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.
A neat little part of this passage, or at least how I read it, is that Halphas genuinely doesn't care. Like, he doesn't even seem to have considered what happened to the people he left behind until this moment - or at least for a very long time, to the point he's forgotten whatever thought he put towards it.
Also, the etymology of Halphas:
Malthus (also Halphas, Malthas, or Malthous) is an Earl of Hell, commanding 26 legions of demons, who is said to have a rough voice when speaking. He is often depicted in the shape of a
stork. Malthus builds towers and fills them with ammunition and weapons, an armorer of sorts. He is a prince of Hell. He is also said to send his legions into battle, or to places designated by higher commanding demons.
Rather appropriate.
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.>
Voices in our head and a severed arm replaced with something that would generally be regarded as horrifying. I feel nostalgic all of a sudden. Though Jiro is taking this all very well.
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.
Oh, my. That's very nice.
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.
<That's Lilunu,> the demon hisses in your ear as you jog to catch up with her. <Be respectful!>
I like this Lilunu. She's got style.
"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."
"Ma'am, I feel like you are maybe overstating the amount of property I had to take care of."
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.
Isn't that a neat little summary of the Reclamation in general. I wonder who the eleventh - the one who had to smooth it out is, metaphorically speaking.
Lessee - Malfeas, SWHILN, Adorjan, Cecelyne, Ebon Dragon. Those five are the base. Then Isidoros and Szoreny are a given - IIRC, they're lovers, so if Isidoros is involved, Sozreny probably is as well. That's seven. Then there's Elloge, possibly Oramus.... Oh, yeah, Kimbery. That's ten in total. If I had to guess, Lilunu would be the eleventh, the one who has to try and unify them, as well as the one at least notionally in charge of the castle as the origin of the GSPs.
"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?"
Malfeas makes sense - Jiro is upfront and spiteful. So does Isidoros - his exact thematics will vary, but he's usually presented as being very direct and singleminded (well, all the Yozis are in a way). Ebon Dragon is probably more than the
evuuuuul of 2E - canonically he loves the dead, the dying and the doomed, as well as chafing at the cinventions and expectations of him. Most GSP probably qualified/qualify as doomed, and as not fitting, but Jiro as someone intimately related to death probably qualifies more than most.
Elloge - well, that'll be homebrew. If you lean in on the fiction angle, Jiro is a morality tale in both ways - "don't rebel against your betters" because they'll fucking cripple you after fucking you over and "don't abuse your power over others" because now the person you've fucked over has a bunch of rad shit and a grudge. Jiro is going to end up both a vengeance and a ghost story.
The thing with the caste divided districts is interesting, and makes me wonder about the reasons behind it. Like, in canon there are only 50GSPs total, which would make five districts with ten people in each one.
[ ] 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.
Logically, given that we're going to be talking to our Malfean patron (possibly Ligier, but no guarantee) we
should ask about Malfeas. That's what I might call the "professional mercernary" angle - whose our boss, what he's gonna be like, is he gonna stiff us on the pay?
The White Tower option is the "fuck youuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu scalefuckers" option.
But Lilunu is too cool not to find out more about, and I kinda like the idea that Jiro is awkwardly trying to make conversation. Especially because she's probably one of the few people he's met who isn't immediately put off by the whole, uh, "from your mother's womb untimely ripped" thing, or whatever Jiro's actual deal is.
[X] 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?