A Better Mousetrap
Rihaku
The Internet
A Better Mousetrap
It was a time of great change, thought the mouse. A time of great wonders and horrors. The coming of the Solars had been like unto the break of dawn, shattering the long and bloody night of Sidereal oppression. Now strange tidings bent the wind at every crossroads, and the greatness in Creation roused from its slumber. The Bull of the North and his advisor Samea had broken the Tepet Legions in a single crushing stroke, and now the icewalker tribes numbered three hundred thousand. A pillaging scythe that swept through the North and left only fealty or ruin in its wake, a scythe of sinew and golden light, of children made hard by war.
Oh, the Bull's armies counted men as young as twelve, but the average was closer to sixteen. Even the centenarians among his Elder-huts were as children to the mouse, though. They were all children next to Ragmar of the Sneering Bite.
Ragmar the Treacherous, they called him: a name he loved. Ragmar the Cunning, also. A named he loathed. What was the use of cunning if one's opponents were forewarned?
And yes, one could ask the same of treachery, but betrayal was a different animal. It was precious to him, the scent of yellow fear even in his allies, the rush of circumstances reversed, the beautiful chaos of desertion. More than that, he had been born in betrayal, had been forged by it: when he was young the Elders had sang to him of betrayal, of the traitor stars and their agents of heaven, of the dragons they manipulated like mannequins in their service. Of how the world had nearly burned for their folly, of the apocalyptic strength wielded by the Solar generals, lead by The One They Would Not Name.
Ragmar had grown up. He had grown strong. He had learned to grow fat on betrayal and its spoils. He had commanded empires of silver, or changed his face to command empires of jade. He had slew and strangled and supped upon a thousand, ten thousand, a hundred thousand trusting confidantes, had flung open the gates to a hundred cities, had more than once turned against his own beastmen hordes! No matter what he changed, who he was, how many times he turned his cloak - the world stayed the same, the same, the same. They could never break the Realm, and the Realm could never break them for long.
Then - the Wracking, the Empress gone, the Solars returned, the deathknights emerged, tales told of stranger Exalts still - in twenty-five short years it had all shifted, as if the face of Creation were nothing more than Luna's patient guise, held static for centuries to be altered on a whim.
Take Luseng, which had bordered his home for nigh-on two centuries, a comfortable stretch of time. In two short months, Satrap Sesus Ulyssian had repelled the foes which besieged it and turned the capitol in a model shipping port. Overpopulated to a ludicrous degree, somehow its populace did not starve. Beset by penurious Realm taxes, somehow its businesses continued to prosper. Afflicted with infiltrators and saboteurs of every stripe - careful ones, of course, as he was their ringleader - somehow it emerged from every tribulation only stronger and better-managed than before.
Ulyssian had been accused of being a Solar Anathema at one time, though the official Realm position was only that he was "Blessed by the Dragons." Had the Great Houses really stooped so low as to violate their most sacrosanct of tenets and employ a Solar as a Satrap? Or were they simply imbeciles unable to see what was right before their eyes?
That was one of the many questions Ragmar hoped to answer with his present expedition. Agile, minuscule, and nimble of foot, he was merely one of doubtless hundreds of rodents that scurried throughout the bowels of the Satrapal Palace. Chief among those questions was how the Satrap had gotten into and out of the Emerald Mountain without disturbing its occupant or tripping Ragmar's wards. The Chosen of Luna knew that Ulyssian had done so, for the newest wonder he had presented to the people was an automaton carved from solid jade. No clockwork soldier was this, but the shape of a woman cast in surpassing detail, whose movements were as fluid as those of any Exalt. Rumors abounded as to the nature and purpose of the creation - the wench had been found in the Emerald Mountain; the King had been unable to find any Queen suiting his surpassing standards and thus had created one; the wench was the locus of some sort of elemental superweapon; and other even less plausible theories by the score.
Into the Palace he went, unnoticed by all, and scurried towards the Satrapal Chambers, which had recently been renovated and closed off even to the most trusted of mandarins. Only the King himself and his personal friends - among them the Dragonlord, Talomar - were allowed inside.
He looked for other mice, any that might be familiar with the building and its tiny burrows, or even for vermin, hard as it was to get anything out of them, but his search was surprisingly unfruitful. Not a single rat or mouse anywhere on the premises, that he could tell. It was all unnaturally clean. Suspiciously, he briefly flexed his ears, enhancing his senses with Luna's grace: there were a number of four-legged creatures on the premises, perhaps cats. He had not known cats to be so thorough, capable, or diligent, but it was of little import. No cat could overcome Ragmar of the Sneering Bite, who had mastered the styles of Tiger, Mantis, and Reaper all.
Into the Throne Room he plunged, gnawing a hole through the rosewood wall, and frenetically he scurried about, nose twitching from time to time as he searched for the Satrap's scent. There certainly were a lot of womenfolk in here: was the so-called King hiding a harem of some sort? There had been speculation about the Air Aspect that served as his new right hand, but consensus was she seemed far too busy for any of that.
He sniffed again. What exactly was The Lily of the Valley doing here? Had the bewitching bitch gotten her claws into the Satrap? It didn't really seem like her style. Certainly she hadn't been receptive to any of his intimations, even when he'd worn his best stolen face.
A clanking, thunderous to his mousy ears. "And over here the product of the thaumaturge that we spoke of earlier," said the Lord Satrap, gesturing vaguely in the direction of a wall. He was accompanied by the jade woman, who nodded attentively; neither seemed to notice Ragmar.
Secreting himself in a shadowy corner, the mouse continued to eavesdrop. Unfortunately, Ulyssian turned shortly after and seemed to be coming his way.
"We're hoping to make it standard-issue on all government buildings," he continued, "and it's already aided us enormously with the granaries. In exchange for a full mina of jade, the originator has already taught twenty-eight students, and half of them are on full-time teaching rotation as well."
"The Maker values this thaumaturgy very highly," the jade woman said, turning its head to study the inscription. The string of vizier-beads tied to its hair clattered gently as it moved. "Would The Maker be able to explain in greater detail the exact functioning of this ritual?"
"A very simple effect, but not one to be underestimated," Ulyssian said, holding a relaxed pose, one hand braced idly on his sword. "It unequivocally repels all wildlife smaller than, say, a cat. The Lunar Exalted are, of course, not affected."
Ragmar was already springing away, but Sesus Ulyssian was like lightning, the shock of glare that struck and left thunder reeling in its wake. The War Form of Ragmar boiled out of the mouse's body, fur bristling like a porcupine's silver hedge, teeth like daggers bared, arrayed in rows like a shark's. He struck back with fluid alacrity, and his strength was terrible, like a tiger's, like a mountain falling.
But Sesus Ulyssian simply sidestepped the falling mountain, and then his blade was a murdering arc, a blur of blazing white-gold that hummed with power and malice. Even as Ragmar tried to fall back, the bar of white was stained with red, and he felt his entrails pouring out in a semicircle before him. This was not enough to fell him, but the blow that followed was, and so Ragmar called upon the Grace of the Argent Lady and flowed away, back and away from the furious flesh-splitting bite of that blade.
Ambition was its name, he knew, for he knew the name of every weapon that dared strike him, and next time he would be prepared. But he knew that his preparations would not suffice, and that he would simply die, ere it touched him again.
There came the padding of soft feet from behind him, and he spared a glance to see The Lily of the Valley standing behind him, rapier glittering like some heavenly needle, edged with stars.
He chuckled, a snort of defeat, and hoped to buy time so that his entrails could knit themselves together again. "How long hav-"
And then he was twisting to one side as Ulyssian struck again, a tempest of blades that cleaved arm from shoulder, leg from hip, and his own desperate counterattack found no purchase against the Solar's damnable speed.
The pain hit him in an acrid surge, though he did not whimper or quail. He was Chosen of Luna, and stronger than that. Still, the situation was tenuous. This one, he would have to play carefully. With two of four limbs out of commission and his own blasted organs bleeding out before him, his moves were somewhat limited.
"How long have I known? Since you first stepped paw inside my Palace," the Satrap said, blade pressed against Ragmar's throat. It screamed at him in the silent seething tongue of artifacts: not death but annihilation, rendering to pieces, a paean of glory atop a staircase of shattered foes. He did not think he could steal this sword.
"Well," Ragmar said cheekily, "congratulations on that. Yes, you've caught me. I warn you, though: the Bull will be most displeased if I am slain. Most displeased, and there is much you could learn from me. So, how about it? A trade - my life for your answers? I hear you have an Eclipse Caste of some sort, so we wouldn't have to rely on trust. And you certainly won't get the information out of me any other way."
"What do you know that I would possibly want?" Ulyssian asked. "And what is this about an 'Eclipse Caste?'"
"I wonder," Ragmar mused. "Let's see... the location of that Miss' greatest enemy, for one," he began, and all warmth drained from The Lily's features as they became deathly serious. Angelic still, but an angel of extinction.
"Her true nature for another," he said, though this caused no noticeable reaction.
"And finally," he hmmed, "what's in the Emerald Mountain. Yes, that should be plenty to secure my release, don't you think? I'll even promise not to hurt your people again, if you can provide me some jade."
---
[ ] Just Kill Him [+50,000 XP] - Your instincts tell you that this man cannot be trusted. No matter what he says, even if he's not lying, he's entirely too comfortable in this situation. You already know that he has masterminded the death of thousands of Lusengese. End him and his schemes once and for all.
[ ] Accept - He does not appear to be lying, and you are very good at ferreting out lies. He's treacherous, but you believe he will follow through with the agreement to save his own hide. You can tell that The Lily is very interested in his information as well, and you do owe her a big favor. [+Lily favor]
[ ] No, ask different questions - You may propose up to three different questions to ask him. They will have to be things he knows, so stick to topics he is likely familiar with - Luseng, its environs, Lunar society, Lunar-Realm battles in this region, and Deathlords.
Also, as noted above -
Please choose which entity you (successfully) stole from. Barring extreme luck on their part, they're none the wiser!
[ ] A Great House - Also choose which House to take from. You may pick among Mnemon, Cathak, Sesus, V'Neef, Ragara, and Cynis. Ragara and Cynis will feel it the least, V'Neef and Sesus will feel it the most. Of course, Cathak is your enemy.
[ ] The Guild - Man, you sure are screwing over the Guild!
[ ] A Threshold State - The icewalker tribes have accumulated much wealth, the spoils of war...
It was a time of great change, thought the mouse. A time of great wonders and horrors. The coming of the Solars had been like unto the break of dawn, shattering the long and bloody night of Sidereal oppression. Now strange tidings bent the wind at every crossroads, and the greatness in Creation roused from its slumber. The Bull of the North and his advisor Samea had broken the Tepet Legions in a single crushing stroke, and now the icewalker tribes numbered three hundred thousand. A pillaging scythe that swept through the North and left only fealty or ruin in its wake, a scythe of sinew and golden light, of children made hard by war.
Oh, the Bull's armies counted men as young as twelve, but the average was closer to sixteen. Even the centenarians among his Elder-huts were as children to the mouse, though. They were all children next to Ragmar of the Sneering Bite.
Ragmar the Treacherous, they called him: a name he loved. Ragmar the Cunning, also. A named he loathed. What was the use of cunning if one's opponents were forewarned?
And yes, one could ask the same of treachery, but betrayal was a different animal. It was precious to him, the scent of yellow fear even in his allies, the rush of circumstances reversed, the beautiful chaos of desertion. More than that, he had been born in betrayal, had been forged by it: when he was young the Elders had sang to him of betrayal, of the traitor stars and their agents of heaven, of the dragons they manipulated like mannequins in their service. Of how the world had nearly burned for their folly, of the apocalyptic strength wielded by the Solar generals, lead by The One They Would Not Name.
Ragmar had grown up. He had grown strong. He had learned to grow fat on betrayal and its spoils. He had commanded empires of silver, or changed his face to command empires of jade. He had slew and strangled and supped upon a thousand, ten thousand, a hundred thousand trusting confidantes, had flung open the gates to a hundred cities, had more than once turned against his own beastmen hordes! No matter what he changed, who he was, how many times he turned his cloak - the world stayed the same, the same, the same. They could never break the Realm, and the Realm could never break them for long.
Then - the Wracking, the Empress gone, the Solars returned, the deathknights emerged, tales told of stranger Exalts still - in twenty-five short years it had all shifted, as if the face of Creation were nothing more than Luna's patient guise, held static for centuries to be altered on a whim.
Take Luseng, which had bordered his home for nigh-on two centuries, a comfortable stretch of time. In two short months, Satrap Sesus Ulyssian had repelled the foes which besieged it and turned the capitol in a model shipping port. Overpopulated to a ludicrous degree, somehow its populace did not starve. Beset by penurious Realm taxes, somehow its businesses continued to prosper. Afflicted with infiltrators and saboteurs of every stripe - careful ones, of course, as he was their ringleader - somehow it emerged from every tribulation only stronger and better-managed than before.
Ulyssian had been accused of being a Solar Anathema at one time, though the official Realm position was only that he was "Blessed by the Dragons." Had the Great Houses really stooped so low as to violate their most sacrosanct of tenets and employ a Solar as a Satrap? Or were they simply imbeciles unable to see what was right before their eyes?
That was one of the many questions Ragmar hoped to answer with his present expedition. Agile, minuscule, and nimble of foot, he was merely one of doubtless hundreds of rodents that scurried throughout the bowels of the Satrapal Palace. Chief among those questions was how the Satrap had gotten into and out of the Emerald Mountain without disturbing its occupant or tripping Ragmar's wards. The Chosen of Luna knew that Ulyssian had done so, for the newest wonder he had presented to the people was an automaton carved from solid jade. No clockwork soldier was this, but the shape of a woman cast in surpassing detail, whose movements were as fluid as those of any Exalt. Rumors abounded as to the nature and purpose of the creation - the wench had been found in the Emerald Mountain; the King had been unable to find any Queen suiting his surpassing standards and thus had created one; the wench was the locus of some sort of elemental superweapon; and other even less plausible theories by the score.
Into the Palace he went, unnoticed by all, and scurried towards the Satrapal Chambers, which had recently been renovated and closed off even to the most trusted of mandarins. Only the King himself and his personal friends - among them the Dragonlord, Talomar - were allowed inside.
He looked for other mice, any that might be familiar with the building and its tiny burrows, or even for vermin, hard as it was to get anything out of them, but his search was surprisingly unfruitful. Not a single rat or mouse anywhere on the premises, that he could tell. It was all unnaturally clean. Suspiciously, he briefly flexed his ears, enhancing his senses with Luna's grace: there were a number of four-legged creatures on the premises, perhaps cats. He had not known cats to be so thorough, capable, or diligent, but it was of little import. No cat could overcome Ragmar of the Sneering Bite, who had mastered the styles of Tiger, Mantis, and Reaper all.
Into the Throne Room he plunged, gnawing a hole through the rosewood wall, and frenetically he scurried about, nose twitching from time to time as he searched for the Satrap's scent. There certainly were a lot of womenfolk in here: was the so-called King hiding a harem of some sort? There had been speculation about the Air Aspect that served as his new right hand, but consensus was she seemed far too busy for any of that.
He sniffed again. What exactly was The Lily of the Valley doing here? Had the bewitching bitch gotten her claws into the Satrap? It didn't really seem like her style. Certainly she hadn't been receptive to any of his intimations, even when he'd worn his best stolen face.
A clanking, thunderous to his mousy ears. "And over here the product of the thaumaturge that we spoke of earlier," said the Lord Satrap, gesturing vaguely in the direction of a wall. He was accompanied by the jade woman, who nodded attentively; neither seemed to notice Ragmar.
Secreting himself in a shadowy corner, the mouse continued to eavesdrop. Unfortunately, Ulyssian turned shortly after and seemed to be coming his way.
"We're hoping to make it standard-issue on all government buildings," he continued, "and it's already aided us enormously with the granaries. In exchange for a full mina of jade, the originator has already taught twenty-eight students, and half of them are on full-time teaching rotation as well."
"The Maker values this thaumaturgy very highly," the jade woman said, turning its head to study the inscription. The string of vizier-beads tied to its hair clattered gently as it moved. "Would The Maker be able to explain in greater detail the exact functioning of this ritual?"
"A very simple effect, but not one to be underestimated," Ulyssian said, holding a relaxed pose, one hand braced idly on his sword. "It unequivocally repels all wildlife smaller than, say, a cat. The Lunar Exalted are, of course, not affected."
Ragmar was already springing away, but Sesus Ulyssian was like lightning, the shock of glare that struck and left thunder reeling in its wake. The War Form of Ragmar boiled out of the mouse's body, fur bristling like a porcupine's silver hedge, teeth like daggers bared, arrayed in rows like a shark's. He struck back with fluid alacrity, and his strength was terrible, like a tiger's, like a mountain falling.
But Sesus Ulyssian simply sidestepped the falling mountain, and then his blade was a murdering arc, a blur of blazing white-gold that hummed with power and malice. Even as Ragmar tried to fall back, the bar of white was stained with red, and he felt his entrails pouring out in a semicircle before him. This was not enough to fell him, but the blow that followed was, and so Ragmar called upon the Grace of the Argent Lady and flowed away, back and away from the furious flesh-splitting bite of that blade.
Ambition was its name, he knew, for he knew the name of every weapon that dared strike him, and next time he would be prepared. But he knew that his preparations would not suffice, and that he would simply die, ere it touched him again.
There came the padding of soft feet from behind him, and he spared a glance to see The Lily of the Valley standing behind him, rapier glittering like some heavenly needle, edged with stars.
He chuckled, a snort of defeat, and hoped to buy time so that his entrails could knit themselves together again. "How long hav-"
And then he was twisting to one side as Ulyssian struck again, a tempest of blades that cleaved arm from shoulder, leg from hip, and his own desperate counterattack found no purchase against the Solar's damnable speed.
The pain hit him in an acrid surge, though he did not whimper or quail. He was Chosen of Luna, and stronger than that. Still, the situation was tenuous. This one, he would have to play carefully. With two of four limbs out of commission and his own blasted organs bleeding out before him, his moves were somewhat limited.
"How long have I known? Since you first stepped paw inside my Palace," the Satrap said, blade pressed against Ragmar's throat. It screamed at him in the silent seething tongue of artifacts: not death but annihilation, rendering to pieces, a paean of glory atop a staircase of shattered foes. He did not think he could steal this sword.
"Well," Ragmar said cheekily, "congratulations on that. Yes, you've caught me. I warn you, though: the Bull will be most displeased if I am slain. Most displeased, and there is much you could learn from me. So, how about it? A trade - my life for your answers? I hear you have an Eclipse Caste of some sort, so we wouldn't have to rely on trust. And you certainly won't get the information out of me any other way."
"What do you know that I would possibly want?" Ulyssian asked. "And what is this about an 'Eclipse Caste?'"
"I wonder," Ragmar mused. "Let's see... the location of that Miss' greatest enemy, for one," he began, and all warmth drained from The Lily's features as they became deathly serious. Angelic still, but an angel of extinction.
"Her true nature for another," he said, though this caused no noticeable reaction.
"And finally," he hmmed, "what's in the Emerald Mountain. Yes, that should be plenty to secure my release, don't you think? I'll even promise not to hurt your people again, if you can provide me some jade."
---
[ ] Just Kill Him [+50,000 XP] - Your instincts tell you that this man cannot be trusted. No matter what he says, even if he's not lying, he's entirely too comfortable in this situation. You already know that he has masterminded the death of thousands of Lusengese. End him and his schemes once and for all.
[ ] Accept - He does not appear to be lying, and you are very good at ferreting out lies. He's treacherous, but you believe he will follow through with the agreement to save his own hide. You can tell that The Lily is very interested in his information as well, and you do owe her a big favor. [+Lily favor]
[ ] No, ask different questions - You may propose up to three different questions to ask him. They will have to be things he knows, so stick to topics he is likely familiar with - Luseng, its environs, Lunar society, Lunar-Realm battles in this region, and Deathlords.
Also, as noted above -
Please choose which entity you (successfully) stole from. Barring extreme luck on their part, they're none the wiser!
[ ] A Great House - Also choose which House to take from. You may pick among Mnemon, Cathak, Sesus, V'Neef, Ragara, and Cynis. Ragara and Cynis will feel it the least, V'Neef and Sesus will feel it the most. Of course, Cathak is your enemy.
[ ] The Guild - Man, you sure are screwing over the Guild!
[ ] A Threshold State - The icewalker tribes have accumulated much wealth, the spoils of war...