic darkness, infecting his enemies with the virulent poison of undeath.
The upgraded form of this Charm causes the black poison to grow even more toxic and caustic. Where it lingers in the wounds of a foe it resists all efforts to heal whether mundane or mystical. Even if forcibly dispelled it departs with one final spite, helpfully 'cauterising' itself in a flash of searing emerald fire. Only wounds heal. Scars linger on in perpetuity.
Loom-Snarling Deception: N/A (0/75xp)
The Ebon Dragon is among the greatest liars in history, and even Fate can fall for his charms. By focusing his power on a desired image Jiro may cloak himself in an illusion so powerful even the pattern spiders are fooled by this perfectly normal human being in their records. For a short time he returns to the being part of the Loom with all the benefits and drawbacks that implies, but with a false fate of his own choosing.
Puissance Mimicry Intuition: Basic (0/250xp)
To properly oppose an enemy, you must learn to fight as they do. This Charm allows Jiro to analyse a hated enemy, revealing not how strong they are, but in what ways they are superior to him. It then allows him to temporarily improve himself in one of those areas, energised by Essence and spite.
The upgraded form of this Charm deepens the connection between Jiro and his foe, letting envy shine all the brighter, as he temporarily copies one of their Charms. This process is imperfect, as a stolen technique he wields may prove far weaker due to lacking his foe's capabilities or previous training, but surely the shock on an enemy's face as their own power is used against them is reward enough.
The Ebon Dragon sees through darkness lesser than himself. Jiro's eyes have been permanently altered, his sclera turned black as night, and thus he sees even in pitch-darkness like a clear day at noon. This attunement comes at a cost however, as Creation's yellow sun stings the tiger's eyes.
Life-Blighting Emptiness Attack: Basic (0/250xp)
The Ebon Dragon would transform all life into his own image, a universe of hollowed shadows. He has a special fondness for the dead and the dying - how fortunate then, that he should find an Infernal born so close to the grave. By channelling his unusual natural reserves of necrotic Essence Jiro may impregnate his strikes with toxic darkness, infecting his enemies with the virulent poison of undeath.
The upgraded form of this Charm causes the black poison to grow even more toxic and caustic. Where it lingers in the wounds of a foe it resists all efforts to heal whether mundane or mystical. Even if forcibly dispelled it departs with one final spite, helpfully 'cauterising' itself in a flash of searing emerald fire. Only wounds heal. Scars linger on in perpetuity.
Loom-Snarling Deception: N/A (0/75xp)
The Ebon Dragon is among the greatest liars in history, and even Fate can fall for his charms. By focusing his power on a desired image Jiro may cloak himself in an illusion so powerful even the pattern spiders are fooled by this perfectly normal human being in their records. For a short time he returns to the being part of the Loom with all the benefits and drawbacks that implies, but with a false fate of his own choosing.
Puissance Mimicry Intuition: Basic (0/250xp)
To properly oppose an enemy, you must learn to fight as they do. This Charm allows Jiro to analyse a hated enemy, revealing not how strong they are, but in what ways they are superior to him. It then allows him to temporarily improve himself in one of those areas, energised by Essence and spite.
The upgraded form of this Charm deepens the connection between Jiro and his foe, letting envy shine all the brighter, as he temporarily copies one of their Charms. This process is imperfect, as a stolen technique he wields may prove far weaker due to lacking his foe's capabilities or previous training, but surely the shock on an enemy's face as their own power is used against them is reward enough.
Primary Skills
Dragon-Slaying Overrun Style: Distinguished (175/1750xp)
The style of a man who has fought with a sword too large for him all his life, reforged into a man who will slay dragons. Jiro's intimate experience with a two-handed sword is in many ways transferrable to what he is now, but in almost as many ways it will hold him back. He must relearn, and learn to truly tap into the vast well of power inside him to run roughshod over the Tamura Clan's holdings and enact his revenge.
Jiro is slowly coming to terms with the full implications of the power he now wields, his greatsword no longer a heavy burden to bear and battle but a tool of easy killing, reshaped and reforged just as drastically as his own body. While it can still hardly be called a 'style' in polite company, it sure gets the job done.
Reforged Hand of Malfeas Style: Adept (0/1,000xp)
Jiro has never been much of a martial artist - more of a tavern-brawler and alley-scrapper, the kind of man that keeps himself alive by any means necessary, blade in hand or no. His body is unused to the Celestial forms common among the Exalted, but even barehanded he is no longer weaponless. The Hand of Malfeas is a tool of destruction - perhaps in time, the rest of him shall be as well.
Hard work has been paying off, slowly yet surely, plus a few visits to the School of Hard Knocks. Jiro is still no great martial artist by Exalted standards, nor even particularly versed in any of their formal styles, but something with more brutal elegance to it than throwing a few punches and a kick or two is emerging. Perhaps further study is warranted thanks to his recent brushes with channelling the essence of his own component souls - twice the fists, double the power, right?
Secondary Skills
Anima Banner (Slayer): Veteran (0/500xp)
The Anima Banner is a trait shared among all Exalted, the ability to let slip the bonds of their burning keter soul for only a moment, letting the furnace of power billow free in visible sheets of light. They say all of Malfeas' chosen hold within them the potential to metamorphose into horrifying devil-tigers, wreathed in the toxic green flame of Ligier's light, but Jiro is far from that day. His Essence control is sloppy, his command of his Banner uneven. Against another Exalt, even a Terrestrial one, he will rapidly burn himself out without further training.
They say that experience and failure are the best teachers. Still, Jiro would prefer they didn't come with corresponding asskickings. Faced with the icy-minded and steel-nerved essence control of an elder Dragonblood, and his own paltry flare sealed by pressure-point strikes shortly after, he has been forced to confront his inadequacy and do something about it. His Essence control is steadily improving, its drain less noticeable, and with greater control comes greater power - when his banner burns brightly enough his demonic mien grows more pronounced, his coadjutor's influence on his new form more pronounced, whatever form that may take.
Experience continues to teach the young Slayer, not just how to master his own powers but those of the souls that call his home. Burning the candle at both ends to defeat Ayano only to narrowly escape the wrath of her undead brother shortly after has taught him the full measure of his limits, and with such understanding can only come improvement. Jiro's stamina and mastery of his Essence reserves have improved, and having experienced rampant fusion with Daji's powers once before he may reach inward again with greater finesse. When his anima banner flares to Bonfire levels he may channel fragments of any soul's power, not just Sidir's. When he flares Totemic he may attempt to merge once more, burning through his Essence like a shooting star streaking across the sky in exchange for temporarily wielding powers the likes of which he may never come to master on his own. The cost makes it a dangerous death-or-glory gambit, but no matter how desperate the circumstances Jiro will always have an ally.
Death's Embrace: Adept (0/375xp)
A curious and shameful thing, crafted in haste and under duress. Death's Embrace is a suit forged from shadow and necrotic Essence with just a dash of moonsilver, bonded to Jiro by the powers of the dead he constantly, uncontrollably emanates. Further resource investment (under severe protest) has at least smoothed out the kinks in the so-called 'armour' so it can start doing its job right. It offers light protection by most standards, akin to finely-crafted leather armour - while Jiro can hardly allow others to stab him, combined with his Malfeas-hardened flesh he is safe against glancing or otherwise lesser blows where it covers him. The addition of several semi-prehensile 'straps' allows it to grip and hold objects against Jiro's body, circumventing the lack-of-pockets issue. Additionally it can heal itself from all but the most grievous of damage.
If experience has proven one thing, it's that Jiro takes a lot of punishment in his day-to-day life. Not only that, he's far too willing to venture into environments hostile to his very wellbeing. Sidir may not be able to protect him from everything, but he can do this at least. Death's Embrace can now construct a half-mask for Jiro that covers his nose and mouth, physically and spiritually filtering the air he breathes. This extra layer of protection working in concert with his own hybrid nature eliminates the active drain on his Essence that the lands of the dead otherwise inflict, though restoring the energy he does lose will still prove noticeably more difficult than in Creation. As a fringe benefit this mask allows him to breathe easily in more mundane situations as well, such as underwater or enveloped in toxic gas.
The Devil-Tiger's Daiklave: Adept (0/375xp)
Jiro's old, beloved sword, warped and twisted and transformed into a demonic butcher of men by a power hidden within him that eclipses even Sidir's talents. Forged from Malfean brass and black basalt with an emerald core, it acts as a potent conduit for Jiro's Essence, eagerly channelling the powers of the Yozi to augment its natural ability to cleave even armoured opponents in two. Of course now that it has been created it is within Sidir's power to explore and improve, should he be given the time and materials.
With its latest improvement the Daiklave's Isidoran influence - and its almost Metagosian hunger - makes itself known. It greedily chews through whatever it cleaves, whether it be stone or flesh or anything in between, to fuel Jiro's corona-shroud. Flickering trails of collapsed matter and black stars trail in its wake, obscuring its path and its wielder with debris, and the claws at the pommel grasp greedily for a hearthstone to clutch and drink deeply from - whatever the fuck that is.
The Mantle of the Stars: Adept (0/375xp)
A living cloak forged from the living soul of Viermaan the Celestial Worm, offered in surrender and supplication. It retains many of the manyfold worm's protean capabilities, able to move independently to blind Jiro's enemies and foul up their attempts to attack, or reshape itself into four agile tentacles with which to attack and defend and grasp at objects. With more time and materials perhaps yet more of Viermaan's abilities could be unlocked for Jiro to wield. Either way, he refuses to let the worm's lingering will have any say in the matter.
The cloak has been improved, albeit with some reticence on the craftsman's part, to better serve the bond of Elloge that connects it to Daji. When transformed into worm-tentacles they may fire jets of highly pressurised blood like beams powerful enough to slice through flesh and bone, however range is limited and the 'ammunition' is the stuff of the cloak's own makeup. The Mantle consumes itself to attack in this manner and repairs itself slowly if fed only with Jiro's blood - however Jiro's foes have theirs in excessive supply, and it will slake the worms' thirst just as easily.
The Hammer of the Unconquered: Adept (Locked)
A priceless wonder, second to no tool of creation in this age or any other. The Hammer of the Unconquered was capable of miracles that could leave even the Exalted in awe, emanating a power greater than all the factories, artisants and craftsmen of Creation combined with every bell-like ring as it struck home. Even the ghostly afterimage of its radiance that summons itself to Jiro's hand could be capable of such great things, if only he knew how to unlock its power.
Some greater fraction of the hammer's power was unleashed in Jiro's second encounter with Hayate, shedding hundreds of orichalcum swords each worthy of name and legend all on their own in phalanxes and volleys at a time. Is the hammer truly a miracle on such a level it is able to generate one of the five magical materials from nothing? Or is it accessing some sort of hidden stockpile, created untold centuries ago?
Past Life (Halphas, the Sword of the Deliberative): Adept (Locked)
The previous incarnation of the corrupted Solar spark that burns within Jiro's soul. Halphas was a veteran of the Primordial War and carried this Exaltation for years beyond counting, forever honing his craft in search of one more great wonder. Much about the man and the extent of his connection to the Yozis remains uncertain, but one thing is clear - some part of him remains, in Jiro's thoughts and dreams. His castle still stands in the heart of the world within Jiro's dreams, no matter how faded its glory may be. His hammer held fast the seal that kept Sidir imprisoned where he found himself, and it is the image of that long-lost hammer that appears in Jiro's hand if he only calls for it.
Something about Hayate caused the Solar's shade to stir once more. What spark of recognition awakened his long-dead anger? Something in his demeanour, his abilities? Or was it simply fury at Jiro's inability to overcome his enemy? Whatever the cause, Halphas' power saved Jiro that day, and leaves the Infernal with even more questions about his borrowed power than before.
+1,000xp for completing the Prologue
-75 for Behemoth's Stubborn Retort (Basic)
-75 for Impeded By Nothing (Basic)
-75 for Sinew-And-Debris Corona (Basic)
-75 for Hell-In-A-Cell Insistence (Basic)
-75 for Read Into Things (Basic)
-75 for Behind The Role (Basic)
-75 for Life-Blighting Emptiness Attack (Basic)
-75 for Puissance Mimicry Intuition (Basic)
-250 for Death's Embrace (Proficient)
-150 to Reforged Hand of Malfeas Style
+125xp refund for the QM being a dumbshit and getting muddled wrt Death's Embrace's rank and price
+2,000xp for completing Act One
-1,000 for Dragon-Slayer Overrun Style (Distinguished)
-250 for Impeded By Nothing (Evolved)
-250 Anima Banner (Slayer) (Adept)
-250 The Devil-Tiger's Daiklave (Adept)
-75 Invulnerable Wounding Futility (Basic)
-75 Poetry In Motion
-225 Reforged Hand of Malfeas Style (no level-up)
+2,000xp for completing Act Two
+100xp for @TheOneMoiderah and their lovely Daji pic
-250 for Invulnerable Wounding Futility (Evolved)
-75 for Sun-Heart Furnce Soul
-250 for Sinew-And-Debris Corona (Evolved)
-175 for Dragon-Slaying Overrun Style (no level-up)
-375 for Reforged Hand of Malfeas Style (Adept)
-375 for Anima Banner (Slayer) (Veteran)
-250 for Death's Embrace (Adept)
-250 for Mante of the Stars (Adept)
-75 for Behemoth's Stubborn Retort (Basic)
-75 for Impeded By Nothing (Basic)
-75 for Sinew-And-Debris Corona (Basic)
-75 for Hell-In-A-Cell Insistence (Basic)
-75 for Read Into Things (Basic)
-75 for Behind The Role (Basic)
-75 for Life-Blighting Emptiness Attack (Basic)
-75 for Puissance Mimicry Intuition (Basic)
-250 for Death's Embrace (Proficient)
-150 to Reforged Hand of Malfeas Style
+125xp refund for the QM being a dumbshit and getting muddled wrt Death's Embrace's rank and price
+2,000xp for completing Act One
-1,000 for Dragon-Slayer Overrun Style (Distinguished)
-250 for Impeded By Nothing (Evolved)
-250 Anima Banner (Slayer) (Adept)
-250 The Devil-Tiger's Daiklave (Adept)
-75 Invulnerable Wounding Futility (Basic)
-75 Poetry In Motion
-225 Reforged Hand of Malfeas Style (no level-up)
+2,000xp for completing Act Two
+100xp for @TheOneMoiderah and their lovely Daji pic
-250 for Invulnerable Wounding Futility (Evolved)
-75 for Sun-Heart Furnce Soul
-250 for Sinew-And-Debris Corona (Evolved)
-175 for Dragon-Slaying Overrun Style (no level-up)
-375 for Reforged Hand of Malfeas Style (Adept)
-375 for Anima Banner (Slayer) (Veteran)
-250 for Death's Embrace (Adept)
-250 for Mante of the Stars (Adept)
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Chapter Two: Soaking It In
ZerbanDaGreat
Daemon Noble of D E M O G R A P H I C S
- Pronouns
- They/them
You slide your sword back into its sheath, feeling its familiar weight shift to the belt slung over your shoulder, and step out of the fighter's quarters into the sun.
White Tower always looks faintly ridiculous come the Festival. It's like putting a pink bow on an attack dog - even if it's not biting your kid's face right now, you're not fooling anybody about what it was bred for. You think the proper full title is Main Operating Base White Tower, but nobody's got time for a mouthful like that. If you squint you can see the titular White Tower, an unyielding spire that scrapes the heavens and keeps an ever-watchful eye out across the sea for the barbarians of the north. There's another, smaller copy of it just across the harbour that's just a lighthouse.
As far as the rest of the place, it's hard to tell where what must've been left over all those years ago ends and what the Dragonblooded built when they arrived begins. It's all variations on the same theme - the kind of city where every building looks like a castle, all harsh lines and sharp angles, thick walls and heavy doors. You'd need a siege weapon to break into someone's house, at least in the inner city. Everything looks grey as steel but for the few splashes of colour, so vibrant by comparison that they seem garish - green to honour the elemental dragon of Wood, black as the richest soil for Earth, so on and so forth. Immaculate temples are decked out in all five colours of course, but everywhere you look it's impossible to miss how white dominates. When night falls even the lampposts all around you will burn white. Colourless flower petals float in the waterways that crisscross the city like slender veins. This is a city of Air and no one's about to let you forget it.
It's a Festival day but it's no random, unguided revelry. You have to shoulder your way through the crowds a bit at a time, turning this way and that to slip between all the damn people making it their life's work to mill about and bother you, tune your ears out to the din of people shouting at street vendors and each other to be heard, some rude bastard even throws rice at you, but you see them. The eyes, ears and arms of the Tamura Clan. There's one on every street corner all decked out in his parade-day finest; high-collar jacket with silver buttons, freshly-polished boots, stiff cap, white armband on his sword-arm and the sword in question hanging from its ceremonial sheath. Unlucky bastards get a whole day of it, standing ramrod straight but for their heads on a swivel. Everyone else just has to muster for the parade later at Tengoku Airstrip. One notices you looking, shoots you a look of his own when he spies the kind of weaponry you've got hanging off your shoulder. You ignore him.
Speaking of the long arm of the law, you bump into a Warstrider not long after. Towering eyesore of a thing, no way you'd have missed it unless that smack from Bull's hammer really did blind you. It stands as tall as two men on backbent legs of pure white jadesteel - it'd probably collapse under its own weight if they used another kind - billowing grey-white smoke out of the pipes in its back-end with every heavy, plodding step. The pilot gets to sit comfortably up in what you guess is the saddle, protected by armour plating that sweeps up before him like a cresting wave. It leaves his back and sides exposed, but hey, when you get deployed a dozen at a time in a wedge formation who's gonna get the angle on you with a dinky little bow? You don't even know the kind of firepower they're packing up front, never had the good or bad fortune to deploy either side of a battlefield with one of 'em, but you've heard stories of knocking chunks out of walls and levelling solid stone buildings. The guy up top must feel like a god right now. Him and the other dozen or so, all doing their rounds a couple city blocks apiece, showing off the goods. 'cause that's what the Festival is, right? Everyone's time to show off.
Blacksmith's easy to find, and damn quiet compared to outside too. You don't get many people racing in to get heavy-duty steelworking done during the Festival, so the masters are all out probably having a good time. Which leaves the forges upstairs cold and you alone in a vast, empty foyer of cool marble with the scrawny apprentice they left to man the counter. He looks like he'd rather you pull out your sword and decapitate him right now rather than stick around listening to the party outside another minute. You'd oblige but hey, hardly gonna make your chipped-sword problem any better right?
"I need this repaired," you grunt, drawing the offending weapon and hefting it across your spread hands. "Rush job, priority one. Need it for the tournament tomorrow."
It's a blunt, unadorned thing but you'd say it's got its own brutal beauty to it. It's damn near your height tip-to-pommel, and even with the deep full-length fuller scraping out enough iron to forge a whole extra sword it's still damn heavy to match. The crossguard is wide and slightly angled, the grip long enough to fit a third hand if you had one lying around, and the pommel's a simple circular chunk of metal the size of an apple. A good two handspans of the blade just below the hilt are blunt and leatherbound, the better to control it. Plus, makes it safe to use your custom-made sheath with the cut-out at the top so you can draw from the back without getting the damn tip caught at the throat. You remember going some hungry, hungry nights saving up for this beauty. It's no exaggeration to say it's been your most enduring companion.
"I-I... ah..." the kid's eyes flick rapidly between you and the sword, probably worried it'll crush him if you hand it over. "I can do that for you sir b-but there will be the holiday sur-"
"Fine."
"-charge..." He blinks. "And I don't know when my master will be back so you'll have to pay in ad-"
"Sure, fine, can you get it done or not?"
"Y- yes sir we would be glad to take your business today!" the kid says rapidly, fumbling through the papers on his side of the counter until he finds the ones he needs, then repeating the process for his pen. "And the name for the order?"
"Jiro," you grunt. "As in 'two' and 'son'."
"Thank you." The pen scribbles on paper in a second of blissful silence. Then, regrettably, the kid tries to lighten the mood. "Ha, younger brother huh? Been there."
You stare at him. He glances up at your silence, only to double-take as if you'd reached over and punched him in the mouth. He gets the hint and hunches down to finish up. The numbers get a whole lot messier after that. You read it upside-down and have the money waiting for him like a spread paper fan when he goes to straighten up - issued by the Bank of White Tower and each delicately inked with either the satrap Shuzen Tamura's austere profile or his brother Sho. You'd prefer money that isn't jeopardised by rain but hey, that's the price of doing business here.
"Just visit tomorrow morning and your sword should be ready for anything just in time for your match!" the kid says, injecting as much enthusiasm as possible. You just grumble something inaudible, grab your proof of purchase and leave. You hear a clang and muffled "(shit)" as he makes his first try at dragging your sword upstairs.
Next, your massage, and fuck if you're going to find anywhere in the inner city that isn't completely packed at a time like this. So you head east, crossing the main flow of the crowds like you would a rain-swollen river and one of the wider waterways over a rounded footbridge, edging your way further and further from the light and life of the Festival until the din becomes distant enough to tune out. The streets grow narrower in the new developments on the outskirts, the buildings no taller but somehow they feel so in how they cluster closer and closer together. It's like stepping into a deep, dark forest of steel and concrete, only thin slices of the sky visible if you crane your neck straight up. Not much room for revelry in the streets here - anyone inclined is either back there or staying home today - and that suits you just fine. Signs and banners protrude from the blocky buildings all around at every level, splashes of colour all but begging you to stop and visit, to duck down a side-street otherwise invisible and go up three flights of stairs to get a fantastic price on something-or-other. There's a thin level of grime here you'd never see in the inner city, something ever-present. You prefer it. It's more honest.
A stroke of luck. You find what you're looking for thanks to the guy in the street outside helpfully ranting about the service to anyone who'll listen. You know the type from a glance; dishevelled but well-dressed, well-fed, and at least half-cut. Someone got a little too much liquid courage and decided to slum it so he could tell all his friends about the real city. His face glows red-orange between the drunk anger and the firelight through the doorway, shadow falling as he notices you approach and swings his head in your direction. And then he... moves to block you. You sigh heavily, shooting him a steely stare.
"Hey hey, hey keep walking," he says, half-slurring and waving a finger in your face. "Y'know- y'know what they say about these kinds'a places right? Welllll they're fulla shit. Fffffucking daylight robbery, y'can get a happy ending from the inner city girls for half the price an' at least they aren't flea-bitten-"
You punch him in the throat. Just a fast flicker of movement and his eyes bulge out, wheezing and sipping at the air as if through a straw. His hands fly up to his throat and he slowly, ponderously topples over. You step over him and into the front office. The woman behind the counter and the bouncer lingering by the wall are both staring at you.
"You gonna be a problem too?" the ash-grey wolf rumbles, folding arms bulging with brawn.
"Nah." You walk past him without another word and dig out your wallet. He grunts, but doesn't stop you. "Want a massage and a private bath for an hour if you have it."
"Of course sir," says the woman behind the counter. She leafs through her logbook carefully so as not to tear the cheap paper with her claws. Her hands and face are dusted liberally with pale green scales, but when she speaks it's impossible to miss the forked tongue - must've sucked back when she first realised those scales meant snake, not dragon. "And what sort of masseur would you like?"
You make a face. "Why's it matter?"
Then you remember why it matters. You blink twice, then turn your head and scowl at nothing.
"Don't care. Send whoever."
She takes your money and sends you to room three. It's down the hall, third on your left, but something draws your eye on the way there. A door at the far end propped open to expose a tantalising glimpse of the tiny break area out back. As you watch another employee ducks inside, flicking the stub of a cigarette outside as the door swings shut. He's a foxblood in a loose white robe, lanky and strung with lean muscle, rust-orange ears protruding from the curly tangle of his hair. He's got the brightest green eyes you've ever seen, and the robe sags open at the chest right down to the navel. He's idly polishing his curved, dainty black claws on said robe when he notices you looking.
You break eye contact immediately and head into your room. In the end they send you a black-haired girl who looks like a stiff breeze would knock her over. You say nothing, just strip to the waist and climb on the table.
"Do you know where you carry your ten-"
She gasps, snatching away the hand that unthinkingly reached out to probe your back. Staring in shocked silence at the tapestry of old wounds on your back, raised-ridge scars that each tell a story and none of them happy, the ugly grey-black stretch marks by your shoulders and under your arms from when you put on so much muscle so young you nearly broke. Staring at the dark blood vessels, the black veins in your folded arms. Staring at her hand that felt how cold you are.
"M'not gonna bite you," you grunt. "Just do the job and I'll be out of your hair."
It was a useless question anyway. It's all tension back there. She seems to get the hint quickly, forgoing all the foreplay to hammer your back with knuckles and elbows, practically beating it all out of you. Hurts like hell, but you don't complain. The worst part isn't even her, it's the vein twitching on your forehead that won't go away. Probably the head injury.
When at last you get to sink into the hot bath you ordered, even you can't resist a sigh of relief. Your skin buzzes and tingles as the heat leeches into you, forcing your blood to rush through you the way it's supposed to. You flush the lightest, weakest shade of pink but that's a victory in its own right. Your beaten and battered back all but sobs in gratitude. You spread your arms wide along the rim of the circular tub and lean back, watching the white steam curl up toward the ceiling. It's dark in here too, just the way you like it. Only the flickering orange light of a single lamp to keep you company, and what light bleeds through under the door of course. Slowly, almost by degrees, your body relaxes. Your eyes go half-lidded, then finally close.
It's the big day tomorrow. Tournament of Ten Winds finals. You don't know who you'll be up against, and you don't much care. Whoever it is you'll crush them like the rest. You'll get the money, the wreath, the lot of it. And then...
... then... what?
Your brow furrows slightly as you finally give a thought to what happens after you win. Your eyes crack open again, squinting up at the steamy ceiling as you'll find your answer there. What'll you actually do with all that money?
[ ] Retire and buy a farm somewhere. You're sure you'd be bored to tears within a week but at least there'd be nobody around to bother you but animals.
[ ] Sail to the Blessed Isle. See if everything your father always talked about is true. Maybe find someone in the Immaculate Order to punch.
[ ] Start your own mercenary band. Travel Creation, drifting from region to region and job to job, taking on more hands until you have your own personal army.
[ ] Probably just buy yourself something big and expensive, like a new sword or some armour, and keep doing what you're doing. Maybe you'll come back every year until you have a full set.
[ ] You... don't know. The more you think about it the more you think maybe you are just in it for the glory. To win at least once just to say you did. Nobody can take that away from you.
White Tower always looks faintly ridiculous come the Festival. It's like putting a pink bow on an attack dog - even if it's not biting your kid's face right now, you're not fooling anybody about what it was bred for. You think the proper full title is Main Operating Base White Tower, but nobody's got time for a mouthful like that. If you squint you can see the titular White Tower, an unyielding spire that scrapes the heavens and keeps an ever-watchful eye out across the sea for the barbarians of the north. There's another, smaller copy of it just across the harbour that's just a lighthouse.
As far as the rest of the place, it's hard to tell where what must've been left over all those years ago ends and what the Dragonblooded built when they arrived begins. It's all variations on the same theme - the kind of city where every building looks like a castle, all harsh lines and sharp angles, thick walls and heavy doors. You'd need a siege weapon to break into someone's house, at least in the inner city. Everything looks grey as steel but for the few splashes of colour, so vibrant by comparison that they seem garish - green to honour the elemental dragon of Wood, black as the richest soil for Earth, so on and so forth. Immaculate temples are decked out in all five colours of course, but everywhere you look it's impossible to miss how white dominates. When night falls even the lampposts all around you will burn white. Colourless flower petals float in the waterways that crisscross the city like slender veins. This is a city of Air and no one's about to let you forget it.
It's a Festival day but it's no random, unguided revelry. You have to shoulder your way through the crowds a bit at a time, turning this way and that to slip between all the damn people making it their life's work to mill about and bother you, tune your ears out to the din of people shouting at street vendors and each other to be heard, some rude bastard even throws rice at you, but you see them. The eyes, ears and arms of the Tamura Clan. There's one on every street corner all decked out in his parade-day finest; high-collar jacket with silver buttons, freshly-polished boots, stiff cap, white armband on his sword-arm and the sword in question hanging from its ceremonial sheath. Unlucky bastards get a whole day of it, standing ramrod straight but for their heads on a swivel. Everyone else just has to muster for the parade later at Tengoku Airstrip. One notices you looking, shoots you a look of his own when he spies the kind of weaponry you've got hanging off your shoulder. You ignore him.
Speaking of the long arm of the law, you bump into a Warstrider not long after. Towering eyesore of a thing, no way you'd have missed it unless that smack from Bull's hammer really did blind you. It stands as tall as two men on backbent legs of pure white jadesteel - it'd probably collapse under its own weight if they used another kind - billowing grey-white smoke out of the pipes in its back-end with every heavy, plodding step. The pilot gets to sit comfortably up in what you guess is the saddle, protected by armour plating that sweeps up before him like a cresting wave. It leaves his back and sides exposed, but hey, when you get deployed a dozen at a time in a wedge formation who's gonna get the angle on you with a dinky little bow? You don't even know the kind of firepower they're packing up front, never had the good or bad fortune to deploy either side of a battlefield with one of 'em, but you've heard stories of knocking chunks out of walls and levelling solid stone buildings. The guy up top must feel like a god right now. Him and the other dozen or so, all doing their rounds a couple city blocks apiece, showing off the goods. 'cause that's what the Festival is, right? Everyone's time to show off.
Blacksmith's easy to find, and damn quiet compared to outside too. You don't get many people racing in to get heavy-duty steelworking done during the Festival, so the masters are all out probably having a good time. Which leaves the forges upstairs cold and you alone in a vast, empty foyer of cool marble with the scrawny apprentice they left to man the counter. He looks like he'd rather you pull out your sword and decapitate him right now rather than stick around listening to the party outside another minute. You'd oblige but hey, hardly gonna make your chipped-sword problem any better right?
"I need this repaired," you grunt, drawing the offending weapon and hefting it across your spread hands. "Rush job, priority one. Need it for the tournament tomorrow."
It's a blunt, unadorned thing but you'd say it's got its own brutal beauty to it. It's damn near your height tip-to-pommel, and even with the deep full-length fuller scraping out enough iron to forge a whole extra sword it's still damn heavy to match. The crossguard is wide and slightly angled, the grip long enough to fit a third hand if you had one lying around, and the pommel's a simple circular chunk of metal the size of an apple. A good two handspans of the blade just below the hilt are blunt and leatherbound, the better to control it. Plus, makes it safe to use your custom-made sheath with the cut-out at the top so you can draw from the back without getting the damn tip caught at the throat. You remember going some hungry, hungry nights saving up for this beauty. It's no exaggeration to say it's been your most enduring companion.
"I-I... ah..." the kid's eyes flick rapidly between you and the sword, probably worried it'll crush him if you hand it over. "I can do that for you sir b-but there will be the holiday sur-"
"Fine."
"-charge..." He blinks. "And I don't know when my master will be back so you'll have to pay in ad-"
"Sure, fine, can you get it done or not?"
"Y- yes sir we would be glad to take your business today!" the kid says rapidly, fumbling through the papers on his side of the counter until he finds the ones he needs, then repeating the process for his pen. "And the name for the order?"
"Jiro," you grunt. "As in 'two' and 'son'."
"Thank you." The pen scribbles on paper in a second of blissful silence. Then, regrettably, the kid tries to lighten the mood. "Ha, younger brother huh? Been there."
You stare at him. He glances up at your silence, only to double-take as if you'd reached over and punched him in the mouth. He gets the hint and hunches down to finish up. The numbers get a whole lot messier after that. You read it upside-down and have the money waiting for him like a spread paper fan when he goes to straighten up - issued by the Bank of White Tower and each delicately inked with either the satrap Shuzen Tamura's austere profile or his brother Sho. You'd prefer money that isn't jeopardised by rain but hey, that's the price of doing business here.
"Just visit tomorrow morning and your sword should be ready for anything just in time for your match!" the kid says, injecting as much enthusiasm as possible. You just grumble something inaudible, grab your proof of purchase and leave. You hear a clang and muffled "(shit)" as he makes his first try at dragging your sword upstairs.
Next, your massage, and fuck if you're going to find anywhere in the inner city that isn't completely packed at a time like this. So you head east, crossing the main flow of the crowds like you would a rain-swollen river and one of the wider waterways over a rounded footbridge, edging your way further and further from the light and life of the Festival until the din becomes distant enough to tune out. The streets grow narrower in the new developments on the outskirts, the buildings no taller but somehow they feel so in how they cluster closer and closer together. It's like stepping into a deep, dark forest of steel and concrete, only thin slices of the sky visible if you crane your neck straight up. Not much room for revelry in the streets here - anyone inclined is either back there or staying home today - and that suits you just fine. Signs and banners protrude from the blocky buildings all around at every level, splashes of colour all but begging you to stop and visit, to duck down a side-street otherwise invisible and go up three flights of stairs to get a fantastic price on something-or-other. There's a thin level of grime here you'd never see in the inner city, something ever-present. You prefer it. It's more honest.
A stroke of luck. You find what you're looking for thanks to the guy in the street outside helpfully ranting about the service to anyone who'll listen. You know the type from a glance; dishevelled but well-dressed, well-fed, and at least half-cut. Someone got a little too much liquid courage and decided to slum it so he could tell all his friends about the real city. His face glows red-orange between the drunk anger and the firelight through the doorway, shadow falling as he notices you approach and swings his head in your direction. And then he... moves to block you. You sigh heavily, shooting him a steely stare.
"Hey hey, hey keep walking," he says, half-slurring and waving a finger in your face. "Y'know- y'know what they say about these kinds'a places right? Welllll they're fulla shit. Fffffucking daylight robbery, y'can get a happy ending from the inner city girls for half the price an' at least they aren't flea-bitten-"
You punch him in the throat. Just a fast flicker of movement and his eyes bulge out, wheezing and sipping at the air as if through a straw. His hands fly up to his throat and he slowly, ponderously topples over. You step over him and into the front office. The woman behind the counter and the bouncer lingering by the wall are both staring at you.
"You gonna be a problem too?" the ash-grey wolf rumbles, folding arms bulging with brawn.
"Nah." You walk past him without another word and dig out your wallet. He grunts, but doesn't stop you. "Want a massage and a private bath for an hour if you have it."
"Of course sir," says the woman behind the counter. She leafs through her logbook carefully so as not to tear the cheap paper with her claws. Her hands and face are dusted liberally with pale green scales, but when she speaks it's impossible to miss the forked tongue - must've sucked back when she first realised those scales meant snake, not dragon. "And what sort of masseur would you like?"
You make a face. "Why's it matter?"
Then you remember why it matters. You blink twice, then turn your head and scowl at nothing.
"Don't care. Send whoever."
She takes your money and sends you to room three. It's down the hall, third on your left, but something draws your eye on the way there. A door at the far end propped open to expose a tantalising glimpse of the tiny break area out back. As you watch another employee ducks inside, flicking the stub of a cigarette outside as the door swings shut. He's a foxblood in a loose white robe, lanky and strung with lean muscle, rust-orange ears protruding from the curly tangle of his hair. He's got the brightest green eyes you've ever seen, and the robe sags open at the chest right down to the navel. He's idly polishing his curved, dainty black claws on said robe when he notices you looking.
You break eye contact immediately and head into your room. In the end they send you a black-haired girl who looks like a stiff breeze would knock her over. You say nothing, just strip to the waist and climb on the table.
"Do you know where you carry your ten-"
She gasps, snatching away the hand that unthinkingly reached out to probe your back. Staring in shocked silence at the tapestry of old wounds on your back, raised-ridge scars that each tell a story and none of them happy, the ugly grey-black stretch marks by your shoulders and under your arms from when you put on so much muscle so young you nearly broke. Staring at the dark blood vessels, the black veins in your folded arms. Staring at her hand that felt how cold you are.
"M'not gonna bite you," you grunt. "Just do the job and I'll be out of your hair."
It was a useless question anyway. It's all tension back there. She seems to get the hint quickly, forgoing all the foreplay to hammer your back with knuckles and elbows, practically beating it all out of you. Hurts like hell, but you don't complain. The worst part isn't even her, it's the vein twitching on your forehead that won't go away. Probably the head injury.
When at last you get to sink into the hot bath you ordered, even you can't resist a sigh of relief. Your skin buzzes and tingles as the heat leeches into you, forcing your blood to rush through you the way it's supposed to. You flush the lightest, weakest shade of pink but that's a victory in its own right. Your beaten and battered back all but sobs in gratitude. You spread your arms wide along the rim of the circular tub and lean back, watching the white steam curl up toward the ceiling. It's dark in here too, just the way you like it. Only the flickering orange light of a single lamp to keep you company, and what light bleeds through under the door of course. Slowly, almost by degrees, your body relaxes. Your eyes go half-lidded, then finally close.
It's the big day tomorrow. Tournament of Ten Winds finals. You don't know who you'll be up against, and you don't much care. Whoever it is you'll crush them like the rest. You'll get the money, the wreath, the lot of it. And then...
... then... what?
Your brow furrows slightly as you finally give a thought to what happens after you win. Your eyes crack open again, squinting up at the steamy ceiling as you'll find your answer there. What'll you actually do with all that money?
[ ] Retire and buy a farm somewhere. You're sure you'd be bored to tears within a week but at least there'd be nobody around to bother you but animals.
[ ] Sail to the Blessed Isle. See if everything your father always talked about is true. Maybe find someone in the Immaculate Order to punch.
[ ] Start your own mercenary band. Travel Creation, drifting from region to region and job to job, taking on more hands until you have your own personal army.
[ ] Probably just buy yourself something big and expensive, like a new sword or some armour, and keep doing what you're doing. Maybe you'll come back every year until you have a full set.
[ ] You... don't know. The more you think about it the more you think maybe you are just in it for the glory. To win at least once just to say you did. Nobody can take that away from you.
Chapter Three: Final Round
ZerbanDaGreat
Daemon Noble of D E M O G R A P H I C S
- Pronouns
- They/them
You think about it sometimes. The Blessed Isle. The seat of power for the Realm, the shining spoke around which all of Creation turns. They say if you stand there at the highest peak, alongside the great dragon of Earth, you can see the whole thing. The entire horizon stretching out before you, edge to edge, in all its splendour. No wonder it got the Dragonbloods in a 'king of all they survey' mood. You think about passing off some of your prize money to a man down by the docks and sailing, first west, then south. Chill winds of the north seas slowly growing warmer as you round the bend and it comes into view. You imagine it looking like White Tower but even larger, grander, until even the Dragonbloods feel small and insignificant compared to what those that came before them built. You imagine climbing to the very top, alone at the roof of the world, and looking in every direction for the truth of it all.
You also imagine punching the Mouth of Peace in the mouth. Who says fantasies have to be realistic?
It's a pipe dream really. Anything you can think of to do with your prize money is. But it's a hell of a lot more than you've had for a good long while. You sink further back in your bath, the heat in the water finally reaching your head, and enjoy the thought. Jiro, lord of all he surveys, taking the Imperial City by storm. Oh what a stir you'd cause.
It can't last forever. Soon you get a knock on the sliding door, someone muttering the five-minute warning through the thin wood and opening it just a crack to fit your clean clothes through. Water slops and sloshes over the sides of the bath as you shift in your seat and finally drag yourself upright, so flushed you'd practically blend in with normal people by now. You dry off, get dressed, and bid farewell to those you pass. In and out, no fuss at all. A model customer.
You feel more refreshed than you've been in weeks, but you're still not relaxed. It just feels wrong to be walking around without your sword. You've carried that thing on your back so long that you feel too light without it, like you're liable to slip and start floating off. Your spine itches. You scratch your shoulder irritably, right where you should feel the hilt, and decide to take your mind off that. The arena's on your way back to the inn you've been rooming for the week, so you quicken pace and duck inside.
Perfect timing. The guard by the door barely gets halfway into telling you to buy a ticket before he recognises you and just lets you through. You're a little late for the afternoon bout but you're only looking for standing room and nobody wants to crowd you anyway. The arena is like an empty dish, the sides laddered with solid stone benches and finer-cut stairs, the uniformity marred only by the four shadowed arches through which the crowd are funnelled in and out. You stand at the threshold of one such arch, leaning against one shaded marble pillar, and crane your neck to see down into the sandy fighting pit. You didn't make it in time to catch more than the tail-end of the announcer's spiel about the combatants, but you can fill in the blanks just by looking.
On the left, another mercenary type. Bandit, more likely. Probably been a good boy staying away from Realm supply lines and trade routes, only raiding the kinds of people that can't bring the hammer down in retaliation. Maybe raiding outside the satrapy, a land-bound privateer. He looks like a demonblood, his tough, leathery skin the rust-red of day-old blood, black nails hardened and just a bit too pointed. He wears a haphazard mishmash of armour - some leather and fur here, a little chain there, a couple plates over the vitals - and his sword looks like shit. Even from here you can tell it's chipped and notched, worn down by dozens of battles. His long hair's tied back into a high ponytail, his lips drawn back in a snarl.
On the right, who can't tell who it is on sight? Dynast-Prince Hayate Tamura. The tournament was all abuzz with excitement when he joined the lists, and no matter how many lowlives and ne'er-do-wells beelined for him he just kept coming out spotless. He's been formally trained by the best tutors Realm money can buy and it shows, the difference like night and day. There's a crispness to how he fights, drilled to extreme competence where perfection is impossible, on a whole other level to the rough and improvised techniques people like you use to get by. Oh there's been a few close calls in the past few days, a couple dangerous moments when it looked like the prince might so much as get a boo-boo, but he's always pulled through. He cuts an impressive figure there, completely encased in armour of silver-white jadesteel, a white horsehair crest flowing down from his helm to the small of his back to meet the twin tails of the sash tied around his waist. His face is concealed by a solid white jade mask shaped like the snarling maw of a dragon, only his eyes left to betray the humanity - the mortality - still in there. He may not share the same blessing as his father but down there he looks every bit the part. Like a god come to visit. You look at him and you know for a fact who you'll face tomorrow.
The prince draws his sword smoothly from the glossy lacquered sheath at his hip, grasping it tightly in both hands. The way it gleams in the sun it's got to be white jadesteel too. The bandit edges closer, his own sword a dull metal pole by comparison.
The prince edges closer. The bandit edges closer. The whole crowd holds its breath in anticipation.
Closer, closer. Close enough that a simple dip of their wrists and their swords would touch, the blades cross. They hold there for long seconds, eyes locked together, watching and waiting for the slightest twitch or tell.
Their swords ring only thrice. Once when the demonblood attacks, the prince parrying the sudden lunge. Once more when he retaliates, driving forward, forcing the bandit on the defensive. One last time as the prince draws back and slices, the brilliant arc his blade traced seeming to linger in the air. The bandit's blade lands in the sand, the sound of its impact completely swallowed up by the deafening roar of the crowd. He can only stare down in mute disbelief at the clean-cut stump of a sword he's holding.
The prince presses the tip of his sword to the man's chest and presses forward, driving the demonblood back and back until he trips over his own feet and goes spawling in the sand. He tosses away the useless hilt and presses his empty hands together, silently begging the man for mercy even as half the crowd raise their voices in unison for the reverse. The prince only raises his head, horsehair crest and sash flickering in an errant breeze as he turns to his father for the final verdict. Shuzen Tamura does not so much as lean forward in his chair - a single, almost imperceptible nod is his only answer.
The prince draws back one step, giving himself plenty of room to... drag his blade through the crook of his elbow, cleaning it of non-existent blood and grime, before delicately returning it to its sheath. No boos and jeers this time - the crowd only seem to grow more energised by the noble act of mercy, chanting the Tamura name to the high heavens. They're practically jumping up and down in their seats as the white-armoured figure far below bows to his father, turns, and strides back inside. The bandit lying in the sand is all but forgotten even by his opponent. Only you watch him as he pushes himself up on one hand, clutching his chest, and mouths 'fuck me'. You've got no sympathy for him. If he was going to keep his sword in that shitty of a state, he's got nobody to blame but himself. Even on a good day he was probably just going to snap it off swinging at the prince's armour.
You don't stick around for the after-party. You've seen all you need to see.
Night finds you lying awake in bed, flat on your back with your hands behind your head. It's a cramped attic room and you can hear every word said and every bottle clinked downstairs straight through the floor, but that's not why you're awake. You've slept in literal holes in the ground. You're awake because you're thinking about Dynast-Prince Hayate Tamura and the fact you'll have to fight him tomorrow. Are you even allowed to hurt him? You can only assume so. He knew what he was getting into, there had to be a discussion with his dad about all this. You know for damn sure his family won't be happy if you kill him, but it's not like that's completely up to you. Heat of battle, swords flying, complications with seemingly minor injuries, there's no guarantees on the battlefield. So... what?
You know what the smart thing to do would be. You know what the safe thing to do would be. But you can't let that, any of it, distract you. Distraction is how you get dead. You need to stay focused, eyes on the prize, no silly fantasies in your head but the view of all Creation and the prince in white jadesteel standing between you and it. Besides, little pissant was already born with a silver spoon in his mouth. He can handle being roughed up in the ring a little.
You close your eyes and take a long, deep breath. You're going to win. You will win. You've fought with your life on the line before more times than you can count, against worse odds too. Either you'll pull through tomorrow or you won't have to worry about anything any more. Win-win.
Next morning you find your sword waiting for you just like the apprentice kid said it would be. It slides into the sheath on your back like a key in a lock, turning with a decisive click that finally makes the shackles of doubt and worry wrapped all around you fall free. People recognise you in the street as you walk to the arena, rolling back from your path like the sea before a wave and talking about you in hushed whispers when you've passed. You pick up a light breakfast on the way there, awkwardly crammed into a stool beneath a short awning to slurp up some noodles and rice, and even then you can hear people talking about it.
'What kind of fool wouldn't have already forfeit? Does he want to die?' 'What move do you think the prince will use? Did you hear what happened in the last bout? He cut his opponent's sword clean in half!' 'That's nothing, have you heard what they say about his father? He once cut a lightning bolt in half!' 'Oooh! Why?' 'Nobody knows, but if he could do that then who knows what his son can do?' 'Do you think he'll kill the mercenary?' 'He's spared all his other opponents hasn't he?' 'They all had the good sense to beg for it. I don't know, this one just has that look about him. I think he'll have to.' 'I can't wait!'
Same shit, different seasoning. You drop your bowl on the counter and head out.
The arena's more packed than ever, drawing in more spectators from all over the city like a swirling whirlpool of sweat and blood. You have to shoulder your way through the crowd just to get to the fighter's entrance, sidestepping a pair of Tamura soldiers fighting to maintain order in a crowd downright champing at the bit to see their prince fight. You can only imagine how the combatants in the second melee feel, fighting and bleeding out there in the sand as a pre-show warmup the crowd couldn't be less interested in. You hope whatever pittance they're paid is worth the scars. You, you're just glad it gives you more time to prepare. You hand your sword over to tournament officials so they can check you haven't poisoned it - either the elegant noble way or the cheap commoner way - and warm up.
Hah. You're trying to stay calm, but the sound of the crowd out there is so strong it's starting to make even your cold blood buzz. You can only imagine how someone like Hayate's preparing for this. Maybe he's being delicately fed peeled grapes by concubines while attendants oil his armour and sharpen his sword.
You wonder if you can get away with putting out his eye. It's probably your best bet of getting past all that armour.
At long last the horn sounds to signal the end of the melee, and the crowd can scarcely contain itself. You can faintly hear the announcer appealing to quiet through the layers of stone and steel as get in position, waiting for the noise to die down to a dull roar to launch into his routine. You don't pay much attention to it. You've heard your half plenty of times before, nobody will shut up about Hayate, and the embellishments will only distract you if you give them the time of day. You face forward, staring a hole in the gate before you, fighting to keep your breath even as your heart begins to race. Someone hands your sword back to you and you buckle it on. The gate crrreeeeeeaks to life, rising from the sand bit by bit, light and sand spilling into the tunnel. You step through the moment it rises over your head.
You've been here before but it's different this time. The sheer scale of it is like something else, like something out of a dream. Every last speck of free space in the stands is full, people jostling and pushing against each other for a chance to even stand somewhere decent. All of them shouting and cheering and pumping their fists, calling out the prince's name as he steps from the shadows on the other side of the ring - even the dignitaries in the VIP box seem marginally more invested. White sand squeaks beneath your boots, your blood sings in your ears. Your enemy is in front of you. You fight to close out the sight, the sound, the smell of so many sweaty people pressed together and desperate for a look at the action. You draw your sword.
It's blunt.
You freeze solid. Your neck all but creaks as you drop your gaze, tearing your eyes away from the armoured prince opposite you. You look down at your blade, prying one hand off the grip to thumb the top-facing edge just to be sure your eyes aren't decieving you. It's blunt. The tip and both edges have been ground down flat. There's still flakes and burrs of steel all over it. A rush job. A sloppy job. Or they just didn't care if you noticed now, when it's too late to do anything about it.
You look up and there he is. Dynast-Prince Hayate, drawing his own blade as he slowly stalks towards you. Sealed away in armour, face hidden but for the glint of dark eyes just above the snarling mask.
Your breathing quickens. Grows harsher. Your knuckles grow whiter than white as you grip your sword so tightly your hands quiver. You're like a spring winding tighter, tighter, tighter. You feel... you're absolutely...
[ ] Fucking livid. All this time, all this work, you've sweated and bled and now it gets yanked out from under you within reach of the goal. A big scary monster neutered at the last so the crowd can cheer and pat themselves on the back as they watch it get knocked down. Well then fine. You'll show them what a real fucking monster looks like.
[ ] Furious at Hayate. He planned this from the start, didn't he? Delicate little noble shithead. Wasn't enough to come in with equipment worth more than a lifetime's earnings and all the tutors he could want and the blessings of the dragons, he had to sabotage you like he sabotaged his opponent in the semis with that shitty sword. Well he's in for a big fucking surprise if he thinks you won't play dirty right back.
[ ] Seething at the entire setup. It's all fake, isn't it? All of it. It's just another piece of the posturing that is the Festival, a bloody honey trap, another way for the Tamura to show off. If wasn't the prince it'd be someone else in their pocket, someone with the tournament officials on their side, pairing people off to whittle down the real competition and fix who takes home the wreath. Well then fine. You're gonna ruin this for them too if it's the last thing you do.
You also imagine punching the Mouth of Peace in the mouth. Who says fantasies have to be realistic?
It's a pipe dream really. Anything you can think of to do with your prize money is. But it's a hell of a lot more than you've had for a good long while. You sink further back in your bath, the heat in the water finally reaching your head, and enjoy the thought. Jiro, lord of all he surveys, taking the Imperial City by storm. Oh what a stir you'd cause.
It can't last forever. Soon you get a knock on the sliding door, someone muttering the five-minute warning through the thin wood and opening it just a crack to fit your clean clothes through. Water slops and sloshes over the sides of the bath as you shift in your seat and finally drag yourself upright, so flushed you'd practically blend in with normal people by now. You dry off, get dressed, and bid farewell to those you pass. In and out, no fuss at all. A model customer.
You feel more refreshed than you've been in weeks, but you're still not relaxed. It just feels wrong to be walking around without your sword. You've carried that thing on your back so long that you feel too light without it, like you're liable to slip and start floating off. Your spine itches. You scratch your shoulder irritably, right where you should feel the hilt, and decide to take your mind off that. The arena's on your way back to the inn you've been rooming for the week, so you quicken pace and duck inside.
Perfect timing. The guard by the door barely gets halfway into telling you to buy a ticket before he recognises you and just lets you through. You're a little late for the afternoon bout but you're only looking for standing room and nobody wants to crowd you anyway. The arena is like an empty dish, the sides laddered with solid stone benches and finer-cut stairs, the uniformity marred only by the four shadowed arches through which the crowd are funnelled in and out. You stand at the threshold of one such arch, leaning against one shaded marble pillar, and crane your neck to see down into the sandy fighting pit. You didn't make it in time to catch more than the tail-end of the announcer's spiel about the combatants, but you can fill in the blanks just by looking.
On the left, another mercenary type. Bandit, more likely. Probably been a good boy staying away from Realm supply lines and trade routes, only raiding the kinds of people that can't bring the hammer down in retaliation. Maybe raiding outside the satrapy, a land-bound privateer. He looks like a demonblood, his tough, leathery skin the rust-red of day-old blood, black nails hardened and just a bit too pointed. He wears a haphazard mishmash of armour - some leather and fur here, a little chain there, a couple plates over the vitals - and his sword looks like shit. Even from here you can tell it's chipped and notched, worn down by dozens of battles. His long hair's tied back into a high ponytail, his lips drawn back in a snarl.
On the right, who can't tell who it is on sight? Dynast-Prince Hayate Tamura. The tournament was all abuzz with excitement when he joined the lists, and no matter how many lowlives and ne'er-do-wells beelined for him he just kept coming out spotless. He's been formally trained by the best tutors Realm money can buy and it shows, the difference like night and day. There's a crispness to how he fights, drilled to extreme competence where perfection is impossible, on a whole other level to the rough and improvised techniques people like you use to get by. Oh there's been a few close calls in the past few days, a couple dangerous moments when it looked like the prince might so much as get a boo-boo, but he's always pulled through. He cuts an impressive figure there, completely encased in armour of silver-white jadesteel, a white horsehair crest flowing down from his helm to the small of his back to meet the twin tails of the sash tied around his waist. His face is concealed by a solid white jade mask shaped like the snarling maw of a dragon, only his eyes left to betray the humanity - the mortality - still in there. He may not share the same blessing as his father but down there he looks every bit the part. Like a god come to visit. You look at him and you know for a fact who you'll face tomorrow.
The prince draws his sword smoothly from the glossy lacquered sheath at his hip, grasping it tightly in both hands. The way it gleams in the sun it's got to be white jadesteel too. The bandit edges closer, his own sword a dull metal pole by comparison.
The prince edges closer. The bandit edges closer. The whole crowd holds its breath in anticipation.
Closer, closer. Close enough that a simple dip of their wrists and their swords would touch, the blades cross. They hold there for long seconds, eyes locked together, watching and waiting for the slightest twitch or tell.
Their swords ring only thrice. Once when the demonblood attacks, the prince parrying the sudden lunge. Once more when he retaliates, driving forward, forcing the bandit on the defensive. One last time as the prince draws back and slices, the brilliant arc his blade traced seeming to linger in the air. The bandit's blade lands in the sand, the sound of its impact completely swallowed up by the deafening roar of the crowd. He can only stare down in mute disbelief at the clean-cut stump of a sword he's holding.
The prince presses the tip of his sword to the man's chest and presses forward, driving the demonblood back and back until he trips over his own feet and goes spawling in the sand. He tosses away the useless hilt and presses his empty hands together, silently begging the man for mercy even as half the crowd raise their voices in unison for the reverse. The prince only raises his head, horsehair crest and sash flickering in an errant breeze as he turns to his father for the final verdict. Shuzen Tamura does not so much as lean forward in his chair - a single, almost imperceptible nod is his only answer.
The prince draws back one step, giving himself plenty of room to... drag his blade through the crook of his elbow, cleaning it of non-existent blood and grime, before delicately returning it to its sheath. No boos and jeers this time - the crowd only seem to grow more energised by the noble act of mercy, chanting the Tamura name to the high heavens. They're practically jumping up and down in their seats as the white-armoured figure far below bows to his father, turns, and strides back inside. The bandit lying in the sand is all but forgotten even by his opponent. Only you watch him as he pushes himself up on one hand, clutching his chest, and mouths 'fuck me'. You've got no sympathy for him. If he was going to keep his sword in that shitty of a state, he's got nobody to blame but himself. Even on a good day he was probably just going to snap it off swinging at the prince's armour.
You don't stick around for the after-party. You've seen all you need to see.
Night finds you lying awake in bed, flat on your back with your hands behind your head. It's a cramped attic room and you can hear every word said and every bottle clinked downstairs straight through the floor, but that's not why you're awake. You've slept in literal holes in the ground. You're awake because you're thinking about Dynast-Prince Hayate Tamura and the fact you'll have to fight him tomorrow. Are you even allowed to hurt him? You can only assume so. He knew what he was getting into, there had to be a discussion with his dad about all this. You know for damn sure his family won't be happy if you kill him, but it's not like that's completely up to you. Heat of battle, swords flying, complications with seemingly minor injuries, there's no guarantees on the battlefield. So... what?
You know what the smart thing to do would be. You know what the safe thing to do would be. But you can't let that, any of it, distract you. Distraction is how you get dead. You need to stay focused, eyes on the prize, no silly fantasies in your head but the view of all Creation and the prince in white jadesteel standing between you and it. Besides, little pissant was already born with a silver spoon in his mouth. He can handle being roughed up in the ring a little.
You close your eyes and take a long, deep breath. You're going to win. You will win. You've fought with your life on the line before more times than you can count, against worse odds too. Either you'll pull through tomorrow or you won't have to worry about anything any more. Win-win.
Next morning you find your sword waiting for you just like the apprentice kid said it would be. It slides into the sheath on your back like a key in a lock, turning with a decisive click that finally makes the shackles of doubt and worry wrapped all around you fall free. People recognise you in the street as you walk to the arena, rolling back from your path like the sea before a wave and talking about you in hushed whispers when you've passed. You pick up a light breakfast on the way there, awkwardly crammed into a stool beneath a short awning to slurp up some noodles and rice, and even then you can hear people talking about it.
'What kind of fool wouldn't have already forfeit? Does he want to die?' 'What move do you think the prince will use? Did you hear what happened in the last bout? He cut his opponent's sword clean in half!' 'That's nothing, have you heard what they say about his father? He once cut a lightning bolt in half!' 'Oooh! Why?' 'Nobody knows, but if he could do that then who knows what his son can do?' 'Do you think he'll kill the mercenary?' 'He's spared all his other opponents hasn't he?' 'They all had the good sense to beg for it. I don't know, this one just has that look about him. I think he'll have to.' 'I can't wait!'
Same shit, different seasoning. You drop your bowl on the counter and head out.
The arena's more packed than ever, drawing in more spectators from all over the city like a swirling whirlpool of sweat and blood. You have to shoulder your way through the crowd just to get to the fighter's entrance, sidestepping a pair of Tamura soldiers fighting to maintain order in a crowd downright champing at the bit to see their prince fight. You can only imagine how the combatants in the second melee feel, fighting and bleeding out there in the sand as a pre-show warmup the crowd couldn't be less interested in. You hope whatever pittance they're paid is worth the scars. You, you're just glad it gives you more time to prepare. You hand your sword over to tournament officials so they can check you haven't poisoned it - either the elegant noble way or the cheap commoner way - and warm up.
Hah. You're trying to stay calm, but the sound of the crowd out there is so strong it's starting to make even your cold blood buzz. You can only imagine how someone like Hayate's preparing for this. Maybe he's being delicately fed peeled grapes by concubines while attendants oil his armour and sharpen his sword.
You wonder if you can get away with putting out his eye. It's probably your best bet of getting past all that armour.
At long last the horn sounds to signal the end of the melee, and the crowd can scarcely contain itself. You can faintly hear the announcer appealing to quiet through the layers of stone and steel as get in position, waiting for the noise to die down to a dull roar to launch into his routine. You don't pay much attention to it. You've heard your half plenty of times before, nobody will shut up about Hayate, and the embellishments will only distract you if you give them the time of day. You face forward, staring a hole in the gate before you, fighting to keep your breath even as your heart begins to race. Someone hands your sword back to you and you buckle it on. The gate crrreeeeeeaks to life, rising from the sand bit by bit, light and sand spilling into the tunnel. You step through the moment it rises over your head.
You've been here before but it's different this time. The sheer scale of it is like something else, like something out of a dream. Every last speck of free space in the stands is full, people jostling and pushing against each other for a chance to even stand somewhere decent. All of them shouting and cheering and pumping their fists, calling out the prince's name as he steps from the shadows on the other side of the ring - even the dignitaries in the VIP box seem marginally more invested. White sand squeaks beneath your boots, your blood sings in your ears. Your enemy is in front of you. You fight to close out the sight, the sound, the smell of so many sweaty people pressed together and desperate for a look at the action. You draw your sword.
It's blunt.
You freeze solid. Your neck all but creaks as you drop your gaze, tearing your eyes away from the armoured prince opposite you. You look down at your blade, prying one hand off the grip to thumb the top-facing edge just to be sure your eyes aren't decieving you. It's blunt. The tip and both edges have been ground down flat. There's still flakes and burrs of steel all over it. A rush job. A sloppy job. Or they just didn't care if you noticed now, when it's too late to do anything about it.
You look up and there he is. Dynast-Prince Hayate, drawing his own blade as he slowly stalks towards you. Sealed away in armour, face hidden but for the glint of dark eyes just above the snarling mask.
Your breathing quickens. Grows harsher. Your knuckles grow whiter than white as you grip your sword so tightly your hands quiver. You're like a spring winding tighter, tighter, tighter. You feel... you're absolutely...
[ ] Fucking livid. All this time, all this work, you've sweated and bled and now it gets yanked out from under you within reach of the goal. A big scary monster neutered at the last so the crowd can cheer and pat themselves on the back as they watch it get knocked down. Well then fine. You'll show them what a real fucking monster looks like.
[ ] Furious at Hayate. He planned this from the start, didn't he? Delicate little noble shithead. Wasn't enough to come in with equipment worth more than a lifetime's earnings and all the tutors he could want and the blessings of the dragons, he had to sabotage you like he sabotaged his opponent in the semis with that shitty sword. Well he's in for a big fucking surprise if he thinks you won't play dirty right back.
[ ] Seething at the entire setup. It's all fake, isn't it? All of it. It's just another piece of the posturing that is the Festival, a bloody honey trap, another way for the Tamura to show off. If wasn't the prince it'd be someone else in their pocket, someone with the tournament officials on their side, pairing people off to whittle down the real competition and fix who takes home the wreath. Well then fine. You're gonna ruin this for them too if it's the last thing you do.
Chapter Four: The Hand That Offends
ZerbanDaGreat
Daemon Noble of D E M O G R A P H I C S
- Pronouns
- They/them
You were never going to win, were you? Even if Hayate hadn't turned up there would've been something. Some Tamura shithead, some well-behaved golden boy. The prize money's just to draw in people like you, or Bull, or the demonblood who barely even got a chance. The freaks and the undesirables who lurk at the edges, coming into the light so they can be stomped into the sand just so the crowd can clap and cheer and stamp their feet and shout for blood. You hate Hayate. You hate him so much you want to see him on his back, choking on blood with your sword through his throat, but right now you hate his family even more. It's a hate that runs so deep it's scorching your bones, but it's burning slowly. Controlled, for now. You can still think.
You stride toward Hayate as if you were ten feet tall and swing.
You have more reach. You have more strength. You're swinging more raw mass at him. And with it completely blunted, you've lost all reason not to use your sword like a club. CLANG, CLANG, CLANG, the sound of your blade on his fills the ring, piercing through even the rising roar of the crowd. White jade heals and no way you're strong enough to slice through in one swing, but it's not the sword you're trying to wear down. You feel the jolt of recoil up your arms in every clash but you know he's feeling it worse. Each parry sends shooting pains up his arms, sends his arms jerking off-course, forcing him to correct just in time to receive your next blow. His first instinct is to back up, make space to recover and think. You give him none.
His second is to go forward, try to break through the assault and cut you from inside your swing. You've had more people try that than years either of you have been alive. He tries to disengage the parry but you step into it, steel ringing on jadesteel as you switch grips. Your left hand closes around the grip under the hilt and your right sends the pommel scything up into the side of his helmet. CLANNNG. It rings like a bell and he staggers a step. Just a step, but it's all you need. You flip your sword upright again and whack him right across the exact same place. The same sound, higher-pitched this time. If it weren't strapped down tight you would've spun his helmet around three times. You hear a sound from the prince at last and it's an all-too-common snarl of fury.
Now he's angry too. Good.
He lunges, but in his anger he overextends. You reverse your sword again and divert it, the elegantly curved edge of his white-bladed sword singing across the flat of your crude hunk of iron, as he carries himself right into your outstretched leg. You sweep it through, ignoring the sting as it collides with hard armour, and he's left at an angle he just can't correct. The prince goes down hard on his face with a jangle of jadesteel and squeak of sand.
"Are we all having fun today!?" you shout to be heard over the booing crowd, striding away from your fallen enemy with your arms spread wide. You point up at the VIP box, at the Dragonblooded seated within that glare down at you with naked antipathy. "What about you lot? Everything you hoped it'd be? Feeling pleased?"
Sand crunches beneath armoured boots behind you. You whirl around and there he is, sprinting straight at you with a raised sword and murder in his eyes. You can't help but grin. His strike's too telegraphed, hoping anger will give him the speed and strength to overcome you, but if he thinks he's got enough of that to beat yours he's sorely mistaken. You meet his descending blow with an ascending one, forcing his arms to recoil as if he struck a stone slab. He switches it up, coming low from the right with that quick little sword of his. Your arms flex and bulge as you haul back against your blade's momentum, forcing it to reverse course and slam into Hayate's again so hard it almost goes spiralling out of his hands. You draw back and lunge, aiming to put a nice big dent in that pretty breastplate.
He does the first surprising thing all bout. He jinks to the side, lifts his foot and drives it down on the flat of your sword, half-burying it in the sand. He shifts his weight forward, forcing it deeper and lunging for your unprotected head. You duck beneath the pommel as his sword flashes overhead, set your left hand below the hilt and shove. Your sword rises from the sand and Hayate goes staggering back, arms all but windmilling in a desperate attempt to stay upright. You step forward, spinning with the movement, and slam your sword into his side with all your might.
You think you hear something crunch. What buckled, the armour or his ribs? Either way the prince goes sprawling again, rolling twice across the soft peaks and valleys of the pure white sand. He comes to a stop and doesn't rise, not yet. Can't. That swing drove all the air out of his lungs and now he's wheezing, all but retching, trying to force even a scrap of it back in. The booing is even louder now, marred only by the few people shouting encouragement to the prince, begging him to get up. You shoulder your sword and stalk towards him.
"This is embarrassing. Have you ever even been in a real fight?" You have to shout just to hear yourself over this crowd, but you're sure the five divinely-appointed leaders and dignitaries up in the box can hear you just fine. You look back at your shoulder and there they are - with your blood singing in your ears like this you can even stand to look them in the eye, meet their naked antipathy head-on.
Sho Tamura, head banker and treasurer of the satrapy, flicking his gaze between you and his brother and back again in a mix of anger and disbelief. General Hideyoshi, hair as white as his father's, cutting a strong military figure even out of his armour, hissing through gritted teeth for his brother to get up. Ayano, sticking out like a sore thumb in her shapeless grey Immaculate robes, yet as the Abbess of the largest temple in the region she wields as much power as the rest of them - and oh you can only imagine how she feels about a ghostblood brutalising her little brother then. The only odd one out is a woman you don't recognise, slouching in her chair in a pool of loose-fitting silks, sapphire-blue lips quirked up in something like amusement.
And then there's Shuzen Tamura. Still sitting back in his chair, not a hair out of place, but from the way he grips the armrests and the way his eyes seem to bore through you, his displeasure couldn't be more clear. It only makes you smile wider.
"Is this really it?" you call out to everyone watching, turning in place. "Is this the best the Tamura Clan has? You stack the deck with his fancy tutors and his fancy sword and his fancy armour-" you drive your boot into the side of his head and he rolls over, crying out as his brain rattles in his skull once more "-and he still can't beat some mercenary with a blunt sword."
The crowd keeps booing, keeps jeering, but you don't care any more. Now it's just energising you, filling you up with a righteous anger that sizzles in your blood. You feel unstoppable, invincible. All you can think about is the helpless fury that must be bubbling in the pits of their stomachs, those Dragonblood prophets powerless to do anything but watch.
"You're cheats," you spit up at the VIP box, "and liars, and cowards! Too scared I'd draw blood from your precious little prince to let it be a fair fight!"
Hayate staggers to his feet behind you again, breathing hard and heavy through his mask. You slowly slide your sword off your shoulder again.
"Let's see what colour he bleeds."
You whirl to face him. Your swords clash again and again, and the difference now is like night and day. He's punch-drunk, disoriented - you wonder if he can even see you properly. Whatever he's feeling you make it worse, again and again and again every time you make an opening and ring his head like a gong. His slashes grow wilder, his parries sloppy. He can't find the space to clear his head and you give him none.
He thrusts and you divert it right, pinning his sword away from your body as you step in and drive your elbow into his mouth. The mask absorbs part of the impact, but not all. You smash that elegantly-carved piece of white jade into his nose, into his mouth, hidden lips mashed against his teeth, and he cries out again. Staggering, swaying, instinctively clutching at his face to try and dull the pain. The perfect opening to half-sword and lunge for one of the small, oval slots just above the mask.
They blunted the tip too, but it's still sharp enough for this. Hayate screams, bright scarlet stark against the silver and white all around as blood gushes down his face. His free hand rises to cover what's left of his eye, to desperately staunch the flow, but you're not done. The crowd screams in your ear, crying out fit to drown out even the prince's agony. You flip your sword around, grasp it tight by the blade, and drive the crossguard into the side of his helm like a pickaxe.
His eye opens wide, glassy and unfocused. His hand slowly drops from the bloody socket beside it. His breath comes in shallow sips, all but retching. Gurgling. Choking. You wrench your improvised pick free with a sickening, wet sucking sound to find it soaked in scarlet. Hayate sways dangerously, swinging his hands all around for some kind of handhold, something to steady himself and make the spinning stop. You take one step back, two, three. The prince all dressed up in silver and white slowly crumples, falling to his knees in the sand. His sword slips from nerveless fingers.
You look up and you're not alone any more. Soldiers are streaming in from both ends of the ring and all four spectator entrances. At least a dozen armoured infantry encircle you with bared swords, another dozen take up positions in the front row and level crossbows at you. Two more dart forward and seize the unresponsive prince, hauling him up by his arms and dragging him away. Leaving a trail of bright red blood in the sand, and his sword where it fell. The crowd is going mad, surging up from their seats as if they intend to leap down with the soldiers and swarm you - even more guards are pouring in just to hold them back. It's utter chaos, the din of it all absolutely deafening. All around you a dozen voices join as one, barking in unison for you to throw down your weapon. You turn this way and that, sword half-raised to defend yourself if they rush you, shouting at the top of your lungs that you won fair and square for all the good it will do.
"ENOUGH," a voice commands, and the whole world goes quiet.
All eyes turn to the VIP box. All eyes turn to Shuzen Tamura, rising from his seat and striding forward to the railing. Every soul in the arena watches with bated breath, hearts in their mouths, as the satrap vaults the railing in a smooth, almost lazy hop and drops into the ring. He lands flat-footed, light as air.
He's tall, taller than you, built lean and quick but you don't mistake his uniform as concealing a lack of muscle for a second. His charcoal-grey jacket gleams, silver for the buttons, gold for the many commendations he's won over a very long military career. His belt, the sheath hanging from it, his gloves, and the band around his sword-arm are all white as snow. His sandals make no noise at all as he strides through the sand. His long, stark-white hair is tied back in a knot, his full beard well-trimmed, eyes the colour of ice all but glittering as they bore through you. He looks fifty but you know he's older, far older.
An ice-cold hand grips your heart. You shrink back and you don't even realise. Spring seems to turn back into winter around him, the temperature plummeting, chill fingers of wind ghosting mockingly across your cheeks and your arms. It's all you can do to keep the fear from showing. All you can do to stand your ground.
"Have you finished brutalising my son?" he asks.
You swallow, hard, and force some strength into your voice. "It's a tournament," you reply, holding on to the bright star of indigation in your gut to keep your voice from shaking. "People get hurt. He knew what he signed up for."
"You accuse my family of being liars, cheats and cowards," he says, his tone even and calm yet dripping with derision. "You mock the Tournament of Ten Winds, the cornerstone of a tradition that has brought joy and pride to this region since before you were born. You torture and humiliate my child with the dark arts and you have the gall to face me with indignation?"
" 'Dark arts'!? What are you-?"
"You were a fool to think I would be as blind as the rabble you are accustomed to slaughtering," he cuts you off as harshly as a blade. "The powers of the dead flow through your veins thanks to your corrupted heritage. If you wish to speak of fairness, it will not be you looked upon favourably."
"You're lying!" you shout. "I don't have any 'dark powers', I'm fucking human!"
"No," he says. "Far less. This farce is over. You will throw down your weapon and submit-"
You don't hear anything else. You can't. Blinding, white-hot fury drowns your senses and soaks the world in red. Your sword feels as light as air as you charge forward with an unearthly howl of rage, bringing it down on his head like a falling mountain-
A flicker of movement, a gentle sigh of displaced air. Shuzen's gone. Your sword slices through nothing, a puff of white sand rising around the point of impact as it hits the ground. You freeze. You can't even breathe. All you can do is stare, eyes wide, cold sweat rolling down your temples as the silence is broken by just one sound. A sword slowly, serenely, sliding back into its sheath.
The hilt clicks against the throat.
Your right arm comes undone.
You scream.
You're on the ground, your howls of agony scouring your throat raw. All you can do is clutch uselessly at the sucking emptiness where your shoulder used to be, fingers slick and soaked in gore as bright crimson pumps through them too fast to be staunched. You can see your sword. You can see it lying right there, almost within reach. Your severed arm still gripping it, a smaller pool of scarlet slowly growing around it. Your heart beats faster and faster, treacherously forcing the flow. Draining you dry.
This is it.
You can't see right. The colours are rippling, smearing, draining out of the world. The sky looks almost grey. Only red remains, bright and vibrant, garish against the white sand. You're numb. You're weak. You can't feel it or fight back as soldiers lift you and carry you away.
This is it.
This is... finally it.
It's a cold autumn day, the river below thick with dry red-orange leaves of every shade as you cross the bridge. The house looms over you atop an escarpment, bigger than any of the others in the village. The long, winding path up is flanked by more trees, tall and ancient and almost bowing beneath the heavy burden of dying leaves. Soon to shake themselves clean, to endure the winter naked and half-dead. You climb and you climb and you climb, here and there steps cut into the path, everywhere else it just slopes endlessly up. When you finally reach the doors they're unlocked. You push through.
The table is set for four but there's only one here. One man rises from his seat at the head of the table and he towers over you, dwarfs you. You have to crane your neck to look him in the eye. He's ever-shifting, ever-changing, two men sharing a place in memory.
"You're a born killer, Jiro." His old captain meant it as a compliment. His father didn't. "What happened to you?"
You can't hold his gaze any longer. You stare down at his feet, shaking your head slighty. You're... confused. It's hard to think. Hard to speak. The thoughts are sluggish. You just want to sleep. You feel...
[ ] Regret. You didn't mean it. You said it again and again but you'll say it a hundred times more, you're sorry you did what you did and you wish you could fix it.
[ ] Sadess. Despite everything that happened, you were going to come back. Maybe not tomorrow, maybe not next year, but you wanted to. Just one more time.
[ ] Anger. You hate him. You hate everyone here. You hate them and you'll always hate them and they don't deserve your remorse. If this is it, and you're never going home again, good.
You stride toward Hayate as if you were ten feet tall and swing.
You have more reach. You have more strength. You're swinging more raw mass at him. And with it completely blunted, you've lost all reason not to use your sword like a club. CLANG, CLANG, CLANG, the sound of your blade on his fills the ring, piercing through even the rising roar of the crowd. White jade heals and no way you're strong enough to slice through in one swing, but it's not the sword you're trying to wear down. You feel the jolt of recoil up your arms in every clash but you know he's feeling it worse. Each parry sends shooting pains up his arms, sends his arms jerking off-course, forcing him to correct just in time to receive your next blow. His first instinct is to back up, make space to recover and think. You give him none.
His second is to go forward, try to break through the assault and cut you from inside your swing. You've had more people try that than years either of you have been alive. He tries to disengage the parry but you step into it, steel ringing on jadesteel as you switch grips. Your left hand closes around the grip under the hilt and your right sends the pommel scything up into the side of his helmet. CLANNNG. It rings like a bell and he staggers a step. Just a step, but it's all you need. You flip your sword upright again and whack him right across the exact same place. The same sound, higher-pitched this time. If it weren't strapped down tight you would've spun his helmet around three times. You hear a sound from the prince at last and it's an all-too-common snarl of fury.
Now he's angry too. Good.
He lunges, but in his anger he overextends. You reverse your sword again and divert it, the elegantly curved edge of his white-bladed sword singing across the flat of your crude hunk of iron, as he carries himself right into your outstretched leg. You sweep it through, ignoring the sting as it collides with hard armour, and he's left at an angle he just can't correct. The prince goes down hard on his face with a jangle of jadesteel and squeak of sand.
"Are we all having fun today!?" you shout to be heard over the booing crowd, striding away from your fallen enemy with your arms spread wide. You point up at the VIP box, at the Dragonblooded seated within that glare down at you with naked antipathy. "What about you lot? Everything you hoped it'd be? Feeling pleased?"
Sand crunches beneath armoured boots behind you. You whirl around and there he is, sprinting straight at you with a raised sword and murder in his eyes. You can't help but grin. His strike's too telegraphed, hoping anger will give him the speed and strength to overcome you, but if he thinks he's got enough of that to beat yours he's sorely mistaken. You meet his descending blow with an ascending one, forcing his arms to recoil as if he struck a stone slab. He switches it up, coming low from the right with that quick little sword of his. Your arms flex and bulge as you haul back against your blade's momentum, forcing it to reverse course and slam into Hayate's again so hard it almost goes spiralling out of his hands. You draw back and lunge, aiming to put a nice big dent in that pretty breastplate.
He does the first surprising thing all bout. He jinks to the side, lifts his foot and drives it down on the flat of your sword, half-burying it in the sand. He shifts his weight forward, forcing it deeper and lunging for your unprotected head. You duck beneath the pommel as his sword flashes overhead, set your left hand below the hilt and shove. Your sword rises from the sand and Hayate goes staggering back, arms all but windmilling in a desperate attempt to stay upright. You step forward, spinning with the movement, and slam your sword into his side with all your might.
You think you hear something crunch. What buckled, the armour or his ribs? Either way the prince goes sprawling again, rolling twice across the soft peaks and valleys of the pure white sand. He comes to a stop and doesn't rise, not yet. Can't. That swing drove all the air out of his lungs and now he's wheezing, all but retching, trying to force even a scrap of it back in. The booing is even louder now, marred only by the few people shouting encouragement to the prince, begging him to get up. You shoulder your sword and stalk towards him.
"This is embarrassing. Have you ever even been in a real fight?" You have to shout just to hear yourself over this crowd, but you're sure the five divinely-appointed leaders and dignitaries up in the box can hear you just fine. You look back at your shoulder and there they are - with your blood singing in your ears like this you can even stand to look them in the eye, meet their naked antipathy head-on.
Sho Tamura, head banker and treasurer of the satrapy, flicking his gaze between you and his brother and back again in a mix of anger and disbelief. General Hideyoshi, hair as white as his father's, cutting a strong military figure even out of his armour, hissing through gritted teeth for his brother to get up. Ayano, sticking out like a sore thumb in her shapeless grey Immaculate robes, yet as the Abbess of the largest temple in the region she wields as much power as the rest of them - and oh you can only imagine how she feels about a ghostblood brutalising her little brother then. The only odd one out is a woman you don't recognise, slouching in her chair in a pool of loose-fitting silks, sapphire-blue lips quirked up in something like amusement.
And then there's Shuzen Tamura. Still sitting back in his chair, not a hair out of place, but from the way he grips the armrests and the way his eyes seem to bore through you, his displeasure couldn't be more clear. It only makes you smile wider.
"Is this really it?" you call out to everyone watching, turning in place. "Is this the best the Tamura Clan has? You stack the deck with his fancy tutors and his fancy sword and his fancy armour-" you drive your boot into the side of his head and he rolls over, crying out as his brain rattles in his skull once more "-and he still can't beat some mercenary with a blunt sword."
The crowd keeps booing, keeps jeering, but you don't care any more. Now it's just energising you, filling you up with a righteous anger that sizzles in your blood. You feel unstoppable, invincible. All you can think about is the helpless fury that must be bubbling in the pits of their stomachs, those Dragonblood prophets powerless to do anything but watch.
"You're cheats," you spit up at the VIP box, "and liars, and cowards! Too scared I'd draw blood from your precious little prince to let it be a fair fight!"
Hayate staggers to his feet behind you again, breathing hard and heavy through his mask. You slowly slide your sword off your shoulder again.
"Let's see what colour he bleeds."
You whirl to face him. Your swords clash again and again, and the difference now is like night and day. He's punch-drunk, disoriented - you wonder if he can even see you properly. Whatever he's feeling you make it worse, again and again and again every time you make an opening and ring his head like a gong. His slashes grow wilder, his parries sloppy. He can't find the space to clear his head and you give him none.
He thrusts and you divert it right, pinning his sword away from your body as you step in and drive your elbow into his mouth. The mask absorbs part of the impact, but not all. You smash that elegantly-carved piece of white jade into his nose, into his mouth, hidden lips mashed against his teeth, and he cries out again. Staggering, swaying, instinctively clutching at his face to try and dull the pain. The perfect opening to half-sword and lunge for one of the small, oval slots just above the mask.
They blunted the tip too, but it's still sharp enough for this. Hayate screams, bright scarlet stark against the silver and white all around as blood gushes down his face. His free hand rises to cover what's left of his eye, to desperately staunch the flow, but you're not done. The crowd screams in your ear, crying out fit to drown out even the prince's agony. You flip your sword around, grasp it tight by the blade, and drive the crossguard into the side of his helm like a pickaxe.
His eye opens wide, glassy and unfocused. His hand slowly drops from the bloody socket beside it. His breath comes in shallow sips, all but retching. Gurgling. Choking. You wrench your improvised pick free with a sickening, wet sucking sound to find it soaked in scarlet. Hayate sways dangerously, swinging his hands all around for some kind of handhold, something to steady himself and make the spinning stop. You take one step back, two, three. The prince all dressed up in silver and white slowly crumples, falling to his knees in the sand. His sword slips from nerveless fingers.
You look up and you're not alone any more. Soldiers are streaming in from both ends of the ring and all four spectator entrances. At least a dozen armoured infantry encircle you with bared swords, another dozen take up positions in the front row and level crossbows at you. Two more dart forward and seize the unresponsive prince, hauling him up by his arms and dragging him away. Leaving a trail of bright red blood in the sand, and his sword where it fell. The crowd is going mad, surging up from their seats as if they intend to leap down with the soldiers and swarm you - even more guards are pouring in just to hold them back. It's utter chaos, the din of it all absolutely deafening. All around you a dozen voices join as one, barking in unison for you to throw down your weapon. You turn this way and that, sword half-raised to defend yourself if they rush you, shouting at the top of your lungs that you won fair and square for all the good it will do.
"ENOUGH," a voice commands, and the whole world goes quiet.
All eyes turn to the VIP box. All eyes turn to Shuzen Tamura, rising from his seat and striding forward to the railing. Every soul in the arena watches with bated breath, hearts in their mouths, as the satrap vaults the railing in a smooth, almost lazy hop and drops into the ring. He lands flat-footed, light as air.
He's tall, taller than you, built lean and quick but you don't mistake his uniform as concealing a lack of muscle for a second. His charcoal-grey jacket gleams, silver for the buttons, gold for the many commendations he's won over a very long military career. His belt, the sheath hanging from it, his gloves, and the band around his sword-arm are all white as snow. His sandals make no noise at all as he strides through the sand. His long, stark-white hair is tied back in a knot, his full beard well-trimmed, eyes the colour of ice all but glittering as they bore through you. He looks fifty but you know he's older, far older.
An ice-cold hand grips your heart. You shrink back and you don't even realise. Spring seems to turn back into winter around him, the temperature plummeting, chill fingers of wind ghosting mockingly across your cheeks and your arms. It's all you can do to keep the fear from showing. All you can do to stand your ground.
"Have you finished brutalising my son?" he asks.
You swallow, hard, and force some strength into your voice. "It's a tournament," you reply, holding on to the bright star of indigation in your gut to keep your voice from shaking. "People get hurt. He knew what he signed up for."
"You accuse my family of being liars, cheats and cowards," he says, his tone even and calm yet dripping with derision. "You mock the Tournament of Ten Winds, the cornerstone of a tradition that has brought joy and pride to this region since before you were born. You torture and humiliate my child with the dark arts and you have the gall to face me with indignation?"
" 'Dark arts'!? What are you-?"
"You were a fool to think I would be as blind as the rabble you are accustomed to slaughtering," he cuts you off as harshly as a blade. "The powers of the dead flow through your veins thanks to your corrupted heritage. If you wish to speak of fairness, it will not be you looked upon favourably."
"You're lying!" you shout. "I don't have any 'dark powers', I'm fucking human!"
"No," he says. "Far less. This farce is over. You will throw down your weapon and submit-"
You don't hear anything else. You can't. Blinding, white-hot fury drowns your senses and soaks the world in red. Your sword feels as light as air as you charge forward with an unearthly howl of rage, bringing it down on his head like a falling mountain-
A flicker of movement, a gentle sigh of displaced air. Shuzen's gone. Your sword slices through nothing, a puff of white sand rising around the point of impact as it hits the ground. You freeze. You can't even breathe. All you can do is stare, eyes wide, cold sweat rolling down your temples as the silence is broken by just one sound. A sword slowly, serenely, sliding back into its sheath.
The hilt clicks against the throat.
Your right arm comes undone.
You scream.
You're on the ground, your howls of agony scouring your throat raw. All you can do is clutch uselessly at the sucking emptiness where your shoulder used to be, fingers slick and soaked in gore as bright crimson pumps through them too fast to be staunched. You can see your sword. You can see it lying right there, almost within reach. Your severed arm still gripping it, a smaller pool of scarlet slowly growing around it. Your heart beats faster and faster, treacherously forcing the flow. Draining you dry.
This is it.
You can't see right. The colours are rippling, smearing, draining out of the world. The sky looks almost grey. Only red remains, bright and vibrant, garish against the white sand. You're numb. You're weak. You can't feel it or fight back as soldiers lift you and carry you away.
This is it.
This is... finally it.
It's a cold autumn day, the river below thick with dry red-orange leaves of every shade as you cross the bridge. The house looms over you atop an escarpment, bigger than any of the others in the village. The long, winding path up is flanked by more trees, tall and ancient and almost bowing beneath the heavy burden of dying leaves. Soon to shake themselves clean, to endure the winter naked and half-dead. You climb and you climb and you climb, here and there steps cut into the path, everywhere else it just slopes endlessly up. When you finally reach the doors they're unlocked. You push through.
The table is set for four but there's only one here. One man rises from his seat at the head of the table and he towers over you, dwarfs you. You have to crane your neck to look him in the eye. He's ever-shifting, ever-changing, two men sharing a place in memory.
"You're a born killer, Jiro." His old captain meant it as a compliment. His father didn't. "What happened to you?"
You can't hold his gaze any longer. You stare down at his feet, shaking your head slighty. You're... confused. It's hard to think. Hard to speak. The thoughts are sluggish. You just want to sleep. You feel...
[ ] Regret. You didn't mean it. You said it again and again but you'll say it a hundred times more, you're sorry you did what you did and you wish you could fix it.
[ ] Sadess. Despite everything that happened, you were going to come back. Maybe not tomorrow, maybe not next year, but you wanted to. Just one more time.
[ ] Anger. You hate him. You hate everyone here. You hate them and you'll always hate them and they don't deserve your remorse. If this is it, and you're never going home again, good.
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Chapter Five: To Suffer Immaculately
ZerbanDaGreat
Daemon Noble of D E M O G R A P H I C S
- Pronouns
- They/them
You wanted to come back. You really did. You were going to visit after you won the tournament, to at least say goodbye before you set sail.
"Jiro," says your captain and your father, "Why did you ever think we wanted you to?"
You didn't. You don't. That's the simple answer. It's what's kept you away all these years, long after you carved your name in battle and turned the spilled blood into more than enough gold and jade to go home. You never went because you were afraid of exactly this, of standing in judgement before the last remnants of your old life and still being found so wanting. Almost a mercy, then, that you'll never have to. That you'll never have to do anything any more. That you can just...
... wake up.
Your cell is a simple stone block, rough-hewn and cold. The uneven wall at your back is like ice through your thin undershirt. A single torch in the hall is the only light you have, the bars casting shadows like dancing tiger-stripes across the far wall. There's a window, little more than a slit, set too high up for you to even reach. There's not a sound to keep you company, not the tramp of boots patrolling nor the snore of a sleeping guard. Your only companion is... your sword?
Your sword lies at your feet. Broken. Someone snapped the blade in two, leaving a jagged stump of a weapon barely half as long, but that's something right? It's broken but it's not gone. You can have it fixed. Just some more metal and money to reforge it and sharpen it and it'll be good as new. You bend forward and reach out to grasp the hilt of your precious sword-
-and phantom fingers simply pass right through.
The breath leaves your lungs in a shallow, shocked sigh. You slump back against the wall.
There's nothing there. Just an aching, sucking empty void where your arm, your sword-arm, should be. You can still feel it. It should be there, you know it's there but- but it isn't. Just cold, empty air and a freshly bandaged... not even a stump. Just the flat, rounded shape where his shoulder flows right down to your side with nothing in between. Your shaking left hand rises, crossing your body, instinctively reaching to touch it. You yank it away just as quickly.
You can't-
You can still fix this.
You push yourself upright. Slowly. Carefully. Rocking dangerously as you fight to get your feet under you with only one arm to steady yourself, head lighter than air and practically spinning. You shuffle forward, just a little at a time. Stoop down slowly, so slowly, to scoop up your sword in the only hand you have left. You've heard of people teaching themselves to fight left-handed. You've even heard of one-armed swordsmen. You can still fight, you just have to train right? Just like the early days, when your body screamed in agony and buckled beneath you, when the other mercenaries laughed at you and told you to find something more your size like a dagger. You succeeded then, you can still succeed now!
You carefully copy your old stance and mirror it, left foot forward. You heft your broken stump of a sword and begin to swing, slowly at first but growing faster. Forehand, backhand, upper, descending. You can do this. You can come back from this. You won't bend, you won't break, you'll get stronger than ever and then you'll show them! You'll show-
You thrust, and overextend. The weight of your sword is too much for your untrained hand, your unbalanced stance. You sway and buckle and you don't have another arm to steady yourself. You pitch forward with a cry and land hard on your knee. Your sword flies from your weak grip and skids, clattering against the far wall.
Your breath hitches in your chest. You pant, hard, too hard. You barely even exerted yourself, you shouldn't- you shouldn't feel like this. Your left arm can't be that weak. You go to rise, to stride over to your sword and try again like you always have.
You instinctively try to steady yourself with an arm that isn't there. You fall again, and this time you can't save yourself. Your full weight lands on your empty shoulder and you scream, the impact like a white-hot stake being driven through into your heart. You roll over and clutch at the ache, curling up like a wounded animal. Breathing hard, gasping for air, waiting and hoping the pain will die down before tears of agony well up in your eyes.
The tears come, but they aren't just from pain. You try to staunch the flow with your arm but they won't stop. Your eyes are burning, your head is aching and light, you try to force yourself to breathe deeper than the sick little sips of air you're managing but all you can do is laugh. You laugh in mad, high-pitched giggles between sobs until you can't breathe any more, until your lungs burn in your chest and your vision swims. Why shouldn't you? Isn't it just fucking hilarious? All this time, no matter how hard you fought and struggled and tried, this was all there was going to be. Saved by medics too cruel to let you die.
Time blurs. You don't know how long you're in there. Barely any light filters through your tiny window, and the guards only bring you your slop when they remember to. It feels like days before you have your first and only visitor - an Immaculate monk in shapeless grey, her head waxed completely smooth, stepping fearlessly into your cell and sinking to her knees before you. You don't meet her gaze. You let your head hang low, staring at the water stain on the floor.
"Greetings," she says. "I come to you today at the personal request of Abbess Tamura, due to the seriousness of your offence. She wished me to explain the particulars of your sentence."
"y'mean why m'not dead?" you mumble.
"Indeed. A soul stained as deeply as yours would find no peace in death now," she explains, her voice gentle, almost sweet. "Tainted as you are, there is a risk you would be reincarnated in an even worse state. With the arm and weapon that performed your ill deeds now severed, you have been freed from the burdens of your past, and may now seek penance and enlightenment with the time you have left. And then, in time, when you have passed on with a heart full of remorse, you will be reborn purified."
"... s'it?" you ask. "beggar n' a cripple... for the rest of my life?"
"Until you can finally be reborn, yes," she explains patiently. "Unless, of course, you would be willing to submit yourself to the Immaculate Order? It would be a difficult road but with humility-"
"ffffuck you" you snarl, teeth bared, eye glinting through the black curtain of your fringe. She flinches at your defiance and for a moment, just a moment, you feel alive again.
It doesn't last. You think the monk said something to the guards as she left because they don't feed you at all after that. Your skin slowly shrinks and tightens over your muscles, your stomach taut as a drum, but it doesn't hurt. You don't feel much of anything any more. No food or drink means the corner of your cell doesn't get any worse, at least.
When they finally let you out it's an unceremonious affair. One day they just walk up to your cell, open it, and tell you to move it. One guard gives you a swift kick in the back of the knee when your idea of 'move it' proves too slow. When they sign you out they don't leave you with anything but the clothes on your back, the money you had on you and stored safely in your room no doubt appropriated as 'fines', and you hear the guards mention something about the warden wanting your broken sword for his mantlepiece.
You don't care. Not about any of it. You can't bring yourself to any more.
If you let yourself care you'll get angry, and with anger comes the fantasies about your revenge, about crushing the Tamura Clan and toppling their throne in White Tower and seeing their city burn for what they did to you, and then what? Then comes the rest of it, the crushing weight and vast enormity of reality. You can scream and cry and beat your fist against a wall all you want but you won't change that. Nothing can any more. This is all you can be.
They give you a wooden bowl and a thin, moth-eaten blanket and that's it. You're out the door a free man, free to wander the city and beg.
You try the main thoroughfares first, somewhere high in foot traffic. You swiftly find out you're not the first person to have tried that. The second you set foot on the street with bowl in hand, a nearby guard storms through the crowd to head you off. He tells you in no uncertain terms, hand on the hilt of his sword, that the inner city is no place for the likes of you.
And you think about it. You think about rushing him. Not even to kill him, just to make him do it. Just to force him to draw steel and slice you open and let you bleed out on those neat, uniform flagstone streets. But you don't. Your stubborn survival instinct holds you in check too long, and the moment passes. You wordlessly turn around and walk away, down the narrowing streets and away from dignified eyes.
In the back streets, on the outskirts, nobody has the money to spare dropping a few scraps of jade scrip in some beggar's bowl. Especially not a beggar that ruined the festival and mutilated the satrap's son. Soon enough you're diving in the garbage, weakly sifting through layers upon layers of foul-smelling refuse for the few edible morsels the inner-city eateries throw out, to snatch them and scarf them down and flee before a patrol passes by and chases you away. It brings back memories. They aren't fond ones.
You can feel yourself wasting away. It hasn't been long enough to start in earnest, but you can feel it. Your whole body aches, crying out for sustenance. Begging you to feed it or it'll have to turn inward, cannibalising the hard-won bulk you've had for so long. You don't care any more. Why should you? What good's muscle to a one-armed beggar? You can barely even bring yourself to lift your head these days.
One night, maybe ten days after the tournament, you find yourself down by the docks. It's been quieter down here these days, winding down since the last few skirmishes with northern forces they say. Many of the massive warehouses on the wharf stand shuttered and empty, awaiting the next surge of imports and exports to bring life to them once more, and are only lightly patrolled. It's a simple matter to slip through the cracks and wander down to the waterfront, down where the cold water gently laps against the concrete slab the Shogunate set down so many years ago and merges almost seamlessly with the blue-black sky at the horizon. You carefully lower yourself down and sit at the edge, feet dangling just above the surface.
You look out at the water and you think about the world in your idle fantasies. The world where you board your ship a conquering champion, wallet heavy with your winnings and a laurel wreath on your brow, sailing off to chase the setting sun and see the Blessed Isle where it all began. Now the sky is dark and the water is still. There'll be no ship coming to take you away from all of this.
You look down. The water's dark but in the moonlight you can just barely make out your reflection. You wonder what would happen if you simply leaned forward, let yourself slip off your precarious perch and the sea close over your head. The Immaculate Order sure wouldn't be happy if they found out. Suicide's an instant drop down the Coils, plummeting further from the enlightenment of the dragons than you could ever hope to claw your way back up in one lifetime. That was always enough to hold you back as a kid, but maybe that doesn't sound so bad right now. Maybe you'll come back a monster, an absolute nightmare. Maybe Anathema if you're lucky. Heh, yeah. That'll be your revenge. Killing yourself over and over again until your soul's so heavy with sin you drop right off the Coils and come back the greatest ghost Creation's ever seen.
Or maybe you'd just come back as someone like a Tamura. You could ruin way more lives that way.
You let out a soft, mirthless chuckle. You sit there, still as a statue, staring down into the ever-shifting surface. It's cold out here, but you're used to being cold. It's almost comfortable. Maybe you'll just wait. Wait and see what happens. If you get bored, change your mind, maybe you'll think about getting up and moving on. If you fall asleep and slip off, well... then that'll be it. Total accident. Nobody's fault. Nobody will mind either way. The water gently slaps against the concrete below you and you take a long, slow breath.
"S' so quiet out here," says an unfamiliar voice. "How d'you stand it?"
You turn your head. There's a demon sitting next to you.
You freeze solid, clinging to the edge of the wharf with a white-knuckle grip as you stare wide-eyed at the nightmare come to life. The demon's sitting a good distance from you, about a hip-width and a half or so, and it makes no move to approach. It's too busy staring out at the horizon, idly rolling a cigarette between its claws before lifting it to its lips for another contemplative drag. Your eyes dart up and down and up again, taking in the sight of it in waking-nightmare clarity.
It's like a living statue, something lovingly sculpted from a massive block of raw obsidian and polished to a mirror sheen. Every curve and contour gleams bright silver in the moonlight, glassy-stone skin stretching and shrinking and shifting as smoothly as flesh over a labourer's rounded, well-developed brawn as the demon lowers the cigarette once more. It takes you long seconds to realise that it's roughly man-shaped beneath the instinctive confusion of its silhouette - it has too many of everything. Four arms, four wings, two tails, four eyes. Four horns crown its brow framed by four pointed bat-like ears. Its face is a gargoyle's snout, fanged maw framed by mandibles that almost give the illusion of a human mouth between them. Its tongue is the molten red-orange of steel freshly heated in the forge, and when it speaks a sickly green furnace-glow radiates from the back of its throat. Its legs dangle down towards the water just like yours, and they're about the only thing it's got the correct number of. Taloned, digitigrade feet scrape the surface of the water, slicing furrows in the dark skin of the sea with every idle motion.
It's been broken once before. Broken, fixed, and starting to break again. Almost everywhere you look you see the perfectly polished obsidian finish is marred, fracture points rippling out all across its body that were filled in with molten metal and blended with the main body. Gold you think, or maybe brass, something that glimmers in the moonlight. Fresh cracks are opening, some only hair-thin, but you see them by the toxic green glow that seeps through every time the demon so much as breathes. Its eyes are like burning emerald marbles set in the sockets, and tongues of green flame intermittently slip free through the cracks between its maw and mandibles. It finally notices you staring and turns, giving you a quick once-over in kind.
" 'ey kid," it says. "Not gonna scream or nothin'?"
You shake your head.
" 'ppreciate it."
"You here to take my soul?" you ask, finally finding your voice again.
The demon chuckles mirthlessly. Its voice is deep and bassy, thrumming through its stone chest, gravelly and metallic in a way no human could ever hope to replicate. "Well. Kinda. Mean, not the way you think."
It smokes its cigarette down to almost nothing, orange embers glowing beneath its claws as the ash falls into the harbour. It looks down at the stub, smoke that smells like a forge at work filtering through the cracks around its mandibles, and flicks it into the water. It produces a fresh one from somewhere, and hesitates.
"You want one?" it asks. You shake your head. "Suit yourself."
It catches the tip on another tongue of toxic flame, igniting it in a flash of green-turning-orange. It pinches the cigarette carefully between its fangs, letting it smoulder a moment, and turns to you.
"I ain't got time to explain the whole thing, so I'll give you the short version," it says. "Hell saw what happened to you. It sees what happens to folk like you all over Creation. N' when it does, it sends folk like me to find folk like you to give 'em a choice. A chance to start over, with the kinda power people can only dream of. Power of the real Anathema."
This is insane. Absolutely insane. A demon - an actual, genuine demon - is sitting next to you and telling you it can give you another shot, fuck it's all but telling you it can grant wishes on top of it all. Like Creation itself heard your idle thoughts and sent alone someone to help you put your money where your mouth is. You want to laugh. You want to scream. You want to pinch yourself and wake up from this absurd delusion. How are you even supposed to react to this?
[ ] Anger. Does this thing think you're fucking stupid or something? It comes along and promises the world and you're supposed to just take an emissary of Hell at its word? You've had the rug yanked out from under you too many times before, and you've had enough. Tell it to fuck off.
[ ] Suspicion. This thing comes along and promises the world, and you're supposed to just take an emissary of Hell at its word? The problem is... you want to. You so deeply, desperately want to. You'll compromise. You have to be sure. Question it, grill it, it says it doesn't have much time but it'll answer you until the eleventh hour and damn well like it.
[ ] Glee. It's everything you were asking for, everything you could want. The power of the Anathema, that's what it said. The thing spoken of in hushed whispers, the thing all Immaculate faithful should fear, the things that once shattered the world. You'll take that power and show the Tamura what it's like to lose, to struggle and fight and believe so desperately that they deserve to exist, only to be crushed all the same.
[ ] Relief. You don't know if it's the offer, the isolation, or the demon's strange demeanour but... for the first time in so long, there's even the slightest ray of hope. You know bullshitters and swindlers and conmen and this demon doesn't sound like one at all. You think he actually wants to help you. The prospect's almost terrifying but you can't let it slip away. Not now.
"Jiro," says your captain and your father, "Why did you ever think we wanted you to?"
You didn't. You don't. That's the simple answer. It's what's kept you away all these years, long after you carved your name in battle and turned the spilled blood into more than enough gold and jade to go home. You never went because you were afraid of exactly this, of standing in judgement before the last remnants of your old life and still being found so wanting. Almost a mercy, then, that you'll never have to. That you'll never have to do anything any more. That you can just...
... wake up.
Your cell is a simple stone block, rough-hewn and cold. The uneven wall at your back is like ice through your thin undershirt. A single torch in the hall is the only light you have, the bars casting shadows like dancing tiger-stripes across the far wall. There's a window, little more than a slit, set too high up for you to even reach. There's not a sound to keep you company, not the tramp of boots patrolling nor the snore of a sleeping guard. Your only companion is... your sword?
Your sword lies at your feet. Broken. Someone snapped the blade in two, leaving a jagged stump of a weapon barely half as long, but that's something right? It's broken but it's not gone. You can have it fixed. Just some more metal and money to reforge it and sharpen it and it'll be good as new. You bend forward and reach out to grasp the hilt of your precious sword-
-and phantom fingers simply pass right through.
The breath leaves your lungs in a shallow, shocked sigh. You slump back against the wall.
There's nothing there. Just an aching, sucking empty void where your arm, your sword-arm, should be. You can still feel it. It should be there, you know it's there but- but it isn't. Just cold, empty air and a freshly bandaged... not even a stump. Just the flat, rounded shape where his shoulder flows right down to your side with nothing in between. Your shaking left hand rises, crossing your body, instinctively reaching to touch it. You yank it away just as quickly.
You can't-
You can still fix this.
You push yourself upright. Slowly. Carefully. Rocking dangerously as you fight to get your feet under you with only one arm to steady yourself, head lighter than air and practically spinning. You shuffle forward, just a little at a time. Stoop down slowly, so slowly, to scoop up your sword in the only hand you have left. You've heard of people teaching themselves to fight left-handed. You've even heard of one-armed swordsmen. You can still fight, you just have to train right? Just like the early days, when your body screamed in agony and buckled beneath you, when the other mercenaries laughed at you and told you to find something more your size like a dagger. You succeeded then, you can still succeed now!
You carefully copy your old stance and mirror it, left foot forward. You heft your broken stump of a sword and begin to swing, slowly at first but growing faster. Forehand, backhand, upper, descending. You can do this. You can come back from this. You won't bend, you won't break, you'll get stronger than ever and then you'll show them! You'll show-
You thrust, and overextend. The weight of your sword is too much for your untrained hand, your unbalanced stance. You sway and buckle and you don't have another arm to steady yourself. You pitch forward with a cry and land hard on your knee. Your sword flies from your weak grip and skids, clattering against the far wall.
Your breath hitches in your chest. You pant, hard, too hard. You barely even exerted yourself, you shouldn't- you shouldn't feel like this. Your left arm can't be that weak. You go to rise, to stride over to your sword and try again like you always have.
You instinctively try to steady yourself with an arm that isn't there. You fall again, and this time you can't save yourself. Your full weight lands on your empty shoulder and you scream, the impact like a white-hot stake being driven through into your heart. You roll over and clutch at the ache, curling up like a wounded animal. Breathing hard, gasping for air, waiting and hoping the pain will die down before tears of agony well up in your eyes.
The tears come, but they aren't just from pain. You try to staunch the flow with your arm but they won't stop. Your eyes are burning, your head is aching and light, you try to force yourself to breathe deeper than the sick little sips of air you're managing but all you can do is laugh. You laugh in mad, high-pitched giggles between sobs until you can't breathe any more, until your lungs burn in your chest and your vision swims. Why shouldn't you? Isn't it just fucking hilarious? All this time, no matter how hard you fought and struggled and tried, this was all there was going to be. Saved by medics too cruel to let you die.
Time blurs. You don't know how long you're in there. Barely any light filters through your tiny window, and the guards only bring you your slop when they remember to. It feels like days before you have your first and only visitor - an Immaculate monk in shapeless grey, her head waxed completely smooth, stepping fearlessly into your cell and sinking to her knees before you. You don't meet her gaze. You let your head hang low, staring at the water stain on the floor.
"Greetings," she says. "I come to you today at the personal request of Abbess Tamura, due to the seriousness of your offence. She wished me to explain the particulars of your sentence."
"y'mean why m'not dead?" you mumble.
"Indeed. A soul stained as deeply as yours would find no peace in death now," she explains, her voice gentle, almost sweet. "Tainted as you are, there is a risk you would be reincarnated in an even worse state. With the arm and weapon that performed your ill deeds now severed, you have been freed from the burdens of your past, and may now seek penance and enlightenment with the time you have left. And then, in time, when you have passed on with a heart full of remorse, you will be reborn purified."
"... s'it?" you ask. "beggar n' a cripple... for the rest of my life?"
"Until you can finally be reborn, yes," she explains patiently. "Unless, of course, you would be willing to submit yourself to the Immaculate Order? It would be a difficult road but with humility-"
"ffffuck you" you snarl, teeth bared, eye glinting through the black curtain of your fringe. She flinches at your defiance and for a moment, just a moment, you feel alive again.
It doesn't last. You think the monk said something to the guards as she left because they don't feed you at all after that. Your skin slowly shrinks and tightens over your muscles, your stomach taut as a drum, but it doesn't hurt. You don't feel much of anything any more. No food or drink means the corner of your cell doesn't get any worse, at least.
When they finally let you out it's an unceremonious affair. One day they just walk up to your cell, open it, and tell you to move it. One guard gives you a swift kick in the back of the knee when your idea of 'move it' proves too slow. When they sign you out they don't leave you with anything but the clothes on your back, the money you had on you and stored safely in your room no doubt appropriated as 'fines', and you hear the guards mention something about the warden wanting your broken sword for his mantlepiece.
You don't care. Not about any of it. You can't bring yourself to any more.
If you let yourself care you'll get angry, and with anger comes the fantasies about your revenge, about crushing the Tamura Clan and toppling their throne in White Tower and seeing their city burn for what they did to you, and then what? Then comes the rest of it, the crushing weight and vast enormity of reality. You can scream and cry and beat your fist against a wall all you want but you won't change that. Nothing can any more. This is all you can be.
They give you a wooden bowl and a thin, moth-eaten blanket and that's it. You're out the door a free man, free to wander the city and beg.
You try the main thoroughfares first, somewhere high in foot traffic. You swiftly find out you're not the first person to have tried that. The second you set foot on the street with bowl in hand, a nearby guard storms through the crowd to head you off. He tells you in no uncertain terms, hand on the hilt of his sword, that the inner city is no place for the likes of you.
And you think about it. You think about rushing him. Not even to kill him, just to make him do it. Just to force him to draw steel and slice you open and let you bleed out on those neat, uniform flagstone streets. But you don't. Your stubborn survival instinct holds you in check too long, and the moment passes. You wordlessly turn around and walk away, down the narrowing streets and away from dignified eyes.
In the back streets, on the outskirts, nobody has the money to spare dropping a few scraps of jade scrip in some beggar's bowl. Especially not a beggar that ruined the festival and mutilated the satrap's son. Soon enough you're diving in the garbage, weakly sifting through layers upon layers of foul-smelling refuse for the few edible morsels the inner-city eateries throw out, to snatch them and scarf them down and flee before a patrol passes by and chases you away. It brings back memories. They aren't fond ones.
You can feel yourself wasting away. It hasn't been long enough to start in earnest, but you can feel it. Your whole body aches, crying out for sustenance. Begging you to feed it or it'll have to turn inward, cannibalising the hard-won bulk you've had for so long. You don't care any more. Why should you? What good's muscle to a one-armed beggar? You can barely even bring yourself to lift your head these days.
One night, maybe ten days after the tournament, you find yourself down by the docks. It's been quieter down here these days, winding down since the last few skirmishes with northern forces they say. Many of the massive warehouses on the wharf stand shuttered and empty, awaiting the next surge of imports and exports to bring life to them once more, and are only lightly patrolled. It's a simple matter to slip through the cracks and wander down to the waterfront, down where the cold water gently laps against the concrete slab the Shogunate set down so many years ago and merges almost seamlessly with the blue-black sky at the horizon. You carefully lower yourself down and sit at the edge, feet dangling just above the surface.
You look out at the water and you think about the world in your idle fantasies. The world where you board your ship a conquering champion, wallet heavy with your winnings and a laurel wreath on your brow, sailing off to chase the setting sun and see the Blessed Isle where it all began. Now the sky is dark and the water is still. There'll be no ship coming to take you away from all of this.
You look down. The water's dark but in the moonlight you can just barely make out your reflection. You wonder what would happen if you simply leaned forward, let yourself slip off your precarious perch and the sea close over your head. The Immaculate Order sure wouldn't be happy if they found out. Suicide's an instant drop down the Coils, plummeting further from the enlightenment of the dragons than you could ever hope to claw your way back up in one lifetime. That was always enough to hold you back as a kid, but maybe that doesn't sound so bad right now. Maybe you'll come back a monster, an absolute nightmare. Maybe Anathema if you're lucky. Heh, yeah. That'll be your revenge. Killing yourself over and over again until your soul's so heavy with sin you drop right off the Coils and come back the greatest ghost Creation's ever seen.
Or maybe you'd just come back as someone like a Tamura. You could ruin way more lives that way.
You let out a soft, mirthless chuckle. You sit there, still as a statue, staring down into the ever-shifting surface. It's cold out here, but you're used to being cold. It's almost comfortable. Maybe you'll just wait. Wait and see what happens. If you get bored, change your mind, maybe you'll think about getting up and moving on. If you fall asleep and slip off, well... then that'll be it. Total accident. Nobody's fault. Nobody will mind either way. The water gently slaps against the concrete below you and you take a long, slow breath.
"S' so quiet out here," says an unfamiliar voice. "How d'you stand it?"
You turn your head. There's a demon sitting next to you.
You freeze solid, clinging to the edge of the wharf with a white-knuckle grip as you stare wide-eyed at the nightmare come to life. The demon's sitting a good distance from you, about a hip-width and a half or so, and it makes no move to approach. It's too busy staring out at the horizon, idly rolling a cigarette between its claws before lifting it to its lips for another contemplative drag. Your eyes dart up and down and up again, taking in the sight of it in waking-nightmare clarity.
It's like a living statue, something lovingly sculpted from a massive block of raw obsidian and polished to a mirror sheen. Every curve and contour gleams bright silver in the moonlight, glassy-stone skin stretching and shrinking and shifting as smoothly as flesh over a labourer's rounded, well-developed brawn as the demon lowers the cigarette once more. It takes you long seconds to realise that it's roughly man-shaped beneath the instinctive confusion of its silhouette - it has too many of everything. Four arms, four wings, two tails, four eyes. Four horns crown its brow framed by four pointed bat-like ears. Its face is a gargoyle's snout, fanged maw framed by mandibles that almost give the illusion of a human mouth between them. Its tongue is the molten red-orange of steel freshly heated in the forge, and when it speaks a sickly green furnace-glow radiates from the back of its throat. Its legs dangle down towards the water just like yours, and they're about the only thing it's got the correct number of. Taloned, digitigrade feet scrape the surface of the water, slicing furrows in the dark skin of the sea with every idle motion.
It's been broken once before. Broken, fixed, and starting to break again. Almost everywhere you look you see the perfectly polished obsidian finish is marred, fracture points rippling out all across its body that were filled in with molten metal and blended with the main body. Gold you think, or maybe brass, something that glimmers in the moonlight. Fresh cracks are opening, some only hair-thin, but you see them by the toxic green glow that seeps through every time the demon so much as breathes. Its eyes are like burning emerald marbles set in the sockets, and tongues of green flame intermittently slip free through the cracks between its maw and mandibles. It finally notices you staring and turns, giving you a quick once-over in kind.
" 'ey kid," it says. "Not gonna scream or nothin'?"
You shake your head.
" 'ppreciate it."
"You here to take my soul?" you ask, finally finding your voice again.
The demon chuckles mirthlessly. Its voice is deep and bassy, thrumming through its stone chest, gravelly and metallic in a way no human could ever hope to replicate. "Well. Kinda. Mean, not the way you think."
It smokes its cigarette down to almost nothing, orange embers glowing beneath its claws as the ash falls into the harbour. It looks down at the stub, smoke that smells like a forge at work filtering through the cracks around its mandibles, and flicks it into the water. It produces a fresh one from somewhere, and hesitates.
"You want one?" it asks. You shake your head. "Suit yourself."
It catches the tip on another tongue of toxic flame, igniting it in a flash of green-turning-orange. It pinches the cigarette carefully between its fangs, letting it smoulder a moment, and turns to you.
"I ain't got time to explain the whole thing, so I'll give you the short version," it says. "Hell saw what happened to you. It sees what happens to folk like you all over Creation. N' when it does, it sends folk like me to find folk like you to give 'em a choice. A chance to start over, with the kinda power people can only dream of. Power of the real Anathema."
This is insane. Absolutely insane. A demon - an actual, genuine demon - is sitting next to you and telling you it can give you another shot, fuck it's all but telling you it can grant wishes on top of it all. Like Creation itself heard your idle thoughts and sent alone someone to help you put your money where your mouth is. You want to laugh. You want to scream. You want to pinch yourself and wake up from this absurd delusion. How are you even supposed to react to this?
[ ] Anger. Does this thing think you're fucking stupid or something? It comes along and promises the world and you're supposed to just take an emissary of Hell at its word? You've had the rug yanked out from under you too many times before, and you've had enough. Tell it to fuck off.
[ ] Suspicion. This thing comes along and promises the world, and you're supposed to just take an emissary of Hell at its word? The problem is... you want to. You so deeply, desperately want to. You'll compromise. You have to be sure. Question it, grill it, it says it doesn't have much time but it'll answer you until the eleventh hour and damn well like it.
[ ] Glee. It's everything you were asking for, everything you could want. The power of the Anathema, that's what it said. The thing spoken of in hushed whispers, the thing all Immaculate faithful should fear, the things that once shattered the world. You'll take that power and show the Tamura what it's like to lose, to struggle and fight and believe so desperately that they deserve to exist, only to be crushed all the same.
[ ] Relief. You don't know if it's the offer, the isolation, or the demon's strange demeanour but... for the first time in so long, there's even the slightest ray of hope. You know bullshitters and swindlers and conmen and this demon doesn't sound like one at all. You think he actually wants to help you. The prospect's almost terrifying but you can't let it slip away. Not now.
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Chapter Six: The Chrysalis Grotesque
ZerbanDaGreat
Daemon Noble of D E M O G R A P H I C S
- Pronouns
- They/them
You laugh again.
You can't help it. It's just so funny. So long without something that you'd forgotten you ever wanted or needed it, buried the urge down deep where it'd stop needily scratching away inside you, and now when you finally get it it's from a fucking demon. A no-shit real-live demon coming to offer you the kind of hellish bargain the monks at home always made out to be less literal. Before it always had to be you. You always had to slink over like a stray, an alley dog kicked one too many times, give a few experimental wags until someone eventually, belatedly, threw you a scrap. But this time, for the first time, someone came to you. Someone offered you the hand first. Your shoulders shake. You wonder if there'd be tears in your eyes if you hadn't long since run out of 'em.
"H-haha... d'you know how long I've-" you shake your head, rocking back and forth slightly on your perilous perch. Your arm's starting to ache from gripping the side so tight. "I'd ask you to tell me the catch but h-hhahonestly I don't even fucking care. Isn't that hilarious?"
The demon doesn't seem to find it hilarious. You don't like the way it's looking at you any more. The pity in its eyes seems magnified by the extra pair, and it stings like a stiletto blade in the gut. You swivel to face it properly, hysterical mirth draining from your face.
"Listen, don't-fuck-"
Your phantom arm betrays you again. In that moment of distraction your stupid fucking body goes and forgets it's missing a piece. You lurch over dangerously, a rush of fear and shame freezing your insides solid, and a thousand images of your ignominous end right before you finally got a fucking break flash before your eyes. And then you stop dead. You lurch in your seat and when you look down there's a broad, clawed hand pressed against your sternum, holding you away from the edge. You pant shakily, following the arm all the way back to the demon stretching over to reach you. His mandibles flutter akin to a man blowing air into his cheeks.
"Y'alright? Don't scare me like that, shit." The demon gingerly lets up the pressure once it's satisfied you won't tip over like an unattended baby. "You go an' drown right now, that helps nobody."
"Ha." You're back to facing front, head hanging low, gripping the edge of the dock with all the strength you have left. "What, can't swim?"
"M' made'a stone an' the ocean's acid where I come from, smartass. C'mon, let's get ya up."
The demon stands and ambles over, two strong stone arms looping under yours, two vicious claws hooking into the right side of your tunic, and hoists you safely upright. Your first reflex is to smack it away, but that just makes your phantom arm twinge too. You settle for squirming and struggling in the statue-beast's grip, protesting again and again that you're not a baby and you can get up your own damn self, but the demon's hearing none of it - "shaddup, I got hands to spare". Your struggle is for naught, and before you know it you're upright a few paces away from the water's edge, the demon brushing you down and smoothing out your rumpled tunic. The unearthly forge-heat of its core you felt for only moments slowly fades from your skin.
"Look-"
The demon rests one of its many hands on your shoulder. The muscle beneath tenses like stone in its own right. After a moment's pause it slowly draws said hand back. The demon gives a helpless four-shouldered shrug.
"I dunno all'a what's gonna happen when we make this thing official," it admits. "But one thing I do know is y'best get used to havin' me around lookin' after you 'cause that part don't stop once you're a Green Sun Prince. I had to absorb the Exaltation first just to get it all the way t'you, an' look how well that's goin' for me. The only way to give it t' you is if I come with it. You'll stay in control, you'll just... have an extra voice in the back'a your head I guess."
One hand rises to scratch the back of its neck, the other three turn palm-up in a sort of 'what can you do?' gesture.
"Servin' the Yozi ain't all gonna be fun an' games kid. It'll be tough an' vicious an' there's gonna be a lotta people all wantin' you to be somethin' you ain't yet. But I ain't goin' anywhere. And you're gonna get your arm back."
You laugh again. It's only quiet, exhausted, practically just in the shaking of your shoulders and the pattern of your breathing. You force your head to rise and your eyes to meet the demon's.
"I'll be honest," you say. "S' still sounding like a pretty great deal right now."
"Heh." One mandible clicks against the side of the demon's jaw. "Yeah, s'about fair."
And then the demon spreads all four arms wide. Inviting you in. Sculpted-brawn chest slowly rising and falling, hair-thin fractures of vibrant emerald light widening and closing with the motion. You can almost see the muted glow shining through the rounded slab of its gut. You've already felt that warmth, if only for a moment. Your eyes dart up to meet its again, brow furrowed. It only beckons again.
There's still time, isn't there? Time to be virtuous. To be a good little Immaculate and come to your senses, realise that there can be no bargains with demons where you don't lose. Forsake what is easy and cling to what is true. Suffer stoically and one day, maybe one day, things will get better.
You walk. Step by lurching, jerking, mechanical step. You bow your head, eyes downcast, and take one step at a time until there's no space left.
Your brow collides with the raised ridge of its collarbone and you stop. You stand still. You breathe and you wait until you feel the demon move in kind. Four muscular stone-skinned arms wrap around you, sliding against you, and the contact makes you skin crawl but this time you don't fight back. You can't. The all-encompassing embrace slowly tightens, drawing you closer, pushing your head up until your face is all but buried in the crook of the demon's neck and you're pressed together, chest-to-chest. The heat is almost unbearable. It's like standing next to an active furnace, bathed in such an inferno you can feel it seeping through to your bones. You don't pull away. You shiver once as the last scrap of undeathly cold is driven from you and replaced with toxic fever-heat.
The demon holds you tight from shoulder to waist. His tails slowly loop around your legs from thigh to ankle, spreading the warmth down through your aching calves and numb feet. He's starting to crumble, you can feel that now. He's done holding back the raging fire of Exaltation inside him and it's breaking through. The obsidian skin cracks and fractures beneath your cheek, tendrils of burning heat driving the fragments into your skin but you don't cry out. Just out of the corner of your eye you can see more, see the demon's back opening up and unfolding like a flower, tendrils of brilliant green flame bearing chunks of obsidian aloft like ovum clinging to the inside of a black eggshell. The demon's wings flare out in turn, four great curtains of midnight black that curl and wrap around you like blankets. Clinging to you, soft and sleek as silk, plunging you into darkness, blinding you completely to what comes next. You don't know when you looped your arm around his waist. All you know is you're squeezing back just as tight.
You're fading. Drifting away. Falling asleep without knowing what you'll be when you wake up.
You're not afraid.
You're finally warm.
The sun shines down on your upturned face, warmer and brighter to you than it would be to any other. You stand at the edge of a high balcony, gazing out across the vastness of the Blessed Isle at a view many would kill for. You can see it in its entirety, coast to coast to coast, from atop a palace that rivals even the Imperial Mountain in size and scope. It's the tallest in all Creation, utterly dwarfing the manses of your brothers and sisters, and still it grows taller and stronger with every passing year, sprawling out in wings and workshops and storehouses. There isn't a place on all the Isle you can go where you can't see it on the horizon, its grand arches and sweeping curves, out-thrust towers supported by nothing but your engineering genius, the entire edifice as pure white as snow and gilded in orichalcum such that it seems to catch fire in the morning and evening sun, glittering like a jewel at all other times.You know every inch of it like the back of your own hands, for it was those hands that built it and not a soul more.
You turn away from the railing and stride across the balcony, the breathtakingly beautiful sunburst design wrought of pure orichalcum set in white jade going unnoticed beneath your feet. The doorway seems a little bigger than you remember, your stride a little shorter, and an irritating numbness lingers in your right arm but you don't let such trifling concerns bother you. You simply fold your hands behind your back and descend the many looping flights of spiral stairs down from the northeast observation tower.
Your palace is like something out of a dream. Here a grand hallway with floor-to-ceiling windows that let only honey-gold morning light spill through even in the dead of night. There an indoor garden full of rare flowers from the Wyld's edge that blossom only in moonlight, the crystal skylight overhead allowing only Luna's silver glow to pass through. A reading room with a false fireplace of sculpted red jade that nonetheless flickers and dances like the most well-fed of bonfires, its heat and light stretching to all corners of the vast space. An ersatz forest greater than the real thing could ever be, each leaf made of gold, each branch made of silver, a hundred thousand crystal raindrops suspended perfectly in mid-air, everything frozen in a single captured instant of a summer storm. Corridors and hallways and stairways up, down, left, right, until lesser minds are completely confounded, left to stumble through rooms each more wonderous than the last. Mortal servants have gotten helplessly lost in it many times before, sometimes for days or weeks or even longer when they stumble into the Observatory unattended - it's why you had to send them all away, and craft acceptable replacements soon after. Not even the signs you erected as a begrudging concession were enough, although... you grimace as you glance at one and find its letters swimming before your eyes. Perhaps you're in need of this month's rest slightly earlier than scheduled.
You head down to the Archives, for either you've managed to lose your train of thought - unlikely - or you find yourself bored and without an immediate project or convenient idle fancy to alleviate the aforementioned. Either is unnacceptable. Doors that could repel any weapon in all Creation slide open as smooth as paper before you, sealing shut behind you with a soft hiss.
The Archives are not too dissimilar to the Observatory, but where the latter charts stars the former charts your accomplishments and what yet remains for you to achieve. A thousand-thousand disparate threads of genius and experience and inspiration all woven together into an incomprehensibly vast and frustratingly incomplete tapestry. The room is circular, the centre dominated by a sun of your design, a smaller one to light the room from within the spinning concentric crystal rings of its containment field. The only shadow is yours as you slowly circle the room, finger trailing along what the ignorant would assume are the spines of books. These are data-slates, thin sheets of finely-worked adamant contained in protective orchalcum cases - for adamant can be so frustratingly brittle despite all your efforts - and each one contains more information than all the ink and paper in Creation could ever hope to record.
The only question is which? Every wall is nothing but shelves upon shelves of your data-slates, stretching from the domed ceiling above to the dizzying, shadowed depths of the room far below, for you often have to excavate to create room for more recent records. From which section should you attempt to draw inspiration?
[ ] The Dawn. These records chart the short, unimpressive span of your life immediately before your Exaltation, and the tumultuous period immediately after as you acclimated to your new powers. Accordingly it is the smallest and least-visited section, gathering dust at the very apex of the Archives.
[ ] The Zenith. These records chart the course of the Primordial War, and the impossible feats you and your comrades accomplished in order to free Creation of their stagnant hold. These you revisit quite often.
[ ] The Dusk. These records are more recent, charting the long centuries of rule and restoration that followed after the dust of the War settled, as well as a few of your more direct musings as to what will come next.
You can't help it. It's just so funny. So long without something that you'd forgotten you ever wanted or needed it, buried the urge down deep where it'd stop needily scratching away inside you, and now when you finally get it it's from a fucking demon. A no-shit real-live demon coming to offer you the kind of hellish bargain the monks at home always made out to be less literal. Before it always had to be you. You always had to slink over like a stray, an alley dog kicked one too many times, give a few experimental wags until someone eventually, belatedly, threw you a scrap. But this time, for the first time, someone came to you. Someone offered you the hand first. Your shoulders shake. You wonder if there'd be tears in your eyes if you hadn't long since run out of 'em.
"H-haha... d'you know how long I've-" you shake your head, rocking back and forth slightly on your perilous perch. Your arm's starting to ache from gripping the side so tight. "I'd ask you to tell me the catch but h-hhahonestly I don't even fucking care. Isn't that hilarious?"
The demon doesn't seem to find it hilarious. You don't like the way it's looking at you any more. The pity in its eyes seems magnified by the extra pair, and it stings like a stiletto blade in the gut. You swivel to face it properly, hysterical mirth draining from your face.
"Listen, don't-fuck-"
Your phantom arm betrays you again. In that moment of distraction your stupid fucking body goes and forgets it's missing a piece. You lurch over dangerously, a rush of fear and shame freezing your insides solid, and a thousand images of your ignominous end right before you finally got a fucking break flash before your eyes. And then you stop dead. You lurch in your seat and when you look down there's a broad, clawed hand pressed against your sternum, holding you away from the edge. You pant shakily, following the arm all the way back to the demon stretching over to reach you. His mandibles flutter akin to a man blowing air into his cheeks.
"Y'alright? Don't scare me like that, shit." The demon gingerly lets up the pressure once it's satisfied you won't tip over like an unattended baby. "You go an' drown right now, that helps nobody."
"Ha." You're back to facing front, head hanging low, gripping the edge of the dock with all the strength you have left. "What, can't swim?"
"M' made'a stone an' the ocean's acid where I come from, smartass. C'mon, let's get ya up."
The demon stands and ambles over, two strong stone arms looping under yours, two vicious claws hooking into the right side of your tunic, and hoists you safely upright. Your first reflex is to smack it away, but that just makes your phantom arm twinge too. You settle for squirming and struggling in the statue-beast's grip, protesting again and again that you're not a baby and you can get up your own damn self, but the demon's hearing none of it - "shaddup, I got hands to spare". Your struggle is for naught, and before you know it you're upright a few paces away from the water's edge, the demon brushing you down and smoothing out your rumpled tunic. The unearthly forge-heat of its core you felt for only moments slowly fades from your skin.
"Look-"
The demon rests one of its many hands on your shoulder. The muscle beneath tenses like stone in its own right. After a moment's pause it slowly draws said hand back. The demon gives a helpless four-shouldered shrug.
"I dunno all'a what's gonna happen when we make this thing official," it admits. "But one thing I do know is y'best get used to havin' me around lookin' after you 'cause that part don't stop once you're a Green Sun Prince. I had to absorb the Exaltation first just to get it all the way t'you, an' look how well that's goin' for me. The only way to give it t' you is if I come with it. You'll stay in control, you'll just... have an extra voice in the back'a your head I guess."
One hand rises to scratch the back of its neck, the other three turn palm-up in a sort of 'what can you do?' gesture.
"Servin' the Yozi ain't all gonna be fun an' games kid. It'll be tough an' vicious an' there's gonna be a lotta people all wantin' you to be somethin' you ain't yet. But I ain't goin' anywhere. And you're gonna get your arm back."
You laugh again. It's only quiet, exhausted, practically just in the shaking of your shoulders and the pattern of your breathing. You force your head to rise and your eyes to meet the demon's.
"I'll be honest," you say. "S' still sounding like a pretty great deal right now."
"Heh." One mandible clicks against the side of the demon's jaw. "Yeah, s'about fair."
And then the demon spreads all four arms wide. Inviting you in. Sculpted-brawn chest slowly rising and falling, hair-thin fractures of vibrant emerald light widening and closing with the motion. You can almost see the muted glow shining through the rounded slab of its gut. You've already felt that warmth, if only for a moment. Your eyes dart up to meet its again, brow furrowed. It only beckons again.
There's still time, isn't there? Time to be virtuous. To be a good little Immaculate and come to your senses, realise that there can be no bargains with demons where you don't lose. Forsake what is easy and cling to what is true. Suffer stoically and one day, maybe one day, things will get better.
You walk. Step by lurching, jerking, mechanical step. You bow your head, eyes downcast, and take one step at a time until there's no space left.
Your brow collides with the raised ridge of its collarbone and you stop. You stand still. You breathe and you wait until you feel the demon move in kind. Four muscular stone-skinned arms wrap around you, sliding against you, and the contact makes you skin crawl but this time you don't fight back. You can't. The all-encompassing embrace slowly tightens, drawing you closer, pushing your head up until your face is all but buried in the crook of the demon's neck and you're pressed together, chest-to-chest. The heat is almost unbearable. It's like standing next to an active furnace, bathed in such an inferno you can feel it seeping through to your bones. You don't pull away. You shiver once as the last scrap of undeathly cold is driven from you and replaced with toxic fever-heat.
The demon holds you tight from shoulder to waist. His tails slowly loop around your legs from thigh to ankle, spreading the warmth down through your aching calves and numb feet. He's starting to crumble, you can feel that now. He's done holding back the raging fire of Exaltation inside him and it's breaking through. The obsidian skin cracks and fractures beneath your cheek, tendrils of burning heat driving the fragments into your skin but you don't cry out. Just out of the corner of your eye you can see more, see the demon's back opening up and unfolding like a flower, tendrils of brilliant green flame bearing chunks of obsidian aloft like ovum clinging to the inside of a black eggshell. The demon's wings flare out in turn, four great curtains of midnight black that curl and wrap around you like blankets. Clinging to you, soft and sleek as silk, plunging you into darkness, blinding you completely to what comes next. You don't know when you looped your arm around his waist. All you know is you're squeezing back just as tight.
You're fading. Drifting away. Falling asleep without knowing what you'll be when you wake up.
You're not afraid.
You're finally warm.
The sun shines down on your upturned face, warmer and brighter to you than it would be to any other. You stand at the edge of a high balcony, gazing out across the vastness of the Blessed Isle at a view many would kill for. You can see it in its entirety, coast to coast to coast, from atop a palace that rivals even the Imperial Mountain in size and scope. It's the tallest in all Creation, utterly dwarfing the manses of your brothers and sisters, and still it grows taller and stronger with every passing year, sprawling out in wings and workshops and storehouses. There isn't a place on all the Isle you can go where you can't see it on the horizon, its grand arches and sweeping curves, out-thrust towers supported by nothing but your engineering genius, the entire edifice as pure white as snow and gilded in orichalcum such that it seems to catch fire in the morning and evening sun, glittering like a jewel at all other times.You know every inch of it like the back of your own hands, for it was those hands that built it and not a soul more.
You turn away from the railing and stride across the balcony, the breathtakingly beautiful sunburst design wrought of pure orichalcum set in white jade going unnoticed beneath your feet. The doorway seems a little bigger than you remember, your stride a little shorter, and an irritating numbness lingers in your right arm but you don't let such trifling concerns bother you. You simply fold your hands behind your back and descend the many looping flights of spiral stairs down from the northeast observation tower.
Your palace is like something out of a dream. Here a grand hallway with floor-to-ceiling windows that let only honey-gold morning light spill through even in the dead of night. There an indoor garden full of rare flowers from the Wyld's edge that blossom only in moonlight, the crystal skylight overhead allowing only Luna's silver glow to pass through. A reading room with a false fireplace of sculpted red jade that nonetheless flickers and dances like the most well-fed of bonfires, its heat and light stretching to all corners of the vast space. An ersatz forest greater than the real thing could ever be, each leaf made of gold, each branch made of silver, a hundred thousand crystal raindrops suspended perfectly in mid-air, everything frozen in a single captured instant of a summer storm. Corridors and hallways and stairways up, down, left, right, until lesser minds are completely confounded, left to stumble through rooms each more wonderous than the last. Mortal servants have gotten helplessly lost in it many times before, sometimes for days or weeks or even longer when they stumble into the Observatory unattended - it's why you had to send them all away, and craft acceptable replacements soon after. Not even the signs you erected as a begrudging concession were enough, although... you grimace as you glance at one and find its letters swimming before your eyes. Perhaps you're in need of this month's rest slightly earlier than scheduled.
You head down to the Archives, for either you've managed to lose your train of thought - unlikely - or you find yourself bored and without an immediate project or convenient idle fancy to alleviate the aforementioned. Either is unnacceptable. Doors that could repel any weapon in all Creation slide open as smooth as paper before you, sealing shut behind you with a soft hiss.
The Archives are not too dissimilar to the Observatory, but where the latter charts stars the former charts your accomplishments and what yet remains for you to achieve. A thousand-thousand disparate threads of genius and experience and inspiration all woven together into an incomprehensibly vast and frustratingly incomplete tapestry. The room is circular, the centre dominated by a sun of your design, a smaller one to light the room from within the spinning concentric crystal rings of its containment field. The only shadow is yours as you slowly circle the room, finger trailing along what the ignorant would assume are the spines of books. These are data-slates, thin sheets of finely-worked adamant contained in protective orchalcum cases - for adamant can be so frustratingly brittle despite all your efforts - and each one contains more information than all the ink and paper in Creation could ever hope to record.
The only question is which? Every wall is nothing but shelves upon shelves of your data-slates, stretching from the domed ceiling above to the dizzying, shadowed depths of the room far below, for you often have to excavate to create room for more recent records. From which section should you attempt to draw inspiration?
[ ] The Dawn. These records chart the short, unimpressive span of your life immediately before your Exaltation, and the tumultuous period immediately after as you acclimated to your new powers. Accordingly it is the smallest and least-visited section, gathering dust at the very apex of the Archives.
[ ] The Zenith. These records chart the course of the Primordial War, and the impossible feats you and your comrades accomplished in order to free Creation of their stagnant hold. These you revisit quite often.
[ ] The Dusk. These records are more recent, charting the long centuries of rule and restoration that followed after the dust of the War settled, as well as a few of your more direct musings as to what will come next.
Chapter Seven: Welcome To Hell
ZerbanDaGreat
Daemon Noble of D E M O G R A P H I C S
- Pronouns
- They/them
The contraption turns and rises within the Archives like an inverted bolt and screw, quiet as a whisper and responsive as a thought. The domed ceiling slowly brightens as the miniature sun rises to meet it, illuminating the breathtakingly complex sunburst design you sculpted into it long ago. You walk a slow circuit of the few shelves there are up here, scanning the spine of each 'volume' you pass as you search for just the right ones. You slip one free, only to grimace as you realise they have quite literally been gathering dust. You must have someone to clean in here. Perhaps an automaton, so you can be sure they aren't growing fat off your secrets while your attention is elsewhere.
In any case you unbind the orichalcum cover and bare the adamant slate to the air, bringing it to life with a few expert swipes and taps of a fingertip. A symphony for the senses arises from the tinted glass, not just sight but sound, touch, even taste and smell. The disused senses are often the most useful in recalling information, and as you breathe deep you recognise the scent of a particular breed of flower a wave of memory comes rushing back.
You remember the flower as one of the few constants in that young, ancient world you left behind. The world of the Titans, a Creation in flux. An ancient mechanism of such breathtaking scope and complexity that it was never done, could never simply be 'done', and mortal lives were as ants crawling along the blade of a half-forged sword, their lives spared or lost by the uncaring rhythm of the blacksmith's hammer. Not that the ants went completely beneath notice of course, quite the contrary. The Primordials often meddled with their cattle as the mood took them. You knew of one tribe that was doted on, showered with gifts and glory, lovingly sculpted and modified and fine-tuned into demons of the sea, gifted with great aquatic warbeasts and trained by the finest devas of the Third Circle, scouring the coasts of Creation and laying waste to all they encountered. They came for you once. Just once, perhaps as no more than the next box on a checklist. You survived by fleeing inland. You never returned. Your people settled elsewhere as the Primordials willed and resumed your tithes of prayer. The flower bloomed there, too. There was another time, whether before or after you no longer know, when 'your' Primordial tried its hand at improving you too. It began with every man of eighteen or older, transforming them overnight and leaving them to awaken as immense beasts of burden that walked on two legs. They were grotesque chimera, something of the bear and the bull and the boar in them, and more besides. Their intellects were ruined by the change, their minds rent in two, good for no more than manual labour. They could not offer their souls in supplication and prayer, and so they were to be discarded. A week later they were rounded up and marched off to war with another village, another tribe, another experimental 'race' to see which was superior. You never saw them again. You were only a month from your eighteenth birthday.
Some of the details are gone. In those days you had no way of knowing how long you would live, how those frantic early days would soon vanish from sight as if borne by the current of a fast-flowing river. You did not record the names of your parents, your siblings - if you had any - or your own. When you took the name Halphas it was an oath, a solemn promise that you would not return until those you left behind had no more to fear. And now... well, you suppose it's possible they died during the war. In the chaos and tumult of the world's upheaval, there was no dearth of opportunities for the little people to slip through the cracks. The scent of the flower brings back only remembered sensation, the spark of quiet rebellion that you nursed in secret until it burst into brilliant flame - muted by the ages but no less real for it. It was... a Second-Circle deva, you think. One of Theion's if you had to guess but then you clashed with the souls of every Primordial at one time or another. You were rough then, crude, possessed of nothing but brute strength and will, but that is all the Dawn spark needed when it filled you with its power and uplifted you.
You 'turn the page' as it were, striding a few paces further and retrieving another slate. This one comes with the smell of sweat, the sting of it in your eyes, the coppery tang of blood being spilled. The clash of weapons ringing on weapons and a rough hand clasping yours tightly, pulling you up again and again and again. His face swims into view, the reproduction projected by the glass drawing the truth from the depths of your mind. You remember him now. Your first Dragonblooded. Sextus. His face blends together with his countless descendants in your mind, the version recorded in adamant one from long after the war, but the name remains crystal clear. In those days you were like a child with a stick. He would knock you down again and again, and at times you never wished to rise again - but he would always pick you up again, tell you what you did wrong, and make you try again until you understood. That was the lesson you carried with you the longest. Persistence and iteration - even you could not have come so far without them.
Another volume, another string of memories. An image floats before you in miniature, as real as the real thing down to the slightest reflection, and it is abhorrent to your senses. It takes you a few moments to look again, to think of why it must be here, why it was recorded. You look at it and you remember the handle of untreated bone stolen from the carcass of a great beast and roughly carved down to size, the way it pressed into your palms and scraped the skin bloody. You remember the weeks of petty theft, stealing metal a scrap at a time. You remember stoking a fire in secret and welding the blade together a piece at a time, praying that it would only hold its shape let alone do so with any strength. It was your first. The first weapon you ever forged.
You close the cover, and as you slide the slate back into its proper position you realise you don't feel any better. Quite the reverse, in fact. A strange melancholy grips your heart, bearing down on you like an unseen weight. The ancient have more cause than most to be nostalgic you suppose, but still you find yourself longing for those days more than you'd care to admit. You were young then, in body and mind and spirit, and everywhere you turned a new challenge would arise, a new upheaval would shake the foundations of Creation. Now stability is a prison, a noose that slowly tightens day by day. There are no wonders in this new world, only the same staid sights repeated from horizon to horizon, and the mortals pass through Lethe only to experience them again and again like children never allowed to grow up. There are no wonders in this new world unless you create them, and is it not your duty as one of the three hundred masters of Creation, as the Deliberative's Sword? The only question is what.
You turn, hands folded behind your back, and gaze into the golden sun as if it will contain the answer. You think of those humble days when all you had was your wit and your own two hands, and you created the sword that allowed you to ascend. From that sprang your hammer, the finest of its kind in Heaven or Creation. From that sprang remarkable creations beyond counting, so many you needed the Archives to keep count of them all, but now? Now...
Now you have an idea. Now you can see it all so perfectly, in such crystal clarity you can't imagine how you could have been so blind before. New energy courses through you as you set the platform to descend once more, pacing along the endless loop of the walkway in reverse as it turns and descends. You'll have to send the Dragonblooded out for materials of course, reassign the weapons testing squad from the Abyss to aid them. Iterative work takes care of much of the planning but this will be an undertaking to end all undertakings, and you must examine your old work closely if you're to determine the way forward. The lift passes the door you entered and keeps going, down and down and down again around and around like a spiral in the sea, into the shadowed depths of the shaft where it comes to a stop by a second door. A door completely hidden from sight without the sun to light your way. It slides open before you, as if eagerly awaiting this very moment, and you stride down the long hallway beyond with renewed purpose.
You arrive in your secret vault, your pride and joy buried under stone and soil and every magical material you could get your hands on. The wonders that ended the Primordial War but can be beheld by none but you, for only you are fit to wield their power. You spread your hands wide and settle your weight against the railing, looking out at row upon row of colossal golden spears stretching out before you - forward, left, right, scores more illuminated as each new set of overhead lights switches on. Each of them stands tall as your palace's highest towers, as broad as any of its walls, so colossal in their majesty that it beggars belief to even call them weapons to be wielded. But oh you have seen the might and majesty of the power that roils within them, the incredible waves of heat and light they unleash when roused. Here they have languished in the dark, sealed away such that if one were to fail only your palace would suffer rather than all the Blessed Isle. Your craftsmanship would never fail, of course, but it was a simple concession to make to set the others' minds at ease. But now they will serve as a stepping stone to something far greater. You reach out as if to touch the closest one, to press your hand to the orichalcum shell containing such immeasurable power, just to feel its warmth run cold as the shell breaks and you-
-fall free, gasping for air. You hit the ground hard and bounce, somehow getting the wind knocked out of you despite already suffocating. You're caked in filth, thick slime drooling and dripping off your shoulders in sheets, rolling down your arms to puddle beneath you. Your hair is plastered to your skull in tangled, matted knots, blinding you. You cough and splutter, spitting slime and hair and fragments of what feel like eggshell from your lips, struggling to find your footing only to feel your body betray you at every turn. It's all you can do to even remain on all fours, quivering and retching. It feels like dying, drowning and choking.
<'ey kid, keep calm alright? Breathe. Just breathe. You're finally out.>
"hhhow -kuhh- h-how long was i out?" you wheeze.
<'bout seven days, couple hours change.>
"s'that normal?"
<Nope. S'only meant to take five, then ya pop outta your chrysalis on whatever transportation y'got lined up and have two more days to acclimate. They had time t' unload us an' haul us all the way to the Conventicle.>
"the... what?" you shake your head. "nevermind, shut up a second, need to... yeah"
The demon politely remains silent as you finally catch some semblance of your breath. It's an ordeal to stand, to place one shaking foot under you and shift your weight, to get the other secure and force yourself to rise. You feel like a newborn foal taking its first steps - and, well, it's not inaccurate from what you can gather. You scrub the slime and hair from your eyes with your sleeve and squint at your surroundings, blinking blearily.
It's... a bathhouse? It looks like something you'd find off a lord's master bedroom, all richly stained timbers and tasteful wall-hangings in green and gold and black, sliding doors and absorbent floormats and soft, fluffy white towels hung up on brass railings. There's no less than three baths sized for a small handful of people, a side room that looks like a private sauna, and a silver-backed mirror over a black stone basin with two brass knobs and a tap- perfect. You stagger over, even manage to make it about three steps before you pitch forward and have to steady yourself against the basin. A little victory. You savour it while you can.
And then you can see, and that gives you a whole slew of extra things to think about. You barely even know where to start.
If you thought you were pale before, it was nothing compared to this. You're white as a sheet, white as a drained corpse before the rot has time to set in, all the better to see the fine web of pitch-black blood vessels and veins crisscrossing beneath the surface. Your hair is white as snow, shaggy and unkempt from two weeks without a trim, matted with slime and fragments of the chrysalis' black outer shell. Your eyes are like twin rings of luminous green jade floating in pools of ink, the pupils drawn out into vertical catlike slits. You tug your lip back with your thumb - even your teeth are sharper. And-
hah. And then there's your arm. In all the excitement, favouring your left arm as you quickly learned to, you almost forgot. But now you raise your right at last, and inspect the replacement you were promised.
It's made of brass - primarily, at least. Made without welding points or rivets, tool-marks or seams of any kind. Just a single smooth piece all but flowing from your shoulder, tendrils of brass sunk into the flesh all around to anchor the living metal. The range of movement is perfect, polished metal stretching and twisting like flesh, fuck it even feels natural! You stretch it out at arm's (hah) length, turning it this way and that. There seems to be some kind of glowing green jade core, shining through the metal in places akin to angular veins, but at your palm and fingers the brass cuts away almost like carapace to expose the 'flesh' beneath. You watch the light wax and wane, flickering rhythmically like a heartbeat, and slowly curl your emerald talons into a fist just to see if you still can. There's a dull pressure on your palm, but it's no worse than digging your nails in.
<Y'like it?> the demon asks. <Better'n new, as promised. Stopped by my old haunts for materials 'fore I left to find you just in case. Finest brass you'll find in all'a Hell. I call it the Hand of Malfeas for now, but I guess you can figure out your own name if y'want.>
"It's... it's incredible," you breathe, still marvelling at the sight and sensation of your hand - your precious sword-hand - moving just like it should.
The demon grunts. <Wouldn't go that far,> he grumbles, sounding almost irritable all of a sudden. <S'a hack job by my standards, way below par fer an Exalt, but I did the best I could with what I got. Good news is it don't have to stay that way. Y'see the cutout at your hand? Grab some more material - metal, jade, y'get what I mean - an' you can absorb it for me. Then I can get to work givin' you some real toys t' play with.>
"... wait, how can you still forge things for me without a body?" you ask.
<I dunno kid, how can I talk to ya without a mouth?>
You chuckle drily. "Can't argue with that logic."
<Good, hold onta that attitude. It'll get'cha far down here.>
Your hand moves on its own, as if by instinct. You turn the brass knobs a little, sending a cascade of hot water pouring down into the black basin, and splash your face until the worst of the drying, thickening green slurry is washed away and you feel a few hairs more human again. You settle your weight against the basin and finally have the presence of mind to look down.
You're wearing some kind of... you don't know how to describe it really. It's like a single massive piece of tanned, black-dyed leather stretched over you from the jawline down without any visible stitches or seams, perfectly tailored such that you couldn't even notice its presence by touch alone. Slight reflections of light play across the contours as you twist and turn this way and that to inspect it - it goes all the way down, feet enclosed akin to light shoes, and the left sleeve flows into an attached glove. Only your right arm is left exposed, the suit cut back all the way to the shoulder. A splash of colour in the darkness.
"(The hell is this now?)" you mutter, picking at your collar with an emerald claw experimentally.
<Don't go pickin' at it,> the demon grumbles, and you lower your hand. <D'you have any idea how much necrotic essence was flowin' through you? Ghostblood nothin', you had enough in there fer two people when the change started.>
"The... powers of the dead..." you murmur, brow furrowing as you remember Shuzen's words. It isn't a question, but the demon answers it all the same.
<Yeah, an' it don't play nice with folk who're still alive. The power surge from the Exaltation made it go haywire, like it was replicatin' outta control or somethin'. S'why you took seven days t' cook 'stead of just five. I had to use it up with whatever I had, so I mixed it with some shadows an' a touch o' moonsilver - all I had, been savin' it for years for somethin' good - an' hammered it all into that suit.> The demon sounds exhausted, as if just talking about it brings back memories of the frenzied attempt to save his charge. <S'armour, after a fashion, an' you can get in an' outta it or modify it by thinkin' it, since it's made'a your own essence. Give it a try.>
You don't know how any of what the demon just said is supposed to make sense, but a whole lot of what made sense to you is getting overturned, so you don't question it any further. You try your hand first, squinting at the glove and willing it to vanish. The suit splits open, unravelling into squirming tendrils of tar, and wriggles back to your wrist before twisting together and sealing over again like nothing ever happened. It's mildly disturbing, but you only have time to blink twice in shock before it's over. You turn your hand this way and that - the nails are black as night now, longer and tougher and coming to sharp points, but as claws go they're tiny, downright dainty compared to your other hand. Speaking of which, you turn your attention there and will the suit to even things up. Glistening shadow courses down your arm like a swarm of ravenous black-bodied snakes, engulfing the brass prosthetic right down to the fingertips The sickly emerald light still shines through, and the shape of the talons is obvious, but it could be mistaken for your natural arm now.
"Unbelievable, it's-"
<Shitty, I know, like I said it's a real last-minute hackjob. Once we get goin' an' get some better materials maybe I can make it halfway presentable but we ain't got time t' talk about that right now,> the demon cuts you off, incensed and in a hurry. <People been waitin' on us too long already, we gotta get your ass in gear. Get'chaself cleaned up pronto.>
You grimace, but you give the demon the benefit of the doubt. You will the suit the vanish but it can only manage the next-best thing, unravelling all over your body and sucking itself back into a central point, compressing down until it's nothing but a palm-sized black stain on the skin over your heart. You head for one of the baths at first, but the demon directs you around the corner of the room to a volcanic-glass cubicle you couldn't see before. Inside there are more brass fixtures and tiles, and with just a few turns the brass nozzle overhead is streaming down hot water. You almost jump at first - do even nobles have this easy access to hot water? - but get straight to scrubbing. There's more than a few muttered curses as your talons prove too sharp to go washing your naked body willy-nilly, so you use them to comb all the crap out of your hair instead. By the time the demon starts hurrying you out again you feel as refreshed as a trip to a bathhouse, but then again perhaps his standards of cleanliness are higher than your usual 'upend bucket of water over head' routine. You scub yourself dry with fresh, soft towels, and as you do so you notice that Exaltation handily took care of what two weeks' starvation and low activity should've done to your muscles. On the contrary you feel like you have more bulk and tone than when you went in, the sculpted slabs shifting beneath your skin now as tough as iron or stone. Once you're done you give the black stain a smack with the heel of your hand and it seems to understand, bursting to life like a nightmare of grasping feelers in the dark, and a few seconds later it's back to how it was when you woke up, covering you neck-to-toe but leaving your right arm free. It's also kinda disconcerting but you've got a lot on your mind right now. Overall you feel... pretty good, actually. Refreshed, ready to find out what comes next. The only thing you miss is the weight of your sword on your back, but there's no helping that now.
You leave the bathroom suite, glancing at the broken green-black chrysalis still oozing slime from its fleshy interior as you pass - <s'fine, someone'll come clean that up> - and step into the main hall. It's grand as hell, all mirror-polished obsidian tiles and rich green carpet, the black basalt walls and brass supporting pillars at a slight curve, covered brass lamps that burn with green flame set at regular intervals to bathe the place in light. There's a stairway to the right, split three ways at the first landing, one path heading straight while two more curve elegantly up and around to join the second floor balconies either side of the hall. You crane your neck to see them and your eyes wander to the ceiling, vast and arched and adorned with a mural so finely-painted even you can't help but appreciate it. It's something... abstract you think -abstract's what they call art you're not supposed to get right?- a swirl of green and gold that you have to stare at and stare at until shapes start to resolve themselves from the tangle of colour. A figure wielding a golden hammer looms large over a fleeing flood of tiny, twisted figures. But the whole piece turns like a wheel, those same green figures rising up again, growing larger and stronger, until it's their turn to set upon the gold with a sword of green flame.
"Do you like it?"
You drop your gaze. There's a woman standing in the hall with you, but even you can tell she's not just 'a woman'. The complete soundlessness of her entrance aside, there's this aura around her that draws the eye immediately. Tiny distortions and imperfections in the air, like a bleary-eyed haze localised in space, the world hitching and stumbling and catching itself again and again. Her long auburn hair is tied up in a long braid that curls behind her head from temple to temple, what might have reached her waist now only falling to her shoulders, her eyes such a brilliantly bright green that they put even yours to shame, and framed in delicately-shaped green shadows to emphasise that fact. Her skin is pale and smooth as alabaster, her full lips such a dark green as to seem black every other time you look with a strange, almost metallic sheen. She's dressed like an adventurous Threshold noblewoman, trousers and boots and a jacket done up with brass buttons over a dress-shirt, all in shades of black and charcoal trimmed in bronze with an emerald half-cape draped over her right shoulder. Her gloves are fine things, like elegant skintight gauntlets of chitin that catch the light with an iridescent sheen. She's taller than you, and not just because of the heels on her boots.
<Bow,> the demon says, curt and urgent.
"Yeah, it's great," you reply instead, stepping onto the carpet and coming closer. "Mean I'm no artist or anything but..." you let out a low whistle, hands on your hips "puts anything else I've seen to shame. Your house looks great, sorry I uh, left a mess back there."
<What'd I just say->
"It's yours," she says.
You double-take. "What?"
"It's yours," she repeats, lips quirking up into a slight smile. "The Conventicle Malfeasant provides lodgings for all currently active Green Sun Princes appropriate to their status. As the difficulties with your awakening seem to have been resolved, servants and other staff have been sent for."
You blink, and hold out a hand. "Wait- wait I don't want servants."
<Kid when someone gives you a mansion and servants you say thank you>
The woman pauses, half-turned away. She glances back at you down the line of her shoulder, her expression curious and a touch bemused. "Demons," she clarifies. "Not enslaved humans. Those are a rare thing in Hell, and those that take them hoard them jealously. And if that still does not comfort you, know that the demons chosen for your retinue will be overjoyed to hold such prestigious positions."
"I... guess that helps, yeah," you say haltingly. "I'm just used to doing stuff myself, is all."
She chuckles softly. "You are Exalted now, Slayer. Your concerns are greater than dusting the mantlepiece and seeing to laundry now." She turns away and beckons. "Walk with me. We have much to see and more to discuss."
<That's Lilunu,> the demon hisses in your ear as you jog to catch up with her. <Be respectful!>
"(But I am being respectful?)" you whisper back. "(I'm not gonna fall flat on my face when she just asked me a question.)"
<That ain't no ordinary noblewoman to go playin' games with, kid. She's the axle in the wheel, the intermediary between all the Yozi, she's the one that put the spark in me. Not to put too fine a point on it but she made you.>
"(Look all I'm saying is maybe you're kinda overreacting-)"
Great ebony double doors twice your height and breadth slowly creak open as if by Lilunu's gaze alone. She strides down the short flight of stairs beyond as light spills over her and you follow, slowly, gaze lifted to take in the sight beyond.
It's like a world in miniature, sealed beneath an emerald-green sky. There's even a sun shining overhead - not white-gold like the light of Creation, but a pale enough shade of green that you could almost miss the subtle tint. In fact the closer you look the more certain you become that the sky is a dome, one incomprehensibly massive piece of emerald sculpted to shape and placed down over the Conventicle like a lid over a pot. Your mansion sits atop a hill, a path paved in black stone winding down the slope towards the inner city, but as you look left and right you notice other mansions all around atop their own hills, separated by valleys and forests of brass and silver, like but unlike yours in a thousand different ways. If you crane your neck you can see more mansions over the walls of solid black stone either side of you - at your best guess the Conventicle's laid out like a wheel, with multiple districts sliced up and partitioned off by the 'spoke' walls and a circular central district shared by everybody. Said central point is dominated by a massive castle that seems to stretch out toward the sky like a straining arm, turrets and towers like fingertips just shy of touching the emerald dome sealing it in. It's a chaotic thing, patchwork somehow, ten different styles from ten different architects all struggling for prominence while an eleventh tries to smooth out the fucking mess he has to work with. In places it doesn't seem like it should be able to support its own weight, it should be sagging and crumbling and falling to pieces, and yet it stands firm all the same. The cramped press of buildings clustered around its base seems almost an afterthought.
"Representatives of four of the Yozi have chosen to sponsor your Exaltation," Lilunu explains, still striding down the path at exactly the pace she set. You jog to catch up with her again. "The Ebon Dragon, Shadow Of All Things. Isidoros, the Black Boar That Twists The Skies. Elloge, the Sphere of Speech. And the Demon City himself, Malfeas. Should their interests conflict you are to treat Malfeas' authority absolute, as you are of the Slayer Caste he has greater claim than the others. Accordingly your Malfean patron has scheduled a private audience with you before your full briefing. The private districts are divided by caste, and you are not permitted to trespass in other districts or a fellow Infernal's domain without explicit invitation. The Green Sun Princes are often dispatched to Creation or elsewhere, but should you wish to socialise there are many common facilities in the palace district for you to share. Do you have any questions?"
A whole shitload, but you get the feeling Lilunu doesn't really want to wait and answer all of 'em when you've got appointments to keep. There's a brief lull of quiet as the two of you come to a great black gatehouse, massive doors of solid brass slowly creaking open open of their own accord, that lets you think.
[ ] Ask about one of your 'patrons', the Yozi. Who the hell is
—[ ] The Ebon Dragon? Is he some kind of lost sixth Elemental Dragon?
—[ ] Isidoros? How do you 'twist the skies' exactly, can he control air like the Tamura?
—[ ] Elloge? What's the 'sphere of speech' and the hell's that got to do with a guy like you?
—[ ] Malfeas? What does she mean by 'the demon city'?
[ ] Ask about her. She's the first face you've seen since you got here and she's a human(ish?) one at that. What's her story? Why's the demon so touchy about her?
[ ] Ask about the weird dream you had. You had a different name, a different past, and you lived so long ago you don't know how to put it into years. Where'd that come from?
[ ] Ask when you can get back to White Tower and start busting some heads. It's been two weeks already, and you don't want to leave it long enough the Tamura go and forget about you.
In any case you unbind the orichalcum cover and bare the adamant slate to the air, bringing it to life with a few expert swipes and taps of a fingertip. A symphony for the senses arises from the tinted glass, not just sight but sound, touch, even taste and smell. The disused senses are often the most useful in recalling information, and as you breathe deep you recognise the scent of a particular breed of flower a wave of memory comes rushing back.
You remember the flower as one of the few constants in that young, ancient world you left behind. The world of the Titans, a Creation in flux. An ancient mechanism of such breathtaking scope and complexity that it was never done, could never simply be 'done', and mortal lives were as ants crawling along the blade of a half-forged sword, their lives spared or lost by the uncaring rhythm of the blacksmith's hammer. Not that the ants went completely beneath notice of course, quite the contrary. The Primordials often meddled with their cattle as the mood took them. You knew of one tribe that was doted on, showered with gifts and glory, lovingly sculpted and modified and fine-tuned into demons of the sea, gifted with great aquatic warbeasts and trained by the finest devas of the Third Circle, scouring the coasts of Creation and laying waste to all they encountered. They came for you once. Just once, perhaps as no more than the next box on a checklist. You survived by fleeing inland. You never returned. Your people settled elsewhere as the Primordials willed and resumed your tithes of prayer. The flower bloomed there, too. There was another time, whether before or after you no longer know, when 'your' Primordial tried its hand at improving you too. It began with every man of eighteen or older, transforming them overnight and leaving them to awaken as immense beasts of burden that walked on two legs. They were grotesque chimera, something of the bear and the bull and the boar in them, and more besides. Their intellects were ruined by the change, their minds rent in two, good for no more than manual labour. They could not offer their souls in supplication and prayer, and so they were to be discarded. A week later they were rounded up and marched off to war with another village, another tribe, another experimental 'race' to see which was superior. You never saw them again. You were only a month from your eighteenth birthday.
Some of the details are gone. In those days you had no way of knowing how long you would live, how those frantic early days would soon vanish from sight as if borne by the current of a fast-flowing river. You did not record the names of your parents, your siblings - if you had any - or your own. When you took the name Halphas it was an oath, a solemn promise that you would not return until those you left behind had no more to fear. And now... well, you suppose it's possible they died during the war. In the chaos and tumult of the world's upheaval, there was no dearth of opportunities for the little people to slip through the cracks. The scent of the flower brings back only remembered sensation, the spark of quiet rebellion that you nursed in secret until it burst into brilliant flame - muted by the ages but no less real for it. It was... a Second-Circle deva, you think. One of Theion's if you had to guess but then you clashed with the souls of every Primordial at one time or another. You were rough then, crude, possessed of nothing but brute strength and will, but that is all the Dawn spark needed when it filled you with its power and uplifted you.
You 'turn the page' as it were, striding a few paces further and retrieving another slate. This one comes with the smell of sweat, the sting of it in your eyes, the coppery tang of blood being spilled. The clash of weapons ringing on weapons and a rough hand clasping yours tightly, pulling you up again and again and again. His face swims into view, the reproduction projected by the glass drawing the truth from the depths of your mind. You remember him now. Your first Dragonblooded. Sextus. His face blends together with his countless descendants in your mind, the version recorded in adamant one from long after the war, but the name remains crystal clear. In those days you were like a child with a stick. He would knock you down again and again, and at times you never wished to rise again - but he would always pick you up again, tell you what you did wrong, and make you try again until you understood. That was the lesson you carried with you the longest. Persistence and iteration - even you could not have come so far without them.
Another volume, another string of memories. An image floats before you in miniature, as real as the real thing down to the slightest reflection, and it is abhorrent to your senses. It takes you a few moments to look again, to think of why it must be here, why it was recorded. You look at it and you remember the handle of untreated bone stolen from the carcass of a great beast and roughly carved down to size, the way it pressed into your palms and scraped the skin bloody. You remember the weeks of petty theft, stealing metal a scrap at a time. You remember stoking a fire in secret and welding the blade together a piece at a time, praying that it would only hold its shape let alone do so with any strength. It was your first. The first weapon you ever forged.
You close the cover, and as you slide the slate back into its proper position you realise you don't feel any better. Quite the reverse, in fact. A strange melancholy grips your heart, bearing down on you like an unseen weight. The ancient have more cause than most to be nostalgic you suppose, but still you find yourself longing for those days more than you'd care to admit. You were young then, in body and mind and spirit, and everywhere you turned a new challenge would arise, a new upheaval would shake the foundations of Creation. Now stability is a prison, a noose that slowly tightens day by day. There are no wonders in this new world, only the same staid sights repeated from horizon to horizon, and the mortals pass through Lethe only to experience them again and again like children never allowed to grow up. There are no wonders in this new world unless you create them, and is it not your duty as one of the three hundred masters of Creation, as the Deliberative's Sword? The only question is what.
You turn, hands folded behind your back, and gaze into the golden sun as if it will contain the answer. You think of those humble days when all you had was your wit and your own two hands, and you created the sword that allowed you to ascend. From that sprang your hammer, the finest of its kind in Heaven or Creation. From that sprang remarkable creations beyond counting, so many you needed the Archives to keep count of them all, but now? Now...
Now you have an idea. Now you can see it all so perfectly, in such crystal clarity you can't imagine how you could have been so blind before. New energy courses through you as you set the platform to descend once more, pacing along the endless loop of the walkway in reverse as it turns and descends. You'll have to send the Dragonblooded out for materials of course, reassign the weapons testing squad from the Abyss to aid them. Iterative work takes care of much of the planning but this will be an undertaking to end all undertakings, and you must examine your old work closely if you're to determine the way forward. The lift passes the door you entered and keeps going, down and down and down again around and around like a spiral in the sea, into the shadowed depths of the shaft where it comes to a stop by a second door. A door completely hidden from sight without the sun to light your way. It slides open before you, as if eagerly awaiting this very moment, and you stride down the long hallway beyond with renewed purpose.
You arrive in your secret vault, your pride and joy buried under stone and soil and every magical material you could get your hands on. The wonders that ended the Primordial War but can be beheld by none but you, for only you are fit to wield their power. You spread your hands wide and settle your weight against the railing, looking out at row upon row of colossal golden spears stretching out before you - forward, left, right, scores more illuminated as each new set of overhead lights switches on. Each of them stands tall as your palace's highest towers, as broad as any of its walls, so colossal in their majesty that it beggars belief to even call them weapons to be wielded. But oh you have seen the might and majesty of the power that roils within them, the incredible waves of heat and light they unleash when roused. Here they have languished in the dark, sealed away such that if one were to fail only your palace would suffer rather than all the Blessed Isle. Your craftsmanship would never fail, of course, but it was a simple concession to make to set the others' minds at ease. But now they will serve as a stepping stone to something far greater. You reach out as if to touch the closest one, to press your hand to the orichalcum shell containing such immeasurable power, just to feel its warmth run cold as the shell breaks and you-
-fall free, gasping for air. You hit the ground hard and bounce, somehow getting the wind knocked out of you despite already suffocating. You're caked in filth, thick slime drooling and dripping off your shoulders in sheets, rolling down your arms to puddle beneath you. Your hair is plastered to your skull in tangled, matted knots, blinding you. You cough and splutter, spitting slime and hair and fragments of what feel like eggshell from your lips, struggling to find your footing only to feel your body betray you at every turn. It's all you can do to even remain on all fours, quivering and retching. It feels like dying, drowning and choking.
<'ey kid, keep calm alright? Breathe. Just breathe. You're finally out.>
"hhhow -kuhh- h-how long was i out?" you wheeze.
<'bout seven days, couple hours change.>
"s'that normal?"
<Nope. S'only meant to take five, then ya pop outta your chrysalis on whatever transportation y'got lined up and have two more days to acclimate. They had time t' unload us an' haul us all the way to the Conventicle.>
"the... what?" you shake your head. "nevermind, shut up a second, need to... yeah"
The demon politely remains silent as you finally catch some semblance of your breath. It's an ordeal to stand, to place one shaking foot under you and shift your weight, to get the other secure and force yourself to rise. You feel like a newborn foal taking its first steps - and, well, it's not inaccurate from what you can gather. You scrub the slime and hair from your eyes with your sleeve and squint at your surroundings, blinking blearily.
It's... a bathhouse? It looks like something you'd find off a lord's master bedroom, all richly stained timbers and tasteful wall-hangings in green and gold and black, sliding doors and absorbent floormats and soft, fluffy white towels hung up on brass railings. There's no less than three baths sized for a small handful of people, a side room that looks like a private sauna, and a silver-backed mirror over a black stone basin with two brass knobs and a tap- perfect. You stagger over, even manage to make it about three steps before you pitch forward and have to steady yourself against the basin. A little victory. You savour it while you can.
And then you can see, and that gives you a whole slew of extra things to think about. You barely even know where to start.
If you thought you were pale before, it was nothing compared to this. You're white as a sheet, white as a drained corpse before the rot has time to set in, all the better to see the fine web of pitch-black blood vessels and veins crisscrossing beneath the surface. Your hair is white as snow, shaggy and unkempt from two weeks without a trim, matted with slime and fragments of the chrysalis' black outer shell. Your eyes are like twin rings of luminous green jade floating in pools of ink, the pupils drawn out into vertical catlike slits. You tug your lip back with your thumb - even your teeth are sharper. And-
hah. And then there's your arm. In all the excitement, favouring your left arm as you quickly learned to, you almost forgot. But now you raise your right at last, and inspect the replacement you were promised.
It's made of brass - primarily, at least. Made without welding points or rivets, tool-marks or seams of any kind. Just a single smooth piece all but flowing from your shoulder, tendrils of brass sunk into the flesh all around to anchor the living metal. The range of movement is perfect, polished metal stretching and twisting like flesh, fuck it even feels natural! You stretch it out at arm's (hah) length, turning it this way and that. There seems to be some kind of glowing green jade core, shining through the metal in places akin to angular veins, but at your palm and fingers the brass cuts away almost like carapace to expose the 'flesh' beneath. You watch the light wax and wane, flickering rhythmically like a heartbeat, and slowly curl your emerald talons into a fist just to see if you still can. There's a dull pressure on your palm, but it's no worse than digging your nails in.
<Y'like it?> the demon asks. <Better'n new, as promised. Stopped by my old haunts for materials 'fore I left to find you just in case. Finest brass you'll find in all'a Hell. I call it the Hand of Malfeas for now, but I guess you can figure out your own name if y'want.>
"It's... it's incredible," you breathe, still marvelling at the sight and sensation of your hand - your precious sword-hand - moving just like it should.
The demon grunts. <Wouldn't go that far,> he grumbles, sounding almost irritable all of a sudden. <S'a hack job by my standards, way below par fer an Exalt, but I did the best I could with what I got. Good news is it don't have to stay that way. Y'see the cutout at your hand? Grab some more material - metal, jade, y'get what I mean - an' you can absorb it for me. Then I can get to work givin' you some real toys t' play with.>
"... wait, how can you still forge things for me without a body?" you ask.
<I dunno kid, how can I talk to ya without a mouth?>
You chuckle drily. "Can't argue with that logic."
<Good, hold onta that attitude. It'll get'cha far down here.>
Your hand moves on its own, as if by instinct. You turn the brass knobs a little, sending a cascade of hot water pouring down into the black basin, and splash your face until the worst of the drying, thickening green slurry is washed away and you feel a few hairs more human again. You settle your weight against the basin and finally have the presence of mind to look down.
You're wearing some kind of... you don't know how to describe it really. It's like a single massive piece of tanned, black-dyed leather stretched over you from the jawline down without any visible stitches or seams, perfectly tailored such that you couldn't even notice its presence by touch alone. Slight reflections of light play across the contours as you twist and turn this way and that to inspect it - it goes all the way down, feet enclosed akin to light shoes, and the left sleeve flows into an attached glove. Only your right arm is left exposed, the suit cut back all the way to the shoulder. A splash of colour in the darkness.
"(The hell is this now?)" you mutter, picking at your collar with an emerald claw experimentally.
<Don't go pickin' at it,> the demon grumbles, and you lower your hand. <D'you have any idea how much necrotic essence was flowin' through you? Ghostblood nothin', you had enough in there fer two people when the change started.>
"The... powers of the dead..." you murmur, brow furrowing as you remember Shuzen's words. It isn't a question, but the demon answers it all the same.
<Yeah, an' it don't play nice with folk who're still alive. The power surge from the Exaltation made it go haywire, like it was replicatin' outta control or somethin'. S'why you took seven days t' cook 'stead of just five. I had to use it up with whatever I had, so I mixed it with some shadows an' a touch o' moonsilver - all I had, been savin' it for years for somethin' good - an' hammered it all into that suit.> The demon sounds exhausted, as if just talking about it brings back memories of the frenzied attempt to save his charge. <S'armour, after a fashion, an' you can get in an' outta it or modify it by thinkin' it, since it's made'a your own essence. Give it a try.>
You don't know how any of what the demon just said is supposed to make sense, but a whole lot of what made sense to you is getting overturned, so you don't question it any further. You try your hand first, squinting at the glove and willing it to vanish. The suit splits open, unravelling into squirming tendrils of tar, and wriggles back to your wrist before twisting together and sealing over again like nothing ever happened. It's mildly disturbing, but you only have time to blink twice in shock before it's over. You turn your hand this way and that - the nails are black as night now, longer and tougher and coming to sharp points, but as claws go they're tiny, downright dainty compared to your other hand. Speaking of which, you turn your attention there and will the suit to even things up. Glistening shadow courses down your arm like a swarm of ravenous black-bodied snakes, engulfing the brass prosthetic right down to the fingertips The sickly emerald light still shines through, and the shape of the talons is obvious, but it could be mistaken for your natural arm now.
"Unbelievable, it's-"
<Shitty, I know, like I said it's a real last-minute hackjob. Once we get goin' an' get some better materials maybe I can make it halfway presentable but we ain't got time t' talk about that right now,> the demon cuts you off, incensed and in a hurry. <People been waitin' on us too long already, we gotta get your ass in gear. Get'chaself cleaned up pronto.>
You grimace, but you give the demon the benefit of the doubt. You will the suit the vanish but it can only manage the next-best thing, unravelling all over your body and sucking itself back into a central point, compressing down until it's nothing but a palm-sized black stain on the skin over your heart. You head for one of the baths at first, but the demon directs you around the corner of the room to a volcanic-glass cubicle you couldn't see before. Inside there are more brass fixtures and tiles, and with just a few turns the brass nozzle overhead is streaming down hot water. You almost jump at first - do even nobles have this easy access to hot water? - but get straight to scrubbing. There's more than a few muttered curses as your talons prove too sharp to go washing your naked body willy-nilly, so you use them to comb all the crap out of your hair instead. By the time the demon starts hurrying you out again you feel as refreshed as a trip to a bathhouse, but then again perhaps his standards of cleanliness are higher than your usual 'upend bucket of water over head' routine. You scub yourself dry with fresh, soft towels, and as you do so you notice that Exaltation handily took care of what two weeks' starvation and low activity should've done to your muscles. On the contrary you feel like you have more bulk and tone than when you went in, the sculpted slabs shifting beneath your skin now as tough as iron or stone. Once you're done you give the black stain a smack with the heel of your hand and it seems to understand, bursting to life like a nightmare of grasping feelers in the dark, and a few seconds later it's back to how it was when you woke up, covering you neck-to-toe but leaving your right arm free. It's also kinda disconcerting but you've got a lot on your mind right now. Overall you feel... pretty good, actually. Refreshed, ready to find out what comes next. The only thing you miss is the weight of your sword on your back, but there's no helping that now.
You leave the bathroom suite, glancing at the broken green-black chrysalis still oozing slime from its fleshy interior as you pass - <s'fine, someone'll come clean that up> - and step into the main hall. It's grand as hell, all mirror-polished obsidian tiles and rich green carpet, the black basalt walls and brass supporting pillars at a slight curve, covered brass lamps that burn with green flame set at regular intervals to bathe the place in light. There's a stairway to the right, split three ways at the first landing, one path heading straight while two more curve elegantly up and around to join the second floor balconies either side of the hall. You crane your neck to see them and your eyes wander to the ceiling, vast and arched and adorned with a mural so finely-painted even you can't help but appreciate it. It's something... abstract you think -abstract's what they call art you're not supposed to get right?- a swirl of green and gold that you have to stare at and stare at until shapes start to resolve themselves from the tangle of colour. A figure wielding a golden hammer looms large over a fleeing flood of tiny, twisted figures. But the whole piece turns like a wheel, those same green figures rising up again, growing larger and stronger, until it's their turn to set upon the gold with a sword of green flame.
"Do you like it?"
You drop your gaze. There's a woman standing in the hall with you, but even you can tell she's not just 'a woman'. The complete soundlessness of her entrance aside, there's this aura around her that draws the eye immediately. Tiny distortions and imperfections in the air, like a bleary-eyed haze localised in space, the world hitching and stumbling and catching itself again and again. Her long auburn hair is tied up in a long braid that curls behind her head from temple to temple, what might have reached her waist now only falling to her shoulders, her eyes such a brilliantly bright green that they put even yours to shame, and framed in delicately-shaped green shadows to emphasise that fact. Her skin is pale and smooth as alabaster, her full lips such a dark green as to seem black every other time you look with a strange, almost metallic sheen. She's dressed like an adventurous Threshold noblewoman, trousers and boots and a jacket done up with brass buttons over a dress-shirt, all in shades of black and charcoal trimmed in bronze with an emerald half-cape draped over her right shoulder. Her gloves are fine things, like elegant skintight gauntlets of chitin that catch the light with an iridescent sheen. She's taller than you, and not just because of the heels on her boots.
<Bow,> the demon says, curt and urgent.
"Yeah, it's great," you reply instead, stepping onto the carpet and coming closer. "Mean I'm no artist or anything but..." you let out a low whistle, hands on your hips "puts anything else I've seen to shame. Your house looks great, sorry I uh, left a mess back there."
<What'd I just say->
"It's yours," she says.
You double-take. "What?"
"It's yours," she repeats, lips quirking up into a slight smile. "The Conventicle Malfeasant provides lodgings for all currently active Green Sun Princes appropriate to their status. As the difficulties with your awakening seem to have been resolved, servants and other staff have been sent for."
You blink, and hold out a hand. "Wait- wait I don't want servants."
<Kid when someone gives you a mansion and servants you say thank you>
The woman pauses, half-turned away. She glances back at you down the line of her shoulder, her expression curious and a touch bemused. "Demons," she clarifies. "Not enslaved humans. Those are a rare thing in Hell, and those that take them hoard them jealously. And if that still does not comfort you, know that the demons chosen for your retinue will be overjoyed to hold such prestigious positions."
"I... guess that helps, yeah," you say haltingly. "I'm just used to doing stuff myself, is all."
She chuckles softly. "You are Exalted now, Slayer. Your concerns are greater than dusting the mantlepiece and seeing to laundry now." She turns away and beckons. "Walk with me. We have much to see and more to discuss."
<That's Lilunu,> the demon hisses in your ear as you jog to catch up with her. <Be respectful!>
"(But I am being respectful?)" you whisper back. "(I'm not gonna fall flat on my face when she just asked me a question.)"
<That ain't no ordinary noblewoman to go playin' games with, kid. She's the axle in the wheel, the intermediary between all the Yozi, she's the one that put the spark in me. Not to put too fine a point on it but she made you.>
"(Look all I'm saying is maybe you're kinda overreacting-)"
Great ebony double doors twice your height and breadth slowly creak open as if by Lilunu's gaze alone. She strides down the short flight of stairs beyond as light spills over her and you follow, slowly, gaze lifted to take in the sight beyond.
It's like a world in miniature, sealed beneath an emerald-green sky. There's even a sun shining overhead - not white-gold like the light of Creation, but a pale enough shade of green that you could almost miss the subtle tint. In fact the closer you look the more certain you become that the sky is a dome, one incomprehensibly massive piece of emerald sculpted to shape and placed down over the Conventicle like a lid over a pot. Your mansion sits atop a hill, a path paved in black stone winding down the slope towards the inner city, but as you look left and right you notice other mansions all around atop their own hills, separated by valleys and forests of brass and silver, like but unlike yours in a thousand different ways. If you crane your neck you can see more mansions over the walls of solid black stone either side of you - at your best guess the Conventicle's laid out like a wheel, with multiple districts sliced up and partitioned off by the 'spoke' walls and a circular central district shared by everybody. Said central point is dominated by a massive castle that seems to stretch out toward the sky like a straining arm, turrets and towers like fingertips just shy of touching the emerald dome sealing it in. It's a chaotic thing, patchwork somehow, ten different styles from ten different architects all struggling for prominence while an eleventh tries to smooth out the fucking mess he has to work with. In places it doesn't seem like it should be able to support its own weight, it should be sagging and crumbling and falling to pieces, and yet it stands firm all the same. The cramped press of buildings clustered around its base seems almost an afterthought.
"Representatives of four of the Yozi have chosen to sponsor your Exaltation," Lilunu explains, still striding down the path at exactly the pace she set. You jog to catch up with her again. "The Ebon Dragon, Shadow Of All Things. Isidoros, the Black Boar That Twists The Skies. Elloge, the Sphere of Speech. And the Demon City himself, Malfeas. Should their interests conflict you are to treat Malfeas' authority absolute, as you are of the Slayer Caste he has greater claim than the others. Accordingly your Malfean patron has scheduled a private audience with you before your full briefing. The private districts are divided by caste, and you are not permitted to trespass in other districts or a fellow Infernal's domain without explicit invitation. The Green Sun Princes are often dispatched to Creation or elsewhere, but should you wish to socialise there are many common facilities in the palace district for you to share. Do you have any questions?"
A whole shitload, but you get the feeling Lilunu doesn't really want to wait and answer all of 'em when you've got appointments to keep. There's a brief lull of quiet as the two of you come to a great black gatehouse, massive doors of solid brass slowly creaking open open of their own accord, that lets you think.
[ ] Ask about one of your 'patrons', the Yozi. Who the hell is
—[ ] The Ebon Dragon? Is he some kind of lost sixth Elemental Dragon?
—[ ] Isidoros? How do you 'twist the skies' exactly, can he control air like the Tamura?
—[ ] Elloge? What's the 'sphere of speech' and the hell's that got to do with a guy like you?
—[ ] Malfeas? What does she mean by 'the demon city'?
[ ] Ask about her. She's the first face you've seen since you got here and she's a human(ish?) one at that. What's her story? Why's the demon so touchy about her?
[ ] Ask about the weird dream you had. You had a different name, a different past, and you lived so long ago you don't know how to put it into years. Where'd that come from?
[ ] Ask when you can get back to White Tower and start busting some heads. It's been two weeks already, and you don't want to leave it long enough the Tamura go and forget about you.