[Exalted] For The Sake of the Ash - A Demon-blooded Quest
- Thread starter Gargulec
- Start date
- Fantasy
mothematics
How wide is the concept of "you"?
- Location
- the bottom of a coffee cup
- Pronouns
- She/Her
[X] Hopelessness
Empty is the husk of I,
Scorched hollow, bereft of soul;
In rushes peace, that black void
Leaving a bottomless hole.
Yes, mother, we shall become the hole in all things.
Empty is the husk of I,
Scorched hollow, bereft of soul;
In rushes peace, that black void
Leaving a bottomless hole.
Yes, mother, we shall become the hole in all things.
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notthepenguins
Neither Spherical Nor Frictionless
- Pronouns
- He/She/They
[X] Hopelessness
Something bleaker than raw despair or rage feels appropriate to me, here.
Something bleaker than raw despair or rage feels appropriate to me, here.
- Location
- Chicago
[X] Hopelessness
Feels the most appropriate given the power disparity.
Feels the most appropriate given the power disparity.
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[X] Hopelessness
AmusedOracle
Sleepyhearted Hierophant.
- Location
- The Empty Path.
[X] Hopelessness
We are empty. Just a blank hole where a person should be.
But you cannot fight a hole.
We are empty. Just a blank hole where a person should be.
But you cannot fight a hole.
[X] Hopelessness
III. That You Must Die
Gargulec
impact!
- Location
- a garden
III. That You Must DIe
A dead forest rots on the slopes of the Iron-Leaved Oak. Fossilized husks of trees, drained of all life and colour slowly crumble in the harsh, mountain winds. Their branches are long gone; what remains are jagged trunks; had you not seen them before the manse consumed their essence, you would have mistaken them for some ancient bones piercing the dry, fine soil.
Your feet collapse into sand-like dust covering the path down. The moon shines mad-bright above, and its silver light, everything around you seems to shimmer. During the days, you would sink into dull greys, the colour of washed-out fabric - the light of the full moon draws out a mica-like shine out of it. There is brightness about you in all this devastation, and a stark kind of beauty.
It is difficult to find your step. The shine is almost blinding, and the soil quick enough to barely fix in place rocks that once paved the way up to the manse. With the weight of the daiklave on your back, you stumble. More than once, you come perilously close to falling down, spraining an ankle and remaining here, forever, waiting for the dust to cover and hide you. The thought is without taste; it neither scares nor entices you.
There are footprints that you follow; the Zenith's, no doubt. No one else dared to ascend the old temple mountain in months. The path she took was an obvious one, leading past the abandoned villages and shrines directly up to the Iron-Leaved Oak. You find no sign of her ever stopping mid-way through the ascent, no place where she swept away the dust to sit down and catch her breath. Unlike her, you have to.
It is as you sit down and briefly unsling the daiklave to let your back rest that it occurs to you how silent the night is. Here, in the dead forest, there is nothing left to disturb the quiet, and even the wind is still tonight. You can hear your own breath, the beating of your heart, the hum of blood in your veins. All is quiet, and you are unafraid.
You consider that idly, watching the star-strewn sky. In many years you have spent in Creation, you have never quite left behind the habits and prejudices of your youth. As any child of Hell should be, you were always uneasy in silence, and always sought a way to break it. Even as you no longer had to fear the Silent Wind of Malfeas, you kept the habit; alone, you would hum to yourself, or hang chimes off your wrists so that they would jingle with your every move. When you couldn't sleep, Roots-Among-Ash would send you a harpist-demon to banish the quiet away and let you rest.
But now all is quiet, and you feel nothing at all. It is a strange experience, almost as if there was a thin, but strong film between you and the world. You can reach through it, feel it stretch under your touch, but it remains an impenetrable barrier. Everything that passes through it appears to you muted and distant, every so slightly distorted. Even what is inside of you feels foreign. The nooks and crannies of your self that have always harboued anxiety and concern lie empty and you step so lightly that it surprises you that your body even sinks into the dust around. It is so completely weightless that it should rather blow away with the wind, like ash.
When you walk again, the waste around you starts to give way to forest more mundanely dead. Here, the manse hasn't drained it of everything, so it is just barren soil and leafless trees. There are sounds, too, of the few animals that survive. Footprints vanish along with dust, and light recedes. You are in darkness, and soon lose track of the Zenith. This, too, neither concerns you nor makes you happy. Propelled by inertia more than anything else, you stumble forth into the dark.
Long after midnight, you finally reach the valley below, past the influence of the manse. Under thick canopies of old trees, you walk in complete darkness, carefully feeling out ever step so to avoid a knotted root or a quick-running brook. You are not quite sure where you are headed to, other than forwards; you count on finding some point of orientation eventually and are eventually rewarded.
The music, at first, is so faint you barely pick it out from the idle rustle of the woods. But you recognize it nonetheless; drums, bagpipes, flutes. Loud singing. The melodies are alien to you, but the pitch is hard to mistake for anything short of a celebration. You turn towards it and brave the darkness until the trees thin out and you emerge onto fields surrounding one of the valley's villages.
It doesn't sleep. It feasts.
As you move towards its light and music, you wonder why; you do not recall there being any holy day to observe, and besides, the valley peasants were never quick to jubilation. But as you pass the line of buildings, and move towards the central square, where the celebration is taking place, you notice clues.
Talismans against sorcery gone from the doors of the slanted-roofed houses; offerings given to the East, where the sun is to raise; effigies of a witch hastily corded together and stacked not far away from great bonfires around which the villagers gather. Chants too, frantically joyous.
"We are free, we are free, she is dead, she is dead."
They don't notice you, too taken in the celebration of Roots-Among-Ash's killing. You find yourself a spot away from the fires, in the shadow of an overhanging roof, and sit down, Quiet propped against the wall behind you. You keep your eyes half-closed, so that their orange shine won't give you away.
The men of the village dance in a ring around the fire, arms entwined. They were white linens, as if to a shrine. The fabric is soaked with sweat and holds tight to their narrow frames; not a single one of them seems well-nourished. You remember their faces as dark, black-ringed, gaunt, but as they circle the bonfires, they gleam and smile with unexpected joy of a miracle.
The women wear flowers in their hair, let immodestly loose. They are sharp-faced, vicious; they throw in effigies into the crackling fires and hurl insults at them. Triumphantly, they chant names and toast to memories of those who fell to Roots-Among-Ash. They curse her soul, wishing for it to suffer a hundred times what they did. Pointlessly, as you are well aware; her soul was mercifully washed in the waters of Lethe and no trace will remain of it.
There are children too, happy to eat and sing. There, a small boy licks honey from his fingers, eyes alight with glee. There, a young girl dances her first dance. They all seem careless, exultant. You suppose it makes sense. After all, the weight they were looking up to live under has been lifted.
Between them all, you notice but a few that do not participate in the celebration; strangers, you assume, watching them shuffle awkwardly, trying not to get pulled into a revel that they do not understand, and do not trust. But even their reluctance has its limits; a man can refuse a festive drink only so many times, and when booze warms their blood, they too kick down and dance, their strange, foreign dances.
And so they all dance, and they sing, and they make merry. You watch them and think of all the things that you should be feeling. There should be rage, for certain, grief and despair. All that you have felt not so long ago, strong enough to curse the Zenith and bind yourself to the act of revenge. But in truth, as another effigy of her is tossed into flames, spat and pissed upon, all you feel is confusion. Who are you? What are you? What is this thing you are, this skin and those bones, and the flesh binding it all together? Is it Hearth-Wise Omen? She had just lost someone who meant everything to her. She would not be acting like that. She was the daughter of Sondok, the blood of Ligier himself. She would overflow with rage and vitriol of the Demon City, and come down upon the blaspheming villagers in blind fury. But you don't feel like there is any point in harming them, in lashing out, and so it follows that you cannot be her, but rather some kind of a ghost, or perhaps...
"Look!"
A voice saves you from a quagmire of your own mind and dredges you back up. Confused, you open your eyes and see a young man, golden-haired and narrow-waisted; his forehead is damp with sweat. He stands ten paces from you, finger pointed. As you open your mouth to speak, a few sparks fly out, and his eyes go wide.
"Demon!" he shrieks.
Soon, they surround you, firebrands in hands and fury in their eyes. You don't move from your hiding spot. However wrathful they are, they are also not yet provoked, so you give them no excuse. You still your body and stare back at them through half-closed eyes. They don't expect that; fear, or aggression, that they would understand, but not impassivity. Long minutes pass as they wave their torches, exchange glances and wait. So do you.
It is one of the women that breaks the tension; middle-aged and hard-faced. She comes closer, looking down on your crouched frame; she is flushed all over with the exertion of celebration.
"What are you?" she demands to know.
Very slowly, you straighten up to your full height, and she has to raise her head to keep staring you in the eye. You see her gulp, quickly throw a glance over her shoulder to see if others are there.
"What am I?" you repeat after her, and there is a flatness to your voice that makes you think of dead things, of ghosts and apparitions dredged from the bowels of the Underworld. "What am I?"
How must you appear to them, you wonder? Caked in dust, clinging to a blade they know so very well; they must know who you are, or at least suspect. That you are unlike them is unmistakable: they can tell it from the glow and furnace-sparks you exhale. Yes, you are a demon to them, as you are to Creation entire. However diluted the ichor in your veins may be, it still brand you a stranger, a night-gaunt, an omen. They recognize you for what you are. But what is that?
"I am…," you say, hoping that the words would come out, out of habit if anything. But they stick to this veil between you and them and instead your voice trails off. They exchange worried glances and wait. For a time, only the crackle of the bonfires and songs of those who are yet to join the commotion can be heard.
The expression of the woman in front of you changes. You try to recognize its meaning, but it, as so many things around, does not make sense. She is smiling? You stand head taller above her - you thought you would tower. But she shakes her head at you, not with disapproval and not with fear. There is softness to the gesture, or maybe something else that you just can't name. Suddenly, you feel out of place, lost. What are you even doing here?
"Are you all right?" she asks watching you twitch around nervously, and the words cut deep.
Why would she ask you that? You are a shade, a reminder of someone they cursed night and day. You would understand if they were to shout you off, or chase you. That would make sense to you, but not softness, not kindness. You try to read her expression, and see only emotions you can't understand. So you turn to other faces and try to read them, but nothing you see makes any sort of sense. Kindness? Anger? Fear? Nothing is legible. There is a dryness in your throat, a sharp tug in your stomach. Who are those people? What are they?
"Poor thing," she says and her voice sounds distant, as if coming from behind a curtain, "completely mad. The witch stole her mind, no doubt. Come, let's feed her."
"Bad omens about if we do," someone else says. Is it a man's voice? Is it woman's? You look at the speker and see only a rugged mask of years of hardship, but what hides behind it? You can't see past it. You can't understand.
"Do you not see what it is?"
They are talking about you? You jerk your head and as you do the shapes of the village begin to swim and twist. The fires spread and soak the night with warm oranges and shadows they cast lengthen and coil and you can't tell them from the outline of things, and there is a darkness upon the land, so you throw your eyes up to find the outline of the Dragon eclipse the green sun, but only a pale silver orb hangs around. What is it? A sense of vertigo smashes its way into you Is this what you are standing on ground? Is the surface behind you wood? Is the great blackness above the sky? There are sounds around, voice and language, but none legible. It is the chitering of a great swarm of flies. It is gibberish. Noise. Fires crawl along the edge of shadow, licking the black soil and reaching towards you. What are those piles of wood and stone they illuminate? All of it should be familiar, and yet nothing is recognizable. Your body opens its mouth and a sound without structure leaves it. The eyelids close over eyeballs that are set inside the skull that you are inside, if there still a you left at all. All is black.
You fall into that blackness, without end, and maybe, just maybe, you could fall like that forever. Dissolve in it. But something tethers you; you can't name it, but you feel its pull, tugging you back. It is the only thing left to feel, so you focus on it. It feels cold, but solid and certain. You find it comforting.
Why am I being pulled back?
Because you have made a promise that you will seek vengeance for your mistress. The promise was an act of idiocy: against a Chosen of the Traitor Sun you can not hope to stand. It is impossible. But it is necessary. You must find your mistress' slayer and fall to her. You know this. It is certain.
Why must I?
Because you had a mistress, and when doom came upon her, you failed to die first. Because you are a child of Hell and this means you understand that there exists a hierarchy that is inviolate, and that you understand that in this hierarchy, you are ever a servant, a tool. You were born out of someone greater and defied her designs. You blasphemed. Then, you were taken into someone else's service, and once again failed. But the hierarchy is inviolate. You cannot escape, so you must seek death.
So why not just allow yourself to be gone? Why not sink? Why are you being held?
Because servants die for their masters, and such is the rule of the made world. And so you must die for Roots-Among-Ash, and receive death from the same hand that slew her. Such is necessity. Servants die for their masters. Such is the rule of Hell. You were born out of Malfeas, and you belong to it. You will do as it demands.
It doesn't matter how long it will take, but it is the only thing that matters. You must correct the wrong of your survival. This is why you can't fall. This is why you must stand up. This is you, and you know yourself. The thought is cold, but as you hold onto it, you feel ground beneath your feet again. You open your eyes; your eyes. The film between you and the world peels like scab from a closed wound. There are bonfires around you, and they cast light over low huts the villagers dwell in. The Scoundrel Moon shines above with her faithless light.
You are seated by a fire and surrounded by women; someone is mixing medicine in a bowl. They talk about madness, and possession. How long have you spent putting your sense of self back? No matter. You are here again.
"This will not be necessary," you say and wave the medicine-woman away. Your voice is no longer flat. It rings harsh and loud, like iron being stricken. They startle.
"Are you all right?" one of them asks - the same that wanted to feed you.
"The noise confused me," you lie. "I am fine now. I thank you for your care, but I will not need it."
"You spit fire," someone observes, a tightness in her voice. Not everyone here trusts you. "And your teeth are iron. Are you a demon?"
You look at her. She is young - your age, you wager. There is a mug in her hand, an ungainly clay thing; and the hand too is roughly-hewn and prematurely twisted by labour. She knows hard toil.
"Are you here because the witch is dead?" she asks.
Another villager pushes a cup into your hand, and you drink eagerly. You didn't realize just how thirsty you were.
"Yes," you say, then as fear flashes on her face, you shake your head quickly. "But I mean you no harm. I only seek the one who slew her."
"Ah," she replies, worriedly glancing at others.
"She is gone," the one who first asked you if you are all right states, voice quite firm and forceful. She stares you straight in the eye. "She has left the village. You will not find her here."
You avert your eyes and sip from the cup. Even if they are afraid to ask directly, they must know what it is that you are after.
"Where has she gone to?"
"Elsewhere," the woman. "We do not know."
Perhaps she is lying; in truth, you can't tell. You turn the cup in your hand, idly.
"You must know the direction, at least. Please, it is important," you say and meet her gaze.
"No, witch-daughter," she whispers, again softly. So she, at least, knows what you are. "We will not help you with this. Stay. Drink. Rest. Or leave. But we will not point towards what you are after."
You exhale. They will not help you. Not willingly. But that does not mean you can't find the way.
[ ] Force it out of them. You have inherited Sondok's Midnight Warden Voice. Your speech is iron and fire, and promises devastation to those who disobey it. This inheritance makes you better at intimidation and command, but also imbues your speech with callousness and harshness of Sondok.
[ ] Find the trail yourself. You have inherited Biryu's (who is also Sondok) Guardian-Beast's Pursuit. Biryu (who is also Sondok) hunts down trespassers over his mistress dominion. This inheritance makes you more perceptive and capable of great feats of investigation, but also gives you an air of savagery that men find disquieting.
A dead forest rots on the slopes of the Iron-Leaved Oak. Fossilized husks of trees, drained of all life and colour slowly crumble in the harsh, mountain winds. Their branches are long gone; what remains are jagged trunks; had you not seen them before the manse consumed their essence, you would have mistaken them for some ancient bones piercing the dry, fine soil.
Your feet collapse into sand-like dust covering the path down. The moon shines mad-bright above, and its silver light, everything around you seems to shimmer. During the days, you would sink into dull greys, the colour of washed-out fabric - the light of the full moon draws out a mica-like shine out of it. There is brightness about you in all this devastation, and a stark kind of beauty.
It is difficult to find your step. The shine is almost blinding, and the soil quick enough to barely fix in place rocks that once paved the way up to the manse. With the weight of the daiklave on your back, you stumble. More than once, you come perilously close to falling down, spraining an ankle and remaining here, forever, waiting for the dust to cover and hide you. The thought is without taste; it neither scares nor entices you.
There are footprints that you follow; the Zenith's, no doubt. No one else dared to ascend the old temple mountain in months. The path she took was an obvious one, leading past the abandoned villages and shrines directly up to the Iron-Leaved Oak. You find no sign of her ever stopping mid-way through the ascent, no place where she swept away the dust to sit down and catch her breath. Unlike her, you have to.
It is as you sit down and briefly unsling the daiklave to let your back rest that it occurs to you how silent the night is. Here, in the dead forest, there is nothing left to disturb the quiet, and even the wind is still tonight. You can hear your own breath, the beating of your heart, the hum of blood in your veins. All is quiet, and you are unafraid.
You consider that idly, watching the star-strewn sky. In many years you have spent in Creation, you have never quite left behind the habits and prejudices of your youth. As any child of Hell should be, you were always uneasy in silence, and always sought a way to break it. Even as you no longer had to fear the Silent Wind of Malfeas, you kept the habit; alone, you would hum to yourself, or hang chimes off your wrists so that they would jingle with your every move. When you couldn't sleep, Roots-Among-Ash would send you a harpist-demon to banish the quiet away and let you rest.
But now all is quiet, and you feel nothing at all. It is a strange experience, almost as if there was a thin, but strong film between you and the world. You can reach through it, feel it stretch under your touch, but it remains an impenetrable barrier. Everything that passes through it appears to you muted and distant, every so slightly distorted. Even what is inside of you feels foreign. The nooks and crannies of your self that have always harboued anxiety and concern lie empty and you step so lightly that it surprises you that your body even sinks into the dust around. It is so completely weightless that it should rather blow away with the wind, like ash.
When you walk again, the waste around you starts to give way to forest more mundanely dead. Here, the manse hasn't drained it of everything, so it is just barren soil and leafless trees. There are sounds, too, of the few animals that survive. Footprints vanish along with dust, and light recedes. You are in darkness, and soon lose track of the Zenith. This, too, neither concerns you nor makes you happy. Propelled by inertia more than anything else, you stumble forth into the dark.
Long after midnight, you finally reach the valley below, past the influence of the manse. Under thick canopies of old trees, you walk in complete darkness, carefully feeling out ever step so to avoid a knotted root or a quick-running brook. You are not quite sure where you are headed to, other than forwards; you count on finding some point of orientation eventually and are eventually rewarded.
The music, at first, is so faint you barely pick it out from the idle rustle of the woods. But you recognize it nonetheless; drums, bagpipes, flutes. Loud singing. The melodies are alien to you, but the pitch is hard to mistake for anything short of a celebration. You turn towards it and brave the darkness until the trees thin out and you emerge onto fields surrounding one of the valley's villages.
It doesn't sleep. It feasts.
As you move towards its light and music, you wonder why; you do not recall there being any holy day to observe, and besides, the valley peasants were never quick to jubilation. But as you pass the line of buildings, and move towards the central square, where the celebration is taking place, you notice clues.
Talismans against sorcery gone from the doors of the slanted-roofed houses; offerings given to the East, where the sun is to raise; effigies of a witch hastily corded together and stacked not far away from great bonfires around which the villagers gather. Chants too, frantically joyous.
"We are free, we are free, she is dead, she is dead."
They don't notice you, too taken in the celebration of Roots-Among-Ash's killing. You find yourself a spot away from the fires, in the shadow of an overhanging roof, and sit down, Quiet propped against the wall behind you. You keep your eyes half-closed, so that their orange shine won't give you away.
The men of the village dance in a ring around the fire, arms entwined. They were white linens, as if to a shrine. The fabric is soaked with sweat and holds tight to their narrow frames; not a single one of them seems well-nourished. You remember their faces as dark, black-ringed, gaunt, but as they circle the bonfires, they gleam and smile with unexpected joy of a miracle.
The women wear flowers in their hair, let immodestly loose. They are sharp-faced, vicious; they throw in effigies into the crackling fires and hurl insults at them. Triumphantly, they chant names and toast to memories of those who fell to Roots-Among-Ash. They curse her soul, wishing for it to suffer a hundred times what they did. Pointlessly, as you are well aware; her soul was mercifully washed in the waters of Lethe and no trace will remain of it.
There are children too, happy to eat and sing. There, a small boy licks honey from his fingers, eyes alight with glee. There, a young girl dances her first dance. They all seem careless, exultant. You suppose it makes sense. After all, the weight they were looking up to live under has been lifted.
Between them all, you notice but a few that do not participate in the celebration; strangers, you assume, watching them shuffle awkwardly, trying not to get pulled into a revel that they do not understand, and do not trust. But even their reluctance has its limits; a man can refuse a festive drink only so many times, and when booze warms their blood, they too kick down and dance, their strange, foreign dances.
And so they all dance, and they sing, and they make merry. You watch them and think of all the things that you should be feeling. There should be rage, for certain, grief and despair. All that you have felt not so long ago, strong enough to curse the Zenith and bind yourself to the act of revenge. But in truth, as another effigy of her is tossed into flames, spat and pissed upon, all you feel is confusion. Who are you? What are you? What is this thing you are, this skin and those bones, and the flesh binding it all together? Is it Hearth-Wise Omen? She had just lost someone who meant everything to her. She would not be acting like that. She was the daughter of Sondok, the blood of Ligier himself. She would overflow with rage and vitriol of the Demon City, and come down upon the blaspheming villagers in blind fury. But you don't feel like there is any point in harming them, in lashing out, and so it follows that you cannot be her, but rather some kind of a ghost, or perhaps...
"Look!"
A voice saves you from a quagmire of your own mind and dredges you back up. Confused, you open your eyes and see a young man, golden-haired and narrow-waisted; his forehead is damp with sweat. He stands ten paces from you, finger pointed. As you open your mouth to speak, a few sparks fly out, and his eyes go wide.
"Demon!" he shrieks.
Soon, they surround you, firebrands in hands and fury in their eyes. You don't move from your hiding spot. However wrathful they are, they are also not yet provoked, so you give them no excuse. You still your body and stare back at them through half-closed eyes. They don't expect that; fear, or aggression, that they would understand, but not impassivity. Long minutes pass as they wave their torches, exchange glances and wait. So do you.
It is one of the women that breaks the tension; middle-aged and hard-faced. She comes closer, looking down on your crouched frame; she is flushed all over with the exertion of celebration.
"What are you?" she demands to know.
Very slowly, you straighten up to your full height, and she has to raise her head to keep staring you in the eye. You see her gulp, quickly throw a glance over her shoulder to see if others are there.
"What am I?" you repeat after her, and there is a flatness to your voice that makes you think of dead things, of ghosts and apparitions dredged from the bowels of the Underworld. "What am I?"
How must you appear to them, you wonder? Caked in dust, clinging to a blade they know so very well; they must know who you are, or at least suspect. That you are unlike them is unmistakable: they can tell it from the glow and furnace-sparks you exhale. Yes, you are a demon to them, as you are to Creation entire. However diluted the ichor in your veins may be, it still brand you a stranger, a night-gaunt, an omen. They recognize you for what you are. But what is that?
"I am…," you say, hoping that the words would come out, out of habit if anything. But they stick to this veil between you and them and instead your voice trails off. They exchange worried glances and wait. For a time, only the crackle of the bonfires and songs of those who are yet to join the commotion can be heard.
The expression of the woman in front of you changes. You try to recognize its meaning, but it, as so many things around, does not make sense. She is smiling? You stand head taller above her - you thought you would tower. But she shakes her head at you, not with disapproval and not with fear. There is softness to the gesture, or maybe something else that you just can't name. Suddenly, you feel out of place, lost. What are you even doing here?
"Are you all right?" she asks watching you twitch around nervously, and the words cut deep.
Why would she ask you that? You are a shade, a reminder of someone they cursed night and day. You would understand if they were to shout you off, or chase you. That would make sense to you, but not softness, not kindness. You try to read her expression, and see only emotions you can't understand. So you turn to other faces and try to read them, but nothing you see makes any sort of sense. Kindness? Anger? Fear? Nothing is legible. There is a dryness in your throat, a sharp tug in your stomach. Who are those people? What are they?
"Poor thing," she says and her voice sounds distant, as if coming from behind a curtain, "completely mad. The witch stole her mind, no doubt. Come, let's feed her."
"Bad omens about if we do," someone else says. Is it a man's voice? Is it woman's? You look at the speker and see only a rugged mask of years of hardship, but what hides behind it? You can't see past it. You can't understand.
"Do you not see what it is?"
They are talking about you? You jerk your head and as you do the shapes of the village begin to swim and twist. The fires spread and soak the night with warm oranges and shadows they cast lengthen and coil and you can't tell them from the outline of things, and there is a darkness upon the land, so you throw your eyes up to find the outline of the Dragon eclipse the green sun, but only a pale silver orb hangs around. What is it? A sense of vertigo smashes its way into you Is this what you are standing on ground? Is the surface behind you wood? Is the great blackness above the sky? There are sounds around, voice and language, but none legible. It is the chitering of a great swarm of flies. It is gibberish. Noise. Fires crawl along the edge of shadow, licking the black soil and reaching towards you. What are those piles of wood and stone they illuminate? All of it should be familiar, and yet nothing is recognizable. Your body opens its mouth and a sound without structure leaves it. The eyelids close over eyeballs that are set inside the skull that you are inside, if there still a you left at all. All is black.
You fall into that blackness, without end, and maybe, just maybe, you could fall like that forever. Dissolve in it. But something tethers you; you can't name it, but you feel its pull, tugging you back. It is the only thing left to feel, so you focus on it. It feels cold, but solid and certain. You find it comforting.
Why am I being pulled back?
Because you have made a promise that you will seek vengeance for your mistress. The promise was an act of idiocy: against a Chosen of the Traitor Sun you can not hope to stand. It is impossible. But it is necessary. You must find your mistress' slayer and fall to her. You know this. It is certain.
Why must I?
Because you had a mistress, and when doom came upon her, you failed to die first. Because you are a child of Hell and this means you understand that there exists a hierarchy that is inviolate, and that you understand that in this hierarchy, you are ever a servant, a tool. You were born out of someone greater and defied her designs. You blasphemed. Then, you were taken into someone else's service, and once again failed. But the hierarchy is inviolate. You cannot escape, so you must seek death.
So why not just allow yourself to be gone? Why not sink? Why are you being held?
Because servants die for their masters, and such is the rule of the made world. And so you must die for Roots-Among-Ash, and receive death from the same hand that slew her. Such is necessity. Servants die for their masters. Such is the rule of Hell. You were born out of Malfeas, and you belong to it. You will do as it demands.
It doesn't matter how long it will take, but it is the only thing that matters. You must correct the wrong of your survival. This is why you can't fall. This is why you must stand up. This is you, and you know yourself. The thought is cold, but as you hold onto it, you feel ground beneath your feet again. You open your eyes; your eyes. The film between you and the world peels like scab from a closed wound. There are bonfires around you, and they cast light over low huts the villagers dwell in. The Scoundrel Moon shines above with her faithless light.
You are seated by a fire and surrounded by women; someone is mixing medicine in a bowl. They talk about madness, and possession. How long have you spent putting your sense of self back? No matter. You are here again.
"This will not be necessary," you say and wave the medicine-woman away. Your voice is no longer flat. It rings harsh and loud, like iron being stricken. They startle.
"Are you all right?" one of them asks - the same that wanted to feed you.
"The noise confused me," you lie. "I am fine now. I thank you for your care, but I will not need it."
"You spit fire," someone observes, a tightness in her voice. Not everyone here trusts you. "And your teeth are iron. Are you a demon?"
You look at her. She is young - your age, you wager. There is a mug in her hand, an ungainly clay thing; and the hand too is roughly-hewn and prematurely twisted by labour. She knows hard toil.
"Are you here because the witch is dead?" she asks.
Another villager pushes a cup into your hand, and you drink eagerly. You didn't realize just how thirsty you were.
"Yes," you say, then as fear flashes on her face, you shake your head quickly. "But I mean you no harm. I only seek the one who slew her."
"Ah," she replies, worriedly glancing at others.
"She is gone," the one who first asked you if you are all right states, voice quite firm and forceful. She stares you straight in the eye. "She has left the village. You will not find her here."
You avert your eyes and sip from the cup. Even if they are afraid to ask directly, they must know what it is that you are after.
"Where has she gone to?"
"Elsewhere," the woman. "We do not know."
Perhaps she is lying; in truth, you can't tell. You turn the cup in your hand, idly.
"You must know the direction, at least. Please, it is important," you say and meet her gaze.
"No, witch-daughter," she whispers, again softly. So she, at least, knows what you are. "We will not help you with this. Stay. Drink. Rest. Or leave. But we will not point towards what you are after."
You exhale. They will not help you. Not willingly. But that does not mean you can't find the way.
[ ] Force it out of them. You have inherited Sondok's Midnight Warden Voice. Your speech is iron and fire, and promises devastation to those who disobey it. This inheritance makes you better at intimidation and command, but also imbues your speech with callousness and harshness of Sondok.
[ ] Find the trail yourself. You have inherited Biryu's (who is also Sondok) Guardian-Beast's Pursuit. Biryu (who is also Sondok) hunts down trespassers over his mistress dominion. This inheritance makes you more perceptive and capable of great feats of investigation, but also gives you an air of savagery that men find disquieting.
Gargulec
impact!
- Location
- a garden
I lied.
- Location
- Singapore
[X] Find the trail yourself. You have inherited Biryu's (who is also Sondok) Guardian-Beast's Pursuit. Biryu (who is also Sondok) hunts down trespassers over his mistress dominion. This inheritance makes you more perceptive and capable of great feats of investigation, but also gives you an air of savagery that men find disquieting.
Perception is king when we lack firepower.
Perception is king when we lack firepower.
EternalObserver
eYe Gaze baCk
- Location
- The Void
[X] Find the trail yourself. You have inherited Biryu's (who is also Sondok) Guardian-Beast's Pursuit. Biryu (who is also Sondok) hunts down trespassers over his mistress dominion. This inheritance makes you more perceptive and capable of great feats of investigation, but also gives you an air of savagery that men find disquieting.
I like this one
I like this one
- Pronouns
- They/Them
Worth every second of the wait.
[x] Find the trail yourself. You have inherited Biryu's (who is also Sondok) Guardian-Beast's Pursuit. Biryu (who is also Sondok) hunts down trespassers over his mistress dominion. This inheritance makes you more perceptive and capable of great feats of investigation, but also gives you an air of savagery that men find disquieting.
This feels more appropriate to the scene itself, and feels more interesting and more useful down the road some ways, too.
[x] Find the trail yourself. You have inherited Biryu's (who is also Sondok) Guardian-Beast's Pursuit. Biryu (who is also Sondok) hunts down trespassers over his mistress dominion. This inheritance makes you more perceptive and capable of great feats of investigation, but also gives you an air of savagery that men find disquieting.
This feels more appropriate to the scene itself, and feels more interesting and more useful down the road some ways, too.
Varder
Tired Cultist
- Location
- Hell
[X] Force it out of them. You have inherited Sondok's Midnight Warden Voice. Your speech is iron and fire, and promises devastation to those who disobey it. This inheritance makes you better at intimidation and command, but also imbues your speech with callousness and harshness of Sondok.
This is probably the strangest victory condition I've ever seen, but I like it.
This is probably the strangest victory condition I've ever seen, but I like it.
- Location
- USA
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[x] Find the trail yourself. You have inherited Biryu's (who is also Sondok) Guardian-Beast's Pursuit. Biryu (who is also Sondok) hunts down trespassers over his mistress dominion. This inheritance makes you more perceptive and capable of great feats of investigation, but also gives you an air of savagery that men find disquieting.
- Location
- Vermont
[x] Find the trail yourself. You have inherited Biryu's (who is also Sondok) Guardian-Beast's Pursuit. Biryu (who is also Sondok) hunts down trespassers over his mistress dominion. This inheritance makes you more perceptive and capable of great feats of investigation, but also gives you an air of savagery that men find disquieting.
[x] Find the trail yourself. You have inherited Biryu's (who is also Sondok) Guardian-Beast's Pursuit. Biryu (who is also Sondok) hunts down trespassers over his mistress dominion. This inheritance makes you more perceptive and capable of great feats of investigation, but also gives you an air of savagery that men find disquieting.
- Location
- Finland
[X] Find the trail yourself. You have inherited Biryu's (who is also Sondok) Guardian-Beast's Pursuit. Biryu (who is also Sondok) hunts down trespassers over his mistress dominion. This inheritance makes you more perceptive and capable of great feats of investigation, but also gives you an air of savagery that men find disquieting.
Let's keep the collateral damage to minimum, for now.
Let's keep the collateral damage to minimum, for now.
- Pronouns
- They/Them
[X] Force it out of them. You have inherited Sondok's Midnight Warden Voice. Your speech is iron and fire, and promises devastation to those who disobey it. This inheritance makes you better at intimidation and command, but also imbues your speech with callousness and harshness of Sondok.